It would be pardonable to imagine that Lynton is indebted for its popularity as a watering-place to Lorna Doone, but this would betray ignorance of its history. I have spoken of the spinning industry formerly carried on by hand; when that ceased owing to the introduction of machinery into the towns, the dealers, who had employed people to work up the wool or bought up the poor folk’s yarn and taken it to larger markets, found their occupation gone. What was to be done? Mr William Litson, one of the persons in this predicament, hit upon the idea of opening an hotel. This was at the beginning of the last century, but already visitors, hearing reports of the rare and beautiful scenery, wended their way to Lynton, although not in large numbers. For their accommodation Mr Litson acquired the “Globe,” and furnished also the adjoining cottage. Among the first to patronise his establishment were Mr Coutts the banker, and the Marchioness of Bute. From that time the tale of visitors rapidly grew until, in 1807, the enterprising Mr Litson was encouraged to build the “Valley of Rocks” Hotel. The ball had now been fairly set rolling; hotels, lodging-houses, and private residences multiplied, and in the middle of the last century—years before a line of Lorna Doone had been written or so much
as meditated—Lynton and Lynmouth were in all essentials the same as they are now.
To the lover of nature and the simplicity of country life this conversion of scenery into shekels, and Exmoor into Bayswater, represents by no means pure gain, albeit the lover of humanity may decide otherwise—on the principle of the greatest happiness of the greatest number. Both sorts, however, may unite in casting curious glances at the old Lynton which courted neither aristocratic nor democratic favour, and actually had a revel. This began on the first Sunday after Midsummer Day, and lasted a week. When the congregations emerged from the parish church, there awaited them near the gate a barrel of beer, and the majority of them were speedily “at it,” quaffing a glass or discussing revel-cake—a special confection made of dark flour, currants, and caraway seeds. The principal feature in this, as in all revels, was the wrestling, in anticipation of which big sums were laid out in prizes. Silver spoons, for instance, were sometimes an incentive to competition. However, what with the drunkenness and the collusion that characterised too often the annual festival, the custom became obsolescent, and then obsolete, having incurred the taboo of the “respectable inhabitant” and the genuine sportsman alike.
In chapter xv. of the Maid of Sker mention is made of the practice of singing hymns at funeral processions on the Welsh side of the Bristol Channel. The same practice obtained on the North Devon side. One of the singers gave out the words verse by verse and the dirge was chanted to peculiar music reserved for such occasions. The first two or three verses were sung on the removal of the coffin from the house before the procession started, and the rest at intervals en route to the church. The following is a hymn used at the funeral of a grown-up person:—
“Farewell, all my parents[16] dear,
And, all my friends, farewell!
I hope I’m going to that place,
Where Christ and saints do dwell.
“Oppressed with grief long time I’ve been,
My bones cleave to my skin;
My flesh is wasted quite away
With pain that I was in.
“Till Christ his messenger did send
And took my life away,
To mingle with my mother earth,
And sleep with fellow clay.
“Into thy hands I give my soul;
Oh! cast it not aside;
But favour me and hear my prayer,
And be my rest and guide.