Ordination—The Black Pig, “Gyp”—Writes to the Bishop—His Father
appointed to Stratton—He is given Morwenstow—The Waddon Lantern—St.
Morwenna—The Children of Brychan—St. Modwenna of Burton-on-Trent—The
North Cornish Coast—Tintagel—Stowe—Sir Bevil Grenville—Mr. Hawker’s
discovery of the Grenville Letters—Those that remain—Antony Payne
the Giant—Letters of Lady Grace—Of Lord Lansdown—Cornish Dramatic
Power—Mr. Hicks of Bodmin.
ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER was ordained deacon in 1829, when he was
twenty-five years old, by the Bishop of Exeter, to the curacy of North
Tamerton, of which the Rev. Mr. Kingdon was non-resident incumbent. He
threw two cottages into one, and added a veranda and rooms, and made
himself a comfortable house, which he called Trebarrow. He was ordained
priest in 1831, by the Bishop of Bath and Wells. He took his M.A. degree
in 1836. He had a favourite rough pony which he rode, and a black pig of
Berkshire breed, well cared for, washed and curry-combed, which ran
beside him when he went out for walks and paid visits. Indeed, the pig
followed him into ladies’ drawing-rooms, not always to their
satisfaction. The pig was called Gyp, and was intelligent and obedient.
If Mr. Hawker saw that those whom he visited were annoyed at the
intrusion of the pig, he would order it forth; and the black creature
slunk out of the door with its tail out of curl.
It was whilst Mr. Hawker was at Tamerton that Henry Phillpotts was
appointed Bishop of Exeter. There was some unpleasant feeling aroused in
the diocese at the mode of his appointment; and the bishop sent a
pastoral letter to his clergy to state his intentions and explain away
what caused unpleasantness. Mr. Hawker wrote the bishop an answer of
such a nature that it began a friendship which subsisted between them
till the death of Dr. Phillpotts. Whilst Mr. Hawker was curate of
Tamerton, on one or two occasions the friends of the labouring dead
requested that the burial hour might be that at which the deceased was
accustomed “to leave work.” The request touched his poetical instinct,
and he wrote the lines:—
Sunset should be the time, they said,
To close their brother’s narrow bed.
’Tis at that pleasant hour of day
The labourer treads his homeward way.
His work is o’er, his toil is done;
And therefore at the set of sun,
To wait the wages of the dead,
We laid our hireling in his bed.
In 1834 died the non-resident vicar of Stratton, and the Bishop of
Exeter offered to obtain the living for Mr. Robert Stephen Hawker; but
he refused it, as his father was curate of Stratton, and he felt how
unbecoming it would be for him to assume the position of vicar where his
father had been, and still was, curate. In his letter to the bishop he
urged his father’s long service at Stratton; and Dr. Phillpotts, at his
request, obtained the presentation for Mr. Jacob Stephen Hawker to the
vicarage of Stratton.
The very next piece of preferment that fell vacant was Morwenstow, whose
vicar, the Rev. Mr. Young, died in 1834. Mr. Young had been
non-resident, and had lived at Torrington, the parish being served by a
succession of curates, some of them also non-resident. The vicarage
house, which stood west of the tower near a gate out of the churchyard,
was let to the clerk, and inhabited by him and his wife. The first
curate was Mr. Badcock, who lived at Week St. Mary, some fourteen miles
distant. He rode over for Sunday duty. Next came a M. Savant, a
Frenchman ordained deacon in the English Church, but never priest. He
was a dapper dandy, very careful of his ecclesiastical costume, in
knee-breeches and black silk stockings. He lodged at Marsland. Parson
Davis of Kilkhampton came over to Morwenstow to celebrate the holy
communion. The Frenchman was succeeded by Mr. Bryant, who lived at
Flexbury, in the parish of Poughill; the next to him was Mr. Thomas, a
man who ingratiated himself with the farmers—a cheery person, fond of a
good story, and interested in husbandry, “but not much of the clerical
in him,” as an old Morwenstow man describes him. Whilst Mr. Thomas was
curate, the vicar, Parson Young, died. A petition from the farmers and
householders of Morwenstow to the bishop was got up, to request him to
appoint Mr. Thomas. The curate, so runs the tale, went to Exeter to
present the paper with their signatures, and urge his claims in person.
“My lord,” said he, “the Dissenters have all signed the petition: they
are all in favour of me. Not one has declined to attach his name; even
the Wesleyan minister wishes to see me vicar of Morwenstow.”
“Then, my good sir,” said Dr. Phillpotts, “it is very clear that you are
not the man for me. I wish you a good-morning.” And he wrote off to
Robert Stephen Hawker, offering him the incumbency of Morwenstow.
There was probably not a living in the whole diocese, perhaps not one in
England, which could have been more acceptable to Mr. Hawker. As his
sister tells me, “Robert always loved Morwenstow: from a boy he loved
it, and, when he could, went to live there.”
