The Taw and the Torridge
'Hither from my moorland home,
Nymph of Torridge, proud I come;
Leaving fen and furzy brake,
Haunt of eft and spotted snake ...
Nursling of the mountain sky,
Leaving Dian's choir on high,
Down her cataracts laughing loud,
Ockment leapt from crag and cloud,
Leading many a nymph, who dwells
Where wild deer drink in ferny dells....
Graecia, prize thy parsley crown;
Boast thy laurel, Caesar's town;
Moorland myrtle still shall be
Badge of Devon's Chivalry!'
KINGSLEY: _Westward Ho!_
'All who have travelled through the delicious scenery of North Devon
must needs know the little white town of Bideford, which slopes upwards
from its broad tide-river paved with yellow sands, and many-arched old
bridge, where salmon wait for autumn floods, toward the pleasant upland
in the west. Above the town the hills close in, cushioned with deep
oak-woods, through which juts here and there a crag of fern-fringed
slate; below they lower and open more and more on softly rounded knolls
and fertile squares of red and green, till they sink into the wide
expanse of hazy flats, rich salt-marshes, and rolling sand-hills, where
Torridge joins her sister Taw, and both together flow quietly toward the
broad surges of the bar and the everlasting thunder of the long Atlantic
swell.'
It is difficult to imagine that there could be a more fitting
description of Bideford than that drawn in the opening words of
'Westward Ho!' Bideford, it has been said, is spoilt by ugly modern
houses, but the remark implies a matter-of-fact view, for the ugliness
and modernness are only skin-deep, and can easily be ignored. A matter
of far greater importance is that there is an old-world essence, a
dignity in the whole tone and spirit of the town, that keep it in touch
with the glorious past.
Faithful followers of the heroes on the borderland of myth--King Arthur,
Charlemagne, Holger Danske--believed that in their country's need these
would arise from the shades to lead their people to victory; and at
Bideford one feels that, should any 'knight of the sea' return, he would
find a town not strange to him, and, if the stress were sharp enough to
pierce the thin husk that later civilization has added, a people who
would understand and not fail him.
The name comes from By-the-ford, but a ford between East-the-water and
the town must have been rather perilous, and only possible at low-tide.
In the early part of the fourteenth century some of the chief
inhabitants resolved to build a bridge, but several efforts were made in
vain, for they were always thwarted by failure to find a firm enough
foundation. Then Sir Richard Gurney, priest of the place, was
'admonished by a vision ... to begin that excellent work ... where he
should find a stone fixed in the ground.' This dream he thought nothing
of, 'until, walking by the river, he espied such a stone or rock there
rolled and fixed firmly, which he never remembered to have seen
formerly,' and was hereby convinced 'that his dream was no other than an
heavenly inspiration.' The whole neighbourhood combined to help, the
rich sending money and lending the services of their workmen, and the
poor giving such time and labour as they could afford. The bridge, which
has since been widened, is a very fine one, of twenty-four arches.
Westcote says: 'A bark of 60 tons (without masts) may pass and repass
with the tide, which flows near five miles above it.'
Gifts and bequests were made to the bridge, and the funds belonging to
it became so large, and the business connected with them so important,
that in 1758 a hall was built for the use of the feoffees, and decorated
with the royal arms and the arms of the bridge.
St Mary's Church was built about the same date as the bridge, but about
forty years ago all but the tower was pulled down and rebuilt. It had
suffered considerably from the ravages of the Reformers, whose horror of
ritualism reached the point of throwing the font out of doors, whereupon
'one schismatic,' more crazy than the rest, took it, says Watkins, in
wrath, 'for the purpose of a trough for his swine to feed out of; and if
he had had his deserts, he would have made one of their company.' The
font was probably rescued by some pious person, for the one now in the
church is a fine Norman one, with cable moulding.
In this church was baptized 'Raleigh,' the Indian brought back by Sir
Richard Grenville from Carolina, and called after the great Sir Walter,
who was doing much for that country. Sir Richard kept 'Raleigh' in his
own house, and the dark stranger must have caused great chattering and
excitement among the children and some of their elders in the town, but
he did not survive transplantation, and a year later was buried in
Bideford Churchyard. In the register he is described as a native of
Wynganditoia.
On the south side of the church is the tomb of Thomas Grenville, who
lies in armour, with a dog--not, as on most monuments, at his feet, but
by his side. On the tomb are various coats of arms, and over it rises an
arch ornamented with high stone tracery. A curious screen between the
tower and the church has been made from the old carved bench-ends. Most
of the subjects are grotesque, and on some of the panels are gnome-like
heads, with long beards, big hats, and impudent, leering expressions.
In the churchyard is a tombstone with this epitaph:
'Here lies the body of Mary Sexton,
Who pleased many a man, but never vex'd one,
Not like the woman who lies under the next stone.'
Nowadays there is not much foreign trade, although a few vessels with
outlandish names may be seen lying stranded at low-water alongside the
quay. But Bideford had a full share of the prosperity that Devonshire
ports enjoyed in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. The merchants were
encouraged by Sir Richard Grenville, who, fired by the 'gallant and
ingenious' Sir Walter Raleigh, ventured first fortune and then himself
in commanding an expedition planned by his friend and kinsman. The
expedition did not meet with great success in its main object, which was
to establish a colony for the settlers, who, finding insurmountable
hardships and difficulties, were all brought home later by Sir Francis
Drake; but a Spanish treasure-ship of immense wealth was captured on the
way back. It was said that in different ventures 'Bideford, in
consequence of its lord, had some share, but chiefly with respect to its
mariners.' So, after Sir Richard had fought his splendid last fight, and
when his immediate influence was gone, independent merchants and
mariners went on to fresh enterprises, and commerce continued to
increase. Trading with Spain for wool soon became an important branch,
but of still greater consequence was the trade with Newfoundland. When
William and Mary reigned, Bideford was sending more ships there than any
other port in the kingdom but London and--strange to say--Topsham. In
the next reign the merchants suffered immense losses from French
privateers, who, making the island of Lundy their headquarters, spied
almost every ship that passed up and down the Bristol Channel. To them,
Bideford or Barnstaple Bay was 'emphatically the Golden Bay, from the
great number of valuable prizes which they captured on it.' Traffic with
America had, however, greatly declined, before it was killed by the War
of Independence.
In the history of Bideford the name of Grenville shines on many
occasions. Both Devon and Cornwall claim this eminent family, their
'chiefest habitation' of Stow being in Cornwall, while, according to
some authorities, their first dwelling-place in this part of the world
was at Bideford.
Richard de Grenville, near the end of the fourteenth century, for his
valour and courage in the Welsh wars was awarded the town and county of
Neath, in Glamorgan. Being pious as well as brave, he devoted all this
wealth to the Church, building and endowing a monastery for Cistercian
monks. A quaint 'prophecy' regarding this family was said to have been
found many years later in the Abbey of Neeth, where it was kept 'in a
most curious box of jett, written in the year 1400.'
It begins:
'Amongst the trayne of valiant knights
That with King William came,
Grenvile is great, a Norman borne,
Renowned by his fame;
His helmet ras'd and first unlac'd
Upon the Cambrian shore,
Where he in honour of his God
The Abbey did decore
With costly buildings, ornaments,
And gave us spatious lands,
As the first-fruits which victory
Did give into his hands.'
Watkins refrains from any comment as to the genuineness of the
'prophecy' (of which I have only quoted a small portion), but perhaps
the critical would gather from the whole tone, and especially from the
closing lines, which have a flattering reference to the reign of a King
Charles, that it was written about the date of its discovery.
The dignity and authority, the commanding presence of Sir Richard as a
country gentleman, a neighbour, a Justice of the Peace, are admirably
suggested in 'Westward Ho!' Apart from warfare on land or sea, he
interested himself in a host of affairs at home, and was both member of
parliament and High Sheriff for Cornwall. He was also called to serve on
Commissions for making inquiries about pirates and strengthening the
defences of the coast; and notes show that within six months he was
occupied with places as far east and west as Dover and Tintagel.
In 1587 he was appointed by the Queen to review the 'trained bands' in
Devon and Cornwall, that nothing of their equipment might be lacking
when the expected enemy arrived; and when the shattered remnants of the
Armada were straggling down the Irish Channel, Sir Richard had special
orders to 'stay all shipping upon the north coast of Devon and
Cornwall.' The catalogue alone of the tasks allotted to him shows how
greatly the Queen confided in his powers and judgment; yet all the tale
of his life is completely overshadowed by the magnificence of his
death:
'And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight,
With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather-bow.
"Shall we fight or shall we fly?
Good Sir Richard, tell us now,
For to fight is but to die!
There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set."
And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good Englishmen;
Let us bang those dogs of Seville, the children of the devil,
For I never turned my back upon Don or devil yet."
Sir Richard spoke and he laughed, and we roared a hurrah, and so
The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe,
With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below;
For half of their fleet to the right and half on the left were seen,
And the little _Revenge_ ran on through the long sea-lane between.
* * * * *
And the sun went down and the stars came out far over the summer sea,
But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three.
Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came,
Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and
flame;
Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her
shame.'
When the day dawned, 'all the powder of the _Revenge_ to the last
barrell was now spent, all her pikes broken, fortie of her best men
slaine, and the most part of the rest hurt.' Then Sir Richard 'commanded
the maister Gunner, whom he knew to be a most resolute man, to split and
sinke the ship; that thereby nothing might remaine of glorious victorie
to the Spaniards; seeing in so manie houres fighte with so great a Navie
they were not able to take her, having had fifteene houres time,
fifteene thousand men, and fifty and three suite of menne of warre to
perform it withall.'
