THE DEVON AND DORSET BORDERLAND
"How far is it to Babylon?"
Ah, far enough, my dear,
Far, far enough from here--
Yet you have farther gone!
"Can I get there by candlelight?"
So goes the old refrain.
I do not know--perchance you might--
But only, children, hear it right,
Ah, never to return again!
The eternal dawn, beyond a doubt,
Shall break on hill and plain,
And put all stars and candles out,
Ere we be young again.
"R. L. S."
The irregular and old-fashioned little town of Lyme Regis--"so crooked's
a ram's horn," as the native would say--is situated in a most romantic
position at the foot of the hills, being built in the hollow and on the
slopes of a deep combe, through which flows the small stream of the
_Lym_ to the sea. It is seated on a grand coast, which rises to the east
in the blackest precipices and west in broken crags thickly mantled with
wood. As a port it is most ancient, having furnished ships to Edward
III. during his siege of Calais.
Lyme, in its day, has seen a good many stirring events. In the reigns
of Henry IV. and V. it was twice plundered and burned by the French; and
in that of Richard II. nearly swept from the earth by a violent gale.
During the Rebellion it successfully withstood a siege which was one of
the most important of the time. In 1644 Prince Maurice invested it,
established his headquarters at Old Colway and Hay House, and his troops
along the neighbouring hill. Day after day the assault continued, more
than once by storming parties; but the gallant governor, Colonel Ceeley,
assisted by Blake, afterwards so famous as an admiral, most courageously
repulsed every attack, and after a siege of nearly seven weeks was
relieved by the approach of the Earl of Essex. In 1685 the town was
again enlivened by the bustle of arms, when, in the month of June, the
Duke of Monmouth here landed, with about eighty companions, after
running the gauntlet through a storm and a fleet of English cruisers in
his passage from Amsterdam. As he reached the sandy shore he fell upon
his knees and uttered a thanksgiving for his preservation. He remained
here four days, at the George Inn, when, having collected about two
thousand horse and foot, he set forward on his disastrous expedition.
There can be no doubt that Lyme Regis has failed to prove itself
anything like a popular watering-place; yet it has very good bathing,
with neither currents nor hollows, and has the most picturesque front in
Dorset. The fine scenery should tempt the holiday-maker to suffer the
somewhat enclosed situation, which makes the place very close during the
hot summer days. It is in winter that Lyme should be popular, for then
it can boast a remarkably genial climate.
The quaint old stone pier, called the Cobb, is the real lion of Lyme,
and is the source of much satisfaction to the stout hearts of the town.
The Cobb, "the oldest arnshuntest bit o' stone-work in the land, a
thousand years old--and good for another thousand, I tellee," as
described to the present writer by a rustic, was probably first
constructed in the reign of Edward I. It has been frequently washed
away, and restored at a great price, and was finally renewed and
strengthened in 1825-1826. It is a semicircular structure, of great
strength, the thick outer wall rising high above the roadway, so as to
protect it from the wind and sea.
At Lyme an inn received me: a room full of fishermen and agricultural
workers, a smell of supper preparing, and much drinking of cider. It was
the New Inn, and I was told that this room was only the tap-room and not
usually used by visitors. I found that one wing of the old building had
been specially fitted for travellers, and I will gladly name it to all
my readers who are satisfied with an old-fashioned comfort, a good bed
and good fare.
After supper I bought a packet of sailor's shag, and went out smoking
into the chief street. A few steps took me to the Cobb, and I leaned
over the low wall and contemplated the glorious green sea, tumbling and
gurgling below me. I always think that the union of mighty stone slabs
and the sea is most satisfying to look upon--there is something
endlessly good and noble about such a thing. I think a building of hewn
stone when it dips into the water should act as a sedative to the mind,
should teach one to become calm, slow and strong; to deal generously in
rectitudes and essentials.
