The “Parson’s Torr” describes of the\u00a0 fate of the Rev. Robert Lomas, a former rector of\u00a0
Monyash. During a perilous night-ride in 1776 he fell\u00a0over a lofty cliff and was found dead at the foot of\u00a0the rock.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
THE PARSON'S TORR
The parson of Monyash, late one eve,\u00a0
Sat in his old oak armchair;\u00a0
And a playful flame in the low turf fire\u00a0
Ofttimes shewed him sitting there.\u00a0
What was it that made the kind-hearted man\u00a0
Sit pensively there alone?\u00a0
Did other men's sorrows make sad his heart,\u00a0
Or say \u2014 a glimpse of his own?\u00a0
Black dark was that night and stormy withal,\u00a0
It rained as 'twould rain a sea;\u00a0
And round and within the old parsonage-house\u00a0
The wind moaned piteously.\u00a0
1 Still sat he deep musing till midnight hour,\u00a0
And then in a waking dream \u2014\u00a0
He quailed to hear 'mid the tempest a crash,\u00a0
And eke a wild piercing scream.\u00a0
\" Oh, mercy !\" cried he, with faltering breath,\u00a0
\" What sounds are these which I hear?\u00a0
May evil be far from both me and mine!\u00a0
Good Lord, be Thou to us near!\"\u00a0
No longer sat he in the old armchair,\u00a0
But prayed and lay down in bed;\u00a0
And strove hard to sleep and not hear the storm\u00a0
That scowled and raged o'er his head.\u00a0
But sleep seldom comes when 'tis most desired \u2014\u00a0
And least to a troubled mind;\u00a0
And the parson lay wake long time I ween\u00a0
Ere soft repose he could find.\u00a0
As the dark hours of night passed slowly on,\u00a0
He slept as weary man will;\u00a0
But light was his sleep and broken his rest,\u00a0
And sad his foredread of ill.\u00a0
Thus restless he lay, and at early dawn\u00a0
He dream'd that he fell amain,\u00a0
Down, down an abyss of fathomless depth,\u00a0
Loud shrieking for help in vain.\u00a0
He woke up at once with a sudden shock,\u00a0
And threw out his arms widespread;\u00a0
\" Good heavens I\" he gasped ; \" what ill omen is this?\u00a0
Where am I ? \u2014 with quick or dead!\"\u00a0
Right well was he pleased to find 'twas a dream \u2014\u00a0
That still he was safe and sound;\u00a0
With the last shades of night fear passed away,\u00a0
And joy once more again came round.\u00a0
The morning was calm, and the storm was hushed,\u00a0
Nor wind nor rain swept the sky;\u00a0
And betimes he arose, for bound was he\u00a0
To Bakewell that day to hie.\u00a0
Old Hugh brought his horse to the garden gate,\u00a0
And saw him all safe astride;\u00a0
\" Good-bye,\" quoth the parson ; quoth Hugh \" Good-bye!\u00a0
I wish you a pleasant ride!\"\u00a0
Forth rode he across the lone trackless moor,\u00a0
His thoughts on his errand bent,\u00a0
And hoped he right soon to come back again\u00a0
The very same way he went.\u00a0
The journey to Bakewell he safely made\u00a0
A little before midday;\u00a0
But vicar and people were all at church,\u00a0
Where they were oft wont to pray.\u00a0
I'll put up my beast,\" quoth the parson, \"here\u00a0
At the White Horse hostelry'\u00a0
And go up to church, that when prayers are done\u00a0
The vicar I there may see.\"\u00a0
But ere he could reach the old Newark door\u00a0
Both priest and people were gone;\u00a0
And the vicar to soothe a dying man\u00a0
To Over Haddon sped on.\u00a0
Twas three past noon when the vicar came back,\u00a0
The parson he asked to dine;\u00a0
And time stole a march on the heedless guest \u2014\u00a0
Six struck as he sat at his wine.\u00a0
Up rose he from table, and took his leave,\u00a0
Quite startled to find it late;\u00a0
He called for his horse at the hostelry,\u00a0
And homeward was soon agate.\u00a0
As he rode up the hill, past All Saint's Church,\u00a0
The moon just one glance bestowed,\u00a0
And the weird-like form of the old stone cross\u00a0
In the churchyard dimly showed.\u00a0
Still higher and higher he climbed the hill,\u00a0
