Bacton or Backton, termed in the Doomsday Book Baketuna, is
situated about four miles and a half north-east by east of North
Walsham. From bordering on the sea, it continually
experiences its devastating effects, which is the more to be
regretted, as the land, about 1600 acres, is extremely
fertile.
The Church, dedicated to St. Andrew, is a neat edifice,
situated on elevated ground, about a quarter of a mile distant
from the sea; and the interior, though unadorned with costly
monuments, contains several neat stones to record departed
worth.
The venerable relic of Norman grandeur Broomholme Priory,
generally termed Bacton Abbey, is situated in the centre of the
village, and from its being in a better state of preservation
than probably any other in this county, which possesses the
astonishing number of one hundred and twenty-two, is ever a
source of interest to the lovers of antiquity.
The architectural style of the Priory of Broomholme appears to
be that of the Norman and the early or lancet gothic united.
The editor of the General History of the County of Norfolk
says: “A part of its architecture is so entirely of the
same style as Norwich Cathedral, that it can scarcely be doubted
but they are of the same era.”
The north transept, with its triforium arches, many of which
still remain, bears some resemblance to those of Norwich
Cathedral and the Church of St. Nicholas, Yarmouth.
The churches generally were built in the form of the latin
cross, terminating at the end in a semi-circular apsis. The
internal elevations consisted of three divisions, the lower
arches—the triforium, occupying the space between the
vaulting and external roof of the side aisles—and the
celestory.
The circular arched entrance north of the transept appears to
be built of Caen stone, and though plain, attests the origin of
at least this part of the building. To the east a very
lofty arch presents itself of the early gothic.
The chapter-house has a very large window of the early pointed
gothic, supposed to have been added in the reign of Henry the
VII, but it appears of a much earlier date.
The arcades of the face of the interior walls are very plain
and simple; and are intended to take off the effect of a large
extent of plain surface as the windows are but small. This
appears to have been general in all Norman architecture.
The chimney is very modern, as the builders of the middle ages
gave the preference to warming their halls by a central hearth,
leaving the smoke to blacken the roof and escape as it best might
by an open lantern.
The niche in the north transept, which bears traces of the
ornamental gothic, was probably added with other parts of the
building, as the abbey increased in fame and opulence.
The following are the supposed dimensions of the various
buildings, &c.:—
The church
|
112 feet
|
North transept
|
22 feet by 18 feet
|
Chancel
|
23 feet
|
Quadrangle
|
73 feet by 47 feet
|
Cloister
|
76 feet by 21 feet
|
Large hall
|
100 feet by 24 feet
|
This priory was founded in 1113, by William de Glanville, in
the reign of Henry the First, for monks of the order of Cluni, as
a cell to Castleacre priory. Here the monks of the latter
sent their junior brethren, when too much crowded at home, or
refractory monks, to do penance for non compliance with monastic
rules. Subsequently, Bartholomew de Glanville, who was
Sheriff of Norfolk and Suffolk, confirmed the priory of
Castleacre to this priory.—The first prior was inducted to
the abbey in the reign of Henry the First, and the last in the
reign of Henry the Eighth.
The monks attached to this establishment appear, according to
early historians, to have derived great profit from a cross, said
to have been made out of that part of the Saviour’s cross
to which the hands and feet were attached, particularly the part
where it was most sprinkled with his blood; and Capgrave informs
us, “that no fewer than thirty-nine were raised from the
dead, and nineteen blind persons had their sight restored by
it.”
In this
priory were also preserved the “girdle for Zona, and milk
of the blessed Virgin, and fragments of the crosses of St. Peter
and St. Andrew.”
Such was the rage for relics in former times, that Mabillon, a
Benedictine, complained that the altars were loaded with
counterfeits; numerous spurious ones being every where offered to
the piety and devotion of the faithful. He also observes,
“that bones were often consecrated, which so far from
belonging to the saints, probably never belonged to
Christians!” To shew how far this fraud extended, the
“girdle” of the Virgin Mary, said to have been
possessed by the monastery of Broomholme, was shown to the
visitors appointed by Henry the Eighth, in eleven different
places.
The following “Legendary Fragment,” written by an
intimate friend of the Author’s, may not be deemed
inappropriate:—
Broomholme, thy ruined grandeur tells
A saddening tale of man’s decay,
It speaks how all his glories pass,
How all his relics droop away;
How all his efforts fall a prey
To Desolation’s ruthless reign,
How all the records he would trace
The hand of Time outblots again.
Thou hast looked forth for ages past,
And seen the unwearying ebb and flow
Of yonder calm and azure sea,
Glittering in summer’s golden glow;
And oh! how many a winter’s snow
Hath wrapped thee in its spotless vest,
How many a Spring with cheerful hand
Thy fair domain in beauty drest.
How oft within thy ruined fane
Has many a haughty zealot knelt,
And muttered o’er some holy prayer
His thankless heart had never felt:
Thou’st heard the groans of souls that melt
With anguish and repentance cleft,
Who, though engulphed in blood and crime,
Had yet the hope of mercy left.
Oh! could yon gloomy pile reveal
The thousand tales its records bear,
And rend the dark mysterious seal
That Time has fixed for ever there,
Perchance
’twould tell of pain and care,
The same unvarying round of woe,
The same dark chain of human ills
That links us all to life below.
’Twould tell of horrors dark and dire,
That well the sternest heart might thrill,
How man with rapine, sword, and fire,
Had wrought with zeal his brother’s ill.
