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 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 BY 
 
 J. HENRY HARRIS, 
 
 Author of " Cornish Saints and Sinners" " The Fishers," 
 " Our Cove," &>c, &c. 
 
 THE WESTERN MORNING NEWS Co., Ltd. 
 
 HDCCCCVII.
 
 TO THE READER. 
 
 I have tried to give you samples of a great county, rich 
 in many things; and of a people, brave, courteous, and 
 hospitable. 
 
 Mine are samples only ; the stock is large and varied, 
 and, as everyone knows, " in the piece " the goods are better 
 than in the sample. When you close the book I hope to 
 hear you say : " This is Devon, the Land of Junket and 
 Cream, the very place for a holiday ! "
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Chap. 
 
 Frontispiece. 
 
 I. Where I should go. 
 
 II. A Nursery for Seamen. 
 
 III. The Old Butterwalk. 
 
 IV. The Metropolis of the West. 
 
 V. The Barbican is Classic Ground. 
 
 VI. Devon our Home. 
 
 VII. A Wayside Inn. 
 
 VIII. The Bridge is the Great Attraction. 
 
 IX. The Otter Hunt. 
 
 X. A Fair Apple Country. 
 
 XI. The Guildhall is Very Old now. 
 
 XII. Has looked down on Eight Centuries. 
 
 XIII. The Old School. 
 
 XIV. Where Raleigh Wooed My Lady Nicotine. 
 
 XV. Its Perennial Brook Babbling Through Green Pastures. 
 
 XVI. There have been Romances on this Water. 
 
 XVII. The Home of Fishermen. 
 
 XVIII. Queen in her own right. 
 
 XIX. The Heart and Soul of Devon is the Moor. 
 
 XX. The only sound is Running Water. 
 
 XXI. Devon Streams are all Beautiful. 
 
 XXII. The Creator of Lorna Doone. 
 
 XXIII. The Great Cliffs Heaved in Pain. 
 
 XXIV. The River Sweeps Past. 
 
 XXV. One of the Haunts of Spectres. 
 
 XXVI. Where Herri ck Wrote. 
 
 XXVII. The Haunt of Roger Rowle, the Outlaw. 
 
 XXVIII. Westward Ho ! 
 
 XXIX. In the Zone of Storms. 
 
 XXX. A Poem.
 
 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I ( 
 
 SHALL spend my holiday in Devon this year." 
 
 " I wish I could go with you," said Dr. A , his dark 
 
 eyes lighting up. " You may not know it, but I am a Devonian, 
 a ' Devonshire dumpling' of the old sort." 
 
 There was no need for confession in words. When I mentioned 
 Devon the whole man confessed — his eyes, his mouth, his voice, all 
 told their tale. Something passed through him so that he could not 
 even sit still. Devon ! He rose from his chair and came towards me 
 and gripped my hand. 
 
 " Have you settled where you are going ? Well, you can't make 
 much of a mistake. Of course, I know where I should go, but all 
 tastes are not alike. I know where the trout and salmon are, and 
 where you may find an otter, and I shouldn't be out of earshot when 
 there was music by the streams. 
 
 " Then my boy wants a pony. I've promised him one next half, 
 and where can you get a better pony than on Exmoor ? Upon my 
 soul, I wish I could go with you. 
 
 " But you can't make any mistake. Go where you please. As 
 soon as you see the red earth get out if you like and walk. You'll be 
 in Devon somewhere, and every mouthful of air you draw will be the 
 wine of life. 
 
 " You can get anywhere from Exeter. I know where I should go 
 — out into the wilderness, which would be no wilderness to me but 
 God's choicest garden upon earth. 
 
 " Perhaps you'd better get broken in a bit at first, so look at the 
 towns and seaports and ruined castles, and then make for the moors; 
 and when you return tell me if there isn't yet a paradise upon earth. 
 
 " Rest ? I should think so. Never mind how many hours — nine 
 or ninety. You get into Devon and you must rest. You will be in a new 
 world — all your sensations will be new, all that's in you now that's 
 jaded will be resting whilst new sensations are waking up faculties 
 which you have hardly ever worked.
 
 6 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 " Look at me. There's one half of me alive and quivering now 
 which hasn't stirred, I should think, since I cast a fly in ' girt Jan 
 Ridd's ' country. Oh, of course, you don't know the Doone Valley. 
 Well, go and see it. 
 
 " Object ? Of course you won't be any the worse for having an 
 object. I tell you what you can do. Go to Dartmouth, and you'll 
 And much to interest you there. You have only to shut your eyes 
 :and go back three centuries and you'll have a clearer reading of 
 history, and a stronger grip of men and things in the golden age of 
 Devon after you've once been at Dartmouth, than you ever had 
 before. 
 
 " From Dartmouth ? Oh, go where you like. It is really no 
 good making a programme beforehand if you can go away untram- 
 melled. You'll get some sort of an idea of what you want to see and 
 do and have. You won't go wrong. Can't. 
 
 " Well, good-bye. So sorry I can't go with you — with you into 
 the dear old land of junket and cream." 
 
 So I booked to Dartmouth, and arrived there on a hot day in 
 August. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 DARTMOUTH looks what it is : a nursery for seamen. How 
 many ages it has been a nursery no one can say, but Nature 
 made no error when the sea, searching along the coast, found 
 a weak spot in the rocky cliff and went careering up the Valley of the 
 Dart, as far as Totnes. Man — poor historic man — seems never to 
 have been present when Nature did big things like this ; and so there 
 is no account of what happened when this grand, land-locked harbour 
 was scooped out. 
 
 When the work was done, and the salt sea came smiling up to 
 meet the waters of the river, there could be no doubt that Nature 
 meant this to be a nursery for seamen ; and that, at some time or 
 other, a race of men would be born and bred here who would shape 
 the destinies of the country, and lay the foundations of empire beyond 
 the seas. 
 
 Dartmouth is a town between two lights — the past and the future. 
 The past shines steadily down from the XII. century and loses itself 
 in the splendour of the XVI., and then it pales and pales, never quite 
 fading, until it reaches us upon the quay where we stand under
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 7 
 
 the deep shadow of an ancient house. Then, from the hill comes 
 another light, bright and promising, from the Royal College for the 
 training of cadets, who are to carry on the best traditions of the old 
 sea-dogs, fearing nothing so that England is first upon the ocean, and 
 free. 
 
 Natives call the town Dart-y-mouth. It is a habit they have, and 
 so make pronunciation easier, and softer to the ear. They say Dart-y- 
 moor, and one gets accustomed to it, and to like it. 
 
 When one comes into a strange place it is the little things that 
 attract attention first. A baby talking Chinese will never cease to 
 be a marvel to a Cook's excursionist in Pekin, though the Chinese 
 matron would not even notice anything strange about it. When I 
 landed at Dartmouth the first thing that struck me was the soft and 
 musical accent of the people. A porter asked me a very simple 
 question. His meaning was plain enough, but the actual words were 
 beyond me. I had the sensation of being a stranger at home, and 
 thought it would be just as well to master the dialect — if there was 
 anything to master — before I commenced asking questions and sight- 
 seeing. At the hotel everything was smooth enough. 
 
 The natives are not shy. Whenever I approached the water some- 
 one wanted me to hire a boat. The one idea of hospitality is to take 
 you on the water — you may row, or sail, or steam ; go up, or down, or 
 across in any sort of craft, but all roads lead to the water. Of course, 
 you do not know it at first, but unless you wilfully turn your back to the 
 water you must come, and then you are invited to step on board a boat. 
 
 I selected a round-faced man with a double chin to row me about 
 a bit. Then I asked him to tell me something. I didn't care what. 
 He was a cheery soul, and hummed something about the weather and 
 the tides, and Dart-y-mouth in general. His voice was like the musical 
 hum of a drone, rising and falling, now far, now near, inclining one to 
 doze. 
 
 The idea stole over me that there was something to learn, and 
 learn quickly, if I were to ramble about, and talk to the natives, and 
 ■be quite sure what they were telling me. Of course, the native had 
 the advantage ; he either knew what I wanted, or divined it. It may 
 be a " gift," but the cabmen and porters and watermen all seemed to 
 know what I was thinking about : and as so many thousands pour into 
 the place now every summer, all dialects are familiar to them. It is 
 not the native who is at fault. 
 
 It came upon me after a time that the one trouble is the letter u. 
 Master it and you are free of the county — from north to south, from
 
 8 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 east to west, you are free of the land. Say "ow be yu;" say "muen," 
 say "sp7fen," as you hear it said a thousand times, and the rest is fairly 
 easy — you soon get over the musical pitch, you like it from the first. 
 
 For a Frenchman the u is easy. It is his own. He has it in 
 " peu " and " rue," two little words which twist the English tongue 
 out of shape unless it is trained early. It seems a small thing to get 
 over — one English vowel in a good old English county. Only try it, 
 and try it on the spot. 
 
 The Dartmouth u is not so difficult as in some places — it is a sort 
 of skim milk u compared with the rich, thick, clotted-cream u of the 
 moors, and further north. In Dartmouth this self-assertive and 
 troublesome little vowel has been, as it were, overlaid and flattened 
 out. As I am writing my experiences, I may as well say all I have to 
 say about the matter in this place, so that others may compare notes 
 after spending a holiday in Devon. 
 
 There are towns in which the letter u has not much colour and 
 aroma of its own. Plymouth and Torquay, Teignmouth and Dawlish, 
 have watered down the ti, as it were, until it is very much like other 
 people's. But go to Exeter on a market day, to Crediton, and to 
 Barnstaple and the u is alive and strong in bwtivul, in dude and gz/de, 
 in tu and yu, and a hundred other words for ever on the lips. You 
 hear it so often, when once you know you can't capture it, that you 
 begin to think there are more u's wanted in Devon than in all the rest 
 of Britain. Try to capture it and bring it away, and you find it as 
 elusive as the pixies and the wish hounds. Bring it back with you and 
 air it at the first Devonshire dinner in London, and then you'll know, 
 once and for all, how you have deceived yourself. The u is the shib- 
 boleth of Devon, and whoever utters it not with the true ring has not 
 been nurtured, on moor and in combe, upon Devon junket and cream. 
 
 Dartmouth is not to be denied the gift of " beauty," which is, 
 indeed, the common inheritance of nearly all the towns in Devon. 
 There is, in fact, so much beauty everywhere that one would grow 
 tired of seeing and hearing and reading about it but for the fact that 
 no two towns are much alike. It is really one of the charms of a 
 sojourn here that if you have not got what you want, where you are, 
 you may have it next door. To give an illustration : when your teeth 
 are chattering with the cold upon Dartmouth quay, cross over to 
 Kingswear, and you may throw off your coat — what more could you in 
 three hundred yards? 
 
 I thought Dartmouth most attractively beautiful in a soft 
 morning or evening haze, when boatmen and sailors and fishermen
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 9 
 
 loom largely on the quay, mercifully blotting out creations of to-day, 
 so that the fine old houses, with their timbered fronts and gables, take 
 possession of you, and you live and move with the Gilberts and 
 Drakes, Hawkinses and Frobishers, the Raleighs and all the men who 
 walked these quays and dwelt in these houses, sailed to and fro in 
 this harbour, and laid the foundations of our Colonial Empire. 
 
 It is a very small place, and Brixham, quite close, is another small 
 place, and yet these were the workshops wherein the overseas destinies 
 of England were shaped on forges glowing with patriotism by men 
 cradled in storms, whose creed was of three words — God and England! 
 
 It is all the better that the place is small and compact, for you 
 can run down the narrow alleys which have been untouched for 
 centuries. Here are the windows that the men looked out of and 
 learnt the news, and the women hung out their clothes to dry, and 
 gossiped about their men who were with Hawkins and Drake, about 
 the expedition to Newfoundland and the fisheries there, and about the 
 doings of the King of Spain, and about massacres and martyrdoms for 
 faith which made the blood boil. It is quite easy to live the realistic 
 life in these alleys, so little is changed; and men and women are living 
 here still whose ancestors sailed with the " Pelicans," and went to 
 Newfoundland, and stayed there. 
 
 These alleys are around the church, as the custom of alleys was 
 in the olden days, and the houses of the merchants are further up the 
 harbour, where there was more space, and a better view to be obtained 
 of ships, coming in and out, bearing the merchandise of the world. 
 
 Here is the Butterwalk, which served as a covered market-place 
 for the inhabitants, and the houses of old were rich within with 
 tapestry and carving and panelling. Fine specimens of carving and 
 woodwork may be seen even now by the courtesy of the owners, and 
 there is one room the ceiling of which is decorated with a genealogical 
 tree of which the root is Jesse and the topmost branch Jesus. To 
 come upon this "Jesse room" unexpectedly is to receive a check to 
 levity, for are we not in presence of the secret thoughts of the old 
 Puritans of Devon who brought God himself into their business, in 
 peace and in war? 
 
 The spirit of the Puritan fathers was a force here and added 
 fearlessness to courage. The spirit of Sir Humphrey Gilbert, half- 
 brother to Raleigh, dwelt here. What that spirit was stands out 
 sharp and well-defined. Sir Humphrey was a Dartmouth man, full of 
 commercial enterprise, and consumed with the idea of extending his 
 country's possessions. He obtained from Queen Elizabeth letters
 
 10 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 patent giving him authority to "discover and take possession of any- 
 remote heathen and barbarous lands not being actually possessed by 
 any Christian prince or people." He took possession of vast tracts of 
 land adjoining St. John's, Newfoundland. In fact, he knew not how 
 much he took in the Queen's name. He met with disaster, only two 
 vessels were left him, the " Hind," and the "Squirrel" a mere cockle- 
 shell of ten tons. He was urged to make his own passage back on 
 board the " Hind," but he said, " I will not forsake my little company 
 with whom I have passed so many storms and perils." The Captain 
 of the " Hind" has left the following record: " In the afternoon the 
 ' Squirrel ' was near cast away, oppressed by the waves, yet at that 
 time recovered; and giving forth signs of joy the general (Gilbert), 
 sitting abaft with a book in his hand, cried out to us in the 'Hind': 
 4 We are as near to heaven by sea as by land.' " 
 
 These, the last recorded words of a great soul, have lived in the 
 hearts of Devon men for centuries, and are alive now. 
 
 When I got to know my round-faced boatman with the double 
 chin, and to understand him better, I found that he knew about Sir 
 Humphrey Gilbert, of Greenway. I asked him what be thought of his 
 last words "We are as near to heaven by sea as by land." He rested 
 on his oars and looked at me solemnly. Then he startled me by a 
 pronouncement which seemed to have come from the very depths of 
 his being: 
 
 "Them words is greater than Nelson's!" 
 
 By accident I had touched a hidden chord, and I wondered 
 whether he was the sort of man who, but three centuries ago, forsook 
 father and mother, wife and child and home, at the call of Drake 
 and Raleigh, and the rest. 
 
 The men of Dartmouth were a sturdy race — short and thick-set 
 with "good breadth of beam," and as obstinate as Dutchmen, with 
 whom they were in close commercial intercourse, their ships being as 
 often in Dutch harbours as their own. 
 
 What a pity that the Devon of the day did not give birth to a few 
 men who could paint as well as fight. One can read much of the his- 
 tory of the Netherlands and Holland in their art galleries. There are 
 a few portraits to be seen — Drake, Raleigh, and Hawkins among them 
 — but one would like to see a big canvas of Dartmouth Quay when the 
 news was brought that the Armada was really on its way. The women 
 of Dartmouth would appear in such a picture, for were they not the 
 daughters of the women who, their men being at sea, beat the French 
 pirates who sailed up their harbour, after having burnt Plymouth?
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 11 
 
 History read in cold blood now seems cold — we want a canvas 
 glowing with life and movement and the energy of action, such as we 
 see in Dutch paintings of siege and battle and councils of war. 
 
 However, we know that there was no thought of half measures 
 on the part of the men who paraded up and down the Butterwalk, 
 under shelter in the storm; or took their short walks "along and 
 across" upon the wharves, when the sun shone, discussing the coming 
 Armada. What might, probably would, happen, if the Spaniard pre- 
 vailed they guessed well enough, and as they shrank from conse- 
 quences, their minds were made up, and their hearts were steeled. 
 They meant to win, these men, and to win in such manner that the. 
 proud glory of Philip should be laid low. The Armada must be des- 
 troyed, that was their fiat; and how they chuckled when they heard 
 that "fire- work arrows" were to wing their way from great "slurr 
 bows" into the sails and rigging of the Spanish ships, and so give 
 them their baptism of fire upon the open sea, and render them help- 
 less, whilst the cannon raked the unwieldly royal hulks fore and aft. 
 This was to be an inquisition for Spain before which the fires of the 
 church would pale. There was no Geneva Convention in those days 
 to prevent the use of "fire-work arrows," no "rights of belligerents," 
 nothing but the right of might, and cunning, and audacity to sink and 
 capture, take and slay, the enemy, whenever and wherever found. 
 
 These men on the Butterwalk and on the quays were the men to 
 
 do it — round, apple-faced men, with thick lower jaws set close, and 
 
 fists clutched, ready to strike. These "fire-work arrows" were new 
 
 then in naval warfare, and the ancient ballad tells us they were 
 
 really used: 
 
 The Queen she went to Tilbury, 
 What more could we desire a? 
 For her dear sake Sir Francis Drake 
 Did set them all on fire a. 
 
 There is just enough, but only just enough, of the old town left 
 to enable one to imagine what a quaint and picturesque town it was 
 in its palmy days. There have been rumours in the air that the But- 
 terwalk, the one fine example of street architecture, is to be sacrificed 
 to modern tastes and requirements. The stranger can only sigh, and 
 pass on. It is no business of his, perhaps, and yet he may breathe a 
 silent prayer that rumour in this case is a " lying jade," and ought to 
 be seated in a ducking stool, and dipped and dipped and dipped again, 
 as the men of old time served unruly women in this river Dart. 
 
 Dartmouth has been famed from time immemorial for its ships 
 and seamen. Born and reared in such a nursery, whatever appertained
 
 12 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 to the sea was for them a law of life. Chaucer has a slap at them for 
 not being too honest. There is an Eastern proverb that "dwellers by 
 the sea are thieves." Certainly, Dartmouth men did their best to gain 
 themselves an evil reputation. They looked upon the world outside 
 their own harbour as their heritage, and gathered their harvests where 
 they could. The old Viking blood in their veins was strong within 
 them. 
 
 If they were "corsairs" and "pirates," at all events they under- 
 stood navigation, and knew geography better than others. They sailed 
 round the world with Drake and plundered with Raleigh. Men who 
 could neither read nor write were living charts, and brought home tales 
 of cities and empires, races and laws, manners and customs which 
 were outside the experience of the rest of the world. Dartmouth 
 became a museum of priceless curios. Nothing surprised them, not 
 even Sir John Gilbert's " parakito," which would " speak anything, 
 if well taught," eat meat at table and drink claret wine, and then 
 "set in a gentlewoman's ruff all the day!" A most gentlemanly and 
 courtier-like Parakito. One might have expected him to shed a feather, 
 and lay it under his mistress's dainty shoes. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ANCIENT Dartmouthians had a business side which their 
 descendants have not known how to improve on. Many people 
 shake their heads now, and say that the people grew stale, 
 just as athletes do who over-train for a season. 
 
 It is certain that the old inhabitants trained severely, carrying off 
 the "blue ribbon" in the Elizabethan age, and wearing it for a long 
 time afterwards. 
 
 Nothing interested Queen Elizabeth, who had a little Devon blood 
 in her veins, more than to listen to the grand schemes for making 
 money unfolded to her by Hawkins and Drake. There were no love 
 passages between them — not even gossip had aught to say of "tender- 
 ness," although the virgin queen conversed with the bold seaman 
 Drake by the hour, out of earshot of her attendants. It was only 
 "business." 
 
 There is not, after all, very much difference between then and 
 now in the manner of carrying on "business."
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 13 
 
 The Queen was concessionaire; Hawkins, Drake, Raleigh, and the 
 rest, were promoters. The Queen approved the prospectus and 
 granted a license, or patent, or concession in consideration of so many 
 *' founder's" shares being allotted to her. Then, as an individual, 
 when the syndicate was formed, she put on her "little bit." Only a 
 small number of the public were ever invited to join these under- 
 takings, and those who were invited were generally merchants and 
 ship-owners. The company, so promoted and launched, was called a 
 " venture," and the holders of stock were not shareholders but co- 
 adventurers. The Queen was in the know all the time — in fact, noth- 
 ing of importance could be done without her, and no expedition sailed 
 unless she had her " little bit " on. 
 
 The first expedition Hawkins undertook on the coast of Guinea 
 for "blackbirds" divided sixty per cent, profit, and laid the foundation 
 of our slave trade in the West Indies. The Queen was concessionaire 
 and co-adventurer. The second expedition, after making an estimated 
 profit of £1,800,000, came to grief. The Queen, with commercial 
 instinct well developed, covered her loss. 
 
 The beginnings of England's commercial supremacy seem to have 
 been hatched in this part of the world in Devonian skulls. Devon- 
 shire men were promoters and directors, acting managers, and all the 
 rest, with the Queen for figure-head, concessionaire, and co-adventurer. 
 The Crown, in those days, encouraged all enterprise which could be 
 worked at a profit; and families, with ready money and sons to send 
 to sea, were always on the look out for a "good thing" in which to 
 invest their capital, and for some expedition which their sons could 
 join, and learn the gentle art of making sixty per cent, upon a voyage I 
 
 After the defeat of the Armada, Drake flourished upon the seas 
 which he scoured for prizes. He had a sort of joint-stock company 
 fleet with him — the Queen had two ships in the fleet. The practice 
 was to overhaul every foreign vessel suspected of having anything on 
 board worth capturing. Flemish ships were stopped and robbed 
 sometimes, and a peaceful Portuguese was "suspect," and then con- 
 demned if there was anything Spanish on board — a Spanish hen, or a 
 stick of black Spanish liquorice, was quite sufficient. When ships, so 
 seized, were brought into port, the inhabitants made ready for plunder, 
 to the great loss of the co-adventurers' fleet at sea. 
 
 THE STORY OF A GREAT PRIZE. 
 
 In the month of August, 1592, four years after the defeat of the 
 Spanish Armada, the men of Dartmouth saw a great carrack making
 
 14 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 for the harbour accompanied by English ships. It did their hearts 
 good, for they had of late been complaining that times were dull, and 
 trade going to — well, where it seems to be always going. The news 
 spread, and soon there was not a man at work but threw down his 
 tools, and ran down to the quay to hear the news, and see the grand 
 sight. 
 
 The capture was reported to be rich in diamonds and rubies and 
 spices from the East, and the report was true, for the unfortunate 
 ship, flying the Portuguese flag, had been boarded on the high seas, 
 and her cargo sampled. It was nothing to the old sea-dogs in quest 
 of prey that we were supposed to be at peace with Portugal at the 
 time, and that the captain of the carrack, Hernando Mendosa, had a 
 permit from the general of Her Majesty's ships to pass with his com- 
 pany to Lisbon. 
 
 The carrack was a "capture," and every man and woman in Dart- 
 mouth intended, God willing, to sample the precious cargo to their 
 own great profit. 
 
 The commanders of the ships on the high seas who first boarded 
 the ship commenced the plunder, and Thomas Favell of the " Golden 
 Dragon " had for his share : 
 A chain of pearls orient, 
 Two "rest" of gold, 
 Four pearls of the bigness of peas, 
 Four forks of crystal, and four spoons of crystal set with gold 
 
 and stones, 
 Two cods of musk. 
 
 The news was almost too good to be true; but there was the ship 
 brought to an anchor in the harbour, her poor captain wringing his 
 hands and saying that he had been already robbed of one great 
 diamond of the value of 500,000 ducats, and that his cargo was worth 
 five millions, all belonging to the King of Portugal, his master. Then 
 the poor man fell on his knees and prayed his captors to return to him 
 his " compass, maps and astrolaby," and let him proceed on his 
 voyage. 
 
 Notice of the capture was sent in all haste to the Queen, who 
 despatched Sir Robert Cecil to take charge of the carrack and her 
 treasures, and suffer no man to pillage; but before he could arrive 
 the men of Dartmouth took possession, and began to sell to the 
 Plymouth goldsmiths and merchants whatever they were minded to 
 buy; and every one who went on board came away full-handed. A 
 sailor man, the master of a little ship, made off with "half a peck 
 of pearls" in a bag, and a good store of "fair rubies and diamonds."
 
 •THE OLD BUTTERWALK."'
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 15 
 
 The carrack was condemned as a "prize," and a commission 
 was appointed to take account, and make sale, and partition 
 amongst the co-adventurers, including the Queen, Drake, Raleigh, 
 and many soldiers, mariners and merchants whose ships made the 
 capture. 
 
 There was then no lack of pearls and precious stones, ambergris 
 and spices — treasures of all kinds, and merchandise from the East — 
 hidden away in nooks and corners of the old houses, and sent away by 
 night to friends; and there was great grumbling by the Queen and 
 co-adventurers at the smallness of the consignments sent by Cecil to 
 Greenwich for sale in London. 
 
 And the co-adventurer's acquainted Her Majesty, through Sir 
 Robert Cecil and Sir John Fortescue, of their discontent, and resolve 
 in future to carry rich prizes, taken upon the high seas by their ships, 
 to such ports as pleased them, and where they could make the best 
 profit. The men of Dartmouth were too smart! 
 
 The great diamond valued at 500,000 ducats was never traced by 
 the commissioners, who went up and down the country, examining 
 people upon oath, when it was too late. 
 
 William Bradbent, of Gravesend, who had had dealings, made 
 confession in manner following: 
 
 " A mariner meeting me on the Campside of the common-wharf 
 at Gravesend, bid me 'good morrow' and asked me how I did. I said 
 'Well, God a mercy, my fellow,' which done, I went to the Campside 
 and leaned there. 
 
 "The fellow then came to me and asked me if I would deal for 
 certain jewels. 
 
 " I straight desired to see them, and so went to my house and 
 did so. 
 
 "The things he had I then demanded the price of, and he held 
 for £160 for all, but in conclusion I bought them for £130, which I 
 paid him present. 
 
 "There was in small sparks (diamonds) as I do remember 1,330; 
 other there were of a somewhat bigger sort, but how many I cannot 
 justly remember. Also there was 61, or such a number, of small 
 rubies, 16 ounces of ambergris, with two or three necklaces of small 
 pearls, and one chain of gold of eight ounces." 
 
 This simple, truthful dealer with stray mariners who gave him 
 "Good morrow," but whom he knew not, then sold the whole lot to 
 one Harman, a Dutchman, and one Sparrow, an Englishman, who 
 could never afterwards be found!
 
 16 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 Still the commissioners were active, took depositions and sent 
 them to Cecil, who deposited them at Hatfield House. 
 
 So Dartmouth was rich for a season, and the people, who were 
 so minded, thanked God daily that England had enemies on the sea; 
 and that there were Devon men to capture them, and Dartmouth men 
 to share the spoils. 
 
 ^c sp :$; .,; ifC Jp 5j< %z 
 
 People here say of themselves that they are not so smart as they 
 used to be. Dartmouth once had the monopoly of the Newfoundland 
 trade. Dartmouth men fished the waters and colonised, and yet, 
 somehow, the trade slipped through their fingers. As I have said, the 
 people may have over-trained in the Elizabethan and Jacobean days, 
 and then gone stale. 
 
 There are plenty of reasons. I heard many. Much fault was 
 put upon Plymouth, upon shipping, upon railways, upon governments, 
 upon everything and everybody. However, it is their own business. 
 The Royal Naval College is here now ; a few modern houses have 
 been run up, and a new town is uprising. 
 
 Devonians are a compact, sturdy, useful race. The narrow 
 Tamar only divides them from the Cornish, but they might have been 
 divided by continents and differed less. I have been told, by men who 
 know, that in South America, in Kentucky and Virginia, you may meet 
 men as like Devonians at home as peas in a pod — the same outdoor 
 look about them, the same set of the head, the same straightforward 
 glance of eye that tells of steadfastness and courage. There is inde- 
 pendence in every movement, and then there is that easy poise and 
 jaunty fighting set of the head. 
 
 I met a man who told me that he could always pick out a Devon 
 man by this set of his head. No man, he said, who had once seen a 
 Devon regiment on the march could mistake them; and on board 
 navy ships the Devon lads had a masterful look about them which had 
 come down as a hereditary possession. 
 
 When in unfamiliar places, it is nice to meet a candid stranger of 
 pronounced opinions who will tell you where to look, and what to look 
 for. Whenever I met a ramshackle-looking sort of man, too un- 
 decided to turn to the right or the left, I put him down hereafter as 
 no true son of Devon, but some poor specimen of manhood who had 
 lost his way from the shires. 
 
 As I have said, the people across the Tamar are altogether dif- 
 ferent — so different that comparison is useless, but the two races 
 blend magnificently. And there has been a good deal of blending
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 17 
 
 during the centuries. County families generally own estates in the 
 two counties, and there has ever been a subtle attraction between the 
 dark-eyed, passionate, imaginative Cornish of the Duchy, and the 
 blue-eyed, plump-cheeked blondes all along the southern coast of 
 Devon. 
 
 The blend is charming, if for no other reason, because it 
 tones the reserve which is so native to the Devonian that some mis- 
 take it for sullenness and pride. A Cornish man will tell you his 
 family history from the days of Adam the first time you give him a 
 chance to talk; but the Devon man moves slower, and wants just a 
 little more of the warmth which the other has in abundance, and to 
 spare. The blend is, however, almost perfection. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 t t 
 
 WILL see Plymouth!" 
 
 You are drawn to Plymouth. You want to see the town, 
 throbbing with life and energy, which has absorbed the trade 
 and commerce of a place like Dartmouth. There is a little trade with 
 Newfoundland left to Dartmouth — not much, but enough to keep old 
 memories alive. There was a " packet " trade, but Plymouth took it ; 
 and something else, and Plymouth took that ; and then something else, 
 and Plymouth swallowed that up also. The glorious harbour is left, 
 and so is the Dart, and so are the empurpled cliffs bathed with blue 
 water. These remain ! 
 
 You want to see the place which possesses this magical attraction. 
 
 A tug was leaving the harbour at noon. It was an inducement 
 to sail over the course that the Elizabethan heroes sailed over times 
 without number. The coast line was just the same, and, I doubt not, 
 if Drake was at the helm he'd know every beach, and rock, and cliff, 
 until he came to Drake's Island in the Sound. Then he would be lost 
 in amazement, and well he might be. 
 
 There are a few ancient landmarks. If Drake were landed in the 
 Barbican he would find his way to the Parish Church. Instinct would 
 take him to the Hoe, and then he would realise what a vast gulf 
 separated him from that great day when a mighty shout announced 
 the sighting of the great Armada. 
 
 The ancient capital of the county is Exeter, but this is the 
 Metropolis of the Duchy.
 
 18 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 There are those who say the Tamar does not divide the two 
 counties, and that all is Cornwall as far as the Duchy extends, which 
 includes Devonport, Plymouth and Stonehouse, and a nice slice of 
 what is popularly called " Devon," besides. This is one of those nice 
 questions which are debated but never determined ; and it is of little 
 consequence, as the Cornish are quite content with the land on their 
 side of the Tamar, and are willing to leave the sister county in posses- 
 sion of the rest. 
 
 There is no place from which you can get a good bird's eye view 
 of Plymouth as it is. Ancient parishes and towns are over-run, and 
 it is all Plymouth, the Metropolis of the West, to the stranger. 
 Devonport, the elder sister, is hidden away, and the tourist looks upon 
 it as a sort of appanage to be visited on off days. Then there is 
 Stonehouse, which you pass through without noticing — a sort of con- 
 duit for traffic between Plymouth and Devonport. The soul of the 
 Three Towns is Plymouth. If the Three Towns should ever become 
 one, the name which would survive is Plymouth. Even now, unless 
 one wishes to be very particular, he says Plymouth, just as a dweller in 
 Highgate or Brixton says London. We may as well follow the fashion. 
 
 Plymouth has the magnetism of great things for small. Most 
 things having life and vigour are drawn within its influence, and elbow 
 their way upwards, or go under. This Metropolis of the West has a 
 call note for the youth of the Duchy which is heard and listened to 
 over and above all the voices of the moor and the music of the streams. 
 Somewhere on kerbstones, and in deep shadows, there is room even 
 for " wasters." 
 
 To go to Plymouth is an inspiration; to stay there is to get a start 
 in life — all the roads from the Land's End lead to Plymouth. 
 Thousands come here every year to get a start at something. The 
 Devon roads, for long distances, are equally direct. People migrate 
 from the small towns and moors to put on new manners, get a new 
 speech, and rub off some of the moorland grit. The dear old letter u 
 sticks to them like burrs, and so also does the gentle inward breathing 
 which makes the " eeth " — " eeth, yu be lukin' butival 1" 
 
 A country lass soon puts on airs and graces and makes game. 
 
 " Well, John, and how be yu?" inquires Mary Ann, thrusting her 
 head out of window, of a passing country-man. 
 
 " I don't naw yu — how did yu naw me ? Be yu Betty that used to 
 live to Sticklepath ? " 
 
 " No, I beant." 
 
 " Lor, I thort yu waz now, yu gaped so, jest like 'r."
 
 "THE METROPOLIS OK THE WEST."
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 19 
 
 " How very perlite yu be, varmer ! " 
 
 " Eeth sure, we allys be in our peart, and ef yu Plymouth maids 
 want to buy any of the article us have a good stock on hand, and can 
 zill et to ee cheap." 
 
 Countrymen carry a little caustic with them when they move 
 about. 
 
 For the stranger, life here is always gay, and the people differ 
 greatly from their more serious cousins across the Tamar, who are 
 prone to fits of melancholy, and to dash the joys of life at times with 
 an infusion of bitters, in order to get up an appetite for the life to 
 come. Across the Tamar, the poor flesh has often much to put up 
 with, and is made to feel itself sadly out of place in a world fashioned 
 for enjoyment. In the Three Towns, however, the poor flesh is well 
 looked after, and, as a consequence, shows a fine capacity for hap- 
 piness. 
 
 A most desirable place to live in for those who think it no sin to 
 walk on limestone beautifully veined, and looking like marble when it 
 rains ; and no reproach to women to be as fresh as lettuce leaves, 
 with complexions of the wild rose, and yet vain and openly desirous of 
 making themselves attractive in the eyes of men. 
 
 The march of soldiers through the streets, the music of regi- 
 mental bands upon the Hoe and in the park, the naval receptions and 
 balls, the restless movements of men of war in the Hamoaze, the busy 
 hum of Keyham, the reveilles in the morning, the booming of cannon 
 at sunset, Royal salutes, and bugle calls prevent stagnation. 
 
 And the women can dance — dance like the beings of air and sun- 
 shine in the sunny South. The story is told that when Smeaton 
 wanted the well-waxed floor of their Assembly-room in order to set up 
 the model of his lighthouse, the women of the Three Towns worked 
 up their men-folk to refuse permission. Smeaton wrung his hands, 
 and shed bitter tears for a whole season to the Trinity Brethren, who 
 were helpless, because the women preferred their well-waxed floor to 
 lighthouses. After all, it was only a little delay ; and the model was 
 set up, and the lighthouse was built, at last ; and the Devon belles 
 had their dances. 
 
 Plymouth is a modern town with historic heirlooms which may 
 be looked at and made much of on occasion. What one sees first is all 
 modern, and that the spirit of the place is up-to-date and commercial, 
 and every man is free to make a fortune, if he can, and spend it, as he 
 will. There are no social traditions here preventing a man taking off 
 his coat and selling blacking, or soap, or " swapping old iron for pins,"
 
 20 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 and then going down to his tomb with all the honours of black plumes 
 and white handkerchiefs. No pride about a Plymouth man, if he can 
 only " get on." 
 
 The town fathers have an aristocracy of their own, which is 
 reckoned up in £. s. d. The banks usually hold the patents of 
 nobility, so the commercial spirit is not handicapped by any high- 
 falutin' nonsense about blue blood and old families, as in some 
 county towns which have gone asleep. In the race for position 
 Plymouth is formidable ; what is here it absorbs, what is far off 
 it holds in check — it places one finger on Southampton, and keeps 
 it there, and another finger presses gently on Liverpool. The pro- 
 fessions live on trade ; and army and navy men pass through as 
 birds of passage. For them Plymouth is most agreeable quarters. 
 The county gentry do not interfere, but look on benevolently, and 
 reap the profit when another ten thousand houses are to be built 
 upon their estates. 
 
 Through its press Plymouth marks time for the county. The 
 daily papers overshadow the rest, and so represent the spirit of the 
 age. 
 
 The antique comes on one like a revelation. The new Guildhall 
 carries on its face the words " Ambition and Enterprise " ; you pass it 
 and step into the Plymouth of Drake and Hawkins, and the Pilgrim 
 Fathers. There is not much that is really ancient left, and the way 
 to see it is to wander up and down the thoroughfares leading to the 
 Barbican. The Barbican is classic ground ; you can smell it, and 
 then fancy you are a Pilgrim Father ! 
 
 There is, indeed, character about these old houses with wide 
 gables and timbered fronts, high walls, and deep, gloomy doorways. 
 You feel that they were built for men who took their lives in their own 
 hands when they went abroad in troublous times, and might be 
 required to withstand riot and popular violence, and the too polite 
 attentions of Spanish and French enemies, ready and willing to set 
 fire to and sack the town. 
 
 There are distinguishing features to-day when the women 
 decorate their windows with the family garments on outriggers, the 
 secret of making and fixing which seems sacred to old seaport towns. 
 A perpetual carnival should be going on if the waving of garments in 
 the breeze were an indication of rejoicing. In olden days, when these 
 substantial houses, with fine staircases and panelled rooms, were the 
 residences of the merchant adventurers of Plymouth, real flags and 
 banners, and gaudy tapestries were hung out of these self-same
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 21 
 
 windows, when church bells were ringing and cannons firing at the 
 news that the fleet had come in sight, rich with the spoils of the 
 Indies. 
 
 This is old Plymouth — genuine. If Drake were to land on the 
 Barbican to-day he would find his way well enough to St. Andrew's 
 Church and Whimple Street. What a pity there is not more of it! 
 
 I suppose there are thousands of people in the Three Towns who 
 have never been on the Barbican, and up and down some of these old 
 streets ; or poked their noses through the doorways, and peeped into 
 the courts beyond with the sleepy atmosphere. I made it a point of 
 asking some very genteel people living in suburban villas round about, 
 but what they knew of the Barbican was that fish were landed there 
 now, and that once on a time the Pilgrim Fathers sailed from there in 
 the Mayflower. You may put suburban Plymouth through a very 
 severe examination and learn no more than this except, perhaps, that 
 Eastlake, once President of the Royal Academy, was born near the 
 Custom House, and that John Kitto, scholar and traveller, was born in 
 some pokey-hole, and that Haydon, the historical painter, was born in 
 Whimple Street. I think all the school children in the Three Towns 
 should, by way of treats, be personally conducted through what 
 remains of ancient Plymouth. It would do them good, and they 
 would take a lot more interest in their books after each object lesson. 
 
 To the stranger I say, " Go to the Barbican," and go there in the 
 early morning when there is just a trifle of sea haze, just enough to 
 shut out all beyond what you wish to see, and yet to make the fishing- 
 smacks and trawlers, with their heavy brown sails and large spars, look 
 bigger than they really are. 
 
 If you don't mind being hustled, it is a fine sight to witness the 
 harvest of the sea piled upon the stones in heaps — some panting still, 
 their glowing tints just losing their glittering brilliancy. There is as 
 much difference to the eye between the look of a fish alive and a fish 
 dead as there is to the palate between a fish fresh from the sea and a 
 fish packed in ice. 
 
 Here, too, you see Plymouth at work. The men who crowd in 
 these old historic houses live in rooms partitioned off, in garrets, and 
 in cellars, and anywhere so as to be near the landing-place, and you 
 see the sort of stocky, thick-necked, deep-chested, broad-beamed men 
 this part of Plymouth can produce. Here, also, are the fishers from 
 Brixham and Cawsand, in jersey and sea-boots and sou' westers, with 
 a look of command, like the sea-kings they are on board their own 
 craft. 
 
 B
 
 22 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 Oh, yes, it is a fine sight, and you must see it for yourselves — 
 the camera won't do it for you, and you can't pull aside the blind in 
 your bedroom window and take it all in by looking out. 
 
 On the Barbican, too, are the tablets bearing the legends in con- 
 nection with the sailing of the Pilgrim Fathers in the Mayflower. It is 
 a pious duty to read these — all American visitors do, and some would 
 even like to float the Barbican, legends and all, across the Atlantic. 
 
 " We rely on the people of Plymouth to keep the Barbican for 
 us on trust" says young America without a smile. There are forty 
 Plymouths in America, and the Barbican and just round about is 
 " Mother." 
 
 Many romances in real life have been born in Plymouth. I have 
 heard here that when the walls of old England sailed the seas with 
 acres of white canvas bellowing to the breeze, there was more life and 
 colour in the Navy than there is to-day. I said something to this 
 effect to an old service officer, who had been " a gay dog, by Gad, 
 sir," and he replied : — 
 
 " If there was more romance there was a precious sight more 
 weevil in the biscuit. By gad, sir, the service is a luxury now, but the 
 old boys were the finer men ; and if you doubt my word, sir, go and 
 ask the women." 
 
 On the 16th September, 1788, there were married, in the parish 
 church of Charles, twin sisters, described in the chronicles of the day 
 as " agreeable young ladies with handsome fortunes," to two dashing 
 young lieutenants. The sisters were named respectively Eleanor and 
 Bridget, and Eleanor, who married John Evans, R.N., became the 
 mother of Mary Anne, Viscountess Beaconsfield, who was born at 
 Exeter. Mary Anne Evans was a " mystery," and society weaved 
 romances about her. At the age of twenty-six she made a brilliant 
 marriage to Wyndham Lewis, a man of wealth and fashion, and some- 
 time M.P. for Maidstone. Her real antecedents were concealed, and 
 also her age. Her father was of humble origin — a " bluejacket," who 
 obtained his lieutenant's commission after passing an examination. 
 Her mother was a Viney, of Gloucester, a county family, with a settled 
 estate. There was nothing to conceal but the " bluejacket." The 
 smart set of the day took up the matter and wove a romance to its 
 liking. Mary Anne Evans was " a factory girl with bare feet " when 
 Wyndham Lewis fell in love with and married her ! Society was left 
 in the dark. 
 
 At the age of fifty-three Mrs. Wyndham Lewis married Mr. 
 Benjamin Disraeli. She dressed " young," and Society was put off
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 23 
 
 the scent. Sir William Fraser wrote that " the question of Mrs. 
 Disraeli's age was one of the most interesting circumstances in 
 relation to Mr. Disraeli to one half the human race." 
 
 Mrs. Disraeli (nee Mary Anne Evans) was created Vicountess 
 Beaconsfield of Beaconsfield in her own right, and died in the eighty- 
 third year of her age. The Peerage and all the books of reference were 
 misleading and hopelessly at sea with regard to her parentage. The 
 register of this parish church of Charles contained the important 
 record of the marriage of Eleanor Viney to John Evans, lieutenant, 
 R.N., and when this was found the rest was easy. 
 
 The secret was well kept during the lifetime of Lady Beaconsfield 
 and of the Earl. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 SEEN from the sea Plymouth is simply charming; seen from the 
 Hoe the sea is enchanting. The " call " of the sea stirs the 
 blood just here more than at other seaports because it reaches 
 you in calm and storm, and there is nothing to divert attention from 
 the music. 
 
 Plymouth is proud of the Hoe, which is more than a mere name 
 for men who were born here : it is a memory and a talisman. Meet 
 a Plymouth man abroad, and say "Hoe !" to him, and see the charm 
 work. 
 
 Nelson was made a freeman of this borough, and when he walked 
 along the front with his "good eye" turned seaward, I should have 
 liked to have heard the words which rushed tumultuously to his lips ! 
 If there were only an Armada in sight just then that he and his "jolly 
 breeks " could chase around the world, and capture, and sink for the 
 glory of old England! He must have said something, and what he 
 said is lost, more's the pity. 
 
 If Nelson could only have met Drake that day and clasped hands, 
 what a meeting between two kindred souls for an artist ! 
 
 Visitors are always hard to please everywhere, and usually they 
 make observations which are stupid enough. When walking along the 
 Hoe, I had the idea that the place was too crowded and overbuilt now. 
 I should have liked to play a game of bowls on the same green, and 
 have seen precisely what Drake saw when the mighty shout went up,
 
 24 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 " The Armada is in sight ! " The land, I suppose, became too precious, 
 and there are all these fine houses and clubs here which prevent any- 
 thing like perfect realisation. A good deal, however, is left, for which 
 let us be thankful ; only, if someone could show me, for certain, the 
 patch of green on which Drake played, I should like to lie on my back 
 and rub the bare earth with naked shoulders. Stupid, no doubt, still, 
 I'd like to do it all the same. 
 
 Sir Francis Drake is not really a Plymouth man, but Plymouth 
 has taken him to herself and adopted him, which is not, perhaps, 
 unkind, seeing that her great hero took infinite pains and expense 
 to bring a pure supply of water to the town. Sir Francis is really 
 a Tavistock man, but as, at its present rate of growth, Plymouth 
 may reach Tavistock in time, the point will cease to be of conse- 
 quence. After all is said, this is the place to learn about Drake, 
 and the spirit in which he fought and won sea victories, and the 
 almost adoration of the men who came at last to believe that heaven 
 itself worked miracles in his favour. In the West there was at one 
 time none greater in things relating to the sea, though on land he 
 could no more have his own way than others without disappoint- 
 ment and struggle, especially when he worked for the public. He 
 was most distrusted and badgered and blocked when least selfish ! 
 
 Until Nelson there was no name like Drake to thrill the hearts of 
 British seamen. The meaning of some things has changed since his 
 day — a " privateer," bearing the Queen's commission, is a " pirate " ; 
 a co-adventurer with the Queen, a " corsair " ; a man of consecrated 
 purpose, a " bandit." One is almost surprised now to hear that the 
 bold, buccaneering Drake was a profoundly religious man, and that 
 his enemies knew it. " Had he not been a Lutheran there had not 
 been the like man in the world," wrote the Spanish Ambassador 
 concerning him. In his own day, Drake was of the highest type of 
 fighting manhood. He is not responsible for the notions of to-day. 
 
 On the Hoe is the statue of a man, robust and commanding, and 
 this is Sir Francis Drake, who was connected with the best blood of 
 Devon. He was cousin to Hawkins, of Plymouth, who was cousin to 
 John Trelawney, of Tavistock, who was cousin to Courtenay, Earl of 
 Devon, who was cousin to the Queen. His godfather was Francis, 
 the first Earl Russell, and he was educated at the expense of his 
 kinsman, Admiral Sir John Hawkins. 
 
 His father, Edmund Drake, a zealous Protestant, fled from Devon 
 to avoid religious persecution, and in an epistle to Queen Elizabeth 
 Sir Francis says that his father fled " into Kent, there to inhabit in
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 25 
 
 the hull of a shippe,* wherein many of his younger sons were born : 
 he had twelve in all, and as it pleased God to give most of them 
 a being upon the water, so the greatest part of them dyed at sea." 
 Edmund Drake was afterwards instituted vicar of Upchurcht by the 
 Warden and Fellows of All Souls. The county of Kent has therefore 
 an interest in Sir Francis Drake — " God divided the honour betwixt 
 two counties that the one might have his birth and the other his 
 education," says Prince. 
 
 The gloomy hull of the floating ship in the Medway became a 
 nursery of vengeance — Drake was brought up Puritan, and when the 
 time came to war against the Pope, and Philip, his too ready 
 instrument, the man was ready. 
 
 Events shape destiny. He joined Sir John Hawkins in an 
 expedition to the Spanish main. He was a co-adventurer and lost 
 both his ship and money. He barely escaped with his life, and 
 consulted a Chaplain of the Fleet on a point of conscience. Was it 
 right in the sight of God for him to repair his losses at the expense of 
 the King of Spain ? It seemed the fashion of the times to put 
 questions of conscience to theological seminaries, and to individual 
 clergymen. In this case the answer was decisive and consoling. He 
 was assured that he had a right to repair his losses on the King of 
 Spain, whenever and wherever he could. Prince heard the story and 
 quaintly remarks : " The case was clear in sea divinity ; and few are 
 such infidels as not to believe doctrines which make for their profit." 
 The caustic of the remark has lost none of its strength by age. 
 
 Drake had a fighting creed and fought to the finish, and was, as 
 we know, one of the makers of Empire. He believed himself inspired, 
 and held a commission superior to the Queen's. Almost in the 
 presence of the Armada he wrote to Elizabeth : " Never was a force 
 so strong as this, but the Lord of Strength is stronger and will defend 
 the truth of His word for His name's sake." 
 
 A year before he wrote to Fox : " the right reverend, learned, 
 godly father," describing the operation against Calais, and showing 
 that he believed that the prayers of the righteous won him victories. 
 The following sentences reveal much of the man : — 
 
 " Mister Fox, whereas we have had of late such happy successe 
 against the Spanyardes, I do assure myself that you have remem- 
 bered us in your good prayers, and therefore I have not forgotten 
 
 *This was a King's ship moored in the Medway ; but Motley says Drake's paternal mansion was 
 an old boat turned bottom upwards on a sandy down ! 
 
