Lundy, Lynmouth, and the Borders of Exmoor
'Ay, ay, the year's awaking,
The fire's among the ling,
The beechen hedge is breaking,
The curlew's on the wing:
Primroses are out, lad,
On the high banks of Lee,
And the sun stirs the trout, lad,
From Brendon to the sea.
'I know what's in your heart, lad,--
The mare he used to hunt,
And her blue market-cart, lad,
With posies tied in front--
We miss them from the moor road,
They're getting old to roam;
The road they're on's a sure road,
And nearer, lad, to home.'
H. NEWBOLT: _April on Waggon Hill_.
The charm of the coast-line of North Devon lies partly in its great
irregularity. 'At one spot a headland, some five hundred feet high,
rough with furze-clad projections at the top, and falling abruptly to a
bay; then, perhaps, masses of a low, dark rock, girding a basin of turf,
as at Watermouth; again, a recess and beach, with the mouth of a stream;
a headland next in order, and so the dark coast runs whimsically
eastward, passing from one shape to another like a Proteus, until it
unites with the massive sea-front of Exmoor.' At the eastern ridge of
the county, the hill on which Oldbarrow Camp stands rises more than
eleven hundred feet straight out of the sea.
Ilfracombe's tiny bay is almost surrounded by rocks, but a pier was
built by one of the Bourchiers, Earls of Bath, and his successors--one
Sir Bourchier Wrey after another--have improved and enlarged it.
Westcote speaks of it as 'a pretty harbour for ships of small burden,
but dangerous to come in in some winds, especially for strangers; for
whose better security they keep a continual pharos to direct their
course.' The lighthouse now stands on the Lantern Rock, at the mouth of
the harbour, where once stood a little chapel dedicated to St Nicholas.
The dedication explains its position, for St Nicholas was a sea-saint,
whose protection used to be specially implored as a defence against
shipwreck.
Nowadays Ilfracombe is of no consequence as a port, but six centuries
ago it must have been of some importance, for when Edward III was
besieging Paris it contributed six ships and eighty-two mariners to a
fleet. Although the nucleus of the town is old, and indeed consisted
only of one 'scattering street,' its development is very modern, and has
happened since it became popular as a watering-place.
The architecture of the church is very varied. The tower is probably
Norman, finished by Perpendicular battlements and pinnacles; it is built
above the centre of the north aisle, and projects into the church. There
are also remains of Transitional work, and in the chancel is a Decorated
piscina.
Leading inland from Ilfracombe are 'lovely combes, with their green
copses, and ridges of rock, and golden furze, fruit-laden orchards, and
slopes of emerald pasture, pitched as steep as house-roofs, where the
red long-horns are feeding, with their tails a yard above their heads.'
About twenty-two miles to the west, the sea-line is broken by an island,
about which there is an indefinable air of romance. Lundy is three and a
half miles long, its greatest width is a few yards short of a mile, and
it is surrounded by high and dangerous cliffs and rocks--too well known
even in the present day by the ships wrecked on them. Perhaps those
oftenest heard of are the reefs of the Hen and Chickens, 'fringed with
great insular rocks, bristling up amid the sea,' which dashes on them in
a never-ceasing cloud of foam on the north, and the fatal Shutter on the
south-west. Lundy has been described as a 'lofty table-headed granite
rock.... The cliffs and adjacent sea are alive with seabirds, every
ledge and jutting rock being alive with them, or they are whirling round
in clouds, filling the air with their discordant screams.' Westcote
remarked: 'In breeding time, in some places, you shall hardly know where
to set your foot but on eggs,' and adds that it affords 'conies
plentifully, doves, stares (which Alexander Nectan termeth Ganymede's
birds).' Mr Chanter translates 'Ganymede's birds to be gannets, as there
were very many of these birds there'; but an older commentator soars
higher, and thinks of eagles and ostriches!
A description of Lundy as it was in the middle of the eighteenth century
is dimly suggestive of Robinson Crusoe. 'Wild fowl were exceeding
plenty, and a vast number of rabbits. The island was overgrown with
ferns and heath, which made it almost impossible to go to the extreme of
the island. Had it not been for the supply of rabbits and young
sea-gulls our tables would have been but poorly furnished, rats being so
plenty that they destroyed every night what was left of our repast by
day. Lobsters were tolerably plenty, and some other fish we caught. The
deer and goats were very wild and difficult to get at. The path to the
house was so narrow and steep that it was scarcely possible for a horse
to ascend it. The inhabitants by the assistance of a rope climbed up a
rock in which were steps cut to place their feet, to a cave or magazine
where Mr Benson lodged his goods.' There have been considerable
differences of opinion about the name, and Mr Baring-Gould believes:
'Lundy takes its name from the puffins, in Scandinavian _Lund_, that at
all times frequented it; but it had an earlier Celtic name, Caer Sidi,
and is spoken of as a mysterious abode in the Welsh _Mabinogion_.'
Many centuries later it seems to have had the power of inspiring
fabulous tales, for Miss Celia Fiennes, who looked at it in her journey
from Cornwall, makes a statement almost as wonderful as some of Sir John
Mandeville's tales of Barnacle Trees and other marvels. She says: 'I saw
the isle of Lundy, which formerly belonged to my Grandfather, William
Lord Viscount Say and Seale, which does abound with fish and rabbits and
all sorts of ffowles, one bird y^t lives partly in the water and
partly out and so may be called an amphibious creature; it's true that
one foot is like a turkey, the other a goose's foote; it lays its eggs
in a place the sun shines on and sets it so exactly upright on the small
end, and there it remaines till taken up, and all the art and skill of
persons cannot set it up soe againe to abide.'
Legends apart, Lundy has been the scene of many thrilling adventures,
and has had an eventful history. The advantages of its position for
watching and falling upon richly laden merchant ships on their way to
and from Bristol and other towns, and the great difficulties that met
any enemy trying to land, resulted in the island being appropriated by
one band of pirates after another, of whom the De Moriscoes were the
most celebrated. Henry II, getting tired of their turbulence and
lawlessness, granted the island to the Knights Templars, but it does not
appear they were ever able to establish themselves there. In 1158 the
raids of the Moriscoes became so intolerable that a special tax was
imposed in Devon and Cornwall for the defence of their ports, and for
furnishing means for an attack on Lundy, but Sir William de Morisco
seems to have triumphantly survived the storm. Later he was taken
prisoner by the French in a sea-fight, but was eventually released.
