BROTHERS BARLE AND EXE[12]
It is now time to quit Dulverton, and one has to face the somewhat
complex question in which direction one’s steps should next be turned.
There are three main routes--by the railway to Barnstaple; by the
“turnpike” to Dunster and Minehead; and by one of several roads to
Simonsbath, the heart of the moor. All these ways lead to interesting
places--places much too interesting to be passed by; and it is at one’s
choice which to seek out first. That is assuming that one intends to
establish Dulverton as one’s base, making longer or shorter excursions
to the spots hereafter to be named. To recommend such a course, however,
would be obviously impolite to other towns equally avid of patronage.
They must all be visited in turn--so much is certain.
As a start must be made, and a selection may not be avoided, I will fall
back on the line I always followed as a boy, and once more breast Mount
Sydenham, with its chaplet of firs. When the panting and perspiring
traveller reaches a turn of the road he may hap to espy a hollow in a
field on the left. That is Granny’s Pit, where an old woman with
dishevelled tresses has been viewed, bewailing her daughter. A few more
paces bring us to the grove of firs, whence the sinuous Barle may be
surveyed far below in all his sylvan glory. This may be Blackmore’s
“corner of trees,” if Ridd followed this route, and not Hollam Lane,
which runs parallel with it. Stepping back into the lane, one soon finds
oneself on Court Down, which, though not of any great extent, is a
genuine bit of moorland “debated” by green fern, and purple heather, and
golden gorse, embosomed in which there may stand at gaze fleecy,
white-faced sheep of the horned variety peculiar to Exmoor.
Nature’s “much-admired confusion,” however, is exhibited on a much
grander scale in the undulating sweep of Winsford Hill, which, from
Mountsey Hill Gate to Comer’s Gate, boasts four miles of continuous
brake. This free and joyous expanse is the native heath of Sir Thomas
Acland’s wild Exmoor ponies, which, in their shaggy deshabille may at
times be seen grazing on the rough sward, or scampering playfully over
moss and ling. They suffer none to approach.
At Spire Cross is a confluence of roads, that to the left being one way
to Torr Steps, an old Keltic bridge formed of large, loose slabs laid
athwart low piers, which bears a family likeness to Post Bridge on
Dartmoor, but the latter is grooved for chariots. It is well to point
out that this charming vestige of prehistoric civilisation--a gem in a
lovely setting--is by no means isolated. The remains of several British
castles are to be found in the neighbourhood, Mountsey Castle being
quite near; and up on the hill, not far from Spire Cross, but in the
opposite direction, is a menhir. The stone carries an inscription,
which, though extremely rude and partially obliterated, is yet
distinctly legible; and the monument is supposed to mark the
burial-place of a Romanised British chieftain--the “grandson of
Caractacus,” which is the English rendering of “Carataci Nepos.” Dr
Murray recently took a “squeeze” of the face of the stone, from which a
cast was made, now at Oxford; and both he and Professor Rhys, who
accompanied him, were convinced of the genuineness of the scrawl. The
actual lettering appears to be: CVRAACI EPVC. Moreover, beside the road
to Comer’s Gate are three immense cairns, known as the Wambarrows. This
is the highest point of Winsford Hill--1405 feet above the level of the
sea.
Around all these spots cluster superstitions weird or bizarre. The
menhir is an index of buried treasure. The Wambarrows are the haunt of a
mysterious black dog. Round Mountsey Castle a spectral chariot races at
midnight, to disappear into a cairn in a field at the foot of the hill.
As for Torr Steps, the legend is that they were placed there by the
devil, who menaced with dire penalties the first mortal that should
presume to use them. The sable monarch took his seat on one bank of the
stream, while the other was occupied by a parson, eager to try
conclusions with him. The holy man was astute, and, as a preliminary
measure, dispatched a cat across the bridge. On touching the opposite
side she was ruthlessly rent in pieces, whereupon, the charm having been
shattered, the parson boldly strode over the causeway and engaged the
devil in a conflict of words, each abusing the other in good set terms.
