on its many hills. So charming is it, that the witchery of the place
gets into the head of the average young man o’ nights, like so much
champagne, and sitting by one of the many hillside winding walks
overlooking the bay, you may hear him declare to his _inamorata_ that
he loves her with a love transcending all other affections, past,
present, or to come. And so these silly folk become engaged, and, one
of these fateful days, they marry and go a-honeymooning in the Isle of
Wight (an isle ordained by the Creator for such functions), presently
to discover that life is not made up altogether of summer nights at
Torquay, nor at Shanklin neither; also that, however warmly one may
love, still number one remains, after all, when the flush of romance
has worn off, the object of the most jealous and enduring affection.
You see, Torquay is responsible for a great deal of match-making. Young
folks have in after years much reason to cur--well, er, that is, to
bless, the place.
How many declarations have I heard while lounging at twilight on the
Cliff Walk! How many gay and giddy flirtations at Anstey’s Cove or
Berry Pomeroy! Ah! delusive coast of Devon, inciting to the rashest
of all conceivable rashnesses, you have proved the undoing of many a
butterfly bachelor.
I have said enough to convince you, I think, that Torquay is a
dangerous place. It is all the more so, in that, being essentially
modern, there is nothing in the way of antiquities to explore in
the town itself. This fact, together with that other of a warm and
languorous climate, that invites to rest rather than to recreative
efforts, to whispered confidences, to tentative kissing and
waist-clasping on the sheltered Rock Walk above the Torbay road, shapes
softly the social features of Torquay and the plastic destinies of
youth.
To leave these features and come to consideration of scenic charms,
there can be no higher praise than to say that at night Torquay
picturesqueness reaches the acme of theatric scene-painting. To return,
when the moon is shining, to Torquay from Paignton, is to experience
a thrill of decorative pleasure that few other places can confer. A
great bar of silver moonlight, all alive with ripples, mingles with
terrestrial illuminations of villas and climbing hillside roads,
garish yellow by comparison. Below, in the harbour, red and green and
yellow lights of smacks and vessels of many builds dance in streaky
minuets upon lazy tides, while on the horizon the mast-head lanterns
of Brixham boats rise and fall giddily from crest to trough of Channel
waves.
Torquay has many climates, from the warm and dense atmosphere of
Fleet Street and Union Street to the mellow lapping of Torbay air by
the rise of Park Hill, or the robustious breezes of Warberry Hill,
farther inland. And thus Torquay pleases every variety of the querulous
invalid: these feeble folk lie here in strata, elevated or depressed,
as best befits their individual complaints.
Since Dutch William landed at Brixham, and so marched through Torquay
to Newton Abbot with his heavy crew of Hollanders, the place has had no
history save only the smooth and simple annals of what auctioneers and
land-agents call a “rising watering-place.” And Torquay has been rising
any time these hundred years, until it has at length been blessed
with the left-handed blessings of a Mayor and Corporation. These be
weighty matters, and Torquay celebrated its Charter Day last year with
all the becoming pomp of so great and glorious an occasion. Minor
happenings there have been that remain tinged with the bitter irony of
circumstance, as when Napoleon, a captive on board the _Bellerophon_
(the “Billy Ruffian” of an untutored crew reckless of the classics)
was brought into Torbay, within sight of the diminutive Torquay of
that time. The conquered conqueror was reduced to the status of a
Richardson’s show, to be peeped at by that “nation of shopkeepers”
which he had so gratuitously despised.[3] That nation, or rather,
this southern coast portion of it, had been not a little uneasy at
Napoleon’s preparations for invasion, and had been strenuously devising
defences, with quaking hearts; while the populace sang, to keep its
pecker up, such reassuring songs about the improbable, as that of which
the following stanza is a specimen:--
“When husbands with their wives agree,
And maids won’t wed from modesty,
_Then_ little Bony he’ll pounce down,
And march his men on London town.”
After which followed the rousing chorus--
“Rollickum rorum, tol-lol lorum,
Rollickum rorum, tol-lol lay.”
And these matters are Torquay’s sole concern with political history.
Happy town, say I.
XL.
Three miles of a delightfully undulating road that leads close by
the shores of the bay, and at length we reached Paignton about nine
o’clock. Paignton lives on the leavings of Torquay, and a decent
subsistence they seem to afford. It is unromantically celebrated for
its cabbages, and peculiar for the German nomenclature of its hotels.