Sir William, his son, was charged, upon the evidence of a semi-lunatic,
with conspiring to assassinate Henry III, and on the strength of it was
condemned to death--a sentence that, as he fled to Lundy, was not
carried out for four years, when he was taken by stratagem. Lundy was
then seized by the King, but forty years later the Moriscoes once more
gained possession of it. Edward II granted the island to one of the
Despencers, and in his own distress attempted to take refuge here:
'To Lundy, which in Sabrin's mouth doth stand,
Carried with hope (still hoping to find ease),
Imagining it were his native land,
England itself; Severn, the narrow sea;
With this conceit, poor soul! himself doth please.
And sith his rule is over-ruled by men,
On birds and beasts he'll king it once again.
''Tis treble death a freezing death to feel;
For him on whom the sun hath ever shone,
Who hath been kneeled unto, can hardly kneel,
Nor hardly beg what once hath been his own.
A fearful thing to tumble from a throne!
Fain would he be king of a little isle;
All were his empire bounded in a mile.'
But the winds were against him, and he was driven on to the Welsh coast,
into the hands of his enemies.
During the reign of Henry VIII, French pirates seized the island, and
plundered and robbed at large, but they were accounted for by the valour
of Clovelly fishermen, who made a determined attack, and killed or made
prisoners of the whole band. In 1608 a commission was held to consider
the grievances of merchants who complained of piracy in the Bristol
Channel; and in 1610 'another commission was issued to the Earl of
Nottingham to authorize the town of Barnstaple to send out ships for the
capture of pirates, and the deposition was taken of one William Young,
who had been made prisoner by Captain Salkeld, who entitled himself
"King of Lundy," and was a notorious pirate.' Two years later 'the _John
of Braunton_ and the _Mayflower_ of Barnstaple caught as notorious
Rogues as any in England.' After another thirteen years: 'The Mayor of
Bristol reports to the Council that three Turkish pirate vessels had
surprised and taken the island of Lundy with the inhabitants, and had
threatened to burn Ilfracombe.' During an inquiry following this report,
evidence was given that seems very curious when one considers the date,
nearly halfway through the seventeenth century: 'From Nicholas Cullen,
"That the Turks had taken out of a church in Cornwall about sixty men,
and carried them away prisoners."'
French pirates made Lundy their headquarters three years later, and in
June, 1630, Captain Plumleigh reported that 'Egypt was never more
infested with caterpillars than the Channel with Biscayers. On the 23rd
instant there came out of St Sebastian twenty sail of sloops; some
attempted to land on Lundy, but were repulsed by the inhabitants.'
One of the most conspicuous of all Lundy's owners was a certain Thomas
Benson, merchant of Bideford, who, with great sang-froid and
considerable humour, combined smuggling and piracy with being a member
of Parliament. Unfortunately, his varied occupations after a while
brought him to grief. Amongst other charges, it was proved that he had
'entered into a contract with the Government for the exportation of
convicts to Virginia and Maryland, and gave the usual bond to the
sheriff for so doing. But instead of doing this he shipped them to
Lundy, where he employed them in building walls and other work in the
island. Every night they were locked up in the old keep of the
Mariscoes. He regarded himself as King of Lundy, and ruled with a high
hand.' In answering this accusation he offered the ingenious excuse for
his breach of contract: 'That he considered Lundy to be quite as much
out of the world as these colonies.'
From Ilfracombe, towards Lynton, the road at first follows the edge of
the cliff, high above the sea. One tiny bay curves inland till the road
seems almost to overhang the water, blue-green with undertones of grey,
and the foam splashing on the broken rocks. All around is a sense of
wide spaces and freshness. Headland beyond headland rises to the east,
the Little Hangman, Great Hangman, and Highveer Point, softened by a
transparent grey haze. A little to the right of them are the first
ridges of Exmoor, some long, some short, ending in full curves and
slopes clearly outlined against the sides of their higher neighbours,
and the highest against the sky. In the prettiest of hollows, Watermouth
Castle looks down a slope of richest pasture to the sea sparkling below,
and a great mass of rock shields it from storms blowing off the water.
Clouds of foliage soften the lines of the hill rising behind the Castle.
A short distance inland is the village of Berrynarbour, chiefly to be
remembered as the birthplace of John Jewel, Bishop of Salisbury, 'a
perfect rich gem, and true jewel indeed,' over whose virtues Westcote
falls into panegyrics. 'If anywhere the observation of Chrysostom be
true, that there lies a great hidden treasure in names, surely it may
rightly be said to be here; grace in John and eminent perfection in
Jewel.'
John Jewel was born in 1522, and when very young was sent to Oxford,
where he showed a passion for learning, and before long became famous as
a lecturer and preacher. 'His behaviour was so virtuous that his
heaviest adversary ... could not notwithstanding forbear to yield this
testimony to his commendation: "I should love thee, Jewel, wert thou not
a Zuinglian. In thy faith thou art a heretic, but sure in thy life thou
art an angel."'
Jewel's friendship with Peter Martyr, and other marks of his Protestant
leanings, were the reason of his being expelled, in Queen Mary's days,
from Corpus Christi College. But he had 'a little Zoar to fly
unto'--Broadgates Hall, now Pembroke College.
As danger became more imminent, he escaped to Switzerland, and did not
come back to England until Elizabeth's reign had dawned. Fuller's brief
summary is that he 'wrote learnedly, preached painfully, lived piously,
died peaceably, Anno Domini 1572.' And his 'memory' (to return to
Westcote) was 'a fragrant, sweet-smelling odour, blown abroad not only
in that diocese, but generally through the whole kingdom.'
Our author finishes his remarks on Berrynarbour by quoting an epitaph
then to be found in the church, a building which has a fine
Perpendicular tower with battlement and pinnacles. The memorial was to
Nicholas Harper:
'Harper! the music of thy life,
So sweet, so free from jar or strife;
To crown thy skill hath rais'd thee higher,
And plac'd thee in the angels' choir:
And though that death hath thrown thee down,
In heaven thou hast thy harp and crown.'
A short distance farther on, the road runs down into Combe Martin Bay,
following the little creek that narrows and narrows inland between high
rock walls till two small houses seem almost to block it, and the road
twists round them and runs up the enclosed valley beyond. The village is
an odd one, for it is over a mile long, but hardly any houses stand away
from the main street, which is made up of cob-walled, thatched cottages,
quite large shops, little slate-roofed houses, and villas in their own
garden, all jumbled together as if they had been thrown down
accidentally. Masses of red valerian, and some of the graceful bright
rose-bay willow-herb, give colour to the banks and overhang the walls.
