“Dolphin,” over the way, still retains the name, and little but the
name, that was once so widely known. Francis Pengelly, an Exeter
apothecary, its owner at the beginning of the last century, gave it in
charity to trustees for certain benevolent purposes, which were not to
take effect until after the death of Joan, his wife. Once, in 1725, the
“Dolphin” happened to remain unlet for a week, and was kept open by the
trustees. Their accounts show that during this short period there came
carriers from Moreton, Yeovil, Ashburton, Totnes, and Okehampton, with
fifty-six pack-horses amongst them. The regular charge was sixpence per
night for each horse. A century before this, the “Dolphin,” like the
“Mermaid,” was frequented by guests of a higher class. Amongst the
documents preserved in the Record Room of Exeter Guildhall are some
lengthy depositions of witnesses on a charge of murder, supposed to have
been committed by some of these. From their testimony may be gleaned the
following condensed outline of the story. It appears that on a January
night, in the year 1611, there was staying at the “Dolphin” Sir Edward
Seymour, of Berry Pomeroy, the first Devonshire member of the new order
of baronets created by James I. as a means of raising money for his
royal needs without the aid of Parliament. Sir Edward was seated in an
upper chamber, playing at cards with some friends, when the party was
joined by Master William Petre, a member of a distinguished family no
longer connected with Devonshire, and by John and Edward Drewe, then of
Killerton, but whose worthy descendants are now seated at the Grange in
Broadhembury. One of the Drewes wore a white hat and cloak, the other
was clad in black. Edward carried a short sword, and John a rapier.
These three young gallants, already flushed with wine at the “Mermaid”
and at the “Bear,” in South Street, drank “a pot or two of beer” and
some more wine with Sir Edward Seymour at the “Dolphin.” Perhaps they
were in too quarrelsome a mood to be very acceptable company, for after
tarrying there an hour, and indulging in a rude practical joke on the
tapster, they remounted their horses, dropped in at a few more taverns,
and finally rode out of the city through the East Gate. Here Will Petre
spurred on at a reckless pace up the broad highway of St. Sidwell, and
was soon lost in the darkness. The Drewes gave chase, but stopped at St.
Anne’s Chapel, and shouted to their companion by name. Receiving no
answer, they groped their way to a house where a light was burning, but
the woman of the house had seen nothing of Will Petre. They rode on to
his home, at Whipton House, and there found his horse standing,
riderless, at the gate, whereupon a servant of the house came forth and
opened the gate. He (Edward Drewe) then willed him to take of his
master’s horse, and then the servant demanded where his master was.
Drewe, contenting himself with the answer that he thought he would come
by-and-bye, rode on with his brother to their home at Killerton. The
dawn of Sunday morning showed the dead body of Will Petre lying by the
causeway near St. Anne’s Chapel, with a ghastly wound on the head. The
hue and cry was raised, and the two Drewes were taken as they lay in
their beds, and brought before the city justices on the charge of
murdering their friend. Some of the witnesses testified to a quarrel
between Edward Drewe and Will Petre; but, though the papers do not
disclose the issue of the trial, I think it must have ended in the
discharge of the accused.
