West of Lee Abbey and Duty Point lies much that is interesting, but this is also true of the country to the east of Lynton. For the moment we mount the coach with the intention of making a circuitous return to Dulverton. The writer does not forget his first experience of North Devon coaching. The placards showed four noble steeds, full of fettle and the joy of life; but “galled jades” would better have described the aspect of the miserable brutes condemned to drag the trunk-laden vehicle up those frightful ascents. Once on the summit, however, the going was easy, and passengers resumed their seats with a safe conscience, so far as cruelty to animals was concerned.

The drive from Lynton to Porlock, and from Porlock to Minehead, over breezy commons or through entrancing sylvan scenery, is gloriously exhilarating, and might put heart into the most confirmed dyspeptic. Which reminds me that in the neighbourhood of Porlock and Minehead there used to be gathered from the rocks vast quantities of laver, which was pickled and exported to large centres, such as Bristol, Exeter, and London. This sea-liverwort was eaten at the tables of the rich as a great delicacy. The hills and heaths also minister to the palate, since they produce various sorts of wild fruit—the dwarf juniper, the cranberry, and the whortleberry. The last, a most delicious fruit, is often made into pies, and the writer, when staying in the neighbourhood, is always glad if he finds one before him, knowing that he can command instant popularity, especially with the fair, by suggesting a second helping. Other bipeds appreciate it no less, since it is the summer food of the black game, and the decrease in the number of the species on the Brendon and Quantock hills has been attributed to the great demand for this fruit in the large towns. The berries grow singly, like gooseberries, the little plants being from a foot to eighteen inches in height. The leaves are ovated, and of a pale green colour.

Porlock and Porlock Weir are both charming places. Perhaps the most memorable object at the former—if the epithet may be applied to an object rather than a speech or event—is the old Ship Inn at the foot of the hill. This quaint survival of an older day is closely associated with the poet Southey, who used to wander thus far from his home on the Quantocks; and in the parlour, on the right of the main entrance, is a nook still known as “Southey’s Corner,” where he is said to have indited his sonnets and other poetry on the landscapes he so warmly admired.

Then there is the church with its spire, which, if not beautiful, is at least peculiar, being faced with wooden shales. Opinions differ as to whether or not it was once of superior altitude, but tradition alleges that in the year 1700, a great storm arose and the tower suffered. Porlock tradition possesses unusual claims to respect, the reason being that it has been proved, in one instance at least, to be remarkably accurate. In the preface of his excellent History of the Ancient Church of Porlock, the late Prebendary Hook, alluding to the great monument, observes: “There had always been a tradition handed down from sexton to sexton, that the effigies were those of Lord Harington and his wife, the Lady of Porlock. But neither Collinson, the historian of Somerset, nor Savage, in his History of the Hundred of Carhampton, knew anything of it, and the former speaks of it as the tomb of a Knight Templar, though he does not explain how a wife happened to be there! But investigation proved the truth of the tradition, as is shown in the beautifully illustrated volume entitled The Porlock Monuments, now, unfortunately, out of print.”

It may be worth recalling that one of Miss Ida Browne’s relics is an old flint-lock pistol, engraved midway between stock and barrel with the name “C. Doone,” whilst on the reverse side is the word “Porlok.” Miss Browne is in some doubt as to whether the weapon was purchased in the village, or a C. Doone resided there, but she inclines to the latter opinion.

Porlock served as market town for the Ridds; indeed, it was in returning from Porlock market that Ridd’s father was murdered (Lorna Doone, chapter iv.). There also dwelt Master Pooke, and there a lawyer made John Ridd’s will.

