{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_45885/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_45885","id":"gutenberg_45885","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/45885","summary":null,"tags":["Category: History - British","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Travel Writing","Dartmoor (England) -- Description and travel"],"text":"Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected\nwithout note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have\nbeen retained as printed.\n\nWords printed in italics are marked with underlines: _italics_.\n\n\n\n  [Illustration: LYDFORD GORGE\n                 (_Page 24_)]\n\n\n\nDARTMOOR\n\nDescribed by Arthur L. Salmon\n\n\nPictured by E. W. Haslehust\n\n\nBLACKIE AND SON LIMITED\nLONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY\n\n\n_Blackie & Son's \"Beautiful\" Series_\n\n\nBeautiful England\n\n    Bath and Wells\n    Bournemouth and Christchurch\n    Cambridge\n    Canterbury\n    Chester and the Dee\n    The Cornish Riviera\n    Dartmoor\n    Dickens-Land\n    The Dukeries\n    The English Lakes\n    Exeter\n    Folkestone and Dover\n    Hampton Court\n    Hastings and Neighbourhood\n    Hereford and the Wye\n    The Isle of Wight\n    The New Forest\n    Norwich and the Broads\n    Oxford\n    The Peak District\n    Ripon and Harrogate\n    Scarborough\n    Shakespeare-Land\n    Swanage and Neighbourhood\n    The Thames\n    Warwick and Leamington\n    The Heart of Wessex\n    Winchester\n    Windsor Castle\n    York\n\n\nBeautiful Scotland\n\n    Edinburgh\n    The Shores of Fife\n    Loch Lomond, Loch Katrine, and the Trossachs\n    The Scott Country\n\n\nBeautiful Ireland\n\n    Connaught\n    Leinster\n    Munster\n    Ulster\n\n\nBeautiful Switzerland\n\n    Chamonix\n    Lausanne and its Environs\n    Lucerne\n    Villars and Champery\n\n\n_Printed and bound in Great Britain_\n\n\n\n\nLIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n                                                Facing Page\n\nLydford Gorge                                 _Frontispiece_\n\nWistman's Wood                                            8\n\nTwo Bridges                                              16\n\nOckery Bridge, near Princetown                           20\n\nClapper Bridge, Postbridge                               24\n\nBrent Tor                                                29\n\nTavy Cleave                                              33\n\nWidecombe on the Moor                                    40\n\nDartmeet                                                 48\n\nA Moorland Track, the Devil's Bridge                     53\n\nStone Avenue, near Merrivale                             56\n\nA Dartmoor Stream                                        60\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration: DARTMOOR]\n\n\nDartmoor is a fine-sounding name, and no one would wish to displace\nit; yet in one sense it is a misleading and inappropriate designation\nof the great central Devonshire moorland. The moorland is not\ndistinctively the moor of the Dart, any more than of the Teign, the\nTavy, or the Ockment; it is the cradle-land of rivers, and there is no\nobvious reason why the Dart should have assumed such supremacy. But\nthere is historic fitness about the title. It is probable that the\nSaxons first became acquainted with Dartmoor from the fertile district\nknown as the South Hams, watered by the beautiful reaches of the Dart\nfrom Totnes to its mouth. The wide intermediate waste that lay between\nthe North and the South Hams was a region of mystery to them, and they\nassociated it with this swift, sparkling stream that issued from its\ncleaves and bogs.\n\nWhatever its actual population may have been, imagination would people\nit with spirits and demons; while it needed no imagination to supply\nthe storms, the blinding fogs and rains, the baying wolves that\nhaunted its recesses. They were content to retain its old Celtic name\nfor the river, and they applied this name to the moor as well; it\nbecame the moor of the Dart. The name Dart, supposed to be akin to\nDarent and Derwent, is almost certainly a derivative from the Celtic\n_dwr_, water. The moorland itself is a mass of granite upheaved in\npre-glacial days, weathered by countless centuries into undulating\nsurfaces, pierced by jagged tors, and interspersed with large patches\nof bog and peat-mire. This is the biggest granitic area in England,\nthe granite extending for about 225 square miles; though that which is\nknown as Dartmoor Forest (never a forest in our accepted meaning of\nthe word) is considerably smaller, having been much encroached upon by\ntillage and enclosure. There is a further protrusion of granite on the\nBodmin Moors, and again as far west as Scilly; while Lundy, in the\nBristol Channel, belongs almost entirely to the same formation.\nBeneath the mire and peat, which are the decaying deposits of\nvegetable matter, lies a stratum of china-clay, which is worked\nproductively to the south of the moors, and still more largely in\nCornwall. The average height of the moorland is about 1500 feet,\nrising in places to a little over 2000. This elevation is exceeded in\nWales, in the Lake District, and in Scotland; and nowhere does\nDartmoor appear actually mountainous, one reason being that the\nplateau from which we view its chief eminences is always well over\n1000 feet above sea level, and thus a great portion of the height is\nnot realized. But we realize it to some extent when we notice the\nspeed of the moorland rivers; they do not linger and dally like\nMidland streams, they run and dash and make a perpetual music of their\nmotion. In winter they are strong enough to make playthings of the\nrough lichened boulders that confront their course; and in the hottest\nsummers they never run dry--the mother-breast of Dartmoor has always\nample nourishment. Though there is a lessening in the body of the\nrivers, and perhaps a surface-drought of the bogs, the moors are never\nreally parched; drovers from the Eastern counties sometimes bring\ntheir flocks hither in a summer of great heat, to feed on Dartmoor\nturfs when their own home-pastures would be arid. Yet the central moor\nis more like a desolate waste than a pasture. Its rugged turfy surface\nis scattered with small and large fragments of granite, sometimes\n\"clitters\" of weather-worn boulders, sometimes masses that look as\nthough prehistoric giants had been playing at bowls. Often strange and\nfantastic in shape, as twilight steals on, or the weird gloom of\nmoorland fog, they seem to become animated; they are pixies, brownies,\nthe ghosts of old vanished peoples; wherever we gaze they start before\nus; prying figures seem to be hiding behind them, ill-wishing us, or\neager to lure us into desolate solitudes. The wind sighs with solitary\ntone through the rough grasses and tussocks; at this height its\nevening breath is chill even in summer. Some of the stones are\nshattered monuments of dead men; some perhaps had a religious\nsignificance that the world has forgotten. The loneliness of the moor\nis often a charm, but it can become oppressive and terrible if our\nmood is not buoyant. In places like these the strongest mind might\nyield to superstition. We seem to be in a region of the primal world,\nwhere ploughshare has never passed nor kindly grain sprung forth for\nthe nourishment of man.\n\n  [Illustration: WISTMAN'S WOOD\n                 (_Page 13_)]\n\nBut we do not come to Dartmoor for traces of the earliest man in\nEngland; for these we must go to Kent's Cavern, Torquay, or to\nBrixham, not to the moors. Tokens of habitation on Dartmoor only begin\nwith Neolithic times, and are by no means continuous. At one time\nthere must have been a thick population; but Celt and Saxon have left\nlittle trace on the moors, and the Romans none at all. Though the\nCelts may have conquered the Iberian tribes here, they probably\nneither exterminated nor entirely dispossessed them. They were content\nwith the fringes of the wilderness, leaving the rest to the mists, the\nwolves, and the lingering older race. It was man of the New Stone Age\nwho first peopled this upland, leaving remains of his hut-dwellings,\nhis pounds, dolmens, and menhirs, his kistvaens and his cooking-holes.\nNumerous as the remains are still, they were once far more so; they\nhave been broken up or carted away for road-mending, for gateposts and\nthreshold stones, for building, for \"new-take\" or other walls, and for\nany other purpose to which granite can be applied. This central\nhighland may have become a refuge of the later Stone-men against\ninvaders of better equipment: all the traces of camps are on the\nborders, defensive against an external enemy; within is no sign of\nanything but peaceful pastoral occupation and tin-streaming.\n\nPlace names, of field or of farm, enable us to infer the former\nexistence of primitive relics: wherever there is a Shilstone (shelf\nstone) or a Bradstone (broad stone) we may be sure there was once a\ndolmen or cromlech; wherever there is a Langstone or Longstone we\nguess at a menhir or standing-stone. These early inhabitants of the\nmoor had advanced far from the condition of the rude cave folk; they\nbuilt themselves low circular huts, generally clustered within pounds\n(enclosures whose chief purpose here seems to have been the protection\nof cattle; some of the pounds were clearly for cattle alone). At\nGrimspound, near Hookner Tor, are traces of twenty-four huts, enclosed\nin a double wall 1500 feet in circumference. The huts had low\ndoorways, and usually platforms for domestic purposes, with\nhearthstones and cooking-holes. The food to be cooked was placed in\nthe hole, sometimes in a coarse clay pot, sometimes without, together\nwith red-hot stones from the hearth. Near Postbridge as many as\nfifteen pounds can be traced, while at Whit Tor are other numerous\ntraces. Those at Grimspound evidently belong to the Bronze Age; like\ndifferent periods of architecture, the Stone and Metal Ages very much\noverlapped.