The “Bear Inn,” where the three roysterers had called for a quart of
wine, was in South Street, at the lower corner of Bear Lane. It probably
took its name from the Bere or Bear Gate, which was so styled in 1286,
when the Cathedral Close was first surrounded by a wall. It was rebuilt
in 1481, and was then the town mansion of the abbots of Tavistock, the
wealthiest, if not the oldest, of the monastic houses of Devonshire. It
is described as “le Bere Inne alias Bere” in the lease; by which John
Peryn, the last abbot, in view of the pending dissolution of his house,
leased it, in the year 1539, to Edward Brygeman and Jane, his wife, for
a term of sixty years. King Henry VIII., on the 30th January, 1546,
granted the freehold of the premises to William Abbot, Esq., by whom, on
the 15th February, 1548, they were sold to Griffin Amerideth and John
Fortescue, who, on the 28th October, 1549, renewed the lease granted by
the abbot to Edward Bridgman. Shortly afterwards the property was held
in moieties, one of which belonged to William Buckenham, Mayor of Exeter
in 1541, and was, in pursuance of his will, together with the other
moiety which he purchased of Edward Ameredith in 1565, conveyed by
Buckenham’s executor, Philip Chichester, on the 6th of March, 1566, to
the mayor, bailiffs, and commonalty of the city of Exeter, for the
benefit of the poor persons lodged in the Twelve (Ten) Cells in Billiter
Lane, now called Preston Street. Prince, in his _Worthies of Devon_,
published in 1701, tells us that the arms of Tavistock Abbey and of
Ordgar, its founder, were “to be seen in painted glass in the great
window of the dining room,” with the figure of a man standing on a
bridge. This was, no doubt, a rebus on the name of Bridgeman, the former
owner. Even so late as the beginning of the present century, when
Jenkins wrote his _History of Exeter_, he could remember that a “great
part of the old buildings, particularly the chapel, was standing a few
years since; they were built with freestone, of excellent Gothic
workmanship, decorated with fretwork panels. Mutilated inscriptions and
different sculptures were seen, and over the cornice, even with the
battlements, was a cabossed statue of a bear, holding a ragged staff
between its paws.” Dr. Shapter is the fortunate possessor of some
admirable sketches of bits of the old building from the pencil of the
late John Gendall. These show the heavy stone arches of the basement,
and a massive stone spiral staircase leading to the floor above,
evidently portions of the structure rebuilt in 1481. When newspapers
began to be published in Exeter, early in the last century, the “Bear”
appeared now and then in their quaint advertisements, and, like the
“Mermaid” and the “Dolphin,” it became a noted house for carriers. One
of these advertisements announced, in July, 1722, that “Since the widow
Wibber has left The Bear, for the Better Accommodation of Merchants,
Tradesmen, &c., who frequent the Serge Market, at The Mitre, in the same
Street, is commodious Entertainment for Man and Horse by Henry
Dashwood.” Simon Phillip advertised that he had taken the “Bear” in
1779, and when he died, in 1796, Mary, his widow, continued the
business. She kept it until it ceased to be an inn, and Robert Russell
re-modelled it for his great waggon establishment. This gentleman,
familiarly known as Robin Russell, offered to assist the Government with
three hundred draught horses at the time of the threatened French
invasion in 1798. He became wealthy, built himself a house, called
Russell House, on the quay at Exmouth, and finally died there in 1822,
at the age of 63.
Our final notice must be given to the inn now known as the “Clarence.”
It was the first in Exeter, if not the first in England, to assume the
French title of hotel, and in its early days was commonly referred to as
“The Hotel in the Churchyard.” It was built about the year 1770 by
William Mackworth Praed, Esq., a partner in the adjacent Exeter Bank,
the oldest banking-house in the city. The first landlord of the hotel
was Peter Berlon, a clever Frenchman, who nevertheless failed in 1774,
and was succeeded by one Connor, from the well-known “Saracen’s Head” in
London. Connor remained less than two years, and the house, which was
still known as “Berlon’s Hotel,” was entered on by Richard Lloyd, who
had kept the old “Swan Inn” in High Street, where Queen Street now joins
it. Lloyd succeeded no better than Berlon, and in October, 1778, he went
to the “New Inn,” whilst his waiter, Thomas Thompson, took his place,
and the house was thenceforward known as “Thompson’s Hotel.” This
landlord fared better than his predecessors, for his reign lasted more
than twenty years. In 1799, the hotel was kept by James Phillips, but in
October, 1813, he was overtaken by the bad fortune of former landlords,
and was succeeded by Samuel Foote, from Plymouth. Foote at once
proceeded to carry out several improvements, including the restoration
of the large assembly-room. For decorating this in the “Egyptian style,”
he engaged the services of an artist named De Maria, whose work on the
ceiling is described in a newspaper of the day as a masterpiece of
“classic taste and elegance.” The new room was opened with a ball in the
following year, and in 1815 a meeting was held there to consider a plan
for lighting Exeter with gas—an invention which this city was the first
place in Devonshire to adopt. Samuel Foote was chiefly known to fame as
the parent of Maria Foote, the celebrated actress, whose brilliant
career on the stage had just commenced at the time when her father
entered on the hotel. She finally quitted the boards in 1831 to become
the wife of Charles, Earl of Harrington. The Countess survived until the
27th of December, 1867. Her only son having died in his father’s
lifetime, the Earldom passed to his uncle.