The Captain and most of the crew felt that this supreme sacrifice was
not required of them, and offered to treat with the Spaniards, who,
filled with generous admiration for the amazing courage that had been
shown by their adversaries, offered honourable terms of surrender. Sir
Richard, who had received several wounds, and who was at the point of
death, was carried on board the Spanish Admiral's ship, where his life
ebbed away within a few days. 'Here die I, Richard Grenville, with a
joyful and quiet mind, for that I have ended my life as a true soldier
ought to do that hath fought for his country, Queen, religion, and
honour: My soul willingly departing from this body, being behind the
lasting fame of having behaved as every valiant soldier is in his duty
bound to do.'
Sir Richard's famous grandson, Sir Bevil Grenville, was a brave soldier,
but less awe-inspiring; 'the most generally beloved man in Cornwall,'
according to Clarendon; and he adds that 'a brighter courage and a
gentler disposition were never married together.' When war was declared,
volunteers flocked to his standard, and in his first engagement, near
Liskeard, he inflicted defeat on the Parliamentary troops, and took
twelve hundred soldiers and all the guns.
At Stratton his achievements were even more brilliant, for his troops
began at a serious disadvantage. The enemy, with ample supplies and
ammunition, were encamped on the top of a hill; 'the Royalist troops,
less than half their number, short of ammunition, and so destitute of
provisions that the best officers had but a biscuit a day, lay at
Launceston.' Undaunted by these discouraging conditions, they determined
to attack, and having marched twenty miles, the soldiers arrived at the
foot of the hill, weary, footsore, and exhausted from want of food. From
dawn till late afternoon the storming-parties were again and again
repulsed, till their powder was almost gone; then they scaled the hill
in the face of cannon and muskets, to take the position by the force of
swords and pikes. Grenville's party was the first to struggle up to the
top, and it was almost immediately joined by the other columns, when the
enemy broke in confusion and fled.
Sir Bevil met his death at Lansdowne, when, with grim doggedness, the
Royalists were again climbing the heights in the face of the enemy's
fire. Very many fell, and he among them. 'Young John Grenville, a lad of
sixteen, sprang, it is said, into his father's saddle, and led the
charge, and the Cornishmen followed with their swords drawn and with
tears in their eyes, swearing they would kill a rebel for every hair of
Sir Bevil's head.'
It is not possible to follow the careers of others of his family, but a
saying in the West Country ran: 'That a Godolphin was never known to
want wit, a Trelawney courage, or a Grenville loyalty.' Their love of
adventure perhaps descended from an earlier Sir Richard Grenville, who
puts forward his views in a poem called
SIR RICHARD GRENVILLE'S FAREWELL.
[Also entitled 'In Praise of Seafaring Men in Hope of Good Fortune, and
describing Evil Fortune.']
Who seeks the way to win renown,
Or flies with wings of high desert,
Who seeks to wear the laurel crown,
Or hath the mind that would aspire--
Let him his native soil eschew,
Let him go range and seek a new.
Each haughty heart is well content
With every chance that shall betide--
No hap can hinder his intent;
He steadfast stands, though fortune slide.
The sun, quoth he, doth shine as well
Abroad as erst where I did dwell.
* * * * *
To pass the seas some think a toil;
Some think it strange abroad to roam;
Some think it grief to leave their soil,
Their parents, kinsfolk, and their home.
Think so who list, I take it not;
I must abroad to try my lot.
* * * * *
If Jason of that mind had been,
The Grecians, when they came to Troy,
Had never so the Trojans fooled,
Nor ne'er put them to such annoy;
Wherefore, who list to live at home,
To purchase fame I will go roam.
Directly, Bideford suffered very little from the Civil War. In the early
days the town was for the Parliament, and two forts were built, one on
each side of the river; but after a defeat near Torrington, in the
autumn of 1643, the citizens surrendered to the royal army. 'Their
spirit for rebellion was considerably reduced,' says their special
historian; 'they remained perfectly neutral to the dreadful end of that
unhappy war.'
Unfortunately, it is not possible here to dwell upon the delightful
minor annals of Bideford, such as the history of that stalwart
pamphleteer, Dr Shebbeare, who, for his repeated attacks on the
Ministry, was condemned to stand in the pillory at Charing Cross. The
sentence was carried out, but not exactly in the usual manner, for 'Mr
Beardmore, the under-sheriff, being a friend of the Doctor's, permitted
him to stand unconfined on the platform of the pillory, attended by a
servant in livery holding an umbrella over him.' It is lamentable that
the authorities were sufficiently vindictive and small-minded to visit
this act of friendly tolerance on Mr Beardmore with a fine of L50 and
two months' imprisonment. Dr. Shebbeare was also imprisoned; but later
in life the tide turned, and the King was persuaded to pension him with
L200. As Dr Johnson was pensioned about the same time, with the same
sum, the joke ran that the King had shown benevolence to a He Bear and a
She Bear.
It is also impossible to do more than touch on the tragic episode of
1682--the trial of three unhappy women, Susanna Edwards, Temperance
Lloyd, and Mary Trembles, who were accused of having practised
witchcraft. Here are a few fragments of the evidence given at the trial.
A witness said that, while nursing a sick woman, a magpie fluttered once
against the window, and that Temperance admitted that this 'was the
black man in the shape of a bird.' Another time 'a grey or braget cat'
of rather mysterious movements was an object of suspicion, and
Temperance was reported to have confessed that 'she believed it to be
the Devil.' The evidence of a dead woman was brought forward, she having
'deposed that the said Temperance had appeared to her in the shape of a
red pig.' Susanna Edwards, under strict examination, 'confesseth that
the Devil hath appeared to her in the shape of a Lyon, as she supposed.'
Some of the questions put to the wretched 'witches' were simply
grotesque, and reflect, as Watkins caustically observes, on the
intelligence of the examiner. Temperance was asked:
'Temperance, how did you come in to hurt Mrs Grace Thomas? Did you pass
through the key-hole of the door, or was the door open?...
'H. [the examiner]. Did you know any Marriners, that you or your
Associates destroyed, by overturning of ships or boats?
'TEMPERANCE. No! I never hurt any ship, bark, or boat in my life.
'H. You say you never hurt ships nor boats; did you never ride over an
arm of the sea on a Cow?'
To the north of Bideford is a little peninsula formed by the mouth of
the Torridge on the east, the far wider estuary of the Taw on the north,
and the open sea on the west. The whole course of the Torridge is very
capricious. The source is within four miles of the sea, not far south of
Hartland, and, at once turning inland, the stream takes a south-easterly
direction till it reaches the first slopes that, rising out of the
fertile country, mount gradually as they stretch towards the borders of
Dartmoor. At this check the Torridge runs due east till, within a few
miles of Okehampton, it turns in a great rounded loop, and flows north
and slightly west to the north coast again.
The Taw's course is far more direct. It rises in Dartmoor, and,
occasionally bending slightly to east or west, it makes a fairly
straight way towards the north till Barnstaple is reached, and then,
turning almost at a right angle, runs westward to the sea.
Following the strip of land along the west bank of the Torridge from
Bideford, the road passes Northam, and on the north-eastern point, at
the meeting of the rivers, stands Appledore. Before reaching Northam, by
diverging a little to the west, one arrives at the remains of an ancient
castle, Kenwith Castle, known for a long time as Hennaborough or Henny
Hill, where about A.D. 877 the Danes were valiantly driven back, after
a furious battle, by King Alfred and his son. Hubba, the leader of the
Danes, fell, and their magical banner, Reafan--the Raven--was taken.
According to one tradition, it was 'wrought in needlework by the
daughters of Lothbroc, the Dane, and, as they conceived, it made them
invincible.' Another account rather contradicts this, as it declares
that the wonderful standard bore a stuffed raven, who 'hung quiet when
defeat was at hand, but clapped his wings before victory.' All the
legends, however, point to the faith of the Danes in the magical powers
of the banner, and their chagrin on losing it must have been very great.
The Danes buried Hubba 'on the shore near his ships, and, according to
the manner of northern nations, piled on him a heap of copped stones as
a trophy to his memorial, whereof the place took name Hubba-stone.'
Risdon speaks of the 'sea's encroaching,' and of the stones having been
swept away by it before his day, but the name still clings to the spot
where it stood.
A little fort at Appledore was built, it is said--but the authority is
not infallible--at the same time that the forts were thrown up at
Bideford, and towards the end of July, 1644, it was called on to make a
defence. Barnstaple had suddenly rebelled against the Royalists, and the
citizens resolved to take possession of the guns that commanded the
river's mouth. Sir John Berkeley, writing what must have been an
unsatisfactory letter to Colonel Seymour, in answer to a request for
more men, speaks of the troops sent to help the defenders: 'Your desire
and expectance of supply is most just and reasonable. Having been
exhausted of men by the Prince, and having sent to the relief of
Appledore, by His Majesty's command, 500 under Colonel Apsley ... I am
not able to give you the least assistance at present.' And Sir Hugh
Pollard, writing at the same time, mentions that Colonel Apsley's force
will meet 'a many of Doddington's horse at Chimleigh, to the relief of
the fort at Appledore, which is straitly besieged by those of
Barnstaple.'