 +The Encyclopedia Britunnica says " Upnor," and then adds: there is no church at Upnor I 
 The error is obvious — it should read Upchurch.
 
 26 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 freely to make you partaker thereof." Then comes the description of 
 the operations against Calais, and he concludes : " But whereas it is 
 most certayne that the King doth not only make speedy preparation 
 in Spayne, but likewise expected a very great fleet from the Straytes, 
 and divers other places that should joyne with his forces to invade 
 England ; we purpose to set apart all fear of danger, and by God's 
 furtherance to proceed by all the good means we can devise to prevent 
 their coming ; wherefore I shall desire you to continue faithfull in 
 remembrance of us in your prayers that our purpose may take that 
 good effect, as God may be glorified, His church, and Oueene and 
 country preserved, and these enemies of the truth utterly vanquished 
 that we may have continuall peace in Israel." 
 
 Men who go down to the sea in ships are religious in a sense 
 somewhat different from landsmen. The men of Devon were religious 
 at sea in Elizabeth's time, and the same spirit is in our Navy now. 
 King Edward VII. and Queen Alexandra were present at the laying 
 the foundation stone of the " Britannia " Royal Naval College. The 
 spirit of the prayers of consecration was that of Gilbert, and Hawkins, 
 and Drake. 
 
 " Give Thy Holy Spirit unto all who hereafter shall be called to 
 study and to teach within the walls of this College, that they may be 
 visited in Thy faith and fear, and may continually seek to do Thy will 
 and to set forward Thy glory in the service of their sovereign and 
 their country. And we humbly pray Thee that they who, from year 
 to year, shall be sent forth from this College may ever, through Thy 
 goodness, be enabled worthily to maintain the honour of their great 
 calling, and may faithfully, even up to death, by sea or land, defend 
 the cause of their sovereign and his people." 
 
 " Bless and protect the forces that serve our King by sea ; and 
 grant that his sailors may always and everywhere be found ready to 
 do their duty, for the honour of our only Mediator and Advocate." 
 
 " Set her course and brace up the main-yards, and with the Lord 
 at our hellem we shall make port, never fear," said an old pensioner 
 who heard the prayer. 
 
 The temper of the times moulded Drake, who now stands colossal 
 on the Hoe, his right hand resting on the globe he was the first to 
 circumnavigate. Time and space in travel have shrunken since then. 
 It took Drake three years to sail around the globe, and now it is pos- 
 sible to make the tour in forty-seven days. Shakespeare dreamt that 
 Ariel threw a girdle round the earth in forty seconds. I am not sure 
 whether that is possible to-day; but even Shakespeare did not dream
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 27 
 
 that man — mere mortal man — would be able to do the whole distance 
 in forty-seven days, and every prospect of that time being further 
 reduced. 
 
 The Plymouth Corporation possess an original portrait of Sir 
 Francis, beneath which are to be found several lines, and amongst 
 them these: — 
 
 Great Drake, whose shippe about the world's wide waste 
 
 In three years did a golden girdle cast ; 
 
 Who with fresh streams refresht this town that first, 
 
 Though kist with waters yet did pine with thirst. 
 
 Who both a pilote and a magistrate, 
 
 Steered in his turn the Shippe of Plymouth's State ; 
 
 This little table shewes his face, whose worth 
 
 The world's wide table hardly can set forth. 
 
 It is a luxury now to cross oceans in floating hotels, but in Drake's 
 days, and in Drake's ships, the proposition to circumnavigate the world 
 for the first time was enough to stagger common humanity. Probably he 
 would never have got a crew together but for the popular belief in his 
 power to perform the impossible. The time did come when it was 
 believed that miracles were wrought in his behalf. The miracle of 
 the fire-ships was sung as a ballad: — 
 
 Francis Drake, on the very same day 
 When they told him the fleet like a huge crescent lay 
 In the deep, purple water far out of the bay, 
 At skittles or bowls was indulging in play 
 On fair Plymouth Hoe — so the good people say. 
 
 And he stopped not his game 
 
 For lucre or fame ; 
 
 But when it was finished 
 
 Though time was diminished 
 
 He called for some wood 
 
 And there, where he stood 
 Crying only "Once more, trust in me" 
 Chopped it up in small blocks, 
 Then over the rocks 
 He threw them far into the sea. 
 
 And each rose from its dip 
 
 A stately, fine ship, 
 
 Mann'd and armed for a blue water trip. 
 
 And these were the vessels that certainly scatter'd 
 
 The fleet that at last by the tempest was shatter'd. 
 
 A simple, unquestioning confidence in the man by the masses makes 
 the legend intelligible; and what at first looks like an idle tale 
 hatched by sailors on the Barbican, shows the faith of the people in
 
 28 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 the man who believed himself to be the chosen agent for the 
 destruction of the enemies of the Queen's Kingdom and His holy 
 religion. 
 
 Even chips of wood cast into the sea became ships of war for the 
 confusion of the Spaniards. He was irresistible, and small wonder 
 the people said the invisible supported him by miracles! 
 
 This is only a morning dream, under the shadow of the Armada 
 Memorial, crowned by Britannia, with trident and shield in left hand, 
 and sword in right, emblems of sea and war round about ; but when 
 one reads the story it seems that very little short of miracle could 
 have saved England that day. 
 
 Some of the "ships" which sailed out of the Sound carried only 
 ten rounds of shot. To-day, gazing across the Sound, watching the 
 "Dreadnought," and first-class armoured cruisers steaming peacefully 
 away, it seems but the comedy of war to picture saucy little trawlers 
 and luggers running up, one after another, to the side of some huge, 
 over-loaded, but majestic Spanish ship of war, waiting until she heeled 
 over with the wind, pouring in their rounds of shot, and following 
 them up with a sheaf of arrows, or a volley of musketry, if by chance 
 the powder was dry. Then, with cheer on cheer, running back to 
 shore, to beg or borrow more gunpowder and shot for another 
 venture. 
 
 This is the sort of thing to look real in Christmas pantomime 
 upon the stage, and yet it was war — grim and earnest war, of which 
 genuine spoils may yet be seen. The pulpit of St. James's Church, 
 Exeter, came, it is said, from a Spanish ship. The roof of the famous 
 old school at Tiverton was constructed from the timbers of a Spanish 
 wreck. The dining tables of "Spanish chestnut" in Westminster 
 school are said to have been presented by Queen Elizabeth, and to 
 bear the marks of English cannon balls. And then the gentry of 
 Devon added to the richness of their tapestries and furniture from 
 the spoils which floated on the sea, or were cast up upon the beaches 
 after storms. There were treasures in these ships which no one 
 knew; but, tell it not in Gath! — many families in Devon are now 
 living upon fortunes resting upon the plunder of these ships. 
 
 Drake eclipsed his master, Hawkins, and stood out in bold relief 
 head and shoulders above the rest — the Nelson of his age. There 
 was a strong dramatic element in him which showed itself unmistak- 
 ably in his last moments. 
 
 " Put my armour upon me," was his last order to Whitelock, 
 his attendant.
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 29 
 
 He had fought the good fight, never turning his back to the 
 enemy, and died, armour on back and hand on sword — a soldier for 
 God and country! He died on board his ship and was buried at sea. 
 
 A Spaniard may call Drake "pirate;" that is excusable, and any- 
 thing worse from him would be forgiven. An Englishman should not 
 use the word; a Devonian never will. 
 
 The Hoe is one of those happy playgrounds of the world where 
 one has been and still will go without getting tired. There is always 
 something fresh. There are the heights, bristling with defences; there 
 is Mount Edgcumbe, beautiful always, in spring-time, in summer, and 
 in autumn. There is Drake's Island with its obsolete guns; the break- 
 water, and the never-ceasing movement of ships and boats, liners, and 
 cruisers and torpedo boats. Then the sea, changing with every cloud 
 and breeze and tide, restless ever, and marking time for the men of 
 action in counting-house and shop, dock and factory within sound of 
 its breakers. 
 
 What a fit setting this for an Allegory of Freedom and Energy 
 born to the musical harmonies of the Sound. 
 
 The Duke of Medina Sidonia, grandee of Spain, and Admiral of 
 the Invincible Armada, is said to have marked out Mount Edgcumbe 
 for his own, and I admire his taste. In all Devon, abounding in 
 beautiful estates, not one has been so praised and envied. Queen 
 Victoria summed it up in three simple words, " It is beautiful ! " It is 
 also " home." 
 
 The grounds are open to the public, and I think much of the 
 charm of the place is the idea of home which has been stamped upon 
 it by generation after generation since the days of the Plantagenets. 
 " This well timbered estate, with deer park, &c, &c," has never been 
 in the market " to be let for a season " whilst the absentee owners 
 were having good times abroad. Not a bit of it. Every stick of 
 timber on the estate has grown under the eye of an Edgcumbe. 
 
 The family is ancient, and has never moved more than a hop, 
 skip, and jump during the centuries. A young Edgcumbe was lucky 
 enough to marry Hilaria, the heiress of Cothele, descended from the 
 Cothele* who did come over with William the Conqueror. Then, at the 
 end of two centuries, another lucky Edgcumbe married Joan, another 
 heiress, who had Mount Edgcumbe to her apron-string ; and it was 
 their son who commenced building the present mansion and then 
 moved into it. During seven hundred years the Edgcumbes have 
 
 *The Coteheles, like the Edgcumbes, are a long-lived and hardy race. The former are well 
 represented as to number to-day. The pedigree is published.
 
 30 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 only made one move — and only left one paradise in the Valley of the 
 Tamar to enter another at Mount Edgcumbe. 
 
 The keynote of life in Plymouth is movement, alertness, expansion. 
 A marine biological station is here already under the shadow of the 
 Citadel ; and art galleries, and libraries, and museums on a grand 
 scale, are all to come. No leaving of Plymouth behind in the race ! 
 
 There is, too, a sweet tolerance in the air for most things, except 
 failure. In religion and politics you go as you please — there is room 
 for all. You whizz along at your own pace on electric trams and 
 motor cars — or on foot if you like — only don't make any mistake and 
 fall. Plymouth won't stand failure and condone it. If a brilliant 
 politician goes into the wrong lobby, off with him ! 
 
 The atmosphere of Devonport is altogether different. Its normal 
 attitude is official, and its everyday clothes smell of workshops. The 
 bluejacket tripping along is a bit of colour on a sombre background. 
 The town somehow does not understand the art of being gay — some- 
 times it is noisy, but gaiety, champagne with the head on, it has no 
 notion of. 
 
 When the boys feel the stirrings of gaiety within them they jump 
 on a tram and ride into Plymouth ; when the girls want to see the 
 shops, and fashions, and life they hop into Plymouth. There are 
 official receptions and balls on occasion at Mount Wise — epaulettes 
 and swords and cocked hats, — a walk through for the women, and 
 home. People say things were different a century ago, when Navy 
 men would dance, and the women would flirt, until the sun rose and 
 put out the candles. 
 
 Dockyardsmen are a class by themselves, and are usually in 
 opposition. They live under the haunting fear that they will die 
 before they are pensioned. This makes them gloomy, and they 
 discuss politics with an injured air when nations are at peace. 
 
 Everyone staying at Plymouth goes to Devonport and Keyham. 
 It is a sort of duty visit. 
 
 What I like about Plymouth life is its catholicity. There is room 
 for every man there as long as he can stand on his legs. 
 
 THE PEDLAR'S STORY. 
 
 I made a friend one morning. He sold bootlaces and collar studs 
 and trifles from a tray. He had a white beard, and wore his white 
 hair long. His eyes were fine and clear, and seemed younger than 
 the rest of him.
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 31 
 
 We struck up an acquaintance, and he told me a story which just 
 shows that there was always plenty of elbow room in Plymouth, even 
 for waifs and cranks. 
 
 He was pure Devon, he said, born in a workhouse and "bound" 
 to a passionate cobbler. His master threw the lapstone at him, and 
 missed. Then he threw the hammer, which laid him out. So he cut 
 the bonds with St. Crispin, and skipped. 
 
 He reached Plymouth, and got employment at the market — not 
 the present but the old one, outside of which were small dwellings, in 
 one of which dwelt Robert Southcott, who cobbled shoes, and was 
 own cousin to Joanna Southcott, of Exeter, the Prophetess. Robert 
 used the front room for workshop — there was an upper and a lower 
 door leading into the street, so if you wanted to " tell " a bit with him 
 all you had to do was to open the top door and lean over the " hatch." 
 Robert was a very quiet man, and sometimes fell into trances over 
 his work. It was when in one of these trances that my pedlar friend 
 made his acquaintance. 
 
 There were four starlings in four cages in the shop, named respec- 
 tively Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, and certain people used to 
 come and go at times, women mostly, and talk to Robert Southcott 
 and the birds, and they belonged to a little society known as The 
 Waiters for Shiloh. Two grey-haired women, sisters, attended 
 all the meetings, and the members of the society called one another 
 "brother" and "sister." They met at night, and read to one 
 another, and discussed the letters of Joanna, the Prophetess. They 
 were all very harmless and made no noise. 
 
 When Robert had a trance, or fit, the brethren and sisters 
 assembled and waited in silence until he " returned to earth," for they 
 looked upon him as one " possessed " and sacred. 
 
 One night Robert was so filled with Heavenly visions and joys 
 that his heart leaped, and was still. 
 
 When the brethren and sisters heard they came quickly, and saw 
 a light upon the dead man's face which was not visible to the parish 
 beadle and the curious. 
 
 Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, the starlings, were distributed 
 among the faithful, and the dead man left alone awaiting an 
 inquiry. 
 
 During the night the mortal remains of Robert Southcott dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 The brethren stole him away and hid him in a cave, believing 
 that he would wake again — one of the articles of belief being that a
 
 32 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 man who had been "sealed" by Joanna, the Prophetess, would not 
 die until after the coming of Shiloh. 
 
 It was the two grey-haired sisters who arranged it all with the 
 " watchman " who slept ; and it was the " watchman " who told me 
 the story. 
 
 It was all waste land where the body of Robert Southcott was 
 hidden, but building is going on rapidly now, and some day the news- 
 papers will come out with the startling announcement of a Mystery 
 on Roborough Down. 
 
 My newly made friend showed me some old and faded letters sent 
 out by Joanna Southcott's scribes, which were passed from hand to 
 hand among the faithful. They were picked up in the cobbler's room. 
 
 They were no good to him, he said, and he wished me to have 
 them. 
 
 One of the letters — the most intelligible among them — was 
 written in the form of a parable on "The Polling of the Trees." I 
 give an extract: — 
 
 "My sister paid my brother's debt to free him from prison. 
 
 "My brother is a type of the nations; he always swelled too high, 
 and 'polled' the tree too high until he could not come down without 
 help. 
 
 "Just see your land. They are cutting off the under branches 
 first; and so they continue, but when they come to the top how ill 
 they come down. 
 
 "Now I will tell you what I mean by cutting off the 'under 
 branches,' that is the lower class of the people; as one branch groweth 
 after another just so are the stations of mankind, and the 'under 
 branches' are cut off already by poverty and the sword. Now they 
 are going further, to the second and third class of people, by cutting 
 off their substance. 
 
 "How then are the vain men to come down when the tree is 
 pruned through — what branches will they stand on? For as they 
 cut off men's substance so will they cut off their hearts from the tree. 
 Then consider, they stand at the top and see all pruned below them? 
 
 "If thou hast wisdom to understand it thy thoughts must go 
 deep." 
 
 The "Waiters for Shiloh" have all disappeared now, but mystics 
 of the newest type are plentiful enough.
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 33 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 1 < T~^ NGLAND'S my country, but Devon's home" is the hymn 
 without words which seems ever bubbling up in this land of 
 junket and cream. There is an old rhyme, of doubtful origin, 
 which says that when the Conqueror came the Crockers, Carews, and 
 Copplestones were at home. The list might be greatly added to, and 
 what is, perhaps, singular is that they are at home now. No mere 
 birds of passage these gentlemen of Devon of a thousand years ago, 
 but men rooted to the soil, and of such grand vitality that there have 
 always been heirs of the blood to succeed to their honours and estates. 
 In no county are there, I suppose, so many gentlemen's seats, 
 well-pastured and well-timbered, giving one the pleasant idea of 
 ancestral homes, as in Devon. Some are " stately " and deserve to 
 be styled so ; but they are few, and overshadowed by the palatial 
 grandeur of houses in various parts of the country, with which I shall 
 not compare them. The great majority, however, impress one with 
 the air of comfort and sufficiency of income — and, what is more, they 
 look as if they were built for home life, and were lived in, and intended 
 to be the nurseries of generations yet to come. 
 
 The custom of the gentlemen of Devon has been to look home- 
 wards, and whenever they could escape from public duties they rode 
 with all speed towards the pleasant county, and so, during civil wars 
 and troublous times, the county men were the leaders of the people, 
 and they generally managed to hold their own, or, at all events, to 
 make honourable terms. Ruined castles throughout the land are 
 not many or imposing — picturesque, indeed, and ivy clad, but not 
 "imposing" — and the families who inhabited them are, for the most 
 part, still residing in the county. Touring, one cannot fail to be struck 
 with the large number of gentlemen's residences wherever there are 
 pleasant streams and ornamental timber, but so unobtrusive that you 
 may drive past without seeing them. Some of the lovliest spots 
 require searching out. 
 
 And this same feeling of " Devon our home " haunts the young 
 and ambitious, and those who are compelled by necessity to migrate. 
 They look back longingly, and those who were born and bred under
 
 34 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 the shadow of the territorial mansions know almost as much of the 
 fields and plantations as the owners themselves. Old names and 
 places have a rallying cry for them, and the sanctity of " home." I 
 suppose Plymouth has given its name to more towns than any other 
 town or city in the world. There are seventeen Aberdeens outside 
 Scotland. There are twenty-nine Londons, but forty Plymouths. I 
 selected a dozen likely places to become mother towns, and this is the 
 result, which may be taken as evidence that when a Devonian goes 
 abroad he does not forget. 
 
 In London and the colonies Devon men thrill at the bare men- 
 tion of junket and cream, which may be taken as the symbol of ali 
 things luscious and joyous, and worth living for. I have heard people 
 say that junket and cream is a very over-praised dish, and I have 
 never contested the point, for it was always a stranger who made it. 
 A Devonian tastes something outside the dish, and it is that invisible 
 something which is the charm. For myself, I feel cold towards a 
 
 " haggis," and yet I have seen sons of Caledonia But I 
 
 will say no more. 
 
 Junket and cream is a standing dish wherever Devon men meet 
 
 and talk of " home," and the old places, the old sports, and the men 
 
 who have made history, and are making it still. At Cape Town the 
 
 Devon men put on the table 
 
 Dawlish turbot, 
 Apple dumplings, 
 Junket and cream, 
 Devon cheese. 
 
 This was on the menu, but, most precious of all, in a dainty casket on 
 
 the table, was a bit of red earth, the mother of all good things 
 
 Devonian. 
 
 Moormen living in bleak and desolate places tell you that they 
 are unhappy in a town where they no longer feel the spring of peat 
 and heather under their tread. They lose the " call " of the moor, 
 and are only happy when they return again to granite tors and wind- 
 swept marsh, and bog, and desolation. Only they love it all, and 
 when they hear the " call " the blood jumps. 
 
 The domestic spirit is strong in Devon still, and you scent it as 
 soon as you get away from the bustle and noise of trade and commerce. 
 There is more unrest and the breaking up of humble homes than 
 formerly. Quick and cheap transport has done much, education is 
 doing much, the spirit of the age is doing much, and all things 
 working together induce restlessness and the desire for betterment, 
 and so there is a breaking up of humble homes.
 
 "DEVON OUR HOME."
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 35 
 
 CONCERNING JUNKET AND CREAM. 
 
 " Devon cheer is good cheer," and Devon men were always 
 famous for hospitality and appetite. There is that luxury, clotted 
 cream, which has spread the fame of the county all the wide world 
 over. There ought to be a legend about the origin of clotted cream — 
 the pixies ought to have a hand in it, just as they had in the making 
 of butter before "separators" were invented; and it is wonderful 
 that there is no legend even in Cornwall, where clotted cream is also a 
 speciality. 
 
 Some people say that the Cornish is better than the Devon cream, 
 and some say " different." I have eaten it in both counties, and can 
 say, that whilst Devonshire cream is best in Devon, Cornish cream is 
 best in Cornwall. It is said that clotted cream — our clotted cream — 
 was made in Phoenicia, hence the Phoenicians, when they came over 
 and traded for tin, taught the old people the secret. It may be, but 
 I'd rather have a good, homely fairy story beginning " once upon a 
 time" the pixie prince was going to wed the Princess Haifa, who lived 
 on the topmost bough of an apple tree, out of the reach of a witch, 
 who dwelt amongst the roots, and kept watch upon her actions. The 
 princess dared not set foot to ground until she was married ; and the 
 witch wanted her to marry her son Brandhu, who lived in a cave, and 
 smelted all the tin which the " nuggies " brought him. The nuggies 
 and the pixies did not speak to one another just then, and the 
 Princess Haifa would have nothing to say to Brandhu. 
 
 The wicked old witch winked her wicked old eyes and said the 
 wedding should not come off. 
 
 Now it should be known that, when a pixie prince married, his 
 bride was bathed in milk and then annointed with the finest cream. 
 The pixies had the cream all ready, and the old witch blew upon it 
 and turned it sour. 
 
 Then the pixies prepared the cream a second time, and the old 
 witch turned it sour again. 
 
 They prepared it a third time, and she did it a third time. 
 
 "The pixie prince shall never wed the Princess Haifa," 
 said she. 
 
 The princess was in the tree waiting, waiting, and knew not what 
 to do. So she sighed, and cried, and wrung her hands. 
 
 It was early in the spring, about the time of the opening of the 
 apple blossoms. The princess cried louder and louder, until the pink 
 leaves of a blossom opened, and out stepped her pixie prince, carrying
 
 36 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 in a crystal bowl the clotted cream which had been made by fire, and 
 would not turn sour by the old witch's breath. 
 
 Then the princess annointed herself, and took the pixie's hand, 
 and they jumped to the ground together, and passed the old witch 
 sitting on the roots of the tree, but without power now, for the cream 
 had been made by fire. 
 
 The pixies were all friendly with the people, who loved them and 
 took them into their houses, and there never was any rejoicing unless 
 the pixies were there also ; and they taught the maidens how to make 
 cream by fire, which they never would have found out of themselves, 
 for before the cream will rise water must cover the bottom of the pan. 
 
 Whoever wants clotted cream must use fire and water, and the 
 secret of making it was the gift of the pixies. 
 
 America's learned blacksmith, Elihu Burritt, went into ecstacies 
 over Devonshire cream, and, amongst other things, said that clotted 
 cream (our sort) is common in Syria. The Syrian race is much to be 
 complimented on possessing what Burritt calls " that most delectable 
 of luxuries, Devonshire cream." He also says : " I remember meeting 
 with one old musty volume many years ago, containing a learned dis- 
 quisition in Latin on the question whether the butter which Abraham 
 placed before the angels was really butter, or this very cream." 
 Surely we shan't be wrong if we vote it cream. In this county 
 cream is always placed before angels in petticoats, and when straw- 
 berries are added it is heavenly indeed. 
 
 The marriage of cream with junket is, perhaps, one of the most 
 blissful of unions. 
 
 I have never heard anyone say a word against clotted cream ; but 1 
 have heard it is "good for consumption, better indeed than cod liver 
 oil, and a nation sight more tasty." 
 
 If you want a cream diet and fresh air go on the moors where 
 there's a good milker or two, and then if you don't get fat and colour 
 there's not much hope. 
 
 **]f *1> *^ *X* *l* *\* *L* 
 
 rff* *j* *j* *j»» *f* *f* *j^ 
 
 Many English counties have carried on a quiet and harmless 
 dispute for the title of "the garden," and if it came to votes, the 
 votes of poets and painters and nature lovers, Devon would come into 
 the first rank for favour. In truth, Devon is a garden and a wilderness, 
 and many say the wilderness is the more enchanting, and fills them 
 with harmonies silent within them in the presence of cultivated areas.
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 37 
 
 It is rank heresy to suggest even to a Devonian that any other 
 county has a chance for first place, and certain it is that the stranger 
 has no chance to grow stale if he but move about. In the matter of 
 wild flowers no county, Yorkshire excepted, it is said, yields so large 
 a catalogue to the careful observer; every bank in spring time is 
 turned into a garden, and the sea coasts contribute to the list. And 
 then the moors ! Even an unscientific lover of nature cannot spend 
 many hours in their neighbourhood without noticing their richness 
 and variety. 
 
 Let me repeat it here, " Devon cheer is good cheer." One of the 
 great Budds left this behind him. 
 
 " Did two pounds of mutton, an ounce of cheese, a glass of ale, 
 a pint of Madeira and a bottle of port ever yet hurt a man at his din- 
 ner ? or the wings and breast of a fowl, two plates of custard pudding, 
 four glasses of Madeira and four of port ever yet do injury to a 
 woman ? " 
 
 The Devon Budds were all doctors, and all eminent in their day, 
 and if they did not understand what Devon men and women could do at 
 table, then no man could speak with authority. The dear old doctor 
 liked to see women eat and drink, and did not encourage the idea that 
 they lived on air and monkey nuts. The Devon women did, and do, 
 live the outdoor life — fishing, hunting and coursing, walking and 
 working, according to their spheres of life. There is not much on a 
 farm that women do not know about, and can do, if need be. 
 
 Here is a supper provided for Tom Faggus, the little highway- 
 man, and the hero of a hundred ballads and a thousand marvellous 
 tales. Girt Jan Ridd, the hero of " Lorna Doone," is the authority, 
 and a good one, being himself a famous trencherman. 
 
 The supper is laid in a farm-house on Exmoor : " A few oysters 
 first, and then dried salmon, and then ham and eggs, done in small 
 curled rashers, and then a few collops of venison toasted, and next to 
 that a little cold roast pig, and a woodcock on toast to finish up with 
 before the Schiedam and hot water." 
 
 It provokes one to smack the lips even now to read of such fare. 
 Exmoor mutton does not come on the table ; perhaps there was 
 enough without it, or perhaps it was thought too common for so 
 special an occasion ; but, in very truth, there is nothing sweeter than 
 small moor mutton fed upon sweet, short moorland herbage. Try the 
 mutton after a ramble on the moor, and then pass verdict. 
 
 There is an old-world charm in the villages — most of them wide 
 enough for cattle to be driven through to the fair in the neighbouring 
 
 c
 
 38 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 town. Some of the houses are thatched— people call them " stacked," 
 and the principal house has sometimes a porch, and is reminiscent of 
 the eighteenth century. The old carrier's van plods through two or 
 three times a week, and there is no great hurry about anything. 
 
 The livings of the country clergy, though not " fat," are very 
 pleasant — pleasant gardens, pleasant glebe lands, well wooded round 
 about, and good fishing handy. A Devon vicarage is a splendid place 
 for a man who wants to do something — write a history, or edit some- 
 thing, or collect ferns, or breed prize pigeons or short wool sheep. 
 Preaching is not of so much consequence unless the vicar cuts up his 
 sermons afterwards into tracts, or works them into novels, or sells 
 them just as they are at per volume. They get some sort of circula- 
 tion that way, and bring in something. A former Vicar of Winkleigh 
 not only wrote volumes of theology, but actually set up his own types 
 and bound the books himself. The tomb of the reverend gentleman 
 may be seen in the adjoining parish of Lustleigh. This vicar was an 
 ingenious man, and kept divinity before him even in his garden, 
 wherein he planted shrubs in the shape of tablets in church, bearing 
 thereon the Lord's Prayer and ten commandments.* There are tra- 
 ditions of clergymen on the moor regularly turning an honest penny 
 at the blacksmith's forge. For the shoeing of horses and oxen, curing 
 cattle, and drawing teeth with pinchers, one vicar was said to be able 
 to give points to any man in five parishes. 
 
 " Paying guests " are now arranged for in many country 
 parsonages. 
 
 Many brilliant university men have come down to these pleasant 
 places and been lost to the world. You meet a man in his parish 
 going about his work, and then you look up his record. He was "gold 
 medallist," at the very least, and carried everything before him. Here 
 he is now getting up school fetes, and bazaars for charity flannel, 
 taking around the oiled feather from cottage to cottage to heal 
 disputes amongst neighbours, and doing a thousand little useful 
 things, and good too, but not quite the things for a man of his 
 intellectual stamp. This brilliant scholar came here a decade or so 
 ago : first he rested and then he rusted, and to-day, when we cross his 
 path, we know that the fire has burnt out. A tremendous waste of 
 energy is here, and one is sorry. 
 
 The clergy being still first fiddles in parishes where descendants 
 of the old Puritans are to be found, though not yet sufficiently 
 
 *At Shaldon an old Service officer planted shrubs in a field representing a Crown flanked with 
 the letters V.R. Seen from the railway, the design was very effective.
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 39 
 
 educated to take a broad view of things, some of the old feeling of 
 antagonism survives. It is hard for old grievances to die in places 
 where there is so little change and healthy excitement. The 
 " passen " is still spoken of as though his whole aim and object were 
 to do wrong, and go wrong, and be an offence and stumbling-block to 
 all the world. Here is a friendly chat : 
 
 " Hav'ee heard the news, Jim ? " 
 
 11 Good or bad ? " 
 
 " Bad as toothache." 
 
 " What is it ? " 
 
 " Our passen's going to leave." 
 
 " I can tell 'ee worse'n that." 
 
 " Sure ? " 
 
 " Eeth." 
 
 " What be'n ? " 
 
 " Another passen's coming." 
 
 But there is always the other side, and when night falls there is 
 peace. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE man sat opposite and called for a pint of " zider." He took 
 from a bag some bread and bacon, and from his pocket a 
 knife, and when the cider came he drank a good draught by 
 way of clearing his throat. He was a dusty, gritty-looking man, of 
 the better sort of quarrymen, perhaps. 
 
 I gave him " good day " when he took his seat, but he seemed 
 not to notice me. I thought he might be deaf. However, he wished 
 to have nothing to do with me, and I respected his wishes. 
 
 My silent friend was about fifty to look at, and grizzled. A frill 
 of dark grey whisker framed his face, and his upper lip was long, and 
 stubborn, and shaven. His eyebrows were also grey, thick and bushy, 
 and when he ate he lifted them bodily. A hard, unsympathetic man 
 he seemed — hard as iron. 
 
 There was precision about his movements as of a man accus- 
 tomed to rule. He finished his bread and bacon, drank his cider, 
 closed his knife with a snap, and walked away. I heard a loud, 
 raucous voice say something at the door.
 
 40 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 There was an active old man in the garden sitting on his wheel- 
 barrow. I went out and chatted with him, to kill time until the joint 
 was ready, of which I was to have a slice for luncheon. There was 
 no other house of " entertainment " within five or six miles, and I 
 was in luck here — a pig had been killed, and a joint was baking. 
 
 The old man had a sunny look upon him and was anxious to talk. 
 
 The man who had just gone out, he told me, was Jim Chumley, 
 foreman of the quarry works. He lived in one of the dwellings down 
 along constructed of rude blocks of stone, quite unshaped, but neatly 
 set together, and the joints filled in with turf, which I had passed. 
 Chumley had the luxury of a porch. 
 
 Chumley was a hard man, sure enough, but not so hard five 
 years ago, when he was the deacon of a chapel, where people were 
 mostly hard to themselves, and to their own wives and families — 
 hardest of all upon the maidens. 
 
 The old man told me that he himself was a " Methody," and that 
 the people over the way were old Calvinists, and there were plenty 
 more of the same sort, though the stock was shrinking now. I fancied 
 nothing could be worse than this grafting of a hard creed upon a 
 people stubborn enough by nature, in all conscience. 
 
 Chumley's story was brief, although it took some time in telling. 
 He was a leading man in the little Tabernacle, and carried a stiff 
 upper lip against all sin and weakness of the flesh. He lived with his 
 neighbours in a very small world, and only knew of sin and temptation 
 in ounce packets — anything bigger they would be obliged to get for 
 him on the instalment system. A good-looking girl living here might 
 look at herself in a glass once a week — twice would be sin, and three 
 
 times ! The "Methody" maidens had more license, and 
 
 Chumley sometimes prayed for them. 
 
 Mary Chumley was a fine girl who featured her mother in looks, 
 but in temper was almost as hard as her father. When eighteen she 
 grew restive. She would see, she would know, she would not go to 
 chapel one Thursday night. Her father trembled at this revolt and 
 went alone. It was a new experience, and he wanted light. It came,, 
 and for once he felt humbled. He had been too strict with Mary, and 
 there should be a kiss of peace that night. 
 
 He went home. No Mary. " She's gone to Betsy Barton's* 
 the Methody girl," said his wife. 
 
 He waited until midnight, and no Mary. 
 
 " Come to bed, Jim, the maid'll be here in the morning, fast 
 enough," said Mrs. Chumley, suddenly opening the kitchen door.
 
 I— I 
 
 K 
 Q 
 53
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 41 
 
 But Mary came not. 
 
 Tom Barton saw her at Plymouth one day and brought home the 
 news. 
 
 Jim Chumley bowed his head. He resigned his Chapel appoint- 
 ments. He went to the services, but was a silent man ; he prayed for 
 light, but none came. Hours every night he passed alone in the 
 kitchen, his head between his hands, trying to think, but never getting 
 any answer to the question, " What have I, one of the elect, done 
 to deserve this ? " One night he asked himself, what joy he had ever 
 got out of life. 
 
 It was midnight, and the snow falling. He brought some candles 
 and laid them on the table. 
 
 " For every joy that I have had in life I will light a candle," 
 said he. 
 
 " Was it a joy to be born ? Well, I will call that one. 
 
 " Was it joy to sin in youth ? Call that two. 
 
 " Was it a joy to love my woman ? Three. 
 
 " And to wed ? Four. 
 
 " Was it a joy to hear my little maid say ' father,' and to feel her 
 little hands . Five.'''' 
 
 There were five candles burning on the table now, and he could 
 think of nothing more in fifty years of life on Vitivur Moor which had 
 happened to him worthy of the name of joy, nothing except the one 
 grand moment when he " felt his election sure." That was spiritual, 
 but in his misery had disappeared. He was sure of nothing now but 
 that in fifty years he had experienced but five joys. 
 
 Now he put out his hand and slowly extinguished the lights, one 
 by one, saying, 
 
 No. 1. " Let the day perish wherein I was born." 
 
 No. 2. " The wages of sin is death." 
 
 No. 3. " The love of woman worketh to destruction." 
 
 No. 4. " It is only better to wed than burn." 
 
 No. 5. " Blessed are the fatherless." 
 
 The light of his soul had gone out already, and he sat in total 
 darkness. 
 
 " He don't even go to meeting now," said the old man on the 
 wheelbarrow, " and is always like you see him to-day, silent and hard 
 as nails." 
 
 " And Mary ? " I asked. 
 
 " Oh, they never come back when they go away like that." 
 
 *' And if he were to meet her ? "
 
 42 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 " He would kill her. I believe he lives now only for that one 
 joy." 
 
 We may be much nearer to tragedy than we guess when sitting 
 in a wayside inn. 
 
 Village inns are pretty much of the same type all through the 
 county — rough and ready, with but little comfort or entertainment 
 for strangers. On the main road things are better now than formerly, 
 and are bettering yearly — cyclists and motorists are doing something 
 to revive the reputation of country inns. The old folks speak lovingly 
 of the coaching days. Much brightness went out of their lives when 
 the coach disappeared. 
 
 A rough table and benches, perhaps a settle by the fireplace ; this 
 is the interior ; and here the labourers come after their work is done 
 to have a pint of cider, or a mug of beer. The men who come in have 
 an earth smell and an earth look about them — red earth if you are in 
 the south, or it may be brown earth or peat if you are on the moors; 
 or it may be they carry about with them the fine dust of the quarries. 
 I suppose some men could almost tell where a man comes from by the 
 colour of the earth or clay upon his coarse clothes. The men 
 lift the latch and walk over the threshold with a slow, heavy step. 
 However they vary otherwise, they are generally alike in their tread, 
 these sturdy men who work on the soil. If you understand what they 
 are talking about — about horses and cattle, ploughing and sowing, and 
 crops, and all that appertains to outdoor life upon a farm, you will find 
 that the people bring out the true genius of the language — directness 
 and force. They only appear to wobble when they get upon politics 
 and things which they read of in the papers, and frankly " dang their 
 buttons " if they understand a word about. 
 
 First they talk of the land, then of catching something, or hunting 
 something, and then about " sojering." Devon men are always very 
 keen about wars, and rumours of wars, and soldiering, and if there is 
 one man on earth whom they love and admire, and would fight "down 
 to ground " for, it is a Devonshire soldier who, in their opinion, has 
 been slighted. 
 
 The national drink is cider. The verse of a time-honoured song, 
 sung at fair and revel, runs : — 
 
 " I likes zider and zider likes me, 
 
 I'll drink zider as long as I can zee. 
 
 I likes zider and zider likes I, 
 
 An' I'll drink zider till I do die." 
 The Dartmouth men fought at sea upon beer — not the Queen's 
 beer, which was atrocious, but Devon brewed beer. Sir John Gilbert's,
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 43 
 
 ship " Gabriel " took on board one hogshead of beef and ten hogsheads 
 of beer, and went out to face the Armada. But the taste for cider is 
 inherited. There are two kinds, the " rough " and the " matched." 
 The Devon man takes the " rough," and smacks his lips over it, as 
 though drinking the pure juice of the apples of Eden. A true son of 
 the soil turns up his nose at the " matched " cider which strangers 
 find so palatable, and there is a legend that it was the devil 
 himself who taught the monks of Tavistock Abbey the secret of 
 making cider sweet by means of burning brimstone, hence the 
 name " matched." There is another drink known as " white ale " 
 because of its milky colour. White-ale is, I fancy, peculiar to 
 Devon, and is to be found on tap in out of the way places and 
 villages in some of the most delightful regions. There is some- 
 thing uncanny about white-ale when first seen and tasted, and 
 the "rough" cider man must be very thirsty before he'll drink it, 
 for he shares the opinion of the right reverend Bishop who 
 declared that — 
 
 " Three spirits condemned to eternal distress 
 Compounded, 'tis said, this most horrible mess." 
 
 There is a legend that Ashburton was at one time famous for a 
 beer known as Ashburton " pop." Tradition in this case is true, 
 because the matter is referred to in a letter to the Earl of Dartmouth 
 published by the Historical MSS. Commission. It was probably some 
 concoction intended to rival white-ale, the secret of making which 
 has been kept in one family. 
 
 The late William Pengelly has preserved some anecdotes. In his 
 geological rambles he was often " far from the madding crowd," wet, 
 tired, and hungry. On one occasion, soon after mid-day, he found 
 himself at a lonely wayside inn, and encountered a forlorn-looking 
 hostess with a black eye. He asked for a crust of bread and cheese 
 and a glass of beer. 
 
 " Can't have it, zur." 
 
 11 Why not ? " 
 
 " 'Cause me and my old man 'th vailed out." 
 
 " I am sorry for that, but what has that to do with my having 
 refreshment ? " 
 
 " I tell 'ee we've vailed out, and he'th carried away th' kay, so 
 you can't 'ave it. You may have some of they there 'orts — wortle- 
 berries — if you like, but there's nort else." 
 
 On another occasion Pengelly took up his abode at an out of the 
 world village near Ivybridge, and this is his record : —
 
 44 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 " On presenting myself at the door I found a butcher engaged in 
 dressing the carcase of a pig which he had just killed, and said piggie 
 was hanging in the doorway. 
 
 " ' Yes, you can have a bed,' said the man, ' so please to walk in 
 and take a seat in the kitchen. I would ax you to go into the parlour, 
 but my missis is there cleaning part of the pig, and you mightn't like 
 the smell o't.' " 
 
 Bread and ham rashers and butter made their appearance, but 
 the butter was so small a piece that the great geologist looked at it 
 curiously. The dear old creature who waited at table took the hint. 
 " Don't be afraid of the butter, cos there's plenty more in the 
 ouze ; but 'tis allays best to finish up the bits and scraps," said she, 
 showing the frugal side which is almost everywhere met with, though 
 not always so plainly confessed. 
 
 The signs of some of the wayside inns are quaint and original, 
 and go to the root of the matter. At Merripit you were told : 
 
 John Roberts lives here, 
 Sells brandy and beer 
 Your spirits to cheer. 
 And should you want meat, 
 To make up the treat, 
 There be rabbits to eat. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 SAINTS are not so plentiful in Devon as in Cornwall. Of course, 
 there are " saints," but they are different, and, somehow, not 
 so primitive. The good Danes and Saxons, dwellers this side 
 of the Tamar, were, perhaps, not quite ready for them, showing them 
 scant welcome, and asking them please to " move on " when they sat 
 down by the side of holy wells ; also they did not often commemorate 
 their visits by naming villages and towns after them. The number of 
 parishes in Devon bearing the prefix " Saint " is small. Many of the 
 Cornish saints roamed far afield, and some say that they skipped into 
 Wales, avoiding Devon, and then scattered. Some of the old Cornish 
 saints left very beautiful memories behind them. There was St. Neot, 
 who preached to the fishes, just as St. Francis did to the birds some 
 centuries afterwards. The legends of St. Neot are delightful, but 
 there were some saints of a different type, like St. Just, who ran off
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 45 
 
 with St. Keverne's spoons after being entertained with a friendly cup 
 of tea, or something which required a spoon to stir up the sugar. St. 
 Keverne was very angry, of course, at losing his spoons, and pelted 
 the runaway with stones and rocks and anything convenient, with 
 such unerring aim that St. Just cried peccavi ! and restored them. 
 St. Keverne's rocks are still to be seen, so there's no getting away 
 from a legend which shows up the very human side of some early 
 " saints." 
 
 Across the Tamar " Old Artful " interfered a lot with the saints, 
 but in Devon he was pretty quiet, and not so meddlesome about the 
 building of churches and things ecclesiastical. Tradition has it that 
 he removed, stone by stone, a church to the summit of a tor too steep 
 for ordinary legs to climb. The church is still there. Taken as a 
 whole, the traditions are different from those in Cornwall, for here Old 
 Artful is made to teach good morals to ambitious priests, and monks, 
 and rich men with peppery tempers who oppressed the poor. No date 
 is given, but it is said that Old Artful died of the cold either at North 
 Lew or Chagford. No stone marks the spot. 
 
 " Chagyvurd ; good Lord ! Where the devil died of the cold," is 
 a popular saying. Some people say " North Lew," so you take your 
 choice. 
 
 Of all Devonshire towns Tavistock is the richest in legend of 
 saints and sinners. On the one side is the moor, and on the other the 
 Valley of the Tamar, and the town itself has a record of monastic life 
 reaching back into Saxon times. Tradition carries us a long way 
 back, and is no doubt misleading. It says that Tavistock was a " busy 
 town " when London was a " vuzzy down," and so, almost in the same 
 words, Tavistock scores over Plympton, which, in turn, scores over 
 Plymouth. However, Tavistock Abbey is old. A noble Saxon earl 
 founded it before the Norman came, and the Abbots of Tavistock were 
 lords temporal and spiritual over the land for centuries. On the manor 
 of Hurdwick they had the power of life and death, and the Abbey was 
 known far and wide for its kitchens and refectory, schools and chapels, 
 and " still " room. It was a splendid establishment. The Tavy was 
 full of fish, the woods of deer and game and all good things. Tavistock 
 stood well with the powers that were, and became a " mitred abbey," 
 and was " mitred " when it fell. The few ruins tell of past grandeur. 
 
 The second printing press in the kingdom was set up here. The 
 first was at Westminster, the second at Tavistock. There is no 
 mistake about this — three books printed here may be seen in Exeter 
 College Library, Oxford. The first book relating to the stannary laws
 
 46 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 bears date the second year of the reign of King Henry VIII.; the 
 second was printed in the twenty-sixth year of the same reign. The 
 third has the following : " Emprented in the exempt Monastery of 
 Tavestoke, in Denshyre, by me Dan Thomas Rychard, monke of the 
 sayde Monastery. Anno D. MDXXV. Deo Gracias." There is another 
 fact — Tavistock was a great place for schools. It is now, but it was 
 " back along " when education was a very different affair. The only 
 school for Saxon literature in England before the Reformation was 
 here. It was also a place of mercy, for it had its leper house. 
 
 Tavistock gives the idea of belonging to someone. At first it 
 belonged to the Abbots, and then it passed into the possession of the 
 Ducal house of Bedford, who still own it ; and so we have the reason 
 for what is old being so well preserved, and for what is modern being 
 so well regulated, and trimmed, and ordered. You are a stranger, 
 and you feel yourself a guest. Your lordly host is everywhere — in the 
 public buildings, in the streets, the schools, institutions, antiquities — 
 it is Bedford everywhere. Only the river has its own voice, a loud 
 and brawling voice, as it leaps over the weir. 
 
 Tavistock is on the Tavy, as Plymouth is on the Plym, Exeter on 
 the Exe, and Dartmouth on the Dart. It was the rivers of Devon 
 which, in the old days, shaped the destinies of the people; and, ac- 
 cording to legends, every river had its own " voice " and sang its own 
 song, and probably had its own personality also in the shape of some 
 divinity in grot, or cave, or woodland. The Dart demands its annual 
 sacrifice and, unhappily, gets it. Once get away from bricks and 
 mortar and old Devon is old Devon still. There are ghosts in the 
 houses, wraiths upon the hills, dryads in the woods, water-spirits in 
 the rivers, and pixies in the moors. They may not be so abundant 
 now, but there they are ! 
 
 Tavistock existed long before Christianity took shape in the land. 
 It is situated just in one of those spots that man, as soon as he got 
 over his cave-dwelling habits, would seek for a settlement. A deep 
 valley, rich in pasture, well watered and well wooded, what more 
 could man want after crawling out of caves ? The first rude habita- 
 tions are not on view now. In course of time a town grew up and 
 was called Tavystock, after the river, which has also its Mary and 
 Peter — Mary Tavy and Peter Tavy. When the parish church was 
 built it was dedicated to a saint — Saint Eustachius, as the Abbey 
 before it had been dedicated to Saint Rumon. Had it been in Corn- 
 wall, St. Rumon would have given his name to the town, displacing 
 the Tavy with all its associations with heathen lore and legend, but
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 47 
 
 the Devonians were not apparently very eager, and when they 
 " turned over a new leaf" they liked to turn over the old ones as well 
 and look back. The people were Saxon and had their Saxon runes, 
 and gods, and sacrifices : they had seen King Arthur and his host 
 broken and driven back, and had joined in the pursuit, so why change? 
 The monks lived amongst a stiff-necked people and had their 
 troubles. 
 
 They had trouble with the pixies — elusive, ubiquitous pixies — for 
 the people would stand in fairy rings on moonlight nights and say 
 incantations to fairies ; they would wear fairy charms ; they would 
 bring offerings to running streams and holy wells, and hang the 
 bushes round about with beads, and bracelets, and coloured rags. 
 Even if, and when, they came to church, there was a warm corner in 
 their hearts for old customs and symbols, which the monks 
 denounced. 
 
 The monks gave the pixies a bad name, and the pixies harassed 
 the monks. Do what they would the cream would not " turn " into 
 butter, for the pixies stirred it the wrong way for them, and they 
 charmed the trout in the streams and made them invisible to mortal 
 eyes, and when they caught the monks abroad they " pixie-led " them, 
 and got them into sore trouble and disgrace, especially the younger 
 men, well-favoured and fat, and looked upon kindly by the women folk. 
 
 The monks of Tavistock kept a good kitchen, and their " still 
 room " was famous for a liqueur distilled from heather. The process 
 was a secret. Only two men were allowed to know it at one time. 
 When one died, the survivor taught another, and so the secret was 
 kept secure from generation to generation. Even the Abbots did not 
 know, but were allowed to taste freely, and at all times. It was a 
 privilege, and so highly thought of that an Abbot always waxed fat, 
 until it became a saying: "As fat as an Abbot of Tavistock," wherein 
 they differed from the neighbouring Abbots of Buckland, who were as 
 thin as men who kept a perpetual Lent. 
 
 Abbot John of Tavistock let it be known that he was at war with the 
 pixies, and he made a vow to drink no heather wine until he'd driven 
 them out from all parishes within his jurisdiction. 
 
 The good father was served with water, but the pixies changed it; 
 and when he passed the " still-room " door, the pixies led him inside, 
 and played him such tricks that he got into trouble, and was talked of 
 far and wide. And the pixies would not let the Abbot sleep — no, not 
 even after a big draught of the heather wine, drunk in all innocence, not 
 knowing it to be wine, and that he had broken his vow— for when he
 
 48 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 nodded in his chair, then the pixies ticlded his ears and nose so that 
 he was irritated and lost temper, and cursed both in Latin and the 
 vulgar tongue. 
 
 The brethren who heard wondered greatly, and whispered 
 among themselves that the good father had lost his wits and was 
 "possessed." 
 
 And this went on until one day a pilgrim from the Holy Land 
 came to the Abbey, who had learned many things in Syria and the 
 desert. To him the Abbot told his tale. 
 
 " It is the Evil One, and he must be excommunicated," said the 
 pilgrim, promptly. 
 
