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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 58898 ***</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="max-width: 20em;">
<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="529" height="800" alt="Cover" />
</div>
<h1 class="wspace">FROM PADDINGTON TO PENZANCE</h1>
<hr />
<p class="newpage p4 center bold">By the Author of the Present Volume.</p>
<p class="p1 center"><i>Demy 8vo, cloth extra, 16s.</i></p>
<p class="center xlarge"><span class="gesperrt">THE BRIGHTON ROAD</span>:<br />
<span class="xsmall"><i>OLD TIMES AND NEW ON A CLASSIC HIGHWAY</i>.</span></p>
<p class="b2 center"><span class="smcap">With a Photogravure Frontispiece and Ninety Illustrations.</span></p>
<p>“The revived interest in our long-neglected highways has already produced a considerable
crop of books descriptive of English road life and scenery, but few have been more attractive
than this substantial volume. The author has gathered together a great deal of amusing
matter, chiefly relating to coaching and life on the road in the days of George IV., wherewith
to supplement his own personal observations and adventures. He wields a clever pen
on occasion—witness his graphic sketch of the ‘ungodly tramp’ whom he met between
Merstham and Crawley. The book, in brief, is inspired by a genuine love of the road and
all its associations, past and present, animate and inanimate. Its ninety illustrations,
partly sketches made by the author on the way, and partly reproductions of old-time pictures
and engravings, will add greatly to its attractions.”—<cite>Daily News.</cite></p>
<p>“This is a book worth buying, both for the narrative and the illustrations. The former
is crisp and lively, the latter are tastefully chosen and set forth with much pleasing and
artistic effect.”—<cite>Scottish Leader.</cite></p>
<p>“The Brighton Road was merry with the rattle of wheels, the clatter of galloping horses,
the bumpers of hurrying passengers, the tipping of ostlers, the feats of jockeys and ‘whips’
and princes, the laughter of full-bosomed serving-wenches, and the jokes of rotund landlords,
and all this Mr. Harper’s handsome and picturesque volume spreads well before its readers.
To the author, Lord Lonsdale, with his great feat on the road between Reigate and Crawley,
is the last of the heroes, and the Brighton Parcel Mail is the chief remaining glory of what
was once the most frequented and fashionable highway of the world. As Mr. Harper sadly
says, ‘the Brighton of to-day is no place for the travel-worn;’ but, with his book in hand,
the pedestrian, the horseman, the coachman, or the cyclist, may find the road that leads to
it from town one of the most interesting and entertaining stretches of highway to be found
anywhere.”—<cite>Daily Chronicle.</cite></p>
<p>“Space fails us to mention the many sporting events that have been decided upon, or
near, the Brighton Road. They are duly recorded in this lively volume.... An old writer,
speaking of Brighton shore, talks of the ‘number of beautiful women who, every morning,
court the embraces of the Watery God;’ but these Mr. Harper found wanting, so he fled
to Rottingdean.”—<cite>Spectator.</cite></p>
<p>“This handsome book on the Brighton Road should be attractive to three classes in particular—those
who like coaching, those who enjoy cycling, and the ‘general reader.’”—<cite>Globe.</cite></p>
<p>“A pleasant gossiping account of a highway much trodden, ridden, driven, and cycled by
the Londoner; a solid and handsome volume, with attractive pictures.”—<cite>St. James’s Gazette.</cite></p>
<p>“The Brighton Road is the classic land, the Arcadia, of four-in-hand driving. An ideally
smooth, hard, high road, with no more of uphill and down than a coach could travel over at
a canter going up, and at a rattling trot, with the skid on, going downhill, it was a road that
every sporting Londoner knew by heart, and many a London man and woman who cared
nothing for sport.... The ancient glories of the road live for the author, and when he
walks along the highway from London to Brighton, he seems to tread on holy ground. He
would never have written so pleasant a book as ‘The Brighton Road’ had he been less of
an idealist. He has, however, other qualifications for bookmaking besides a delight in
coaching and its ancient palmy days. Something of an archæologist, he can speak learnedly
of churches, both as ecclesiologist and artist, and has an eye for the human humours as well
as the picturesque natural beauties of the road. His book is enriched with over ninety good
illustrations, mainly from his own hand. Add to this, that Mr. Harper writes English
pleasantly and well, with thorough love for and knowledge of his subject, and the reader of
this review will see that ‘The Brighton Road’ that I am inviting him to buy or borrow is
a thoroughly honest, good, and readable book.”—<cite>Black and White.</cite></p>
<p class="p1 center larger">LONDON: CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY.</p>
<hr />
<div id="i_1" class="newpage p4 figcenter" style="max-width: 35em;">
<img src="images/i_000a.jpg" width="550" height="420" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>“GREAT SHIPS LAY ANCHORED.”</p></div>
<div class="captionl smaller"><p><i>Frontispiece.</i></p></div></div>
<hr />
<div class="newpage p4 center">
<div class="ilb">
<p class="in0 xxlarge wspace vspace">
<span class="floatl"><span class="smcap larger">From Paddington</span></span><br />
<span class="floatr"><span class="smcap larger">To Penzance</span></span></p>
</div>
<p class="p1 center wspace vspace"><i>THE RECORD OF A SUMMER TRAMP FROM<br />
LONDON TO THE LAND’S END</i></p>
<p class="p2 center vspace small">BY<br />
<span class="xlarge gesperrt">CHARLES G. HARPER</span></p>
<p class="small center wspace">AUTHOR OF “THE BRIGHTON ROAD,” ETC.</p>
<div id="i_2" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 13em;">
<img src="images/i_000b.jpg" width="199" height="142" alt="" /></div>
<p class="p2 center smaller wspace"><i>ILLUSTRATED BY THE AUTHOR WITH ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR DRAWINGS</i><br />
<span class="smaller"><i>Done chiefly with a Pen</i></span></p>
<p class="p2 center vspace">London<br />
<span class="large">CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY</span><br />
1893
</p>
</div>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_v">v</span></p>
<div id="i_3" class="newpage p4 figcenter" style="max-width: 20em;">
<img src="images/i_000c.jpg" width="314" height="99" alt="" /></div>
<p class="p2 center large wspace"><i>To General Hawkes, C.B.</i></p>
<p><i><span class="smcap">My Dear General</span></i>,</p>
<p><i><span class="in4">Although</span> we did not tour together,
you and I, there is none other than yourself to
whom I could so ardently desire this book to be
inscribed—this by reason of a certain happening
at Looe, and not at all for the sake of anything you
may find in these pages, saving indeed that the
moiety of them is concerned with your county of
Cornwall.</i></p>
<p><i>I have wrought upon this work for many months,
in storm and shine; and always, when this crowded
hive was most dreary, the sapphire seas, the bland
airs, the wild moors of that western land have presented
themselves to memory, and at the same time
have both cheered and filled with regrets one who
works indeed amid the shoutings and the tumults of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_vi">vi</span>
the streets, but whose wish is for the country-side.
You reside in mitigated rusticity; I, in expiation
of some sin committed, possibly, in by-past cycles and
previous incarnations, in midst of these roaring
millions; and truly I love not so much company.</i></p>
<p class="p2 sigright vspace">
<span class="l4"><i>Yours very faithfully</i>,</span><br />
CHARLES G. HARPER.
</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_vii">vii</span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="PREFACE">PREFACE</h2>
</div>
<div id="i_4" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 24em;">
<img src="images/i_000d.jpg" width="382" height="233" alt="" /></div>
<p class="drop-cap"><i><span class="smcap1">Before</span> I set about the overhauling of my notes
made on this tour—afoot, afloat, awheel—from
London to Land’s End, I confided to an old friend
my intention of publishing an account of these wanderings.
Now, no one has such a mean idea of one’s
capacities as an old friend, and so I was by no
means surprised when he flouted my project. I
have known the man for many years; and as the
depth of an old friend’s scorn deepens with time,
you may guess how profound by now is his distrust
of my powers.</i></p>
<p><i>“Better hadn’t,” said he.</i></p>
<p><i>“And why not?” said I.</i></p>
<p><i>“See how often it has been done,” he replied.
“Why should you do it again, after Elihu Burritt,
after Walter White, and L’Estrange, and those others
who have wearied us so often with their dull records
of uneventful days?”</i></p>
<p><i>“I do it,” I said, “for the reason that poets write<span class="pagenum" id="Page_viii">viii</span>
poetry, because I must. Out upon your Burritts
and the rest of them; I don’t know them, and don’t
want to—yet. When the book is finished, then they
shall be looked up for the sake of comparison; at
present, I keep an open mind on the subject.”</i></p>
<p><i>And I kept it until to-day. I have just returned
from a day with these authors at the British
Museum, and I feel weary. Probably most of them
are dead by this time, as dead as their books, and
nothing I say now can do them any harm; so let me
speak my mind.</i></p>
<p><i>First I dipped into the pages of that solemn
Yankee prig, Burritt, and presently became bogged
in stodgy descriptions of agriculture, and long-drawn
parallels between English and American husbandry.
Stumbling out of these sloughs, one comes
headlong upon that true republican’s awkward raptures
over titled aristocracy. The rest is all a
welter of cheap facts and interjectional essays in
the obvious.</i></p>
<p><i>Then I essayed upon Walter White’s</i> “Londoners
Walk to the Land’s End”—<i>horribly informative,
and with an appalling poverty of epithet. This
dreadful tourist was used (he says) to sing and
recite to the rustics whom he met.</i></p>
<p><i>“’Tis a dry day, master,” say the thirsty countrymen
to him; while he, heedless of their artful formula,
calls not for the flowing bowl, but strikes an attitude,
and recites to them a ballad of Macaulay’s!</i></p>
<p><i>And yet those poor men, robbed of their beer,
applauded (says our author), and, like Oliver Twist,
asked for more.</i></p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_ix">ix</span>
<i>Then an American coach-party had driven over
part of our route, following the example of</i> “An
American Four-in-Hand in Britain,” <i>by Citizen
Carnegie. Indeed, we easily recognise the Citizen
again, under the name of Mæcenas, among this
party, which produced the</i> “Chronicle of the Coach.”</p>
<p><i>The same Americanese pervades both books; the
same patronage of John Bull, and the same laudation
of those States, is common to them; but for choice, the
Citizen’s own book is in the viler taste. Both jig
through their pages to an abominable “charivari”
of their own composing, an amalgam of</i> “Yankee
Doodle” <i>and the</i> “Marseillaise,” <i>one with (renegade
Scot!) a bagpipe “obbligato.”</i></p>
<p><i>They anticipate the time when we shall be blessed
with a Republic after the model of their own adopted
country; the Citizen (I think) commonly wears a
cap of liberty for headgear, and a Stars and Stripes
for shirt. This last may possibly be an error of
mine. But at any rate I should like to see him tucking
in the tails of such a star-spangled banner.</i></p>
<p><i>These were the works which were to forbid a
newer effort at a book aiming at the same destination,
but proceeding by an independent route, and
(as it chanced) written upon different lines—written
with what I take to be a care rather for personal
impressions than for guide-book history.</i></p>
<p><i>We won to the West by no known route, but
followed the inclinations of irresponsible tourists,
with a strong disinclination for martyrdom on dusty
highways and in uninteresting places. This, too,
is explanatory of our taking the train at certain<span class="pagenum" id="Page_x">x</span>
points and our long lingering at others. If, unwittingly
or by intent, I have here or there in these
pages dropped into history, I beg your pardon, I’m
sure; for all I intended was to show you personal
impressions in two media, pictures and prose.</i></p>
<p class="p2 sigright larger">CHARLES G. HARPER.</p>
<p class="p1 in0 in1"><span class="smcap">London</span>, <i>October 1893</i>.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xi">xi</span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<div id="i_5" class="newpage p4 figcenter" style="max-width: 22em;">
<img src="images/i_000e.jpg" width="345" height="103" alt="" /></div>
<h2 id="CONTENTS" class="nobreak p2">CONTENTS</h2>
</div>
<table id="toc" summary="Contents">
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#I">I.</a></td></tr>
<tr class="small">
<td> </td>
<td class="tdr">PAGES</td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Leaving London—The Spirit of the Silly Season—An Unimportant Residuum—The Direct Road—And the Indirect—To Richmond by Boat</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#I">1–5</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#II">II.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Radical Richmond and its Royal Memories—The Poets’ Chorus—The Social Degradation implied by Tea and Shrimps—No Water at Richmond</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#II">6–9</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#III">III.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Rural Petersham—The Monuments of Petersham Church—Ham House—Beer, Beauty, and the Peerage—The Earls of Dysart and their Curious Preferment—Village Hampdens and Litigation—Ham and the Cabal—Horace Walpole and his Trumpery Ghosts—Kingston—The Dusty Pother anent Coway Stakes—The Author “drops the Subject”—The King’s Stone—The Reader is referred to the Surrey Archæological Society, and the Tourists pursue their Journey—The Philosophy of the Thames—To Shepperton</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#III">9–17</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#IV">IV.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Windsor and Eton—The Terrific Keate—Persuasions of Sorts—Bray and its Most Admirable Vicar—Taplow Bridge—Boulter’s Lock—Cookham</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#IV">17–23</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#V">V.</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xii">xii</span></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">An Indignant Man—Advantages of Indignation and a Furious Manner—<i>Al fresco</i> Meals—Medmenham Abbey—Those unkind Topographers—The Hell Fire Club—From Hambledon to Henley</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#V">23–28</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#VI">VI.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Regatta Island—Its Shoddy Temple—The Preposterous Naiads and River Nymphs of the Eighteenth Century Poets—Those Improper Creatures <i>v.</i> County Councils—A Poignant Individual—Mary Blandy, the Slow Poisoner</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#VI">28–33</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#VII">VII.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Picturesque Wargrave—The Loddon River and Patricksbourne—Sonning—A Typical Riverside Inn—Filthy Kennet Side—Reading to Basingstoke</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#VII">33–35</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#VIII">VIII.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Hampshire Characteristics—White of Selborne as a Vandal—Holy Ghost Chapel</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#VIII">35–38</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#IX">IX.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">A Dreary Road—Micheldever—Hampshire Literary Lights—The Worthies—“Johēs Kent de Redying”</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#IX">38–41</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#X">X.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Winchester—The City Lamps—The Cathedral—Saint Swithun</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#X">41–48</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XI">XI.</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xiii">xiii</span></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Wykeham—The Renaissance in the Cathedral—The Puritans—Winchester Castles, Royal and Episcopal—A Graceless Corporation—The Military—Saint Catherine’s Hill</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XI">48–55</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XII">XII.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">A Literary Transfiguration—Wyke—An Unique Brass—The Romance of Lainston—Sparsholt</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XII">56–59</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XIII">XIII.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">A Rustic Symposium</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XIII">60–64</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XIV">XIV.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Camping-out of Necessity—The Tramp <i>en amateur</i>—Soapless Britons—The Livelong Day</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XIV">64–65</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XV">XV.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Restoration at Romsey—Prout justified—An Unsportsmanlike Palmerston</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XV">66–68</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XVI">XVI.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The New Forest—The Woodman’s Axe—The coming Social Storm—Lyndhurst—Brockenhurst—Avon Water</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XVI">68–74</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XVII">XVII.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">A Superior Pedestrian—Christchurch—An Enigmatical Epitaph</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XVII">74–76</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XVIII">XVIII.</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xiv">xiv</span></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Bournemouth—The Interesting Invalid—Languorous Romances—Bournemouth, the Paradise of the Unbeneficed</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XVIII">76–79</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XIX">XIX.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Our Encounter with an American</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XIX">79–81</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XX">XX.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">By the Sea to North Haven—Studland—Our Coldest Welcome at an Inn—To Swanage</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XX">82–83</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XXI">XXI.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Isle of Purbeck—Purbeck Marble—Domesticated Swanage—The Rush for Ground-rents</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XXI">83–86</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XXII">XXII.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Corfe—Corfe Castle—Those Ubiquitous Roundheads</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XXII">86–88</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XXIII">XXIII.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Lulworth Castle—The Dorset Coast—Osmington</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XXIII">88–90</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XXIV">XXIV.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Weymouth and George the Third—An Old-time Jubilee—A Gorgeous Individual—Railways and Derivatives—Hotel Snobbery</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XXIV">91–93</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XXV">XXV.</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xv">xv</span></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Abbotsbury—The Abbey Ruins—Saint Catherine’s Chapel—Historic Wessex—The Chesil Beach—West Bay, Bridport—A Hilly Country</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XXV">93–97</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XXVI">XXVI.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Chideock—One who fared at Dead of Night—Early Rising</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XXVI">97–99</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XXVII">XXVII.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Charmouth—Concerning Rainy Days by the Sounding Sea—The Devon Borders—A Humorous Wheelman</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XXVII">99–101</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XXVIII">XXVIII.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Axminster—The Battle of Brunenburgh—The “Book of Remembrance”—Axminster Carpets</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XXVIII">102–104</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XXIX">XXIX.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Drakes of Ashe—Axmouth—The Fearful Joys of the Day-tripper—Seaton</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XXIX">105–107</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XXX">XXX.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Exeter, a Busy City—Richard the Third—A Chivalric Myth—Northernhay—The Cathedral: Black but Comely—St. Mary Steps</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XXX">108–111</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XXXI">XXXI.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Suburb of Saint Thomas—Alphington—Exminster</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XXXI">112–116</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XXXII">XXXII.</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xvi">xvi</span></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">A Grotesque Saint—The Pious Editor</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XXXII">116–118</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XXXIII">XXXIII.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Beside the Exe to Powderham—The Courtenays—The Atmospheric Railway</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XXXIII">118–120</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XXXIV">XXXIV.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Starcross and its Aspirations—The Warren—Langstone Point—Mount Pleasant—The Limitations of Dawlish</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XXXIV">120–124</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XXXV">XXXV.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Legend of the Parson and Clerk</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XXXV">124–127</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XXXVI">XXXVI.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Teignmouth—The Sad Tale of the Market House—Doleful Ratepayers—Teignmouth Harbour—Devon Weather—Society—To Shaldon</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XXXVI">127–133</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XXXVII">XXXVII.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The (more or less) True Story of an Artist—Labrador Tea-gardens—Peripatetic Organ-grinders—The Author’s Indignation moves him poetically—And he reflects upon Comic Songs</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XXXVII">133–137</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XXXVIII">XXXVIII.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Devon Combes—Maidencombe—Where the Devil died of the Cold—Who was Anstey, of Anstey’s Cove?—“Thomas” of Anstey’s</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XXXVIII">137–140</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XXXIX">XXXIX.</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xvii">xvii</span></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Torquay—Still growing—The Witchery of Tor Bay Scenery—Charter Day—Napoleon on board the “Billy Ruffian”</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XXXIX">140–144</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XL">XL.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Teutonic Paignton—Thoughts on German Bands—The Present Author loves a Comely Falsehood, but destroys a Lying Tradition—Berry Pomeroy and the Seymours</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XL">144–149</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XLI">XLI.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Totnes—Brutus the Trojan—“Oliver, by the Grace of God”—To Dartmouth</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XLI">149–153</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XLII">XLII.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Down the Dart—Nautical Terms</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XLII">153–154</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XLIII">XLIII.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Dartmouth—Castles of Dartmouth and Kingswear—Fighting the Foreigner—An Unrestored Church—Paternal Government</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XLIII">154–159</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XLIV">XLIV.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Dittisham and the Dart—Tea at Dittisham, and so “Home”</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XLIV">159–162</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XLV">XLV.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Stoke Fleming—A Country Coach—Slapton Sands—To Kingsbridge</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XLV">163–165</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XLVI">XLVI.</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xviii">xviii</span></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Kingsbridge—Its one Literary Celebrity—“Peter Pindar” upon his Barn—Kingsbridge Grammar School</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XLVI">165–171</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XLVII">XLVII.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Salcombe River—Voyage to Salcombe—Hotel hunting—Salcombe Shops—The Castle</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XLVII">171–176</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XLVIII">XLVIII.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Voyage to Plymouth—The Tourists are Extremely Ill—Land at last—The Hoe and its Memorials—Politics and Patriotism—The Hamoaze—Saltash</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XLVIII">176–183</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#XLIX">XLIX.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">An Old Author on the Characteristics of Cornwall—Saint Budeaux—The Three Towns—Stained Glass extraordinary</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#XLIX">184–187</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#L">L.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Antony—Richard Carew: a Seventeenth Century Poet—The Tourists are entreated despitefully, and quarrel</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#L">187–190</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#LI">LI.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Carew’s Epitaph at Antony—Downderry</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#LI">191–192</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#LII">LII.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">A Lovely Valley, a Moorland Stream, and what befell there</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#LII">193–195</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#LIII">LIII.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Looe—Stage-like Picturesqueness—Hotel Visitors’ Books</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#LIII">195–201</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#LIV">LIV.</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xix">xix</span></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Talland—Humorous Memorials of the Dead—Epitaph on a Smuggler—“John Bevyll of Kyllygath”—A Notable Devil-queller</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#LIV">201–207</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#LV">LV.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Road to Polperro—The “Three Pilchards” Inn—Saturday Night at Polperro—John Wesley’s Experiences of that Place</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#LV">207–213</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#LVI">LVI.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Lanteglos-juxta-Fowey—A Cornish Cross—Polruan—Again the Comic Song!—Fowey—Tourists’ Lumber</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#LVI">214–218</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#LVII">LVII.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Par: a Cornish Seaport</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#LVII">219–220</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#LVIII">LVIII.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">An Old-time Adventure—Deserted Mining Fields—Saint Austell</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#LVIII">220–225</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#LIX">LIX.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">By Carrier’s Cart to Mevagissey—John Taylor, the “Water Poet,” on his Adventure there—Exceptional Britons</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#LIX">225–228</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#LX">LX.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Mevagissey—Gorran Haven—The Inhospitable Hamlet of Saint Michael Caerhayes—In the Dark to Veryan—Hospitality of the Village Inn</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#LX">228–234</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#LXI">LXI.</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xx">xx</span></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Treworlas—Philleigh by the Fal—Truro City—Truro Cathedral</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#LXI">234–239</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#LXII">LXII.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">A “Lift” to Redruth—Local Tales—Saint Day—Redruth—The Tourists are taken for “Hactors,” and are sorrowfully obliged to disclaim the Honour</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#LXII">239–242</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#LXIII">LXIII.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">A Rainy Day—Available Literature of the Hotel—The Cornishman and the Church—Cornish Livings</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#LXIII">242–245</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#LXIV">LXIV.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Cam Brea—The Disillusionments of Exploration—Pool <i>v.</i> Poole—Dolcoath Mine—Squalid Camborne</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#LXIV">246–249</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#LXV">LXV.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">The Hamlet of Barrepper—Cornish Names—Marazion</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#LXV">249–252</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#LXVI">LXVI.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Alverton—Mount’s Bay—Penzance—German Band-itti—Pellew’s Birthplace—Saint Michael’s Mount, and the Loyal Saint Aubyns—The Newlyn School—Bridges, Potsherds, and Old Boots</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#LXVI">252–262</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#LXVII">LXVII.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">To Land’s End—Saint Buryan—The First and Last House in England</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#LXVII">262–268</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdc chap" colspan="2"><a href="#LXVIII">LXVIII.</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">Home again</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#LXVIII">268–269</a></td></tr>
</table>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xxi">xxi</span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="LIST_OF_ILLUSTRATIONS">LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2>
</div>
<div id="i_6" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 24em;">
<img src="images/i_000f.jpg" width="372" height="283" alt="" /></div>
<table id="loi" summary="List of Illustrations">
<tr>
<td class="tdl">“<span class="smcap">Great Ships Lay Anchored</span>”</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_1"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Vignette</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_2"><i>Title-page</i></a></td></tr>
<tr class="small">
<td> </td>
<td class="tdr">Page</td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Decoration</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_3">v</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Preface Heading</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_4">vii</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Decoration</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_5">xi</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">List of Illustrations</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_6">xxi</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Wreck</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_7">1</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Richmond Lock Works</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_8">5</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Richmond Bridge</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_9">6</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">New Inn, Ham</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_10">11</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Ham House</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_11">14</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Below Kingston</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_12">15</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">“<span class="smcap">Her Henry</span>”</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_13">18</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">“<span class="smcap">W. E. Gladstone</span>”</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_14">19</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Staircase in Eton College</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_15">20</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Windsor: Early Morning</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_16">20</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Clieveden</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_17">22</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Dove Cote, Hurley</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_18">25</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xxii">xxii</span></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Above Hurley</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_19">26</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Medmenham Abbey</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_20">27</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Poignant Individual</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_21">29</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Evening at Henley</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_22">33</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Sonning Bridge</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_23">34</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Inscription: Sherborne Saint John</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_24">36</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Holy Ghost Chapel, Basingstoke</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_25">37</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Entrance to the Close, Winchester</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_26">43</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Winchester Cathedral</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_27">45</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">St. Swithun and the Indignant Tourist</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_28">47</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Deanery, Winchester</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_29">50</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Bishop Morley’s Palace</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_30">52</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">High Street, Winchester</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_31">52</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Peep over Roof-tops, Winchester</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_32">54</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Saint Catherine’s Hill from Itchen Meads</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_33">55</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">“Ad Portas,” Winchester College</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_34">56</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Brass, Weeke</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_35">58</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Interior, Sparsholt Church</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_36">59</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Romsey Abbey</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_37">66</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Lyndhurst</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_38">71</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Ford in the New Forest</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_39">73</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">“<span class="smcap">Flashed Past</span>”</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_40">75</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Corfe Castle</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_41">86</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">“<span class="smcap">Politics and Agriculture</span>”</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_42">89</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">“<span class="smcap">Gazed after us</span>”</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_43">90</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">“<span class="smcap">Extremely Amusing, I do assure you</span>”</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_44">92</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">“<span class="smcap">Humorous Wheelman, Garbed Fearfully</span>”</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_45">101</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Axmouth, from Seaton</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_46">105</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Seaton Bridge</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_47">106</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">“<span class="smcap">Loathly Worm</span>”</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_48">107</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Exeter Cathedral: West Front</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_49">110</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Saint Thomas</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_50">112</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Exeter, from the Dunsford Road</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_51">112</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Alphington</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_52">113</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xxiii">xxiii</span></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">An Exminster Monument</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_53">115</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Exminster Saint</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_54">116</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Turf</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_55">119</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Starcross</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_56">120</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Langstone Point</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_57">122</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Mount Pleasant</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_58">123</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Lee Mount, Dawlish</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_59">124</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Sea Wall, Teignmouth</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_60">126</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Railway and Sea-wall, Night</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_61">128</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Railway and Sea-wall, from East Cliff, Teignmouth</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_62">128</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Teign</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_63">130</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Teignmouth Harbour</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_64">131</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Maidencombe</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_65">138</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Berry Pomeroy Castle</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_66">147</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">From a Monument, Berry</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_67">149</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Eastgate, Totnes</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_68">151</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Dartmouth Castle</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_69">156</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Ancient Ironwork, South Door of Saint Saviour’s Church, Dartmouth</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_70">158</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Arms of Dartmouth on the Old Gaol</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_71">159</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Fore Street, Kingsbridge</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_72">166</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Headmaster’s Desk, Kingsbridge</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_73">170</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Kingsbridge Quay: Evening</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_74">172</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Bolt Head</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_75">178</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Drake’s Statue</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_76">181</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Saltash Station</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_77">186</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Guildhall, East Looe, and Borough Seal</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_78">197</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">“<span class="smcap">Comparatively Prosaic Fisherman</span>”</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_79">198</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The “Jolly Sailor”</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_80">200</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Seal of West Looe</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_81">201</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Talland Cherubs</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_82">203</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">An Old Shop, Polperro</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_83">211</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Lanteglos-juxta-Fowey</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_84">214</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Cornish Moor</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_85">220</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xxiv">xxiv</span></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Font, Saint Austell</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_86">224</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Note at Gorran</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_87">229</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Roseland Inn, Philleigh</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_88">236</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Lander</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_89">237</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Carn Brea</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_90">246</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Druidical Altar, Carn Brea</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_91">248</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Saint Michael’s Mount</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_92">253</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Penzance, from above Gulval</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_93">254</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Saint Michael’s Mount: Entrance to the Castle</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_94">256</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Penzance Harbour: Night</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_95">256</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Chevy Chase Hall</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_96">259</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Penzance</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_97">260</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Ludgvan Leaze</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_98">261</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Saint Buryan</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_99">262</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Saint Germoe</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_100">263</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Longships Lighthouse</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_101">264</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Carn Kenidjack</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_102">266</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Saint Levan</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_103">267</a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Saint Germoe’s Chair</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_104">268</a></td></tr>
</table>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">1</span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="From_Paddington_to_Penzance"><i class="wspace larger">From Paddington to Penzance</i></h2>
</div>
<h2 id="I" class="nobreak">I.</h2>
<p class="in0"><span class="smcap">There</span> were two of us: myself, the narrator, the
artist-journalist of
these truthful pages,
and my sole companion,
the Wreck.
Why I call him by
this unlovely title is
our own private business,
our exclusive
bone of contention;
not for untold gold
would I disclose the
identity of that man,
the irresponsible, the
nerveless, mute, inglorious
fellow-wayfarer
in this record
of a summer’s tour.
Let him, nameless
save by epithet, go
down with this book
to a more or less
extended posterity.
But I give you some slight portraiture of him,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">2</span>
so that you shall see he was not so very ill-favoured
a Wreck, at any rate.</p>
<div id="i_7" class="figright" style="max-width: 14em;">
<img src="images/i_001.jpg" width="212" height="398" alt="" />
<div class="caption">THE WRECK.</div></div>
<p>This man, willing to be convinced of the pleasure
and the healthful profit of touring afoot, yet loth to
try so grand a specific for varied ills, delayed long
and faltered much between yea and nay ere he was
finally pledged to the trip; but a time for decision
comes at last, even to the most vacillating, and at
length we set out together on this leisured tour.</p>
<p>It was time. When we left London the spirit
of the silly season roamed abroad, and made men
mad: the novelists were explaining diffusely in the
columns of the public press why they wrote no plays;
the playwrights were giving the retort discourteous
(<i xml:lang="la" lang="la">coram publico</i>) to the effect that the novelists had
all the will but didn’t know how, and the factions
between them made any amount of copy for the
enterprising editor who looked on and, so to speak,
winked the other eye while the combatants contended.
Unsuccessful Parliamentary candidates were
counting the cost of their electoral struggles, and
muttering melodramatic prophecies of “a time will
come”; the eager journalist wandered about Fleet
Street, seeking news and finding none, for the Building
Societies had not yet begun to collapse; and the
chiefest streets of town were “up.”</p>
<p>Those happy men, the layers of wood-paving, had
created a delightful <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">Rus in Urbe</i> of their own in
Piccadilly, and enjoyed a prolonged sojourn amid
such piney odours as Bournemouth itself never
knew: here was health-giving balsam for them that
had no cash to spend in holiday-making! But<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">3</span>
indeed almost every one had left town; only an unimportant
residuum of some four millions remained,
and wide-eyed emaciated cats howled dismally in
deserted areas of the West End, while evening
breezes blew stuffily across the Parks and set the
Londoner sighing for purer air where blacks were
not, nor the shouting of the streets annoyed the ear.</p>
<p>If you take the reduced ordnance map of
England, and rule a straight line upon it from
Paddington to Penzance and the Land’s End, you
will find that the distance by this arbitrary measurement
is some 265 miles, and that the line
passes through or near Staines, Basingstoke, Salisbury,
Exeter, Truro, and Redruth, to Penzance and
Sennen Cove, by Penwithstart, touching the sea at
three places <i>en route</i>—Fowey, Par, and Charlestown,
neighbouring towns in Cornwall.</p>
<p>The most direct coach-road is given by Cary, of
the <cite>New Itinerary</cite>, as 297 miles 5 furlongs. It was
measured from Hyde Park Corner, and went through
Brentford, Hounslow, Staines, Egham, Bagshot,
Hartford Bridge, Basingstoke, Whitchurch, Andover,
Salisbury, Blandford, Dorchester, Bridport,
Axminster, Honiton, Exeter, Crockernwell, Okehampton,
Launceston, Bodmin, Redruth, Pool, Camborne,
Hayle River, and Crowlas. The route, it will
be seen from this breathless excerpt, was commendably
direct, thirty-two miles only being added by
way of deviation from the measured map. On this
road, so far as Exeter at least, much might be
gleaned of moving interest in matters of coaching
times, but beyond the Ever Faithful City no first-class<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">4</span>
nor very continuous service seems to have been
maintained: the <i>Royal Mail</i>, <i>Defiance</i>, <i>Regulator</i>,
<i>Traveller</i>, <i>Celerity</i>, and <i>Post</i> coaches finding little
custom farther west.</p>
<p>I keep all love for high-roads for those times (rare
indeed) when I go a-wheel on cycles; it is better to
fare by lanes and by-ways when you go afoot, and
then to please yourself as to your route, caring little
for a consistent line of march: consistency is the
bugbear of little minds. So swayed by impulse and
circumstances were we, that I should indeed fear to
set about the computation of mileage in this our
journey from East to West: for our somewhat involved
course, your attention, dear reader, is invited
to the map.</p>
<p>We packed our knapsacks overnight, and the
next morning</p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">By nine o’clock, as City-ward<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Belated clerks were pelting hard,<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="in0">we had taken a hansom from Paddington, bound
for Westminster Bridge, thence to voyage by steamer
to Richmond.</p>
<p>Set down at Westminster Pier, we waited for the
Richmond boat, while the growls and grumblings
of the streets sounded loudly from the Bridge overhead,
and mingled with the hoarse thunder of trains
crossing the abominable squat cylinders and giant
trellis-work that go to make the railway-bridge of
Charing Cross.</p>
<p>I am not going to weary you with a description
of how we slowly paddled up stream in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">5</span>
Richmond boat, past the Houses of Parliament on
one hand, and Lambeth Palace and Doulton’s on
the other; under Vauxhall and other London bridges,
into suburban reaches, the shoals of Kew, and past
the dirty town of Brentford (noted for possessing
the ugliest parish church in all England), until at
length we came off the boat at Richmond town.
No: if I were to commence with this I know not
where I should stop, and so, perhaps, the best way
to treat the voyage would be by a masterly display
of “reserved force.” Assume, then, that we are at
length (for this steamboat journey is an affair of
considerable time though few miles)—at length
arrived at Richmond.</p>
<div id="i_8" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 24em;">
<img src="images/i_005.jpg" width="373" height="278" alt="" />
<div class="caption">RICHMOND LOCK WORKS.</div></div>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">6</span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="II">II.</h2>
</div>
<p>What semi-suburb so pleasant as Richmond, quite
unspoilable, though jerry-buildings and shoddy hotels
conspire to oust its old-world air; though the Terrace
elms are doomed; though on Saturdays and Sundays
of summer, Halberts and Arrys, Halices and
Hemmers, crowd George Street, and shout and sing
and exchange hats, and row upon the river, where,
from the bridge, you may see them waving their
sculls windmill fashion, and colliding, one boat with
another, so that, their little hour upon the water
being finished, the boatowners levy extra charges
for scraped paint and broken scull-blades.</p>
<div id="i_9" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 35em;">
<img src="images/i_006fp.jpg" width="552" height="405" alt="" />
<div class="caption">RICHMOND BRIDGE.</div></div>
<p>How many towns or neighbourhoods can show
such courtly concourse of old: kings and queens,
statesmen, nobles, poets, and wits? Palaces so
many and various have been builded here, that the
historian’s brain reels with the reading of them:
eulogistic verse, blank and rhymed, has been written
by the yard, on place and people, chiefly by eighteenth
century poets, who then thronged the banks of
Thames and constituted themselves, virtually, a
Mutual Admiration Society. Thomson wrote and
died here; near by, Gay, protected by a Duke and
Duchess of Queensberry, lapped milk, wrote metrical
fables, grew sleek, and presently died; Cowley,
Pope, and a host of others contributed to the flood
of verse, commonly in such journalistic tricklings
as <span class="locked">these:—</span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">7</span></p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“... rove through the pendant woods.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That nodding hang o’er Harrington’s retreat;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And stooping thence to Ham’s embowering walks,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Beneath whose space, in spotless peace retired,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With her the pleasing partner of his heart,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The worthy Queensberry yet laments his Gay,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And polished Cornbury woos the willing muse.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Literary ladies, and blue-stockings too, have
thronged Richmond, and to this day there stands
on the Green a row of charming old houses, fronted
with gardens and decaying wrought-iron gates,
called Maid of Honour Row, where were lodged
such maids of rank whom interest or favour could
admit to that honoured, though hard-worked and
thankless guild. Madame D’Arblay, who, as Fanny
Burney, was a domestic martyr to the royal household,
has shown us how empty was the title and painful
the place of “Maid of Honour.”</p>
<p>But despite royal associations, perhaps, indeed, on
account of them, the Richmond of to-day is Radical:
it has been distinguished, or notorious, for its Radical
tradesmen any time these last hundred and forty
years, from the time when the institution of “Tea
and shrimps, 9d.” may be said to date. Tea, by
itself, is not distinctly Radical, but I confess I see
the germs of Republicanism in shrimps, and I should
not be surprised at hearing of red-capped revolts
originating at any of those places—Herne Bay, Margate,
Ramsgate, Greenwich, Gravesend, Kew, and
Richmond, where the shrimp is (so to speak) rampant.</p>
<p>Time was, indeed, when a “dish of tea” was distinctly
exclusive and aristocratic: it has been, with
the constant reductions of duty, rendered less and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">8</span>
less respectable. The first step in its downward
career was taken when the “dish” was substituted
for the “cup,” and its final degradation is reached
in the company of the unholy shrimp. The “cup
of coffee and two slices” of the early morning coffee-stall
is vulgar, but seems not to sound the depths of
the other institution.</p>
<p>Let Chancellors of the Exchequer be warned ere
it is yet too late; with the disappearance of the last
halfpenny of the duty upon tea will come the final
crash. Tea and shrimps will be obtainable for sixpence,
and monarchy will no longer rule the land; perchance
Chancellors of the Exchequer themselves will
be obsolete and dishonoured officers of State. Perhaps,
too, in some far distant period, Richmond will
succeed in obtaining a water supply. Now she stands
on one of the charmingest reaches of Thames, and
yet, within constant sight of his silver flood, drinkable
water is hardly come by in Richmond households.
This is the penalty (or one of them) of
popularity; the wells that were all-sufficient for
Richmond of the past do not suffice for the population
of to-day, which has gained her a charter of
incorporation, and lost her an aristocratic prestige.
The rateable value of Richmond must be very large
indeed, but what does it avail when hundreds of
thousands of pounds are continually being spent in
fruitless borings for water? Richmond folk, nowadays,
have all of them a species of hydrophobia,
induced by a tax of too many pence in the pound
for the water rate. Uneasy sits the Mayor, and the
way of the Council is hard.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">9</span></p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“Reader! when last I was at Richmond town,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A man in courtesy showed me an empty pit,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And said, ‘The Reservoir,’ at which name I sniggered,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Because an engineering print informed me once<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They never would fill reservoirs at Richmond.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="in0">Thames, too, has been shockingly inclined to run
dry at Richmond, so that there is building, even
now, a lock that is to supersede that of Teddington
in its present fame of largest and lowest on the
river.</p>
<p>We looked into Richmond church and noted its
many tablets to bygone actors and actresses, chief
among them Edmund Kean, who died at the theatre
here, so recently rebuilt. Then we hied to a restaurant
and lunched, and partook (as in duty bound)
of those cakes peculiar to the town. Then we set
forth upon our walk.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="III">III.</h2>
</div>
<p>To continue on the highroad that leads out of
populous Richmond toward the “Star and Garter,”
is to find one’s self presently surrounded with rustic
sights and sounds altogether unexpected of the
stranger in these gates. To take the lower road is
to come directly into Petersham, wearing, even in
these days, an air of retirement and a smack of the
eighteenth century, despite its close neighbourhood
to the Richmond of District Railways and suburban
aspects.</p>
<p>The little church of Petersham is interesting despite
(perhaps on account of) its bastard architecture<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">10</span>
and singular plan, but the feature that gives distinction
is its cupola-covered bell turret, quaintly
designed and louvre-boarded. The interior is small
and cramped, and crowded with monuments. Among
these the most interesting, so it seemed to us, was
that to the memory of Captain George Vancouver,
whose name is perpetuated in the christening of
Vancouver Island.</p>
<p>Others of some note, very great personages in
their day, but now half-forgotten, are buried in the
churchyard and have weighty monuments within
the church. Among these are an Earl of Mount
Edgcumbe, a vice-admiral, a serjeant-at-law, Lauderdales,
Tollemaches, and several dames and knights
of high degree. Perhaps more interesting still, Mortimer
Collins, author of, among other novels, that
charming story, “Sweet and Twenty,” lies buried
here.</p>
<p>And from here it is well within three miles to the
little village of Ham, encircling, with its scattered
cottages and mansions of stolid red brick of legitimate
“Queen Anne” design, that common whose
name has within the last two years been so familiar
in the mouths of men. You may journey into the
county’s depths and not find so quiet a spot as this
out-of-the-world corner, nor one so altogether behind
these bustling times. It has all the makings of the
familiar type of an old English village, even to its
princely manor-house. Ham House is magnificent
indeed, and thereby hangs a tale.</p>
<p>Its occupiers have been for many generations the
Earls of Dysart, whose family rose to noble rank by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">11</span>
sufficiently curious means in the time of Charles
I., an era when the peerage was reinforced by
methods essentially romantic and irregular. Beauty
(none too strictly strait-laced) secured titles for its
bar-sinistered descendants in those times: in our
own it is commonly Beer that performs the same
kindly office.</p>
<div id="i_10" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 24em;">
<img src="images/i_011.jpg" width="384" height="289" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><i>New Inn, Ham</i></div></div>
<p>The first Earl of Dysart had in his time fulfilled
the painful post of “whipping-boy”—a species of
human scapegoat—to his sacred Majesty, and by
his stripes was his preferment earned.</p>
<p>I am told that it is not to be supposed this house
and manor are the property of the Dysarts: they
pay and have paid, time almost out of mind, an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">12</span>
annual rent into the Court of Chancery for the
benefit of the lost owners.</p>
<p>“But yet,” said my informant at Ham—the
strenuous upholder of public rights in that notorious
Ham Common prosecution,—“but yet, although this
is their only local status, the Dysart Trustees have
endeavoured, from time to time, to assume greater
rights over Ham Common and public rights-of-way,
than even might be claimed by the veritable lord
of the manor.”</p>
<p>In the early part of 1891, the Trustees placed
notice-boards at different points of the Common,
setting forth the pains and penalties and nameless
punishments that would be incurred by any who
should cut turf or cart gravel, exceeding in this
act (it seems) their rights, even had they possessed
the title, for there is extant a deed executed by
Charles I., in favour of the people of Ham, giving
the Common to their use for ever.</p>
<p>Fortunately there was sufficient public spirit in
Ham for the resisting of illegal encroachments, and
eventually the notice-boards were sawn down by village
Hampdens. Thereupon followed a prosecution at
the instance of the Dysart Trustees, with the result
that the defendants were all triumphantly acquitted.</p>
<p>It were indeed a pity had this, one of the largest
and most beautiful commons near London, been
gradually drawn within the control of family trustees.
It is now a breezy open space of some seventy-eight
acres, stretching away from Richmond Park to near
Teddington, and pleasingly wild with gorse and
sandpits and ancient elms.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">13</span>
Here, almost to where the Kingston road bisects
the Common, the avenue leading to Ham House
stretches its aisle of greenery, its length nearly
half-a-mile. To pursue this walk to the wrought-iron
gates of the House is to be assured of interest.
Erected in the early years of the seventeenth century,
it remains a splendid specimen of building ere yet
the day of contracts had set in. The red-brick front
faces toward the river, and includes a spacious courtyard
in whose centre is placed a semi-recumbent
stone figure of Thames with flowing urn. Along
the whole extensive frontage of the House, placed
in niches, runs a series of busts, cast in lead and
painted to resemble stone—a quaint conceit.</p>
<p>But it is not only the splendour of design and
execution that renders Ham House so interesting.
It was, in the time of Charles II., a meeting-place
of the notorious Cabal—that quintette of unscrupulous
Ministers of State whose doings were a
shame to their country. Here they plotted together,
and under this roof the liberties of the lieges
were schemed away. Those were stirring times at
Ham. Now the place wears almost a deserted look.