\n\nAt first the burial of these people was in dolmens, like the fine\nspecimen at Drewsteignton; later, cremation became the fashion, and\nthe smaller kistvaen, or stone chest, was used. The kistvaen was\ncovered by cairns or heaps of stones, probably placed there in tribute\nto the dead: there are many relics of such on the moors, as in\nCornwall, but they have usually been scattered or mutilated, and the\ncontents rifled by seekers after buried treasure. The stone-circles on\nthe moor are, of course, entirely dwarfed by Stonehenge, but when the\nproblem of the greater is solved we shall know that of the lesser; at\npresent we can only conjecture. The Scaur Hill circle on Gidleigh\nCommon is a good specimen, being about ninety-two feet in diameter;\nnear it are several stone-rows or alignments. Dartmoor is famous for\nthese lines of standing-stones, which are generally connected with\nplaces of burial; the longest, on Staldon, starting from a circle,\nruns for over two miles. These, together with the single stones or\nmenhirs, were probably intended as memorials of persons or events, and\nmay also have been used as places of gathering; but their religious\nsignificance, if any, can have been little more than a primitive\nancestor-worship. At a later period the menhirs were often converted\ninto crosses, and as such they are common in Devon and Cornwall.\n\nOther tokens of the early inhabitants are to be found in the signs of\ntin-working, but here we have to be careful in assigning dates; much\ntin-mining was done in the Middle Ages, and it is not always easy to\ndistinguish between traces that date from many years before Christ and\nthose that belong only to the fourteenth or the fifteenth century. The\nadvance in methods of working and in mode of living was very slight,\nand it is quite possible to confuse a rude hut of the medieval tinners\nwith one of prehistoric origin. We cannot positively state what period\nof the Bronze Age saw the dawn of tin-working on Dartmoor, but their\nplace in the oldest folklore gives the \"tinkards\" a great antiquity.\nThe metal was streamed, or washed from the beds of the moorland\nrivers, cast in rough ingots, and carried on pack horses to the\nStannary or mintage towns, where it was stamped and taxed. Parts of\nthe old trackways still remain, often paved; and it was for the use of\nthe pack-horses that the characteristic clapper-bridges were\nconstructed, like those of Dartmeet, Postbridge, and elsewhere. These\nbridges are quite modern when we compare them with the stone-circles\nand kistvaens. There was a kind of guild or early trade union between\nthe miners of Devon and Cornwall, reminiscent of the time when both\nbelonged to \"West Wales\"; and a relic of the old jurisdiction is the\nStannary Court still meeting at Truro.\n\nAfter the Christian era we learn little or nothing of Dartmoor till\nthe time of the Plantagenets, though we can gather a good deal about\nits border towns. The wild beasts that haunted its desolate recesses\nbrought it some repute as a hunting-ground, and it was not included in\nKing John's act of disafforestation. We must not be led by the term\nDartmoor Forest to suppose that the moors were ever covered with\nwoodland--certainly not within historic days; for long centuries they\ncan only have been an almost treeless waste, with patches of trees\nlike the surviving stunted oaks of Wistman's Wood. But the borders and\nsome of the river valleys are beautifully wooded.\n\nIt must be confessed that the rarest beauty of the moorland belongs to\nits fringes, around what may be called the gateways of the moor; in\nthe interior there is the charm of broad expanse, the glorious colour\nof heather, ling, and gorse, and occasionally a grand desolation of\nmist and tempest that may almost strike dismay. A guidebook writer has\nspoken of Dartmoor as \"the quintessence of unlovely dreariness\"; and\nperhaps there is some justification for his words in the immediate\nneighbourhood of Princetown, the solitary town of the moorland proper.\nIn size Princetown is only a village, with a population permanently\nincreased by the presence of about a thousand convicts and their\nwarders; and it may be feared that a majority of visitors to the\nplace, reaching it by train from Yelverton, are drawn by a curiosity\nto see the prison. They are rewarded by little but a sight of the grim\nbare walls. Lovers of the moor have never looked with favour either at\nthe prison or at the tortuous little railway line that climbs to it,\nhowever much this line may be admired as a feat of engineering; but we\nmust accept the presence of the railway ungrudgingly, for it is a fine\nconvenience for all who wish to reach the central regions of Dartmoor.\nThe wise visitor comes to Princetown in order to get away from it as\nsoon as possible--to get to Two Bridges, and Crockern Tor, long the\nopen-air parliament-place of the tinners--and to find himself in a\ntract of lonely country perhaps more thickly studded with immemorial\nremains than any other in the kingdom. The prison itself is about 1500\nfeet above sea level; and Great Mis Tor, a mile or so to the north, is\n1760 feet. It will be realized that if this and other tors rose sheer\nfrom a low-lying plain, their height would be much more appreciable.\nIt was Tyrwhitt, Warden of the Stannaries, who suggested that a prison\nshould be built here, to receive the prisoners of war who were\ncrowding the seaports; and the work was begun in 1806. Tyrwhitt lived\nat Tor Royal, where he entertained the Prince Regent; and tradition\nsuggests that the Prince brought his usual habits of gaiety and\ndissipation when he thus visited the moorland. Americans as well as\nFrenchmen suffered the dismal hospitality of the gaol here, as we are\nreminded by one of Mr. Phillpotts's novels. Of course, the new\nsettlement was named in honour of the Regent. A few portions, such as\nthe granite gateway with its motto _Parcere Subjectis_, belong to\nthe original buildings; and the inn \"The Plume of Feathers\" was built\nby Frenchmen. A writer has spoken of Dartmoor Prison as an example of\nthe power of moral force, as the convicts far outnumber the honest\nmen; but it may be supposed that bolts and bars, and the firearms of\nthe warders, have something to say in the matter. Even with these\nthere are occasional attempts at escape or mutiny.\n\nWhen the war with France came to an end the young settlement was\nlikely to lapse into complete decay; but in 1855 it was converted into\nthe present convict station. The problem of dealing wisely with crime\nhas not yet been solved; and the best that can be said for Princetown\nis that it is undoubtedly healthy, in spite of its bitter cold in\nwinter; and in some sort it may be regarded as a compulsory\nsanatorium. Whether the moral effects are as good as the physical must\nbe left for students of punishment to decide. Whether characters are\nreclaimed or no, there is an effort to reclaim the moor, which is the\ntypical stony ground of the parable; and the gradual enclosure of\nparts that were formerly public is a result. But at a step we can pass\nfrom present unlovely realities to the remote and traditional.\n\nIn Fox Tor Mire, which has been partially drained but has still some\nugly patches of bog, we come upon the supposed tomb of Childe the\nHunter, a kistvaen, while not far off is Childe's Cross. The familiar\nlegend tells how Childe of Plymstock was hunting on Dartmoor when he\nwas separated from his companions in a snowstorm. He killed his horse\nand crept into its warm carcass to keep himself from freezing, but the\nexpedient proved of no avail, though it apparently gave him time to\nscribble a kind of will on a stone, to the effect that--\n\n    \"Who finds and brings me to my grave\n    My lands at Plymstock he shall have\".\n\nLaws regarding the witnessing of wills seem to have had no operation\nin those days. Tidings of his death reaching Tavistock, the monks of\nthe abbey immediately set forth to recover the body and so inherit the\nestate; but it seems that they were nearly forestalled by the\ntownsmen, and it was only by the craft of the monks, who threw a hasty\nbridge across the Tavy, that they reached the abbey without having to\ncontest their capture. Some say that their competitors in the race for\nChilde's body were the monks of Buckland, not the folk of Tavistock.\nWhatever we may think of the legend, it is certain that the manor of\nPlymstock was attached to Tavistock Abbey from the time of the\nConquest to the Dissolution.\n\n  [Illustration: TWO BRIDGES\n                 (_Page 19_)]\n\nAnother local tradition is that of Fitz's Well, by the Blackabrook. It\nis stated that Fitz of Fitzford, with his good lady, was pixy-led\nwhile crossing the moors, and could by no means find the right path.\nAt length they came to this well, and hastened to refresh themselves.\nNo sooner had they drunk of the water than a veil seemed removed from\ntheir eyes; they recognized where they were, and reached home in\nsafety. Probably the well had long been esteemed holy, though no name\nof a saint survives in connection with it. In gratitude Fitz enclosed\nthe spring and placed an inscribed stone above it.\n\nSomething strange is also told of the pool Classenwell, sometimes\ncalled Clakeywell or Crazywell, which is a mile or two south of\nPrincetown. This pool is certainly more like a lake than the\nbetter-known Cranmere, which is little better than a peat bog. Its\nextent of water is about an acre, lying in a hollow where were\nformerly mine-workings. The superstitious used to assert that this\ndismal pond had a voice with which it announced the names of all moor\nfolk who were about to die. Those who passed dreaded to hear the\nmysterious announcement, always fearing that their own names might be\ncried. It cannot be doubted that winds intruding to the desolate\nhollow might produce weird sounds from the water, especially at night;\nthere is a mystery and solemnity about night sounds at all times, and\nsuch things have fostered many wild myths. Here, as at Cranmere, there\nis a legend of a doomed spirit who howls in the darkness, like the\nTregeagle of Cornwall; and here also was a belief that the pool was\nbottomless. There is also a touch of history here: Piers Gaveston,\nhiding on Dartmoor during his exile from Court, is said to have\nconsulted the oracle of Classenwell, who foretold his fate in\nambiguous language which he misinterpreted. The cry of this pool\nreminds us of the cry of the Dart itself--its call for the human life\nthat it demands each year--\n\n    \"River of Dart, O River Dart,\n    Every year thou claimest a heart\".