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Creating Web
Animations
BRINGING YOUR UIs TO LIFE

Kirupa Chinnathambi
Creating Web Animations
Bringing Your UIs to Life

Kirupa Chinnathambi

Beijing Boston Farnham Sebastopol Tokyo

Creating Web Animations
by Kirupa Chinnathambi
Copyright © 2017 Kirupa Chinnathambi. All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
Published by O’Reilly Media, Inc., 1005 Gravenstein Highway North, Sebastopol, CA
95472.
O’Reilly books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales promotional use.
Online editions are also available for most titles (http://oreilly.com/safari). For more
information, contact our corporate/institutional sales department: 800-998-9938 or
[email protected].

Editor: Meg Foley Indexer: Angela Howard

Production Editor: Kristen Brown Interior Designer: David Futato
Copyeditor: Rachel Monaghan Cover Designer: Karen Montgomery
Proofreader: Molly Ives Brower Illustrator: Rebecca Demarest

April 2017: First Edition

Revision History for the First Edition

2017-03-15: First Release

See http://oreilly.com/catalog/errata.csp?isbn=9781491957516 for release details.

The O’Reilly logo is a registered trademark of O’Reilly Media, Inc. Creating Web Ani‐
mations, the cover image, and related trade dress are trademarks of O’Reilly Media,
Inc.
While the publisher and the author have used good faith efforts to ensure that the
information and instructions contained in this work are accurate, the publisher and
the author disclaim all responsibility for errors or omissions, including without limi‐
tation responsibility for damages resulting from the use of or reliance on this work.
Use of the information and instructions contained in this work is at your own risk. If
any code samples or other technology this work contains or describes is subject to
open source licenses or the intellectual property rights of others, it is your responsi‐
bility to ensure that your use thereof complies with such licenses and/or rights.

978-1-491-95751-6
[LSI]
 Table of Contents

Preface. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii

Part I. The Basics

1. Introduction to Web Animations. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
What Is an Animation? 5

2. Introduction to CSS Animations. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

Creating a Simple Animation 13
What Just Happened 15
The Longhand Version 20
Conclusion 21

3. Introduction to CSS Transitions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23

Creating a Simple Transition 25
What Just Happened 27
The Longhand Version 28
Conclusion 28

4. Working with CSS Timing Functions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29

What Is a Timing Function? 29
Timing Functions in CSS 32
Conclusion 40

5. Ensuring Your Animations Run Really Smoothly. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43

What Is a Smooth Animation? 44

iii
 Creating Responsive 60 fps Animations 45
Conclusion 51

6. Transitions, Animations, and JavaScript. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53

It’s Just Property Changes 54
A Tale of Two Styling Approaches 59
Animating with requestAnimationFrame 62
Conclusion 64

7. CSS Animations Versus CSS Transitions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65

Similarities 65
Differences 66
Conclusion 72

Part II. Learning from Examples

8. Animating Your Links to Life. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75
The Starting Point 76
Animated Underline 77
Simple Background Color Change 80
Cooler Background Color Change 81
Conclusion 84

9. Simple Text Fade and Scale Animation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85

The Example 86
Conclusion 91

10. Creating a Smooth Sliding Menu. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93

How the Sliding Menu Works 94
Creating the Sliding Menu 97
Conclusion 105

11. Scroll-Activated Animations. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107

The Basic Idea 108
Building It All Out 114
Conclusion 124

12. The iOS Icon Wobble/Jiggle. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125

The Full HTML and CSS 126
Deconstructing This Effect 128

iv | Table of Contents
 Looking at the CSS 130
Faking Randomness 132
Conclusion 134

13. Parallax Scrolling. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137

Overview of How the Parallax Effect Works 139
Getting Started 142
Conclusion 151

14. Sprite Sheet Animations Using Only CSS. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153

Creating the Sprite Sheet 154
Conclusion 161

15. Creating a Sweet Content Slider. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163

Overview of How It Works 164
The Content 166
Clipping the Content 171
The Navigation Links 172
Making the Content Actually Slide 175
Understanding the Code (and More!) 177
Conclusion 185

16. Conclusion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187

Until Next Time 188

Index. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189

Table of Contents | v
 Preface

Animations are everywhere. Today, anything you do on a device

with a screen is just one click, tap, or keystroke away from springing
to life. As it turns out, animations are no longer a luxury or some‐
thing to keep under wraps. Instead, they make up a large part of
your experience using applications in your browser, on your phone,
or on any other “smart” device. It’s no surprise why. Users love ani‐
mations. When done right, animations can make your applications
easier to navigate, make your content more presentable, and even
help your creations feel more alive and fun. Sometimes, animations
look cool and you just gotta throw them in. These are all good
things!™
What’s the catch? Well, for all the great things animations have
going for them, creating them is hard. On the web, the way you
think about animations is different. The way you create them is also
different…really different. The challenges that you once painfully
overcame in older technologies like Flash are back in new and inter‐
esting ways. Fortunately, this is all part of learning something new.
All you need is the right guide to help you along the way.

vii
That guide is going to be me:

Hi. My name is Kirupa, and I love animation. Ever since my parents

bought me a computer in the early 1990s, I’ve been trying to get
things to move on the screen and tell everybody how awesome it is.
Nothing much has changed in my world since then…except for this
book.
This book is all about teaching you how to create great animations
for the web. It starts off with the very basics and gradually ratchets
up the heat as you learn how to create more involved, more lifelike,
and more complex animations. By the time you reach the last page,
you will have learned a lot about how to create animations in HTML,
CSS, and JavaScript using the one-two punch of web standards and
best practices. If I did my job well, hopefully you had a bunch of fun
along the way and laughed out loud a few times. More than likely,
you will also have cringed a lot…kind of like you did after reading
“one-two punch of web standards and best practices.”

Know Your Basic HTML, CSS, and JavaScript

To get the most out of this book, you should be familiar with the
basics of HTML, CSS, and JavaScript. By no means do I expect you
to be an expert in any of these languages, but when you see some
HTML or CSS or JavaScript, you should be able to understand what
is going on with only a little handholding. This is the equivalent of

viii | Preface
knowing enough of a local language to get around town by reading
the street signs.
If this doesn’t describe you, shuffle (or push/click/flick/scroll)
through this book and see how you feel after skimming through
some of the pages. If most of what you see seems like unintelligible
gibberish, then I encourage you to take a detour and learn the basics
of working in HTML first. There are a lot of great books and online
tutorials out there (hint: especially on https://www.kirupa.com), so
you should be up and running very quickly. After that, you will
probably have a much better time with this book.

About Authoring Tools

This entire book is written with no expectation that you use a fancy
HTML authoring tool. A basic editor that allows you to see HTML,
CSS, and JavaScript is all you need. If all you have is a text editor like
Notepad, you’ll be fine as well. This book is old school. It’s all about
manual labor and having you get your hands dirty when creating
animations.
You may be wondering why a book aimed at teaching animation
would avoid using animation tools. There are several reasons. The
main one is that tools abstract away important details. They often
make choices for you that you may not fully understand. When
you’re learning something new and complex such as web-based ani‐
mations, I strongly believe that you need to know every single detail
about what you are doing. That can only happen if you are fully
involved in every part of what you are creating.
With all that said, once you’ve learned all about animations, their
subtleties, and gotchas, take some time and look at the great tools
that are out there. Well-designed tools help you to be significantly
more productive than you ever will be defining animations by hand,
and being productive is yet another good thing!™

Preface | ix
 Browser Support
Everything you learn in this book is designed to
work on what all the cool people call a “modern”
browser. That’s just a fancy way of saying that if
you are running a semirecent version of
Chrome, Internet Explorer 11, Edge, Firefox, or
Safari, you should be good to go. Also, before
you ask, everything you see here will work beau‐
tifully on mobile devices like your iPhones,
iPads, and Android-based gizmos!

Using the Code Examples

Supplemental material (code examples, exercises, etc.) is available
for download at https://github.com/kirupa/kirupa/tree/master/creat‐
ing_web_animations.
You will be seeing a fair amount of code in this book. Since I get a
lot of questions regarding how you can use this code, the general
gist is this: for most “normal” cases, you can do whatever you want
with the code without contacting me or O’Reilly. That’s a bit broad, so
the following examples should help you out.
Situations where you don’t need to ask for permission:

• Using the code from this book in your personal or commercial

project
• Taking the code, modifying it, and sharing it with others
• Answering a question by using example code
• Printing out some code snippets and hanging them on your wall
as an art installation
Situations where you need to ask for permission:

• Publishing a significant amount of this book’s content and code

• Selling or distributing a CD-ROM (…or a VHS recording :P) of
the examples you see
• Incorporating a significant amount of example code from this
book into your product’s documentation
If you feel your use of code examples falls outside fair use or the per‐
mission given above, feel free to contact us at permis‐
[email protected].

x | Preface
O’Reilly Safari
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ers.
For more information, please visit http://oreilly.com/safari.

Getting Help/Contacting the Author

The last (and most important) thing to know before we get started is
what to do when you get stuck or just need some assistance. The
fastest and most effective way for getting help is to post on the
forums at http://forum.kirupa.com. I or any of the many other
friendly posters will help you out.
For any nontechnical assistance, you can contact me at kirupa@kir‐
upa.com, tweet to @kirupa, or message me on Facebook. I love hear‐
ing from readers like you, and I make it a point to personally
respond to every message I receive.

