From woody dells and time-greyed walls to the highroad and modern Bridgetown, the suburb of Totnes, seemed a sorry change, though without the loveliness of Berry it had been fair enough. Bridgetown lies on one side of a narrow valley, Totnes on the other, and between them runs the Dart, crossed by a very serviceable, very modern, very uninteresting bridge, that stands sponsor to the suburb.

Totnes, say the historians, is the oldest, or one of the oldest, borough towns in England, founded, we are asked to believe, by Brutus the Trojan. We will not dispute the point: as well he as any one else. I will not (being transparently candid) deny that this particular Brutus seems to me, after this length of time, to be a very uninteresting person—a prosy fellow—one to be avoided.

But we will not, an’t please you, so readily drop the subject of Totnes town: that would not do, for not many such picturesque places remain in the south of England. Fore Street, which seems in these Devon towns to stand for High Street—although in some places in the county they are happy in the possession of both—Fore Street, Totnes, is a fine example of the unstudied, fortuitous, picturesque, from the projecting houses that overhang the pavements at one end, to the Eastgate that spans the street at the other, amid all the bustle and business of a town that, it would seem, is little affected by depression of the agricultural industries, upon which it lives.

There is a fine church at Totnes, with a stone pulpit, carved and gilt and painted to wonderment, and the tower of that church is among the best in Devon, an architectural dream, in ruddy sandstone, pinnacled, and adorned with tabernacles containing figures of kings and saints, benefactors, bishops, and pious founders. For aught I know (so lofty is their eyrie) Judhael de Totnais is of the company. This Judhael was one of the Conqueror’s host of filibusters, who, receiving his due share of plunder in the form of fat manors, settled at the chiefest of them, built himself a castle on a likely site, and, like some old regiments under modern War-Office administration, took a territorial title, “De Totnais.”

His castle (what remains of it) stands on a steep and lofty mound of earth at the northern end of the town, overlooking the streets and clustering roofs, and commanding a glorious panorama of the river Dart, winding deep amid the trees toward Dartmouth and the sea. These castle remains are very meagre: a low circular keep-tower, open to the sky, perched on an eminence studded thickly with tall trees—that is all. Below is a garden, with closely shaven lawn, where young men and maidens play tennis in summer months. Outside, in the street, an ancient archway, which was once the North Gate of the town, still stands.

There is, in the retiring little Guildhall of Totnes, standing behind the church, sufficient interest for an especial visit. Low-browed rooms, oak-panelled, with leaden casemented windows set in deep embrasures, with dusky, glowering portraits of old-time worthies hanging against the walls—these are characteristic items toward a due presentment of the place. Here, too, are framed proclamations of Commonwealth period, commencing “Oliver, by the grace of God.” Oliver, you shall see, is nothing less than “His Highness.”

And now, having “done” the town, do not, I pray you who may essay to follow our wanderings, set out upon walking hence to Dartmouth. Rather should you voyage by steamer those eight miles, at your ease physically and mentally, this last happy condition attained by reflecting that such scenery is not otherwhere to be enjoyed, and that to voyage thus is the thing expected of all good tourists in South Devon.