THE MOUTH OF THE LYN
The scenery of the district described in many excellent guide-books may
not tally in every particular with the superb word-portraiture of _Lorna
Doone_, but that it possesses charms of supreme merit will be admitted
by all who know the country, whether as residents or visitors. Almost
before R. D. Blackmore was breeched, the poet Coleridge testified: “the
land imagery of the north of Devon is most delightful”; and his
brother-in-law, Robert Southey, is equally emphatic.
“My walk to Ilfracombe,” he says, “led me through Lynmouth, the finest
spot, except Cintra and Arrabida, that I ever saw. Two rivers [_i.e._,
the East and West Lyn] join at Lynmouth. You probably know the hill
streams of Devonshire. Each of these flows through a combe, rolling over
huge stones like a long waterfall; immediately at their juncture they
enter the sea, and the rivers and sea make but one noise of uproar. Of
these combes, the one is richly wooded, the other runs between two high,
bare, stony hills. From the hill between the two is a prospect most
magnificent, on either hand combes, and the river before the little
village--the beautiful little village--which, I am assured, by one who
is familiar with Switzerland, resembles a Swiss. This alone would
constitute a view beautiful enough to repay the weariness of a journey;
but, to complete it, there is the blue and boundless sea, for the faint
and feeble outline of the Welsh coast is only to be seen, if the day be
perfectly clear.”
Inland, it is certain, the moorland streams--Lancombe, Bagworthy Water,
the East and West Lyn, etc.--and all that they imply, are paramount
attractions; and Miss Gratiana Chanter both truly and happily observes
that, “to follow one of these tiny streams from its birth to its end, is
a dream of delight to those who love to be alone with nature and her
many marvels.” Another reason why we should seek the “founts of Lyn” is,
that there Jeremy Stickles gave his pursuers “a loud halloo” on feeling
himself secure (see _Lorna Doone_, chapter xlvii.).
The name “Lyn” is said to be derived from the Saxon word _hlynna_,
signifying a torrent. The East Lyn, rising above Oare, John Ridd’s
birthplace, flows in a north-westerly direction to Malmsmead, where it
unites with the Bagworthy Water, which at this point is the richer for
two or three tributaries, including Lancombe (or Longcombe) stream and
its waterslide. From the bridge and the thatched cottages that define
this spot, the river pursues its course past Lyford Green and Lock’s
Mill, where it encounters a weir, to Millslade and its meadows, and the
blacksmith’s forge, “where the Lyn stream runs so close that he dips
his horse-shoes in it,” (_Lorna Doone_, chapter lxii.), and thence
through woodlands to pretty Brendon. Here the Farley Water, arriving
from Hoar Oak by way of Bridgeball and Illford Bridges, joins the East
Lyn, and their confluence is known as Watersmeet, a poetical description
not belied by the rare beauty of the scene.
Meanwhile, from the hills around Woolhanger the water gathers into two
streams, which are trysted at a place called Barham, whilst at
Cheribridge another brook, hailing from Furzehill, helps to swell the
current. Passing Barbrook Mill and Lynbridge, the West Lyn weds the East
Lyn in private grounds at Lynmouth, and then the combined torrent eddies
tumultuously into the sea. Nothing can excel the cataracts of the West
Lyn, dashing athwart huge boulders and down a chasm of grey rock, in an
incline stated to be “one in five.” Clothing the sides of the ravine are
oaks and beeches and thickets of underwood, while ferns of the most
exquisite sorts fringe the banks.
“Here are mosses deep,
And thro’ the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
And from the craggy ledges the poppy hangs in sleep.”
It must not be forgotten, however, that the road _via_ Brendon, Illford
Bridges, and Barbrook was that taken by John Ridd and Uncle Reuben on
their visit to Ley Manor (_Lorna Doone_, chapter xv.).
All who are fond of quaint authors will find a congenial companion in
old Thomas Westcote, whose _Survey of Devon_, written in the reign of
James I., or during the early years of his successor, is stored with all
manner of gossip, set forth with many a stroke of arch or _naïve_
humour. In his book, at all events, he approaches Lynton by much the
same route as we have followed, and then spins us an amusing yarn about
the finny visitors and a certain parson.