It was late in August, and the mellow chimes of the parish church had
just boomed eight o'clock. The great orange moon hung over the bay, and
the night came creeping over the rich yellow sand which crowns the
Golden Cap. Then the cliffs merged into a fainter confusion. Bats came
out and flitted about the old houses by the Buddle river, and the night
became the natural haunt of restless spirits. A candle flickering behind
a leaded casement brought back suddenly the memory of a home long passed
away and whatever blessings belong to my childhood. And all of a sudden
that inexplicable heart-hunger for the place of my birth gripped me, and
Youth (whatever Youth may be), with its sights, its undefinable,
insistent spell, came back to me in one flash--Youth came to me from the
old houses on the sea-wall, borne with the misty saltness of the sea
air. Go away; travel the length and breadth of the land, visit a hundred
cities, encounter a hundred new experiences, and form a hundred
conflicting impressions of stranger scenes and places; go where you
will, and do what you will; one day you will have seen and done enough,
and you will find your thoughts turned again to the haunts of Youth.
At the sight of those ruffianly looking old dwellings by the riverside
my memory was carried back to another small seaport town where, long
enough ago, I played at smuggling. Are we not all haunted by certain
landscapes which come back unbidden, not as topographical facts, but as
vestures of the soul? Their enchantment is in our blood, and their
meaning uncommunicable.
Here, where one can smell the smell of venerable wooden fishing boats
and tar, there is a suggestion of the good old smuggling days. There is
a hint of rum, brass-bound sea-chests, trap-doors and deep mouldy
cellars about the Buddle River houses, and the people who inhabit them
are of very settled habits, and the inconveniences to which they have
been accustomed seem to them preferable to conveniences with which they
are unfamiliar. To this day, therefore, they empty slops out of the
windows, burn candles, wind up their pot-bellied watches with large
keys, and attain ripe old age. This curious quarter of Lyme Regis was
once a smugglers' retreat and a favourite spot for their operations. A
stranger visiting the banks of the Buddle could not fail to be struck
with the curiously formed streets, alleys, and passages thereabouts, and
if he secured the good offices of a native to pilot him through the
mazes he would be still further astonished at their intricacy. The
houses are connected in the most mysterious manner, whether from design
or accident, or whether to meet the exigencies of the smuggling trade,
and for the more readily disposing of the kegs of spirits, and bales of
other excisable goods, it is impossible to say. The most reasonable
conclusion to arrive at is that the latter was the case.
The curious name of Cobb has given rise to much discussion. Murray's
_Handbook to Dorset_ (1859) puts forward the theory that it is of
British origin, and calls attention to a barrow-crowned knoll above
Warminster called _Cop_head, and a long embankment on the race-course at
Chester, which protects it from the River Dee, which has been known
from time immemorial as the _Cop_. The length of the Cobb is 870 feet,
and height above the sea-level 16 feet. It combines in one stone
causeway the duties of breakwater, double promenade and quay. The
projecting stone steps, which form one of the oldest parts of the wall,
are known as Granny's Teeth, and are described by Jane Austen in
_Persuasion_. The beach to the west of the Cobb is known as Monmouth's
Beach. The Duke landed about a hundred yards west of the wall. A local
tradition states that when the late Lord Tennyson visited the town one
of his friends was anxious to point out the spot where Monmouth landed,
but the great man impatiently exclaimed: "Don't talk to me of Monmouth,
but show me the place where Louisa Musgrove fell!"
The bridge arch in Bridge Street is considered to be of an age second
only to that of the Parish Church, and is well worthy of inspection. The
Buddle Bridge consists of one arch of large span, thought to have been
built in the fourteenth century, when the bed of the _Lym_, or _Buddle_,
was excavated to an extra depth of eight feet. An ancient Pointed arch
with dog-tooth moulding has recently been unearthed in the basement of a
house abutting on the bridge. The arch is below the level of the
roadway, and it no doubt formed part of a bridge of several arches built
in the twelfth century. It rises from about two feet below the
ground-floor cellar of this house. The arch has been seen by the Rev. C.
W. Dicker, of the Dorset Field Club, who sent to the editor of _The Lyme
Regis Mirror_ the following letter:--
DEAR SIR,--I have just received a copy of last week's _Mirror_,
containing an account of the very interesting archway under Bridge
Street, which I was kindly invited to inspect. As far as I can
judge from the result of my one opportunity of examining it, the
evidence points to the assumption that Bridge Street formerly
crossed the Buddle upon a bridge of several arches, constructed in
the twelfth century, and that the archway in question was probably
the third from west to east. The street at this point is (or was)
obviously supported upon a masonry substructure, upon which the
houses abut. The masonry of the newly found arch is typical of the
middle of the twelfth century, at which time the manor was chiefly
in the hands of Roger of Caen, Bishop of Sarum and Abbot of
Sherborne, a great builder, much of whose work is still to be found
in Dorset. The archway clearly was built to support the roadway;
and as its alignment is exactly that of the larger archway
(apparently of the fourteenth century), under which the river now
runs, there seems little room for doubt as to its origin. Yours
faithfully,
C. W. H. DICKER,
_Vice-President and Hon. Editor
Dorset Field Club_.