\n\nA story tells how a farm lad named Jan Coo was lured to his death by\nthis calling of the river. It is true that when the wind blows\nstrongly down the Dart valley a strange, strangled kind of cry comes\nfrom the gorge, which at night-time is well calculated to strike a\nchill to the soul of the lonely passer. But the wind on Dartmoor can\ndo more than this; it has given us a phantom-chase like that of the\nHarz Mountains, and the Wish-hounds that hunt the spirits of\nunchristened babes across the moors.\n\nThere is a story of a farmer riding home to Chagford from Widecombe.\nHe heard the demon huntsman pass with his yelling hounds. Perhaps the\nman had indulged too freely at the village inn; certainly he dared to\nhail the hunter and ask what sport. \"Whatever the sport, you shall\nhave your share,\" came back the answer; and what he imagined to be a\nhaunch of venison was hurled into his arms. But when he reached home,\nand his wife brought a light, they found that the supposed game was\nthe dead body of their own little child.\n\nBut the moor is not always desolate and haunted; its streams are not\nalways wild dashing torrents, nor do they always trickle through black\nand treacherous bog. To know the moorland thoroughly we must know it\nin all its moods. A passing cloud or a glorious sunset can work\nmarvellous transformations.\n\nTwo Bridges is a good spot to begin the acquaintance. A bare road runs\nacross the open down to a gentle hollow, where it dips, passes a\nnarrow stream, and ascends again. The slopes around are almost as\nsmooth as if their formation was of chalk, not granite; this might be\na corner of the Sussex Downs but for the jagged tors that dream in the\nblue haze of the horizon. Stand for a few minutes on the bridge and\nlet the spirit of the place steal into your heart; listen to the\nmessage of the Dart as it babbles beneath the arches. Brook and\nnothing more it is at present. But a reverie on the roadway is liable\nto be disturbed by a sudden dash of dust and savour of petrol. We may\nbe driven from the road by the invasive motor car, but there are still\nthe footpaths and the tameless moorland. Descending to the small\nstretch of meadow that borders the stream above the bridge, in a few\nmoments we seem far removed from disconcerting evidences of a\ncivilization that is always in a hurry.\n\n  [Illustration: OCKERY BRIDGE, NEAR PRINCETOWN\n                 (_Page 22_)]\n\nWe are by the side of a free moorland water, gliding and gurgling and\nwhispering through a valley-bed of rugged and weeded crags, with trees\nthat make a chequered network of the sunlight. It is a paradise of\ncoolness and peace, where there are mossy boulders on which we can\nrest, or couches of fern and turf on which we can lie. The constant\nyet changeful music of the waters is in our ears; our eyes are soothed\nby the sweet umbrage of the branches, conveying the light with an\nalchemy that transmutes it into a green-tinged wine. Sometimes the\nwater takes an amber tint, coloured by the fragments of rock that in\nalmost any part form stepping-stones from side to side. In winter no\nsuch passage would be easy; the brook becomes an angry torrent,\nleaping with foam and impetuous fury down the rock-strewn gorge: but\nthat which at times can become a relentless giant, at other times is\nlike a playful nursling; the child prattles where sometimes the Titan\nthunders. There are miniature cascades and tiny waterfalls; the stones\nthat are nothing to the swollen winter stream now cause its baby\ncurrent to swerve and deviate, seeking for fissures that permit its\nflowing. It is delightful to lave one's feet in the clear tide, but\nthe weeded stones are slippery and the bed of the stream is rough;\nthis is no quiet sandy brooklet that children may wade in. It does not\ndally, but flows with a swift current of life. Many of our typical\nEnglish streams are almost or quite voiceless in their course; we have\nto bend our heads to catch the low monotone of their flowing. But here\nis no pastoral brook meandering through meadowy lowlands; it runs with\na gush and a tinkle; even in hot days, when the current is slender,\nthere is always spirit and vigour about it. For an angler there is\nsomething even better: trout lurk in some of the deeper holes. Truly\nthe desolation of the moor is not to be found by its riversides,\nunless it be in their boggy cradles. Here by the young Dart is a\nplentiful growth of trees and luxuriance of plant life; the boulders\nare draped with weeds and water-mosses. There is variety also in the\ncolouring of the lichens; and in their due season who shall describe\nthe glory of the flaming ferns, the gold of the gorse, the purples of\nling and heather? This is the moor and the river in their gentler\naspects; there are times when both become a fierce passion, a wild\ndream, almost a horror.\n\nIt is impossible as well as undesirable to mention all the prehistoric\nremains that cluster so thickly on the central moorland. This is not a\nguidebook, and there are excellent publications, such as the writings\nof Mr. Crossing and the Rev. S. Baring-Gould, in which all necessary\ndetails are given.\n\nFor one of the most typical features, the clapper-bridges, we cannot\nclaim the greatest antiquity, as the surviving specimens are on the\npack-horse routes, and not on the moor's more ancient trackways. There\nwas one at Two Bridges, but it has gone; and, still nearer to\nPrincetown, there is one over the Ockery, a rugged structure of\nunwrought boulders, to which later parapets have been added. The true\nDartmoor bridge has no parapet. One of the finest is at Postbridge, in\nthe very heart of the moor; there are others at Teign Head and\nDartmeet. In these bridges the huge \"clappers\" or blocks of granite\nlie absolutely unmorticed. Two of the horizontal blocks at Postbridge\nare about fifteen feet in length. At Scaur Hill there is a bridge of a\nsingle massive boulder. Though essentially characteristic of Dartmoor,\nthere are similar bridges elsewhere, as at Torr Steps over the Exmoor\nBarle, and in the Peak district.\n\nAnother special interest attaches to Postbridge: it is here that the\nghostly and indistinct Lych Way starts on its route to Lydford church.\nBy this track in old days burial parties carried their dead to\nLydford, which is still the parish church of a larger section of the\nmoorland. Before the year 1260 Lydford had to be resorted to for all\nreligious purposes; from that date permission was given to inhabitants\nof the eastern moors to use the church of Widecombe. In days before\neducation had done something to kill picturesque imaginings, it is not\nsurprising that many a phantom cortege was supposed to wend its way\nalong this haunted track; and the moor folk were very careful not to\npass that way alone at night-time. But the ghosts have been laid now,\nor men's eyes are sealed by their incredulity; the only night-haunters\nof Dartmoor are mist, and rain, and storm.\n\nIn making a tour of the border villages it is natural to begin with\nLydford, the mother-parish, which, with an extent of 56,333 acres,\nclaims to be the largest parish in England. Lydford boasts of\nimportance even as far back as the Roman invasion, but this is very\ndubious; there is no sign of anything Roman either at Lydford or on\nthe moorland. The town was burnt by the Danes in 997, when they also\ndestroyed Tavistock Abbey. It is certain that Lydford ranked high\namong the Stannary towns, and was a place of consequence. Its castle,\ndating from soon after the Conquest, is by no means imposing in its\npresent appearance, but as a Stannary prison it had a terrible\nreputation. The summary justice executed by the mining and forest\nauthorities gave rise to the term \"Lydford law\", which was something\nworse than what we now understand as lynch law. Browne, the Tavistock\npoet, says:\n\n    \"I oft have heard of Lydford law,\n    How in the morn they hang and draw,\n    And sit in judgment after\";\n\nbut it is said that even this swift treatment was\nbetter than being cast into Lydford prison.\n\n  [Illustration: CLAPPER BRIDGE, POSTBRIDGE\n                 (_Page 22_)]\n\nWe have to come to Lydford to find a patron saint for Dartmoor. The\nmoor is scarce in saints, but here in the dedication of the church we\nfind a very suitable patron in the Celtic St. Petrock, who came to\nCornwall in the sixth century and founded churches at Padstow and\nBodmin. There are other dedications of his on the moor borders. The\npresent church is Perpendicular, but there are traces of a far\nearlier, possibly Celtic, building. The epitaph to the watchmaker\nRoutleigh in the churchyard should be noticed. Lydford is very\nbeautifully situated, and its ravine, down which the Lyd tumbles\nthrough steep wooded clefts, is a perpetual charm. There are two\ncascades, but that of Kitt's Steps is not so fine as it was once,\nowing to mining operations. Those who like to make comparisons may see\na resemblance between Lydford Gorge and the famous Devil's Bridge of\nWales, and they will probably have to admit that the Welsh scene is\nthe grander; but Lydford is very lovely for all that, and its stream\nis a true child of the moorland. This ravine of the Lyd was once\ninfested by a gang of vicious savages known as the Gubbins. There have\nbeen similar reversions to primitive barbarism even within the past\ncentury, people inhabiting mud huts and living chiefly by robbing the\nmoormen of their cattle. It is probable that the Doones of Exmoor,\nthough glorified by Blackmore, were simply robbers of this rude type.\n\nLydford also has a story of a traveller whose horse once cleared the\ngorge at a leap, the bridge having fallen; the rider, unconscious of\nhis peril, was thus borne to safety across the roaring torrent of the\nchasm. But the summer visitor must not expect to find the Lyd a\nroaring torrent.\n\nThere are some fine tors near Lydford, though not the highest of the\nmoorland. Brent Tor is singularly picturesque, and is a notable\nlandmark by reason of the Early England church on its summit. The hill\nwas fortified in early times, traces of stone and earthwork remaining;\nand there is a legend, as so often with high-standing churches, that\nthe devil resented the church being built on what he considered his\nspecial domain, but was discomfited by the erection being placed under\nthe patronage of St. Michael. The rock itself is volcanic, so that the\nPrince of Darkness had a reason for deeming it his private property.