Old Times at Otterbourne

His kindness and simplicity were sometimes abused.  He never had the heart to refuse to lend money, or to deny bread on credit to hopeless debtors; and altogether debts, distress, baking all night, and school keeping all day, were too much for him.  The first hint of an examination of his school completed the mischief, and he died insane.  It is a sad story, but many of us will remember with affectionate regard the good, kind, quaint, and most excellent little man.  By that time our schoolmistress was Mrs. Durndell, the policeman’s wife, a severe woman, but she certainly made the girls do thoroughly whatever she taught, especially repetition and needlework.

The examiner on religious subjects, Mr. Allen, afterwards an Archdeacon, reported that the girls had an unusual knowledge of the text of Scripture, but that he did not think them equally intelligent as to the meaning.

Daily Service had been commenced when the new Church was opened, and the children of the schools attended it.  There was also a much larger congregation of old men than have ever come in later years.  At one time there were nine constantly there.  One of these, named Passingham, who used to ring the bell for matins and evensong, was said to have been the strongest man in the parish, and to have carried two sacks of corn over the common on the top of the hill in his youth.  He was still a hearty old man at eighty-six, when after ringing the bell one morning as usual, he dropped down on the hill in a fit and died in a few seconds.

There was not much change for a good many years.  In 1846, the Parsonage House was built and given to the living by Mr. Keble.  The stained glass of the south window of the Church was given by the Reverend John Yonge, of Puslinch, Rector of Newton Ferrers, in Devonshire, in memory of his youngest son, Edmund Charles, who died at Otterbourne House in 1847.  Thirteen years previously, in 1834, the eldest son, James Yonge, had likewise died at Otterbourne House.  Both the brothers lie buried here, one in the old churchyard, one in the new.  They are commemorated in their own church at Newton by a tablet with the inscription—“What I do thou knowest not now, but thou shall know hereafter.”

In 1834 their father gave what made, as it were the second foundation of the Lending Library, for there were about four-and-twenty very serious books, given in Archdeacon Heathcote’s time, kept in the vestry at the old Church.  They looked as if they had been read but only by the elder people who liked a grave book, and there was nothing there meant for the young people.  So there were a good many new books bought, and weekly given out at the Penny Club, with more or less vigour, for the next thirty years or so.

The next public matter that greatly affected this place was the Crimean War.  It was a large proportion of our young men who were more or less concerned in it.  Captain Denzill Chamberlayne in the Cavalry, Lieut. Julian B. Yonge, John Hawkins, Joseph Knight, James and William Mason, and it was in the midst of the hurry and confusion of the departure that the death of Mr. W. C. Yonge took place, February 26th, 1854.  Three of those above mentioned lived to return home.  Captain Chamberlayne shared in the famous charge of the Light Brigade, at Balaclava, when

Into the jaws of deathRode the six hundred:Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Volleyed and thundered.

His horse, Pimento, was killed under him, but he escaped without a wound, and on his return home was drawn up to the house by the people, and had a reception which made such an impression on the children that when one was asked in school what a hero was, she answered, “Captain Chamberlayne.”

John Hawkins, Joseph Knight, and William Mason died in the Crimea.  A tablet to commemorate them was built into the wall of the churchyard, with the text—“It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth,” for the discipline of the army had been very good for these youths, and, therefore, this verse was chosen for them by Mr. Keble.

The next event that concerned the parish much was the death of the great and holy man who had been our rector for thirty years.  Mr. Keble died at Bournemouth on the 29th of March, 1866.  His manners and language were always so simple, and his humility so great, that many of those who came in contact with him never realized how great a man he was, not being able to perceive that the very deepest thoughts might be clothed in the plainest language.  Some felt, in the words of the poem,—

“I came and saw, and having seen,   Weak heart! I drew offenceFrom thy prompt smile, thy humble mien,   Thy lowly diligence.”

But none who really knew him could fail to be impressed with the sense of his power, his wisdom, his love, and, above all, his holiness; and his Christian Year will always be a fund of consolation, full of suggestions of good and devotional thoughts and deeds.  Mrs. Keble, who was already very ill, followed him to her rest on the 11th of May.  It may be worth remembering that the last time she wrote her name was a signature to a petition against licensing marriage with a deceased wife’s sister.