The garrison consisted of forty Cornishmen, and before the siege was
raised they were 'much straitened both for dread and fresh water.' They
were particularly badly off because 'a certain colonel, who is
stigmatized covertly as "no Cornishman," had been entrusted with the
victualling of the fort, but had neglected his duty.'
Close to the sea, on the west, lies Westward Ho!--a tiny (and modern)
watering-place, named after Kingsley's famous book. Along the western
shore as far as the Taw stretch Northam Burrows, covered for some
distance by a fine elastic turf that is far-famed, and by patches of
rushes. Beyond the golf-links the ground breaks into sand-hills, all
hillocks and hollows of pure sand, soft and yielding, dented by every
footstep, set with rushes and spangled with crane's-bill, yellow
bedstraw, tiny purple scented thyme-flowers, and a kind of spurge.
Both sand-hills and common are protected from the sea by the well-known
Pebble Ridge, which stretches for two miles in a straight line. It is a
mass--fifty feet wide and twenty feet high--of large, smooth, rolled
slate-stones, some being two feet across, though most of them are
smaller.
Turning westwards along the coast, Lundy is often to be seen like a
faint blue cloud on the horizon, especially when a softening haze hovers
over the land--but on a clear day it is very distinct. And on a fine
evening, when the dim blue twilight is creeping up on every side, it has
the very air of an enchanted island against the radiant crimson that for
a few moments spreads and glows in the west after sundown.
A little distance farther on is Portledge, 'the most antient seat of the
name and family of Coffin,' says Prince; and he mentions a boundary deed
between Richard Coffin and the Abbot of Tavistock, written 'in the Saxon
tongue, which giveth good confirmation thereof.' Sir William Coffin was
one of several Devonshire gentlemen who were 'assistants' to Henry VIII
in the tournaments of the 'Field of the Cloth of Gold,' being of great
courage, and 'expert at feats of arms.' A story which is often told of
him gives a good illustration of his strong will. While living on a
property that belonged to his wife in Derbyshire, Sir William chanced
one day to pass a churchyard, and seeing a group of people standing
about, he asked what was happening. Being told that 'they had brought a
corps to be buried, but the priest refused to do his office unless they
first delivered him the poor man's cow, the only quick goods left,' for
a burial fee, he commanded the priest to read the service. But the
priest declined to do so until he had received his fee. On this answer,
Sir William 'caused the priest to be put into the poor man's grave, and
earth to be thrown upon him; and he still persisting in his refusal,
there was still more earth thrown in, until the obstinate priest was
either altogether or well nigh suffocated.'
Prince is entirely delightful over this story. He goes on: 'Now, thus to
handle a priest in those days was a very bold adventure;' as if to bury
a priest alive was usually considered a pleasant amusement. Sir William,
however, not only lived through the storm that the high-handed action
raised, but actually succeeded in moving Parliament to pass an Act
regulating the burial fees that might be asked of the poor. So our
biographer finishes with the triumphant axiom: 'Evil manners are often
the parent of good laws!'
Eleven miles west of Bideford is Clovelly. Here one feels, rather
despairingly, that anyone who has seen this wonderful village can listen
to no description of it; while to those who have never seen it, no
description is of any value.
A road leads towards it through the Hobby, a wood overhanging the sea,
which Kingsley describes as 'a forest wall five hundred feet high, of
almost semi-tropic luxuriance.' The road was 'banked on one side with
crumbling rocks, festooned with heath, and golden hawkweed, and London
pride, like velvet cushions covered with pink lace, and beds of white
bramble-blossom alive with butterflies; while above my head, and on my
right, the delicate cool canopy of oak and birch leaves shrouded me so
close that I could have fancied myself miles inland, buried in some glen
unknown to any wind of heaven, but that everywhere between green sprays
and grey stems gleamed that same boundless ocean blue.'
The village itself lies in a ravine of the rock, and the 'street' is so
precipitous that the eaves of one house are on a level with the
foundations of its next neighbour above. Kingsley and Dickens have
written descriptions that, scarcely overlapping, seem to complete each
other.
'I was crawling up the paved stairs, inaccessible to cart or carriage,
which are flatteringly denominated Clovelly street; ... behind me a
sheer descent, roof below roof, at an angle of 75 deg., to the pier and bay,
two hundred feet below and in front of me; another hundred feet above, a
green amphitheatre of oak and ash and larch, shutting out all but a
narrow slip of sky, across which the low, soft, formless mist was
crawling, opening every instant to show some gap of intense dark rainy
blue, and send down a hot vaporous gleam of sunshine upon the white
cottages, with their grey steaming roofs and bright green railings
packed one above another upon the ledges of the cliff; and on the tall
tree fuchsias and gaudy dahlias in the little scraps of courtyard;
calling the rich faint odour out of the verbenas and jessamines, and,
alas! out of the herring heads and tails also, as they lay in the
rivulet, and lighting up the wings of the gorgeous butterflies, almost
unknown in our colder eastern climate, which fluttered from woodland
down to garden, and from garden up to woodland.'
The human element tinges the other sketch more strongly:
'The village was built sheer up the face of a steep and lofty cliff.
There was no road in it, there was no wheeled vehicle in it, there was
not a level yard in it. From the sea-beach to the cliff-top two
irregular rows of white houses, placed opposite to one another and
twisting here and there, and there and here, rose like the sides of a
long succession of stages of crooked ladders, and you climbed up village
or climbed down the village by the staves between, some six feet wide or
so, and made up of sharp, irregular stones. The old pack-saddle, long
laid aside in most parts of England, as one of the appendages of its
infancy, flourished here intact. Strings of pack-horses and pack-donkeys
toiled slowly up the staves of the ladders, bearing fish and coal, and
such other cargo as was unshipping at the pier from the dancing fleet of
village boats and from two or three little coasting traders. As the
beasts of burden ascended laden, or descended light, they got so lost at
intervals in the floating clouds of village smoke, that they seemed to
dive down some of the village chimneys and come to the surface again far
off, high above others. No two houses in the village were alike in
chimney, size, shape, door, window, gable, roof-tree, anything. The
sides of the ladder were musical with water, running clear and bright.
The staves were musical with the clattering feet of the pack-horses and
pack-donkeys, and the voices of the fishermen urging them up mingled
with the voices of the fishermen's wives and their many children.... The
red-brown cliffs, richly wooded to their extremest verge, had their
softened and beautiful forms reflected in the bluest water, under the
clear North Devonshire sky of a November day without a cloud. The
village itself was so steeped in autumnal foliage, from the houses
joining on the pier to the topmost round of the topmost ladder, that one
might have fancied it was out a-bird's-nesting, and was (as indeed it
was) a wonderful climber.'
The harbour is very small, but on a cliff-bound, dangerous coast it is
one of the very few between Bideford and Padstow. Clovelly's great
herring fishery used to be famous, but it is not now so large as it used
to be.
Above the village, the beautiful park of Clovelly Court lies along the
cliffs, looking over the wide distances of Bideford Bay; and on a fine
day the Welsh coast may be seen. Inland, great forest trees tower above
a miniature forest of bracken, and at the opening of a glade one may
catch glimpses of the deer appearing and vanishing again.
The Carys were in very ancient days settled at St Giles-in-the-Heath,
but a branch of them came to Clovelly in the reign of Richard II. They
were of the same race as the Carys of Torre Abbey, and the family of
whom Lord Falkland is the head. John Cary, who acquired the property,
was a distinguished character. As a Judge, 'he scattered the rays of
justice about him, with great splendour.' He was called to show firmness
and loyalty under the most trying circumstances, but, 'true as steel ...
the greatest dangers could not affright him from his duty and loyalty
to his distressed master Richard II, unto whom he faithfully adhered
when most others had forsaken him.' When the King had been deposed,
'this reverend Judge, unable and unwilling to bow like a willow with
every blast of wind, did freely and confidently speak his mind.' So
faithfully did he maintain King Richard's cause that, when Henry IV came
to the throne, the Judge was banished the kingdom, and his goods and
lands were confiscated. These, Sir Robert Cary, his son, recovered
literally at the point of the sword, for a 'certain Knight-errand of
Arragon,' of great skill in feats of arms, 'arrived here in England,
where he challenged any man of his rank and quality.' Sir Robert
accepted the challenge, and a 'long and doubtful combat was waged in
Smithfield, London.' In the end the 'presumptious Arrogonoise' was
vanquished, and Henry V, to whom Sir Robert's gallantry appealed,
restored him 'a good part of his father's lands,' and granted him leave
to bear 'in a field silver, on a bend sable, three white roses,' the
arms of the conquered knight--the arms that the Carys still bear. The
Clovelly branch of the family is now extinct.
A little to the south of Clovelly, and on high ground, are Clovelly
Dykes, the remains of an old camp, sometimes called British and
sometimes Roman. It is large and circular, and the position was
strengthened by three great trenches, about eighteen feet deep and three
hundred feet long, which lie around it. The camp commands the only old
road in the surrounding country.
About seven or eight miles to the west is the grand headland of Hartland
Point. It is a narrow ridge that rises precipitously three hundred and
fifty feet above the water, projects far out into the sea, and abruptly
ends the coast-line to the west. The coast is very fine, but also most
dangerous, and the cliffs, cleft here and there by great chasms, fall
sheer down to needle-points of hard black slate rock jutting out into
the sea.