Combe Martin has the rare distinction amongst English parishes of owning
mines with veins of silver as well as lead. Camden tells us that the
silver-mines 'were first discovered in Edward the First's days, when
three hundred and fifty men were brought from the Peak in Derbyshire, to
work here.' This statement Fuller amplifies by the note that 'It was
forged for the Lady _Eleanor_ Dutchesse of _Barr_, daughter to the said
King, who married the year before.'
In the reign of Edward III the mines yielded the King 'great profits
towards carrying on the French war,' and Henry V 'made good use of
them,' but after that they were neglected for a long while. In Queen
Elizabeth's reign, Adrian Gilbert, Sir Humphrey's brother, began to work
them again, and Sir Beavis Bulmer followed with considerable success,
'by whose mineral skill great quantity of silver was landed and
refined.'
The Queen presented the Earl of Bath with a rich and fair silver cup
made here, bearing this inscription:
'In Martin's-Comb long lay I hid,
Obscure, depress'd with grosser soil;
Debased much with mixed lead,
Till Bulmer came, whose skill and toil
Refined me so pure and clean
As richer nowhere else is seen.
'And adding yet a farther grace,
By fashion he did enable
Me worthy for to take a place
To serve at any prince's table.
Comb-Martin gave the ore alone,
Bulmer fining and fashion.'
The mines have been worked at intervals since, and as late as 1845 a
smelting-house was built in the valley.
The church is of rose-coloured stone, and has a high battlemented tower,
in which are niches with figures in them. There is a good screen, with
paintings of the Apostles on the panels. In the south aisle is a
monument to the wife of William Hancock, 'an effigy the size of life,
exquisitely and elaborately sculptured in white marble. It bears the
date 1634. Dame Hancock is represented in the dress of that time,
covered with point lace and looped with knots of riband; she has a pearl
necklace round her throat and her hair in curls, and bears some
resemblance to the portraits of Henrietta Maria, queen of Charles I.'
From Combe Martin the road to Lynton turns inland and makes a deep curve
to the south, and two or three miles from its most southerly point, and
about ten miles from Ilfracombe, is Arlington Court, the home of one of
the many branches of that great North Devon family, the Chichesters. The
first of this name were settled at Chichester in Sussex, but by marriage
with the daughter and heiress of John de Raleigh, about the middle of
the fourteenth century, John Chichester came into the possession of
several manors in North Devon. About a hundred and fifty years later,
Youlston, with other manors, was granted to 'John Chichester and
Margaret his wife and their heirs for ever, at the annual rent of a
rose, at the feast of St John the Baptist.'
Sir John Chichester was among the most zealous Protestants in
suppressing the rising that broke out in the West in 1549. After the
insurrection was crushed, 'it was declared that the rebels used the
church bells in every parish to excite the people. The bells were taken
down, and all the clappers were made a present to Sir John Chichester,
as a reward for having assisted against the rebels. Strype says: "No
question he made good benefit thereof."'
Sir John had reason to be proud of his seven sons, for four 'were
knights, one created a baron, and one a viscount.' Ireland was the
special field of their triumphs, and it is a curious coincidence that
four hundred years before one of their ancestors, 'Master Robert de
Cicester, ... being a discreet person,' had been specially chosen to go
on the King's business to that country.
Prince calls Sir Arthur Chichester, the second son, 'one of the chiefest
ornaments of our country.' He received his baptism of fire in France,
under the command of Henri IV, and 'for some notable exploit done by
him ... was by that puissant prince honoured with knighthood.' He fought
in the Armada, and the next year sailed as one of Drake's captains, and
then became lieutenant-colonel of a regiment in the West Indies. Fuller
speaks of his career in Ireland in the sympathetic tone of his day
towards that unhappy country. 'By his valour he was effectually
assistant, first to _plough_ and _break_ up that barbarous Nation by
Conquest, and then to _sow_ it with _seeds of civility_ when by King
_James_ made Lord Deputy of _Ireland_.' The 'good laws and Provisions'
made by former Governors were 'like good lessons set for a Lute out of
tune, useless untill the Instrument was fitted for them.' Sir Arthur
established new and wider circuits for Justices of Assize, with the most
excellent results, for, 'like good Planets in their several spheres,
they carried the influence of Justice round about the Kingdom.' And, if
Fuller is right, although he governed with a very firm and sometimes
heavy hand, he contrived to avoid the unpopularity which it would be
imagined must have fallen to his share amongst an oppressed and
rebellious people. Indeed, not only did the Irish under his authority
seem, for a time, resigned to English rule, but they even showed a
passing desire to imitate their fashions; for, 'in conformity to the
English Custome, many _Irish_ began to cut their _mantles_ into
_cloaks_.'
In 1612 Sir Arthur was created Lord Chichester of Belfast, and, having
resigned his office of Lord Deputy, was called back to it two years
later--the same year, his biographer observes, that the Irish harp took
its place in the arms of England. His 'administration,' says Leland,
'was active, vigilant, cautious, firm, and suited to a country scarcely
emerging to civilization and order.'
A rather florid 'Elegie on the Death of my Lord Chichester' reflects
contemporary opinion:
'From Chichester's discent he tooke his name.
And in exchange of it, return'd such fame
By his brave deeds, as to that race shall be
A radiant splendour for eternitie.
For fame shall write this Adage. Let it last
Like the sweete memorie of my Lord Belfast.'
In Swymbridge Church there is a monument of a youthful Chichester,
'whose portrait is given, and whom the bird of Jove is represented as
carrying off to serve Ganymede in heaven. Turning back towards the
coast, the thought of Sir Robert Chichester, son of Lord Chichester's
eldest brother, is suggested. For tradition says that he is forced to
haunt the shore near Martinhoe, weaving traces out of sand (_the_
occupation of aristocratic ghosts in North Devon!), and, having fixed
them to his carriage, he must drive up the face of the crag and through
a narrow cleft at the top, known as Sir Robert's Road. 'The natives
believe that they hear his voice of rage as he labours at his nightly
task; and at other times they fancy that they see him scouring over
Challacombe Downs, followed by a pack of hounds, whose fiery tails gleam
in the gathering darkness.'
The descent into Parracombe is almost alarming, as the village is at the
bottom of a valley with precipitous sides. Driving down-hill, the ground
falls away so sharply that just beyond the horses' heads one sees only
space. The old and interesting church of St Helen is Early English; it
is now used only on rare occasions, and a new church has been built
close by. St Helen's keeps its old chancel screen, but it is in a
mutilated condition, for the rood-beam was taken away to be cut up into
bench-ends!