Yet more and more dark it grew;\u00a0
The drizzling rain became sleet as he climbed,\u00a0
And the wind more keenly blew.\u00a0
Ah ! thick was the mist on the moor that night \u2014\u00a0
Poor wight ! he had lost his way!\u00a0
The north-east wind blowing strong on his right,\u00a0
To the left had made him stray.\u00a0
And now he was close to lone Haddon Grove,\u00a0
Bewildered upon the moor;\u00a0
Slow leading his horse that followed behind,\u00a0
Himself groping on before.\u00a0
Still onward and leeward, at last he came\u00a0
To the edge of Harlow Dale;\u00a0
From his cave Lathkil a warning roared,\u00a0
But louder then howled the gale.\u00a0
On the brink of Fox Torr the doomed man stood,\u00a0
And tugged the bridle in vain;\u00a0
But his horse would not move; then quick started back,\u00a0
And snap went each bridle rein!\u00a0
Then headlong fell he o'er the lofty cliff:\u00a0
He shrieked and sank in the gloom;\u00a0
Down, down to the bottom he swiftly sped,\u00a0
And death was his dreadful doom.\u00a0
The dead man lay cold on the blood-stained rocks \u2014\u00a0
The darkness did him enshroud;\u00a0
And the owls high up in the ivy-clad Torr\u00a0
Bewailed him all night full loud.\u00a0
Oh, little they thought in the old thatched cot\u00a0
Hard by the parsonage gate,\u00a0
Their master they never again should see,\u00a0
Nor ope to him soon or late.\u00a0
\" This night is no better than last,\" quoth Hugh,\u00a0
\" And master has not come back;\u00a0
I hope he is hale, and safe housed with friends,\u00a0
And has of good cheer no lack.\"\u00a0
Quoth Betty, \" I liked not his morning ride;\u00a0
I fear he's in evil plight;\u00a0
A Friday's venture's no luck, I've heard say \u2014\u00a0
God help him if out this night!\"\u00a0
At dawn of next day old Betty went forth\u00a0
To milk the cow in the shed,\u00a0
And saw him sitting upon a large stone,\u00a0
All pale and mute, with bare head!\u00a0
But a moment she turned her eyes away,\u00a0
A fall she heard and a groan;\u00a0
She looked again, but no parson was there \u2014\u00a0
He'd vanished from off the stone!\u00a0
Soon spread the dread tale through Monyash town-\u00a0
They made a great hue and cry;\u00a0
And some off to this place and some to that\u00a0
To seek the lost man did hie.\u00a0
Bad tidings from Bakewell\u2014 no parson there \u2014\u00a0
No parson could else be found;\u00a0
'Twas noon, yet no tidings \u2014 they still searched on,\u00a0
And missed they no likely ground.\u00a0
At last the searchers went into the dale:\u00a0
And there at the foot of Fox Torr\u00a0
They found the parson, all cold and dead,\u00a0
'Mong the rocks all stained with gore.\u00a0
They took up his corse, and six stalwart men\u00a0
Slowly bore it along the dale;\u00a0
And they laid the dead in his house that night,\u00a0
And many did him bewail.\u00a0
When time had passed over \u2014 a day or twain,\u00a0
They buried him in the grave;\u00a0
And his bones now rest in the lone churchyard\u00a0
Till doomsday them thence shall crave.\u00a0
Oh, dread was the death of the luckless man,\u00a0
Not soon will it be forgot;\u00a0
The dismal story, for ages to come,\u00a0
Will often be told, I wot.\u00a0
You may not now see in Monyash town\u00a0
The dead man's sear tuft of grass;\u00a0
But still it is there in memory stored,\u00a0
And thence it never shall pass.\u00a0
You may not now find Fox Torr by that name \u2014\u00a0
The swain thus knows it no more;\u00a0
But pointing thereat from Latkil grot,\u00a0
He'll show you the Parson's Torr.'\u00a0
Rev. W. R. Bell
<\/pre>\n\n\n\n<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The “Parson’s Torr” describes of the\u00a0 fate of the Rev. Robert Lomas, a former rector of\u00a0Monyash. During a perilous night-ride in 1776 he fell\u00a0over a lofty cliff and was found dead at the foot of\u00a0the rock. THE PARSON’S TORRThe parson … Continue reading