Image unavailable: MINEHEAD CHURCH (page 187).MINEHEAD CHURCH (page 187.)
into the gallery is called “King Charles’s Room.” The “King’s Chamber,” mentioned in the inventory of 1705, adjoined the gallery; but the evidence does not point conclusively to the traditional apartment, which, being very narrow, with no window and only a stone bench, might have done fairly well as a place of concealment, more especially as there is a secret door in one of the walls. But at this time the Royalists were in possession, and there was no obvious motive for selecting the incommodious lodging for a guest of princely blood.
To conclude this account of the Luttrells, the male line came to an end on the death of Alexander, in 1737. Ten years later, his daughter married Henry Fownes of Nethway, and from him the present owner, Mr George Fownes Luttrell, is descended.
From the lords of Dunster let us turn to the place which, in spite of inevitable changes, retains a greater variety of mediæval features than may easily be found within the same compass. A complete description of the castle and park is impossible here, but it may be mentioned that very full information is contained in Mr G. T. Clark’s preliminary essay in Sir H. C. Maxwell-Lyte’s standard work. One thing is certain—that the aspect of the castle has been considerably altered from what it was in mediæval times. During the eighteenth century sad liberties were taken with the buildings. Spurious Gothic windows were inserted, and a thoroughly incongruous chapel erected. The restoration undertaken by Mr G. F. Luttrell rectified these absurdities, but went much further.The northern tower of the principal façade was pulled down and rebuilt, and a new wing was added. The old Edwardian gateway has been left intact.
About the year 1775, through the caprice of the then owner, was erected the Conegar Tower, which is merely a hollow shell standing on a conical hill. Owing to its commanding position it is a prominent landmark, rising amidst woods which in the summer season are a mass of foliage, whilst intersecting footpaths form shady alleys in which it is a joy to wander. It is pleasant to add that the master of this splendid domain has always observed a most generous and unselfish attitude to strangers desirous of inspecting his house and grounds.
But Dunster has other wonders hardly inferior to the castle itself. One may instance the Yarn Market, with its broad, overhanging penthouses, manifold gables, and pyramidal roof, in one of the beams of which is a hole said to have been caused by a cannon shot fired from the castle in the time of the Civil War. Such a ball, however, could not have passed the intervening woodwork leaving it uninjured, so that the story is, at least, doubtful.
Hard by is the Luttrell Arms Hotel—a perfect treasure-house of antiquities. These comprise a gabled porch pierced with lancet holes for crossbows, a façade of oak, elaborately carved, and an oak chamber, with an open roof of timber work, somewhat resembling that of Westminster Hall. In Room 13 are emblazoned the Luttrell Arms—or, a bird between three martlets sable. Withthese are impaleda chevron between three trefoils, slipped, proper.
Says an anonymous writer: “In old times it was the custom of every gentleman to set up his family shield on the house in which he sojourned; this served as a rallying-point to his followers, and, in my opinion, was the origin of the signs formerly displayed on houses of business of every kind, but now confined to inns only.” In the present instance the suggestion is not particularly helpful, as there are reasons for supposing that the building once belonged to the Abbey of Cleeve. Nothing, however, is certainly known of its origin and history, and it is quite possible that it was at one time in the occupation of a cadet of the great family at the castle.
Room No. 12 boasts a far more notable feature—namely, an elaborate mantelpiece bearing two shields, one emblazoned with the arms of England, and the other with those of France; also a poor bust of Shakespeare, two large Elizabethan female figures, and a central medallion showing a prostrate man, nude, and worried by three dogs, clearly intended for Actæon, who was torn to pieces by his hounds for looking on Diana whilst bathing.
The “Luttrell Arms” is mentioned in chapter xxvii. ofLorna Doone, which tells also of Ridd’s mother’s cousin, the tanner, and his bevy of daughters, all resident in the town.
Another architectural curiosity is a weather-tiled house on the north side of Middle Street. This is usually described as “the Nunnery”—a quite modern appellation, born of pure fancy. Even so late as the last century it was known asthe “High House,” while a yet older name was the “Tenement of St Lawrence.” Yet another interesting old structure is “Lower Marsh,” with rich Perpendicular oratory over its entrance porch.
Next, as to the church. At the entrance to the churchyard stands a quaint timber building which goes by the name of the Priest’s House. The church itself is a magnificent specimen of its kind, and worthy of the name of a cathedral. The most ancient part of it is the Norman arch at the west end. The east end is Early English, and nearly all the rest Perpendicular, including the old and beautiful rood-screen of open work with fan tracery headings, over which are four rows of ornaments. The portion of the church to the west of the screen is called by the inhabitants the “Parish Church,” while the eastern section is termed the “Priory Church.” The reason is that this was formerly the chapel of the Priory of Dunster, which belonged to the Benedictine monks of Bath; and shortly after the dissolution of the monasteries the priory was acquired by the Luttrells, who have long claimed the part of the church assigned to the monks by the award of the Abbot of Glastonbury and his colleagues, and erected therein a number of funeral monuments, yet remaining, in various states of preservation. To the north-west of the church are the ruins of the priory, the great barn in which the good monks stored their grain, and two great gateways that led into the priory precincts.