The name of Herty Point, as it used to be called, was originally, says
Camden, 'Hercules's promontory,' and this title has given rise to 'a
very formal story that Hercules came into Britain and killed I know not
what giants.' Here Camden pauses in his description of the place, to
consider whether there ever was a Hercules at all, and, if so, whether
there were not really forty-three Hercules; and if this was not so,
whether Hercules was perhaps 'a mere fiction to denote the strength of
human prudence,' or, again, possibly a myth personifying the sun, and
his labours the signs of the zodiac, 'which the sun runs through
yearly.' On the whole, he decides that, at any rate, Hercules never came
to Britain, but the name might have been given to the point by the
Greeks 'out of vanity,' because 'they dedicated everything they found
magnificent in any place to the glory of Hercules.'
Four miles south-east of the headland lies Hartland town. It has been
briefly described as 'a very quiet street of grey stone cottages and
whitewashed houses on a high and windy tableland.' Close by is Hartland
Abbey, founded, according to tradition, by Githa, the wife of Earl
Godwin, and mother of Harold II, in honour of St Nectan; for she 'highly
reverenced the man, and verily believed that through his merits her
husband had escaped shipwreck in a dangerous tempest.' In the reign of
Henry II, leave was given to Oliver de Dynant to change the community of
secular canons into regular canons of St. Augustine's order, and to
found a monastery for them. But between the successors of the founder
and the canons matters did not always run smoothly; in fact, on one
occasion, about a hundred years later, they actually came to blows in
the church, as is made clear by an entry in the register of Bishop
Bronescombe, for it records that the bishop had reconciled the church,
'which had been polluted by an effusion of blood in an affray between
Oliver de Dinham and the canons.'
After the Dissolution the Abbey was bestowed by the King upon the
Sergeant of his cellar, a man named Abbott. Parts of the Abbey remained
unaltered and in good repair till the end of the eighteenth century,
when, in building the present house, the unfortunate taste of the period
destroyed the hall, which was over seventy feet long, and a portion of
the cloisters, which were then still perfect. Parts of them, however,
are still standing. The cloisters had been rebuilt at a very early
date, for Dr. Oliver quotes an inscription which was over one of the
arches that shows them to be the work of the Abbot John of Exeter, who
resigned in 1329. Bishop Stapledon had found many defects in the
structure of the Abbey, when he made his visitation in 1319, and had
ordered them to be at once remedied. During the alterations made about
one hundred and twenty years ago, the monument of a Knight Hospitaller
was found, and within the last few years small pieces of carved stone
have been dug up--amongst others, a Madonna's head with traces of blue
and gold still upon it; a monk kneeling, and a knight and lady hand in
hand. The Abbey is now the property of Sir Lewis Stucley.
Nearer the shore, and on high ground, is the church of St Nectan, whose
tall pinnacled tower is a landmark to sailors. The tower is
Perpendicular, but most of the church is late Decorated, and the north
side has a Norman doorway. The great feature is the very beautiful
screen which stretches across the whole church; but the cradle roofs are
good, and there is other carving. On the pulpit is the figure of a goat
with tusks, and the puzzling inscription, 'God save King James. Fines.'
The Norman font is curiously sculptured with grotesque faces that look
down on to equally quaint faces on the pedestal--an allegory in stone
which Mr Hawker of Morwenstow interpreted as the righteous looking down
on the wicked.
Three or four miles farther on is the actual border-line, and here one
must turn, although, looking south towards Widemouth Bay, it is
irresistibly tempting to quote a few verses of rank doggerel, written on
a shipwreck which happened there on November 23, 1824. The verses were
probably inspired by terrible stress of emotion, and suggest the idea
that they were written with a spar rather than with a pen; but no doubt
they were for ever the joy and pride of their author.
'Come all you British seamen,
That plough the raging main,
Who fight for King and Country,
And your merchants do maintain.
I'll sing you of a shipwreck
That was here the other day,
At a place that's called Widemouth,
Near Bude, and in that bay.
_Chorus._
'So my British tars be steady,
And maintain your glorious name;
Till you're drowned, killed, or wounded,
You must put to sea again.
'The twenty-third of November,
That was the very time,
A fine and lofty schooner brig,
The _Happy Return_, of Lyme,
The bold and noble Captain
Escaped from the deep,
And died with cold that very night
Near to a flock of sheep.
_Chorus._
'So my British tars, etc.
'The mate, as fine a seaman
As could stand on a deck,
Had with his noble Captain
Escaped from the wreck;
No refuge could be found on shore.
No good could there be done;
He returned on board the deck and died:
The poor man lost his son.
_Chorus._
'So my British tars, etc.
'This poor man's son was not drown'd,
But found dead the next day;
Three only of this manly crew
Escaped death and sea.
Have pity on poor seamen,
Kind gentlemen, I beg;
The one of them is wounded,
The poor man broke his leg.
_Chorus._
'So my British tars, etc.
'I've twice myself been shipwreck'd,
Twenty-two years at sea,
But never saw a gang of thieves
Before that very day;
Had it not been for Captain Thomas,
And his loyal Preventive crew,
They'd have stolen the cargo and the deck,
The mast and rigging too.
_Chorus._
'So my British tars, etc.
'This schooner came from Dublin,
To London she was bound;
I could not believe such daring thieves
Stood on the British ground.
The Farmers of the country,[8]
That distress ought to relieve,
Some of them were stealing butter,
While others stole the beef.
_Chorus._
'So my British tars, etc.
'Seamen call this place West Barbary.
To me it does appear,
More of the cargo would have sav'd,
Were they wrecked on Algier:
The people might as well come in,
Rob the market or the fair;
But to rob distressed seamen,
No one had business there.
_Chorus._
'So my British tars, etc.
'Now to complete this shipwreck,
And for to end this song,
I've told you nothing but the truth,
No mortal I have wrong'd.
Great praise is due to Pethick.[9]
His wife and family brave,
That did their best that very time
Poor seamen's lives to save.
_Chorus._
'So my British tars, etc.'
[Footnote 8: St. Ginnes.]
[Footnote 9: The cottager by the seaside.]
Kingsley remarks that 'an agricultural people is generally as cruel to
wrecked seamen as a fishing one is merciful,' and speaks of the many
stories he has heard of 'baysmen' on this coast 'risking themselves like
very heroes to save strangers' lives, and at the same time beating off
the labouring folk who swarmed down for plunder from the inland hills.'
Retracing the way to Northam Burrows, passing through them to their most
northerly point, and crossing the Taw, one arrives at a strip of
shore--Braunton Burrows--which corresponds to the strip on the southern
bank of the river.
'A great chaos of wind-strewn sand-hills,' inhabited by armies of
rabbits, and haunted by peewits and gulls, the Burrows are brightened by
masses of wild-flowers, from the great mullein--once known as
hedge-taper, because of its pale torch of blossoms--to the tiny delicate
rose-pink bells of the bog-pimpernel. 'To the left were rich, alluvial
marshes, covered with red cattle sleeping in the sun, and laced with
creeks and flowing dykes.... Beyond again [looking back to the south]
two broad tide-rivers, spotted with white and red-brown sails, gleamed
like avenues of silver ... till they vanished among the wooded hills. On
the eastern horizon the dark range of Exmoor sank gradually into lower
and more broken ridges, which rolled away, woodland beyond woodland,
till all outlines were lost in a purple haze; while far beyond the
granite peaks of Dartmoor hung like a delicate blue cloud, and enticed
the eye away into infinity.'
In the midst of the sand-dunes are the remains of a little, very old
chapel, St Anne's Chapel, which is said to have been built by St
Brannock. North of the Burrows the land rises into cliffs, on which grew
(I hope, _grows_) the great sea-stock; and Baggy Point, at the southern
end of Morte Bay, runs out into the sea. Beyond the Point, the broad
yellow line of Woolacombe Sands stretches along the bay towards Morte
Point.
Not far off was the manor of the Tracys, Woolacombe Tracy. A curse was
brought on this family by William de Tracy, 'first and forwardest of the
knights who murdered Thomas a Becket.' For, 'the Pope banning, cursing,
and excommunicating,' a '_Miraculous Penance_' was imposed on the
Tracys, 'that whether they go by _Land_ or _Water_, the _Wind is ever in
their faces_.' Fuller, who gives this information, concludes dryly: 'If
this was so, it was a _Favour_ in a hot _Summer_ to the _Females_ of
that _Family_, and would spare them the _use_ of a _Fan_.' On William de
Tracy himself fell the special curse, that ever after his death he
should be compelled to wander at night--some say over Woolacombe Sands,
others among Braunton Burrows--till he could make a rope of sand. But,
whenever the rope is nearly woven, there comes a black dog, with a ball
of fire in his mouth, and breaks it; so the penance is never at an end.
Shrieks and wails have been heard by people in cottages near the shore.
Sometimes the uneasy spirit haunts the northern landing-place of the
ferry from Braunton Burrows to Appledore, and a wild, long-drawn cry of
'Boat ahoy!' comes ringing in the darkness over the waters. No one
answers that cry now after dusk, for once, many years ago, the ferryman,
who is well remembered among the Appledore people, went over, and no man
was there, but the black dog jumped into the boat. The ferryman, not
much liking this, put back again as fast as he could, but when Appledore
was nearly reached the dog swamped the boat, made his way to shore, and
was lost in the shadows of Northam Burrows. 'And the boatman's nerve was
so much shaken that soon afterwards he gave up the ferry.
