moor horses, and moormen, and the chatter has a rich Devonian
intonation, with a delightful smack of the soil. Widecombe is one of
the so-called Venville parishes, Venville being a word of doubtful
origin (sometimes written Wangfield), which probably signifies a kind
of feudal tenure. These parishes were freehold with certain attached
services, and their inhabitants had a prescriptive right to all uses
of the moorland except those of "vert and venison"--that is, of
gathering green wood or killing the deer. There was never much green
wood to gather on the moor itself, and the deer have long since
departed, unless when one occasionally wanders over from Exmoor. The
moorland proper, technically the Forest, is surrounded by commons,
outside which are the Venville parishes; and these commons were
formerly of far wider extent, having been sadly curtailed by
"newtakes" and enclosures, sometimes by the authorities of the Duchy,
sometimes by lords of the different manors, sometimes by moor-settlers
themselves. A small fee is demanded by the Duchy for all cattle
pastured on the moor by outsiders, the cattle of the moormen grazing
free; and there are periodical "drifts", when each Venville proprietor
claims his own, and "foreigners" have to pay the tax.
[Illustration: WIDECOMBE ON THE MOOR
(_Page 38_)]
We are reminded of London by the dedication of Widecombe Church, which
is to St. Pancras; and thoughts of the metropolis again come to us at
Hey Tor, which provided granite for London and Waterloo Bridges. These
eastern heights, Rippon and Hey Tors, are not so lofty as those of the
north-west, but they both command very fine views. It is magnificent
to see sunset flame across the moors from this eastern borderland.
Patches of cultivation, open moorland dotted with sheep, lovely
river-valleys, and wide undulations of heather and gorse fade into
horizons of the westward summits. There is always the changeful charm
of atmosphere. The scene may be of vast, glorious peacefulness, but it
is great also when there is the confusion of cloud-strife, rain raking
the hillsides--when the spirit of the moor is abroad in storm and
darkness, when colour is quenched in wet and driving wrack. It is easy
then to picture the moor as the phantasmal haunt of lost races.
Dartmoor has many moods, variable as the soul of man--sometimes of
gentle pensiveness and dreaming, touched with sentiment, sometimes of
fierce striving passion or inconsolable woe, sometimes of desolation
deepened to despair. In all these there is a quality of the
unconventional and untamed, a sense of the nearness of mystery, the
brooding of the unseen, the force of powers that we sometimes feel to
be in profoundest sympathy with our own longings and imaginings,
sometimes in the most vexed antagonism. Here, as elsewhere, we find
very much what we bring, but we find it intensified, vivified; it may
lure us as a kindly home, or repel us as a desert. Even the repulsion
has its own manner of charm, because it braces us to self-assertion
and manhood.
It was from this Hey Tor side of the moorland that William Howitt once
looked forth upon Dartmoor. He tells us: "My road wound up and up, the
heather and the bilberry on either hand shewing me that cultivation
had never disturbed the soil they grew in; and one sole woodlark from
the far-ascending forest to the right filled the wild solitude with
his autumnal note. At that moment I reached an eminence, and at once
saw the dark crags of Dartmoor high aloft before me, and one large
solitary house in the valley beneath the woods. So fair, so silent,
save for the woodlark's note and the moaning river, so unearthly did
the whole scene seem, that my imagination delighted to look upon it as
an enchanted land, and to persuade itself that that house stood as it
would stand for ages, under the spell of silence but beyond the reach
of death and change." This was written three-quarters of a century
since, before nature had begun greatly to inspire our prose writers;
and for its period it is very creditable. In poetry we have made no
progress; but in the prose literature of nature--that is to say, of
natural scenes viewed under human emotion--it is an immense step from
the writings of William Gilpin and Richard Warner, and even of Howitt,
to those of George Borrow and Richard Jefferies. Even in prose it had
been the poets, Gray and Wordsworth, who had shown the way, very
slowly followed. Warner was an enterprising and intelligent traveller,
and visited many parts of the south and west from his Bath home, long
before the time of railways. It is interesting to notice how he was
daunted by Dartmoor. Overnight he had decided to walk from Lydford to
Two Bridges, though the idea of "travelling twelve miles over a
desolate moor, wild as the African Syrtes, without a single human
inhabitant or regular track, had something in it very deterring". Next
morning it actually deterred. "As the trial approximated, my
resolution, like Acres' courage, gradually oozed away, and before
breakfast was finished I had dropped the idea, and determined to take
a circuitous route by Oakhampton." His landlord had just told him how
the body of a dead sailor had been discovered in a lonely spot, where
it must have lain for weeks; and Warner's discretion proved greater
than his valour.
