GOSSIP-TOWN
We have now returned to Dulverton, but our pilgrimage is not yet over,
for we have yet to explore a territory which may be termed the joint
property, or “debateable ground,” of _Lorna Doone_ and the _Maid of
Sker_. The Devon and Somerset line, connecting as it does with the light
railway to Lynton, and the London and South-Western branch from Exeter
to Barnstaple, will be found extremely convenient for our purpose,
although these “iron roads” do not in every instance land us at the
precise spots where we would be. So, peradventure, it may be wisdom to
set up our headquarters at Southmolton and Barnstaple in succession, and
peregrinate from those centres at our discretion.
First, a word of explanation as to the title of this chapter. Far be it
from me to give evil pre-eminence to Southmolton as a school for
scandal, but in chapter xii. of _Lorna Doone_ Blackmore distinctly
states that it is “a busy place for talking.” There is no going from
that.
Southmolton, like Bampton, is subject to the “slings and arrows” of
outrageous criticism as a place where it is “always afternoon.” If that
be so, all I can say is that, personally, I invariably find the P.M.
extremely pleasant, and nothing will induce me to cast a stone at a town
so hospitable. Moreover, it is beyond question an important hub of
Blackmore associations, and the faithful votary of the novelist _must_
betake himself thither. Whether or not the fact be due to this
circumstance, it seems certain that more visitors patronise the
neighbourhood than formerly, and Mr Brown, the obliging chemist, informs
me that he has developed negatives for Americans, from whom he has
received flattering testimonials. Well done, Mr Brown! The following
entry in the visitors’ book at the “George” has an independent interest.
“July 3rd, 1888--Dr Walter B. Gilbert, of New York, U.S., who was saved
by being thrown out of the window at the corner house opposite, during
the fatal fire of July 1835.”
This reminds one of an early incident in the life of a famous divine,
who declared that “the world was his parish.” It was certainly Dr
Gilbert’s.
On one occasion when I stayed at the “George,” where, it may be
remembered, Master Stickles filled his little flat bottle with “the very
best _eau de vie_” (_Lorna Doone_, chapter xlvii.), the fair was in full
swing, and I recollect that, among other attractions, there was a negro
marionette of large size, with aggressive, red lips. A young man
indulged in an entertaining dialogue with him as a prelude to the sale
of quack medicine. Now, the proletariat is master at Southmolton, and
the Corporation dare not remove from the Square the shooting-galleries,
ginger-bread stalls, confetti tents, and other encumbrances connected
with this event. It was whispered to me that at the time of an
Agricultural Show, when the band of the Plymouth division of the Royal
Marines was to perform in the market, the Mayor offered £10 for an hour
and a half’s suspension of the strident and powerful tones of a
steam-organ, but in vain. This mechanical purveyor of popular airs
represents the combined snort of a tornado of galloping horses fitted to
a roundabout of the most modern type. In the old-style roundabout a boy
worked a turnstile, and in doing so sometimes slipped or fell, when he
received pretty severe contusions. This arrangement was succeeded by a
cog-wheel in charge of a man.
At fair time, East Street is blocked with Exmoor sheep and North Devon
cattle, and _à propos_ of this, you may notice over the entrance to the
market three carved rams’ heads. On the first day of the fair, a white
sheepskin glove is projected on a pole from a ring on the side of a
“Star.” Locally, this is supposed to signify the “hand of welcome,”
which accounts perhaps for the nosegay. Another and less romantic
version declares it the “hand of authority.”