Strange that ungrateful man should fill
The cup of woe, for pride or pelf,
Yet madly, fondly, vainly hope,
To taste the streams of bliss himself.
’Twould tell how bright, to
Childhood’s eyes,
The glory of existence seems,
How swiftly life’s ensuing hours
Lose one by one their golden gleams.
How fondly Hope’s delusive dreams
The hearts of men with smiles enslave,
How those forlorn and weary here,
May learn to look beyond the grave.
And Fancy often wanders back,
Through Time on her enchanted wings,
To snatch one legend from the gloom
That age about thy ruin flings.
And thus Imagination sings
In fond conceit and varied lay,
With all a Poet’s trembling pride,
“A tale of Broomholme’s Abbey
grey.”
The northern blast is sighing now,
In every withered leafless bough,
The dirge of the departed year;
And the lone sea-bird’s dismal wail,
That ever comes in storm and gale,
Foretells the gathering tempest near.
The gloom of night is deepening fast,
And on the wild and fitful blast
The stormy clouds like shadows fly;
And darkened by their rapid flight,
The pale and placid orb of night
Is shrouded from the seaman’s eye.
The vivid lightning’s transient flash,
And then the deafening thunder crash,
Proclaims the elemental war;
And when
the lightning leaves the skies,
And when the rolling thunder dies,
Hark, how the raging waters roar.
The wild waves that in wanton play
Fling to the winds their feather’d spray,
But seem to mock the angry sky;
But seem to sport in maddening pride,
When all is dread and dark beside,
And ghastly Death is hovering nigh.
* * * * * *
Morn: oh! how many anxious eyes
Have watched the live-long night for thee,
That from the threshold of the skies,
Now looks o’er a tempestuous sea;
The ocean that so softly bright
Hath mirror’d oft the Queen of Night,
In lustrous lines of liquid light,
And, oh! hath looked so calm and fair,
As if no storm could gather there.
Like to those living lights that shine
So pure and placid from the eyes,
When at Religion’s holy shrine
The humble soul in rapture lies,
And gloomy passions wake within,
That lead away the heart to sin;
Then all that looked so fair and bright,
So pure in its own sportive glee,
Becomes a torture and a blight,
And wilder than the raging sea.
The gale now slowly dies away,
With the approach of dawning day,
And every wave that chafes the shore,
Salutes the strand with sullen roar,
And on the beach in sadness flings
All that to Hope was once so sweet,
Like trophies which a warrior brings,
And lays them at his country’s feet.
Records that blood and death had earned,
When mercy from her shrine was spurned.
Alas! when angry storms break forth,
And wake the waters into wrath;
Ah! then the treacherous heaving wave
Rolls over many a wanderer’s grave,
And striving winds and foaming surge
Sing many a mournful funeral dirge.
* * * * * *
Oh, Heaven! that such a lovely form
Could brave so dread and fierce a storm,
That one
so beautiful and frail
Could bide the harsh and bitter gale;
And she who angels might have kept
In hallowed watches while she slept,
Is pillowed on the sandy shore,
Her lullaby the waters’ roar:
And frowning skies in sorrow spread
Their canopy around her head.
And now beside the maiden kneels
A messenger of fond relief,
One who with sweet religion heals
The wounded spirit’s cankering grief;
And raises from the chilly sand
The form that cold and lifeless lay,
Sustains it with a trembling hand,
And wraps it in his mantle grey.
And from that frontlet wipes away
The wanton water’s brackish spray.
And now her wild and anxious gaze
Is fixed upon his swarthy cheek,
And faint and feebly she essays
Her wonder and despair to speak;
And he who looked so calm before,
Is moved to tears of sorrow now,
That as he bends the maiden o’er,
Those drops of pity damp her brow.
He turns as though ashamed to own
His heart has soft and yielding grown.
And now is many an offer made
Of home and hospitable aid,
By those who throng around the maid,
To them the monk his charge commends,
With promises of bounteous pay,
And with a heart of trouble wends
His steps to Broomholme Abbey “grey.”
* * * * * *
What charm is there in Nature’s smile,
When Hope be dead the weary while,
Or what in all the world can please,
When aching hearts are ill at ease.
And, oh! what rapture could he feel,
Who left the fair and beaten track
Of sweet Religion’s holy zeal,
And to the cold world wandered back;
Whose only oriflamme should be
The sanguine cross of Calvary.
Yes, he whose life had aye been spent
In self denial’s lowly creed,
In turning
sinners to repent,
And share the Abbey’s thrifty meed.
Yes, he who taught that heavenly love
Should all absorb the anxious mind,
That hearts should look to hopes above,
And leave the thoughtless world behind:
Yes, he whose years though few had been,
In much of deep devotion past,
Who joy’d the smiling summer scene,
And braved the winter’s bitter blast;
Yes, he who told how dear and sweet
Was holy influence to the mind,
Who walked the world with weary feet,
To succour helpless human kind;
Yes, he forgot for beauty’s smile,
His oath to Heaven, his hopes above,
He gave his heart to pleasures wile,
And lost his soul for woman’s love.
Yes, he forgot the lowly mien,
The holy mass, the rosary,
And all that he had ever been,
For hopeless love and misery.
Alas! that grief should ever wear
So pale a cheek with sorrow’s tear,
That anguish and remorse should trace
Their furrowed lines on Beauty’s face,
And early troubles lead the way
For dread disease and slow decay.
