MANATON
Beauty of the site--The church--Destruction of the cross--Lustleigh
Cleave--North Bovey--Lustleigh church--Prouze tombs--The
sacrifice of a cat--Bishop Stapeldon's stone--Becka fall--The
eastern side of the moor--Hound Tor--The sycamore--Hey
Tor--Camp or pound--Rippon Tor--Foale's Arrishes--Finger-marks
on pottery--Salubrity of Dartmoor--Settlers--Widdecombe
in October--The church--Thunderstorm--"Lady" Darke--Old
farmhouses--The Song of "Widdecombe Fair."
The position of Manaton is one of remarkable beauty, between Lustleigh
Cleave and the ridge on which stands Bowerman's Nose, and which swells
up to Hound Tor.
The church is dedicated to S. Winefred, the Welsh martyr maid, and
has its fine screen carefully restored. It formerly possessed a
singular feature, which the "restoring" architect destroyed, because
singular. This was a small window in the east wall opening from the
outside, _under_ the altar. Perhaps there were relics of S. Winefred
kept beneath the altar, and through this _fenestrella confessionis_
the devotees could touch them. But, indeed, the destroyer has been at
Manaton and effaced more than this window. On the tor that commands the
village were formerly many prehistoric monuments. The farm Langstone
by its name proclaims that on it was a menhir. In the churchyard was
a fine granite cross. A former rector, the Rev. C. Carwithen, wantonly
destroyed it in the night. The people had been wont at a funeral to
carry the corpse the way of the sun thrice round the cross before
interment. He preached against the custom ineffectually, so he secretly
smashed the cross. There are two logan rocks within easy reach--the
Whooping Stone on Easdon, and the Nutcracker in Lustleigh Cleave.
This cleave is very picturesque. "Cleave" properly is a local softening
of the word "cliff," and applies to the rocks, but in common use it has
come incorrectly to be applied to the valley below the crags. Through
the stone-strewn trough of the vale the sparkling Bovey finds its way
with some difficulty, diving under the boulders at Horsham Steps, and
running unseen for some considerable distance, only proclaiming its
presence by its murmurs and whispers.
That there was some fighting done across this valley is probable,
because there are camps on both sides.
In honourable contrast with Mr. Carwithen stands Mr. Jones, the curate
of North Bovey, who fished the old village cross out of the brook,
where it had lain since the iconoclastic period of the Civil Wars, and
re-erected it in 1829.
North Bovey church, pleasantly situated, possesses a screen much
mutilated, but capable of restoration. Far superior to it in
preservation is that of Lustleigh, which is of the same character as
that of Bridford, perhaps post-Reformation, and contains a series of
figures in the lower compartments representing clergy in their caps
and surplices and "liripipets," and not saints. There is some old glass
in the church, in one window a representation of S. Margaret. There are
monumental effigies in the church of the Prouze family. One of these
is of Sir William Prouze, to whom the manor of Lustleigh belonged. By
his will he directed that he should be buried with his ancestors at
Lustleigh; but he died at a distance, and was interred at Holbeton.
Some time after, the wishes of her father having come to the knowledge
of Lady Alice, the wife of Sir Roger Mules, Baron of Cadbury, and
finding that they had been disregarded, the dutiful daughter petitioned
Grandisson, Bishop of Exeter in 1329, that the remains might be removed
from Holbeton to Lustleigh, and the prayer was granted.
Forming the sill of the south door is a long granite stone with
a Romano-British inscription, the reading of which has not been
satisfactorily made out.
In the chancel may be noticed the stone brackets, perforated for the
cords employed for the suspension of the Lenten veil.
A story associated with Lustleigh church has its parallels elsewhere.
After it had been built the devil threatened to destroy it, stained
glass and all, unless he were given a sacrifice. Now it happened that
a bumpkin was present in the churchyard with a pack of cards in his
pocket, and the Evil One immediately demanded him as his due; but the
man, with great presence of mind, pounced on a cat that was stalking
by and dashed out its brains against the wall of the porch. This
satisfied the powers of darkness, and the consecration of the church
followed. The story is a clumsy late cooking up of the old belief that
before a building could be occupied a life must be sacrificed to the
telluric deities. A horse, a dog, a sow--in this case a cat was offered
up. Echoes of the same are found everywhere.[17] Most Devonshire
churchyards were formerly supposed to be haunted by some animal or
other, which had been buried under the cornerstone. When S. Columba
took possession of Iona the question arose as to who was to die and be
buried so as to secure the place for ever to the community. One of his
monks, Oran by name, offered himself, and he was buried alive under the
foundations of the new abbey.