Over all this valley hovers the charm of an overflowing abundance, which
particularly shows itself in the pleasant gardens of fruit and flowers,
and the overgrown hedges with their rich decoration of berries, crimson
leaves, and purple and golden flowers.
Directly north is the bit of coast that Kingsley so vividly described:
'What a sea-wall they are, those Exmoor hills! Sheer upward from the sea
a thousand feet rise the mountains; and as we slide and stagger lazily
along before the dying breeze, through the deep water which never leaves
the cliff, the eye ranges, almost dizzy, up some five hundred feet of
rock, dappled with every hue, from the intense dark of the tide-line;
through the warm green and brown rock-shadows, out of which the
horizontal cracks of the strata loom black, and the breeding gulls show
like lingering snowflakes; up to the middle cliff, where delicate grey
fades into pink, pink into red, red into glowing purple; up to where the
purple is streaked with glossy ivy wreaths, and black-green yews; up to
where all the choir of colours vanishes abruptly on the mid-hill, to
give place to one yellowish-grey sheet of upward down, sweeping aloft
smooth and unbroken, except by a lonely stone, or knot of clambering
sheep, and stopped by one great rounded waving line, sharp-cut against
the brilliant blue. The sheep hang like white daisies upon the steep;
and a solitary falcon rides, a speck in air, yet far below the crest of
that tall hill. Now he sinks to the cliff edge, and hangs quivering,
supported, like a kite, by the pressure of his breast and long curved
wings, against the breeze.'
About six miles west of Lynmouth is the lovely valley of Heddon's
Mouth--that is, 'the Giant's mouth; _Etin_, A.S., a giant.' It is a very
narrow green cleft, shut in by two precipitous cliffs rising eight
hundred feet straight out of the sea. Heddon's Mouth Water hurries along
the glen, buries itself in a bank of shingle, and flows out again lower
down the beach. Huge rocks tumbled together make great barriers that
block each side of the cove. On the eastern side, close to the mouth of
the valley, part of the towering wall seems to have fallen away, showing
bare rocks and soil of a warm light brown tempered by shades of pink.
The western side is very steep, but covered with short grass, sea-pinks
and thyme, and crowned by a great mass of boulders. The face to the sea
is slightly hollowed, suggesting that on this side also part of the
cliff has fallen. East and west, one great headland after another is
seen, misty but impressive, above a silvery grey sea. Inland the valley
changes suddenly from barren cliffs to a profusion of copses and
thickets, and several beautiful deeply cleft combes, overbrimming with
thick trees, open into the valley. Among the wayside bushes are the
pretty purple-crimson flower-heads and thick cool leaves of that not
very common wild-flower, livelong.
A road passing through a wood and by a little rushing stream overhung by
hazels, leads towards Lynton, and crosses the tiny railway, on whose
bank masses of the slender stems of great moon-like evening primroses
shine in the grey twilight with an almost weird effect.
The more interesting way to Lynton is along the coast-road, which is
soon reached from the valley. Beneath the road the cliffs fall
precipitously hundreds of feet to the sea, and a few little horned sheep
and some white goats, scrambling on the face of them, seemed to have the
same hold as flies on a window-pane. Ravens are often seen even now
amongst these almost inaccessible rocks. The road runs through a
fir-wood, and as it rises and falls one may catch delicious glimpses of
the sea through the ruddy stems and the great dark fans and tasselled
ends of the branches; and the scent of pine-needles and of the sea
stirring amongst them makes the charm still greater. The road looks down
into Wooda Bay, which is also surrounded by woods, and passes to the
tinier but very lovely Lee Bay. A little combe leads down to the shore,
sheltered by leaves which, luminous from the sunshine above them, shade
the glen from the fierce rays, and it is filled with a subdued,
mysterious light. Stem beyond stem is partly hidden by the fresh,
vigorous green shoots springing round them, or hanging in garlands from
branch to branch, and suggests the wonderful fairyland that Richard
Doyle saw, and enabled many people to see.
A little stream, breaking into miniature waterfalls and reflecting the
foliage in its pools, finally disappears into the shingle, to emerge
close to the sea. A few yards away is a tiny dropping-well on the face
of the cliff, almost hidden by a green veil of plants that grow at the
foot of the rocks or swing from the clefts.
Close to the bay stands Lee Abbey, a comparatively modern house, on the
site of the old house of the De Wichehalses--a family who, considering
the not very remote date of their history, have been surrounded with a
surprising number of fables: Mr Blackmore contributed a share.
The Wichehalses had not a Dutch origin; the daughter of the house called
Janifred never existed, and consequently the whole tragic tale of her
lover's faithlessness and her sad fate is entirely imaginary. 'The
Wichehalses,' says Mr Chanter, who has studied their history with
minute care, 'originally took their name from their dwelling-place, a
hamlet called Wych, near Chudleigh. Nicholas, a younger son, but founder
of the most eminent branch, settled in Barnstaple about 1530, and made a
large fortune in the woollen trade, part of which he spent in buying
property in North Devon--amongst others, the Manors of Lynton and
Countisbury. Here his grandson Hugh Wichehalse removed in 1627, leaving
Barnstaple with his wife and children for the double reason that
political troubles were already brewing and rumours were afloat that the
plague was drawing near.'
Hugh Wichehalse seems to have avoided all strife as far as possible, but
his son John threw himself vehemently on to the side of the Parliament,
and became notorious for persecuting the Royalist clergy in the country
round, whose lot in any case was a sorry one. John sold some of his
estates and left a portion to his younger son, so that his eldest son
(another John) and his wife, both of whom were extravagant, soon found
themselves in difficulties. John Wichehalse made himself justly
unpopular by the part he played after Sedgemoor. A Major Wade, in the
Duke of Monmouth's army, had escaped from the battle-field and, with two
other men, was hidden by a farmer at Farley. A search was made for them,
in which Wichehalse joined with one of his servants, whom he had armed.
His conduct was particularly odious, because Wade was a great friend of
some of his own relations, who had very generously, by gifts, loans, and
good counsel, repeatedly helped him out of his difficulties. In course
of time they arrived at the right farm, and while they were coming in by
the front door, Wade and the others escaped by the back. Babb,
Wichehalse's servant, and another of the party saw the men running, and
fired, and Wade was shot through the body, so that he was disabled and
taken prisoner. Wichehalse's servants also killed another of Monmouth's
men, and his body was impaled on a gate near Ley.
