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THSOUGJI SOME OP THE

WESTERN COUNTIES
or
.ENGLAND.
, BT THE
Rev^. Richarci Warner,
OF BATH.

" Creation's Tenant, all the world is thine !'¦

BATH, PRINTED BY R. CRUTTWELL;
. AND SOLD BY
G. G. AND J. ROBINSON, PATER-NOSTER-ROW, LONDON.

180O.

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G-.rt.F

ITINERARY.

MilM.
From Bath to Wells --  -20
To Glastonbury - -.--..._ g
Wookey • .--. -. .5
Cheddar ----------- 7
Through the Cliffs and back - - - 2
East and South-Brent - - ... - g
Paulet  7
Passage-House -----..-. 2J
Cummidge over the Passage ----- x
Stoke-Courcey --. .--.. 4
Blue- Anchor ---.-_.- jq
Minehead ----------- 4
Porlock --  -- 6
Culbone, Lord King's, &c. back to Porlock 14
Lymouth -- -- -_-j5
Linton - -- ------ ^
Valley of Stones, and back - - - - - ' 4
CoombrMartin -• - - . - 15
Ilfracomb --- ----..5
Barnstaple ..--...__ 12
Biddeford -- --- . . g
Kilkhampton ----------22
Dowlsdown -- --- --14
Launceston -- -----s
Abbot-Milton  -.-. 7

20s

[ vi ]
Miles.
Brought over 208
ToBren-Tor  3
Ledford --- - - ----3
Oakhampton ---------- 8
Chagford  10
Logan-Stone, and Morton -,---- 8
Bovey-Tracey __-- ._- Q
Chudleigh ------ . . . 4.
Newton-Bushell --- . . . . s
Totness -- -.- ._-.- 7
Darlington, and back ------- 3
Mr. Bastard's, and back to Totness .- - - 6
Teignmouth, by Berry-Pomeroy - - - - 18
Dawlish - - - 4
' Exmouth - - . - - - 4
Chard  30
Ilminster --.- - _.-'8
Somerton ---- ----12
Glastonbury -- __.--- 7
Wells - -  7
Bath, by Stanton-Drew  22
386

River Avon

Cottage Crescent ^

Glastonbury

Wells

LETTER I.
To Wm. JOHNSTON, esq.

DEAR SIR, Glastonbury, Sept. 2d. 1799'
' I "'HOUGH the pleasure of your correspond-
ence will by no means be an adequate
compensation for the loss of your society, yet,
as it is one of my maxims, not churlishly to
rejeft the good which is before me, because I
cannot reach that which my wishes, (perhaps
B

[ 2 J
unreasonable) would attain, I gladly use the
privilege conferred on me by our agreement at
parting, to communicate by a regular inter
change of letters ; and with the promptitude of
a knight of old, am already prancing within
the lists, though the gauntlet be, as it were,
but just cast down.
The bargain, I am aware, like the exchange
of arms between Glaucus and Diomed, will be
all in my favour, gold for base metal : but this
conviftion (such is the strufifure of my mind)
is rather an elevating than a disheartening sen
timent, and will only excite an endeavour that
my letters may make up in utility, what they may
want in literary value, ornament, and polish.
Should fortune be propitious, and after the
long series of inclement weather which we
have experienced, indulge us vs^ith a few weeks
of cloudless skies, I may at least promise you
some variety, and perchance some novelty also;
since it is my intention to carry you through
the " labouring orchards" of Somersetshire;
to sink you full many a fathom deep into the
mines of Cornwall; to lead you along the crags
of the Danmonian shore,
" Where the great vision of the guarded mount
" Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold;"

[ s 1
to ferry you over the Belerian Sea, bewilder
you amongst the Cassiterides, and at length
conduft you safely home through the rich vales
of Devonshire.
Such is my plan ; but as its execution must
depend on things so uncertain as wind and
weather, the art of controlling or regulating
which we moderns are not in possession of,
you will not, I hope, accuse me either of
idleness or caprice, should it be of necessity
somewhat circumscribed: for I candidly con
fess, that halcyon days alone will induce me
to cross in solitude and silence the naked hills
of Cornwall, or tempt the dangers of that
strait which proved fatal to Sir Cloudesley
Shovel. Hitherto all has been fair and flattering; the
morning, soft and serene. Invited me from my
pillow before sun-rise, and at five o'clock I
was winding up the first long hill on the road
to Wells. It would have argued want of feel
ing and taste, not to spend a few minutes in
contemplating the striking scene which here
unfolded itself The fogs of night floated over
the deep valley beneath me, and filling all its
windings, presented only one wide sheet of
vapour, save that the shadowy forms of the ob-

L 4 1
J€£ts which it involved, ("uncertain if beheld'*}
were occasionally descried, when the breeze
of morning disturbed and dissipated for a mo
ment its misty volumes. Soon, however, the
sun rising in his strength began to strive for the
mastery, to struggle for the empire of the day.
Nor was the contest long: the cloudy mantle
quickly shrunk before the splendour of his
beams, and melted into air, whilst a gay and
varied scene of woods and hills, fields and vil
lages, rose in the distance; and immediately
beneath me the most beautiful city in the
world, its proud turrets tipped with gold,
emerged into sight,
Admiring the grand vision with which na
ture thus regaled me, I proceeded to Cottage-
Crescent, a curved range of small houses, run
ning at right angles with the road towards the
brow of Oddown-hill.
Though my mind was not much in unison
with the ludicrous, it was impossible to avoid
smiling at the complicated absurdities into
which the architeft has plunged himself by
the imposition of this unfortunate name on his
cluster of tenements. Had he studiously rum
maged the vocabulary for two terms the most
discordant and heterogeneous, and the most

[ 5 ]
incompatible with the spot to which they were
to be applied, he would not have succeeded so
well as he has done, in sele£ting what he
conceived to be the most appropriate. The
cottage, you know, modestly retiring from the
sight, seeks the covert and the glen ; and more
than half its interest arises from that appearance
of quiet, seclusion, and simplicity, which it must
indispensably possess. Instead of attaching it
self to a cluster of other buildings, it affefl: s in
dividuality; and far from impudently exposing
itself on the bare unwooded side of a lofty hill,
(the situation of the houses before us) conceals
its beauties from the publick gaze, and only dis
closes them to the eye of taste and curiosity.
Possibly, however, the architefl: in the pre
sent instance conceived that smallness and incon
venience were the only requisites to make a
cottage; the idea of a near neighbourhood, also,
being necessary to a building of this description
(equally corre£i with the former conception) in
duced him to groujie his tenements together:
and the form and cognomen were as happily
suggested by the magnificent piles which bear
a similar appellation, and rise in all the pride
of modern archite£ture over against him, on th^
opposite side of the river.

[ 6 1
The entrance, also, is managed in the same style
of good design. Two well-wrought SphinxeS'
propose to the traveller a question, which even
CEdipus himself could not satisfaftorily answer,
" for what purpose are we placed here ?" whilst
a Mercury, having stolen the trumpet of Fame
(for you know he is a thievish god)
" Quicquid placuit jocoso
" Condere furto,''
proclaims to the world that there are no limits
to the vicious conceptions, mal-associations,
and wild incongruities oi false taste.
As I continued to ascend the hill, the view
became more extensive and diversified; the
whole vale of Bath discovered itself to the right,
through which the Avon stole in silent mean
ders; and the swelling grounds which rise
finely from its margin, spangled with seats and
hamlets, presented an ornamented pi£ture that
stretched quite to the high grounds of Clifton.
On the other hand, the mingled scenery of
Comb-Hay, hill and dale, wood and dingle,
threw in a fair claim to attention; whilst the
song of the reapers busily and cheerfully em
ployed in the corn-fields on either side, and the
strains of early birds, chanting their grateful
matins to the orb of day for the return of his

[ 7 ]
genial rays, reminded me not to exhaust my
admiration on the inanimate parts of creation
alone. To this general appearance of beauty and
happiness the only interruption arose from
Man. Prone alike to mar the natural harmony
of the world, and to delight in moral discord,
his mischievous pursuits discoloured the canvas,
and stained the lovely pifture with blood and
slaughter. Unfortunately, the inclemency of the weather
had hitherto prevented the sportsman from avail
ing himself of that licence to destroy, which the
legislature allows on the first of September;
taking advantage, therefore, of the only fine
morning which had hitherto occurred, he had
already possessed himself of the fields, and the
thunder of his gun echoed on every side of me.
To reprobate " this falsely-cheerful barba
rous game of death," would be as useless as
unpopular: to you, however, whose sentiments
on the subje£l so exa£tly coincide with my own,
I may venture to lament that strange perverse-
ness which leads man to build his chief amuse
ments on the sufferings, rather than the happi
ness, of the brute creation. Neither goaded by
necessity, nor aftuated by the principle of self-

[ 8 ]
defence, wherever his rural reign extends, as he
marks the spot with devastation; the dying
hare pants before his dogs; the feathered te
nant of the sky falls before his gun ; and the
defenceless worm writhes upon his hook. The
steady tyrant of the field, whilst he rejoices
at the havock he has made, smiles over the
bloody quarry, and cries " Am I not in sport?'*
'' Upbraid, ye rav'ning tribes ! our wanton rage,
" For hunger kindles you, and lawless wantj
" But lavish-fed, in nature's bounty roU'd, '
" To joy at anguish, and delight in blood,
" Is what your horrid bosoms never knew."
The road, dropping down a long hill, led me
now towards Dunkerton; a small and retired
village to the right, five miles from Bath, bed
ded in the bosom of a deep valley, and only to
be discovered by the tower of its church peep
ing through the woods.
Here that noble monument of Roman labour,
called the Fosse-lVay, crosses the road nearly at
right angles in its course from Comb-Hay to
Dunkerton. Immediately in the neighbour
hood of the turnpike, the operations of hus
bandry have depressed, and indeed obliterated
in many places, this grand vicinal Dorsum;
but deviating about half a mile to the left, I

[ 9 ]
enjoyed a view of it in all its pristine magnifi
cence, carrying its indelible crest to a consider
able height, and flanked on each side by a deep
ditch or fosse.
Marked out at first by the sword of the con
queror, the Roman military ways are neither
bent into curves, nor broken into angles, by the
intervention of private property, nor by any re
gard to the interest of individuals ; but where
no natural barrier opposed itself, they push
themselves forwards in a dire£l line to the point
where they are to terminate. The fosse-way
is an example of their judicious mode of laying
out a road, running upwards of seventy miles
in an undeviating straight course from Bath to
Perry-Street on the southern confines of Devon
shire ; and passing through Stratton, Shepton-
Mallet, Somerton, and Uchester.
Three miles farther on the Wells road I per
ceived the same military way again approach
ing the turnpike, which it accompanies in a
parallel direftion for a considerable distance,
sufficiently visible even to the eye not gifted
with antiquarian keenness. The village, in
deed, at this spot receives its name from this
venerable neighbour, Radstock being nothing
jiiore than the Hamlet of the Road.

[ 10 J
Here a sudden alteration took place in the
scene, which changed from rural simplicity and
quiet to jargon and noise : the dingy tenants
of the coal-mines in the vicinity were busily
employed at the publick-house, either in taking
their " morning rouse," or concluding the fes
tivities of the preceding night, and the village
rang with curses and vociferations. Like true
tipplers, their courage had risen in proportion to
the depth of their draughts; and when I saw
them, they were
" So full of valour, that they smote the air
" For breathing in their faces; beat the ground
" For kissing of their feet."
I therefore climbed the opposite hill as rapidly
as I could, not only to avoid the sounds of dis
cord and confusion that distrafted my mind,
but also to escape some of the blows which
I saw were dealt about with great atlivity
amongst these early carousers. A canal ter
minating at this place is now cutting, and in
great forwardness, intended to convey the pro
duce of the mines to Bath and more distant
places. This is very considerable, amounting
on an average to 10,000 bushels per week, and
sold at the pit's mouth at the rate of ^A. per
bushel. The indefatigable labour of man has

[ 11 ]
already followed the vein to the depth of
two hundred and seventy feet.
Pursuing the fields which skirt the turnpike-
road, after a two hours' indolent saunter I
found myself at Embrow lake, a noble sheet of
water flooding a superficies of ten acres, and
surrounded by steep banks richly covered with
sycamores, firs, and beech trees. The spot is
sequestered and pleasing, and possesses what
the late Mr. Brown emphatically called " a ca
pability" of being converted into a pifture of
very superior beauty.
Mendip hills, the mountains of Somerset
shire, now began to rear themselves on the
right hand, and formed a side-screen quite to
Wells. Black and barren, they hold out no
thing to appearance delightful or inviting; but
this rough external conceals within it prodi
gious riches — lime-stone, calamine, and lead, in
inexhaustible plenty. Upvi^ards of two centu
ries ago, as Fuller tells us, the revenues of the
bishops of Bath and Wells were considerably
enlarged by the profits of these mines; and
since that period, they have continued to be
worked, "vvith equal advantage, by the private
adventurers into whose hands they have
fallen.

[ 12 ]
Here too the rugged surface, unbroken by
the hand of the husbandman,
" Non rastris hominum, non ulli obnoxia curae,"
presents to the eye of the antiquary in fine pre
servation the labours of distant ages; and as he
marks the barrow, or treads the earth-works
scattered over these hills, he may indulge him
self in all the reveries of British archaeology;
and please his fancy with discriminating be
tween the vallations of the Celtic aborigenes,
and the huge mounds of their Saxon invaders.
Altho' I was upon high ground, and within
two miles of Wells, it had hitherto escaped my
observation, for snugly seated under a limb of
Mendip, it is not perceived till very nearly ap
proached. But the viewto the left, and in front,
sufiiciently supplied this deficiency: Somerset
shire, Devonshire, and Wiltshire, here offer their
hills and plains to the traveller, whose eye em
braces an extensive circle of country, the dia
meter of which must be upwards of sixty miles.
The tor of Glastonbury* proudly crowning one
of the lofty conoidal hills which swell suddenly

* The edifice here mentioned is the tower of achurch, dedi
cated to St. Michael, built at the conclusion of the 13th century
The church has been long since destroyed.

[ 13 ] ,
out of this widely-spread champaign, makes
the most conspicuous obje£l in the diversi
fied pifture.
A long and gently-descending hill conduced
me into Wells, and passing under two noble
old gate-ways, which separate the close from the
suburbs and the city, I reached the Swan inn
to a late breakfast.
Surrounded with curiosity and antiquity, it
was difficult to determine what objedt should
first engage my attention in this venerable place.
My propensity for ecclesiastical architefture
led me however immediately to the cathedral
a rich repast for those whose taste points to
that pursuit. This edifice stands at the east
ern extremity of the city, and is built in the
form of a cross; having a noble square tower,
which rises at the interseftion of the transepts
with the body of the church, and two other
towers, lower and of smaller dimensions,
springing at the north and south sides of the
western end. Having been built at different
periods, some little dissimilarity occurs in the
architefture ; the heavy hand of the Saxon arr
tist may be discovered in the eastern members,
whilst the western parts display a magnificent
example of the richest . and most superb Go-

[ 14 1
thick masonry, the work of the 13th century,
under the splendid auspices of Joceline de
Welles, the 21st bishop of this see.
The ornaments here consist of Gothick cano
pies or niches, of light and airy design, supported
by slender shafts of the Purbeck marble, enriched
with costly capitals running in horizontal
ranges one above another, round the whole
western end and its accompanying towers. In
these are placed the statues of dumb apostles,
tranquil pontiffs, harmless heroes, and unambi
tious kings and queens.
The figures of the apostles occupy the high
est tier of these recesses. The lowest line of
sculpture exhibits a whimsical specimen of
Gothick taste in the way of design: the general
resurre£tion is the subjeft of the artist's chissel,
but the grotesque and monstrous appearance of
the figures, which are starting from their tempo
rary mansions of dust, evinces that he had not
considered it with the awe and seriousness it
so well deserves.
A sepulchral inscription appears on the left
side of the western door, cut partly in uncial
letters of the 14th century, commemorating
the reftor of Pitney, John Bennet, who died
1428. The letters now visible are as follow:

[ 15 ]
4« PVRL. ALME : lOHAN s
DE : PVTTEDIE PRIES :
ET : TRESE : IVRS : DE i
Pur I'alme Johan, de Puttedie pries et irese j'urs de  ,
The multiplicity of figures which decorate
the western end of Wells cathedral ; the beauty
of the niches wherein they stand enshrined; the
light appearance of the pillars, detached from
the wall and from each other, combine to form
the most splendid and agreeable example of
Gothick ecclesiastical architecture I have ever
seen. But I do not think the inside at all equal
to this magnificent external. Here the massive
Saxon prevails, and setting apart the choir and
the elegant chapel dedicated to the Virgin Mary
at the eastern extremity, heaviness may, perhaps,
be considered as its chief chara£teristick.
Bishops and dignitaries occupy in profusion
the consecrated dust covered by this noble pile,
most of the internal decorations of which con
sist of monumental erefilions to their memory.
Here Ina, of legislative fame, the first founder
of the church, is said to repose ; and here, also,
the bishops Brithelm and Kineward, Ethelwyn
and Birthwyn, occupy their last narrow dwel-
'lings; of A^hom little more is now known than

t 16 ]
that they were mitred Saxons. Chapels and
chantries ensure to some of the prelates en
tombed beneath them, a reprieve from imme
diate oblivion; whilst the large flat monumental
stones, their inscriptions defaced by the foot of
the thoughtless passenger, only notify that some
body sleeps under them, whose importance, per-'
chance, in the day when he flourished, seemed
to promise he would not as hastily be forgotten.
The northern transept contains a curious old
specimen of the Ars Horologica, or ancient clock-
making. It is a dial, construfted by a monk of
Glastonbury, called Peter Lightfoot, about the
year 1325, of complicated design, and ingeni
ous execution. On its face the changes of the
moon, and other astronomical particulars, are
contrived to be represented; and an horizontal
frame-work at the summit of the dial exhibitSj
by the aid of machinery, a party of knights,
armed for the tournay, pursuing each other on
horse-back with a rapid rotatory motion.
Connefted with the cathedral is the chapter
house, an ofifagonal building, remarkable only
for the beautiful clustered shaft of Purbeck
marble, which rising from the centre of the
area, ramifies above into many slender ribs sup
porting the roof of the edifice.

[ 17 ]
The cloister also, on the south side of the
cathedral, construaed for the contemplative
walks of the monasticks in rainy weather is of
good design. Over the eastern division runs
the episcopal library, a large but neither valu
able nor seleft colle£lion of books, in which
we find none of the curious contents of the an
cient scriptorium, save two imperfe£l MS. one
(apparently) of the 13th, and the other of the
15th centuty. It is but justice, however, to
the Dean and Chapter, and to the servants of
the cathedral, to confess that the whole of this
extensive pile is kept in the most exaft order
and greatest neatness.
The external appearance of the Bishop's pa
lace, with its battlements and moats, its gates
and redoubts, conveys the idea of the sullen
retreat of an ancient feudal chieftain, rather
than what it really is, the "elegant mansion of
of modern courtesy and literary taste. When
one contemplates the scite of its ancient hall,
which formerly stretched on the south side of
of the court or area, in length 1 20 feet, and in
breadth 70,* the scene of old hospitalit)«» where,
on the frequently recurring festival, " the
"^ '¦!'¦ ¦'¦ '"ii'i ¦' ' ¦¦¦— ¦, ¦ ¦ "— ' ¦ — ¦ ¦ ¦ ¦ ¦¦ ¦ . ¦¦ .1 ¦¦II ^ 1^ II II -^-^^E^,
* Leland. Itin. ii. 70.
c

[ 18 T
beards wagged all," where each chin shone
with the lard of the buttery, and each nose
reddened with the Strong ale of the cellar, we
are almost tempted to scold the all-grasping
Henry VIII. for putting a period to such mer
riment; but feel still more indignant with the
hypocritical or fanatical republicans of the last
century, who wantonly reduced to ruins what
the royal cormorant had spared — the walls
which had in times of yore been consecrated
to good-living.
Wells, though a clean and handsome town,
is entirely indebted for all its grandeur to the
munificence of its old ecclesiasticks. One ele
gant modern strufture, however, would have
been a great ornament to the place, had a slight
alteration been made in its plan: it is a con
duit rising on the spot where a beautiful hexa
gonal building of the same nature, ere£led by
Bishop Beckington, previously stood. The taste
and design of it are, in my opinion, faultless;
but its shafie, which is triangular, gives it a sort
o{ thinness highly disagreeable to the eye.
A flat road, intersefting what for the most
part formerly was nothing but a spongy moor,
stretches in nearly a straight line from Wells
to Glastonbury, affording no objeft of interest

[ 19 1
<&r curi6sity. But this deficiency was amply made
up on my entrance into the town, which justly
boasts itself as one of the oldest in England,
Here vestiges of ancient magnificence appeared
on every side, and prepared me for the ruins of
the immense abbey, from which I am just re
turned. Mouldings of portals, capitals of pi
lasters, and stone ribs of roofs, the spoil of
edifices once august, are stuck in the walls of
the ignoble residences of modern times; and
scarcely can the traveller take a step, without
being reminded by some fragment of masonry,
or some ancient mansion with its arched por
tal and its spandrilled windows, that Glaston
bury has suffered a most lamentable reverse of
fortune. On passing down the street, the church of
St. John attracted my attention, particularly its
tower, which is wonderfully light and beauti
ful. Indeed a peculiar good taste in the design
of church towers seems to pervade the greatest
part of Somersetshire, arising, probably, from
their being all copies of some excellent ori
ginal. This of St. John's appears to have
been formerly ornamented in a very superior
stile. The weight of its battlements is much
relieved by perpendicular lancet-like perfora-

[ 20 ]
tions, which add considerably to its lightness j
and its lower division has handsome Gothick
niches for the reception of statues as large as
life. Of these figures, which appear to be cle-
ricks robed in "their vestments, only five now
remain; three on the south, and two on the
west side of the tower: the tenants of the north
ern niches are removed. A superb sharply-
pointed arch forms the western entrance into
the church, consisting of many mouldings, in
one of the intervals between which runs a rich
pattern of wreathed tendrils, bearing leaves and
flowers. The spandrils of the door-way con
tain the representation of a lamb with a flag,
the apocalyptical emblem of the saint to whom
the church is dedicated; and a pelican feeding
its own young, referring to the neighbouring
Abbey of Glastonbury.
Somewhat further down the street on the
same side, a most curious old stane edifice of
fered a claim to my notice. The lofty gateway,
and a vast projecting mass of stone-work on
which the sign is hung, sufficiently evinced
that it had been long intended for a house of
pubhck reception; and as it appeared to be
at present applied to the same purposes, un-
derthe auspices of that worthy christian knight

C 21 1
St. George, I entered its venerable walls, and
deposited my baggage on an old oaken table,
that seemed to be nearly coeval with the build
ing. Having refreshed myself with gammon
and ale sufficiently good for an abbot's table,
and made arrangements for my noCturnal board
and repose, I strolled out to survey the outside
of my caravansary; the remainder of the town,
and the ruins of its monastery. The George
Inn, for so it is named, was built in the fifteenth
century, for the use and entertainment of the
numerous pilgrims who visited the shrines and
relicks of Glastonbury, and the holy thorn
which grew in its neighbourhood. Its front
has a flat projecting bow on each side of the
gateway, the whole of it ornamented with little
niches, curious sculptures, and armorial bear
ings. Amongst these may be distinguished
the arms of severalabbots; a chevron, engrailed
azure between three crosses gules; per pale vert
and azure; per pale azure and gules. The sum
mit of the house is turreted, and the spaces be
tween the battlements seem formerly to have
been adorned with human figures of stone.
Only two of these are now remaining ; their
heads inclined downwards, as if they were ob-
«rving'the guests as they entered the gateway.