 Then there was High Mass in the Chapel, and all the brethren 
 went in procession through every building and outhouse, and marched 
 around the boundaries of the Abbey lands, chanting and sprinkling, 
 and the pixies they cursed with bell, candle, and book, and did it so 
 thoroughly that, from that day, the Abbot was troubled no more. 
 The news spread that the pixies had been driven from the Abbey 
 lands. A pixie-cross was set up, and although the Abbey is in ruins 
 now, and the lands sold and built on, not a pixie dare come near by 
 day or by night. If a man by any chance is " pixie-led " upon the moors, 
 the glamour falls from his eyes and the spell is broken when he comes 
 on ancient abbey lands, or runs into the parish churchyard; and every 
 man may tell his own story as it best pleases him. 
 
 Everything considered, the town of Tavistock has been of very 
 slow growth. A first-class liner would take the whole population to 
 America, and yet the town seems always to have been prosperous, and 
 to have given birth to men of energy and ambition. A stranger leaning 
 against the parapet of the ancient ivy-covered bridge sees a little 
 more, but only a little more, than the " gossips " of other days. The 
 bridge is the great attraction, and some people say that the tumultuous, 
 whirling, brawling river as it passes has played its share in moulding 
 the character of the people who aforetime passed their time in hanging 
 over it, and listening to its music. 
 
 Tavistock men certainly came from a fighting stock, and were not 
 particular about the cause or place of quarrel as long as there was a 
 little fighting, and a little profit. The Russells and the Drakes took 
 the lead in the time of Edward III. when they went over to Ashburton, 
 broke a few heads, and were committed to gaol. Then the Assize 
 records show that John Drake (Walter's son) and John Drake, his 
 cousin, one of the Russells, a Dumarle, and other youths of mettle 
 went to Bodleigh, and were brought before the justices for assaults ;
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 49 
 
 and that in the next generation Walter Drake raided cattle, and was 
 brought hefore the judges of assize. 
 
 There is on record one very serious affair which shows the temper 
 of the times, and what man would do to wipe out an insult, or avenge 
 slighted honour. The quarrel commenced over the love affair of a 
 gentleman of Cornwall and a gentleman of Devon. The lady fair, being 
 at the time at Powderham, under the wing of the Courtenays, whose 
 relation she afterwards became by marriage, the Darneys, Drakes, and 
 Courtenays, and all who would follow them, marched to Looe, and so 
 belaboured the partisans of the other side that men were slain, and two 
 of the Drakes were executed, after trial. A good fighting stock there 
 was around Tavistock in pre- Reformation days; and when the men 
 turned Puritan, and suffered wrong, they were to be depended on to 
 fight to the finish, as they did. 
 
 Tavistock men are very proud of Drake, a colossal statue of whom 
 by Boehm stands at Fitz-ford. His birth-place (so long a matter of 
 dispute) is now known. " He was born at Crowndale Farm, now in 
 the possession of the Duke of Bedford. The original lease from the 
 monks to Simon Drake, and renewals down to the days of John, grand- 
 father of Sir Francis, are in my possession."* Pilgrims, who are so 
 minded, may now pay their devotions in the right place. 
 
 Sir Francis Drake built a house for himself at Buckland on part 
 of the ruins of an ancient abbey church, " the four large arches of the 
 central tower of which remain in a garret under the roof." There is 
 now under this roof, silently falling into decay, the old drum which 
 went round the world in the " Golden Hind," and then summoned 
 every man on board the " Revenge " to his duty when she sailed 
 out to meet the great Armada. There is something pathetic in the 
 sight of this old drum, whose voice was so full and clear and made 
 men's hearts throb, now falling into dust. 
 
 And there is a strange superstition here in Devon about this drum 
 which makes its very dust precious. I have called it " superstition," 
 but it is also prophecy and allegory. It is said that if England is ever 
 in peril of invasion, one tap on this old drum will recall from the deep 
 the spirit of Drake, who will once more lead his countrymen to victory ! 
 
 Who can doubt this allegory ? 
 
 The old drum sounded, and Drake was reincarnated in Blake. 
 
 Then again the old drum sounded, and the spirit was reincarnated 
 in Nelson. 
 
 * Lady Elliot-Drake to the Author.
 
 50 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 And when it sounds again, loud enough to be heard above all the 
 passions and strife of party politics, who can doubt that the old spirit 
 will re-clothe itself once more, and once more lead the men of England 
 to deathless victory ? And the men of Devon will be on every ship 
 that floats, and fight after the manner of the men of old. 
 
 Who can doubt the allegory — that the tap of this old, mouldering 
 drum in the hour of national danger will awaken into life the heroic 
 spirit of the XVI. century? 
 
 Many Drake relics are religiously preserved here and at Nutwell 
 Court. There are the Bible which sailed with him around the world, 
 the green silk scarf, exquisitely embroidered, and bearing in gold let- 
 ters the motto " The Almighty be your Guide and Protector to the 
 End." There is his sea cap and his seal, a jewel presented by 
 Elizabeth, and a portrait of himself in miniature ; also the portrait of 
 Don Pedro de Valdez, his prisoner from the Armada, who lived at 
 Buckland until his ransom arrived from Spain. At Nutwell Court, 
 facing Powderham, but on the other side of the Exe, are other 
 precious historical relics under the jealous guardianship of Lady 
 Elliot-Drake. Here, in the library, hung on a recent occasion the 
 colours which waved from the " Golden Hind " on his voyage around 
 the world, and these colours waved on board the old ship when Eliza- 
 beth dined on board at Deptford, and bade Drake rise from his knees, 
 a Knight; and there are stained glass windows in the Hall represent- 
 ing historical scenes in which the great Admiral took part to the 
 honour and glory of England. 
 
 The stories of old Tavistock run to legend, and are usually 
 founded on violence and wrong. The old monks, for instance, ob- 
 tained the rich lands of Plymstock by fraud and cunning. There is the 
 ivy-covered ruin called Betsey Gimball's tower, which has no legend 
 attached to it other than the betrayal of a nun and her murder by 
 her lover. Then, at midnight — every midnight, fair weather or foul — 
 Lady Howard comes out of the gate of Fitz-ford House, takes her 
 seat in a carriage of bones, and drives to Okehampton. 
 
 If repetition can make a story true, this is true. It has been told 
 and sung to every tune that will suit a ballad for centuries. It has 
 been handed down as an article of belief by people who have seen the 
 ghostly lady enter her carriage of bones, drawn by skeleton horses, 
 driven by a skeleton coachman, and preceded by a coal-black hound 
 with eyes of flashing fire. Generations of good and brave Tavistock 
 men have shuddered at the thought of passing Fitz-ford Gateway at 
 midnight for fear of meeting the coal-black hound and carriage of
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 51 
 
 bones and the ghostly lady. Isn't there some Society to take the 
 matter up ? 
 
 Lady Howard is condemned by the legend to perform a penance 
 which will last until the end of time, unless Okehampton moor should 
 be built over. She is accused (poor soul) of having slain four hus- 
 bands, whose bones now form her carriage. The coal-black hound 
 must bring back from Okehampton moor every night one blade of 
 grass, and no more, until the moor itself is stripped of herbage — an 
 endless task like that of Sisyphus, and the baling out of Dozmary 
 Pool by Tregeagle with a limpet shell having a hole in its bottom. 
 Her ladyship invites all and every person whom she meets to " step in 
 with me to ride." 
 
 Tavistock men are bold enough for most things, but the man has 
 yet to be born who will willingly step into the coach of bones and ride 
 to Okehampton, preceded by a coal-black hound with eyes of fire. 
 Everyone to his taste ; most of us would prefer to walk. 
 
 Legend has been very unkind to Lady Mary, a woman still of 
 extraordinary beauty and the richest match in the West when she 
 married Sir Richard Grenville, her fourth husband, whom she out- 
 lived. She was a woman of "superior wit" and of haughty, imperious 
 temper. No favourite with the people in life, they took their revenge 
 by inventing the " Coach of Bones " story, which the ballad-mongers 
 got hold of and sang through every village and at every fair in the 
 Western Counties. Poor Lady Mary ! This is the way in which 
 reputation was made or marred, before newspapers took up the 
 running. 
 
 Fitz-ford Gate was the place where people settled their little 
 differences in true Devonshire fashion, and the best man won. It 
 was here that Sir John Fritz (the Hotspur of the time) slew his 
 neighbour, Mr. Slanning of Bickley. The quarrel arose out of some 
 petty personal taunt, and could have been settled amicably, had not 
 Sir John's second cried out, "What child's play; come to fight and 
 now put up your sword ! " Then swords flashed again, and Slanning, 
 losing his balance through the hitching of his spur, received a lethal 
 thrust. To tell a man that you will " settle accounts " at Fitz-ford 
 Gate is quite enough. 
 
 But Tavistock is by no means a ghostly town. Old memories 
 and prejudices crystallised have taken this form for survival, that is all. 
 Sometimes this is called the " Gothic town of the West" on ac- 
 count of the new buildings affecting the Gothic. The stranger will 
 not be here long before learning the close relation there is between
 
 52 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 this old corner in Devon to the Russell Square, and Bedford Square, 
 and Tavistock Street, and Covent Garden with which he is familiar. 
 One word more. The Public Library is in an old building, verdure 
 clad, which makes a man of cities die with envy to sit in ; and on the 
 beautiful old bridge there is always someone to gossip with. " If there 
 is a breath of air anywhere it is here," says a native, who comes daily 
 to open his mouth, and fill his lungs, and watch the ceaseless play and 
 swirl of the river, and the leaping fish in the pool beyond the weir. 
 We may fancy the martryed soul of Lord William Russell haunting 
 the place still, with that of William Browne, the poet, singing his 
 " Britannia's Pastorals " through " Shepherd's Pipes." And I doubt 
 not many another leans over the old ivied parapet to-day and feels 
 that he would like to sing, if only he had the words. 
 
 The old love for learning is here still; and if anyone doubts, there 
 is the Kelly College and the New Grammar School to inspect. 
 
 Tavistock men have a history and a future. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE MOOR to Devon is what the sea is to Cornwall. You can 
 hardly fancy a Cornwall without the sea, and a Devon without 
 the moor would be a country without inspiration. In the Duchy 
 you are seldom at any time so far from blue water that you cannot 
 hear the roar of the waves and feel the sea salt on your lips. All 
 paths lead to the sea. In Devon it is the moor which is ever present. 
 Sometimes the moor runs down to a town, as it does at Tavistock, so 
 you step out, as it were, from your back garden on to the heather. 
 Sometimes you have to walk a little way to meet it rolling onwards to 
 meet you, as at Exeter, or Plymouth. You may be in a town which 
 is on the moor, like Moreton and Okehampton. It is the moor which 
 preserves the race alive — the real Devon stock — and pours its best 
 blood into the towns as wanted to fill up the gaps. Those who live 
 on the sea and by it turn to it, but they are not so many, when you 
 come to think of it, outside of towns which cater for season visitors. 
 The great bulk of the people turn towards the moor. 
 
 There is no end of choice of little towns and villages, hamlets and 
 farm-houses where you can put up and have sweet moor mutton, and 
 junket and cream, and drink cider every day ; where there are streams,
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 53 
 
 clear and cold, in which you can dip and splash, and wherein you can 
 angle with the certainty of catching something: you may wander, 
 wander on unenclosed land until you come to the secret dwelling- 
 places of wild fowl and others, and rare kingfishers pass you as flashes 
 of blue light. 
 
 I stayed at a farm-house, and the great white gate opened on to 
 the highway — the turnpike road of former days ; and standing at the 
 gate one could see and hear a good deal of country life. There was 
 the tramp who went by — the professional gentleman who did nothing, 
 and was taking his summer outing in the pleasantest parts of Devon. 
 I knew him at once with his " S'elp me, Guv'n'r, and I haven't tasted 
 ." You let him pass on, gladly. 
 
 Then an old man comes along whose work is almost done, and 
 gives you a cheerful " Gf^de marnin'." He's nothing loth to talk over 
 the gate where we are under the shadow of a well-branched tree. 
 
 Thirteen children called him father, and not one penny from the 
 parish. One boy was a policeman, and six were gamekeepers on the 
 land — of the girls, four went into gentlemen's service and married vil- 
 lage tradesmen. Not a waster amongst the whole thirteen. 
 
 Did he remember? Of course he remembered when on this very 
 farm the corn was cut with a hook, and then with a scythe, and when 
 the people of the village used to give the farmer one day's labour to 
 help him to get in his harvest. And the farmer gave them all a harvest 
 supper. Of course he remembered, for didn't he cry " A knack ! a 
 knack!" and sing " Widdecombe Fair;" and didn't the parish clerk 
 bring his fiddle, and Joe Copplestone his double bass, and didn't, and 
 
 didn't, and didn't . He could go on all day now that the rush of 
 
 memory comes over him. 
 
 There is one little story he must tell. It happened long ago 
 when he was a young man, and he was 'pon top a load of corn. When 
 it was finished the farmer shouted " ' Come down, Jim ! ' and I said, 
 1 'Ow be I to cum down, maister,' for there was no ladder near by. 
 And the farmer said, ' Shut thee eyes and put thee hands in thee 
 pockets and walk about, Jim, and thee'l come down fast enough! ' " 
 
 " When I du think on't now I du laugh," says the old man. 
 
 A drink of zider, and thank'ee kindly. 
 
 The carrier's van comes crawling along, and the maid rushes out 
 to the gate with a "Stap min, stap! " and hands a parcel to the driver, 
 with many instructions, and winds up with telling him to buy a yard 
 of ribbon for her at Mr. Skinner's shop, " and here's the money, and 
 fourpence 'ap'ny change, an' doan'ee vurgit." 
 
 D
 
 54 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 There is still room in Devon for the carrier and the carrier's van. 
 Motor cars may set the pace upon the road and do all the traffic one 
 day, but when the carrier's van disappears a social institution will 
 have vanished. The van is the village gossip shop upon wheels. It 
 has its secrets and mysteries, and many curious things are hatched in 
 the van, which afterwards fly around the parishes, and bite and sting, 
 and worry and torment, and make life miserable to someone. 
 
 A stranger may ride in the van and hear nothing that he can 
 make head or tail of. It's all cryptic to him ; but the gossips know 
 whose banns are going to be called next Sunday, and why ; and that 
 Tom Plover had hare for supper, and took such a fine salmon to 
 market amongst the cabbages, and no one the wiser; and they know 
 that the Vicar's wife is having an old dress turned for Sundays; and 
 how much is owing to the tallyman in all his " round." This is only one 
 side, for many neighbourly acts are done and talked of, and for those 
 who know and understand, the van is the travelling archive of the 
 unchronicled chronicles of the district. 
 
 Penaluna's van in Cornwall, and Tom Zalter's van in Devon, are 
 twins, and both mysteries to an outsider. "Jan Stewer" is a native 
 and rides with Tom Zalter behind Damzel and Prince to Exeter 
 market twice a week, and he has made revelations in slow-moving, 
 musical dialect, glinting with fun. Talking of packing the van with 
 parcels, and boxes, and goods, and living freight, he says : 
 
 " 'Tis winderful how Tom takes all o't. But he loads up some 
 pin tap the van, and some behind, an' some in under. And 'e putts 
 boxes and 'ampers 'pon he's awn sate, an' then perches hissel up pin 
 tap o' they ontil tis a marvel to me that 'e don't vail off into the 
 rawd. 
 
 " And inside the van 'e heaps up the baskets and passels to the 
 back, an' in under th' sates. 
 
 " An' then, arter that, 'e finds rume for eight or tain passengers. 
 Yu'd sware 'twas impossible to get it all in, or half o't; but Tom 'ave 
 bin loading up thik van for 'andy thirty year, and 'e knaws 'zackly tu 
 a ninch where to putt the things and the vokes. 
 
 " 'Coorse, yu got to zit jis where Tom putts 'ee to, an' if 'e gives 
 'ee aught to carr, or putts anybody in yer lap, yu got to take'm — an' 
 yume lucky if 'tidden Misses Porter, ole Zam Porter's wive down to 
 Pothay, for 'er's tain score if 'er's a nounce ! 
 
 " But us be all jovial-like and in gude friendship. And if shude 
 happen that yu got to take a wumman 'pon each knee, well, 'tiz a 
 chance that wan o'm 'ull be young and gude-lookin'."
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 55 
 
 The people who ride in motors, and are dressed in fine linen, and 
 fare sumptuously every day, miss these good things of life ! 
 
 And when the carrier's van disappears, it is time to stroll to the 
 village inn, where the landlord is a hit of a farmer, and a bit of a 
 blacksmith. He reads the paper, and what he does not know would 
 about fill an encyclopaedia. But he does know something about sport, 
 and otters in particular, and just now he is telling some young men about 
 the trail of the ole varmint which shewed such good sport last meet. 
 And he has the cleverest terrier that ever went into a hole, or nosed 
 scent, and so on. It is all breezy otter talk this morning, except when 
 the story is about Job Prout who was took in by a gipsy at the fair, and 
 bought the very self-same old mare which he sold last spring at 
 knacker's price. The old mare had been turned out on the salt marshes 
 on the Teign and came back young and frisky, and then the gipsies 
 painted over the star on her forehead, and poor Job Prout was sold. 
 
 How the joke was enjoyed, and everyone was jolly this morning. 
 
 Back to the farm, and there is Master making up his samples to 
 take to market this afternoon. He's going on horseback, and Missis 
 gives him a warning look, and tells him not to drink the " last 
 glass," for that's the one which always makes trouble. The Master 
 has heard the same advice every market day, and laughs. He looks 
 well on horseback as he trots away — a solid man of fourteen stun. 
 
 Market days are the farmer's joy. The land, the land, and 
 nothing but the land, except the crops that grow, and the sheep that 
 graze thereon, and the wool that grows upon the sheep. " Man 
 wants but little here below nor wants that little long" is a safe tag for 
 an after-dinner speech where short wool is grown. 
 
 The old boys like their market grog, and it is counted a bad sign 
 when they begin to shirk it. 
 
 " I've attended this fair for fifty years and never gone home 
 until I have had my twelve glasses of grog; and now I can only drink 
 eight," says one old farmer to another. Then he adds, " I'm a failing 
 man, I know I be," and holds out his hand for a farewell grip. He 
 will not be comforted. Only eight glasses of grog — sixpenn'orths too 
 — and he feels like a man under notice to quit his farm next 
 Michaelmas day. 
 
 The market dinner is the place to see what a Devon man can do 
 with a shoulder of mutton, or a goose. If one wants an appetite he 
 can't do better than put up at a moor farm. 
 
 Country people who rear chicken and geese, and make butter, 
 and grow garden stuff, are as well posted in market prices as the big
 
 56 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 farmers and people in towns. Saturday's prices pass into general 
 knowledge on Sunday evening. After chapel, the women compare 
 notes — so much for ducks, so much for eggs, so much for butter; and 
 then Mary Foale looks for a penny more for her butter than the rest 
 because she has a " separator," and they would have " separators " 
 also if it was'nt for starving the young pigs, for how can you 
 grow pork when all the cream is taken from the milk ? Might 
 as well give'm fried water. And next Saturday prices will be 
 better still, because so many strangers are pouring into the land, 
 and will have junkets and cream, and new-laid eggs, and all the 
 rest of it, and money's no object. "And then, why, bless us, us 
 can ate on wan tooth vur a wake or two." 
 
 Rare Sam Gillard, who can buy a thousand bullocks at a deal 
 and pay for 'm on the nail, knows just what parish church or chapel 
 to step into on a Sunday evening. If Tom Cobbledick has made up 
 his mind to sell something he'll be there, sure enough. They meet in 
 the porch, or in the churchyard just where the path divides. The 
 proprieties are well observed, and there is nothing for conscience and 
 the fourth commandment to shy at. 
 
 " If to-day wasn't to-day, Tom, what would you be luking for 
 them bullocks ? " 
 
 " Well, if to-day wasn't to-day, I should be looking so much, Mr. 
 Gillard." 
 
 The next morning the dealer's man rides into the farmyard with 
 a cheque, and drives away the stock. 
 
 Big dealers don't chaffer and haggle much now. A nod, a shake 
 of the head, and the thing is over. Chaffering is left to the little men 
 now-a-day. 
 
 Strangers are not supposed to know anything about these things ; 
 and, as a rule, country people are very shy about matters which inti- 
 mately concern them. The Devon man is not so easily drawn into 
 familiar conversation as his Cornish cousin, and he is not so imagina- 
 tive — not so apt to tip with rainbow hues everything he touches, and to 
 find reasons for all the signs and wonders of the heavens and the earth. 
 
 In the villages the people are very civil, indeed gentle, and the 
 further, in reason, one is from the beaten track the more deferential 
 the people are, and the more one marks the manners of a past 
 century in rural England. 
 
 Countrymen accept things pretty much at face value, and are 
 great on what they call " faxs " — and a fact is something to be 
 accepted without wonder. " I have heard tell of many wonders, but
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 57 
 
 never saw any," an intelligent man will say; whereas a man in a 
 similar condition of life in Cornwall will add wonder to the most 
 common incidents of daily life. 
 
 One is Celtic and the other Saxon, and so race may explain 
 much ; but on the moors especially men seem to have brooded behind 
 the plough, and worked the soil, and tended cattle and sheep so long 
 as to have become too tired to wonder. The glory and loveliness of 
 earth and sky have come and gone, and passed them by whilst their 
 eyes were upon the ground. 
 
 Perhaps the earth has been a hard foster-mother on the moors, 
 where there were huge boulders to be broken up, and the ground to 
 be cleared before a crop could grow. Everything, in his mind, was 
 made to centre on the land and the growth of things. The sky was 
 made for rain, and the sun for warming the land and making things 
 grow, and man was made to work the land. The artistic sense has 
 been long suppressed in men who look upon heather and poppies, blue 
 cornflowers, and all things glowing in the sunshine, as so much loss, 
 and fit only to be burned. 
 
 At Moor Farm the man was " Master," and the woman " Missis." 
 The man reigned out of doors ; in the house the woman was supreme. 
 There was no " subjection " of woman ; no interference with " mere 
 man." The legitimate spheres of influence were well understood here, 
 and there was no clashing of authority. 
 
 The household is small, but all are workers at Moor Farm. There 
 is only one son, and the Master has him in hand, breaking him into 
 harness. There are two daughters — the eldest is at home, and takes 
 her full share of work in the house, and dairy, and poultry yard, and 
 here dairy and poultry produce are made to pay current household 
 expenses. The second daughter is at the High School, Exeter, and is 
 just now on a visit to her mother's old home on Exmoor. This 
 young lady is " going out into the world," on her own account, when 
 qualified. There were three maid servants about the house, and the 
 eye of the Missis was over all and at all times. She took girls in the 
 rough, " broke them in," and made them useful. The Missis had a 
 gentle voice and a firm hand, and it seemed quite easy to have good 
 servants in a house where the Missis was. 
 
 And the Master, out of doors, was as supreme as man could be. 
 What he said was law, but in the house he fell into his place, and the 
 Missis kept the accounts. 
 
 On one subject only did Master and Missis disagree. She was 
 Exmoor bred — came somewhere from the land of the Doones — and
 
 58 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 would have it that Exmoor mutton was sweeter than Dartmoor, and 
 the Exmoor ponies were of better breed than Dartmoor ponies. 
 At the end of twenty years they argued still, and were no nearer 
 than at the beginning. 
 
 In one thing they were united — they loved "sport," which included 
 fishing, fox-hunting, otter-hunting, coursing and rabbitting, and 
 Exeter races once a year. The Master played skittles with the cheese 
 or the round ball, three-in-a-rank, or diamond shape, just as you 
 pleased ; and if there was a wrestling match within reasonable 
 distance he'd attend. When a young man he had a reputation, and 
 got so many scars upon his shins — which he will carry to his grave — 
 that the Missis set her face against wrestling in the Devonshire 
 fashion. Without kicking wrestling, in her opinion, was " sport," with 
 kicking, it was brutal. However, the Master went to matches round 
 about, and when he fancied a man was able to give him " a wrinkle or 
 two." Life on Moor Farm was breezy enough for any ordinary man 
 from town. 
 
 Love of out-door sport is bred in the Devon man. Plymouth is 
 said to be the most steeplechasingest place in the Universe. The 
 reputation may, or may not, be deserved, but in the season it is 
 difficult to find more steeplechasing sympathies than at Exeter, or in 
 the usually sleepy little town of Totnes. 
 
 Steeplechasing is no mere child's play here for horse or rider, 
 unless they should happen to be made of indiarubber, or some such 
 unbreakable material. The Devon man's idea of " fair hunting 
 country " for a steeplechase leaves little to be desired in the shape of 
 risk. Water jumps and hurdles don't count for much. A stiff fence 
 with a ten-foot drop into a shady lane, and then a real facer on the 
 other side, is the sort of thing a Devon man likes, and rides miles to 
 see. 
 
 No out-door sports come amiss. Foxes are well preserved now — 
 thanks greatly, it is said, to the influence and example of " Passen 
 Jack" Russell, the last of the real old sporting divines in Devon. 
 Most of the clergy are sportsmen, but of a milder type. In the north 
 of the county foxes were formerly trapped and destroyed in the most 
 unsportsmanlike manner. In fact, Mr. Fox was an outlaw, and when 
 one was trapped or caught red-mouthed about a farm, the church 
 bells were set ringing, and the death-knell was rung over the death of 
 a sinner in no very Christian spirit. For the purposes of sport, 
 " Passen Jack" at last got the fox respected, and lived long enough 
 to receive an epistle from a farmer willing to give his wife a " nevr
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 59 
 
 gown " if she would not complain about the preservation of foxes. 
 The epistle is genuine: — 
 Sir John Russell, — 
 
 " Yeur honour will plaize to cum up to Ben Twitching 
 wi' th' dogs; us be ate out o' they voxes. Mistiss kipth on 
 a-telling and zeth, us shan't ha' a geuse to kill come Christ- 
 mas. Bit I've a-zaid, I'd gi' her a new gown to mak' up 
 for't; zo, her han't a-vexed so much zince. But do ee cum 
 and gi' us a bit o' sport, sir. 
 
 "Yeur honour's humbl sarvent, 
 
 "T. T." 
 The late Earl of Portsmouth stood Reynard's friend and had 
 " Passen Jack" to back him up, and his lordship penned his acknow- 
 ledgments in a handsome tribute to the reverend gentleman's memory 
 as a sportsman. " When I first began keeping hounds he taught me 
 much, and was of the greatest possible assistance to me. :: 
 His intuitive knowledge of the run of a fox, even in a country strange 
 to him, was marvellous. I remember well one occasion in Dorset, 
 after a fast and straight run the fox was headed and the hounds 
 brought to a slight check. At that moment a fresh fox was halloed 
 ahead, while some of the field, who viewed him, did their best to get 
 the hounds on to his line. Russell never moved ; and on someone 
 remarking that he was taking matters very coolly, he quietly answer- 
 ed, 'The hunted fox is behind; that is a fresh fox.' My huntsman 
 was of the same opinion, and while he was making his cast I viewed 
 the hunted fox which had laid down. We got on to him again, and, 
 in a sharp burst of ten minutes more, rolled him over in the open." 
 His lordship added, "Many similar anecdotes of Russell I could relate." 
 Nothing in the shape of " sport " comes amiss to a Devonian. 
 How can it in a land wherein every brook has its salmon and trout; 
 wherein the badger and otter and fox are still at home, and every wild 
 bird may be flushed upon the moors? A good otter hunt stirs his 
 blood most. People say there is something about the otter which 
 brings out a Devonshire man's qualities of patience and cunning, and 
 tries his temper to the breaking point, but without making him lose 
 it — quite. W T hen an otter has baffled the field and the dogs are called 
 off, and everyone is going home tired and wet and disappointed, the 
 hunters speak of it as an old " roog," meaning thereby something 
 complimentary and endearing. 
 
 To be called an "old vox" is to stand pretty well in popular 
 esteem in country places where people have genuine admiration for
 
 60 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 nimbleness of wit and capacity for getting out of scrapes. Take the 
 run of them, the people you meet are slow, and look on it as a virtue 
 to do what they are told. As it was in the beginning, I suppose, so it 
 is now. A lady told me one day a little story which was told her by 
 her mother, who heard it from her mother, and my informant handed 
 it on as though there was no change. It was this : her grandmother 
 wished to hire a servant maid, and she selected three. Then she 
 sent them, one by one, to walk down the garden and return to the 
 house another way. 
 
 Across the garden path she placed a broom. 
 
 Number one made the tour, and skipped over the broom. 
 
 Number two kicked it on one side. 
 
 Number three picked it up, and she was hired. 
 
 I was told that you may rely on having your instructions 
 carried out to the letter ; but a waggoner, for instance, will return 
 with empty waggon if his load is not precisely where he was told to 
 look for it. A farmer sent a young man twenty miles to a harness 
 maker's with an order, and the man returned saying the shop was 
 shut. Which was true : the tradesman had moved one door round 
 the corner, and the young man made no inquiry. No flood, or peril 
 of the road would have prevented the man reaching the market town, 
 but his wit was not nimble enough to suggest his peeping round the 
 corner. Nimbleness of wit is, therefore, held in high estimation. 
 
 The fox is the popular standard. When you hear of " a voxey- 
 eyed little lawyer " you may be sure he is a clever man ; but the 
 lawyer who can " make water run up hill " is more than clever — he is 
 a genius of the Coleridge and Karslake order, both Devon men. 
 
 A countryman will generally illustrate the qualities of people by 
 qualities of animals ; and as most countrymen are born naturalists 
 they will tell you the queerest stories about people, which they 
 illustrate by something which a fox, or hare, or otter did to save its 
 skin. I said one day to a man that the police were busy searching 
 the villages for a man " wanted " for committing a daring burglary at 
 Torquay. My man said nothing for a while, and then broke out 
 with — 
 
 " I zay, maister, but they won't vind'n." 
 
 " Why do you think so ? " I asked. 
 
 " 'Cause they shud look among the varmint." Then he told me 
 he was working one day in a field close to a warren and a fox passed 
 him, and he was just spent, and the hounds close on him. Now, what 
 did he do ? Why, he jumped into the warren and hung himself by
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 61 
 
 the teeth among the vermin, and held on like grim death until the 
 field was all clear again, and then he just dropped down and slunk 
 away. My country friend was very sure that the police would find 
 the burgling varmint amongst other varmints, and not in villages 
 where the scent would lie. 
 
 He took his illustration from what he knew best. Toads, vipers, 
 otters, badgers, foxes, crop up at all times, and in all company ; and 
 if you hear that a man told a story which made " the ole mare 
 laugh," you'll know it was a clinker. 
 
 THE OTTER HUNT. 
 
 " Of course, you will come with us to-morrow. Old Bagworthy 
 says we shall see sport. There's a regular old varmint, and he 
 knows'n well, down by the Lower Weir. Ess, f'y, there will be 
 sport." 
 
 So I went, with the rest, to see an otter hunt. All the family 
 went, and everybody we sighted was bent on going to meet the 
 hounds. It was a good field. All the gentry were there, and as 
 many ladies as gentlemen, in short serge skirts, and thick boots, and 
 sailor hatted. They came out for business, and grew eager as the 
 hunt went on. 
 
 There was some interest and excitement in seeing the hounds 
 work along a brook, where the trout are, all overhung with wood and 
 bushes. There were disappointing " touches," for otter scent, though 
 strong, is very deceptive, and old hunters say that when it should be 
 present it is nowhere, and sometimes the hounds will give tongue, 
 making the valleys echo, after the animal has gone away to sea for a 
 day or two. An experienced old " roog " would be one of the most 
 difficult of created things to capture, were it not obliged to rise to the 
 surface to " vent." 
 
 The ladies talked continually about pretty " strokes " across the 
 bends, and shrewd "feathering" along the banks, and the quality of 
 the " music." They appeared to know each hound by his note — his 
 " bell note," or his " high-pitched squeak," — and grew more and more 
 excited, until, at last, a clipping little terrier found its way underground 
 and persuaded the otter to show himself, and the hunters, who were 
 guarding the shallows — called " stickles " — were all eyes for the first 
 sound or ripple. 
 
 Ours was an old " roog," who had been often enough in peril 
 and saved his fur by his wits, so he held the enemy too cheap, doubled
 
 62 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 back under the pack, and then took to land, and shot away like a 
 rocket up the steep slopes beyond. 
 
 It was a splendid, though audacious move. The Master of Moor 
 Farm was by my side, and his eyes opened wide with admiration. 
 Before the hounds left water the otter had a good start, and went 
 across country at racing pace. He was thorough-bred of his kind, 
 and I should never have thought a swimming, diving, fish-eating 
 animal could ever have covered the ground like this for nearly two 
 miles, when he took refuge in a brook. 
 
 Now the otter showed his game side. He might have slipped back 
 to the river and got away, but he actually waited for the hounds to 
 come up, and then made for a brook, where he showed sport, but had 
 no chance. Then the huntsmen checked the dogs and let him get 
 fairly away to the river, where he showed himself a fine swimmer, 
 and then took sanctuary in the bank. 
 
 Splendid ! said everybody. Scent was weak and dogs at fault; and 
 once again the old " roog" held his enemies too cheap. He landed 
 once more, and slipped up a narrow ditch wherein there was more 
 mud than water, and the hounds were too quick for him. There was 
 no getting away, so he fought to the finish ! 
 
 The Master of Moor Farm threw up his hat and then danced on 
 it, and " tallied " and " hoicked " until his breath failed him. Then he 
 shook hands with me, and "tallied" and "hoicked" again, and there 
 was shouting all up and down. It was splendid ! The run of the 
 season ! The old varmint ought to be in a glass case ! Not for a 
 fortune would the Master have had me miss the sport. 
 
 The cunning and pluck and fight of the otter seems to touch a 
 sympathetic chord somewhere in the Devonian's breast. " Devon 
 die-hards " have won their honours by sea and land, and in the otter 
 is a kindred spirit. After the kill the field will often wish secretly 
 that the varmint had got away, so as to show sport another day. 
 
 The huntsman gave the otter every chance, and he had two good 
 opportunities of saving his fur. 
 
 There is a widespread opinion that the otter likes the sport. 
 
 To show that the animal is not hunted in an unsportsmanlike 
 spirit, the Master told me that last year a first-class pack only killed 
 eleven times in forty days ! 
 
 If the otter were not hunted the Master said he would have a 
 bad time of it because he is so destructive in trout and salmon 
 streams. The animal stupidly leaves on the banks the tails and 
 pieces of fish which he does not want. Even poachers go mad when
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 63 
 
 they see such waste. In the water the animal is so expert a swimmer 
 that it will sometimes bite a piece out of a salmon, and salmon with 
 healed otter bites are familiar in Devon streams. The otter is a 
 deep-sea angler as well, and has been captured in lobster-pots. 
 
 The Master gave me three reasons — "all good uns" — for the 
 hunting of the otter. 
 
 First, the hunters liked it. 
 
 Second, the dogs liked it. 
 
 Third, the otters — well, who could say that the otters did not 
 like it ? 
 
 Was I prepared, as an honest and honourable man, he asked 
 triumphantly, to say that what I had seen was not " sport," and that 
 the otter was not really proud in showing off his fighting qualities ? 
 
 This ingenious shifting of the burden of proof upon me was too 
 much. 
 
 The Master told me that one famous pack of hounds had been in 
 existence for over fifty years. 
 
 The sport is not likely to be abandoned until there are no more 
 otters to hunt. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 t t 
 
 BE yti promised ? " 
 " No, I baint. Be y;* ? " 
 "No." 
 
 "Then shall us mit on Zunday at Cross Lanes?" 
 
 "That's how it all came about last Michaelmas Eve, and now 
 Mary is 'promised,'" said the Missis, interpreting my glance of 
 inquiry as soon as the girl's back was turned. 
 
 The bit of ribbon which the carrier brought on his return 
 journey, and the etcetras with which she finished her toilette for 
 going out, made a wonderful difference in the maid's appearance. 
 And there was that flush of happiness upon her face which makes 
 youth beautiful. 
 
 " Yes, she's ' promised.' " To be " promised " is to be engaged or 
 betrothed; and Mary was "promised" to a young man who was doing 
 his best to cultivate a bit of rough land, which he got on lease, at
 
 64 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 nominal rent. The land had all the appearance of waste, well 
 cropped with boulders, and had to be broken up with a mattock. 
 A most unpromising occupation, one would think. These " takes " 
 are common — a man rents a bit of land which will grow something, 
 and then he " takes " so much waste in hand and breaks it up, and 
 makes it, somehow, productive. 
 
 " The best looking maids beant always in the parlour," said the 
 Master. 
 
 " Nor the best looking men, either," said the Missis. 
 
 The Master beamed. He was in a happy mood after the hunt. He 
 told me that Mary was to have a good send-off; she was to be married 
 from the farm, and what a pity it was that I should not be able to 
 look in the big kitchen and see them all at it. Mary had been a good 
 girl — none better — and the Missis had promised that she should be 
 married from the farm. This was a certificate of character and 
 respectability, and Mary would tell her children that she was married 
 from Moor Farm, just as the Missis's own mother made it her boast 
 to this day that she was married from Squire Popple's. " The Missis 
 is doing it, and the maid won't go away empty-handed, I tell ee," said 
 the Master. 
 
 Wages are sweet, no doubt, but can be made sweeter still ; and 
 it was pleasant to know that there is still in the world something 
 besides wages between mistress and maid. 
 
 Mary's " promised " was William, and I asked the Master 
 what his prospects were, who said nothing but work, downright 
 hard work during his life, but if he had health he should never 
 want parish pay 1 
 
 Moor Farm was not large, and the Master was an advocate for 
 big farms and plenty of capital. Poor farmers, he said, were always 
 meeting with misfortunes. " Their untended, neglected children are 
 scalded, their one half-starved horse breaks his neck when straining 
 himself to get something to eat from the other side of a fence which 
 he is too weak to reach. Then their pig dies and their cows are dry. 
 Their land is starved and so are their poultry, so that they ain't worth 
 really what they fetch. If, by chance, a pound is made, then the 
 landlord or the rate-collector wants it." 
 
 According to the Master, the condition of an ordinary labourer 
 was preferable to that of a small farmer without capital. 
 
 Then I asked him, what he thought of the cry of " Back to the 
 Land," and he said, " The land wants no one back to it unless he has 
 money, — money enough for the day, and a little to spare. If a man
 
 A FAIR APPLE COUNTRY."
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 65 
 
 paid no rent on a small holding, the local taxes, he said, were quite 
 enough to cripple him, in the majority of cases. 
 
 " I have two thousand pounds on this farm : we work and we live, 
 and that is all. What can a man do on the land without capital ? " 
 
 The Master was on his own ground, and was happy. He sat 
 hack in his chair and thrust his fingers inside his unbuttoned 
 waistcoat. His round face grew rounder, he was a happy and 
 contented " dumpling." 
 
 A Devon man never minds being called "dumpling"; on the 
 contrary, he likes it, as reminiscent of his youthful days, when he 
 filled his pockets with Farmer Grice's apples, over the way. 
 
 This is a fine apple country in places, and the orchards are really 
 worth looking at twice a year — in the spring when in bloom, and 
 in the autumn when the fruit is bending the boughs underneath 
 which, in the short grass, lie thousands upon thousands of " wind 
 falls " in all stages of ripeness and decay. And then the colouring — 
 the tender white and pink of the blossoms, and the yellows, greens, 
 russets and reds of the fruit ! , 
 
 In the apple country a farm without an orchard is rare; farmers 
 make their own cider, and when they want something extra good they 
 mature it in rum puncheons and sherry casks. Then cider is a drink 
 for the gods ! and mortals not used to the beverage should be wary, 
 or they may be " pixie-led " on the way home. It is worth while 
 dropping in and having a chat with the farmer when the apples are 
 being crushed in what is called the " pound," which is a circular 
 granite trough, into which the apples are thrown, and in which they 
 are crushed, or " pounded," by a revolving stone wheel. Blind old 
 Dobbin outside, walking round and round at the rate of one mile per 
 hour, is the motive power. The picture, of its kind, is pretty, and the 
 aroma from the fresh crushed fruit is delicious. The thick, cloudy 
 juice trickling from the trough is cider, and in its new state is sweet 
 to the taste and non-intoxicating. You may drink it like water, but 
 it won't keep " new," it will ferment, or " turn off." A teetotaller 
 drinks cider in his own country ; at all events, he may without being 
 placed under ban. 
 
 George the Third, of pious memory, took a great interest in the 
 making of cider and apple dumplings during a visit he paid to Exeter. 
 Peter Pindar, a Devonshire man, got hold of the story of the King's 
 visit to a labourer's cottage where he saw the good wife making apple 
 dumplings. What puzzled him was how on earth the apples got inside 
 the paste which had no visible join or seam. He expected to see the
 
 66 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 woman sew up the dough with needle and cotton ! As Peter Pindar 
 is out of fashion now I'll quote a few lines. 
 
 You must imagine that the King is tired of hunting and 
 
 " Entered through curiosity a cot, 
 
 Where sat a poor old woman and her pot. 
 
 "The wrinkled, blear-eyed, good old granny, 
 
 In this same cot illumed by many a cranny, 
 Had finished apple dumplings for her pot ; 
 
 In tempting row the naked dumplings lay, 
 
 When lo ! the monarch, in his usual way, 
 Like lightning spoke, 'What's this? what's this? what? what?' 
 
 " Then taking up a dumpling in his hand, 
 
 His- eyes with admiration did expand, 
 And oft did Majesty the dumpling grapple : 
 
 ' 'Tis monstrous, monstrous hard, indeed,' (he cried) : 
 
 ' What makes it, pray, so hard? ' The dame replied 
 Low curtsying, ' Please, your Majesty, the apple.' 
 
 " ' Very astonishing indeed ! Strange thing! ' 
 
 (Turning the dumpling round, rejoined the King) 
 
 ' Strange I should never of a dumpling dream ! 
 
 But, Goody, tell me, where, where, where's the seam} ' 
 
 " ' Sir, there's no seam ' (quoth she) ; ' I never knew 
 
 That folks did apple dumplings sew.'' 
 
 ' No ' (cried the staring monarch with a grin), 
 
 ' How, how the devil got the apple in ? ' " 
 
 Ancient mystic rites in connection with the growth and cultiva- 
 tion of apples now survive in w T hat is called "wassailing" or "toasting" 
 the apple trees on Christmas or on Twelfth-day eve. Sometimes it is 
 called "shooting" the apple trees because a noise is made with guns. 
 It is now an occasion for a feast in some farm houses, wherein people 
 assemble and form a procession to the orchard, where the trees are 
 saluted with the firing of guns, the singing of songs, and as much 
 noise as it is possible to make. The master of the ceremonies seizes 
 a branch of the tree and holds it earthwards while the people shout 
 or sing — " Health to thee, good apple tree! " * 
 
 All present join hands and dance, and then drink the health of 
 the trees in cider, after which a libation is poured over a piece of 
 toast, which is called " basting," and the toast is fixed on a bough for 
 
 *The idea is that the fruit trees are gratified by the polite attention paid to them, and will bear 
 more or less fruit "as you do give them good wassailing." There are several versions of the song 
 sung ; the following is one : 
 
 Oh apple tree, I wassail thee ! 
 In hopes that thou wilt blow. 
 To blow and to bear well ; 
 
 So merry let us be, 
 For the Lord doth know where we shall be 
 To be merry another year.
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 67 
 
 the early robins to eat in the hope it will bring good luck. And when 
 all the orchards in the parish are thus wassailed there is jollification 
 and revelry in the farm houses. Christmas Eve and old Twelfth Night 
 are merry still where the custom is observed. 
 
 Harvest suppers and wassailing the apple-trees were eagerly 
 looked forward to in all parts of Devon, and the old people tell 
 wonderful tales of what used to happen when the pixies came into 
 the kitchen and blew the candles out, and the maids were kissed in 
 the dark without knowing who kissed them ! 
 
 Things went very well then in Merrie Devon. 
 
 There is a survival of Elizabethan England at Hayes Barton, the 
 birthplace of Raleigh, on the night of the fourth of November, when 
 the church bells ring merrily, and the parish pays for ale and 
 " farthing cakes." The ringers drink the ale, and the children 
 scramble for the cakes. This is local, and the origin of the winter 
 frolic is said to have been lost. 
 
 Three kinds of roads are in Devon — "good, bad, and none-at-all." 
 The main roads are well kept up — cyclist, motorist, carriage, cart, or 
 waggon-driver have little to complain of the highways. When you 
 get off them you take your chance, just as in other places. Roads 
 which are " short cuts," and roads which terminate somewhere in 
 duck-ponds in farm places are best avoided. Moor roads are often 
 still what they were originally, namely, tracks worn first by cattle and 
 men, and then worked into some sort of shape by carts and carriers' 
 vans. People often talk of the moors as though a chart of navigation 
 were needed to cross them, which may have been true enough at one 
 time, when the tracks were full of " puksey holes," in which man or 
 horse might be " stogged " up to the knees, or higher still. Things 
 improve slowly on moors on which it is no man's interest to spend 
 much money. A track always ends somewhere, so it is wise, in case 
 of doubt, to stick to it. 
 
 In South Devon are narrow winding lanes know as " bridle 
 paths," which are, perhaps, the most beautiful of their kind in the 
 universe. Bridle paths have a tricky, wandering, zig-zag way of 
 their own. Bridle paths were only intended for horses, and were 
 never wider than for two pack-horses to pass each other — now 
 they are narrower still, so overgrown are they, in places, with brier 
 and bramble, honeysuckle and convolvuli, making sweet-scented 
 hanging gardens of the tall hedge thorns. Then below are the rank 
 grasses and ferns and foxgloves and wild flowers, down to the tiny 
 pimpernel.
 
 68 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 These old bridle paths had some design in them, and were much 
 favoured by smugglers of old when they led from the sea coast, along 
 the cliffs, and enabled the bold " free-traders " to hide their wines 
 and spirits, tea, laces, and tobacco in secret stores and caverns. The 
 bridle paths avoided the main roads, and were always playing " bo- 
 peep " with sunlight, so they ran through the most beautiful and 
 wildest spots at times. 
 
 High hedges are the rule everywhere, and these make the country 
 look beautiful and refreshing when one is rushing through at top 
 speed. Only when one is walking, and wants to get good views from 
 five-barred gates and open gaps ; these tall hedges are apt to become 
 obstructive and spoil what promised to be good perspective. It is an 
 old complaint that a man may travel through Devon without seeing a 
 flock of sheep except on the moors, where fences are low. Still, the 
 high hedges look fresh and beautiful from railway carriage windows, 
 and afford splendid shelter to sheep and cattle during cold high winds 
 and storms. 
 
 Bridle paths must be seen and walked through, and if one is in a 
 happy and contented frame of mind at the time, so much the better. 
 In the verses " Marriage is like a Devonshire lane," the reverend 
 Vicar of Broadclyst gives one the right key — 
 
 " In a Devonshire lane, as I trotted along 
 
 T'other day, much in want of a subject for song, 
 
 Thinks I to myself, I have hit on a strain ; 
 
 Sure, marriage is much like a Devonshire lane. 
 
 In the first place 'tis long, and when once you are in it 
 
 It holds you so fast as a cage does a linnet ; 
 
 For howe'er rough and dirty the road may be found 
 
 Drive forward you must, there is no turning round ! " 
 
 There are more verses in this strain, and there is no place in the 
 world where you can read them with so much pleasure as in one of 
 these bridle paths. If you poke about and inquire why these paths, 
 so little used now, were so popular at one time, you will find out that 
 thrifty people used them for the purpose of avoiding the payment of 
 toll on the turnpike roads. " To cheat the pike " was as attractive 
 then as " doing " a railway company is now ! 
 
 The present generation have probably no better idea of what a 
 " pillion " was than I had before shown a clever little pen and ink 
 sketch made at least a century ago. I fancy that it was a social and 
 sociable contrivance before wheels could be used. The county 
 families were all so connected by blood and marriage that everybody 
 was cousin to everybody else, and house parties were family parties, and
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 69 
 
 guests stayed at one another's houses just as long as they liked. In 
 fact, it would not have been worth visiting at all, in the "good old 
 days," when treacherous roads were full of puksey-holes, or soft 
 places, and there might be highwaymen to face, and all sorts of 
 adventures possible, unless one could stay a long time without "eating 
 out one's welcome." Ladies were in the habit in those days of riding 
 upon pillions, and possibly liked it, though it appeared from the sketch 
 to be an admirable contrivance for giving the greatest amount of dis- 
 comfort to the man, the woman, and the horse. 
 
 Poor horse ! covered from head to tail with the pillion, with 
 leather protections for the legs of the man attached to it. The lady 
 sat behind with her hand in a loop of leather tied on to the man's 
 girdle. The riders were bumped along, hour after hour, the animal 
 stumbling over rocky places, and falling into bogs and puksey-holes. 
 How ladies could manage to do long journeys, and live, seems 
 wonderful. When next I read of Court beauties and women of gentle 
 birth riding " en pillion " from castle to castle, and from country 
 house to country house, I shall have some pity in my heart for them, 
 especially if the journey is at Christmas, when the tracks were snow- 
 covered, and the danger of being smothered in a snow drift was added 
 to the discomfort of being bumped to death. 
 
 I fancy a lot of romance would be needful to make a motor- 
 driven lady of to-day enamoured of jogging along country lanes on a 
 pillion ! At country houses and wayside inns short square blocks 
 were placed for ladies' use when getting on or off their pillions. 
 These old relics become interesting when one knows what use was 
 made of them. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 NATIVES say " Ex'ter*" — it is their tribute to greatness. 
 If a man were brought here in hypnotic sleep and awakened 
 in the High Street he would know that he was in a county 
 town with a history. The old Guildhall and a certain refinement in 
 the first persons he saw would tell him as much. The first view of 
 
 * " Me, me wive, an' little Joe Dexter, 
 
 Us all agreed to zet oft vur Ex'ter."— Old Song.
 
