Part 2

When St. Dunstan was a boy, living here in the primitive monastery founded by King Ina, he dreamt that he saw, on this spot where we are standing among the ruins, a glorious fabric of “fair alleys and comely cloisters.” The splendours of his vision have come and gone, but we too may see them in dream: the mighty church with its towering arches, its many chapels, its marble floors and sapphire altar; the enclosing wall with the two great entrances; the acres of domestic buildings--cloisters and dormitories, library and refectory, and the abbot’s stately lodging. Over there among the trees his kitchen still stands. The steam of much good cheer rose to its quaint octagonal roof when Henry VII. was here as the guest of that wise and discreet man, Abbot Bere; and when Leland visited his “especial friend,” Richard Whiting; and when Henry VIII.’s commissioner came on his mean errand, and found to his annoyance that the brethren were “so straight kept that they could not offend.”

It was not the magnificent building of Dunstan’s dream, but the simple church he knew, that was the burial-place of kings. He himself, as abbot, laid Edmund the Elder in his grave; and here in the monastery “which he ever loved beyond all others” lies Edgar the Pacific, “the flower and pride of all kings, the honour and glory of England,” and near him his grandson Edmund Ironside, who was merciful and kind, says Matthew of Westminster, “to the just persons in his kingdom, and terrible to the unjust.… And all England mourned for him exceedingly.” And somewhere deep beneath the turf, near the spot where the high altar used to stand, is the dust of those bones and that golden tress of hair that some would have us believe were the actual remains of Arthur and Guinevere. Edward I. and his Eleanor believed it, and came to the great church here when it was new to gaze, adoring and credulous, at the skulls of their predecessors. But now our minds--like that of the blameless king himself--are “clouded with a doubt”: for the historic Arthur, we are told, died almost certainly in Scotland, and never came to the Island Valley of Avilion to heal him of his grievous wound.

The first Norman abbot of Glastonbury, Thurstan, set to work at once to improve the old building, and would have done more if his abbacy had not suddenly ended in an unseemly skirmish on the very steps of the altar. “He would have taught the monks amiss,” says the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle severely. In point of fact he was resolved to abolish the use of Gregorian chants, to the great scandal of the monks, and, like many another, thought that the introduction of the soldiery would have a convincing effect. “Rueful things happened there on that day,” says the chronicler, “for the French broke into the choir and threw darts towards the altar where the monks were collected, and some of their servants went upon the upper floor and shot down arrows towards the chancel, so that many arrows stuck in the crucifix which stood above the altar, and the wretched monks lay around the altar, and some crept under it … and they slew some of the monks and wounded many, so that the blood ran down from the altar on the steps.” Rueful things indeed!

The dogmatic Thurstan was removed, and a year later the monastery was burnt to the ground. It was then that this beautiful chapel began to rise, with all its profusion of ornament; and round it for hundreds of years the great abbey continued to grow slowly into the perfection of Dunstan’s dream. How great was the magnificence of it we may judge from the “dyverse parcells” that were ultimately “delyvered until his Majestie”--the spoils of many shrines, gold and silver vessels, jewelled altars, and “the great saphire of Glastonburg.” Poor Abbot Whiting did his best to save them before he went to his death on Glastonbury Tor.

There is Glastonbury Tor before us, framed in the piers of the broken chancel-arch. It was to the summit of that hill that Richard Whiting, last Abbot of Glastonbury, who had been wont to travel in all the pomp of a prince, was dragged upon a hurdle to the gallows. Over the great gate through which his guests had so often crowded--sometimes five hundred in a day, they say--his head was set up, lest men should forget that the King loved “parcells of gilte plate” more than justice. For there was hardly a pretence of justice in the trial of Richard Whiting. Like the Abbot of Fountains, he hid the treasures of his abbey from the King’s commissioners, and, since he must be proved a traitor before these riches could be wrung from him, this act was called high treason. Neither his immense charities, nor his simple, saintly life, nor even his submission to the Act of Supremacy could save him. It was with “businesslike brevity,” says Green the historian, that Thomas Cromwell “ticked off human lives.” “Item,” he wrote among his memoranda, “the abbot of Glaston to be tryed at Glaston and also executyd there.” So Richard Whiting was hanged and quartered at the foot of that tower that still stands upon the hill, and serves him for a monument.

