YELVERTON
Yelverton or Elford-town--Longstone--The Elfords--"The Silly
Doe"--Mr. Collier on otter-hunting--Sheeps Tor church--The
reservoir--The old vicarage--The Bull-ring--Rajah Brooke--Roman's
Cross--The Deancombe valley--Coaches--Down Tor stone row--Nun's
Cross--Roundy Farm--Clakeywell Pool--Strange voices--Leather
Tor--Drizzlecombe and its remains--Old customs at Sheeps
Tor--Meavy--Church--Marchant's Cross--China-clay and William
Cookworthy--The Dewerstone--The Wild Huntsman--Tavistock.
Yelverton is a corruption of Elford-town. The mansion near the station
was formerly a seat of the Elfords of Sheeps Tor. The family is now
extinct, at least in the neighbourhood where at one time it was of
dignity and well estated. Yelverton is itself a mere collection of
villa residences of Plymouth men of business, but it forms a convenient
point of departure for many interesting expeditions.
The principal residence of the Elfords was at Longstone, in Sheeps Tor,
where the old house remains little altered, and where the _windstrew_
should be seen, a granite platform, raised above the field, on which
thrashing could be carried on by the aid of the winds that carried away
the chaff.
[Illustration: THE DEWERSTONE]
The tor which gives its name to the village and parish stands by
itself, and rises to about 1,200 feet. It is a picturesque hill,
and only needs the addition of another couple of hundred put to its
elevation to make it perfect.
The basin below the village was anciently a lake, the water being
retained by a barrier of rock where stands now the dam for the
reservoir. This, in time, was silted up to the depth of ninety feet,
and now the Plymouth Corporation, by the construction of a fine and
eminently picturesque barrier across the narrow gorge through which the
Meavy flows, have reconverted this basin into a lake.
Near the summit of the tor is the Pixy Cave, in which Squire Elford
remained concealed whilst the Roundheads searched Longstone for him.
Some faithful tenants in the village kept him supplied with food
till pursuit was at an end. The Elfords inherited Longstone from the
Scudamores at the close of the fifteenth century. The parish was then
called Shettes Tor, from the Celtic _syth_, steep; but the name has
been altered in this or last century. The last Elford of Sheeps Tor
was John, who married Admonition Prideaux, and died without issue
in 1748, his six children having predeceased him. A side branch of
the family--to which, however, Sheeps Tor did not fall--produced Sir
William Elford, Bart., of Bickham, but he died in 1837, without male
issue, and the title became extinct. His monument is in Totnes church.
A man named Cole, working at the granite quarries at Merrivale Bridge,
a few years ago sang me a song concerning a doe that escaped from
Elford Park, which was probably situated where is now Yelverton.
THE SILLY DOE
Give ear unto my mournful song
Gay huntsmen every one,
And unto you I will relate
My sad and doleful moan.
O here I be a silly Doe,
From Elford Park I strayed,
In leaving of my company
Myself to death betrayed.
The master said I must be slain
For 'scaping from his bounds:
"O keeper, wind the hunting horn,
And chase him with your hounds."
A Duke of royal blood was there,
And hounds of noble race;
They gathered in a rout next day,
And after me gave chase.
They roused me up one winter morn,
The frost it cut my feet,
My red, red blood came trickling down,
And made the scent lie sweet.
For many a mile they did me run,
Before the sun went down,
Then I was brought to give a teen,
And fall upon the groun'.
The first rode up, it was the Duke:
Said he, "I'll have my will!"
A blade from out his belt he drew
My sweet red blood to spill.
So with good cheer they murdered me,
As I lay on the ground;
My harmless life it bled away,
Brave huntsmen cheering round.
I am a little puzzled as to whether the dry sarcasm in this song is
intentional.[21] The melody is peculiarly sweet and plaintive. _When_ a
royal duke hunted last on Dartmoor I have been unable to ascertain.