 70 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 the Cathedral would add to his knowledge. He is really in the 
 capital of Devon, where the pulse of history may be felt. A long pro- 
 cession of crowned heads, in joy and in sorrow, has passed through 
 these antiquated streets. 
 
 There is a Castle near by, where a man may be tried and hung 
 — or he may escape, even with the rope around his neck and the bolt 
 drawn, as happened not so very long ago in this old City, wherein the 
 presence of the invisible may be felt at every turn. 
 
 The right to hang is one of the distinctions of which a city may 
 be proud, and generally secures the right to be called Capital, and to 
 give inhabitants the right to the air superior. For instance, an 
 " Ex'ter " man looks over the head, or through the body, of a mere 
 Plymouthian, who possesses no hanging rights. The curious may 
 trace this air superior to various causes ; but the fact remains that 
 lords of manors, and other great people, who had the power of life 
 and death over the humble in this land, always looked taller than 
 other men ; and cities wherein a man is hanged by the neck somehow 
 put on airs and manners. Exeter has certainly an air of distinction. 
 
 The City arms bears the motto " Ever Faithful," which some 
 say is well deserved, as the people, always slow, were apt to fight and 
 struggle for causes long out of fashion. After a cause was lost in the 
 rest of the country Exeter would struggle on, and so become " Semper 
 Fidelis," the champion of lost causes. Plymouth people, for example, 
 talk like this, by way of set off. 
 
 The citizens are, however, very proud of their city and its 
 traditions. It had a history before the Romans came, and then went 
 on making history until the Norman came. William found Exeter a 
 hard nut to crack, and Devon men tell you with pride that if the rest 
 of England only had their grit the victorious Norman would have 
 been driven into the sea. 
 
 The last word was not said at Hastings, but at Exeter. After the 
 battle of Senlac, with Dover, Canterbury, London and Winchester in 
 the hands of the Conqueror, the great task was the subjugation of the 
 West. This is not mere boast. Freeman confirms this view. The 
 whole West, he says, was ready for defence, and volunteers flowed in 
 from other parts. At no moment, since the battle of Senlac, had the 
 hopes of deliverance been higher. Sir F. Palgrave confirms Freeman. 
 The centre of Saxon opposition after Harold was slain was Exeter, 
 "which would by no means accept the Norman domination except 
 upon conditions." What is important as showing the intellectual 
 fibre of the people is the statement that the men of Exeter were
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 71 
 
 seeking to form a general league amongst the British burghs against 
 the common enemy. For two years the men of Exeter fought and 
 fell, and rose and fought again against foe and famine, and at the end, 
 William, the master-strategist of his age, entered into only an un- 
 certain possession, and the grim castle of the Red Mount arose to awe 
 the people. Rougemont Castle is the Conqueror's tribute in stone to 
 the splendid valour of Devon. 
 
 The same spirit crops up all through the centuries, and is alive 
 now, for an Exonian admires courage and a good fight against odds. 
 A man or a dog who will fight "down to the ground" he loves; and 
 it is the pluck of the beast which makes all Devon men so partial to 
 otters. In no part of the world is the otter held in such high estima- 
 tion for "sport." When a son of Devon is under a cloud the Devonian 
 erects a statue in his honour. Never desert a Buller! 
 
 The " Ever Faithful " city has experienced many ups and downs of 
 fortune, but has never lost its county air and breeding. The old 
 Spanish don of the play, starving in a dismal garret, cooks his humble 
 herring with priceless lace upon his collar and cuffs. He was Castil- 
 lian and lace became him. Exeter makes its own atmosphere — it has 
 its hunts and balls, assembly rooms and masters of ceremonies ; and, 
 in truth, Beau Nash might pay a visit here in a sedan chair, as well as 
 in any city of England. 
 
 For centuries the Lords of Devon had town houses in Exeter. 
 The Courtenays, Poltimores, Fortescues and Bedfords were as 
 princes, with princely retinues, and held receptions w r ith all the 
 ceremony of royalty. The smaller gentry flocked to the City ; and 
 generation after generation left its mark, which is indelible now. 
 
 Some of these town houses possessed the aristocratic exclusive- 
 ness of a quadrangle, and were reported to be connected with the 
 country outside the city walls by dark, mysterious underground 
 passages. Queen Henrietta — the unfortunate wife of Charles I. — 
 gave birth to a daughter in Bedford House," and then was secreted 
 in the house with mullioned oriel windows, now belonging to Lord 
 Poltimore, until she could escape into France. A portrait of the 
 Princess, named Henrietta, after her mother, is in the Guildhall, near 
 by that of General Monk — an Exeter man — who played so conspicuous 
 a part in bringing about the Restoration. Some of these aristocratic 
 
 *The Church register of St. Edmund's contains the following entry — 
 
 " 1644. Our most gratious King Charles upon the 16 daye of June, 1644, had a daughter 
 borne in this City at Bedford House, being at thatte tyme the Queen's Court, between 
 the houres of ten and eleven of the Clock in the forenoon being the Lord's daye whome 
 God blesse and preserve. Her name is Henerita Maria."
 
 72 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 town houses are public institutions now, and what remains of oak 
 carving, and panelling, and wonderful plaster ceilings all tell a tale of 
 domestic and refined grandeur. 
 
 The town house of the Courtenays was in the Cathedral Close, 
 and is now devoted to literature and science, the abiding place of the 
 Devon and Exeter Institution. The Courtenays, Earls of Devon, are 
 woven into the web and woof of county history. At one time there 
 was a chance, and a good one too, for young Edward Courtenay 
 marrying his cousin Mary, and sitting on the throne of England. This 
 family seem to have fallen short of the highest pinnacles of fame 
 simply through some " trick in the blood." The old local proverb, 
 " one to make and one to spend," shows how the people viewed the 
 family trick, or weakness, of dissipating during one generation much 
 of the wealth and influence and high honour gained by its predecessor. 
 Then, when the fortunes of the house were low a " good " Earl of 
 Devon would arise, and all go right again — and so on, in alternate 
 generations. 
 
 Edward Courtenay, handsome and young, was released from the 
 Tower by Queen Mary just at the time that she felt herself secure 
 upon the throne, and wanted to marry. By way of special favour he 
 was created an Earl. The stars in their courses fought for him. The 
 Church, represented by Bishop Gardiner, favoured the match ; his 
 own mother, the young Queen's confidante and bedfellow, sang his 
 praises. An alliance with the Courtenays of Devon would carry the 
 West and give stability to the throne ! Nothing was wanting but to 
 name the day and call the banns ! 
 
 Here the "luck" of the Courtenays came in. It was young 
 Edward's turn, apparently, to put obstacles in the way of greatness. 
 Liberated from the Tower, wherein he had been confined from the age 
 of ten, handsome, an Earl, he joined the young bloods, painted the 
 town red, and himself black in the estimation of his cousin, the 
 Queen, who spent much time in private devotion. So Courtenay 
 eclipsed his own bright star, and Mary, giving out in public that it 
 would be unbecoming in her to marry a subject, and complaining in 
 private of Courtenay's excesses, turned her eyes towards Philip of 
 Spain. 
 
 Had Devon given England a king just then ! 
 
 The City has its commercial zone, and one knows it quickly. The 
 county air is not there ; and the people don't seem the same as when 
 you meet them in the High Street, and in the Cathedral Close. 
 Perhaps they change ; perhaps the environment changes them.
 
 •^-•v 
 
 ^ 
 
 "THE GUILDHALL IS VERY OLD NOW."
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 73 
 
 The Guildhall is very old now. Its granite pillars are said to be 
 bowed with the weight of age. Kings and Queens have sat at its 
 festive board, and it is said that in its archives priceless historical 
 documents are perishing. This may not be true ; but, if true, it is 
 pitiful. 
 
 The good people of Plymouth made a determined fight years ago 
 to snuff out Exeter, and become not only the capital of Devon but of 
 Devon and Cornwall. It was a bold idea, and worthy the ambition 
 of a go-ahead people bent upon supremacy ; and it was acted on at a 
 time when the judges were in favour of holding the Cornish Assizes 
 at Plymouth instead of at Bodmin. Then, why not the Devon Assizes 
 be removed from Exeter, and let Plymouth do the hanging for both 
 counties, and enjoy the kudos ? Plymouth set to work and built a 
 fine Guildhall, wherein there was space for Crown and Nisi Prius 
 Courts, retiring rooms, and all things needful for the change. 
 
 The ancient Guildhall at Exeter, with its bowed granite legs 
 calmly blinked up and down and across the High Street, and said, 
 nothing. Its nerves were not shaken by the grand Gothic rival at 
 Plymouth. It did not even condescend to move, but went about its 
 business with the aristocratic calm of centuries. The " County " 
 was behind, and Exeter remained the Capital with a big C, leaving 
 pushing Plymouth to represent Commerce, also with a big C. 
 Whether this is to be the final struggle or not for county ascendency 
 another generation may perhaps know. 
 
 Being a society place Exeter had its Theatre — and had it early. 
 Behind Allhallows Church lived Edmund Kean, in rooms wherein he 
 eked out a poor living as an actor by teaching dancing, fencing, and 
 elocution. The narrow passage from the High Street is long enough 
 to enable one to switch off his thoughts from motor cars, and big 
 salaries to " stars," and think of days when Edmund Kean lived from 
 hand to mouth here as one of the " stock " company, doing journey- 
 man's work, and doing it very well for years. 
 
 It is in a street like this old Goldsmith Street that one gets a sort 
 of grip of a life like Kean's so long as it remained in shadow. The 
 great Siddons damned him with faint praise — he acted very well, she 
 said, but " there was too little of him to make a great actor." It was 
 in the old Exeter Theatre that he developed his powers, the prophetic 
 instinct being strong within him that one day he would be great, yet 
 fearing the tragedy of greatness, lest one day he should go mad 1 It 
 was whilst living in these rooms, teaching dancing and fencing, that 
 he grew " great," on a stock salary of two guineas per week ; and
 
 74 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 worthy citizens no doubt thought him " mad " already when they met 
 him staggering home in sunshine, still clad in the costume of 
 Richard III. 
 
 It is not so long ago since people remembered Kean living in 
 these dark rooms — a sallow-faced little man, with an eye that 
 bespoke divinity. The Turk's Head Inn, in the High Street, was the 
 place where the choice spirits of Bohemia then met in a room, up a 
 passage. Kean left Exeter on foot and returned in a coach and four. 
 He was really " great," but he didn't forget the room up the passage, 
 not he ! The coach rattled down the street and stopped opposite the 
 Turk's Head Inn — a little figure quickly descends, runs up the passage, 
 enters the room, and with a Harlequin's spring leaps on the table in 
 the midst of the astonished guests, and exclaims, " Richard's himself 
 again ! " So runs the story. 
 
 The city has had its Theatre for over one hundred and fifty years, 
 but the drama played in some sort of playhouse here goes back to 
 Elizabethan times. 
 
 The story is told that Satan himself appeared upon the stage here. 
 This is, perhaps, the only occasion upon which his majesty made a pro- 
 fessional public appearance on the stage as an actor. Dr. Faustus was 
 being played. Enter Mephistophelcs, and by his side 
 
 The debut was not successful from the manager's point of view. 
 It emptied the house! His Satanic majesty was but a poor " star," 
 after all ! 
 
 The Theatre here has gone through its baptism of fire three 
 times, and is now said to be fire-proof. The " divine " Siddons played 
 here in " legitimate " drama. Satan did not interfere with her, for 
 Sarah had eyes and a tongue, and knew how to use both. She ap- 
 peared in the Gamester. She had to repeat the lines — 
 
 " Would that these eyes had heaven's own lightning, that with a 
 look, thus I might blast thee! " 
 
 The " divine " Sarah retired with passion hot within her, and 
 rushed to her room. 
 
 " You've brought me porter, boy ; I asked for beer ! " 
 
 Never to his dying day did that small boy forget the unearthly 
 fires of those tragic eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Siddons was at her zenith when she played here. " Dr. 
 Johnson had bowed down and worshipped. Sir Joshua Reynolds 
 painted his name on the hem of her garment in his portrait of her as 
 the ' Tragic Muse.' Statesmen were glad, when she played, to sit 
 among the fiddlers; the King shed tears at her acting, and the Queen
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 75 
 
 appointed her teacher of elocution to the Royal Princesses, without any 
 emolument." Was there ever a more brilliant star ? 
 
 The motor car seems singularly out of place in this City. 
 There is a want of refinement about the throbbing, eager motor in a 
 City in which sedan chairs seem in harmony. One would never be 
 surprised at seeing a sedan chair borne to the portico of the old 
 Guildhall, or to meet one in Bedford Square, or perambulating the 
 gardens, north and south. Patches, powder and fans is the sort of 
 tone that goes admirably here. 
 
 Exeter is certainly one of those old cities in which the motor is 
 out of place. When this was the headquarters of the woollen trade, 
 pack horses came here in strings and put up at the old " hostelries," 
 of which some remain and remind us of life in the time of Chaucer. 
 I suppose all the traffic of the county was done by horses with and 
 without packs and panniers, with saddles, and pads, and pillions, and 
 Exeter Fair was one of the sights of the West. In the old side streets 
 leading to the river, with their ancient churches and chapels, quaint 
 doorways and windows, deep shadows and repose, we are brought 
 face to face with the times when the merchant adventurers of the 
 city trafficked " with the realms of Fraunce and dominions of the 
 Frenche King," and dipped into their purses, and found money for 
 the daring deeds of daring seamen upon the high seas. 
 
 The motor is, however, here, and will stay, of course, but there is 
 no place for it in the picture of old Exeter. The city may, in time, 
 adapt itself to the motor, for the man with pickaxe and shovel, and 
 the contractor with speculation in his eye, are abroad. 
 
 The " Ever Faithful " City has been made much of by royalties 
 from the days of King John down to those of Queen Victoria, and the 
 citizens have been accustomed to municipal government ever since 
 they had anything to govern. One thing and another bred in them so 
 independent a spirit that they would have their little squabbles, even 
 in the presence of royalty itself. Good George the Third and good 
 Queen Charlotte were, on one occasion, guests of the Dean. The 
 most distinguished people got up an address and signed it, and 
 marched in procession to the Dean's house to present it. Party 
 politics were strong, and Mr. Dean smelt a rat. He denied the King, 
 and marched him off to the Cathedral. His most gracious majesty 
 had no knowledge, it was said, of church architecture, and assured 
 Mr. Dean that he very much admired the purity of the whitewash 1 
 
 The opposition were avenged.
 
 76 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THERE is an Academic, as well as a Society, side to Exeter. 
 The old Cathedral has looked down on eight centuries, and 
 here, as in all cathedral towns, there is an air encouraging to 
 academic repose. I always fancy it is not absent from St. Paul's, in 
 the great city of London, even during the most feverish hours of the 
 day ; and that at night, in the lightest of grey mists, the busy church- 
 yard has the repose of a place of peace and prayer. At Exeter, one 
 walks through a narrow, old-fashioned lane into the Close with a 
 sensation of peace upon him, which prepares him to enter the great 
 West door, and lift the soul upwards in the dim, religious light. 
 
 Here are three instructions from guide books which may be use- 
 ful :— 
 
 I. The best way to enter the Close is by St. Martin's 
 Lane, and see the building from a point on which its whole 
 length is revealed in a retreating perspective, which allows 
 the eye to follow the service of flying buttresses until it rests 
 upon the pinnacled enrichments of the beautiful Lady Chapel. 
 
 II. Enter by the West door, stand at the end of the 
 nave until the eye is accustomed to the soft, dim light. 
 " Then, as in a moment, the unity and harmony of the 
 church will make themselves felt, and the mind will see as 
 well as the eye. It may not be all at once that the building 
 will give up its secret and explain its own wonderful beauty, 
 but the effect of the whole will certainly begin to tell upon 
 every thoughtful observer." 
 
 III. Look down upon the whole of the choir and nave 
 from an open pane in the great East window, to which 
 access is gained by a winding staircase of some 80 steps. It 
 is said that there is nothing in England more striking than 
 the marvellous panorama of mediaeval beauty shown from 
 this point. 
 
 The Cathedral Close, with its palace and gardens, Deanery, 
 Chapter house and Library, which give one now such a blessed sense 
 of peace, have witnessed riot and massacre, and many of the most 
 troublous scenes in the history of the West. To refer to them
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 77 
 
 would fill a volume, and the mind with pity ; and I only mention 
 the matter here to show that the people of this City were always ready 
 to champion some cause more or less lost already. So fond were 
 they of championing something that they would rather fight each 
 other than not fight at all. 
 
 Whenever the Cornish marched as far as Exeter there was 
 certain to be rebellion. The Cornish had a fiery eloquence which 
 excited the slow-moving Saxon blood almost to frenzy. At one time 
 they would have the mass, and at another time they would not have 
 it ; and almost every pretender to the throne, at one time or other, 
 was pretty certain to find the " Ever Faithful " ready to take up his 
 cause, and fight for him " down to the ground." They say the old 
 spirit survives; and only wants mild encouragement on a 5th of 
 November night, or during a contested election, to show itself. 
 
 I have said the " slow moving Saxon blood," but I only use the 
 words " slow moving " by way of contrast with the fiery blood across 
 the Tamar, which boils over and exhausts its heat long before Devon 
 men begin to feel warm. When, however, the Devon blood is hot it 
 retains its heat much longer than the Cornish. If a Devon man is 
 your friend, or your foe, it is for life ! 
 
 " Poor Tom D'Urfey," the song writer, was born somewhere in 
 the City. His father was Huguenot, and set up looms for the 
 manufacture of tapestry, wherein he was assisted by skilled work- 
 men from the far-famed Gobelins, in Paris. I was told there is 
 no trace of the factory now. Somehow, the exotic industry did 
 not take root, but disappeared with the family. The church of St. 
 Olave, in the Fore Street, was fitted up for the French refugees who 
 took shelter here after St. Bartholomew's massacres, and for that 
 reason many visit it. 
 
 There is a strain of the Huguenot blood in the City now which has 
 never quite assimilated with the Devon. Though born in Exeter, no 
 one would ever mistake Tom D'Urfey for a Devonian, but had he 
 been born west of the Tamar he might have passed muster as a 
 native. " Poor Tom ! " how envied when the " Merrie Monarch " 
 used to lean on his shoulder, and hum over a song with him ! The 
 songster's motto was " laugh and grow fat," and he lived to a good 
 old age, but so poor, that the wits said he'd never want to come back 
 again, even if he had the chance. There are song writers now who 
 say that business has not improved much since then! Tom D'Urfey 
 is neither read nor sung now, but he gave this adage to the language, 
 " I can hold with the hare and run with the hound."
 
 78 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 Close to the South door of the chancel of St. Sidwell's, lying fiat 
 on the ground, is the tombstone of Joanna Southcott, the Mrs. Eddy 
 of her day. Sprung from the menial class, Joanna made much stir in 
 the world through her " dreams and visions." She believed that she 
 was chosen to become the Mother of Shiloh, the Prince of Peace. 
 Scarcely able to read or write, she dictated visions and prophecies, 
 and vague but shrewd allusions to home and foreign politics, some of 
 which came true — as true as certain prognostications in the popular 
 almanacs of the day. 
 
 She was a familiar figure in Exeter, earning a living in a very 
 humble way, but was not considered worth squabbling over until she 
 was threatened with persecution. Then the Exeter blood warmed a 
 little. When the poor, deluded woman died, and Shiloh was not 
 born of her, when her cause was utterly discredited and lost, then her 
 followers increased in the " Ever Faithful " City. The belief spread 
 that Joanna would one day re-appear and Shiloh be born, and Joanna 
 Southcottians, if men, were under a vow never to use razors on their 
 chins " until Shiloh came." It was the custom to shave in those 
 days, so these men were called the " Bearded Men," and children ran 
 away from them. Ladies belonging to the cult wore quaker bonnets. 
 
 In the three counties, Wiltshire, Somerset, and Devon, Joanna 
 had numerous followers, and the last, John Pound, is said to have 
 died in the faith twenty years after the prophetess, who departed 
 this life in the year 1834. There is quite a Southcott literature. 
 William Sharp, the eminent line engraver, member of the Imperial 
 Academy of Vienna, and of the Royal Academy of Munich, believed 
 in the woman and printed her books. 
 
 The poor soul was handled roughly by opponents, one of whom 
 printed a pamphlet entitled: "The She-Fox caught from Cover; or 
 the Prophetess in the Pillory." Another polite writer commenced 
 his pamphlet by saying : " It is nearly twenty years ago that Joanna 
 Southcott, a well known character in this City, began to forsake her 
 usual habits of honest labour as an upholsterer, and to set up the in- 
 iquitous practice of foretelling future events by pretended nocturnal 
 information from invisible agents." 
 
 Joanna believed that she would never die, and when she was 
 dead she was reported to be in a trance which would last for ten days. 
 Medical bulletins were issued daily, and England looked on, open- 
 mouthed, and wondered. Was it possible that she should live again? 
 
 Thousands there are in the world to-day who would look with, 
 at least, passing interest on this flat tombstone in St. Sidwell's
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 79 
 
 churchyard. There are even some, like Mark Twain, who would 
 draw a parallel. 
 
 Henry Baird was a native of this City. He was a poet who 
 wrote little, and published less. In life, he was a stubborn little man, 
 quick to resent and forgive. In literature, he was " Nathan Hogg," 
 and wrote in the Devonshire dialect before dialect poems were so 
 much the vogue as now. " He was a Devonshire otter with a heart 
 of gold," said one man who knew him. Another said he was the 
 " Burns of Devon," and recited a few lines to show me how the 
 dialect can touch soft places in the heart. 
 
 THE DAYSY TAP THA GRAVE. 
 Wat dist thow yer thow litt'l vlow'r, 
 
 Why zich a spot dist crave ? 
 This ez no pleace vur wan like thee — 
 
 A daysy tap tha grave 1 
 Aw, no ! shud be zom murnvul vlow'r 
 
 Vrim joyvul luk apart ; 
 A vlow'r of darker hu, way haid 
 
 Thit drap'th down like ma hart. 
 I can't abide to zee thee zmile, 
 
 That zacrid grave abuv ; 
 Uv hur U vrom ma bcth till now, 
 
 Wis aul I luv'd ur luv : 
 Et bear'th ma back to wat beant now, 
 
 Bit aw ! ta wat ith bin, 
 Then gie mee zom moar murnvul vlow'r, 
 
 Like wat I veel wayin. 
 Butstap! hur is a Angel now, 
 
 Moar bright an pur thin thee ; 
 A light brayk'th in apin mee hart, 
 
 Thy buty now I zee ; 
 Iss ! litt'l vlow'r I'll iver think, 
 As thow return 'st aych yur, 
 Thit thow bee'st zent ta bare ta mee, 
 A zmile av luv vrim hur." 
 Surely Exeter is not so rich in poets, dead or alive, that there is 
 no room for a tablet somewhere for Henry Baird — " the otter with a 
 heart of gold " — sleeping now far away from the red earth of Devon.* 
 
 * Baird's hatred of injustice was a consuming passion. Those who knew him well say they can 
 read much of his true character in the following lines. He died in St. Thomas's Hospital, London, 
 May 3rd, 1881. 
 
 GIRT OFVENDERS AN' ZMAL. 
 A muller ha vown a mowze in ez hutch Then ha cort'n hole be tha end a tha tayl. 
 
 An zed "vur this yu bee bown ta dye." 
 Bit tha pore litt'l crayt'r playdid hard, 
 An wanted ta naw tha rayz*n wye. 
 
 "Tha rayz'n wye?" tha muller ha zed, 
 "Way that's a purty thing, ta be zshore ; 
 
 Now wadd'n thee vown in thic thare hutch, 
 A aytin tha mayl thit's grownd vur tha pore ? " 
 
 An ez pore litt'l haid gin tha hutch ha hat, 
 Arter wich tha cruel twoad ha drade 
 
 Ez pore litt'l carkiss owt ta tha cat. 
 Now a muller ha stayl'th an cal'th et "tole," 
 
 An a mowthvul ur tu, a mouze'll scral, 
 Wat a honjist vate thare ez, I zess, 
 
 Vur ofvenders girt an ofvenders zmal.
 
 80 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 The " Ever Faithful " is rich in churches. When the City 
 was enclosed within walls the number was so remarkable that 
 people had a homely way of saying a thing was " as true as God's 
 in Ex'ter." 
 
 On the other side of the Tamar there were more " saints " but 
 fewer churches — there were so many saints, indeed, that they were 
 able to lend a few. The Devonians, being Danes and Saxons, and 
 stubborn always, did not come under the spell of the Celtic saints 
 quite so early as the Cornu-Britons; or, if they did, then the stories 
 concerning them are not so well preserved, or so vivid and realistic. 
 In the sister county, the "saints" are very human, and left traces of 
 themselves everywhere in the shape of walking-sticks, head gear, 
 quoits, platters, fishbowls, and all manner of things. In Devon, things 
 are different, and the atmosphere is different, only the struggle with 
 the old order of things is in evidence. Under whatever name, the 
 Church has had a tough fight here, where, even to-day, clean-living, 
 God-fearing people have faith in " charms " and incantations, and the 
 witch-doctor does a good trade on market days. 
 
 At one time the Church had to struggle against invisible forces 
 in the shape of pixies. Stories are plentiful, and this is the spirit of 
 some of them. 
 
 THE PIXIES AND THE BELLS. 
 
 A new bell was hung at Ottery St. Mary, which, everyone knows, 
 was one of the favourite haunts of the pixies. It was even so when 
 the great Coleridge, who was born there, wrote a pixie poem ; and 
 what it was " back along " in the days of Bishop Bronscombe, who 
 dedicated the Church, must now be left to the imagination. 
 
 The pixies had been caught napping when the foundations of the 
 Church were laid, and as they could make nothing out of the plans, 
 which the architect spread out before him, the building was allowed 
 to grow and grow — nave, choir, and lady chapel. At times they were 
 interested — the fine foliage around the bosses took their fancy, only, 
 they said amongst themselves that it was an awful waste of time to 
 carve leaves inside when there were so many myriads to be seen upon 
 the trees. 
 
 When the Church was dedicated, and hymns of praise floated 
 upward on sweet incense, a tremor ran through pixie-land, for the 
 pixies had a hold upon the people and represented something which 
 this beautiful pile was erected to destroy.
 
 GC 
 
 25 
 
 fc 
 
 25 
 
 v:
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 81 
 
 Pixies disliked the sound of church bells, which were intended to 
 drive away all evil spirits and pixies, as well as to call the faithful to 
 worship ; and when it was spread, far and wide, that the new bell of 
 St. Mary's might be heard for twenty miles, over hill, and combe, and 
 bog, to the great annoyance of all ancient pixie dwellers in the land, 
 war was declared. 
 
 Now, it must be known that a church bell, to have the quality of 
 sweetness essential to all worship, must be composed partly of tin. 
 
 The pixies were in league with the " nuggies," who work in the 
 tin mines with silver hammers on silver anvils; and the nuggies said 
 they would make no tin for church bells ; but that they had no 
 control over the metal when once brought to the surface. 
 
 But there must be tin for the bell. 
 
 So the good monks, and lay brethren round about, stepped into 
 the rivulets and " streamed for tin," and got enough of the precious 
 metal for the casting of the bell. 
 
 Then the pixies went in their myriads to the foundry, each with 
 a drop of dew upon his wings, and shook the dew upon the metal, so 
 that it cracked in the casting, nor could it be cast whole until after 
 the building and all therein had been dedicated to St. Michael. 
 
 Then when the bell was cast so that it might praise God with its 
 tongue, the pixies waylaid the men conveying it on huge rollers, and 
 so deceived them by false landscapes that instead of going to Ottery 
 they travelled towards the sea, and would have hurled the bell over a 
 deep cliff had not Lay Brother John, by accident, just then run a thorn 
 into his bare foot, which caused him to say " God bless us and save 
 us ! " Then the pixies fled, and the men's eyes were opened, and they 
 saw that they had been " pixie-led " and well nigh come to terrible 
 grief. 
 
 At last the bell was hung in the stately tower of St. Mary's. The 
 great cross beams and heavy timbers bowed low to receive their 
 burden and straightway raised themselves again, and the pixies heard 
 the sound. Then they assembled once again in their hosts, and each 
 one wove a gossamer thread, and flew to the tower, and wound it 
 round the clapper of the bell. 
 
 The bell was to be baptised that very day. 
 
 The ringer when passing through the belfry seized the rope, just 
 to try his strength once more, and to fill his soul with sweet sound. It 
 was a new thing, and he wasn't yet tired. 
 
 He pulled, and then lay upon the rope with all his might. No 
 sound !
 
 82 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 " Dang my buttons ! That's pixie work," said he. 
 
 So the Bishop and all the clergy came to baptise the bell, which 
 was named Mary, and all the God-fearing parishioners came because 
 they were to be godfathers and godmothers to the bell. Those who 
 were not God-fearing came also, and mocked when they heard that 
 the bell was tongue-tied and muffled by the pixies. 
 
 " 'Tis a dumb bell," they said, and laughed merrily. 
 
 Then said the Bishop, " We will christen the bell, and it will 
 speak by the power of the Spirit." 
 
 Now the godfathers all took hold of the rope, which the Bishop 
 sprinkled, and then he ascended into the tower, the priests and aco- 
 lytes following, and there sprinkled the bell, saying : — 
 
 " Mary, I baptise thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, 
 and of the Holy Ghost. Be thou henceforth efficacious in driving 
 thunder, lightning, evil spirits, pixies and tempests from the living and 
 the dead in this place." 
 
 Now when the " gossips " lay upon the rope the bell spoke, for 
 the pixie-spell was broken. 
 
 This story is only to be found in an ancient chronicle ; but the 
 pixies never lifted up their heads again in revolt in this parish, though 
 you may find the "pixie parlour" and fairy rings here, as of yore, and 
 may see wonderful things if your eyes are " touched " with the magic 
 ointment. 
 
 The effigy of Sir John Coke descends from its pedestal and 
 perambulates the church at night, but the pixies have nothing to do 
 with this. Sir John was murdered by his own brother, and why he, 
 and not the guilty brother, is troubled, is one of the mysteries. 
 
 Joanna Southcott, the prophetess, was baptised here ; but she 
 was evidently pixie-led most of her time. 
 
 There is a word to be said for Ottery, which seems to resist the 
 temptation to grow — a pixie spell, perhaps. Thackeray spent part of 
 his boyhood here. Ottery is the Clavering, the happy village, in 
 " Pendennis." 
 
 Tom Smith, who used to drive the Alacrity coach, would often 
 point to a tree near the river, from which a fine view of the church 
 and town was commanded, and inform his companion on the box that 
 " Artistes come and take hoff the church from that there tree." So 
 says Mr. Thackeray. 
 
 Then there is the Coleridge ; he was born in the Valley of the 
 Otter. " The Ancient Mariner " is familiar the world over, and the 
 name of Coleridge will never die as long as the melody of that
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 83 
 
 marvellous tale is heard. Still, it was not the sea hut the river which 
 filled his heart, and he often came back in thought to the Otter of his 
 boyhood : " Thy waters with many tints," " Thy crossing planks," 
 11 Thy marge with willows gray," " Thy bedded sand that teemed with 
 various dyes." Then that other Coleridge, " the silver tongued," who 
 died Lord Chief Justice of England (making the second Lord Chief 
 Justice which Devon has given birth to) was born here, and this is 
 the home of my lord who still practises at the bar. There is some- 
 thing distinctive in the air here, and has been from the days of the 
 young Carew who, giving trouble at the High School at Exeter, was 
 led home to his father's house at Ottery, coupled between two fox- 
 hounds. James Anthony Froude, himself a Devon man, tells the 
 story. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 * ' 1 \ EVONIANS were well educated before education became 
 J popular, and this gave them a great advantage over the 
 people of other counties, notably in the West," said a 
 clergyman whom I met accidentally in the Cathedral Close. 
 
 In the Cathedral Close, or in the Cathedral, no one ever resents 
 being spoken to — at all events, this is my experience. 
 
 " Grammar schools in Devon are old and numerous, and there 
 are very few towns or parishes in which large sums were not given by 
 pious donors for providing free education. 
 
 " There was the spirit of enterprise in a sea-faring and hardy 
 population, who (whether they could read or not) were technically 
 educated in seamanship, and were the best geographers of the age, 
 and they were guided by men who had received a sound education in 
 our grammar schools. This City was rich in grammar and free 
 schools. 
 
 " Only take Tiverton — Blundell's school, which Blackmore has 
 immortalised." 
 
 The halo of a splendid reputation was once Tiverton's. The 
 Prime Minister, the right honourable member for Tiverton, held the
 
 84 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 destinies of the country in the hollow of his hand. No change was 
 possible as long as " Old Pam " was alive. Tiverton gave him his 
 seat for thirty years, and received the reflected glory. 
 
 A very good example this of a Devon town which owed its birth 
 and growth to a river. At the junction of the Exe and Lowman 
 there was a ford, commerce crystallised, and a town grew. It became 
 a market town, and a cloth trade grew up. A very pleasant place to 
 live in, in the midst of the lovely scenery of the valleys of the Exe 
 and its tributary streams, and not so far from the bleak and barren 
 Blackdown hills, whereon Nature seemed to take revenge for being 
 soft and beautiful in the fruitful valleys. 
 
 There is another reputation, also with a halo, which spreads 
 upwards and becomes richer with the centuries, and is also insepar- 
 able from the place — the reputation of Peter Blundell. 
 
 In some of the narrow streets one may fancy one sees the spare 
 and active figure of a man going about his business — a man with high 
 forehead, full hazel eyes, and mouth tender and sensitive. A 
 thoughtful and reflective man attending to his business of cloth 
 buying from the people who set up looms in their cottages and 
 worked them there. Nothing very particular about the man, or his 
 occupation, and we don't mark him down as different from other men 
 who buy and sell, and make money, and put it out to interest, not 
 knowing that he is working, and striving, and saving, for the realisation 
 of a dream. 
 
 One night Peter dreamt that William of Wykeham appeared to 
 him and said, " Though I am not myself a scholar, I will be the means 
 of making more scholars than any scholar in England. Follow me!" 
 William of Wykeham founded Winchester School, and Peter inter- 
 preted the words to mean, " Do you likewise at Tiverton." He was 
 unmarried, and a dream-child entered into his life. He would build 
 a school, and endow it, and found scholarships, and call them all by 
 his name. When he died the dream-child was perfect upon paper — 
 everything was planned and in order, and the money for which he 
 had worked was ready to " build a faier schoolhouse to conteyne for 
 the place for teaching only, in length one hundred foote, and in 
 breadth fower and twenty foote," near the river Lowman, "and all to 
 be enclosed with a fair, strong wall with a little dore." In the direc- 
 tions nothing was forgotten, so completely had he been possessed in 
 life with this dream-child which one day was to live. 
 
 Peter was a shrewd man and practical, and made a " deare 
 frende" of Sir John Popham, Lord Chief Justice of England, who
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 85 
 
 took the matter in hand at once, and built the school so well and truly 
 after Peter Blundell's plans, that the worthy founder's spirit might 
 have roamed therein as in a second home. 
 
 This is the Sir John Popham, "a huge, heavy, ugly man," whose 
 portrait, in scarlet and ermine robes, hangs next to Peter Blundell's 
 in the Big School, the man who obtained the charter of the London 
 and Plymouth companies for the colonisation of Virginia and New 
 England. A determined man to look at, " a terrible Puritan," but 
 with a weather eye to business. When the Spanish Ambassador 
 complained that his colonisation schemes encroached on Spanish 
 territory, he said he was only undertaking the enterprise in order to 
 clear England of thieves, and get them drowned in the sea. This was 
 Peter Blundell's "deare frende," and he built the school, and founded 
 the scholarships, and did all the things that the worthy old woollen 
 merchant wished done, for the greater glory of God, and the good of 
 the boys of Tiverton.* 
 
 No one passes through the town without seeing the converted 
 remains (unhappy words) of the old school — you can't, the benevolent 
 shade of Peter Blundell won't let you ; and there's another shade 
 now — once a Blundell boy in the flesb — who won't let you, and that 
 is Richard Dodridge Blackmore, the creator of " Lorna Doone." 
 Many old grammar schools throughout the land have been happy in 
 their pupils, but none so happy as Blundell's in turning out one who, 
 by his " insight and humour, and the rythmic roll of antique lore," 
 would make it famous throughout all lands and generations. 
 
 The old school would not last for ever, but in the new building, 
 whatever could be saved of panelling, and beams, and relics of the 
 Spanish Armada has been preserved, and built in. The new may be 
 better, but the old, alas ! has passed away. The old school has been 
 in the hands of commissioners and lawyers, and subjected to schemes 
 of administration in order to bring it up to date and flourishing, as it is, 
 with every promise of living a thousand years or so at the very least. 
 
 The old style of thing would not do for the present generation. 
 A Blundell boy was " as hard as nails"; he had to be. Certainly he 
 was expected to be an otter in his love of loach, minnows, and trout, 
 and the water generally. The boys were always wet ; when the river 
 was in flood they waded through to church, and when it rose to a 
 certain point they all had holiday, and went out and threw each other 
 into the stream. They couldn't drown. 
 
 *Visitors from the United States are especially interested in Popham, and honour him at 
 banquets as the man "under the shadow of whose great name was laid the colossal empire of the 
 Western world."
 
 86 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 Every new boy, according to the unrecorded chronicles of the 
 school, underwent the water test and the fire test. He was stripped 
 and thrown into the deepest part of Taunton Pool, and so got his first 
 lesson in swimming. Then came the fire test. He was strapped 
 •sideways on a form, and placed with his back to the hall fire and 
 " basted " from time to time with cold water. Those who survived 
 were worthy of Blundell's. Unfortunately, on one occasion, the boys 
 ran off to the Green without leaving anyone in charge, so the new 
 boy was over-roasted, and died. Then this practice was given up ! 
 
 One of the distinguished Blundellians was Bamfylde Moore 
 Carew, the King of the Gypsies. The old spirit of audacity and 
 unrest flickered up in this remarkable Devon lad, son of Theodore 
 Carew, rector of Biskley, near here. He was well born, and educated 
 in "a tender and pious manner" at Blundell's, according to 
 Blundellian notions of " tenderness." He crammed a little Latin and 
 Greek, but was best known for " a remarkable cheering halloo to the 
 dogs." A child of Nature, he joined the gypsies, and on the death of 
 Clause Patch, their King, he was elected King by popular vote, 
 according to the rites, manners and customs of the ancient Egyptians. 
 He was a most lovable man, and died " King." The gypsies at 
 certain seasons of the year strewed flowers over a grave at Rew, 
 where he was supposed to have been buried, sang a sacred hymn, and 
 then bowed down and kissed the green turf. This is the only elected 
 and crowned " King " that passed through Blundell's. 
 
 " Passen " Jack Russell was another specimen of a Blundell boy. 
 He had a genius for hunting. When at school he kept ferrets, and 
 hunted rabbits, and at sixteen he and Bob Bovey started a pack 
 and went coursing. They must have been good fellows, those 
 two, for the farmers took to them, and instead of laying com- 
 plaints and horse-whipping them on occasion, used to send them 
 secret messages telling them where a hare was sitting, or the carcase 
 of an old horse for the dogs. 
 
 Poor Bob Bovey was expelled. Russell escaped by the skin of 
 his teeth. He was called up, and this is the reported interview. 
 
 " You keep hounds, sir ? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Do you dare tell me a lie ? " 
 
 " 'Tis no lie, sir. Bovey stole them away yesterday, and sent 
 them home to his father." 
 
 " Ah, that's lucky for you, or I would have expelled you, too," said 
 the Headmaster.
 
 IN THE LAND OP JUNKET AND CREAM. 87 
 
 The " Ironing Box" of the Old School is Blackmore's classic in 
 " Lorna Doone." This triangular patch of green inside the gate was 
 the old battlefield. This is where the Homeric fight between John 
 Ridd and Robin Snell took place. Here also — a long time after — 
 Frederick Temple had his first fight at Blundell's. His Grace told the 
 story in his old age. Here it is. 
 
 " My antagonist was not a good boy, and, to tell the truth, he 
 was a bit of a coward. He hit out at me, but I contrived to dodge 
 him, and then my turn came. The end of it was that he turned tail 
 and ran away, with me after him, shouting as he went ' Take him off, 
 take him off.' " 
 
 We feel that something is wanting in this narrative, something of 
 the joy of battle and of victory won upon the Ironing Box. Still, one 
 must not expect too much from an Archbishop in praise of the 
 " noble art," even when speaking of himself standing up against and 
 licking a boy six inches taller. 
 
 But Dr. Temple was loyal to the old school. This is what he 
 said to the boys at Canterbury — " It was my lot at school always to 
 have to wash at the pump in the morning. All the boys washed at 
 the pump. It was not, in some respects, as nice as washing in one's 
 bedroom, but it had its merits, because if a boy was inclined not to 
 wash himself the others washed him. I have before now helped to 
 hold a fellow under the pump because we did not consider that he 
 had washed enough ! " 
 
 Cleanliness before godliness was the rule at the pump. 
 
 The Doctor was simply irresistible when he begged a holiday 
 for the boys, as he did from Fulham Palace on the 19th June, 
 1887: 
 
 " My dear Headmaster, — 
 
 " I write in every capacity that can be assigned to me 
 
 to get a favour from you. 
 
 " I want a holiday for the boys on the 21st. 
 
 " I entreat you as an Old Blundellian, as a Blundell 
 
 scholar of Balliol ; as a Blundell Fellow of Balliol ; as a 
 
 Governor of the School ; surely the combined petition of so 
 
 many, all of them Blundellians, ought to prevail. 
 " Do. 
 
 " Your humblest servant, 
 
 " F. London." 
 
 For three hundred years Old Blundell educated and turned out 
 fine fellows, who washed at the pump, " hard as nails," and fit for the
 
 88 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 battle of life. Long may the shade of Peter Blundell be satisfied with 
 the New School, which is within easy distance of the Old. 
 
 The outdoor life is the life here — hunting, racing, shooting, fishing, 
 golf and sports — -a healthy, breezy tone everywhere. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE river runs through Exeter, and then onward until it meets 
 the glorious sea. On one side of the estuary is gallant little 
 Topsham — the ever-ready little Topsham when ships and men 
 were wanted for commerce or for war. 
 
 A snug little spot this, with its church, and houses, and ship- 
 builders' yards, and landing stages all dipping seawards — for the sea 
 was its breath of life. Times have changed, truly, for the little port, 
 but the old memories remain. 
 
 Then there is Exmouth, with its beaches of bright, soft sand, 
 which has entered on a new life — a villa and a garden life, with rides, 
 and drives, and links, and everything up to date. And here we are 
 upon ground made classic by Sir Walter Raleigh, though, alas ! the 
 name, plentiful enough at one time, is only a tradition now. It is 
 said there were once five families of Raleigh with a " Sir " at the 
 head of each, which would have been a little confusing, only people 
 had a knack of ear-marking one another by the colour of their hair, 
 a halt in their walk, an impediment in their speech, or the name of an 
 estate. Sir Walter Raleigh of Hayes — Hayes Barton, where he was 
 born — would distinguish him from all others, if there were fifty Sir 
 Walters in other parishes. 
 
 The Barton is a farmhouse now — a house with many gables and 
 a porch — but the room in which he " first drew breath " is preserved. 
 
 The following is extracted from a scarce book of lithographic drawings of the Old School. 
 
 Mr. Peter Blundell, born Tiverton 1520, of parents in very humble station of life. By assiduity 
 and integrity he amassed large fortune, and left £40,000 by will in legacies and bequests. Prince, in 
 his "Worthies of Devon," says ''he was a poor lad who went errands for the carriers who came to 
 Tiverton. * * * By degrees he got a little money, of which he was very careful, and 
 bought therewith a kersic, which a carrier was so kind as to carry for him to London gratis, and to 
 make him the advantage of the return. Having done so for some time, he at length got kersics 
 enough wherewith to load an horse, and went with them himself, where being found very diligent and 
 industrious, he was received into good employment by those who managed there the kersic trade (for 
 which Tiverton was then very famous) and he continued therein until he was rich enough to set up the 
 calling for himself." 
 
 In addition to the school he provided 
 
 Two scholarships of £30 a year each at Balliol College, Oxford. 
 
 Two of £30 each at Sydney Sussex College, Cambridge. 
 
 Two Fellowships at each of the above-named colleges, and 
 
 Two Exhibitions of £30, tenable for four years, for boys educated at this School.
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 89 
 
 His father married first Joan Drake of Exmouth, and then Catherine 
 Champernown, widow of Otho Gilbert and mother of the illustrious 
 Sir Humphrey Gilbert, so he was a true son of Devon. The name has 
 died out now. 
 
 Sir Walter was educated at Oxford, and had a fine capacity for 
 the enjoyment of life. In solitude he was a poet, and escaped ennui ; 
 in prison a historian ; in freedom a man of action, fighter, a specu- 
 lator, a courtier, a statesman. He was far greater than the men who 
 destroyed him. Henry Howard, Earl of Northampton, knew it — 
 knew that he was greater than himself, and than Cecil, whom he 
 counselled by letter to ensnare in some embarkation against Spain 
 because " it were good to cut down the thorne before the time come 
 wherein it can make account to take hold of you." This is the kind 
 of homage which great men receive from the men they overshadow. 
 
 Raleigh is only second to Drake in the heart of Devon ; and it is 
 as a sailor that he is best remembered. He felt the call of the sea in 
 his blood before he went to Oxford. Sidmouth, Budleigh Salterton, 
 Exmouth and Topsham were all within his reach in his boyhood. The 
 tales which Amyas Leigh heard, he heard ; and Millais came down 
 here three centuries after and painted the youth listening to the tales 
 of the old sea-dogs. There wasn't much change, perhaps, in the 
 scene, only when Millais came there were some modern piles upon the 
 beach, and the artist, in a moment of forgetfulness, painted them in ! 
 
 Like Drake, Raleigh was a favourite with Queen Elizabeth, 
 though for different reasons. She paid Drake the compliment of 
 saying that he would not care if she thought ill of him ; but Raleigh 
 she favoured on account of his education and courtly manners, and 
 she was a good judge of both. 
 
 Old Fuller preserves the story that young Raleigh laid his rich 
 cloak on the mud for her majesty to walk on; and Dr. Drake hazards 
 the conjecture that the act took place at Deptford, on the occasion of 
 the knighting of Sir Francis Drake. There was a banquet on board 
 the Golden Hind, and so great was the crowd that the wooden bridge 
 leading to the ship broke down. This was the opportunity, and the 
 gallant young Devonian, with the rich cloak upon his shoulders, had 
 the mother wit to seize it. 
 
 One can imagine the scene. The foul slush of Deptford to be 
 crossed by the proud lady wearing the highest and stiffest three-piled 
 ruff in Europe, embroidered with pearls and precious stones. Strong 
 and gallant men are there in plenty to carry her, if the problem were 
 to be solved that way, but that were worse than the unqueenly lifting
 
 90 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 up of satin skirts, and the fouling of dainty shoes and silken hose in 
 the sight of the multitude. For virgin majesty the situation is embar- 
 rassing. Then comes Raleigh, young and handsome, glowing with 
 inspiration, and lays down his rich cloak of Genoa velvet, padded and 
 silk-lined, so that majesty may carry its three-piled ruff with dignity 
 and grace over the foul mud. One glance of gratitude from the 
 eyes of majesty, and Devon has a courtier whose fame will never 
 
 die. 
 
 Sir Walter was a poet — a true poet, who could sing of love as 
 
 well as any man of his time. His reply to Marlowe's " Come live 
 
 with me " is exquisite. 
 
 " If all the world and love were young, 
 
 And truth in every shepherd's tongue, 
 
 These pretty pleasures might me move 
 
 To live with thee and be thy love." 
 
 There is a short poem of his in which contrast is made between 
 
 the delights of courts in which " grief is forced to laugh against her 
 
 will," and the " simple life," now so much talked of, in the country — 
 
 his native Devon, probably, for choice — and he concludes with the 
 
 invocation 
 
 " May pure contents 
 For ever pitch their tents 
 Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains, 
 And peace still slumber by these purling fountains, 
 Which we may every year 
 Meet when we come a-fishing here." 
 Another undying romance in Sir Walter's life is his wooing of 
 My Lady Nicotine. The first potato he planted in Ireland; the first 
 pipe he smoked in Devon, but where ? Legend is a tricky jade and 
 has a fancy in this matter for Sir Humphrey Gilbert, saying it was he 
 who smoked the first pipe in his pleasant grounds at Greenway, by the 
 river Dart. 
 
 If we must elect, then we must vote for Raleigh — Raleigh 
 lighting up his pipe under the shade of the flowering shrubs of 
 Compton Castle. A very pleasant place, as we may know by going 
 there, and sitting down, and lighting up, and then fancying what the 
 gallant Sir Walter's feelings were when he first wooed My Lady 
 Nicotine in this particular fashion 1 
 
 Shade of Raleigh ! Did your first smoke make you very ? 
 