Every visitor to Dunster is admonished to make the ascent of Grabhurst (or Grabbist) Hill, on the southern slope of which there was in theMiddle Ages a vineyard—not, by the way, a solitary example in the England of that distant time. The view from the summit is extremely beautiful. In the foreground are moors, in the background the sea, and on the right and the left hand towards Minehead and St Audries, varied and charming landscapes. On one side of the ridge may be descried a typical farmhouse, nestling amidst bright, green meadows and clumps of trees; and over the deep, narrow valley towers the massive form of old Dunkery and other heights in shadowy perspective.
Still grander are the prospects to be obtained from Dunkery Beacon itself—the most commanding landmark of the district. About eight miles south of Minehead, Dunkery is a mountain large and high, with a base about twelve miles in circumference and an altitude of 1700 feet. With the exception of Cawsand Beacon, it is the highest summit in the West of England. One approach to it is from Wootton Courtenay, the distance from the parish church to the top of the hill being three miles; another is from Cutcombe, in which parish part of Dunkery lies. The hilly character of the country is well illustrated by the name of the hostelry at the corner, where the road to Dunkery digresses from the “Minehead turnpike”—“Rest and Be Thankful.”
The view from the beacon embraces an immense tract, the sky-line being quite five hundred miles in circumference. To the south-west can be discerned the tors near Plymouth; northwards, the Malvern Hills, in Worcestershire—regions more than two hundred miles apart. North and north-west, nearly a hundred and thirty miles ofthe Bristol Channel, and behind it the coast of Wales from Monmouthshire to Pembrokeshire. Most of Somerset, Devon, and Dorset, with parts of Wiltshire and Hampshire, are included in a spectacle which premises a clear atmosphere and not too bright a sun, lest the prospect be obscured by haze.
On Dunkery top is a vast quantity of rough, loose stones of all shapes and sizes, and ranging from one pound to two hundred pounds in weight, together with the remains of three large hearths, built of unhewn stones, and about eight feet square. They compose an equilateral triangle, in the interior of which is another and larger hearth. More than two hundred feet lower, on the slope of the hill, and nearly a mile distant, are two other hearths, with the same accompaniment of loose stones scattered in large numbers around. These are undoubtedly ruins of old-world beacons which, in periods of civil commotion or when foreign invasion threatened, were used to rouse the countryside and pass the fiery message from one end of the realm to the other. According toLorna Doone(chapter iii.), the marauders prevented this legitimate use by throwing a watchman on the top of it. Chapters xliii. and xliv. contain a vivid description of the firing of the actual beacon in Doone Glen.
For the neighbours the beacon is a huge barometer. Often it is covered with clouds, and this is regarded as an infallible sign of rain; hence the saying:
“When Dunkery’s top cannot be seen,Horner will have a flooded stream.”
“When Dunkery’s top cannot be seen,Horner will have a flooded stream.”
“When Dunkery’s top cannot be seen,Horner will have a flooded stream.”
A former inhabitant of Luccombe, with a nicer ear for rhyme, penned the following pretty song on Dunkery Beacon, evidently modelled on “Sweet and Low,” but worth quoting all the same:—
“Stern and black, stern and black,Low lies the storm on the mountain track:Black and stern, black and stern,Hardly may we thy face discernBy the light westward—lurid and red—And the thunder voices are overhead!Where the lightning is never still,Who’ll now come with me over the hill?“Grey and sad, grey and sad,With a rain-wrought veil are thy shoulders clad:Sad and grey, sad and grey,Weird is the mist creeping up to-day,Ghostlike and white from the stream where it lay,Hanging a shroud o’er the lone wild way;Hidden and still, hidden and still,Who’ll now come with me over the hill?“Fair and bright, fair and bright,Purple and gold in the autumn light,Bright and fair, bright and fair;The butterflies float in the warm, soft air,Float and suck ’midst the heather bells,And green are the ferns in the dear-loved dells;Now who will, now who willCome with me, come with me over the hill?”
“Stern and black, stern and black,Low lies the storm on the mountain track:Black and stern, black and stern,Hardly may we thy face discernBy the light westward—lurid and red—And the thunder voices are overhead!Where the lightning is never still,Who’ll now come with me over the hill?“Grey and sad, grey and sad,With a rain-wrought veil are thy shoulders clad:Sad and grey, sad and grey,Weird is the mist creeping up to-day,Ghostlike and white from the stream where it lay,Hanging a shroud o’er the lone wild way;Hidden and still, hidden and still,Who’ll now come with me over the hill?“Fair and bright, fair and bright,Purple and gold in the autumn light,Bright and fair, bright and fair;The butterflies float in the warm, soft air,Float and suck ’midst the heather bells,And green are the ferns in the dear-loved dells;Now who will, now who willCome with me, come with me over the hill?”
“Stern and black, stern and black,Low lies the storm on the mountain track:Black and stern, black and stern,Hardly may we thy face discernBy the light westward—lurid and red—And the thunder voices are overhead!Where the lightning is never still,Who’ll now come with me over the hill?
“Grey and sad, grey and sad,With a rain-wrought veil are thy shoulders clad:Sad and grey, sad and grey,Weird is the mist creeping up to-day,Ghostlike and white from the stream where it lay,Hanging a shroud o’er the lone wild way;Hidden and still, hidden and still,Who’ll now come with me over the hill?
“Fair and bright, fair and bright,Purple and gold in the autumn light,Bright and fair, bright and fair;The butterflies float in the warm, soft air,Float and suck ’midst the heather bells,And green are the ferns in the dear-loved dells;Now who will, now who willCome with me, come with me over the hill?”
