The Pilgrimage Series

THE BLACKMORE COUNTRY

THE
Blackmore Country

BY
F. J. SNELL
AUTHOR OF “A BOOK OF EXMOOR,” ETC.
SECOND EDITION
WITH 32 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
FROM PHOTOGRAPHS BY
CATHARINE W. BARNES WARD
LONDON
ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK

“So holy and so perfect is my love,
. . . . . . . . . .
That I shall think it a most plenteous crop
To glean the broken ears after the man
That the main harvest reaps.”
—Sir Philip Sidney.

First Edition, containing 50 illustrations, published 1906
This Edition published 1911

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

The Blackmore Country having achieved a second edition, it is proper to state that it is now presented to the public substantially in the same form as in the original issue. Advantage, however, has been taken of a friendly critique by Mr Arthur Smyth to effect some revision. Mr Smyth, who was well acquainted with the Blackmore family, and indeed a distant relation, is rather perplexed at the assertion that the novelist’s father was a poor man; but he certainly passed for such at Culmstock, and the fact that he took pupils, in addition to serving his poor cure, tends to show that he was by no means too well off.

In my Early Associations of Archbishop Temple it is stated with reference to the restoration of Culmstock Church: “Nobody knew from what source Mr Blackmore obtained the necessary funds, but it was supposed that his wife’s relations were rich.” This is, in a sense, confirmed by Mr Smyth, who says that Mr Turberville, R. D. Blackmore’s elder brother, inherited considerable property from his mother; but, when I wrote the passage above quoted, I was not aware that John Blackmore was married twice. His first wife, who died three years after their marriage, and before John Blackmore set foot in Culmstock, may not have been in possession of means, although Turberville’s estate—Mr Smyth says, “his will was proved for (I believe) £20,000”—may have been derived from his maternal connections. Mr Snowden Ward, in his Introduction to the Doone-land edition of Lorna Doone, informs us regarding R. D. Blackmore, also a son of this lady: “A bequest from the Rev. H. Hay Knight, his mother’s brother, put an end to his financial worries.”

Nevertheless, it may be doubted whether the novelist was ever in even “comparative affluence.” He himself publicly declared that he lost more than he gained from market-gardening—he was, by the way, a F.R.H.S.—and the late Rev. D. M. Owen, Blackmore’s old schoolfellow, with whom he maintained a lifelong correspondence, told me that he was constantly complaining of his pecuniary limitations. Mr Owen’s reply was that he had no excuse; he had only to write another Lorna Doone to replenish his treasury to the brim. When, also, he was asked for a subscription to the Culmstock flower show, Blackmore declined, assigning as the reason that he “couldn’t afford it.” This does not look like “comparative affluence.”

Mr Smyth says that he never saw or heard of any daughters of the Rev. John Blackmore. If he implies that there were none, he is certainly mistaken (see Prologue), but he raises a problem which, I confess, I am not able to solve. “In Charles Church there is a marble slab erected to the memory of the Rev. John Blackmore by his children, J. B., R. B., M. A. B. No allusion is made to M. A. B. in the pedigree either by the Rev. J. F. Chanter or Mr Snell.” The only explanation which occurs to me is that M. A. B. may represent the initials of their full sister, who died in infancy. The Rev. John Blackmore married in 1822. Three years later he sustained a terrible trial. “The novelist’s father,” says Mr Ward, “was a ‘coach’ for Oxford pupils, until, in 1825, a great outbreak of typhus fever swept away his wife, daughter, two pupils, the family physician, and all the servants, and almost broke John Blackmore’s heart.” R. D. Blackmore’s mother’s maiden name was Anne Basset Knight; and the A. in M. A. B. suggests that her daughter may have been called Anne—perhaps Mary Anne, if M. A. B. indicates that daughter. She had long been dead, but the brothers, as an act of piety, may have chosen to commemorate her in this way, whilst ignoring the daughters of the second family, whom Mr Smyth never saw or heard of.

In conclusion, the demand for a second edition of this work is a satisfactory answer to the disparaging remarks of the late Mr F. T. Elworthy in a presidential address to the members of the Devonshire Association for the Promotion of Literature, Science, and Art. It is a bad precedent that the title and contents of a new work should be officially censured on an occasion when it was by an accident that the author was not present to be lectured for his shortcomings, just as it was a pure accident that Mr Elworthy was not named in the book as accompanying Dr Murray and Professor Rhys in their visit to the Caractacus stone on Winsford Hill (p. 109)! I now repair this omission, and at the same time express regret that the secretaries did not take steps to delete from the reports of a learned and very useful association criticism which, to say the least, was beside the mark.

F. J. SNELL.

January 30, 1911.

PROLOGUE

The “Blackmore Country” is an expression requiring some amount of definition, as it clearly will not do to make it embrace the whole of the territory which he annexed, from time to time, in his various works of fiction, nor even every part of Devon in which he has laid the scenes of a romance. The latter point may perhaps be open to discussion in the sense that, ideally, the glamour of his writing ought to rest with its full might of memory on all the neighbourhoods of the West around which he drew his magic circle. As a fact, however, it is North Devon and a slice of the sister county that form his literary patrimony, while Dartmoor is a more general possession, which he failed to seal with the same staunch and archetypal impression. There have been many good Dartmoor stories, and one instinctively associates that region with the names of Baring-Gould and Eden Phillpotts; with Blackmore, hardly at all. But from Exmoor to Barnstaple, and from Lynton to Tiverton, he reigns supreme—and naturally, for this was his homeland, which, through all its length and breadth, he knew with an intimacy, and loved with a devotion, and portrayed with a skill, that will surely never again be the portion of any child of Devon.

Richard Doddridge Blackmore was born on June 7, 1825, at Longworth, in Berkshire—a circumstance which raises the delicate and important question whether, after all, he can be justly claimed as a Devonshire man. On the whole, I think, the question may be answered affirmatively, although it is evident that he cannot possibly be described as a native of the county. Who, however, would dream of depriving an Englishman of his nationality merely for the accident of his being born abroad, unless indeed he deliberately abandoned that proud title and threw in his lot with the country of his birth, to the exclusion of his ancestral home? And this practically represents the state of affairs as regards Blackmore. In one sense it must be admitted he did not remain constant to his Devonshire connections, inasmuch as he resided through a great part of his life, and to the day of his death, at Teddington, in Middlesex. But as against this must be set the facts that he descended from an old North Devon stock, a stock so old that it may fairly be termed indigenous, and that his boyish experiences were almost entirely confined within the county. To these weighty considerations may be added that he eventually became possessor of the ancient residence of his race, that he always manifested the warmest interest in county concerns, and that his great achievement in literature was inspired by West-country legend. That well-known authority, the Rev. J. F. Chanter, worthy son of a worthy sire, would like to say “Devon” legend, and much may be urged in favour of his contention, notwithstanding that modern Exmoor is altogether in Somerset. He points out, for instance, that Bagworthy (or “Badgery”) Wood, the centre of the Doone traditions, is in Devon. Still it were better, perhaps, to consider Lorna Doone in the light of a border romance. Indeed, on an impartial survey, it seems almost necessary to adopt this view; and Blackmore himself was anything but unwilling to recognise, and even to emphasise, the Somerset element in his story.

Not long before the novelist’s death, a gentleman wrote to him from Taunton, calling attention to the widely prevalent idea that in the course of the tale he conveyed the impression of allocating this charming country to North Devon rather than West Somerset; and Mr Blackmore’s correspondent went on to mention that recently strenuous efforts had been made to procure the inclusion of Exmoor in Devon, but that the policy of plunder had been defeated by the vigilant action of the Somerset County Council. In reply to this communication the following letter was received:—

“My dear Sir,—Nowhere, to the best of my remembrance, have I said, or even implied, that Exmoor lies mainly in Devonshire. Having known that country from my boyhood—for my grandfather was the incumbent of Oare as well as of Combe Martin—I have always borne in mind the truth that by far the larger part of the moor is within the county of Somerset, and the very first sentence in Lorna Doone shows that John Ridd lived in the latter county. Moreover, when application is made to Devon J.P.’s for a warrant against the Doones, does not one of them say that the crime was committed in Somerset, and therefore he cannot deal with it? See also p. 179 (6d. edition), which seems to me clear enough for anything. Moreover, the rivalry of the militia, both in Lorna Doone and Slain by the Doones—which title I dislike, and did not choose freely—shows that the Doone Valley was upon the county border. I think also that Cosgate, supposed to be ‘County’s Gate,’ is referred to in Lorna Doone, but I cannot stop to look.[1] The Warren where the Squire lived is on the westward of the line, as Lynmouth is—or, at least, I think so—and therefore North Devon is spoken of the heroine who lives there. All this being so very clear to me, I have been surprised more than once at finding myself accused in Somerset papers of describing Exmoor as mainly a district of Devonshire—a thing which I never did, even in haste of thought. And if you should hear such a charge repeated, I trust that your courtesy will induce you to contradict it, which I have never done publicly, as I thought the refutation was self-evident.”

It is certainly true that at Dulverton, which, if not Exmoor, is next door to it, visitors frequently imagine that they are in Devonshire, as I have myself proved, but, for my own part, I have never attributed this delusion to the influence of Lorna Doone. On the contrary, it has seemed to me that a river is the culprit. The Exe is universally esteemed a Devon stream, and lends its name to the metropolis of the West. That in these circumstances Exmoor should be anywhere but in Devonshire, may well appear a violation of the fitness of things, and as coloured maps seldom perhaps emerge from their impedimenta, these visitors revenge themselves on the makers of England by substituting for artificial delimitations their own easy beliefs and natural assumptions.

This, however, is somewhat of a digression. I return to the probably more interesting topic of Mr Blackmore’s Devonshire “havage,” which good old West-country term I once heard a good old West-country clergyman derive from the Latin avus—needless to say, a most unlikely etymon. In the above-quoted letter reference is made to the novelist’s grandfather as incumbent of Oare and Combe Martin, but, had the occasion required it, Blackmore could no doubt have furnished a much fuller account of his North Devon pedigree. It is extremely probable, but not absolutely certain, that one of his remote ancestors, sharing the same Christian name Richard, married a Wichehalse of Lynton. To have read Lorna Doone is to remember how John Ridd rudely disturbed young Squire Wichehalse in the act of kissing his sister Annie; and I shall have more to say of this half-foreign clan, their fortunes, and their eyry in a subsequent chapter. Meanwhile one may note that the first entry in the parish register of Parracombe relates to the marriage of Richard Blackmore and Margaret, daughter of Hugh Wichehalse, of Ley, Esq.; and, further, that the bride’s father died on Christide, 1653, and the bride herself thirty years later. These dates are important, as they seem to preclude the possibility of the Richard Blackmore who wedded the Lady of Ley being the direct progenitor of the Richard Blackmore who wrote Lorna Doone, though it can scarcely be questioned that he was of the same kith and kin, and so, in the larger sense, an ancestor. In any case, the match cannot be accepted as a criterion of the standing of the family. Mésalliances are not unknown in North Devon, one such romantic union of erstwhile celebrity being the marriage of a small farmer’s son with a daughter of the resident rector, a gentleman of good descent and prebendary of Exeter Cathedral. From the time of John Ridd, and who shall say for how many ages antecedent thereto, love has laughed at locksmiths and gone its own wilful way.

Small farmers, however, the Blackmores were not. They were freeholders settled at East Bodley and Barton in the parish of Parracombe, and leaseholders of the neighbouring farm of Killington, or Kinwelton, in the parish of Martinhoe. Over the porch of the old farmstead at Parracombe may still be read the inscription, “R.B., J.B., 1638”; and as the Subsidy Rolls of 16 Charles I. for Parracombe and Martinhoe contain the names of Richard and John Blackmore, we may conjecture without difficulty to whom the initials belonged. The first of the yeomen on whom we can fasten as a certain ancestor of the novelist was a John Blackmore who died in 1689. His son Richard, and grandson John, and great-grandson John—not to mention other members of the family whose names are duly recorded—suffered themselves to be absorbed with the peaceful and healthful pursuit of husbandry, which they practised, generation after generation, on their estate at Bodley. Then, towards the end of the eighteenth century there occurred a change; and the Blackmore name, in the person of another John, took what may be termed an upward turn. This John Blackmore, born in 1764, betrayed a taste for learning, and through Tiverton School found his way to Exeter College, Oxford, where he won the degree of B.A. He was soon after ordained, and entered on his duties as curate of High Bray, on the outskirts of Exmoor, and in his own country and county. An antiquary and a person of general cultivation, he was at the pains of copying the parish register, and in the new edition did what every parson should do, set down items of current interest, together with an informal history of the parish, so far as it could be learned. He did also what few parsons should attempt—adorned his copy of the register with original Latin verses. Such specimens of new Latin poetry as I have disinterred from parochial records are, for the most part, fearful and wonderful lucubrations as to both sentiment and technique, whereas it is frequently the case that voluntary jottings in the vulgar tongue gild and redeem, with their human touches, whole continents of inky wilderness.

Not long after his advent at High Bray Mr Blackmore appears to have married, and in process of time his wife bore him a first-born son, whom he named John. He was, however, not quite content with his position as curate; and accordingly he bought the advowson of the adjacent living of Charles, in the confident expectation that it would shortly become void, pending which happy consummation he agreed to serve as curate-in-charge. No speculation could have been more disastrous, since, in point of fact, the hoped-for vacancy did not occur till quite half a century had passed over his head, and at that advanced age he did not think proper to enter upon possession. Instead of doing so, he presented his second son Richard to the rectory. During this protracted era of suspense John Blackmore, senior, as he must now be designated, did not lack preferment. In 1809 he was appointed rector of Oare, and in 1833 (pluralities being still admissible) he received in addition the valuable living of Combe Martin; and both these appointments he continued to hold till his death in 1842.

As has been intimated, the original Parson Blackmore had two sons, John and Richard, each of whom, following in his footsteps, entered the Church; and the elder at all events met with considerably worse luck than his father. Curiously enough, his early life was full of promise, for in 1816 he was elected Fellow of Exeter, his father’s old college, and this might well have proved the inception of a long and successful academic career, either in Oxford or at one of our public schools. But in 1822 he vacated his fellowship on his marriage with Anne Basset, daughter of the Rev. J. Knight, of Newton Nottage. Thirteen years later he had attained to no higher position than that of curate-in-charge of Culmstock, near Tiverton; and when he retired from that, it was only to proceed in a similar capacity to Ashford, near Barnstaple. He was always poor, but deserved a happier fate, since he was always good (see Maid of Sker, chapter xxxix.). He died in 1858.

By his wife Anne the Rev. John Blackmore had one daughter and two sons, Henry John, who afterwards took the name of Turberville, and Richard Doddridge. The former produced a bizarre poem entitled “The Two Colonels,” and was proficient in a number of sciences, notably in astronomy, but he was eccentric to such a degree that there was grave doubt, in spite of all his attainments, whether he was quite compos mentis. He resided at Bradiford, near Barnstaple, died at Yeovil under distressing circumstances, and was buried at Charles (in 1875). He assumed the name Turberville, so it is said, out of resentment at the sale of the family estates for the benefit of a half-brother, Frederick Platt Blackmore, an officer in the army and a spendthrift; and he notified his intention, as well as his reason, to all whom it might concern in a printed handbill. Anger was also the motive for his writing “The Two Colonels”; he conceived there had been discourtesy on the part of the members of the Ilfracombe Highway Board and others. The publication caused much excitement, and at one time an action for libel seemed imminent. Eventually, it is believed, the book was withdrawn.

