Three miles of a delightfully undulating road that leads close by the shores of the bay, and at length we reached Paignton about nine o’clock. Paignton lives on the leavings of Torquay, and a decent subsistence they seem to afford. It is unromantically celebrated for its cabbages, and peculiar for the German nomenclature of its hotels. The whole place is singularly and indecently Teutonic, a sort of Pumpernickel, and its chief street might appropriately be termed the Donnerwetterplatz, from the epithets called from us by its promiscuous stones. One anachronism there is in this Germanic town—German bands are plenty. We know, do we not, that these pests are found everywhere but in the land of their birth. But, come to think of it, where does the German band practise? The flippant will say that to assume any practice on their part would be an assumption of wildest extravagance; but, seriously, they must practise sometimes and somewhere; but where and when? Did you ever hear them at it? Did you ever see a dead donkey? Never! I have heard volunteer bands practise and have survived—chastened ’tis true. They have their drill-halls in which to harmonise in some sort; but (fearful thought) German bands must practise in their lodgings. I can think of few things more dreadful than to be their ill-fated neighbour.

Paignton is (equally with Washington) a place of magnificent distances, abounding in spacious roads all innocent of houses, or, at best, but sparsely built upon. But this is its modern part. The old town, which lies farther back from the sea, clustering round the red-sandstone tower of its ancient parish church, is close enough settled and occupied, and, judging from the size and beauty of that church, was at one time greater than now. There was of old a bishop’s palace at Paignton, and there yet remain sundry traces of it, among them a stalwart tower, wherein (says tradition) Miles Coverdale, some time Bishop of Exeter, made his famous translation of the Bible. Tradition, I regret to say, has in this instance grievously misled the devout; and, although the present historian yields to none in his love and admiration of a comely and well-rounded falsehood, it becomes his duty to destroy this interesting but misleading myth.

If I thought the audience to which these poor notes (one must be at least ostensibly modest!) are addressed would bear with me, I would describe the antiquarian treasures of Paignton Church, for they merit a moment’s stay. However, I forbear, although one cannot help quoting this inscription to the memory of “Mistress Joan Butland and son:”—

From Paignton to Totnes the road leads inland by easy gradients past Blagdon, where nobody ever did anything worthy of record, until, in four miles, the little village of Berry Pomeroy is reached. This is the old road; the new highway, about one and a half miles out of Paignton, turns to the left, and in a lonely course reaches Totnes. The road past Blagdon to Berry is good, but the matter of a mile longer. That, however, is no matter to the tourist, when, by that additional mile, so charming a ruin as that of Berry Pomeroy Castle is gained. These shattered walls and courts are hidden in deep lusty woods, resonant with the throaty gurglings of doves and wood-pigeons, teeming with a populace of squirrels, and moist with the invigorating rills that percolate everywhere, unseen but potent, amid the tangled undergrowth. Nothing now remains of the original stronghold: the great gateway and curtain-wall belong to the thirteenth century, and all else is of more modern date. The Pomeroys were of ancient descent, even when Ralph de la Pomeroy accompanied William the Norman from fair Normandy. The name has a sweet savour as of cider, for “pomeraie” means apple orchard, and from some such fruity demesne these Norman lords first took their name. It is a lengthy stride, though, from the Arcadian simplicity of the orchard, the fragrance of pomace, to the tilt-yard and the baronial hall.

From Ralph these estates passed down through the centuries to that Sir Thomas Pomeroy who, engaging in the futile rebellion of 1549, was stripped of all his manors, which fell into the hands of the Lord Seymour of Sudeley, brother to the Lord Protector, Duke of Somerset, and to this day they remain in that family. The Seymours builded all these courts and upstanding walls, now grass-grown and broken, or ivy-hung, that are enclosed by the ancient circumvallation. Defence was not a matter of such tremendous exiguity in the reign of Edward VI., when (or thereabouts) these Tudor walls and window-heads were freshly fashioned; comfort was of greater consideration, and that, by all accounts, was well studied. But with the reign of James II. came the ruination of Berry. Some have it that lightning destroyed the great range of buildings, but that is matter of tradition merely. Certain it is that never since that day have they been inhabited, “and all this glory” (as Prince hath it) “lieth in the dust.” Prince himself, author of “Worthies of Devon,” and vicar of Berry Pomeroy, lies within the church, where Seymours and superseded Pomeroys lie close together—quietly enough. The Protector’s son, Lord Edward Seymour, lies here in effigy. He died (you learn) in 1593. His son, too, rests beside, and amid them sleeps this child, done in stone, humorously, as it seems to us, looking upon those radiant Dutch-like features.