The courtyard is grass-grown between the joints of
its paving, and it is many years since the massive
iron gates enclosing the grounds were used. It
seems to have been lonely and decayed, even in
Horace Walpole’s time. He says, “Every minute
I expected to see ghosts sweeping by—ghosts that
I would not give sixpence to see—Lauderdales,
Tollemaches, and Maitlands.” For my part I think
I would give a great many sixpences not to see<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">14</span>
them, either by night or by day, whether or not
they carried their heads in the place where heads
should be, or under their arms, an exceedingly uncomfortable
position, even for ghosts, one would
think. I have not that horrid itching (which I suppose
characterises the membership of the Psychical
Research Society) for the society of wraiths and
bogeys, and hold ghosts, apparitions, spooks, and
spunkies of every kind in a holy horror.</p>
<div id="i_11" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 35em;">
<img src="images/i_014fp.jpg" width="551" height="455" alt="" />
<div class="caption">HAM HOUSE.</div></div>
<p>Therefore, we presently departed hence, and came,
in course of time, to Kingston. Whether or not
Kingston can be identified as the place where Cæsar
crossed the ford across the Thames in pursuit of
Cassivelaunus and his cerulean-dyed hordes of
Britons, our ancestors, is, I take it, of not much
concern nowadays, although antiquaries of our
fathers’ time made a great pother about the conflicting
claims of Kingston and Coway Stakes, at Shepperton,
to the honour, if honour it be, of affording
passage to the victorious general and his legions. I
like something of more human interest than these
dry bones, and, I doubt not, you who endeavour to
read these pages are of the same mind; so, to make
your pilgrimage through this book the lighter, I
think “we had better” do like Boffin, in the presence
of Mrs. Boffin—that is, “drop the subject.”</p>
<p>But the subject to which we must come (for no
one who writes upon Kingston can avoid it) is only
one remove nearer. I refer to that bone of contention
(excuse the confusion of ideas) the King’s
Stone, now set up and railed round in Kingston
market-place, and carven with the names of the seven<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">15</span>
Saxon kings crowned here. It is this stone which
has caused many pretty controversies as to whether
or not it confers the name upon the town, or whether
or not the place was the King’s Town.</p>
<p>You may, doubtless, if you are greedy of information
on these heads, find all conceivable arguments
set forth in the pages of the Surrey Archæological
Society’s Transactions. I confess my curiosity does
not carry me to such lengths. The stone is there,
and, like good tourists, we accepted as so much
gospel the facts set forth on it, and cared nothing as
to the etymology of Kingston. Instead, we busied ourselves
in hiring a boat which should take us to Reading,
a journey which we estimated of a week’s duration.</p>
<div id="i_12" class="figright" style="max-width: 17em;">
<img src="images/i_015.jpg" width="270" height="192" alt="" />
<div class="caption">BELOW KINGSTON.</div></div>
<p>Geographers, physical and political, tell us that
Thames drains and
waters all that great
district which lies between
the estuary of
the Severn and the
seaward sides of Essex
and Kent; that it is
the fertiliser of square
miles innumerable,
and the potent source
of London’s pre-eminent rank amongst the cities of
the earth. This is all very true, but the geographers
take no note of Thames’ other functions; the inspiration
of the poets and the painters, the enrichment of
innkeepers and boat-proprietors, and the pleasuring
of all them that delight in bathing and the rowing
of boats. Everywhere in summer-time are boats and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">16</span>
launches and canoes, punts and houseboats, and
varieties innumerable of floating things; for when
the sun shines, and the incomparable river scenery of
the Thames is at its best, the heart of man desireth
nothing more ardently than to lie in a boat upon the
quiet mirrored depths of a shady backwater, or better
still, to sit within the roaring of the weir, where the
swell of the tumbling water acts like a tonic upon the
spirits, and the sunlight fashions rainbows in the
smoke-like suspended moisture of its foam. These
are modern pleasures. For centuries the Thames has
flowed through a well-peopled country, yet the delights
of the river are new-found, and only in the
eighteenth century did the poets’ chorus break forth
in flood of praise. But to-day every one who can
string rhymes makes metrical essays upon the
Thames, and writers without number have written
countless books upon it. From Kingston to Oxford,
houseboats make populous all its banks, and the
quantity of paint and acres of canvas that have been
expended upon artistic efforts along its course, from
Trewsbury Mead to the Nore, must ever remain without
computation.</p>
<p>For these reasons ’tis better to say little of our
journey this afternoon to Shepperton, past Hampton
Court, the Cockney’s paradise, to Hampton, Sunbury,
Walton, and Halliford. The river was crowded
with boating parties, with those who raced and
with others who paddled lazily, and when night was
come the houseboats hung out their paper lanterns,
all red and yellow, that streaked every little ripple
with waving colour.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">17</span>
That night saw the first unpacking of our knapsacks,
and the irrevocable disappearance of their
orderly arrangement. Chaos reigned ever afterward
within their ostensibly waterproof sides, for
to man is not given the gift of packing up, and we
were not superior to the generality of our sex. I
remember perfectly the shower of things that always
befell o’ nights when I came to the ordeal of unpacking
my knapsack: how razors, comb and brush,
pencils, and neckties and other articles dropped
from it; and, I make no doubt, it was the same
with the other man.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="IV">IV.</h2>
</div>
<p>Chertsey we passed this morning, heated with
rowing, but between this and Laleham we were so
far fortunate as to fall in with some acquaintances
on a steam-launch who took us in tow so far as
Old Windsor Lock, where we cast off and proceeded
alone, landing at one of the many slips by Eton
Bridge.</p>
<p>Windsor and Eton claimed us for the remainder
of the day for the due pursuance of some desultory
sight-seeing, but Eton chiefly, for the sake of its
College, where “her Henry,” that unhappy pious
founder, Henry VI., stands in effigy in the great
quadrangle, and casts a “holy shade,” according to
Grey.</p>
<div id="i_13" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 12em;">
<img src="images/i_018.jpg" width="189" height="307" alt="" />
<div class="caption">“HER HENRY”</div></div>
<p>The “College of the Blessed Mary of Eton beside
Windsor” has numbered among its scholars a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">18</span>
goodly proportion of our famous men; and many of
their names, carved on the woodwork of the schools
in their schoolboy days, remain to this day. On the
doorway leading from the Upper School into that
place of dread, the headmaster’s room, may be seen
carved, in company with other well-known names,
that of “W. E. Gladstone;” and once within that
apartment, your attention is drawn to the block
whereon many have suffered, in less heroic wise,
and by no means so tragically, as the martyrs of
Tower Hill, but perhaps more painfully, for birch
twigs, <em>with</em> the buds on them, must sting dreadfully.
But these things are become historical relics rather
than engines of contemporary punishment: they
belong to the days of the terrific Keate and his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">19</span>
robustious predecessors, who were wont to regard
the <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">fortiter in re</i> as more convincing and a better
preservative of discipline than the <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">suaviter in modo</i>.</p>
<div id="i_14" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 24em;">
<img src="images/i_019.jpg" width="370" height="132" alt="" />
<div class="caption">W. E. GLADSTONE</div></div>
<p>It seems that everywhere the iron gauntlet gives
way to the kid glove in our times; persuasion is
to-day more a mental than a physical process. There
are relics in plenty at Windsor and Eton of those
times, only at Windsor these things take higher
ground: <em>there</em> for persuasion read diplomacy in this
era, where it had used to be a performance requiring
the assistance of axe and chaplain. The Castle
survives, its mediæval defences restored, for appearance
sake, but its State apartments filled with polite
furniture, dreadfully gilded and (we thought) tawdry.
It makes a picture, this historic warren of kings and
princes, and its Round Tower commands a glorious
view, altogether an imposing range of turrets, battlements,
and loopholed walls; but, alas! Henry the
Eighth’s massive gateway was guarded by a constable
of that singularly unromantic body—the Police,
and his presence there made everything save the gas-lamps
and the shop-fronts of Windsor streets seem
of paste-board fashion and unreal.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">20</span></p>
<div id="i_15" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 24em;">
<img src="images/i_020.jpg" width="371" height="495" alt="" />
<div class="caption">STAIRCASE IN ETON COLLEGE.</div></div>
<p>The river is the proper place from whence to view
the Castle: the time, early morning; for then, when
the mists cling about the water, and the meadows
are damp with them, that palace and stronghold,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">21</span>
that court and tomb of royalty bulks larger than at
any other time, both on sight and mind.</p>
<div id="i_16" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 35em;">
<img src="images/i_020fp.jpg" width="550" height="347" alt="" />
<div class="caption">WINDSOR: EARLY MORNING.</div></div>
<p>Thus we thought, when the early hours of the
morning found us afloat again. Boveney, Monkey
Island, were passed, and now arose above all the
trees, the tall poplars that identify Bray to the distant
view more surely than church or anything
contrived at the hands of man. They range in
rows, and are at once formal and touched with a
delightful note of distinction. The village, too, is
of the quaintest, with almshouses that should make
the poverty housed within them dignified with a
dignity that we who live in London’s hutches of
brick and mortar, and are numbered with a plebeian
number, may never know.</p>
<p>And at this Bray (we are told) lived that weathercock
vicar, who twirled with every political wind,
and by his dexterity kept his benefice and earned
immortality. O most sensible Vicar of Bray:
wholly admirable and right reverend exponent of
expediency!</p>
<p>When once the bend of the river just above Bray
is reached there is an end, for the time, of beauty,
for the reach runs straight, and on either bank
the encroachments of villadom are forming a continuous
frontage of houses on to Taplow and
Maidenhead, and three parts of the way to Cookham.
Taplow Railway Bridge, brick-built, with bricks of
a jaundiced hue, straddles over the water in two
strides, an unlovely bridge, but remarkable for
the great span of its arches, and for their extreme
depression. So flat are the two arches of Taplow<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">22</span>
Bridge, that it seems scarcely credible they can
bear the weight of the heavy trains constantly
crossing. Yet fifty years have passed, and still the
constant traffic of the Great Western Railway passes
unharmed.</p>
<div id="i_17" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 27em;">
<img src="images/i_022.jpg" width="425" height="310" alt="" />
<div class="caption">CLIEVEDEN.</div></div>
<p>Beyond Taplow comes Maidenhead, most favoured
of riverside towns, and, at the far end of Maidenhead,
Boulter’s Lock, the busiest on the river, filled
from morn to eve of summer days with boats full
of the smartest frocks and prettiest girls one would
wish to see. No more charming sight than Boulter’s
on a busy day, when the boats are going up stream
to Clieveden and Cookham. Clieveden woods on
the right hand, and Ray Mead level on the left,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">23</span>
with the river between, green with the reflections
of the trees, and splashed here and there with the
bright-coloured blazers of the rowers, make a sight
to be remembered.</p>
<p>We came late round the bend to Cookham Lock,
and into Cookham village from the landing-place, as
the moon rose in a cloudless sky.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="V">V.</h2>
</div>
<p>This morning there was an indignant man to
breakfast at Cookham. Nothing pleased the creature,
and the crowded coffee-room was well advised of
his discontent, for he took care to proclaim it to
all and sundry. He had begun the morning badly,
so it seemed, and was like to continue thus throughout
the day. The birds began it by arousing him
from sleep at dawn, and surely never had birds of
any sort been so anathematised since the time of
that famous jackdaw of Rheims. The rooks and
crows, the sparrows and pigeons, that cawed and
chattered and murmured with the coming of day
in neighbouring elms and hedgerows, on roof-tops
and in pigeon-cots, had awakened him and kept
him counting the dawning hours, and that was why
the toast, the tea, the eggs and the butter were all
at fault to this man. He badgered the coffee-room
waiter, who—poor fool!—respected him the more
for it at the expense of the less contentious of the
guests, and he plied all that waiter’s attention with
a grumbling commentary, that went far to show him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">24</span>
in the character of the fault-finder on principle.
You see, that man who has a great capacity for
indignation, with a voice of roaring and words of
fury, is the man who gets on in this world. He
who takes the world by the throat, and grips it
hard and shakes it violently, and kicks it where
honour is the more readily wounded, is the man
who, at the end of the struggle, comes out “upper
dog.” But the cultivation of the furious manner
is a wearing cult, and besides, does not sit well on
a man of little chest, small voice, and gentle eye.
Other things, too, are wanting to a complete success.
Let me put them all together, like Mrs. Glass, the
historic, the well-beloved:—</p>
<p>Take a goodly presence, one pair of sound lungs,
some original sin, and a small pinch of merit.
Throw them all into your avocation, and, adding
some impudence to taste, let the whole boil vigorously
until public attention is attracted. Then serve
up hot.<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">1</a></p>
<p>Possibly that reader of a frankness so unmistakable,
who annotates the margins of books from his Mudie
(or even, goodness knows! from his Public Library),
may disagree with these views, and fill these fair
margins with criticisms of this view of life; but (a
word in your ear, my friend) consider awhile, the
view is sound.</p>
<p>This by the way. Excuse, if you please, the
digression.</p>
<p>At Cookham we were bitten with a fancy for
taking our meals <i xml:lang="es" lang="es">al fresco</i>, so when the time came<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">25</span>
for departure, imagine us stowing away into what
I suppose are called the “stern sheets” of our boat
sufficient provender for the day. There was a loaf
and a pot of raspberry jam, some butter and a tin of
some sort of meat. A couple of plates furnished us
luxuriantly in the crockery department, and as for
a table-knife, why, we forgot all about it, and when,
in a quiet backwater, the time came for luncheon,
we did our little best, which indeed was little enough,
with a pocket-knife.</p>
<div id="i_18" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 23em;">
<img src="images/i_025.jpg" width="361" height="204" alt="" />
<div class="caption">DOVE COTE, HURLEY.</div></div>
<p>That meal was a gruesome orgie. Try to cut a
new loaf with a pocket-knife, and you will find it
much better to tear your bread straight away without
further ado, a discovery we presently made; but
don’t try to open a tin with such a knife, as you
value your cutlery. This from experience, which
we gained at the expense of a broken blade. Eventually
we burst the tin open by stamping on it, and
then the Wreck scooped out some of the contents<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">26</span>
with a piece of stick, as clean as might be, but still
scarcely the ideal substitute for a knife. With this
we spread the lumps of bread, and ate precariously.
It should be said that the plates had already come
to grief, and their fragments were now reposing in
the river bed. For dessert we dipped the bread into
the jam-pot, and thus circumvented the necessity for
spoons.</p>
<div id="i_19" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 27em;">
<img src="images/i_026.jpg" width="429" height="292" alt="" />
<div class="caption">ABOVE HURLEY.</div></div>
<p>This was at Hurley, after we had passed beautiful
Marlow and Bisham, where the ghost of Lady Hoby
walks in the abbey, and before we had come to
Medmenham.</p>
<p>Here the notorious Medmenham Abbey stands by
the waterside, where the river winds and rushes
grow thick, and a lovely view it makes, close-hemmed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">27</span>
with tall trees, the hills rising in the background
and the level meads spreading out, emerald
green, in front.</p>
<div id="i_20" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 26em;">
<img src="images/i_027.jpg" width="409" height="305" alt="" />
<div class="caption">MEDMENHAM ABBEY.</div></div>
<p>They tell us—those unkind topographers—that
the picturesque ruins of the Abbey are a sham;
that possibly one single pillar may be a genuine
relic of the old religious house that once stood here,
but that the arcading, the Tudor windows and the
ivy-covered tower, are “<em>ruins</em>” deliberately built.
Perhaps they are, but, even so, they are excellent,
and those purists are not to be thanked for
setting us right, where we might gladly have
erred.</p>
<p>They would, too, assuage by exact inquiry the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">28</span>
romantic legends of the Hell Fire Club, those “Monks
of St. Francis,” as Wilkes and his jolly companions
who rioted here were pleased to call themselves.
Their horrid rites, their orgies and debauchery, the
license of the place, typified by their motto, still
extant, “<i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">Fay ce que voudras</i>,” are, perhaps, better
“taken as read.”</p>
<p>We crept up stream against a swift current, and
between heavy rain showers that soaked us and
diluted the remains of our picnic to a revolting mess:
bread and water, tinned meat and raspberry jam,
both sufficiently saturated, are not appetising items.
It would perhaps be an exaggeration to say there
was more jam on the seats and our clothes than
in its native pot, but this was at least an open
question.</p>
<p>At Hambledon, the lock-keeper let us through
in a pelting shower, which ceased directly we were
freed from the unsheltered imprisonment of the lock.
Have you ever noticed how <em>wet</em> the river looks after
rain? how much more <em>watery</em> the water appears?
Thus looked Henley Reach as we rowed up it this
evening, past that singular eyot called Regatta
Island.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="VI">VI.</h2>
</div>
<p>Regatta Island is scarcely a place of beauty.
There is a brick and plaster pseudo-temple affair on
it that records the most strenuous days of the classic<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">29</span>
fallacy, when eighteenth-century poets peopled the
country side and the river banks with preposterous
naiads and other galvanised reproductions of the
beautiful and mystic mythology of the ancients.
Alas! this is not Arcadia: Great Pan is dead long
since, and his nymphs have danced away to an enduring
<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Götterdämmerung</i>. It is well it should be so,
for had Pan survived he would have hidden his
hairy legs with check trousers, and changed his
“woodnotes wild” for the democratic strains of the
concertina. In these days of prim and proper County
Councils, whose internal rottenness is varnished over
with a shiny varnish of prudery, such improper
creatures are impossible. This is an age when everything
must be properly breeched or sufficiently
skirted, and, though the constitution
of our Councils be
revolutionary, a revolution
<i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">sans culottes</i> could not hope
to win their approval.</p>
<p>A poignant individual,
whose melancholy look
touched time and place to
a deeper pathos, stood by
the water’s side, and vulgarised
that shoddy temple
with an air of one who had
drunk too much beer, and
was in the lachrymose stage.</p>
<div id="i_21" class="figright" style="max-width: 10em;">
<img src="images/i_029.jpg" width="155" height="268" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><i>Poignant Individual</i></div></div>
<p>We passed him by with
flashing sculls that sent the watery shadows dancing
madly in our wake, and crept up the quiet<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">30</span>
reach, past the poetically-named Phillis Court; the
Wren-built bulk of Fawley; modern-built, yet
historical Greenlands, residence of the late Mr.
W. H. Smith, that unromantic but sufficiently
strenuous upholder of “duty to Queen and country,”
and presently came off the slip where many
boats lay moored. Henley was quiet enough, not
to say dull. Except when the midsummer madness
of the Regatta sets all the riverside agog, and
sends even garret lodgings up to fabulous prices,
the broad stony streets of the town loom blankly to
the stranger. The great church of Henley, whose
tower, picturesquely turreted, shows to greater advantage
at a distance, is of equally generous proportions.
It is scarcely interesting, but there is in the
graveyard a tomb of a sombre and darkling interest.
Here lies, beside her father and mother, Mary Blandy,
who, at the time of her trial and execution, was probably
the most notorious person within the compass
of these islands. The daughter of Mr. Francis Blandy,
an attorney-at-law, who in 1750 lived in Henley town,
close by the Angel Inn, she became acquainted with a
Captain Cranston, who, being in charge of a recruiting
party stationed here, was received into the society of
the place. Now, Mr. Blandy was a widower, and
dotingly fond of his daughter, his only child. Being
a rich man as times went, he was anxious to secure
for her a footing in county society, then more difficult
of access than now. To this end he caused it
to be understood that his Molly would have £10,000
by way of dowry, and the prospect of securing this
large sum led the captain, who was a married man,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">31</span>
to pretend love for her. Although he sprang from
an old Scots family, Cranston was a man of extremely
dissolute and evil character, and the lawyer, although
he knew little or nothing of this, and nothing of the
wife in Scotland, disliked and distrusted him, and
forbade the engagement into which he and his
daughter had entered.</p>
<p>However, Mary Blandy was so infatuated with
the man, and so influenced by him, that, to get rid
of her father, and to obtain at once both husband
and her dowry, she set in train a scheme of slow
poisoning that for heartlessness rivals Brinvilliers
herself. In November 1750, she began to poison
her father, under the instructions of Cranston, who,
returning to Scotland, had sent her some pebbles,
and powders ostensibly to clean them withal. The
powders were composed of arsenic, and were administered
in her father’s tea. By March of the following
year the poison had its effect in causing her father’s
teeth to drop out, whereupon this exceptional
daughter “damned him for a toothless old rogue
and wished him at hell.”</p>
<p>Several times the servants were nearly killed by
having accidentally drunk of the tea prepared for the
master of the house, and on each occasion this extraordinary
woman nursed them back to health with
the tenderest solicitude. At length their suspicions
were sufficiently aroused to inform Mr. Blandy secretly.
He told his daughter that he suspected he was being
poisoned. She confessed to him, and he, incredible
as it may appear, forgave her, with admonitions to
amend her life, and, above all, to conceal everything,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">32</span>
saying, “Poor girl, what will not a love-sick woman
do for the man she loves!”</p>
<p>He died the next day, and Mary Blandy escaped
the same night from the house, after having vainly
attempted to bribe the servants to smuggle her off
to London in a post-chaise. Half-way across Henley
Bridge she was discovered, and would have been
lynched by the inhabitants had she not taken shelter
within the Angel Inn, where she was promptly
arrested. Taken thence to Oxford, she was tried,
found guilty, and condemned to death on the 29th
February 1752. She was executed on the 6th
April, begging not to be hanged high, “for the sake
of decency.”</p>
<p>She asserted her innocence to the last, saying
Cranston had told her the powders would do her
father no harm. The same mob that had hunted
her to the doors of the “Angel,” attended her body
from the scene of execution at Oxford Castle, regarding
her as a saint. She was buried here in a
coffin lined with white satin. Cranston, it is scarcely
necessary to add, fled the country.</p>
<p>This slow poisoner, if painter and mezzotinter lie
not who have handed down her portraiture to our
times, was peculiarly beautiful, with an eighteenth-century
grace, a swan neck, and a sweetness of
expression that, if any truth there be in views that
take the face as index to the mind, would seem to
shadow forth nothing but virtues minor and major.</p>
<p>At the “Red Lion” by the bridge we supped and
slept, possibly attracted to this particular hostelry
by Shenstone’s famous <span class="locked">lines—</span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">33</span></p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“Whoe’er has travelled life’s dull round,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where’er his stages may have been,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">May sigh to think he still has found<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His warmest welcome at an inn.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<div id="i_22" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 23em;">
<img src="images/i_033.jpg" width="366" height="247" alt="" />
<div class="caption">EVENING AT HENLEY.</div></div>
<p>Boating men comprised almost the whole of the
company at the Red Lion, and the talk was solely
aquatic, dealing with races—past, present, and to
come—with sculls and sliding-seats, and all the
minutiæ of water pastimes.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="VII">VII.</h2>
</div>
<p>This morning we rowed through Marsh Lock,
struggled through the mazes, snags, and shallows of
Hennerton Backwater, and lazed in the sunshine<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">34</span>
at Wargrave, that picturesque beach and village set
over against the flat green meadows of the Oxfordshire
bank. Then (for the spirit of exploration grew
strong again) we laboriously shoved, rather than
rowed, our craft through the esoteric windings of
the Loddon River and Patricksbourne, arriving some
hours later on the hither side of Shiplake Lock, with
the unexpected satisfaction of having thus saved
some pence from the clutch of the Thames Conservancy.</p>
<div id="i_23" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 23em;">
<img src="images/i_034.jpg" width="358" height="201" alt="" />
<div class="caption">Sonning Bridge.</div></div>
<p>At the Bull at Sonning we dined in a parlour gay
with geraniums, with windows shaded by vines and
creepers, with old-fashioned fire-place surmounted
by a huge stuffed fish—a typical river-side inn—and
thereafter rowed up from Sonning to Reading,
where, by the filthy Kennet side, we left our boat
for return to its owner, in the usual Thames-side
practice.</p>
<p>We came to Reading prepared for anything but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">35</span>
charm in that town of biscuits, and we were not
inclined to alter our ready-made opinion upon sight
of it. We passed through “double-quick,” leaving
the last of the town as late as 8.30. He who runs
may read, perhaps, if the type be sufficiently large;
but I don’t think he would find it possible to write:
we did not, and so this book must go forth lacking
a description of Reading.</p>
<p>The train that carried us from this town of almost
metropolitan savour jogged along in most leisurely
fashion past Mortimer Stratfield, and finally brought
up at Basingstoke, where we went to bed with what
haste we might.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="VIII">VIII.</h2>
</div>
<p>And so we came into Hampshire. A weary
county this, for those who know not where to
seek its beauties—a county of flint-bestrewn roads,
a county, too, of unconscionable distances and sad,
lonely, rolling downs. Hampshire, indeed, seems
ever attuned to memories in a minor key. It is,
possibly, but a matter of individual temperament,
but so it seems that this county of pine woods
and bleak hills—bare, save for some crowning clump
of eerie trees, whose branches continually whisper
in sobbing breezes—shall always restrain your
boisterous spirits, however bright the day, with a
sense of foreboding. How much more, then, shall
you be impressed of eventide, should you be still
abroad, to see how weirdly the sun goes down<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">36</span>
behind those hill-tops, which then grow black beside
his dying glory, while the water-meadows below
grow blurred and indistinct, as the night mists rise
in ghostly swirls. These thoughts can never find
adequate expression, charged as they are with a
latent superstition which, despite the lapse of centuries,
lingers yet, perhaps unreasonably.</p>
<p>Such are the emotions conjured up by Nature in
Hampshire. You may test their force readily at
sundown, outside Winchester, when the huge mass
of St. Catherine’s Hill looms awfully above the
water-meadows of the Itchen, etched in deepest
black upon the radiant evening sky. Gazing thus,
and presently possessed of a fine thrill of superstitious
dread, or artistic admiration—what you will—you
may turn and encounter, full to the gaze,
the twinkling lamps of the City—prosaic indeed.</p>
<div id="i_24" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 14em;">
<img src="images/i_036.jpg" width="211" height="134" alt="" />
<div class="caption">INSCRIPTION: SHERBORNE SAINT JOHN.</div></div>
<p>But we anticipate, as the artless novelist of
another generation was used to remark, with a
painful frequency. Before Winchester, Basingstoke.
This morning, we took an early walk to Sherborne
St. John, an outlying village, now suburban to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">37</span>
Basingstoke, a village, as it proved, uninteresting.
The church, as was to be expected at 8 a.m., was
locked: our only reminiscence of the place, then,
is this problematic inscription from the doorway. Returning,
we made a nearer acquaintance with that
ruined chapel—the chapel of the Holy Ghost—familiar
to all travellers by the South-Western
Railway, standing as it does beside the Station.
Here was established the lay Fraternity of the Holy
Ghost, founded at that late period when Gothic
architecture began to feel the influence of the Renaissance.
The mixed details are very interesting,
though, unfortunately, much mutilated. Gilbert
White, the historian of Selborne, says he was, when<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">38</span>
a schoolboy, “eye-witness, perhaps a party concerned”—observe
the grace of later years that made
him ashamed of the occasion, and willing to doubt
his participance—“in the undermining a vast portion
of that fine old ruin at the north end of Basingstoke
town.” The motive for this destruction (he says)
does not appear, save that boys love to destroy what
men venerate and admire; the more danger the
more honour, and the notion of doing some mischief
gave a zest to the enterprise.</p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“It looked so like a sin it pleased the more.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>The Chapel stands within the cemetery known
locally as the Liten. Within its walls are two
mutilated effigies on altar-tombs, the sole remains
of a building long preceding the present ruin, hacked
and carven with many penknives.</p>
<div id="i_25" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 25em;">
<img src="images/i_037.jpg" width="395" height="328" alt="" />
<div class="caption">Holy Ghost Chapel, Basingstoke</div></div>
<p>Modern Basingstoke—“name of hidden and subtle
meaning,” as Mr. Gilbert says in “Ruddigore”—is
prosperous, cheerful with the ruddy mellowness of
red-brick, and loyal with a lofty Jubilee belfry-tower
to its Town Hall; and that is all the spirit moves
me to set down here of the town.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="IX">IX.</h2>
</div>
<p>No more dreary road than that sixteen miles
between Basingstoke and Winchester; a road that
goes in a remorseless straight line through insignificant
scenery, passing never a village for twelve<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">39</span>
or more weary miles, a road upon which every
turning leads to Micheldever. Sign-posts one and
all conspire to lead you thither, with an unanimity
perfectly surprising. We made certain that something
entirely out of the common run was to be
found at that place of the peculiar name, and so
we were ill enough advised to visit it by turning
aside for the matter of a mile.</p>
<p>And yet, when we were arrived at the place, there
was nothing to be seen; nay, worse than that
indeed: there is a church at Micheldever whose
architectural enormities would make any sane
ecclesiologist flee the neighbourhood on the instant.
Of the scenery, I will remark only that
the village is overhung with funereal pines and
firs, a setting that depresses beyond the power of
words to express.</p>
<p>We retraced our steps toward the high road to
Winchester, with anathemas upon those sign-posts,
varied by a consideration of Hampshire as a county
prolific in what Mr. Gilbert calls, “that curious
anomaly”—the lady novelist. For, look you, at
Micheldever resides Mrs. Mona Caird, the heroine
of the “Marriage a Failure” correspondence, and
the authoress of the “Wing of Azrael”; and Sparkford,
Haslemere, and the New Forest shelter respectively,
Miss Yonge, Mrs. Humphry Ward, and
Miss Braddon; others, doubtless, there be within
these gates who help to swell the output of the
familiar three volumes, for almost every woman of
leisure and scribbling propensities writes romances
nowadays. Hampshire, indeed, seems decidedly a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">40</span>
literary county, for Tennyson and Tyndall and
Kingsley (Keble, too) have lived and worked within
its borders.</p>
<p>For the next five miles we passed, I think, but
one house, Lunways Inn, and then came upon
modified civilisation in the shape of the village of
King’s Worthy. There is quite a cluster of villages
here with the generic name of Worthy, with prefixes
by which we can generally identify the old-time
lords of the respective manors. There are beside
King’s Worthy, Abbot’s Worthy, Martyr Worthy,
and Headbourne Worthy, “Headbourne,” conjecturally
from the brook that rises by the village
churchyard. This village lies on the road to Winchester,
directly after King’s Worthy is passed, and
is about a mile and a half from the city.</p>
<p>The church is interesting for itself, but it contains
a charming little monumental brass to a Winchester
scholar that alone is worth journeying to see, both
from its unique character and by reason of its technical
excellence. It was formerly let into the flooring
of the chancel, and was in danger of being
trampled out of recognition, until the vicar caused
it to be fixed on the north wall of the church, where
it now remains.</p>
<p>The brass consists of the kneeling figure of a boy
in the act of prayer, habited in the time-honoured
Winchester College gown, of the same pattern, with
slight modifications, as that worn to-day. He wears,
suspended from his collar, a badge, probably that of
a patron saint; his hair is short, and exhibits the
small first tonsure customarily performed on scholars<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">41</span>
upon completing their first year. A scroll issuing from
his mouth is inscribed “<i xml:lang="la" lang="la">Misericordias dni inetnū
cantabo</i>”—The mercies of the Lord I will sing for
ever. The curiously contracted Latin of the inscription
beneath is, Englished, “Here lies John Kent,
sometime scholar of the New College of Winchester,
son of Simon Kent of Reading, whose soul God
pardon.”</p>
<p>It is supposed that he was removed to Headbourne
from the College by his parents, to escape an
epidemic prevalent there in the year of his death,
1434, when several other scholars died. The “College
Register” records the death of John Kent:
“<i xml:lang="la" lang="la">Johēs Kent de Redyng de eadem com. adm. XXIII.
die August obiit ulto die Augusti anno Regni Reg.
H. VI. XIII.</i>”</p>
<p>Within the space of another half-hour we had
reached the city and discovered an hostelry after
our own heart. We remained three whole days at
Winchester.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="X">X.</h2>
</div>
<p>The ancient capital of all England lies in the quiet
valley of the River Itchen, a small stream which,
some twelve miles lower down, empties into Southampton
Water. The naïve remark of the schoolboy
upon the “coincidence” of great cities always
being situated upon the banks of large rivers
did not, when Winchester was the metropolis,
have any application here, but in the light of subsequent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">42</span>
history it may show the reason of the city’s
decadence.</p>
<p>From the earliest times Winchester was a city of
importance; Briton and Roman, Saxon, Dane, and
Norman alike made it a place of strength. Under
Cerdic, first king of the West Saxons, the city
became the capital of that kingdom, and at the
dissolution of the Heptarchy, capital of united
England.</p>
<p>But it was under the rule of the early Plantagenet
kings that Winchester attained the zenith of its
prosperity as the seat of government and as a centre
of the woollen trade. Now the court has departed,
and the manufacture utterly died out; but Winchester
is a prosperous city still—gay with the rubrical gaiety
of a cathedral city—the centre of an agricultural
district, and the capital of a diocese.</p>
<p>Of feudal Winchester much has been destroyed;
but from the remains of its two great castles, and of
the city gates and walls, one may conjure up the
city of the two first Norman kings, held under stern
repressive rule, when despotic power lay in the hands
of alien king and noble. Then the New Forest
lying near was a newly created desolation; and the
country-side, now dotted with villages, a sparsely
settled tract. And even in the city itself there were
long hours when all was silent and lonely; for when
the curfew rang out, who dared to disobey its warning
note? Then the city was given up to darkness,
the watchmen at the closed and guarded gates, and
the sentinels pacing the walls; for though, mayhap,
there were no danger threatening from without,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">43</span>
it must perchance be watched for and combated from
within.</p>
<div id="i_26" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 20em;">
<img src="images/i_043.jpg" width="313" height="380" alt="" />
<div class="caption">ENTRANCE TO THE CLOSE, WINCHESTER.</div></div>
<p>The curfew bell has been sentimentally revived,
and tolling nightly from the old Guildhall, awakens
dim vistas of social history. The custom has, of
course, lost all its harsh significance, but it is one
not lost upon him who cares for tradition in an age
that makes for novelty; when vaunting soaps affront
the eye of the wayfarer in their garish advertisements,
and the voice of the touter (commercial, social, political,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">44</span>
and religious) is heard in the land crying new
lamps (of the sorriest) for old.</p>
<p>But the word “lamps” reminds me that Winchester
public lamps have long been lighted with
oil, for the Corporation and the Gas Company have
agreed to differ; so, pending wiser counsel in the
Company’s ranks, the City Fathers, good souls, put
back the clock of social history some sixty years by
re-adopting paraffin as an illuminant.</p>
<p>Thus local history wags at Winchester, with but
few excitements, and those magnified to things of
greatest import, by reason of their rarity.</p>
<p>To attempt to give here the briefest outline of
Winchester’s long and stirring story were indeed
vain; but a succinct account of its Cathedral may
be of interest, as therein lies in these days most of
the charm of the place. It is an epitome of architectural
history unsurpassed in England.</p>
<p>One might, as a stranger, wander through the city
for some while without finding the Cathedral, and
then, perhaps, be compelled to inquire the way, for
it is not possessed of soaring spire nor lofty towers,
to guide the pilgrim from afar.</p>
<p>The first impression one gets of the building is of
its great length: it is, indeed, the longest cathedral
in England. The exterior, seen from the north-west
corner of the close, is, perhaps, disappointing, with
its long, unbroken, roof-line and low central tower,
showing an almost entire absence of that picturesque
grouping which is the charm of many others. But
Winchester Cathedral has an interior equalling, if
not surpassing, all others in beauty and interest.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">45</span>
The present cathedral is not the first nor second
building of its kind erected here. Even before the
Christian era its site held buildings devoted to
worship; for the old chroniclers, the monks, to
whom we owe most of our early history, have stated
that the temple to Dagon stood on this spot.</p>
<div id="i_27" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 26em;">
<img src="images/i_045.jpg" width="402" height="404" alt="" />
<div class="caption">WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL.</div></div>
<p>Up to the time of the Norman Conquest the history
of the Cathedral is one long account of building,
destruction, and rebuilding—for those were troublous<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">46</span>
times, and religious institutions fared no better than
secular.</p>
<p>Walkelin, the first Bishop of Winchester after the
Conquest, was appointed in 1070. In the year 1079
he began to rebuild the existing Saxon cathedral
from its foundations; and in 1086, the king, for its
completion granted him as much wood from a
certain forest as his workmen could cut and carry
in the space of four days and nights. But the wily
bishop brought together an innumerable troop of
workmen who, within the prescribed time, felled
the entire wood and carried it off. For this piece
of sharp practice Walkelin had to humbly implore
pardon of the enraged William.</p>
<p>In 1093 the new building was completed, and
was dedicated to Saints Peter and Paul.</p>
<div id="i_28" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 26em;">
<img src="images/i_047.jpg" width="402" height="287" alt="" />
<div class="caption">ST. SWITHUN AND THE INDIGNANT TOURIST.</div></div>
<p>The Cathedral is now (or, at least, part of it is)
dedicated to Saint Swithun. Now, Swithun was a
holy man who died in the odour of sanctity and the
Saxon era. He was Bishop of Winchester, but lowly
minded indeed, for he desired his body to be buried
without the building, under the eaves, where the
rain might always drip upon his grave; but disregarding
the spirit of the saint’s injunctions, the
monks “howked” his corpse up again, after first
complying with the letter of them by burying him
for awhile in the cathedral yard. They proposed to
enshrine the body within the Cathedral, but the saint,
who had apparently obtained in the meantime an
appointment as a sort of celestial turncock, brought
about a continuous rainfall of forty days and nights.
After this manifestation, the monks concluded to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">47</span>
leave Swithun alone, and he lies in the close to this
day. Unfortunately, the saint seems to have ever
after made an annual commemoration of the event,
commencing with July 15th. This would be a comparatively
small matter did he confine himself to
that period alone; but unlike the gyrating turncocks
of our water companies, he is constantly on duty,
more particularly when holiday folk most do fare
abroad. Perhaps Swithun is offended at his name
being so continually spelled wrongly—Swithin:
perhaps—but, no matter. Anyhow, he is more
addicted to water than (if all tales be true) holy
friars were wont to be, either for external or inward
application. What does Ingoldsby say of one typical
friar—I quote from memory (a shocking habit):—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">48</span></p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“Still less had he time to change the hair shirt he<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Had worn the last twenty years, probably thirty,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And which by this time had grown somewhat dirty.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>But no more frivolity: let us, pray, be serious.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XI">XI.</h2>
</div>
<p>Of Walkelin’s building we have preserved to us
unaltered the transepts, tower, crypt, and exterior of
the south aisle. The plan, like that of most Norman
cathedrals, was cruciform, with an apsidal east end.
This plan remains almost the same; but the apse
has disappeared, and in its place we have the usual
termination, with the addition of a thirteenth century
Lady Chapel.</p>
<p>The tower, low and yet so massive, has a curious
history. In the year 1110, William, the Red King,
was killed in the New Forest, slain by the arrow of
Walter Tyrrell. It is a familiar tale in history, how
the body of the feared and hated king was carried to
Winchester in a cart and buried in the choir, beneath
the tower, mourned by none. Seven years later the
tower fell in utter ruin, because, according to popular
superstition, one had been buried there who had not
received the last rites of the Church. The tower
was rebuilt in its present form, and the result of the
fall may be seen in the massive piers which now
support it. The tomb of Rufus is here, covered with
a slab of Purbeck marble, without inscription.</p>
<p>The first alteration to the plan of the Norman
cathedral was made by De Lucy, commencing in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">49</span>
1202. His work may be seen in part of the Lady
Chapel and in the retrochoir. The Norman choir
was taken down by Edingdon, and replaced by
him in the transitional style from Decorated to
Perpendicular. But the greatest feat was the transformation
of the Norman nave into one of the Perpendicular
style. This was carried out by William
of Wykeham, one of the greatest architects our
country can boast. Succeeding Bishop Edingdon
in 1367, he carried on the alteration of the nave
which the late bishop had but begun.</p>
<p>What makes this work the more remarkable is
that the Norman walls were not removed; the ashlar
facing was stripped off them and replaced by masonry
designed in the prevailing style.</p>
<p>Wykeham did not live to complete this his greatest
work; but his will, still extant, gives instructions to
that end. The good bishop died in 1404, and was
buried in the chantry chapel he had had prepared in
that portion of the Cathedral corresponding to the
pierced side of the Saviour. Here a beautiful and
elaborate altar tomb stands, bearing his effigy, habited
in the bishop’s robes, with mitre and crozier. Angels
support the head, and at the feet are figures of monks
praying, while the bishop’s arms and his motto,
“Manners makyth Man,” are shown below, with the
arms of the See of Winchester.</p>
<p>The character of Wykeham shines out from the
age in which he lived with great brilliancy. The
statesman, prelate, and architect were united in him
with a far-seeing benevolence surprising in those
times. His foundations of Winchester College and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">50</span>
New College, Oxford, have served as models for all
the great public schools subsequently founded.</p>
<p>One of the most curious features of the Cathedral
is the series of mortuary chests placed above the
choir screens, and containing the bones of saints,
bishops, and royal personages mixed indiscriminately.
These chests were placed here by Bishop Fox on the
completion of the screens, and are six in number,
of wood, carved and painted in the Renaissance
style, just then appearing in this country. The
names of the persons whose bones are deposited
in them appear on the sides, and amongst
them are Canute, Egbert, Alwyn, and Edmund
Ironside.</p>
<p>With the placing of the present side screens of
the choir the architectural history of the Cathedral
is practically ended.</p>
<p>The taste of the seventeenth century is, however,
shown in the erection by Inigo Jones of an anachronism
in the shape of a classic screen to the
choir, which is now happily removed. Its fragments,
piled up in remote corners and forgotten, may be
seen by the curious who wander in the dim and
dusty passages of the tower and transepts.</p>
<p>The Cathedral contains a long and splendid series
of chantry chapels of surpassing beauty, commencing
with Edingdon’s and ending with Gardiner’s. Of
these and of the many beauties of detail to be seen,
this short sketch cannot treat; but before leaving
the building, one may notice a singularly beautiful
memorial to Bishop Ethelmar, who died in 1261, and
whose heart only is buried here, his body lying in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">51</span>
Paris. He is represented in ecclesiastical vestments,
and holds his heart in his hands.</p>
<div id="i_29" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 35em;">
<img src="images/i_050fp.jpg" width="556" height="443" alt="" />
<div class="caption">THE DEANERY, WINCHESTER.</div></div>
<p>Ethelmar, or Aymer de Lusignan, or Ethelmar
de Valence, a half-brother of Henry the Third, was
forced into the bishop’s throne against the will of
the monks. He became bishop in 1249, but was
eventually, through his rapacity, banished the kingdom,
and forced to flee for France.</p>
<p>But the history of Winchester Cathedral shows
many stirring episodes, foremost among them being
that story, dim with the lapse of ages, in which
Queen Emma, mother of Edward the Confessor, is
said to have undergone the terrible ordeal of walking
barefooted over red-hot ploughshares, and to
have emerged from it unscathed. Then there is
told also the shameful tale of how the miserable
John, terrified by the fulminations of the Pope, did
homage before the high altar to the papal legate
for his kingdom. In later ages, Queen Mary and
Philip of Spain were married here, and there is still
shown the chair in which the queen sat on that
occasion.</p>
<p>In the days of the Puritans, the Cathedral, in common
with most other ecclesiastical edifices, suffered
much, the stained and painted glass adorning the
windows being almost entirely wrecked. But reverent
hands collected the shattered fragments, and at the
Restoration placed them in the great west window,
where they are still, presenting a most perplexing
combination of haphazard odds and ends of design.</p>
<p>Of the two great castles formerly standing in the
city, but few fragments now remain. The royal<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">52</span>
castle, built by Henry III., was situated near West
Gate. It was destroyed by Cromwell in his “slighting”
process, by which so many fine specimens of
military architecture were reduced to ashes.</p>
<div id="i_30" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 23em;">
<img src="images/i_052.jpg" width="367" height="260" alt="" />
<div class="caption">BISHOP MORLEY’S PALACE.</div></div>
<p>Here, in 1603, the noble but unfortunate Raleigh
was arraigned for high treason, and, notwithstanding
his undoubted innocence, was found guilty and cast
into the Tower, where he dragged out an existence
of nearly thirteen weary years before the cupidity of
James I. set him free, on a cruise to the New World,
in search of a fabulous gold mine. The hall is the
only remaining portion of the castle. It is now used
as a court for transacting county business, and contains
the famed Round Table.</p>
<div id="i_31" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 34em;">
<img src="images/i_052fp.jpg" width="531" height="415" alt="" />
<div class="caption">HIGH STREET, WINCHESTER.</div></div>
<p>West Gate adjoins Castle Hill. It is of thirteenth
century date, with massive and frowning aspect, its<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">53</span>
machicolations overhanging the central arch, from
which molten lead and other unpleasant missiles
were launched upon besiegers.</p>
<p>The Bishop’s castle of Wolvesey is in ruins at
the other end of the city; and amid the shattered,
ivy-clad walls of that Norman stronghold, rises the
seventeenth-century palace, built by Bishop Morley,
and deserted long ago by his successors, who have
retired to Farnham Castle, there to enjoy what state
the rolling centuries have left the dignified clergy.</p>
<p>Of all days, Saturday is here the busiest. On
others, the High Street is not distracted with commerce,
but dozes continually in summer shine and
winter snows, with the mediæval West Gate at one
end of the steep roadway, and the Gothic City Cross
midway between east and west, to give something of
historic perspective even to the most unheeding eye.
