The Blackmore Country

“Pst!” said the visitor, “you don’t know what you’m talking about.”

“P’raps I don’t,” answered Betty, placidly, “Peter and me never could mind the names of great folks.”

Five miles from Northmolton is the village of Charles, so long the home of the Rev. Richard Blackmore, the uncle of the novelist. During his incumbency a Northmolton man, fond of lifting his right arm, called on business at the rectory, and was immediately taken in hand by the rector’s wife.

“Did you notice any wood-stacks as you came along?” she inquired.

“Yes, ma’am—a good many.”

“And did you see any pigs?”

“Pigs, ma’am? Yes, I ran up against one.”

“Ah, well; do you know why there are so many pigs at Charles?”

“No, I don’t,” replied the man, puzzled.

“Then I will tell you—because there is no public-house here,” concluded the lady, triumphantly.

Almost due north of Charles is the parish of High Bray, where is a farmhouse called Ludcote, Liddicot, or Lidcote. The last is Sir Walter Scott’s spelling of the name, which is, after all, a secondary matter. What is of more importance is the imputed connection with the place of Amy Robsart and her family. Chapter xii. of Kenilworth commences as follows: “The ancient seat of Lidcote Hall was situated near the village of the same name, and adjoined the wild and extensive forest of Exmoor, plentifully stocked with game, in which some ancient rights belonging to the Robsart family entitled Sir Hugh to pursue his favourite amusement of the chase.” On the faith of this statement it has been generally assumed that the unhappy Amy sprang from a good old Devonshire stock. Reference to the standard authorities, however, has failed to discover the slightest trace of such a family, and one or two antiquaries of repute, whom I have consulted, confess themselves utterly at a loss to explain the allusion. It is a suspicious circumstance that in neither his introduction nor his notes does the author throw any light on the Devonshire connections of his heroine, and for all these reasons combined I am disposed to regard this portion of his narrative as wholly imaginary.

As the topic is literature, I may here allude to a contemporary writer, whose portrait I purchased in a shop opposite the Poltimore Arms. At the time I was quite ignorant of his precise claim to celebrity, and the silk hat, frock coat and walking-stick were too conventional to suggest genius, though the face, perhaps, was not strictly normal. However, experience told me that no man would figure on a picture post-card unless possessed of unusual gifts, and it turned out that Mr Richard Slader was a poet and a solitary, whose recreations—to borrow a hint from Who’s Who?—consist in keeping a hundred head of poultry and selling nuts and blackberries at Southmolton Fair. About forty-five years of age, and careless of appearances, he might be taken, as somebody expressed it, for an “old tramp,” but he belongs to a respectable family; indeed, the name occurs in the Blackmore pedigree. Moreover, it is known that his father left him a good round sum of money. Slader talks broad Devonshire, and “Rachard and his pigs” have passed into a proverb. Swine have been a source of infinite worry to him. Certain of the species owned by his sister at Pixyweek became infected with anthrax, and were ordered by the police to be destroyed. This annoyed Mr Slader, and he gave vent to his indignation in a poem. On another occasion he was summoned for allowing his own pigs to stray on the highway, convicted, and fined. Resentment at this petty tyranny led to his penning an effusion, which was printed and circulated in leaflet form.

Like all poets, Mr Slader has his critics and detractors. In a counter-leaflet put forth by some “snake in the grass,” he is reviled as the “silly old man of Northmolton,” but the hiss of these ignoble stanzas is as far beneath his polished verse as it is possible to conceive. It is proper to add that Mr Slader indited pathetic and very pious compositions on the deaths of his mother and sister, so that his graceful muse is not always wedded to satire.

“With various talents, variously we excel,” and as at Molland Cross we are not very far from Molland parish, in which Tom Faggus had land (Lorna Doone, chapter xlvi.), I am tempted to make a passing allusion to another family represented in the Blackmore pedigree—the Quartlys of Champson. When the Quartlys first sprang into fame as cattle-breeders, I cannot precisely state, but as such they certainly enjoyed a high reputation at the commencement of the last century, and they attained perhaps the acme of distinction during the reign of George IV., when their red kine were never shown at Smithfield without winning first prizes. The best animal painters in England visited Champson to inspect the stock, and among the rest came H. B. Chalon, animal painter to the king, who drew a sketch of two cows, afterwards engraved by Raddon for Mr White, of Pilton House, and dedicated to Mr T. W. Coke, M.P. for Norfolk.[20]

