The Project Gutenberg eBook, Devon, Its Moorlands, Streams and Coasts, by Rosalind Northcote, Illustrated by Frederick J. Widgery

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Title: Devon, Its Moorlands, Streams and Coasts

Author: Rosalind Northcote

Release Date: September 1, 2007 [eBook #22485]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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The Guildhall, Exeter

DEVON

ITS MOORLANDS, STREAMS, & COASTS

BY LADY ROSALIND NORTHCOTE
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR
AFTER FREDERICK J. WIDGERY

LONDON—EXETER
CHATTO & WINDUS—JAMES G. COMMIN

M CM VIII

[Pg v]

[Pg vi]

[Pg vii]

Preface

The first and one of the greatest difficulties to confront a writer who attempts any sort of description of a place or people is almost sure to be the answer to the question, How much must be left out? In the present case the problem has reappeared in every chapter, for Devon is 'a fair province,' as Prince says in his 'Worthies of Devon,' and 'the happy parent of ... a noble offspring.'

My position is that of a person who has been bidden to take from a great heap of precious stones as many as are needed to make one chain; for however grasping that person may be, and however long the chain may be made, when all the stones have been chosen, the heap will look almost as great and delightful as before: only a few of the largest and brightest jewels will be gone.

The fact that I have been able to take only a small handful from the vast hoard that constitutes the history of Devon will explain, I hope, the many omissions that must strike every reader who has any knowledge of the county—omissions of which no one can be more conscious than myself. A separate volume might very well be written about the bit of country touched on in each chapter.

This book does not pretend to include every district. I have merely passed through a great part of the county, stopping here at an old church with interesting monuments, there at a small town whose share in local history—in some instances, in the country's history—is apt to be forgotten, or at a manor-house[Pg viii] which should be remembered for its association with one of the many 'worthies' who, as Prince says—with the true impartiality of a West-countryman in regard to his own county—form 'an illustrious troop of heroes, as no other county in the kingdom, no other kingdom (in so small a tract) in Europe, in all respects, is able to match, much less excel.'

From the 'Tale of Two Swannes,' a view of the banks of the River Lea, published in 1590, I have ventured to borrow the verses that close an address 'To the Reader':

Contents

[Pg x]

Illustrations

[Pg 1]

Devon

CHAPTER I

Exeter

There are not many towns which stir the imagination as much as Exeter. To all West-Countrymen she is a Mother City ... and there is not one among them, however long absent from the West, who does not feel, when he sets foot in Exeter, that he is at home again, in touch with people of his own blood and kindred.... In Exeter all the history of the West is bound up—its love of liberty, its independence, its passionate resistance to foreign conquerors, its devotion to lost causes, its loyalty to the throne, its pride, its trade, its maritime adventure—all these many strands are twined together in that bond which links West-Countrymen to Exeter.' Mr Norway is a West-Countryman, and he sums up very justly the sentiment, more or less consciously realized, of the people for whom he speaks, and especially the feeling of the citizens.

Not only the Cathedral, the Castle, and Guildhall, bear legends for those who know how to read them, but here and again through all the streets an ancient house, a name, or a tower, will bring back the memory of one of the stirring events that have happened. One royal pageant after another has clattered and glittered through the streets, and the old carved gabled houses in the side-lanes must many a time have shaken to the heavy tramp of armed men, gathered to defend the city or to march out against the enemy.

'Exeter,' says Professor Freeman, 'stands distinguished as the one great English city which has, in a more marked way than[Pg 2] any other, kept its unbroken being and its unbroken position throughout all ages. It is the one city in which we can feel sure that human habitation and city life have never ceased from the days of the early Cæsars to our own.... The city on the Exe, Caerwisc, or Isca Damnoniorum, has had a history which comes nearer than that of any other city of Britain to the history of the ancient local capitals of the kindred land of Gaul.... To this day, both in feeling and in truth, Exeter is something more than an ordinary county town.'

Exeter from Exwick

The city is very picturesquely placed, and before ruthless 'improvements' swept away the old gates and many ancient buildings, the general effect must have been particularly delightful. 'This City is pleasantly seated upon a Hill among Hills, saving towards the sea, where 'tis pendant in such sort as that the streets (be they never so foul) yet with one shower of rain are again cleansed ...,' wrote Izacke, in his Antiquities of Exeter. 'Very beautiful is the same in building;' and he ends with some vagueness, 'for considerable Matters matchable to most Cities in England.' The earliest history can only be guessed at from what is known of the history of other places, and from the inferences to be drawn from a few scanty relics; but there is evidence that Exeter existed as a British settlement before the Romans found their way so far West. It is not known when they took the city, nor when they abandoned it, nor is there any date to mark the West Saxon occupation. Professor Freeman, however, points out a very interesting characteristic proving that the conquest cannot have taken place until after the Saxons had ceased to be heathens. 'It is the one great city of the Roman and the Briton which did not pass into English hands till the strife of races had ceased to be a strife of creeds, till English conquest had come to mean simply conquest, and no longer meant havoc and extermination. It is the one city of the present England in which we can see within recorded times the Briton and Englishman living side by side.' In the days of Athelstan, 'Exeter was not purely English; it was a city of two nations and two tongues.... This shows that ... its British inhabitants obtained very favourable terms from the conquerors,[Pg 3] and that, again, is much the same as saying that it was not taken till after the West Saxons had become Christians.'

The earliest reliable records of the city begin about 876, when the Danes overwhelmed the city and were put to flight by King Alfred. A few years later they again besieged Exeter, but this time it held out against them until the King, for the second time, came to the rescue, and the enemy retreated. Alfred, careful of the city and its means of defence, built a stronghold—very possibly in the interval between these two invasions—upon the high ground that the Briton had chosen for his fastness, and on which the Castle rose in after-days. Rather more than a hundred years later Athelstan strengthened the city by repairing the Roman walls. But it is with an event of greater importance that Athelstan's name is usually associated, for it was he who made the city a purely English one by driving out all the Britons into the country beyond the Tamar. It is probable that there was already a monastery in Exeter in the seventh century, and that it was broken up during the storms that raged later. In any case, Athelstan founded or refounded a monastery, and in 968 Edgar, who had married the beautiful daughter of Ordgar, Earl of Devon, settled a colony of monks in Exeter. About thirty years afterwards the Danes, under Pallig, sailed up the Exe and laid siege to the town, but were repulsed with great courage by the citizens. Beaten off the city, they fell upon the country round, and a frightful battle was fought at Pinhoe. A curious memorial of it survives to this day. During the furious struggle the Saxons' ammunition began to run low, and the priest of Pinhoe rode back to Exeter for a fresh supply of arrows. In recognition of his service, the perpetual pension of a mark (13s. 4d.) was granted him, and this sum the Vicar of the parish still receives. Two years later the Danes made a successful assault upon the city, and seized much plunder, but made no stay.

Edward the Confessor visited Exeter, and assisted at the installation of Leofric as first Bishop of Exeter, when the see was transferred from Crediton. The Queen also played a prominent part in the ceremony, for Exeter and the royal revenues within it made part of her 'morning gift.' Leofric instituted several re[Pg 4]forms, added to the wealth of his cathedral, and left it a legacy of lands and books. The most interesting of the manuscripts is the celebrated Exeter Book, a large collection of Anglo-Saxon poems on very different subjects. To give some idea of their variety, it may be mentioned that, amongst other poems of an entirely distinct character, there are religious pieces, many riddles, the legends of two saints, the Scald's or Ancient Minstrel's tale of his travels, and a poem on the 'Various Fortunes of Men.'

Seventeen years after King Edward's visit, William the Conqueror's messengers came before the chief men of Exeter demanding their submission. But the citizens sent back the lofty answer that 'they would acknowledge William as Emperor of Britain; they would not receive him as their immediate King. They would pay him the tribute which they had been used to pay to Kings of the English, but that should be all. They would swear no oaths to him; they would not receive him within their walls.' William naturally would not listen to conditions, and arrived to direct the siege in person. For eighteen days the repeated attacks of the Normans were sturdily resisted; then the enemy dug a mine, which caused the walls to crumble, and surrender was inevitable. 'The Red Mount of Exeter had been the stronghold of Briton, Roman, and Englishman;' under the hands of the Norman here rose the Castle of Rougemont, of which a tower, a gateway, and part of the walls, stand to this day. In proportion to the size and strength of that castle, however, the remains are inconsiderable, but it fell into decay very long ago, and as early as 1681 Izacke writes of 'the Fragments of the ancient Buildings ruinated, whereon time ... hath too much Tyrannized.'

In the year after King Stephen began to reign, Baldwin de Redvers, Earl of Devon and keeper of the Castle, declared for the Empress Maud, and held the Castle for three months against the citizens, headed by two hundred knights who had been sent by the King. At the end of this time the wells ran dry, so that the besieged were driven to use wine for their cookery, and even to throw over their 'engines,' set on fire by the enemy.

Henry II granted to the citizens of Exeter the first of their many[Pg 5] charters of privileges, and in the reigns of King John and Henry III the municipal system was very much developed, and the city first had a Mayor. Under Edward I a beginning was made towards the almost entire reconstruction of the Cathedral. Bishop Warelwast, the nephew of William I, had raised the transeptal towers—a feature that no other English cathedral possesses—and since his time the Lady Chapel had been added, but the design of the Cathedral as a whole was evolved by Bishop Quivil. He planned what was practically a new church, and his intentions were faithfully carried out. Before his day the towers were merely 'external castles,' but Bishop Quivil broke down their inner walls, and filled the space with lofty arches, and the towers became transepts. Bishop Stapledon spent huge sums in collecting materials, but before much progress with the work had been made he was murdered by a London mob, in the troubled reign of Edward II; and the actual existence of much of the building is due to Bishop Grandisson, who, sparing himself in no matter, lavished treasure and devotion on his Cathedral. Writing to Pope John XXII, the Bishop said 'that if the church should be worthily completed, it would be admired for its beauty above every other of its kind within the realms of England or France.'

Exeter Cathedral

One of the most beautiful features of the Cathedral is the unbroken length of roof at the same height through nave and choir, the effect intensified by the exquisite richness and grace of the vaulting. And the spreading fans gain an added grace, springing as they do from that 'distinctive group of shafts' which, says Canon Edmonds, 'makes the Exeter pillar the very type of the union of beauty and strength.' In the central bay of the nave, on the north side, is the Minstrels' Gallery, one of the few to be found in England. It is delicately and elaborately sculptured, and each of the twelve angels in the niches holds a musical instrument—a flageolet, a trumpet and two wind instruments, a tambour, a violin, an organ, a harp, bagpipes, the cymbals, and guitars.

The choir is unusually long, and from the north and south aisles open chapels and chantries, in some of which the carving[Pg 6] is very rich and fine. The Bishop's throne is elaborately carved, and more than sixty feet high, and yet there is not one nail in it. During the Commonwealth a brick wall was built across the west end of the choir, completely dividing the Cathedral. This was done to satisfy the Presbyterians and Independents, each of whom wished to hold their services here, and the two churches formed by this division were called Peter the East and Peter the West. The screen in the west front was added after the Cathedral was finished; it is covered with statues in niches, figures of 'kings, warriors, saints, and apostles, guardians as it were of the entrance to the sanctuary.' High above them, in the gable niche, is the statue of St Peter, to whom the Cathedral is dedicated.

King Edward and Queen Eleanor kept Christmas at Exeter in 1285, and here the King held the Parliament which passed the Statute of Coroners that is still law. During this visit the King gave leave to the Bishop and Chapter to surround the close with a wall and gates, for at this time it was used to heap rubbish upon, and 'the rendezvous of all the bad characters of the place.' Edward III granted his eldest son the Duchy of Cornwall—a grant that carried with it the Castle of Exeter, and to the King's eldest son it has always since belonged.

Henry VI in 1482 visited the city in peace and splendour. Margaret, his Queen, came about eighteen years later, while Warwick's plans were ripening, and the event is marked in the Receiver's accounts by the entry: 'Two bottles of wine given to John Fortescue, before the coming of Margaret, formerly Queen.' Not long afterwards Warwick and the Duke of Clarence fled to Exeter, which had to stand a siege on their behalf; but the effort to take the city was half-hearted, and in twelve days the attempt was abandoned. Edward IV arrived in pursuit, but too late, for 'the byrdes were flown and gone away,' and a quaint farce was solemnly played out. The city had just shown openly that its real sympathies were Lancastrian, but neither King nor citizens could afford to quarrel. 'Both sides put the best face on matters; the city was loyal; the King was gracious ... the citizens gave him a full purse, and he gave them a sword, and all parted friends.'[Pg 7]

Richard III's visit was more eventful. The allegiance yielded him by the West was of the flimsiest character, and in the autumn of 1483 a conspiracy was formed, and Henry, Earl of Richmond, was proclaimed King in Exeter. Here Richard hastened at the head of a strong force, to find that nearly all the leaders had fled, and there remained only his brother-in-law, Sir John St Leger, and Sir John's Esquire, Thomas Rame. So the King 'provided for himself a characteristic entertainment,' and both knight and squire were beheaded opposite the Guildhall. Before he left, Richard went to look at the Castle, and asked its name. The Mayor answered, 'Rougemont'—a word misunderstood by the King, who became 'suddenly fallen into a great dump, and as it were a man amazed.' Shakespeare's lines give the explanation of his discomfiture. 'It seems,' comments Fuller, 'Sathan either spoke this oracle low or lisping.'

The next siege of Exeter was when the followers of Perkin Warbeck surged in thousands round the city. Their assault was vigorous and determined; they tried to undermine the walls, burned the north gate, and, repulsed at this point, broke through the defences at the east gate. After a sharp struggle in the streets, the rebels were thrust back, and were forced to march northwards, leaving Exeter triumphant. Three weeks later Henry VII entered Exeter with Warbeck, as his prisoner. The King was very gracious to the city that had just given such eminent proofs of its loyalty, and bestowed on the citizens a second sword of honour and a cap of maintenance, and ordered that a sword-bearer should be appointed to carry the sword before the Mayor in civic procession.

Henry VIII gave Exeter 'the highest privilege,' says Professor Freeman, 'that can be given to an English city or borough.' He made it a county, 'with all the rights of a county under its own Sheriff.' An Act of Parliament was also passed to undo the harm done by Isabel de Fortibus, representative of the Earls of Devon, when she made a weir about the year 1280—still called Countess Weir—that blocked the free waterway to the sea. As the tide naturally comes up the river a little way beyond Exeter, before[Pg 8] the weir was made ships had been able to sail up to the watergate of the city. The first attempts to improve matters after this Act was passed failed, but a canal was constructed with tolerable success in the reign of Elizabeth.

In 1549 came the siege of Exeter that followed the burning of Crediton barns. The Devonshire rebels had been reinforced by a large number of Cornishmen, who resented the new Prayer-Book, and the law obliging them to hear the services in English instead of Latin, more bitterly and with greater reason than the people of Sampford Courtenay. For to them it was more than unwelcome change in the Liturgy; it meant also that their services were read in an alien tongue. 'We,' the Cornish, 'whereof certain of us understand no English, utterly refuse the new English,' was their protest. It is curious to think that more than half a century later English was a foreign language in Cornwall. In James I's reign, 'John Norden ... constructing his Speculum, his topographical description of this kingdom,' writes: 'Of late the Cornishmen have muche conformed themselves to the use of the English tongue;' and adds that all but 'some obscure people' are able to 'convers with a straunger' in English. The bitterness aroused by the religious question was intensified by a report which was 'blazed abroad,' as Hooker says, 'a Gnat making an Elephant, that the gentlemen were altogether bent to over-run, spoil, or destroy the people.' No one could have acted with greater loyalty and courage than the Mayor, John Blackaller, and his powers were put to a hard trial before the end of the siege. Not only was there an active and vigorous enemy without, but within the walls the majority secretly, and some persons openly, sided with the enemy. The most unceasing vigilance and unfaltering resolution were needed to frustrate all plots and plans. One great danger was averted by a certain John Newcomb, an ex-miner, who, suspicious of a possible peril, watched diligently for its slightest sign. One day an anxious crowd looked at him 'crawling about on the ground with a pan of water in his hand. Every now and again he would listen attentively, with his ear in the dust, and, rising, place the pan on the spot. At last he has[Pg 9] it. Like the beating of a pulse, the still water in the pan vibrates in harmony with the stroke of the pickaxe far underneath, and the old miner rises exultant.' A counter-mine was hurriedly made, and through a tiny opening it was seen that barrels of gunpowder and pitch and piles of faggots were heaped beneath the west gate. Fortunately, this gate stood below the steep slope on which the city lies, and on discovering the enemy's alarming preparations, every householder was ordered, at a given signal, to empty a great tub of water into the kennel, and every tap in the city was turned on. 'At which time also, by the Goodness of God, there fell a great Shower, as the like, for the Time, had not been seen many years before.' A tremendous torrent rushed down the streets, and, being concentrated upon the mine, completely flooded it.

There is no place here to speak of the straits to which the citizens were put before a sufficient number of troops reached Lord Russell to enable him to march to the relief of the besieged. Nor is there room for an account of the splendid resistance made by the rebels to the great force pitted against them, which included a regiment of seasoned German Lanzknechts and three hundred Italian musketeers, besides English cavalry. 'Valiantly and stoutly they stood to their Tackle, and would not give over as long as Life and Limb lasted ... and few or none were left alive.... Such was the Valour and stoutness of these men that the Lord Greie reported himself, that he never, in all the Wars that he had been in, did know the like.'

In recognition of the loyalty shown by the citizens under this great trial, Queen Elizabeth 'complimented the city with an augmentation of arms,' and 'of her own free will added the well-known motto, Semper Fidelis.' Encouraged by the Queen's protection, commerce increased and prospered. Guilds had long flourished in Exeter, and it is recorded that as early as 1477 there was a quarrel between the Mayor and citizens and the Company of Taylors. A Guildhall existed even before there was a Mayor of Exeter, but the present building dates from 1464. It has a fine common hall, with a lofty, vaulted roof and much panelling, and the panels are set with little shields, the arms of the Mayors, of[Pg 10] various companies, and certain benefactors to the city. Later was added the cinque-cento front that projects over the footway, and has become so essential a characteristic in the eyes of those who care for Exeter. This front was built in 1593, and 'in its confusion of styles—English windows between Italian columns—it has all the impress of that transitional age.'

Many of the trades that throve in Exeter formed guilds, and in looking casually at the names of a few of them, one finds that the bakers had already a Master and Company in 1428-29, and that some years later the charter of the Glovers and Skinners was renewed. In 1452 there was a dispute as to whether the Cordwainers or Tuckers should take precedence in the Mayor's procession, and later again the Guild of Weavers, Sheremen, and Tuckers came still more prominently before the public.

'Trafiquing' in wool and woollen goods was the most important trade, and though its zenith was passed in the seventeenth century, it continued to do well till the later half of the eighteenth. Defoe speaks of the 'serge manufacture of Devonshire' as 'a trade too great to be described in miniature,' and says he is told that at the weekly market 'sixty to seventy to eighty, and sometimes a hundred, thousand pounds' value in serges is sometimes sold.' Probably the account given him was a little exaggerated, but Lysons quotes the statement that in the most prosperous days £50,000 or £60,000 worth of woollen goods had been sold in a week. Many were the petitions sent up to Parliament in the reign of William and Mary, begging protection for the local wool-trade, and that competition from unhappy Ireland might be discouraged. The great hall of the New Inn was used as an exchange, and here were held yearly three great cloth-fairs, where merchants from London and from all parts gathered, and stalls and shops in the inn were let to 'foreigners.' The Tuckers' Hall, built of ruddy stone, still stands in Fore Street, and the hall has a fine cradle roof with plaster panels.

The most powerful of all the companies was incorporated later than many of the guilds, for the Merchant Adventurers received their charter from Queen Elizabeth. Their power and wealth was[Pg 11] very considerable; they cast their lines in all directions, and they secured a monopoly of trading with France. This company supplied with money, and had a stake in, some of Sir Humphrey Gilbert's and Captain Davis's enterprises, and Sir Francis Drake himself invited the 'gentilmen merchauntes' and others of the city to 'adventure with him in a voiage supportinge some speciall service ... for the defence of 'religion, Quene and countrye.'' About Charles I's reign the importance of the company gradually declined, and the society was eventually dissolved.

During the Civil War, Exeter was twice besieged, but on neither occasion so rigorously as in 1549. When the war broke out, the Earl of Bedford appointed the Mayor, the Sheriff, and five Aldermen, Commissioners for the Parliament. The defences were put in order and arms collected, and amongst other expenses is recorded '£300 for 17 packs of wool taken from Mr Robin's Cellars for the Barricadoes.' Nevertheless, zeal for the Parliament must have been but lukewarm, for when Prince Maurice's troops surrounded the city, it was surrendered at the end of fourteen days, and after the besieged had suffered no further inconvenience than 'the being kept from taking the air without their own walls.' The next year Queen Henrietta Maria came to a city which was considered a safer refuge than Oxford, and here Princess Henrietta was born, and was baptized in the Cathedral with great pomp, 'a new font having been erected for the purpose, surmounted by a rich canopy of state.' Charles II always showed the warmest affection for his sister, famed, as Duchess of Orleans, for her beauty and charm, and a portrait of the Princess given by the King to the city hangs in the Guildhall. It is a full-length portrait, and she is represented standing, one hand lightly gathering together the folds of her white satin dress.

During the autumn and winter of 1645-46 Exeter was gradually hemmed in by bodies of Parliamentary troops stationed at posts in the neighbourhood, and with the new year the siege became a closer one. It would seem, however, that there was no very acute distress from lack of food; but Fuller, who was in the city at the time, mentions with satisfaction the appearance[Pg 12] of 'an incredible number of Larks ... for multitude like Quails in the Wildernesse, and as fat as plentifull ... which provided a feast for many poor people, who otherwise had been pinched for provision.' As the spring advanced, the King's cause lapsed into a condition too hopeless to be bettered by further resistance, and on April 9 Sir John Berkeley, for over two years the faithful guardian of the city, signed the articles of its surrender, on honourable terms, to Sir Thomas Fairfax.

There is no space to speak of later dramatic incidents in Exeter—the trial and execution of Mr Penruddocke and Mr Grove, leaders of a Royalist rising of Wiltshire gentlemen, whose speeches on the scaffold are given at length by Izacke; nor of the joy that greeted the Restoration, when 'Tar-barrels and Bonefires capered aloft'; nor of Charles II's visit, nor the entrance of the Duke of Monmouth in 1680 with five thousand horsemen, and nine hundred young men in white uniforms marching before him. One may not even pause before the gorgeous spectacle of William III's arrival, heralded by a procession in which appeared two hundred negroes in white-plumed, embroidered turbans, and a squadron of Swedish horsemen 'in bearskins taken from the beasts they had slain, with black armour and broad flaming swords.'

It has been only possible to name the most outstanding points in the history of a city—once more to quote Professor Freeman—'by the side of which most of the capitals of Europe are things of yesterday.... The city alike of Briton, Roman, and Englishman, the one great prize of the Christian Saxon, the city where Jupiter gave way to Christ, but where Christ never gave way to Woden—British Caerwisc, Roman Isca, West Saxon Exeter, may well stand first on our roll-call of English cities. Others can boast of a fuller share of modern greatness; none other can trace up a life so unbroken to so remote a past.'

[Pg 13]

The Exe: Tiverton

CHAPTER II

The Exe

The river Exe rises in a bog on Exmoor, beyond the borders of Somersetshire. 'Be now therefore pleased as you stand upon Great Vinnicombe top ... to cast your eye westward, and you may see the first spring of the river Exe, which welleth forth in a valley between Pinckerry and Woodborough,' says Westcote.

But our author has no feeling for the rolling hills, and noble lines, and hazy blue distances of Exmoor, and without one word of praise continues: 'Let us for your more ease, and the sooner to be quit of this barren soil, cold air, uneven ways, and untrodden paths, swim with the stream the better to hasten our speed.'

The first little town that the Exe comes to in Devonshire is Bampton, nowadays best known, perhaps, for its pony-fairs, when (so runs one account) 'Exmoor ponies throng the streets, flood the pavements, overflow the houses, pervade the place. Wild as hawks, active and lissom as goats, cajoled from the moors, and[Pg 14] tactfully manœuvred when penned, these indigenous quadrupeds will leap or escalade lofty barriers in a standing jump or a cat-like scramble.' Cattle and sheep are less conspicuously for sale at this popular and crowded fair, held on the last Thursday in October.

The first fact recorded of Bampton's history is of such ancient date that it may be hoped the vastness of the achievement has been rounded and filled out during the flight of time; for the historian, with unconscious irony, blandly remarks that here 'Cynegils, first Christian King of the West Saxons,' put twenty thousand (or maybe more) Britons to the sword. He does not mention how Cynegils continued his propagation of the Gospel.

The nave of the church at Bampton is built in the manner most common to this country—that is, early Perpendicular, but the chancel is Decorated. In many of the churches there is some portion of Decorated work. The screen and roof of the church are worth seeing, and in the churchyard are several unusually large and fine old yew-trees, one or two girdled by stone benches. Leaving Bampton, one passes along a green and fertile valley, the fields interrupted at intervals by copses, where thickets of undergrowth and multitudes of young saplings are struggling for the mastery—a picture of prodigal wealth in plants, bushes, and trees.

Seven miles to the south is Tiverton. Tiverton is a small town, but its story is interesting, and incidents cluster round the castle, church, the well-known school, and the former kersies and wool-market, and, besides, it is filled with memories of the melancholy experiences it has passed through—fires, floods, the plague, and at least one siege.

The borough was originally granted by Henry I to his cousin, Richard de Riparis (or de Redvers or Rivers), Earl of Devon, whose descendants possessed it for nearly two centuries, when, the direct line failing, the borough and title passed to a cousin, a Courtenay, in whose family the title still remains.

Richard de Redvers, 'the faithful and beloved counsellor' of Henry I, is supposed to have begun the Castle of Tiverton, and he attached to it 'two parks for pleasure and large and rich demesne for hospitality.' His grandson, William Rivers, was one of the[Pg 15] four Earls who carried the silken canopy at the second coronation of King Richard I, after his return from Palestine. William's daughter, Mary, married Robert Courtenay, Baron of Okehampton; and so it was that, when the House of Rivers became extinct in the male line, their possessions passed to the Courtenays, and Mary's great-grandson became first Earl of Devon of the line of the Courtenays.

It is not thought probable that the Castle as it stands contains work older than the fourteenth century. Part of the building of that date remains unaltered, and part has been transformed into a modern house. The old walls are in places covered with ivy, and on the southern side are pierced by one or two pointed windows whose stonework is more or less broken. A round tower at the southeastern angle still looks very solid and undisturbed. At a few yards' distance, on the south of the Castle, stand the ruins of the chapel; the walls of three sides are still standing, although imperfect and partly fallen down, and almost smothered in ivy. Originally this square tower at the south-west angle was joined to the Castle, and two more round towers stood at the northern angles. Near the chapel is a low wall, and looking over it one sees a very steep slope to the river, sixty feet beneath. A wide and deep moat surrounded the Castle on the other sides.

It is said that Tiverton suffered both in the Civil War of 1150 and also in the Wars of the Roses, and though there is little evidence to support this assertion, there can be no doubt that indirectly the town must have been disagreeably affected. For Baldwin de Redvers fortified his castle at Exeter, and it is very likely that retainers from Tiverton were sent to strengthen the garrison; and when the Earl was driven from the country by King Stephen, his servants and their families were probably distressed by want, if not by the sword.

During the Wars of the Roses, three successive Earls of Devon lost their lives, and many of their followers must have fallen too, leaving defenceless widows and children.

The Earls of Devon had many manors, but lived much in their Castle at Tiverton, and some were buried in the adjoining church[Pg 16] of St Peter. To the third Earl, known as 'the Good' or 'the Blind' Earl, and his wife a tomb was erected, 'having their effigies of alabaster, sometimes sumptuously gilded.' So writes Risdon, about the year 1630, and adds regretfully, 'Time hath not so much defaced, as men have mangled that magnificent monument.' It has now entirely disappeared. The epitaph it bore was this:

The church is a fine Perpendicular building, and has a high embattled tower, with slender crocketed pinnacles springing sixteen feet above the summit. The roof is battlemented, and the tracery in the windows is graceful. On either side of the chancel stands an altar-tomb—that on the north side being in memory of John Waldron, on the south of George Slee, both benefactors to the town in having founded almshouses. The sides of the tombs are boldly and curiously sculptured, being covered with raised devices, and a deeply lettered inscription is engraved in the top of each. A picture of St Peter being delivered by the angel from prison, painted by Richard Cosway, hangs over a north doorway. Cosway was born in Tiverton, and the letter that accompanied his gift expressed good feeling and his warm affection for his native town.

The most distinctive feature of the church is the very decorative 'Greenway' chapel. John Greenway was a rich wool-merchant of Tiverton, and on the walls of the chapel was inscribed this couplet:

It is interesting to note, of the three saints to whom the chapel was dedicated, that St Christopher was the patron of mariners and one of the 'sea-saints,' St Blaze the special patron of wool-[Pg 17]combers; while St Anne particularly presides over riches. An old distich runs:

So that the help of all three was peculiarly necessary to make John Greenway a prosperous man!

The chapel is late Perpendicular, and it is most elaborately carved and decorated. The roof is covered with different kinds of ornamentation, and the cornice bears the arms of Greenway, of the Drapers' Company, and other devices. Along the corbel line are carved scenes from the Bible, beneath is a sea of gentle ripples, with several large ships in full sail upon it, and above and beside the windows is a multitude of different designs—merchants' marks, animals, roses, anchors, horses and men; and a very delightful ape sits on a projecting pedestal, close to the porch. The porch is extremely elaborate, both within and without. On the frieze are six panels, each carved with a different Scriptural subject, separated from one another by single figures. Over the porch are the arms of the Courtenays, and above them an emblem and more carving, besides two large niches, now empty, at each side of the door. Inside the porch, over the door leading into the church, is a carving of the Assumption, and the roof is richly carved with merchants' marks and other ciphers and designs on little shields. The roof inside the chapel is also carved; and in the floor is a brass engraved with the figures of the merchant and his wife—he in a long fur-edged robe, and she wearing embroidered draperies and jewels, and a pomander ball hanging on one of the long ends of her girdle.

It is interesting to hear that in this church Mendelssohn's Wedding March was first played at a wedding. The 'Midsummer Night's Dream' music had just been published as a pianoforte duet, when Mr Samuel Reay, of Tiverton, made an arrangement of it for the organ, and the first marriage at which the march was played was that of Mr Tom Daniel and Miss Dorothea Carew, in June, 1847.

Tiverton was famed in early days for its trade in wool. It is[Pg 18] supposed that woollen goods were first manufactured here towards the end of the fourteenth century, and at the beginning of the sixteenth several merchants of the town were making ventures far and wide. Baizes, plain cloths, and kerseys were the most important of the manufactures, and there was some commerce in these with Spain. Traffic in woollen goods was now very brisk in different parts of the country, and during the reign of Henry VIII special statutes were enacted 'affecting cloths called white straits of Devon, and Devonshire kerseys called dozens.' In Elizabeth's reign trade prospered here as elsewhere; but later friction arose on the question of imports. The manufacturers on more than one occasion tried to introduce Irish worsted to weave into cloth, and this was met by the most violent opposition from the wool-combers, who believed that it would take away their work, although it was explained that their work depended on making serge for Dutch markets, for which the Irish worsted could not be used. The wool-combers had at different times various causes for complaint, and these they vented in riots so serious that (about 1749) the authorities asked for the protection of some troops, who were accordingly sent to Tiverton, and, on a fresh uproar not long after their arrival, were called out to quell the mob. Towards the latter half of the eighteenth century the woollen trade languished; but in the first quarter of the nineteenth century a new business sprang up—that of producing machine-made lace and tulle.

Tiverton's merchants marked their prosperity in an admirable manner, for over ninety gifts in land, money, and almshouses have been made. The gifts and bequests were usually intended to benefit the poor, but in a few cases they were for the general good. In addition there remains the memory of about twenty 'benefactions,' many of which were 'absorbed in the tumult of the Civil War or generally dissipated by neglect or mismanagement.' Greenway founded almshouses, as well as the aisle in the church, and although these dwellings have been altered to some extent, the tiny chapel still attached to them is very picturesque. A cornice contains twelve circles, within each a pierced quatrefoil, and in the centre of every quatrefoil a shield,[Pg 19] bearing a coat of arms, a merchant's mark, or other design. The cornice is supported by several rather grotesque animals, and below, in stone letters, this legend:

A wide moulded arch forms the doorway, and above are coats of arms and an eagle rising from a bundle of sticks, an emblem attached to the Courtenay arms that appears in several parts of St Peter's Church.

On Waldron's almshouses is this curious inscription:

On one wall is a pack of wool bearing Waldron's staplemark and a ship, and below them the words, 'Remember the poor.'

The greatest gift by far was that of Peter Blundell, who built and endowed the well-known school that is called after him, and founded six scholarships at Oxford and Cambridge as a further benefit to the scholars of Blundell's. His will dictates most particular instructions regarding the salaries of the master and usher, and as to the actual building, even directing that there should be 'in the kitchen one fair great chimney with an oven.'

In 1882 the school was transferred to Howden, but the building that Peter Blundell planned, beneath the steep hill close to the Lowman, is long and rather low, the colour a warm, soft yellow, still more softened by stray indefinite tints of cream and buff. The slate roof is high-pitched, the windows are square and mullioned, and there are two porches, each with a window directly above the hooded doorway, and crowned by a gable. The school-house stands back in a yard of plots of grass and pebbled paths, and shaded by great old lime-trees surrounded by a high wall.[Pg 20]

Samuel Wesley was at one time head-master here, and was not universally popular, for his scathing wit blighted the esteem earned by his high gifts and principles.

Many of Blundell's scholars have done good work in the world, but perhaps the most famous of them are the late Archbishop of Canterbury (Dr. Temple) and R. D. Blackmore, the novelist, who were here in the 'thirties, contemporaries and friends, both 'day-boys' and lodging in the same house in Cop's Court. Twenty years before the Archbishop came to Blundell's, that celebrated sportsman 'Jack' Russell was here, embarked on a stormy career, perpetually in scrapes due to his passion for sport, which even led him to the point of trying to keep hounds while he was actually at school. Contemporaries of Blackmore's were two distinguished soldiers and writers on military subjects, Sir Charles Chesney and his brother Sir George, the author of that account of an imaginary German invasion which created so much excitement when, under the name of 'The Battle of Dorking,' it appeared in 1871 in Blackwood's Magazine.

Fire has caused terrible loss and disaster here, for as many as seven big conflagrations have taken place in Tiverton, and in one alone six hundred houses were destroyed, besides £200,000 worth of goods and merchandise. In addition, at least eight smaller, but still considerable, fires took place at comparatively short intervals, so that between the years 1598 and 1788 the townsfolk suffered from this cause no fewer than fifteen times.

A curious account exists of the fire in 1598—'when,' says the chronicler, 'he which at one a clocke was worth Five Thousand Pound, and as the Prophet saith [a footnote suggests the prophet Amos, vi. 5, 6] dranke his Wine in bowles of fine silver plate, had not by two a Clocke so much as a wooden dish left to eate his Meate in, nor a house to couer his sorrowfull head, neyther did thys happen to one man alone, but to many.... In a twinkling of an eye came that great griefe uppon them, which turn'd their wealth to miserable want, and their riches to unlooktfor pouertie: and how was that? Mary, Sir, by Fyer.

'But no fier from heaven, no unquenchable fier such as worthily[Pg 21] fell on the sinfull Citie of Sodom and Gomorra; but a sillie flash of fier, blazing forth of a frying pan ... and here was dwelling in a little lowe thatcht house, a poore beggarly woman: who, with a companion, began to bake pancakes with strawe'—here he becomes sarcastic—'for their abilitie and prouission was so good that there was no wood in the house to doe it.... Sodenly, the fier got into the Pan.' Straw lying close by was ablaze in a moment, then the roof, then, alas! by means of an 'extreame high wind,' a hay-house standing near, and 'in less than halfe an hower the whole Toune was set on fier.'

A terrible picture is drawn of the rapidity and voracity of the flames—people crying for help in every direction, 'insomuch that the people were so amazed that they knew not which way to turne, nor where the most neede was'—and of the number of people who were burned and the desolation of the town.

As to those saved, 'the residue of the woefull people remaining yet aliue, being overburdened with extream sorrow, runs up and down the fieldes like distraught or franticke men.... Moreouer, they are so greatly distrest for lacke of food, that they seeme to each mannes sighte more liker spirits and Ghostes, than living creatures.'

The account concludes with a moral pointed in many figures of speech, to the effect that this great trouble was a judgment on the rich, who did not sufficiently consider their poor neighbours, and various cities are exhorted to take warning thereby. 'O famous London ... Thou which art the chief Lady Cittie of this Land, whose fame soundeth through al Christian Kingdoms, cast thy deere eyes on this ruinous Towne.... Consider this thou faire citie of Exeter, thou which art next neighbour to this distressed Town ... pitie her heauie happe, that knowes not what miserie hanges ouer thy owne head.'

An appeal to the public was made on behalf of these sufferers, and Queen Elizabeth responded with a grant of £5,000.

In the fire of 1612 the destruction was even greater. 'No noyse thundered about the streets, but fire, fire, in every place were heard the voyces of fire.... All the night long the towne seemed like unto a burning mountaine, shooting forth fiery comets, with[Pg 22] streaming blazes, or like unto the Canopie of the World, beset with thousands of night candles or bright burning Torches.'

When the Civil War broke out, Tiverton, though not unanimous, mainly sided with the Parliament. After the Battle of Stratton, however, the triumphant Royalists suddenly descended on the town, turned out Colonel Weare, who was in command of the Parliamentary forces, and took possession. Many skirmishes must have taken place either in or about the town, for large bodies of the troops belonging to King or Parliament moved backwards and forwards in the immediate neighbourhood during the course of the war.

Culpeper, the herbalist, to illustrate the powers of the plant moonwort, tells of a wonderful incident that occurred to Lord Essex's horse, presumably when his army was here in 1644. Moonwort has (or perhaps had) a miraculous effect on iron, with power to open locks or unshoe horses. 'Country people that I know, call it Unshoe the Horse. Besides I have heard commanders say, that in White Down in Devonshire, near Tiverton, there were found thirty horseshoes, pulled off from the feet of the Earl of Essex's horses, being there drawn up in a body, many of them being but newly shod, and no reason known, which caused much admiration, and the herb described usually grows upon heaths.' Probably almost all the neighbourhood thought witchcraft a better explanation.

It is very difficult entirely to disentangle accounts that seem to contradict each other, but apparently Essex moved away from Tiverton after a short stay, and certainly the King sent his army to Tiverton the same autumn to halt there for a while on its way from Plymouth to Chard. And as this army was returning, reduced and exhausted, from fighting and long, hard marches in Cornwall, it could not have been sent to a town in possession of the enemy. The next year Fairfax sent General Massie to take Tiverton. The Governor, Sir Gilbert Talbot, was in a far from happy position, for afterwards he wrote: 'My horse were mutinous, and I had but two hundred foot in garrison, and some of my chief officers unfaithful.' In spite of his disadvantages, he was able to repulse[Pg 23] the enemy in their first attack on church and castle, though unable to prevent their gaining possession of the town. Two days later Fairfax himself arrived, and batteries, furnished with 'several great Peeces,' were erected against the church and castle. The actual fighting lasted only a short time, for a shot broke the chain of the drawbridge, and it fell; the Parliamentary soldiers rushed across it without even waiting for the command, and the Royalists lost their heads and their courage and fled.

A copy of a letter that General Massie wrote from Tiverton to a Cheshire gentleman still exists, and in it he refers to a pamphlet, sent with the letter, even the title-page of which throws light on Puritan methods of influencing popular opinion against the Cavaliers. This startling page runs as follows:

Leaving Tiverton and following the Exe downstream, the wayfarer may ponder two proverbs referring to Tiverton, neither of them especially flattering. It used to be, and no doubt is still, considered lucky to start off running directly the cuckoo is heard for the first time in the year, and thirty or forty years ago, if a girl obeyed this tradition, anyone near her would laugh and say: 'Run, run! and don't let no Tiverton man catch you!' The other saying is cryptic: 'He must go to Tiverton and ask Mr Able.' An interpretation suggested is that this was originally said to a questioner who asked for unattainable information, and that 'Mr Able' meant anyone able to furnish it. It is not[Pg 24] exactly a satisfactory solution, and as to the reference to Tiverton, though it may be complimentary, one doubts whether it does not carry more than a suspicion of sarcasm.

