It is impossible for those who have had no better fortune than to see Torbay only in prints or photographs to gather more than a very imperfect idea of what its best can be. The cliffs near Paignton are red, nearer Torquay they are a warm russet, alternating with a rosy grey where limestone comes to the surface; and some of the rocks beneath, shining with salt water, are pink, interlined with white veins. In fair weather the warm tints of these cliffs, chequered by a green lattice-work of plants and bushes, and the rich, full colours of the sea, make a picture that is more easily remembered than described.

The great promontories of Hope's Nose and Berry Head stand between three and four miles apart at the northern and southern points of this rounded, shallow bay. Torquay itself is a new town, and only developed into being one in the early part of the last century. At the time that there was real fear of Napoleon making a descent on this coast, fortifications were built on Berry Head, and houses were wanted for the officers in charge. One authority suggests that Torquay was brought into general notice by serving as a lodging for the families of officers in the Channel Fleet under Lord St Vincent, who used Torbay as an anchorage. But in any case its existence is really due to Napoleon. Certainly the growth was rapid, for Lysons, writing about 1820, speaks of Torquay as having been till lately a hamlet,—and even its name is modern.

The one important building was the Abbey, founded in 1196 by William, Lord Briwere, and endowed by him with the whole of the Manor of Wolborough and part of the Manor of Torre. The probable origin of this great gift is interesting. The Abbey was founded soon after the return from Austria of the hostages who had been kept there till the ransom of King Richard I was paid, and it has been generally supposed that, as the eldest sons of the greatest noblemen were sent, Lord Briwere's only son was among the number, and that the Abbey was a thank-offering, the fruit of a vow made by the father in regard to his son's happy return. Lord Briwere installed in the Abbey seven monks of the Premonstratensian Order. Alicia, daughter of Lord Briwere, married Reginald de Mohun, and as, on the death of her brother, she inherited the Torre property, it is easily seen how Tor-Mohun came to be the name of the parish. Successive bequests to the monastery made it the richest house of the Order in England, though at the time of its dissolution there were only fifteen monks besides the Abbot. The peace and prosperity of the Abbey were once broken, Dr Oliver tells us in his 'Monasticon Dioecesis Exoniensis,' by a painful incident: 'In 1390, notwithstanding the Abbot's irreproachable life and manners, some malicious person spread a rumour that he had beheaded one of the Canons of Tor called Simon Hastings.' The Abbot was 'greatly distressed,' and the Bishop pronounced the accusation to be a falsehood of the 'blackest dye,' and, besides, declared that he, the said Canon, was alive and well. But that it should be possible to bring such a charge against an 'irreproachable' Abbot in this casual way, and that the accusation should for a moment be listened to, is a view of those days not often opened to one.

After changing hands several times, the Abbey became the property of the Carys (in 1662), and their descendants still live in it. Many alterations have been inevitable, but much of the character of the building still remains. Parts of the walls of the original church are still standing, and enough of the masonry is left to show the exact plan. It was longer than any other church that has since been built in Torquay, and wanted only seven feet to equal the length of Exeter Cathedral between the west end and the organ-screen. The refectory stretches towards the west; it has been converted into a chapel, and a stone cross rises from the roof. The embattled gateway and the whole of the building near it are of a soft rose colour; beyond stands a tower, duller in tint, and at right angles the old grange, known since Elizabethan days as the Spanish Barn. For the Capitana, the first ship of the Armada to be taken, fell to Sir Francis Drake off Torbay, and the four hundred men captured on her were brought to Tor Abbey and imprisoned in the grange.

Leaving Torquay, and going some miles to the north, and slightly inland, one arrives at Haccombe, the smallest parish in England. This year (1908) the population numbers nine. It is also conspicuous for having as its Rector the sole 'Arch-priest' in the kingdom, and for its independence, for though Haccombe Church is subject to the jurisdiction of the Bishop, it claims to be free from any ruling of the Archdeacon. A college or arch-presbytery was founded there in 1341, 'which college,' says Lysons, 'consisted of an arch-priest and five other priests, who lived together in community.' The Arch-priest, or Rector, as he is usually called, is the only remaining member of the college.