I am not sure whether the main entrance to the abbey, over which Whiting’s head was set, was the vanished gateway on the north side, or the still existing entrance in Magdalen Street. We pass the latter as we drive out of the town. Its newly restored archway stands on the left, beside the house that was once the “Red Lion” Inn, and quite close to the modern market-cross that is so unusually graceful. Our road skirts the foot of Wearyall Hill, where once the sacred thorn-tree grew--the miraculous tree that had been, said the monks of Glastonbury, the staff of Joseph of Arimathea.

After a few minutes of level running we climb the Polden Hills--no very arduous work--and look down upon the wide green plain of Sedgemoor. It lies on our right as we glide down the hill, and stretches far away from us to Bridgwater. It was from some spot in that blue distance that “a volley of shot and huzzas” rang out into the night, when Monmouth and his peasant army made their futile attempt to “vindicate their religion, laws, and rights;” and it was far away across those level fields that Feversham’s grim line of gibbets rose on the following day. In all this peaceful country there was not a ditch from which some poor wretch was not dragged to make sport, later on, for Jeffreys: but the ditch that hid Monmouth himself was not here, but in Dorset. As we look out upon the scene of his undoing let us forget that distant ditch, and the weakness of an exhausted, starving man, and remember only that he made a gallant end. “I shall die like a lamb,” he said on the scaffold. “I have now no fear, as you may see by my face; but there is something within me which does it, for I am sure I shall go to God. I will make no speeches: I come to die.”

Again the road is level, or nearly so; but, as is rare in level country, the surface is bad. We pass under the railway-bridge of the new Great Western line, and soon see Somerton on the crest of a hill. The road to Ilchester climbs the hill at the outskirts of the town, without actually passing through it; but it would be a pity to turn our backs on the ancient capital of the Somersœtas without a glance at its picturesque streets and old houses, whose mellow walls are so characteristic of Somerset. In the silent square that was once dominated by the castle, and is now made beautiful by an arcaded, stone-tiled market-cross, there is nothing to show that Somerton is a town of varied experiences. It has seen a vast amount of life, but prefers to say nothing about it.

Here where the “White Hart” stands, without a sign of age, once stood the palace of King Ina and his pious wife. Ina, King of the West Saxons, was “a rare example of fortitude,” we are told; “a mirror of prudence, unequalled in piety”--though he ascended the throne, as the same chronicler delicately expresses it, “more from the innate activity of his spirit than any legitimate right of succession.” Active he certainly was: a conqueror of the British, a builder of monasteries and churches and castles. We meet the records of his activities at Wells and Glastonbury, at Taunton, and here in Somerton; and even when his determined Ethelburga had persuaded him to abdicate, with some reluctance, he continued to build in Rome. It was on this hill he chiefly lived and made his laws, I believe, but his castle was burnt by the destroying Danish princes, Hinguar and Hubba. On its foundations rose the later castle that served as a prison for King John of France; but even this has left no remnant but some thick masonry in the modest walls of the “White Hart.” In this scene of long past revelry and war there is hardly a sign of life. Somerton is inhabited, apparently, by one man, two children, and a cat.

