BLACKMORE’S VILLAGE
At Culmstock one finds oneself in a village of considerable beauty, to
which the little stream with its border of aspens, and the fine old
church on the knoll, are the principal contributors. Hence also are
avenues leading up to the witching prospects of the Blackdown Hills,
Culmstock Beacon, in particular, being a favourite spot for picnics. So
far so good. But there are drawbacks. When one sets foot in any of these
West-country villages, one is apt to be affected with a sense of
half-melancholy. Stillness is, of course, to be expected; stillness,
indeed, is one of the great charms of the country, and a happy contrast
to the bustle and confusion of the town. But stillness, to be entirely
welcome, must not be emblematic of decay.
Not that Culmstock is altogether in that parlous state; there are many
signs of enterprise and activity. Witness the erection of tidy brick
houses in lieu of crumbling, thatched cottages, so sweet to look upon,
but not specially comfortable to live in. That, however, is not all. One
reason why cob-cottages are no longer built is that this is, to a great
extent, a lost art. A friend of mine, who is not an architect, but is a
pretty shrewd observer of things in general, has explained to me what he
believes to have been the process. The angle of a roof is formed by
“half-couples,” and in the case of cob-cottages my friend thinks that
underneath the “half-couples,” at tolerably close intervals, were set
upright posts. The whole of this scaffolding constituted the permanent
frame of the building, and as soon as it was completed by the addition
of horizontal timbers, the roof was thatched. Then the “cob,” which
resembled mortar with a thickening of hair, etc., was erected in
sections about two or three feet high, so as to envelop the posts, and
each section was allowed to dry before the mud-wall was carried higher.
This was a necessity, but, as the result, the work was slow and tedious,
and nowadays would be more expensive than building with brick or stone.
Be that as it may, the fact cannot be gainsaid that at Culmstock, and
not at Culmstock alone, the advent of the railway and the newspaper, and
the general opening-up of communications with the outer world, have made
a difference. So great indeed is the revolution that one is constrained
to admit that here, though one is in Blackmore’s village, one is yet not
properly in the village that Blackmore knew. True, there is the old
church tower, the stone-screen (Mr Penniloe’s glorious “find”), and even
the old yew-tree springing from the ledge below the battlements. The
bridge, too, is much the same, save for a tasteless, if necessary,
addition. The vicarage also stands, its back turned discourteously on
the wayfarer; and I certify that it is the identical structure which
sheltered Blackmore as a boy, though his father was never the vicar,
only curate-in-charge.
All this may be granted, but the man of feeling still mourns the
loss--for loss he knows there has been--of local life and colour. As
Pericles observed many centuries ago, a city is not an affair of walls
only; and were the material village of seventy years since more intact
than it is, the change in its social conditions would be none the less.
In the old days, Culmstock was no mere geographical expression; it was a
distinct entity, a separate organism, fully equipped for its own needs,
and harbouring, as _Perlycross_ testifies, a spirit of pride and
independence. The warlike rivalry between rustic communities like
Culmstock and Hemyock, though almost universal, may strike one as a
trifle ridiculous; but if a “bold peasantry” could be retained at the
cost of occasional horseplay, it was worth the price. What can be
conceived more admirable than a strong and healthy, and in its heart of
hearts, contented population, grouped into parishes, living on the land?
Old inhabitants with a tincture of education do not, I admit, see things
quite in this light. They are all for modern improvements, and refer
with bitter cynicism to the hardships experienced, and the low wages
earned, in days of yore, for which they have usually not a particle of
regret. But such people are not always right, and now and then one meets
with a pleasing appreciation of the olden times. Not long ago there
might have been seen, tottering about the village, a Culmstock veteran,
who had been wont to ply the flail. The staccato of the “broken stick,”
however, had yielded place to the drone of the threshing-machine, which
was not so agreeable. Suddenly he paused and cocked his ear--what was
that? From the interior of a yeoman’s barn came a familiar sound. Bang!
bang! bang! bang! ’Twas the flail; and the wrinkled old face beamed with
delight as Hodge exclaimed, rubbing his hands, “Blest if Culmstock be
dead yet!”
(Which demonstrates, by the way, the truth of Blackmore’s dictum--“There
are very few noises that cannot find some ear to which they are
congenial.”)
The task will not be easy, but let us endeavour to form some idea of
Culmstock parish as it appeared to the veteran in his long-past youth.