[ 22 1
Whether the many female devotees, who under-
the reign of Romish superstition travelled to
Glastonbury, and reposed themselves at the
George Inn, came solely for the purpose of visit
ing the tombs of the saints or the miraculous
tree of Joseph, is rendered rather problematical,
by a secret passage (discovered many years
since) connecting this Hospitium with the Abbey.
It lies immediately under the house, pursues its
subterraneous course quite to the opposite side
of the town, reaches the monastery, and there
terminates — not at the chapel of a patron saint,
or the mausoleum of a pious founder, but — at
a short flight of steps, which ascended formerly
to the bed-chamber of my Lord Abbot 1 1 !
In my way to the Abbey I passed the market-
cross, an old polygonal structure, its apex
crowned with a little naked figure, bearing
strong marks in its position and employment of
that grossness of taste in which the sculptors
of the 15th century so frequently indulged. A
little to the south of this lie the remains of the
Abbey, on the left hand side of the road leading
from Wells to Bridgwater.
To him who is fond of amusing his mind
with investigating the relicks of ancient eccle
siastical architecture, these ruins will afford a

[ 23 T
very rich regale; for though time and plunder
have spared but little, yet that little exhibits
some exquisite specimens of sculptural skill.
An extensive plot of sixty acres, part of the
traCt anciently called the Isle of Avalon, (be^
cause in distant days the sea flowed up and
covered all the flat lands surrounding it) formed
the scite of Glastonbury Monastery; which,
with its various offices and buildings, com
pletely occupied the large inclosure. But of
these edifices a small part of the church, frag
ments of Joseph's chapel, the abbot's kitchen,
and some unintelligible and dilapidated walls,
are all which now survive. Nor indeed are
these remarkable for picturesque effeCt: the flat
uniformity of the meadow ground on which they
stand, and the circumstances of their being des
titute of surrounding wood, (save a few shabby
apple-trees) and not sufficiently relieved by
that necessary accompaniment of ruins, some
good masses of ivy, detraCt much from their
interest as well as beauty. The contemplative
wanderer, who loves " to walk the studious
cloisters' pale" of ruined religious edifices,
covets also the gloomy shade of high-arched
trees, which throw an appearance of solitude
and seclusion around him, and promote con-

[ 24 J.
centration of thought and abstraCt reflexion.
The eye, moreover, is fatigued and disgusted at
surveying a lengthened mass of stone wall with
no resting-place, no spot of green to repose on,
and relieve it with that delightful mixture^
" United light and shade, where the sight dwells
" With growing strength, and ever new delight."
This agreeable variety, however, is by no means
wanting in the chapel of St. Joseph, which is
ornamented with that happy proportion of it,
which just softens down and correCts the light
colour of the materials of the building, with
out obscuring its exquisite beauties. Of this
chapel I can only say, that it carries architec
tural elegance to a pitch beyond what my
fancy had ever conceived the mason's art could
extend to. Its stile is mixed, partly Anglo-
Norman or (as it is commonly called) Saxon,
and partly Gothick, both perfeCt in their kind.
A range of windows, rather loftily placed, runs
round the building; their arches, of semicir
cular form, but included within sharply-pointed
Gothick cornices : beneath these, at proper
intervals, and equal distances, light taper shafts
support a course of false Saxon arches; which
interse£ling each other, form well-proportioned

[ 25 ]
Gothick ones, and perhaps point out the .origin
of this much-disputed stile. The little orna-
rhental cornices edging the arches of the win
dows are in the zig-zag manner, but being
of what is called raised zvork, that is, sepa
rated from the mass of stone by the labour of
the chissel, the light is admitted through these
perforations, and an unequalled degree of airi
ness and elegance thrown, by these means,
over the whole struCture. Nor is it possible to
pass the northern entrance without admiration,
for .here the builder seems to have exerted all
the efforts of his art in order to produce an
architectural wonder^ The retiring arches
which form the door-way, are supported by
slender pillars, surmounted with magnificent
capitals, the mouldings separated from each
other by four compartments of costly carving,
all which exhibit splendid but tasty running
patterns of foliage and fruit, tendrils and flow
ers, entwining each other in the richest profu
sion. A handsome crypt runs under the east
ern part of the chapel.
Time and rapine, violence and gradual de
cay, have made still more deplorable havock
in the great church — a mighty fabrick, the
building of which alone must have exhausted

[ 26 1
a quarry. Imagine, my dear sir, a cathedral
extending in length from east to west 420 feet,
spreading its transepts to the breadth of z^^,
rising to a sublime height, adorned with innu
merable rich shrines " antic pillars," sculptu
red windows, and painted glass, the whole
executed in the purest Gothick style, and
finished with the most elaborate art; let your
fancy, I repeat, represent a building like this^
and you will have before you such a splen
did cathedral as once existed at Glastonbury.
Then let the busy workman go on, and people
this enormous edifice; let him introduce 500
monks, the regal train of the Lord Abbot, pa
cing its consecrated pavement in gorgeous pro
cession at the solemn hour of midnight, and il
luminating its high-arched roof with a thousand
flaming tapers: bid him strike the pealing or
gan, and swell the note of praise in one grand
chorus from the assembled multitude, and he
will add to his first piCture, the most impres
sive of all religious services, the celebration of
a nocturnal mass by the Abbot and his depen
dant monks.
To me, who contemplate with particular
pleasure the ancient ecclesiastical architecture
of this kingdom, and admire the pageantry of

[ 27 ]
the Romish ritual, though I lament the pur
poses to which it is applied, scenes like the
ruins of Glastonbury Abbey afford consider
able gratification. My imagination readily
enters into " the deeds of the days of other
years;" and while I tread the hallowed spot,
reverts with ease to, and interests itself in the
transactions which it has witnessed, the gran
deur it has exhibited, the vicissitudes it has
suflFered. Nor am I at pains to check this men
tal delusion, since I hold it to be an incontrover
tible axiom, that man is ever the better for se
riousness and contemplation. Were an autho
rity required for a truth so self-evident, I could
not offer a better than a passage from your fa
vourite author, the first of English moralists, a
passage that deserves to be viTitten in letters of
gold, and is worthy to be inscribed on every
heart. " To abstraCt the mind from all local
emotion would be impossible, if it were en
deavoured, and would be foolish if it were pos
sible. Whatever withdraws us from the power
of our senses ; whatever makes the past, the
distant, or the future predominate over the
present, advances us in the dignity of thinking
beings. Far from me and from my friends be
such frigid philosophy, as may conduCt us in-

[ 28 ]
different and unmoved over any ground which
has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or vir
tue. That man is little to be envied, whose
patriotism would not gain force upon the plain
of Marathon ; or whose piety would not grow
warmer among the ruins of lona."
A long list of kings, queens, and heroes, min
gle their dust under the ruins of this great
church, amongst whom the name of the patriot
Arthur must not be forgotten. Borne to
Glastonbury after the fatal battle of Camlan,
in which he perished, the chieftain was buried
before the high altar, where he slept for ages
negleCted and unknown. A tradition, however,
of his death and place of sepulture was preser
ved among the British bards who took shelter
in the mountains of Wales, after the conquest
of their country by the Saxons. One of these
poets, in a legend which he recited to Henry ,
the lid, discovered the long-concealed secret.
Take the tenor of his song in the spirited strains
of a legitimate son of poesy: —
"HENRY! I a tale unfold
"¦ Never yet in rhime enroll'd,
" Nor sung nor harp'd in hall or bow'r;
" Which in my youth's full early flow'r
" A Minstrel, sprung of Cornish line,
" Who spoke of kings from old Locrlne,

[ 29 ]
" Taught me to chaunt one vernal dawn,
" Deep in a clifF-encircl'd lawn,
" What time the glift'ning vapours fled
" From cloud-envelop'd Glyder's head,
" And on its sides the torrent grey
" Shone to the morning's orient ray ;
" When Arthur bow'd his haughty crest,
" No princess, veiled in azure vest,
" Snatch'd him by Merlin's potent spell,
" In groves of golden bliss to dwell ;
" Where, crown'd with wreaths of misletoe,
" Slaughter'd kings in glory go;
" But when he fell, with winged speed,
" His champions on a milk-white steed
" From the battle's hurricane
" Bore him to Joseph's tower'd fane,
" In the fair vale of Avalon ;
" There with chaunted orison,
" And the long blaze of tapers clear,
" The stoled fathers met the bier ;
" Through the dim aisles, in order dread
" Of martial woe, the chief they led,
" And deep entomb'd in holy ground
" Before the altar's solemn bound.
" Around no dusky banners wave,
" No mould'ring trophies mark the grave :
" Away the ruthless Dane has torn
"¦ Each trace that time's slow touch had worn
" And long o'er the neglefted stone
'' Oblivion's veil its shade has thrown :
" The faded tomb, with honour due,
" 'Tis thine, O Henry ! to renew.
" Thither, when conquest has restor'd
" Yon recreant Isle,* and sheath'd the sword,
* Ireland.

[ 30 T
" When Peace with palm has crown'd thy brow3>
"' Haste thee to pay thy Pilgrim vows.
" There, observant of my lore,
" The pavement's hallow'd depth explore;
" And thrice a fathom underneath
" Dive into the vaults of death;
" There shall thine eye, with wild amaze,
" On his gigantick stature gaze;
" There shalt thou find the monarch laid,
" All in warrior weeds array'd;
"¦ Wearing in deatli his helmet-crown
" And weapons huge of old renown.
" Martial Prince! 'tis thine to save
"¦ From dark oblivion Arthur's grave.
" So may thy ships securely stem
" The western firth; thy diadem
" Shine viftorious in the van,
" Nor heed the slings of Ulster's clan:
" Thy Norman pike-men win their way
" Up the dun rocks of Harald's bay :
" And from " the steeps of rough Kildare
" Thy prancing hoofs the falcon scare;
"¦ So may thy bow's unerring' yew
" Its shafts in Roderick's heart imbrue."*
Henry " listened to the read" of the bard, and
after his return from Ireland (whither he went
to quell a rebellion raised by Roderick king of
Connaught) journeyed to Glastonbury. There
by his order the spot described in the legend
was opened, and at the depth of seven feet a

* Warton's Grave of King Arthur, Poems p. 94.

[ 31 ].
plate with the following inscription appeared i
HiC JACET SEPULTUS INCLITUS ReX Ar-
TURIlTS IN INSULA AVALONIA. Pursuiug
their researches, the labourers dug down the
distance of nine feet more, when the hollowed
trunk of an oak tree was found, containing
the gigantick bones of the British leader.f
This religious house, the demesnes of which
produce at present above 250,0001. annually,
fell into the hands of Henry VIII. at the time
of the depopulation of the greater religious
houses, but not without some tyrannical aCts
on the part of the king, which must add to the
odium that deservedly rests upon his memory.
Various devices, you well know, were adopted
by this monarch, Cromwell his instrument,
and the commissioners who visited the monas
teries, to induce the ecclesiasticks to make a
voluntary surrender of their possessions; and
Richard Whiting, the last abbot of Glaston
bury, had been assailed for that purpose by so
licitations, promises, and threats. But the
abbot was a sturdy independent character, and
¦inflexibly refused to sign a deed that should
bring want and penury upon the numerous in-
,*¦¦'.';' "I LI |i I »¦ I'l ¦ ¦ ¦¦¦'¦  -¦ I. ¦ ¦ ^. II I a^  .1 ¦¦ .1 I — -
t Camden's Somerset.

[ 32 ]
mates of his convent. Were we indeed to al
low, that an unwillingness to relinquish the
dignity and consequence with which his situ
ation invested him, operated as one cause of his
refusal, we should only concede what might be
pardoned to the frailty of human nature ; since
all that riches, rank, splendour, and influence
could bestow, was accumulated upon the ab
bot of Glastonbury in a proportion enjoyed but
by few subjects of his day. Five hundred monks
were immediately subjeCt to his control, and
as many guests were daily feasted at his table.
Knights and gentlemen performed various of
fices about his person; the sons of the nobility,
placed under his protection, received instruc
tion in his court; the whole country round
subsisted upon the hospitality of his kitchen;
and an hundred attendant horsemen always
formed his cavalcade when he went abroad.- It
required, we must confess, a great effort of phi
losophy to give up all this. Whiting did not
possess a sufficient fund for the sacrifice, and
stubbornly refused to yield. Hitherto, only
Henry's avarice had been inflamed, his indignation
was now excited; and right and justice were
quickly overturned by the mingled emotion-

[ S3 ]
Without any previous intimation,, or shadow of
of proof, and contrary to every diCtate of hu
manity, the aged abbot was suddenly seized
at his manor-house of Sharpham, under the
pretence of a treasonable correspondence, and
a robbery of his own convent; and after an
hasty and indecent trial, hanged upon the
high hill in the neighbourhood, called the Tor.
You will forgive me, I am sure, for transcri
bing the following letter, which throws some
light on this cruel and iniquitous transaction,
It was vyritten to Lord Cromwell,
" Right Honourable and my very good Lorde,
" PLEASETH youre Lordeshipp to be ad-
vertysed, thatlhave receyved youre Letters da-,
ted the 12th daye of this preasent; and under-
stond by the same youre Lordeshlpps greate
Goodnes towardes my Friende the Abbqtt qf
Peterborough, for whome I have been qfte bold
to wryte unto yoyre good Lordeshipp, moste
hartely thankynge youre Lordeshipp for that
and all other youre Goodnes that I have founde
at your Lordeshipp's handes, even so desiering
you my Lord, long to contynew in the same,
" My Lorde thies shalbe to asserteyne that
on Thursdaye the 14th day? of this present

[ 34 ]
Moneth the Abbott of GIastonhrytwa&ana.yntd,
and the nexte daye putt to Execucyon with a
Other of his Monkes for the robbyng of GIas«
tonburye Churche, on the Torre Hyll next unto
the towne of Glastonburye ; the seyd Abbott's
body being devyded into fower partes and
Hedde stryken off; wherof oone Quarter ston-
dythe at Welles, another at Bathe, and Ylches-
ter and Brigewater the rest; and his had up-
pon the Abby-Gate of Glastonbury.
" And as concernyng the Rape and Burgh-
]ary comytted, those parties are all condemp-
ned, and fower of theym put to Execucyon at
the place of the ACt don, which is called the
If^ere, and there adjudged to hange styll in
chaynes to th' ensample of others. As for Capon,
oone of the seid offenders, I have reprived ac
cording to youre Lordeshlpps letters, of whome
I shall further shew unto you at my nexte re-
payre unto the Courte. And here I do sende
youre Lordeshipp the names of th' enquest
that passed on Whytyng the seyd Abbott, which,
I ensure you my Lorde, is as worshippfoH a
a Jurye as was charged here thies many yeres.
And there was never scene in thies parts so
greate apparence as were here at tbes present
tyme, and 'never better wyllyng to serve the

[ 35 ]
King. My Lorde I ensure you there were
many bylles putt up ageynst the Abbott by
hys tenaunts and others for wronges and inju-
ryes that he had donne theym. And I comytt
youre goode Lordeshipp to the keaping of the
blessed Tryntye. From Welles the i6thdayof
Novembre [1539]
" Your owen to commande « J. RUSSELL."
The inferences to be drawn from this curious
epistle are sufficiently obvious; that Henry, like
his prototype Ahab of old, beheld the posses
sions of Whiting with a covetous eye; that un
able to acquire them by fair means he had de
termined to do so by iniquitous ones; that, for
this purpose, men of Belial were suborned to ac
cuse the abbot unjustly;, that he fell a sacrifice
to their perjured testimony; and that Henry
seized qn the lands belonging his monastery,
by a title pearly as just as that which put the
vineyard of Naboth the Jezreelite into the
hands of the king of Israel.
Your's, &c,
R. W.

LETTER II.
TO THE SAME,

bEAR Silt, Passage-House, Sept. 4th
'\7"OU will probably tax me with the want
-*¦ of curiosity, when I confess to you, that
I left Glastonbury yesterday without visiting
the spot which has been immortalized by the
miraculous conversion of a dry walking-staff
into a flourishing hawthorn-tree; but under
standing from a sagacious cobbler, that the ori-

[ 38 ]
ginal sacred plant had long since fallen a prey
to the mis-direCted zeal of certain sacrilegious
Puritans, who discredited the account of its
preternatural origin; and collecting also, that
the haw thorn- trees now existing in the neigh
bourhood, and said to be legitimate descend
ants of Joseph's staff, were only bastard slips,
on which no dependance was to be placed for
the exhibiliioQ of the miracle; I did not think
it worth while to ascend Weary-all hill, the
former scene of this wonder.
Versed as you are in legendary lore, it is
scarcely necessary to remind you, that the mi
racle originated with Joseph of Arimathea.
This venerable apostle, having been deputed by
St. Peter to preach the gospel to the barbarous
natives of Britain, left France with a few chosen
companions to fulfil the arduous task. The
party landed safely on the Southern shores of
this country, and commenced their travels into
the interior. Many days did they wander, with
out repose and without support, amongst the
wilds of Belgick Britain, exposed to the incon
veniences of an inclement climate, (for it was
Christmas time) and the inhospltallty of a bar
barous people; till at length, exhausted, de
spairing, perishing, they reached arising ground

C 39 ]
in the neighbourhood of Glastonbury. Here
the Saint, unable to proceed further, determined
to repose, and in the agony of hopeless. anguish,
thrust his staff with violence into the ground j
when lo ! mirabile diSiu ! the withered stick
instantly put forth vernal blossoms, thick
ened with foliage, and in less time than I am
relating the story, shot up into a noble haw
thorn-tree. Joseph hailed the happy omen, and
assuming fresh strength and spirits from this
evident mark of the favour and protection of
Heaven, animated his companions to assist in
building a place of worship in the neighbour
hood of this hallowed spot. The party accord
ingly set seriously to the work, ereCied a church,
and established themselves into a convent;
whilst the neighbouring inhabitants, equally as
tonished by the visible interposition of Heaven,
flocked to the place that had been thus sanCti-
lied by a miracle, and received, from the hands
of Joseph and his monks, the rite of Christian
Baptism, The wonderful tree continued to thrive for
ages, putting forth its blossoms on Christmas-
day, and drawing numberless devotees to the
spot, not from the neighbourhood alone, but
from every corner of our own kingdom, and the

[ 40 3
mbSt distant parts of others- Glastonbury lii
the mean time battened upon this spirit of su
perstition, which had originally been excited by
her monks, Vvho, with that cunnirig for vvhich
the cloister has ever been famous, added other
allurements to the niifaculous tree, such as
the heads, alid arms, and noses, and rags of al
most every saint in the calendar. The united
powers of this holy trumpery, and Joseph's
wonder-working plant, brought such a crop
of pilgrims to the town of Glastonbury, that
the houses of publick reception were insuffi
cient to accommodate them; and as early as
the fourteenth century, the abbots found it
their interest to build an Hospitium for their
exclusive use — the identical George Inn which
I have before described. Though the haw
thorn, at the time of the Reformation, lost
much of the veneration hitherto attached to it,
it notwithstanding continued to attraCl some
attention till the latter end of the sixteenth
century, when a rigid Calvinist having cut
down one of its trunks (for it spread into two
divisions) with impunity, the idea of its sacred-
ness was completely done away with all the
better-informed classes. The next century
completed its destruction, when a stern Olive-

C 41 ]
rian hewed away its solitary limb, andvcotn-
mitted this once-powerful engine of supersti
tion to the flames. Since this period, though
the vulgar still regard its descendants, in the
neighbourhood with veneration, on account of
the unusual period at which they bud, about
Christmas, yet the progress of botanical know
ledge has, with the more enlightened, dissol
ved the wonder by discovering that the indi
viduals of one whole species of the thorn pos
sess the same peculiarity.
My route for the day conducted me two
miles and a half back on the Wells road, when
taking a path across the fields, I strolled on
towards the village of Wookey over the large
level called Crankhill-moor. From the appear-
- ance of the country many miles to the west
ward and southward of Glastonbury, there can
be no doubt of the tradition being founded in
faCt, that the sea in distant ages flowed up con
siderably to the east of that town. One exten
sive uniform flat presents itself, varied here and
there with insular protuberances, swelling out
into bold hills, for the most part of a conoidal
form. On this traCt, in many places, various
marine substances have been found, confirm
ing the tradition of the dominion which Old

[ 4a ]
Ocean is said formerly to have maintained over
it. Indeed, till within these few years past, he
continued to exercise his claim here; and, du
ring high tides, frequently flooded this ancient
territory of his waves. And even now, though
by well-construCled drains the lands are con
verted from a marsh to meadow grounds, a ma
rine inundation would certainly take place,"
were the embankments at HuntspiU, raised to
check the ocean tide, by any accident to be
destroyed. A farmer at work in his fields was
highly apprehensive of this event, having heard
the dykes had been damaged by the late rains,
and assured me, that were they to give way,
the country must be inundated, as the ground
on which we stood, lay considerably below high-
water mark. Along the margin of the drains
by which I proceeded towards Wookey, the rich
perfume of the Calamus Aramaticus, or sweet-
scented flag, occasionally ' stole upon the air,'
and filled it with fragrance, tempting me al
most to adopt the wish suggested to Fabullus,
" Quod tu cum olfacles, deos rogabis
" Totum ut te faciant, Fabulle, nasum."
The myrica or sweet-gale, also, with its serrated
leaves and dry berry, the ancient substitute for
hops, presented itself In almost every part of

C 43 ]
tiae uncukivaited moor. A most agreeable cha-
raSer of landscape marks the country, through
the whole distairce between this.moor and the
village «rf" Wookey; beautiful and well-wooded
knolls swell out on all sides; the flat grounds
are rich and verdant; the magnificent cathedral
of Welk, with its fret-work towers and elegant
chapter-house, disclose themselves at inter
vals; and the lofty tor of Glastonbury towers
above every thing to the eastward.
Wookey itself, indeed, boasts a situatloa
bighty picturesque. To the north and east, the
dark and steep sides of Mendip hills form a
striking contrast to the rich and diversified
lands which spread themselves in other direc
tions; a stream of chrystalline clearness mur
murs through the village, and several modest
cottages and elegant modern mansbns oma-
me»t its immediate vicinity.
Mendip hills continued to accompany the
road quite to Cheddar, approaching to and
receding from it on the right hand, according
to the whimsical undulating mould in which
Nature has cast these enormous protuberances;
whilst the vast levelsi of Godney-Moor, Wed-
Moor, and Mark-Moor, stretched themselves
quite to the searshope on the other side. My

[ 44 ]
objeCt in this retrograde march was to include
a very curious feature of Somersetshire in my
tour, the Cliffs, or (as they are called in the
country) the Clieves of Cheddar ; nor did I re
pent of the circuitous route which this devia
tion from the direCt line occasioned. Here
indeed Nature, working with a gigantick hand,
has displayed a scene of no common grandeur.
In one of those moments, when she convulses
the world with the throws of an earthquake,
she has burst asunder the rocky ribs of Men-
dip, and torn a chasm across its diameter of
more than a mile in length. The vast abrup
tion yawns from the summit down to the roots
of the mountain, laying open to the sun a
sublime and tremendous scene — precipices,
rocks, and caverns, of terrifying descent, fan-
tastick forms, and gloomy vacuity. The rug
ged walls of the fissure rise in many places
perpendicularly to the height of 400 feet, and in
others, fall into obliquities of more than double
that elevation. Whilst pacing their awful in
volutions (thro' which now runs the turnpike-
ro^d to Bristol) it requires but little imagina
tion to fancy oneself bewildered amid the ruins
•of some stupendous castle, the gigantick work
of distant times, when a whole nation lent its

[ 45 ]
hand to the enormous labour, and the operation
was effected by the united strength of congre
gated multitudes. The idea of ruined battle
ments and solitary towers is perpetually sug
gested by lofty crags and grotesque masses of
rock, which stand detached from their parent
hills, and lift their beetling heads over the dis
tant road below. Though the character of this
huge chine be in general that of terrifick gran
deur and rugged sublimity, it has notwith
standing some milder features; Nature, in her
passion for variety, having introduced a few
touches of the picturesque, by occasionally
throwing over the bare face of the rock a
mantle of ivy, and sprinkling here and there,
amongst the crags and hollows, the yew, the
ash, and other mountainous trees. Nor has
she provided entertainment for the artist alone;
the botanist and mineralogist will have reason
to applaud her bounty, whilst he creeps along
the crags of Cheddar cliffs, or treads the mazes
of their caverns. Here the Dianthus glaucus dis
covers its rare and crimsoned head, accompa
nied by ThaleSlra, Polypodia, Asplenia, and
many other plants equally curious and uncom
mon; and there 2lX& found Lac Luna, coralloids,
stalactites, spars, and chrystallizations.

[ 46 3
On approaching Cheddar cliffs, I could not
but notice the very pleasing effeS produced by
a singular contrast —
" Vestibulnm ante ipsum,"
at the entrance, all is gentle and beautiful. A
brook, clear as glass, rushing from the roots of
the rocks, leads its murmuring course by the
side of the road on the left hand, backed by a
shrubby wood, at the edge of which rises an
humble cottage, the calm retreat of health
and peace, and on the opposite side the ground
swells into a steep, sufficiently covered, how
ever, with verdure and vegetation to form a
soft feature in the scene; but a step farther,
" Primisque in faucibus oarcij"
a sudden alteration takes place, the rocks
shoot up in all their grandeur, their black sum
mits, scarred with the tempests of heaven, nod
ding ruin on the head of the gazing speCtator.
Having surveyed this extraordinary fissure from
one extremity to another, I determined to pe
netrate into the interior of Mendip, and visit
some of the caverns which open in different
parts up the side of the steep. A guide offered
herself in the person of an old woman, the in'-
habitant of the cottage at the mouth of the

C 47 3
cliffs. It was already dusk, but as my con-
duCtress sagaciously observed, we could see the
caverns in the night as well as in the day, (they
being at all times clad in impenetrable dark
ness) I did not hesitate following her up a pre
cipitous ascent, at a short distance from her
house, to the height of loo feet. The way
being steep, slippery, and gloomy, I could not
avoid, as I ascended it, hinting occasionally
some little apprehension ; but was encouraged
to proceed, not only by the example of my
guide, but by her relations of the hardihood of
other travellers, who had trodden the same
formidable path. Amongst other anecdotes,
she dwelt with particular pleasure on the
equestrian feat of a grand officer, who in her
presence, some years ago, ascended to the ca
vern on horseback by this narrow rugged
track, to the great horror and astonishment
of several ladies who were of his party. " He
was a main fine man," she continued, " and
would (as she had been told) have been made
a great general years ago, but unfortunately was
(the more the pity!) now and then apt to be
a little crazy." The latter part of the speech
allayed ray wonder, and I was no longer asto
nished at the mad prank which this son of

[ 48 3
Mars had played on Cheddar cliffs. With the
assistance of some lighted candles, my guide
and I proceeded nearly a quarter of a mile into
the mountain through a winding cavern, pre
senting a succession of hollows of different
heights and dimensions. Here a variety of
curious natural productions are found on all
sides, such as stalaClitical nodules, consisting
of several layers' of Incrustations folding over
each other in distinCt coats; the soft argillaceous
earth, called lac luna; and some good pendant
crystallizations. But my imagination was
more interested by a remarkable echo in one
of the chambers than by any thing else. The
solemn stillness that reigned around gave ad
ditional effeCt to the reverberations of the voice,
which came pealing upon the ear, thrown
back, at different intervals, from the vaults and
passages of the cavern. It was impossible to
divest the mind of the idea that these gloomy
recesses had their invisible inhabitants, and
here I first perceived the accuracy and happy
propriety of the Celtic prosopopoeia for Echo,
the Son of the Rock, which was certainly more
appropriate to my situation, than the Hebrew
Beth-Col, the daughter of the voice, or the Imago
Vocis of the Latin poets.

[ 49 ]
The tYienCxly George' (you see I am partial to
our patron saint) received me dirty and fa
tigued after my subterraneous journey, and
offered every comfort that a well-supplied lar
der, and a good bed could bestow.
I had this morning prepared myself for an
antiquarian treat, and was not a little chagrined
at being disappointed. The case was this: —
The friend to whom I am indebted for my route,
had visited this country some years ago; at that
time the large flat, called Cheddar common, was
studded over with barrows or turnuli, in which
the Saxon and the Briton reposed beside each
other in the stillness of death — their animosities
extinguished, their hopes and fears obliterated
and forgotten. This scene, so mortifying to hu
man ambition, Ihad pleased myself with the ex
pectation of contemplating; but on reaching it,
I found that I had, as is customary with me,
reckoned without my host.. The plough and
harrow had been busy with the spot, and every
appearance of these ancient places of savage
sepulture had been totally defaced or obscured
by inclosure and agriculture. I was secretly
inveighing against the innovations of the hus
bandman on the sacred spqt, when a labourer
passing by, appf^hending that I had some

[ 50 ]
doubts with respeCl to the road, civilly offered
to give me.information. This voluntary effusion
of inborn good-nature introduced some conver
sation on my part, and led to an enquiry relative
to the ancient and present state of Cheddar
commons. " Ah, Sir," said my new acquaint-
" ance, time was, when these commons enabled
" the poor man to si^pport his family, and bring
" up his children. Here he could turn out his
" cow and poney, feed his flock of geese, and
" keep his \)ig. But the inclosures have de-
" prived him of these advantages. The la-
" bourer now has only his i4d. per day to
" depend upon, and that. Sir, (God knows)
" is little enough to keep himself, his wife,
" and, perhaps, five or six children, when
" bread is 3d. per pound, and wheat 13s. per
" bushel. The consequence is, the parish
" must now assist him. Poor-rates increase to
*' a terrible height. The farmer grumbles, and
" grows hardrhearted. The labourer, knowing
" that others must maintain his family, if he do
" not do it himself, becomes careless, or idle,
" or a spendthrift, whilst the wife and chil-
" dren are obliged to struggle with want, or to
" apply to a surly overseer for a scanty allow-
" ance. This is the case with Cheddar, now.

[ 51 3
" Sir, which (added he, with particular empha-
" sis) is ruined for everlasting."
The observations of the honest fellow seemed
to be founded on such strong faQs, that my
prior opinion on this subjeQ: was, I_ confess,
somewhat shaken. That much general good
arises from the inclosing system is not to be
doubted: the sum of productive labour is in
creased, vast traCts of land are brought into
cultivation, and additional crops of grain pro
duced ; but these advantages are purchased by
so large a proportion of individual evU, that it
becomes a question of morals as well as policy,
a question as difficult as it is important, whe
ther that system ought to be generally adopted.
Perhaps, were we to take the trouble of en
quiring into the effeCls produced by it, where it
has been followed, we should find them to be
nearly similar to those above-mentioned; whilst
the same observation would also evince, that the
price of grain had not abated in proportion to
the additional quantities produced by it, nor the
wages of the labourer been raised in propor
tion to the loss of those advantages of which
he had been deprived by it. Perhaps, also, (I
only speak hypothetically) we should discover that
the chief advantage resulting from it had at-

[ 52 3 '
tached to the neighbouring landlord, the value of
whose estate was increased; the farmer, the pro
fits of whose husbandry were enlarged ; and the
reSior, the quantum of whose composition was swoln
by the system; whilst the labouring peasantry, the
nerves and muscles of the country, deprived of
those advantages which enabled them to parti
cipate some of the humbler comforts of life, and
kept alive that energy and industry which arise
from a consciousness of independence, of whatever
degree it may be, sunk into listlessness, or quit
ted in despair their useful labours for the care
lessness of a military life; melting gradually
away, and leaving us to experience and regret
the truth pf the poet's prophetical apostrophe,
" III fares that land, to hast'ning ill a prey,
" Where wealth accumulates, and men decay;
" Princes and Lords may flourish, or inay fade;
" A breath can make them, as a breath has made;
'' But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
^' Wlien once destroy'd, can never be supply'd."
The town of Axbridge lay before me, stragr
gling and irregular, but pleasantly situated at the
south-western roots of the dark Mendip hills.
Its church, a very handsome and uniform build
ing, is the only objeCt worth attention in the
the place. This seems to have been much in-

t 53 3 .
debted to the Prowse family for its beauty and
ornaments, many branches of which lie burled
here, with expensive monuments to their me
mory. The organ is the gift of one of these
benefactors, and a very splendid and curious
altar-cloth is shewn, the elaborate work of
Mrs. Abigail Prowse, who, with a perseverance
and notableness equally unknown amongst the
fair ones of modern days, employed herself seven
long years in compleating the arduous task.
Leaving Axbridge, a short mile brought me
to Cross, through which runs the turnpike^
road from Exeter to Bristol. This publick
way it was necessary for me to pursue for
nearly six miles, almost every step affording
an opportunity for the exercise of philosophy,
and the triumphs of temper. You know what
walking in Wales is, what its pleasures, and
what its inconveniences are; and will, I believe,
allow, that the former out-weigh and out-num^
ber the latter considerably. But in England it
is a very different thing. The pedestrian here
has to encounter many little slights and many
petty affronts, much inattention and much
impertinence; so that if he have not throwa
into the bundle of requisites for his journey, an
ounce of coolness and a packet of good-humour.