The “Minehead turnpike,” as it is termed, dates from the reign of George IV. Before that period the road, after leaving Timberscombe, passed up the long steep ascent of Lype Hill. The present highway is a trotting road of undoubted excellence. Being cut through hanging woods in some sections, and along thebanks of the Exe in others, it is perhaps the finest and most romantic drive of its kind in the kingdom.
Note.—Watchet, the burial-place of Lorna’s mother—a rather forlorn little haven by the wash of the Bristol Channel, lies somewhat apart from our suggested route, but is easily accessible by the railway, by which it is half-spoilt. St Decuman’s Church, alone on the hill, contains exceptionally fine monuments of the Wyndham family, with effigies.
Note.—Watchet, the burial-place of Lorna’s mother—a rather forlorn little haven by the wash of the Bristol Channel, lies somewhat apart from our suggested route, but is easily accessible by the railway, by which it is half-spoilt. St Decuman’s Church, alone on the hill, contains exceptionally fine monuments of the Wyndham family, with effigies.
Image unavailable: DUNSTER CASTLE GATE, FROM THE OUTSIDE (page 193.)DUNSTER CASTLE GATE, FROM THE OUTSIDE (page 193.)
Wehave now returned to Dulverton, but our pilgrimage is not yet over, for we have yet to explore a territory which may be termed the joint property, or “debateable ground,” ofLorna Dooneand theMaid of Sker. The Devon and Somerset line, connecting as it does with the light railway to Lynton, and the London and South-Western branch from Exeter to Barnstaple, will be found extremely convenient for our purpose, although these “iron roads” do not in every instance land us at the precise spots where we would be. So, peradventure, it may be wisdom to set up our headquarters at Southmolton and Barnstaple in succession, and peregrinate from those centres at our discretion.
First, a word of explanation as to the title of this chapter. Far be it from me to give evil pre-eminence to Southmolton as a school for scandal, but in chapter xii. ofLorna DooneBlackmore distinctly states that it is “a busy place for talking.” There is no going from that.
Southmolton, like Bampton, is subject to the“slings and arrows” of outrageous criticism as a place where it is “always afternoon.” If that be so, all I can say is that, personally, I invariably find theP.M.extremely pleasant, and nothing will induce me to cast a stone at a town so hospitable. Moreover, it is beyond question an important hub of Blackmore associations, and the faithful votary of the novelistmustbetake himself thither. Whether or not the fact be due to this circumstance, it seems certain that more visitors patronise the neighbourhood than formerly, and Mr Brown, the obliging chemist, informs me that he has developed negatives for Americans, from whom he has received flattering testimonials. Well done, Mr Brown! The following entry in the visitors’ book at the “George” has an independent interest.
“July 3rd, 1888—Dr Walter B. Gilbert, of New York, U.S., who was saved by being thrown out of the window at the corner house opposite, during the fatal fire of July 1835.”
This reminds one of an early incident in the life of a famous divine, who declared that “the world was his parish.” It was certainly Dr Gilbert’s.
On one occasion when I stayed at the “George,” where, it may be remembered, Master Stickles filled his little flat bottle with “the very besteau de vie” (Lorna Doone, chapter xlvii.), the fair was in full swing, and I recollect that, among other attractions, there was a negro marionette of large size, with aggressive, red lips. A young man indulged in an entertaining dialogue with him as a prelude to the sale of quack medicine. Now, the proletariat is master at Southmolton,and the Corporation dare not remove from the Square the shooting-galleries, ginger-bread stalls, confetti tents, and other encumbrances connected with this event. It was whispered to me that at the time of an Agricultural Show, when the band of the Plymouth division of the Royal Marines was to perform in the market, the Mayor offered £10 for an hour and a half’s suspension of the strident and powerful tones of a steam-organ, but in vain. This mechanical purveyor of popular airs represents the combined snort of a tornado of galloping horses fitted to a roundabout of the most modern type. In the old-style roundabout a boy worked a turnstile, and in doing so sometimes slipped or fell, when he received pretty severe contusions. This arrangement was succeeded by a cog-wheel in charge of a man.
At fair time, East Street is blocked with Exmoor sheep and North Devon cattle, andà proposof this, you may notice over the entrance to the market three carved rams’ heads. On the first day of the fair, a white sheepskin glove is projected on a pole from a ring on the side of a “Star.” Locally, this is supposed to signify the “hand of welcome,” which accounts perhaps for the nosegay. Another and less romantic version declares it the “hand of authority.”
Let us stroll through the town in search of adventures. Naturally, our steps will be directed, in the first instance, to the parish church, of which the inhabitants are extremely proud. Well, it is handsome, very handsome—sumptuous, if you like—but the interior is nearly all brand-new. As to that, however, there are exceptions, andI will undertake to affirm that the amazing gargoyle on the north side of the chancel arch, albeit there are gargoyles on the Town Hall and gargoyles on the “George,” is not of our time. Apparently, it is the face of a craftsman, and, quite possibly, that of the master-builder of the church. The pulpit also is ancient; the four evangelists’ flattened countenances and noses sadly out of repair proclaim a reckoning with time. The font is ancient and goodly. The tower is a fine one, as is also that of Northmolton; but if you would see what North Devon can show in the shape of church towers, away to Chittlehampton. There is a local proverb: “Southmolton for strength; Chittlehampton for beauty,” and tradition states that the tower of the fane of St Heriswitha was erected by a pupil of the man that built Southmolton tower.