Besides the son already mentioned, the Rev. John Blackmore had by his second wife two daughters, Charlotte Ellen, who married the Rev. J. P. Faunthorpe, of Whitelands College, Chelsea, and Jane Elizabeth, who was the wife of the Rev. Samuel Davis, for many years vicar of Barrington, Devon. He was for a year or two at Bude Haven, and won some reputation there as a preacher. Hence, his son, Mr A. H. Davis, thought he might possibly be the “Bude Light” of Tales from the Telling House, but my friend, the late Rev. D. M. Owen, who probably knew, gave me to understand that the “Bude Light” was the Rev. Goldsworthy Gurney.

Returning to the first family—the second son was Richard Doddridge Blackmore, the novelist. In his case, although great wit is proverbially allied to madness, the question of sanity is not likely to be raised; and probably the worst fault that the world will lay to his charge is that of undue secretiveness. It is common knowledge that he interdicted anything in the shape of a biography, and doubtless he took measures to prevent the survival of private papers and letters which might be used as material for the purpose. Whether or not he did this, his wish will assuredly be held sacred by his more intimate friends, who alone are qualified to undertake such a work. Meanwhile the novelist has to pay for his prohibition of an authentic Life, by the unrestricted play of ben trovare. Having myself been victimised by this insidious enemy of truth, I seize the opportunity to protest that any statements regarding the late Mr Blackmore to be found in the present work are made without prejudice and with all reserve, as being, conceivably, the inventions of the Father of Lies. At the same time, as due caution has been observed and the evidence has, in various instances, been drawn from reputable and independent witnesses who, without knowing it, acted as a check on each other, I cannot seriously believe that these contributions to history are either gratuitous or garbled.

An illustration, pointed and germane, is not far to seek. I always understood from my late kind friend, the Rev. C. St Barbe, Sydenham, rector of Brushford, who, to the deep regret of a wide circle of acquaintance, passed away in the spring of 1904 at the age of 81, that R. D. Blackmore, as a boy, spent many of his vacations at the moorland village of Charles, to the rectory of which his uncle Richard had, as we have seen, been presented by his grandfather. Mr Sydenham even went so far as to use the expression “brought up” in this connection, which indicates at least the length and frequency of young Blackmore’s visits. Now the Rev. J. F. Chanter, in a paper written in 1903, shows that he also has gained a knowledge of the circumstance—certainly by some other means. As the rector of Charles did not die till 1880, and so lived to see his nephew and guest grown famous, it is not to be supposed that he allowed his share in the hero’s tirocinium to remain obscure. What more natural than that he should communicate it freely to his neighbours, with all the pride of a fond uncle with no children of his own? Would he not have related also, as the harvest of imparted wisdom, that in the rectory parlour, the scene of former instruction, great part of Lorna Doone was written? Nor must we forget the old Blackmore property at Bodley, where the novelist’s grandfather, in order to adapt it to his requirements as an occasional residence, had added to the venerable homestead a new wing; and where, or at Oare rectory, the future romancer passed blissful holidays, roaming at will in the North Devon fields and lanes, and drinking in quaint lore, conveyed in the broad, kindly accents of the North Devon country-folk. The Bodley estates, consisting of East Bodley, West Hill, and Burnsley Mill, passed to the novelist’s father, by whom they were sold a few years before his death. Mr Arthur Smyth, referring to R. D. Blackmore’s college days, avers that even then he was very reserved. Mr Smyth’s father often went shooting with him. About this time a white hare was caught at Bodley, and, having been stuffed, was treasured by the Rev. R. Blackmore in his dining-room at Charles.

Thus the limits of the Blackmore country are definitely staked out by family tradition, as well as by literary interest, running from Culmstock to Ashford, and from Oare to Combe Martin, with the commons appurtenant. The confines are somewhat vague and irregular, and I must crave some indulgence for my method of configuration. Obviously, the novelist’s recollections of his youth with their accompanying sentiments and inspirations, cannot be taken as an absolute guide, for then it would be requisite to cross the Bristol Channel to Newton Nottage, his mother’s home, in the vicinity of which are laid the opening scenes of the charming Maid of Sker. Such a course would infringe too much on the popular conception of the phrase, and the attempt to link localities without any natural connection, and severed by an arm of the sea, however successfully accomplished in the romance, would in our case involve needless confusion. What little is said about Newton Nottage, therefore, may as well be said here.

A village in Glamorganshire, it had peculiarly sacred and solemn associations for R. D. Blackmore. Nottage Court, the seat of the Knight family, was his mother’s ancestral home, and it was also one of the homes of his own childhood. Here he wrote his first book, the above-named romance, which was ever his favourite, but the story was re-written, and not published till a later date. For Blackmore, however, the place had sad as well as pleasant memories, for it was here that his father, then curate of Ashford, was found dead in his bed on the morning of September 24, 1858, whilst on a visit to his wife’s people, and at Newton Nottage he lies buried.

If this is crossing the Bristol Channel, so be it; we are soon back again, and ready to discourse of Tiverton, and Southmolton, and Lynton, and Barnstaple, and their smaller neighbours, with the moors and commons appurtenant.[2]

PEDIGREE OF THE BLACKMORE FAMILY

Note.—For the Blackmore pedigree and other kindly assistance, the author is indebted to the Rev. J. F. Chanter, of Parracombe.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

From Photographs by CATHARINE W. BARNES WARD.

THE BLACKMORE COUNTRY

CHAPTER I
THE APPROACH

R. D. Blackmore was about ten years of age when his father took up his abode at Culmstock, a village in East Devon, at the foot of the Blackdowns. Notwithstanding an inclination to wander, evidence of which has been adduced in the previous section, the boy must have passed a fair amount of time at home; and wherever Blackmore tarried, he became imbued with the spirit of the place, wrested all its secrets, and acquired an intimate acquaintance with its arts and crafts such as would do credit to a committee of experts. Above all, he had the enviable gift of being able to distil from the rude realities their poetic essence—the prize of loving intelligence.

So far as Culmstock and the neighbourhood are concerned, the fruits of his observation are to be seen in Perlycross, and in a much lesser degree in Tales from the Telling House. The former, by no means so répandu as Lorna Doone, labours under the disadvantage, which is yet not all disadvantage, of fictitious names; consequently but few are aware that Perliton, Perlycross, and Perlycombe are pretty, but deceptive aliases of Uffculme, Culmstock, and Hemyock. These little places—Uffculme, however, claims to be a town—are tapped by a light railway of serpentine construction, which branches from the main line at Tiverton Junction. The trains are appallingly slow, chiefly on account of the curves; and just outside the junction is a stiff gradient, the ascent of which, especially in frosty weather, is problematical. Often there is nothing for it but to drop back to the station and try again, or, as the French have it, se reculer pour mieux sauter.

The level champaign traversed by the caricature of locomotion is remarkable for its fertility, and for many other things redolent, I wot, to the ordinary resident of nothing but the meanest bathos—so deadly in use! It is otherwise with the stranger within the gates, to whom these items of every day unfold themselves as precious boons, creating a joyous sense of novelty and possession. A rapid but happy and accurate description of the vale by Mr Henry, who, I believe, is an Irishman, points the common lesson how much of beauty and wonder lies around us, had we but eyes to see. Impatient for the hills, and doubtless as purblind as my neighbours, I should scarce have lingered amid these pastoral scenes but for his restraining touch, so that I rest doubly indebted to his sage and kindly interpretation.

“I live in Uffculme. Its name might appropriately be Coleraine, for it is indeed a corner of ferns; every lane abounds with them, the hart’s tongue being specially abundant. Uffculme takes its name from the river Culm, and means simply up Culm. It is noted for ‘zider’ and its grammar school. It is a quaint and quiet village. I love its charming thatched cottages, with their niched eaves, each niche the eyebrow of a little window. The inns too are quaint, with their suspended signs, each a symbolic gem. Some in the country around here bear such names as the ‘Merry Harriers,’ the ‘Honest Heart,’ the ‘Rising Sun,’ the ‘Half Moon,’ the ‘Hare and Hounds,’ etc.

“There are four streets in Uffculme, and a triangular ‘square,’ on which a market is held every two months. In the interval the grass has its own sweet will. Everything is still; the smoke rises like incense in the air. Here, as I write, looking into a garden, which even now, in October, has many flowers in bloom, I hear no sounds but the song of the robin enjoying the glory of the morning sun, a chanticleer crowing in the distance, and the clanging anvil of the village blacksmith.

“The narrowness of the lanes around adds greatly to the country’s charms, their high hedgerows being a mass of many kinds of flowers. Thoroughly to enjoy the beauties of the neighbourhood, however, it must be viewed from one of the hills or downs. Embowered in a wealth of greenery, Uffculme sleeps on a slope of the Culm valley. As far as the eye can reach, lies a most beautiful panorama of diversified hill and dale with rounded trees, every field hedged with them. The quiet herds of Devon cattle lie ruminating and adorning the green bosom of the country. The whole scene has a charming cultured aspect, as if some giant landscape-gardener had laid it out. What peacefulness! How beautiful the cattle!

‘Aren’t they innocent things, them bas’es,
And haven’t they got old innocent faces?
A-strooghin’ their legs that lazy way,
Or a-standin’ as if they meant to pray.
They’re that sollum an’ lovin’ an’ steady an’ wise,
And the butter meltin’ in their big eyes,
Eh, what do you think about it, John?
Is it the stuff they’re feedin’ on?
The clover, and meadow grass, and rushes,
And then goin’ pickin’ among the bushes,
And sniffin’ the dew when its fresh and fine,
The sweetest brew of God’s own wine.’

“And then the Devonshire clotted cream! It is delicious, yet simply made. The milk stands on the hob till the cream rises and attains almost the consistency of dough. Every son of Devon, native and adopted, enjoys this luxury to the full.

“The Culm is a little wandering river, abounding in trout. Otters are hunted at Hemyock. Foxes also are found in the neighbourhood, and on one occasion the noble wild red deer approached within five miles of us. Birds of all kinds are plentiful, and flowers abound. Bullfinches are a pest, even among the apple-trees. In my first walk, I saw a kingfisher and a jay. The country exudes vegetation at every pore. The mildness of the climate is evidenced by the fact that on Saturday last (October 17) I saw in bloom the foxglove, poppy, primrose, wild anthernum, and many other flowers. I ate a strawberry grown in the open; watched the bees on the mignonette beds, and saw a wood-pigeon’s nest with young. The climax is reached when I say that a man of great agricultural faith, in the neighbouring parish of Halberton, is attempting a second crop of potatoes.

“The country is well-watered; little rills gush from every quarter. The natives reckon by the flowers—e.g., ‘He went to Canada last hyacinth time.’ The gentlemen’s seats are lovely in the extreme, and are surrounded by trees that would not grow ‘in the cold North’s unhallowed ground.’ Within a stone’s throw of the ‘square,’ and in a former Coleraine gentleman’s seat, grow Wellingtonia pines, the cypress, the breadfruit tree, the Spanish chestnut, and other exotic beauties. A house in the village has its walls adorned with passion-flowers, now in bloom.

“We are out of the tourist’s track here. The motor rarely invades our quiet life; indeed, the roads are not suited for motoring, as the streams cross them in several places, and a foot-bridge affords the only means of dry transit for the passengers.

“I need not dwell on the Devon dialect. It is familiar to every reader of Lorna Doone. Suffice it to say that it slides out with the maximum ease, and in defiance of every rule of grammar. Have I exhausted Devonian joys? Nay, I could mention the melodious church-bells, the beauty of the children, and many other matters; but I have fulfilled my intention, if I have conveyed the quaintness, the peace, and the good living of this part of rural Devon—a land ‘where the plain old men have rosy faces, and the simple maidens quiet eyes.’”

Hence it appears that all the glory did not depart from Devon with fustian coats and brass buttons.

Mr Henry, it will be observed, speaks admiringly, as well he may, of the extreme loveliness of the country-seats. So far as the Culm valley is concerned, none will compare with Bradfield, the immemorial home of the Walrond family. Readers of Perlycross will recollect the brave veteran, Sir Thomas Waldron, and the wrong done to his honoured remains; and they may perchance note the different modes of spelling the name. Blackmore follows the local pronunciation, and the precedent of good old John Waldron, founder of an almshouse at Tiverton, of whom Harding remarks, “By his arms I judge his ancestors were branched from the ancient family at Bradfield, near Cullompton, where they were located in Henry II.’s time.”

According to Hutchins, the family of Walrond is descended from Walran Venator, to whom William I. gave eight manors in Dorsetshire. The name is indubitably of French origin, and apparently represents the old Latin patronymic Valerian.

To turn from names to things, an authentic note attests that, in 1332, John Walrond had a licence for an oratory. Presumably this was the ancient chapel of which Lysons speaks, and which probably stood on a site still known as the Chapel Yard, on the north side of the mansion. The present house does not go back to so remote a time. On the north wall are the words, “Vivat E. Rex”; and elsewhere may be seen the dates 1592 and 1604. It is considered that the house was rebuilt in sections and at intervals, during the short reign of Edward VI., and towards the close of that of Elizabeth.

Apart from inevitable decay, the mansion remained practically unaltered until about the middle of the last century, when it was thoroughly restored by the late Sir John Walrond, who planted the fine avenues of oak and cedar. Sir John did nothing to destroy or impair the character of the place, and the changes he introduced were extremely judicious, as indeed was to be expected from a gentleman of his refined taste. Son of Mr Benjamin Bowden Dickinson, of Tiverton, who assumed his wife’s name on his marriage with the heiress of the last of the Bradfield line, he came into possession in 1845. At that time the house consisted of north and south gabled wings, united by the old hall, and in ruinous repair, roughcast and whitewashed. Low offices disfigured the west side, and the south wall was propped with timber. A farmyard and other buildings occupied the site of the present entrance.

Such was Bradfield. To-day it is one of the most charming and beautiful homes in the West. The most ancient and characteristic portion is the noble hall, which is forty-four feet long by twenty-one feet wide, and glories in a magnificent hammer-beam roof, adorned with carved angels, a rich cornice, carved pendants, and old oak plenishings. The napkin panelling is in excellent preservation, and the fine woodwork, once covered with many coats of paint, is now fully exposed. Quaint and delightful features of the apartment are the open fireplace, the minstrel gallery, and a dog-gate which kept canine favourites below stairs. Just off the minstrel gallery is the state bedroom, containing a good sketch of the hall and gallery in days of yore, which gives one to see how rich the colouring must have been. Below the gallery is the “buttery hatch,” and beyond the “buttery hatch,” the old kitchen, now the library.

The drawing-room, communicating by a doorway with the hall dais, and one of the last rooms to be restored, has, in lieu of paint and whitewash, walls of moulded oakwork, a richly panelled and decorated ceiling, and a Jacobean mantelpiece. On the screen over the doorway are coloured figures of Adam and Eve; and among other curios are an embroidered silk sachet, in which is enclosed a love letter from Mr Walrond to Anne Courtenay, written on parchment, and dated October 27, 1659, and a prayer-book belonging to the old family chapel. Many other charming sights the interior affords, such as the oak panelling of the dining-room, its old chimney-piece, its pictures. And outside is a rare plesaunce, with clipped box-trees, and great clipped yews, and a lake, and an old bowling-green. Truly, an ideal country-house!

Another branch of the Walronds lived at Dulford House, which is also in the neighbourhood. Neither of these mansions can be exactly identified with the “Walderscourt” of the romance, which is represented as standing on a spot roughly indicated by Pitt Farm, in the parish of Culmstock, and not far from the village.

There are coloured effigies of the Cavalier period in Uffculme Church, which, by the way, has a magnificent screen, sixty-seven feet in length, probably the longest in the county. Nothing authentic is known about the effigies, but many have the impression that they represent members of the Walrond family. It is possible, however, that the originals of the busts were Holways, of Leigh, since the oldest monuments in the church were erected in memory of their dead. Leigh Court is the name of the present mansion, but Goodleigh, as is shown by old deeds, was the description of the more ancient manorial residence, which did not stand on the same site. And thereby hangs a tale.