The Corporation of Winchester, at the beginning of
the century, had neither taste for, nor admiration of,
Gothic art, for about that time they sold the Cross,
and it would have been duly carried off to adorn a
neighbouring park, had not the citizens (who had a
right appreciation of that relic of antiquity) interfered,
and, with some violence, dispersed the workmen, who
had commenced operations for removing it.</p>
<p>Winchester City is (excuse the clashing nomenclature)
a garrison town and a military depôt. On
the West Hill, in that prophetically barrack-like
shell of a palace, begun but never finished by
Charles II., the military have their habitation, and
the red-coats (as the generalising writer might say)
make lively the pavements of the High Street. But,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">54</span>
seeing that the King’s Royal Rifles usually form the
garrison, and that their tunics are dark green, almost
black, it would be difficult to say where that lively
feast of colour comes in. This is not to say that the
Winchester Tommy is a sombre person, apart from
his clothing. Not at all: the King’s Royal Rifles
are youthful—mere striplings most of them; little
men, not to say undersized, and full of spirit, as you
shall see on Saturday evenings, when (if ever) Winchester
is lively.</p>
<div id="i_32" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 24em;">
<img src="images/i_054.jpg" width="371" height="242" alt="" />
<div class="caption">A PEEP OVER ROOF-TOPS, WINCHESTER.</div></div>
<p>It is strange how little mark Winchester College
makes on Winchester City. It lies away from the
more frequented parts, to the southern outskirts—giving
upon the juicy water-meadows of the River
Itchen. At Eton, at Rugby, at Harrow you note
immediately the scholars; at Winchester they are
not so frequently met with beyond the walls of their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">55</span>
old foundation that this year celebrates its five
hundredth anniversary. Additions have been made
to the old buildings, but practically the plan of the
College remains the same as when it was inaugurated
in 1394, and the place is full of old customs
and curious survivals.</p>
<div id="i_33" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 24em;">
<img src="images/i_055.jpg" width="374" height="315" alt="" />
<div class="caption">SAINT CATHERINE’S HILL FROM ITCHEN MEADS.</div></div>
<p>From here we climbed to the summit of Saint
Catherine’s Hill, and viewed the city beneath. Up
here is the curious maze cut in the turf (tradition
says) by a Winchester scholar, compelled for punishment
to forego his holidays and stay instead with
<i>Alma Mater</i>. “Dulce Domum,” the well-known
Winchester College chant, is ascribed to him.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">56</span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XII">XII.</h2>
</div>
<p>We left Winchester regretfully one fine morning,
going through West Gate and the suburb of Fulflood
to the Stockbridge Road. “From the western gate
aforesaid,” to quote Thomas Hardy’s conclusion to
“Tess of the D’Urbervilles,” “as every Winton-cestrian
knows, ascends a long and regular incline
of the exact length of a measured mile, leaving the
houses gradually behind.... The prospect from this
summit was almost unlimited. In the valley beneath
lay the city, its more prominent buildings showing
as in an isometric drawing—among them the broad
Cathedral tower, with its Norman windows and immense
length of aisle and nave, the spires of Saint
Thomas’s, the pinnacled tower of the College, and,
more to the right, the tower and gables of the ancient
hospice, where to this day the pilgrim may receive
his dole of bread and ale. Behind the city swept
the rotund upland of St. Catherine’s Hill; further
off, landscape beyond landscape, till the horizon was
lost in the radiance of the sun hanging above it.
Against these far stretches of country rose, in front
of the other city edifices, a large red brick building,
with level grey roofs, and rows of short, barred
windows bespeaking captivity, the whole contrasting
greatly by its formalism with the quaint irregularities
of the Gothic erections.... From the middle of
the building an ugly flat-topped octagonal tower
ascended against the east horizon, and viewed from
this spot, on its shady side and against the light, it
seemed the one blot on the city’s beauty.”</p>
<div id="i_34" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 35em;">
<img src="images/i_056fp.jpg" width="550" height="459" alt="" />
<div class="caption">“AD PORTAS,” WINCHESTER COLLEGE.</div></div>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">57</span>
From here Angel Clare and ‘Liza-Lu beheld the
black flag announce to the city that justice had been
done upon Tess: “The two speechless gazers bent
themselves to earth, as if in prayer, and remained
thus a long time, absolutely motionless: the flag
continued to wave silently. As soon as they had
strength they arose, joined hands again, and went
on.”</p>
<p>And so, to my mind, the Stockbridge road shall
be ever haunted with these two mourners who thus
disappear into the void; and Roebuck Hill has
acquired a literary interest that transfigures an eminence
of no particular elevation, and of a certain air
of suburban propriety, into a hill of sorrow. It
commands Winchester Gaol, whose sordid dramas
are, by the reading of that moving tale, touched
with a saving tincture of romance.</p>
<div id="i_35" class="figleft" style="max-width: 9em;">
<img src="images/i_058.jpg" width="131" height="272" alt="" />
<div class="caption">BRASS, WEEKE.</div></div>
<p>Presently we came to the little village of Wyke,
now more frequently called Weeke, a scattered
collection of cottages, horse-pond, and tiny church
at the foot of another gentle hill. Not a soul was
there to be seen in Wyke. The churchyard gate
was open, and also the door of the church, a building
consisting of nave and chancel only, with shingled,
extinguisher-like spirelet, and Norman south porch.
But a mural brass, directly opposite the door, drew
our attention. On examination it proved as interesting
as that little effigy at Headbourne Worthy,
although of entirely different character. It is monumental,
in a sense, as its inscription commemorates
a benefactor of the church and his wife, but the
figure above is not, as usual, a portrait effigy, but,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">58</span>
instead, a representation of Saint Christopher, shown
in the act of carrying the infant Saviour across a
river. The figure is only a few inches high, but
carefully engraved, in 1498, a period shortly before
the decadence of this ancient art
began; it is, moreover, unique. Although
the figure of Saint Christopher,
that giant of the pretty
mediæval legend, was generally to be
found in fresco upon the walls of
ancient churches, and was the subject
of one of the earliest wood-blocks, no
other brass than this is known where
his striking figure is to be seen.</p>
<p>It is an open road, exposed and
unshaded by trees, that leads from
Wyke, up Harestock Hill, along
the Stockbridge road, and the half-mile of avenue
that shades the bye-road to Sparsholt was welcome
indeed.</p>
<p>Sparsholt is a scattered village, on the road to
nowhere in particular, and deep set in agricultural
stodginess. It has a pleasing transitional-Norman
church, with, attached to the living, the sinecure
holding of Lainston, half-a-mile distant, whose church
has been in ruins for generations. It was in those
roofless walls that the notorious Duchess of Kingston
was secretly wedded. There is nothing in the nature
of a street to be found in Sparsholt village. Houses
are few and far between in its winding lanes, and
but two shops, the chiefest of them the post office,
administer to the wants of this sleepy place. At<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">59</span>
the post office may be purchased anything from a
postage-stamp to a Hampshire ham. The village
water-supply is obtained from a well with a remarkable
contrivance for raising the buckets. A large
broad drum or wheel, some nine feet in diameter, is
set above the well with the bucket-ropes wound
round it. To raise the buckets, you step inside the
drum and commence walking up its sides, resembling
during the performance nothing so much as a caged
squirrel.</p>
<div id="i_36" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 24em;">
<img src="images/i_059.jpg" width="369" height="347" alt="" />
<div class="caption">INTERIOR, SPARSHOLT CHURCH.</div></div>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">60</span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XIII">XIII.</h2>
</div>
<p>Shining with midsummer brilliancy, the sun heated
the still air until all movement was irksome, and
energy became entirely out of the question; so there
was nothing for it but to recline in limp fashion on
a hay-rick beside the white and dusty road, lazily
noting the passers-by. Few indeed were they who
passed down the village street—a shepherd, with
barking dog and unruly flock, making in their passage
a smother of dust that loaded the hedges with
yet another white layer; and, as afternoon wore on,
a girl went with pitcher to the well. The sound of
buckets being lowered, and the splashing of water as
they were wound up, made one feel positively cool.
Then came a dull booming that now and again
startled the stillness: gun practice off Spithead,
without doubt.</p>
<p>Then the sound of Winchester chimes echoed
across the four miles of intervening country, and we
climbed down from our resting-place and walked up
through the village. We were dreadfully thirsty,
and, discovering a little inn, passed through the
doorway into its stone passage, cool and grateful
after the glare outside. The beer was, not to mince
words, beastly; but we had a conversation with the
rustics, who were sitting or standing in the sanded
parlour with striped and coloured beer-mugs in their
hands.</p>
<p>“Quiet place, this, sirs,” said one, by way of
opening a talk.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">61</span>
“Yes,” said my companion, “it seems so; is it
always like this?”</p>
<p>“Well, yes, ’tis, in a manner o’ speakin’, an’ yet
’tisn’t, if so be ye can onderstand me. Leastways, ’tis
always quiet like to toun-folk like yourselves; but we
has our randys now an’ than, hain’t we, neighbours?”</p>
<p>“Ay, that we has.”</p>
<p>“D’ye mind Jubilee time?” A general laugh followed
this inquiry, but to us strangers the allusion
was cryptic, and provoked no smile.</p>
<p>But there was one dissentient; he was not a native
of these parts. “Randys,” quoth he, “ne’er a one of
’ee has seen such rollickings as we uns used to have
up to Amport.” Here one of the company stage-whispered
to us, hand to mouth, that “Will’m
Benjafield was a old, understanding man, as comed
from Andover way.”</p>
<p>“Ay,” said our ancient, “I mind well enow the
time when the gr’t house to Amport were open house,
as ye may say. ’Twas in the old Markis o’ Winchester’s
young days. They’m a old ancient fam’ly,
the Paulets: ye can see their three golden daggerds
on the carving o’ Winchester Guildhall clock to this
day. But ’tis many a long day sence the feastin’s
and drinkin’s to Amport House. ’Tis small beer
now, ’stead o’ good yale, an’ that <em>do</em> make a man’s
stummick to wamble tarrible, sure-ly. I’d ’low the
zilliest gawk-hammer in them there days drunk
better liquor nor the best o’ you uns in these here,
an’ the raggedest jack-o’-lent had a crust an’ cheese
for the asking o’ it, an’ suthin better nor a tankard
o’ swipes to swill his gullet wi’. ’Twas a bit an’<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">62</span>
drap anywhen ye were plazed to ax fort. What
dosta say, stunpoll?”</p>
<p>“Why, granfer,” said the young man thus unceremoniously
addressed, “I was jest a-hoping you made
as good usings o’ yer opportunities as we uns would
an we had the chance.”</p>
<p>This was a good enough hint for us. We called
for ale for the whole company.</p>
<p>“I’ll tell ’ee,” said “granfer,” laying one hand on
my sleeve, while the other carefully described circles
with his brimming beer-mug, “I’ll tell ’ee suthin
o’ those times when the gran’ company was to the
old Markis’s, an’ the huntin’ o’ the fox went arn,
with the harses jumpin’ an the harns a-blown’; by
gollikins, ’twas times, I tell ’ee. But they was over
full rathe; they went the pace too quickly for their
pockuts, d’ye see; the folks all went away, the harses
sold, till there were scarcely a pair left to whinnick
in the big stables. But the Markis, a proud one he
wur, wi’ the devil’s own temper, an’ he went a-huntin’
as if he warn’t head an’ heels in debt; an’ they <em>did</em>
say the harse he rode warn’t rightly his’n, if all folk’s
had their money paid ’em.</p>
<p>“Howsomdever, ’twas one marning he went to the
meet at Quarley, an’ ’twas vine sport they had that
day, as I see’d myself from the knap. An’ ’twas all
the talk o’ the county how the Markis quarrelled wi’
the new Squire, as didn’t rightly know how to ride
to hounds. Ye see, ’a was a man who’d been in
business all ’a’s life, an’ had bought the Markis’s
land, as ’a was obliged to sell it, piece by piece, an
so the Markis hated him.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">63</span>
“‘What the hell are you up to, sir?’ hollared the
Markis, as the new Squire put his harse to a gate
right in front of him, just as ’a was a-goin’ to take it.
‘D’ye know who I am, damme?’</p>
<p>“‘Yes,’ ses the Squire, ‘I do; an’ I’d rather be a
rich squire than a poor markis any day.’</p>
<p>“’Twas a hard thing to say to sech a gr’t nobleman,
an’ a’ turned away an rode home.</p>
<p>“The nex’ day was Sunday, an’ the Markis comes
to church late, lookin’ like thunder. We could hear
’im pokin’ the fire in ’a’s pew right through the
zinging an’ the gruntin’ o’ the bass-viol an’ the
squeakin’ o’ the viddles, an I ses to John Butcher
as played the flute, ‘’Tis a tarrible rage ’a’s in this
marnin’, sure enow.’ An’ what text should the
pa’son gi’ out then, but ‘Let not the sun go down
upon thy wrath.’ ‘Sure-ly,’ I whispers, ‘pa’son don’t
knaw nothin’ o’ yesterday’s doin’s; a’ wouldn’t be
sech a ninny as to offend the Markis in that way.’
‘Hush,’ ses John, ‘there’s the Markis a-lookin’.’
’Twas a way ’a had; ’a liked to zee ivery one at
church. ’A was leanin’ on the door o’ the pew an’
lookin’ round, when, sudden-like, the hinges o’ it
guv way, an’ that noble Marquis fell down wi’ it,
just the same as any common feller, like you an’ me.</p>
<p>“‘Blast the door,’ ’a says, wi’ a face as red as a
turkey-cock, an’ the pa’son, he says, breakin’ off in
his sermond, ‘we will sing to the praise an’ glory
of God, the one ’undred an’ twenty-first ’ym.’ We
o’ the choir niver knew how we got through that
music, some for laffing an’ some for fright at what
had happened to such a gr’t lord. The serpent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">64</span>
couldn’ blaw, nor the flutes neither, an’ the virst
viddle put so much elbow-grease into ’as playin’
that ’a bruk all the strings at onct.” “Ah!” said
granfr’, shaking his head and drinking his mug dry,
“they <em>wuz</em> times.”</p>
<p>“Well, good day to you, friends,” we said, leaving
the inn, and our beer (for, as I have said, the local
brew was not of the best); “we must be going.”</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XIV">XIV.</h2>
</div>
<p>The rustics watched our departure with interest,
until a turning of the lane hid us from their view, and
brought us again into the open country, a country-side
scattered with small and inhospitable hamlets
and villages, where Roman roads ran straight up
and down hill, deserted and grass-grown, where
apparently the tourist was an unknown quantity,
where certainly his wants remain unsatisfied.</p>
<p>This night we “camped-out” as a matter of necessity.
It was a fine night, and warm, and so there
was not so much hardship in it, after all. Our
resting-place was a haystack that loomed up black
in front of us as we turned a bend of these lonely
roads. We climbed over a field gate and selected a
corner of the partly used stack, and fell to talking.</p>
<p>Presently, however, there came the near baying
of a big dog, whereupon we rubbed our shins meditatively
and climbed to a safer altitude. This was
philosophic: we had hardly settled in this coign of
vantage when we heard the dog snuffling below, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">65</span>
so to cool his questing we reached down some stones
from the thatch and sent them into the darkness.
We could hear him growling over them in a particularly
horrid manner, and congratulated ourselves
on our happy perch. But a lucky shot hit him,
so he went yelping away, and afterwards all was
peace.</p>
<p>It was at a very early hour the next morning we
awoke, damp with early dews, uncomfortable, and
dishevelled; covered in wildest confusion with fragments
of hay, and altogether two most miserable-looking
objects. The tramp who sleeps in summertime
in haystacks and under hedges with never a
change of clothes may possibly not feel any inconvenience
for lack of the commonest toilet observances,
but the first experience is to the tramp <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">en amateur</i>
decidedly unpleasant, so far have we distanced our
woad-stained ancestors of a remote Britain when
Pears’ soap was undreamed of.</p>
<p>When by good fortune we came to one of the
many streams that water this lonesome land we
made our toilet, and presently, girded anew with
self-respect, set forward in the direction of Romsey
and breakfast.</p>
<p>It was still early when we regained the highway,
and indeed throughout that day we never once arrived
at familiar terms with time. Eight o’clock came,
and wore the look of high noon; noonday seemed to
herald the hour for tea; by five o’clock we awaited
sundown; and at length, when night arrived, the
backward vista to this early rising was achieved only
by a mental effort, so lengthy was our day.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">66</span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XV">XV.</h2>
</div>
<p>We breakfasted at a roadside inn, full early, not
without inquiring glances from the landlady, for
surely never before had she entertained such guests,
so near the echo of cock-crow, and yet already dusty
with travel.</p>
<p>And so into Romsey, in company with a profane
tinker, who ambled, clattering, beside us, scattering
anathemas broadcast. Trade was bad, said he, and
he hadn’t the price of a pint in his pockets. Perhaps
we had? Assuredly; but there it remained.
Whereupon ensued references to “torffs,” coloured
with the British adjective.</p>
<p>I have never happened upon Romsey in winter
time, nor indeed on any other occasion save this, in
a season of heat and drought, so say nothing as to
its local name of Romsey-in-the-Mud. Its summer
aspect is dry and somnolent; its streets apparently
all too roomy for its present estate: but then we have
not seen Romsey on market-day, which probably
gives a different complexion to these streets, so ample
and so unconventionally named. One enters Romsey
from Winchester along The Hundred, and traverses
the town through the Market Square and Horsefair,
and leaves it for the New Forest by Mainstone.</p>
<div id="i_37" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 37em;">
<img src="images/i_066fp.jpg" width="581" height="405" alt="" />
<div class="caption">ROMSEY ABBEY.</div></div>
<p>But to the tourist the most interesting thing in
Romsey is the Abbey church, wonderfully dilapidated
and picturesque, picturesque with what we generally
(and rightly) think the exaggerated picturesqueness
of Prout’s architectural pictures. Prout himself could<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">67</span>
scarce have rendered Romsey Abbey more flamboyantly
time-worn than it is. Wild flowers, and
even large bushes, grow on its walls, and have forced
apart their Norman masonry. Surely nowhere else
is so lovely an example of ecclesiastical decay as here,
where the shrubs and flowers, the ivy and gorgeous
lichens, have draped and mantled these grey walls
with a living glory. But perhaps ere these lines
shall appear in print, those beauties will have been
torn away. The restorer was at Romsey when we
visited the Abbey; his scaffoldings were rising
against the walls, and workmen were moving about
the chevroned windows and portentous corbels that
have grinned unchanging upon a changing world for
nigh upon eight hundred years. Cats’-heads and
double-headed chimeras peculiar to the Norman
mind gape and leer from under cornices, and make
the restorer’s masons, by comparison with their dim
antiquity, seem as evanescent as the gadflies of
a summer’s day. The hoariest tombstones in the
churchyard below them are things of yesterday
beside these contorted monsters. And now they
will be scraped and trimmed and renewed, and the
masonry reset, and all the weatherings of time improved
away. Architects and contractors must live,
even though to earn a livelihood they disastrously
renew delightful work that has been mellowing
for centuries. Everywhere the old work has been
scraped, and glass-papered, and tinkered, and endued
with a modern smugness, until, as you stand before
it, you sigh for the richness of colour that was a
delight and a warranty of antiquity.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">68</span>
Romsey Abbey is almost entirely Norman—thick-limbed
and sturdy, with a virile simplicity in its
ornaments of pier and arch. Cruciform, its lantern
at the crossing shows even the uninstructed traveller
from a distance that here is something more than a
parish church of usual type. From the bridge that
crosses the Test by the flour mills, one sees the
great bulk of the Abbey rising above the greenery
of Romsey outskirts, and above all, the lantern, like
a fairy crown, completes the picture.</p>
<p>There is a bronze statue of Palmerston standing
in the Market Square of Romsey, unrecognisable to
all who have been brought up on the conventional
likenesses of “old Pam” that used to figure in
<i>Punch</i>. We don’t expect the sculptor to give us
the Palmerston of the rakishly cocked hat, with a
straw in his mouth, but I fear it was with something
very like disappointment that we regarded this very
unsportsman-like effigy that stands, hatless, strawless,
in a mild unjaunty attitude, with outstretched
hand, in pose of eternal declamation.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XVI">XVI.</h2>
</div>
<p>We left Romsey by the grateful shade of Broadlands,
and entered the New Forest at the hamlet of
Ower. Here close battalions of firs lined the way
on either side, and continued with us past Coppithorne
church, until we reached Cadnam—Cadnam,
a ravelled-out settlement emerging insensibly from
the Forest and merging again into its groves by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">69</span>
equally easy and insensible stages. We plunged
into thick glades where a deep hush prevailed in a
secondary lighting, varied occasionally by a first-hand
patch of sunlight, yellow upon the delicate
grass as gold of Australian mintage. This was one
of the oldest glades in the Forest, where giant boles
proclaimed an age of centuries. Comparatively few
of these oldsters remain, so constant and extensively
has the woodman’s axe been swung. Perhaps these,
too, are doomed. Let us hope they will last our
time, but assuredly they will be accorded no more
extended grace. When the land-agitators have had
their way, when the Socialist shall have come in
power, there will be a short way with forests, I promise
you, as of everything else that cannot make
out a <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">prima facie</i> case of immediate usefulness.
The economic times that are coming when these
little islands shall be so crowded that the lordly
parks and gardens, the mazy forests, and heathy
lands, will be cut up into allotments, or used for
sites of Socialist barracks, will be more destructive
than the days that witnessed Rome’s long agony,
the irruption of the Goths, or the fanatic fury of our
Puritan days. Art and letters, and all the graces
of life will be swallowed up between the struggle
for existence and the gloomy social tenets of the new
Roundheads in our children’s children’s days. Who
that early Victorian poet was I cannot now recall,
that rejoiced in being born in our era, nor can I
swear to the accuracy of the quotation, but his pæan
ran thus, did it not?</p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“The joys of ancient times let others state:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I think it lucky I was born so late.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">70</span>
Lucky enough, he is dead now. But were he
alive, ’tis conceivable that, having an eye to signs
and portents, he would say with me, “<em>I</em> think it
lucky I was born so soon.”</p>
<p>Meanwhile, the objects most commonly met with
in the New Forest are timber-wagons and New
Forest ponies. The Forest, has a character of its
own, with subsidiary traits and divagations that
defy monotony. Ancient woods give place to modern
plantations; beech succeeds to oak, and gloomy firs
to either. Clearings and plantations, heaths and
hamlets, and murmuring alleys of foliage, alternate
for mile after mile, and moss-carpeted drives everywhere
radiate from the orthodox highways.</p>
<p>This journey was not an exploration of the New
Forest; these woodlands were but incidents in our
itinerary; thus it was that we did not penetrate to
Stony Cross and Rufus Stone, but kept straight
ahead for Lyndhurst.</p>
<p>And Lyndhurst is as pretty a village as one could
wish to see. It is the metropolis of the New Forest,
if that portentous word is not too big to apply to this
little gem of a place. Here come all them that
would make a thorough exploration of the leafy
alleys and dim recesses of these woodlands, and as
it chances that the democratic taste inclines rather
to the fearful joys of Ramsgate or Margate than to
forest scenery, Lyndhurst wears an air aristocratic
and exclusive, and its visitors are eminently “nice.”
True, we saw a brakeful of bean-feasters pledging
one another (the ladies as deep-drinking as the
men) in pewter tankards outside the Crown Hotel,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">72</span>
but if one swallow doesn’t make a summer, surely
it must be allowed that one bean-feast does not
convert Lyndhurst into a semblance of Rye House
and Broxbourne.</p>
<div id="i_38" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 30em;">
<img src="images/i_071.jpg" width="478" height="432" alt="" />
<div class="caption">LYNDHURST.</div></div>
<p>Lyndhurst, then, exists for the moneyed visitor,
and is a model of neatness and propriety. Round
about it, seventeenth- and eighteenth-century mansions
nestle amid thick bowers. In the centre of
the village rises the tall, obtuse-pointed spire of the
modern red-brick church, set conspicuously on its
high mound, and below, to emphasise the eternal
propinquity of Beer and Bible, stands the Crown
Hotel and Tap. But the most picturesque grouping
of these different estates is where the church spire
rises high above the roof of the “Fox and Hounds,”
as I have here endeavoured to show.</p>
<p>Three and a half miles down the road is Brockenhurst,
a pretty place—I know it well—but this afternoon
broken out into a rash of flags and flaunting
bannerets in primary colours, and swarming with
excursionists, who celebrated some occasion connected
with a Widow and Orphan Society. These
we soon left behind, crossing the railway, and so
into the country again.</p>
<p>The London and South-Western Railway spells
the place Brokenhurst, reckless of the philology
of the name. “Brock” is Anglo-Saxon for badger,
and in the same way “hurst” stands for “wood”;
thus with the plural “brocken,” Badgers’ Wood stands
revealed. But philology and the bygone natural
history of places are nothing to railway companies.</p>
<div id="i_39" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 33em;">
<img src="images/i_073.jpg" width="513" height="342" alt="" />
<div class="caption">A FORD IN THE NEW FOREST.</div></div>
<p>In the hot glare of noonday we came through a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">74</span>
heathy land to a sandy ford where a stream, the
Avon Water, rippled across the road, and a crazy footbridge
spanned the current. Brilliant lepidoptera
floated lazily in the air, blundering humble bees
boomed in many cadences, and the Avon sang a
happy song among the grasses and the slight timbers
of the bridge; I wish I knew the secret of its joy.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XVII">XVII.</h2>
</div>
<p>Here we rested awhile, where all was still. Only
the booming of the bees disturbed the ear, and one
solitary wayfarer passed in the space of two hours.
This was one who toured, even as ourselves, afoot,
but one who dressed up to the part, with gaiters
and Norfolk jacket and great Balbriggan stockings.
He was walking as if for a wager; and while we
sniffed at this toil of pleasure, he eyed us as he
flashed past with some amusement, as who should
smile at exhausted rivals.</p>
<div id="i_40" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 17em;">
<img src="images/i_075.jpg" width="267" height="329" alt="" />
<div class="caption">“FLASHED PAST.”</div></div>
<p>Presently we set out again and came through Wootton
to Christchurch, that fine old town lying between
the rivers Stour and Avon, with a great priory church,
that gives the place its accepted name, superseding
the old-time designation of Twyneham. Here is a
Norman house, and close by is the site of the castle,
now converted into a public pleasure-ground, where a
notice-board warns visitors that the penalty for using
bad language is not less than forty shillings.</p>
<p>There is an old altar-tomb in the churchyard that
has long been a mystery, and in all probability will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">75</span>
ever remain one. No one knows what its strange
inscription means, although its strangeness invites
research, nor who the “ten” were who are buried
here, nor who were the “men of strife” that twice
buried them: a most enthralling mystery; who will
rede the riddle of this cryptic <span class="locked">inscription:—</span></p>
<div class="poem-container sans">
<div class="poem smaller"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">WE WERE NOT SLAYNE BVT RAYSD,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">RAYSD NOT TO LIFE<br /></span>
<span class="i2">BUT TO BE BVRIED TWICE<br /></span>
<span class="i2">BY MEN OF STRIFE<br /></span>
<span class="i2">WHAT REST COVLD <sup>TH</sup> LIVING HAVE<br /></span>
<span class="i2">WHEN DEAD HAD NONE<br /></span>
<span class="i2">AGREE AMONGST YOV<br /></span>
<span class="i2">HEERE WE TEN ARE ONE<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza b0">
<span class="i0">HEN: ROGERS DIED APRILL 17, 1641<br /></span></div>
<div class="p0 center larger">I · R ·</div>
</div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">76</span>
Here is another tombstone: one, this time, that
arouses, not curiosity, but an unseemly mirth, by
reason of its curious illiteracy. It dates from 1720.</p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“Here Lieth in hope<br /></span>
<span class="i0">of A Joyful Resurrecti<br /></span>
<span class="i0">on the Body of LUCY y<sup>e</sup><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Daughter of Richard and<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Lucy baset Who departed<br /></span>
<span class="i0">this Life February y<sup>e</sup> 16<sup>th</sup> day<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Heark, heark I hears A voi<sup>ce</sup><br /></span>
<span class="i0">The Lord made sweet bab<br /></span>
<span class="i0">es for his one choyce and<br /></span>
<span class="i0">when his will and pleasur<sup>E</sup><br /></span>
<span class="i0">is there Bodys he turns to<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dust there Souls to Rain<br /></span>
<span class="i0">with Christ one High.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>By way of Southborough-on-Sea, that struggling
maze of stuccoed, melancholy houses, we left Christchurch,
and came upon the parched and desolate
undulations of that sandy waste, Pokesdown, like
nothing so much as a bankrupt outpost of civilisation
in the back blocks of Australia.</p>
<p>We had asked a fat and florid countryman, who
surely was out of place here, how far it was to
Bournemouth.</p>
<p>“We calls it a matter of fower mile,” he said.
Those reputed four miles proved to be nearer six
than four; better measure than the “reputed” pints
or quarts of commerce.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XVIII">XVIII.</h2>
</div>
<p>It was late in the hot afternoon, when we came
into Bournemouth, through what seemed to us miles<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">77</span>
of suburban roads and endless rows of stucco villas.
This is what Mr. Stevenson calls “the uncharted
wilderness of Bournemouth,” and, indeed, we found
the phrase happy and the place not at all to our
liking. From what we saw of the famed pine-woods
we were not impressed with them; gaunt battalions
of tall trees, bare as scaffold-poles and as straight,
with never a branch nor sign of foliage within a
matter of forty feet from the ground, and that
ground covered with a frowzy matting of husky,
colourless fir-spines—a Bournemouth pine-wood is a
depressing place.</p>
<p>If Bournemouth had been invented when the era of
the Interesting Invalid was yet with us, I can conceive
how grand a site it would have been for the novelist’s
plots (plots, that is to say, in a technical sense, for
under no circumstances could one imagine robustious
plottings and deeds of derring-do at Bournemouth).
Building-plots are Bournemouth’s nearest approach
to the romantic. Languorous romances of the
fading-away-in-the-twilight order would have been
written with an anæmic heroine effectively displayed
against a striking background of whispering fir-trees,
and—but you all know that sort of thing!</p>
<p>But this was not to be. Long before Bournemouth
had sprung into importance, the Interesting Invalid
had grown unfashionable, and there reigned in her
stead the robust young woman of fine Du Maurieresque
physique, and energetic, not to say athletic
and slangy habits. Bournemouth, truly, is thronged
with invalids, but not chiefly with the interesting
variety: that sort went out with the crinoline. Here<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">78</span>
the Bath Chair is the most familiar object of the
sea-shore, and the mild and offensively inoffensive
chair-man has attained in his numbers the dignity
of a class.</p>
<p>But not only invalids hie them to the neighbourhood
of these frowzy firs, these yellow sands.
Bournemouth, one is tempted to say, is the watering-place
<i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">par excellence</i> of the curate. There is a
certain respectable air of five-o’clock tea and a
savour of muffins about the place, that traditionally
accompany the unbeneficed. Bournemouth abominates
the tripper whose pockets ring with plebeian
silver, whose trips are calculated in hours, and so
with the recurrence of statutory holidays, Bournemouth
shivers at the sounds of vulgar revelry heard
by the sounding sea. Truth to tell, however, the
jolly Bank-holiday crew are never too prominent
here: lordly expresses are the salient feature of the
railway service and hotels of an appalling magnificence
affright the shallow pursed. Otherwhere,
sandy foreshores are filled, thronged, with trippers,
cheap and checked with checks of Tweed gone mad;
with photographic ninepenny-touchers, gay again in
that the automatic cloud has passed away from their
horizon; with longshoremen, gruff of voice and broad
in the beam, redolent of spirits, who confide to your
unwilling ear the secret of the day being “fine for
a sail, sir;” with hateful brats intent on constructing
masked pitfalls for the stout and elderly of
either gender; with children’s missionising preachers
with their excruciating harmoniums; raucous-voiced
burnt-corkists, tract-distributors and hurdy-gurds.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">79</span>
Here, to the contrary, are few of these pests. Certainly
there be occasionally, as at prim and proper
Hastings, the children’s services, that give an air of
cheap and superficial piety to the scene; and liliputian
pails and spades are continually at work
on the sands; but moneyed holiday-makers, either
leisured or (in two senses) pursy business men of
the Saturday to Monday variety are among the
chief of Bournemouth’s clientèle. I met Wellesley
Welles the other day in, let me see where was it?
Oh, yes, Capel Court. He was going to flee for
a space the gilded baseness of the Stock Exchange
for a three weeks’ trip to Homburg, and to that
end had accumulated a prodigious heap of red-covered
encyclopædias of travel, and spouted guide-bookese
until the brain whirled again with the
sound and volume of it. Yet Bournemouth claimed
him as its own for many week-ends. Indeed, Saturday
to Monday Bournemouth is peculiarly knowing
in contangos and options, and has a keen eye on the
money article in its morning paper.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XIX">XIX.</h2>
</div>
<p>We stayed a day at Bournemouth, to catch anew
the flavour of the place. On the morning after our
arrival we came down early to breakfast.</p>
<p>There was an American in the coffee-room. He
was staying at the hotel, it seemed, with his wife
and daughter. He did not, strange to say, wear<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">80</span>
striped trousers strapped over his boots, nor a star-spangled
waistcoat, as in the comic papers, nor the
supposedly-characteristic Yankee goatee. No, he
had none of these things; he resembled that American
of the caricatures no more than the Englishman
resembles the John Bull of the leathern breeches
and the top-boots, and the low-crowned beaver hat.
He didn’t even chew nor spit on the walls (we must
revise those caricatures). The only American traits
about him were his sallow complexion, his restlessness,
and his high cheek-bones. That is to say,
when he was silent. When he spoke there was no
excuse for mistaking his nationality.</p>
<p>He eyed us for some time with an ill-suppressed
curiosity, which at length grew too acute for silence.</p>
<p>“Gentlemen,” said he, “I see your names in the
visitors’ book of this hotel. You come from London?”</p>
<p>I said we did.</p>
<p>“Say, you’re not travelling on business, I guess?”</p>
<p>The Wreck replied that we were touring for pleasure,
and that we walked. This was an indiscreet
admission, I could see at once, for this free-born
citizen of those States evidently, by his manner, did
not quite appreciate walking for walking’s sake. It
was evidently, to his view, the mark of the “mean
white.” But his only comment was, “Wall, I’ll
swear.”</p>
<p>For all this fall in his esteem, though, his curiosity
was still rampant, and he was as eager to obtain
personal details as though he had been an interviewer
(which indeed he was not, for he informed
us that he had made “his dollars” in some grain-elevating<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">81</span>
business or another in “Chicawgo,” and
had come over to see this country).</p>
<p>“Well,” I said, in answer to his inquiries, “my
friend here is nothing in particular, and I’m a
journalist.”</p>
<p>“You don’t say!” he exclaimed. “What paper?”</p>
<p>“The —— and ——,” I replied; “but, indeed,
any print that will use my stuff and pay at decent
rates.”</p>
<p>“Wall, now! You’re like the flies, bumming
around the sweetest lump of molasses, eh?”</p>
<p>I admitted that the case was somewhat similar,
although I didn’t like the analogy.</p>
<p>“Ah!” exclaimed our American (whose name, by
the way, was Hiram D. Cheasey, or something else
equally humorous), “you ain’t got no paper over here
to compare with the best New York papers: one of
’em ’specially.”</p>
<p>“Which one may that be?” I inquired of the
stranger, who by now was beginning to exhibit
symptoms of spread-eagleism.</p>
<p>“Sir,” he replied, “it is the organ through which
America speaks to the hull civilized world.”</p>
<p>I suspect I must have been tempted of the devil,
for I inquired, with apparent <span class="locked">innocency—</span></p>
<p>“You mean the nasal organ, I presume?”</p>
<p>It was an unfortunate inquiry, for on account
of it I never learned the name of the New York
print which had so world-wide a voice: I wonder
what is the title of that sheet, and what is its
scale of remuneration?</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">82</span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XX">XX.</h2>
</div>
<p>It was evening ere we had taken our fill of Bournemouth’s
joys and departed from those crowded sands
to walk by the sea-shore to North Haven, where the
entrance to Poole Harbour bars further progress.
Bournemouth’s lights began to glitter in the gloaming,
and made this lonely edge of land more cheerless
by comparison.</p>
<p>An extortionate boatman (as we subsequently
learned) rowed us in the darkness across the ferry
to South Haven, and left us, pilgrims in a strange
land, upon the sands of the Dorset shore. We
groped an unconscionable time amid sand-wreaths
and hummocks, coming at length, by favour of
Providence, to a low cliff covered with brambles,
which we climbed, and then found ourselves by
sense of touch in a narrow drong, dark as Erebus, by
reason (it should seem) of tall elms whose branches
met overhead. This we traversed with outstretched
arms and came to Studland church, whose tower
was dimly visible where the lane broadened, and the
trees drew back their sullen plumes. To church
succeeded village, thus to dignify the few houses
we discovered, Only one illuminated pane bore
testimony to the neighbourhood of human beings:
the one inn of the place was close-shuttered, lifeless.
We thumped upon the door of that unchristian sot-house,
and nothing answered our summons, only the
sough of the wind in the trees. We knocked and
kicked upon that door with such right good will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">83</span>
that the churl between the sheets in an upstairs
chamber (who must have heard our earliest tapping)
was beset by fears for his door panels, and rising,
unlatched the lattice overhead, and querulously
inquired what we would of him.</p>
<p>“Why, a bed,” we shouted, in chorus.</p>
<p>“Ye’ll get no bed here to-night,” said that licensed
victualler; “the missus ain’t at hand, an’ I don’t
know nothen about it. Good night t’ye.”</p>
<p>He slammed the casement, and we were left alone.
We were consulting our map by the light of matches
when a kindly villager took compassion upon us,
and suggested that we should set out for Swanage.
He guided us to the top of a soaring hill called
Ballard Down, and showed us Swanage lights glistening
far below.</p>
<p>Here, at the Ship Hotel, we found our rest at
12.30, upon an impromptu bed, contrived upon the
coffee-room floor, and slept the sleep that only
strenuous tourists can know.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XXI">XXI.</h2>
</div>
<p>Here we were fairly come into the Isle of Purbeck,
which indeed is no isle at all, save by a stretch of
fact and imagination. Bounded on the north by
Poole Harbour and the river Frome, on the east
and south by the sea, the little brook of Luckford
Lake runs to meet the Frome only along a portion
of Purbeck’s western side, the remainder of that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">84</span>
frontier being along a succession of especially tall
hills which run down to Worbarrow Bay.</p>
<p>Swanage, it may be supposed, is the capital of
Purbeck to-day, although of old Corfe was used to
be so considered.</p>
<p>It has ever been the outlet for the stone quarried
in the island, and of the famous Purbeck marble—that
grey, fossil-spangled mineral, familiar to archæologists
throughout England as a favourite material
centuries ago for the construction of altar-tombs and
fonts. It was shipped here continuously until the
new railway was brought down from Wareham; now
it goes hence mostly by rail.</p>
<p>Swanage strikes the casual visitor as being some
sort of an appanage to that firm of contractors,
Mowlem & Burt, for everywhere is the name of
Mowlem in Swanage. Indeed, John Mowlem, the
senior member of the firm, was born here. He
traced his ancestry back to a De Moulham to whom
the Conqueror gave a manor of that name in Purbeck,
and to strengthen his associations with the
town, he repurchased lands here that had once been
in that family. He died in 1869. It was he and Mr.
Burt who brought about the importation to Swanage
of the pinnacled Clock-tower that stands in the
gardens of The Grove, overlooking the sea. It had
once occupied a position on Old London Bridge,
and commemorated the victories of Wellington.
When the bridge was rebuilt, the Clock-tower was
found to be in the way, and no one knew what
to do with it. Eventually it was presented to
Mr. Docwra, of The Grove, who sent it down from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">85</span>
London in pieces, and rebuilt it here. Thus are
the Wellington monuments moved on from place to
place by some strange fate. The hideous statue that,
at Hyde Park Corner, avenged France for Waterloo,
has been relegated to the Fox Hills, at Aldershot;
and the monument in Saint Paul’s Cathedral, never
yet finished, has been removed from its chapel to a
newer site in the nave: the equestrian statue, too,
that stands in front of the Royal Exchange, although
still <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">in situ</i>, has had a nameless abomination contrived
around and below it.</p>
<p>Swanage, like all seaside places, has grown, and is
growing yet, but not with the frenzied growth of
more accessible places. It has sands, is seated in a
charming bay, and is frequented chiefly by recurrent
visitors, who, happening here on some day-excursion
from Bournemouth, have been stricken with a love
of its still unconventional air, after a surfeit of that
starchy town that sprawls unwieldy upon the Hampshire
coast. These be decent folk, uxorious perhaps,
and with large families, but unostentatious and loving
quiet, and they come to Swanage time and again.
You can see them any forenoon on the sands, Ma
and Pa and the children, the nursemaid, and the
Maiden Aunt. There always is a Maiden Aunt,
by some kindly disposition of Providence; and
I hope, for the sake of families in general, there
always will be, for, truly, no more beneficent institution
exists.</p>
<p>For these people, Swanage is admirable. If it were
extensively built upon, they would go elsewhere, and
quite right too. But, although the local landowners<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">86</span>
are eager to spoil the place for the sake of ground-rents,
their huge notice-boards facing the sea, offering
sites for houses, seem useless enough, and I hope they
will remain so, and there’s an end of it.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XXII">XXII.</h2>
</div>
<p>It is, I suppose, some five miles from Swanage to
Corfe: in summer, a hot, dusty, glaring walk, and
featureless, too, until Corfe itself is neared. And
Corfe, on a hot summer’s day, is a particularly
parched, desiccated, thirsty place; shadeless, receiving
and radiating heat from its stony expanse until
distant objects, commonly still and stolid enough,
dance erratically in the quivering air. It shocks the
normally-constituted eye to see ranges of hills, distant
churches, and big houses wagging frantically,
while yet no symptoms of earthquake have been
manifested; yet these signs and portents are common
enough at Corfe, when the dog days rage unmitigated.
A quiet village though, and pleasing enough
when once the traveller has quenched his thirst.
The streets converge toward a small market-place,
and directly in front, high above the church and the
houses, tower the sturdy ruins of Corfe Castle.</p>
<div id="i_41" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 34em;">
<img src="images/i_086fp.jpg" width="534" height="383" alt="" />
<div class="caption">CORFE CASTLE.</div></div>
<p>To all them that see, or would have, significance
in the look of a place or building, Corfe Castle should
wear an aspect dour and forbidding indeed, for this
is a fortress of a history so particularly bloodstained
that few places can vie with it in its bad eminence.
But though the shattered ruins of its immense keep<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">87</span>
still lift up eyeless windows to the sky, they do not
seem to frown, as by all associations they should
surely do, if we are to believe the picturesque convention
of the guide-book writers. No, they compose
excellently and impressively, but I can’t say they
lower or frown or do anything significant of their
career.</p>
<p>The history of Corfe goes back so far as <span class="smcap smaller">A.D.</span> 978,
when the curtain rises upon the tragedy of Edward
the King and Martyr, stabbed to death while receiving,
on horseback, a stirrup-cup at the hands of
his step-mother, Elfrida, who thus sought to clear
the way of her own son to the throne of the West
Saxons.</p>
<p>The present castle dates from some period between
the Norman conquest and the reign of Stephen, when
it was the scene of an ineffectual siege laid by him.
Then it became a favourite residence with John, who
within these strong walls kept his regalia and many
unhappy prisoners, many of them starved to death
in the dungeons. Here, too, was imprisoned until
the succeeding reign Elinor, the sister of Prince
Arthur. Removed afterwards to Bristol, she died
there after forty years’ captivity. Edward II. was
confined here until his removal to Berkeley Castle.</p>
<p>The last events in the history of Corfe Castle were
two sieges in 1643 and 1646. The latter was successful,
and, by order of the Parliament, the buildings
were afterwards “slighted,” <i>i.e.</i>, blown up by gunpowder.