Most likely he was a parish apprentice, bound out at one of the
triennial meetings of the local magistrates held for that purpose in a
cottage near the church. Farmers generally appreciated the privilege of
having poor boys assigned to them as apprentices, especially as they
were not compelled to take any particular boy; but this was not
invariably so, and sometimes they would pay a tailor or a shoemaker
(say) five pounds to relieve them of the distasteful duty. We will
suppose, however, that the farmer is willing to stand _in loco parentis_
to the trembling little mortal--not more than ten years old,
perhaps--and accordingly signs his name and sets his seal to the
indenture.
Have you ever seen such a document? A more portentous agreement than
“these presents,” seeing that the business itself was so simple, was
surely never devised by misplaced ingenuity. No less than six
officials--to say nothing of the master--were parties to the deed, viz.,
two justices, two overseers, and two churchwardens; and their names were
entered in the blank spaces of the form reserved for them. I will not
inflict the whole of the rigmarole on the reader, but here is the cream
of it:--
The instrument conveys that the churchwardens and overseers between them
do put and place M. or N., a poor child of the parish, apprentice to
John Doe or Richard Roe, yeoman, with him to dwell and serve until the
said apprentice shall accomplish his full age of twenty-one years,
according to the statute made and provided, during all which term the
said apprentice the said master faithfully shall serve in all lawful
business according to his power, wit, and ability; and honestly,
orderly, and obediently, in all things demean and behave himself towards
him. On the contrary part, the said master the said apprentice in
husbandry work shall and will teach and instruct, and cause to be taught
and instructed, in the best way and manner he can, during the said term;
and shall and will, during all the term aforesaid, find, provide, and
allow unto the said apprentice, meet, competent, and sufficient meat,
drink, and apparel, lodging, washing, and all other things necessary and
fit for an apprentice.
With such tautological, though no doubt impressive verbiage, was the
poor child of the parish launched on the sea of life. Conducted to the
farmhouse, he was speedily initiated into the habits of the
occupants--rough people, but
[Illustration: RECTORY HOUSE AT CHARLES (page 225).]
sometimes not unkindly. At dinner the “missus” usually presided, with
the master on one side and the family on the other, and the servants in
the lowest places. For the broth, which was an important item in the
menu, wooden spoons were in favour, although an old fellow called Tinker
Toogood came round from time to time and cast the lead that had been
saved for him into a pewter spoon. In some farmhouses no real plates of
any description were employed; instead of that, the table was carved
throughout its length into a series of mock plates, and on these spaces
the meat was placed. Every day the table was washed with hot water, and
covers were set over the imitation plates to keep the dust off. It was
the custom to serve the pudding and treacle first, so as to lessen the
appetite and effect a saving in the meat--salt pork as a rule. Wheaten
bread was unknown. It was always barley bread, nearly black, and cut up
into chunks. These were placed in a wooden bowl.
In addition to Tinker Toogood, itinerant tailors, shoemakers, and
harness-makers were regular visitors at the farmhouses, where they
performed their tasks and were allowed free commons. Harness-menders
were the best paid; they received two shillings a day. Commons, although
free, were not always abundant; and a Mr Snip once complained, in the
bitterness of his heart, that he had tea and fried potatoes for
breakfast, fried potatoes and tea for dinner, and tea and fried potatoes
for supper. With the blacksmith the farmer made a contract, agreeing to
pay so much for the shoeing of horses, repairing of ploughshares, etc.,
and, as in the ploughing season coulter and share required to be
sharpened every night, the smithy on the hill was generally crowded.
At least fifty oxen were kept on the different farms for ploughing; and,
in the opinion of some, these animals were better than horses. Young
bullocks were stationed between the wheelers and the front oxen, but
soon became used to the work, and placed themselves in the furrow as a
matter of course. All the time a boy, armed with a goad, used to sing to
them:
“Up along, jump along,
Pretty, Spark, and Tender” [_i.e._, the near bullocks].[3]
Wishing to encourage his team, the boy would say, not “Woog up!” as in
the case of horses, but “Ur up!” Other cries were, “Broad, hither!”
“Tender, hither!” and the like.
In reaping, when the time came for sharpening hooks, the foreman sang
out:
“A sheave or two further, and then--
whereupon the catchpoll asked,
“What then?
To this the foreman replied,
“A fresh edge, a merry look, and along agen,
and the catchpoll rejoined,
“Well done, Mr Foreman!”
As the finale, all drank out of a horn cup.
In the first verse of an old Devonshire harvest-home song, convivial
spirits were thus addressed:
“Here’s a health to the barley mow, my brave boys;
Here’s a health to the barley mow!
