CHAPTER XITHE MOUTH OF THE LYN

Image unavailable: OARE CHURCH.OARE CHURCH.

since the last disastrous event—which, as things are, rather falsifies the narrative. Graced with ash and sycamore, the little cemetery is as Blackmore describes it, “as meek a place as need be.”

Thescenery of the district described in many excellent guide-books may not tally in every particular with the superb word-portraiture ofLorna Doone, but that it possesses charms of supreme merit will be admitted by all who know the country, whether as residents or visitors. Almost before R. D. Blackmore was breeched, the poet Coleridge testified: “the land imagery of the north of Devon is most delightful”; and his brother-in-law, Robert Southey, is equally emphatic.

“My walk to Ilfracombe,” he says, “led me through Lynmouth, the finest spot, except Cintra and Arrabida, that I ever saw. Two rivers [i.e., the East and West Lyn] join at Lynmouth. You probably know the hill streams of Devonshire. Each of these flows through a combe, rolling over huge stones like a long waterfall; immediately at their juncture they enter the sea, and the rivers and sea make but one noise of uproar. Of these combes, the one is richly wooded, the other runs between two high, bare, stony hills. From the hill between the two is a prospect most magnificent, on either hand combes,and the river before the little village—the beautiful little village—which, I am assured, by one who is familiar with Switzerland, resembles a Swiss. This alone would constitute a view beautiful enough to repay the weariness of a journey; but, to complete it, there is the blue and boundless sea, for the faint and feeble outline of the Welsh coast is only to be seen, if the day be perfectly clear.”

Inland, it is certain, the moorland streams—Lancombe, Bagworthy Water, the East and West Lyn, etc.—and all that they imply, are paramount attractions; and Miss Gratiana Chanter both truly and happily observes that, “to follow one of these tiny streams from its birth to its end, is a dream of delight to those who love to be alone with nature and her many marvels.” Another reason why we should seek the “founts of Lyn” is, that there Jeremy Stickles gave his pursuers “a loud halloo” on feeling himself secure (seeLorna Doone, chapter xlvii.).

The name “Lyn” is said to be derived from the Saxon wordhlynna, signifying a torrent. The East Lyn, rising above Oare, John Ridd’s birthplace, flows in a north-westerly direction to Malmsmead, where it unites with the Bagworthy Water, which at this point is the richer for two or three tributaries, including Lancombe (or Longcombe) stream and its waterslide. From the bridge and the thatched cottages that define this spot, the river pursues its course past Lyford Green and Lock’s Mill, where it encounters a weir, to Millslade and its meadows, and the blacksmith’s forge, “where the Lynstream runs so close that he dips his horse-shoes in it,” (Lorna Doone, chapter lxii.), and thence through woodlands to pretty Brendon. Here the Farley Water, arriving from Hoar Oak by way of Bridgeball and Illford Bridges, joins the East Lyn, and their confluence is known as Watersmeet, a poetical description not belied by the rare beauty of the scene.

Meanwhile, from the hills around Woolhanger the water gathers into two streams, which are trysted at a place called Barham, whilst at Cheribridge another brook, hailing from Furzehill, helps to swell the current. Passing Barbrook Mill and Lynbridge, the West Lyn weds the East Lyn in private grounds at Lynmouth, and then the combined torrent eddies tumultuously into the sea. Nothing can excel the cataracts of the West Lyn, dashing athwart huge boulders and down a chasm of grey rock, in an incline stated to be “one in five.” Clothing the sides of the ravine are oaks and beeches and thickets of underwood, while ferns of the most exquisite sorts fringe the banks.

“Here are mosses deep,And thro’ the moss the ivies creep,And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,And from the craggy ledges the poppy hangs in sleep.”

It must not be forgotten, however, that the roadviaBrendon, Illford Bridges, and Barbrook was that taken by John Ridd and Uncle Reuben on their visit to Ley Manor (Lorna Doone, chapter xv.).

All who are fond of quaint authors will find a congenial companion in old Thomas Westcote,whoseSurvey of Devon, written in the reign of James I., or during the early years of his successor, is stored with all manner of gossip, set forth with many a stroke of arch ornaïvehumour. In his book, at all events, he approaches Lynton by much the same route as we have followed, and then spins us an amusing yarn about the finny visitors and a certain parson.

“For our easier and better proceeding, let us once again return to Exmoor. We will, with an easy pace, ascend the mount of Hore Oak Ridge; not far from whence we shall find the spring of the rivulet Lynne, which, in his course, will soon lead us into the North Division, for I desire you should always swim with the stream, and neither stem wind nor tide. This passeth by Cunsbear,aliasCountisbury, and naming Lynton, where Galfridus Lovet and Cecilia de Lynne held sometime land, and, speeding, falls headlong with a great downfall into the Severn at Lynmouth; a place unworthy the name of a haven, only a little inlet, which, in these last times, God hath plentifully stored with herrings (the king of fishes), which, shunning their ancient places of repair in Ireland, come hither abundantly in shoals, offering themselves (as I may say) to the fishers’ nets, who soon resorted hither with divers merchants, and so, for five or six years, continued to the great benefit and good of the country, until the parson taxed the poor fishermen for extraordinary unusual tithes, and then (as the inhabitants report) the fish suddenly clean left the coast, unwilling, as may be supposed, by losing their lives to cause contention. God bethanked, they begin to resort hither again, though not as yet in such multitudes as heretofore. Henry de Lynmouth, after him Isabella de Albino, and now Wichals, possesseth it. A generous family: he married Pomerois; his father, Achelond, his grandfather, Munck.”