But so sturdy and so immensely thick were
these walls, that although ruined indeed, they still
stand, with gateways thrown out of the perpendicular,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">88</span>
yet intact. The views from the keep embrace the
low-lying heaths that stretch out toward Wareham,
and the sullen salt waters of that inland lake, Poole
Harbour.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XXIII">XXIII.</h2>
</div>
<p>The Purbeck Hills make breathless walking on a
hot day, and so it chanced that when we reached the
hamlet of East Lulworth we were hot and footsore
and scant of breath. Shall I confess that we were
soulless enough (or too tired) to step aside in search
of Lulworth Cove, that famous inlet of the sea?
Yes, ’tis better so. Instead, we lay awhile under
the shade of trees in Lulworth Park, and viewed
with some disfavour the unpicturesque towers of
Lulworth Castle.</p>
<p>At the only inn here we were turned empty away
when we would have had lunch; the good folk were
too busy with what appeared to be a rent-audit
dinner. From the roadway and through the open
windows we could see long tables spread with all
manner of eatables, and seated there many farmers
and yeoman-looking men, who, many of them, in
the pauses of their eating, rested their hands beside
their plates with knife and fork held upright between
their fists.</p>
<div id="i_42" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 13em;">
<img src="images/i_089.jpg" width="205" height="433" alt="" />
<div class="caption">“POLITICS AND AGRICULTURE.”</div></div>
<p>We were very hungry, and when, on leaving Lulworth,
we asked the way of a stolid, big-built, farmer-like
man, were none too interested in his long talk of
politics and agriculture. He told us of a route over<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">89</span>
the downs by which we should pass Osmington, and
we set out with all haste to cover the eight miles
between us and that village. The cliff scenery
here is grand and comprehensive,
with great
barrow-covered hills
near and far, and a
long sweep of coast-line
bounded by Portland
Bill; but this is
a tiring and almost
trackless walk in
places, and lonely.
All the way to Osmington
we passed
but one meagre collection
of cottages
with a roadside
smithy, where the
smith, leaving his
work, came out and
gazed after us, possibly
to refresh his
eyes with the infrequent
sight of human
beings.</p>
<div id="i_43" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 24em;">
<img src="images/i_090.jpg" width="374" height="272" alt="" />
<div class="caption">“GAZED AFTER US.”</div></div>
<p>We came into Osmington
village at
the twilight hour, famished and deadly tired. At
the “Plough” we would have tea. “Yes,” said the
hostess, “but we have neither milk nor butter.” We
had a glass of ale instead, and postponed the meal.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">90</span>
At Preston, one mile and a half farther, we partook
of the long-deferred refreshment at a quarter to nine,
and afterwards walked into Weymouth.</p>
<p>The Naval Manœuvres were in progress, and some
night operations off Portland were taking place,
the roadways, sky, and sea lit up with the brilliant
flashings of the search lights.</p>
<p>At 10.45 we reached Weymouth, only to find the
hotels filled. With some trouble a bedroom was
found for us, but our joy was qualified at being introduced
to a low-ceiled garret with a howling infant
making night hideous on the other side of a thin
boarded partition.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">91</span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XXIV">XXIV.</h2>
</div>
<div id="i_44" class="figright" style="max-width: 14em;">
<img src="images/i_092.jpg" width="218" height="447" alt="" />
<div class="caption">“EXTREMELY AMUSING, I DO ASSURE YOU.”</div></div>
<p>Weymouth is a town of red-bricked respectability,
and about fourteen thousand inhabitants. It lives
on convicts, Portland stone, and the Channel Islands,
and lies upon the curving shores of a beautiful bay.
Even as George IV. is the patron king of Brighton,
so was his father the respected cause of Weymouth’s
prosperity. There is a stumpy statue of him upon
the esplanade where Weymouth and Melcombe
Regis imperceptibly merge one into the other, and
that statue, I take it, is not so much an exemplar
of a kingly presence, as a bronze apotheosis of all
that was dullest and most obstinate in constitutional
monarchy of this century and the last. This is a
jubilee memorial, erected in 1809 by the “grateful
inhabitants” to George III. It is not a beautiful
memorial; it is so unlovely that no photographs of
it are on sale at Weymouth, which proves without
further ado the poverty of the design. The king
looks down the street with a fishy glance, and his
gaze to-day rests upon that other jubilee memorial,
the Clock-tower, erected in 1887—useful, but scarcely
a thing of beauty—a merely meretricious iron and
gilt affair, without even the quaint ugliness of the
Georgian effigy to recommend it.</p>
<p>Beside these claims to notice, Weymouth has
nothing to advance. Its harbour is merely commonplace,
and its streets featureless.</p>
<p>We took train to Abbotsbury, and waited a longer
time for it to start than it would have taken us to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">92</span>
walk the distance. However, we passed the time
pleasantly enough, reading the auctioneers’ posters of
sales—farm-stock and the like—and consulting our
maps. Then we had the advantage of sharing the
platform with a
gorgeous individual
who, like ourselves,
awaited the train,
but, unlike us, was
“got up” immensely,
and was evidently
incapable of
forgetting the fact.
He wore an eyeglass,
and the most
wonderful breeches
I have ever beheld.</p>
<p>I don’t mean,
by particularising
these things, to say
that he wore nothing
else, but that
these articles were
the most salient of
all his apparel,
although, without
them, the remainder
would have been
sufficiently striking.
But there! words
are not sufficient. I have sketched him for your
satisfaction, and for my own eternal delight. The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">93</span>
creature smiled at our rough and ready touring fit,
and we chuckled at the opportunity of perpetuating
him in print: we found one another extremely
amusing, I do assure you.</p>
<p>It is a nine-mile journey by rail to Abbotsbury, on
a branch line that has its terminus here. The little
river Wey lends its name to two of the villages
passed, Upwey and Broadwey, but the railway
company is superior to derivatives, and spells the
latter Broadway on all its time-tables and station
furniture.</p>
<p>There were few passengers for Abbotsbury, and
none but ourselves were visitors. At our hotel our
hearts sank when we saw, framed and glazed, in the
passage, a year-old telegram from the Duke of Edinburgh
to the proprietor, asking him to get lunch and
beds for a party. It was not only the snobbery of it,
but the thought that all subsequent visitors would
have to pay for that Royal visit (ourselves included)
that made us quail. And, true enough, a massive
bill awaited our departure the next morning.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XXV">XXV.</h2>
</div>
<p>Abbotsbury is a place of very great interest. It
lies within half a mile of the sea, near by the Fleet
Water and the Chesil Beach, and was at one time
the site (as its name implies) of a very extensive and
powerful abbey. The Dissolution of the Monasteries,
and the appropriation of their funds, put an
end to this religious house, among others, and very<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">94</span>
few remains of it are to be seen to-day. The Abbey
Farm, a delightful old house, is built of its stones,
and portions of the Gatehouse remain, with vestiges
of the fish-ponds, here as elsewhere a great feature
of the monastic settlement. All else is gone, even
the great mansion built by Sir Giles Strangways
upon the abbey lands that had been granted to him,
and with the stones of its ruinated buildings, has
disappeared. But the great tithe-barn of the monks
still remains—a building of noble proportions, some
300 feet in length, built with sturdy buttresses and
neatly-joined ashlar, with a great porch and a roof
held up by massive timbers, every detail fashioned
with exquisite taste, and over all a decided ecclesiastical
feeling. Few modern churches are built so
substantially, and fewer so tastefully, as Abbotsbury
tithe-barn. Half of its length is roofless; the moiety
of it suffices for the secular farmer who uses it to-day
for the same purposes for which it was built
many centuries ago: if it was not too large when
built, how immense the products of these tithes
must have been!</p>
<p>The parish church still exhibits some good architectural
details, particularly on the exterior of the
north aisle, which shows some excellent Perpendicular
windows, surmounted by a string-course and
battlements. Pinnacles are corbelled out at intervals
from the string-course, and have a very pleasing
effect.</p>
<p>Crowning the seaward hill of Saint Catherine, that
rises in terraced slopes populous with rabbits, is an
ancient chapel, small but immensely strong, built<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">95</span>
to withstand the winds that blow with tremendous
violence from the sea. It commands wide-spreading
views, to Portland on the one hand, to Lyme Regis
and the Cliffs of Beer on the other, and inland stretch
the rolling hills and wide downs of this impressive
county.</p>
<p>How to seize the characteristics of Dorsetshire
when you have fared from end to end of the county
only along the bold and cliff-girt scenery of its seaward
side, from Purbeck Hills, by the Abbotsbury
uplands, to the impressive heights of Golden-cap
and Stonebarrow? How to pluck out the heart of
its mystery and weird beauty when its heaths and
inland vales are matters of reading only? Yet it
should seem that Dorset is a Hampshire purged of
mere pensiveness, more varied, more dramatic than
its eastern neighbour, with a drama that rises to
moving tragedies—fit scenes for that blood-drowned
rebellion that began upon the beach at Lyme, and so
surged through pastoral Somerset to be finally quelled
by Monmouth’s capture in the vicinity of Wimborne.
But a mile or so apart from those trim modern excrescences
of the sea-board, the “watering-places,” risen
and rising, the stolid county folk (Teutons chiefly) lead
lives little touched with modernism in the fat valleys
folded between the swelling shoulders of camp-crowned
hills, whereon the Romans and the Britons,
the Celt, the Saxon, and the Dane, have waged wars
of extermination. Here, in that dim Wessex, were
fought many battles in hand-to-hand fashion, and
the sublimated memory of them, blurred and fantastic,
lingers yet in traditions, even in turns of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">96</span>
speech and place-names. The Dorset folk have a
name for the rich red bloom of the wallflower
that seems significant. They call them “bloody
warriors.”</p>
<p>Before we left Abbotsbury we visited the Swannery,
where many hundreds of swans, the property
of the Earl of Ilchester, are kept. There has been
a swannery here for over eight hundred years, and,
in addition, a decoy for wild duck.</p>
<p>It is a fine breezy walk, but rough and tiring, from
here to Burton Bradstock, along the coast—eight
miles of a ribbon-like path, that winds along the
landward side of the Chesil Beach. By the time we
reached that village we had had more than enough
of it, and crossed the little river Bredy into the highroad.
At the end of another mile and a half that
road runs steeply down into West Bay, the port
and harbour of Bridport, a desolate place of infinite
sand, where the sea comes banging in furiously upon
the wooden jetties at the harbour mouth. Up the
marshy valley can just be seen the roof-tops of Bridport,
and at the back of them hills, with hills again
to right and left. Indeed, this is a stretch of country
calculated to make sad within him the heart of the
cyclist, for hills abound, and however fair the country-side
may be to an unprejudiced observer, ’tis little
short of a wonder when a land of hills and dales
is other than a howling wilderness to the perspiring
wheelman, bent over his handles in an agony of
pedalling. Such an one we met fighting against
the inevitable when last we journeyed this way.
The inevitable, it should be said in this connection,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">97</span>
resolved itself into a dismount, and a moist and
gasping halt by the dusty hedgerow. Well, we left
the poor soul, and encumbered only with our knapsacks,
breasted the steep down that forms a short cut
to Chideock. Here cycles may not go by any manner
of means.</p>
<p>The village of Chideock lay in a valley at some
distance, a village of the kind that lines the highroad,
with one long street, rising from the hollow,
half-way to the brow of the succeeding hill. All
around lay the huge hills of this hilly land, with
Golden Cap, truncated, like another Table Mountain,
seaward.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XXVI">XXVI.</h2>
</div>
<p>Chideock was named from a once powerful family
that bore this singular name, but now long since
extinct. They had their castle here, of which no
sign now remains, saving only in the name of the
Chideock Castle Inn, where we stayed the night.
It was a night close and intolerably warm, and
I could not sleep. All through the night and the
earliest morning hours the place within and the
countryside without were quiet to a degree. Only
once was the stillness of the country road broken—toward
the stroke of one—by the old clock on the
stairway. Then some one who rode horseback went
past at a trot, and the clatter of hoofs rang out
clearly in the stillness of the air for some minutes.
I lay and wondered whom he could be who was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">98</span>
called abroad at this hour, and so, weaving little
romances around that unconscious rider, presently
fell asleep.</p>
<p>In these remote country places every footfall in
the night seems to carry an especial significance,
and each infrequent sound creates a little eddy of
thought in the receptive mind. I accompanied that
rider in my dreams, which wove an extraordinary
tangle of fact and fancy together. The horse became
winged Pegasus, the rider an editor, to whose skirts
I was clinging in an agony of desperation, and we
were going like the wind. We rose above such
sordid things as earthly roads, and soared into the
empyrean. Presently we were talking to a lady of
classic features and manner of dress. The editor,
in an aside to me, said her name was Clio, and he
had called to see her with reference to a weekly
fashion column which she had promised to contribute
to the ——. I had never respected women
journalists so much as now. The editor concluded
his interview and mounted his horse. “Jump up,”
said he, and, so saying, caught me by the arm.</p>
<p>“No hurry,” said I. “Your horse is a good one
to go.”</p>
<p>“What the deuce are you talking about?” said he.</p>
<p>I rubbed my eyes and stared at him, and, lo! it
was the Wreck, half-dressed and smoking a cigarette,
who had waked me.</p>
<p>“I’ve been awake all night,” he said; “it has
been too warm for sleeping. It’s five o’clock now,
and a lovely morning. Better put on your things,
and we’ll go out for an early morning walk.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">99</span>
We dressed and let ourselves quietly out of the
house.</p>
<p>Next the inn was the church, which was locked
of course at this early hour. In the churchyard
was a thing that spoke of Chideock Castle, the
tomb of Thomas Daniell, who, as a brass plate
informed us, was “Steward of the Manor and Lordship
of Chideock, who, loyal to his king, and true
to his master, gallantly defended the Castle of
Chideock.” The inscription ends with the quotation
from Holy <span class="locked">Writ—</span></p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“Well done, thou good and faithful servant:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Enter thou into the joy of thy lord,”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="in0">which reads somewhat humorously, for surely never
before has any one so finely confused secular loyalty
with religious constancy, and never was blasphemy
so unconscious as this.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XXVII">XXVII.</h2>
</div>
<p>We returned later to breakfast, and astonished
the good folk of the Chideock Castle, who had not
heard our early morning exit, and thought us still
asleep.</p>
<p>It was, by reason of this early rising, yet cool and
pleasant when we had left Chideock, and come by
way of Morecombelake into Charmouth.</p>
<p>Charmouth, on this summer’s day, was wonderfully
pleasant—everything, sea and shore and sky,
pervaded by a golden haze. But what this settlement-like<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">100</span>
place must be like on a wet day of incessant
drizzle, is an image dreadful to contemplate.</p>
<p>A rainy day at the seaside, unless, indeed, it be
at some huge wen like Brighton or Scarborough, is
enough to give even a Mark Tapley thoughts of
committing <em>hari kari</em>. The only local optimists
then are the boatmen, and they beat every possible
Tapley into fits; with them it is always a fine day—for
a sail. Nothing is to do on a seaside wet day.
Nothing to read at the circulating library: the old
maids have borrowed all the spicy novels, and left
nothing on the shelves but such enthralling devotional
works as “Skates and Shin-plasters for Backsliders”
for the appeasement of your literary hunger.
The local news-room on such depressing occasions
contains a parish magazine, the last number of
Blowhard’s “Sermons,” Sharpshin’s “Local Gazetteer
and Directory,” last week’s London papers, and half-a-hundredweight
of “Bits” prints. With even all
this wealth of literature you are not happy, but
long, like Wellington at Waterloo, for night and—oblivion.</p>
<p>Charmouth was the scene of a thrilling incident
in the hunted wanderings of Charles II., for it was
here that he sought to have his horse’s cast shoe
replaced, and was imperilled by the blacksmith’s
discovery that the shoes were of a make unknown
in that part of the country.</p>
<p>We had of late experienced a sufficiency of rough
walking, and so struck inland to avoid Lyme Regis
and the seaward cliffs. In another three miles we
had reached the Devon border, where the highway,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">101</span>
running on a lofty ridgway, is carried through a spur
of the hills in tunnel. For rather more than a mile
the road forms the boundary line between the counties
of Devon and Dorset, right and left. Then came,
at the end of a long rising vista, bordered by murmuring
pines, the welcome sign of Hunter’s Lodge
Inn, where we celebrated
our entrance
upon Devon soil by
draughts of cider.
Here was a humorous
wheelman, garbed fearfully
in white flannel
breeches and black
jacket, who retailed
his experiences of rural
inns on Dartmoor, experiences
in a minor
key, for he told us in
happy epigram that,
in Devon at least, innkeepers
divided creation
into an unholy
Trinity of man, beast,
and cyclist, and that,
of the three, the cyclist
was the lowest order.</p>
<div id="i_45" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 13em;">
<img src="images/i_101.jpg" width="204" height="378" alt="" />
<div class="caption">“HUMOROUS WHEELMAN, GARBED FEARFULLY.”</div></div>
<p>Two miles and a
half further on, and
we came to the dull little market-town of Axminster,
beside the clear-running Axe.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">102</span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XXVIII">XXVIII.</h2>
</div>
<p>Axminster, for all its quietude and respectable
insipidity, has had its stirring times. In the immediate
neighbourhood was fought the battle of
Brunenburgh, between a huge army of invading
Danes and the Saxon forces of Athelstan. To quote
the curious phrasing of an old chart of Henry VIII.’s
time, “There entrid at Seton dywse strange nacions,
who were slayne at Axmyster to the number of v
Kings, viij erles, a busshoppe, and ix score thousand
in the hole, as a boke old written doth testyfye.”
To this day the level lands of the Axe valley and the
lush meadows that border the river bear names that
perpetuate those bloody onsets of upon a thousand
years ago: Warlake, Kingsfield, Battleford recall the
day of that great Saxon victory.</p>
<p>In the time of the great Civil War the country
round about was harassed with the varying fortunes
of Cavaliers and Roundheads, who, making sorties
from their respective strongholds of Exeter and Lyme
Regis, laid waste this unfortunate debatable ground.
But it was during the Duke of Monmouth’s rebellion,
and after the failure of that desperate emprise,
that a peculiarly lurid light is shed upon this town
in common with all these counties of Dorset, Devon,
and Somersetshire. There is a manuscript book of
the time, still preserved in Axminster Independent
Chapel, written by the minister, called “Ecclesiastica,
or a Book of Remembrance,” which sets forth
the doings of the period, and the persecutions to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">103</span>
which the Dissenters were subjected. “Now” (the
writer says) “the Lord stirred vp James, Duke of
Monmouth (reputed son of the former king C. II.),
who had bin in an exile state for some time, and on
the 11th day of the 4th moneth of this year, 1685,<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">2</a>
he safely and peaceably landed at the hauen belonging
to Lyme Regis with a small number of men, about
eighty, hauing their ship laden with armour and
ammunition, who, immediately vpon his landing,
gaue forth his declarations to restore liberty to the
people of God for the worship of God, to preserue
the rights and priueledges of the nation, &c. Tydings
of his landing were spread abroad far and near very
speedily, and divers persons from severall quarters
hasted to resort to him. Now were the hearts of the
people of God gladded, and their hopes and expectations
raised, that this man might be a deliuerer
for the nation and the interest of Christ in it, who
had bin euen harrous’d out with trouble and persecution,
and euen broken with the weight of oppression
vnder which they had long groaned.” So presently
Monmouth’s army “jncreased to seuerall thousands,”
and on the 15th of June they began their march
from Lyme, “with much dread and terrour, to the
amazement and wonder of many what the Lord had
wrought. The first day of their march they came
into the town of Axminster,” and there they lay some
five days. Marching out towards Taunton, several
skirmishes occurred, with loss on both sides, and
“one Henry Noon, a pious and liuely Christian,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">104</span>
a vsefull member related to this body, was also slain.
And this church began to be diminished.” Then
came the catastrophe of Sedgemoor, and a dreadful
orgie of hangings and quarterings in this West of
England. Axminster, however, witnessed only one
execution, that of Mr. Rose, one of Monmouth’s
gunners. As the rebellion was not merely a political
movement, but also in some sort religious—a
Protestant rising against Roman Catholicism—it
followed that its failure was the beginning of bitter
persecutions against Protestants—Churchmen and
Dissenters alike. It must not be supposed, however,
that Protestantism has a monopoly of martyrs.
When that original form of dissent obtained the
upper hand, there generally followed an equally bad
time for members of the older Church, which then
had the peculiar honour of furnishing victims for
stake or gibbet. Foxe’s “Book of Martyrs” only
shows us one side of religious persecution; the
other side, were it equally well compiled, would be
as lurid, as merciless: religious bigots seem to have
been sadly deficient in humour.</p>
<p>Axminster has given an undying name to a particular
make of carpet that is no longer manufactured
here, but at Wilton, in Wiltshire. The Axminster
factory was finally closed in 1835, having been in
work for eighty years.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">105</span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XXIX">XXIX.</h2>
</div>
<p>Two miles south of Axminster, on our way to
Seaton, we came upon the farmhouse of Ashe, at
one time the mansion of the Drakes. Here was
born, on May 24, 1650, John Churchill, the future
Duke of Marlborough. Here, too, in the private
chapel of the house, now used as a cider cellar, was
married Lord North, one of that tactless ministry
who lost us the New England States. In 1782,
the last of the Ashe Drakes died, and five years
later the greater portion of the house was destroyed
by fire.</p>
<div id="i_46" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 23em;">
<img src="images/i_105.jpg" width="368" height="155" alt="" />
<div class="caption">AXMOUTH from Seaton</div></div>
<p>In Musbury church, a mile farther down the
road, are monuments to Drakes of Ashe. Amongst
those commemorated is that Sir Bernard Drake who
disputed so hotly with his kinsman the great Sir
Francis, most renowned of all Drakes, the question
of armorial bearings. When Elizabeth granted the
latter a new coat-of-arms, Sir Bernard replied that
“though her Majesty could give him a nobler, yet<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">106</span>
she could not give him an antienter coat than his,”
and with that flattering unction, self-administered,
he was fain to be content.</p>
<p>To Ashe presently succeeds the straggling village
of Axmouth, whence the sea is visible at the farther
end of the marshy lands where the Axe struggles
out into the Channel over a bed of shingle. Just
above Haven Cliff the highroad is carried over the
river by a bridge of three arches that gives access
to Seaton.</p>
<div id="i_47" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 23em;">
<img src="images/i_106.jpg" width="368" height="175" alt="" />
<div class="caption">Seaton Bridge.</div></div>
<p>Seaton is in process of rising, and to all who
have witnessed the evolution of a seaside town
from fishing village to “resort”—that is sufficient
to say <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">Verb. sap. sat.</i> It possesses a terminal railway
station on a branch line, and is the scene of
Sunday “there and back” excursions from London
in the summer season. On those occasions the
place is crowded for a brief three hours or so,
when trippers snatch a fearful joy. At other times
Seaton is sluggish and dull, and really the bourgeois<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">107</span>
plastered buildings of the little town are an insult
to the magnificent
scenery on either
hand.</p>
<p>Visitors there were
a few on the beach—quiet
folk mostly,
and provincial of
aspect, save indeed
a loathly Cockney
worm who had by
some mischance
missed his Margate,
who leaned against
a seaworn capstan,
the sole representative
of his particular
stratum of
civilisation—lonely,
ineffable.</p>
<div id="i_48" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 14em;">
<img src="images/i_107.jpg" width="215" height="439" alt="" />
<div class="caption">“LOATHLY WORM.”</div></div>
<p>When the rain
came down that had
been impending all
the forenoon, Seaton
became doleful.
There was nothing
to do but take
the next train to Exeter in search of a waterproof
civilisation.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">108</span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XXX">XXX.</h2>
</div>
<p>Preconceived ideas are, when not realised, apt to
disturb one’s peace of mind, and so it happened that
we, who had conjured up a mental picture of Exeter,
had indeed imagined a vain thing: the reality came
upon us with something of a rude shock. Used to
the more familiar type of cathedral city, dreamy old
places where the atmosphere of the Minster is all-pervading,
and where the Bishop, the Dean and
Chapter, and their doings hold the foremost rank
in men’s minds and talk, we were not prepared to
come upon so busy a place as Exeter, where the
ecclesiastical element is only one among many and
is not pre-eminent.</p>
<p>There is, indeed, no holy calm in the “Queen
City of the West:” the tramway bell is familiar in
its streets, and from end to end of the main thoroughfares
tall telegraph poles lend an American air to the
view.</p>
<p>But Exeter, although entirely different from one’s
dreams, is extremely interesting and picturesque: its
slums are the dirtiest, and their smells the vilest of
any out of London, and the ancient rotten tenements
the most tottering of any I have seen.</p>
<p>Yet there be those who like not mention of the
place. These are evil-doers, for whose benefit the
Assizes are holden at the picturesque fifteenth century
Guildhall, so conspicuous an object in the busy
High Street. There is a fine old highly coloured
character in English history, Richard III. to wit<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">109</span>
(who, if history speaks truly, fully deserved a place
amongst the malefactors of his age), who had, according
to Shakespeare, no occasion to love Exeter.
The incident may be read in Richard III., Act iv.,
Scene 2:—</p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“Richmond!—when last I was at Exeter,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The mayor in courtesy show’d me the castle,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And call’d it—Rouge-mont: at which name I started,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Because a bard of Ireland told me once,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I should not live long after I saw Richmond.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>No man who writes upon Exeter, even if he only
writes as superficially as I do here, can be expected
to forego this quotation—the expectation would be
too much for endurance: indeed, there are virtues of
omission in this book which might gain me the tolerance
of that chivalric myth, the “gentle reader,” for
this one small sin of hackneying the hackneyed once
more. I take it, for instance, as a generous forbearance
on my part, that I did not quote at Winchester
that oft-quoted epitaph on Izaak Walton, although I
hold it charming.</p>
<p>Among the first things we did at Exeter was to
inquire (for we know our Shakespeare well) for
Rougemont Castle. But, as the first passer-by whom
we button-holed declared, with a glorious west-country
confusion of pronouns, that he “had never
heard of he,” so also did every other person at whom
we directed our inquiries protest his or her ignorance
of such a place, saving, indeed, one who directed us
to what proved to be the Rougemont Hotel, “a large
red building” indeed, but not the one we wished.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">110</span>
Others had all the same tale to tell, ancient inhabitants
equally with the “strangers in these parts,”
so we wavered between a consciousness of absurdity
and a feeling of indignation against the unlettered
strata into which we had penetrated, until, by good
fortune, we encountered a bookish “commercial,”
to whom the place was known under its old-time
name equally well with its modern appellation of
Northernhay.</p>
<p>Northernhay is a public garden, set about with
statues of local celebrities, and with one whose
original was of imperial fame—Sir Stafford Northcote,
Earl of Iddesleigh. It was the site of that
stronghold, Rougemont Castle, whose poor remains
are now enclosed in private grounds. The gardens
stand on a considerable height, and overlook, through
the trees, the Queen Street Station of the South-Western
Railway. All day long, and all the night,
the snorting of engines and their shrill whistles, the
metallic crash of carriage buffers, and the thunderous
impacts of railway trucks are heard. Behind the
station the eye rests upon the county gaol and the
military barracks. Exeter has all the appliances of
civilisation, I promise you.</p>
<p>It is a relief to turn from here and from the
thronging streets to the quietude of the Cathedral
precincts, shadowed by tall trees and green with
lawns.</p>
<div id="i_49" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 35em;">
<img src="images/i_110fp.jpg" width="551" height="427" alt="" />
<div class="caption">EXETER CATHEDRAL: WEST FRONT.</div></div>
<p>Externally, the Cathedral is of the grimiest and
sootiest aspect—black but comely. Not even the
blackest corners of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London
show a deeper hue than the west front of St. Peter’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">111</span>
at Exeter. The battered, time-worn army of effigies—kings,
saints, crusaders, bishops—that range along
the screen in mutilated array under the great west
window of Bishop Grandison’s, are black too, and so
are the obscene gargoyles that gibber and glare with
stony eyes down upon you from the ridges and string-courses
of the transepts, where they abide ever in
an enduring crepuscule. The sonorous note of the
Great Peter bell, sounding from the south transept
tower, is in admirable keeping with the black-browed
gravity of the close.</p>
<p>But within the Cathedral it is quite another matter.
Few of our great minsters are so graceful, so airy
and well lighted, as the interior of Exeter Cathedral.
The great windows of the aisles shed a flood of light
upon the clustered columns of warm-coloured stone
that bear aloft the elaborately carved vaulting of
the nave, and the clerestory windows, high up in
the walls, illuminate the springing of the arches and
the carven corbels of the vaulting shafts. Exeter
Cathedral windows are the triumph of Geometrical
Decorated work. North and south, those windows
run the length of the building in pairs, each pair of
different design.</p>
<p>One of the quaintest of Exeter’s many churches is
that of Saint Mary Steps, by the site of the old
West Gate, with its clock face and three ancient
figures nodding the hours and striking the quarters
upon bells. The central figure represents Henry VIII.,
but is traditionally known as Matty the Miller.</p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“Every hour on Westgate tower<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Matty still nods his head.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">112</span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XXXI">XXXI.</h2>
</div>
<p>We passed down the steep High Street of Exeter,
crowded with ruddy-towered churches, and bordered,
as to its farther end, with the low-lying slums of
Exe Island. Across Exe Bridge is the suburb of
St. Thomas, and we explored its one long street to
its end, where it joins the Dunsford Road, from
whose rise this prospect of Exeter is taken. Then
we retraced our steps some distance, and set out for
Teignmouth, coming in rather over a mile to Alphington,
a pretty village, with tall and slim church tower
looking straight down the road, making, with its red
sandstone, a striking contrast with the vivid green<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_113">114</a></span>
of the rich foliage around, and the dazzling whiteness
of the “cob” cottages, whose whitewash
seems ever fresh. We glanced inside the church,
but a christening was in progress, and we fled,
pursued by the ear-piercing yells of the unhappy
infant.</p>
<div id="i_50" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 19em;">
<img src="images/i_112.jpg" width="303" height="261" alt="" />
<div class="caption">SAINT THOMAS.</div></div>
<p>With Alphington were passed Exeter’s latest
encroachments upon the country in this direction,
and the road presently became perfectly
rural. To the left was the rich level through
which the Exe flows, now restrained by cunningly
constructed canals, weirs, banks, and sluices from
flooding the pastures, in some instances below its
level, and intersected by little dykes for their better
irrigation.</p>
<div id="i_51" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 32em;">
<img src="images/i_112fp.jpg" width="512" height="396" alt="" />
<div class="caption">EXETER, FROM THE DUNSFORD ROAD.</div></div>
<p>The road shortly descended into a pretty valley,
where were some cottages beneath a peculiar isolated
hill, crowned with a windy coppice; below were
pools of water that reflected hurrying clouds. At
the extremity of the valley the road was bordered
by evergreen shrubs, firs, and larches, and a dense
undergrowth of brambles and wild-flowers harmonised
with the rich colour of a disused quarry,
from whose red ledges dripped drops of water with
hollow sound.</p>
<div id="i_52" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 31em;">
<img src="images/i_113.jpg" width="487" height="333" alt="" />
<div class="caption">ALPHINGTON.</div></div>
<p>Then, past the huge building of the Devon
County Lunatic Asylum, we came into Exminster,
standing on somewhat high ground. For sketching
purposes it does not group well: there are,
though, some points of interest within the church,
among them a recessed portrait effigy of Grace
Tothill.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">115</span></p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“<span class="smcap">Grace</span>, wife of William Tothill<br /></span>
<span class="i0">of the Middle Temple, Died 1623, æt. 18.”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“If grace could lengthe of dayes thee give,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">or vertue coulde haue made thee live<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If goodnesse could thee heere have kept<br /></span>
<span class="i0">or teares of frindes which for thee wept<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then hadst thou liv’d Amongst us heere<br /></span>
<span class="i0">to whom thy vertues made thee deer<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But thou a Sainte didst Heaven aspire<br /></span>
<span class="i0">whiles heere on Earth wee thee admire<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then rest deere corps in mantle claye<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Till Christ thee raise the latter daye.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Thy yeres were fewe thy glasse beinge runn<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where death did ende thy lyfe begunn.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<div id="i_53" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 23em;">
<img src="images/i_115.jpg" width="363" height="198" alt="" />
<div class="caption">AN EXMINSTER MONUMENT.</div></div>
<p>But the most interesting feature of Exminster
church is the series of saints on the ceiling at the
east end of the south aisle. The aisle has the
“wagon” roof, so frequently met with in Devon, and
it is divided into square panels by old carved woodwork.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">116</span>
The panels are filled with plaster, on which
are executed a series of
saints and prophets, in
low relief, conceived and
wrought in the most
grotesque vein. The
ceiling, woodwork, and
all, has been treated to
a liberal coat of whitewash.</p>
<p>This figure, representing
St. James the Less,
takes the palm for eccentricity
of appearance,
though the others are
not far short of his
somewhat ungainly prominence.
He is apparently
in a great hurry, intent on some hot-gospelling
expedition, but he has a wicked eye that ill beseems
his errand, and a cudgel that seems out of keeping
with the book.</p>
<div id="i_54" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 13em;">
<img src="images/i_116.jpg" width="202" height="295" alt="" />
<div class="caption">EXMINSTER SAINT.</div></div>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XXXII">XXXII.</h2>
</div>
<p>I think him a very charming saint indeed, with
a happy lack of anything like a priggish austerity:
one might be happy in the society of such a saint
as this—if only he wore boots. Pity is that the
average run of saints one hears or reads of are
very gorgons for grimness: they look not upon the
wine when it is red (nor white, either, for that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">117</span>
matter). They are not like this old fellow, who is
my <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">beau idéal</i> of the jovial anchorite. The first
editor of my acquaintance (he was the editor of a
pseudo-religious magazine—it is solemn food for
reflection that nearly all young fellows of literary-artistical
tastes start with magazines of this stamp),
my first editor, I was saying, would not, some years
syne, print this, my pet saint, “for,” said he, “he is
irreverent, and”—with a fine disregard of grammar—“the
proprietors would not like it.”</p>
<p>I argued that he might tickle the readers’ fancy;
but the proprietors came between the readers and
myself, and the article went to press without St.
James the Less.</p>
<p>“I assure you,” said the editor, defending himself
from the charge of “unco’ guidness,” “I would not
object to him in the least, but” (sighing) “you
don’t know our proprietors.”</p>
<p>I murmured gently that I had no wish to make
their acquaintance.</p>
<p>“Do you know,” resumed the editor, “that I am
not allowed to mention the name of Shakespeare in
our pages?”</p>
<p>“Great Bacon!” quoth I, astonished; “why not?”</p>
<p>“Well,” said he, “you may laugh at the idea; but
our people consider him immoral. If we find any
particularly devout sentiment that makes an apt
quotation, we may use it, but must, under no circumstances,
ascribe it to Shakespeare.”</p>
<p>(I may remark, <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">en parenthèse</i>, that the magazine
in question is defunct: it was too pure for this
wicked world.)</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">118</span>
For such good folk, prone to see evil in everything,
pruriently pure, even to the wrappaging of
piano-legs, even the name of the Andaman Islands
must have a suspicious sound; and the Teutonic
“Twilight of the Gods,” unenglished, would savour
of the rankest blasphemy.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XXXIII">XXXIII.</h2>
</div>
<p>Exminster lies close to the river, and from its
church-tower there is a magnificent view down as
far as Exmouth, and then out to sea. The scenery
is very beautiful: the Exe broadens into an estuary,
and at low tide the smell of the seaweed and the
mud-flats comes across the low-lying fields between
the river and the highway with a refreshing breeze,
doubly welcome after a hot and dusty walk. There
is a walk beside the estuary atop of the banks
that restrict the waters to their proper channel—a
walk that affords delightful views. It leads past
the lock of the Exe Navigable Canal at Turf, whose
buildings form a charming composition, with foreground
of tall grasses, and a glimpse of the twin
towers of Exeter Cathedral, distinct, though nearly
seven miles away. We came to Powderham this
way, and crossed the railway to Powderham church,
that stands beside the road within the bounds of
Powderham Park. Park and castle have been for
centuries the home of the Courtenays, earls of
Devon, whose family history goes back to a very
remote and misty antiquity. Many Courtenays have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">119</span>
been laid to rest in the church, and in a chapel of it
is a beautiful altar-tomb, with recumbent portrait-effigy
of the eleventh earl’s countess. From here was
a glorious view of park and castle, with herds of deer
trooping down to the waterside to drink. The light
was waning, and the salt breeze blew chill after the
hot and scorching day. The light from the western
sky shone redly upon the windows of the castle,
which, save for this, lay dark and half-defined amid
the groves and alleys of forest foliage.</p>
<div id="i_55" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 24em;">
<img src="images/i_119.jpg" width="376" height="304" alt="" />
<div class="caption">TURF.</div></div>
<p>We turned and gazed upon the broad and placid
Exe. Lights were beginning to twinkle from the
opposite shore, where lay Exmouth, the commonplace,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">120</span>
two miles away, across channels, shoals, and
sandbanks, whose treacherous surface the rising tide
was swiftly covering. Gulls were screaming over
their evening feast of sprats and pilchards, their
harsh cries breaking the stillness of departing day.</p>
<p>Signal-lamps on the railway shone green and red
and white, where Starcross Station lay ahead, making,
with the curve of river mouth, ships at anchor behind
the Bar, and the soaring tower of the old Atmospheric
Railway, a natural composition which no artist could
possibly resist noting. So I sat on a wall and sketched
in the gathering gloom, while the Wreck (who, I fear,
has no soul for these things) went on in advance to
negotiate for high tea and quarters for the night.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XXXIV">XXXIV.</h2>
</div>
<p>I left off somewhat abruptly last night, you may
say, but indeed I think there is nothing which it
would be profitable to set down in this place of what
befell at Starcross. Referring to my diary, I find a
mention of cockles (upon which Starcross prides
itself), which some kindly stranger invited us to
partake of as we were having tea, all three of us,
in the hotel coffee-room. But cockles (if you will
excuse the Irishry) are very small beer, so I do not
propose to trouble you with an account of them.
I will merely say that we had tea and went to bed,
and rose and breakfasted in the morning, and presently
set out for Teignmouth.</p>
<div id="i_56" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 35em;">
<img src="images/i_120fp.jpg" width="560" height="374" alt="" />
<div class="caption">STARCROSS.</div></div>
<p>Starcross has aspirations. It is a little village,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">121</span>
whose fishers, in a whimsical manner of shorthand,
paint their boats *+ by way of informing the world
at large whence they hail. It fancies itself a watering-place,
but it is just a quiet settlement, with a ferry
to Exmouth, and a fishing jetty by the station, and,
riding out at anchor in the Exe, a curious pleasure-boat,
fashioned in the shape of a huge swan. This
little town was, and possibly remains, dependent
upon the Courtenays. The chief of the two hotels,
the Courtenay Arms, exhibits the heraldic devices
of that ancient family and its mournful motto—<i xml:lang="la" lang="la">Quid
feci? ubi lapsus</i>.</p>
<p>The railway here runs beside the road, and presently
crosses Cockwood Creek on a wooden viaduct.
Then came a notice, warning all and sundry of what
dreadful things should be done to all them that
trespassed upon the line. We therefore crossed over
here, and on the other side found ourselves on the
Warren, a broad expanse of sand, partly covered at
high water. Above high-water mark the sand is
held together by rank grasses and tufts of furze;
and beneath are the thickly populated burrows of
innumerable rabbits. In shallow pools herons were
patiently waiting; while, as we walked along, we
disturbed plovers, which rose up and flew away
with whirring wings. Wild ducks and sea-gulls
were plenty.</p>
<p>At the western end of the Warren we came upon
Langstone Point, the eastward boundary of the port
of Teignmouth. At top of it is a trim coastguard
station, and across the line rise the red cliffs of
Mount Pleasant, fronted with a chalêt-like inn.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">122</span>
Then we came upon the sea-wall that leads into
Dawlish.</p>
<div id="i_57" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 27em;">
<img src="images/i_122.jpg" width="427" height="233" alt="" />
<div class="caption">LANGSTONE POINT.</div></div>
<p>When the excursionist from London sees the
yellow sands and rippling sea, the red rocks, the
green lawns, and the sliding rivulets and miniature
cascades of Dawlish from the railway platform, he
is unhappy, because the place looks so charming,
and he is going to leave it for places he knows not,
but which (he thinks) cannot begin to compare with
this fairyland. But Dawlish is seen at its best from
the railway station and under such hurried circumstances.
The place affords little satisfaction when
one comes to the exploration of it. The town is bright
and lively, and the sands crowded in summer, and
the sea-wall well frequented, but Dawlish lives only
for and on the visitor; when its short season is
done and the visitors have departed, there is (consequently)<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">123</span>
no business of any kind. It is just a
little town, bandbox neat, called into existence by
these touring times, and in the spring, autumn,
and winter it is as deserted and woebegone as any
dead city of the plains. For here is no port, nor
river, nor any anchorage, and, for all that is doing
in winter months, the inhabitants might hibernate
like the dormouse and not miss anything.</p>
<div id="i_58" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 23em;">
<img src="images/i_123.jpg" width="367" height="258" alt="" />
<div class="caption">MOUNT PLEASANT.</div></div>
<p>Dawlish Station is built on the sands, and the
Great Western Railway runs along under the cliffs,
on a sea-wall of solid masonry, from Langstone Point,
through the five tunnels of Lee Mount and Hole
Head, to Teignmouth.</p>
<p>Dawlish did not detain us long. We dusty pilgrims
shunned the spick-and-span society of summer<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">124</span>
frocks and immaculate blazers, and fared forth up
the steep paths of Lee Mount on to the highroad
for the distance of a mile, when we walked down
Smugglers’ Lane to the sea again, where the Parson
and Clerk stand at the extremity of a precipitous
headland—the Parson on the face of the cliff, the
Clerk cooling his heels in the water. For the recognition
of the faces supposed to be seen on the sandstone
rock, the Eye of Faith is imperative: but
many folk possess that.</p>
<div id="i_59" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 20em;">
<img src="images/i_124.jpg" width="307" height="254" alt="" />
<div class="caption">LEE MOUNT, DAWLISH.</div></div>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XXXV">XXXV.</h2>
</div>
<p>There is a legend accounting for this petrified
couple. It seems that the vicar of a neighbouring<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">125</span>
parish had business with his bishop at the Palace
of Exeter. He set out late in the afternoon, on
horseback, for the city, accompanied by the parish
clerk, and, a storm coming on, they promptly lost
their way in the mist and rain; the incessant
flashes of lightning, brilliant as they were, would
not have sufficed for them to regain their road, even
had their horses been less terrified. The vicar was
speedily drenched to the skin. “Damme,” says he,
“there’s not a soul at hand of whom to inquire our
way in this misbegotten wilderness. I’d take the
devil himself for a guide if he were here.”</p>
<p>No sooner had the vicar uttered this profane sentiment,
than they heard, above the howling of the
storm, the clattering sound of a horse’s hoofs, and
a prolonged flash of lightning showed them an old
gentleman, clad in sombre garments, cantering past
on his mare. The clerk hailed him, and he drew
rein.</p>
<p>“I suspect, sir,” said he, addressing himself to the
vicar, “you have lost your way. Can I be of any
service to you? If so, pray command me, for it is
ill wandering abroad on such a wild night.”</p>
<p>“Sir,” said the vicar, who was, indeed, no mealy-mouthed
man, for all his holy office, “we have lost
our road, and are wet through,” adding, “this is
the most damnable night that ever I have had the
ill fortune to travel in.”</p>
<p>“You may well say that,” rejoined the old gentleman
briskly, with a complacent smile; “but allow
me to put you in the right way.”</p>
<p>In scarcely five minutes from their encounter, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">126</span>
party drew rein before a cosy inn. The vicar, the
clerk, and their guide dismounted, and sending their
riding cloaks to the kitchen fire to dry, sat down to
a bowl of punch. They caroused until a late hour,
while the storm raged unceasingly without.</p>
<p>At length the vicar rose, saying, “Storm or no
storm, he must be going, for he had important business
that demanded his presence at Exeter early the
following morning.”</p>
<p>“Well,” said the old gentleman, “if you are so
resolved, I will accompany you, for I make no doubt
that without my company you would soon go astray
again. Fortunately my way runs with your own.”</p>
<p>The three set out again, and rode some distance,
until they heard the roar of the sea even above the
shrieking of the gale, and felt the flecks of sea-foam
upon their cheeks.</p>
<p>“Man,” said the vicar, in a rage, as a more than
usually vivid flash of lightning showed them to be
upon the verge of a tall cliff, “do you know what
you are doing—bringing us to these fearful rocks?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” replied the stranger, “this is my road,”
and he laid his hand upon the vicar’s shoulder.</p>
<p>“Take your hand off,” yelled the vicar, “it’s
devilish hot,” as indeed it must have been, for
where the old man’s hand had been placed there
rose up a thin curl of smoke from scorched cloth.</p>
<p>“Hot is it?” inquired the old gentleman mildly,
“perhaps I am slightly feverish.”</p>
<div id="i_60" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 35em;">
<img src="images/i_126fp.jpg" width="552" height="337" alt="" />
<div class="caption">SEA WALL, TEIGNMOUTH.</div></div>
<p>But the vicar had perceived into what terrible
company he had fallen, and shouting to the clerk,
he lashed his horse furiously. But, no matter how<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">127</span>
hard he or the clerk plied their whips, not an inch
would the horses budge. The winds changed into
demoniacal shouts; troops of fiends, warlocks, and
witches gathered round, shrieking, as the pair sank
down into the face of the cliff, and a horrid peal of
mocking laughter was the last thing they heard on
earth.</p>
<p>The next morning, when the farmer’s men came
down to the sands with their carts for the seaweed
thrown up by the storm over night, they were
astonished at beholding a face in the cliff’s overhead,
and, standing out in the sea, crowned with screaming
cormorants, and buffeted by the heavy waves, a tall
pillar of rock which had not been there before.</p>
<p>I take this moving story as a warning to parish
clubs to be careful in the selection of their vicars.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XXXVI">XXXVI.</h2>
</div>
<p>From here it is a two miles’ walk along the sea-wall
into Teignmouth. Time and again, in winter
storms, hundreds of feet of massive masonry have
been torn down, and often carried away bodily, by
the sea, and on two or three occasions great landslips
have occurred from the soaring red-sandstone cliffs
overlooking the railway. Railway engineering here
is no play.</p>
<p>“Teignmouth” (says my Bædeker) “is a large
watering-place, prettily situated at the mouth of the
Teign.” Thus far the guide-book. It is a peculiar
feature of this class of literature that information is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">128</span>
hurled at one’s head in stodgy lumps, in which are
embedded measurements and statistics, enclosed in
brackets sprinkled over the pages, like—like currants
in a penny bun. Yet there are misguided folk who
read guide-books continuously: these are people
with an insatiable rage for general information, who
spout dates at every turn.</p>
<div id="i_61" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 22em;">
<img src="images/i_128.jpg" width="340" height="199" alt="" />
<div class="caption">RAILWAY AND SEA-WALL, NIGHT.</div></div>
<div id="i_62" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 23em;">
<img src="images/i_128a.jpg" width="358" height="217" alt="" />
<div class="caption">From East Cliff, Teignmouth</div></div>
<p>But Teignmouth may well be termed a watering-place,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">129</span>
if one may take the fact of its being partly
surrounded by water as a valid claim to that obscure
appellation, although I wot of places bearing it
which are like unto the great Sahara for dryness.</p>
<p>The town, which ranks next after Torquay in size,
is continually growing, and climbing up the hillsides.