There is a canker of the breast
That pleasure cannot charm away,
When the young heart becomes a prey
To dread disquiet, and un-rest.
Day after day—day after day,
Along that smooth and sandy shore,
Did Herbert with fair Edith stray,
Oft listening to the angry roar
Of the wild ocean’s troubled sound,
Till the fair earth had wandered round
The presence of the glorious sun;
And when the winter had begun
To shackle every limpid river,
And silence every gurgling rill,
And in the woodland on the hill
The aspen leaves had ceased to quiver,
And every minstrel in the wood
Was silent in its solitude,
Those lovely birds that gaily chanted
Their songs of gladness from the grove;
Ah! oft had Edith’s bosom panted
With
silent and supreme delight,
When they have woke the lovely night
With their melodious songs of love.
Ah! many and many a lovely eve,
Beneath the Heaven’s bespangled roof,
Did her young heart delight to weave
The future like a fairy woof:
And with her Herbert by her side,
In the sweet hush of eventide,
When night-blown flowers of beauty rare
With perfume filled the stilly air;
Often in those delightful hours,
When the young dreamy heart of youth
Plucks many a wreath from Fancy’s bowers,
And knits them on the brow of truth.
And once she said, with tearful eye,
With quivering lip, yet tender tone,
As if her weak and trembling heart
Were half afraid its fears to own—
“Herbert forgive, I know thou wilt,
Or else my heart the wish would rue,
Ah! if it bears the taint of guilt,
In mercy, Heaven, absolve me too.
When death with chilling hand shall sever
The souls that nought but death could part,
Herbert, a slow consuming fever
Is burning at my brain and heart:
I feel that death is calmly stealing
Over my senses, day by day,
Immortal longings and a feeling
Of rapture charms my pulse away.
Herbert, dear Herbert, my request,
My last sad dying wish would be,
That in the last embrace of death,
My rest may then be near to thee;
And by the willows that o’ershade
The streamlet on the woodland hill,
Our dust may be in sadness laid,
And, though in death, together still.”
Down Herbert’s cheeks the drops of woe
Coursed sad and slowly—whilst the maid
Her last and earnest wishes prayed.
It was a dread and bitter throe—
Such as fond hearts, when doomed to sever,
At once unheeded and for ever,
Pure ardent souls alone could know.
He clasped her to his aching heart—
Her brow, alas! how pale and chill;
An icy glaze is o’er her eye,
And yet her lips are quivering still.
Ah! what
is all the world to him?
A sleepless night, a cheerless day,
Now those endearing eyes are dim,
And his twin spirit passed away.
Now what to him is hill or dale,
The summer’s sun or winter’s gale?
Alas! they only tell a tale
That wakes a sorrow in his breast,
Whispering o’er and o’er again,
That he was blest, supremely blest.
Autumn or winter, summer or spring,
What are they now to him?
He walks the earth like a withered thing,
Whose lamp of life is dim.
* * * * * * *
The keenest pangs of mortal woes,
And Sorrow’s agonizing throes,
The briny drops of Misery
That overflow the mourning eye,
When Hope has lost its faintest gleam,
Will make the sweetest Eden seem
A barren and unkindly waste.
Alas! how bitter to the taste
Is that dark cup Remembrance fills
With all the worst of human ills,
And crowns with pleasures past away.
As waters silently decay
The flinty rocks they hourly fret,
So does the wildness of Despair,
And the slow canker of Regret,
The weary human bosom wear.
In Broomholme’s cloistered turret now
Herbert de Colville lowly lies,
And withered is his burning brow,
And haggard are his frenzied eyes;
Those wandering orbs whose meteor light
Shines wildly from their mortal spheres,
When Fever like a deadly blight,
The wavering sense with madness sears;
It fills the eye and rends the heart,
When Reason’s heavenly rays depart,
And leave the mind so faint and dim.
That it had ever been to him,
To leave the Abbey’s holy wall,
And from that sweet Religion fall,
That should have been his hope—his all,
When earthly scenes began to pall;
That he should learn the bitter truth,
When
buoyant hours are all gone by,
That the wild erring steps of youth
Must be retraced, when health and prime
Have left the frame, and when the eye
Is dim with pain and misery;
When the lone heart is worn and weak,
And the untiring hand of Time
Hath written Manhood on his cheek.
And round about him watchful stand
The Brethren of that holy band,
Whose pure devoted lives are given
To work the glorious will of Heaven.
And their’s is not a bigot’s zeal,
Whose dear delight is but to heal
The souls that pant for sweet repose,
O’erwhelmed with sin and worldly woes,
To succour in the hour of need
The hearts that ache and inly bleed,
Whose crown of glory is the meed,
That Love upon the soul bestows;
The sweet rejoicing of the heart,
That well performs its mortal part;
And not ingratitude nor slight,
Nor the world’s cold and biting scorn,
Contempt and scoffing hourly borne,
Hath power to dim the holy light
That Love around her votary flings,
For she can wrap them in delight,
And fan them with ambrosial wings,
When death with calm approaches steep
Their senses in eternal sleep.
* * * * * *
“Alas! ’tis not my lowly couch,
Nor Misery’s unkindest touch,
No, nor the world so long forgot,
Although in grief remembered now,
Nor yet my lone and humble lot,
That made me what ye see me now.
