And yet, with it all, there is a holy calm at Lynmouth. Save for the murmur12 of the Lyn, the breaking of the waves upon the pebbly13 shore, or the occasional bell of the crier, nothing disturbs the quiet. As there are no advertisement-hoardings, so also there are no town or other bands, minstrels, piano-organs, or public entertainers. Rows of automatic penny-in-the-slot machines are conspicuously14 not here. There is not a railway station. Nor is there anything in the likeness15 of a conventional sea-front. The Age of Advertisement is, in short, discouraged, and I am not sure that the ruling powers of the place have not something in the way of stripes and dungeon-cells awaiting would-be public entertainers.
But, lest it might be supposed that the advantages of Lynmouth end with these negative qualities, let something now be said of its own positive charms. It is daintiness itself, to begin with, and so small and neat, yet so rugged16 and unexpected, that it is sometimes difficult to believe in the bona fides of its picturesqueness17, which looks almost as if it had been created to order. Yet the evidence of old prints proves, if proof were wanting, that Lynmouth—what there was then of it—was as romantic a hundred years ago as it is to-day.11 Indeed, an inspection18 of old prints leads one to believe that, though there are more houses now, the enclosing hills are more abundantly and softly wooded than then. And, with the exception of the Rhenish tower built on the stone pier19, everything has been added legitimately20, without any idea of being picturesque.
That quaint21 tower, a deliberate copy of one on the Drachenfels, owes its being to General Rawdon, who resided here from about 1840, and, finding his ?sthetic taste outraged22 by a naked iron water-tank erected23 on posts, built this pleasing feature to harmonise with the scenery. An iron basket, still remaining, was provided to serve for a beacon24, and now that Lynmouth is lighted by an installation of electric glow-lamps, a light is shown from it every night.
But let us halt awhile to learn something of the rise of Lynmouth, as a seaside resort. At the close of the eighteenth century, the place was a little hamlet, dependent partly on a precarious25 fishing industry, and partly on the spinning of woollen yarn26. But presently, fishing and spinning were at once and together in a bad way, and Mr. William Litson, the largest employer of the spinners, found himself and his people out of work. It chanced at this time that the new-born delight in picturesque scenery, that had already set the literary men of the age scribbling27, had brought some few travellers even into the wilds of North Devon. They fell into raptures28 over Lynton and Lynmouth: raptures rather dashed by the discovery12 that there was no sufficient accommodation for them. Litson, pondering upon these things, and with wits sharpened by threatened adversity, took opportunity by the hand, and in 1800, opening what is now the “Globe” inn as a hotel of sorts, and furnishing the cottages on either side for the reception of visitors, became the pioneer of what is now the great hotel-keeping interest of the two towns. Litson prospered29 in an amazing degree. Early among his patrons were Robert Coutts, famous in those days as a banker, and the Marchioness of Bute; and the stream of visitors grew so rapidly that by 1807 he was able to open the original “Valley of Rocks” hotel, up at Lynton. The adjoining “Castle” hotel soon followed.
About the time when Lynmouth and Lynton were thus first rising into favour, the poet Southey came this way, and wrote a description that has ever since been most abundantly quoted. But it is impossible not to quote it again, even though the comparison with places in Portugal is uncalled for, absurd, and entirely30 beside the mark.
Thus, Southey: “My walk to Ilfracombe led me through Lynmouth, the finest spot, except Cintra and Arrabida, which I have ever seen. Two rivers join at Lynmouth; each of these flows down a combe, rolling over huge stones, like a long waterfall. Immediately at their junction31 they enter the sea, and the rivers and the sea make but one uproar32. Of these combes, the one is richly wooded, the other runs between two high, bare, stony33 hills, wooded at the base. From the13 Summerhouse Hill between the two is a prospect34 most magnificent—on either hand combes and the river; before, the beautiful little village, which, I am assured by one who is familiar with Switzerland, resembles a Swiss village.”
LYNMOUTH AND THE TORS, FROM THE BEACH.
And so with a host of others, to whom the hills “beetle,” the rocks “frown savagely,” the sea “roars like a devouring35 monster.” And all the while, you know, they don’t do anything of the kind. Instead, the hills slant36 away beautifully up skyward, the rocks, draped with ivy37 and moss38 and studded with ferns, look benignant, and the sea and the Lyn together still the senses with their combined drowsy39 murmur, as you sit looking alternately down upon the harbour or up at the wooded heights from that finest of vantage points, the “Tors” terrace, after dinner, when the lights in the village and those of the hillside villas twinkle in the twilight40, like jewels. The poetry of the scene appeals to all, except perhaps Miss Marie Corelli, who, in the “Mighty Atom,” does not appear to approve of it. This, of course, is very discouraging, but the inhabitants are endeavouring to bear up; apparently41 with a considerable measure of success.