PYDELTRENTHIDE VICARAGE,
DORCHESTER.
The Town Hall, at the farther end of Bridge Street, was rebuilt on the
site of the old Guildhall. The iron-cased door, that once led to the
men's "lock-up," and the grating of the women's prison, have been fixed
against the north front wall. This wall is pierced by two arches, with a
doorway to the Old Market, over the gateway of which is a carved
projecting window. Here are the ancient parish stocks, removed from the
church. At the farther end, facing Church Street, a wide gable stands
out, lighted by an old but plainer window. In the lower part is the
passage through to the Gun Cliff, with a flight of steps in the wall,
leading down to the beach. From Church Street there is an easy approach
to the Drill Hall, which was opened in 1894. On the opposite side of the
street, and directly facing Long Entry, there is "Tudor House," a large
old house possessing much fine oak panelling and carving. The interest
of Tudor House is twofold, for it is associated with the "Father of
English Literature," Henry Fielding, author of _Tom Jones_. Here lived
Sarah Andrew, a rich heiress, when Fielding became wildly enamoured of
her. This love affair was opposed by Andrew Tucker, who was Sarah's
guardian, but Fielding persisted in his suit with such energy that
Tucker had to appeal to the Mayor of Lyme to be protected from the
violence of Fielding and his men. This is recorded in the town journals.
Fielding lost the rich heiress, but immortalised her memory in the
supremely beautiful character of Sophia, in _Tom Jones_.
The Parish Church, dedicated to St Michael, contains some interesting
relics. A prominent feature is the carved Jacobean pulpit and
sounding-board, bearing in capitals the inscription: "TO GOD'S GLORY
RICHARD HARVEY MERCER AND MERCHANT ADVENTURER THIS ANNO, 1613." It was
removed from a column near the south door and entrance to the vestry
during the renovation of the church by Dr Hodges, in 1833.
The building dates from the fifteenth century, though it is clear from
town records that a church stood near or on the spot in 1298, and there
are remains of a Norman arch and pillar in the west porch. Note the two
parish chests, one of Jacobean workmanship. The following interesting
inscriptions are from six of the bells which were set up in 1770:--
1. "O Fair Britannia Hail." T.B. f., 1770.
2. "Harmony in sound and sentiment." T.B. 1770.
3. "O be joyful in the Lord all ye lands." T.B. f., 1770.
4. Re-cast in 1843. Thomas Mears, founder, London. Fredk. Parry
Hodges, vicar. Robert Hillman, Mayor. John Church and George
Roberts, churchwardens.
5. "O sea spare me." This peal of bells was erected partly by rate
and part by subscription in the year 1770.
6. "_Pro Religione, pro Patria, pro Libertate._" 1770. Mr Tuff and
Mr Tucker, C. W. Thomas Bilbie, _Fecit_.
The curfew is still rung at eight o'clock at Lyme Regis.
Fuller details of the history of the church and town will be found in a
very comprehensive little _History of Lyme Regis_, by Cameron, which is
published by Mr Dunster at "The Library" in Broad Street.
Broad Street, leading downwards from the station to the sea, is the main
thoroughfare, and the principal business part of the town. Half-way up
the street on the eastern side is a small passage leading to an ancient
forge. It is scarcely to be noticed unless one is expressly seeking for
it, but once up the narrow court there it is, with its open doorway all
red inside like a wizard's cave, with the hammers ringing on the anvil,
and the sparks showering out of the big flue. Here Vulcan has toiled,
moiled and, let us hope, aled for five hundred years without a break,
and here, in spite of cheap machinery, Mr Govier, the master smith of
Lyme Regis, still seems to enjoy a regular and ready custom. The forge
has been in Mr Govier's family for three hundred years, and it has a
great weather-beaten wooden-and-tile roof, which is all but on the verge
of collapse. A long sweep of old oak wood controls the bellows, and as
you look in you will see the hand of Govier himself is on the bellows
handle. He draws it down and lets it up again with the peculiar rhythmic
motion of long experience, heaping up his fire with a cunning little
iron rake, singing a most doleful song to himself all about "shooting
his true love at the setting of the sun." But you must not think the
master smith is a gloomy man, for this song (and other still more
pathetic ones) is just a tune of acquiescence to his labours--a song in
sympathy with the roar of the bellows and the ascending sparks of his
fire.