 Here's to his shade, with blessings, for crumbling up a few 
 withered leaves and then dropping a spark from his tinder box into 
 his pipe bowl. Only one spark, and then the incense curls upwards, 
 and in that incense, what dreams !
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 91 
 
 How one envies Sir Walter the first tobacco dream on European 
 soil — the first delicate foretaste of all the joys to come to unborn 
 millions. 
 
 To smoke a pipe at Compton Castle gives one an object in life. 
 After all, travel is only a sort of pilgrimage to shrines. 
 
 Why not then, brother smokers, devotees to the weed, make this 
 a shrine, and come in countless thousands, and light up, and dream ? 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 DAWLISH is only a short run from the City ; and if the tide is 
 out one may catch sight of men, women, and children moving 
 about like animated bundles of old clothes, picking up humble 
 cockles. The long flats, half sand, half ooze, are the home of shell- 
 fish, and seen for the first time, one wants to sit down and sketch. 
 The groupings of bare-legged men and women (mostly old) not got up 
 for the occasion are strikingly unconventional. This is not supposed 
 to be a very money-making business, and, as far as one may judge, 
 groundsel gathering, watercress picking, and cockle hunting are pro- 
 fessions not yet overcrowded. 
 
 Pass Powderham Castle, the home of the Earls of Devon, with 
 its well-timbered deer park, pass Starcross with its swan boat, and 
 you are at Dawlish — the pretty, dainty, coquettish. I always fancy 
 that there is something essentially and exclusively feminine about 
 Dawlish, wherein it differs from Teignmouth, which has a touch of 
 commerce about it, and is older and more virile. 
 
 The place has increased its boundaries a little since Barham 
 wrote of it in the Ingoldsby Legends as " half village, half town " ; 
 but it seems never to have grown up, never to have passed that 
 adorable age when blue eyes shine brightest, and it is still permissible 
 to run upon the sands and paddle. And how can it grow up and look 
 like other towns with its perennial brook babbling through green 
 pastures to the unwrinkled sea ? There are towns — plenty of them — - 
 with which one never seems to associate anything truly feminine ; but 
 this is not one of them. 
 
 Dawlish has kept up its appearance of youth without having been 
 spoilt. I don't know who discovered the place, or whether it dis- 
 covered itself, like the foam goddess, to all who had eyes to see. It
 
 92 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 really is not of much consequence to find an answer, because whoever 
 comes here for the first time thinks he has made a discovery, which 
 probably he has — for himself. 
 
 There are few places which have been so petted and caressed, 
 and toasted, and sung about for fifty years. How many times has it 
 been sketched and painted — and by the best artists, too ? Here is 
 Dawlish to-day with its glorious sea front, admired and raved about 
 as of old, and still select without being exclusive. This is a secret 
 which some towns, like some people, possess, and the secret is their 
 own. 
 
 The maker of modern Dawlish was a Mr. John Edye Manning, 
 who, having the heart of a child and the soul of an artist, allowed the 
 tiny brook to ripple along. The brook was named the Daw, and he 
 let it sing on at its own sweet will, and made a " Lawn " for it to 
 warble through for ever. Sometimes the right man is in the right 
 place, at the right time. 
 
 One charm about the place is its restfulness. The idea of 
 " home " is everywhere. You look at the hotels and villas and the 
 word " family " is writ large. People come here to lounge and wear 
 comfortable costumes without any pretention to conventional require- 
 ments. As I have said, Dawlish is still in that stage of adorable youth 
 when you want to kiss and be friends always. 
 
 One of Brunei's scientific playgrounds was here. The great 
 engineer made an atmospheric railway in the forties. There were 
 houses along the sea front wherein the driving power was generated, 
 and they remained long after the experiment was abandoned. The 
 practical difficulty was to stop the train in the right place after it was 
 once induced to start. Old people tell some funny stories about the 
 atmospheric railway. 
 
 Poor Keats ought to have sojourned here instead of at Teignmouth, 
 which, somehow, irritated him. There was too much traffic and 
 movement passing the comfortable-looking old house in the Strand, 
 with its circular windows and balconies. The house still exists. 
 " Isabella," a tale from Boccaccio, was written here. Still the poet 
 was not happy. He was too near the river, which would send up its 
 mists, and so he slanged the place and the climate. First class poets 
 want everything their own way ! 
 
 Poor Keats saw things at Teignmouth in false perspective. He 
 wrote : " You may say what you will of Devonshire, but the truth is 
 it is a splashy, rainy, misty, snowy, foggy, haily, floody, muddy, slip- 
 shod county. The hills are very beautiful — when you get a sight of
 
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 IN THE LAND OP JUNKET AND CREAM. 93 
 
 'em. The primroses are out, but then you, perforce, are in ; the 
 cliffs are of a fine deep colour, but then the clouds are constantly 
 vieing with them. I fancy the air to be of a deteriorating quality." 
 
 Dawlish was the place for him, and then the thing-of-beauty-joy- 
 for-ever mood would have been upon him when he wrote to his 
 friends. 
 
 I don't know whether any other first-class poet has written in the 
 same strain. Shelley lived in a cottage at Lynmouth,* and his soul 
 was filled with the beauty of cloud and sea, sensitive plants, and sky- 
 larks. So it was not the climate which was really at fault in Keats's 
 case, and he has long ago been forgiven. 
 
 CURL PAPER STORIES. 
 
 Modern Dawlish has no legends of its own, but has inherited one 
 relating to three rocks which formerly stood out boldly and shapely 
 on the beach, Teignmouth way, and were called the Parson, the 
 Clerk, and the Pulpit. They have been sadly weathered away by 
 time. The rocks, however, were phenomenal, and legend stepped in. 
 
 There are several versions, and I give two. 
 
 Number One. 
 
 A parson and his clerk, who happened to be unpopular at the 
 time, were riding from Teignmouth to Dawlish one dark, tempestuous 
 night, when the parson exclaimed — 
 
 " I wish the Devil would put us into the short road to Dawlish ! " 
 
 No sooner said than a sturdy countryman appears from behind 
 the hedge, saying, " I be a-goin' to Dawlish myself, and shall be glad 
 of your honour's company, for I think us'll have a wild night of it, 
 and those fellows from Deadman's Lane will be out, besides the 
 spirits and pixies." 
 
 So the three journeyed together until they came to the edge of 
 the cliff, when the countryman showed himself in his true colours — 
 horns, hoofs and tail — delivered a scathing homily to both Parson 
 and clerk, whipped the elements into storm, with thunder and light- 
 ning accompaniments, caused a landslip and precipitated both into 
 the sea, where they became petrified. The pulpit is not accounted 
 for. 
 
 Number Two. 
 
 This is more elaborate, and seems to have been directed against 
 an ambitious priest, a profane hypocrite, who was anxious for his 
 
 *Quite recently disappeared.
 
 94 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 dying bishop to die quickly in order to step into his shoes. Returning 
 from Exeter, where he had been to inquire as to his diocesan's 
 health, priest and clerk lost themselves on Haldon, whereupon the 
 priest cursed his man roundly, saying, " I would rather have the 
 Devil for a guide than you." 
 
 A countryman on horseback appears, and conducts the party to a 
 lonely house, wherein there is music and dancing and much revelry, 
 and sir priest and clerk are made welcome. A fearful storm breaks 
 over Haldon, and in the midst of it all news is brought that the dying 
 Bishop of Exeter is dead. 
 
 The priest and his clerk mount their horses. They must return 
 to Exeter. The question of succession is all-important. 
 
 The terrified cattle will not move in the pitiless storm. 
 
 " The devil is in the horses, but they shall go," says the priest, 
 spurring and whipping mercilessly. 
 
 Then he took an oath at which fiends tremble — the lights disap- 
 pear, the earth shakes, and in the morning light both parson and 
 clerk are found turned into red sandstone upon the beach, where what 
 is left of them may be seen to this day. 
 
 In country legends the devil is generally made to score off the 
 parson, who, even in social stories, is made to figure badly. A farmer 
 who was not on good terms with his vicar paid him out at the tithe 
 dinner, and then told the story to his friends. 
 
 " I was sitting by the side of Farmer Dobson, and I said to en, 
 in the hearing of the passen, ' Bob, I had a tumble dream last night.' 
 ' Had'ee, though ? ' « Ess, I had.' ' What was't about then ? ' 'I'll 
 
 tell ee 1 I dreamed I was daid, and that I descended into .' ' Not 
 
 there, surely.' ' Ess, by George 1 and I found Mr. Divil uncommonly 
 perlite. He showed me all about the place, and I began to feel tired. 
 At last I spied a butival easy chair in a cosy corner, and I told his 
 majesty I should like to sit down in it and rest myself. His majesty 
 said, ' You musn't sit there long, because that chair is specially 
 intended for a very particular friend of mine.'' I ventured to ask who 
 his particular friend might be. And who do you think it was, Bob ? " 
 
 " Don't knaw." 
 
 "Why Passen ." 
 
 " My eyes, you shud hav zeed how the passen looked at me. 
 But I didn't care." 
 
 The farmer called this " taking it out of the passen for his 
 impidence."
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 95 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 TO be good looking you should be born at Teignmouth, for good 
 looks is the fairy gift of the nymph of the placid Teign. The 
 gift is an ancient one now, and has been handed down with 
 more or less of success. How far the gift is limited to the old Devon 
 blood is matter for dispute, but a visitor need know nothing about 
 disputes. 
 
 They say the Danes founded this place, and families of gentle 
 birth have always lived here or hereabouts. Certainly there is a 
 county look about the houses and shops; and a certain distinction 
 about the professional men, who are nearly related to the county 
 families. Teignmouth has been adopted by many strangers, and it is 
 said that one may live a long time, die, perhaps, in the place, without 
 ever being permitted to penetrate the inner circle, which has an 
 atmosphere all its own. 
 
 The girls of South Devon are certainly pretty — blue eyes, and 
 light hair, and complexions like "apple blow." Nowhere, perhaps, is 
 skin so deliciously, refreshingly white — so cooling to look at, so soft. 
 To see a young girl with arms and neck bare is to learn how divinely 
 white and beautiful they may be. The girls don't run tall, but are 
 petite and lissom and " cuddlesome," and can wear almost any colour 
 and look well in it. 
 
 The young men have their beauty also, and their freckles are 
 condoned on account of the fine texture of their skin, light blue eyes, 
 and light hair, with beards to match. Sometimes a splendid model 
 of young manhood is discovered in a ferry boat; and there have been 
 romances on the water between the old town and Shaldon. Old por- 
 traits show that the people of Devon "belong" to be fair, just the 
 same as their Cornish cousins "belong" to be dark; only, they say, a 
 change is taking place, which the curious may note if they care to 
 run through the elementary day schools. 
 
 Let the future take care of itself — to-day the population is not to 
 be denied its claim to good looks, and if denied the claim will be made 
 all the same ! 
 
 Teignmouth is also proud of its history; it has had the honour of 
 being burnt and sacked by pirates and by Frenchmen ; and yet this
 
 96 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 was the best of all possible happenings, for each time it rose from its 
 ashes finer and fairer, and actually made money over the disasters, 
 so, out of gratitude, a street was built and named " French Street " — 
 one of the rare monuments of gratitude to adversaries in the world. 
 Teignmouthians are also very well satisfied with their belongings — 
 their Den, their beach, their links and polo, their bridge, clubs, reading 
 rooms and scientific and other institutions. There may be better, of 
 course, but one needn't say so — not on the spot. 
 
 Then they enjoy breezes from the sea, and airs from the moor; 
 and, when they wish for it, there is the reposeful valley of the Teign, 
 and no true man or woman will allow that these can be surpassed. 
 
 Then there is the social side — assemblies, and hunt balls, and 
 Yeomanry weeks, with races, and concerts, and dramatic per- 
 formances. The theatre is no new thing. Edmund Kean played 
 here in the old days. He tramped from Exeter, and there is the story 
 of the week he spent here just before making his debut at Drury Lane. 
 A lady is the writer, and she wrote : 
 
 " We all went and saw him (Kean) first perform a kind of ballet 
 with his little boy, a little cherub of between three and four, then act 
 Shylock in a manner truly surprising ; lastly go through a pantomime 
 with a most active Harlequin, and for doing this, or nearly the same, 
 for four nights, he received seven pounds for the whole, benefit 
 included." 
 
 Mrs. Kean's observations the next morning to the lady, who 
 called on her, were forceful. She said : " Oh ! ma'am, my husband 
 came home last night fatigued to death, and all to make such a fool 
 of himself — he who can act so well, and he says he hates to play to a 
 country audience, and all for seven pounds ! " 
 
 The town has its commercial side — it always had, and its ships 
 traded far and near. When smuggling was profitable Teignmouth 
 took it up as a business, and worked at it without sentiment. It was 
 nothing new for Devon men to be " free traders " on the water, and 
 when they had to abandon privateering they stuck to smuggling. The 
 skipper was often " financed," and he had with him on board his little 
 craft men in whom the spirit of daring adventure was as alive as in the 
 days of old. That very innocent-looking place, Combe Cellars, where the 
 ferry is, was at one time a great receiving place for smuggled goods. 
 The ferry was owned by a young girl of powerful frame, who was the 
 life and soul of the traffic. To and fro, to and fro, on dark nights 
 she used to ply, conveying kegs of spirits and packages of tobacco, 
 delivering them over to " honest traders," who rode off quickly. And
 
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 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 97 
 
 then there were places on the coast where the skipper would land his 
 cargo, and men with horses, manes and tails cut close and well 
 greased with soft soap, would ride off through narrow lanes upon the 
 cliffs and discharge their burdens in secret caves. It was dangerous 
 for Custom House officers to interfere at such times, even if they got 
 on the right track, for the men would fight desperately, and there was 
 no seizing horses without manes and tails, and with coats slippery 
 with soft soap. There is a " Smuggler's Lane " at the end of the sea 
 wall, leading to the Dawlish road, which those who wish may follow, 
 and imagine the rest ! 
 
 Sometimes captures were made of sunken kegs which broke 
 adrift and floated on the sea, and old men with tears in their eyes 
 tell of piles of tobacco smoking on the beach, and of good spirits 
 poured into the sea which intoxicated the fish swimming aimlessly 
 around. It was too pathetic to witness such sad waste of good stuff. 
 
 There was colour in the hard and hazardous life ; and not a 
 gentleman of Devon in the old days but would shut his eyes and 
 know nothing, should he, by any chance, come across the men running 
 a consignment of contraband. A Fortescue, in holy orders, too, 
 speaking of the days of his youth, said to a brother clergyman — 
 " Poor fellows, they had a rough time of it. It was a nuisance, cer- 
 tainly, when they took one's carriage horses from the stables for a 
 midnight run, but then, you see, they always left a keg of something 
 good in the stable straw in return for the liberty they had taken." 
 
 Teignmouth has its season, and a good one — " Some people come 
 with the sparagras, more with the green peas, but with the French 
 beans we'm busy," is a waiter's very practical reply to the question, 
 " When does your season really commence ? " 
 
 I have mentioned Combe Cellars, formerly a den of smugglers. 
 It is all altered now : it is to-day a little paradise whereon you land 
 after fishing, and banquet on cockles and cream teas. What would 
 you have simpler or more delicious ? 
 
 THE LADY OF THE MIST. 
 
 Sea mists are wonderful things, rising no one knows why, and 
 then disappearing without any apparent cause. There is something 
 ghostly at times about the shapes which rise from the sea and float 
 up between the rocks, and then outwards, and are lost to view. 
 
 Thorncombe Farm has a good deal of cliff land which is not 
 much good except for rabbits, hiding away amongst the bracken, and 
 for sheep who crop the sweet, short grass, and stare at the ships
 
 98 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 sailing up and down. On the cliff is the Devil's fog-horn, a deep and 
 narrow blow-hole, so called because at times the wind rushes up and 
 makes a dismal noise, which is notice of change of weather, of mist, 
 and storm, and what not. The sheep know the sign and keep closer 
 together, and their timid eyes have a scared look in them. On the 
 beach a basin of rocks forms a trap for things cast up by the sea, and 
 stories are told of many curious and costly things picked up on this 
 spot after bad weather in the Channel. 
 
 The story of the sea-wraith is told to children between the lights, 
 and the legend has been kept alive because people declared they saw 
 a beautiful lady floating on the sea in times of mist, and known as the 
 Lady of the Mist. It was unlucky for any person with friends at sea 
 to see this sight, and when they did, they turned pale, and said a 
 prayer. 
 
 The story goes that, once upon a time, men from the farm found 
 the body of a woman floating in this basin of rock, and she was won- 
 derful to look upon, being fair as any lily, with rings upon her fingers, 
 and splendid jewels on her arms. The cliff men took the jewels, but 
 were not compassionate, and threw the body back into the water. As 
 it drifted away, the long golden hair spreading like a glory on the 
 dark blue sea, the pale face looked reproachfully upon the men who 
 had taken payment and refused the right of Christian burial. 
 
 The shepherd boy minding the sheep upon the cliff saw what was 
 done. He was not very " wise," but he had compassion, and marked 
 the place where the body drifted. Then he buried it on the sheltered 
 side of a great rock. 
 
 The shepherd who was not very " wise," was called Tom Cobley, 
 and he was a dreamer and saw visions in which the lady appeared to 
 him, dressed in jewels and beautiful garments, and said she would not 
 rest until she had Christian burial. The men of the farm laughed at 
 him, for he was not very " wise." 
 
 This was long ago, and when mists were on the coast fishermen 
 sometimes saw the lady rise from the sea, and they told tales of 
 having followed until it vanished, and of having heard sweet music in 
 the air. When disaster and loss of life followed, people said they 
 were suffering for the wickedness of former years, and that the spirit 
 should be laid to rest. 
 
 Now, there came to live upon the farm one Samuel Tresize, a 
 Cornishman, whose head was full of stories, and who had the gift of 
 second sight, he being the seventh child of a seventh child. He 
 heard this story, and it was nothing wonderful to him, coming as he
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 99 
 
 did from a land where every sight and sound and thing unusual is the 
 work of pixies, or saints, or powers of darkness. When the Lady of 
 the Mist rose again he followed, and marked the place of disappear- 
 ance, at the foot of the great rock ; and the next day he came with 
 pick and shovel, and then buried what he found in the consecrated 
 ground of the little church on the high cliff, which is a mark to all 
 mariners at sea. 
 
 Mists come and go, and you may imagine what you please at 
 times, for the air currents roll up the vapour into fantastic shapes, 
 and when disaster follows, old people still say that the Lady of the 
 Mist has been seen again. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A DELICIOUS sail from Teignmouth to Brixham. Across 
 Babbacombe Bay, across Torbay, Torquay crowning the 
 heights and commanding homage, which should be paid in 
 full dress fashion. 
 
 Torbay is of horseshoe formation, with Torquay on the north 
 and Brixham on the south side. The places differ as widely as the 
 poles. 
 
 Brixham is the home of fishermen. It always has been, and has 
 known but little of any other life than fish. Trawlers predominate 
 now. 
 
 There are three things to be looked at — men, boats, and fish. 
 There is also a historical stone bearing the legend that William of 
 Orange first set his foot on English soil on this spot ; and a cave, just 
 outside the town, where bears and hyaenas feasted, and, in turn, gave 
 up the ghost. 
 
 The town itself is own brother to a Cornish fishing town, only 
 larger than most. 
 
 The first houses were built close to the water, and then they rose 
 upwards as the cliffs rose, their windows opening always towards the 
 harbour, so that a man may hail a brother fisherman, or see that his 
 craft is riding safely to her moorings. There is the same economy of 
 space, and thriftiness about light and air which seem common to 
 fishermen all the world over. They are so exposed to sunshine and
 
 100 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 wind that when once at home they like to be " snug," and they like all 
 around them to be " snug " also ; and they also like to be able to whip 
 in and out of their cellars, stow away gear and ballast and things with 
 the least possible trouble. On land, a fisherman hates much walking. 
 When he lands he likes to kick off his big boots and " turn in," and 
 when he " turns out " he likes to be able to roll on to the quay, and 
 into his boat, with the least possible amount of walking. So the 
 houses always hug the shore, and then rise as the cliffs rise, and 
 streets come anyhow — narrow winding passages, and steps are 
 plentiful. 
 
 Brixham is the home of the Devon trawler and drifter as you see 
 him on the quay, standing out sharply and well defined, lord of the 
 sea and the fishes therein, and calling no man master on board the 
 craft of which he is skipper. 
 
 Every man looks kingly in this circle of sea kings, as he gazes 
 around, indifferent to all things besides trawls and gear, boats and 
 sails, and the still panting harvest of the sea ready for market. 
 
 Our Brixham fisherman is not a modern product — not he. See 
 him once standing here ; or better still, see him on board his boat, tiller 
 in hand, with one eye on the clouds, and the other on his sails. That 
 sou'wester, with rim curled back, so as to look like a helmet, suits him, 
 giving him just that touch of the Norse viking which you know is in 
 the blood, but which you want this headpiece to remind you of. 
 He is a splendid picture, as picture ; he is a splendid man, as man, 
 the growth of centuries, and not to be manufactured to order, for the 
 sea produced him and nursed him upon storms. 
 
 There is a legend in the West that one must be mystically born 
 on wet sea moss in the Cave of Winds to know intuitively why the 
 ocean dimples and to hear the storm from afar ; and the gift passes 
 on and on, generation after generation, as a law of life. Dwellers on 
 the coast know it is so, and say " the salt is in the blood," and turn 
 morning, noon, and night towards the sea. Those who sail in and 
 out in their little craft never tire of watching the surface of the sea 
 and sniffing in its perfume ; and they are real Bluewater men, a 
 special product of Nature. 
 
 The type may be seen here, and in the smaller coves and villages 
 on the coast wherein families have lived, generation after generation, 
 from long before historic chronicle. It is even in the coves better 
 than here, where modern life will make itself sometimes felt, that the 
 Bluewater man is best studied, for, as a rule, he resists change, and 
 likes to see old boats rotting peacefully in the sun, nets drying in the
 
 — j 
 
 O 
 
 Eh
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 101 
 
 wind, and to smell the boiling bark and cutch and tar wherewith he 
 tans his nets and sails. 
 
 Our fisherfolk like to have the evidences of their calling around 
 them — a trace here, a trace there — a long seat in the eye of the sun 
 on which to rest and talk of boats and sailing, fish and fishing, and keep 
 one eye upon the sea and the other upon silver gulls everywhere. 
 Then they are governed not so much by clocks as by tides. Boats 
 are aground or afloat according to the state of the tide, and the men 
 wake up when it is half tide or so — time to go a-fishing. 
 
 When you see them walking on the quays, kicking baskets and 
 boxes and stray things out of the way with their thick boots, you 
 know them for an independent race, in whom the spirit of freedom 
 dwells. 
 
 " When a young man puts his foot on board a boat he's good 
 for nothing else," said an old man whose time was past, but who was 
 watching the boats sail away. 
 
 " It is a hard life, but then that's what we were brought up to, 
 and it's healthy. What I say is this : a boy who goes fishing and 
 trawling is no good afterwards for land occupations. He must have 
 his freedom, and he can't get that in trades and offices." 
 
 Young men who can be spared do well as yachtsmen during the 
 season. You may pick them out on board the racing craft in the 
 Royal Yacht Squadrons, clear-eyed and alert, ready at a moment's 
 notice, obeying the skipper's eye before the word is uttered, so perfect 
 is their knowledge of the thing to do and the moment for doing it. You 
 may pick them out on board the racing craft in Torbay, sea bronzed, 
 and the glow of inspiration on their faces, watching sea and sky, and 
 holding silent communion with elemental forces whose secrets are 
 theirs by long inheritance. When the season is over they return, and 
 go trawling and fishing again. 
 
 A fishing town always has its own particular perfume. It agrees 
 with the natives well enough, and visitors are not bound to like it — 
 not to like it at Brixham any more than they like the distinctive per- 
 fumes of Cologne. 
 
 I don't know how it is, but people having to do with fish are 
 rough in manner, and given to the use of strong language. Our 
 fishermen are brusque, and elbow you out of their way, or walk over 
 you, if you prefer it, and they are not gentle-tongued towards one 
 another when their interests clash. And the women who hawk fish 
 are seldom seen at prayer meetings. There is something in the 
 business ! 
 
 G
 
 102 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 In olden time the Brixham people were said to have been 
 musical, and to have had sweet voices. When you hear men shouting 
 to one another, if there is a chance of a foul, the idea of musical 
 sweetness does not come uppermost. Dartmouth is quite close, but 
 boatmen on the quays there do not talk the sweet Devonshire dialect 
 as though they were rubbing down their words with a file. If you 
 want to know why this is, you are told that the Dartmouth men have 
 a soft job, and little to do now but wrap themselves up in cotton 
 wool and lavender. Let them come out trawling, year in year out, 
 and then see ! 
 
 The landing of William, Prince of Orange, in search of a throne 
 is one thing you are not allowed to forget. He did land here. The 
 stone marking the exact spot is railed in ; the Prince's statue is near 
 by. When he came the people round about walked miles to see the 
 glorious sight, and, in order to feed the army, brought apples in their 
 pockets, and sent them rolling down the cliff and into the mouths of 
 the hungry Dutchmen. 
 
 Lord Macaulay came here and drew inspiration from the very 
 spot, and then followed the march of the victorious Prince as far as 
 Newton Abbot, where proclamation was made under the shadow of 
 the one venerable tower of the place. The Brixham and Newton 
 people should have had a Tulip day in commemoration of the great 
 event, and then a Macaulay day ; but imagination has been wanting 
 here ; Brixham is content with fish, and Newton with the good things 
 brought by the Great Western. 
 
 Brixham, when not talking loud and using fish language, is still 
 Protestant with a big P. Hurrah ! 
 
 A BLUEWATER MAN. 
 
 I met him first at the Lifeboat house, and gave him " good 
 morning." 
 
 Then I saw him on the quay with one finger through the gills of a 
 fish. A spare man with white beard, wearing jauntily a cap with 
 peak to it on his head. A well set up man who, but for a certain stiff- 
 ness in his joints, might have looked young seen from behind. This 
 was Sam Emers, eighty years of age, pensioner. To be a pensioner is 
 to be respectable, and a bit envied in a fishing town. 
 
 " No, I can't say I thought the pay good in the Service, but I am 
 making up for it now," said he in the course of a friendly chat at the 
 hotel in the evening.
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 103 
 
 " If I manage to live until I'm a hundred, the country will have 
 paid me altogether very well for my services." 
 
 He was a Bluewater man of the Devon hreed, descended from 
 men who had always been either fishing at home, or privateering, or 
 spending their time as prisoners of war in France. He seemed to 
 have a most intimate knowledge of prison life in France a century ago, 
 when English sailors in plenty were shut up in the Ardennes, after 
 marching bare-footed and nearly naked hundreds of miles from 
 Dieppe. And then the rations ! One pound of brown bread, some- 
 times, per day, and bad at that. The old boys didn't like the food 
 when they got it ; didn't like the " parleyvoo;" didn't like the climate; 
 didn't like the people ; and, above all, hated being shut up in a land 
 where there was no sea, no swish-swash of the eternal sea to remind 
 them of dear old Devon ! 
 
 His grandfather died in the French prison at Givet, and his 
 father was " pardoned " by the great Napoleon after spending seven 
 whole years there, breaking his heart all the time for the sight of blue 
 water. His mind was well stored with family history, and about him- 
 self he had as many adventures by sea and land to tell as would fill a 
 volume. Some of his personal stories were crisp. 
 
 One day he fell overboard. 
 
 The boatswain piped " man overboard," and he was picked up 
 and marched aft. 
 
 " What's the offence ? " asked the acting lieutenant. 
 
 " Absent from duty without leave, sir," replied the boatswain, 
 saluting. 
 
 " Give him three dozen — next time," said the officer, turning on 
 his heel. 
 
 " My heart was in my mouth when he said ' three dozen,' but the 
 reprieve came quickly, and I knew it was his little joke. If it hadn't 
 been his joke I should have had the three dozen right enough — no one 
 would have interfered." 
 
 Then he was drafted into the Coastguard Service, and was 
 stationed in exposed places, where sea tragedies followed every storm. 
 To look on and do nothing ! To watch man after man drop 
 out of the rigging into the waves, and then to pick them up, 
 all bruised and battered and shapeless when the tide went out, 
 was, he said, supremely awful. Sometimes he woke at nights 
 with death shrieks ringing in his ears, and the seabird's cry brought 
 back living pictures of what he had witnessed at Northam, Clovelly, 
 and Westward Ho 1
 
 104 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 And this calm, beautiful Torbay, he had seen it strewn with 
 wreck — every cove and beach covered with spars and timbers, and 
 gallant ships thrown up high and dry, and this Brixham harbour filled 
 with timber splintered to matchwood. 
 
 Then something switched off his recollections into a gayer vein, 
 and he told stories of Jack afloat and ashore, with fiddle and lass; of 
 frolic and punishment in all climates, from the tropics to the poles. 
 
 Jack ashore, so he said, would face old Nick himself for a guinea 
 and a bottle of rum. In the old days rum was second nature and got 
 men into tight places, and out of them too. He told a story of Bo'sun 
 Stokes, his maternal grandfather, as follows : — 
 
 " My mother's father was a ' tarry-breeks ' and rose to be 
 boatswain, and after the Peninsula war he was discharged. He had a 
 fine record for desperate deeds, and when he had his grog aboard he 
 let no man forget how he had served his King and country — not he ! 
 
 " Parson John Wallis was a bit of a wag, and when he heard 
 my grandfather going it ' all taut ropes,' he challenged him to go to 
 the bone house at midnight and bring away a human skull which the 
 sexton had that day deposited there. 
 
 " My grandfather said afterwards that the proposal fairly ' knocked 
 the wind out of his sails,' but the offer was made publicly, and he had 
 a reputation. 
 
 " ' Done,' said he, ' get your guinea and the rum ! ' 
 
 " When the clock struck twelve my grandfather went alone to the 
 bone house, and began to fumble about in the dark. At last he came 
 across something round, and was carrying it off, secretly glad to get 
 away, when a hollow voice said : 
 
 " ' That is mine.' 
 
 " ' Take it, old cockalorum,' said my grandfather, tossing it 
 gently in the direction of the voice. 
 
 " Then he rummaged about and came across a second skull, and 
 picked that up and started for the door. 
 
 " ' That is mine,' repeated the voice. 
 
 " ' And that's a lie,' said my grandfather, ' for no man was ever 
 born with two skulls in this parish.' 
 
 " Grandfather's blood was up. He smelt a trick, and he went 
 round and round until he gripped a man in hiding, and dragged him 
 into the open. This was the sexton whom the vicar had sent there to 
 scare the old sea dog, and my grandfather gave him the ' seaman's 
 fives ' in the churchyard, until he screeched. Then Parson John came 
 on the scene, who walked both off to the vicarage, and they all had
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 105 
 
 hot grog in the kitchen, and my grandfather received his promised 
 reward. The parson was a trump. 
 
 " After that no one doubted my grandfather's courage ; and 
 people used to say of any desperate man, ' He'll face the devil, like 
 Bo'sun Stokes.' " 
 
 The old man was a bit flushed, and his face beamed. He had an 
 audience, and felt his hour of triumph. 
 
 " If you had your time to go over again, what occupation would 
 you choose ? " I asked. 
 
 " I would follow the sea," he replied, after a moment's reflection. 
 
 And he looked as though he meant it. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 TORBAY was discovered by the ancient cave men who resided 
 on the north and the south sides of the bay during the era of 
 the extinct animals. 
 
 The cave men lived very near where Brixham and Torquay now 
 are, which shows that at that early period man's instincts directed 
 him towards the best spots. Torbay, they say, is the only place on 
 the coast where ancient cave men left traces of habitation, and so it is 
 supposed that these caves were sanitoria, frequented by the ladies and 
 gentlemen of the period who were "touched on the chest," and wanted 
 the blessings of open-air treatment in the loveliest of climates. 
 
 Preference seems to have been given to the Torquay side, here 
 again showing the admirable judgment of our ancient ancestors, and 
 knowledge as to what was necessary for the cure of consumption and 
 pulmonary complaints. Torquay is screened by lofty hills on the 
 north, east and west, and is open to the sunshine and sea breezes of 
 the south, and here, at Anstey's Cove, patients could sit at the mouth 
 of the cave dwelling and suck in life with the sunshine and warm airs, 
 while they chipped flints, and split marrow bones for broth. The 
 medical gentlemen of the era most probably recommended the open- 
 air treatment at Torbay, just as moderns do, and for the same reasons. 
 
 There are two caves, but the Brixham was probably not so secure 
 as the Torquay establishment, as the bears and hyaenas turned the 
 dwellers out at last and took permanent possession. At the Torquay
 
 106 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 cave civilisation was somewhat advanced. Relatives from the moors, 
 when they paid visits left behind them visiting cards in the shape of 
 beads, which have been very carefully collected, and may be seen now 
 at the Museum at Torquay. The carrying of beads, made of stone 
 showing the district from which the visitors came, pre-supposes the 
 wearing of clothes with pockets, but as there is nothing in the collec- 
 tion suggestive of hats, of course it is quite possible that they were not 
 in fashion just then, or were discarded during the open-air health 
 treatment. 
 
 The eyes of scientific Europe were, a few years ago, keenly 
 directed towards these limestone caves in Torbay — on the Torquay, or 
 Kent's cavern, especially. There was an old story current that the 
 cavern was haunted, as it very probably was by smugglers, who were 
 always very anxious for people to avoid the out-of-the-way places 
 wherein they secreted their smuggled goods. It was circulated, and at 
 one time believed, that the spirit of Sir Edward Kent, an ancient knight, 
 haunted the cave, and was to be seen at midnight praying over the 
 huge block of limestone which, in falling, had crushed his beautiful and 
 only daughter. His was the ancient ghost. 
 
 The modern ghost was a scientific one, and took the form of Wil- 
 liam Pengelly, geologist, who haunted the cave for years, and sifted 
 every grain of sand, and particle of black earth and fine dust in order 
 to discover the secrets of the ancient dwellers. This scientific ghost 
 had a merry twinkle in his blue eye, and was to be seen daily, carrying 
 away the spoils of the cave under an Inverness cape. Pengelly's soft 
 bowler hat, jack boots, and cape were familiar in the streets of Tor- 
 quay — always taking the same walk, namely, from his house to Anstey's 
 Cove, and back again. It used to be said pleasantly that his boots 
 knew the way to the cave. 
 
 It was a solemn undertaking. The great British Association was 
 at its back ; the reputation, existence even, of the cave man under- 
 going the open-air treatment in sunny Torbay was at stake. For 
 years, every man of science made a pilgrimage to the cave, and felt 
 supremely happy, and made an entry in his diary, if a bone, or a 
 chipped flint, or a spindle-whorl were discovered in his presence. The 
 stalagmite preserved secrets so well that the ancient bone needles of 
 the fair sex were brought to light. A human skull discovered here just 
 then would have electrified the world. 
 
 There is something romantic in the attraction which this old cave 
 had for the scientific during the period of its excavation, which swal- 
 lowed up two thousand pounds in hard cash. The people who took
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 107 
 
 the least interest in the whole husiness lived on the spot, and local 
 indifference sometimes affected the buoyant spirits of the explorer; 
 but he happened to be a Cornishman, with a Cornishman's almost 
 inexhaustible store of hope in to-morrow. 
 
 The results of his labours are to be seen at the Natural History 
 Museum. 
 
 Torquay overlooks Torbay, and is a queen in her own right. 
 
 Seen for the first time you say, " This is Paradise." 
 
 M. de Chatelaine compared it with Naples in an exquisite sonnet 
 — Naples the brunette in the Mediterranean ; Torquay the blonde in 
 Torbay ; both adorable though so different. 
 
 Seen from a distance, the idea occurs that the fairies planned 
 and built the place, with villas and gardens in the heavens, so as to be 
 away from noise and dust, sorrow and care, torture and pain ; and 
 that they then took compassion on humanity and gave it to them as 
 an inheritance. 
 
 Torquay can't be said to have a trade — it has sunshine, and 
 climate, and beauty, the three things we look for in fairy haunts. 
 Perhaps we might say this was the first of the seaside towns in the 
 West to learn the secret of living on beauty. The good fairies must 
 have made the suggestion when they were in a pitying mood, and then 
 the doctors said " Torquay and rest 1 " " Torquay and sunshine ! " 
 " Torquay and health ! " The railway did the rest. 
 
 Originally this was a fishing cove, and supplied soles and table 
 fish to the Abbey, and the few gentry round about. It can hardly be 
 said to have had a history, for when it ceased to be a fishing cove it 
 became a place de luxe, with the air of wealth and social refinement 
 about its carriages and liveries, and the high-sounding titles of illus- 
 trious families who came here to breathe freely, and to live in the 
 open through winter frosts — if they dare come — like flowering palms, 
 magnolias and camellias. So Torquay grew without a " trade " in any 
 vulgar sense, though not without profit — the profit which falls to those 
 who minister to those who have plenty, and can pay. 
 
 This is why the stranger notes such absence of bustle and dust- 
 raising and ear-splitting noises in the streets, and such well ordered 
 carriages, with clean white covers, and such well-fed and well-groomed 
 cattle and drivers on the ranks. And then the tradesmen — nothing is 
 too much trouble : too delighted to attend you at your carriage, and
 
 108 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 take your order for a penny or a pound. The same every where. You 
 come to Torquay, and you are made to feel that you are wanted, and 
 that the place w T as prepared for you. 
 
 Rich planters and East India Nabobs gave Torquay a rise in life. 
 They wanted to live, and came here and stewed themselves in 
 " Frying-pan Row," when others shivered in rich furs in the bitter east 
 and north-east winds which elsewhere made churchyards fat. The 
 wealth that could afford to live, and not die, came here, and Torquay 
 got its reputation and its profit. 
 
 I ran my fingers through the Directory and found professors of 
 nearly everything that can be professed here — so many musicians, so 
 many drawing-masters, so many linguists, so many scientists, so many of 
 everything needful where wealth and rank and culture pass the season. 
 
 There is no place in Devon with which Torquay may be com- 
 pared. It does not need comparison and excites no envy. It is 
 queen. Artists and poets, historians and novelists have all been here, 
 and come again and again, as often as they can, and so all its gems — 
 Torre Abbey and Cockington, its walks and drives and climbs and 
 coves, have been painted and sung and written about without end. 
 
 Torre and Torquay are practically one, and those who are jealous 
 for its reputation are anxious that it should not become too popular 
 amongst the wrong set. 
 
 This, I suppose, is the least Devonshire town in Devonshire. You 
 are just as likely to hear a Durham " burr" as a Devon "u," and to see 
 a Scotch or Irish name over a shop as a Devon one. 
 
 Socially the town and the villa have little in common. There is 
 a Torquay which wakes up after the villa dresses for dinner. The 
 villa takes the morning — drives, rides, attends lectures, goes to the 
 clubs and concerts and what-not at the Bath Saloon, and then retires, 
 and is no more seen except on special occasions. If you are curious 
 you may know that the villas on the hills are throbbing with a social 
 life of which the town has no part. The town has made its profit, 
 and then wakes up and relaxes a bit — talks over business and amuse- 
 ments and politics. It is very keen on politics. 
 
 There are two seasons — winter and summer— each perfect in its 
 way. During the summer yachting is supreme. There is a yacht 
 club run by gentlemen for gentlemen, and the Regatta week is a 
 carnival. 
 
 There is no better place on the coast for yachts than Torbay, and 
 no place on the coast where the sailing can be witnessed to better 
 advantage than on the cliffs.
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 109 
 
 Torquay is growing, growing, growing every year. It has 
 swallowed up villages, and is moving towards Paignton with its 
 splendid sands. 
 
 Malachite, madrepore and terra cotta abound — if Torquay can be 
 said to have a trade, it is art. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE heart and soul of Devon is the Moor, which has many 
 names, but is one moor, fringed and embroidered with beautiful 
 pasture land, and by rocky cliffs washed by the many-tinted, 
 many-sounding sea. The towns are in this borderland, so many outposts 
 of civilisation; and the moor, with its hills, and combes and tablelands, 
 bays and rivers, occupies the interior, and trickles down, as it were, to 
 the backdoors of the towns. Sometimes you step out of the town on 
 to the peat and heather, the bog grass and miniature patches of lone- 
 liness ; and sometimes the moor is just as far away as you can see 
 from your window. In any case it is not distant. 
 
 Without the moor Devon would be another county, and the 
 people another people with another history. When a man is 
 hipped, jaded, or ill he flies to moor, with that sort of instinct which 
 makes other men turn to their native air to be set up again. 
 
 In the Duchy men turn their faces to the sea and breathe new 
 life, but here they turn to the moor. In the Duchy people go from 
 one sea-place to another for a change of air — from Falmouth to 
 Newquay ; from St. Ives to Penzance ; but here they turn their backs 
 to the sea and march inland — to Moretonhampstead, to Okehampton, 
 to Princetown — anywhere where there is peat and heather, and long 
 rush grass, and the granite tors are storm swept. 
 
 There are " voices " on the moor which call and the people hear 
 — a sort of mystery of the blood which makes us turn to mother. 
 Sometimes a stranger gets under the spell. A clergyman, very aged 
 now, who once lived at Lydford, writes : " Never have I ceased to 
 love Dartmoor with its rugged hills and grand amphitheatre of tors, 
 into which when I entered I felt compelled to uncover my head as in 
 a cathedral." All strangers are not, however, alike, and some just
 
 110 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 glimpse at what looks like a land of billows rolling away into desola- 
 tion, and turn their backs to it. 
 
 Dartmoor has a literature, a big one now ; but it was not 
 always so. Thomas Carington, a Plymouth man and a poet, took the 
 moor in hand. His book became a classic and found its way into the 
 twopenny boxes — a finer edition, bound in calf, sixpence. Then Mrs. 
 Bray made revelations in prose. Then a younger generation, sweep- 
 ing aside poetry and fairy cobwebs, took possession, and went to 
 work in the scientific spirit. Mystery, fiddle-de-dee ! Everything 
 could, would, and should be accounted for. Every path and pound, 
 hut and monument, had its history. They attacked the Druids, and 
 the Druids fled. The new school possessed the modern spirit and 
 worked backwards — through Saxon and Dane, Roman and British 
 occupations ; through the giants, and dwarfs, the bone age, the stone 
 age, and all the ages. There is another school which thrills at every- 
 thing — when the river gurgles, when the wind sighs, when the mist 
 rises, when the sun shines — all is lovely and inimitable and mysterious, 
 and makes very pleasant reading. 
 
 At Moreton I chanced upon the remnants of a book which some- 
 one had apparently used for pipe-lights and left behind for brother 
 tourists. The author was very strong on the poetical and psychological 
 and other sides of mist — Dartmoor mist, of course. 
 
 I asked a man what the people called a " mist," and he said they 
 called it " vog," that is to say, when it was thick ; and when it wasn't 
 thick they didn't notice it. He didn't thrill when I mentioned the 
 matter to him. 
 
 I consulted the fragments of a book in the coffee room again. I 
 chanced upon something like this : William Yeo, a dweller on the 
 moor, did something forbidden by the ten commandments ; and, some- 
 how or other, it was all the fault of the mist getting on his nerves and 
 making him see everything in wrong perspective (morally, of course) 
 that there was a tragedy. 
 
 What really happened was very simple — something like this : — 
 
 The Real. 
 
 " Dang my old bones ! Vog again ! And tes cruel bad for 
 rumatiz." 
 
 The old sow in the sty across the yard grunted. 
 
 " Well, 'spoase must mait th' pigs, vog or no vog," says William 
 Yeo, picking up the bucket at his feet. 
 
 Then he went about his business, as usual.
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. Ill 
 
 The Ideal. 
 
 William Yeo descended into the cold kitchen and opened the door, 
 letting in a swaithe of damp, cold air which sent a shiver through his 
 whole body. He stepped into the yard and looked around — nothing 
 was visible, nothing, nothing 1 (Skip three following paragraphs about 
 "nothing.") 
 
 He stretched out his arm, opening wide the fingers of his hand, 
 which were lost, as it were, to him in the dim, shadowy, impenetrable, 
 impalpable, opalesque mist. He could not see his arm, not below the 
 elbow, certainly. As far as vision went the fingers on his hand were 
 lost to him. 
 
 Was it instinct that made him bring his closed fist against his 
 chest, striking himself hard so as to be sure that he was man, and not 
 part of the mist which swallowed up everything. 
 
 All through his life William Yeo had felt it a terrible inheritance 
 to be a child of the mist. All his life he had felt this grey something 
 dwarfing his perceptions and limiting his range of moral vision, so that 
 it could not be said of him that he had any true perspective. (Skip 
 again). 
 
 William Yeo heard a muffled sound — it was a grunt. The old 
 sow and her family wanted feeding. He understood the appeal — yes, 
 he understood so much ; the cold, chill mist of the moors, which had 
 sterilised and stunted much of the man, left him human to this appeal, 
 &c, &c. 
 
 His bones ached ; the cold penetrated his marrow, and he had no 
 words at command which would meet the case beyond " dang my old 
 bones 1 " The bucket at his feet, which he kicked as he moved, re- 
 called him to the actualities of life. 
 
 The original owner of the book tore out a few pages here for 
 pipe-lights, but the story was uninterrupted. William Yeo feeds the 
 pigs and goes in to breakfast, still " danging " his old bones. And 
 then, some hundreds of pages on, it is discovered that it was all 
 through this impenetrable, opalesque vog that William Yeo led a 
 double life, and was popped into a well by Mrs. William Yeo, who, 
 living an indoor life, hadn't quite so much vog on the brain. 
 
 Perhaps I was unlucky, for I only saw ground mists rising from 
 the valleys, just as happens wherever there is water. Others more 
 lucky may experience agreeable sensations in chill, damp vog on the 
 banks of rivers and streams, or by the side of silent pools on bog-land. 
 
 * # * * *
 
 112 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 It is supposed that the moors were once much more thickly in- 
 habited than now, when modern folk live in lonely farms and cottages; 
 and if you walk a few miles you'll begin to wonder what is meant by 
 such words as " over-population " and " over-crowding," and the need 
 for emigration from the Old Country in order to prevent everybody 
 treading on everybody's heels. If you want to be alone with Nature 
 you are all right here, for there is not a cottage visible, not even when 
 you jump upon a tor and look around. 
 
 The antiquarians say that in the Neolithic age men thronged the 
 uplands, and then, later on, the moors were well inhabited by men 
 who just scratched the earth for minerals, and " streamed " the brooks 
 for tin. Relics of the long, long ago there are now, but not 
 so abundant as formerly. All the antiquarians for the last century 
 have been begging and praying the few inhabitants to leave the 
 moors alone. 
 
 Stone is used for almost everything, and is made to take the place 
 of timber on farms — for gate-posts and lintels especially — and ancient 
 monuments are the very thing for the purpose. It is wonderful to see 
 the ease with which an enormous block of granite is split, and with 
 the fewest of tools. A priceless ancient monument soon ceases to be 
 priceless and ancient, and is lugged off on a sort of sledge. Then the 
 road contractor comes along. He is in luck. A stone avenue and a 
 hut circle once on Sherberton Common became road metalling. The 
 conscience of the district was then disturbed, and the local authority 
 instructed him that in future the roads were not to be mended with 
 the remains of ancient monuments ! 
 
 The moor has its silent lovers as well as its rhapsodists, who are 
 lovers also, though inclined to talk too much and too often. It is all very 
 wild and desolate; soft and beautiful, weird and sublime, according to the 
 locality, and sometimes there is a mixture of all to be found in a single 
 ramble, only one is apt to tire of too much praise in the superlative 
 key, and to remember that there is a world outside this spot wherein 
 some beauty and weirdness and grandeur may be found. The local guide 
 books are mostly pitched in the superlative key. This place is the one 
 real genuine Garden of Eden ; beyond there is nothing, they seem to 
 say, and, in time, one wearies. 
 
 The best known beauty spots of Dartmoor are on its borders, and 
 it is a luxury only to walk mile after mile on springy turf with short 
 grass, and then to climb a mound and look on the land rolling away in 
 broad undulations, with little to break the view except vast granite 
 rocks, the silent watchers of silence.
 
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 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 113 
 
 A city man will probably want to be broken in a bit before he 
 cares for moor scenery. He wants a genuine lover, who won't talk too 
 much, to show him over, and let him watch the play of light and shadow 
 upon the gorse and heather ; and then descend the combes, and 
 wander along the streams playing hide and seek amongst bracken and 
 fern, and watch the broken sunbeams dance upon the bright water 
 rippling over the pebbles, or leaping into delicious foam. The moss- 
 covered rocks and banks of wild flowers, and the harmony and peace 
 everywhere, will in time gain upon a man with an eye for beauty, and 
 soul for anything outside of bricks and mortar. If appreciation come 
 gradually, so much the more lasting the impressions. 
 
 The moor won't be " done " in five minutes. If you wish to 
 carry away impressions which you can recall hereafter at the sight of 
 a bit of heather, or of a foxglove bending over maidenhair ferns 
 trembling in the breeze, then you must look at it long enough. Then, 
 if you have sympathy, memory will do the rest. 
 