[ 54 3
the odds are, that he pursues his ramble in ir*
ritability and peevishness, and returns home in
disgust and disappointment. He must have
courage enough to meet with indifference,
what an excellent observer of human life em
phatically calls, " the scornful reproof of the
wealthy, and the despitefulness of the proud;"
the grin, the sneer, and the laugh of the cox
comb or the blockhead, whom Fortune, in her
blindness, has perched up in a phaeton, or
mounted upon a gelding. Such a fiery ordeal
as this I was obliged to undergo for two hours,
and then turned, right joyfully, towards East-
Brent, a pleasing little village, with its spire-
crowned church, planted at the north-eastern
extremity of Brent-Knoll, one of those conoidal
hills which rise suddenly out of the flats of
Somersetshire. A Roman entrenchment, on
the summit of this eminence, was an irresistible
inducement to climb its steep sides ; though dis
tinCt from this curious remain of ancient cas-
trametation, the prospeCl from this lofty station
amply recompensed the trouble of reaching; it.
The mountainous heights of Devon, speedily
to be explored, rose before me; Wed-Moor,
Mark-Moor, and Godney-Moor, the Nether
lands of West-England, were spread to the left.

[ 55 ¦}
terminated by the pointed hill and lofty Tor
of Glastonbury; aiid on the other side, my eye,
after sweeping a wide expanse of water, the
Bristol Channel, reposed itself on the Hills of
Glamorganshire. A rapid association recalled to
my mind the pleasures of the preceding year;
and joys that are flown for ever, and hopes which
then blossomed, but are now extinguished,
naturally suggested the tender address of the
Poet:— " Ah happy hills ! ah pleasing shade !
" Ah fields belov'd in vain ! — ^
" I feel the gales that from ye blow,
" A momentary bliss bestow,
" As waving fresh their gladsome wiilg,
" My weary soul they seem to soothe;
" And, redolent of joy and youth,
" To breathe a second spring."
My eye long lingered on the well-known spot;
and I reluctantly descended from the hill, re
linquishing, not without pain, that mingled
sensation of sorrow and gratification, arising
from the distant view of a place, which has
been the scene of former happiness. I know
not whether you have ever felt the emotion;
at all events, I refer you to your favourite bard
Ossian, who had experienced, and describes it

[ 56 3
with considerable felicity. "Pleasant is the
" joy of grief ! it is like the shower of spring,
" when it softens the branch of the oak, and
" the young leaf rears its green head ! It is
" pleasant as the gale of spring, that sighs on
" the hunter's ear, when he awakens from
" dreams of joy, and has heard the musick of
" the spirits of the hill."
Brent-Knoll affords protection to another
small village immediately opposite to East-
Brent, and called from its situation South-
Brent, as it lies immediately under the southern
steeps of this hill. Thither I direCted my steps,
to the quiet retreat of S  , who had promi
sed to relieve the gloom of solitude for a short
distance, and be my companion during two
days. The only curiosity of South-Brent is its
little church, which has many vestiges of anti
quity both within and without. Its seating is
particularly curious, being certainly anterior to
the Reformation. Instead oi fiezvs, it has (|ike
the Russian churches) a regular series of plain
oaken benches, with a back to each, running
from either side towards the middle of the
church, at right angles with the wall. The
flat boards which form the terminations of these
seats, are curiously and variously carved with

[ 57 ]
subjects most grotesque and ludicrous ; such as
a fox or an ass in a mitre ; a pig roasting, and
a monkey aCting the part of turnspit; a party
of geese hanging a pig ; a monkey at prayers ;
a pig preaching, &c. These caricature car
vings I should consider as instances of practical
satire by the parochial clergy against the men
dicant orders; for it is well known that the
most inveterate antipathy subsisted between
the parish-priests and the friars, in ¦ conse
quence of that considerable influence which
the latter had obtained by their absurd vows
and itinerant preaching. Doubtless, at the
period when these sculptural representations
were made, their meaning and allusions were
well understood, and being always before the
eyes of the congregations, they kept alive, by
the powerful means of ridicule, that contempt
for the Dominicans and Franciscans, which all
the oratory of the parochial clergy would not
probably have been able to excite ; so true is
the excellent observation of one well versed in
history of the human heart —
" Ridlculum acri
" Fortius et melius magnas plerumque secat res."
The font also lays claim to a considerable anti
quity, being deep and capacious,, intended for

[ 58 ,3
the total immersion of the infiant to be baptized.
This, you know, was the ancient mode of per
forming the ceremony; and only disused within
these two centuries, when good sense getting
the better of prejudice, the custom almost uni
versally disappeared, to the great benefit of
population ; since the chances must have been
very considerably against any infant which
was thus, within the month, unmercifully
plunged over head and ears into a bath of cold
water. Little accidents, indeed, frequently oc
curred, whilst the practice continued, to the
poor half-drowned children; one of which has
been thought of sufficient importance to be in
corporated into the page of metrical history.
It relates to King Ethelred, the miserable ideot
whose inglorious reign saw the Danish power
established in this country. Archbishop Dun-
stan had the honour of baptising the royal babe;
but the shock or the fright, occasioned by the
immersion, produced in the infant the most
unseemly and offensive cffeCts. The prelate,
whose olfaCtory nerves were probably some
what distressed 'by the circumstance, returned
the child to its nurse in a passion, exclaiming at
the same time, " Per Deum et matrem ejus,
" ignavus homo erit !— By God and his mother.

C 59 ]
" this will be a most scurvy scoundrel"^ a pro-
phecy which subsequent events compleatly
accomplished. After experiencing the hospitality of the
Parsonage, I took the road (accompanied by
S  ) to our present quarters, the Shoulder
of Mutton inn, in the village of Powlet. A
flat country offers to the traveller little or
nolCcivaz, picturesque, since no variety can occur
in one uniform level; no intricacy, in ground
divided into regular quadrilatural inclosures, or
moors intersected by reCtilinear canals. Our
walk, therefore, was not diversified with much
change of scene. This part of Somersetshire,
indeed, exhibits the province of Holland in
miniature; a resemblance which is strength
ened by the appearance of the women, who,
like the Dutch females, have mostly very white
teeth, and fair complexions.
With these general observations I intended
to have closed my letter, but a character has
just presented itself to our observation, which
exhibits such a compleat specimen of inde
pendence in spirit, and energy in aCtlon, that
I cannot resist giving you a slight sketch of it.
* W. Worcester. Lib. Nig. Scac. p. 5^0, ed. 1718.

[ 60 ]
It is, I must confess, apiece of humble biogra
phy, but It will not be the less interesting to you
on that account. Materials for moral instruc
tion are to be found as well in the cottage as in
the palace; and although the peasant's life
cannot, like the hero's, display those brilliant
but pernicious exploits which dazzle and asto
nish mankind, yet it may, and often does, exhi
bit such examples of patient suffering and in
dustrious exertion, as would. have abetter effeCl,
if held up to publick observation, on the moral
charaSier of a nation, than all the pompously-
written lives of the destructive conqueror, or
the refined politician.
Whilst S  and myself were chatting over
our tea, we heard a horse and cart at the door
of our caravansery ; and immediately after
wards the sounds of a female voice, neither
very gentle nor very melodious, calling to the
ostler, roused our attention. On going to the
door, we discovered a " thing of shreds and
tatters," intended for a cart, and drawn by a
small poney, not much larger than a stout
Newfoundland dog. In the centre of this
machine sat a female figure, brawny but short,
who seemed to have weathered nearly sixty
winters. She was recounting to a man who

[ 61 ]
stood by, the labours of her little mare, which
had dragged her loaded car twelve miles to
market in the morning, and brought it safely
the same distance through the moor in the
eveniftg, when she herself could not discern the
road. As there appeared to be no reserve on
the part of the lady, S  asked her some
questions relative to her history, situation, and
manner of life, to which she readily gave
answers to the following effeCt: —
That she was a native of HuntspiU, in the
northern part of Somersetshire, where she had
always resided, but being the fruit of an illicit
commerce, had come into the world under
rather unfortunate circumstances. Born in the
poor-house there, she continued for some time
the property of no particular person, but a sort
of fixture or heir-loom, that descended from
one master to another, without enquiry or
regard. The education of a village workhouse,
you know, is not very liberal or.extensive, you
will not be surprised, therefore, that Johanna
Martin (for that is her name) left it for service
at the age of twelve, with a mind as unculti
vated as her body was scantily clothed — the
former a perfeCt blank, the latter with a ward
robe consisting of one ragged gown. The term

[ 62 3
of her servitude being expired, Johanna married
a labourer, and settled in life. -Unluckily (as she
expressed herself) she took terribly to breeding, and
in the course of seven years presented her hus
band with as many children. Two of them,
however, died in their infancy ; but while she
was big with an eighth, it pleased Providence
to take her husband from her. Shortly after
his death she became once more a mother, and
found herself a widow with six infants, and not
a shilling in the world to feed them with. In
this dilemma Johanna applied for relief to the
officers of the parish, but " they relieved no
out-paupers, though they had no objection to
receive the children into the poor-house."
Johanna had herself experienced the comforts
of this mansion, and was not prejudiced enough
in its favour to trust her offspring there; she
therefore declined the offer, and determined to
depend upon nothing but Providence and her
own activity for the support of her numerous
family. But no common exertion was suffici
ent for this. " For many a long month, gen-
" tlemen," said she, " have I risen daily at
" two o'clock in the morning, done what was
" needful for the children, gone eight and ten
" miles on foot to a market with a large basket

[ 63. ]
f of pottery-ware on my head, sold it, and re-
" tmned again with the profits before noon."
By this more than horse-like labour, Johanna,
in the course of a twelvemonth, amassed the
sum of one guinea and a half; when, being
under the necessity of quitting her cottage, she
resolved to build an house for herself. But
though a famous architeSl, and a very good
workmatf, the undertaking was too great for
her individual labour; she therefore hired a
man of the place to assist in the building, and
to work they went.
You will hardly suppose that Johanna's riches
were so great as tq form an objeCt of plunder;
but nothing is beneath the notice of petty vil
lainy; tlie one pound eleven shillings and six
pence were yet untouched, being reserved tq
defray the expences of building. Her trea
cherous coadjutor had marked the spot in
which the treasure, carefully wrapped up in a
rag, had been deposited ; and one fatal morur
ing, when the unsuspeCting Johanna was gone
to a distant market, the villain seized the little
deposit, and decamped, taking with him at the
same time a few planks which had been pro
vided for the intended building.

[ 64 ]
Can you conceive a disappointment more
severe than that which the poor widow must
have experienced on returning to her plun
dered dwelling? Or piCture to yourself a situ
ation more likely to have produced the gloom
and listlessness of despair? But our heroine's
mind was above the reach of fortune, and su
perior to the attacks of casualty. " To be
" sure," said she, " I did curse the rascal that
" robbed me, a little; but knowing that fretting
" would not bring the money back again, I
" wouldn't waste tears about the matter. Be-
" sides, I had not leisure fo grieve; the children
" wanted bread, and I was the only person to
" provide for them. I determined, therefore,
•' to work harder than ever for some time, and
" to let the cottage alone, till I had gotten a
" little before -hand, and then to finish it myself,
" that I might not be robbed a second time.
" To be sure, the children and I were obliged
" to sleep for several weeks in the shell of the
" tenement, with no other covering (for it was
'¦ not roofed) than a dew-board;* but 'twas
" summer-time, and for the matter of that,
* A few temporary planks thrown across the cottage, from
wall to wall, to defend them from the devit of night.

[.65 ]
" we were warm enough, fqr all six slept in
" one bedt.
"Well, gentlemen," cqntinued she, " with
" the assistance of a good God, I was able at
" last to finish my cottage, which (though I
" say it myself) is a very tight little place ; and
" after some time, having saved another trifle,
" I bought the old cart I am now in, and the
" little poney you see, with which (though I
" only gave half-a-guinea for her) I would not
" part for the best fifty shillings that ever were
"told. I wanted them bad enough, for what
" with smartish work, and not very good living,
" I began to find my legs give out ; and that I
" could not walk thirty miles a day now so well
" as I walked them twenty years ago. With
" these, however, I am able to carry pottery to
" the different market-towns round about, and
" drive a pretty briskish trade. To be sure I
" be'nt very rich, but what I have is all of my
" own getting. I never begged a halfpenny of
" any soul; I brought up my children without
" the help of the overseers ; I can now live
" without being obliged to them; I maintain
" myself, and don't care a farthing for the Pope
" or Keeser (Ceesar.)" Saying this. Dame Jo
hanna Martin smacked her whip, and drove off.

L 66 3
leaving us in admiration of a charaCter equally
rare and exemplary — a mind unconquerable by
disaster; a spirit which preferred contending
with difficulties almost unparalleled, rather
than to submit to the shackles of dependence.
What might not have been expeCted from
a character like this, had its advantages been
greater, and Its sphere of aCtion more enlarged?
Birth and education might have raised Johanna
to an equality with the far-famed Semiramis of
the ancient world, or the celebrated Catherine
of modern times. She might have headed ar
mies, and addressed senates; have scattered
smiling plenty over distant nations, and given
equal laws to an hemisphere. But on the other
hand, powerful talents like hers might also
have been perverted. She might have ruled
the kingdoms with a rod of iron; have let loose
the dogs of war o'er half the globe ; have raised
her glory on the destruction of her subjeCts;
and cemented the fabrick of her power with
blood and injustice. Providence therefore, in
its v\'isdom, allotted to Johanna a " destiny
obscure;" but bade her, even In this ignoble
station, not be without her use; exemplifying
in her little history the certain happy conse
quences of a pious trust in and dependence

L 67 ]
upon the goodness of God, seconded by in
vincible perseverance, and the diligent exertion
of those faculties which it has pleased our
Creator to bestow upon us.

Adieu,

Your's, &c.

R. W.

LETTER III.

TO THE SAME.

DEAR SIR, Minehead, Sept. 6tb.
OBEDIENT to « the breezy call of in-
cense-breathing morn," my companion
and I were early to-day on our way to the
passage-house on the banks of the Parret,
about two miles and a half from the Shoulder
of Mutton inn, which had last night given us

[ 70 3
shelter. A fog remarkably thick shut out all
the surrounding country from our view, but _
the loss was the less to be regretted, as it is
marked by a similar charaCter of uniformity
with our walk of yesterday afternoon ; being a
Continuation of the same dull level stretching
itself quite to the borders of the river.
A comfortable little cottage, which, though
not a publick-house, holds out hospitality to
the traveller, afforded us an excellent break
fast; after which, parting with S  , (fori
was here condemned to lose my late valuable
acquisition) I ferried over the river Parret, at
that time quite at ebb, and not more than a
quarter of a mile across. This stream, one of
the most considerable In Somersetshire, rises
at a town (called, after itself, South-Parret) irt
Dorsetshire, lends a name to another place
on the border of Somersetshire, passes South-
Petherton, sweeps by Langport, gives trade
and commercial animation to Bridgwater, and
discharges itself Into the Bristol Chanftel at the
Start-Point. As I had been Informed that it
was remarkable for the Impetuosity with which
the tide enters Its mouth, I waited about an
hour and a half, till the commencement of the
flood, in order to observe the phenomenon.

t n 3
Its approach is announced by a distant roaring
sound, which gradually increases upon the ear,
until the cause itself appears; a volume of
water, like One vast wave, sometimes rising to
the height of four feet, (though when I saw it,
not more than two) rushing on with irresistible
violence, and covering instantaneously the steep
banks, which had been left dry by the recess
of the tide. ,It is called a Boar, in allusion, I
presume, to the formidable sounds which this
indomitable animal emits- and affords no bad
idea of his violence and noise, when roused to
fury by the spear of the hunter, or the attack
of his dogs. A similar appearance, you know,
occurs in many other rivers in different parts
of the world; owing, evidently, to a huge vo
lume of water, from particular circumstances
of situation, being suddenly propelled into
an estuary, where amplitude is not suffi
cient to afford room for the spreading of the
waves. But in none is the Boar more remark
able than in the Ganges, where, with a rage
adequate to th^ gigantick stream in which
it exerts itself, it frequently overwhelms the
ship and Ito Havigators in one general ruin.
In the Parret it aCts upon a smaller scale,
and with diminished violence; though it has ,

. I 7Q 3
been known, when strengthened by a spring
tide, to have overtumed large boats in its fu
rious course.
I observed, with satisfaction, that the coun
try now/- began to drop that tame formality
which had so long charafterized it: the shore
became more bold, and the interior mor-e irre
gular; the lofty hills of Quantock runniag frotn
the heart of Somersetshire to lose themselves
in the Bristol channel, crossed the country be
fore me, and introduced a bold variety Into the
picture. In a pleasing sequestered situation, on the
eastern side of these eminences, lies the ancient
village of Stoke-Courcy, called by a barbarous
corruption Stogursy. The first of these names
is a Saxon appellative, signifying a village; but
the agnomen was Imposed by the noble Norman
family of De Courcy, which in Stephen's reign
became possessed of this place, and made it
the head of their barony.
That this distinction conferred some consi
deration on Stoke-Courcy in the feudal times,
there is no doubt; it being denominated in
ancient records Burgum; and having once, in
the reign of Edward III. returr ed members to
the national senate : but its importance is now

[ 73 3
extinguished — one long straggling street, with
some intersecting lanes, mark the outline of its
ancient population; and an old cross evinces
that it formerly possessed, what it has long
since lost, a regular market. From what mul
tiplied sources, my friend, is instruQion offered
to us, if we will not proudly contemn it ! Every
objeCt in nature affords to the thinking mind
some moral hint;
" On every thorn delightful wisdom grows,
" In every rill a sweet instruftion flows;'.'
and all the works of art, whether flourishing, or
sinking into ruin, appeal to the thoughtfulness
of the soul, and rouse the slumbering powers of
reflection. The revolutions and decay even
of the little town now before us give energy
to the moral principle, by teaching to pride a
lesson of humility; by whispering to human
conceit, that all the glory of man and his works
« is but vanity and a lie."
A short mile brought me to Fairfield, the
mansion of John Acland, esq; a large but
tasteless building, the produce of the sixteenth
century, 'J%^n architecture was sunk to its
lowest ebb; when the designs of the builder
were neither dassical nor Gothick, but an

[ 74 3
injudicious compound of both these discordant
stiles. Sir Thomas Palmer began the edifice
upon the scite of a much more ancient castel
lated dwelling, about the year 1580, arid his
grandson completed It about twenty years af
terwards; since which period nothing has been
done to it, save such little alterations as modern
convenience may have suggested. The manor,
of which this is the mansion-house, originally
belonged to the De Vernai family. When they
had lived their little day, the Palmers of Sussex
succeeded to the property, and from them it
passed into the possession of a branch of the
Aclands of Devonshire, in the year 1672. —
Some coats of arms, notices of its first lords, the
De Vernais, are preserved In the old windows
of the mansion.
Beauty of sitliatlorl does not appear to have*
been an objeCt of regard with our forefathers ;
who rather courted the sullen gloom of se
questered hollows, than the cheerful variety of
diversified prospeCts which the commanding
eminence, or sloping declivity, affords. In
compliance with this false taste, Fairfield is
built on a spot comparatively low and flat;
though at a small distance to the westward of
it, some rising grounds offered a situation,

[ 75 3
¦which, overlooking the Channel, the coast of
Wales, and a long stretch of the English shore^
would have given it a view equal to most in
the kingdom. Some good woods rise around
the mansion; amongst which are trees of a
considerable magnitude: but the lime is the
prominent one, and from the vigour with which
it flourishes, seems most congenial to the soil.
Quantockshead, a village, (as the name im
ports) planted nearly at the point where the
Quantock hills terminate in a high land, rising
over the Channel, lies snugly under these swell
ing eminences, sheltered from almost every
wind that can blow. The country around it
is extremely pleasing; and in one of its most
beautiful spots, about a mile and a half on the
road to Minehead, the elegant residence of Mr.
Balch, called St. Audries, is happily placed.
A broad verdant vale spreads itself before the
house, which is nearly encircled by a noble
belt of hills, rising like an amphitheatre around
it, and judiciously spotted with woods of oak,
and plantations of fir. When the bottom offers
such scenery as this to the architeCt, there can
be no reason why he should refuse the situa
tion. Nature has given him almost all she can —
richness, variety, and magnificence; and he

[ 76 3
must be fastidious indeed, if with these he be
not content.
The village of St. Decuman's is remarkable
for nothing, except its being a monument of
Popish ignorance and superstition. In the
long and venerable list of Saints which forms
the Roman-Catholick calendar, the grey-beard
from whom this village was named, and who
flourished in that fruitful age of miracles, the
seventh century, makes a conspicuous figure.
Floating over the Bristol Channel on a bundle
of sticks, from Wales his native country, St.
Decuman took a fancy to the lofty spot on
which the present church was afterwards
ereCted; and here, in a little hut, he practised
all the austerities of a solitary monastick life. — •
A faithful cow, who .accompanied him in his
voyage from Cambria, and followed his steps
wherever they were direCted, supplied his wants
by the copious streams of an inexhaustible
udder. In this seclusion he continued for some
time, till at length, having offended, acciden-*
tally, one of the heathen inhabitants of those
parts, the ferocious savage with one blow of
his sabre separated the head of the saint from
his shoulders. But the murderer might as well
have divided a polypus ; the decapitated body

[ 7'7 1
had not lost the use of its arms, but catching
up the head in a moment, ran to a spring, in
which St. Decuman had been accustomed to
bathe, and rincing it well from blood and dust,
placed it upon its own neck, whence it had
been so rudely dissevered. The saint was him
self again, and lived for many years to relate,
with his own mouth, the wondrous miracle to
his numerous devotees.
My road ran immediately through Watchet,
otherwise I would have avoided a miserable
stinking place, which, like a withered beauty,
has only now to boast that it once was handsome.
Commiodiously situated on the shore of the
Bristol Channel, Watchet formerly enjoyed an
extensive trade and a large herring-fishery; but
the former (for you know she is a capricious
lady) has flown to other ports, and the fish
(equally -whimsical) have left the shore. Its
population is in consequence decreased, and
its riches are melted away. A few small ships
are indeed still employed in freighting kelp and
lime-stone; but they do injustice to its pier
which is large and convenient, and capable of
sheltering a great number of vessels. This
was first constructed in the reign of Elizabeth,
but has been added to at different times, and

[ 78 ]
is at present supported by a duty payed on the
importation of all goods at its wharfs. The
coast in the neighbourhood affords excellent
lime-stone, which burns into a lime of the most
tenacious and adamantine texture. The ce
ment made use of In constructing the Eddy-
stone Light-house, that wonder of modern
masonry, was composed of the Watchet lime
stone; arid its resisting hardness has been hi-.
therto found unconquerable by the fury of the
elements, the convulsions of the tempest, and
the madness of the ocean.
A noble view of the Bristol Channel had
accompanied me for the last ten miles, but
after half an hour's walk from Watchet, I de
scended, quite to the shore, and found myself
on a level with a vast sheet of water, serene as
the unruffled lake; the huge promontory of
Minehead, in deep shadow to the left hand,
and the beautiful belt of Cambrian hills bound
ing the tranquil flood, gorgeously lighted up by
the descending sun, in the distance. A neat
little inn, called the " Blue-Anchor," threw
open its door at this spot, and invited me,
"nothing loth," to refresh myself On en
quiry, I found that others had been equally
pleased with the place as myself; whigh had

t 79 ]
Induced the people of the inn, or their con
nections, to build a small house for lodgers,
and fit up a bathing-machine for their use.
The recess of the tide allowed me to keep
the sands from hence to Minehead, a distance
of six miles; the Channel spreading to the
right, and an undulating line of hills rising to
the left. On the brow of one of these emi
nences, the proud turrets of Dunster-Castle,
the seat of John Fownes Luttrell, esq; shoot
up from a venerable wood, and p'roduce a
beautiful variety In the majestick gloom of the
deep mass of shade which surrounds them.
From the point vhere it first became an ob
jeCt in the piCture, the castle appeared to stand
on the side of a hill, with a large proportion of
its wooded declivity rising behind the build
ing. I soon found, however, that this was but
a deceptio visus; for on approaching the place,
the higher ground receded from its neighbour,
and I perceived that the castle had chosen a
spot worthy of its dignity, the broad summit
of an Isolated hill. The sheltered situation,
indeed, which, from afar, it appeared to have
assumed, though every way congenial to mo
dern ideas of comfort as well as beauty, would
have been but ill-calculated for the unsettled

[ 80 J
period of the Saxon heptarchy, when it was
originally constructed; or for the rude times of
feudal insolence, when its walls were to ensure
impunity to rapine and violence. The Baron
of old, knowing that he was surrounded with
robbers like himself, would not, unwarily, plant
his retreat in a spot commanded by adjoining
eminences: the bold brow of the precipitous
cliff, or the lofty summit of the solitary hill,
could alone afford him security in that state of
desultory warfare, in which his own inordi-
nances, sanctioned by the praCtices of the feu
dal ages, perpetually kept him; and these were
the fastnesses which he pitched upon for his re
sidence. Dunster-Castle, in conformity to this
principle, is situated on a spot favourable to
resistance — a steep eminence at the southern
extremity of the town, overlooking a great
extent of country, and commanding an unin
terrupted view of the Bristol Channel and the
coast of Wales.
Walks, judiciously planned, permeate its ve
nerable woods; and the slope, which unites
its steep with the flat moor below, is tastily
managed and appropriately ornamented.
Dropping down from this noble mansion
again to the shore, I pursued my walk over a

[ 81 3
long and narrow rabbit-warren, but as thickly
inhabited as a Chinese province, belonging to
Mr. Dunster, and reached Minehead just as
" the curfew tolled the knell of parting day."
As the chick, however, intended for my repast,
was to be caught, killed, picked, and roasted,
I had sufficient time allowed me to ramble
over the town, as well as to acquaint you with
the result of my observations.
The survey of this place, indeed, includes a
walk of some labour, since it consists of three
parts, divided from each other by fatiguing
heights. The Bottom, or Quay-Town, by far
the most considerable of the three, stretches
along the shore under the menacing head of
that vast promontory, called Minehead-Point,
a rugged steep, rising to the height of eight
hundred feet, and beetling over the houses
which crouch at its roots. Its chief boast is
a convenient harbour, accommodated with an
excellent quay and pier, the animated scene,
formerly, of a busy coasting and foreign trade,
But like Watchet, Minehead can now only
refer to its quondam importance; for though
the pride of extinguished greatness be sufficiently
visible here, yet the extensive commerce and
proportionate affluence, which, in times of yore,
G

[ 82 3
inspired this inflation, and gaye it some sort of
consistency, have long since become the " mere
shadows of a shade/'
The Middle Town, in Which my comfortable
caravansery stands, the Plume of Feathers^
kept by the worthy Mr. Mansfield, runs along
the declivity of an hill, somewhat more than a
quarter of a mile from the Quay-Town, and has
the conveniences of a post-office, shops, and
lodging-houses. The Upper-Town dro'^s do^wn
the eastern slope of a lofty eminence, called
Greenaleigh, and has nothing to recommend its
shabby irregular lanes, but the extensive pros-
peCt necessarily given to it by its elevation.
But though Minehead have long since de
plored the loss of its extensive trade, some
appearance of cheerfulness and animation has
been given it, till within these few years, by the
company which resorted thither in the summer
season for the purpose of bathing. What should
have occasioned the desertion of those who
sought health or pleasure on its shores, is not
easily to be accounted for ; since it seems to unite
all the advantages, without the usual concomi^
tant inconveniences of a bathing-place. The
shore is hard and fine ; the machines commodi
ous; the lodgings reasonable ; provisions cheap

[ 83 ]
and plenty; and though its access be rendered
easy by an excellent turnpike-road, which runs
to Bristol, yet its distance from the metropolis,
and the populous parts of England, is suffi
ciently great to prevent those felicity hunters,
the teazing inseCts of fashion, from disturbing
with their impertinent buzzings the pensive
or rational pleasures of them who choose to
epjoy Nature at Minehead, during the summer
season. To these inducements may be added
the salubrity of its climate, which, like that
of Cythera, is so soft and serene, that the
myrtle-tree will live in the neighbourhood of
this place, uninjured through all the roughness
of an English winter. The admirer of Nature
also may indulge his pursuits here in Various
ways ; the beautiful hills and precipitous cliffs
offer to the botanist a variety of rare and cu
rious plants; the shore spreads before the
chonchologist, a rich profusion of buccina,
trochi, nerites, idlini, and other shells; and the
geologist will find sufficient phaenomena to
employ all his sagacity, and exercise his whole
talent for hypothesis. Amongst them is the
following curious appearance: — about a mile
from the Lower-Town, on the beach leading
to Dunster, at the recess of the tide a spot is

[ 84 1
denuded, in which are discovered many roosts
of prodigiously large trees, peeping out of the
sand, to the height of half a foot or more.
Externally, these masses are black and unin
telligible; but when crumbled between the
fingers, (for they are soft and friable) the ge
nuine colour and original texture of the wood
are plainly seen. The wonder, however, re
mains to be told, that when the fragments are
broken parallel to the grain of the wood, im
bedded in the very heart are found shells,
foreign to the coast of Somersetshire, in a
semi-fossil state, and oak-leaves, either perfeCt
or decayed.
A species ol patella, too, is very common orj
the rocks of Minehead, a good substitute for
the famous murex of antiquity, that produced
the invaluable Tyrian dye, with which the
ancients stained their wool,
" Tyrio acdebat murice lana."
A small vein running over the he&d of the
fish contains this precious liquor, with which
if linen be stained, and the characters exposed
to different degrees of "^^.e light of the sun, they
will change their hue, and become successively
(from a dull white) pea-green, deep green.