The red deer were anciently common on Dartmoor. It was not till King
John's reign that Devon was disafforested, with the exception of
Dartmoor and Exmoor. But the deer were mischievous to the crops of the
farmer, and to the young plantations, and farmers, yeomen, and squires
combined to get rid of them from Dartmoor. Still, however, occasionally
one runs from Exmoor and takes refuge in the woods about the Dart, the
Plym, and the Tavy.
But it is for fox, hare, and otter hunting that the sportsman goes to
Dartmoor, and not for the deer. A very pretty sight it is to see a pack
with the scarlet coats after it sweeping over the moorside in pursuit
of Reynard, and to hear the music of the hounds and horns.
For the harriers the great week is that after hare-hunting is at an
end in the lowlands or "in-country." Then the several packs that have
hunted through the season on the circumference of the moor unite on it,
and take turns through the week on the moor itself. The great day of
that week is Bellever Day, when the meet is on the tor of that name. I
have described it in my _Book of the West_, and will not repeat what
has been already related. But I will venture to quote an account of
otter-hunting on the Dart from the pen of Mr. William Collier, than
whom no one has been more of an enthusiast for sport on the moor.
"The West Dart is the perfection of a Dartmoor river, flowing
bright and rapid over a bed of granite boulders richly covered with
moss and lichen, its banks bedecked with ferns and wild flowers of
the moor, and fringed with the bog-myrtle and withy.
[Illustration: SHEEPS TOR]
"Water holds scent well, and the whiff so fragrant to the nose of
the hound rises to the surface and floats down stream, calling
forth his musical chant of praise. For this reason otter-hunters
draw up stream, and before the lair of the otter is reached the
welkin rings with the music of the pack. The otter has left his
trail on the banks, and on the stones where he has landed when
fishing, his spoor can be seen freshly printed on a sandy nook,
and he is very likely to be found in a well-known and remarkably
safe holt, as they call it in the West, about half a mile above
Dart Meet, which he shares at times with foxes, though his access
to it is under water, and theirs, of course, above. If he were but
wise enough to stay there he might defy his legitimate enemies
to do their worst. But he knows not man or his little ways, and
he has heard the unwonted strain of the hounds as they have been
crying over his footsteps hard by. They mark him in his retreat,
and the whole pack proclaim that he is in the otter's parlour, the
strongest place on the river. It is in a large rock hanging over a
deep, dark pool, in a corner made by a turn in the river, with an
old battered oak tree growing somehow from the midst, and backed by
a confused jumble of granite blocks. The artist and the fisherman
both admire this spot, though for totally different reasons, but
the hunter likes it not, for he knows too well that if he runs
the fox or the otter here his sport is over. A fox or an otter if
run here is likely to stay; he has experienced the dangers and
wickedness of the world at large; but if found here in his quiet
and repose he takes alarm at the unusual turmoil, and incontinently
bolts. The otter is known to have a way in under water, where no
terrier can go, and he is so far safer than the fox. The most
arduous otter-hunters, therefore, when the hounds mark, plunge
up to their necks in the water to frighten him out with their
otter-poles. He has long known the Dart as a quiet, peaceable,
happy hunting-ground; and he makes the fatal mistake of bolting,
little recking what a harrying awaits him for the next four hours.