She was perchance an erring light,
A beauteous wandering meteor flame,
That on my waking vision came,
To cross my pathway like a blight;
Or else a Heavenly spirit sent
From a diviner element,
Who left some star-lit world that lies
Far off in azure’s seas than this,
To teach my spirit what sweet bliss,
Were in her home beyond the skies.
But yet
she passed,—she drooped away,
Like a fair rose untimely blighted,
Like an Hymeneal altar lighted
On a fond bridegroom’s dying day.
There was a flush upon her cheek,
That in my soul a sadness wrought,
A warning voice that used to speak,
The lesson of her life’s decay;
There was a lustre in her eyes,
Like a celestial glory caught,
From some bright meteor of the skies.
There was a music in her tone,
Like the low wind of Autumn makes,
Through the lone woods in sadness sighing,
When the bright leaves and flowers are dying,
As if it sighed for their sweet sakes.
Although I know and feel she died,
Her form and voice are with me now,
These are the hands that from her brow
Were wont so often to divide
The tresses of her golden hair,
When the night winds had wanton’d there.
But when we wandered through the glade,
And heard the night bird on the bough,
Or side by side together prayed,
Is but a fading vision now.”
* * * * * *
Broomholme’s Abbey is old and grey,
And monks are kneeling the live-long day,
From matin time till eve;
Many and sweet are the Aves they say,
And many the souls they shrieve.
At midnight, censors were brightly swinging,
And slowly and sad was the requiem singing,
And masses are singing still,
For him they laid in the willow’s shade,
By the stream on the woodland hill.
Caister or Caistor, a pleasant village situated upon the
coast, about two miles and a half to the northward of Yarmouth,
possesses the remains of a Roman station, and the ruins of
Caister castle.—A lofty circular tower and a large portion
of the north and west walls belonging to the latter are very
prominent. This is supposed to be one of the oldest brick
mansions in England. It was erected by Sir John Fastolf,
who was born here, or at Yarmouth, in 1378. He entered
early in life a brilliant military career, and signalized himself
by many acts of bravery during a forty years’ campaign under the
English Regency in France, and history records, in the course of
this period, he was made in the field of battle a Knight
Banneret, a Baron of France, Knight of the Garter, Marshal of the
Regent’s Household, the King’s Lieutenant in
Normandy, and progressively appointed to various public
offices. He subsequently returned to Caistor, and his
liberality, munificence, and acts of charity were not equalled in
the period in which he lived. He became a founder of
religious and other edifices, a generous patron of learning, an
encourager of piety, and a benefactor to the poor.
A quibble on the name of this truly great and eminent man has
been raised by some authors, who supposed him to be the Sir John
Falstaff, whom our immortal bard Shakspeare delineated in the
humorous but abandoned character as constantly lounging about the
court of Prince Henry (afterwards Henry the Vth. of
England).—The poetical Falstaff was nearly threescore years
of age at the battle of Shrewsbury, A.D. 1403, when the Norfolk
hero was not more than twenty-five. The former ended his
career soon after Prince Henry ascended the throne—the
latter survived Henry the Vth. thirty-seven years, and died at
Caistor in 1459.
Cromer, formerly a small market town, is situated nine miles
N.N.W. of North Walsham, and on the verge of the German
Ocean. At the Doomsday survey Cromer formed part of the
lordship and parish of Shipden, a considerable village, which,
with its church, dedicated to St. Peter, appears to have been
swallowed up by the sea about the time of Henry the 4th. A
patent to collect certain dues for the erection of a pier was
granted in the 14th of Richard II. At neap tides, in calm
weather, are still to be seen, about half a mile distant from the
shore, large masses of wall, which are supposed to have belonged
to the church alluded to.
Many large portions of land were washed away in 1611, previous
to which the inhabitants expended considerable sums of money and
ingenuity in a fruitless attempt to maintain a small
harbour. In the winter of 1799, the light-house cliffs,
projecting from the beach three hundred and twenty feet, made
several remarkably large shoots, one of which brought with it
half an acre of ground, and extended into the sea beyond low
water mark. On January 15th, 1825, another large mass of
earth was detached from the light-house hills, and fell with
great force on the beach, extending in breadth above three
hundred yards from the cliffs, covering an area of twelve acres,
and containing, it was supposed, not less than half a million of
cubic yards of earth. The fall of this enormous body was
sudden and unexpected. A large stream of water issued from
the bank immediately after its fall, and discharged itself down
upon the beach with great noise and violence. Early in the
morning of August 19th, 1832, another large shoot of the cliffs
occurred near the light-house, which threatened the destruction
of that useful edifice. It was deemed expedient to erect
another on the hill, two hundred and fifty yards inland; but the
remains of the old one are still standing about three-quarters of
a mile east of the town, where it was built of brick in 1719.
These immense landslips were almost entirely owing to the
numerous fresh water springs abounding in this locality, but the
damage the town of Cromer experienced, and referred to in Chapter
III., was caused by the ocean, during a continuous gale of
wind.
According to tradition, Cromer church, dedicated to St. Peter
and St. Paul, is supposed to have been erected in the reign of
Henry 4th, soon after the village of Shipden disappeared.
It is a large and handsome edifice, built of flint and
free-stone, in the Gothic style, with a fine tower 154 feet in
height, and richly ornamented with sculpture. The west
entrance, the north porch, and the chancel have been long in
ruins, and very little of the latter now remains; and history
informs us, that many of its ornaments were destroyed by
Cromwell’s soldiers, who converted it into barracks.