C 85 ]
blue, and purple; the linen being then washed
in scalding watSr, the marks upon it will blaze
out into a splendid crimson colour, which no
future washings can obliterate.

Your's, Sic.

R. W.

The BRISTOL CHANNEL

LETTER IV.
TO THE SAME.

DEAR SIR, Dfracombe, Sept, Qth,
' I ^HE above date will evince that my pro-
"*¦ gress this year is much more deliberate
than our motions of the last autumn were. You
are not, however, to attribute this to indolence;
for though I have already discovered that soli
tude has a powerful tendency to deaden energy,
and extinguish exertion, yet another cause has
contributed to produce this diminution of the
accustomed labours of the day. To unravel

[ 88 3
the intricacies of the West-Somerset and North-
Devon cross-roads requires more sagacity, as
well as patient research, than fall to the lot of
most men; the traveller, therefore, who is not
gifted with a large share of these quahties, will
probably, in attempting to thread their mazes,
at least double the aCtual distance between his
stages. This, at least, has been my case; and
notwithstanding the particular directions which
the good people of this country, civil even to
servility, afforded me, I have formed such a
zig-zag line of march for these three days past,
as, if measured, would certainly extend to sixty
miles Instead of forty, the real distance.
I will not deny, however, that I have been
amply repaid for all these deviations from the
right road, since many scenes of grandeur and
beauty have discovered themselves to me in
consequence, which I should otherwise have
lost. The country, more varied and majestick
every step, has regaled me with hills lofty and
bold, vales deep and rich; whilst the coast has
been equally entertaining in another way, dis
closing, ever and anon, a tremendous scene
of dark romantlck rocks, fretted below into
caverns by an unruly ocean, and their proud
beads torn and scarred by the tempestsof heaven.

C 89 3
Early in the morning of the yth I left Mine-
head, intending to reach Linton, a village about
twenty-five miles from that town, on the same
evening. A deep shady road led me through
Selworthy, and several other small hamlets,
sequestered and picturesque in the highest de
gree. The inhabitants of these places, quiet
in their manners, and ready in their offers of
service, seemed to be formed for the peaceful
retreats which they occupied. Far removed
from the seats of refinement, as it is called, which
is too frequently only an elegant modification of
vice, the hinds pass their time, at least in honest
simplicity; and having no artificial wants to
supply, exhibit such an appearance of content
ment, as gives them, in the eye of sober reason,
a manifest advantage, when placed in compa
rison with the more refined classes of society,
and confutes the argument of the poet, in spite
of the magick language in which he has clothed
his reasoning —
" Yet let them only share the praises due,
" If few their wants, their pleasures are but few;
" Since every luant that stimulates the breast,
" Becomes a soturce of pleasure when redrest.
" Hence from such lands each pleasing science flies,
" That first excites djesire, and then supplies;

[ 90 3
" Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy,
" To fill the languid pause with finer joy;
" Unknown those powers which raise the soul to flame,
" Catch ev'ry nerve, and vibrate through the frame.
" Their level life is but a smould'ring fire,
" Nor quench'd by want, nor fann'd by strong desire. —
*' And all the gentler morals, such as plajr
" Thro' life's more-cultur'd walks, and charm our -way,
" These, far dispers'd, on tim'rous pinions fly,
" To sport and flutter in a kinder sky."
All this, 'tis true, is beautiful in poetry, and
specious in theory; but when we refleCt how
few of the numerous wants which extreme
civilization creates, are really redressed, and
what pain is produced by the inability to gra
tify them; when we consider how much more
frequently, in the commerce of superior life,
the sensibilities of the heart, and finer feelings
of the soul, are wounded than soothed; and
lastly, that happiness is a relative term, implying
the absence of pain rather than a positive pos
session of good, we shall, perhaps, be induced
to allow, that the chance for that portion of
felicity, which it has pleased Providence to
mak-e attainable by man, is greater " in the
" cool sequestered vale of life," where the
circle of wants is bounded by possession, and
the pains of privation are never experienced.

[ 91 ]
than in the blazing path of refinement, illumi
nated by elegances, arts, and sciences, but ob
structed by unaccomplished wishes, unattain
able desires, and disappointed hopes.
A long descent introduced me into the little
sea-port town of Porlock, situated about six
miles to the westward of Minehead, shut out
from the surrounding country by lofty hills,
but open towards the sea, on which it safely
looks, from the bottom of a recess or bay, about
one league from one extremity to another. Of'
these points the eastern one rises with prodi
gious magnificence from the ocean, whose
maddened waves have torn its front into mis
shapen crags, and scooped its sides into stu
pendous caverns; the western extremity is of a
softer character, and slopes gradually to the
shore, sheltering, from the prevalent south
westerly storms, the quay and a small pier,
(one mile and a half from Porlock) where the
little commerce of the place is transacted, and
its fleet (consisting of two sloops, which trade
to Bristol and Wales) is freighted and unladen.
An odd effeCt is produced by the very unusual
stile of architecture, in which the houses are,
for the most part, built; for here, as in other
small country places distant from the seat of

[ 92 ]
the arts, one model is generally followed in
constructing the dwellings of their inhabitants.
At Porlock they rise to the height of two
stories, and are mostly thatched ; but the fashion
of that place has determined, that the cMmnies,
instead of preserving their usual retired situa
tion, should be formed in the front of the houses,
and their backs projeCt into the street.
A shoemaker having offered to accompany
me to some remarkables in the neighbourhood of
Porlock, I accepted his services; and under
the direction of this guide, whom I found, like
all the sons of St. Crispin, to be by no means
deficient in information, set out to visit the
hamlet of Culbone, and a singular edifice of
Lord King's in its vicinity.
The egress, from Porlock to the west, is by
a most steep and fatiguing ascent, drawn out
to the distance of at least two miles, and
climibing to the summit of the lofty hills which
overhang the town on this quarter. Here the
swelling downs commence, which spread theii:
huge waves, hke a solid sea, quite through
North-Devon, giving herbage to mutton, as
delicious in flavour as the little mountaineers of
Merioneth ; and, what perhaps is to the poor
of much greater consequente, affording an

t 95 3
abundant supply of incomparable heath for
fuel, and thus depriving poverty of one of its
bitterest accompaniments — the pain of cold.
Deep ravines interseCt these downy elevations
in various directions; and in their sequestered
hollows small villages, or rather little groupes
of farm-houses, have their unenvied situation.
After continuing five or six miles on these
hills, with a noble view of the sea and the coast
of Wales, (which now began to fade away in
distance) always before us, we turned our steps
towards the coast, and descended a rapid steep
to Culbone. On our way, about a mile from
the hamlet, excessive thirst obliged me to en
quire at an old stone cottage, about which I saw
some cows, for a draught of milk. A squalid
female figure, opening the door, informed me
there was no such thing at the parsonage, but
that a farm-house, about a quarter of a mile
further, would supply me with a bowl of this
beverage. The cordwainer, seeing me sur
prised at the term parsonage-house being ap
plied to this wretched hovel, told me, with that
sort of smile which superior information some
times assumes, that this was the reSorial mansion,
where the incumbent of Culbone formerly re
sided ; adding, he had no doubt, miserable as

[ 94 3
it now was, that when it had a parson for its
tenant, there was no lack of all the good things
which could be stowed away in it.
The approach to Culbone church is by a
small foot-path, narrow, rugged, and so decli
vitous, that it was with the utmost difficulty I
kept my footing, though aided by a stout staff,
with a pike at its extremity. A gloomy man
tle of wood covers this steep, and nearly ex."
eludes the fair light of day, so that, like ^Eneas
and his friend Achates, in their descent to Tar
tarus, Crispin and I pursued for some time a
darkling journey, of considerable toil, and some
little hazard. After a descent of about six
hundred feet the path terminated, and intro
duced to our view Culbone church and church
yard, situated in as extraordinary a spot, as
man, in his whimsicality, ever fixed on for a
place of worship.
A small cove, of an oval form, opened upon
us, the bottom of which is formed by a little
verdant carpet of two or three acres. Around
this hollow, the hills on every side, save on
that which is next to the sea, tower up in a
direction nearly perpendicular, to the sublime
height of twelve or thirteen hundred feet,
fretted with jutting rocks, and laden with ve-

[ 95 3
herable woods. Here the oak's solemn shade
is relieved by the bright berry of the mountain-
ash; and /^^re the light satin of the airy birch is
chastised by the gloom of the melancholy yew;
whilst the feathering fir and luxuriant beach
lend their contrasting foliage to give a wider
variety to the enchanting scene. At the mouth
of the cove the land suddenly falls to the shore,
in an abrupt descent of four or five hundred feet,
rough with enormouscrags of rock, but enliven
ed with verdure and foliage quite to the beach.
In the centre qf the little recess, thus sur
rounded and defended from the intrusion of
the stranger, stands the Lilliputian church of
Culbone, a Gothick struCture, thirty-three feet
in length and twelve feet In breadth, with a
cemetery of proportionate dimensions stretch
ing round it, appropriately ornamented with
broken modest grave-stones, and the remains
of an ancient stone-cross. Two cottages,
planted just without the consecrated ground,
are its only companions in this secluded dell.
Sure never was a spot better calculated for
the indulgence of the meditative faculty than
Culbone church-yard. Every circumstance
around leads the mind to thought, and soothes
the bosom to tranquillity. The deep murmur

t 96 3
of the ocean tide rising from beneath, but soft
ened in its lengthened course, falls gently on
the ear, which lists with equal rapture to the
broken mysterious whisper of the waving
woods above. — Here, whilst all without is
wasteful war and raging horror, the thoughtful
wanderer, as he treads the glen, will please
himself with the conviCtion, that he has at least
found one little spot, sacred to peace. Here,
whilst he feels the " holy calm" of silent soli
tude, he will drop a tear, in chastened sorrow,
over human vice and human folly; over the
wickedness of the few, whose destructive am
bition converts a world, so competent (through
the beneficence of Providence) to render men
comfortable and happy, into one wide scene of
waste and misery — and over the folly of the
many, who allow themselves to be made the
instruments of such devastation and wretch
edness. — He will reflect, with sadness and
astonishment, on the torrents of blood, that
even now are flooding the Christian world;
and in the pure spirit of generous patriotism,
will breathe an aspiration to Heaven, in the
beautifully figurative language of Solomon; —
" Oh! that the winter were past; that the
" rain were over and gone! that the fig-tree

[ 97 ]
" would put forth her green figs; and the
" vines with the tender grape would give a
" good smell! that the flowers would appear
" on the earth; the time of the singing-birds
" come ; and the voice of the turtle be heard once
" more in our land."
" At nobis Pax alma, yeni, spicamque tenetp,
" Perfluat et pomis candidus ante sinus."
Difficult of access as Culbone church is, it
has, notwithstanding, regular service performed
in it by a gentleman from Porlock, who jour
neys thither on a small poney (for no carriage
can approach it) by a narrow devious path of
frightful declivity, which fkirts in a zig-zag
direction along the cliff that rises from the
channel below. His congregations, indeed,
are not very numerous, for the whole parish
does not contain more than seven or eight
houses, and about forty inhabitants. Of these,
none reside near the church at present, owing,
I presume, to the obvious inconvenience of the
situation. Exclusive, indeed, of the difficulty in
getting to and from Culbone church, those
who choose to dwell near it must be content
to give up a large proportion of their annual
sunshine; for owing to the prodigious eleva
tion of the surrounding hills, the cheering ra-
H

[ 98 3
diance of the orb of day never descends to
Culbone church-yard for nearly four months
in the wintry season of the year.
Quiet and sequestered as this romantic spot
at present is, it has heretofore borne an ho
nourable name in the annals of rustic revelry;
its rocks have echoed to the shouts of multitu
dinous mirth, and its woods rung with the
symphonious music of all the neighbouring
village bands ; — in plain English, a revel or fair
was wont to be held here in times of yore. I
fortunately met with a garrulous old black
smith, who had himself made a great figure
on these festive occasions. He had been the
Entellus of the place, and dwelt with great
exultation on his many triumphs which the
church-yard of Culbone had witnessed. 
" About forty-five years agone. Sir," said he,
" I was at a noble revel in this spot; three
" hundred people at least were collected to-
" gether, and rare fun, to be sure, was going
" forward. A little warmed with dancing, and
" somewhat flustered with ale, (for certainly
" Dame Matthews did sell stinging good stuff)
" I determined to have a touch at skittles, and
" and sport away a sixpence or shilling, which
" I could do without much danger, as I had a

[ 99 ]
" golden half-guinea in my pocket. To play,
" therefore, I went; but the liquor getting into
" my head, I could not throw the bowl strait,
" and quickly lost the game, and two shillings
** and nine-pence to boot. Not liking to get
" rid of so much money in so foolish a manner,
" and not thinking the fault was in myself, (for
" too much ale, you know. Sir, is apt to make
" one over-wise) I resolved to win back the
" two and nine-pence, and then leave off; and
" accordingly set to play a second time. The
" same ill-luck followed me, and in an hour
" and half I had net only lost the remainder of
" my money, but about sixteen shillings more
" out of a guinea which I borrowed of a friend.
" This terrible stroke quite sobered me; my
" wife was but just brought to-bed, and I could
" not help thinking what a wicked scoundrel
^' I must be, to go and run into ruin, and to
" deprive her and the child of food, merely to
" indulge myself in a game, which, instead of
" being an amusement, had put me into a ter-
" rible passion, and made me curse and swear
" more than ever I did in my life. Desperately
" vexed at my folly, I went into the wood hard
" by, and sat down by the side of the water-
" fall to reflect on my situation. I could

[ 100 3
" plainly hear the singing and laughing of the
** revel, but it was now gall and wormwood to
•¦* me ; and I had almost resolved to escape from
" that, my own reproaches, and the distress of
" my wife, by throwing myself down the cliff
" upon the shore. Providence, however, was so
" good as to preserve me from this additional
" wickedness, and to put a thought into my
" head, which saved me from the consequences
" of despair. Cool and sober, for I had washed
" myself in the stream, and drank pretty largely
" of it, it struck me, that if I went back to the
" skittle-ground, and ventured the remaining
" five shillings, I should have a good chance of
" winning back my money from those who had
" beaten me before, as / was now fre^h, and
" they all overcome with ale. Accordingly I
" returned to the church-yard, and took up the
" bowl, though pretty much jeered by the lads
« that had hitherto been winners. The case,
" however, was altered ; I had now the advan-
" tage, could throw the bowl strait, took every
" time a good aim, and more than once knocked
" down all nine. To make short of my story,
" Sir, it was only night that put an end to my
" good-luck; and when I left off play, I found
" I had got back my own half-guinea, the

[ 101 3

rr

guinea I had borrowed, and fifteen shillings
" in good silver, after paying my part of the
" charge for the day. You may suppose I was
" not a little happy at this change of fortune ;
" in truth. Sir, 1 felt very grateful, and as soon
" as I had left my companions, fell down on
" my knees to thank God for saving me
" from ruin, and did not rise till I had made a
" solemn vow that I would never venture
" another sixpence in gambling again; a vow
" which I have for these five and forty years
" most religiously observed, and which I have
" found so much pleasure in keeping, that there
" is no chance I shall ever wish to break it."
I listened to the old gentleman's story, fraught
with the wisdom of experience, with due at
tention; thinking, at the same time, that if
the more exalted gamblers would imitate the
wisdom and the virtue of this honest black
smith, high-life, as it is called, would exhibit
much fewer scenes of wretchedness and vice
than it at present displays.
Our road to Lord King's cottage crept
through the woods which cloath the steep
cliffs to the eastward of Culbone, and pre
sented, at every step, a variety of curious
plants, the rare production of these romantic

[ 102 3
regions; silene amoena, veronica mqntana, poly-
podium aculeatum, polypodium dryopteris, bird^s-
nest orchis, yellow rein-deer moss, &c. &c. &c.
and an immense quantity of zvhor tie-berry
plants, full of their cool, refreshing, delicious
fruit. With considerable difficulty we found
his Lordship's building, placed, like an eagle's
nest, in a cleft of the rock. The rough slope
that forms the western extremity of Porlock-
bay is the spot chosen for this very singular
mansion. Half-way up this steep, a level plat
form has been made with great labour and
proportionate expence, about a quarter of an
acre, perhaps, in extent, and a small castellated
dwelling of indifferent taste and little conve
nience ereCted upon it. The thick woods
which cover the face of this abrupt descent,
are here cleared away, and a beautiful view,
by these means, introduced of Porlock-bay,
town, and the Bristol channel. This, indeed,
is the only charm which it possesses. The
road to it is disagreeable, difficult, and hazard
ous; the precipice, rising four or five hundred
feet behind it, threatens, the first severe frost,
to overwhelm it with destruction; and the
abrupt descent before and on each side of it,
matted by impenetrable woods, confines the

[ 103 ]
inhabitant to a small area of about twenty yards
square. Picking our way through these shaggy
shades, Crispin and I descended to Porlock
quay, which stretches close along the shore;
and having refreshed oursejves with some good
Somersetshire ale, strolled quietly to the town,
after a most laborious walk of twelve miles.
A village- church on a Sunday I have always
considered as a very Impressive sight. I re
mained, therefore, at Porlock till the afternoon
of yesterday, in order to partake in the social
XX'orshlp of the place. The simplicity of the
service, the neat and cheerful appearance of the
congregation, decked in their gayest attire to ce
lebrate this " rest of the Lord," when poverty
relaxes from his labour, and industry is still, the
attention and seriousness of the worshippers, all
combined to form a scene in the highest degree
interesting. This pleasing effeCt was greatly
assisted by the manner in which the Rev. Mr.
 performed the sacred offices of the day.
No misplaced attempt at fine aCting or fine
speaking led the congregation to think that
his thoughts were more employed about him
self than the service of the church; but an
energy and a solemnity marked his delivery,
which, as they evinced that the speaker's own

[ 104 ]
heart was affeCted by the truths he uttered,
did not fail to produce a similar impression
upon the hearts of his hearers. Indeed, here
was no inducement to resort to stage-trick, or
oratorical affeCtation ; since Mr.  and his
audience stood much in the same relation to
each other as Hamlet with Horatio :
" Nay, do not think I flatter;
" For what advancement may I hope from thee,
" That no revenue hast, but thy good spirits,
" To feed and cloath thee?"
"^o patronage was to be obtained, no interest was
to be acquired, for Mr.  , like his great
Master, preached the Gospel to the poor.
My afternoon's walk lay over the down
which I had climbed the day before, with the
ocean on one hand, and the same swelling hills
and narrow vallies on the other. As I pro
ceeded further to the west, these depressions
became deeper and more picturesque, sprinkled
with shrubby vfood, scarred with crags of
rock, and animated by little torrents which
now leaped from ledge to ledge, in sportive
playfulness; though probably, when swelled
by the waters of a wintry deluge, they assume
a far different charaCter, and shake the vallies
with their fury.

[ 105 3
The small church of Contisbury, perched
upon a hill in solitary exposure, on my right,
indicated that I was about three miles from
Lymouth, and here my guide of the prece
ding day had informed me I was to expeft
" a nation strange road." In truth, he had
not excited my curiosity in vain, for perhaps
this public way may be considered as one of
the greatest wonders of North-Devonshire.
Narrow, rugged, and uneven, it creeps along
the face of a prodigious rocky down, that runs
with a most rapid descent to the ocean, which
is roaring below, at the depth of five or six
hundred feet. Formidable as the precipice is,
the neighbouring inhabitants have not so much
as ereCted a low wall, or stretched a friendly
rail along its brink, to lend their aid in case of
accident or darkness; so that should the tra
veller's horse become restive whilst treading
this perilous path, or he himself mistake the
way, nothing could probably prevent his imme
diate destruction. But this road, so alarming
to the stranger, is totally divested of any thing
like horror to the Devonian. Custom, which
reconciles all that is fearful or disagreeable,
painful or terrible to the mind, enables him
to travel it with perfeCt indifference; and

C 106 ]
whilst I was descending the most abrupt part
with the greatest caution, a Devonshire peasant,
seated upon a laden horse, and driving three
others before .him, passed by me down the
declivity at the rate of adashing postillion upon
a good turnpike-road.
Following this path to the bottom of the
steep, I suddenly found myself in a village
truly romantic ; the little sea-port of Lymouth
crouching at the feet of august rocky hills
which beetle over it in every direction, except
where the bottom in which it stands unites
with the shore. Unlike the usual formal ar
rangement of habitations in towns and villages,
the houses here are not thrown together into
regular groupes, or streched out into reCtilinear
rows, but sprinkled over the little flat, as if
dropped by the hand of chance, and concealed
from each other by an abundance of shrubby
trees, and high hedge-rows. Two Alpine
brooks, flashing over their craggy beds, rush
from deep ravines that open upon the village
to the east and south, and throw their waters
under two small stone bridges, which, almost
hidden In ivy, form happy and appropriate fea
tures in this very picturesque scene. A port,
in epitome, lies at a small distance from the

[ 107 1
village, where the Lymouth oysters, which
here sell for two shillings per hundred, are-
shipped for other places, and necessaries from
Bristol imported for the consumption of the
place and its neighbourhood.
Several hundred feet immediately above Ly
mouth, is another little village, called Linton.
The hill on which it stands hangs over the
bottom we have just described, and is ascended
by a zig-zag path, a mile in length, connecting
the two villages with each other. The toil of
this ascent«was so great, after a walk of seven
teen or eighteen miles, that I gladly threw
myself into an old great chair of
" Monumental oak,
" Which long had stood the rage of conquering years
" Inviolate,''
that held out its inviting arms, at the sign of
the Crown, in the heart of the village Of Linton,
A short rest and a little food " renovated the
•man," and enabled me to include " the Valley ,
of Stones" in the ambulation of the day. This
extraordinary feature of country lies at the dis
tance of little more than half a mile west of
Linton, on the road from thence to Ilfracombe.
The propriety of the appellation which it bears
is allowed at first sight. The road from Linton,

[ 108 3
after running between hedge-rows for a few-
hundred yards, turning a little to the right,
opens into a broad valley formed by high rocky
downs on either side; the bottom sprinkled
with large stones, and the summits and sides
scarred with rock. But this is only preparatory
to the scene which a little inclination to the
westward shortly displays. Here the same
depression is seen, running parallel with the
coast for nearly a mile, but much more fertile
in its stony produce. The mountainous heights
that now rise to the left, but partially covered
with vegetation, are studded with mighty mass
es of argillaceous grit, which pierce through
the thin coat of soil in all their rough and
pristine nakedness. These are opposed to ele
vations on the other side of the valley, whose
steep faces are hidden by an inundation of
stones that have streamed from the higher part,
and whose summits exhibit a line of ragged
rock fantastical and grotesque in the extreme.'
Here the lover of Celtic antiquities may, with
the aid of a little fancy, discover his favourite
Kist-vaens and Carnedds, his Logan-stones and
Rock-basons, the remains of Druid supersti
tion; whilst the humbler admirer of Gothic
story, will by the same magical assistance

[ 109 3
trace sunken bastions, ruined battlements,
prostrate walls, and fallen towers, the vestiges
of extinguished feudal magnificence. A lofty
conoidal hill, rising from the centre of the
valley, one wild mass of broken stones, and
crowned with naked pointed rock, is a most
remarkable objeCt in this singular scene.
Rivetted to this spot by the magical cha-
raCter of the place, I remained till night admo
nished me to return to mv inn.' I had seen
*' the Valley of Stones" richly illuminated by
the setting sun, and faintly lighted up by the
soft beams of an unkerchiefed moon, nearly at
her full, with the accompaniment of a tranquil
ocean, reflecting the golden radiance of the
one, and the modest lustre of the other; you
will therefore be surprised when I tell you that
I had not seen it to advantage — such, at least,
is my opinion. In nature, as well as in art, a
piElure, to produce effeCt, should possess such a
correspondence of its parts, that the emotions
excited in the mind by a survey of it, be nei
ther contradictory in their nature, nor destruc
tive of each other. Thus, for instance, a good
painter would never think of introducing a
polar sky, black and lurid with all the storms
ofHeaven, into the-vale of Tempe, where every

[ 110 3
objeCt In the body of his piCture raised ideas of
tranquillity, felicity, and peace ; nor would he,
on the other hand, where he meant to repre
sent nature in rocky ruin, throw over his scene
the rich tints of cloudless suns and tranquil
skies: and for this obvious reason, because the
discordant ideas of happiness and misery,
«erenity and confusion, and the jarring emo
tions of pleasure and pain, confidence and
alarm, produced by such incongruities, would
distraCt the mind, and effeCtually prevent its
settling with that steady attention on the ob
jects before it, from which alone (in these
cases) it receives gratification. Now this rea
soning, I apprehend, will exaCtly apply to the
" Valley of Stones," every feature of which is
harsh and horrid; where all around is naked
solitude, hopeless sterility, and wild desolation,
the appropriate abode of want, and vrretched-
ness, and danger; the scowling storm and
mingled tempest. To produce, therefore, the
most sublime effeCt which the spot is capable
of, by confirming and increasing the emotions
of astonishment and terror that the mind expe
riences on entering it, it should be seen not
" amid the bright beamings of the gentle days,"
but in the sad and sullen season of winter.