For my own part, I find Southmolton churchyard, with its walled and paved avenues, more stimulating than the church. The margins of four banks were, it appears, planted with lime-trees in 1735-6, and twenty-five years later the New Walk was adorned with similar trees. These in 1866 were rooted up by a “fanatical iconoclast,” but others took their place, and so there is at present not much occasion to find fault.
I remember one September evening standing in this churchyard and talking to that worthy man, the sexton, when he mentioned to me casually that it was the scene of a desperate battle. Particulars he had none to give, and for the nonce I had forgotten my history book, so we stood and gazed in silence, with a sense ofvague respect and profound mystery, at the home of the dead, on which the shades of evening were rapidly falling. Too late to enlighten him, I recalled the abortive rising of the Cavaliers in 1655, when Sir Joseph Wagstaffe, aided and abetted by a couple of Wiltshire squires, Hugh Groves and John Penruddock, and a force of loyal Cornishmen, proclaimed Prince Charles king at Southmolton, after a rather discreditable fiasco at Southampton. Cromwell’s troops were soon on their traces, and in a bloody fight, mainly in the churchyard, the Royalists were hopelessly defeated. Wagstaffe and a few of his officers escaped by jumping their horses over the north-west portion of the churchyard wall (on which some forty years ago a lime-house was built), and, crossing Exmoor, arrived at Bridgewater. Groves and Penruddock, with twenty others, were captured and conducted to the castle at Exeter, where they were arraigned for high treason, found guilty, and executed. The leaders were beheaded and the rest hanged, the drawing and quartering, ordinarily a feature in such ceremonies, being omitted.
Comedy, as well as tragedy, may claim Southmolton churchyard for her own, for here Bampfylde Moore Carew, the famous King of the Gipsies, wreaked dire vengeance on the local bellman, who had insulted him, by appearing in the likeness of Infernal Majesty, and chasing the affrighted officer among the tombs. The fact that the ghost of an old gentleman not long deceased was reputed to walk the churchyard probably made this characteristic revenge more easy.
A ruinous building, to which no stranger uninitiated would direct more than a passing glance, stands back from the road on Factory Hill. Once it was a celebrated academy, at which nearly all the youth of Southmolton, and doubtless many boys of the neighbouring parishes, received their education. In this now abandoned seat of learning there were two departments—an English school and a Latin school—for which there were separate halls. The place wears a horrible appearance of neglect and desecration, but some of the old fittings yet remain, and when I inspected it, there were even some loose forms amongst the miscellaneous lumber. The founder was one Hugh Squier, a lesser Peter Blundell, who left injunctions that his portrait should be hung in what is now the sitting-room of a cottage, but was then, no doubt, the master’s house, and that there, as if he were bodily present, his trustees should dine once a year. The portrait has been removed to the Town Hall. There is also a beautiful miniature of Squier attached to the mayor’s chain of office, which is probably at his worship’s.
Southmolton has been a great place for poets, the best of them being perhaps Richard Manley, a journeyman saddler, who died in 1832. The following lines are taken from a poem after Gray, entitledRecollections of Schoolboy Days, and supposed to be written in front of Squier’s Free School, where the author had been taught reading, writing, and arithmetic:—
“Ah! it was there, where yon green trees are bending,And waving gently to the sunny air,Where schoolboys dally, anxiously contendingFor empty honours in their sports—’twas thereYoung life to me with hope and joy was beaming;Its sun in brightness rose, in sweetness set;And childhood’s happy hours were spent in dreamingOf future bliss and happier moments yet:And now those dreams are vanisht and forsakenBy childhood’s hopes: to manhood I awaken.”
“Ah! it was there, where yon green trees are bending,And waving gently to the sunny air,Where schoolboys dally, anxiously contendingFor empty honours in their sports—’twas thereYoung life to me with hope and joy was beaming;Its sun in brightness rose, in sweetness set;And childhood’s happy hours were spent in dreamingOf future bliss and happier moments yet:And now those dreams are vanisht and forsakenBy childhood’s hopes: to manhood I awaken.”
“Ah! it was there, where yon green trees are bending,And waving gently to the sunny air,Where schoolboys dally, anxiously contendingFor empty honours in their sports—’twas thereYoung life to me with hope and joy was beaming;Its sun in brightness rose, in sweetness set;And childhood’s happy hours were spent in dreamingOf future bliss and happier moments yet:And now those dreams are vanisht and forsakenBy childhood’s hopes: to manhood I awaken.”
Personally, I must confess, I should not have appreciated the pathos of the scholastic derelict but for my good friend, the late Mayor of Southmolton, who offered his services as cicerone. Mr Kingdon was formerly associated with the firm of Crosse, Day, and Crosse, solicitors, and he recollects Blackmore coming into their office, his object being to look over some documents relating to the Manor of Oare. On leaving, he complained that he had not found much to the purpose; but Mr Kingdon is not so sure.
