We have now returned to Dulverton, but our pilgrimage is not yet over, for we have yet to explore a territory which may be termed the joint property, or “debateable ground,” of Lorna Doone and the Maid of Sker. The Devon and Somerset line, connecting as it does with the light railway to Lynton, and the London and South-Western branch from Exeter to Barnstaple, will be found extremely convenient for our purpose, although these “iron roads” do not in every instance land us at the precise spots where we would be. So, peradventure, it may be wisdom to set up our headquarters at Southmolton and Barnstaple in succession, and peregrinate from those centres at our discretion.

First, a word of explanation as to the title of this chapter. Far be it from me to give evil pre-eminence to Southmolton as a school for scandal, but in chapter xii. of Lorna Doone Blackmore distinctly states that it is “a busy place for talking.” There is no going from that.

Southmolton, like Bampton, is subject to the “slings and arrows” of outrageous criticism as a place where it is “always afternoon.” If that be so, all I can say is that, personally, I invariably find the P.M. extremely pleasant, and nothing will induce me to cast a stone at a town so hospitable. Moreover, it is beyond question an important hub of Blackmore associations, and the faithful votary of the novelist must betake himself thither. Whether or not the fact be due to this circumstance, it seems certain that more visitors patronise the neighbourhood than formerly, and Mr Brown, the obliging chemist, informs me that he has developed negatives for Americans, from whom he has received flattering testimonials. Well done, Mr Brown! The following entry in the visitors’ book at the “George” has an independent interest.

“July 3rd, 1888—Dr Walter B. Gilbert, of New York, U.S., who was saved by being thrown out of the window at the corner house opposite, during the fatal fire of July 1835.”

This reminds one of an early incident in the life of a famous divine, who declared that “the world was his parish.” It was certainly Dr Gilbert’s.

On one occasion when I stayed at the “George,” where, it may be remembered, Master Stickles filled his little flat bottle with “the very best eau de vie” (Lorna Doone, chapter xlvii.), the fair was in full swing, and I recollect that, among other attractions, there was a negro marionette of large size, with aggressive, red lips. A young man indulged in an entertaining dialogue with him as a prelude to the sale of quack medicine. Now, the proletariat is master at Southmolton, and the Corporation dare not remove from the Square the shooting-galleries, ginger-bread stalls, confetti tents, and other encumbrances connected with this event. It was whispered to me that at the time of an Agricultural Show, when the band of the Plymouth division of the Royal Marines was to perform in the market, the Mayor offered £10 for an hour and a half’s suspension of the strident and powerful tones of a steam-organ, but in vain. This mechanical purveyor of popular airs represents the combined snort of a tornado of galloping horses fitted to a roundabout of the most modern type. In the old-style roundabout a boy worked a turnstile, and in doing so sometimes slipped or fell, when he received pretty severe contusions. This arrangement was succeeded by a cog-wheel in charge of a man.

At fair time, East Street is blocked with Exmoor sheep and North Devon cattle, and À propos of this, you may notice over the entrance to the market three carved rams’ heads. On the first day of the fair, a white sheepskin glove is projected on a pole from a ring on the side of a “Star.” Locally, this is supposed to signify the “hand of welcome,” which accounts perhaps for the nosegay. Another and less romantic version declares it the “hand of authority.”

Let us stroll through the town in search of adventures. Naturally, our steps will be directed, in the first instance, to the parish church, of which the inhabitants are extremely proud. Well, it is handsome, very handsome—sumptuous, if you like—but the interior is nearly all brand-new. As to that, however, there are exceptions, and I will undertake to affirm that the amazing gargoyle on the north side of the chancel arch, albeit there are gargoyles on the Town Hall and gargoyles on the “George,” is not of our time. Apparently, it is the face of a craftsman, and, quite possibly, that of the master-builder of the church. The pulpit also is ancient; the four evangelists’ flattened countenances and noses sadly out of repair proclaim a reckoning with time. The font is ancient and goodly. The tower is a fine one, as is also that of Northmolton; but if you would see what North Devon can show in the shape of church towers, away to Chittlehampton. There is a local proverb: “Southmolton for strength; Chittlehampton for beauty,” and tradition states that the tower of the fane of St Heriswitha was erected by a pupil of the man that built Southmolton tower.

For my own part, I find Southmolton churchyard, with its walled and paved avenues, more stimulating than the church. The margins of four banks were, it appears, planted with lime-trees in 1735-6, and twenty-five years later the New Walk was adorned with similar trees. These in 1866 were rooted up by a “fanatical iconoclast,” but others took their place, and so there is at present not much occasion to find fault.