The Quartlys no longer reside at Champson, the death of the late Mr John Quartly on the railway, a few years ago, having led to the severance of a connection which had lasted for generations.[21]

The parish of Molland is associated with that of Knowstone. For centuries they have been consolidated as one benefice, and formed the original of Blackmore’s “Nympton-in-the-Moors.” Here, I must improve on this precedent by including a third parish, Lapford, which lies in a southerly direction. The reason is as follows. A reader of the Maid of Sker, who is also familiar with North Devon, must be struck with the, no doubt, intentional looseness of the geographical references. From a perusal of the romance, it would be natural to conclude that “Nympton-in-the-Moors” is much nearer Barnstaple and the coast than is actually the case,[22] and that no considerable town like Southmolton is interposed between them. Southmolton is ignored also in favour of Tiverton, for, although “Nympton” is in the rural deanery of the former town, it is to the old church of St Peter, Tiverton, that Chowne is appointed by his bishop to bring his young people to a “noble confirmation” (Maid of Sker, chapter liii.). The name “Nympton” is common in Devon, where there are four or five villages so called, and distinguished from each other by some addition like “King’s,” “Bishop’s,” “George,” etc. Besides these there is the form “Nymet” (apparently contracted in the first syllable of “Nympton”), which is found in Nymet-Roland, near Lapford, which, by virtue of the watercourses, stands in more direct relation to Barnstaple than the parishes before named. Still, I do not deny that on the whole, Blackmore intended by “Nympton-in-the-Moors” Knowstone-cum-Molland, of which the Rev. John Froude (“Parson Chowne”), who died in 1852, was incumbent for forty-seven years. It is distinctly stated that “Parson Chowne happened to have two churches” (Maid of Sker, chapter xxviii.), but it appears to me that, for certain purposes, he blended with them the parish of Lapford, of which his nephew, the notorious John Radford (“Parson Rambone”), was rector.

It was at Nymet-Roland that the “naked people,” who bulk so largely in the Maid of Sker, lived in semi-nudity and utter savagery, in an old cottage of clay, of which one wall had given way, so that in their only room grass grew on the earth floor. They stole what clothes they required, and continually got into trouble with the police, one of whom was felled to the ground by a girl of the family. Contrary to Blackmore’s account, they were finely built, muscular, and strong. The patriarch of the race died at Whitstone, having spent his declining years in a cider cask; and about 1860 the family was dispersed. These people were called Cheriton, and as they lived on their own freehold, could not be interfered with, until financial difficulties arose, which compelled them to give up possession.

Froude’s real “lambs” were not of this description, but ordinary village folk. With these his word was law, and no matter how extravagant his commands, they were obeyed to the letter. Though a man of unquestioned ability, the parson hardly possessed the diabolical cunning of Chowne, but it is to be feared that he had no small share of his cruel malice, and he carried buffoonery to a pitch utterly inconsistent with his cloth and calling. His moral character was such that his relations, some of whom I know, regard him as outside the pale of apology; while old labourers, who remember his white hat, though perhaps none too good themselves, are shocked to recall such conduct in a “minister.” Froude never issued instructions directly; he preferred oblique methods. Thus he would be riding along where a group of men were at work, and begin to mutter, “I’m certain sure Farmer Besley’s fuzz-brake will be burnt—I know ’twill.” The nearest man would prick up his ears, and, having accomplished the prophecy, would return to the spot, where he would find a sovereign on the gatepost. At another time, Froude would say to a follower severely, “Look here, John, don’t you cut off that donkey’s tail”—pointing to an animal on the other side of the hedge. The next day the unfortunate animal would be found minus its appendage. Froude’s “lambs” were staunch to him, and years afterwards one of them, called Peagram, who lived at Southmolton, refused to divulge anything of their relations.

Parson Chowne was a marrying man—having, it will be recollected, three wives in succession; Froude was twice married, his second wife being Miss Halse, daughter of “Squire” Halse, a yeoman farmer of Pulworthy. Tradition says that he officiated at the lady’s christening, and, at the convivial party given in honour of the event, observed that, if the girl baby lived to grow up, he would marry her. From another source I have heard that, when he was courting her, he and her father would stay up late, drinking, and Froude, by no means so abstinent as the terrible Chowne, generally got into a condition which rendered it necessary for him to be “personally conducted” to Knowstone by one of the men, who would ride behind him, buoy him up in the saddle, and lift him from his horse at the end of the journey, and make himself responsible for his safety. Sad to say, Froude was neither civil nor grateful, and although consciously incapable, heaped all kinds of profane and opprobrious epithets on his companion. “You only do it for your guts’ sake. Go back—go back, or I’ll yaw (thrash) tha.” Bragg did not dare to dismount, knowing that if he showed signs of fear Froude would be as good as his word, and give him a good horse-whipping.

