The way parallel with the shore to Culbone lies at the back of the “Ship” inn at Porlock Weir3, steeply up the wooded hillside that looks along down to the sea. The recluse5 situation of Culbone is shadowed forth6, in company with those of two other lonely parishes of this neighbourhood, by the old local rhyme, often quoted:
To Culbone, Oare, and Stoke Pero,
Parishes three, no parson will go.
The reason for this old-time clerical distaste is found partly in these circumstances of solitude7 in which the opportunities for doing good must needs be small; but chiefly, perhaps, in the fact that the pay was not sufficient. The living of Culbone is stated by Crockford to be ￡41 net per annum; that of Oare, ￡93; Stoke Pero, ￡75. Culbone and Oare are, nowadays, held in conjunction by one parson, who thus enjoys an income of ￡134—if a person may correctly be said to “enjoy” these less than clerk’s wages.
The population of Culbone is thirty-four, and the spiritual care of them thus costs ￡1 4s. 1d. 261and an infinitesimal fraction of a farthing, per annum per head; but the spiritual shepherding of Stoke Pero, whose population is thirty-eight, comes to nearly ￡2 per head.
The only way to Culbone lies past the entrance-lodge of the beautiful estate of Ashley Combe, the property of the Earl of Lovelace, but formerly9 that of Lord Chancellor10 King. The clock-tower of the house, in the likeness11 of an Italian campanile, is seen peering up from amid the massed woodlands. Ashley Combe is a place beautifully situated13 and finely appointed, and is splendidly situated for stag-hunting with the Devon and Somerset hounds. Until recently, and for a number of years past, it was rented, 262chiefly for hunting purposes, by the Baroness14 de Tainteignes.
A narrow wooden gateway15 in an arch of the entrance-lodge to Ashley Combe leads into the footpath16 through the woods that forms the sole means of reaching Culbone church. Here is nothing to vulgarise the way, and only an occasional felled tree is evidence of some human being having recently been in these wilds.
A silence that is not that of emptiness and desolation, but rather of restfulness and content, fills the lovely underwoods that clothe the hillsides of Culbone. “Sur-r-r-r,” sighs the summer breeze in the grey-green alders17, the dwarf18 oaks, and slim ashes. It is like the peace of God.
Deep down on the right—so deep that you do but occasionally hear the wash of the waves—is the dun-coloured Severn Sea, glimpsed more or less indistinctly through the massed stems. The path winds for a mile through these solitudes19, mounting and descending20 steeply, and clothed in a few places with slippery pine-needles that render walking uphill almost impossible, and the corresponding descents something in the likeness of glissades.
Culbone church is suddenly disclosed in an opening of the woods, standing21 on a little plateau amid the hills, with but two houses in sight, and those the cottages of what the country folk call “kippurs”: that is to say, keepers. St. Francis preached to the birds, and the casual visitor to Culbone is apt to think the vicar of Culbone’s 263only congregation must be the birds and beasts of this wild spot. But a visit paid on some summer Sunday would prove that, however few the parishioners, the visitors from Porlock, drawn22 by curiosity to take part in the service in what is supposed to be the “smallest church in England,” are many. The attendance is then, in fact, often more than the little building can accommodate, and service is frequently held in the churchyard.
CULBONE CHURCH.
It is a singular little building thus suddenly disclosed to the stranger’s gaze: a white-walled structure of few architectural pretensions23, but exhibiting examples of rude Early English and 264Perpendicular work. A shingled25 “extinguisher” spirelet rises direct from the west end of the roof: own brother (but a very infant brother) to the bulgeous, truncated27 spire26 of Porlock. The length of Culbone church is but thirty-three feet, and the breadth twelve feet, but it is quite complete within these limits. The nave28 roof, internally, is of the usual West of England “cradle” type, of Perpendicular24 date. It is, of course, an aisleless nave; but here will be found a tiny chancel and a chancel-screen, with a font to serve those rare occasions when a baptism takes place, and a family-pew for the Lovelace family on those rare occasions when the Earl is not earning an honest addition to his income by letting Ashley Combe.
