As the Crow Flies

A DEVONSHIRE MARKET TOWN

NEWTON ABBOT, DEVON. – At the first blush the sudden change from the balmy breezes of the Riviera to the comparatively harsh winds that blow over Dartmoor, would seem to be a trial. But such is hardly the case. I am writing to-day in a private sitting room of the quaint Globe Inn in this little-visited town, with the windows wide open and the sun streaming in with a warmth that is almost too genial. One never hears of a tourist visiting Newton Abbot, and from all I can gather Newton Abbot is in the same position. It is a queer, quiet little market town in South Devon, about six miles from Torquay, the great southern watering place, and not far from Dartmouth and the moors. One can have hunting and fishing in the neighbourhood, for the South Devon fox hounds meet near by three times a week and the rivers Eske and Culme supply capital salmon fishing. Several big country houses are close by, and to the casual observer Newton Abbot exists simply to form a coterie of tradespeople for the benefit of the County Families in the neighbourhood. It has no society of its own, and even its Mechanics’ Institute gives entertainments only by the suffrages of the “surrounding Nobility and Gentry,” to quote from its programmes. And yet it is a happy, quiet little town enough, sunning itself in its own small valley, and with many of its by-streets running up the numerous hills at the back, whose brows are dotted with genteel (how popular that word is among the lower-middle class in England) semi-detached “villas.” The London papers get down at mid-day, and until noon Newton Abbot gets on very well with a local print which reproduces the news from yesterday’s Times.

By the way, “The Thunderer” is too dear for the average man (it is three-pence a copy as against a penny for the other London dailies) and so it is lent out to read by the local library which advertises itself as “in connection with Mudie’s.” One rather wonders where the “connection” comes in when a copy of “Robert Elsmere” is handed one as the “last thing out, sir, just down from London.”

But Newton Abbot has some historical interest. In the midst of the town, just in front of the old ivy-covered tower of St. Leonard’s, is a remarkably ugly stone surmounted by a modern lamp-post. The stone bears an inscription to the effect that in 1688 the then Mayor of the town, standing thereon, read the first proclamation made by William of Orange after landing in England. Enthusiastic Orangemen visit the stone to this day, and zealous members of the Order of the White Rose curse it heartily, as they regret King James and the Stuart dynasty; which, whatever its faults, at least inspired more romantic loyalty and personal devotion than the phlegmatic Dutch Prince ever did.

I visited several houses near Newton Abbot with a view to taking one furnished for the sake of the good fishing near, and although none was found to suit I had some droll experiences. One house was very well furnished, and the family seemed in a remarkable hurry to get away while offering the place at a low rent, but it afterwards turned out that the paterfamilias – a clergyman – had just eloped with the parlourmaid.

At another house I was received by a smartly-dressed person who tried hard to give me the impression that she was a lady, and who at length airily inquired: “And would you like to move in, at once, forthwith directly?” But her drawing room was decorated with wax flowers under glass shades; and mottoes done in Berlin wool, with a chromo-lithograph of the late Lord Palmerston over the mantel; so I was not exposed to much temptation. The occupant of another cottage waxed confidential as she showed me over the house, told me her name was Mrs. Mudge and that she “laundered” for a living. She looked as if she did something for a living, for her face was fiery red and she diffused an odour of gin and cloves as she slowly maundered on.

Nearly every street in the town shows by its name some connection with the Courtenay family – Earls of Devon – who in the old days owned most of the property in South Devon. Now evil times have come upon them and beautiful old Powderham Castle, near Dartmouth, alone remains to them. But they are venerated still in the county and the “Courtenay interest” is a great help to the candidate for Parliamentary honours.

Newton Abbot has the distinction – if it be a distinction, which is very strongly debated – of having as its representative in Parliament the only Liberal member from Devonshire.

Mr. Seale-Hayne is a wealthy follower of Mr. Gladstone and is faithful to his chief, but even he owes his seat to a prudent refusal to accept Mr. Gladstone’s extreme views on the subject of home rule. The sturdy farmers of Devon have ideas of their own and do not see why the efforts of a few Irish agitators should be allowed to break up an Empire.