Contacting O’Reilly
If you’d like to contact the publisher, then use the following details:

O’Reilly Media, Inc.

1005 Gravenstein Highway North
Sebastopol, CA 95472
800-998-9938 (in the United States or Canada)
707-829-0515 (international or local)

Preface | xi
 707-829-0104 (fax)

We have a web page for this book, where we list errata, examples,
and any additional information. You can access this page at http://
bit.ly/creatingWebAnimations.
To comment or ask technical questions about this book, send email
to [email protected].
For more information about our books, courses, conferences, and
news, see our website at http://www.oreilly.com.
Find us on Facebook: http://facebook.com/oreilly
Follow us on Twitter: http://twitter.com/oreillymedia
Watch us on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/oreillymedia

Acknowledgments
Before we move on to the main part of the book, there are bunch of
people that I’d like to thank for helping make this book a reality:
First, I’d like to thank Meena—my awesome wife who encouraged
me to contact O’Reilly in the first place, helped get the ball rolling
for the book you see right now, and patiently tolerated my antics (I
am a writer, after all!) during the course of this book’s writing.
Next, I’d like to thank my parents for always encouraging me to aim‐
lessly wander and enjoy free time to do what I liked—such as spend‐
ing a large amount of time on the computer trying to make pixels
move around the screen. I wouldn’t be half the rugged indoorsman/
scholar/warrior I am today without them both.
On the publishing side, writing the words you see here is the easy
part. Getting the book into your hands is an amazingly complex
process. The more I learn about all the moving pieces involved, the
more impressed I am at all the individuals who work tirelessly
behind the scenes to keep this amazing machinery running. To
everyone at O’Reilly who made this possible, thank you! There is one
person I would like to explicitly call out: I’d like to thank Meg
Foley for replying to my original email asking if I could write a book
on web animations, patiently walking me through the publishing
process, and working with me throughout to help make the book
the best it can be. Next, I would like to thank Rachel Monaghan and
Kristen Brown for turning the original draft of this book into a form

xii | Preface
of English that humans can easily understand. If the content in this
book makes sense, a large amount of credit should be given to
Rachel and Kristen for helping make that happen!
Lastly, the technical content of this book has been reviewed in great
detail by my long-time friend and online collaborator, Trevor
McCauley (aka senocular). Words have not been invented (in any
language…as far as I know) to express how grateful I am for his
attention to detail and ability to highlight when I could explain
something in a better, more clear way.
And with that…let’s get started!

Preface | xiii
 PART I
The Basics

Before you can create the totally awesome, cool, and useful anima‐
tions that you want to create, we need to start at the beginning and
cover the basics. We need to get a good feel for the building blocks
you have at your disposal, not only for creating animations, but for
creating animations that run really well. That sounds complicated,
but as you will find out shortly, it’s all pretty straightforward…for
the most part. :P
In the following chapters, we are going to start at the very beginning
and quickly ramp up to the important things you will need to learn
and be aware of. That will set you up nicely for the rest of the book
where we start applying everything we learned toward creating the
animations that bring our UIs to life.
Onward!
 CHAPTER 1
Introduction to Web Animations

While we think of animation as a recent creation brought about by

film and computers, people have been fiddling with ways to com‐
municate motion for a really really long time (Figure 1-1).

Figure 1-1. A sequence of pictures from 3000 BC (Wikipedia)

Those ways have ranged from cave paintings and elaborate mechan‐
ical devices to more familiar, contemporary solutions, such as what
you see on television, computers, and smartphones (Figure 1-2).

3
Figure 1-2. A really small sampling of apps that are lively and full of
motion!

No longer are animations primarily in the domain of games, intros,

cartoons, banner ads…or even cave paintings! Animations are
deeply ingrained in today’s technology, and they make up a large
part of your applications’ overall user experience. They can make
your applications easier to navigate. They make your content more
presentable. They can help your creations feel more alive and fun.
Who doesn’t want more of that?
That’s enough background for now. You aren’t here to get a history
lesson or be convinced of why animations are useful. You probably
already know about their importance. What you want to know is
how to actually implement animations, and you have come to the
right place. In this chapter and subsequent ones, you will learn how
to work with animations in HTML. In a short time, you will become
an animation expert…or at least be good enough to play one on TV.

4 | Chapter 1: Introduction to Web Animations

What Is an Animation?
Before we proceed further down the bright, lava-filled pit where you
learn how to create animations, let’s take a step back and figure out
what an animation is. Let’s start with a definition. An animation is
nothing more than a visualization of change—a change that occurs
over a period of time.
Let’s look at that definition in more detail.

The Start and End States

If visualizing change is an important part of an animation, we need
to create some reference points so that we can compare what has
changed. Let’s call these reference points the start state and
the end state. To better explain what is going on, let’s come up with
an easy-to-understand example as well.
Let’s say our start state looks like Figure 1-3.

Figure 1-3. In the beginning, there was a small blue circle

What Is an Animation? | 5
You start off with a small blue circle located to the left of the screen.
At the end state, your blue circle now looks sorta kinda like
Figure 1-4.

Figure 1-4. The circle moves right and grows larger

Based just on the information you have about what our blue circle
looks like in the start and end states, what can you tell is different?
One change is the position. Our blue circle starts off on the left side
of the screen. It ends up on the right side. Another change is the
size. Our circle goes from being small to being much larger.
How do we make an animation out of this? If we were to just play
the start and end states repeatedly, what you would see is a circle
that just bounces from left to right very awkwardly. That is pretty
turrible. Just turrible. What we need is a way to smooth things out
between the start and end states. What we need is a healthy dose
of interpolation.

Interpolation
Right now, what we have are two discrete states in time: the start
state and the end state. If you were to play this back, it wouldn’t be
an animation. In order to make an animation out of what we have,

6 | Chapter 1: Introduction to Web Animations

we need a smooth transition that creates all the intermediate states.
The process of creating these intermediate states is known as inter‐
polation.
This interpolation, which occurs over a period of time that you spec‐
ify, would look similar to Figure 1-5.

Figure 1-5. Behold…an animation!

You may be wondering who specifies the interpolated states. The

answer, which is probably good news, is that your browser or HTML
rendering engine will take care of the messy details. All you need to
specify is the start state, the end state, and the duration over which
the transition between the two states needs to occur. Once you have
those three things, you have an animation!
Later you’ll see how adding some other ingredients into the pot,
such as timing functions (aka easing functions), can alter how the
interpolation works. For now, though, just revel in this simple
explanation of what makes up an animation, put on your best party
clothes, and get ready to meet the three flavors of animation that
you will end up using.

What Is an Animation? | 7
Animations on the Web
On the web, there isn’t just a single animation implementation (hey,
that sorta rhymes!) that you can use. You actually have three flavors
of animation to choose from, and each one is specialized for certain
kinds of tasks. Let’s take a quick look at all three and see how they
relate to the animation definition you saw in the previous section.

CSS animations (aka keyframe animations)

CSS animations are like traditional animations on some sort of
performance-enhancing substance that makes them more awesome.
With these kinds of animations, you can define not only the begin‐
ning and the end state but also any intermediate states, lovingly
known as keyframes (see Figure 1-6).

Figure 1-6. How an animation made up of keyframes might look

These intermediate states, if you choose to use them, give you

greater control over the thing you are animating. In Figure 1-6, the
blue circle isn’t simply sliding to the right and getting larger. The
individual keyframes adjust the circle’s size and vertical position in
ways that you wouldn’t see if you simply interpolated between the
start and end states.
Remember, even though you are specifying the intermediate states,
your browser will still interpolate what it can between each state.
Think of a keyframe animation as many little animations daisy-
chained together.

8 | Chapter 1: Introduction to Web Animations

CSS transitions
Transitions make up a class of animations where you only define the
start state, end state, and duration. The rest, such as interpolating
between the two states, is taken care of automatically for you (see
Figure 1-7).

Figure 1-7. Transitions only need a start and end state to do their thing

While transitions seem like a watered-down, simplified keyframe

animation, don’t let that trick you. They are extremely powerful and
probably the type of animation implementation you’ll use the most.

Scripted/JavaScript animations
If you want full control over what your animation does right down
to how it interpolates between states, you can use JavaScript (see
Figure 1-8).

What Is an Animation? | 9
Figure 1-8. When you use JavaScript, you have a lot of freedom in
defining how your animation works

There are a lot of cool things you can do when you opt out of the
interpolation the browser does for you, but we won’t be spending
too much time in this area. Scripted animations have their place in
games and visualizations, but covering those areas fully goes beyond
the UI focus of this book.

Conclusion
To quickly recap, an animation is nothing more than a visualization
of something changing over a period of time. In HTML, you have
not one, not two, but three different ways of bringing animations to
life: CSS animations, CSS transitions, and scripted animations (cre‐
ated in JavaScript). This book will primarily stay in the CSS-based
world, and the following chapters will start you off right…I hope!