“For our easier and better proceeding, let us once again return to
Exmoor. We will, with an easy pace, ascend the mount of Hore Oak Ridge;
not far from whence we shall find the spring of the rivulet Lynne,
which, in his course, will soon lead us into the North Division, for I
desire you should always swim with the stream, and neither stem wind nor
tide. This passeth by Cunsbear, _alias_ Countisbury, and naming Lynton,
where Galfridus Lovet and Cecilia de Lynne held sometime land, and,
speeding, falls headlong with a great downfall into the Severn at
Lynmouth; a place unworthy the name of a haven, only a little inlet,
which, in these last times, God hath plentifully stored with herrings
(the king of fishes), which, shunning their ancient places of repair in
Ireland, come hither abundantly in shoals, offering themselves (as I may
say) to the fishers’ nets, who soon resorted hither with divers
merchants, and so, for five or six years, continued to the great benefit
and good of the country, until the parson taxed the poor fishermen for
extraordinary unusual tithes, and then (as the inhabitants report) the
fish suddenly clean left the coast, unwilling, as may be supposed, by
losing their lives to cause contention. God be thanked, they begin to
resort hither again, though not as yet in such multitudes as heretofore.
Henry de Lynmouth, after him Isabella de Albino, and now Wichals,
possesseth it. A generous family: he married Pomerois; his father,
Achelond, his grandfather, Munck.”
Concerning the “generous family” more anon; we have not quite done with
the sign of Pisces. Originally Lynmouth was a little village--Blackmore
speaks of it as “the little haven of Lynmouth” (_Lorna Doone_, chapter
xxxix.)--whose inhabitants dwelt in huts and depended for a livelihood
on the curing of herrings, which was carried on in drying-houses. From
the beginning of September to the end of October shoals of these fish
frequented the shore, and sometimes their number was so great that tons
of them were thrown away or used as manure. In 1797 the herrings
deserted the coast, and the peasantry attributed their conduct to the
insult just referred to. The common duration of truancy was computed at
forty years--a calculation which seems to hold true of the period
between 1747 and 1787. The following decade consisted of fat years, when
the sea at Lynmouth yielded rich autumnal harvests, and masses of
herrings were sent to Bristol, whence they were shipped to the West
Indies. From 1797 to 1837, and indeed longer, the fish fought shy of the
place, but not entirely. On Christmas Day, 1811, there was an
exceptional and very abundant shoal of herrings, and the inhabitants
were called out of church in order to take them out of the weirs. A
similar gift of fortune marked the year 1823. Practically, however, the
fishermen’s avocation was gone, and they had to look elsewhere for a
livelihood. Happily, they did not look in vain. Pastured on the
surrounding hills were large flocks of sheep, and in the neighbouring
towns there was a constant demand for yarn. This was of two kinds--one
for the woof, consisting of worsted, which was supplied by the Yorkshire
mills; the other for the warp, which was of softer texture, and then
made by hand. The latter industry became the chief--almost the
sole--prop of Lynton and Lynmouth, where the good people diligently
applied themselves to spinning, and by this means kept the wolf from the
door.
The sea-fishing is not altogether unconnected with the history of the De
Wichehalses, since the original fishermen are stated to have been Dutch
Protestants forced by religious (or irreligious?) persecution to
emigrate from their homes by the Zuyder Zee. The names Litson, Vellacot,
etc., still borne by local families, are quoted as evidence of Dutch
extraction. A trade in cured herrings sprang up with Scotland, and the
Dutchmen not only had commercial transactions with Scotch sailors and
traders, but married, many of them, braw Scotch lassies who came to buy
their herrings. The possible bearing of this intercourse on the problem
of _Lorna Doone_ will not escape attention. It was at Lynmouth that old
Will Watcombe, the great authority on the “Gulf Stream,” lived and
sought to be buried (_Lorna Doone_, chapter xii.).
Now as to the Wichehalses, whose name Blackmore spells with a
supererogatory “h”--Whichehalse. The Protestants of the Low Countries
had often attempted, by petition and remonstrance, to bend the stubborn
will of their master, Philip II., and not a few of the Gueux or
Beggars--a sobriquet bestowed on the Huguenot conspirators who met at
Breda--left the country in despair. In 1567 the Spanish despot
dispatched to the ill-fated land the Duke of Alva with an army of 20,000
men, and the latter signalised his arrival by instituting a “Council of
Blood,” which resulted in the execution of 1800 patriots, while 30,000
more were reduced to abject straits by the confiscation of their
property. Hordes of terrified Dutch folk fled to England, in the wake of
the nobles, and a certain number of them settled, as we have seen, on
the north coast of Devon.
