The scenery of the district described in many excellent guide-books may not tally in every particular with the superb word-portraiture of Lorna Doone, but that it possesses charms of supreme merit will be admitted by all who know the country, whether as residents or visitors. Almost before R. D. Blackmore was breeched, the poet Coleridge testified: “the land imagery of the north of Devon is most delightful”; and his brother-in-law, Robert Southey, is equally emphatic.

“My walk to Ilfracombe,” he says, “led me through Lynmouth, the finest spot, except Cintra and Arrabida, that I ever saw. Two rivers [i.e., the East and West Lyn] join at Lynmouth. You probably know the hill streams of Devonshire. Each of these flows through a combe, rolling over huge stones like a long waterfall; immediately at their juncture they enter the sea, and the rivers and sea make but one noise of uproar. Of these combes, the one is richly wooded, the other runs between two high, bare, stony hills. From the hill between the two is a prospect most magnificent, on either hand combes, and the river before the little village—the beautiful little village—which, I am assured, by one who is familiar with Switzerland, resembles a Swiss. This alone would constitute a view beautiful enough to repay the weariness of a journey; but, to complete it, there is the blue and boundless sea, for the faint and feeble outline of the Welsh coast is only to be seen, if the day be perfectly clear.”

Inland, it is certain, the moorland streams—Lancombe, Bagworthy Water, the East and West Lyn, etc.—and all that they imply, are paramount attractions; and Miss Gratiana Chanter both truly and happily observes that, “to follow one of these tiny streams from its birth to its end, is a dream of delight to those who love to be alone with nature and her many marvels.” Another reason why we should seek the “founts of Lyn” is, that there Jeremy Stickles gave his pursuers “a loud halloo” on feeling himself secure (see Lorna Doone, chapter xlvii.).

The name “Lyn” is said to be derived from the Saxon word hlynna, signifying a torrent. The East Lyn, rising above Oare, John Ridd’s birthplace, flows in a north-westerly direction to Malmsmead, where it unites with the Bagworthy Water, which at this point is the richer for two or three tributaries, including Lancombe (or Longcombe) stream and its waterslide. From the bridge and the thatched cottages that define this spot, the river pursues its course past Lyford Green and Lock’s Mill, where it encounters a weir, to Millslade and its meadows, and the blacksmith’s forge, “where the Lyn stream runs so close that he dips his horse-shoes in it,” (Lorna Doone, chapter lxii.), and thence through woodlands to pretty Brendon. Here the Farley Water, arriving from Hoar Oak by way of Bridgeball and Illford Bridges, joins the East Lyn, and their confluence is known as Watersmeet, a poetical description not belied by the rare beauty of the scene.

Meanwhile, from the hills around Woolhanger the water gathers into two streams, which are trysted at a place called Barham, whilst at Cheribridge another brook, hailing from Furzehill, helps to swell the current. Passing Barbrook Mill and Lynbridge, the West Lyn weds the East Lyn in private grounds at Lynmouth, and then the combined torrent eddies tumultuously into the sea. Nothing can excel the cataracts of the West Lyn, dashing athwart huge boulders and down a chasm of grey rock, in an incline stated to be “one in five.” Clothing the sides of the ravine are oaks and beeches and thickets of underwood, while ferns of the most exquisite sorts fringe the banks.

It must not be forgotten, however, that the road via Brendon, Illford Bridges, and Barbrook was that taken by John Ridd and Uncle Reuben on their visit to Ley Manor (Lorna Doone, chapter xv.).

All who are fond of quaint authors will find a congenial companion in old Thomas Westcote, whose Survey of Devon, written in the reign of James I., or during the early years of his successor, is stored with all manner of gossip, set forth with many a stroke of arch or naÏve humour. In his book, at all events, he approaches Lynton by much the same route as we have followed, and then spins us an amusing yarn about the finny visitors and a certain parson.