10 | Chapter 1: Introduction to Web Animations

 CHAPTER 2
Introduction to CSS Animations

When creating animations on the web, you can’t really go far

without running into CSS animations. What CSS animations do is
pretty simple. They allow you to animate CSS properties by specify‐
ing what you want those properties to do at various points in time.
These “points in time” are known as keyframes. If you’ve used ani‐
mation tools in the past, the word “keyframes” should sound famil‐
iar to you. The keyframes you define in CSS as part of making your
CSS animations work are the equivalent of the keyframes you would
have visually defined in Flash/Animate, After Effects, or some other
animation tool:

If you’ve never used animation tools in the past, don’t worry. You
won’t be missing out on much. We’ll be doing all of our animating
manually (like an animal!) and learning what is going on at each

11
step. By the end of this chapter, you’ll have learned enough to create
an animation made up of a smiling hexagon that bobs up and down.
Our hexagon will start off at the top:

It will slide to the bottom:

And at the end, our hexagon will slide back to the top:

12 | Chapter 2: Introduction to CSS Animations

Along the way, we’ll cover the animation property, the @key
frames rule, and a handful of other topics that will set you up for
cooler and more advanced techniques using CSS animations in the
future.

Creating a Simple Animation

The easiest (and most fun!) way to learn about CSS animations is to
just get your hands dirty with using them. Go ahead and create a
new HTML document and add the following HTML and CSS to it:
<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>

<head>
<title>Intro to CSS Animations</title>

<style>
body {
padding: 50px;
}
#container {
padding: 20px;
width: 100%;
height: 250px;
background-color: #EEE;
text-align: center;
}
</style>
</head>

Creating a Simple Animation | 13

 <body>
<div id="container">
<img id="hexagon"
src="https://www.kirupa.com/images/hexagon.svg"/>
</div>
</body>

</html>
Take a moment to look at what you just added. As web pages go,
there isn’t anything too complex or crazy going on here. The main
thing to note is that we have an image element, and it has
an id value of hexagon:
<div id="container">
<img id="hexagon"
src="https://www.kirupa.com/images/hexagon.svg"/>
</div>
We’ll be coming back to this element in a little bit, so don’t forget
about it!
Now, before we move on to the next step, go ahead and preview this
page in your browser. If everything worked right, you will see a
happy hexagon shape…standing boringly still:

Let’s fix the boredom by animating our hexagon shape. To do this,

we are going to create a CSS animation. To create a CSS animation,
you will need to complete two steps:

14 | Chapter 2: Introduction to CSS Animations

Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
the demon rout, who were never seen aboveground after that memorable
morning. So you see that kind hearts and actions do not go unrewarded,
even in other spheres than our own.
“ ‘And so,’ concluded Jan, ‘that’s my story about the building of the
Pixie’s camp; and wise folk may talk for a year and a day without making
me believe that there’s any other reason for fairy rings, at all events,
hereabouts in Exmoor Forest.’
“Of course it would have been absolute cruelty, after so fanciful a
legend, to have instilled any botanical ideas into Jan’s head, with regard to
the law of the circular increase of fungi and the like; so we ‘left him alone
in his glory,’ and felt duly thankful for the pleasure he had given us.”
Lower down the river is Landacre Bridge, where Jeremy Stickles had so
narrow an escape

LANDACRE BRIDGE, EXMOOR.

from flood and foeman (Lorna Doone, chapter xlvii.), and lower down still
is the moorland village of Withypool. In summer, the water-meadows here,
with background of brown moor, are lovely, but in rainy seasons Withypool
is a wet place indeed, the little streams being even more to be dreaded that
the raging of the Barle and Kennsford Water. In passing through the village
a few years ago, I happened to hear that there are five wise men of
Withypool, whose names were mentioned to me. One, I believe, was a
follower of St Crispin, whom his neighbours, on account of his being at
once “long-headed” and little of stature, called, Torney Mouse. Here also
resides the renowned “Joe” Milton, a champion of the old wrestling days, in
which he bore off many a trophy.
When the snow lies piled in impracticable drifts on the main Exford
road, the Simonsbath people creep round to Dulverton and the world by
way of Withypool. Let us proceed to the capital of Exmoor by this route. As
we do so, it may be well to say something of the term “forest,” as applied to
Exmoor. To anyone who knows the country, such a description must
inevitably suggest the famous etymology, lucus a non lucendo; except at
Simonsbath, there is hardly a tree to be seen. But, according to legal usage
the word does not of necessity connote timber; it indicates nothing more
than an uncultivated tract of country reserved for the chase. The term
indeed is said to be identical with the Welsh gores or gorest (waste land),
whence comes also the word “gorse,” used alternately with “furze,” as
being a common growth on wastes. From the earliest times, Exmoor was a
royal hunting-ground, and so remained until that portion of it which still
belonged to the Crown was sold, in 1818, to Mr John Knight, of
Worcestershire. The Crown allotment comprised 10,000 acres; subsequently
Mr Knight bought 6000 more, and so became owner of, at least, four-fifths
of the forest.
Much has been written concerning those ancient denizens of the moor—
the ponies. In my Book of Exmoor, I have dealt almost exhaustively with
the subject as regards the pure breed; and every year experts in horsey
matters favour the British public with accounts of those wary little animals
in various periodicals. Sportsmen, however, have often put to me the
question, “After all, what good are they?” That they are good for some
purpose, is proved by the ready sales at Bampton Fair; but it is true,
nevertheless, that the breed labours under a grave disadvantage in point of
size, and those interested in the problem have often essayed to produce a
serviceable cross.
Instead of treating once again those aspects of pony science which have
been discussed ad nauseam, I propose to devote attention almost
exclusively to Mr Knight’s remarkable efforts in this direction, full
particulars of which have never, so far I know, been embodied in any
permanent work.
 For some years previous to the sale of the forest, the price of the ponies
ranged from four to six pounds, but the exportation of this class of live-
stock, as well as sheep, did not always proceed on regular or legitimate
lines. The Exmoor shepherds, in defiance of the “anchor brand,” took
liberal tithe of them, and, at nightfall, passed them over the hills to their
crafty Wiltshire customers. On the completion of the sale the original
uncrossed herd was transferred to Winsford Hill, where Sir Thomas had
another “allotment,” only a dozen mare ponies being left to continue the
line. At that time Soho Square was as fashionable a quarter as Belgravia,
and one of its residents was the celebrated naturalist, Sir Joseph Banks, who
invited Mr Knight to a dinner party. Bruce’s Abyssinian stories were then
all the rage, and the conversation chanced to fall on the merits of the
Dongola horse, described by the “travelling giant” as an Arab of sixteen
hands, peculiar to the regions round about Nubia. Sir Joseph consulted his
guests as to the desirability of procuring some of the breed, and Lords
Hadley, Morton, and Dundas, and Mr Knight were so enamoured of the idea
that they handed him there and then a joint cheque for one thousand pounds
to cover the expense.
Over and above their height, the Dongola animals had somewhat Roman
noses, their skin was of a very fine texture, they were well chiselled under