Hugh de Wichehalse belonged, strictly speaking, to neither class of
fugitives. The head of a noble and wealthy family, which had early
become converts to the principles of the Reformation, he continued to
struggle for his beliefs until the fatal day of Gemmingen, when,
escaping the clutches of the vindictive Spaniards, he crossed the
channel with his wife and children. The bulk of his property had
already, by a timely precaution, been removed hither.
Such is the tradition which has to be reconciled with the pedigree of
the family in the visitation of 1620. This shows three generations, and,
to say the least, would be consistent with a much longer settlement in
the county. The following is a copy:--
[Illustration: JUNCTION OF LYN AND BAGWORTHY WATER (page 163).]
NICHOLAS WICHALSE = MARGERIE,
of Chudley, in Devon, | d. of
gent. |
+--------------+------------------+----------+-------+-------------------------+
| | | | |
MARGERY, JOHN = JOANE, JOANNA, WILLM. = ELLEN, NICHOLAS = MARY,
wife to WICHALSE | D. and Co-h. Wife of WICHALSE, | d. of WICHALSE | d. and h.
Peter of | of Bartholomew 2 sonne. | Humphry of | of
Lutton Chudley, | Cotwell, Borringdon | Walrond Barnstaple | Richard Welsh
of in Devon. | b. ---- of Ydford. | of Bisofield, in Devon, | of Pilton.
Nowleghe, | d. and co-h. | in Devon, 3 sonne. |
Devon, | of ---- | relict of |
gent. | | Anthony JOANE.
| | Fortescue.
| |
| +-------+-------+
| | |
| RICHARD MARGERY.
| WICHALSE. JANE.
| JOANE.
+----------+--------------+-------------------------------+
| | | |
CHRISTIAN, JOHN, 2. RICHARD = ELINOR, JOANE,
2 dau. GEORGE, 3. WICHALSE d. of ux. Thos. Sterte
ELLEN, 3. NICHOLAS, 4. of Chudley, John Marwood of Stert,
BENNET, 5. eldest son. of Westcott, Devon.
THOMAS, 6. in Count. Devon.
PIERCE, 7.
JOHN, 8.
On one point there is no possible doubt--namely, that the Wichehalses
were once owners of a manor-house at Lynton, standing on the site of the
handsome residence known as Lee Abbey. Traces of the old structure were
to be seen in an intermediate building, and gave indications of much
splendour, while, as could be easily recognised, the adjacent fields and
orchards formed part of the erstwhile pleasure-grounds. Just above Lee
Abbey is Duty Point, famous for its beautiful views--northwards, the
belt of silver sea, southwards the heathery hills, eastwards the Valley
of Rocks, and westwards the grey oaks of Woody Bay; famous, too, as the
scene of romantic tragedy. The principal personages of the story were
old Wichehalse, his daughter Jennifried, and cruel Lord Auberley. One
evening the lovelorn maiden fell or threw herself over the terrific
precipice; and, hungry for revenge, her father met and slew the false
suitor at the battle of Lansdown, near Bath--one of the memorable
encounters of the Great Civil War. It is needless to recapitulate the
details of the narrative. The story has been told by Blackmore in his
_Tales from the Telling House_; and before that, it was told very
pathetically by Mr Cooper in his _Guide to Lynton_.
On the south wall of Lynton Church, close to the west window, is the
following inscription on the monument of Hugh Wichehalse of Ley, who
departed this life, Christide Eve, 1653, æt. 66.
“No, not in silence, least those stones below
That hide such worth, should in spight vocal grow.
Wee’l rather sob it out, our grateful teares
Congeal’d to Marble shall vy threnes with theirs.
This weeping Marble then Drops this releife
To draw fresh lines to fame, and Fame to greife;
To greife which groanes sad loss in him t’ us all,
Whose name was Wichehalse--’twas a Cedar’s fall.