“For our easier and better proceeding, let us once again return to Exmoor. We will, with an easy pace, ascend the mount of Hore Oak Ridge; not far from whence we shall find the spring of the rivulet Lynne, which, in his course, will soon lead us into the North Division, for I desire you should always swim with the stream, and neither stem wind nor tide. This passeth by Cunsbear, alias Countisbury, and naming Lynton, where Galfridus Lovet and Cecilia de Lynne held sometime land, and, speeding, falls headlong with a great downfall into the Severn at Lynmouth; a place unworthy the name of a haven, only a little inlet, which, in these last times, God hath plentifully stored with herrings (the king of fishes), which, shunning their ancient places of repair in Ireland, come hither abundantly in shoals, offering themselves (as I may say) to the fishers’ nets, who soon resorted hither with divers merchants, and so, for five or six years, continued to the great benefit and good of the country, until the parson taxed the poor fishermen for extraordinary unusual tithes, and then (as the inhabitants report) the fish suddenly clean left the coast, unwilling, as may be supposed, by losing their lives to cause contention. God be thanked, they begin to resort hither again, though not as yet in such multitudes as heretofore. Henry de Lynmouth, after him Isabella de Albino, and now Wichals, possesseth it. A generous family: he married Pomerois; his father, Achelond, his grandfather, Munck.”

Concerning the “generous family” more anon; we have not quite done with the sign of Pisces. Originally Lynmouth was a little village—Blackmore speaks of it as “the little haven of Lynmouth” (Lorna Doone, chapter xxxix.)—whose inhabitants dwelt in huts and depended for a livelihood on the curing of herrings, which was carried on in drying-houses. From the beginning of September to the end of October shoals of these fish frequented the shore, and sometimes their number was so great that tons of them were thrown away or used as manure. In 1797 the herrings deserted the coast, and the peasantry attributed their conduct to the insult just referred to. The common duration of truancy was computed at forty years—a calculation which seems to hold true of the period between 1747 and 1787. The following decade consisted of fat years, when the sea at Lynmouth yielded rich autumnal harvests, and masses of herrings were sent to Bristol, whence they were shipped to the West Indies. From 1797 to 1837, and indeed longer, the fish fought shy of the place, but not entirely. On Christmas Day, 1811, there was an exceptional and very abundant shoal of herrings, and the inhabitants were called out of church in order to take them out of the weirs. A similar gift of fortune marked the year 1823. Practically, however, the fishermen’s avocation was gone, and they had to look elsewhere for a livelihood. Happily, they did not look in vain. Pastured on the surrounding hills were large flocks of sheep, and in the neighbouring towns there was a constant demand for yarn. This was of two kinds—one for the woof, consisting of worsted, which was supplied by the Yorkshire mills; the other for the warp, which was of softer texture, and then made by hand. The latter industry became the chief—almost the sole—prop of Lynton and Lynmouth, where the good people diligently applied themselves to spinning, and by this means kept the wolf from the door.

The sea-fishing is not altogether unconnected with the history of the De Wichehalses, since the original fishermen are stated to have been Dutch Protestants forced by religious (or irreligious?) persecution to emigrate from their homes by the Zuyder Zee. The names Litson, Vellacot, etc., still borne by local families, are quoted as evidence of Dutch extraction. A trade in cured herrings sprang up with Scotland, and the Dutchmen not only had commercial transactions with Scotch sailors and traders, but married, many of them, braw Scotch lassies who came to buy their herrings. The possible bearing of this intercourse on the problem of Lorna Doone will not escape attention. It was at Lynmouth that old Will Watcombe, the great authority on the “Gulf Stream,” lived and sought to be buried (Lorna Doone, chapter xii.).