There immediately arises a yell of 'Hoo-gaze!' the view halloo of
the otter-hunter, probably an older English hunting halloo than
'Tally ho!' and the din of the hounds and terriers, the human
scream, and the horn, like Bedlam broken loose, which he hears
behind him, make him hurry up-stream as best he may. The master of
the hounds, if he knows his business, will now call for silence,
and, taking out his watch, will give the otter what he calls a
quarter of an hour's law. It is wonderful how fond sportsmen are
of law; perhaps there is an affinity between prosecuting a case
and pursuing a chase. He wants the otter to go well away from his
parlour, and his object for the rest of the day will be to keep
him out of it. If he is a real good sporting otter-hunter he will
tell his field that he wants his hounds to kill the otter without
assistance from them; for in the West of England the vice of
mobbing the otter is too common, with half the field in the water,
hooting, yelling, poking with otter-poles, mixing the wrong scent
(their own) with the right, making the water muddy, and turning the
river into a brawling brook with a vengeance. The true otter-hunter
only wants his huntsman and whip, and perhaps a very knowing and
trustworthy friend, besides himself, to help in hunting the otter
_with his hounds_, and not with men. The master gives the chase a
good quarter of an hour by the clock; and, leaving the unearthly,
or perhaps too earthly sounds behind him, the otter makes up-stream
as fast as he can go. It is surprising how far an otter can get
in the time, but fear lends speed to his feet. Then begins the
prettiest part of the sport. The hounds are laid on, they dash into
the river, and instantly open in full cry. The water teems with the
scent of the otter; but the deep pools, rapid stickles, and rocky
boulders over which the river foams hinder the pace. There is ample
time to admire the spirit-stirring and beautiful scene. The whole
pack swimming a black-looking pool under a beetling tor in full
chorus; now and then an encouraging note on the horn; the echoes
of the deep valley; the foaming and roaring Dart flowing down from
above; the rich colour from the fern, the gorse, the heather, the
moss, and the wild flowers; a few scattered weather-beaten oaks and
fir trees, and the stately tors aloft, striking on the eye and ear,
make one feel that otter-hunting on Dartmoor is indeed a sport.
"The Dart is a large river, for a Dartmoor stream, and presents
many obstacles to the hounds; but they pursue the chase for some
distance, and at length stop and mark, as they did before. The
otter has got out of hearing, and has rested in a lair known to
him under the river-bank. The terriers and an otter-pole dislodge
him, and the sport becomes fast and furious. He is seen in all
directions, sometimes apparently in two places at once, which makes
the novice think there are two or three otters afoot. 'Hoo-gaze!'
is now often heard, as one or another catches sight of him, and
the field become very noisy and excited. It is still the object
to run him up-stream, whilst he now finds it easier to swim down.
'Look out below!' is therefore heard in the fine voice of the
master. There is a trusty person down-stream watching a shallow
stickle, where the otter must be seen if he passes. Suddenly the
clamour ceases, and silence prevails. The otter has mysteriously
disappeared, and he has to be fresh found. The master is in no
hurry. There is too much scent in the water of various sorts,
and he will be glad to pause till it has floated away. He takes
his hounds down-stream. The trusty man says the otter has not
passed; but this makes no difference. Some way further down,
with a wave of his hand, he sends all the hounds into the river
again with a dash. They draw up-stream again, pass the trusty man
still at his post, and reach the spot where the otter vanished.
The river is beautifully clear again, and an old hound marks. A
good hour, perhaps, has been lost, or rather spent, since the
otter disappeared, and here he has been in one of his under-water
dry beds. He is routed out by otter-poles, and liveliness again
prevails, especially when he takes to the land to get down-stream
by cutting off a sharp curve in the river--a way he has learnt in
his frogging expeditions--and the hounds run him then like a fox.
He is only too glad to plunge headlong into the river again, and
he has reached it below the trusty man, who, however, goes down to
the next shallow, and takes with him some others to turn the otter
up from his safe parlour. They are hunting him now in a long deep
pool, where he shifts from bank to bank, moving under water whilst
the hounds swim above. He has a large supply of air in his lungs,
which he vents as he uses it, and which floats to the surface in a
series of bubbles. Otter-hunters calls it his chain, and it follows
him wherever he goes, betraying his track in the muddiest water. He
craftily puts his nose, his nose only, up to get a fresh supply of
air now and then, under a bush or behind a rock, and then owners of
sharp eyes call 'Hoo-gaze!' He finds himself in desperate straits,
and he makes up his mind to go for his parlour at all hazards; but
the hounds catch sight of him in the shallow of the trusty man,
and the chase comes to an end. Otters are never speared in the
West."[22]
And now to return to Sheeps Tor and the picturesque village that
nestles under it.
