From Exford to Simonsbath the road presents few points of interest. At White Cross enters the highway that leads from Spire Cross to Comer’s Gate, and thence between hedges to Chibbet (always so spelt and pronounced, but query Gibbet?) Post, a rendezvous of the staghounds and other packs; and perhaps the spot where Red Jem hung in chains, but it is more than two miles from Dunkery. After White Cross we arrive at Red Stone Gate, where we alight or not as we choose. Red Stone, having been mentioned in the perambulation records as a landmark of the old forest, has some claim to be considered historic. Then we pass what is commonly known as Gallon House, a white-washed building with a porch, standing back from the road and formerly a public-house. Its proper name was the Red Deer, and it is said to have been called Gallon House from the fact that “drink”—beer is always or often thus described hereabouts—was sold only by the gallon. That may or may not have been the case, but, as regards intoxicants, Exmoor is still under restrictions. To ensure the respectability of the neighbourhood, the “Exmoor Forest” Hotel (late the “William Rufus”) is limited to the sale of wine, no beer or spirits being obtainable. This rule was imposed by Sir Frederick Knight, and is maintained in full force by his successor, Lord Ebrington.

The proper name of Gallon House was the “Red Deer,” but Blackmore was evidently acquainted with the other description. John Fry is led by a shepherd to a “public-house near Exford,” where “nothing less than a gallon of ale and half a gammon of bacon” brings him to his right mind again (Lorna Doone, chapter xxxi.).

The associations of Gallon House and its vicinage are tragic, since it was in a cottage situated in the rear that William Burgess, in the fifties of the last century, murdered his little daughter. He then conveyed her body across the road and down into the valley, where he buried it; but, fearing detection, he again removed the poor child’s corpse and threw it down the shaft of the disused Wheal Eliza, a copper-mine. Here it remained undiscovered for months, but at last, through the untiring exertions of the Rev. W. H. Thornton, then curate of Exmoor, it was found, and the unnatural father expiated his crime on the gallows.

In his privately printed Reminiscences, Mr Thornton has given a detailed account of the whole episode.

The Wheal Eliza appears to have been the original of Uncle Ben’s gold-mine, so far as situation is concerned.

The next stage is to Honeymead Two Gates, with Honeymead Farm[13] lying away to the left. “Two Gates” is quite an Exmoor term. We meet with it again in Brendon Two Gates, and it stands for an arrangement whereby on both sides of the posts are suspended separate gates, so hung as to fall inwards. These effectually prevent stock from getting either in or out of the enclosures proprio motu, whilst the farmer, by crooking back the near gate with his whip, and pushing his horse against the other, can pass through without having to dismount. To judge from the maps, Simonsbath is the hub of the moor. In some senses this is true and soothfast, but as one travels along the excellent highway and looks across the country, there is little suggestion of either moor or forest. The land is evidently poor, but everywhere one’s glance falls on enclosed fields, and Winsford Hill harmonises much better with one’s preconceived ideas of Exmoor than this eminently civilised region. Doubtless the landscape presented a very different aspect before Mr Knight’s advent in 1818, and one hardly knows whether to thank him for his pioneer improvements or not. At all events, one would have preferred the dry-wall system that obtains in the North Forest, to fences that seem stable and permanent, though shivering sheep may be of a different opinion.

Cloven Rocks, the next point, has no obvious right to the name. Its situation, however, may be indicated by stating that it lies at a bend of the road, and a tiny stream trickles down through the bare turf. It may be needless to remind the reader that Cloven Rocks is twice mentioned in Lorna Doone as adjacent to the Wizard’s Slough, a perilous morass that has since been drained. Whether the story which appears in chapter lviii. of the romance is based on a real tradition, or is the offspring of Blackmore’s fertile imagination, I am unable to say. It has, at any rate, a genuine ring, and all Exmoor once teemed with strange legends, which the present “more enlightened” generation has chosen to forget.