Just off the road to Minehead, in the parish of Selworthy, stands Holnicote (pronounced Hunnicot), the Exmoor seat of the Acland family—a comparatively modern mansion, its predecessors having been destroyed by fire. In the widest sense, this old West-country race is best known through Mr Arthur Acland, late Minister of Education, and his father, the late Sir Thomas Acland, who was contemporary with Mr Gladstone at Oxford, and, like him, the winner of a “double first,” and between whom and the distinguished statesman there was maintained to the very last a close and uninterrupted friendship. Locally, although the late baronet was always most highly esteemed, it is doubtful whether he was quite as popular as his sire, still referred to by the departing generation as “the old Sir Thomas.” One of my childish recollections is lying in bed one dark night at Tiverton and listening to a muffled peal on St Peter’s bells. It was the first muffled peal I ever heard, and I was much impressed when told that it was rung to mark the passing of a great county magnate, Sir Thomas Acland, tenth baronet, and for forty years a member of Parliament. This was in 1871.

When at Holnicote—the family has another seat, Killerton, near Exeter—the old Sir Thomas made it a rule to attend church twice on Sundays, and in the afternoon he usually brought with him two or three favourite dogs, which were shut up in Farmer Stenner’s barn during the service. The Acland pew was in the parvise over the south porch, while in the west gallery the village orchestra, comprising fiddle, violoncello, flute, hautboy, and bassoon, was yet in its glory. Animated by something of the feudal spirit, the choir, on the first Sunday after the baronet’s arrival, invariably indulged in an anthem. On one such occasion, back in the fifties, the Rev. Edward Cox, rector of the neighbouring parish of Luccombe, chanced to be officiating, and at the conclusion of an elaborate performance, graced by startling orchestral effects, was so unnerved that he forgot his place in the service, and began in a faltering tone the Apostles’ Creed! Naturally there was some confusion, which was ended by Sir Thomas himself coming to the rescue. Bending forward from his seat in the gallery, he not only seconded the clergyman with stentorian accents, but waving his hand peremptorily, signed to the congregation to repeat the creed over again. The command was obeyed, and with such fervour that soon every corner of the church was echoing with the confession of faith. After the service Sir Thomas waited for Mr Cox in the porch, and slapping him on the back, remarked cheerily, “Well done, well done! Whenever you are in doubt, fall back on the articles of your belief, and I’ll support you!”

The pew occupied by Sir Thomas was originally a priest’s chamber, and was transformed into a pew by the Hon. Mrs Fortescue, whose husband was a pluralist rector of the old school, and a rare lover of port wine. Her brother, the Rev. Robert Gould, born in the rectory house at Luccombe, was a remarkable fisherman and an equally remarkable shot. Once he is said to have caught such a quantity of fish in Bagworthy Water as to make his basket ridiculous, and he was forced to requisition a boy and horse to carry his spoil away. At another time he walked from Ilfracombe, where he resided, to Allerford, on a visit to his mother—most probably by way of Hangman Hill, Showlsborough Castle, Cheriton Ridge, and Bagworthy. However that may be, he was able to bring as a present to the old lady, forty snipe—a snipe for every mile, as he said. The same accomplished gentleman shot two bitterns in Porlock Marsh—a feat which, it is safe to assert, has never been repeated in that quarter or, perhaps, in England. The birds were stuffed, and passed into the keeping of his sister, Mrs Fortescue.

The Rev. W. H. Thornton avers that Mr Fortescue was in the habit of winking his eye and confessing that he had excellent cognac in his cellar. Apropos of this weakness, he reports these not quite “imaginary conversations.”

“‘I found one morning that both my horses were gone,’ he would say, ‘but James Dadd (his coachman), James Dadd knew which way to search, and we found them loose in a lane beyond Exford, and there was a keg of this brandy left under the manger too. Will you try it?’

“Now, in all my intercourse with smugglers, illicit distillers, and such-like people, I have remarked the peculiarity that their wares either were, or were honestly deemed to be, of extra quality! Was it that the sense of irregularity added flavour to the dram, or were the smuggled spirits really particularly choice? I do not know, but later in my life I sat by the deathbed of a very old smuggler, who told me how he used to have a donkey with a triangle on his back, so rigged up as to show three lanthorns, and how chilled he would become as he lay out winter’s night after winter’s night, watching on the Foreland or along Brandy Path, as he called it, for the three triangled lights of the schooner, which he knew was coming in to land her cargo, where Glenthorne[17] now stands, and where was the smugglers’ cave. ‘Lord bless ee, sir,’ and the dying man of nearly ninety years chuckled, ‘we never used no water. We just put the brandy into the kettle, and heated it, and drinked it out of half-pint stoups.’”