He at once accepted the preferment, and went into residence. There had
not been a resident vicar since the Rev. Oliver Rose[*],[2] who lived at
Eastaway, in the parish. This Rev. Oliver Rose had a brother-in-law, Mr.
Edward Waddon of Stanbury; and the cronies used to meet and dine
alternately at each other’s house. As they grew merry over their port,
the old gentlemen uproariously applauded any novel joke or story by
rattling their glasses on the table. Having laughed at each other’s
venerable anecdotes for the last twenty years, the introduction of a new
tale or witticism was hailed with the utmost enthusiasm. This enthusiasm
reached such a pitch, that, in their applause of each other’s sallies,
they occasionally broke their wine-glasses.
The vicar of Morwenstow, when Mr. Waddon snapped off the foot of his
glass, would put the foot and a fragment in his pocket, and treasure it;
for each wine-glass broken was to him a testimony to the brilliancy of
his jokes, and also a reminder to him of them for future use.
In time he had accumulated a considerable number of broken wine-glasses,
and he had them fitted together to form an enormous lantern; and
thenceforth, when he went to dine at Stanbury, this testimony to his
triumphs was borne lighted before him.
The lantern fell into the hands of Mr. Hawker, and he presented it to
the lineal descendant of Mr. E. Waddon, as a family relic. It is still
in existence, and duly honoured. It is of oak, with the fragments of
wine-glasses let in with great ingenuity in the patterns of keys,
hearts, etc., about the roof, the sides being composed of the circular
feet of the glasses.
On looking at the map of Cornwall, one is surprised to see it studded
with the names of saints, of whom one knows nothing, and these names of
a peculiarly un-English sound. The fact is, that Cornwall was, like
Ireland, a land of saints in the fifth and sixth centuries. These were
either native Cornish, or were Irish or Welsh saints who migrated
thither to seek on the desolate moors or wild, uninhabited coasts of
Cornwall, solitary places, where they might live to God, and fight
demons, like the hermits of Egypt. Cornwall was the Thebaid of the
Welsh.
Little or nothing is known of the vast majority of these saints. They
have left their names and their cells and holy-wells behind them, but
nothing more.
They had their lodges in the wilderness,
Or built their cells beside the shadowy sea;
And there they dwelt with angels like a dream.
So they unclosed the volume of the Book,
And filled the fields of the Evangelist
With thoughts as sweet as flowers![3]
The legends of a few local saints survive, but of very few. Such is that
of St. Melor “with the golden hand,” probably some old British deity who
has bequeathed his myth to an historical personage. St. Padarn, St.
Cadoc, St. Petrock, have their histories well known, as they belong to
Wales. But there are other saints, emigrants from Wales, who settled on
the north-west coast, of whom but little is known.
What little can be collected concerning St. Morwenna, who had her cell
at Morwenstow, I proceed to give.
In the fifth century there lived in Brecknock an Irish invader, Brychan
by name, who died in 450. According to Welsh accounts, he had
twenty-four sons and twenty-five daughters, in all forty-nine children.
Statements, however, vary, of which this is the largest. The smallest
number attributed to him is twenty-four; and, as his grandchildren may
have been included in the longer list, this may account for the
discrepancy. He is said to have had three wives—Ewrbrawst, Rhybrawst and
Peresgri—though it is not said that they were living at the same time.
The fact seems to have been that all the Hy Brychan or family are
regarded as brothers and sisters.
The names of the sons and daughters and grandchildren of Brychan are
given in the _Cognacio Brychani_, and in the Bonnedd-y-Saint; and a
critical examination of the lists is given by Dr. Rees in his _Essay on
the Welsh Saints_. In the “Young Woman’s Window” at St. Neots, near
Liskeard, in Cornwall, is fifteenth-century glass, which represents
Brychan with his offspring, twenty-four in number, all of whom have been
confessors or martyrs in Devon and Cornwall. The following are named: 1.
St. John, or Ive, who gave his name to the Church of St. Ive; 2.
Endelient, who gave his name to Endelion; 3. Menfre, to St. Miniver; 4.
Teth, to St. Teath; 5. Mabina, to St. Mabyn; 6. Merewenna, to Marham
Church near Bude; 7. Wenna, to St. Wenn; 8. Yse, to St. Issey; 9.
Morwenna, to Morwenstow; 10. Cleder, to St. Clether; 11. Kerie, to
Egloskerry; 12. Helic, to Egloshayle; 13. Adwen, to Advent; 14. Lanent,
to Lelant. Leland, in his _Itinerary_, adds Nectan, Dilic, Wensenna,
Wessen, Juliana,[4] Wymp, Wenheder, Jona, Kananc, and Kerhender.