The whole place is singularly and indecently Teutonic, a sort of
Pumpernickel, and its chief street might appropriately be termed the
Donnerwetterplatz, from the epithets called from us by its promiscuous
stones. One anachronism there is in this Germanic town--German bands
are plenty. We know, do we not, that these pests are found everywhere
but in the land of their birth. But, come to think of it, where does
the German band practise? The flippant will say that to assume any
practice on their part would be an assumption of wildest extravagance;
but, seriously, they must practise sometimes and somewhere; but
where and when? Did you ever hear them at it? Did you ever see a
dead donkey? Never! I have heard volunteer bands practise and have
survived--chastened ’tis true. They have their drill-halls in which
to harmonise in some sort; but (fearful thought) German bands must
practise in their lodgings. I can think of few things more dreadful
than to be their ill-fated neighbour.
Paignton is (equally with Washington) a place of magnificent distances,
abounding in spacious roads all innocent of houses, or, at best, but
sparsely built upon. But this is its modern part. The old town, which
lies farther back from the sea, clustering round the red-sandstone
tower of its ancient parish church, is close enough settled and
occupied, and, judging from the size and beauty of that church, was
at one time greater than now. There was of old a bishop’s palace
at Paignton, and there yet remain sundry traces of it, among them a
stalwart tower, wherein (says tradition) Miles Coverdale, some time
Bishop of Exeter, made his famous translation of the Bible. Tradition,
I regret to say, has in this instance grievously misled the devout;
and, although the present historian yields to none in his love and
admiration of a comely and well-rounded falsehood, it becomes his duty
to destroy this interesting but misleading myth.
If I thought the audience to which these poor notes (one must be at
least ostensibly modest!) are addressed would bear with me, I would
describe the antiquarian treasures of Paignton Church, for they merit
a moment’s stay. However, I forbear, although one cannot help quoting
this inscription to the memory of “Mistress Joan Butland and son:”--
“In Night of death, here Rests y^e gooD, &
fair, who all life Day, Gave God Both heart
and ear, no Dirt (nor Distance) hinDerD
her Resort, for love still Pav’D y^e way, &
cut it short, to Parents, husBanD, frienDs
none Better knew, y^e triBute of Duty &
she PaiD it tow, BeloveD By, & loving
all Dearly, her son to whom she
first Gave life, then lost her owne
he kinD Poor lamB for his Dam a full
Year crieD, alas in vain, ther for for
love he DieD _Anno Domi 1679_.”
[Illustration: BERRY POMEROY CASTLE.]
From Paignton to Totnes the road leads inland by easy gradients past
Blagdon, where nobody ever did anything worthy of record, until, in
four miles, the little village of Berry Pomeroy is reached. This
is the old road; the new highway, about one and a half miles out of
Paignton, turns to the left, and in a lonely course reaches Totnes.
The road past Blagdon to Berry is good, but the matter of a mile
longer. That, however, is _no_ matter to the tourist, when, by that
additional mile, so charming a ruin as that of Berry Pomeroy Castle
is gained. These shattered walls and courts are hidden in deep lusty
woods, resonant with the throaty gurglings of doves and wood-pigeons,
teeming with a populace of squirrels, and moist with the invigorating
rills that percolate everywhere, unseen but potent, amid the tangled
undergrowth. Nothing now remains of the original stronghold: the great
gateway and curtain-wall belong to the thirteenth century, and all else
is of more modern date. The Pomeroys were of ancient descent, even when
Ralph de la Pomeroy accompanied William the Norman from fair Normandy.
The name has a sweet savour as of cider, for “pomeraie” means apple
orchard, and from some such fruity demesne these Norman lords first
took their name. It is a lengthy stride, though, from the Arcadian
simplicity of the orchard, the fragrance of pomace, to the tilt-yard
and the baronial hall.
From Ralph these estates passed down through the centuries to that
Sir Thomas Pomeroy who, engaging in the futile rebellion of 1549, was
stripped of all his manors, which fell into the hands of the Lord
Seymour of Sudeley, brother to the Lord Protector, Duke of Somerset,
and to this day they remain in that family. The Seymours builded all
these courts and upstanding walls, now grass-grown and broken, or
ivy-hung, that are enclosed by the ancient circumvallation. Defence
was not a matter of such tremendous exiguity in the reign of Edward
VI., when (or thereabouts) these Tudor walls and window-heads were
freshly fashioned; comfort was of greater consideration, and that, by
all accounts, was well studied. But with the reign of James II. came
the ruination of Berry. Some have it that lightning destroyed the great
range of buildings, but that is matter of tradition merely. Certain it
is that never since that day have they been inhabited, “and all this
glory” (as Prince hath it) “lieth in the dust.”