The one building-stone is granite, grey and soft of tone. The village
is small, and consists of a few cottages about the open space before
the church.
This latter is of the usual moorland type, and in the Perpendicular
style. Observe above the porch the curious carved stone, formerly
forming part of a sun-dial, and dated 1640. It represents wheat growing
out of a skull, and bears the inscription--
"Mors janua vitæ."
This church has most unfortunately been vulgarised internally. It
once possessed not only a magnificent roodscreen, rich with gold and
colour, but also a fifteenth-century carved pulpit that matched with
the screen. The church was delivered over to a Tavistock builder to
make watertight, as cheaply as might be, and he succeeded triumphantly
in transforming what was once a treasury of art into a desolation. A
few poor fragments of the screen have been set up in the church by the
vicar, with an appeal to visitors to do something to obliterate the
infamy of its destruction by a restoration out of what little remains.
Most fortunately, working drawings were taken of the screen before its
destruction. I give not only a drawing to scale of a bay as it was,
but also of a bay as it should be if restored, for the vaulting had
disappeared before its final ruin and removal. Near the church stood
formerly the old vicarage, a mediæval dwelling, intact, with its oak,
nail-studded door and its panelled walls. This also has been destroyed.
[Illustration: PORTION OF SCREEN, SHEEPS TOR]
What of old times still remains is the bull-ring to the south-east of
the church. On the churchyard wall sat the principal parishioners, as
in a dress circle. Near by is S. Leonard's Well, but it possesses no
architectural interest.
In Burra Tor Wood is a pretty waterfall. Burra Tor was the residence
of Rajah Brooke when in England. It had been presented to him by the
Baroness Burdett Coutts and other admirers. In Sheeps Tor churchyard he
lies, but Burra Tor has been sold since his death.
Above the wood stands Roman's Cross, probably called after S. Rumon or
Ruan, whose body lay at Tavistock. There is another Rumon's Cross on
Lee Moor.
The drive from Douseland round Yennadon, above the dam and the
reservoir, to Sheeps Tor village, is hardly to be surpassed for beauty
anywhere on the moor.
A walk that will richly repay the pedestrian is one up the valley of
the Narra Tor Brook, between Sheeps Tor and Down Tor. He follows the
Devonport leat till he reaches the turn on the right to Nosworthy
Bridge. He passes Vinneylake, where are two interesting _caches_, one
cut out of the conglomerate rubble brought down from the decomposed
rocks above. This is now used as a turnip-house, but it is to be
suspected it was anciently employed as a private still-house. In a
field hard by is another, more like some of the Cornish structural
fogous. It is roofed over with slabs of granite.
The ascent of Deancombe presents many peeps of great beauty. At the
farm the road comes to an end, and here the tor must be ascended.
East of Down Tor is a very fine stone row, starting from a circle of
stones inclosing a cairn, and extending in the direction of a large,
much-disturbed cairn. There is a blocking-stone at the eastern end, and
a menhir by the ring of stones at the west end of the row. The length
is 1,175 feet.
I visited this row with the late Mr. Lukis in 1880, when we found that
men had been recently engaged on the row with crowbars. They had thrown
down the two largest stones at the head. We appealed to Sir Massey
Lopes, and he stopped the destruction of the monument, and since then
Mr. R. Burnard and I have re-erected the stones then thrown down.
On the slope of Coombshead Tor are numerous hut circles and a pound.
From the stone row a walk along the ridge of the moor leads to Nun's
Cross. This bore on it the inscription, "CRUX SIWARDI." It is very
rude; it stands 7 feet 4 inches high, and is fixed in a socket cut in a
block of stone sunk in the ground. It was overthrown and broken about
1846, but was restored by the late Sir Ralph Lopes. By whom and for
what cause it was overthrown never transpired. The inscription with the
name of Siward is now difficult to decipher. On the other side of the
cross is "BOC--LOND"--three letters forming one line, and the remaining
four another, directly under it. The cross is alluded to in a deed of
1240 as then standing.