Four miles to the south of Tiverton is a pleasant well-wooded valley, in which stands Bickleigh. This village was the birthplace of a rascal, who was such a brilliant and talented rascal that his adventures are very interesting. Witty, courageous, and full of resource, he had, besides, two strong points in his favour. In spite of a very rough and wandering life, his warm affection for his wife never failed, and—all dogs adored him! Bampfylde Moore Carew belonged to a very old family in the West, and his father was rector of Bickleigh. A happy-go-lucky career was foreshadowed at the very outset, for his two 'illustrious godfathers,' Mr Hugh Bampfylde and Major Moore, disputed as to whose name should stand first, and, as they could not agree, the matter was decided by spinning a coin. A few of the most interesting events in his career may be quoted from a little biography first published anonymously in 1745, thirteen years before his death. Carew was sent to Blundell's, where for a while he did well, although his tastes led him to be out with 'a cry' of hounds that the scholars of Blundell's kept among them, whenever it was possible. On one occasion some farmers complained to the head-master of the damage that had been done in hunting a deer over standing corn, and the boy, to escape punishment, ran away from school and joined some gipsies. Carew took very kindly to the life, but repeated accounts of his parents' unhappiness brought him home after a year and a half's wanderings. Though overwhelmed with 'marks of festive joy,' the call 'of the wind on the heath,' was too strong to be resisted, and in a short time he slipped away again and went back to his chosen people. He must have been a very finished actor, with a genius for 'make-up,' to have imposed on half the people that he befooled. Amongst his first rôles were those of a shipwrecked mariner; a poor Mad Tom, trying to eat live coals; and a Kentish farmer, whose drowned farm in the Isle of Sheppey could no longer support his wife and 'seven helpless infants.' Carew's restless disposition took him to[Pg 25] Newfoundland, and on his return he successfully played the parts of a nonjuring clergyman, dispossessed of his living for conscience' sake; a Quaker—here is a good example of his wonderful gift—in an assembly of Quakers; a ruined miller; a rat-catcher; and, having borrowed three children from a tinker, a grandmother. Carew once wheedled a gentleman, who boasted that he could not be taken in by beggars, into giving him liberal alms twice in one day—in the morning as an unfortunate blacksmith, whose all had been destroyed by fire; whilst in the afternoon, on crutches, his face 'pale and sickly, his gestures very expressive of pain,' he pleaded as a disabled tinner, who, from 'the damps and hardships he had suffered in the mines,' could not work to keep his family.

At the death of Clause Patch, the King of the Gipsies, Carew was elected King in his stead. Before he died, the aged King, feeling his end approaching, bestowed a few last words of advice on his followers, well worth quoting.

Of begging in the street and interrupting people who are talking, he said: 'If they are tradesmen, their conversation will soon end, and may be well paid for by a halfpenny; if an inferior clings to the skirt of a superior, he will give twopence rather than be pulled off; and when you are happy enough to meet a lover and his mistress, never part with them under sixpence, for you may be sure they will never part from one another.'

This is followed by shrewd advice as to the choice of an appeal: 'Whatever people seem to want, give it them largely in your address to them. Call the beau sweet Gentleman; bless even his coat or periwig; and tell him they are happy ladies where he's going. If you meet with a schoolboy captain, such as our streets are full of, call him noble general; and if the miser can be in any way got to strip himself of a farthing, it will be by the name of charitable Sir.... If you meet a sorrowful countenance with a red coat, be sure the wearer is a disbanded officer. Let a female always attack him, and tell him she is the widow of a poor marine, who had served twelve years, and then broke his heart because he was turned out without a penny. If you meet a homely but dressed-up lady, pray for her lovely face, and beg a penny.'[Pg 26]

After his election as King of the Gipsies, or King of the Beggars, as he is more often called, Carew was soon involved in fresh adventures. But one day grey ill-luck looked his way; he was arrested and sent for trial to Exeter. Courage and audacity never failed him, for when the Chairman of Quarter Sessions announced that the prisoner was to be transported to a country which he pronounced Merryland, Carew calmly criticised his pronunciation, and said he thought that Maryland would be more correct. To Maryland he was sent in charge of a brutal sea-captain, and on his arrival, burdened with a heavy iron collar riveted round his neck, was set to all sorts of drudgery. Before very long he contrived to escape into the forests, and after some danger from wild beasts he reached a tribe of friendly Indians, who received him with great kindness. Later he stole a canoe, and, returning to civilized regions, posed as a kidnapped Quaker, in which character he succeeded in gaining the compassion of Whitefield, the great preacher, who gave him 'three or four pounds of that county paper money.' By the help of several ingenious ruses he was able to get home again, and soon afterwards, aided by a turban, a long, loose robe, and flowing beard, appeared as a destitute Greek, whose 'mute silence, his dejected countenance, a sudden tear that now and then flowed down his cheek,' touched the hearts of the benevolent. In an unlucky moment he was impressed for the navy; next travelled in Russia, Poland, Sweden, and other countries, but, returning to England, was again seized, put in irons, and transported. With his usual indomitable spirit and resource, he escaped once more into the forests, and after dangers and hardships reached England. Finally, he ended his days in peace where he began them, and was buried at Bickleigh in 1758.

Five miles east of Tiverton is a village called Sampford Peverell, which in the early part of the nineteenth century suddenly sprang into notice through the strange proceedings of a mysterious spirit, known as the Sampford Ghost. This 'goblin sprite,' as one account calls it, declared itself in a manner well known to psychical researchers, by violent knockings, and by causing a sword, a heavy book, and an iron candlestick to fly about the room. Two maid-[Pg 27]servants received heavy blows while they were in bed, and there were other strange and distressing phenomena. These manifestations were continued for more than three years. Numberless visitors, drawn by curiosity from all parts of the country, came to investigate the matter, but no explanation could be found, and though there were suspicions that the whole affair was a very elaborate hoax, and a reward of £250 was offered for information that might throw light upon it, no single attempt was made to claim the money.

Sampford Peverell is a small place, and rather out of the way, but so long ago as in the reign of Edward I it is recorded that John de Hillersdon held the manor on a tenure that reflects the unquiet state of the country. He held it 'in fee, in serjeanty, by finding for our lord the King, in his army in Wales, and elsewhere in England, whensoever war should happen, one man with a horse caparisoned or armed for war at his proper costs for forty days to abide in the war aforesaid.' Hugh Peverell held the Manor of Sandford, near Crediton, on much the same terms, but had to provide 'one armed horseman and two footmen.'

Following down Sampford stream for about three miles, one arrives at the point where the stream reaches an opening into the Culm Valley, and empties itself in the Culm. A very short distance beyond is the little town of Cullompton, of which the most interesting feature is a fine Perpendicular church. An old writer insists that here was formerly 'the figure of Columbus, to which many pilgrims resorted, and which brought considerable sums to the priests'; but of this statement I can find neither confirmation nor denial. The tower of the church is high and decorated. Within, the roof, richly carved and gilded, rests on a carved wall-plate, supported by angel corbels, and most exquisite is the carving of the rood-screen, which has also been gilded and coloured. A very rare possession of this church is 'a portion of a Calvary, and above is an ornamental rood-beam, supported by angels; the Golgotha, carved out of the butts of two trees, is now in the tower, and is hewn and carved to represent rocks bestrewn with skulls and bones; the mortice holes for the crucifix[Pg 28] and attendant figures remain.' Early fifteenth-century figures painted on the wall were discovered when the church was 'restored' in 1849, but they were covered with whitewash!

The making of woollen goods throve in earlier times in Cullompton, and a rich clothier, John Lane by name, and his wife Thomasine, added a very beautiful aisle to the church about 1526. The roof of the 'Lane' aisle is covered with exquisite fan-tracery, rich carvings, and figures of angels, and pendants droop from the centre. The pillars, the buttresses, and parts of the outside walls are decorated by carvings of Lane's monogram, his merchant's mark, and different symbols of his trade.

Three miles south-east of Cullompton is another church famed for its beautiful screen. The Plymtree screen is probably unique in bearing on its panels the likenesses of Henry VII, his son Prince Arthur, and Cardinal Morton. The upper part of the screen is a magnificent bit of carving. Graceful pillars rise like stems, and their lines curve outwards into the lines of palm-leaves, overspreading one another, while the arches they form are filled with most delicate tracery, supported on the slenderest shafts. Above are four rows of carving, each of different design—one a vine, with clusters of grapes, and this is repeated more heavily on the capital of a pillar in the nave. The screen must have been glorious in gold and vermilion, and gold lines cross each other, making a sort of lattice-work, with ornaments at the points of intersection—a large double rose, a little shield with the Bouchier knot, or the Stafford knot, or a very naturally carved spray of oak-leaves. Below, the panels are painted with saints and angels and bishops. The King, Prince, and Cardinal appear in a representation of the Adoration of the Three Kings, each one bringing his offering in a differently-shaped vessel. Mr Mozley, a former Rector of Plymtree, has written a most interesting pamphlet on the subject, tracing out the likeness of these portraits to other pictures or busts of the three. He points out that, whereas in most paintings of the Three Kings each has a crown, that of the foremost usually laid on the ground, in this group King Henry alone is crowned; the Cardinal has none; and the Prince, who is represented as very[Pg 29] young, is wearing a boy's cap. Mr Mozley has searched carefully for a reason that would account for the group in this little church, and has found what seems to be a perfectly sufficient connecting link. Lord Hastings, who married the heiress of Lord Hungerford, and incidentally acquired the Manor of Plymtree, was the warm friend and political ally of Cardinal Morton. The son and successor of Lord Hastings was a close personal friend of Henry VI, and in consequence a colleague of the Cardinal, the King's chief counsellor. There is no date on the screen, but from various deductions it is believed to have been painted about the end of the fifteenth century, or a little later, and either during the lifetime or just after the death of the three subjects of the group, and of Lord Hastings.

Bradninch lies a short distance to the west of Plymtree, and this church contains a very fine screen and an old and remarkable painting of the Crucifixion. It was originally placed in an aisle that was built in the reign of Henry VII by the Fraternity of St John, or the Guild of Cordwainers.

The Culm runs past Bradninch, at a little distance to the east, and a few miles farther on the river passes under the dark hills of Killerton Park, a heavily wooded and irregular ridge, rising at either extremity and ending in a decided slope down to the flat space just around. The house is not an old one, although the Aclands have been here since the reign of Queen Elizabeth, when Sir John Acland moved from the estate at Landkey, near Barnstaple, where they were already settled in the reign of Henry II. He built a house at Culm John (quite close to Killerton) that was garrisoned for the King during the Civil War, and held out when almost every other place in Devonshire had surrendered. But it has since been pulled down.

There are many stories of different members of this family, but perhaps the most romance lies in that of Lady Harriot Acland, who, with serene courage, followed her husband through the horrors and hardships of a campaign.

In 1776 Major Acland was with the army that had been sent to crush the American struggle for Independence, and his wife had[Pg 30] accompanied him. The following extract is taken from a statement by General Burgoyne, the General commanding the troops in Canada: 'In the course of that campaign, she had traversed a vast space of country in different extremities of seasons. She was restrained from offering herself to a share of the hazard expected before Ticonderoga, by the positive injunction of her husband. The day after the conquest of that place he was badly wounded, and she crossed the Lake Champlain to join him.'

When he was recovered, Lady Harriot continued to follow his fortunes through the campaign, and acquired a 'two-wheel tumbril, which had been constructed by the artillery.' Colonel Acland was with the most advanced corps of the army, and they were often in so much danger of being surprised that they had to sleep in their clothes. Once the Aclands' tent and all that was in it was burned, but this accident 'neither altered the resolution nor the cheerfulness of Lady Harriot, and she continued her progress a partaker of the fatigues of the advanced corps. The next call upon her fortitude was more distressful. On the march of the 19th, the Grenadiers being liable to action at every step, she had been directed by Major Acland to follow the route of the artillery and luggage which was not exposed. At the time the action began she found herself near a small uninhabited hut, where she alighted. When it was found the action was becoming general and bloody, the surgeons of the hospital took possession of the same place as the most convenient for the first care of the wounded. Thus was this lady in hearing of one continued fire of cannon and musketry for some hours together, with the presumption, from the post of her husband at the head of the Grenadiers, that he was in the most exposed part of the action. She had three female companions—the Baroness of Reidesel, and the wives of two British officers, Major Harnage and Lieutenant Reynell; but in the event their presence served but little for comfort. Major Harnage was soon brought to the surgeons, very badly wounded; and a little while after came intelligence that Lieutenant Reynell was shot dead. Imagination will want no help to figure the state of the whole group.' Not long afterwards Lady Harriot passed through an even severer ordeal.[Pg 31] During another engagement 'she was exposed to the hearing of the whole action, and at last received the shock of her individual misfortune mixed with the intelligence of the general calamity; the troops were defeated, and Major Ackland, desperately wounded, was a prisoner.

'The day of the 8th was passed by Lady Harriot and her companions in common anxiety; not a tent, not a shed being standing except what belonged to the hospital, their refuge was among the wounded and dying.

'I soon received a message from Lady Harriot, submitting to my decision a proposal (and expressing an earnest solicitude to execute it if not interfering with my designs) of passing to the camp of the enemy and requesting General Gates's permission to attend her husband.... I was astonished at this proposal. After so long an agitation of the spirits, exhausted not only for want of rest, but absolutely want of food, drenched in rains for twelve hours together, that a woman should be capable of such an undertaking as delivering herself to the enemy, probably in the night, and uncertain of what hands she might fall into, appeared an effort above human nature. The assistance I was enabled to give her was small indeed; I had not even a cup of wine to offer her; but I was told she had found from some kind and fortunate hand a little rum and dirty water. All I could furnish to her was an open boat and a few lines written upon dirty and wet paper, to General Gates, recommending her to his protection.

'Mr Brudenell, the chaplain to the Artillery, ...readily undertook to accompany her, and with one female servant, and the Major's valet-de-chambre (who had a ball, which he had received in the late action, then in his shoulder), she rowed down the river to meet the enemy. But her distresses were not yet to end. The night advanced before the boat reached the enemy's outposts, and the sentinel would not let it pass, nor even come on shore. In vain Mr Brudenell offered the flag of truce.... The guard threatened to fire into the boat if they stirred before daylight.' And for seven or eight dark and cold hours they were obliged to wait. Happily, when at length she did reach the shore, Lady Harriot was[Pg 32] received with all courtesy by General Gates, and had the joy of nursing her husband back to health.

A little to the south-west of Killerton Park lie the well-ordered park and beautiful grounds of Lord Poltimore. John Bampfylde, his ancestor, was lord of this manor in the reign of Edward I, but the line of succession has been threatened by an episode, told by Prince (in his 'Worthies of Devon'), that reads like a folk-story. At one time the head of the family was a child, who, left an orphan very young, was given as a ward 'to some great person in the East Country.' This gentleman carried the child away to his own home, and, although not going quite so far as the wicked uncle in The Babes in the Wood, behaved very treacherously to his ward; 'concealing from him his quality and condition, and preventing what he could any discovery thereof, his guardian bred him up as his servant, and at last made him his huntsman.'

To any who concerned themselves about the boy, the false guardian 'some years after gave it out, he was gone to travel (or the like pretence), in-so-much his relations and friends, believing it to be true, looked no further after him.' But Bampfylde's tenants were more faithful, and one of them, on his own responsibility, rose to the tremendous effort and enterprise of starting off in search of him. His loyalty was rewarded with full success, for he was able to find and identify the young man, and, biding his time, the tenant grasped an opportunity of talking quietly to him, and 'acquainted him with his birth and fortunes, and finally arranged his escape.' And in this way the true heir came to his own again.

In the spring of 1646 Poltimore House was chosen by Fairfax as the meeting-place of his commissioners and those sent by Sir John Berkeley, and here they discussed the articles of the surrender of besieged Exeter, and drew up the treaty that could be accepted by both sides.

Sir Coplestone Bampfylde, having 'a vigorous soul,' worked for the Restoration with so much zeal that messengers were sent from the Parliament to arrest him, and he was forced to hide.

But 'his generous mind could not be affrighted from following[Pg 33] his duty and honour,' and as the citizens of Exeter, by this time very dissatisfied with the Government, were beginning to arm, declaring for a free Parliament, Sir Coplestone and other gentlemen composed an address, demanding the recall of the members secluded in 1648, and 'all to be admitted without any oath or engagement previous to their entrance.' He next took his way to London, to present 'an humble petition of right' on behalf of the county to General Monk, but was seized by the Parliament and flung into the Tower. His imprisonment was brief, and Charles II rewarded Bampfylde's energy by choosing him to be the first High Sheriff of the county of his reign, and later appointing him to other posts of 'trust and honour.'

John Bampfylde, a descendant of Sir Coplestone's, was a poet, and among his verses occurs this charming sonnet, on that not unknown event in Devon—a Wet Summer:

Poltimore is nearly two miles east of the Exe, and if a straight line across country were followed to the river, the traveller would arrive almost at the point where the Culm flows into the larger stream. The valley here is rather broad, and the river winds between pleasant, rich, green meadows and wooded hills, most of which rise in gentle, easy slopes. Not quite two miles north of Exeter, the Exe turns due south, and is joined by the Creedy, running south-west. Westcote, in flowery language, describes the scene, painting a picture which would stand good to-day, but[Pg 34] that nearly all the mills are gone. Cowley Bridge, 'built of fair square stone,' stands just above the junction, 'where Exe musters gloriously, being bordered on each side with profitable mills, fat green marshes and meadows (enamelled with a variety of golden spangles of fragrant flowers, and bordered with silver swans), makes a deep show, as if she would carry boats and barges home to the city; but we are opposed by Exwick wear, and indeed wears have much impaired his lustre and portable ability, which else might have brought his denominated city rich merchandise home to the very gates.'

Here one may leave the Exe to follow the Creedy upstream for five miles or so, till Crediton is reached. 'Creedy' comes from the Celtic word Crwydr, a hook or crook, a name that its tortuous way must have earned. The river runs between crumbling banks of soft earth, and shifts its course a little after any great flood. It is curious to notice the difference after heavy rains between the Exe and the Creedy, for while the former will be still a comparatively clear brown, even when it comes down a great swirling flood, thundering over the weirs and hurrying along honeycombs of foam, the Creedy will have turned to a surging, turbid volume of water, of a deep red, terra-cotta colour, that leaves traces of red mud in the overhanging trees when the river has subsided.

The valley is a narrow one, and on the hill-sides are copses and orchards, lovely as a sea of pink and white blossoms, and very admirable on a bright day in September, when the bright crimson cider apples, and golden ones with rosy cheeks, are showing among the leaves, and the hot sunshine, following a touch of frost, brings out the clean, crisp, sweet scent of ripe apples till it floats across roads and hedges. Leland remarks that 'the ground betwixt Excestre and Crideton exceeding fair Corn Greese and Wood. There is a praty market in Kirton.' Kirton was the popular name for the town. Its origin is far to seek, for the saying runs:

However this may have been, it is, at any rate, certain that the Bishops of Devon were seated at Crediton for over one hundred and forty years before, in 1050, Leofric removed to Exeter. And nearly two and a half centuries before the first Bishop settled at Crediton, religious feeling was awake, as is shown by the story of St Boniface, or, as he was originally called, Wynfrith. This saint, the great missionary to the Germans, is believed to have been born here in the year 680, and at a very early age he wished to become a monk. His desire was not at once granted, for his father could not bear to part with him, and much opposition had to be overcome before he was allowed to go to school in Exeter. After he was ordained, Boniface won the respect and confidence of Ina, King of the West Saxons, but feeling that his work lay in another country, he went to Thuringia, to throw his strength into the conversion of the heathen. Combining 'learning, excellency of memory, integrity of life, and vivacity of spirit, he was fit for great employment,' says an old writer, and he was chosen Archbishop of Mentz, becoming the chief authority on all spiritual matters in Germany. In spite of the heavy cares and toils entailed by his high office, St Boniface still laboured personally among the recalcitrant heathen, and in his seventy-sixth year

Eight Bishops lived and died at Crediton, and the ninth demanded that the see should be transferred from Crediton to Exeter. The chief reason put forward was that Exeter was a strong city, and less likely to be ravaged by Irish Danes and other 'barbarian pirates,' but Professor Freeman suggests that Leofric also desired the change because he had been educated on the Continent, where it was never the custom for a Bishop's chief seat to be in a village when a larger town was in his diocese. Anyhow, Leofric obtained his wish, and was led to his throne in St Peter's Church in Exeter by the King on one hand and the Queen on the other, in the presence of two Archbishops and other nobles.

The palace and park at Crediton remained in the possession of the Bishops till the Dissolution.[Pg 36]

The beautiful Church of St Cross stands either upon or close to the site of the original cathedral of the Bishops, which, on the removal of the See to Exeter, was made a collegiate church, with precentor, treasurer, dean, eighteen canons and as many vicars, besides singing-men or lay-vicars.

The present church is mainly Perpendicular, though the Lady Chapel is early Decorated, and there are portions of still earlier work. The tower is central, square, and rather low. It is surmounted by four embattled turrets, and battlements run round the roof of the church. The whole building is of a soft rose-red colour, but the walls within were once whitewashed, and are now of a slightly cooler tint. The clustered pillars look as if, over a warm, soft grey, a faint, transparent tinge of rose-colour had passed, leaving a very lovely effect; they are tall and graceful, and delicate carving adorns the capitals. The nave is lofty and unusually long. On the south side of the chancel are sedilia, once elaborately decorated and glorious in vermilion and gold; a design resembling a very large but intricate network in gold spreads over the backs of the sedilia, and a little figure, with faint traces of colour and gilding, stands at one end. On the north side of the chancel is the effigy, lying at full length, of William Peryam; and close by is a monument to John Tuckfield, engraved with an epitaph full of praise, in which occur these lines, in peculiar lettering and spelling:

The Lady Chapel is beautifully decorated. At the south end of the choir is a large tomb, on which lie, side by side, the effigies of a knight in armour and a lady with a wonderful head-dress, large and square. The figures are somewhat mutilated, but the little angels that supported her head can just be distinguished. The tomb is supposed to be that of Sir John Sully and his wife; he, having fought at Crecy and Poictiers, lived to give evidence, at the age of 105, in the great Scrope and Grosvenor controversy.[Pg 37]

In the south porch is a bit of early English work, a piscina and holy-water stoup side by side, under one arch, with a very slender detached shaft between. The upper portion of the font is late Norman, and is dark, shallow, and square. Behind the font a small door and tiny staircase lead up to the parvise, where is stored a library that was given for the priest's use. The books include a 'Vinegar' Bible, an Eikon Basilike, and other treasures.

There is a curious account of a miracle that took place in this church on August 1, 1315, while Bishop Stapeldon was celebrating Mass. Thomas Orey, a fuller by trade, of Keynsham, became suddenly blind one day in Easter week for no apparent reason. A vivid dream that, if he should visit the Church of Holy Cross at Crediton, his sight would return, induced him to journey there with his wife, and several witnesses, afterwards called by the Bishop to give evidence, solemnly asserted that when he arrived in the town he was totally blind. Two days he spent in the church, and on the third, he being 'instant at prayer before the altar of St Nicholas, suddenly recovered his sight.'

Crediton had for a long time a very important trade in woollen goods, which were made here as early as in the thirteenth century. In the reign of Queen Elizabeth it was one of the principal centres of the manufacture in the county, and, indeed, caused Exeter so much jealousy that weavers, tuckers, and others, petitioned the authorities until it was ordained that the serge-market should be removed from here, and a weekly one set up in Exeter, to the great and natural indignation of Crediton. 'Their market for kersies hath been very great, especially of the finer sort,' says Westcote, 'for the aptness and diligent industry of the inhabitants ... did purchase it a supereminent name above all other towns, whereby grew this common proverb—as fine as Kirton spinning ... which spinning was very fine indeed, which to express, the better to gain your belief, it is very true that 140 threads of woollen yarn spun in that town were drawn together through the eye of a tailor's needle; which needle and threads were, for many years together, to be seen in Watling-street, in London, in the shop of one Mr Dunscombe.'[Pg 38]

Crediton was once, for a brief but fateful moment, the focus of a very serious movement. During 1549 discontent showed itself in many parts of England, and very gravely in the West, where a rising of Devonshire and Cornish men brought about the 'Affair of the Crediton Barns,' and culminated in the siege of Exeter. The first definite outbreak was at Sampford Courtenay, on Whit Monday, June 10. On Sunday the Book of Common Prayer was used for the first time, but the people were dissatisfied. They did not care to hear the service in their own tongue instead of in Latin, and they resented all the other changes. And when on Monday the priest was 'preparing himself to say the service as he had done the day before ... they said he should not do so.... In the end, whether it were with his will or against his will, he ravisheth himself in his old Popish attire, and sayeth Mass, and all such services as in Times past accustomed.'

The news of this incident spread; other villages followed suit, and the local magistrates unwillingly recognized that the ferment of rebellion was working, and met together to try and reason the people into a more submissive frame of mind. But the movement was too full of force to be arrested by such gentle methods, and the justices, 'being afraid of their own shadows, ... departed without having done anything at all.' Unfortunately, their reasoning had merely an irritating effect, so that, when a certain gentleman named Helions tried mildly to enforce some of the remonstrances, a man struck him on the neck with a billhook and killed him. This blow seems to have stirred the mob into taking a definite course of action, and they marched on Crediton. News of the disturbance had, meanwhile, reached the King, and Sir Peter and Sir Gawen Carew were sent down in haste to deal with the matter. From Exeter, they and several other gentlemen rode to confer with the people; but the people, having had notice of the arrival of the knights, 'they intrench the highways, and make a mighty rampire at the Town's End, and fortify the same' and 'also the Barns of both sides of the way.' The walls were pierced with 'loops and holes for their shot,' and 'so complenished with men, well appointed with bows and arrows and other weapons,[Pg 39] that there was no passage nor entry for them into the town.' Nor would they listen to 'the Gentlemen,' but refused all conference.

The 'Warlike Knights' then tried force, but were driven back with loss, by a heavy volley. 'Whereupon some one strong man of that company,' says Hooker (who must have admired decision), 'unawares of the gentlemen, did set one of the barns on fire, and then the Commoners, seeing that, ran and fled away out of the town.' This ended all the trouble in Crediton, though the smoking barns served as fuel to the growing spirit of revolt, and the 'Barns of Crediton' became a party-cry.

Clarendon mentions briefly that Charles I came here on his way into Cornwall, and reviewed the troops under Prince Maurice.

About one hundred and fifty years later the distant echoes of war sounded faintly in Crediton, for French prisoners of war on parole, Napoleon's soldiers, were allowed to live in this town. Vague rumours of them may still be heard. The sexton remembers that his mother often told about them, and one of the first people he buried was a man named Henry, 'though,' he explained, 'they spell it rather differently.' The melancholy fate of this stranger throws a light on one of the disregarded tragedies in the train of war, for Henri was not a soldier, but the son of a French prisoner. For some reason he never went home, and died in the workhouse.

Amongst the conditions that the prisoners on parole had to sign was: 'Not to withdraw one mile from the boundaries prescribed there without leave for that purpose from the said Commissioners;' and on some roads a stone was put up marking the limits. One of these stones, of grey limestone, and very like a milestone with no inscription, is still to be seen jutting out from the bank of Shobrooke Park, on the Stockleigh Pomeroy road. Another witness to the presence of the French prisoners lies in the name that clings to a bit of road running behind the Vicarage, for it is still sometimes called the Belle Parade, and tradition says that here they used to assemble on Sundays.

Returning along the river, one passes through the property of the late Sir Redvers Buller. Downes is a white house standing[Pg 40] amongst green open lawns sloping to the river, and it has a background of great trees and ample shrubberies. The Bullers at one time lived chiefly in Cornwall, and Downes was originally a shooting-box. A hay-loft stood at one end, and when the house was enlarged the archway under which the hay-waggons were driven was left standing, and now forms part of the drawing-room—a room with an unusually high ceiling. A member of the family has been kind enough to send me notes of one or two incidents in the history of the Bullers.

'The whole Buller family was at one time reduced to a single individual, John Francis Buller. He died of the smallpox. His mother insisted on seeing him after death. It was in the days when air was considered highly prejudicial to smallpox patients, who were covered with red cloth, and every window and cranny through which air might enter was carefully closed. To minimize the risk to his mother, who would listen to no dissuasion, all the windows and doors were opened, and a draught of air admitted, with the result that when his mother entered the room the dead man rose from his bed and received her.' Mr Buller lived to marry Rebecca, daughter of the Bishop Trelawney who was one of the seven Bishops sent to the Tower by James II. His arrest created intense indignation in his own county; and he is the Trelawney referred to in the well-known fragment, all that remains of a ballad written at the time to express Cornish feeling:

A later Mr Buller of Downes had a brief but unpleasant experience of the feeling of the mob in regard to the Reform Bill.

'I recollect hearing that at the time of the first Reform Bill (1830) the members of the House of Commons were threatened with dire consequences if they could not give what the mob considered satisfactory answers to their questions.

'Mr Buller of Downes was on his way to the House in his own[Pg 41] carriage, when a crowd stopped him, demanding to know how he meant to vote. He took no notice of their request, but remained quietly seated, when some of the men opened the carriage door with cries of, "Pull him out! Pull him out!" and were proceeding to carry out their threat, when his servant, who was standing behind the carriage, sprang up to the roof, and, waving his hat, shouted: "What! don't you know my master, Squire Buller? Why, he's always for the people!" Whereupon the door was closed again with a bang, the coachman told to drive on, and "Squire Buller" reached the House without further molestation.'

Topsham

Two miles farther on the river passes the village of Newton St Cyres, or Syriak Newton, as some of the older writers called it. The church has several interesting features, and escaped the ruthless 'restoration' that so many village churches suffered from at the beginning of the nineteenth century. Alders and willows overhang the stream, which winds its way to the south-west, and about two miles farther on one arrives again at Cowley Bridge. The Valley of the Exe gets ever wider and flatter, and after Exeter has been passed the flatness on either side of the banks increases as the river draws near the estuary.

Topsham stands at the head of the estuary, and is a pleasant little town, whose great days are gone by. It is difficult to believe that in the reign of William III Topsham had more trade with Newfoundland than any other port in the country excepting London. Presumably it was at this time that certain Dutch merchants came to live here, and built themselves quaint narrow houses of small Dutch bricks, painted the colour of bath-bricks. Rounded gable-ends are a feature of these houses, which may still be seen along the Strand. In many cases the clerk's house, a smaller, humbler dwelling of exactly the same design, stands close to the merchant's, separated by their respective gardens.

Till wooden ships were superseded, frigates for the navy were built here, but now, although some of the largest ships stop and unload their cargoes for Exeter, there is little of the stir and bustle that the town must once have rejoiced in.

Miss Celia Fiennes, who rode through England about 1695,[Pg 42] mentions Topsham in her diary as 'a little market place and a very good Key; hither they convey on horses their serges and soe load their shipps w^h comes to this place, all for London.' She also speaks of Starcross, on the farther side of the river, 'where the Great shipps ride, and there they build some shipps.'

In the end of the seventeenth century there sprang from Topsham a man of great resoluteness, pluck, and the spirit to fight against tremendous odds in cold blood. Robert Lyde, mate of the Friend's Adventure, himself wrote an account of his fortunes on board that vessel. Lyde's great bitterness against the French is explained by the fact that he had already suffered intensely at their hands. Two years before he had been captured at sea by a French privateer, and imprisoned at St Malo, 'where we were used with such inhumanity and cruelty that if we had been taken by the Turks we could not have been used worse.' The prisoners were almost starved, and their condition was wretched in every respect. 'These and their other barbarities made so great an impression on me that I did resolve never to go a prisoner there again, and this resolution I did ever since continue in.' But when he was for the second time made prisoner—this time on board the Friend's Adventure—there seemed no escape from this evil fate. The crew were all removed from the ship, excepting Lyde and one boy, who, under a prize-master and six men, were to help in sailing her to St Malo. The idea of returning to the identical prison where he had endured such misery made Lyde desperate, and, finding no easier expedient, he determined to pit himself against the seven as soon as he could persuade the boy to join him. The boy, not unnaturally, hung back from such a venture, and before he could screw his courage to the sticking-place they had arrived off a small harbour near Brest, and the French had fired a 'patteroe' for a pilot. 'Whereupon, considering the inhuman usage I formerly had in France, and how near I was to it again, struck me with such terror that I went down between decks and prayed God for a southerly wind, to prevent her from going into that harbour, which God was most graciously pleased to grant me, for which I returned my unfeigned thanks.'[Pg 43]

Lyde's anxiety to attack the French was now redoubled, and when they invited him to their breakfast, he was so 'ready to faint with eagerness to encounter them' that he could not stay in the same cabin. He went up 'betwixt decks' to the boy, 'and did earnestly entreat him to go up presently to the cabin and stand behind me, and knock down but one man, in case two laid on me, and I would kill and command all the rest presently.' The boy, however, was timid, and when Lyde, to spur him into resistance, told all the horrible details of his former captivity, he calmly replied: 'If I do find it as hard as you say when I am in France, I will go along with them in a privateer.' 'These words,' writes Lyde, 'struck me to the heart, which made me say: "You dog! What! will you go with them against your King and Country, and Father and Mother? Sirrah! I was a prisoner in France four months, and my tongue cannot express what I endured there, yet I would not turn Papist and go with them. If I should take my brother in a French privateer, after he had sailed willingly with them, I would hang him immediately."' Perhaps at this point the boy began to fear opposing Lyde as much as attacking all the Frenchmen, for he now consented to help, and was told that if he would knock down the man at the helm, all the others should be Lyde's affair. The sang-froid of the ensuing conversation is remarkable. 'Saith the boy, "If you be sure to overcome them, how many do you count to kill?" I answered that I intended to kill three of them. Then the boy replied, "Why three, and no more?" I answered that I would kill three for three of our men that died in Prison when I was there.' Lyde went on to express a hope that some day a 'Man-of-War or Fireship' will try to avenge 'the Death of those four hundred men that died in the same Prison of Dinan.' But the boy's fears found the present scheme too merciful, and he protested, 'Four alive would be too many for us.'

The attack was made when two Frenchmen were asleep in the cabin. 'I went softly aft into the cabin, and put my back against the bulkhead, and took the iron crow and held it with both my hands in the middle of it, and put my legs to shorten myself, because the cabin was very low. But he that being nighest to me,[Pg 44] hearing me, opened his eyes, and perceiving my intent and upon what account I was coming, he endeavoured to rise to make resistance against me, but I prevented him by a blow upon his forehead which mortally wounded him.' The other man received a heavy blow as he was rising, 'very fiercely endeavouring to come against me.... The master, lying in his cabin on my right hand, rose and sat in his cabin, and seeing what I had done, he called me by most insulting names.' But 'having his eyes every way,' Lyde turned on him with a blow which made him 'lie as still as if he had been dead.'

He then went to 'attack the two men who were at the pump, where they continued pumping without hearing or knowing what I had done;' but one of the wounded men crawled out of the cabin, and when the men at the pump 'saw his blood running out of the hole in his forehead, they came running aft to me, grinding their teeth as if they would have eaten me; but I met them as they came within the steeridge door, and struck at them; but the steeridge not being above four foot high, I could not have a full blow at them, whereupon they fended off the blows, took hold of the crow with both their hands close to mine, striving to haul it from me; then the boy might have knocked them down with much ease, but that his heart failed him.' The master was by this time so far recovered that he was able to join the other two, so that Lyde fought for his life against the three. The boy at one moment, thinking him overborne, 'cried out for fear. Then I said, "Do you cry, you villain, now I am in such a condition? Come quickly and knock this man on the head that hath hold of my left arm." The boy took some courage, but struck so faintly that he missed his blow, which greatly enraged me; and I, feeling the Frenchman about my middle hang very heavy, said to the boy, "Go round the binikle and knock down that man that hangeth on my back"; so the boy did strike him one blow on the head, and he went out on deck staggering to and fro.' After a further tremendous effort, Lyde killed one of the three struggling with him, and the two others then begged for quarter; and at last he set sail for Topsham, with five living prisoners under hatches. But his[Pg 45] troubles were not yet all passed. Exhausted as he was, he dared not rest, and suffered from want of sleep, bad weather, and, when he reached home, a cold welcome. Arrived at Topsham Bar, he had no English colours to run up, and the pilot he signalled feared to come out. Lyde did not dare to bring in the ship by himself at night, and was blown off the coast, so that he had the further labour of getting close to the bar a second time. In the end he did succeed in getting safely home.

Exmouth from Cockwood

Just beyond Topsham the little river Clyst joins the Exe. It has given names to a surprising number of villages and manors, considering the shortness of its course—Clyst St Mary, Clyst St Laurence, Honiton Clyst, and so on. At Clyst St George a small estate used to be held on the curious tenure of 'the annual tender of an ivory bow.' About two miles east of the river the land begins to slope upwards to the moorland of Woodbury Common, and on one part of the heath are the remains of an ancient entrenchment called Woodbury Castle. 'No castle at all, built with little cost,' says Westcote, 'without either lime or hewn stone: only a hasty fortification made of mother-earth for the present to serve a turn for need, with plain ditches, the Saxons' usual structure, who commonly lay sub dio, with no other shelter or coverture than the starry canopy.'

Woodbury and Lympstone—a village on the edge of the estuary—were once owned by the family of De Albemarle, which name was gradually transformed into Damarel, and in this guise is not uncommon in the West to-day.

Two and a half miles farther on is Exmouth—a town fortunate in the delightful views on every side. The sea stretches away to the south; on the north-east the hills rise towards Woodbury Common; on the west lie the broad, shining reaches of the river, and beyond them the beautiful heights of Haldon. Here 'Ex taketh his last tribute with a wider channel and curled waves, shedding itself into the sea.'

Exmouth has a rather curious history. In the early part of the eighteenth century it was little more than a hamlet, chiefly consisting of fishermen's cottages; but soon afterwards it became a[Pg 46] fashionable watering-place—according to report, because one of the judges on circuit was charmed with the sea-bathing here. The town continues to flourish and is greatly patronized by visitors. The strangeness of the history lies in the fact that Exmouth should ever have been reduced to such a humble condition, for it inherited great traditions. When the Danes descended on it in 1001, they found there a town and a castle, and being 'valiantly repelled by the guardians' of the latter, they revenged themselves by burning the town.

In the reign of King John, Exmouth was a port of some consequence, and when Edward III was at war with France it was able to contribute no fewer than ten ships for an attack on Calais. Risdon says there was 'sometime a castle, but now the place hath no defence than a barred haven and the inhabitants' valour.' It is a little puzzling that both he and Westcote, writing about the beginning of the seventeenth century, should imply that the old fortress had no successor, for a very few years later Exmouth was garrisoned for the King. Either a fort must have been erected in the short interval, or some building turned into a tolerable substitute, for in the spring of 1646 'Fort Exmouth' was blockaded by Colonel Shapcote, and defended with great courage by Colonel Arundell. It capitulated less than a month before the surrender of Exeter.

[Pg 47]

Ottery St. Mary

CHAPTER III

The Otter and the Axe

The River Otter rises in Somerset, and runs nearly due south, bearing slightly westwards till it reaches Honiton. Here it makes a curve still farther to the west, and from Ottery St Mary runs southwards to the sea. In Westcote's day, when the derivations of names were taken in a light-hearted spirit, it was said: 'The river Otter, or river of otters (water-dogs), taking name from the abundance of these animals (which we term otters) sometime haunting and using it.' But the more serious authorities of to-day do not allow that the otters in this river have anything to do with the matter, and say that the name comes from the Welsh y dwr, the water. It is a rapid and very clear stream, flowing through green and fertile valleys.

Honiton filled Defoe with admiration when he came to it on his journey to the West. He describes it as 'a pleasant, good town, that stands in the best and pleasantest part of the whole country ... and to the entrance into Honiton the view of the country is the most beautiful landscape in the world, a mere picture, and I do not remember the like in any one place in England.' Beyond this pleasantness there is nothing very remarkable in the town;[Pg 48] perhaps its most uncommon feature being a stream of clear water that runs down the street, with square dipping-places at intervals.

To the west the town looks over a space of comparatively flat country, but on the north-west it is overshadowed by St. Cyres Hill, and farther north is the bold height of Dumpdon. On the top of this hill are the remains of an oval camp, and a few miles away to the north-west is the better-known camp called Hembury Fort. The fort stands very high, and looks south to the sea beyond the Vale of the Otter, and west to Haldon and the fringes of Dartmoor over Exeter. Three ramparts surround the fort, which covers a large space of ground, and it is 'divided into two parts by a double agger.... Several Roman coins, and an iron "lar" representing a female figure three inches high, have been found here.'

A great Roman road passes by Honiton. The Fosseway ran from Caithness to Totnes (according to some authorities, on into Cornwall), and crossed the country between Exeter or Seaton and Lincolnshire. It is thought that the Romans, in making their famous roads, usually followed the line of still older British ways.