Sir William Heathcote then appointed the Reverend James G. Young as Vicar of Hursley and Otterbourne.  A fresh tide of change began to set in.  As times altered and population increased, and as old things and people passed away, there were various changes in the face of the village.  The Government requirements made it necessary to erect a new Girl’s School, and land was permanently secured for the purpose, and this was done chiefly by subscription among the inhabitants, affording a room large enough for parish meetings and lectures, as well as for its direct purpose.  The subscription was as a testimonial to the Rev. William Bigg-Wither, who had been thirty years curate of the parish, and under whom many of the changes for the better were worked out.  The building was provided with a tower, in case there should ever be a clock given to the parish.

The clock was given in a manner worthy of remembrance.  Mr. William Pink, as a thatcher, and his two sisters in service, had saved enough to provide for their old age, and to leave a considerable overplus, out of which the last survivor, Mrs. Elizabeth Pink, when passing away at a good old age, bequeathed enough to provide the parish with the clock whose voice has already become one of our most familiar sounds.

Allbrook was by this time growing into a large hamlet, and a school chapel was then built, chiefly by Mr. Wheeler.  We must not forget that we had for five years the great and excellent Samuel Wilberforce for our Bishop, and that he twice held confirmations in our parish.  No one can forget the shock of his sudden call.  One moment he was calling his companion’s attention to the notes of a late singing nightingale; the next, his horse had stumbled and he was gone.  It was remarkable that shortly before he had, after going over the hospital, spoken with dread of what he called the “humiliation of a lingering illness”—exactly what he was spared.

Bishop Harold Browne came from Ely to take the See of Winchester.  He reconsecrated our church when the chancel was enlarged and the new aisle added.  He carried on vigorously work only begun under Bishop Wilberforce.  Under him Diocesan Synods, the Girls’ Friendly Society, and the Examination of Senior Scholars in Religious Knowledge have all shown his diligent oversight as Shepherd of the flock.

In the year 1875 Sir William Heathcote succeeded in bringing about an arrangement by which Otterbourne could be separated from Hursley and have a Vicar of its own, the difference of income being made up to the Vicar of Hursley.  This was done by the aid of a munificent lady, Mrs. Gibbs, the widow of one of the great merchant princes, whose wealth was always treated as a trust from God.  She became the patron of the living, and the advowson remains in her family.

The first Vicar was the Reverend Walter Francis Elgie, who had already been six years curate, and had won the love and honour of all his flock.  Deeply did they all mourn him when it was God’s will to take him from them on the 25th of February, 1881, in the 43rd year of his age, after ten years of zealous work.

It was felt as remarkable that a young pupil teacher in consumption, whom he had sent to the Home at Bournemouth, was taken on the same day, and buried here the day after, and that the schoolmaster, Walter Fisher, a man of gentle and saintly nature, followed him six weeks after.

We left them in the Church’s shade,   Our standard-bearer true,And near at hand the gentle maid   Who well his guidance knew.He fainted in the noon of life,   Nor knew his victory won;She was fresh girded for the strife,   Her battle scarce begun.Long had we known Death’s angel hand   The maiden’s brow had seal’d;He fell, like chief of warrior band,   Struck down on battle-field.So in God’s acre here they meet   As they have met above,Tasting beneath their Saviour’s feet   The treasures of His love.For what they learnt and taught of here   Is present with them there;May we speed on in faith and fear,   Then heavenly rest to share.

With the coming of our present Vicar, the Rev. H. W. Brock, our Otterbourne story ends, as the times are no longer old times.  The water works for the supply of Southampton are our last novelty, by which such of us benefit, as either themselves or their landlords pay a small contribution.  They have given us some red buildings at one end and on the Hill a queer little round tower containing the staircase leading to the underground reservoir, a wonderful construction of circles of brick pillars and arches, as those remember who visited it before the water was let in.  And, verily, we may be thankful that our record has so few events in it, no terrible disasters, but that there has been peace and health and comfort, more than falls to the lot of many a parish.  Truly we may thankfully say, “The lot is fallen unto me in a fair ground, yea, I have a goodly heritage.”