The late Mr William Wood, father of my kind friend, Mr William Taylor Wood, of Gaddon, owned and lived at Leigh, and, being of an economical turn of mind, he thought he would clear away the few mouldering ruins of the old manor house, which only cumbered the ground, and thus extend the area of one of his fields. Men were engaged for the work, and had already proceeded some way with their task, when suddenly a workman threw down his tools and vanished clean out of the neighbourhood. For years there were no tidings of him. Eventually he returned, but never vouchsafed the least explanation of his extraordinary conduct. The people of the place, by whom a new coat or pair of boots would have been scrutinised with suspicion, all decided that he had found a “pot of treasure,” whilst Mr Wood, who, with all his good qualities, was somewhat touched with superstition, commanded the operation to be stayed.

Wandering about in this pleasant and hospitable region one gathers many a charming idyll of bygone times. Such, for instance, is the story of the young lady who arrived at Gaddon on a short visit and remained fourteen years. It seems that the old housekeeper was sitting on a box before the kitchen fire, preparing lamb’s tails for a pie (by dipping them in water brought to a certain temperature, in order to facilitate the removal of the wool), when all at once she fell back—dead.

The master of the house, Mr Richard Hurley, had relations living in another part of the parish, and, on learning the sad news, sent off to them for assistance. There were a lot of girls in the family, and they and their mother were sitting cosily round the hearth, when there came a knock at the door. In those days a knock at the door was enough to throw any country household into a ferment of excitement, which, in this instance, was not diminished when the messenger announced his errand.

“Please, master wants one of the young ladies to come over, because old Betty has dropped dead.”

Upon this a family council was held, and the following morning Mary Garnsey, a pretty, rosy-cheeked maiden of fourteen, mounted her horse, and with her impedimenta slung from the saddle-bow—there were no Gladstone bags in those days—rode over to Gaddon to aid her uncle in his difficulty. Pleased with her agreeable company, and more than satisfied with her efficient services, Mr Hurley became loth to part with her, and, in fact, coaxed her to remain till she was twenty-eight, when she left to be married. Old inhabitants may, perchance, remember Mrs Pocock, of Rock House, Halberton. She was the lady.

CHAPTER II
BLACKMORE’S VILLAGE

At Culmstock one finds oneself in a village of considerable beauty, to which the little stream with its border of aspens, and the fine old church on the knoll, are the principal contributors. Hence also are avenues leading up to the witching prospects of the Blackdown Hills, Culmstock Beacon, in particular, being a favourite spot for picnics. So far so good. But there are drawbacks. When one sets foot in any of these West-country villages, one is apt to be affected with a sense of half-melancholy. Stillness is, of course, to be expected; stillness, indeed, is one of the great charms of the country, and a happy contrast to the bustle and confusion of the town. But stillness, to be entirely welcome, must not be emblematic of decay.

Not that Culmstock is altogether in that parlous state; there are many signs of enterprise and activity. Witness the erection of tidy brick houses in lieu of crumbling, thatched cottages, so sweet to look upon, but not specially comfortable to live in. That, however, is not all. One reason why cob-cottages are no longer built is that this is, to a great extent, a lost art. A friend of mine, who is not an architect, but is a pretty shrewd observer of things in general, has explained to me what he believes to have been the process. The angle of a roof is formed by “half-couples,” and in the case of cob-cottages my friend thinks that underneath the “half-couples,” at tolerably close intervals, were set upright posts. The whole of this scaffolding constituted the permanent frame of the building, and as soon as it was completed by the addition of horizontal timbers, the roof was thatched. Then the “cob,” which resembled mortar with a thickening of hair, etc., was erected in sections about two or three feet high, so as to envelop the posts, and each section was allowed to dry before the mud-wall was carried higher. This was a necessity, but, as the result, the work was slow and tedious, and nowadays would be more expensive than building with brick or stone.

Be that as it may, the fact cannot be gainsaid that at Culmstock, and not at Culmstock alone, the advent of the railway and the newspaper, and the general opening-up of communications with the outer world, have made a difference. So great indeed is the revolution that one is constrained to admit that here, though one is in Blackmore’s village, one is yet not properly in the village that Blackmore knew. True, there is the old church tower, the stone-screen (Mr Penniloe’s glorious “find”), and even the old yew-tree springing from the ledge below the battlements. The bridge, too, is much the same, save for a tasteless, if necessary, addition. The vicarage also stands, its back turned discourteously on the wayfarer; and I certify that it is the identical structure which sheltered Blackmore as a boy, though his father was never the vicar, only curate-in-charge.

All this may be granted, but the man of feeling still mourns the loss—for loss he knows there has been—of local life and colour. As Pericles observed many centuries ago, a city is not an affair of walls only; and were the material village of seventy years since more intact than it is, the change in its social conditions would be none the less. In the old days, Culmstock was no mere geographical expression; it was a distinct entity, a separate organism, fully equipped for its own needs, and harbouring, as Perlycross testifies, a spirit of pride and independence. The warlike rivalry between rustic communities like Culmstock and Hemyock, though almost universal, may strike one as a trifle ridiculous; but if a “bold peasantry” could be retained at the cost of occasional horseplay, it was worth the price. What can be conceived more admirable than a strong and healthy, and in its heart of hearts, contented population, grouped into parishes, living on the land?

Old inhabitants with a tincture of education do not, I admit, see things quite in this light. They are all for modern improvements, and refer with bitter cynicism to the hardships experienced, and the low wages earned, in days of yore, for which they have usually not a particle of regret. But such people are not always right, and now and then one meets with a pleasing appreciation of the olden times. Not long ago there might have been seen, tottering about the village, a Culmstock veteran, who had been wont to ply the flail. The staccato of the “broken stick,” however, had yielded place to the drone of the threshing-machine, which was not so agreeable. Suddenly he paused and cocked his ear—what was that? From the interior of a yeoman’s barn came a familiar sound. Bang! bang! bang! bang! ’Twas the flail; and the wrinkled old face beamed with delight as Hodge exclaimed, rubbing his hands, “Blest if Culmstock be dead yet!”

(Which demonstrates, by the way, the truth of Blackmore’s dictum—“There are very few noises that cannot find some ear to which they are congenial.”)

The task will not be easy, but let us endeavour to form some idea of Culmstock parish as it appeared to the veteran in his long-past youth. Most likely he was a parish apprentice, bound out at one of the triennial meetings of the local magistrates held for that purpose in a cottage near the church. Farmers generally appreciated the privilege of having poor boys assigned to them as apprentices, especially as they were not compelled to take any particular boy; but this was not invariably so, and sometimes they would pay a tailor or a shoemaker (say) five pounds to relieve them of the distasteful duty. We will suppose, however, that the farmer is willing to stand in loco parentis to the trembling little mortal—not more than ten years old, perhaps—and accordingly signs his name and sets his seal to the indenture.

Have you ever seen such a document? A more portentous agreement than “these presents,” seeing that the business itself was so simple, was surely never devised by misplaced ingenuity. No less than six officials—to say nothing of the master—were parties to the deed, viz., two justices, two overseers, and two churchwardens; and their names were entered in the blank spaces of the form reserved for them. I will not inflict the whole of the rigmarole on the reader, but here is the cream of it:—

The instrument conveys that the churchwardens and overseers between them do put and place M. or N., a poor child of the parish, apprentice to John Doe or Richard Roe, yeoman, with him to dwell and serve until the said apprentice shall accomplish his full age of twenty-one years, according to the statute made and provided, during all which term the said apprentice the said master faithfully shall serve in all lawful business according to his power, wit, and ability; and honestly, orderly, and obediently, in all things demean and behave himself towards him. On the contrary part, the said master the said apprentice in husbandry work shall and will teach and instruct, and cause to be taught and instructed, in the best way and manner he can, during the said term; and shall and will, during all the term aforesaid, find, provide, and allow unto the said apprentice, meet, competent, and sufficient meat, drink, and apparel, lodging, washing, and all other things necessary and fit for an apprentice.

With such tautological, though no doubt impressive verbiage, was the poor child of the parish launched on the sea of life. Conducted to the farmhouse, he was speedily initiated into the habits of the occupants—rough people, but

sometimes not unkindly. At dinner the “missus” usually presided, with the master on one side and the family on the other, and the servants in the lowest places. For the broth, which was an important item in the menu, wooden spoons were in favour, although an old fellow called Tinker Toogood came round from time to time and cast the lead that had been saved for him into a pewter spoon. In some farmhouses no real plates of any description were employed; instead of that, the table was carved throughout its length into a series of mock plates, and on these spaces the meat was placed. Every day the table was washed with hot water, and covers were set over the imitation plates to keep the dust off. It was the custom to serve the pudding and treacle first, so as to lessen the appetite and effect a saving in the meat—salt pork as a rule. Wheaten bread was unknown. It was always barley bread, nearly black, and cut up into chunks. These were placed in a wooden bowl.

In addition to Tinker Toogood, itinerant tailors, shoemakers, and harness-makers were regular visitors at the farmhouses, where they performed their tasks and were allowed free commons. Harness-menders were the best paid; they received two shillings a day. Commons, although free, were not always abundant; and a Mr Snip once complained, in the bitterness of his heart, that he had tea and fried potatoes for breakfast, fried potatoes and tea for dinner, and tea and fried potatoes for supper. With the blacksmith the farmer made a contract, agreeing to pay so much for the shoeing of horses, repairing of ploughshares, etc., and, as in the ploughing season coulter and share required to be sharpened every night, the smithy on the hill was generally crowded.

At least fifty oxen were kept on the different farms for ploughing; and, in the opinion of some, these animals were better than horses. Young bullocks were stationed between the wheelers and the front oxen, but soon became used to the work, and placed themselves in the furrow as a matter of course. All the time a boy, armed with a goad, used to sing to them:

“Up along, jump along,
Pretty, Spark, and Tender” [i.e., the near bullocks].[3]

Wishing to encourage his team, the boy would say, not “Woog up!” as in the case of horses, but “Ur up!” Other cries were, “Broad, hither!” “Tender, hither!” and the like.

In reaping, when the time came for sharpening hooks, the foreman sang out:

“A sheave or two further, and then—

whereupon the catchpoll asked,

“What then?

To this the foreman replied,

“A fresh edge, a merry look, and along agen,

and the catchpoll rejoined,

“Well done, Mr Foreman!”

As the finale, all drank out of a horn cup.

In the first verse of an old Devonshire harvest-home song, convivial spirits were thus addressed:

“Here’s a health to the barley mow, my brave boys;
Here’s a health to the barley mow!
We’ll drink it out of the jolly brown bowl;
Here’s a health to the barley mow!”

In successive verses they were adjured to drink it out of the nipperkin, the quarter-pint, the half-pint, the quart, the pottle, the gallon, the half-anker, the anker, the half-hogshead, the hogshead, the pipe, the well, the river, and, finally, the ocean.

In the direction of Nicolashayne were three large barns (since converted into six cottages) in front of which was a broad area of road for the wagons to halt upon. The “Church of Exeter” has proprietary rights in the parish; and a proctor came up from Thorverton to receive tithes on behalf of the Dean and Chapter. Only the small tithes went to the vicar.

The grandson of Clerk Channing of Perlycross, a man over seventy, tells me that he can remember the introduction of the first wagon and the first spring-cart at Culmstock, pack-horses being used always before. This circumstance can be accounted for in two ways, partly from the intense conservation of rural Devonshire—at last, perhaps, broken up—and partly from the pose of the village, with its face towards the valley of the Culm and its back against the hills. In a rough country like the Blackdowns the pack-horse would be certain to tarry longer than in more cultivated regions, and a large portion of the parish of Culmstock, though, according to Blackmore, it comprises some of the best land in East Devon, consists of hills and commons.

The wildest tract of all is Maidendown—a dreary waste compact of bog and scrub in the vicinity of the late Archbishop Temple’s paternal home, Axon, and reaching out to the main road between Wellington and Exeter. Its situation does not agree with that of the Black Marsh, or Forbidden Land, of Perlycross, which is described as lying a long way back among the Blackdown Hills, and “nobody knows in what parish”; otherwise one might have guessed that Maidendown was the prototype of that barren stretch with a curse upon it.

In the West country pack-horses are equally associated with moors and lanes. Nowadays a Devonshire lane—love is compared to a Devonshire lane—is regarded as essentially beautiful, with its beds of wild flowers and tracery of briars; but Vancouver’s impartial testimony compels one to think that in former days this domain of the pack-horse was not so attractive. He says:

“The height of the hedge-banks, often covered with a rank growth of coppice-wood, uniting and interlocking with each other overhead, completes the idea of exploring a labyrinth rather than that of passing through a much-frequented country. This first impression, however, will be at once removed on the traveller’s meeting with, or being overtaken by, a gang of pack-horses. The rapidity with which these animals descend the hills, when not loaded, and the utter impossibility of passing loaded ones, require that the utmost caution should be used in keeping out of the way of the one, and exertion in keeping ahead of the other. A cross-way in the road or gateway is eagerly looked for as a retiring spot to the traveller, until the pursuing squadron, or heavily-loaded brigade, may have passed by.... As there are but few wheel-carriages to pass along them, the channel for the water and the path for the pack-horse are equally in the middle of the way, which is altogether occupied by an assemblage of such large and loose stones only as the force of the descending torrents have not been able to sweep away or remove.”

This was certainly not pleasant, although in most other respects Culmstock was then a more interesting place than now. I do not assert that it was more moral. About seventy years ago, a native of the village, one Tom Musgrove, was hanged for sheep-stealing, being the last man, it is said, to experience that fate in the county of Devon. We stand aghast at the barbarity of our forefathers; but if ever the penalty could be made to fit the crime, then it must be owned, Tom deserved the rope. He was a notorious thief, whose depredations were the common talk of the village, and, to make matters worse, his evil deeds were performed under the cloak of religion. Once a couple of ducks were missed, and, whilst every cottage was being searched in the hope of regaining the stolen property, Tom, secure in his pretensions to piety, stood complacently in his doorway, and the party of inquisitors passed on. Just inside were the ducks, feeding out of his platter.

One night a huckster’s shop, kept by Betsy Collins, at Millmoor, was feloniously entered and robbed. Next morning, Tom, apprised of the event, ran off in his night-cap to condole with the poor woman in her misfortune, and succeeded so well as to be invited to share her morning repast. “There!” said he, “her’ve a-gied the old rogue a good breakfast.”

As a professor of religion Tom contracted a warm friendship with a baker named Potter, who was an ardent Methodist. Neither friendship nor religion, however, prevented Mr Musgrove from enriching himself at his neighbour’s expense. Profiting by an opportunity when Potter was at chapel, and closely engaged with pious exercises, Tom and his one-armed daughter broke into the bakehouse and carried off Potter’s bacon, the lady burglar aiding herself with her teeth.

These breaches of morality appear to have been condoned—at any rate, they did not land the culprit in any serious trouble. But at last Tom went a step too far. Down in the hams, or water-meadows, between Culmstock and Uffculme, he seized a large ram, which he slew, brought home, and buried in his garden. The crime was traced to his door, professions and protestations proved unavailing, and Musgrove, tried and convicted at the following Assizes, was publicly executed at Exeter Gaol. It will be remembered that Mrs Tremlett’s “dree buys was hanged, back in the time of Jarge the Third, to Exeter Jail for ship-staling” (Perlycross, chapter xxvi.)

Sheep-stealing was not the only excitement. In Blackmore’s youth—and Perlycross is built on the circumstance—smuggling was carried on with spirit (in both senses) over the Blackdowns, and queer stories are told of fortunes made by “fair trade,” in the conduct of which a mysterious tower, out on the hills, is said to have played an important part. An octogenarian of my acquaintance admits that, as a boy, he shared in these illegal adventures, which did not receive that amount of social reprobation they may have deserved. He does not deny that he slept in a friend’s house over kegs of brandy which he knew to be contraband, nor does he disguise the fact that he was not a mere sleeping partner. He acknowledges being sent with a keg to meet a fellow-conspirator, who for the sake of appearances toiled in the local woollen factory, but out of business hours drove a lucrative trade with the farmers in the forbidden thing. Worst of all, on one occasion, when an excise officer was reported to be in the village, a cask was hastily transferred to his shoulders, which, as being youthful, were less likely to attract suspicion, and he actually walked past the Government man—barrel and brandy and all! Horses laden with the foreign stuff came up from Seaton. They had no halters, and were guided, says my friend, by the scent, the journey being naturally performed in the dark.

Smuggling, however, took various forms. Men from Upottery, Clayhidon, and elsewhere would halt a cart on the outskirts of the village, and go round with brandy or gin in bladders, which they carried in the pockets of their greatcoats. One Giles, of Clayhidon, had a donkey and cart with a keg of brandy concealed in a furnace turned upside down. A Culmstock man called Townsend, landlord of the “Three Tuns,” is said to have been ruined by a smuggler, who sold him a gallon of brandy and demanded accommodation, as usual. The publican refused it on the ground that the house was already full, upon which the smuggler, stung with resentment, informed the police, and Townsend was fined £270.

By these instances, something, it may be hoped, has been done towards reconstructing the Culmstock in which Blackmore grew up, and which helped to make him what he was—essentially the prophet of the village and rural life. And here I must rectify a possible misunderstanding, Because stress has been laid on changes in the social conditions of the parish, as being of deeper significance, it must not be inferred that there have been no alterations, or none of any importance, in the face of things. The contrary is the truth, and, on a reckoning, one is tempted to say with Betty Muxworthy, “arl gone into churchyard.”

Culmstock churchyard has indeed swallowed up, not only successive generations of the inhabitants, but a goodly share of the village itself. This is the more regrettable, as the portions absorbed are precisely those which, being redolent of the olden times, one would have liked preserved. The shambles, a covered enclosure for butchers attending the weekly market, has gone the way of all flesh. So also has the stockhouse, which was, rather inconsequently, an open

space where the stocks were kept. Hard by stood an inn, called the “Red Lion,” which either failed to draw sufficient custom, or having a handsome porch, was deemed too good for a common inn and metamorphosed into a school. A Mr Kelso arriving with wife and daughters three, accomplished the transformation, and, according to local tradition, he had the honour of instilling the rudiments of learning into the late Archbishop Temple. This, not the National School which was built in the Rev. John Blackmore’s time and mainly through his exertions, was the academy of Sergeant Jakes, the position of which is plainly defined in chapter xxxvi.[4]

There was formerly a considerable trade at Culmstock in combing and spinning wool. Thirty hands are now employed at the mill (no longer an independent concern, but a branch establishment of Messrs Fox Brothers, of Wellington); once four hundred were busy at home. Soap also throve. It was made on the right shoulder of the hill, and the manufacturer, a Mr Hellings, kept seven pack-horses to transport it to Exeter. Culmstock soap had a great vogue in the cathedral city, and it was a common observation that no one had a chance till Hellings was “sold out.” In the neighbouring village of Clayhidon was a silk factory, employing, I believe, a hundred hands, and run by a gentleman of the Methodist persuasion, whose house and chapel adjoined—the three together producing a combination of the earthly and the heavenly which impressed my informant as the acme of convenience. A similar factory in Red Lion Court, Culmstock, met with speedy failure.

These industries are now extinct, and one is somewhat at a loss in seeking for “live” interests, although it is impossible to forget that Hemyock is a famous mart for pigs. The whole district is piggy, and the sleek black animal with the curly tail is as highly respected, in life and in death, as his congener in that porcine paradise, Erin. I was talking to an old fellow at Culmstock, it may have been two years ago, and the conversation turned on swine. Rather to my surprise, he spoke of a certain female of the breed as having been “brought up in house,” and with full appreciation of the fun, volunteered a local saw to the effect that “when a sow has had three litters, she is artful enough to open a door.”

Culmstock, it is not too much to say, is redolent of Waterloo. The beacon was often aflame during the Napoleonic wars, and, upon their conclusion, the famous Wellington Monument was erected at no great distance, in honour of the Iron Duke, who took his title from Wellington in Somerset, the Pumpington of Perlycross.

Thanks to the industry of Mr William Doble, who is, I believe, a descendant of more than one of the local heroes, it is possible to restore the atmosphere which brought about the creation, years afterwards, of Sir Thomas Waldron and Sergeant Jakes. When R. D. Blackmore was a boy, many were still living who could remember the incessant din of the joy-bells on the announcement of the victory—a din continued for several days; and the scene in the Fore-street, the “grateful celebration,” when high and low, indiscriminately, turned out to share the feast. Naturally, however, the festivities were dashed with some amount of sorrow and anxiety, as it was not yet known what had been the fortunes of the gallant fellows who had gone forth to fight England’s battle. Two stanzas of a song, which an old lady of Culmstock sang as a girl, reflect with simple pathos the dreadful suspense of relations and friends.

“Mother is the battle over?
Thousands have been slain they say.
Is my father coming? Tell me,
Have the English gained the day?

“Is he well, or is he wounded?
Mother, is he among the slain?
If you know, I pray you tell me,
Will my father come again?”

A rough list of the Culmstock warriors comprises the following names:—

Mapledorham, was too much of a mouthful for Culmstock people, so they consulted their own convenience by calling the couple Maldrom. The excellent sergeant already possessed a long record of service when summoned to the final test of Waterloo, and in several campaigns he had been accompanied by his faithful Betsy. Equally adventurous, Betty Milton was full of reminiscences of her hard life in the Peninsula.

William Berry, too, was fond of story-telling. He related, with humorous glee, that he had once captured a mule with a sack of doubloons. Unfortunately a wine-shop proved seductive, and whilst he was regaling himself therein, an artful Spaniard made off with the booty. Robert, better known as “Robin,” Wood was literary, and published a penny history of his exploits, of which, alas! not a single copy is known to exist. William Sheers, figuratively speaking, turned his spear into a ploughshare, as he took to shopkeeping and became a pronounced Methodist and zealous supporter of the Smallbrook Chapel. I can just remember this bearded veteran, who in his last days was a victim to a severe form of cardiac asthma. Tapscott and “Urchard” Penny were both ex-marines. The former had been present at the Battle of Trafalgar and rejoiced in the nicknames “John Glory” and “Blue my Shirt.” As for Penny, he was sometimes called “Tenpenny Dick,” the reason being that he would never accept more than tenpence as his day’s wage. When his turn came to be buried, the bystanders observed that water had found its way into his last resting-place, so that, it was said, he remained constant to the element in which he had so long served.

The foremost of the group of veterans is claimed to have been Doble, who, after starting in life as a parish apprentice, at the age of seven, took part in seven pitched battles in the Peninsula, and ended his military career at Waterloo. He retired from the service on a pension of twelve shillings a week, and was the proud owner of two medals and nine clasps. As a civilian, he was the trusted foreman of the silk factory in Red Lion Court, which, despite his probity, soon came to grief; and at his funeral his old comrades assembled, some from considerable distances, to pay a last tribute to the brave soldier who had rallied the waverers at Waterloo.

Dr Ayshford used to say that he had three sources of income—his pension, his practice, and his property. On the strength of these resources he kept a pack of hounds. He was naturally very intimate with the Temples, and I have been told by a descendant that it was thanks to his generosity that the late Archbishop Temple was enabled to proceed to Oxford. Mutatis mutandis, it seems not improbable that by Frank Gilham, Blackmore may have intended his schoolmate. Think of it. Major Temple was not only an officer of the army, but a practical farmer, and the late primate could plough and thresh with the best. Gilham is described as no clodhopper: he “had been at a Latin school, founded by a great high priest of the Muses in the woollen line,” i.e., Blundell. Again, his farm adjoins the main turnpike road from London to Devonport, at the north-west end of the parish; and where is Axon, the Temples’ old place? The name “White Post” is perhaps adapted from “Whitehall,” a fine old-fashioned farmhouse between Culmstock and Hemyock.

Like Parson Penniloe (see Perlycross, chapter xxxiii.), Parson Blackmore kept pupils—a fact to which allusion is made in Tales from the Telling House. The Bude Light was the Rev. Goldsworthy Gurney. The existence of a wayside cross, from which and the fictitious description of the Culm was formed the name of both village and romance, is attributed to the public spirit of one Baker, who lived in the Commonwealth time, and usurped the manor; but whether it was anything more than a tradition in Blackmore’s youth, is perhaps doubtful. Priestwell is Prescott, Hagdon Hill Hackpen, and Susscott Northcott. Crang’s forge, had any such institution existed, would have been at Craddock.

The reader, however, may rest assured that Blackmore did not select these fanciful appellations without excellent reason. He desired for himself a large freedom, which, as we have seen, he used in transporting mansions, and other feats of imagination. One more illustration of this spiritual liberty may be cited. By the Foxes he evidently means the Wellington family. The dialogue between Mrs Fox of Foxden and Parson Penniloe, in chapter xliv., is sufficient to settle that. The name Foxdown, too, is evidently based on that of Mr Elworthy’s residence, Foxdene. Yet in chapter xii. Foxden is stated to be thirty miles from Perlycross by the nearest roads. On the other hand, Pumpington, as Wellington is called in Perlycross, is just where it should be (chapter xxiv.).

Turning to another matter, Blackmore has idealised the bells, inasmuch as he states that on the front of one of them—the passing bell—was engraven,

“Time is over for one more”;

and on the back,

“Soon shall thy own life be o’er.”

The Culmstock set is an interesting collection of bells, but not one of them is adorned with mottoes such as those. One bears the inscription “Ave Maria Gracia Plena,” and this was cast by Roger Semson, a West-country founder of repute, who was dwelling at Ash Priors, in Somerset, in 1549, and who stamped his initials on the bell. Another of his bells, at Luppitt, is at once more and less explicit on this point, since the inscription runs “nosmes regoremib.” To make sense, this must be read backwards. Two modern bells, placed in the Culmstock belfry in 1852 and 1853 respectively, awaken proud or painful memories. The former was cast in memory of the Duke of Wellington, the cost being defrayed by subscription, while the latter was “the free gift of James Collier, of Furzehayes, and John Collier, of Bowhayes.” John Collier, who was killed by lightning at Bowhayes, was the sporting yeoman with the otter hounds, to whom Blackmore alludes. The old house, by the way, was reputed to be haunted, and for years no one would live in it.

Blackmore’s description of the vicarage is literally correct, save that he calls it “the rectory.” A long and rambling house it certainly is, and the dark, narrow passage, like a tunnel, beneath the first-floor rooms, is a feature explained by the higher level of the front of the house “facing southwards upon a grass-plot and a flower-garden, and as pretty as the back was ugly” (Perlycross, chapter vi.).

CHAPTER III
THE HINTERLAND

Although Culmstock and its immediate vicinity is somewhat deficient in what I have ventured to term “live” interests, it must not be inferred that the neighbourhood has nothing further to show; and among the objects that deserve to be scheduled as worthy of attention are the colossal stone quarries at Westleigh, which, whether viewed from the parallel line of railway or from the opposite height on which stands Burlescombe Church, present an imposing spectacle. For ages they have been the principal source of supply for the district, huge quantities of limestone having been drawn from them for building and agricultural purposes. Much of it was formerly conveyed to Tiverton in barges towed along the canal, the terminus of which was fitted with a number of kilns. These, in my boyhood, I have often seen burning, and regarded with no little awe, owing to stories that were circulated of persons having gone to sleep on the margin, fallen over into the glowing furnace, and been consumed to powder. They are now a picturesque ruin. Older men can recall a yet earlier time when pack-horses came to Westleigh from Tiverton and fetched lime in boxes. In front was a man riding a pony, and the horses followed without compulsion.

The string of pack-horses mentioned in chapter ii. of Lorna Doone, as arriving from Sampford Peverell, may be a reminiscence of this traffic.

Not far from the entrance to the Whiteball tunnel, and in the neighbourhood of the great limestone quarries, in a pleasant meadow facing south, are the ruins of Canonsleigh Abbey. To a connoisseur like Mr F. T. Elworthy, these remains tell their own story, and it is thanks to that gentleman’s investigations and researches that we are able to furnish a concise account of the ancient nunnery. A gateway yet stands, though unhappily disfigured by the desecrating touch of modern man, and near it is a doorway of red sandstone leading to a staircase doubtless belonging to the porter. In the upper storey, square-headed windows—wrought, we may believe, in the fourteenth century—command the approach in either direction; other features are less easy to determine, since there are modern walls and a modern roof, which have been added for the purpose of turning the place into a shed, and incidentally obscure the older architecture.

Without spending more time here, let us pass to a quadrangular building of massive construction, and supported at two of its angles by solid buttresses. Situated at the east end of the convent, this is considered to have been a great flanking tower communicating, by means of strong walls (fragments of which yet remain), at the angles opposite to the buttresses, with the residential portions. The outer or enclosing wall of the abbey precincts started from the middle of the east wall of the tower; and under the middle of the tower flowed a stream, which issued through a covered exit and continued its course outside the boundary wall, washing its base. The reason for this somewhat peculiar arrangement was a good one—the supply of the abbey stews; but its effect was to throw the tower out of line with the walls and the other buildings.

Inside the walls were two spaces, irregular in shape, and clearly open courtyards, from one of which a doorway led into the tower. The chief entrances seem to have been from the two or more floors of the domestic quarters. On the side next the convent, approached by a massive doorway, is a narrow chamber, conjectured to have been a “guard-room” for refractory nuns. Over this, but running the entire length of the building, and not, like the lower floor, divided by wall and doorway, is a floor supported by beams.

This tower, with the plaster clinging to its walls—how can we explain its survival when the rest of the once stately abbey has vanished? Probably the reason lies partly in its strength and partly in its plainness and the absence of wrought stone tempting human greed. As has been well said, “it still stands a picturesque and sturdy relic of an age of good lime-burners and honest masons.” The wrought stone of one or two windows in the adjacent walls has been removed, but what indications remain suggest the close of the twelfth century as that virtuous age.

The Priory of Leigh was founded, Dr Oliver says, in the latter half of the twelfth century, and Prebendary Hingeston-Randolph opines, before 1173. In its infant days, it seems to have been a dependency of Plympton Priory—at any rate, in the estimation of the latter monastery, whose head claimed the right to appoint the superior of Leigh. This demand was resisted, and in 1219 the then Bishop of Exeter composed the quarrel by deciding, as a sort of compromise, that the Prior of Plympton might, if he chose, be present at the election.

In the second half of the thirteenth century there were scandals at Leigh calling for episcopal cognisance and visitation; and these disorders proving incurable, Bishop Quivil went the length of ejecting the prior and canons, and transferring the monastery, with all its belongings, to a body of canonesses of the same rule of St Augustine. And Matilda de Tablere became the first Prioress of Leigh. Next year, Matilda de Clare, Countess of Gloucester and Hertford, presented the convent with the (then) great sum of six hundred marks, in acknowledgment of which Bishop Quivil erected the priory into an abbey, and appointed the countess its abbess.