the jowl, and, like all their race, clear-winded. As regards their action, it was
of the “knee-in-the-curb-chain” sort, whilst their short thick backs and great
hindquarters made them rare weight-carriers. As against all this, the “gaudy
blacks” had flattish ribs, drooping croups, rather long white legs, and blaze
foreheads. Perfect as manège horses, the dusky Nubian who brought them
over galloped them straight at a wall in the riding-school, making them stop
dead when they reached it. Altogether ten or twelve horses and mares
arrived, of which the Marquis of Anglesey observed that they would
“improve any breed alive.” Acting on his advice, Mr Knight bought Lord
Hadley’s share, and two sires and three mares were at once sent to
Simonsbath, where the new owner had established a stud of seven or eight
thoroughbred mares, thirty half-breds of the coaching Cleveland variety,
and a dozen twelve-hand pony mares. The result of the first cross between
these last and one of the Dongolas was that the produce came generally
fourteen hands two, and very seldom black. The mealy nose, so distinctive
of the Exmoors, was completely knocked; but not so the buffy, which stood
true to its colour, so that the type was not wholly destroyed.
 The West Somerset pack often visited Exmoor to draw for a fox, and on
such occasions the services of white-robed guides were usually called into
requisition; but the half Dongolas performed so admirably that this practice
gradually fell into disuse. They managed to get down the difficult hills so
cleverly, and in crossing the brooks were so close up to the hounds, that
nothing further was necessary.[14]
The cross-out was intended for size only, not for character. No sire with
the Dongola blood was used, and such mares as did not retain a good
proportion of the Exmoor type were immediately drafted. The first
important successor of the Dongola was Pandarus, a white-coloured son of
Whalebone, fifteen hands high, who confirmed the original bay, but reduced
the standard to thirteen hands or thirteen and a half. Another sire was
Canopus, a grandson of Velocipede, by whom the fine breeding as well as
the Pandarus bay was perpetuated.
Meanwhile the colts were wintered on limed land, and thus enabled to
bear up pretty well against the climate. Later, however, the farms were let
by the late Sir Frederick (then Mr F. W.) Knight—a course which
necessitated the withdrawal of the ponies to the naked moor, where, if the
mares with the first cross could put up with the fare and the climate, they
grew too thin to give any milk. On the other hand, those which were only
half bred stood it well with their foals. About 1842 the whole pony stud was
remodelled. The lighter mares were drafted, and from that time Mr Knight
resolved to stick to his own ponies and the conventional sire. For many
years this was strictly observed, and apart from the chestnut Hero, a horse
of massive build sprung from a Pandarus sire, and the grey Lillias, of
almost unalloyed Acland blood, no colour was used but the original buff.
An able judge who visited the moor in 1860, included in his report the
following remarks, which are worth quoting:—
“The pony stock consists of a hundred brood mares of all ages, from one
to thirteen. The mares are put to the horse at three, and up to that age they
share the eight hundred heather acres of Badgery with the red deer and the
blackcock, protected on all sides by high stone walls, which even Lillias,
the gay Lothario of the moor, cannot jump in his moonlight rambles....
“The bays and the buffy bays (a description of yellow), both with mealy
noses, are in a majority of at least three to one. The ten sires are all wintered
together in an allotment until the 1st of May, apart from the mares; but
Lillias, who has more of the old pony blood than any of them, twice
scrambled over at least a score of six feet walls, and away to his loved
North Forest. It is a beautiful sight to see them jealously beating the bounds,
when they are once more in their own domains; and they would, if they
wore shoes, break every bone in a usurper’s skin. The challenge to a battle
royal is given with a snort, and then they commence by rearing up against
each other’s necks, so as to get the first leverage for a worry. When they
weary of that they turn tail to tail, and commence a series of heavy
exchanges, till the least exhausted of the two watches his opportunity, and
whisking round, gives his antagonist a broadside in the ribs, which fairly
echoes down the glen. In the closing scene they face each other once more,
and begin like bull-dogs to manœuvre for their favourite bite on the arm.
The first which is caught off his guard goes down like a shot, and then
scurries off with the victor in hot pursuit, savagely ‘weaving,’ while his
head nearly touches the ground, and his ‘flag’ waves triumphantly in the air.
With the exception of Lillias, the ten are generally pretty content with their
one thousand acres of territory, and like Sayers and Heenan, they are
ultimately ‘reconciled’ in November.
“The percentage of deaths is comparatively small, and during last winter,
when many of the old ponies fairly gave in on the neighbouring hills, Mr
Knight’s ponies fought through it, but five or six of them died from
exhaustion at foaling, or slipped foals at ten months. Their greatest peril is
when they are tempted into bogs about that period by the green bait of the
early aquatic grasses, and flounder about under weakness and heavy
pressure till they die. The stud-book contains some very curious records.
‘Died of old age in the snow,’ forms quite a pathetic St Bernard sort of
entry. ‘Found dead in a bog’ has less poetry about it. ‘Iron grey, found dead
with a broken leg at the foot of a hill,’ is rather an odd mortality comment
on such a chamois-footed race; while ‘grey mare c. 22 and grey yearling,
missing; both found, mare with a foal at her foot,’ gives a rather more
cheery glimpse of forest history.”
The “forest mark,” with which the foals are branded on the saddle-place,
was changed by Mr Knight from the Acland anchor to the spur, which
formed part of his crest, and is burnt in with a hot iron, just enough to sear
the roots of the hair. No age eradicates it. Should a dispute arise concerning
a wandering pony, the hair is clipped off, and once it happened that after a
white sire had been lost for three seasons he was discovered in this manner
by the head herdsman’s brother. The spur has only one heel, and the brand
can be affixed with a rowel pointing in four directions, on each side of the
pony, beginning towards the neck. It thus coincides with a cycle of eight
years, and is available as a guide if the footmarks are prematurely worn out.
The hoof-marks are of two kinds—that of the year of entry on the off
hoof, and the register figure of the dam on the near. In the second week of
October the Dominical letters of their year are placed on the yearlings, and
the registered hoof-marks renewed on the mares. The foal, of course, is not
marked on the foot, but an exact record is taken of his dam and all his
points.
Until 1850 the ponies were sold by private contract. Sales were then
established, and in 1853 an auditory of two hundred persons assembled at
Stony Plot, the knoll with its belt of grey quartz boulders where now stands
the church. The following autumn the venue was altered to Bampton Fair.
There is a curious story or legend—I hardly know what to make of it—that
after one of the Simonsbath sales a Mr Lock, of Lynmouth, roasted an
Exmoor pony for his friends, who, if they ever partook of the repast, must
be credited with fine Tartar taste.
According to one version the original Exmoor ponies, with their buffy
bay colour and mealy nose, were brought over by the Phœnicians during
their visits to the shores of Cornwall to trade in tin and metals; and ever
since that time the animals have preserved their characteristics. We do not
propose to go so far back into the recesses of history, but will return for a
moment to the now rather distant date, 1790, before
 BAGWORTHY VALLEY (page 141.)

