In this parish is Tonacombe, a finely preserved specimen of the mediæval manor-house, its hall containing the old minstrels' gallery. This deeply interesting house has many memories of Charles Kingsley as well as of Hawker. Kingsley was a visitor here while writing his Westward Ho! and Tonacombe figures in that book as "Chapel." Hawker met Kingsley at this time, and introduced him to the Grenville localities. It is not likely that the two men got on well together; they were complete contrasts in nature and gifts. Hawker did not care greatly for Westward Ho! when it appeared, and thought its local colour defective. He rarely mentioned Kingsley in later life without a note of depreciation. He was far more in sympathy, intellectually and spiritually, with Kingsley's great antagonist, John Henry Newman. At Tonacombe are preserved a curious old lantern and walking-stick that formerly belonged to Hawker. The lantern "was made for Thomas Waddon of Tonacombe, who died in 1755. His brother Edward Waddon lived at Stanbury, and their sister Honor was the wife of the Rev. Oliver Rouse, Vicar of Morwenstow. The three families used to meet regularly at each other's houses for dice and cards. In the excess of their merriment the cronies would dash their glasses on the table, and the broken pieces were preserved as a record of the jest. In course of time there was a goodly collection of these fragments, and in order that their memorial should not perish the lantern was made of solid oak, square, with a pointed roof and little windows formed of the round bases of the broken glasses and other pieces cut in the shape of dice, hearts, clubs, diamonds, and spades. Thereafter, when the festive party broke up, those whose turn it was to walk homewards through the dark lanes had their way lighted before them by this emblem of their wit and humour." Stanbury, an old manor south of Tonacombe, claims some notice as the birthplace of John Stanbury (or Stanberry), confessor of Henry VI., who was appointed by that king to be first Provost of Eton. From being a Carmelite friar at Oxford he rose to be bishop, first of Bangor, finally of Hereford. He died in the Carmelite convent at Ludlow, 1474, and was buried at Hereford. Marsland-mouth, the northward boundary of Morwenstow parish, is also the boundary between Cornwall and Devon. Its utter loneliness and wildness are in complete contrast to the great southward boundary at the mouth of the Three Rivers. Here at Marsland Devon and Cornwall merge imperceptibly; the characteristics of the one are carried over into the other; in scenery, people, dialect, no change can be noted. This close community was emphasised, in Hawker's day, by the fact that for the last twenty-five years of his life he held charge of Welcombe parish as well as Morwenstow, Welcombe (most suitably named) being the first parish in Devon. In his old age, when Dr. Temple was appointed to the diocese of Exeter, the Vicar had some fear that he would be deprived of this additional cure, as Temple was expected to be no friend to Dr. Phillpotts' nominees; but, somewhat to his surprise, Hawker found that he got on fairly well with the new Bishop, though he detested his theological standpoints. Obviously, the name of Welcombe might be "Well-combe," there being a holy well of St. Nectan here; but that derivation does not seem to be correct. In the Exeter Domesday Book the parish is given as Walcomba, and probably the name signified Welsh-combe, marking the juncture when Saxonised West Devon passed into "West Wales." The church is three miles' distance from Morwenstow, and Hawker used to ride over every Sunday afternoon for service. On one occasion he forgot to bring his watch, and he needed some guide in timing his service so that he might return to officiate at Morwenstow in the evening. He asked the folk standing about the church porch if they could oblige him in this particular. "But time is of no great import at Welcombe, and no watch was to be had. At last, just as the service was beginning, an old woman hobbled up the aisle and handed to the Vicar a large and ancient timepiece. 'Her's only got one hand, your honour,' she said, 'but yu must just gi' a guess.'" Perhaps the name Welsh-combe (Welsh being taken in the old sense of "foreign") denoted some survival of earlier occupation here, some lingering neolithic remnant; the Welcombe folk are still distinguished by their dark hair and skins, and as being somewhat of a race apart. In Hawker's day they were very ignorant and superstitious, though sufficiently devout. They had "no farrier for their cattle, no medical man for themselves, no beer-house, no shop; a man who travels for a distant town (Stratton) supplies them with sugar by the ounce, or tea in smaller quantities still. Not a newspaper is taken in throughout the hamlet, although they are occasionally astonished and delighted by the arrival, from some almost forgotten friend in Canada, of an ancient copy of the Toronto Gazette. This publication they pore over to weariness, and on Sunday they will worry the clergyman with questions about Transatlantic places and names, of which he is obliged to confess himself utterly ignorant. An ancient dame once exhibited her prayer-book, very nearly worn out, printed in the reign of George II., and very much thumbed at the page from which she assiduously prayed for the welfare of Prince Frederick." He himself used to act as their postman. Perhaps it is misleading to say that Welcombe is only three miles from Morwenstow; visitors who try to find their way through the rambling narrow lanes will find it much nearer to five or six. But the loveliness of Marsland vale is a recompense, and a charming introduction to the beauties of North Devon.
On the Cornish side of Marsland-mouth is a secluded old farmhouse, which Hawker solemnly averred was haunted. It was once truly haunted by smugglers. Mr. Baring-Gould introduces it into his novel, The Gaverocks. Hawker once said to a visitor, "You must go and look at the old house there—there is a very curious old lady there you may see—come into my study and I will show you her picture—she died, at least her body did, some sixty years ago. I frequently see her and talk with her." This spot must not be quitted without recalling that Marsland-mouth is the home of Lucy Passmore, the white witch in Westward Ho! It was hither that Rose Salterne came to perform the love-charm that should reveal her lover. It can hardly be said that such superstitions have yet died out of the West Country, but it is the older people now that cherish these ideas, secretly and furtively. The youngsters are being taught differently in the Council Schools.
There are some fine headlands in this part of the coast, such as the two Sharpnose Points, but the finest of all is Hennacliff, which rises to about 450 feet, and drops sheer into the Atlantic waves. Even where there is a beach beneath these rugged cliffs, it is usually difficult to reach; in many parts the breakers dash full against the granite precipices, and there are often outlying reefs of cruel jagged crag. Noting the deadly features of the coast, we can understand how even Bude attained its name of Haven, however bitterly ironic that name may often have sounded. But it is a grand coast and mainland confronting the wild, unresting sea, and the traditional atmosphere of the district is wholly in keeping with its physical features. Rumours of bygone peoples float around us—of Saxon and Celt and of earlier people still; the legends that they fostered are repeated to us, the footsteps of old saints may be traced, together with secular records of pirate and smuggler. There are memories of glorious and gracious personages, as well as of those whose villainy at least was picturesque; there are sad memorials of shipwreck, death, and heartbreak. There are stretches of undulating upland, with fragrant turf, gorse, bracken; valleys almost too low for sunlight to enter, the wild and tortuous mouths of rapid streams, patches of meadow and pasture, with lonely cottages and isolated church-towns. Different from the southern coast in aspect, more desolate, less fertile, there is yet a special charm even in the desolation, a stimulating appeal in the solitude, and a marvellous purity in the bracing winds that blow, sometimes with ruthless violence, from a thousand leagues of ocean.
INDEX
Acland, Sir T., [358]
Addison, [109]
Aitken, Rev. R., [223]
Anthony-in-Meneage, [110]–11
Anthony-in-Roseland, [79]