We’ll drink it out of the jolly brown bowl;
Here’s a health to the barley mow!”
In successive verses they were adjured to drink it out of the nipperkin,
the quarter-pint, the half-pint, the quart, the pottle, the gallon, the
half-anker, the anker, the half-hogshead, the hogshead, the pipe, the
well, the river, and, finally, the ocean.
In the direction of Nicolashayne were three large barns (since converted
into six cottages) in front of which was a broad area of road for the
wagons to halt upon. The “Church of Exeter” has proprietary rights in
the parish; and a proctor came up from Thorverton to receive tithes on
behalf of the Dean and Chapter. Only the small tithes went to the vicar.
The grandson of Clerk Channing of _Perlycross_, a man over seventy,
tells me that he can remember the introduction of the first wagon and
the first spring-cart at Culmstock, pack-horses being used always
before. This circumstance can be accounted for in two ways, partly from
the intense conservation of rural Devonshire--at last, perhaps, broken
up--and partly from the pose of the village, with its face towards the
valley of the Culm and its back against the hills. In a rough country
like the Blackdowns the pack-horse would be certain to tarry longer
than in more cultivated regions, and a large portion of the parish of
Culmstock, though, according to Blackmore, it comprises some of the best
land in East Devon, consists of hills and commons.
The wildest tract of all is Maidendown--a dreary waste compact of bog
and scrub in the vicinity of the late Archbishop Temple’s paternal home,
Axon, and reaching out to the main road between Wellington and Exeter.
Its situation does not agree with that of the Black Marsh, or Forbidden
Land, of _Perlycross_, which is described as lying a long way back among
the Blackdown Hills, and “nobody knows in what parish”; otherwise one
might have guessed that Maidendown was the prototype of that barren
stretch with a curse upon it.
In the West country pack-horses are equally associated with moors and
lanes. Nowadays a Devonshire lane--love is compared to a Devonshire
lane--is regarded as essentially beautiful, with its beds of wild
flowers and tracery of briars; but Vancouver’s impartial testimony
compels one to think that in former days this domain of the pack-horse
was not so attractive. He says:
“The height of the hedge-banks, often covered with a rank growth of
coppice-wood, uniting and interlocking with each other overhead,
completes the idea of exploring a labyrinth rather than that of passing
through a much-frequented country. This first impression, however, will
be at once removed on the traveller’s meeting with, or being overtaken
by, a gang of pack-horses. The rapidity with which these animals descend
the hills, when not loaded, and the utter impossibility of passing
loaded ones, require that the utmost caution should be used in keeping
out of the way of the one, and exertion in keeping ahead of the other. A
cross-way in the road or gateway is eagerly looked for as a retiring
spot to the traveller, until the pursuing squadron, or heavily-loaded
brigade, may have passed by.... As there are but few wheel-carriages to
pass along them, the channel for the water and the path for the
pack-horse are equally in the middle of the way, which is altogether
occupied by an assemblage of such large and loose stones only as the
force of the descending torrents have not been able to sweep away or
remove.”
This was certainly not pleasant, although in most other respects
Culmstock was then a more interesting place than now. I do not assert
that it was more moral. About seventy years ago, a native of the
village, one Tom Musgrove, was hanged for sheep-stealing, being the last
man, it is said, to experience that fate in the county of Devon. We
stand aghast at the barbarity of our forefathers; but if ever the
penalty could be made to fit the crime, then it must be owned, Tom
deserved the rope. He was a notorious thief, whose depredations were the
common talk of the village, and, to make matters worse, his evil deeds
were performed under the cloak of religion. Once a couple of ducks were
missed, and, whilst every cottage was being searched in the hope of
regaining the stolen property, Tom, secure in his pretensions to piety,
stood complacently in his doorway, and the party of inquisitors passed
on. Just inside were the ducks, feeding out of his platter.
One night a huckster’s shop, kept by Betsy Collins, at Millmoor, was
feloniously entered and robbed. Next morning, Tom, apprised of the
event, ran off in his night-cap to condole with the poor woman in her
misfortune, and succeeded so well as to be invited to share her morning
repast. “There!” said he, “her’ve a-gied the old rogue a good
breakfast.”
As a professor of religion Tom contracted a warm friendship with a baker
named Potter, who was an ardent Methodist. Neither friendship nor
religion, however, prevented Mr Musgrove from enriching himself at his
neighbour’s expense. Profiting by an opportunity when Potter was at
chapel, and closely engaged with pious exercises, Tom and his one-armed
daughter broke into the bakehouse and carried off Potter’s bacon, the
lady burglar aiding herself with her teeth.
