cottage where three wayfarers take shelter from a storm. The music was
played by a fiddler nearly eighty years old who used to make a living by
such rustic merrymakings and who is perhaps the last survivor of the
race of fiddlers in Dorset. All the actors belonged to the town. One is
a cooper, another a saddler, and there were clerks and solicitors and
auctioneers. The producer who designed all the scenery is a monument
mason and ex-mayor of Dorchester.
It is perhaps too early to predict the place of Thomas Hardy in
literature, though there be those who rank him with George Eliot. His
home town, which he has given to fame as the Casterbridge of his tales,
has no misgivings about the matter and freely ranks him with the
immortals. The chilling philosophy of many of his books has not hidden
his warm heart from his townsmen, who resent the word "stony" applied to
him by an American writer. They say that his unpretentious life, his
affability, his consideration for others and his modesty, all teach the
lessons of love and hope, and that nothing is farther from his personal
character than misanthropy or coldness.
The history of Dorchester differs not greatly from that of many other
English towns of its class. A Roman station undoubtedly existed here.
The town was mentioned in the Doomsday Book and was a village of good
size in the reign of Henry VIII. In 1613 it was totally destroyed by
fire--a calamity which the citizens declared a "visitacion of God's
wrath," to appease which they founded an almshouse and hospital. With
business foresight they also established a brewery, the profits from
which were expected to maintain the hospital, and the grave records show
no intimation of any question whether such a plan might be acceptable to
the Deity they sought to placate.
Dorchester was strongly for the Parliament in the unpleasantness between
Oliver and the king, but its loyalty was not very aggressive, for it
surrendered to the royal army with scarcely a show of resistance--the
more to its discredit, since it had been elaborately fortified and was
well supplied with munitions of war. It suffered severely for its
cowardice, for it was taken and retaken many times during the war and
its citizens subjected to numberless exactions and indignities. The
ascendency of the commonwealth brought Dorchester comparative peace for
three or four decades. The next notable event in its career was the
coming of Jeffreys the infamous to judge the unfortunate Dorset men who
inclined, or were alleged to have inclined, towards the Duke of Monmouth
in his ill-starred attempt on the throne of England. To expedite
matters, Jeffreys let it be understood that a plea of guilty would
predispose him to mercy, but the poor wretches who fell into this trap
were sentenced to death or transportation on their own confessions. The
charge lodged against most of the unfortunates was that they were "away
from their habitacions att the tyme of the rebellion."
For more than two centuries after this carnival of death, sanctioned by
a corrupt and vengeful government, Dorchester has pursued the paths of
unbroken peace and has grown and prospered in a quiet way. The fame of
Thomas Hardy attracts many and the roving motor car also brings an
increasing number of pilgrims, none of whom go away disappointed. It is
a trim old town, still picturesque, though modern improvements are
making inroads on its antique quaintness. Its environs are singularly
beautiful; the country roads enter the town between ranks of splendid
trees and the avenues around the town are bordered with giant limes,
sycamores and chestnuts. The River Frome glides quietly past the place
through reedy meadows and the smooth green sward covers the ancient
Roman amphitheatre which adjoins the town on the south. This is by far
the most perfect work of its kind in Britain; it is about two hundred
feet in diameter and must have accommodated some twelve thousand
spectators. It lies just along the road by which we leave the town and
which runs almost due west to Bridport, Lyme Regis and Exeter. For some
miles we pursue a sinuous course across the barren country and
occasionally encounter forbiddingly steep grades. At Bridport we catch
our first glimpse of a placidly blue sea, which frequently flashes
through gaps in the hills for the next twenty miles.