 One may scamper over the moor and see some beauty spots in 
 most unexpected places. From Okehampton, or Bridestowe, one may 
 reach Cranmere Pool, the reputed birthplace of four rivers — the 
 Okement, the Taw, the Dart, and the Tavy — but which, however, has 
 the distinction of being the most desolate spot in the whole county. 
 Desolate is hardly the word. It is what Devonians call " wisht," and 
 gets upon the nerves. It is one of those spots where " wishtness 
 walketh," as though it were some living spirit doomed to pass eternity 
 in a region of gloom, seared by lightning, and surrounded by bog and 
 morass, which cattle avoid and birds fly over silently. 
 
 This place has its legend. The spirit of Benjamin Yeare, 
 formerly mayor of Okehampton, was condemned to bale out Cranmere 
 Pool with a sieve. He was artful, and one day finding a dead sheep 
 he skinned it and put the skin over the sieve and performed his task. 
 Poor Tregeagle, who was condemned to bale out Dozmary Pool in the 
 Duchy with a holed limpet shell, does not seem to have heard of 
 this simple plan ; and this is one of the very few instances in which 
 the Devonian, in legend, is more artful than his Cornish cousin. As a 
 rule, the Cornish like to represent themselves as " slim " enough to 
 cheat one another, and then " Old Artful." The Devonian is more 
 modest.
 
 114 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 "'HE pixies of the two counties are nearly related; they have the 
 same fairy rings on heath and moorland, dance the same 
 dances, have the same attachments to families, and play the 
 same sort of pranks upon people coming home from markets and revels 
 more merry than wise. 
 
 In the Duchy the pixie proper is an open-air fairy, and then there 
 are the nuggies, who take charge of things underground, and by 
 mysterious knocks and sounds direct miners where to find rich de- 
 posits of tin and copper. Nuggies, like pixies, play tricks at times, but, 
 on the whole, are useful and friendly to humans. 
 
 In Devon, however, there is a distinction between open-air and 
 underground pixies. The former haunt the moors and streams, and 
 often attach themselves to families on farms, doing their work for 
 them at times, making the cows fruitful, the butter rich, and the 
 cheese good. Then they preside over births and deaths and marriages, 
 and show maids in dreams on Michaelmas and Christmas eve visions 
 of their true loves. The ancient pixies had eyes for beauty. Wherever 
 you are, always visit the spots patronised by them. 
 
 In the Chudleigh Glen, one of the loveliest spots in Devon, is the 
 Pixies' Hole. A tributary of the Teign tumbles in a succession of cas- 
 cades over a staircase of gigantic boulders, and the gorge is covered 
 with ferns which have here found the secret of perpetual youth : here 
 is the Pixies' Hole, which the devil once visited, and left his 
 " Pincushion " behind ; and you are required to stick a pin into the 
 soft moss by way of homage to the little people. The " Pixies' 
 House " is at Sheepstor, and the " Pixies' Parlour " at Ottery St. 
 Mary, the ceiling of which is formed by the roots of trees. This is 
 the scene of Coleridge's " Song of the Pixies/' and the poet cut his 
 initials, S.T.C., and left them behind by way of homage. Cyphers 
 innumerable have been cut into the walls of the Parlour. 
 
 In Cornwall " Old Artful " is credited with taking a meddlesome, 
 and often impertinent interest in church building. If a church is in 
 the wrong place, it was " Old Artful " who arranged it, and if the 
 tower is too low, it was " Old Artful " who removed at night the 
 courses which the builders laid by day ; but in Devon the fault was 
 put on the pixies who, for instance, would have Lynton Church built
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 115 
 
 where it is, and not at Kibsworthy, as intended. Every day workmen 
 brought materials to the spot, and every night they were removed, 
 and the pixies had their way at last. 
 
 These are the good pixies, and in olden times every settle at 
 the cottier's fire-place upon the moors had room for its pixie, and woe 
 to the habitation which the blithe, jocund and industrious little spirits 
 forsook ! 
 
 The bad pixies worked underground, and were associated with the 
 lawless men who worked for metals. 
 
 There was, at one time, war between the good and bad pixies, 
 and the good were hardly pressed by the bad, who forged their 
 weapons in the mines, tipping their arrows with the metals which 
 they hammered with silver hammers upon silver anvils, and then 
 tempering them in magic pools underground. The good pixies had 
 not much skill in war, so they were pushed hard and were sore 
 distressed, and returned at last to the Island of Rocks, in the valley of 
 the waste Okement, where there are oak trees and ferns, and 
 mountain ash and wild raspberry, and the only sound is running 
 water. The bad pixies assembled in an abandoned mine close by, and 
 were sure of an easy victory, for what had the good fairies to rely on 
 but moral weapons ? Moral weapons against steel-tipped arrows 
 tempered in the magical pools ! Only a walk over ! 
 
 The good pixies set to work and cut turves and built themselves 
 a ring, and each as he laid his turve bethought himself of one good 
 act which he had done to man, woman, or child. Then they huddled 
 together, awaiting the dawn when the bad pixies would come out in 
 their battalions and attack. It was their last resource. 
 
 With the dawn arose the mists from the river, and the bad pixies 
 charged again, and again, and yet again, but could not climb over the 
 fortifications of new cut turves consecrated by the memories of good 
 deeds. And when the sun gathered strength, ring upon ring of 
 ambient light rose from the turves and floated over the moors, and 
 where they rested a fairy ring of greenest grass sprung up, within 
 which the good pixies might dwell in peace and safety evermore. 
 
 These are the pixie rings which one sees upon the moors, and on 
 the bleak Blackdown tableland, where the " Pixie Garden " is. And 
 if one crosses these rings on moonlight nights he must turn his pockets 
 inside out by way of " homage," or he will be pixie-led, and bound 
 with gossamer films, and made sport of. 
 
 Pixies were anciently so bound up with human life that the 
 church could not drive them away. They were real enough. Here
 
 116 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 is the personal recollection of an Exeter man who never left his native 
 Devon : 
 
 " When I was a little boy, unacquainted with any of the ologies 
 except taw-ology, the hills and woods and meadows surrounding my 
 native village were peopled with fairies, nymphs, and pixies. When 
 my venerable grandfather came home late at night, as he sometimes 
 did, at harvest time, and on other festive occasions — with an unusually 
 red nose and a somewhat thick voice — he was sure to have missed his 
 way, ' all owing to them beggaring little pigsies ' against whose mis- 
 chievous pranks he had failed to take the infallible precaution of 
 turning his pockets inside out. The pixies are little rural Bands of 
 Hope as far as their dislike of over-drinking is concerned ; for it is 
 commonly related that, when a farmer or a labourer has indulged in a 
 ' cup of zider ' too much, he is sure to be led a ' purty dance ' on going 
 to his home ; indeed, he is accustomed to feel his usually steady head 
 spinning round like a mill wheel, and to hear ' they little bits of pig- 
 sies a-laughing and a-tacking their hands for joy ' at their success in 
 leading him astray."* 
 
 The hunter after fairy lore must walk warily and talk discreetly 
 now, or he will hear nothing. A pencil and note-book will frighten 
 away all recollections. Still, there are stories, and you may be lucky 
 enough to hear something in an out-of-the-way place, like Chagford, 
 where there is a " Pixies' Parlour" in a corn-field near Combe Farm, 
 formed by granite boulders curiously grouped. 
 
 PIXIE STORIES. 
 
 " Do I know a fairy story ? " What questions yu du ask, to be 
 sure. 
 
 I know it's all fulishness, but there was a story about the man 
 who brought home a fairy and tied her to the bedpost with his garters 
 — and in the morning all that he saw was a great big leek which he 
 picked up on the road the night before as he was coming home from 
 the fair. 
 
 It's all fulishness, I know, but all the maidens in the place had 
 fine fun, and Tom Bovey (that's the name) was called " Tom Kiss the 
 Leek " until he died. It happened like this. 
 
 Tom was coming home late, as usual, from the fair, and as he went 
 across the pixie-ring in the moonlight he saw a fairy all drest in green, 
 looking sweetly at him. So he picked her up carefully, and when he 
 
 * Elias Tozer, late Editor Devon Weekly Timet.
 
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 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 117 
 
 got home he woke up his wife and told her, as well as he could, 
 that he had the loveliest maiden in his pocket that man ever clapped 
 eyes on. 
 
 Tom's wife said nothing, only watched him tie up the fairy to the 
 bedpost with his garters; and then Tom fell asleep, and what he 
 dreamt he never told, only the next morning he saw a great big leek 
 staring him in the face. So he asked his wife what it meant ? She 
 said it was the fairy queen all clothed in green which he brought 
 home, and made such a to-do about. 
 
 Then the truth dawned upon him and he felt ashamed, and took 
 the leek and threw it into the garden. Now, whether Tom was not 
 quite sober, or whether his tale was true, I do not know, but no sooner 
 did the leek touch the ground than it turned into a fairy once again — 
 the loveliest, daintiest little thing dressed in green, and there sprang 
 out of the flowers, and from the leaves, and from everywhere, 
 thousands upon thousands of fairies, who encircled their princess and 
 danced off with her, shouting, " We've got her again ! We've got her 
 again ! " 
 
 Tom ran in and told his wife, and both went into the garden and 
 searched and searched, but nowhere could the leek be found. Only 
 the pig was in the garden, and they drove it out. 
 
 When the story was known the neighbours said that the pig ate 
 the fairy and that Tom kissed the leek. 
 
 I know it's all fulishness, but that's the story. 
 
 Did you ever hear tell the story of the Pixies and the Tulips ? 
 
 Well, then, this is true, as all the old people of the village know, 
 and there is the cottage still standing, with the cob walls and the thatch 
 roof. An old woman lived there and kept school, and we called her 
 "Goody." There is a garden, and behind the garden is a meadow, 
 and this meadow was the pixies' playground. Goody had a bed of 
 beautiful tulips in her garden when they were rare in these parts, and 
 the pixies took such a fancy to the flowers that at nights they brought 
 their babies and put them in the cups and rocked them to sleep. And 
 Goody use to sit in the garden and listen to the sweet melodies 
 coming from the flowers as they rocked to and fro in the evening 
 breeze. This was the pixies singing their little ones to sleep before 
 they went off to play in the fairy rings. The tulips did not wither 
 like other flowers, and gave out perfumes which did not belong to 
 
 H
 
 118 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 them, so everyone knew they were pixies' flowers. And Goody would 
 let no one pluck a single bloom — no, not one. 
 
 Now, when Goody died the tulips were rooted up and the patch 
 sown with parsley, but it never grew, and nothing would grow but 
 weeds, for the pixies would not allow it. 
 
 Goody was buried in the churchyard, and the pixies took care of 
 her grave, which was covered quickly with the greenest grass, and the 
 prettiest flowers which no one planted sprung up, for there was no 
 one to look after Goody's grave, who was an old maid, and had no 
 relations in the village. And so it went on year by year, and as her 
 body turned to dust so the flowers faded, and then the grass grew 
 rank, like the rest. 
 
 Everybody knew it was the pixies' way of showing gratitude to 
 Goody for minding the tulips which they used for cradles. 
 
 I don't know what grows in the garden now ; and 'tis a long 
 time since the pixies were seen in the meadow which has been 
 ploughed and planted with taties and cabbage, and market stuff. 
 
 The highest peaks on Dartmoor are near Okehampton, not " the 
 ugly, dirty, stupid town " which Canon Kingsley says it once was. 
 Just now it is a splendid little moor town, built between two streams, 
 to sojourn in. Here are the celebrated tors — High Willes, Yes Tor, 
 West Mil Tor, and the famous Row Tor which has figured so largely 
 in fiction and romance. Here you stand on the borderland between 
 cultivation and moorland waste over which silence reigns, where you 
 may feel the mysterious power of solitude, and understand why it was 
 that people of old raised granite crosses by the wayside, to kneel down 
 at and ask for the protection of high heaven, before venturing on 
 wastes so untrodden and unknown. 
 
 One shivers at the thought that any human beings live in " cob " 
 huts in such a region in the dead of winter, when winds roar, and 
 rains descend in floods, and snow lies upon the ground in deep rifts 
 vexed only by tempests. Yet they do, and love it ! 
 
 This is the region hunted by the ghostly " wish hounds " — hounds 
 without heads, followed by headless horses and riders, hunting down 
 the deathless soul of some poor human who sinned and died long cen- 
 turies ago. The hounds and the riders come out on the chase when 
 Nature seems at war with itself, and the solitary dwellers on the 
 wastes hear above storm and tempest the agonising shrieks of the 
 flying victims against whom they shut and bar their doors, and crouch 
 by low-burning peat fires, and tremble. "No forgiveness, no forgive- 
 ness ! " is the terrible moral of the story.
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 119 
 
 And who may doubt the truth of the legend when the inhabitants 
 of the moor tell you they have heard the hunt, and have been out in 
 the open and felt the spectres pass by, as though a mighty rushing 
 wind ? 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 DARTMOOR is the birthplace of rivers, and the sources of origin 
 are usually in " cruel wisht " places. The Dart has two 
 sources — East and West. The head is placed in the East — 
 a black, horrid morass, where you may wait a whole day without 
 hearing " the chirp of the ubiquitous stone-chat." The West rises 
 some miles away, behind Row Tor, and there is not much to choose 
 in the matter of dreary waste and solitude. There isn't much encour- 
 agement in either place for the infant streams to try to live and grow 
 strong — it is a savage and desolate world, my masters, they first look 
 on, and perhaps they would not struggle were it not that the skies 
 above are blue and look kindly by day, and the stars twinkle encour- 
 agement by night. So they struggle feebly on until Dartmeet is 
 reached, and then away to the sea. The great watershed is, in very 
 truth, in the heart of a wilderness — Teign and Dart and Tavy are 
 born here, and run south ; so also is the Taw, which is born in a bed 
 of rushes, behind Hanging-stone and Ockment hills, and runs north 
 towards the Severn Sea. The Avon, Erme, Yealm, and Plym are born 
 in places not much less savage and desolate. Then there is the Exe, 
 born in " The Chains " of the Bog King on Exmoor, where silence 
 broods from year's end to year's end. " There is not even the sound 
 of running water until you get down to the eastern slopes connecting 
 Lynton with Simonsbath ; and here, among the brown, coarse grass 
 the silence is at last broken by a faint tinkle — the infant voice of the 
 Exe." 
 
 The Lyn, which is only a dozen miles in length from its source 
 to the sea, is also born in solitude, but in a cradle of bracken, whortle- 
 berry and heather, giving lovely effects for the artist in August and 
 September. Taken from start to finish, this is, perhaps, the most 
 lovely stream in the county. It is so short, and makes so mad a rush, 
 as hardly to have time to know that it is very beautiful and has lived !
 
 120 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 Whatever the birthplace, the rivers of Devon have learnt the 
 secret of making ways for themselves through the most picturesque 
 and romantic regions, and clothing everything about them with 
 beauty. In a dry summer the streams languish ; they are then but 
 thin, poor trickles, with hardly spirit enough to leap over boulders and 
 form cascades. The mosses and long grasses dry up, and the little 
 trout look reproachfully through the shallows. Life is hardly worth 
 living. Then, with the rain, the streams come rattling, leaping down, 
 foaming, bubbling, rejoicing, and the little trout are glad, and once 
 more the borders of the streams are alive with mosses and grasses, 
 ferns and flowers. And in winter— a Devon winter with its rainfall 
 and heavy snow — the streams rise and overflow their banks, and rush 
 through gorges, and overleap precipices, and rush headlong, roaring 
 to the sea, the blue mother whose lap is never full. 
 
 Devon streams are all beautiful some time or other of the year, 
 and in some place or other, and there is good trout fishing in all of 
 them, though the fish run small — about eight to the pound, and 
 some wily old " cannibals " who will not be caught, and do more mis- 
 chief than they are worth. 
 
 Then there is salmon ; only salmon, notwithstanding all safe- 
 guarding, does not seem to get a " good time," unless it be thought by 
 salmon wits to be happiness to be chivied and hunted from its cradle 
 by trout, and heron, and kingfisher. Then when bigger, but still in 
 early youth, along comes the otter, and the night poacher with spears 
 and nets, and licensed anglers with rod and line. Then the salmon 
 gets to the sea and takes a broader view of things, and becomes more 
 robust and more valuable, but it is still timid, and has to run the 
 gauntlet of bold sea pirates, in the shape of dogfish and sharks and all 
 the gluttons of the deep. 
 
 Old fishermen declare that the salmon is a home sick animal and 
 seldom wanders far away from the river in which it was spawned ; and 
 they also say that they can tell by its shape and colour whether a 
 salmon caught at sea belongs to the Taw or Torridge, the Dart, the 
 Exe or the Teign. 
 
 Outside Devon the Dart is perhaps best known as the 
 
 " Beautiful river through banks of fern 
 Gliding swiftly to the southern sea." 
 
 It was Mortimer Collins, the best lyric poet Devon has produced 
 in modern days, who wrote these lines concerning that awful legend 
 which makes the Dart a river goddess which will receive the sacrifice 
 of at least one human heart every year.
 
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 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 121 
 
 41 River of Dart ! O River of Dart ! 
 Every year thou claimest a heart ! " 
 
 And, unhappily, the goddess gets not one but more. 
 
 The county is well watered. Five rivers glide swiftly to the 
 southern, and two to the northern sea, and there is no lack of sweet, 
 pure water for the towns for centuries to come, increase as they will. 
 Without its streams Devon would be in a " wisht " plight, for they are 
 the mother of life upon the moors, and their " voices," mingling with 
 the wind and sighing of the long bent grasses, suggest most curious 
 forms of expression savouring very much of rank paganism. Of 
 course, it's only poetry, and if you happen to be at Dartmeet or Two 
 Bridges you are inclined to turn pagan also, and become river 
 worshipper and rock worshipper, and all the rest. 
 
 People live the outdoor life here as they do in Yorkshire districts 
 away from factories, and the fact that the weather is never to be 
 depended on five minutes together does not keep them indoors — not a 
 bit of it. They rather like it and make a song of it. 
 
 Vust 'er rained, 
 Thin 'er bloard, 
 Thin 'er ailed, 
 Thin 'er snoard ; 
 Thin 'er cumd 
 A shoer o' rain ; 
 Thin 'er vroz 
 An' bloard agin. 
 
 When it's like this the natives enjoy hunting, or whatever is in 
 season. 
 
 Meet him where you may, the Devon man has an out-of-door 
 look about him, and when two meet they can find something to talk 
 about — something to be found in fields or streams, in the air or 
 stables. Then there are games. 
 
 I met at luncheon one day a well-to-do yeoman farmer who 
 studied cock fighting in a breezy sort of way. He had just returned 
 from the " land of saints," where there had been some pretty sport. 
 I think he said there were fifty entries of birds from all parts — 
 Birmingham and Manchester were especially mentioned. He looked 
 upon himself as a friend to the feathered race by helping them to 
 enjoy themselves in the most scientific manner. He said : " Bring 
 two birds together and the first and only thing they will do is fight. 
 It's their sport, their recreation, and they enjoy it. Very well. Now 
 the bird is a bungler until he is trained. He wants precision, that is 
 to say ' science.' Two birds without science fighting on a dunghill
 
 122 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 mangle one another — they are awkward in their movements and 
 waste themselves, just like ploughboys quarrelling at a fair. Now 
 just you train the bird and put spurs on, and then see him ' play.' 
 
 " I do call it ' play ' — what else is it ? Did you ever see a bird 
 play in any other way ? Of course it's ' play,' and you know what the 
 bird thinks of it when he rises all his inches and crows. 
 
 " But the spurs? That's where education tells. You give Tommy 
 Atkins the finest weapon of precision, and teach him how to use it. 
 Why? In order to reduce human suffering to a minimum. We put 
 spurs on birds; and why? To reduce suffering, of course. One clean 
 cut, and all's over. 
 
 " It's worth a fiver to hear any bird crow. It is his triumph of 
 science, that's what it is. 
 
 " Everything is in the ' clip ' of the spur. The best make is 
 American. Look at this. When it is on it is immovable ; the clip is 
 perfect ; the stroke is sure. I have tried all makes, and the Yanks 
 come out on top. 
 
 " There's more scientific fighting of this sort done in the world 
 now than ever. You didn't know it. I suppose not. Why should 
 you, unless you have birds, and wish to increase their enjoyment on 
 earth?" 
 
 This was how he put it. 
 
 A Devon man prides himself on his knowledge of horses and dogs. 
 He'll go miles simply for the pleasure of watching a level pack of well- 
 turned, straight-legged hounds showing their hunting qualities under 
 the command of a good huntsman; and if he doesn't like what he sees 
 he'll say so in very clear and unmistakable words. 
 
 " What do you call your dog ? " asked a passer-by of a man walk- 
 ing with a crop-eared mongrel with a stump of a tail. 
 
 " Well, sir," replied the owner, speaking Yorkshire, " he was a 
 greyhound and we called him ' Fly,' but we cropped his loogs and coot 
 off his tail and made a mastiff of him, and called him ' Lion.' ' 
 
 There's no market for that sort of animal here, for the Devonian 
 is too fly himself. 
 
 No one ever crosses the moor without looking out for the cele- 
 brated little ponies which ramble about the "forest" at will, until they 
 are gathered in and exhibited for sale at the great Michaelmas fair at 
 Brent. The graceful animals are very shy but are most carefully bred, 
 and have been the occasion, during centuries, of more false swearing 
 and bad blood between neighbours than anything else. The man who 
 breeds and deals in horseflesh generally swears hard, and is jealous of
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 123 
 
 the reputation of the animal he has to sell. The Exmoor men and the 
 Dartmoor men have a lot to say about their respective breeds of 
 ponies, and have never yet been able to agree which is the best. I have 
 seen both, and can only say that if I could not have the one I'd be 
 very content with the other. 
 
 Sportsmen don't mind a bit of hard work — an easy kill is no 
 sport. It isn't everybody who can go out fox-hunting, but all the 
 country can get near an otter hunt, which is no child's play if the 
 animal is to have all the laws of the game ; and nothing does a sports- 
 man detest more than to see an unfair or untimely kill ; but a day 
 with the hounds now is not one-half as fatiguing as aforetime, when 
 the master of a pack left his home at two in the morning, "jogged on to 
 Exebridge, left his pony there, then drew up the Barle, and killed his 
 otter on the way. Then a crust of bread and cheese at Withypool, and at 
 it again, over Winsford Hill to the Exe, where he killed another otter." 
 Home with dogs at night, after having covered at least sixty miles. 
 
 When a man can't hunt he'll fish, and add one more to the 
 number of the enemies of the salmon, which has more pursuers than 
 any fish that swims. 
 
 A Devonian likes to win, but if he can't win he'll lose rather than 
 be left out in the cold. At the parish church of Haccombe, near 
 Teignmouth, the smallest parish in the kingdom, is the memorial of a 
 sporting event in the shape of two horse shoes nailed up to the church 
 door. The terms of the bet are not preserved, but Sir Henry Carew 
 won a manor of land by swimming his horse " a vast way into the sea 
 and back again." As Sir Henry was but a poor swimmer himself the 
 risk was such as only a man mad or desperate would take. However, 
 he won, and there are the two horse shoes nailed to the church door. 
 
 Gentlemen used to play for high stakes. Thomas Dowrish, one 
 of the " very ancient and gentile tribe of Dowrish," lost the manor of 
 Kinnerleigh to his cousin John Northcote at a game of picquet. 
 
 In country houses whist is general ; and if you care to make a 
 fourth there is seldom any difficulty. Country people are fond of 
 their rubber, " with all the rigour of the game " — a trifle on the odd 
 trick and double on the rub. The "little bit" on is just for sport — 
 and ladies when playing are keen on the odd trick. The story is told 
 of a former Vicar of Moreton who had a fit whilst dealing. The com- 
 pany rubbed his nose with hartshorn, burnt feathers, and did all 
 things usual in such cases. When he recovered he was expected to 
 say something good. 
 
 " What's trumps ? " he asked quietly.
 
 124 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 " A world of heather 
 Purple of foxglove, yellow of bloom." 
 
 ONE moor is smaller than another, and all have their lovers. 
 Just now the moors may be divided into three parcels — the 
 Blackmore land, the Kingsley land, and the Gould- Philpotts- 
 Crossing land. 
 
 The land of the Doones is only a portion of the Blackmore 
 literary estate, which really comprises North Devon and a slice of 
 Somerset ; but from Exmoor to Barnstaple, and from Lynton to 
 Tiverton the estate best shows the marks of the Blackmore cultivation. 
 
 In a holiday scamper the Doone land will first suggest itself. 
 Certainly it is the best talked about and known by reputation. One 
 can slip away from Lynton, or any of the places on the north coast, 
 and get quickly into the Doone land, but it will be just as well not to 
 take a measuring tape, or even the book in one's pocket. The romance 
 won't stand too much tape-measuring on the spot. 
 
 One remembers the story well enough. There is a delicious 
 water-slide, and a stiff climb, with sufficient danger to make any 
 ordinary Christian tourist " curly " up the spine. Then there is the 
 sweet Lorna, who would look well in any setting, but somehow this 
 place seems to suit her, and you like to see the big boy canoodling 
 around. Then you pull aside the branches and see a long procession 
 of the Doones, and the stately Sir Ensor — Sir Ensor in armour, Sir 
 Ensor in patent shoes — the gentleman. Shut your eyes, and you can 
 see it all before you leave Lynton ; or, if you like, you can get as far 
 as the " Lorna Doone " inn at Malmsmead, and dream in the land of 
 this Devon classic. 
 
 Malmsmead is at the mouth of the Badgworthy Valley, but the 
 real Doone Valley is a little farther on, where you tread Exmoor turf. 
 There is a " Lorna's Bower," but you can pass that by — a name and 
 nothing but a tea-house — until you come to Badgworthy Wood and 
 the Water-slide. 
 
 We are on sure ground now — here is the lovely little cataract, 
 and over it, close to where it tumbles into the Badgworthy Water, 
 the shakiest of shaky clams carries the path along a dark hillside to 
 where a side valley suddenly opens, commanded at the mouth by a
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 125 
 
 green hillock, on which a few stones mark the remains of some 
 building, possibly a look-out. Below it, and extending a short 
 distance up the valley to a shepherd's cot, is a confused collection of 
 broken walls and foundations, of which little or nothing can be made. 
 This is the " Doone Valley " of fiction and guide-books and post 
 cards — no precipice, no mountain, nothing to make the spine to curl 
 and the heart stand still. " The valley is an ordinary grassy combe, 
 and a shallow one at that." 
 
 Then there is a farmhouse which the Ridds may have lived in, 
 and at Oare are Ridds still residing, and there is the church in which 
 Lorna was wedded to her John, and there is the little window through 
 which the villainous face of Carver Doone showed itself. This part 
 is all right ; Carver might have fired a pistol through this window and 
 hit his victim standing at the altar. 
 
 If the romance is not all true it ought to be — here is the window, 
 here the altar, here the bride. You can take out your tape measure 
 here and be satisfied — only it is just as well not to have it with you, 
 and then the temptation to be too exacting will be easily resisted. 
 
 " ' Lorna Doone ' to a Devonshire man is as good as clotted 
 cream, almost !" made Blackmore so proud to hear that he printed it 
 in his preface to the sixth edition of his inimitable romance. The 
 moor could hardly bear two such romances, as there is only one 
 valley with the Water-slide, and Jan Ridds are scarce, and such fairy 
 beings as Lorna do not drop from the skies every day. The pilgrim- 
 ages to the Doone Valley — and there are plenty of them every 
 summer, now — are largely inspired by the imagination of the romancist. 
 
 " When I came to myself again my hands were full of young 
 grass and mould ; and a little girl kneeling at my side was rubbing my 
 forehead tenderly with a dock-leaf and a handkerchief." 
 
 This is the spot that everyone looks for, and there is something 
 like it to be found — a miniature ravine, a tiny stream playing bo-peep 
 amongst the ferns and grasses, losing itself amongst the tangled roots of 
 the greenest mosses, and then leaping into the river below. This is 
 the stream in which little Jan Ridd went fishing for loach one cold St. 
 Valentine's day, and this is the ravine which so many thousands who 
 never saw it have crept through, and dwelt in, and trembled when 
 little Jan Ridd's half-frozen feet slipped upon the treacherous stone. 
 
 The Valley of the Doone which pilgrims come to see is a poet's 
 dream, but real enough to all who read the story. Real too, is " gurt 
 Jan Ridd" the lovable man — strong, true and purposeful, and so a 
 type, with Exmoor setting, of what Devon men were and wish to be.
 
 126 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 I met a shepherd driving a flock of delicate Exmoor sheep, who 
 told me that he had heard about Jan Ridd and the Doones ; but he 
 wasn't very interested in the matter. I thought he had been be 
 with inquisitive strangers before, for he was a trifle " short " in 
 manner, and said h< - 3 >sed it was a " passul " of lies, and he was 
 ~.;re for sartin " that no man ever lifted a horse saddle and rider 
 over a fence, out of Devon into Somerset. Nothing I could say m. 
 him yield one point — not even when we discussed the matter over 
 some very capital rid 
 
 A young yeoman who wj - :ig out ottering said if I would 
 
 ly him he would introduce me on the way to an old man who 
 
 ed on as a sort of wonder in the district for his knowledge of 
 
 local events, and his memory concerning them. This was one 
 
 achi Vile — and . . . ' :.e is not an unfamiliar surname 
 
 in Devon, nor is it held in any m^ of contempt. 
 
 was r from his hut. " i was a p 
 
 and his forbears lived upon the moor I .eratic: 
 
 . nd then only from one hut to another, to save the trouble of 
 repairs, or to be nea peat b *. 
 
 "There be Ma. s : - nan, rapping . ng 
 
 eches with a stick. He ha. and w. 
 
 to be off to the meet, the 
 
 wish'ee joy ov mun. maister" sort of a grin. ver his ap; 
 
 ad he was «rone. 
 Malachi had his back to me. and was looking far a 
 
 Population on the moor is Sf and the 
 
 apparently little to look at anywhere but great boulders weathered 
 the one side and sof: ed with lichen on the other. He 
 
 p old r en his head was thrown back. L 
 
 the cople on the moor he had the s : et of long life. 
 
 was said to b - 3 of age, ' . but no vul 
 
 When I reached him, he ung pigs feed 
 
 out of a rough and broken stone trough. Long, lean looking anin: 
 I thought them, but ! achi pn them, probably ui 
 
 pfession that I • to buy. He grew eloquent, he grew young 
 
 i when I made him i : last that 1 was t a deak 
 
 only want talk a bit - down, and grew cold and old agj 
 
 He eyed me up ax t last took the hi 
 
 H od took my measure. She v - 
 
 older than her 1 s full of i. I 
 
 soon found she was 1 Bint t
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 127 
 
 " Be careful, father." said she. warningly. as she left us alone. 
 
 Malachi was the fourth generation of Yiles who had dwelt upon 
 the moor; and his own father lived so long that he forgot his own age, 
 and would have lived longer, if he hadn't ^one to Barnstaple fair, took 
 more than was good for him. and caught a cold through sleeping in 
 the open. 
 
 He had heard, he said, a good deal about the Doones. and people 
 who came on the moor in times of trouble and hid themselves, living 
 as best they could with other vermin. They were a poor, wandering 
 lot, and sent their children out beg i ving, and singing carols 
 
 at Christmas at the farmhouses. The last of the family that he ever 
 heard tell ov perished in the snow, near Challacombe. 
 
 .Malachi had never heard of any Doom e or fortifications, or 
 
 armed bands riding over the moor with Sir Ensor Doone at their 
 head. A few ragged soldiers, who t hanging at the hands of 
 
 Judge Jeffreys, used to skulk on the moor in the old days, and he had 
 heard his own grandfather say that the moor-men used to hunt them 
 just as though they were foxes, and smoke them out of their holes and 
 lairs. A man-hunt on the moor was fine sport. 
 
 This is just the sort of country for wretched, m e hunted 
 
 men to seek sanctuary in. T plenty of such men at times in 
 
 Devon, and the hunt was sometimes so hot after them that they v. 
 glad to slip into churches and lay hold of " sanctuary rings " fixed in 
 the chancel walls, and so gain a little breathing time. 
 
 There was an ancie.it and mysl ibject to no law b : 
 
 their own sweet will, known as the "Gubbins." an< ed tribute 
 
 upon all travellers p ssingthroug Titory" in 
 
 and around Lydford Gorge. Old Ful ys, "Gubb is' land is 
 
 Scythia within England, and they pure h« - within. Their 
 
 language is the dross of the dregs of the vulgar Devonian. They hold 
 together like burrs: offend one and all will revenge his quarrel." A 
 Gubbins of pure blood would be interesting now, but one cha 
 is common to moor-men. who quarrel 
 
 against an intruder. The moors for moor-men 
 
 But the Doone's and the Gub s's ere superior to the 
 
 Cheritons — semi-nude savages who dwelt within living memory only a 
 few miles out of Exeter. The Cheritons were a family living on their 
 
 .. — 
 - 
 
 Who 
 
 W _ . 
 
 !
 
 128 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 own freehold for generations, living and breeding like rabbits, until 
 they degenerated into real savages. The patriarch of the tribe slept 
 at night, and reclined during the greater part of the day, in a cider 
 cask, well bedded up with hay and dried ferns, and the youngsters 
 sheltered themselves in holes cut into hayricks and woodstacks. As 
 the Cheritons lived near Dartmoor, Baring-Gould took them under his 
 literary wing. Here is the respectable old patriarch : 
 
 " ' Log ! ' said the voice of Cobbledick the old from the cyder cask. 
 
 " ' I be a-logging like the blue blazes,' answered Cobbledick the 
 younger. 
 
 " Then a dry and dirty hand emerged from the cask and with a 
 gorse bush struck at the girl — that is, at Cobbledick the younger. 
 She evaded the blow. 
 
 " ' Be quiet, vather, or I won't log any more ! ' 
 
 " ' You won't ? ' with a horrid curse ; ' then I'll make you if I 
 whacks and whacks till you be all over blood and prickles. There, I 
 will, I swear. Glory rallalulay ! ' " 
 
 This, the lowest type of human life in Devon, lasted the longest 
 — down to within fifty years ago, and almost within sound of 
 cathedral chimes. 
 
 These bits of strong local colour have gone now in the land 
 wherein if a man said " mummy dummy " to a ghost it would vanish ; 
 and wherein, it is said, a person preparing for confirmation gave the 
 commandments as " Crismas, Lady-day, Aister, Whitsuntide, Our 
 Vair, and brither Jan's birthday." 
 
 Some things of interest, however, remain. It is wonderful to see 
 what a moorman can do with old sacks — give him two, and his wardrobe 
 is just complete. A sack is easily converted into a smock with arm- 
 holes ; and when the rain comes down pitilessly, what better and more 
 comfortable than a sack thrown across the shoulders ? Moreover, 
 what more comfortable at night, when far from home, or lost in a fog, 
 or drifted up in the snow, than to creep into a sack, and sleep ? A 
 labourer driving a team, or working in the open, will fly to an old sack 
 for protection from a storm. The old habit is everywhere in evidence. 
 
 A sheepskin comes handy to a Chagford man — 
 
 Old Harry Trewin 
 Had no brutches to wear, 
 So he stawl a ram's skin 
 Vur to make en a pair ; 
 Wi the woolly zide out 
 And the fleshy zide in, 
 They sticked pretty tight 
 
 To old Harry Trewin.
 
 •THK CKHATOK OF LORNA DOONE."
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 129 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 DEVON is free from factories — it has a few workshops, but of 
 factories, belching out fire and smoke, sulphur and acid gases, 
 polluting everything, scorching everything, killing everything, 
 it has none. It is virgin still. 
 
 Nowhere very far from the sea, it has the advantages of two 
 airs — each sweet, pure, delicious — that of the sea and that of the 
 moor ; and it has been discovered that both differ, yet mingle to the 
 great benefit of those who breathe them. If a national playground is 
 wanted, Devon offers it ; if a sanatorium, here it is. 
 
 From the highest land, where the rivers rise, the blue sea may be 
 seen, north and south. On the moors, towns are few and small. The 
 " simple life " may be led here without much intrusion, and lovers of 
 Nature need never weary. 
 
 The moors should have great attraction for people given to 
 psychical research, for, if you sleep on the ground after anointing 
 your eyes three days with vervain, dill, and St. John's wort, the spirits 
 of the air become visible ! 
 
 The inhabitants of the moors appear to have discovered the 
 secret of living to a " good old age," but what the secret is — unless it 
 be fresh air and plenty of it — I cannot guess. 
 
 I inquired of an old woman in a sun bonnet, and quite sprightly 
 for ninety. She said she didn't know, she was sure, only most people 
 lived to be aged, and some lived so long as to forget how old they were. 
 I learnt from her that weakly children died young, and those who 
 survived the kicks of horses, immersions in farm ponds and running 
 streams, and other accidents, grew up strong and hearty, and then 
 lived much longer than their nearest and dearest thought reasonable ! 
 
 She had peculiar views about bathing and tubbing, which, she 
 said, did very well for children and young people, but for grown-ups 
 she thought that washing all over at one and the same time was a 
 mistake. One should do it in sections. There was nothing the matter 
 with her old man, except that his rheumatics were " cruel bad " at 
 times. He was a shepherd, and shepherds always lived to be aged 
 because of the smell of the sheep early mornings. The breath of cows 
 inhaled mornings fasting was also good. She had reared ten children,
 
 130 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 and here she was at ninety, looking hale and buxom in a sun bonnet ; 
 not a blotch on her face, and yet she was an enemy to bathing, and 
 had only taken medicine — " doctor's traade " — once since the maid 
 Susan was born. 
 
 A medical man depending on a moorland practice would, if he 
 survived long enough, at last learn for himself the secret of living on 
 air, and the sweet breath of cows, and the smell from fleeces, for there 
 is precious little prospect of his earning anything except when he's 
 wanted to set broken bones. 
 
 Country people have a dislike for physic ; first, because it is 
 expensive, and second, because " when the doctor is at the door the 
 sexton is at the gate." To be of any good, physic must be highly 
 coloured, strongly scented and flavoured, and if it " warms the 
 innards " as it goes down, so much the better. There is an idea that 
 there must be pain to cure pain, unless the cure is effected by 
 " charm," so a bottle of " doctor's traade " should gripe well in order 
 to be worth the money. 
 
 Some " infallible cures " are not recognised by the faculty — a 
 very ancient one is to cure rheumatism by the sting of bees. It wants 
 courage to thrust one's hand into a bees' hive and be well stung about 
 the wrist, but it is an article of belief that the rheumatism disappears 
 as the stings heal. Most people prefer the disease to the remedy.t 
 
 An old charm, and one not so very well known, is powdered 
 images taken surreptitiously from a church font. An apostle is better 
 than a saint, and a saint is better than a gargoyle, but any stone 
 image will do for something or other. Cromwell and his soldiers 
 have had to bear a good deal of undeserved blame for image-breaking, 
 when, in fact, the real culprits have been people who wanted " Peter 
 stone " for the cure of sores and wounds by external application, and 
 also to sprinkle on water to be drunk fasting for internal complaints. 
 
 Almost everything which can be carried away surreptitiously, or 
 stolen from a churchyard, makes a good charm for the cure of some- 
 thing. Lead cut from a roof, a door key, water from the baptismal 
 font, will cure disease and drive away evil spirits. Churchyards have 
 often been rifled for dead men's teeth to be carried about as charms 
 for toothache. A great number of charms — for example, for the healing 
 of burns, the staunching of blood, the cure of fits, the drawing of a 
 thorn from the flesh — contain invocation to saints and the Holy 
 Trinity. St. Peter, amongst the apostles, seems to have been the 
 
 I Since w riting this the Rev. W. T. Adey tried the experiment on himself with the result that he was 
 cured of chronic rheumatism. The formic acid in the " sting" of bees was the curative agent. The 
 rev. gentleman announced the fact to the members of the Saltash Baptist Literary Society.
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 131 
 
 most relied on. Even witches do not disdain invocations. An incanta- 
 tion for the recovery of lost money is an example : 
 Flibberty gibberty, flasky flum, 
 Calafac, tarada, lara, wagra wum, 
 Hooky, maroosky, whatever's the sum, 
 Heigho! presto ! Money come ! 
 In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, Amen ! 
 
 Poor cattle suffer a good deal, and their owners meet with great 
 losses at times through the ignorance of "white witches" and "white 
 wizards," and the treatment (often revolting) which they prescribe for 
 the cure of ordinary diseases. 
 
 Milk may be bewitched so that it will yield no cream, and cream 
 may be bewitched so as not readily to turn to butter. To counteract the 
 spell, make a fire of sticks gathered in four parishes, and set the milk 
 upon it, and whilst it is boiling walk three times around a stool against 
 the sun, and there will be cream, and the cream will turn to butter 
 which no witch can cast an evil spell upon. 
 
 There is a superstition that things planted in the ground during 
 Easter week, especially on Good Friday, will grow " goody." People 
 plant their potatoes and peas on Good Friday instead of going to 
 church ! 
 
 There is a curious superstition with regard to water used in 
 baptism. Fresh water must be used for each child, otherwise number 
 two will take upon itself the sins of number one, and number three the 
 sins of one and two, and so on. 
 
 But you must not marry in Lent or you will live to repent. 
 
 With regard to baptismal water, people were at one time in the 
 habit of carrying away water left in the font for use in magical rites : 
 and this is the reason why fonts in parish churches were at one time 
 required to be covered and locked. 
 
 Some ideas associated with charms are pretty. A child who 
 gathers moonbeams will never lack gold. 
 
 Horses treading on moonwort will cast their shoes. 
 
 A maiden may see her future husband if she dips a clean handker- 
 chief into running water, or into a wishing well, on Michaelmas Eve, 
 and then lays it across her bed. The one true love will appear and lift 
 the handkerchief, kiss it and turn it. The dreamer must not 
 speak, should she awake, or the spell will be broken ; and if not 
 broken the dream lover will be her future husband. 
 
 I was shown a now rare and curious faded printed broad sheet 
 entitled, " A Receipt for Ill-Wishing," which was sold on market 
 days together with a certain powder. The " white wizard " was
 
 132 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 Dr. Tuckitt, of St. Bartholomew Street, Exeter, to whom all inquiries 
 were to be directed. In his day, Dr. Tuckitt had a good practice, and 
 a wide reputation. The powder sold was said to be particularly 
 efficacious for curing cattle and also for making things grow 
 in the ground. If the ground was sour and sterile here was the 
 remedy. 
 
 " Take a little of this powder into your right hand and strew it 
 across your house doors, and to the court gates, and to each barn 
 door, reading the first thirteen verses of the 28th Deuteronomy, and 
 no more. Then strew a little of the powder across every gate and 
 bar on your estate, saying these words : — " As thy servant Elisha 
 healed the ground and the waters of Jericho by casting salt therein, so 
 I hope to heal this ground, that no evil may come of it, and that it 
 may yield to me its full strength, and that there might not be any barren 
 land on all this estate ; in the name of God the Father, God the Son, 
 and God the Holy Ghost. Amen." 
 
 There are three kinds of witches and wizards — Black, White, and 
 Grey. The Black is malignant. The white can cure and can 
 counteract the malice of the Black for a money consideration. To be 
 a white witch is to carry on a business, and people come into Exeter 
 and the towns from long distances in order to get advice and purchase 
 remedies. " White Witches " are well known to local magistrates 
 and the police. The Grey witch is of a different order, and dabbles 
 in the black art, and he, or she (for a "witch" may be of either 
 sex) controls events, shifts curses from one to another, and even 
 "blesses." 
 
 Ministers, doctors and schoolmasters have a long and uphill fight 
 before them. "The story of the Witch of Endor is a stumbling- 
 block," a schoolmaster told me. 
 
 " Do you really think that the children attending your school 
 believe the twaddle they hear at home ? " I asked. 
 
 " Why not ? How can a child help believing when it is told to 
 say over a burnt finger : 
 
 Three wise men came from the East, 
 One brought fire, two carried frost. 
 Out fire ! In frost ! 
 In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 
 
 The burn heals in time. What did it ? The invocation. How can a 
 
 child help believing ? " 
 
 " Is belief widespread ? " 
 
 " I should say that every child in this school can repeat some 
 charm. See that girl with a swollen face ; she has the toothache."
 
 £ 
 
 -* 
 
 fc 
 
 - 
 
 DC 
 
 - 
 
 — 
 
 EH
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 133 
 
 The Schoolmaster called the girl to his side and asked if her 
 toothache was better, and she said it was. Then he asked her what 
 she did to cure it, and she replied that she said three times daily : 
 
 " As Peter sat weeping on a stone over against Jerusalem our 
 Saviour passed by and said, ' Peter, why weepest thou ? ' Peter said 
 unto him ' I have got the toothache.' Our Saviour replied, ' Arise and 
 be sound.' " 
 
 Then I asked : 
 
 " Did you bathe your face in hot water ? Did you put any drops 
 on the tooth ? Did you take any medicine ? " 
 
 The girl said no, nothing was ever done, and the charm 
 " worked." Her mother taught her the charm. She was nearly well 
 now. 
 
 The Schoolmaster assured me that if he were to say publicly that 
 the charm was of no avail, a mere superstition, and an insult to human 
 intelligence, he would be called everything bad under the sun, and 
 told that he did not believe in the Bible. 
 
 Children from several villages attended this school, which earned 
 very good grants, and the teachers were obliged to let the " charms " 
 live yet awhile in order to preserve their own authority and reputation 
 for Godliness ! 
 
 The Schoolmaster was a Nonconformist, and sometimes preached 
 in the villages. 
 
 A funny world, my masters ! 
 
 CURL PAPER STORIES. 
 
 There is a legend of Lynton Castle, only there is no castle now, 
 nothing but a castle rock. However, one never knows what may have 
 been in days gone by when the powers of darkness were able to rend 
 the solid earth asunder, and form what is now the magnificent Valley 
 of Rocks. 
 
 Once upon a time, the castle was in the possession of the Lady 
 Edith, who had a temper, and sometimes there was no living for her, 
 so violent was she. 
 
 A " Black Monk " also lived at the castle, and had her ladyship 
 " under his thumb " in most matters, but even he was obliged to take 
 a stroll in the open and admire the scenery, or what not, when the 
 atmosphere inside the castle was too, too warm. 
 
 Lady Edith, the only daughter of Earl Sigvald, was betrothed to 
 ker cousin the blue-eyed Earl before his conversion, and after he 
 
 i
 
 134 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 became Christian trouble came. The Lady Edith would not be con- 
 verted, but worshipped the ancient gods ; and the Black Monk backed 
 her up. 
 
 The blue-eyed Earl sent word to her peacefully, saying, that on 
 the first day of the new moon he would come and claim her ; and her 
 iadyship sent back a message which made him turn pale, and then 
 red, and then pale again. He was a very placid man, for the times, 
 but he hanged the messenger in sight of the castle, which seems to 
 have been an unpleasant habit amongst great people when things did 
 not go smoothly. 
 
 Lady Edith was well versed in runes and incantations, and her 
 spirit was as bold as her tongue, and when the Black Monk stoop 
 beside her and revealed himself she entered into a pact with him, if 
 only he would defend the Castle from her blue-eyed cousin. 
 
 The Black Monk saved the Castle and continued to dwell there, 
 and the Lady Edith was under his thumb. 
 
 One day, her ladyship was in her rages, and the bell was rung at 
 the postern gate. The Black Monk had gone out for a stroll to admire 
 the scenery, which everyone knows is very fine. 
 
 The Lady Edith opened the wicket herself, and a holy friar stood 
 there, and asked for "something for the missionaries." Now, anything 
 holy got upon her ladyship's nerves, and she shut to the door in the 
 holy man's face with a bang, and called on the Black Monk to throw 
 him into the sea. 
 
 The holy friar knew who the Black Monk really was, and made 
 the sign of the cross as soon as he appeared, which so angered him 
 that he rent the earth asunder, and the great cliffs heaved in pain, the 
 Castle disappeared, and the Valley of Rocks was formed. 
 
 The Black Monk carried off the Lady Edith, and whoever now 
 sees their figures scudding before the wind, may know that there is 
 anger in the sky, and desolation before them on sea and land. 
 
 There is a story of a " Phantom Cottage " on the Moor, near 
 Buckfastleigh, seen by three young ladies, who committed the fact to 
 writing, and from which Mr. Page quotes in his book on the Rivers of 
 Devon. 
 
 " One day, the writer, accompanied by her two sisters, was return- 
 ing home with her father, who had been shooting. By some means, 
 they contrived to miss him and lost their way. After walking some
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 135 
 
 time they saw — very much to their satisfaction — a light, which they 
 found proceeded from a cottage by the roadside. Looking through the 
 window they beheld, seated on a bench, crouching over a fire, an old 
 man and woman. 'We looked for a little while, and then, all of a 
 sudden, we were left in perfect darkness, and cottage, man, and woman 
 all disappeared. We never moved from where we were standing.' 
 
 " The ladies — they were quite girls — were naturally rather 
 frightened, and when they reached home at once made inquiries about 
 this vanishing cottage. It does not appear that they got much 
 information from the villagers — ' Yes, it is quite right, it is called the 
 Phantom Cottage of the Moor,' and a rather hazy idea of some 
 wicked deeds connected with the cottage and its inhabitants being 
 mostly all that they could gather. 
 
 " The Devonshire peasant is not, as a rule, communicative about 
 matters supernatural, and it was the case here. 
 
 " The ladies and their father visited the spot by daylight, but 
 found nothing but a few stones, apparently marking the site of this 
 phantom cottage." 
 