Prince himself, author of “Worthies of Devon,” and vicar of Berry
Pomeroy, lies within the church, where Seymours and superseded Pomeroys
lie close together--quietly enough. The Protector’s son, Lord Edward
Seymour, lies here in effigy. He died (you learn) in 1593. His son,
too, rests beside, and amid them sleeps this child, done in stone,
humorously, as it seems to us, looking upon those radiant Dutch-like
features.
[Illustration: FROM A MONUMENT, BERRY.]
XLI.
From woody dells and time-greyed walls to the highroad and modern
Bridgetown, the suburb of Totnes, seemed a sorry change, though
without the loveliness of Berry it had been fair enough. Bridgetown
lies on one side of a narrow valley, Totnes on the other, and between
them runs the Dart, crossed by a very serviceable, very modern, very
uninteresting bridge, that stands sponsor to the suburb.
Totnes, say the historians, is the oldest, or one of the oldest,
borough towns in England, founded, we are asked to believe, by
Brutus the Trojan. We will not dispute the point: as well he as any
one else. I will not (being transparently candid) deny that this
particular Brutus seems to me, after this length of time, to be a very
uninteresting person--a prosy fellow--one to be avoided.
But we will not, an’t please you, so readily drop the subject of Totnes
town: that would not do, for not many such picturesque places remain in
the south of England. Fore Street, which seems in these Devon towns to
stand for High Street--although in some places in the county they are
happy in the possession of both--Fore Street, Totnes, is a fine example
of the unstudied, fortuitous, picturesque, from the projecting houses
that overhang the pavements at one end, to the Eastgate that spans the
street at the other, amid all the bustle and business of a town that,
it would seem, is little affected by depression of the agricultural
industries, upon which it lives.
There is a fine church at Totnes, with a stone pulpit, carved and gilt
and painted to wonderment, and the tower of that church is among the
best in Devon, an architectural dream, in ruddy sandstone, pinnacled,
and adorned with tabernacles containing figures of kings and saints,
benefactors, bishops, and pious founders. For aught I know (so lofty
is their eyrie) Judhael de Totnais is of the company. This Judhael
was one of the Conqueror’s host of filibusters, who, receiving his due
share of plunder in the form of fat manors, settled at the chiefest
of them, built himself a castle on a likely site, and, like some old
regiments under modern War-Office administration, took a territorial
title, “De Totnais.”
[Illustration: EASTGATE, TOTNES.]
His castle (what remains of it) stands on a steep and lofty mound of
earth at the northern end of the town, overlooking the streets and
clustering roofs, and commanding a glorious panorama of the river
Dart, winding deep amid the trees toward Dartmouth and the sea. These
castle remains are very meagre: a low circular keep-tower, open to
the sky, perched on an eminence studded thickly with tall trees--that
is all. Below is a garden, with closely shaven lawn, where young men
and maidens play tennis in summer months. Outside, in the street, an
ancient archway, which was once the North Gate of the town, still
stands.
There is, in the retiring little Guildhall of Totnes, standing behind
the church, sufficient interest for an especial visit. Low-browed
rooms, oak-panelled, with leaden casemented windows set in deep
embrasures, with dusky, glowering portraits of old-time worthies
hanging against the walls--these are characteristic items toward a
due presentment of the place. Here, too, are framed proclamations of
Commonwealth period, commencing “OLIVER, by the grace of God.” Oliver,
you shall see, is nothing less than “His Highness.”
And now, having “done” the town, do not, I pray you who may essay to
follow our wanderings, set out upon walking hence to Dartmouth. Rather
should you voyage by steamer those eight miles, at your ease physically
and mentally, this last happy condition attained by reflecting that
such scenery is not otherwhere to be enjoyed, and that to voyage thus
is the thing expected of all good tourists in South Devon.
XLII.
