Hugh, the eldest son of Nicholas, the buck, or blood as I shall call him, was seventeen years of age when his father died. He also had nine children, and resided at the family mansion in Crock Street, until 1628, when that terrible scourge, the plague, frightened away for a time the trade of the town and such of the inhabitants as could by any means remove. It was a sorry time for Barnstaple, for the political and religious wrangles that were presently to break out in Civil War were already troubling it. For many reasons, therefore, Hugh Wichehalse, who appears to have been an amiable person, and above all, a lover of the quiet life, resolved to leave Barnstaple and reside at Lee, or Ley, in the old thatched manor-farm that then stood where Lee “Abbey” does now. Here he died twenty-five years later, as his monument in Lynton church duly informs us. The epitaph, characteristic of its period, is worth printing, not only as an example of filial piety, but as an instance of extravagant praise. From what we know of him, he certainly seems to have been the flower of his race; but, even so, he probably was not quite everything we are bidden believe. HUGH WICHEHALSE OF LEY, WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE Christide Eve, 1653, æt. 66. No, not in silence, least these stones below, That hide such worth, should in spight vocal grow; We’ll 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 griefe: 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 napkin Layd, But Piously dispenced, justly payd, Chast Spousal Love t’his Consort; to Children nine, Surviving th’ other fowre his care did shine In Pious Education; to Neighbours, friends, Love seal’d 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 call’d him hence his Eve, to feast with Him in glory. The play upon words, “’twas a Cedar’s fall,” should be noticed above: it is by way of contrast to the “Wiche”--_i.e._, wych-elm, in the Wichehalse name.