Concerning the “generous family” more anon; we have not quite done with the sign of Pisces. Originally Lynmouth was a little village—Blackmore speaks of it as “the little haven of Lynmouth” (Lorna Doone, chapter xxxix.)—whose inhabitants dwelt in huts and depended for a livelihood on the curing of herrings, which was carried on in drying-houses. From the beginning of September to the end of October shoals of these fish frequented the shore, and sometimes their number was so great that tons of them were thrown away or used as manure. In 1797 the herrings deserted the coast, and the peasantry attributed their conduct to the insult just referred to. The common duration of truancy was computed at forty years—a calculation which seems to hold true of the period between 1747 and 1787. The following decade consisted of fat years, when the sea at Lynmouth yielded rich autumnal harvests, and masses of herrings were sent to Bristol, whence they were shipped to the West Indies. From 1797 to 1837, and indeed longer, the fish fought shy of the place, but not entirely. On Christmas Day, 1811, there was an exceptional and very abundant shoal of herrings, and the inhabitants were called out of church in order to take them out of the weirs. A similar gift of fortune marked the year 1823. Practically, however, the fishermen’s avocationwas gone, and they had to look elsewhere for a livelihood. Happily, they did not look in vain. Pastured on the surrounding hills were large flocks of sheep, and in the neighbouring towns there was a constant demand for yarn. This was of two kinds—one for the woof, consisting of worsted, which was supplied by the Yorkshire mills; the other for the warp, which was of softer texture, and then made by hand. The latter industry became the chief—almost the sole—prop of Lynton and Lynmouth, where the good people diligently applied themselves to spinning, and by this means kept the wolf from the door.

The sea-fishing is not altogether unconnected with the history of the De Wichehalses, since the original fishermen are stated to have been Dutch Protestants forced by religious (or irreligious?) persecution to emigrate from their homes by the Zuyder Zee. The names Litson, Vellacot, etc., still borne by local families, are quoted as evidence of Dutch extraction. A trade in cured herrings sprang up with Scotland, and the Dutchmen not only had commercial transactions with Scotch sailors and traders, but married, many of them, braw Scotch lassies who came to buy their herrings. The possible bearing of this intercourse on the problem ofLorna Doonewill not escape attention. It was at Lynmouth that old Will Watcombe, the great authority on the “Gulf Stream,” lived and sought to be buried (Lorna Doone, chapter xii.).

Now as to the Wichehalses, whose name Blackmore spells with a supererogatory “h”—Whichehalse. The Protestants of the LowCountries had often attempted, by petition and remonstrance, to bend the stubborn will of their master, Philip II., and not a few of the Gueux or Beggars—a sobriquet bestowed on the Huguenot conspirators who met at Breda—left the country in despair. In 1567 the Spanish despot dispatched to the ill-fated land the Duke of Alva with an army of 20,000 men, and the latter signalised his arrival by instituting a “Council of Blood,” which resulted in the execution of 1800 patriots, while 30,000 more were reduced to abject straits by the confiscation of their property. Hordes of terrified Dutch folk fled to England, in the wake of the nobles, and a certain number of them settled, as we have seen, on the north coast of Devon.

Hugh de Wichehalse belonged, strictly speaking, to neither class of fugitives. The head of a noble and wealthy family, which had early become converts to the principles of the Reformation, he continued to struggle for his beliefs until the fatal day of Gemmingen, when, escaping the clutches of the vindictive Spaniards, he crossed the channel with his wife and children. The bulk of his property had already, by a timely precaution, been removed hither.

Such is the tradition which has to be reconciled with the pedigree of the family in the visitation of 1620. This shows three generations, and, to say the least, would be consistent with a much longer settlement in the county. The following is a copy:—

Image unavailable: JUNCTION OF LYN AND BAGWORTHY WATER (page 163).JUNCTION OF LYN AND BAGWORTHY WATER (page 163.)

Image unavailable: Decendants of NICHOLAS WICHALSE = MARGERIE

On one point there is no possible doubt—namely, that the Wichehalses were once owners of a manor-house at Lynton, standing on the site of the handsome residence known as Lee Abbey. Traces of the old structure were to be seen in an intermediate building, and gave indications of much splendour, while, as could be easily recognised, the adjacent fields and orchards formed part of the erstwhile pleasure-grounds. Just above Lee Abbey is Duty Point, famous for its beautiful views—northwards, the belt of silver sea, southwards the heathery hills, eastwards the Valley of Rocks, and westwards the grey oaks of Woody Bay; famous, too, as the scene of romantic tragedy. The principal personages of the story were old Wichehalse, his daughter Jennifried, and cruel Lord Auberley. One evening the lovelorn maiden fell or threw herself over the terrific precipice; and, hungry for revenge, her father met and slew the false suitor at the battle of Lansdown, near Bath—one of the memorable encounters of the Great Civil War. It is needless to recapitulate the details of the narrative. The story has been told by Blackmore in hisTales from the Telling House; and before that, it was told very pathetically by Mr Cooper in hisGuide to Lynton.