Speaking of Mayors—and we must not forget that Master Paramore was a high member of the town council (seeLorna Doone, chapter xii.)—the chief magistrate of Southmolton is noted for the splendour of his official retinue—doubtless a legacy from the days when corporations were wont to insist more than they do now on outward show and ceremony. Mr Mills, a local historian, gives an excellent account of the old style, founded in part on his own recollections:
“The Bailiff’s livery is a coat and vest of cerulean colour, with red facings, velveteen breeches, and a gold-laced, three-cornered hat. This functionary formerly, as part of his livery, wore red stockings, but on the appointment of Mr Philip Widgery about sixty years ago (1892), he besought the Corporation to provide him withgaiters—alleging as a reason that his legs were the same shape as German flutes. His petition was granted, and he and his successors have had their legs encased in drab gaiters. The Sergeants at Mace have three-cornered hats and ample blue cloaks—both hats and cloaks being trimmed with gold lace.
“Prior to the Municipal Corporations Reform Act, 1834, these three officers always proceeded with the Mayor and other members of the Corporation to the Parish Church every Sunday morning. All the members wore robes; those who had passed the office of Mayor wore scarlet gowns, the other members were robed in black. A posse of the borough constables always preceded this procession, carrying blue staves with the borough arms in gilt letters on the upper end. These staves were about six feet long, and are preserved at the Guildhall. As soon as the second lesson had been read, the four took their staves in their hands, and holding them aloft, marched sedately out of church, to pay visits to the public-houses, in order to see if any person was tippling in them during Divine Service. The first place of call was the ‘Ring of Bells,’ adjacent to the churchyard, where, knowing the exact time their visit would be paid, the landlord had four half-pints of ale in readiness for their delectation as soon as they arrived. A similar visit was next paid to the ‘King’s Arms,’ and similar treatment awaited them there. Generally by the time these two visits had been paid, the congregation at the church had been dismissed, and the vigilant constables retired to their respective homes to preside over the family dinner, and to
Image unavailable: SQUARE AT SOUTHMOLTON (page 204).SQUARE AT SOUTHMOLTON (page 204.)
say grace, after eating it, as good churchmen should do.”
We are now to travel back three centuries and more, to the reign of Queen Elizabeth.
Leaving Southmolton for a time, we set out in the first instance for an ancient manor-house about three miles distant, in the parish of Bishop’s Nympton. In doing so, we pass two old factories, which formerly gave employment to three hundred combers, etc. One of them is now a grist mill, while the other is turned to account as a collar factory, in which a score or two of women imitate the “little busy bee.” As for the men who once worked in the mills, on the break-up of the industry some transferred their services to Mr Vicary, of North Tawton, while others migrated to Yorkshire.
A well-remembered character at Southmolton, Chappie, the parish clerk, was seated as usual at the foot of the pulpit, when the late rector, Mr King, being momentarily at a loss, whispered down to him, “What do they make at the factory?” Chappie replied in an audible tone, “Serge.” Whereupon the preacher resumed, “I am informed,” etc., drawing an illustration from the fabric.
Through winding lanes and some rough fields, which Leland would probably have described as “morisch,” lies the approach to Whitechapel, and were it not for the railway, with its “level crossing,” the spot would be rightly described as sequestered, and such as could hardly be excelled as the scene of a tragedy or perhaps a romance. The house stands on the slope of a green hill, against which its white walls stand pleasantly outlined. It hastwo courtyards, the inner being entered by a gateway flanked by tall brick pillars surmounted by huge globes. It is said that on this inner platform were mounted cannon—a battery of five pieces of ordnance. About fifty years ago the original mullioned windows were removed by a farmer-tenant, and deposited in a cellar, where they were lately discovered. Some of them have been re-inserted in the right end of the building. In the rear the remains of an old hearth have been found, showing that cooking was carried on outside the house proper. The interior is remarkable for a splendid oak screen. The place is now in thoroughly good hands, but it has naturally suffered from having been so long a farmhouse, the occupiers of which were profoundly indifferent to its contents and history. The present owner, Captain Glossop, when I met him, was bringing taste and energy to bear on the old mansion, although portions of it were beyond repair.
Working backwards, I find that at the beginning of the last century the property was in Chancery, and sold by the order of the Lord Chancellor by public auction. The purchaser was a familiar figure in Southmolton, a Mr Sanger, who occupied Whitechapel till his death. He made it his boast that he cut down and sold enough timber on the estate to pay the whole of the purchase money. At one time the property belonged to an ancestor of Sir John Heathcoat-Amory; and during the Civil Wars it was the residence of Colonel Basset, one of Prince’s “Worthies.” Blackmore clearly remembered this circumstance when he introduced Sir RogerBassett into his work (Lorna Doone, chapter xlvi.), and allowed him to be victimised by the joint cunning of lawyers and outlaw.
According to Prince, the place was the original home of all the Bassets; and the walls, as they now stand, were built during the reign of Elizabeth by Sir Robert de Basset, on the site of an earlier structure, and in the fashionable shape of an E. A few years later the knight lost his wife, and having had the good fortune to win the heart and hand of Mistress Beaumont of Umberleigh, removed to her mansion, standing where once had stood King Athelstan’s palace. Umberleigh was afterwards the property of John o’ Gaunt, from whom it passed to a relative—a fact to which old doggerel lines bear witness:
“I John o’ Gaunt, do give and grant,From me and mine, to thee and thine,The barton fee of Umberlee.”
“I John o’ Gaunt, do give and grant,From me and mine, to thee and thine,The barton fee of Umberlee.”
“I John o’ Gaunt, do give and grant,From me and mine, to thee and thine,The barton fee of Umberlee.”