The rectory house possesses its ancient hall open to the roof. In the
hedge between the church and station is the "Bishop's Stone," a large
block, bearing the arms of Bishop Stapeldon (1307-26), who was murdered
in the riots occasioned by Edward II. favouring the Despensers. He was
fallen on by the London mob in Cheapside, stripped, and beheaded by
them.
Strewn about Lustleigh are numerous masses of granite, rounded, and
like loaves of bread. This is due to the weathering of the granite,
which is soft, but some, if not most, appear to have been carried to
where they lie by water.
The stream Becka forms a fall into the valley of the Bovey, through
woods, but except in very rainy weather it is insignificant, and
hardly merits to be considered a waterfall; it is properly only a
water-trickle.
[Illustration: HOUND TOR]
The eastern flank of the moor is infinitely richer in vegetation than
the western. The whole of Dartmoor stands up as a wall against the
prevalent north-west and south-west winds that distort the trees on the
west side. Moreover, owing to the shelter thus furnished, and to the
disintegration of the granite trending in this direction so as to form
deep beds of gravel, the valleys and hillsides are clothed with rich
vegetation. Pines flourish.
Hound Tor is a noble mass of rocks. It derives its name from the
shape assumed by the blocks on the summit, that have been weathered
into forms resembling the heads of dogs peering over the natural
battlements, and listening to hear the merry call of the horn. Below
it, on the Manaton side, nestles Hound Tor Farm, picturesquely enfolded
in a sycamore grove.
The sycamore, by the way, is peculiarly the tree for Dartmoor and other
exposed situations. The beech cowers and turns from the blast, and it
divides so soon as its taproot touches rock; but the sycamore stands
up, indifferent to wind and rain, to which it opposes the broad green
leaves that it turns against the blast, and so shelters itself as with
scale armour.
On Hound Tor is a circle of stones containing a kistvaen.
The road that leads to Widdecombe and Ashburton ascends to Hound Tor;
but there is another road to Ashburton by Hey Tor that branches
off to the left before Hound Tor Farm is reached, and scrambles up
to Trendlebere Down, passing an almost destroyed stone row starting
from a cairn beside the highway. The road runs at a great elevation
(1,080 feet) for some miles. There is a pleasant and homely inn at Hey
Tor Vale, where the traveller may rest and gather strength to visit
Holwell Tor and Hey Tor Rocks. Holwell Tor was at one time surrounded
by a stone rampart, but quarrymen have sadly injured it, and it is
not now easy to decide whether the inclosure was merely a pound, like
Grimspound, or a stone camp, like Whit Tor.
Hey Tor Rocks form two fine masses, and are unlike most of the moorland
tors, in that the granite is very consistent, and is not broken into
the usual layers of soft beds alternating with hard layers. The view
of the valley below Hey Tor and Grea Tor on one side, and the ridge of
Bone Hill on the other, is fine.
The road, commanding to the east a vast stretch of the rich lowlands of
Devon, passes Saddle Tor and reaches Rippon Tor, where is a good logan
stone. Here are several cairns much mutilated by the road-makers. On
the further side of the road, by Pill Tor, are remains of an extensive
prehistoric settlement. Many huts and inclosures remain. The place
bears the name of Foale's Arrishes, from a man of that appellation who
spent his energies in converting the prehistoric inclosures into fields
for his own use, to the destruction of much that was interesting, and
to his own very dubitable advantage. The huts have, however, yielded
fine specimens of ornamented pottery. The decoration is here and there
made with a woman's finger-nail. Consider that! Some poor barbaric
squaw five thousand years ago fashioned the damp clay with her hands
and devised a rude pattern, which she incised with her nails. She is
long ago gone to dust, and her dust dispersed, but the impress of her
nails remains.
[Illustration: HEY TOR ROCKS]
[Illustration: FRAGMENT OF POTTERY.]
This is much like what we are all doing, and doing
unconsciously--leaving little finger-touches on our creations, giving
shape to the minds and habits of our children and of those with whom
we are brought into contact, shaping, adorning, or disfiguring our
epoch, and the impressions we leave are indelible; they will in turn be
transmitted to ages to come.