Through cornfields and orchards and over Kingsdon Hill, on a surface that is gradually improving, we go on our way to a town that is older still than Somerton, but by no means so attractive. Indeed, Ilchester has a very dull air, though it stands on the Fosse Way and has a few relics of its Roman origin. A little more than two hundred years ago, however, its sombre streets were lively enough on a certain August day, when gay young Monmouth rode through them on a carpet of flowers and scented herbs, and the crowd swept after him along the narrow ways. What schemes for the future were in his mind we cannot guess, but at this time--during his father’s life--there was nothing on his lips more treasonable than the smiles that made the people love him. He had come “into the country to divert himself,” and for a week or two all these lanes round Ilchester and Ilminster, Chard and Yeovil, were ringing with cheers. “God bless King Charles and the protestant Duke,” the people shouted, as he rode smiling between these hedges. For he, like ourselves, left Ilchester by the Roman road, which was probably even more badly kept in those days than in these. It has, of course, the charm--in a motorist’s eyes--of straightness, but the irregular fringe of grass at the sides gives it an unkempt air that is unworthy of its origin, and it is only in patches that the surface is good. The abrupt hill on the left with the tower on its summit is the “sharp mount” that gave its name to Montacute.

We turn away from the Roman road by a lane that climbs a long hill between high hedges, and quickly runs down again. Below us, in a fold of the low hills, lies Crewkerne.

Joshua Sprigge, in his enchanting history, “compiled for the Publique good, and to be sold at the Parot in Paul’s Churchyard,” describes how the army of the Parliament came to _Crookhorn_ by “ill and narrow” ways in a very hot season, “the foot weary with their long and tedious march, the carriage-horses tyred out;” and how, only an hour later, they left it again with all their weariness forgotten. “They leapt for joy that they were like to be engaged.” As they were following the enemy to Petherton it was probably by this very road that they marched away, probably on this very road that Fairfax and Cromwell came riding side by side.

We need not stay in Crewkerne even so long as they, for there is nothing to be seen except the church. There is hardly a church in Somerset that is not worth seeing, either for its beauty or its interest; but the church here is more than ordinarily stately. Like all the rest it is built of the stone whose grey and yellow tints make even the simplest cottage in Somerset a lovely thing, and add greatly to the beauty of this elaborate church, with its crockets and statues and niches, its embattled turrets and parapet, and all its intricate gargoyles. In an angle of the south transept is a curious recess such as I have never seen elsewhere, with a canopy and a stone seat. It is said to have been a hermit’s cell; but a hermit who frequented the outer wall of a large church must have been very fond of society.

Here we strike the London and Exeter road, and therefore the surface, which has hitherto been indifferent at best and at worst very bad, becomes almost perfect. As we climb the long hill of St. Rayne to the height that is ominously known as Windwhistle, the scenery grows very lovely: the breezy road passes along a ridge, a wide park skirts the wayside, and to right and left the landscape sweeps away into the distance. Indeed, I have heard that at one point near Windwhistle inn--at the fourth milestone from Chard--it is possible on a clear day to catch a glimpse of the two seas, to north and south. A run of two miles on an easy downward gradient takes us to the “prepared” road that leads into the long, wide, sloping street of Chard; then a steep climb lifts us to the hilltops again; and a few minutes later we glide down into the soft green woods of Devon.

THE HEART OF DEVON

SUMMARY OF RUN ACROSS MID-DEVON

DISTANCES.

Devon Border Sidmouth 22 miles Exeter 18 ” Moretonhampstead 13½ ” Two Bridges 12¼ ” Tavistock 8¼ ” -------- Total 74 miles

Exeter to Plymouth _viâ_ Ashburton 44 miles Exeter to Launceston _viâ_ Okehampton 42 ”

ROADS.

Hills steep and frequent.

Surface: rather rough on the Moor; between Exeter and Launceston, variable; between Exeter and Plymouth, good.

II

THE HEART OF DEVON

To hurry in Devonshire is absurd. In the first place, it is contrary to the spirit of the country: no one does it. In the second place, it is impossible.

I cannot conscientiously recommend Devon as a motoring field for those who find great speed essential to their happiness, for to them the alternate use of the gear lever and the brake is apt to be exasperating. But to many of us the reduction of our average mileage is a small matter in comparison with certain important things; such as scarlet poppies in the corn, and high banks fringed with ferns, and cottages smothered in flowers, and wide purple moors, and the rippling of emerald seas, and the complete serenity that fills the heart in Devon.