Haccombe passed by a succession of heiresses from the Haccombes, who held it in the time of William I, to the Carews, during the fourteenth century, to which family it still belongs. On the church door hang two horseshoes, commemorating a victory that George Carew, Earl of Totnes, wrested from his cousin, Sir Arthur Champernowne. A wager was laid as to whose horse could swim farthest into the sea, and the horse of 'the bold Carew' won. The story is told in the following ballad:

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How far this account is accurate it is difficult to say, but the Champernownes are still at Dartington.

Some miles south, and a little to the west, about midway between Haccombe and Torquay, lies Kingskerswell, a village not very much heard of nowadays, but once the property of a very distinguished soldier and statesman. 'The Lord Nicolas de Mules (or Meoles, or Molis), a counsellor of estate, had this manor in the time of Henry III, to whom the King granted other lands to hold by knightly service.... He was Sheriff of Hampshire and Governor of Winchester Castle, and held the islands of Guernsey, Jersey, Serke, and Aureney committed to his trust. In 23 Henry III he was Sheriff of Yorkshire, and afterwards sent Ambassador to denounce war against France, and, being an expert soldier, was upon the King's return to England appointed Seneschal of Gascoigne, being held in such esteem by Henry III that he admitted James, his son and heir, to have education with Prince Edward at the King's charge. Continuing still in Gascoigne, he obtained a signal victory over the King of Navarre.' Risdon adds the information that Sir Nicolas took the King 'prisoner in the field.' On his return he took part in the 'War against the Welsh,' and must have acquitted himself brilliantly, since hereafter honours were showered upon him. He was made Governor of the Castles of Carmarthen and Cardigan, then 'Constable of Dover Castle and Warden of the Cinque-ports, and the same year Sheriff of Kent, also Governor of the Castles of Canterbury and Rochester; and of Sherborne and Corfe Castle,' in the county of Dorset. It is almost bewildering to follow his rapid plunges from one sphere of action to another, and it certainly emphasizes the fact that the strenuous life is no novelty. It contradicts, too, a view rather generally held, that the spirit of restless daring and love of adventure that have distinguished innumerable men of Devon belonged solely to Elizabethan days—a view that has, no doubt, sprung up because the great lights that shone in that glorious reign have eclipsed all lesser ones.

But the poppy of oblivion has fallen on the name of Sir Nicolas, and he is no conspicuous figure in the most local histories; even Prince does not count him among his 'Worthies.'

From Kingskerswell one passes through a fertile and pleasant country, which suggests to the passer-by that the time and labour needed in weeding and chopping down must be almost greater than that spent in sowing and growing plants. The number of orchards here has perhaps given rise to a proverb, said to be peculiar to South Devon, but calling to mind Tusser's treatise on Husbandry:

This explanation of the rhyme has been suggested: 'Rather, perhaps, be in the grave—i.e., You must plant your leaves in the fall of the leaf.'

A road leading south, then to the east, reaches Paignton, which stands almost midway between north and south in the bay. The old town was at a little distance from the sea, but latterly new houses have been built in all directions, and have brought it close to the water's edge. Paignton has a fine church, chiefly Perpendicular, but parts are of earlier work, and there is a most beautiful carved screen.

The adventures of a native of Paignton—a certain Will Adams, born about 1612, 'of mean and obscure parentage'—are not to be forgotten. He was, says Mr Norway, 'one of those "Turkish captives" of whom so many were languishing in Algiers two centuries ago, and who, there is little doubt, were specially in the minds of the authors of the petition in our Litany, "For all poor prisoners and captives" ... and it may very well be that Adams' name was coupled with this prayer on many a Sunday in Paignton Church, for the agony of his captivity lasted full five years.' At the end of that time he and his companions, despairing of rescue, set to work on what would indeed have seemed to most people a hopeless venture. They began to make a boat with a keel twelve feet long, but 'because it was impossible to convey a piece that length out of the city, but it must be seen and suspected, they cut it in two and fitted it for joyning, just in the middle.' Then 'because boards would require much hammering and that noise would be like to betray them, they bought as much canvas as would cover their boat twice over.' With as much 'pitch, tar, and tallow, as would serve to make a kind of tarpauling cloth, two pipe staves saw'd across ... for oars, a little bread and two leather bottles full of fresh water, and as much canvas as would serve for a sail,' their preparations before 'launching out into the deep' were complete. But even their courage was not the most splendid in the affair. When the prisoners had actually started, they found that the boat was overloaded, so 'two were content to stay on shore.' They were 'content' to return to toil and slavery indefinitely, and to face the bitter wrath and vengeance of their captors, enraged by the loss of so many prisoners.