Some of the ornamentation, as in a specimen from Smallacombe Rocks, is
made with a twisted cord. The pottery is all hand-made, shaped without
the wheel, and very imperfectly burnt. It is not red, because there was
little iron in the clay.
One large hut at Foale's Arrishes had a seat carried round part at
least of the interior, made of branches that were held from spreading
by sharp stones planted upright in the floor. The kitchen was on the
left side of the entrance in a subsidiary structure.
It has, of late, become a thing not unusual for young fellows, if
suffering from delicacy of the lungs, to rent or buy a farm on
Dartmoor. No research after parasitic microbes thenceforth concerns
them. The fresh air, the constant exercise, the joyous existence on
the wild moor are fatal to tubercular bacteria. Rude health, buoyant
spirits, unflagging energy result from such treatment.
It is, it must be admitted, surpassing hard to induce servants from
the "in-country" to take situations on Dartmoor. The air there is as
unsuited to them as to other microbes. But the settler lights his own
fires, cooks his own meals, makes his own bed; and, as one of them
assured me, his experience proved to him that a man can keep a hunter
at the same cost as he can a servant-maid: therefore, why be worried
with the latter?
At Post Bridge they have had a succession of curates who have lived
this life in cabins or hovels, and have learned to love it. It has one
drawback, and one only--it makes the hands rough and grimy. But what
are gloves for, but to cover dirty hands when we go to town to make
display?
As to food. Rabbits are to be had at any moment; geese, ducks live
and luxuriate on the moor; an occasional blackcock or moorhen and a
brace of snipe give zest; and trout are to be obtained for the labour
or pleasure of angling for them. The price of horses is mounting; any
number may be grown on the moor. Sheep, cattle--you turn them out, and
they thrive on the sweet grass, and know not the maladies that afflict
flocks and herds in the world twelve hundred feet below.
[Illustration: ORNAMENTED POTTERY.]
Let it not be supposed that in winter Dartmoor is a desolation and a
horror. It is by no means an unpleasant place for a sojourn then. When
below are mud and mist, aloft on the moor the ground is hard with frost
and the air crisp and clear. Down below we are oppressed with the fall
of the leaf, affecting us, if inclined to asthma and bronchitis; and
in the short, dull days of December and January our spirits wax dark
amidst naked trees and when our ankles are deep in mud. There are
no trees on Dartmoor to expose their naked limbs, and tell us that
vegetation is dead. The shoulders of down are draped in brown sealskin
mantles--the ling and heather, as lovely in its sleep as in its waking
state; the mosses, touched by frost, turn to rainbow hues. For colour
effects give me Dartmoor in winter.
And then the peat fires! What fires can surpass them? They do not
flame, but they glow, and diffuse an aroma that fills the lungs with
balm. The turf-cutting is one of the annual labours on the moor. Every
farm has its peat-bog, and in the proper season a sufficiency of fuel
is cut, then carried and stacked for winter use. I may be mistaken, but
it seems to me that cooking done over a peat fire surpasses cooking at
the best club in London. But it may be that on the moor one relishes a
meal in a manner impossible elsewhere.
Widdecombe-in-the-Moor is a village in a valley walled off from the
world by high ridges on the east and on the west. The entire bed of the
valley has been washed and rewashed by streamers for tin. Bag Park is a
gentleman's seat laid out on this collection of refuse, and the pines
and firs luxuriate in the granite rubble and grow, as if it were to
them a pleasure to thrust up their leaders and expand their boughs.
I shall never forget a drive through Widdecombe one October day, when
the sun was shining bright, and the air was soft. The sycamores had
shed their leaves; but the expedition was one through coral land. The
rowan or mountain-ash, which was everywhere, was burdened with clusters
of scarlet berries, and the hedges were wreathed with rose-hips and
dense with ruddy haws.
The church of Widdecombe has a very fine tower, built, it is said,
by the tinners. The roof has many of the original bosses, carved and
painted with heads, flowers, and leaves. One has the figure on it of S.
Catherine with her wheel. One boss has on it three rabbits, each with a
single ear, which unite in the centre, forming a triangle. One exactly
similar is in Tavistock church.
Part of the lower portion of the roodscreen remains with figures of
saints on it.
The story of the great thunderstorm in which Widdecombe church was
struck, on Sunday, October 21st, 1638, when the congregation were
present at divine service, has often been told, notably by Mr.