A few, but not many of these can be identified with those attributed to
Brychan by the Welsh genealogists. Morwenna is most probably the Welsh
Mwynen, in Latin Monyina, daughter of Brynach Wyddel by Corth, one of
the daughters of Brychan; and her sisters Gwennan and Gwenlliu are
probably the Wenna and Wenheder of Leland’s list.
St. Morwenna was therefore apparently the granddaughter of Brychan. Her
father, Brynach Wyddel, is the St. Branock of Braunton near Ilfracombe.
He also founded churches in Carmarthen and Pembroke.
In Cornwall, as in Wales, churches were called after the saints who
founded cells there. Morwenna, we may safely conclude, like so many of
her brothers, sisters, cousins, uncles and aunts, migrated to Cornwall.
St. Nectan, who may have been her brother, and who certainly was a near
relation, established himself, we may conjecture, at St. Neighton’s
Kieve, at which time probably Morwenna had her cell at Marham Church.
St. Nectan afterwards established himself on Hartland Point from which,
in clear weather, and before a storm, the distant coast of his native
Wales was visible; and perhaps at the same time Morwenna erected her
cell on the cliff above the Atlantic, which has since borne her name.
There she died. Leland, in his _Collectanea_, quoting an ancient MS.
book of places where the bodies of saints rest, says that St. Morwenna
lies at Morwenstow: “In villa, quæ Modwenstow dicitur, S. Mudwenna
quiescit.”
It will be seen from this extract that Leland confounded Morwenna with
Modwenna; and Mr. Hawker, following Leland and Butler, did the same. In
the year before he died I had a correspondence with him on this point.
There exists a late life of St. Modwenna by one Concubran, an Irish
writer of the end of the thirteenth and beginning of the fourteenth
century. There is also an Irish life of a Monynna of Newry, in Ireland,
who received the veil from the hands of St. Patrick, and died about A.D.
518.
Concubran had this life, and knowing of the fame of the saintly abbess
Modwenna of Burton-on-Trent, he supposed the two saints were the same,
and wove the Irish legend of Monynna with the English life of Modwenna,
and made out of them a life which is a tissue of anachronisms. He
represents St. Modwenna as contemporary with Pope Cœlestine I.
(423-432), St. Patrick (died 465), St. Ibar (died 500), St. Columba
(died 597), St. Kevin (died 618), and King Alfrid of Northumbria (died
705).
St. Modwenna, or Moninna, founded a convent at Fochard Brighde, near
Faugher, in the county of Louth, about the year 630; and 150 virgins
placed themselves under her rule. But one night, an uproarious wedding
having disturbed the rest and fluttered the hearts of her nuns, and
threatened to turn their heads, Modwenna deemed it prudent to remove the
excitable damsels to some more remote spot, where no weddings took
place, nor convivial songs were heard; and she pitched upon
Killsleve-Cuilin, in the county of Armagh, where she erected a
monastery. One of her maidens was named Athea, another Orbile. She had a
brother, a holy abbot, named Ronan.
In Concubran’s _Life of St. Modwenna_, we are told that about this time
Alfrid, son of the King of England, came to Ireland. This is certainly
Alfrid, the illegitimate son of Oswy, who, on the accession of Egfrid
(A.D. 670), fled to Ireland, and remained there studying, as Bede tells
us, for some while. The Irish king, according to Concubran, was Conall.
But this is a mistake. Conall, nephew of Donald II., reigned from 642 to
658. Seachnach was king in 670, but was killed the following year, and
was succeeded by Finnachta, who reigned till 695. When Alfrid was about
to return to Northumbria, the Irish king wanted to make him a present,
but, having nothing in his treasury, bade a kinsman go and rob some
church or convent, and give the spoils to the Northumbrian prince. The
noble fell on all the lands of the convent of Moninna, and pillaged them
and the church. Then the saint, with great boldness, took ship, crossed
over to England, went to Northumbria, and found the Prince Alfrid at
Whitby (A.D. 685), and demanded redress. The king—for Alfrid was now on
the throne—promised to repay all, and placed Moninna in the famous
double monastery of Whitby founded by St. Hilda in 658. His own sister,
Elfleda, was there; and he committed her to St. Modwenna, to be
instructed by her in the way of life. Elfleda was then aged thirty-one.
Three years after she succeeded to the place of St. Hilda, and was
second Abbess of Whitby. Then St. Modwenna returned to Ireland, and
visited her foundations there. After a while she made a pilgrimage to
Rome, and in passing through England founded a religious house at
Burton-on-Trent, and left in it some of her nuns. I need not follow her
history farther.
Concubran tells some odd stories of St. Modwenna. One day she and her
nuns went to visit St. Bridget—regardless, be it remembered, of the gap
of two centuries which intervened. A girl in the company took an onion
away with her lest she should be hungry on the road. On reaching the
Liffey, the river was found to be too swollen to be crossed. “There is
something wrong,” said Modwenna: “let us examine our consciences and
cast away the accursed thing.”