On the south wall of Lynton Church, close to the west window, is the following inscription on the monument of Hugh Wichehalse of Ley, who departed this life, Christide Eve, 1653, æt. 66.

“No, not in silence, least those stones belowThat hide such worth, should in spight vocal grow.Wee’l rather sob it out, our grateful tearesCongeal’d to Marble shall vy threnes with theirs.This weeping Marble then Drops this releifeTo draw fresh lines to fame, and Fame to greife;To greife which groanes sad loss in him t’ us all,Whose name was Wichehalse—’twas a Cedar’s fall.For search this Urn of Learned dust, you’le findTreasures of Virtue and Piety enshrin’d,Rare Paterns of blest Peace and Amity,Models of Grace, Emblems of Charity,Rich Talents not in niggard napkins Layd,But Piously dispenced, justly payd,Chast Sponsal Love t’ his Consort; to Children nineSurviving th’ other fowre his care did shineIn Pious Education; to Neighbours, friends,Love seald with Constancy, which knowes no end.Death would have stolne this Treasure, but in vaine—It stung, but could not kill; all wrought his gaine.His Life was hid with Christ; Death only made this story,Christ cal’d him hence his Eve, to feast with him in glory.”

The subject of this epitaph would have been the hero of the legend. One may observe, in passing, the play upon words, the Scotch elm being often termed thewychelm. This suggests a possible, and indeed probable, derivation of the name. The reader should compare Blackmore’s account of the family, and especially his portrait of Hugh Wichehalse, in chapter xv. ofLorna Doone.

According to the folklore of the district it was intended to build the church at Kibsworthy, opposite Cheribridge, on the Barnstaple road, and day after day the workmen brought materials to the spot. Each morning, however, it was found that they had been carried away during the night to the present site—it was supposed by pixies; and finally, those little gentlemen had their way. Obviously, little dependence can beplaced on folklore where questions of fact are concerned. A small volume, entitledLegends of Devon, printed at Dawlish in 1848, contains another story about a church equally void—the story, and the church, too—of foundation. In the middle of the twelfth century, it is said, Lynton Castle was the abode of a family named Lynton, in whom the Evil One, from the year 500, had taken a malicious interest. Reginald of that ilk then resolved to erect a church at Lynmouth in honour of his God, and chose for it the site of an old abbey. This devout undertaking ended the long and dreadful spell. “The castle fell, the cliff heaved as if in pain, and the terrible convulsion formed the valley of rocks. The devil was seen scudding before the wind; he had lost his hold on the House of Lynton.” Unfortunately, there never was a castle at Lynton, nor an abbey or church at Lynmouth. Moreover, one learns from Hazlitt, that, according to the popular belief, the rocks represent persons caught dancing on a Sunday, and so, like Lot’s wife, transformed into stone.

The “Valley of Rocks,” is not the primitive name of this singular and romantic spot. The Devon peasantry knew it of old as the “Danes” or “Denes”—a term probably connected with the word “den,” and signifying “hollows.” Prebendary Hancock, in his estimableHistory of Selworthy, shows it to be a commonplace name in this corner of the world. One is tempted to inquire—who christened the locality the “Valley of Rocks?” The problem is perhaps insoluble, but theLondon Magazinefor 1782 contains a poem on the “Valley of Stones,” in a note on whichit is stated that the place owed this name to Dr Pococke, Bishop of Upper Ossory, who had visited it “some years since” with Dr Mills, the Dean of Exeter.

Some have found fault with the name “Valley of Rocks” as too ambitious, but attempts to belittle the grandeur of the spot would have received small support from Southey, who wrote about the scene in the language of ecstasy.

“Imagine a narrow vale between two ridges of hills somewhat steep; the southern hill turfed; the vale which runs from east to west covered with huge stones and fragments of stone among the fern that fills it; the northern ridge completely bare; excoriated of all turf and all soil, the very bones and skeletons of the earth; rock reclining upon rock, stone piled upon stone; a huge, terrific mass—a palace of the pre-Adamite kings, a city of the Anakim, must have appeared so shapeless, and yet so like the ruins of what had been shaped after the waters of the Flood had subsided. I ascended, with some toil, the highest point; two large stones inclining on each other formed a rude portal on the summit. Here I sat down. A little level platform, about two yards long, lay before me, and then the eye immediately fell upon the sea far, very far below. I never felt the sublimity of solitude before.”