\nThe church is said to have been built as a thankoffering for\ndeliverance from the sea. Those who reach it have to do so by a steep\nand stony path, which we may take, if we will, as a symbol; and it is\noften difficult to stand in the graveyard because of the fierce winds\nthat beat upon it. In times of storm it might be easy to imagine that\nSt. Michael and the spirits of darkness were waging their ancient\nconflict. Not many worshippers in England can boast that they attend a\nchurch 1130 feet above sea level; but the church at Princetown is\nhigher still. Perhaps it is not surprising that a more accessible\nchurch has been built at North Brent Tor, yet after coming here it\nwould seem like a lapse in manhood to attend the other.\n\nAs we get northward of Lydford we approach the region of Dartmoor's\ngreatest heights. At Bairdown, near Hare Tor, there is a finely-placed\nmonolith or menhir; but the view from Great Lynx Tor is more\nimpressive than any prehistoric remains can be, and includes both the\nEnglish and the Bristol Channels. Mist and rain may often obscure the\noutlook, but there are clear times when the waters beyond Plymouth\nSound can be seen to the south, while to the north glimmers the Severn\nSea where it meets the Atlantic Ocean. The two highest tors lie beyond\nLynx--Yes Tor and High Willhayes; both of these, though High Willhayes\nhas a slight advantage, are well over 2000 feet.\n\nThe grand Tavy Cleave, one of the famous beauty spots of the moor, is\njust south of Amicombe Hill. The Tavy, one of the many rivers that\nspring from the morasses around Cranmere, here tumbles--in summer a\ncooling stream, in winter an impetuous torrent--among scattered\nboulders and crags at the foot of the bare hills. Very different is\nthis scene from Lydford Gorge, but far more typically moorland. There\nis no woodland here, but the gaunt flanks of granite upheavals, and a\nrestless stream gushing through stark lichened rocks. Grim summits cap\nthe ravine; below are bogs that in wet seasons may be formidable.\n\nOf the peril of losing one's way on Dartmoor we learn something when\nwe come to Amicombe Hill. Here are the stones known as Bronescombe's\nLoaf and Cheese, which call to memory an adventure of Bronescombe,\nBishop of Exeter in the thirteenth century, whose tomb is in the\nCathedral. He was much beloved of the people, and the part that he\nplays in folklore proves how strongly he impressed his personality\nupon them. It is said that the bishop and his chaplain lost their way\nin crossing the moorland, and at last found themselves on Amicombe\nHill. Tired and hungry, the former said to his companion: \"Our Master,\nwhen tempted in the wilderness, was offered bread created from the\nstones. If the same offer was made to me, I doubt if I could refuse.\"\n\n\"Bread with a hunch of cheese as well,\" suggested the equally hungry\nchaplain.\n\n\"Ah,\" sighed the bishop, \"I could not hold out against bread and\ncheese!\"\n\nWhile he was still speaking, a limping moorman suddenly appeared, with\na wallet on his back, and the chaplain eagerly asked if he had any\nfood to give them.\n\n\"Aye,\" replied the man, \"I have some bread and cheese--naught else.\"\n\n\"Give it to us, my son,\" exclaimed the bishop. \"I will repay thee\nwell.\" But the stranger answered that he desired no payment; he only\nasked that the bishop would alight from his pony and doff his cap,\nsaluting him as master. The bishop was about to comply, when his\ncomrade noticed that one of the stranger's feet had a curious\nappearance. In great alarm he cried to the bishop, who hurriedly made\nthe sign of the cross. Immediately the stranger vanished, and the loaf\nand cheese that he had produced were converted into the stones that we\nsee here.\n\n  [Illustration: BRENT TOR\n                 (_Page 26_)]\n\nIt is a fashion to go to Cranmere, and even to leave a card as proof\nthat the visit has been paid; but the bogs and mires that surround it\nalways make the approach difficult--in wet seasons dangerous; and\nexcept as the source of so many Devon rivers the spot is really\nunattractive. It is never more than a marshy pool, and sometimes\nscarcely that. Dartmoor is one of the rainiest spots in England, its\nheight being swept by the moisture-laden winds from both seas; and the\nrainfall is held in its high-lying hollows by peat bogs. Every hollow\nis like a granite cup, and where there is not the immediate granite,\nthere is the equally impervious china-clay of its denudations; these\nbasins are perpetually fed by rain or mists, and the rivers thus born\nnever run dry. From the actual pool of Cranmere rises the West\nOckment, while the East Ockment, the Tavy, the Dart, the Taw, and the\nTeign spring from morasses or quags in its neighbourhood. No other\nspot in the kingdom gives birth to so many rivers of importance--important\nfor their great beauty though only slightly for their navigation. On\nthe moor itself they are rapid streams, sometimes peat-stained, yet\nalways limpid; and this rapidity, especially after rainfall, goes with\nthem to their estuaries, bringing sometimes sudden and dangerous\nrisings of tide. The general Dartmoor watershed is southward; all the\nstreams but the Ockments and the Taw flow to the English Channel.\nTeignmouth, Dartmouth, Plymouth, are watered by Dartmoor rivers.\n\nThough the mother and nurse of these rivers, Cranmere is disappointing;\nyet it has loomed large in local folklore. Like Dosmare of the Bodmin\nMoors, it has been supposed to be bottomless; and the fate of doomed\nspirits has been to drain it with a leaky shell. One tale is of an old\nfarmer who, after death, here had to expiate his misdoings. His ghost\nwas so troublesome that it took seven parsons to secure it. Being\nchanged into a colt by their pious spells, a servant lad was told to\nlead him to Cranmere pool, take off the halter, and leave the place\ninstantly, without glancing back. The boy obeyed all the instructions\nbut the last; and on looking back he received a parting kick from the\ncolt, which then plunged into the pool in the form of a ball of fire.\n\nWe are indebted to the Ockment Rivers for the name of Okehampton (in\nDomesday the name is Ochementone), which is perhaps the best centre\nfrom which to explore the northern moorland. But the peacefulness and\nto some extent the security of the district have been affected by the\nfact that ninety acres of land are leased for the use of the Royal\nHorse and Field Artillery, whose practice has sometimes jeopardized\nunwary tourists. Happily the character of Dartmoor saves it from\nbecoming a huge camp and review-ground, like Salisbury Plain; but it\nneeds some patriotism to forgive such military occupation as we find\nat Okehampton and elsewhere.\n\nThe ruins of the castle, on the site of a Celtic settlement, are well\nplaced above the river, surrounded by trees whose foliage is a delight\nafter the barren uplands. Every lover of beauty appreciates the\ndifference between a wooded district and a treeless waste; and this is\nusually the emphatic distinction between the central moor and its\nborders. It was a real privilege that allowed some of the French\nprisoners to reside at Okehampton instead of at Princetown, and a few\nof their tombs will be found in the churchyard here, so long after it\nhas ceased to matter.\n\nThere is older tradition here also. Those who are abroad at night-time\nwill do well to avoid meeting the ghostly equipage of Lady Howard,\nwhich drives nightly between the castle and Fitzford. Lady Howard was\na much-married woman, daughter of the unhappy Fitz of Fitzford, and\nher last husband was the infamous Richard Grenville, who sullied a\nname otherwise greatly ennobled. She chose to retain the title of her\nthird husband, and under this designation popular fancy has dealt very\nunkindly with her. Her doom is to drive each night to Okehampton\nCastle in her coach made of dead men's bones--the bones of her\nmurdered husbands, as slander tells; and her phantom hound plucks a\nsingle blade of grass from the castle mound. When all the grass has\nbeen plucked, her doom will cease. An old Devonshire ballad tells us\nof her:\n\n    \"My ladye's coach hath nodding plumes,\n      The driver hath no head;\n    My ladye is an ashen white,\n      As one that long is dead\".\n\nIt is considered ill-omened to meet this lady, and those who would\navoid doing so, as well as evade the firing, may find a pleasant\nrefuge at Belstone, at Sticklepath, or at South Zeal. Belstone has a\ntor of 1568 feet in height, and also some standing-stones named the\nNine Maidens, with their fallen piper. The girls were thus doomed and\nchanged into stone as a punishment for dancing on Sunday. Though their\npiper is displaced and mutilated, they still dance each day at\nnoon--for those whose faith is equal to the demand. Belstone is one of\nseveral \"Bels\" in the Dartmoor country, such as Bellever and Bel Tor,\nbut we have yet to learn that they have any connection with Baal, in\nspite of all the nonsense that has been talked.\n\n  [Illustration: TAVY CLEAVE\n                 (_Page 27_)]\n\nAt Sticklepath, a charmingly pretty village with beautiful\nflower-gardens, there is a holy well with a curiously inscribed stone;\nwhile at South Zeal, near a quaint belfry, is an interesting wayside\ncross. There are some delightful old houses in the neighbourhood,\nusually manorial in their origin and now turned into farms, such as\nNorth Wyke, West Wyke, and Wykington. It is from this side that the\nascent of Cosdon Beacon is often made--Cosdon, sometimes called\nCawsand, being noted for the fine stone-rows and other immemorial\nrelics to be found on its slopes. The Beacon has been introduced to\nliterature by novels of Mr. Baring-Gould and Mr. Phillpotts. We are\nreminded also of fiction--the familiar pages of _Westward Ho!_--by the\nname of the Oxenham Arms, preserving the memory of a famous old Devon\nfamily, the Oxenhams, with their tradition of the white bird.\n\nBy whatever way we pass from Okehampton or South Tawton to Chagford,\nwe are delayed on all sides by numberless spots of beauty or interest.\nThe main road, which branches to Exeter, is served by a motor bus from\nMoreton, but familiarity with the moorland can never be gained by\nproceeding along a highroad, whether on foot or awheel. Many as are\nthe remaining standing-stones, circles, and pounds, those that have\nbeen destroyed were far more numerous; but the finest monument of the\n\"old people\" is rarely as attractive as the natural beauties that\nsurround many of them, and only the professed antiquarian will care to\nexamine them all with patient study. To most of us they are only bare\nstones. They are so ancient that the human interest has died from\nthem. But we find this human touch at such places as Wonson manor\nhouse, now a farm, where an ace of diamonds painted on the woodwork of\na bedroom reminds us of a former squire, who had it placed there in\norder that he might curse it each night for the ruin it had brought\nhim in his gambling.