Samuel Foote was succeeded by Mr. Congdon, who afterwards took the
Subscription Rooms, while Mrs. Street became landlady of the hotel.
Under Foote and Congdon, the house was visited by many guests of high
distinction. In 1799, during Phillips’ time, a great crowd assembled in
front to welcome the arrival of Lord Duncan soon after his great victory
at Camperdown, and his lordship was presented with the freedom of the
city.
The Duke of Kent was there in 1802, and in 1806 Lord Cochrane, with his
friend, Col. Johnson, set out from thence in a coach drawn by six
horses, decorated with purple ribbons, to visit the electors of the
immaculate borough of Honiton. In 1817, Samuel Foote received no less a
guest than the Grand Duke Nicholas, afterwards Emperor of Russia. But
the event which earned for the hotel its present name of the “Clarence”
occurred on the 13th of July, 1827, whilst Mrs. Street was the landlady.
The Duchess of Clarence, afterwards Queen Adelaide, came to Exeter on
her way to join the Duke, who had arrived at Plymouth by sea. Her
carriage was escorted into the city by a procession, and the streets
through which she passed were gaily decorated. Lord Rolle and the
Recorder received the Duchess at the hotel, and the Bishop and cathedral
dons were introduced. On the next morning she went to the Bishop’s
Palace and the Cathedral, and then pursued her journey to Plymouth, by
way of Teignmouth and Torquay. In later years she visited the city as
the Dowager Queen Adelaide, and was again a guest at the “Clarence.”
This sketch of the old inns of Exeter, however imperfect, may at least
suffice to prove their importance in the trade of the city, and their
influence in moulding the habits of the citizens.
[Illustration
_From a Photograph_] [_by Frith & Co._
HIGH STREET, EXETER.
]
THE AFFAIR OF THE CREDITON
BARNS—A.D. 1549.
BY THE REV. CHANCELLOR EDMONDS, B.D.
There are few memorials of county history even in Devonshire at once as
authentic, as interesting and as important, as that of which the title
of this chapter recalls a single incident. And not only is it authentic
and interesting, but the story comes to us at first hand. It is written
by one who was an eye-witness of most of the scenes which he describes,
who bore an honoured name, and held an honourable office in the City of
Exeter in the days of Henry VIII., Edward, Mary, and Elizabeth. He was
uncle of a man yet more celebrated and gifted than himself—the famous
Richard Hooker. His own name was John; his surname is sometimes written
with one “o,” sometimes with two, and sometimes it is written as if he
had another name altogether—Vowell. Uncle and nephew belonged, as Sir
FitzJames Stephen says, to the party of progress in the greatest crisis
which the world had seen for many centuries—a greater crisis, in some
respects, than any which has followed it.
Moreover, he was brought into contact with two men who in importance are
part of the history of their times—Dr. Moreman, the great Cornish
schoolmaster, whose influence was immense amongst the West Country
rebels who fought at Crediton; and Myles Coverdale, afterwards Bishop of
Exeter, who held a service of thanksgiving a little while afterwards
among the bodies of the slain Cornishmen, “as, with stiffening limbs,
they lay with their faces to the stars.”
