n»mmmmm a i M ,m tm ' t m n« i rn .i n .i n nn - iia i t i l iiii i i r tm m»m**« i i ri ■ n ii miiimf ^ r- i - | i hhhi mm ih i IM
* •
. h i i . -»««» ,
• !•!
# !♦*
— ■ i n m i —
1
!* »
itre Jbcenerp
ii <UillMi|<WBBMiBBMBM«MMMiaMBaBBMBai
• «
>:
V
• «
REV.
BEQUEST OF
CANON SCADDING,
TORONTO, 1901.
D. 0.
DEVONSHIRE SCENERY
A land of honey, milk, and cream,
Where showers are sweet as roses' tears;
Romantic as a poet's dream,
And fresh as the primeval years;
A region rich in fairy tales,
Where happy mortals go in quest
Of rarest joys ; such are the vales
Of my dear love-land in the West.
Edward Capekn.
V
©eBonslHre Jkenerg
ITS INSPIRATION
IN THE PROSE AND SONG
OF
VARIOUS AUTHORS
EDITED BY
THE REV. WILLIAM EVERITT
RECTOR OF ST. LAWRENCE, EXETER
LONDON
GIBBINGS & COMPANY, LIMITED
18, BURY STREET, W.C.
1899
Preface.
I have here brought together several prose and poetical
pieces, descriptive of, or suggested by, the fair and diversi-
fied scenery of Devonshire; in the belief that this Collection
will prove that for excellence of scenic literature, as well
as for beauty of scenery, Devonshire stands pre-eminent
among the counties of England.
My grateful acknowledgments are due and are hereby
rendered to all those who have kindly permitted me
the insertion of copyright matter, and, in particular, to
Messrs. Macmillan and Co., for quotations from the
writings of Charles Kingsley ; to Miss King and the
proprietors of the Standard and Flutters Magazine, as
representing the well-known name of Richard John King ;
to Mr. Edward Capern for several poems ; to Mr. F. G.
Heath, for copious extracts from the Fern World and
Fern Paradise ; to the Rev. G. Tuckwell for the free use
of North Devon Scenery ; to the Rev. M. G. Watkins
and the CornMU Magazine for a paper on Devon Lanes,
which has also appeared in a little volume called " In
IV
PREFACE.
the Country " (Satchell & Co.) ; to the representatives
of the late Dean Ali'ord, Rev. R. S. Hawker, Rev.
F, Phillott, Miss Rachel Evans, Mr. Mortimer Collins,
and Mr. G. H. Lewes ; to the proprietors of the Queen,
Pall Mall Gazette, and Daily Telegraph; to Miss Fannie
Goddard, Miss Anne Irwin, Rev. E. W. L. Davies,
Rev. Lewis Gidley, and Messrs. F. T. Palgrave, Sydney
Hodges, F. B. Doveton, W. H. K. Wright, I. W. N. Keys,
W. H. H. Rogers, John Gregory, S. Wills, Walter Rew,
and "Musopolus" for the contributions assigned to their
respective names. Some of these contributions are here
published for the first time, as for instance the sonnets
of Mr. I. W. N. Keys. The authors and proprietors in
every case reserve the copyright.
W. Evekitt.
iffontentss.
To Devon
To the Devonians
Song of the Devonian
Devonia
A Sigh for Devon
Sonnet to Devon
To Devon
To Devon
The Fern Paradise
The Combe Mouth -
The Vales of Devonia
The Devonshire Glen -
Marriage like a Devonshire Lane
Devon Lanes
A Devonshire Lane -
Devonshire Hedges and Lanes
Devonshire Hedges in February
Dartmoor Scenery
Dartmoor
Dartmoor
Dartmoor
The Rugged Dartmoor
Dartmoor
The Children in the Snow
To Pew Tor
Dartmoor after Snow -
Storm at Night on Dartmoor
Fingle Bridge
The Ferny Moorlands
Wm. Browne
PAGE 1
Anon.
- 2
Edward Capem
- 3
Rev. Charles Strong -
- 4
E. Capem
- 5
Rev. W. Pulling
- 6
Joseph Cottle
- 7
Rev. J. Bidlake
- 8
F. G. Heath
- 8
Charles Kingsley
- 13
E. Capem
- 14
Edinburgh Review -
- 15
Rev. J. Marriott
- 17
Rev M. G. Watkins
- 18
Pall Mall Gazette -
- 30
R. J. King
- 35
A. T.C.
- 43
R. J. King
- 47
iV. T, Carrington •
- 54
Wm. Howitt
- 56
Felicia Hemans
- 58
Rev. E. W. L. Davies
- 59
W. H. Hamilton Rogers
- 62
J. Johns
- 63
I. W. N. Keys
- 68
M. A. P.
- 68
Sophie Dixon
- 69
Rev. S. Roioe
- 72
F. G. Heath
- 74
VI
A Prospect on Dartmoor
CONTENTS.
- Sophie Dixon
PAGE 83
Lustleigh
• Rev. S. Rowc
- 86
Haytor
- Western Miscellany -
- 87
To Belstone Tor
• Anon.
- 89
To the Lark on Dartmoor
- S. Emett
- 90
On Bair Down
- Sophie Dixon
- 91
On the East Ockment
• Sophie Dixon
- 92
At Princetown
- F. B. Doveton
- 93
Cranmere
• Rev. S. Rowe
- 94
A Devonshire Trout Stream
- R. J. King
- 96
By the Dart
- Anne Cristall
- 102
Dartmeet
-j.a
- 103
To the River Dart -
- Rev. II. T. Whit/eld
- 104
At Lover's Leap
• J. Bradford
■ 105
River of Dart
• Mortimer Collins
- 106
The River Dart
- Sydney Hodges
- 107
Dartside
- Charles Kingsley
- 110
Hartland
- Rev. 0. TugweU
- Ill
Clovelly
• Rev. G. TugweU
- 114
Clovelly from the Pier
• Charles Dickens
- 117
The Hobby, Clovelly -
- E. Capern
- 118
Clovelly
• R. S. Hawker
- 121
Clovelly and the Hobby
- F. 0. Heath
- 122
The Torridge
- E. Capern
- 129
Bideford
- Charles Kingsley
- 130
To Bideford
E. Caper) i
- 131
Bideford Bridge
- Charles Kingsley
- 133
Bran nton Borrows
- Rev. Q. Tag well
- 134
Sunset from the Capstone Hill
- Anne Irivin
- 136
Trees in Ilfraeombe -
- Anne Irwin
- 138
By the Sea, Ilfraeombe
- Sir A. de Yerc
- 138
Ilfraeombe Lanes
• G. H. Lewes
- 139
Ilfraeombe
- Rev. G. TugweU
- 142
A Word for Combmartin
- Anne Irwin
- 143
Lyn mouth
- Robert Southey
- 144
Music of the Lynns -
- Rev. H. Havergal -
- 145
The Valley of Rocks -
• Robert Southey
- 145
The River Lyn, Watersmeet
- Dean Alford
- 146
Lyn -Cleave
- Dean Alford
- 147
Lynmouth
- Dean Alfwd
- 147
CONTENTS.
vii
Valley of Lynmouth -
L. E. L.
PAGE 149
The Lyn
The Gentleman's Magazine
- 150
The Valley of Rocks -
L. E. L.
- 150
Lynton
J.K.
- 151
Watersmeet, Lyn and the Sea
Rev. G. Tugioett
- 152
Lynton
E. Capern
- 154
Valley of Rocks
E. Capem
-155
Watersmeet
Rev. F. Phillott
- 155
Lynton to Barnstaple
The Daily Telegraph
- 157
The River Axe
J. H Merivale
- 158
An Old-Fashioned Corner
R. J. King
- 164
Near Axmouth : The Golden Land -
F. T. Palgrave
- 168
Bi-anscombe
W. 11. Hamilton Rogers
- 169
A Devonshire Watering Place
R. J. King
- 171
Sonnet to the River Otter
S. T. Coleridge
- 178
The Vale of Otter
Rev. 0. J. Cornish -
- 178
From Colyton Church Tower
J. Fanner
- 180
The River Otter
Rev. Lewis Gidley -
- 180
Ladram Bay
Rev. Leivis Gidley -
- 182
From the Westdown Beacon, Budleigh
Musopolus
- 184
Salterton
A June Evening near Budleigh Saltertoi
l Musopolus
- 186
The Vale of Ide -
Sir J. Bowring
- 187
The Praise of Isca
J. H. Merivale
- 188
Study near Exeter
Musopolus
- 190
Evening Walk by the Exe
Anon.
- 193
On Ide Hill (overlooking Exeter)
Walter Reio
- 194
Sonnet to Chudleigh -
Rev. Wm. Pulling -
- 195
Babbacombe
Rev. C. Strong
- 195
From the Rock- Walk, Torquay
Rev. C. Strong
- 196
Torbay and Torquay -
Charles Kingsley
- 196
The Wives of Brixham
M. B. S.
- 198
Townstal Church, Dartmouth
Sydney Hodges
- 201
Compton Hall
Rev. H. J. Whitfeld
- 203
Down the Dart
Rev. H. J. Whitfeld
- 205
Buckfast Abbey
R. J. King
- 207
On Portlemouth Hill : A Sonnet
S. Wills *
- 209
The Home of the Sea Fern
F. G. Heath
- 210
Plymouth
Rev. C. Strong
- 214
On the Hoe, Plymouth r
John L. Stevens i
- 215
viii CONTENTS.
On Plymouth Hoe : A Reverie
-
W. H. K. Wright -
PAGE 216
By the Plym
-
Mortimer Collins
- 219
To the River Plym
-
H. I. Johns
- 220
In the Woods by the Plym
-
I. W. N. Keys
- 220
Coombe Vale, near Cornwood
*
Fannie Ooddard
- 221
St. Budeaux Churchyard
-
A. K.
- 222
To the Tor at Tamerton
-
H. W.
- 224
Watersmeet : Tavy and Walk ham
-
Rachel Evans
- 225
Tavy Cleave
-
Rachel Evam
- 226
The Tamar Spring
-
R. S. Hawker
- 228
On Tamerton Lake -
-
F. W.
- 229
A Green Lane in Spring
-
I. W. N. Keys
- 230
The Dear Devon Lanes
-
John Gregory
- 230
The Streams of Bonny Devon
-
F. B. Dovcton
- '231
A Devonshire Sketch -
-
Rev. J. Marriott
- 232
The Forest of the Dartmoors
-
R. J. King
- 234
Lily Hore
-
John Gregory
- 237
The HiU Farm
-
R. J. King
- 240
In a Devonshire Lane in Spring
-
I. W. N. Keys
- 244
To a Lady, for a Present of Primroses
from Devon
-
John Gregory
- 245
The Ivory Gate
-
Mortimer Collins
- 246
Farewell to Devonshire
-
Anon.
- 248
^i^
William Browne (1590-1645), Author of
Britannia's Pastorals.
Hail thou, my native soil ! thou blessed plot,
Whose equal all the world affordeth not !
Show me who can so many crystal rills,
Such sweet clothed valleys, or aspiring hills ;
Such woods, grand pastures, quarries, wealthy mines,
Such rocks in which the diamond fairly shines ;
And if the earth can show the like again,
Yet will she fail in her sea-ruling men.
Time never can produce men to o'ertake
The fames of Grenville, Davies, Gilbert, Drake,
Or worthy Hawkins, or of thousands more,
That by their power made the Devonian shore
Mock the proud Tagus ; for whose richest spoil
The boasting Spaniard left the Indian soil
Bankrupt of store, knowing it would quit cost
By winning this, though all the rest were lost
B
SWEET DEVON.
Ko tfje Bebomans.
A Translation.
Sweet charming Devon, 'tis of thee I sing,
To thee my strains a willing offering bring.
When the bleak northern blast with fury reigns,
Thy hills, thy vales, and all thy fertile plains,
Braving the storms that devastate the land,
By heaven's protecting power, unhurt they stand.
Thy trees with rich umbrageous verdure crowned,
In winter drear with foliage still are found.
Thy purling rills still gently onward flow
(For scarcely winter's icy power they know) ;
Blending their pleasing murmurs with the songs
So sweetly warbled by the feathered throngs.
Thy skipping flocks feed peaceful in the plain,
And Damon with his Delia — happy swain !
Respectfully presents her new-blown flowers ;
Nor envies Philemon those blissful hours
When 'neath his favourite beech tree stretched along,
Content, he there repeats his Phillis' song.
See the rich husbandman, without a fear
Of direful storms — for Ceres crowns the year,
And lo, his granary with corn abounds.
beauteous shrubs that ornament our grounds,
On which we oft such tender cares bestow,
You seldom Winter's fatal influence know ;
For in the garden of Exonia fair,
Flora protects and makes you flourish there.
But to impart what scenes like these inspire,
1 with a bolder hand must strike my lyre,
Ah ! lest I should its feeble chords destroy,
Excuse, my friends, such higher strains of joy. S,
SWEET DEVON.
Song of tije Uebonian.
From Wayside Warbles, by Edward Capern.
London : Sampson Low & Co. 1865.
Home of the beautiful, home of the brave,
Where the bright sea-gull troops whiten the wave,
Where the bold crags in their glory appear,
Haunt of wild horses and bonny red deer.
Mother of heroes, my best song be thine,
Beauty, ineffable beauty is mine ;
Ringdoves that glow with each orient hue,
And highlands enveloped in visions of blue.
Where the grey " Tor," as in ages of yore,
Mocks the mad war of the storm on the " Moor,"
Bravely exposing its huge granite crest,
Or wrapt in a cloud like an angel at rest.
Where the fair orchards in beauty are seen,
Shaking their carmine bloom over the green ;
And lily-white love-cots perch high on each hill,
Or nestle like swans by the river and rill.
Where the red-Devon is blowing his horn,
And crimson-lipp'd poppies are wooing the corn,
There, like an emerald sprinkled with foam,
There is the land of my love and my home.
Soft are her winds, as the breath of her kine,
Fragrant her breeze, as the odour of wine ;
Rich are the roses that sweeten the air,
And richer the maidens that carry them there,
B 2
SWEET DEVON.
Garden of wood-cover'd grottoes and streams,
Where the blue sky of fair Italy gleams,
Where the thrush warbles, and meadow lark springs,
To carol his tune to the beat of his wings.
Love to thy matrons, and joy to thy sires,
Happy am I when I sit by thy fires ;
Where wine from the elder, the barley, and bee,
And wine from the apple are waiting for me.
From Sonnets by Rev. Charles Strong, M.A., 1835.
Louisa ! guarding still the name of Winn,
Rememberest thou Devonia's vernal hue,
Her orchards blooming flowery vales within,
Her dewy skies, and sea of softest blue ?
Rememberest Greenway, and th' expanding view
Of Dart's full waters, Beck's thundering din,
And northward, where, oak-garlanded anew,
Down from her mountain-lair careered the Lyn ?
That valley too, strange wilderness of stone,
And the bold path hung midway from the surge,
And sky-built crags, old Druid's misty throne ?
These scenes remembered, I too may emerge
Who gazed with thee, however dimly shown,
Content, if seen within the pictured verge,
SWEET DEVON.
%L Sfgt) for ©ebon.
From Sungleams and Shadows, by Edward Capern.
London: Kent & Co., 1881.
Bright haunt of the daffodil, myrtle, and rose,
Of solitude sweet, and of pleasant repose,
Where a welcome waits all with a heart in its hand,
My Devon ! dear Devon ! my beautiful land !
May Evil for thee draw no shaft from a quiver,
I loved thee, do love, and shall love thee for ever.
Dear home of my fathers, when thinking of thee,
In fancy I often am down by the sea,
On old Northam Burrows, or Woollacombe Sands,
Where Robert the phantom is twisting his bands.
Then deem me no runaway-ingrate, never !
First love of my heart, I shall love thee for ever.
When Summer is come, and the welkin is fair,
There's something of Paradise everywhere ;
But bloom in perfection, and nature in tune,
Are thine, Devonia ! in beautiful June :
Blest region of valley, hill, woodland, and river,
I love thee, dear land, and shall love thee for ever.
The meadows o' Warwick are dainty and sweet,
And the fair fields o' Staffordshire soft to the feet ;
But for rich mossy sward, sunny upland, and glen,
Lane, coppice, and stream, give me Devon again.
Yes ! soul-bound to thee, which no fate can dissever,
I love thee, dear land, and shall love thee for ever.
SWEET DEVOtf.
Thanks Memory, nurse o' my fancy and hope,
I feel I am now where the combes are aslope,
While innocent lovers are telling their tale,
At Barricane beach and in Collipriest vale,
Where my Exe from the moorland weds Lowman's
fair river : —
Sweet land of my love ! I shall love thee for ever.
Sonnet to ©e&on.
By the Rev. William Pulling, Rector of Dymchurch, Kent, 1845.
Oft, dear Devonia, when I dwelt with thee,
The couch of sleep I quitted, ere the dawn,
To see from hill and mead the veil withdrawn,
Which nightly hides thy sylvan scenery !
Nature beheld my face before the bee
Her fragrant toil resumed ; ere clown or fawn
Appeared in field or wood, in vale or lawn ;
And ere the lark renewed his melody.
Were I with thee again, more oft would day
Find me awaiting, on a flow'ry height,
Th' arrival of her world-adorning ray —
To hear the birds salute the fount of light,
To see the dew its brilliant tints display,
And nature's robes with countless jewels bright.
SWtiET DEVOUT. 7
From Dartmoor and Other Poems, by Joseph Cottle. 1823.
Devon ! whose beauties prove, from flattery free,
The happy theme where wranglers all agree ;
When troubles press, or health, that blessing, fails,
What joy to range thy renovating vales ! —
" England's Montpelier," o'er thy downs to stray,
Thy logans, camps, and cromlechs huge survey ;.
Thy rivers to their mountain source explore,
Or roam refreshed beside thy craggy shore ;
To track thy brooks, that to the passer by
Babble their airs of liquid melody,
Winding through glens where seldom suns have shone,
Like life, through all obstructions, gliding on.
Thy distant offspring, with th' enthusiast's zest,
Extol thee still in charms perennial drest ;
Trace and retrace each haunt of childhood sweet,
And, " Oh, my country ! " in their dreams repeat.
And if at length, when years are on their wane,
Surmounting bars, and bursting every chain,
To their " dear Devon ! " they return once more,
What pleasure to renew the joys of yore !
(Now mellowed down by time to calm delight,
Like eve's broad orb, retiring from the sight ;)
To mount thy wood-crowned hills, and there to stand ;
Creation blooming round ! A Tempe land !
Shrubs, rocks and flowers, voluptuous in attire,
Whatever eye can charm, or heart desire,
And in the distance, through some opening seen,
Old ocean, in his vast expanse of green.
SWEET DEVOtf.
From The Year, A Poem, by John Bidlake, D.D., 1818.
Dear to these eyes, while yet these eyes could dwell
On all thy sylvan beauties, when new joys
Would meet me wandering by these mountain streams :
Hail, native land ! Hail, Devon ! thee, profuse
Indulgent Nature decks with million charms ;
Whate'er may kindle in the poet's breast
The glow of fancy or whate'er may hold
In fixed enchantment the fine eye of taste,
Thy scenes may boast. Tho' seldom 'mid thy woods
The nightingale prolongs her varied strain,
Pouring ecstatic warblings to the moon ;
Yet many a pastoral river sweetly glides
In pure transparence thro' thy long drawn vales ;
And every cot the liquid treasure owns,
Clear sparkling o'er some lichen-tinted rock ;
And Health, exulting, fans her rosy cheek
With fragrant breezes from thy spreading downs,
Where blooms the purple heath, while all around
Bise fairy prospects, crag enveloped hills,
And sloping meadows, farms, and village towers
Soft fading into heaven's cerulean blue.
From The Fern Paradise, by Francis George Heath. 5th Edition.
London: Sampson Low & Co. 1878.
" Amidst all our English counties, Devonshire stands
unrivalled for the exquisite loveliness of its scenery. Few
of those who have climbed its bold heights, crossed its
SWEET DEVON. 9
rugged moorlands, and wandered through its shady woods
and its delightful green lanes, will be inclined to dispute
this assertion, however familiar they may be with English
landscapes. It is the marvellous variety of its scenery
which constitutes the peculiar charm of this county — the
rugged boldness of its many hills contrasting with the soft
grace of its valleys. Its majestic coast lines tower defiantly
against the sky, both on its north and its south seaboard —
now frowning with barren but lofty grandeur at the waves,
now clothed from the highest point of the cliff to the
water's edge with one deep dark mass of vegetation. But
there is not even a grand monotony in the lines of noble
cliffs along the coasts of Devonshire. There is no monotony
at all ; for the grand rocks sink at intervals, to give place
to magnificent bays, which sweep gracefully from cliff's
point to cliff's point, and help to fling over the coast scenery
of this, the most beautiful of English counties, the same
aspect of variety which is its most charming characteristic.