Southey evidently referred to the “Castle Rock” on the right. On the left is the pile of stone which marked the abode of Mother Melldrum (seeLorna Doone, chapter xvii.). Blackmore mentions two names by which the place was known—the “Devil’s Cheese-ring”and the “Devil’s Cheese-knife,” which he states to be convertible; but there appears to have been a third—the “Devil’s Cheese-press.”

At one time the valley was the fitting haunt of a herd of wild goats, but the animals had to be destroyed—they butted so many sheep over the adjoining cliffs.

It would be pardonable to imagine that Lynton is indebted for its popularity as a watering-place toLorna Doone, but this would betray ignorance of its history. I have spoken of the spinning industry formerly carried on by hand; when that ceased owing to the introduction of machinery into the towns, the dealers, who had employed people to work up the wool or bought up the poor folk’s yarn and taken it to larger markets, found their occupation gone. What was to be done? Mr William Litson, one of the persons in this predicament, hit upon the idea of opening an hotel. This was at the beginning of the last century, but already visitors, hearing reports of the rare and beautiful scenery, wended their way to Lynton, although not in large numbers. For their accommodation Mr Litson acquired the “Globe,” and furnished also the adjoining cottage. Among the first to patronise his establishment were Mr Coutts the banker, and the Marchioness of Bute. From that time the tale of visitors rapidly grew until, in 1807, the enterprising Mr Litson was encouraged to build the “Valley of Rocks” Hotel. The ball had now been fairly set rolling; hotels, lodging-houses, and private residences multiplied, and in the middle of the last century—years before a line ofLorna Doonehad been written or so much

Image unavailable: THE CHEESEWRING, VALLEY OF ROCKS.THE CHEESEWRING, VALLEY OF ROCKS.

as meditated—Lynton and Lynmouth were in all essentials the same as they are now.

To the lover of nature and the simplicity of country life this conversion of scenery into shekels, and Exmoor into Bayswater, represents by no means pure gain, albeit the lover of humanity may decide otherwise—on the principle of the greatest happiness of the greatest number. Both sorts, however, may unite in casting curious glances at the old Lynton which courted neither aristocratic nor democratic favour, and actually had a revel. This began on the first Sunday after Midsummer Day, and lasted a week. When the congregations emerged from the parish church, there awaited them near the gate a barrel of beer, and the majority of them were speedily “at it,” quaffing a glass or discussing revel-cake—a special confection made of dark flour, currants, and caraway seeds. The principal feature in this, as in all revels, was the wrestling, in anticipation of which big sums were laid out in prizes. Silver spoons, for instance, were sometimes an incentive to competition. However, what with the drunkenness and the collusion that characterised too often the annual festival, the custom became obsolescent, and then obsolete, having incurred the taboo of the “respectable inhabitant” and the genuine sportsman alike.

In chapter xv. of theMaid of Skermention is made of the practice of singing hymns at funeral processions on the Welsh side of the Bristol Channel. The same practice obtained on the North Devon side. One of the singers gave out the words verse by verse and the dirgewas chanted to peculiar music reserved for such occasions. The first two or three verses were sung on the removal of the coffin from the house before the procession started, and the rest at intervalsen routeto the church. The following is a hymn used at the funeral of a grown-up person:—

“Farewell, all my parents[16]dear,And, all my friends, farewell!I hope I’m going to that place,Where Christ and saints do dwell.“Oppressed with grief long time I’ve been,My bones cleave to my skin;My flesh is wasted quite awayWith pain that I was in.“Till Christ his messenger did sendAnd took my life away,To mingle with my mother earth,And sleep with fellow clay.“Into thy hands I give my soul;Oh! cast it not aside;But favour me and hear my prayer,And be my rest and guide.“Affliction hath me sore oppressed,Brought me to death in time;O Lord, as thou hast promisedLet me to life return.“How blest is he who is prepared,Who fears not at his death;Love fills his heart, and hope his breast,With joy he yields his breath.

“Farewell, all my parents[16]dear,And, all my friends, farewell!I hope I’m going to that place,Where Christ and saints do dwell.

“Oppressed with grief long time I’ve been,My bones cleave to my skin;My flesh is wasted quite awayWith pain that I was in.

“Till Christ his messenger did sendAnd took my life away,To mingle with my mother earth,And sleep with fellow clay.

“Into thy hands I give my soul;Oh! cast it not aside;But favour me and hear my prayer,And be my rest and guide.

“Affliction hath me sore oppressed,Brought me to death in time;O Lord, as thou hast promisedLet me to life return.

“How blest is he who is prepared,Who fears not at his death;Love fills his heart, and hope his breast,With joy he yields his breath.

Image unavailable: “THE WATERSLIDE,” LANCOMBE (page 163).“THE WATERSLIDE,” LANCOMBE (page 163.)

“Vain world, farewell! I must begone,I cannot longer stay;My time is spent, my glass is run,God’s will I must obey.“For when that Christ to judgment comes,He unto us will say,If we his laws observe and keep,‘Ye blessed, come away!’”

“Vain world, farewell! I must begone,I cannot longer stay;My time is spent, my glass is run,God’s will I must obey.