'In the neighbourhood,' says Mr Chanter, 'the blame was put on his
servant, John Babb, who was said to have incited his master to kill
every rebel they could find; and local tradition has it that the Babbs,
who had been the favourite retainers at Ley, never prospered after. When
their master left Lynton they moved to West Leymouth, as the modern
Lynmouth was called then, and employed themselves in the herring-curing
industry, which the cottagers said failed because Babb was engaged in
it; and years after his granddaughter, Ursula Babb, was pointed out as
the last of the race with the curse on it, and, as she was reported to
possess the evil eye, became a great object of fear to all around.'
John Wichehalse and his wife went to London, and wasted their goods
until he died, when the mortgages were foreclosed, and no property in
Lynton was left to the family. The melancholy fate of their daughter
Mary may have suggested the more romantic story of Janifred. Mary
Wichehalse married, but later returned to Lynton, where, under the care
of a faithful servant, she spent her time wandering over the cliffs
looking at the lost inheritance. Some say that she fell off the rocks,
and others that she was washed away by the tide, but both accounts agree
that she was drowned.
The Valley of Rocks is wild, grand, and rather dreary, 'all crags and
pinnacles.' Southey was deeply impressed by it: 'Imagine a narrow vale
between two ridges of hills somewhat steep; the southern hill turfed;
the vale, which runs from east to west, covered with huge stones and
fragments of stone among the fern that fills it; the northern ridge
completely bare, excoriated of all turf and all soil, the very bones and
skeletons of the earth; rock reclining upon rock, stone piled upon
stone, a huge terrific mass--a palace of the preAdamite kings, a city of
the Anakim, must have appeared so shapeless, and yet so like the ruins
of what had been shaped after the waters of the flood had subsided. I
ascended with some toil the highest point; two large stones inclining on
each other formed a rude portal on the summit. Here I sat down. A little
level platform, about two yards long, lay before me, and then the eye
immediately fell upon the sea, far, very far below. I never felt the
sublimity of solitude before.' Names have been given to the great
rock-masses. The Castle Rock looks far over the sea, the Devil's
Cheesewring is on the inner side of the valley, and there are many
others. A narrow path cut in the deep descent of the cliffs leads from
the valley, 'where screes and boulders, red and grey and orange, covered
for the most part with lichen or tendrils of ground-ivy, lend splashes
of vivid colouring to the hill-side;' and about a mile farther on is
Lynton.
Perched on the cliffs nine hundred feet immediately above Lynmouth,
Lynton looks down to the inlet, into which two ravines open from the
south. Down these ravines rush the East and West Lyns, hidden among the
woods; and the two streams join just before they reach the sea-shore.
Countisbury Foreland stands high to the east of the harbour and
stretches far out into the sea, and between the foreland and the
mainland is another long, steep, winding cleft.
I once saw the bay in an exquisite light very early in the morning.
Earth and sky and sea were all veiled in the softest grey, and in the
sky was one little flush of pale rose pink. But for a sea-gull crying
under the cliff, the stillness was absolute.
Lynmouth consists of a tiny quay, a little group of houses, and the
ravines beyond. It is impossible to imagine any place where buildings
and tourists could more exasperate a true lover of earlier days. Still,
they cannot have more than a superficial effect--except at the meeting
of the streams, which is quite spoilt by the houses on either side.
The music of the Lyns has been noticed by many comers, and about sixty
years ago the Rev. H. Havergal, whilst staying here and listening to the
continuous tone of the Lyn at low-water, composed this chant:
[Illustration: MUSIC OF THE LYNS.]
As a place for visitors to admire, Lynton was discovered in the
beginning of the nineteenth century. The French Revolution and
Napoleonic wars obliged those who were in the habit of going abroad for
change and amusement to look for it in comparatively unknown parts at
home. In 1807 the first hotel--not counting a small and inconvenient
village hostelry--was opened; and even at this date there were no
wheeled vehicles in either village, ponies and donkeys carrying
everything. Until this time Lynton and Lynmouth had been the quietest of
little fishing-villages, without even the doings of a resident squire or
rector to furnish a subject for a little gossip.
The ecclesiastical history of the little neighbouring parish of
Countisbury is very much mixed up with that of Lynton. Mr Chanter prints
some of the Countisbury churchwardens' accounts, which, as he observes,
are chiefly remarkable for the prominent part that beer played in every
event, from killing a fox to the visitation of 'ye Dean Ruler.'
s. d.
'Pd when one fox was killed for beer 2 0
Pd more for beare when one fox was killed 2 6
Pd for bear when two foxes were killed 7 6
Pd for ale for the fox hunters 2 0'
Other entries are for killing 'wild cats, greys [badgers], and hedge
hogs ... salaries of dog-whipper ... fox-hunter, etc., and repairs to
the base viol.'
Lynmouth and Lyn were noted for the fishery, and especially for their
herrings and oysters. The fishery was developed in quite early days by
the abbots of Ford Abbey, who claimed the whole coast-line of Lynton and
of Countisbury. Cellars and curing-houses, called 'red-herring houses,'
were built close to the beach, and were apt to be swept away by any
violent storm, for the little harbour has a double reason for dreading
bad weather--not only do the breakers surge over their usual limits and
wash away or damage all that is in their way, but at the same time the
streams come down a roaring, foaming torrent, which rolls along great
boulders and hurls itself against all obstacles. In 1607 a whole row of
red-herring houses was swept away, and since that date the records of
disputes as to repairs to the harbour and petitions from the fishermen
tell how greatly they have suffered from this cause. The fishing has
dwindled until it is now a very trifling matter indeed.
The small parish of Countisbury is high on the cliffs, on the eastern
side of the river, and the road to it from Lynmouth rises at once to a
height of eleven hundred feet. A little Perpendicular church with an
embattled tower crowned by pinnacles stands at the mercy of every wind
that blows.
Farther to the east, and almost on the boundary-line of Somerset, is
Oldbarrow Camp, which differing archaeologists have claimed to be
British, Roman, and Danish. From this hill the fall to the sea is
precipitous, and the descent into Somerset is almost as steep; inland,
the ground also sinks away, leaving a magnificent view and a grand sense
of space. Even when the light is fading there is a great charm, for
looking down into the hollow, one sees a faint blue tinge lying like
bloom upon the misty twilight that nils the valley--a sharp contrast to
the clear darkness of the evening sky. Countisbury Camp is not far from
Oldbarrow, and in Lynton there are two more ancient 'castles,' each
consisting of a single fosse and rampart, and other monuments. Several
stone circles, 'over forty feet in diameter,' have been wickedly removed
from the Valley of Rocks 'for the purpose of selling them as
gate-posts!...' Spindle-wheels, or pixie grinding-stones, as the natives
call them, have been found in the neighbourhood, as well as arrow-heads
and 'a skinning knife with a ground edge of black flint.'