They have built in every direction; the tunnels that
were used to render its railway station even as the
stations of the Metropolitan Railway for gloom have
been opened out; the pier has burst into a dreadful
variegated rash of advertisements, and the bathing-machines
are blatant with the name of a certain
Pill.</p>
<p>But with the growth of the town, the local rates,
say the ratepayers, with doleful intonation, keep pace,
and the ambition of the local governing body accompanies
the onward march, and tends to o’erleap itself
in matters of public improvements.</p>
<p>There is the market-house for the pointing of an
example. I well remember the cavernous ramshackle
old place that stood here years ago, a dim and dismal
hole, where the blinking, owl-like stall-holders sold
beans by the hundred and (so say the malicious)
peas by the dozen. The Local Board pulled it down,
which was, by itself, a well-advised action; but when
there presently arose on its site another building
devoted to the same purpose, wiseacres shook their
heads and prophesied evil things.</p>
<p>When Teignmouth sages foretold these things,
they displayed a foresight that would not have disgraced
the Delphic Oracle; for, although the new
market was in every way adapted to modern needs,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">130</span>
yet in a short while its complete failure, commercially,
was sufficiently demonstrated, and, to this day, he
who would be alone and shun his fellow-men, betakes
himself to the market, and broods there undisturbed.
You may wander in the by-lanes of the countryside,
or sit upon the hardly accessible rocks beyond the
Ness, but, even then, you shall not be so secure
from human gaze or so unutterably lonely as in the
“market.” Yet the business of the town has not
decayed; neither, I suspect, are the tradesfolk less
prosperous than of yore: the market simply was not
wanted.</p>
<div id="i_63" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 26em;">
<img src="images/i_130.jpg" width="414" height="290" alt="" />
<div class="caption">THE TEIGN.</div></div>
<p>When we were at Teignmouth we became of a
mildly inquiring turn of mind, and wandered along
the sands to where the Teign flows out, across the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">131</span>
sandy shifting bar, into the sea. Across the wide
estuary is the fishing-village of Shaldon, now
growing out of all knowledge, and the bold red
front of the Ness, crowned with firs, confronting
the waves.</p>
<div id="i_64" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 23em;">
<img src="images/i_131.jpg" width="354" height="193" alt="" />
<div class="caption">TEIGNMOUTH HARBOUR.</div></div>
<p>Round here by the sand spit, past the battery
<i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">pour rire</i>, is the little lighthouse, and behind it the
lifeboat-house, with its window illuminated at
night, where the barometer and weather-chart are
anxiously scanned in the summer months by eager
visitors. For the proverbial inconstancy of the
weather is very marked here. One may stand looking
up the Teign in fine weather, to where the
Dartmoor hills loom grey in the distance, and presently
see the rain-clouds gather and sweep swiftly
down the valley, blotting out the landscape with
driving mist; and yet, in a little while, it shall be
all bright again with sunshine. It is, indeed, not
often that a day in Devon is entirely hopeless, for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">132</span>
clouds disperse frequently as quickly as they come.
It is to this moist climate that softly beautiful
Devonshire owes its fair name.</p>
<p>Behind the lifeboat-house is the harbour, where
is to be found the real life of the place, as distinguished
from that entirely different existence lived
in summer months on the sands, the pier, or the
Den, that wide lawn fronting the sea.</p>
<p>Teignmouth, in fact, is not merely a summer
resort. It has a select and proper society, which is
nothing if not dignified and stately, Teignmouth
society being composed of retired half-pay officers
and their families, with slim purses and inflated
pride—a curious and exceptional combination. The
attitude of this circle is one prolonged sniff.</p>
<p>A small shipping trade, and a fairly commodious
harbour to accommodate it, together with quays and
queer waterside inns and storehouses and a custom-house,
are livelier attributes of the town. Also, there
are sail-lofts and seafaring smells, and a shipbuilding
yard, where I remember, years ago, to have seen
a vessel built. Boats there are, and a yacht or two
anchored out in the channel, a cluster of ships buoyed
out in deep water, and at ebb tide, two or three big
vessels heeled over in the ooze. There is a very
nautical flavour, figurative and realistic, about the
harbour, and an ancient and fish-like smell about
the jetty where the fisher-boats land their catches.
Hereabouts, in the sunshine, sit rows of amphibious
loungers, who smoke, chew tobacco, and curse the
livelong day—such of them as have not been converted
at the Gospel Hall yonder.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">133</span>
Up the river, beyond the harbour and the clustering
masts, is the bridge. A remarkable bridge this,
built of wood in the first years of the present century,
with thirty-four arches, and (to descend to the
particularity of the guide-book) a total length of
1670 feet.</p>
<p>Shaldon is reached by it, and the Torquay road.
The ferry-boats from the harbour take passengers
across for the same toll of a penny either way. We
went across by boat, and instead of taking the highroad
for Torquay, climbed round under the Ness,
among the fallen rocks and seaweed-slippery boulders
by the sea.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XXXVII">XXXVII.</h2>
</div>
<p>I knew an artist once who climbed round by these
jagged rocks, and slipped down between two of
them and sprained his ankle, just as they do in the
penny novelettes. But there the resemblance ceased.
The artists in the novelettes are always handsome
and of a god-like grace, and they wear moustaches
of a delightfully silken texture, and velveteen coats,
and talk pretty, like nothing or no one ever <em>did</em> talk.
This fellow, to the contrary, was as ugly a beggar
as one might meet in a long day’s march, and he
was as awkward as a duck out of water, and instead
of a velveteen coat he wore a blazer of the most
inartistic and thrilling combinations of coloured
stripes. He said velveteen coats were all “bally rot,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">134</span>
which shows how vulgar he could be on occasion.
No artist in the novelettes ever said “bally rot,”
I’m sure.</p>
<p>Also, he smoked tobacco of the rankest and most
objectionable kind, and he never wore a moustache
at all, and shaved only once a week, so that no self-respecting
girl was ever known to allow herself to
be kissed by him more than once. I can’t understand
how all this could be: it doesn’t resemble the
novelettes one little bit. But this artist was like
the artists in the tales in one particular; he painted
superlatively, as thoroughly, indeed, as he swore and
drank, and that is saying a great deal.</p>
<p>Well, as I was saying, he slipped down between
two rocks and sprained his ankle. He didn’t, like
those (I fear) apocryphal artists in the stories, lie
there gracefully and quote Shakespeare and Dr.
Watts about it, until two lovely heiresses to untold
millions came along in a boat and rescued him from
the rising tide, and fell in love with him and married
the fellow (one of them, I mean; the other—in
the stories—dies of a broken heart).</p>
<p>No! He lay there and swore dreadfully, until
some fishermen came along and refused to take him
off in their boat until he had paid them a sov.,
money down, when he swore (if possible) more
dreadfully than before. No beautiful girls came
and rescued him at all; only one old maid passed,
who, thinking he was drunk, gave him a tract,
warned him against the evils of intemperance,
and went away, shocked at the “language” he
used.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">135</span>
This is a very sad and unromantic episode, I know,
but things do fall out thus in real life. If this
simple story should prove of any use to realistic
novelists, I’m sure I should be only too proud for
them to use it.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, let us away to Torquay. Here a steep
and rugged path, leading up the face of the cliff,
brings us to Labrador. Every visitor to Teignmouth
goes also to Labrador, a name not usually coupled
with sunshine and sparkling sea, <i xml:lang="es" lang="es">al fresco</i> teas, and
roses at a penny a piece. He was a romantic mercantile
Jack, who, retiring from the Newfoundland
and North American seas, laid out his precarious
little estate and built this little house on it, and
named his domain after an inhospitable coast. He
has voyaged long since into the Unknown, and his
romance has gone with him, for the place is now but
a superior sort of tea-garden, where you drink your
tea and eat your cream and strawberries in the open-air
arbours and the society of innumerable centipedes
and spiders.</p>
<p>You cannot fare farther along the coast-line, just
here, without becoming bedevilled amid fallen rocks
and rising tides; and to climb the cliffs at a venture
might haply result in being hung up on some impracticable
ledge, whence advance or retreat would
be alike impossible. So we climbed the usual,
though precipitous, path past Labrador on to
the cliff-top, and from thence across ruddy fields
to the dusty highway, along which, to our surprise,
came two Italians with a piano-organ. O
Herrick!</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">136</span></p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The minstrels from the town are gone—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">On Devon roads you’ll find ’em;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They play “Ta-ra,” “He’s Got ’em On”<br /></span>
<span class="i2">(Those cursed tunes), and grind ’em,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Both day and night, in curly chords,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">On organs called “piano;”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They hail, these handle-turning hordes,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">From Tiber, or the Arno.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">To “Get Your Hair Cut” they incite,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In thrilling shakes and catches,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With notes that thunder day and night;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">They grind ’em forth in batches.<br /></span>
<span class="iq">“’Ow <em>you’d</em> like ’Awkins for your other name,”<br /></span>
<span class="i2">They play “<em>expressione</em>”—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Away! you errant sons of song,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To home, and—macaroni.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“<em>Piano</em>” do they call the things?<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I wish they were so, really.<br /></span>
<span class="iq">“<em>Fortissimo</em>,” their torture rings—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I’d like to smash ’em, dearly.<br /></span>
<span class="i0"><em>Tommaso</em> from Bologna hails;<br /></span>
<span class="i2"><em>Paolo</em> from Napoli;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Their organ, with its trills and wails,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Proceeds from place unholy.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>“Would the signori lika ze musique?” and, suiting
the action to the word, the chief brigand gave
the organ-handle a turn. Out leaped the initial bars
of—yes, let it be named—“Ta-ra-ra Boom de Ay.”
The signori would <em>not</em> like any; please to go away.
“What,” asked the Wreck, “is the Italian for ‘take
your hook?’” But I didn’t know, and so, in default,
to cut matters short, we took ours.</p>
<p>There was no escaping the ubiquitous tune that
was our “only wear” in matters musical last year.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">137</span>
The very trains that rattled one down to the sounding
sea pounded it out to the alert ear as they ran
along the metals; the fly-man, who drove you at
a crawling pace to your “digs.,” whistled it; and
your landlady’s daughter (“a dear good girl, sir, an’
clever at ’er music, which she takes after me in, though
I ses it as shouldn’t. Play the gentleman something,
there’s a love”) thumped it out unmercifully.
Seaside landladies, by the way, have always, by some
strange dispensation of Providence, three things apparently
inseparable from their race—a daughter, a
piano, and a sea-view. The daughter plays on the
piano, and the landlady harps upon the view—both
musical, you see. Most, also, have “seen better
days,” and as it usually rains when I visit those
yellow sands, the statement admits of no dispute.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XXXVIII">XXXVIII.</h2>
</div>
<p>The coast here is serrated with tiny bays, from
which run valleys, called in Devonshire “coombes,”
or “combes,” variously. Of these, Watcombe is
perhaps best known. Sometimes the combe has
become a town, as at Babbacombe.</p>
<p>Maidencombe is one of the smallest and prettiest
of those deep and narrow valleys, clothed with a rich
vegetation, and thickly wooded with giant elms, retired,
and, what Devonshire folk call “loo,” or “lew,”
that is, sheltered. There is, indeed, a secluded parish
in Devon to whose name this commendatory adjective
is prefixed—Lew Trenchard, to wit—noteworthy also<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">138</span>
as being the home of that strenuous author, the
Rev. Sabine Baring-Gould. On the other hand,
there is yet another Lew in Devon—North Lew—in
the northern part of the county, a wild, stormy,
bleak, misbegotten place, whose name was probably
conferred in derision by some deluded inhabitant;
it is the place where, according to the local saying,
the devil died of the cold!</p>
<div id="i_65" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 19em;">
<img src="images/i_138.jpg" width="303" height="401" alt="" />
<div class="caption">MAIDENCOMBE.</div></div>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">139</span>
Watcombe we passed, with its towering red rocks
rising sheer out of the coombe; and, after toiling up
hill and down dale, arrived at Babbacombe, a fairy
settlement of villas adjoining Torquay’s suburb of
Marychurch. Red sandstone rocks give place to
lofty limestone cliffs, clothed in luxuriant foliage,
and skirted about their base with beaches of rounded
limestone pebbles of every size, smoothed and polished
by constant friction of the water.</p>
<p>We took tea at the Carey Arms, upon the lawn
that gives on the water; and admired, with the fleeting
tourist’s regretful admiration, those blood-red and
milk-white cliffs, and that foreshore of the whitest,
hugest, and hardest marbles, and that sea of the
most bewitching and impossible light-blue—impossible,
that is to say, from the point of view of
he or she who would transfer it to canvas—and
bewildered brush-wielders are here the commonest
objects of the seashore. Not the least of the things
for which Torquay and Babbacombe are responsible
are the wasting of good paint and the spoiling of
many acres of fair primed canvas.</p>
<p>Beauty, you see, of any sort, is never harmless.</p>
<p>Leaving Babbacombe, we turned aside to visit
Anstey’s Cove, that deep pool, guarded by ghostly
pinnacles of rocks, and overhung with silver birch
and brambles. Who was Anstey, and why was this
cave named after him? Who, again (forgive the
digression), was Tooks, and why was a court in
Holborn made ridiculous with his name? We can
only fold our hands, and say in either case, “We
don’t know.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">140</span>
Anstey’s Cove is a favourite bathing-place, and has
at its entrance from the road a famous sign. The
sign has been here for years, and is become quite a
time-honoured institution. The original “Thomas,”
I fear, is long since gathered to his fathers.</p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“Picnics supplied with hot water and tea<br /></span>
<span class="i0">At a nice little house down by the sea;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fresh Crabs and Lobsters every day,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Salmon Peel sometimes, Red Mullet and Grey;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The neatest of Pleasure Boats let out on hire;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fishing Tackle as good as you can desire;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Bathing Machines for Ladies are kept,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With Towels and Gowns all quite correct.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thomas is the man who provides everything:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And also teaches Young People to Swim.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Excellent and most moral Thomas! Mindful both
of provisions and the proprieties, your truly British
characteristics shall excuse your errors of rhyme and
rhythm; and though your lines don’t scan, I trust your
actions <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">là bas</i> have attained a ready scansion <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">là haut</i>.</p>
<p>And now Torquay is near, happily situated
on a down grade, for which praise be. But let us
be duly reverent, for Torbay, shining yonder in the
afternoon sun, is the gate by which entered, “for our
goods,” as Fraulein Kilmansegg innocently observed,
the Hanoverian dynasty, to save a nation which
could not save itself.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XXXIX">XXXIX.</h2>
</div>
<p>When first I saw Torquay and Torbay (I am afraid
to think how many years ago), and the long line<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">141</span>
of curving coast stretching away past <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">parvenu</i>
Paignton to Berry Head, I thought that here was a
veritable fairyland amongst seaside resorts. Many
things have happened since then: the South Devon
coast, once so solitary, so quiet, has everywhere its
fringe of trim-built villas; the lonely coombes, once
the home of rabbits and some few fishermen, echoing
only with the querulous cries of sea-gulls, are
now filled, or are filling, with bungalows, as quick-multiplying
as were those ousted rabbits, and the
brazen clang of German bands makes miserable the
soul of man. These are the defects that make this
fairyland of other years something less gracious and
more prosaic than before; but bungalows and bands,
and other kindred afflictions of a popular populous
watering-place, have power only to discount, not
altogether to bankrupt, its charm.</p>
<p>And charming is still the epithet for Torquay,
seated majestically 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 <em>inamorata</em> 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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">142</span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">143</span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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 <i>Bellerophon</i>
(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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">144</span>
a Richardson’s show, to be peeped at by that
“nation of shopkeepers” which he had so gratuitously
despised.<a id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">3</a> 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 <span class="locked">specimen:—</span></p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“When husbands with their wives agree,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And maids won’t wed from modesty,<br /></span>
<span class="i0"><em>Then</em> little Bony he’ll pounce down,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And march his men on London town.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="in0">After which followed the rousing <span class="locked">chorus—</span></p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“Rollickum rorum, tol-lol lorum,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Rollickum rorum, tol-lol lay.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>And these matters are Torquay’s sole concern with
political history. Happy town, say I.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XL">XL.</h2>
</div>
<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">145</span>
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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">146</span>
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.</p>
<p>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
<span class="locked">son:”—</span></p>
<div class="center"><div class="ilb">
<p class="inm04">“In Night of death, here Rests y<sup>e</sup> gooD, &<br />
fair, who all life Day, Gave God Both heart<br />
and ear, no Dirt (nor Distance) hinDerD<br />
her Resort, for love still Pav’D y<sup>e</sup> way, &<br />
cut it short, to Parents, husBanD, frienDs<br />
none Better knew, y<sup>e</sup> triBute of Duty &<br />
she PaiD it tow, BeloveD By, & loving<br />
all Dearly, her son to whom she<br />
first Gave life, then lost her owne<br />
he kinD Poor lamB for his Dam a full<br />
Year crieD, alas in vain, ther for for<br />
love he DieD <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">Anno Domi 1679</i>.”
</p>
</div></div>
<div id="i_66" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 23em;">
<img src="images/i_147.jpg" width="364" height="312" alt="" />
<div class="caption">BERRY POMEROY CASTLE.</div></div>
<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">147</span>
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 <em>no</em> 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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">148</span>
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.</p>
<p>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.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">149</span>
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.</p>
<div id="i_67" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 11em;">
<img src="images/i_149.jpg" width="163" height="203" alt="" />
<div class="caption">FROM A MONUMENT, BERRY.</div></div>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XLI">XLI.</h2>
</div>
<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">150</span>
the other, and between them runs the Dart, crossed
by a very serviceable, very modern, very uninteresting
bridge, that stands sponsor to the suburb.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">152</span>
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.”</p>
<div id="i_68" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 24em;">
<img src="images/i_151.jpg" width="372" height="515" alt="" />
<div class="caption">EASTGATE, TOTNES.</div></div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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 “<span class="smcap">Oliver</span>, by the grace
of God.” Oliver, you shall see, is nothing less than
“His Highness.”</p>
<p>And now, having “done” the town, do not, I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">153</span>
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.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XLII">XLII.</h2>
</div>
<p>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 <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">en grande tenue</i>” (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.</p>
<p>“Sixpence more, please,” said the collector.</p>
<p>“What for?” demanded the Wreck.</p>
<p>“You can see the notice,” replied the man; and
he pointed to an inscription, “Passengers going
abaft the funnel must pay saloon fare.”</p>
<p>“But we didn’t go abaft the funnel,” said the
Wreck; “we sat behind all the time.”</p>
<p>“Behind <em>is</em> abaft,” remarked the collector....</p>
<p>The Wreck paid the sixpence. “But,” said he, “I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">154</span>
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.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XLIII">XLIII.</h2>
</div>
<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">155</span>
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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">156</span>
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.</p>
<p>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 <span class="locked">spelling:—</span></p>
<div class="p1 poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza b0">
<span class="iq">“<span class="smcap">John Roope, of Dartmouth, Marchant, 1609.</span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“’Twas not a winded nor a withered face<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor long gray hares nor dimnes in the eyes<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor feble limbs nor uncouth trembling pace<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Presagd his death that here intombed lies<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His time was come, his maker was not bounde<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To let him live till all their markes were founde,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His time was come, that time he did imbrace<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With sence & feelinge with a joyfull harte<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As his best passage to a better place,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where all his cares are ended & his smarte<br /></span>
<span class="i0">This Roope was blest, that trusted in God alone<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He lives twoe lives where others live but one.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<div id="i_69" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 35em;">
<img src="images/i_156fp.jpg" width="560" height="391" alt="" />
<div class="caption">DARTMOUTH CASTLE.</div></div>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">157</span>
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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">158</span>
the pulpit on wet Sundays, but of this I am not
quite sure.</p>
<div id="i_70" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 16em;">
<img src="images/i_158.jpg" width="253" height="354" alt="" />
<div class="caption">ANCIENT IRONWORK, SOUTH DOOR OF SAINT SAVIOUR’S
CHURCH, DARTMOUTH.</div></div>
<p>The outcome of this wordy war was a compromise:
the roof was made watertight, and the restoration
generally was dropped like a hot potato.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">159</span>
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.</p>
<div id="i_71" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 13em;">
<img src="images/i_159.jpg" width="207" height="142" alt="" />
<div class="caption">ARMS OF DARTMOUTH ON THE OLD GAOL.</div></div>
<p>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.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XLIV">XLIV.</h2>
</div>
<p>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.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">160</span>
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.</p>
<p>We had just reached the bottom of a long hill
when we met a countryman of whom we inquired
the way.</p>
<p>“Did ye coom from oop yon?” said he.</p>
<p>“Yes,” we replied, with forebodings of disaster.</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>The beach was practicable for some distance, until
the water on one side, and a high padlocked gate
decorated with spikes and nails on the other, seemed
to bar all further progress. We carefully scaled the
gate, and dropped into the meadows on the other
side, leaving a record of our progress in the shape
of a fragment of the Wreck’s clothing fluttering aloft<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">161</span>
in the breeze. A toilsome climb through many fields
and thick hedges brought us to a vantage point,
whence we could see our goal—Dittisham Quay—below,
situated on a narrow isthmus beside the Dart,
where the river doubled on its course. Close beside
it miraculously appeared the village we had left.
We had painfully traversed three miles of this promontory,
instead of crossing the narrow neck of land
that alone separated village and quay.</p>
<p>Tea was a grateful meal indeed after this. We
took it at the open windows of an inn that looked
upon the water, and when the meal was done the sun
went down. The air grew intensely chill, and the
mists crept along the face of the water. I had just
touched in the last notes of Dittisham Quay, when
the whistle of the steamer sounded up river, and the
vessel came swiftly round the Point. We were the
only passengers from Dittisham, and were soon put
aboard. This steamer was one of the smaller boats
that ply on the Dart, with furnace and boiler-covering
on deck. We sat on the hot iron, the Wreck and I,
and felt happy as the heat worked through. Now
and again the crew (two all told) would open the
furnace door, and the light from the glowing coals
would shine on their faces with a ruddy glow, intensified
by the steely-blue water and the dark background
of hills, until they looked like so many devils
from hell.</p>
<p>We nearly ran down in the darkness a small launch,
whose occupant had (one of the crew observed) suddenly
“shifted his hellum”—whatever that may mean,
and then we ran alongside the <i>Britannia</i> and the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">162</span>
<i>Hindostan</i> training-vessels, with their lights streaming
brilliantly through many ports on to the tide.</p>
<p>Those two sturdy old line-of-battle ships, with
their lofty sides and long ranges of ports, tier over
tier, are of types more seemly, more impressive, than
the wallowing masses of ironmongery that to-day are
in the forefront of our navy. They recall the days
when England was well defended against tremendous
odds by her wooden walls, superseded in these days
by intricate machinery, inconstant and uncertain in
time of need, and misdirected from Westminster by
wooden heads that unluckily show no signs of
supersession.</p>
<p>The moon had risen over Kingswear when our
throbbing cockle-shell stopped her heart-beats and
was warped gently against the pontoon, and the shine
tipped every little ripple in the harbour with silver,
making silhouettes of Kingswear houses and hills.
Two red lights shone from the landing-stage, and a
number of other lights glimmered yellow by comparison
with the moon’s rays; other hills were of
a velvety blackness, and against them stood out
the slim white masts and spars of the many yachts
anchored out in mid-stream. The little pencillings
of light that played upon the water added to the
charm of the scene and the witchery of it. You
cannot convey a sense of its beauty by words; it
cannot, indeed, be conveyed at all. Take the charmingest
effect of stage scenery that you have ever
seen, and add a Shylock-like percentage, then you
are by way of a conception of the surpassing beauty
of Dartmouth harbour on a summer’s night.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">163</span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XLV">XLV.</h2>
</div>
<p>Little yellow coaches run three times daily from
Dartmouth to Kingsbridge and <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">vice versâ</i>, running
winter and summer. We walked out of Dartmouth
as far as Stoke Fleming—three miles. What shall I
say of the country, save that it was hilly? I think we
walked to the village through some dim recollections
of the name and fame of Thomas Newcomen, who
invented the steam-engine, lived and died at Dartmouth,
and was buried here. They say his first
notion of steam power was gained through watching
the steam from his kettle lifting the lid, but do they
not also say the same of James Watt?</p>
<p>After all we did not find much of interest in Stoke
Fleming church, and saw nothing of Thomas Newcomen’s
tomb. But, on the other hand, we saw and
copied the curious epitaph to his ancestor, Elias
Newcomen, who was vicar here. It is a small mural
brass, on the south chancel <span class="locked">pier:—</span></p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“Elias old lies here intombd in grave<br /></span>
<span class="i0">but Newecomin to heavens habitation<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In knowledge old, in zeale, in life most grave<br /></span>
<span class="i0">too good for all who live in lamentation,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whose ffire & Ceed with hauie plaint & mone<br /></span>
<span class="i0">will say too late Elias old is gone.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="center">
The xiij of Ivli 1614.”
</div></div>
</div>
<p>A fourteenth-century brass, to the memory of John
and Elyenore Corp, with curious French and Latin
epitaph, was interesting. Then we heard the horn of
the coach, and rushed out just in time to secure our<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">164</span>
seats. With our advent the coach became filled.
We of the outside were tourists all. All the way the
gentleman-driver and the passenger beside him talked
“horse,” and some of the talk was very tall indeed.</p>
<p>We passed down extremely steep roads, through
Blackpool valley, from thence up again, through the
miserable village of Street down at last to Slapton
Sands, the driver throwing out, now and again, packages
of newspapers as we passed various estates.</p>
<p>Slapton Sands is a three miles’ stretch of shore,
with a perfectly straight and level coach road the
whole distance. On one side is the sea, and on the
other the waters and marshes of Slapton Lea—fresh
water on one hand, salt on the other: the Sands
Hotel between.</p>
<p>Our coach stopped a moment to unload some luggage
for the sportsmen staying here, for the fishing
and the wild-fowl shooting are famous; then on
again to Torcross, where we changed horses. At
this modern settlement the road turns inland, and
goes, through comparatively uninteresting country,
past Stokenham, Chillington, and Charleton. Then
over a sturdy bridge spanning a creek, and at last
upon the road that borders Salcombe River, and leads
past the Quay into Kingsbridge.</p>
<p>The coach rattled up to the “Anchor,” at the foot of
the steep Fore Street of Kingsbridge. We discharged
our obligations to the gentleman-driver, secured our
beds, and ordered dinner, eventually despatched amid
the litter of our mail from London, which was duly
lying at Kingsbridge Post-Office on our arrival. The
Wreck, knowing (good soul) that it would be impossible<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">165</span>
otherwise for me to keep my attention off my
proofs, filched those entrancing sheets away, and sat
on them until the advent of the coffee.</p>
<p>But let us have done with these domestic details:
what of Kingsbridge?</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XLVI">XLVI.</h2>
</div>
<p>Kingsbridge at the time of writing is chiefly noted
for its being ten miles from the nearest railway
station; but when these lines see the crowning
glory of print, it will probably have lost that claim
to distinction, for there is now building a branch to
it from the main line at Brent, and when that branch
is opened, Lord alone knows what the place will do for
name or notoriety, unless indeed it can keep the mild
fame of its “white ale” in the forefront, together
with what <em>kudos</em> may accrue from the sister parish
(of Dodbrooke) having been the birthplace of Dr.
John Wolcot.</p>
<div id="i_72" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 26em;">
<img src="images/i_166.jpg" width="402" height="499" alt="" />
<div class="caption">Fore Street Kingsbridge</div></div>
<p>For “Peter Pindar” was born at Dodbrooke in
1738, and has he not immortalised the twin-towns of
Kingsbridge and Dodbrooke in one of his “Odes to my
Barn”? The first ode was called forth by the Doctor’s
sheltering a persecuted band of strolling players, who
ran no small risk of stocks and pillory.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">167</span></p><div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">“Sweet haunt of solitude and rats,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Mice, tuneful owls, and purring cats;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who, whilst we mortals sleep, the gloom pervade,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And wish not for the sun’s all-seeing eye,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Your mousing mysteries to spy;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Blessed, like philosophers, amidst the shade;<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">When Persecution, with an iron hand,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Dared drive the moral-menders from the land,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Called players,—friendly to the wandering crew,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Thine eyes with tears surveyed the mighty wrong,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Thine open arms received the mournful throng—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Kings without shirts, and queens with half a shoe.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="tb">* * * * *</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">Daughter of thatch, and stone, and mud,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">When I, no longer flesh and blood,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Shall join of lyric bards some half-a-dozen;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Meed of high worth, and, midst th’ Elysian plains,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To Horace and Alcæus read my strains,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Anacreon, Sappho, and my great cousin.<a id="FNanchor_4" href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">4</a><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">On thee shall rising generations stare,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That come to Kingsbridge or to Dodbrooke fair:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Like Alexander, shall they every one,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Heave the deep sigh, and say, ‘Since Peter’s gone,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With reverence let us look upon his barn.’”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>You will see by these last few lines that “Peter”
had a good conceit of himself, and I must confess
that I like him all the more for it. The same spirit
flows through all his works in artless (or is it artful)
manner; certainly it spurred his enemies (and they
were many) to unseemly exhibitions of wrath in their
retaliatory versicles, in which they could by no means
match the flowing metre and sarcasm of Dr. Wolcot’s
spiteful muse. Here is a specimen of the attacks
upon him, which derives its point from his profession—the
cheapness of the gibe is <span class="locked">obvious:—</span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">168</span></p><div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“I wish thou hadst more serious work,<a id="FNanchor_5" href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">5</a><br /></span>
<span class="i2">As ’Pothecary to the Turk,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">How wouldst thou sweep the Mussulmans away:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Not Janizaries breathing blood and ruin,<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">And daily mischief and rebellion brewing,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Not plagues, nor bowstring, nor a bloody battle<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Would kill so fast this unbelieving Cattle,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As doses—mixt in Doctor Pindar’s way.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>This versifier was a champion of George III.,
whom Wolcot was never weary of satirising for his
meanness and parsimony and general dunderheadedness.
That monarch was an excellent butt into
which to fire arrows of stinging satire; in especial,
his eccentric habit of incessantly repeating his words
is delightfully taken advantage of, as, for example,
in that extremely witty description of “A Royal Visit
to Whitbread’s <span class="locked">Brewery”—</span></p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“Grains, grains, said majesty, to fill their crops;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Grains, grains!—that comes from hops—<br /></span>
<span class="i12">Yes, hops, hops, hops.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>John Wolcot was in early life apprenticed to his
uncle, an apothecary of Fowey. After accompanying
Sir William Trelawney to Jamaica, as physician, he
took holy orders, and was presented to a living in
the island.</p>
<p>Returning to England and his old profession, he
settled at Truro and Helston, finally removing to
London in 1780, and bringing with him young Opie,
whom he had discovered in the wilds of Mithian. In
old age he became blind, and died in London 1819,
and was buried in St. Paul’s Church, Covent Garden.</p>
<p>When I say that Kingsbridge market-house has a
turnip-like clock, I would not have you suspect me
of flouting this prosperous little town, the market
centre for the rich agricultural district of the South
Hams. I would not do such a thing: my intentions<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">169</span>
are strictly honourable. Believe me, I simply and
dispassionately state a grotesque fact, which you
may verify from the drawing of Kingsbridge, and
parallel from the almost exactly similar clock of St.
Anne’s, Soho.</p>
<p>This morning we looked into Kingsbridge church,
and copied the philosophic epitaph to “Bone Phillip,”<a id="FNanchor_6" href="#Footnote_6" class="fnanchor">6</a>
and then to the Grammar School, a sturdy stone
building, with the following inscription over its
<span class="locked">doorway:—</span></p>
<p class="center b1">
This Grammar School was<br />
Built and Endowed 1670<br />
By<br />
Thomas Crispin of y<sup>e</sup> City of<br />
Exon Fuller, who was Born in<br />
this Town y<sup>e</sup> 6<sup>th</sup> of Jan 160–7/8<br />
Lord w<sup>t</sup> I have twas Thou y<sup>t</sup> Gavst it me<br />
And of Thine owne this I Return to Thee.
</p>
<p>There is a large portrait of Crispin still hanging
on the principal staircase, rich in tone, representing
the benefactor with the broadest of broad-brimmed
hats and walking-cane—a mild-featured gentleman.
And yet he is the terror of small boys, who hold the
belief that this gentle soul comes forth at midnight
from his frame, carrying his head under his arm. I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">170</span>
have slept in the bedroom he is supposed particularly
to affect in his nightly wanderings, but (needless to
say) Crispin did not disturb me.</p>
<div id="i_73" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 14em;">
<img src="images/i_170.jpg" width="210" height="325" alt="" />
<div class="caption">HEADMASTER’S DESK, KINGSBRIDGE.</div></div>
<p>There is, too, in the low-pitched, panelled schoolroom
a headmaster’s desk, with canopy, worthy of
note, surmounted with a painting of the Royal Arms,
and the initials “C. R.,” with the date 1671; and,
on every available inch of woodwork, schoolboys,
more destructive than Time himself, have carved
their names or daubed them in ink, evidences these
of that noble rage for recognition, fame, or notoriety,
of that yearning for immortality, that possesses all
alike from cockney ’Enry upward.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">171</span>
I think something of this feeling impelled one of
us to the writing of these lines in the visitors’ book
of the “Anchor,” where we stayed. Here they <span class="locked">are—</span></p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">... And yet would stay<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To lounge the livelong day<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Adown the street, upon the Quay:<a id="FNanchor_7" href="#Footnote_7" class="fnanchor">7</a><br /></span>
<span class="i0">But duty calls. “Away, away!”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XLVII">XLVII.</h2>
</div>
<p>We left Kingsbridge as evening drew on, for the
five miles’ voyage to Salcombe. The steamer was
full of country folk, and a few tourists were observable
amid the market baskets. Next to us sat a
young fellow and his newly married wife, evidently
on their honeymoon, and desperately ill at ease.
Every one on board, although none of them were
acquainted with those young people, knew their
case, and they were the centre to which all eyes
were directed. Few noticed the scenery while this
human interest was on view, although that scenery
was most impressive.</p>
<p>The <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">quasi</i> river of Salcombe, seen under a gorgeous
sunset with lowering clouds, is not so much lovely
as weird, its lonely creeks and inlets running between
hills almost treeless, and black against the sky. We
passed the excursion steamer coming home to Kingsbridge
from Plymouth, with its white mast-head light,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">172</span>
and green and red side-lights, the hull of her looming
hugely as she rushed by.</p>
<div id="i_74" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 23em;">
<img src="images/i_172.jpg" width="366" height="311" alt="" />
<div class="caption">KINGSBRIDGE QUAY: EVENING.</div></div>
<p>Presently our engines stopped, and in sight of
Salcombe lights across the water, we landed a party
in the darkness of a lonely shore for Portlemouth.
Passengers and luggage were tumbled into the boat,
and soon were lost to view in the gloom; only the
splashing of the oars, the rattle of rowlocks, and the
murmur of voices indicating their neighbourhood.
When the boat returned we steamed across to Salcombe
Quay, and landed under the glittering lights
of the precipitous town; glittering, that is to say,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">173</span>
from a distance: near at hand they have more the
shine of glow-worms.</p>
<p>It is a thrilling experience to land thus, on a
Saturday night, in an entirely strange place, and to
have, perforce, to hunt immediately for a night’s
lodging. We traversed the long narrow street of
Salcombe without success, and finally arrived opposite
the glare of an imposing house.</p>
<p>“Do you want the hotel, sir?” inquired a Voice.</p>
<p>“Yes; which hotel is this?” demanded the Wreck,
directing his voice at the place generally, failing to
see any one.</p>
<p>“The Marine Hotel, sir!”</p>
<p>Now, we had heard something of the palatial
character of this hotel, and recollecting the traditional
shortness of the artist’s purse, we trembled!</p>
<p>“Oh!” said the Wreck, replying to the Voice,
“rather expensive hotel, is it not?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir,” replied the Voice, suddenly becoming
endowed with a body—Boots apparently—“first-class
hotel, sir.”</p>
<p>This meant waiters in evening dress and haughty
chambermaids. What should we dusty wayfarers do
in this galley, who carried our luggage on our backs?
No landlord of a “first-class hotel” respects a visitor
who has not piles of portmanteaux. We faded away
from the glance of that candid Boots into the (comparatively)
utter darkness, and so down the street again,
presently to find that haven where we would be.</p>
<p>We supped, and the Wreck discovered a crumb-brush.
“A brush at last!” he exclaimed, vigorously
brushing his hat with it.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">174</span>
“But that’s not a hat-brush,” said I, astonished.</p>
<p>“No matter,” said he, “brushes are so jolly scarce
down here that I’d take this chance if it were a
hearth-brush.”</p>
<p>Salcombe streets are of the most break-neck
character: full of tragic possibilities and large
stones. Only Fore Street is approximately level,
and in Fore Street are the shops. Such shops! We
looked into one window, about three feet square,
and made a mental inventory of its contents:—Six
Spanish onions; a plateful of wooden dolls, leering
with vacuous glances at a tin of sardines; four tin
money-boxes; three plates of apples (incarnate
stomach-aches); a cake of blacking; two cakes of
soap (whose name wild horses shall not drag from
me); five peg-tops; one plum cake; and, casting a
greasy light over all, a tallow dip in a brass candlestick.
Other shops there were which rejoiced in
large frontages and wide expanses of window, and,
displayed in those windows, were goods disposed at
rare and rhythmic intervals, so that one had not
the heart to destroy their symmetry by making
purchases.</p>
<p>Salcombe is a port of great possibilities. Were
it not so near a neighbour of Plymouth Sound, that
haven <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">par excellence</i>, it had been, one may surmise,
a well-frequented harbour, with a town rivalling
Dartmouth. For here is safe anchorage for ships
of deepest draught, and sea-room in plenty within
the gullet formed between precipitous cliffs. Even
yet, Salcombe may become a harbour where masts
will cluster thickly. True, the channel is beset<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">175</span>
with rocks, but what do rocks avail against dynamite?
Now it is seldom visited save by pleasure
yachts and stray coasting-vessels, with the Kingsbridge
Packet calling periodically at its quay <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">en
route</i> to or from Plymouth. Salcombe village has
grown into a small town of quiet residents, and
equally quiet holiday-makers, and possibly in the
near future the Kingsbridge Railway, now building,
may push on these few miles further, bringing to
the solitary coast scenery of the Bolt Head—the
grandest in Devon—a crowd of tourists, with the
inevitable consequences.</p>
<p>On this Sunday we stayed at Salcombe, and with
due Sabbatical languor explored the fantastic pinnacles
of Bolt Head, beautiful with the lowering
beauty of a dark and sullen savagery. It is a wild
and storm-tossed promontory on the seaward side
of a beautiful estate belonging to the Earl of Devon—a
place bearing the singular name of The Moult.
Down in the bottom, where the Moult homestead
stands sheltered, the tall elms grow straight and
comely; but on the hillside, trees of all kinds cling
tenaciously in gnarled, twisted, and stunted forms,
all bent in the direction in which stormy winds
most do blow. Down beside the water, facing the
entrance to the harbour, stand the remains of
Salcombe Castle, washed with the waves of every
high tide. Salcombe Castle was the scene of a four
months’ defence against the beleaguering Roundheads,
and when it at last surrendered, the garrison
marched out with all the honours of war,
“with thire usuall armes, drumes beating, and collars<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">176</span>
flyinge, with boundelars full of powder, and muskets
apertinable.”</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XLVIII">XLVIII.</h2>
</div>
<p>We were up early this morning, in order to catch
the Kingsbridge Packet, which called here on its
way to Plymouth, and was timed for eight o’clock.
But we need not have hurried over our breakfast
to reach the quay, for when we walked aboard on
the stroke of eight, the amphibious-looking crew
were still busily loading up with the fragments of
machinery and steam-pipes salved from a neighbouring
wreck, and it was not until nearly an hour later
that we were steaming out of the harbour toward
the open sea. Meanwhile we secured as decent
seats as might be on this grimy cargo-steamer of
the old-fashioned paddle description, and watched
with considerable amusement the frantic efforts of
crew and loafers to push her off from the quay walls.
The captain, not, I think, a skipper of coruscating
brilliancy, took the wheel, and shouted himself hoarse
down the speaking-tube with contrary directions,
among which we distinguished such choice expressions
as, “Stop her, damn you!” “Easy turn ahead!”
“Full turn astern!” while the paddle-box ground
horribly against the projecting corners of the quay,
and the crew and the crowd of loafers jabbed away
violently with long poles.</p>
<p>At last we swung clear, and steamed into the fairway,
where we stopped and took two sailing vessels<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">177</span>
in tow. When we had made all fast we started in
earnest, and came out of Salcombe round by Bolt
Head with much straining and slackening of hawsers,
as the two vessels astern pitched and wallowed
in the heavy seas.</p>
<p>The morning was chill and misty, and inclined
for rain. The rocks of Bolt Head, although we
were so near to them, could only now and again
be even partially seen through shredded vapours,
and all around was a ghostly wall of opalescent fog.