A monument to William de Tracy was wrongly supposed to lie in the church
of Morthoe, or Morte, as it is more commonly called, on the north of the
bay. The memorial is of another William de Tracy, rector here till his
death in 1322. It is an elaborately sculptured altar-tomb, and bears the
incised effigy of a priest; on the sides are figures of St Catherine and
St Mary Magdalene, to whom jointly the rector founded a chapel in his
church. The church is mainly Perpendicular, but it has an Early English
chancel.
The northern curve of the bay ends in Morte Point, and here is a
cromlech in ruins, for the massive slab of rock which formed the
cover-stone has fallen from the upright stones on which it used to lie.
Beyond the point, at the end of the reef, is a huge rock called the
Morte Stone, very dangerous on that exposed coast. The Normans are
supposed to have given its sinister name, and many since their time have
found it a true rock of death. No fewer than five vessels have been lost
there in one winter. Rather more than a mile to the north, Bull Point,
jutting out into the sea, abruptly ends the coast-line on the north; the
cliffs fall back slightly, and stretch away eastward, above 'black
fields of shark's-tooth tide-rocks, champing and churning the great
green rollers into snow.'
Returning to the Taw, inland, upon the eastern side of the Burrows, one
passes Braunton, two or three miles short of the estuary. The most
interesting point about this village is its association with its
name-saint, St Brannock--for the ancient name was Brannockstown. Old
writers rather wildly assert that the saint was the son of a 'King of
Calabria,' but Mr Baring-Gould, in a rapid sketch, says that he was the
Irish confessor of a King of South Wales, who, not finding happiness in
the life he was leading, migrated to North Devon. The legends that
sprang up about his name are steeped in a golden haze. When St Brannock
arrived, the whole place was 'overspread with brakes and woods. Out of
which desert, now named the Borroughs (to tell you some of the marvels
of this man), he took harts, which meekly obeyed the yoke,' and made
them 'plow to draw timber thence to build a church, which may gain
credit if it be true.' The caution of this commendation is delightful.
More, alas! we do not learn, for the writer forbears 'to speak of his
cow (which being killed, chopped in pieces, and boiling in the kettle,
came out whole and sound at his call), his staff, his oak, and his man
Abel, which would seem wonders. Yet all these you may see at large,
lively represented to you in a fair glass window.' It is very
disappointing that the window filled with the further wonders, the very
names of which have a charm, should have perished.
St Brannock Church is large, and, like Morte Church, is partly
Perpendicular and partly Early English. It has an unusually wide
panelled roof, and on one of the panels is carved a sow and some little
pigs--an illustration of a legend connecting the saint with the church,
for the tradition ran that he had been told in a dream to build his
church 'wherever he should first meet a sow and her family.' A similar
group is to be seen in the porch of the church at Newton St Cyres. Some
of the bench-ends in St Brannock's Church are very beautifully carved.
The road to Barnstaple, bending to the south-east, follows the estuary
of the Taw for nearly six miles.
The town is very prettily placed, but it is dominated by modern
buildings, and has not the air of antiquity with which its history might
have invested it. The river sweeps round a bend of a green and pleasant
valley just above the town, and along the strand is a walk shaded with
trees, looking over the river to a pastoral country beyond. Nearer the
bridge is Queen Anne's Walk, 'an open portico near the river, called the
Quay Walk, being an exchange of the merchants, etc.,' renamed when it
was rebuilt in Queen Anne's reign. From the bridge westward the scene
has an air of peaceful contentedness. Sea-gulls flutter among the
sand-banks, from which 'the sea retires itself' at low-tide, leaving
only a small, shining stream, which seems 'to creep between shelves and
sands.' Beyond are green marshes, and gentle rounded hills behind them
lead on one from another. The country is much the same all along the
river to the sea.
Bideford is proud of its bridge, which is very high, and has sixteen
arches. Several people have been given the credit of building it, and
its date is supposed to be some time during the thirteenth century.
The church, dedicated to St Peter and St Paul, is cross-shaped, and the
lead steeple looks well against the sky, especially when it is
surrounded by a shoal of swallows swooping and darting about it in all
directions. The church has been much restored, and altered from the
original building; evidently there were once three altars in it; and a
piscina still remains in the south aisle, close to the west wall of the
transept. A curious monument was erected in 1634 by Martin Blake, the
Vicar, to his son and four children who died very young. A heavy and
elaborate framework surrounds a severe likeness of a melancholy-looking
man, who is resting his head on his hand. On the monument are short
detached sentences, numbered:
'1. He was cut off in the flower of his life.
* * * * *
'10. His heart on fire for the love of God.
'11. Martin Blake, the Father, was taken from the Pulpit, and sent
to Exeter jail for four years.
'12. The Pulpit empty, and the congregation waiting for him.
'13. He wishes to depart this life, and be at peace with his children.
'14. But it is necessary I should remain in the flesh for the good
of my people.
'15. He that shall endure to the end shall have a crown of life.'
Mr Blake suffered much during the Civil War, but I can find no record of
any imprisonment beyond his being in 1657 'a prisoner at large in
_Exeter_ for six weeks.' In 1646 he was petitioned against on account of
his Royalist sympathies, 'by one _Tooker_,' to whom he had shown great
kindness, and who intrigued against him in the most abominable manner.
Though Sir Hardress Waller wrote to the Committee of sequestrations on
his behalf, he was suspended, and as about a year later his suspension
was cancelled, the infamous Tooker very hurriedly concocted a petition,
ostensibly from Barnstaple, praying that the 'Discharge' might be
repealed. Walker comments on the astonishing speed with which Tooker
managed this business. 'The Reader ... will certainly think, as I do,
that he who _walked to and fro in the Earth_, helped them to it; tho'
not in the Quality of a Courier, but in his other Capacity, that of the
_Father of Lies_.' Mr Blake, however, was allowed to return to his
living, but 'not without the cumbrance of a _Factious Lecturer_,' and
was not in full possession till after the Restoration.
Barnstaple asserts that it became a borough at a very early date--in
fact, that it 'obtained divers liberties, freedoms, and immunities from
King Athelstan'; but whether this were so or not, the inhabitants
certainly received a charter from Henry I, and further privileges were
added by King John. The barony of Barnstaple, first granted to Judhael
de Totnes, passed to the Tracys, then by marriage to the Lords Martin,
and again by an heiress to the Lords Audley. The son of this heiress was
the 'heroical' Lord Audley who so greatly distinguished himself at the
Battle of Poitiers.
Barnstaple sent three ships to join the fleet that met the Armada.
Risdon calls it 'the chief town of merchandise next the river's mouth,'
and says that the people 'through traffic have much enriched
themselves,' although their haven is so shallow 'that it hardly beareth
small vessels.' Yet spring-tides sometimes flood the marshes all round,
and on one occasion some of the people 'to save their lives were
constrained from their upper rooms to take boat and be gone.' Westcote
speaks of it as trading especially with 'Spain and the islands,' and
till the latter half of the eighteenth century wool for the serge-makers
from Ireland and America was brought to this port; but its trade has now
almost dwindled away.
Barnstaple Fair is a great institution, and, though not quite the event
that it used to be, still keeps up many traditional ceremonies. On the
first morning a large stuffed glove is put out on the end of a pole from
a window of the Guildhall, and is supposed to be the symbol of welcome
to all comers. This sign was adopted long ago, and in the accounts in
1615 and 1622 are two entries: 'Paid for a glove put out at the fair,
4d.,' and 'Paid for a paire of gloves at the faire, 4d.'
In the Guildhall, toast and spiced ale are handed round in loving-cups
to all comers, and after two or three speeches the Mayor and Corporation
proceed to the High Cross and other places in the borough, and the Town
Clerk reads the Proclamation of the Fair. A 'Fair Ball' is still given,
but the custom of a stag-hunt on the second day has been dropped.
Barnstaple was a sort of shuttle-cock during the Civil War. Here, as
elsewhere, the citizens were not all of one mind; though the merchants
and the majority were for the Parliament, and it was taken possession
of first by one side and then by the other.
In August, 1643, Barnstaple and Bideford sent a combined force against
the royal troops under Colonel Digby at Torrington, but being completely
routed, their courage was shaken, and a few days later Barnstaple was
surrendered to Prince Maurice. The next year, however, most of the
garrison having been drawn away, the inhabitants arose and took
possession of the town for the Parliament. Prince Maurice hurriedly sent
Colonel Digby to bring them to reason, but with great determination they
resisted the Royal troops, who were driven back. During the next three
months the fortunes of the Parliament in the West were at a very low
ebb, and in September the town was summoned by Lord Goring. The store of
ammunition was very low, and as soon as they were blockaded, the
townspeople found themselves short of provisions. 'At that time but
weakly garrisoned, the town surrendered on terms, and the garrison
quitted it on the 17th, leaving 50 pieces of ordnance.'
In the following May the Prince of Wales arrived, for, says Clarendon,
'no place was thought so convenient for his residence as Barnstaple, a
pleasant town in the north part of Devonshire, well fortified, with a
good garrison in it, under the command of Sir Allen Apsley.' The King
sent orders to the Prince, who at this time was little more than fifteen
years old, 'by the advice of his council, to manage and improve the
business of the West, and provide reinforcements for the army.' The
Prince's council had no easy task, for they were harassed by several
causes. Lord Goring's jealousy and selfishness were a great hindrance;
in consequence of a petition regarding the violence of his horse, the
Prince, says Clarendon, 'writ many earnest letters to the Lord Goring.'
Another great difficulty to be grappled with here was a fierce quarrel
between Sir Richard Grenville and the Commissioners of Devon and
Cornwall, who complained of him in such bitter terms, that anyone who
judged from their report must have concluded him to be 'the most justly
odious to both counties that can be imagined.'