Which reminds me. The little stream above referred to is called White Water, and joins the Barle at Cow Castle, an old British camp, which is situated on one of three hills. Cow Castle is the name of the principal eminence as given in the maps, and Cae Castle it is sometimes called by the learned. To the natives, however, it is known as Ring Castle, and is so described in a delightful article contributed by the Rev. George Tugwell, M.A., author of an excellent North Devon Handbook, to Frasers Magazine in 1857. His delineations of the scenery are worthy of a Blackmore or a Black, and would that I had room for some of them! As I have not, I must confine the quotation to the dialogue between the wanderer and a peasant, carried on by the blaze of the latter’s peat fire.

“‘Half an hour before we met you and little Nelly, we discovered an old British camp—a real discovery, an indubitable camp, with its line of earthworks as perfect, gateway and all, as when it was first piled—and to be found in no book or antiquarian memoir in all the three kingdoms. There it stood, a circular crown on the brow of a lonely conical hill, washed on three sides by the wanderings of the Barle, out of bow-shot from all the neighbouring heights, with plenty of water, and provisions in abundance, for three valleys trended from it in a triple direction, commanding a wide and glorious view of peak and ravine, centrally placed in the very heart of “the forest.” In truth, those old Britons knew something of the art of fastnesses, if they were not well skilled in the art of war. Did you ever see the stronghold of your ancestors, friend Jan?’

“‘I’m thinking we’re somehow about Ring Castle!’ quoth Jan, with sly good humour in his eye. ‘Camp indeed! I don’t know much about camps [we omit the Doric]; but all I know is, that it was something far different which built Ring Castle.’

“Hereupon, dropping his voice, he hurled up the broad chimney a whole series of mystery-betokening smoke cloudlets.

“‘Did you ever hear tell on Pixies?’ quoth Jan again, after a pause. ‘And fairy rings?’ he added, as Nelly emerged from a dark corner, and nestled close to her father’s shoulder. We suggested that we had heard of the Devonshire fairies, a race of spirits peculiar for their diminutive size and perfect beauty, and for their friendly dealing with mankind.

“‘Well,’ said John, ‘this here be all about it.’

(And he proceeded to tell us so pretty a legend that we cannot refrain from translating it for the benefit of the uninitiated in the Devonshire dialect.)

“‘Ever so long ago, the Pixies were at war with the mine spirits who live underground all about the forest and the wild hill-country around. Now, the Pixies being perfectly harmless, and withal good-natured to excess, weren’t at all a match for the evil-nurtured earth-demons, who were always forging all kinds of fearful weapons in their underground armouries, and overcoming their poor little foes by all manner of unfair and unexpected stratagems. But the Pixie Queen of those days being like all women, fertile in resources, bethought her of a means of escape from the unbearable tyranny of the oppressors. Ever since the days of Merlin, running water, the numbers three and seven, and the mysteries of the emblematic circle, have been sure protections against the machinations of the foul fiend and his allies. And the fairy queen, like a wise woman, recollected this fact, and, like a wiser woman, applied it; for she assembled all her subjects, and bade them build on the summit of this central Exmoor Peak that strange circle which you have seen to-day. But it was no common building this, for with every stone and turf that the builders laid, they buried the memory of some kindly deed which the good Pixies had done to the race of men; and so, when the magic ring was completed, the baffled demons raved and plotted in vain around its sacred enclosure. Nor was this all; for when the grey morning broke upon that first night of victory and repose, as the driving mists rolled upwards and swept along the hill-tops like the advance-guard of a victorious army [we are not sure that this was Jan’s own similitude], from the summit of the fairy fortification there rose ring after ring of faintest amber-tinted vapour, and floated away in the brightening sky, each on its own mission of safety and peace.

“‘For these tiny wreathlets wandered hither and thither all over the broad expanse of the Exmoor country, and wherever the grass was greenest, and the neighbouring stream sang most merrily, and the sunlight was purest, and the moonbeams brightest, there these magic circles sank down softly on the level sward, and left no trace behind them of what they had been, or whence they had journeyed.

“‘But from each soft resting-place there sprang a ring of greenest grass, which flourished and grew year by year; and within those safe enclosures the Pixies danced on moonlight nights in peace and security, unharmed by the demon rout, who were never seen aboveground after that memorable morning. So you see that kind hearts and actions do not go unrewarded, even in other spheres than our own.