The patron saints, under the old régime, had been the Blessed Virgin Mary and St John the Evangelist. St Ethelreda the Virgin was now added, and practically displaced St Mary, whose name is omitted in later descriptions. Another change affected the name of the place, “Mynchen” being often substituted for “Canon”-leigh. “Mynchen” is the old English feminine of “monk,” and therefore equivalent to the modern “nun.”

The indignant canons did not take their extrusion meekly. They appealed to the archbishop, and, through him, to the king, against the usurpation of the “little women,” but they appealed in vain.

Sad to relate, the ladies do not appear to have behaved much better than their predecessors. In 1314 Bishop Stapledon, Quivil’s successor, addressed a letter to his dear daughters in Christ, telling them in Norman-French that he had heard of many deshonestetes, and calling particular attention to the fact that there was an entrance into the cellar where a man brewed le braes, and another under the new chamber of the abbess! These he ordered to be closed by a stone wall before the following Easter.

The abbey was suppressed in February 1538, and at the end of the same year the king granted a lease of the site and precincts, with the tithes of sheaf and the rectories of Oakford and Burlescombe, to Thomas de Soulemont, of London. The inmates, however, were not turned adrift on the charity of the cold world. Each received a pension, and this, in the case of the abbess, Elisabeth Fowell, was considerable. There were eighteen sisters in all, and some of them, as is proved by their names—Fortescue, Coplestone, Sydenham, Carew, Pomeroy—were of good West-country extraction.

In course of time the property passed through various hands, and out of the spoils of the abbey a certain owner appears to have built a mansion, which was demolished in 1821.

From Canonsleigh let us away to Dunkeswell, about equidistant from Culmstock, but in another direction. On the journey we may look again at the grassy plateau which has Culmstock Beacon at one extremity and the Wellington Monument, set up in honour of the Iron Duke and his victories, at the other. This stretch of moorland is yet in its primitive state, and the Dean and Chapter of Exeter, whose property it is, exercise zealous supervision over it. Time was when the villagers depastured their donkeys thereon, but of late years the privilege seems to have been withdrawn.

The Blackdowns, generally, have been enclosed and turned into farms; and although one sometimes stumbles on desolate fields with patches of gorse, mindful of their ancient savagery, this does not affect, to any appreciable extent, the character of the country. On the whole, a ride or walk across the long level chines is not specially delightsome, save indeed for the wholesome air and an occasional glimpse of a fairy-like mappa mundi spread out at their base. It is only when one descends into charming little villages, like Hemyock, or Dunkeswell, or Broadhembury, with their orchards fair and hollyhocks, that complete satisfaction is attained, and then it is attained.

Amidst so much that is bare (and on this subject we have not said our last word) the ivied ruins of Dunkeswell Abbey, nearer Hemyock than Dunkeswell village, and lending its name to a very respectable hamlet, assuredly deserve remark. Situated in a charmingly secluded spot, they consist merely of parts of the gatehouse and fragments of walls. The latter have a blackened appearance as if the destruction of the buildings had been accelerated by fire; more probably, however, this is due to the mould of age. In its heyday the abbey boasted an imposing range of buildings, the outlines of which may still be traced in the grass, when, in the drought of summer, it withers, more rapidly than elsewhere, over the foundations.

The history of the abbey is almost as scanty as its remains. It was founded in 1201 by William Lord Briwere or Bruere, on land that had previously belonged to William Fitzwilliam, who, having borrowed from one Amadio, a Jew, was compelled to mortgage his manor of Dunkeswell. According to one version, Briwere redeemed the land from the Hebrew, but a charter of King John shows the vendor to have been Henry de la Pomeroy. There is clearly a tangle. Possibly Pomeroy bought Dunkeswell from the mortgagee and resold it to Briwere, who, in any case, bestowed it on the Cistercians of Ford.

Just outside the north wall of the modern church may be seen a stone coffin, with depressions for the head and heels. It is one of two that were discovered some thirty years ago covered with plain Purbeck slabs, and containing skeletons—a man’s and a woman’s; in all likelihood, those of the powerful Lord Briwere and his good lady. The body of the founder, it is known, was laid to rest in 1227 in the choir of the abbey church; and it is only natural to suppose, though there is no evidence to prove it, that husband and wife shared a common tomb. The bones, placed together in one of the coffins, were reinterred, while the other coffin, as I said, has been suffered to remain above-ground, a gazing-stock for posterity.

The abbey was richly endowed by its founder with lands and tenements, including the manor of Uffculme and the mill there; and his munificence was supplemented by liberal gifts from the monks of Ford and others. At the date of its surrender, February 14, 1539, the annual value of the property amounted to £300—a large income in those days.

Most of the notices relating to the abbey are drawn either from the Coroners’ or De Banco Rolls, and, as they are concerned with actions for debt or trespass, are anything but entertaining. The one exception is the account or accounts of the storming of Hackpen Manor by John Cogan, of Uffculme, his son Philip, and others, in the year of grace 1299. Entering the buildings vi et armis, they ejected the monks and lay brethren, who, after the custom of their order, were carrying on farming operations there; and beat and wounded two of the abbot’s servants to such purpose that he was deprived of their services for a year or longer. Moreover, they were said to have captured three score oxen and a score of cows, and driven them to Cogan’s manor of Uffculme, whither also they bore certain furcæ, which were there burnt.

To this grave indictment Cogan replied, denying the trespass, and alleging that the two manors adjoined, and that the abbot desired to “lift” furcæ, etc., the property of Cogan, whereupon he instructed his men to prevent him, which they did. Now as to those furcæ. Writing aforetime on the subject, I fell into the pardonable error, if error it be, of supposing that the term, being employed in an agricultural or pastoral context, denoted “pitchforks.” It is my present

belief that these furcæ were the kind of thing that gave its name to Forches Corner, just over the Somerset border—in other words, gallows. The abbot, as lord of Broadhembury, had not only assize of bread and beer in that manor, but, very certainly, a gallows. The Lady Amicia, Countess of Devon, had at least one gallows, and considering the extent of her domains, probably gallows galore; and apparently John Cogan had one. The Abbot of Dunkeswell, it seems to me, must have had at least two. If this reading be correct, the undignified squabble was all about that grisly symbol of mortality and power.

It is possible that a distorted version of this affair yet lingers in Culmstock tradition. I have heard from a Methuselah of the place that, according to an old tale, a band of freebooters named Sylvester made an eyry of Hackpen, whence they descended to the more fertile regions below, raiding the farms, and carrying off the fleecy spoil to their hold on the hill.

On the break-up of the monastery the site of the buildings, the home farm, and other lands were assigned by letters patent to John, Lord Russell, who showed himself an utter vandal. The lead of the roofs and the bells, of which there were four in the church tower, were the special objects of his rapacity; but all was grist that came to his mill, and, as the result, the fabric was left in a condition in which it was bound to become “to hastening ills a prey.” As there was never an abbey at Culmstock, either Canonsleigh or Dunkeswell probably served as a model for the ruins described in Perlycross. The latter is the more likely, owing to the presence of the “district” church built by Mrs Simcoe, close to the remains of the ancient abbey.

At the southern end of the Blackdowns is Hembury Fort, an old British encampment, of triple formation and considerable extent, which commands perhaps the finest view in the neighbourhood. It is believed by some to have been also a Roman station—the Moridunum (or Muridunum) of Antonine. On this point, however, there is considerable doubt, there being other claimants, of which High Peak on the coast is one, and Honiton another. The very latest view of the matter is that given by Canon Raven in The Antiquary of December 1904, in which he inclines to the opinion that the legion divided the year between a winter at Honiton and a summer at Hembury, with the advantage of a strong fort to retire upon in case of Dumnonian risings.

In writing of these distant ages, I have often felt how remote they are in another sense. Such a term as “Dumnonian,” for instance, though we know its geographical significance as referring to the inhabitants of south-west Britain—how little it conveys, and perhaps can be made to convey, to us of the life that people lived, even if we are sure that beneath their breasts beat human hearts like our own, with interests and affections strong and manifold! Much gratitude, therefore, is due to the late Rev. William Barnes, author of the classic Dorset poems, for his bold attempt to reconstruct for us the mode of existence and surroundings of those ancient Britons, of whom all have heard from their childhood. This also may be poetry, but it is worth perusing only as such. The picture he describes is that of a little pastoral settlement occupying a valley, and finding refuge in time of war in a great camp that crowns a neighbouring hill; and the season is the end of summer, after the reaping of oats and rye and the mowing of lawns and meadows round the homesteads.

“The cattle are on the downs, or in the hollows of the hills. Here and there are wide beds of fern, or breadths of gorse and patches of wild raspberry, with gleaming sheets of flowers. The swine are roaming in the woods and shady oak-glades, the nuts are studding the brown-leaved bushes. On the sunny side of some cluster of trees is the herdsman’s round wicker-house, with its brown conical roof and blue wreaths of smoke. In the meadows and basins of the sluggish streams stand clusters of tall elms waving with the nests of herons; the bittern, coot, and water-rail are busy among the rushes and flags of the reedy meres. Birds are ‘charming’ in the wood-girt clearings, wolves and foxes slinking to their covers, knots of maidens laughing at the water-spring, beating the white linen or flannel with their washing bats; the children play before the doors of the round straw-thatched houses of the homestead, the peaceful abode of the sons of the oaky vale. On the ridges of the downs rise the sharp cones of the barrows, some glistening in white chalk, or red, the mould of a new burial, and others green with the grass of long years.”

Close to Hembury Fort is a house built by Admiral Samuel Graves, whose best title to fame is that he invented the lifeboat. The fort is in the parish of Payhembury. The adjacent parish of Broadhembury, a picturesque village among the hills, could vaunt in ancient days a cell of Cluniac monks belonging to Montacute Priory, Somerset; and from 1768 to 1775 the incumbent was none other than Augustus Toplady, author of “Rock of Ages.” The Grange, a fine old Jacobean manor house, long the residence of the Drewes, was built in 1610 by an ancestor of theirs, who was sergeant-at-law to Queen Elizabeth—Edward Drewe. It was modernised about the middle of the last century.

At one time the Blackdowns must have presented a very different appearance from that which they do now, and the cause of the transformation may be found in a measure passed in the thirty-ninth year of His Majesty King George the Third, up to which time the commons of Church Staunton, Clayhidon, and Dunkeswell produced little but heath, fern, dwarf-furze,[5] and very coarse, tough and wiry herbage. At the beginning of the last century these lands were taken in hand with a view to cultivation or planting.

The Napoleon of the reclamation was General Simcoe, an officer who, having greatly distinguished himself in the American War, afterwards settled down on the Blackdowns. Altogether he enclosed about twelve thousand acres, and part of his design was to build two or three farmhouses, assigning to each of them about three hundred acres. The remaining allotments he portioned out to adjacent farms belonging to him, or converted into plantations. At Wolford Lodge—the name of his residence—he carried out some interesting experiments in arboriculture.

One practice adopted at Wolford, and apparently with success, was that of pruning the young oak, the stem being left clean to a height of twenty feet, and a proportionate top being allowed. The wounds soon healed and became covered with bark, and the result is said to have been a notable increase in the strength and substance of the stock.

General Simcoe paid much attention also to the culture of exotic trees. The black spruce of Newfoundland, the red spruce of Norway, the Weymouth pine, pineaster, stone and cluster pine, the American sycamore or butterwood, the black walnut, red oak, hiccory, sassafras, red bud, together with many small trees and shrubs of the sorts which, in the Western hemisphere, compose the undergrowth of the forests—all these different species were introduced and found to flourish at Dunkeswell.

The soil of Dunkeswell Common consisted chiefly of a brown and black peaty earth on beds of brown and yellow clay and fox-mould, all resting ultimately on a deep stratum of chip sand. Wherever the chip sand and marl emerged, the more retentive stratum of the latter held up the water, which burst forth into springs or formed “weeping ground”—“zogs,” as it is termed by the natives, who add that you must be careful where you plant your foot. Many of the morasses and peaty margins along the declivities and side-hills abounded with bog-timber. Out of a bed of peat near Wolford Lodge was raised an oak of this description, about twenty feet long and squaring thirteen inches at the butt. The whole of its sap was gone, and, to judge from its appearance, it might have been a fork of a much larger tree. Before it was taken up, General Simcoe received and refused an offer of five guineas for it. Local opinion favours Roughgrey Bottom, Dunkeswell, as the original of Blackmarsh or the Forbidden Land of Perlycross. The situation is fairly suitable; it was not far from the Blackborough quarries (see chapter xxxviii.).

There is probably still preserved at Wolford Lodge, which is a treasure-house of interesting curios, a specimen of the serpent stone, or cornu ammonis, found at the Blackborough quarries, which in their time have produced a large crop of fossilised shells, and delighted the geologist with instructive visions of the underworld. The specimen in question exceeded fourteen inches in diameter.

Once upon a time the Blackdowns were generally known as the Scythestone Hills, and travellers often digressed from the beaten track in order to pay a visit to the whetstone pits at Blackborough, which were justly regarded as a remarkable scene of industry, and, indeed, one of the sights of the West. These quarries were worked in the following way. A road or level about three feet wide and about five and a half feet high was driven from the side of the hill to a distance of three or four hundred yards. All the loose sandstones within eight or ten yards of the road were extracted, pillars being left to support the roof of the mine, until, having served their purpose, these also were gradually worked out and the whole excavation suffered to fall in. The size of the stones rarely exceeded that of a horse’s head; and all were more or less grooved and indented, their appearance suggesting that they had been subjected to the action of rills or running water. Many years have elapsed since the pits were in full working order. A little while ago there were two shafts remaining; to-day there is only one, and, most probably, by the time this paragraph is in print, the doom of the mines will be irrevocably sealed, and Finis appended to their history. Dr Fox’s strange adventure in this weird spot must be in the recollection of all readers of Perlycross (chapter xii.).

But there is another wonder at Blackborough besides the quarries, and that is Blackborough House—a great rambling mansion, with windows and doors innumerable. The building, which is rented by an aged lady and her daughter, is so utterly inconsequent as to inspire curiosity concerning its origin in this lonely out-of-the-way place. Well, a good many years ago, Dr Dickinson, of Uffculme, was in one of the eastern counties when he fell in with an old admiral who knew the spot, knew its former owner—the eccentric Lord Egremont—and told him all about it. Long before, the earl and the admiral were looking over the property, when the latter chanced to remark that it might be a good thing to erect a residence there. My lord was impressed with the notion, and the construction of this gigantic tenement—in its way almost as extraordinary as Silverton House, now demolished, which stamped him as an aedificator that neither reckoned nor finished—was his mode of giving effect to the idea.

In the middle of the last century Blackborough House was a warren of young students professedly reading with the Rev. William Cookesley Thompson, most of whom were of Irish nationality. They were a wild set, and enjoyed nothing so much as sharing in one of the country revels, which were then so common in Devonshire. On one occasion they made their way to Kentisbeare Revel, where an old woman had a gingerbread stall. Evening came on, and to avoid a slight sprinkling of rain, the dame took refuge in the doorway of the inn. At the same instant a wagonette or some such vehicle emerged from the adjoining passage, and turning a sharp corner, overturned the old woman’s stall, whose contents, tilted into the roadway, were eagerly scrambled for by children. Of course there were profuse, if not very sincere, apologies, and sympathetic promises of compensation, but whether they were ever honoured in the sequel my informant is inclined to query.

One great feature of a revel was wrestling, and this reminds me that at Kentisbeare there are about fifty acres of common, which were once the subject of debate between that parish and Broadhembury. After much bickering it was agreed to settle the point by “fair shoe and stocking,” with the result that the men of Kentisbeare were victorious, and acquired firm possession of the disputed territory.

CHAPTER IV
BLACKMORE’S SCHOOL

In 1837 R. D. Blackmore underwent a momentous experience, that being the year in which he entered, a trembling novice, the portals of the famous school, founded by Mr Peter Blundell, clothier. With all its many virtues as a place of learning, Tiverton School long maintained a reputation for roughness, and those days were among its roughest. It might have appeared, therefore, a providential circumstance that the boy had a sturdy sponsor in Frederick Temple, with whom he at first lodged in the simplicity of Copp’s Court, though afterwards he became a boarder inside the gates. Nor can it be doubted that Temple, ever “justissimus unus,” must sometimes have interposed to prevent any unconscionable bullying of his delicate charge. Unfortunately he seems to have taken a severe view of his duties as amateur father; and on one occasion, many years later, when he handed to a prize-winner a copy of Lorna Doone, he mentioned, with a humorous twinkle, that he had often chastised the author by striking him on the head with a brass-headed hammer. We have it on the authority of Mr Stuart J. Reid that Blackmore neither then nor subsequently felt the least gratitude for these attentions, and was wont to refer to his distinguished contemporary in language the reverse of flattering. And what he felt about his schoolfellow, he felt—or Mr Reid is mistaken—about his school, the retrospect of the misery and privations of his boyhood affecting him to his latest hour with a lively sense of horror and reprobation.

One would not have thought it. The opening chapters of Lorna Doone, though candid, seem written with relish of the little barbarians at play, just as if Blackmore had settled with himself that the trials of child’s estate were goodly exercises for the larger palæstras of life and literature. The filial note is never wanting, and those classic pages, so redolent of the place, and so descriptive of its customs, even to the verge of exaggeration, appeal to the younger generation of “Blundellites” as a splendid and enduring achievement, to which Mr Kipling’s Stalky and Co., and Mr Eden Phillpott’s Human Boy, and even Tom Brown’s Schooldays, must humbly vail.

It would be a considerable satisfaction to report that the scenes which Blackmore pictured are still in all respects as he painted them; but to do so would be to tamper with truth, and lead to unnecessary disappointment. In the first place, the school, as a society of men and boys, was removed in 1882 to a new and more convenient abiding-place about a mile distant, where it has renewed its youth, and flourishes with such a plentitude of numbers as was never known on the traditional site by the bank of the Lowman. The venerable buildings—it moves a nausea to tell—have been remodelled into villas. Apparently there was no remedy, for, although there was talk at the time of acquiring them as a local museum and library, like the Castle at Taunton, nothing came of it all, Tiverton being a small town, and philanthropists few and far between. To be sure, some stipulation was required that the elevation should be preserved in statu quo; but this has been only partially observed. The new residents could not be expected to live in dungeons, and so, for the admission of air and sunshine, the Jacobean windows have been extended and deprived of their pristine proportions. Within, the carved oak ceilings and panels have fled before an invasion of varnished deal, and the whole of the beautiful interior has become a memory.

Would that I could stop here, but stern Clio bids me go on and declare that, a quarter of a century ago, might have been seen over the outer gateway an original brass plate with a curiously inaccurate inscription, recording the circumstances of the foundation in 1604, with a pair of ambitious elegiacs, which not even the most lenient Latinist could with safety to his soul pronounce elegant. This brass is now at Horsdon, in charge of the new school, which has also the mystic white “P.B.” pebbles that adorned the pathway outside the boundary wall. The pathway is another ghost. Not only have the pebbles, both white and black, been uprooted, but sacrilegious hands have been laid on a most sensible and delightful old barricade, formed of heavy posts and heavy angular beams, which ran the whole length of the wall, and was closed at each end with a gate. How Dr Johnson would have loved it!

But the zeal for improvement, which set in during the seventies, is not accountable for all the changes that have marked the spot since Blackmore’s time; and without more explanation, many of the allusions in Lorna Doone must appear mysterious and unintelligible. When Blackmore was at the school, the converging lines of railway, with their passengers and goods stations, and multiplex ramifications, and the adjacent coal-yards and slaughterhouse, were still in the future, and the sites they now occupy were pleasant meadows. At the north-west corner, the point nearest the school, was a “kissing”-gate, whence a footpath, traversing the first meadow, led to another gate of the same amorous description. The main path then struck across to the right and joined the coach route, afterwards called the “old” London road, opposite Zephyr Lodge. Another track pursued an easterly direction to a pretty white timber bridge, which spanned the Lowman with a shallow arch, and near which was the celebrated Taunton Pool. This bridge afforded access to Ham Mills, remembered as a couple of low, white thatched cottages, very picturesque, whither it was the custom of the inhabitants to repair for Sunday junketings.

From the entrance-gate near the school to the corner of the London road ran a quickset hedge, which extended to a point over against a comparatively modern building, which still exists and formerly served as a turnpike, the old London road having been moved further up the hill to make room for the Exe Valley railway bridge. In a similar fashion, the construction of the branch line to the Junction, or “Park” station, as the old people call it, necessitated a great diversion of the Lowman, which previously described a zigzag erratic course, and shot much nearer to the Lodge and London road, so that the little torrent, known to the natives as the Ailsa, and to Blackmore and his boarders as the Taunton brook, joined it almost at right angles.

Blackmore, of course, described the locality as he knew it in his own schooltime. He does not appear to have urged his researches so far back as the assigned age of John Ridd, or he would have eschewed certain anachronisms which, in default of this precaution, have crept into his narrative. They are of no particular consequence, but may be mentioned, as it were, by the way.

To begin with, there were no iron-barred gates for the boys to lean against in 1673, nor for twenty years afterwards. Until 1695, there were only wooden gates, with a small door for entrance, and it may be noticed incidentally, that at the time of their removal they were much decayed. Nor again, in 1673, were there any porter’s lodges. These accessories were first built at the close of the seventeenth century. There being no lodges, the porter was evidently the invention of a later date—1699, apparently. The “old Cop” of the romance, with his sympathetic boots and nose, was the identical functionary of Blackmore’s youth. His name was George Folland, and he succeeded Hezekiah Warren in 1818.

Another chronological error has to do with the Homeric fight between John Ridd and Robin Snell, which the author paraphrases as an “item of importance.” As such I will treat it—to the extent of proving that it can never have taken place. The fleshly existence of the victor has been warrantably challenged, but no such question can arise as to his antagonist. Not that he was called Robin, but the voluntary statement that he became thrice Mayor of Exeter is a plain indication of the person implicated. Now, a visit to the north aisle of the choir of Exeter Cathedral will reveal the presence of three gravestones placed there to the memory of his father, his mother, and himself, with their arms. The inscription which mostly concerns us here is the following:—

“Here, at the Feet of his Father, lyeth the Body of John Snell, Esq., who served this City three times as Mayor, and several times as one of her Representatives in Parliament, served her faithfully and diligently, fearing God and honouring the King. He died ye 26 of Aug. A.D. 1717, ætat suæ 78. Here also lyeth Hannah, his virtuous and religious wife.”

The Rev. John Snell, the mayor’s father, was a notable man. Son of the Rev. Arthur Snell, M.A., and born at Lezant, Cornwall, in or about 1610, he was educated at Blundell’s School, Tiverton, and Caius and Gonville College, Cambridge, where he graduated M.A. In February 1634-5, he was instituted to the rectory of Thurlestone, South Devon, from which he was ejected in or about 1646. Reinstated in his living at the Restoration, he was, in 1662, elected Canon Residentiary of Exeter Cathedral. This honourable post he resigned January 4, 1678-9, and died the following April. It may be added, as an almost, if not quite unprecedented circumstance, that he was succeeded in his canonry by two of his sons, Thomas and George; and, as a Rev. John Snell, Vicar of Heavitree, died Canon of Exeter, September 4, 1727, I am by no means certain that a fourth member of the family—probably a grandson of the original John Snell—did not rise to the same office and dignity.

It is natural to inquire whether there can be found any explanation of this prosperity. The answer is partially, yes. As chaplain to the Royalist garrison, the rector of Thurlestone went through the siege of Fort Charles, Salcombe, and in Walker’s Sufferings of the Clergy may be read the story of his persecution by the lying Roundheads, when his first-born son was a boy in jackets.

Many more particulars might be adduced—especially the tradition that “Robin” Snell was killed in a riot—but enough! There remains the question, how came the novelist to know or care aught about this personage. On this point there can be no mistake, as I had it from Mr Blackmore himself that he remembered a schoolfellow named Snell, who must have been either my father or my uncle, the late Mr W. H. Snell, who entered the school on the same day (August 16, 1837) as Blackmore. The latter was uncommonly well posted up in the history of his family, and from him probably the information was derived. There are many Snells in Devonshire. The principal families of that name were long settled in the neighbouring parishes of Chawleigh and Lapford, where they were small landowners, and intermarried with the Kellands and Melhuishes. Curiously, as one may think, in John Ridd’s time Grace Snell, of Lapford, wedded Dr Thomas Bartow, son of Peter Bartow, of Tiverton, and thus became sister-in-law to Philip Blundell, of Collipriest, who was of the kindred of the famous Peter, and a feoffee of the school.

While it is natural to regret, and needful to state the alterations that have taken place in the time-honoured premises and their immediate surroundings, it must not be supposed for a moment that modern vandalism has wiped out every feature of interest. The “Ironing Box,” or triangle of turf, whereon John Ridd fought his great fight with Robin Snell, is still there. So also are the paved causeways and rows of mighty limes (save for sad gaps caused by a recent storm), and the porches and the lodges,—all vestiges of former days of which the present generation of Blundellites are not unmindful. Every seven years do they meet—old boys and new—in the historic Green, thence to perform a pilgrimage on St Peter’s Day to St Peter’s Church, after the example of their ancestors, which pleasant and pious custom neither time nor circumstance will, it is to be hoped, cause to fall into desuetude.

“Blundellites” is à la Blackmore; the more usual, the official, appellation is “Blundellians.” The school magazine is called The Blundellian, and I am indebted to an anonymous letter which appeared in its columns (April 1887), and was indited, no doubt, by my late friend, the Rev. D. M. Owen, for quotations from a private communication, unquestionably the production of R. D. Blackmore himself. The extracts are as follows:—

“I am much obliged for a copy of the Blundellite, which certainly was the ancient and therefore more classical form of the word. My father always called himself a ‘Blundellite,’ and so did my uncles, and I believe my grandfather. All went from Peter to Ex. Coll. (Oxford); however, the juniors have fixed it otherwise and so it must abide.... ‘Blundellian,’ if anything, is the adjectival form, at least according to my theories, though even then ‘Blundelline’ would seem more elegant. ‘Scholæ Blundellinæ Alumnus’ is in most of my father’s school-books (in 1810). And I think we find the distinction between the ‘ite’ and the ‘ian’ in good writers, e.g., a ‘Cromwellite,’ but the ‘Cromwellian’ army, a ‘Jacobite,’ a ‘Carmelite,’ etc.... All, I maintain, is that, in my days, we never heard of a ‘Blundellian,’ i.e., in school talk, or from the masters.”

Blackmore’s mention of his grandfather, by which he evidently intends his paternal grandfather, having been at Blundell’s school, is worthy of note. Many years ago the novelist himself acquainted me with the fact, but the curious thing is that the name of John Blackmore, the elder, apparently does not occur in the school register. This has recently been edited by Mr Arthur Fisher, who shows that during certain periods it was ill kept, and there seem to have been frequent omissions. One of the uncles must have been a brother of his mother, and, strange to say, his name also is wanting. The entries referring to other members of the family are:—

1162. John Blackmore, 15, son of John Blackmore, clerk, Charles, South Molton, Aug. 13, 1809—June 29, 1812.

1498. Richard Blackmore, 15, son of John Blackmore, clerk, Charles, South Molton, Feb. 19, 1816—Dec. 18, 1817.

1258. Richard Doddridge Blackmore, 12¼, son of Rev. John Blackmore, Culmstock, Wellington, Aug. 16, 1837—Dec. 16, 1843; elected to an exhibition on—— 1843; Giffard Scholar at Exeter Coll., Oxford.

Blackmore’s schooldays are now so remote, the survivors so few, that it is hard to recover many details. I have been favoured, however, with communications from two of his contemporaries—Colonel H. Cranstoun Adams and the Rev. E. Pickard-Cambridge; and at this distance of time it is not likely that much more can be gleaned. Colonel Adams writes:—

“He was a very quiet little fellow, and was looked upon as being very clever. He was always ready to help any juniors in their work, and often assisted me. There was really nothing very particular about him, except that he was quieter than the average run of boys. He joined in all the games, and I recollect his having one fight in which he got very much knocked about; but he was extremely plucky about it, and his opponent got a caning for daring to fight a monitor, which Blackmore was at the time.... He was a popular boy, and kind-hearted; but, although he was looked upon as clever, I don’t think any of us thought he would become the author of such a work as Lorna Doone.”

Mr Pickard-Cambridge sends the following:—

“R. D. Blackmore was a day-boy, and I believe remained so; but it is so long since my schooldays that my memory fails me. He was a clever boy at schoolwork. I used to go and stay with him at his father’s vicarage, Culmstock, at the Easter holidays, and when there became acquainted with Temple and his relations. After we left school, I never saw him, but learned his mode of life from public reports.

“He was a small, unhealthy-looking boy, and I could never have dreamt that he would turn out such as I see him in his photograph by Mr Jenkins.

“Now it may be interesting if I tell you what happened one afternoon as I and Blackmore were walking up the Lowman. We came to a gate at the end of a field, and just before we got over it, I saw something sitting on the gate at the opposite end of the field. It was a figure dressed in white clothing, no head appearing, and while I was wondering what it was, it suddenly disappeared to the right of a gate thro’ a hedge.

“I said to Blackmore, ‘Did you see that white figure sitting on the gate?’

“‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I could not make out what it was.’

“When we got to the gate, we hunted the hedge and all about by the stream, but could not find or see anything; so we came to the conclusion that it must have been a ghost. When we got back to the school, I believe we told what we had seen; anyhow, we thought no more about it. But about three days afterwards, some people coming by the coach from Halberton saw the same apparition about the same spot, and told of it in the town, and it came to our ears, and then we immediately related what we had seen.

“This was a great confirmation of our story, and there it must end. But I can state that all that I have said was true. I am no great believer in ghosts, but have related the above whenever in conversation ghosts have come to the front.”

CHAPTER V
THE TOWN OF THE TWO FORDS

An imaginative mind, anxious for exercise, might easily find a worse pretext than the probable appearance of Tiverton at different epochs in its history. Three monstrous fires—in 1598, 1612, and 1731—have reduced the town to ashes, so that, despite its antiquity, it presents, on the whole, an extremely modern aspect, which, as time goes on, tends to become accentuated. Still certain buildings remain—not many, I fear—from which, like Richard Owen in another sphere of palæontology, the lover of the past may gather ideas for his reconstructive task. Ex pede Herculem.

Every stranger, on arriving at Tiverton, is at once struck by the Greenway almhouses, with their quaint little chapel. These were miraculously preserved in the earlier devastations, when, according to contemporary notices, the fire “invironed those sillie cottages on every side, burning other houses to the grounde which stood about them, and yet had they no hurt at all.”[6] In the third welter of flame the almhouses were less fortunate, and it is a singular fact that the only life lost on this occasion—on the two previous there had been many victims—was that of an inmate who obstinately refused to quit the building, saying, “Who ever heard of an almshouse being burnt?” When, at last, he was convinced of the peril of optimism, and he would fain have made good his escape, it was too late—all egress was barred. Even in this, however, there was something miraculous, for, though the almshouses were burnt and transformed into fiery catacombs, the chapel was inexplicably preserved, and remains to this day, with all its rich ornaments and emblematical figures untouched. The inscriptions, however, or, as Blackmore playfully expresses it, “the souls of John and Joan Greenway” are not “set up in gold letters.” Had the name “Gold Street” anything to do with this idea?