These breaches of morality appear to have been condoned--at any rate,
they did not land the culprit in any serious trouble. But at last Tom
went a step too far. Down in the hams, or water-meadows, between
Culmstock and Uffculme, he seized a large ram, which he slew, brought
home, and buried in his garden. The crime was traced to his door,
professions and protestations proved unavailing, and Musgrove, tried and
convicted at the following Assizes, was publicly executed at Exeter
Gaol. It will be remembered that Mrs Tremlett’s “dree buys was hanged,
back in the time of Jarge the Third, to Exeter Jail for ship-staling”
(_Perlycross_, chapter xxvi.)
Sheep-stealing was not the only excitement. In Blackmore’s youth--and
_Perlycross_ is built on the circumstance--smuggling was carried on with
spirit (in both senses) over the Blackdowns, and queer stories are told
of fortunes made by “fair trade,” in the conduct of which a mysterious
tower, out on the hills, is said to have played an important part. An
octogenarian of my acquaintance admits that, as a boy, he shared in
these illegal adventures, which did not receive that amount of social
reprobation they may have deserved. He does not deny that he slept in a
friend’s house over kegs of brandy which he knew to be contraband, nor
does he disguise the fact that he was not a mere sleeping partner. He
acknowledges being sent with a keg to meet a fellow-conspirator, who for
the sake of appearances toiled in the local woollen factory, but out of
business hours drove a lucrative trade with the farmers in the forbidden
thing. Worst of all, on one occasion, when an excise officer was
reported to be in the village, a cask was hastily transferred to his
shoulders, which, as being youthful, were less likely to attract
suspicion, and he actually walked past the Government man--barrel and
brandy and all! Horses laden with the foreign stuff came up from Seaton.
They had no halters, and were guided, says my friend, by the scent, the
journey being naturally performed in the dark.
Smuggling, however, took various forms. Men from Upottery, Clayhidon,
and elsewhere would halt a cart on the outskirts of the village, and go
round with brandy or gin in bladders, which they carried in the pockets
of their greatcoats. One Giles, of Clayhidon, had a donkey and cart
with a keg of brandy concealed in a furnace turned upside down. A
Culmstock man called Townsend, landlord of the “Three Tuns,” is said to
have been ruined by a smuggler, who sold him a gallon of brandy and
demanded accommodation, as usual. The publican refused it on the ground
that the house was already full, upon which the smuggler, stung with
resentment, informed the police, and Townsend was fined £270.
By these instances, something, it may be hoped, has been done towards
reconstructing the Culmstock in which Blackmore grew up, and which
helped to make him what he was--essentially the prophet of the village
and rural life. And here I must rectify a possible misunderstanding,
Because stress has been laid on changes in the social conditions of the
parish, as being of deeper significance, it must not be inferred that
there have been no alterations, or none of any importance, in the face
of things. The contrary is the truth, and, on a reckoning, one is
tempted to say with Betty Muxworthy, “arl gone into churchyard.”
Culmstock churchyard has indeed swallowed up, not only successive
generations of the inhabitants, but a goodly share of the village
itself. This is the more regrettable, as the portions absorbed are
precisely those which, being redolent of the olden times, one would have
liked preserved. The shambles, a covered enclosure for butchers
attending the weekly market, has gone the way of all flesh. So also has
the stockhouse, which was, rather inconsequently, an open
[Illustration: CULMSTOCK CHURCH AND RIVER (page 12).]
space where the stocks were kept. Hard by stood an inn, called the “Red
Lion,” which either failed to draw sufficient custom, or having a
handsome porch, was deemed too good for a common inn and metamorphosed
into a school. A Mr Kelso arriving with wife and daughters three,
accomplished the transformation, and, according to local tradition, he
had the honour of instilling the rudiments of learning into the late
Archbishop Temple. This, not the National School which was built in the
Rev. John Blackmore’s time and mainly through his exertions, was the
academy of Sergeant Jakes, the position of which is plainly defined in
chapter xxxvi.[4]
There was formerly a considerable trade at Culmstock in combing and
spinning wool. Thirty hands are now employed at the mill (no longer an
independent concern, but a branch establishment of Messrs Fox Brothers,
of Wellington); once four hundred were busy at home. Soap also throve.