“‘And so,’ concluded Jan, ‘that’s my story about the building of the Pixie’s camp; and wise folk may talk for a year and a day without making me believe that there’s any other reason for fairy rings, at all events, hereabouts in Exmoor Forest.’

“Of course it would have been absolute cruelty, after so fanciful a legend, to have instilled any botanical ideas into Jan’s head, with regard to the law of the circular increase of fungi and the like; so we ‘left him alone in his glory,’ and felt duly thankful for the pleasure he had given us.”

Lower down the river is Landacre Bridge, where Jeremy Stickles had so narrow an escape

from flood and foeman (Lorna Doone, chapter xlvii.), and lower down still is the moorland village of Withypool. In summer, the water-meadows here, with background of brown moor, are lovely, but in rainy seasons Withypool is a wet place indeed, the little streams being even more to be dreaded that the raging of the Barle and Kennsford Water. In passing through the village a few years ago, I happened to hear that there are five wise men of Withypool, whose names were mentioned to me. One, I believe, was a follower of St Crispin, whom his neighbours, on account of his being at once “long-headed” and little of stature, called, Torney Mouse. Here also resides the renowned “Joe” Milton, a champion of the old wrestling days, in which he bore off many a trophy.

When the snow lies piled in impracticable drifts on the main Exford road, the Simonsbath people creep round to Dulverton and the world by way of Withypool. Let us proceed to the capital of Exmoor by this route. As we do so, it may be well to say something of the term “forest,” as applied to Exmoor. To anyone who knows the country, such a description must inevitably suggest the famous etymology, lucus a non lucendo; except at Simonsbath, there is hardly a tree to be seen. But, according to legal usage the word does not of necessity connote timber; it indicates nothing more than an uncultivated tract of country reserved for the chase. The term indeed is said to be identical with the Welsh gores or gorest (waste land), whence comes also the word “gorse,” used alternately with “furze,” as being a common growth on wastes. From the earliest times, Exmoor was a royal hunting-ground, and so remained until that portion of it which still belonged to the Crown was sold, in 1818, to Mr John Knight, of Worcestershire. The Crown allotment comprised 10,000 acres; subsequently Mr Knight bought 6000 more, and so became owner of, at least, four-fifths of the forest.

Much has been written concerning those ancient denizens of the moor—the ponies. In my Book of Exmoor, I have dealt almost exhaustively with the subject as regards the pure breed; and every year experts in horsey matters favour the British public with accounts of those wary little animals in various periodicals. Sportsmen, however, have often put to me the question, “After all, what good are they?” That they are good for some purpose, is proved by the ready sales at Bampton Fair; but it is true, nevertheless, that the breed labours under a grave disadvantage in point of size, and those interested in the problem have often essayed to produce a serviceable cross.

Instead of treating once again those aspects of pony science which have been discussed ad nauseam, I propose to devote attention almost exclusively to Mr Knight’s remarkable efforts in this direction, full particulars of which have never, so far I know, been embodied in any permanent work.

For some years previous to the sale of the forest, the price of the ponies ranged from four to six pounds, but the exportation of this class of live-stock, as well as sheep, did not always proceed on regular or legitimate lines. The Exmoor shepherds, in defiance of the “anchor brand,” took liberal tithe of them, and, at nightfall, passed them over the hills to their crafty Wiltshire customers. On the completion of the sale the original uncrossed herd was transferred to Winsford Hill, where Sir Thomas had another “allotment,” only a dozen mare ponies being left to continue the line. At that time Soho Square was as fashionable a quarter as Belgravia, and one of its residents was the celebrated naturalist, Sir Joseph Banks, who invited Mr Knight to a dinner party. Bruce’s Abyssinian stories were then all the rage, and the conversation chanced to fall on the merits of the Dongola horse, described by the “travelling giant” as an Arab of sixteen hands, peculiar to the regions round about Nubia. Sir Joseph consulted his guests as to the desirability of procuring some of the breed, and Lords Hadley, Morton, and Dundas, and Mr Knight were so enamoured of the idea that they handed him there and then a joint cheque for one thousand pounds to cover the expense.