As a watering place Cromer richly deserves the celebrity it
has attained; and the encomiums conferred by those who have
visited it during the summer months, are certainly not
exaggerated. Nature indeed, appears to have bestowed her
favours with no sparing hand to render it a delightful retreat
for the invalid—or those who require a relaxation from the
noise and bustle of a city life—and for those who are
desirous to prosecute their studies with ease and comfort, almost
amounting to enchantment. The most fastidious could but be
pleased with the beauty of the surrounding scenery—with the
accommodation provided by enterprising individuals—with the
civility and courteous demeanour of its inhabitants, who from the
highest to the lowest grade, take every possible pains to deserve
lasting esteem and friendship. The fishermen too are
exceedingly well behaved, and their looks pourtray a contentment
approaching to happiness, that indicates the labour attending
their perilous vocation is rewarded.
The village of Shipden, with its church dedicated to St.
Peter, which lay between Cromer and the sea, has wholly
disappeared.
Eccles by the Sea, nine miles east by south of North Walsham,
was a hamlet of the great lordship of Hasborough or Happisburgh,
from whence it is about two miles distant. It not only
appears fast sinking into oblivion itself, but also holds a fearful
destiny over a large tract of valuable marsh land in the eastern
division of the county, by reason of the inlet it may sooner or
later afford to an irruption of the sea.
In the reign of Edward the Confessor it was held by Edric, a
Dane of noble extraction, afterwards by Ralph, Earl of Norfolk,
through whom it became forfeited to the Crown. William the
Conqueror bestowed it upon Roger Bigot, whence it passed
successively into the hands of William de Albini, ancestor of the
Earls of Arundale, William le Parker, and several other noblemen
of renown in the annals of chivalry.
Many curious privileges and customs the lords of the manor
derived in those days—for we find in 33rd of Edward the
1st, 1305, William le Parker was entituled to receive wreck of
sea, lagan, and resting geld, customs, and other profits upon the
sea and land, and of every crew of a ship or boat washing their
nets in the said village after Michaelmas to Martlemas, an
hundred herrings, and also a fee for goods, chattels, &c.,
coming to land by sea, without the help of the said William or
his servant, or resting upon the land one day and one night; and
if the said William or his men, &c., immediately after
imminent danger, or after shipwreck, shall do their endeavour to
save such things, then the said William shall have a third part
of all such things, or the value of them, unless of his good will
he will omit something, but must not be asked.—Among the
land customs was the bed gild, and at every wedding, noble or
ignoble, the lords of the manor had the privilege of consummating
the nuptials of the bride, or receiving a fee instead. This
indecorous system prevailed in some parts of Scotland not many
years since.
These arbitrary laws, enacted in the earlier period of
England’s history, when ignorance prevailed, and barbarism
allowed the honoured and the wealthy to impose exactions cruel
and oppressive, on those beneath them, may possibly have in many
instances, from humanity, been omitted. At all events, as
knowledge advanced, we find that not only have those which
pressed so heavily upon the poor industrious fishermen been
cancelled, but that others have been reduced to an extent
compatible with the necessary protection to property exposed to
the pilferer, from lamentable accidents on the coast. And
it is highly gratifying to observe, that until recently no murmur
or complaint has been raised against the lords of the manor, and
this is confined to two or three districts, and arose from the
following circumstance:—From time immemorial, it appears,
persons have been allowed to take whatever sea-beach materials
they required for domestic or other purposes, without molestation
or the
exaction of any fee. But the increasing demand induced
individuals who were deputed by the lords of the manor to
officiate in their stead, to apply for permission to charge so
much per freight or load; which being granted, a pretty income
has been realized from the hundreds of loads of sand, stones,
&c., removed annually.—A curious coincidence, however,
is connected with it. One of these deputy lords, a few
years since, observed that the removal of sea-beach materials,
within a given distance of the road or gangway to the beach,
afforded an inlet for the ocean to under mine and remove the foot
of the gangway to such an extent, that an expence was necessarily
incurred, from time to time, in repairing it, besides the loss of
land on either side of it. He therefore applied for
permission to fix up a board in the vicinity, on which was
printed—
“By order of the
Magistrates.
“Notice is hereby given—Should any person or
persons take away or remove any sand near the gangway and foot of
the cliffs, he or they shall be prosecuted, and upon conviction,
shall suffer the extreme penalty of the law.”
But strange to relate, no sooner did the deputy lord receive
permission to dispose of the sea-beach materials, than the board
was taken down, and individuals are permitted to take them away,
if not in the immediate vicinity of the gangway, at least at the
foot or base of the cliffs.
Every remaining vestige of Eccles denotes antiquity.
Ancient stone walls have been exposed within the last three years
by the action of the sea, removing lofty sand hills, and the
peasantry have picked up silver and copper coins of great
antiquity. But a still stronger evidence of a remote period
may be traced in the wells constructed with large unburned
bricks, formed in a mould wider at one end than at the other, to
adapt them to the true circumference of the well itself. It
is quite clear the wells had been filled up with earth, and
ceased to be used before the abandonment of the place, since near
to every one of them is a stone well, built with mortar, similar
to the churches, which possibly denotes the first step towards
civilization in this country. It formerly contained two
thousand acres of land, but so wasted by the incursion of the
German Ocean, that the inhabitants, in their petition for a
reduction of taxes, in the reign of James the 1st, complained
they had then only fourteen houses and three hundred acres of
land. The whole now comprises a few cottages, with the
church tower, and one hundred and fifty acres of land. The
church was dedicated to St. Mary.
