DOI issue:
September 28, 1889
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17688#0153
148
PUNCH, OP THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[September 28, 1889.
A DEVONIAN PERIOD.
Honeymooners—Photographers—The Torrs' Trouble—An Interview
—Discussion—Explanation—Dissatisfaction.
./-"MV
How to Utilise the Switchback for Travelling in North Devon.
Ilfracombe is remarkable chiefly for honeymooners and photo-
graphers. “Wherever I go,” cries Miss Brondesly, hysterically,
“ I come upon them. Ah! ” she shrieks, suddenly, and jumps back
quickly, as if she had trodden on a blackbeetle, or something was
jumping out at her.
“ What is it ? ” asks the Poet and Philosopher, in a breath.
Whereat, by way of answer, she only explodes in giggles, puts
her sunshade at an angle of 35° to the tip of her nose, as if to hide some
dreadful object from her gaze, and looking towards us over her
shoulder, she turns the corner of the walk, continuing her ascent;
and then we, following her, come upon an Edwin and Angelina
seated happily on a bench, not taking the slightest notice of us, or even
of Miss Jennie Brondesly, or apparently thinking of anyone except
themselves, as, indeed, why on earth should they ?
It’s the same everywhere, just like walking in the labyrinthine
passages of a Grand Hotel, and stumbling over the boots and shoes
in pairs at every door.
Edwin with Angelina “all over the shop,” as Harry Skrym-
mager expresses it. Here they are trudging, sitting, skipping,
jumping, lying, sitting under trees, behind furze-bushes, all among
the bracken, beneath fungus-like sunshades, or recumbent under
a broad spreading umbrella-tree.
Photographers pop out on you from all corners. Very annoying
for Edwins and Angelinas. The lonely tourist walking along the
road is perpetually being stopped by the photographic brigands,
and politely requested not to move for a second ; and before he knows
where he is, he is taken, negatively, as part of the landscape, and
imprisoned in the camera.
_ Of all the walks the coast road to Lee is out-and-out the grandest,
simplest, easiest, prettiest, and, if you can avoid the Torrs’ Estate,
the cheapest. If you can’t avoid the Torrs’ Estate, you ’ll have to
j ESTATE-
iiOAST R°ADi
TO LtE
'rr*
The Progress of Poetry and Philosophy barred by Ignorant Obstinacy.
pay a penny, but it is well worth the outlay in order to cut off a bit
of the inland road, and so reach the coast path sooner.
Our Mr. Cook says that the town Authorities would do well to find
a remedy for this. vexatious charge of a penny levied on the un-
suspecting pedestrian, who, having arrived at what really is the
end of the rorrs’ Walks, seeing a clear way which involves a slight
scramble, not by any means so difficult as is presented by many a
regular gap in a hedge, or by any rustic stile on a path where there
is an undoubted right of way, climbs the bank, surveys with his
eager eye the coast road to Lee within a stone’s throw of him, and,
charmed by the tempting prospect, starts to pursue the distinctly
defined path, when he is stopped by a labouring man, who, in the
name of his employer, the tenant of this part of the Torrs’ Estate,
demands a toll of one penny.
“But,” objects the Philosopher, who with his book under his arm,
his papers and proofs all about him, his pencils sticking out of
his waistcoat, and accompanied by the Poet, presents the spectacle
of a literary mountaineer on his way to the heights of imagination,
“we have already paid a penny each to enter the Torrs’ Walks.”
This statement I corroborate from the path below, as I have not
intended to accompany them in their further walk.
“ Yew’re out o’ the Torrs’ Walks now,” says the rustic guardian,
whom Bulwer might have called ‘ the dweller on the threshold,’
replying to the philosophic objection ; “ and yew’ll have to pay.”
“ But we have paid,” protests the Poet, resenting this interference
with the liberty of the subject.
“ These Gentlemen have paid,” I call out from below.
“ What ha’ yew to do wi’ it P” the man shouts back at me. Then
turning to the Poet and the Philosopher, he says doggedly, “Yew
tu ain’t paid me.”