The Conservatives and Liberal-Unionists divide the representation of Devon between them, with the solitary exception of the aforesaid Mr. Seale-Hayne, and the Conservatives are working hard to defeat him at the next general election. The echoes of the great gathering at Exeter last year, when Lord Salisbury addressed an audience of several thousand working people upon the fallacies of home rule for Ireland, have not yet died away, and his speech will bear fruit at the next general election. The tactics of the Gladstonians in the rural districts are now devoted to drawing off the attention of the rural voters from home rule – an attention that, to Gladstonian minds, is too closely fixed upon the struggles of the rival Irish parties, and the probability of their following the lead of the famous Kilkenny cats – and fixing it upon co-called “rural reforms.” The Conservatives and Liberal-Unionists, on the other hand, place home rule in the front and make it the main issue; so the curious spectacle is presented of the party responsible for the measure placing it in the background, and the party opposed to it making it the main issue in the campaign.

Turning to sweeter subjects – who, having once tasted Devonshire clotted cream can forget it? And when to a glass dish of clotted cream is added a sunny morning, a well-laid breakfast table and a hissing tea urn, life looks at least cheerful.

OXFORD – FROM A STUDENT’S NOTE BOOK

OXFORD. – Everything at Oxford is quaint and charming, but its inns are unique and it is impossible to find one that sells bad beer, – the undergrads would never stand it, – and where a better judge of bitter beer than a Christ-Church, or a Magdalen, or a “Johns” man is to be found, it is hard to say. The names even of these inns are soothing. It is such a relief to get away from the American hotel abomination, with its gilded radiator, and from its cold, stiff restaurants and pretentious name; to the sanded coffee room of the quaint, cosy “Mitre,” or to the bar-parlour of the “Bell” or the “Plough.” And although these small, low-built inns are old – older than New York City several of them – they are radiant with a fresh lavender-smelling cleanliness that is never found in the big American hostelries, where the befringed and be-ribboned Irish importation reigns in her pride.

Rosy-cheeked country lasses serve the public here, and are shining examples of civil service, while behind the bar stands a lively, neat and pretty barmaid, who is an adept in chaffing the college men, but with too much self-respect to allow any vulgar jesting in her domain. We undergrads were not allowed to frequent every inn, but the “Clarendon” was a great favourite, and I have heard many jolly stories in its quaint old “Smoke Room,” lined with prints after Hogarth. When I was “in residence” at the University, three years ago, there used to be a very pretty barmaid who officiated at the “Plough,” opposite my rooms, and I noticed that she was usually at the window when Connigsby Disraeli, nephew to the great Earl of Beaconsfield, who was then a student at “New,” passed by. A queer fellow, Disraeli, and sure to make his mark if he lives. I met him at the theatre constantly, where he always led the applause. He is very popular still in Oxford, for he is hail fellow well met with everyone, be it “town” or “gown”; and he is “up” on dogs and horses as well as in the classics. His kennels were famous when he was “in residence” or “up,” as it is sometimes called. If his uncle had not been the first Earl, and had the title not therefore been confined to his direct line (he had no sons), Disraeli would have been “Milord”; but he is sure to make his own way. At the last general election he was elected to Parliament from the Altrincham Division of Sussex by a large majority over his Liberal opponent. The Queen is said to take a personal interest in his success, and Her Majesty’s partiality for his uncle is well known. He has already begun to attract attention by active work in the Conservative cause and by clever addresses at Primrose League meetings all over England.

My rooms in the college days were in Cornmarket Street, near the “High,” and my landlord (who was duly licensed by the all-powerful Proctors) rejoiced in the name of Huckings. He was formerly valet to the Marquis of Queensberry, and never allowed one to forget the fact; few were the days when allusions to “His Lordship the Markis” failed to greet my ears. Huckings is very proud of his “acquaintance” with the Nobility, and often boasted that Prince Christian-Victor, a grandson of Her Majesty and a student of Magdalen, once knocked him down in the cricket field. But Huckings is eminently respectable and very civil.

His furniture was usually covered with a green material stiffly starched, that crackled and rustled like an Irish-American servant out for a Sunday walk, – no English housemaid would dream of taking the liberty of allowing herself to rustle. Huckings was a capital cook and an experienced butler, and his welsh-rarebits were as light as air.