Now as to the Wichehalses, whose name Blackmore spells with a supererogatory “h”—Whichehalse. The Protestants of the Low Countries had often attempted, by petition and remonstrance, to bend the stubborn will of their master, Philip II., and not a few of the Gueux or Beggars—a sobriquet bestowed on the Huguenot conspirators who met at Breda—left the country in despair. In 1567 the Spanish despot dispatched to the ill-fated land the Duke of Alva with an army of 20,000 men, and the latter signalised his arrival by instituting a “Council of Blood,” which resulted in the execution of 1800 patriots, while 30,000 more were reduced to abject straits by the confiscation of their property. Hordes of terrified Dutch folk fled to England, in the wake of the nobles, and a certain number of them settled, as we have seen, on the north coast of Devon.

Hugh de Wichehalse belonged, strictly speaking, to neither class of fugitives. The head of a noble and wealthy family, which had early become converts to the principles of the Reformation, he continued to struggle for his beliefs until the fatal day of Gemmingen, when, escaping the clutches of the vindictive Spaniards, he crossed the channel with his wife and children. The bulk of his property had already, by a timely precaution, been removed hither.

Such is the tradition which has to be reconciled with the pedigree of the family in the visitation of 1620. This shows three generations, and, to say the least, would be consistent with a much longer settlement in the county. The following is a copy:—

On one point there is no possible doubt—namely, that the Wichehalses were once owners of a manor-house at Lynton, standing on the site of the handsome residence known as Lee Abbey. Traces of the old structure were to be seen in an intermediate building, and gave indications of much splendour, while, as could be easily recognised, the adjacent fields and orchards formed part of the erstwhile pleasure-grounds. Just above Lee Abbey is Duty Point, famous for its beautiful views—northwards, the belt of silver sea, southwards the heathery hills, eastwards the Valley of Rocks, and westwards the grey oaks of Woody Bay; famous, too, as the scene of romantic tragedy. The principal personages of the story were old Wichehalse, his daughter Jennifried, and cruel Lord Auberley. One evening the lovelorn maiden fell or threw herself over the terrific precipice; and, hungry for revenge, her father met and slew the false suitor at the battle of Lansdown, near Bath—one of the memorable encounters of the Great Civil War. It is needless to recapitulate the details of the narrative. The story has been told by Blackmore in his Tales from the Telling House; and before that, it was told very pathetically by Mr Cooper in his Guide to Lynton.

On the south wall of Lynton Church, close to the west window, is the following inscription on the monument of Hugh Wichehalse of Ley, who departed this life, Christide Eve, 1653, Æt. 66.

The subject of this epitaph would have been the hero of the legend. One may observe, in passing, the play upon words, the Scotch elm being often termed the wych elm. This suggests a possible, and indeed probable, derivation of the name. The reader should compare Blackmore’s account of the family, and especially his portrait of Hugh Wichehalse, in chapter xv. of Lorna Doone.

According to the folklore of the district it was intended to build the church at Kibsworthy, opposite Cheribridge, on the Barnstaple road, and day after day the workmen brought materials to the spot. Each morning, however, it was found that they had been carried away during the night to the present site—it was supposed by pixies; and finally, those little gentlemen had their way. Obviously, little dependence can be placed on folklore where questions of fact are concerned. A small volume, entitled Legends of Devon, printed at Dawlish in 1848, contains another story about a church equally void—the story, and the church, too—of foundation. In the middle of the twelfth century, it is said, Lynton Castle was the abode of a family named Lynton, in whom the Evil One, from the year 500, had taken a malicious interest. Reginald of that ilk then resolved to erect a church at Lynmouth in honour of his God, and chose for it the site of an old abbey. This devout undertaking ended the long and dreadful spell. “The castle fell, the cliff heaved as if in pain, and the terrible convulsion formed the valley of rocks. The devil was seen scudding before the wind; he had lost his hold on the House of Lynton.” Unfortunately, there never was a castle at Lynton, nor an abbey or church at Lynmouth. Moreover, one learns from Hazlitt, that, according to the popular belief, the rocks represent persons caught dancing on a Sunday, and so, like Lot’s wife, transformed into stone.