Those who escaped had much to endure. Their boat leaked, and the salt water spoiled their bread. 'Pale famine stared them in the face' writes Prince, and they suffered even greater tortures from thirst and heat. 'On the fifth day, as they lay hulling up and down, God sent them some relief, viz., a tortois,' which they came upon asleep in the sea and caught. With strength almost gone, they reached Majorca, where, luckily, the Viceroy was kindly disposed towards them, and they started home in one of 'the King of Spain's gallies.'

Adams died at a good old age in his native place.

The fine cliff called Berry Head runs far out into the sea at the southern edge of Tor Bay, and standing back, within the bay, is the small and pretty town of Brixham—celebrated for its trawlers, and for being the landing-place of William III. The red and brown sails of 'Brixham trawlers' scattered over the blue-grey waters of the bay seem very familiar, and it is a question for consideration how many exhibitions at the Royal Academy have not included a picture bearing that title. The fishery is an old one, and in the reign of Henry VIII the Vicar could claim personal tithes in fish equal in value to £340 of our money.

Fishermen and others gave a very cordial welcome to the Prince of Orange when he arrived on November 5, 1688. But by no one can he have been more vehemently applauded than by the author of the lines I have quoted at the head of the present chapter—the Rev Philip Avant, Vicar of Salcombe. The poem, originally written in Latin, and translated by the author, takes up almost the whole of his small and rather rare volume, Torbaia digna Camoensis. It is in parts unintentionally amusing, and is interesting as showing how far the frenzied fervour of bigotry may carry a naturally amiable person, for in the narrow intervals between his torrents of denunciation it is clear that Mr Avant was, in ordinary matters, a kindly-disposed man.

A pamphlet graphically describing the 'Expedition from Torbay to Whitehall' was written by another clergyman, John Whittle by name, a 'Minister Chaplain in the Army,' and from this pamphlet long extracts are given in a paper on this subject by the late Mr Windeatt. Some of these quotations I am now venturing to repeat: 'The morning was very obscure with the Fog and Mist, and withal it was so calm that the Vessels now as 'twere touch'd each other, every ship coming as near unto the ship wherein the Prince of Orange was, as the Schipper thereof would permit them.... His Highness the Prince of Orange gave orders that his Standard should be put up, and accordingly it was done, the White Flag being put uppermost, signifying his most gracious offer of Peace unto all such as would live peaceably. And under that, the Red or Bloody Flag was set up, signifying War unto all such as did oppose his designs. The Sun, recovering strength, soon dissipated the Fog, and dispers'd the Mist, insomuch that it prov'd a very pleasant Day. By this time the people of Devonshire thereabout had discovered the Fleet, the one telling the other thereof; they came flocking in droves to the side or brow of the Hills to view us. Some guess'd we were French because they saw divers White Flags; but the standard of the Prince, the Motto of which was, For the Protestant Religion and Liberty, soon undeceived them.... Bells were ringing as we were sailing towards the Bay, and as we landed, which many judged to be a good omen.' A little later, when they had landed, people 'came running out at their doors to see this happy sight. So the Prince with Marschal Schomberg, and divers Lords, Knights and Gentlemen, marched up the Hill, which all the Fleet could see over the Houses, the Colours flying and flourishing before his Highness, the Trumpets sounding, the Haut-boys played, the Drums beat, and the Lords, Knights and Gentlemen shouted; and sundry Huzzas did now echo in the Fleet, from off the Hill, insomuch that our very hearts below in the water were even ravish'd for going thereof.'