“But, my good man,” argues the Philosopher, in as placid a
manner as if he were a Counsel engaged in the driest Chancery suit,
The Puzzled Torr-ist.
“when we entered at the lodge-gate the old lady”—this he puts
most politely, under the impression that perhaps she may be some
relation to this rural collector of tolls, ‘ ‘ told us that we could get by
this way on to the Lee coast road.”
“I ain’t got nothing to do with the old woman at the gate
yander,” returns the man, somewhat rudely. “She makes her
money, and we makes ourn. And yew’ve got to pay.”
“ Here is a footpath, there is a stile, and a footpath beyond,” the
Philosopher says, pointing them out as if he were illustrating a lecture
by means of a diagram, “and surely, my good man, this constitutes
a right of way.”
“ I ain’t here to argufy,” replies the man, roughly.
“But you’re here to listen to reason,” returns the Philosopher,
with some warmth.
“Yew’re here a trespassing, that’s what yew. are, and, if yew
were a’ gentleman, yew’d pay,” and as the man raises his voice, his
tone becomes unpleasantly menacing.
“ Trespassing be -! ” shouts the Philosopher, suddenly flaring
up, and throwing wisdom to the winds.
“I ain’t a going to be sworn at,” says the man, preparing for
some sort of action.
“ I did not swear at you,” the Professor explains, cooling down as
suddenly as he had flared up.
“ Yew did,” returns the man doggedly.
“I beg your pardon,” says the Philosopher with extraordinary
politeness—“I did nothing of the sort.”
At this juncture the Poet produces twopence, and, with the courtesy
that must necessarily have characterised the action of the Good
Samaritan when, according to the accepted English version, he pro-
duced the same amount, addressing the man, says,—■
“ Here is the twopence. We pay under protest.”
“ I shall write to the papers on the subject,” observes the Philo-
sopher, preparing to take a note. “ This ought to be settled.”
“ Ah ! ” says the man, as he gives ’a receipt for the money. He
carries tickets in a bag, which I had not noticed before, and is
PUNCH, OP THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[September 28, 1889.
A DEVONIAN PERIOD.
Honeymooners—Photographers—The Torrs' Trouble—An Interview
—Discussion—Explanation—Dissatisfaction.
./-"MV
How to Utilise the Switchback for Travelling in North Devon.
Ilfracombe is remarkable chiefly for honeymooners and photo-
graphers. “Wherever I go,” cries Miss Brondesly, hysterically,
“ I come upon them. Ah! ” she shrieks, suddenly, and jumps back
quickly, as if she had trodden on a blackbeetle, or something was
jumping out at her.
“ What is it ? ” asks the Poet and Philosopher, in a breath.
Whereat, by way of answer, she only explodes in giggles, puts
her sunshade at an angle of 35° to the tip of her nose, as if to hide some
dreadful object from her gaze, and looking towards us over her
shoulder, she turns the corner of the walk, continuing her ascent;
and then we, following her, come upon an Edwin and Angelina
seated happily on a bench, not taking the slightest notice of us, or even
of Miss Jennie Brondesly, or apparently thinking of anyone except
themselves, as, indeed, why on earth should they ?
It’s the same everywhere, just like walking in the labyrinthine
passages of a Grand Hotel, and stumbling over the boots and shoes
in pairs at every door.
Edwin with Angelina “all over the shop,” as Harry Skrym-
mager expresses it. Here they are trudging, sitting, skipping,
jumping, lying, sitting under trees, behind furze-bushes, all among
the bracken, beneath fungus-like sunshades, or recumbent under
a broad spreading umbrella-tree.
Photographers pop out on you from all corners. Very annoying
for Edwins and Angelinas. The lonely tourist walking along the
road is perpetually being stopped by the photographic brigands,
and politely requested not to move for a second ; and before he knows
where he is, he is taken, negatively, as part of the landscape, and
imprisoned in the camera.