The “Valley of Rocks,” is not the primitive name of this singular and romantic spot. The Devon peasantry knew it of old as the “Danes” or “Denes”—a term probably connected with the word “den,” and signifying “hollows.” Prebendary Hancock, in his estimable History of Selworthy, shows it to be a commonplace name in this corner of the world. One is tempted to inquire—who christened the locality the “Valley of Rocks?” The problem is perhaps insoluble, but the London Magazine for 1782 contains a poem on the “Valley of Stones,” in a note on which it is stated that the place owed this name to Dr Pococke, Bishop of Upper Ossory, who had visited it “some years since” with Dr Mills, the Dean of Exeter.

Some have found fault with the name “Valley of Rocks” as too ambitious, but attempts to belittle the grandeur of the spot would have received small support from Southey, who wrote about the scene in the language of ecstasy.

“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 pre-Adamite 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.”

Southey evidently referred to the “Castle Rock” on the right. On the left is the pile of stone which marked the abode of Mother Melldrum (see Lorna Doone, chapter xvii.). Blackmore mentions two names by which the place was known—the “Devil’s Cheese-ring” and the “Devil’s Cheese-knife,” which he states to be convertible; but there appears to have been a third—the “Devil’s Cheese-press.”

At one time the valley was the fitting haunt of a herd of wild goats, but the animals had to be destroyed—they butted so many sheep over the adjoining cliffs.

It would be pardonable to imagine that Lynton is indebted for its popularity as a watering-place to Lorna Doone, but this would betray ignorance of its history. I have spoken of the spinning industry formerly carried on by hand; when that ceased owing to the introduction of machinery into the towns, the dealers, who had employed people to work up the wool or bought up the poor folk’s yarn and taken it to larger markets, found their occupation gone. What was to be done? Mr William Litson, one of the persons in this predicament, hit upon the idea of opening an hotel. This was at the beginning of the last century, but already visitors, hearing reports of the rare and beautiful scenery, wended their way to Lynton, although not in large numbers. For their accommodation Mr Litson acquired the “Globe,” and furnished also the adjoining cottage. Among the first to patronise his establishment were Mr Coutts the banker, and the Marchioness of Bute. From that time the tale of visitors rapidly grew until, in 1807, the enterprising Mr Litson was encouraged to build the “Valley of Rocks” Hotel. The ball had now been fairly set rolling; hotels, lodging-houses, and private residences multiplied, and in the middle of the last century—years before a line of Lorna Doone had been written or so much

as meditated—Lynton and Lynmouth were in all essentials the same as they are now.

To the lover of nature and the simplicity of country life this conversion of scenery into shekels, and Exmoor into Bayswater, represents by no means pure gain, albeit the lover of humanity may decide otherwise—on the principle of the greatest happiness of the greatest number. Both sorts, however, may unite in casting curious glances at the old Lynton which courted neither aristocratic nor democratic favour, and actually had a revel. This began on the first Sunday after Midsummer Day, and lasted a week. When the congregations emerged from the parish church, there awaited them near the gate a barrel of beer, and the majority of them were speedily “at it,” quaffing a glass or discussing revel-cake—a special confection made of dark flour, currants, and caraway seeds. The principal feature in this, as in all revels, was the wrestling, in anticipation of which big sums were laid out in prizes. Silver spoons, for instance, were sometimes an incentive to competition. However, what with the drunkenness and the collusion that characterised too often the annual festival, the custom became obsolescent, and then obsolete, having incurred the taboo of the “respectable inhabitant” and the genuine sportsman alike.

In chapter xv. of the Maid of Sker mention is made of the practice of singing hymns at funeral processions on the Welsh side of the Bristol Channel. The same practice obtained on the North Devon side. One of the singers gave out the words verse by verse and the dirge was chanted to peculiar music reserved for such occasions. The first two or three verses were sung on the removal of the coffin from the house before the procession started, and the rest at intervals en route to the church. The following is a hymn used at the funeral of a grown-up person:—