There is an absurd story, here quoted with mild ridicule, that on the Prince's landing he was received by the inhabitants of Brixham with this address:

The 'And please' must be a corruption of 'An it please,' which does make sense, but the rhyme cannot have been invented until later, for it certainly was not within the power of a fisherman to offer 'bohea,' or any other kind of tea, in those days. 'Buck-horn' is rather puzzling, for it gives no clue as to what it might be. Anybody who has heard of edible buck-horn (or buck's-horn) at all, would probably think of an obscure and humble salad herb, now practically forgotten, and at no time a dainty to be pressed on 'King William's' notice in this manner. The English Dialect Dictionary comes to the rescue by explaining that in Cornwall, Devon, and Cumberland, 'buck-horn' is a name for 'salted and dried whiting.' 'Bok horÑ' also appears in the Receiver's accounts at Exeter (about 1488), when the citizens, having a quarrel with the Bishop, tactfully sent successive presents of fish to the Lord Chancellor while the case lay before him. Buck-horn is still sold in Brixham.

The soldiers' first experiences in England were not agreeable, as 'they were marching into Camp all hours in the Night'; and some having been unlucky enough to get astray from their companies, 'it was no easy matter to find them in the dark amongst so many thousands. It was a cold, frosty night, and the stars twinkl'd exceedingly; besides the Ground was very wet after so much Rain and ill Weather; the Souldiers were to stand to their arms the whole Night, at least to be in readiness if anything should happen, or the enemy make an Assault, and therefore sundry Souldiers were to fetch some old Hedges and cut down green Wood to burn these with, to make some Fire.'

Mr Windeatt, writing in 1880, gives an astonishing instance of how few links a chain may sometimes need in order to stretch from century to century. He says a gentleman gave him the following account: 'There are few now left who can say, as I can, that they have heard their father and their wife's father talking together of the men who saw the landing of William III at Torbay. I have heard Captain Clements say he as a boy heard as many as seven or eight old men each giving the particulars of what he saw then. One saw a shipload of horses hauled up to the quay, and the horses walked out all harnessed, and the quickness with which each man knew his horse and mounted it surprised them. Another old man said: "I helped to get on shore the horses that were thrown overboard, and swam on shore guided by only a single rope running from the ship to the shore"; and another would describe the rigging and build of the ships, but all appeared to welcome them as friends.

'My father remembered only one—"Gaffer Will Webber," of Staverton, who served his apprenticeship with one of his ancestors, and who lived to a great age—say that he went from Staverton as a boy with his father, who took a cartload of apples from Staverton to the highroad from Brixham to Exeter, that the soldiers might help themselves to them, and to wish them "Godspeed."'

The gentlemen of the county were more tardy in their welcome, and perhaps this is not very surprising, when one considers that they can scarcely have recovered from the terrible vengeance that seared all who had followed Monmouth only three years before.

Sir Edward Seymour, formerly Speaker of the House of Commons, was one of the first and, says Macaulay, the most important of the great landowners who joined the Prince at Exeter. He was 'in birth, in political influence, and in parliamentary abilities ... beyond comparison the foremost among the Tory gentlemen of England.'

Sir Edward evidently rode in great state, for the Duke of Somerset, his descendant, still has a very imposing red velvet saddle, elaborately embroidered with heraldic and other designs in silver, that 'Mr Speaker Seymour' used on this occasion.

The march was continued in the most miserable discomfort. Six hundred horses had died either at sea or from the effects of the storm, and the men, still suffering from a 'dissiness in the Heads after they had been so long toss'd at Sea,' had extra burdens to carry. The weather was wet and stormy, the roads were 'extreme rough and stony,' and when they encamped and lay down for the night, 'their Heads, Backs and Arms sank deep into the Clay.' Further, their rations were so spare that when they came on an inclosure with turnips they felt they had found a feast. 'Some roasted them and others eat them raw, and made a brave Banquet.' However, matters improved the next day as they drew nearer to Newton Abbot. People came in crowds to see them. 'Now they began to give us applause and pray for our Success.' Hitherto they had but wavered as they said, 'the Irish would come and cut them in pieces if it should be known.' On approaching Newton, 'a certain Divine went before the Army, and finding 'twas their Market day, he went unto the Cross, or Town hall,' and read the Declaration of the Prince of Orange. 'To which the people with one Heart and Voice answered Amen: Amen, and forthwith shouted for Joy, and made the Town ring with their echoing Huzzas.'

Such was the auspicious reception of the 'Deliverer of the Nation from Popery, Slavery, Brass Money and Wooden Shoes.'

A very different note, jarring against this triumphal strain, is struck by a Jacobite ballad on the same event, too long to quote entirely here. It bears the conciliatory title of

THE BELGICK BOAR.

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