which hardly anything is known of Simonsbath. At that period there are said
to have been only five men and a woman and a girl on Exmoor. The girl
drew beer at the Simonsbath public-house, and the customers were a
decidedly rough lot. Doones indeed there were none—their day was past—
but the illicit love of mutton was universal in the West country, as was also
a partiality for cheap cognac. Smugglers slung their kegs across their
“scrambling Jacks” at night, and hid their treasure in the rocks, or left it at a
certain gate till the next mystic hand in the living chain gave it a lift on the
road to Exeter. When they did not care to do this, there were always friendly
cellars under the old house at Simonsbath. The ale was decent, the landlady
wisely deaf, and who can doubt that the old ingle, where the date 1654 still
lingers on a beam shorn or built into half its length, heard many an exciting
tale of contraband prime brandy and extra parochial liberties which would
have extorted blushes from an honest beadle and groans from a
conscientious exciseman?
Simonsbath having been formerly so insignificant, it is not to be
wondered at that Blackmore only refers to it as the abode of a “wise
woman,” by which he means a witch (Lorna Doone, chapter xviii.).
 CHAPTER X

BAGWORTHY AND BRENDON

Simonsbath is the centre of several converging roads, all of them waiting to

help the traveller out of Exmoor before he is well in it. A drive from Lynton
or some other fairly populous or fashionable resort, followed by a lunch at
the Simonsbath Hotel, is many people’s conception of the proper method of
“doing” Exmoor; but, while pleasant enough as an excursion, such a mode
of exploration permits of only scanty guesses and imperfect glimpses of the
inner fastnesses, which seem for the most part far away.
If the excitement of the chase be not too distracting, possibly the best
way of acquainting oneself with the country is by following the staghounds;
but should that be impracticable, the most useful advice the writer can offer
is to follow the watercourses. Any one of these, if patiently traced, will
usher the pilgrim into Nature’s mysterious solitudes, which, if he be at all of
a contemplative turn of mind, will awaken in him many a pleasant or
pensive reverie. In any case, one must get away from the roads, the very
excellence of which is evil, as tempting to sloth.
I cannot, however, send forth an innocent person into the wilds without
referring to the bogs. Personally, I have a considerable respect for Exmoor
bogs, as I have for “they Hexëmoor vogs,” which are equally treacherous,
and make one wet through as sure and as fast as any rain; nor is it so many
years ago that Sheardon Hutch and similar names were sounds of terror in
my ears. Familiarity breeds contempt, and therefore those at home in the
district—some of them, at all events—are apt to disparage these man-traps,
which are not by any means confined to the low lands, but are found on the
summits of hills, especially the notorious Chains. In many places black
decayed vegetable matter has been accumulating for ages to a depth of
several feet, and as the rocks beneath are of the transition class, impervious
to water, the rain is retained and saturates the bog-mould. After much wet
weather, there are spots that will not bear the weight of a man, let alone a
horse, and in riding over the moor, they constitute so real and serious a
danger that great care should be exercised to avoid getting into them.
Otherwise it may prove an impossible task to extricate the devoted
“mount.” There is one consolation—heather will not grow on those deep
bogs, and wherever its purple bells show, the ground is safe.
The Exmoor hills are variously configured. Sometimes they take the
form of a bold foreland, sometimes of a continuous ridge, sometimes of an
isolated cone or orb. A very intelligent moorman reminded me, somewhat
superfluously, when I looked in upon him on a September evening, that all
the hills have names, and queer names some of them are—e.g., “Tom’s
Hill,” “Swap Hill,” “Scob Hill,” etc., etc. The meaning of not a few is
anything but plain, but one “termination,” if the phrase be permitted, speaks
for itself. I allude to the expression “ball,” which is frequent on Exmoor,
and much more likely to be derived from visual impression than any long-
descended traditions of Baal, to which a late friend of mine, out of regard
for the Phœnicians and their hill-altars, was anxious to assign it. Thus we
have Cloutsham Ball (famous as the scene of the opening-meet of the
Devon and Somerset Staghounds), Ware Ball, Ricksy Ball, Ferny Ball, and,
as a gloss, Round Hill. The intersecting valleys have somewhat the
character of huge corridors leading in and out of each other, and the smaller
“combes,” running up into the hills, may be likened to stairways of
providential appointment, for the Exmoor “sides” are not quite
perpendicular. The hill-tops and slopes are dotted with sure-footed Exmoor
horned sheep and Cheviots, beautiful long-tailed ponies, and a few red
cattle. The grass is of two sorts—a short, close variety found in the drier
parts, and tall sedge grass on wet ground, where it grows rankly. Sheep are
fond of the former when it comes up green and fresh after the annual
“swalings,” which take place in February or March. Exmoor sheep have
faces like those of the native deer, being free from wool, while the sharp-
pointed nose resembles that of a fox.
Simonsbath village is in a sheltered position on the left bank of the
Barle, and, thanks to the care of the late Sir Frederick Knight and his father,
it is further protected against the keen winterly gales by ample plantations
of fir and other trees. Hence we again mount the hills, this time in the
direction of Brendon Two Gates, where the “forest” ends. After a time we
gain a point from which a good view is obtained of the Prayway (or
Prayaway) Meads. There are no hedges here, and, with the inconsistency of
human nature, one misses them. It seems so odd to stand and gaze over a
grassy expanse that has never been enclosed, and yet has much the look of
ordinary meadow. Through the midst flows the Exe, here quite a baby-
stream; we are, indeed, not far from its source. To those who are familiar
with its lower reaches, and call to mind the river as it appears (say) at
Cowley Bridge, the sight is inexpressibly absurd. The absence of trees and
shrubs makes Prayway seem bare and forsaken. The high sloping banks are
like deserted ramparts or—but the name may have some influence—the
nave of a vast natural cathedral haunted by the ghosts of dead Britons.
Continuing our route, we arrive at a gate, inside which is a sort of quarry
known as Black Pits. The gate opens into a common, at the other end of
which is Brendon Two Gates. The origin of this term has been explained; it
may be well to add that at present it is a misnomer.
We now for the first time catch sight of Bagworthy, lying over on the
right, and Bagworthy, as the reader may happen to remember, was, or has
been imputed to be, the stronghold of the savage Doones. This is, in a sense,
the parting of the ways. The traveller may either quit the beaten track for
the carpet of sward in quest of a shepherd’s cot, whence he may easily
proceed to the traditional site of Doone Castle and down the Doone valley,
along the Bagworthy Water, to Malmsmead, where the Bagworthy water
unites with the East Lyn, and so by Cosgate or Brendon to Lynton; or he
may stick to the road, which will take him by a shorter cut to the same
destination, by Farley and Cheriton and the aforesaid Scob Hill. It may be
that, like the mythical churchmen of old, when asked to state which see he
preferred—Bath or Wells—the latter-day pilgrim may elect for “both.” I
will assume, however, that his immediate objective is the famous valley,
and that, once there, he will pursue without faltering the longest way round.
Technically we are no longer on Exmoor. Bagworthy, Badgworthy, or
Badgery—all are permissible forms—is in the parish of Brendon and the
county of Devon. In ancient times the wood is said to have covered a much
greater area, and a century ago some of the older shepherds could point out
its former limits. Within their recollection and since their time, its
dimensions steadily contracted, until the disappointment with the valley, to
which visitors so often and freely own, became explicable.
Now it must be admitted that in Lorna Doone there is a large spice of
exaggeration, and this quality is naturally reflected in the illustrations with
which the goodlier editions are adorned. Such deviations from the literal
have brought it to pass that nowhere is Blackmore in so little esteem as
among the hills he pictured so lovingly. Even the humble writer of the
present volume probably enjoys on Exmoor a greater measure of esteem as
a more trustworthy historian of the neighbourhood. But, sensible people
will agree, the writer of a romance must be in a large measure a law unto
himself, and he is under not the least obligation to consult the feelings of
plain folk incapable of sharing his flights of imagination. It is a question of
the light “borrowed from the youthful poet’s dream,” and I am inclined to
apply the phrase in a somewhat distinct and definite sense. A romance—this
romance in particular—may be regarded as a fairy-tale raised to a higher
plane of evolution, and Blackmore seems to have possessed the godlike
faculty of reflecting in his pages the shining images of his boyish fantasy,
when, to copy Kingsley, every goose was a swan and every lass a queen. On
this point I shall say no more, but return forthwith to the matter-of-fact.
This includes the deep pool and the waterslide, but the reality of Doone
Castle, or its remains, cannot for various reasons be taken for granted.
The first printed notice regarding these malefactors occurs in Mr
Cooper’s Guide to Lynton, published in 1851, and runs as follows:—
“The ruins of a village long forsaken and deserted stand in an adjacent
valley, which, before the destruction of the timber, must have been a spot
exactly suited to the wants of the wild inhabitants. Tradition relates that it
consisted of eleven cottages, and that here the ‘Doones’ took up their
residence, being the terror of the country for many miles round. For a long
time they were in the habit of escaping with their booty across the wild hills
of Exmoor to Bagworthy, where few thought it safe or even practicable to
follow them. They were not natives of this part of the country, but having
been disturbed by the Revolution from their homes, suddenly entered
Devonshire and erected the village alluded to. It was known from the first
to the inhabitants of the neighbouring villages that this village was erected
and inhabited by robbers, but the fear which their deeds inspired in the
minds of the peasants prevented them from attacking and destroying it. The
idea is prevalent that before their leaving home they had been men of
distinction, and not common peasants. The site of a house may still be seen
on a part of the forest called the Warren, which is said to have belonged to a
person called ‘the Squire,’ who was robbed and murdered by the Doones.
“A farmhouse called Yenworthy, lying just above Glenthorne, on the left
of the Lynton and Porlock road, was beset by them one night; but a woman
firing on them from one of the windows with a long duck-gun, they
retreated, and blood was tracked the next morning for several miles in the
direction of Bagworthy. The gun was found at Yenworthy, and was
purchased by the Rev. W. S. Halliday. They entered and robbed a house at
Exford in the evening before dark, and found there only a child, whom they
murdered. A woman servant who was concealed in an oven, is said to have
heard them say to the unfortunate infant the following barbarous couplet:

‘If any one asks who killed thee,

Tell ’m ’twas the Doones of Bagworthy.’

BRENDON, NEAR OARE (page 150.)