If it is to be a question of retailing smuggling stories, I also can tell one of Exmoor origin, only it relates to Minehead, whither our course now lies. Many years ago—I fancy it was in the forties—there was a certain quay-lumper, who “caddled about” anywhere, away under Greenaleigh. His name was Moorman. Just about this time a French vessel was on her way with a cargo of smuggled brandy, but a fall-out between uncle and nephew, on account of the former refusing to lend money, led to information being given, with the result that one of Her Majesty’s cutters was seen cruising up and down before Minehead. The whole town was in an uproar.

After a while the foreigner drew in under Greenaleigh, and discharged her cargo; and

Moorman, having been called to assist, was rewarded with a sum of money and a quantity of brandy. It was beautiful brandy, and Moorman’s wife very kindly gave some of it to her neighbours, remarking as she did so, “My old man helped discharge the cargo.” This observation was carried to the excise officers, who searched for Moorman, and insisted on his telling them where the spirit was concealed. As a matter-of-fact, it had been hidden in the sand; but this was perfectly smooth, and Moorman, though he made a show of looking for them, declared he could not find the kegs. Just as they were about to give up in despair, one of the party hitched his foot in a rope, with which, it turned out, the kegs had been slung together. Several persons were arrested in connection with the affair, among others an old Mr Rawle, a farmer; and some few were sent to prison. As for the cutter, she had been lying useless in Minehead harbour, in low water.[18]

It cannot be charged against Minehead that “the hobby-horse is forgot,” and those mindful of him belong, for the most part, to the seafaring class. Early on May morning, they perambulate the town with the idol, a rough similitude of the equine species, decked off with ribbons; the “counterfeit presentment” being supported on the shoulders of a man whose legs are concealed by the trappings, and who is responsible for its motions. Its progress through the streets is heralded by the tap of the drum, and horseplay—seldom is the expression so apt—is the order of the day. For it may be taken for granted that there is more than one performance, and the worship of the beast is resumed at intervals till vesper-time. However, the custom, which was formerly observed at Combmartin also, is gradually dying out.

Probably one of the most sensational events in the annals of Minehead, which do not appear to be particularly rich in historic interest, is a seventeenth-century episode, in which the chief actors were the Rev. Henry Byam, rector of Selworthy, and “another.” A notable man was Henry Byam, who was born at Luccombe, in 1580. Being a devoted Royalist, he attended Prince Charles in his flight to the Scilly Islands, and thence to Jersey. Byam was in great esteem as a preacher, and his sermons were edited by Hamnet Ward, Prebendary of Wells, who states that “most of them were preached before His Majesty King Charles II., in his exile.” Perhaps, however, the discourse which will most attract modern readers, is that entitled: “A Return from Argier.—A Sermon preached at Minehead, in the County of Somerset, the 16th of March, 1627, at the re-admission of a Relapsed into our Church.” It seems that a young Minehead man had been taken prisoner by the Turks and compelled to embrace the Mohammedan religion. Having escaped, he returned to Minehead, where, clothed in Turkish attire, he had to stand in St Michael’s Church, whilst the rector of Selworthy “improved” the occasion. In one part of the sermon, the preacher addressed himself directly to the offender:

“You whom God suffered to fall, and yet of His infinite mercy vouchsafed graciously to bring you home, not only to your country and kindred, but to the profession of your first faith, and to the Church and Sacraments again; let me say to you (but in a better hour), as sometime Joshua to Achan: ‘Give glory to God, sing praises to Him who hath delivered your soul from the nethermost hell.’ When I think upon your Turkish attire, I do remember Adam and his fig-leaf breeches; they could neither conceal his shame, nor cover his nakedness. I do think upon David clad in Saul’s armour. How could you hope, in this unsanctified habit, to attain Heaven?”