Let us stroll through the town in search of adventures. Naturally, our
steps will be directed, in the first instance, to the parish church, of
which the inhabitants are extremely proud. Well, it is handsome, very
handsome--sumptuous, if you like--but the interior is nearly all
brand-new. As to that, however, there are exceptions, and I will
undertake to affirm that the amazing gargoyle on the north side of the
chancel arch, albeit there are gargoyles on the Town Hall and gargoyles
on the “George,” is not of our time. Apparently, it is the face of a
craftsman, and, quite possibly, that of the master-builder of the
church. The pulpit also is ancient; the four evangelists’ flattened
countenances and noses sadly out of repair proclaim a reckoning with
time. The font is ancient and goodly. The tower is a fine one, as is
also that of Northmolton; but if you would see what North Devon can show
in the shape of church towers, away to Chittlehampton. There is a local
proverb: “Southmolton for strength; Chittlehampton for beauty,” and
tradition states that the tower of the fane of St Heriswitha was erected
by a pupil of the man that built Southmolton tower.
For my own part, I find Southmolton churchyard, with its walled and
paved avenues, more stimulating than the church. The margins of four
banks were, it appears, planted with lime-trees in 1735-6, and
twenty-five years later the New Walk was adorned with similar trees.
These in 1866 were rooted up by a “fanatical iconoclast,” but others
took their place, and so there is at present not much occasion to find
fault.
I remember one September evening standing in this churchyard and talking
to that worthy man, the sexton, when he mentioned to me casually that it
was the scene of a desperate battle. Particulars he had none to give,
and for the nonce I had forgotten my history book, so we stood and gazed
in silence, with a sense of vague respect and profound mystery, at the
home of the dead, on which the shades of evening were rapidly falling.
Too late to enlighten him, I recalled the abortive rising of the
Cavaliers in 1655, when Sir Joseph Wagstaffe, aided and abetted by a
couple of Wiltshire squires, Hugh Groves and John Penruddock, and a
force of loyal Cornishmen, proclaimed Prince Charles king at
Southmolton, after a rather discreditable fiasco at Southampton.
Cromwell’s troops were soon on their traces, and in a bloody fight,
mainly in the churchyard, the Royalists were hopelessly defeated.
Wagstaffe and a few of his officers escaped by jumping their horses over
the north-west portion of the churchyard wall (on which some forty years
ago a lime-house was built), and, crossing Exmoor, arrived at
Bridgewater. Groves and Penruddock, with twenty others, were captured
and conducted to the castle at Exeter, where they were arraigned for
high treason, found guilty, and executed. The leaders were beheaded and
the rest hanged, the drawing and quartering, ordinarily a feature in
such ceremonies, being omitted.
Comedy, as well as tragedy, may claim Southmolton churchyard for her
own, for here Bampfylde Moore Carew, the famous King of the Gipsies,
wreaked dire vengeance on the local bellman, who had insulted him, by
appearing in the likeness of Infernal Majesty, and chasing the
affrighted officer among the tombs. The fact that the ghost of an old
gentleman not long deceased was reputed to walk the churchyard probably
made this characteristic revenge more easy.
A ruinous building, to which no stranger uninitiated would direct more
than a passing glance, stands back from the road on Factory Hill. Once
it was a celebrated academy, at which nearly all the youth of
Southmolton, and doubtless many boys of the neighbouring parishes,
received their education. In this now abandoned seat of learning there
were two departments--an English school and a Latin school--for which
there were separate halls. The place wears a horrible appearance of
neglect and desecration, but some of the old fittings yet remain, and
when I inspected it, there were even some loose forms amongst the
miscellaneous lumber. The founder was one Hugh Squier, a lesser Peter
Blundell, who left injunctions that his portrait should be hung in what
is now the sitting-room of a cottage, but was then, no doubt, the
master’s house, and that there, as if he were bodily present, his
trustees should dine once a year. The portrait has been removed to the
Town Hall. There is also a beautiful miniature of Squier attached to the
mayor’s chain of office, which is probably at his worship’s.