The winding valley of the West Lyn is very beautiful, but not so wild as
that of the East Lyn; it lies deep down beneath fir-woods, whose serried
spires mount higher and higher on the steep hill-side. A little way from
Lynton, along this lovely road, is Barbrook Mill, and close by a cottage
covered with purple clematis, among trees loaded with rosy apples.
Following up the East Lyn from Lynton, the fitness of Dean Alford's
words is realized:
LYN-CLEAVE.
This onward deepening gloom; this hanging path
Over the Lyn that soundeth mightily,
Foaming and tumbling on, as if in wrath
That might should bar its passage to the sea;
These sundered walls of rock, tier upon tier,
Built darkly up into the very sky,
Hung with thick wood, the native haunt of deer
And sheep that browse the dizzy slopes on high.
These 'walls of rock' are now and again cleft by the narrow openings of
steep and wild ravines. It is intensely solitary; there is scarcely any
sound or movement, but perhaps a buzzard high in the air may hang over
the valley for a few moments. About two miles from the harbour is
Watersmeet, where the Farley Water rushes into the Lyn. When the leaves
are on the trees the stream can hardly be seen from the road, for it
lies below a high, steep bank. By the water's edge in the shaded light
there is a suggestion of mystery, and the bed of the stream is so shut
in that but for the stirring of the leaves, the shifting gleams of
sunlight in the waters, and the freshness of the air, one could almost
imagine oneself underground. The glossy leaves of festoons of ivy and
wild-flowers cover the red rocks. The Farley Water falls over a
succession of little waterfalls, swirling and foaming in the pools
between, and then slips over little rocky ridges and slopes covered with
duck-weed so wide that the 'stream covers it like no more than a thin
film of glancing emerald.' Below, the valley opens enough to allow space
for a tiny lawn, overhung with oak-trees; and here it is joined by the
Lyn, which has raced along the farther side of a steep tongue of land.
The road passes a fir-wood, bright with golden-rod and ragwort and soft
blue scabious, and by-and-by turns eastward, and reaches the scattered
village of Brendon. Brendon 'church-town' is made up of church, school,
parsonage, and a few farms, and can scarcely be called a village. The
church stands high on the hill above the river; it is very small, and
has been rebuilt comparatively lately; its dedication is the most
interesting thing about it. All who ever rejoiced in 'The Water Babies'
should remember this Irish saint. 'Did you never hear of the blessed St
Brandan, how he preached to the wild Irish, on the wild, wild Kerry
coast; he, and five other hermits, till they were weary and longed to
rest?... So St Brandan went out to the point of Old Dunmore, and looked
over the tide-way roaring round the Blasquets, at the end of all the
world, and away into the ocean, and sighed, "Ah that I had wings as a
dove!" And far away, before the setting sun, he saw a blue fairy sea,
and golden fairy islands, and he said, "Those are the islands of the
blest!" Then he and his friends got into a hooker and sailed away and
away to the westward, and were never heard of more.'
A little higher up the little river (here known as Brendon Water) is a
very old bridge, now unused, and a wide modern bridge, which crosses the
two branches of the divided stream just below a little green island.
Bushes crowd and overlap each other on the banks, and it is very likely
a grey water-wagtail will dart from among the leaves and flit jauntily
upstream.
The road all this way follows the water--for some distance the boundary
between the counties--and here it is sunk between the barriers of the
County Wall separating Devonshire and Somersetshire. A great bare cliff,
covered only with short grass, and scanty tufts of heather and furze
growing thinly upon it, towers above the road; the other side of the
valley is lower, gentler, and wooded. Malmsmead Bridge crosses over the
Badgeworthy Water, as the stream--which seems to change its name nearly
every half-mile in the most perplexing manner--is here called, a little
higher than the point at which it is joined by its tributary, Oare
Water. Above the bridge the road becomes a rough track that leads up
into the very wild and beautiful valley of Badgeworthy Water, well known
by name to all lovers of 'Lorna Doone.' Some of the natives are apt to
mislead strangers by wrongly calling this glen the Doone Valley. Further
upstream the valley becomes narrower, and the sides steeper, winding in
long beautiful curves. The shallow stream is brown, but very bright and
clear and pebbled; boggy patches lie here and there by the side, and in
one patch the sweet-ferns grow so large and thick that their
characteristic 'sharp sweet' scent is strong enough to betray them
before one catches sight of the finely-cut fronds. On the east side of
Badgeworthy Water is Deer Park, where many deer lie and the fir-woods
come down to the water's edge. On the opposite side is Badgeworthy Wood,
chiefly of oaks, most of which are not very large, but many of them are
gnarled. The number of oak-apples that I have seen in this wood was
amazing; on one tree they seemed like cherries on a cherry-tree. Nearly
all were scarlet, and they glowed in the sunshine.
'Lorna Doone' has brought so many visitors to the scene that it is no
news to say that the account of the water-slide is fictitious. This word
is deliberately chosen instead of 'exaggerated,' which is often applied
to Mr Blackmore's picture of the fall; for he was not describing
scenery--he was setting a scene in his novel, and there was no reason
why he should be bound to inches, or even feet! And this argument
applies to what he has said of the Doone Valley. At the same time, in
his 'Exploration of Exmoor,' Mr Page observes that a true description of
the valley of Badgeworthy Water would very nearly represent Mr
Blackmore's Glen Doone; and it still seems absolutely apart from the
ordinary race and fret of life.
Two long, smooth slopes of rock one below another form the chief part of
the water-slide, and the thin stream slipping over them makes one wish
to see how the fall would look when the water comes down, a roaring
torrent, swollen by heavy rains and melting snow. On one side of the
water-slide the ground rises very sharply, but up the other side a tiny
path twists through the wood, and opens quite suddenly on a very still
valley with steep sides and a broad, open space between. A mountain-ash
bearing vividly scarlet bunches of berries hangs over the stream close
to the opening; but beyond, only a few stunted thorns grow sparsely
amongst an abundance of heather, furze, bracken, and whortleberries.
Lorna's bower seems to have been seen to some extent through the
author's imagination. In a shallow combe at a little distance are the
ruins of what appear to have been the walls of enclosures, but they are
very indefinite. These are all that remain of the Doones' houses, but
recent research denies that the Doones ever existed!