“For when that Christ to judgment comes,He unto us will say,If we his laws observe and keep,‘Ye blessed, come away!’”

A friend of mine wrote to Blackmore respecting the harvest-song inLorna Doone(chapter xxix.), being under the impression that it might be a true farmhouse ditty such as were common until a comparatively recent date. The romancer, however, admitted that the composition was his own.

Westof Lee Abbey and Duty Point lies much that is interesting, but this is also true of the country to the east of Lynton. For the moment we mount the coach with the intention of making a circuitous return to Dulverton. The writer does not forget his first experience of North Devon coaching. The placards showed four noble steeds, full of fettle and the joy of life; but “galled jades” would better have described the aspect of the miserable brutes condemned to drag the trunk-laden vehicle up those frightful ascents. Once on the summit, however, the going was easy, and passengers resumed their seats with a safe conscience, so far as cruelty to animals was concerned.

The drive from Lynton to Porlock, and from Porlock to Minehead, over breezy commons or through entrancing sylvan scenery, is gloriously exhilarating, and might put heart into the most confirmed dyspeptic. Which reminds me that in the neighbourhood of Porlock and Minehead there used to be gathered from the rocks vast quantities of laver, which was pickled and exported to large centres, such as Bristol, Exeter, and London. This sea-liverwort was eaten atthe tables of the rich as a great delicacy. The hills and heaths also minister to the palate, since they produce various sorts of wild fruit—the dwarf juniper, the cranberry, and the whortleberry. The last, a most delicious fruit, is often made into pies, and the writer, when staying in the neighbourhood, is always glad if he finds one before him, knowing that he can command instant popularity, especially with the fair, by suggesting a second helping. Other bipeds appreciate it no less, since it is the summer food of the black game, and the decrease in the number of the species on the Brendon and Quantock hills has been attributed to the great demand for this fruit in the large towns. The berries grow singly, like gooseberries, the little plants being from a foot to eighteen inches in height. The leaves are ovated, and of a pale green colour.

Porlock and Porlock Weir are both charming places. Perhaps the most memorable object at the former—if the epithet may be applied to an object rather than a speech or event—is the old Ship Inn at the foot of the hill. This quaint survival of an older day is closely associated with the poet Southey, who used to wander thus far from his home on the Quantocks; and in the parlour, on the right of the main entrance, is a nook still known as “Southey’s Corner,” where he is said to have indited his sonnets and other poetry on the landscapes he so warmly admired.

“Porlock, thy verdant vale so fair to sightThy lofty hills, which fern and furze embrown,Thy waters that roll musically down,Thy woody glens the traveller with delightRecalls to memory,” etc.

Then there is the church with its spire, which, if not beautiful, is at least peculiar, being faced with wooden shales. Opinions differ as to whether or not it was once of superior altitude, but tradition alleges that in the year 1700, a great storm arose and the tower suffered. Porlock tradition possesses unusual claims to respect, the reason being that it has been proved, in one instance at least, to be remarkably accurate. In the preface of his excellentHistory of the Ancient Church of Porlock, the late Prebendary Hook, alluding to the great monument, observes: “There had always been a tradition handed down from sexton to sexton, that the effigies were those of Lord Harington and his wife, the Lady of Porlock. But neither Collinson, the historian of Somerset, nor Savage, in hisHistory of the Hundred of Carhampton, knew anything of it, and the former speaks of it as the tomb of a Knight Templar, though he does not explain how a wife happened to be there! But investigation proved the truth of the tradition, as is shown in the beautifully illustrated volume entitledThe Porlock Monuments, now, unfortunately, out of print.”

It may be worth recalling that one of Miss Ida Browne’s relics is an old flint-lock pistol, engraved midway between stock and barrel with the name “C. Doone,” whilst on the reverse side is the word “Porlok.” Miss Browne is in some doubt as to whether the weapon was purchased in the village, or a C. Doone resided there, but she inclines to the latter opinion.

Porlock served as market town for the Ridds; indeed, it was in returning from Porlock marketthat Ridd’s father was murdered (Lorna Doone, chapter iv.). There also dwelt Master Pooke, and there a lawyer made John Ridd’s will.

Just off the road to Minehead, in the parish of Selworthy, stands Holnicote (pronounced Hunnicot), the Exmoor seat of the Acland family—a comparatively modern mansion, its predecessors having been destroyed by fire. In the widest sense, this old West-country race is best known through Mr Arthur Acland, late Minister of Education, and his father, the late Sir Thomas Acland, who was contemporary with Mr Gladstone at Oxford, and, like him, the winner of a “double first,” and between whom and the distinguished statesman there was maintained to the very last a close and uninterrupted friendship. Locally, although the late baronet was always most highly esteemed, it is doubtful whether he was quite as popular as his sire, still referred to by the departing generation as “theoldSir Thomas.” One of my childish recollections is lying in bed one dark night at Tiverton and listening to a muffled peal on St Peter’s bells. It was the first muffled peal I ever heard, and I was much impressed when told that it was rung to mark the passing of a great county magnate, Sir Thomas Acland, tenth baronet, and for forty years a member of Parliament. This was in 1871.