But we need not sneer at him. It is still easy to be lost on Dartmoor.
Those who are fond of logan-stones may find some in this district:
there is one at Lustleigh, a fine one on Rippon, and others elsewhere.
Some of them no longer "log" satisfactorily, and certainly none are
connected with Druidic or other ceremonial. They are natural
formations, like the rock-basins and the tors themselves.
It is more interesting to pass on to one of the loveliest portions of
the moorland border, that which is watered by the Rivers Dart after
their junction at Dartmeet. We have already seen the West Dart at Two
Bridges, and the East Dart should be explored at least to Postbridge.
It is especially beautiful where it is joined by the Walla, at the
foot of Yes Tor. Dartmeet is a small settlement of houses, and
deserves to be popular, for while quite on the moorland it has none of
the desolate aspect that some persons find depressing, and those who
love woods can get them to perfection around Holne and Buckland.
Tourists who have been up the river from Dartmouth to Totnes are
inclined to think that they know the Dart; they are as much mistaken
as those who think they know the Wye when they have been to Symond's
Yat. To know the Dart its moorland recesses must be explored, where
the stream is in its fresh impetuous youth; below Totnes, though its
banks are undoubtedly lovely, it has become chastened and sobered. At
the junction of the Wallabrook with the Dart is a very fine view of
Yar Tor, near which is the luxuriant Brimpts plantation.
The meeting of the two Darts is in a low rock-strewn gorge, to
appreciate which the roadway must be left. Near is the Coffin-stone,
with its inscribed crosses, used as a resting-place for the dead on
their way to burial. It is said that when a man of notorious
wickedness was being carried to his grave, his coffin as usual was
rested on this stone, and a flash of fire struck downward from a
passing cloud, consuming the body and splitting the solid rock. The
cleft remains as a proof. The rocks of this district are frequently of
metallic substance, and are often struck by lightning; perhaps this
kills the romance of the legend.
Buckland-in-the-Moor, so called to distinguish it from other
Bucklands, is not strictly on the moorland at all, and is cradled in
woodland; it is a very small, delightful village, close to the united
Webburns, which join the Dart below. The river here flows in most
tortuous fashion under the beautiful woods of Buckland Drive and Holne
Chase. Holne Cot has a place in literature as the birthplace of
Charles Kingsley, in 1819, but he left it when an infant. Another
literary remembrance is the birth of the dramatist Ford at Ilsington,
and Tavistock had a true poet in William Browne; but it must be
confessed that the literary glories of the moorland are not great, and
Carrington, its special poet, is quite a third-rate writer. There has
been no Wordsworth to interpret Dartmoor. We have to come to modern
fiction, in the books of Mr. Baring-Gould and Mr. Phillpotts, for
anything like an adequate literary treatment; and even in this
department there has been no _Lorna Doone_.
At Holne and Buckland may be found some of the most luxuriant woodland
of the moor-borders, yellow with dense primroses in the spring. On
both sides of the river there are rich woods of birch and oak and fir,
while in the valley through which the Dart runs are fertile succulent
marshes, beautified with bogbeans, asphodels, and sundews, and with
the exquisite _Osmunda regalis_ flourishing where, happily, it is very
difficult to reach. In parts the river flows through ivied crags,
above which hang clusters of mountain-ash. There are prehistoric
remains at Holne and at Hembury, but it is difficult to think of the
past where the present is of such insistent charm. Moor, woodland,
river, stone-strewn waste and fertile pasture here meet, with no
discord or violent contrast, but harmonized by a reconciling
atmosphere of beauty. The churches both at Buckland and Holne have
very interesting screens, and at Holne is a finely-carved wooden
pulpit.