\n\nGidleigh, which is near, stands high, and has a fine park of oak,\nbirch, and mountain-ash, with ferns and whortles in a rock-strewn\nundergrowth. Its colouring is especially rich in the fall of the year,\nwith the lovely fading of ferns, the purple of heath, and the red of\nberries. The North Teign dashes foamingly below, fretful and\nrock-thwarted. This is really a more beautiful spot than ever was the\nHoly Street Mill that Creswick and other artists painted; plenty of\npicturesque mills may be found throughout the country, but scenes of\nsuch loveliness are rare. The rhododendrons in bloom add much to the\nbeauty of Gidleigh, which also boasts a small castle with whose\nruinous walls the ash trees have incorporated themselves.\n\nAt Teign Head (not quite the head of the river) is one of the\nmoorland's clapper bridges; but Leigh Bridge, where the two Teigns\nmeet, though of the common single-arch type, is more charming because\nits surroundings are wooded. The two rivers unite before reaching\nChagford, and beyond that modernized and popular little resort the\nTeign passes out of the confines of the moor altogether. But at Fingle\nBridge, one of the most famous Devon beauty-spots, something of\nmoorland wildness still remains. Almost the whole course of the Teign\nis of remarkable beauty. It here passes the fine trees of Whiddon Park\ntill it comes to a ravine every yard of which seems to be prehistoric\ndust. There are earthworks and camps on both sides; while not far off\nis the great dolmen or cromlech of Drewsteignton, near the small\nBradmere pool.\n\nAncient camps are not common on the actual moorland, but we find them\nhere at the fringe: those Bronze Age moormen appear to have been\npeaceable among themselves, and only to have raised entrenchments\nagainst external enemies. Possibly this lovely valley of the Teign saw\na desperate struggle between tribes of an early and a newer\ncivilization, one of the primitive race-strifes that shaped our\npeople. Now it is a haunt of the country-lover and the tourist, many\nof whom deplore that the banks and hollows have been denuded of their\nrarer ferns by the depredations of thoughtless visitors. But nothing\nhas killed the charm of the tumbling torrent, the stained massy\nboulders, the pools and shallows. It is little wonder that Chagford\nhas become a popular holiday place; yet its miry condition in winter\nwas best expressed by the pithy comment of its sarcastic\nneighbours--\"Chaggy-vord--Good Lord!\" The \"Three Crowns\", of which\nKingsley spoke as a \"beautiful old mullioned and gabled Perpendicular\ninn\", was once a manor house.\n\nFrom Chagford we reach the open moorland by climbing Tincombe\n(Teigncombe) Hill, and we must follow the South Teign if we wish to\nexamine the Fernworthy circle or the Grey Wethers. But we shall\nprobably be more attracted by what was once a genuine moor town, as\nits name implies. Moreton Hampstead, no longer properly on the moor,\nthough it once was, is the starting-place of the single true road that\nleads across Dartmoor, passing Two Bridges on its way to Buckland,\nTavistock, and Plymouth. The ancient central trackway, which is far\nolder, being connected with the Fosseway, also ran from Moreton.\nThough linked to great roads from the shires, there is nothing to show\nthat the Romans ever used this track, or that they ever entered\nDartmoor at all.\n\nPerhaps Moreton is an even better centre for visiting the moor\nthan Chagford, and it is quite as attractive in itself, with its\ninteresting but despoiled church, and its fine arcaded almshouses,\ndating from 1637. The inhabitants, however, deplore the loss of their\nold \"dancing-tree\", an elm growing from the mutilated base of a\ngranite cross. This tree was supposed to be over 300 years old, and it\nsuccumbed a few years since to age and many infirmities. Balls and\nconcerts were given on a platform built on the massive branches. The\ntree has received literary honour in Blackmore's _Christowell_. It is\nfrom Moreton that we can best reach Grimspound, with its twenty-four\nhut-circles. The pound encloses about four acres, surrounded by a\ndouble wall of granite blocks. Scattered in the neighbourhood are\nother hut-circles, barrows, and stone alignments.\n\nBowerman's Nose (Celtic _veor-maen_, or great stone) is nearer to\nManaton; it is a natural freak of weathered granite, 40 feet in\nheight, standing at an elevation of about 1300 feet above sea level.\nMany foolish conjectures have been magnified into supposed fact by\nthose who have taken this and other Dartmoor features to be the work\nof man. Manaton itself, with its own tor rising behind the church, is\na beautiful little village, rendered more lovely by the River Bovey.\n\nIt is the fall of the Becka brook into the Bovey that provides the\npopular Becky Falls; but in summer, as Mr. Baring-Gould says, this is\nrather a water trickle than a waterfall; in autumn and winter, when\nfewer visitors see it, the stream is a turbulent torrent. Not far\ndistant is the beautiful Lustleigh Cleave, which though not on the\nmoor is thoroughly moorland in its character and its antiquities. So\nhugely piled are the boulders at its foot that the river is generally\nquite out of sight, to be heard but not seen.\n\nBut to get to a typical moorland parish we must not linger at\nLustleigh; we must go out to Widecombe, and by whatever road we reach\nit we shall understand the sad fate of Tom Pearce's old mare.\nWidecombe is in a hollow surrounded by heights and tors (it must be\nunderstood that the word tor is only used where the granite actually\nprotrudes from the soil). Bel, Rippon, and Hey Tors are on one side,\nHamildon Down on the other. The valley, which is only low in\ncomparison with the surrounding hills, was much worked in days out of\ndate by the tin-streamers, and there is a plentiful growth of pines\nand sycamores above the traces they left.\n\nThe village is a small thing, but it looms large in moorland\ntraditions, not only because of its famous sheep fair, nor because its\nchurch is the finest on Dartmoor, but because the Devil himself paid\nthe spot some very personal attentions at one time, and indeed was\nonce reported to have lived here. It was on an October Sunday in the\nyear 1638 that a stranger riding through Poundsgate enquired the way\nto Widecombe, and, being given a drink, it was noticed that the liquor\nactually hissed as it passed down his throat. The folk were gathered\nat afternoon service when there came on a great darkness, followed, as\nPrince tells us, by a \"terrible and fearful thunder, like the noise of\nmany guns, accompanied with dreadful lightning, to the great amazement\nof the people, the darkness still increasing that they could not see\neach other\". Ere long there came an extraordinary flame, filling the\nchurch with a \"loathsome smell like brimstone\", and a ball of fire\nfell through the roof. The folk all dropped terror-stricken to the\nfloor. A large beam hurled itself down between the parson and the\nclerk, yet neither was hurt; others were less fortunate, four being\nkilled and sixty-two injured. At last a man ventured to propose:\n\"Shall we go out from the church?\" but the parson answered: \"Let us\nmake an end of prayer, for it is better to die here than in another\nplace\".\n\nThere is little in the present building to recall this terrible\nvisitation, in which it is clear that a most violent thunderstorm has\nassumed a permanent place in Devonshire folklore; but its story is\ntold in a versified narrative hanging on the tower wall. This tower,\nthough certainly struck by lightning on the occasion, was not\ndestroyed; and it remains, reaching the height of 120 feet, a model of\nimpressive Perpendicular. The woodwork of the roof is also excellent,\nand the surviving pictured panels show how fine the screen was before\nbeing cut down in 1827. So large a church seems to indicate a thicker\npopulation in early days, perhaps when the tin working was at its\nbest; and it is stated that the tower itself was erected voluntarily\nby successful tinners.\n\nAt the September fair there is still a lively gathering of moor sheep,\nmoor horses, and moormen, and the chatter has a rich Devonian\nintonation, with a delightful smack of the soil. Widecombe is one of\nthe so-called Venville parishes, Venville being a word of doubtful\norigin (sometimes written Wangfield), which probably signifies a kind\nof feudal tenure. These parishes were freehold with certain attached\nservices, and their inhabitants had a prescriptive right to all uses\nof the moorland except those of \"vert and venison\"--that is, of\ngathering green wood or killing the deer. There was never much green\nwood to gather on the moor itself, and the deer have long since\ndeparted, unless when one occasionally wanders over from Exmoor. The\nmoorland proper, technically the Forest, is surrounded by commons,\noutside which are the Venville parishes; and these commons were\nformerly of far wider extent, having been sadly curtailed by\n\"newtakes\" and enclosures, sometimes by the authorities of the Duchy,\nsometimes by lords of the different manors, sometimes by moor-settlers\nthemselves. A small fee is demanded by the Duchy for all cattle\npastured on the moor by outsiders, the cattle of the moormen grazing\nfree; and there are periodical \"drifts\", when each Venville proprietor\nclaims his own, and \"foreigners\" have to pay the tax.\n\n  [Illustration: WIDECOMBE ON THE MOOR\n                 (_Page 38_)]\n\nWe are reminded of London by the dedication of Widecombe Church, which\nis to St. Pancras; and thoughts of the metropolis again come to us at\nHey Tor, which provided granite for London and Waterloo Bridges. These\neastern heights, Rippon and Hey Tors, are not so lofty as those of the\nnorth-west, but they both command very fine views. It is magnificent\nto see sunset flame across the moors from this eastern borderland.