We took steamer from Totnes to Dartmouth. There are two classes aboard,
“saloon” and “second,” and there is but threepence difference between
the two. But the Wreck, who was paymaster this day, and is ever
economically inclined, prudently bought two of the cheaper tickets,
“for,” said he, “we are not travelling _en grande tenue_” (terms for
translation may be had on application). So we took our places astern,
and in due course arrived off the pontoon at Dartmouth. The Wreck, who
was in charge of the pasteboards, handed them up.
“Sixpence more, please,” said the collector.
“What for?” demanded the Wreck.
“You can see the notice,” replied the man; and he pointed to an
inscription, “Passengers going abaft the funnel must pay saloon fare.”
“But we didn’t go abaft the funnel,” said the Wreck; “we sat behind all
the time.”
“Behind _is_ abaft,” remarked the collector....
The Wreck paid the sixpence. “But,” said he, “I wish, next time you
paint your boat, you would write up decent English instead of your
confounded nautical slang, which no fellow can understand.” And so, as
Pepys might have said, into Dartmouth, where we lay at the King’s Head.
XLIII.
The situation of Dartmouth is eminently characteristic of the seaport
towns of South Devon and Cornwall. It lies, like so many of them, at
the mouth of a little river, which, running almost due south for an
inconsiderable number of miles, widens at last into an estuary that
gives on the sea through a narrow opening between tall cliffs. On the
inner side of this strait and dangerous gut, the storm-tossed mariner,
wearied of Channel waves, rides in a deep, land-locked harbour, at
peace, and on the shores of this harbour there springs up a town
to supply the wants of them that go down to the sea in ships. From
Exmouth in the east to Falmouth in the west, the same conditions are
seen. Sometimes the town stands on the western side of the estuary,
sometimes on the eastern shore; but almost every one of them has in
time developed its suburb over the water. Exmouth has its Starcross,
Teignmouth its Shaldon. Opposite Dartmouth, on the eastern side of
Dartmouth harbour, stands Kingswear, and over against Salcombe is
Portlemouth. Torpoint, that stands on the western shore of the Hamoaze,
is an essentially modern excrescence from Devonport. East and West
Looe seem to be coeval one with the other--those jealous towns of Looe
River; but Polruan is the dependency of Fowey, even as Flushing is of
Falmouth.
Dartmouth can hold its own among the best of these havens, even
as Dartmouth town is easily first in picturesque beauty and hoary
survivals of early seafaring days. I think a waft of more spacious
times has come down to us, and lingers yet about the steep streets
and strange stairways, the broad eaves and bowed and bent frontages
of Dartmouth--an air in essence salty, and ringing with the strange
oaths and stranger tales of the doughty hearts who adventured hence
to unknown or unfrequented seas, or went forth to do battle with the
Spaniard. Hence sailed crusaders, and Dartmouth came a splendid third
to Fowey and Yarmouth in 1342, when the port sent as many as thirty-one
sail for the investment of Calais. Followed then descents of the French
upon these coasts, succeeded in turn by ravagements on the seaboard
of France at the hands of Dartmouth and Plymouth men, when two score
French ships were destroyed. Then came in 1404 the French admiral, Du
Chastel, who landed at Blackpool Valley, three miles to the westward,
with the object of taking Dartmouth from an unsuspected quarter. But
this project failed of accomplishment; the storm-beaten tower of Stoke
Fleming church looked down that day upon the secluded valley where,
upon the sands of that curving shore, by the tree-grown banks of a
rivulet that loses itself in diminutive swamps, the clang of battle
echoed all day from the hillsides, and Dartmouth men gave so good an
account of themselves that four hundred Frenchmen dead, and two hundred
prisoners, with Du Chastel himself, completed the tale of that day’s
doings.
But Blackpool was a landing-place to be attempted only in fine weather.
Dartmouth harbour was the natural entrance. To guard it there were
built, in ancient times, the twin-towers of Dartmouth and Kingswear
Castles, facing one another, across the water, and between them was
stretched an iron chain, drawn taut by windlasses in time of peril,
which effectually prevented the entrance of hostile ships. Kingswear
Castle is comparatively insignificant, but Dartmouth Castle, viewed
from the Kingswear side, forms, with the adjoining church of Saint
Petrox, a striking group, backed by the lofty tree-clad hills of
Gallants’ Bower. A modern fort, built into the rock beside the sea,
adds a modern touch. Saint Petrox contains brasses to Roopes in plenty,
one of the inscriptions, curiously beautiful, for all its spelling:--
“JOHN ROOPE, OF DARTMOUTH, MARCHANT, 1609.