Though it can scarcely be said to belong to the moors, Ashburton is a
good starting-point for the examination of the eastern moorlands. Here
and at Buckfastleigh are the only remains of the once extensive Devon
woollen manufactures; and Ashburton was also at one time a Stannary
town. It has a good church and many interesting associations, but we
cannot linger either here or at Buckfast, where a settlement of
Benedictines has restored the old abbey.
There is a great temptation to stay awhile at Dean Prior for the sake
of Robert Herrick, one of England's sweetest lyrists, who was twice
vicar here, being presented by Charles I in 1629, dispossessed at the
Commonwealth, and reinstated at the Restoration. He abused the
neighbourhood so heartily in his verse that it is surprising he should
have accepted the living a second time; but perhaps he said a little
more than he meant. The exact spot of his burial in the churchyard is
unknown. Some of Herrick's lyrics are so lovely that even Devonians
must forgive him, though he wrote:
"O men, O manners; now and ever known
To be a rocky generation,
A people currish, churlish as the seas,
And rude almost as rudest savages;
With whom I did and may re-sojourn when
Rocks turn to rivers, rivers turn to men".
As he returned voluntarily to this exile, we must imagine the miracle
to have taken place, or perhaps his own heart had been tamed by his
adversity.
The southern moor is watered by beautiful but less familiar rivers
than those of the west and east; the Avon, the Erme, the Yealm have
all their own charm, and are as genuinely children of Dartmoor as the
Teign, the Dart, or the Tavy. Probably the best centre for this
district is South Brent, where there is a church that has been badly
treated by restoration. Brent Hill, rising to about 1000 feet, must
not be confused with Brent Tor. Both are strikingly conspicuous hills,
but this southern height no longer boasts its chapel dedicated to St.
Michael. The hill is a fine landmark for a large extent of country.
The Avon, sometimes called the Aune, is a beautiful river, but its
source in the treacherous mire of Aune Head is very dismal.
[Illustration: DARTMEET
(_Page 44_)]
It may be worth while to tell a story told of Aune Mire by Mr.
Baring-Gould, for the authenticity of which we must hold him
responsible. A man was making his way through the bog "when he came on
a top-hat reposing, brim downwards, on the sedge. He gave it a kick,
whereupon a voice called out from beneath, 'What be you a-doin' to my
'at?' The man replied, 'Be there now a chap under'n?' 'Ees, I reckon,'
was the reply, 'and a hoss under me likewise.'" This is a fair
representation of the swallowing capacity of Dartmoor mires, and they
should certainly be avoided by any strangers without an expert guide.
The Avon on its southward course passes the old Abbots' Way, the track
of the monks from Buckfast to Tavistock. A good deal of the path can
still be traced. Approaching Shipley Bridge, the river becomes very
lovely, shadowed by Shipley and Black Tors, and flowing beneath a
bridge of single span among rocks, trees, and ferns. Not many tourists
come hither, and the result is greater wealth of specimens--mountain
and lady ferns, false maidenhair, various hart's tongues.
The beautiful situation of Didworthy might make one in love with
farming; and there are numberless remains here for those who wish to
be in touch with the "old people". This is one aspect that is always
present, from end to end of Dartmoor--the silent tokens of vanished
peoples; they may be absolutely intrusive if we choose, or they may
blend, scarcely noticed, with the natural features of their
surroundings. Some persons will come and think of nothing else; but to
those who come with wider purpose the old stones and memorials give a
hint of far-off human interest, softening the harshness of the wilder
scenes, and enriching the gentler with a touch of pathos. The solitude
of places where man has been is always different from that of
untrodden wildernesses.