[Illustration: ON THE MEAVY]
Nun's Cross is probably a corruption of Nant Cross, the cross at the
head of the _nant_ or valley. The whole of Newleycombe Lake has been
extensively streamed. The hill to the north is dense with relics of
an ancient people. Roundy Farm, now in ruins, takes its name from the
pounds which contributed to form the walls of its inclosures, many of
which follow the old circular erections that once inclosed a primeval
village. The ruined farmhouse bears the initials of a Crymes, a family
once as great as that of the Elfords, but now gone. It is interesting
to know that the farmer's wife of Kingset, that now includes Roundy
Farm, was herself a Crymes. One very perfect hut circle here was for
long used as a potato garden.
Hard by is Clakeywell Pool, by some called Crazy-well. It is an old
mine-work, now filled with water. It covers nearly an acre, and the
banks are in part a hundred feet high. According to popular belief, at
certain times at night a loud voice is heard calling from the water in
articulate tones, naming the next person who is to die in the parish.
At other times what are heard are howls as of a spirit in torment.
The sounds are doubtless caused by a swirl of wind in the basin that
contains the pond. An old lady, now deceased, told me how that as a
child she dreaded going near this tarn--she lived at Shaugh--fearing
lest she should hear the voice calling her by name.
The idea of mysterious voices is a very old one. The schoolboy will
recall the words of Virgil in the first _Georgic_:--
"Vox ... per lucos vulgo exaudita silentes Ingens."
The "wisht hounds" that sweep overhead in the dark barking are
brent-geese going north or returning south. They have given occasion to
many stories of strange voices in the sky.
In Ceylon the devil-bird has been the source of much superstitious
terror.
A friend who has long lived in Ceylon says: "Never shall I forget when
first I heard it. I was at dinner, when suddenly the wildest, most
agonised shrieks pierced my ear. I was under the impression that a
woman was being murdered outside my house. I snatched up a cudgel and
ran forth to her aid, but saw no one." The natives regard this cry of
the mysterious devil-bird with the utmost fear. They believe that to
hear it is a sure presage of death; and they are not wrong. When they
have heard it, they pine to death, killed by their own conviction that
life is impossible.
Autenrieth, professor and physician at Tübingen, in 1822 published a
treatise on _Aërial Voices_, in which he collected a number of strange
accounts of mysterious sounds heard in the sky, and which he thought
could not all be deduced from the cries of birds at night. He thus
generalises the sounds:--
"They are heard sometimes flying in this direction, then in the
opposite through the air; mostly, they are heard as though coming
down out of the sky; but at other times as if rising from the
ground. They resemble occasionally various musical instruments;
occasionally also the clash of arms, or the rattle of drums, or the
blare of trumpets. Sometimes they are like the tramp of horses,
or the discharge of distant artillery. But sometimes, also, they
consist in an indescribably hollow, thrilling, sudden scream.
Very commonly they resemble all kinds of animal tones, mostly the
barking of dogs. Quite as often they consist in a loud call, so
that the startled hearer believes himself to be called by name,
and to hear articulate words addressed to him. In some instances,
Greeks have believed they were spoken to in the language of Hellas,
whereas Romans supposed they were addressed in Latin. The modern
Highlanders distinctly hear their vernacular Gaelic. These aërial
voices accordingly are so various that they can be interpreted
differently, according to the language of the hearer, or his inner
conception of what they might say."
The Jews call the mysterious voice that falls from the heaven Bathkol,
and have many traditions relative to it. The sound of arms and of drums
and artillery may safely be set down to the real vibrations of arms,
drums, and artillery at a great distance, carried by the wind.