In coaching days Honiton was well known as a stage for changing horses. Gay, who was a Devonshire man, a native of Barnstaple, says in his Journey to Exeter, 1716, from London:

Here the poet mentions the one characteristic of the town known to strangers—the lace-making. When or how it was first started is not exactly known, but there is a theory that certain Flemings, escaping to England from the persecutions of the Duke of Alva, settled near Honiton and introduced the art towards the end of the sixteenth century. The evidence is too slender to prove that this was so, but there is no doubt that by the beginning of the next century the industry was well[Pg 49] established, for in the Church of St Michael is a memorial brass plate recording that

James Rodge of Honiton
in ye County of Devonshire (Bonelace Siller)
Hath given unto the Poore of Honinton P'ishe
The Benefytt of £100 for ever.
Who deceased ye 27 of July A'o. Di. 1617. Ætate suæ 50.
Remember ye poore.

So it is obvious that before 1617 there must have been enough lace to dispose of to make the sale of it profitable.

About forty years later Fuller wrote a spirited defence of lace-making on economic grounds. It was then 'made in and about Honyton, and weekly returned to London.' He says: 'Though private persons pay for it, it stands the state in nothing.... Many lame in their limbs and impotent in their arms, if able in their fingers, gain a livelyhood thereby, not to say that it saveth some thousand of pounds yearly, formerly sent over seas to fetch Lace from Flanders.' At this time the lace trade flourished greatly, although there was always a difficulty in competing with Belgium, because of the superiority of its silky flax, finer than any spun in England. Later the workers fell on evil days, for during the American War there was little money to spend on luxuries; and, besides, about this time the fashion of wearing much lace came to an end. In 1816 the introduction of 'machine net' supplanted the vrai réseau, the groundwork of the lace made by hand, and this took away work from very many people, besides lowering prices, so that the workers became discouraged, and the quality as well as the quantity of the lace suffered much in consequence. Queen Adelaide tried to stimulate the dwindling trade by ordering a lace dress, every flower in which was to be copied from Nature. The initials of the flowers chosen spelt her name:

• Amaranth,
• Daphne,
• Eglantine,
• Lilac,
• Auricula,
• Ivy,
• Dahlia,
• Eglantine.

[Pg 50]

Queen Victoria's wedding-dress was made at Beer, and of later years there has been a revival of lace-making, especially in the neighbourhood of Honiton and of Beer; and considerable quantities are made by village women living at home.

But lace is not the only thing that comes from Honiton. Cider is made there, and in the reign of George II making it must have been a very profitable occupation. Defoe notes: 'They tell us they send twenty thousand hogsheads of cider hence every year to London, and (which is still worse) that it is most of it bought there by the merchants to mix with their wines—which, if true, is not much to the reputation of the London vintners. But that by-the-bye.' As cider-making was then in such a prosperous condition, it is easy to understand the tremendous outcry that arose a few years later, when Lord Bute imposed the enormous tax of ten shillings per hogshead, to be paid by the first buyer. The storm provoked was so violent, the opposition of country gentlemen of all shades of politics so unanimous, that the Prime Minister modified the tax to one of four shillings on each hogshead, to be paid by the grower, who was thereby rendered liable to the domiciliary visits of excisemen. This alteration was vehemently protested against, and Pitt championed the opposition on the grounds that it was an Englishman's pride that every man's house was his castle, and denounced as intolerable a Bill that allowed excisemen to invade the house of any gentleman who 'owned a few fruit-trees and made a little cider.' The City of London sent petitions to the Commons, the Lords, and the Throne; and the counties of Devon and Hereford, the cities of Exeter and Worcester, urged their respective Members to make all possible resistance to the tax. Lord Bute's personal unpopularity increased enormously, and a shoal of squibs, caricatures, and pamphlets appeared, in which he was held up to ridicule and contempt. One caricature represented him as 'hung on the gallows over a fire, on which a jack-boot fed the flames, and a farmer was throwing an excised cyder barrel into the conflagration. In rural districts he was burnt under the effigy of a jack-boot, a rural allusion to his name.'

An amusing story is told of Lord North in connection with this[Pg 51] tax. Not long after it had been imposed, he and Sir Robert Hamilton came to Ashe, near Axminster, on a visit—Lord North, then a Lord of the Treasury, distinctly uneasy as to the risk of coming into Devonshire, for the county was still seething with dissatisfaction against the Government. 'He was one day thrown into great alarm by a large party of reapers, who, having finished cutting the wheat of the estate, approached the house with their hooks in their hands, shouting the usual cry, "We have'n! we have'n!" The portentous words Lord North applied to himself, and, pale with terror, considered himself a dead man. Sir Robert Hamilton seized a sword, and was sallying forth to repulse the visitors, when, meeting a member of the household, an explanation took place, by which the fears so unconsciously excited were removed.'

Sidmouth

It was a most ancient custom in the West—indeed, it is said to be a remnant of the pagan rite of dedicating the first-fruits to Ceres—to set aside either the first armful of corn that was cut or else some of the best ears, and bind them into a little sheaf, called a 'neck'. A fragment of the vivid description given by Miss O'Neill in 'Devonshire Idyls' must be quoted: 'The men carried their reaping-hooks; the sheaf was borne by the old man. Bareheaded he stood in the light of the moon. Strange shadows flecked the mossy sward on sundown as he held the first-fruits aloft and waved his arms.

'"We ha'un!" cried he, and the cry was long and wailing. The strange intimation fell on the ear like an echo from pagan days. One could fancy the fauns and weird beings of old had taught the cadence to the first reapers of earth. "We ha'un!" cried he, and all the men in the circle bowed to the very ground.... "We ha'un!" cried Jonas again, and again the reapers bowed and waved. Then the old men took up another strain, at once more jubilant and more resonant, and with an indescribable drawling utterance sang out "Thee Neck!"—sang it out three times, and twice the waving circle of bright steel flashed.'

On leaving Honiton, if the river is followed upstream for a short distance, the traveller will find himself close to ruined[Pg 52] Ottery Mohun, the home of two celebrated families in succession. Unfortunately, it has been entirely destroyed by fire. A farm now stands among the ruins, and two fine Perpendicular archways, and a deeply moulded and hooded arch over the frontdoor, alone bear witness to its former state. In the spandril above the outer archway is carved, 'amid elegant scroll-work and foliage, an arm, vested in an ermine maunch, the hand grasping a golden fleur-de-lys'—the old coat-armour of the Mohuns; and on the other spandril 'three lions passant in pale,' the bearing of the Carews.

The Mohuns were a Norman family of distinction, but in later days were notorious rather than famous. The old peerage having died out in the Middle Ages, a member of a cadet branch, by shameless and persevering begging, induced Charles I to grant him a barony. This title only survived a few generations, and the fifth and last bearer of it was known as 'the wicked' Lord Mohun. His life was short—he was barely over forty when he died—but eventful, for he was twice tried before his peers, each time on the charge of being accessory to a murder, and the story has often been told of the desperate duel in which Lord Mohun was killed by the Duke of Hamilton, whom he had mortally wounded. Spectators burst upon the scene to discover the two principals dying on the ground, and the two seconds fiercely fighting each other.

The history of the Carews is more interesting. Ottery Mohun came to them towards the end of the thirteenth century, through the heiress of the elder branch of Mohuns, whom John Carew married. Their names were eminent in camp, court, and council, in one reign after another; but it is only possible to speak here of two, Sir Gawen, and his nephew Sir Peter, on whose death the branch that had been settled at Ottery Mohun for three centuries became extinct in the direct line. There is not even space for the career of another of Sir Gawen's nephews, to whom Queen Elizabeth wrote, with her own hand, in regard to his efforts in subduing the Irish:

[Pg 53]

Sir Peter's youth was spent very strangely even for that age of hazards and chances. As a child he was sent to school in Exeter, where he was so exceedingly naughty that complaints were made to his father, and Sir William, who had remarkable ideas of discipline, came to Exeter, 'tied him on a line and delivered him to one of his servants to be carried about the town as one of his hounds, and they led him home to Mohun's Ottery like a dog.' Not long afterwards he was with his father in London, when, 'walking in Paul's,' they met a French gentleman, an old acquaintance of Sir William's, who took a sudden fancy to the boy, and offered to bring him up in France as if he were his own son. The offer seems to have been accepted offhand, but, unfortunately for the boy, the sudden fancy drooped almost as quickly as it sprang up, and, after enjoying life for a brief moment as an indulged page, he was turned out into the stables, 'there as a mulett to attend his master's mule.' Here he remained till a Mr Carew, a kinsman, happened to come to the French Court, and near the Court gate passed 'sundry lackeys and horseboys playing together, one of whom called to another, "Carew Anglois! Carew Anglois!"' This attracted Mr Carew's attention. He called the boy and questioned him, and finding 'Carew Anglois' to be his cousin, Mr Carew took him under his protection, rebuked the fickle guardian, and trained up Peter 'for a space ... in the court of France, like a gentleman.' Peter, still very young, but extremely independent, was present at the siege of Pavia, and as his patron had just died, and he perceived 'fortune to frown upon the French side,' he went over to the Emperor's camp, and entered into the service of the Prince of Orange. Five or six years later he came home, bringing with him letters of highest commendation to the King, Henry VIII, who received him with great favour.

Sir Gawen and Sir Peter together took a prominent part in 1549, in dealing with the insurrection of Devonshire and Cornishmen against the Reformed religion. Sir Peter, indeed, was afterwards blamed for being over-zealous, and thereby aggravating the trouble; but he was able to clear himself, and was 'well allowed and commended for what he had done.'[Pg 54]

In Queen Mary's reign fresh trouble arose, from which he escaped less easily. Many fervent Protestants were made uneasy by the symptoms of Romish rule that began to appear, and were still more disturbed by the news of the Queen's projected marriage with Philip of Spain, which they felt boded ill for their liberties, spiritual and temporal. The Carews were in the counsel of Sir Thomas Wyatt, the Duke of Suffolk, and others, who planned risings to depose the Queen. In a simultaneous movement, the Carews were to raise the West under the nominal leadership of Lord Courtenay, Sir Thomas Wyatt was to raise Kent, and the Duke the Midland counties. But before the preparations were complete, suspicion fell on the Carews, and a letter was despatched from the Council, directing the Sheriff of Devon to send Sir Peter and Sir Gawen to London.

Sir Gawen, who was in Exeter about this time, thought it best to return quietly to his own home, and because his movements now attracted an undesirable amount of attention, he one night 'went out over the walles of the said cytie yn his bowtes.' The account condescends to a touching detail that should appeal to all. Even the agitation of flying from arrest on a charge of treason could not keep Sir Gawen from feeling footsore, and 'for that his bowtes grieved hym he cutt them upon the waye.' Sir Gawen was arrested a few days later, and suffered a long imprisonment.

Meanwhile Sir Peter, in answer to the summons to surrender himself, sent the reply that he had already started for London. But meeting on the way the bearer of a message which assured him that two of his 'dearest friends' here failed him, he turned aside and escaped in a little boat from Weymouth.

Those who interest themselves in dreams and visions may care to hear of Lady Carew's experience at this moment. The night that Sir Peter sailed, Lady Carew dreamed very vividly 'that as he was going aboard his bark, he should fall into the seas and be drowned'; and so great was her trouble on awaking, that she sent a messenger to the seaside to make inquiries for Sir Peter. And when the messenger arrived at Weymouth, he heard the startling news that getting 'out of the boat to enter into the[Pg 55] bark, his [Sir Peter's] foot slided or slipped, and he therewith fell into the seas, and had been drowned if one standing by had not taken hold of him.'

Notwithstanding several misfortunes on the way, Sir Peter arrived safely in France, where he lived an exciting and adventurous life for several years, and was then treacherously seized and carried to England and the Tower. Here the much-abused Philip proved himself a real friend, for in an admirable letter to the Queen he intercedes for 'Pedro Caro' and his wife, and Sir Peter was eventually forgiven by Queen Mary, and honoured by Queen Elizabeth.

Between Honiton and Sidmouth is an inn called The Hunter's Lodge (more recently The Hare and Hounds), and opposite the house is a block of stone, over which hovers a gruesome mystery. It is said that in the dead of night the stone used to stir in its place, and roll heavily down into the valley, to drink at the source of the Sid, and, some say, to try to wash away its stain. Human blood has given it this power—the blood that gushed upon it when the witches slew their victims, for it was once a witches' stone of sacrifice.

Five miles to the south-west of Honiton is Ottery St Mary, a pretty little town built on very steep slopes, and full of interesting associations. It lies among 'fair meadows bathed in sunshine; with the Otter river winding through them ... yonder are the red Devon steers grazing up to their dewlaps in buttercups: beyond them dusky moors melt into purple haze.' By making a slight détour one passes the pleasant lawns and copses of Escot. Once the property of the Alfords, Escot was bought in 1680 by Sir Walter Yonge (father of George II's unpopular 'Secretary-at-War'), who built a new and large house and lavishly improved the grounds. But prodigality was the bane of the Yonges, and not much more than one hundred years later it passed away from Sir Walter's ruined grandson, and was bought by Sir John Kennaway.

The streets of Ottery are steep and sinuous, and both roadway and footwalk are paved with pebbles and cobble-stones. The[Pg 56] Manor of Ottery was given by Edward the Confessor to the Dean and Chapter of Rouen, and it continued in their possession during the reigns of nine Kings. Then the Dean, finding that the task of collecting his rents and dues was 'chargeable, troublesome, and sometimes dangerous ... desired to sell it, and met with a very fit chapman, John Grandisson, Lord Bishop of Exon.'

Ottery's greatest treasure is the beautiful church, a miniature of Exeter Cathedral, and it is to Bishop Grandisson that its great beauty is due. He did not build the church; indeed, the shadow of a terrible scandal had fallen upon it forty-five years before his rule began. For in the year 1282 'that discreet man, Mr Walter de Lechelade,' the Precentor of Ottery, was waylaid coming from Exeter Cathedral in his canonical robes, and murdered by 'certain sons of perdition full of fiendish ferocity.' 'Mr Walter de Lechelade' was probably extremely unpopular locally, because he had obtained the lease for life of the Manor and Church of Ottery from the authorities at Rouen, and was allowed to make all the profit he could out of the revenues. It is interesting to note the ecclesiastical manner of dealing with such a difficulty at that date. Out of the twenty-one persons convicted of being concerned in the murder, no fewer than eleven were clerics! The Vicar of Ottery St Mary was among the number, and it is sad to say that suspicion fell even on the Dean of Exeter.

Bishop Grandisson found an early English church. He lengthened the nave, altered the chancel, added a beautiful Lady Chapel, and raised towers on the already existing transepts. These transeptal towers are peculiar to this church and the other on which he spent his enthusiasm, Exeter Cathedral. On one tower is a steeple—there was one on the Cathedral—the lead scored by cross-slanted lines. The church is of grey stone. The nave and towers are battlemented, and at intervals in the outer walls are niches, now bereft of the figures they held. Very graceful stone tracery is in many windows, pinnacles and crosses rise from the roof, and the whole effect is of an impressive building of rich and elaborate detail. The number of consecration crosses is remarkable, for there are thirteen without and eight within the walls,[Pg 57] and each marks a spot touched by the Bishop with holy oil. Every one is a square stone panel, carved with an angel bearing a small cross. Some are much defaced, but a few are still perfect, and beneath several of them are the remains of iron supports, showing where a light was burned before the 'cross' on great festivals.

The arches of the nave are supported by clustered columns with most delicately carved capitals; and in the nave are two very elaborately decorated tombs—of the Bishop's brother, Sir Otho de Grandisson, and of Beatrice, Sir Otho's wife—each under a monumental arch, with hanging tracery and a crocketed ogee canopy.

The finely carved and pierced minstrels' gallery in the Lady Chapel is an exquisite piece of work; but amongst all that is to be most admired is the exceedingly beautiful fan-tracery in the roof of the 'Dorset' aisle—an aisle built by Cicely, heiress of Lord Bonville, and widow of the Marquis of Dorset, who died in 1501.

Two short pleached alleys of limes stand within the churchyard wall, looking down over a little square into which several streets open, and the old stocks still lie in the shadow of the trees.

Bishop Grandisson obtained a licence to establish here 'a monastery or collegiate church for a fixed number of secular canons ... governed mainly by a Warden, a Minister, and Sacrist, and a Chanter or Precentor,' and he drew up a most comprehensive set of statutes for their guidance. Occasionally he issued additional 'monitions,' as, for example, when the Warden had allowed stage-plays to be performed in church during the Christmas holidays. It is reasonable to suppose, however, that they were 'mystery plays' or 'moralities.'

Lord Coleridge says: 'The town was dominated by the College. The bridge by which you entered the town from the West was the bridge of the Holy Saviour. In one of its recesses the sacred light was ever kept burning, inviting those who passed to pray.' Henry VI and Henry VII both visited the College. The Dissolution swept it away, but a part of its endowment was devoted to founding the King's Grammar School.[Pg 58]

Many incidents befell Fairfax and his troops at Ottery. It was chosen for their winter-quarters in 1645, and they arrived worn-out and exhausted and in great need of refreshment. Ill-fortune, however, awaited them, as the Rev. Joshua Sprigg, General Fairfax's chaplain, tells us in Anglia Rediviva, his account of this army's movements. A mysterious disease broke out, very fatal, so that there were 'dying of soldiers and inhabitants in the town of Autree, seven, eight, and nine a day, for several weeks together.' A Colonel Pickering died of it, on whom the chaplain wrote an elegy. One has heard of blank-verse that is merely 'prose cut into lengths,' but his lines suggest that they must have been on the rack to bring them to the right measure. The author feared that it was the lack of action that had proved fatal.

But Sprigg's deep affection and respect cannot be disguised even by his words.

At Ottery, Sir Thomas Fairfax received and entertained two envoys from besieged Exeter, who came with a view to discussing the possible terms of a general peace; but their mission was, of course, unsuccessful. A pleasant event was the presentation to the General of a fair jewel, set with rich diamonds of great value, 'from both Houses of Parliament, as a testimonial to his great services at Naseby.' The jewel was tied with 'a blue ribbon and put about his neck.' Fairfax was staying in the old Chanter's House, now the property of Lord Coleridge, and the ceremony took place in a long panelled room, with deep-set window, then called the Great Parlour. Here also Fairfax held a deeply important conference with the 'Lord Generall Cromwell,' when he came to decide the plan of campaign in the West.

Ottery St Mary is able to pride itself on being the birthplace of the poet Coleridge, whose family had long been connected with the county. The poet's father was Vicar, and Master of the Grammar School. Great as was his genius, Coleridge was not[Pg 59] in every respect worthy of his birthplace, for in one of his letters he actually announces that he prefers Somerset to Devon!—evidence which clearly proves the correctness of the popular belief that poets have no judgment. But his real affection for the Otter is shown in his sonnet to the river on whose banks he lived in early years. Another poem, the 'Songs of the Pixies,' was inspired by the Pixies' Parlour, a tiny cave with roots of old trees for a ceiling, that stands halfway up a low cliff overhanging the river, just beyond the town. In this poem are the lines:

Ottery has other associations with literature, and it is interesting to remember that Thackeray lived near here in his youth, and that Ottery is the 'Clavering' of Pendennis, which was written while he was staying at Escot Vicarage close by.

A winter traveller in passing through the lanes near here recalls some beliefs of a past generation: 'The faint chimes of St Mary's in distant Ottery are playing their Christmas greeting over many a mile of moorland. We are passing the old "cob" walls and grey-headed barns of a substantial farmstead. The cocks will crow here all the night before Christmas Day, according to the beautiful legend of the county, to bid

The very oxen at midnight will fall down on their knees before the manger. The next turn brings us to the Otter rushing along some forty feet below with angry stream.' Almost at the mouth[Pg 60] of the river is the village of Otterton, and here was a Benedictine Priory, founded in the reign of King John. The Prior of this little monastery had certain privileges. Amongst others, ten marks had to be subscribed among the tenants for 'a palfrey to be presented to a new Prior on his coming to reside in the midst of his flock, and every plough had to plough one acre of land for him annually.' He had the 'right of pre-emption of fish in all his ports, and the choice of the best fish.' Conger-eels were specially mentioned in a marginal note. Besides this, he claimed every porpoise caught in the sea or other neighbouring waters, but paid for it with twelve pence and a loaf of white bread to each sailor, and two to the master of the boat from which it was caught. Lastly, the Prior claimed the half of every dolphin. But no Prior is likely to have had many chances of asserting this right.

The river runs into the sea by the charming little town of Budleigh Salterton; but it is more interesting to cross the water at Otterton, and passing through the village of East Budleigh, nearly opposite, to go towards Hayes Barton, the house where Sir Walter Raleigh was born.

Fardell, near Ivybridge, was the ancestral home of the Raleighs, but Sir Walter's father settled at Budleigh. In front of the garden a swirling stream crosses a strip of green; and in the garden, at the right time, one may see the bees busy among golden-powdered clusters of candytuft, and dark-red gillyflowers, and a few flame-rose-coloured tulips, proud and erect. The house is very picturesque; it has cob walls and a thatched roof, and is built in the shape of the letter E; a wing projects at either end, and in the middle the porch juts out slightly. The two wings are gabled; there is a small gable over the porch and two dormer ones over the windows at each side of it, the windows having lattice lights and narrow mullions. Dark carved beams above them show up well against the cream-coloured walls. The heavy door is closely studded with nails, and over it fall the delicate sprays and lilac 'butterfly' blossoms of a wistaria. The house has been little altered, and its outward appearance was probably almost the same in Sir Walter's boyhood as it is to-day.[Pg 61]

Branscombe

In front of Hayes Barton is a hill covered with oak-woods, and to the west the ground begins to slope upwards to the high moorland of Woodbury Common. Sir Walter had a great affection for his boyhood's home, and later, in trying to buy it back, he wrote to the then owner: 'I will most willingly give you whatsoever in your conscience you shall deem it worth; ... for ye naturall disposition I have to that place, being borne in that house, I had rather seat myself there, than anywhere else.'

To realize Sir Walter at all adequately, he must be contemplated as soldier, sailor, statesman, courtier, explorer, poet, historian, Governor of colonies abroad and of very important offices at home—most of all as a seer, for his eyes discerned a light that did not dawn on his contemporaries. He and his half-brother, Sir Humphrey Gilbert, foresaw 'that colonization, trade, and the enlargement of empire, were all more important for the welfare of England than the discovery of gold.' Major Hume, who is by no means over-prejudiced in Raleigh's favour, has said in his 'Life of Sir Walter Raleigh': 'To him is due the undying glory of having made the great northern continent of America an English-speaking country. With him it was no accident. The plan sprang fully formed from his great brain. He was greedy of gain, but he spent his money like water in this great project. He knew full well that there was no gold to reward him; that the profit, if any, must be slow, and must accrue mainly to the nation, and not to an individual; and yet he laboured on for thirty years in the face of defeat, disaster, contumely, and disgrace, in full faith and confidence that the great continent was by God's providence reserved for England.'

Raleigh's biographers have wondered at his immense knowledge of naval matters, and particularly of naval warfare, for the Ark Raleigh, which he had built after his own plans, was admitted to be the best ship in the fleet at the time of the Armada. Perhaps his genius for absorbing information developed very early, and Sir John Millais's picture of the two little boys, fascinated by the words of the sailor speaking to them of the breathless adventures he had fought through, the gorgeous sights that he[Pg 62] had seen in the lands overseas, helps to explain it. Most West-Countrymen can tell a tale dramatically, as the sailor is telling it—the picture was painted at Budleigh Salterton—and it may be that, with Raleigh's amazing faculty for gathering knowledge, he learned enough of seamanship as he grew up to enable him to grasp and hoard in his memory every detail of the subject as it came before him in later life.

It is impossible to judge any character of a past century without trying to realize in many questions of conduct the gulf that lies between the former point of view and our own, and whatever Sir Walter's faults were, his genius was incomparably greater. His failings were those of his age, and were more than surpassed by the shortcomings of several of Queen Elizabeth's very eminent statesmen. Raleigh left Oxford when he was only seventeen, and joined Mr Henry Champernowne's band of gentlemen volunteers who were fighting for the Protestant Princes in France. After six years' fighting he left the army and betook himself to the Middle Temple, where possibly he spent more time over lyrics than over the law, for a biographer, describing this period of his life, passes over his legal acquirements, but says that 'his vein for ditty and amorous ode was esteemed most lofty, insolent, and passionate.' He and Spenser were very congenial companions, and later Spenser, speaking of their great friendship, said: 'He pip'd, I sang, and when he sang, I pip'd.'

Sir Walter left the Temple for the sea, then went to fight in Ireland, and at the time of the Armada he was Lord Warden of the Stannaries, and responsible for the companies of tinners, who had turned to soldiering. He planned one expedition after another to the New World, and sent them out mainly at his own expense, giving careful instructions to those in charge to observe carefully any plants or produce of any kind that might profit this country, whereas usually explorers searched eagerly for precious metals alone. It was due to these instructions that the potato was brought to England. Rumour for long maintained that Sir Walter actually brought back the plant himself, but, as a matter of fact, the credit of this is due to Heriot, a man of science[Pg 63] employed by Raleigh. He showed it with the other 'commodities' he had collected to Sir Walter, who took the potatoes with him to Ireland, and planted them in his new estate of Youghal.

And though it was most probably Sir John Hawkins who introduced tobacco into England, it certainly was Sir Walter who brought smoking into fashion. In parenthesis, a warning may be given that anyone who wanders from east to west along the south coast of Devon will be wearied beyond measure by the numbers of rooms, banks, porches, and gardens, shown as the identical spot 'where Sir Walter smoked his first pipe.' Dr Brushfield, in an exhaustive article on 'Raleghana,' counts only six places, but they reach from Penzance to Islington, and one is in Ireland.

After the last dreary voyage, rendered fruitless by the contemptible double-dealing of James I, and during his trial, Sir Walter's self-possession and courage showed at their best. 'From eight in the morning till nearly midnight he fronted his enemies with unshaken courage. The bluster of Attorney-General Coke roared around him without effect. "I want words," stormed the great prosecutor, "to express thy viperous treason."

'"True," said Raleigh, "for you have spoken the same thing half a dozen times over already."'

It was characteristic of his grand views of life that within the four walls of a prison he should undertake no less a work than the History of the World. The unfinished history shows a depth of learning and dignity of style, very wonderful in the writings of a man who spent his life in incessant and absorbing action. It must have been the vast number of the chances and changes of life he had seen around him, and himself experienced, that inspired him to write that splendid apostrophe: 'O eloquent, just, and mighty Death! whom none could advise, thou hast persuaded; what none have dared, thou hast done; and whom all the world have flattered, thou only hast cast out of the world and despised; thou hast drawn together all the far-stretched greatness, all the pride, cruelty, and ambition of man, and covered it all over with these two narrow words, Hic jacet.'[Pg 64]

Not only in his visions of colonies was Raleigh far in advance of his time. Major Hume quotes his ideas on trade and commerce, the statesmanship displayed in his Prerogative of Parliaments, and his writings on the construction of ships and naval tactics, to show that in each subject he had arrived at conclusions now generally accepted, but only discovered by the public long after his death. This biographer ends by describing him as 'perhaps the most universally capable Englishman that ever lived.'

Sir Walter's last lines were written a few hours before his death, in his Bible:

Following the coast, 'running eastward with many winding and waving creeks,' Sidmouth is soon reached. Westcote is philosophical over both Sidmouth and Seaton: 'In former times, very famous ports (and every place and man hath but his time).' Sidmouth was an important fishing town several hundred years ago; it is now a popular watering-place, set among high red cliffs, amidst very pretty scenery, and favoured with a great deal of sunshine. Leading inland are very high and steep hills, different in shape from most of the hills in the neighbourhood, for they are neither rounded, pointed, nor sloping, but have a curious square, rather flat-topped look, and scarped sides.

Farther eastward, one comes to Branscombe, a straggling village in a broad hollow where three valleys meet. A stream flows down each combe, and eventually all three join and run together into the sea at Branscombe Mouth. There is a great deal to admire in the steep sides and irregular curves, softened by the spreading woods in these valleys, and close to the shore a hill rises almost precipitously for six hundred feet.[Pg 65]

Beer Beach

A very short distance further on, the white cliffs of the tiny cove of Beer come into view. Beer is an exceptionally delightful village, because of its strong individuality. At the top of the inlet the houses are clustered irregularly in little offshoots, but the main street runs down a deep cleft narrowing towards the sea between white gleaming chalk cliffs such as are rare in this county. A rapid stream races down the side of the street, and, dashing over a rock at the edge of the beach, buries itself in the shingle. Beer Head and the cliff that separates the village from Seaton run out into the sea, so that it is completely shut in, and from the water's edge it is impossible to see past those massive walls standing against the sea and sky on either side. The cove is so small that one wonders it counts as a harbour at all, but the beach is covered with many small boats and several heavily-built trawlers. As I saw it, the water was a clear blue-grey, and some sea-gulls were placidly floating a few yards from land, rising and falling as the waves rolled in, and looking as if they must be buried by each one. From Beer Head there is a splendid view of the coast; to the east, beyond Seaton, the landslip, and Lyme Regis, the line stretches grey and dim in the distance towards Portland; westwards, beyond Sidmouth's red cliffs, one sees how the land bends southward to Budleigh Salterton, and still further south towards Exmouth.

The little inobtrusive haven of Beer was in every way convenient for smugglers, and was naturally much beloved by them. Not more than seventy or eighty years ago, all the people in the village were supposed to take a share in the perils and joys of the ventures whenever they got the chance. The greatest of their number was a certain Jack Rattenbury, who began his life at sea when he was nine years old. Five years later he had already decided, 'I wished to make a figure on the stage of life,' and joined a privateering expedition. The ship was captured by the French, and Rattenbury taken prisoner. He escaped from prison, but not from Bordeaux, where for more than a year he was forced to stay, and he then sailed on his own account to America, and back to Havre, Copenhagen, and Guernsey. By the time he reached[Pg 66] home again he was only sixteen! His life was an unceasing turmoil: smuggling, privateering, being impressed for the navy, and devising wiles for slipping away again, with the variation of being taken prisoner by French or Spaniards.

A steep road runs through lovely scenery from Ottery to Seaton. At intervals it passes through woods, or looks down into the misty, green, undulating country northwards; then, climbing a ridge, the sea, framed in woods, is seen over little hollows in the distant cliffs to the south. The road crosses a common with a few knots of wind-swept fir-trees, and runs steeply down to Seaton. On the west side of the bay the cliffs are a creamy white; eastwards, the shades are chiefly buff and pale brown. The variety of their strata make the cliffs interesting to geologists, for here are found layers of different kinds of chalk, limestone, greensand, marls, chert, and interspersed lines of flints.

Seaton is a pleasant little town without any remarkable feature. In the church is this curious epitaph with the date 1633 A.D.:

John Starre
. . . . . .
Starr on hie!
Where should a starr be
But on Hie?

On the east side of Seaton is the flat wide Valley of the Axe. The river is broad and rather important-looking, but it makes a most inglorious exit into the sea, for a huge pebble ridge rises as an impassable barrier, and the river has to twist away farther east and run out obliquely through a narrow channel. Axmouth, on the farther side, is a pretty old-fashioned little village, the thatched whitewashed cottages forming a street that curves round almost into a loop, while a chattering stream runs between the houses. In the church is the figure of a tonsured priest, with chasuble, stole, and alb, supposed to be one of the early Vicars of Axmouth. At his feet lies a dog, and the legend goes that this was not merely the customary image of a dog seen on tombs, but the effigy of his own favourite, whom he desired to be buried at his feet;[Pg 67] and as an indemnity for this order he left a piece of ground to be devoted to charitable purposes, called Dog Acre Orchard. Mr Rogers, in his 'Memorials of the West,' tells us that the name remains till to-day.

Seaton Headland

A very short distance beyond is the great landslip which fell in 1839, when about fifty acres of the cliff slid more than a hundred feet to the shore beneath, but in such a way that part of an orchard descended with its growing trees, and they continued to flourish at their new level. More wonderful still, two cottages settled down on to the shore, without falling in pieces. The ground began to slide on the night of Christmas Eve, and by the evening of December 26 the great mass had fallen. To the west is a great chasm, and the cliff rises high on the seaward side. Farther east, no cliff rises beyond the chasm, but little hillocks and sand-dunes slope unevenly to the beach. The undercliff has not in the least the barren look of an ordinary bit of waste ground touching the shore, but is covered with grass and thick undergrowth, oaks and hawthorns, and masses of ivy, and beneath them the long spear-like leaves and scarlet-berried pods of the wild-iris.

If one returns to the Axe and begins to follow up its innumerable bends, one arrives opposite the little town of Colyton, which is not quite on the river. Mr Rogers says that the name comes from the British Collh y tun, and has the pretty meaning of 'the town where the hazels grow.'

Here is a fine church, chiefly Perpendicular, well known, among other reasons, for a richly carved tomb, on which is the effigy of a very small lady, a coronet on her head and a dog at her feet, with coats of arms hanging above. The figure was always known by the curious name of 'Little Choak-a-bone.' The old story said that the lady was the daughter of Lord Devon and his wife, Princess Katherine, daughter of Edward IV, and that she died because a fish-bone choked her. Now this has been corrected, and it is believed that the monument is of the wife of the fifth Earl of Devon, who lived nearly one hundred years earlier. But no disproof has been brought against the fish-bone!

Close to Colyton are the ruins of an old house of the Courtenays,[Pg 68] Colcombe, which has been partly converted into a farmhouse. Here Princess Katherine occasionally lived during her widowhood. Colcombe suffered much in the Civil War, for it was garrisoned by Prince Maurice, who led his troops into several skirmishes with the enemy, and during one of these affairs (it is supposed) the Castle was burned down.

The poor people living near Colcombe must have had a very bad time, with energetic Royalist and Parliamentary troops on either hand. Some sad little entries at this time are quoted from the diary of a serge-maker of Colyton, in which he counts up what he lost in cloth through the inroads of the 'Lyme Men' (Parliamentarians), and the 'wostard woole' and 'sarge' torn from him by 'Percy's men' (Royalists).

Unluckily, it is not possible to pause among the throng of interesting memories that are called up by almost every step of the way. One may not sketch the career of Dr Marwood, who journeyed to London from these parts and cured 'a certain noble Lord,' a favourite of Queen Elizabeth, but returned home because, 'finding himselfe much envyed by the Court physitians, he thought he was not safe there!'—a naïve reflection on the doctors that reminds one of their contemporary Catherine de' Medici's creature, René of Milan, who was popularly known as l'empoisonneur de la reine.

It is only possible to make a brief reference to a manor, nowadays a farm—Ashe, where the great Duke of Marlborough was born. Marlborough can hardly be called a son, but perhaps a grandson, of the county, for though Sir Winston Churchill was of Dorsetshire, the Churchills were an old Devonshire family, of whom one branch had migrated to the next county. Ashe was the home of the Duke's mother, Elizabeth, daughter of Sir John Drake, and here she returned when the Civil War was just ended, and the triumphant Parliamentarians were making themselves very objectionable, especially to such a fervent Royalist as her husband. Sir Winston was eventually forced to compound for so large a sum that it was convenient for them to live for some years with Lady Churchill's father.[Pg 69]

There is, unfortunately, no space to look at the very interesting history of the Bonvilles, the ruins of whose old house, Shute, in its beautiful park, among deer and woods and magnificent cedars, is close to Ashe. The title became extinct in the Wars of the Roses, for the family suffered beyond recovery, and the last Lord Bonville had the overwhelming grief of losing his only son and grandson in the Battle of Wakefield. The great estates passed to his little great-granddaughter, Cicely Bonville, who, more than forty years later, built the Dorset aisle in the church at Ottery St Mary.

The fine building, Newenham Abbey, stood close to the outskirts of the park, and Sir Nicholas Bonville was a great benefactor to the Abbey, but it was founded by two brothers, Sir William and Sir Reginald Mohun. The Abbey Church alone was three hundred feet in length and one hundred and fifty feet in breadth, and now of all the buildings, there remain but a few fragments of walls and the stonework of a chapel window.

Axminster, not a mile away, was in Leland's day 'a pratie quik Market Town.' It was the scene of one very interesting event, for here the Duke of Monmouth's followers first met the royal troops under the renowned General Monk, then Duke of Albemarle, and caused them to fly before their inferior undisciplined numbers. Albemarle dared not risk a battle, as he became alarmed by the temper of his troops, and feared lest they might go over to Monmouth if they did but catch sight of their beloved hero; for the General's troops belonged to the Devonshire militia, and Monmouth was adored by all the country-people in the West. The General ordered a hurried retreat, without attempting any engagement, and Monmouth marched triumphantly to Taunton. The callous brutality of Sedgmoor, and the atrocious barbarities of the Bloody Assizes following it, are too intolerable to think of. A ballad has been written called 'The Sorrowful Lamentation of the Widdows of the West', and one wonders whether its obsequious tone is due to the author being a partisan of James II, who expressed what he thought they ought to feel, or whether the verse-maker was one in their midst,[Pg 70] who saw that there was indeed no spirit left in them. I quote a few of the verses:

[Pg 71]

The Windypost, or Beckamoor Cross

CHAPTER IV

Dartmoor

The region of the Forest of Dartmoor and Commons of Devon is one which excites a vast difference of opinion. For some it has an extraordinary fascination, whilst to others it is only, like a beautiful view in the Highlands which I once heard depreciated by a native—'just hills.' And the hills on Dartmoor are not even very high. Yes Tor, till lately thought to be the highest point, is only a little over two thousand feet; and High Willhayes, its superior, cannot claim to be more than a few feet higher. So there are no towering heights or tremendous precipices to explain its peculiar spell. Sir Frederick Pollock, in paying true homage to the moor, gives the reason that accounts for Dartmoor's dominion—its individuality. 'The reader may think fit to observe, and with undisputable truth, that there are many other moors in the world. Yes, but they are not Dartmoor.' And there is no more to be said.

A very truthful and vivid description of the moor has been given by the late Mr R. J. King: 'The dusky sweep of hills stretches away with an endless variety of form and outline; in some parts[Pg 72] sharply peaked, and crested with masses of broken rock; at others, rounded and massive, and lifting a long line of sombre heath against the sky. The deep hollows which separate the hills are thickly covered with fern and heather, over which blocks of granite are scattered in all directions; and, as in all similar districts, each valley has its own clear mountain stream, which receives the innumerable waterfalls descending from the hill-sides. The whole country has a solitude, and an impressive grandeur, which insensibly carries back the mind to an earlier and ruder age.'

Let the time or season be what it may, the moor has some fresh charm to offer. In the early summer there is a special soft greenness, and the hot air quivers above and about the rocks; later the hill-sides are coloured by the lilac-pink of the ling and the richer tones of bell-heather; and when the autumn leaves are fading and falling 'inland,' there may come such a day of sunshine and glorious blue sky, with the larks singing on every side among the golden furze-blossoms, that one is able to forget the calendar. And then, amongst the great boulders covered with white lichen that lie along the sides of streams, the leaves of the whortleberries turn scarlet over the little round fruit, with its plum-like bloom. Sometimes in winter the snow lies in patches on the hills, among stretches of pale grass and rich, dark, red-brown masses of heather. On the edge of the moor, the springs by the roadsides flow through a sparkling white border into a shining ice hollow,[Pg 73] and, looking away, one sees snow-covered heights against a pale blue sky, in the unbroken stillness of distance. Perhaps the moor is specially irresistible when the full moon throws its magic over hill and valley, suggesting infinite possibilities. In the clear air the hills look very solemn and impressive, and the long, broken reflections of the moonbeams lie in every stream as it ripples over rocks or breaks against boulders; while the foam gleams and trembles as flakes are torn away by the current and swallowed up by the black shadows. In such a time and place one may learn the meaning of 'a silence that can be heard.'

Yes Tor: Dartmoor

Dartmoor rises high above the surrounding country, and keeps his white winter livery lying upon it long time, if not washed away by rain. The air is delicious, but it must be admitted that the moor has a very ample share of wind, rain, and mists. Faultfinders have also complained of the bogs, and occasional accidents to travellers' horses have given the mires the significant name of 'Dartmoor Stables,' although the moor ponies are supposed always to be able to pick a safe path through dangerous places.

From a certain point of view, Dartmoor reminds one of the mirror of the Lady of Shalott, for here

Or, rather, the shadows of a past world are reflected in its wastes, witnessing to prehistoric man; to the tinners, who appear out of the mists of antiquity, and who peopled the moor through the Middle Ages; to the dawn of Christian teaching in the country; and to the Normans, with their forest rights and laws. Antiquities abound, although there are instances where it is most difficult to decide whether the remains are prehistoric, or merely traces of mediæval mining. 'It is possible that "old men's workings," as the traces of abandoned mines are called in this country, may account for more of them than is generally admitted.' But modern observations have severely excluded any fanciful theories. 'Certain stone inclosures which have passed for British fortifications are now more plausibly considered to have been made (at a sufficiently remote time, we may freely allow) for the protection of cattle.' However,[Pg 74] after deducting any objects of doubtful antiquity, there remain an enormous number as to which, there can be no question—stone rows, kistvaens, menhirs, large circles of upright stones, forts and barrows, and pounds enclosing hut-circles. It is interesting to read the views of antiquaries at different stages of the nineteenth century, and their flat contradictions of the opinions of their predecessors. A good instance is given in the new edition of that mine of information, Rowe's 'Perambulation of Dartmoor,' where certain verdicts as to the origin of Grimspound are quoted. 'Polwhele states that it was a seat of judicature for the Cantred of Darius; Samuel Rowe, that it was a Belgic or Saxon camp; Ormerod considered it a cattle-pound pure and simple; Spence Bate was convinced that it was nothing more than a habitation of tinners, and of no great age; while now the work of the Rev S. Baring-Gould and Mr Robert Burnard goes far to show that its construction reaches back into a remote past, and that its antiquity is greater than any former investigator dared to assign to it.'