_ Of all the walks the coast road to Lee is out-and-out the grandest,
simplest, easiest, prettiest, and, if you can avoid the Torrs’ Estate,
the cheapest. If you can’t avoid the Torrs’ Estate, you ’ll have to
j ESTATE-
iiOAST R°ADi
TO LtE
'rr*
The Progress of Poetry and Philosophy barred by Ignorant Obstinacy.
pay a penny, but it is well worth the outlay in order to cut off a bit
of the inland road, and so reach the coast path sooner.
Our Mr. Cook says that the town Authorities would do well to find
a remedy for this. vexatious charge of a penny levied on the un-
suspecting pedestrian, who, having arrived at what really is the
end of the rorrs’ Walks, seeing a clear way which involves a slight
scramble, not by any means so difficult as is presented by many a
regular gap in a hedge, or by any rustic stile on a path where there
is an undoubted right of way, climbs the bank, surveys with his
eager eye the coast road to Lee within a stone’s throw of him, and,
charmed by the tempting prospect, starts to pursue the distinctly
defined path, when he is stopped by a labouring man, who, in the
name of his employer, the tenant of this part of the Torrs’ Estate,
demands a toll of one penny.
“But,” objects the Philosopher, who with his book under his arm,
his papers and proofs all about him, his pencils sticking out of
his waistcoat, and accompanied by the Poet, presents the spectacle
of a literary mountaineer on his way to the heights of imagination,
“we have already paid a penny each to enter the Torrs’ Walks.”
This statement I corroborate from the path below, as I have not
intended to accompany them in their further walk.
“ Yew’re out o’ the Torrs’ Walks now,” says the rustic guardian,
whom Bulwer might have called ‘ the dweller on the threshold,’
replying to the philosophic objection ; “ and yew’ll have to pay.”
“ But we have paid,” protests the Poet, resenting this interference
with the liberty of the subject.
“ These Gentlemen have paid,” I call out from below.
“ What ha’ yew to do wi’ it P” the man shouts back at me. Then
turning to the Poet and the Philosopher, he says doggedly, “Yew
tu ain’t paid me.”
“But, my good man,” argues the Philosopher, in as placid a
manner as if he were a Counsel engaged in the driest Chancery suit,
The Puzzled Torr-ist.
“when we entered at the lodge-gate the old lady”—this he puts
most politely, under the impression that perhaps she may be some
relation to this rural collector of tolls, ‘ ‘ told us that we could get by
this way on to the Lee coast road.”
“I ain’t got nothing to do with the old woman at the gate
yander,” returns the man, somewhat rudely. “She makes her
money, and we makes ourn. And yew’ve got to pay.”
“ Here is a footpath, there is a stile, and a footpath beyond,” the
Philosopher says, pointing them out as if he were illustrating a lecture
by means of a diagram, “and surely, my good man, this constitutes
a right of way.”
“ I ain’t here to argufy,” replies the man, roughly.
“But you’re here to listen to reason,” returns the Philosopher,
with some warmth.
“Yew’re here a trespassing, that’s what yew. are, and, if yew
were a’ gentleman, yew’d pay,” and as the man raises his voice, his
tone becomes unpleasantly menacing.
“ Trespassing be -! ” shouts the Philosopher, suddenly flaring
up, and throwing wisdom to the winds.
“I ain’t a going to be sworn at,” says the man, preparing for
some sort of action.
“ I did not swear at you,” the Professor explains, cooling down as
suddenly as he had flared up.
“ Yew did,” returns the man doggedly.
“I beg your pardon,” says the Philosopher with extraordinary
politeness—“I did nothing of the sort.”
At this juncture the Poet produces twopence, and, with the courtesy
that must necessarily have characterised the action of the Good
Samaritan when, according to the accepted English version, he pro-
duced the same amount, addressing the man, says,—■
“ Here is the twopence. We pay under protest.”
“ I shall write to the papers on the subject,” observes the Philo-
sopher, preparing to take a note. “ This ought to be settled.”
“ Ah ! ” says the man, as he gives ’a receipt for the money. He
carries tickets in a bag, which I had not noticed before, and is