In the desert of Gobi, which divides the mountainous snow-clad plateau
of Thibet from the milder regions of Asia, travellers assert that they
have heard sounds high up in the sky as of the clash of arms or of
musical martial instruments. If travellers fall to the rear or get
separated from the caravan, they hear themselves called by name. If
they go after the voice that summons them, they lose themselves in the
desert. Sometimes they hear the tramp of horses, and taking it for that
of their caravan, are drawn away, and wander from the right course and
become hopelessly lost. The old Venetian traveller Marco Polo mentions
these mysterious sounds, and says that they are produced by the spirits
that haunt the desert. They are, however, otherwise explicable. On a
vast plain the ear loses the faculty of judging direction and distance
of sounds; it fails to possess, so to speak, acoustic perspective. When
a man has dropped away from the caravan, his comrades call to him; but
he cannot distinguish the direction whence their voices come, and he
goes astray after them.
Rubruquis, whom Louis IX. sent in 1253 to the court of Mongu-Khan, the
Mongol chief, says that in the Altai Mountains, that fringe the desert
of Gobi, demons try to lure travellers astray. As he was riding among
them one evening with his Mongol guide, he was exhorted by the latter
to pray, because otherwise mishaps might occur through the demons that
haunted the mountains luring them out of the right road.
Morier, the Persian traveller, at the beginning of this century speaks
of the salt desert near Khom. On it, he says, travellers are led astray
by the cry of the goblin Ghul, who, when he has enticed them from the
road, rends them with his claws. Russian accounts of Kiev in the
beginning of the nineteenth century mention an island lying in a salt
marsh between the Caspian and the Aral Sea, where, in the evening, loud
sounds are heard like the baying of hounds, and hideous cries as well;
consequently the island is reputed to be haunted, and no one ventures
near it.
That the Irish banshee may be traced to an owl admits of little
doubt; the description of the cries so closely resembles what is
familiar to those who live in an owl-haunted district, as to make the
identification all but certain. Owls are capricious birds. One can
never calculate on them for hooting. Weeks will elapse without their
letting their notes be heard, and then all at once for a night or two
they will be audible, and again become silent--even for months.
The river Dart is said to cry. The sound is a peculiarly weird one; it
is heard only when the wind is blowing down its deep valley, and is
produced by the compression of the air in the winding passage. Whether
it is calling for its annual tribute of a human life, I do not know,
but of the river it is said:--
"The Dart, the Dart--the cruel Dart
Every year demands a heart!"
To return to our walk.
If the path be taken leading back to Nosworthy Bridge, beside and in
the road will be seen several mould-stones for tin.
Leather Tor is a fine pile of ruined granite. I have been informed
that great quantities of flints have been found there, showing that at
this spot there was a manufacturing of silex weapons and tools.
From Sheeps Tor the Drizzlecombe remains are reached with great
ease. Here, near a tributary of the Plym, are three stone rows
and two fine menhirs, a kistvaen, a large tumulus, and beside the
stream a blowing-house with its mould-stones. Two of the rows are
single, but one is double for a portion of its length only. There are
blocking-stones and menhirs to each. The row connected with the great
menhir is 260 feet long.
Sheeps Tor has been brought into the world by the construction of the
reservoir. Formerly it was a place very much left to itself. There the
old fiddler hung on who played venerable tunes, to which the people
danced their old country dances. These latter may still be seen there,
but, alas! the aged fiddler is dead. At one time it was a great musical
centre, and it was asserted that two-thirds of the male population were
in the church choir, acting either as singers or as instrumentalists.
We will now turn our steps towards Meavy.
Here is a house that belonged to the Drake family, half pulled down, a
village cross under a very ancient oak, and a church in good condition.
There is some very early rude carving at the chancel arch in a pink
stone, whence derived has not been ascertained.
Marchant's Cross is at the foot of the steep ascent to Ringmoor Down.
It is the tallest of all the moor crosses, being no less than 8 feet 2
inches in height.
Another cross is in the hedge on Lynch Common.
[Illustration: CHANCEL CAPITAL, MEAVY.]
Trowlesworthy Warren is situated among hut circles and inclosures.