A few tombstones, with the usual false rhymes “wept,” “bereft,” are disposed about. On one of them you read the strange Christian29 name of “Ilott,” for a woman. By the south porch stands the base of a fourteenth- or fifteenth-century cross, stained with lichens30.
Culbone is found in Domesday Book under the name of “Chetenore,” and appears in old records as “Kitenore,” “Kytenore,” and “Kitnore”: “ore” standing in the Anglo-Saxon for “seashore.” The present name derives31 from the dedication32 of the church to “St. Culbone,” a corruption33 of “Columban.”
St. Columban, or Columbanus, was an Irish saint, born A.D. 543, in Leinster. The author of the “Lives of the Saints” says he “seems to have been of a respectable family”; which was an 265advantage not commonly enjoyed by saints, as the histories of these holy men show us. The greater therefore, the credit due them for qualifying for saintship.
Columban, as a student, came very near disaster. He was a good-looking young Irishman, and, as such, very attractive to the dark-eyed colleens of his native land, who interrupted his studies in grammar, rhetoric34, and divinity so seriously with their winning ways that he fled at last, on the advice of a mystic old woman, to Lough Erne. Thence he repaired to Bangor, in Carrickfergus, and placed himself under the rule of Abbot Congall. At length, leaving this seclusion36, he set out upon a life of itinerant37 preaching on the Continent, chiefly in Burgundy, whence he was expelled for his too plain speech, criticising the conduct of the Court. His last years were spent in meditation38; and in peace and quiet he died at length, on November 21st, A.D. 615, aged39 seventy-two.
Solitary40 places were especially affected41 by St. Columban, who liked nothing better than the sole companionship of nature. There is thus a peculiar42 fitness in the church of so retired43 a place as this being dedicated44 to him.
But, quiet though it may now always be, Culbone was, in the eighteenth century, the scene of an annual fair that, for merriment and devil-me-care jollity, seems to have been fully12 abreast45 with other country romps46 and revels.
The Reverend Richard Warner, coming to 266Culbone in 1799, in his “Walk through the Western Counties,” says:
“Quiet and sequestered47 as this romantic spot at present is, it has heretofore borne an honourable48 name in the annals of rustic49 revelry. Its rocks have echoed to the shouts of multitudinous mirth, and its woods rung with the symphonious music of all the neighbouring bands: in plain English, a revel1, or fair, was wont50 to be held here in times of yore.” In still plainer English, there used formerly to be a fair held in Culbone churchyard.
Entering upon the meditations51 of the Reverend Richard Warner, striving to write plain English, and failing in the attempt, came an old reminiscent, ruminating52 blacksmith, with an artless tale, recounted, apparently53, by the Reverend Richard as a moral anecdote54.
“About forty-five years agone, sir,” said the blacksmith, “I was at a noble revel in this spot; three hundred people at least were collected together, and rare fun, to be sure, was going forward. A little warmed with dancing, and somewhat flustered55 with ale (for certainly Dame56 Mathews did sell stinging good stuff!) I determined57 to have a touch at skittles, and sport away a sixpence or shilling, which I could do without much danger, as I had a golden half-guinea in my pocket. To play, therefore, I went; but, the liquor getting into my head, I could not throw the bowl straight, and quickly lost the game, and two shillings and ninepence to boot. Not liking58 to get rid of so much money in so foolish 267a manner, and not thinking the fault was in myself—for too much ale, you know, sir, is apt to make one over-wise—I resolved to win back the two and ninepence, and then leave off; and accordingly set to play a second time. The same ill-luck followed me, and in an hour and a half I had not only lost the remainder of my money but about sixteen shillings more out of a guinea I borrowed of a friend. This terrible stroke quite sobered me. I could not help thinking what a wicked scoundrel I must be, to go and run into ruin, and deprive my wife and child of food, merely to indulge myself in a game, which, instead of being an amusement had put me in a terrible passion, and made me curse and swear more than ever I did in my life. Desperately59 vexed60 at my folly61, I went into the wood hard by, and sat down by the side of the waterfall to reflect on the situation. I could plainly hear the singing and laughing of the revel, but it was now gall35 and wormwood to me, and I had almost resolved to escape from my own reproaches and the distress62 of my wife by throwing myself down the cliff, upon the shore, when Providence63 was so good as to preserve me from this additional wickedness, and to put a thought into my head which saved me from the consequences of despair. Cool and sober, for I had washed myself in the stream and drank pretty largely of it, it struck me that if I went back to the skittle-ground and ventured the remaining five shillings, I should have a good chance of winning back my money 268from those who had beaten me before, as I was now fresh, and they all overcome with ale. Accordingly I returned to the churchyard and took up the bowl, though pretty much jeered64 at by the lads who had been winners. The case, however, was altered. I had now the advantage; could throw the bowl straight; took every time a good aim, and more than once knocked down all nine pins. To make short my story, sir, it was only night that put an end to my good luck; and when I left off play, I found I had got back my own half-guinea, the guinea I had borrowed, and fifteen shillings in good silver.” The blacksmith’s cleverness at getting back his own, and incidentally a proportion of other people’s money is amusing enough; and so is the attitude of the Reverend Richard Warner, amiably65 finding a moral in it. There is an obvious enough lesson here, but not an improving one, of the blameless copybook kind.