“How soothing42 the sound of rushing water,” observed a charming young lady, impressed with the scene. I agreed, but could not help remarking that there were exceptions. “My dear young lady,” said I, noticing the incredulous lift of her eyebrow’s, “you do not know the feelings of a householder whose water-pipes have burst in a14 rapid thaw43. Rushing water, as it pours out of the bath-room, down the front stairs, does not soothe44 him.”
The voice of the Lyn has, however, suggested less prosaic45 thoughts, and has set many a minor46 poet, and many minimus poets, scribbling in the hotel “visitors’” books. Nay47, no less a person than the Reverend William Henry Havergal, staying at the Lyndale Hotel, in September 1849, waking in the night and listening to that voice, harmonised it in the following chant which he inscribed48 in the book then kept at that establishment:—
bars of music
It is a beautiful anthem-like fragment, “like the sound of a great ‘Amen,’” and brings thoughts of cathedral choirs49 and deep-toned organs. Havergal, of course, as a writer of devotional music, had a mind by long use attuned50 to finding such a motive51; but I am not sure that another composer, with a bent52 towards secular53 music of a sprightly54, light-opera kind, might not, lying wakeful here, find a suggestion for his own art in these untutored sharps and trebles.
The Lyn in its final series of falls in the semi-private15 grounds of Glen Lyn, at the rear of the Lyndale Hotel, sounds a deeper note, and comes splashing down with a roar by fern-clad rocky walls and between a scatter55 of great boulders56. A rustic57 bridge looks down upon the foaming58 water, flecked with sunlight coming in patches of gold through the overarching foliage59.
No description of Lynmouth that has ever been penned gives even a remote idea of what the place is really like. I care nothing for Southey and his comparison with Cintra and Arrabida, for I have not been to those places, and don’t want to go: resembling, I suspect, in that disability, and in the disinclination to remedy it, most other visitors, to whom that parallel has no meaning. Lynmouth is really comparable with no other place. It is essentially60 individual and like nothing but itself; or, at any rate, like nothing else in nature. What it does really resemble is some romantic theatrical61 set scene, preferably in comic opera: the extraordinary picturesqueness of it seeming too impossible to be a part of real life. There is the quaint tower at the end of the tiny stone jetty, there are the bold, scrub-covered hills, with rocks jutting62 out from them, as they rarely do except in the imagination of a scene-painter, and here are the grouped little houses and cottages, mostly with the roses, the jessamine, and the clematis that are indispensable to rural cottages—on the stage. Even the very fishermen seem unreal. I don’t believe—or at least find some difficulty in believing—that they, really and truly, are fishermen,16 and almost imagine they must be paid to lounge out from the wings on to the stage—I mean the sea-front—in order to give an air of verisimilitude. They ask you, occasionally, it is true, if you want a boat, but with the air of playing a part that does not particularly interest them, and every moment you expect them to break into song, after the manner of the chorus in comic-opera, expressive63 of the delights of a life on the ocean wave, and the joys of sea-fishing.
Or, to adopt the conventions of melodrama64, as formerly65 practised at the Adelphi, and still at Drury Lane; here you expect almost to see the villain66 smoking his inevitable67 villainous cigarette (an infallible stage symbol of viciousness), and, possibly in evening dress, that ultimate stage symbol of depravity, shooting his cuffs68 by the bridge that spans the Lyn; and on summer evenings the lighted hotels down in the huddled69 little street look for all the world like stage-hotels—abodes of splendour and gilded70 vice71, whence presently there should issue some splendid creature of infamy72, to plot with another villain, already waiting in his trysting-place, the destruction of hero and heroine. But, lest I be misunderstood, I hasten to add that all these expectations are vain things, and that villains73 really require a much faster place than Lynmouth.
I have spoken already about the “fishermen” of Lynmouth, but, truth to tell, that is but a conventional term, for sea-fishing here is not the industry it is on most coasts, and the jerseyed17 persons who loll about the harbour are more used to taking out and landing steamboat excursionists, or accompanying amateur fishermen with lines on pleasant days, than to enduring the rigours the trawler knows. Rock Whiting, Bass74, and Grey Mullet give the chief sport in the sea, and in the Lyn are salmon75, salmon-peel, and trout76, as you may readily believe by examining the trophies77 of sport with rod and line treasured by Mr. Cecil Bevan, of the Lyn Valley Hotel.