In the end the enemy of mankind retired vanquished, resigning the bridge
to all and sundry. Close above these steps was one of the two homes of
Mother Melldrum (see _Lorna Doone_, chapter xvii., where Blackmore
alludes to the legend of their origin).
It appears that the Oxford _cognoscenti_ went down into the stream in a
vain search for more inscribed stones. This reminds me of a curious
story of the Barle, the willows on whose banks, by the way, overhang its
amber bed so as to form almost an arch. On a hill to the right, looking
downstream, stands Hawkridge Church, and what is termed, in
contradistinction to the parish, Hawkridge town. Well, once upon a time
a villager was asked to take the place of the bass-singer in the choir
for one Sunday only, and consented. A day or two later he was discovered
by the incumbent, a well-known hunting parson, wading up and down the
little river apparently without aim or object. The cleric drew rein,
and, much amazed, inquired the meaning of this extraordinary procedure.
“Plaze your honour,” was the reply, “I be trying to get a bit of a hooze
on me.”
In other words, he was attempting to catch a cold, so that he might
become hoarse, this being, as he thought, the best means of qualifying
himself for the successful discharge of his duty.
“Where the swift Exe, by Somerset’s fair hills,
In curving eddies, borders pastures deep,
Near fern-fringed slope of lawn, where babbling rills
Sing sweetest music, mid thick foliage peep
Five bridges, and thatched roofs. The grey Church Tower
O’er all looks down on groves of oak and pine:
Red deer, red Devons, ponies of the moor,
Delight the traveller in this home of mine.”
This acrostic, in praise of a charming village, is the composition of
the Rev. Prebendary W. P. Anderson, vicar of Winsford, who has resided
there ever since 1857, and the lines show that his experience of the
place has been like the place itself--happy. Far otherwise was it with
one of his predecessors. In the church porch may be seen a list of the
parish clergymen, not so dry as such lists are wont to be, from which it
appears that early in the fourteenth century Winsford had a blind
vicar--one Willelmus. Being unable to perform all the duties of his
office, he was allowed two coadjutors, of whom it is recorded, to their
eternal infamy, that they were deprived “for starving the Blind Vicar.”
This conduct, inhuman at the best, was the more scandalous in that the
Priory of Barlynch, to which the advowson belonged, had, in 1280,
endowed the vicarage with the whole tithe of wool, lambs, chicken,
calves, pigs, sucklings, cheese, butter, flax, honey, and all other
small tithes and oblations and dues pertaining to the altar offerings.
And yet he starved--the Blind Vicar!
Barlynch Priory, a community of Austin Friars stood, where its remains
yet stand, some two or three miles down the Exe. Shaded by what the old
charter calls “the mountain of the high wood of Berlic,” its situation
was in the highest degree romantic; and if the prior had a lust for
venery, his taste might easily be gratified, for in the adjacent woods
or “copes,” the deer would have found abundant shelter, and thither they
doubtless resorted to pass the long summer day under the dense foliage.
Returning to Winsford, Mr Anderson’s lines omit one trait which to many
will seem the chief glory of the village--namely, the old inn. The
“Royal Oak” is a hostelry such as one does not see every day. Its
thatched roofs, and low ceilings, and projecting windows, and general
crinkle-crankle are eloquent of the olden time, and the sign, as was the
case with all ancient signs, hangs from its own post--a reminder of
Boscobel. Hence, by a beautiful rustic lane the traveller wends his way
to Exford, and on the outskirts of the village encounters the church.
On a pedestal in the churchyard stands the mutilated shaft of a
venerable preaching cross, and hard by the gate one observes an
“upping-stock,” or “upstock,” for the convenience of women in mounting
their horses after divine service.