 Marycombe is only a village, but it had its ghost, which came out 
 of a lawyer's bag, in the shape of a " bill of costs," incurred in a 
 Chancery suit. The story runs like this: — 
 
 Butcher Drake gallopped up to the inn, and nearly tumbled off 
 his horse with fright. The devil was loose in Marycombe Lane. He 
 had seen him, and the poor horse confirmed the story, as well as he 
 could, by trembling in every limb. Butcher Drake was a bold man, 
 and would face anything with skin, horns, and tail, provided it had 
 four legs ; but he had seen something moving about with two legs, and 
 the horse took " vright " and he took " vright," and there he was. 
 
 " Lord have marcy 'pon uz," said the clerk, who was having his 
 evening's pint with the sexton, who slipped out of the back door and 
 cut across to the vicarage. 
 
 Marycombe Lane had a bad reputation, and was said to be 
 haunted by the ghost of a Chancery suit, commenced long, long ago, 
 and continued until the bill of costs ate up the estate. The buildings 
 were falling in, and strange sounds were heard, and strange sights 
 were seen. 
 
 " Not for ten thousand worlds would I go back that way this 
 night," said Butcher Drake.
 
 136 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 Whilst they were talking, a strange man entered the room and 
 laid on the floor a paste pot, and brush and bag. He was posting 
 bills around the country announcing the sale of the estate " by order 
 of the High Court of Chancery," and then he opened his mouth and 
 cursed roundly the man who had nearly ridden over him as he was 
 fixing up a bill in Marycombe Lane. 
 
 " You'm on devil's business, and that's just as bad," said Butcher 
 Drake. 
 
 The sexton brought the vicar back with him, but he wasn't 
 wanted. 
 
 The estate was sold to a man who had money, and rebuilt the 
 outhouses and stables, and put everything in order, and so laid the 
 ghost of the Chancery suit. 
 
 Only Butcher Drake gave up boasting, and to the day of his 
 death never went through Marycombe Lane again after dark. 
 
 Whoever reads these stories, and then lives a hundred years, 
 shall not die young. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 AT one time there was a forest on Dartmoor, and there is a 
 " forest " now — a courtesy title on paper. There were also 
 mines — tin mines and stannary towns, and a stannary parlia- 
 ment, and " coinage " towns wherein the grey metal was assayed and 
 hall-marked. 
 
 Tin mining is very ancient, and it seems probable that it was the 
 Cornish Celts, and not the Devon Saxons who worked the tin on the 
 moors. Tin has a sort of liking for desolate places, where water is, 
 and barren rocks all around, and miners don't care much about land- 
 scape scenery as long as the mines are rich. To work in a mine 
 which has " cut rich " is music and scenery combined. The tinners 
 appear to have been a race apart from the bog trotters, and were 
 so fond of revels and frolic, sparring and wrestling, that when they 
 could not get up a row with the bogmen they would have a set-to 
 amongst themselves. 
 
 The tinners held an open-air parliament around Crocken Tor, a 
 wild spot, in harmony with the men and their proceedings. The
 
 THE RIVER SWEEPS PAST."
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 137 
 
 price and purity of the metal were two important subjects for the 
 consideration of the tin parliament, and adulteration was punished 
 by laying the accused on his back and pouring three ladles of molten 
 metal down his throat ! This was the law, and the men of the day 
 were the right sort to enforce it, if they were so minded. It is also 
 said that in early days offenders were crucified. This practice 
 was borrowed from the Romans — about the only thing which was 
 here borrowed, unless, perhaps, a bit of road-making and castle- 
 building may be thrown in. 
 
 Old Crocken Tor was the silent witness of many strange scenes ; 
 and the granite moss-grown boulders round about were the seats of 
 men having the power of life and death. Then degeneration set in — 
 the old "parliament" became a Stannary Court, and the Stannary 
 Court is now merged in the County Court ! 
 
 Lydford — mean little Lydford of to-day — had a Castle and a 
 prison, and, in Saxon times, was taxed equally with London ; but the 
 Conqueror came and cut its comb. Lydford gave the world the 
 famous exhibition and practice of " Lydford law," which consisted of 
 hanging a man to start with, and then trying him and passing 
 judgment. It is not known whether the jury ever returned a verdict 
 of " not guilty." Probably not, as some compensation might have 
 been claimed by the family of the man judicially murdered.* Judge 
 Jeffreys held his Bloody Assize here. If the shade of my Lord 
 Chancellor visits this earth it will probably come here. The people 
 think so, and tell you that his spirit haunts the castle in the shape of 
 a black pig I 
 
 The river Lyd sweeps past the mouldering walls of the castle, 
 and then there is the Cascade, beautiful and treacherous, known far 
 and near as the " Woman in White." 
 
 This beautiful gorge was the haunt of Roger Rowle, the outlaw, 
 and leader of a gang of outlaws, and somewhere near here Salvation 
 Yeo slew the King of the Gubbins. 
 
 In the church porch is an epitaph which commends itself to 
 watchmakers and the wearers of watches all the world over. 
 
 ♦The story of a Judge of the Stannary Court at Lydford having hanged a felon in the forenoon, 
 sitting in judgment on him in the afternoon, appears in print in a volume of sermons published in the 
 year 1615 ; some years before William Browne, of Tavistock, wrote his humorous satire, commencing: 
 
 " I oft have heard of Lydford law. 
 How in the morn they hang and draw, 
 And sit in judgment after. 
 What, however, was worse than death was being a prisoner in the Castle awaiting trial. The poet 
 Bays : 
 
 " I know n >ne gladly there would stay, 
 But rather hang out of the way 
 Than tarry for a trial." 
 Impatient social reformers of to-day should have lived then !
 
 138 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 " Here lies in horizontal position the outside case of George Rout- 
 leigh, watchmaker, whose abilities in that line were an honour to his 
 profession. Integrity was his mainspring, and prudence the regulator 
 of all the actions of his life. Humane, generous, and liberal, his hand 
 never stopped till he had relieved distress. So nicely regulated were 
 all his motions, that he never went wrong, except when set a-going by 
 people who did not know his key. Even then he was easily set right 
 again. He had the art of disposing his time so well that his hours 
 glided away in one continual round of pleasure and delight, till an 
 unlucky minute put a period to his existence. He departed this life 
 November 14th, 1802, aged 57, wound up in hopes of being taken in 
 hand by his Maker, and of being thoroughly cleaned and repaired and 
 set a-going in the ' world to come.' " 
 
 Tin is the connecting link with the "Cathedral of the Moor" at 
 Widecombe, with which the Prince of Darkness is associated now for 
 aye and ever. 
 
 The facts are narrated by the vicar in simple prose, and by the 
 schoolmaster, one Richard Hills, in rhyme, painted on four tablets, to 
 be read in the tower entrance of the church. These rhymed tablets 
 are probably unique. 
 
 The church was partially destroyed by lightning one Sunday 
 afternoon, when the congregation were all assembled. First, there was 
 a terrible darkness, then, thunder and lightning, and then, a ball of fire 
 came in at the window and passed through the church. The congre- 
 gation were all on their knees, or fallen flat on their faces, crying 
 aloud for " mercy." Four were slain, sixty-two wounded were 
 shrieking in their agonies, and in the midst of all a little child, "which 
 scarce knew good from ill," walked placidly about the church, 
 uninjured and unterrified. 
 
 These are the simple facts, but the legend enters into more 
 particulars, and affords motive and denouement more completely 
 than is usually found in seventeenth century legends concerning the 
 acts of the Prince of Darkness. 
 
 A LEGEND OF SATAN. 
 
 Widecombe-in-the-Moor was rich in tin, and the miners served 
 their master, the devil, most gloriously in the days of old. The 
 tinners held high days and holidays, attended fairs and revels on pay 
 days, and then no work was done in mine or in stream until their 
 money was all spent. Widecombe was a prosperous place, and the
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 139 
 
 devil, who had power over the underground pixies, allowed them to 
 show the miners where there were lodes of tin, and then to throw 
 plenty into the streams, so that there should be no lack of money for 
 cock-fighting and badger baiting, fighting and wrestling, and drinking 
 all the year round — and one year after the other. 
 
 There was a fine church, for the parish was large and populous, 
 only the miners stayed outside, never entering even the churchyard 
 gates until carried feet first. 
 
 So things went on, until the vicar persuaded the miners to 
 subscribe towards the building of the new tower, which in beauty was 
 to exceed all other towers in Devon. 
 
 The Purser of the mine had grown rich, but was getting old, and 
 thought it time to please heaven, although he had walked aforetime 
 hand-in-glove with his Master, who taught him some tricks, whereby 
 he could cheat the merchants who bought the tin, and then cheat the 
 men who worked for it, and yet be looked on as an honest man ! He 
 was lucky, even for a mine purser. 
 
 The devil was sure of the Purser, and so did not frighten him by 
 proposing any compact. In the ordinary course of events the Purser 
 would be his. 
 
 Well, the Purser subscribed handsomely towards the church 
 tower, and when the devil looked over the list of names he was 
 terribly angry. He walked down to the mine, and met the Purser with 
 cash-box under his arm. 
 
 " I'll catch you napping one day," said he, and passed on. 
 
 The Purser always slept in church: he thought he was safe there. 
 
 On Sunday afternoon, October 31st, in the year of our Lord 1638, 
 the Purser went to church, and then to sleep, as usual. 
 
 Then something happened. 
 
 A horseman rode to the door of the inn at Poundsgate, near by, 
 and called for a drink. He was a bona fide traveller, and the smiling 
 landlady remembered afterwards that the tankard of home brewed 
 " sizzled " as it passed down his throat. She also remembered that 
 the traveller rode off in hot haste without first receiving his change 
 from a coin which was as hot as though fresh from the mint. She 
 intended to forget this, but events happened. 
 
 The traveller rode off in hot haste for Widecombe, tied his 
 horse to one of the pinnacles of the new tower, and descending to the 
 churchyard kicked some idle children playing therein into an open 
 grave. 
 
 The Purser was sleeping in his pew.
 
 140 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 The traveller entered the church, seized the Purser by the hair of 
 his head, and carried him aloft, through the roof, and then to where 
 the horse was fastened. 
 
 The Purser struggled and struggled, and so frightened the horse 
 that the pinnacle was thrown down, and crashed through the roof. 
 
 Then darkness fell upon the earth, and out of the darkness came 
 lightning and balls of fire ; and the church rocked when the thunder 
 pealed. 
 
 And in the midst of all this terror a little child wandered up and 
 down the aisles, and came to no hurt. 
 
 The devil rode off with the Purser, who was seen no more ; but 
 the place declined because the pixies would no longer work in their 
 " parlours," making precious ore with silver hammers, and then show 
 the miners where to find it. Tin mining languished, and the pixies 
 and the miners disappeared. 
 
 There are some who say joyfully that miners are coming back 
 again ; and some who say the land will do very well without them, for 
 where there is mining there is riot, and where there is riot there the 
 devil is. 
 
 So there's no pleasing everybody. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE sighing of prisoners is heard at Princetown, which is the 
 moor in cultivation now — a garden of civilisation, an earthly 
 paradise, wherein the bodies and souls of men are cared for 
 and purified, as well as can be. 
 
 Princetown is so named in honour of the " First Gentleman in 
 Europe," who found good entertainment here with his friend, the 
 Warden of the Stannaries, Sir Thomas Tyrrhwit, and made love in 
 the royal way to one Dolly Copplestone. 
 
 Now, Dolly had a lover, a thick-headed, dumpling-faced Devon 
 lad, who took it into his stupid brains that it would be better for 
 Dolly to be an honest man's wife than anything the " First Gentleman 
 in Europe " could make of her. So the stupid fellow spoiled sport, 
 and whisked Dolly off to Lydford Church, and really married her. 
 
 This is a little country romance which had a simple country 
 ending, and no tragedy came of it. " Dolly's Cot," in ruins now, is
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 141 
 
 at Dartmeet, where she lived to a good old age, and lived so pure and 
 sweet a life that when she died the tinners stopped work and carried 
 her coffin to Widemouth Church ; and the women of the moorside 
 walked in the funeral procession wearing "white skirts and white 
 kerchiefs pinned across their shoulders." The story is very sweet — 
 all the sweeter, perhaps, because one hears it here. 
 
 Princetown has been a prison for a century. Before the latest 
 entente cordiale, French prisoners of war were here in plenty. There 
 was not much trouble taken to guard prisoners, who roamed about 
 pretty much as they pleased, and were glad enough to return at meal 
 times. Officers on parole were allowed to live in towns and villages, 
 within certain limits, and were only fined if found fishing up streams 
 past certain boundary stones. It really wasn't very bad to be a 
 prisoner of war if one had a little money with which to buy things, 
 and to grease the palms of men who saw one roaming and fishing out 
 of bounds. People come here now and pay for the privileges which 
 broke the hearts of patriotic Frenchmen to endure. 
 
 General Rochambeau was a prisoner. He heard that his soul's 
 idol was about to invade England. Vive V Empereur ! He called for 
 his boots, and paraded up and down, up and down, before his sweet 
 little cottage, in full uniform, impatient for the moment when an 
 orderly should appear with his sword and charger ! Only Napoleon 
 never came, but the general was liberated in time to join in the mad 
 rush of the hundred days, and close his eyes at Waterloo. 
 
 In the churchyards round about are headstones erected to the 
 memory of gallant young officers who died in exile — at Ashburton 
 " Francois Guidon " sleeps far away from sunny France. But the 
 entente has come, and the Channel tunnel is in the future, and then, 
 who knows ! Young French heads may come here and be bowed 
 over the green turf. Ah ! If Francois Guidon could only know ! 
 
 Marshal Cambronne was quartered at Ashburton in the house of 
 a man who was a sergeant in the English army, fighting against his 
 beloved France. And yet there was no anger in the souls of the men 
 who fought. The marshal was happy, and when he was free, he 
 gallantly presented his portrait to Mrs. Sergeant Eddy, whose grand- 
 daughter still possesses it, and you may see it in her room at the 
 Golden Lion — a good sample of a Devon inn in the coaching days. 
 
 There were American prisoners here also, and many many 
 descendants of good Devon families lie in the little cemetery behind 
 the prison. Good Devon earth covers them, and a " memorial " 
 rises above the tall bracken.
 
 142 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 The prison is now a National Institution for the restoration of 
 unfortunate men corrupted by society. 
 
 Patients wear uniform marked with the " broad arrow," to 
 distinguish them as national property, and every care is taken of them 
 lest they should lose their way in a fog. When anyone is reported 
 " missing " a search is made with as much diligence as though the 
 Koh-i-nor were missing from the Tower. 
 
 An old lady living in a lonely part of the moor, once informed 
 the officials that there were " broad arrow " marks around her roost. 
 There they were, sure enough, on the soft ground. A Princetown 
 treasure must have escaped. 
 
 Whilst they were talking and examining a flock of geese waddled 
 along. 
 
 The counterfeit presentment of the broad arrow was theirs. 
 
 Sometimes men wearing the broad arrow are anxious to be lost 
 to official sight. They tire so quickly of studying the beauties of 
 nature from one spot — sometimes they do not care for the study at 
 all, and would rather be in streets, and walk on pavements. Life 
 becomes monotonous to men restless and inventive, and willing to 
 shake hands with society once more, and forgive 1 
 
 The Chaplain tells a tale of two gentlemen in broad arrow 
 uniform getting clear in a mist, and wandering to a gentleman's 
 house. In the dining-room they discovered the goodly remains of a 
 big supper — ham and turkey, cheese and sweets and wine. 
 
 They were grateful, and departed, but only to fall into the arms 
 of prison warders, who restored them to their anxious guardians. 
 
 The kindly Chaplain noticed that one of his flock was depressed. 
 
 " Is there anything on your soul ? Does conscience trouble you, 
 my man ? " asked he, kindly. 
 
 The man was touched. 
 
 " I shall never forgive myself — not having had another slice of that 
 ham 1 " said he. 
 
 Sometimes society is not prepared to accept forgiveness, and 
 gives information when the broad arrow uniform makes its appear- 
 ance. Even families do not rejoice at untimely visitations and 
 reunions. 
 
 One day a native escaped and made a bee line for his wife's 
 cottage. The lady was at home, but not in the mood to forget and 
 forgive, and live happily evermore. 
 
 She expected a visit and locked her door. 
 " I want to come in," said the man.
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 143 
 
 " Not likely ; you don't come in here. The policeman is about 
 the place, and I don't want 'ee," said the woman. 
 
 Then the man tramped back to the National Institution and 
 regained admittance. There was one place in the world where he 
 was welcome ! 
 
 All sorts and conditions of men come here. Not so long ago the 
 44 Prison Service Review " printed the " Lay of the Lagged Minstrel," 
 an ambitious effort, concluding — 
 
 " God save the Queen, and may He send down blessings on her head ; 
 She may make me Poet Laureate when Alfred Austin's dead." 
 
 Another poet grumbled at the fare. The air of the moor is so 
 appetising, and the men in such splendid health, that they can eat 
 more than is provided. 
 
 The nation provides six ounces of bread and a pint of gruel for 
 breakfast, and the same quantity of bread, with cocoa, for supper, and 
 meat three times a week for dinner— half a pound each man. 
 
 Many struggling men condemned to pay income tax would rejoice 
 if their " bread was certain and water sure " every day on so liberal a 
 scale. 
 
 Sunsets on the moor are very beautiful. If you tramp about a 
 good deal you are not likely to see many sunrises. A holiday tramper 
 doesn't want to see sunrises — his eyes are too heavy with the weight 
 of dreams to open when the sun gets up. To enjoy sunrise, one must 
 make a night of it. I nearly saw the sun get up, once. 
 
 I saw sunsets in all tints — light golds and saffron, reds and 
 purples ; and I saw the hills and combes and rocks in all lights and 
 shades, and for the very life of me I can't set down on paper what I 
 saw. I am like the schoolboy who knows the answer quite well, but 
 can't say it. I know the poor boy is sent down, and I must be sent 
 down too. 
 
 If you are caught in a " wisht " place in a storm with thunder 
 and lightning, you are likely to remember that also, and get some sort 
 of an idea of what it means on the moors to people who tell you that 
 the hounds of hell are let loose to hunt lost souls across the wastes on 
 certain nights in winter. I would not have missed the sight, because 
 it gave me insight— so I fancy — and enabled me to understand the 
 legends of Wisht hounds, and Gabriel's hounds, and Dinham's dogs, 
 and what suggested them, and how they spread, and why they keep 
 their place in the folk lore of the county among a population not given 
 to fertile invention — not like their cousins across the Tamar.
 
 144 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 " Wishtman's Wood " is one of the haunts of spectres — and a 
 " wisht " place it is, wherein the dwarf oaks, all knotted and twisted 
 and gnarled, seem to protest against the gift of life. " Wishtness," 
 the spirit of depression and sadness, " walketh here ; " and when the 
 voices of the moor mingle with the voices of the heavens in tempest 
 and darkness, what wonder that peasants tremble in their huts, and 
 transmit fear to their children ? 
 
 Even a City man, without fear, without nerves, without beliefs, 
 would find a new sensation, if he lived during long winter nights in 
 a hut without electric light or gas, and no better fire than can be made 
 with peat, and fantastic shadows on the walls changing with every 
 blast of wind. 
 
 Much land has been brought into cultivation, whereat some re- 
 joice, but some make faces and say they liked it better as it was, and 
 that Nature is most beautiful when most savage. 
 
 In a holiday tramp one meets plenty of savagery, and the wonder 
 is that men should have the energy and patience to try even to make 
 waste places blossom as the rose. In places it would seem an almost 
 impossible task to get anything to grow except creeping mosses, and 
 lichens, and short grasses; but granite-strewn land, when broken up, 
 is profitable, because hard, unyielding granite contains rich food 
 for plants, which it gives up generously in rain and dew and 
 moisture. And the moor is the very place to make the granite yield 
 its treasure. 
 
 Moor women are a sturdy and independent race, very much given 
 to having their own way, but not afraid of work, either before mar- 
 riage or after. The " subjection of women " was never very well 
 understood in these parts, for the women were as ready to fight as the 
 men. The women of Dartmouth, the men being at sea, met the 
 French on their landing, and drove them off with great slaughter ; 
 and they were the daughters of the women who broke the power of 
 the Danes in Devon. 
 
 Before the Conquest there was a long and bitter contest for 
 supremacy between the Danes and Saxons, and sometimes victory 
 favoured one and sometimes the other, and the standard of the Danes 
 was victorious along the Valley of the Dart — from Totnes to Dart - 
 mouth. 
 
 Cuthbert, the Saxon Earl, was depressed by dreams showing him 
 the raven, bird beloved of Odin, everywhere triumphant. He con- 
 sulted his chiefs and they gave him no comfort ; their men had been 
 so often beaten that they could not be relied on to make a stand.
 
 O 
 
 o 
 
 o 
 o
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 145 
 
 Whilst they were yet talking, a herald came from the Danish camp, 
 summoning the Earl to surrender. 
 
 Then the Earl sought Hilda, his wife, who was cunning as a fox, 
 and bold as cunning, and she went and consulted with the women. 
 And this was her counsel. 
 
 Give the messenger to eat and to drink and lead him through the 
 camp where the women are, and let him see how fair they be, not like 
 the women of the Danes, and then send him to me. 
 
 The Earl did so, and the Danish messenger went through the 
 camp, and saw the women in their ornaments, and admired their 
 beauty, and fine forms, and great strength. Then the Countess Hilda 
 took him in hand, and played upon his vanity, and sent a message 
 and a token to the Danish chief, saying, " On Friday, ere sunset, the 
 Saxon women will be in the Danish camp at Dittisham." 
 
 So the Saxon women dressed, and beautified themselves, and 
 marched to Dittisham, and the Danes feasted and caroused, and every 
 chief chose a lady, and every warrior a woman to sit by him in the 
 great hall of feasting. 
 
 When the men had well drunk and were boastful, Hilda gave the 
 signal to the women to retire, saying they were modest, and it was 
 their custom to await the coming of their lords in their own tents. 
 
 In the morning, as soon as it was light, all the Saxon women 
 assembled around the Countess Hilda, and every woman showed the 
 stain of blood upon her dagger. 
 
 Then Hilda blew a blast upon a trumpet, and the Earl and the 
 Saxon host entered the Danish camp, and in every tent a man lay 
 prone, with heart wound gaping wide. 
 
 All the Danish standards were taken, and on every standard the 
 magic raven drooped its head and wing, which was a sign from Odin 
 that the power of the Danes was broken in the land. And so it was. 
 
 These were the mothers of the men who resisted the Normans, 
 and then spread themselves over the moors, and kept themselves to 
 themselves for centuries. Their descendants are on the moors to-day ; 
 and if you bargain with them you will learn their cunning ; and if you 
 live amongst them you will learn that a woman looks upon it as a 
 shame to be the mother of a son who will not struggle and wrestle 
 and fight for his own, or who will turn his back upon the foe in the day 
 of battle. 
 
 All through the terrible South African War, the mothers of Devon 
 dried their tears when they knew that their sons fell fighting with all 
 their wounds in front !
 
 146 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE moor has its artists as well as its poets. Devon, in fact, 
 has been a fine nursing mother for artists, and is proud of her 
 children. Excluding Middlesex, Devon has produced more 
 artists of the first rank than any other county, and nearly five to one 
 of the sister county, wherein is inspiration on every rock. Plymouth 
 alone reckons six who have been found worthy of a place in the 
 National Gallery — the great Sir Joshua being one. 
 
 The " voice " of the moor was not always heard, or, if heard, it 
 passed unheeded, until it sounded in the heart and soul of Widgery 
 the elder, who went out into the open and painted what he saw and 
 felt, and brought home canvasses glowing with colour and sunshine, 
 radiant and storm swept, which only to look at made one feel the 
 breath of life, and stirrings indefinable. One might almost say that 
 the moor had given birth to a poet who worked with a brush ; the 
 same as it had previously done when inspiring Williams to paint its 
 rivers and the decorated fringes of the tablelands. The old Widgery 
 was of bolder genius and may be termed the first-born son of the moor. 
 Of course he has had a large following — his mantle descended on his 
 own son, whose work showed more technique and refinement, but 
 then the moor lost something of its power and weird fascination on 
 canvas. Then there is another son of the moor nursed upon its 
 heather, Morrish of Chagford, who has done little else but wander 
 over bog and morass, and surprise Nature in secret places. He is one 
 of the ancients now, but is to be found at Chagford, as of old. 
 
 There are artists everywhere— North and South, East and West. 
 It is a pleasure to meet them working in the open, for they are under 
 no haunting fear that their subjects will be exhausted. Oh no. 
 " The moor is so varied, so lovely and so entertaining in its effects of 
 light and shade, foreground and distance, that any artist worthy of 
 the name can find subjects for a lifetime here," said an artist 
 between his strokes. There is quite a little colony at Plymouth — 
 Mitchell and Brittan, King and Barrett amongst them. 
 
 Here is Pycroft's picture representing the true sons of the moor 
 sitting by streams and granite boulders. " You find them sketching
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 147 
 
 painstakingly, giving the correct form and substance of the 'bit' 
 before them, catching tbe tints as they fly, and giving to their work 
 an air of reality, and a degree of daylight that is not to be found 
 among the works of men of old time. On our Devonshire painters' 
 canvasses the sunlight now dances upon the broken stream ; the 
 moss, lichen and ivy grow on the rock, and you can tell what rock it 
 is ; the anatomy of trees is correctly given ; the season of the year is 
 depicted, with its delicate greens or its golden russets, the very time 
 of day is seen at a glance." 
 
 " Some of the very best work of the county is just now being 
 done by the school of Dartmoor artists," says a gentleman over a 
 cigarette at the comfortable inn at Okehampton. He is not a profes- 
 sional who says this, but one who has a genuine liking for moor pieces 
 painted in the open, and no great fancy for " studio " work. He 
 seems to think he can smell a studio picture, and pours into my ears 
 some observations about " studio " work which would not be too 
 pleasant to the young and lazy to listen to. 
 
 A most entertaining companion ; you may meet similar almost 
 everywhere, and to find them out you have only to start them on 
 their hobby, and listen. It is wonderful how one can slip through life 
 and make friends by merely listening 1 
 
 There are a few places one always likes to see because such and 
 such a man was born there. I don't know why, but one expects to 
 see, or hear, or feel something ; and when nothing out of the ordinary 
 takes place there is for solace the idea that something might have 
 happened. When at Ashburton one should run over to Holne Rectory, 
 where Charles Kingsley saw the light. We know the sort of man he 
 was — tall and sallow-faced, with a twinkle in his eye and a curl at the 
 corner of his mouth, as though he were shutting his lips close lest a 
 witty thing should slip out unawares. We are free to fancy what sort 
 of long-legged youth it was who played about these gardens, and we 
 may fancy that we meet him wearing an Eton jacket on the road to 
 church, or see him starting off with rod and basket for a good day's 
 fishing in the Dart. Kingsley rarely loved sport, like all good Devon 
 men. 
 
 Then from Ashburton or Totnes, it matters little which, one can 
 visit Dean Prior, where Herrick wrote the most beautiful pastoral 
 lyrics in the world. A marvellous man, and lovable with all his faults. 
 It was he who taught his pig to drink ale out of a tankard, and it was 
 he who, on the word of one Dorothy King, once shied his sermon at 
 his congregation and cursed them roundly for going to sleep. If the
 
 148 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 old church had never been altered it would be simply lovely to sit 
 here in the cool and fancy the poet working himself up into a temper, 
 until he threw his precious M.S. out of his hand, and then his wig, 
 for wig was pretty sure to follow. And yet, fancy ! it was he who 
 wrote that sweet " Litany to the Holy Spirit" which seems to soothe 
 the troubled soul like consecrated oil. 
 
 " When I lie within my bed 
 Sick in heart and sick in head, 
 And with doubts discomforted, 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me." 
 
 No one, in his day or since, abused Devon and Devonians like 
 Herrick — he abused the climate, he abused the rivers, for their "rocky 
 beds," he abused the people as " salvages " with rocky hearts, and yet 
 he is forgiven, for over the "maypoles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes; " 
 over the "bridegrooms, brides and bridal cakes;" over the "brooks 
 and birds and flowers ; " indeed, over the whole of the homely life of 
 Devon he passed the purple glow of Arcadian romance. And here he 
 lies, in the old parish church, wherein a tablet has been tardily 
 erected. Herrick was not a Devonian but a Londoner, but it was 
 Devon which took possession of him, and the best he had to give he 
 gave to the fair county which adopted him, even against his will, when 
 he grew repentant of the " unbaptised rhymes, writ in my wild, 
 unhallowed times." Good Devon earth is above him now, and has 
 been for two centuries and a half, and we are waking up to know and 
 to love him. 
 
 Then there is Ashe House, a mansion in the Valley of the Axe, 
 which has some connection with the present because it was the birth- 
 place of John Churchill, son of Sir Winston Churchill, the great Duke 
 of Marlborough. Winston is an old family name, and there are two 
 Winston Churchills in the world now, neither willing to let the old 
 name die. 
 
 What is left of the mansion of Ashe is a farmhouse now, and the 
 chapel in which John Churchill was christened has been turned into 
 an outhouse with a cider press in it. 
 
 It is not known whether Lord Macaulay visited these ruins when 
 he was engaged in distilling venom for the illustrious founder of the 
 ducal house of Marlborough. He might have. The Drakes lived here 
 at one time, and this fact might have made his lordship's pulse throb 
 with patriotic pride, although it did not concern his " purpose " to 
 write a History of England commencing anterior to the accession of 
 King James the Second. All that affected " Handsome Jack
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 149 
 
 Churchill " of course interested the historian, and it is a relief to 
 every honest Devonian, after a course of Macaulay, to remember that 
 the Churchills are Dorset people, and then to pass him over with all 
 his "blushing honours" to the neighbouring county. 
 
 There is a very good story told by Page of Ashe. Lord North 
 (who sent out taxed tea to America and brought trouble to a head) 
 was staying at the house during harvest time in the year 1765. There 
 is a Devonshire custom called " crying the neck " observed at the close 
 of harvest. "Some ears of corn from the last load of corn are bound 
 into a rude shape ; this one of the harvesters holds aloft, while 
 the others, raising their hooks, shout 'A neck ! a neck! a neck! We 
 have un.' Lord North heard the shouts, and for some reason or other 
 thought that the labourers meant to have him. His fears appear to 
 have communicated themselves to a friend, who, drawing, his sword, 
 advanced upon the astonished reapers. Of course, the custom was 
 at once explained, and the sword returned bloodless to its scabbard.'' 
 
 A few ivied walls close to Axminster railway station mark the 
 spot where the stately Newenham Abbey stood, which is interesting 
 from the fact that " by divine mercy Thomas Prince breathed his first 
 air " here, as Prince quaintly says of himself in his " Worthies of 
 Devon," a most entertaining book, containing a little piety, and a 
 good deal of biography seasoned with shrewd and cynical remarks. 
 This little country town, from which trade has departed, and gives 
 one the appearance of having gone to sleep to dream of other days, 
 was also the birthplace of William Buckland, geologist, of " Bridgwater 
 treatise " fame. If one could but whisper into his ear the names of 
 Darwin and Huxley! 
 
 The birthplace of Blackmore would be a famous place of pilgrimage 
 were he only born on Devon soil. There is a fine portrait of him, by 
 Harry Hems, in Exeter Cathedral, which was placed there because he was 
 a North Devon man, though "by the accident of events" born in Berk- 
 shire. However, Devon was his playground, and when he grew up 
 and had the money, he purchased the land which, in the old familiar 
 phrase, " once belonged to the family." What more could he do to 
 make amends for not having been born in the right place ? 
 
 The North of Devon counts John Gay as a son, and we may turn 
 aside at Torrington and go to Frithelstock if we would like to visit his 
 native place. But we must visit Westminster Abbey if we would see 
 a memorial to the man who wrote the " Fables " and " The Begqars' 
 Opera " — the happy, cheerful, indolent Gay, in whom the Gallic side 
 was always uppermost. 
 
 K
 
 150 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 DEVONSHIRE humour is homely, and if you are in too much 
 of a hurry you may miss it altogether. Some persons who 
 have scampered through the towns and villages speak of the 
 inhabitants as stolid, and stupid, and morose, because they don't make 
 any effort to show their bright side at a moment's notice. " Quick- 
 witted " they are not, but they accommodate their pace to their wit, 
 and are apt to turn matters over and over, and then sleep on them 
 before acting ; and when once people make up their minds it is very 
 difficult to induce them to change. 
 
 The native tells a story just as he plays skittles — he takes plenty 
 of ground and puts on a twist. It is a slow game — skittles — when 
 played three in a rank, but the twist does fine execution, like a story 
 with a snap to it. Generally the humour lies in the snap, and if you 
 are impatient and lose the snap, why, there's nothing in it, and you 
 abuse the native for being slow, and dull, and stupid, and what not. 
 
 Devon folk do not cut you short with something brilliant, like an 
 Irishman, for example, and must have their own way. First of all 
 they make an atmosphere and fill in with details, and then, all 
 unconsciously, something is said which gives a humorous turn to the 
 narrative. 
 
 There is a " solid " look about a man when he is telling a story, 
 and when he's most "solid" he's nearest the point he wishes to make, 
 the which, if you miss, you miss everything; and he produces his effects 
 with very slight and simple means. There is, too, an almost entire 
 want of sympathy shown on the part of the narrator, and if there is 
 an element of danger to someone he doesn't let you fancy that it is 
 any concern of his. Told of an evening over a pint of cider, the 
 ordinary events of the day have often their droll and humorous sides. 
 
 Giles, for example, tells how he was loading corn on a wagon, 
 when he suddenly realises that he is high up in the world, and doesn't 
 see how to get down without breaking his neck. The ladder is 
 somewhere else and the wagon is on the move. He shouts to the 
 farmer : 
 
 " Here I be, sure enough, maister, but how be I to get down ? "
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 151 
 
 " Oh, if thee shuts thee eyes and walks about a bit thee'll cum 
 down vast enough," says the farmer. 
 
 And all the sympathy that Giles gets is being called a " tummit- 
 haid " for not seeing how to get down avore he got up. 
 
 The native mind works mysteriously towards a desired end. A 
 yeomanry volunteer appears on parade decorated with the medals won 
 by his stock at a local cattle show. The sergeant compliments him 
 sarcastically on his bravery, and asks how he won them ? " Through 
 the beef of old Devon," replies the man, with a face of innocence. 
 
 In country districts the land steward is the target, especially if he 
 is a " hard man." Some stewards are not hard ; and one of the 
 exceptions having died, the tenants subscribed and erected a tablet to 
 his memory, describing him as " A steward and a just man." 
 
 The tenant of a neighbouring estate read the inscription care- 
 fully, and then said, " However did'm get both into one coffin ? " 
 
 A steward wanted to raise a tenant's rent, and there was the 
 usual talk. At last the tenant's mind was made up. 
 
 " I want do et," said he. " I tell 'ee what 'tis, Mister Steward, 
 ef all thy sins were writ upon thy forehead they would be so big that, 
 dang me ! if thee wid be able to pit on thy hat." 
 
 A stable boy tells stories about horses, and says he has one in his 
 charge which will be good for months on end in order to give him a 
 kick on the sly. 
 
 The clergy come in for their share of attention. A North Devon 
 farmer, and a Churchwarden, said he knew for certain that the clergy 
 attended Episcopal visitations in order to exchange their sermons 
 under the eye of the bishop ; and he added slyly, " Our parson got a 
 terrible poor set last year." 
 
 A Brixham fishwife is credited with a repartee which would pass 
 muster anywhere. Having sold her fish, the housekeeper gave her a 
 glass of cordial to warm the cockles of her heart. It was an old 
 liqueur glass, and Betty let it slip from her cold fingers. 
 
 " What have you done ? " cries the housekeeper in much distress. 
 " Master prizes that glass, for it is so very old." 
 
 " Who would have thought it," says Betty, " it was so very 
 small for its age." 
 
 But a real Devonshire story must be listened to from beginning 
 to end, and not merely robbed in this way of its point, which is some- 
 times touched with caustic, as in the case of the yokel at Chumleigh, 
 who asked a swaggering sergeant, bent on recruiting, whether, 
 amongst his other great performances, he had " ever been killed."
 
 152 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 Here is the real thing. 
 
 JAN STEWER'S DIALECT STORY* 
 
 WHO WON THE RACE ? 
 
 " I bin stiddin (1) an' stiddin, an' thinkin' an' thinkin', an' I've 
 argied it out in me awn mind, an' I've argied it out wi' Bill Sparkes, 
 an' Jim Webber, an' Tammas Haith, till us was black in the faace. 
 An', darn me, the more I stids, an' the more I thinks, the vurder off 
 I gets." 
 
 I made a sympathetic remark, mildly interrogative, hoping I might 
 learn the problem with which the old man strove, and probably assist 
 towards a solution. 
 
 Apparently he heard me not — possibly, for the moment he had 
 forgotten my existence. 
 
 He pursued his audible rumination. 
 
 " Cou'se, Jim's right so var's he go'th ; 'twas the 'osses that was 
 raacin' an' nit the men. But, arter that, 'ow c'n zay he winned the 
 raace when he come in last ?" 
 
 Again I endeavoured gently to stimulate my meditative friend to 
 confidence. I might as well have attempted to stir round the English 
 Channel with a tea-spoon. I had not then learnt that the man who 
 can " pump " a Devonshire man has yet to be born. 
 
 However, just as I was beginning to tire of his soliloquy, and had 
 abandoned all hope of ever having a connected history of the facts, 
 and, moreover, had decided to seek more genial company (a decision 
 he probably gathered from my interjectory " Well ! " and the little 
 preparatory adjustments of cap, coat, and cuffs, which usually portend 
 departure) he suddenly burst into his tale with the only preliminary — 
 " 'Twas like this yer," and became henceforth as garrulous as he had 
 previously been reticent. 
 
 'Twas like this yer. 'Enery Gale 'ad a-got a mos' maazin' vine 
 oss. No oss around vir miles cuden tich en — that's 'cordin' to 'Enery's 
 estimaation. Black oss 'e was, wai' a li'l bit of a white spot p'n he's 
 vorrid. 
 
 ♦Written for this work by the author of " Tales In a Carrier's Van."
 
 "THE HAUNT OF ROGER ROWLE, THE OUTLAW.
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 153 
 
 This yer windervul oss was 'bout th' aunly thing 'Enry cude tell 
 (2) about. Whenever 'e got back 'ome vrom market 'twas orwiz he's 
 rules to tell about the divverent osses he'd lef be'ind p'n the rawd. 
 
 " Caw ! Bless my zawl," he'd go, " tell about Varmer Burridge's 
 noo oss ! Pah ! W'y he cuden bide in the zame turnpike rawd wai' 
 mine. He was a gude mile ahaid, and I zes to my oss, ' Diment, my 
 deear,' I zes, ' Zee thiky bay oss on a-haid, my buty ? Yu got to 
 ketch vore to he, 'genst us comes to vower-crass rawds.' Laur bless 
 yer 'art ! Her jis lied vor her yers (3), my boyes, an' us flipped pas' 
 Varmer Burridge like a bird vlyin." 
 
 Us use to get a bit weary o' yerin' so much 'bout 'Enry's oss. 
 Although mind, I ban't gwain to zay but wat he was a licker to travel. 
 I like to gie ev'rybody their just dues. 
 
 Owsumever, wan day Baker Loosemore took back 'ome a frash 
 oss which he'd buyed to Bant'n Vair (4) ; an', b' all accounts, 'twas 
 another none-such, like 'Enry's. 'Twas a black oss too, thees wan, 
 an' very sim'ler to 'Enry's. In vac' yude scarcely knaw'm apart, aunly 
 that Tammas Loosemore's ad'n got uther white spot. 
 
 An' then the vun beginned. 
 
 Into the bar-parler o' the " Urd Lyon " thik zame aiv'min, the 
 chaps all got turrifyin' (5) 'Enry most jewsive. 
 
 " Law, 'Enry," zes Jimmy Barnicott, " wa's think o' Tammas 
 Loosemore's new oss, then ? " 
 
 "Ant zeed'n," zes 'Enry. 
 
 " Naw, begad ; an' ban't likely to nuther ; vir I be dalled if 'e 
 dawn travel so vas' tis a job vir anybody to zee'n." 
 
 " Think he's vaster 'n 'Enry's mare ? " zes Georgie Gurnslade. 
 
 " Vaster ! Ees, fai, I sh'd think 'e was vaster. Wy he'd be 'arf- 
 ways to Ostrillia avore 'Enry's mare ad a-got her vore ligs out str'ight." 
 
 Aw my blassid ! Yu shid a-yerd 'Enry carry on. Wull, there, 
 I'm mortle glad yu did'n, vir a gen'lman like yu wid a-bin shocked. 
 
 Owsumever, to cut me tale short, as the sayin' is, the outcome of 
 all o't was, they daycided to ride a raace. My jaly ! the aczitement 
 ther' was in thees-yer villidge the day thiky raace was rinned. Revel- 
 day wad'n no-ways to be compeered to 't. Ev'ry blassid zaul in the 
 plaace turned out to zee it — man, wumman an' cheel, an' hunderds 
 cume from the villidges aroun'. Vi' pound a-zide they was raacin' 
 vor, an' Jan Hurvord 'old the staakes. 
 
 Cou'se 'twas the young chaps was arrangin' all o't, an' a middlin* 
 bit o' spoort they was maakin' too, yu mid depaind. They mapped 
 out the coorse, an' marked'n out wi' vlags. Dree mile, 'twas. Start out
 
 154 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 to Varmer Bullid's moor-geat, (6) up auver he's ten-acres, down-auver 
 the hay-vield, auver the strame, 'crass Varmer Gidley's mead, 'crass 
 the rawd there where th' ole Turnpike-geat used to be, around the 
 Plantaation, up auver Yeffle-moor (7), and vinish in Easter Close, 
 back o' the church. 
 
 Cou'se, they choosed thiky way on 'count o' the number o' haidges 
 an' ditches to be got auver. But the wist haidge of all was the wan 
 to get into Easter Close, 'bout o' hunderd yard from the vinishin-p'int. 
 'Tis a mortle high haidge, sure nuff, an' ther's aunly wan plaace where 
 'tis possible to crass'n 't all ; an' that's where the skule-chillern 'ave 
 med a gap climmin auver to go to skule. 
 
 Wull, the day come to-las', an' ev'rybody was there to zee, from 
 Squire down to Joe Mudge, the rawd-scraper. Up tap o' Beacon-Down 
 us cud zee'm comin' the whaul way, seps when they waint aroun' the 
 plantaation. 
 
 My days! wat a raace 'twas. Neck an' neck they come, strainin' 
 ev'ry nerve in their bodies. 
 
 " They'll nivver last out the paaze," zes the Squire, as aczited as 
 anybody. 
 
 But they ded ; an' whane they come into zight aroun' the 
 plantaation ther' wad'n a peen to chuse 'tween 'em. 
 
 Right vore they come, pankin' (8) an' raddy to drap, but still 
 gwain at a killin' paze. The osses was as aiger as the raiders, an' 
 didn' need a particle o' whip, although they was gettin' a-plainty. 
 
 Th' ole Squire was fo'ce to take off he's 'at an' wipe the swattin' 
 off he's ball-haid. " By Gad ! " 'e zes, " I nivver witness nort to 
 aiquel theas." An' ev'rybody 'ad 'olleyed therzel's oze. 
 
 B' theas time they was both makin' vir the gap in the las' 
 haidge ; an' the osses yers was vlappin' down p'n their faaces, an' the 
 tears was rinnin out auver to their ayes ; but ther wad'n the distance 
 o' two inches divverence between 'em. 
 
 " 'Tis jis' which raiches the gap vus'," zes the Squire. 
 
 " They'm gwain to raich it both together yer 'onner," I zes, an' I 
 was right too. 
 
 Like two birds they rized up to the gap zac'ly the zame instant. 
 But there was barely room vir wan, let 'lone two. Bevore yu cude 
 zay Jack Robinson they was all to a mix-muddle p'n the ground, so's 
 yu cude 'ardly tell which was man an' which was oss. 
 
 Forch'nitly nuther-wan o'm wad'n hurted, but 'Enry was fust out 
 o' the muddle, an' he was up p'n the oss's back in a jiffey. Whip and 
 spur he lat into the poor baste, an' got auver the haidge zum'ow. But
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 155 
 
 Tammas wad'n but a matter of inches be'ind, an' durin' they las' 
 'underd yards I thort the vokes wid surely all go maazed. But 
 Tammas cud'n catch vore, an' 'Enry cum'd in vust. 
 
 Bless my art, what a scene 'twas. All the chaps wat 'ad bet 
 their money on 'Enry lifted 'en out the zaddle an' was gwain to 
 carr' 'en aroun' p'n their shoulders. 
 
 All of a zudden Tammas Haith zes: 
 
 " Wy 'Enry, dam'f thee as'n vinished p'n the wrong oss." 
 
 Aw, my dear life ! If I was to use ev'ry word in the dictionary 
 I cuden discribe wat the vokes was like. They scritched, they 
 olleyed, they baaled till yu'd a-thort they was let out from zum lunatic 
 azylum to air ther' lungs. 
 
 Cou'se, when 'Enry come to jump p'n he's oss agean he'd med a 
 mistaake, an' got up p'n Tammas's 1 
 
 Laaf ! I thort I shid a bus' mezel'. 
 
 But wat a shanty 'twas to be sure. 
 
 'Enry down-argied ev'rybody that he'd winned the raace ; an' 
 Tammas he zed how cude that be, when he's oss cum'd in vust ? 
 
 " An' zo," added the old man complainingly, " there us be, no 
 andier a zettlement than us was avore." 
 
 I suggested a second race, as a method of overcoming the diffi- 
 culty which possibly had not obtruded itself upon their intellects. 
 
 He regarded me for several seconds with fittingly scornful eye, 
 but without moving his head. Then, having given me time to wither 
 to suitable proportions, he continued — 
 
 " Tha's jis' the wist o't ; 'Enry's oss died nex' day, an' two days 
 arterwards, Tammas's oss brock's lig (9) an' 'ad to be shat. Zo us'll 
 nivver knaw vir certin whichy was vastees' oss — laistways, not in thees 
 world." 
 
 (1) Studying. (6) Gate. 
 
 (2) Talk. (7) Heathfield-moor. 
 
 (3) Ears. (8) Panting. 
 
 (4) Bampton. (9) Broke his leg. 
 
 (5) Teasing.
 
 156 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 BIDEFORD made Kingsley, and not Kingsley Bideford. You 
 may have thought differently once upon a time, when reading 
 "Westward Ho!" in London Town, before you knew Bideford 
 or Bideford men. But when you come here you'll know better, and 
 get rid of a false impression, which, after all, is one of the advantages 
 of travel. 
 
 A Bideford man at home has a quiet way of taking possession 
 and knocking all the conceit out of one. He does not tell you that 
 the place is the eighth wonder of the world — he does better than that, 
 and leaves you under the impression that it is, and that your education 
 has been somehow neglected at not knowing it. When the old place 
 came into existence is not of much consequence — when the earth was 
 cool enough, the old people probably took possession, and became lords 
 of the Taw, the Torridge and the Sea. If you are an antiquarian you 
 know that you have touched bottom here, and that it is quite hopeless 
 for you to think any more of the Little Minster in which you were 
 born, and of which you have been so proud, " the origin of which is 
 lost in the mists of antiquity," to quote the local authority. A great 
 many "origins" are lost in this way, and a Bideford man smiles 
 serenely when you say so. He is not disturbed. His starting point 
 for old Bideford is when the earth cooled. 
 
 When the curtain rises in the historic period, there is a Bideford, 
 sure enough, towering against the broad Torridge in flood, and giving 
 birth to a hardy race, who will call no man " Master " on sea or land, 
 without first fighting for mastery — -a good old fighting stock from the 
 beginning. Then come down later, when "the mists of antiquity" are 
 supposed to clear a bit, and the angels of heaven are here advising 
 where and how the marvellous bridge is to be built. There is no 
 mistake about this, for it is on record, and the record is as true as 
 that the soul of the Viking king is imprisoned in the Hubba Stone, 
 which is to be seen to this day. And, later still, come down to the 
 Kingsley era, there is Bideford, self-contained and self-reliant, queen 
 of the seas, wherever ships may sail, mothering men who are to give 
 to England the first real taste of Empire. Talk of Kingsley making
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 157 
 
 Bideford, indeed ! when there was a Bideford so ancient, and heroic, 
 and enterprising when he took up the thread of his story, and 
 estahlished his own fame and reputation and literary right and title to 
 that very big slice of Devon known as " Kingsley's Country." 
 
 A Bideford man, when he chooses to talk, throws in these bits of 
 history as mere fragments of something larger and more important 
 still, until Devon looms upon the historic canvas as the first of 
 English counties, and Bideford as the brain and soul of Devon. All 
 the little Minsters, with origins lost in the mists of antiquity, are 
 swallowed up as you listen. 
 