At Lyme Regis the road pitches down a sharp hill into the town, which
covers the slopes of a ravinelike valley. It is a retired little seaside
resort, though red roofs of modern villas now contrast somewhat with its
rural appearance. No railroad comes within several miles of the place,
which has a permanent population of only two thousand. It is not without
historic tradition, for here the Duke of Monmouth landed on his
ill-fated invasion to which we have already referred. The town was a
favorite haunt of Jane Austen and here she located one of the memorable
scenes in "Persuasion." It is still a very quiet place--a retreat for
those seeking real seclusion and freedom from the formality and turmoil
of the larger and more fashionable resorts. Its tiny harbor, encircled
by a crescent-shape sweep of cliffs, is almost innocent of craft to-day,
though there was a time when it ranked high among the western ports. It
is one of those delightful old villages one occasionally finds in
England, standing now nearly as they did three centuries ago, while the
great world has swept away from them.
We wish we might tarry a day in Lyme Regis, but our plans will not
permit it now. We climb the precipitously steep, irregular road that
takes us out of the place, though we cast many backward glances at the
little town and quiet blue-green harbor edged by a scimiterlike strip of
silver sand. The Exeter road is much the same as that between Lyme Regis
and Dorchester--winding, steep, narrow and rough in places--and the
deadly Devonshire hedgerow on a high earthen ridge now shuts out our
view of the landscape much of the time. Devon and Cornwall, with the
most charming scenery in England, would easily become a great motoring
ground if the people would mend the roads and eradicate the hedgerows.
At Exeter we stop at the Rougemont for lunch, despite the recollection
of pretty high charges on a former occasion. It is one of the best
provincial hotels, if it is far from the cheapest. A drizzling rain is
falling when we leave the cathedral city for Newton Abbot and Totnes,
directly to the south; in the market-place of the first-named town is
the stone upon which William III. was proclaimed king after his landing
at Brixham.
Totnes, seven miles farther, has many quaint old houses with odd piazzas
and projecting timbered gables, which give the streets a decidedly
antique appearance. Here, too, is another famous stone, the identical
one upon which Brutus of Troy first set foot when landing in Britain at
a date so remote that it can only be guessed at. Indeed, there be
wiseacres who freely declare that the Roman prince never set foot on it
at all; but we are in no mood for such scepticism to-day, when cruising
about in a steady rain seeking "objects of interest," as the road-book
styles them. Of Totnes Castle only the foundations remain, though it
must have been a concentric, circular structure like that of Launceston.
From its walls on fair days there is a lovely, far-reaching view quite
shut out from us by the gray mist that hovers over the valley--a scene
described by a writer more fortunate than we as "a rich soft country
which stretches far and wide, a land of swelling hills and richly wooded
valleys and green corn springing over the red earth. Northwards on the
skyline, the Dartmoor hills lie blue and seeming infinitely distant in
the light morning haze; while in the opposite direction, one sees a long
straight reach of river, set most sweetly among the hills, up which the
salt tide is pouring from Dartmouth so rapidly that it grows wider every
moment, and the bitter sea air which travels with it from the Channel
reaches as far as the battlements on which we stand. Up that reach the
Totnes merchants, standing on these old walls, used to watch their
argosies sailing with the tide, homeward bound from Italy or Spain,
laden with precious wines and spices."
But no one who visits Totnes--even though the day be rainy and
disagreeable--should fail to see Berry Pomeroy Castle, which common
consent declares the noblest ruin in all Devon and Cornwall. We miss the
main road to the village of Berry and approach the ruin from the rear by
a narrow, muddy lane winding over steep grades through a dense forest.
We are not sure whether we are fortunate or otherwise in coming to the
shattered haunt of the fierce old de Pomeroys on such a day. Perhaps its
grim traditions and its legends of ghostly habitants seem the more
realistic under such a lowering sky--and it may be that the gloomy day
comports best with the scene of desolation and ruined grandeur which
breaks on our vision.