[Illustration: THE MASTER SMITH OF LYME REGIS]
"Come in, come in," he said, when I told him I had come to pay my
respects to him.
He turned from his forge, set his hands on his hips and looked at me a
moment. Then I realised why McNeill Whistler spent so much of his time
in this forge making sketches of the smith. He looked like Vulcan's very
brother, his face sunburnt and forge-burnt to wheat-colour, his eyes
blue as cornflowers, and his hair black and crisp, and everywhere about
him the atmosphere of the blacksmith. There are all kinds of interesting
things in the old forge, from Roman horseshoes to plates for
race-horses, and a pair of old beam-scales dated 1560. These scales have
been hanging up as far back as Govier and his father before him could
remember. Besides having the knowledge of a craftsman, Govier is a
singer of old songs.
"That song you were singing when I came in?" I asked. "I know it as well
as anyone, but somehow it has escaped me."
"Ah!" said the master smith. "Well, well! It is years ago now that I
first heard it, when the ships came inside our walls with coal and took
away stone. We rarely see a ship in our walls now, but when I was a boy
my father and I frequently went down to the quay to repair ironwork
aboard the old sailing boats. Those old Devon sailors were the fellows
for songs. Upon my soul, I believe sailors no longer sing as they once
did. I find a great difference between the old-fashioned chanty man and
the modern seaman who never sings at his work. The man who sings loudly
and clearly is in good health, prompt, and swift to the point, and his
heart is as big as parson's barn. The silent sullen fellow may have
these qualities--he may have 'em, I say; but then the chap who sings is
the happier man."
"But there are some miserable fellows who reckon to be very happy," I
said.
At this Govier gave a shrug of his ox-like shoulders, and waved away all
such sorry triflers.
"There are such people," said he; "but they are not entertaining.
However, you want to get the hang of that song, and though I cannot
remember the exact words I have the rhythm of it in my head right
enough, and I think it runs like this:
"'Come all you young fellows that carry a gun,
Beware of late shooting when daylight is done;
For 'tis little you reckon what hazards you run,
I shot my true love at the setting of the sun.
In a shower of rain, as my darling did hie
All under the bushes to keep herself dry,
With her head in her apron, I thought her a swan,
And I shot my true love at the setting of the sun.
In the night the fair maid as a white swan appears:
She says, O my true love, quick, dry up your tears,
I freely forgive you, I have Paradise won;
I was shot by my true love at the setting of the sun.'
"You should have heard that song as I heard it on board an old-time
schooner, when the ship's company all banged and roared heartily, and
shouted in enormous voices. When they came to 'I was shot by my true
love' the company would all join together in a great moan, and wag their
heads in a most melancholy way. But there are no songs like that now.
All this complicated machinery in ships has darkened men's minds and
shut out the old songs."
A good many very interesting places may be cleared up by just
trespassing a few miles into Devon when we leave Lyme Regis, and taking
the main road to Axminster, a parish and market town on the River Axe.
St Mary's Church is of ancient origin, and contains some objects of
antiquarian interest. The other churches are modern. South of the town
are the ruins of Newenham Abbey; its history is interesting. Seven miles
north, Ford Abbey affords another attraction. Membury Castle (one mile
south) and Weycroft are ancient Roman or British fortifications. It is
believed that the battle of Brunanburgh, A.D. 937, was fought near here.
The George Inn at Axminster, standing in a plot formed by George Street,
Victoria Place and Lyme Street, is a noble old place with a spacious
courtyard. The barn above the archway at the back of the inn is very
picturesque, with mouldering red and purplish tiles and hand-wrought
iron cleats. Three miles south of Axminster we come to Musbury--it was
to see a thatcher at this village that I was tempted to make a short
expedition into Devon. The ancient Church of St Michael has been largely
rebuilt. It contains many interesting old monuments, chiefly to members
of the family of the Drakes, of Ashe. Musbury Castle is a British or
Roman camp. Ashe House, the former seat of the Drake family, is now a
farm-house. The New Inn is an odd little place, with a grey and shining
stone floor, and windows set deep in thick walls.
