At the mouth of the Bristol Channel, off the pleasant western English
shore, fighting as it were with the long white waves of the Atlantic,
and with its lighthouse warning the mariner to give it ample range,
stands the lonely little island of Lundy, between Devon on the
south and the coast of Wales on the north; while from the island’s
granite cliffs, looking towards the western horizon, stretches the
open Atlantic. It is a very little place; only three and a half
miles in length by an average of one half mile in width, and of an
extreme altitude of a trifle over five hundred feet. The top is an
undulating table-land; the sides slope down green with ferns, and in
the blossoming-time bright with flowers, to rocks, on the eastern side
of from one hundred and fifty to two hundred feet in height; while
to the west the cliffs, rich with orange, yellow, and gray lichens,
are tumbled in strange confusion, and present a scene of wild and
precipitous grandeur. Of the three thousand acres of which the island
consists, about five hundred are under cultivation, and produce
turnips and cereal crops, besides grass; the remainder is gorse and
heather, which, however, is now also in course of being brought into
cultivation. Of farm-produce Lundy also rears poultry, sheep, and
cattle.
In 1877, the population consisted of between forty and fifty
individuals, consisting of the proprietor and his family and household,
a farmer and a dozen farm-labourers, three lighthouse-men, and two
signal-station-men; besides which the islet boasts of a doctor and a
clergyman—though not of a church. The owner Mr W. H. Hearen purchased
the property in 1834, and has since, for the most part, resided on his
sea-girt rock.
Solitary and little known as Lundy now is, it was once a place of
considerable importance. Of its earliest history indeed nothing
is ascertained; even its name cannot be exactly traced, and the
suggestion that would derive it from the Norse has not met with
entire acceptance. Some years since a discovery was made on the island
which would have been of more than local interest had the occurrence
been duly reported to any of the scientific societies, and thoroughly
investigated. Some workmen in digging a foundation for a wall, exhumed
two skeletons, which excited wonder from the unusual size of the bones,
and from the curious manner of their interment. The larger skeleton,
after careful (but unscientific) measurement, was found to be eight
feet three inches in height; while the other, though smaller, was
yet of no ordinary stature. It has been thought that probably some
mistake has been made through want of skill in the measurements;
these interesting relics were inclosed in stone slabs, according to a
primitive fashion.
The time when Lundy comes clearly in view is of much later date. The
noble House of Montmorency (or De Marisco, as the English branch of
the family was called) was in earliest recorded possession of the
island. The De Mariscos seem to have been a restless turbulent set, a
weariness and a grief to their liege lords, two of whom, namely Henry
II. and John, respectively made and confirmed a grant of the island as
forfeited to the crown (for the misdemeanours of the De Mariscos of
their days) to the Knights Templar. The Knights, however, never had
it actually in their hands—the De Mariscos proving too wily or too
strong for ejectment. Be this as it may, it is recorded that a Sir
William de Marisco, of sad piratical proclivities and practice, after
a fruitless attempt to murder his sovereign Henry III., retired to his
stronghold of Lundy, and there flourished until he was captured by the
king’s forces, and summarily put to death. The ruins of his castle at
Lundy still bear his name, and perched on the cliff top, commanding
a wide sea and coast view, and overlooking the roadstead and single
good landing-place of the island, shew what a post of vantage he must
have held. Cottages nestle now for shelter from the wild winter winds,
within the thick walls of the old keep; and the little gray beach
below, shut in by towering precipice and pinnacled rock, tells no tale
of former times.
When the troublous days of difference between Charles I. and his
parliament darkened the land, Lundy held out stoutly for the king;
and when at length, in the fainting of the king’s fortunes, Thomas
Bushell the governor writes for permission to surrender it quietly, he
concludes his letter with words worthy of remembrance, however obscure
the scene and the actor: ‘But if otherwise your Majesty shall require
my longer stay here, be confident, Sir, I shall sacrifice both life and
fortune before the loyalty of your obedient servant, THOMAS BUSHELL.’
Charles replied from Newcastle, the shadow of his fate already upon
him: ‘BUSHELL—We have perused your letter, in which we finde thy care
to answer thy trust we first reposed in thee. Now, since the place is
inconsiderable in itself ... we do hereby give you leave to use your
discretion in it, with this caution, that you do take example from
ourselves, and be not over-credulous of vain promises, which hath made
us great only in our sufferings, and will not discharge our debts.’