[ 111 ]
when the angel of the storm is riding on his
whirlwind, and pouring his terrors upon the
earth; when the smitten cliffs of the valley
blacken under the scattering lightning, and its
hollow rocks reverberate the rattling thunder.
It was necessary for me to pass through the
" Valley of Stones" again this morning in my
way to Ufracombe, and seeing it once more,
under a cloudless sky, the opinions which I
have just ventured to express to you were
confirmed. I had not proceeded three miles,
when, not being able to recclleCt the compli
cated directions with which my old female host
favoured me at parting, I left the proper track,
and wandered for two hours amongst such
steep and intricate mountainous ways, as nearly
exhausted my patience as well as strength.
At length, however, after toiling up the side of
one hill, and sliding down that of another, with
a repetition which I began to think would be
endless, I reached the hamlet of Lymiouth,
and procured a guide for the remainder of the
¦ day's journey.
Shortly after quitting this place we entered
upon the bridle-road, which, for four or five
miles, I take to be unparalleled in beauty and
singularity. An enormous hill of steep decli-

[ 112 ]
vity towers up boldly from the ocean, along the
side of which runs the road to Ufracombe,
sometimes presenting an open path, and rega
ling the eye with the Channel, and distant
swelling hills of Pembrokeshire, at other times
concealing Itself between high i hedge-rows,
and shutting out the ocean from the view of
the traveller, though its ceaseless tumultuous
roaring continually reminds him of its proxi
mity. But as we proceeded, the beauty of
the road still increased; for darting into a thick
wood of fine young oak trees, (which thrive
surprisingly in the perilous and exposed spot
wherein they have rooted themselves) it winds
for a considerable distance in complete seclu
sion, and then suddenly opens upon the face
of a precipice that requires strong nerves and
a steady head to view with tranquillity and deli
beration. Here the distribution of the parts
which compose the scene — wood, and rock,
and ocean — is extremely singular, and indescri
bably fine. The traveller, on emerging from
the coppice, has instantaneously thrown before
him an unbounded prospeCt of the English
Channel; whilst immediately below him, at a
most perilous depth, wild and disordered black
rocks, chafed by the unremitted fury of the

[ 113 ]
waves, form the tremendous fore-ground of the
picture. A lime-kiln in a little hollow cove on
the shore, almost hidden by the dark high cliffs
under which it stands, fringed^nearly to their
roots with shrubby oak" trees, would make a
striking objeCt, were it not absorbed in the
immensity of the objeCts that surround it.
My conductor (who, very unlike the genera
lity of the North-Devon peasantry, could af
ford me no information beyond the names of
the villages which occurred in our way) led me
through Slattenslade, Madonny, Mannacot, and
other sequestered little groupes of houses situ
ated in the deep hollows and romantic dells so
common in the north parts of Devon, and known
by the name of coombs. These are all highly
picturesque, and though surrounded by such
lofty hills as intercept the beams of the sun
for some part of the year, and only approach
able by break-neck roads, man has not
withstanding fixed his residence in them, and
animated their sequestered bosoms, with indus
try and cultivation. Indeed, in days like the
present, when " the times are out of joint,"
one can scarcely refrain from envying the situ
ation of these villagers, who, if abstraction
from the bustle of the world, and the cares of

[ 114 1
crouded life, the jars of political differences,
and the heart-burnings of religious disputes,
can constitute felicity, may certainly be said to
stand a good chance of possessing it.
The church of Trinser, planted upon a ri
sing ground, excited my curiosity on account
of its smallness, the western eaves of it not
being higher, literally, than my elbow. An
humble grave-stone, to the memory of Anne
the wife of John Richards, bore an inscription
so sensible as well as serious, that I could not
refrain from transcribing it:
" God is alike both good and wise,
" In what he grants, and what denies;
" Perhaps what goodness gave to-day,
" To-morrow wisdom takes away."
The swelling downs which had occurred on
my leaving Porlock, now returned again, ex
cept that they were here divided into fields by
stone walls, a circumstance that by no means
added to their beauty. After following their
undulations for two hours, a different scene-
commenced. Within three miles of Coomb-
Martin the road mounts a lofty down, which
swells up into an immense Dorsum, (like the
Hog's-Back near Guildford) flanked by tremen
dous hollows on each side, and throws at once

[ 115 3
before the eye a prospeCt of unbounded eSctent
and infinite variety; including the ocean,
LUndy-Island, bold cliffs, spreading vales, and
deep ravines, with the village of Coomb-
Martin* on the shore below, and Mr. Davy's
magnificent seat of Watermouth, placed at
the bottom of a small cove, defended and
adorned by a chain of rude black rocks.
Passing through Coomb-Martin, we ascended
another tedious hill, and proceeded for four
miles over a road which probably would have
afforded us much fine scenery, had we not
wanted day-light; since it looks occasionally

* In Gibson's edition of Camden, vol. i. p. 47, is the follow
ing notice of this little sea-port: — " The addition of Martin is
" from Martin de Tours, a Norman lord, who had great pos-
" sessions here in the time of Henry 1st. The silver mines here
" were first discovered in Edward Ist's days, when three hun-
" dred and thirty-seven men were brought from the Peak in
" Derbyshire to work here. In the reign of King Edward III.
*' they yielded that king great profits towards carrying on the
" French war. After they had been long negledled, they were
" re-entered in Queen Elizabeth's time, who presented a cup made
" here to the then Earl of Bath, with this inscription :
' In Martyn's Combe I long lay hid
• Obscure, depress'd with grosser soil;
' Debased much with mixed lead,
* Till Bulmer came, whose lldll and toyl
' Reformed me so pur^ and clean,
' '^ <! richer no where else is seen.'
*• These silyer-miaes were again wrought in not many years
" siiKe."

C 116 ]
into those picturesque hollows or coombs which
constitute the great beauties of North-Devon.
I could, however, see nothing distinctly, and
was therefore obliged to suppose every thing;
not being able to elicit a single rational answer
out of my companion, who indeed said nothing
to me the whole day that pleased me half so
much as his observation that we were entering
Ufracombe, about two hours ago.
Your's, &c,
R. W.

LETTER V.
TO THE SAME.

iiEAH SIR, Biddeford, Sept. XOth.
THHE town of Ufracombe is extensive and
-*¦ irregular in shape, and extremely singu
lar in appearance. By the receding of the
cliffs to the westward, a small cove is formed,
perfectly embayed on three sides by high lands,
and nearly shut up on the fourth by a bold
rock which throws itself half-way across the

[ 118 3
mouth of the recess, and kindly proteCts the
little harbour from all the sad effeCts of wind
and tempest. On the summit of this rock,
which rises nearly to a point, a light-house,
built after the fashion of a place of worship, is
ereCted, todireCt the vessel in storm and dark
ness through the horrible black rocks which
surround the mouth of the bay, and seem to
deny all access to the secure anchorage within
it. Along the side of the same rock, to the
opening of the harbour,- runs an artificial pier,
judiciously constructed to prevent the accumu
lation of sand; so that by the joint assistance
of the natural barrier and this piece of ma-
sonry, ships of two hundred and thirty tons.
burthen may ride compleatly land-locked, and
of course perfectly safe from all the violence
of the weather, Over the gate of the pier a
stone tablet, with the following inscription,
informs us to whom the town is indebted for
this valuable addition tp its conveniences and
advantages: — '* This extensive pier, built some
" years since by the munificence of the Bour-
*' chiers barons Fitzarine, earls of Bathe, and
" vice-admirals of the place, was in the year
" 1760 partly rebuilt, lengthened, and en-
«' larged, by Sir Bourchier Wrey, bart, the

[ 119 1
*' present Lord and Inheritor of this Pier and
" Manor." The trade of Ufracombe is but trifling, but
its port is of considerable importance, since it
affords an asylum to the many vessels that
navigate the Bristol Channel, and which are
often under the necessity of seeking shelter
from the squally winds and troubled waters of
this dangerous Mediterranean. A number of
good houses, chiefly for the accommodation of
strangers in the summer season, range along the
side of this harbour, and the remainder of the
town stretches for a mile in length to the west
ward of it. A pebbly shore in the same direc
tion, with some good machines, afford conve
nient bathing. It would be unpardonable in
me, who pretend to be a puisne antiquary, to quit .
the subject of Ufracombe, without informing
you that Camden, the great parent and lumi
nary of British antiquarlanism, once held the
prebend of this place, which is in the gift of
the church of Sarum.
A gloomy morning foreboded bu.t a dull walk
to-day, and threatened a change in the agree
able weather that has hitherto attended me ;
but I never anticipate evil, convinced of the
truth of one poet's assertion, that " Sorrow

r 120 3
" never comes too late ;" and of the propriety of
another's question,
"¦ What need a man forestall his date of grief,
*' And run to meet what he would most avoid?"
I set off, therefore, in the drizzle, and took the
road to Barnstaple. For several miles the coun
try was as dull and unvaried as the sky was
dark and sullen; totally devoid of wood, in
wretched cultivation, and disfigured with the
same stone divisions which I have before re
marked. But amidst all this natural deformity,
it was a relief to the mind to find some little
moral beauty in the manners of several children
whom I encountered on my way. The pea
santry of North-Devon, as I have discovered
for these wo or three days past, are a very
superior race to the labouring poor of the more
eastern parts of the kingdom. Imbibing from
the pure air of their native mountains mental
vigour as well as corporal strength, they ex
hibit a sagacity and quickness which only re
quire culture, to produce characters shining and
energetic. The same faculties are observable
in their children, who are not only ready in
apprehending what is said to them, but as
quick in returning rational answers to questions
psked. Instead of shrinking from the presence

[ 121 ]
of the traveller, or looking scared and sheepish
if he happen to address them, the young Dan-
»/(?«« generally are foremost in the conversation,
with an " How d'ye do, Sir," " Your servant.
Sir," or some such little colloquial civility. I
confess I have been delighted with the respeCt-
ful freedom of these little villagers ; it becomes
the sons of those who breathe the air of liberty,
and indicates they have imbibed their manners
from freemen, from men who feel their own
weight in the scale of society, but who are at
the same time as much aware of their duties as
of their rights.
A long hill now gratified me with an exten
sive prospeCt, and displayed Barnstaple and the
country round it, with some of the riches and
fertility of Devonshire; a different view to any
I had hitherto seen, as the Northern part of the
county exhibits only rugged beauties, and ma
jestic features. From this elevated spot Barn
staple appeared to great advantage, situated in
a broad and fertile vale, which Is belted with
high hills, watered by the river Taw, and
adorned with many elegant gentlemen's seats.
A wooUen trade, formerly carried on here with
considerable spirit, threw a large sum of money
into the town, and enabled its inhabitants to

[ 122 j
beautify it with many very respeClable houses;
this trade has of late failed, but baize, silk-
stocking, and waistcoat manufactories still give
life to the place, which contains above four thou
sand inhabitants. Besides this source of wealth
and population, the pleasing charaCter of the
country around, and the comparative cheapness
of this part of England, have added to its inha
bitants, by inducing many independent fami
lies to settle here entirely; a circumstance that
renders Barnstaple by far the most genteel town
in North-Devon. It boasts, indeed, some of
the marks of a metropolis, balls every fortnight,
and a regular theatre ; and nothing is wanting
to render it compleatly agreeable, save a decent
pavement, the little oval pebbles with which its
streets are studded, being not only extremely
unfavourable to the shoes, but what is much
worse, very injurious to the feet. A noble
quay stretches along the river-side to a great
length, terminated at one end by a handsome
piazza, over the centre of which stands the
statue of Queen Anne, with the following
inscription :
ANNA.
Intemeratae fidei testimonium Roberti Rolle,
de Stevenstone, Agro Devoniensi, Armig.
17O8.

[ 123 J
It should seem that the Northern Devonians
were not very anxious after the company of
strangers, for they certainly take the best pos
sible means of preventing them from visiting
this part of England, by the execrable state in
which they keep their turnpike-roads. Instead
of making use of the advantages afforded them
by their soil, and breaking the stone into small
nodules, which, pressed together by the weight
of horses and carriages, would form adaman
tine and impenetrable roads, they carelessly
sprinkle these public ways with masses of stone
larger than a man's head, and leave them to
time and chance to be broken and scattered, to
the great danger of the horseman, and the dis
comfort of him who is in a carriage. To me, in
deed, an humble pedestrian, this produced but
small inconvenience; I had picked up a compa
nion, however, who suffered somewhat more
from it — a little poney, about eleven hands high,
to carry my baggage; which, what with speci
mens and purchases, had increased to an incon
venient size. To this Lilliputian Rosinante
the large stones and deep hollows, rendered
still more dangerous by the wet which had
fallen, produced most disastrous consequences;

[ 124 ]
for he was, more than once, together with his
burthen, prostrate in the mire.
The town of Biddeford is a striking contrast
to Barnstaple. A large, wretched, and dirty
place, with all the filth, inconvenience, and
disagreeableness of a sea-port, and little of its
bustle and animation. A bridge thrown over
the Torridge forms the approach to the town
on the north-east, and is, indeed, from its un
common extent, the greatest curiosity belong
ing to it, consisting of twenty-four arches, the
six central ones semicircular, the others ellip
tical. Sir Thomas Grenville in the fifteenth
century begun this struCture at his own ex-
pence, but his fortune being unequal to finish
it, the bishop of the diocese granted indulgen
ces, in order to raise money for its completion,
which after some time was effeCted.
Biddeford, however, did not always make
the desolate figure it now exhibits. Before
our unfortunate dispute with the Americans,
which, after absorbing one hundred millions
of our money, and destroying one hundred and
fifty thousand of our countrymen, terminated
in the loss of an immense portion of the Bri
tish empire, this place enjoyed a considerable

[ 125 3
commerce with Virginia. Trade, however,
like love,
"¦ At sight of human ties,
" Spreads its light wings, and in a moment flies."
Restrictions took place, the war broke out, and
the American trade of Biddeford was wafted
into foreign ports. A manufactory of coarse
pottery at this place, from clay found in the
neighbourhood of Barnstaple, keeps up a lan
guid exportation at its quays.
I should aCt unfairly, however, by Biddeford,
did I not mention one mark of the good sense
and christian philanthropy of Its inhabitants, ex
emplified in an House of Industry; an institution
that confers more respeCtability on their town
(inasmuch as it has for its ends the real good
and best interests of society) than if its port
were crouded with ships from every region
under Heaven, and its custom-house receipts
equalled the revenues of the Lydian Croesus.
What credit should I get for this assertion
upon Change?
Your's, 8ic. R. W.

Woo1focth!swortliyJ]k^!

CORNWALL

Woolly- Moor

DEVON

LETTER VI.

TO THE SAME.

DEAR SIR, Dowlsdovun-Inn, Sept. \2tb.
T\ ECOLLECTING the description which I
¦•¦^ have given of Biddeford, you will, I think,
pity me, when I tell you I was confined to the
inn there one whole day, by excessive rain,
without a rational being to exchange a single
word with. Never did I feel the discomforts
of solitude, miss the sweet melody of the hu
man voice, or long for your animating converse

[ 128 ]
so much before. In vain I called in your little
pocket Horace to my aid, and looked Into the
moral maxims ofEpiCletus; sprightliness and
philosophy were equally lost upon me, and as I
paced the room, which was my prison for the
day, in fidgety restlessness, I heartily concurred
with Alexander Selkirk, In abusing all the old
grey-beards of antiquity for extolling the de
lights of lonely sequestration:
" Oh, Solitude, where are the charms
" Which the sages descry in thy face ?
" Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
" Than reign in this horrible place."
In a mood like this, with the hemisphere
wrapt in cloudy darkness, and the barometer
rapidly sinking, you will not be surprised that
I formed the resolution of curtailing my in
tended tour, of leaving Cornwall and the Scilly
islands to longer days and clearer skies, and
passing by its eastern skirts into the southern
parts of Devon. I recolleCted with dread the
appropriate name which had been imposed by
a wicked French wit on the country of tin,
{Pot de Chambre, d' Angleterre) and concluding
that if it only drizzled in Devonshire, it must
pour in Cornwall, I determined to turn my back
at n'nce upon its torrents, floods, and fogs.

[ 129 ]
Early this morning, therefore, though it by
no means wore a propitious appearance, pre
ceded by my sumpter-horse, I departed from
Biddeford, and took the Kilkhampton road.
Fortunately it happened to be market-day at
the former place, otherwise I must inevitably
have been again lost in the abominable and
intricate roads of North-Devon. From those
who were going to attend this weekly day of
public barter, who frequently ride eighteen or
twenty miles for that purpose, I obtained di
rections through a country wild, dssolate, and
unpiCturesque, to Kilkhampton; without a
single objeCt to interest or amuse for the dis
tance of two or three and twenty miles.
To this general censure, however, I ought
to make an exception, since my curiosity was
certainly as much excited by one particular in
the walk of the day as I had ever experienced
it to be; though the gratification was by no
means proportionate to the intensity of the
expectation. I had been informed, that my
route would lead me near the spot where the
two great rivers of Devonshire, the Tamar and
Torridge, have their united source ; extraordi
nary from the circumstance of their taking
courses diametrically opposite to each other,
K

[ 130 ]
immediately on emerging into day — the one
pouring his waters into the southern sea, and
the other leading his stream into the northern
channel. Anxious to see this curious natural
phoenomenon, I hired a guide at the hamlet of
Bidford, about fourteen miles from Biddeford,
to conduct me to the wonderful spot.
John Prowse, who had now taken me under
his protection, was a good specimen of the
North-Devon peasant; lively and intelligent,
stout and muscular, nearly six feet high, and
with shoulders that would not have disgraced
an Hercules. Besides this, he was upright as
a dart, a grace he had acquired by having been
some time in Colonel Orchard's volunteer fen-
cibles. As men are usually most attached to
that art, pursuit, or employment in which they
most excel, so John's ruling passion pointed
towards wrestling, or as he called it, in the
dialeCt of the country, wraxling; which he con
fessed to me he loved better than victuals or
drink. Living near the confines of Cornwall,
he burned with all the emulation of a borderer,
and observed triumphantly, that the Devonians
were at last confessed to be better men than their
neighbours; for in a great wrestling-match,
held at a Cornish town in the vicinity, a short

[ 131 3
tlflie since, eveiy Devonshire lad had thrown
his Cornish antagonist, without receiving a
single fall himself. He asserted it was the
p-ettiesf playhehsi ever seen ; and on my asking
him whether any accidents had occurred in the
course of these ammements. he answered, nothing
to sj>eak of, only three ribs broken, and a
shoulder dislocated 1 He would fain have tried
a fall with me, whose skill, as an easi-eetttdry-
man^ he wished much to experience; and I
could perceive he did not hear me declare my
self totalIy"ignorant of the wrestling art, without
some emotion of contempt. After a three-
mile walk, John led me out of the turnpike to
Kilkhampton, on which we were travelling, to
a moor (called Woolly-moor) lying to the left
hand of the road, and pointing to a rushy piece
ground, informed roe there was the source of
the two rivers. I approached the sacred spot
in silent rapture, and eagerly gazed roimd for
the sight that should reward my toil ; but how
was I disappointed, -when on reaching the
place, instead of beholding two clear chrystal
line streams issuing from a gently-swelling hill
covered with a verdant carpet, (a piCture which
my fancy had kindly painted for me) there only
appeared a quiet pool of water about twenty

[ 132 3
inches in depth, and as many in breadth, from
the sides of which distilled a silent ooze, that
stole along an imperceptible descent of boggy
ground of such unsafe footing as entirely pre^
eluded any further search after the Tamar and
his brother. Where they first assume the form
of rivulets, I could neither perceive nor learn ;
for John, satisfied with traditional authority,
had never thought it worth while (as he very
wisely observed) to waste his time in hunting
after that, which if discovered, could be of no
use to himself or any one else. The pool,
however, was clear, and as I thought some
what might be due to its tutelary intelligence,
I quaffed a palmfull of the element " ad Genium
loci," placed a " stone of remembrance" by
the side of the spring, and left it with this
fiat of immortality, " Fies nobilium tu quoque fontium."
We returned into the turnpike-road by a
long path across the moor-grounds, which gave
me an opportunity of remarking the miserable
and destructive husbandry of these parts. The
extensive traCts of land, called the moor-grounds,
are of two descriptions, the high and low lands;
the former chiefly prepared for grain, the latter

[ 133 ]
for hay and grass. Nothing can evince the
viciousness of the agriculture here more than
the low rent at which much of this ground is
let; namely, from 7s. down to 3s. per acre.
The land, it is true, in this predicament, is not
of superior quaflty, being light and poor, a thin
staple upon a basis of argillaceous slate; but a
great quantity of it is such, as with fair treat
ment and good manuring might easily be in
creased to the value of from 13s. to 18s. per
acre. This will be allowed, perhaps, when
the system of agriculture is understood, by
which the farmer is at present able to pay his
rent for it. Intending to take a course of
crops from his arable land, he first pares off its
surface to the depth of two inches. The turfs
thus cut, are piled into heaps, and burned on
the ground. A quantity of ashes is by these
means procured, called in this country Beat.
This is ploughed in, and wheat sown on the
land. Unrecompenced for its efforts by any
dung or manure, the ground is next year com
pelled to bear a scanty crop of oats; and on the
third year, the pernicious routine is closed by
another compulsory produce of clover. Com
pleatly exhausted by these unmerciful requi
sitions, the farmer gives it up in despair for

fifteen or sixteen years; at the conclusion of
which it recovers another surface, which is
again pared off, burned, and ploughed in, and
the unfortunate land forced to the same rota
tion as before. The iow-lands are equally
maltreated, or entirely negleCted ; so that where
heavy burthens of hsry might be expeCted, if
draining and irrigation were practised, little
else is now to be seen than rushes and moss,
swamp and bog.
John, having accompanied me tp the turn
pike, heartily shook my hand, and bade me
farewell; recommending to me at the same
time, by all means to take a few lessons in
wraxling, which was the most genteel and plea
sant amusement a gentleman could pursue !
A turnpike-road, (which, though not very good.
had the advantage of being strait) carried me
safely to Kilkhampton, without allowing me
to commit any further errors in my route.
This village is included within the county of
Cornwall, and greatly excells in point of neat
ness and beauty any of the neighbouring Devo
nian villages. For this superiority it is indebted
to the Grenville family, to which the barony
of Kilkhampton has for ages belonged, and
whose ancient seat, called Stow, lies within a

[ 135 3
mile of the village. The munificence of the
knight of old was frequently displayed in aCts of
pious superstition, such as the founding of mo
nasteries, and the building of churches. Under
the influence of this principle the church of
Kilkhampton Was ereCted and endowed by an
ancient baron of the Grenville line, and being
a light and handsome edifice, it forms, together
with its pleasing and extensive church-yard,
the chief ornament of the village.
The sexton's wife accompanied me to survey
the inside of this place of worship, and an
excellent local antiquary I found her to be;
the appropriate inscription over the southern
door. Porta Cell,* was, upon the authority of
her husband, the name of the good gentleman
who built the porch; and an iron casque and
gloves, hanging up in the church, had formerly
belonged (as the same infallible oracle assured
her) to Judas Casar. A curious zig-zag Anglo-
Norman cornice, which runs round the semi
circular arch of the southern entrance, gives an

* Under these two words are the figures 1567, the date of the
porch. This inscriptionfeeras intended to have formed the fol
lowing distich :
Porta Celt, the gate ofHeaven;
One thousand five hundred and fixty-seven.

[ 136 ]
higher antiquity to this member of the edifict;
than what the body of the struCture can claim ;
no part of which, I apprehend, was built
before the beginning of the fifteenth century.
The inside is airy and elegant, consisting of
three parallel aisles of nearly the same height,
divided by slender pillars (each consisting of
only one block of stone) supporting Gothick
arches, so obtuse as nearly to approach to the
semicircular form. Sculptural notices of the
Grenville family occur in every corner of the
church, as well as elaborate and expensive
monuments to the memory of different branches,
of it. Amongst the rest is one sacred to Sir
Bevil Grenville, who was killed at the famous
battle of Lansdown, fought the 5th of July,
1643, ^"^ commemorated by the noble stone
monument now standing on the scene of aCtion.
A large vault under the eastern end of the
church formerly received all the departed of
this illustrious family, but being at length filled,
it has been for some years blocked up. The
old method of seating, in long fixed benches,
prevails for the most part in the body of the
church. A capacious font, and a curiously-
carved wooden pulpit, afford other proofs of
the antiquity of this place of worship.

[ 137 ]
Amongst the remarkables, however, I must
not omit to mention the mode in which the
bells (five in number) are rung. The manage
ment of this parish musick is a matter of pride
and consequence in every country village; at
Kilkhampton, some profit being attached to it
also, the command of the belfry is still more
desirable. A self-constituted Directory of five
laymen had taken charge of these bells, and
pocketed all the money allowed by the parish
for the peals , rung on particular festivals.
This obtrusion on the rights of the church
was deeply resented by its servants, the clerk
and sexton; but being unable to manage
the whole peal themselves, they were obliged
to endeavour to compromise the matter, by of
fering to accept a proportion of the money
arising from the belfry. With this proposition,
however, the ringers very unreasonably refused
to comply, under the pretence that as Moses
and his brother did not partake the labour, they
should not touch any part of the profit. What
was to be done ? The brothers in office could
indeed prevent the ringers from going into the
belfry, but then the parish must have lost its
accustomed peals, and their own hands were
insufficient for all the bells. A woman's wit

[ 138 3
cut at length the Gordian knot, and brought
them off triumphant in the dispute. My guide,
the sexton's wife, provided with a hammer and
nails, took her husband and the clerk into the
belfry, and making them strain the five ropes,
and bring them all to one point in the centre
of the floor, she fixed them firmly there. Thus
tightened, the least pressure of the rope of each
bell produced a pulsation of its clapper ; and
introducing herself between the five, by the
nimble motion of her arms, knees, and head,
dame Partlet chimed a peal with such skill and
ease as delighted and astonished the two gaping
spectators, who found themselves, by these
means, able to undertake the business of the
belfry without the assistance of the insubor
dinate ringers. The ingenious contriver of the
plan was so good as to exhibit her abilities to
me, and went through all the varieties of dou
ble-bobs and triple-bobs, majors and minusses,
with great exactness and facility.
My cicerone to the church having informed
me the distance to Launceston was eighteen
miles, (an hypothetical calculation, that con
vinced me at once it must be at least fom* and
twenty) and that I should meet withpure good
accommodation at Dowlsdown-Inn, (my present

[ J39 ]
quarters) which nearly divided the stage into
two equal parts, I resolved to make this house
the halting-place for the night ; and accordingly
¦continued my route through a country as naked
and miserable as before, offering nothing that
excited attention or interest, except Bonnets, the
classical and pleasing residence of Lord Disn-
stanvUle. Nor did this dearth of entertainment
appear likely to be made up by quiet and com
fort when I reached Dowlsdown. All without
indicated the infrequency of the traveller's
call for refreshment, and all within, an ina
bility to afford it; a broken table, faithless
chairs, unplaistered walls, and an unglazed
window, pointed out but too plainly the po
verty and wretqhedness of the mansion, I
would have proceeded to Launceston, but I
had already journeyed thirty miles, and it was
too late in the evening to attempt an addition
of ten more to the march ; for
" By this the drouping daylight 'gan to fade,
" And yielde his roome to sad succeeding night,
" Who with her sable mantle 'gan to shade
"¦ The face of earth, and wayes of living wight ;
" And high her burning torch set up in heaven bright,"
I had therefore nothing left for it, but to take
up my quarters here for the night, and to draw

[ 140 1
upon philosophy for a little patience to enable
me to bear their inconveniences without ill-
humour. But the ceaseless screams of two
very noisy children, the provoking unkindness
of the chimney, which smoked with unconquer
able obstinacy, and the mioanings of the poor
mistress of the house, who was distraCted with
the rheumatism, would soon have exhausted all
that philosophy could do, had I not called to its
aid a much more powerful principle — christian
charity; which whispers, that my hostess, pres
sed down with want, and sickness, and sorrow,
has already afflictions enough to struggle with,
without their being increased by any appear
ance of churlishness and dissatisfaction on my
part. Your's, &c.
R. W.