It is strange that the burning of the barns at Crediton should be a
catchword to recall the struggle that for the moment seemed to involve
the fate of Exeter and even the religion of England. But the barns at
Crediton were like the barns of Hougoumont at the Battle of Waterloo.
The fight was critical, and it had decisive consequences.
The Diocese of Exeter appears to have shared in the indifference which
throughout the country marked public opinion in the matter of the Pope’s
authority. The words of the Act of Henry VIII., “in restraint of
appeals” (to Rome), expresses the mind of most men at that time, “by
divers sundry old authentic histories and chronicles, it is manifestly
declared and expressed that this realm of England is an Empire.” It is
tolerably certain that if the changes brought about in England at the
Reformation had been restricted to the abolition of the authority of
Rome, there would have been no rising such as that which is here
described in opposition to it. But it was otherwise when the changes
extended to the order and nature of the services by which the religious
life of the time was guided. Then the love which is felt for things
familiar came into play. The old order changed, and yielded place to
new. But the break of the new day was not cloudless nor serene.
It is so natural to us to think of ourselves in England as a people of
one language, and that a very noble language, whatever the pure, not to
say pedantic, grammarian may say, that it is hard to think that in this
West Country the English tongue was not universal even as late as the
beginning of the seventeenth century. Devonshire and Cornwall, which
from 1042 to 1877 formed a single diocese, were in some respects for
many centuries like countries foreign to each other. The Book of Common
Prayer in the mother tongue of the English made no appeal, in the
sixteenth century, to the hearts of the common people in Cornwall. This
most interesting matter does not appear to have attracted the notice
which it deserves. If Cranmer and his colleagues could have made these
admirable offices speak to the ears of the Cornish, as they speak to the
ears of the English, Sampford Courtenay might have been left to fight
its own battles, and the Crediton barns would have lacked at the
critical moment their most eager defenders.
Long after 1549, in King James’ time, when the Great Bible, despised by
the Cornish, despised and rejected as an alien thing, had as a
translation lost its hold upon the scholars of England, and its
successor in public esteem, the Geneva Bible, was in turn to yield place
to what we now call the Authorised Version, the celebrated John Norden,
with Royal recommendations in his pocket, was making his journeys and
constructing his _Speculum_, his topographical description of this
kingdom. He never completed it; indeed, it was not printed till long
after his time. But it is a vivid and for the most part trustworthy
survey of the country generally, and the county of Cornwall is minutely
described. Nowhere can a better view be had of the condition of the
Western part of the Diocese in the distribution of language. Here are
his words; the spelling is Norden’s: “Of late the Cornishmen have muche
conformed themselves to the use of the English tongue, and their English
is equal to the beste, especially in the Eastern partes; even from Truro
eastwarde it is in menner wholy Englische. In the West parte of the
Countrye, as in the hundreds of Penwith and Kirrier, the Cornish tongue
is most in use amongste the inhabitantes, and yet (which is to be
marveyled) though the husband and wife, parentes and children, master
and servauntes do mutually communicate in their native language, yet
there is none of them in manner but is able to convers with a straunger
in the English tongue unless it be some obscure people that seldom
confer with the better sorte. But it seemeth that in a few yeares the
Cornish language will be by litle and litle abandoned.” That was how the
case stood in the beginning of the seventeenth century.
It is no wonder that two generations earlier the leaders of the Cornish
rising demanded that they should be allowed to have the services of the
Church as they had been accustomed to have them, for that other new Book
was to them a foreign thing. “We will not receive,” they said, “the new
service, because it is but like a Christmas game.... And we, the
Cornish, whereof certain of us understand no English, utterly refuse the
new English.”
Whitaker, himself a Cornish clergyman, though not a Cornishman, who
published his _History of the Cathedral of Cornwall_ in 1804, and
represents the most intelligent criticism of his time, says, in his
vigorous way, as if the old blood still ran in his veins: “The English
was not desired by the Cornish, but forced upon the Cornish by the
tyranny of England, at a time when the English language was as yet
unknown in Cornwall.” “This act of tyranny,” he continues, “was at once
gross barbarity to the Cornish people, and a death blow to the Cornish
language.” “To use the universal tongue,” says Freeman, “whether
understood or not, was no grievance; to have English forced on them
was.”