From the top of the hill above the water-slide there is a very beautiful
view of the winding glens opening out of each other, and at this point
one is able to follow their curves for a long way before the hills shut
them out of sight. With the sun shining through the haziest clouds, and
the radiant glow of a diffused light calling out delicate tints on the
distant slopes, the whole scene seems most fitly described by the old
words of praise, 'a fair country.'
Retracing the path to Malmsmead, one is irresistibly tempted to go a few
steps into Somerset to look at the tiny church of Oare, where, Mr
Blackmore says, Lorna Doone and Jan Ridd were married. The church is
very narrow, and it stands among trees on the slope above the stream. On
the south side of the nave, close to where the old east wall stood (the
chancel is new), is an early piscina of a curious shape; it is supported
by a large carved human head, with a hand to each cheek, and there is a
thick, solid cap on the top.
Challacombe is a small village on the western border of Exmoor, seven or
eight miles south of Lynton, and the church looks far over the moors.
Westcote derives the name from 'Choldicombe, or rather Coldecombe, from
its cold situation, next neighbour to Exmoor;' and he speaks of 'divers
hillocks of earth and stones ... termed burrows and distinguished by
sundry names,' in the parish, and hints at their uncanny nature by
telling how 'fiery dragons have been seen flying and lighting on them.'
Such tales he dismisses scornfully, but he tells of 'a strange accident'
that happened 'within these seven years, verified by oath of the party,
who otherwise might have had credit for his honesty.' A labouring man,
having saved enough money to buy a few acres of waste land, began to
build himself a house on it, and from a burrow near by he fetched stones
and earth. He had cut deep into the hillock, when 'he found therein a
little place, as it had been a large oven, fairly, strongly, and closely
walled up; which comforted him much, hoping that some great good would
befall him, and that there might be some treasure there hidden to
maintain him more liberally and with less labour in his old years:
wherewith encouraged he plies his work earnestly until he had broken a
hole through this wall, in the cavity whereof he espied an earthen pot,
which caused him to multiply his strokes until he might make the orifice
thereof large enough to take out the pot, which his earnest desire made
not long a-doing; but as he thrust in his arm and fastened his hand
thereon he suddenly heard, or seemed to hear, the noise of the trampling
or treading of horses coming, as he thought, towards him, which caused
him to forbear and arise from the place, fearing the comers would take
his purchase from him (for he assured himself it was treasure); but
looking about every way to see what company this was, he saw neither
horse nor man in view. To the pot again he goes, and had the like
success a second time; and yet, looking all about, could ken nothing. At
the third time he brings it away, and therein only a few ashes and
bones, as if they had been of children, or the like. But the man,
whether by the fear, which yet he denied, or other cause, which I cannot
comprehend, in very short time after lost senses both of sight and
hearing, and in less than three months consuming died.'
This tale is followed by another, of a 'mystical sciencer,' and Westcote
finishes with the comment that the stories are 'not unfit tales for
winter nights when you roast crabs by the fire, whereof this parish
yields none, the climate is too cold, only the fine dainty fruits of
wortles and blackberries.'
A little to the north of Challacombe is the great hill of Chapman
Burrows, where stands a 'tall, lean slab of slate, the Longstone.' It is
nine feet high, and in the broadest part about two feet eight inches
wide. The history of the Longstone is unknown, but the suggestion has
been made that it may be an ancient relic, a menhir, and this view is
supported by the fact that about a dozen large tumuli lie on the slopes
around. One of these is between ten and twelve feet high and three
hundred feet round at the base. Burrows are found all over Exmoor. 'The
eye of reflection sees stand uninterrupted a number of simple sepulchres
of departed souls.... A morsel of earth now damps in silence the eclat
of noisy warriors, and the green turf serves as a sufficient shroud for
kings.'
By far the greatest part of Exmoor lies in Somerset, so that here one
must not wander far amongst great round hills, wide distances, and deep
combes. One has heard of strangers who have been disappointed by the
first sight of Exmoor, for its heights are not very evident. There are
no peaks, no sharply-cut isolated hills, nor any with a very striking
outline, except Dunkery; but the whole moor is a tableland, across which
the coach road runs at a level from twelve hundred to fourteen hundred
feet above the sea: 'A bare rolling waste of moorland stretching away
into the eastern distance, like the ocean "heaving in long swells,"' and
large spaces of bracken, of bogs fringed with cotton-grass and rough
grass and whortleberries, among which rise little glittering streams
that splash their way down into the valleys beneath.
The sides of the glens leading from the borders of the moor are crowded
with endless masses of mountain-ashes, and whether the leaves make a
background to the flat creamy clusters of sweet, heavily scented flowers
or to great bunches of scarlet fruit, the long ranks give a very rich
effect.
Mr R. J. King has observed that Exmoor, 'still lonely and uncultivated,'
was probably at one time during the English conquests a boundary or
'mark,' 'always regarded as sacred and placed under the protection of
some deity or hero.' Amongst some very interesting remarks, he says that
the intermingling in Devonshire of the Celtic and Teutonic races 'may be
traced in folk-lore, not less distinctly than in dialect or in
features.... Sigmund the Waelsing, who among our English ancestors
represented Sigfried, the great hero of the Niebelungen-lied, has
apparently left his name to the deep pool of Simonsbath ... again, side
by side with traditions of King Arthur, to the parish of Simonsward in
Cornwall.'
It is difficult to imagine any moorlands destitute of superstition, and
plenty linger on Exmoor. Mr Page (writing in 1890) gave some instances
that have occurred comparatively lately. He speaks of 'overlooking' and
of witchcraft, and says that 'not many years since the villagers of
Withycombe, by no means an Ultima Thule among hamlets, firmly believed
that certain ancient dames had the power of turning themselves into
white rabbits.'
'An astonishing instance of belief in witchcraft' within his own
experience was one where an old woman--'as harmless a creature as can be
found in the country'--was believed by her neighbours to have not only
the evil eye, but also 'the power of turning herself into a black dog,
in which form she was met a short time since, during the twilight hour,
in a neighbouring lane. For these all-sufficient reasons the poor old
soul was, for a while, unable to obtain the services of a nurse during
an illness from which she is only now recovering.'
Another story shows the remarkable powers of a wise woman. Mr Page
explains that he cannot give the real name of the couple, but calls them
Giles. Giles deserted his wife. 'For a while Mrs Giles bore his absence
with a fortitude born, perhaps, of no very great love for her partner.