CORNWALL

LETTER VII.
TO THE SAME.
DEAR SIR, Lidford, Sept. 13.tb.
T Claim the honour of a civick crotun ; whether
or not I deserve it, you shall decide. I had
passed the second mile-stone on the Launceston
road this morning, when a vociferous cry of
distress suddenly awakened my attention.
Looking over an adjoining hedge I beheld a
female prostrate on the ground, and a villain

[ 142 ] , ~
clad in black from top to toe, standing ovw
ber, tearing off her cloaths, beating her unmier-
elfully, and evidently bent on murder. At a
short distance was a companion of this, execra
ble wretch, in a similar garb, and equally fero
cious in appearance. Though the odds were
a;gainst me, I instantly determined to attempt
the rescue of the oppressed party, and grasping
my faithful oaken staff sprung over the hedge
for that purpose. Villainy and cowardice,
however, generally associate together; and be
fore I could reach the scene of aCtion, the two
rascals made off as fast as possible.
But to drop mytlwhgy, and to come to a plairs
relation of faCts ; the suffering female was an
unfortanate ditck, panting and quacking under
the- talons of a raven, who was giving her fea
thers to the wind, and endeavouring to- destroy
iieT by the repeated strokes of his formidable
beak. Having rescued the poor bird, and
driven, as I thought, the enemies away, I con
tinued my walk ; but had not proceeded many
steps when I again heard the same lamentable
cries as before. Curiosity prompted me to
watch for a few moments the operations of the
respective parties, for the manners of birds are
amongst the most curious objeCts of considera-

[ U3 ]
tion which the natural world exhibits. The
two ravens, whom I take to have been husband
and wife, had, it seems, only retired behind an
adjoining hedge when I interrupted them, and,
on my quitting the spot, with the characteristic
boldness of the bird, returned to accomplish
their frustrated purpose. Peeping over the
hedge, I perceived one of them on the ground,
about a dozen yards from his expeCted prey,
which he gradually approached by interrupted
hoppings, as if he meant (like a cat playing
with a mouse) to amuse himself with the fears
of the animal, before he destroyed it. Horror,
in the mean time, seemed to have deprived the
duck of the power of motion, and, fixed to
the ground like a stone, she could only intreat
assistance by her cries. The murderer con
tinued bishops till he had brought himself ina
parallel line with the objeCt of his attention,
when' he made a full stop for a few seconds,
enjoying apparently its expressions of terror,
which were most loud and reiterated, and then,
by one spring, bounded upon her back. It
was now high time for me again to interfere ;
I threw a stone, therefore, at the spoiler, who
immediately joined his companion that was
sailing about in the air, and waiting to partake

[ 144 3
of the banquet; and telling her, in a deep
base croak, that the entertainment must be sus
pended; they both flew off, I presume, in dud
geon and disappointment. The poor maltreated
duck I conveyed to the neighbouring cottage
of a peasant, who informed me, that he expe
rienced frequent losses in his poultry from these
ferocious birds, which infallibly killed, picked,
and devoured every fowl or duck that wandered
far from home.
Rome, in grateful testimony of desert, raised
a triumphal arch to the destroyer of her enemies,
and gave an oaken crown* to the preserver of
her citizens. The former splendid honour let
the sons of ambition enjoy, who seek the bubble
— Fame, "vain breath of a misjudging world,"
by deeds of blood, and choose to march to
glory through the path of waste and horror ;
be mine the guiltless wreath, that bound the
brow for life preserved; the humble chaplet,
exciting neither envy nor remorse, with this
inscription written on its front — Ob anatem ser-
vatam, for a duck preserved.
* Mos erat in veterum castris, ut tempora quercu
Velaret, validis qui fiiso viribus hoste
Casuram potuit morti subducere civem. CLAUD. STIL. I. S.

[ 145 3
Every step which I took towards the South
mended the prospeCt, diversified the, scene, and
gratified the mind; population enlarged^ agri
culture improved, and the appearance of com
fort increased. Two miles from Launceston
the road to that town inclines to the right,
whilst another, taking an opposite direCtion,
shoots into Werrlngton park, a seat belonging
to the Duke of Northumberland. I took the
latter, being much the more agreeable of the
two, and followed it till it again unites with the
Launceston turnpike.
Just within the park gate stands the parish
church, on a fine green lawn, distinCt from all
other buildings, and unincumbered with tombs
or grave-stones; a modern costly edifice, but
one amongst the many examples of much mo
ney being thrown away, or injudiciously ex
pended. Bad taste direCted the builder, and
architectural deformity is the result. His in
tention was to ereCt a Gothick struCture, but un
acquainted with the peculiarities of that stile,
he has introduced incongruous members and
extrinsick ornaments, which have no more pro
priety where they are placed, than a fashionable
cocked hat would assume on the head of a
\ Druid. The house (a good modern mansion)
L

C 14& ]
boasts nothing extraordinary, save its situation,
which is indeed extremely beautiful; here the
architect has displayed both taste and judg
ment. Placed towards the summit of a bold
rising ground, the building commands a view
of great variety and sufficient extent, looking
down a sweeping declivity upon a winding
vale, through whose wooded bottom the Aire
is seen pursuing its meandring course, in a wide,
brawling, shallow stream. A hill, abrupt and
lofty, its broad face covered with deep woods of
oak, presents itself in front; and on each side,
the valley, after indulging the eye to a consi
derable extent, is lost insensibly amid the fold
ings of the higher grounds.
On the most elevated points of the hills, over
against the house, are two structures, intended
as objects from it — a ruined castU, and a triumphal
arch. The former is suflSciently appropriate;
many fortresses have been built in England,
and many have fallen to decay; and the verge
of Cornwall is as likely a spot as any other to
exhibit these dilapidated remains of former
grandeur. But the latter presents a disgusting
incongruity ; the ideas it excites in the mind
are foreign to every thing we see around us,
and all previous associations are of course im-

[ 147 }
mediately broken in upon, dissipated, and de
stroyed. Add to this too, that although the
impressions suggested to the imagination of
ovations and triumphs be extremely agreeable,
yet the pain of their sudden abruption coun
terbalances the pleasure of their possession,
when the judgment begins to, aCt; and coolly
hints, that in this country the parade of classi
cal mihtary pageantry is known only by name,
and consequently, that any sensible represen
tations of it must be improper and misplaced.
How much more judicious would it have
been in the ornamenter of these grounds, in
stead of building his triumphal arch, to have
covered the point of his hill with a Celtick cir
cle, or crowned it with a cromlech. He was in
the very land of Druidism, and any neighbour
ing mountain would have given him the model
of a temple or a Tolmen, an altar or a Cairn.
The approach to Launceston conducted me
through St. Stephen's, a very ancient village,
the church of which, dedicated to that saint,
seems to have conferred a name on the capital
of Cornwall, Launceston being a corruption O/f
Llan-Staphad, or church of St. Stephen. This
provincial metropolis climbs the side of a steep
hill, the top of which is covered by a venera-

[ 148 ]
ble castle; vestiges of its former strength are
yet visible in the Gothick gateway, dividing the
town from the suburbs to the North, and the
august remains of its fortress, whose strong
towers and majestick keep convey an idea of the
propriety of its former name. Castle terrible, fa
mous in feudal story, and respeCtable in more
modem history for the long and noble stand it
made to aid the sinking fortunes of Charles I.
The church of Launceston exhibits a curious
f pecimen of the state of the architectural art in
the beginning of the sixteenth century. It is ra
ther a low building, of three parallel aisles, the
middle one, as customary, rather higher than
the others. Its tower is a much more ancient
fabrick, and stands detached from the body of
the church, a mansion-house intervening be
tween the two. Nothing can exceed the ex
pensive splendour of the outside of Launceston
church; every stone being covered with sculp
tural representations of shields, armorial bear
ings, and crests. The frequent recurrence of the
ostrich feather amid this carved work was evi
dently intended as a compliment to the young
king, Henry VIII. in the third year of whose
reign the building was compleated, as appears
by the date 1511, visible in one part of it. A

[ 149 1
range of letters, sculptured on shields, runs
round the - church just beneath the windows,
consisting of an apostrophe to the Virgin Mary,
and two texts of scripture in Latin, wherein the
name of Mary is also introduced. A represen
tation of Mary Magdalen is introduced in the
east end, in a reclined and penitent posture,
and apparently " watering her couch with her
" tears." The whole of the struCture exhibits
abundant proofs of that false taste, which, at
the sera of its ereCtion, began to deform the
productions of art, but more especially of eccle
siastical architecture; when the simplex mundi-
tiis of the pure Gothick had given way to me
retricious finery, and abundance of ornament
was deemed only another term for beauty and
elegance. Lightness, uniformity, and neatness,
characterise the inside of Launceston church ;
and a good altar-piece and handsome organ
form appropriate ornaments to its eastern and
western ends. Nor must we forget to mention
its curious polygonal wooden pulpit, exhibiting
in the different faces carved Gothick niches,
the canopies of which are finely fillagreed.
The shorter road to Lidford; which it was po
licy in me to pursue, as the clock had struck
One, takes the Tavistock turnpike for two miles.

[ 150 3
and then turns to the left towards Abbot-
Milton. Shortly after this inclination my old
friend the Tamar again introduced himself to
me, but in a very different charaCter to what he
wore when I had first the pleasure of his ac
quaintance. He was now a deep majestick
river, flowing silently through rich meadows,
whose fertile banks bore grateful testimony to
the fecundating influence of his waters. At
Greystone-bridge he assumed peculiar beauty,
and with the aid of his banks and woods,
formed a scene strikingly picturesque. Here
the Tamar, gently murmuring over a pebbly
bed, leads his stream under a light and neat
stone bridge, most tastily ornamented with a
thin veil of ivy, and consisting of seven arches,
which are but partially seen through the alders,
willows, and other waving plants which fringe
the margin of the stream. A narrow strip of
meadow curbs the river on the left hand,
skirted with an airy fillet of tall elegant ash
and beech trees, backed by a solemn wood of
oak. After shooting through the bridge, the
Tamar makes a bold sweep to the right, which
introduces a magnificent steep bank in the
front of the piCture, one deep mass of shade
from top to bottom. A little cottage (the

[ 151 3
turnpike-house) at the further end of the,
bridge, just discerned through the wood of the
fore-ground, is a happy circumstance in the
enchanting scene.
The road now passes over the bridge, and as-
scending a long and steep hill, bids adieu to
the Tamar, who pursues his tranquil serpen
tine course to the ocean, after forming from his
source to his mouth, the grand division be
tween the counties of Cornwall and Devon*.
Receiving ample directions at Abbot-Milton,
(for I was near the wilds of Dartmoor, and
would therefore leave nothing to chance) I
hastened on to Bren-Tor, a small hamlet three
miles further, receiving its name from the sin
gular situation of its church. This conspicu
ous edifice (which forms a sea-mark beyond
Plymouth, at the distance of twenty-two miles)
is planted at the north-western extremity of
Dartmoor, on a vast mass of craggy rocks that
shoot up from the summit of an high-pointed
hill — a situation designated in the name it bears,
Bren-Tor being the head of a rock. Like most
other places of religious worship built on si
milar lofty spots, Bren-Tor church is dedicated
to St. Michael ; a praCtice which seems to have
arisen with our ignorant ancestors from a con-

C 152 3
fusion of the two ideas of dignity and eleva
tion, this Saint being the chief or head of all
the angelick bands; " Michael of celestial
" armies prince." The congregation is not
formed by the inhabitants of the small hamlet
immediately below it only, but of villagers from
a great distance, who seem to regard the cloud-
capt summit of Bren-Tor with particular vene
ration. The wild appearance of the country
around this spot prevented it in former times
from being visited by strangers ; and so trifling
was the intercourse maintained between it and
the more populous and cultivated parts of Eng
land two hundred years ago, that Fuller, (a
writer of that time) in his Worthies, describes
the inhabitants of the village near this church,
as a lawless tribe, wild as the ancient Scythians.
Near Bren-Tor the Oakhampton turnpike-
road offered its services to Lidford, and at the
distance of two miles opened a fine view to the
left of the grand banks of the river Lid, whose
rocks, and woods, and cascade had induced me
to make a hasty march from Abbot-Milton,
that I might have an opportunity of seeing them
before the close of day. A small publick-house
is the only place of accommodation in the town
of Lidford; here I deposited my baggage, or-

[ 153 3
dered food and beds both for my fairy sumpter-
horse and myself, took a guide, and caught an
hour of sunshine to visit the bridge of Lidford,
the water-fall, and castle.
On my approach to Lidford, the river, which
I had seen at a distance, approximated also, and
about half a mile before I reached the publick-
house, I crossed a small bridge thrown over a
narrow gully, the sides of which were so ob
scured by wood, that nothing extraordinary was
presented to the eye. But this spot only requi
red observation to make it extremely impres
sive. Hither my guide again led me, and placed
me in a situation where I could discover all its
parts. The scene which here displayed itself
bore a strong resemblance to that at the Devil's-
Bridge, though upon a less scale than it, and
accompanied with fewer circumstances of
horror. A deep rocky rent, presenting on each
side a rugged perpendicular precipice of nearly
one hundred feet, but of a very narrow breadth,
opens from a glen at right angles with the road ;
through whose gloomy bottom the little river
Lid, violent even in infancy, pushes its waters
with irresistible fury. Over the narrowest part
of this chasm a bridge is thrown, and the turn
pike road conducted. Below this, at a short

C 154 ]
distance the fissure gradually spreads its rocky
jaws; the bottom opens, and instead of the
dark precipices which have hitherto over-hung
and obscured the struggling river, it now emer
ges into day, and rolls its murmuring current
through a winding valley, confined between
magnificent banks darkened with woods, which
swell into bold promontories, or fall back into
sweeping recesses, till they are lost to the eye
in distance. Thickly shaded by trees which
shoot out from the sides of the rent, the scene
at Lidford-bridge is not so terrifick as it would
have been, had a little more light been let in
upon the abyss, just sufficient to produce a
darkness visible; for though the imagination do
not like to have its struSlures intermeddled with,
or its work performed for it, yet it requires
some materials to be provided for its operations.
As it is, however, the chasm cannot be re
garded without shuddering, nor will the stoutest
heart meditate unappalled upon the dreadful
anecdotes connected with the spot.
Twenty years ago the conneCtipns of Capt.
 , of Exeter, prided themselves in their re
lationship with a youth, whose qualifications
reflected credit upon them, and honour on
himself. Courteous and kind, affable and ac-

[ 155 3
complished, his acquaintance respeCted and his
friends adored him. Life opened its fairest
prospeCts, and a handsome competency pro
mised a rich harvest of those joys which virtue
and sensibility experience from the power of
doing good. But amid this halcyon scene, the
sky was suddenly obscured; exemplifying in a
sad reverse the fallacy of human hopes, the in
stability of human happiness !
" Frail man, how various is thy lot below !
" To-day though gales propitious blow,
" And Peace, foft-gliding down the sky,
" Lead Love along, and Harmony;
" To-morrow the gay scene deforms :
" Then all around
" The thunder's sound
" Rolls rattling on through heaven's profound,
" And down rush all the storms."
Play, that insatiable devourer of human happi
ness and comfort, that relentless murderer of
the fortunes and peace, the honour and feel
ings, the lives and souls of its hapless viCtims,
fixed its harpy talons upon Capt.  . In
an unfortunate hour he was seduced into a
gaming match, and rose up a considerable
loser. The debts he had contrafted in play
were larger than his immediate means could
satisfy, but honour, that word so often prosti-

[ 155 j
tuted, and so little understood, demanded its
prompt discharge. Stung with remorse at the
complicated folly and criminality of his con
duCt, disdaining the idea of lying under pecu
niary obligations to characters which his better
feelings taught him to despise, tortured in heart,
and wounded in every sensibility, he rashly
resolved to free himself from agonies which he
could not support, by self-destru£iion. But even
in this moment of delirious fury, the shame and
cowardice of the aCtion he was about to com
mit, presented themselves to his mind, and
suggested a wish to impose upon the world,
by an appearance of accidental death. Full of
the dreadful purpose, at the solemn hour of
midnight he saddled his faithful horse, and
rode with furious haste to the chasm which
yawns beneath Lidford-bridge. The night,
congenial to the deed, was dark and stormy;
" Sky low'rd, and muttering thunder, some sad drops
" Wept, at completing of the mortal sin."
Arrived at the fatal spot, he spurred the steed
with violence, and pushed him at the parapet,
in hopes that he would leap the wall, and thus
become, in some measure, the agent of his
death ; but the instinCtive fear of destruction
natural to the animal rendered his efforts vain.

' [ 157 3
After repeated trials, Capt.  dismounted;
but still desirous of avoiding the odium of sui
cide, and of impressing the world with the
idea of his being destroyed by other hands than
his own, he tore his cloaths, marred his coun
tenance with several gashes, and at one des
perate bound sprung over the battlement, and
plunged himself headlong into the black abyss
of waters that boiled through their rocky caul
drons one hundred feet below him. His body,
bruised, disfigured, and mutilated, was disco
vered in one of the hollows of the rock, a few
days after the horrible catastrophe.
A story also is recorded of an unhappy ma-
niack, who in a paroxysm of insanity, induced
by misfortunes, darted from his bed at a cottage
about three miles from the spot, and ran yelling
and naked. to the bridge of Lidford; over
which he threw himself with a convulsive
laugh, as if pleased to escape so suddenly from
the world and its miseries, and to lose by one
effort the recolleCtion of those sorrows which
had ruined his mind.
At the distance of a mile and half beyond
the bridge, on the Abbot-Milton road, lay
another objeCt of our evening walk, Lidford-
FalL Turning to the right, and crossing two

[ 158 3
fields, we entered a narrow path winding down
the southern bank of the valley through which
the Lid conduCts his silver stream ; the undu
lating line of the opposite steep, fretted with
rock, and shaded by wood, gratified the eye to
a considerable distance with beauty and variety^
Arrived at the bottom of the dell, we turned
to the left, and discovered the fall of water.
My imagination, however, had run riot, and
amused me with a delusive dream, which
reality quickly dissipated. Here was none of
that magnificence and sublimity which cha
racterize the cataracts of Wales. Though the
day had done all it could for me, by pouring
down a deluge of rain, and increasing the
stream to an unusual size- — this only made it
pretty, but could not make it grand. The
cascade consists of two parts, an upper and
a lower division, measuring together about
eighty-three feet in height, and separated
from each other by a jutting of the rock; but
trifling as is the body of water discharged from
above, the force is not sufficient to throw it
into the segment of a circle. Instead of as
suming this bold form, it streams down the
smooth face of the rOck in a narrow fillet of
white foam. The scenery round, not with-

[ 1^9 ]
standing, is in the highest degree romantlck,
sequestered, and pleasing.
Lidford castle claims attention rather from
what it has been, than from the appearance it
now exhibits. As early as the Saxon period
a considerable town flourished on this spot,
which, though it suffered incredibly by the
Danes in 997, made a return of one hundred
and forty burgesses at the time of the Domes
day Survey, and afterwards in the reign of
Edward III. sent members to parliament.
The shell of a castle is the only index of its
ancient dignity, the town itself having dwin
dled away to half a dozen wretched cottages.
In this structure a stannary-court was formerly
kept, which possessed the power of adjudging
capital punishment on any criminal within its
jurisdiction. At a period wheirthe fierce un
lettered baron followed rather the impulses of
his passions than the sanctions of the law in his
judicial proceedings, a formidable authority of
this nature was doubtless abused, as often as
prejudice or interest suggested it to be neces
sary. The frequency of this abuse, indeed,
was so great, that the term Lidford-law became
a proverbial expression, including the ideas of
such monstrous tyranny and absurdity as should

[ 160 3
hang a man first, and try him afterwards. Courts-
baron are still held in it, but of a very harmless
nature, where some of the copyholders under
the Duchy of Cornwall do their annual suit
and service.
A short cut across the forest of Dartmoor,
to Two-Bridges, has been suggested to me
by my venerable landlord, but this I must
unravel myself, as all the peasantry are busily
employed in endeavouring to save a scanty
harvest from the destructive consequences of
the present wet season, and no guide is there
fore to be procured. The idea of travelling
twelve miles over a desolate moor, wild as
the African Syrtes, without a single human
inhabitant or regular track, has something in
it very deterring, I must confess ; but the old ,
gentleman seems to be so very confident of
the impossibility of my losing myself, that I
have determined to try my fortune. Early to
morrow I intend setting off on my expedition,
" And He that hath the steerage of my course,
" Direft my sail !" Your's, &c.
R. W.

Oakhampton

LETTER VIII.

TO THE SAME.

DEAR SIR, Chudleigh, Sept. 14th,
^ I ""HE courage of speculation and that neces-
•^ sary for aCtual exertion are very different
in their kinds. A man may easily be a hero
in design, but to become one in reality is not
an operation of such facility. Over-night I had
determined to cross Dartmoor alone, but this
morning, as the trial approximated, my resolu
tion, like Acres's courage, gradually oozed
away, and before breakfast was finished,
I had dropped the idea, and determined to
take a circuitous route by Oakhampton to
the place I wished to reach. This resolve,
M '

[ 162 3
was in some measure induced by an account
given by my landlord, whilst filling the tea-pot,
of an accident which had happened on the part
of Dartmoor I was about to cross, a few months
ago. A peasant of the country, in pursuing
some sheep which had wandered from their
accustomed pasturage, discovered in the middle
of the naked solitude that stretches from
Lidford nearly twenty miles in a south-eastern
direction, the body of a sailor, much emaciated,
and in such a state as gave reason to think he
had been lying on the spot five or six weeks.
His countenance, however, was serene, and his
posture composed; a small bundle of linen sup
ported his head, and the remains of a faithful
dog lay at his feet. Nobody could be found to
tell who he was, or from whence he came ; the
parish therefore removed the body to Lidford,
and gave it an humble grave in the church
yard there.
This anecdote not only produced the imme
diate resolution of changing my route, but awa
kened every tender feeling of my heart. In
truth it was a simple sorrowful tale, that forci
bly interested the imagination. — Fancy readily
filled up the outline which I had heard, with
the most affeCting touches. She pictured the

[ 153 3
unfortunate tar returning from a long and peri
lous voyage, big with the hope of once more
embracing those connections whose beloved
idea had lain in absence like a cordial at his
bosom, and cheered his spirit amid the pain of
toil and in the hour of danger; anticipating;
perhaps, the transports of disinterested affec
tion, when he should press his faithful girl
within his arms ; perhaps, the raptures of a
fond father; perhaps, the proud exalted feel
ings of a grateful duteous son. — In a moment
she called down the pityless storm upon his
head; awakened the terrors of the thunder;
threw the lightnings over the waste; and
painted him wandering amongst the rugged
craggs and gloomy hollows, benighted, igno
rant, and alone. — She now presented him wan
with toil and hunger; exhausted by fatigue;
hopeless with disappointment ; stretched upon
the cold rock,
" Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death,
" Mix'd with the tender anguish Nature shoots
" Through the wrung bosom of the dying man,
" His wife, his children, and his friends unseen j"
but still, amid the raging of the elements, and
the pains of dissolution, preserving " that high
" courage undismayed by mortal terrors,"

[ 164 3
which characterises the British sailor; and
meeting his inevitable destiny with tranquil
composure. — Farewell, ill-fated Tar, and let a
stranger's tear embalm thy memory! That
gracious Being, who has so often covered thy
head in the day of battle, and preserved thee
amid the dangers of the sea, " when the stormy
winds arose, and lifted up the waves thereof;"
that gracious Being, who numbereth the very
hairs of our heads, and before whom even a
sparrow doth not fall to the ground unnoticed,
will not forget thee, the sheep of his pasture,
the creature of his hand; but when time shall
have brought to pass the accomplishment of
the ages, and death be swallowed up in viCtory,
will call thee from " thy narrow dwelling" to
those kind skies and halcyon regions which no
tempests can obscure; no discord can ap
proach ; from which moral deformity and na
tural evil are alike forever banished; where
righteousness, peace, and truth meet together,
" And one unbounded spring encircles all."
I had already seen the Lid below the bridge,
where, throwing back its banks, it opened to
the day, and meandered through the meadows,
a stream of some magnitude. I wished now
to trace its progress for a short distance above

[ 165 ]
Lidford, where, pent up between the jaws, of a^
chasm, it struggles for its narrow passage
through opposing rocks. By deviating, a littler
from the Oakhampton road, I had an opportu
nity of doing this, and soon passed up the dell
to Skut's-Hole, a curious feature of the river,
and where it first acquires any sort of interest.
At this spot the rock, on which the Lid has
hitherto flowed, is rent asujlder, and through
the fissure the stream tumbles the depth ,of
twenty feet, agreeably broken by jutting and
irregular stony masses. The total absence of
wood is the only circumstance which prevents
the scene from being fine. But It commands
a most beautiful view — deep valley, lofty rock,
and distant shade, terminated by Lidford town,
its church, and castle.
The Oakhampton road, one of the best turn
pikes I had seen in Devonshire, led me through
an uninteresting country for five or six miles,
which only varied its uniformity about two
miles from the town, when the view to the
right became extremely pleasing. The solemn
ruins of Oakhampton castle, and the banks of
the stream on which they stand, composed the
picture. Like all towns distant from the me
tropolis, where people are content with comfort

[ 166 3
and convenience, and not seduced by example
or rivalship into splendour and expence, Oak
hampton boasts no architectural beauty. But
the clothing trade carried on in its neighbour
hood renders it opulent and populous ; though
if there have been any decrease in its riches or
inhabitants within these few years, it must be
attributed to the fatal effeCts of War, that iron
scourge with which Heaven, in the most wrath
ful moments of its vengeance, infliCts those na
tions which have incurred its indignation; that
insatiate glutton, whose choicest food is human
blood, whose sweetest musick is the orphan's
cry and the widow's wailings ; the touch of
whose mace, " petrifick, cold, and dry," para-
lizes trade ; stagnates industry ; checks the pro
gress of the arts and sciences; scares away the
milder virtues; obliterates moral sentiment;
and at once exhausts a country of its riches and
population, and despoils it of its humanity and
religion. The noble remains of Oakhampton castle lie
a mile from the town to the south; and though
most of them are unintelligible from decay, yet
the extensive area which they include, the soli
dity of their struCture, and the advantages of
situation, prove that this fortress, before it was

[ 167 ]
dismantled, must have been strong and import
tant. A lofty keep, the dark scene of many a
foul oppressive deed, rises magnificently from a
large conoidal elevation, which is opposed on
the other side of the stream by a steep wooded
bank; the river meanders through the inter
vening meads, and washes with its waters the
roots of the ruined walls. This spot was first
chosen for the scite of a castle by Baldwin de
Brionis, one of the Norman spoilers who at
tended Wilham the Bastard in his descent on
England. The hardy enterprize being crowned
with success, Baldwin's exertions were re
warded by a grant of land in the western parts
of Devonshire, which he constituted into the
barony of Oakhampton, and built the castle for
its honour or head. The family of De Redvers
succeeded in the ensuing century to Oakhamp
ton castle, from which it passed by intermar
riage into that of the Courtneys. The steady
attachment of the Courtneys to the cause of
Henry Vlth, rendered them objeCts of Edward's
rancour, and the fidelity of Thomas brought
him to the block at PontefraCt in 1441, after
the battle of Towton. John found a nobler
fate in the field of Tewksbury, where he was
killed fighting under the banner of the high-