Those only who have explored the Devonshire coast along
the Bristol Channel on the north, and along the English
Channel on the south, and who are also familiar with the
interior of the county, can properly realise the extreme
magnificence of its landscapes. But we believe that
thousands of the tourists who annually visit the western
c Garden of England ' — for Devonshire well deserves that
appellation — whilst deeply impressed with the general love-
liness of the county, nevertheless find it difficult to explain
what it is that lends the peculiar character of softness and
grace to the scenery. Here is the secret. The whole county
is richly and luxuriantly clothed with Ferns. The number
and variety of the most exquisite forms of these beautiful
plants to be found in Devonshire are equalled by those of
tO SWEET DEVON.
no other county in the United Kingdom. Devonshire is
emphatically the 'paradise' of the British Ferns. There
they are in very truth at home. The soil and the air are
adapted to them, and they adapt themselves to the whole
aspect of the place. They clothe its hill-sides and its hill-
tops ; they grow in the moist depths of its valleys ; they
fringe the banks of its streams ; they are to be found in the
recesses of its woods ; they hang from rocks and walls and
trees, and crowd into the towns and villages, fastening
themselves with sweet familiarity even to the houses.
Devonshire abounds in warm, moist, and shady nooks;
and Ferns delight in warmth, moisture, and shade. Though
they love the warmth, they avoid the sun, and when acci-
dentally exposed to its full influence, their delicate fronds
become shrivelled and discoloured. Yet these beautiful
plants do occasionally coquet with the tiny sunbeam which
may perchance find its way through some crevice in their
cool rocky home, or through the thick foliage of the hedge-
row under whose darkest shade they love to grow. But
even the Ferns are changeable in their moods, and fickle in
their attachments, differing from one another in their habits
and modes of growth. Some members of the lovely family
will boldly grow in situations where, perched on rocky
corners, away from the cool shelter of overhanging shrubs,
they are exposed to the full blaze of the sun, and roughly
blown upon by the wild force of the wind. Others only
seek to bathe the tips of their delicate fronds in sunshine,
hiding all beside under damp masses of foliage. Others
again will bear the sunlight if they can just find a refuge
for their roots in the damp hedge-bank, in the moist crevices
of walls and ruins, or amidst the interlaced branches of
trees. There are others still which hide where not even the
SWEET DEVOti. ll
tiniest ray of sunlight can pierce the dark retreat which
they choose, and where they can revel in soft and humid
warmth. But all Ferns, even the sunniest of the modest
family, love moisture and shade the best, and though they
will sometimes grow in the full sunlight, become developed
into their most mature forms in cool and shady situations.
It is, then, the beautiful and unrivalled forms of Fern-life
which fling over Devonshire scenery its almost undescribable
charm. Peer at low tide into yon dark and dripping cavern
which yawns upon the sea ! The bright sunshine that dances
upon the rippling waves, pauses at the cavern's mouth, as if
not daring to penetrate its gloomy depths. But just one
tiny gleam of light has ventured to cross the threshold, and
sparkling on the dripping water, it flashes through the
opaque darkness a kind of electric light. As the water falls,
drip ! drip ! into the pool below, the light increases, and
then — oh glorious sight ! — you see at the side and on the
roof of this lonesome sea-cave the beautiful Sea Spleenwort
(Asplenium marinum), hiding its roots in the cavern walls,
and spreading out its bright green and shining fronds, that
they may luxuriate in the dark humidity of its chosen
retreat. Or peer over yonder cliff, whose inaccessible sides
overhang the seething waves ! Look closely into the shady
cleft which nestles under yon projecting spur ! There you
may see, far out of your reach, one of the most rare and
exquisite of the British Ferns — the True Maiden-hair
(Adiantum Capillus-veneris). Could you venture near
enough to grasp it in your hand, you would indeed recognise
that it is one of the most exquisite of plants. Its fine black
wiry frond-stems like a dark maiden's hair — it is most
appropriately named — rise in clusters from its crown, the
main frond-stems being branched with smaller and more
12 SWEET DEVOK.
beautiful hair-like stems, which bear upon their tender
points the delicate, light-green, fan-shaped leaflets.
Wandering through the cool lanes of Devonshire you may,
too, meet with the fragrant Hay-scented Buckler Fern
(Lastrea recurva), which emits so beautiful an odour when
pressed in the hand ; with the delicately and transparently-
leaved Marsh Buckler Fern (Lastrea thelypteris) ; with the
Mountain Buckler Fern (Lastrea montana), whose silvery
fronds make the air fragrant when you tread upon them in
their incipient unrolled state. But these varieties are not to
be commonly encountered in every Devonshire lane. And
still rarer — though found in Devonshire — are the Lanceolate
Spleen wort (Asplenium lanceolatum), the tiny Forked
Spleenwort (Asplenium septentrionale), the Tunbridge
Filmy Fern (Hymenophyllum tunbridgense), and Wilson's
Filmy Fern (Hymenophyllum unilaterale).
The Moonwort (Botrychium lunaria), and the common
Adder's Tongue (Ophioglossum vulgatum) are also Ferns of
Devonshire growth. We do but enumerate these, and pass
on to speak of some of the Ferns which may be seen in
almost every Devonshire lane, and which, although common
in the sense of being plentiful, are nevertheless among the
most beautiful of the British Ferns."
LEV ON VALES. 13
From Westward Ho ! by Charles Kingsley. London : Macmillan & Co.
" ' Far, far from hence,
The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay
Among the green Illyrian hills, and there
The sunshine in the happy glens is fair,
And by the sea, and in the brakes,
The grass is cool, the sea-side air
Buoyant and fresh, the mountain flowers
More virginal and sweet than ours.' — Matthew Arnold.
" And even such are those delightful glens which cut the
high table-land of the confines of Devon and Cornwall,
opening each through its gorge of down and rock, towards
the boundless Western Ocean. Each is like the other, and
each is like no other English scenery. Each has its upright
walls, inland of rich oakwood, nearer the sea of dark green
furze, then of smooth turf, then of weird black cliffs which
range out right and left far into the deep sea, in castles,
spires, and wings of jagged iron-stone. Each has its narrow
strip of fertile meadow, its crystal trout steam winding
across and across from one hill-foot to the other ; its grey
stone mill, with the water sparkling and humming round
the dripping well ; its dark rock pools above the tide -mark,
where the salmon-trout gather in from their Atlantic
wanderings, after each autumn flood ; its ridges of blown
sand, bright with golden trefoil and crimson lady's fingers,
its grey bank of polished pebbles, down which the stream
rattles towards the sea below. Each has its black field of
jagged shark's-tooth rock which paves the cove from side to
side, streaked with here and there a pink line of shell-sand,
14 DEVON VALES.
and laced with white foam from the eternal surge, stretch-
ing in parallel lines out to the westward in strata set
upright on edge, or tilted towards each other at strange
angles by primeval earthquakes:— such is the 'mouth ' — as
those coves are called ; and such the jaw of teeth which
they display, one rasp of which would grind abroad the
timbers of the stoutest ship. To landward, all richness,
softness and peace; to seaward, a waste and howling
wilderness of rock and roller, barren to the fisherman, and
hopeless to the shipwrecked mariner."
W$z Fales of Hebonta.
From Ballads and Songs, by Edward Capern.
London : Kent & Co., 1858.
The Vales of Devonia !
What landscapes are seen
So fertile in beauty,
So golden and green ?
There crowfoot and clover
Allure the wild bee
To gather sweet honey
For Janie and me.
Thy hills, Devonia,
Thy meadows and streams,
They haunt me for ever
In visions and dreams ;
And birds that in woodlands
Make melody rare,
And skies rich as sapphires,
And balm-scented air,
DEVON VALES. 15
My dear old Devonia,
What daughters are thine !
As fresh as the morning,
And sweet as the vine,
The joy of each dwelling,
From castle to cot ; —
There's little like heaven
Where woman is not.
Thy sons, too, Devonia,
Have honoured thy name,
Their deeds are thy poems,
Their glory thy fame ;
In arms, arts, and song,
How colossal they stand !
The life, light, and soul,
And the shield of the land.
Sweet Vales of Devonia,
There's one thing I crave :
Ye gave me a birthplace,
give me a grave :
Let it be where the sunshine
Can warm my last home,
And a knot of your daisies
Blow over my tomb.
Edinburgh Review, xciii, 71.
" Who that has seen it does not retain in his mind, as
a type of rural beauty, the picture of some sequestered
Devonshire Glen ; its stream gushing through narrow
meadows of the richest emerald, now turning the wheels
16 DEVON VALES.
of the picturesque old mill, now chafing against a tiny-
barrier of rock, now sleeping in deep eddies under over-
hanging groves of oak ; its farms bosomed in orchards ; its
cottages half buried in the luxuriance of the flowering
shrubs of their gardens ; its precipitous-looking ploughed
fields covering the hill-sides, at one time with their waving
crops, at another with their rich red fallow ? ' The lanes,'
as the Hand-Book prettily describes them, ' are steep and
narrow, and bordered by tangled hedges, often thirty feet
above the road, sheltering even the hills from the rigour of
unfriendly blasts. In the deep shadowy combes the villages
lie nestled with roseate walls of clay and roof of thatch, and
seldom far from one of those crystal streams which enliven
every valley of this rocky county.' If the mind of the
traveller be in unison with such quiet prospects, he may
enjoy them here in endless succession. But he must not be
impatient of the leafy screen which generally confines his
eye to the close home view. Without it the scene would
lose its peculiar charm ; while, were it absent, the general
conformation of the country is such, that the observer would
seldom gain an extensive view to counterbalance the loss.
He must be content with the occasional peep at some
unexpected turn of the moorland tor, or the stripe of blue
sea which bound the valley in opposite directions. It is a
spot for repose and meditative enjoyment, and 'dreams that
wave before the half shut eye:' not for eager admiration
and novelty-hunting. According to the deep analogy which
subsists between outward nature and human life, it may be
said that while one might prefer to live amidst scenery of
bolder features and freer character, and suggestive of a
wider range of thought, it is to such a nook as this that
one would fain retire to die,"
DEVON LANES. 17
JHarriage to lifte a Mtbonsfym 3Lane*
Rev. John Marriott.
" Crooks," referred to in the fourth verse, are formed of two poles, about ten
feet long, bent when green into the required curve, and when dried in
that shape, are connected by horizontal bars. A pair of crooks thus com-
pleted, is slung over the packsaddle on the beast of burden, one swinging
on each side to make the balance true. They are used for carrying faggots,
furze, or logs of wood.
In a Devonshire lane, as I trotted along
T other day, much in want of a subject for song,
Thinks I to myself, I have hit on a strain ;
Sure, marriage is much like a Devonshire lane.
In the first place, 'tis long, and when once you are in it,
It holds you as fast as a cage does a linnet ;
For howe'er rough and dirty the road may be found,
Drive forward you must, there is no turning round !
But though 'tis so long, it is not very wide ;
For two are the most that together can ride ;
And e'en then 'tis a chance but they get in a pother,
And jostle and cross, and run foul of each other.
Oft Poverty greets them with mendicant looks,
And Care pushes by them, o'erladen with " crooks ; "
And Strife's grazing wheels try between them to pass,
And Stubbornness blocks up the way on an ass.
Then the banks are so high, to the left hand and right,
That they shut up the beauties around them from sight !
And hence, you'll allow, 'tis an inference plain,
That marriage is just like a Devonshire lane.
C
18 DEVON LANES.
But, thinks I too, these banks, within which we are pent,
"With bud, blossom, and berry are richly besprent ;
And the conjugal fence, which forbids us to roam,
Looks lovely when decked with the comforts of home.
In the rock's gloomy crevice the bright holly grows,
The ivy waves fresh o'er the withering rose ;
And the evergreen love of a virtuous wife
Soothes the roughness of care, cheers the winter of life.
Then long be the journey, and narrow the way,
I'll rejoice that I've seldom a turnpike to pay ;
And, whate'er others say, be the last to complain,
Though marriage is just like a Devonshire lane.
©rbon ILanes anrj tfjetr 'associations.
Rev. M. G. Watkins, M.A.
From vol. ix. of the Comhill Magazine.
The great Italian poet, at the commencement of his song,
finds himself lost in a wood, dark, rugged, and solitary. We
shall begin by placing our readers in a labyrinth, bright,
smiling, and picturesque. Nothing is easier than to find
this maze in the outskirts of most Devonshire villages. The
West is proverbially the land of green lanes, and though
you must not go too far west, or the stone walls of the
Cornish hills will disenchant you, no one can find it hard to
lose himself in the network of lanes that surround any
village in Devon. Let us transport our reader then to the
lanes that skirt the myrtles and fuchsias of Budleigh
Salterton,
DEVON LANES. 19
Much like the " hollow lanes " of Hampshire, about which
Gilbert White discourses so lovingly, they far surpass them
in prodigality of floral wealth and abrupt change of scenery.
Curious legends and old-world characters are to be found in
them ; railroads have, for the most part, avoided them,
and there are no more pleasant associations than those
which crowd upon the mind in threading these lanes at any
season of the year.
Labyrinthine, indeed, are the lanes of South Devon to
the stranger who wanders in them, hopelessly enclosed by
lofty banks crowned with tall hedges, that twist in and out,
and are interlaced by others, and circle round again under
the blue spring sky, like the fabled stream that never blent
its waters with the ocean. Passing beautiful, too, are they,
filled with a changeful loveliness of bright-coloured flowers
and pendent ferns and darting dragon-flies ; while creeping
bind- weeds knot themselves round gnarled oak-stems, with
leaves more artistically cut than those of the acanthus, and
berries, green, black and red, like the wampum on an Indian
warrior. Here the hedges almost meet overhead, and grace-
ful festoons of flowers depend like lianas in a tropical
forest, as you will see them nowhere else in England.
There the bank on one side falls gently, and what a prospect
opens on the view! Fair meadows bathed in sunshine, with
the Otter river winding through them, lie below ; yonder
are the red Devon steers grazing up to their dewlaps in
buttercups; beyond them dusky moors melt into purple
haze, and every here and there you catch a glimpse of the
far-off Tors on Dartmoor simmering in the mid-day glare.
Then again, the other side of our lane sinks abruptly, and
the sea spreads out far below, with a white sail specking it
here and there to take away from its oppressive infinity.
C 2
20 DEVON LANES.
And birds sing and bees hum amongst the bright yellow
furze-flowers, and a stream that like yourself has lost its
way tinkles merrily adown the bank from the coppice. The
lazy hawk hovering on your right does not even deem it
needful to wheel off in alarm. So irresistible is Devon in
her beauty that you fall in love at first sight, and may be
quite sure that like every loveable maiden, the more you
see of her the more will her unobtrusive gentleness endear
her to you.
A glance at the physical features of the country shows
how these picturesque lanes were formed. The aboriginal
trackway over hill and dale rudely marked out by stones
laid at intervals, just as the Devon coastguardsmen still
guide themselves over the cliffs at night by lines of stones
so deposited, sank gradually into the soil. Mud from the
path was flung on either side. Violent rains cut deep
furrows in the road; during winter the path became a
water-course where it was not a bog, and this continued for
centuries. Then came an age of improvement, the adjoining
moor was divided from the road, after the native fashion,
by banks of earth; trees and bushes took possession of them;
and while every season washes the road away, every time
the farmer mends his fence, the banks above gain height.
Thus each year deepens the lane. Frost often brings down
one of these banks, which are topped by hedges, in some
cases thirty feet above the traveller's head; and this
" rougement," as they call it in Devon, must be replaced
before the lane is passable, so that their depth seldom
diminishes, and perpetually increases.
Many of these lanes are extremely ancient. Round
Dartmoor especially, they go back to Celtic times, or
beyond them to that dim, pre-historic antiquity where even
DEVON LANES. 21
archaeology loses itself. Their natural formation, as we
have described it above, overthrows a theory which has
before now found favour with ethnologists, and which
would contrast the generous, open-hearted Roman with the
skulking Celt. The Roman shows his character, according
to this fancy, by his wide, elevated streets, driven for the
most part in a straight line through the length and breadth
of the land ; while the other's nature was to hide in cir-
cuitous, hollow lanes, fighting in trenches as it were, while
the legions manoeuvred in the open. What little the
ancients have told us of the Celts negatives this view.
Though superior force and a higher civilization drove the
ancient Briton to the fastnesses of Wales and Cornwall, the
Celt was brave to rashness.
Returning to the lanes, another feature which strikes the
stranger — besides their twistings up and down the hill-
sides, and their depth — is their narrowness. It is very
difficult and in many cases impossible for one vehicle to pass
another in them. Sometimes a gate has to be opened and
one or other must drive into the field; sometimes by
waiting in a more open space it is just possible for the
coming vehicle to graze by. When the great man of the
country drives in them he has outriders to clear the way
for him. This narrow roadway gives the history of loco-
motion in Devon. Originally these lanes would only be
traversed by foot passengers and. beasts of burden, the
predecessors of the pack-horses, laden with u crooks " of
faggots or furze, so often met with at the present day.
Then came the broadest view on the subject of transport
our forefathers could hold. The curious narrow wain
without wheels, consisting of a rough body drawn on two
thick shafts which rest on the ground behind, came into
22 DEVON LANES.
vogue. Specimens of it may still be seen in use on the hill
farms.
Amongst the minor embarrassments of these old lanes is
meeting an infuriated ox running amuck. If you are not
prepared to scale the steep banks at a moment's notice, you
should be ready-witted enough to provide yourself with a
straw. It is a west-country superstition that even if you
meet his Satanic Majesty you can cut him in half with a
straw. We hesitate about giving another receipt, as we
never came to such close quarters as to give us the oppor-
tunity of trying its efficacy. It is of little use to ladies, who
are most likely to be caught in the plight we have fancied,
still here it is. You have only to spit over his horns,
whether it be ox or devil, and he will instantly disappear.
There is another bit of Devon folk-lore we may as well
mention, for a traveller in these intricate lanes will often
have the chance of putting it in practice. If you lose your
way, take off your coat, and having turned it inside out, put
it on again. You will immediately find the right track. It
may easily be conjectured that the proverb, " It is a long
lane which has no turning," could never have been coined
in Devonshire, although that other equally true one of
marriage being like a lane, from which when once you are
in there is no getting out, is manifestly indigenous.
Autumn brings a beauty of its own to these quiet lanes.
Heather and golden gorse stray from the moorland down
their banks — the last bright flowers of the year — just as
two or three purple and pink cloud-flakes often linger in
the west long after a glorious sunset. The tall hedges are a
tangle of convolvulus and honeysuckle, filling the calm
evening hours with fragrance. Mid-day, which, sooth to
say, is during July somewhat oppressive in these still
DEVON LANES. 23
retreats, has now its own clear, sharp breeze. Deeper
shades of red and yellow are passing over the leaves. You
may often meet here two or three bare-armed children from
the cottage on the hill-side, staring at you with round blue
eyes as they gather blackberries, which have left numerous
specimens of nature-printing on their cheeks. The biggest
boy maybe stands on a donkey's back under the nut trees,
clutching at their treasures, with no fear of the patient
animal beneath him moving on. Mother is far away on the
moors gathering " worts " (whortleberries), to sell to visitors
at the neighbouring sea-side village. Home life is very
uneventful to these cottagers. The children tell you,
" Vather be to the zyder-press," and this answer will apply
equally well to him, good honest man, any day from August
to November.
The stranger rambling in these Devon lanes is frequently
surprised at a turn of the road to find before him, in its
sheltered. " Combe," an old mansion now converted into a
farm-house. Very picturesque does the transformation render
it, with its thatched gables, deeply sunk dormer windows,
and large lower casements, lighting what was the common
hall, but is now the goodwife's kitchen. Merry beards once
wagged there, and the best families of Devon — the Mohuns,
Carews, Champernounes — may have flourished within the
massive walls whose heavy mullioned windows you see
blinking in the sunshine. Gilbert and Drake may have
circumnavigated the world there to an admiring audience
over oceans of cider.
All these worthies have long since passed away, but
Nature is still unchangeable. The heavily-laden horse-
chestnut trees bow before the gentle breeze sweeping round
the garden, and the Virginian creeper over the window
24 DEVON LANES.
reddens, as it may have done one summer when shouts told
far and wide that the Armada was in our seas.
Just such a house may be seen in a lane near Budleigh
Salterton. Sir Walter Raleigh was born in it. Its pro-
jecting porch and heavily-thatched gables have an old-
world look about them ; but on the whole it takes its fame
as a matter of course, and makes no great pretensions to be
anything more than an Elizabethan country house. The
hills rise above it at the back, stacks close in around it, you
hear the cows lowing from the " linneys," the garden is full
of old-fashioned flowers, and a genial atmosphere of peace
hangs over it. The general features of the place must have
changed very little since Sir Walter rambled about the quiet
woodland ways which hem it in. Here he cherished
boundless dreams of El Dorado galleons and ingots. Hayes
Wood in front and the hills behind must often have seen
him, like another Alexander, chafing at the narrow horizon
of his world. The first pipe smoked in England may have
been puffed on the mossy bank where you sit at present.