Over and above their height, the Dongola animals had somewhat Roman noses, their skin was of a very fine texture, they were well chiselled under the jowl, and, like all their race, clear-winded. As regards their action, it was of the “knee-in-the-curb-chain” sort, whilst their short thick backs and great hindquarters made them rare weight-carriers. As against all this, the “gaudy blacks” had flattish ribs, drooping croups, rather long white legs, and blaze foreheads. Perfect as manÈge horses, the dusky Nubian who brought them over galloped them straight at a wall in the riding-school, making them stop dead when they reached it. Altogether ten or twelve horses and mares arrived, of which the Marquis of Anglesey observed that they would “improve any breed alive.” Acting on his advice, Mr Knight bought Lord Hadley’s share, and two sires and three mares were at once sent to Simonsbath, where the new owner had established a stud of seven or eight thoroughbred mares, thirty half-breds of the coaching Cleveland variety, and a dozen twelve-hand pony mares. The result of the first cross between these last and one of the Dongolas was that the produce came generally fourteen hands two, and very seldom black. The mealy nose, so distinctive of the Exmoors, was completely knocked; but not so the buffy, which stood true to its colour, so that the type was not wholly destroyed.

The West Somerset pack often visited Exmoor to draw for a fox, and on such occasions the services of white-robed guides were usually called into requisition; but the half Dongolas performed so admirably that this practice gradually fell into disuse. They managed to get down the difficult hills so cleverly, and in crossing the brooks were so close up to the hounds, that nothing further was necessary.[14]

The cross-out was intended for size only, not for character. No sire with the Dongola blood was used, and such mares as did not retain a good proportion of the Exmoor type were immediately drafted. The first important successor of the Dongola was Pandarus, a white-coloured son of Whalebone, fifteen hands high, who confirmed the original bay, but reduced the standard to thirteen hands or thirteen and a half. Another sire was Canopus, a grandson of Velocipede, by whom the fine breeding as well as the Pandarus bay was perpetuated.

Meanwhile the colts were wintered on limed land, and thus enabled to bear up pretty well against the climate. Later, however, the farms were let by the late Sir Frederick (then Mr F. W.) Knight—a course which necessitated the withdrawal of the ponies to the naked moor, where, if the mares with the first cross could put up with the fare and the climate, they grew too thin to give any milk. On the other hand, those which were only half bred stood it well with their foals. About 1842 the whole pony stud was remodelled. The lighter mares were drafted, and from that time Mr Knight resolved to stick to his own ponies and the conventional sire. For many years this was strictly observed, and apart from the chestnut Hero, a horse of massive build sprung from a Pandarus sire, and the grey Lillias, of almost unalloyed Acland blood, no colour was used but the original buff.

An able judge who visited the moor in 1860, included in his report the following remarks, which are worth quoting:—

“The pony stock consists of a hundred brood mares of all ages, from one to thirteen. The mares are put to the horse at three, and up to that age they share the eight hundred heather acres of Badgery with the red deer and the blackcock, protected on all sides by high stone walls, which even Lillias, the gay Lothario of the moor, cannot jump in his moonlight rambles....

“The bays and the buffy bays (a description of yellow), both with mealy noses, are in a majority of at least three to one. The ten sires are all wintered together in an allotment until the 1st of May, apart from the mares; but Lillias, who has more of the old pony blood than any of them, twice scrambled over at least a score of six feet walls, and away to his loved North Forest. It is a beautiful sight to see them jealously beating the bounds, when they are once more in their own domains; and they would, if they wore shoes, break every bone in a usurper’s skin. The challenge to a battle royal is given with a snort, and then they commence by rearing up against each other’s necks, so as to get the first leverage for a worry. When they weary of that they turn tail to tail, and commence a series of heavy exchanges, till the least exhausted of the two watches his opportunity, and whisking round, gives his antagonist a broadside in the ribs, which fairly echoes down the glen. In the closing scene they face each other once more, and begin like bull-dogs to manoeuvre for their favourite bite on the arm. The first which is caught off his guard goes down like a shot, and then scurries off with the victor in hot pursuit, savagely ‘weaving,’ while his head nearly touches the ground, and his ‘flag’ waves triumphantly in the air. With the exception of Lillias, the ten are generally pretty content with their one thousand acres of territory, and like Sayers and Heenan, they are ultimately ‘reconciled’ in November.