The great numbers of prehistoric people who lived on the moor are very remarkable. 'Tens of thousands of their habitations have been destroyed,' says Mr Baring-Gould, 'yet tens of thousands remain. At Post Bridge, within a radius of half a mile, are fifteen pounds. If we give an average of twenty huts to a pound, and allow for habitations scattered about, not enclosed in a pound, and give six persons to a hut, we have at once a population, within a mile, of 2,000 persons.' Perhaps they climbed so high because on the lower slopes the forest was thick, and wild beasts were more to be feared, though, according to tradition, they were certainly not free from danger on the moor; for 'wolves and winged serpents were no strangers to the hills or valleys.' All their possessions that we are aware of belong to the early Bronze Age, when flint was used in great quantities, and bronze was known, but was rare and very valuable. The amber pommel of a dagger, inlaid with gold pins, and part of a bronze dagger blade, were found in a barrow on Hameldon, and a few other bronze weapons have been discovered; flint implements in abundance. Great numbers of flint scrapers for cleaning the skins of animals, and small[Pg 75] knives for cutting up meat, have been picked up; arrow-heads are scarce, and it would seem that they left very few celts or axes, and spear-heads.

Lustleigh Cleave

Of the exceedingly interesting remains, perhaps the most interesting—at any rate, to the uninitiated—is Grimspound. The boundary wall, which is double, encloses four acres; it is from ten to twelve feet thick, but not above five and a half feet in height. Within the circle are twenty-four hut-circles, and in some of them charcoal and fragments of pottery have been found. A brook, dipping under the walls, and passing through the enclosure, supplied the camp with water.

Drizzlecombe, near Sheep's Tor, is rich in a variety of antiquities, for it has three stone rows, a large tumulus, a kistvaen, and a later relic—a miner's blowing-house. One of the avenues is two hundred and sixty feet long, and one is double for a part of the way, and each of the three starts from a menhir, or long stone. Near Merivale Bridge are two double stone rows, but the stones are small. Close by are a sacred circle, a kistvaen, a pound and hut-circles, and one cairn, besides the ruins of others that have been destroyed. It would be absurd to pretend to enter on such a wide subject here. Some idea of its extent may be gathered by considering one single branch of it: Mr Baring-Gould has stated that no fewer than fifty stone avenues have been observed in different parts of the moor. And hut-circles and ancient track-lines are unnumbered, although very many antiquities of all kinds have been destroyed when granite was wanted for rebuilding churches, or for making doorways or gate-posts, or even for mending roads.

The early antiquaries discovered the hand of the Druids in certain unusual rock-shapes, now known to be the work of Nature—such as rock-basins, which are developed in the granite by the action of wind and rain; tolmens, or holed stones; and logans, or rocking-stones. Granite on the moor generally weathers irregularly, and if the lower part of a piled-up mass partly crumbles away, a huge layer of harder granite remains balanced on one or two points, and becomes what is called a logan-stone.[Pg 76] In some cases, though the slab is almost impossible to remove, it will rock at a finger-touch. Perhaps the most striking example on Dartmoor is the Rugglestone, near Widdecombe, which it has been calculated weighs about one hundred and ten tons; but there are several in the neighbourhood, and a logan called the Nut-Crackers is perched among the thickly scattered boulders on Lustleigh Cleave. This lovely little valley lies on the eastern edge of the moor, and the River Bovey flows through it. Masses of granite crown the ridge; lower on the hill-side is a jungle of tall bracken, and the stream is overshadowed by a wood, crowded with matted undergrowth and with innumerable rocks tumbled together.

Granite more consistent than that found on most of the tors—that is, 'not broken into the usual layers of soft beds alternating with hard layers'—forms the great masses of rock on Hey Tor, and these have not weathered into strange, jagged outlines. William Howitt wrote a charming description of Hey Tor in his 'Rural Life of England,' from which I quote a few lines: 'Below, the deep dark river went sounding on its way with a melancholy music, and as I wound up the steep road all beneath the gnarled oaks, I ever and anon caught glimpses of the winding valley to the left, all beautiful with wild thickets and half-shrouded faces of rock, and still on high these glowing ruddy tors standing in the blue air in their sublime silence. My road wound up and up, the heather and bilberry on either hand.'

A 'wonder' which has been associated with the Druids is the grove of oaks called Wistman's Wood. It lies close to Two Bridges, on the slope above the West Dart, and at a little distance looks more like a furze-brake than a wood. All the oaks are dwarfs, stunted by the lack of soil and force of the winds. Mr Rowe quotes from a 'botanical writer,' who examined some of them: 'The bole of this tree was about three feet high, and its total height to the topmost branches fifteen feet. The circumference of the trunk was six feet, and its prime must have been about the date of the Norman Conquest.' Some of the boughs, like the trunks, are immensely thick for the height of the trees, and[Pg 77] they are covered with very deep cushions of bright green moss and hangings of polypody, and whortleberries grow upon them. Every step between the trees is perilous, among the uneven crowded masses of rocks and half-concealed clefts. Many of the boulders are moss-covered, a kind of sedge and long, flag-like grass spring among the crevices and add to the pitfalls, and the whole wood really has the air of having been bewitched. Mrs Bray's impressions of it are interesting. She found the slope 'strewn' all over with immense masses of granite.... In the midst of these gigantic blocks, growing among them, or starting, as it were, from their interstices, arises wildly, and here and there widely scattered, a grove of dwarf oak-trees.... They spread far and wide at their tops, and their branches twist and bend in the most tortuous manner; sometimes reminding one of those strange things called mandrakes, of which there is a superstition noticed by Shakespeare—

Wistman's Wood

Though some of the stone circles on the moor are due to miners rather than to prehistoric man, their antiquity may very well win respect; for, according to the views of the early nineteenth century, it was quite probable that the Phoenicians were trading with this island for tin in the year 1000 B.C.! It is unnecessary to say that the reasoning which supports this theory is very ingenious, and later opinions do not allow that the Phoenicians ever traded directly with Britain at all. The metal, it is held, was brought to the Mediterranean coast through the medium of 'the Veneti of what is now Vannes, and the tin trade was carried through Gaul to Marseilles.' To take a great leap from the date originally suggested, there is certain evidence that British tin was conveyed over this trade route in the year 40 B.C. The Romans taught the Britons better methods of mining, and how tin might be used for household needs. Another long interval without any mention of the subject brings us to the reign of the Normans, when it seems that the mines were almost entirely in the hands of the Jews. On their expulsion by Edward I, the mines were neglected for a few years, and next a[Pg 78] charter was granted to several Devonshire gentlemen, at their request, conferring the important privilege of holding plea of all actions relating to the mines, 'those of lyfe, lymme, and lande' excepted. Henceforward the Devonshire miners were separated from the Cornish, and held stannary parliaments on the top of Crockern Tor. The summit is piled with granite, and out of the rock was hewn 'a warden's or president's chair, seats for the jurors, and a high corner stone for the crier of the court, and a table,' says Polwhele; and here the 'hardy mountain council'—twenty-four burgesses from each of the stannary towns—assembled. 'This memorable place is only a great rock of moorstone, out of which a table and seats are hewn, open to all the weather, storms and tempests, having neither house nor refuge near it by divers miles,' wrote Prince. It is much to be regretted that nearly all traces of the court have now disappeared, and a report says that the table and seats were carried away to be used for some buildings not far off. It is said that the last parliament was held on this tor in 1749, but for some time before that date the court merely met on the tor, and, after the jurors had been sworn in, adjourned to one of the stannary towns.

From the charter of Edward I onwards, mining seems to have prospered, with one or two intervals of great depression, and as late as 1861 seventy-four mines were being worked in Devonshire. 'Streaming' for tin was very much practised in the Middle Ages, and the sides of valleys all over Dartmoor are scored with the works of the tin-streamers, who turned about the streams and examined the beds for 'grain-tin.' Many of the ruined 'blowing-houses' are still to be seen on the moor. Mrs. Bray mentions a curious testimony to the wildness and remoteness of the parts in which some of the miners must have worked: 'A very old woodcut ... exhibited a whole pack of hounds harnessed and laden with little bags of tin, travelling over the mountains of Dartmoor; these animals being able to cross the deep bogs of the forest in situations where there were no roads, and where no other beasts of burden could pass.'

It was owing to the mines that Dartmoor became a part of the[Pg 79] Duchy, for the 'metalliferous' moors of Dartmoor and Cornwall had, on that account, long been Crown lands; and therefore, when Edward III created his eldest son Prince of Wales and Duke of Cornwall, the Chase of Dartmoor, and the Castle and Manor of Lydford were granted to him with the estates in Cornwall. Dartmoor has existed as a forest practically from time immemorial, and the date when forest laws were first imposed on it is, in the opinion of the learned, 'lost in antiquity.' The first charter affecting the state of the moor was bestowed in 1204, when King John was compelled reluctantly to grant a Charter of Forests, disafforesting the lands that had been gradually appropriated by the Kings since Henry I. Surrounding the forest proper are lands known as the Commons of Devon, and, usually speaking, they are included in any general reference to Dartmoor. Every parish in Devonshire, excepting Barnstaple and Totnes, has a right to pasture cattle on them for the payment of a small sum. Two classes of men have special rights in the moor: owners and occupiers of tenements within the forest, and venville tenants, or owners of land in particular vills, or towns, adjoining the forest. Claims and counter-claims as to their exact rights and liabilities have been pressed in successive centuries, but various ancient documents set forth these tenants' rights, 'time out of mind, to take all things that might do them good, saving green oak and venison.' These privileges include pasturing all 'commonable beasts' on the moor, digging turf for fuel, stone and sand for mending houses and lands, and taking heath for thatching, 'paying their dues and doing their suits and services.' The 'suits and services' involved attendance at the Prince's Courts, and the tenants' help at the time of the bullock and pony drifts—that is, when the herds are driven off the moor by the moormen to a point chosen by the Duchy steward, and are there identified by their owners.

In the Duchy records appear various well-known names that one does not naturally associate with the Forest. The Conqueror granted it to his half-brother, Robert, Earl of Montaigne; King John gave the Earldom of Cornwall to his second son, Richard Plantagenet, afterwards King of the Romans. This Prince[Pg 80] 'much augmented the powers of the stannaries of Devon and Cornwall, and under his auspices they thrived exceedingly.' For a short time the earldom was bestowed on Piers Gaveston; Thomas Cromwell and some others had a lease of the lead-mines on the moor for twenty-one years; the first Earl of Bedford was 'Custos of the Forest or Chase of Dartmoor'; and Sir Walter Raleigh was appointed Ranger and Master Forester, besides being Lord Warden of the Stannaries. The first perambulation of the forest boundaries probably took place in 1224, and others have been made at intervals ever since; yet a long tale of grievances from that date almost up to the present time might be heard from commoners whose rights have been encroached upon.

The bounds of property owned by religious houses at certain points were marked by granite crosses, of which a great number are still to be found on the moor. Some of them, however, were standing long before the monasteries were built. To take one instance, the cross on Sourton Down has an inscription which, it has been declared, belongs to the sixth century, and which can still be deciphered when the sun is setting and the rays slant across it. The Abbot's Way, leading over the moor, is marked by crosses. It ran westwards from Buckfast Abbey, and divided at Broad Rock, near Plym Head, in the middle of the moor—one branch going to Tavistock, and the other to Buckland Abbey. The path cannot now be traced the whole way, but the crosses show the line. Beckamoor Cross (or the Windy Post, as it is sometimes called), between two and three miles south-east of Tavistock, is a typical Dartmoor cross, and a fine example, but it cannot be numbered among the very old ones, for it seems to date from the sixteenth century.

Perhaps the Dartmoor village best known by name is Widdecombe-in-the-Moor, and its fame is spread by the song 'Widdecombe Fair;' this is the most popular of Devonshire folk-songs, and the air served the Devon Regiment as a march in the Boer War. But Widdecombe has more solid claims to consideration, and one of them is the large and beautiful church, with its very fine tower and high crocketed pinnacles, each pointed by a cross. The roof is adorned by 'bosses, carved and painted with heads, flowers[Pg 81] and leaves, and also figures or marks which obscurely shadow forth the learning of the alchemist.' The presence of these symbols is explained by a tradition that the church was built by miners. 'On one of the bosses is the combination of three rabbits, each with a single ear, which join in the centre, forming a triangle—a favourite alchemical symbol, called the hunt of Venus.' Parts of the rood-screen remain, and on the panels are painted saints and doctors of the Church, and a king and queen. On October 21, 1638, a terrible storm raged here during service-time. First fell 'a strange darkenesse'; then a terrific thunder-clap; 'the ratling thereof' was much like 'the report of many great cannons.' 'Extraordinarie lightning' flashed, 'so flaming that the whole church was presently filled with fire and smoke,' and a smell of brimstone, and a great ball of fire came in at the window and passed through the church. The church itself was much torne and defaced, 'stones throwne from the Tower as thick as if an hundred men had been there throwing.' Several people were killed and many 'grievously scalded and wounded.' The history of the storm has been told in verse, and the lines were painted on tablets and placed in the church. Mrs Bray found 'the wildest tales' of the storm floating among the people in the neighbourhood, and, amongst them, 'One story is that the devil, dressed in black and mounted on a black horse, inquired his way to the church, of a woman who kept a little public-house on the moor. He offered her money to become his guide; but she distrusted him, in remarking that the liquor went hissing down his throat, and finally had her suspicions confirmed by discovering he had a cloven foot, which he could not conceal even by his boot.'

Widdecombe-in-the-Moor

Widdecombe is called cold and bleak, and it is not only with the terrific tempest that its name is associated, for when the snow fell thickly the South Devon folk used to look—as perhaps they still do—towards the moor, and say to the children: 'Widdecombe hills are picking their geese, faster, faster, faster.'

About twelve miles south-west of Widdecombe is Sheeps Tor, a sharply defined height that has given its name to the parish[Pg 82] and tiny village that it overshadows. Originally it was called Shettes Tor—that is, Steep Tor, the word being derived from the Celtic syth.

Hidden among the great piles of moorstone heaped upon the tor is a cave known as the Pixies' House. Mrs Bray describes an expedition that she made to Sheeps Tor, and how, on asking her way to the cave, she was told to 'be careful to leave a pin, or something of equal value, as an offering to these invisible beings; otherwise they would not fail to torment us in our sleep.' Grass grows on the lower slopes, but near the summit there spreads a 'bold and shelving sweep of about two hundred feet, the granite ... totally bare, save where it was here and there covered by a coating of mosses and lichens. It lies tossed about in enormous masses in every direction.' The cave itself is in the midst of 'most confused masses of rock, that looked as if they had been tossed about by the fiends in battle,' and the entrance itself is a 'cleft between two rocks.' A story of human interest is also connected with the cave, for here Walter Elford, Lord of the Manor, was forced to hide when the country was being searched for him. Squire Elford was a Parliamentarian, and one of the 'secluded' members of the Long Parliament; but he was so far thrown into opposition by the development of the Protector's policy that he reached the point of plotting against him, and in consequence a party of Desborough's troops were sent in pursuit of the squire to his own house. Fortunately, among the huge boulders the entrance to the cave was very difficult to find, and the Pixies' House proved a safe refuge until the search-parties were withdrawn.

About fifteen miles from Widdecombe, on the north-west side of the moor, lies Lydford, whose size is in no way proportionate to its antiquity. 'Doubtless,' says Risdon, 'in the Saxons' heptarchy, it was a town of some note, that felt the furious rage of the merciless Danes.' And it is true that in 997 Lydford was burned down by them. At this time Lydford had its own mint, and money was coined here; and in the Domesday Book it was described as being taxed equally with London. But the village is very conspicuously a victim of 'the whirligig of time,' and William Browne[Pg 83] gives a most unflattering picture of its appearance in the middle of the seventeenth century:

Sheepstor

The Castle is not very large, and is now utterly in ruins, though the walls of the square keep are still standing. In Browne's day it was used as the stannary prison, and was denounced in an Act of Parliament as 'one of the most heinous, contagious, and detestable places in the realm.' For many years after this Lydford was a lonely village, generally ignored, in spite of its fine air and beautiful scenery. Towards the moor it looks up to an irregular barrier (about a mile or so distant) of very picturesque tors, and in the opposite direction a fertile and pleasant country spreads[Pg 84] beneath it. The River Lyd winds through scenes that are always delightful and sometimes very striking, but the cascade has been so much praised that, if seen in summer, it is apt to be disappointing. Lydford Gorge, however, is properly placed among the 'wonders' of Devonshire—to use Fuller's expression. The gorge is deep and exceedingly narrow, and the sides are precipitous. The river, rushing between blocks of stone, flows so far below the road that from the bridge, where the chasm is only a few yards wide, it is almost invisible. Risdon says: 'It maketh such a hideous noise, that being only heard, and not seen, it causeth a kind of fear to the passengers, seeming to them that look down to it, a deep abyss.' A story (that may quite easily be true) is told of a man arriving late one night in Lydford from Tavistock, to the amazement of Lydford people, who knew that their bridge had been broken down. In the darkness the traveller had noticed 'nothing more than that his horse had made a sudden spring; but on being afterwards led to the chasm he was struck with a mingled sensation of horror, surprise, and thankfulness.'

Lydford Bridge

From an historical point of view, it is ludicrous to think of Lydford and Princetown, its neighbour (as one counts neighbours on a moor)—Lydford, in all its glory nearly a hundred years before the Conquest, and Princetown, created by the Prince Regent. It is, I believe, the highest village in England, and in walking up to it there comes a feeling that this is rather like walking up a gigantic snail-shell, and that, when one reaches the top, it is the very top and end of all things. A tranquillity reigns over the tiny town which even the occasional sight of warders with their loaded rifles does not break; and the workaday world seems to have been left far below.

But the desolate moor as seen from this point, the bleak winds, and very frequent rain, brought cold comfort to the French prisoners of war, on whose account the prison was built. Their views are probably reflected in a gloomy description of Princetown, traducing the climate, which was given by a French writer, quoted by Mr R. J. King. 'For seven months in the year,' says a[Pg 85] M. Catel, 'it is a vraie Sibérie, covered with unmelting snow. When the snows go away, the mists appear.'

The lot of the French prisoners, however, was tempered by certain alleviations, and very many of them were allowed to live on parole in specified towns, most of which are near the moor. In 1813 a large number of American prisoners of war were added to the eight thousand French at Princetown, but for some reason were not at first allowed the same privileges. This may help to account for the aggrieved tone in which one of them refers to his French fellow-prisoners, as well as to the British. Andrews wrote a journal which was afterwards published. 'The Seigneurs,' he says, 'received remittances from their friends or had money of their own, and were able to support themselves in a genteel manner.' They were allowed to have plays with a stage and scenery once a month, and also 'had their schools for teaching the arts and sciences, dancing, fencing, and fiddling.' He criticises them severely: 'They drink, sing and dance,' and, with a fine allusion to emphasise his point, declares: 'But the Americans have not that careless volatility, like the cockle in the fable, to sing and dance when the house is on fire over them.' The French were released after the abdication of Napoleon; a year later, peace was signed between England and America, and then, till 1850, the buildings were unoccupied. In that year the decision was made that they should be used as a convict prison, and as a result, one must agree with Sir Frederick Pollock, it 'is the ugliest thing physically and morally on the moor.'

It is pleasanter to turn back to the moor itself—to topics less out of character with it. Foremost appear stories of magic, black and white, ancient beliefs and legends without end. Mr King, whose knowledge of the country was at once vast and minute, is quoted as having said 'that he believed almost every form of superstition or superstitious observances condemned in the Penitential of Bartholomew, Bishop of Exeter, 1161-1184, might be found sheltering itself under the Dartmoor Tors.' (This remark must have been made about the middle of the nineteenth century.) 'The same wild creed has been handed down from generation to[Pg 86] generation; the same spots on the lonely moor, and the same gloomy pools in the river, that were shunned by his forefathers, are avoided as "critical" (to use his own word) by the Devonshire peasant now ... and whoever may find himself in the heart of its lonely wastes when daylight is closing, and the air seems to fill with

will scarcely wonder that the spirits of the elder world should not yet have been effectually dislodged from their ancient solitudes.... The Pixies, thoroughly mischievous elves, who delight to lead all wanderers astray, dwell in the clefts of broken granite, and dance on the green sward by the side of the hill streams; ... sometimes, but very rarely, they are seen dancing by the streams dressed in green, the true livery of the small people. They ride horses at night, and tangle their manes into inextricable knots. They may be heard pounding their cider and threshing their wheat far within the recesses of their "house" on Sheepstor—a cavern formed by overhanging blocks of granite. Deep river pools and deceitful morasses, over which the cotton grass flutters its white tassels, are thought to be the "gates" of their country, where they possess diminutive flocks and herds of their own. Malicious, yet hardly demoniacal, they are precisely Dryden's "spirits of a middle sort"—

—a character which cannot, however, be assigned to their unearthly companions, the wish-hounds. These have no redeeming tinge of white, and belong to the gloomiest portion of the underworld.'

A true lover of the moor, and very sensitive to its element of mystery, Mr King has put what he has seen and imagined into verse that must be most appreciated by those who know the Forest best:[Pg 87]

THE FOREST OF THE DARTMOORS.

'It is the wide extent of these solitary wastes which makes them so impressive, and gives them their influence over the imagination. Whether seen at mid-day, when the gleams of sunlight are chasing one another along the hill-side; or at sunset, when the long line of dusky moorland lifts itself against the fading light of the western sky, the same character of extent and freedom is impressed on the landscape, which carries the fancy from hill to hill, and from valley to valley, and leads it to imagine other scenes, of equal wildness, which the distant hills conceal

Perhaps the scenery of Dartmoor is never more impressive than under those evening effects which have last been suggested. The singular shapes assumed by the granite cappings of the tors are strongly projected against the red light of the sunset, which gleams between the many openings in the huge piles of rock, making them look like passages into some unknown country beyond them, and suggesting that idea of infinity which is afforded by no other object of sight in equal degree. Meanwhile, the heather of the foreground is growing darker and darker; and the only sound which falls upon the ear is that of the river far below, or perhaps the flapping of some heron's wings, as he rises from his rock in the stream and disappears westward—

[Pg 89]

Hey Tor

CHAPTER V

The Teign

The Teign rises, as do most of the rivers in Devon, on Dartmoor, and starts across the moorlands towards the north. After a few miles it is joined by the Wallabrook, and at that point turns eastwards.

The moorland country about it is very beautiful, but especially when the heather and furze are in flower together, and far and wide stretches a most royal display of rose-purple and gold. Ferns hang over the transparent brown water, with its glancing lights, and tiny ferns and polypodys peer out from the crannies and hollows of big grey boulders. Here and there bushy willows grow along the edge, or a mountain-ash shows its feathery, deep green foliage and clusters of scarlet berries. A clapper bridge—that is, a bridge formed out of a single slab of granite—over twelve feet long lies across the Wallabrook near the meeting of the streams. Beside it grows a mountain-ash, and the quivering and wavering leaves, and their shadows that quiver and waver in the ripples beneath, make a profound contrast to that massive, immovable stone, that from its look may certainly be included among those Dartmoor antiquities which Sir Frederick Pollock says 'may very well have been as great a mystery to the contemporaries of Julius Cæsar as they are to ourselves.' Modern opinion,[Pg 90] however, denies that these bridges on the moor are of a very great age. Close by on the north stands Scorhill Circle, one of those stone circles over the history of which antiquaries still differ.

A little farther down, on the north bank, is a tolmen, and there is a tradition that to creep through the hole brings luck. The rock has, of course, been associated with the Druids and their rites, but the hole is really a natural one.

About three miles farther down the river one arrives at Chagford, and perhaps the two things that a stranger will first notice about this little town are, that the air is very exhilarating and the people particularly courteous. For the rest, though not echoing Lord Clarendon's remark, that, but for the calamity of Sidney Godolphin's death, it is 'a place which could never otherwise have had a mention in this world,' one must admit that it is not very remarkable. The moment when Chagford came most violently into contact with public affairs was that mentioned by Lord Clarendon, and most heartily must the inhabitants have wished themselves back in their usual peaceful solitude. Sir John Berkeley, at that time, 'with a good party, volant, of horse and dragoons,' was descending in 'all places in the surrounding country where Parliamentarians were known to be assembled, "dissolving" them, and taking many prisoners.' Of one of these 'necessary and brisk expeditions' Chagford was the goal, and arriving very early in the morning, still in the dark, they fell upon it before day. The chilly January dawn broke over a much-discomforted town, ringing with shots, the trampling of horses, and the clash of steel, but the Royalist troops were sturdily resisted, and Godolphin was slain, it is said, in the porch of the Three Crowns Inn. Clarendon writes of him: 'There was never so great a mind and spirit contained in so little room;' and in his account of the skirmish he says: 'As his advice was of great authority with all the commanders ... so he exposed his person to all action, travel, and hazard; and by too forward engaging himself in this last received a mortal shot by a musket, a little above the knee, of which he died in the instant.' Sidney Godolphin, it will be remembered, was one of the celebrated 'four[Pg 91] wheels of Charles's Wain, all Devonshire and Cornish men, and all slain at or near the same place, the same time, and in the same cause....

Fingle Bridge

In early days Chagford was one of the four Stannary towns, the others being Ashburton, Tavistock, and Plympton. Risdon mentions that 'This place is priviledged with many immunities which tinners enjoy; and here is holden one of the courts for Stannary causes.'

The river flows from Chagford in a north-easterly direction till Drewsteignton stands due north, when it turns to the east. Drewsteignton is a large village, and has a granite church, the tower of which is Decorated, and the nave Perpendicular. In this parish was the barton of Drascombe, and in the reign of Edward I, Walter de Bromehall held it 'by the sergeanty of finding our Lord the King, whensoever he should hunt in the forest of Dartmoor, one bow and three barbed arrows. And it was let at five shillings a year rent.' One would imagine that King Edward I can seldom have found time to amuse himself so far west, and the tenant would not find the conditions a heavy tax.

The scenery by the river is very fine all about here, and Fingle Gorge is generally considered to be the most beautiful of the many beautiful glens through which the Teign passes. It is a deep ravine with high and steep sides, that are thickly wooded and broken by great boulders. At Fingle Bridge four winding valleys meet; that is, the combe down which the river sweeps from above curves one way, and the narrow opening into which it disappears twists sharply round in another. A cleft, half hidden in trees, divides the line of hills that shut in the tiny valley-meadow on the west, and a road and a small stream scramble down a less severe descent between the high sides, from the north-east. But from no point near the bridge would it be more possible to see far up any cleeve, than it would be for a ladybird, perched at one end, to trace all the lines of a stag's horn. If in one direction there was a gentle slope and smiling prospect beyond, the peculiar effect would be[Pg 92] gone. There is a stillness, and almost a solemnity, in this little opening closed in narrowly on every side by the steep hills rising straight above it on every side, and looking as unchanging as if what they are to-day, that they have been since the beginning of time. Besides, there is a feeling of wildness and remoteness which cannot be exactly accounted for by the scenery. A living writer has said that there is that, in a beautiful landscape in a country inhabited from prehistoric time, that there is not in an equally lovely scene in a new country. Though no tangible marks of the presence of men may be left, there is an intangible something that makes itself felt though it cannot be defined, and the view is on that account the more interesting, and makes a deeper appeal to the spectator.

In Fingle Gorge, actual though not conspicuous traces of the Britons are easily found. Immediately above a precipitous ascent to the north are the remains of an old camp, which antiquaries have decided was British. On the opposite height is another camp, called Cranbrook Castle. 'This camp is of irregular form, circular towards the north-east and south-east, but almost square on other quarters. On its south side it has a high rampart and a deep ditch. On its northern side, the steepness of the hill formed the only defence.' It has been supposed that at this narrow pass the last struggle the Damnonians made against the Romans took place; but whether this were the case or not, the holders of the camp possessed a supreme coign of vantage, and could have chosen no better place for checking an enemy's advance.

As the crow flies, Moreton Hampstead is about three miles south of Fingle Gorge, but the roads are rambling. The name was originally Moor-Town, standing as it once did on the edge of the moor; and the manor, like the barton of Drascombe, was held on a curious tenure. 'Which manor was the Earls of Ulster in King Edward the first's age, who held it of the king for one sparrow-hawke yearly to be yielded.' Moreton is a small place, and in these days perhaps its most marked characteristic is the Dancing Tree, or Cross Tree, as it is sometimes called, for it has grown out of the steps that encircled the now broken village[Pg 93] cross. This tree, an elm, was pollarded, and the branches so trained that it was possible to lay a dancing floor between them when it was wanted; the floor was then railed round, and a ladder placed to lead up to it. Mr Baring-Gould, in his 'Book of the West,' quotes some most interesting references to the tree from a journal kept by an old gentleman living at Moreton Hampstead, in the beginning of the nineteenth century:

'June 4th, 1800.—His Majesty's birthday. Every mark of loyalty was shown. In the afternoon a concert of instrumental music was held on the Cross Tree....

'August 19th, 1807.—This night the French officers assembled in the Cross Tree with their band of music. They performed several airs with great taste.'

The 'French officers' were prisoners of war, staying on parole at Moreton Hampstead.

'Unfortunately, and to the great regret of the inhabitants of Moreton, the tree was wrecked by a gale on October 1, 1891.'

About a mile to the north of Fingle stands Great Fulford, an estate mentioned in the Domesday Book, which belongs to the Fulford family. They have owned it continuously since the reign of Richard I. Many members of the family have distinguished themselves, but the most picturesque figure is that of Sir Baldwin, who was 'of so undaunted resolution,' says Prince, 'that, for the honor and liberty of a royal lady in a castle besieged by infidels, he fought a combat with a Sarazen; for bulk and bigness an unequal match (as the representation of him cut in the wainscot at Fulford-hall doth plainly show); whom yet he vanquished and rescued the lady.' Sir Baldwin's name must have been woven in many a romance and ballad in later days.

During the Civil War, Great Fulford was garrisoned for the King, but was eventually forced to surrender to Fairfax.

Leaving the river and walking north-east, the wayfarer will come in time to the parish of Whitstone, rather more than three miles from Exeter. The church has several interesting features. From the south transept a hagioscope slants through the[Pg 94] wall to the chancel; and in one of the windows of the north aisle is a bit of very old, though not very beautiful, stained glass. A gallery at the west end bears a series of panels emblazoned with coats of arms. In the chancel is some Jacobean carving, and behind the altar there stand a double row of carved eagles, most of them drooping their heads to one side. Close to the church is a huge tithe barn, the date of which appears to be between 1450 and 1500. In a little entry-way joining the Rectory lie the old stocks, opposite carved panels, and the wood of which is so old that it has almost lost its grain.

In the early part of the nineteenth century, the rector of the parish, the Rev. Charles Brown, collected a large amount of varied information concerning the parish into a manuscript volume, and from this record the present rector has most kindly allowed me to make some extracts. Mr Brown begins by explaining the meaning of the name, derived from the Celtic Wad, a hill or ridge, which became in time Whit, and don, land—Whitstone, the hill land. Whitstone certainly deserves the name, as it is high, looking towards Dartmoor, but the Celtic form is more correctly kept by a hill in the parish, which is still called Wadaldon, or more commonly Waddlesdown.

Against the entries of burials in the parish register Mr Brown made biographical notes, pithy, and quite free from that too flattering note often sounded in epitaphs. Here are some examples:

'William Speare, D.D., buried 1812.... He formed a Paddock of 120 acres [of land left him in this parish]. His penuriousness was as remarkable as his taste. Often I have seen him in Exeter, whither he rode every day, with one spur only, and that tied to his boot with string.

'1814.—James Hammett, 39, was before he came to reside in Whitstone, a follower of Joanna Southcott, from whom he purchased for half a crown a piece of parchment, which was to entitle him to free admission into Heaven.

'1820.—James Sutton, 82, was for many years Sexton of the Parish, was buried according to his request near the Rectory[Pg 95] Granary. He said that the Rector had been very kind to him; he would lie as near as possible to his house.

'1829.—Ann Hexter, School-mistress at home and Mistress of the Sunday School many years. Was for twenty years occasionally insane, and at last never free from lunacy.

'1832.—William Earls—poor—humble—honest—was made happy by my present of what he called "Multiplying Glasses."

'Thomas Lake, 85, said he had never taken medicine and would not begin at 85.

'1833.—John Coven, my carpenter, 26 years, never defrauded his employers of a minute's work; but his obstinacy was equal to his honesty. He spent all his gains, openly declaring that the Parish should maintain him when he could no longer work. At his death he had received £60, but he gave up to the Overseers a legacy of £30.

'1834.—John How, 73. Having a pension of 4.0 a week, as Serj. of Marines, once refused a shill. from me, saying he did not want it.'

The notes include a compressed but lurid tale:

'1835.—Thomas Snowden, 54. He died the day his son was christened, of apoplexy.' The curate, W. Ley, had been present at a festive christening dinner, and had left Mr Snowden still entertaining a fellow guest. The seizure took place while they were alone. 'Mrs S. sent for Ley, and, taking him into the room, said: "That's the man who has just killed my husband." That man she afterwards married.'

Some interesting memoranda from the overseers and churchwardens give a glimpse of hard days in the past. In 1811 an entry shows the churchwardens making an effort to relieve the acute distress caused by the high price of food. Wages were particularly low, and a succession of bad harvests raised the price of wheat to famine price, whilst the war with Napoleon prevented any grain coming into the country, from France or America. So we find rice and barley sold to poor parishioners cheaper than they could have bought it for themselves.[Pg 96]

'Account of Barley bought for the use of the Poor.

April and May, 105 Bushels at 13d. per Bush.; June,
135 at 11d.; August, 20 at 9s. 6d.

In 1796 there is a cryptic entry:

Nothing more, though a few words in reference to the matter would be very welcome. Possibly the best explanation is, that at a time when men were being impressed for the navy on every hand, and the Government was making immense efforts to get men and money, the parish provided the bounty-money for a man, perhaps a parishioner, who had just joined with or without his good-will. But this is insecure ground, and the meaning can but be guessed at. In 1807 there is a very different, but also unusual, item:

To return to Mr Brown's 'Record,' the memoranda are followed by a long and very interesting list of 'Parochial Superstitions,' some of which, but not all, are generally known. He also tells one or two stories with a caustic touch where he might have suggested a supernatural atmosphere.

'"The Parsonage is haunted." This has been asserted for 100 years, at least. It is still asserted, and proved too by the following story, invented by Jacob Wright, a lively servant of mine in 1814. "'Jacob,' said my master, 'come into my room. I am going to lay the ghost—don't be frightened.' Well, we went in, and frightened enough I was when I saw the ghost fly out of the window with Master's hat and wig."'

If only Mr Brown had had enough imagination to omit the word 'invented'! His eyes must have twinkled again while he was enjoying the following speech: 'It is reported that a calf with two heads has been seen in Hare Lane. Hannah Splatt says:[Pg 97] "Though I have walked about as a nurse at all hours, I never saw anything more frightful than myself."' The italics in both cases are his. Superstitions are followed by a long list of words that strike him (who must have come from 'up the country') as peculiar, though many of them are commonly used to-day. And he makes one delightful quotation. In mentioning the fact that Devonshire people say 'to' where others say 'at'—far instance, 'working to blacksmith's,' or 'living to Exeter'—he writes: 'Dr Atterbury used to say that if he had been Bishop of Exeter, the Devonshire folks would have called him Dr To Terbury.'

Rejoining the Teign, one descends a valley very beautiful, but less striking than Fingle Gorge, the sides wider apart and less high, but thickly wooded. It is especially lovely in late March or early April, when the woodbine wreaths give an earnest of what the spring's full touch will bring, and buds are bursting and tiny quilled leaves showing on the hazels scattered among the oaks that form the chief substance of the coppices. Near Dunsford lies a sea of blue-green daffodil spears, with the pale gold flowers showing among them. These flowers push up among the rustling brown leaves, under interlacing branches overhead, but at a turn of the river a large flat meadow spreads out before one, and here the daffodils indeed 'dance' in their myriads. Just beyond is the bridge below Dunsford, and here are several tiny islands, each about large enough to hold a sapling and a tangle of overflowing green that trails into the water; and rushing by on each side, after falling over a little weir, the river dashes itself into a line of foam and races on under the archway.

Some miles down the valley and east of the river is Doddiscombsleigh, whose chief feature is its church. The chancel is early Decorated, the nave and north aisle Perpendicular, and in the windows of this aisle, and more especially in the east window, is some good stained glass—a rarity in the churches in this neighbourhood. The subject, a rather uncommon one in England, is the Seven Sacraments, and, as the old glass was no longer intact, the window has been lately restored.

Farther south, and on the other side of the river, is Christow,[Pg 98] with its granite Perpendicular church. In the porch is a tribute to long service—a stone to

Nicholas Bussell, 46 years clark
Heere dyed xix Feb. 1631.

Tradition says that the stone marks the actual spot where he died, and the wording of the epitaph favours the idea. It may be that he went to church in a very feeble state, perhaps thinking that neither parson nor congregation could get on without him, and with a supreme effort crowned his many years of service.

The valley has a solitary look, as if it were very remote from hurry or turmoil, with the green, silent hills rising high towards Haldon's moorlands on one side, and to Dartmoor on the other. But when the tides of the Civil War surged backward and forward, the valley of the Teign had its full share of trouble. Those who lived there were too near Exeter for their peace and comfort, and must have been repeatedly harassed by the troops of one side or the other while they were clattering to or from the city, or quartered in the villages near, and the commotion must have been especially trying when Fairfax was beginning the siege of Exeter by hemming in the city with his outposts.

Canonteign House was garrisoned for the King, and was considered 'a strong fort'; but at the end of the year 1645, when the Royalist cause was lost, it was taken by a body of troops from the regiment of Colonel Okey, who after the Restoration was executed as one of the Regicides. A short account of the affair is given in 'Anglia Rediviva': 'Information being given that the house of one Mr Davis at Canonteen (being within four miles of Exeter) stood convenient for a garrison, and might bear a useful proportion towards the blocking up of Exeter, hindering of provision from the Southams, some more of Colonel Okey's dragoons were ordered thither to possess the same, who accordingly went and fulfilled their orders, December 21, and were no longer in the house; but Monday, December 22, in the morning, the enemy sent a force against it, who stormed the house, burnt the out-houses; yet Captain Woggan, who commanded the dragoons, behaved himself so gallantly that he beat[Pg 99] the enemy off, killed four, desperately wounded a lieutenant-colonel, and took divers prisoners.'

The manor of Canonteign was bought by the first Lord Exmouth, who built a new Canonteign House near the old one. In Christow Church is a memorial of the great Admiral—the flag flown by his ship during the battle of Algiers. A broadside ballad commemorating that splendid fight has a fine disregard for the more pedantic rules of making verse, and the metre is a good example of what is called 'rugged'; but those who are superior to such details will appreciate the directness and air of enjoyment that are very appropriate to the song of a gallant sailor:

THE BATTLE OF ALGIERS.

Here follows a detailed account of the order of the ships going into battle and of the fight itself, finishing with:

Chudleigh stands a little above, and to the east of the river. From very early times it has been specially connected with the bishops of Exeter, for Bishop Osbert built a palace here about 1080. In the third year of Richard II's reign the palace was fortified under a licence to Bishop Brantyngham, but now only a very few fragments of it are still to be seen. The manor of Chudleigh was bound to provide twelve woodcock for the bishop's table on the day of his election, but should they be unobtainable, twelve pence was considered a just equivalent! In 1547 Bishop Vesey alienated 'the manor, town, palace, and limekiln,' and rather more than a hundred years later it came into the possession of Lord Clifford. The present Lord Clifford is lord of the manor.

At the beginning of the fourteenth century there was a lively trade in woollen goods, which were made here in considerable quantities, and this industry was carried on with varying prosperity through several centuries. In the reign of James I the trade was particularly flourishing, and, though gradually lessening, it was in existence till the end of the reign of George II.

The people of Chudleigh are said to have been careful to favour neither side in the Civil War—a small and defenceless town, swept through by each party in turn, could hardly take any other course. In January, 1646, while Exeter was still holding out against the Parliament, Fairfax and his army were quartered here. The surrounding country is very pretty, and Chudleigh Rock and Chudleigh Glen are particularly delightful. The Rock is of blue limestone, and a deep cavern runs far into it, once supposed to be haunted by the pixies. It is still called the 'Pixies' Parlour.' A stream runs through the Glen, and joins the Teign just below the town.