Before Exmoor was disafforested and, yet later, made a parish of itself,
it is probable that Exford was the ecclesiastical capital of the
district--at any rate, of the southern portion of the moor. The parish
stands on the very verge of the old forest, and during the reign of King
John was actually brought within its limits. Lanes in the neighbourhood
were, in more scrupulous times, the forest-bounds, and along these
tracks, still passable, were certain marks mentioned in the
Perambulations, almost all of which can be identified. One such track,
partly diverted from its old course--which, however, may be easily
traced--led from what is now a cottage, but was once a small farmhouse,
straight to the church. This cottage bears the name of Prescott, and
still contains a round-headed stone doorway, and a little square window
let into the side of the big fireplace. The late vicar, the Rev. E. G.
Peirson, suggests that this may have been the original priest’s cot or
parsonage house. “I like to think,” he says, “that my predecessors,
before they came into permanent residence here, used to stop at that
house when they came over the moor, and clean themselves before going
into the church.” He adds, however, that in that case the cottage or its
name must date a long way back, as there would seem to have been clergy
resident at Exford early in the twelfth century.
Mr Peirson’s theory is pretty, but a simpler explanation is that the
cottage belonged to the glebe. It is curious that just at the point
where the old lane used to strike the churchyard, a few projecting
stones still form a rough stile over the wall.
Probably it will affect most people with a feeling of surprise that
there should be any connection between a place so far inland as Exford
and smuggling, yet the same is true. In an orchard above West Mill was
formerly an old malt-house, where malt was made and whisky distilled.
But the most interesting spot to excise men lay rather to the north, at
Pitsworthy Cottage. Here was an old stone building used as a turf-house;
but the room where the turf was stowed had a party-wall concealing
another chamber, to which access could be obtained only by a secret
entrance under the office of the thatch. Ordinarily this was blocked by
a large stone fitted with a swivel. Long after, pieces of hoops and
decayed staves were discovered in this hiding-place. Wooden hoops are
seen even now round brandy casks, but these were smaller and adapted to
the kegs which the smugglers, landing under Culbone, transported to
Hawkcombe Head, and Black Mire, and White Cross, and right down to
Pitsworthy. There was no road across the moors in those days--I am
thinking of the “forties”--and a man called Hookway is remembered as
travelling from Culbone with pack-horses.
More of smuggling anon. Meanwhile, I am disposed to record, for the
first time, the nefarious doings of Jan Glass and Betty, his wife.
Sheep-stealing was a fashionable pursuit on Exmoor; and at Brendon Forge
(see _Lorna Doone_, chapter lxii.) the conversation was divided between
the hay-crop and “a great sheep-stealer”--apparently not the same
individual whose hanging set up strife between the manors of East Lyn,
West Lyn, and Woolhanger on account of his small clothes, since he is
described as “a man of no great eminence” (_Lorna Doone_, chapter lv.).
Be that as it may, Jan was a daring sheep-stealer, and yet, in his way,
a public benefactor. Often, during a hard winter, he would bring into
Exford stolen mutton, which he retailed at twopence a pound, and at such
times the inhabitants were fairly kept alive by him. His _modus
operandi_ was to go and gather the sheep--his own and others--on Kitnor
Heath and Old Moor into Larcombe Pound at the entrance to his farm,
where there was a convenient avenue or grove of beech-trees. Having
brought them so far, he would kill the strange sheep, and turn out his
own again over the allotments.
Jan played this trick so often that old Farmer Brewer determined to take
him, if possible, in the act. With this object in view he “redded” his
sheep, and as he could stand in his farm and observe the manœuvres,
saw Glass driving among the sheep some red ones. With all speed Brewer
made his way across, but by the time he reached Larcombe, Glass had
killed and skinned the sheep that were not his own.
In the meantime Betty had not been idle. She had dipped the skins in hot
water, so that the wool had come off as easily as from a lamb’s tail,
and had given the skins to the dogs.
What had become of the wool? Farmer Brewer, anxious to ascertain,
glanced around and spied a large pot. Lifting the cover, he found the
fleeces, and, turning to the disconcerted woman, exclaimed:
“Aw, fy, Betty! Here’s the wool!”
