Devon, Its Moorlands, Streams and Coasts Part 23

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 ent.i.tled 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 s.p.a.ces 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 ma.s.s 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 pa.s.sion 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. Ma.s.ses 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 quant.i.ty 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 Hanc.o.c.k, 'an effigy the size of life, exquisitely and elaborately sculptured in white marble. It bears the date 1634. Dame Hanc.o.c.k 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 Suss.e.x, 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 a.s.sisted 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 a.s.sistant, 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 a.s.size, 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 pa.s.sing 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 sh.o.r.e 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 s.p.a.ce. 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 gra.s.s, sea-pinks and thyme, and crowned by a great ma.s.s 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, overbr.i.m.m.i.n.g 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 pa.s.sing through a wood and by a little rushing stream overhung by hazels, leads towards Lynton, and crosses the tiny railway, on whose bank ma.s.ses 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 ta.s.selled 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 pa.s.ses to the tinier but very lovely Lee Bay. A little combe leads down to the sh.o.r.e, 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 ma.s.s--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-ma.s.ses. 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-sh.o.r.e.

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: