Down there lies Seaton, looking very new, along the inner side of a shingly beach, with the strath of the river Axe running, flat and green, up inland to the distant hills, and the silvery Axe itself looping and twisting away, as far as eye can reach.

But Seaton is not so new as might be supposed. Down there, on the wall that runs along the crest of the beach, is painted in huge black letters the one word Moridunum, which to passengers coming in by steamboat seems the most prominent feature in the place, and at first sight is generally taken to be the impudent advertisement of some new quack electuary, tooth-paste, hair-wash, or what not? “Use Moridunum,” you unconsciously say, “and be sure you get it”; or “Moridunum for the hair,” “Moridunum: won’t wash clothes,” and so forth. Seaton claims—and, it is evident, claims it boldly—to be the Moridunum of Roman Britain; but is it? In short, seeking it here, have you got it?

That is a question which various warring schools of antiquaries would dearly like settled. The Roman grip upon Britain weakened greatly as it came westward, and Roman roads in Devon are few and uncertain. The famous Antonine Itinerary—that most classic of all road-books—gives but one station between Durnovaria, Dorchester, and Isca Damnoniorum, Exeter. That is Moridunum, this ancient and well-gnawed bone of contention. The name was a Roman adaptation, either of the British Mor-y-dun or sea-town, or Mawr-y-dun, “great hill-fort”; which, it is impossible to say. All depends upon which of two routes was selected to Exeter. If it was the inland route, the likelihood rests with the great hill-top Roman camp at Hembury, near Honiton; while if it was the way by Axminster and Sidmouth, then Seaton or High Peak, Sidmouth, is the site.

Whatever may some day prove to be the solution of the mystery, it is certain, from remains of Roman villas discovered near Seaton, that it was a favourite place of residence; and therefore it is not so new as it looks. Indeed, in days long gone by, before the mouth of the River Axe had been well-nigh choked with shingle, Seaton and the now tiny village of Axmouth, a mile up-stream, were ports. “Ther hath beene,” said Leland, writing in the reign of Henry the Eighth, “a very notable haven at Seton. But now ther lyith between the two pointes of the old haven a mighty rigge and barre of pible stones in the very mouth of it.”

The mighty ridge is still here, and has acquired so permanent a character that part of modern Seaton is built on it, while cattle graze on the pastures that grow where the ships used to ride at anchor.

The place was become in Leland’s time a “mene fisschar town.” “It hath,” he continued, “beene far larger when the haven was good;” and so, looking at the ancient church, away back from the sea, it would seem.

Many attempts were made to cut a passage through the shingle, but what the labourers removed, the sea replaced with other. The last attempt was about 1830, when John Hallett of Stedcombe dug a channel and built a quay at the very mouth of the river, under the towering mass of Haven Cliff. Modern Seaton should gratefully erect a statue to this endeavourer, for thus he kept the tiny port going, and the coals and timber that would have then been so costly by land carriage came cheaply to his quays. Then, after a while, came the railway, and his wharves were deserted. There, under the cliff, they remain to this day, and the little custom-house has been converted into a kind of seashore bathing-place and belvedere, attached to the beautiful residence of Stedcombe, nestling on the bosom of the down.

When a branch railway was opened to Seaton, in 1868, the town began to grow. A very slow growth at first, but in the last few years it has expanded suddenly into a thriving town, and the astonished visitor in these latter days perceives such amazing developments as a giant hotel and a theatre; and if he be a visitor over Sunday, will observe the might and majesty of railways exercised in the bringing down from London of day trippers, who set out from Waterloo at an unimaginably early hour and are dumped down upon Seaton beach at midday. He will witness scrambling hordes, indecently thirsty, besieging the refreshment-places of the town, and if he be a Superior Person, will, with tumultuous feelings of relief, see the crowded train-load depart as the summer evening draws in and the church-bells begin to chime. The sheer Average Man, however, who witnesses this Sunday irruption, will merely wonder how any one can find it worth while to expend six shillings on an excursion ticket, entitling him to make a double journey of three hundred and four miles and fourteen hours, solely for the fleeting pleasure of five hours on a shingly beach.

What renders that excursion so popular? Well, partly a love of nature, and very greatly that love of a bargain which makes many keen people purchase what they do not want. It is quite conceivable that there are many people who would want to be paid a great deal more than six shillings for the discomfort of fourteen hours railway travel on a Sunday.

The dominant note of Seaton is its apparent newness. From the golf links and the club-house on the down by Haven Cliff on the east, to Seaton Hole on the west, it looks a creation of yesterday, and the casual visitor is incredulous when told of a fourteenth-century parish church. But such a building exists, nearly a mile inland, with a hoary tower and curious monuments; among them one to “Abraham Sydenham, Salt Officer for 40 years”: an inscription reminiscent of the old salt-pans industry in the levels by the Axe, and of the long-forgotten salt-tax. That most famous smuggler of the West of England, Jack Rattenbury, lies in Seaton churchyard, but no stone marks the spot.

Seaton Hole, just mentioned, is the innermost nook of Seaton Bay, just under the great mass of White Cliff; called white only relatively to the surrounding cliffs, which are red. White Cliff, in fact, is rather light browns and greys, with masses of green vegetation, and incidental whitish streaks. Here is the exclusive part of Seaton, with a fine bathing-beach, and numbers of very fine new residences—not merely houses, mark you—cresting the best view-points. And up-along and over the hill, ever so steeply, and then down, still more steeply, and you are at Beer.

WHITE CLIFF, SEATON HOLE.