The castle was an unusual combination of medieval fortress and palatial
dwelling house, the great towers still flanking the entrance suggesting
immense defensive strength, as does the situation on the edge of a rocky
precipice. The walls are pierced by multitudes of mullioned windows--so
many, indeed, an old chronicle records, that it was "a day's work
for a servant to open and close the casements." In some details
the more modern remnants of the structure remind one of Cowdray
Palace--especially the great window groups. Verily, "ruin greenly
dwells" at Berry Pomeroy Castle. Ivy mantles every inch of the walls and
some fragments, rising tall and slender like chimneys, are green to the
very tops. The green sward runs riot over the inner courts and covers
fallen masses of debris; great trees, some of them doubtless as old as
the castle itself, sway their branches above it; our pictures tell the
story, perhaps better than any words, of the rank greenness that seems
even more intense in the falling rain.
One quite forgets the stirring history of the castle--and it is
stirring, for does not tradition record that its one-time owners urged
their maddened steeds to spring to death with their riders from the
beetling precipice on which the castle stands, rather than to surrender
to victorious besiegers?--I say one forgets even this in the rather
creepy sensations that come over him when he recalls the ghostly legends
of the place. For Berry Pomeroy Castle has one of the most
blood-curdling and best authenticated ghost stories that it has been my
lot to read. It has a weird interest that warrants retelling here and
the reader who has no liking for such things may skip it if he chooses.
[Illustration: BERRY POMEROY CASTLE, ENTRANCE TOWERS]
"Somewhat more than a century ago, Dr. Walter Farquhar, who was created
a baronet in 1796, made a temporary sojourn in Torquay. This physician
was quite a young man at that time and had not acquired the reputation
which, after his settlement in London, procured him the confidence and
even friendship of royalty. One day, during his stay in Devon, he was
summoned professionally to Berry Pomeroy Castle, a portion of which
building was still occupied by a steward and his wife. The latter was
seriously ill, and it was to see her that the physician had been called
in. Previous to seeing his patient Dr. Farquhar was shown an outer
apartment and requested to remain there until she was prepared to see
him. This apartment was large and ill-proportioned; around it ran richly
carved panels of oak that age had changed to the hue of ebony. The only
light in the room was admitted through the chequered panes of a
gorgeously stained window, in which were emblazoned the arms of the
former lords of Berry Pomeroy. In one corner, to the right of the wide
fireplace, was a flight of dark oaken steps, forming part of a staircase
leading apparently to some chamber above; and on these stairs the fading
gleams of summer's twilight shone through.
"While Dr. Farquhar wondered, and, if the truth be told, chafed at the
delay which had been interposed between him and his patient, the door
opened, and a richly dressed female entered the apartment. He, supposing
her to be one of the family, advanced to meet her. Unheeding him, she
crossed the room with a hurried step, wringing her hands and exhibiting
by her motions the deepest distress. When she reached the foot of the
stairs, she paused for an instant and then began to ascend them with the
same hasty step and agitated demeanour. As she reached the highest stair
the light fell strongly on her features and displayed a countenance
youthful, indeed, and beautiful, but in which vice and despair strove
for mastery. 'If ever human face,' to use the doctor's own words,
'exhibited agony and remorse; if ever eye, that index of the soul,
portrayed anguish uncheered by hope and suffering without interval; if
ever features betrayed that within the wearer's bosom there dwelt a
hell, those features and that being were then present to me.'
"Before he could make up his mind on the nature of this strange
occurrence, he was summoned to the bedside of his patient. He found the
lady so ill as to require his undivided attention, and had no
opportunity, and in fact no wish, to ask any questions which bore on a
different subject to her illness.
"But on the following morning, when he repeated his visit and found the
sufferer materially better, he communicated what he had witnessed to the
husband and expressed a wish for some explanation. The steward's
countenance fell during the physician's narrative and at its close he
mournfully ejaculated:
"'My poor wife! my poor wife!'
"'Why, how does this relation affect her?'