For search this Urn of Learned dust, you’le find
Treasures of Virtue and Piety enshrin’d,
Rare Paterns of blest Peace and Amity,
Models of Grace, Emblems of Charity,
Rich Talents not in niggard napkins Layd,
But Piously dispenced, justly payd,
Chast Sponsal Love t’ his Consort; to Children nine
Surviving th’ other fowre his care did shine
In Pious Education; to Neighbours, friends,
Love seald with Constancy, which knowes no end.
Death would have stolne this Treasure, but in vaine--
It stung, but could not kill; all wrought his gaine.
His Life was hid with Christ; Death only made this story,
Christ cal’d him hence his Eve, to feast with him in glory.”
The subject of this epitaph would have been the hero of the legend. One
may observe, in passing, the play upon words, the Scotch elm being often
termed the _wych_ elm. This suggests a possible, and indeed probable,
derivation of the name. The reader should compare Blackmore’s account of
the family, and especially his portrait of Hugh Wichehalse, in chapter
xv. of _Lorna Doone_.
According to the folklore of the district it was intended to build the
church at Kibsworthy, opposite Cheribridge, on the Barnstaple road, and
day after day the workmen brought materials to the spot. Each morning,
however, it was found that they had been carried away during the night
to the present site--it was supposed by pixies; and finally, those
little gentlemen had their way. Obviously, little dependence can be
placed on folklore where questions of fact are concerned. A small
volume, entitled _Legends of Devon_, printed at Dawlish in 1848,
contains another story about a church equally void--the story, and the
church, too--of foundation. In the middle of the twelfth century, it is
said, Lynton Castle was the abode of a family named Lynton, in whom the
Evil One, from the year 500, had taken a malicious interest. Reginald of
that ilk then resolved to erect a church at Lynmouth in honour of his
God, and chose for it the site of an old abbey. This devout undertaking
ended the long and dreadful spell. “The castle fell, the cliff heaved as
if in pain, and the terrible convulsion formed the valley of rocks. The
devil was seen scudding before the wind; he had lost his hold on the
House of Lynton.” Unfortunately, there never was a castle at Lynton, nor
an abbey or church at Lynmouth. Moreover, one learns from Hazlitt, that,
according to the popular belief, the rocks represent persons caught
dancing on a Sunday, and so, like Lot’s wife, transformed into stone.
The “Valley of Rocks,” is not the primitive name of this singular and
romantic spot. The Devon peasantry knew it of old as the “Danes” or
“Denes”--a term probably connected with the word “den,” and signifying
“hollows.” Prebendary Hancock, in his estimable _History of Selworthy_,
shows it to be a commonplace name in this corner of the world. One is
tempted to inquire--who christened the locality the “Valley of Rocks?”
The problem is perhaps insoluble, but the _London Magazine_ for 1782
contains a poem on the “Valley of Stones,” in a note on which it is
stated that the place owed this name to Dr Pococke, Bishop of Upper
Ossory, who had visited it “some years since” with Dr Mills, the Dean of
Exeter.
Some have found fault with the name “Valley of Rocks” as too ambitious,
but attempts to belittle the grandeur of the spot would have received
small support from Southey, who wrote about the scene in the language of
ecstasy.
“Imagine a narrow vale between two ridges of hills somewhat steep; the
southern hill turfed; the vale which runs from east to west covered with
huge stones and fragments of stone among the fern that fills it; the
northern ridge completely bare; excoriated of all turf and all soil, the
very bones and skeletons of the earth; rock reclining upon rock, stone
piled upon stone; a huge, terrific mass--a palace of the pre-Adamite
kings, a city of the Anakim, must have appeared so shapeless, and yet so
like the ruins of what had been shaped after the waters of the Flood had
subsided. I ascended, with some toil, the highest point; two large
stones inclining on each other formed a rude portal on the summit. Here
I sat down. A little level platform, about two yards long, lay before
me, and then the eye immediately fell upon the sea far, very far below.
I never felt the sublimity of solitude before.”
Southey evidently referred to the “Castle Rock” on the right. On the
left is the pile of stone which marked the abode of Mother Melldrum (see
_Lorna Doone_, chapter xvii.). Blackmore mentions two names by which the
place was known--the “Devil’s Cheese-ring” and the “Devil’s
Cheese-knife,” which he states to be convertible; but there appears to
have been a third--the “Devil’s Cheese-press.”