Froude could be a perfect gentleman if he chose, and, when in his capacity as master of hounds, he entertained sportsmen like Lord Portsmouth to dinner, he acquitted himself with surprising ease and some amount of refinement. But he was always relieved when such ordeals were over and he had attended the last of his guests to the door. He would then turn to a boon companion with the remark, “Thank Heaven, George; I’ve been a gentleman long enough. Come into the kitchen, and have some grog.”

Radford was nothing like so prominent a character as Froude, but he was, if possible, even more disreputable. He was tall and well built, and his favourite recreation was fighting. As to time and place, he was not at all particular, and was often seen in the boxing booths at Southmolton Fair giving an exhibition of his powers. Radford seems to have had quite a mania for pugilism. Once he invaded a gipsy encampment, and offered a sovereign to any of them who could beat him. The best man was picked, but proved of no use against the parson, who thereupon offered to fight the next, and eventually went through about a dozen of them, each new opponent being buoyed up with the hope that Radford was getting worn out with his exertions. But the hope turned out delusive.

In the same way, when the railway was being cut between Exeter and Barnstaple, Radford appeared among the navvies, issuing challenges

right and left, and, as they were accompanied with offers of money, his gages of battle were eagerly taken up. The navvies, as a rule, fared no better than the gipsies, but one man named Tolly, who was afterwards a stationmaster on the line, was credited with the proud distinction of having beaten the redoubtable rector.

The Hon. Newton Fellowes, afterwards Lord Portsmouth, used to drive a four-in-hand, and occasionally experienced trouble with lazy carters, who did not make room for him as fast as he could wish, and whom he punished with a slash of his whip. One day Radford got himself up as a carter, and, lying down inside the cart, pretended to be asleep. On came Newton Fellowes, who, finding the carter deaf to his commands, flew into a perfect fury and began to flourish his whip. At the first touch up jumped Radford, and administered to his lordship the worst drubbing he ever had in his life.

As I have said, however, Radford was by no means Froude’s equal, and as the Parson Rambone of the romance, rightly holds a secondary place. Radford, not Russell, was the original of the character, since Blackmore himself told Mr Bryan, of Southmolton, that the former was his model. Froude’s redeeming virtue was his success as a sportsman, and the following article from the Sporting Magazine for 1821 shows in what esteem he was held by the hunting community.

Close of Mr Froude’s Season in North Devon.

Experience teaches us that happiness is unattainable without reciprocity. I do not mean that in all our actions we are to look out for an equivalent; reason and Scripture equally denounce such selfishness; but if in our amusements and recreations we are partially dependent on others, some attention must inevitably be paid to the feelings and predilections of our fellow-mortals. The galling yoke of feudalism is long ago removed; and it is better to be loved than dreaded. The rod of iron may chastise, but cannot win the affections, nor repress resentment; which, if not cancelled by kindness will, sooner or later, burst forth with the devastating fury of an avalanche. When a perfect understanding is established between sportsmen and farmers, game is seldom wanting, and every facility is afforded in following the hounds. A more harmonious feeling of unanimity and respect I never beheld, than at a hunting feast the other day at the house of Mr Froude, the master of a crack pack of harriers in the North of Devon. I may say the crack pack; in which Nimrod will, I think, agree, as he has signalised some of the hounds in your magazine, particularly old Guilty. We need not refer to Buffon for arguments to prove the sagacity of the canine species, as old Guilty has given abundant proof of it. The efficient number of the pack is about twenty-five couples; the hunting days are Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays: Guilty, though kept at a farmhouse nearly three miles distant from the kennel, always attended of her own accord on hunting mornings. If too late, one of the servants had only to point to her the direction the hounds went, and she invariably joined them without the aid of a compass.