But it is time that we set out for Dunster, which is as rich in striking memories as the seaport town is poor. The two places, however, are not altogether separable; indeed, it must be evident at a glance that small towns situated at so short a distance from each other—two miles and a half—will have been influenced, though in varying degrees, by the same incidents and accidents, and freaks of fortune. If we go back to the first quarter of the fifteenth century, we find that a “shipman” of Minehead, called Roger King, was employed in conveying provisions from this part of the world to Normandy, where war was then raging; and his return cargo often consisted of wine, which Lady Catherine Luttrell, of Dunster Castle, readily purchased from him. Once Sir Hugh Luttrell embarked on a vessel called the Leonard of Dunster, taking with him five live oxen and two pipes of beer for consumption during the voyage. His expenses, including repairs, amounted to the then considerable sum of £42, 3s. 1d.; but the master, Philip Clopton, having been paid £40, 10s. by certain foreign merchants for a freight of wine on the journey home, the lucky knight had merely to make good the difference—£1, 13s. 1d. In 1427, several Minehead fishermen, tenants of Sir Hugh, adventuring as far as Carlingford, were captured by a Spaniard named Goo, and having been conveyed to Scotland, were confined in Bothwell Castle, whence a special letter, addressed to the King of Scotland in the name of Henry VI., was necessary to procure their release.

In the Middle Ages, Dunster itself was a seaport, and, in the reign of Edward III., writs directed to the bailiffs forbade friars, monks, or treasure to quit the realm by that door. It is to be observed in this connection that the river Avill, before joining the sea, widens out at a place called the “Hone” or the “Hawn”—no doubt the site of the old haven, of which term its present name is a corruption.

To many, Dunster Castle is indissolubly associated with the family of Luttrell, and no wonder, seeing the ages that have elapsed since it was owned by persons of different descent. Its earliest lords, however, were Mohuns—a name which at once awakens recollections of Thackeray and the famous duel between Lord Mohun and the Duke of Hamilton in Hyde Park, in 1712. The first Mohun of Dunster was a gallant leader called William the Old, who attended his namesake, the Conqueror, with a large retinue to the field of Senlac, and received Dunster as a part of that day’s spoil. The family had large possessions in Normandy, and drew their name—De Moion—from a village near St Lo.

The history of the English branch, or rather branches, is by no means devoid of interest. The founder of Newenham Abbey (Devon), for instance, was Reginald de Mohun, who died in 1246. In recognition of his munificence, he received from the Pope the gift of a golden rose, and as such a present was made only to persons of high rank, His Holiness dubbed him Earl of Este (or Somerset). The monkish chronicler reports that Reginald had seen in a vision a venerable man, who bade him make his election between going with him then, in which case he would be safe, or remaining until overtaken by danger. De Mohun at once accepted the former alternative, but the old man would have him stay till the third day, when the confessor saw in another dream the same old man leading a boy “more radiant than the sun, and vested in a robe brighter than crystal,” which boy, he heard him say, was the soul of Reginald de Mohun. The chronicler further states that he was present when Reginald’s tomb was opened nearly a hundred years later, what time the body was perfect, and exhaled a most fragrant odour.

I now pass to the year 1376, when the Lady Joan, relict of Sir John de Mohun, sold the right of succession to the barony for £3333, 6s. 8d. to the Lady Elizabeth Luttrell, the receipt being still in the possession of the present owner, Mr G. F. Luttrell. It is worth remarking that Mr Luttrell is a descendant of the Mohuns of Beconnoc (the junior branch which produced the Lord Mohun before mentioned), through the marriage of his ancestor, John Fownes, with the heiress of Samuel Maddock, her mother having been the daughter and ultimate heiress of the third Lord Mohun of Okehampton.