[Illustration: DRAKE MEMORIAL AT MUSBURY]
Colyton is five miles south-west of Axminster in the picturesque valley
of the River Coly, and three miles from the sea. The Parish Church of St
Andrew contains much of great interest. The porch of the old vicarage
house should be seen, with the inscription PEDITATIO TOTUM; MEDITATIO
TOTUM, A.D. 1524, over the window. There is an ancient market-house
here. The "Great House" is another old and interesting building. It was
once the home of the Yonge family, and was built in the seventeenth
century by John Yonge, a merchant adventurer who settled at Colyton, but
it has been partly rebuilt, although the portion of the house which
remains suggests something of the old building and contains some
interesting carving. The Duke of Monmouth stayed here in 1680. There are
interesting effigies of the Pole family in their chapel in the Church of
St Andrew, which is fenced off with a stone screen erected by the vicar
of Colyton, 1524-1544. The vicar was also Canon of Exeter, and his rebus
figures prominently on the screen. The great tomb of Sir John Pole,
buried in 1658, and Elizabeth his wife displays elaborate effigies,
while the altar-tomb is that of William Pole, buried in 1587. Near by is
a mural monument to his wife, Katherine, and another to Mary, wife of
Sir William, the historian, and daughter of Sir W. Periham of Fulford.
Both these ladies have their children kneeling round them. The author of
the well-known _Description of Devon_ is buried in the aisle, but there
is no monument. When I was staying with the headmaster of Colyton
Grammar School (an ancient building bearing the date 1612) some twenty
years ago there were representatives of the knightly family of Poles
among his pupils.
In the north aisle is the mausoleum of the Yonge family. Another
interesting monument is an elaborate altar-tomb in the chancel with a
recumbent female figure popularly known as "Little Choke-Bone,"
referring to Margaret Courtenay, daughter of William Earl of Devon, and
Katherine, his wife, sixth daughter of Edward IV. She is said to have
been choked by a fish-bone at Colcombe Castle in 1512.
The Courtenays, Earls of Devon, once held all the land in this
neighbourhood, and their seat was at Colcombe Castle, hard by, for three
hundred years, but Henry VIII. quarrelled with Henry Courtenay, Marquess
of Exeter, and deprived him of his estates in 1538. It is a curious fact
that the parish charities of Colyton are still mostly derived from these
forfeited estates.
The ruins of Colcombe Castle lie about half-a-mile from the town, and
are now used as a farm-house. Near here grows _Lobelia úrens_, the
"flower of the Axe," a rare British flower, in appearance very like the
garden lobelia. Kilmington is said to bear, in the first syllable of its
name, the trace of the great battle fought in the Axe Valley in Saxon
times.
Another interesting excursion from Lyme might be taken to Lambert's
Castle and Ford Abbey. Ford can be reached by rail to Card Junction.
The Abbey is about a mile east of the station. The first long climb out
of Lyme by the Axminster road to Hunter's Lodge Inn is not encouraging.
From this inn the road runs straight ahead along the road to Marshwood,
passing Monkton Wyld Cross, and gradually ascending to Lambert's Castle,
which is eight hundred and forty-two feet above the sea-level. The
Castle is an important British and Roman camp. A fair and horse-races
are still held here twice a year, and a magnificent view over the Char
valley is obtained from this point. Pilsdon Pen can be reached by the
Beaminster Road, which can be picked up two miles north-east from
Lambert's Castle. At Birdsmoor Gate, two miles beyond, is the Rose and
Crown Inn and a crossing of the ways. The road to Ford Abbey and Chard
swings round to the left, but if the pilgrim wishes to view the home of
Wordsworth and his sister, he must change his route and proceed along
the Crewkerne road for half-a-mile until Racedown Farm is reached.
Dorothy Wordsworth described it as "the place dearest to my
recollections upon the whole surface of the island; the first home I
had"; and she wrote with great feeling about the charm and beauty of the
neighbourhood.