“It was for this murder that the whole country rose in arms against them,
and going to their abode in great haste and force, succeeded in taking into
custody the whole gang, who soon after met with the punishment due to
their crimes.”
This excerpt represents the legend of the Doones which Blackmore
inherited, and which it is absurd to designate as his invention. What he did
was to add colour and definition to an already existing, though faded,
tradition. How much of the substructure of Lorna Doone is due to his
imaginative genius, is a fascinating problem, which, it is to be feared, it is
beyond the wit of man to solve satisfactorily. In the above quotation, for
instance, no mention occurs of the heroine, but it does not follow that she
found no place in the local tales, and Blackmore, quite as good an authority
as the writer of the guide, and on this particular subject even better,
expressly affirms the contrary.
As to the time of the Doones, Mr Cooper, it will be noticed, says “after
the Revolution.” This is altogether opposed to Blackmore’s account, which
sets back their advent to a date long anterior to 1688. Mr Edwin J. Rawle,
whose valuable Annals of the Royal Forest of Exmoor entitles him to a very
respectful hearing, is absolute in rejecting any historical basis for the
tradition, the mere existence of which he tardily acknowledges. Mr Rawle’s
theory is that “Doone” really stands for “Dane,” the sea-wolves in the olden
times having harried the neighbourhood pretty severely. I do not know what
philologers may say of this suggestion, but the vagaries of the local dialect
suggest a far more plausible explanation. In the romance John Fry speaks of
his “goon,” meaning his “gun.” Now “Dunn” is a fairly common
patronymic in the West Country, and I am informed that the natives
formerly pronounced the vowel in an indeterminate manner consistent with
either spelling.
Blackmore, however, evidently regarded the name as identical with the
Scottish “Doune,” and his assertion of a high North British pedigree for the
robbers has been wonderfully seconded of late by the publication of Miss
Ida Browne’s Short History of the Original Doones, which, if correct in
every particular, proves amongst other things how extremely imperfect and
untrustworthy are many of the records on which the scrupulous historian is
wont to rely. Mr Rawle will not have that it is correct, and her pleasant and
plausible narrative is the object of a fierce onslaught in his brochure, The
Doones of Exmoor. Personally, I have always favoured the notion that the
rogues were a similar set to the Gubbinses and Cheritons, little communities
of moorland savages, and that their rascalities, handed down from
generation to generation, were magnified and distorted in every re-telling.
This solution has the advantage of being easily reconciled with Mr Rawle’s
demand for authentic evidence of their monstrous doings and Blackmore’s
and Miss Ida’s Browne’s insistence on their Scottish nationality. To me,
however, it seems like beating the air to attempt any final settlement of the
question on our present information, and if I again refer to the lady’s
booklet—already I have given the substance of it in my Book of Exmoor—it
is not so much from the belief that it casts any certain light on the actuality
of the Exmoor marauders as on account of the possibility—which she notes
—that Blackmore by some means obtained access to the evidence now in
her possession.
This consists of a manuscript entitled “The Lineage and History of our
Family, from 1561 to the Present Day,” compiled by Charles Doone of
Braemar, 1804; the Journal of Rupert Doone, 1748; oral information, and
certain family heirlooms. Assuming these to be genuine, there is obviously
much likelihood, in view of the numerous points in common, that
Blackmore succeeded in getting hold of the written testimony of the later
Doones; and, indeed, the circumstance may have been the factor which led
him to elaborate the romance on a scale transcending that of his other
stories, since he must have realised that here he had struck an entirely
original vein of historical fiction.
Before quitting this part of the subject, it is desirable to present the views
of the Rev. J. F. Chanter, who has given much attention to the problem, and
whose long and intimate acquaintance with the district invests his opinions
with exceptional importance. In a letter received from him, he remarks:—
“I may say that, as far as I am concerned, I accept as genuine the main
facts of Miss Browne’s story, but not its details, i.e., the relationship
between Sir Ensor and Lord Moray, or even Sir Ensor being a knight. The
title ‘Sir’ was given at that date to many who were neither knights nor
baronets, e.g., the clergy always; and as I find in rural districts, even to this
day, a lady of the manor is spoken of, and written to, as Lady so-and-so. Mr
Rawle’s criticism is entirely negative; his position seems to be this:—Miss
Browne’s paper states that Sir Ensor was twin brother of Lord Moray. Now
Lord Moray had no twin brother; therefore the whole claim falls to the
ground.”
To this I answer:
“1. If the claim of Charles Doone of Braemar, as to the ancestry of his
family, is wrong, it is absurd to say he had no ancestors. We are all apt to
claim as ancestors people who were not really so, and many of the
published pedigrees do this, claiming as ancestors some of the same name,
though there is no evidence of the link.
“2. The peerage is no evidence that Lord Moray had not other brothers,
though not twins. There is, for instance, evidence that Lord Moray had a
brother mentioned in no peerage I ever saw, one John Stuart who was
executed for murder in 1609.
 “3. There may have been merely a tribal connection between the Doones
of Bagworthy and the Stewarts of Doune, and a tribal feud caused them to
fly to a remote spot; and they were recalled on a later Lord Moray wanting
every help when he fell from Royal favour.
“Be this as it may, Miss Browne’s story fits in so wonderfully with
Blackmore’s romance that I cannot conceive he had not heard of it. This I
can vouch for—Miss Browne did not invent it.
“Now as to Miss Browne’s documentary evidence, I had the original of
Charles Doone’s family history, and it was undoubtedly a genuine
document of the age it purported to be. I made a full copy of it. Of other
documents I only saw copies. The originals she stated to be in the
possession of a cousin in Scotland, and promised to get them for me as soon
as she could. I have, however, not seen them as yet. The relics also seem to
me genuine.”
It must not be supposed that these were Blackmore’s only sources of
information—they deal in the main with merely one side of the story. Other
material, both written and oral, was available on the spot. Mr Chanter
observes on this point: “I myself can perfectly recall that, when I first went
to a boarding-school in 1863, there was a boy there from the Exmoor
neighbourhood who used to relate at night in the dormitories blood-curdling
stories of the Doones.” That boy, it is interesting to know, is still alive. At
any rate, he was alive in July 1903, when he addressed to the Daily
Chronicle the following letter in answer to a sceptical effusion from a
correspondent signing himself “West Somerset.” “ ‘West Somerset’ could
never have known Exmoor half so intimately as was the case with myself
during my boyhood, youth, and early manhood, or he must have heard of
the Doones. During the ‘fifties’ and ‘sixties’ of last century I lived on
Exmoor, knew it thoroughly, and rarely missed a meet of the staghounds.
The stories or legends of the Doones were perfectly familiar to me. They
varied much, but the germs of the great romance were so well known and
remembered by me that when it was issued, one of its many charms was the
tracing of the writer’s embroidery of the current tales. I have hardly been in
the district since 1868, but my memory is sufficiently good to remember the
names of several from whom I heard the traditional annals. Among them
were John Perry, the old ‘wanter’ or mole-catcher of Luccombe; Larkham,
the one-armed gamekeeper of Sir Thomas Acland, and above all,
Blackmore, the harbourer of the deer.[15] The name of another old man,
who allowed me on two occasions to take down Doone stories at the inn at
Brendon, has escaped me. So familiar were these stories to me when I was a
boy that I used to retail them with curdling embellishments of my own in
the dormitory of a West-country boarding-school. The result of this was that
a room-mate of mine, either just before or just after he went to Oxford,
wove my yarns (he had not himself then ever visited Exmoor) into a story,
which he called ‘The Doones of Exmoor.’ This tale was eventually
published in some half-dozen consecutive numbers of the Leisure Hour. My
copy of it has long been lost, but I remember that, though it was delayed
some time by the editor, it appeared three or four years before Lorna
Doone. Moreover, I had a letter from Mr R. D. Blackmore, soon after his
immortal work was issued, wherein he acknowledged that it was the
accidental glancing at the poor stuff in the Leisure Hour that gave him the
clue for the weaving of the romance, and caused him to study the details on
the spot. I have never been across Exmoor since Lorna Doone was
published, but I am sure that I could at once find my way either on foot or
horseback to the very place that I knew so well as the stronghold of the
Doones, either from the Porlock or the Lynton side.”
I am permitted to quote also a passage from a private letter of Miss
Gratiana Chanter (now Mrs Longworth Knocker), author of Wanderings in
North Devon, who is a firm believer in the Doones.
“I wish you could have a talk with old John Bate of Tippacott [he is
dead]; he gave me a most exciting description one day of how the Doones
first ‘coomed in over.’ No dates, of course; you never get them. He said
there was a farmhouse in the Doone Valley where an old farmer lived with
his maidservant. ’Twas one terrible snowy night when the Doones first
‘coomed.’ They came to the house and turned the farmer and his maid out
into the black night. Both were found dead—one at the withy bank and the
other somewhere else. He said, ‘They say, Miss, they was honest folk in the
North, but they took to thieving wonderful quick.’
“Bate, and one John Lethaby, a mason, were both at work at the building
of the shepherd’s cot in the Doone Valley, and had tales of an underground
passage they found that fell in, and that they took a lot of stones from the
huts for the shepherd’s cot.”
 To return to Mr Chanter, we learn that, even before those nightly
entertainments in the dormitory, he had read about the Doones in an old
manuscript belonging to his father, and he adds that there were to be found
at that period in North Devon several such manuscripts, which, he thinks,
had a common origin, and might be traced to the tales of old people living
in and around Lynton seventy or eighty years ago. In range of information
and power of memory none might compare with a reputed witch, one
Ursula Johnson, who, though now practically forgotten, can be proved from
the parish register to have been born a Babb in 1738—not forty years after
the exeunt of the Doones. The family of Babb were servants to
Wichehalses, and one may recall the circumstance that in chapter lxx. of
Lorna Doone John Babb is represented as shooting and capturing Major
Wade. Ursula was not so ignorant as many of her gossips, and upon her
marriage to Richard Johnson, a “sojourner,” could sign her name—a feat of
which the bridegroom was incapable. Her long life reached its termination
in 1826, when she was, so to speak, within sight of ninety.
Seven years later a locally well-remembered vicar, the Rev. Matthew
Murdy, came to Lynton, and being keenly interested in the old lady’s
stories, began a collection of them. Subsequently two friends of his, Dr and
Miss Cowell, entered into his labours by “pumping” Ursula Fry, a native of
Pinkworthy on Exmoor, and Aggie Norman. Both were tough old creatures,
the former dying in 1856, at the age of ninety, and the latter in 1860, when
she was eighty-three. In Mrs Norman, who passed a good deal of her time
in a hut built by her husband on the top of the Castle Rock, in the Valley of
 NICHOLAS SNOW’S FARMYARD GATE (page 159.)

Rocks, Lynton, Mr Chanter identifies the original Mother Meldrum.

Mr Mundy reduced the tales to something like literary shape, and they
were then transcribed by the older girls in the National School, whose
mistress, Miss Spurrier, saw that the copies were properly executed. An old
lady residing at Lynton possesses one of the documents, dated 1848, of
which the contents include a description of the neighbourhood, reference to
Ursula Johnson, and three “legends”: those of De Wichehalse, the Doones
of Bagworthy, and Faggus and his Strawberry Horse. In the Western
Antiquary of 1884, part xi., may be found an excellent account of the
manuscript by the late Mr J. R. Chanter, who quotes the following
observations by the editor:—
“The recent introduction of candles into the cottages of the neighbouring
poor has tended greatly to produce the most lamentable decay of legendary
lore: the old housewife, crouching over the smouldering turf, no longer
enlivens the tedious winter evening with well-remembered tales of the
desperate deeds of the outlaws or the wonders wrought by the witches or
wisemen, and many of the curious legends are in danger of being consigned
to utter oblivion, unless immediately collected from the old peasants, who
are falling fast: their children being by far too much engrossed by the
Jacobin publications of the day, to pay any attention to these memorials of
the days of yore. From these causes much has already been lost.”
That R. D. Blackmore obtained a sight of one of these MSS. is, on the
face of it, extremely probable, but for certain elements of the story he might
well have been indebted to his grandfather, the Rector of Oare. Such are the
account of the great frost, the mining and wrestling incidents, and the tales
of the Doones, in chapters v. and lxix., which the notes pronounce to be
authentic, and which differ from other versions.
I come now to the facts of the Wade episode mentioned in chapter lxx. of
Lorna Doone. In this same parish of Brendon is a hamlet called Bridgeball,
and on a hill just above the hamlet is Farley farm, where a comparatively
new house occupies the site of an older structure pulled down in 1853. It
was on this farm that Major Wade, one of the leaders in the Monmouth
Rebellion, was captured after the battle of Sedgemoor. Driven ashore in an
attempt to escape down the Channel, he succeeded in concealing himself
for several days among the rocks at Illford Bridges, and made a confidante
of the wife of a little farmer named How, who lived at Bridgeball in a house
of which he was the owner, while the field behind it and a portion of land
near the present parsonage were also his property. The good woman
provided him with food so long as he continued in his rocky hiding-place,
and interceded for him with a farmer at Farley named Birch, who consented
to harbour him for a time. Situated on the verge of Exmoor, no refuge could
have appeared more secure than this isolated spot, but the event proved that
Wade might have been as safe, or safer, in a great and populous centre. To
his credit it must be recorded that, after obtaining his pardon, the gallant
gentleman did not forget his benefactress, on whom he settled an annuity.
The particulars of his capture have been preserved in the Lansdowne MS.,
No. 1152, which contains the following rather dramatic reports:—