Prince Rupert paid the Prince a visit in June, and not long afterwards
Lord Goring's horse arrived in hot disorder, having been chased most of
the way from Bridgwater by Fairfax's troops. In the following spring the
town was besieged by the Parliament's troops, and the day after the
treaty for the surrender of Exeter was completed, Fairfax himself
marched to Barnstaple. The Governor, seeing that resistance was
hopeless, gave 'the castle and the town ... as a security for surrender
of the fort at eight days' end'; and on honourable terms Barnstaple
yielded to the enemy. It was the last town in Devonshire to be delivered
to the Parliament.
About two miles upstream the river 'Taw vails bonnet to Tawstock, in our
ancestors' speech,' says Westcote, and he goes on to describe it as 'a
pleasant and delicate seat indeed, in a rich soil, and inhabited by
worthy personages.' The modest claim has been put forward that the view
here includes 'the most valuable manor, the best mansion, the finest
church, and the richest rectory, in the county.' Possibly other parishes
may not agree with all the superlatives, but the beautiful features of
the valley certainly offer a temptation to use them.
Tawstock Court was once the property of the Earls of Bath, and now
belongs to their descendant, Sir Bourchier Wrey. An Elizabethan gateway
is all that is left of the old house, which was burnt down, and rebuilt
in 1787. The beautiful cruciform church is chiefly Decorated, but parts
are of a later date; it is dignified by a fine central embattled tower,
crowned by pinnacles. In the church are several altar-tombs to the
Bourchiers, Barons Fitzwarine and later Earls of Bath, and to their
wives, and there is a very early effigy carved in wood.
Leaving the Taw and crossing the country to the south, and a little to
the west, one reaches the Torridge, and Torrington, a town 'built
scatteringly, lying at length, as it were, upon the brow of a hill
hanging over the river.' It is, perhaps, chiefly known as the scene of a
skirmish and an engagement during the Civil War. The skirmish, already
mentioned, took place when the Parliament's partisans set out from
Barnstaple and Bideford to attack Colonel Digby, who, with a small
force, had established himself there. It was indeed a case of fortune
favouring the bold, for the Royalists were taken unawares, and had it
not been for the daring of 'the Colonel, whose courage and vivacity upon
action was very eminent, and commonly very fortunate,' the day might
well have been with the other side. Colonel Digby had divided a small
number of horse into little parties in different fields, and was waiting
for some of his troops to join him before attacking the enemy, when a
band of about fifty Parliamentary musketeers came towards the ground
where they stood. Realizing that, if these once gained possession of the
high banks between the two forces, his party must be driven off, Colonel
Digby, with instant decision, took four or five officers with him, and
charged with such vigour that the raw country troops, smitten with
panic, threw down their arms and ran, 'carrying so infectious a fear
with them, that the whole body of troops was seized by it and fled.'
Colonel Digby followed, with all the horse at his disposal, 'till,' says
Clarendon complacently, 'their swords were blunted with slaughter.'
Perhaps the Royalists were more anxious to impress a salutary warning
against the sin of rebellion than to kill the fugitives, for Clarendon
finishes the account by saying that the rebels 'were scattered and
dispersed all over the country, and scarce a man without a cut over the
face and head, or some other hurt, that wrought more upon their
neighbours towards their conversion, than any sermon could be preached
to them.' This affair practically brought about the submission of
Barnstaple, Bideford, and Appledore.
The second engagement was of a far more important character, with fatal
consequences to the King's cause in the West--already in a hopeless
condition. In the early spring of 1646, Lord Hopton marched to
Torrington, and was waiting there for the arrival of about half his
ammunition and provisions, when he heard that Sir Thomas Fairfax, with a
large army, was in the immediate neighbourhood. To the best of his
power, he hurriedly made such defences as were possible. His position
was excellent, for Torrington stands on a hill almost surrounded by deep
valleys, but his force was very inferior in numbers to that of the
enemy. It is curious that the second engagement at Torrington began
accidentally. Fairfax's army had had a series of encounters with an
outlying troop of Royalist dragoons on approaching the town, and by the
time they drew near the day was nearly spent. As the Royalists were well
prepared for their arrival, the lanes and fields near the town being
lined with musketeers, the Parliamentary Generals resolved to stay at a
little distance and wait for the morning to attack. The Royalist word
for the night was, 'We are with you,' and their sign, that each man had
a handkerchief tied round his right arm. The word for the other army
was, 'Emmanuel, God with us,' and their signal, a sprig of furze in
every hat.
About nine o'clock a noise in the town suddenly awoke the suspicion that
the Royalists were retreating, so, says Sprigg, 'that we might get
certain knowledge whether they were going off or not, a small party of
dragoons were set to fire on the enemy near the barricadoes and hedges;
the enemy answered us with a round volley of shot.' Whereupon the
engagement became general, and both sides fought 'in the dark for some
two hours, till we beat them from the hedges and within their
barricadoes, which were very strong, and where some of their men
disputed the entrance of our forces with push of pike and butt-end of
musket for a long time.' At length the Parliamentary troops prevailed,
and their horse 'chased the enemy through the town.' Lord Hopton,
bringing up the rear, had his horse shot dead under him in the middle of
the town, but, in spite of the fact that he was slightly wounded, he
made yet another effort to rally his troops, and they, 'facing about in
the street, caused our foot to retreat.' Then a body of horse dashed up
with a vehemence that the Royalists could not stand against, and they
were obliged to fly; 'one of the officers publicly reporting,' says
Clarendon bitterly, 'lest the soldiers should not make haste enough in
running away, that he saw their general run through the body with a
pike.'
Scarcely were the Parliamentarians in possession of the town, when a
frightful explosion occurred. The church, which unknown to them, Lord
Hopton had used as a powder-magazine, was blown up and about two hundred
prisoners whom the Roundheads had confined in the church were killed. In
his account of the disaster, Sprigg, who was obviously, from passages in
his writings, a man of warm feelings, and a clergyman by profession,
refers very cheerfully to the fact that 'few were slain besides the
enemy's (that were prisoners in the church where the magazine was blown
up), and most of our men that guarded them, who were killed and buried
in the ruins,' and not for one moment does the melancholy fate of the
many victims seem to damp his joy.
The victory was a very important one, and a public thanksgiving was held
in consequence--indeed, this was the last real resistance made by the
Royalists in the West.
The church has been very unfortunate, for since it was rebuilt in 1651
the tower has been blown down, and it fell through the roof, doing a
good deal of damage. An old print shows this tower to have been a
wonderful erection of slates and tiles, projecting eaves, and irregular
gables, surmounted by a little dome, with a weathercock on the top of
all. It was replaced by a slender, tapering, but more conventional
spire.
Margaret, Countess of Richmond, and mother of Henry VII, lived here for
some time, and left a generous gift, for, 'pitying the long path the
pastor had from home to church,' she 'gave to him and his successors the
manor-house with lands thereto': and on this site of the manor-house
stands the present vicarage. Besides making this gift, 'on every
occasion a friend to learning, even in its infancy, she built a room for
a library, and furnished it with the most useful books then to be had.'
Torridge Castle, a building of the fourteenth century, stood on the
verge of a steep descent to the river. In Risdon's day it was almost
gone, the ruins had 'for many years hovered, which, by extreme age, is
almost brought to its period;' and in 1780 the chapel, the only part
left, was partly pulled down and afterwards turned into a school.
About a mile or so to the east stands Stevenstone--a new house, in the
midst of a fine deer-park. For over three centuries Stevenstone was
owned by the Rolles, and when Fairfax's troops advanced on Torrington,
two hundred dragoons were being entertained by 'Master Rolls,' and the
advance was disputed by these dragoons, who, after a long and straggling
fight in the narrow and dirty lanes, eventually fell back on the town.
Here Fairfax took up his quarters after the town had been taken.
A few miles upstream the Torridge passes Potheridge, the birthplace of
General Monk, whose ancestors had owned property here since the reign of
Henry III.
The character of George Monk is extraordinarily interesting, a curious
point being that, though he was essentially cautious, level-headed, and,
as Clarendon says, 'not enthusiastical,' and therefore unlikely to rouse
very vivid sentiments in others, as a matter of fact he awoke violent
feelings either of glowing enthusiasm or of extreme bitterness. It is
easy to understand his unpopularity with keen partisans who looked on
their opponents and all their ways with abhorrence, and therefore failed
to understand how an honest man could fight for the King, then accept a
command from Cromwell, and finally become the prime mover of the
Restoration. But--'If a man does not keep pace with his companions,
perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer'; and it may well be
that the beat that ruled Monk's steps was the peaceable government and
welfare of the people, and especially of the army, and to the personal
claims and rights of the rulers he was indifferent. The general state of
things needed reform badly enough. Monk's acts were never inconsistent,
but he had a genius for silence. When war in England broke out, he
returned from fighting for the King in Holland, to fight for him at
home. When Cromwell offered him his release from the Tower, at the price
of helping to subdue the Irish rebels, his accepting the command was to
the advantage of this country.
To begin with, Monk was forced to turn soldier with unexpected
suddenness. The Under-Sheriff of Exeter publicly affronted Sir Thomas
Monk, on which his son, aged sixteen, went to Exeter and gave the
offender 'the chastisement he deserved (without any intention of
murder).' This step created a good deal of disturbance, and to avoid
more, 'our young gentleman' was packed off to 'the School of War in the
Low Countries.'