It was made on the right shoulder of the hill, and the manufacturer, a
Mr Hellings, kept seven pack-horses to transport it to Exeter. Culmstock
soap had a great vogue in the cathedral city, and it was a common
observation that no one had a chance till Hellings was “sold out.” In
the neighbouring village of Clayhidon was a silk factory, employing, I
believe, a hundred hands, and run by a gentleman of the Methodist
persuasion, whose house and chapel adjoined--the three together
producing a combination of the earthly and the heavenly which impressed
my informant as the acme of convenience. A similar factory in Red Lion
Court, Culmstock, met with speedy failure.
These industries are now extinct, and one is somewhat at a loss in
seeking for “live” interests, although it is impossible to forget that
Hemyock is a famous mart for pigs. The whole district is piggy, and the
sleek black animal with the curly tail is as highly respected, in life
and in death, as his congener in that porcine paradise, Erin. I was
talking to an old fellow at Culmstock, it may have been two years ago,
and the conversation turned on swine. Rather to my surprise, he spoke of
a certain female of the breed as having been “brought up in house,” and
with full appreciation of the fun, volunteered a local saw to the effect
that “when a sow has had three litters, she is artful enough to open a
door.”
Culmstock, it is not too much to say, is redolent of Waterloo. The
beacon was often aflame during the Napoleonic wars, and, upon their
conclusion, the famous Wellington Monument was erected at no great
distance, in honour of the Iron Duke, who took his title from Wellington
in Somerset, the Pumpington of _Perlycross_.
Thanks to the industry of Mr William Doble, who is, I believe, a
descendant of more than one of the local heroes, it is possible to
restore the atmosphere which brought about the creation, years
afterwards, of Sir Thomas Waldron and Sergeant Jakes. When R. D.
Blackmore was a boy, many were still living who could remember the
incessant din of the joy-bells on the announcement of the victory--a
din continued for several days; and the scene in the Fore-street, the
“grateful celebration,” when high and low, indiscriminately, turned out
to share the feast. Naturally, however, the festivities were dashed with
some amount of sorrow and anxiety, as it was not yet known what had been
the fortunes of the gallant fellows who had gone forth to fight
England’s battle. Two stanzas of a song, which an old lady of Culmstock
sang as a girl, reflect with simple pathos the dreadful suspense of
relations and friends.
“Mother is the battle over?
Thousands have been slain they say.
Is my father coming? Tell me,
Have the English gained the day?
“Is he well, or is he wounded?
Mother, is he among the slain?
If you know, I pray you tell me,
Will my father come again?”
A rough list of the Culmstock warriors comprises the following names:--
Major Octavius Temple, (father of the late Archbishop).
Dr Ayshford.
Sergt. J. Mapledorham.
Sergt. W. Doble.
Sergt. Gregory.
William Berry.
William Sheers.
Robert Wood.
Thomas Scadding.
Richard Fry.
Abram Lake.
William Gillard.
John Jordan.
Thomas Andrews.
John Nethercott.
John Tapscott.
“Urchard” Penny.
James Mapledorham, jun.
Betty Milton.
Betsy Mapledorham.
Mapledorham, was too much of a mouthful for Culmstock people, so they
consulted their own convenience by calling the couple Maldrom. The
excellent sergeant already possessed a long record of service when
summoned to the final test of Waterloo, and in several campaigns he had
been accompanied by his faithful Betsy. Equally adventurous, Betty
Milton was full of reminiscences of her hard life in the Peninsula.
William Berry, too, was fond of story-telling. He related, with humorous
glee, that he had once captured a mule with a sack of doubloons.
Unfortunately a wine-shop proved seductive, and whilst he was regaling
himself therein, an artful Spaniard made off with the booty. Robert,
better known as “Robin,” Wood was literary, and published a penny
history of his exploits, of which, alas! not a single copy is known to
exist. William Sheers, figuratively speaking, turned his spear into a
ploughshare, as he took to shopkeeping and became a pronounced Methodist
and zealous supporter of the Smallbrook Chapel. I can just remember this
bearded veteran, who in his last days was a victim to a severe form of
cardiac asthma. Tapscott and “Urchard” Penny were both ex-marines. The
former had been present at the Battle of Trafalgar and rejoiced in the
nicknames “John Glory” and “Blue my Shirt.” As for Penny, he was
sometimes called “Tenpenny Dick,” the reason being that he would never
accept more than tenpence as his day’s wage. When his turn came to be
buried, the bystanders observed that water had found its way into his
last resting-place, so that, it was said, he remained constant to the
element in which he had so long served.
