CHAPTER XII

THE DEVON AND DORSET BORDERLAND

"How far is it to Babylon?" Ah, far enough, my dear, Far, far enough from here-- Yet you have farther gone! "Can I get there by candlelight?" So goes the old refrain. I do not know--perchance you might-- But only, children, hear it right, Ah, never to return again! The eternal dawn, beyond a doubt, Shall break on hill and plain, And put all stars and candles out, Ere we be young again. "R. L. S."

The irregular and old-fashioned little town of Lyme Regis--"so crooked's a ram's horn," as the native would say--is situated in a most romantic position at the foot of the hills, being built in the hollow and on the slopes of a deep combe, through which flows the small stream of the _Lym_ to the sea. It is seated on a grand coast, which rises to the east in the blackest precipices and west in broken crags thickly mantled with wood. As a port it is most ancient, having furnished ships to Edward III. during his siege of Calais.

Lyme, in its day, has seen a good many stirring events. In the reigns of Henry IV. and V. it was twice plundered and burned by the French; and in that of Richard II. nearly swept from the earth by a violent gale. During the Rebellion it successfully withstood a siege which was one of the most important of the time. In 1644 Prince Maurice invested it, established his headquarters at Old Colway and Hay House, and his troops along the neighbouring hill. Day after day the assault continued, more than once by storming parties; but the gallant governor, Colonel Ceeley, assisted by Blake, afterwards so famous as an admiral, most courageously repulsed every attack, and after a siege of nearly seven weeks was relieved by the approach of the Earl of Essex. In 1685 the town was again enlivened by the bustle of arms, when, in the month of June, the Duke of Monmouth here landed, with about eighty companions, after running the gauntlet through a storm and a fleet of English cruisers in his passage from Amsterdam. As he reached the sandy shore he fell upon his knees and uttered a thanksgiving for his preservation. He remained here four days, at the George Inn, when, having collected about two thousand horse and foot, he set forward on his disastrous expedition.

There can be no doubt that Lyme Regis has failed to prove itself anything like a popular watering-place; yet it has very good bathing, with neither currents nor hollows, and has the most picturesque front in Dorset. The fine scenery should tempt the holiday-maker to suffer the somewhat enclosed situation, which makes the place very close during the hot summer days. It is in winter that Lyme should be popular, for then it can boast a remarkably genial climate.

The quaint old stone pier, called the Cobb, is the real lion of Lyme, and is the source of much satisfaction to the stout hearts of the town. The Cobb, "the oldest arnshuntest bit o' stone-work in the land, a thousand years old--and good for another thousand, I tellee," as described to the present writer by a rustic, was probably first constructed in the reign of Edward I. It has been frequently washed away, and restored at a great price, and was finally renewed and strengthened in 1825-1826. It is a semicircular structure, of great strength, the thick outer wall rising high above the roadway, so as to protect it from the wind and sea.

At Lyme an inn received me: a room full of fishermen and agricultural workers, a smell of supper preparing, and much drinking of cider. It was the New Inn, and I was told that this room was only the tap-room and not usually used by visitors. I found that one wing of the old building had been specially fitted for travellers, and I will gladly name it to all my readers who are satisfied with an old-fashioned comfort, a good bed and good fare.

After supper I bought a packet of sailor's shag, and went out smoking into the chief street. A few steps took me to the Cobb, and I leaned over the low wall and contemplated the glorious green sea, tumbling and gurgling below me. I always think that the union of mighty stone slabs and the sea is most satisfying to look upon--there is something endlessly good and noble about such a thing. I think a building of hewn stone when it dips into the water should act as a sedative to the mind, should teach one to become calm, slow and strong; to deal generously in rectitudes and essentials.

It was late in August, and the mellow chimes of the parish church had just boomed eight o'clock. The great orange moon hung over the bay, and the night came creeping over the rich yellow sand which crowns the Golden Cap. Then the cliffs merged into a fainter confusion. Bats came out and flitted about the old houses by the Buddle river, and the night became the natural haunt of restless spirits. A candle flickering behind a leaded casement brought back suddenly the memory of a home long passed away and whatever blessings belong to my childhood. And all of a sudden that inexplicable heart-hunger for the place of my birth gripped me, and Youth (whatever Youth may be), with its sights, its undefinable, insistent spell, came back to me in one flash--Youth came to me from the old houses on the sea-wall, borne with the misty saltness of the sea air. Go away; travel the length and breadth of the land, visit a hundred cities, encounter a hundred new experiences, and form a hundred conflicting impressions of stranger scenes and places; go where you will, and do what you will; one day you will have seen and done enough, and you will find your thoughts turned again to the haunts of Youth.