\nPatches of cultivation, open moorland dotted with sheep, lovely\nriver-valleys, and wide undulations of heather and gorse fade into\nhorizons of the westward summits. There is always the changeful charm\nof atmosphere. The scene may be of vast, glorious peacefulness, but it\nis great also when there is the confusion of cloud-strife, rain raking\nthe hillsides--when the spirit of the moor is abroad in storm and\ndarkness, when colour is quenched in wet and driving wrack. It is easy\nthen to picture the moor as the phantasmal haunt of lost races.\nDartmoor has many moods, variable as the soul of man--sometimes of\ngentle pensiveness and dreaming, touched with sentiment, sometimes of\nfierce striving passion or inconsolable woe, sometimes of desolation\ndeepened to despair. In all these there is a quality of the\nunconventional and untamed, a sense of the nearness of mystery, the\nbrooding of the unseen, the force of powers that we sometimes feel to\nbe in profoundest sympathy with our own longings and imaginings,\nsometimes in the most vexed antagonism. Here, as elsewhere, we find\nvery much what we bring, but we find it intensified, vivified; it may\nlure us as a kindly home, or repel us as a desert. Even the repulsion\nhas its own manner of charm, because it braces us to self-assertion\nand manhood.\n\nIt was from this Hey Tor side of the moorland that William Howitt once\nlooked forth upon Dartmoor. He tells us: \"My road wound up and up, the\nheather and the bilberry on either hand shewing me that cultivation\nhad never disturbed the soil they grew in; and one sole woodlark from\nthe far-ascending forest to the right filled the wild solitude with\nhis autumnal note. At that moment I reached an eminence, and at once\nsaw the dark crags of Dartmoor high aloft before me, and one large\nsolitary house in the valley beneath the woods. So fair, so silent,\nsave for the woodlark's note and the moaning river, so unearthly did\nthe whole scene seem, that my imagination delighted to look upon it as\nan enchanted land, and to persuade itself that that house stood as it\nwould stand for ages, under the spell of silence but beyond the reach\nof death and change.\" This was written three-quarters of a century\nsince, before nature had begun greatly to inspire our prose writers;\nand for its period it is very creditable. In poetry we have made no\nprogress; but in the prose literature of nature--that is to say, of\nnatural scenes viewed under human emotion--it is an immense step from\nthe writings of William Gilpin and Richard Warner, and even of Howitt,\nto those of George Borrow and Richard Jefferies. Even in prose it had\nbeen the poets, Gray and Wordsworth, who had shown the way, very\nslowly followed. Warner was an enterprising and intelligent traveller,\nand visited many parts of the south and west from his Bath home, long\nbefore the time of railways. It is interesting to notice how he was\ndaunted by Dartmoor. Overnight he had decided to walk from Lydford to\nTwo Bridges, though the idea of \"travelling twelve miles over a\ndesolate moor, wild as the African Syrtes, without a single human\ninhabitant or regular track, had something in it very deterring\". Next\nmorning it actually deterred. \"As the trial approximated, my\nresolution, like Acres' courage, gradually oozed away, and before\nbreakfast was finished I had dropped the idea, and determined to take\na circuitous route by Oakhampton.\" His landlord had just told him how\nthe body of a dead sailor had been discovered in a lonely spot, where\nit must have lain for weeks; and Warner's discretion proved greater\nthan his valour.\n\nBut we need not sneer at him. It is still easy to be lost on Dartmoor.\n\nThose who are fond of logan-stones may find some in this district:\nthere is one at Lustleigh, a fine one on Rippon, and others elsewhere.\nSome of them no longer \"log\" satisfactorily, and certainly none are\nconnected with Druidic or other ceremonial. They are natural\nformations, like the rock-basins and the tors themselves.\n\nIt is more interesting to pass on to one of the loveliest portions of\nthe moorland border, that which is watered by the Rivers Dart after\ntheir junction at Dartmeet. We have already seen the West Dart at Two\nBridges, and the East Dart should be explored at least to Postbridge.\nIt is especially beautiful where it is joined by the Walla, at the\nfoot of Yes Tor. Dartmeet is a small settlement of houses, and\ndeserves to be popular, for while quite on the moorland it has none of\nthe desolate aspect that some persons find depressing, and those who\nlove woods can get them to perfection around Holne and Buckland.\nTourists who have been up the river from Dartmouth to Totnes are\ninclined to think that they know the Dart; they are as much mistaken\nas those who think they know the Wye when they have been to Symond's\nYat. To know the Dart its moorland recesses must be explored, where\nthe stream is in its fresh impetuous youth; below Totnes, though its\nbanks are undoubtedly lovely, it has become chastened and sobered. At\nthe junction of the Wallabrook with the Dart is a very fine view of\nYar Tor, near which is the luxuriant Brimpts plantation.\n\nThe meeting of the two Darts is in a low rock-strewn gorge, to\nappreciate which the roadway must be left. Near is the Coffin-stone,\nwith its inscribed crosses, used as a resting-place for the dead on\ntheir way to burial. It is said that when a man of notorious\nwickedness was being carried to his grave, his coffin as usual was\nrested on this stone, and a flash of fire struck downward from a\npassing cloud, consuming the body and splitting the solid rock. The\ncleft remains as a proof. The rocks of this district are frequently of\nmetallic substance, and are often struck by lightning; perhaps this\nkills the romance of the legend.\n\nBuckland-in-the-Moor, so called to distinguish it from other\nBucklands, is not strictly on the moorland at all, and is cradled in\nwoodland; it is a very small, delightful village, close to the united\nWebburns, which join the Dart below. The river here flows in most\ntortuous fashion under the beautiful woods of Buckland Drive and Holne\nChase. Holne Cot has a place in literature as the birthplace of\nCharles Kingsley, in 1819, but he left it when an infant. Another\nliterary remembrance is the birth of the dramatist Ford at Ilsington,\nand Tavistock had a true poet in William Browne; but it must be\nconfessed that the literary glories of the moorland are not great, and\nCarrington, its special poet, is quite a third-rate writer. There has\nbeen no Wordsworth to interpret Dartmoor. We have to come to modern\nfiction, in the books of Mr. Baring-Gould and Mr. Phillpotts, for\nanything like an adequate literary treatment; and even in this\ndepartment there has been no _Lorna Doone_.\n\nAt Holne and Buckland may be found some of the most luxuriant woodland\nof the moor-borders, yellow with dense primroses in the spring. On\nboth sides of the river there are rich woods of birch and oak and fir,\nwhile in the valley through which the Dart runs are fertile succulent\nmarshes, beautified with bogbeans, asphodels, and sundews, and with\nthe exquisite _Osmunda regalis_ flourishing where, happily, it is very\ndifficult to reach. In parts the river flows through ivied crags,\nabove which hang clusters of mountain-ash. There are prehistoric\nremains at Holne and at Hembury, but it is difficult to think of the\npast where the present is of such insistent charm. Moor, woodland,\nriver, stone-strewn waste and fertile pasture here meet, with no\ndiscord or violent contrast, but harmonized by a reconciling\natmosphere of beauty. The churches both at Buckland and Holne have\nvery interesting screens, and at Holne is a finely-carved wooden\npulpit.\n\nThough it can scarcely be said to belong to the moors, Ashburton is a\ngood starting-point for the examination of the eastern moorlands. Here\nand at Buckfastleigh are the only remains of the once extensive Devon\nwoollen manufactures; and Ashburton was also at one time a Stannary\ntown. It has a good church and many interesting associations, but we\ncannot linger either here or at Buckfast, where a settlement of\nBenedictines has restored the old abbey.\n\nThere is a great temptation to stay awhile at Dean Prior for the sake\nof Robert Herrick, one of England's sweetest lyrists, who was twice\nvicar here, being presented by Charles I in 1629, dispossessed at the\nCommonwealth, and reinstated at the Restoration. He abused the\nneighbourhood so heartily in his verse that it is surprising he should\nhave accepted the living a second time; but perhaps he said a little\nmore than he meant. The exact spot of his burial in the churchyard is\nunknown. Some of Herrick's lyrics are so lovely that even Devonians\nmust forgive him, though he wrote:\n\n    \"O men, O manners; now and ever known\n    To be a rocky generation,\n    A people currish, churlish as the seas,\n    And rude almost as rudest savages;\n    With whom I did and may re-sojourn when\n    Rocks turn to rivers, rivers turn to men\".\n\nAs he returned voluntarily to this exile, we must imagine the miracle\nto have taken place, or perhaps his own heart had been tamed by his\nadversity.\n\nThe southern moor is watered by beautiful but less familiar rivers\nthan those of the west and east; the Avon, the Erme, the Yealm have\nall their own charm, and are as genuinely children of Dartmoor as the\nTeign, the Dart, or the Tavy. Probably the best centre for this\ndistrict is South Brent, where there is a church that has been badly\ntreated by restoration. Brent Hill, rising to about 1000 feet, must\nnot be confused with Brent Tor. Both are strikingly conspicuous hills,\nbut this southern height no longer boasts its chapel dedicated to St.\nMichael. The hill is a fine landmark for a large extent of country.\nThe Avon, sometimes called the Aune, is a beautiful river, but its\nsource in the treacherous mire of Aune Head is very dismal.\n\n  [Illustration: DARTMEET\n                 (_Page 44_)]\n\nIt may be worth while to tell a story told of Aune Mire by Mr.\nBaring-Gould, for the authenticity of which we must hold him\nresponsible. A man was making his way through the bog \"when he came on\na top-hat reposing, brim downwards, on the sedge. He gave it a kick,\nwhereupon a voice called out from beneath, 'What be you a-doin' to my\n'at?' The man replied, 'Be there now a chap under'n?' 'Ees, I reckon,'\nwas the reply, 'and a hoss under me likewise.'\" This is a fair\nrepresentation of the swallowing capacity of Dartmoor mires, and they\nshould certainly be avoided by any strangers without an expert guide.