The two chiefs—Amias, to whom the monument was erected, and John, by whom it was erected, “pietatis ergo”—were both endued with the bump of philo-progenitiveness. The former was the father of twelve sons and five daughters, and the latter of eight sons and seven daughters. The sculptor has made a brave attempt to introduce as many figures as possible into his imposing work of art, but there was evidently scope for a sort of human ant-hill. From the way the numbers are paraded, the Bampfyldes, like the Hebrews of old, manifestly regarded a large family as a merit, or, at least, a blessing. “Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them.” Apart from the monument, the most striking feature of the church is the gorgeous display of carved oak in the chancel. The insertion of modern work in the old oak pulpit was a most wretched inspiration, whoever may have been responsible for it.
The Bampfylde family acquired the property by marriage with a coheiress of the St Maurs; and in the course of centuries their honourable name has undergone almost every possible variety of spelling. Bamfylde, Bampfylde, Baumfield, Bampfeild, are some of the forms I have met with, but I will not answer for it that the list is exhaustive. The first baronet was Sir John Bampfylde, who received the title in 1641. The sixth baronet, the Right Hon. Sir George Warwick Bampfylde, was raised to the peerage in 1831 as Baron Poltimore, that being the name of another estate belonging to the family near Exeter. The present Lord Poltimore was born in 1837. He owns not only Court Hall, a fine old mansion standing to the east of the church, and almost hidden by trees, but Court House, an ancient ivy-covered structure, formerly the residence of the Parkers, the Earl of Morley’s ancestors.
There lived in the village in those days a charitably-disposed old lady, one Mrs Passmore, a dressmaker; and at Christmas-tide the dear old soul had always ready basins full of coppers, threepenny-bits, sixpenny bits, etc., to be distributed in the shape of doles. The Lady Morley of the period is said to have taken it into her head that this amiable custom detracted, in some measure, from the honour and reverence due to herself; so she suggested to Mrs Passmore that, as no doubt their charities overlapped, and some people had more than their share, while others had nothing, it might be well to entrust her with the combined funds, and allow her to act as almoner.
“No, my lady,” was the reply, “I don’t think I will. You know they come and say, ‘Thankee, Lady Morley!’ and ‘God bless ee, Lady Morley!’ but if I give away my own money, I shall have all the God bless ee’s mysel’.”
An apprentice of Mrs Passmore was the rather noted Mrs Treadwin, who wrote a book on lace, and from whose shop on the north-east side of Exeter Cathedral were supplied the wardrobes of generations of queens and princesses, including the wedding-dress of Queen Victoria.
The almshouses, the inmates of which live rent free and receive fourpence a week, were originally Parker property; and on the panelling round the chancel of the parish church may be detected the initials “T. P.,” supposed to refer to one of the family—not to the well-known editor and Parliamentarian.
The Court Leet and Baron is held at the Poltimore Arms. In the bar-parlour of this hotel is a curious object—namely, a fire-back of cast-iron, bearing the inscription, “16 H S I 89.” The purpose of the utensil is to throw the fire forward and prevent it from burning the bricks. The venue of the Court Leet, however, is not the bar-parlour, but the large state-room on the right, where a feast, to which Lord Poltimore contributes thirty shillings and a hare, is held once a year. The personnel consists of sixteen jurymen, twelve of whom form the king’s jury, and four that of the manor. The presiding officer is the Portreeve (commonly known as the “Mayor”), and his subordinates include a Bailiff, Ale Tasters, and Searchers of the Market. The Court Leet possesses copper cups used as measures, but it may be mentioned, parenthetically, that the Searchers have not been round lately, as they found on a certain occasion that their own weights were not just. Mr Dobbs’s father served for a long time as Bailiff, the only pay he received being a dinner, while Mr Dobbs himself has been Portreeve, and though now quit of the office, is chaffingly greeted as “Mr Mayor.” This jest has been doing duty for at least half a century, but somehow the humour does not grow stale, and nobody is so foolish as to object.
The most colossal witticism attaching to Northmolton concerns a certain Peter, which appellation is, or used to be, in great favour in the village. The Peter in question was taken ill and died, whereupon a district visitor, or somebody of the sort, called to condole with the widow.
“So you have lost your good man?”