He was taken prisoner early in the Civil War, and after over two years
of close imprisonment, agreed to accompany the Lord Deputy Lisle to
Munster. After leaving Ireland he gained brilliant successes at sea over
the Dutch. Prince tells a tale that is characteristic of him and of
Cromwell. The seamen who had served under Monk had been told that they
should receive their full pay as soon as the prizes were sold off, but
were unreasonably impatient; and while Monk was actually at Whitehall
putting their claims before the Protector, news was brought him 'that
three or four thousand seamen were come as far as Charing Cross with
swords, pistols, and clubs, to demand their pay. General Monk, thinking
himself wronged in this, ran down to meet them, drew his sword, and fell
upon them; Cromwell following with one or two attendants, cut and hew
the seamen, and drove them before him.' Prince finishes the story with
applause of the boldness that 'should drive such great numbers of such
furious creatures as English seamen.' Later, Monk's command in Scotland
resulted in a state of order and quietness then very unusual in that
country.
Accusations of dealing unfairly with the Parliament in 1659 may be
levelled against him with some justice, but how was loyalty possible to
a household so divided against itself as were the rulers of the Kingdom?
The Army and the Parliament were in bitter antagonism to each other, and
Lambert's soldiers had shut the Parliament out of Westminster. The
members of the Rump Parliament, the earlier 'secluded' members, the
Presbyterians, the Independents under Lambert, the Royalists, and
smaller parties, were all working for their own ends. When Monk marched
south, a deputation was sent to meet him from the Council of Officers,
ostensibly to make terms between their army and his, but also with the
secret object of establishing an understanding between him and Fleetwood
that would enable the latter to get rid of his friend and colleague,
General Lambert. Meanwhile Lambert, jealous of Fleetwood, sent a
private and friendly message to Monk by Major-General Morgan, who not
only betrayed his party at Lambert's bidding, but betrayed that patriot
as well, for at the same time that he gave the message, he also
delivered a secret letter from Lord Fairfax, begging Monk to adopt a
course which would have been fatal to Lambert. And the country as a
whole was heartily sick of both factions.
Had Monk openly declared himself for the Stuarts, at the time that he
first began to prepare for the Restoration, he would probably have
imperilled the success of the whole scheme, and most certainly would
have plunged the country again into the horrors of Civil War. When he
did reveal his negotiations with the exiled Court at Breda, 'London
would not have borne many days, or even many hours longer, the extreme
tension it was then suffering--the City one way, Westminster the other
way; Monk's army between them, and Fleetwood's wolves prowling all
round, and ready to pour in.'
Apart from all else, tribute must be paid to Monk's marvellous skill in
so ordering affairs that the Restoration was brought about almost
without the cost of a drop of blood. During the winter of 1659, a far
larger army than his own lay for many weeks a few miles to the south on
the Border, sent there with the especial purpose of watching and if
necessary attacking him. But Monk knew how to bide his time and to
prolong negotiations to suit his convenience till in the end, without a
blow being struck, he marched his army south to London. Masterly was the
diplomacy and grasp of detail which, on the eve of announcing the
Restoration, dispersed over the country all soldiers who would be
inclined to stand by the Parliament, making any serious attempt at a
revolt on their part impossible.
One failing his most fervent admirer cannot ignore--a strong leaning to
avarice. But his popularity was unbounded, and 'it was his singular
fortune to win in succession the affection of three very different
populations, those of Dublin, Edinburgh, and London.' In Ireland his men
were devoted to him. 'A soldier, tho' sick and without shoes, would
strive to go out with honest George Monk.' After the death of Cromwell
he was offered the crown, but he refused, 'holding it a greater honour
to be an honest subject than a great usurper.'
During the frightful visitation of the Plague, the Earl of Craven, and
the Archbishop of Canterbury and Monk, were the only high officials who
stayed at their posts, and exposed themselves perpetually to the 'seeds
of death.' So great was the public confidence in him, that at the time
of the Great Fire, he being then at sea, 'the people did believe and
say: "If he had been there, the city had not been burned."' No idol of
the mob could ask a more whole-hearted adoration.
The popular feeling is expressed in a rather limping acrostic on his
name, of which I quote only the first quarter. It was called 'England's
Heroick Champion, or The ever-renowned General George Monck.' The date
is about 1659-60.
'G ood may'st thou be, as thou are great.
E ver regarded.
O r like _Alexander_ compleat,
R ichly rewarded.
G ainst thy virtue none dare stand,
E xcluded Members now are
Back return'd by thy hand.
'M any miles didst thou compass,
O nly us to free;
N othing by thee too hard was,
C ompared to be.
K eep us in thy protection!
We were all greatly distrest;
Bring thou in all the best.
'G reat bonfires then was made,
E xpressing joy,
O f us that sorrow did invade,
R efresh our annoy.
G uard us with thy aid, we desire;
E xaltation we all will raise
Unto heaven in thy praise.
'M uch good hast thou already done,
O ver this land;
N ow our hearts thou hast quite won:
C ommand! Command!
K indly we will entertain
Those that were excluded,
For they have not intruded.'
In later years, as Duke of Albemarle, he returned to the estate of his
forefathers, and rebuilt Potheridge in a very magnificent manner. It has
since been pulled down.
If the traveller follows the Torridge upstream, he will be led south
till he is within two miles of Hatherleigh, and here the river curves
away westwards, and then in a northerly direction. In the spring, this
clear, rippling stream has a special charm--thousands and thousands of
daffodils grow along the banks though only sparingly in the fields
beyond, so that, if the river happens to be low and the water not to be
seen at a little distance, the windings of the river through the wide
green valley are marked by two broad lines of pale, clear yellow.
Hatherleigh Moor was given a bad name very long ago. The saying is
double-edged:
'The people are poor, as Hatherleigh Moor,
And so they have been for ever and ever.'
But the people of the little town are able to graze their cattle and cut
furze for fuel on it. Hatherleigh parish has two holy wells. St John's
Well stands on the moor, and there used to be a pretty custom of
fetching its water for a baptism. The water of St. Mary's Well was good
for the eyes, and within the memory of persons still alive pagan
traditions were observed around it on Midsummer Eve. Amidst 'wild scenes
of revelry ... fires were lit, feasting and dancing were indulged in.'
For some years, in this part of the country, while he was curate to his
father, who had the neighbouring living of Iddesleigh, the renowned
'Jack' Russell preached on Sundays and hunted on weekdays. He was
immensely popular, and so many stories are told of him and his hounds
that it has been already said, 'Russell is fast becoming mythical.' He
was not the ideal of a modern parish priest, but this is the opinion of
one who remembers him. The writer begins by speaking of a friend of
Russell's as a man who 'seems ... to have been as good a Christian as he
was a gentleman; not ecstatic perhaps, but in the sense of leading a
godly, righteous and sober life. And,' he goes on, 'the same may with
certainty be predicated of Russell ... Russell, like a wise man, got
right home to Nature. It was not for nothing that the gipsy chieftain
left him his rat-catcher's belt, and begged for burial at his hands in
Swymbridge churchyard.'
Perhaps the following story of him is not quite so well known as many
others:
Mr Russell once advertised for a curate: 'Wanted, a curate for
Swymbridge: must be a gentleman of moderate and orthodox views.'
Soon after this advertisement had appeared Mr Hooker, Vicar of
Buckerell, was standing in a shop door in Barnstaple, 'when he was
accosted by Will Chapple, the parish clerk of Swymbridge, who entered
the grocer's shop. "Havee got a coorate yet for Swymbridge, Mr Chapple?"
inquired the grocer, in Mr Hooker's hearing. "No, not yet, sir," replied
the sexton. "Master's nation purticler, and the man must be orthodox."
"What does that mean?" inquired the grocer. "Well, I reckon it means he
must be a purty good rider."
Here we must leave the Torridge altogether, and go eleven miles
south-east to the point where the Taw leaves the uplands of Dartmoor.
Almost the first village that the river passes is South Zeal, close to
South Tawton, and near South Zeal was the old home of the Oxenhams, the
family about whom the well-known legend of the white bird is told. When
an Oxenham is about to die, a white bird flaps at the window or flies
about the sickroom, and stories of the bird having been seen at such
times have been told at intervals, through two centuries. The evidence
in some instances seems fairly good, but where an apparition is expected
it is not unlikely imagination may play tricks, or a chance event may be
interpreted as an omen.
Lysons quotes from Mr Chapple's manuscript collections a case that
happened in 1743, the story being given to Mr Chapple by the doctor. Mr
William Oxenham was ill, and 'when the bird came into his chamber, he
observed upon the tradition as connected with his family, but added he
was not sick enough to die, and that he should cheat the bird, and this
was a day or two before his death, which took place after a short
illness.'
It is necessary to pass over thirteen or fourteen miles, but at
Chumleigh one must turn aside to the east, for about six miles in that
direction was the ancient home of the Stucleys. Affeton Castle has been
for many years altogether in ruins, but in the middle of the last
century Sir George Stucley roofed over the old gate-house and made it
habitable as a shooting-box. This is the only part of the castle still
standing, though the farmhouse close by is no doubt built upon some of
the foundations. 'Lusty Stukeley' (the name was spelt in several ways)
was far from among the worthiest of his family, but distinctly the most
entertaining. His ideas were certainly 'spacious' enough for the great
days in which he lived, though he was too crack-brained and full of self
to fall into line with his betters, whose deeds still bear rich fruit.