I remember one September evening standing in this churchyard and talking to that worthy man, the sexton, when he mentioned to me casually that it was the scene of a desperate battle. Particulars he had none to give, and for the nonce I had forgotten my history book, so we stood and gazed in silence, with a sense of vague respect and profound mystery, at the home of the dead, on which the shades of evening were rapidly falling. Too late to enlighten him, I recalled the abortive rising of the Cavaliers in 1655, when Sir Joseph Wagstaffe, aided and abetted by a couple of Wiltshire squires, Hugh Groves and John Penruddock, and a force of loyal Cornishmen, proclaimed Prince Charles king at Southmolton, after a rather discreditable fiasco at Southampton. Cromwell’s troops were soon on their traces, and in a bloody fight, mainly in the churchyard, the Royalists were hopelessly defeated. Wagstaffe and a few of his officers escaped by jumping their horses over the north-west portion of the churchyard wall (on which some forty years ago a lime-house was built), and, crossing Exmoor, arrived at Bridgewater. Groves and Penruddock, with twenty others, were captured and conducted to the castle at Exeter, where they were arraigned for high treason, found guilty, and executed. The leaders were beheaded and the rest hanged, the drawing and quartering, ordinarily a feature in such ceremonies, being omitted.

Comedy, as well as tragedy, may claim Southmolton churchyard for her own, for here Bampfylde Moore Carew, the famous King of the Gipsies, wreaked dire vengeance on the local bellman, who had insulted him, by appearing in the likeness of Infernal Majesty, and chasing the affrighted officer among the tombs. The fact that the ghost of an old gentleman not long deceased was reputed to walk the churchyard probably made this characteristic revenge more easy.

A ruinous building, to which no stranger uninitiated would direct more than a passing glance, stands back from the road on Factory Hill. Once it was a celebrated academy, at which nearly all the youth of Southmolton, and doubtless many boys of the neighbouring parishes, received their education. In this now abandoned seat of learning there were two departments—an English school and a Latin school—for which there were separate halls. The place wears a horrible appearance of neglect and desecration, but some of the old fittings yet remain, and when I inspected it, there were even some loose forms amongst the miscellaneous lumber. The founder was one Hugh Squier, a lesser Peter Blundell, who left injunctions that his portrait should be hung in what is now the sitting-room of a cottage, but was then, no doubt, the master’s house, and that there, as if he were bodily present, his trustees should dine once a year. The portrait has been removed to the Town Hall. There is also a beautiful miniature of Squier attached to the mayor’s chain of office, which is probably at his worship’s.

Southmolton has been a great place for poets, the best of them being perhaps Richard Manley, a journeyman saddler, who died in 1832. The following lines are taken from a poem after Gray, entitled Recollections of Schoolboy Days, and supposed to be written in front of Squier’s Free School, where the author had been taught reading, writing, and arithmetic:—

Personally, I must confess, I should not have appreciated the pathos of the scholastic derelict but for my good friend, the late Mayor of Southmolton, who offered his services as cicerone. Mr Kingdon was formerly associated with the firm of Crosse, Day, and Crosse, solicitors, and he recollects Blackmore coming into their office, his object being to look over some documents relating to the Manor of Oare. On leaving, he complained that he had not found much to the purpose; but Mr Kingdon is not so sure.

Speaking of Mayors—and we must not forget that Master Paramore was a high member of the town council (see Lorna Doone, chapter xii.)—the chief magistrate of Southmolton is noted for the splendour of his official retinue—doubtless a legacy from the days when corporations were wont to insist more than they do now on outward show and ceremony. Mr Mills, a local historian, gives an excellent account of the old style, founded in part on his own recollections:

“The Bailiff’s livery is a coat and vest of cerulean colour, with red facings, velveteen breeches, and a gold-laced, three-cornered hat. This functionary formerly, as part of his livery, wore red stockings, but on the appointment of Mr Philip Widgery about sixty years ago (1892), he besought the Corporation to provide him with gaiters—alleging as a reason that his legs were the same shape as German flutes. His petition was granted, and he and his successors have had their legs encased in drab gaiters. The Sergeants at Mace have three-cornered hats and ample blue cloaks—both hats and cloaks being trimmed with gold lace.