Near Chudleigh is Ugbrooke Park, which, with its hills and valleys, streams, lakes, trees, and deer, has all that is wanted to make a park beautiful. 'Fair Rosamond' is so well known by that title alone that it is sometimes forgotten that she was a De Clifford. In her lifetime, their principal estate was in Herefordshire, but later the heiress of Ugbrooke brought this property by marriage to Antony Clifford.[Pg 101]

Chudleigh Glen

Perhaps the member of the family who played the most important part in history is Sir Thomas Clifford, afterwards the Lord Clifford whose initial is the first of the five that together spell 'Cabal.' In its early days, he was the leading spirit of that famous council. One branch of the Cliffords had settled in Holland, and it was probably in staying there with his relations that Sir Thomas had been brought to the notice of Charles II and first gained his influence over him. Lord Macaulay is not complimentary in his references to any member of the Cabal, but such commendations as he has to give are bestowed on Clifford. Sir Thomas, he says, 'had greatly distinguished himself in the House of Commons. Of the members of the Cabal, he was the most respectable. For, with a fiery, imperious temper, he had a strong though a lamentably perverted sense of duty and honour.' Farther on he adds that Clifford 'alone of the five had any claim to be regarded as an honest man.' Sir Thomas started a scheme which was practically the origin of the National Debt. Several statesmen who enjoyed the King's favour greatly desired the Lord Treasurer's office, and here Charles displayed his usual astuteness; for, being, as always, in want of money, he said to them that the man who should be Lord Treasurer was the man who could show him a way of putting money into the Treasury. The plan that Sir Thomas proposed to the King, and which was put into execution, Lord Clifford has most kindly sketched out as follows: 'The first Lord Clifford of Chudleigh was made Lord Treasurer by Charles II, and recommended the King to seize the money deposited in the Exchequer and secured by the allocation of various revenues. These loans had always up to this been faithfully met. By seizing this money, nominally only for a year, he acquired the sum of £1,300,000 at 6 per cent. At the succession of William and Mary the Public Debt was £664,263, and this was probably part of the money so seized; but it was not till 5 William and Mary, c. 20, that the authority of Parliament was given for a loan to be raised by the then created Bank of England, from which period usually dates the National Debt. Evelyn ascribes the inception of this idea to Ashley Shaftesbury, who,[Pg 102] foreseeing its illegality, and possibly its disastrous results (for many persons were ruined), left it to Clifford to propose it to the King. He gave 6 per cent. interest. When the Bank of England loan was raised (5 W. and M.) the interest was 8 per cent.'

There is a fine picture of the Lord High Treasurer, by Sir Peter Lely, at Ugbrooke, of which two replicas hang, one in the Treasury, and the other at Ham House, which belonged to the Duke of Lauderdale, who was the L of the Cabal. Lord Clifford is wearing a crimson robe, under a magnificent flowing mantle of ermine, and in his right hand is the white wand of office. His face shows shrewdness and determination, and a certain geniality, which suggests that, though on occasion he might not have scrupled to act as an oppressor, yet he would always have liked to do so as pleasantly as possible.

A remnant of former friendship was shown seven years after the Cabal was dissolved. In December, 1680, when the country was still seething against Popery, a Bill was brought before the House of Lords which provided, amongst other things, that all Papists of influence should be removed from their own estates to a far distant county. Lists of the gentlemen 'selected' in each county were made out (and have been reprinted among the manuscripts of the House of Lords), and after the last list is written: 'In addition to the above Lists, there was one for Devonshire, which appears to have been given to Earl Shaftesbury ... but which is not forthcoming.' A subsequent collection of the names of those 'selected' in this county follows this statement, but Lord Clifford's name does not appear among them; therefore Lord Shaftesbury's reason for 'mislaying' this one list is supposed to be that he had suppressed in it the name of his former friend's son; and no second formal list for Devonshire seems to have been made. The Bill never became law.

At Newton Abbot the river reaches its most southerly point and again turns east. Lysons says that its 'market and fair were spoken of in the reign of Edward I;' but there are not many old buildings, and those that there are seem completely swamped by numerous modern ones. The parish church, to the south of the[Pg 103] town, contains much that is most interesting; and Forde House, a fine Jacobean building, welcomed under its roof Charles I on two occasions, and, having changed owners meanwhile, greeted William of Orange, when, thirty-three years later, he was on his way from Torbay.

Teignmouth and Shaldon

Along the northern bank of the estuary lie the two villages of Kingsteignton and Bishopsteignton, the manor of the first being part of the ancient demesnes of the Crown, as that of the second was of the See of Exeter. At the Kingsteignton 'revel' a curious custom used to be observed, for a part of the proceedings was that 'a ram was hunted, killed, roasted, and eaten.' Mr Baring-Gould gives these details, and adds a village anecdote. 'The parson there once asked a lad in Sunday-school, "How many commandments are there?" "Three, sir," was the prompt reply—"Easter, Whitsuntide, and the Revel."'

Bishopsteignton has a church in which there are portions of Norman work, and in the parish lie the remains of a Bishop's palace, 'From ancient times,' says Lysons, 'one of the country seats of the bishops.' It was practically rebuilt by Bishop Grandisson.

I was once given an interesting piece of information relating to Bishopsteignton by an old man living near Newton St Cyres. He said that in a general way the women there used to be very small, and folks said that was because they had been changed by the pixies when they were babies.

It is unnecessary to dwell on the fact that Teignmouth, besides being a port, is a most flourishing watering-place. The colouring is very rich, and especially lovely when set off by a brilliant sky and glittering blue water. Blood-red cliffs lead north and south, and the green of grass and plants, broken by masses of wild-flowers of all tints, here scattered thinly, there in clumps, overlaps and creeps down the face of the rock wherever there is foothold. Between Teignmouth and Dawlish an 'island-rock' of the warmest red runs out into the sea, and through an arch in it the rippling water may be seen beyond. Looking down at Teignmouth from the hill on the opposite side, the town seems to run very flatly into the angle between sea and river. In the estuary, at[Pg 104] low tide, the ships and boats lie in pools among the sand-banks, with the gulls circling and screaming about them.

It has been said that 'the cliffs of Teignmouth owe their deep-red hue to the slaughter of the inhabitants by the Danes in 970, when "the very rocks streamed with blood"'; and the old people confidently assert that the dwarf-elder (called hereabouts 'Danes-elder') grows only upon the site of old battle-fields 'where the Danes' blood was spilt!' These legends are not altogether baseless, for there is no doubt as to the pitiless brutality which the Danes showed in their various incursions into Devon between the years 894 and 1013. Drayton's image is bold and gruesome:

'When all the country swam with blood of Saxons shed.'

Teignmouth was last troubled by an enemy in 1690, when Admiral de Tourville, having defeated the united English and Dutch fleets off Beachy Head, sailed down the Channel and anchored one night in Tor Bay. The Devonshire militia flew to arms. 'In twenty-four hours all Devonshire was up. Every road in the county from sea to sea was covered by multitudes of fighting men, all with their faces set towards Torbay.' De Tourville, upon this discouraging reception, gave up any ideas he may have had of disembarking, and merely sent some galleys to Teignmouth, who first turned their cannon on the town and afterwards landed and burned it.

The general excitement that this attack created found voice in a ballad called 'The Devonshire Boys' Courage, 1690.' It is utter doggerel, but expresses the contemporary views of the people, and was sung to a tune called 'Liggan Water,' a title that, according to Mr William Chappell, refers to an Irish stream. I give only a few verses:

[Pg 105]

[Pg 106]

Torquay from the Bay

CHAPTER VI

Torbay

It is impossible for those who have had no better fortune than to see Torbay only in prints or photographs to gather more than a very imperfect idea of what its best can be. The cliffs near Paignton are red, nearer Torquay they are a warm russet, alternating with a rosy grey where limestone comes to the surface; and some of the rocks beneath, shining with salt water, are pink, interlined with white veins. In fair weather the warm tints of these cliffs, chequered by a green lattice-work of plants and bushes, and the rich, full colours of the sea, make a picture that is more easily remembered than described.

The great promontories of Hope's Nose and Berry Head stand between three and four miles apart at the northern and southern points of this rounded, shallow bay. Torquay itself is a new town, and only developed into being one in the early part of the last century. At the time that there was real fear of Napoleon making[Pg 107] a descent on this coast, fortifications were built on Berry Head, and houses were wanted for the officers in charge. One authority suggests that Torquay was brought into general notice by serving as a lodging for the families of officers in the Channel Fleet under Lord St Vincent, who used Torbay as an anchorage. But in any case its existence is really due to Napoleon. Certainly the growth was rapid, for Lysons, writing about 1820, speaks of Torquay as having been till lately a hamlet,—and even its name is modern.

The one important building was the Abbey, founded in 1196 by William, Lord Briwere, and endowed by him with the whole of the Manor of Wolborough and part of the Manor of Torre. The probable origin of this great gift is interesting. The Abbey was founded soon after the return from Austria of the hostages who had been kept there till the ransom of King Richard I was paid, and it has been generally supposed that, as the eldest sons of the greatest noblemen were sent, Lord Briwere's only son was among the number, and that the Abbey was a thank-offering, the fruit of a vow made by the father in regard to his son's happy return. Lord Briwere installed in the Abbey seven monks of the Premonstratensian Order. Alicia, daughter of Lord Briwere, married Reginald de Mohun, and as, on the death of her brother, she inherited the Torre property, it is easily seen how Tor-Mohun came to be the name of the parish. Successive bequests to the monastery made it the richest house of the Order in England, though at the time of its dissolution there were only fifteen monks besides the Abbot. The peace and prosperity of the Abbey were once broken, Dr Oliver tells us in his 'Monasticon Diœcesis Exoniensis,' by a painful incident: 'In 1390, notwithstanding the Abbot's irreproachable life and manners, some malicious person spread a rumour that he had beheaded one of the Canons of Tor called Simon Hastings.' The Abbot was 'greatly distressed,' and the Bishop pronounced the accusation to be a falsehood of the 'blackest dye,' and, besides, declared that he, the said Canon, was alive and well. But that it should be possible to bring such a charge against an 'irreproachable' Abbot in this casual way,[Pg 108] and that the accusation should for a moment be listened to, is a view of those days not often opened to one.

After changing hands several times, the Abbey became the property of the Carys (in 1662), and their descendants still live in it. Many alterations have been inevitable, but much of the character of the building still remains. Parts of the walls of the original church are still standing, and enough of the masonry is left to show the exact plan. It was longer than any other church that has since been built in Torquay, and wanted only seven feet to equal the length of Exeter Cathedral between the west end and the organ-screen. The refectory stretches towards the west; it has been converted into a chapel, and a stone cross rises from the roof. The embattled gateway and the whole of the building near it are of a soft rose colour; beyond stands a tower, duller in tint, and at right angles the old grange, known since Elizabethan days as the Spanish Barn. For the Capitana, the first ship of the Armada to be taken, fell to Sir Francis Drake off Torbay, and the four hundred men captured on her were brought to Tor Abbey and imprisoned in the grange.

Leaving Torquay, and going some miles to the north, and slightly inland, one arrives at Haccombe, the smallest parish in England. This year (1908) the population numbers nine. It is also conspicuous for having as its Rector the sole 'Arch-priest' in the kingdom, and for its independence, for though Haccombe Church is subject to the jurisdiction of the Bishop, it claims to be free from any ruling of the Archdeacon. A college or arch-presbytery was founded there in 1341, 'which college,' says Lysons, 'consisted of an arch-priest and five other priests, who lived together in community.' The Arch-priest, or Rector, as he is usually called, is the only remaining member of the college.

Haccombe passed by a succession of heiresses from the Haccombes, who held it in the time of William I, to the Carews, during the fourteenth century, to which family it still belongs. On the church door hang two horseshoes, commemorating a victory that George Carew, Earl of Totnes, wrested from his cousin, Sir Arthur[Pg 109] Champernowne. A wager was laid as to whose horse could swim farthest into the sea, and the horse of 'the bold Carew' won. The story is told in the following ballad:

How far this account is accurate it is difficult to say, but the Champernownes are still at Dartington.

Some miles south, and a little to the west, about midway between Haccombe and Torquay, lies Kingskerswell, a village not very much heard of nowadays, but once the property of a very distinguished soldier and statesman. 'The Lord Nicolas de Mules (or Meoles, or Molis), a counsellor of estate, had this manor in the time of Henry III, to whom the King granted other lands to hold by knightly service.... He was Sheriff of Hampshire and Governor of Winchester Castle, and held the islands of Guernsey, Jersey, Serke, and Aureney committed to his trust. In 23 Henry III he was Sheriff of Yorkshire, and afterwards sent Ambassador to denounce war against France, and, being an expert[Pg 111] soldier, was upon the King's return to England appointed Seneschal of Gascoigne, being held in such esteem by Henry III that he admitted James, his son and heir, to have education with Prince Edward at the King's charge. Continuing still in Gascoigne, he obtained a signal victory over the King of Navarre.' Risdon adds the information that Sir Nicolas took the King 'prisoner in the field.' On his return he took part in the 'War against the Welsh,' and must have acquitted himself brilliantly, since hereafter honours were showered upon him. He was made Governor of the Castles of Carmarthen and Cardigan, then 'Constable of Dover Castle and Warden of the Cinque-ports, and the same year Sheriff of Kent, also Governor of the Castles of Canterbury and Rochester; and of Sherborne and Corfe Castle,' in the county of Dorset. It is almost bewildering to follow his rapid plunges from one sphere of action to another, and it certainly emphasizes the fact that the strenuous life is no novelty. It contradicts, too, a view rather generally held, that the spirit of restless daring and love of adventure that have distinguished innumerable men of Devon belonged solely to Elizabethan days—a view that has, no doubt, sprung up because the great lights that shone in that glorious reign have eclipsed all lesser ones.

But the poppy of oblivion has fallen on the name of Sir Nicolas, and he is no conspicuous figure in the most local histories; even Prince does not count him among his 'Worthies.'

From Kingskerswell one passes through a fertile and pleasant country, which suggests to the passer-by that the time and labour needed in weeding and chopping down must be almost greater than that spent in sowing and growing plants. The number of orchards here has perhaps given rise to a proverb, said to be peculiar to South Devon, but calling to mind Tusser's treatise on Husbandry:

This explanation of the rhyme has been suggested: 'Rather, perhaps, be in the grave—i.e., You must plant your leaves in the fall of the leaf.'[Pg 112]

A road leading south, then to the east, reaches Paignton, which stands almost midway between north and south in the bay. The old town was at a little distance from the sea, but latterly new houses have been built in all directions, and have brought it close to the water's edge. Paignton has a fine church, chiefly Perpendicular, but parts are of earlier work, and there is a most beautiful carved screen.

The adventures of a native of Paignton—a certain Will Adams, born about 1612, 'of mean and obscure parentage'—are not to be forgotten. He was, says Mr Norway, 'one of those "Turkish captives" of whom so many were languishing in Algiers two centuries ago, and who, there is little doubt, were specially in the minds of the authors of the petition in our Litany, "For all poor prisoners and captives" ... and it may very well be that Adams' name was coupled with this prayer on many a Sunday in Paignton Church, for the agony of his captivity lasted full five years.' At the end of that time he and his companions, despairing of rescue, set to work on what would indeed have seemed to most people a hopeless venture. They began to make a boat with a keel twelve feet long, but 'because it was impossible to convey a piece that length out of the city, but it must be seen and suspected, they cut it in two and fitted it for joyning, just in the middle.' Then 'because boards would require much hammering and that noise would be like to betray them, they bought as much canvas as would cover their boat twice over.' With as much 'pitch, tar, and tallow, as would serve to make a kind of tarpauling cloth, two pipe staves saw'd across ... for oars, a little bread and two leather bottles full of fresh water, and as much canvas as would serve for a sail,' their preparations before 'launching out into the deep' were complete. But even their courage was not the most splendid in the affair. When the prisoners had actually started, they found that the boat was overloaded, so 'two were content to stay on shore.' They were 'content' to return to toil and slavery indefinitely, and to face the bitter wrath and vengeance of their captors, enraged by the loss of so many prisoners.

Those who escaped had much to endure. Their boat leaked, and[Pg 113] the salt water spoiled their bread. 'Pale famine stared them in the face' writes Prince, and they suffered even greater tortures from thirst and heat. 'On the fifth day, as they lay hulling up and down, God sent them some relief, viz., a tortois,' which they came upon asleep in the sea and caught. With strength almost gone, they reached Majorca, where, luckily, the Viceroy was kindly disposed towards them, and they started home in one of 'the King of Spain's gallies.'

Berry Head

Adams died at a good old age in his native place.

The fine cliff called Berry Head runs far out into the sea at the southern edge of Tor Bay, and standing back, within the bay, is the small and pretty town of Brixham—celebrated for its trawlers, and for being the landing-place of William III. The red and brown sails of 'Brixham trawlers' scattered over the blue-grey waters of the bay seem very familiar, and it is a question for consideration how many exhibitions at the Royal Academy have not included a picture bearing that title. The fishery is an old one, and in the reign of Henry VIII the Vicar could claim personal tithes in fish equal in value to £340 of our money.

Fishermen and others gave a very cordial welcome to the Prince of Orange when he arrived on November 5, 1688. But by no one can he have been more vehemently applauded than by the author of the lines I have quoted at the head of the present chapter—the Rev Philip Avant, Vicar of Salcombe. The poem, originally written in Latin, and translated by the author, takes up almost the whole of his small and rather rare volume, Torbaia digna Camœnsis. It is in parts unintentionally amusing, and is interesting as showing how far the frenzied fervour of bigotry may carry a naturally amiable person, for in the narrow intervals between his torrents of denunciation it is clear that Mr Avant was, in ordinary matters, a kindly-disposed man.

A pamphlet graphically describing the 'Expedition from Torbay to Whitehall' was written by another clergyman, John Whittle by name, a 'Minister Chaplain in the Army,' and from this pamphlet long extracts are given in a paper on this subject by the late Mr Windeatt. Some of these quotations I am now venturing[Pg 114] to repeat: 'The morning was very obscure with the Fog and Mist, and withal it was so calm that the Vessels now as 'twere touch'd each other, every ship coming as near unto the ship wherein the Prince of Orange was, as the Schipper thereof would permit them.... His Highness the Prince of Orange gave orders that his Standard should be put up, and accordingly it was done, the White Flag being put uppermost, signifying his most gracious offer of Peace unto all such as would live peaceably. And under that, the Red or Bloody Flag was set up, signifying War unto all such as did oppose his designs. The Sun, recovering strength, soon dissipated the Fog, and dispers'd the Mist, insomuch that it prov'd a very pleasant Day. By this time the people of Devonshire thereabout had discovered the Fleet, the one telling the other thereof; they came flocking in droves to the side or brow of the Hills to view us. Some guess'd we were French because they saw divers White Flags; but the standard of the Prince, the Motto of which was, For the Protestant Religion and Liberty, soon undeceived them.... Bells were ringing as we were sailing towards the Bay, and as we landed, which many judged to be a good omen.' A little later, when they had landed, people 'came running out at their doors to see this happy sight. So the Prince with Marschal Schomberg, and divers Lords, Knights and Gentlemen, marched up the Hill, which all the Fleet could see over the Houses, the Colours flying and flourishing before his Highness, the Trumpets sounding, the Haut-boys played, the Drums beat, and the Lords, Knights and Gentlemen shouted; and sundry Huzzas did now echo in the Fleet, from off the Hill, insomuch that our very hearts below in the water were even ravish'd for going thereof.'

There is an absurd story, here quoted with mild ridicule, that on the Prince's landing he was received by the inhabitants of Brixham with this address:

Brixham Trawlers

The 'And please' must be a corruption of 'An it please,' which does make sense, but the rhyme cannot have been invented until later, for it certainly was not within the power of a fisherman to offer 'bohea,' or any other kind of tea, in those days. 'Buck-horn' is rather puzzling, for it gives no clue as to what it might be. Anybody who has heard of edible buck-horn (or buck's-horn) at all, would probably think of an obscure and humble salad herb, now practically forgotten, and at no time a dainty to be pressed on 'King William's' notice in this manner. The English Dialect Dictionary comes to the rescue by explaining that in Cornwall, Devon, and Cumberland, 'buck-horn' is a name for 'salted and dried whiting.' 'Bok horñ' also appears in the Receiver's accounts at Exeter (about 1488), when the citizens, having a quarrel with the Bishop, tactfully sent successive presents of fish to the Lord Chancellor while the case lay before him. Buck-horn is still sold in Brixham.

The soldiers' first experiences in England were not agreeable, as 'they were marching into Camp all hours in the Night'; and some having been unlucky enough to get astray from their companies, 'it was no easy matter to find them in the dark amongst so many thousands. It was a cold, frosty night, and the stars twinkl'd exceedingly; besides the Ground was very wet after so much Rain and ill Weather; the Souldiers were to stand to their arms the whole Night, at least to be in readiness if anything should happen, or the enemy make an Assault, and therefore sundry Souldiers were to fetch some old Hedges and cut down green Wood to burn these with, to make some Fire.'

Mr Windeatt, writing in 1880, gives an astonishing instance of how few links a chain may sometimes need in order to stretch from century to century. He says a gentleman gave him the following account: 'There are few now left who can say, as I can, that they have heard their father and their wife's father talking together of the men who saw the landing of William III at Torbay. I have heard Captain Clements say he as a boy heard as many as seven or eight old men each giving the particulars of what he saw then. One saw a shipload of horses hauled up to the quay, and the[Pg 116] horses walked out all harnessed, and the quickness with which each man knew his horse and mounted it surprised them. Another old man said: "I helped to get on shore the horses that were thrown overboard, and swam on shore guided by only a single rope running from the ship to the shore"; and another would describe the rigging and build of the ships, but all appeared to welcome them as friends.

'My father remembered only one—"Gaffer Will Webber," of Staverton, who served his apprenticeship with one of his ancestors, and who lived to a great age—say that he went from Staverton as a boy with his father, who took a cartload of apples from Staverton to the highroad from Brixham to Exeter, that the soldiers might help themselves to them, and to wish them "Godspeed."'

The gentlemen of the county were more tardy in their welcome, and perhaps this is not very surprising, when one considers that they can scarcely have recovered from the terrible vengeance that seared all who had followed Monmouth only three years before.

Sir Edward Seymour, formerly Speaker of the House of Commons, was one of the first and, says Macaulay, the most important of the great landowners who joined the Prince at Exeter. He was 'in birth, in political influence, and in parliamentary abilities ... beyond comparison the foremost among the Tory gentlemen of England.'

Sir Edward evidently rode in great state, for the Duke of Somerset, his descendant, still has a very imposing red velvet saddle, elaborately embroidered with heraldic and other designs in silver, that 'Mr Speaker Seymour' used on this occasion.

The march was continued in the most miserable discomfort. Six hundred horses had died either at sea or from the effects of the storm, and the men, still suffering from a 'dissiness in the Heads after they had been so long toss'd at Sea,' had extra burdens to carry. The weather was wet and stormy, the roads were 'extreme rough and stony,' and when they encamped and lay down for the night, 'their Heads, Backs and Arms sank deep into the Clay.'[Pg 117] Further, their rations were so spare that when they came on an inclosure with turnips they felt they had found a feast. 'Some roasted them and others eat them raw, and made a brave Banquet.' However, matters improved the next day as they drew nearer to Newton Abbot. People came in crowds to see them. 'Now they began to give us applause and pray for our Success.' Hitherto they had but wavered as they said, 'the Irish would come and cut them in pieces if it should be known.' On approaching Newton, 'a certain Divine went before the Army, and finding 'twas their Market day, he went unto the Cross, or Town hall,' and read the Declaration of the Prince of Orange. 'To which the people with one Heart and Voice answered Amen: Amen, and forthwith shouted for Joy, and made the Town ring with their echoing Huzzas.'

Such was the auspicious reception of the 'Deliverer of the Nation from Popery, Slavery, Brass Money and Wooden Shoes.'

A very different note, jarring against this triumphal strain, is struck by a Jacobite ballad on the same event, too long to quote entirely here. It bears the conciliatory title of

THE BELGICK BOAR.

[Pg 119]

Postbridge

CHAPTER VII

The Dart

Of all the rivers of Devonshire, the Dart claims the first place, both for beauty and for interesting associations; and between the lonely wastes about its source on Dartmoor, and the calm, broad reaches above Dartmouth, the scenery is not only always beautiful, but adds the great charm of being beautiful in quite different ways.

Drayton recognises the claim, for in the Poly-olbion, speaking of the 'mother of rivers,' Dartmoor, he says:

And a few lines later he makes Dart declaim:

The East Dart rises about a mile south of Cranmere Pool, and at first makes its way through bare bogs, with great black holes gaping open here and there in the peat, tussocks of coarse grass and dry, rustling bents, isolated tufts of heather, and now and again wide spaces of waving cotton-grass. All around is 'an everlasting wash of air' and a sense of spaciousness, which it is to be hoped no cynically named 'improvements' may ever diminish. Westcote comments on the name. 'Of some it is supposed that the river takes name of the swiftness of the current; the like is thought of the river Arrow in Warwickshire, and of the Tygris in Mesopotamia, which among the Persians doth import a shaft.'

There is a saying that 'the river "cries" when there is to be a change of wind. "Us shall have bad weather, maister; I hear the Broadstones a-crying." The Broadstones are boulders of granite lying in the bed of the river. The cry, however, hardly comes from them, but from a piping of the wind, in the twists of the glen through which the turbulent river writhes.'

Many tales on the Moor speak of the amazing swiftness with which a freshet will suddenly swell and sweep down, an overwhelming flood. Only a few years ago a farmer was crossing a very safe ford when he saw the freshet coming, and tried to hurry his horse, but before he could reach the bank the torrent caught his cart and overturned it, and he and his horse were drowned.

The ominous couplet springs from no misty legend, but from melancholy experience.

The East Dart runs throughout its course in a south-easterly direction, and at Post Bridge just below the road from Moreton Hampstead to Tavistock it is crossed by an old bridge, one of the many rugged witnesses to unwritten history scattered all over[Pg 121] Dartmoor. It is a massive structure, built of rough granite blocks; the 'table-stones' that rest on the piers are each about fifteen feet long.

Dartmeet Bridge

The West Dart rises farther south than the East Dart, and runs almost due south as far as Two Bridges, and then, in many curves to the east—sometimes almost hidden in the depths of the hollow that has been worn between the high bare sides of the valley—till about five miles from Two Bridges it reaches Dartmeet. From the top of a tor close to the point where the two streams meet the effect is rather curious, for sunk deep between the wide barren stretches of moor and desolate tors, broad green ribbons of trees and undergrowth, broken by tufts and uneven edges, mark the course of the rivers till they wind away out of sight. Their darker green makes them stand out against the sides of the valleys, and they are the only trees in sight. In summer the river is often very low, and then masses of great boulders in the river-bed are seen, and some of the biggest are crowned with ferns, high tufts of grass, or little bushes, with the clearest water streams between them. The bridge is over the East Dart, above the meeting of the waters, and from just below it is possible to get a charming view of the arches thrown up against a sunlit mass of shimmering leaves.

From here the Dart runs south almost to Holne, the birthplace of that true lover of Devon, Charles Kingsley. At this point it makes a great loop to the north, flowing among lovely scenery along a steep and narrow valley, where great rocks break through the woods; then curving round in Holne Chase, it turns south again to Holne Bridge, which is crossed by the Ashburton road. The town is about three miles to the east.

Ashburton is one of the old stannary towns, and besides mining, it was known for its trade in woollen goods, especially serges. In fact, 'the seal of the Port-reeve bears a church between a teasel and a saltire, with the sun and moon above.' The teasel was used to raise the nap in making cloth, and was a symbol of that industry, as the sun and moon were symbols of mining. In 1697 the manufacturers felt foreign competition so keenly that the Port[Pg 122]-reeve, traders, and inhabitants of Ashburton signed a petition to Parliament, begging that an Act might be passed to discourage the importation of Irish and other foreign woollen goods.

This borough sent members to Parliament from the reign of Edward I, but in time its representation ceased. The privilege was given back to the borough after the Restoration, through the intervention of Sir John Northcote, and was held until Ashburton was disfranchised in 1868.

A few miles farther down the river is Buckfastleigh, a small but very flourishing town, and one of the very few that still produce the serges and woollen goods for which the county was once famous, in the sixteenth century especially, for then, as Green tells us, 'the broadcloths of the West claimed the palm among the woollen stuffs of England.' The church stands apart on a height overlooking the town, and the tapering spire adds to the effect given by its commanding position. By far the most interesting building here is Buckfast Abbey, founded in the reign of Henry II, on the site of a Benedictine abbey of Saxon days. The place must have been very remote and inaccessible when the Benedictines first settled there, and the Saxon name given in Bishop Ælfwold's charter in 1016 was 'Buckfæsten, i.e., Deer-fastness,' which would seem to argue that the Abbey was surrounded by thick woods, and was particularly lonely, even for those times. Sable, a crozier in pale, argent, the crook or, surmounted by a buck's head, caboshed of the second, horned gules, were the ancient arms of the Abbey, as they are still, though now impaled with the Clifford arms, by permission of Lord Clifford.

The second colony of monks here were Cistercians, and the monastery became very prosperous and the richest house of that order in the county. King John deposited some of his jewels, gold and silver in their keeping, and in 1297 Edward I visited the Abbey. The Cistercians were great wool-traders, and did much for both trade and agriculture in the districts near them. It has been supposed that the sunken track called the Abbot's Way was used in carrying the wool from the moorland farms belonging to the monastery towards Plymouth and Tavistock. In the thir[Pg 123]teenth century the monks showed their interest in trading by joining the 'Gild Merchant' of Totnes. A memorandum on the back of one of the 'membership rolls' in 1236 records an agreement between the burgesses of Totnes and the abbot and convent of Buckfast; that the monks might be able 'to make all their purchases in like manner with the burgesses, the abbot and monks agree to pay twenty-two pence on the Saturday before Christmas day.'[4]

Holne Bridge

The buildings at the time of the Dissolution were very large, and there was a fine church, but of these only a Perpendicular tower adjoining the cloisters, and a large tithe-barn, are in a state of good preservation at the present day. A modern house was built on the western side of the vanished cloisters, but in 1882 the Abbey was bought for a colony of Benedictine monks from Pierrequivire in Burgundy, who have partly rebuilt the monastery on its ancient lines, and are restoring the Abbey church.

A few miles away to the south-west is Dean Prior, and the living that Herrick held when he poured out his grumbles and complaints about 'dull Devonshire.' Herrick was a true Cockney, and the earliest part of his life was spent in a house in Cheapside. When he grew up, he had the good luck to come into the brilliant and witty company that gathered round Ben Jonson, so it must be allowed that he had an excuse for sometimes thinking that life in an obscure hamlet, two hundred miles from London, was a dreary exile. But, as Mr R. J. King remarks, in spite of all his grievances, he had in him a sense that responded very readily to the pretty customs and observances of the village, that marked, here with a handful of flowers, there with a sheaf of wheat or a branch of holly, the different festivals of the year.

Herrick's poem 'Christmas Eve' refers to a local custom that appealed to him:

Mr King makes this interesting note on it: 'This custom, so far as I know, is unnoticed by anyone but Herrick.

'A solitary watcher,

guarded the pie through the night before Christmas.

'The pie represented the manger of Bethlehem, and its contents the wise men's offerings. The Devonshire "Christmas play" has had a curious fate. Except, perhaps, in some of the moorland parishes, it has disappeared at home. But the Newfoundland fisheries were long carried on for the most part by sailors from the neighbourhood of Dartmouth and Tor Bay, and Mr Jukes tells us that the streets of St John's at Christmas-time continue to exhibit St George, the Turkish Knight, and all their companions, in full vigour.'

The charm of Herrick's verses on country joys is deepened—to the folk-lorist in particular—by remembering that the rustic ceremonies he commemorates were probably the usual customs observed at Dean Prior in his time. On a hot August evening he may have watched the happy and excited children who are described in the poem 'The Hock-Cart, or Harvest-Home.'

And many lines point to his acquaintance with all kinds of village festivals, as, for instance, those which he addresses to 'Master Endymion Porter.'[Pg 125]

('Foxi'th'hole' is a hopping game, in which boys beat each other with gloves.)

Herrick was fortunate in having a kind and hospitable neighbour. Sir Edward Giles was famed for his uprightness and generous disposition, and was looked up to by all the neighbourhood. He succeeded to 'a large park and very handsome house,' whose existence was partly due to the problem of the unemployed that was perplexing the benevolent more than three hundred years ago; for John Giles, 'to the honour of his memory ... began building of the house, and setting up the walls about his park, in the time of a very great dearth; whereby hundreds of poor men ... were daily fed at his table, who else together with their families in probability would have perished for want.' Sir Edward succeeded immediately to his father, who was 'a good old gentleman,' with a taste for small jokes that must have been sometimes a little tedious. The son had too 'active and vigorous a spirit' to rest 'within the compass of an island, wherefore ... he travelled beyond the seas,' and in the Low Countries 'trayl'd a pike in her Majesty's service, Queen Elizabeth of glorious memory.' Having carved for himself a high reputation, he came to the court of King James, to find that his fame had preceded him, and he received the honour of knighthood at the time of the King's coronation. This gave the old knight a chance for a little jest, which his son must have found rather exasperating. When he came home, his father received him with all ceremony, though 'more jocularly than seriously ... saluted him with his title of Sir Edward Giles at every word, and by all means would place him[Pg 126] above him, as one dignified with the more honourable degree; until at length inquiring of him: "Sir Edward, pray tell me," said the old gentleman, "who must discharge the fees and charges of your knighthood and honour?" Being answered, "That he hoped he would be pleased to do that," "Nay, then," says the old gentleman, "come down, Sir Edward Giles, and sit beneath me again, if I am he that must pay for thy honour."' One can imagine his beaming satisfaction over it all!

Among Sir Edward's friends was the 'eminent and pious and learned Divine,' Dr Barnabas Potter, whom he presented with the living of Dean Prior. Herrick and his predecessor were indeed a contrast to one another, for Dr Potter was 'melancholy, lean, and a hard student.' He was afterwards transplanted from his peaceful solitude to Court, where he was appointed Chaplain in Ordinary to Prince Charles, and was known as the Penitential Preacher. Afterwards, when preferred to the bishopric of Carlisle, 'he was commonly called the Puritanical Bishop, and they said of him in the time of king James, that Organs would blow him out of the church, which I do not believe, the rather because he lov'd Vocal Music, and could bear his own part therein.' Altogether, he and the future Merry Monarch must have been very congenial companions.

Going farther south, and still keeping to the west of the river, the traveller comes to Rattery, close to which is Venton House, once owned by the Gibbses. In the reign of Edward III John Gibbs was chosen to undertake important work, for he was called to serve on several Commissions appointed to carry out the King's business in the county. The most interesting of these Commissions seems to have been the one appointed in 1462, for the purpose of collecting ships for the King's fleet from those ports—the Commissioners to be responsible for furnishing them completely, from 'Masters and Mariners' to 'bows and bowstrings, wheat, beans, and ale.'

The members of the family whose doings were the most amusing, though not the most to be admired, were William Gibbs and his son Thomas, who were proceeded against in the Star Chamber by the Chaplain and Curate of Rattre (Rattery) Church. Some[Pg 127] manuscript notes very kindly sent to me by Mr Herbert Gibbs give a good instance of the light-hearted manner in which it was possible to break and make the peace in a country district about the year 1517. The Church of Rattery claimed that William Gibbs owed £21 2s. 8d., and he claimed that the church owed him sixty-three shillings, and, putting into practice the adage that Possession is nine points of the law, he boldly took out of the church 'a yron boxe locked with two lockes,' and helped himself to the money. The complainants brought their case to be tried before the Bishop of Exeter and several justices, but Andrew Hillersdon, son-in-law to William Gibbs, was among them, with the result that the only penalty imposed was to find surety for his good 'aberying' (bearing) of 100 marks. Although this was a very mild verdict, it infuriated the culprit, whose next step was to shear the Church lambs, and carry off '11 youes with their lambs'; and on the Thursday night before the Feast of St. Matthew he, with his son Thomas and many others, did 'then and there ryottusly assemble theym togeders to kyll your said orators, leyin awayte,' and the said 'Thomas Gybbys with a swarde and a bokeler made a sawte' upon John Hals, ' ... so as the said John Hals was in danger of his lyf and toke the church and church yerde for his savegard and kept the same by the space of two hours.' His enforced vigil had the added bitterness that, according to the complainants, he had had no previous quarrel of any kind with his assailant. But this demonstration was not enough to satisfy the Gibbses, and the next Sunday they came again to Rattery 'in manner of a new insurrection with twenty-three persons and above,' and with such a fierce aspect that they caused 'great feer and dreed' to their neighbours, who in alarm of worse to come warned 'your said orators ... to kepe them absent from their said church and from their divine service, and so they dyd.' The complainants now evidently felt that the time for definite action on their part had come, and the case was eventually carried before the 'Lord Cardinall, Chancellor of England,' but the account of the proceedings does not give his verdict.

Returning to the river, Dartington Hall, the beautiful home of[Pg 128] the Champernownes, is soon reached. Dartington was originally the gift of the Conqueror to William de Falaise, and passed through the hands of the Lords Audley and of John Holland, Duke of Exeter, half-brother of Richard II, before Sir Arthur Champernowne exchanged for it the lordship of Polslo, and settled here in the reign of Elizabeth. And now, says Westcote, 'it glories in the knightly tribe of Champernowne.' Originally Dartington consisted of two large quadrangles, but one has long been in ruins. The most striking feature is the hall, which is seventy feet long and forty feet wide, and has pointed windows, a huge old fireplace, and a porch with a groined ceiling. This dates from the fourteenth century, and part of the quadrangle, together with the gateway at the south end, is early fourteenth-century work.

The Champernownes are a very ancient and distinguished family, though Prince complains that their 'actions and exploits for the greatest part is devoured by time.' Sir Arthur Champernowne was 'a good soldier and an eminent commander in the Irish wars' of the sixteenth century, and was conspicuous for his zeal and valour. Prince gives an odd little bit of gossip about an heiress of this family. He says she was 'a frolic lady,' and no unusual epithet could be more descriptive; for the lady 'married William Polglas, within three days after her father's death; and within two days after her husband Polglas's death, she was married again unto John Cergeaux!'

In the reign of Queen Elizabeth Mr Henry Champernowne headed one hundred gentleman volunteers, who, with the Queen's permission, went to help the cause of the 'Protestant Princes' in France; and it is interesting to learn that Sir Walter Raleigh, then seventeen years old, was one of this company.

The Champernownes of Dartington were, however, only a younger branch of the family. The elder branch lived 'in great splendour' at Modbury. A story is told about them of which, perhaps, the most accurate version may be found in Britton and Brayley's 'Beauties of England and Wales': 'Tradition speaks very highly ... of the magnificent manner in which the Champernownes lived, and particularly of their keeping a very fine band of[Pg 129] singers and musicians, which band, if report may be credited, was the occasion of the family's ruin, "for that Mr Champernowne taking it on the Thames in the time of Queen Elizabeth, her Majesty was so delighted with the music, that she requested the loan of it for a month; to which Mr Champernowne, aware of the improbability of its ever returning, would not consent, saying that he 'hoped her Majesty would allow him to keep his fancy.' The Queen was so highly exasperated at this refusal, that she found some pretence to sue him at law, and ruin him, by obliging him, in the course of the proceedings, to sell no fewer than nineteen manors." This anecdote, at least the circumstance of the sale of the nineteen manors about the above period, is in a great degree confirmed by the title-deeds of some lands in and about Modbury.'

Fore Street, Totnes

A very short distance to the south lies the ancient and very picturesque town of Totnes, in which, from the round Norman keep at its crown, to the river winding round the foot of the hill, witnesses to the past are jostling against tokens of the present time.

When Leland journeyed through it, the town already gave the idea of having passed its meridian, and his words are clear and concise: 'The Castelle of Totnes standith on the hille North West of the Towne. The Castell waulis and the stronge Dungeon be maintained. The Loggingis of the Castelle be clene in Ruine.'

The early chroniclers go back gloriously into the dim mists of antiquity for the origin of Totnes, and when no carping critics insisted on analyzing popular history and distilling all the romance out of it, the story of the town was very fine indeed. The founder of Totnes, then, was Brutus of Troy, who after long wanderings arrived in this charming bit of country, and on this hill made the great announcement:

Moreover, the stone that he stepped ashore upon is still here, and the Mayor stands on it whenever it is his duty to proclaim a new Sovereign.