"'Much, much!' replied the steward, vehemently. 'That it should have
come to this! I cannot--cannot lose her! You know not,' he continued in
a milder tone, 'the strange, sad history; and--and his lordship is
extremely averse to any allusion being ever made to the circumstance or
any importance attached to it; but I must and will out with it! The
figure which you saw is supposed to represent the daughter of a former
baron of Berry Pomeroy, who was guilty of an unspeakable crime in that
chamber above us; and whenever death is about to visit the inmates of
the castle she is seen wending her way to the scene of her crimes with
the frenzied gestures you describe. The day my son was drowned she was
observed; and now my wife!'
"'I assure you she is better. The most alarming symptoms have given way
and all immediate danger is at an end.'
"'I have lived in and near the castle thirty years,' was the steward's
desponding reply, 'and never knew the omen fail.'
"'Arguments on omens are absurd,' said the doctor, rising to take his
leave. 'A few days, however, will, I trust, verify my prognostics and
see Mrs. S---- recovered.'
"They parted, mutually dissatisfied. The lady died at noon.
"Years intervened and brought with them many changes. The doctor rose
rapidly and deservedly into repute; became the favourite physician and
even personal friend of the Prince Regent, was created a baronet, and
ranked among the highest authorities in the medical world.
"When he was at the zenith of his professional career, a lady called on
him to consult him about her sister, whom she described as sinking,
overcome and heartbroken by a supernatural appearance.
[Illustration: BERRY POMEROY CASTLE--WALL OF INNER COURT]
"'I am aware of the apparent absurdity of the details which I am about
to give,' she began, 'but the case will be unintelligible to you, Sir
Walter, without them. While residing at Torquay last summer, we drove
over one morning to visit the splendid remains of Berry Pomeroy Castle.
The steward was very ill at the time (he died, in fact, while we were
going over the ruins,) and there was some difficulty in getting the
keys. While my brother and I went in search of them, my sister was left
alone for a few moments in a large room on the ground-floor; and while
there--most absurd fancy!--she has persuaded herself she saw a female
enter and pass her in a state of indescribable distress. This spectre, I
suppose I must call her, horribly alarmed her. Its features and gestures
have made an impression, she says, which no time can efface. I am well
aware of what you will say, that nothing can possibly be more
preposterous. We have tried to rally her out of it, but the more
heartily we laugh at her folly, the more agitated and excited does she
become. In fact, I fear we have aggravated her disorder by the scorn
with which we have treated it. For my own part, I am satisfied her
impressions are erroneous, and rise entirely from a depraved state of
the bodily organs. We wish for your opinion and are most anxious you
should visit her without delay.'
"'Madam, I will make a point of seeing your sister immediately; but it
is no delusion. This I think it proper to state most positively, and
previous to any interview. I, myself, saw the same figure, under
somewhat similar circumstances and about the same hour of the day; and I
should decidedly oppose any raillery or incredulity being expressed on
the subject in your sister's presence.'
"Sir Walter saw the young lady next day and after being for a short time
under his care she recovered.
"Our authority for the above account of how Berry Pomeroy Castle is
haunted derived it from Sir Walter Farquhar, who was a man even more
noted for his probity and veracity than for his professional
attainments, high as they were rated. The story has been told as nearly
as possible in Sir Walter's own words."
Yonder is the "ghost's walk," along that tottering wall; yonder is the
door the apparition is said to enter. If you can stand amidst these
deserted ruins on a dark, lowering evening and feel no qualms of
nervousness after reading the tale, I think you are quite able to laugh
all ghosts to scorn.
We have lingered long enough at Berry Pomeroy--we can scarce cover the
twenty miles to Plymouth ere darkness sets in. But fortune favors us; at
Totnes the rain ceases and a red tinge breaks through the clouds which
obscure the western sky. We have a glorious dash over the wet road which
winds through some of the loveliest of Devonshire landscapes. Midway,
from the hilltop that dominates the vale of the Erme, we get a view of
Ivy Bridge, a pleasant village lying along the clear river, half hidden
in the purple haze of evening; and just at dusk we glide into the city
of the Pilgrim Fathers.
