The handsomest monument in the churchyard is that at the north-east entrance, to the memory of Anna Maria Crouch, formerly a performer at Drury Lane Theatre. She died Oct. 2nd, 1805. It was erected by Mr. Kelly.
A large stone cross or crucifix formerly stood immediately in front of the church. The stone steps to it and the lower fragment of the pillar alone remain. A legend in connexion with this cross has been preserved, of which the following is a copy:—
ST. NICHOLAS GALLEY.
“Long had raged the bloody feud between the Lords of Pevensey Castle and the Earls de Warrene, Lords of Lewes; when, early one bright May morning, the warder of Lewes Castle, from the northern turret blew loud his horn. The lady of Earl de Warrene hastened to the turret’s height, her infant first-born son kerchiefed on her arm. From thence she viewed the dread conflict which was raging with all the fury of inveterate foes, on Mount Caburn’s shelving sides. Lord Pevensey, on his white steed, was seen leading his followers down the hill; Earl de Warrene was urging his men to withstand the charge. In an instant both parties commingled; the strife was desperate, but of short duration. Lord Pevensey, having the vantage ground, drove Earl de Warrene’s troops pell-mell down the hill; but the Earl scorned to turn his back upon his foe, and for some time he singly maintained the conflict against a host; until Lord Pevensey came up, flushed with success, and raised his battle-axe to cleave the Earl in twain. It was at this moment that the noble lady of Earl de Warrene, seeing her lord in such imminent hazard, held up her infant son and vowed to Saint Nicholas (the protector of the faithful in dangers) that if her lord’s life was spared his son should never wed till he had placed the belt worn by the Holy St. Nicholas, on the Blessed Virgin’s tomb, at Byzantium. The saint heard her vow; for the Earl dexterously avoided the blow, and Lord Pevensey, having lost his balance by the exertion, nearly fell from his horse. In the next moment the Earl’s sword appeared through his cuirass behind; Lord Pevensey fell dead; his terrified retainers fled in dismay; and Earl de Warrene returned in triumph to the Castle. Full twenty summers had now passed over, and Manfred, Lord of Lewes, the Earl’s eldest son, had not yet fulfilled his mother’s vow, to visit the Blessed Virgin’s tomb. He was betrothed to Lord Bramber’s daughter, the gentle Edona—beauteous as the jessamine’s bloom—kind as the Zephyr—good and pure as the saints. Full twenty times had the anniversary of Earl de Warrene’s victory been celebrated most gallantly in the Castle’s kingly hall. Again the guests had assembled there; the wassail bowl went merrily round; the bards sung in highest strains; Lord Manfred led his betrothed to join in the mazy dance; when—whilst all was merriment and joy,—suddenly a wintry dismal blast passed through the hall. The lights were quickly extinguished, the din and clamour of war seemed to assail the castle walls on every side; and whilst the guests stood in darkness and in stupid wonder, in a moment vivid flashes of lightning shot across the richly tapestried walls, and displayed the fight renewed on Mount Caburn’s side. The hill and dale were seen distinctly, as if broad day were shining, and the combatants eagerly engaged. But when Lord Pevensey again lifted his battle-axe to strike Earl de Warrene, all disappeared and total darkness ensued; the clamour ceased against the castle walls; lights were brought, but the guests, terrified, gloomily withdrew. On the morrow, Earl de Warrene hither to Brighthelmston, to St. Bartholomew’s Chapel came, and by the counsel of the holy fathers, built a ship, gaily trimmed, and named ‘St. Nicholas’ Galley,’ to bear his son to the blessed Virgin’s tomb. It was fixed that when he should return from performing his noble mother’s vow, then should he wed the fair Edona. The vessel gallantly dashed from Mecheem [109] harbour, and bounded over the yielding wave, making his way for brighter—not happier climes. Lord Manfred safely arrived at Byzantium, and performed his sacred duty. It was noon on the 17th of happy May—another year had rolled its wain—when a sail, bearing the well known