[ 168 3
spirited but unfortunate Margaret of Anjou.
The possessions of the brothers escheated, in
course, to the crown ; and Oakhampton castle
continued to be a royal fortress till the reign of
Henry Vllth, who, on asciendlng the throne,
restored the Courtney family to its honours,
distinctions, and estates, and to this barony
amongst the rest. But his relentless successor
having discovered a secret correspondence be
tween Hugh De Courtney and Cardinal Pole,
by one aCt of uncontroulable tyranny deprived
Hugh of his head, and by another of senseless
barbarism reduced the magnificent castle of
Oakhampton to ruins, and devastated its noble
and extensive park. It is observed, however,
by a very wise man, that " the wicked doeth
" good, and knoweth it not." Henry, into
whose mind the idea certainly never entered of
obliging posterity by any thing he did, was bu^
sily employed, whilst laying waste the Oak
hampton demesne, in preparing a feast for
taste and feehng in future times ; for amongst
the many ruins which I have visited I know
not one that has a fairer claim than this to the
character of picturesque.
Having formed a casual acquaintance with
a brother pedestrian, on the road to Oakhamp-

L 169 1
ton, whose route happened to be the same as
my own for a few miles, I put myself under
his guidance. The country was well known to
him, and he promised, by making our walk to
Chagford (where we were to separate) rather
circuitous, to conduCt me to two objeCts well
worth seeing, Gidley-Park, and the Spinster-
Rock. If curiosity be to be gratified, our sex,
I believe, is as willing as the female one, to
make a trifling sacrifice in order to indulge it;
I therefore readily acceded to his proposition,
and at the fourth mile-stone turned with him,
from the Oakhampton road to the right, upon
the wilds of Dartmoor. For a few miles our
course stretched over this wide extent of naked
barrenness, and gave me an opportunity of in
specting partially, a tra£t of country extremely
singular in appearance. Dartmoor, for the
most part, consists of granite rock covered with
a thin layer of mould, which in many spots
throws out a beautiful verdant carpet of short
sweet grass, affording good pasturage for sheep.
In other parts Nature has been more niggardly,
and a black mantle of moss and heath covers
the face of the wild. Its circumference may
perhaps extend nearly to seventy miles, the in
terior of which is thrown into a series of hills

[ 170 ]
and depressions; the former terminating in
rocky crags, fantastick and wild in shape and
appearance; the latter, in some instances,
darkened by thick woods. In these gloomy
recesses resides the stag, in all his native vigour
and wildness, affording to the Nimrods of
Devon a sport which they follow with the most
enthusiastick delight. Perhaps, indeed, no
English hunting can be more animating than
that of Dartmoor. Roused from his secret co
vert, the magnificent animal sweeps over a vast
traCt of unobstructed country; himself and his
blood-happy pursuers full in view; whilst the
winding of the horn, the shout of the hunters,
and the cry of the hounds, " Running round
" From rock to rock, in circling echoes toss'd,"
give a variety and beauty to the chace, that no
inclosed country can possibly afford.
Upon the borders of Dartmoor lies the Roy..
alty or Park of Gidley. This species of pro^
perty is not infrequent in the western part of
Devonshire, and seems to have been acquired
by ancient grants from the Crown (in which
Dartmoor was vested) to its subjeCts, of parcels
oi this waste, under certain reserved annual

[ 171 ]
quit-rents. That of Gidley is 3/. ly, 4^/.
which is still paid every year, at the court ap
pointed to receive the same. A rUined stone
mansion behind the present farm-house points
out the former importance of the lordship.
But the park was our objeCt; an extensive traCt
of rocky ground, fruitful only in rabbits, but
curious from the singularity of its appearance.
A stone wall proteCts three of its sides, and to
the fourth the river Teing forms a sufficient de
fence. With this stream the park unites by a
very steep descent, the face of which is studded
with enormous rocky protuberances, sacred to
Celtick superstition, as the many fine rock-
basons excavated in their level summits suffi
ciently evince. The roaring stream at the bot
tom of this hill, the wooded front of the bold
bank that rushes to the clouds on the opposite
side, the vast masses of venerable rock, grey
with moss or dark with ivy on either hand,
render this part of Gidley-park a scene very
striking to the imagination. Much of its effeCt,
indeed, will speedily be done away, by the
destructive havock of its present possessor,
who with a most Vandal-like want of taste,
and perhaps with an equal deficiency of com-

[ 172 }
mon policy, is despoiling the opposite bank of
its beauty and interest, by cutting down all the
half-grown oak with which it is covered.
Fording the Teing, not without hazard, for
he was swollen Into unusual fury by the late
rains, we ascended a tedious hill at least a mile
and half in length, and reached the Spinster or
old-maid rock. This expressive name, which
happily conveys the ideas of desolation and bar
renness, solitude and individuality, will suggest
to you In a moment the appearance and situa
tion of the objeCt in question. It is a vast na
tural acervatlon of granite rock, naked and
rugged, forming the apex of one of the hills of
Dartmoor, which rises in solitary sadness on the
edge of the waste. The prodigious height to
which it rears itself, rendered it an apt spot for
the exhibition of priestcraft and the celebration
of Druidical rites In times of yore, and the many
rock-basons on the top, and circular arrange
ments of small stones on the sides, may be con
sidered as vestiges of the holy mummery which
¦was heretofore practised on this consecrated
hill. The prospeCt from it is immense.
Leaving the Old Maid to the full enjoyment of
ber cheerless state, we dropped into the Chag
ford road, passing in our way through the Ely sian

L 173 3
village of Hbllowstreet, happily placed in a
narrow valley, watered by the Teing, whose
babbling stream is half hidden by the woods
which fringe his margin. Huge rocks starting
from the ground in every direCtion, give great
beauty and singularity to this fairy region.
The residence of Mrs. Southwell would have
.suited exactly the taste and ambition of Horace;
" Hoc -erat in votls; modus agri non ita magmis;
" Hortus ubi, et tefio vicinus jugis aquae fons,
" Et pallium sylva super his foret."
At Chagford my companion was to remain,
having some business to transaCt there; but
before our parting he filled up, the measure of
his courtesy, by putting me into the hands of
another guide, who should conduCt me to the
extraordinary scenery of Whitton-Park, the
rocking-stone in its neighbourhood, and leave
me at Bovey-Tracey, The figure of this second
Hermes, a taylor by profession, was so singular
and diminutive, that I could not help suggest
ing to my friend a doubt of his ability to sus
tain the fatigue of a ten or twelve mile walk.
Indeed, he seemed to be modelled exaCtly
after Falstaff's incomparable portrait of Justice
Shallow: " I do remember him at Clement's-
" Inn, like a man made after supper of a cheese-

[ 174 3
" paring. When he was naked, he was for all
" the world like a fork'd radish, with a head
" fantastically carved upon it with a knife : he
" was so forlorn, that his dimensions to any
" thick sight were invisible : he was the very
" genius of famine, and the w****s called him
" Mandrake." The answer, however, of my
late companion was, ' Never fear Tom Spindle ;
' he'll tire you before the day is over.' Nor
had we gotten on many hundred yards before
I perceived, that without a check this would
really be the case. Having nothing to carry
but bones and muscle, Tom skipped on with
the alertness of a flea; and whilst scaling the
hedges, bounding over the stiles, and scouring
along the road, ever and anon turned his head,
and with most humiliating sangfroid, desired to
know if he walked too fast for me? I honestly
confess, I never felt more humbled than on
being thus beaten at my ozvn zveapons, by this
shadow of a shade, this near approximation to
non-entity. Whitton-Park, like Gidley, is a royalty, ori
ginally carved out of Dartmoor, and granted to
the subject by the Crown, with all those rights
and franchises which anciently constituted the
privileged districts called in our old statutes and

L 175 ]
law-books Parci. Its scenery also is somewhat
similar to Gidley-Park, but on a grander scale.
The rocks are more immense, and shaded for
the most part by the dark umbrage of some
magnificent oak trees; which, throwing their
giant arms over these hoary piles of stone, form
an association highly interesting to the imagi
nation. Here the solemnities of Druidical wor
ship naturally rush upon the fancy; and the
mind, awed and astonished by the scene around,
feels for a moment those mixed and undescriba-
ble emotions, which rendered the hallowed seats
of Druidical superstition not only venerable to
its devotees, but awful to its exterminators:
" Here, Romans, pause; and let the eye of wonder
" Gaze on the solemn scene. Behold yon oak,
" How stern he frowns, and with his broad brown arms
" Chills the pale plain beneath him; mark yon altar,
" The dark storm brawling round its rugged base;
" These cliffs, these yawning caverns, this wide circus,
"¦ Skirted with unhewn stone. They awe my soul,
" As if the very Genius of the place
" Himself appear'd, and with terrifick tread
"¦ Stalk'd thro' his drear domain. And yet, my friends,
" (If shapes like his be but the fancy's coinage)
" Surely there is an hidden Power, that reigns
" 'Mid the lone majesty of untam'd nature,
" Controuling sober reason ; tell me else,
" Why do these haunts of barb'rous superstition
" O'ercorae me thus? I scorn them, yet they awe me."

[ 175 3
The taylor, who had not visited the Logan-
stone for five and thirty years, had totally for
gotten its situation, and in endeavouring to
discover it, led me down the banks of the west
Teing at least three miles, nearly to Fingal-
Bridge. But his ignorance proved to me a
source of great pleasure, since it gave me a
view of the banks of the stream, which are
strikingly fine, diversified by wood and rock,
precipice and slope, bold promontories and
deep recessions. The river, too, is obstructed
with rocks, which, checking the course of its
furious tide, form at every step whirlpools and
cascades, that shake the woods with an un
interrupted din. The Logan-stone, which we
at length reached, lies in the middle of the
stream, near the paling of Whitton-Park. From
its appearance and situation, I boldly pro
nounce that art had no hand in forming or pla
cing it. Its shape approaches to an irregular
cube, one angle of which has worn for itself a
socket in the head of a large subjacent rock.
At present it has no oscillatory motion, though
my guide insisted that five and thirty years ago
it might have been moved by a child. Its
weight may be about twenty tons.

[ 177 1
Our route through Moreton 'to Bovey-Traeejr
cbiiduCted us along a true Devonshire road,
running bfefweeh high banks-, and tan'opied
over-head by the trees that intermingle their
branches from the opposite sides. A gateway,
or accidental aperture in the hedges, let in the
surrounding country, and afforded us a view of
the lofty hills to the left, and the rich valley to
the right which accompanied our progress.
At Bovey-Tracey I had intended to have slept,
and therefore parted with Spindle as soon as
the town was in view; but the wretched ap
pearance of the village, arid the melancholy
exterior of two hovels which the people of the
place called inns, determined me to proceed to
Chudleigh, in spite of rain and darkness.
" The stars,
" That Nature hun| in heav'n, and filled their lamps
" With everlasting oil, to giVe due light
" To the misled and lonely traveller,"
were totally extinguish 'd, and my jacket was
completely soaked; but the horrors of an
alehouse-bed were fresh in my recolleCtion, (for
no loiigef ago "than last night I suffered the
pains of such an accommodation) and weighed
down the idea of present inconvenience. I
pushed on, therefore, through dirt and wet,
N

[ 178 3
another four miles, and am rewarded for my
energy, by a cheerful fire and smoaking board
at the Clifford-Arms. But now to supper and
to-bed;
" To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures aew."

Your's, &c.

R. W.

N

JJSJ Chudleigh
^ jStUgbrook
fgl Newton-Bushel

Dartington .^^-JJm

/

Totness [Oj

ft ft

Shar^tiam

^

LETTER IX.
TO THE SAME,
DBAK SIR, Totness, Sept. \6tb.
T Was awakened this morning by the chiming
¦*• of Chudleigh bells, which play for four
minutes and a half, at the hours of one, five,
and nine. The tunes consist merely of changes,
but these are so well adapted, as to produce an
effeCt plaintive and agreeable in the highest
[ 180 3
degree ; and to excite, by the unaccountable
magick of simple melody, the. most tender and
melancholy impressions.
'¦'¦ Oh wondrous pow'r of Modulated Sound !
" Which, like the air, (whose all-obedient shape
" Thou makest thy slave) canst subtilly pervade
" The yielded avenues of sense, unlock
" The close affeftions, by some fairy path
" Winning an easy way through ev'ry ear,
"¦ And with thine unsubstantial quality
" Holding in mighty chains the hearts of all;
" All, but some cold and suUen-temper'd spirits,
" Who feel no touch of sympathy or love."
Having breakfasted from a well-covered
board, where the clotted-cream made a conspi
cuous figure, (a delicacy which the housewives
of Devonshire exclusively prepare) I rambled
out to visit Chudleigh rocks, some remarkable
precipices, half a mile from the town. These
stupendous masses of lime-stone heave their
aerial heights out of a deep narrow valley,
through whose hollow wooded bottom the river
Teign throws its roaring flood unseen. Nature,
who ornaments with incomparable taste, has
relieved the flat broad face of these prodigious
elevations with mountain plants, scattering
them down the steep ; or making amends for
their absence by throwing an ejeg^nt drapery

i 181 ]
of ivy over the parts where she has denied her
trees. Half-way down the cliff is a spacious
cavern, dry and high, penetrating the rock in
a strait direCtion about thirty-feet, then becom
ing lower, and turning to the left. I did not
pursue its intricacies, lest I should have gotten
into a similar scrape with an unfortunate dog
a few weeks ago; who is said (credat Judawsf
to have wandered amid the labyrinths of the
cavern for three days; and then to have emerged
into the light, at a fissUre five or six miles from
the aperture at which he entered. These roeks'
are the valuable property of Lord Gliflford,
whose labourers are constantly employed in
digging and burning the choice lime-stone of
which they consist.
Every mile now warned me of my approach-
to populous towns, busy sea-ports, and greats
turnpike-roads, by the gradual disappearance
of that simplicity and civility which mark the
manners of the more sequestered North-Devo
nian peasantry. My ' sumpter-horse and^ his
master began to excite not only curiosity but
impertinence; and I found I must arm myself
with a considerable share of sangfroid, to pur
sue the remainder of my journey in tolerable
comfort. As I was driving my little poney by

[ 182 3
Ugbrook, the noble park of Lord Clifford, two
women, ragged and miserable, standing in the
road, seemed to be mightily struck, as well as
amused, with my appearance ; and after a
hearty laugh, one of them exclaimed, in a, tone
evidently intended to reach my ear, " A luks a
grut deal more lik a baggar than a does lik a
gentleman." I looked sheepish, but it was
only the retort-courteous of the poor creatures,
for I had begun to feel proud at heart , by a secret
comparison of my own sjilendour with their tat
tered wretchedness. — Another ordeal awaited
me in Newton-Bushel, a large well-peopled
town, where every face that I encountered ex
hibited a grin; it was therefore matter of no
small joy to me to be fairly out of the place,
and on the road to Totness. The country is
here rather flat, but commands at the same
time a fine view, that stretches over the wide
extent of intermediate ground to the distant
rocky heights of Dartmoor ; amongst which, I
recognized the scathed naked head of the un
fortunate Spinster.
About two miles before I reached Totness,
a solitar}- dwelling to the right of the road en
gaged my attention. The grounds behind,
shc\ii:ri2 down towards the Dart, were ex-

[ 183 3
tremely pleasing, and the tout ensemble of the
demesne conveyed the ideas of virtue and
peace, seclusion and comfort. I had returned
to the road, and was busied in rebuilding part
of the house, putting the garden into order, and
making some little alterations in the grounds,
when my reverie was interrupted by an old sol
dier, who limped by me on two crutches. There
were several reasons why I should speak to this
unfortunate son of glory, and amongst others,
that I might learn to whom the mansion, which
I had just visited, belonged. After a little par
donable egotism, " that he had been many
years in the army, had seen numerous battles,
had left an eye, an arm, and a leg upon the field
of honour^ and was now begging his way with
* " Prince Henry. Why thou owest Heaven a death.
" Falstaff. 'Tis not due yet ; I would be loth to pay hhn
before his day. What need I be so forward with him that calls
not on me? Well, 'tis no matter: Honour pricks me on. Yea,
but if Honour prick me oflF, when I come on ? How then? Can
Honour set a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the
grief of a wound ? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery, then ?
No. What is Honour? A word. What is that word. Honour?
Air. — A trim reckoning. Who hath it? He that died o' Wed
nesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. Is it
insensible, then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with

[ 184 3
the remainder qf bis body to his own parish in
the neighbourhood;" he gave me to under
stand that the place was called Gatcombe, and
had, about twenty years ago, belonged to a Mr.
******. This person, it seems, exhibited one
pf those instances of uniform and unmixed de
pravity, which, for the happiness of mankind,
are seldom discovered in society; a charaCter
wherein there was no shade of virtue, no ap
proximation to any thing praise- worthy, or even
negatively good. Possessed of a fine income
and a delightful retreat, fortune had given him
the means of communicating happiness to
others, and ensuring it to himself; but a taste
for wickedness, an unnatural passion for vice,
on account of its hideousness and. deformity,
rendered him a terror to the country around, as
well as the self-tortured viCtim of wretchedness
and horror. One trait will be sufficient to mark
the extreme villainy of his charaCter. During
the darkness and silence of midnight it was
his practice to steal from home into the fields
or folds of the neighbouring farmers, and

the living? No. Why? Detraftion will not suffer it. There
fore I'll none of it : Honour is a mere scutcheon, and so ends my
Catechism."

[ 185 j
there by some infernal means to destroy the
yearling sheep or lamb, as convenience and
opportunity permitted. In the morning he
would stroll, as if by accident, by the scene of
his noCturnal machinations, and condoling with
the farmer, would suggest that as the carcase
was unfit for the larder, it might be sent, when
skinned, to his kennel, for the use of the pack
which he kept. The request was usually com
plied with; but instead of applying It to this
purpose, he would rob even the dogs of their
due, and supply his own table with the unhal
lowed spoil. This complicated wickedness
was carried on by ****** for several months,
to the astonishment of the neighbouring farm
ers, who firmly believed their flocks and herds
were under the influence of witchery; but ven
geance at length overtook him. His villainy
was discovered to the world, and to make the
pain of detection more insupportable. Provi
dence ordained that his own daughter should
be the betrayer of the secret. Immediate flight
saved him from the penalties of the law; and
he long lived, and perhaps exists at present, a
miserable outcast, a wretched likeness of the
vagabond Cain, hated of men, and accursed of
the Lord.

[ 186 1
What different emotions do moral deformity,
and the absence of natural beauty, excite in
the mind! Take Nature in her most rude and
savage state; observe her amidst naked soli
tudes, barren rocks, and cheerless deserts;
view her under brazen-vaulted skies, or polar
darkness; see her deluged by inundations,
scathed by lightning, or rocked by thunder;
though awful, she will not be horrible; though
robbed of loveliness, she will not be disgusting.
But when we contemplate a human charaCter
which is destitute of virtue; in which the moral
principle is extinguished, and all the traces of
its great Original are obliterated; taste and
feeling are equally shocked, and the soul re
coils with detestation from an objeCt of such
nauseating and unmixed deformity.
Totness boasts a situation perhaps unrivalled
in point of beauty. From the margin of the
river Dart it cHmbs the steep declivity of a hill,
and stretches itself along its brow; command
ing a view of the winding stream, and the
country in its vicinity, but sheltered at the
same time by higher grounds on every side.
The piazzas in front of the houses in some parts
of the upper town, and the higher stories pro
jecting over the lower ones, are manifest proofs

[ 187 ]
of its antiquity ; a claim which is strength
ened by the keep of its castle, a very large
circular building turreted, rising from an im
mense artificial mound, the enormous work of
one branch of the De la Zouche family. The
deep thunder of a mastiff's voice, and a board
threatening spring-guns and steel-traps to in
truders, prevented me from gratifying the curio
sity which I felt to see the Interior of this build
ing. I turned, therefore. Into the church, where
I knew I should meet with a better reception.
This is an old edifice with an highly-orna
mented tower, but now under reparation, from
the falling of one of the fret-work pinnacles
(smitten by lightning) in February 1799, upon
the southern aisle and portico. Providentially
no one was in the church at the time of the
accident. One instance of perverted taste
strikes the eye on entering this fabrick; a fine
old Gothick skreen of stone and wood divides
the chancel from the body of the church, within
which the parish have ereCted a most superb
and expensive altar-piece, of Grecian design, a
classical semi-dome, supported by Corinthian
pillars. Would, there were a heavy tax upon
such incongruities ! I think it would be more

[ 18« 3
productive than most of the modern contrivan
ces of financiers to raise money!
The foot-road to Dartington, the seat of
 Champernoun, esq; two miles from Tot
ness, ishighly interesting, creeping through the
meadows which curb the broad transparent
river Dart, whose distant hanging banks are
visible in all their beauty. This mansion is a
great mass of buildings, which anciently formed
three sides of a square. A noble hall of large
extent and good architecture, (dating back
probably to the beginning of the 15th century)
with other offices, occupied one wing of this
range; another on the opposite side, consisted
of buildings now used as barns, stables, &c. but
evidently not intended for such originally ; and
the dwelling-house formed the central part of
the structure. This portion seems to have been
intended at first for the residence of several
families, since it was divided into distinCt tene
ments; a circumstance which has given rise to
a tradition, that it was formerly inhabited by a
community of Knights Templars. I cannot,
however, accede to the opinion, as neither the
elaborate Camden, nor the accurate Tanner,
sanction it with their authority; on the con-

[ 189 ]
trary, the former, if I mistake not, tells us it was
the head of the barony of the De Alartins, the
lords of Keims in Wales;* and the latter does
not mention it, which he certainly would have
done had it been at any time a religious house.
It came into the possession of the Champer-
nouns in the reign of Henry Vlllth, the last in
the male line of which very ancient family,
Rawlin Champernoun, died the 12th of January,
1774. The taste of the present owner of this
seat is evinced by the many noble monuments
of the arts which he has brought from Italy.
Painting seems to have engaged his chief atten
tion, and two exquisite landscapes by the first
master of the old Italian school, and a sleeping
Venus, a perfeCt wonder of art, bear ample
testimony to the skill and judgment of his
selection. Quitting Dartington, I re-traced my road to
Totness, and continued to pursue the banks of
the river as far as Sharpham, the seat of Mr.
Bastard, three miles below the town, a very
different scene to that which I had just left.
In lieu of ancient walls and nodding turrets, all
was modern beauty and classick taste. The
* Camden Brit. edit. Gibson.

[ 190 3
house is built of stone, on a plan simple, ele
gant, and . convenient; but its chief charm
arises from the happiness of its situation, the
brow of a thickly-wooded declivity which rises
from the margin of the Dart. Placed on this
commanding spot, it catches through the shades
a view of the river skirting the park, to the left;
but this is lost as it winds round in front of the
house, stealing quietly under the steep mantled
hill on which the mansion stands, and giving
only its opposite bank to the eye. Willing,
however, to make a recompence for this tem
porary desertion, it bursts again upon the view
in a grand lake-like reach to the right, and
disappears at length between lofty banks, which
present one broad, undulating surface of mag
nificent uninterrupted wood.
On my return the river had swollen to an
unusual height, entirely covering the meadows
in its neighbourhood, (for it was spring-tide)
and regaled me with a very fine lake-scene, beau
tifully terminated by the town of Totness, its
pinnacles, and castle in the distance.
Your's, 8ic,
R. W.

""'" 123^

\ 1

PowderhamOastle

*^^^

Jpi Dawlish

1 '
Newton-Bushel^^;;^
^.^^5=-  ^ii^- Teien-
'^^ .j^^ mouth
^^^^^^^^
¦^ "°^ i°W W. Teign-
/ mouth
'^^ll
^^
jl
/r
11
£' TORBAY
Berry P. CasUe JL
«// ^sisa. Berry-
(L^^^^^5 Head
[5j^
l^
Totness
LETTER X.
TO THE SAME.
SEAR siE, Exmouth, Sept. VJtb.
T? ACH successive day affords me matter of
"^^ rejoicing, that I did not pursue my in
tended route through Cornwall. Bad shelter,
indeed would her barren hills and naked rocks
have given to the dripping traveller in this un
certain weather, when almost every hour brings
with it a new storm. The roads of Devonshire,
[ 192 ]
on the contrary, close and wooded, accommo
date him with a noble umbrella, which, if the
rain be not uninterrupted and continued, pre-*
serves him at least from being drenched. With
this security against a wet jacket, I left the
Seven Stars, at Totness, yesterday morning,
(though a curtain of tremendous black clouds
was drawn over my head) to take a peep at
Pomeroy-castle, two miles and a half from
Totness. The spot, indeed, was worth the risk
of a soaking, being a more picturesque ruin thails
any I have yet seen. It owes its name to the
noble and ancient Norman family de Pomery;
the head of which, Radulphus, built a castle on
this spot in the time of the Conqueror. His
successors resided here in all the cumbrous
magnificence of feudal state, till the reign of
Edward VI. when it passed into the hands of
the Seymours, whose descendant, the Duke of
Somerset, has it at present. Nothing can be
more romantlck or sequestered than these ruins,
which stand on the summit of a bold rising
ground, surrounded by distant elevations df
still greater height. The deep gloom of vene
rable woods spreads itself over hill and dale
on every side, concealing these solemn remains
from the common eye, and reserving them for

L 193 3
the investigation of curiosity, and the contem
plation of taste. The building appears to have
been originally quadrangular, having only one
entrance. This consisted of a double gate, the
first raachicolated, between two angular bas
tions. A rich vest of ivy spreads itself over
this member of the struCture; lofty trees con
ceal the broad faces of the walls, and only per
mit an occasional peep at the broken turrets,
and dismantled windows; and various shrubs,
artlessly scattered by the hand of Nature over the
interior area, and around the Gothick entrance,
complete the magical beauty of the scene.
The lofty over-canopying hedges prevent the
eye from being very excursive in the road from
Berry to Teignmouth, which led me again
through Newton-Bushel, and, having passed
the river Teing, ran nearly parallel to its banks
to the spot where that stream discharges itself
into the ocean.
The town of Teingmouth, you know, is one
of the Devonshire watering-places, and puts in
a fair claim to a preference over all the others.
Immediately in front the broad interminable
ocean spreads its ever-varying expanse; to the
right, a river, wide and majestick, rolling its
waters between gently-rising and well-wooded

[ 194 ]
hills, stretches for several miles, and is termi
nated by the black sides and rocky summits of
Dartmoor; and to the left, a long range of dark
arenacious cliff presents itself, full of caverns
and recesses, and finishing in a rocky crag of a
similar substance and appearance, and of a most
grotesque and fantastick form. Various con
veniences, also, combine to render this a most
desirable summer residence. The bathing is
particularly good ; the machines well contrived ;
the lodging-houses pleasantly situated; and the
inhabitants supplied, by some excellent local re
gulations, with plenty of the fine fish caught on
the shore, before any of it is sold to the dealers,
who come to purchase from afar. The trade
of Teingmouth consists of some commercial
intercourse with Newfoundland; the exporta
tion of clay, and the importation of coal; car
ried on chiefly in craft built at the place, where
there are conveniences for launching vessels of
one hundred tons. The clay exported is brought
from Bovey, for the most part, by a canal, and
dug on the property of  Templar, esq; who,
with the only true patriotism, is indefatigably
employed in promoting the solid interests
of his country, by improving agriculture, and
encouraging manufactures. Having similar

[ 195 3
properties with the clay of Staffordshire, large
quantities are sent thither for the purpose of
being worked, and coal is freighted back. Part
of it also is manufactured into pottery at Bovey,
where Mr. Templar has constructed works;
but such are the advantages and magical effeCt
of an immense capital over one very inferior,
that the articles can be made in Staffordshire
of Bovey clay, brought back again, and sold at
Bovey for less money than the same pieces
would fetch when manufactured on the spot
where the clay is dug.
The recess of the tide permitted me to take
the shore to Dawlish, and wander amongst the
curious caverns which the ocean has scooped
in the lofty sand cliffs that stretch between
Teignmouth and that place. Very inferior in
point of beauty and interest is the latter to the
former bathing-place. Every method which
bad taste could suggest, to rob the village of
its native simplicity, has been adopted; such as
a long line of uniform modern houses, in front
of the wild indomitable sea; Gothick struc
tures of mud, and cottages costly and superb,
having nothing to entitle them to the name but
their thatched coverings; all unsuitable to the
situation in which they are placed, and (when

i: 15^ 1
combined) conveying the idea of a bathing-
place in the neighbourhood of the metropolis,
where the bucks of Cheapside and White-
Chapel go in the summer to wash and be clean,
rather than a peaceful and sequestered marine
village on the shore of South-Devonshire.
Exmouth, (from whence I date this) lying
three miles to the eastward of Dawlish, on that
side of the river Ex, is by no means liable to
the criticism which I have just ventured to
throw out on the latter place. It is a town of
some extent; and, therefore, neither simplicity,
nor picturesque beauty, is expeCted in it. The
houses may be grouped into any forms that
fancy suggests, without the builder incurring
the censure of having spoiled the scene by in
congruous architecture.
The variety and grandeur of the view which
the houses near the shore command, is seldom
equalled. Old Ocean opens his heaving bo
som to the south, and the Ex comes sweeping
down in a broad sheet of water, from the oppo
site point. This estuary, sprinkled with ship
ping, inclosed between hills, which are orna
mented with groves and mansions, castles and
cities, presents, at full tide, and under a calm
sky, the picture of an Italian lake. Limited

[ i97 ]
in time, I could only visit, by a distant view,
scenes which promise much gratification on a
closer inspection — Topsham, and the beau
tiful country around it; Exeter and its vene
rable cathedral ; the bold, broad, commanding
summit of Hall-Down; and the magnificent
seat and grounds of Mamhead, which ornament
its eastern decUvity. Powderham-castle is im
mediately opposite to me, but I do not regret
my inability to visit it, since Its situation is low,
and the grounds about it are uninteresting.
Besides, I have no passion for magnificence, unless
it be united with a little taste; and should there
fore receive no sort of pleasure in contempla
ting such gew-gaws as a silver grate plaistered
over with gold, and three window-curtains, on
each of which has been lavished the enormous
sum of seven hundred guineas ! ! !