When at Holnicote—the family has another seat, Killerton, near Exeter—theoldSir Thomas made it a rule to attend church twice on Sundays, and in the afternoon he usually brought with him two or three favourite dogs, which were shut up in Farmer Stenner’s barn during the service.The Acland pew was in the parvise over the south porch, while in the west gallery the village orchestra, comprising fiddle, violoncello, flute, hautboy, and bassoon, was yet in its glory. Animated by something of the feudal spirit, the choir, on the first Sunday after the baronet’s arrival, invariably indulged in an anthem. On one such occasion, back in the fifties, the Rev. Edward Cox, rector of the neighbouring parish of Luccombe, chanced to be officiating, and at the conclusion of an elaborate performance, graced by startling orchestral effects, was so unnerved that he forgot his place in the service, and began in a faltering tone the Apostles’ Creed! Naturally there was some confusion, which was ended by Sir Thomas himself coming to the rescue. Bending forward from his seat in the gallery, he not only seconded the clergyman with stentorian accents, but waving his hand peremptorily, signed to the congregation to repeat the creed over again. The command was obeyed, and with such fervour that soon every corner of the church was echoing with the confession of faith. After the service Sir Thomas waited for Mr Cox in the porch, and slapping him on the back, remarked cheerily, “Well done, well done! Whenever you are in doubt, fall back on the articles of your belief, and I’ll support you!”

The pew occupied by Sir Thomas was originally a priest’s chamber, and was transformed into a pew by the Hon. Mrs Fortescue, whose husband was a pluralist rector of the old school, and a rare lover of port wine. Her brother, the Rev. Robert Gould, born in the rectory house atLuccombe, was a remarkable fisherman and an equally remarkable shot. Once he is said to have caught such a quantity of fish in Bagworthy Water as to make his basket ridiculous, and he was forced to requisition a boy and horse to carry his spoil away. At another time he walked from Ilfracombe, where he resided, to Allerford, on a visit to his mother—most probably by way of Hangman Hill, Showlsborough Castle, Cheriton Ridge, and Bagworthy. However that may be, he was able to bring as a present to the old lady, forty snipe—a snipe for every mile, as he said. The same accomplished gentleman shot two bitterns in Porlock Marsh—a feat which, it is safe to assert, has never been repeated in that quarter or, perhaps, in England. The birds were stuffed, and passed into the keeping of his sister, Mrs Fortescue.

The Rev. W. H. Thornton avers that Mr Fortescue was in the habit of winking his eye and confessing that he had excellent cognac in his cellar.Aproposof this weakness, he reports these not quite “imaginary conversations.”

“‘I found one morning that both my horses were gone,’ he would say, ‘but James Dadd (his coachman), James Dadd knew which way to search, and we found them loose in a lane beyond Exford, and there was a keg of this brandy left under the manger too. Will you try it?’

“Now, in all my intercourse with smugglers, illicit distillers, and such-like people, I have remarked the peculiarity that their wares either were, or were honestly deemed to be, of extra quality! Was it that the sense of irregularityadded flavour to the dram, or were the smuggled spirits really particularly choice? I do not know, but later in my life I sat by the deathbed of a very old smuggler, who told me how he used to have a donkey with a triangle on his back, so rigged up as to show three lanthorns, and how chilled he would become as he lay out winter’s night after winter’s night, watching on the Foreland or along Brandy Path, as he called it, for the three triangled lights of the schooner, which he knew was coming in to land her cargo, where Glenthorne[17]now stands, and where was the smugglers’ cave. ‘Lord bless ee, sir,’ and the dying man of nearly ninety years chuckled, ‘we never used no water. We just put the brandy into the kettle, and heated it, and drinked it out of half-pint stoups.’”

If it is to be a question of retailing smuggling stories, I also can tell one of Exmoor origin, only it relates to Minehead, whither our course now lies. Many years ago—I fancy it was in the forties—there was a certain quay-lumper, who “caddled about” anywhere, away under Greenaleigh. His name was Moorman. Just about this time a French vessel was on her way with a cargo of smuggled brandy, but a fall-out between uncle and nephew, on account of the former refusing to lend money, led to information being given, with the result that one of Her Majesty’s cutters was seen cruising up and down before Minehead. The whole town was in an uproar.

After a while the foreigner drew in under Greenaleigh, and discharged her cargo; and

Image unavailable: SHIP INN, PORLOCK (page 179).SHIP INN, PORLOCK (page 179.)