“The accursed thing is this onion,” said the maiden, producing the bulb.
“Take it back to Bridget,” said Modwenna; and, when the onion had been
restored, the Liffey subsided.
Bridget sent a silver chalice to Modwenna. She threw it into the river,
and the waves washed it to its destination.
One night Modwenna said to her assembled nuns: “My sisters, we must all
cleanse our consciences, for our prayers stick in the roof of the
chapel, and cannot break out.”
Then one of the nuns said: “It is my fault. I complained to a knight of
my acquaintance of the cold I felt; and he told me I was too scantily
clothed. He was moved to such pity of me, that he gave me some warm
lamb’s-wool underclothing, and I have that on now.” The garment was
removed and destroyed; and the prayers got out of the roof and flew to
heaven.[5]
One night, shortly before her death, before the grey dawn broke, a
couple of lay sisters came to her cell. As they approached, they saw two
silver swans rise in the air, and sail away. They immediately concluded
that these were angels come to bear off the soul of the abbess.
Her body was laid at Burton-on-Trent, and was long an object of
pilgrimage. But the fact that for a short while St. Modwenna instructed
the sister of Alfrid, “son of the King of England,” has led some writers
into strange mistakes. Capgrave supposes him to be Alfred the Great, son
of Ethelwolf, and that the sister was Edith of Polesworth, who died in
954. And Dugdale followed Capgrave. Mr. Hawker, following Alban Butler,
who accepted the account of Dugdale and Capgrave, made the blunder
greater by fusing St. Morwenna of Cornwall, who, as has been shown,
lived in the fifth century, with Modwenna, who lived at the end of the
seventh century, and made her the instructress of St. Edith of
Polesworth, who died in the tenth century, in the year 954. And
Modwenna, as has been stated, was confounded by Concubran with Monynna
of Newry, who died at the beginning of the sixth century.
On unravelling this tangle in 1874, I wrote to Mr. Hawker of Morwenstow,
and told him that the east window of his church represented Morwenna of
Cornwall teaching Edith of Polesworth, and that it was an anachronism
and mistake altogether, as it was not Edith who was educated by the
saintly Modwenna, and the abbess Modwenna was not the virgin Morwenna. I
told him also that St. Modwenna was buried at Burton-on-Trent.
I received this answer:—
“What! Morwenna not lie in the holy place at Morwenstow! Of that you
will never persuade me—no, never. I know that she lies there. I have
seen her, and she has told me as much; and at her feet ere long I hope
to lay my old bones.”
In the little glen of Morwenstow, 350 feet above the Atlantic, St.
Morwenna had her cell, and gave origin to the church and parish of
Morwenstow. As she lay a-dying, says a legend according to Hawker, her
brother Nectan came to her from Hartland.
“Raise me in thy arms, brother,” she said, “that my eyes may rest on my
native Wales.” And so she died on Morwenstow cliff, looking out across
the Severn Sea to the faint blue line of the Welsh mountains. St. Nectan
had a cell at Wellcombe, as also at Hartland, for both of these churches
bear his name.
The coast from Tintagel to Hartland is almost unrivalled for grandeur.
The restless Atlantic is ever thundering on this iron-walled coast. The
roar can be heard ten miles inland; flakes of foam are picked up after a
storm at Holsworthy. To me, when staying three miles inland, it has
seemed the roar of a hungry caged beast, ravening at its bars for food.
The swell comes unbroken from Labrador, to hurl itself against this
coast, and to be shivered into foam on its iron cuirass.
“Twice,” said a friend who dwelt near this coast, “twice in the sixteen
years that I have spent here has the sea been calm enough to reflect a
passing sail.”
This Atlantic has none of the tameness of the German Ocean, that plays
on the low flat shores of Essex; none of the witchery of the green
crystal that breaks over the white sands of Babbicombe and Torquay: it
is emphatically “the cruel sea,” fierce, insatiate, hungering for human
lives and stately vessels, that it may cast them up mumbled and mangled
after having robbed them of life and treasure.
It is a rainy coast. It is said in Devon, and the same is true here:—
The west wind comes, and brings us rain;
The east wind blows it back again;
The south wind brings us rainy weather;
The north wind, cold and rain together.
When the sun in red doth set,
The next day surely will be wet;
But, if the sun should set in grey,
The next will be a rainy day.
When buds the ash before the oak,
Then that year there’ll be a soak;
But, should the oak precede the ash,
Why then expect a rainy splash.
The moist air from the ocean condenses over the land, and envelops it in
fine fog or rain. But when the sky is clear, with only floating clouds
drifting along it, the sunlight and shadows that fall over the landscape
through the vaporous air are exquisite in their delicacy of colour; the
sun-gleams soft as primrose, the shadows pure cobalt, tenderly laid on
as the bloom on the cheek of a plum.