Two centuries before the Book of Common Prayer was issued, a Bishop of
Exeter, John de Grandisson, one of the most accomplished and travelled
of the whole series of mediæval prelates, was describing the Cornish end
of his Diocese to the Pope who had “provided” him to his Bishopric. He
speaks of it as if it were a foreign land “adjoining England only along
its eastern boundary, being surrounded on every other side by the sea,
which divides it from Wales and Ireland on the North. On the South, it
looks towards Gascony and Brittany; and the Cornish speak the language
of those lands.” The barrier of language was breaking down fast in 1549,
but these illustrations will show how real a barrier it was.
The Act of Parliament which authorised the use of the Book of Common
Prayer and, indeed, commanded it to be used, took effect on Whitsunday
in 1549. A cold but competent critic, Mr. Goldwin Smith, has remarked of
it that “Cranmer’s singular command of liturgical language enabled him
to invest a new ritual at once with a dignity and beauty which gave it a
strong hold on the heart of the worshipper, and have made it a main stay
of the Anglican Church.” He adds, however, that in the backward parts of
the country masses of people willing enough to part with papal supremacy
and courts ecclesiastic “clung to the ancient faith and still more to
the ancient forms.” Various risings against the new order took place.
Two chief struggles stand out from the rest: one, in the East of
England, with its centre around Norwich, the other, in the West of
England, with its centre round Exeter. It is this last, of course, with
which the present chapter is concerned, and in telling the story of this
fragment of county history, as much use as possible will be made of
Hooker’s own language. It is a strange thing, however it may be
accounted for, that this racy narrative lay for years in manuscript in
the archives of the City of Exeter, and was not printed till 1765. Even
then it was left to private enterprise, and was published by
subscription. The title runs: “The Antique Description and Account of
the City of Exeter, in three parts, All written purely By John Vowell,
alias Hoker, Gent. Chamberlain, and Representative in Parliament of the
Same. Exon, now first printed together by Andrew Brice, in North Gate
Street. M.DCC.LXV.” It is dedicated to the two representatives of the
City in Parliament at the time of its publication, and begs them
“Candidly to pardon the Presumptions, and benignly accept this little
Oblation, of their most respectful and obsequious humble Servant, Andrew
Brice.” In such a modest moment was this precious document given to the
world.
“It is apparent and most certain that this rebellion first was raised at
a place in _Devon_ named Sampford Courtneie, which lieth Westwards from
the City about sixteen miles.” Then Hooker marks the day. It was Monday;
it was in Whitsun-week; it fell that year on the tenth of June. It was
indeed a memorable day. For, as already has been said, the Book of
Common Prayer was ordered to be used on Whitsunday, and was so used in
Exeter as elsewhere, and in Exeter “the day passed off quietly.” Hooker
says the statute was “with all obedience received in every place, and
the common people well enough contented therewith every where, saving in
this West Country, and especially at this said Sampford Courtneie.” “For
upon the said Monday, the Priest being come to the Parish Church of
Sampford, and preparing himself to say the service as he had done the
day before, ... they said he should not do so.... The Priest in the end,
whether it were with his will, or against his will, he relied (_sic_) to
their minds, ... and forthwith ravisheth himself in his old Popish
attire, and sayeth mass, and all such services as in Times past
accustomed.”
Then the movement took shape. Leaders were chosen, or chose themselves.