Sir Robert de Basset not only bade adieu to Whitechapel, whither he never returned, but shortly before the death of Queen Elizabeth, he made another change, and for the sake of his wife’s health, took up his residence at Heanton Court, she having brought to him the manors of Sherwill and Heanton Punchardon. Situated on the right bank of the Taw, about three miles below Barnstaple, Heanton Court is now only a picturesque farmhouse, but sixty years ago, according to an eye-witness, the walls were still worse, and resembled a dilapidated factory. This place, as will be shown more plainly hereafter, was the original of the Narnton Court of theMaid of Sker.
Now Sir Robert and his wife were both descended from the Plantagenets—his wife certainly, and Sir Robert himself, if there was any truth in the allegation that his great-great-grandmother was the illegitimate daughter of Edward IV. Be that as it may, the knight saw fit to join himself to the inglorious company of claimants to the vacant throne of the Virgin Queen, two hundred in number; and, on the accession of King James, he had, in consequence to escape down the river Taw and sail into the open seaen routefor the Continent. Two years later an edict was promulgated, assuring the pretenders that, on dutiful submission, they would be allowed to escape with a fine. So the Bassets came back, and on bended knees craved King Jamie’s forgiveness. Mrs Basset of Watermouth Castle is said to be the possessor of the embroidered silk apron worn by Lady Basset on this memorable occasion. The monarch used rough language, intimating to the male suppliant that he was a big bird, and that he must clip his wings—no idle threat, since he imposed a fine necessitating the sale of fifteen manors. The title also was annulled.
The next station to Umberleigh on the London and South-Western line is Burrington, where Mrs Shapland was discovered (Maid of Sker, chapter lxiv.).
About three miles and a half west of Southmolton lies the parish of Filleigh, in which is situate Castle Hill, the beautiful seat of Earl Fortescue, with its park of over eight hundred acres, a feature of which is an avenue of trees nearly a mile long, leading to a triumphal arch.The name Castle Hill is actually a misnomer, as the mansion is not of the old baronial type; but the top of the wooded eminence, on whose slope it stands, has an artificial ruin, serving to keep the description in countenance. From the terrace the ground drops away to an ornamental lake, and what with the clusters of trees, the shrubbery, and the rare garden, Castle Hill may be fairly commended as a domain worthy of the ancient family by which it is owned. One old building which has now disappeared, was called the “Hermitage.” This was the subject of a poem by Mr Badcock, a native of Southmolton, in theLondon Magazinefor 1782, but I have been unable to discover much about it, save that it bore the inscription: “I have seen an end of all perfection, but Thy commandment is exceeding broad”—a suitable text, one may think, for a hermitage.
The grounds of Castle Hill were remodelled by Hugh Fortescue, Lord Clinton, created Earl Clinton and Baron Fortescue in 1746. He died without issue in 1751, when the earldom became extinct. The barony passed to his half-brother Matthew, who died in 1785, and was succeeded by his son Hugh. In 1789 the latter was created Earl Fortescue and Viscount Ebrington, the second title being derived from his Gloucestershire seat, Ebrington Hall. He was followed by his son, also called Hugh, who had taken an active part in the debates on the Reform Bill in the Lower House, and was appointed Lord-Lieutenant and Custos Rotulorum of the County of Devon. An interesting episode in this nobleman’s career was a visit to Napoleon in December1814, of which he published a vivacious description.
The present earl was born in 1818. As is well known, he has long suffered from an affection of the eyes, brought about by a conscientious discharge of public duty. Viscount Ebrington, his eldest son, now occupies the honourable position so ably filled by his grandfather.
For a full history of the Fortescue family in all its branches, the reader is referred to the late Lord Clermont’s large and handsome volume on the subject, of which it contains an exhaustive account. Here it may be observed that the name, which is a little remarkable, is traced to an incident in the battle of Senlac, when Richard le Fort saved the life of William, Duke of Normandy, by protecting him with his shield from the blows of his assailants. From that time, and for that reason, he was known as Richard le Fortescue, or Strong Shield. Such, at least, is Holinshed’s story. Tradition further states that after the Conquest Richard returned to Normandy, where his descendants through his second son, Richard, continued to flourish till the eighteenth century. The eldest son, Sir Adam, who had also fought at Senlac, remained behind in England, and was the ancestor of all the English Fortescues.
Among the benefactors of Southmolton occurs the name of Lord Fortescue of Credan, who left £50 to the poor of the parish. A Justice of the Common Pleas, and descended from an offshoot of the Castle Hill branch (which, by the way, is not the senior), theConveyancer’s Guidepreserves the following amusing anecdoterespecting him. The baron was the possessor of one of the strangest noses ever seen, much resembling the trunk of an elephant. “Brother, brother,” said he to the counsel, “you are handling the case in a very lame manner.” “No, no, my lord,” was his reply, “have patience with me, and I will make it as plain as the nose on your lordship’s face.”
A “town”by courtesy (though Blackmore shows it no courtesy, dubbing it “a rough rude place at the end of Exmoor”), Northmolton is an inconsiderable village—that is, as regards size and population; very pretty, however, and romantic. Despite its comparative unimportance some of the inhabitants of the larger Molton cherish respect for its smaller neighbour as the seat of ancient tradition. I remember talking to a tonsorial artist—one does not speak of “barbers” nowadays—and a native of Southmolton, who referred with bated breath to the Court Leet and Baron held in the sister parish, and the strange customs connected with such tribunals; and he evidently considered the Southmolton Town Council a mere mushroom institution of scant interest compared with the feudal juries. I determined to look into the matter.