In subsequent times the island seems to have relapsed into its old wild
piratical courses. Complaints many and bitter are made against it. As
before it had been a refuge for outcasts, so now it became a harbour
for privateers, ‘who put terror into all vessels;’ ‘much shooting’
being heard there also on occasion. For a time it falls into the hands
of the French, and is generally a terrible thorn in the sides of the
prosperous west country. The next name, however, which has left any
local memorial is that of Thomas Benson, a gentleman of North Devon,
who renting the island from Lord Gower, made free use of it for his
smuggling ventures. A large cave under the castle, where he is said
to have stored his contraband goods, is still called ‘Benson’s Cave,’
and must have afforded ample room for many a ‘run cargo.’ To Lundy too
he exported such convicts as he was under contract with government
to convey to America, and employed them in building walls, saying
it ‘was all as well as elsewhere, seeing it was out of England.’
Finally, however, he ceased to enjoy the prosperity of the wicked, and
being discovered in a nefarious scheme to rob the insurance offices,
he fled to Portugal, where he died. Since then, excepting for some
free fighting between Welsh and Irish, the island has had little to
recall its stormier days, and appears to have faded out of the public
memory—so completely, that the ‘taxed British hoof,’ to use Emerson’s
bland expression, leaves no impress on its soil, and the civilised
miseries of rates are unknown; though whether the omission is due
to a lingering remnant of its old sovereignty, or to its present
insignificance, we know not.
In its geological aspect, Lundy seems to be allied to Devonshire,
consisting chiefly of granite and slate. Both granite and slate are
alike intersected by numerous dikes, varying from one to thirty feet
in width, running from east to west, and described as ‘belonging to a
grand system of intrusive greenstone.’
Some years ago the granite was worked by a Company, who brought
stone-cutters from Scotland, and opened quarries at considerable
expense; but the affair is said to have been ill-managed, and the works
were closed at a loss. Copper has been found at the junction of the
slate and granite at the south end; but the island has been so shaken
here and in various other parts by some terrible convulsion of nature,
that it is considered improbable that any lode could be profitably
followed up. The effects of this convulsion are peculiarly manifested
on the western side, between the ‘Quarter’ and ‘Halfway’ walls. Many
rents are visible in the solid rock. One large cleft, fern-fringed and
flower-bedecked, stands up like a perpendicular wall of some fifty
feet on the upper side; the lower, broken and split, has slipped away
from it in tumbled rock and treacherous crevice. Below this again is
a second, deeper opening. At one end is a narrow entrance, leading by
a steep scrambling descent into the yawning chasm. A few green things
grow in the chinks and cracks, and sparse tufts of long grass mark the
footway. The walls, a little apart, and sloping slightly outwards,
are clean cut as by some giant’s sword. The air is chill out of the
sunshine, and the strip of sky overhead looks blue and clear between
its two dark boundaries. Among the natural curiosities of the island is
a mass of granite resembling a human head, with lineaments so perfect,
that it is difficult to believe that Art has not supplemented Nature
in its formation. The grave face looking seawards, like a watching
knight (The Knight Templar as it is called), has probably been the work
of many centuries of subtle influences, disintegration by wind and
weather—as in the case of the ‘Old Man of Hoy,’ which looks out on the
Pentland Firth—being the chief. The soil of the island is principally
of a black peaty nature, with in parts a substratum of clay. And
that the land has been anciently extensively cultivated is shewn by
traces of the plough where now there is only wild pasturage. Ruins of
round towers (for what purposes designed is unknown), and of humble
dwelling-places, are also visible.
The flora of Lundy is extremely interesting, but has never been
exhaustively treated. Masses of broom and gorse (_Ulex Europeus_) glow
like living lights on the ‘sidelands’ in the spring-time; or in early
autumn, the latter’s dwarf relative (_Ulex nanus_) weaves, with heath
and heather, carpets gorgeous beyond those of Eastern looms. Thrift
(_Armeria vulgaris_) lies in breadths of pinky bloom, and blue-bells
climb like a tender mist along the valleys and slopes. Regal foxgloves
tower not only over their own kindred, but above the usual stature
of man; and the _Osmunda regalis_, crowned among ferns, waves its
lovely fronds in the pure sea-breeze. Thickets of honeysuckle make the
sunshine a fragrance; and the beautiful bladder campion hangs like
snow-wreaths from the rocks.
With vegetation so luxuriant in for the most part a mild equable
temperature, the insect world is, as would be supposed, a numerous one.