Blackmore in his novel _Christowel_.
Prince, in his _Worthies of Devon_, thus narrates the circumstances:--
"In the afternoon, in service time, there happened a very great
darkness, which still increased to that degree, that they could
not see to read; soon after, a terrible and fearful thunder was
heard, like the noise of so many great guns, accompanied with
dreadful lightning, to the great amazement of the people; the
darkness still increasing, that they could not see each other, when
there presently came such an extraordinary flame of lightning, as
filled the church with fire, smoak, and a loathsome smell, like
brim-stone; a ball of fire came in likewise at the window, and
passed through the church, which so affrighted the congregation,
that most of them fell down in their seats; some upon their knees,
others on their faces, and some one upon another, crying out of
burning and scalding, and all giving themselves up for dead. There
were in all four persons killed, and sixty-two hurt, divers of them
having their linen burnt, tho' their outward garments were not so
much as singed.... The church itself was much torn and defaced with
the thunder and lightning, a beam whereof, breaking in the midst,
fell down between the minister and clerk, and hurt neither. The
steeple was much wrent; and it was observed where the church was
most torn, there the least hurt was done among the people. There
was none hurted with the timber or stone; but one man, who, it was
judged, was killed by the fall of a stone."
The monument of this man, Roger Hill, is in the church, as also an
account in verse of the storm, composed by the village schoolmaster.
For many years the incumbent of Widdecombe was a man who was reputed
to be the son of George IV. when Prince Regent. His sister, married to
a captain, who deserted her, occupied a cottage, now in ruins, under
Crockern Tor. She also was believed to be of blood-royal with a bar
sinister. Both the parson and his sister had been brought up about
Court. He, when given the living of Widdecombe--- to get him out of
sight and mind--brought with him a large consignment of excellent port,
and that drew to his parsonage such rare men as would brave the moors
and storms for the sake of a carouse.
His sister, in the desolate cottage under Crockern Tor, languished and
died, leaving her only child, Caroline, to the charge of her uncle.
She was sent for her education to a famous school in Queen's Square,
London, where she associated with girls belonging to families of the
first rank.
A certain air of distinction, as well as the story that circulated
relative to her mother's origin, made her an object of interest, and
her imperious manner commanded respect.
The vicarage was by no means a good place in which a young girl should
grow to maturity. The house was not frequented by men of the best
character, and the wildest stories are told of the goings-on there in
the forties and fifties.
Caroline was, however, a girl of exceptionally strong character; she
was early called on to hold her own with the associates of her uncle
and frequenters of the vicarage, and she was quite able to enforce upon
them a proper behaviour towards herself.
Unhappily, she had been reared without any religious principles; her
law was consequently her own caprice, fortunately held in check by a
strong sense of personal dignity.
The position she was in was as forlorn and unpromising as any in which
a young girl could find herself.
She was full of generous impulses, but they were wholly untrained; she
possessed furious passions, which were held in check solely by her
pride. She would do at one time a generous act and next a dirty trick,
"just," as the people said, "as though she were a pixy."
A gentleman named Darke, visiting her uncle on some business, married
Caroline, and soon after her uncle died suddenly, having made a will in
her favour.
The vicarage was well furnished and contained articles of great value,
in pictures, plate, etc., supposed to have been presented to him, but
most likely obtained with money lent at Court to those temporarily
embarrassed.
The manor had been sold, and was purchased by Mrs. Darke's trustees at
her request, and from that time she insisted on being entitled "Lady"
Darke; and into this she moved with her dogs, horses, and husband.
This latter had soon discovered what an imperious character she
possessed. His will might clash with hers, but hers would never give
way. Her character was the toughest and most energetic, and by degrees
he fell into a condition of submission and insignificance which it was
painful to witness, and which "Lady" Darke herself resented, without
being aware that it was due to her own overbearing behaviour.
She kept nine or ten horses in her stables--some had never been broken
in; some she rode on, others were driven in pairs. But towards the end
of her life the horses were not taken out, and ate their heads off many
times over.
If a visitor of distinction was expected, she sent for him her carriage
and pair with silver-mounted harness. For ordinary use she employed
her brass-mounted harness; but Bill, her husband, was despatched to
market in the little trap in which she fetched coals. Latterly Mr.