Moorman, having been called to assist, was rewarded with a sum of money and a quantity of brandy. It was beautiful brandy, and Moorman’s wife very kindly gave some of it to her neighbours, remarking as she did so, “My old man helped discharge the cargo.” This observation was carried to the excise officers, who searched for Moorman, and insisted on his telling them where the spirit was concealed. As a matter-of-fact, it had been hidden in the sand; but this was perfectly smooth, and Moorman, though he made a show of looking for them, declared he could not find the kegs. Just as they were about to give up in despair, one of the party hitched his foot in a rope, with which, it turned out, the kegs had been slung together. Several persons were arrested in connection with the affair, among others an old Mr Rawle, a farmer; and some few were sent to prison. As for the cutter, she had been lying useless in Minehead harbour, in low water.[18]

It cannot be charged against Minehead that “the hobby-horse is forgot,” and those mindful of him belong, for the most part, to the seafaring class. Early on May morning, they perambulate the town with the idol, a rough similitude ofthe equine species, decked off with ribbons; the “counterfeit presentment” being supported on the shoulders of a man whose legs are concealed by the trappings, and who is responsible for its motions. Its progress through the streets is heralded by the tap of the drum, and horseplay—seldom is the expression so apt—is the order of the day. For it may be taken for granted that there is more than one performance, and the worship of the beast is resumed at intervals till vesper-time. However, the custom, which was formerly observed at Combmartin also, is gradually dying out.

Probably one of the most sensational events in the annals of Minehead, which do not appear to be particularly rich in historic interest, is a seventeenth-century episode, in which the chief actors were the Rev. Henry Byam, rector of Selworthy, and “another.” A notable man was Henry Byam, who was born at Luccombe, in 1580. Being a devoted Royalist, he attended Prince Charles in his flight to the Scilly Islands, and thence to Jersey. Byam was in great esteem as a preacher, and his sermons were edited by Hamnet Ward, Prebendary of Wells, who states that “most of them were preached before His Majesty King Charles II., in his exile.” Perhaps, however, the discourse which will most attract modern readers, is that entitled: “A Return from Argier.—A Sermon preached at Minehead, in the County of Somerset, the 16th of March, 1627, at the re-admission of a Relapsed into our Church.” It seems that a young Minehead man had been taken prisoner by the Turks and compelled to embrace the Mohammedanreligion. Having escaped, he returned to Minehead, where, clothed in Turkish attire, he had to stand in St Michael’s Church, whilst the rector of Selworthy “improved” the occasion. In one part of the sermon, the preacher addressed himself directly to the offender:

“You whom God suffered to fall, and yet of His infinite mercy vouchsafed graciously to bring you home, not only to your country and kindred, but to the profession of your first faith, and to the Church and Sacraments again; let me say to you (but in a better hour), as sometime Joshua to Achan: ‘Give glory to God, sing praises to Him who hath delivered your soul from the nethermost hell.’ When I think upon your Turkish attire, I do remember Adam and his fig-leaf breeches; they could neither conceal his shame, nor cover his nakedness. I do think upon David clad in Saul’s armour. How could you hope, in this unsanctified habit, to attain Heaven?”

But it is time that we set out for Dunster, which is as rich in striking memories as the seaport town is poor. The two places, however, are not altogether separable; indeed, it must be evident at a glance that small towns situated at so short a distance from each other—two miles and a half—will have been influenced, though in varying degrees, by the same incidents and accidents, and freaks of fortune. If we go back to the first quarter of the fifteenth century, we find that a “shipman” of Minehead, called Roger King, was employed in conveying provisions from this part of the world to Normandy, where war was then raging; and his return cargo oftenconsisted of wine, which Lady Catherine Luttrell, of Dunster Castle, readily purchased from him. Once Sir Hugh Luttrell embarked on a vessel called theLeonard of Dunster, taking with him five live oxen and two pipes of beer for consumption during the voyage. His expenses, including repairs, amounted to the then considerable sum of £42, 3s. 1d.; but the master, Philip Clopton, having been paid £40, 10s. by certain foreign merchants for a freight of wine on the journey home, the lucky knight had merely to make good the difference—£1, 13s. 1d. In 1427, several Minehead fishermen, tenants of Sir Hugh, adventuring as far as Carlingford, were captured by a Spaniard named Goo, and having been conveyed to Scotland, were confined in Bothwell Castle, whence a special letter, addressed to the King of Scotland in the name of Henry VI., was necessary to procure their release.

In the Middle Ages, Dunster itself was a seaport, and, in the reign of Edward III., writs directed to the bailiffs forbade friars, monks, or treasure to quit the realm by that door. It is to be observed in this connection that the river Avill, before joining the sea, widens out at a place called the “Hone” or the “Hawn”—no doubt the site of the oldhaven, of which term its present name is a corruption.

To many, Dunster Castle is indissolubly associated with the family of Luttrell, and no wonder, seeing the ages that have elapsed since it was owned by persons of different descent. Its earliest lords, however, were Mohuns—a name which at once awakens recollections of Thackeray and the famous duel between Lord Mohun andthe Duke of Hamilton in Hyde Park, in 1712. The first Mohun of Dunster was a gallant leader called William the Old, who attended his namesake, the Conqueror, with a large retinue to the field of Senlac, and received Dunster as a part of that day’s spoil. The family had large possessions in Normandy, and drew their name—De Moion—from a village near St Lo.