This led to Glass’s conviction, and he was sentenced to seven years’
transportation. He had certainly had a wonderful career. He did not
confine his attention to sheep, but was quite as notorious for stealing
colts. Not being able to keep her from her foal, he had been known to
kill the mare and throw the carcass into the pond. His thefts of sheep
from “Squire” Knight alone used to average fifty or sixty a year. He
would gallop into a flock, pick up one of the sheep, as a hawk or a
raven would pick up a small bird, and carry it home on the top of his
saddle. It may seem strange that he was permitted to indulge in these
malpractices so long, but he lived in a very out-of-the-way place. There
were no police in those days, sheep were gathered only once or twice in
the year, and the animal he appropriated might possibly be crippled or
diseased. Anyhow, until Farmer Brewer interfered, nobody took any
notice.
Glass lived to return after being transported, and eventually found
himself on a bed of sickness, when he was visited by an old farmer,
James Moore.
“Jan,” said he, “I yur thee art very bad, and thee hasn’t got nort to
eat. I’ve killed a sheep and brought thee a piece of mutton.”
“Aw, maister,” answered the poor man, “I thort thee’d a bin the last man
to come to zee me.”
“What vur, Jan?”
“Well, I don’t know, maister, how I can taste the mutton, for I’ve stole
scores o’ sheep from thee at the time you lived to Thurn and the time
you lived to Ashit.”
“Never mind, Jan, I freely forgive thee, and I aup that God’ll do the
same.”
Glass never got over the illness, but soon after this touching interview
gave up the ghost, and was buried in Exford churchyard.
Betty Glass was just as resolute a thief as old Jan, and, whilst at
Larcombe, was very intimate with Sally Bristowe (or “Bursta,” as the
name was pronounced), at Rocks, an adjoining farm. On one occasion,
Betty paid a visit to Sally at harvest time, when young turkeys were
about, and after she had been hospitably entertained, eating what she
liked and drinking what she liked, she had the good taste to go out and
steal a score of the aforesaid small turkeys. Shortly afterwards, Sally
happened to open the door and found the heads of some of the birds lying
in the yard, whereupon she set out in pursuit of old Betty, overtook
her, and discovered the bodies of the turkeys in the old woman’s apron,
blood still flowing from them.
“Now, Betty,” quoth the indignant woman, “however could’st thee steal my
turkeys after I’d gi’d thee plenty to eat and drink.”
“Aw, for goodness sake,” was the reply, “keep dark. I’ll give thee a
guinea. Say nort about it.”
Sally thereupon accepted the guinea, deeming it better to do so than
institute proceedings. This was certainly a mistake, for a week or two
later, when Betty was in company with Farmer Brewer, and three sheets in
the wind, she remarked, “Hey, Jimmy, what’s think of Sal Bursta’s
spot-faced yo? D’ye think I be going to give her a guinea for nort?”
From which it was evident that she stole the ewe to make good the loss
of the money. Sal undoubtedly lost the sheep.
During a visit to Minehead, seeing nothing else on which she could
conveniently lay hands, Betty appropriated two 7-lb. weights; but she
had not gone more than a mile or two from the town when she found the
weights too heavy to carry, and dropped them beside the hedge.
At that time the Crown Inn, Exford, was kept by Nicholas and Mary
Harwood. One day when Betty was on the spree, Mrs Harwood entered the
house and looked over the old woman’s wardrobe. To her surprise she
found three of her own dresses and several petticoats, which she brought
down into the kitchen, and, spreading them out before old Betty,
inquired how she came by them.
“Needn’t make so much fuss about it,” was the easy response, “for, if
I’d sold ’em, you’d a had the coin.”
As Betty was a good customer at the Crown, Mrs Harwood “kept dark” and
condoned the offence.