At the sight of those ruffianly looking old dwellings by the riverside my memory was carried back to another small seaport town where, long enough ago, I played at smuggling. Are we not all haunted by certain landscapes which come back unbidden, not as topographical facts, but as vestures of the soul? Their enchantment is in our blood, and their meaning uncommunicable.

Here, where one can smell the smell of venerable wooden fishing boats and tar, there is a suggestion of the good old smuggling days. There is a hint of rum, brass-bound sea-chests, trap-doors and deep mouldy cellars about the Buddle River houses, and the people who inhabit them are of very settled habits, and the inconveniences to which they have been accustomed seem to them preferable to conveniences with which they are unfamiliar. To this day, therefore, they empty slops out of the windows, burn candles, wind up their pot-bellied watches with large keys, and attain ripe old age. This curious quarter of Lyme Regis was once a smugglers' retreat and a favourite spot for their operations. A stranger visiting the banks of the Buddle could not fail to be struck with the curiously formed streets, alleys, and passages thereabouts, and if he secured the good offices of a native to pilot him through the mazes he would be still further astonished at their intricacy. The houses are connected in the most mysterious manner, whether from design or accident, or whether to meet the exigencies of the smuggling trade, and for the more readily disposing of the kegs of spirits, and bales of other excisable goods, it is impossible to say. The most reasonable conclusion to arrive at is that the latter was the case.

The curious name of Cobb has given rise to much discussion. Murray's _Handbook to Dorset_ (1859) puts forward the theory that it is of British origin, and calls attention to a barrow-crowned knoll above Warminster called _Cop_head, and a long embankment on the race-course at Chester, which protects it from the River Dee, which has been known from time immemorial as the _Cop_. The length of the Cobb is 870 feet, and height above the sea-level 16 feet. It combines in one stone causeway the duties of breakwater, double promenade and quay. The projecting stone steps, which form one of the oldest parts of the wall, are known as Granny's Teeth, and are described by Jane Austen in _Persuasion_. The beach to the west of the Cobb is known as Monmouth's Beach. The Duke landed about a hundred yards west of the wall. A local tradition states that when the late Lord Tennyson visited the town one of his friends was anxious to point out the spot where Monmouth landed, but the great man impatiently exclaimed: "Don't talk to me of Monmouth, but show me the place where Louisa Musgrove fell!"

The bridge arch in Bridge Street is considered to be of an age second only to that of the Parish Church, and is well worthy of inspection. The Buddle Bridge consists of one arch of large span, thought to have been built in the fourteenth century, when the bed of the _Lym_, or _Buddle_, was excavated to an extra depth of eight feet. An ancient Pointed arch with dog-tooth moulding has recently been unearthed in the basement of a house abutting on the bridge. The arch is below the level of the roadway, and it no doubt formed part of a bridge of several arches built in the twelfth century. It rises from about two feet below the ground-floor cellar of this house. The arch has been seen by the Rev. C. W. Dicker, of the Dorset Field Club, who sent to the editor of _The Lyme Regis Mirror_ the following letter:--

DEAR SIR,--I have just received a copy of last week's _Mirror_, containing an account of the very interesting archway under Bridge Street, which I was kindly invited to inspect. As far as I can judge from the result of my one opportunity of examining it, the evidence points to the assumption that Bridge Street formerly crossed the Buddle upon a bridge of several arches, constructed in the twelfth century, and that the archway in question was probably the third from west to east. The street at this point is (or was) obviously supported upon a masonry substructure, upon which the houses abut. The masonry of the newly found arch is typical of the middle of the twelfth century, at which time the manor was chiefly in the hands of Roger of Caen, Bishop of Sarum and Abbot of Sherborne, a great builder, much of whose work is still to be found in Dorset. The archway clearly was built to support the roadway; and as its alignment is exactly that of the larger archway (apparently of the fourteenth century), under which the river now runs, there seems little room for doubt as to its origin. Yours faithfully,

C. W. H. DICKER, _Vice-President and Hon. Editor Dorset Field Club_.

PYDELTRENTHIDE VICARAGE, DORCHESTER.