“To the Right Hon. the Earl of Sunderland, Principal Secretary of State.
“Barnstaple, ye 31st July 1685.
 “My Lord,—I here enclosed send your Lop. an account of ye
apprehending of Nathaniel Wade, one of ye late rebells. I came to this towne
to-day, and can, therefore, only give yr Lop. wt relation I have from ye
apothecary and chirurgeon wch they had drawn up in a letter designed for
Sir Bourchier Wrey; their examination of him is enclosed in ye letter, to wch
I refer your Lop. He continues very ill of a wound given him at his
apprehending sixteen miles hence, at Braundon parish in Devon. I designe
to examine him as soon as his condition will permitt, he promising to make
large and considerable confessions; and herein, or if he dye, I humbly desire
your Lop.’s directions to me at Barnstaple, and shall herein proceed as
becomes my duty to his Majesty and your Lop.—My Lord, yr Lop.’s most
humble Servant,
Richard Armesley.”

“To the Honourable Sir Bourchier Wrey, Kt. and Bart., in London.
“Brendon, 30th July ’85.
“Honrd Sir,—This comes to give you an account of one, not ye least of ye
rebells, who was taken up last Monday night at a place called Fairleigh in ye
p’ish of Brundun, by Jno. Witchalse, Esq., Ricd Powell, Rect of ye same,
Jno. Babb, servt to Jno. Witchalse and Rob. Parris. They haveing some
small notice of a stranger to have bin a little before about yt village, came
about nine of ye clock at night to one Jno. Burtchis house. As soon as they
had guarded ye house round, they heard a noise. Watching closely and being
well armed, out of a little back door slipt out this person within named, and
two more as they say, and run all as hard as they cold. Babb and Parris
espieing them, bid them stand againe and againe. They still kept running,
and they cockt their pistols at them. Parris his mist fire, but Babb’s went off,
being chargd wth a single bullett, wch stuck very close in ye rebells right
side; ye entrance was about two inches from ye spina doris. Ye bullett
lodged in ye under part of ye right hypogastrind, wch we cut out. Ye bullett
past right under ye pleura; from the orifice it entered to ye other, wch we
were forced to make to extract ye bullett (having strong convulsions on
him): it was in distance between six and seven inches. He was very faint,
having lost a great quantity of blood. Ye orifice we made (ye bullett lying
neere ye cutis) was halfe an inch higher yn ye other. It begins to digest, and
his spirits are much revived, only this day about 10 of ye clock he was taken
with an aguish fitt, wch I suppose was caused by his hard diet and cold
lodging ever since ye rout, he leaving his horse at Illfordcomb. Ever since
Tuesday last in the afternoon, Mr Ravening and myself have bin wth him,
and cannot wth safety move from him. We desire to know his Maties
pleasure wt we shall due wth his corps, if he dyes, wch if he does before ye
answer, we think to embowell him. We will due wt possible we can, for he
hath assurd us, yt as soon as he is a little better, he will make a full
discovery of all he knows, of wch this inclosed is part, by wch he hopes to
have, but not by merrits, his pardon. Here is noe one yt comes to him yt he
will talk soe freely wth as wth us; if you will have any materiall questions of
business or p’sons to be askt of him, pray give it in yrs to us. We will be
privat, faithfull, to or King, whome God long preserve. Wch is all at present
from them who will ever make it their business to be.—Sr yr most humble
Servts,
“Nics Cooke and Henry Ravening.”
The addressee was Sir Bourchier Wrey, of Tawstock, Bart., son of
another Sir Bourchier, and grandson of Sir Chichester Wrey, who married
Ann, youngest daughter of Edward Bourchier, Earl of Bath.
Bagworthy and Farley are both in the parish of Brendon, but we must
not forget that, as regards bodily presence, we are still in the Doone valley,
and not far from Oare, where, according to Rupert Doone’s Diary, his
ancestors, on quitting Scotland in 1627, first fixed their residence. They
then removed to the upper part of the Lyn valley, on an estate bounded on
one side by Oare and on the other by Bagworthy. The Doone valley, which
used to be called Hoccombe, is a glen lying between Bagworthy Lees and
Bagworthy, and Mr Chanter expresses the belief that this name and that of
“Lorna’s Bower” were first applied to the small sidecombes by his cousins,
the Misses Chanter, soon after the publication of Lorna Doone. Ruins of the
traditional “Castle,” rectangular in form, are still to be traced, and consist of
two groups. Unfortunately, stones were taken from them to build an
adjoining wall, and now it is impossible to state the character of the
buildings, some of which were probably houses, and others cattle-sheds.
Miss Browne, indeed, is of opinion that they were all of the latter
description, and that the real home of the Doones was in the Weir Water
valley, between Oareford and the rise of the East Lyn. So far as Hoccombe
is concerned, Blackmore has idealised it with a vengeance. The “sheer cliffs
standing around,” the “steep and gliddening stairway,” the rocky cleft or
“Doone-gate,” the “gnarled roots,” are all purely imaginary. As regards
“Doone track” or “Doones’ path,” it directly faces the valley, and after
crossing the Bagworthy Water, ascends the Deer Park and Oare Common,
and so to Oare. Being covered with grass or hidden by heather and scrub, it
is not easy to follow, but viewed at a little distance it presents the
appearance of a broad terraced roadway, not improbably Roman, and
connecting Showlsborough Castle, near Challacombe, with the coast. The
site of the house where the “Squire” was robbed and murdered by the
Doones is still visible in the part of the forest known as the Warren (Lorna
Doone, chapter lxxii.).
Exmoor was once a paradise of yeomen, thrifty sons of the soil, who
owned their own farms. They consisted of two classes: those who did the
work themselves, with the assistance of their family and jobbing workmen,
to whom they paid good wages; and the owners of large farms, where
labourers were constantly employed at a shilling a day. The former sort is
entirely extinct. Many of their descendants have been merged in the mass of
common labourers; a few have risen to the rank of large farmers; others
have emigrated.
The more substantial class of yeomen is still represented in the district.
The late Mr W. L. Chorley, Master of the Quarme Harriers, was an excellent
specimen of the order, but the most relevant example is that of the Snows,
whom Blackmore treats somewhat unfairly. The family may not have been
rich in what Counsellor Doone described as the “great element of blood,”
but a genuine yeoman of the type in question would hardly have been
dubbed “Farmer Snowe,” and he certainly would not have perpetrated such
an awful lapse as “pralimbinaries.” I have been informed by a
correspondent that Blackmore apologised to the family for his painful
caricature, which was only just, in view of their actual status and the esteem
in which they are held by their neighbours. About the year 1678, two-fifths
of the manor of Oare belonged to the family of Spurrier, and passed by
marriage at the beginning of the eighteenth century into the possession of
Mr Nicholas Snow, who left it to a son of his own name. The latter, in 1788,
purchased the other three-fifths, and, at his death in 1791, bequeathed the
manor to his youngest son, John Snow, who died without issue, leaving the
property to his nephew, Nicholas Snow—the “Farmer Snowe” of Lorna
Doone.
 It will be noticed that the Snows did not become landowners at Oare
until long after the period of the story. As for the Ridds, or Reds, the only
mention of the name in the parish register occurs in the year 1768, when
John Red was married to Mary Ley. The real Plover’s Barrows was
Broomstreet Farm, in the neighbouring parish of Culbone; at any rate, a
John Ridd was resident there. A John Fry, no mere farm-servant, was
churchwarden of Countisbury, of which Jasper Kebby was likewise a
parishioner. Plover’s Barrows has been identified by Mr Page with Mr
Snow’s residence—“according to Blackmore, anciently the farm of the
Ridds.” But in Lorna Doone (chapter vii.) the two farms are represented as
adjoining, and Plover’s Barrows is evidently further upstream (see Lorna
Doone, chapter xiv.: “In the evening Farmer Snowe came up.”) The same
writer speaks of the Snows as having been seated at Oare since the time of
Alfred. Can Mr Page be thinking of John Ridd’s boast to King Charles
(Lorna Doone, chapter lxviii.)?
Oare Church, where the elder Ridd lay buried, where his son stole the
lead from the porch to his subsequent shame, and where the brute Carver
shot Lorna on her bridal morn, has received an addition in the shape of the
chancel

OARE CHURCH.

since the last disastrous event—which, as things are, rather falsifies the
narrative. Graced with ash and sycamore, the little cemetery is as
Blackmore describes it, “as meek a place as need be.”
 CHAPTER XI