\n\nThe Avon on its southward course passes the old Abbots' Way, the track\nof the monks from Buckfast to Tavistock. A good deal of the path can\nstill be traced. Approaching Shipley Bridge, the river becomes very\nlovely, shadowed by Shipley and Black Tors, and flowing beneath a\nbridge of single span among rocks, trees, and ferns. Not many tourists\ncome hither, and the result is greater wealth of specimens--mountain\nand lady ferns, false maidenhair, various hart's tongues.\n\nThe beautiful situation of Didworthy might make one in love with\nfarming; and there are numberless remains here for those who wish to\nbe in touch with the \"old people\". This is one aspect that is always\npresent, from end to end of Dartmoor--the silent tokens of vanished\npeoples; they may be absolutely intrusive if we choose, or they may\nblend, scarcely noticed, with the natural features of their\nsurroundings. Some persons will come and think of nothing else; but to\nthose who come with wider purpose the old stones and memorials give a\nhint of far-off human interest, softening the harshness of the wilder\nscenes, and enriching the gentler with a touch of pathos. The solitude\nof places where man has been is always different from that of\nuntrodden wildernesses.\n\nThe Avon runs beneath another lovely bridge when it comes to South\nBrent, which is locally noted for its fairs and pannier market, and is\na favourite resort with excursionists from Plymouth. The curious\nwinding streets of the little town are in perfect accord with their\nsetting. At Wrangaton, not far distant, are the links of the South\nDevon Golf Club; but this is only one of the many opportunities that\ngolfers have of exercising their sport on Dartmoor or in its immediate\nneighbourhood. It is fairly evident that a considerable section of the\npublic to-day will go nowhere unless accompanied by its golf clubs,\nand certainly the game often introduces these people to much beautiful\nscenery that they might otherwise miss. They must decide themselves as\nto which is the real attraction.\n\nThere are several other river sources not far from that of Avon--Erme\nHead, Yealm Head, Plym Head; this cluster of bogs almost rivals the\ncradle of rivers at Cranmere. The Erme valley and plains are thickly\nstrewn with prehistoric relics and traces of old tin workings; but,\nwell populated as this district must once have been, it is now one of\nthe most lonely and desolate parts of the moorland. Dreary as the Erme\nmay be at its source, however, it develops to great beauty during its\nbrief course to the sea, issuing at Mothecombe, in a series of\nwindings and wooded reaches, with a swiftness of tide that tells its\nmoorland birth. The general public makes the river's acquaintance at\nIvybridge; otherwise it is by no means a familiar stream.\n\nAt Harford, which is practically a moorland parish, we have a church\ndedicated to St. Petrock, like those of South Brent and Lydford,\nemphasizing his claim to be the patron of Dartmoor. The chief heights\nin this region are the Three Barrows, Staldon, and Sharp Tor. Perhaps\nthe most remarkable of the moor's stone avenues starts from a circle\non Stall Moor, and terminates with a kistvaen not far from Aune Head.\nThere are other stone rows near, all of which have been partially\ndespoiled, but less so than elsewhere; the mystery of their\nsignificance remains unsolved. Ugborough Beacon and Butterton Hill,\nboth about 1200 feet in height, stand like southern sentinels of the\nmoorland to the east of Harford. On the slopes of Sharp Tor is a\nstunted wood, very like Wistman's.\n\nWestward, near Cornwood, is the ravine of the River Yealm, known as\nAwns and Dendles, which it is best not to visit on Plymouth's\nearly-closing day or on Bank Holidays. It is a pity that popularity\nshould mean vulgarizing, for it is right that every lovely spot should\nbe accessible to the greatest possible number of those who can\nappreciate it. The qualification is an important one; nothing is\ngained by the thronging to such scenes of those whose tastes are best\nmet by entertainment pavilions and roundabouts. Besides which, the\nconscienceless tripper is a terror to all who love ferns, and there\nare still some rarities to be found in the Yealm valley.\n\nNear Cornwood is Fardell, once a manor of the Raleighs; and though Sir\nWalter was not born here he undoubtedly paid the spot many visits. The\nplace is also interesting because of a stone discovered here, bearing\nOgham inscriptions supposed to prove the extent of the Irish invasion\nsomewhere about the sixth century, when Devon and Cornwall were\noverrun by saints and chieftains from the green island. There are a\nnumber of attractive manor houses in this part of the moorland's\nfringe, together with some fine heights, such as Pen Beacon and Shell\nTor, rising to about 1500 feet. But there is no particular charm in\nthe china-clay works of Lee Moor--an industry which may be studied on\na larger scale in the St. Austell district of Cornwall. China-clay, or\nkaolin, is a detritus of granite, much used for pottery and in the\npreparation of calicoes; partly also for the supposed white sugar of\nconfectionery and in cheap adulterated flours. The neighbourhoods of\nits workings are as white as those of coal are black, and in this\nrespect china-clay must be given the preference; but neither tends to\nbeautify a district.\n\n  [Illustration: A MOORLAND TRACK, THE DEVIL'S BRIDGE]\n\nNone of the lovely rivers already mentioned water a town of any great\nimportance; but when we come to the Plym it is different. The Plym is\nnot the most beautiful of Dartmoor streams, but it has given its name\nto Plymouth, and Plymouth has imposed its own title on the three towns\nwhich united form the supreme naval and industrial centre of the west\ncountry. Other western seaports have decayed rather than advanced--they\nhave deteriorated at least in their relative importance; but Plymouth\nhas advanced and is still advancing. In no sense does it belong to\nDartmoor, but the Plym and the Tavy, whose waters go to swell Plymouth\nSound, are both genuine children of the moorland. The Plym, rising not\nfar from the Yealm, makes its way to its junction with the Meavy\nthrough a grand ravine, overshadowed by the Dewerstone. Before\nreaching the Dewerstone, however, the river passes under the Cadover\n(or Cadaford) Bridge, and from this circumstance there has been some\ndispute as to whether the true name of the stream should not be the\nCad. Carrington gave it this name, but he cannot be taken as an\nauthority; and it is probable that the _cad_ in Cadover is simply a\ncorruption of the Celtic word _coed_, or wood, and has nothing to do\nwith the river at all. From Cadover to Shaugh Bridge are some\nwonderfully beautiful scenes, banks strewn with granite fragments\namidst tangled undergrowth. The Dewerstone towering above is\nappropriately the haunt of a demon huntsman of the moors, who careers\nabroad on stormy nights with his fierce-eyed baying wish-hounds.\n\nWhether we pursue the Meavy upward from the bridge or follow the\nunited rivers through the exquisite Bickleigh vale, there is much\nloveliness; but there are times when Bickleigh valley is too popular\nto be pleasant, unless our chief study is human nature. We can best\nstudy human nature in the towns; and we do not want to be pursued by\nits noisier manifestations amid scenes that call for the sympathetic\npresence of peace. Shaugh Prior, finely placed on the border of the\nmoorland, is entirely delightful, as also is Meavy, with its famous\noak, twenty-five feet in girth, and its village cross. Lovers of such\nthings will specially notice the old font-cover of the church at\nShaugh. There is also a notable cross on the slope of Ringmore Down,\nover eight feet in height, the tallest on the moor.\n\nOne of the pleasantest spots of this corner of Dartmoor is the village\nof Sheepstor, a familiar sight from the railway to all who are making\nthe journey to Princetown by train. It lies at a little distance from\nthe rail, but the Burrator reservoir here constructed for the supply\nof Plymouth, in the bed of an ancient lake, probably draws more\ncurious visitors than do the beauty and interest of its surroundings.\nSheepstor Church has been unhappily restored, to the sad detriment of\nits exquisite screen, enough of which has been preserved to tell of\nits original glory. The tor itself rises finely above the clustering\ncottages of the village, and a cavern called the Pixies' Cave is shown\nas the refuge of one of the Elford family during the Civil War. It is\nsaid that he lay concealed here, somewhat in the manner of the Baron\nBradwardine's concealment in Scott's _Waverley_, while the Roundhead\ntroopers were closely searching his house and grounds, at Langstone by\nBurrator. Having won the affection of the peasantry, they kept his\nsecret and provided him with food. It is said that he occupied his\nenforced leisure by painting the sides of the cave, but no traces of\npainting can now be seen. The cave is difficult to find, and nothing\nbut treachery could have revealed the hiding-place. It is not stated\nwhether Elford's presence drove out the pixies to whom the cavern\nreally belonged; but in case they still remain it is well to remember\nthe usual etiquette of leaving a pin or some other small gift. Pixies\nseem to be as easily pleased as are the patron saints of some holy\nwells.\n\nA remarkable story is told by Mrs. Bray as to the manner in which the\ncholera reached Sheepstor during the terrible visitation of 1832. A\nman of supposed poverty died, with his wife and children, at Plymouth,\nwhere the plague was raging fiercely, and their home was visited by\ntwo brothers, with small hope of picking up anything valuable. To\ntheir surprise a large sum in cash was found, and the brothers fought\ntogether over the dead bodies in order to possess it. While fighting,\nthey were disturbed by the police, and one of the two, having actually\nassumed some of the clothes of the dead man, took refuge in a cottage\nat Sheepstor. Strangely enough, he escaped the infection himself, but\nit was taken by the two worthy cottagers, and they both died. Their\nlittle boy, thus orphaned, carried word to Tavistock that his parents\nhad both died and that he had been left alone with the dead. It was\nconsidered so remarkable that the cholera should have visited so\nhealthy a spot, and especially people of such known cleanliness, that\nan enquiry was instituted and the story came out.