Darke was sent to make purchases at Ashburton, with a long list of
"chores," _i.e._ of articles he was to bring back with him, written out
during the week on a slip of paper from a pocket-book. Here is one:
"Kidney-beans and cucumbers; tea, and green paint with driers; brushes
and putty; sweets; and a frock-body for myself; a milkpan, fourteen
inches; side-combs, 3_s._ 6_d._; ostler's boy and fish; lavender;
pain-killer; wine, salad oil, harness paste, and rice; also ribs of
beef, grate for blue bedroom, india-rubber; rabbits, grind scissors,
cheese, inn and ostler."
She ruled her husband, and indeed everyone with whom she came in
contact. He, cut off from social intercourse with his fellows, out
of the current of intellectual life, with no other work to do than
to fulfil her behests, sank in his own estimation, and fell into
degradation without making an effort to rise out of it.
An instance of her despotic character may be given. One day she wanted
to have her hay made; she was anxious lest a change of weather should
come on. She issued an imperious order to the curate of the parish
to come and help save the hay. He sent an apology. This rendered her
furious. She went in quest of him, met him in the village, and falling
on him soundly boxed his ears in public.
She was an implacable hater; and living on the wilds, half educated,
she was superstitious, and believed in witchcraft, and in her own power
to ill-wish such individuals as offended her. She was caught on one
occasion with a doll into which she was sticking pins and needles, in
the hope and with the intent thereby of producing aches and cramps
in a neighbour. On another occasion she laid a train of gunpowder on
her hearth, about a figure of dough, and ignited it, for the purpose
of conveying an attack of fever to the person against whom she was
animated with resentment.
It need hardly be said that believing in her own powers others believed
in them as well, and dreaded offending her.
She was kind-hearted, and impulsive in her generosity. She divided the
parish into two halves--one she gave over to the doctor and kept the
other to herself. "He kills with his physic," she said, "I keep alive
and recover with my soups and port wine."
She was vastly angry with the vicar, her uncle's successor, about some
trifle, and she went after him with her whip and threatened to chastise
him with it. He actually summoned her, and swore that he lived in
bodily fear of the lady.
She liked to have visitors drop in on her, but not to be warned of
their coming; for she took a pride in showing what she could provide
for table on the spur of the moment; and forth would come a ham, half
a goose, a boiled leg of mutton, a big cheese and celery, produced as
by magic, and would be served by herself in an old gown, red turnover
handkerchief on her shoulders, and a coal-scuttle bonnet on her head.
Mrs. Darke at one time played on the piano after the meal to get
her guests to dance, but the cats tore the instrument open and made
their nests and kittened among the strings, and the damp air rusted
the wires. Then she bought a barrel-organ, and forced her husband to
turn the handle in the corner and grind out the music for the dancers.
However, on one occasion, having tasted too often a bottle within
reach, though out of sight, he fell forward in the middle of a dance
and brought the instrument down with him. The instrument was so broken
that it could no longer be used. Mr. Darke died at last in one of the
fits to which he was liable, having retired to rest by mistake under in
place of on the bed.
By this time the lady had become very deaf.
On hearing the news of the decease some friends went to see her.
"Very grieved, madam, at your sad loss!"
"Ah! Bill is dead. He might have done worse; he might have lived. You
will stop and dine, of course."
They had to tarry to see to matters of business. "Now, look here," said
"Lady" Darke, "I'll have no more 'truck' with Bill. He has been trouble
to me long enough. I shall send him to his friends in Plymouth. Let
them bury him."
"Madam," said the nurse, "we want to lay him out. Will you give me a
sheet?"
"A sheet! One of my good linen sheets! Not I. Take a pig-cloth"; that
is to say, one in which bacon was salted. And actually her husband was
laid in his coffin in one of these "pig-cloths."
In Mrs. Cudlip's novel, _She Cometh Not, He Saith_, is a description
of a meeting with the lady that is very true to life, as is also the
account of the downstairs arrangement of the manor house.
In later years "Lady" Darke became infirm. She neglected everything,
and no one dared do anything in the house without her orders. Until she
came downstairs in the morning there could be no breakfast, as she kept
the keys. The house was infested with cats and dogs, and her servants
did not dare to get rid of any of them, or to drive them out of the
rooms. The large room over the kitchen she alone entered. The door was
padlocked, and the key of the padlock she kept attached to her garter.