Southmolton has been a great place for poets, the best of them being
perhaps Richard Manley, a journeyman saddler, who died in 1832. The
following lines are taken from a poem after Gray, entitled
_Recollections of Schoolboy Days_, and supposed to be written in front
of Squier’s Free School, where the author had been taught reading,
writing, and arithmetic:--
“Ah! it was there, where yon green trees are bending,
And waving gently to the sunny air,
Where schoolboys dally, anxiously contending
For empty honours in their sports--’twas there
Young life to me with hope and joy was beaming;
Its sun in brightness rose, in sweetness set;
And childhood’s happy hours were spent in dreaming
Of future bliss and happier moments yet:
And now those dreams are vanisht and forsaken
By childhood’s hopes: to manhood I awaken.”
Personally, I must confess, I should not have appreciated the pathos of
the scholastic derelict but for my good friend, the late Mayor of
Southmolton, who offered his services as cicerone. Mr Kingdon was
formerly associated with the firm of Crosse, Day, and Crosse,
solicitors, and he recollects Blackmore coming into their office, his
object being to look over some documents relating to the Manor of Oare.
On leaving, he complained that he had not found much to the purpose; but
Mr Kingdon is not so sure.
Speaking of Mayors--and we must not forget that Master Paramore was a
high member of the town council (see _Lorna Doone_, chapter xii.)--the
chief magistrate of Southmolton is noted for the splendour of his
official retinue--doubtless a legacy from the days when corporations
were wont to insist more than they do now on outward show and ceremony.
Mr Mills, a local historian, gives an excellent account of the old
style, founded in part on his own recollections:
“The Bailiff’s livery is a coat and vest of cerulean colour, with red
facings, velveteen breeches, and a gold-laced, three-cornered hat. This
functionary formerly, as part of his livery, wore red stockings, but on
the appointment of Mr Philip Widgery about sixty years ago (1892), he
besought the Corporation to provide him with gaiters--alleging as a
reason that his legs were the same shape as German flutes. His petition
was granted, and he and his successors have had their legs encased in
drab gaiters. The Sergeants at Mace have three-cornered hats and ample
blue cloaks--both hats and cloaks being trimmed with gold lace.
“Prior to the Municipal Corporations Reform Act, 1834, these three
officers always proceeded with the Mayor and other members of the
Corporation to the Parish Church every Sunday morning. All the members
wore robes; those who had passed the office of Mayor wore scarlet gowns,
the other members were robed in black. A posse of the borough constables
always preceded this procession, carrying blue staves with the borough
arms in gilt letters on the upper end. These staves were about six feet
long, and are preserved at the Guildhall. As soon as the second lesson
had been read, the four took their staves in their hands, and holding
them aloft, marched sedately out of church, to pay visits to the
public-houses, in order to see if any person was tippling in them during
Divine Service. The first place of call was the ‘Ring of Bells,’
adjacent to the churchyard, where, knowing the exact time their visit
would be paid, the landlord had four half-pints of ale in readiness for
their delectation as soon as they arrived. A similar visit was next paid
to the ‘King’s Arms,’ and similar treatment awaited them there.
Generally by the time these two visits had been paid, the congregation
at the church had been dismissed, and the vigilant constables retired to
their respective homes to preside over the family dinner, and to
[Illustration: SQUARE AT SOUTHMOLTON (page 204).]
say grace, after eating it, as good churchmen should do.”
We are now to travel back three centuries and more, to the reign of
Queen Elizabeth.
Leaving Southmolton for a time, we set out in the first instance for an
ancient manor-house about three miles distant, in the parish of Bishop’s
Nympton. In doing so, we pass two old factories, which formerly gave
employment to three hundred combers, etc. One of them is now a grist
mill, while the other is turned to account as a collar factory, in which
a score or two of women imitate the “little busy bee.” As for the men
who once worked in the mills, on the break-up of the industry some
transferred their services to Mr Vicary, of North Tawton, while others
migrated to Yorkshire.
A well-remembered character at Southmolton, Chappie, the parish clerk,
was seated as usual at the foot of the pulpit, when the late rector, Mr
King, being momentarily at a loss, whispered down to him, “What do they
make at the factory?” Chappie replied in an audible tone, “Serge.”