Your's, &c.
R. W.

Chard

Exmouth

ENGLISH CHANNEL

LETTER XI.
TO THE SAME.
DEAR siK, Chard, Sept. IQth,
'TPHE cheerful society and courteous hospi-
"*¦ tality of some kind friends, whom I ac
cidentally met at Exmouth, rescued me from
that ennui which a solitary wanderer like myself
would otherwise have experienced in a strange
place, and shut up in apublick-hoUse during one
of the most inclement days I ever witnessed.
The morning, however, of to-day, falsely flat
tering, tempted me to quit Exmouth, where

[ 200 3
(as Johnson observes) I had drunk Lotus, and
commit myself to the capriciousness of the pre
sent season, unlike any other in the annals of
meteorology. But I have been severely pu
nished for the folly of deserting social comfort
by an uninterrupted rain, which has fallen with
the most obstinate perseverance for eight long
hours. You must content yourself, therefore,
with little more than the bare names of the
places through which I passed, since the day
has been but ill-calculated for enquiry or inves
tigation. Had the weather permitted, I should have
led you through the grounds of BiCton, the seat
of Lord Rolle, about six miles from Exmouth,
where the patula fagus, the wide-spreading
beech, rising to an enormous size, indicates to
the planter the propriety of cultivating a tree
so evidently congenial to the soil of the coun
try. I would have carried you into the wool-
len-manufaCtory of Newton, a few miles further
on. You should have also visited the old con
ventual church of Ottery St. Mary, built by
John de Grandison, bishop of Exeter, who, by
wonder-working eloquence totally unknown in
these days, persuaded the clergy of his diocese
to surrender into his hands a considerable part

[ 201 ]
of their property during their lives, and to leave
the remainder of it to him after their deaths,
for the purpose of endowing churches, building
colleges, and establishing hospitals ! I But of
these places, and Honiton to-boof, (remarkable
for liolding its market on a Sunday, till the
reign of King John) I must refer you for an
account to those more fortunate tourists who
have trodden the same course with myself
under smiling heavens. Sufficient for me be it
to say, that I am safely housed at Chard, the
first town on the borders of Somersetshire, after
a journey which threatened me more than once
with the pains of drowning.
Chard is remarkable for the height of its si
tuation, the spot on which it is built being
pre-eminent over all the country between the
two seas. At the end of one of the intersecting
streets is a copious stream, which seems to issue
from the highest point of land hereabouts, since
its waters might be easily conducted in a di
rection opposite to that which they now take,
and led with equal facility either into the north
or south channel. The town formerly sent re
presentatives to parliament ; but it was relieved
in the second of Edward III. from the burthen
of this privilege, on account of its poverty.

[ 202 3
and inability to maintain its members;* for you
know, the senators of old, less disinterested
than those of modern days, received a regular
allowance from their constituents, as a remu
neration for the trouble and expences which
they incurred in their attendance on parliament.
But how have patriotism, generosity, and dis
interestedness increased in modern times ! the
senator now volunteers his services to the pub
lick; and instead of receiving a reward for his
labours from his constituents, will even put
himself to charge and inconvenience, that he
may have the pleasure of attending to their
interests in the House of Commons.
Your's,
R. W.

* Propter causam paupertatis.

N

Newton

, Bath

Stanton-Prior *

^-^— '

.^

Stanton-Dando i>1^5=^?=
Clutton Jk y

Chewton-Mendipj^y ^
.o^»*
Wookcy-Hole ^=TDf Wells
JnJ^Glastonbury
1
Somerton r^
Langport
^^^
Ilminster gl
Chard g|
LETTER XII.
TO THE SAME.
SEAB SIE, Bath, Sept. 1\st.
" Inyeni portum, Sors et Fortune, valete !"
/CONGRATULATE me, my dear Sir, on
^*^ having once more reached my home, the
best refuge from the tempests of heaven, as
well as the storms of life. Fortune, with that
capriciousness for which she is so generally and
[ 204 ]
deservedly abused, has for some days past
changed her smiles into frowns, and by a most
perverse anti-climax, gradually substituted for
balmy zephyrs and unclouded suns, roaring
winds and incessant rain. Under circumstan
ces thus disadvantageous, I was necessitated to
pass rapidly through Ilminster, without paying
a visit to its narrow-cloth manufactory, and Its
noble Gothick church, as well as Langport, a
venerable town of Saxon antiquity, in order to
hide my head from the inclemency of the
weather at Somerton. The Bear inn here af
forded me accommodation, as well as gratified
my taste for antiquarian pursuits, since part of
it is constructed of the ruins of the ancient
castle of Somerton, and other vestiges of the
fortress are visible in some old walls behind it.
Unnoticed as this town is in the annals of mo
dern times, it boasted an honourable name in
days of yore. Here Ina, the Saxon Justinian,
the hero, and the legislator, built a palace, and
resided; administering in justice and impar
tiality those laws which he had framed in wis
dom and policy. Here also the ruthless Danish
leaders Huingar and Hubba, having taken the
place, exhibited cruelties which language seems
to labour in vain to describe; and here, in later

[ 205 3
times, the unfortunate John king of France
was doomed to spend part of his sorrowful
captivity in gloomy solitude. But the ruins
behind the Bear inn are the only vestiges of
antiquity which Somerton lays claim to. The
present town is chiefly constructed from the
produce of some blue lyas quarries in the
neighbouring hills, and stands in a country rich,
beautiful, and highly cultivated, rising into
noble hills, and opening itself on every side
into fertile flats and productive vallies.
As I passed over the hills to the northward
of Somerton this morning, a favourable sky
allowed my eye to range along the immense
flat called King's-Sedgemoor, formerly covered
with the waters of the ocean, and even now
exhibiting marks of this derivation in several
marine plants which are scattered over its face.
These circumstances render it interesting, in
deed, to the naturalist ; but the patriot and phi-
lantropist also will not be unmoved, when he
adverts to the events of its more modern his
tory; when he recotleCts that this is the spot
where the brave, mild, benevolent, but unfortu
nate Monmouth wept over the lost fortunes of
a generous though hopeless cause; the dreadful
scene where those ruthless instruments of a

[ 206 3
tyrant and a bigot, Feversham, Kirke, and
Jefferies, aCted their horrid tragedies.*
I had omitted visiting Wookey-Hole in my
journey down into Devonshire, intending to
take it on my return, by crossing again from

* " The approach of the King's forces, under the command
of the Earl of Feversham, was first discovered by Mr. William
Sparke, a farmer of Chedzoy, who was at that time on the tower,
and by the assistance of a glass, saw them coming down Sedg-
moor. One Richard Godfrey, of the same parish, was imme
diately dispatched to Weston-Zoyland, to take a nearer obser-
servation; who, having informed himself of their strength, and
the order of their encampment, ran to Bridgwater to apprise
the Duke. A consultation being held, it was determined to as
sault the royal camp in the dead of the night. Accordingly, on
Sunday the 5th of July, a little before midnight, the Duke's
party marched out of Bridgwater, taking Godfrey with them for
a guide; who conduded them through a private lane at Brand-
ney, (known at this day by the name of War-lane) and passing
under Peasy-farm, brought them at length into North-moor,
diredtly in the rear of the King's array. Unluckily for the Duke,
at this junfture a pistol was fired by some person unknown, which
alarming the enemy, they soon put themselves in a posture to
receive the attack.
" The aftion began on Monday morning, between one and
two of the clock, and continued near an hour and half. Sixteen
only of the King's soldiers were killed, (as appears from a me
morandum entered at the time in the parish register at Weston)
five of whom were buried in Weston church, and eleven in the
church-yard. Above one hundred were wounded, and among
them Louis Chevalier de Misiere, a French gentleman, who died
of his wounds, and lies buried in the church atMiddlezoy. On
the part of the Duke, three hundred were killed in the field of

[ 207 ]
Glastonbury to the village of Wookey, accord
ing to my former route. But the attempt
would have been absurd; the whole country
was inundated, and one wide sheet of water
spread itself over the flats, which not three weeks
battle, and five hundred taken prisoners, of whom seventy-nine
were wounded. They were all confined in Weston church,
where five of them died of their wounds. About five hundred
more were taken prisoners in the pursuit, and upwards of five
hundred were apprehended afterwards by the civil officers arid
others. " Immediately after the battle, the Earl of Feversham ordered
twenty-two of the prisoners to be hanged on the spot; four of
whom (to use the words of the register above-mentioned) were
" hanged in gemmacess," i. e, in chains. The fate of one man
in particular is too extraordinary to be passed over. This per
son, who was remarkably swift of foot, was prevailed upon, on
condition of being pardoned, to entertain the General with an
instance of his agility. Accordingly, having stripped himself
naked, a halter was put round his neck, and the opposite end of
it was fastened to the neck of a horse. They started at a place
called Bnssex-Rhine, and ran from thence to Brintsfield-Bridge,
a distance somewhat exceeding half a mile; and though the
the horse went at full speed, the man kept pace with him the
whole way. But notwithstanding this exertion of his ability,
and the terms of his agreement, the inhuman General ordered
him to be hanged with the rest.
" The barbarity of the soldiers, who were employed in bury
ing the slain, was yet greater. Several unfortunate men of the
Duke's party, who lay wounded on the field, were thrown into
the earth with the dead; and some of them endeavouring, with
the little strength they had left, to crawl out of their graves,
were prevented by the unfeeling soldiers, who dispatched them
with their spades.

[ 208 j
before I had traversed on foot. It was neces
sary, therefore, for me to pass through Wells,
in order to reach this curious natural cavern.
The approach to Wookey-Hole is extremely
fine. It exhibits a deep indentation in the
south-western side of the Mendip hills; the
back formed by a broad face of perpendicular
rock, rising to the height of two hundred feet,
naked towards the top, but enriched with fo
liage and vegetation, thickening as the cliff
descends. The sides consist of rocky steeps,
gradually rising from the bottom of the dell,
till they unite with the cliff above, entirely co-

" The next day a new scene of slaughter was opened at Taun
ton, where nineteen prisoners were hanged and quartered on the
Cornhlll, by order of General Kirk, who caused their bowels to
be burnt, and their mangled limbs to be boiled in pitch, and set
up in the streets and the highways. This execution was followed
by several others of the like kind.
" The whole of those that died on this occasion, either in
battle, in prison, or by the hands of the executioner, and those
that otherwise suffered in their persons or fortunes, amounts to
more than two thousand.
" It is observable, that a person who had assisted at the execu
tions at Taunton, and on that account had acquired the name of
Tom-Boil-Man, being at plough in a field near North-Petherton,
a violent thunder-storm obliged him to seek for shelter; when
retiring under an oak, and leaving a boy in the mean time to
look after the plough, he had not been there but a few minutes,
before he was struck dead by the hghtning."

[ 209 j
vered with wood. At the root of the rock which
forms the back of this gloomy recess, a thun
dering torrent issues from an aperture of eleven
yards in height, and fourteen in breadth, (im
pervious, however, on account of the stream)
and discharges itself through the bottom, though
rendered invisible by the deep shade of the trees
which over-canopy it. The road to the cavern,
made easy and commodious by Mr. Tudway,
of Wells, creeps along the steep that forms
the western side of this hollow, and ascending
very gradually, reaches a ledge of rock, about
eighty feet above the level of the stream below.
Here a cavern opens its dire jaws " wide, dis-
" continuous," the interior of which is safely
secured, by a door well locked, from the intru*
sion of the profane. Into this aperture I was
introduced, by a guide provided with candles
and lanthorn. For the first twenty yards we
pursued a range of galleries or passages, suffi
ciently lofty to allow our walking upright. The
cavern then ascends, but narrowing its breadth,
and decreasing in height, it quickly dips again,
and spreads suddenly into a grand opening
called the kitchen, so high as to present nothing
to the eye but gloomy vacuity. To this succeeds
another cavern, called the parlour, more spa-
p

[ 210 ]
clous and lofty than the former, where incrus
tations of whimsical forms, and more whimsical
names, appear on all sides. Here superstition
and imagination, working together, have made
out a pillar of salt; an enormous petrified kid
ney; a turnspit dog; a flitch of bacon; and an
old witch. The last apartment is called the
hall, an immense hollo\y, stretching one hun
dred feet in length and breadth, the bottom
consisting for the most part of sand, hard, fine,
and dry. At the extremity of this the rock
descends to a pool of limpid water, and forbids
any further research into its secret recesses.
I had no doubt that a place, so well calcu
lated for witches and hobgoblins, had been
peopled with these aCtive gentry by the inhabi
tants of its neighbourhood, and questioned my
guide on the subjeCl. He assured me, however,
that the cavern had never but one inmate, an
old witch, who had monopolized the whole of
it to herself She had been turned, years ago,
into a stone, by a parson, as she was cooking
a child in her kitchen, which she had stolen
from the village ; but he had heard his grand
mother say, her father remembered the wicked
old woman, as well as the tricks she played;
how she would maim the cattle, bewitch the

[ 211 ]
young maids, and torture the old people with
cramps and twitches. Fortunately for the
lovers of legend, the tradition related by my
guide, has been rescued from the insatiable
maw of oblivion, by a modern poet, who has
drawn out the oral tale into vision, and secured
it to posterity by an elegant versification, the
beauty of which will ensure its duration.* On
comparing his story with the account above,
you will find he has not availed himself of the
lie entia poet arum, to thrust any extraneous matter
amongst the legitimate particulars.
THE WITCH OF WOKEY.
" In aunciente days, tradition showes,
" A base and wicked elfe arose,
" The Witch of Wokey hight :
" Oft have I heard the fearfull tale
" From Sue, and Roger of the vale,
" On some long winter's night.

* I am happy to bear this trifling testimony to the literary
talents of a most estimable charafter; who, though well known
to the publick as a scholar and a man of taste, would still have
engaged a larger portion of fame and applause, had not his mo
desty induced him often to conceal the name of the author of
such produdtions, as would add no mean laurels to any brow.
The gentleman I mean is Dr. Harington, of Bath.

[ 212 J
" Deep In the dreary dismall cell,
" Which seem'd and was ycleped hell,
" This blear-eyed hag did hide:
" Nine wicked elves, as legends faigne,
" She chose to form her guardian trayne,
" And kennel near her side.
" Here screeching owls oft made their nest,
"¦ While wolves its craggy sides possest,
" Night-howling through the rock :
" No wholesome herb could here be found ;
" She blasted every plant around,
" And blister'd every flock.
" Her haggard face was foull to see;
"¦ Her mouth unmeet a mouth to bee,-
" Her cyne of deadly leer.
" She nought devis'd, but neighbour's ill;
" She wreak'd on all her wayward will,
" And marr'd all goodly chear.
" All in her prime, have poets sung,
" No gaudy youth, gallant and young,
"¦ E'er blest her longing armes :
" And hence arose her spight to vex,
" And blast the youth of either sex,
" By dint of hellish charmes.
" From Glaston came a lerned wight,
" And bent to marr her fell despight,
" And well he did, I ween :
" Sich mischief never had been known,
"¦ And, since his mickle learning shown,
" Sich mischief ne'er has been.

C 213 ]
" He chauntede out his godlie booke,
" He crost the water, blest the brooke,
" Then — pater noster done,
" The ghastly hag he sprinkl'd o'er ;
" When lo ! where stood a hag before,
" Now stood a ghastly stone.
" Full well 'tis known adown the dale ;
" Though passing strange indeed the tale
" And doubtfuU may appear,
" I'm bold to say, there's never a one,
" That has not seen the witch in stone,
" With all her household gear.
" But though this lernede clerke did well ;
" With grieved heart, alas ! I tell,
" She left this curse behind :
" That Wokey nymphs forsaken quite,
" Though sense and beauty both unite,
" Should find no leman kind.
'' For lo ! ev'n as the fiend did say,
" The sex have found it to this day,
" That men are wondrous scant:
¦¦' Here's beauty, wit, and sense combin'd,
" With all that's good and virtuous join'd,
" Yet hardly one gallant.
" Shall then sich maids unpitied moane ?
" They might as well, like her, be stone,
" As thus forsaken dwell.
" Since Glaston now can boast no clerks;
" Come down from Oxenford, ye sparks,
" And, oh! revoke the spell.

[ 214 ]
" Yet stay — nor thus despond, ye fair;
"¦ Virtue's the gods' peculiar care;
" I hear the gracious voice :
'" Your sex shall soon be blest agen,
"¦ We only wait to find sich men,
"¦ As best deserve your choice."-|-
I have brought you to Bath by the dirty back
road of Chewton-Mendip, Clutton, &c. that I
might, in the way, carry you into the adyta of
a Druidical temple, which is esteemed one of
the greatest curiosities in our country. It is to
be found in the parish of Stanton-Drew, a vil
lage about ten miles from Bath, in a western
direction. Wood,* who referred every thing
ancient to the Druids and their superstitions,
in his passion for Celtick archeology, has made
a whimsical mistake with respeCt to the deri
vation of the name of this place. Misled by
the similarity of sound, and his Druidical pro
pensity, he gravely tells us, that Stanton-Drew
means the oak-men's town built with stones; where
as, unfortunately, the affix Drew was never at
tached to the place till the twelfth of Edward
III. when the manor came into the possession
of the family of Drogo or Drew, one of which
added his own name to that of the property,
t Perry's Rehcks of Ancient English Poetry, vol. i.
* Essay towards a description of Bath, p. I47"

[ 215 ]
in order to distinguish it from another Stanton,
about six miles distant from this parish. So
much for antiquarian dreams! — I would not,
however, - interfere with Mr. Wood's assertion,
that the assemblage of stones I am about to
describe to you was a Druidical arrangement:
its similarity to the other circles of stones, which
the initiated have united in pronouncing to
be the temples of these holy jugglers, puts
the point out of doubt. In a long field con
tiguous to the church, stand four distinCt ar
rangements of vast natural stones. Three of
these are circles; the fourth seems, originally,
to have described a winding serpentine form,
and to have served as an entrance to the cir
cular arrangements. These, unlike most other
Druidical remains of a similar magnitude, are
not concentric, but attached to each other late
rally; a sti&ne of one circle reckoning amongst
those which compose another circle. The
largest circle measures one hundred yards in
diameter, the second thirty yards, and the
smallest fifteen yards; nine feet four inches in
height, and upwards of seven yards in girth,
are the measures of the largest of these stones.
This material is a breccia, found in great plenty
at and about Brandon-hill, in the neighbour-

[316 ]
hood of Bristol. If it were necessary for me
to display learning, or to indulge hypothesis
upon this monument of ancient superstition, I
might import much of the former from Stukely
and Borlase, who have mis-spent an huge pro
fusion of erudition on senseless blocks and
stones ;* and much of the latter from good Mr.
Wood, whose flights on Druidical architecture
leave at a distance all other conjeCturers on
the same subjeCt, that have gone before or
succeeded him. But in my opinion the subjeCt
is not worth much disquisition, since the gi
gantick zvonders of Druidism will sink into mole
hills, if they be viewed through the correcting
medium of sober reason. What is there in
these Celtick temples that should so greatly
excite our admiration ? Even in Stonehenge, the
most stupendous of them, we see nothing that
might not readily be effeCted by the united ef
forts of tumultuary numbers. The ponderous
stones which compose it, would be found in the
neighbourhood of Marlborough, amongst that
assemblage of rocky fragments called the Grey

*"  Knowledge is as food; and needs no less
" Her temperance over appetite, to know
" In measure what the mind may well contain;
" Oppresses else with surfeit, and soon turns
" Wisdom to folly, as nourishment to wind."

[ 217 1
Wethers; would be floated down the lesser Avon
to Amesbury; conveyed to the spot they now
occupy in the neighbourhood, with the assist
ance of rollers; and lifted to their present situa
tion hy the inclined plane ; operations, which seem
to include no particular sagacity in their desig
nation, or difficulty in their execution ; parti
cularly when it is recolleCted, that the whole
strength of the nation was direCted to accom
plish the work by the irresistible impulse of su
perstition. The boasted learning of the Druids,
also, appears to have excited an astonishment
with just as little reason as their architectural
remains. It is impossible, that literature, sci
ence, and refinement, should be possessed for
a long period of time by any distinCt class of
society, in any nation, without Imparting some
portion of their beneficial effeCts to the other
orders of population; without civilizing, in some
degree, the national manners, and improving
the national taste. Britain, on the contrary,
particularly in those parts which were more
immediately under the influence of the Druids,
was barbarous and unpolished; illiterate and
savage ; and even destitute of some of the ne
cessary arts of life. The simple faCt is, that
the Druids knew more than the people, and.

[ 218 ]
consequently, as knowledge is only a relative
term, may be said to have been learned, in
comparison with them. Their wisdom, indeed,
was but cunning; but this was enough to impose
upon the savage ignorance of their contempo
raries; and will be sufficient to mislead people
more enlightened and better informed, as long
astheloveof^t/oW^r is a natural emotion, and the
mind of man is more inclined to the passlveness
of admiration, than the fatigue of ratiocination.
A local tradition exists in the neighbourhood
of Stanton-Drew, respecting the Druidical cir
cles above described. It relates, that as a
young woman and her intended spouse were
on the road to be married, attended by a nu
merous circle of their friends, some prophane
jokes were passed on the approaching sacred
ceremony, by the bridegroom and the party,
when Heaven, indignant at the impiety, in
stantly arrested their course, and turned them
into stone. The neighbouring rusticks regard
the circles with superstitious awe, and hold it
to be " devoutly true," that if they were to at
tempt reckoning the stones, instant death
would punish their impious rashness.
" ' Religio pavidos terrebat agrestes
" Dira loci — Sylvam saxumque tremebant."

I 219 1
A road of some intricacy, but threaded with
pleasure, for it pointed towards home, led me
through Stanton-Prior, a quiet little village,
chiefly remarkable for having been the birth
place of Dr. Gilbert Sheldon. This gentleman,
by a series of lucky casualties, rose gradually,
from the situation of a commoner, of All Souls-
college, to the metropolitan chair at Canter
bury. Fortune, it must be owned, did much
for him, by thus conferring rank, power, influ
ence, and importance, on him during life; but
his own princely munificence effeCted more ; for
when he ereCted that temple of the muses,
the Theatre at Oxford, during the period of his
chancellorship, he raised a monument, which
handed his name down with honour to posterity.
With less vanity and more propriety than Ho
race used the boastful language, might he have
inscribed on the classical architecture of his
building; " Exegi monumentum aere perennius
" Regalique situ pyramidum altius :
" Quod non imber edax, non Aquilo impotens
" Possit diruere ; aut innumerabilis
" Annorum series, et fuga temporum."
A lofty eminence to the northward of the
church, overlooking a vast extent of country.

[ 220 ]
exhibits some remains of Roman antiquity; the
out-works ofacamp, formed probably by Oj^/orm,
who, about the year of our Lord 50, conneCted
Monmouthshire and Bath, (the spot where the
iron-ore was dug, and the fabrica, where it was
manufactured for the legions) by a regular chain
of forts, built upon the summits of the hills,
which skirt the Severn and Avon rivers.* This
would have engaged my attention; and New
ton-park also, through which I passed, the re-.
sidence of William Gore Langton, esq; about
four miles from Bath, where elegant modern
architecture has risen over the ruins of an old
baronial castle, and where taste has introduced
every variety of picturesque scenery, would
have detained me to saunter thro' its beauties
with that leisure and attention they so well
deserve, had the afternoon been propitious.
But howling winds, and pelting rain, impelled
me to Bath as rapidly as I could advance; and
truly saddening was the scene as I approached
the city. The meadows around it, which in
the expressive language of eastern poetry,
" laughed and sang" with verdure and culti-
* Ostorius detrahere arraa suspeftis, cindosque castris Sabri-
num et Antonam fluvios colubere parat. Tacit. Annal. lib.
xii. c. 31.

[ 221 ]
vation, when I set out on my expedition, were
now invisible, and in their stead appeared one
wide, extensive, troubled sheet of water; the
labours of the husbandman were destroyed;
the hopes of the harvest annihilated; a sky
dark, and heavy with deluges of rain, curtained
in the scene, whilst the sullen wind, and mut
tering thunder, " not loud but deep," proclaim
ed the tidings of augmented storms and aggra
vated horrors, present distress and future want.
Amidst phaenomena hke these, it was impos
sible but that the mind should advert to the
state of the moral world, and trace its striCI
analogy with the unusual appearances of Na
ture. The resemblance, indeed, is too striking
to be overlooked ; there war, horrid war, was
committing the same havock amongst the so
cial affections and happiness of mankind, as
the indomitable elements were effeCting here.
There the same unnatural appearances were
exhibited, in the universal hubbub of Europe,
in the mortal opposition of Christian states, as
the physical world displayed, in unremitted
storms and ceaseless rains, amid the usual mild
and gentle days of autumn. — Does the sceptick
ask, wherefore are these deviations from order
and happiness in the affairs of the world, and

[ 222 ]
in the face of Nature, permitted by Him, who
is said to delight in regularity, to will the feli
city of the creatures of his hand? — Tell him,
that man has brought these evils on himself;
that they are medicinal preparations, nauseous
but salutary; necessary for those, who like the
states of Christendom, know so much, hut do so
little". — Tell him, (in the language of a nervous
writer) that as they are provoked by vices, so
they are naturally productive of virtues; that
they re-invigorate, by the task of trials, that
tone of mind which was previously weakened
by profligacy or inactivity; and in forcible ap
peals to the thoughtfulness of the soul, assert
those powers of religion, which were nearly
obliterated by luxury and sensuality. — Tell
him, that the convulsions of Nature, and the
enormities of man; the war of elements, and
the subversion of empires, are all admirably
permitted, and direCted by the controlling in
fluence of the Deity, to the great purpose of
supporting the moral interests of the world,
and impressing the heart with
THE TRUTHS OF RELIGION.

FINIS.

[CrutLwell, Printer, Bath,

JUST PUBLISHED,
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In the Years 1798 and 1799.

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