“Hitherto the Jacobites had tried to persuade the nation that the French would come as friends and deliverers; would observe strict discipline, would respect temples, and the ceremonies of the established religion. The short visit of Tourville to our coasts had shown how little reason there was to expect such moderation from the soldiers of Louis. They had been on our island only a few hours and occupied only a few acres, but within a few hours and a few acres had been exhibited in miniature the destruction of the Palatinate.”
The terror of a French invasion lasted for many years; it was, indeed, revived, and it became again prevalent at the time of the long war with Napoleon. But for more than a hundred years the history of Teignmouth was uneventful and even tranquil, save for the doings of the smugglers who gained some prominence in the latter half of the eighteenth century, and of whom there were many famous desperadoes along the Devon and Cornish coasts.
Then came another scare of possible French invasion at the time when, indeed, the whole of the south coast from the Foreland to Land’s End was agitated by the spectre of “Boney.” And at Teignmouth, “though the place was now provided with a battery as a wall of defence,” on at least one occasion during the year 1797, the inhabitants suddenly forsook their homes and once more fled in confusion and affright to the recesses of Little Haldon. Some, we are told euphemistically, “in a state bordering upon that in which they entered the world. By the which at least one unfortunate maid died of a cold so contracted.” The origin of the scare on this occasion, when it was confidently asserted that the French had landed near Torquay, and were burning and ravaging the countryside, was the accidental ignition of a stack of furze on Stoke Common over the Ness. But no invaders came to disturb the peace of the affrighted town, and after a few hours of discomfort and dismay, the crestfallen inhabitants slowly by twos and threes returned to their homes.
Teignmouth, about the year of Waterloo had acquired something of a reputation as a watering place or seaside resort and boasted not only the usual Public Assembly rooms, in which Georgian belles and Georgian beaux were wont to disport themselves at routs and balls, and (if gossip may be credited) drink dishes of tea, and game for high stakes; but also a theatre, library, and other social places of resort. A quaint but vivid picture of the life of the town at this period is obtained in the Guide to Teignmouth, by Risdon, published in 1817 in three slender volumes, one of which refers to Teignmouth and neighbourhood. There would appear to have been the usual attractions offered by seaside resorts in these times, for we have a mention of a good coach service between the town and Exeter, with carriers’ wagons for those who could not afford coach fares. And there were Sedan chairs for hire, Bath chairs, and donkeys for the venturesome maidens; with whom, we are told, such a means of locomotion was a passion. The more staid and steady matrons were accommodated with horses and pillions, and many a gay and humoursome scene was enacted, we may warrant, upon the “fine sandy beach” of which much is made, or along the shore where no “obstruction was permitted which could interfere with the pleasure and progression of riders.” In several old prints published early in the last century, one catches glimpses of the fashions, foibles, and pastimes of “young ladies and gentlemen” who, as regards attire and carriage, might have stepped out of the pages of Persuasion or Pride and Prejudice.
During the first three decades of the nineteenth century, Teignmouth appears to have suffered a gradual decline, from which it did not recover until the railway came in 1846, gradually making the town what it is to-day—a modern, picturesque, holiday resort, pleasant alike to landsmen and yachtsmen.
To-day the trade of Teignmouth is considerable, as is indicated by the constant presence in harbour of a number of craft of medium tonnage, and groups of barges with picturesque square-cut, red-brown sails. The sea-going commerce of the place is nowadays chiefly the export of china clay, brought down from the pits at Newton Abbot in the barges, but there is also some little trade in wood pulp, timber from Norway, flour and oil.
There is a tale with the true flavour of the supernatural about it relating to the jutting crag on Hole Head, to the north of the town, which bears some remote resemblance to a “Parson” after which it is named, and the “Clerk,” which stands far out from the shore. Once, so the tale goes, a priest of Dawlish was riding homeward with his clerk from Teignmouth, where they had been to collect tithes. They took their way by the inland road with its many lanes, and after wandering about came to a standstill, having lost their way.
The night was both wet and stormy, and after a pause they struggled on in the darkness, knowing scarcely at all where they were going.
At length they came to a house which was unfamiliar to them both, but from the windows of which bright lights were streaming, as they seemed to the lost ones, of welcome, whilst from within came the sounds of laughter, merry-making, and music. Happy at their discovery of shelter, the priest and his clerk paused, and almost immediately one of the windows was thrown open, and they were invited to come in. Nothing loth they tethered their steeds, and putting off their riding cloaks entered the house, and were soon enjoying the warmth and gaiety.
The party grew more merry and boisterous each moment, and soon the priest, forgetting his sacred calling, having drunk somewhat deeply, burst into ribald songs; in which the clerk, following his master’s lead, joined. At length, however, they realized that it was getting late, and that they ought once more to be riding homeward; and so with heads none too clear from the liquor they had drunk, and legs none too firm from the same cause, they bid adieu to their host, and sought their horses.