The pilot took charge of the wheel—a statuesque
figure, silent, impassive, shrouded in gamboge-coloured
oilskins, and steadfastly gazing ahead with
set eyes under shaggy eyebrows.</p>
<p>We made, as well as we could, a tour of the
vessel, laying firm hold of bulwarks and ropes and
seats as we went. There were few people aboard,
but there was a great deal of miscellaneous cargo
on deck, beside the remains of the wrecked steamer’s
engine-room. We coasted round a pile of petroleum
barrels, coloured that hideous blue which identifies
them anywhere; and then one of us fell over a
basket full of squawking live ducks, voyaging to Plymouth
market. Then, doubling a promontory of
empty beer barrels, we came upon the engine-room,
smelling to heaven with boiling oil and rancid fat.
We could see it, bubbling and greasy, on the hot
metal, and that “finished” us. We leant over the side
of the vessel, and were very and continuously ill.</p>
<div class="tb">* * * * *</div>
<p>I think it must have been after the lapse of a few
years that we came in sight of Plymouth Sound.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">179</span>
Plymouth Sound is perhaps one of the most soul-stirring
places in the world to an Englishman who
knows its story; but we had had, were having, too
much physical stirring to be even languidly interested
in it, which shows, by the way, the gross
enthraldom of mind by matter: soul-stirring has a
poor chance when you’re fearfully sea-sick.</p>
<div id="i_75" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 36em;">
<img src="images/i_178.jpg" width="566" height="392" alt="" />
<div class="caption">BOLT HEAD.</div></div>
<p>We passed the Mewstone Buoy, and fondly
imagined that, as the Breakwater came in sight,
the threshing and the buffeting of the sea was
done; but, though Plymouth seemed so near, it was
a weary three miles yet, and Britannia only rules
the waves in a metaphorical sense. Some one who
passed us, unmoved by all the uproar of the sea,
let off that antique joke. I could have killed him,
but refrained: his time will come, without doubt.</p>
<p>We landed at Millbay Docks, and never before
was I so pleased to set foot on shore.</p>
<p>The day had brightened considerably. We left our
knapsacks at a cloak-room, and set out for a preliminary
survey of Plymouth. We made at once for the
Hoe: I suppose everybody does the same thing.
The Hoe still affords a glorious outlook upon the
Sound and the sea beyond, although a great deal of
its western end has been quarried away for building
operations.</p>
<p>There, third or fifth-rate streets and tramways conspire
to render sordid a neighbourhood which any
other nation than our own would have kept sacred,
both for the satisfying of the æsthetic and the
patriotic instinct. But we have, I suppose, despite
the wind-bags of that House of Zephyrs at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">180</span>
Westminster, so much glorious tradition that we can
afford the destruction, or partial desecration, of sites
historic in the best sense. We can even afford, so
imperishable are our laurels, to set up memorials of
our achievements in arms, memorials whose uninspired
tawdriness would wither with unconscious
ridicule the scanty bays of other nations.</p>
<p>What satisfaction, what decorative pleasure is
gained in that achievement in ungainly ostentation,
the Armada Memorial? Is that rushing termagant
with flying petticoats indeed Britannia? and that
hairy poodle beside her, is that really the British
Lion? The British Lion, <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">pour rire</i>, rather: “The
British Lion is a noble scion,” the embodiment of
the music halls. This memorial, I suppose, is set
up in praiseworthy commemoration of the might of
the Mailed Hand; but for all her trident and her
sword, this valorous virago, this Britannia, on her
pillar, is a creature of finger-nails, scratches, and
subsequent hysteria.</p>
<p>Hard by is Drake, modelled in bronze by an alien,
for the satisfaction of British patriotism. This work
of the ingenious Boehm is not without dignity, viewed
from carefully chosen standpoints; but from most
points of the compass he is something too cock-a-hoop,
he wears too much the air of the sparrow on
a ting for our satisfaction. It is well, though, that
he should be here in bronze for the healthful admiration
and emulation of Englishmen.</p>
<p>If any place there be within these sea-girt isles
that can make your pulses thrill, ’tis Plymouth. The
majesty of England is no mere phrase to them that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">181</span>
have seen the clanging dockyards, the arsenals, the
floating strongholds, the encircling chain of forts
that render the three towns of Plymouth, Devonport,
and Stonehouse a microcosm of the empire’s
strength. Military—the red coats, the tunics black
and green of rifle regiments, the sound of the bugle,
instant and commanding, are everywhere. Naval—no
more slacks-hitching, timber-shivering towns
exist than these.</p>
<div id="i_76" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 19em;">
<img src="images/i_181.jpg" width="302" height="303" alt="" />
<div class="caption">DRAKE’S STATUE.</div></div>
<p>We conceived the idea of making Saltash our
headquarters for a few days, and of making daily
excursions from it to explore Plymouth. So, when
we had made this preliminary survey, we reclaimed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">182</span>
our knapsacks and made our way through Plymouth
and Stonehouse, on top of a jingling tramcar, to
North Corner, Devonport, whence small steam-launches
ply every hour for Saltash.</p>
<p>The estuary of the Tamar runs here, deep and
broad, dividing the counties of Devon and Cornwall.
From here to Saltash (three miles) it is known as the
Hamoaze.</p>
<p>It was getting dusky before our launch appeared,
and the Cornish shore, where lay the modern town
of Torpoint, was become a great grey bank, featureless
in the twilight. Great ships lay anchored in
the fairway: the transports <i>Hindostan</i> and <i>Himalaya</i>,
white painted and beautiful, and several hideous
battle-ships, of the latest type, black, and lying low
in the water. We could hear the ships’ bells strike
the hour in that curious nautical fashion which I,
for one, do not understand. To a landsman it was
seven o’clock; on board it was “six bells.” Presently
lights were hung out aloft, and the ports
began to throw gleams upon the hurrying tide.
Sheer hulks, lying up river at their last moorings,
cast no responsive ray, but, wrapped in darkness,
fretted at their buoys and chains, as they have done
for long, with every tide. Some one afloat sang the
“Larboard Watch,” ashore a bugle sounded; night
fell, the stars came out; the name of England, her
might and majesty, the glory and the terror of her,
filled our hearts too full for words.</p>
<p>Presently the launch came alongside the landing-stage
and we went aboard. The voyage was chill
with evening winds blowing down the valley of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">183</span>
Tamar. We passed a silent fleet of Tartarean looking
torpedo-boats, moored, silent and deserted, in a
long line, with great white numbers painted on their
bows, and towering war-ships, with tall masts and
heavy spars, and armoured sides—a type just becoming
obsolete, or already become so, we move so
fast nowadays.</p>
<p>We ran past hulks, scarlet painted, with stores of
gunpowder and gun-cotton aboard; past the Government
powder wharf; then to the landing at Bull
Point, and soon to Saltash pontoon. We came off
the steamer into Saltash streets. Giant piers of
Saltash Bridge loomed impressively overhead, and
cottages beneath crouched humbly in crowded ways.
A piano-organ was discussing interminable strings
of curly chords and flourishes, to whose din children
were dancing by the light of a waterside public.
The sights and sounds effectually vulgarised time
and place. We thought, as we toiled up the steep
street, that Saltash was an abominable hole, and
wished ourselves anywhere else.</p>
<p>Calling at the post-office for letters lying there for
us, we chanced to hear of good rooms; so, with only
the trouble of walking to the last house but one in
the town, we were speedily suited with a resting-place.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">184</span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="XLIX">XLIX.</h2>
</div>
<p>Now were we in Cornwall, the land of fairies and
piskies, and of prodigious saints and devils; the land
of “once upon a time”—delightful period of twilight
vagueness. According to John Taylor, who wrote
in 1649—</p>
<blockquote>
<p>“<i>Cornewall</i> is the <em>Cornucopia</em>, the compleate and repleate Horne
of Abundance for high churlish Hills, and affable courteous people;
they are loving to requite a kindnesse, placable to remit a wrong,
and hardy to retort injuries; the Countrey hath its share of huge
stones, mighty Rocks, noble, free, Gentlemen, bountifull housekeepers,
strong, and stout men, handsome, beautifull women, and
(for any that I know) there is not one <em>Cornish</em> Cuckold to be
found in the whole County. In briefe they are in most plentifull
manner happy in the abundance of right and left hand blessings.”</p></blockquote>
<p>We supped, and read our correspondence, and despatched
replies, and so to rest in the sweetest smelling
of sheets and the downiest of beds, in bedrooms
overlooking at a distance the Three Towns, the walls
covered with texts and coloured prints representative
of the domestic virtues.</p>
<p>In the morning Saltash wore another aspect, and
we rather congratulated ourselves upon our choice.
From our windows we saw the Hamoaze, the twin-towers
of Keyham Yard, and the ships of the navy
at anchor, among them the <i>Gorgon</i>, which the irreverent
in these parts call the <i>Gorgonzola</i>, one of
those turreted battle-ships whose shape and form
can be closely imitated by taking a canoe and placing
a portmanteau amidships of it, with a drain-pipe<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">185</span>
at top of that, and a walking-stick by way of mast—an
unlovely type of vessel.</p>
<p>We were attracted, in the first instance, this
morning, to Saint Budeaux, across the river from
Saltash; but its singularity of nomenclature proved
to be its only striking feature. The place is now
becoming a Plymouth suburb, of healthy condition
and prosaic appearance, encircled by military roads
and forts, with scarps and counterscarps, ravelins
and guns, and ↑ War Office marks everywhere.
Sir Francis Drake was married in its church, and
that, I think, is Saint Budeaux’s only noteworthy
incident.</p>
<p>We walked into Plymouth from here, and were
thoroughly tired before we reached its streets: distances
round Plymouth are deceptive to strangers.</p>
<p>At every turn on the way there were evidences of
the sea, either in creeks, where the salt mud lay
drying until the next tide, or in distant masts and
rigging seen over the house-tops of the town. Town,
did I say? Nay, not one, but three towns, for are
not Plymouth, Devonport, and Stonehouse coterminous,
and famed in song and story as the “Three
Towns” in all the distinction that comes of capital
letters?</p>
<p>Yet why not four towns? Why should not Stoke
Damerel—that name with the look and sound of
some new and dreadful composite form of swearing—why
should not Stoke Damerel, of ancient name, be
accounted a fourth town? It is big enough, and certainly
respectable enough, despite its name, which,
locally, is Stoke, <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">tout court</i>.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">186</span>
But in the growth of new districts here, how comes
it that Ford is not a fifth town, nor Morice Town a
sixth? These things are not for solution. Let us
hie upon the Hoe again, and, by that disestablished
tower of Smeaton’s, strain our eyes toward the newer
lighthouse anchored on its reef far out to sea.</p>
<p>It is needful to get all the breeze you can before
setting out upon any pilgrimage through the Three
Towns; for, truly, slums are not peculiar to London.
Coming westward, over Laira Bridge, and so through
to Torpoint Ferry, they are plenty and noisome; explore
the Citadel and the scaly, fishy purlieus of the
Barbican; but leave, oh! leave those slums to stew
undisturbed.</p>
<div id="i_77" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 37em;">
<img src="images/i_186fp.jpg" width="577" height="313" alt="" />
<div class="caption">SALTASH STATION.</div></div>
<p>Better is it to voyage across the Sound to the loveliness
and fresh air and altogether sub-tropical domain
of Mount Edgcumbe, whence this trinity of towns
may be seen stretched out like a plan, with the
Hamoaze, the many creeks and pools and inlets
running in every direction.</p>
<p>The beauty of Plymouth’s site is, indeed, undeniable,
whosoever may disparage it; nor may the
splendour of its admirably centralised public buildings
be gainsaid. Plymouth Guildhall is one of the
most magnificent of modern buildings in the west—Gothic,
good in design and execution; its windows,
filled with stained glass, representing celebrated
scenes in local history, from ancient days until that
year in the ’70’s, when the Prince of Wales opened
this building. This last event is duly shown in
gorgeously tinted glass, but the Prince’s frock-coat
is scarcely beautiful nor his silk hat an ideally fit<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">187</span>
subject for treatment in a stained-glass window.
Let us laugh!</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="L">L.</h2>
</div>
<p>This morning we rambled down to Antony
Passage, on the Lynher River, and hailed the
ferryman to put us across to Antony Park, on the
opposite shore. The Norman keep of Trematon
Castle looks down from the Saltash side on to a
mud-creek spanned at its junction with the broad
Lynher by one of Brunel’s old wooden railway
viaducts, its sturdy timbers stalking across the ooze
with curious effect.</p>
<p>Landed on the opposite shore, we walked through
the beautifully wooded park, passing Antony House,
the seat of the Carews since the fifteenth century.
The house was rebuilt in 1721, but contains a fine
collection of old masters, among them a portrait of
Richard Carew, who died in 1620.</p>
<p>Richard Carew, of Antony, was the author of the
well-known “Survey of Cornwall,” published in 1602.
In the original edition the work is one of great
charm of manner, and the interspersed songs by the
author are instinct with grace and nicety of epithet.
In a very much later edition the editor has taken
upon himself to modernise Carew’s orthography with
sorry results to his engaging style.</p>
<p>Not readily could one gather verses of such
delightful conceits as these, upon the Lynher
<span class="locked">River:—</span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">188</span></p>
<p class="p1 center"><i>ITEM.</i></p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“When Sunne the earth least shadow spares,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And highest stalles in heauen his seat,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then <i>Lyners</i> peeble bones he bares,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Who like a lambe, doth lowly bleat,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">And faintly sliding euery rock,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Plucks from his foamy fleece a lock.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“Before, a riuer, now a rill,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Before, a fence, now scarce a bound:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Children him ouer-leape at will,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Small beasts, his deepest bottome sound.<br /></span>
<span class="i6">The heauens with brasse enarch his head,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">And earth, of yron makes his bed.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“But when the milder-mooded skie,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">His face in mourning weedes doth wrap,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For absence of his clearest die,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And drops teares in his Centers lap,<br /></span>
<span class="i6"><i>Lyner</i> gynnes Lyonlike to roare,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">And scornes old bankes should bound him more.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“Then, Second Sea, he rolles, and bear’s,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Rockes in his wombe, rickes on his backe,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Downe-borne bridges, vptorne wear’s,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Witnesse, and wayle, his force, their wracke,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Into mens houses fierce he breakes,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">And on each stop, his rage he wreakes.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“Shepheard adiew’s his swymming flocke,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The Hinde his whelmed haruest hope,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The strongest rampire fear’s his shocke,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Plaines scarce can serue to giue him scope,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Nor hils a barre; whereso he stray’th,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Ensue, losse, terrour, ruine, death.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">189</span>
And these verses show us the manner of the
<span class="locked">man:—</span></p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“I Wayt not at the Lawyers gates,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ne shoulder clymers downe the stayres;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I vaunt not manhood by debates,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I enuy not the miser’s feares;<br /></span>
<span class="i6">But meane in state, and calme in sprite,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">My fishfull pond is my delight.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“Where equall distant Hand viewes<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His forced banks, and Otters cage:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where salt and fresh the poole renues,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As spring and drowth encrease or swage:<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Where boat presents his seruice prest,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">And well becomes the fishes nest;<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“There sucking Millet, swallowing Basse,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Side-walking Crab, wry-mouthed Flooke,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And slip-fist Eele, as euenings passe,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For safe bayt at due place doe looke:<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Bold to approche, quick to espy,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Greedy to catch, ready to fly.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“In heat the top, in cold the deepe,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In springe the mouth, the mids in neap;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With changelesse change by shoales they keepe,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fat, fruitfull, ready, but not cheap;<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Thus meane in state, and calme in sprite,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">My fishfull pond is my delight.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Antony village is considerably more than a mile
distant from the park. It stands picturesquely on
the road to Liskeard, on rising ground, entered
past a communal tree, encircled with seats, after a
good old fashion that seems nowadays but rarely
perpetuated.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">190</span>
In the little street of Antony is a library of the
most rudimentary type, a little reading-room supported
by small subscriptions, and supplied with
a few weekly and daily newspapers. We turned
the door-handle and walked into this room of
10 × 7 feet; but, alas! there instantly came across
the road a woman in whom (evidently) was invested
the care of the place, who informed us that this
was not a public reading-room, and who held the
door open in the most suggestive way. We went.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” observed the Wreck upon going,
“that we have intruded: I hope we have not injured
your shanty.”</p>
<p>“No harm done,” replied the janitress, who was
plainly acting upon a painful sense of duty. We
adjourned to the church, and after ascending the
many steps leading to it, sat down to argue the
matter in the porch.</p>
<p>“See,” said the Wreck bitterly, “how despitefully
one is used when tramping about on a walking-tour
and carrying these abominable things,” and
he unstrapped his knapsack with a vicious tug.
“That woman ... took us for tramps, and that
sort of thing hurts one’s <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">amour propre</i>.”</p>
<p>“Very correct estimate, too,” said I, flicking the
dust off my boots with my handkerchief, “and one
unlikely to tax her powers of discernment to an
inconvenient extent.”</p>
<p>“’Been swallowing a dictionary lately?” inquired
the Wreck with biting sarcasm.</p>
<p>“No, Ollendorff, that is not my method.” And
then relations became strained.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">191</span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="LI">LI.</h2>
</div>
<p>So it fell out that I explored Antony church
alone. A fair specimen this of Perpendicular architecture,
crowded with monuments to the Carews of
Antony, among them, one to the memory of the
author of the “Survey of Cornwall.” Part of the
inscription in Latin is by his friend Camden; the
English verses are his own.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>“The verses following were written by Richard Carew of
Antony Esq. immediately before his death (which happened the
Sixth of November 1620) as he was at his private prayers in his
Study (his daily practice) at fower in the afternoon and being
found in his Pocket were presented by his Grandsonne S<sup>r</sup>
Alexander Carew, according to whose desire they are here set up.</p>
<p class="p1 center">In Memory of him.</p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“Full thirteen fiues of years I toyling haue o’repast<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And in the fowerteenth weary, entred am at last<br /></span>
<span class="i0">While Rocks, Sands, Stormes & leaks, to take my bark away<br /></span>
<span class="i0">By greif, troubles, sorrows, sickness, did essay<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And yet arriv’d I am not at the port of death,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The port to euerlasting Life that openeth,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My time uncertain Lord, long certain cannot be<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What’s best, to mee’s unknown; & only known to thee.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">O by repentance & amendment grant that I<br /></span>
<span class="i0">May still liue in thy fear & in thy favour dye.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div></blockquote>
<p>There remains in the chancel a handsome perpendicular
brass for the foundress of this church:</p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“Margeria Arundell quonda dna de Est<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Anton filia Warini Erchedeken militis.”</span>
</div></div></div>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">192</span>
A tablet on the wall of the south aisle, to Admiral
Thomas Graves, of Thanckes, and his wife, recites
the lady’s relationship of first cousin to “Mr.
Addison.” It is quite refreshing to find the connection
with literature so proudly displayed: I
don’t know, though, how much of this recognition
is due to the fame of Addison’s matrimonial alliance
with the Countess of Warwick. This thought, my
literary friends, should give us pause.</p>
<p>On the high ground near Antony are two huge
modern forts, one commanding the Lynher River, the
other, looking over to seaward, defending the western
approaches to Plymouth Sound. Screasdon and Tregantle
Forts mount between them over 200 guns.</p>
<p>We reached the sea again at Downderry, passing
to it through a dishevelled village called Crafthole,
where we saw our first Cornish cross. Downderry
is a small and very modern settlement of seaside
lodging-houses, set down amidst wild and lonely
scenery beside the treacherous sands of Whitesand
Bay, in which many bathers have been engulfed.</p>
<p>To come suddenly upon the lath-and-plaster crudities
of Downderry in midst of such scenery as this is
to experience a cruel shock.</p>
<p>Downderry need detain no one.</p>
<p>From here it is a long, rough, and lonely walk
to Looe, beside the sea; now upon lofty cliffs, and
again in deep valleys opening direct from the water,
with sandy shores and rocky rivulets running down
from the moorlands with laughing ripples and gushing
cascades, all solitary and peaceful. We halted
in one of these remotenesses.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">193</span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="LII">LII.</h2>
</div>
<p>It was a beautiful valley. A little stream came
tinkling down it from the impressive moors beyond,
and its course was made romantic by many and huge
and lichen-stained rocks; and a grey mill stood by
it, with a great wheel slowly turning, and covered
with aqueous growths, hanging and green, and bulged
out dropsically, from whose pendant ends dropped
continually crystal-clear beads of water.</p>
<p>We unstrapped our knapsacks, and sat down upon
the grass, and basked in the sun a while. Then we
essayed to cross the stepping-stones with the knapsacks
in our hands; but, finding this something of
an undertaking, we pitched them gently on the
opposite bank.</p>
<p>But that bank was sloping, covered with short
smooth grass, and treacherous, so that both those
knapsacks rolled back, and plunged into the water
and sank, sending up a succession of air-bubbles.</p>
<p>I am a truthful historian (between <em>these</em> two covers,
at any rate), and write nothing but the truth; but I
do not conceive myself to be under the painful necessity
of setting down the whole of it here, therefore
I refrain from printing the remarks with which we
greeted this disaster. In the language of the lady-novelist—“suffice
it to say” that those remarks were
equal to such an occasion.</p>
<p>The salvage of those knapsacks was a matter of
little difficulty; not so the drying of their contents.
We unpacked them, and spread them out in the
sunshine, and anchored the linen to the grass with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">194</span>
big stones, and chased the vagrant handkerchiefs,
blown down the valley by the wind. Then, when all
things were securely laid out to dry, and the neighbourhood
began to look like a suburban garden on
washing-day, we began to find time hang heavily.</p>
<p>So—let me confess the childishness of it—we
began the building of a dam across the stream,
with rocks for foundation, then a layer of turves,
then smaller pieces of granite, and, on top of these,
bracken, more turf, and rocks again. Once or twice,
when the water on the upper side of the dam had
swelled, great breaches were made in it; but at last
we completed a wall so thick, substantial, and impervious,
contrived with such cunning alternations of
material, that it afforded quite a substantial foothold
to us builders, and on its lower side the bed of the
stream became quite dry.</p>
<p>And ever, as the water from above rose and began
to tip this creation of ours, we added more courses
to it, so that the reservoir above became deep indeed,
and the water began to invade the upper banks of
the stream.</p>
<p>I cannot hope to communicate to you the peculiar
pleasure we took in this, nor to give you an idea
of the frantic haste with which we grubbed up more
turf and piled on more boulders. We achieved an
extraordinary enthusiasm in doing these things.</p>
<p>But time wore on: the Wreck was bending over
our joint architecture, putting (I think) an ornamental
cornice on it by way of finishing touch, when he fell
off with a great splash and a shower of stones into
about three and a half feet of water, and lay grovelling<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">195</span>
there, full length, while the dam burst apart like the
opening of folding-doors, and left him, in quicker time
than I can write it, stranded, but—no!—not dry.</p>
<p>Rarely have I laughed so long and so helplessly.</p>
<p>We reached Looe toward tea-time, as the melodious
crash and tinkle of tea “things” from the
open doors of outlying cottages informed us.</p>
<p>Looe lay below us, precipitous, lovely, in a golden
haze. Looe was welcome, for the rocky walking of
the afternoon had developed blisters. Below, directly
in our path, lay an inn with a sign bespeaking
“warmest welcome,” to quote from Shenstone. It
was the “Salutation.” But the reception, though
polite enough, belied the sign. The “missis” was
out, said the landlord; he could not get us tea.</p>
<p>Then we had to seek elsewhere, finally to find tea
and a haven for the night at the “Ship.”</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="LIII">LIII.</h2>
</div>
<p>Looe is a little place, yet it hums with life quite
as loudly, in proportion, as any hive. Carts, all innocent
of springs, rattle thunderously up and down
its steep and narrow streets and lanes; the voices
of them that cry pilchards are heard continually;
the noise of the quays and the roar of the waves,
the chiming of the Guildhall clock, and the blundering
of sea-boots upon cobble-stones, help to swell the
noise of as noisy a town for its size as you shall find.
There is always, too, the shouting and yeo-ho-ing of
the seamen in the harbour, and the tinkle of windlasses<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">196</span>
echoes all day across Looe River, mingled with
the screaming of the sea-gulls in the bay.</p>
<p>As Looe River runs toward the sea, the valley
narrows until, in its last hundred yards, it becomes a
narrow gorge, with rugged rocks and precipitous hills
on either side, and as you stand facing the sea, but
a few yards from the diminutive beach, you are in
receipt of an effect theatrical in its romantic exaggeration,
and instantly your mind is filled with vague
visions of the highly coloured nautical scenes long
peculiar to the Transpontine Drama, now sacred to
the memory of G. P. R. James and T. P. Cooke.
The proper complement of this stage-like piece of
foreshore would be, you feel certain, a row of footlights,
and the eye wanders right and left for the
wings, whence should come the virtuous sailor, the
Dick Dauntless of the piece, with his Union Jack,
pigtail, quid, and hornpipe, all complete; with straw
hat, blue jacket, brass-buttoned, and trousers of spotless
white; his whiskers curled in ringlets, and his
mouth full of plug tobacco and sentiments of the
most courageous virtue. He should come on, furiously
hitching his slacks as he rolls, rather than
walks, upon the boards, waving his Union Jack
and brandishing a cutlass—though, how he is to do
all this at once with only two hands is more than I
can tell you.</p>
<div id="i_78" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 27em;">
<img src="images/i_197.jpg" width="417" height="473" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p><i>Detail of balusters.</i></p>
<p>GUILDHALL, EAST LOOE, AND BOROUGH SEAL.</p></div></div>
<p>You scan the offing for the piratical-looking craft,
which, to be in keeping, <em>should</em> be tacking outside
the harbour—but isn’t—murmuring to yourself softly
the while, “once aboard the lugger;” and your reflections
are brought back smartly to everyday<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">198</span>
matters by the suggestion of a (comparatively) prosaic
fisherman that it is a “fine day for a sail.” You
look upon the rolling deep, and with misgivings
turn sadly away in the direction of the Ship
Hotel.</p>
<div id="i_79" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 14em;">
<img src="images/i_198.jpg" width="209" height="279" alt="" />
<div class="caption">“COMPARATIVELY PROSAIC FISHERMAN.”</div></div>
<p>At the “Ship” were many visitors, so for one night
we had to lodge out, at the house of a dour, dreary-looking
bootmaker. We breakfasted, though, at
the hotel, and arrived there in time to find one of
the guests conning the sketch-book I had left by
misadventure in the coffee-room overnight. The
man was all apology and nervousness, and upset a
cup of tea over sketch-book and table-cloth. Then<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">199</span>
he retired confusedly to a couch at the other end of
the room, where he immediately sat down on my hat.
After this he went out, and probably did some more
damage on the cumulative principle.</p>
<p>There are several morals to this pathetic episode,
of which undoubtedly the most striking is, “Don’t
leave your hat on the sofa.”</p>
<p>They have a visitors’ book at the “Ship,” from which
I have culled some examples. The visitors’ book at
an hotel is ever my first quest. Its contents, though,
are mostly sorry stuff: praises of food supplied, and
the moderation of the charges—forms of eulogy particularly
distasteful to myself. But let us to our Looe
<span class="locked">versicles:—</span></p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“Dear Friend, be warned ere first you visit Looe;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Its charms are many and its drawbacks few,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Lest home and duties all alike forsook,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">You fall beneath the charms of Host and Hostess Cook;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The fare is sweet, the charges just and low<br /></span>
<span class="i0">(I’ve travelled much, so surely ought to know,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Neath Syren’s rocks I’ve heard the eddying Rhine,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In Bingen’s bowers drunk the native wine,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On Baltic’s wave have watched the setting sun,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In France’s fields have met the peaceful nun,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In Wales have wandered by the trout-streamed hill,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On Scotland’s highlands paid the longest bill)<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Our host is not a lawyer, yet his conveyance cheap<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Will bear you to Polperro, from thence to Fowey steep,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From threatening Cheesewing gaze on oceans twain,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">At night at billiards try a <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">coup de main</i>,<a id="FNanchor_8" href="#Footnote_8" class="fnanchor">8</a><br /></span>
<span class="i0">But yet, I’m sure, as day still follows day<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Twill find you anxious more and more to stay,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Delighted, charmed, with lotus-eating mind,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">List! Menheniot’s horn and you are left behind!”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">200</span></p>
<p class="in0">Another:—</p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“At East Looe, R.S.O., you’ll find<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A ‘Ship’ in which you’ll make your home;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Tis safely anchor’d near the shore<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Above the angry billows’ foam.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="tb">* * * * *</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Three voyages in this ‘Ship’ I’ve made,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The wind was fair, the ocean calm:—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And ‘Captain Cook,’ he knows his book,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His wife’s and sister’s hearts are warm.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<div id="i_80" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 23em;">
<img src="images/i_200.jpg" width="362" height="303" alt="" />
<div class="caption">THE “JOLLY SAILOR.”</div></div>
<p>But “Captain” Cook did not know his book sufficiently
well to know that he had entertained a minor
poet unawares. In the Visitors’ Book is the signature
of Mr. Edmund Gosse, and the landlord had
no recollection of him, although his visit had been,
as another poet (<i xml:lang="la" lang="la">minimis!</i>) sings, “only a year ago.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">201</span></p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“The ‘Captain’s’ wife and sister too<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Will do their best to make your lip<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So much enjoy your food<a id="FNanchor_9" href="#Footnote_9" class="fnanchor">9</a> that you<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Again will take another trip<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In that most comfortable ‘Ship.’”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="in0">Fragment:—</p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“At Looe again: This makes my Trinity<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of visits here; that is, they number Three.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Despite storms, wrecks, and stress of life<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I anchor here, away from strife<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For briefest stay.”...<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="LIV">LIV.</h2>
</div>
<p>We left Looe in the late afternoon, and toiled up
the steep and stony hill that begins to ascend directly
after the “Jolly Sailor” is passed. Atop of this hill
we immediately and perversely lost our way, and the
remainder of the afternoon was spent in plunging
through “town-places”<a id="FNanchor_10" href="#Footnote_10" class="fnanchor">10</a> and fields, and climbing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">202</span>
over Cornish hedges, until we reached the church of
Talland, nestling under the lee of the hills that run
down precipitously to Talland Bay. Talland Church
is peculiar in having its tower set apart from the main
building, and connected with it only by an archway.
But its peculiarities do not end here, for the place
is very much of a museum of antiquities, and epitaphs
of an absurdly quaint character abound. I am
afraid Talland Church echoed with our laughter,
more than was seemly, on this diverting afternoon.
Here is an <span class="locked">example:—</span></p>
<p class="p1 center">
“In Memory of<br />
<span class="smcap">Hugh Fowler</span> Who Departed this<br />
Life the 10<sup>th</sup> day of August.<br />
In y<sup>e</sup> year 1771. Aged 50 years Old.
</p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Afflictions Sore Long time I’ve Bore<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Physitions ware in Vain<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Till God was Pleased Death should me seise<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And Ease me of my Pain<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Welcome Sweet Day of Rest<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I am Content to ‘Die<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My Soul forsakes her vain Delight<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And bids the World farewel;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mourn not for me my Wife an Child so Dear<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I am not Dead but sleeping hear,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Farewel Vain world Ive seen Enough of thee<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And now I am carles what thou says of me<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thy smiles I Court not nor thy frowns I fear<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My Glass is Run my Head Lays kuiet here<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What Faults you seen in me take care to shun<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And Luck at home Enough there’s to be don.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="center">
<em>Also</em> with thin lie the remains<br />
of Elizabeth his Wife who Died<br />
the 6 day of April 1789 Aged 69<br />
Years.”
</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">203</span></p>
<div id="i_81" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 11em;">
<img src="images/i_201.jpg" width="171" height="201" alt="" />
<div class="caption">SEAL OF WEST LOOE.</div></div>
<p>Pursy cherubs of oleaginous appearance, and
middle-aged double-chinned angels wearing pyjamas,
decorate, with weirdly humorous aspect, the ledger-stone
on which this crazy-patchwork epitaph is
engraved, and grin upon you from the pavement
with the half-obliterated grins of a century and more.
One of them is pointing with his claw to an object
somewhat resembling a crumpled dress-tie, set up on
end, probably intended for an hour-glass. Here are
some of these devices, reproduced exactly, neither
extenuated nor with aught of exaggeration.</p>
<div id="i_82" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 17em;">
<img src="images/i_203.jpg" width="266" height="351" alt="" />
<div class="caption">Talland Cherubs</div></div>
<p>The low and roomy building, in places green with
damp, is paved with mutilated ledger-stones, whose
fragments have long ago suffered what seems to be
an abiding divorce, so that disjointed invocations,
and sacred names, and gruesome injunctions to
“Prepare for Death,” start into being as you pace<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">204</span>
the floor. Here, too, more than in any other place,
do people seem moved to verse in commemorating
their departed friends, not infrequently casting their
elegies in the first person, so that the dead of Talland
appear to a casual observer to be the most conceited
and egotistical of corpses. Of this type, the
following epitaph is perhaps the most <span class="locked">striking:—</span></p>
<p class="p1 center">
“<span class="smcap">Erected</span><br />
to the memory of<br />
<span class="smcap">Robert Mark</span>;<br />
late of Polperro, who Unfortunately<br />
was <em>shot at Sea</em> the 24<sup>th</sup> day of Jan<sup>y</sup><br />
in the Year of our <span class="smcap">Lord God</span><br />
1802, in the 40<sup>th</sup> Year of His AGE.
</p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">In prime of Life most suddenly,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Sad tidings to relate;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Here view My utter destiny,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And pity My sad state:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I by a shot, which Rapid flew,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Was instantly struck dead;<br /></span>
<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Lord</span> pardon the Offender who,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">My precious blood did shed.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Grant Him to rest and forgive Me,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">All I have done amiss;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And that I may Rewarded be,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With Euerlasting Bliss.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Now, this Robert Mark was a smuggler. He was
at the helm of a boat which had been obliged to run
before a revenue cutter, and the boat was at the
point of escaping when the cutters crew opened fire,
killing him on the spot.</p>
<p>But the most curious of all the epitaphs within
the church of Talland is that engraved on the monument<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">205</span>
to “John Bevyll of Kyllygath.” The monument
is an imposing edifice of slate, in the south
aisle, with a figure of John Bevyll, habited in a
curious Elizabethan costume, carved in somewhat
high relief on top. The verses are the more curious,
in that they employ archaic heraldic terms, now
little known. They set out by describing the Bevyll
arms, “A Rubye Bull in Perle Filde”—that is to
say, in modern heraldry, a <em>Bull gules in a field
argent</em>:—</p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“A Rubye Bull in Perle Filde;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">doth shewe by strength & hew<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A youth full wight yet chast & cleane<br /></span>
<span class="i0">to wedded feere moste trew.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From diamonde Beare in Perle plot<br /></span>
<span class="i0">aleevinge he achived<br /></span>
<span class="i0">By stronge and stedfast constancy<br /></span>
<span class="i0">in chastnes still conciued.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To make all vp a mach he made<br /></span>
<span class="i0">with natiue Millets plaste<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In natiue seate, so nature hath<br /></span>
<span class="i0">the former vertues graste<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His Prince he serud in good regard<br /></span>
<span class="i0">twyce Shereeve and so iust<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That iustlye still on Justice seate<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Three princes him did trust.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Suche was his lyfe and suche his death,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">whos corps full low doth lye.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whilste Soule by Christe to happy state<br /></span>
<span class="i0">with hym doth rest on hye.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Learne by his life suche life to leade,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">his death let platform bee.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In life to shun the caufe of death,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">that Christe maye leeve in thee.”<br /></span>
</div></div><div class="center b1">
“John Bevyll lyued yeares threscore three & then did yealde to dye<br />
<span class="l2">He dyd bequeath his soule to God, his corps herein to lye.”</span>
</div></div>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">206</span>
Below are very circumstantial accounts of the
marriages and intermarryings of the Bevyll family,
and on the old bench ends of the church their arms
are displayed with countless quarterings.</p>
<p>The growing dimness in the church warned us of
departing day, and so we went out into the churchyard,
glancing as we passed at the many mournful
inscriptions to sailors and fishermen drowned at sea.</p>
<p>Among the old stones the following epitaph attracted
our attention; it is a gem of grotesqueness.</p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“Lament not for we our Mother So Dear no more in Vain<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If you have Lost ’tis we have Gain, we are gone to See——<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Our Deariest Friends that Dweell Above them will we go an see<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And all our Friends that Dweell in Christ below<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Will soon Come after we.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Talland is a wild and lonely spot even in these
crowded days: a hundred years ago, it was a place
to be shunned by reason of devils, wraiths, and
fearful apparitions, that (according to the country
folk) haunted the neighbourhood. But these tricksy
sprites found their match in the vicar of Talland
for the time being, a noted devil-queller, and layer
of gnomes, known far and wide as Parson Dodge,
a cleric who never failed to exorcise the most
malignant of demons; a clergyman before whom
Satanus himself, to say nothing of his troops of fearful
wild-fowl, was popularly believed to tremble and
flee discomfited. Not only did Parson Dodge attend
to the evil spirits of his own parish, he was constantly
in requisition throughout the county, and, so workmanlike
were his methods, I don’t believe there is an
active devil of any importance in Cornwall at this day.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">207</span>
The vicarage was a spot to be approached with
fear o’ nights, for it was reputed to be the resort of
the parson’s familiars, who assembled there to do his
bidding, and the place to which came baffled and
unwilling imps to be finally exorcised. Whatever
truth there may have been in these things, there can
be little doubt, I fear, that Talland was the scene of
many successful “runs” by smugglers, in which
Parson Dodge took no inactive part. Supernatural
spirits, it may shrewdly be surmised, were not the
only ones in which that redoubtable minister was
interested.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="LV">LV.</h2>
</div>
<p>Our map made the road from here to Polperro look
like two miles; imagine our joy therefore when,
after climbing the steepest hill we have seen in these
parts, and after walking about a mile, we became
aware of the imminence of that fishing village (or, as
Jonathan Couch would have said—town) by seeing
the blue smoke from its unseen houses rising in a
clearly defined bank from an abyssmal ravine into
the calmness of the evening air. “This,” said the
Wreck, “must be—the devil.” This emphatic and
earnest ending to his sentence had no reference to
Polperro, I hasten to add, except in so far as it was
occasioned by Polperro stones, one of which had
turned my luckless companion’s ankle almost to
spraining point. After this we proceeded cautiously,
for not only were stones large and loose withal, but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">208</span>
they were plentiful as well, and the descending lane
was of a preposterous steepness.</p>
<p>Country folks gave us good night as we passed
them, and several women-artists we overtook, going
home after the day’s daubing; then we ended our
descent.</p>
<p>It was quite dark when we at length sounded the
depths of this narrow valley, and so into the miserable
streets of Polperro. We turned to the left, and
came upon the harbour. “No inn to be seen,” said
I, as we climbed some rock stairs, and presently came
out of the farther end of Polperro, upon the cliffs.
So we turned back, and after groping on to an approximate
level, came in a little while within sight
and hearing of the sign of the “Three Pilchards,”
swinging noisily overhead, and saw the little window
of the inn, not yet shuttered, giving glances into the
cavernous interior.</p>
<p>We adventured into the murk of the place, and
our boots scratched gratingly upon the sanded-stone
floor. A bulky form came noisily, with the clumping
of sea-boots, along the passage, from regions of
which the darkness gave no hint.</p>
<p>“Can we put up here for the night?” quoth I
somewhat dubiously of this dimly seen figure, capped,
blue jerseyed, and trousered in soiled ducks, that
confronted us.</p>
<p>“Sure-ly,” said he, and disappeared to trim and
light a lamp. This was evidently the landlord.</p>
<p>“And tea?” chorussed the Wreck.</p>
<p>“Yes, sir,” replied the landlord’s voice, apparently
from the remote recesses of some distant cupboard.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">209</span>
So we sat down in the combination of bar-kitchen-parlour
and living-room, and studied the beer-rings on
the table in the gloaming of the window, until, under
favour of Providence, our host should return. This
he did eventually, bearing a lighted lamp, which he
proceeded to hang from the ceiling. Then came
another journey, and a return with sticks, paper, and
matches, when he lighted the fire and put the water
on to boil, blowing up the sticks and coals with
bellows of a prodigious bigness. There was something
diverting in the spectacle of this rough,
grizzled, seafaring innkeeper making up the fire
for tea like any housewife.</p>
<p>Meanwhile we sat and waited and chatted with
our host until the water boiled, when, after much preparation,
we were ushered into a room on the other
side of the entrance passage, and left to tea and
ourselves. “If you want anything more, please to
ask for it,” said the landlord as he shut the door.</p>
<p>Ye gods! the chilling dampness of that room, and
the fustiness of it, with ancient reeks of the sea!
It was whitewashed, and hung with brightly coloured
almanacs from the grocer’s, and here and there, startlingly
black and white, appeared framed memorial-cards
commemorating domestic losses. We required
no skeleton at the feast after this, but sat down to
tea, sufficiently damped by the dismal light of—yes—a
long-wicked dip in a brass candlestick!</p>
<p>“Hang it,” remarked the Wreck, observing no
teapot, “where’s the tea?” and just then his eye
lighted on what should have been the hot-water jug.
<em>There</em> was the tea, sure enough, in the jug! But<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">210</span>
not the most diligent search could discover any milk,
so I put my head out o’ door and asked for some.
The landlord was doubtful of procuring any in
Polperro that night, but would send his boy out on
the chance, unless, indeed, we would like condensed
milk.</p>
<p>But our souls sickened at the thought of it, and
fortunately some decent milk was had at last. Said
the landlord again, as he closed the door, “If you
want anything more, please to ask for it.” It
occurred to us, however, that we had better make
content with what we had, for by the time our very
ordinary wants had been satisfied, the night would
have been far spent indeed.</p>
<p>There was a nasty indescribable tang about that
tea, and even the bread and butter was horrid.
We were very hungry, and so made shift to eat a
little bread and butter, but the tea we poured out
of window.</p>
<p>Then we went out in the darkness of the lanes to
see how Polperro showed at night. To walk along
those lanes was an experience analogous to getting
one’s sea-legs on an ocean-going sailing craft. The
night was so dark, and the cobble-stone pavements
so uneven, that the taking of each step was a problem
of moment.</p>
<div id="i_83" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 25em;">
<img src="images/i_211.jpg" width="400" height="489" alt="" />
<div class="caption">AN OLD SHOP, POLPERRO.</div></div>
<p>This was a Saturday night, and much business
(for Polperro) was being transacted. Little shops
shed glow-worm lights across the roadways, and
on to rugged walls, which acted in some sort the
part of the sheet in magic-lantern entertainments;
that is to say, the little patches of comparative<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">212</span>
brilliancy exhibited exaggerated replicas of the window’s
contents. Loaves of bread on the baker’s
shelves assumed, in this sordid magic, the gigantic
size of the free loaf in old-time Anti Corn-Law
demonstrations; the sweetstuff bottles in the windows
of the general shops argued, not ounces, but
pounds of stickinesses; and the wavering shadows
of customers’ and shopkeepers’ figures seemed like
the forms of giants, alternately squat and long-drawn,
contending for these gargantuan delicacies. I burned
to picture these things, not in words, but by other
methods. My companion hungered still, and truth
to tell, so did I; and so we bought some biscuits and
munched them as we went. We eventually returned
to the “Three Pilchards” and went to bed, escorted by
the landlord with a dip stuck in a ginger-beer bottle.
I <em>must</em> say, though, that <em>we</em> were given candlesticks.</p>
<p>The next morning, being Sunday, the landlord
had “cleaned” himself with more than usual care,
and appeared resplendently arrayed in a suit of
glossy black cloth, of the kind which I believe is
called “doe-skin.” He shut us in the sitting-room
to breakfast, which was waiting, and, before disappearing,
repeated his usual formula.</p>
<p>After breakfast, we covenanted to return at one
o’clock for dinner, and went out upon the headlands
that guard with jagged rocks the narrow gut of
Polperro. It was the quietest of days; even the
screaming sea-gulls’ cries were less persistent than
on week-days; and the male population of the place
lay idly on the rocks, or lounged, gossiping, at sunny
corners of the lanes, while the mid-day meal cooked<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">213</span>
within doors. But above all the grateful kitchen
odours rose the scent of the fish offal that, with the
ebbing of the tide, lay stranded in the ooze of the
harbour, and bubbled and fermented in the heat of
the sun, vindicating the country folk, who call the
place Polstink.</p>
<p>Down in the lanes, as we returned, the wafts
of the fish-cellars filled the air. One hundred
and twenty-four years ago—on Friday, September
the sixteenth, 1760, to be particular—the Rev.