As the tall cliffs on this wild coast lose themselves in mist, so does
history, which attaches itself to many a spot along it, stand indistinct
and weird in its veil of legend. Kings and saints of whom little
authentic is known, whose very dates are uncertain, have given their
names to castle and crag and church.
Tintagel Rock is crowned with the ruins of the stronghold of Duke
Gorlois, whose wife became the mother of the renowned Arthur, by Uther
Pendragon. We have the tale in _Geoffry of Monmouth_. There, in the home
of the shrieking sea-mews, Arthur uttered his first feeble cries. It is
a scene well suited to be the cradle of the hero of British myth—a
tremendous crag standing out of the sea, which has bored a tunnel
through it, and races in and clashes in subterranean passages under the
crumbling walls which sheltered Arthur.
The crag is cut off from the mainland by a chasm once spanned by a
drawbridge, but now widened by storm so as to threaten to convert
Tintagel into an island.
Near Boscastle rises Pentargon, “Arthur’s Head,” a noble black sheer
precipice, forming one horn of a little bay into which a waterfall
plunges from a green combe.
But there are other names besides those of Arthur, Uther Pendragon,
Morwenna, Juliot and Nectan, which are associated with this coast.
At Stowe, in the parish of Kilkhampton, adjoining Morwenstow, lived Sir
Bevil Grenville, the Bayard of old Cornwall, “sans peur et sans
reproche,” who fought and conquered at Stratton, and fell at Lansdown.
Sir Bevil nearly ruined himself for the cause of his king, Charles I.
One of Mr. Hawker’s most spirited ballads is—
THE GATE SONG OF STOWE.
Arise! and away! for the king and the law;
Farewell to the couch and the pillow:
With spear in the rest, and with rein in the hand,
Let us rush on the foe like a billow.
Call the hind from the plough, and the herd from the fold;
Bid the wassailer cease from his revel;
And ride for old Stowe when the banner’s unfurled
For the cause of King Charles and Sir Bevil.
Trevanion is up, and Godolphin is nigh,
And Harris of Hayne’s o’er the river;
From Lundy to Looe, “One and all!” is the cry,
And “the king and Sir Bevil for ever!”
Ay! by Tre, Pol and Pen, ye may know Cornishmen
‘Mid the names and the nobles of Devon;
But if truth to the king be a signal, why, then,
Ye can find out the Grenville in heaven.
Ride! ride with red spear! there is death in delay:
’Tis a race for dear life with the devil!
If dark Cromwell prevail, and the king must give way,
This earth is no place for Sir Bevil.
So at Stamford he fought, and at Lansdown he fell:
But vain were the visions he cherished;
For the great Cornish heart that the king loved so well,
In the grave of the Grenville it perished.
One day, if indeed we may trust the story, Mrs. Hawker, the first wife
of the vicar of Morwenstow, when lunching at Stowe in the farmhouse,
noticed that a letter in old handwriting was wrapped round the
mutton-bone that was brought on the table. Moved by curiosity, she took
the paper off, and showed it to Mr. Hawker. On examination it was found
that the letter bore the signature of Sir Bevil Grenville. Mr. Hawker at
once instituted inquiries, and found a large chest full of letters of
different members of the Grenville family in the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries. He at once communicated with Lord Carteret, owner
of Stowe, and the papers were removed; but by some unfortunate accident
they were lost. The only ones saved were a packet extracted from the
chest by Mr. Davies, rector of Kilkhampton, previous to their being sent
away from Stowe. These were copied by Miss Manning of Eastaway, in
Morwenstow; and her transcript, together with some of her originals—I
fear not all—is now in the possession of Ezekiel Rous, Esq., of
Bideford.[6]
In his _Footprints of Former Men_, Mr. Hawker has printed a letter from
Antony Payne, the gigantic serving-man of Sir Bevil, written after the
battle of Lansdown, to Lady Grace Grenville, giving an account of the
death of her husband. This was probably one of the letters in the
collection found by Mr. Hawker, and so sadly lost.
This Antony Payne was a remarkable man. He measured seven feet two
inches without his shoes when aged twenty-one, when he was taken into
the establishment at Stowe. He afterwards added two inches to his
height. It is said that one Christmas Eve the fire languished in the
hall at Stowe. A boy with an ass had been sent to the woods for logs,
but had loitered on his way. Lady Grace lost patience. Then Antony
started in quest of the dilatory lad, and re-entered the hall shortly
after, bearing the loaded animal on his back. He threw down his burden
at the hearth-side, shouting, “Ass and fardel! Ass and fardel for my
lady’s Yule!”