It is impossible to refrain from associating this calm spot
with the courtier's after-life. How often must he have
turned in fancy to this little homestead when fainting under
a tropical sun, or chafing as a prisoner in the Tower ! The
mind, they say, often revisits early scenes in the moment of
death. Raleigh may have seemed to hear the sheep bleat,
and called up in fancy the well-remembered outline of
Hayes Farm against yonder green hill-side as he closed his
eyes and laid his head on the block.
Expeditions to such famous spots should be undertaken
if possible during summer. Candour compels us to state
that no one would care to walk lightly shod in winter
through the Devon lanes. The road which in more
DEVON LANES. 25
civilized counties November converts into "feather-bed
lane," becomes here in the native term " mucksy-lane." You
long, as you flounder in the mire, for the ten-foot stride of
the giant Ordulph, who lies buried at Tavistock. As the
hedges lose their bravery, the red sandstone stares in all its
nakedness from the banks. No storm or wet daunts the
pretty blue periwinkle from flowering here during the
winter months, and there is sure to be a plentiful supply of
wormwood at every corner, " good to prevent weariness in
travellers," according to Pliny's old-world wisdom. As the
long evenings close in, you may hear "eldritch skirls" in the
coppices around. That silent spectre passing overhead so
silently as hardly to disturb the streams of moonlight is
only the owl on his way, as in Shakespeare's days, " to woo
the baker's daughter." You need not mistake it for some-
thing uncanny. The last of the Devonshire witches —
Temperance Lloyd, Mary Trembles, and Susannah Ed-
wards — were executed at Exeter Castle in 1682, though
many a poor old woman in out-of-the-way districts is still
suspected of being " a white witch."
It is still thought dangerous, though, to disturb "the
little people " at their revels on the sward by the lane-side
which falls back to the oak wood. You will do this if you
whistle as you pass by. Let them be in peace, unless you
wish to be " pixy-led," and left " stogged " in a deep swamp.
It is ticklish work meddling with Elbricht and his fairy folk.
Be forbearing, even you, my irate British farmer, if they
will gallop your horses over the moor at night, and Dobbin,
your faithful market steed, be discovered all over foam in
his stall on one or two mornings during winter. Why
should the pixies be debarred from a night with "the
wish hounds " occasionally ? Open your window the next
26 DEVON LANES.
frosty midnight, and you will hear the rout sweeping
merrily away towards Dartmoor. Do not even let your
better half exasperate you by complaints of her dairy being
rifled by them. It is true she has never ceased twitting you
for that unlucky night's work, when you went down to the
cellar, after she had retired to the upper regions, and un-
fortunately dropping the candle and the cork of the cider-
barrel, had to stand all night with your finger in the bung-
hole, to prevent the precious liquor running out. But bid
her wink at fairy misdemeanours, and remind her she may
then be invited to fairy-land herself, and come back won-
derfully enriched. Perhaps , she may even stay there alto-
gether. Such cases are not unknown in the West. In 1696,
it is upon record that a certain Ann Jeffries, in Cornwall,
" was fed for six months by a small sort of airy people called
fairies," and performed many strange and wonderful cures
on her return home with salves and medicines she received
from them, for which she never took a penny from her
patients.
The Devon peasantry are very superstitious, and the long
moonlit nights of Christmas, which are so fascinating to
most people, bring their special terrors to the lone farm-
house, or the cottage half hidden by the pines at the side
of these lanes. These fancies do not for the most part take
the fatalistic hue of the Welsh countryman, or the still more
gloomy complexion of the superstitions of the Channel
Islander. The Devon yeoman has no fear of meeting a
coffin obstructing his path when benighted in the narrow
lanes, which is sure to betoken his own if he knocks it
roughly over, or is otherwise than scrupulously polite in
taking off the lid and replacing it the wrong way, when it
instantly disappears. It is rather an undefined dread that
bEVON LANKS. 27
something might come, which oppresses him as he looks
over the glimmering waste of snow. Something did
assuredly come, some thirteen or fourteen years ago, to the
very neighbourhood wherein we have fancied our traveller
rambling, the angle formed about Salterton by the left bank
of the Exe and the sea.
In the outskirts of Topsham, to the lanes which ramify
from there into the country, were noticed on several wintry
mornings mysterious footsteps over the virgin snow, having
great affinity (so the natives affirmed) to the cloven hoofs
popularly assigned to a certain nameless personage. These
tracks advanced steadily without any apparent divarication,
walking over roofs, walls, and other obstacles that might
reasonably be supposed capable of baffling a hoaxer. The
story quickly spread to the London papers, and all kinds of
guesses were made respecting the footprints. Some ascribed
them to natural causes, such as the visit of a large wild
fowl, &c, but found small favour with the country-side for
their trouble. The mystery was never satisfactorily cleared
up. Long after most people, however, had forgotten the
whole occurrence, the neighbouring peasants did not dare to
stir from their hearths after nightfall. Often as we our-
selves have threaded Devon lanes after sunset, we cannot
testify to having seen anything more fearsome than bats or
owls.
But our lanes are full of beauty (as well as of mud) even
in winter. Here a delicate snow-wreath glitters in the
moonlight, waiting for sunrise to lend its pink and amber
flushes, the death-tints of its graceful folds. There a deep
recess in the bank glistens with icicle spears, as if deter-
mined that summer shall never more hang fondly over the
ferny treasures within. The old trees sigh overhead, as
28 DEVON LAKES.
their last leaf flutters to the ground ; and now a deeper
plunge than usual into the quagmire recalls us to the sterner
realities of life. We were fast nearing some enchanted land
of fancy, and lo ! we find ourselves ankle-deep in mud !
Pluck up courage and press on through the wintry lanes
a little further. The faint chimes of St. Mary's at distant
Ottery are flinging their Christmas greeting over many a
mile of moorland. We are passing the old " cob " walls and
grey-headed barns of a substantial farmstead. The cocks
will crow here all the night before Christmas-day, according
to the beautiful legend of the county, to bid
" Each fettered ghost slip to his several grave,"
and the very oxen at midnight will fall down on their knees
before the manger. The next turn brings us to the Otter,
rushing along some forty feet below with angry stream,
very different from the pleasant murmur with which it
glides through the land in summer. Notice how abrupt are
the transitions of the lanes. We can now catch the distant
roar which tells of the sea chafing awfully amidst the rocks
of the Salterton reef. How changed, too, are its waves from
those which in August ripple gently over the many-coloured
pebbles on the beach, much as some gigantic Viking might
have dallied with the yellow curls of his princess. Now
they form a black seething torrent, flashing here and there
into huge foam-crested rollers, that chase each other wildly
on, and leap, and strike, and roar again with rage as the
sturdy rocks stand firm, and they can only swirl round and
break against their next neighbours in the mighty charge.
Fully to appreciate the Devon sea, it should be visited from
one of the quiet lanes that open on to the beach, when a
good southerly breeze brings it in, and all the green expanse
DEVON LANES. 29
is flecked with many a white " sea-horse " riding gallantly
on, as though after some imaginary hero of Ivry.
One more Christmas association, and then we will pass to
a brighter scene. Curiously enough, the blue scented violet,
which lends such a charm to the lanes of other counties, is
very rare in Devon, and the mistletoe is never found there.
Glastonbury seems its head-quarters in England, and whole
truck-loads of it are imported every Christmas for the
festivities in the West. Its absence in Devon and Cornwall
calls up an awful picture of the womankind of other days,
when such amatory trifles as violets and mistletoe were not
encouraged in the land. In some such mood do the Latin
poets look back with reverence on the austere virtues of the
Sabine dames, who dismissed their husbands to work in the
fields, while they ruled the house and spun quietly at home.
Doubtless the Devon swains are duly grateful as they see
the pearly berries littering the stations on the Great
Western, that their lives have fallen on more osculatory
days.
If the Devon lanes are fair in summer, fairer in autumn,
and not without a certain loveliness in winter, in spring
they are simply radiant with beauty. Let us breast yonder
hill with April's sunshine fleeting in vast sheets of splendour
over the heather. The lanes are rather intricate, and if a
damp place here and there speaks of spring showers, you
will often recover your equanimity by finding some rare
plant, such as the pretty little pinguicola Lusitanica. On
these spangled banks all the wild flowers of the West seem
following the example of the hares, and running riot over
mossy cushions and ivy-clad stumps. But we are out of the
lanes now, and with just one look from the hill-side, plunge
into the glades on the other side, and soon reach my
favourite grange.
y)
30 DEVON LANES.
Can anything be more spring-like than those white-
washed cob- walls covered with roses ? Through the
" barton," past the Alderneys looking so well-pleased with
their lot, we will approach the house. The entrance is very
massive and low. Follow me through the flagged passage
to the parlour. Here is our hostess with the heartiest of
welcome to sit down and rest after our ramble. And now
Lucy comes in, with the fair hair and blue eyes of the
West, like her mother " on hospitable cares intent." What
will we have ? new milk ? cider ? cream ? Take my advice
and choose the latter. Here it is in a lordly dish, mantled
with gold and redolent (as good Devonshire cream should
be) of wood ashes. Lucy will pile you a platter of it, with
plenty of preserved " mazzards " (wild cherries), and if you
have not enjoyed your ramble through the lanes, I am sure
I shall earn your gratitude by introducing you to such a
repast. Now that we have seated you in the low window-
sill, by the large beaupot of roses, we bid you heartily
farewell, and will tell you in conclusion, that whoever you
be, and wherever you may ramble through the Devon lanes,
you will find their beauty much heightened by the courtesy,
hospitality, and kindness you will invariably experience
from those who live amongst them. One of the greatest
pleasures of after life will be to look back from toil, and
care, and anxieties, to the sunny hours you have loitered
away in the lanes of Devonshire.
& Wtbonztyxz lane.
The Pall Mall Gazette.
Overhead, seen through hanging brambles, a deep blue
cleft of sky ; on either hand, red banks of soft sandstone,
thickly overgrown with hartstongue and polypody ; under-
DEVON LANES. 31
foot, a pair of parallel ruts, eaten down by cart-wheels and
drainage, with a ridge of loose small pebbles in between
them ; there, in brief, you have our Devonshire lane.
Diving down here into the deep valley of a little stream ;
climbing up there again to the summit of an intervening
spur, anon, hurrying down once more, helter-skelter, lane
and watercourse and gutter together, it tumbles headlong
but crookedly into a second dale ; for all these old Devon-
shire roads run transversely to the natural watersheds, and
no sooner have they mounted the steep on one side of a
dividing ridge, than they are off again in a semi-circle down
the sheer slope of the other. Cart-horses toil wearily up
the first half of the way with straining muscles, and plunge
wildly down the second half, with drag red-hot and load
jolting behind them, like mad creatures ; and when you hear
them coming round a jutting corner you stand hastily flat-
tened against the right hand bank, reducing your sectional
diameter to the smallest possible dimensions, with two
inches to spare between your toes and the nearside rut. For
brightness of hue there is nothing like it. The red soil
glows with ochre between the ferns ; the green hartstongues
defy all the resources of one's colour-box ; the clear blue sky
puts to shame the muddy ultramarine on one's palette.
Further on, when a distant glimpse here and there lets us
catch a passing vista of the sea, it shows a scarred cliff of
umber and sienna, with a sheet of purple water gleaming
against the white pebbles of the beach beyond. There are
critics who talk about the brilliant colours of the tropics
and the Mediterranean ; but if any spot on earth can beat
the mingled green grass, and red broken rocks, and purple
sea, and deep- fleeced sheep of Watcombe, then that spot has
still to be seen by the present spectator.
32 DEVON LANES.
It is not all still life either. From the hedge, as we move,
a self-assertive cuckoo reiterates from minute to minute the
obtrusive announcement of his own name, with a persistence
which in spite of its monotony never succeeds in wearying
the ear. Over the gaps which lead into the turnip-fields we
can see the white tails of numberless young rabbits twink-
ling rapidly and unanimously towards the safety of the
hedge-bank. Horse-flies do not forget to pay us their grace-
ful attentions, especially on the delicate and juicy region
about the nape of the neck, while midges dance about us by
thousands, and occasionally insist upon immolating them-
selves in a watery grave by recklessly flying down our
mouths whenever we open them to speak. For winged
things of all kinds, indeed, the true Devonshire lane is a
heaven-sent refuge. There are four separate torrents
tumbling down it in four parallel courses, one on each side
by way of gutter, and one in each of the ruts worn down
by the cart-wheels near the middle. In and about the pools
into which they broaden now and again innumerable insects
live and breathe. Then there is the shade to attract them,
and the coolness and the moisture and the freedom from
wind, all of which things your midge or your May-fly dearly
loves. Furthermore, there are horses and cows to torment,
let alone stray carters, tourists, and sketchers — no feeding-
ground on earth can equal an amateur's neck for sweetness ;
while the very droppings on the road afford a rich feast to
less epicurean flies. In and out among them the big dragon-
flies dart on evenly-poised wings ; horse-stingers we call
them commonly in these parts, though they are really guilt-
less of the horse's blood ; but they prey on the smaller
insects around them with all the swiftness and ferocity of
tigers. Flowers, on the other hand, are few, and of common
DEVON LANES. 33
sorts ; a great purple foxglove or two, a bunch of tattered
ragged robins, and a mass of yellow woodspurge now and
again — these make up the chief bright colouring of the
nearer foreground. The damp and the shade sort better
with the retiring taste of ferns ; and for ferns of every kind
the lane is a perfect picture. Set in their hollowed frame of
russet sandstone, they stand out against their surroundings
with a vivid greenness which beggars the resources of
human pigments.
Why the lanes should run so deep below the general
surface — this one is cut down about seven or eight feet
beneath the level of the fields on either side — has often
puzzled many a casual visitor ; but in truth they were not
made, they have been simply worn so. It is the ceaseless
usage of ages that has cut them down to their existing depth,
and the ruts of the wheels are cutting them still deeper at
the present day. The wear and tear they have undergone
is the best proof of their immemorial antiquity. For the
lanes are far older than the high-roads, which often have to
dip down in order to cross them ; and just here one can see
how the ancient line avoids the new-fangled town that dates
only from the days of the Plantagenets, but keeps right on
from point to point of the earlier villagers, with names lost
in the philological mist of Keltic times. The Roman ridge-
ways on the chalk still stand high above the downs, instead
of falling flush to the level ; and so, on the chalk there are
no lanes, because the water sinks in instead of running off
along the surface and cutting itself a pathway. For the
same reason, chalk has no glens or water-courses, only long
swelling ridges, and basin-shaped hollows ; it weathers
evenly and smoothly in every part. But here on the sand-
stone the rain soon carves out deep cleaves (as we call them)
D
34 DEVON LANES.
for the little brooks ; and so the sandstone is a country of
Devonshire valleys and Devonshire lanes. As soon as
human feet or cart-wheels (it was chariot- wheels, doubtless,
when they first began) have made a little runnel for the
water to flow in, it continues to scoop out a channel for
itself, till at last it cuts down the lane to a depth of several
feet below the surface. Horses, too, help the work forward
by loosening the middle soil, and the rain then washes away
the softer sandy parts, leaving only the central ridge of
worn pebbles in their midst. Often enough one can prove
that the lane is older than the Roman road itself, because
the Roman road dips or diverges to meet it ; and in other
cases the lane religiously avoids a mound or earthwork
which the Roman road ruthlessly cuts through. It must be
thousands of years since some of these rude trackways first
began to be ; and in their meaningless meanderings one can
easily read the fact that they grew up from mere accidental
use, like modern footpaths, instead of being definitely laid
out and engineered, like modern roads. It is one of the
great charms of our Devonshire lanes that they twist thus
irresponsibly from angle to angle; for everyone of their
elbows brings us face to face with a fresh view, and every-
one of their topmost turning-points brings us down with
two brace of petty torrents at our side into the valley of a
fresh streamlet, brawling and bustling over its pebbly little
ford below.
-!*§&g)
<*-
DEVON HEDGES. 35
Richakd John King in the Standard, 14 April, 1876.
Among the changes which the progress of modern
agriculture is bringing into the West must be reckoned
the gradual clearing away of the broad, steep hedges
which form one of the most distinctive characteristics of
Devonshire scenery. The gradual clearing ; for the work
is happily of such a nature that only very distant descen-
dants of the present generation will see the completion
of it should it ever be carried so far. These Devonshire
hedges are literally earthworks ; many of them quite as
massive and as formidable as the mounds and intrench-
ments that surround an ancient hill fort. Some of them,
too, may perhaps be of almost equal age. Hallam suggests
that some English hedges may be among the most vener-
able relics in this country — that is, of course, within, and
far within, the historical era. But no hedges and no
fences of any kind can possibly claim a greater antiquity,
or have more in common with works of which the
antiquity is certain, than these Devonshire earth mounds,
which time has half mouldered, half clothed, into so
great beauty. It is quite possible that when the first
Saxon settlers (in this case they were really Saxons, and
cannot properly be called English) appeared in the far
west, they found a condition of the country very different
from that which they encountered on the east and in the
midland of Britain. Of course here, as there, were wide
open heaths and great stretches of unenclosed land. But
may not the Danmonians have already fenced and warded
36 DEVON HEDGES.
whole tracts of their district ? May not this be the reason
why we find so little trace in Devonshire of the open
field system which usually marks the Teutonic settlement
in Germany as in England ? And may not some, at least,
of the Devonshire hedges be as old as the days of Gereint,
or the historic Arthur ?
If this is possibly the case with the fence itself, far
more are we entitled to claim such an antiquity for the
deeply sunk, winding lanes, the steep banks of which
are so often crested with these earthworks. These are
the lanes which, we are assured on good poetical authority,
have so much in common with the " conjugal fence ": —
" The banks are so high to the left hand and right,
That they shut up the beauties around them from sight,
And hence you'll allow 'tis an inference plain
That marriage is just like a Devonshire lane."
There is no " path " or " road " quite like a true Devon-
shire lane to be found elsewhere in England ; nothing so
long and often so irritating in its unbroken length ; and
nothing certainly half so beautiful. Many of them were
at first, perhaps, mere cattle tracks, worn gradually into
the yielding soil, and widened as communication became
more necessary between different parts of the county. But
the width of the older roads barely suffices for two
horsemen to ride abreast.
Sir Walter Raleigh, in one of his reports, declares that
ordnance could not be conveyed from Exeter to Plymouth
by land, because the road — and the road which he meant
was the old line of the Foss way — was too narrow and too
bad to allow of the dragging of the guns by horses ; and,
indeed, along the coast the sea was the natural highway.
Inland, the lanes were in winter picturesque water-courses.
DEVON HEDGES. 37
Fuller, who during the troubles of the civil war, was for
some time in Devonshire, and printed his " Good Thoughts
in Bad Times " at Exeter, shows us plainly enough that
he found the Devonshire lanes an entire novelty, and that,
if he recognised certain of their merits in summer, he was
keenly alive to the discomforts of journeying through them
in wet and wintry weather. He appreciated the wild
strawberries that sometimes give a scarlet touch to the
bank side. " Most toothsome to the palate," he writes, " (I
mean if with claret wine or sweet cream) ; and so
plentiful in this County that a traveller may gather them,
sitting on horseback, in their hollow highways." This is
a picture surely drawn from pleasant experience; and
when he describes the invention or rather the introduction
of " gambadoes " by one of the Carews of Antony, he
suggests not less clearly winter troubles encountered by
himself in muddy lanes and under dripping branches.
" They be much worn in the west ; whereby, whilst one
rides on horseback, his legs are in a coach, clean and warm,
in those dirty countries."
And yet, even in winter, who with any feeling for colour,
or intricacy of outline, has ever struggled onward between
the steep banks of such a " hollow highway " without
lingering at times in admiration of the beauty that
surrounds him ? There comes now and then a clear, bright
day, when the sky is all blue, and the crisp, white frost,
except in deeply shadowed places, has quite disappeared
before noon. The trees and coppice wood that overhang
the road are for the most part leafless ; but here a group
of oaken boughs retain their withered foliage, rich in all
tones of brown and purple ; and there a spiring holly, a
mass of deep green bossed with scarlet, glitters in the sun
38 DEVON HEDGES.
with its myriad reflections of light, and the mosses that
lie in great broad patches along the steep weather-broken
banks, put on their brightest and freshest vesture on such
a day. Many of them belong altogether to winter, and
their quaint forms, like those of diminutive trees and
ferns can only then be seen in perfection. Ivy wreaths
trail over the soft, sunny beds, and add a charm to them
by the contrast of tone. The lady ferns are yet green ;
only the bracken has changed; and though the richer
colouring has passed away, it is still where the light falls
through it, the " red fern " of the old ballad makers. And
for the moving life of the place, a company of blue-winged
jays, keeping together through the winter, as the spring
brood generally does, may flit across from side to side, or
a magpie (let us hope it will be a pair) may hop before us
in the sun.