At the end of a hunting season it is a custom with many masters of hounds to invite the yeomen and farmers over whose land they hunt, to dinner, thereby verifying the old adage, finis coronat opus. The other day I was present at one of those dinners or hunting feasts given by Mr Froude, where there were from fifty to sixty persons enjoying the good things of life, and where

On such occasions particular customs are strictly observed. The host resigns his domestic sovereignty into the hands of his guests, who appoint a Tapster from their own body, a Sword to enforce fines, and a Judge to settle disputes and to keep up ancient customs, who, in this instance, executed his office with the impartiality of a Rhadamanthus, particularly in seeing that his Sword performed his duty with justice in the sconcing department. On a table were huge flagons of foaming old October, with four magnums, or, as the classics say, magna, of spirits, surrounded with drinking cups, horns, and glasses, marked with hunting devices. Among other toasts, “the King” was drunk, while standing, at one draught, in tolerably large tumblers: and those who were not particular in doing so were fined, as his Judgeship said, for cutting His Majesty in two—such being the established rule handed down from their forefathers. At all events the toast was a loyal one, and I wonder King Charles had it not inserted among his golden rules. Youngsters on their first introduction had to pledge the Judge in a glass of neat spirits; and after this matriculating ceremony was over they were considered as efficient members. One of the initiated gave us a hunting song; and his memory having failed him in three or four instances, the inexorable Judge fined him a wineglassful of brandy for each omission; and ere he finished his melody, his head reclined on the mahogany, and he softly reposed himself in the arms of Morpheus. I was excused fines, not being a member of the club.

His Lordship the Judge now stood up to propose the toast—viz., “Success to the merry harriers and their worthy master! Whoever does not preserve game, and allow him to follow his hounds wherever he pleases, is a craven, et cetera, et cetera!”—(what the et ceteras are I must beg leave to be silent)—which was received with tumultuous applause. The contents of the cups disappeared with such a magic rapidity that Macbeth’s words, “Damn’d be he who first cries hold! enough!” would have been an exceedingly appropriate motto. I did not see the finale; but I saw quite enough to convince me that a little attention timely applied has gained Mr Froude the goodwill of all his neighbours. Our English yeomen are composed of too tough materials to be driven; they require as much management as a restive horse; however, with a little tact they can be easily led. A rough, generous, and hospitable yeoman is a perfect epitome of John Bull. Who can read Sir W. Scott’s description of Dandy Dinmont without a feeling of admiration? The neighbouring poor also partook of the entertainment; and the day is always looked upon as a jubilee by the villagers.

Mr Froude is generally allowed to be one of the first hare-hunters in the West of England. One glance of his is sufficient to find out the good and bad points of a dog. His first instructions he received at the hands of the late Mr Karslake, and it may be justly said of him that he was bred up at the feet of Gamaliel. The moment his leading-strings were thrown aside, he set about organising a pack of harriers, to which he has ever since devoted the greater part of his time. Hounds are kept by many for the sake of effect and parade, by way of getting a name in the Sporting World; but it cannot be said so in this instance. Sportsmen being so few in the neighbourhood of Knowstone, the field mostly consists of persons staying at the Vicarage, a few surrounding friends, and an occasional wandering lover of the chase, attracted by the fame of the Knowstone pack. The hounds, in size, shape, and colour, bear a wonderful similarity to each other. I recollect once, on meeting the Tivy-side Hunt on the Welsh Hills, my remarking that one of the hounds bore a strong similarity to Mr Froude’s breed of hounds, which I found on inquiry came from Devonshire—so strong is the family likeness through the whole pack. When a man’s principal attention has for years been devoted to the breed of hounds, it must ultimately arrive at the maximum of perfection, particularly if the person, like Mr Froude, understands his business well. The prominent points of his hounds are:—height nineteen inches, considerable length of back, immense strong loins, with firm and well-shaped haunches, productive of speed and durability: they are particularly quick in all their movements: one should have the flying arrow of Ababis to follow them; and their note is sharp and cutting. A friend of mine used to say that “a deep-mouthed Southern hound” sounded well in poetry, but it always reminded him of a cathedral bell. The deep and solemn tone of Great Tom is very well at Lincoln; but the sharp and cheering cry of harriers is much more invigorating to the spirits on a raw and cold morning on the bleak hills of Devonshire.

