CHAPTER XIII
GOSSIP-TOWN
We have now returned to Dulverton, but our pilgrimage is not yet over, for we have yet to explore a territory which may be termed the joint property, or “debateable ground,” of Lorna Doone and the Maid of Sker. The Devon and Somerset line, connecting as it does with the light railway to Lynton, and the London and South-Western branch from Exeter to Barnstaple, will be found extremely convenient for our purpose, although these “iron roads” do not in every instance land us at the precise spots where we would be. So, peradventure, it may be wisdom to set up our headquarters at Southmolton and Barnstaple in succession, and peregrinate from those centres at our discretion.
First, a word of explanation as to the title of this chapter. Far be it from me to give evil pre-eminence to Southmolton as a school for scandal, but in chapter xii. of Lorna Doone Blackmore distinctly states that it is “a busy place for talking.” There is no going from that.
Southmolton, like Bampton, is subject to the “slings and arrows” of outrageous criticism as a place where it is “always afternoon.” If that be so, all I can say is that, personally, I invariably find the P.M. extremely pleasant, and nothing will induce me to cast a stone at a town so hospitable. Moreover, it is beyond question an important hub of Blackmore associations, and the faithful votary of the novelist must betake himself thither. Whether or not the fact be due to this circumstance, it seems certain that more visitors patronise the neighbourhood than formerly, and Mr Brown, the obliging chemist, informs me that he has developed negatives for Americans, from whom he has received flattering testimonials. Well done, Mr Brown! The following entry in the visitors’ book at the “George” has an independent interest.
“July 3rd, 1888—Dr Walter B. Gilbert, of New York, U.S., who was saved by being thrown out of the window at the corner house opposite, during the fatal fire of July 1835.”
This reminds one of an early incident in the life of a famous divine, who declared that “the world was his parish.” It was certainly Dr Gilbert’s.
On one occasion when I stayed at the “George,” where, it may be remembered, Master Stickles filled his little flat bottle with “the very best eau de vie” (Lorna Doone, chapter xlvii.), the fair was in full swing, and I recollect that, among other attractions, there was a negro marionette of large size, with aggressive, red lips. A young man indulged in an entertaining dialogue with him as a prelude to the sale of quack medicine. Now, the proletariat is master at Southmolton, and the Corporation dare not remove from the Square the shooting-galleries, ginger-bread stalls, confetti tents, and other encumbrances connected with this event. It was whispered to me that at the time of an Agricultural Show, when the band of the Plymouth division of the Royal Marines was to perform in the market, the Mayor offered £10 for an hour and a half’s suspension of the strident and powerful tones of a steam-organ, but in vain. This mechanical purveyor of popular airs represents the combined snort of a tornado of galloping horses fitted to a roundabout of the most modern type. In the old-style roundabout a boy worked a turnstile, and in doing so sometimes slipped or fell, when he received pretty severe contusions. This arrangement was succeeded by a cog-wheel in charge of a man.
At fair time, East Street is blocked with Exmoor sheep and North Devon cattle, and à propos of this, you may notice over the entrance to the market three carved rams’ heads. On the first day of the fair, a white sheepskin glove is projected on a pole from a ring on the side of a “Star.” Locally, this is supposed to signify the “hand of welcome,” which accounts perhaps for the nosegay. Another and less romantic version declares it the “hand of authority.”