John Wesley “rode through heavy rain to Paulperow,”
as he tells us in his “Journal.” “Here,”
says he, “the room over which we were to lodge,
being filled with pilchards and conger-eels, the
perfume was too potent for me, so that I was not
sorry when one of our friends invited me to lodge
at her house.” But, indeed, Polperro did not show
its best face to Wesley at any time, for, of his first
visit here, which happened six years before this, he
says, “Came about two to Poleperrow, a little village,
four hours’ ride from Plymouth Passage, surrounded
with huge mountains. However, abundance of people
had found their way thither. And so had Satan too:
for an old, grey-headed sinner was bitterly cursing all
the Methodists just as we came into the town.”</p>
<p>To pass a Sunday at Polperro is to experience
how empty and miserable a day of rest may become.
We dined off the homely fare offered us at the “Three
Pilchards,” and sighed for tea-time, and at tea-time
sighed for bed. Arrived between the sheets, we fell
asleep, longing for the morrow, when the hum of
this work-a-day world would recommence.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">214</span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="LVI">LVI.</h2>
</div>
<p>This morn we breakfasted betimes, settled our
modest score, and trudged away, up steep hillsides
and across meadows, to Lansallos, and from Lansallos
to Lanteglos-juxta-Fowey.</p>
<p>We came to Lanteglos before (according to the
map) we had any right so to do, going to it through
steep hillside fields. I don’t think there is any
village to speak of, but there is a fine church,
picturesquely out of plumb, with a four-staged
tower, strong and plain, without buttresses, standing,
with its churchyard, beside a “farm-place,” as the
Cornish folk sometimes call their farm-yards, filled
with great stacks of corn, stilted on long rows of
stone staddles.</p>
<p>There stands beside the church porch one of the
finest crosses to be found in Cornwall, of fifteenth-century
date, with head elaborately sculptured into
tabernacles, containing representations of the Virgin
and Child, the Crucifixion, and two figures of saints.
This cross was discovered some years ago, buried in
the churchyard, and was set up by the then vicar
in its present position, with a millstone by way of
pedestal.</p>
<p>The guide-books tell of great store of brasses
within the church; but the building was locked,
the keys were at a cottage far down the valley, the
sun was hot, and, lastly but not least, we were
lazy; so we only stayed and sketched the exterior,
and peered through the windows at the whitewashed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">215</span>
walls and old-fashioned pews, and presently went
away.</p>
<div id="i_84" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 35em;">
<img src="images/i_214fp.jpg" width="554" height="475" alt="" />
<div class="caption">LANTEGLOS-JUXTA-FOWEY.</div></div>
<p>From Lanteglos good but steep roads lead down
to Polruan, a manner of over-the-water suburb of
Fowey, set picturesquely on the west shore of Fowey
River. As we went down the steep street, children
were singing the ribald song which pervaded London,
and the country generally, all last year. I am not
going to name it here; let it die, and be deservedly
forgotten. But, <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">par parenthèse</i>, I will put a question
here to philosophers. We know at what rate
light travels, and sound too, but at what rate of
speed does the comic song fare on its baleful course?
Who, again, shall estimate how rapidly the contagion
spreads of those now happily defunct songs of an
appalling sentimentality—“See-Saw,” “The Maid of
the Mill,” or, to sound deeper depths, “Annie
Rooney,” and “White Wings”?</p>
<p>A ferry runs between Polruan and Fowey, the
latter a town that has grown from its former estate
of slumberous seaport into a “resort” of quite a
fashionable and exclusive flavour. It is “still
growing”—worse luck. The visitor may easily recognise
Fowey as the original of “Troy Town,”
by “Q.,” whose initial, being interpreted, stands
for Mr. A. T. Quiller-Couch, himself a Cornishman.
The salient features of Fowey to the eye, the
nose, the ear, and the mind are sea- and land-scapes
of wondrous beauty, fish odours, the clangour of a
disreputable brass band, and historical legends of a
peculiarly romantic character.</p>
<p>A wonderful old church of a peculiar dedication—Saint<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">216</span>
Finbarrus—stands in midst of Fowey town. We
explored its interior on the evening of our stay at
Fowey, attracted by its lighted windows and the
weekly practising of the choir then going forward.
The chancel was lit up, and the church itself lay
either in deep shadow or in mysterious half-lighting.
The choir and the choirmaster, standing in the gas-lit
circle, with the broad pointed arches of the nave
arcade yawning around them, and the queer memorials
of centuries ago, with their figures of dames
and knights, touched to uncanny resemblances by
the incidence of the shadows, made an extremely
delightful picture, and one eminently paintable.</p>
<p>There are many Treffrys and Rashleighs buried
within Saint Finbar’s—two families with which the
history of Fowey is interwoven. One John Treffry,
buried here, seems to have been something of an
eccentric, for he had his grave dug during his lifetime,
and lay down and swore in it, “to shew the
sexton a novelty.” His epitaph is a curious jingle—the
work of the man himself, one would say. Here
it <span class="locked">is—</span></p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“Here in this Chancell do I ly<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Known by the name of John Treffry<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Being made & born for to dye<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So must thou friend as well as I<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Therefore Good works be Sure to try<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But chiefly love and charity<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And still on them with faith rely<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So be happy eternally.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>This epitaph to Mary Courtney is not without a
certain sweetness of <span class="locked">conceit:—</span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">217</span></p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza b0">
<span class="iq">“In Memory of Mary y<sup>e</sup> daughter<br /></span>
<span class="i0">of Sir Peter Courtney of Trethurffe:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">who dyed the 14<sup>th</sup> day of June, in<br /></span>
<span class="i0">the year of our Lord</span></div>
<div class="p0 b1 center">1655.</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Neer this a rare Jewell’s Sa’t,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Clos’d uppe in a cabinet:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Let no sacrilegious hand<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Breake through: ’tis y<sup>e</sup> Strickt Com̄aund<br /></span>
<span class="i0">of the Jeweller: who hath Sayd<br /></span>
<span class="i0">(And ’tis fit he be obayd)<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He require it Safe, and Sound,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Both aboue and under Ground:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">This Mary was Grandafter to Jonathan<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Raishleighe of Menebilly Esq<sup>r</sup>.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Choir practice ended, the church was closed, and
we were cast forth upon the streets with the tail end
of the evening before us. Fowey is a seaside town,
singular in having no sands and no recognised public
promenade; there was nothing to do then but to
spend the evening at our hotel over our maps and
notes. We had by this time collected an intolerable
quantity of the tourists’ usual lumber. Fossils,
lumps of tin and copper ore, and fragments of
granite would drop from our knapsacks upon the
least provocation, or upon no provocation whatever.
We amalgamated our hoards, threw away a goodly
percentage, and sent the remainder of the relics
up to London.</p>
<p>I don’t like to think about the cost of their
carriage. It was, like the relics, collectively, and
in detail, heavy. Of what use are the things after
all? You shall hear.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">218</span>
At this moment of writing up the journal of our
tour it is Christmas time, and waits are lingering
in the street below me, howling dismally. I have
noiselessly opened the window, and thrown an ammonite
at them from the vantage-point of the second
floor. It is to be hoped that one or other of them
was as much struck by it as I was (but in a different
sense) when I found it in Cornwall. But that ammonite
was as large as a saucer, and, considering
that costly freight from the west, somewhat expensive
ammunition. Coals would have been cheaper,
less compromising, and quite as effective. I say
less compromising, because, if any one is severely
hurt, ammonites are not so common in London
but what their possession might readily be traced.</p>
<p>But, sooth to say, they, with the tin ore and the
lumps of granite, have become almost expended by
now, and generally for the prompt dispersal of the
nomadic cats, in full voice, who haunt the areas of
our street.</p>
<p>These spoils of our touring were handier after all
than coals, which blacken the hands, or soap, for
which the morning finds a use; but I sometimes
wonder who finds them, the very aristocracy of
missiles, hurtled through midnight air from lofty
eyrie upon pavements deserted by all save the slow-pacing
policeman and those aforementioned disturbers
of the peace.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">219</span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="LVII">LVII.</h2>
</div>
<p>We discharged a heavy bill this morning on leaving
our hotel, but consoled ourselves with thinking upon
the law of averages, by which our next account should
be proportionably light. The morning was dull, and
mists occasionally dispersed, apparently only to let
some drenching showers through to fall upon us; and
when we reached Par, we heard the birds chirping in
the trees between the showers, in that way which
(experience told us) betokened more rain.</p>
<p>Par is a little seaport, with a station on the Great
Western Railway, which is also the junction for the
North Cornwall lines and for the short branch to
Fowey. Imagine a small, accurately semicircular
bay, with a sparse fringe of mean whitewashed cottages
abutting upon sands, partly overgrown with
bents, the sea-poppy, and coarse grass. Add to these
a long jetty, a thick cluster of small brigs, a smelting
works, with monumentally tall chimney-stack,
and in the background, the railway and green hillsides,
and you have Par. For the life of the place,
add some rumbling carts and waggons, filled with
china-clay, rattling their way down to the jetty with
their drivers; some three or four whitewashed-looking
men, lounging and drinking at the “Welcome
Home” Inn; the whistle and noise of an occasional
train; a housewife hanging clothes out to
dry in a garden, and there you have the full tide
of existence at this Cornish seaport toward mid-day.
To these incidents were added, when we passed by, a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">220</span>
diverting contest in the roadway between a cat and
a valorous rooster, their bone of contention, a bone,
literally as well as metaphorically. But the cat,
having seized the prize at last, vanished with it
round a corner, like a streak of lightning, the
cockerel after him, and all was quiet again. It will
show the quietness of Par when I say that no one
but ourselves was attracted by this singular tourney.</p>
<p>The tide was out when we reached Par, and we
saw how, when the ebb is at its lowest here, the
flat sands stretch an unconscionable distance. The
derelict seaweed, wetted by the rain and drying in
the moist heat of the day, gave out a very full-flavoured,
maritime odour, and “smelt so Par,” if
one may be allowed to thus irreverently parody the
Prince of Denmark’s disgust with Yorick’s skull.
It is confidently believed that the present writer
is the first to discover this Shakespearian interest
connected with Par.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="LVIII">LVIII.</h2>
</div>
<p>Close by, at Castledour, corrupted to Castle Door
in these days, stands a tall granite post, inscribed
with some half-obliterated Roman inscription. An
old Cornish historian tells, in quaint language, of an
adventure which befell here.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>“In a high way neere this toune (says Carew) there lieth a
big and long moore stone, containing the remainder of certaine
ingraued letters, purporting some memorable antiquity, as it should
seeme, but past ability of reading.</p>
<p>“Not many yeres sithence, a Gentleman, dwelling not farre off,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">221</span>
was perswaded, by some information, or imagination, that treasure
lay hidden vnder this stone: wherefore, in a faire Moone-shine
night, thither with certaine good fellowes hee hyeth to dig it
vp: a working they fall, their labour shortneth, their hope
increaseth, a pot of Gold is the least of their expectation. But
see the chance. In midst of their toyling, the skie gathereth
clouds, the Moone-light is ouer-cast with darkenesse, doune fals
a mightie showre, vp riseth a blustering tempest, the thunder
cracketh, the lightning flasheth: in conclusion, our money-seekers
washed, instead of loden; or loden with water, in steade of
yellow earth, and more afraid then hurt, are forced to abandon
their enterprise, and seeke shelter of the next house they could
get into. Whether this proceedeth from a naturall accident, or
a working of the diuell, I will not,” says our historian, “vndertake
to define. It may bee, God giueth him such power ouer
those, who begin a matter, vpon covetousnesse to game by extra-ordinarie
meanes, and prosecute it with a wrong, in entring and
breaking another mans land, without his leaue, and direct the
end thereof, to the princes defrauding, whose prerogatiue challengeth
these casualties.”</p></blockquote>
<p>In a wild moorland district like this, the devil,
you will see, was likely to have the credit of anything
that might happen. Even to-day, the countryside
round about Par and Saint Austell is hardly
less rugged and lonely than it was in the seventeenth
century. Still, we are much more materialistic nowadays,
and such happenings as that just quoted
could scarcely fail of classification under the head
of “natural accidents.”</p>
<div id="i_85" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 40em;">
<img src="images/i_220fp.jpg" width="639" height="396" alt="" />
<div class="caption">A CORNISH MOOR.</div></div>
<p>But the great mining-field of Saint Austell
(“Storsel,” in the local pronunciation), which begins
here, almost deserted to-day, its engine-houses
wrecked, its great heaps of mine refuse bare and
gaunt, has taken on an air of desolation more
favourable to uncanny beings than ever. It is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">222</span>
not because the tin and copper have “petered out”
that this once busy stretch of country now wears
the air of some long-deserted mushroom-field of
mining industry, sprung up suddenly, and untimely
withered, like the Californian goldfields of pioneer
times. No, the metals are still there, but at such
depths and held in such iron grip of hard-hearted
granite, that it would not pay to win the ore with
the machinery available at this time. Meanwhile,
the Cornish miners have mostly emigrated. To-day,
if you would see the Cornishman in full work on
his congenial and hereditary employments of tin
and copper mining, you should go either to the
Straits Settlements or to Australia, whence comes
the greater part of those metals in these times.</p>
<p>There, in some Wooloomooloo, or other place of
name infinitely repetitive, you shall, who seek, find
him; but in Cornwall his kind tends to decrease
continually.</p>
<p>But round about Par and Saint Austell enough
metal remains to keep some few important mines
at work; china-clay, too, is an increasingly important
article of commerce. The streams and rivulets that
hereabouts run down into Saint Austell or Tywardreath
Bay are the very tricolours of water-courses—rust-red
with pumpings from the mines, milk-white
from the washings of china-clay, and, unpolluted,
reflecting the heavenly blue of sunny skies.</p>
<p>A long and grimy road leads past Holmbush and
Mount Charles to Saint Austell, all the way rutted
with the wheels of heavy waggons, and muddy from
the rains.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">223</span>
I remember that, when we were dining at Fowey,
we were told by a Cornishman with whom we talked
that Saint Austell was the richest town in Cornwall.
I do not wish to dispute that statement, for, with
that town’s busy neighbourhood of mines, and, more
particularly, china-clay works, it would seem to be
in receipt of a very great deal of commerce. Waggons,
piled up with great lumps of china-clay, are
continually lumbering through its narrow and crooked
streets; its shops are many and well appointed; and,
earnest of enterprise and prosperity, Saint Austell is
lighted by electricity, in the streets, and for domestic
use; it was, in fact, a pioneer in the movement for
the lighting of towns by electricity. But, with all
these signs of wealth, the town is not attractive.
Saint Austell remains a market-town of gloomy
architecture and cramped thoroughfares, whose foot-pavements,
of meagre proportions, would not suffice
for the accommodation of a village. Yet the people
who are seen in these streets are smartly dressed,
and altogether un-provincial in appearance. We saw
costumes, not few nor far between, that rivalled Bond
Street or Piccadilly.</p>
<p>I remarked upon this to the Wreck, who, having
had his full share of Saint Austell’s muddy streets,
was sarcastically inclined, and observed that, if it
was a swell town in one particular, it was a pity
that particularity did not extend to its pavements,
which had, apparently, shrunk.</p>
<div id="i_86" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 23em;">
<img src="images/i_224.jpg" width="364" height="348" alt="" />
<div class="caption">Font. Saint Austell.</div></div>
<p>We lunched at as well-appointed a restaurant as
might have been found at the West End of London,
and then looked through the very fine church that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">224</span>
stands in midst of the town. It contains a very
early font, sculptured in granite, the bowl of it
covered with the Early Norman ideas of owls and
griffins, and fearful things that surely never flew
in air, or walked the earth, or swam the sea. The
church of Saint Austell has one of the finest of
Cornish church-towers, lofty and pinnacled, and
covered, over the upper stages of it, with much
panelled work, and about the body of it with sculptured
emblems of the Passion and Crucifixion. The
hammer and nails, the crown of thorns, the ladder,
are sculptured in groups, together with pierced hands<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">225</span>
and feet; and so greatly has the significance of these
emblems been lost, that many of them are popularly
supposed to represent miners’ tools.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="LIX">LIX.</h2>
</div>
<p>And now it came on to rain with a deadly persistence
that would have daunted us from setting
out for Mevagissey had not letters been awaiting us
at the post-office there. We set out at five o’clock
in the afternoon, conveyed by the damp and undignified
medium of a carrier’s cart without a tilt,
crowded with country women returning from market,
whose umbrellas sent trickling streams down our
necks. Great pools of rain-water collected in the
depressions of the tarpaulin that covered our knees,
and washed furiously about as we were driven along
the steep roads to the coast, so that we mentally
prayed either for shine or Mevagissey. Just as we
reached that odorous port, the rain ceased. We
alighted (disembarked, I was about to say) “dem’d
moist unpleasant bodies,” and asked the carrier as
to the hotel. He said the “Ship” was the first
hotel in the place, and to that sign we went. The
“hotel” proved to be an inn, and the landlord of it
wore an absurd air of astonishment when we proposed
to stay there: he recommended us to private
lodgings. This was scarcely a promising introduction
to Mevagissey. It remotely resembled the
reception accorded John Taylor, the “Water Poet,”
on his travels in 1649.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">226</span></p>
<blockquote>
<p>He “trauelled twelue miles to a fisher Towne called <i>Mevageasie</i>;
that Towne hath in it two Tauernes, and six Ale-houses, to euery
one of which I went for lodging, and not anyone would harbour
me, then I fought for a Constable to helpe me, but no Constable
was to be found;<a id="FNanchor_11" href="#Footnote_11" class="fnanchor">11</a> the people all wondring at me, as if I had been
some strange Beast, or Monster brought out of <i>Affrica</i>; at which
most incivill and barbarous useage, I began to be angry, and I perceiving
that no body cared for my anger, I discreetely went into
the house where I first demanded lodging; where the Hoste being
very willing to give me the courteous entertainement of <em>Iack Drum</em>
commanded me very kindely to get me out of dores, for there was
no roome for me to lodge in. I told her that I would honestly
pay for what I tooke, and that if I could not haue a bed, yet I was
sure of a house over my head, and that I would not out till the
morning: with that a young saucy knave told me that if I would
not go out, he would throw me out, at which words my choller
grew high, my indignation hot, and my fury fiery, so that I arose
from a bench, went to my youth, and dared to the combate:
whereat the Hostesse (with feare and trembling) desired me to be
quiet, and I should haue a bed, at which words my wrath was
appeased, and my ire asswaged.</p>
<p>“But straite wayes another storme seemed to appeare for an
ancient Gentleman came suddenly out of another Roome (who had
heard all the former friendly passages,) and hee told mee that I
should not lodge there, for though I had sought and not found a
Constable, yet I should know that I had found a Justice of Peace
before I sought him; and that he would see me safely lodged: I
was somewhat amazed at his words, and answered him, Let him
doe his pleasure, for I submitted my selfe to his disposall.</p>
<p>“To which he replyde, That I should go but halfe a mile with
him to his house, which I did, and there his good Wife and he did
entertayne me courteously, with such fare and lodging as might
have accommodated any Gentleman of more worth and better
quality then one that had been ten times in degree before me:
There I stayd the Saturday, and all the Sunday, where I found
more Protestant Religion in 2 dayes, then I had in 5 yeers before.
The Gentlemans name is Mr. <em>Iohn Carew</em>, a Gentleman of noble and
ancient descent, and a worthy Iustice of the Peace in those parts.”</p></blockquote>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">227</span>
We eventually found very comfortable rooms at a
delightful villa-like house, looking directly on to the
sea, beating in upon a rocky shore. This was the
second place in which we touched the fringe of the
titled aristocracy. Our landlady, upon our arrival,
proudly showed us the fragments of an envelope
addressed with the name of a Viscount who had
been staying in the house. Eventually we paid a
heavier bill than we should otherwise have done had
none but miserable plebeians lodged here aforetime.
We will, in future, be careful to select only the
haunts of the Third Estate.</p>
<p>We don’t (strange to say) seem to hanker after
titled folk of any sort—a curious trait in Britons, who,
proverbially, are said to love lords. Perhaps we are
among the proverbial exceptions, and help thereby
to prove the rule. For myself, I hope (and think,
indeed) I am a loyal subject of Her Majesty’s (Hats
off, please!); I know, also, that I have Conservative
ideas of an old, not to say a mediæval, type;
but I would not go round the next street corner to
catch a glimpse of the Sovereign, nor any of the
Royal Family, for that matter, if they chanced to be
there.</p>
<p>As for other titled personages, from Dukes to
Knights Bachelors, down to that no-account thing,
a German prince, with more quarterings to his “old
coat” than square miles of territory to his name,
I would not, for the sake of their titles, take any
pleasure in their society. Can I explain these contradictory
things? No, I can’t. I will say, merely,
that no man’s views are indisputably logical, while,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">228</span>
as for women’s—well, there! Once I kept watch,
as some social Lubbock, upon the thoughts and
sayings and actions of a Radical by conviction, yet
not by practice, for he owned ground-rents and lent
money on mortgages, and ground the faces of the
poor horribly when he had the chance. He took
the <i>Gutter Percher</i> every evening, which proved his
Radical bias; but he would go unconscionable distances
under discouraging conditions to catch a
fleeting glimpse of Royal personages. No man so
proud as he when he returned one day, with stuck-out
chin and air of importance, after having his
hat-lifting salutation acknowledged in the Park by
a very Great Personage indeed; none so constant in
christening his numerous progeny after members of
the Royal Family.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="LX">LX.</h2>
</div>
<p>Mevagissey bears a great resemblance to Polperro.
It stands at the bottom of a deep valley leading out
into the sea, and has a little harbour, built in much
the same fashion. When the tide is out and the
harbour dry, the reek of fish-offal is just like that of
Polperro, but (if possible) a trifle stronger and more
essential. When the cholera visited Mevagissey in
1849, the inhabitants fled the place, and encamped
on the hill-tops, the fishermen lying on board their
smacks in Fowey Haven. One wonders how the
Fowey folk liked it. Some few years ago a new
granite pier was completed to form a southern arm<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">229</span>
to the harbour at Mevagissey. It cost £25,000, and
the next storm punched a great hole in the middle
of it, carrying away about half of the entire structure,
and rendering the remainder not only useless but
dangerous. It will cost £30,000 to set all right
again.</p>
<div id="i_87" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 24em;">
<img src="images/i_229.jpg" width="375" height="253" alt="" />
<div class="caption">A NOTE AT GORRAN.</div></div>
<p>At mid-day we set off by the coast, making for
Veryan. We passed Porthmellin, a lonely cove,
and then the road lay inland to a village with the
Irish-like name of Gorran, a diminutive outlandish
place, with an immense church, and a churchyard
where whole generations of villagers are buried by
families, each family to its own particular plot of
ground, as it seemed. Half a mile to the south, in a
rocky bay of the smallest dimensions, is the picturesque
and delightful village of Gorran Haven, a feast<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">230</span>
of colour, even for Cornwall, so rich in sapphire seas,
golden sands, and brilliantly lichened rocks. The
sands were littered with lobster-pots, and a long row
of bronzed and blue-jerseyed fishermen sat on an interminable
bench, and blinked in the late afternoon sun.
We stayed awhile and talked with them. Before we
set off again for Veryan, we asked a fisherman how
far it was, for we had given up all our faith in
distances, as measured on our Reduced Ordnance
Map. “Seven mile,” said he, “but you’re not going
to walk there to-night?”</p>
<p>We assured him that such was our intention, and
stepped out briskly along a road that wound in and
out, and narrowed and broadened again in a curious
manner, passing lonely little chapels set in the wildest
of wildernesses.</p>
<p>As we came in view of St. Michael Caerhayes,
seen afar off from high ground, we had before us
the loveliest of evening effects. The colour of the
sky ranged from deepest blue, through scarlets and
flaming yellows, to a delicate puce. Great and
heavy masses of woodland lay below at the rear of a
castellated mansion, whose park-like lands stretched
down to the very verge of a miniature bay, guarded
by headlands of a diminutive cragginess. Between
them lay a view of the open Channel, with the coast-line
terminating in the abrupt wall of Deadman’s
Head, and the sunlight struck full upon the water
with a dazzle as of molten gold. We decided that
Saint Michael Caerhayes was decidedly <em>the</em> place for
a night’s rest. But when we had descended into
the valley, and thence up the road on the other side,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">231</span>
and found no village, we began to have misgivings.
A belated countryman whom we passed as the sun
went down informed us that Saint Michael Caerhayes
was half a mile farther on, and so we were reassured.
We walked half a mile, and passed, perhaps, six
cottages, but never an inn. Something tall and
black loomed up in the now darkened sky. It was
the church tower, and again we felt that our day’s
journey was nearly done, for it is generally found
that church and village inn are very near neighbours.
But here the church stood solitary; not a
house of any kind near it, and beyond it mere
vagueness. We retraced our steps, and asked a
contemplative youth, who sat astride a gate, where
the village inn was. There was none! We had
passed all there was of the village! Now our courage
oozed away, and all pride with it. Could he (we
asked) tell us where we might chance to get a
night’s lodging? He would inquire, he said, and
we followed him meekly. Inquiries were fruitless
here; we were sent away with scant ceremony. At
the lodge gates of the lordly mansion we had seen
earlier we halted on our weary way, and asked if
possibly we could be recommended to some resting-place.
We had some faint hopes that they would
take compassion upon us here, but the lodge-keeper,
who pondered her head vainly to answer our question
satisfactorily, made no offer. There was nothing for
it, then, but to walk on to Veryan.</p>
<p>Night shut down impenetrable on the moorlands,
and darkness brushed our faces as we plunged into
the unknown from the inhospitable hamlet of Saint<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">232</span>
Michael Caerhayes. Civilisation became an unmeaning
term, or if aught of significance the word yet
retained, it left in the chambers of the mind a satiric
tang; for the steep paths, rocky, winding, and altogether
insignificant, upon which we presently fared to
the seaboard, seemed rather fortuitous than planned,
and an emphatic comment upon primary conditions,
rather than a subdual of them.</p>
<p>It was the booming of the surf hundreds of feet
below us that advised our coming upon the sea, and
cottage windows, two or three, shining in glow-worm
fashion, showed us where lay Port Holland, deep-set
at the seaward end of a valley, where the unseen
waves spent their force amid sands and stones, with
a long-drawn sighing a-h-h-h, a-h-h-h.</p>
<p>To Port Holland instantly succeeded Saint Lo, in
another bight—both wild, lonely, and (for us tourists,
at least) shelterless. We spoke with two formless
concentrations of blackness, who knew naught of
accommodation for strangers, and readily (nay, with
alacrity) gave us good night. Then we, with what
cheer we might, to climb the road that now ascended
inland the western side of a valley, moist and
teeming with nocturnal life, that rustled and ran
among the brake and underwood, and chirped and
squeaked as our straying feet sent fragments of stone
and rock rolling into its ferny lairs.</p>
<p>And now, on this solitary road, we lost our way
at an occult forking of the path, uncharted by any
finger-post. We felt assured of it as we walked on
for miles, and the road wound round and about with
never another sign of the sea, which should have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">233</span>
been within hearing. At length the road forked
again, with a sign-post set in a hedge at the angle.
We had no matches; the hedge forbade any near
approach to the finger-board.</p>
<p>For all the use it was, the sign-post need not
have existed. After we had taken what looked the
most likely road, and after another mile had been
tramped, we came to another and more promising
affair, which, we found, directed us, in the way we
were going, to Grampound, a place we had not the
remotest idea of visiting. There was nothing for it
but to turn about and retrace our steps. This we
did, and presently met some country folk. We could
have embraced them, so long was it since we had
seen any fellow-creatures, but we refrained, and
merely asked the road and the distance to Veryan.
Four and a half miles farther, it seemed.</p>
<p>With what haste and with how many more
wrong turnings we pursued our way I will not
speak.</p>
<p>We reached that village eventually, and only just
before closing time. The windows of the one inn
that Veryan possesses streamed brightly into the
road as we fearfully crossed the threshold, and
doubtfully begged (that is the word) a lodging for
the night, and a meal to go to bed upon. I cannot
call to mind the sign of that inn, but I have not
forgotten the name of Mrs. Mason, our hostess.
That were inexcusable, for surely no one could have
been kinder to wearied wayfarers than she. We
had tea (a high tea, to be sure) at that hour of night,
and tea that night seemed ambrosia fit for gods.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">234</span>
What a delightful tea that was! Cornish cream,
new bread, apricot jam, and a mysteriously delicious
preserve, whose name we never knew, but whose
savour remains a fond and fast memory. And while
tea progressed, we had music from the bar-parlour
on the other side of the passage. Some one played
upon a violin, and the airs he played were old sea-songs,
that were new when Dibdin wrote, and popular
when British sailors wore pig-tails, and fought the
Frenchman and the Spaniard from youth to age;
times when every man had his fill of fighting, and
the stomach for it, too. So it befell that, even with
that crazy fiddle and that unfinished performer, the
songs he played were melodies that went straight to
the heart, even as they originally came from that
seat of a throbbing patriotism; tunes that made the
pulses dance, the eyes to sparkle, and the cheek to
flush. We have no need for such songs now, for we
meet no foreign foe to-day. No storms rend the
branches of the oak: the tree, alas! is rotting at the
heart. Ah! the pity, the misery of it.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="LXI">LXI.</h2>
</div>
<p>Judge of our surprise when we found this morning
that Veryan was not upon the sea, but over a mile
removed from it. We had carelessly noted Veryan
Bay marked on the map, and thus concluded
that of course the village of the same name was
seated beside the sea. We left our inn and Veryan
with our pockets filled with the apples our kindly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">235</span>
hostess pressed upon us at parting. My hostess, I
salute you!</p>
<p>All through this day we wandered blunderingly,
as if we had been chartless. Certainly, when the
maps deal with such little-travelled districts as this,
they become utterly untrustworthy for by-roads, and
are only to be followed with suspicion for the highways.
We set out for Truro, and at the outset
were seduced from the narrow path by the tempting
clusters of blackberries that hung upon the hedges
of a hillside field. This led us at length upon the
hamlet of Treworlas, a few scattered houses set down
upon the edges of a golden moor, free to every breeze
that blows, where the winds beat upon the walls of
the cottages and shook them, and fluttered the
feathers of the scurrying geese that patched the
gold of the gorse and the green of the grass with
moving patches of white. There was a house to let
here, an empty house, with garden all overgrown
with weeds, and a bill swinging in the window by
one corner; not at all an undesirable little place—for
a hermit. We inquired the rent of it—£5 per
annum. Just the place for retirement from one’s
kind: the ideal retreat for one crossed in love or
soured by failure, or for the naturally misanthropical;
we bear it in mind, for, though we are none of
these, yet a time may come! From here we went
on to Philleigh, a village that stands on a tongue of
land pushing out into the salt-water Fal, where Ruan
Creek sends spreading watery fingers between the
hills. Steep, rain-washed roads, unkempt and deep
rutted, lead down to the water, and a homely inn,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">236</span>
with flaunting linen hanging out to dry, and gobbling
ducks scavenging among the cart-tracks, wears a
name remarkably poetic—The Roseland Inn. A
forest of thick-growing, stunted oaks leads to the
steam ferry at Trelissick, where the Fal winds between
lovely woods that grow down to the water’s
edge, and dip their branches in the stream. We
crossed here mistakenly, thinking it to be King
Harry Passage, and thus missing a sight of Tregothnan,
Lord Falmouth’s country seat, famed in
all the country round about for the charm of its
situation.</p>
<div id="i_88" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 19em;">
<img src="images/i_236.jpg" width="304" height="271" alt="" />
<div class="caption">ROSELAND INN, PHILLEIGH.</div></div>
<p>As the afternoon wore on to tea-time, we came
into Truro, along a broad and surprisingly well-kept<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">237</span>
highway. But never a sight was there of the city
until we had reached the hillside, where its outskirts
of villas straggle into the country, detached and semi-detached,
with lawns and flower-beds and gravel-paths,
ah! so neat and clean-swept, all of them
bearing the most high-falutin’ names. Truro is
folded away from distant sight, in between the hills,
where the Fal ceases its navigable course.</p>
<p>Truro is admirably situated, but the city does not
do justice to its site. Its buildings, substantial and
enduring enough, since they are built of granite,
are commonplace in design, and their
tameness of outline is a weariness to
the spirit, save, indeed, some modern
commercial structures that savour of
architecture; but to mention these by
name in this place would be to incur
suspicion of advertisement. We came
into the city down Lemon Street, past
the melancholy statue of Lander the
explorer, standing atop of his Doric
pillar, and were disappointed on the
instant of entering it by these things,
and by the colour-scheme of the place—a
heavy grey, unrelieved by brick or other stone than
native granite. The prevailing stoniness continued
even in the roadways, paved with granite setts.</p>
<div id="i_89" class="figright" style="max-width: 7em;">
<img src="images/i_237.jpg" width="98" height="265" alt="" />
<div class="caption">LANDER.</div></div>
<p>Truro is now a cathedral city, with a cathedral in
course of construction in its midst. Already the
choir and the transepts are completed and consecrated,
so we may form some idea of what the building
will eventually look like. Its style is Early<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">238</span>
English, singularly refined and symmetrically ordered
as regards the interior, but “exteriorly”—as architectural
slang hath it—it has an appearance at once
cramped and overladen with ornament of too minute
a character, and is “picturesque” with a studied
ready-made quaintness that does a hurt to the dignity
of such a building. This irregularity of external
details, and the whimsical incidence of turret and
spirelet, belong, properly, not to an original building,
but should be the outcome of generations of alteration
and addition, grafted by the varying tastes of
posterity upon a well-balanced design. Perhaps it
was necessary for the winning of the competition for
the architect to send in a showy elevation that should
take the eyes of a committee, and in this Mr. Pearson
succeeded, but he has failed to satisfy a reasonable
demand for dignity and repose to the outward view.</p>
<p>The cathedral will be 300 feet in length, with two
western towers and a central spire. Its site, though
central, is somewhat unfortunate, because hemmed
closely with the surrounding houses of High Cross.
It was the site of the old Church of Saint Mary,
which became of cathedral rank on the establishment
of the Truro diocese in 1877, but was demolished
in favour of the new scheme, saving its
south aisle, retained and incorporated with the new
building.</p>
<p>It was while I was sketching the cathedral from a
point of vantage in the High Street, surrounded,
meanwhile, by an intensely interested crowd of boys,
that a stranger, apologising for the interruption, came
up and asked me if I would mind going with him to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">239</span>
his house, and giving an opinion as to the genuineness
of a reputed Reynolds painting he had bought
for some few shillings. The picture proved to be a
sorry daub; but none the less for the adverse opinion,
Mr. —— proved very friendly, and, as he was driving
to Redruth that evening, invited self and friend
to accompany him at an appointed time.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="LXII">LXII.</h2>
</div>
<p>Punctually to appointment we set forth, and once
past the incline by which the city is left, whizzed
along the smooth highway in the rear of a sturdy
cob. We cleared the suburbs, and presently came
upon the great mining-field that stretches its seamed
and blasted waste over mile upon mile of dingy
hummocks and ruined engine-houses. Here and
there green oases of private parks and pleasaunces
alleviate the harshness of the towering piles of mining
refuse that harbour no green thing. But for these
the scene is an abomination of desolation. Chacewater,
a commonplace, mile-long village, with a
poetical name, set beside the highroad amidst the
heaps of rubbish, is a place of no conceivable
interest.</p>
<p>Our acquaintance beguiled the way with local
legends and scraps of entertaining information, and
the sight of Chacewater moved him to tell us this
<span class="locked">story:—</span></p>
<p>“Now Truro,” said he, “Truro used to have a bootmaking
industry, and in those times no love was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">240</span>
lost between Truro folk and the miners of Chacewater,
I can tell you. Now, it so happened that
my father was driving home with a companion from
Redruth one dark night, when, a short distance out
of Chacewater, a crowd of miners rushed out from an
old engine-house by the wayside and made for the
trap, shouting, ‘Truro cobblers!’ My father had been
mistaken, in all likelihood, for another party, but it
seemed likely the error would not be found out until
the occupants of the trap had been severely handled.
My father, though, was a man of resource. He had
bought, among other things, some brass candlesticks
at Redruth that day, and he suddenly remembered
them. Snatching up one in either hand, he dropped
the reins, and presenting the candlesticks point-blank,
shouted, ‘Hands off, or, by the Lord, I’ll
shoot ’ee!’</p>
<p>“The miners left in a hurry.”</p>
<p>In the meanwhile we had come to Saint Day,
which the Cornish folk call Saint <em>Dye</em>, a little
market-town situated in midst of mines, living on
mines, and sorry or glad only as mining prospers
or is depressed. Saucy Cornish girls blew kisses
to us from the windows of Saint Day. Sauciness
is a quality in which the girls of Cornwall are rich.
Alas! our friend drove through the narrow streets
all unheeding, like another Jehu. If we had known
him longer we would have cursed him for it, but
he was a “new chum,” and it could not be done.
Discourtesy is always reserved for friends of old
standing. And thus we drove into Redruth on
a Saturday afternoon.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">241</span>
Redruth still remains a busy and populous town,
despite the exhausted condition of its neighbouring
mining-fields. It is an unlovely town, built at the
bottom and sides of a valley, amid the scarred and
tumbled mine refuse of a thousand years.</p>
<p>The name of Redruth is one that invites attention:
it is a name that is more attractive than the
town itself. Philological antiquarians profess to
find its derivation in the Cornish <em>Tretrot</em>, which,
being interpreted, means “the house on the bed
of the river.” But from such airy surmisings it
is better to turn aside to the bed-rocks of modern
facts. For it was at Redruth that Murdoch, in
1792, discovered gas as an illuminant; here, too,
the same engineer invented the traction-engine some
four years later. The country-folk, who met it on
the roads at night, thought it was the devil.</p>
<p>When our acquaintance drove us to the top of
the High Street, we said good-bye, resisting his
offers to drive us back to Truro.</p>
<p>Amid this Saturday bustle and press of business,
we found it somewhat difficult to find accommodation
at a decent inn, where anything like quietude
reigned. At some places we could have had bedrooms,
but no tea; at others, tea, but no rooms.
At one inn the servant asked us if we were professionals,
eyeing my huge sketch-book. “Professionals”—we
glanced at one another. Surely the girl doesn’t
take us for photographers?</p>
<p>“What professionals did you think we were?”
asked the Wreck.</p>
<p>“Please, sir, I thought as how you was hactors,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">242</span>
she said. “There’s a lot of ’em come down here
to-day to play-act to-night.”</p>
<p>Alas! when we told her we were not hactors, we
could see her face change, and guessed that a fond
illusion had been destroyed. We saw at once that
we were inferior beings, and regretted for the first
time in our lives that we were not upon the stage.
It was perhaps as well they had not sufficient room
for us here: we should have felt, so long as we
stayed, how shamefully we had deluded that trusting
servant girl, and how guilefully personated those
bright beings of a higher sphere than ours, whose
privilege it is to strike attitudes, and say, “Ah,
ha!” at frequent intervals, together with other such
colloquial and ordinary expressions.</p>
<p>At length we found tea and a rest for the remainder
of the day—not before they were necessary.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="LXIII">LXIII.</h2>
</div>
<p>The rain rained all the remainder of the afternoon,
and winds blew, and evening mists eventually
hid the dismal prospect. All the available literature
of the hotel lay in railway-guides and directories,
an old copy of the “Pickwick Papers,” and a copy
of a new humorist, whose work I am not going to
mention by title. We glanced at Dickens with little
satisfaction. His humour has long gone threadbare;
Pickwickian feasts do not divert nowadays; the
spreads are not appetising; the cakes are stale; the
ale flat. As for the new humorist, he gave us, as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">243</span>
the Noo ’umor would have it, “the hump.” No man
can read the Noo ’umor and yet retain his literary
digestion unimpaired. It seems the distinguishing
mark of this appalling novelty that its sentences be
cut up into short sharp lengths, with an effort at
smartness; more often, though, the result, instead
of being smart, is merely silly.</p>
<p>But in authorship, even as in M.P.ship, there is,
in these days, much queer company, for, mark you,
we may have in these latter times our Stevenson,
but also our Sullivan, of the dishonoured prize-ring;
a Barrie, but, <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">per contra</i>, him whom we may call
by analogy <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">Monsieur de Londres</i>, throttling Mr.
Berry: these have each his place in the catalogue
of the British Museum Library, and, title for title,
they bulk the same, although the difference between
them is the very considerable one existing between
letters and pothooks. As for the Society of the
Talking Shop at Westminister, are not ——<a href="#Footnote_12" class="fnanchor">12</a> and
——<a id="FNanchor_12" href="#Footnote_12" class="fnanchor">12</a> its admired and honoured members?</p>
<p>We found, too, some crumpled copies of local
newspapers. Lord! how can any one on this God’s
earth read such chronicles of small beer. But to
whom had that stale copy of the <i>Guardian</i> belonged
that we discovered behind the horsehair sofa? The
Wreck found it with joy, for its bulk promised
plenty reading; but he presently slung the thing
into the coal-scuttle, with remarks uncomplimentary,
to say the least of them, to that flatulent print.</p>
<p>“Divinity,” said he, “I can understand, and ordinary
worldly matters I appreciate better still; but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">244</span>
hang me if I can make much sense out of that
abominable mixture of this and other worldliness
that seems to be a printed corroboree by Fleet Street
journalists masquerading in alb and crucible.”</p>
<p>“Chasuble, you mean, dear boy,” I remarked.</p>
<p>“No matter,” he replied, with the slanginess which
I grieve to report; “they’re all the same price to
me. Let’s go out.”</p>
<p>And we went.</p>
<p>The High Street was still noisily busy, and with
the coming of night was brilliant with many lights.