The beetle tribe alone, however, has been fully examined. Mr Wollaston,
who visited the island many years ago (and is still remembered there as
‘the beetle-catcher’), remarks on the richness of this order of insects
and the rarity of the specimens he found there. He also mentions
the curious fact, which, however, has been since modified, that the
coleopterous fauna of Lundy is quite dissimilar to that of Devonshire,
its nearest neighbour, resembling much in character that of Wales. Mr
J. B. Chanter of Barnstaple (to whose comprehensive monograph on Lundy
we have been indebted for this paper) furnishes some notes regarding
certain rare insects found on the island.
The ornithological fauna of Lundy is said to be very remarkable.
Amongst the rarer feathered visitants may be mentioned the
rose-coloured pastor, the buff-breasted sandpiper, the golden oriole,
Bohemian waxwing, hoopoe, &c. Feathered songsters too abound; and when
‘the time of the singing of the birds is come,’ the air is stirred with
their thousand lyrics. But the chief feathered inhabitants of the
island are the sea-birds, the variety of which, as at St Kilda, would
well repay a visit of the ornithologist.
BY-LAW No. 7.
I have only two companions—the one a good-natured-looking, middle-aged
gentleman with a mild benevolent expression, strangely at variance
with the nervous restlessness of his eyes; the other a grim taciturn
man, who has been absorbed in his paper ever since the train left
Edinburgh _en route_ for the South. They had got in together, and were
evidently travelling companions. Rather a queerly assorted couple; for
from their dress and general appearance there could be no doubt but
that their stations in life were widely apart. What could they be?
Master and servant? Evidently not; for the humbler of the two seemed
to have control of all their travelling arrangements. A detective and
his prisoner? I think not; for the one looks too much at ease to have a
troubled conscience; and the other, though evidently in command, treats
his companion with more deference than is compatible with the conscious
power of a captor.
My speculations on this point have filled up a gap in the journey.
Having read all the war telegrams in the morning paper, which I know
I will find contradicted in the evening editions when I reach London;
and having watched the telegraph wires gliding up and down beside
the carriage-window, anon disappearing suddenly into space, only to
reappear as suddenly to continue their monotonous up-and-down motion,
I am beginning to weary of this, and if neither of my companions
volunteers a remark, I must do something to force a conversation.
We are past Dunbar by this time, and are fast approaching Berwick. I
have been vainly trying to catch the restless eyes of my apparently
more companionable companion. He is now closing them, and evidently
settling down for a quiet nap. My more taciturn friend has never taken
his attention off his paper; he must either be a very slow reader, or
having exhausted the news, he must have fallen on the advertisements.
I offer him my paper. He takes it with a bow, giving me his own in
exchange—_The Banffshire Gazette_. No news to be got out of that after
having exhausted _The Scotsman_. I am soon reduced to the births,
marriages, and deaths. Much interested to know that the wife of Hugh
Macdonald stone-mason has presented him with a son; also to hear that
Mrs M‘Queen is dead; and the nursery rhyme I sometimes hear my wife
repeating to our boys occurs to me, and I mentally inquire, ‘How did
she die?’ The announcement does not, however, enlighten me on that
point; though it is easy to guess, seeing that it contains the further
information that she departed this life at one hundred and one years
of age, and is deeply regretted. The latter assertion I fear is only a
conventional fib, for I find in a paragraph announcing her death as a
local centenarian, that she had great possessions, which have fallen to
her nearest surviving relative, a great-grand-nephew.
My friend opposite is fairly off to sleep. Quite clear that he has
nothing on his conscience. The other is as deep in _The Scotsman_ as he
was erewhile in his own paper. I can’t stand this any longer. Talk I
must. _The Banffshire Gazette_ is published in the county town bearing
the same name; so I see my way to an opening.
‘You come from Banff, I presume? You must have been travelling all
night? No wonder our friend here is worn out.’
‘We have come from Banff,’ replies my friend, with no trace of the
churl in his voice or manner that his appearance would lead me to
expect. ‘We have come from Banff; but we have not travelled all
night. Our governor makes it a point never to over-fatigue any of
his patients. It’s part of his system; so we broke our journey at
Edinburgh.’
His patients! I would as soon have suspected my opposite neighbour of
being a criminal as an invalid.
‘Indeed,’ I say. ‘Might I inquire what is his complaint?’
My taciturn friend touches his head in a mysterious way, and I am just
in time to stop a low whistle indicative of surprise, and to turn it
into another ‘Indeed.’
‘What particular form does his—ahem—complaint take?’