Even Reynard himself may show his bright fur for a
moment. In truth, if a long Devonshire lane at all
resembles a prison, it is one to which the most ardent
lover of space and freedom might readily doom himself
for a time :
" Bees that soar for bloom
High as the highest peak of Furness Fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells."
Many an artist and many a wanderer must have felt
from time to time "the weight of too much liberty."
Mr. Ruskin somewhere tells us that a foot or two of an
ordinary hedge will contain matter with which a true and
reverent student of Nature might busy himself for months.
And a Devonshire hedge is by no means ordinary, even,
as we see, in mid- winter.
It may very well be a question whether the strong local
DEVON HEDGES. 89
feeling of Devonshire — the strong affection with which
Devonians regard their native hills and homesteads, to
whatever distance they may have been withdrawn from
them in actual life — may not, at least, have been intensified,
by the enclosing and protecting influences of high hedges
and steep banks, narrowing the life of the hill farm and of the
solitary hamlet, at the same time that they give it shelter —
" The child who plays
Beneath the ash trees, by the river side,
Sees the same quiet home his fathers knew ; "
and all that surrounds that home becomes the more deeply
impressed, the more narrowed in range and extent it is. The
little furze-grown enclosures, and the pasture fields about a
true moorland farm produce in Devonshire much the same
feeling of long lingering attachment, as a very similar
country, and households isolated in much the same manner,
have tended to bring about in the Scottish Lowlands, and
many a picture drawn from Eskdale or " the Mearns " by
our dear old friend Christopher North would answer almost
equally well for the home-life of a farm nitched into the
side of a half reclaimed hill rising towards Dartmoor or
Exmoor. The long lane which winds upwards towards such
a farm may be a true hollow way, with its own special
beauty. Probably it will have an unusual share of such
beauty, since its course will most likely be through deep
copses, covering the lower ground with an intricate tangle of
grey stems and leafy branches. But the hedges, if they are
to be so called, which surround the farm itself will be of a
very different character. They are often of great age, as old
as the settlement itself, the " cote," or the " worthy," whose
primitive name tells us at once that it was founded in the
40 DEVON HEDGES.
earlier days of Saxondom. Great blocks of native stone
have been allowed to remain untouched, whilst the granite
wall or hedge has been piled on or around them. Such a
fence might seem unpromising enough, as far as beauty is
concerned, whatever shelter it might afford to the young
lambs or the growing corn. But century after century
has not passed away without clothing and softening the
rugged stones ; and an ancient fence of this sort is hardly
less full of charm or less rich in contrast than a hedgerow
of the lower land. Lichens, grey, yellow, red, cover the
granite blocks, and soft green mosses glow in the hollows
between them. Wild thyme, hawkweed, hartstongues, find
their own nooks and spread themselves as they may. Stone-
crops, white and yellow, star the crevices; and often along the
hillocks of green turf that close up towards the foot of the
wall, or on the broad crest of the fence itself, the foxglove
dresses its purple ranks, giving its own decided colouring to
the whole scene. Such a fence has plenty of lessons for
those who can read them ; and if it be not, in its general
character, so peculiar to the west as the steep bank or the
broad earthwork, it is nowhere else so beautiful, and its
native roughness is nowhere else so gracefully veiled.
We have wandered away from the true Devonshire
hedges with which we set out, and must return to the less
rugged country and to the fields and fences about the low-
land farms. An old Devonshire hedge, a venerable earth-
work, which has mingled in the lives of generation after
generation from the days of Wolfhard or the Godwyne who
first raised it, is often one of the best guardians of the
natural antiquities of the country. Plants and insects
which have disappeared elsewhere make such a hedge their
fastness, and hardly leave it until the whole mass of earth
DEVON HEDGES. 41
is displaced, and field added to field after the modern — but
not the picturesque or homely — system. The proper and
simple hedgerow of the midland counties is frequently of
great beauty. In spring-time its masses of blossoming
whitethorn mark out the great fields in lines of snow ; and
in autumn the wealth of scarlet berries is hardly less
striking. But these can in no way compare with the broad
west-country rampart, whose very breadth and massiveness
tell of days when there was land enough and to spare, and
the unproductive covering of such a surface was of little
moment. All wild flowers find their home here ; and often
the flat top of the hedge, for a season after the brushwood
has been cut, becomes a sheet of colour, thick set with pink
" Robins " (the campion that in local folk-lore seems to be
called after Robin Goodfellow, and is certainly not uncon-
nected with the wood-elves), alive with flocks of the wild
blue hyacinth, or with daffodils that " take the winds of
March with beauty."
And nestled here, under some oaken sapling or some
mountain ash whose white clusters fill the air with faint
sweetness, what a perfect foreground the hedge itself, with
its flowers and its sprays of leafage, affords for the distant
landscape. The grey moorland far away — the nearer woods
— the farms with their meadows and pastures, intersected
by a network of fences like our own —
" Hardly hedge rows — little lines
Of sportive wood run wild,"
gain fresh value from the contrast, and each part of the
scene is tied to the others without a discord. Devonshire
hedges, it is often complained, shut out the grand views of
the distant country, and you may travel between them for
42 DEVON HEDGES.
miles without a glimpse of what lies beyond. This may
now and then be the case. But let him who, in spite of
the beauty of his prison walls, grumbles at such confinement,
scale the wall itself, and make that his " coign of vantage."
He will admit that the broken, wooded landscape would
lose half its charm if the high, leafy hedges were swept
away from it.
But in truth it is a great mistake to quarrel with the
deep " hollow ways," or the broad earthwork fences, even
on the score of the distant landscape. They form, in most
cases, the becoming avenue or the long vestibule leading to
the point of high ground where the widest and grandest
view is to be obtained ; and we all know how great is the
advantage of such a sudden revelation. The long, green
ferny hollow has delighted us in its own fashion. All at
once we gain the hill top ; the hedges fall away on either
side as the road descends at our feet, and half a county
stretches in front, with all its deep coombes, its tumbled
hills, and its river valleys, rising towards the peaks and the
ridges of Dartmoor, all, it may be, glowing in the sunset, or
changing with the gleams and cloud shadows of a soft
spring morning. Few modern roadways prepare for us a
surprise like this. It belongs to the old system, like the
hedges and the lands themselves. Those who formed and
beat out the old tracks took small account of steep hills,
and knew well enough the advantage of such shelter as the
high banks afforded them. They had to keep clear of low
marshy grounds and of thickly-tangled woods; and in
looking for some such height as has just been suggested, it
is curious to note the manner in which the most ancient
roads are made to follow the first ridge above the valley,
often winding along them for miles rather than descend for
DEVON HEDGES. 43
a more direct way. We are changing all this ; but all who
care for venerable associations and for the quiet beauty
which gathers about old-world homesteads and their bye-
ways will look forward with little satisfaction to a time,
however remote, when Devonshire hedges and Devonshire
lanes shall have become altogether things of the past.
©ebonsljtre $?etrps in jjttirttarg.
From the Queen, 1872.
The " flowery band that binds us to the earth " is usually
such a slender one in February, that it is hardly worth
while to kneel upon damp banks and prowl under dripping
hedgerows in search of the blooms that are probably not
there. But this is an exceptional season. Wild vegetation
is at least a month in advance at the date at which I am
writing. While garden ground lies fallow, because gar-
deners object to working on land that is like a bog, the
ground that is independent of garden is studded with
flowers that belong properly to March and April. I have
made three or four trial trips in search of wild flowers lately
with the following results : It is true that the atmosphere of
the West of England is peculiarly favourable to the early
development of flowers, as well as to the perfect develop-
ment of ferns. But the lover of wild flowers, whose fate it
is to pass the spring in London, will find that the lovely
lanes about Willesden are not deficient in rare floral
attractions.
About three miles from Torquay there is a narrow road
44 DEVON HEDGES.
that much resembles a ravine, especially now, when the
pathway is a shallow stream that comes "cortling in its joy"
down from the table-land. Instead of sheer glistening rocks
rising on either side, however, there are almost perpendicu-
lar banks, green and glossy as walls of emerald could be,
whereon hartstongues with fronds two feet long, fat thick
ivy leaves, the hard fern, the polypody, and the waving lady
fern are tangled together in a glorious profusion. Of course
the ferns are quite in the order of things. We were not in
the least surprised to see them there ; we merely, half un-
consciously, patronisingly applauded them for being so fine.
But presently the road grew less like a rivulet running
down a ravine. The hedges sloped away instead of rising
perpendicularly, and, as I bent down to gather the first wild
narcissus I had seen for the year, a flash of bright blue
caught my eyes, and I recognised the dear little scollop-
edged leaves and the trailing bloom of that familiar old
hedgerow friend, the ground ivy. I was so glad to see it
in February that I acted in a weak but human way : I tore
it up and pressed it into the pocket of my saddle, as I had
gone out without a specimen tin. In imagination I already
saw it well dried and carefully pressed. But its actual fate
was to be presently crushed under a gigantic head of the
sweet-scented coltsfoot, whose superior charms rendered me
indifferent to the integrity of the ground ivy.
A little further on, at the junction of two cross lanes, I
came to a drear looking old wall surrounding a deserted
farm house. In its abandonment to damp and dry rot, and
all the other ills that beset a deserted house, it would have
been a desolate object enough had it not been for the
luxuriant ivy that trailed about its eaves, the delicate little
white-flowered whitlow grass that covered the top of the
DEVON HEDGES. 45
wall, and the long fronds of hartstongue that waved like
pennons from the mouth of the ruined well.
There was a tough ascent from the farmhouse. Once
more the lane was like a ravine cut in the side of a
mountain; once more the water rippled down among big
loose stones, whose presence there proved how little this
bridle path was used. Brambles trailed out from either
side, well into the middle of the pathway, in an unkempt,
uncivilised way, that was pretty enough to look at, but not
pleasant to ride through; but I struggled on, and at a corner
had my reward in coming upon a tall group of wild snow-
drops. We prize them in our gardens very properly, but I
think we never value them to the same degree as when, in
some country wild, their little graceful white heads bending
down with a sweet stateliness arrest our attention. I was
desperately divided in my desires about this little un-
expected clump upon which I had come. It seemed to me
that I should be equally wrong to leave them or to take
them ; they were so perfectly placed there on the top of a
bank, waving well in sight of everyone who might pass, that
it would be cruel to displace them ; but, on the other hand,
probably no one would pass down that secluded lane while
they were in bloom, and I have only pity, and no sympathy,
for the flowers that blush unseen. But the snowdrops may
be blooming in their solitude still, for the saving thought
that if I brought them home they would have no more
beauty than the other snowdrops in my garden, struck me
just in time to save me from uprooting them. So I went
on, giving them more than one wistful backward glance, but
satisfied after all that I had spared them.
These Devonshire lanes are inexhaustible, try them at
what season of the year you like. Just as the first flush of
46 DEVON HEDGES.
my regret for the snowdrops was parting, I came upon a
yard or two of bank that was free from ferns, and was blue
with that most exquisite of all our English blue wild
flowers — the periwinkle. There is nothing in the hedges in
any month that can exceed this purplish blue flower in
richness and intensity, and at the same time in purity of
hue. Nothing, except the tiny growing pimpernel, which is
neither scarlet nor crimson, but something fairer and rarer
than either colour — something that makes it a minute
empress among wild flowers. What a bouquet I might have
had by this time if I had only gathered everything I had
seen ! It was too late to begin now, for the day was dying;
but by the faint light that still came from the west I saw
several half -open primroses, and upon a great loose heap of
stones I recognised a large patch of mistletoe flowers, in
their livery of unconspicuous green.
Pendant from the hedges every here and there the great
tassels of the hazel waved in my face, showering out the
powdery fluff with which they are covered. These can be
arranged beautifully for room decoration in a tall vase,
together with long trails of the glossy ivy. The " black
buds of March " are showing on the ash trees, and the broad
leaves of the wild garlic, which ought to have waited
patiently till April, are already plentiful in some woods I
know of, and will soon be crowded with flowers as pure and
beautiful in appearance as the lily of the valley, but their
perfume is intolerable. — A.T.C.
-^^th^&sc^-^
mm
DARTMOOR. 47
Dartmoor Scmerg.
From The Forest of Dartmoor and its Borders,
by Richard John King.
The Forest of Dartmoor, together with the adjoining
wastes, contains about 130,000 acres, and its average level
ranges from 1,200 to 1,400 feet above the sea. But many
of the Tors are of much greater elevation ; in the northern
quarter, especially, they rise to about 2,000 feet ; and the
southern districts of England can shew few mountain views
more varied, or more beautiful, than those which may be
obtained from the skirts of Dartmoor. The dusky sweep of
hills stretches away with an endless variety of form and
outline ; in some parts sharply peaked, and crested with
masses of broken rock; at others, rounded and massive,
and lifting a long line of sombre heath against the sky.
The deep hollows which separate the hills are thickly
covered with fern and heather, over which blocks of
splintered granite are scattered in all directions ; and as in
all similar districts, each valley has its own clear mountain
stream, which receives the innumerable waterfalls des-
cending from the hill-sides. The whole country has a
solitude, and an impressive grandeur, which insensibly carries
back the mind to an earlier and ruder age ; in this respect
resembling the heaths and mountains of the English border,
and the solitary glens
" Up pathless Ettrick, or on Yarrow,
Where erst the outlaw drew his arrow."
Yet, although the Forest of Dartmoor and its bordering
48 DARTMOOR.
valleys have many points of striking resemblance to the
rude moorlands of the North, they possess distinctive
features which are peculiarly their own. The whole
scenery is more suggestive of repose than that of Scotland.
The solitary farm-houses, with their slanting gables and
wide granite porches, which lie nestled in the windings of
the glens, and sheltered by the heathery hills which rise
behind them, could only belong to a country which had
no fear of ■ Willie of Westburnflat/ or c Dan o' the Howlet
Hirst/ There are no traces of annual burnings of the home-
stead or the corn ricks ; and the good wife might at any
time have gone quietly to rest, with but little fear of finding,
when she rose in the morning, that her cattle had been
driven off, and that ' her gear was a' gane.' In the valleys
which lie along at the foot of Dartmoor, no ' towers of lime
and stane ' rise up between their ancient ash trees, such as
are scattered in such numbers throughout Eskdale and
Liddesdale. There was no need of the bartizan, from which
to watch the approach of the forayers as they came down
over the distant hill-side ; or of the barmekin for the pro-
tection of the cattle which belonged to each little moorland
farm. The only enemies they had to guard against were
' winter and rough weather ; ' and accordingly, instead of
choosing, as an English borderer would have done, a rising
ground, which should command an uninterrupted view over
the surrounding moors, the old settlers on the borders of
Dartmoor looked out for the most sheltered hollow, gener-
ally preferring the head of the coombe or narrow valley,
where the hills meet in a semi-circle above the house.
In this manner almost every wooded glen, which runs
up into the skirts of Dartmoor, contains more than one
ancient farm, generally a long gabled house, of the time of
DARTMOOR. 49
James I., with granite windows and open porch, above
which a tablet is frequently placed, containing the date of
its erection and the initials of its builders. The branches
of two or three large old trees, which have been allowed to
stand as much for shelter as for ornament, generally over-
hang the low mossy walls of the courts and rickyards ; and
sometimes an enormous walnut, a tree which was largely
planted in Devonshire toward the beginning of the seven-
teenth century, stands at the head of the little garden,
bright with sun-flowers and hollyhocks, where the bee-
hives are ranged along close under the mullions of the old
windows. Below the farm, the coombe stretches away,
gradually widening until it opens into the main valley ;
sometimes cleared into meadow ground, where a wider
space is left on the banks of the stream which flows along
it, ( red from its heathery hill ; ' — and towards the broader
opening, shewing rich tracts of a deep arable soil. Its steep
rocky banks are covered with a thick growth of oak coppice
and underwood, where the red berries of the mountain ash
hang forth in heavy clusters, and the smooth leaves of the
holly glitter in the sunlight. Above the coppice, on either
side of the coombe, stretches the line of rough moorland ;
in some places rising up bare and open ; at others hidden
by the knotted branches of some outspreading oak or ash
tree. Throughout its whole extent, the valley exhibits that
mixture of rude uncultivated ground with the richest corn-
land and pasture, which is far more ' delicious to the eye
and the imagination ' than the order and regularity of the
best-managed farm in a more open country. Narrow paths
of the brightest greensward wind between the deep beds of
fern and heather; the broom and the foxglove fringe the
edges of every copse, and spring up between the shafts of
E
50 DARTMOOR.
granite that overhang the borders of the streams ; and
patches of birch and hazel are scattered irregularly over
the pasture, marking the gradual clearing of the valley
from the wood with which it was once overgrown. It was
from the fact that the most ancient inhabitants fixed their
places of abode in the narrow valleys which are everywhere
found intersecting the hills, that they acquired the name by
which they first become known to us, — Danmonii — " The
men of the deep valleys."
The access to these hill-farms must have been anciently
of the rudest and most difficult character; and many of
them, even now, are inaccessible to a cart or wheeled
carriage of any description. On such farms the whole
work is done by pack-horses ; and the good wife travels to
church, like her predecessor in the days of Elizabeth, on a
pillion, behind her master. Generally, the broken road
which leads up through the valley has its steep sides covered
with short heath and wild strawberries ; " most toothsome
to the palate," says Fuller, " (I meane if with clarett wine or
sweet cream) and so plentiful in this county that a traveller
may gather them sitting on horseback in their hollow high-
wayes. I would not wish this countie the increase of these
berries, according to the proverb, ' Cut down an oak, and set
up a strawberrie.' "
Such is the character of the farm steadings which occupy
the wooded valleys on the borders of the Moor. But within
the bounds of the Forest itself, there exist many ancient
' Towns,' a word used in Cornwall as in Scotland, to denote
a solitary or ' bye-farm/ with its outbuildings. Many of
these are of great antiquity ; and in most instances, in
addition to the shelter obtained from the hill that rises
behind them, a situation has been chosen, where a better soil,
DARTMOOR. 51
or the winding of a stream, might afford nourishment to a
clump of forest trees, which, noth withstanding, shew evident
signs of many a year's hard battling with the mountain
winds. These are generally ash trees or sycamores ; the last, a
hardy and firm-growing tree, to whose strong and unyielding
nature Sir Walter has compared the Scottish character ; but
it is the ash which, of all forest trees, . assimilates most
completely with wild and lonely scenery ; nor is there one
which can shew a better title to be regarded as the charac-
teristic tree of northern Europe.
" Oh, the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
They nourish best at hame in the North Countrie."
It was, perhaps, from the mysterious feeling with which
the old Saxon regarded it, that the ash was generally
chosen as the ' household tree/ which marked the bounda-
ries of his farm, or was planted close to his dwelling ; and
still on the moors of Devonshire, where the house has long
perished, and heather is growing over what was once corn-
land, the site of the homestead is marked by a clump of
aged ash trees. In such situations the form and outline
of the ash are widely different from those which it assumes
on lower ground, where it spreads out its branches without
fear of wind or storm. Its sprays of foliage are thinner
and more curved ; and its moss-covered trunk is knotted
and twisted, as though it had encountered fierce obstacles in
its rising, and had put forth all its strength in the struggle.
In early autumn, when the heather is purpling the hills,
and the fern is beginning to assume that deep russet hue
than which few woodland tints are more beautiful, the leaf
of the ash becomes of a clear transparent golden colour,
harmonising in the finest manner with the rich hues of the
K 2
52 DARTMOOR.
surrounding landscape ; and even in mid- winter, when the
leaves are fallen, and the long thin branches are 'resounding
o'er the steep,' the presence of the old trees circling round
the snowy roofs of the homestead, gives a feeling of shelter
and of comfort, which nothing else could possibly bestow.
There are, however, but few of such tree-sheltered
' steadings ' throughout the whole of the upper wastes.
For the most part this entire region is bare and treeless ;
and seen from one of the central heights it exhibits nothing
but wide sweeps of fern and heather, above which the
granite crests of the tors rise in ever}' direction.
" The scenes are desert now and bare,
Where nourished once a forest fair,
When these waste glens with copse were lined,
And peopled with the hart and hind."