The Lady Elizabeth Luttrell was the daughter of Hugh Courtenay, Earl of Devon, and Margaret, daughter of Humphry de Bohun, Earl of Hereford and Essex, who was styled “the flower of knighthood, and the most Christian knight of the knights of the world.” Her husband was a less considerable person, being only a cadet of a younger branch of the baronial family of Luttrell of Irnham. Their son was the Sir Hugh Luttrell already referred to, who, in his time, was governor of Harfleur and Grand Seneschal of France—in fact, the right-hand man of Harry the Fifth. He rebuilt Dunster Castle in somewhat the form we find it to-day, and added a new gate-house. The alabaster effigies on the north side of the chancel of the conventual church are those of Sir Hugh and Lady Catherine Luttrell.

There are black sheep in every family, and among the Luttrells one black sheep was pretty clearly James, grandson of great Sir Hugh. The latter had a receiver-general named Thomas Hody, and it was probably his son—one Alisaunder Hody, at any rate—that drew up a complaint against James Luttrell which enables us to see what manner of man he was. First, it seems, Luttrell ascertained from Hody’s unsuspecting wife where her husband was likely to be for the next three days, and then clapped one of his servants into Dunster Castle, where he kept him closely confined for a night, to prevent him from giving information. Luttrell’s next move was to set out with a party of thirty-five followers, with bows bent and arrows in their hands, for the house of Alisaunder’s father-in-law, Thomas Bratton, with the intention of murdering the object of his resentment.

In the course of another expedition, in which he was attended by twenty-four armed retainers, he fell upon John Coker, a servant of Hody, and beat and wounded him so that his life was despaired of. His greatest coup, however, was his attack on Taunton Castle, where he broke open the doors and searched for Alisaunder, confiscated seven silver spoons, five ivory knives, and other goods belonging to him, struck his wife, and threatened to kill her with their daggers. A servant, Walter Peyntois, was stabbed, almost fatally, while “Sir” Robert, Alisaunder’s priest, was assaulted, dragged to the ground by the hair of his head, and beaten by the ruffians with the pommels of their swords.

Whatever his faults, James Luttrell was undoubtedly brave, and, taking part in the strife of the Roses, was knighted on the field after the battle of Wakefield. At the second battle of St Albans he received a mortal wound, and in the first Parliament of Edward IV. his property was forfeited to the Crown. The attainder was reversed on the accession of Henry VII.

Another fighting Luttrell was Sir John, who served in the Scottish wars of the mid-sixteenth century, won the name of a “noble captain,” and was ultimately taken prisoner in the fort of Bouticraig. Among the treasures of Dunster Castle is preserved a painting of Sir John Luttrell by a Flemish artist, Lucas de Heere, dated 1550; and a very extraordinary painting it is.

In the great Civil War, the Luttrell of the period, whose Christian name was Thomas, espoused the side of the Parliament, and “Mistress” Luttrell commanded the men in the castle to “give fire” at sixty of Sir Ralph Hopton’s troopers, who had come to demand entrance, but after this reception deemed it expedient to retire. In 1643 the owner, rather weakly, surrendered the place, of which Francis Wyndham now became governor. Two years later, Colonel Blake, with a Parliamentarian force from Taunton, began the investment of the castle, which finally capitulated on April 19, 1646.

In 1645, after the battle of Naseby, the Prince of Wales (afterwards Charles II.) was commanded by his father to take up his quarters at Dunster, in order to escape the plague, which was raging at Bristol. This was to jump from the frying-pan into the fire, as the contagion was so bad at Dunster that the inhabitants feared to venture into the streets. However, there is no doubt that the prince visited the castle, where a room leading out

into the gallery is called “King Charles’s Room.” The “King’s Chamber,” mentioned in the inventory of 1705, adjoined the gallery; but the evidence does not point conclusively to the traditional apartment, which, being very narrow, with no window and only a stone bench, might have done fairly well as a place of concealment, more especially as there is a secret door in one of the walls. But at this time the Royalists were in possession, and there was no obvious motive for selecting the incommodious lodging for a guest of princely blood.