Had Nimrod time during his Devonshire Tour to call on Mr Froude, he would have had many amusing anecdotes. One of those whose minds are chiefly devoted to the admiration of their pretty selves happened once to join the Knowstone pack, and kept on in spite of hints, though pointedly given, clearing banks and furze bushes to the manifest danger of the dogs’ lives. A hare at last was started; off went the parson and the dandy side by side until they came to the margin of a bog. His reverence instantly tightened one of his bridle-reins, and continued to spur his nag, which gave it the appearance of shying. The dandy went in neck and crop; and thus the nuisance was got rid of by “his own act and deed,” as the lawyers say. However, he was soon landed, and had every attention paid him. This I had from the late poor Jack Harvey, who was a tolerable master of the laconic style. The late Marsh, Fauntleroy & Company used to be his bankers. I recollect when he wanted the needful to go to Warwickshire, his addressing Mr Marsh thus: “Dear Agent, send me some coin. I am yours, etc.” When his house in Devon was burnt, he acquainted his guardian with the accident thus: “Dear Nunky, I have no domus: ditto is burnt.” His brother, who was then studying at St John’s, Cambridge, offered him his purse: for his kind offer he was answered thus: “Dear George, I thank you for your Balm of Gilead letter; send me fifty pounds.” Coulton himself could not have improved on this.

Mr Froude has hunted the fox more frequently for the last two years than he used to do, and has bred two couples of hounds out of a favourite harrier bitch of his own by a clever foxhound from the celebrated blood of George Templar, Esq.: these are reserved expressly to go with the harriers, when drawing for a fox, to keep them steady to the varmint. Here instinct is clearly shown on the drag; and when the pack is well settled to the line of scent, the quickness and vivacity of the merry harrier are quickly apparent. They have this season, I hear, had some brilliant runs, an animated account of which has been given in our provincial papers by a gentleman from the neighbourhood of Exeter, attracted to visit the pack by common fame, like the Queen of Sheba, when she paid a visit to Solomon.

The hunting season is now over; the horn is replaced in its case; the whip is suspended from the nail, denoting a suspension of field sports. The fox and the hare are allowed to revel unmolestedly over hill and dale, secure from the thrilling “tally-ho” and “gone away” of the keen and determined sportsman. A straggling hound may now and then steal unperceived to remind them of their implacable foes. However, the period will arrive

CHAPTER XV

BARUM

Barnstaple is a place on which it would be a pleasure to bestow many a page of garnered lore, and the district around is no less delightful to the lover of the past. This being the case, it may be well to premise that my hope is, in a subsequent volume on the Kingsley country, to amplify the account here given, and this must excuse seeming deficiencies.

The recollections of old inhabitants are always interesting, and it may be laid down that, next to our own, no age attracts like that immediately preceding it, out of which we are sprung, and in which Blackmore flourished. Therefore I account it a fortunate accident that made me for a short time an inmate in the house of Mr Parminter, one of the makers of modern Barnstaple, who drew my attention to a remarkable fact—that in the old days the town was provided with iron gates, which were closed at night, to keep out tramps and travellers. Mr Parminter remembers two—those in High Street and Cross Street. Boutport Street, where Parson Rambone challenged all and sundry, must also have had its gate.

A great support of old Barnstaple was the shipping industry. Vessels of one hundred to two hundred tons were built here and owned by Barnstaple men, amongst whom was Mr Bament, father of Mrs Carruthers Gould, who was also a tanner. The ships were employed in different services, and known as London traders, Liverpool traders, Bristol traders, etc., according to the port of arrival. Their cargoes were of all kinds—groceries, draperies, and general merchandise. There was also a considerable traffic in Scotch herrings. The quays, of which there were four—three above Barnstaple Bridge—were at right angles to the river. At present, ships are barred from coming up beyond a certain distance by the railway bridge. Below this, however, is the Rolle Quay (so called after the Rolle family, to whom it belongs), which is still accessible, and where much business is done. When in Barnstaple recently, I watched a sailing ship from the opposite bank, and her action in entering curiously resembled that of a mouse stealing into its hole. One of the services of the Barnstaple vessels was as emigrant ships, and Mr Bament helped to export hundreds of sturdy colonists to the Antipodes. In the Maid of Sker (chapter xxx.), the “Tawton fleet” of brown-sailed lighters is referred to; the river is navigable for barges and small craft to about three miles above the town.