pennant of St. Nicholas, was descried off Wordinges (Worthing) point by one of the Fathers of this Chantry. Instantly a messenger was sent to carry the welcome tidings to Earl de Warrene, who, with all his retinue, a train of gallant bearing, his noble lady, the Lord of Bramber with the Lady Edona, and the holy Abbot of the priory, with all his brotherhood, had, in a few hours, assembled beneath the Earl’s banner, on the hill where now stands St. Nicholas’ Church. The day was fair, the wind was favourable, and the ‘St. Nicholas’ glided swiftly on her way; the holy fathers sang with cheerful voices. The Earl watched, with beaming eyes, for the signal agreed upon. It was made; shouts rent the air; every face shone with joy, every heart beat with gratitude; when, in a moment, the progress of the vessel was checked; she reeled on her side, and sank before their eyes. She had ran full on the hidden rock off Shore-ham [110a] harbour. The Earl and every soul around him stood motionless; not a word broke the silence of that sad scene. To move was useless. One sad, last, long-drawn sigh burst from Edona, and she fell never more to rise. The Earl passed his hands over his eyes; dropped his head on his bosom; no smile ever rested on that face again. One foreign sailor alone of the hapless crew survived to describe (feebly indeed) the ecstacy of Lord Manfred when he beheld his native shores and discerned his father’s banner waving on St. Nicholas’ hill. Slowly as the cavalcade descended, each cast a look of despair on that sea which had swallowed all their hopes. Earl de Warrene survived a few years only; but before he died he built the church to St. Nicholas on the hill, to be an everlasting remembrance to all who go upon the mighty deep not to neglect their vows. Lady Edona lies under the cross at the entrance to the church, being the spot where she fell and died; but still, on the anniversary of that day, ‘St. Nicholas’ Galley’ glides at midnight past the town of Brighthelmston, and is seen from the cliff by hundreds of the inhabitants, to sink. [110b] The Earl leaving no children, his family became extinct, and the estates passed to the heir, Lord Arundel, to whom they still belong.”
A very quaint epitaph was (it is now obliterated by age) on the late sexton of the period:—
Richard Jeffery.
Died 10th July, 1806, aged 64.When Barb’ra died, O Lord, prayed I,
Let me die too, and near her lie—
The Lord was good, and heard my pray’r,
And here we lie a faithful pair.
Preceding it, on the same stone, was the following:—
Sacred to the memory of
Barbara wife of Richard Jeffery;
Who having for upwards of 50 years diligently performed
the office of Sexton in this Parish, died
30th September, 1805, aged 63.Look, mingled lie, the aged and the young,
The rich and poor,—an undistinguish’d throng;
Death conquers all, and Time’s subduing hand
No tomb, no marble statue can withstand;
Mark well thy latter end,—in Bab’ra see,
What, reader, thou, and all mankind must be.
The Grave for thousands though she toilsome made,
Yet here at last her lifeless body’s laid,
In joyful hope, as Christian hope will be,
To rise to life and immorality.
On the tombstone of a Captain Cook was formerly:—
Many a hard tempestuous gale he’s known,
But on his native shore at last he’s thrown;
No rocks or quicksands has he now to fear;
Safe from all storms he rides at anchor here.
Go, and be wise then, ’ere it is too late,
With firm resolve to meet the arm of fate.
A few short years, Alas! how quick they pass;
To this complexion must you come at last.
Death conquers all, and drags them to the grave,
The rich, the poor, the coward and the brave.
Think then, ye youth in time, and dying say,
Come when thou wilt, O Lord! I ready am to-day.
From their exposed position, the inscriptions on many of the tombstones have been erased by the hand of time; nor can one be found of the many recorded in a Diary, kept in 1778 and 1779, of the character alluded to.—“Monday, September 7th, 1778. My landlord is persuading his eldest son, and of course heir apparent, a young prince Crispin, to go to sea. I desire the father to visit the churchyard, and upon various monuments of youth he may observe the following inscription:—