On another occasion, Betty brought a bag into the “White Horse” and put
it behind the settle. A man, called Mike Adams, was in the room, and
mischievously turned the bag mouth downwards, so that when old Betty
took it up, out fell the mutton--very likely a joint of Sal Bristowe’s
spot-faced ewe. On hearing the thud, Mike ran round the settle, and was
immediately “squared” by Betty, who observed, “Say nort, and I’ll sell
it and spend the money.”
Before her marriage with Jan, Betty had an illegitimate son, Jack Reed.
In due time this boy was apprenticed to the husband of Sal Bristowe, who
kept a farm and proved a rough master. Things grew so bad that at last
the lad declared that, if he stayed there, he should be either
transported or hanged. Luckily he had a warm friend in young Sally
Bristowe. They had grown up boy and girl together, and shared each
other’s confidences. Privately, Sally made a collection for Jack, and
amassed the large sum of sixteen shillings, which she placed in his
hands.
The ’prentice had now to look out for a favourable opportunity of
escape, and this offered when Farmer Bristowe went to Bratton Fleming
Fair, since by running away at this time the boy was assured of a day’s
start. On going to bed, Jack ostentatiously bolted the door, but
unbolted it “with the same,” so that the old woman might not hear when
he made his exit. The plan worked perfectly, and Jack ultimately settled
down at Bristol.
The master of the Devon and Somerset staghounds (Mr R. A. Sanders)
resides at Exford, and here are the kennels of the pack. The latter are
substantial stone buildings with gable ends, and stand on the slope of a
hill, close beside the road to Simonsbath. One enters first the
“cooking-house,” the lobby of which is hung around with antlered heads,
brow, bay, and tray. Some heads are preserved on account of their
peculiarities or misshapen forms; and to each head is attached a plate
setting forth the date and place of the capture of the animal.
Advancing, one is conscious of a pungent odour, which is found to
proceed from a chamber where a huge furnace is burning fiercely, and a
seething mass of horse flesh is being boiled off the bones for the dogs.
Some of this boiled flesh is in a large wooden trough, and, mixed with
oatmeal, flour, or biscuit, is undergoing a process of solidification.
In the adjoining room are two larger troughs, in one of which biscuit is
soaking, whilst the other contains a quantity of oatmeal paste. Both
sorts of food are intended for the younger dogs.
The kennels of these hounds, situated at a short distance, are provided
with an extensive boarded-in grass plot, which forms their
exercise-yard. When heavy rain does not permit of a parade, they will be
found on the bench. A magnificent lot of dogs, containing the blood of
the most celebrated hounds in the best packs, they are not much
disturbed by the entrance of strangers. Some of them half step down from
the bench, when you pat and stroke them; they do not attempt to bite,
and are, in fact, exceedingly quiet, unless you are foolish enough to
strike them. Then you will see. Although the hounds are so much alike,
the huntsman has the name of each dog on the tip of his tongue, and
when, he calls, the animal is back in his place in an instant--so
absolute is his command.
As regards the older hounds, they are kennelled in the same fashion,
reclining on a bench with a thick layer of clean straw. They have had a
season or two’s “blooding,” and during that time some of them, by their
doings in the pack, have made a name for themselves. A few years ago two
of them had the honour of appearing on several public platforms in
attendance on the huntsman, the late Anthony Huxtable, a merry dog
himself, who, as he could troll a rattling hunting-song, was in great
request at local concerts, and on such occasions brought the hounds with
him as a bit of realism.
Another kennel houses the oldest hounds--dogs which have hunted for
seven seasons or more, and are still fit.
[Illustration: WINSFORD (page 111).]
It is a curious fact that nothing upsets hounds so much as thunder. A
flash of lightning followed by a loud crash of thunder makes every dog
spring to his feet and relieve his feelings by low whines and growls.
A Faggus incident (see below, chapter xiv.) is duly credited to Exford
by Blackmore, who entrusts the telling of it to John Fry (_Lorna Doone_,
chapter xxxix.). He appears, however, to have robbed the parish of a
still more thrilling episode (see chapters xiv. and xvi.).