To conclude this account of the Luttrells, the male line came to an end on the death of Alexander, in 1737. Ten years later, his daughter married Henry Fownes of Nethway, and from him the present owner, Mr George Fownes Luttrell, is descended.

From the lords of Dunster let us turn to the place which, in spite of inevitable changes, retains a greater variety of mediÆval features than may easily be found within the same compass. A complete description of the castle and park is impossible here, but it may be mentioned that very full information is contained in Mr G. T. Clark’s preliminary essay in Sir H. C. Maxwell-Lyte’s standard work. One thing is certain—that the aspect of the castle has been considerably altered from what it was in mediÆval times. During the eighteenth century sad liberties were taken with the buildings. Spurious Gothic windows were inserted, and a thoroughly incongruous chapel erected. The restoration undertaken by Mr G. F. Luttrell rectified these absurdities, but went much further. The northern tower of the principal faÇade was pulled down and rebuilt, and a new wing was added. The old Edwardian gateway has been left intact.

About the year 1775, through the caprice of the then owner, was erected the Conegar Tower, which is merely a hollow shell standing on a conical hill. Owing to its commanding position it is a prominent landmark, rising amidst woods which in the summer season are a mass of foliage, whilst intersecting footpaths form shady alleys in which it is a joy to wander. It is pleasant to add that the master of this splendid domain has always observed a most generous and unselfish attitude to strangers desirous of inspecting his house and grounds.

But Dunster has other wonders hardly inferior to the castle itself. One may instance the Yarn Market, with its broad, overhanging penthouses, manifold gables, and pyramidal roof, in one of the beams of which is a hole said to have been caused by a cannon shot fired from the castle in the time of the Civil War. Such a ball, however, could not have passed the intervening woodwork leaving it uninjured, so that the story is, at least, doubtful.

Hard by is the Luttrell Arms Hotel—a perfect treasure-house of antiquities. These comprise a gabled porch pierced with lancet holes for crossbows, a faÇade of oak, elaborately carved, and an oak chamber, with an open roof of timber work, somewhat resembling that of Westminster Hall. In Room 13 are emblazoned the Luttrell Arms—or, a bird between three martlets sable. With these are impaled a chevron between three trefoils, slipped, proper.

Says an anonymous writer: “In old times it was the custom of every gentleman to set up his family shield on the house in which he sojourned; this served as a rallying-point to his followers, and, in my opinion, was the origin of the signs formerly displayed on houses of business of every kind, but now confined to inns only.” In the present instance the suggestion is not particularly helpful, as there are reasons for supposing that the building once belonged to the Abbey of Cleeve. Nothing, however, is certainly known of its origin and history, and it is quite possible that it was at one time in the occupation of a cadet of the great family at the castle.

Room No. 12 boasts a far more notable feature—namely, an elaborate mantelpiece bearing two shields, one emblazoned with the arms of England, and the other with those of France; also a poor bust of Shakespeare, two large Elizabethan female figures, and a central medallion showing a prostrate man, nude, and worried by three dogs, clearly intended for ActÆon, who was torn to pieces by his hounds for looking on Diana whilst bathing.

The “Luttrell Arms” is mentioned in chapter xxvii. of Lorna Doone, which tells also of Ridd’s mother’s cousin, the tanner, and his bevy of daughters, all resident in the town.

Another architectural curiosity is a weather-tiled house on the north side of Middle Street. This is usually described as “the Nunnery”—a quite modern appellation, born of pure fancy. Even so late as the last century it was known as the “High House,” while a yet older name was the “Tenement of St Lawrence.” Yet another interesting old structure is “Lower Marsh,” with rich Perpendicular oratory over its entrance porch.