The Avon runs beneath another lovely bridge when it comes to South
Brent, which is locally noted for its fairs and pannier market, and is
a favourite resort with excursionists from Plymouth. The curious
winding streets of the little town are in perfect accord with their
setting. At Wrangaton, not far distant, are the links of the South
Devon Golf Club; but this is only one of the many opportunities that
golfers have of exercising their sport on Dartmoor or in its immediate
neighbourhood. It is fairly evident that a considerable section of the
public to-day will go nowhere unless accompanied by its golf clubs,
and certainly the game often introduces these people to much beautiful
scenery that they might otherwise miss. They must decide themselves as
to which is the real attraction.
There are several other river sources not far from that of Avon--Erme
Head, Yealm Head, Plym Head; this cluster of bogs almost rivals the
cradle of rivers at Cranmere. The Erme valley and plains are thickly
strewn with prehistoric relics and traces of old tin workings; but,
well populated as this district must once have been, it is now one of
the most lonely and desolate parts of the moorland. Dreary as the Erme
may be at its source, however, it develops to great beauty during its
brief course to the sea, issuing at Mothecombe, in a series of
windings and wooded reaches, with a swiftness of tide that tells its
moorland birth. The general public makes the river's acquaintance at
Ivybridge; otherwise it is by no means a familiar stream.
At Harford, which is practically a moorland parish, we have a church
dedicated to St. Petrock, like those of South Brent and Lydford,
emphasizing his claim to be the patron of Dartmoor. The chief heights
in this region are the Three Barrows, Staldon, and Sharp Tor. Perhaps
the most remarkable of the moor's stone avenues starts from a circle
on Stall Moor, and terminates with a kistvaen not far from Aune Head.
There are other stone rows near, all of which have been partially
despoiled, but less so than elsewhere; the mystery of their
significance remains unsolved. Ugborough Beacon and Butterton Hill,
both about 1200 feet in height, stand like southern sentinels of the
moorland to the east of Harford. On the slopes of Sharp Tor is a
stunted wood, very like Wistman's.
Westward, near Cornwood, is the ravine of the River Yealm, known as
Awns and Dendles, which it is best not to visit on Plymouth's
early-closing day or on Bank Holidays. It is a pity that popularity
should mean vulgarizing, for it is right that every lovely spot should
be accessible to the greatest possible number of those who can
appreciate it. The qualification is an important one; nothing is
gained by the thronging to such scenes of those whose tastes are best
met by entertainment pavilions and roundabouts. Besides which, the
conscienceless tripper is a terror to all who love ferns, and there
are still some rarities to be found in the Yealm valley.
Near Cornwood is Fardell, once a manor of the Raleighs; and though Sir
Walter was not born here he undoubtedly paid the spot many visits. The
place is also interesting because of a stone discovered here, bearing
Ogham inscriptions supposed to prove the extent of the Irish invasion
somewhere about the sixth century, when Devon and Cornwall were
overrun by saints and chieftains from the green island. There are a
number of attractive manor houses in this part of the moorland's
fringe, together with some fine heights, such as Pen Beacon and Shell
Tor, rising to about 1500 feet. But there is no particular charm in
the china-clay works of Lee Moor--an industry which may be studied on
a larger scale in the St. Austell district of Cornwall. China-clay, or
kaolin, is a detritus of granite, much used for pottery and in the
preparation of calicoes; partly also for the supposed white sugar of
confectionery and in cheap adulterated flours. The neighbourhoods of
its workings are as white as those of coal are black, and in this
respect china-clay must be given the preference; but neither tends to
beautify a district.