The solitary thorn, which spreads its knotted branches
over the hillocks of green turf by the river side, might
relate as many ' changes of his parent dell,' as his more
famous brother of Ettrick. For, like the forests of the
Scottish borders, the lower valleys of Dartmoor were
anciently covered with a thick coppice of thorn, birch, hazel,
and oak. Trunks and branches of all these trees are con-
stantly found in the mosses, especially in such as lie along
the banks of the stream. Many names, for the most part of
British origin, which are still given to particular spots in the
Forest, indicate the ancient presence of wood ; and it is
probable that the formation of the great bogs and morasses
has partly been caused by the falling of the trees which once
occupied their site. Many of these morasses are of great
extent, and are covered with patches of the flowering rush,
the ' cana grass ' of the Highlands, and more rarely, with
DARTMOOR. 53
the sweet gale, or bog myrtle, whose narrow aromatic
leaves are used in Sweden for brewing a peculiar kind
of ale, such as the Picts are said to have made from the
flowers of the heather. Among the rocks on the sides of
the tors, and upon certain tracts of drier ground, especially
over a district called Holming-beam, between the East
Dart and the Cowsick rivers, the whortleberry grows in
great abundance. " In Latin, Vaccinia," says Fuller, who
has recorded it, as well as the wild strawberry amongst the
natural commodities of Devonshire, " most wholesome to
the stomake, but of a very astringent nature ; so plentiful
in this shire, that it is a kind of harvest to poor people,
whose children, nigh Axminster, will earne eight pence
a day, for a month together, in gathering them. First
they are green, then red, and at last a dark blew. The
whitest hands among the Romans did not disdain their
blacknesse ; witnesse the Poet —
' Vaccinia nigra leguntur.' "
It is the wide extent of these solitary wastes which
makes them so impressive, and gives them their influence
over the imagination. Whether seen at mid-day, when
the gleams of sunlight are chasing one another along the
hill-side ; or at sunset, when the long line of dusky
moorland lifts itself against the fading light of the western
sky, the same character of extent and freedom is impressed
on the landscape, which carries the fancy from hill to hill,
and from valley to valley, and leads it to imagine other
scenes, of equal wildness, which the distant hills conceal
" Beyond their utmost purple rim."
Perhaps the scenery of Dartmoor is never more im-
pressive than under those evening effects which have
54 DARTMOOR.
last been suggested. The singular shapes assumed by
the granite cappings of the tors are strongly projected
against the red light of the sunset, which gleams between
the many openings in the huge piles of rock, making
them look like passages into some unknown country
beyond them, and suggesting that idea of infinity, which
is afforded by no other object of sight in equal degree !
Meanwhile, the heather of the foreground is growing
darker and darker ; and the only sound which falls upon
the ear is that of the river far below, or perhaps the
flapping of some heron's wings, as he rises from his rock
in the stream, and disappears westward ;
" Where darkly painted on the blood-red sky,
His figure floats along."
©artmoor.
N. T. Carrinqton.
Dartmoor ! thou wert to me, in childhoods hour,
A wild and wondrous region. Day by day,
Arose upon my youthful eye thy belt
Of hills mysterious, shadowy, clasping all
The green and cheerful landscape sweetly spread
Around my home ; and with a stern delight
I gazed upon thee. How often on the speech
Of the half savage peasant have I hung
To hear of rock-crowned heights on which the cloud
For ever rests ; and wilds stupendous, swept
DARTMOOR. 55
By mightiest storms ; of glen, and gorge, and cliff
Terrific, beetling o'er the stone- strewed vale ;
And giant masses, by the midnight flash
Struck from the mountain's hissing brow, and hurled
Into the foaming torrent ; and of forms
That rose amid the desert, rudely shaped
By Superstition's hands when time was young ;
And of the dead, the warrior dead, who sleep
Beneath the hallowed cairn ! My native fields,
Though peerless, ceased to please. The flowery vale,
The breezy hill, the river and the wood,
Island, reef, headland, and the circling sea,
Associated by ths sportful hand
Of Nature, in a thousand views diverse,
Or grand, or lovely, — to my roving eye
Displayed in vain their infinite of charms :
I thought on thy wild world, — to me a world, —
Mysterious Dartmoor, dimly seen, and prized
For being distant and untrod ; and still,
Where'er I wander' d, — still, my wayward eye
Rested on thee !
In sunlight and in shade, —
Repose and storm, wide waste ! I since have trod
Thy hill and dale magnificent. Again
I seek thy solitudes profound, in this
Thy hour of deep tranquillity, when rests
The sun-beam on thee, and thy desert seems
To sleep in the unwonted brightness, calm,
But stern ; for though the spirit of the Spring
Breathes on thee, to the charmer's whisper kind
Thou listenest not, nor ever puttest on
A robe of beauty, as the fields that bud
56 DARTMOOR.
And blossom near thee. Yet I love to tread
Thy central wastes when not a sound intrudes
Upon the ear, but rush of wing, or leap
Of the hoarse waterfall. And 0, 'tis sweet
To list the music of thy torrent-streams ;
For thou too hast thy minstrelsies for him
Who from their liberal mountain-urn delights
To trace thy waters, as from source to sea
They rush tumultuous. Yet for other fields
Thy bounty flows eternal. From thy sides
Devonia's rivers flow ; a thousand brooks
Roll o'er thy rugged slopes ; — 'tis but to cheer
Yon Austral meads unrivalled, fair as aught
That bards have sung, or Fancy has conceived
'Mid all her rich imaginings : whilst thou,
The source of half their beauty, wearest still,
Through centuries, upon thy blasted brow,
The curse of barrenness.
©artmoor.
From William Howitt's Rural Life of England.
If you want stern grandeur, follow the north-western
coast of Devon ; if peaceful beauty, look down into some
one of its rich vales, green as an emerald, and pastured by
its herds of red cattle; if all the summer loveliness of
woods and rivers, you may ascend the Tamar or the Tavy,
or many another stream ; or you may stroll on through
valleys that for glorious solitudes, or fair English homes,
amid their woods and hills, shall leave you nothing to
DARTMOOR. £7
desire. If you want sternness you may pass into Dartmoor.
There are wastes and wilds, crags of granite, views into far-
off districts, and the sound of waters hurrying away over
their rocky beds, enough to satisfy the largest hungering
and thirsting after poetical delight. I shall never forget
the feelino-s of delicious enhancement with which I
approached the outskirts of Dartmoor. I found myself
among the woods near Haytor Crags. It was an autumn
evening. The sun, near its setting, threw its yellow beams
amongst the trees, and lit up the ruddy tors on the opposite
side of the valley into a beautiful glow. Below, the deep
dark river went sounding on its way with a melancholy
music, and as I wound up the steep road beneath the
gnarled oaks, I ever and anon caught glimpses of the
winding valley to the left, all beautiful with wild thickets
and half-shrouded faces of rock, and still on high those
glowing ruddy tors standing in the blue air in their sublime
silence. My road wound up, and up, the heather and the
bilberry on either hand showing me that cultivation had
never disturbed the soil they grew in ; and one sole wood-
lark from the far-ascending forest to the right, filled the
wild solitude with his wild 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 imagina-
tion 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.
58 DARTMOOR.
©artmoor*
Felicia Hemans.
Wild Dartmoor ! thou that 'midst thy mountains rude
Hast robed thyself with haughty solitude,
As a dark cloud on summer's clear blue sky, —
A mourner circled with festivity !
For all beyond is life ! — the rolling sea,
The rush, the swell, whose echoes reach not thee.
Yet who shall find a scene so wild and bare
But man has left his lingering traces there ?
E'en on mysterious Afric's boundless plains,
Where noon with attributes of midnight reigns,
In gloom and silence fearfully profound,
As of a world unwaked to soul or sound,
Though the sad wanderer of the burning Zone
Feels, as amidst infinity, alone,
And nought of life be near, his camel's tread
Is o'er the prostrate cities of the dead !
Some column, reared by long-forgotten hands,
Just lifts its head above the billowy sands ;
Some mouldering shrine still consecrates the scene,
And tells that glory's footstep there hath been.
There hath the spirit of the mighty passed,
Not without record ; though the desert blast,
Borne on the wings of Time, hath swept away
The proud creations reared to brave decay.
But thou, lone region ! whose unnoticed name
No lofty deeds have mingled with their fame,
Who shall unfold thine annals ? Who shall tell
DARTMOOR. 59
If on thy soil the sons of heroes fell,
In those far ages which have left no trace,
No sunbeam on the pathway of their race ?
Though, haply, in the unrecorded days
Of kings and chiefs who passed without their praise,
Thou might'st have reared the valiant and the free,
In history's page there is no tale of thee.
Yet hast thou thy memorials. On the wild
Still rise the cairns of yore, all rudely piled,
But hallowed by that instinct which reveres
Things fraught with characters of elder years.
And such are these. Long centuries are flown,
Bowed many a crest and shattered many a throne,
Mingling the urn, the trophy, and the bust,
With what they hide, — their shrined and treasured dust.
Men traverse alps and oceans, to behold
Earth's glorious works fast mingling with her mould ;
But still these nameless chronicles of death,
Midst the deep silence of the unpeopled heath,
Stand in primeval artlessness, and wear
The same sepulchral mien, and almost share
The eternity of nature, with the forms
Of the crowned hills beyond, the dwellings of the storms.
2Hfje Eugpti Uartmoor.
From Dartmoor Days, a Poem,
By the Rev. E. W. L. Davies, M.A., 1863.
Let Fashion exult in her giddy career,
And headlong her course through the universe steer ;
There's a land in the West never bowed to her throne,
Where Nature for ages has triumphed alone,
60 DARTMOOR.
And Dian oft revels in wild extasy,
O'er grey granite tors or soft mossy lea,
Where the fox loves to kennel, the buzzard to soar,
All boundless and free o'er the rugged Dartmoor.
Tradition still lingers, her legend to tell
Of hunter benighted by Pixie and spell,
When, an-hungered and cold, in his uttermost need,
His hand was imbrued in the blood of his steed,
And the hollow recess, for shelter and heat,
Disembowell'd presents a welcome retreat ;
But, alas ! on the morrow, encrusted in gore,
He was found a stiff* corse on the rugged Dartmoor.
Of ages long past here are relics, I ween,
Where Cursus and Cromlech preside o'er the scene ;
Humanity shudders the altars to trace,
Where rites of the Druid a fiend would disgrace :
E'en History blushes their deeds to unfold,
And Fancy has furnished the sequel untold,
For the genius of Bray and Carrington's lore
Have gilded thy stories, thou rugged Dartmoor.
But farther to search in Antiquity's page
I leave to the worm-eaten brains of the sage,
Enamour' d of Nature, her charms I revere
In creatures of life on the mountain and mere ;
The jetty black cock and the watchful curlew,
The loud booming bittern and harrier so blue,
Oh ! the plover's wild scream and the cataract's roar,
Are the sounds that I love on the rugged Dartmoor.
Unrivalled in beauty and kennelled in rocks,
As King of the Forest I honour the fox ;
DARTMOOR. 61
He recks not of law, and he plunders amain
Whatever is dainty on hill-side or plain :
As wild as the winds and as swift his career,
'Tis a sharp pack will carry this bold buccaneer ;
But vengeance, though tardy, will come to his door,
And his doom be denounced on the rugged Dartmoor.
Near Hen-tor's grey covert a crash might be heard,
(But mark you, those horsemen say never a word,)
Yet it thrills through the heart and it fires the eye
Both of rider and horse as the sound hurries by :
That crash tells ' the find,' and they view with delight
The fox flashing by like a meteor at night ;
With blood, bone, and mettle, they'll prove him full sore
Ere he gains Benshie tor on the rugged Dartmoor.
As a pilot o'ertaken by storms on the sea
Now scuds with the gale for a port on his lee ;
So the bold buccaneer with a pack at his stern
Steals on for his point through heather and fern :
He passes the mires of Fox-tor and Plym,
Where the steeds struggle through, and all sob but him:
Ten couple of hounds view him home to his door,
As he gains Benshie tor on the rugged Dartmoor.
The homeward-bound hunter, with stars for his guide,
Now beams at the thought of his own fireside,
And socially presses the stranger to share
With hearty kind welcome the best of his fare ;
And if hospitality ever can cheer,
The gloom of the forest enhances it here :
Though bleak be the wind there are comforts in store,
For warm are the hearths near the rugged Dartmoor.
62 DARTMOOR.
Far removed be the day ere Fashion deface
The features and charms of this primitive place,
May her schemes prove abortive, by ruin dispersed,
And force the pet-bubble of science to burst !
The Freehold of Nature, though rugged it be,
Long, long may it flourish unsullied and free !
May the fox love to kennel, the buzzard to soar,
As tenants of Nature on rugged Dartmoor.
IBartmoor,
W. H. Hamilton Rogers.
The broad Atlantic bends before thy throne,
Its rocky footstool with white lips hath kissed,
Where, granite-browed, thou sitt'st in grandeur lone,
Thy temples wreathed with heaven's unsalted mist ; —
Feet in the brine, and face veiled by the cloud,
And vestiture by changing nature wrought, —
Titan of earth and sky — silent and proud,
Even beauty kneeling hath her homage brought : —
Time as a shadow speeds across thy plains,
Leaving no record of his printless feet ;
Thy glances follow, as with high disdains
To stop a foe, 'tis aimless all to meet. —
And all our generations come and go,
As snow-flakes on thy shoulders melting slow.
DARTMOOR. 63
Efje (Cfjitorm in tfje Snoto.
From Dews of Castalie, by J. Johns, 1828.
The incident upon which these lines are founded is, that during the winter of
1819-20, two apprentice boys were lost in a snow-storm in that part
of Dartmoor in which the scene of the ballad is laid.
Ye who in childhood e'er have wept
To hear the tale, of melting power,
Of that young orphan pair who slept
The sleep of death in greenwood bower,
Oh list my lay — though over them
Far sweeter dirge the redbreast sung —
And be my meed the diamond gem
From Pity's sacred fountain sprung.
Where over Devon's vales and woods
Bleak Dartmoor lifts her summits stern,
And rivers pour their infant floods
Through granite wastes of furze and fern,
Deep in a rudely cultured nook
(Hard by where Dart's red waters boil)
A peasant dwelt, in heart and look
Well sorted with that savage soil.
Beneath his roof two pauper boys
Were bound to earn their daily bread,
Poor exiles from domestic joys,
Who scarce had where to lay their head.
No parent's eye long, long had smiled
On them to own affection's claim :
One was a homeless orphan child,
And one the nameless pledge of shame.
64 DARTMOOR.
(Call it not love, that dark desire,
Nor dream that shame can spring from love-
The hallowed and immortal fire
That lights the shrine of bliss above !
Love ne'er exhaled the meteor flame
That gleams on buried virtue's grave ;
It never seared the loved one's name,
Or brooked to curse the life it gave.)
In cloudless gold the morning shone
On Widdecombe's dark belt of hills,
And gilt her tower the winter sun,
And sparkled in her frozen rills ;
The holy peal of Sabbath bells
Proclaimed the solemn hour of prayer,
And echoing o'er the moorland dells,
Aroused the straggling hamlets there.
And with the rest those children joined
The sacred work of praise and prayer,
Nor dreamed how few brief days might find
Their limbs beneath that cold turf there. —
As home they turned, at evening fall,
The heaven, erewhile so fair, grew brown ;
And glimmering through a misty pall,
The moon in sickly white shone down.
That night some sheep forsook the fold,
O'er the broad heath at large to roam ;
And they must search the weary wold
At morn, to bring the wanderers home :
Their tattered garb they round them flung,
Their stinted meal in haste they took,
DARTMOOR. 65
And o'er that gloomy threshold sprung,
Nor cast behind one parting look.
Even then some dense and drizzling flakes
Fell sullen from the swarthy sky,
And strange dead silence lulled the brakes,
Prophetic of the snow-fall nigh :
Yet forth they fared — for well they knew
The wretch who bade them search the wold —
Though dun with plumes the thronged air grew,
And numbed their limbs and hearts with cold.
Vain was their search — yet on they passed,
Though heavier still the storm closed round,
And, through the dizzy air shower'd fast,
The white fleece piled the wildering ground.
Too late they seek the homeward way —
They blindly roam the waste forlorn !
Still side by side the pale boys stray,
With terror mute, with suffering worn.
With faint, slow steps, the weary hour,
They toiled through snows o'er down and dell,
While round them still the wavery shower,
Shadowing the air, incessant fell,
It covered all the mountain floods,
It ermined all the dark-brown moor,
Soon choked were Spitchweek's massive woods,
And soared in snow the Hazel Tor.
At length, less dense the darkening cloud
Hangs, and the flakes relenting fall,
While, burning through his western shroud,
The blood-red sun illumines all.
F
66 DARTMOOR.
Alas, for them he shone in vain —
Too late the clouds less fiercely pour —
Long had they sunk upon the plain,
To sleep, and wake to grief no more.
Where the lone Moor o'erlooked a dell,
And shewed the full Dart foaming by,
They wept to every hope farewell,
And laid them down alone to die : —
There did they sleep away their breath,
On that bleak death-bed waste and wild —
There, stiffening on the wintry heath,
The snow-fall wrapped each friendless child.
And deep their sleep, though no fond eye
Was near to soothe the parting hour,
No mother's arm of love was nigh,
No father watched his fading flower.
Closed is their span of earthly years,
Their path of mortal care is trod :
Life was to them a vale of tears,
And they have passed from it to God.
Oh glorious was the mournful hour,
When sunset lit their grave of snows,
And o'er the heaths of bleak Dartmoor,
The Torrs in blood-red splendour rose !
As o'er consuming Beauty's hand
Of ivory pale, the dark veins flow, —
So, through the white and glittering land,
The livid river streamed below.
But henceforth on each poor boy's ear
In vain the wintry stream may rave ;
DARTMOOR. 67
And all in vain, through green brakes near,
May murmur deep the summer wave.
Nought fear they now of want or scorn,
Of blows or wrongs, their only hire —
No more to hail the dear May morn,
Or crowd around the Christmas fire.
Sad was the sight, when, from their home,
Was slowly borne each coffined boy,
To rest in distant Widdecombe,
With many a pitying helper nigh :
Strange was the scene as o'er the waste
Of dazzling snow the dark train wound,
Until each little corpse was placed
With pious toil in holy ground.
Ne'er with a tone so stern and dread
The burial bell its warning rung,
As o'er the snows with sunset red,
It then its awful burden swung :
The winds that howled o'er many a heap
Of sleet-drift, drowned the funeral prayer ;
But Oh ! they slept so calm and deep,
The blighted flowers reposing there.
Ye who have heard these children's iall,
Should any such your board maintain,
Think, think how little is their all,
Nor wring their hearts for guilty gain.
Unfit their tender years to stem
The tide of grief and hardship too ;
Then, Oh in pity smile on them,
And Heaven in mercy smile on you.
F 2
68 DARTMOOR.
I. W. N. Keys.
Beloved old Tor, full fifty summers known
To me, — though countless storms have o'er thee swept,
And lightnings fierce around thy crags have leapt,
'Midst all unscathed, still steadfast is thy throne !
Less happy me, the flight of time I moan,
Its numbing influence hath o'er me crept : —
My feet, that once thy boulders nimbly stept,
And scaled thy flanks, are now unsteady grown.
Yet thou'rt in peril : I am sad to see
Gangs of rough quarrymen thy form surround,
And, penetrating to thy depths profound,
Block after block pluck forth with ruthless glee.
Rise, mighty Odin ! rise, their fury check,
And save, oh save, thy sacred Rock from wreck.
©n seeing ©artmoor after a Jail of 5nofou
M. A. P.
The Moor ! the Moor ! 0, such a sight
Hath seldom met the human view ;
The sun shines o'er it calmly bright,
Clothing its hills with dazzling hue.
Tor above tor — the craggy peaks,
Proud rising, seem to kiss the sky,
The wind alone the silence breaks,
And distant shrieks the sea-mew's cry.
DARTMOOR. 69
How few can feel the love to roam
'Mid scenes so desolate and wild !
Cities to me afford no home,
For I was formed for Nature's child ;
To worship in her lonely fane —
To linger o'er her wondrous forms,
While round me o'er the desert reign
The thunder's voice and rack of storms,
Here though her tors may barren be,
Invested with a waste of snow,
The wilderness hath joys for me —
The lone hill makes my spirit glow.
Storm at jjitcftt on ©artmoor*
From Caslalian Hours by Sophie Dixon, 1829.
Hark ! from the cloud of midnight bursts the roll
Of warring winds in elemental gush,
As if some wrathful Spirit poured his soul
In the full peal of that portentous rush :
Louder and longer than the thunder's crush
Sweeps the wild breath of storms from hill to hill ;
And then, that trial of fury past — a hush,
Awful and strange, the ether seems to fill,
And in that gathering pause, all waiteth dumb and still.
A moment — and that ominous Immense
Is full of voice, tfhe murmur of a roar —
Even as the Tempest's stirred omnipotence
Its note of preparation sent before :
And from its secret magazines, the store
70 DARTMOOR.
Of wrath and rage is through the concave sent ;
Scarce stand these mountain summits, jagged and hoar
With thousand storms, and scant with peaks unrent
Lift their impendent brows, braving the element.
Up Sleeper ! Listen to the hurricane
That rolls its raging pennons through the sky,
Hear wakened Spirits on each blast amain,
With start and shriek its mighty voice outvie ;
Look forth ! the blackness mocks thy labouring eye,
The touch of whirlwinds checks thy faltering breath ;
Nought may endure amid the expanse on high,
Below, around, — but ministries of Death, —
For terror rules the air, and walks the worlds beneath.