Here, on the very border, there is a long rise and an extremely sharp turn, on the hill where Yarcombe stands. After this winding climb we run down easily through lovely wooded country into the straight, wide street of Honiton. This is a name that rouses deep emotion in every female heart, and to the female ear I will confide the fact that Honiton lace, as made to-day in Honiton, is perhaps more really beautiful than it has ever been; and there is a certain little upper room, not hard to find, where the enthusiast may watch swift fingers and flying bobbins. Except these filmy bramble-leaves and roses there is nothing of interest in Honiton. Sir William Pole summed it up three centuries ago, and his words describe it accurately to this day. “This towne is a very prety towne indifferently well bwilded, and hath his market on the Saterday.”

By the direct road Exeter is only fifteen miles away, but by making quite a short _détour_ we may see the birthplaces of Coleridge and Sir Walter Raleigh, and catch a glimpse of the sea. A mile or two of splendid Roman road, and a shady lane, take us to Ottery St. Mary and its famous church; the church, says Pole, that John Grandison, Bishop of Exeter, “bwilded in imitatinge of ye church of St. Peter’s in Exon, with ye cannons’ howses round about, standinge in a sweete wholsom advanced ground.” He did not actually “bwild” it, however, but rather enlarged it and made it collegiate, and left upon it the marks of that taste for splendour in which he indulged more fully at Exeter. Not only a great part of the fabric itself is his, but the painted reredos and the stone screen and the choir-stalls were his gifts. The pulpit is of a much more modern date; but it is the very same from which Coleridge’s father was in the habit of addressing his congregation in Hebrew, “the authentic language of the Holy Ghost.” The grammar-school in which the poet spent his childhood with his twelve brethren no longer exists; but we may still see the narrow lanes where little Samuel, a visionary already, curvetted on an imaginary horse and slew the enemies of Christendom as represented by the wayside nettle. And here, close at hand, is the little Otter, and the “marge with willows grey” by which he loved to dream.

Long before Coleridge played his warlike games there were horsemen of a sterner sort riding hither and thither through these lanes. Fairfax spent a busy fortnight here, resting his army, “who never stood in more need of it,” but by no means resting himself: visiting the works at Broad Clyst, caring for his dying soldiers, and doing his best to make peace between King and Parliament. “To be general raised him onely to _do_ more, not to _be_ more than others,” said a man who was with him here. Where he lodged I do not know, nor the spot where he was presented with a “fair jewel” in the name of both Houses, in gratitude for the services “he performed for this kingdome at Naseby Battel.” It is certain, however, that a deputation brought it to Ottery, and “tyed it in a blue Ribband and put it about his neck.”

Sidmouth is only five miles away from Ottery, and lies so prettily between its two headlands that it is worth seeing, though the lanes that lead to it are hilly. It is quite an old place, really. Its prettiness, however, does not at all depend upon its age, but on the ruddy cliffs that bound the bay, and the little brown stream that runs down through the shingle to the sea, and the tiny cascade that glitters in the sun, and the groups of boats that lie upon the beach. Yet, driving through the western part of the town, we see that Sidmouth after all is merely a typical watering-place. Here is the esplanade we know so well, and the row of bathing-boxes, and the shrill-voiced nursemaid with her shriller charge, and the dreaded pierrot. Beyond that western end rises the Peak Hill, and up its steep side lies our way.

It is steep indeed; both steep and very long. Before it is faced the hill-climbing powers of the car should be carefully considered, for the gradient at one point is at least one in five, and is extremely steep for a considerable distance. But from this height the blue bay and red rocks of Sidmouth look very lovely through the trees, and at the top of the hill there are colours enough on a sunny day to repay us for much climbing: pale blue hills and a dark blue sea, and a wide expanse of varying greens, and to the left a red cliff, and to the right, perhaps, a patch of brilliant heather. Very carefully--for the lanes are narrow and steep--we run down the other side of the hill that has just been laboriously climbed, and reach the pretty street of Otterton, with its runnel and little bridges, and thatched cottages, and background of trees. We cross the Otter, and are soon in East Budleigh, the twisting, straggling village near which Sir Walter Raleigh was born.