History informs us, that the parish of Whimpnell, formerly
situated between Hasborough and Eccles, has been entirely removed
by the sea.
Hasborough, denominated also Happisburgh, situated seven miles
south-east of North Walsham, is a considerable village,
containing a church dedicated to St. Mary. Its steeple,
110½ feet in height, stands on an elevated point of land,
and is extremely useful to the mariner as a land-mark. In
former days a large wooden cross presented itself a considerable
height above and from the centre of the steeple, which rendered
it still more conspicuous, and prior to 1818 it became so
decayed, that it was blown down. The inhabitants erected
another in its stead, which, during a heavy tempest in 1822,
unfortunately served as a conductor for the electric fluid, which
demolished it, and also a large portion of the south-east
buttress; the latter fell upon and passed through the roof of the
church, on to the aile beneath. On this occasion the
electric fluid set fire to the church, and had not the promptest
measures been resorted to, it must have been destroyed.
Here also was erected, in 1791, two light-houses, the one a
hundred and the other eighty feet high. The upper part of
each terminates in a dome; immediately beneath is the lantern,
and on the outside a platform, surrounded with iron palisading,
whose verge consists of a flat piece of the same material.
Some years since, an unfortunate individual, subject to mental
aberration, while in an extremely excited state, walked on the
top or rim of the palisading, round one of the lights. This
feat he safely accomplished, and extraordinary to relate, it had
the desirable effect to render him calm and collected for several
years.
A lover of the picturesque would be amply repaid for the
trouble taken to reach the platform, which, as before observed,
describes a circle, the one half presenting, on a clear day, a
beautiful marine view, the other a splendid landscape.
In the former, the ocean, as far as the eye can reach,
exhibits a vast expanse of troubled water, imparting sound which
murmurs discontent. Its bosom too, after northerly and
north-easterly winds, is frequently bedecked with vessels bound
to some distant port, and from their being so numerous, so
variable in size and form, and gliding so near the shore, they
produce a beautiful panorama, not surpassed on any other part of
the coast.
From the latter is seen in the distance, the spire of Norwich
Cathedral, Cromer and Winterton light-houses. The
intermediate space presenting pretty scenery of hill and dale,
with here and there a mansion surrounded with plantations.
The spires of the village churches too are numerous and
conspicuous, and the ruins of antiquated buildings, especially
the Priory of Broomholme, at Bacton, is a picture in itself
inviting our thoughts to roam to by-gone times.—The lands
divided with fences, neat and trim, and the fields, exhibit,
during the summer months, the various colours of the ripening
corn. Farm-houses located at uncertain distances, and the
humble cottages of the industrious poor, present at once a
coup-d’œil of the blessings conferred on
industry and enterprize.
To the Geologist and the Antiquarian a fine field for
research, and a glorious treat, is afforded them. Within a
short distance to the northward are lofty cliffs, containing in
the different strata, relics of animals; some similar to those in
the present day; others that never existed in the memory of the
oldest historian; and those which now exist only in the torrid
zone. The shells of fish that only inhabit rivers whose
waters have departed to other channels, whose beds have been
covered up probably for ages, while the trunks of trees, and
stumps, with their strong roots extended, are frequently exposed
after strong gales of wind.
To the southward is old Eccles steeple, ready to be snatched
into the briny ocean; at its foot, towards the sea, is the
remaining portion of the sacred edifice, with other foundations,
indicating where once had existed the humming noise of human
beings, exercising their vocation for individual and collective
benefit. On either side of the old steeple are capacious
banks, where the marram grows spontaneously, whose long tufts
conceal the wily rabbit and the timid hare. Here the weary
may rest; the contemplative picture to himself scenes that are
past, present, and to come. Here pic-nic parties, merry
meetings, the young and old, may partake of a delightful
recreation, which a wonderful yet beautiful world presents;
containing the fountain from whence all Philosophy springs and
ends, and embracing the evidence of an Infinite Being, in the
grandeur and magnificence of Creation.
Horsey next the Sea must have been formerly one of the most
uninviting hamlets ever beheld. It lies between Waxham and
Winterton, and is eleven miles north by west of Yarmouth.
Its lonely situation, its containing a large lake, called Horsey
mere, and intersected with ditches of stagnant water, cannot
render it even now prepossessing. And were it not for its
complete exposure to wind from every quarter, it probably would
be very unhealthy.—Such a singular aspect did it assume
some years since, that an early historian, alluding to Horsey,
recommended it to the notice of government, as being peculiarly
adapted for prisoners of war, especially the French;
observing they could be retained there readily, as there was only
one road to it; and its growing roots in abundance, besides an
innumerable quantity of frogs, the expense for maintaining them
would be inconsiderable.
The present proprietor’s highly respected ancestor,
about fifty years since, purchased the manor, when it was of
little value, being generally flooded, and having expended a
considerable sum of money in draining the marshes, repairing the
sea-bank, and making a road to Somerton, an adjoining village
leading to Yarmouth, has rendered it one of the most fertile
estates in the county.
On the sea-bank within the bounds of this parish is Little
Waxham, a manor of 160 acres; but the village, and its church
dedicated to St. Margaret, were swept away by the ocean many
years ago.