Thou startest at the conflict, loud and wild,
Where all the links of being seem to crack ;
Turn'st thou so pale, high Nature's recreant child,
To hear the blast its halls ethereal track ?
My bosom loves the airy cataract ;
My ear communes with every awful sound ;
Whether of rising Spirits in the rack
Of the rent clouds, or when, unchecked around,
Destruction's Angel speaks, and horror bursts its bound.
I stand beside my casement, there to note
The Northern- West in middle air prevail ;
Then hear the misty South, impetuous float
O'er the dark vast, and thunder in the gale ;
Anon the flashing shower, and the big hail
Sharp-shot, the angry elements supply ;
Like arrows of the giant, which ne'er fail
In Anak-hand, those icy weapons fly
From the great bow of Heaven, and scatter o'er the sky.
DARTMOOR. 71
Now, all that fleet artillery is spent,
A trance of silence holds the powers o'ercome,
And Nature, strained through every tegument,
Backed into faintness, lieth chill and numb.
The blasts are soften'd to a stilly hum,
As from deep caves their trumpet echoes were ;
As if some God controlling struck them dumb
With hand more mighty than the mightiest there,
And left, instead of wrath, but murmurs of despair.
Yet they again shall, though retreating, rave
Till the grey morn doth from her chambers peep,
While from its hidden font each teeming wave
O'er bank and mound with answering rage shall sweep,
Then from their ridge what foamy masses leap ;
The heights re-bellow to their watery roar ;
Dash the maned billows through the valleys deep,
And, rending the wild confines of their shore,
On to the ocean vast with strength impetuous pour.
Such is the voice of these so placid skies,
When moved by passionate impulsion strong ;
So from our earth appalling answers rise,
When in the solemn midnight loosed among
The mountain peaks, dark clouds and whirlwinds throng:
And man shrinks back before the awful rage,
Where to the strife loud tempests sweep along ;
Where all this great Creation dares engage,
And wind, wave, earth and sky their Titan battles wage.
72 DARTMOOR.
Jingle BrtUge.
Rev. Samuel Rowe, M.A.
The Moreton road from Sandy park will lead us directly
to the bridge over the Teign, within a furlong from the inn.
We shall not cross the bridge, but shall follow a beaten
path on the left, down the river, along the northern bank.
Following the course of the stream as it winds through the
meadows, we shall soon reach that point where a rock-
crested headland rises abruptly above the lateral vale of
Coombe on one side, and the wooded steeps of Whiddon
Park press forward to narrow the valley on the other.
Scarcely a quarter of a mile from this point, by keeping
close to the river's brink on the north side, we shall discover
the Logan stone. Should the explorer inadvertently follow
a more accessible track which winds along the side of the
hill at a short distance above the river, he may pass the
Logan stone without noticing it, as it stands among the
numerous masses of granite with which the channel of the
Teign is profusely strewed ; but by making his own path
close to the brink, he will not fail to find the object of his
search rising boldly out of the bed of the river near the
northern bank.
Proceeding down the river, we shall be greeted with
some of the most striking vale scenery in the west of
England. The course is a continuous succession of graceful
curves ; the banks on the south, or Moreton side, clothed
with wood and heather as high as the eye can reach, and on
DARTMOOR. 73
the Drewsteignton slope presenting abrupt and bare de-
clivities, occasionally interspersed with craggy projections
beetling above our rugged but romantic pathway. In one
particular spot, high in the abrupt declivity, two bold cliffs
will be observed jutting out from the hill like the ramparts
of a redoubt guarding the narrow pass below. Lower down,
the northern bank becomes wooded, and the path, pro-
ceeding through a jungle copse, at length emerges upon the
Drewsteignton and Moreton road at Fingle Bridge. Here,
let us pause on its narrow roadway — just wide enough for
a single cart — to gaze from its grey moorstone parapet on a
scene the general features of which may be recorded by
the pen, but of whose particular features of loveliness the
pencil alone can convey an adequate idea. Three deeply-
scooped valleys converging to one point, two or three little
stripes of greenest meadow -sward occupying all the narrow
level at the foot of the encircling hills, the fortified head-
land of Prestonbury rising bold and precipitous, its rigid
angular outline strikingly contrasted with the graceful
undulations of the woody slopes which confront its southern
glacis ; the mill at their base embowered in foliage, and the
river clear and vigorous giving animation to the scene
without marring its sylvan seclusion, all combine to form a
scene of surpassing loveliness which it is a disgrace for any
Devonians not to have visited before they set out in search
of the picturesque to Wales or Cumberland or the Highlands,
and still more before they make their continental peregrina-
tions,
" Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po,
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor
Against the houseless stranger shuts his door."
74 DARTMOOR.
W$t Jemg JHoorlatttrs.
From The Fern Paradise, by Francis George Heath.
5th Ed. London: Sampson Low & Co. 1878.
" We one day made for the moors, in order to explore the
ferny borders of Fingle Bridge, of Lustleigh Cleave, and of
Horseman's Steps. Changing trains at Newton, we were
not long in getting to our point of departure at Moreton-
hampstead. On this branch line, twelve miles in length,
the changing scenes are supremely beautiful. During the
whole distance the line passes along a valley which is pre-
eminently Devonian. It is curious and interesting to watch
in the early summer the gradual substitution of the barren
moorland for the cultivated tract. Grand slopes of rich
greenwood, flower-dotted meadow, and June corn-crops
standing proudly up, with rich promise for the autumn —
the light, waving green of the cornstalks and ears charm-
ingly contrasting with the red and full-blown poppies
scattered in patches here and there — first meet the eye.
But the cultivated land is shorn of no picturesque surround-
ings. Hill, wood, and river, each with its peculiar Devonian
charm, intermingle in rich and varying proportions, flinging
their characteristic grace over the whole. As we advance,
however, cultivation becomes sparse and sparser still. The
heights become too steep for anything but their own wild
growth. There is, however, even until the broken moor is
reached, a grand intermingling of wooded and barren steeps,
of hilly corn-fields, and heather and Fern-covered heights.
Then we pause at the extremity of the branch line to More-
tonhampstead.
DARTMOOR. 75
Now begins the moorland walk, extending away for some
three or four miles to Fingle Bridge. Along the entire
distance there is spread out for the Fern-lover a continual
feast. For a short way the path winds by the side of a
meadow; then crosses, at the end of a small thicket, a Fern-
fringed brook. Anon it ascends a steep upland, and then
for two miles it takes a course which includes all the wild
and varied characteristics of moorland scenery. Now the
interchained peaks of Dartmoor carry the eye away over a
wide stretch of country, the vividly-coloured landscape
losing in freshness, but losing nothing in grandeur, as the
dimness of distance causes it to melt away in shadowy out-
lines. Now the eye rests on the graceful scenery which lies
immediately contiguous to the path — huge boulders scattered
about on each side, clothed with moss and Ferns; rugged
hedge-banks formed of slate-rock and red-sandstone teeming
with Fern life; slopes of furze and heather intermingled
with wild flowers. Now the path descends the hill-side
and lights on and traverses a glade strewn with boulders of
all sizes and shapes, forming a natural rockery and giving
congenial shelter to the roots of Bracken, whose tall fronds
are spread out with a wild grace which no word-painting
can adequately represent.
Along the route which we have indicated, the Fern hunter
may find, in charming variety, the Common Polypody, the
Soft Prickly Shield Fern, the Male Fern, the Broad Buckler
Fern, the Lady Fern, the Black Maidenhair Spleenwort, the
Harts-tongue, and the Hard Fern.
Few scenes can be more magnificent than the view which
is to be obtained shortly after commencing the descent — a
mile in length — which sweeps by a winding path down
towards the vale of Fingle Bridge. We have to descend the
76 DARTMOOR.
densely-wooded side of a hill, and the path along nearly the
whole way is overhung by trees. If we peer under the dense
wooded cover that extends on either side of the path, we
may well admire the splendid growth of the ferns that revel
in the humid shelter of the greenwood.
Following the downward course of the steep path, a clear-
ance in the trees, and a jutting point of the hill suddenly
give the opportunity for a sight which is sublimely
beautiful. We stand at a height far above the vale of Fingle
Bridge. From our feet, down to the extreme point of the
narrow valley, sweeps a dense mass of trees, gracefully
curving round to the left, until it is almost met by the lofty
wood-covered hill that rears its head boldly against the sky
on the opposite side of the valley. We have said that the
wood-covered hills almost meet. Their bases interlace ; but
a clear space intervenes between their tops, giving a
marvellous combination of varying moorland scenery in the
vista between. Hills — some densely wooded, others bare
and wild — interlace their tops in a symmetrical network,
which stretches away until dimly defined in the far-off
distance. On the right, in varying terraces which rise
towards the sky, is a mixed landscape of meadow and hedge
and tree. Down far beneath, rushing along under a dark
overgrowth of trees, roar the waters of the Teign, just seen
away to the left, where a break in the canopy of overhanging
green reveals the dark and foaming current.
Winding round and round to lighten the roughness and
steepness of the descent, the path at length reaches the
extreme point of the valley, and crossing a swift, dark mill-
stream that runs for a short distance parallel with the Teign,
emerges on to Fingle Bridge. This spot is, indeed, a chosen
land of Ferns. To the right and to the left, away from the
DARTMOOR. ' 77
arches of the bridge, the Teign brawls over and between the
granite boulders which are strewn in its bed : now sparkling
in pebbly shallows ; now deepening into sluggish pools ; now
roaring in mimic fury over miniature falls ; now calmly
flowing by its silent banks, which overhung with the deep
green foliage of clustering shrubs, afford shady nestling
places for waving Fern-fronds which lap the surface of the
stream, and lend to it a graceful and beautiful aspect.
At a short distance to the right of the bridge the stream
is lost from sight ; but from its boulder-strewn, roaring
course the eye is naturally lifted to the glorious view which
is to be seen overhead. On both sides, almost from the
water's brink, rise two precipitous hills, — the one on the
right, clothed with a dark green mantle extending from the
surface of the stream to the extreme hill-top by the gradation
of shrub and bush and tree : that on the left sparsely covered
with furze and heather ; but both endowed with that
boldness of aspect which lends grandeur to a scene.
Away to the left of the bridge a similar scene meets the
eye ; but here both hill-sides which bound the stream are
densely and darkly clothed with trees, which sweeping
upwards finely contrast with the delightful blue of the sun-
lit sky, as the hill-tops cut the sheen. The blue sky with its
golden sunshine, the green woods, the graceful waving Ferns
and the brawling river combine to make an exquisite
picture.
After a peep at the bridge scenery, we followed a path
which led down to the left, along by the river side. Huge
granite boulders were scattered about in mid stream ; and
some of these, clustered in the form of a rocky islet, were
approachable from the river-side by stepping-stones which
offered a dry passage for the tourist. On this boulder islet
78 DARTMOOR.
we rested for refreshment — the cool stream flowing on each
side of us gurgling and splashing and flashing in the sun,
the calm surface of its silent pools, where the current was
pent by the rocks, being broken only from time to time by
the splash of the rising trout, as they dashed at the flies
which skimmed the surface of the water. From this point
on the same side of the bridge, a path skirted for a short
way the brawling course of the stream. We followed this
path for some distance, and we found that it was a walk
that would well repay the Fern hunter for a long journey
across rugged moorlands. It is indeed almost impossible to
express in words the keen sense of enjoyment experienced
during so delightful a ramble as this river-side path
afforded.
We thread a narrow path along a grassy sward. Beneath,
soft verdant carpeting thickly strewn with wild flowers ;
above us a delightful canopy formed of the interlaced
branches of trees, through which the screened sunlight
softly falls. On our right a high embankment, leading up
to a higher path on the hill-side, from out of which hang
tufts of Fern fronds mingled in charming variety. Down
to our left rolls the river, whose music joins in chorus with
the songs of the birds, singing, we know not where, but
everywhere around us. As we follow this charming river-
side path, we have from time to time to press through the
dense masses of shrubs which surround us — now hanging
down overhead, now springing from the left> and now from
the right side. The small, but startling, incidents of the
route add a sort of piquancy to the enjoyment. The
sudden flutter and the wild cry of a blackbird, as it darts
out of the tiny thicket where its nest is hid ; the rustle in
the high embankment on our right, and the quivering of
DARTMOOR. 79
the Fern frond, followed by the sudden flight across the
path of a rabbit ; the rolling, hurry-scurrying contortions of
a snake, which our unexpected appearance has surprised (
basking in the tiny gleam of sunshine which has fallen on
to the greensward through an opening in the trees over-
head ; the heavy splash in the river on our left as a water
rat, which had not dreamed of our unwelcome intrusion,
takes the shortest and readiest path to his hole, diving one
moment in one place into the stream, to re-appear the next
somewhere else, under the belief that meanwhile his power
of holding his breath is unlimited ; or the lighter splash of
a trout, as unaware of our presence, it rises in the dark,
deep pool near us at the tempting palmer-fly that has just
dropped from the bushes. All these sights and sounds con-
tribute to the delight of this river-side ramble. Or we may
rest for a moment, and peering cautiously around us, so as
not to disturb the free inhabitants of the woodland, admire
and enjoy their unrestrained movements. The snake will
wriggle on to the sunlit path again; the rabbit will come
quietly out from his hiding-place ; the rat will return from
his hole ; the trout will skim about on the surface of the
river close to where we are sitting, if our shadow does not
fall across the sunlit pool. As we sit and rest, we may listen
with a deep sense of enjoyment to the soft buzzings of the
insects which surround us ; and watch the bushes, the grass,
the ground, and the water. Everywhere there is life —
fresh, delightful, enjoyable life.
Such a scene as we have attempted to describe is not
imaginary. It is real and tangible. Who that has visited
Devonshire has not experienced the varied and varying
sensations of a ramble so essentially Devonian ?
After pursuing this river-side path for some little distance,
80 DARTMOOR.
we reached a waterfall, where a division in the river makes
provision for the stream which drives the mill at Fingle
Bridge. Close by the fall there is a light and open planta-
tion of small trees, and underneath these a tiny forest of
ferns. Bracken in glorious luxuriance clothe the ground,
and splendid forms of the Male Fern also abound in this
wood. The dark stream, too, which flows by the wood is
fringed with some beautiful specimens of the Lady Fern, of
all sizes. Here also is the lemon-scented Mountain Buckler
Fern. We saw a number of these lovely plants. It was no
wonder that the ferns in this delightful grove were so
luxuriant, for the soil consisted of nothing but spongy,
sandy, leaf mould. The soft and exquisitely beautiful
scenery in, around, and above this charming wood it is
almost impossible to describe. The ground covered with
waving fern fronds ; on one side the foaming waterfall, on
the other the river with its fern-fringed banks ; above, the
interlaced tops of the trees in the grove, through which
might be seen the great wood-covered hills which shut in
the prospect all round, and towering up against the blue
sky, seemed almost to fold over us like a delightful canopy
with a loveliness that cannot be described.
From Fingle Bridge back to Moretonhampstead along the
intricate moorland path. From Moretonhampstead to
Horseman's Steps, across four miles of delightful country,
and through ferny valleys, up ferny hills, and through
ferny lanes. This was our route on the day of our visit to
the ferny borders of Dartmoor. We reach, near Horseman's
Steps, a solitary cottage, perched in a charming nook. Close
by the cottage walls, the North Bovey River, pent into a
narrow bed, roars over the big boulders that choke up its
course. Here we have the charming combination of water-
DARTMOOR. 81
fall, cascade and silent pool. The huge masses of granite
which lie along the course of this stream are in many places
delightfully carpeted with moss, whose deep and light-green
colouring looks charmingly fresh where the limpid water
flows over or near it. A short distance from this spot are
the far-famed Horseman's Steps. The narrow course of the
North Bovey River is here completely blocked by enormous
masses of granite, and we can only see the stream by
peering down between interstices in the rocks ; but we can
hear it thundering: along; in its almost subterranean
channel. A small tract of marsh land intervenes between
Horseman's Steps and Lustleigh Cleave ; and there we
found, along by the course of the North Bovey River,
numbers of the Mountain Buckler Fern, the Hard Fern,
the Lady Fern, the Male Fern, the Broad Buckler Fern, and
others. In this district is to be found the somewhat rare
Tunbridge Filmy Fern, Wilson's Filmy Fern, and the
delicate and beautiful 'Marsh Buckler Fern. From this
point a precipitous ascent leads on to Lustleigh Cleave.
We can give no better description of this cleave than by
comparing it to a huge fern rockery. By some singular
agency, the hill-sides have been strewn with blocks of
granite, of all shapes and sizes. It is really difficult to
understand how this curious phenomenon could have been
produced, though it would seem that volcanic action of some
kind must have had something to do with the original
formation of Lustleigh Cleave. But the present effect is
singularly beautiful. Here, as elsewhere, the ferns have
taken possession of the ground, and have given an in-
describably graceful aspect to the strewn boulders. Reaching
the top of the cleave, after a toilsome ascent, we made for
the Logan or Nutcracker Rock. Near this rock, peering
G
82 DARTMOOR.
into the stony crevices, we made a pleasing discovery. We
found in one of the interstices, between the gigantic masses
of granite which cover the hill-top, several specimens of the
Lanceolate Spleenwort. They were growing in one little
cluster, and in the dark shadow of their retreat we could not
at first be sure that they were not the beautiful but
commoner Black Maidenhair Spleenwort. We knew, how-
ever, that from the position in which they were growing, it
was quite possible they might be Asplenium Lanceolatum.
With the aid of a long stick we succeeded in dio-crinor them
out ; and a close examination at once gave proof that the
plants we had discovered were what we had hoped they
would prove to be. The fronds of the Black Maidenhair
Spleenwort are always broadest at their base, narrowing
gradually towards their apex, the spores being arranged in
lines at the back of the fronds. The fronds of Lanceolatum
taper at both ends towards their apices and towards their
bases, and its spores when ripe are gathered in little round
clusters on the back of its fronds. The distinguishing
characteristics of this species were present in our ' find.'
We had previously hunted in numerous places in South
Devon for Asplenium lanceolatum, and had carefully
explored several of its known habitats, but without being
able to find a single plant. Those who have experienced
it know the pleasure derived by the Fern hunter when,
after a long search, he at length lights on the variety for
which he has been seeking.
Down the side of the Cleave towards Lustlei^h ; through
a boulder lane — huge masses of granite piled up on each
side, and almost hidden by Ferns and moss — and away by
hill-side, meadow and stream towards Totnes ! So ended
our delightful ramble for that day across the ferny moor-
lands."
•
DARTMOOR. 83
8 prospect on ©artntoor*
Sophie Dixon.
Wild scene amid the heathy fells !
Where rocks ascend, and torrent swells ;
Wild scene yet fair ! — may song essay
Your lonely grandeur to pourtray ;
Or from each fairy light and shade
That sky and mountain there have made,
A picture like to this unfold,
To charm when we may not behold ?
It is the time of sunset's hour,
When golden rays in stooping power
Have kindled up the radiant sky
That bends o'er spreading Hisworthy ;
Thence deepening to a crimson glow
From glen to glen they sweep below ;
Brighten the Black brook's rugged stream,
O'er Dart's meandering waters beam ;
And bid each floating shade o'er all
Like hues of Seraph-pinion fall.
Till full that parting ray is poured
On the blue peaks of Longaford ;
As if some genie-spell were o'er
The shaggy summit of the Tor,
Which left in darker shadow then
The deep of Dart's romantic glen.
But far toward the North behold
O'er Mistor's brow the brightness rolled ;
G 2
84 DARTMOOR.
Whose Druid rocks in splendour rise
Like tower and turret on the skies ;
As if around his peak were set
Rich spire and fretted minaret,
All blazing in the fiery ray
That melts along the mountain grey ;
While round the summit bright and red
A belt of misty blue is spread ;
Still darkening as it skirts that throne
Of glory, in its mystic Zone,
And ends in many a cloudy spire
Where the dusk dells afar retire.
The Sun is gone ! a deeper hue
Has given the wilds an aspect new ;
There rests in lines of purple light
A gem-like radiance o'er the height,
And all that thin slight veil of mist
Becomes a tint of amethyst :
Yet so unearthly as 'tis thrown
On every grey and rugged stone,
You well might deem that ray to pass
Its tincture through a stainless glass ;
Bidding each huge incongruous form
Melt into crystal bright and warm,
And so transfuse unto our eye
The softened colours of the sky.*
Now cast thy gaze to yonder round,
That wide horizon's girdling bound ;
* A beautiful appearance not often witnessed, when sunset casts over the
hills a peculiar shade of lilac purple, mixed with a golden hue, giving to every
rock and peak the semblance of perfect transparency.
DARTMOOR. 85
See, like a cloudy point in air,
Far Haytor's double summit there ;
Or nearer to the azure grown
Wild Rippon build its stirless throne ;
There too, in airy chain extending
Peak after peak, huge hills are blending,
While the pale skies along their crest
In crimsoned silver seem to rest.