The rain, too, sputtered only fitfully, and so the open
air stall-keepers hung out their wares again. This
was not like Cornwall, to our thinking; it more
nearly resembled the Edgware Road on a Saturday
night, save that dissipation was not evident. The
folk were orderly, as might be expected of the
Cornish people, even on Saturday evening.</p>
<p>The Cornishman is imaginative, and deeply,
emotionally, but unaffectedly religious. He is a
Celt, and consequently he generally wears an air of
gentle melancholy. Hospitality and warm-heartedness
are also among his characteristics, as all who
have journeyed much in Cornwall have occasion to
know.</p>
<p>But although the Cornishman is so religiously
disposed, Cornwall is by no means a stronghold of
the Established Church; the Cornishman’s piety
runs in the channel of Dissent, and in many lonely
valleys, and frequently on wild moorlands, far from
sight of other houses, you come upon his conventicles,
built after the fashion of the houses that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">245</span>
are represented in children’s first efforts at drawing,
in what I may perhaps be allowed to term the “box-of-bricks”
style of architecture.</p>
<p>These Bible Christian or Bryanite chapels, with
their Wesleyan rivals, are numerous above those
of all other sects, and are nearly all inexpressibly
dreary in appearance. In the larger towns they are
often of immense bulk, as witness the chapels of the
various Wesleyan sects at Redruth, of a size larger
beyond comparison with the parish church.</p>
<p>Not only is the Establishment weak in its hold on
the people; it labours under the additional disadvantage
of scanty revenues; rich livings are the exception
rather than the rule in Cornwall. If you take
up the “Clergy List,” and scan the values of Cornish
livings, you will find them, in a very large proportion
of cases, extremely meagre; the clerk in holy orders
frequently not receiving so large a sum as the small
stipend accorded his secular namesake of London
city—poor clerk!</p>
<p>We did not remain at Redruth the following day
(Sunday), but left the town shortly after breakfast,
on our way westward. Carn Brea Hill loomed ahead
beyond the works of the tin-streamers, and we made
direct for it.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">246</span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="LXIV">LXIV.</h2>
</div>
<p>Carn Brea is a hill of commanding personality,
steep and rugged, and encumbered with huge granite
boulders, that give its highest point a peculiarly fantastic
corona. Here, where rocks are largest and
more wildly strewn, long-forgotten builders have
contrived a gaunt tower, perched airily on devil-poised
crags, overlooking the scarred and streaked
mining-field that here stretches from sea to sea. It
is with disgust that, as you make a painful and
involved ascent of the hillside, and draw nearer
this old fortress, you observe its walls repaired with
stucco, and its windows filled with ginger-beer bottles
and bottles of sweets.</p>
<div id="i_90" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 35em;">
<img src="images/i_246fp.jpg" width="551" height="409" alt="" />
<div class="caption">CARN BREA.</div></div>
<p>Exploration always brings its peculiar disillusionments;
it had been better for a proper and enduring
reverence of Carn Brea and its gory Druidic traditions
to have gazed and speculated from below
than to have resolved our speculations into facts
so uncongenial. For, really, to view Carn Brea
from the valley on a day of mingled storm and
shine is to receive an impression of grandeur and
Brocken-like weirdness. The Druidical cromlechs
and stone altars of Borlase’s vivid imagination, the
craggy tower, the modern Dunstanville pillar, break
the sky-line into mysterious points and notches; even
the white cottages, the brutal ugliness of the Dissenting
chapel, and the merely commercial aspect
of the tin and copper mines of Pool village, that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">247</span>
straggle down into middle distance and foreground,
take a decorative value and strange significance.</p>
<div id="i_91" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 33em;">
<img src="images/i_248.jpg" width="515" height="342" alt="" />
<div class="caption">DRUIDICAL ALTAR, CARN BREA.</div></div>
<p>The roadways that lead from Pool into Camborne
are bordered on either side with immense heaps of
crushed rock and dirt, the roads themselves grimy
with coal-dust, where they are not stodgy with the
overflowed red mud from the mine-adits. Pool itself
is notable for nothing, except that its railway station,
now named Carn Brea, was once a fruitful source of
error in sending passengers and goods to Cornwall,
instead of to the Poole in Dorsetshire. Hence the
change of name.</p>
<p>Rather more than a mile down the road is Camborne,
and midway are the huge works of that very
ancient tin and copper mine, Dolcoath, which on
week-days make the country side resound with the
blows of their steel stamps crushing up the ore-laden
rock by the ton. Some of the galleries of Dolcoath
mine are 2300 feet deep, and over five million
pounds’ value of tin and copper ore have been
brought to bank. I have been here on a week-day,
when the stamps were at work, and the noise was
simply terrific. I have never heard anything to
equal it. Not only is it impossible to hear or be
heard in speaking, but the mind seems almost to be
stunned by the clamour. And to the stranger, the
result of all this uproar is merely so many streams
of leaden coloured water, flowing into what look
like great mud reservoirs. But the grey and slate-coloured
particles that go to the colouring of those
streams are so many grains of tin ore, and the neat-looking
girls who are stirring up the reservoirs with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">249</span>
brooms are not engaged upon making mud-pies, but
are busily washing the impurities from the metal
grains.</p>
<p>Camborne streets straggle almost as far as Dolcoath,
and doubtless many of them are built over
some of the galleries and levels of that immense
mine. Camborne is an offence to the eye. It is
much larger than either Truro, Redruth, or Penzance,
numbering 15,000 inhabitants, most of whom live
upon mines, either directly or indirectly. Indeed,
many of them live in the mines, and merely come
home to sleep. Thus it is that all day long Camborne
seems almost a city of the dead. It is a town
whose houses, if not squalid, are the most abjectly
characterless of any I have ever seen, stony granite
affairs, which wear the look of having once upon a
time been inhabited—but a very long while ago,
and meanwhile having been preserved from decay
by some mystic preservative power.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="LXV">LXV.</h2>
</div>
<p>The finest thing in Camborne is the road that
leads out of it. That is a clumsy paraphrase of
Johnson, I know, touched, too, with a suspicion of
Irishry; but for all that, true enough. I don’t
know that the little hamlet of Barrepper would, with
an advent from more pleasing scenes, have seemed
so welcome a place, but after Camborne it was
welcome indeed. A little hamlet, Barrepper, on
the highroad to Hayle. It consists, apparently,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">250</span>
of half a dozen cottages, every one uninhabited and
in ruins, and one general shop, which is also the
post-office. One wonders whence come the people
to buy and post. No one was there when we passed
by, save the shopkeeper postmaster, and he sat
outside his shop, reading a newspaper in the road.
Close by a brooklet trickled across the highway, under
a rude stone bridge, and this was all of Barrepper.
Now the country side became flat and singularly uninteresting;
utterly undistinguished. The mining-field
was left behind, and the streams ran clear again,
but the level lands and the smug hamlet of Carnhell
Green, through which we passed, were featureless.
The straggling stony village of Gwinear, too, is
remarkable for nothing but its name—a name, like
those of many Cornish villages, full of possibilities.</p>
<p>The Cornish have a wonderful Procrustean trick
of altering proper names to suit the conveniences
of their speech, only the trick works commonly but
one way with them, and that is with the lopping off,
rather than the addition or elongation of, syllables.</p>
<p>For example, the villages and churches of Phillack
and Filleigh are named after the martyr saint
Felicitas; and what was once a baptismal name for
girls, Felicity, very often met with in the county,
is at this day not only colloquially but baptismally
given as Filly or Philly.<a id="FNanchor_13" href="#Footnote_13" class="fnanchor">13</a></p>
<p>To see these names (as one frequently does) on
tombstones of quiet sober graveyards, strikes the
stranger with an effect of misapplied humour, but
a Cornishman sees no levity in them.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">251</span>
But, in Cornwall generally, girls’ names are
strangely contorted, as witness the very favourite
appellations of Jenifer for Guinevere, and Tamsin
for Thomasine. These we saw often, and once that
rare and pretty name, Avice.</p>
<p>To revert again to place-names, Saint Blazey is
a rendition of Saint Blaise; Saint Rumon, who
lends his name to two parishes, becomes Ruan;
Saint Austell presumably derives from Augustulus;
Saint Buryan is a shortening of the name of Saint
Buriana; the village of Gerran has its name from
Gerennius, who was nothing of a saint, indeed, but
very much of a chieftain; and Saint Mellion is from
Saint Melanius. Sennen, too, smells suspiciously like
a corruption of Symphorien. Even where names are
not thus reduced, or where, being of but one syllable,
they admit of no further contraction, your true
Cornishman will contrive to twist them inconceivably.
Of these, Saint Clare has become Saint Cleer,
and the name of Saint Erth, the village by which we
now came into Penwith, was once Saint Erith. Here
we entered upon the final stage of our journey,
catching glimpses of Mount’s Bay and Saint Michael’s
Mount, and Marazion, as the sun went down.</p>
<p>When we came to the level-crossing that mars
the roadway just outside Marazion Road Station, the
gates were closed for all but foot-passengers, and we
heard the rushing of the “down” train between the
hills. It was quite dark now, and I knew the road
from here into Penzance for a dusty and stony two
miles, so we needed little consideration upon the
question whether or not we should take train for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">252</span>
that short distance. We took it, or, to avoid quibbles,
I will say it took us.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="LXVI">LXVI.</h2>
</div>
<p>Now we were housed at Alverton, which, you
should know, is the Kensington of Penzance, a
suburb of the old town, which has gradually become
absorbed, a place of many villas, where the visitor
generally finds his rest, where gardens meet the eye
at every turn, where fuchsias, geraniums, and myrtles
grow to astonishing sizes.</p>
<p>Our windows looked down upon the sunlit waves
of Mount’s Bay, while through the open casements
came the rich odours of these flowers, but above all
the piercing scent of the clove-carnation. Among
the brave show of blossoms were the peculiar waxy
flowers of the <i>Escallonia</i> shrub, brilliantly red.</p>
<p>From adown the street, sloping toward the shore,
came every morning the high-pitched cry of “Pilchers,
fine fresh pilchers,” for there were fine
catches of pilchards overnight; and at a soothing
distance, a more or less German band generally
murdered current comic operas.</p>
<div id="i_92" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 34em;">
<img src="images/i_253.jpg" width="544" height="319" alt="" />
<div class="caption">SAINT MICHAEL’S MOUNT.</div></div>
<p>Pirates there are not at Penzance, and nothing
approaching them, unless we except these German
band-itti; but they are, indeed, or were, when last
I heard them, desperate characters, who would think
nothing of murdering “The Mikado” or “The Gondoliers.”
Indeed, they have done so many times, and
will again, unless some action is taken in the matter.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">254</span>
I shudder to think how many fine and robust comic
operas have been done to death on moonlit nights
upon the esplanade in front of the Queen’s Hotel,
or in the gloomy by-ways of the Morrab Road. I
have seen these bravos standing in a circle round
their helpless victim, and noted the brazen flash of
their deadly weapons, and heard the agonising demi-semi-quavers
of his dying notes as the remorseless
band blew out his bars. Ah! sometimes, when they
little thought their criminal deeds were overheard, I
have listened a while to them making shameful overtures
to their captives, and have presently hurried
away, fingers to ears, to shut out the fearful shrieks
which such deeds have produced. What class of
people is it that supports these hired assassins?
Alas! I know not, but that they are supported is
a solemn fact. So callous are some of these folk
that—I assure you it is so—I have actually seen
them place bribes in the hand of the chief miscreant,
and have observed them loitering by, with heartless
smiles of approval, until the deed was done. What
harmony, what tender chords can exist in a town
where such doings fall flat upon accustomed ears?</p>
<div id="i_93" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 35em;">
<img src="images/i_254fp.jpg" width="558" height="341" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">Penzance</span> from above Gulval</div></div>
<p>And yet the place looks so fresh, so fair, so happy.
It is ten miles from the Land’s End; the wail of the
Cockney concertina is never heard within these
gates; and Plymouth, the nearest large town, is
eighty-one miles away. Penzance knows nothing
of London. Visitors come from the Metropolis to
the shores of Mount’s Bay; but although they are—in
instances—known to his from London town, that
place is the merest geographical expression in Penwith.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">255</span>
We don’t read London papers at Penzance
(unless we are—for our sins—authors, when our
friends kindly post us those copies containing slashing
reviews, obligingly blue-pencilled); we read few
papers of any sort, and those are printed at Plymouth.
Visitors do not get through much reading at Penzance.
They have breakfast, and disappear for the
day, to return only at night, tired and hungry, from
strenuous excursions to all sorts of wild and impossible
places, with names that only a Celt can properly
get his tongue round. A stranger coming into
Penzance upon a mid-day of its season would opine
from the evidence of his eyes that the town had lost
its favour, but nothing would be farther from the
truth. Half the visitors are at Land’s End or the
Logan Rock; some at Saint Ives; many at the
Mount, or Newlyn, or Mousehole; a few have gone
to Truro or the Lizard.</p>
<p>Penzance is a harmony in grey and blue, looking
seaward; in grey and green to the inward glance.
Its chief street, Market-jew Street, climbing up to
the centre of the town, has at its summit the somewhat
gloomy granite building of the Market House—severely
classic—fronted with a statue in white
marble of Sir Humphry Davy, a native of Ludgvan
village near by. Over a doorway of the building you
may see, carved in the granite, the arms of Penzance,
i.e., the Head of Saint John Baptist (I disclaim at
once all responsibility for the apparent Irishry of the
arms of the town being a head), with the legend
“Pen Sans, 1614.” At the Alverton end of the
town you may still see an old, heavily thatched<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">256</span>
cottage, where was born that doughty hero, Edward
Pellew, who afterwards rose through his prowess to
the title of Viscount Exmouth, a title more hardly
earned than some parallel patents of nobility in this
little day.</p>
<div id="i_94" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 28em;">
<img src="images/i_256.jpg" width="434" height="345" alt="" />
<div class="caption">SAINT MICHAEL’S MOUNT: ENTRANCE TO THE CASTLE.</div></div>
<p>’Tis a languorous air, of Mount’s Bay; thus it
fell that the morning was usually well advanced
before we happened in the street or by the harbour.
Here, on certain week-days, is great bustle, when the
mail steamer is preparing to cast off for the voyage
across to Scilly. The passengers, like the poet’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">257</span>
“little victims,” laugh and are merry, “all unconscious
of their doom.” For, of a truth, ’tis a rolling
sea, and, as the humorist might say, the sick (!)
transit takes away the <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">gloria mundi</i>.</p>
<div id="i_95" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 21em;">
<img src="images/i_256fp.jpg" width="329" height="521" alt="" />
<div class="caption">PENZANCE HARBOUR: NIGHT.</div></div>
<p>But we leave these, and embark upon that little
voyage of three miles to “the Mount,” as you come
to abbreviate Saint Michael’s crags, across the shallow
waters of the tumbling bay.</p>
<p>In less than half an hour our little launch runs
alongside the massive stone walls of the tiny haven,
at the foot of the historic Mount, and we presently
disport ourselves upon its delightful slopes, whose
history, with that of the grey castle above, goes back
to very dim antiquity: a history of sieges, surprises,
and fierce fights among the rocks, and on the sands
below. The Mount is now the property and the
residence of Lord Saint Levan, the present head of
the Saint Aubyns, whose name one constantly meets
throughout Cornwall. The loyal Saint Aubyns have
zealously recorded the Royal visit to the Mount in
1846, when her Majesty landed at the stairs of the
haven; for there has been let into the rugged granite
a brass-plate, inscribed with a “V.R.,” and fashioned
to represent the Royal boot-sole, by which you gather
that the Queen wore most uncommonly square-toed
shoes in those days.</p>
<p>I warn strangers that, before visiting the Mount,
it were well to dismiss from the mind all recollections
of it as done into paint and water-colour, for
artists have all tacitly agreed to exaggerate its height
and steepness. Thus, Turner’s grand painting, and
Clarkson Stanfield’s huge achievement in water-colour,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">258</span>
would be introductions by which a subsequent
acquaintance with the place would only disappoint.
But then, to expect topographical accuracy in these
things (and especially in Turner’s later work) were
indeed vain. The best point of view for an idea
of the Mount is that half-way up to the left hand,
whence this drawing was taken; for here you
have bulk and composition without the need for
exaggeration.</p>
<p>The castle, crowning the heights, has still much
of interest to show, though modern additions are
everywhere about. Thus, the Chevy Chase Hall,
anciently the refectory of the religious house that
once held sway here, is worthy attention. Its name
is derived from the decorative frieze that runs round
its walls, a representation of old-time hunting scenes.
The Royal Arms above, are, of course, a very modern
addition, and the spears and other weapons seen on
the walls are, for the most part, spoils of the Soudan
campaigns, brought from Egypt by Lord Saint Levan’s
son, who went through those expeditions.</p>
<p>The chapel, too, though now bare enough, is of
Perpendicular date. A horrid <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">oubliette</i> is shown
beneath the stalls, a small chamber, without light
or air or any outlet when the paving-stone above
is lowered to its place in the floor. Some years
since, when this dismal living tomb was accidentally
discovered, the skeleton of a man of extraordinary
stature was found within. Who he had been must
ever remain matter for conjecture—poor wretch, left
here to be forgotten.</p>
<div id="i_96" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 22em;">
<img src="images/i_259.jpg" width="348" height="421" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">Chevy Chase Hall</span></div></div>
<p>It is a darksome climb to the battlements of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">259</span>
old tower of the castle, so high above the world.
Penzance and Newlyn lie below in the distance, and
their white walls flash upon the grey of granite and
the dull green of the moors beyond. Presently, as
you gaze, comes a trail of smoke from eastward, and
the “down” train glides into the wayside station of
Marazion Road, bringing its complement of holiday-makers,
who will swarm up the Logan Rock, sail to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">260</span>
Lamorna, adventure (if they be hardy pedestrians) to
Porthgwarra or Saint Levan (whence Sir John Saint
Aubyn’s jubilee peerage), or Cape Cornwall; but
those spots are innumerable where the tourist loves
to dwell. Above all places he goes to Land’s End,
but never or rarely does he hie him eastward, to
Perranuthno, to Cuddan Point, or to Pengersick.
Civilisation goes ever westward, and, as the tourist
is its peculiar product, ’tis only fitting he should
follow its march.</p>
<p>I recollect another day, when we went to Land’s
End, along ten miles of ofttimes rough and heavy
walking, through Alverton’s lanes, along the short
stretch of dusty road that passes by the wrecked
sea-wall, designed to join those near neighbours of
Penzance and Newlyn, but demolished by the first
storm that rolled in from the south-west.</p>
<p>We sat upon the tumbled blocks of granite, and
captured this view of the town, and then came upon
Newlyn and its decaying school of artists. What
has become of the Newlyn School, so-called, that
ephemeral blossom? Are we to assume that, its
leading exponent having won to academic honours,
its mission is fulfilled?</p>
<div id="i_97" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 35em;">
<img src="images/i_260fp.jpg" width="553" height="350" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">Penzance.</span></div></div>
<p>They were only a <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">dilettante</i> set we saw at Newlyn,
painting the ramshackle old bridges and their
loungers. Artists have painted these old bridges over
and over again, have composed groups of bronzed,
blue-jerseyed fishermen leaning over their parapets
and gossiping, and have given, with the convincing
surety of the Newlyn touch, the laughing, tinkling
stream that flows beneath the arches, presently to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">261</span>
lose itself in the shallow waters of the bay. The
amateur photographer, too, is never weary of well
“doing” the place. I prefer the paintings to the
photos, because, although I have a happy liking for
realism and truth, I draw the line at the camera’s
uncompromising rendition of battered tin cans,
broken crockery, fish offal, old boots, and other
unpicturesque and sordid objects that lazy housewives
cast out of window into the water.</p>
<div id="i_98" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 24em;">
<img src="images/i_261.jpg" width="378" height="213" alt="" />
<div class="caption">LUDGVAN LEAZE.</div></div>
<p>Sad, indeed, is the state of the picturesque stream
or romantic glen that borders upon a camp of civilisation,
for abundance of old boots and sardine tins
are the reward of the diligent botanist or natural
historian in these gates; bracken grows not more
profusely than are strewn the shards and potsherds
of the neighbouring town. But no matter how frequent
and plentiful the wreck and refuse in the
matter of bottomless kettles, superannuated umbrellas,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">262</span>
and broken dishes, the Old Boot is the commonest
object of the seashore, highway, by-way, lane, or
ditch—no mountain too high, no valley too deep for
it to be found. The angler lands it with language
and dashed expectations from the trout stream; the
trawler finds it unaccountably in his trawl-net when
he returns from the bay; the ploughman disinters
it from the field; and children dig it up from the
sands: everywhere is the Old Boot. I have communed
with Nature, and rambled amid the wildest
and loneliest of scenes, when my meditations have
been arrested by old boots, and at once the poetry
and romance of the scene have flown away. Truly,
there is nothing like leather.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="LXVII">LXVII.</h2>
</div>
<p>But this is a turning out of the path; let us
on to Land’s End, up Newlyn’s lanes, whose inhabitants
fall into poses as the artist passes along,
so sophisticated are these one-time simple folk
become.</p>
<p>Here winding lanes lead up to the highroad,
through a country where “stone walls do not a
prison make,” but are fashioned into hedges; where,
as you near the end of all things, trees become
scarce as corn proverbially was in Egypt aforetime,
finally ceasing altogether, incapable of withstanding
the strenuous salt winds from the Atlantic.</p>
<div id="i_99" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 36em;">
<img src="images/i_262fp.jpg" width="564" height="412" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">SAINT BURYAN.</span></div></div>
<p>The villages you pass—as Saint Buryan and Saint<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">263</span>
Sennen, storm-beaten and ashen-grey, wear a rugged,
uncanny look, that brightens into cheerfulness only
in the strongest sunshine of summer, when they
become even as Saharas for dryness.</p>
<p>The road takes its way past Crowz-an-Wra—name
of horrid seeming—on to a level bounded by
the trim hills of Bartinney—Chapel Carn Brê in one
direction, and rounded off by the watery horizon on
the other, past the Quakers’ Burial Ground, a little
parallelogram of moorland walled in with walls of
grey lichen-stained granite, without door or gateway
of any kind—a dismal spot, overgrown with rank
grasses. Abandon hope all ye who inter here!</p>
<div id="i_100" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 22em;">
<img src="images/i_263.jpg" width="351" height="276" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><i>Saint Germoe.</i></div></div>
<p>Passing through the desolation of Sennen village,
with its grey granite church, in whose little graveyard
lie many dead sailors and fishermen, in less<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">264</span>
than a mile you come to the westernmost point of
England. Here, with the growth of touring, modern
enterprise has supplanted the Sennen Inn, the
original First and Last Inn in England, according
which way you fare. A large building, close by
the cliff’s edge, has usurped the old sign, and here
the Penzance coaches set down their loads of sightseers
to consume sandwiches and a variety of liquids
upon the short grass.</p>
<p>Now, Land’s End is a spot that has little beyond
its alleged farthest projection to the west to recommend
it. Other points of this wild coast are grander
than this place of stunted cliffs overlooking the
Longships Lighthouse, with a dim glance at Scilly
lying athwart the sunset. Carn Kenidjack and
Cape Cornwall, for instance, to the northward, are
grander, loftier, and more precipitous. The sea
thunders upon the shore in their sandy coves, while
here the cliffs drop sheer into the water, and you are
cheated of a foreground.</p>
<p>But, as the chartographers have it, this <em>is</em> the end
of all things, and therefore it is honoured of brake-parties,
who sit upon the grassy cliff-top, and hold
unpremeditated picnics. What of beauty the place
possesses is (more or less) pleasingly diversified with
broken bottles and other relics of these <i xml:lang="es" lang="es">al fresco</i>
feasts, and miscalled “guides” hover about seeking
whom they may devour.</p>
<div id="i_101" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 37em;">
<img src="images/i_264fp.jpg" width="586" height="336" alt="" />
<div class="caption">The Longships Lighthouse</div></div>
<p>Ugh! the greasy paper and the broken glass of
Land’s End. Let us go and have tea at the First
and Last House in England—the third of them.
Breezy, isn’t it? Rain! by all that’s holy. Don’t put<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">265</span>
your umbrella up, you, mister, unless you want to be
blown away into the sea. Come now, hold on tightly
to this wall, and take advantage of the next lull to
rush into the doorway.... That’s it.... Now,
ma’am, let’s have tea, an’—er—bring me a pair o’ bellows,
will you? I haven’t a breath left in my body.</p>
<p>Now, to examine the visitors’ books. I take it
kindly of these good folk, d’you know, that they
have compassion upon the aspirations of the crowd:
it were hard indeed upon the Briton to deny him
all means of recording his visits here. There is no
suitable substance upon which he can carve his name,
and the date upon which he honoured <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">Ultima Thule</i>
with his presence: the common (or Birmingham)
penknife makes no impression upon granite rocks:
there is never a tree for miles around: turf is readily
cut, but, by reason of its growing, affords but a fleeting
means of commemoration.</p>
<p>But stay, you have only to take your tea at the little
tea-house to be free of those visitors’ books. Also
the interior walls of its rooms are whitewashed. I need
scarce point out the significance of <em>this</em> fact. While
you partake of tea, you can read the volumes already
filled up: other people have evidently done the same
thing, for those pages are become very horrid; rich
in crumbs, flattened currants, fragments of egg-shells,
tea-stains, and transparent finger-marks. Some of
those pages stick together like Scots in London (or
anywhere out of Scotland); you can have no scruple
in separating them; they—the pages, not the Scots,
are only stuck together by fortuitous fragments of
butter.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">266</span>
<em>Mem.</em>—Napkins are not supplied by your hosts,
and it would be a pity to soil your handkerchief.
Therefore, wipe your fingers in the visitors’ book,
being careful in the selection of a page, in case
you leave your fingers in worse case than before.
Having done this, you can go through the written
pages and scribble insulting remarks upon the
folks whose names and observations you find there.
They’ll be hurt when next they come here, and see
your comments, and any friends of theirs will be
pleased at your ribaldries—people always like candid
criticisms of their friends. Of course, you really
don’t want to please anybody; but, unfortunately,
it cannot sometimes be helped.</p>
<p>And now let’s get back to Penzance. We walked
here, but it’s raining so hard that we must ride
back. The brakes are just starting. “Hi, there!
wait a minute: we’re coming along.” “Can’t take
you, sir, we’re full up.” “But we <em>must</em> get back.
Come now, we’ll give you five shillings a-piece for
the single journey.” “Couldn’t do it, sir: ’much
as my license’s worth.” “Well, look here, we’ll
spring a sov. between us.” “Jump up, then, gentlemen;
but pay first, y’know.” “Oh! go on, we can’t
do that—we haven’t so much between us; pay
you when we get to Penzance.” “No; if you
can’t pay now, you’ll have to stop here or walk.
I know what paying afterwards means: <em>I</em> couldn’t
get it by law, and <em>you</em> wouldn’t pay without being
obliged. No, thanky: drive up, Bill.”</p>
<div id="i_102" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 35em;">
<img src="images/i_266fp.jpg" width="553" height="347" alt="" />
<div class="caption">CARN KENIDJACK.</div></div>
<p>“Bless you! To the Hesperides with all brake
proprietors. Never mind, we’ll sleep at the hotel<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">267</span>
here.” ... “Can you put us up for the night?”
“No, sir, we’re full up. There’s two gentlemen
sleeping on the billiard-table, an’ I’m going to sleep
on the kitchener, as I’m rather short and a bit
chilly. The chambermaid’s going to sleep in the
wash’us, and Boots is camping out in Deadman’s
Cave, in the cliffs down there. One gentleman, a
nantiquarian feller, he’s borrowed a railway-rug and
gone for the night to the British Bee-’ive ’uts on
Windy Downs: better keep him company, it’s rather
lonely for him, poor gentleman.”</p>
<div id="i_103" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 22em;">
<img src="images/i_267.jpg" width="351" height="193" alt="" />
<div class="caption">SAINT LEVAN.</div></div>
<p>“Thanks, we’re not hankering for company. We’re
going to walk back to Penzance. Good night to
you.”</p>
<p>A ten miles’ walk through pelting rain and along
lonely roads is scarcely a cheering experience. The
whisky with which we strove to keep out the chills
was “exhibited” neat; water was not needed, for we
were speedily wet through.</p>
<p>Supper that night was partaken of in a manner<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">268</span>
strictly private, for we were wrappaged round about
in our lodgings at Penzance in a fashion, dry and
comfortable perhaps, but too classically picturesque
for aught but a prim and proper seclusion.</p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="LXVIII">LXVIII.</h2>
</div>
<p>Something of this description, though perhaps not
so pronounced, is always going forward at Land’s
End in the tourist season. Land’s End is effectually
vulgarised, and despite Kingsley’s verses, it is impossible
to come to it in any other than a scoffing spirit.
Read of Land’s End, and retain the majestic ideal<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">269</span>
conjured up by the name of it. Visit the place, and
you find nothing but sordid surroundings.</p>
<div id="i_104" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 19em;">
<img src="images/i_268.jpg" width="294" height="305" alt="" />
<div class="caption">Saint Germoe’s Chair.</div></div>
<p><em>We</em> visited, on another day of happier auspices,
Carn Kenidjack and Cape Cornwall,—those grand
and lonely bulwarks of the land,—and returned by
way of the little township of Saint Just-in-Penwith
to Penzance, regaining by this unfrequented route
something of the lost romance which had lured us
to take this alliterative trip from Paddington to
Penzance.</p>
<p>It was now late in the season: cold winds and
short days came on apace, with rains that drove the
tourists home. We, too, packed our knapsacks for
the last time, and presently were whirled up to
Paddington and London streets in the Cornishman
express.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">270</span></p>
<hr />
<div class="chapter"><div class="index">
<h2 id="INDEX" class="nobreak p1">INDEX</h2>
<ul class="index">
<li class="ifrst">Abbotsbury, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">—— Swannery, <a href="#Page_96">96</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Abbot’s Worthy, <a href="#Page_40">40</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Alphington, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Alverton, 252–<a href="#Page_5">5</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Anstey’s Cove, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>, <a href="#Page_142">142</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Antony, <a href="#Page_187">187</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Ashe, <a href="#Page_105">105</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Avon Water, <a href="#Page_74">74</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Axe, River, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Axminster, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Axmouth, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Babbacombe, <a href="#Page_137">137</a>, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Barrepper, <a href="#Page_249">249</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Bartinney Hill, <a href="#Page_263">263</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Basingstoke, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Berry Pomeroy, <a href="#Page_142">142</a>, <a href="#Page_147">147</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Blackpool Valley, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>, <a href="#Page_164">164</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Blagdon, <a href="#Page_146">146</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Bolt Head, <a href="#Page_175">175</a>, <a href="#Page_177">177</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Boulter’s Lock, <a href="#Page_22">22</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Bournemouth. <a href="#Page_76">76</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Bray, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Bridport, <a href="#Page_96">96</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Broadlands, <a href="#Page_68">68</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Brockenhurst, <a href="#Page_72">72</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Cadnam, <a href="#Page_69">69</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Camborne, <a href="#Page_247">247</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Carews, the, 187–<a href="#Page_226">226</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Carew, Richard, <a href="#Page_188">188</a>, <a href="#Page_191">191</a>, <a href="#Page_220">220</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Carn Brea, <a href="#Page_245">245</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Carnhell Green, <a href="#Page_250">250</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Cam Kenidjack, <a href="#Page_264">264</a>, <a href="#Page_269">269</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Castledour, <a href="#Page_220">220</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Chacewater, 239–<a href="#Page_40">40</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Chapel Carn Brê, <a href="#Page_263">263</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Charleton, <a href="#Page_165">165</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Charmouth, <a href="#Page_99">99</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Chertsey, <a href="#Page_17">17</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Chideock, <a href="#Page_97">97</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Chillington, <a href="#Page_165">165</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Christchurch, <a href="#Page_74">74</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Clieveden, <a href="#Page_22">22</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Cockwood Creek, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Cookham, <a href="#Page_23">23</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Coppithorne, <a href="#Page_68">68</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Corfe, 84–<a href="#Page_6">6</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Cornwall, <a href="#Page_184">184</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">—— Cape, 260–<a href="#Page_4">4</a>, <a href="#Page_269">269</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Courtenays, the, 119–<a href="#Page_21">21</a></li>
<li class="indx">Crafthole, <a href="#Page_192">192</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Crowz-an-Wra, <a href="#Page_263">263</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Cuddan Point, <a href="#Page_260">260</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Dart, River, 153–<a href="#Page_61">61</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Dartmouth, 153–<a href="#Page_74">74</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Dawlish, <a href="#Page_123">123</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Deadman’s Head, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Devon, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>, <a href="#Page_131">131</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Devonport, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>, <a href="#Page_181">181</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Dittisham, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Dodbrooke, <a href="#Page_165">165</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Dolcoath, <a href="#Page_247">247</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Dorsetshire, <a href="#Page_95">95</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Downderry, <a href="#Page_192">192</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Drakes, the, <a href="#Page_106">106</a>, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>, <a href="#Page_185">185</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">East Looe, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>, 193–<a href="#Page_5">5</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">East Lulworth, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Eton College, <a href="#Page_17">17</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Exe, River, <a href="#Page_113">113</a>, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Exeter City, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">—— Cathedral, <a href="#Page_111">111</a>, <a href="#Page_119">119</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">—— Guildhall, <a href="#Page_109">109</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Exminster, <a href="#Page_115">115</a>, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Exmouth, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">—— Viscount, <a href="#Page_256">256</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Fal, River, <a href="#Page_235">235</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Filleigh, <a href="#Page_250">250</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">First and Last Inn, <a href="#Page_264">264</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Ford, <a href="#Page_186">186</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Fowey, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>, <a href="#Page_215">215</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">George III., <a href="#Page_91">91</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Gorran, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Gorran Haven, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">271</span></li>
<li class="indx">Gwinear, <a href="#Page_250">250</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Ham, <a href="#Page_10">10</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">—— House, <a href="#Page_13">13</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Hambledon, <a href="#Page_27">27</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Hamoaze, the, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>, <a href="#Page_182">182</a>, <a href="#Page_187">187</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Hampshire, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>, <a href="#Page_39">39</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Headbourne Worthy, <a href="#Page_57">57</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Henley, <a href="#Page_30">30</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Hennerton Backwater, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Holmbush, <a href="#Page_222">222</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Holy Ghost Chapel, <a href="#Page_37">37</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Hunter’s Lodge Inn, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Hurley, <a href="#Page_26">26</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Itchen, River, <a href="#Page_36">36</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Kennet, River, <a href="#Page_34">34</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Kingsbridge, <a href="#Page_163">163</a>, <a href="#Page_164">164</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Kingston, <a href="#Page_14">14</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Kingswear, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>, <a href="#Page_162">162</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">King’s Worthy, <a href="#Page_40">40</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">“Labrador,” <a href="#Page_135">135</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Lainston, <a href="#Page_58">58</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Laira Bridge, <a href="#Page_186">186</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Lamorna, <a href="#Page_260">260</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Lander, <a href="#Page_237">237</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Land’s End, <a href="#Page_254">254</a>, <a href="#Page_260">260</a>, <a href="#Page_264">264</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Langstone Point, <a href="#Page_122">122</a>, <a href="#Page_123">123</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Lanteglos-juxta-Fowey, <a href="#Page_214">214</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Lee Mount, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Lew Trenchard, <a href="#Page_137">137</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Logan Rock, <a href="#Page_255">255</a>, <a href="#Page_259">259</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Longships Lighthouse, <a href="#Page_264">264</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Looe, East, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>, 193–<a href="#Page_5">5</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">—— River, <a href="#Page_196">196</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">—— West, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Ludgvan, <a href="#Page_255">255</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Lulworth Castle, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">—— East, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Lyndhurst, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Lynher River, <a href="#Page_187">187</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Maidenhead, <a href="#Page_22">22</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Marazion, <a href="#Page_251">251</a>, <a href="#Page_259">259</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Marsh Lock, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Martyr Worthy, <a href="#Page_40">40</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Marychurch, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>, <a href="#Page_160">160</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Medmenham Abbey, <a href="#Page_26">26</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Melcombe Regis, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Mevagissey, <a href="#Page_225">225</a>, <a href="#Page_228">228</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Micheldever, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Monmouth, Duke of, <a href="#Page_95">95</a>, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Morecombelake, <a href="#Page_99">99</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Morice Town, <a href="#Page_186">186</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Mount Charles, <a href="#Page_222">222</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">—— Edgcumbe, <a href="#Page_186">186</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">—— Pleasant, <a href="#Page_122">122</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Mount’s Bay, <a href="#Page_251">251</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Mousehole, <a href="#Page_255">255</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Musbury, <a href="#Page_106">106</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">New Forest, <a href="#Page_68">68</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Newlyn, 255–<a href="#Page_60">60</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">North Haven, <a href="#Page_82">82</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">—— Lew, <a href="#Page_138">138</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Osmington, <a href="#Page_89">89</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Paignton, <a href="#Page_141">141</a>, <a href="#Page_144">144</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Palmerston, Viscount, <a href="#Page_68">68</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Par, <a href="#Page_219">219</a>, <a href="#Page_222">222</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Pellew, Edward, <a href="#Page_256">256</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Pengersick, <a href="#Page_260">260</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Penzance, <a href="#Page_249">249</a>, <a href="#Page_251">251</a>, <a href="#Page_252">252</a>, <a href="#Page_266">266</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Perranuthno, <a href="#Page_260">260</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Peter Pindar, <a href="#Page_165">165</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Petersham, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Phillack, <a href="#Page_250">250</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Philleigh, <a href="#Page_235">235</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Plymouth, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>, <a href="#Page_254">253</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">—— Guildhall, <a href="#Page_187">187</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">—— Hoe, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>, <a href="#Page_186">186</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">—— Sound, <a href="#Page_174">174</a>, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Pokesdown, <a href="#Page_76">76</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Polperro, <a href="#Page_207">207</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Polruan, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>, <a href="#Page_215">215</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Pool, <a href="#Page_246">246</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Poole, <a href="#Page_247">247</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">—— Harbour, <a href="#Page_82">82</a>, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Porthmellin, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Port Holland, <a href="#Page_232">232</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Portland Bill, <a href="#Page_89">89</a>, <a href="#Page_95">95</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Portlemouth, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Powderham, <a href="#Page_119">119</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Preston, <a href="#Page_90">90</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Purbeck Hills, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>, <a href="#Page_95">95</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">—— Isle of, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Quakers’ Burial-Ground, <a href="#Page_263">263</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Reading, <a href="#Page_34">34</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Redruth, <a href="#Page_240">240</a>, <a href="#Page_249">249</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Regatta Island, <a href="#Page_28">28</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Richmond, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Roebuck Hill, <a href="#Page_57">57</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Romsey, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Rougemont Castle, <a href="#Page_109">109</a>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Ruan Creek, <a href="#Page_235">235</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">St. Aubyns, the, <a href="#Page_257">257</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">St. Austell, <a href="#Page_221">221</a>, <a href="#Page_223">223</a>, <a href="#Page_251">251</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">St. Blazey, <a href="#Page_251">251</a>.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">272</span></li>
<li class="indx">St. Budeaux, <a href="#Page_185">185</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">St. Buryan, <a href="#Page_251">251</a>, <a href="#Page_262">262</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">St. Catherine’s Hill, Abbotsbury, <a href="#Page_94">94</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">St. Catherine’s Hill, Winchester, <a href="#Page_36">36</a>, <a href="#Page_55">55</a>, <a href="#Page_56">56</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">St. Cleer, <a href="#Page_251">251</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">St. Day, <a href="#Page_240">240</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">St. Erth, <a href="#Page_251">251</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">St. Ives, <a href="#Page_255">255</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">St. Just-in-Penwith, <a href="#Page_269">269</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">St. Levan, <a href="#Page_260">260</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">St. Lo, <a href="#Page_232">232</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">St. Mellion, <a href="#Page_251">251</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">St. Michael Caerhayes, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">St. Michael’s Mount, <a href="#Page_251">251</a>, <a href="#Page_257">257</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">St. Ruan, <a href="#Page_251">251</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">St. Sennen, <a href="#Page_251">251</a>, <a href="#Page_263">263</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">St. Thomas, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Salcombe, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>, <a href="#Page_171">171</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">—— River, <a href="#Page_164">164</a>, <a href="#Page_171">171</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Saltash, <a href="#Page_181">181</a>, <a href="#Page_184">184</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Scilly, <a href="#Page_256">256</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Screasdon Fort, <a href="#Page_192">192</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Seaton, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Shaldon, <a href="#Page_131">131</a>, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Shepperton, <a href="#Page_16">16</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Sherborne St. John, <a href="#Page_36">36</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Slapton Sands, <a href="#Page_164">164</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Sonning, <a href="#Page_34">34</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Southborough-on-Sea, <a href="#Page_76">76</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">South Haven, <a href="#Page_82">82</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Sparsholt, <a href="#Page_58">58</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Starcross, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Stoke Damerel, <a href="#Page_186">186</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">—— Fleming, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>, <a href="#Page_163">163</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Stokenham, <a href="#Page_165">165</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Stonehouse, <a href="#Page_181">181</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Studland, <a href="#Page_82">82</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Swanage, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Tamar, River, <a href="#Page_182">182</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Taplow, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Teign, River, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Teignmouth, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>, <a href="#Page_122">122</a>, <a href="#Page_123">123</a>, <a href="#Page_127">127</a>, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Thames, River, <a href="#Page_15">15</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Tor Bay, <a href="#Page_140">140</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Torcross, <a href="#Page_164">164</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Torpoint, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>, <a href="#Page_186">186</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Torquay, <a href="#Page_133">133</a>, <a href="#Page_135">135</a>, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>, <a href="#Page_140">140</a>, <a href="#Page_160">160</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Totnes, <a href="#Page_149">149</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Treffrys, the, <a href="#Page_216">216</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Tregantle Fort, <a href="#Page_192">192</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Trelissick, <a href="#Page_236">236</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Trematon Castle, <a href="#Page_187">187</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Treworlas, <a href="#Page_235">235</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Truro Cathedral, <a href="#Page_237">237</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">—— City, <a href="#Page_235">235</a>, <a href="#Page_236">236</a>, <a href="#Page_239">239</a>, <a href="#Page_249">249</a>, <a href="#Page_255">255</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Turf, <a href="#Page_119">119</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Tywardreath Bay, <a href="#Page_222">222</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Veryan, 229–<a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Wargrave, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Warren, the, <a href="#Page_122">122</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Watcombe, <a href="#Page_137">137</a>, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Weeke, <a href="#Page_57">57</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">West Bay, <a href="#Page_96">96</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">—— Looe, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Weymouth, <a href="#Page_90">90</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">White, Gilbert, <a href="#Page_37">37</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Whitesand Bay, <a href="#Page_192">192</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">William III., <a href="#Page_143">143</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Winchester Cathedral, <a href="#Page_44">44</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">—— City, <a href="#Page_36">36</a>, <a href="#Page_41">41</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">—— College, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>, <a href="#Page_54">54</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Windsor Castle, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Wolcot, Dr. John, <a href="#Page_165">165</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Wootton, <a href="#Page_74">74</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Worthies, the, <a href="#Page_40">40</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Wyke, <a href="#Page_57">57</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Wykeham, William of, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>.</li>
</ul>
</div></div>
<p class="p2 center wspace">THE END.</p>
<p class="p2 center small">
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.<br />
EDINBURGH AND LONDON.
</p>
<div class="chapter"><div class="footnotes">
<h2 id="FOOTNOTES" class="nobreak p1">FOOTNOTES</h2>
<div class="footnote">
<p class="fn1"><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="fnanchor">1</a> A recipe strongly in favour with the artistic and literary world.</p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p class="fn1"><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="fnanchor">2</a> June 11th. The apparent error arises through March 25th being
at that time still occasionally considered as New Year’s Day.</p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p class="fn1"><a id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3" class="fnanchor">3</a> We have been told lately that it was not Napoleon but an American
orator named Adams who first applied this epithet to us. If this
is true, it comes with an additional bad grace, for whatever right a
Frenchman has to such a sneer, certainly no American can claim it.</p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p class="fn1"><a id="Footnote_4" href="#FNanchor_4" class="fnanchor">4</a> Pindar.</p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p class="fn1"><a id="Footnote_5" href="#FNanchor_5" class="fnanchor">5</a> Than satirical pamphlets.</p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p class="fn1"><a id="Footnote_6" href="#FNanchor_6" class="fnanchor">6</a>
</p>
<p class="p0 center">
Underneath<br />
Lieth the Body of Robert<br />
Comonly Called Bone Phillip<br />
who died July 27<sup>th</sup> 1793<br />
Aged 65 Years,
</p>
<p class="b0">At whose request The following lines are here inserted.</p>
<div class="p0 poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Here lie I at the Chancel door,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Here lie I because I’m poor<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The forther in the more you’ll pay<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Here lie I as warm as they<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p class="fn1"><a id="Footnote_7" href="#FNanchor_7" class="fnanchor">7</a> <i>N.B.</i>—Not responsible for pronunciation of the English language.</p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p class="fn1"><a id="Footnote_8" href="#FNanchor_8" class="fnanchor">8</a> I’m afraid your rhymes, Mr. Poet, are somewhat indiscreet.</p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p class="fn1"><a id="Footnote_9" href="#FNanchor_9" class="fnanchor">9</a> See how sadly the exigencies of rhyme fetter the poet: the palate
and not the lip give the sense of taste.</p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p class="fn2"><a id="Footnote_10" href="#FNanchor_10" class="fnanchor">10</a> <i>Anglice</i>, farm-yards.</p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p class="fn2"><a id="Footnote_11" href="#FNanchor_11" class="fnanchor">11</a> This seems a peculiarly modern touch.</p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p class="fn2"><a id="Footnote_12" href="#FNanchor_12" class="fnanchor">12</a> Fill, dear reader, these blanks <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">à discrétion</i>.</p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p class="fn2"><a id="Footnote_13" href="#FNanchor_13" class="fnanchor">13</a> Corruption also of Phillis.</p></div>
</div></div>
<div class="chapter"><div class="transnote">
<h2 id="Transcribers_Notes" class="nobreak p1">Transcriber’s Notes</h2>
<p>Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made
consistent when a predominant preference was found
in the original book; otherwise they were not changed.</p>
<p>Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced
quotation marks were remedied.</p>
<p>Illustrations in this eBook have been positioned
between paragraphs and outside quotations.</p>
<p>The original List of Illustrations (LoI) distinguished
between full-page illustrations that “faced” pages,
and mid-page illustrations that were “on” pages. This
eBook does not make that distinction. In versions that
support hyperlinks, the links lead to the actual
illustrations, regardless of where they appear.</p>
<p>Transcriber used the List of Illustrations to add
captions to illustrations lacking them, and removed
the printer’s notes regarding the pages to which some
illustrations should be facing. The captionless
illustrations near the beginning of the book are
decorative.</p>
<p>The index was not checked for proper alphabetization
or correct page references.</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_163">163</a>: The text on the mural was printed in Black Letter.</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_185">185</a>: The symbol before “War Office” is an up-arrow.</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_191">191</a>: The text taken from the chancel was printed
in Black Letter.</p>
<p>The quotation beginning on page 205 was printed in
Black Letter.</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_217">217</a>: There is a macron above the ‘m’ in the word “Comaund”.</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_218">218</a>: “and waits are lingering” may be a misprint
for “waifs”.</p>
</div></div>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 58898 ***</div>
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