Keswic or Casewic, situated to the east of Bacton, appears to
have been part of the manor, and extended to this place and
Broomholme. In 1382, the church, dedicated to St. Clement,
was standing, and when it became deserted cannot be
determined.
Extensive ruins remained for several years, which were taken
down on the day of the coronation of George the Third and Queen
Charlotte, with the exception of a small portion, now forming
walls to two or three cottages.
A considerable part of the village is now in the sea from the
falling of the cliffs.
Mundesley is a pleasant village, situated about five miles
north by east of North Walsham, and has considerably improved
during the last few years, but, similarly to Bacton, to which it
is annexed, is continually wasting by the sea. A villa
erected by F. Wheatley, Esq., commands a beautiful marine view,
but to preserve it from the rapacity of the ocean, upwards of
three thousand pounds have been expended.
Palling next the Sea lies between Eccles and Waxham, and is
about twenty miles north-east of Norwich. It is celebrated
in ancient records as being the residence of Godwin, Earl of
Kent, in the reign of Edward the Confessor. William the
Conqueror afterwards seized on it, and at the grand survey,
Godric was bailiff or steward of it for that king.
Within
the last few months, the sea has removed the beach at low water
mark, and exposed the strata beneath its surface. In it are
the remains of the trunks and roots of trees; the former broken
off from three to four feet above the strata, while around lie
the remaining portions consisting of the branches, leaves,
&c., but very much compressed. The bark of the beech is
very distinct, but the oak, and especially the red fir, are in
the best state of preservation. The wood of the latter has
evidently undergone considerable chemical change, for the
ligneous or fibrous part is very perfect, but its resinous
properties are absent, consequently the wood when dried, is much
lighter, and smells strongly of sulphur. It is impossible
to ascertain how long the trees have been covered up, but
probably some centuries.
Trimingham is situated on the tall cliffs between Mundesley
and Cromer, and five miles north by east of North Walsham.
Like the former, it has been subject to the encroachments of the
ocean for a series of years, and is now reduced to a small
village. The church stands on the highest point of the
cliffs; and history relates that its ancient priests professed to
have the head of St. John the Baptist. Pilgrims came a long
distance with great offerings, and thus became the dupes of
superstition and deceit.
Waxham lies on the coast between Palling and Horsey, and is
about fourteen miles north-west of Yarmouth. This parish
was formerly much more extensive, and although it has not been
encroached upon for some years, yet the sand hills appear
evidently inclined to recede.
The church, dedicated to St. John, exhibits considerable
dilapidation, the chancel end being quite in ruins. In the
church-yard lies interred the remains of the unfortunate mate of
the Hunter cutter.
Wells next the sea is situated five miles north by west of
Walsingham, and 32 miles north-west of Norwich. It
possesses a tolerably good harbour and several neat buildings,
but its streets are very irregular. The church, dedicated
to St. Nicholas, is a neat edifice, with a square tower. On
July 15th, 1817, a gale of wind from the north produced so high a
tide, that the marshes near Wells became inundated.
Winterton is an ancient village, annexed to Horsey on the
south, and within eight miles north by west of Yarmouth. It
is sheltered on the north-east by a bold promontory called
Winterton-Ness, and well known to the mariner as the most fatal
headland between Scotland and London. The church, dedicated
to the Holy Trinity and All Saints, possesses a fine tower, 118
feet in height, which commands an extensive view of the
ocean.
On the 27th of December, 1665, a tremendous high tide caused
such alarming breaches in the sand hills at Winterton, Horsey,
and Waxham, as to threaten destruction to all the valuable marsh
land from thence to Yarmouth, Beccles, &c.
Frequently termed Great Yarmouth, is the principal sea-port
town in Norfolk, and 123 miles distant N.E. of London. It
stands on the east bank of the river Yare (from whence it takes
its name), at its confluence with the Bure, about two miles from
the mouth of the haven, which is very extensive and
commodious.—From the appearance of the country, and an
ancient chart, supposed to have been drawn about A.D. 1000, it is
evident that a broad and extensive estuary divided this part of
the eastern coast, not only in the time of its most ancient
inhabitants, but for a long period after the Saxon Conquest,
extending its waters westward to the city of Norwich, northward
to Caistor, Reedham, Herringby, and Strumpshaw, and southward to
Gorleston, Burgh, Bungay, Harleston, and Haddiscoe. This
large arm of the ocean forming the grand receptacle of all the
eastern waters of Norfolk (as it still continues under the
circumscribed form of the Yare), began to disappear after the
fifth century, when the sand collecting at its entrance, was, by
the action of the waters, gradually formed into an island, which
ultimately extended itself to the main land, and became the
peninsula on which Yarmouth is founded. Several successive
disappointments, and an immense outlay of capital in endeavouring
to erect substantial havens for the guidance of the river waters
into the sea, had been experienced, and at length finally
accomplished by the erection of those beautiful piers and noble
jetty. In 1528 the work was commenced, and on the 2nd day
of March, 1559, men, women, and children, to the number of one
thousand, were employed, and succeeded, in the short space of two
days, in causing the water to issue forth into the sea, leaving a
depth of ten feet at ebb tide. In 1567, the
water forced a passage down the old channel, towards the village
of Corton. After this disaster, a celebrated Dutch engineer
was employed, who commenced his operations by driving and hedging
down large stakes and piles, to make a firm substantial
foundation; this was first done on the north and afterwards on
the south side of the entrance, for the purpose of forcing the
ebbing of the tide to run out by a north-east channel. The
next step was the erecting of piers for preventing the haven from
overflowing, and preserving, at all times of the tide, a
sufficient depth of water for ships to float at their
moorings. The jurisdiction of the haven includes that part
of the sea called Yarmouth roads, extending northward to Scratby,
and southward to Corton, in Suffolk.