The Town Hall, at the farther end of Bridge Street, was rebuilt on the site of the old Guildhall. The iron-cased door, that once led to the men's "lock-up," and the grating of the women's prison, have been fixed against the north front wall. This wall is pierced by two arches, with a doorway to the Old Market, over the gateway of which is a carved projecting window. Here are the ancient parish stocks, removed from the church. At the farther end, facing Church Street, a wide gable stands out, lighted by an old but plainer window. In the lower part is the passage through to the Gun Cliff, with a flight of steps in the wall, leading down to the beach. From Church Street there is an easy approach to the Drill Hall, which was opened in 1894. On the opposite side of the street, and directly facing Long Entry, there is "Tudor House," a large old house possessing much fine oak panelling and carving. The interest of Tudor House is twofold, for it is associated with the "Father of English Literature," Henry Fielding, author of _Tom Jones_. Here lived Sarah Andrew, a rich heiress, when Fielding became wildly enamoured of her. This love affair was opposed by Andrew Tucker, who was Sarah's guardian, but Fielding persisted in his suit with such energy that Tucker had to appeal to the Mayor of Lyme to be protected from the violence of Fielding and his men. This is recorded in the town journals.

Fielding lost the rich heiress, but immortalised her memory in the supremely beautiful character of Sophia, in _Tom Jones_.

The Parish Church, dedicated to St Michael, contains some interesting relics. A prominent feature is the carved Jacobean pulpit and sounding-board, bearing in capitals the inscription: "TO GOD'S GLORY RICHARD HARVEY MERCER AND MERCHANT ADVENTURER THIS ANNO, 1613." It was removed from a column near the south door and entrance to the vestry during the renovation of the church by Dr Hodges, in 1833.

The building dates from the fifteenth century, though it is clear from town records that a church stood near or on the spot in 1298, and there are remains of a Norman arch and pillar in the west porch. Note the two parish chests, one of Jacobean workmanship. The following interesting inscriptions are from six of the bells which were set up in 1770:--

1. "O Fair Britannia Hail." T.B. f., 1770.

2. "Harmony in sound and sentiment." T.B. 1770.

3. "O be joyful in the Lord all ye lands." T.B. f., 1770.

4. Re-cast in 1843. Thomas Mears, founder, London. Fredk. Parry Hodges, vicar. Robert Hillman, Mayor. John Church and George Roberts, churchwardens.

5. "O sea spare me." This peal of bells was erected partly by rate and part by subscription in the year 1770.

6. "_Pro Religione, pro Patria, pro Libertate._" 1770. Mr Tuff and Mr Tucker, C. W. Thomas Bilbie, _Fecit_.

The curfew is still rung at eight o'clock at Lyme Regis.

Fuller details of the history of the church and town will be found in a very comprehensive little _History of Lyme Regis_, by Cameron, which is published by Mr Dunster at "The Library" in Broad Street.

Broad Street, leading downwards from the station to the sea, is the main thoroughfare, and the principal business part of the town. Half-way up the street on the eastern side is a small passage leading to an ancient forge. It is scarcely to be noticed unless one is expressly seeking for it, but once up the narrow court there it is, with its open doorway all red inside like a wizard's cave, with the hammers ringing on the anvil, and the sparks showering out of the big flue. Here Vulcan has toiled, moiled and, let us hope, aled for five hundred years without a break, and here, in spite of cheap machinery, Mr Govier, the master smith of Lyme Regis, still seems to enjoy a regular and ready custom. The forge has been in Mr Govier's family for three hundred years, and it has a great weather-beaten wooden-and-tile roof, which is all but on the verge of collapse. A long sweep of old oak wood controls the bellows, and as you look in you will see the hand of Govier himself is on the bellows handle. He draws it down and lets it up again with the peculiar rhythmic motion of long experience, heaping up his fire with a cunning little iron rake, singing a most doleful song to himself all about "shooting his true love at the setting of the sun." But you must not think the master smith is a gloomy man, for this song (and other still more pathetic ones) is just a tune of acquiescence to his labours--a song in sympathy with the roar of the bellows and the ascending sparks of his fire.

"Come in, come in," he said, when I told him I had come to pay my respects to him.

He turned from his forge, set his hands on his hips and looked at me a moment. Then I realised why McNeill Whistler spent so much of his time in this forge making sketches of the smith. He looked like Vulcan's very brother, his face sunburnt and forge-burnt to wheat-colour, his eyes blue as cornflowers, and his hair black and crisp, and everywhere about him the atmosphere of the blacksmith. There are all kinds of interesting things in the old forge, from Roman horseshoes to plates for race-horses, and a pair of old beam-scales dated 1560. These scales have been hanging up as far back as Govier and his father before him could remember. Besides having the knowledge of a craftsman, Govier is a singer of old songs.

"That song you were singing when I came in?" I asked. "I know it as well as anyone, but somehow it has escaped me."

"Ah!" said the master smith. "Well, well! It is years ago now that I first heard it, when the ships came inside our walls with coal and took away stone. We rarely see a ship in our walls now, but when I was a boy my father and I frequently went down to the quay to repair ironwork aboard the old sailing boats. Those old Devon sailors were the fellows for songs. Upon my soul, I believe sailors no longer sing as they once