The claims of Totnes have been set forth with no undue modesty. 'It hath flourished, and felt also the storms of affliction, under[Pg 130] Britons, Romans, Saxons, and Normans. To speak somewhat of the antiquity thereof, I hope I shall take no great pains to prove it (and that without opposition) the prime town of Great Britain.' Its history is taken in grand strides. Having explained that the coming of Brutus was held by some to be contemporary with the rule of Eli as high-priest in Israel, the writer continues: 'The first conqueror Brutus gave this town and the two provinces, Devon and Cornwall, then but one, to his cousin and great assistant, Corinœus, as is well known; whereof the western part is (as they say) called Cornwall; who peopled it with his own regiment; and being an excellent wrestler, as you have heard, trained his following in the same exercises; whereof it comes that the western men in that sport win the mastery and game wheresoever they come.... The second conqueror, William of Normandy, bestowed this town, together with Dartmouth and Barnstaple, on a worthy man named Judæel.'

The space of time between the first and second 'conquerors' does not seem to strike the historian as a rather wide gap, and the doings of the one and the other are related with almost equal confidence and with the same air of authority.

Judhael de Totnes is supposed to have built the castle, and although only the walls of the round keep now remain, the trouble of the long climb up to it is well repaid by the lovely view that is gained from the ruin. Fertility and abundance seem to be the characteristics of the land, and the ridiculous suggestion that the town's name has been corrupted from Toute-à-l'aise is one shade less absurd, because that title would be so very appropriate. Here and there a silver gleam shows where the river runs between heavily wooded banks. To the east a green and smiling country of gentle hills and valleys leads to that shade of past splendour, the Castle of Berry Pomeroy; and far away to the north-west, it is possible to see the high, sharp tors on Dartmoor. Looking straight down, the uneven roofs seem tumbled over one another in a way that suggests that different ages have casually showered them into the little town.

Totnes received its first charter from King John, and there are[Pg 131] few older boroughs in the country. Originally a walled town, Fore Street is still crossed by the East Gate, which has been rebuilt in comparatively modern times. Within is a room decorated by an early Renaissance frieze and 'linen-pattern' panelling. The upper stories of some of the old houses project over the lower ones, and in the High Street they jut quite across the pavements, and rest upon columns, making piazzas or covered ways along the street. Such piazzas are very uncommon in England, but there is a short one, called the Butter Walk, at Dartmouth.

The church is a very fine Perpendicular building, of a warm rose colour, and it has a high battlemented tower from which three figures look out of their niches. Some very grotesque gargoyles peer down from the roof at intervals. The great treasure of the church is its screen, carved so finely that the pattern seems like lacework, and it is difficult to realize that it can be of stone. The main lines of the carving curve and spread upwards almost like the lines of palm-leaves, and the screen is coloured and gilded. There is another beautiful and delicate, though less elaborate, bit of carving which divides a little chapel from the south side of the chancel. Under the tower arch is a curious monument to Christopher Blackhall, who died in 1635, and his four wives, who are kneeling one behind the other. The dates of their deaths are very clearly marked by the different fashions of their dresses—a compact and upstanding ruff adds to the stiff precision of the first wife's appearance; while the sloping lines of a 'Vandyke' collar embellish the dress of the fourth.

On the north side of the church stands the old Guildhall, and in front of it another tiny piazza, bordered by granite pillars. Inside 'linen-pattern' panelling lines the walls; there are carved seats all round the upper end, and in the council-chamber beyond are some fragments of fine moulding.

Before leaving the town, a curious custom practised in the eighteenth century must be mentioned—that of taking dogs to help in catching salmon. Defoe came here in his travels in the West, and saw the fish being caught. The fish, he says, in the flowing tide swim into a 'cut, or channel,' which has a 'grating of[Pg 132] wood, the cross-bars of which ... stand pointing inward towards one another.... We were carried thither at low water, where we saw about fifty or sixty small salmon, about seventeen to twenty inches long, which the country people call salmon-peel,' caught by putting in a net at the end of a pole. 'The net being fixed at one end of the place, they put in a dog (who was taught his trade beforehand) at the other end of the place, and he drives all the fish into the net, so that, only holding the net still in its place, the man took up two or three and thirty salmon-peel at the first time.' He finishes the story by saying that they bought some for dinner at twopence apiece. 'And for such fish, not at all bigger, and not so fresh, I have seen six and sixpence each given at a London fish-market.'

The river leaves Totnes in broad, sweeping curves between the hills, and rolls on past the lovely woods of Sharpham, and on its course to Dartmouth passes the early homes of two men who each played a part in English history. At Sandridge, close to the river, lived Captain John Davies, or Davis, whose name is familiar as the discoverer of Davis's Straits. Prince, who himself lived not far away, takes the fascination of Dartmouth, and the longing for the sea that Dartmouth seemed to inspire, as quite natural, and says casually that, living so near this town, 'Mr Davis had ... a kind of invitation, to put himself early to sea.'

These were in the days when the Merchant Adventurers were at the height of their importance and prosperity, and it was in the hope of opening up a trade for the woollen goods of the West-country with India and China that Captain Davis set out to look for the North-West Passage.

To face all the hazards of this journey, so very far away from civilization, and the perils and shocks that might await him in the frozen North, he fitted out a little fleet which consisted of the 'Barke Sunneshine, of London, fifty tunnes, and the Moonshine, of Dartmouth, thirty-five tunnes, the ship Mermayd, of a hundred and twenty tunnes, and a pinesse of tenne tunnes named the North Starre.'[5] But in spite of this name of good augury the little[Pg 133] pinnace never came home again, and one can only admire with awe the daring that ventured to sail a boat of ten tons across the boisterous Atlantic into the unknown Arctic Seas. Traces of Davis's wanderings along the coasts of North America may still be found in the names he bestowed on different points. 'On sighting first the land, he named the bay which he entered after his friend, Gilbert Sound; we find also Exeter Sound, Totnes Roads, Mount Raleigh, and other familiar titles. A few years later John Davis found the right course to India and China, and introduced the trade from this country which exists to the present time.'

Sharpham Woods: River Dart

A greater man than Davis lived farther down the river at Greenaway, opposite the pretty village of Dittisham, which, with its strip of beach and ferry, looks as if it had been 'made for a picture.' Sir Humphrey Gilbert, stepbrother to Sir Walter Raleigh, was a great man to whom Fortune was not overkind, but his 'virtues and pious intentions may be read ... shining too gloriously to be dusked by misfortune.' His aims were higher than the hopes that stirred most of his contemporaries, and of his 'noble enterprizes the great design ... was to discover the remote countries of America, and to bring off those savages from their diabolical superstitions, to the embracing the gospel.' He made two efforts to graft a colony with little success, but his third effort was rather happier; and having left Devonshire in June, 1583, he 'sailed to Newfoundland and the great river of St Laurence in Canada; which he took possession of, and seized the same to the crown of England, and invested the Queen in an estate for two hundred leagues in length by cutting a turf and rod after the antient custom of England.' From the developments of that great country that are now taking place, it cannot but be interesting to look back along the vista of years to this very simple ceremony.

Later this group of emigrants lost heart, and nearly all returned to England, and possibly Sir Humphrey may have wondered whether this venture also would have but a flickering existence, and would leave no lasting result of the work on which he[Pg 134] had spent his years and his strength and his riches. Or it may be that no doubts troubled him, for he had a 'noble and gallant spirit,' and his dauntless motto was 'Quid non?' The story of his death makes an appropriate ending to his life. He was with his colony in Newfoundland when 'necessaries began to fail,' and he was urged to return home. He started in the Squirrel, a ship of ten tons. When they were far out at sea a violent tempest blew up, and those in the Golden Hind (a larger ship accompanying them) saw with horror the imminent danger that their friends were in. But Sir Humphrey was quite composed, and those in the Golden Hind were near enough to hear him cry 'aloud to his company, in these words: "We are so near to heaven here at sea as at land."' In the height of the storm the little boat was swallowed up by the waves, and all on board perished.

A portrait of Sir Humphrey hung in his grand-nephew's house at Compton, where Prince saw it. 'The one hand holdeth a general's truncheon, and the other is laid on the globe of the world, Virginia is written over; on his breast hangs the golden anchor, with the pearl at the peak; and underneath are these verses, which, tho' none of the best, may here supply the place of an epitaph:

The 'golden anchor' was a jewel which the Queen had given him as a special mark of favour, for she looked on him very graciously, in spite of the fact that his efforts did not then seem as if they would be crowned with success. A song was made about the year 1581, in which he and Sir Francis Drake divide the honours.

'the Queen's Speech.

'The Queen's Reason.

[Probably added in 1584-85.]

Notes to this song explain: 'We understand as the three-fold holders of the name, "Sir Francis," three persons; Sir Francis Drake, Knighted by the Queen after his return from circumnavigating the world in 1580: Sir Francis Walsingham, and Sir Francis Vere. Sir William Cecil, Lord Burleigh, and his son, Sir Robert.... The Lord Chamberlain probably meant the despicable Sir James Crofts, who hated and calumniated Drake.'

The song probably reflects the temper of the time.

The lines are very characteristic of the spirit of the age that was bound to conquer. There was sorrow for those who were gone, but no complaint, no grudging those who had perished where the fame or power of the Queen could be furthered. Gloriana's subjects found no price too great, no sacrifice worth counting; a leader might fall, but the great scheme must go on, her rule spread farther and wider, and the hazards and failures overstepped.

Although upon all parts of the South Hams there hovers a spell that is inexplicable, perhaps it is felt more in Dartmouth than in any other place one can think of. Possibly it is the loveliness of sea[Pg 136] and land, flowers in the crevices of the cliffs hanging low towards the water's edge, the round tower rising out of the sea, the picturesqueness of the town, with its thronging associations, or just the intangible influences of bygone days. But there is something of enchantment about the tower, especially when it is contemplated from the water. And to fully appreciate the whole, one should slip out of the harbour past the Mew Stone, where the sea-gulls rise like a drift of snowflakes on a sudden gust, into the midst of sliding walls of transparent green water beyond, where—if there is wind enough—glassy hillocks all round, at moments, hide everything else from sight. Besides the fascination of watching waves towering above the boat, and following it as if they would fall over and bury it in their depths, and climbing them, with the sudden plunge into the hollow beyond, it may be, especially if shoals of mackerel are near, that one may have the pleasure of coming upon a flock of gulls, swimming, swooping, flapping about, and all busy fishing. Or perhaps there will be a group of brown divers, floating placidly on the waves, and then suddenly disappearing, one or two at a time or several in a moment. And possibly a great black creature may appear a little way off, tossing and seeming to turn somersaults in the water, and another and another, and one may find oneself among a school of porpoises, and hear the curious puffing sounds they make that are not quite like anything else. From a little distance out, looking back across the changing lights that glance over the water, one gets a quite fresh view of the harbour's mouth, shut in by its high cliffs, half veiled by soft masses of green.

Dartmouth had a great stake in the country's welfare in early days, and was a port of much stir and traffic. From here sailed many of the ships that Richard I gathered together to take the English who were going with him on the Third Crusade. William Rufus started once from this harbour when there was trouble in Normandy, and King John paid the town two visits. In Edward III's time Dartmouth had already become renowned for her shipping and sent six ships for the King's service in a fight in which engaged the combined French, Flemish, and Genoese fleets; and[Pg 137] she sent two more a few years later to help in his war against Scotland. Fifty years later this loan was entirely eclipsed by the magnificence of contributing no fewer than thirty-one ships to the siege of Calais.

Chaucer's words have often been quoted:

As if it were more likely that a typical seaman would come from Dartmouth than anywhere else! In no harbour could that great training-ship the Britannia have been more appropriately moored, nor could a more fitting place be chosen for the long range of buildings on the hill above, the Naval College that has superseded it. Risdon tells us that the town has been 'sundry times subject to the attacks of foreigners,' and particularly mentions one occasion in the reign of Henry III, when the French made such a furious onslaught, that the women turned out by the side of their menkind and hurled flints at the enemy. These found themselves 'courageously resisted by the towns-men and-women, Amazonian-like.'

In 1470 Dartmouth was a step in the retreat of Warwick, 'the King-maker,' when Edward IV pursued him as far as Exeter. Warwick embarked here for France, and his arrival in those unsettled times must have created much bustle and excitement amongst all the gossips of the place. The Earl was 'in danger of being surprized, whereupon leisurely (for his great spirit disdained anything that should look like a Flight) he retired to Exeter, where having dismissed the Remainder of the troops that attended him, he went to Dartmouth, and there, with many ladies in his company and a large Retinue, he took ship and sailed directly to Calais.'

Amongst the celebrities of Dartmouth is a certain John Hawley, a great merchant of immense wealth. A couplet ran of him:

—that is, to his house. Prince interprets this by saying that Hawley had so many ships all over the world that any wind that blew was of advantage to some of them.[Pg 138]

When Leland came here, he remarked on the great ruins of 'Hawley's Haul ... a rich merchant and a noble warrior against the French Men.' Hawley is buried in the beautiful church of St Saviour's, and a large brass represents him as lying between his two wives.

In this church is a most delicately carved screen, and leaves, sprays, and grapes are conspicuous amongst the details of its graceful design. The groined cornice is decorated by exquisite fan-tracery, and various saints and 'doctors of the church' are painted on the panels of the lower part. In the high carved stone pulpit are tabernacled recesses, once enclosing figures, but now containing 'royal badges and devices'; and both screen and pulpit were coloured and gilded, and are rather dimmed by time. The church has many very interesting features, and in the south porch is a most curious wrought-iron door, showing a tree with long, drooping branches and large diamond-shaped leaves, and two wonderful heraldic lions impaled on it.

The Castle was built in the time of Henry VII, on the site of an older one; for when Edward IV reigned, the men of Dartmouth built themselves a castle at the desire of the King, who promised that if they would by this means protect the town—and, further, would guard the harbour by putting a chain across the mouth—they should have £30 yearly from the customs of Dartmouth and Exeter. The chain stretched across to Kingswear, and a hollow in the rock by the ruins of an old guard-house shows where it once passed. The little square castle of Kingswear stands close by, and from certain points of view both Kingswear and the beautiful round tower of Dartmouth Castle seem to be rising straight out of the waves.

In 1685 an agreement very much like the earlier one was made. James II had some cause for uneasiness and for looking closely to his defences, and, as it happened, three years later there landed, only a few miles away, the man who, superseding him, was hailed by the majority as England's Deliverer. But when James came to the throne he had already seen Dartmouth conquered by an enemy's troops; for, although Prince Maurice had secured it in the[Pg 139] earlier stages of the war, Fairfax had taken it later. Among the Duke of Somerset's papers are some orders given by a Council of War, at which 'Colonel Edward Seymour, Governor of Dartmouth town and garrison,' was present, providing very minutely for the defence of the town and for the supplies of the garrison. Stories of the Parliamentary troops quartering themselves in churches are sometimes told, with the unfair implication that they alone were guilty of such desecration; for where need was urgent the Royalists took the same course. Here we find orders: 'Captain Haughton ... with forty men shall lie in Townstall church, for the fortifying thereof against the enemy, and that the said captain, his officers and company, shall have their victuals from Mount Boone.' Also that a 'month's provision of victuals be laid into St Petrox church for five hundred men, and the said Major Torner and his select officers shall be keepers thereof.' The Church of St Clement at Townstall was fortified with ten cannon.

Dartmouth Castle

Fairfax attacked in the first days of January, 1646, in exceptionally cold weather. Honourable conditions of surrender had been first offered to the Governor, but were refused, and he prepared to fight to the end. 'In extreme bitter cold weather and snow' the Parliamentary forces moved forward, and, after examining the town as closely as they could, decided to take it by storm. Additional troops were ordered up to strengthen the besiegers, and Sir Thomas Fairfax sent for a squadron to prevent any help reaching the Royalists by sea. On Sunday evening 'the soldiers were all drawn out; about seven at night forlorn hopes were set, the evening very mild, as at midsummer, the frost being newly gone; the word was given: God with us.... About 11 o'clock at night the storm began.'

Three separate attacks were made simultaneously on different parts of the town, and though the besieged fought bravely, they fought in vain, and by the next morning all but the Castle and the little fort above were in the hands of the enemy. Sir Hugh Pollard, the Governor (Sir Edward Seymour was at this time taking part in the defence of Exeter), had been wounded the night before, and, realizing that his position was hopeless, 'after some[Pg 140] dispute, 'he surrendered on Fairfax's terms, and yielded himself and his officers prisoners, the common soldiers being set at liberty to repair to their dwellings.'

The fort above Kingswear, commanded by Sir Henry Cary, was protected by strong bulwarks, and the defence being very well carried out, the garrison obtained better terms. 'To save time,' writes Fairfax to the House of Peers, 'I willingly condescended to let Sir Henry Cary march away with the rest, leaving the arms, ordnance, ammunition, with all provisions.'

This was all accomplished on the Monday, and on the evening following the attack the Parliament was in full possession of the town.

[Pg 141]

Salcombe

CHAPTER VIII

Kingsbridge, Salcombe, and the South Hams

Kingsbridge lies in a fold of the hills that rise beyond the head of the creek running inland from Salcombe Harbour, and seen from the water it is very picturesque—the houses clustered together and clinging to the slope, and the spire of St Edmund's Church standing out against the still, green background. Mr Mason has written of 'the mists on the hills, and the gulls crying along the valley,' by Kingsbridge, and this exactly sums up its individuality. It has the peculiar atmosphere of a sea-town, but why, precisely, it is difficult to say.

The Fore Street is steep and winding, and on one side stands a church which, without any very striking feature, is quietly impressive. It is a cruciform building, and a steeple rises from the centre. A chapel, dedicated to St Edmund, King and Martyr, stood on this spot before the year 1250; but it was rebuilt and aisles were added by the Abbot and monks of Buckfast in the beginning of the fifteenth century. In the south transept of the present church are remains of early English work, and the font is Early English. Hagioscopes slant through the chancel walls from the aisle on either side. The very unusual name of a benefactress must be noticed—Tryphena Tobys.[Pg 142]

Dodbrooke is joined so closely to Kingsbridge that their streets run into each other, and they are separated only by small streams now partly covered in. It would be almost impossible for a stranger wandering about to say offhand which town he was in. Dodbrooke is really the older of the two. A grant to hold a market was made to Alan Fitz-Roald, in or possibly just before the year 1256. About this time a serious quarrel occurred, when 'Henry Fitz-Alan impleaded Matthew Fitz-John, with forty others, for throwing down a pillory in Dodbrooke. Forty seems a good many against the pillory! But the affair was not one of those cases in which a spark causes a fire, but was rather an outburst of flame in a long-smouldering feud between the Fitz-Alans and the Lords of Stokenham over the manor of Dodbrooke. In the end, the Fitz-Alans triumphed.

Three hundred years later we find the people of Dodbrooke complaining of the heavy contributions that they were called on to make towards furnishing 'ships of war'; for after the Armada had been defeated the means of defence on these coasts were for some years kept up to a very high standard. Mr Richard Champernowne,—who, it must be admitted, from the general tenor of his ways, seems to have been one of those well-meaning but egotistical and meddlesome people who are always being surprised and hurt because their good offices are not better received,—wrote to the local authorities as follows:

'Cousin Cary, and the rest of the Commissioners for the ship causes, I have received some grievous complaints of some poor men who are taxed in Dodbrook to this, more than all their goods are worth.... Surely, as the country must bitterly speak against those [who] are procurors and assistants in this country, so would it be as highly disliked both of her Majesty as of the Lords, if they knew rightly of whom, and on what sort, this tax is levied.'

But, alas! a severe snub was the result of this appeal, and the unhappy Mr Cary must have deeply regretted that he had obligingly forwarded the grievance to the Lords of the Council.

Their answer ran: 'The Court.... The Council to George[Pg 143] Carey, J.P....' They learn by his late letter that the county is unwilling to contribute the charges imposed upon it for 'setting out ships etc.' It is paid cheerfully by other counties, and he is desired to return the names of those persons who are obstinate in refusing payment.

There is no building of special interest excepting the church, which is dedicated to St Thomas à Becket. The arches dividing the aisles from the nave are high and rather pointed, giving an impression of loftiness. There is a beautiful carved screen, with painted figures on the panels; and the font is a very early one. Of the infants baptized in it, one at least obtained a rather unenviable celebrity—Dr John Wolcot, better known as 'Peter Pindar.' His bitter satires earned for him a harvest of hatred and abuse, but nobody denied his wit. 'There is a pretty story of the older Pindar that a swarm of bees lighted on his cradle in his infancy and left honey on his lips; but we fear in the case of our hero they were wasps that came, and that they left some of the caustic venom of their stings.' A surgeon's son, he studied medicine himself, but was unpopular with his patients for the reason that his ideas were too far ahead of his time. His opinion that 'a physician can do little more than watch Dame Nature, and give her a shove in the back when he sees her inclined to do right,' was considered a shocking heresy, and, no doubt, a confession of his own ignorance.

Before leaving Dodbrooke, mention must be made of the 'white ale' peculiar to the place—a compound of malt, hops, and flour, fermented with an ingredient called 'grout.' Some of the statements about this ale show the curious tendency of traditions to transfer themselves from points in the nebulous past to points that are just beyond the range of living memory. It is difficult to discover when 'white ale' was first made, but the general idea is that it was invented a very long time ago, though personally I have not been able to find any indisputable reference to it earlier than in the edition of Camden's 'Britannia' published in 1720, where there is a brief notice that the people of Dodbrooke pay tithes in white ale to the Rector. A will dated 1528, however,[Pg 144] gives directions in regard to a gift that was to include 'cakes, wine, and ale,' and it has been supposed that the particular kind made in this town would be the ale here referred to. Yet I was told by an inhabitant of the neighbourhood who was a good deal interested in local traditions, that it was introduced by the French doctor of the prisoners of war at Kingsbridge Barracks, for the benefit of those who found themselves ill at ease in this climate—an event that could not possibly have taken place till the very end of the eighteenth century.

There is a charm over all this country, not solely due to its beauty. It is true that it is rather drowsy, that the 'spell of the briar-rose' in part lies over it, but it may be that this adds to the charm. There is an absence of competition, an air of plenty and of kindness, a golden glamour that gives the impression that Nature has told the people theirs is a generous portion, and they may sit still and be content. And they are content.

There is such an overbrimming wealth of bushes and plants and flowers on every side, that the fact of the water in the estuary being salt scarcely seems to prevent their growing in it! Along the bank washed by the flowing tide, and almost touching the masses of tough golden-brown seaweed on the rocks, are multitudes of the daisy-flowers of sea-mayweed, flowering samphire, the stars of sow-thistle, and bright yellow bunches of charlock and straggling spires of wild-mignonette, against a darker background of blackthorn, hawthorn, ivy, and furze, lightly powdered with trails of bramble-blossom. Creeks, edged with low hills, wind away from the estuary. When the tide is low, great stretches of mud and sand lie on either side, and here may be seen black cormorants and crowds and crowds of gulls, here and there a heron, and quantities of smaller birds. The scene changes entirely at the mouth of the creek, for here the banks rise into high rugged cliffs, and the water frets restlessly over sunken rocks.

Salcombe is a tiny little town, with steep, narrow streets and high-walled gardens on each side of the close lane that ends the principal street; and between the gardens the air is fragrant with sweet clematis, that, as well as red valerian, tumbles in clusters[Pg 145] over the walls. Salcombe has a very good claim to remembrance, for on a peninsular rock at the mouth of the harbour stand the ruins of a fortress that held out for King Charles later than any other place in Devonshire. It was defended by Sir Edward Fortescue, and surrendered only on May 7, 1646.

On the opposite side of the estuary, high on the cliffs, lies the small village of Portlemouth. The cross-shaped church is dedicated to a Celtic saint, St Winwaloe, locally called St Onolaus. A proverb without much point (probably only the fragment of a more coherent saying) mentions St Winwaloe amongst several saints whose days fall on windy dates.

[St David's Day, March 1; St Chad's Day, March 2; St Winwaloe's Day, March 3.]

In his church here is a very finely carved screen, and of one of the figures on it Mr Baring-Gould tells an amusing story: 'The sixth is Sir John Schorne, a Buckinghamshire rector, who died in 1308, and was supposed to have conjured the devil into a boot. He was venerated greatly as a patron against ague and the gout. There is a jingle relative to him:

South of Portlemouth the land ends in the grand headland of Prawle Point, the most southerly point in Devon. Prawle Point is very striking, and is 'principally composed of gneiss rock, which on the western side is weathered like a surface of snow which has been exposed to the sun's rays. It is everywhere broken into crags.' Prawle Point—'Prol in Anglia'—was known to foreigners for many centuries; and Mr R. J. King, in an admirable article on Devonshire, says that it 'is mentioned by an ancient commentator on Adam of Bremen's "Historia Ecclesiastica,"[Pg 146] as one of the stations at which vessels touched on their voyage from Ripa in Denmark. The passage was made from the "Sincfala," near Bruges, and "the station beyond 'Prol'" is St Matthieu—one day's sail. Adam of Bremen dates about 1070, and his commentator a little later.'[6] St Matthieu is in Brittany.

Bolt Head

To the south of Salcombe rise the great cliffs of Bolt Head, and a few miles farther to the west is Bolt Tail. Mr Norway points out that 'no other town in South Devon possesses, nor, indeed, more than one or two on any coast, a headland so high and dark and jagged as the entrance to the harbour. It is wild and rugged like a Cornish headland, and the walk across it to Bolt Tail is the finest between Portland and the Lizard.' A few miles to the west is Thurlestone, and all about here the coast is most dangerous. A ship flung in a storm towards the shore has no chance on the jagged rocks that spur-like, jut out from the cliffs, and the tide races inshore with terrific power, even when it is not driven by a wild south-westerly wind. This part of the coast was naturally a happy hunting-ground for smugglers, and was not altogether innocent of wreckers. A fearful wreck that happened in 1772 is still remembered. A large vessel—the Chantiloupe, from the West Indies—went ashore in Bigbury Bay. All the passengers but one were drowned, and over the death of a lady there hangs a terrible doubt. On realizing the desperate plight of the ship, she had hurriedly dressed herself in her most beautiful clothes and jewels, no doubt hoping that, as they were so close to land, there was a good chance of escape. She was, indeed, thrown up on the beach, but, it is to be hoped, already dead, for, with shocking callousness, the people watching there snatched away all her valuables and left her lying there. An account of the wreck, written in 1874, tells that at that date a lady living near the bay still had a corner of the victim's apron, a very beautifully embroidered bit of fine muslin. The unfortunate passenger's name was never really known, but rumour has always connected her with Edmund Burke; for it is certain that he feared some relatives or friends of his were on that ship, and on hearing of the wreck he came[Pg 147] down and investigated the matter of the lady's death himself. But he could get no information. The account of the wreck goes on to quote the views of a man who lived near the spot: 'The old man who seemed to know most about it said: "The lady was a-murdered, he believed; Jan Whiddon's father's dog found this here lady buried in the sand, he scratched up her hand."' The story is quoted at some length, and is characteristic of a Devonshire countryman's combined caution and sense of fate, for it finished: '"'Twas never found out who murdered her ... but all who were concerned in it, or supposed to be [the villagers obviously believed three men to be guilty] came to a bad end."'

In repeating these stories, I feel rather in fault, for I have listened to, and been impressed by, the views of a native of these parts, who was extremely severe on anyone that wrote about wreckers and reflected discredit on this coast, giving the idea that 'we robbed and murdered people.' A little to my surprise, he said he liked reading books about Devonshire, and admired some well-known novels dealing with the county, though he thought them quite inaccurate. 'But,' he added tolerantly, 'they say that, to get at the truth from a guide-book, you must divide what you read in three, and then take away half.' He admitted, all the same, that there had been a certain amount of wrecking in the days of the pirates (smugglers?), and putting lights in the wrong places. When he was a boy, what they liked best was a wreck with a 'general' cargo, so that the men could sell the mineral and the wives could wear the silk; but there were fewer wrecks of any kind nowadays. It is very quiet in the winter (east of Kingsbridge), unless anyone is going to be buried, and the only other chances of any stir are if there is a wedding or a christening, or a wreck in Start Bay.

Thurlestone takes its name from a 'thirled' or pierced rock, on the shore through which the waves have drilled an arch. The rector of Thurlestone has very kindly allowed me to make some extracts from a manuscript history of the parish in his possession, the earlier notes of which have been taken from entries made at the time of the events, in the Bishop of Exeter's registers, and have,[Pg 148] therefore, the value of contemporary evidence. They are very interesting, as giving glimpses at the course of events in a remote parish through several centuries.

During part of the fourteenth century the parishioners seem to have been rather turbulent and the history tells of storms. Some while before the first entry, in June, 1328, someone had not only been murdered, but actually done to death within the church. There is no record of the punishment of the culprit or culprits, or of any sign of penitence shown by the parish; but probably some steps had been taken, for at that date Bishop Grandisson commissioned the Archdeacon of Totnes to reconcile the parish church of Thurlestone, 'which had been polluted by the shedding of blood therein. For some reason not given the Archdeacon was excused from performing this duty, and Stephen Abbot of Buckfast was commissioned to officiate.... On the 8th of the Kalends of August, 1328, the Bishop issued his mandate to the Archdeacon of Totnes, informing him that the Abbot, having proceeded to Thurlestone, had reconciled the church, and that he was to require the Parishioners to pay the customary dues within eight days of the serving of this Monition to that effect.' The dues, however, were not forthcoming, and on October 6 the Bishop, who allowed no insubordination, threatened the defaulters with excommunication unless they paid the desired amount within six days. 'This had the desired effect, and on the 20th of October the Bishop sent to the Rector and the parishioners the formal acquittance. On the same day, he commissioned Sir Robert de Pynho, the Rector, to absolve the parishioners and relax the interdict imposed on their Parish Church.'

An unpleasant experience of Sir Henry Benet, priest and Canon of the Church of Crediton, and Rector of Thurlestone, witnesses to the lawlessness of the time in East Devon. He was 'peaceably entering the town of St Mary [Ottery St Mary] on Tuesday (tertia feria) of the then instant Pentecost Sunday,' when 'certain unknown persons, sons of perdition ... under colour of a precept which they falsely asserted they had received from the Sheriff of Devon, rushed on Sir Henry and ... rashly, violently and sacrilegiously laid hands[Pg 149] on him and inhumanly forced him into the public prison for thieves and criminals.' A 'Denuntiation of Excommunication' against these 'sons of perdition' in Bishop Grandisson's register is undated, but it follows an entry made in March, 1349-50.

A later rector must have been a pleasant acquaintance and a good friend. The Rev. John Snell 'was a person of firm and unshaken loyalty,' and when 'Fort-Charles' was about to be besieged, he joined the garrison in order to give all the help he could to Sir Edward Fortescue. On the surrender of the fort, amongst the very honourable conditions that Sir Edward obtained was the agreement that Mr Snell 'should be allowed the quiet possession of his Parsonage; but Articles, like oaths, in those days, were only matter of Form, and accordingly (about the year 1646) he was soon after plundered of his cattle and other goods without-doors, and several times forced to fly for his life.' Later, his lot was made still harder by the confiscation of his living, which he did not regain until after the Restoration. In the old parish register is a note, probably interpolated by John Snell when he had returned to his living, and with outraged feelings had been looking at the volume, and reading the entry referring to the appointment of a lay registrar in his parish. The registrars elected in 1653 were not only given charge of the parish registers, but took another office out of the hands of the clergy. No marriage might take place without the registrar's certificate that he had called the banns. The couple then took the certificate to the nearest magistrate, who, after hearing each of them repeat a brief formula, was authorized to declare them legally married.

Mr Snell's exclamation of distress appears under a notice which 'certyfyed John Calder (?) of the parish of Thurelston to bee Register of the sayde Parish,' and was signed by 'Will Bastard,' and dated 'September 20th, 1653.' Above and below the date is written:

'Monstrum horrendum informe.
[This is y^e Houre and Y^e]
Anno Dom. 1653.
[Power of darkness.]'

[Pg 150]

On Mr Snell's tombstone is a long Latin epitaph, from an English version of which the following lines are taken:

The Thurlestone chronicle records a certain number of beliefs and charms, and on one of them the present rector makes a note of peculiar interest: 'The Bishop of Malborough [Dr Earle, then Vicar of West Alvington and Malborough] tells me that his curate, the Rev. Robert Hole, South Huish, saw this charm used successfully to stop blood on a man called James Pierie.

'A CURE FOR STAUNCHING BLOOD.

Not far from Thurlestone was another parson who worked hard to embarrass the besiegers of the Royalists in Salcombe Castle, and who had his share of thrilling adventures. Mr Lane was the rector of Aveton Giffard, a parish at the head of the estuary of the Avon, which opens into Bigbury Bay. When the war broke out he took an active part, in conjunction with several gentlemen in the neighbourhood, in 'raising Succours for his Majesty.' And at the same time he began to make a 'Fort on a Hill' (part of the Glebe), which commanded the bridge over the Avon, crossed by Parliamentary troops marching to the siege of the Castle. Meanwhile, soldiers from Plymouth came up in boats, plundered the house, and took, says Mr Lane's youngest son, 'Two of my brethren, Richard and John, not giving them time to put on their stockings, and forced them to carry what of the Goods they could to Awmar (a creek), where they[Pg 151] carried off Stolen Sheep and Plundered Goods with my two eldest brothers. When the war was ended the triumphant Parliamentarians attempted to revenge themselves on their sturdy enemy, and searched the country for 'Bishop Lane, the Traytor,' who was driven to hide in his church tower. For three or four months his people secretly brought him food, and he was then able to make his escape, and in the end reached France in safety.

Slapton Lea

If the traveller returns to Prawle Point, and then follows the coast towards Dartmouth, he will soon come to the ridge of Start Point, which 'stretches boldly to sea, sloped on each side like the roof of a house, and crowned along its entire length by fanciful crags, strangely weathered and shaggy with moss.' Round the Point at a certain state of every tide there is a formidable tide-race, and always a swell so strong as to make small boats very careful of the weather before they try to sail round the Start. Dartmouth lies almost due north, and the coast-line between is very lovely, though it has not the impressiveness of the cliffs farther west. Slapton Sands are over two miles long, and the hills stand back far enough from the shore to leave room for Slapton Lea, a fresh-water lake, almost smothered with tall, feathery reeds and rushes in the summer, separated from the sea by a barrier of pebbles. The line of these wooded hills is broken by three little valleys, and down each one flows a brook that feeds the Lea. At the southern edge is Tor Cross, a handful of cottages under the shadow of a cliff that shuts away the shore-line to the south. The long stretch of sands is delightful. They are dotted all over with the glaucous leaves and brilliant flowers of the yellow-horned poppy, and bristling blue viper's bugloss, and on the inland edge there is a scattered border of the rest-harrow's pink butterfly blossoms. The short turf beyond is sprinkled with the little white bladder campion and thrift and many other flowers.

At the northern end of the sands the road turns inland, and presently comes to Blackpool, very small, but one of the most perfect of miniature bays. The cliffs are 'of various colours and very lustrous,' and almost on the brink the road winds its way amongst woods of firs and pines that seem to breathe out a pecu[Pg 152]liarly spice-like sweetness. When I saw it the sea was like molten silver, for the sunlight poured on it from beyond clouds, and the sun itself was not to be seen. But though this bay looks as if it had fallen from a poet's dream, it has been the scene of many stern events and disasters; for ships have mistaken the inlet for Dartmouth Harbour, with lamentable results. Many a time, too, it has been used by those who knew the coast well, but had their own reasons for wishing to land without attracting notice, for it is quite cut off by the shoulder of the hill from Dartmouth, and is near no other town.

In Queen Mary's reign the secret landing of doubtful characters was a danger that had to be diligently guarded against, and the Lords of the Council received an agitated letter from Sir John St Leger on this subject just after the flight of Sir Peter Carew. Sir Peter had a castle and many friends at Dartmouth, and Sir John quotes him as often having said that if he were the King's enemy he could take 'Dartmouth Castle' and 'burne the Towne with fewer than a hundred persons and lett ynto the haven suche as pleased hym. I, also, am creadeably informed the way howe he should be able to do so. That within a myle, or les, of the said Towne, there is a very good open place called Black poole, for the queene's enemyes to lande, and invade, and from thense may come to the saide towne from the back side.'

But when Queen Elizabeth came to the throne, and Sir Peter was reinstated and held in great honour, the coast was still far from safe, and there is a letter written by the Queen in 1564 to her 'Right Trustie and wel-beloved' Sir Peter, commissioning him to get ready and arm two ships, that, as the 'cost of Devonshyre and Cornwall is by reput much harted with pyrattes and Rovers,' so he should repress and, as far as possible, capture them. Twenty-four years later a far more serious danger threatened, and the preparations against the Spanish Armada were very elaborate. Masses of the most stringent orders are still preserved amongst the House of Lords manuscripts, and to quote a few will give an idea of their nature and scope.

On July 11, 1588, it was ordered: 'That all persons of what[Pg 153] degree soever ... whose armour and furniture shall not be found serviceable, for the first offence shall be put into the stocks one whole day, publicly; and for the second offence to the gaol for ten days' etc. Careful instructions are sent as to the choice of watchmen for the beacons and their duties; and a brief note refers to a letter written by the Council to Sir Walter Raleigh, then Warden of the Stannaries, demanding the muster-rolls of the tinners, both horse and foot, 'who poured to war' as well from Dartmoor's as from 'Mendip's sunless caves.'

After the Armada had been defeated, there were fears of another Spanish invasion, and in January, 1595-96, news came to the Deputy-Lieutenants and Justices of the Peace of Devon that 'The Queen has found it convenient to have her navy and certain companies of Soldiers for land-service in readiness to be victualled' with all possible speed 'for her service ... 400 quarters of wheat, 200 oxen, and 200 flitches of bacon are required from Devonshire.'

There are notices, too, respecting such gentlemen as 'have been charged with light horses and petronels,' and of the particular divisions of coast apportioned to each. For instance, in a certificate dated June 25, 1596, it is stated that 'Mr Seymour's colonelship reacheth from Plymouth to Dartmouth. Mr Cary's from Dartmouth to Exmouth. Sir Thomas Dennis from Exmouth to Axmouth.' And, going into particulars: 'For Salcomb, Mr William Courtenay with the assistance of the constable and other officers there.... Long Sands [Slapton] and Black pool to be defended by Mr Ameredith and Mr Roope.' The notice continues to give an exact list of the places next one another along the coast, the names of the officers and numbers of men appointed to defend each.

In spite of all that was done, in the summer of 1598 the Lords of the Council were dissatisfied, and wrote to the Lord-Lieutenant to complain of 'the number of horse, which we think to be very few in that country in regard to the largeness and wealth of the same.' But the people in the county looked at the matter in a different light, and in the following April, at a meeting in Exeter, it was[Pg 154] resolved that a letter should be written to the Lords of the Council to convey 'the desire of the country' to be freed from a certain 'contribution' wherewith they find themselves much burdened and grieved in respect of the manifold impositions daily coming upon them.'

Demands and complaints seem to have been bandied backwards and forwards for some time afterwards, for in 1600 there came this brief but alarming note from the Lords of the Council:

'June 23, Greenwich.—The composition money for Devonshire, though the whole amounts but to £113 6s. 8d., remains partly unpaid; we have therefore sent down a messenger to bring before us all those who remain in arrear.'

Fortunately, the period of acute alarm had now passed away, and the train-bands were dismissed, so that the burden of levying contributions must for a while have been lightened.

[Pg 155]

The Tamar, near Saltash

CHAPTER IX

The Three Towns

'Be patient, I beseech you, I am in a labyrinth, where I find many ways to proceed, but not one to come forth.' Such is Westcote's plea while attempting to describe Plymouth, and it may be echoed from the heart by anyone who is in the same perplexing position. The words so exactly sum up the difficulty. One is bewildered by the multitude of associations thronging on every side in a town in which, unlike other West Country ports, the pulse of life throbs as strongly as it did in the centuries long gone by. 'The sea-front of Plymouth,' says Mr Norway, 'is the most interesting spot within the British Empire, if not also the most beautiful. It is a large claim, but who can deny it?'

No one who has not studied the history of the Three Towns can realize how keenly Plymouth has been affected by every declaration of war or peace that this country has known—at latest, since the reign of Edward I—nor how vividly its victories and disasters have been brought home to the people. The number of fleets that have returned to this port in triumph, or sometimes in humiliation, and the succession of ever-famous expeditions that have sailed from the Sound, must continually have carried their thoughts across the seas, and prevented petty local affairs from bounding their horizon. The old chronicles seem to show that stirring events perpetually followed each other at short[Pg 156] intervals, and when no great expedition was occupying men's minds, there were usually plenty of adventurous spirits to provide excitement—privateers, such as those who took service with the Prince of Condé, and searched the Channel for Roman Catholic ships, and others, ready for 'semi-piratical ventures.' There were also moments when Plymouth was the victim, and in dread watched for the Turkish and Algerine pirates who were known to be hovering near, and were making raids in the neighbourhood.

