it is a relief to turn from the thronging streets to the absolute quiet of the cathedral precincts, shaded by tall elms and green with trim lawns.

externally, the cathedral is of the grimiest and sootiest aspect—black as your hat, but comely. not even the blackest corners of st. paul’s cathedral, in london, show a deeper hue than the west front of st. peter’s, at exeter. the battered, time-worn array of effigies of saints, kings, crusaders, and bishops that range along the screen in mutilated array under bishop grandison’s great west window are black, too, and so are the gargoyles that leer with stony grimaces down upon you from the ridges and string-courses of the transepts, where they lurk in an enduring crepuscule.{309}

a coaching stronghold

the sonorous note of great peter, the great bell of the cathedral, sounding from the south transept tower is in admirable keeping with the black-browed gravity of the close, and keeps the gaiety of the surrounding hotels within the limits of a canonical sobriety.

elsewhere are ancient hostelries innumerable, with yawning archways under which the coaches entered in the byegone days. the ‘elephant,’ the ‘mermaid,’ and the ‘half moon’ are the chief among these, and have the true pickwickian air, which is the outstanding note of all inns of the augustan age of coaching. it must have been worth the journey to be so worthily housed at the end of the alarums and excursions which more or less cheerfully enlivened the way.

exeter and the far west of england were the last strongholds of the coaching interest. the great western railway was opened to exeter on 1st may 1844, and up to that time over seventy coaches left that city daily for london and the cross-country routes. nor did coaching languish towards the close. on the contrary, it died game, and, until finally extinguished by the opening of the railway, coaching on the old road between london and exeter was a matter of the utmost science and the best speed ever attained by the aid of four horses on a turnpike road. charles ward, the best-known driver of the old ‘telegraph’ exeter coach, driven from his old route, retreated westwards and took the road between exeter and devonport, retiring into cornwall when the railway was opened to plymouth on 1st may{310} 1848; but not before he had brought the time of the ‘telegraph’ between london and exeter down to fifteen hours.

the ‘half moon’ is the inn from which the ‘telegraph’ started at 6.30 in the morning, breakfasting at ilminster, dining at andover, and stopping for no other meal, reaching hyde park corner at 9.30 p.m. it was kept in 1777 by a landlord named hemming, who had a very good understanding with the highwaymen boulter and caldwell, and doubtless with many another. there is a record of those two knights of the road being here, one of them with a stolen horse, when a mr. harding, of bristol, being in the yard, recognised it. ‘why, mr. hemming,’ said he, ‘that is the very mare my father-in-law, mr. james, lost a few months ago; how came she here?’ to which the landlord replied, ‘she has been my own mare these twelve months, and how should she be your father-in-law’s?’

‘well,’ replied harding, ‘if i had seen her in any other hands, or met her on the road, i could have sworn to her.’ boulter and caldwell were at that moment in the house at dinner, so the landlord took the first opportunity of warning them.

for the rest, exeter is still picturesque. it possesses many quaint and interesting churches, placed in the strangest positions; while that of st. mary steps has a queer old clock with grotesque figures that strike the hours and chime the quarters. the seated figure is intended to represent henry the eighth, and those on either side of him men-at-arms, but the local people have a rhyming legend which{311}

exeter castle

image unavailable: exeter, from the dunsford road.

exeter, from the dunsford road.

{312}

{313}

would have it that the king is a certain ‘matty the miller’:—

the people around would not believe

that matty the miller was dead;

for every hour on westgate tower,

matty still nods his head.

and, in fact, the king kicks his heels against the bell and nods with every stroke. the jacobean guildhall of exeter, too, is among the most striking relics of this old-world city; while away from the high street, but near the continual clashing of a great railway station, there stand the remains of exeter castle, the appropriately named rougemont, that cruel blunderbore, drunken in the long ago with the blood of many a gallant gentleman. at the end of a long line of those who suffered were colonel john penruddocke and hugh grove, captured at south molton after that ineffectual salisbury rising. executed in the castle yard, in the very heart of this loyal city of exeter, many a heart must have ached on that fatal morning for these unhappy men. ‘this, i hope,’ said penruddocke, ascending the scaffold, ‘will prove like jacob’s ladder; though the feet of it rest upon the earth, yet i doubt not but the top of it reaches to heaven. the crime for which i am now to die is loyalty, in this age called high treason.’

image unavailable: ‘matty the miller.’

‘matty the miller.’

{314}

they knew both how to fight and how to die, those dauntless cavaliers. the earl of derby, who suffered at bolton, sir charles lucas and sir george lisle, barbarously shot at the taking of colchester; gray-haired sir nicholas kemys at chepstow, and many another died as valiantly as their master—

who nothing little did, nor mean,

but bowed his shapely head

down, as upon a bed.

it is away through the city and across the exe, to where the road rises in the direction of dartmoor, that one of the finest views back upon the streets and the cathedral is obtained. exeter from the dunsford road, glimpsed by the ancient and decrepit elm pictured here, is worth seeing and the view itself is worth preserving, for elm and old-world foreground, with the inevitable changes which the growth of exeter is bringing about, will not long remain. like many another relic of a past era along this old highway, they are vanishing even while the busy chronicler of byegone days is hastening to record them.