On another occasion he rode into Stratton with Sir Bevil. An uproar
proceeded from the little inn-yard, and Sir Bevil bade his giant find
out what was the cause of the disturbance. Antony speedily returned with
a man under each arm, whom he had arrested in the act of fighting.
“Here are the kittens,” said the giant; and he held them under his arms
whilst his master chastised them with his riding-whip.
After the battle of Stamford Hill, Sir Bevil returned for the night to
Stowe; but his giant remained with some other soldiers to bury the dead.
He had caused trenches to be dug to hold ten bodies side by side, and in
these trenches he and his followers deposited the slain. On one occasion
they had laid nine corpses in their places; and Payne was bringing
another, tucked under his arm like one of the “kittens,” when all at
once the supposed dead man began to kick and plead for life. “Surely you
won’t bury me, Mr. Payne, before I am dead?”—“I tell thee, man,” was the
grim reply, “our trench was dug for ten, and there’s nine in it already:
thou must take thy place.”—“But I bean’t dead, I say; I haven’t done
living yet: be massyful, Mr. Payne; don’t ye hurry a poor fellow into
the earth before his time.”—“I won’t hurry thee: thou canst die at thy
leisure.” Payne’s purpose was, however, kinder than his speech. He
carried the suppliant to his own cottage, and left him to the care of
his wife. The man lived, and his descendants are among the principal
inhabitants of Stratton at this day.
I make no apology for transcribing from the original letters a very few
of the most interesting and touching, some for whose escape we cannot
feel too thankful. The following beautiful letter is from Lady Grace
Grenville to her husband.
The superscription is:—
FOR MY BEST FRIEND, SIR BEVILL GRENVILE.
MY EVER DEAREST,—I have received yours from Salisbury, and am glad
to hear you came so farr well, with poore Jack. Ye shall be sure of
my prairs, which is the best service I can doe you. I canott
perceave whither you had receaved mine by Tom, or no, but I believe
by this time you have mett that and another since by the post. Truly
I have been out of frame ever since you went, not with a cough, but
in another kinde, much indisposd. However, I have striven with it,
and was at Church last Sunday, but not the former. I have been vexed
with diverse demands made of money than I could satisfie, but I
instantly paid what you sent, and have intreated Mr. Rous his
patience a while longer, as you directed. It grieves me to think how
chargeable your family is, considering your occasion. It hath this
many yeares troubled me to think to what passe it must come at last,
if it run on after this course. How many times what hath appeared
hopefull, and yet proved contrary in the conclusion, hath befalen
us, I am loth to urge, because tis farr from my desire to disturbe
your thoughts; but this sore is not to be curd with silence, or
patience either, and while you are loth to discourse or thinke of
that you can take little comfort to see how bad it is, and I was
unwilling to strike on that string which sounds harsh in your eare
(the matter still grows worse, though). I can never putt it out of
my thoughts, and that makes me often times seeme dreaming to you,
when you expect I should sometimes observe more complement with my
frends, or be more active in matters of curiousity in our House,
which doubtlesse you would have been better pleasd with had I been
capable to have performd it, and I believe though I had a naturall
dullnes in me, it would never so much have appeard to my prejudice,
but twas increasd by a continuance of sundry disasters, which I
still mett with, yet never till this yeare, but I had some strength
to encounter them, and truly now I am soe cleane overcome, as tis in
vaine to deny a truth. It seems to me now tis high time to be
sensible that God is displeased, having had many sad remembrances in
our estate and childrene late, yet God spard us in our children
long, and when I strive to follow your advice in moderating my
grieffe (which I praise God) I have thus farr been able to doe as
not to repine at God’s will, though I have a tender sence of griefe
which hangs on me still, and I think it as dangerous and improper to
forgett it, for I cannott but think it was a neer touched
correction, sent from God to check me for my many neglects of my
duty to God. It was the tenth and last plague God smote the
Egyptians with, the death of their first borne, before he utterly
destroyed them, they persisting in their disobedience
notwithstanding all their former punishments. This apprehension
makes me both tremble and humbly beseech Him to withdraw His
punishments from us, and to give us grace to know and amend whatever
is amisse. Now I have powrd out my sad thoughts which in your
absence doth most oppresse me, and tis my weakness hardly to be able
to say thus much unto you, how brimfull soever my heart be, though
oftentimes I heartely wish I could open my heart truly unto you when
tis overchargd. But the least thought it may not be pleasing to you
will at all times restraine me. Consider me rightly, I beseech you,
and excuse, I pray, the liberty I take with my pen in this kinde.
And now at last I must thanke you for wishing me to lay aside all
feare, and depend on the Almighty, who can only helpe us; for His
mercy I daily pray, and your welfare, and our poore boys; so I
conclude, and am ever your faithfully and only
GRACE GRENVILE.
STOW, _Nov. 23, 1641_.