Thence the key had to be taken after her death to obtain admission. It
was found to contain a confused mass of sundry articles to the depth
of three feet above the floor, the accumulation of many years. Bureaus
were there with guineas and banknotes in the drawers, and quantities of
old silver plate, bearing the arms and crests of men of title who had
been about the Court of the Prince Regent; and the whole was veiled in
cobwebs that hung from the ceiling so long and so dense as to hide the
further extremity of the chamber.
"Lady" Darke retained her imperious disposition to the end; it was in
vain that it was suggested to her that she should have an attendant to
be always with her. She often sat up the whole night by her fire, and
her servants dared not retire to bed till their mistress had given the
signal that they were to depart.
Of relations she had none; at least none who came near her, and when
she was dead much difficulty was found in discovering any persons who
had claim to her inheritance.
She died quite suddenly, and left no will.
Her trustees had to advertise before they could find relations, and
then those who presented themselves were the children of her father by
a third wife. Her dogs and cats were first killed, then several old
horses that were dragging themselves about the field in extreme old age.
Her plate and pictures were sold.
To the best of my knowledge no portrait of her remains.
She was a fine woman, and must at one time have been handsome. It was
fancied by many that her features bore a resemblance to the pictures of
George IV. in his young days. The mystery relative to her mother and
uncle was never solved, and it is possible enough that the supposed
paternity was due to idle gossip.
There were vast collections of letters among the remains, but these
were all destroyed, and nothing was allowed to transpire as to their
contents.
The story from beginning to end is one of infinite sadness. It is of
one with a remarkably strong but undisciplined character, one full of
good impulses, who had never been taught religious duty, and given no
religious belief, who was therefore condemned to waste a profitless
life in a remote village, without purpose, without self-discipline,
without hope, without God.
There are some interesting old farmhouses about Widdecombe; one is at
Chittleford, another on Corndon. The primitive type of farm on the moor
was an inclosed courtyard, entered through a gate. Opposite the gate
is the dwelling-house, with a projecting porch, with an arched granite
door and a mullioned window over it. On one side of the entrance is the
dwelling-room, on the other the saddle and sundry chamber. The well,
which is a stream of water from the moor conducted by a small leat to
the house, is under cover; and the cattle-sheds open into the yard,
so as to be reached with ease from the house without exposure to the
storms.
These farm dwellings are rapidly disappearing, and are making way for
more pretentious and extremely hideous buildings. Such as remain are
remarkably picturesque, and should be photographed before they are
destroyed.
Widdecombe must not be quitted without a reference to the famous
ballad of the old grey mare taken there to the fair; a ballad that
is immensely popular in Devon, and one to the air of which the Devon
Regiment went against the Boers.
[Illustration: LOWER TARR]
"Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me thy grey mare,
All along, down along, out along, lee.
For I want for to go to Widdecombe Fair,
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy,
Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,
Old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all.
_Chorus_--Old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all.
"And when shall I see again my grey mare?
All along, down along, out along, lee.
By Friday soon, or Saturday noon,
Wi' Bill Brewer, etc.
"Then Friday came, and Saturday noon,
All along, down along, out along, lee.
But Tom Pearce's old mare hath not trotted home,
Wi' Bill Brewer, etc.
"So Tom Pearce he got up to the top of the hill
All along, down along, out along, lee.
And he seed his old mare down a-making her will,
Wi' Bill Brewer, etc."
[Illustration]
Now it does not appear from the song _why_ the mare was so dead beat.
But a clever American artist, who has illustrated the song, has brought
her knowledge of human nature to bear on the story. She has shown in
her pictures how that the borrower of the horse met with a pretty
gipsy girl at the fair, and persuaded her to ride away with him _en
croupe_. This explains at once why the horse was so overcome that it
"fell sick and died."
One can understand also how that this ballad being a man's song, a veil
is delicately thrown over this incident.
I do not quote the entire ballad.
"When the wind whistles cold on the moor of a night,
All along, down along, out along, lee.
Tom Pearce's old mare doth appear ghastly white,
Wi' Bill Brewer, etc.
"And all the long night be heard skirling and groans,
All along, down along, out along, lee.
From Tom Pearce's old mare in her rattling bones,
Wi' Bill Brewer, etc."
FOOTNOTES:
[17] See my article on "Foundations" in _Strange Survivals_ (Methuen
and Co., 1892). See also my _Book of the West_, i. p. 331.