 It saves a good deal of trouble, and one can get over the ground 
 so much faster during a summer holiday, to get a big brush sketch of 
 things from a well informed native. Of course one doesn't really 
 expect to see Sir Richard Grenvile and Mr. John Oxenham, or even 
 little Amyas Leigh furtively sharing his chocolate creams with sweet 
 Rose Salterne ; and yet one would not be altogether surprised, for 
 here are the narrow streets leading to the Quay, through which Sir 
 Richard, tall and stately and every inch a gentleman of Devon, really 
 did walk. On the old Quay there is a sailorman, with blue and red 
 tattoo marks on his arms, and the post he leans against is the very 
 post against which Salvation Yeo used to lean and spin his sea yarns ; 
 and the man you see is just the lean, leathery, storm- washed sort of a 
 man you fancy that Salvation Yeo must have been. The canvas 
 begins to crowd a bit with real forms, and you walk around to Rose 
 Salterne's house — it's there — and hang about until you hear lusty 
 townsmen talking broad Devon through their noses. Somehow, you 
 get in touch with the past, and all is so real that you take out your 
 " Westward Ho ! " and as you read the period lives for you. 
 
 True it is that there is not much of old Bideford left, and they 
 say that that little is disappearing ; but what is left of " the little 
 white town " is precious, as relics of the age when North Devon men 
 could build ships, and sail them, fill them with merchandise, and fight 
 them against all-comers on the high seas, and then return with riches 
 untold, and prizes sailing in their wake to grace their triumph. When 
 one sees a map of old Bideford, one is lost in amazement at the pre- 
 sumption and audacity of the men who sailed the world for gain and 
 adventure in cockle-shell ships, fighting all-comers who said them nay 
 on the high seas, making the little white town rank as the fourth in 
 the Kingdom ! Is it really true that we are removed by but a few 
 generations from these men, living in these comfortable houses, who 
 filled Bideford Bay with rich argosies until it became known far and
 
 158 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 wide as the " Golden Bay ? " On the map the old town covers but 
 little more ground than a modern dry goods store in London ! 
 
 Kingsley paid homage to Bideford, but the visitor now pays 
 homage to Kingsley. The Bideford man is quite content with the 
 arrangement, for nothing on earth can make him less ancient, or less 
 proud of the old men, or less convinced of his right to rank among the 
 immortals. There is a Kingsley statue here now, life-like, and breath- 
 ing love for the " little white town " on the banks of the wide 
 Torridge, with its fine backing of cliffs and trees. Then there is the 
 Kingsley room in the Hotel, once the home of merchant princes. The 
 legend runs that a part of " Westward Ho ! " was written here, under 
 the splendid ceiling painted by Italian artists. If one only sits here 
 long enough the Kingsley spirit may hover over him and inspire 
 another romance of old Devon. Who knows ? A good many people 
 sit in the chair. 
 
 Westward Ho ! is an In Memoriam to Kingsley, and there is 
 something about the suburb characteristic of the book after which it 
 is named — a hardy, healthy, breezy place ; a sort of place to grow 
 men in. It is a sweet and wholesome place, with the breath of 
 vigorous life brought in from the sea, which gurgles, or roars and 
 pounds upon the half mile of firm hard shingle, emblematic of the 
 kind of men which Kingsley thought the old Devons were and should 
 be for all time. Dandies in patent leather pumps don't come here ; 
 or, if by chance they do, they whisk off again. They are not the 
 Kingsley type of men, and the old beach does'nt want them, as 
 Rudyard Kipling, who knew the beach well in his youth, can tell you. 
 
 As yet there is not much of Westward Ho ! — just a name, with 
 beach, fishing boats, and capstans, and then a promenade and 
 terraces. But everything about the place is breezy — golf and fishing 
 for all comers until night comes, and then, sleep ! The weary who 
 cannot sleep through very weariness come here. 
 
 For Kingsley lovers Bideford-with-Appledore is the place. It 
 seems a pity that Appledore is so detached ; still it isn't far off, by 
 land or by water, and comes within Bideford proper if you only 
 reckon in everything this side of the bay. There is the bridge with 
 its legends of angels — never mind " improvements " — with its four- 
 and-twenty pointed arches, " the very omphalos, cynosure, and soul 
 around which the town as a body has organised itself." Then the 
 river and the quay are here, and all we want is to see Amyas Leigh 
 and Salvation Yeo, John Oxenham and Sir Richard Grenvile, all 
 inspired with one grand mission. If we could but see them, and then
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 159 
 
 run round to the Mayor's house and pass the time of day with the 
 sweet Rose of Bideford ! 
 
 To speak aloud here of the making a Channel Tunnel would be 
 enough to bring the dead to life, and empty the tombs of the brave old 
 mariners who, in their patriotism, wished for nothing better than for 
 the shores of England to be washed by the deep blue sea. 
 
 " Keepe then the sea, that is the wall of England, 
 And then is England kept by Godde's hand." 
 
 These brave old mariners said and believed that England would be 
 great and safe and free only so long as she remained in queenly 
 isolation, and had warm and gallant hearts to man her ships, such as 
 were to be found in Bideford and Appledore, and in every cove and 
 village on the coast, or within sound of the booming sea. The words 
 uttered aloud would be sufficient spell to summon the ghostly forms 
 of the old sons of Devon, all of gentle blood and hard fighters, who in 
 life were wont to keep company with the Sir Richard of imperishable 
 memory. We can see amongst the gathering of shades, indignant and 
 remonstrant and with half-pitying looks for the degeneracy of the 
 times, the Bassetts of Umberleigh, the Fortescues of Wear, the Carys 
 of Clovelly, the Chichesters and Copplestones, the Coffins and St. 
 Legers, the Stucheys and Heards, and not the least famous, John 
 Oxenham and Amyas Leigh. Promoters of the scheme come here 
 and meet these shades of the men who have been face to face with 
 death at midnight in the ancient churchyard. 
 
 Imagine the scene. The promoters of the bill with sixteen 
 millions at the bank, and a small army of engineers with plans all 
 drawn and all ready to begin, and counsel learned in the law with bill 
 all drafted, and statesmen all ready to give consent — all these and the 
 rest are here with eyes fixed upon the noble group in armour clad and 
 hand on sword. 
 
 Sir Richard speaks, and the manner of the man we know from 
 the monumental brass in the ancient church forming the grey back- 
 ground to our weird picture. This is he who in his little ship, the 
 Revenge, kept the whole Spanish fleet at bay for a day and a night, and 
 who, when his ship was riddled with balls and her decks a shambles, with 
 his dying breath called the master gunner to him and counselled him 
 to scuttle the ship. No surrender ! But the crew murmuring, the 
 dying hero was carried on board the Spanish Admiral's ship, on whose 
 deck he died, and dying, uttered words which will never grow old and 
 stale, as long as Englishmen possess the grandeur to be great. The 
 words are engraved on the brass tablet in the Church :
 
 160 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 " Here die I, Richard Grenvile, with a joyful and quiet 
 mind, for that I have ended my life as a true soldier ought to 
 do, that hath fought for his country, queen, religion, and 
 honour ; whereby my soul most joyfully departeth out of 
 this body, and shall always leave behind it an everlasting 
 fame of a valiant and true soldier that hath done his duty as 
 he was bound to do." 
 
 To such a man, and such as he, promoters and engineers, counsel 
 and statesmen urge their arguments in favour of the scheme : no 
 more sea-sickness, quick transit, cheap rates, the entente, community 
 of interests, advantages to art, literature and science. The ghostly 
 band, hand on sword, remain unmoved, until the coming of the dawn, 
 when they chant as one : — 
 
 "Cherish merchandize, keepe the Admiraltie, 
 
 That we be masters of the narrow sea. 
 
 The end of battaile is peace sikerly, 
 
 And Power causeth Peace finally. 
 
 " Keepe then the sea, about in special, 
 
 Which of England is the town wall ; 
 
 Keepe then the sea, that is the wall of England, 
 
 And then is England kept in Godde's hand." 
 
 And chaunting, vanish. 
 
 Kingsley's book seems so much more real after walking through 
 
 narrow Mill Street and High Street, and lounging on the quay, 
 
 gazing on the river and crossing the bridge, and watching the taut 
 
 trim little vessels with their white sails passing up and down. It 
 
 seems a pity that Burrough House should ever have been pulled 
 
 down. It somehow helps tradition for the actual stones to remain : 
 
 and old Burrough was doubly blest by tradition as the home of 
 
 Stephen and William Burrough, the daring explorers in high latitudes, 
 
 who gave their name to the place, and of Amyas Leigh, the dearly 
 
 beloved of every boy with the virtue of English manhood within him. 
 
 Still the house was there when Kingsley wrote, and some of the 
 
 stones of the old house are in the new, so this tradition need not 
 
 fade. 
 
 Bideford " witches " to-day are a comely race, and move with the 
 
 times in the matter of fashions and the studying of shop windows, of 
 
 which there are plenty ; and it is boasted that there is no town of its 
 
 size anywhere wherein such splendid stocks of rich varieties may be 
 
 found as here. The " witches " of to-day throw their spells over 
 
 men as the daughters of Eve have done from the beginning, and 
 
 there is no escape from their arts, as one may find out for himself if
 
 "WESTWARD HO!"
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 161 
 
 he has hut an eye for beauty, dark or fair, with eyes to match. There 
 is nothing to be said against their smiling coquetries, and when they are 
 caught weaving spell and incantation victims only receive the 
 congratulations of their friends, who crowd around the hymeneal altar 
 and witness the sacrifice in due season. 
 
 But there was a time when Bideford had its witches of another 
 sort — black and white witches. Kingsley tells the story of Rose 
 Salterne's dealings with Lucy Passmore, the White Witch of Mars- 
 land Mouth ; but there is another story preserved in the town records, 
 which fills one with pity and sets one wondering that such things 
 could have been in this place, where men never seem to have known 
 fear. It is, however, on record that the last witches — Black Witches — 
 executed in Devon were Bideford women. The story runs that there 
 were three old and most miserable women who confessed, and gloried 
 in the fact, that they had had during their lives most intimate dealings 
 with the Evil One, so that they were able to cast spells over man and 
 beast, on sea and land, and over the fowls of the air. The marvel is 
 not that these poor women should glory in a sense of power, but that 
 the brave and sensible men of Bideford should have actually believed 
 them, as they did, committing them to prison, and sending them to 
 Exeter for trial, where they were found guilty and hung forthwith, but 
 without the all-powerful Evil One lifting a little finger on their behalf. 
 This was in the year 1602, and the names of the poor unfortunate 
 women were Temperance Lloyd, Mary Trembles, and Susannah 
 Edwards. The charge against them was that of " overlooking " two 
 dairy cows, causing them to give blood instead of milk to the " great 
 astonishment of the milkers." Had it only been water probably no 
 notice would have been taken by the dairyman, who was probably no 
 more virtuous than dairymen are reputed to be in the present day, 
 and escape scot free unless there is too much water to too little milk. 
 But the temper of the times was different, and the whole story is pre- 
 served in a volume, which may be seen in the Public Library. 
 
 The place of the old pillory knows it no more, and the old instru- 
 ment of torture disappeared years ago ; the more the pity on account 
 of the little comedy in which it played a leading part. Now it should 
 be known to all men, that the old men of North Devon were generally 
 in grim earnest in all they did — in buying and selling, fighting on sea 
 or land, they were always in earnest, and a Bideford man liked to be 
 thought thorough. It so happened that Bideford gave birth to one 
 John Shebbeare, who had the pen of a ready writer, and gave up the 
 practice of physic in order to distinguish himself as a political
 
 162 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 pamphleteer. Being a Bideford man, of course, the learned Dr. was 
 " thorough," so he found his way into Newgate prison, the great 
 nursery and forcing house of genius. Lord Bute released John Sheb- 
 beare, and set him to work to abuse the Government of the day, which 
 he did with such hearty goodwill that he was laid by the heels again 
 and punished, a part of his punishment being to stand in the pillory 
 in his native Bideford, to be jeered at by all men, and women too if 
 so minded. 
 
 Then this little comedy of the pillory was played, the sheriff 
 winking the other eye during the performance. The sentence was 
 that the Doctor should stand in the pillory ; but he was permitted to 
 stand by it, attended by his servant in livery holding a huge coloured 
 umbrella over his learned head, to keep off the sun. Was ever the 
 majesty of the law so flouted ? Dr. John Shebbeare became a hero, 
 and this comedy played in the light of day in old Bideford spread his 
 name far and wide and immortalised his " Letters to the People of 
 England," which had given such mighty offence to the Government 
 of the day. The sheriff laughed consumedly with the rest, and was 
 duly rapped over the knuckles; but he had his laugh, and so also had the 
 men of Devon, and the good pillory which, for once, was the scene of 
 genuine mirth should have been preserved for all time. 
 
 The old people dearly loved a joke. Whoever would think of 
 
 stumbling on this in the parish churchyard. 
 
 " Here lies the body of Mary Sexton, 
 
 Who pleased many a man, but never vexed one — 
 
 Not like the woman who lies under the next stone. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 OLD Bideford was strong in action but not in poetry. These 
 men of Devon could do thrilling acts and face death without 
 flinching, but never sung of them. They lived epics but 
 never wrote them. There was apparently not much use for poets, and 
 when one happened to be born he was turned into a rural postman, 
 and set to walk thirteen miles a day for thirteen shillings per week. 
 His name was Capern- — Edward Capern — a child of song, who sang 
 because he could not help it. He is dead now, but left behind him 
 very sweet lyrics and pastorals. Capern is usually spoken of as
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 163 
 
 THE BIDEFORD POET. 
 
 My father met him once, and left the following note in his diary, 
 now published for the first time. 
 
 " Capern is about sixty-eight years of age. He wears glasses. 
 His hair (what is left) is almost white. He wears his whiskers and 
 beard long, and has the habit of passing his fingers through his hair, 
 and then his hand over his beard — smoothing it. He is stoutly and 
 well made ; good chest, and stands as erect as a youth. Fair 
 complexion, blue expressive eyes, and full of vitality. He speaks 
 rapidly. 
 
 " He told me that he had a large acquaintance with modern 
 poets, and possessed letters from Tennyson. He knew Elihu Burritt 
 intimately, and was full of anecdotes about him. First of all he met 
 the scholarly blacksmith at Birmingham who pronounced his name 
 El'hu, not Elihu, and was fond of everything appertaining to old 
 England and old English customs. 
 
 " He was inquisitive about the ancient custom of putting people 
 in the stocks by way of punishment. One day he said he should 
 dearly like to see a pair of old stocks. Capern said he knew where 
 there was a pair in the porch of a village church, and took him there. 
 Burritt was delighted — passed his hand over them, and over the 
 rusting ironwork. 
 
 " When opened, Elihu would get into them, just to feel what the 
 sensation was like. He tucked up his trousers, and when he was 
 seated and properly caught by the ankles, Capern fastened the stocks, 
 just as they should be. The American — the 'free and independent* 
 did not altogether like the sensation. He seemed a bit nervous, and 
 then, said Capern, with a merry twinkle in his blue eye, and with a 
 broad Devon accent ! 
 
 " ' 'An' then I laughed at mun an' jeered at mun, rebuking him 
 for his bad conduct an' nearly drave mun mad. I mad b'lieve it was 
 his own bad conduct which brought him there, and praiched to mun 
 to reform his evil ways.' 
 
 " Capern laughed at the recollection so heartily that tears came 
 into his eyes. 
 
 " He said there was an understanding between them that the 
 survivor should write an appreciation of the other. Burritt was the 
 first to go, and his Devon friend wrote an article, and sent it to the 
 American papers. He said Burritt was a sympathetic and kindly 
 man, whose one great desire was to improve the condition of his
 
 164 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 fellow men everywhere. He was a true lover of his species ; but he 
 never married, having once been jilted by his sweetheart ! 
 
 " Burritt was one of the most unsophisticated of men. ' I was,' 
 said Capern, ' a rural postman, and Burritt came to see me one day, 
 when nothing would satisfy him but he must take around and deliver 
 some of the letters himself to the villagers. And what do you think 
 he did ? He talked to some of them about Edward Capern, the poet, 
 the great genius, living in their midst ! 
 
 " ' He quite startled some of them,' said Capern, laughingly, ' for 
 they seemed quite ignorant of the fact that any such man lived near 
 them — they only knew of the Capern who delivered letters ! ' Burritt 
 said to him afterwards, ' What is fame ? ' 
 
 " Capern was very fond of children, and told me anecdotes about 
 his taking them into the fields and showing them flowers, and then 
 making verses for them about the flowers." 
 
 Drop down the river and you come to Appledore, which everyone 
 must see if only as a rare old bit of Devon, smelling of fish and tar 
 and boiling cutch, and where one may listen to the ring of the caulking 
 iron. This little old-time place wants to be left alone as a sort of 
 ancient monument ; but every Kingsley lover is constrained to come 
 here, and no one goes away without knowing more of the inwardness 
 of "Westward Ho!" 
 
 There is a new Appledore springing up now on the East side, with 
 trim houses and villas and gardens, and sidewalks where ladies go 
 about well gloved and booted and the sweetest things in hats and 
 chiffons ; and where the men one sees are not above the little vanities 
 of collars and cuffs and turned-up pants. A pleasant place to sojourn 
 in is a white villa on the hillside, when the sun is hot in summer, and 
 cool breezes blow in from the sea or across the river quivering with 
 golden sun-motes. But this is not Kingsley's Appledore. 
 
 The Appledore is to the West, where you must go, and wherein 
 you may lounge and sketch and listen to the sea yarns of the ancient 
 Vikings. Very little changes here save the weather and the tides. 
 Step back a thousand years and there is this Appledore with narrow 
 alleys, and stuffy courts, and low cabins, and cellars for storing nets 
 and sails, and all boat gear, and roads all cobbled like Northam pebble 
 ridge. Nothing really can have changed during the centuries, for as 
 the structures crumbled away so they have been renewed on the old 
 foundations. Looked at for the first time this place seems to have 
 been born old, and never to have put on anything fresh but paint and 
 coloured limewash. We seem to have come upon a bit of a vanished
 
 EC 
 
 
 £
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 165 
 
 world wherein things tumble into decay but otherwise change not — no 
 change but in the seasons, the weather, and the tides which fret away 
 the piles along the river side. And the people change but their 
 clothes, for one generation goeth and another cometh without 
 changing much the type and habits of the inhabitants, who have kept 
 themselves so much to themselves. The men look leisurely over the 
 water, and scan the clouds as of old, and utter the same old prophecies 
 when they hear the moaning of the bar. The women gossip in their 
 doorways, and run about, and shout with all the ancient freedom to 
 their men in the boats, or to the children, sun burnt and wind tanned, 
 playing with the water rats in the ancient gutters. There is the old 
 familiar ring of tools in the shipwrights' yards, for this is the corner 
 wherein the men of old built ships which "rode like ducks" on broad 
 Atlantic rollers and feared no enemy but rocks and old age. 
 
 This is the spot we must come to with " Westward Ho ! " in 
 pocket, for this is the soul of the Kingsley country. The curtain rises 
 upon the century here, and we can people the river front with the 
 sturdy men of Devon watching the gallant ships go by with their rich 
 freights and prizes, and the women stirring up their men to run into 
 Bideford and bring back the news, and something in the shape of gift 
 or plunder, peradventure it can be got from friend or foe. 
 
 In the peaceful old churchyard near by lies all that is mortal of 
 Salvation Yeo, and we are free to fancy that we see the grim old 
 Puritan in the narrow ways, and on the quay, stirring up the hearts 
 of the crowd with bitter enmity against the foes of England, urging 
 them to do the Lord's work faithfully, and to smite the Amelikites, 
 root and branch, wherever found in Spanish ships and in Spanish 
 lands. Old hip-and-thigh Salvation ! And they say the breed has not 
 died out, and that the spirit of hot jealousy for the honour and great- 
 ness and supremacy of old England slumbers here still, but will surely 
 awaken when the trumpet is blown, and the tap of Drake's old drum 
 is heard. No " Little Englanders " here ! 
 
 Imagination goes a long way, and serves a most useful purpose 
 when we endeavour to get at the heart of things in these out-of-the- 
 way places, with crooked alleys and narrow cobbled lanes, in which the 
 seagulls dispute with children for possession. The low houses with 
 narrow windows have about them the look of struggle and endurance, 
 and somehow give one an idea of the history of the people earning 
 their living on a rock-bound coast and in the face of tempests. It is 
 no good turning on the dry light of what ought to be here; but only let 
 many-coloured fancy have its play, and we see in old Appledore the 
 
 L
 
 166 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 ancient nursery of Bluewater men, the like of which will never be seen 
 again, now that tall masts and white sails have given way to squat 
 funnels and black wreaths of curling smoke. It is a nursery still, and 
 Appledore boatmen are without fear, as you may know when you see 
 them crossing the bay in their frail craft and the shadow of death 
 pursuing. This is a picture to make the heart of a landsman quail : 
 two men in an open boat — one, with hand on tiller, with eyes watching 
 the clouds and dark canvas sail, and the other, bent double, shifting 
 the heavy ballast to windward, or " baling out death with a pipkin " 
 at every chance. When they come to land they make nothing of it. 
 It was a little " coarse " or " dirty " outside, sure enough ; but it has 
 happened to them a thousand times, and will happen again, and, after 
 all, a man's as near God on sea as on land. 
 
 There are scenes in " Westward Ho ! " which should be read 
 here, above the Hubbastone, if you will, on a summer day, when there 
 is breeze enough to blow off the sea haze, and there is visible a fine 
 stretch of the grand Atlantic, with Lundy lying low in a rich and 
 royal blue, as deep as passion and as bright as joy. And here comes 
 sailing as we read a ship with sails all set, just as on the day when 
 Amyas Leigh came home again to his mother. You read: — 
 
 " A large ship, nearly a thousand tons, she might be ; but not of 
 English rig. The strange sail passed out of sight behind the hill of 
 Appledore ; and then there rose in the quiet evening air a cheer as 
 from a hundred throats. Mrs. Leigh stood still and listened. Another 
 
 gun thundered among the hills, and then another cheer 
 
 Round the Hubbastone she came at last. There was music on board, 
 drums and fifes, shawms and trumpets, which wakened ringing echoes 
 from every knoll of wood and slab of slate. As she opened full on 
 Burrough House, another cheer burst from her crew, and rolled up to 
 the hills, from off the silver waters, full a mile away. Mrs. Leigh 
 walked quickly toward the house and called her maid — ' Grace, bring 
 me my hood. Master Amyas has come home.' " 
 
 Old Burrough House is real whatever romance may be in the 
 story, and we can sail up the river until the house, which stands on 
 the old foundations, opens up, just as in the days of Amyas. Little 
 really has changed in the centuries, and so you may read and fancy 
 you see and hear and are taking part in the whole affair. 
 
 Kingsley, they say, loved this rank-smelling old Appledore ; and 
 here it was that he caught the " moan " of the bar, which so fills souls 
 with dread, and then with sympathy for all who sail upon the sea at 
 times when this deep tranquil blue thunders onward in majestic rolls.
 
 IN THE LAND OP JUNKET AND CREAM. 167 
 
 Here, beneath us, is the magic Hubbastone, conjuring up visions of 
 strife and slaughter in the days when Alfred ruled, and the men of 
 Devon in one mad tumultuous rush overthrew Hubba, the gallant 
 Viking chief, and his Danish host. And here he lies, within this 
 stone, armlets and crown, escaping on nights of tempest and riding 
 upon the wings of the wind at the head of the old sea rovers. You 
 can see and hear it all, if you will but give your fancy play, for there 
 is witchery in the place. 
 
 And only across the water is Instow quay and sands, another 
 little bit of old Devon about which the story moves. To-day these 
 sands are the playground of joyous children employed in cockle- 
 hunting, until tired out with sport; but the little ones return all aglow 
 with delicious health and fall asleep only to dream beautiful dreams 
 of sea-maidens under the sea, all sparkling with gems, and singing 
 sweet melodies to the ceaseless rhythm of the tides. 
 
 Our friends, the fishermen, during all the ages, seem never to have 
 given birth to a poet able to sing of the skies and the winds and the 
 sea, and the witcheries of their calling on dark nights on phosphores- 
 cent seas, and in the soft twilight of the dawn, when the fish rise and 
 play around them. If there have been fisher poets in the West then 
 they have passed away and left no song of their calling. Here, close 
 by, is the little village of Buckland Brewer, where Edward Capern 
 lived and wrote most of his lyrics — but they were of the land and 
 breathed of life other than that of the sea. And here, too, is Orleigh 
 Court, the birth place of Captain Spekes, the famous explorer of the 
 sources of the Nile, of whom every Devon man is proud. 
 
 The "beauties of Bideford Bay " have been said and sung in almost 
 every key of praise, and praise is not monotonous here because the 
 " beauties " vary so much with the state of the tide, the colour of the 
 skies, and the wind and the sea. There are certain nooks and angles 
 and points of vantage in the cliffs between Bideford and Clovelly from 
 whence the beauties seem yet more beautiful. Much depends, of 
 course, on what one wants to see, and how much one can put into the 
 picture for oneself. The Hoop's Inn, near Buck's Mill, is a capital 
 spot to ramble from. Lundy Island and the Welsh hills beyond, 
 weird black cliffs capped with green meadows, wild flowers in crimson 
 and gold, running seaward, down to bare and jagged rocks, with sea 
 birds flying and resting and diving, are always somewhere in the 
 picture. " To landward, all richness, softness, and peace ; to seaward, 
 a waste of howling wilderness of rock and roller, barren to the fisher- 
 men and hopeless to the shipwrecked mariner." This familiar sketch
 
 168 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 is true sometimes, but only sometimes; and the truth is, that on this 
 coast the same picture is seldom seen twice during a holiday visit. 
 All that can be safely promised is that if you are in sympathy with 
 Nature's mood you will see something beautiful and alluring, or wild 
 and tragic, but always something worthy of remembrance. 
 
 Clovelly can be reached from Appledore. Clovelly is redolent of 
 Kingsley and herrings. Everyone says there is nothing in the world 
 like Clovelly, except itself ; and every Clovelly man says there is no 
 herring on the coast like Clovelly herring. Both, no doubt, are true, 
 only the dainty herring must come first, because the place owes its 
 existence to the herring fishery. Fishermen found that the fish grew 
 round and fat and well flavoured when feeding off this cove long 
 before other clupea swimming about the Channel were able to " fry in 
 their own fat." So one fisherman, and then another, and then another, 
 built rough shelters for their boats and gear, and then cottages to live 
 in — commencing as near the water as possible, and then going upwards 
 and upwards and upwards by the steep hill-side, well shaded with 
 trees. So Clovelly grew with so little art that all artists are in love 
 with it ; and all the poets are in love with it, because as you look 
 upwards there is so much of detachment from all that is of the earth 
 earthy that the soul lifts itself. This is one of those places which you 
 think can only exist in an Eastern poem, for what hard-headed Saxon 
 would ever dream of building cottages in a wood hung between sea 
 and sky, and then smothering them with roses, fuschias, honey-suckle, 
 jessamin, and the daintiest shrubs that bloom in the open air ? 
 
 Yes, Clovelly is a poem ; and that is possibly why Kingsley, who 
 wrote brilliant word pictures of most other places, gave up the attempt 
 to describe Clovelly in despair. 
 
 " No, no," said he, laying down his pen, " the charms of Clovelly 
 surpass all descriptive powers, whether of pen or pencil." 
 
 Most visitors when they come here try their hand where Kingsley 
 failed. They begin very well when writing home, and then suddenly 
 stop and finish off abruptly, saying : " Now, my dear, I'll tell you all 
 about it on my return ; such a shame to stay indoors when the sun is 
 shining," &c, &c. Mr. Norway tried his hand in his charming book, 
 and you can read it for yourself. " One is the richer in experience for 
 having seen Clovelly," he says, and I think that's the end of the matter. 
 
 Kingsley's father was rector here, and here " The Three Fishers " 
 is said to have been written. The " harbour bar " is at Northam. 
 
 Long may the family at Clovelly Court have heirs in succession 
 who will let no man " improve " the village.
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 169 
 
 The people of Clovelly have their troubles as well as the rest of 
 the world, and are kept in a perpetual state of unrest by the pack 
 donkeys who climb the Jacob's ladder called a street. Everything is 
 carried in panniers by donkeys, who enjoy poking their innocent heads 
 through doorways in search of carrots, and nibbling the choicest 
 shrubs within their reach in the trim gardens. Clovelly donkeys are 
 past praying for. They are punished early in life, and all through life, 
 and will not reform. So this place, wherein poor strangers think they 
 catch glimpses of heaven above, is sometimes a place of wailing and 
 hard words and harder blows, and hardened donkeys which will not 
 reform ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 NORTH Devon differs from the South in many things. The 
 people at first sight seem to be the older and more primitive 
 branch of the same family. The county is full of strange 
 contrasts — every town its own atmosphere, and every district its 
 distinctive characteristics. 
 
 The commercial heart of the North is said to be Barnstaple, and 
 the Barumites are notably hard on a deal. They say that the man 
 who can "best" a Barumite ought to make a fortune elsewhere. 
 There is a three days' fair here in September — the first is for cattle, 
 the second for horses, and the third for pleasure. They say that Old 
 Nick at one time attended the fair, but was " bested " in a horse deal, 
 and then, out of pure spite, cursed the blackberries, which are reputed 
 unfit for food after the fair. The Mayor and Corporation treat them- 
 selves to " toast and ale " before opening the fair, and a stuffed glove 
 is exhibited in front of the Guildhall as a sign of friendship. In olden 
 times no one was arrested as long as the glove was visible, which must 
 have been a great inducement to " honest " dealers to stay the whole 
 time. 
 
 Tom Faggus, the " Dick Turpin " of Devon, hailed from South- 
 molton, near by. Faggus possessed a " strawberry " mare which, 
 according to all accounts, was a little more than human in 
 intelligence, and a little more than Devonian in fighting qualities. 
 Barnstaple Bridge spans the Taw, and on one occasion Faggus leapt 
 his horse into the river when the narrow way was blocked by officers
 
 170 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 in pursuit. On another occasion the "strawberry" mare charged the 
 mob holding her master prisoner, and so fought with teeth and heels 
 that they ran away. Tom Faggus was very good to the poor, who 
 had nothing to lose. The rich he relieved of their " sorrows," and 
 distributed the contents of their purses freely. The poor fellow was 
 caught at last and hung at Taunton, for no rope spun in Devon would 
 do the office. Blackmore hadn't even the heart to hang him on paper! 
 
 No statue has been erected to Tom Faggus sitting on his straw- 
 berry mare ; and yet there are excellent sites waiting to be filled, and 
 excellent artists waiting for the commission to fill them. 
 
 There is a French strain in Barnstaple. You talk to Mr. Bird, a 
 man of quick glance and hazel eye, and quick, nervous movement of 
 lips and fingers. His forefathers were named Oiseau, and were 
 wrecked here on their way to Bristol, about the time of the 
 Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. Then there are the Rocks, who 
 were Delaroches, and there is a Rock Park, and an Athenaeum now 
 due to the generosity of this family of old time immigrants. 
 
 At Bucks Mills, a fishing hamlet near Clovelly, there is Spanish 
 blood, originally washed ashore with other wreck from the Armada ; 
 and the villagers, with the pride of race, keep themselves still very much 
 to themselves. At Beer, near Sidmouth, the people are descended 
 from the Flemings, and so, North and South, days may be spent in 
 disentangling a very pretty race problem. 
 
 Capturing a bride with ropes of flowers, and holding her captive 
 until redeemed by the bridegroom's largess, is one of the ancient 
 customs in the North which is too pretty to be allowed to die out. 
 In the good old days a marriage in a country district was celebrated 
 with dancing and feasting and something for everybody, but now it is 
 a scamper, and the bride is hurried into her travelling dress and packed 
 off, by motor, or express, or balloon; then a walk round for the guests, 
 with sandwiches and sherry, and all's over. Some of the farmers are 
 still old-fashioned enough to make a day of it, with night to follow; 
 and the poor do the best they can, so song and fiddle are not 
 altogether banished. 
 
 A young man wanting a wife may go to the " Giglet fair " and 
 choose for himself. It is one of the privileges of the fair, and was 
 pretty freely exercised in days gone by, after the young men and 
 women had hired themselves out to service, until the next Christmas 
 or Lady day, as the case might be. A marriageable girl who returned 
 from the fair without being "asked" went down in value, whilst the 
 girl who had many offers went up, and she did not forget in after days
 
 -t
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 171 
 
 to remind her John that she was sought after by five men, all better 
 than he, and if she hadn't been the "girt vule she was" she might 
 now be riding in a cart to market, instead of wearing her fingers to 
 the bone, with nothing for dinner but boiled turnips and rusty bacon. 
 
 Courting nights is a rural custom. 
 
 "Where be going with the lantern, John ? " asks a farmer of a 
 young labourer hurrying down the lane. 
 
 " Going courting, maister." 
 
 " What do 'ee want a lantern vur ? " 
 
 " To zee what I be doin', maister." 
 
 "Tut, man, I never took a lantern whan I went a-courtin'." 
 
 "That is what I thought, maister, when I fust zeed the missis," says 
 John, walking off. 
 
 The little fishing villages nestling under the cliffs along the coast 
 are just now palpitating with the quiverings of a new life. All the 
 way from Lynton to Bude are old world hamlets and villages wherein 
 families have lived from generation to generation within roar of the 
 sea — fishing a little, gardening a little — beyond that greater roar which 
 the world makes in towns and cities. 
 
 You come upon these villages by surprise. You are walking along 
 the cliffs covered with heather, three or four hundred feet above the 
 sea, and follow a narrow zig-zag path until you reach the beach and 
 these little white nests under the shadow of the cliffs, surrounded by 
 gardens in exquisite bloom. 
 
 To come abruptly upon one of these hamlets is to experience the 
 sensation of trespassing upon virgin ground. No hotel, no boarding- 
 house in sight, and you must walk up the garden path and ask humbly 
 where you are, and whether — yes, indeed, whether you may look 
 around; and whether the coin of the realm will be acceptable in 
 exchange for hospitality. I think one always feels humble in a strange 
 place which looks as though it ought to be marked " private." And 
 these little hamlets are so coy, nestling against the cliffs, and every- 
 thing so domestic — net menders on the beach, young women hanging 
 their clothes upon the hedges, old women in the gardens, or sitting in 
 the porches, book on knee, sucking in the sunshine, and taking their 
 last looks upon all this loveliness. 
 
 And the men are at the nearest low wall, staring seaward ; or 
 leaning over an old boat, bottom upwards. They never tire of the sea, 
 these men, but turn to it day and night, and at all times, as though 
 there were something mystic in the liquid blue, calling to something 
 mystic in their blood.
 
 172 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 This is a terrible coast, and comes within the zone of storms 
 which sometimes sweep the Channel with desolation. It was always 
 so, and in the old days the inhabitants lived and fattened on disaster, 
 and went out of their way to entice unwary ships upon a lee coast. 
 Every cove and beach and rock has its tragedy, and the sea-slain lie 
 in the " Strangers' Spots " which are set apart in the wind-swept 
 parish churchyards. 
 
 If one would know what happens on the coast make friends with 
 the old men at sunny corners, and of the costguardsmen at the stations. 
 Everything is so real when they speak : there is the tempest and the 
 storm-driven ship, and here are the breakers and the rocks with teeth 
 sharp-set in the jaws of death. In days gone by men offered up 
 prayers to heaven to send some gallant ship upon these rocks ; but 
 now the men who tell these tales endeavour to make atonement for 
 their ancestors, and never a year passes but they place themselves in 
 deadly peril to rescue the shipwrecked. 
 
 One feels proud to be amongst these men, and to touch them, 
 when one hears of the forlorn hopes that they have led, rescuing 
 man and boy, woman and infant, from the very grip of death ; and 
 that some of their kith and kin — sons, brothers and fathers — perished 
 in the unequal struggle. Yes, yes, if there is truth in the stories 
 of wrecking and plunder, there is truth also in the sublime acts 
 of atonement which these men have done. 
 
 Tempests pass over these cottages, for their builders knew the 
 secret of cheating the wind. In all creation none can beat a blue- 
 water man for finding a sunny corner. Turn on your heel, and you 
 will know that a new era has commenced, for there is the new house 
 with trim lawn and flagstaff, and "Apartments" writ large; and there 
 is another house uprising close by, hidden by trees, but you hear the 
 ring of the mason's tools. Those who love these places, and have 
 kept their existence secret from their friends, are lamenting now that 
 all these old-world villages have been discovered, and that the new 
 invasion has commenced. 
 
 The world wants these places now. 
 
 Ilfracombe was the first town of size upon the rock-bound coast 
 to feel the new life which the railway companies were pouring every 
 season into the land, and then to adapt itself to modern requirements. 
 Very little of the old town remains. 
 
 Seen from the sea, Ilfracombe rises grandly from the water's edge. 
 
 Then there are Lynton and Lynmouth, twin sisters in beauty, to 
 whom Southey gallantly kissed his hand. " My walk to Ilfracombe
 
 IN THE LAND OF JUNKET AND CREAM. 173 
 
 led me through Lynmouth, the finest spot, except Cintra and the 
 Arrabida which I have ever seen." This was written many years ago, 
 but the beauty spots were neglected and remained as " unappropriated 
 blessings " until Capital came, and wooed, and set up establishments, 
 and little toy railways to climb the hills. 
 
 The cliffs are so high that Lundy Island may be seen from most 
 places — and when seen suffused in a brilliant sunset glow, it is as 
 a floating island of burnished glory. 
 
 The owner of Lundy is an Uncrowned King in the Bristol Channel ; 
 and called after its owner it is the " Kingdom of Heaven." A queer 
 history has this old island home of pirates and wreckers which has 
 been put up to auction more than once. The last time it was bought in. 
 
 In the fairway of commerce, and only eleven miles from Hartland 
 Point, the British Government does not want Lundy, which is a 
 death trap for ships and reputations. 
 
 H.M.S. Montagu went ashore on the Shutter, and "all the King's 
 horses and all the King's men " couldn't raise her again. The 
 Admiralty would be glad if the sea would open wide its mouth and 
 swallow up Lundy. For poor mariners it is a terror. 
 
 It might be made a haven of safety for one quarter the cost of a 
 first-class battleship ! 
 
 Ecclesiastically, Lundy is a bit of Devon. The ancient Keep of a 
 Norman Baron, the Palace of the Uncrowned King, and a sweet little 
 church are all the buildings of importance on an island three and a 
 half miles long. There are few inhabitants. Rabbits thrive, and it is 
 a paradise for wild birds. 
 
 People speak of this part of the county now as " thriving " — the 
 " thriving north " they say. The valleys are fertile as well as 
 beautiful, and life in a farmhouse is the best of all lives, where sport 
 abounds, and junket and cream comes on the table every day. 
 
 All along the coast the inhabitants are waking up ! They have 
 learnt, somehow, that the world has found out the value of pure air 
 and pure water in sickness and in health, and will come for them in a 
 county where the attractions of life in field and moor, by stream and 
 on sea, are so abounding. 
 
 Devon and Cornwall meet near Hartland, but the old Duchy is 
 one and indivisible here — the same sea gently lapping on the rocks 
 below, when all is bright and tranquil ; only all around tells of storm 
 and tempest, and bitter struggle. We are close to Morwinstow, a bit 
 of bleak and barren moorland, and a splendid old church, for aye and 
 ever to be associated with the name of Hawker, the man who pitied.
 
 174 MY DEVONSHIRE BOOK. 
 
 If so minded, we may find our way into the Valley of the Tamar, 
 the upper reaches of which furnished Turner with the subject of his 
 superb picture " Crossing the Brook," and the lower reaches (with 
 Morwell Rocks, Mount Ararat, Pentille and Cotele) second to none 
 for loveliness in the West. 
 
 " AU REVOIR. 
 
 How quickly time flies when one is on a holiday ramble ! It is 
 September now, the lovely month of September, and there is so much 
 still to see and do and hear. 
 
 The Tempter comes — yes, even on the platform at North Road. 
 He comes and whispers 
 
 " Take your seat, sir, if you are going on," says the Guard. 
 
 Dear, dear Tempter ; but I will come again ! 
 
 Au revoir only. 
 
 THE END.
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 CORNISH SAINTS 
 AND SINNERS 
 
 o o By J. HENRY HARRIS o o 
 
 WITH UPWARDS OF SEVENTY DRAWINGS 
 
 o o By L. RAVEN-HILL o o 
 
 Crown 8vo. Price 6s. 
 
 SOME PRESS OPINIONS. 
 
 Punch, — " Mr. Harris and Mr. Raven-Hill between them turn out 
 a very fascinating book, for everyone who reads it will want to go to 
 Cornwall, and everyone who goes to Cornwall would be wise to read it." 
 
 Scotsman. — "The black-and-white work of Mr. Raven-Hill is excel- 
 lent ; he is at his best in some of the illustrations which accompany 
 Mr. Harris's rollicking descriptions." 
 
 Daily Express. — " Extremely pleasant and entertaining reading . . . 
 a large number of subtly humorous sketches by Mr. Raven-Hill which 
 are entirely in keeping with the spirit of Mr. Harris's racy narrative." 
 
 Western Morning News. — "A wonderful collection of anecdotes 
 make up a very delightful volume, to which Mr. Raven-Hill's clever 
 drawings lend additional value." 
 
 Academy. — " Amusing and bright." 
 
 Daily Graphic. — "Mr. Harris reflects the love which every Londoner 
 feels for a county which he can never visit too often." 
 
 Graphic. — " Capitally and profusely illustrated." 
 
 Westminster Gazette. — " Extremely clever illustrations by Mr. Raven- 
 Hill. Mr. Harris writes of the land and the people with fullness of 
 knowledge." 
 
 Tribune. — "Of Mr. Raven-Hill's illustrations, those — and they are 
 the majority — which depict the nooks and crannies of the Cornish 
 fishing villages are altogether charming." 
 
 T.P.'s Weekly. — "A pleasant and light-hearted book about Mr. 
 Quiller-Couch's 'delectable Duchy' is 'Cornish Saints and Sinners.' 
 . . . Mr. Raven-Hill's illustrations to this volume are delightful, and 
 in keeping with the text." 
 
 THE FISHERS 
 
 o o By J. HENRY HARRIS o o 
 
 Crown 8vo. Price 6s. 
 
 Morning Post. — "A notable book." 
 
 Times. — "A fascinating story; the author is thoroughly well in- 
 formed as to his subject."
 
 SOME HAWKER BOOKS 
 
 THE LIFE & LETTERS OF 
 R. S. HAWKER 
 
 Soineti?ne Vicar of Morwenstow 
 
 By his Son-in-law, C. E. BYLES 
 
 With numerous Illustrations, including Lithographs by J. Ley 
 Pethybridge, Two Sketches by the Earl of Carlisle, reproduc- 
 tions from contemporary Prints, Portraits, Photographs, etc 
 
 Demy 2>vo. ys. 6d. net. 
 
 Times. — "Dr. Johnson's wrath at the suggestion that a friend's eccentricity of 
 dress and religion should be counted to him for madness, is a matter of history. . . . 
 Mr. Byles has a better case than Dr. Johnson had, and his effort to disprove the 
 charge results in . . . a triumphant acquittal. A well-written life is not, as Carlyle 
 declared it to be, almost as rare as a well-spent one : it is a much rarer thing indeed. 
 Mr. Byles has given us a book which will earn the gratitude of those whose love of 
 poetry urges them to a knowledge of the poet." 
 
 Athenceum. — " An authoritative and satisfactory biography. Mr. Byles has per- 
 formed his task — by no means an easy one — with skill and good taste. The book 
 has evidently been with him, as with his publisher, a genuine labour of love." 
 
 CORNISH BALLADS AND OTHER 
 
 POEMS 
 
 By ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER 
 
 Edited, with a Preface, by C. E. Byles. With numerous Illustra- 
 tions by J. Ley Pethybridge and others, and a special binding 
 designed from oak carvings in the churches of Morwenstow and 
 Welcombe. Crown 8vo. kj. net 
 
 This book contains Hawker's complete poetical works, including 
 several pieces previously uncollected. 
 
 Academy. — "His fragment of the ' Sangraal ' is worthy to be compared with 
 Tennyson's treatment of the subject. . . . The excellent popular edition. . . . 
 Essential to e^ery lover of the Cornish poet." 
 
 Globe. — "Unquestionably the most desirable of all editions of Hawker's verse." 
 
 FOOTPRINTS OF FORMER MEN 
 IN FAR CORNWALL 
 
 By ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER 
 
 Edited, with an Introduction, by C. E. Byles, and containing numer- 
 ous Illustrations by J. Ley Pethybridge. Crown 8vo. 51. net. 
 (Uniform with "Cornish Ballads.") 
 
 Academy. — "It is admirable prose — strong, simple, broad, with a living breath 
 in it." 
 
 Literary World. — " Reading^ these sketches, we come upon passages which 
 Ruskin himself might have written. There is in them a rare rich flavour of the 
 author's individuality, something of the atmosphere, the colour, the rugged grandeur 
 of the coast." 
 
 'EWorld.— "His book is a peculiarly delightful one, full of that indescribable 
 charm which permeates Scott's novels. . . . The style is inimitable, the anecdotes 
 are quaint and original, and the illustrations are well chosen and excellently 
 reproduced ; and a word of praise is due to the tasteful binding."
 
 A WEST COUNTRY NOVELIST 
 
 THE WINGLESS VICTORY 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 By M. P. WILLCOCKS 
 
 Crown Svo. 6s. 
 
 PRESS OPINIONS 
 
 Tribune. — "Miss Willcocks's splendid book ... a very strong and able novel, 
 deserving high praise and wide popularity— a novel to read and to remember." 
 
 Daily Mail. — " ' The Wingless Victory ' stands out as something quite out of the 
 common. ... In its grasp of character and circumstance, in its rare wisdom, and, 
 above all, in its unerring insight into the deep springs of human action, it is a re- 
 markable achievement which entitles its author to a first place in the ranks of con- 
 temporary novelists. This is high praise, but we venture to prophesy it will be 
 endorsed by critics and readers alike." 
 
 Standard. — " It is an excellent thing for any reader to come across a book so fresh 
 and fervent, so instinct with genuine passion and emotion, and all the fierce primitive 
 joys of existence, as is 'The Wingless Victory' . . . really a book of remarkable 
 strength and glow and insight." 
 
 Daily News. — "Miss Willcocks shows wonderful insight into character . . . and 
 her skill in this regard and her descriptions of the wild beauty of the Cornish 
 scenery often make us feel that she is a novelist with a great future." 
 
 Academy. — " Mr. John Lane is to be congratulated on having discovered Miss 
 Willcocks, and if her latest work is not a great success, it will not be creditable to 
 the discernment of the reading public." 
 
 Black and White. — " It deserves all the epithets that critics scatter about. . . 
 ' powerful,' ' moving,' ' dramatic,' ' emotional." " 
 
 Westminster Gazette. — " A remarkable book . . . Miss Willcocks 's place among 
 original and gifted writers is never in doubt." 
 
 WIDDICOMBE 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 By M. P. WILLCOCKS 
 
 Crown Svo. 6s. 
 
 PRESS OPINIONS 
 
 Literary World.— ■" A notable achievement . . . literary charm is to be found in 
 a degree by no means common in ' Widdicombe.' " 
 
 Daily Telegraph.—"' Scarcely anything but praise can be given to this forceful 
 book, on every page of which thought and observation are scattered lavishly. , . . 
 The characters live and move for us. . . . There are real things in the book." 
 
 Evening Standard.—" Wonderfully alive, and pulsating with a rather curious 
 fervour. . . . There are some striking studies of women. ... A fine, rather unusual 
 novel." 
 
 Morning Post.— "The matter is excellent ... the characterization both dis- 
 criminating and subtle." 
 
 Globe. — " A novel of unusual promise." 
 
 Truth.—" There is no doubt that ' Widdicombe ' is a first novel of most unusual 
 promise." 
 
 Athenceum.— ' A first novel so unegotistical and observant of life as this awakes 
 a pleasant anticipation ... it displays an excellent gift of humorous portraiture and 
 a descriptive talent."
 
 A CHILD OF THE SHORE 
 
 A ROMANCE OF CORNWALL 
 
 By MIDDLETON FOX 
 
 Crown 8vo, 6s. 
 
 Morning Leader. — "A remarkable book, glowing, fanciful, and 
 fantastic by turns." 
 
 Outlook. — "An unusually good piece of imaginative work." 
 
 THE WESSEX OF 
 THOMAS HARDY 
 
 By BERTRAM WINDLE 
 
 With nearly ioo Illustrations and Maps by Edmund H. New 
 
 Crown 8vo, 5s. net. 
 
 Bookman. — " Let me acknowledge at once that this book is final — 
 no further work on the subject is conceivable. By its help, those who 
 wish to do so may not merely identify tracts of country, roads, and 
 dwelling-places, but actually touch with their fingers the identical stone 
 coffin in which Angel Clare, during his somnambulistic trance, deposited 
 his loved and tortured Tess. . . . The author has had the immense 
 advantage of assistance from the ' onlie begetter of this Wessex ' (as he 
 styles him) in person." 
 
 CHARMS 
 
 By the EARL OF IDDESLEIGH 
 
 Author of " Luck o' Lassendale " : A Novel 
 
 Crown 8vo, 6s. 
 
 * An historical romance containing a very clever character study of 
 George III. 
 
 * 
 
 SIR BEVILL: A Romance 
 
 By the Rev. Canon ARTHUR THYNNE 
 
 With Seven Illustrations by J. Ley Pethybridge 
 and a Portrait of Sir Bevill 
 
 Crown 8vo, 6s. 
 
 LONDON : JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD, VIGO ST., W. 
 NEW YORK : JOHN LANE COMPANY, 110-114 WEST 32 nd ST.
 
 
 
 
 SIX' 
 
 TF\ 
 
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 THE LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
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