'He was,' says Fuller severely, 'one of good parts, but valued the less
by others, because over-prized by himself.'
If it be allowed that the personality of everyone inclines to being drab
or flamboyant, his may be compared to fireworks. Thomas Stukely, who was
born about 1530, was for a younger brother unusually well endowed, 'but
his profluous prodigality soon wasted it; yet then, not anyway dejected
in mind, he projected to people Florida, and there in those remote
countries to play rex.' He 'blushed not' to tell Queen Elizabeth 'that
he preferred rather to be sovereign of a mole-hill than the highest
subject to the greatest king in Christendom.' His audacity reached the
point of bandying words with the Queen, who seems, from the polite irony
of her tone, to have been amused by his vanity.
'I hope,' said the Queen, 'I shall hear from you when you are stated in
your Principality?' 'I will write unto you,' quoth Stuckley. 'In what
language?' said the Queen. He returned, 'In the stile of Princes, To our
dear Sister.'
And on this Stukely departed, but not to Florida, for he met with
reverses which dashed his plans, but not his spirits. Westcote quotes 'a
ditty made by him, or of him,' apparently at this time:
'Have over the waters to Florida.
Farewell good London now;
Through long delays on land and seas,
I'm brought, I cannot tell how.
'In Plymouth town, in a thread-bare gown.
And money never a deal:
Hay! trixi trim! go trixi trim!
And will not a wallet do well?'
Unfortunately, his career was a great failure. From sunning himself at
the Court of Elizabeth, he turned to paths of disloyalty, and became the
'Pope's pensioner.' The Pope created him Marquis of Leinster, and added
several minor titles, and then this 'Title-top heavy General' attempted
in vain to carry treasonable help to the Irish rebels. Yet he had 'the
fortune to die honourably.' Arrived in Lisbon at the moment when the
King of Portugal was starting in a campaign to Barbary, Stukely was
persuaded to join his army, and fell, fighting gallantly, at the Battle
of Alcasar, 1578.
'A Fatal Fight, where in one day was slain
Three Kings that were and one that would be fain.'
About five miles to the north, at King's Nympton, the Pollards were
settled for some generations, and many of them 'lived to be as proper
gentlemen as most in this or any other county.' Sir Hugh Pollard fought
in the Civil War, and as Governor of Dartmouth Castle made a brave and
resolute though unsuccessful defence. After the Restoration, Charles II
appointed him Comptroller of the Household. It was said of Sir Hugh
'that he was very active and venturous for his Majesty in the worst of
Times, and very hospitable and noble with him in the best.'
Five miles north of Bishop's Nympton is the old town of South Molton,
and the manor was part of the demesne of Edward the Confessor. In the
reign of Edward I, Lord Martin held it 'by sergeantry to find a man with
a bow and three arrows to attend the Earl of Gloucester when he goeth to
Gower [in Wales] to hunt.'
In the spring of 1654, Charles II was proclaimed King in South Molton,
for the Wiltshire gentlemen who had risen against the Government, headed
by Sir Joseph Wagstaff and led by Colonel Penruddock and Mr Hugh Groves,
made their way so far west before they were overpowered. Sir Joseph
escaped, but the other two leaders were beheaded at Exeter.
A little to the north of the town, and about eight miles south of
Barnstaple, are the wide grounds of Castle Hill--broad lawns and slopes,
clear streams, and rich feathery masses of woodland that, shaded and
softened by distance, spread far away.
The Fortescues, not long after the Conquest, were granted lands in
Devonshire, and in one generation after another they have come forward
to take a part in public affairs--often a Samson's share of toil. Sir
John Fortescue fought at Agincourt, and was chosen Governor of Meaux by
Henry V. Sir Edward Fortescue, when he had surrendered Salcombe Castle,
had the consolation of knowing that this fort had been held for the King
later than any other place in Devonshire. Sir Faithful and Sir Nicholas
Fortescue were distinguished commanders in the same war. In the reign of
Henry VI, Sir Henry Fortescue was Lord Chief Justice of Ireland, though
his fame is very much eclipsed by the greater brilliancy of his brother.
Sir John Fortescue, Lord Chief Justice, is usually spoken of as Lord
Chancellor, though it is doubted whether he ever received a valid
appointment; for when the honour was bestowed upon him, Yorkists and
Lancastrians were already at war. As the trouble deepened, Sir John laid
aside his robe for his sword, and fought bravely for the 'falling cause'
in the terrible battle of Palm Sunday. Later, he accompanied the King
and Queen in their flight, and while abroad, with courageous optimism,
began to instruct the Prince in the 'lawes of his country and the
duties of a King of England.' Of Sir John's two celebrated treatises--De
Natura Legis Naturae, and De Laudibus Legum Angliae--the latter and most
famous was specially compiled for the benefit of the Prince, and Sir
Edward Coke has enthusiastically declared it 'worthy to be written in
letters of gold for the weight and worthiness thereof.'
A Fortescue of a later generation who 'took to the law,' eventually
became Master of the Rolls. He was a great friend of the poet Pope, and
from the gentle mockery in some of the long letters of the poet still in
existence, it would seem that Mr Fortescue had a proper share of
prejudice in favour of his own county. In 1724 Pope writes: 'I am
grieved to tell you that there is one Devonshire man not honest; for my
man Robert proves a vile fellow, and I have discarded him.' And in
another letter, nearly ten years later, in March, 1734-35: 'Twitnam is
very cold these easterly winds; but I presume they do not blow in the
happy regions of Devonshire.'
Sir John Fortescue, born in 1533, had the honour of being chosen
'Preceptor to the Princess Elizabeth.' Later he was appointed Keeper of
the Great Wardrobe; whereupon it was remarked that Sir John Fortescue
was one whom the Queen trusted with the ornaments of her soul
and body. 'Two men,' Queen Elizabeth would say, 'outdid her
expectations,--Fortescue for integrity, and Walsingham for subtlety and
officious services.'
Towards the end of the eighteenth century a member of one of the
branches of Fortescues who settled in Ireland was created Lord Clermont.
He was very much liked by the Prince of Wales, and both Lord and Lady
Clermont were a great deal at Court. In Wraxall's 'Posthumous Memoirs'
there is an amusing account of an evening spent by Lady Clermont in
launching into London society the Count Fersen who was noted for his
devotion to Marie Antoinette. Already 'Swedish Envoy at the Court of
France,' he had arrived in England, 'bringing letters of introduction
from the Duchesse de Polignac to many persons of distinction here, in
particular for Lady Clermont. Desirous to present him in the best
company, soon after his arrival she conducted him in her own carriage to
Lady William Gordon's assembly in Piccadilly. She had scarcely entered
the room and made Count Fersen known to the principal individuals of
both sexes, when the Prince of Wales was announced. I shall recount the
sequel in Lady Clermont's own words to me, only a short time subsequent
to the fact. "His Royal Highness took no notice of me on his first
arrival, but in a few minutes afterwards, coming up to me: 'Pray, Lady
Clermont,' said he, 'is that man whom I see here Count Fersen, the
queen's favourite?' 'The gentleman,' answered I, 'to whom your royal
highness alludes is Count Fersen; but so far from being a favourite of
the queen, he has not yet been presented at Court.' 'D----n!' exclaimed
he, 'you don't imagine I mean my mother?' 'Sir,' I replied, 'whenever
you are pleased to use the word "queen" without any addition, I shall
always understand it to mean my queen. If you speak of any other queen,
I must entreat that you will be good enough to say the Queen of France,
or of Spain.' The Prince made no reply; but after having walked once or
twice round Count Fersen, returning to me: 'He's certainly a very
handsome fellow,' observed he. 'Shall I have the honour, sir,' said I,
'to present him to you?' He instantly turned on his heel, without giving
me any answer; and I soon afterwards quitted Lady William Gordon's
house, carrying Count Fersen with me. We drove to Mrs St John's, only a
few doors distant, who had likewise a large party on that evening. When
I had introduced him to various persons there, I said to him, 'Count
Fersen, I am an old woman and infirm, who always go home to bed at
eleven. You will, I hope, amuse yourself. Goodnight.' Having thus done
the honours as well as I could to a stranger who had been so highly
recommended to me, I withdrew into the ante-chamber and sate down alone
in a corner, waiting for my carriage.
'"While there the Prince came in, and I naturally expected, after his
recent behaviour, that he would rather avoid than accost me. On the
contrary, advancing up to me: 'What are you doing here, Lady Clermont?'
asked he. 'I am waiting for my coach, sir,' said I, 'in order to go
home.' 'Then,' replied he, 'I will put you into it and give you my arm
down the stairs.' 'For heaven's sake, sir,' I exclaimed, 'don't attempt
it! I am old, very lame, and my sight is imperfect; the consequence of
your offering me your arm will be that, in my anxiety not to detain your
royal highness, I shall hurry down and probably tumble from the top of
the staircase to the foot.' 'Very likely,' answered he, 'but if you
tumble, I shall tumble with you. Be assured, however, that I will have
the pleasure of assisting you and placing you safely in your carriage.'
I saw that he was determined to repair the rudeness with which he had
treated me at Lady William Gordon's, and therefore acquiesced. He
remained with me till the coach was announced, conversed most agreeably
on various topics, and as he took care of me down the stairs, enjoined
me at every step not to hurry myself. Nor did he quit me when seated in
the carriage, remaining uncovered on the steps of the house till it
drove off from the door."'