Fast by our Tamar spring, alone with God!
In the parish of Morwenstow is one very interesting old house, Tonacombe, or, as it was originally called, Tidnacombe. It belonged originally to the Jourdains, passed to the Kempthornes, the Waddons, and from thence to the Martyns. The present proprietor is the Rev. W. Waddon Martyn, rector of Lifton.
It is an ancient mansion of the sixteenth century, quite perfect and untouched, very small and plain, but in its way a gem, and well deserving a visit. It is low, crouching to the ground like the trees of the district, as for shelter, or as a ptarmigan cowering from the hawk, with wings spread over her young. A low gate, with porter’s lodge at the side, leads into a small yard, into which look the windows of the hall. The hall goes to the roof with open timbers; it is small—thirty feet long—but perfect in its way, with minstrel’s gallery, large open fireplace with andirons, and adorned with antlers, old weapons and banners bearing the arms of the Jourdains, Kempthornes, Waddons and Martyns. The hall gives access to a dark panelled parlour, with peculiar and handsome brass andirons in the old fireplace, looking out through a latticed window into the old walled garden, or Paradise.
It is curious that Mr. Kingsley, when writing Westward Ho! should have overlooked Tonacombe, and laid some of his scenes at Chapel in the same parish, where there never was an old house nor were any traditions. Probably he did not know of the existence of this charming old mansion. The minstrel’s gallery was divided off from the hall, and converted into a bedroom; but Mr. Hawker pointed out its original destination to the owner, and he at once threw down the lath-and-plaster partition, and restored the hall to its original proportions.[[16]] The hall was also flat-ceiled across; but the vicar of Morwenstow discovered the oaken roof above the ceiling, and persuaded Mr. Martyn to expose it to view. A narrow slit in the wall from the bedroom of the lady of the house allowed her to command a view of her lord at his carousals, and listen to his sallies.
Morwenstow Church stands on the steep slope of a hill.
My Saxon shrine! the only ground
Wherein this weary heart hath rest;
What years the birds of God have found
Along thy walls their sacred nest.
The storm, the blast, the tempest shock,