“’Twas not a winded nor a withered face
Nor long gray hares nor dimnes in the eyes
Nor feble limbs nor uncouth trembling pace
Presagd his death that here intombed lies
His time was come, his maker was not bounde
To let him live till all their markes were founde,
His time was come, that time he did imbrace
With sence & feelinge with a joyfull harte
As his best passage to a better place,
Where all his cares are ended & his smarte
This Roope was blest, that trusted in God alone
He lives twoe lives where others live but one.”
[Illustration: DARTMOUTH CASTLE.]
By this time my sketch-book was filled, and we went to a bookseller’s
to buy another, finally purchasing a ship’s log-book for the purpose.
It was ruled with faint blue lines, unfortunately (what stationers
term “feint only”), but the paper of it took pencil beautifully. I
think we left the bookseller’s assistant with but a poor estimate of
our artistic powers, for he seemed consumed with astonishment at the
choice, and grieved when I flouted the gorgeous sketch-books, oblong
in shape, and lettered in big gold lettering on their covers, that
he would have us buy. “All artists,” said he, “use these;” but we
took leave to doubt the statement, and left them for the use of the
bread-and-butter miss.
Then, armed with this formidable book, we explored the old parish
church (Saint Saviour’s) of Dartmouth, and started off “at score” with
the sketch of ironwork on the doorway of the south porch. “Exploration”
seems quite the word for an examination of Dartmouth church: it is old
and decrepit, and rendered dusky by wooden galleries--a wonderfully
and almost inconceivably picturesque building, without and within,
and (what is not often seen nowadays) a very much unrestored church.
It was in 1887 (I think) that a scheme for restoration was set afoot,
when the great controversy between the vicar and the Society for the
Preservation of Ancient Buildings took place. The society wished the
church to be let alone; the vicar wanted “restoration.” He plaintively
remarked that the roof leaked on to him while he preached; and I seem
to recollect that he was obliged to use an umbrella in the pulpit on
wet Sundays, but of this I am not quite sure.
[Illustration: ANCIENT IRONWORK, SOUTH DOOR OF SAINT SAVIOUR’S CHURCH,
DARTMOUTH.]
The outcome of this wordy war was a compromise: the roof was made
watertight, and the restoration generally was dropped like a hot potato.
Dartmouth church is closely girdled with old houses and steep streets,
paved with painful but romantic-looking cobbles, and the churchyard
rears itself high above the heads of wayfarers in the narrow lanes.
Here is the town gaol, rarely or never used, save for the paternal
detention of derelict drunkards, who, lest they should break their
good-for-nothing necks down these staircase-streets, are locked within
until the morrow comes, with sobriety and headache as co-parceners.
[Illustration: ARMS OF DARTMOUTH ON THE OLD GAOL.]
Dartmouth, you gather, who read municipal notices and
proclamations fastened on the church door, is a composite
borough--Clifton-Dartmouth-Hardness is its official style and title;
but it would, I suspect, puzzle even antiquarians to delimit their
respective territories at this time. We idly culled the information as
we passed one morning for a day’s excursion to Dittisham.
XLIV.
They call it three and a half miles from Dartmouth to Dittisham; we
made it, I should say, about eight; but there is no occasion for any
one who essays to follow our route to emulate this shocking example.
Those eight miles were all either up or down hill. A spirit-level
wouldn’t get the ghost of a chance anywhere along these lanes, for, the
moment you get atop of a hill, it begins to descend again.
We had just reached the bottom of a long hill when we met a countryman
of whom we inquired the way.
“Did ye coom from oop yon?” said he.
“Yes,” we replied, with forebodings of disaster.
“Then you’ve coom aout of y’r way,” he said; “ye’ll have to go oop and
take th’ next turn to th’ right.”
We took his directions, and were rewarded by presently coming into
Dittisham, in receipt, by the way, of a sudden and startling view of
Torquay and Marychurch, eight miles away as the crow flies, and yet
perfectly clear and distinct.
Down through Dittisham lanes we went, past the great grey tower of
the church, with its sun-dial, on to the beach of the river at ebb.
Here were several plum trees, loaded with plums; a small variety, dark
blue, more like damsons, and hard, and not too sweet. We, I grieve to
say, plucked many of these plums and ate them; but there was a Nemesis
attendant on the act.