There is a double stone row on the southern slope, but it has been
sadly mutilated. The whole of the neighbouring moors are strewn with
primeval habitations.
On Lee Moor and Headon Down may be seen the production of kaolin.
William Cookworthy, born at Kingsbridge in Devon, in 1705, was one of a
large family. His father lost all his property in South Sea stock, and
died leaving his widow to rear the children as best she might. They
were Quakers, and help was forthcoming from the Friends. William kept
his eyes about him, and discovered the china-clay which is found to so
large an extent in Devon and Cornwall, and he laid the foundation of
the kaolin trade between 1745 and 1750. One of the first places where
he identified the clay was on Tregonning Hill in S. Breage parish,
Cornwall, and to his dying day he was unaware of the enormous deposits
on Lee Moor close to his Plymouth home.
He took out a patent in 1768 for the manufacture of Plymouth china,
specimens of which are now eagerly sought after.
Kaolin is dissolved feldspar, deposited from the granite which has
yielded to atmospheric and aqueous influences.
The white clay is dug out of pits and then is washed in tanks, in which
the clayey sediment is collected. This sediment has, however, first to
be purged of much of its mica and coarser particles as the stream in
which it is dissolved is conveyed slowly over shallow "launders."
At the bottom of the pits are plugs, and so soon as the settled kaolin
is sufficiently thick, these plugs are withdrawn, and the clay, now of
the consistency of treacle, is allowed to flow into tanks at a lower
level. Here it remains for three weeks or a month to thicken, when
it is transferred to the "dry," a long shed with a well-ventilated
roof, and with a furnace at one end and flues connected with it that
traverse the whole "dry" and discharge into a chimney at the further
end of the building. On the floor of this shed the clay rapidly dries,
and it is then removed in spadefuls and packed in barrels or bags, or
merely tossed into trucks for lading vessels. The clay is now white
as snow, and is employed either in the Staffordshire potteries for
the manufacture of porcelain, or else for bleaching--that is to say,
for thickening calicoes, and for putting a surface on paper. Some is
employed in the manufacture of alum; a good deal goes to Paris to be
served up as the white sugar of confectionery, and it is hinted that
not a little is employed in the adulteration of flour. America, as
well, imports it for the manufacture of artificial teeth.
Great heaps of white refuse will be seen about the china-clay works;
these are composed of the granitic sandy residuum. Of this there are
several qualities, and it is sold to plasterers and masons, and the
coarsest is gladly purchased for gravelling garden walks. The water
that flows from the clay works is white as milk, and has a peculiar
sweet taste. Cows are said to drink it with avidity. The full pans in
drying present a metallic blue or green glaze on the surface.
The kaolin sent to Staffordshire travels by boat from Plymouth to
Runcorn, where it is transhipped on to barges on the Bridgewater Canal,
and is so conveyed to the belt of pottery towns, Burslem, Hanley,
Stoke, and Longton.
The Dewerstone towers up at the junction of the Meavy and the Plym. On
the side of the Plym there are sheer precipices of granite standing up
as church spires above the brawling river. The face towards the Meavy
is less abrupt, and it is on this side that an ascent can be made, but
it is a scramble.
On reaching the top, it will be seen that the headland has been
fortified by a double rampart of stone thrown across the neck of land.
Wigford Down is in the rear, with kistvaens and tumuli and hut circles
on it.
The visitor should descend in the direction of Goodameavy, and thence
follow down the river that abounds in beautiful scenes. It was formerly
believed that a wild hunter appeared on the summit of Dewerstone,
attended by his black dogs, blowing a horn. From Dewerstone the visitor
may walk to Bickleigh Station, and take the train for Tavistock, which
I have written about in my _Book of the West_, and will not re-describe
in the present work.
FOOTNOTES:
[21] I have given it, with the original air, in the _Garland of Country
Song_. Methuen.
[22] Slightly curtailed from W. F. COLLIER, _Country Matters in Short_.
Duckworth, London, 1899.