The founder of the almshouses was John Greenway, born about 1460, of whom little is known that is authentic. Apparently of lowly origin, “by ability and industry he acquired an ample income” as a merchant. So says Harding, but it is seldom that ample incomes are acquired by brains and diligence alone. The stroke of luck may almost always be charged as a contributory factor. If legend may be believed, Greenway was positively inspired to wealth-making. A simple weaver, young and without prospects, he dreamed a dream which was thrice repeated. Each time a mysterious voice admonished him to proceed to London town, and there, on London Bridge, to await a cavalier on a white nag, who would have a message for him. The sanguine youth obeyed these supernatural instructions; and, taking his stand on the appointed spot, was accosted by an unknown horseman, by whom he was told to return forthwith to Tiverton and dig in a certain quarter. Again Greenway obeyed, and was rewarded by the discovery of a crock or pot of gold, which, as his initial capital, enabled him to launch out into business, and ultimately to found these almshouses in 1517. There is a notion that amidst the exterior carvings of St Peter’s Church, where Greenway built him a lovely chantry with wagon roof and Renaissance door, is sculptured the crock of plenty, but hitherto—owing perhaps to embarras de richesse—it has escaped detection.

Now the embellishments of Greenway’s two chapels deserve close attention, not only on account of their beauty, but for other reasons that will immediately appear. Greenway is represented by his arms (a chevron between 3 covered cups, on a chief 3 sheep’s heads erased), his staple-mark, and his cipher, which are figured on shields inserted in the quatrefoil of the cornices of the chapel in Gold Street and its porch; and by the following rhyme inscribed in bold letters under the main cornice:—

“Have grace, ye men, and ever pray
For the sowl of John and Jone Grenway.”

These marks of parentage are merely what one would expect, but the walls have other symbolism, some of which demands comment. In two compartments of the upper cornice are to be found the arms of Courtenay and an eagle rising from a bundle of sticks. These devices are repeated on a larger scale over the archway, with the addition of the arms of England. The eagle montant, to borrow a term from falconry, is understood to typify the mythical phœnix, and may be regarded as alluding to the vicissitudes of that illustrious and ever-resurgent family.

The arms of England present no difficulty. They are to be explained by the marriage of William Courtenay, 10th Earl of Devon, with Katherine, youngest daughter of Edward IV., her elder sister Elizabeth being the consort of Henry VII. Miss Strickland, by the way, records a quaint incident in connection with a tournament held at the wedding of Prince Arthur, when “Lord William Courtenay (brother-in-law of the Queen) made his appearance riding on a red dragon led by a giant with a large tree in his hand.” What time the almshouses were building Katherine de Courtenay was actually resident at Tiverton Castle, and she was buried, in 1527, with immense pomp in the Earl of Devonshire’s chapel, which was destroyed by the Puritans, and is believed to have stood on the north side of the chancel in St Peter’s Church. In her honour was erected that large achievement in the centre of the porch, consisting of Courtenay and Rivers quarterly, impaling quarterly, 1st France and England quarterly, 2nd and 3rd Burgh, 4th Mortimer. It is surmounted with the Courtenay badge before-mentioned, and the supporters are St George and a woman.

It would be incompatible with the limits of this work to enter upon a minute description of all the charming imagery of this beauteous chantry. Much of it speaks for itself, but it may be as well to put the reader on his guard against a false blazoning of one of the coats of arms, which displays what looks suspiciously like a tiara. It may possibly be permissible to use the term, but subject to the understanding that we have here nothing to do with any papal insignia. The three clouds radiated in base, each surmounted with a triple crown, are for the Drapers’ Company; just as the Barry nebulée; a chief quarterly, on the 1st and 4th a lion passant guardant, on the 2nd and 3rd two roses, are for the Merchant Venturers of London. Attention may also be drawn to a series of sermons in stones, or small sculptures illustrating the chief events in the life of our Lord; on account of the height at which they are ranged, they might easily be passed unnoticed.

Viewing the decorations generally, we cannot but observe that the place of honour is assigned to the Courtenays; and, probably on the strength of this fact, Harding speaks of the Marquis of Exeter as Greenway’s great patron. In this he may be mistaken, since, on the death of her husband, the Lady Katherine succeeded to the manor of Tiverton, and doubtless exerted much influence in the town and county during the sixteen years of her widowhood. This brings us to the stately home in which, more than anywhere else, those sorrowful years were spent.

Due north of St Peter’s churchyard, from which only a wall parts them, are the precincts of Tiverton Castle whereof there exist somewhat extensive remains in varying degrees of preservation. This was for several centuries one of the chief residences of the Courtenays, and in the Middle Ages was a strong place of arms. On the west is a precipice, which runs down sixty feet sheer to the River Exe and secured the castle on that side; in other directions it had towers and turrets, and ramparts and moats, and all that military science then knew in the way of elaborate fortification. Two of the towers yet stand—a square and a round, while the ivy-covered ruin, which is detached from the rest of the buildings, at the south-west angle of the castle grounds, is supposed to represent the oratory or chapel. From its position it was evidently distinct from the Earl of Devonshire’s Chapel, mentioned above, and must have been a private sanctuary reserved to the household.

The castle is stated to have been built by Richard de Redvers or Rivers, who was an Earl of Devon in his time—about 1106; it came into the possession of the Courtenays on the extinction of the Redvers family in 1274, when Hugh de Courtenay, great-grandson of Mary de Redvers, succeeded to all their estates. His immediate predecessor was Isabella de Fortibus, born Redvers, who is credited with the gift of an ample stream of water known as the Town Lake, a section of which, enclosed between paved banks, may be observed in Castle Street. She, of course, was not a Courtenay; and it is with these rather than with other possessors of the castle that we are mainly concerned. As, with brief intervals, they were the ruling element in the town for a period of three centuries, it is natural to inquire what manner of men were those great lords, and how it went with the neighbourhood when they were uppermost.

With their emblems around us, and with the odour of sanctity investing the places where those emblems appear, there is a palpable danger of attributing to the Courtenays a larger measure of piety than is at all their due. Of him who is called sometimes the Good, sometimes the Blind Earl, no word of censure may be spoken; and as for the husband and descendants of Katherine—William, Henry, Edward—their tragic fates evoke that infinite compassion for which the blood of the innocent cries always, and never in vain. Even the guilty Courtenays were not devoid of redeeming qualities; they were stout warriors, and loyal to their king. Yet two of the race, father and son, both of them named Thomas, were the authors of a felon deed—a deed as black as any that soils the pages of history, or swells the calendar of crime. To all appearance the plot was hatched in Tiverton, and Tiverton yeomen were the willing, or unwilling, instruments of the scandalous theft, the inhuman murder. The whole may not be told here; let what follows suffice.

On Thursday, October 23, 1455, Nicholas Radford, sometime “steward” of the Earl of Devon, now an old man and a justice, was dwelling in God’s peace and the king’s in his own place at Upcott, in the parish of Cheriton Fitzpaine. The same day and year came Sir Thomas Courtenay, eldest son of the earl, with a body of retainers to the number of ninety-four, armed with jacks, sallets, bows, arrows, swords, bucklers, etc., who beset the house at midnight, and with a great shout fired the gates. Naturally at that hour Radford, his wife, and his servants, were in bed, but awakened by the sudden commotion, the good old man opened his window, and demanded whether there were among them any gentlemen.

“Here is Sir Thomas Courtenay,” answered one of the yeoman; and almost at the same moment the knight called out to him, “Come down and speak with me.”

The old man, however, would not comply, until Courtenay swore as a true knight and gentleman, that neither his person nor his property should be molested. Relying on this promise Radford descended with a lighted torch and ordered the gates to be thrown open, whereupon, much to his alarm, the rabble of followers began to stream in. The knight reassured him, and standing by his cupboard, condescended to drink of his wine. Whilst Courtenay held the master of the house with tales, his men plundered the mansion of its treasures. Money and bedding, and furs, and books, the ornaments of his chapel and the like—they carried them all away on Radford’s own horse, and did not spare even his sick wife, but rolling her out of bed, took away the sheets she was lying in.

Sir Thomas now said to the justice, “Have done, Radford, for thou must need go with me to my lord my father.” The old man expressed his readiness, and bade his servant saddle a horse, only to receive the reply that his horse had been removed and laden with his own goods. Hearing this, Radford said to his visitor,

“Sir, I am aged, and may not well go upon my feet, and therefore I pray you that I may ride.”

“No force (odds), Radford,” was the answer, “thou shalt ride enough anon, and therefore come on with me.”

Accordingly they went on together about a stone’s throw, when Sir Thomas, having secretly conferred with three of his men—two of them Tiverton yeomen—set spurs to his horse and rode on his way, exclaiming, “Farewell Radford!”

In a trice Nicholas Philip slashed the old justice across the face with his sword, and as he lay on the ground, dealt him another stroke, which caused the brain to drop out from the back of his head. His brother, Thomas Philip, cut the victim’s throat with a knife, while the third man, with surely supererogatory caution, pierced him through the back with a long dagger. Thus was Nicholas Radford feloniously and horribly slain and murdered.

As an aggravation of the crime, on the following Tuesday the old man’s godson, Henry Courtenay, with certain of the ruffians, arrived at Upcott, where the body of Radford lay in his chapel, and opened a mock inquest. One of them, Richard Bertelot, sat as coroner, and the murderers were summoned by strange names. They answered, “scornfully appearing,” made what presentment they chose, and gave out that they should accuse Radford of his own death. They then compelled his servants to carry the body to the church of Cheriton Fitzpaine, John Brymoor, alias Robyns, a singer, leading the way with derisive songs and catches, as it was borne along.

Gaining the churchyard, they took the murdered man out of his coffin, rolled him out of his winding-sheet, and cast him all naked into the grave, where they threw upon his head and body sundry stones that Radford had provided for the making of his tomb, crushing them. They had no more pity or compassion for him than for a Jew or a Saracen.

It seems that in January of this year the justice had sold a good deal of land, including the manors of Calverleigh, Poughill, and Ford, for £400, and this large sum in cash is believed to have been the incentive of the murder. The Earl of Devon, who was no doubt accessory before the fact, speedily prepared an expedition to Exeter in order to obtain possession of such goods and chattels as Radford had lodged with the Dean and Chapter; and in November, he and his son Thomas assembled an armed retinue of a thousand or more at Tiverton, and marched to the city. We need not follow their proceedings there—they were outrageous—and, as signalising the barbarous character of the age, be content to note that neither the Earl nor his son received the penalty they deserved. Providence, however, suffered neither of them to escape. The Earl was poisoned at Abingdon, and his son and successor beheaded at York, after being taken prisoner at the battle of Wakefield, 1461.

The subsequent history of the castle must be traced briefly. After passing through various hands, it was purchased by Roger Giffard, fifth son of Sir Roger Giffard, of Brightleigh, in the parish of Chittlehampton, who pulled down the greater part of the buildings, and named it “Giffard’s Court.” Nevertheless, it was in a condition to repel an attack by the Parliamentarian forces under Massey in October 1645, though two days later it was stormed by Sir Thomas Fairfax at the head of an army outnumbering the somewhat disaffected garrison by thirty to one. The owner of the castle was then Roger Giffard, grandson of the first-named Roger, and despite the fact that the defence of the place was entrusted to Sir Gilbert Talbot, as military governor, there is no reason to suppose that Giffard was an absentee. Like his more famous kinsman, Colonel John Giffard, of Brightleigh, Roger was a devoted Royalist, and is mentioned among those persons who were fined for their loyalty. Blackmore’s reference to bales of wool used in the defence is strictly historical (see Lorna Doone, chapter xi.).

The modern house was built in 1700 for Peter West, who came of an old Tiverton mercantile stock connected with the Blundells. In 1594 John West had married Edy, daughter of James Blundell, and niece of Peter Blundell and his sister Elinor, wife of John Chilcott, of Fairby, and mother of Robert Chilcott, the founder of Chilcott’s School, which stands at the lower end of St Peter Street, and, with its mullioned and transomed windows, its handsome archway, and solid, iron-studded, black oak door, forms an interesting specimen of Jacobean architecture. Peter West’s daughter Dorothy took for her bridegroom Sir Thomas Carew, of Haccombe, and thus manor and castle passed into the possession of the distinguished family which still owns them.

We have enjoyed many opportunities of estimating the wealth and importance of the “woollen” merchants of Tiverton; but, if anything yet lack, the reader may station himself before the great House of St George, nearly opposite Chilcott’s School, and consider it at his leisure. This seemly residence, with its garden close, was built apparently by George Skinner, merchant, whose initials were formerly to be seen on the northern termination of the hood-mould. On the southern termination is the date 1612—the date of the second great fire. As the house is thoroughly Jacobean in style, it is natural to conclude that it is in all essentials the identical structure erected in that memorable year, but the confused account in Harding’s History of Tiverton contains documentary evidence showing that it was “demolished and consumed by reason of the late unhappy wars” (i.e., the Civil War), and suggests that the “messuage” was rebuilt at various periods, from 1541 onwards. I shall not attempt to unravel the mystery, but content myself with observing that, beyond any question, the building has been altered, and that within living memory. Once, and for long, it rejoiced in another storey, but modern wisdom having determined that the edifice was “top-heavy,” the upper portion was removed.

About the year 1740 the manufacture of serges, druggets, drapeens, and the like began to decline, and, later, the effects of the American Revolution were severely felt in the town. In 1790, however, there were still a thousand looms and two hundred woolcombers in the neighbourhood. Then came the great war with France, which almost paralysed the local firms; and on its cessation the Tiverton manufacturers vainly endeavoured to restore old connections with the Continent. It was plain that the ancient trade

in wool, on which so many depended, was in its last throes. The end was sudden and dramatic. One morning, when the workpeople were at breakfast, the inhabitants of Westexe were startled by the loud report of a gun, and the news soon spread that Mr Armitage, the manager of a large mill, which had been built in 1790, and in which, as in a last refuge, the remains of the staple industry were concentrated, had shot himself in the counting-house.

The ruin of the place now seemed certain. Happily, however, the following year (1815), Messrs Heathcoat, Boden, and Oliver purchased the mill, and by extensive additions, converted it into an immense lace factory. In 1809 they had obtained a fourteen years’ patent for a greatly improved bobbin-net machine, of which Mr Heathcoat was the inventor, and erected a factory at Loughborough. The firm removed to Tiverton in consequence of the injury done to the machines by the Luddites, and thither a number of their men accompanied them. Some of the Leicestershire “hands,” about the year 1820, had a dispute with Mr Heathcoat, who had become sole proprietor of the factory, and, this having ended in their discharge or voluntary retirement from his service, they determined to set up an opposition concern. It is believed that the artisans had machines of their own brought down along with those of Mr Heathcoat and installed in the mill under some arrangement with him. Anyhow, they resolved to start lace-making on their own account.

Money, of course, had to be provided, and this to a limited amount—very limited for such a venture—was found them by a physician of the town named Houston, whilst premises were secured behind, or near what is now the Golden Lion Inn, Westexe. Here the quixotic scheme was launched, and here it came to an inglorious end, after a futile imitation of the frog in the fable. The credulous doctor, who lived in a house, now a saddler’s shop, next the “White Ball,” and whose backyard abutted on the infant factory, lost what he had lent, and no doubt learnt a lesson.