Charmouth is a pleasant walk of two miles from Lyme Regis, but the road
goes over a very steep hill at the top of which is a cutting known as
the "New Passage," the "Devil's Bellows," where in windy weather there
is a chance of being carried off one's feet. The village consists of one
long street situated above the mouth of the _Char_, the leading feature
of the view being the heights which hedge in the valley, particularly
those from which the road has just descended. It is an ancient place,
which still preserves the memory of two sanguinary battles between the
Danes and Saxons. In the first the Saxons were commanded by Egbert, in
the second by Ethelwolf. In both the Danes were victorious, but so
crippled in the fight that they were obliged to retreat to their ships.
At Charmouth, too, in the attempted escape of Charles II. to France,
occurred the incident which so nearly led to the discovery of the
fugitive. A plan had been concerted with the captain of a merchantman
trading to Lyme that a boat at a particular hour of the night should be
sent to the beach at Charmouth. Charles rode hither under the guidance
of Lord Wilmot and Colonel Wyndham and rested at the little inn to await
the appointed time. The vessel, however, from unforeseen circumstances,
was unable to leave the harbour, and the fugitive was obliged to give
up the enterprise and to pass the night in the village. The next morning
it was found that his horse had cast a shoe, and the village blacksmith
was summoned to repair the loss. This was a curious fellow, whose
suspicions were aroused on observing that the old shoes were fastened in
a manner peculiar to the north of England. The hostler, who was a
Republican soldier, carried the information to the Puritan minister.
From the minister it went to the magistrate, and from the magistrate to
the captain of a troop of horse, who soon galloped with his men in
pursuit. Fortunately for the king, they took the wrong road, and he
escaped.
The inn at which Charles rested is still standing. Part of it is now the
Congregational Manse. The front of the house has now been entirely
modernised, but the interior has retained all the quaint features of the
Carolean period, and here one may still see heavy ceilings and fine
oak-panellings. In the portion which is now a cottage a large chimney
(which is said to have served as a hiding-place) and the "king's
bedroom" are still pointed out to visitors. Until comparatively recent
times the inn was still providing ale to thirsty rustics and was called
the "Queen's Head," and several old natives can remember when the
landlord displayed a sign on which was inscribed:
"Here in this house was lodged King Charles,
Come in, sirs, you may venture;
For here is entertainment good
For churchman or dissenter."
In 1902 a commemoration tablet was placed on the house. Similar tablets
have been placed on Ellesdon Farm, the George Inn (now a shop),
Bridport, and on the George Inn, Broadwindsor, at each of which Charles
II. took refreshment or a night's lodgment during his passage through
Dorset.
Two lanes, one turning off near the top of the straight descent, and one
just below the church, lead in a few minutes to the sea. The beach is
sand, shingle and rock, and supports a coastguard station, bathing
machines and a few fishing-boats which are launched from the beach.
There are cliffs on each side of the bay, and here the Char, "a small,
irregular, alder-fringed, playful river, full of strange fish such as
inland streams yield not," mingles very modestly with the sea. The river
rises under Lewesdon and Pilesdon, about six miles distant in a direct
line. Three miles north of Charmouth is Corrie Castle (King's Castle),
supposed to have been the camp of Egbert when he fought with the Danes.
The cliffs at Charmouth exhibit a fine section of the strata and abound
in interesting fossil remains. These include the bones of those
colossal reptiles the ichthyosaurus and plesiosaurus, of the
pterodactyl, and numerous fish; and, among other shells, those of the
ammonite and belemnite, which are found in great quantities on Golden
Cap. The lias contains much bituminous matter and iron pyrites, which
have frequently taken fire after heavy rains. At a bed of gravel near
the mouth of the river the remains of an elephant and rhinoceros have
been discovered.
The tourist must look for the relic of the "Queen's Head" next above a
chapel and opposite the picturesque George Inn. I think that the quiet
folk who occupy the genuine inn where the king stopped must often
breathe mild maledictions over the heads of inquisitive pilgrims who
peep and peer into their windows, and I suspect that they have begged
mine host of the George to claim for his house the honour of sheltering
Charles Stuart from the troops. At all events the George is pointed out
to the visitor as the great historical attraction, in spite of the fact
that it was built long after the time King Charles was in hiding in
Dorset.