THE MOUTH OF THE LYN

The scenery of the district described in many excellent guide-books may

not tally in every particular with the superb word-portraiture of Lorna
Doone, but that it possesses charms of supreme merit will be admitted by
all who know the country, whether as residents or visitors. Almost before R.
D. Blackmore was breeched, the poet Coleridge testified: “the land imagery
of the north of Devon is most delightful”; and his brother-in-law, Robert
Southey, is equally emphatic.
“My walk to Ilfracombe,” he says, “led me through Lynmouth, the finest
spot, except Cintra and Arrabida, that I ever saw. Two rivers [i.e., the East
and West Lyn] join at Lynmouth. You probably know the hill streams of
Devonshire. Each of these flows through a combe, rolling over huge stones
like a long waterfall; immediately at their juncture they enter the sea, and
the rivers and sea make but one noise of uproar. Of these combes, the one is
richly wooded, the other runs between two high, bare, stony hills. From the
hill between the two is a prospect most magnificent, on either hand combes,
and the river before the little village—the beautiful little village—which, I
am assured, by one who is familiar with Switzerland, resembles a Swiss.
This alone would constitute a view beautiful enough to repay the weariness
of a journey; but, to complete it, there is the blue and boundless sea, for the
faint and feeble outline of the Welsh coast is only to be seen, if the day be
perfectly clear.”
Inland, it is certain, the moorland streams—Lancombe, Bagworthy
Water, the East and West Lyn, etc.—and all that they imply, are paramount
attractions; and Miss Gratiana Chanter both truly and happily observes that,
“to follow one of these tiny streams from its birth to its end, is a dream of
delight to those who love to be alone with nature and her many marvels.”
Another reason why we should seek the “founts of Lyn” is, that there
Jeremy Stickles gave his pursuers “a loud halloo” on feeling himself secure
(see Lorna Doone, chapter xlvii.).
 The name “Lyn” is said to be derived from the Saxon word hlynna,
signifying a torrent. The East Lyn, rising above Oare, John Ridd’s
birthplace, flows in a north-westerly direction to Malmsmead, where it
unites with the Bagworthy Water, which at this point is the richer for two or
three tributaries, including Lancombe (or Longcombe) stream and its
waterslide. From the bridge and the thatched cottages that define this spot,
the river pursues its course past Lyford Green and Lock’s Mill, where it
encounters a weir, to Millslade and its meadows, and the blacksmith’s
forge, “where the Lyn stream runs so close that he dips his horse-shoes in
it,” (Lorna Doone, chapter lxii.), and thence through woodlands to pretty
Brendon. Here the Farley Water, arriving from Hoar Oak by way of
Bridgeball and Illford Bridges, joins the East Lyn, and their confluence is
known as Watersmeet, a poetical description not belied by the rare beauty of
the scene.
Meanwhile, from the hills around Woolhanger the water gathers into two
streams, which are trysted at a place called Barham, whilst at Cheribridge
another brook, hailing from Furzehill, helps to swell the current. Passing
Barbrook Mill and Lynbridge, the West Lyn weds the East Lyn in private
grounds at Lynmouth, and then the combined torrent eddies tumultuously
into the sea. Nothing can excel the cataracts of the West Lyn, dashing
athwart huge boulders and down a chasm of grey rock, in an incline stated
to be “one in five.” Clothing the sides of the ravine are oaks and beeches
and thickets of underwood, while ferns of the most exquisite sorts fringe the
banks.

“Here are mosses deep,

And thro’ the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
And from the craggy ledges the poppy hangs in sleep.”

It must not be forgotten, however, that the road via Brendon, Illford
Bridges, and Barbrook was that taken by John Ridd and Uncle Reuben on
their visit to Ley Manor (Lorna Doone, chapter xv.).
All who are fond of quaint authors will find a congenial companion in
old Thomas Westcote, whose Survey of Devon, written in the reign of James
I., or during the early years of his successor, is stored with all manner of
gossip, set forth with many a stroke of arch or naïve humour. In his book, at
all events, he approaches Lynton by much the same route as we have
followed, and then spins us an amusing yarn about the finny visitors and a
certain parson.
“For our easier and better proceeding, let us once again return to
Exmoor. We will, with an easy pace, ascend the mount of Hore Oak Ridge;
not far from whence we shall find the spring of the rivulet Lynne, which, in
his course, will soon lead us into the North Division, for I desire you should
always swim with the stream, and neither stem wind nor tide. This passeth
by Cunsbear, alias Countisbury, and naming Lynton, where Galfridus Lovet
and Cecilia de Lynne held sometime land, and, speeding, falls headlong
with a great downfall into the Severn at Lynmouth; a place unworthy the
name of a haven, only a little inlet, which, in these last times, God hath
plentifully stored with herrings (the king of fishes), which, shunning their
ancient places of repair in Ireland, come hither abundantly in shoals,
offering themselves (as I may say) to the fishers’ nets, who soon resorted
hither with divers merchants, and so, for five or six years, continued to the
great benefit and good of the country, until the parson taxed the poor
fishermen for extraordinary unusual tithes, and then (as the inhabitants
report) the fish suddenly clean left the coast, unwilling, as may be
supposed, by losing their lives to cause contention. God be thanked, they
begin to resort hither again, though not as yet in such multitudes as
heretofore. Henry de Lynmouth, after him Isabella de Albino, and now
Wichals, possesseth it. A generous family: he married Pomerois; his father,
Achelond, his grandfather, Munck.”
Concerning the “generous family” more anon; we have not quite done
with the sign of Pisces. Originally Lynmouth was a little village—
Blackmore speaks of it as “the little haven of Lynmouth” (Lorna Doone,
chapter xxxix.)—whose inhabitants dwelt in huts and depended for a
livelihood on the curing of herrings, which was carried on in drying-houses.
From the beginning of September to the end of October shoals of these fish
frequented the shore, and sometimes their number was so great that tons of
them were thrown away or used as manure. In 1797 the herrings deserted
the coast, and the peasantry attributed their conduct to the insult just
referred to. The common duration of truancy was computed at forty years—
a calculation which seems to hold true of the period between 1747 and
1787. The following decade consisted of fat years, when the sea at
Lynmouth yielded rich autumnal harvests, and masses of herrings were sent
to Bristol, whence they were shipped to the West Indies. From 1797 to
1837, and indeed longer, the fish fought shy of the place, but not entirely.
On Christmas Day, 1811, there was an exceptional and very abundant shoal
of herrings, and the inhabitants were called out of church in order to take
them out of the weirs. A similar gift of fortune marked the year 1823.
Practically, however, the fishermen’s avocation was gone, and they had to
look elsewhere for a livelihood. Happily, they did not look in vain. Pastured
on the surrounding hills were large flocks of sheep, and in the neighbouring
towns there was a constant demand for yarn. This was of two kinds—one
for the woof, consisting of worsted, which was supplied by the Yorkshire
mills; the other for the warp, which was of softer texture, and then made by
hand. The latter industry became the chief—almost the sole—prop of
Lynton and Lynmouth, where the good people diligently applied themselves
to spinning, and by this means kept the wolf from the door.
The sea-fishing is not altogether unconnected with the history of the De
Wichehalses, since the original fishermen are stated to have been Dutch
Protestants forced by religious (or irreligious?) persecution to emigrate
from their homes by the Zuyder Zee. The names Litson, Vellacot, etc., still
borne by local families, are quoted as evidence of Dutch extraction. A trade
in cured herrings sprang up with Scotland, and the Dutchmen not only had
commercial transactions with Scotch sailors and traders, but married, many
of them, braw Scotch lassies who came to buy their herrings. The possible
bearing of this intercourse on the problem of Lorna Doone will not escape
attention. It was at Lynmouth that old Will Watcombe, the great authority
on the “Gulf Stream,” lived and sought to be buried (Lorna Doone, chapter
xii.).
Now as to the Wichehalses, whose name Blackmore spells with a
supererogatory “h”—Whichehalse. The Protestants of the Low Countries
had often attempted, by petition and remonstrance, to bend the stubborn
will of their master, Philip II., and not a few of the Gueux or Beggars—a
sobriquet bestowed on the Huguenot conspirators who met at Breda—left
the country in despair. In 1567 the Spanish despot dispatched to the ill-fated
land the Duke of Alva with an army of 20,000 men, and the latter signalised
his arrival by instituting a “Council of Blood,” which resulted in the
execution of 1800 patriots, while 30,000 more were reduced to abject straits
by the confiscation of their property. Hordes of terrified Dutch folk fled to
England, in the wake of the nobles, and a certain number of them settled, as
we have seen, on the north coast of Devon.
Hugh de Wichehalse belonged, strictly speaking, to neither class of
fugitives. The head of a noble and wealthy family, which had early become
converts to the principles of the Reformation, he continued to struggle for
his beliefs until the fatal day of Gemmingen, when, escaping the clutches of
the vindictive Spaniards, he crossed the channel with his wife and children.
The bulk of his property had already, by a timely precaution, been removed
hither.
Such is the tradition which has to be reconciled with the pedigree of the
family in the visitation of 1620. This shows three generations, and, to say
the least, would be consistent with a much longer settlement in the county.
The following is a copy:—

JUNCTION OF LYN AND BAGWORTHY WATER (page 163.)

 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.
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
 THE CHEESEWRING, VALLEY OF ROCKS.

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
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