There are two routes between South-and Northmolton—one the present highway along
Image unavailable: WHITECHAPEL BARTON (page 209).WHITECHAPEL BARTON (page 209.)
the richly wooded valley of the Mole; the other, doubtless more ancient, over the hill to the right, from the summit of which is obtained an excellent view of the village situated on the opposite ridge.
Northmolton is known far and wide as the birthplace of the renowned Tom Faggus, who from being a smith turned highwayman. It is only a few years ago since the forge at which he is supposed to have toiled was pulled down. It stood at the bottom of the square, next to and facing the “Poltimore Arms”; and picture post-cards, showing what it was like, are on sale in the village. Just as I presented the reader with the pre-Blackmorian legend of the Doones, drawn from Mr Cooper’sLynton, so I reproduce from the same source the legend of Tom Faggus, as it existed before the publication of the romance.
Faggus was a native of Northmolton, and by trade a blacksmith, but being engaged in a lawsuit with Sir Richard Bampfylde, he was ruined, and obliged to leave his home.
He then turned a gentleman-robber, and for many years collected contributions on the highways, sometimes in company with a companion named Penn, but more frequently alone.
Many stories are told concerning his famous enchanted strawberry horse, and it was chiefly by means of this horse that Faggus escaped punishment for so long a time.
On one occasion a large party of farmers agreed to ride home together from Barnstaple Fair for the purpose of avoiding an attack from Faggus, who was supposed to be in the neighbourhood. However, when they arrived at the post on the top of Bratton-down, Faggus rode up, a cocked pistol in each hand and the reins lying on the neck of his strawberry horse; he threatened them with instant death, if they did not deposit their purses at the foot of the post. The farmers obeyed him in silent awe, and Faggus rode off with his booty.
He was seized while sitting in the ale-house at Simonsbath, but at his shrill whistle his invaluable horse, having broken down the stable door, rushed into the house, and after seriously maltreating the enemies of his master with his hoofs and teeth, bore him off in triumph. On another occasion he was recognised in Barnstaple and closely pursued to the bridge, where he was met by a party of constables, who blockaded the other end. Seeing all hopes of escape by the road completely cut off, he boldly put his horse at the parapet of the bridge. This he cleared, and swam off, to the great disappointment of his numerous assailants, who had considered his capture now as quite certain.
Intelligence being received at Exford that Faggus was to pass through that village on a certain day, a number of men were stationed in a certain part of the road to endeavour to seize him. They had not been long at their post, when Faggus rode up in complete disguise.
“Pray, my good friends,” said he, “may Iask for what purpose you are waiting here in such numbers?”
On being answered that they were waiting for Faggus, he replied that he knew him well for a great rascal, and volunteered his services in assisting to take him. After a little more conversation he asked what firearms they had; four or five guns were produced. He proposed that they should be discharged and reloaded, to secure their going off when required, as the dampness of the morning might have injured their priming. This was agreed to, and when his advice had been taken and the guns put for a momenthors de combat, he produced his pistols, and having declared his name and robbed his terrified adversaries, galloped away.
It being discovered on another occasion that Faggus had taken refuge in a house at Porlock, the whole of the inhabitants assembled; some seized the rusty arms which had long hung neglected over their chimneys, or been emptied only in inoffensive war against the timid wild-fowl; others armed themselves with scythes, pitchforks, and other rustic weapons. They surrounded the house in a formidable array, shouting aloud, “Faggus is taken!” “Faggus is taken!” But they were mistaken. The door suddenly opened, and he rushed forth mounted on his strawberry horse, dashing through the crowd. Regardless of the blows and shots aimed at him from all sides, he disappeared, leaving them astonished and confounded at his daring and good fortune. He was at length captured in an ale-house at Exebridge, in the following curious manner.
One of the officers, equipped as an old beggar woman, entered the tap-room where Faggus was. With his usual kindness he ordered the supposed vagrant some food and liquor, and sat down near him. At a preconcerted signal the disguised constable, rising quickly, pulled the chair from under Faggus, and being thereupon joined by others who were concealed in the room, instantly fastened a rope to Faggus’ feet and hoisted him up to the bacon rack. The shrill whistle Faggus gave, as was his custom when in difficulty, was given in vain, for the poor horse had been shot in the stable at the very moment the attack was made upon his master. All was now over with poor Faggus. He was tried and hanged at Taunton at the ensuing assizes.
Through his whole career not one act of cruelty was ever laid to his charge, while numerous are the acts of kindness and charity to the sick and the distressed that are recorded of him. Like the celebrated Robin Hood, he seems to have taken from the rich to give to the poor, for it required but little to supply his own immediate wants, living as he did in the most frugal manner.