I sent yours to Mr. Prust, but this from him came after mine was
gone last weeke. Ching is gone to Cheddar. I looke for Bawden, but
as yet is not come. Sir Rob. Bassett is dead.
I heard from my cosen Grace Weekes, who writes that Mr. Luttrell
says if you and he could meete the liking between the young people,
he will not stand for money you shall finde. Parson Weekes wishes
you would call with him, and that he might entice you to take the
castle in your way downe. She sayes they enquire in the most
courteous manner that can be imagind. Deare love, thinke how to
farther this what you can.
The following is an earlier letter by many years, written when Grace was
a wife of six years’ standing.
SWEET MR. GRENVILE,—I cannott let Mr. Oliver passe without a line,
though it be only to give you thankes for yours, which I have
receaved. I will in all things observe your directions as neer as I
can, and because I have not time to say much now I will write againe
to-morrow ... [something torn away], and think you shall receave
advertizment concerning us much as you desyre. I cannot say I am
well, neither have I bin so since I saw you, but, however, I will
pray for your health, and good successe in all businesses, and pray
be so kinde as to love her who takes no comfort in anything but you,
and will remayne yours ever and only
GRACE GRENVILE.
FRYDAY NIGHT, _Nov. 13, 1629_.
The superscription of this letter is:—
“To my ever dearest and best Friend, Mr. Bevill Grenvile, at the
Rainbow, in Fleet Street.”
Lady Grace was the daughter of Sir George Smith of Exeter, Kt.: she was
born in 1598, and married Sir Bevil Grenville in 1620. He died in 1643,
on the battlefield of Lansdown, near Bath; and she followed him to the
grave in 1647. Her portrait is at Haynes, “ætatis suæ 36, 1634”. One of
Sir Bevil is in the possession of Lord John Thynne; another with date
1636, “ætatis suæ 40,” is in the possession of Rev. W. W. Martyn of
Tonacombe, in Morwenstow.
There are other letters of the Grenvilles in the bundle from which I
have selected these. One from John Grenville to his brother, giving a
curious picture of London life in the seventeenth century, narrating how
he quarrelled with a certain barber Wells, and came very nigh to pulling
off noses;[7] one from Jane, wife of John Grenville, Earl of Bath, to
her husband “for thy deare selfe,” beginning, “My deare Heart,” and
telling how:—
I am now without any man in the house, my father being gone, and
Jacke is drunk all day and leyes out of nights, and if I do but tell
him of it he will be gone presantly; therefore, for God’s sake, make
haste up, for I am so parpetually ill that I am not fit to bee anny
longgar left in this condission. My poore motther hath now so much
bisnese that I do not knowe how long she will be abble to tary with
mee, and if that should happen, which God forbid it should at any
time, much more now, what dost thou thinke I should do? I want the
things thou prommysed to send me very much, which, being to long to
put in a lettar, I have geven my brother a not of. My deare,
consider how nere I am my time, and many women comming this yeare
before thar time.... Thou mayst now thinke how impassiontly I am
till I see thee agane, thinking every day a hondared yeare; my
affecksion being so gret that I wounder how I have stayd till the
outmoust time. I will saye no more now, hopping to see thee every
day, but that I am, and ever will bee, thy most affectionate and
faithful wife and sarvant,
JANE GRENVILE.
Thy babe bayrs thy blessing.
This letter is dated only June 17, without year. It is always pleasant
to meet with the beating of a warm human heart. A third letter I venture
to transcribe here, from George Lord Lansdown,[8] grandson of Sir Bevil,
to his nephew, Bevil Grenville.
DEAR NEPHEW,—I approve very well of your resolution of dedicating
yourself to the service of God. You could not chuse a better master,
provided you have so sufficiently searched your heart and examined
your reins, as to be persuaded you can serve Him well. In so doing,
you may secure to yourself many blessings in this world, as well as
sure hope in the next.
There is one thing which I perceive you have not yet thoroughly
purged yourself from; which is, flattery. You have bestowed so much
of it upon me in your last letter, that I hope you have no more
left, and that you meant it only to take your leave of such flights,
which, however well meant, oftener put a man out of countenance than
oblige him. You are now to be a searcher after truth, and I shall
hereafter take it more kindly to be justly reproved by you than to
be undeservedly complimented.
I would not have you misunderstand me, as if I recommended to you a
sour Presbyterian severity. That is yet more to be avoided: advice,
like physick, must be so sweetned and prepared as to be made
palatable, or Nature may be apt to revolt against it.
Be always sincere, but at the same time be always polite. Be humble
without descending from your character, and reprove and correct
without ofending good manners. To be a Cynick is as bad as to be a
Sycophant: you are not to lay aside the gentleman with the sword,
nor put on the gown to hide your birth and good breeding, but to
adorn it.