Whereupon the preacher resumed, “I am informed,” etc., drawing an
illustration from the fabric.
Through winding lanes and some rough fields, which Leland would probably
have described as “morisch,” lies the approach to Whitechapel, and were
it not for the railway, with its “level crossing,” the spot would be
rightly described as sequestered, and such as could hardly be excelled
as the scene of a tragedy or perhaps a romance. The house stands on the
slope of a green hill, against which its white walls stand pleasantly
outlined. It has two courtyards, the inner being entered by a gateway
flanked by tall brick pillars surmounted by huge globes. It is said that
on this inner platform were mounted cannon--a battery of five pieces of
ordnance. About fifty years ago the original mullioned windows were
removed by a farmer-tenant, and deposited in a cellar, where they were
lately discovered. Some of them have been re-inserted in the right end
of the building. In the rear the remains of an old hearth have been
found, showing that cooking was carried on outside the house proper. The
interior is remarkable for a splendid oak screen. The place is now in
thoroughly good hands, but it has naturally suffered from having been so
long a farmhouse, the occupiers of which were profoundly indifferent to
its contents and history. The present owner, Captain Glossop, when I met
him, was bringing taste and energy to bear on the old mansion, although
portions of it were beyond repair.
Working backwards, I find that at the beginning of the last century the
property was in Chancery, and sold by the order of the Lord Chancellor
by public auction. The purchaser was a familiar figure in Southmolton, a
Mr Sanger, who occupied Whitechapel till his death. He made it his boast
that he cut down and sold enough timber on the estate to pay the whole
of the purchase money. At one time the property belonged to an ancestor
of Sir John Heathcoat-Amory; and during the Civil Wars it was the
residence of Colonel Basset, one of Prince’s “Worthies.” Blackmore
clearly remembered this circumstance when he introduced Sir Roger
Bassett into his work (_Lorna Doone_, chapter xlvi.), and allowed him to
be victimised by the joint cunning of lawyers and outlaw.
According to Prince, the place was the original home of all the Bassets;
and the walls, as they now stand, were built during the reign of
Elizabeth by Sir Robert de Basset, on the site of an earlier structure,
and in the fashionable shape of an E. A few years later the knight lost
his wife, and having had the good fortune to win the heart and hand of
Mistress Beaumont of Umberleigh, removed to her mansion, standing where
once had stood King Athelstan’s palace. Umberleigh was afterwards the
property of John o’ Gaunt, from whom it passed to a relative--a fact to
which old doggerel lines bear witness:
“I John o’ Gaunt, do give and grant,
From me and mine, to thee and thine,
The barton fee of Umberlee.”
Sir Robert de Basset not only bade adieu to Whitechapel, whither he
never returned, but shortly before the death of Queen Elizabeth, he made
another change, and for the sake of his wife’s health, took up his
residence at Heanton Court, she having brought to him the manors of
Sherwill and Heanton Punchardon. Situated on the right bank of the Taw,
about three miles below Barnstaple, Heanton Court is now only a
picturesque farmhouse, but sixty years ago, according to an eye-witness,
the walls were still worse, and resembled a dilapidated factory. This
place, as will be shown more plainly hereafter, was the original of the
Narnton Court of the _Maid of Sker_.
Now Sir Robert and his wife were both descended from the
Plantagenets--his wife certainly, and Sir Robert himself, if there was
any truth in the allegation that his great-great-grandmother was the
illegitimate daughter of Edward IV. Be that as it may, the knight saw
fit to join himself to the inglorious company of claimants to the vacant
throne of the Virgin Queen, two hundred in number; and, on the accession
of King James, he had, in consequence to escape down the river Taw and
sail into the open sea _en route_ for the Continent. Two years later an
edict was promulgated, assuring the pretenders that, on dutiful
submission, they would be allowed to escape with a fine. So the Bassets
came back, and on bended knees craved King Jamie’s forgiveness. Mrs
Basset of Watermouth Castle is said to be the possessor of the
embroidered silk apron worn by Lady Basset on this memorable occasion.
