since the last disastrous event—which, as things are, rather falsifies the narrative. Graced with ash and sycamore, the little cemetery is as Blackmore describes it, “as meek a place as need be.”
CHAPTER XI
THE MOUTH OF THE LYN
The scenery of the district described in many excellent guide-books may not tally in every particular with the superb word-portraiture of Lorna Doone, but that it possesses charms of supreme merit will be admitted by all who know the country, whether as residents or visitors. Almost before R. D. Blackmore was breeched, the poet Coleridge testified: “the land imagery of the north of Devon is most delightful”; and his brother-in-law, Robert Southey, is equally emphatic.
“My walk to Ilfracombe,” he says, “led me through Lynmouth, the finest spot, except Cintra and Arrabida, that I ever saw. Two rivers [i.e., the East and West Lyn] join at Lynmouth. You probably know the hill streams of Devonshire. Each of these flows through a combe, rolling over huge stones like a long waterfall; immediately at their juncture they enter the sea, and the rivers and sea make but one noise of uproar. Of these combes, the one is richly wooded, the other runs between two high, bare, stony hills. From the hill between the two is a prospect most magnificent, on either hand combes, and the river before the little village—the beautiful little village—which, I am assured, by one who is familiar with Switzerland, resembles a Swiss. This alone would constitute a view beautiful enough to repay the weariness of a journey; but, to complete it, there is the blue and boundless sea, for the faint and feeble outline of the Welsh coast is only to be seen, if the day be perfectly clear.”
Inland, it is certain, the moorland streams—Lancombe, Bagworthy Water, the East and West Lyn, etc.—and all that they imply, are paramount attractions; and Miss Gratiana Chanter both truly and happily observes that, “to follow one of these tiny streams from its birth to its end, is a dream of delight to those who love to be alone with nature and her many marvels.” Another reason why we should seek the “founts of Lyn” is, that there Jeremy Stickles gave his pursuers “a loud halloo” on feeling himself secure (see Lorna Doone, chapter xlvii.).
The name “Lyn” is said to be derived from the Saxon word hlynna, signifying a torrent. The East Lyn, rising above Oare, John Ridd’s birthplace, flows in a north-westerly direction to Malmsmead, where it unites with the Bagworthy Water, which at this point is the richer for two or three tributaries, including Lancombe (or Longcombe) stream and its waterslide. From the bridge and the thatched cottages that define this spot, the river pursues its course past Lyford Green and Lock’s Mill, where it encounters a weir, to Millslade and its meadows, and the blacksmith’s forge, “where the Lyn stream runs so close that he dips his horse-shoes in it,” (Lorna Doone, chapter lxii.), and thence through woodlands to pretty Brendon. Here the Farley Water, arriving from Hoar Oak by way of Bridgeball and Illford Bridges, joins the East Lyn, and their confluence is known as Watersmeet, a poetical description not belied by the rare beauty of the scene.
Meanwhile, from the hills around Woolhanger the water gathers into two streams, which are trysted at a place called Barham, whilst at Cheribridge another brook, hailing from Furzehill, helps to swell the current. Passing Barbrook Mill and Lynbridge, the West Lyn weds the East Lyn in private grounds at Lynmouth, and then the combined torrent eddies tumultuously into the sea. Nothing can excel the cataracts of the West Lyn, dashing athwart huge boulders and down a chasm of grey rock, in an incline stated to be “one in five.” Clothing the sides of the ravine are oaks and beeches and thickets of underwood, while ferns of the most exquisite sorts fringe the banks.
“Here are mosses deep,
And thro’ the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
And from the craggy ledges the poppy hangs in sleep.”
It must not be forgotten, however, that the road via Brendon, Illford Bridges, and Barbrook was that taken by John Ridd and Uncle Reuben on their visit to Ley Manor (Lorna Doone, chapter xv.).
All who are fond of quaint authors will find a congenial companion in old Thomas Westcote, whose Survey of Devon, written in the reign of James I., or during the early years of his successor, is stored with all manner of gossip, set forth with many a stroke of arch or naïve humour. In his book, at all events, he approaches Lynton by much the same route as we have followed, and then spins us an amusing yarn about the finny visitors and a certain parson.