The foremost of the group of veterans is claimed to have been Doble,
who, after starting in life as a parish apprentice, at the age of seven,
took part in seven pitched battles in the Peninsula, and ended his
military career at Waterloo. He retired from the service on a pension of
twelve shillings a week, and was the proud owner of two medals and nine
clasps. As a civilian, he was the trusted foreman of the silk factory in
Red Lion Court, which, despite his probity, soon came to grief; and at
his funeral his old comrades assembled, some from considerable
distances, to pay a last tribute to the brave soldier who had rallied
the waverers at Waterloo.
Dr Ayshford used to say that he had three sources of income--his
pension, his practice, and his property. On the strength of these
resources he kept a pack of hounds. He was naturally very intimate with
the Temples, and I have been told by a descendant that it was thanks to
his generosity that the late Archbishop Temple was enabled to proceed to
Oxford. _Mutatis mutandis_, it seems not improbable that by Frank
Gilham, Blackmore may have intended his schoolmate. Think of it. Major
Temple was not only an officer of the army, but a practical farmer, and
the late primate could plough and thresh with the best. Gilham is
described as no clodhopper: he “had been at a Latin school, founded by a
great high priest of the Muses in the woollen line,” _i.e._, Blundell.
Again, his farm adjoins the main turnpike road from London to Devonport,
at the north-west end of the parish; and where is Axon, the Temples’ old
place? The name “White Post” is perhaps adapted from “Whitehall,” a
fine old-fashioned farmhouse between Culmstock and Hemyock.
Like Parson Penniloe (see _Perlycross_, chapter xxxiii.), Parson
Blackmore kept pupils--a fact to which allusion is made in _Tales from
the Telling House_. The Bude Light was the Rev. Goldsworthy Gurney. The
existence of a wayside cross, from which and the fictitious description
of the Culm was formed the name of both village and romance, is
attributed to the public spirit of one Baker, who lived in the
Commonwealth time, and usurped the manor; but whether it was anything
more than a tradition in Blackmore’s youth, is perhaps doubtful.
Priestwell is Prescott, Hagdon Hill Hackpen, and Susscott Northcott.
Crang’s forge, had any such institution existed, would have been at
Craddock.
The reader, however, may rest assured that Blackmore did not select
these fanciful appellations without excellent reason. He desired for
himself a large freedom, which, as we have seen, he used in transporting
mansions, and other feats of imagination. One more illustration of this
spiritual liberty may be cited. By the Foxes he evidently means the
Wellington family. The dialogue between Mrs Fox of Foxden and Parson
Penniloe, in chapter xliv., is sufficient to settle that. The name
Foxdown, too, is evidently based on that of Mr Elworthy’s residence,
Foxdene. Yet in chapter xii. Foxden is stated to be thirty miles from
Perlycross by the nearest roads. On the other hand, Pumpington, as
Wellington is called in _Perlycross_, is just where it should be
(chapter xxiv.).
Turning to another matter, Blackmore has idealised the bells, inasmuch
as he states that on the front of one of them--the passing bell--was
engraven,
“Time is over for one more”;
and on the back,
“Soon shall thy own life be o’er.”
The Culmstock set is an interesting collection of bells, but not one of
them is adorned with mottoes such as those. One bears the inscription
“Ave Maria Gracia Plena,” and this was cast by Roger Semson, a
West-country founder of repute, who was dwelling at Ash Priors, in
Somerset, in 1549, and who stamped his initials on the bell. Another of
his bells, at Luppitt, is at once more and less explicit on this point,
since the inscription runs “nosmes regoremib.” To make sense, this must
be read backwards. Two modern bells, placed in the Culmstock belfry in
1852 and 1853 respectively, awaken proud or painful memories. The former
was cast in memory of the Duke of Wellington, the cost being defrayed by
subscription, while the latter was “the free gift of James Collier, of
Furzehayes, and John Collier, of Bowhayes.” John Collier, who was killed
by lightning at Bowhayes, was the sporting yeoman with the otter hounds,
to whom Blackmore alludes. The old house, by the way, was reputed to be
haunted, and for years no one would live in it.
Blackmore’s description of the vicarage is literally correct, save that
he calls it “the rectory.” A long and rambling house it certainly is,
and the dark, narrow passage, like a tunnel, beneath the first-floor
rooms, is a feature explained by the higher level of the front of the
house “facing southwards upon a grass-plot and a flower-garden, and as
pretty as the back was ugly” (_Perlycross_, chapter vi.).
[Illustration: HEMYOCK (page 26).]