Tawstock Court, a long castellated building, and Tawstock Church, which has been called the “Westminster Abbey of the West,” encompassed with old woods, and so closely linked that they may almost be regarded as one, are near neighbours of Bishop’s Tawton, the home of the romantic vicar. Their unity of interest may be illustrated by an ancient custom depicted in a print belonging to Sir Bourchier Wrey, and a much valued heirloom. In the churchyard are two ivy-covered pillars, the remains of a gateway through which the family at the mansion walked on their way to church, while behind them, in solemn procession, marched their servants and retainers.
A full account of the contents of this most sumptuous church is beside my purpose, but attention may be drawn to some of its more important features. In the north transept is a square wainscoted seat, which has a canopy adorned with coloured bosses, and on the cornice are Bourchier knots. The latter circumstance suggests that it was the state pew of the Bourchiers, Earls of Bath, though the opinion has been hazarded that it was a confessional box. The late Sir Gilbert Scott thought the best piece of carving in the building the little gallery leading into the belfry, the principal adornment being the vignette or running decoration of leaves and tendrils. The bench-ends also, with their alto-rilievo of rose, pomegranate, and royal arms, are excellent specimens of wood-carving.
The beautiful screen was erected by John Bourchier, second earl, whose arms and quarterings, impaling those of his countess, the Lady Elinor, are to be seen on the outside of the church over the priest’s door.
The monuments are of almost unparalleled splendour. The “goodliest of all,” as Risdon has it, is that erected to the memory of William Bourchier, third earl, and his wife, Lady Elisabeth Russell, daughter of Francis, Earl of Bedford, whose armorial bearings are fully blazoned. The recumbent figures of the earl and countess are life-size, and the colouring of their crimson robes, lined with ermine, is still perfect. The fifth and last earl, Henry, was honoured with a large sarcophagus, which is surmounted by “an elegant black urn,” supported by four griffins. Beside it stands the marble statue of his wife, the Lady Rachel Fane, daughter of Francis, Earl of Westmorland. The work of Bernini, a famous Florentine sculptor it is mounted on a decorated pedestal of circular form. A square canopy, built in memory of Lady Fitzwarren and her babes in 1586, adorns the south wall, and under an arch in the north wall of the chancel is the recumbent figure of a lady, temp. Edward III., carved in wood.
An ancient chest in a small room, to which access is gained by a flight of old oak stairs, preserves the remains of a collection of armour of the style worn by musketeers in the reign of Charles I., and till 1832 “as good as new.” In that year a visitor requested permission to purchase it, but was informed that he was just too late—it had been sold to a Taunton man as old iron. And so nearly the whole of the morions, gorgets, back and breast-plates, wheel-lock guns and bandoliers, which were deposited in this chamber until comparatively recently, have been irrecoverably lost.
Another village within easy reach of Barnstaple is Landkey, the original home of the great Devonshire family of Acland. If, however, I allude to it here, it is on account of an extraordinary story, for which old Westcote vouches, and which may as well be given in his own quaint language.
“In this parish of Landkey are two towns (indeed both will make but a pretty village were they joined), named Easter and Wester Newlands; a thoroughfare much travelled, as being not passing two miles from Barnstaple. These are somewhat dangerous to be passed by strangers; not for thieves or such like, but to those whose tongues are ushers to their wits, and walk before them, such I mean as bring the cause with them; for if out of their blindness and boldness (for it is no other), though they term it valour, they shall cry out these words (I am almost afraid to whisper them), “Camp-le-tout, Newland,” held of the good women very scandalous to their honesty, they are instantly all up like a nest of wasps with the first alarum, the streets are corded, the party (or more, if more be in the company) beaten down from his horse (if he ride) with stones, or other dog-bolts always in readiness, so taken and used at the pleasure of the good townswomen, washed, shaved, and perfumed (and other like dainty trimming, not for modesty to be spoken) that he that travels that way a fortnight after may smell what hath there been done; and he that hath made the trial will confess, by experience, that it is folly for a wise man to anger a multitude causelessly.
“Believe what I set down for your behoof
Or come that way and find it true by proof.”
The great event in Barnstaple was, and perhaps is, its fair, for which David Llewellyn arrived just in the nick of time, establishing his headquarters at the “Jolly Sailors” in Bear Street. I cannot find that any hostelry of that name ever existed in this thoroughfare, which, however, boasted the “Ebberly Arms,” the “Rolle Arms,” and the “Northmolton Inn.” The importance of Barnstaple Fair is beyond dispute, and formerly was much greater. It is still the largest in the county, both for business and pleasure. The opening ceremony is quaint; for a company assemble in the Guildhall, where the Mayor provides a feast of mulled ale, toast, and cheese. On such occasions the civic plate is displayed, including two massive silver flagons, which are among the few Elizabethan municipal drinking-vessels in the country; and another interesting piece is the punch-bowl presented by Thomas Benson, who forgot to supply the ladle, but afterwards repaired the omission, and caused the latter to be inscribed “He who gave the bowl gave the ladle.” Benson represented Barnstaple in Parliament, but having cheated the Government by sending convicts to Lundy Island instead of abroad, was compelled to fly the country. Numerous speeches are made by the Mayor and others, after which a procession is formed and wends its way to the High Cross, where the Fair is formally proclaimed.
The duration of the Fair is three days, the first being devoted to the buying and selling of cattle. In the middle of the last century £20,000, it is said, was often expended in the purchase of live stock. The cattle fair used to be held in Boutport Street—the scene of Rambone’s swagger. On the second day was the horse fair, and, in conjunction therewith, a stag-hunt was held. The meet was on the borders of Exmoor. The third day was given up to sight-seeing and all manner of amusements.