Think ye, while gazing on such wild,
By nature's earliest scene beguiled ;
Think ye how here in days of eld,
The Druid-seer his power upheld ;
When every prospect, rude or fair,
Some mystic meaning might declare ;
Then as he saw that setting light
Gild the proud altars of his height,
And scatter all its spirit-dyes
In changing glory on the skies —
Deemed he some present God had given
That lustre to his lonely heaven,
And o'er the place of rite and prayer
Broke from his vail of cloudy air,
With sanctifying power to bless
The vast and solemn Wilderness.
And even now, though ages flown
No awe have left for yonder stone,
Though here no breeze from height or fell
To the high prophet's harpings swell,
Yet still the same o'er height and peak
The lights of dawn and sunset break ;
The same from flashing torrent's side
DARTMOOR.
Blue roll the clouds, the vapours glide ;
And fancy still may image there,
Strange shadowy forms enshrined in air,
Or hear from cave and rock rebound
A wild, low, spirit- wakened sound,
As once, in those barbaric days,
Far off might chant mysterious raise,
And bid the pondering thought revere
The dwelling of the Highest there.
Uttgtletgft.
Rev. Samuel Rowe, M.A.
Lustleigh church is placed on the pleasant slope of one
of our deepest Devonshire combes, where the most pleasing
features of village scenery are happily combined, whilst not
a single uncongenial object intrudes to mar the keeping of
the harmonious whole. A clear, vigorous stream ripples
cheerily down the dell, to turn the busy mill at the end of
the hamlet ; graceful shelving acclivities are partitioned by
varied foliage into green crofts or blooming garden grounds;
substantial farm-steads, and whitewashed cottages peep
from amonsf the orchards or are nestled under sheltering
trees. Boulder rocks, with thickets and copse interspersed,
protrude from the soil on the higher ground, while the far-
famed Lustleigh Cleave, with its granite barrier, fences in
the vale from the storms of the neighbouring moor. The
combination of rural scenery of this particular class, thus
presented in this sequestered spot, is certainly not surpassed,
if equalled, in any other part of Devonshire.
Passing from the church up a steep bridle road to a nearer
DARTMOOR. 87
examination of the Cleave, we shall find it to be a genuine
moorland " clatter" where amidst the wilderness of granite
masses, it will be difficult to detect the particular block
which is said to be a loganstone, though there are many
here so placed that they might be easily made to logg ; and
some may have thus moved without strictly claiming the
honour of the ancient logan.
But if we should fail in identifying any Druidical relic
in this rocky labyrinth, the smiling combe of Lustleigh
below, contrasted with the stern magnificence of the moor-
land heights above, will abundantly repay the trouble of the
explorer ; and some will think the picturesque masses of
rock, with shrubs and foliage springing up from their
fissures, in the evergreen crofts of the little hamlet of Ham-
merslake just below, are worthier of notice and admiration
than the more conspicuous and celebrated Cleave itself.
©agtor.
From The Western Miscellany, 1850.
I found at this " Bock Inn " all I wanted, which indeed
was but little, and having mused over my bread and cheese
and white milk, I paced up the road ; and thence, striving
up a steep and weedy common with golden furze-fields in
sight, leaned quite breathlessly against Haytor rock. Wishing
to see the prospect presently at one burst, I abstained from
turning my head, and ascended the rude staircase which was
cut in the granite and guarded with an iron rail. Haytor,
an outpost and frontier fortress of the Moor, is in form
remarkably like a castle. There is a chamber with floor of
turf, and with windows twenty feet high and walls of solid
88 DARTMOOR.
granite ; loop-holes there are, through which cannons might
be aimed ; recesses where musketeers or archers might lie
hid ; and above, a watch-tower commanding half Devon-
shire. All the realms of the ancient Danmonii, from beyond
Sidmouth in the east to Torbay and Dartmouth southward ;
and towards the west farther than eye can reach, an
undulating surface of brownish-green, barren, desolate, yet
with a stern fascination of its own — wave rising behind
wave, crested with white rocks — not ranged in uniform
furrows and swellings, not monotonous and systematic ; but
each hill swelling in its own wayward form and fashion,
each with its own character, original, self-asserting, re-
cognisable amongst many. A1J clad in one sombre garb, all
standing in one crowded assemblage. It is as if the mighty
primitive rocks in some remote age of the world's history
had burst upwards with indignant insurrection, and stood
for ever silently abashed beneath the sun's clear eye, holding
the massive tokens of their enduring strength. Those huge
tokens which fantastically decorate the heads of the moun-
tains, by what throes of the agonised earth were they
brought forth ? What war of elements has left such
trophies ? Look north and westward ; there stretches the
land which has been called " the rugged playground of the
rude Forces of Nature." There they hold stormy congress,
and struggle, and roughly wrestle with each other ; the wind
vainly raves and howls sometimes around the motionless
impassive stone, the lightning rends it with passionate fire,
and the thunder breaks roaring from its black and frowning
cloud, the water invades the air, whirling in eddies, rushing
in flying hosts of rain-drops, and beneath, the torrent tears
from glen to glen, tumultuous, vociferous, and hurries with
DARTMOOR. 89
the speed of an affrighted thing to tell in the green vales
tidings of the strife it has witnessed.
But that day there was peace among the hills. A serene
dignity they wore, and some not far off were invested with a
thin garment of mist. Not heeding this symptom, I loitered
to look on the fair South Hams all stretched beneath — the
Teign on the left hand, passing from Chudleigh and Ugbrooke
to Newton, thence in wider estuary to the sea — the level
heath and Stover, and the smoking potteries, and beyond,
Torbay with Berry Head running far into the sea — to the
right the precipices of the Dart, indicating its course
between them ; — till at length the drizzling shower came,
and I found snug shelter in a rocky cell with substantial
roof and walls, door and window, the architect of which was
Nature ; and there I sat on a mossy stool, secure from rain.
Wo Betetone &or +
Kevised from the Western Times, June 9, 1838.
The reference in the second verse is to a mine in which a vein of silver ore
was discovered. The name Belstone is supposed to be derived from Bel or
Belus, and the Druids are said to have had a temple here for the worship
of the sun.
There thou standest ! tall and mighty
Heaving o'er a world below ;
Storm and sunshine both above thee,
All around their chequered glow.
At thy foot the simple streamlet
Winds in silv'ry thread-like line ;
Sparkling chiefly at the inlet
Which conceals its kindred mine.
90 DARTMOOR.
Rough yet stately, grand, and lordly,
High upstands thy massive head,
Where the ravens crest so weirdly
Cairn of warrior's honour'd bed.
Who that ever reached thy summit
Felt no wish to kneel in prayer,
Viewing God's creation from it —
Seen from thence, how passing fair !
Lovely thence the distant headlands !
Lovely too the valleys near !
Free and wild the neighb'ring moorlands,
Health's own breath, — the ambient air !
Calmly, grandly art thou standing,
Temple of a worship rude !
Which a circling world commanding
Storms of ages hast withstood.
Man-raised fanes are fast dissolving ;
Thousands crumbled are to dust ;
Thou the first in years revolving
Pure art still from death's dark rust.
Boldly on th' horizon rises,
Belstone Tor, thy rugged line !
He who Nature's beauty prizes
Oft will turn to gaze on thine.
Eo t|je 3Larft on ©artmoor.
Sebastian Emett.
Sweet soaring minstrel of the wild, I hear
The pleasing music of thy tuneful throat,
As welcome o'er the desert to mine ear
As to benighted hinds the matin note.
DARTMOOR. 91
I thank thee, warbler, for thy cheering lay;
But why in such a barren, lonely dell,
While other scenes their vernal sweets display,
A winged recluse art thou content to dwell ?
Oh, yet I trace thy motives in thy song ;
For freedom now the lofty burthen bears,
And now a tenderer strain is poured along,
And love is breathed with all its charming cares.
Thus, though e'en here sequestered, dost thou prove
Life's dearest blessings — Liberty and Love.
©n Blair ©ofon\
Sophie Dixon.
Thou dell of vernal freshness and delight !
Set like a radiant jewel mid the steeps ;
Sheltered and clasped by every rugged height
That o'er each nook Titanic vigil keeps, —
I seek thee, and I love thee, — even when creeps
The twilight breeze amid thy sprays so slight ;
Or through thy dark pines waving, into heaps
Tosses their massy boughs with giant might.
And unto thee I come, and where the wave
Of waters, turbulent or placid, flows,
I wander too, and watch those billows lave
Their moss-grown banks, and blossoms of repose ;
Bright wave ! sweet banks ! where thy young Genius gave
His own pure breath to every bud that blows.
92 DARTMOOR.
©it tfje (East ©cftment
Sophie Dixon. 1830.
Where from his steep recesses Ockment pours
A headlong torrent foaming through the dell,
Each little brook with answering clamour roars,
And the wild gales in leafy chorus swell.
Starting in hoary gush his waters roll
Their battling strength, and with the crags contend ;
Till gentler scenes his turbulence control,
And the green branches o'er his bosom bend.
A voice of waves comes swelling up the glen,
Where torn mid rocky chinks the cataracts play ;
Now heard like heaven's own thunderings, and then
On the gale's softest murmur soothed away.
And doth not some lone Genius of the spot,
With mystic power, thine eye and heart compel ?
Bidding thee seek his wave- surrounded grot,
And in his own romantic regions dwell ?
Yes ! every life-chord thrilling to his touch,
Owns awful Nature's unresisted power ;
So full the pulse of ecstasy, and such
The glorious forms of her exalting hour.
But ye, insensate — ye, who will not feel
How these wild forms the answering bosom move ;
Say, doth not every tone its spells reveal,
And the cold heart of apathy reprove ?
Oh ! scenes sublime ! — oh ! wilderness, wherein
Rest thoughts and teachings of immortal lore,
. Still your wild haunts some raptured heart shall win,
A place of joy and knowledge evermore !
DARTMOOR. 93
A place of might and majesty apart,
Where the great forms alone of Nature sway ;
Leaving their pure impressions on the heart,
While life's wild, weakly passions die away.
And happier as wiser we become ;
Calmer and gentler, as we feel more free ;
Till ev'ry worldly tempter, blind and dumb,
Leaves Nature's student — Nature ! — all to thee !
Sit Prmcetofott.
From Snatches of Song, by F. B. Doveton, 1880.
The Editor makes no apology for the apparent incongruity of these verses with
the purpose of this book. u Into all lives some rain must fall," and to the
"soft refreshing rain" must be attributed much of the beautiful dress
of Devonshire scenery.
" What if be ours more frequent showers ?
To them we owe our countless flowers,
Our verdant plains and foaming rivers ;
On whose banks, or 'mid whose bowers,
Love may spend his idle hours
In sharpening darts to fill his quivers."
They say it is June — but the month's out of tune
We're both crouching over the fire,
The pitiless rain how it lashes the pane,
And the coach has just stuck in the mire.
I cannot get out to inveigle the trout,
Or even to look at the river,
But we snappishly doze with our half-frozen toes
On the fender — and grumble and shiver !
9i DARTMOOR.
So as indoors we're pent in morose discontent
We're both growing terribly touchy,
As crusty in short as the excellent Port
They keep in the bins of the " Duchy."
We thought not to get such prolonged " heavy wet,"
We thought to be rolling in heather.
So mean to embark in some trusty old ark
And try to get out of this weather.
The river's too high for a chance with the fly,
Its waters have rapidly risen,
And so it is meet I should fish in the leat
And I hope they won't clap me in prison.
"Miss Tor" hides her head, and the skies are like lead,
We must take a wee drop of the craytur I
Or the desolate view will I fear drive us two
To suicide, sooner or later !
Some people surmise that the convicts will rise !
This fact does not add to my sorrow,
My innocent art I shall ply in the Dart
If the trout will but rise there to-morrow.
Ctranmere*
Rev. Samuel Rowe, M.A.
Here the image of " a waste and howling wilderness " is
fully realised. In whatever direction the eye turns, the
same slightly undulating but unvarying surface of heath,
common and morass presents itself. Scarcely even a granite
block on the plain, or a tor on the higher ground " breaks
the deep-felt monotony" of the scene. Yet in this very
monotony there is a charm, for it gives birth to a feeling
DARTMOOR. 95
that you are now in the domains of primeval Nature, and
that this is one of the few spots where no indication of
man's presence or occupancy is to be traced. The few
sounds that at long intervals disturb the brooding silence of
the desert — the plaintive cry of the curlew or the whirring
rustle of the heath-fowl roused by the explorer's unexpected
tread ; the sighing wind suddenly wrapping him perhaps in
a mist- wreath, or the feeble tinklings of the infant stream-
lets ; for we are now amidst the fountains of the Dartmoor
rivers ; — are all characteristic of the scene ; and wild,
remote, and solitary as it is, the central morass is thus
associated with the richest, most populous, and loveliest
spots of our fair and fertile Devon. Hence, then, in imagina-
tion we follow the mountain-born streams along their
devious course to the distant ocean, through green pastures
and wavy cornfields, by the noisy mill and the plenteous
farm ; now lingering by the fragrant-blossomed orchard, and
now sweeping by the golden furze-clad hill ; now flashing
in sunshine along the enamelled meadows, and now darkling
beneath deep " o'er arching groves ; " at one time mirroring
the simple cottages and grey steeple of the sequestered
village, and anon, where the tidal waters have widened into
a lake and deepened into a harbour bearing on their ample
bosom the riches of commerce and the terrors of war, —
reflecting the bristling masts of the crowded port, or the
guarded battlements of the frowning citadel. All these are
present to the mind's eye ; and whilst by contrast with the
visible objects around, they render the desert still more
waste and lonely, they will not fail to remind us of the
justice of the poet's acknowledgment of the obligations of
the smiling lowlands to Dartmoor, as "the source of half
their beauty."
96 THE TETGN.
2t JBe&onsJjire Erout Stream.
Richard John King.
From the Standard, 20 July, 1874.
If the season has been so far not such a one as " Piscator"
most delights in ; if the April skies were too bright and
cloudless, and if the long- continued drought has rendered
even Dartmoor streams somewhat too shallow, many Springs
have, nevertheless, gone by since the country looked half as
lovely as at present. The moorlands are fresh and breezy ;
the valleys a,re rich with a depth of greenwood as yet
unstained and unruffled. It is pleasant to pass from the
whirl of Piccadilly to the landscapes that brighten the walls
of Burlington House, and which charm all the more by
contrast : and it may not be disagreeable to the reader to
escape for ten minutes from the noise and hurry of the
great city, whilst he traces the windings of a Devonshire
trout stream. We will try to paint them for him in a series
of " pictures."
The stream is the Teign ; rising in the solitary central
recesses of Dartmoor, and flowing onward by wood and
wold, deep glens and sunlit meadow, until it reaches the sea
at the pleasant watering-place of Teignmouth. Our first
station is on Kestor Rock, rising against the horizon like a
dark " Kist " or ark just above the point where the stream
leaves the moorlands and loses itself among the oaks of
Gidleigh Chase. The rock was once a famous haunt of
ravens, and it commands a grand panorama. From this
foreground of granite grey with lichens, and tufted with
THE TEIGN. 97
whortleberry through clefts that divide the masses of piled
rock, the moorland stretches away on all sides covered with
boulders and marked by hut circles and long lines of wall
division ; for we are among the relics of a great primitive
settlement. Away to the west, steep " backs " of heathery
hill rise ridge beyond ridge, their long sky outlines broken
here and there by tors of granite ; and far below Kestor, but
nearer to us, winds and flashes the stream through a middle
distance bright with young bracken, and with the fresh turf
of moor grass threading the darker heath. East and south,
the vast prospect dies away into a far blue haze — fields,
woods, farms, villages, and church towers " in fair confusion
mingled." Northward the hill slopes steeply to the river,
and beyond it the rough banks are scattered with birch and
oak trees, outposts of the closer ranks of the Chase. The
scene is a grand one ; but it is the life animating and
stirring it— the wind singing among the rock crevices, the
white clouds full of morning light journeying swiftly
across the sky, the shadows that chequer the landscape and
vary with each moment, the voices of birds, and the sound
of the river rising fitfully upwards from the rocky hollows
where it sparkles in the sun — it is all this movement and
variety that gives the highest charm, and which the most
perfect landscape-artist can but indistinctly suggest. But
he might profit by the figures which, on this fresh spring
morning, give in Southey's words, " a human interest to the
solitude." Flocks of sheep scattered over the moors are
being driven inward towards the old farm, whose roofs and
wide courts are just visible among the sycamores. Farm
lads on rough ponies gallop from hillock to hillock. Their
shouting, the sheep-cries, and the barking of half-a-dozen
dogs — black and white, and full of cleverness, though hardly
H
98 THE TEIGN.
so picturesque as a north country colley — are sounds well in
keeping with the wild, sparkling landscape.
Through scenes such as this all the trout streams of Dart-
moor pass in the earlier part of their course. We cannot
here see the actual spring-head of the Teign ; but taking the
stream for our guide, and looking toward the distant moor-
land, we can make out a green hollow under the shelter of
one of the roughest and steepest ridges, which is not far
from the source, and where the first dwelling rises by the
side of the stream. It is difficult to imagine a more lonely
abiding place. Those whose home it is are so far from
"Kirk and market" that they are necessarily independent
of both, and in winter they are sometimes snowed up for
weeks together. It is one of those isolated dwellings which
are the last strongholds of half -heathen beliefs and supersti-
tions driven from the cultivated country. Such isolation
sharpens the wits in some directions ; for there are no
neighbours to consult, and everything must be done without
more assistance than the house affords.
But the silence of this central moorland, the long shadowy
summer twilights, the dark winter nights, are the very
nurses of old-world superstition ; and this household — the
farmer and his family have been here for nearly half-a-
century — has a sad, half-scared look, as if mysterious
sights and sounds had indeed oppressed it, but were
too common to be overmuch cared for. The river,
in former days, seems to have brought such fancies
downward with its waters, as it conveys the seeds of
moor plants, and as it is haunted by the ring ouzel ; the
sycamore-shadowed farm to which the sheep are driving,
was once the house of a substantial franklin, and has the
initials of its builder, with the date 1590, on a granite
THE TEIGN. 99
tablet over the entrance. An older house had been inhabited
by the same family for many centuries. After the new one
was built and duly finished, the continuance of the race
seemed to be promised by the birth of a son, for which the
franklin and his wife had long been hoping in vain. But
other creatures had also been hoping, and now watched their
opportunity. On a winter evening, when the light had
nearly faded, and the turf fire had fallen low, the mother
slept for a moment instead of keeping watch over her child
in the cradle. As she woke, she heard a strange low laugh,
and thought she saw the flutter of a grey cloak. But the
child was gone. The earthmen had bided their time ; and
the letters T.W. above the new doorway remain, the initials
of the last of a long descended race. The house, it was
thought, had been built of granite from some rock under the
special protection of the hill folk, and the first human being
born in it had thus fallen into their power.
Leaving the breezy height of Kestor, we descend the river
toward our next picture. The passage of a stream from open
moorland to its first clothing of wood is always marked by
scenes specially delightful to the eye and the imagination.
Scattered birches and hollies first appear. Then the trees
spread upward close and more close along the steep river
banks ; and at last, broken into a thousand waterbreaks
among the boulders that bar its course, the stream disappears
under the branches of the " greenwood." Here we pass into
this pleasant region by a fisherman's path, winding along
banks set with wild flowers.
" There blooms the strawberry of the wilderness,
The trembling eyebright shows her sapphire blue,
The thyme her purple like the blush of even,"
through thickets of sweet gale filling all the air with its
H 2
TOO THE TEIGN.
aromatic scent, and at last, through a wilderness of Osmunda,
the royal fern lifting its great ash-leaved fronds almost above
our heads, and fluttering with changing colour in the breeze.
This is its chosen home, and it has taken full possession of
the river side for at least a quarter of a mile. It ceases as
the oaks close up, and then we enter a region of mingled
shadow and sunlight, in strong contrast with the open moors
through which the stream has hitherto been winding. The
banks slope gently upwards from the river, thick set with
ancient oak trees, and with an undergrowth of holly and
hazel. The river bed itself is full of great boulders, splashed
sometimes with bright green mosses, and marked every-
where with tinted lichens. Through them the water foams
and struggles, reposing for a moment in some rare pool,
where " trouts bedropt wi' crimson hail " hover in the black
depths. A narrow line of cloud-flecked sky opens above the
tree-tops along the course of the stream, and in one place the
sun lights up a younger oak bursting into leaf in all the " glad
bright green" of Chaucer's forest pictures. It is almost
golden in its brightness, with a great jutting boulder at its
root, over which the water pours in a full, sparkling fall.
The brightness and the nutter of young leaves in every way
recal Chaucer with his delight in this spring season of birds
and daisies ; and as if to give life to his verses, a bushy-tailed
squirrel runs along a projecting bough of the oak tree and
springs with a sharp cry into the branches on the farther
side. This is the point for an artist, who may find his fore-
ground in the midst of the river. Below we reach the
enclosures of Gidleigh Park, and the scene, though still wild,
shows that it has not been left entirely to the " sweet will *
and influences of nature.