Then she suddenly took it into her head to have him home. She did not
telegraph, she did not even write; but one day the errant husband was
seen by the astonished villagers hurrying towards his deserted home.
_And his footsteps were marked with blood!_ The witch-wife had compelled
his return in such haste that not only the soles of his boots, but those
of his _feet_, were worn out.'
Mr Page mentions that 'the old mediaeval custom of touching a corpse
still prevails. At an inquest lately held at or near South Molton, each
of the coroner's jury, as he filed past the body, laid his fingers on
the forehead. This act, it was believed, would free him from dreams of
the deceased.
Omens and portents such as mysterious knockings, a particular sound of
church-bells, or a bird flying into a room, are very grave warnings, and
a story of this character comes from near Taunton. 'A farmer riding home
from Taunton Market noticed a white rook among the sable flock settling
over a field. When he reached home there were symptoms of uneasiness
among his cattle, and that night the dogs barked so vociferously that
he had to get up and quiet them. In the morning he was dead.'
Writing of other traditions, 'one of the most beautiful of Easter
customs still survives. Young men have not yet ceased on the
Resurrection morning to climb the nearest hill-top to see the sun flash
over the dark ridge of Quantock, or the more distant line of Mendip.' To
see the newly-arisen sun on Easter morning was an augury of good luck.
'Early in the century Dunkery, probably because it is the highest land
in Somerset, was favoured above all surrounding hills, and its sides,'
says Miss King, 'were covered with young men, who seemed to come from
every quarter of the compass, and to be pressing up towards the Beacon.'
Exmoor stag-hunting is far-famed, for it is the only corner of England
where wild red deer are still to be found. The fashion of coming here to
hunt from a distant part of the country is comparatively modern, but
Hugh Pollard, Ranger of the Forest, kept a pack of stag-hounds at
Simonsbath more than three hundred years ago, and the Rangers who
succeeded him continued to keep the hounds.
Even before the Conquest, the moor had been a royal hunting-ground.
Deeds show that in the reign of Edward the Confessor there were at least
three Royal Foresters; and William I, says Mr Rawle, 'probably reserved
to himself the forest rights, for the Conqueror, according to the Saxon
Chronicle, "loved the tall deer as though he had been their father," and
would scarcely be likely to forgo any privileges concerning the vert and
venison.' Various tenures show that later Kings kept Exmoor as a
preserve. Walter Aungevin held land in Auri and Hole (near South Molton)
under Edward III, 'by sergeantry that whensoever our lord the King
should hunt in the forest of Exmoor, he should find for him two barbed
arrows.' And Morinus de la Barr, farther to the west, near Braunton,
held his land on the same tenure with the addition of finding 'one
salmon.'
Nearly thirty years later in the same reign, a very curious tenure is
registered. 'Walter Barun held certain lands and tenements in the town
of Holicote, of the King in capite, by the service of hanging upon a
certain forked piece of wood the red deer that die of the murrain in the
King's forest of Exmoor; and also of lodging and entertaining the poor
strangers, weakened by infirmities, that came to him, at his own proper
costs, for the souls of the ancestors of our Lord King Edward.'
The Forest of Exmoor was part of the jointure of several Queens of
England. Henry VIII settled it on Catherine of Aragon, and it was
afterwards held by Jane Seymour. James I gave it to his Queen, but
Charles I had other views, and announced his intention of drawing 'the
unnecessary Forests and Waste Lands' [Dartmoor and Exmoor] 'to
improvement.' Needless to say, the scheme died in its early stages, and
when Charles II came to the throne, he granted a lease of the forest to
the Marquis of Ormonde.
Besides the wild-deer on Exmoor, there are, as everyone knows, creatures
almost as wild--herds of Exmoor ponies. Very few now are pure 'Exmoors,'
except those belonging to Sir Thomas Acland. Among these ponies the true
breed has been carefully preserved, and there has been no crossing. It
seems a little odd to think of Exmoor ponies being mentioned in
Domesday, but Mr Chanter quotes an entry referring to the stock in the
parishes of Lynton and Countisbury, '72 brood mares, probably the Exmoor
ponies running half wild on the moor; in Brendon, 104 wild mares (_equas
indomitas_) are mentioned.'
'The average height is 12-1/2 hands, and bays and buffy bays with mealy
noses prevail; in fact, are in the majority of three to one.' The older
ponies live out all the year round, but stacks of hay and straw are
built by the herdsmen against the time when the snow lies deep. 'Still,
like honest, hard-working labourers, the ponies never assemble at the
wicket till they have exhausted every means of self-support by
scratching with their fore-feet in the snow for the remnants of the
summer tufts, and drag wearily behind them an ever-lengthening chain of
snowballs.'
The moor makes an excellent sheep-walk, but attempts to cultivate it
have not prospered. As far as agriculturists are concerned, 'Exmoor is
best left alone--the "peat and heather in hill and dale."'
There is an old ballad called 'The Farmer's Son of Devonshire,' in which
the views of one character, 'Brother Jack,' show a distinct resemblance
to those of the great John Fry in 'Lorna Doone.' Here are a few verses.
The sub-title is a long one, beginning: 'Being the Valiant Coronel's
Return from Flanders.' To the tune of 'Mary, live long.'
'WILL. Well met, Brother Jack, I've been in Flanders
With valiant Commanders, and am return'd back to England again;
Where a while I shall stay, and shall then march away;
I'm an Officer now.
Go with me, dear Brother, go with me, dear Brother,
And lay by the Plow.
I tell thee, old boy, the son of a farmer,
In glittering armour, may kill and destroy
A many proud French;
As a Squire or Knight, having courage to fight,
Then valiantly go,
In arms like a Soldier, in arms like a Soldier,
To face the proud foe.
'JACK. But, dear Brother Will, you are a vine yellow,
And talk mighty mellow, but what if they kill
Thy poor brother Jack
By the pounce of a gun? If they shou'd I'm undone.
You know that I never, you know that I never,
Had courage to fight.
[WILL replies at some length.]
'JACK. The enemies' men with horror will fill me,
Perhaps they may kill me, and where am I then?
This runs in my mind;
Should I chance to be lame, will the trophies of _Fame_
Keep me from sad groans?
A fig for that honour, a fig for that honour,
Which brings broken bones.
'Such honour I scorn, I'd rather be mowing,
Nay, plowing or sowing, or threshing of corn,
At home in a barn;
Then to leave Joan my wife, and to loose my sweet life,
In peace let me dwell;
I am not for fighting, I am not for fighting,
So, Brother, Farewell.'