Mr Parminter has many appetising reminiscences of parliamentary elections, which in days of yore were in the hands of the freeman. This position was esteemed a valuable privilege, since it carried with it other rights, not merely that of voting. Mr Parminter, for instance, as a freeman, was able, when building a chapel at Ilfracombe, to convey all the material by sea without paying quay dues. As to politics, however. Adjoining the North Walk is a mansion called the Castle, in the grounds of which is a raised mound, on which in former times guns were mounted for the defence of the river passage. This house was occupied for many years by Mr Brembridge, M.P. for the borough (commonly known as “Dick Brembridge”), who was pitted against Lord Ebrington, the present Lord Fortescue, on one occasion, and, together with his colleague, unseated for bribery. His lordship, however, was unable to occupy either of the vacant places, as one of his own agents was convicted of corruption, to the tune of £10. This was really a modest amount, seeing that in 1841 as much as £80 was paid for a single vote. There were other modes of gaining or retaining support, and amongst these may be reckoned a champagne breakfast at the King’s Arms, which Mr Parminter recollects attending when quite a boy, with his father. A famous contest was that in which Messrs Hudson and Gore, the former a wealthy brewer, succeeded in ousting the Hon. John Fortescue, brother of the present Earl, and Sir John Palmer Chichester (“Arlington Jack”), representing two of the oldest local families.

All the world has heard of Mr F. Carruthers Gould, the renowned caricaturist, but all the world may not know that, although not a resident in the town, Mr Gould is a thorough Barnstaple man, and his wife, as we have seen, is a Barnstaple lady. The Goulds are an old Barnstaple family. The grandfather of F. C. G. was a lime and slate merchant, and his father, Mr Richard David Gould, a very clever architect, in large practice, who designed the market and many private residences, including the house in which Mr Parminter lives and I lodged. Prior to this my excellent landlord occupied the Castle, an hotel which he built for himself in the street of the same name, where he had Mr R. D. Gould himself as a paying guest. In his youth Mr Carruthers Gould was a clerk in the Old Bank, and, whilst in that position, presumed to caricature old Trewin, the jailor—a terrible personage, with a great capacity for holloaing. The sight of the picture enraged him beyond measure, and it is said he was almost for murdering the daring young artist.

For many years Barnstaple has known no such benefactor as the late Mr W. F. Rock, who, I believe, started in life as a linen-draper and lived to found the North Devon Athenæum, which originated in a debating society. He was the author of a dialogue in the North Devon dialect, and took an interest in many other things besides literature. For instance, he gave a most useful stimulus to the slumbering artistic taste of the townspeople; and the wonderful development of Barum ware and cabinet work may be attributed, directly or indirectly, to the seed sown by this wise and patriotic townsman.

From this gossip of recent days I turn to severer researches, suggested in part by points that have already cropped up—for instance, the matter of the castle. When Barnstaple Castle was first erected, whether by King Athelstan or some other Saxon ruler, cannot be accurately stated. This much is certain—that there was ample reason for such a fort in Anglo-Saxon times, since the berserker Hubba appeared in the neighbourhood, and at the mouth of the Taw is the so-called Hubba-stone, supposed to mark his grave. Two other Norse chieftains, Crida and Putta, are reputed to have given their names to Croyde and Putsborough. The castle was rebuilt or considerably extended by Judhel de Totnes, a favourite of William the Conqueror, to whom he, William, granted the borough of Barnstaple, and who occasionally resided there. He also repaired the town walls. Judhel was afterwards banished, and the barony and castle, after passing through a number of different hands, came at length to Sir John Chichester, who in 1566 conveyed the entire manor, with the exception of the castle, to the corporation, in whom it is still vested. For some reason the fortress attracted the jealous attention of the Government, and in the reign of Henry III., A.D. 1228, a precept was directed to the Sheriff of Devon, commanding him to reduce its walls to a height not exceeding ten feet. According to Fuller, it was in the following century the principal residence of the worthy Lord Audley, but in Leland’s time (1542) it was already a ruin.

“The town of Berdenstaple,” he says, “hath been waulled, and the waulle was in compace by estimation half a myle. It is now almost clene faullen. The names of the four gates by east, west, north and south, yet remain, and manifest tokens of them. There be manifest ruines of a great castelle at the north-west side of the towne, a little beneath the towne bridge, and a place of dungeon yet standeth.”

The next notice of the castle is found in the Journal of Philip Wyott, Town Clerk of Barnstaple from 1586 to 1608: “1601, nineteenth day of December, at night, some of the castle walls was blown down and blown into the Castle, and did no harm, saving some ravens were found dead, and belike sat within the wall.” Elsewhere the Journal tells how two hundred trained soldiers were reviewed in the Castle Green, and, how, in October 1606, a great flood “threw down the whole house wherein James Frost did dwell, whereby himself was slayne, and two children lying within bed was slayne, with the falling of the walls, and all the walls between that and the Castle fell.”