In 1287, St. Nicholas’ Church was completely inundated
by the sea, during a tremendous flood, that did incredible damage
to the town, the greater part of which was under water.
In 1554, fifty sail of vessels was lost in one day and night,
and the crews perished.
In 1692, a fleet of two hundred sail of colliers, having left
the roads with a fair wind, were suddenly assailed by a
tremendous gale from the north-east. After they had passed
Winterton-ness, some of them tacked and arrived back safe in the
roads; the remainder pushed out to sea, but were unable, through
its violence, to clear the Ness to the southward. The night
was exceedingly dark, and missing the lights, few could find
their way; some rode out at a distance; but the rest, amounting
to one hundred and forty sail, were driven ashore, completely
wrecked, and scarcely any of the crews saved. At the same
unfortunate juncture, a number of coasting vessels, laden with
grain, bound to Holland, from Lynn and Wells, having just left
the roads, experienced the same disaster; so that in the whole
more than two hundred vessels and one thousand people were lost
in twenty-four hours.
If vessels leaving Flamborough Head, proceed southward, and
meet with a heavy gale from any point between north-east and
south-east; or if leaving the Yarmouth roads, proceeding to the
northward, they are retarded by the wind blowing hard from the
north-east, so that they cannot weather Winterton-ness, they
become embayed, and the only chance for safety is to run for the
Lynn Deeps, in attempting which they are in danger of foundering
on the rocks near Cromer, or stranding on the flat shores between
Cromer and Wells.
In 1790, seventy sail of ships met with a similar fate, and
also their crews.
In
1791, a raging tide inundated the denes and the meadows to such a
depth, that boats rowed on Southtown turnpike.
In 1805, a tremendous storm at sea occurred, accompanied by a
raging tide, which nearly destroyed the old jetty.
In 1825, a destructive tide ensued, which did much damage to
the town. The water flowed nearly to the doors of some of
the houses on the quays. The Southtown road was completely
overflowed and rendered impassable, the lower apartments in
several houses on the west side were under water, and much corn,
grain, and other merchandize in the store-houses spoiled.
To do ample justice to the highly interesting records
associated with this celebrated sea-port town, would form a
volume in itself, and the ingenuity and embellishments displayed
by its inhabitants, to be properly appreciated ought to be
visited, to form a lasting impression of their industry.
Situated on a narrow strip of land, less than a mile in breadth,
and stretching five miles from north to south, it cannot boast of
any pretty inland scenery, as the country is extremely flat, but
it possesses resources interesting and inviting to the
stranger.
Its harbour is excellently situated for affording shelter for
vessels unable to contend against contrary winds. Its
extensive traffic in coal and corn, and above all the celebrity
it has attained for its herring and mackerel fisheries, must ever
render it a place of the greatest importance. As a
watering-place its merits must not be forgotten. Splendid
edifices and admirable accommodation have been provided near the
sea-shore, enabling its visitors to partake of “delightful
breezes to their hearts’ content,” or to mingle with
the gaieties of a city life. As a naval station during the
late war, it proved highly advantageous; and in accordance with
that circumstance, a beautiful Monumental Pillar was erected on
the south Denes, about a mile from the town, to the memory of the
gallant Nelson. It is of Grecian Doric order, elegantly
fluted, and one hundred and forty-four feet in height, ascended
by an easy flight of steps. Upon the plinth are the names
of the four ships, “Vanguard, Captain, Elephant, and
Victory,” on board which the heroic Admiral’s flag
was so valorously displayed; and on the coping of the terrace are
inscribed the names of the four principal
battles—“Aboukir, St. Vincent, Copenhagen, and
Trafalgar.” On each of the four sides of the pedestal
is a flight of steps leading to the terrace, which affords a
promenade round the shaft. The roof is supported by
Caryatides, surrounded by a ball, and a figure of Britannia,
admirably cast, holding in her hand a trident and a laurel
wreath.
On
the west side is a very elegant Latin inscription, from the pen
of a Norfolk Gentleman, of which the following is a
translation:—
HORATIO LORD NELSON,
Whom, as her first and proudest champion in naval fights,
Britain honoured, while living, with her favour,
and, when lost, with her tears;
Of whom, signalized by his triumphs in all lands,
the whole earth
stood in awe on account of the tempered firmness of his
counsels, and the undaunted ardour of his courage;
This great man
NORFOLK
Boasts her own, not only as born there of a respectable
family,
And as there having received his early education,
But her own also in talents, manners, and mind,
The glory of so great a name though sure long to
Outlive all monuments of brass and stone,
His fellow-countrymen of Norfolk have resolved to commemorate
By this column, erected by their joint contributions.
He was born in the year 1758;
Entered on his Profession in 1771;
And was concerned in nearly 150 Naval Engagements with the
enemy.
Being Conqueror, among various other occasions,
At Aboukir, August, 1798;
At Copenhagen, April, 1801;
And at Trafalgar, October, 1805:
Which last Victory, the crown of so many glorious
achievements,
He consecrated by a death, equally mournful to his country,
And honourable to himself.
FINIS.