There is but one theatre in Oxford, and that is directly under the supervision of the Vice-Chancellor, and no play can be performed without his sanction. The programmes are headed “By permission of the Reverend the Vice-Chancellor, and the Right-Worshipful the Mayor.” For Oxford, as a ’Varsity town, is under the control of the head of the University as well as of the Mayor.

The unsophisticated crowd in the gallery always hisses the villain, who is usually the best actor, and applauds the hero, who is often a poor one; but this is usual all through England, and is taken by the heavy villain of the play as a tribute to his genius. Very good entertainments are given as a rule: “The Pirates,” Toole in “The Don,” and the inimitable Corney Grain have appeared among others. The bar is forbidden to sell whiskey to the undergrads, so the call is for “lime-juice,” which answers the same purpose!

I met my old tutor, or coach for “cramming,” in the street to-day, and I have just had him to dine. He is typical – a short, squat man with a heavy, unkempt beard, and with countless lines seaming his face. He has not been out of Oxford for twenty years and spends all his time in coaching backward students. He reminds one in some ways of a ripe and somewhat mouldy Stilton cheese.

His rooms are musty and cobwebby, for he tells me no one has dusted them for two years, as he cannot stand having his papers disturbed. And how he smokes! His pipe rack must hold twenty pipes at least, and most of them are beautifully coloured.

The walks about Oxford are charming and on returning from a long tramp it is delightful to stand on Folly Bridge at dusk and watch the punts and canoes come dropping down the “Char,” or to see a college eight dash swiftly down the Isis to Iffley. The old inn at Godstow, just opposite the ruins of the famous Nunnery, is very quaint; and the fame of Mumby’s cherry brandy is known to all the colleges in Oxford.

The author of “Alice in Wonderland” is a Fellow of Christ Church College, and lives in two rooms looking out over the green old “Quad.” He is fond of children and has them always with him. They tell a droll story of him in Oxford. The Queen enjoyed “Alice” so much that she requested the author, by letter, to send her another of his “charming books.” Much flattered, he forwarded Her Majesty his “Treatise on the Differential Calculus.”

When I was an undergrad it was almost impossible to pay for what one bought in Oxford, for the tradespeople insist on one’s taking long credits – a neat little plan by which they make a good deal in the long run, as they charge heavy interest. Oxford changes little as the years go by. It was lovely spring weather to-day and everyone wandered to the river, through the green Christ Church meadows, just as they have done for hundreds of years and will do in future centuries; and they are wise, for nothing is so delightful on a warm afternoon in June as to take a punt and slowly glide along the Cherwell, or to drop down the Isis in a canoe and take a plunge at “Parson’s Pleasure.”

Descriptions of College life at Oxford have been done to death and it is hardly worth while to go over the well-worn ground. “The Adventures of Mr. Verdant Green” still give a fair idea of ’Varsity life, and “Tom Brown” is as good to-day as when it was written.

The contrast between American and English college life is sharply marked. A short experience of Yale made me enjoy Oxford all the more. There is no class spirit, but the tone in the twenty-odd colleges – each a small Yale – is more athletic and more Commencement-de-siècle in every way.

A curious thing is the way in which cap and gown are worn here. The gown with its two short tails reaches only to the small of the back, and is only worn when absolutely necessary. There has been a good deal of amused talk “in Hall” over the report that some upper classmen at Yale actually wear a long gown reaching to the feet. It would be considered bad form for Oxford undergrads to wear such a thing, as long gowns are worn only by dons and tutors.

Americans are coming in increased numbers every year; and for some unknown reason they usually go to New College, or to “Ch. Ch.,” as Christ Church is familiarly called. But I found St. John’s College – or “Johns,” – with its lovely gardens and long, low, time-worn buildings, a delightful place to study in or at. “Ch. Ch.” is pre-eminently the “swell college.” Balliol is for hard students, and Magdalen is very aristocratic; Jesus is for Welshmen, Wadham for men who want an easy time, and Brazenose and Oriel for athletes. “Johns” combines the happiest features of each. The others have no marked characteristics.

The good old dons are a feature of Oxford, and it is easy to see from their rosy cheeks and well-fed look that they do not despise the famous Oxford ale, which is pure and wholesome, while the wine is bad and dear. Consequently everyone drinks beer, except a few old Deans and Masters of Colleges, whose gout confines them to toast and water.