“Prior to the Municipal Corporations Reform Act, 1834, these three officers always proceeded with the Mayor and other members of the Corporation to the Parish Church every Sunday morning. All the members wore robes; those who had passed the office of Mayor wore scarlet gowns, the other members were robed in black. A posse of the borough constables always preceded this procession, carrying blue staves with the borough arms in gilt letters on the upper end. These staves were about six feet long, and are preserved at the Guildhall. As soon as the second lesson had been read, the four took their staves in their hands, and holding them aloft, marched sedately out of church, to pay visits to the public-houses, in order to see if any person was tippling in them during Divine Service. The first place of call was the ‘Ring of Bells,’ adjacent to the churchyard, where, knowing the exact time their visit would be paid, the landlord had four half-pints of ale in readiness for their delectation as soon as they arrived. A similar visit was next paid to the ‘King’s Arms,’ and similar treatment awaited them there. Generally by the time these two visits had been paid, the congregation at the church had been dismissed, and the vigilant constables retired to their respective homes to preside over the family dinner, and to

say grace, after eating it, as good churchmen should do.”

We are now to travel back three centuries and more, to the reign of Queen Elizabeth.

Leaving Southmolton for a time, we set out in the first instance for an ancient manor-house about three miles distant, in the parish of Bishop’s Nympton. In doing so, we pass two old factories, which formerly gave employment to three hundred combers, etc. One of them is now a grist mill, while the other is turned to account as a collar factory, in which a score or two of women imitate the “little busy bee.” As for the men who once worked in the mills, on the break-up of the industry some transferred their services to Mr Vicary, of North Tawton, while others migrated to Yorkshire.

A well-remembered character at Southmolton, Chappie, the parish clerk, was seated as usual at the foot of the pulpit, when the late rector, Mr King, being momentarily at a loss, whispered down to him, “What do they make at the factory?” Chappie replied in an audible tone, “Serge.” Whereupon the preacher resumed, “I am informed,” etc., drawing an illustration from the fabric.

Through winding lanes and some rough fields, which Leland would probably have described as “morisch,” lies the approach to Whitechapel, and were it not for the railway, with its “level crossing,” the spot would be rightly described as sequestered, and such as could hardly be excelled as the scene of a tragedy or perhaps a romance. The house stands on the slope of a green hill, against which its white walls stand pleasantly outlined. It has two courtyards, the inner being entered by a gateway flanked by tall brick pillars surmounted by huge globes. It is said that on this inner platform were mounted cannon—a battery of five pieces of ordnance. About fifty years ago the original mullioned windows were removed by a farmer-tenant, and deposited in a cellar, where they were lately discovered. Some of them have been re-inserted in the right end of the building. In the rear the remains of an old hearth have been found, showing that cooking was carried on outside the house proper. The interior is remarkable for a splendid oak screen. The place is now in thoroughly good hands, but it has naturally suffered from having been so long a farmhouse, the occupiers of which were profoundly indifferent to its contents and history. The present owner, Captain Glossop, when I met him, was bringing taste and energy to bear on the old mansion, although portions of it were beyond repair.

Working backwards, I find that at the beginning of the last century the property was in Chancery, and sold by the order of the Lord Chancellor by public auction. The purchaser was a familiar figure in Southmolton, a Mr Sanger, who occupied Whitechapel till his death. He made it his boast that he cut down and sold enough timber on the estate to pay the whole of the purchase money. At one time the property belonged to an ancestor of Sir John Heathcoat-Amory; and during the Civil Wars it was the residence of Colonel Basset, one of Prince’s “Worthies.” Blackmore clearly remembered this circumstance when he introduced Sir Roger Bassett into his work (Lorna Doone, chapter xlvi.), and allowed him to be victimised by the joint cunning of lawyers and outlaw.

According to Prince, the place was the original home of all the Bassets; and the walls, as they now stand, were built during the reign of Elizabeth by Sir Robert de Basset, on the site of an earlier structure, and in the fashionable shape of an E. A few years later the knight lost his wife, and having had the good fortune to win the heart and hand of Mistress Beaumont of Umberleigh, removed to her mansion, standing where once had stood King Athelstan’s palace. Umberleigh was afterwards the property of John o’ Gaunt, from whom it passed to a relative—a fact to which old doggerel lines bear witness:

Sir Robert de Basset not only bade adieu to Whitechapel, whither he never returned, but shortly before the death of Queen Elizabeth, he made another change, and for the sake of his wife’s health, took up his residence at Heanton Court, she having brought to him the manors of Sherwill and Heanton Punchardon. Situated on the right bank of the Taw, about three miles below Barnstaple, Heanton Court is now only a picturesque farmhouse, but sixty years ago, according to an eye-witness, the walls were still worse, and resembled a dilapidated factory. This place, as will be shown more plainly hereafter, was the original of the Narnton Court of the Maid of Sker.