At one time the valley was the fitting haunt of a herd of wild goats,
but the animals had to be destroyed--they butted so many sheep over the
adjoining cliffs.
It would be pardonable to imagine that Lynton is indebted for its
popularity as a watering-place to _Lorna Doone_, but this would betray
ignorance of its history. I have spoken of the spinning industry
formerly carried on by hand; when that ceased owing to the introduction
of machinery into the towns, the dealers, who had employed people to
work up the wool or bought up the poor folk’s yarn and taken it to
larger markets, found their occupation gone. What was to be done? Mr
William Litson, one of the persons in this predicament, hit upon the
idea of opening an hotel. This was at the beginning of the last century,
but already visitors, hearing reports of the rare and beautiful scenery,
wended their way to Lynton, although not in large numbers. For their
accommodation Mr Litson acquired the “Globe,” and furnished also the
adjoining cottage. Among the first to patronise his establishment were
Mr Coutts the banker, and the Marchioness of Bute. From that time the
tale of visitors rapidly grew until, in 1807, the enterprising Mr Litson
was encouraged to build the “Valley of Rocks” Hotel. The ball had now
been fairly set rolling; hotels, lodging-houses, and private residences
multiplied, and in the middle of the last century--years before a line
of _Lorna Doone_ had been written or so much
[Illustration: THE CHEESEWRING, VALLEY OF ROCKS.]
as meditated--Lynton and Lynmouth were in all essentials the same as
they are now.
To the lover of nature and the simplicity of country life this
conversion of scenery into shekels, and Exmoor into Bayswater,
represents by no means pure gain, albeit the lover of humanity may
decide otherwise--on the principle of the greatest happiness of the
greatest number. Both sorts, however, may unite in casting curious
glances at the old Lynton which courted neither aristocratic nor
democratic favour, and actually had a revel. This began on the first
Sunday after Midsummer Day, and lasted a week. When the congregations
emerged from the parish church, there awaited them near the gate a
barrel of beer, and the majority of them were speedily “at it,” quaffing
a glass or discussing revel-cake--a special confection made of dark
flour, currants, and caraway seeds. The principal feature in this, as in
all revels, was the wrestling, in anticipation of which big sums were
laid out in prizes. Silver spoons, for instance, were sometimes an
incentive to competition. However, what with the drunkenness and the
collusion that characterised too often the annual festival, the custom
became obsolescent, and then obsolete, having incurred the taboo of the
“respectable inhabitant” and the genuine sportsman alike.
In chapter xv. of the _Maid of Sker_ mention is made of the practice of
singing hymns at funeral processions on the Welsh side of the Bristol
Channel. The same practice obtained on the North Devon side. One of the
singers gave out the words verse by verse and the dirge was chanted to
peculiar music reserved for such occasions. The first two or three
verses were sung on the removal of the coffin from the house before the
procession started, and the rest at intervals _en route_ to the church.
The following is a hymn used at the funeral of a grown-up person:--
“Farewell, all my parents[16] dear,
And, all my friends, farewell!
I hope I’m going to that place,
Where Christ and saints do dwell.
“Oppressed with grief long time I’ve been,
My bones cleave to my skin;
My flesh is wasted quite away
With pain that I was in.
“Till Christ his messenger did send
And took my life away,
To mingle with my mother earth,
And sleep with fellow clay.
“Into thy hands I give my soul;
Oh! cast it not aside;
But favour me and hear my prayer,
And be my rest and guide.
“Affliction hath me sore oppressed,
Brought me to death in time;
O Lord, as thou hast promised
Let me to life return.
“How blest is he who is prepared,
Who fears not at his death;
Love fills his heart, and hope his breast,
With joy he yields his breath.
[Illustration: “THE WATERSLIDE,” LANCOMBE (page 163).]
“Vain world, farewell! I must begone,
I cannot longer stay;
My time is spent, my glass is run,
God’s will I must obey.
“For when that Christ to judgment comes,
He unto us will say,
If we his laws observe and keep,
‘Ye blessed, come away!’”
A friend of mine wrote to Blackmore respecting the harvest-song in
_Lorna Doone_ (chapter xxix.), being under the impression that it might
be a true farmhouse ditty such as were common until a comparatively
recent date. The romancer, however, admitted that the composition was
his own.