On my last visit to Northmolton I was fortunate in making the acquaintance of Mr Dobbs, who represents the oldest firm of auctioneers in the district, his father and grandfather having wielded the fateful hammer before him. From this informant I learnt that over forty years ago, long before he set eyes onLorna Doone, he gathered many particulars regarding Tom Faggus from Harry Lake, the parson’s boy, who possessed a history of that half or whollyfabulous hero, which he was in the habit of reading whilst seated on the vicarage steps, waiting for his master and in charge of his Bucephalus. Harry afterwards emigrated to America, taking his book with him, but Mr Dobbs is able to recollect that Faggus had a relative living in Milk Street, Exeter—a poulterer. One anecdote in the book, which is mentioned also inLorna Doone, was to the effect that once when Sir Robert Bampfylde, who had ruined Faggus and occasioned him the loss of his house, was riding to Barnstaple, he met the highwayman, who made him give up his purse. The next moment he threw it back, saying, “There is a rule among robbers not to rob robbers.”
It is worth while to observe that if Faggus lived at the period to which Blackmore assigns him, the head of the family would have been, not Sir Robert, but Sir Coplestone, Bampfylde, one of Prince’s “Worthies.” As for the tale of tyranny, it is somewhat improbable; but, if true, is the more deplorable, in that the Bampfyldes themselves had endured pecks of financial trouble—a fact candidly and explicitly set forth on the great monument in the church, where mention is made of “diuturna litigia et graves impensas,” which had nothing whatever to do with poor Faggus, but were undertaken for the object of regaining possession of their estates.
The two chiefs—Amias, to whom the monument was erected, and John, by whom it was erected, “pietatis ergo”—were both endued with the bump of philo-progenitiveness. The former was the father of twelve sons and five daughters, and the latter of eight sons and sevendaughters. The sculptor has made a brave attempt to introduce as many figures as possible into his imposing work of art, but there was evidently scope for a sort of human ant-hill. From the way the numbers are paraded, the Bampfyldes, like the Hebrews of old, manifestly regarded a large family as a merit, or, at least, a blessing. “Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them.” Apart from the monument, the most striking feature of the church is the gorgeous display of carved oak in the chancel. The insertion of modern work in the old oak pulpit was a most wretched inspiration, whoever may have been responsible for it.
The Bampfylde family acquired the property by marriage with a coheiress of the St Maurs; and in the course of centuries their honourable name has undergone almost every possible variety of spelling. Bamfylde, Bampfylde, Baumfield, Bampfeild, are some of the forms I have met with, but I will not answer for it that the list is exhaustive. The first baronet was Sir John Bampfylde, who received the title in 1641. The sixth baronet, the Right Hon. Sir George Warwick Bampfylde, was raised to the peerage in 1831 as Baron Poltimore, that being the name of another estate belonging to the family near Exeter. The present Lord Poltimore was born in 1837. He owns not only Court Hall, a fine old mansion standing to the east of the church, and almost hidden by trees, but Court House, an ancient ivy-covered structure, formerly the residence of the Parkers, the Earl of Morley’s ancestors.
There lived in the village in those days acharitably-disposed old lady, one Mrs Passmore, a dressmaker; and at Christmas-tide the dear old soul had always ready basins full of coppers, threepenny-bits, sixpenny bits, etc., to be distributed in the shape of doles. The Lady Morley of the period is said to have taken it into her head that this amiable custom detracted, in some measure, from the honour and reverence due to herself; so she suggested to Mrs Passmore that, as no doubt their charities overlapped, and some people had more than their share, while others had nothing, it might be well to entrust her with the combined funds, and allow her to act as almoner.
“No, my lady,” was the reply, “I don’t think I will. You know they come and say, ‘Thankee, Lady Morley!’ and ‘God bless ee, Lady Morley!’ but if I give away my own money, I shall have all the God bless ee’s mysel’.”
An apprentice of Mrs Passmore was the rather noted Mrs Treadwin, who wrote a book on lace, and from whose shop on the north-east side of Exeter Cathedral were supplied the wardrobes of generations of queens and princesses, including the wedding-dress of Queen Victoria.
The almshouses, the inmates of which live rent free and receive fourpence a week, were originally Parker property; and on the panelling round the chancel of the parish church may be detected the initials “T. P.,” supposed to refer to one of the family—notto the well-known editor and Parliamentarian.
The Court Leet and Baron is held at the Poltimore Arms. In the bar-parlour of this hotel is a curious object—namely, a fire-back ofcast-iron, bearing the inscription, “16H S I89.” The purpose of the utensil is to throw the fire forward and prevent it from burning the bricks. The venue of the Court Leet, however, is not the bar-parlour, but the large state-room on the right, where a feast, to which Lord Poltimore contributes thirty shillings and a hare, is held once a year. Thepersonnelconsists of sixteen jurymen, twelve of whom form the king’s jury, and four that of the manor. The presiding officer is the Portreeve (commonly known as the “Mayor”), and his subordinates include a Bailiff, Ale Tasters, and Searchers of the Market. The Court Leet possesses copper cups used as measures, but it may be mentioned, parenthetically, that the Searchers have not been round lately, as they found on a certain occasion that their own weights were not just. Mr Dobbs’s father served for a long time as Bailiff, the only pay he received being a dinner, while Mr Dobbs himself has been Portreeve, and though now quit of the office, is chaffingly greeted as “Mr Mayor.” This jest has been doing duty for at least half a century, but somehow the humour does not grow stale, and nobody is so foolish as to object.
The most colossal witticism attaching to Northmolton concerns a certain Peter, which appellation is, or used to be, in great favour in the village. The Peter in question was taken ill and died, whereupon a district visitor, or somebody of the sort, called to condole with the widow.
“So you have lost your good man?”
“Iss,” replied Betty, “Peter’s gone to Belzebub’s bosom.”