Next, as to the church. At the entrance to the churchyard stands a quaint timber building which goes by the name of the Priest’s House. The church itself is a magnificent specimen of its kind, and worthy of the name of a cathedral. The most ancient part of it is the Norman arch at the west end. The east end is Early English, and nearly all the rest Perpendicular, including the old and beautiful rood-screen of open work with fan tracery headings, over which are four rows of ornaments. The portion of the church to the west of the screen is called by the inhabitants the “Parish Church,” while the eastern section is termed the “Priory Church.” The reason is that this was formerly the chapel of the Priory of Dunster, which belonged to the Benedictine monks of Bath; and shortly after the dissolution of the monasteries the priory was acquired by the Luttrells, who have long claimed the part of the church assigned to the monks by the award of the Abbot of Glastonbury and his colleagues, and erected therein a number of funeral monuments, yet remaining, in various states of preservation. To the north-west of the church are the ruins of the priory, the great barn in which the good monks stored their grain, and two great gateways that led into the priory precincts.

Every visitor to Dunster is admonished to make the ascent of Grabhurst (or Grabbist) Hill, on the southern slope of which there was in the Middle Ages a vineyard—not, by the way, a solitary example in the England of that distant time. The view from the summit is extremely beautiful. In the foreground are moors, in the background the sea, and on the right and the left hand towards Minehead and St Audries, varied and charming landscapes. On one side of the ridge may be descried a typical farmhouse, nestling amidst bright, green meadows and clumps of trees; and over the deep, narrow valley towers the massive form of old Dunkery and other heights in shadowy perspective.

Still grander are the prospects to be obtained from Dunkery Beacon itself—the most commanding landmark of the district. About eight miles south of Minehead, Dunkery is a mountain large and high, with a base about twelve miles in circumference and an altitude of 1700 feet. With the exception of Cawsand Beacon, it is the highest summit in the West of England. One approach to it is from Wootton Courtenay, the distance from the parish church to the top of the hill being three miles; another is from Cutcombe, in which parish part of Dunkery lies. The hilly character of the country is well illustrated by the name of the hostelry at the corner, where the road to Dunkery digresses from the “Minehead turnpike”—“Rest and Be Thankful.”

The view from the beacon embraces an immense tract, the sky-line being quite five hundred miles in circumference. To the south-west can be discerned the tors near Plymouth; northwards, the Malvern Hills, in Worcestershire—regions more than two hundred miles apart. North and north-west, nearly a hundred and thirty miles of the Bristol Channel, and behind it the coast of Wales from Monmouthshire to Pembrokeshire. Most of Somerset, Devon, and Dorset, with parts of Wiltshire and Hampshire, are included in a spectacle which premises a clear atmosphere and not too bright a sun, lest the prospect be obscured by haze.

On Dunkery top is a vast quantity of rough, loose stones of all shapes and sizes, and ranging from one pound to two hundred pounds in weight, together with the remains of three large hearths, built of unhewn stones, and about eight feet square. They compose an equilateral triangle, in the interior of which is another and larger hearth. More than two hundred feet lower, on the slope of the hill, and nearly a mile distant, are two other hearths, with the same accompaniment of loose stones scattered in large numbers around. These are undoubtedly ruins of old-world beacons which, in periods of civil commotion or when foreign invasion threatened, were used to rouse the countryside and pass the fiery message from one end of the realm to the other. According to Lorna Doone (chapter iii.), the marauders prevented this legitimate use by throwing a watchman on the top of it. Chapters xliii. and xliv. contain a vivid description of the firing of the actual beacon in Doone Glen.

For the neighbours the beacon is a huge barometer. Often it is covered with clouds, and this is regarded as an infallible sign of rain; hence the saying:

A former inhabitant of Luccombe, with a nicer ear for rhyme, penned the following pretty song on Dunkery Beacon, evidently modelled on “Sweet and Low,” but worth quoting all the same:—

The “Minehead turnpike,” as it is termed, dates from the reign of George IV. Before that period the road, after leaving Timberscombe, passed up the long steep ascent of Lype Hill. The present highway is a trotting road of undoubted excellence. Being cut through hanging woods in some sections, and along the banks of the Exe in others, it is perhaps the finest and most romantic drive of its kind in the kingdom.