Such has been the malice of the wicked, that pride, avarice, and
ambition have been charged upon the Clergy in all ages, in all
countrys, and equally in all religions. What they are most obliged
to combat against in the pulpits they are most accused of
encouraging in their conduct. Let your example confirm your
doctrine, and let no man ever have it in his power to reproach you
with practising contrary to what you preach.
You had an unckle, the late Dean of Durham,[9] whose memory I shall
ever revere. Make him your example. Sanctity sat so easy, so
unaffected, and so gracefull upon him, that in him we beheld the
very beauty of Holiness. He was as chearful as familiar, as
condescending in his conversation, as he was strict, regular, and
exemplary in his piety; as well-bred and accomplished as a courtier,
and as reverend and venerable as an Apostle; he was indeed
Apostolical in everything, for he left all to follow his Lord and
Master. May you resemble him; may he revive in you; may his spirit
descend upon you, as Elijah’s on Elisha; and may the great God of
heaven, in guiding, directing, and strengthening your pious
resolutions, pour down the choicest of his blessings upon you!
LANSDOWN.
The old house at Stowe was converted into farm buildings, and a new red
brick mansion, square, containing a court in the middle, was built in
1660 by John, Earl of Bath. He died in 1701; and his son, Charles, shot
himself accidentally when going from London to Kilkhampton to his
father’s funeral, leaving a son, William Henry, third Earl of Bath,
seven years of age when his father died. Thus, as was said, at the same
time there were three Earls of Bath above ground. William Henry died at
the age of seventeen, in 1711; and then the Grenville property was
divided between the sisters of Charles, second Earl of Bath—Jane, who
married Sir William Gower, ancestor of the Dukes of Sutherland; and
Grace, who at the age of eight married George, afterwards first Lord
Carteret, then aged eleven.
The letters of this little pair to one another, when the husband was at
school and she at Haynes, exist in the possession of Lord John Thynne.
Stowe House was pulled down. Within the memory of one man, grass grew
and was mown in the meadow where sprang up Stowe House, and grew and was
mown in the meadow where Stowe had been.
A few crumbling walls only mark the site of the old home of the
Grenvilles.[10]
The Cornish people in former days were passionately fond of theatrical
performances. In numerous parts of Cornwall there exist green dells or
depressions in the surface of the ground, situated generally on a moor.
These depressions have been assisted by the hand of man to form rude
theatres: the slopes were terraced for seats, and on fine summer days,
at the “revels” of the locality, were occupied by crowds of spectators,
whilst village actors performed on the turf stage.[11] Originally the
pieces acted were sacred, curious mysteries, of which specimens remain,
relating to the creation, or the legendary history of St. Meriadoc, or
the passion of the Saviour, the prototypes of the Ammergau
Passions-spiel. These in later times gave way to secular pieces, not
always very choice in subject, and with the broadest of jokes in the
speeches of the performers; not worse, perhaps, than are to be found in
Shakspeare, and which were tolerated in the days of Elizabeth. These
dramatical performances were in full vigour when Wesley preached in
Cornwall. He seized on these rude green theatres, and harangued from
their turfy platforms to wondering and agitated crowds, which thronged
the grassy slopes.
The Cornish people became Methodists, and play-going became sinful. The
doom of these dramas was sealed when the place of their performances was
turned into an arena for revivals. The camp-meeting supplanted the
drama.
But, though these plays are things of the past, the dramatic instinct
survives among the Cornish people. There is scarce a parish in which
some are not to be found who are actors by nature. For telling a story,
with power of speech, expression and gesture, they have not their equals
in England among un-professionals.
One of the most brilliant _raconteurs_ of our times was Mr. Hicks, Mayor
of Bodmin.
Some years ago a member sauntering into the Cosmopolitan Club would find
a ring of listeners gathered about a chair. In that ring he would
recognise the faces of Thackeray, Dickens, and other literary
celebrities, wiping away the tears which streamed from their eyes
between each explosion of laughter. He would ask, in surprise, what was
the attraction.
“Only the little fat Cornishman from Bodmin telling a story.”[12]
His tales were works of art, wrought out with admirable skill, every
point sharpened, every detail considered, and the whole told with such
expression and action as could not be surpassed. His “Rabbit and Onions”
has been essayed by many since his voice has been hushed; but the copies
are pale, and the outlines blurred.
The subject of this memoir had inherited the Cornish love of
story-telling, and the power of telling stories with dramatic force. But
he had not the skill of Mr. Hicks in telling a long story, and keeping
his hearers thrilling throughout the recital, breathless lest they
should lose a word. Mr. Hawker contented himself with brief anecdotes,
but those he told to perfection.
I shall, in the course of my narrative, give a specimen or two of
stories told by common Cornish peasants. Alas, that I cannot reproduce
the twinkling eye, the droll working countenances, and the agitated
hands, all assistants in the story-telling!
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