“William Underhill or Taylor and one Segar, a labourer,” joined
afterwards as “Captains” by Maunder, a shoemaker, and Aishcaredge, a
fish-driver. “Like lips, like lettice,” says Hooker, “as is the cause so
are the rulers.” These leaders were good enough for the Sampford
Courtenay men, but it was otherwise when the prevailing discontent,
slowly gathering strength at first, and directed as much against the
Lord Protector Somerset and “the gentlemen” who suddenly had become rich
at the cost of the poor, as at the alteration in the services of the
Church, brought more powerful persons and larger bodies of men upon the
scene. Then the dimensions of the rebellion revealed themselves.
Devonshire sent knights like Sir Thomas Pomeroie; Cornwall sent squires
like Arundell and Winneslade, doomed to end their lives at Tyburn.
Arundell’s history is illuminative of the times in which he lived and of
the events in which he took part. Ten years before, at the dissolution
of the monasteries, he had obtained the revenues of St. Michael’s Mount.
It was by his advice that the rebels laid siege to Exeter. If he had
marched on, his army would have gathered as it marched. The “ten
thousand” who were at his heels at Exeter would have been fifty thousand
before he reached London; but Exeter held out stubbornly, and Arundell
it was, not Exeter, that surrendered. But this is anticipatory; and it
is necessary to return to Sampford Courtenay on Whitsun Monday.
When the news of the disturbance at Sampford had spread through the
neighbourhood, the local magistrates met together to endeavour to pacify
the people. They temporised and were timid; “they were afraid of their
own shadows,” and “departed without having done anything at all.” So
things went on till the news reached the King and his Council, who
already had enough on their hands elsewhere. Sir Peter Carew and Sir
Gawen Carew, Devonshire men, were sent down with commissions to deal
with the rising as on consideration and conference with the magistrates
might seem best. Lord Russell was to follow. The two knights came with
all haste to Exeter, and sent for the Sheriff, “Sir Peter Courtneie,”
and the Justices of the Peace, “and understanding that a great Company
of the Commons were assembled at Crediton, which is a town distant about
seven miles from Exeter, ... it was concluded that the said Sir Peter
and Sir Gawen, with others, should ride to Crediton, ... and to use all
the good ways and means they might to pacify and appease them.... But
the people being by some secret intelligence advertised of the coming of
the Gentlemen towards them, and they (being) fully resolved not to yield
one jot from their determinations, but to maintain their cause taken in
hand, do arm and make themselves strong, with such armors and furnitures
as they had, they intrench the highways and make a mighty Rampire at the
Town’s End, and fortify the same, as also the Barns next adjoining to
the same Rampires with men and munitions, having pierced the walls of
the Barns with Loops and Holes for their Shot.”
When “the Gentlemen” reached the “Rampire,” they were surprised to find
all conference refused, and Hooker says: “The Sun being in Cancer and
the mid-summer moon at full, their minds were imbrued with such follies,
and their heads carried with such Vanities, that ... they would hear no
man speak but themselves, and thought nothing well said but what came
out of their own mouths. The warlike knights, after conference,
attempted the barrier, but a volley from the Barns repelled them with a
loss of some, and the hurt of many.” But a servant of Sir Hugh Pollard,
whose name was Fox, set one of the barns on fire, and the defenders
fled. When the magistrates entered the town, they found none in it but
old women and children. And so it might seem that the incident was
closed, and the rebellion stamped out and quenched. It was not so. Here
Hooker’s account must be given without alteration or abridgment:—
“The noise of this Fire and Burning was in Post-haste, and as it were in
a moment, carried and blazed abroad throughout the whole Country; and
the common people, upon false Reports, and of a Gnat making an Elephant,
noised and spread it abroad, that the Gentlemen were altogether bent to
over-run, spoil and destroy them. And in their Rage, as it were a Swarm
of Wasps, they cluster themselves in great Troops and Multitudes, some
in one place and some in another, fortifying and entrenching themselves
as though the Enemy were ready to invade and assail them.” Thus “the
barns of Crediton,” in themselves of small importance, became, as in our
days for a moment “Remember Mitchelstown” was, a war cry in a movement
of high and lasting importance.