“The percentage of deaths is comparatively small, and during last winter, when many of the old ponies fairly gave in on the neighbouring hills, Mr Knight’s ponies fought through it, but five or six of them died from exhaustion at foaling, or slipped foals at ten months. Their greatest peril is when they are tempted into bogs about that period by the green bait of the early aquatic grasses, and flounder about under weakness and heavy pressure till they die. The stud-book contains some very curious records. ‘Died of old age in the snow,’ forms quite a pathetic St Bernard sort of entry. ‘Found dead in a bog’ has less poetry about it. ‘Iron grey, found dead with a broken leg at the foot of a hill,’ is rather an odd mortality comment on such a chamois-footed race; while ‘grey mare c. 22 and grey yearling, missing; both found, mare with a foal at her foot,’ gives a rather more cheery glimpse of forest history.”

The “forest mark,” with which the foals are branded on the saddle-place, was changed by Mr Knight from the Acland anchor to the spur, which formed part of his crest, and is burnt in with a hot iron, just enough to sear the roots of the hair. No age eradicates it. Should a dispute arise concerning a wandering pony, the hair is clipped off, and once it happened that after a white sire had been lost for three seasons he was discovered in this manner by the head herdsman’s brother. The spur has only one heel, and the brand can be affixed with a rowel pointing in four directions, on each side of the pony, beginning towards the neck. It thus coincides with a cycle of eight years, and is available as a guide if the footmarks are prematurely worn out.

The hoof-marks are of two kinds—that of the year of entry on the off hoof, and the register figure of the dam on the near. In the second week of October the Dominical letters of their year are placed on the yearlings, and the registered hoof-marks renewed on the mares. The foal, of course, is not marked on the foot, but an exact record is taken of his dam and all his points.

Until 1850 the ponies were sold by private contract. Sales were then established, and in 1853 an auditory of two hundred persons assembled at Stony Plot, the knoll with its belt of grey quartz boulders where now stands the church. The following autumn the venue was altered to Bampton Fair. There is a curious story or legend—I hardly know what to make of it—that after one of the Simonsbath sales a Mr Lock, of Lynmouth, roasted an Exmoor pony for his friends, who, if they ever partook of the repast, must be credited with fine Tartar taste.

According to one version the original Exmoor ponies, with their buffy bay colour and mealy nose, were brought over by the Phoenicians during their visits to the shores of Cornwall to trade in tin and metals; and ever since that time the animals have preserved their characteristics. We do not propose to go so far back into the recesses of history, but will return for a moment to the now rather distant date, 1790, before

which hardly anything is known of Simonsbath. At that period there are said to have been only five men and a woman and a girl on Exmoor. The girl drew beer at the Simonsbath public-house, and the customers were a decidedly rough lot. Doones indeed there were none—their day was past—but the illicit love of mutton was universal in the West country, as was also a partiality for cheap cognac. Smugglers slung their kegs across their “scrambling Jacks” at night, and hid their treasure in the rocks, or left it at a certain gate till the next mystic hand in the living chain gave it a lift on the road to Exeter. When they did not care to do this, there were always friendly cellars under the old house at Simonsbath. The ale was decent, the landlady wisely deaf, and who can doubt that the old ingle, where the date 1654 still lingers on a beam shorn or built into half its length, heard many an exciting tale of contraband prime brandy and extra parochial liberties which would have extorted blushes from an honest beadle and groans from a conscientious exciseman?

Simonsbath having been formerly so insignificant, it is not to be wondered at that Blackmore only refers to it as the abode of a “wise woman,” by which he means a witch (Lorna Doone, chapter xviii.).