Plymouth seems to keep a peculiarly strong hold on the affections of her sons, no matter how far or wide they wander, and it is said that the city 'has given its name to more towns than any other town or city in the world. There are seventeen Aberdeens outside Scotland. There are twenty-nine Londons, but forty Plymouths.'

From the Hoe, one point after another that catches the eye suggests a fresh train of ideas. To the east is Sutton Pool, with its coasting vessels and fishing-boats; south, across the Cattewater, lies Mount Batten, whose round tower recalls the long and resolute defence of the town in the Civil War. Still farther south are the high grounds of Plymstock and Bovisand, with their modern fortifications; to the north stretches the town and far in the distance the heights of Dartmoor; and to the south-west, over the Cornish border, lies beautiful Mount Edgcumbe, which 'so affected the Duke of Medina-Sidonia' Fuller tells us,'(though but beholding it at a distance from the Sea), that he resolved it for his own possession in the partage of this kingdom (blame him not if choosing best for himself), which they had preconquered in their hopes and expectation.' Mr Norway sketches the view in rapid touches: 'The Sound lies veiled in a thin blue mist, behind which a hot sun beats, scattering it gradually with the aid of a stiff breeze off the land. But it hangs around Mount Edgcumbe on the right, where the grey towers of the mansion stand in shadow among dark woods, while on the summit of the hill above the green fields catch the sunlight. A little lower, Drake's Island lies impalpable and dim amid the mist which sweeps so softly round the forts and the green grassy slopes as to touch it all with[Pg 157] mystery one moment, while the next it is bright again with sunlight, sparkling amid the dazzling sea. Within the breakwater the sea is alive with craft.'

The little island in the Sound has been transferred from patron to patron. Originally called after St Michael, to whom its chapel was dedicated, the name was changed to that of St Nicholas, the patron saint of mariners, and eventually the island was renamed in honour of Plymouth's greatest hero. The chapel had been destroyed before Drake's day at the bidding of the Privy Council, and fortifications were reluctantly built upon it by the Mayor and Corporation, the Council 'mervelinge of their unwillingnesse to proceede in the fortefynge of St Michaell's Chapele to be made a Bulwarke.'

Plymouth is not rich in old buildings. The Citadel was rebuilt in the reign of Charles II, and the new Guildhall is little over thirty years old. St Andrew's, a large Perpendicular building with a fine tower, is the only old church, but it stands on the site of a much older one—the church of the Augustinians of Plympton Priory.

Really, neither Stonehouse nor Devonport has any history. In the reign of Henry III, Stonehouse consisted of the dwelling of Joel de Stonehouse, who at that time owned the manor, and it is only comparatively lately, since it has been transformed into a huge naval storehouse, and the great Marine Barracks have been built, that it has become of importance.

Devonport, looking over the broad glittering waters of Hamoaze, was till the year 1824 known only as Dock, or Plymouth Dock. Charles II planned a dockyard here, but the work of making it was not begun until the reign of William and Mary.

The very early history of Plymouth is not specially interesting to anyone who cares over-much for sober fact; but looking at it in the generous spirit of the ancient chroniclers, and not stickling over probabilities, the story of the first great event in Plymouth is almost as fine as the traditions of Totnes itself. Giants, we all know, flourished in Cornwall, and soon after the arrival of the Trojans—about 1200 B.C.—they made a furious onslaught upon[Pg 158] the invaders, but were defeated after a desperate battle. The crowning struggle between Goemagot (the name afterwards turned into Gogmagog), chief of the giants, and Corinæus the Trojan, took place in Plymouth Hoe, as Drayton's vigorous lines declare:

A memorial of this terrific conflict, 'the portraiture of two men of the largest volume,' was cut in the turf on the Hoe at an early date, and was only destroyed when the Citadel was built about 1671.

In the Domesday Book Plymouth appears as the Manor of Sutton, and this was later on divided into three separate portions—Sutton Valletort or Vautier, Sutton Prior, and Sutton Raf. The village of Sutton Valletort was 'the germ of ancient Plymouth.' Sutton was given by Henry I to Reginald de Valletort, who bestowed lavish gifts on the monastery at Plympton; and as his example was followed by his successors, the title of the second portion of the manor is easily accounted for. The whole place was dominated by the Valletorts and the Priors, but the power of the monks increased steadily, till, at an inquisition held in 1281, 'it was presented that the Ville of Sutton belonged to the Prior of Plympton, with assize of bread and beer, and this right was allowed.' Sutton was now becoming a flourishing town, and some years later the King made inquiries about his property in it, for the burgesses had petitioned that some waste land might be granted them at a yearly rent. To this 'the Prior and the Valletorts declared that the town was wholly theirs, and none of the King's,' and the dispute was followed by a series of efforts, on the part of the townspeople, to free themselves from the rule of the Priors—efforts which succeeded each other, at no long intervals, through the next hundred and twenty years.[Pg 159]

As time went on, the Crown gradually granted rights to the burgesses, and increased their responsibilities, till in 1439 an Act of Parliament was passed incorporating the three Suttons as a free borough, with one Mayor, and the manorial rights of the Priory were ceded to the Mayor and Corporation, who paid to the Priory a fixed yearly sum in compensation. The name Plymouth, which had been used in speaking of the port, was now formally adopted for the whole town.

From the 'mene thing, as an inhabitation for Fischars,' that Leland says it was in the reign of Henry II, the town grew rapidly, and before the end of the thirteenth century it was represented in Parliament. In 1287, for the first time on record, the splendid harbour was officially recognized as a grand rendezvous, and three hundred and twenty-five vessels gathered here before sailing for Guienne under the command of the King's brother. Half a century later, orders were sent that men and ships should be collected at Plymouth to escort Princess Johanna, the King's daughter, to Gascony, and escorts for various Princes had to be provided on several occasions. The Black Prince was kept by contrary winds in the port for forty days, when he was on his way to France to fight the 'glorious battell at Poictiers.' In the early part of the fifteenth century Plymouth suffered severely from the attacks of the French and Bretons, and in 1403 the Bretons, under the Sieur du Chastel, burned six hundred houses in the part since called Briton Side. The name became gradually transformed into 'Burton,' but the memory of the raid survived so far, Mr Worth tells us, as to enable the boys who lived in the Old Town to taunt the 'Burton boys' during the wars with France, by reminding them of the harm that the French had done to their quarter.

On Freedom Day, a 'local Saturnalia kept as such from the earliest times,' one of the features was the fighting between the Old Town and Burton boys for a barrel of beer, provided by the Mayor. Long after this custom had been dropped, the recollection of it was revived by the sign of a public-house, the Burton Boys, though eventually the owner changed the sign to that[Pg 160] of the Black Lion, as he 'wished for some more peaceful name'!

Plymouth does not seem to have been much affected by the Wars of the Roses, but Henry VII, as Earl of Richmond, 'while he houered upon the coast,' came ashore at Cawsand, and here 'by stealth refreshed himselfe; but being advertised of streight watch, kept for his surprising at Plymouth, he richly rewarded his hoste, hyed speedily a ship boord, and escaped happily to a better fortune.'

The fisheries of the port are old and important. The earliest grant now to be traced, made by Reginald de Valletort to Plympton Priory, was that of all his fishing rights in Tamar and Lynher—a privilege which Mr Worth thinks was probably bestowed 'not long after the manor passed into the hands of the Valletort family.' In 1384 Parliament decreed that all fish caught in the waters of Sutton, Plymouth, and Tamar should be displayed for sale in Plymouth and Aish [Saltash] only, which sounds as if Plymouth were already jealous of other fish-markets, as was certainly the case later on. During parts of the sixteenth century the industry flagged, and in Henry VIII's reign a royal proclamation ordered abstinence from flesh on Saturdays as well as Fridays, with the frank explanation that this was 'not only for health and discipline, but for the benefit of the Commonwealth, and profit of the fishing trade.' In Queen Elizabeth's reign matters were still worse, for the eating of fish had now come to be a badge of religious opinions, and '"to detest fish" in all shapes and forms had become a note of Protestantism.'

And not only had the demand for fish lessened, but the fisheries had fallen into the hands of foreigners. The Yarmouth waters were 'occupied by Flemings and Frenchmen,' 'the narrow seas by the French,' 'the western fishing for hake and pilchard by a great navy of French within kenning of the English shores,' and Scots and Spaniards fished other parts of the coasts. Cecil, who was anxious for greater reasons, to find 'means to encourage mariners,' set to work to revive the English fishing-trade, and with great difficulty succeeded in carrying a Bill through the House of[Pg 161] Commons, making 'the eating of flesh on Fridays and Saturdays a misdemeanour, punishable by a fine of three pounds or three months' imprisonment, and as if this was not enough, adding Wednesday as a subsidiary half-fish day.'

About this time Plymouth tried to rid itself of at least one branch of foreign competition by appealing to the Privy Council to forbid 'the exportation of pilchards, save in ships of Devon and Cornwall, because "divers ships and mariners lye idle without employment within our harbour," while foreign ships were continually employed.' Pilchards were a very important item, and many regulations were made in reference to them. One order, dated 1565-66, gives a good example of Plymouth's views of free trade. It ran: 'That no alien should lade or buy fresh pilchards above the number of 1,000 in a day; no man ... being free to buy or sell above 5,000, unless the fish "were in danger of perishing."' The business of curing fish was a large one and very jealously guarded. At the British Museum, among the Lansdowne manuscripts, is a letter to Lord Burghley from Mr Richard Browne, showing that this subject was sometimes the source of friction between the citizens themselves. It begins:

'My honorable good Lord, as I have ben always most bound vnto yor ho., so I humbly besech you to stand my good Lord.' The letter goes on to explain that the writer had been granted a 'pattent for salting, drying, and packing of fishe in the counties of Devon and Cornwall,' but letters from the Privy Council had caused the 'staie thereof.' These letters were apparently inspired by the complaint to the Council of 'marchants,' who were injured because the terms of the 'pattent' laid down 'that the inhabitants should be servid before the marchents, paying nothing unto me for it,' as he adds in a slightly aggrieved manner. The writer begs that these terms may be altered, and the only conditions should be those affecting such fish 'as shuld be transported in consyderacon of the Quene's Majesty's right.' For, he pathetically remarks, he has paid 'a great some of money' for his privileges, and still 'am bound to pay the rent into the exchequer,' although not allowed to reap the benefit therefrom. Besides, great incon[Pg 162]venience is caused by the suspension of his business, and letters of complaint have been addressed to him from Devonshire and Cornwall desiring 'y^t he pforme his offer y^t they may have fishe for their owne provesion frely.'

It was the outburst of ventures of every description, with all their different aims—ventures of soldiers, explorers, privateers, and merchants—in the reign of Queen Elizabeth that brought Plymouth to its greatest glory. In the interval between William Hawkins' first voyage to the South Seas—about 1528—and 1601, when Captain William Parker sailed to Panama and took Porto Bello, Plymouth was the starting-point of forty voyages, every one of which is historical. Mr Worth gives the exact date of each, and the names of the commanders. 'Here,' says Carew, 'mostly have the troops of adventurers made their Rendezvous for attempting new discoueries or inhabitances.' And Westcote, in the reign of James I, writes: 'Whatever show it makes in description, it is far larger in fame, and known to the farthest and most remote parts of the world.' In Camden's opinion, this great reputation was won 'less by the convenience of the harbour, as for the valour and worth of the Inhabitants,' and the worthies of Plymouth are indeed beyond number. Among the comparatively few whose names have not been lost, there stands out conspicuously Sir William Wilford, who after a French invasion returned the charge by swooping down on Brittany, where he 'made them to pay, besides costs and charges, more than sixfold damages.' And Captain Cocke, a 'Cock of the Game indeed,' according to Fuller; 'A Volanteer in his own ship,' he went out against the Armada, and 'lost his life to save his Queen and Countrey.' Then there is Cockrem, who sailed with William Hawkins, and was left alone among the Brazilians as a hostage for one of the 'Savage Kings' Hawkins brought back with him—but, as Mr Norway says, 'Plymouth has too many heroes; in the crowd the faces of all but one or two are blurred.'

For three generations the Hawkinses were 'the master spirits' of Plymouth, and of them all Sir John Hawkins was the most famous. His character was a curious medley of incongruous[Pg 163] features, bluff straightforwardness and crooked diplomacy, faithful affection—such as his bold schemes to help his captured comrades proved—balanced by a hard indifference that ignored the misery of the wretched negroes he sold to West Indian planters. Pluck and daring were the only qualities he showed consistently from first to last. His zeal in slave-hunting, repulsive to us, is excused by Froude on the ground that 'negro slavery in theory was an invention of philanthropy.' Labourers were a necessity for the Spanish colonist, 'the proud and melancholy Indian pined like an eagle in captivity, refused to accept his servitude, and died; the more tractable negro would domesticate like the horse or the ass.' Though Hawkins met with much good as well as bad luck, he was one of those who have need to remember that fate does not shower favours on all men, but 'if a man look sharply and attentively, he shall see Fortune; for though she be blind, yet she is not invisible,' and his success was to a very great extent due to his stout heart and quick discernment. These qualities stood him in good stead at San Juan de Ulloa, when his few ships were overwhelmed by a much larger fleet. 'The name of Hawkins was so terrible that the Spaniards dared not give him warning that he was to be attacked;' but mounted their batteries in the dark, and from land and sea 'every gun which could be brought to bear' opened upon the unprepared English. After sinking two Spanish ships and setting a third on fire, Hawkins saw that flight was their only chance, and, gathering his men together in two small tenders, he 'crawled out under the fire of the mole and gained the open sea.' The position of affairs was dispiriting in the extreme. Many men and three good ships were lost, besides treasure worth more than a million pounds, that had been won, by running innumerable dangers, during the past year. His ships were overcrowded, the store of food and water was scanty, and no harbour west of the Atlantic was open to them. Under the weight of adversity, Hawkins offered 'a lesson for all time on the use of bravado, the crowning grace of every leader who does not seek it at the cost of better things.'

'When the Minion stood off,' says Hortop, who wrote the tale[Pg 164] on his return to England, 'our generall courageously cheered up his soldiers and gunners, and called to Samuel his page for a cup of beer, who brought it to him in a silver cup. And he, drinking to all the men, willed the gunners to stand to their ordnance lustily like men. He had no sooner set the cup out of his hand, but a demi-culverin shot struck away the cup and a cooper's plane that stood by the mainmast and ran out on the other side of the ship, which nothing dismayed our generall, for he ceased not to encourage us, saying, "Fear nothing: for God who hath preserved me from this shot will also deliver us from these traitors and villains."'

Hawkins is chiefly known by his voyages and enterprises, and all that he did for his country by monotonous hard work is not so often remembered. For twenty-one years he 'toiled terribly' as Treasurer of the Queen's Marine Causes and Comptroller of the Navy, and when the ships were sent out to meet the Armada they were 'in such condition, hull, rigging, spars, and running rope, that they had no match in the world either for speed, safety, or endurance.'

There is no space here to speak of Sir John's father, 'the pioneer of English adventure in the South Seas,' who made three famous voyages to Brazil, and laid a good foundation for future traffic in that he 'behaved wisely' to the natives; nor to do more than glance at the ventures of Sir John's son, Sir Richard Hawkins, the 'Complete Seaman,' whose 'high-spirited actions, had they been all duly recorded (as pity it is, they were not),' says Prince, 'would have made a large volume in themselves.' Sir Richard rediscovered the Falkland Isles, and passed the Straits of Magellan. His fleet was reduced to a single vessel, and he had taken five richly laden ships, when 'the King of Spain's vice-roy in those parts' sent 'eight ships to intercept him. Sir Richard Hawkins held the fight for three days, with but three score and fifteen men and boys, against thirteen hundred of the enemy, and those the choice of Peru.' In the end, being 'dangerously wounded in six several places,' and with many of his crew killed or wounded, he was forced to surrender upon 'honourable articles of life and liberty,' which, however, were not observed, and he was sent to[Pg 165] Spain, where for long years he remained a prisoner. Sir Richard left an account of his 'Voyage to the South Sea'—a 'record of misfortune, but of misfortune which did no dishonour to him who sank under it; and there is a melancholy dignity in the style in which Hawkins tells his story, which seems to say that ... he respects himself still for the heart with which he endured a shame which would have broken a smaller man.' A second William Hawkins, Sir John's brother, commanded a Huguenot vessel under the commission of the Prince of Condé; and yet another William of a younger generation went as ambassador of the East India Company to the Great Mogul, and succeeded in setting up a trading station at Surat.

Every Plymouth hero, however, is eclipsed by Sir Francis Drake, who is always counted their chief, though he was born near Tavistock. 'Could my pen as ably describe his worth as my heart prompteth to it, I would make this day-star appear at noon-day as doth the full moon at midnight,' is Risdon's ecstatic exclamation.

When all his grand qualities and successes have been contemplated, it is still rather surprising to find the extraordinary impression he created in that epoch of heroic enterprise. The stories of magic that have clustered round his name witness to his wonderful personality, for naturally they are much more significant than those that have been woven around the older heroes of a more superstitious, less civilized age. These legends must have been handed down to generation after generation, for, writing about 1835, Mrs Bray mentions that the peasantry near Tavistock still talked of the 'old warrior,' as they called him. To choose one or two at random, there is the story that once, after he had been away for a very long time, his wife supposed him to be dead, and thought that she was free to marry again. A spirit whispered the news to Sir Francis, who was at the Antipodes. At once he fired a great cannon-ball, 'so truly aimed that it shot up right through the globe, forced its way into the church, and fell with a loud explosion between the lady and her intended bridegroom. "It is the signal of Drake!" she exclaimed. "He is alive, and I am still a wife. There must be neither troth nor ring between thee and[Pg 166] me."' Another story tells that after he had finished the ever-famous game of bowls on Plymouth Hoe, which was interrupted by tidings of the Armada, Sir Francis cut up a block of wood, and flung the chips into the sea, when every ship became a fire-ship, and the enemy's fleet was really destroyed because of the 'irresistable strength of those vessels that he had called up to "flame amazement" on the foes of Elizabeth and of England.'

When the citizens of Plymouth wanted a more abundant supply of water, they appealed to Drake, and he was ready to help them. 'So he called for his horse, mounted, rode to Dartmoor, and hunted about till he found a very fine spring. Having fixed on one that would suit his purpose, he gave a smart lash to his horse's side, pronouncing as he did so some magical words, when off went the animal as fast as he could gallop, and the stream followed his heels all the way into the town.' It is not possible here to pick more legends from the group, excepting one which was certainly told among the people a few years ago. Drake promised, they said, that if ever the country were hard pressed by any foe, and his countrymen should call him by striking his drum, he would hear them, and come back and scatter the enemy.

Of Drake it has been said that 'his Puritanism went hand-in-hand with his love of adventure. 'To sell negroes to the planters, to kill Spaniards, to sack gold-ships, was in the young seaman's mind the work of "the elect of God"'—a belief that no doubt partly explains how the most desperate circumstances seemed unable to teach him the meaning of fear. It is easy to understand how a leader who combined such glorious courage with great unselfishness could take his men anywhere. On arriving off the coast, on his first independent voyage to America, he found this encouraging greeting—'a plate of lead, fastened to a very great tree,' engraved with a message which began:

[Pg 167]

The message was signed by Captain Garret of Plymouth. Quite undismayed by the warning, Drake led his company to Nombre de Dios, which they successfully attacked. Here he received a dangerous wound; though he valiantly concealed it a long time, knowing if the general's heart stoops, the men's will fall, and that if so bright an opportunity once setteth, it seldom riseth again.' And he went forward till 'at the public treasury they had discovered ... bars of silver, piled up against the wall, seventy foot in length, ten in breadth, and twelve in height ... withal telling them, "That he had brought them to the mouth of the treasury of the world."' But before much could be done his strength failed and he fainted, when his followers became aware of the wound that he had not mentioned, but from which he was losing 'so much blood as filled his very footsteps in the sands.' They were at once anxious to take him back to his ship; Drake, on recovering consciousness, being the only man who wished them to persevere in their search for gold and jewels. But his men 'added force to their entreaties, and so carried him to his pinnace.'

As soon as he was able, Drake started on fresh enterprises with varying success, and after several months had passed on returning laden with treasure to the point on the coast at which he expected to meet his pinnaces, to his great dismay he found none, but saw seven Spanish ships lying in the distance. The company instantly fell into despair, convinced that their pinnaces had been taken and the crews tortured, and that they themselves were left alone in the midst of the enemy's country, from which they could not escape. Drake's self-possession alone was unshaken, and, after casting about for some way of reaching safety, he noticed trees floating slowly down the river. With 'the most confident and cheerful expression, he asked: "Who would accompany him to sea on the raft he was about to form with those timbers?"' A sail was 'made of a bisket-sack,' and with 'an oar shaped out of a young tree for a rudder,' they set out to sea, in danger of being swamped by every wave, and often waist-deep in water. After about six hours of extreme peril they sighted the pinnaces,[Pg 168] and in the end Drake succeeded in reaching them, and was able to carry away the rest of his company and the treasure.

An incident that happened when Drake was taking leave of some friendly negroes showed his generous disposition. 'Pedro, ... an eminent person among the Symerons, and one who had been greatly serviceable to Captain Drake, had a great mind to a rich cymeter the captain had, but was unwilling to ask it, lest he should prize it also: which known, the captain freely presented it to him. Who being willing to make a grateful return, desired him to accept of four wedges of gold, as a pledge of his thanks: whose importunity not being able to avoid, Captain Drake received them courteously, but threw them into the common stock, saying, "That it was just that those who bore part of the charge with him, in setting him to sea, should likewise enjoy their full proportion of the advantage at his return."'

All Drake's voyages and adventures, however, did not prevent him from keeping in touch with Plymouth and local interests. In 1581 he was Mayor; for four years he represented the borough in Parliament, and he certainly did bring the citizens water from Dartmoor, though at greater pains than in the fashion described in the legend. In memory of this great service there is still an annual ceremony called the Fishing Feast. The Mayor and Corporation inspect the leat by which the water is brought to Plymouth, attended by a huge crowd of spectators, and afterwards two toasts are drunk—one in water, to 'The pious memory of Sir Francis Drake,' and the other in wine—'May the descendants of him who brought us water never want wine.'

Plymouth townsfolk had every reason to be glad when the Pelican sailed into the harbour after her voyage round the world, for it was not only a national hero, but their own particular countryman and good friend, that they hurried out to welcome.

Amongst 'Commendations by Principal Persons friendly to the Author or the Work' which preface a book written by Sir Humphrey Gilbert, are some lines by Sir Francis which are very expressive of the views that seem to have guided his life. The book, whose aim must have been to encourage the idea of settling in the[Pg 169] new colony, is called 'A true Report of the late Discoveries and Possession taken in the Right of the Crowne of Englande, of the New found Landes.' I do not quote the whole poem:

Drake's audacity was never more amazing than in the expedition of 1587, when he sailed along the Spanish and Portuguese coast, plundering and burning the ships in their own harbours. His fearlessness filled the Spaniards with a very generous admiration. 'So praised was Drake for his valour of them, that were it not that he was a Lutheran, they said, there was not the like man in the world.' Once, when the King invited a lady of the Court to go in his barge on a lake near Madrid, 'the lady said she dared not trust herself in the water even with his Majesty, lest Sir Francis Drake should have her.' His name passed even into nursery songs, and one of them has been translated as follows:

It was about sixteen months later that Drake, amongst the band of famous captains gathered at Plymouth, watched the long-[Pg 170]awaited Armada sailing in a great crescent up the Channel. The English popular view of the invasion is, perhaps, reflected in a ballad which was written soon after the event. It is called 'Sir Francis Drake; or, Eighty-eight.'

Drake's Island, Plymouth Sound

In 1595 Sir Francis and Sir John Hawkins started on that ill-starred expedition to the West Indies, from which neither returned. Sir Francis died, and was buried at sea.

The translation of what Prince calls an 'ingenuous epigram' written in Latin is beneath his portrait in the Guildhall:

In 1606 the Plymouth Trading Company was granted its charter. The Company was formed with the aim of planting colonies in America but it was not a great success, and the extortionate claims of the members to a monopoly of very important privileges brought them into violent collision with the more flourishing Massachusetts Company, as well as with owners of certain fishing-vessels, whom they called 'interlopers.' The company was eventually dissolved in 1635.

In 1620 there came into Plymouth Harbour that little band of Puritans known to posterity as the Pilgrim Fathers. For the sake of liberty of conscience they had been living for some years at Leyden, and they had now resolved to take up a new life in America. The start was not auspicious, for after leaving Southampton they were forced to put into Dartmouth for repairs, and were afterwards obliged to stop at Plymouth, where the Speedwell was declared to be unseaworthy. Serious alterations of their plans had to be made, but at last, 'all troubles being blown over,' the travellers were 'compacted together in the one ship,' and on September 6, 1620, 'thirteen years after the first colonization of Virginia, two months before the concession of the grand charter of Plymouth, without any warrant from the sovereign of England,[Pg 172] without any useful charter from a corporate body, the passengers in the Mayflower set sail for a New World.'

King Charles and Queen Henrietta Maria paid a visit to the town, to speed a fleet sent, with disastrous results, against Spain. The expedition was in a miserable plight to begin with. For some while before it was able to leave the country, a hungry penniless army had been thrown upon the citizens of Plymouth. An enormous debt had been created in equipping it, and the soldiers' allowances were hopelessly inadequate to provide them with a proper supply of food or clothes. 'A more ragged, ribald, and rebellious herde never gathered on the eve of an important expedition. Mutiny was common in the town, and the ringleaders were tried at Drum-head, and shot in the nearest open space.... Incensed at the disregard of their appeals, the publicans thrust the soldiers to doors; and the outcasts, turning highwaymen, stole cattle and sheep with impunity, slew the animals, and cooked the joints "in the open eye of the world," and sullenly vowed that they would have "meat rather than famish." The fleet returned some weeks later in shame and disgrace, and the state of the men was even more miserable than when they started, for now the plague was raging amongst them. 'There was neither "meat nor drink available"; such provisions as had been doled out were often unfit for food, and "men die after eating them."' Pennington, the Vice-Admiral at Plymouth, sent petition after petition to the authorities for necessary supplies. 'Send the money, or it will break my heart, for I am so followed about and called upon that I know not what to do.' The misery was long drawn out, for when the plague was at an end, and townspeople were able to return to their homes, there was but a short respite before they were again overwhelmed by a great number of undisciplined soldiers, and 'no means of housing, feeding, or clothing them.' Naturally, they helped themselves at the expense of the citizens. 'Haunted by the cries of my soldiers,' Sir Ferdinando Gorges, the Governor, was reduced to distributing among them a cargo of oil that had been captured, with the assertion that it was 'as healthy as butter.'[Pg 173]

'Most despair here,' wrote Lord Holland briefly, and 'the distress was so acute that the Mayor raised the standard of revolt. The losses of the town had been calamitous—first at the hands of pirates, next by collapse of trade, and finally by the billeting.'

No doubt Plymouth's consistent hostility to the King's party throughout the war is in part explained by the results of this wretched state of affairs, and by the persecution of their Vice-Admiral, the heroic member for St Germans, Sir John Eliot.

As soon as the war broke out, Plymouth's sympathies were plainly shown, and before long Sir Ralph Hopton made an attack on the town. On December 1, 1642, Royalists and Parliamentarians 'stood upon the Lary for the space of three hours' facing one another, but each too cautious to make the first move and leave a point of vantage. The siege was seriously undertaken three months later, when Hopton concentrated all his forces upon the town. As Plymouth could always be supplied by sea, there was no chance of its being starved into submission, and already it was gravely doubted whether the town would ever be taken. By the beginning of July nearly all the Royalist forces had been drawn off, and Plymouth set to work with great energy to strengthen the defences by building a new wall. Tradition says that even women and children took a share in the work. In August an attack was made by Colonel Digby, but the town was at this time threatened by a greater danger—the treachery of Sir Alexander Carew, commander of the Fort and of Drake's Island. 'He was proved an Apostate,' says a contemporary account, 'and went about to betray that island and the town of Plymouth into the hands of Cornish cavaliers, but was prevented by the fidelity of his honest soldiers.' Sir Alexander was arrested by order of the Mayor, and sent to London, where eventually he was beheaded.

Prince Maurice marched on the town after he had taken Dartmouth, and there followed three weeks of assaults and skirmishes, much hard fighting, and many desperate struggles. In the end the besiegers succeeded in capturing Mount Stamford, a fort on the south of the Cattewater, 'the first and only advantage gained by the Royalists during the protracted and often revived siege.' An[Pg 174] invitation to surrender on lenient conditions made the townspeople waver, but the Governor, Colonel Wardlaw, stood firm. All were ordered to take a solemn vow and covenant, which pledged each one to take part in the defence 'to the utmost of my power.' And the town, hitherto 'divided and heartless in its defence, now grew to be united.'

On Sunday, December 3, there fell the Sabbath-day Fight, and the most critical moments of the siege. Prince Maurice and 'all the gallantry of his army' threw their whole force against the garrison, who advanced to meet them. 'The Roundheads were outnumbered ten to one, and driven back in absolute rout for the space of three fields.' Joined by a small number of reinforcements, they rallied after an interval, and charged the enemy, who yielded. The garrison pressed their advantage. 'The retreat, followed up, became a rout,' and the acutest danger was past.

Not long afterwards the siege was raised for a time. The poor people had suffered much from the scarcity of food, though once they had been cheered by a wonderful supply. 'There came an infinite number of pilchards into the harbour within the Barbican, which the people took up with great ease in baskets, which did not only refresh them for the present, but a great deal more were taken, preserved and salted, whereby the poor got much money.' It was not only by endurance that the women had shown their courage, for in the midst of some of the engagements they had brought out provisions 'for the refreshing of our soldiers, though many women were shot through the clothes.'

Assaults, occasional sorties, and intervals of comparative peace followed one another till, in September 1644, the King appeared in person before the town, and tried first by force of arms and then by offering very indulgent terms to bring about its surrender. The answer to the King was not sent till the day after his summons had been received, but 'if not speedy, it was decided—"Never."' A second futile assault was made by the Royalists, and then the King and Prince Maurice with their troops, turned their backs on Plymouth. For four months longer the blockade was continued, and at the end of that time Sir Richard Grenville made a very[Pg 175] determined effort, attacking at four points simultaneously. A desperate struggle ensued in which he gained nothing and lost three hundred men killed, and many hundreds wounded. Another twelve months passed without any serious attempt to storm the town, and in January, 1646, on Fairfax's advance upon Dartmouth the siege was finally raised, the Royalists marching away in such haste that guns, arms, and ammunition were left behind.

Charles II paid several visits to the town, and on one occasion he attended the service at St Andrew's Church where a state canopy and throne had been prepared for him and where sufferers were brought to him to be 'touched for the king's evil.' A ridiculous incident marked another visit. The Mayor, rather agitated by the honour of entertaining the King, and anxious to find the best means of giving him pleasure, had the happy inspiration of inviting His Majesty to look at the outworks that had protected Plymouth 'in the time of the late war.' The King's reply was 'on a sudden' to walk to the landing-steps, get into his pinnace, and start for Mount Edgcumbe. The Mayor in great dismay, followed by the Aldermen, who had come in their robes in state to attend on the King, hurried down to the water's edge and taking possession of a wherry, they started off as fast as they could in pursuit. It is satisfactory to know that by the time they succeeded in catching up the King he had quite recovered his usual good-humour.

Plymouth was to some degree affected by the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, for it had always been a refuge for the Huguenots—the Rochellers, as they are often called in sixteenth-century chronicles—and now many of them fled to this shelter. The first party of about fifty people crossed the Channel in an open boat, and their flight was followed by a great number of refugees. These settled in the town, and many of their descendants married English people, and the little colony became absorbed into the general population. A curious glimpse of the original refugees is given in a letter written in 1762 by Mr Pentecost Barker, of Plymouth, to the Rev. Samuel Merivale. He says: 'Those, of whom I remember many scores, who came from France in 1685-6,[Pg 176] etc., are mostly dead, and their offspring are more English than French, and will go to the English Church, though some few may come to us. What an alteration Time makes! There was ... a French Calvinist Church and a Church of England French Church here, besides a Church at Stonehouse. Many women in wooden shoes—very poor, but very industrious—living on limpets, snails, garlick, and mushrooms.'

In the latter half of the eighteenth century Plymouth vibrated with the excitement of fights and victories at sea, several engagements being fought at a short distance off the coast. Many prizes and some of our own disabled ships were brought into the harbour, 'dismasted and riddled French battleships,' sometimes even with 'their decks blackened with powder and coursed by the blood of the victims.' Unless the local annals are closely studied, it is almost impossible to realize the rapid succession of these events, and the effect they must have produced on the townspeople. A sarcastic picture has been drawn of a student attempting to work in the midst of the bursts of enthusiasm that perpetually thrilled the town. He is first interrupted by 'a shout in the street, and the servant rushed in to announce that the enemy had landed,' and the Volunteers were going out to meet them. The student, having disposed of this report, settles to work again, when 'the strains of a soul-stirring march, with abundant drum, were borne on the air, and the servant again bounded into the room to proclaim the return of the—th Regiment, "with only 200 returned out of 600, sir, colours shot through and through, poor fellows, all looking terribly tanned—here they are, sir, just passing the door." The pageant is witnessed by the student, and as the tumult subsides he resumes his scholarly pursuits. Soon a great gun shakes every window in the house. "What can this mean?" Enter Sam once more. "I beg your pardon, sir, but they say a man-of-war's in the Sound, bringing in two ships of the line, French prizes. All the people are running to the Hoe, sir; I hope you'll let me go." Down goes the book once more, and the student is as mad as his neighbours as the victorious ship and her prizes, with the Jack flying[Pg 177] triumphantly over the tricoloured flag, sails majestically into the harbour amid deafening cheers.... Such was the average Plymouth day.'

Several times the town was threatened by a French invasion and badly scared, but the greatest fear was felt in 1779, when for four days the united French and Spanish fleets lay off the Sound. Plymouth had every reason to be afraid; for, had the enemy but known it, there were at that moment but two small armed vessels to defend the harbour. Crowds of women and children left the town in haste and confusion, thousands of country-people tramped to the coast to have a look at the enemy. A few private persons made single-handed efforts to strengthen the defences, and a little later 'the bustle was again revived by the hourly arrival of troops, baggage, waggons, and powder.'

It is said that in Totnes the saying, 'Going to Paignton to meet the French,' is still a synonym for meeting trouble halfway. Amongst endless stories of fears and flights, there is one of delightful imperturbability:

'One old sailor ... had his wits about him, when his daughter shook him out of a deep sleep with the news that the French had landed. Rubbing his eyes, he told her to go and look at the weathercock. She came back, saying the wind was from the north. "I thought so," said he, "and so it was yesterday. The French can't land with this wind." And so the ancient mariner turned round and went to sleep again.'

Alarms, suspense, and occasional ecstasies of triumph followed one another till the final defeat of Napoleon. For several days the Bellerophon actually lay in Plymouth Harbour, to the intense excitement of the townspeople, who circled round the ship as closely as might be in the hope of catching a glimpse of the captive Emperor.

To the north-east of Plymouth lies Saltram, the great house and wide, beautiful grounds that belong to Lord Morley. Saltram is in the parish of Plympton St Mary, once celebrated for the large and important Priory which for some time governed the affairs of Plymouth. Plympton St Mary is neighbour to the[Pg 178] parish of Plympton St Maurice and the little town of Plympton Erle. On the north of the town are the ruins of the Norman castle built chiefly by Richard de Redvers, and razed to the ground in the reign of Stephen. It was rebuilt not long afterwards. A fragment of a small keep is all that remains of the stonework, but the Normans' castle was raised upon a fort that was standing when they arrived, and 'the earthworks of the conquered are more enduring than the stone defences of the conqueror.' The mound on which the keep stands, and the banks that enclose a base-court about seven hundred and ten feet long and three hundred and eighty feet wide, have been little harmed or altered and are still in a very perfect condition; but the moat that once surrounded them has been partly filled in.

The father of Sir Joshua Reynolds was master of the Grammar School of Plympton Erle, and here the great painter was born. In the crowded days of his middle life he gave a proof of his interest in his native town by being its Mayor, and on his election presented the town with his own portrait painted by himself. The picture was hung in the Guildhall, and Sir Joshua asked the Recorder of the borough to see that it was hung in a good position. In his reply the Recorder paid a compliment whose full meaning he did not grasp. He explained that 'he had seen to this, and the portrait hung between old pictures of Ourry and Edgecumbe which serve as foils, and set it off to great advantage. This letter greatly amused Sir Joshua, who knew that these old pictures were early works of his own.'

[Pg 179]

Brent Tor. From Lvdford Moors

CHAPTER X

The Tamar and the Tavy

Tavistock is a quiet little 'ancient borough,' which at the first glance from the hill to the north-west suggests the early-Victorian word 'embowered,' for it looks as if the rudiments of the town had arisen in the midst of a large wood. The town lies chiefly in a hollow, and the trees that cover the sides surround and encroach upon the streets in the pleasantest way, and their foliage, the hills on every side, and the rushing Tavy through the midst, give an un-[Pg 180]townlike air that is charming. But to imagine, from this rustic and very still look, that the place lacked history, would be to make a great mistake. On the contrary, its history starts in such very early days that only a few scattered relics remain to show the wave of human life that passed over the country.

Between A.D. 240 and the latter half of the sixth century, the Irish made many invasions, overran the South and West of England, and settled colonies in parts of Devon and Cornwall, more especially along their northern coasts. Mr Baring-Gould, in a most interesting paper, sketches out the various descents and settlements, and traces them by their stone monuments and by the names of the Irish saints that they left in churches and villages and holy wells. Some of the invaders established themselves near Tavistock, and tokens of them have been found in the neighbourhood in the shape of three stones bearing inscriptions—one in Ogham characters. The stones are now in the Vicarage garden. 'On one, which is over seven feet high, occurs a name, probably of a Sept or tribe in Kerry, where several stones inscribed with the same name are found. On the third are the words: "Dobunii Fabri fili Enabarri...." Dobun was a faber, or smith. In Celtic organizations every tuatha, or tribe, had its chief smith.... Dobunii ... is the Latin for the genitive Douvinias, also a Kerry name.... Here, then, we have written and engraven in stone for our learning the record of an Irish settlement from Kerry in the neighbourhood of Tavistock.'

Mr Baring-Gould further mentions briefly the different tribes and peoples that have invaded and possessed themselves of the land, to be in turn conquered by new-comers, and the eventual, amalgamation of races, and quotes Professor Sullivan to the discomfiture of those who rhapsodize over the 'pure Celt' in Great Britain or Ireland—for, after all, it was Irish colonists and conquerors who 'gave their name to Scotland, and at one time occupied the coast of Wales and 'West Domnonia.'

Professor Sullivan writes: 'The Irish tenants of to-day are composed of the descendants of Firbolgs and other British and[Pg 181] Belgic races; Milesians ... Gauls, Norwegians, Anglo-Saxons, Anglo-Normans, and English.... This is a fact which should be remembered by those who theorize over the qualities of the "pure Celt," whoever they may be.' There are many amateurs whose views would be less tedious if they could be convinced by Professor Sullivan.

The memory of one Irish saint clung for centuries to Tavistock, for the abbey was dedicated jointly to St Mary the Holy Virgin, and to St Rumon, an Irish missionary who came over to Cornwall. The abbey has unfortunately been totally destroyed, and various buildings now stand on its site. The old chapter-house was pulled down by a certain Saunders, 'of barbarous memory,' 'to make way for a modern house now called the Bedford Hotel.' The refectory is used as a Unitarian chapel, and still keeps its fine pinnacled porch. A ruined tower covered with ivy, called Betsy Grimbal's Tower (a young woman was supposed to have been murdered in it), stands in grounds close by, and the other chief fragments still to be seen are the monks' still-house, a little bit of the abbey church wall, and the remains of a battlemented wall following the line of the river. The north gateway is the most perfect remnant and that has been restored. Of the religious houses in the Diocese of Exeter this monastery was the most important, and it eclipsed them all by 'the extent, convenience, and magnificence of its buildings.' Orgar, Earl of Devon, founded it in 961, and Ordulph, his son, completed it on such a grand scale, that there was room for one thousand inhabitants.

The abbey had only stood for about thirty years, when a frightful blow fell: the Danes burst upon the country, harrying it with fire and sword. They landed in Cornwall, and here Egbert hastened with his army and defeated them at Hingston Down; but a great horde broke away, and crossing the border descended on Tavistock, where the inhabitants in a body rose to meet them and a terrible battle was fought. Its deadly nature is summed up with great directness in an old jingle:

The abbey was robbed and then burned to the ground. No time, however, can have been lost in rebuilding it, for about thirty years later Livingus, the Abbot, was made Bishop of Devonshire, and was specially chosen by King Canute to accompany him on his pilgrimage to Rome.