In the grey church on the knoll above the street we may see the Raleigh arms, and with them the three “horsemen’s rests” that figure in so many shields--the arms of the great Grenvilles. The bench-end that bears them is the first on the left side of the aisle, and was carved early in the sixteenth century, when one of the Raleighs married Honor Grenville. Sir Walter’s mother, we need not doubt, sat in this pew many a time, for the Raleighs lived only a mile away at Hayes Barton. We can find the house quite easily, standing beside a little sloping green: a low, gabled, grey house, with a thatched roof and a gay old-fashioned garden. There have been many changes here, of course, since that sixteenth-century baby first blinked at the world he was destined to explore; but even then this was a humble home for the daughter of the Champernownes, the mother of two great men. For through this heavy oaken door that swings slowly open to admit us has passed not only Walter Raleigh in his nurse’s arms, but also the Eton boy who was his big half-brother, Humphrey Gilbert. Of the life that was lived and the ideals that were taught under the gables of Hayes Barton we may perhaps guess something, not over rashly, from the last words of these two boys when they came to die, each his tragic death. “This,” said Sir Walter with a smile as he felt the axe, “is a sharp medicine that will cure all diseases.” “We are so near Heaven at sea as on land,” said Sir Humphrey as his last storm broke over him.

That Sir Walter loved this house, of which his father was only a tenant, we have good evidence; for when he was a man he tried in vain to buy it. Here, in the room on the left side of the doorway, is a copy of the letter he wrote to Mr. Duke. “I will most willingly give you what so:ever in your conscience you shall deeme it worthe.… You shall not find mee an ill neighbore.… For the naturall disposition I have to that place, being borne in that howse, I had rather seat mysealf ther than any wher else.”

The little room where he was born, the room upstairs with the high ceiling and the latticed windows, has not been changed, they say. They say too--and for this one was prepared--that he smoked his first pipe in England in the room over the porch. Sir Walter’s first pipe had evidently some of the qualities of the widow’s cruse. Wherever his name is heard the tradition of the first pipe lingers. He smoked it, we are told, on a rock in the Dart, and beside a Devon fireplace, and in an Irish garden, and here at Hayes.

And now, returning first to East Budleigh, we go on our way to the Ever Faithful City by lovely woods of fir and beech, and wide heaths, and hills and dales of richest green, with here a glimpse of sea and there a wealth of heather. Through Woodbury we go; and Clyst St. George, where the Champernownes lived; and Bishop’s Clyst, which was once Clyst Sachvill. The last of the Champernownes of Clyst was the unconventional Elizabeth, who married her first husband three days after her father’s death, and her second husband two days after her first husband’s death. “A frolic lady,” says John Prince. As for the Clyst that once belonged to the Sachvills and afterwards to the bishops, it changed hands in this manner. Sir Ralph Sachvill, being about to go to France in the service of Edward I., was in sore need of a large sum of money, and mortgaged the manor of Clyst to Bishop Branscombe of Exeter. The bishop, prudent man, forthwith built largely on the land, and made so many improvements that poor Sachvill, coming home from the wars with empty pockets, could not redeem his estate. So Clyst Sachvill became Clyst Episcopi, and the Bishops of Exeter visited it when they needed change of air. The time came, however, when “as Brounscomb cuningly gott it, soe did Bishop Voisey wastefully loose it.”

It was by this road that we are travelling on, this very excellent road from Otterton, that the Duke of Monmouth once came riding into Exeter; and it was somewhere near Bishop’s Clyst, I think, that a curious spectacle met his eyes. Twenty thousand people came out to welcome him, “but that which was more remarkable,” says the historian--and who will deny it?--“was the appearance of a brave company of stout young men, all clothed in linen waistcoats and drawers, white and harmless, having not so much as a stick in their hands.” There were nine hundred or a thousand of these innocents drawn up on a little hill. The Duke reviewed them solemnly, riding round each company. Then the stout and harmless youths marched two by two, hand in hand, before him into the city.