On one point there is no possible doubt—namely, that the Wichehalses were once owners of a manor-house at Lynton, standing on the site of the handsome residence known as Lee Abbey. Traces of the old structure were to be seen in an intermediate building, and gave indications of much splendour, while, as could be easily recognised, the adjacent fields and orchards formed part of the erstwhile pleasure-grounds. Just above Lee Abbey is Duty Point, famous for its beautiful views—northwards, the belt of silver sea, southwards the heathery hills, eastwards the Valley of Rocks, and westwards the grey oaks of Woody Bay; famous, too, as the scene of romantic tragedy. The principal personages of the story were old Wichehalse, his daughter Jennifried, and cruel Lord Auberley. One evening the lovelorn maiden fell or threw herself over the terrific precipice; and, hungry for revenge, her father met and slew the false suitor at the battle of Lansdown, near Bath—one of the memorable encounters of the Great Civil War. It is needless to recapitulate the details of the narrative. The story has been told by Blackmore in his Tales from the Telling House; and before that, it was told very pathetically by Mr Cooper in his Guide to Lynton.
On the south wall of Lynton Church, close to the west window, is the following inscription on the monument of Hugh Wichehalse of Ley, who departed this life, Christide Eve, 1653, æt. 66.
“No, not in silence, least those stones below
That hide such worth, should in spight vocal grow.
Wee’l rather sob it out, our grateful teares
Congeal’d to Marble shall vy threnes with theirs.
This weeping Marble then Drops this releife
To draw fresh lines to fame, and Fame to greife;
To greife which groanes sad loss in him t’ us all,
Whose name was Wichehalse—’twas a Cedar’s fall.
For search this Urn of Learned dust, you’le find
Treasures of Virtue and Piety enshrin’d,
Rare Paterns of blest Peace and Amity,
Models of Grace, Emblems of Charity,
Rich Talents not in niggard napkins Layd,
But Piously dispenced, justly payd,
Chast Sponsal Love t’ his Consort; to Children nine
Surviving th’ other fowre his care did shine
In Pious Education; to Neighbours, friends,
Love seald with Constancy, which knowes no end.
Death would have stolne this Treasure, but in vaine—
It stung, but could not kill; all wrought his gaine.
His Life was hid with Christ; Death only made this story,
Christ cal’d him hence his Eve, to feast with him in glory.”
The subject of this epitaph would have been the hero of the legend. One may observe, in passing, the play upon words, the Scotch elm being often termed the wych elm. This suggests a possible, and indeed probable, derivation of the name. The reader should compare Blackmore’s account of the family, and especially his portrait of Hugh Wichehalse, in chapter xv. of Lorna Doone.
According to the folklore of the district it was intended to build the church at Kibsworthy, opposite Cheribridge, on the Barnstaple road, and day after day the workmen brought materials to the spot. Each morning, however, it was found that they had been carried away during the night to the present site—it was supposed by pixies; and finally, those little gentlemen had their way. Obviously, little dependence can be placed on folklore where questions of fact are concerned. A small volume, entitled Legends of Devon, printed at Dawlish in 1848, contains another story about a church equally void—the story, and the church, too—of foundation. In the middle of the twelfth century, it is said, Lynton Castle was the abode of a family named Lynton, in whom the Evil One, from the year 500, had taken a malicious interest. Reginald of that ilk then resolved to erect a church at Lynmouth in honour of his God, and chose for it the site of an old abbey. This devout undertaking ended the long and dreadful spell. “The castle fell, the cliff heaved as if in pain, and the terrible convulsion formed the valley of rocks. The devil was seen scudding before the wind; he had lost his hold on the House of Lynton.” Unfortunately, there never was a castle at Lynton, nor an abbey or church at Lynmouth. Moreover, one learns from Hazlitt, that, according to the popular belief, the rocks represent persons caught dancing on a Sunday, and so, like Lot’s wife, transformed into stone.
The “Valley of Rocks,” is not the primitive name of this singular and romantic spot. The Devon peasantry knew it of old as the “Danes” or “Denes”—a term probably connected with the word “den,” and signifying “hollows.” Prebendary Hancock, in his estimable History of Selworthy, shows it to be a commonplace name in this corner of the world. One is tempted to inquire—who christened the locality the “Valley of Rocks?” The problem is perhaps insoluble, but the London Magazine for 1782 contains a poem on the “Valley of Stones,” in a note on which it is stated that the place owed this name to Dr Pococke, Bishop of Upper Ossory, who had visited it “some years since” with Dr Mills, the Dean of Exeter.
Some have found fault with the name “Valley of Rocks” as too ambitious, but attempts to belittle the grandeur of the spot would have received small support from Southey, who wrote about the scene in the language of ecstasy.
“Imagine a narrow vale between two ridges of hills somewhat steep; the southern hill turfed; the vale which runs from east to west covered with huge stones and fragments of stone among the fern that fills it; the northern ridge completely bare; excoriated of all turf and all soil, the very bones and skeletons of the earth; rock reclining upon rock, stone piled upon stone; a huge, terrific mass—a palace of the pre-Adamite kings, a city of the Anakim, must have appeared so shapeless, and yet so like the ruins of what had been shaped after the waters of the Flood had subsided. I ascended, with some toil, the highest point; two large stones inclining on each other formed a rude portal on the summit. Here I sat down. A little level platform, about two yards long, lay before me, and then the eye immediately fell upon the sea far, very far below. I never felt the sublimity of solitude before.”
Southey evidently referred to the “Castle Rock” on the right. On the left is the pile of stone which marked the abode of Mother Melldrum (see Lorna Doone, chapter xvii.). Blackmore mentions two names by which the place was known—the “Devil’s Cheese-ring” and the “Devil’s Cheese-knife,” which he states to be convertible; but there appears to have been a third—the “Devil’s Cheese-press.”
At one time the valley was the fitting haunt of a herd of wild goats, but the animals had to be destroyed—they butted so many sheep over the adjoining cliffs.