XVIII
POLPERRO AND THE SOUTH CORNISH COAST
We did not search our road-maps for Polperro because of anything the
guide-books say about it, for these dismiss it as a "picturesque fishing
village on the South Devonshire coast." There are dozens of such
villages in Devon and Cornwall, and only those travelers whose feet are
directed by some happy chance to Polperro will know how much it
outshines all its rivals, if, indeed, there are any worthy to be styled
as such. Our interest in the quaint little hamlet was aroused at a
London art exhibit, where a well-known English artist showed some three
score clever sketches which arrested our attention at once.
"I made them last summer during a stay at Polperro," he said in answer
to our inquiry.
"And where is Polperro, pray?" we asked with visions of Italy or Spain
and were taken aback not a little to learn that a Devonshire village
afforded subject matter for the sketches. And forthwith Polperro was
added to the list of places we must see on our projected Land's End
tour. A diligent search of our maps finally revealed the name and showed
the distance about twenty miles from Plymouth. The road is steep and
winding and there is only a network of narrow lanes for some miles out
of the village.
We leave Plymouth after a night's sojourn at the Grand Hotel and cross
the estuary at the Tor Point ferry, which makes trips at frequent
intervals. A flat-bottomed ferry boat, held in place against the strong
tides by heavy chains anchored at either end, takes us across for a
moderate fare and we set out beneath a lowering sky to explore the rough
and difficult but beautiful bit of country stretching along the coast
from Plymouth to Fowey Harbor. Indeed, we had in mind to cross the
estuary by ferry at the latter place and asked a garage employee about
the facilities for so doing.
"Hi wouldn't recommend it, sir. Last week a gent with a motor tried it
and the boat tipped and let the car into the water. Hi went down to 'elp
them get it out and you could just see the top sticking out at low
tide."
And so we altered our route to go around the estuary--some fifteen
miles--rather than chance repeating the exciting experience of our
fellow-motorist of the week before. But this is a digression--I had
meant to say that there is little to engage our attention for several
miles after crossing at Tor Point. The country is studded with rough
hills and our route cuts across some of these, a wide outlook often
rewarding the steep climb to the summits. We cautiously follow the
sinuous road until it pitches sharply down into the ravinelike coomb
occupied by the Looes, East and West, according to their position on the
river. These villages cling to the steep hills, rising from either side
of the river, which we cross by a lichen-covered bridge hung with a
multitude of fishing nets. We see a confused medley of houses elbowing
one another out into the roadway until their sagging gables nearly meet
in places, built apparently with sublime disregard of the points of the
compass and without any preconceived plan. Once it was a famous fishing
port, but now the industry is conducted on a small scale only and the
Looes have to depend largely on vacationists from Plymouth in
summertime. We do not linger here, but after crossing the bridge we
enter the narrow road that cuts straight across the hills to Polperro.
It is a rough, hilly road and the heavy grades shift the gears more than
once; but it carries us to splendid vantage-points where we pause to
glance at the landscape. There are wide expanses of wooded hills with
lovely intersecting valleys, the predominating green dashed with broad
splotches of purple heather--the rankest and most brilliant of any we
saw in a land famous for its heather! Over all stretches the mottled
sky, reflecting its moods on the varied scenes beneath--here a broad
belt of sunlight, yonder a drifting shower, for it is one of those
fitful days that alternately smiles and weeps. We descend another long
hill and enter the lane which runs down the ravine into the main street
of Polperro.
[Illustration: A STREET IN EAST LOOE--CORNWALL]
The main street of Polperro! Was there ever another avenue like it?--a
cobble-paved, crooked alley scarce a half dozen feet from curb to curb,
too narrow for vehicles of any kind to pass. The natives come out and
stare in wonderment at our presumption in driving a motor into
Polperro--and we become a little doubtful ourselves when a sharp turn
bars our progress near the post office. A man, seeing us hesitate, tells
us we cannot very well go farther--a suggestion with which we quite
agree--and leaving the car surrounded by a group of wondering children
we set out on foot to explore the mysteries of Polperro.