Now Sir Robert and his wife were both descended from the Plantagenets—his wife certainly, and Sir Robert himself, if there was any truth in the allegation that his great-great-grandmother was the illegitimate daughter of Edward IV. Be that as it may, the knight saw fit to join himself to the inglorious company of claimants to the vacant throne of the Virgin Queen, two hundred in number; and, on the accession of King James, he had, in consequence to escape down the river Taw and sail into the open sea en route for the Continent. Two years later an edict was promulgated, assuring the pretenders that, on dutiful submission, they would be allowed to escape with a fine. So the Bassets came back, and on bended knees craved King Jamie’s forgiveness. Mrs Basset of Watermouth Castle is said to be the possessor of the embroidered silk apron worn by Lady Basset on this memorable occasion. The monarch used rough language, intimating to the male suppliant that he was a big bird, and that he must clip his wings—no idle threat, since he imposed a fine necessitating the sale of fifteen manors. The title also was annulled.

The next station to Umberleigh on the London and South-Western line is Burrington, where Mrs Shapland was discovered (Maid of Sker, chapter lxiv.).

About three miles and a half west of Southmolton lies the parish of Filleigh, in which is situate Castle Hill, the beautiful seat of Earl Fortescue, with its park of over eight hundred acres, a feature of which is an avenue of trees nearly a mile long, leading to a triumphal arch. The name Castle Hill is actually a misnomer, as the mansion is not of the old baronial type; but the top of the wooded eminence, on whose slope it stands, has an artificial ruin, serving to keep the description in countenance. From the terrace the ground drops away to an ornamental lake, and what with the clusters of trees, the shrubbery, and the rare garden, Castle Hill may be fairly commended as a domain worthy of the ancient family by which it is owned. One old building which has now disappeared, was called the “Hermitage.” This was the subject of a poem by Mr Badcock, a native of Southmolton, in the London Magazine for 1782, but I have been unable to discover much about it, save that it bore the inscription: “I have seen an end of all perfection, but Thy commandment is exceeding broad”—a suitable text, one may think, for a hermitage.

The grounds of Castle Hill were remodelled by Hugh Fortescue, Lord Clinton, created Earl Clinton and Baron Fortescue in 1746. He died without issue in 1751, when the earldom became extinct. The barony passed to his half-brother Matthew, who died in 1785, and was succeeded by his son Hugh. In 1789 the latter was created Earl Fortescue and Viscount Ebrington, the second title being derived from his Gloucestershire seat, Ebrington Hall. He was followed by his son, also called Hugh, who had taken an active part in the debates on the Reform Bill in the Lower House, and was appointed Lord-Lieutenant and Custos Rotulorum of the County of Devon. An interesting episode in this nobleman’s career was a visit to Napoleon in December 1814, of which he published a vivacious description.

The present earl was born in 1818. As is well known, he has long suffered from an affection of the eyes, brought about by a conscientious discharge of public duty. Viscount Ebrington, his eldest son, now occupies the honourable position so ably filled by his grandfather.

For a full history of the Fortescue family in all its branches, the reader is referred to the late Lord Clermont’s large and handsome volume on the subject, of which it contains an exhaustive account. Here it may be observed that the name, which is a little remarkable, is traced to an incident in the battle of Senlac, when Richard le Fort saved the life of William, Duke of Normandy, by protecting him with his shield from the blows of his assailants. From that time, and for that reason, he was known as Richard le Fortescue, or Strong Shield. Such, at least, is Holinshed’s story. Tradition further states that after the Conquest Richard returned to Normandy, where his descendants through his second son, Richard, continued to flourish till the eighteenth century. The eldest son, Sir Adam, who had also fought at Senlac, remained behind in England, and was the ancestor of all the English Fortescues.

Among the benefactors of Southmolton occurs the name of Lord Fortescue of Credan, who left £50 to the poor of the parish. A Justice of the Common Pleas, and descended from an offshoot of the Castle Hill branch (which, by the way, is not the senior), the Conveyancer’s Guide preserves the following amusing anecdote respecting him. The baron was the possessor of one of the strangest noses ever seen, much resembling the trunk of an elephant. “Brother, brother,” said he to the counsel, “you are handling the case in a very lame manner.” “No, no, my lord,” was his reply, “have patience with me, and I will make it as plain as the nose on your lordship’s face.”