The monarch used rough language, intimating to the male suppliant that
he was a big bird, and that he must clip his wings--no idle threat,
since he imposed a fine necessitating the sale of fifteen manors. The
title also was annulled.
The next station to Umberleigh on the London and South-Western line is
Burrington, where Mrs Shapland was discovered (_Maid of Sker_, chapter
lxiv.).
About three miles and a half west of Southmolton lies the parish of
Filleigh, in which is situate Castle Hill, the beautiful seat of Earl
Fortescue, with its park of over eight hundred acres, a feature of which
is an avenue of trees nearly a mile long, leading to a triumphal arch.
The name Castle Hill is actually a misnomer, as the mansion is not of
the old baronial type; but the top of the wooded eminence, on whose
slope it stands, has an artificial ruin, serving to keep the description
in countenance. From the terrace the ground drops away to an ornamental
lake, and what with the clusters of trees, the shrubbery, and the rare
garden, Castle Hill may be fairly commended as a domain worthy of the
ancient family by which it is owned. One old building which has now
disappeared, was called the “Hermitage.” This was the subject of a poem
by Mr Badcock, a native of Southmolton, in the _London Magazine_ for
1782, but I have been unable to discover much about it, save that it
bore the inscription: “I have seen an end of all perfection, but Thy
commandment is exceeding broad”--a suitable text, one may think, for a
hermitage.
The grounds of Castle Hill were remodelled by Hugh Fortescue, Lord
Clinton, created Earl Clinton and Baron Fortescue in 1746. He died
without issue in 1751, when the earldom became extinct. The barony
passed to his half-brother Matthew, who died in 1785, and was succeeded
by his son Hugh. In 1789 the latter was created Earl Fortescue and
Viscount Ebrington, the second title being derived from his
Gloucestershire seat, Ebrington Hall. He was followed by his son, also
called Hugh, who had taken an active part in the debates on the Reform
Bill in the Lower House, and was appointed Lord-Lieutenant and Custos
Rotulorum of the County of Devon. An interesting episode in this
nobleman’s career was a visit to Napoleon in December 1814, of which he
published a vivacious description.
The present earl was born in 1818. As is well known, he has long
suffered from an affection of the eyes, brought about by a conscientious
discharge of public duty. Viscount Ebrington, his eldest son, now
occupies the honourable position so ably filled by his grandfather.
For a full history of the Fortescue family in all its branches, the
reader is referred to the late Lord Clermont’s large and handsome volume
on the subject, of which it contains an exhaustive account. Here it may
be observed that the name, which is a little remarkable, is traced to an
incident in the battle of Senlac, when Richard le Fort saved the life of
William, Duke of Normandy, by protecting him with his shield from the
blows of his assailants. From that time, and for that reason, he was
known as Richard le Fortescue, or Strong Shield. Such, at least, is
Holinshed’s story. Tradition further states that after the Conquest
Richard returned to Normandy, where his descendants through his second
son, Richard, continued to flourish till the eighteenth century. The
eldest son, Sir Adam, who had also fought at Senlac, remained behind in
England, and was the ancestor of all the English Fortescues.
Among the benefactors of Southmolton occurs the name of Lord Fortescue
of Credan, who left £50 to the poor of the parish. A Justice of the
Common Pleas, and descended from an offshoot of the Castle Hill branch
(which, by the way, is not the senior), the _Conveyancer’s Guide_
preserves the following amusing anecdote respecting him. The baron was
the possessor of one of the strangest noses ever seen, much resembling
the trunk of an elephant. “Brother, brother,” said he to the counsel,
“you are handling the case in a very lame manner.” “No, no, my lord,”
was his reply, “have patience with me, and I will make it as plain as
the nose on your lordship’s face.”