The aforesaid mound, and some remains of two or three massive walls incorporated with the Castle House, alone are left to mark the site of the once proud river-fort. With regard to the mound, time was when it was surmounted by a small keep or watch-tower, and it is supposed that part of a wall on one side of it is a remnant of the ancient building. This had plainly vanished in 1727, when trespassers on the mound were put on their trial at Exeter.

Next, as to shipping. Barnstaple was one of the subsidiary Cinque Ports, and, as such, assisted in repelling the Spanish Armada. The local contribution to the English fleet amounted to five ships out of a total number of 197. Old Philip Wyott says briefly: “Five ships went over the bar to join Sir Francis Drake at Plymo,” but Stow, in his Annals, supplies the names of three of them—the Tiger, the God Save Her, and the Galleon Dudley. On the dispersal of the dreaded Armada, letters of marque were issued by the English Government, and piracy having become both legal and respectable, Barumites engaged in it with considerable energy and success, the reprisal ships bringing in freights of gold, ivory, and wine. The White Hart, the Blessing, the Prudence, the John of Braunton, and the Mayflower were the names of some of these Barnstaple vessels, and in the case of the two last, complete lists of the “governors” and crews in 1612, together with inventories of the fittings, are yet extant.

One of the sights of Barnstaple is Queen Anne’s Walk, with its convenient colonnade, in which one may see old men, who have borne the burden and heat of the day, resting placidly and watching the stream of traffic surge past them. Originally the building was intended as an exchange or merchant’s walk, and did not acquire its present name till 1708, when it was restored by the Corporation, with the help of some noblemen; and the statue of Queen Anne, in the costume of the period, was presented by Mr Rolle, of Stevenstone.

Not far away is Barnstaple Bridge, with its many arches, spanning the river Taw—the scene of one of Tom Faggus’s exciting adventures. Westcote has a quaint tale concerning the origin of this stately bridge, which, he declares, was due to two maiden ladies, sisters, who were spinsters in both senses. Not only did they spin themselves, but they taught young children the art, and with the proceeds of their industry brought about the completion of the first two piers. Nor was this all. They obtained a license to go a-begging among good and charitable people with a view to accumulating funds for the finishing of the structure.

A terrible episode in the history of Barnstaple was the visitation of the plague in 1646. This came direct from the Levant in a vessel laden with wool, and after decimating Bideford, extended its ravages to the larger town. There is a gruesome tradition on the subject, which is worth recording, and may possibly have some foundation in fact. It is as follows. Four brothers, sons of Thomas and Agnes Ley, were fishing on the banks of the Taw, when the tide floated up a bundle. This they drew to the shore, and discovered that it was simply bedding and rugs, which had no doubt been the property of a

sailor, and had for some reason been thrown into the sea. The sequel rendered it well-nigh certain that the poor man had died of the pestilence, with which all four brothers became infected, and of which they all died. As a precaution against the further spread of the disease, the corpses were ferried across the river to the Tawstock bank, and interred at high-water mark. Here a monument was erected to their memory, and an enclosure formed by seven elms, which, through some confusion, resulted in the spot being named the “Seven Brethren Bank.” In 1791 a certain Elizabeth Horwood made a copy of the inscription on the tombstone, which she described as standing in Higher Pill Marsh, on the east side of the gut that emptied itself into the Taw, a little above the higher Tawstock marsh and bank. The epitaph, apparently genuine, is stated to have been:—

From tragedy to romance. Mr Charles Cutcliffe, of Weach, a solicitor residing at Bideford, is the narrator; Madam Chichester, daughter of the Rev. Charles Howard, and relict of Arthur Chichester, of Hall, the lady implicated, and the Rev. George Bradford, the eloping parson. The incident is succinctly related in the following letters—with a rider.

“May 21, 1728.—There was a very great storm at Pill last Friday. I mean within doors, for that morning ab^t one, the parson of Tawton and Mad^m Chichester ridd away together without a serv^t, in order to be married; but where the jobb was done, I don’t yet hear with certainty. The parson yesterday made a visit in his coach, and no doubt looks very grand.