\n\n  [Illustration: STONE AVENUE, NEAR MERRIVALE]\n\nBefore leaving Sheepstor something should be said of the fine stone\nrows and other remains at Drizzlecombe, but it is impossible here to\ngive full attention to these numerous relics. We find a reminder of\nthe Elford family in the name of Yelverton, a corruption of\nElford-town. Yelverton and Dousland have both become popular with\nresidents and visitors, having the convenience of rail and commanding\na district of great beauty. But, attractive as they are, neither can\nclaim to be on the moorland, nor can this claim be made by Tavistock\nitself, though that town boasts of being the \"western gate of\nDartmoor\". There is a rich supply of beauty and of delightful\nassociations at Tavistock, but it was never a moor town. Here and at\nBuckland Monachorum are many traces of the two rival abbeys, of which\nTavistock was far the more ancient and the more wealthy. Both spots\nhave memories of Francis Drake, and at Tavistock there is an admirable\nstatue. Buckland and Buckfast, being both Cistercian, had much\ncommunication; and the influence of these three abbeys was great in\npreserving the moorland trackways, setting up crosses for the guidance\nof travellers, and keeping the moor open to a gradual course of\ncivilization. They were also centres of art and culture at a period\nwhen such things were at a discount, and in this respect we can never\nbe too grateful to the old monastic settlements. Whether or not we\nclass them among those good things whose corruption is worst, they\nwere undoubtedly good in their day. We find around Dartmoor as\nelsewhere that the monks chose their localities well, with a keen eye\nfor natural beauty and the advantages of water. We may infer also that\nthey ventured across Dartmoor when other men were chary of crossing\nit, and their faith had certainly the courage of its convictions. If\nwe meet their ghosts along the Abbots' Way by night we need not fear\nthat they will be other than kindly. If they are ghosts now, there was\na time when they drove forth ghosts themselves, and when they\nconverted pagan monuments into symbols of the religion of love.\n\nIt would be very pleasant to linger about Tavistock, with its bright\nriver that we met in our rambles from Lydford; but the moorland calls\nus. There is another lovely river, the Walla or Walkham (Walkham is\nprobably Walla-combe), which lures us to one of the most fascinating\nregions of Dartmoor. The poet Browne, after the fashion of his time,\nwrote a narrative of the \"loves of the Walla and the Tavy\" in his\n_Britannia's Pastorals_; but in spite of much freshness of natural\ndescription his verses are tedious if taken in large doses, and we can\nleave this would-be classic legend out of the question. The stream has\na typically moorland character as it flows from its source at Lynch\nTor, to wind around the foot of the noble Great Mis Tor and pass\nbeneath Merrivale Bridge. The tors of this district are approaching\ntheir greatest height, and Mis Tor, a true mother of storms, is one of\nthe most magnificent. Merrivale bridge is on the highroad from\nTavistock to Princetown, little frequented since the opening of the\nrailway, and surely there are few finer bits of road in the kingdom\nthan that which here crosses the valley of the Walla, at the base of\nthis grand tor. Whether lying in open sunshine or raked with fog and\ncloud, Mis Tor is always impressive, apart altogether from the\nrock-basins, pounds, and hut-circles that surround it. Northward of\nthe bridge is Staple Tor; southward, nearer to the small village of\nSampford Spiney, are the Vixen and Pu tors. The Vixen is a curious\nmass of weathered granite, taking almost any shape that the view-point\nand the imagination of the spectator may suggest. At Sampford there is\na good Perpendicular church, and a picturesque granite-mullioned\nfarmhouse that was once a manor. There is another good church at\nWalkhampton, and a fourteenth-century church-house, now the inn.\n\nThose who are attracted to Whitchurch Down by reason of its golf\nlinks, belonging to the Tavistock Club, will see one of the most\nimpressive old crosses of the moorland; and their sport may be\ncombined not only with the bracing air of a high altitude but with\nfine views of Dartmoor and of east Cornwall. The beauty of the Walkham\nRiver is continued to its junction with the Tavy near the disused\ncopper mine of the Virtuous Lady. Whitchurch proves its antiquity by\nbeing the _Wicerce_ of Domesday. Its church, thus clearly dating from\nbefore the Conquest, has the lovely screen rescued by the Earl of\nDevon from the ill-advised restoration at Moreton Hampstead. North of\nPeter Tavy, a charming village in the beautiful Tavy vale, is Whit\nTor, with perhaps the best walled encampment of the moorland. There\nare other old-world relics, such as the Langstone menhir. And so we\narrive once more at Lydford.\n\nSurely there can be few spots of such comparatively small size that so\nteem with interest and fascination as Dartmoor. In the number of its\nprehistoric remains it is only equalled by parts of Cornwall, and\ntheir preservation is owing to thinness of modern population. We may\nimagine that most of England was once scattered with similar traces of\ndead peoples, but in most places these have been eradicated by\nsuccessive waves of population. Dartmoor has been left in solitude,\nand though its few inhabitants have done their best to remove or\nmutilate the immemorial monuments, enough have been overlooked to\nfurnish us with a wide treasure ground. But where the antiquarian will\ncome to measure and dig and conjecture, the artist, the poet, the\nlover of nature will find many other things to allure. The sportsman\nwill also come here, especially the angler, who finds excellent trout,\nthough the fish are not often large. Perhaps happily, only the few\nmain roads are available for motor traffic, but during the summer\nthese are much frequented; there are also many excursion cars and\nchars-\u00e0-bancs to the more popular beauty-spots, starting from places\nlike Moreton, Chagford, Bovey Tracey, or coming from towns far beyond\nthe moor borders. The cyclist who does not mind dismounting at times\nhas a wider area, and cycling on Dartmoor is not so bad as its\nreputation. There are some really fine stretches of road; what the\nrider needs is discrimination and good brakes. But he who truly wins\nthe freedom of the moors is the pedestrian--a species not quite\nextinct, though discredited and often discomforted. He should come\nhere on what we may call the divine adventure, the quest of beauty;\nand even on lonely Dartmoor he will find the human touch not absent.\n\n  [Illustration: A DARTMOOR STREAM]\n\nWhoever comes, if his eyes be open, will see tracts of primitive\nmother earth, untamed and unsophisticated. He will see what Devon was\nbefore it was cultivated; he will be in a haunt of strange traditions,\nlingering superstitions, wild fancies. Perhaps when cold clammy fogs\nblot out the undulations and tors, a chill will strike to the heart;\nDartmoor is no kindly nurse to those who have lost their way or those\nwho are overtaken by snowfall. He who comes here must lean on his own\nresources; he will not be pampered and guided; he must fend for\nhimself. Nature, as Jefferies was fond of saying, does not care for\nman; he is an alien, exiled by the very civilization of which he is so\nproud; he can do less for himself than the birds and beasts. Yet the\nillusion that nature does care is at times very strong; we cannot\nthrust it wholly from our hearts, and if we regard the earth as but\nthe outward symbol, a mood, a thought, of some inscrutable power, we\nare not wrong in deeming that she responds to our deepest impulses and\ncravings. It is glorious poetry and it need not be bad philosophy to\ndream of a Being \"whose dwelling is the light of setting suns\"; and he\nwho has seen a sunset flaming across Dartmoor has seen the heavens\nopened. He can learn also the insignificance of any single individual\nor race, and yet the undying importance of each if all are a part of\nthe Godhead. Peoples have lived and died here long centuries since,\nleaving no memorial but grey stones; but the heather and ling are\nstill wonderful, the gorse runs in patches of gold, the rivers sing\nperpetually among their lichen-stained boulders, and the soul of\nbeauty that is ever mysterious is undying.\n\nSuch is Dartmoor, one of the few remaining tracts of uncultivated\nEngland; a region not easy to tame, offering small reward to the\nfarmer, but rich repayment to the lovers of beauty, wildness,\nantiquity. There is nothing quite like it elsewhere, unless it be the\nBodmin Moors of Cornwall, where the same granite asserts itself again.\nThere is loveliness of a different sort on the moors of Yorkshire and\naround the Peak--on the Wiltshire, Dorset, and Sussex Downs, on the\nhigh lands or in the New Forest of Hampshire, and at spots like\nHindhead in Surrey. There is still a different beauty in the fen\ncountry and the land of the Broads. But Dartmoor has its own\ncharacter, which it does not surrender to a casual acquaintance; it\nhas a reserve and depth of individuality, to be won only by slow\nconfidence. There are strong characteristics also among the moor folk;\nbut here a change has been in progress. It is useless to come now\nexpecting to find a superstitious and credulous peasantry. When a\ndistrict is haunted by tourist and artist, when cars and brakes unload\ncrowds of chattering sightseers, something of the outside world comes\nwith them; and modernism has other more subtle avenues of approach.\nThe cheap daily paper penetrates to these solitudes, and brings with\nit other things that are cheap. It may leave its readers still\ncredulous and still ignorant; but the nature of the ignorance and the\ncredulity have altered--and perhaps not wholly for the better. There\nis loss as well as gain. The old traditions have passed from the minds\nof the people to the guidebooks. Pixies and wish-hounds and spells are\nnow usually only mentioned in jest where they were formerly whispered\nof in grim earnest. But the beauty of the moorland changes not, and it\nis its beauty that is our real concern. We can spare the traditions\nwhile the loveliness remains.","title":"Dartmoor","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":14087}