The neighbourhood of Porlock and Culbone, and, in fact, all the district on to Lynmouth, is noted66 for its whortleberries; “urts,” as the country people call them. Up the Horner valley, and on the wild widespread commons that stretch away—a glorious expanse of furze, bracken, and gorse—to Countisbury, the whortleberry bushes grow in profusion67. But “Bushes” is a term that, without explanation, is apt to be misleading, for here the whortleberry plant grows only to a height of from six to nine inches. The whortleberry, in other parts of the country called bilberry, whinberry, 269and blueberry, is a familiar many-branched little plant with small ovate leaves that range in colour from a light yellow-green to that of burnished68 copper69. Its fruit is perfectly70 round, about the size of a large pea, and of a dark-blue colour, with a slightly lighter71 bloom upon it, resembling the bloom on a plum. The berries ripen72 in July and August, and are sweet, with a sub-acid flavour. They form a very favourite dish in these parts, stewed73, or made into tarts74 and puddings, and in such cases strongly resemble black-currants. Whortleberries generally command eightpence a quart in the shops; but they are also largely picked for the use of dyers, who use them for the production of a purple dye. It is understood that large quantities of them are thus sent to Liverpool. The whortleberry harvest being in full swing during the schools’ summer holidays, the boys and girls of Porlock and round about are generally to be found on the commons and the moors75, busily engaged, with all the baskets they can manage to commandeer, in the picking. Four or five quarts can readily be gathered by one of these experts in the course of a day.
To this prime habitat of the whortleberry we come, by old road or new, passing one or other of the coaches that in summer ply4 a busy trade in carrying pleasure-seekers through a district innocent of railways. At the crest76 of the moorland, where a weatherworn, wizened77 signpost says simply “To Oare,” we enter upon a much-discussed district.
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1
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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weir
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| n.堰堤，拦河坝 | |
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ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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baroness
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| n.男爵夫人，女男爵 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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alders
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| n.桤木( alder的名词复数 ) | |
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dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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shingled
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| adj.盖木瓦的；贴有墙面板的v.用木瓦盖(shingle的过去式和过去分词形式) | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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truncated
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| adj.切去顶端的，缩短了的，被删节的v.截面的( truncate的过去式和过去分词 )；截头的；缩短了的；截去顶端或末端 | |
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nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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lichens
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| n.地衣( lichen的名词复数 ) | |
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derives
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| v.得到( derive的第三人称单数 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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dedication
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| n.奉献，献身，致力，题献，献辞 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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itinerant
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| adj.巡回的；流动的 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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romps
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| n.无忧无虑，快活( romp的名词复数 )v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的第三人称单数 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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52
ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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flustered
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| adj.慌张的；激动不安的v.使慌乱，使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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stewed
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| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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tarts
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| n.果馅饼( tart的名词复数 )；轻佻的女人；妓女；小妞 | |
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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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wizened
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| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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