“June 9, 1728.—I think I wrote you that the Viccar of Tawton had married Mad^m Chichester. I must now acquaint you that Cozⁿ Moll Chichester was married to Mr Waldron, her old sweetheart, the Monday following, but not discovered till last week. I had the pleasure yesterday of bringing father and daughter together at Pill, where all things were perfectly reconciled, and am forthwith to prepare an handsome settlement.”

Tawstock Court, a long castellated building, and Tawstock Church, which has been called the “Westminster Abbey of the West,” encompassed with old woods, and so closely linked that they may almost be regarded as one, are near neighbours of Bishop’s Tawton, the home of the romantic vicar. Their unity of interest may be illustrated by an ancient custom depicted in a print belonging to Sir Bourchier Wrey, and a much valued heirloom. In the churchyard are two ivy-covered pillars, the remains of a gateway through which the family at the mansion walked on their way to church, while behind them, in solemn procession, marched their servants and retainers.

A full account of the contents of this most sumptuous church is beside my purpose, but attention may be drawn to some of its more important features. In the north transept is a square wainscoted seat, which has a canopy adorned with coloured bosses, and on the cornice are Bourchier knots. The latter circumstance suggests that it was the state pew of the Bourchiers, Earls of Bath, though the opinion has been hazarded that it was a confessional box. The late Sir Gilbert Scott thought the best piece of carving in the building the little gallery leading into the belfry, the principal adornment being the vignette or running decoration of leaves and tendrils. The bench-ends also, with their alto-rilievo of rose, pomegranate, and royal arms, are excellent specimens of wood-carving.

The beautiful screen was erected by John Bourchier, second earl, whose arms and quarterings, impaling those of his countess, the Lady Elinor, are to be seen on the outside of the church over the priest’s door.

The monuments are of almost unparalleled splendour. The “goodliest of all,” as Risdon has it, is that erected to the memory of William Bourchier, third earl, and his wife, Lady Elisabeth Russell, daughter of Francis, Earl of Bedford, whose armorial bearings are fully blazoned. The recumbent figures of the earl and countess are life-size, and the colouring of their crimson robes, lined with ermine, is still perfect. The fifth and last earl, Henry, was honoured with a large sarcophagus, which is surmounted by “an elegant black urn,” supported by four griffins. Beside it stands the marble statue of his wife, the Lady Rachel Fane, daughter of Francis, Earl of Westmorland. The work of Bernini, a famous Florentine sculptor it is mounted on a decorated pedestal of circular form. A square canopy, built in memory of Lady Fitzwarren and her babes in 1586, adorns the south wall, and under an arch in the north wall of the chancel is the recumbent figure of a lady, temp. Edward III., carved in wood.

An ancient chest in a small room, to which access is gained by a flight of old oak stairs, preserves the remains of a collection of armour of the style worn by musketeers in the reign of Charles I., and till 1832 “as good as new.” In that year a visitor requested permission to purchase it, but was informed that he was just too late—it had been sold to a Taunton man as old iron. And so nearly the whole of the morions, gorgets, back and breast-plates, wheel-lock guns and bandoliers, which were deposited in this chamber until comparatively recently, have been irrecoverably lost.

Another village within easy reach of Barnstaple is Landkey, the original home of the great Devonshire family of Acland. If, however, I allude to it here, it is on account of an extraordinary story, for which old Westcote vouches, and which may as well be given in his own quaint language.

“In this parish of Landkey are two towns (indeed both will make but a pretty village were they joined), named Easter and Wester Newlands; a thoroughfare much travelled, as being not passing two miles from Barnstaple. These are somewhat dangerous to be passed by strangers; not for thieves or such like, but to those whose tongues are ushers to their wits, and walk before them, such I mean as bring the cause with them; for if out of their blindness and boldness (for it is no other), though they term it valour, they shall cry out these words (I am almost afraid to whisper them), “Camp-le-tout, Newland,” held of the good women very scandalous to their honesty, they are instantly all up like a nest of wasps with the first alarum, the streets are corded, the party (or more, if more be in the company) beaten down from his horse (if he ride) with stones, or other dog-bolts always in readiness, so taken and used at the pleasure of the good townswomen, washed, shaved, and perfumed (and other like dainty trimming, not for modesty to be spoken) that he that travels that way a fortnight after may smell what hath there been done; and he that hath made the trial will confess, by experience, that it is folly for a wise man to anger a multitude causelessly.