Old Remembrances.

I remember, I remember,

Old times at Otterbourne,

Before the building of the Church,

And when smock frocks were worn!

I remember, I remember,

When railroads there were none,

When by stage coach at early dawn

The journey was begun.

And through the turnpike roads till eve

Trotted the horses four,

With inside passengers and out

They carried near a score.

“Red Rover” and the “Telegraph,”

We knew them all by name,

And Mason’s and the Oxford coach,

Full thirty of them came.

The coachman wore his many capes,

The guard his bugle blew;

The horses were a gallant sight,

Dashing upon our view.

I remember, I remember,

The posting days of old;

The yellow chariot lined with blue

And lace of colour gold.

The post-boys’ jackets blue or buff,

The inns upon the road;

The hills up which we used to walk

To lighten thus the load.

The rattling up before the inn,

The horses led away,

The post-boy as he touched his hat

And came to ask his pay.

The perch aloft upon the box,

Delightful for the view;

The turnpike gates whose keepers stood

Demanding each his due.

I remember, I remember,

When ships were beauteous things,

The floating castles of the deep

Borne upon snow-white wings;

Ere iron-clads and turret ships,

Ugly as evil dream,

Became the hideous progeny

Of iron and of steam.

You crossed the Itchen ferry

All in an open boat,

Now, on a panting hissing bridge

You scarcely seem afloat.

Southampton docks were sheets of mud,

Grim colliers at the quay.

No tramway, and no slender pier

To stretch into the sea.

I remember, I remember,

Long years ere Rowland Hill,

When letters covered quarto sheets

Writ with a grey goose quill;

Both hard to fold and hard to read,

Crossed to the scarlet seal;

Hardest of all to pay for ere

Their news they might reveal.

No stamp with royal head was there,

But eightpence was the sum

For every letter, all alike,

That did from London come!

I remember, I remember,

The mowing of the hay;

Scythes sweeping through the heavy grass

At breaking of the day.

The haymakers in merry ranks

Tossing the swaths so sweet,

The haycocks tanning olive-brown

In glowing summer heat.

The reapers ’mid the ruddy wheat,

The thumping of the flail,

The winnowing within the barn

By whirling round a sail.

Long ere the whirr, and buz, and rush

Became a harvest sound,

Or monsters trailed their tails of spikes,

Or ploughed the fallow ground.

Our sparks flew from the flint and steel,

No lucifers were known,

Snuffers with tallow candles came

To prune the wick o’ergrown.

Hands did the work of engines then,

But now some new machine

Must hatch the eggs, and sew the seams,

And make the cakes, I ween.

I remember, I remember,

The homely village school,

The dame with spelling book and rod,

The sceptre of her rule.

A black silk bonnet on her head,

Buff kerchief on her neck,

With spectacles upon her nose,

And apron of blue check.

Ah, then were no inspection days,

No standards then were known,

Children could freely make dirt pies,

And learning let alone!

Those Sundays I remember too,

When Service there was one;

For living in the parish then

Of clergy there were none.

And oh, I can recall to mind,

The Church and every pew;

William and Mary’s royal arms

Hung up in fullest view.

The lion smiling, with his tongue

Like a pug dog’s hung out;

The unicorn with twisted horn

Brooding upon his rout.

Exalted in the gallery high

The tuneful village choir,

With flute, bassoon, and clarionet,

Their notes rose high and higher.

They shewed the number of the Psalm

In white upon a slate,

And many a time the last lines sung

Of Brady and of Tate.

While far below upon the floor

Along the narrow aisle,

The children on then benches sat

Arranged in single file

And there the clerk would stump along

And strike with echoing blow

Each idle guilty little head

That chattered loud or low.

Ah! I remember many things,

Old middle-aged, and new;

Is the new better than the old,

More bright, more wise, more true?

The old must ever pass away,

The new must still come in;

When these new things are old to you

Be they unstained by sin.

So will their memory be sweet,

A treasury of bliss

To be borne with us in the days

When we their presence miss.

Trifles connected with the love

Of many a vanished friend

Will thrill the heart and wake the sense,

For memory has no end!

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