Hardly more felicitous was Mr George Cosway’s attempt to resuscitate the woollen industry. Mr Cosway “took up arms against a sea of troubles”; his capital was none too large, and in the face of powerful competition in other parts of the country, his factory in Broadlane was never a conspicuous success. On his death it was closed, and that finally. Mr Cosway belonged to the same family as the famous miniaturist, one of whose larger paintings, designed for an altar-piece, hangs on the north wall of St Peter’s Church. The subject is “St Peter delivered by an Angel,” and the picture was Richard Cosway’s gift to the town of which he was a native. The larger painting on the other side of the vestry door, the subject of which is “The Adoration of the Magi,” is a very fine work by Gaspar de Crayer, and an almost exact reproduction of a picture by Rubens in the Antwerp gallery.

It would be improper, I suppose, to refer to Tiverton without mentioning Lord Palmerston, whose Parliamentary connection with the borough extended from 1835 to 1865—just thirty years. As an Irishman, the popular statesman must have been perfectly at home in the town, which is always lively at election times, and during his early acquaintance with it, had an unenviable reputation as a rival to Donnybrook Fair. Most of the inhabitants had their chosen inn, the tradesmen being accommodated in the parlour, the artisans in the bar, and the labourers in the kitchen; and the consumption of beer and spirits almost exceeds belief. One would make ten glasses of grog his nightly quantum, another was not content with fewer than eighteen, while a third drank gin and water by the bucketful. Every now and then women would have a fight in the streets. A ring would be formed, whereupon the trulls grappled with each other, and with their long hair streaming down their backs, and blood down their faces, presented a pitiful and degrading spectacle. Things are better now.

Speaking of the Tiverton inns reminds me that John Ridd and Fry lodged, on the eve of their departure, at the “White Horse,” in Gold Street. This tavern is still in existence, and as it is not specially picturesque, the reader may be at a loss to conceive why Blackmore should have selected this particular house of entertainment. The novelist, however, knew what he was about. In the seventeenth century it may have been the most important inn in the town. On the entry of the Royalists into the town in the month of August, 1643, they were stoned by the mob, many of whom were killed or wounded by the fire of the soldiers; “and,” says Harding, in recounting the circumstance, “the effect produced was a dispersion of the remainder, when one, John Lock, a miller, was taken and executed at the sign of the White Horse, on the north side of Gold Street” (History of Tiverton, vol. i., p. 58).

CHAPTER VI
THE WONDERS OF BAMPTON

The country between Tiverton and Bampton reminds us how comparatively new are many of our main roads. Beginning with the town, although Bampton Street is one of the principal thoroughfares, this is not the case with Higher Bampton Street; and of both it may be stated with absolute assurance that they do not owe their names to accident or caprice. They were christened thus because they were a direct continuation of the old road from Bampton, the whole of the present route through the picturesque Exe valley not having been constructed until long after the days of John Ridd and the less mythical Bampfylde Moore Carew. For this reason “Jan,” on his way home, would have proceeded first to Red Hill, with the inn at its foot;[7] and hereafter we shall cease to wonder that Carew and his companions fell in with the convivial gipsies at the same “Brick House,” since it adjoined the king’s highway. Hence, he climbed the steep ascent of Knightshayes, from whose summit he might have cast a last lingering look at the town. Afterwards he would, for some time, have seen nothing but the hedgerows and a stretch of desolate road.

Even to Ridd, however, the glory of the Exe was not utterly forbidden, inasmuch as from Bolham onwards there was some kind of road. Moreover, on the opposite side of the river was an accommodating lane, from which lesser lanes scamper off to the “weeches” of Washfield and Stoodleigh Church, and which, steadily pursued in its northward trend, has coigns of vantage imparting grateful visions of Rock, with its sweet old cottages, and the romantic Fairby Gorge, and the woody amphitheatre of Cove Cliff, together with such pretty accessories as a wayside spring, trim dairies, rich orchards, a modern suspension bridge, an old-world bridge, and beside it a quaint little lodge, with its porch and its bonnets of thatch—a miracle of rustic beauty! But it really matters not from which side the landscape is viewed, the prospects are equally charming; and the only cause for regret, from an æsthetic standpoint, is the railway, whose rigid track, bisecting the valley as far as the Exeter Inn, brusquely intrudes on its soft contrasts of forest, stream, and lea.

From the inn, one branch of the new road still follows the river through a sylvan paradise, while another, nearly parallel with an older lane, yclept Windwhistle, leads on to Bampton along the tributary Batherum, On quitting that highway of loveliness, the Exe, one is conscious of a difference—the outlook is more tame. However, as one approaches the town, the scenery improves, and of the town itself it must be conceded that it is beautifully situated among the hills.

For me, Bampton is a place with sacred memories; but I am well aware that, to sound its depths of sentiment, an initiation is necessary. A stranger strolling listlessly through the churchyard, or seated with callous heart against a walled-up yew—to him it is all a void. What can he know of all the unrecorded history which, for certain souls, has transfigured the spot into a shrine? Moreover, although a fair resident informed me recently that Bampton “stands still,” I have an uncomfortable conviction, forced upon me in a brief visit, that this is not quite the case, that it has exchanged some of its old Sabbatic calm for an irreverent spirit of enterprise and strivings to be “up-to-date.” Thanks to a disciple and friend of the late Mr Cecil Rhodes, the quarries have been galvanised into stupendous energy, and, aided by the contrivances of modern science, are now working at high pressure, and all Bampton is cock-a-whoop over the same. Well, well, one must have patience. Only suffer me to write of my Bampton, which was also Blackmore’s Bampton, not the Bampton that now is.

In those far-off days of 1891-3, the quarries were not wholly quiescent; even then they were shedding their riches, but in a decent, leisurely way, leaving many a grass-grown plot and fern-clad lovers’ walk, and tokens of vanished industry in what we termed “the rubble-heaps.” The distinctive feature of Bampton stone is that it contains a large proportion of “chert” or flint, which makes it good for roads. The principal structures in the neighbourhood—including the county and other bridges—are built of it, and, judging from the age of the church tower, these black limestone beds have been worked for at least six hundred years.

The topography asks some explaining. A noter hies here, noting. Somebody has told him of Bampton Castle, and forthwith the heady ass swoops on a circular shed on the quarry plane as a relic. To be sure, at the south-east entrance of the town there are plentiful suggestions of military operations. The wind-swept knoll, whence you catch the first glimpse of Bampton, would be a fine station for a park of French artillery, to which the exposed railway station, with its less warlike engines, could offer but a faint resistance. A few paces further on, and you come to what is uncommonly like a bastion, crowned by the pseudo-Bampton Castle. Of the real Bampton Castle, at the opposite end of the town, nothing remains but the site and some rather doubtful fortifications in what is now an orchard.

But there was a castle, for in 1336 Richard Cogan had a licence from the Crown to castellate his mansion-house at Bampton, and to enclose his wood at Uffculme, and three hundred acres for a park. The exact site of the castle is believed to have been on a lower level, but closely adjacent to the existing Mote. The origin and purpose of this great mound, which is artificial, is not perhaps free from obscurity, but a former resident favours the following elucidation: The name of

the place is derived from the Saxon word mot or gemot (a “meeting”), and it was probably the seat of the Hundred-mote, or court of judicature, Bampton being the head manor of the hundred.[8] It was also a burgh, or fortified place, and by the laws of King Edgar the Burghmote, or Court of the Borough, was held thrice a year. The parish, it may be observed, is still divided into Borough, East, West, and Petton quarters, and the ancient office of portreeve is yet retained. Some time before Domesday and the Geldroll, the king gave Bampton to Walter de Douay. From Walter’s son, Robert de Baunton, the lordship passed through the Paynells to the Cogans, and from the Cogans to the Bourchiers, Earls of Bath, who, so far as is known, were the last owners of the barony to reside at the castle. The Bourchier knot is to be seen in the church—on the screen and the roof-bosses.

Apart from such rather dry particulars, it is not much that I can tell you of the public annals of Bampton, but one morsel relating to the Bourchier reign you must swallow, if only for its rarity. In May 1607, Walter Yonge, of Colyton, thus wrote in his diary: “There were earthquakes felt in divers parts of this realm, and, namely, at Barnstaple, Tiverton, and Devonshire; also I heard it by one of Bampton credibly reported that there it was felt also. And at Bampton, being four”—Tush, Squire Yonge, it is full seven—“miles from Tiverton, there was a little lake which ran by the space of certain hours, the water whereof was as blue as azure, yet notwithstanding as clear as possible might be. It was seen and testified by many who were eye-witnesses, and reported to me by Mr Twistred, who dwelleth in the same parish, and felt the earthquake.”

Can it be that this “little lake”—good Devonshire for running water—was the shut-up and buried, but by no means dared or dead, Shuttern stream? Perchance it was. Flowing under broad Brook Street, in times of flood he emerges and revenges himself for his confinement, spreading across the roadway, and swamping the sunken cottages, and waxing a lake indeed, in the Biblical acceptation of the term. But the Shuttern was not shut up or buried for many a year after the miracle. He flowed muddily along in open channel, though straitly enclosed by banks and spanned at intervals by bridges—a poor copy of a Venetian canal and a rare playground for the oppidan ducks. Now they have to waddle their way, and a long way it is for some of them, to the Batherum, a few, it may be, tumbling down the hill from Briton Street. And let not Master Printer, in his wisdom, correct to “Britain Street,” as he hath aforetime been moved to do. For “Briton” is the recognised and official spelling, and who is he that he should alter and amend what has been approved by lawful authority?

The Conscript Fathers of the town are greatly exercised at such odious disguisings of the true and proper form, which they rightly decline to sanction or accept. I am with them, heart and soul. Here in Beamdune, in this very street, the ancient Britons—’twas in 614—fought a great fight for freedom against the West Saxons, and there were slain of them forty and two thousand. The present inhabitants are descended from the vanquished, the Britons. You doubt it? Then little you know of their intermarriages. An outsider has no chance. Why even the pedlars and pedlaresses complain of Bampton’s closeness. “They’re no use,” they exclaim, “they deal only with their own people.” You still doubt? Then I renounce you as a heathen man and a publican.[9]

Bampton’s chief boast is its fair, which is held on the last Thursday in October, and attracts thousands of visitors, many of them coming from considerable distances. It is not easy to say precisely why, since there are other places nearer the moor, but for a long succession of years the town has served as the principal mart for the wild Exmoor ponies, deprived of which the fair would no doubt rapidly dwindle. These shaggy little horses—a good number of them mere “suckers”—are sold by auction, and the incidents connected with their coming and going, and their manners in the sale-ring, constitute the “fun of the fair.”

On the last occasion when I travelled to Bampton Fair, my compartment was entered by a gipsy belle with abundance of raven hair in traces, the dark complexion of her race, the regulation earrings and trinkets, and much conversational fluency. She had come up from Exeter on the chance of meeting with some of her people whom she had not seen for several years. That brought to my recollection a prevalent belief that the Romany folk have a septennial reunion, no doubt intended to be cordial and friendly in the extreme. Nevertheless, I can answer for it that the intention is not always fulfilled, for on one fair day two rival tribes fought a pitched battle with blackthorns, etc., in the orchard of the Tiverton Hotel. And the women will fight like the men, and with the men. They are artful beggars. A gipsy matron guided round a youngster of three or four years, with his small legs already encased in trousers, to claim a penny, because on one hand he had little excrescent thumbs. The boy could hold a penny between these thumbs, and, on being given a coin, was told to say “Thank you,” his mother expressing her gratitude with the wish, “May you enjoy the lady you loves!”

It is a safe assumption that no one visits a place of the size of Bampton—at all events, at ordinary times—without having a look at the church. Ten years ago you would have been rewarded with the spectacle of high pews, over the backs of which I can remember feminine eyes taking stock of the congregation. Nose and mouth were not visible, and consequently the fair damsels had somewhat the appearance of hooded Turkish ladies. Now that Bampton Church has been swept and garnished and the arcade straightened—it fell over quite two feet and crushed the timbers in the aisle—the building hardly seems the same, but the most valuable features, to an antiquary, remain untouched.

Entering the chancel from the churchyard, you will find against the north wall fragments of bold and graceful sculpture, with tabernacle work, tracery, shields, the symbol I.H.S., and the Bourchier knot and water bouget, or budget, as it is sometimes written. Perhaps “bucket” may be permissible as a variant, since the bearing, which is in the form of a yoke with two pouches of leather appended to it, was originally intended to represent bags slung on a pole which was carried across the shoulders—an arrangement adopted by the Crusaders for conveying water over the desert. To return to the fragments, they were part of two ancient monuments which, according to the Rev. Bartholomew Davy, formerly stood in the chancel; on their removal, about a hundred years ago, the sides were used to line the wall.

That the monuments covered the remains of Sir John Bourchier, knight, Lord Fitzwarner, created Earl of Bath July 9, 1536, and those of his father, is certain. The will of the former, bearing date October 20, 1535, and proved June 11, 1541, expressly directs that his body shall be buried in the parish church of Bampton, Devon, in the place there where his father lies buried, and that a tomb or stone of marble be made and set over the grave where his body shall be buried, with his picture, arms, and recognisances, and the day and the year engraven and fixed on the same tomb within a year after his decease. During the restoration the workmen discovered under the place where the organ now stands, a vault containing several ridged coffins, believed to be those of members of the Bourchier family, but, as the dates were not taken, this is merely a matter of speculation.

Behind the organ is a triptych of black marble, one compartment of which perpetuates the memory of a lady. The two others contain the following inscriptions:—

“Vnder lyeth the body of Arthur the sone of John Bowbeare of this Town, Yeoman, who departed this life the 17 day of December Anno Dom 1675.”

“Here vnder lyeth ye body of John the sone of John Bowbeare of this Town, Yeoman, who departed this life the 12 day of May Anno Domi 1676.”

According to local tradition, Arthur and John Bowbeare were giants, like John Ridd; and it will be noted as a further coincidence that they were of the yeoman class. The name is still preserved in Bowbear Hill, to the south-east of the town, and in Higher and Lower Bowbear Farms. Another interesting point is that John Ridd may have entered the town of his fellow-giants, who were still alive, though soon to die, not by the old Tiverton road, but by an ancient track which ran down Bowbear Hill. This track, now disused, was an old Roman road, and, having been paved, is still known as Stony Lane.

Giants are said to be usually short-lived—a charge which cannot be laid against the Vicars of Bampton. On consulting the list I find that from 1645 to 1711 the living was held by the Rev. James Style, from 1730 to 1785 by the Rev. Thomas Wood, and from 1785 to 1845 by the Rev. Bartholomew Davy. In the case of the last-mentioned divine—familiarly known as “old Bart Davy”—the patience of some member of his flock was evidently exhausted, for one fine morning there was found, nailed to the church door, the following lamentation:—

“The Parson is a-wored out,
The Clerk is most ado;
The Saxton’s gude vor nort—
’Tis time to have all new.”

According to the son of the last parish clerk of Bampton, there was a servant of Mr Trickey, of the Swan Inn, named Joe Ridd, or Rudd, who amused the townspeople of a generation or two ago with stories of the “girt Jan Ridd,” of Exmoor, ostensibly an ancestor. One of these stories was that the huge yeoman, “out over,” broke off the branch of a tree and used it as a weapon. This circumstance gives special point to the statement in chapter liii. of Lorna Doone, that “much had been said at Bampton about some great freebooters, to whom all Exmoor owed suit and service, and paid them very punctually.” Moreover, in Mr Snow’s grounds at Oare is a mighty ash, whose limbs incline downwards, they (it is said) having been bent out of their natural set by the constraining power of the matchless Ridd.

Blackmore not only conducts his hero and heroine through Bampton as a place on their line of route, but alludes to it respectfully (see chapter xiii.) as one of the important towns on the southern side of the moor, though he dare not for conscience’ sake compare it with metropolitan Taunton.