Tavistock was a Benedictine monastery, over which forty abbots ruled in succession. Some of the later ones were noted for their lack of discipline—even to the point of allowing the monks 'to affect the fashionable costume of the times, adopting the secular buttoned hoods and beaked boots'; but the earlier abbots were both pious and learned, and one of the earliest printing-presses set up in England was owned by the abbey. The first statutes of the stannaries that ever were printed were printed here: a 'Confirmation of the Charter perteynynge to all the tynners wythyn the coūty of Devonshyre wyth their Statutes also made at Crockeryntorre by the whole assēt and cōset of al the sayd tynners'—of the date 1510. In very early days the abbots were 'lessees of the Devonshire stannaries ... and controllers of the issues of royal mines in Devon and part of Cornwall,' says Dr. Oliver.

At the Dissolution the King presented the abbey and most of its estates to the Earl of Bedford. The first trace of this great family in Devonshire that I have been able to find is a lawsuit in regard to certain lands, between John Russell and Rohesia his wife and Henry de Pomeroy, which took place in the reign of King John. But there was a much closer connection with the county in later days. Unfortunately, space makes it impossible to touch on more than a few of the most striking events in the career of John Russell, first Earl of Bedford, to whom the Abbey was granted.

On January 11, 1506, the Archduke Philip of Austria was driven by a violent storm to take shelter at Weymouth, where Sir Thomas Trenchard, Governor of the Coast, hurried to receive him, and to offer such entertainment as he could provide. It so happened that there was staying with Sir Thomas a young cousin lately returned from his travels, who combined great 'skill in[Pg 183] foreign languages ... with his sprightly conversation and polite address.' The Archduke was enchanted to find someone better acquainted with his speech and customs than the stay-at-home squires who surrounded him, and when he set out for Windsor he would not leave Mr Russell behind. To the King the Archduke praised his protégé in glowing words, and he was given a small post at Court. Nature had favoured him at the start, for he is said to have been of 'a moving beauty that ... exacted a liking if not a love from all that saw him' and to this valuable gift was added that of a 'learned discourse and generous deportment.'

On the accession of Henry VIII, he won the good-will of the young King by the zeal with which he threw himself into 'the dance, the Masque, the pagent, the tourney,' in which Henry himself delighted; and he soon had a chance for distinguishing himself in serious matters. In 1513 he accompanied the King in his campaign in France, and on the march an unusually large cannon was 'overturned in a lagoon.... Impatient to signalise himself by some intrepid exploit, Mr Russell had the boldness to attempt its recovery, in the face of ten thousand French,' and 'with but two hundred and fifty adventurers under him as resolute as himself, he succeeded in the effort.'

In 1517 Mr Russell was appointed Deputy-Governor of Tournay; in 1532 he was knighted after taking part in a descent on the coast of Brittany, and in later years he rose to positions of great and greater importance. When Henry was supporting the Constable de Bourbon against his Sovereign, Francis I, Sir John was entrusted with the dangerous mission of conveying a huge sum of money through a country where many were well affected to the French King.

One of his first steps was to leave his company at a town on the frontier with orders to spread the news that he was ill, whilst he hastened without escort and with the money—Henry had promised the Duke de Bourbon 100,000 crowns a month—to Geneva. Here he heard the comforting news that the Swiss and Frenchmen were so certain of robbing him that they had already 'lotted[Pg 184] every of the captains his portion of the said money.' With great speed and secrecy he caused it to be 'packed in bales, trussed with baggage, as oats or old clothes, to make it bulky, and nicked with a merchant's mark.' As a further precaution he begged the help of the Duke of Savoy, who eventually allowed muleteers in his service to hire mules as if for his own use to take it across the mountains, and 'so bruit it to be carried as his stuff unto the Duchess his wife.' Arrived at Chambéry, the secret of the bales was allowed to leak a very little, and Sir John, knowing that there were 'divers ambushes and enterprises set for to attrap me,' set out again with his bales towards Geneva. Out of sight of the town he altered his course for Mont Cenis. And this expedient was in itself a blind, for two or three days before Sir John's departure the treasure had been sent very secretly on other mules to Turin, where it arrived safely. He finishes his account with conscious simplicity: 'Which ways was occasion, as I think the said enterprises to fail of their purpose.'

Sir John met with many very exciting adventures, of which perhaps the most interesting is one that happened to him at Bologna, for here he was very skilfully rescued from an unpleasant position by the great Thomas Cromwell, then a practically unknown soldier. Sir John was passing through the town, when he was very treacherously stopped and surrounded in his hotel by the municipal authorities. Cromwell managed to persuade them that he was a Neapolitan acquaintance of Sir John, and that if he might speak to him he would be able to induce the knight to surrender himself into their hands. But what he actually did was to suggest to Sir John that he should change clothes with a servant that Cromwell had brought with him, and in this disguise he helped him to escape from the town.

When Cromwell came to England, it was Sir John who first commended him to Wolsey's notice.

In the reign of Charles I, William, Lord Russell (afterwards Earl of Bedford), and Pym, the great commoner, were returned together as co-members for Tavistock; and when war was declared the Earl of Bedford sided with the Parliament and was appointed[Pg 185] to raise the Devonshire Militia for them. He was not personally hostile to the King but thought, like others, that if Charles saw the Parliament in arms against him, he would realize that the nation was resolute in defence of its liberty. The Earl of Bedford, at the head of his recruits, engaged the enemy near Sherborne Castle, and was victorious; and at the battle of Edge Hill he 'was reported by Lord Wharton to have done extraordinary service.' Later he was among those most anxious for a treaty of peace, but he suffered from holding too moderate views. In taking up arms against the King he had offended the Queen too bitterly to be well received when he, in company with some other peers, went to the Court at Oxford, and his sympathy with the King alienated him from the Parliament. Sincerely anxious for peace, he soon saw the hopelessness of all efforts in that direction, and long before the struggle was over he practically withdrew from public affairs.

Tavy Cleave

Tavistock's greatest glory, Sir Francis Drake, has already been spoken of; but among the lesser lights is a Captain fully worthy to have sailed in the company of Queen Elizabeth's illustrious Captains, though he lived in the less triumphant days of Charles I. Captain Richard Peeke, or Peke, or Pike (he signs himself Peeke in his pamphlet, but in a private letter Dr. Meddus, a contemporary, refers to him as Pike), has left no account of his career, only that of his great adventure in Spain.

A local schoolmaster hails him with these flamboyant lines:

In 1625 Peeke joined the force that King Charles and Queen Henrietta helped to start from Plymouth. Sir Edward Cecil was in command, and, as a result of this expedition, earned for himself the nickname of Sit-Still. Peeke's account is excellent, although he begins by saying that he knows not 'the fine Phrases of Silken Courtiers'; but 'a good Shippe I[Pg 186] know and a poore Cabbin and the language of a Cannon ... as my Breeding has bin Rough (scorning Delicacy) so must my Writings be.'

The first attack was made on 'Cales' (Cadiz), and Peeke gives a vivid description of the hot and stubborn fight that took place before the fort of Puntal surrendered. The whole army was then landed, but Peeke did not go with them; 'for I was no Land Soldier, and therefore all that while kept aboard.' As the fate of the expedition has nothing to do with his story, it is enough to say that the men got very much out of hand, the Commander, in great alarm, hurriedly retreated, and, without attempting to follow up his victory on land, set sail in pursuit of a Spanish fleet that he never came up with, and three weeks later returned in disgrace to England.

To return to Richard Peeke. After the army had all landed he thought that 'the late storms had beaten all the Spaniards in' for a time, and that he would go on shore for a little diversion. Meeting some Englishmen coming back to the ships, laden with 'Oranges and Lymons' which they had taken from some gardens not far off, he set off to find some fruit for himself, the men assuring him that there was no danger. Less than a mile away, however, he came, '(for all their talking of no danger), on Three Englishmen starke dead, being slayne, lying in the way,' and another 'not fully dead.... I then resolved (and was about it) for Christian Charities sake, and for Countries sake, to have carried him on my back to our Shippes, farre off though they lay.... But my good intents were prevented; for, on a sodaine, came rushing in vpon me a Spanish Horseman, whose name as afterwards I was informed was Don Juan of Cales, a Knight.... Five or sixe Skirmishes wee had, and for a pretty while fought off and on.' As the fight went on Peeke got the better of Don Juan, who 'fell on his knees and crying out in French to me, Pardone moy, je vous pree. Je suie un buon Chrestien.... Having a Soldier's minde to Rifle him, I searched for jewels, but found only five Pieces of Eight about him.' Here Fortune turned, for 'fourteen Spanish Muskateers, spying me so busy about one of their Countreymen,'[Pg 187] came to his rescue, and Peeke was forced to yield himself prisoner. 'True Valour (I see) goes not aluaies in good Cloathes, for Don Juan (when my hands were in a manner bound behind me) ... wounded me through the Face, from Eare to Eare, and had there killed me, had not the fourteen Muskateers rescued me from his Rage.'

Peeke was again severely wounded while being led through the streets of Cadiz, but met with better treatment in prison, though his forebodings were gloomy. And when he was soon afterwards sent for by the Governor to Xeres, he went 'wondrous unwilling ... because I feared I should ther be put to Tortures.' On the day of trial he was brought before a great assembly of nobles, 'my sword lying before them on the table. It was reached to me; I tooke it and embraced it in mine arms, and with teares in my eyes kist the Pommel of it. He [the Duke of Medina] then demanded how many men I had kild with that Weapon? I told him, if I had kild one, I had not bene there now before that Princely Assembly, for when I had him at my foote, begging for mercy, I gave him Life, yet he then very poorely did me a mischiefe. Then they asked Don John (my Prisoner) what Woundes I gave him; He sayd, None: Upon this he was rebuked and told, that if upon our first Encounter, he had run me through, it had been a faire and Noble Triumph; but so to wound me, being in the hands of others, they held it Base.' Peake was now questioned as to the name of his ship, the Captain, and the number of cannon on board. 'I sayd, forty Peices. But the Lords, looking all this while on a Paper which they held in their hands, Duke Medyna sayd, In their note there was but thirty-eight.' He afterwards found that in that paper they had every detail about 'our Shippes, their Burden, Men ... as perfect as wee ourselves had them in England. Of what strength (quoth another Duke) is the Fort of Plymouth? I answered, very Strong. What Ordnance in it? Fifty, sayd I. That is not so, sayd he, there is but seuenteene. How many Soldiers are in the Fort? I answered, Two hundred: That is not so (quoth a Conde), there is but twenty.

'Marquesse Alquenezes asked me, of what strength the little[Pg 188] Island was before Plymouth. I told him, I know not; Then (quoth he), wee doe.

'Is Plymouth a Walled Towne? Yes, my Lords. And a good Wall? Yes, say I, a very good Wall: True, sayd a Duke, to leape ouer with a Staffe. And hath the Towne, sayd the Duke of Medyna, strong Gates? Yes. But, quoth he, there were neither Wood nor Iron to those Gates, but two dayes before your Fleete came away.' Among many other questions, they asked why 'in all this Brauery of the Fleete the English had not taken Cales as well as Puntal?' To which Peeke, who must have often asked this question of himself, replied boldly that 'the Lord Generall ... was loath to rob an Almeshouse, hauing a better Market to goe to. Cales, I told them, was held Poore, unmanned, unmunitioned. What better market? sayd Medyna. I told him Genoa or Lisbon.'

All around stood the 'Common People,' who made the ordeal still harder by 'many jeerings, mockings, scornes, and bitter jests' against the English, 'which I must not so much as bite my lippe against, but with an inforced patient care stood still.... Amongst many other raproches and spightfull Names, one of the Spaniards called English Men Gallinas (Hennes).' This amused the 'Great Lords,' and one of them asked the prisoner if the Spaniards, when they came to England (in war), would prove such hens as the English. To which Peeke answered, 'somewhat emboldned by his merry countenance,' that they would prove chickens. 'Darst thou then (quoth Duke of Medyna, with a browe half angry) fight with one of these Spanish Pullets? O my Lord! sayd I, I am a Prisoner, and my life at stake, and therefore dare not be so bold as to adventure upon any such Action, ... Yet ... with all told him, he was unworthy of the Name of an English Man, that should refuse to fight with one Man of any Nation whatsoever. Hereupon my Shackells were knockt off and my Iron Ring and Chayne taken from my Neck.'

The first challenger was quickly disposed of. 'I was then demanded, If I durst Fight against an other? I told them my[Pg 189] heart was good to adventure; but I humbly requested them to giue me pardon if I refused. For to my selfe I too well knew that the Spaniard is Haughty, Impatient of the least affront: And when he received but a touch of any Dishonour, Disgrace or Blemish (especially in his owne Countrey, and from an English man) his Revenge is implacable, mortall and bloudy.

'Yet being by the Noblemen pressed agen and agen to try my Fortune with an other, I (seeing my Life was in the Lyon's paw, to struggle with whome for safety there was no way but one, and being afrayd to displease them) sayd: That if their Graces and Greatnesses would giue me leave to play at mine owne Countrey Weapon called the Quarter Staffe, I was then ready there an Oposite, against any Commer.' When a 'hansome and well Spirited Spaniard steps foorth, with his Rapier and Poniard,' Peeke explained that he 'made little account of that One to play with, and should shew them no Sport.

'Then a second (Arm'd as before) presents himselfe; I demanded if there would come no more? The Dukes asked, how many I desired? I told them, any number under sixe. Which resolution of mine, they smiling at, in a kind of scorne, held it not Manly ... to worry one Man with a Multitude.

'Now Gentlemen, if here you condemne me for plucking (with mine owne hands) such an assured danger upon mine head: Accept of these Reasons for excuse.

'To dye, I thought it most certaine, but to dye basely, I would not: For Three to kill One had bin to mee no Dishonour; To them (Weapons considered) no Glory: An Honourable Subjection I esteemed better, than an Ignoble conquest.... Only Heaven I had in mine eye, the Honor of my Country in my heart, my Fame at the Stake, my Life on a narrow Bridge, and death before and behind me.'

With a supreme effort Peeke succeeded in killing one of his opponents and disabling the other two. Then for a moment he feared the threatening anger of the crowd, but the nobles showed great generosity in their admiration of his pluck, whether they felt mortified or not, and he was treated with extreme kindness,[Pg 190] both then and afterwards. He 'was kept in the Marquesse Alquenezes House, who one day ... desired I would sing. I willing to obey him (whose goodnesse I had tasted), did so, and sung this Psalme: When as we sate in Babylon, etc. The meaning of which being told he saide to me, English Man, comfort thyself, for thou art in no Captivity.'

Peeke was then sent to the King of Spain, who tried to keep him in his service, but with a becoming gratitude for the favours shown to him, Peeke begged to be allowed to return home, 'being a Subject onely to the King of England.' Whereupon the King very magnanimously gave 'one hundred Pistoletts to beare my charges.'

A play has been written called 'Dick of Devonshire,' in which the adventures of 'Dick Pike' are set in the midst of a Spanish tragi-comedy.

Nothing is known of Peeke's life after he came back to his own country, but there are strong reasons for believing that he returned to Tavistock. And if it was himself, and not a namesake, who flourished there, in 1638, our hero might be seen in an entirely new rôle, for that year Richard Peeke filled the peaceful office of people's churchwarden!

Tavistock's fine church is dedicated to St Eustachius, and it has a high battlemented tower crowned with slender pinnacles. The tower is 'pierced with arches in all four sides, so that it stands on piers. It is thus a true campanile, and was never joined to the church.' There are monuments to several families in the nave and chancel, and stories and memories crowd especially round two of them. One is the tomb of John Fitz of Fitz-ford and his wife, at the back of which their son Sir John kneels at a desk with a book before him.

Fitzford House is close to Tavistock, and with the property came to Sir John's daughter, Lady Howard, round whose name many tales have gathered. In Mrs Bray's time Lady Howard was regarded as 'a female Bluebeard,' but a later verdict is more charitable, and it is now thought that the unhappy lady has been much maligned. Being a great heiress, her hand was disposed of when she was only twelve years old, and she was married to Sir[Pg 191] Alan Percy, who died three years afterwards. There is a proverb—

but Lady Howard must have been wooed at all seasons. One month after her husband's death she escaped from her chaperon, and secretly married Lord Darcy's son, who only survived a few months. When she was hardly sixteen, she found a third husband in Sir Charles Howard, by whose name she is always known, although after his death she married Sir Richard Grenville. Her last 'venture,' as Prince calls it, was a very wretched one; Sir Richard treated her abominably, and she retaliated to the worst of her power. After her death, Mrs Bray says (in that delightful storehouse of local traditions, 'The Borders of the Tamar and the Tavy'), there arose a belief that she was 'doomed to run in the shape of a hound from the gateway of Fitzford to Okehampton Park, between the hours of midnight and cock-crowing, and to return with a single blade of grass in her mouth whence she started; and this she was to do till every blade was picked, when the world would be at an end.'

'Dr Jago, the clergyman of Milton Abbot, however, told me that occasionally she was said to ride in a coach of bones up the West Street towards the Moor.... My husband can remember that, when a boy, it was a common saying with the gentry at a party, "It is growing late; let us be gone, or we shall meet Lady Howard as she starts from Fitzford."'

A still more conspicuous monument in the church is connected with the other tragedy. The family of Glanvills had long been settled near Tavistock, and the figure is of Judge Glanvill in his robes. At his feet kneels a life-size figure of his wife. 'Her buckram waist, like armour, sleeves, ruff, and farthingale are all monstrous; and her double-linked gold chains are grand enough for the Lord Mayor. On the whole she looks so very formidable, that thus seen stationed before the Judge, she might be considered as representing Justice herself, but it would be in her severest mood.'[Pg 192]

The mournful story is that of another member of the family, Eulalia Glanvill, who was forced against her will to marry an old man named Page, when she was in love with a young man, George Strangwich. After much misery, she and Strangwich agreed to murder Page, and the story is told in several ballads, in one of which there is a ring of sincerity which makes the 'verses sound better to the brain than to the ear.' It is now thought that the ballad was written by Delaney, but in the early editions the ballad was attributed to Mrs Page herself, and a copy in the Roxburghe Ballads is headed: 'Written with her owne hand, a little before her death.' 'The Lamentation of Master Page's Wife' was sung to the tune of 'Fortune my Foe':

'The Lamentation of George Strangwidge' many times lapses into bathos, but as in a way it answers the other ballad, I will quote a few verses:

Kilworthy House, which in those days belonged to the Glanvills, is now the property of the Duke of Bedford.[Pg 194]

Tavistock seems to have maintained an open mind, or perhaps was forced into keeping open house, during the Civil War; but Fitzford House, then belonging to Sir Richard Grenville, held out resolutely for the King, until overpowered by Lord Essex. The people seem to have been rather indifferent to the cause of the war, and very sensible of its hardships, for it was here suggested that a treaty might be made, 'whereby the peace of those two counties of Cornwall and Devon might be settled and the war removed into other parts.' It was a really excellent method of shifting an unpleasant burden on to other shoulders, but in actual warfare, unfortunately, impracticable, although the treaty was drawn up and for a short time a truce was observed.

At the end of this year (1645) Prince Charles paid a visit to the town, and was so much 'annoyed by wet weather, that ever after, if anybody remarked it was a fine day, he was wont to declare that, however fine it might be elsewhere, he felt quite sure it must be raining at Tavistock.' One cannot help wondering if his courtiers kept to English tradition of perpetually speaking of the weather.

To walk away from Tavistock along the Tavy's bank is to follow the footsteps of that river's special poet, William Browne. His poems are not so well known as they might be, and his most celebrated lines are nearly always attributed to Ben Jonson—I mean the fine epitaph on 'Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother'—though any doubt as to the author of the lines is cleared up by a manuscript in the library of Trinity College, Dublin. Not very many details of his life are known, but he had the happiness of being better appreciated by his contemporaries than by posterity, and Ben Jonson and Michael Drayton wrote complimentary verses, as a sort of introduction to volumes of his poems when they were published. Browne's work is very uneven, many of his poems are charming, some diffuse and rather poor; but he had a sincere feeling for Nature, and his nymphs and swains revelled in posies and garlands in the shade of groves full of singing birds.

In the third book of his long poem, 'Britannia's Pastorals,'[Pg 195] there is a quaint and pretty song, of which one verse runs:

A deliciously whimsical touch marks his description of a feast of Oberon:

Now and again in his verses there peeps out a joyful pride in his county, and his love of the Tavy is deep to his heart's core.

Some way below Tavistock is Buckland Abbey, founded by Amicia, Countess of Devon, in 1278, and for long years the home of Cistercians. At the Dissolution the Abbey was granted for a small sum to Sir Richard Grenville (grandfather of the hero of the Revenge), who altered it into a dwelling-house. Sir Richard, his grandson, sold it to John Hele and Christopher Harrys, who were probably acting for Sir Francis Drake, and he formally bought it of them ten months later. The house was built in the body of the church, and it is still easy to trace its ecclesiastical origin from some of the windows and architecture. In the hall[Pg 196] is a fine frieze, with raised figures in high relief and an elaborate background, the subject a knight turned hermit. The knight, wearing a hermit's robe, is sitting beneath spreading boughs, and a skull is lodged in a hollow of the tree-trunk. His charger and his discarded armour lie near him. In the same hall rests the famous drum that went round the world with Drake, the drum referred to in the traditional promise that Mr Newbolt has put into verse:

A short distance below the Abbey, the Tavy, now broadened into a wide but still shallow stream, ripples and hurries over the pebbles in a deep valley between wooded hills. Returning to Tavistock and going up the river, one arrives at the pretty and very remote village of Peter Tavy. The houses are scattered about in an irregular group, a stream runs through them to join the Tavy, and just above the wide bridge the brook divides, flowing each side of a diamond-shaped patch, green with long grass and cabbages. A steep slope leads up to the little church, which stands back, and a tiny avenue of limes leads up to it from the lichgate. The tower is battlemented, and the church must have been partly rebuilt, for parts of it are early English and the rest late Perpendicular. Within are slender clustered columns, supporting wide arches, and different designs are sculptured on the sides of the granite font.

Close by is a glen, which Mrs Bray says, 'I have ventured to name the Valley of Waterfalls, on account of the vast number of small but exquisitely beautiful falls seen there.' A narrow lane with high hedges leads round the shoulder of the hill to the steep little valley, where the Tavy jostles against obstructive boulders, and a high, narrow, unstable-looking bridge of tarred timber (sometimes called a 'clam' bridge) crosses the stream. Climbing up on the farther side, the road soon reaches the village of Mary Tavy. In reference to these villages a very old joke is told of a Judge unacquainted with these parts who, in trying a case, not un[Pg 197]naturally confused the names with those of witnesses, and ordered that Peter and Mary Tavy be brought into court. Mary Tavy has not the unusual attractiveness of Peter Tavy. It looks barer, and is overshadowed by that peculiarly comfortless air always given by chimneys or machinery of mines. The church stands above the road, and beside it a large old tree, whose lower branches are so abundantly covered with polypody that the fronds hang like long fringes from either side of each branch. The porch has a white groined ceiling, crossed with fragments of the old timber roof, on which are bosses carved in different designs.

From Mary Tavy a road runs nearly parallel to the river. Beyond Horndon the houses are fewer and more scattered, and somehow there is a suggestion that one is coming nearer and nearer to the verge of civilization. The few houses look nice in themselves, with the exception of a farm, so cheerless and neglected-looking, that it was a surprise to find it inhabited; and not far beyond this house the road reaches another and very different farm, looking full of comfort—and goes no farther. This farm has the significant name of Lane End, and one realizes from its solitary, exposed position that the high and substantial wall surrounding it was built for sound reasons. It stands on the moor, and the cultivation is of the roughest kind; the fields, such as they are, being plentifully sprinkled with huge boulders. In winter, when there is much fear of snow, these fields serve as an enclosure for the ponies that are driven-in off the moor—looking like wild animals in their long, hanging, furry coats. The river is heard dashing over the rocks below, and about a mile farther on is Tavy Cleave.

The last time I saw it a vague threat hung over everything, adding a cold fascination to the moor. The hills showed tints of faint green and palest brown, and patches of bracken gave a consoling shade of russet. Hare Tor rose beyond, silent and impressive, covered with snow. The Tavy had a new beauty, for it was almost frozen over, and the dark water, and along whirling scraps of foam, showed between the blocks of ice and snow, and the boulders were each bordered with shining white. The sky was[Pg 198] heavy with snow-clouds, and beneath them and in the rifts were stormy red sunset tints, while a cold blue-grey mist was creeping up the valley.

Brent Tor

There are some places—the Castle of Elsinore, for instance—that seem to have an amazing and incomprehensible gift of resisting civilization. They may be brought up to date, and trimmed, and filled with inappropriate people, and everything else done that should spoil them, but in spite of it all they do not for a moment look as if any modern extraneous objects had a meaning for them. They belong to their own day and its manner, and to no other.

The same sort of feeling hovers about Tavy Cleave, and a great sense of the mystery that here more, there less, broods over the moor. But there is no suggestion as to who it is that the moor has most truly and absolutely belonged to, nor even the region of time: only the feeling that the valley is, in a finer than the usual sense, haunted.

As a valley Tavy Cleave is very beautiful, with its steep sides and clear rushing stream and red granite rocks, half in and half out of the river, that have a charm they entirely lose when once away from the water. Mr Widgery shows how admirable they are in their proper place, with their reflections quivering beneath them. Sometimes a kind of black moss grows upon them, and tiny bits of white lichen, giving together a curious tortoiseshell look. Above, the hill-sides are covered with heather and broom and whortleberries among masses of loose rocks, and now and again there is the vivid green of a patch of bog. The great masses of rocks crowning the separate points on the hill-side, like ruined rock-castles, add to the air of mystery.

Looking to the west from above the Cleave, one sees—as from any distance round one sees—the most characteristic height of Brent Tor, with the tiny church on the top. It is not that the tor is so very high, but in some astonishing way it always seems to appear as a landmark, north, south, east, or west, when one imagines it to be absolutely out of range. The sides are steep and rocky, and the church stands 'full bleak and weather-beaten, all-[Pg 199]alone as it were, forsaken, whose churchyard doth hardly afford depth of earth to bury the dead; yet doubtless they rest there as securely as in sumptuous St Peter's until the day of Doom.'

The story told of the church is that a man once almost gave himself up for lost—some say in a storm, others in an impenetrable, unending fog—in the Channel, and vowed that, if he ever came safe to shore, he would build a church on the first bit of land he saw. As Brent Tor is far inland, the fog story sounds the more probable, for there is no saying how mist wreaths may drift. The church is dedicated to St Michael de la Rupe, and here another tradition comes in, for it is popularly supposed that, when the building of the church was begun, the devil pulled away all the day's work in the night. At last St Michael came to the rescue, and hurled such an enormous mass of rock upon the devil that he fled away and hindered no more. The building is very tiny, and a countryman told me that as a child he used to be puzzled by the cryptic warning: 'If you get into the second aisle of Brent Tor Church, you will never get out again.' Of course—there is no second aisle.

The beauty of many of the places on the banks of the Tamar is celebrated. Among the exquisite woods and lawns of Endsleigh—through which one Duke of Bedford cut no less than forty miles in rides—the river twists and winds for a long distance at one point, and curves round almost into a ring. A little farther south are Morwell Rocks, which Mr Norway had the good fortune to see in the spring. 'The trees stretch far away along the river, dense and close to the water's edge, a mountain of gold and sunny green, broken in the midst by a high grey crag, which stands up sheer and grey amid the mass of gorgeous colour. This is the first peak of a great range of limestone cliffs, which for the most part, as the hill sweeps round above the village of Morwellham, are hidden in the woods. But when that tiny cluster of cottages and wharves is left behind, the stream creeps closer to the hill, and it is as if the buried rock stirred and flung the coppice off its shoulders, for the limestone precipices rise vertically out of the water to a vast height. The[Pg 200] summits are weathered into most fantastic shapes, pinnacles and towers break the skyline, and wherever a crevice in the rock has allowed the lodging of a little earth, some oak-tree roots itself, or a wild tangle of greenery drops down the scarred surface of the cliff.'

A little farther down, the Tamar and the Tavy join, and with the Cornish Lynher form the Hamoaze—a view of land and water that is very admirable. It is not a scene whose dimly realized charm grows gradually stronger, but one whose triumphant beauty is beyond dispute. The innumerable creeks and inlets, the rich abundance of foliage and pasture, and the sweeping sense of spaciousness from the open sea that comes off Plymouth Sound, help to make the grand effect; and the feelings of few can be quite unstirred by the battleships, or perhaps black sinister destroyers, and the multitude of other shipping lying at anchor in that famous haven, and by the thought of all that they mean to us.

[Pg 201]

Bideford

CHAPTER XI

The Taw and the Torridge

'All who have travelled through the delicious scenery of North Devon must needs know the little white town of Bideford, which slopes upwards from its broad tide-river paved with yellow sands, and many-arched old bridge, where salmon wait for autumn floods, toward the pleasant upland in the west. Above the town the hills close in, cushioned with deep oak-woods, through which juts here and there a crag of fern-fringed slate; below they lower and open more and more on softly rounded knolls and fertile squares of red and green, till they sink into the wide expanse of hazy flats, rich salt-marshes, and rolling sand-hills, where Torridge joins her sister Taw, and both together flow quietly toward the broad surges of the bar and the everlasting thunder of the long Atlantic swell.'

It is difficult to imagine that there could be a more fitting description of Bideford than that drawn in the opening words of 'Westward Ho!' Bideford, it has been said, is spoilt by ugly modern houses, but the remark implies a matter-of-fact view,[Pg 202] for the ugliness and modernness are only skin-deep, and can easily be ignored. A matter of far greater importance is that there is an old-world essence, a dignity in the whole tone and spirit of the town, that keep it in touch with the glorious past.

Faithful followers of the heroes on the borderland of myth—King Arthur, Charlemagne, Holger Danske—believed that in their country's need these would arise from the shades to lead their people to victory; and at Bideford one feels that, should any 'knight of the sea' return, he would find a town not strange to him, and, if the stress were sharp enough to pierce the thin husk that later civilization has added, a people who would understand and not fail him.

The name comes from By-the-ford, but a ford between East-the-water and the town must have been rather perilous, and only possible at low-tide. In the early part of the fourteenth century some of the chief inhabitants resolved to build a bridge, but several efforts were made in vain, for they were always thwarted by failure to find a firm enough foundation. Then Sir Richard Gurney, priest of the place, was 'admonished by a vision ... to begin that excellent work ... where he should find a stone fixed in the ground.' This dream he thought nothing of, 'until, walking by the river, he espied such a stone or rock there rolled and fixed firmly, which he never remembered to have seen formerly,' and was hereby convinced 'that his dream was no other than an heavenly inspiration.' The whole neighbourhood combined to help, the rich sending money and lending the services of their workmen, and the poor giving such time and labour as they could afford. The bridge, which has since been widened, is a very fine one, of twenty-four arches. Westcote says: 'A bark of 60 tons (without masts) may pass and repass with the tide, which flows near five miles above it.'

Gifts and bequests were made to the bridge, and the funds belonging to it became so large, and the business connected with them so important, that in 1758 a hall was built for the use of the feoffees, and decorated with the royal arms and the arms of the bridge.[Pg 203]

St Mary's Church was built about the same date as the bridge, but about forty years ago all but the tower was pulled down and rebuilt. It had suffered considerably from the ravages of the Reformers, whose horror of ritualism reached the point of throwing the font out of doors, whereupon 'one schismatic,' more crazy than the rest, took it, says Watkins, in wrath, 'for the purpose of a trough for his swine to feed out of; and if he had had his deserts, he would have made one of their company.' The font was probably rescued by some pious person, for the one now in the church is a fine Norman one, with cable moulding.

In this church was baptized 'Raleigh,' the Indian brought back by Sir Richard Grenville from Carolina, and called after the great Sir Walter, who was doing much for that country. Sir Richard kept 'Raleigh' in his own house, and the dark stranger must have caused great chattering and excitement among the children and some of their elders in the town, but he did not survive transplantation, and a year later was buried in Bideford Churchyard. In the register he is described as a native of Wynganditoia.

On the south side of the church is the tomb of Thomas Grenville, who lies in armour, with a dog—not, as on most monuments, at his feet, but by his side. On the tomb are various coats of arms, and over it rises an arch ornamented with high stone tracery. A curious screen between the tower and the church has been made from the old carved bench-ends. Most of the subjects are grotesque, and on some of the panels are gnome-like heads, with long beards, big hats, and impudent, leering expressions.

In the churchyard is a tombstone with this epitaph:

Nowadays there is not much foreign trade, although a few vessels with outlandish names may be seen lying stranded at low-water alongside the quay. But Bideford had a full share of the prosperity that Devonshire ports enjoyed in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. The merchants were encouraged by Sir[Pg 204] Richard Grenville, who, fired by the 'gallant and ingenious' Sir Walter Raleigh, ventured first fortune and then himself in commanding an expedition planned by his friend and kinsman. The expedition did not meet with great success in its main object, which was to establish a colony for the settlers, who, finding insurmountable hardships and difficulties, were all brought home later by Sir Francis Drake; but a Spanish treasure-ship of immense wealth was captured on the way back. It was said that in different ventures 'Bideford, in consequence of its lord, had some share, but chiefly with respect to its mariners.' So, after Sir Richard had fought his splendid last fight, and when his immediate influence was gone, independent merchants and mariners went on to fresh enterprises, and commerce continued to increase. Trading with Spain for wool soon became an important branch, but of still greater consequence was the trade with Newfoundland. When William and Mary reigned, Bideford was sending more ships there than any other port in the kingdom but London and—strange to say—Topsham. In the next reign the merchants suffered immense losses from French privateers, who, making the island of Lundy their headquarters, spied almost every ship that passed up and down the Bristol Channel. To them, Bideford or Barnstaple Bay was 'emphatically the Golden Bay, from the great number of valuable prizes which they captured on it.' Traffic with America had, however, greatly declined, before it was killed by the War of Independence.

In the history of Bideford the name of Grenville shines on many occasions. Both Devon and Cornwall claim this eminent family, their 'chiefest habitation' of Stow being in Cornwall, while, according to some authorities, their first dwelling-place in this part of the world was at Bideford.

Richard de Grenville, near the end of the fourteenth century, for his valour and courage in the Welsh wars was awarded the town and county of Neath, in Glamorgan. Being pious as well as brave, he devoted all this wealth to the Church, building and endowing a monastery for Cistercian monks. A quaint 'prophecy' regarding this family was said to have been found many[Pg 205] years later in the Abbey of Neeth, where it was kept 'in a most curious box of jett, written in the year 1400.'

It begins:

Watkins refrains from any comment as to the genuineness of the 'prophecy' (of which I have only quoted a small portion), but perhaps the critical would gather from the whole tone, and especially from the closing lines, which have a flattering reference to the reign of a King Charles, that it was written about the date of its discovery.

The dignity and authority, the commanding presence of Sir Richard as a country gentleman, a neighbour, a Justice of the Peace, are admirably suggested in 'Westward Ho!' Apart from warfare on land or sea, he interested himself in a host of affairs at home, and was both member of parliament and High Sheriff for Cornwall. He was also called to serve on Commissions for making inquiries about pirates and strengthening the defences of the coast; and notes show that within six months he was occupied with places as far east and west as Dover and Tintagel.

In 1587 he was appointed by the Queen to review the 'trained bands' in Devon and Cornwall, that nothing of their equipment might be lacking when the expected enemy arrived; and when the shattered remnants of the Armada were straggling down the Irish Channel, Sir Richard had special orders to 'stay all shipping upon the north coast of Devon and Cornwall.' The catalogue alone of the tasks allotted to him shows how greatly the Queen confided in his powers and judgment; yet all the tale of his[Pg 206] life is completely overshadowed by the magnificence of his death:

When the day dawned, 'all the powder of the Revenge to the last barrell was now spent, all her pikes broken, fortie of her best men slaine, and the most part of the rest hurt.' Then Sir Richard 'commanded the maister Gunner, whom he knew to be a most resolute man, to split and sinke the ship; that thereby nothing might remaine of glorious victorie to the Spaniards; seeing in so manie houres fighte with so great a Navie they were not able to take her, having had fifteene houres time, fifteene thousand men, and fifty and three suite of menne of warre to perform it withall.'

The Captain and most of the crew felt that this supreme sacrifice was not required of them, and offered to treat with the Spaniards, who, filled with generous admiration for the amazing courage that had been shown by their adversaries, offered honourable terms of surrender. Sir Richard, who had[Pg 207] received several wounds, and who was at the point of death, was carried on board the Spanish Admiral's ship, where his life ebbed away within a few days. 'Here die I, Richard Grenville, with a joyful and quiet mind, for that I have ended my life as a true soldier ought to do that hath fought for his country, Queen, religion, and honour: My soul willingly departing from this body, being behind the lasting fame of having behaved as every valiant soldier is in his duty bound to do.'

Sir Richard's famous grandson, Sir Bevil Grenville, was a brave soldier, but less awe-inspiring; 'the most generally beloved man in Cornwall,' according to Clarendon; and he adds that 'a brighter courage and a gentler disposition were never married together.' When war was declared, volunteers flocked to his standard, and in his first engagement, near Liskeard, he inflicted defeat on the Parliamentary troops, and took twelve hundred soldiers and all the guns.

At Stratton his achievements were even more brilliant, for his troops began at a serious disadvantage. The enemy, with ample supplies and ammunition, were encamped on the top of a hill; 'the Royalist troops, less than half their number, short of ammunition, and so destitute of provisions that the best officers had but a biscuit a day, lay at Launceston.' Undaunted by these discouraging conditions, they determined to attack, and having marched twenty miles, the soldiers arrived at the foot of the hill, weary, footsore, and exhausted from want of food. From dawn till late afternoon the storming-parties were again and again repulsed, till their powder was almost gone; then they scaled the hill in the face of cannon and muskets, to take the position by the force of swords and pikes. Grenville's party was the first to struggle up to the top, and it was almost immediately joined by the other columns, when the enemy broke in confusion and fled.

Sir Bevil met his death at Lansdowne, when, with grim doggedness, the Royalists were again climbing the heights in the face of the enemy's fire. Very many fell, and he among them. 'Young John Grenville, a lad of sixteen, sprang, it is said, into his father's saddle, and led the charge, and the Cornishmen followed with their[Pg 208] swords drawn and with tears in their eyes, swearing they would kill a rebel for every hair of Sir Bevil's head.'

It is not possible to follow the careers of others of his family, but a saying in the West Country ran: 'That a Godolphin was never known to want wit, a Trelawney courage, or a Grenville loyalty.' Their love of adventure perhaps descended from an earlier Sir Richard Grenville, who puts forward his views in a poem called

SIR RICHARD GRENVILLE'S FAREWELL.

[Also entitled 'In Praise of Seafaring Men in Hope of Good Fortune, and describing Evil Fortune.']

Directly, Bideford suffered very little from the Civil War. In the early days the town was for the Parliament, and two forts were built, one on each side of the river; but after a defeat near Torrington, in the autumn of 1643, the citizens surrendered to the royal army. 'Their spirit for rebellion was considerably reduced,' says their special historian; 'they remained perfectly neutral to the dreadful end of that unhappy war.'

Unfortunately, it is not possible here to dwell upon the delightful minor annals of Bideford, such as the history of that stalwart pamphleteer, Dr Shebbeare, who, for his repeated attacks on the Ministry, was condemned to stand in the pillory at Charing Cross. The sentence was carried out, but not exactly in the usual manner, for 'Mr Beardmore, the under-sheriff, being a friend of the Doctor's, permitted him to stand unconfined on the platform of the pillory, attended by a servant in livery holding an umbrella over him.' It is lamentable that the authorities were sufficiently vindictive and small-minded to visit this act of friendly tolerance on Mr Beardmore with a fine of £50 and two months' imprisonment. Dr. Shebbeare was also imprisoned; but later in life the tide turned, and the King was persuaded to pension him with £200. As Dr Johnson was pensioned about the same time, with the same sum, the joke ran that the King had shown benevolence to a He Bear and a She Bear.

It is also impossible to do more than touch on the tragic episode of 1682—the trial of three unhappy women, Susanna Edwards, Temperance Lloyd, and Mary Trembles, who were accused of having practised witchcraft. Here are a few fragments of the evidence given at the trial. A witness said that, while nursing a sick woman, a magpie fluttered once against the window, and that Temperance admitted that this 'was the black man in the shape of a bird.' Another time 'a grey or braget cat' of rather mysterious movements was an object of suspicion, and Temperance was reported to have confessed that 'she believed it to be the Devil.' The evidence of a dead woman was brought forward, she having 'deposed that the said Temperance had appeared to her in the shape of a red pig.' Susanna Edwards, under strict[Pg 210] examination, 'confesseth that the Devil hath appeared to her in the shape of a Lyon, as she supposed.'

Some of the questions put to the wretched 'witches' were simply grotesque, and reflect, as Watkins caustically observes, on the intelligence of the examiner. Temperance was asked:

'Temperance, how did