[Illustration: A MOORLAND TRACK, THE DEVIL'S BRIDGE]
None of the lovely rivers already mentioned water a town of any great
importance; but when we come to the Plym it is different. The Plym is
not the most beautiful of Dartmoor streams, but it has given its name
to Plymouth, and Plymouth has imposed its own title on the three towns
which united form the supreme naval and industrial centre of the west
country. Other western seaports have decayed rather than advanced--they
have deteriorated at least in their relative importance; but Plymouth
has advanced and is still advancing. In no sense does it belong to
Dartmoor, but the Plym and the Tavy, whose waters go to swell Plymouth
Sound, are both genuine children of the moorland. The Plym, rising not
far from the Yealm, makes its way to its junction with the Meavy
through a grand ravine, overshadowed by the Dewerstone. Before
reaching the Dewerstone, however, the river passes under the Cadover
(or Cadaford) Bridge, and from this circumstance there has been some
dispute as to whether the true name of the stream should not be the
Cad. Carrington gave it this name, but he cannot be taken as an
authority; and it is probable that the _cad_ in Cadover is simply a
corruption of the Celtic word _coed_, or wood, and has nothing to do
with the river at all. From Cadover to Shaugh Bridge are some
wonderfully beautiful scenes, banks strewn with granite fragments
amidst tangled undergrowth. The Dewerstone towering above is
appropriately the haunt of a demon huntsman of the moors, who careers
abroad on stormy nights with his fierce-eyed baying wish-hounds.
Whether we pursue the Meavy upward from the bridge or follow the
united rivers through the exquisite Bickleigh vale, there is much
loveliness; but there are times when Bickleigh valley is too popular
to be pleasant, unless our chief study is human nature. We can best
study human nature in the towns; and we do not want to be pursued by
its noisier manifestations amid scenes that call for the sympathetic
presence of peace. Shaugh Prior, finely placed on the border of the
moorland, is entirely delightful, as also is Meavy, with its famous
oak, twenty-five feet in girth, and its village cross. Lovers of such
things will specially notice the old font-cover of the church at
Shaugh. There is also a notable cross on the slope of Ringmore Down,
over eight feet in height, the tallest on the moor.
One of the pleasantest spots of this corner of Dartmoor is the village
of Sheepstor, a familiar sight from the railway to all who are making
the journey to Princetown by train. It lies at a little distance from
the rail, but the Burrator reservoir here constructed for the supply
of Plymouth, in the bed of an ancient lake, probably draws more
curious visitors than do the beauty and interest of its surroundings.
Sheepstor Church has been unhappily restored, to the sad detriment of
its exquisite screen, enough of which has been preserved to tell of
its original glory. The tor itself rises finely above the clustering
cottages of the village, and a cavern called the Pixies' Cave is shown
as the refuge of one of the Elford family during the Civil War. It is
said that he lay concealed here, somewhat in the manner of the Baron
Bradwardine's concealment in Scott's _Waverley_, while the Roundhead
troopers were closely searching his house and grounds, at Langstone by
Burrator. Having won the affection of the peasantry, they kept his
secret and provided him with food. It is said that he occupied his
enforced leisure by painting the sides of the cave, but no traces of
painting can now be seen. The cave is difficult to find, and nothing
but treachery could have revealed the hiding-place. It is not stated
whether Elford's presence drove out the pixies to whom the cavern
really belonged; but in case they still remain it is well to remember
the usual etiquette of leaving a pin or some other small gift. Pixies
seem to be as easily pleased as are the patron saints of some holy
wells.
A remarkable story is told by Mrs. Bray as to the manner in which the
cholera reached Sheepstor during the terrible visitation of 1832. A
man of supposed poverty died, with his wife and children, at Plymouth,
where the plague was raging fiercely, and their home was visited by
two brothers, with small hope of picking up anything valuable. To
their surprise a large sum in cash was found, and the brothers fought
together over the dead bodies in order to possess it. While fighting,
they were disturbed by the police, and one of the two, having actually
assumed some of the clothes of the dead man, took refuge in a cottage
at Sheepstor. Strangely enough, he escaped the infection himself, but
it was taken by the two worthy cottagers, and they both died. Their
little boy, thus orphaned, carried word to Tavistock that his parents
had both died and that he had been left alone with the dead. It was
considered so remarkable that the cholera should have visited so
healthy a spot, and especially people of such known cleanliness, that
an enquiry was instituted and the story came out.
[Illustration: STONE AVENUE, NEAR MERRIVALE]