The Retrospect

by Ada Cambridge

On another day M. took me to Plymouth, the special place of memories, the "take off" for my youthful leap into the unknown world. "Shall I ever see it again?" I asked myself, as I watched it fade in rain on the tragical morning of my departure; and how small a chance there was that I ever should! It was typically spring-time then. Now it was typically autumn.

The heavy fog in which the September day was born yielded to the sun before we started on our expedition, and we had again the sweet English weather that was peculiar to that year. We drove to Cockington before leaving the carriage at Torquay, and Cockington was another place of beauty that I had kept thought of through all my adult life. A friend of mine had wintered at Torquay in the long ago, and in daily letters at the time had word-painted all the neighbourhood for me, supplementing his descriptions with photographs, which adorn a girlish album to this day; and so I knew Cockington well at second hand. But that was not like seeing it on a lovely morning such as this. We left the carriage to walk up the lane of the Forge and through the Park to the little artist's dream of a church, and we poked about inside it, while the lady of the keys jubilated in subdued tones over the recent birth of an heir to the lands it stood on. "These woods,", said M., as we drove away along the narrow, deep-sunk roads, "are thick with snowdrops in the spring." Heavens! What must Cockington be in spring?

Then we took train at Torquay for Plymouth, and there I was again on the old via dolorosa, which was that no more. Ivy Bridge, in the shining morning, welcomed me back, all smiles; and the country, which I really saw for the first time, filled me with delight. So richly green, where it was not so richly red! And why have I never seen such cows as those splendid, big, red Devon cows elsewhere? If this is the type of creature bred from Devon soil, the heroic history of the county is explicable—not to mention the quality of its cream.

Shades of heroes were all about us as we perambulated Plymouth town, but all the time I was thinking of a pair of poor young things putting in a last morning (after a bedless and sleepless night) roaming the same old streets, close on forty years ago. I could recognise little beyond the general features of the place, however. The town must have greatly altered since 1870, and the fact is evidenced by the complexion of its more prominent buildings. The great Guildhall was not, nor the second Eddystone lamp-post in the sea; even the Armada Memorial was not, nor the statue of Sir Francis Drake, though one would have expected to recall them, weather-worn and venerable, as having dominated the Hoe for centuries before that. But we have fine modern halls and monuments of our own, and it is the Historic Past in which I live when I have the opportunity; so I turned from the great Guildhall to the grey church alongside, which enshrined the story of seven centuries within its still stout walls. And when I stood on the Hoe, it was not to look at new statues and lighthouses, but across the unchanging Sound, where once lay a "fine new clipper" (as the papers described her); waiting for a wind to waft her on her maiden voyage round the world. She was a vessel of little more than a thousand tons, and hardly visible to the naked eye from that point of view—then. But I saw her ghost in September last, as plain as plain could be.

Then we had a long afternoon at Kingswear and Dartmouth—a still more satisfying experience, if that could be. They are both so old, so beautifully unmodernised and unimproved, cherishing the Historic Past so faithfully! The Naval College, above and apart, does not interfere with it in the least. We "did" Dartmouth first—cradle of the British seafarer from time immemorial—and it was an æsthetic luxury indeed to potter about that old, old church in its old, old graveyard, between which and the houses snuggled up to it a narrow, deep-sunken, paved passage gave right of way to living neighbours, case-hardened against the toxic microbe in all its forms, one must suppose. The rood-screen still bore what I had never seen on rood-screen yet; the figures of the two thieves as well as that of the Saviour—the Calvary complete. The pulpit was the gift of King Charles the First, and apparently in its original state, less the colour and sharp outlines that time had worn away. It is of carved stone, gilded and coloured, shaped like a wineglass, and one wondered that even a small man should dare to trust his weight in it. I could not realise a modern preacher there, or a modern congregation. I should expect to see Richard the Lion Heart and his knights stride in, to be blessed before starting out of harbour for the Crusades; at the least—or, rather, the latest—the Pilgrim Fathers kneeling together, seeking strength to set forth on their equally gallant enterprise.

And those quaint, steep, curly streets, and those old timbered houses, with their projecting upper storeys, all carved and crinkled—they are the same the Pilgrim Fathers said good-bye to, and in which their kin may have lived for centuries before that. The harbour itself has not been altered since King Richard sailed out of it in 1190—so they say, and nothing appears to the contrary. Imagine the seafaring history it has made, the sailor life it has seen! Those very stones that you see and touch and walk about on to-day, those very waters where the Britannia and Hindostan now lie! M. and I had luncheon in a long room, by a window overlooking the quay, and a dozen imaginary pageants of the past entertained my fancy as I ate, looking out upon the now quiet place. There was another wide window at the other end of the long room, and that one gave immediately upon the churchyard. Below it ran the sunk passage which did duty for a street—two people could just about pass each other and nearly on a level with its sill the ancient gravestones presented themselves to view, almost within touch, against the background of that church which seemed to have been there for ever. I think I remember that gravestones of great antiquity lined the passage walls and made a pediment to the window of the restaurant. Could anything be more appropriate to the character of the town?

When we had explored Dartmouth, as far as time allowed, the ferry-boat took us back to Kingswear, where we proposed to have tea with a lady living up on the hill. Here the modern came in, but not until we wanted it—with the soft sofa and the recreative cup. Kingswear keeps its mate over the way in countenance. The new homes tuck themselves unobtrusively into sylvan nooks that soften or hide them—or so it seemed; I must confess that it was tea-time, and I did not take much notice. Besides, the way to the house of M.'s friend was so steep and so striking that I was bound to confine my attention to it. Tier above tier, up shadowed shrubbery pathways and mossed stone stairways, the various footholds of the garden were laboriously gained. The approach reminded me of some I had heard or read or seen pictures of, leading to villas on Italian heights. It was very pretty, and the house when we reached it was more than that. We had but half-an-hour there before we had to seek our train, but it was a pleasant bit of the day. I envied our hostess her house as much as I did anyone in England. From one side of it she looked down upon the harbour—the Britannia and the Naval College and the green shores; from the other she looked away to the river mouth—Kingswear Castle and the open sea. While immediately around her, and adown her steep garden, she had all the privacy of Sandringham before the avenue was blown down.

Another "day out" enriched my collection of impressions of Devonshire with a set of charming memories. It was the day we went to the wedding.

"Now," said M., when she had explained to me that I was a potential guest, "I am going to show you, one of the finest views in England." Thereupon she described the situation of the country house which was to be the scene of festivity. It stood very high, in beautiful gardens, which dropped down and down in a succession of terraces, ending in a deep coombe and the sea. It was quite a famous beauty spot, apparently, and when I had seen it I should have seen Devonshire at its best. I did not need to be told what that meant.

At daybreak the fog was very thick and so remained till noon. We dressed before luncheon, having a long drive before us, and the fate of feathers and furbelows still hung doubtful. The carriage came round closed, and we slipped into wraps and set forth—my two sister-hostesses and myself—and there was no sign of the weather clearing. We were all fresh-air persons who could not stand being cooped up, and we opened the carriage windows, and the fog visibly flowed in. To me it was an agreeable circumstance—more so, for once, than the brilliant sunshine to which I was almost too well accustomed. It did not rain, nor feel like it; in fact there was not a drop all day, and we could see our way before us, and on both sides as far as the hedges of the deep-sunk, narrow lane-like roads. Those rich autumnal hedges tapestried the impalpable wall behind them with lovely forms that were a joy to study—wreathing ivy, intertwined with pink valerian, cascades of traveller's joy like the foam of our wild clematis at home. What the views beyond must have been I could guess, for we were driving for an hour or more and it seemed to be stiff climbing all the way.