The history of the English branch, or rather branches, is by no means devoid of interest. The founder of Newenham Abbey (Devon), for instance, was Reginald de Mohun, who died in 1246. In recognition of his munificence, he received from the Pope the gift of a golden rose, and as such a present was made only to persons of high rank, His Holiness dubbed him Earl of Este (or Somerset). The monkish chronicler reports that Reginald had seen in a vision a venerable man, who bade him make his election between going with him then, in which case he would be safe, or remaining until overtaken by danger. De Mohun at once accepted the former alternative, but the old man would have him stay till the third day, when the confessor saw in another dream the same old man leading a boy “more radiant than the sun, and vested in a robe brighter than crystal,” which boy, he heard him say, was the soul of Reginald de Mohun. The chronicler further states that he was present when Reginald’s tomb was opened nearly a hundred years later, what time the body was perfect, and exhaled a most fragrant odour.

I now pass to the year 1376, when the Lady Joan, relict of Sir John de Mohun, sold the right of succession to the barony for £3333, 6s. 8d.to the Lady Elizabeth Luttrell, the receipt being still in the possession of the present owner, Mr G. F. Luttrell. It is worth remarking that Mr Luttrell is a descendant of the Mohuns of Beconnoc (the junior branch which produced the Lord Mohun before mentioned), through the marriage of his ancestor, John Fownes, with the heiress of Samuel Maddock, her mother having been the daughter and ultimate heiress of the third Lord Mohun of Okehampton.

The Lady Elizabeth Luttrell was the daughter of Hugh Courtenay, Earl of Devon, and Margaret, daughter of Humphry de Bohun, Earl of Hereford and Essex, who was styled “the flower of knighthood, and the most Christian knight of the knights of the world.” Her husband was a less considerable person, being only a cadet of a younger branch of the baronial family of Luttrell of Irnham. Their son was the Sir Hugh Luttrell already referred to, who, in his time, was governor of Harfleur and Grand Seneschal of France—in fact, the right-hand man of Harry the Fifth. He rebuilt Dunster Castle in somewhat the form we find it to-day, and added a new gate-house. The alabaster effigies on the north side of the chancel of the conventual church are those of Sir Hugh and Lady Catherine Luttrell.

There are black sheep in every family, and among the Luttrells one black sheep was pretty clearly James, grandson of great Sir Hugh. The latter had a receiver-general named Thomas Hody, and it was probably his son—one Alisaunder Hody, at any rate—that drew up a complaint against James Luttrell which enablesus to see what manner of man he was. First, it seems, Luttrell ascertained from Hody’s unsuspecting wife where her husband was likely to be for the next three days, and then clapped one of his servants into Dunster Castle, where he kept him closely confined for a night, to prevent him from giving information. Luttrell’s next move was to set out with a party of thirty-five followers, with bows bent and arrows in their hands, for the house of Alisaunder’s father-in-law, Thomas Bratton, with the intention of murdering the object of his resentment.

In the course of another expedition, in which he was attended by twenty-four armed retainers, he fell upon John Coker, a servant of Hody, and beat and wounded him so that his life was despaired of. His greatest coup, however, was his attack on Taunton Castle, where he broke open the doors and searched for Alisaunder, confiscated seven silver spoons, five ivory knives, and other goods belonging to him, struck his wife, and threatened to kill her with their daggers. A servant, Walter Peyntois, was stabbed, almost fatally, while “Sir” Robert, Alisaunder’s priest, was assaulted, dragged to the ground by the hair of his head, and beaten by the ruffians with the pommels of their swords.

Whatever his faults, James Luttrell was undoubtedly brave, and, taking part in the strife of the Roses, was knighted on the field after the battle of Wakefield. At the second battle of St Albans he received a mortal wound, and in the first Parliament of Edward IV. his property was forfeited to the Crown. Theattainder was reversed on the accession of Henry VII.

Another fighting Luttrell was Sir John, who served in the Scottish wars of the mid-sixteenth century, won the name of a “noble captain,” and was ultimately taken prisoner in the fort of Bouticraig. Among the treasures of Dunster Castle is preserved a painting of Sir John Luttrell by a Flemish artist, Lucas de Heere, dated 1550; and a very extraordinary painting it is.

In the great Civil War, the Luttrell of the period, whose Christian name was Thomas, espoused the side of the Parliament, and “Mistress” Luttrell commanded the men in the castle to “give fire” at sixty of Sir Ralph Hopton’s troopers, who had come to demand entrance, but after this reception deemed it expedient to retire. In 1643 the owner, rather weakly, surrendered the place, of which Francis Wyndham now became governor. Two years later, Colonel Blake, with a Parliamentarian force from Taunton, began the investment of the castle, which finally capitulated on April 19, 1646.

In 1645, after the battle of Naseby, the Prince of Wales (afterwards Charles II.) was commanded by his father to take up his quarters at Dunster, in order to escape the plague, which was raging at Bristol. This was to jump from the frying-pan into the fire, as the contagion was so bad at Dunster that the inhabitants feared to venture into the streets. However, there is no doubt that the prince visited the castle, where a room leading out

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