NEWTON ABBOT, DEVON.--At the first blush the sudden change from the
balmy breezes of the Riviera to the comparatively harsh winds that
blow over Dartmoor, would seem to be a trial. But such is hardly the
case. I am writing to-day in a private sitting room of the quaint Globe
Inn in this little-visited town, with the windows wide open and the
sun streaming in with a warmth that is almost too genial. One never
hears of a tourist visiting Newton Abbot, and from all I can gather
Newton Abbot is in the same position. It is a queer, quiet little
market town in South Devon, about six miles from Torquay, the great
southern watering place, and not far from Dartmouth and the moors. One
can have hunting and fishing in the neighbourhood, for the South Devon
fox hounds meet near by three times a week and the rivers Eske and
Culme supply capital salmon fishing. Several big country houses are
close by, and to the casual observer Newton Abbot exists simply to
form a coterie of tradespeople for the benefit of the County Families
in the neighbourhood. It has no society of its own, and even its
Mechanics' Institute gives entertainments only by the suffrages of the
"surrounding Nobility and Gentry," to quote from its programmes. And
yet it is a happy, quiet little town enough, sunning itself in its own
small valley, and with many of its by-streets running up the numerous
hills at the back, whose brows are dotted with genteel (how popular
that word is among the lower-middle class in England) semi-detached
"villas." The London papers get down at mid-day, and until noon Newton
Abbot gets on very well with a local print which reproduces the news
from yesterday's _Times_.
By the way, "The Thunderer" is too dear for the average man (it is
three-pence a copy as against a penny for the other London dailies)
and so it is lent out to read by the local library which advertises
itself as "in connection with Mudie's." One rather wonders where the
"connection" comes in when a copy of "Robert Elsmere" is handed one as
the "last thing out, sir, just down from London."
But Newton Abbot has some historical interest. In the midst of the
town, just in front of the old ivy-covered tower of St. Leonard's, is
a remarkably ugly stone surmounted by a modern lamp-post. The stone
bears an inscription to the effect that in 1688 the then Mayor of the
town, standing thereon, read the first proclamation made by William
of Orange after landing in England. Enthusiastic Orangemen visit the
stone to this day, and zealous members of the Order of the White Rose
curse it heartily, as they regret King James and the Stuart dynasty;
which, whatever its faults, at least inspired more romantic loyalty and
personal devotion than the phlegmatic Dutch Prince ever did.
I visited several houses near Newton Abbot with a view to taking one
furnished for the sake of the good fishing near, and although none
was found to suit I had some droll experiences. One house was very
well furnished, and the family seemed in a remarkable hurry to get
away while offering the place at a low rent, but it afterwards turned
out that the paterfamilias--a clergyman--had just eloped with the
parlourmaid.
At another house I was received by a smartly-dressed person who tried
hard to give me the impression that she was a lady, and who at length
airily inquired: "And would you like to move in, at once, forthwith
directly?" But her drawing room was decorated with wax flowers under
glass shades; and mottoes done in Berlin wool, with a chromo-lithograph
of the late Lord Palmerston over the mantel; so I was not exposed to
much temptation. The occupant of another cottage waxed confidential as
she showed me over the house, told me her name was Mrs. Mudge and that
she "laundered" for a living. She looked as if she did something for a
living, for her face was fiery red and she diffused an odour of gin and
cloves as she slowly maundered on.
Nearly every street in the town shows by its name some connection with
the Courtenay family--Earls of Devon--who in the old days owned most
of the property in South Devon. Now evil times have come upon them and
beautiful old Powderham Castle, near Dartmouth, alone remains to them.
But they are venerated still in the county and the "Courtenay interest"
is a great help to the candidate for Parliamentary honours.
Newton Abbot has the distinction--if it be a distinction, which is
very strongly debated--of having as its representative in Parliament
the only Liberal member from Devonshire.
Mr. Seale-Hayne is a wealthy follower of Mr. Gladstone and is faithful
to his chief, but even he owes his seat to a prudent refusal to accept
Mr. Gladstone's extreme views on the subject of home rule. The sturdy
farmers of Devon have ideas of their own and do not see why the efforts
of a few Irish agitators should be allowed to break up an Empire.
The Conservatives and Liberal-Unionists divide the representation
of Devon between them, with the solitary exception of the aforesaid
Mr. Seale-Hayne, and the Conservatives are working hard to defeat
him at the next general election. The echoes of the great gathering
at Exeter last year, when Lord Salisbury addressed an audience of
several thousand working people upon the fallacies of home rule for
Ireland, have not yet died away, and his speech will bear fruit at the
next general election. The tactics of the Gladstonians in the rural
districts are now devoted to drawing off the attention of the rural
voters from home rule--an attention that, to Gladstonian minds, is
too closely fixed upon the struggles of the rival Irish parties, and
the probability of their following the lead of the famous Kilkenny
cats--and fixing it upon co-called "rural reforms." The Conservatives
and Liberal-Unionists, on the other hand, place home rule in the front
and make it the main issue; so the curious spectacle is presented of
the party responsible for the measure placing it in the background, and
the party opposed to it making it the main issue in the campaign.
Turning to sweeter subjects--who, having once tasted Devonshire clotted
cream can forget it? And when to a glass dish of clotted cream is added
a sunny morning, a well-laid breakfast table and a hissing tea urn,
life looks at least cheerful.
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