LYNDALE BRIDGE.
There was formerly, indeed, a herring fishery at Lynmouth. Westcote speaks of it as existing in the time of Queen Elizabeth. “God,” says he, “hath plentifully78 stored with herrings, the king of fishes, which shunning79 their ancient places of repair in Ireland, come hither abundantly in shoals,18 offering themselves, as I may say, to the fishers’ nets, who soon resorted hither with divers80 merchants, and so for five or six years continued, to the great benefit and good of the country, until the parson vexed81 the poor fishermen for extraordinary unusual tithes82, and then, as the inhabitants report, the fish suddenly clean left the coast.” They were not friends of the Establishment. But after a while some returned, and from 1787 to 1797 there was such an extraordinary abundance that the greater part of the catch could not be disposed of, and vast quantities were put upon the land for manure83. Then they totally deserted84 the channel for a number of years; a fact at that time regarded by many as a Divine judgment85 for thus wasting the food sent. On Christmas Day 1811 a remarkable86 shoal appeared and choked the harbour, and in 1823 another shoal paid a visit; but since then, the herrings have given Lynmouth a wide berth87.
LYNMOUTH, FROM THE TORS HOTEL.
I have visited Lynmouth in haste and at leisure. To arrive hurriedly and dustily, and to make a quick survey, and so hasten off, is unsatisfactory. Under such circumstances you feel a pariah88 among a leisured community who are cool and not dusty; and you do not assimilate the spirit of the place. The utmost satisfaction in the way of lazy enjoyment89 (it has been conceded by philosophers) is to watch other people at work. That is why, to some minds, Bank Holidays, when the entire population makes merry, are so unsatisfactory; there is no toil90 to form the shadow in your bright picture of dolce far niente. Now there is a rustic gallery,19 with a pavilion, where you can take tea and be consummately91 idle, built out from the sloping wooded grounds of the Tors Hotel, and thence you may, if so minded, spend the livelong day watching the people immediately below, in the central pool of Lynmouth’s life. Overhanging the road, you watch the holiday folk who are taking it easy, and those others who are making such hard work of it, rushing from place to place. And I, even I, looking down upon perspiring92 dust-covered cyclists arriving, thank Providence93 that I am not such as them: conveniently forgetting for the while that I have been and shall be once more!
The “North” in North Devon raises ideas, if not of a cold climate, at least of bracing94 air; but really, with the always up and always down of the scenery, the rather more bracing atmosphere than that of South Devon is forgotten, in the heated exertions95 of getting about.
Why do people so largely select torrid July and August for holidays? For the most part it is a matter of convention, but in part because by the end of July the schools have broken up. There remain, however, large numbers of holiday-makers who are unaffected by school-terms and would resent being thought slaves to convention. They can go a-pleasuring when they please, yet they wait until the dog-days. Now Lynmouth, in particular, and the North Devon coast, in general, are exceptionally delightful96 in May and June. The early dews of morning, the cool, fragrant97 thymy airs, that in July and August are dispelled20 long before midday and give place to brilliant sunshine and a great heat, which are in themselves enjoyable enough, but forbid much joy in considerable exercise, remain more or less throughout the day in those earlier months. September, too, when the fervency98 of summer mellows99 into an autumnal glow, has its own particular charm.
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1
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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transcended
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的过去式和过去分词 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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tariffs
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| 关税制度； 关税( tariff的名词复数 )； 关税表； （旅馆或饭店等的）收费表； 量刑标准 | |
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acme
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| n.顶点，极点 | |
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highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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pebbly
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| 多卵石的，有卵石花纹的 | |
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conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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picturesqueness
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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legitimately
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| ad.合法地；正当地，合理地 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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choirs
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| n.教堂的唱诗班( choir的名词复数 )；唱诗队；公开表演的合唱团；（教堂）唱经楼 | |
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attuned
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| v.使协调( attune的过去式和过去分词 )；调音 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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77
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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shunning
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的现在分词 ) | |
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divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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82
tithes
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| n.（宗教捐税）什一税，什一的教区税，小部分( tithe的名词复数 ) | |
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83
manure
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| n.粪，肥，肥粒；vt.施肥 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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pariah
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| n.被社会抛弃者 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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consummately
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| adv.完成地，至上地 | |
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perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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fervency
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| n.热情的；强烈的；热烈 | |
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99
mellows
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| （使）成熟( mellow的第三人称单数 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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