But wander as we may, so long as we keep within sight
THE TEION. 101
and sound of the stream we cannot go far wrong. By many
a hamlet and picturesque old mill, through lovely pastures,
and under great whitethorns, each tree at this season a hill
of snow, we descend towards Fingle Bridge, where the Teign
passes through a narrow gorge, one of the most striking bits
of hill scenery in Devonshire. The hills rise up some
hundred feet sheer on either side of the river. There is only
a scrambling path along them, and to climb to the heights
is no small labour. One side is wooded —
" And the broom
Full flowered, and visible on every steep
Along the coppice runs in lines of gold."
The other is rough with furze and bare with streams of
" clatter," as the broken rock is here called. Both sides of
the pass are crowned with ancient camps — which certainly
at this point guarded the entrance to the moorlands,
and may have watched over the transport of tin to the
emporia at Exeter and elsewhere ; and which, if we accept
the suggestion of Dean Merivale, may have witnessed the
final struggles between Roman and Danmonian, when
Vespasian and Titus brought all this country under the
control of the legions. It was during this western campaign
that Titus, then a novice in arms, saved the life of his father
Vespasian ; and there is nothing to prevent us from placing
the scene of this event, if we choose to do so, at the watch
tower of Prestonbury where it overlooks the pass.
But the vagaries of a trout stream are very unreasonable ;
and lovely as its windings may be, we must not linger by
them. Like the river in Thalaba, " a broader and a broader
stream," it flows onward ; here a heron watching its clear
"stickles," there a brace of kingfishers glancing with
sapphire lights along its reaches. To the last it is beautiful ;
102 THE DAMT.
and as you look upward from the bar of Teignmouth across
the broad estuary, where the sunset lights are lingering, to
the crests of Haytor rising high against the pale clearness of
the sky, you will allow that the evening " picture " is not
less full of charm than that of the morning from Kestor.
3Sij tije ©art.
From Poetical Sketches by Anne Batten Cristall, 1795.
Where Dart romantic winds its mazy course
And mossy rocks adhere to woody hills,
From whence each creeping rill its store distils,
And wandering waters join with rapid force ;
There Nature's hand has wildly strown her flowers,
And varying prospects strike the roving eyes ;
Rousdi-hanonng woods o'er cultured hills arise ;
Thick ivy spreads around huge antique towers ;
And fruitful groves
Scatter their blossoms fast as falling showers,
Perfuming every stream which o'er the landscape pours.
Along the grassy banks how sweet to stray,
When the mild eve smiles in the glowing west,
And lengthen'd shades proclaim departing day,
And fainting sunbeams in the waters play,
When every bird seeks its accustom'd rest f
How grand to see the burning orb descend,
And the grave sky wrapp'd in its nightly robes,
Whether resplendent with the starry globes,
Or silver'd by the mildly-solemn moon ;
When nightingales their lovely song resume,
And folly's sons their babbling noise suspend.
THE DART. 103
Or when the darkening clouds fly o'er the sea,
And early morning beams a cheerful ray,
Waking melodious songsters from each tree ;
How sweet beneath each dewy hill
Amid the pleasing shades to stray,
Where nectar'd flowers their sweets distil,
Whose watery pearls reflect the day !
To scent the jonquil's rich perfume,
To pluck the hawthorn's tender briers,
As wild beneath each flowery hedge
Fair strawberries with violets bloom,
And every joy of Spring conspires !
Nature's wild songsters from each bush and tree
Invite the early walk, and breathe delight :
What bosom heaves not with warm sympathy,
When the gay lark salutes the new-born light ?
Hark ! where the shrill-toned thrush,
Sweet whistling, carols the wild harmony !
The linnet warbles, and from yonder bush
The robin pours soft streams of melody !
©artmeet
From the Visitors' Book at P. French's Cottage, and printed in
Mr. R Dymond's Widdecombe-in-the-Moor.
A maiden fair from the West came down
Clad in a dress of the brightest brown ;
1 Twas trimmed all o'er with a silv'ry frill,
Spangled with white, like a rippling rill.
If you gazed into her crystal eye,
With a liquid glance she passed you by,
104 THE DART.
Bounding and dancing with skippings fleet
Swift as a Dart her lover to meet
A dashing youth from the East drew nigh,
Dark grey was his suit, bright brown was his eye ;
His buttons were silver, sparkling bright,
The lining silk, of a glossy white,
If stared at long, or gazed on by chance,
' Twas ever the same unflinching glance ;
With a leaping, bounding, merry Dart,
He tried to meet but his own sweetheart.
It was here they met one wintry morn,
Never again were their lives forlorn ;
No priest was required to make them one,
For their wedding day was known to none ;
The stream of their lives right merrily sped,
Together they roamed where Nature led ;
Their will was one, their purpose alone
In the Sea of Love to lose their own.
J.C.
Eo tfje Ei&er ©art.
From an excellent little book called Rambles in Devonshire, by
the Rev. H. J. Whitfield, M.A. 1854.
Beautiful river, how calm is thy way,
Lingering fondly, ere winding away ;
Winding away to the Ocean, whose sigh
Comes, in low murmurs, imploringly by.
Fairy-like river, how long is thy way,
Timidly coying in haven and bay ;
Musical wanderer, haste to depart,
Child of the wilderness, beautiful Dart.
THE DART. 105
Bold is the rush of the kingly Rhine,
Bright is his coronet, bright is his wine.
Soft, in the shade of his mountain zone,
Laughs the blue glance of the bounding Rhone.
Proudly the yellow -haired Tiber may flow,
Singing his dirge to the dead below.
Which of the river gods, which may it be,
Beautiful Dart, to be mated with thee ?
Thou hast no chaplet of vine-clad bowers,
Thou hast no circlet of feudal towers,
Thou hast no glitter of charging ranks,
FJeets on thy bosom, and blood on thy banks ;
Thou hast no legend of olive or vine,
Only one exquisite Spirit is thine,
Only Love's spirit is thine, and the heart
Honours thee, hallows thee, beautiful Dart.
Go to thy home in the Ocean, and be
Bride of the Infinite, bride of the Free !
Yet, from thy crown of enchantment, unbind
Treasures that linger, like music, behind.
Leave to the Poet his dreams from above,
Leave to the lovely their visions of love,
Blend them in rapture, and be to their heart
Bright as the Sun to thee, beautiful Dart.
at lxfott'% lUap on tfje Bante of tfje ©art.
John Bradford.
I'd live a hermit on the craggy side
Of this lone rock which juts its rugged breast,
Where murmuring at delay the waters glide,
106 THE DART.
Running their restless race in search of rest.
The rapid Dart with its own foam at play,
Dashing and rippling as it speeds along,
As through the rocks its gushing waters stray-
Should raise a chorus to my morning song.
And when at eve the moon in vain essays
To view her likeness in the playful stream,
And the soft radiance of her smiling rays
Strays o'er the wave in many a sparkling beam,
Pure should my vesper hymn ascend on high —
Meek could I live, and humbly trusting die.
2fti&er of ©art*
Mortimer Collins.
" River of Dart ! river of Dart !
Every year thou claimest a heart."
Beautiful river, through fringe of fern
Gliding swift to the southern sea,
Such is the fame thy wild waves earn,
Such is the dirge men sing by thee :
For the cry of Dart is the voice of doom,
When the floods are out in the moorland gloom.
River of Dart ! beside thy stream .
In the sweet Devon summer I linger and dream ;
For thy mystic pools are dark and deep,
And thy flying waters strangely clear,
And the crags are wild by the Lover's Leap,
And thy song of sorrow I will not hear,
While the fierce moor-falcon floats aloft,
^.nd I gaze on eyes that are loving and soft.
THE DART. 107
River of Dart ! the praise be thine
For the loving eyes that are meeting mine !
Where thy swift trout leap, and thy swallows dip,
'Neath a grey tor's shadow 'twas mine to know
The pure first touch of a virgin lip,
And the virgin pant of a breast of snow.
River of Dart ! O river of Dart !
By thy waters wild I have found a heart.
Wt)t l&t&er Bart.
From The Battle of Hastings and other Poems, 1853.
By Sydney Hodges.
The quiet of the moonlight hour
Is stealing softly o'er my heart ;
It has a deep, yet nameless power,
That language cannot all impart.
I turn my steed upon the hill,
The silver Dart glides on below ;
And all the vale so lone and still
Is bathed in one broad moonlight p;low.
Beneath the garish beam of day
I've often marked this scene before ;
When field, and hill, and moorland grey
One aspect broad of beauty wore.
I've seen the hills majestic sweep
Reflected from the waters clear,
But never felt a charm so deep,
As this which now enchains me here.
108 THE DART.
It is the solemn, silent thought,
Evoked by this impressive scene,
That makes it more with beauty fraught,
And dearer than it erst has been.
There's such a silence o'er the hills,
Such softness o'er the stream below,
My heart with so much rapture fills,
I pause, and cannot turn to go.
I've never known a fairer scene,
A beauty matched with thine, sweet Dart !
Thou leav'st, like some soft passing dream,
An endless memory on the heart.
Like gems upon the brow of Sleep
The moonbeams on thy waters rest ;
And I could almost turn and weep,
So strangely do they move my breast.
'Tis strange, but I have ever found
Excess of beauty makes us sad ;
The heart, when stirred by sweetest sound,
Will weep, when most it should be glad,
We never gaze upon the moon,
The eve, the golden stars of night,
But o'er the spirit comes full soon
This very sadness of delight.
It is that such calm scenes are fraught
With such a blessed sense of rest ;
So far beyond the brightest thought
That fills the purest human breast ;
That with the consciousness of sin,
When Nature speaks, in vain we try
THE DART. 109
To find a single thought within,
To meet her matchless purity.
I would my life were like thy stream,
Oh ! silent and majestic Dart !
Of what wild beauties should I dream,
What visions sweet would throng my heart.
Eternal pleasures round my way,
Would never cease to rise and shine ;
And girt with beauty, day by day,
Oh ! what a matchless course were mine !
I linger still, and still I gaze,
And deeper grows my heart's delight ;
My spirit swells to silent praise,
And mingles with the infinite.
Oh beauteous night ! oh starry skies !
Oh stream below ! oh moon above !
Such mingled glories round me rise,
I have no words to speak my love.
Across my spirit as I gaze,
There 'comes a calmer sense of life ;
Whose influence seems my soul to raise
Above the common toil and strife.
A pensive calm, an inward glow
Of holy thoughts too seldom given,
That seem to bless me as I go,
And whisper like a voice from heaven.
110 THE DART.
ffiartefoe, 1849.
From Poems, by Charles Kingsley.
London, Macmillan and Co., 1880.
I cannot tell what you say, green leaves,
I cannot tell what you say ;
But I know that there is a spirit in you,
And a word in you this day.
I cannot tell what you say, rosy rocks,
I cannot tell what you say ;
But I know that there is a spirit in you,
And a word in you this day.
I cannot tell what you say, brown streams,
I cannot tell what you say ;
But I know that in you, too, a spirit doth live,
And a word doth speak this day.
" green is the colour of faith and truth,
And rose the colour of love and youth,
And brown of the fruitful clay.
Sweet Earth is faithful and fruitful and young,
And her bridal day shall come ere long,
And you shall know what the rocks and the streams
And the whispering woodlands say."
-w^KJH*-
NORTH DEVON. Ill
©artlantr.
From The North Devon Scenery Book, 1863,
by George Tugwell, M.A.
Five miles from Clovelly is Hartland Town ; a very quiet
street of grey-stone cottages and white- washed houses on a
high and windy table-land.
They say it rains a good deal at Hartland ; and no doubt
it does, for, put out of the question the obvious fact that the
moist air-currents of the gulf -stream are naturally condensed
by the first high land they encounter, it seems evident that
it rains at Hartland because there is nothing else for the
weather to do there. But one must not murmur, for the
Inn is the perfection of a country Inn, and the weather is,
on this occasion, faultless.
So, after the earliest of breakfasts, we set out for Hart-
land Point. We lose ourselves in a labyrinth of ferny lanes
which have had no apparent beginning, and certainly seem
to be without end ; and at last having gone across country
in sheer hopelessness and desperation, we are pulled up by
an irate farmer in the middle of what he is good enough to
call his wheat-field, and whom I unnecessarily exasperate by
remarking that the field is sufficiently visible, but that the
wheat is very much the reverse.
At length we arrive at the Point, which is the peak of a
narrow promontory running far out into the Atlantic. As
we ramble cautiously up the narrowest of paths to its steep
and slippery summit, the wind buffets us to its heart's
content ; when once on the platform which is the termination
of all things we are suddenly becalmed, for the western sea-
breeze strikes against the perpendicular scarp of the pro-
112 NORTH DEVON.
montory, and by virtue of an obvious mechanical law, rises
vertically and leaves the peak to a strange and unexpected
quiet.
On either side the view of the coast-line is magnificent,
needle points of hard black slate-rock dart out into the
white-crested sea ; the cliffs are sheer ; the beach is a level
pavement of vertical strata cut at right-angles by the cease-
less action of the stormy sea, and strewn with chaotic
boulders of black slate and white quartz. One can almost
hear these huge masses grinding and clanging together as
the great Atlantic rollers tower in on stormy winter nights,
and nothing living lives where they are omnipotent.
The day is wearing onwards when I am again in the
outskirts of Hartland Town, and thence walk rapidly along
the hilly road which leads to Hartland Quay. We pass
through a lovely valley by the banks of a ferny trout-stream
which glides seaward beneath magnificent oaks. Here is
Hartland Abbey, stretching bar-like across the vale, a
stately and impressive pile of buildings, modernised as it is
for modern uses. On the hill above, the lofty tapering tower
of the Abbey Church soars high into the air.
The church of S. Nectan would alone repay the trouble of
a long and toilsome journey. Thoroughly restored as it is,
its great charm is that it has never become thoroughly
dilapidated. The stained windows, the reading desk and
reredos are of modern care, and the stone altar and credence-
table have been removed from the neighbouring Abbey, but
the rest of the church is as it always was. There is a
magnificent carved and coloured oaken screen with parcloses
of like work ; there are massive open seats ; there is a glorious
vista from tower arch to altar steps. I climb the beautiful
tower ; high in the wind is a peal of eight bells, and on the
NORTH DEVON. 113
great tenor is the engraven legend " Watch : for ye know
not the hour of death." From the lofty summit is a view
over valley and stream, and wood and sea, which I do not
think I shall easily forget.
Then, for the day is now waning, I walk rapidly down to
Hartland Quay ; where at the foot of beetling cliffs a curved
pier of solid masonry appears to grow out of the solid rock,
and forms a seemingly-insecure harbourage for the fisher-
men's boats in stormy weather.
Beyond again, to the westward, we ramble on over the
cliffs, whose every turn and angle makes one lament that
more time had not been given to this district, which is by
far the most picturesque part of the North of Devon. Here
is Catharine Tor, a huge rounded hill cut in two by the
encroaching ocean, as by a giant's sword ; and here I am
standing once more on the rocky beach at the crowning
point of my westward rambles — for here are Milf ord Water-
falls.
A moorland stream has forced its way through the heart
of the iron cliffs ; first it makes a sheer leap of a hundred
feet down a black rock into a black and whirling pit, now it
rushes downwards through the murky ravine with another
mighty fall, and still another, and then there is a dark pool
at the base of the contorted scarp, into which the crested
breakers of the spring flood are dashing with a wild and
angry roar.
We hasten homewards by the light of the cloudy moon
as best we may, and I resolve that my next Devonshire
holiday shall be devoted to Hartland country only.
■■ • c ^ssfo s » '
114 NORTH DEVON.
From The North Devon Scenery Book, 1863,
By Eev, George Tugwell, M. A.
The road from Bidef ord to Clovelly is a high and pleasant
one, full of those undulations which a wise pedestrian loves
who knows that a long flat is more trying to his muscles
than any hills which were ever upheaved ; full too of cool
tracts of grateful shade, and gemmed as it were with many
sudden and shining glimpses of the neighbouring sea. At
the ninth mile- stone we come within sight of the " Hobby "
Gate, which will admit us to that most facile and
umbrageous of Clovelly approaches. But, under advice, I
continue the main road for another hundred yards or so,
and thus arrive at Clovelly Dykes, the remains of an old
British camp of great extent, and in marvellously perfect
preservation. Having duly inspected this relic of ancient
days, I repass the Lodge gates and stroll leisurely down the
Hobby road, which winds for ever and ever along the hill-
side, through a charming wilderness of stately timber-trees
and luxuriant undergrowth. A profusion of flowers and
ferns for the botanist, of cuttings and sections of contorted
strata for the geologist, of lovely vistas of wood, and
glimpses of the neighbouring sea for the artist, render this
walk attractive in no common degree, and I leave its well-
worn track with regret, and find myself under the shadow
of full-foliaged oaks in a grass-green lane which must needs
shortly conduct me to Clovelly.
Soon afterwards we came upon a tiny grey church with a
low square tower, which in no way seems markworthy ;
close by is a well-kept Bectory, and opposite is Clovelly
NORTH DEVON. 115
Court with its large handsome conservatory and gay
gardens. These latter look sufficiently tempting, but although
I am invited to pay them a visit I venture to decline, and
enquire anxiously for the whereabouts of Clovelly village,
which is quite invisible, although one seems to have arrived
at the very land's end.
" It's just down there, Sir," says the civil woman whom I
am questioning.
I followed the direction of her hand, and my eye falls
over the wooded cliff, and plunges into the sea.
Ci Where ? " I ask again.
" There ! " she replies, pointing seawards with outstretched
finger.
" Why, that's Lundy ! " I retort rather pettishly, for the
weather is hot, and I am not in the humour for practical jokes.
Finally, I discover that my informant is in sober earnest ;
and I apologise, and marvel, and proceed. Presently, always
among trees, I come upon the head of a ravine which rushes
down into the sea at an angle of about fifty degrees. From
its wooded summit down to the pebbly beach at its base
falls a perfectly unique cataract of cottages, descending in
an unbroken white straight line. So sheer is the fall that
the eaves of every house are on a level with the foundations
of its higher and immediate neighbour. The street itself is
paved with well-worn boulders from the shore, arranged in
a series of irregular stairs, down whose steeps " I slip, I
slide," brook- fashion, in increasing bewilderment.
By and by the double line of cottages coalesce, and all
further descent seems impracticable, but on a sudden we
discover a dark passage passing through and under an
ancient house, well-eaved and gabled after the picturesque
manner of houses of olden days. So we dive into the tunnel
I 2
116 NORTH DEVON.
and come out quite unexpectedly upon the quay, where the
herring boats, with their red sails and festoons of endless
nets, are grinding idly against the water-worn stones of the
narrow winding gangway. Beyond is a rude and massive
pier which thrusts out its encircling and protecting arm into
the rippling waters of the bay ; at its extremity I pause and
look down upon the sea which is still below me, and there
is a rough ladder so wet and worn and perpendicular, that
one's breath is positively taken away at the suggestion of
the possibility of embarking by means of its dangerous aid.
Then I look up at the cascade of white houses, and only
wonder how I or any other man could have accomplished
the dizzy descent.
After securing a sketch of the main features of this most
unique of villages from an advantageous point of view to
the eastward of the pier, I pass the rest of the day in
rambling by the cliffs through the grounds of Clovelly
Court, which with kindly liberality are thrown open to all
comers. Lovely indeed are the wildernesses of virgin grass
and deepest fern, and darkest oak shadows ; pleasant are the
resting-places on the summits of wooded cliffs, where one
could rest for ever and absorb the quiet country beauty of
the land and the ever-changing charms of the stately sea.
That sullen promontory in the west is Harty Point, haunted
by all strong winds and Waves on blackest winter nights ; and
that silver bar of light in front is Lundy, a granite peak,
restful ever in the ever restless sea.
To-morrow we are to visit that island. Blow softly then
O summer winds, and rest too-perturbed ocean ! — for I am
not a good sailor, and my friend and comrade Sharp is
essentially a land-animal.
NORTH DEVON. 117
Clofallg from tfje Pier.
Charles Dickens in A Message jroii the Sea.
" The village was built sheer up the face of a steep and
lofty cliff. There was no road in it, there was no wheeled
vehicle in it, there was not a level yard in it. From the
sea-beach to the cliff-top two irregular rows of white houses,
placed opposite to one another and twisting here and there,
and there and here, rose like the sides of a long succession
of stages of crooked ladders, and you climbed up the village
or climbed down the village by the staves between, some six
feet wide or so, and made up, of sharp, irregular stones. The
old pack-saddle, long laid aside in most parts of England as
one of the appendages of its infancy, flourished here intact.
Strings of pack-horses and pack-donkeys toiled slowly up
the staves of the ladders, bearing fish and coal, and such
other cargo as was unshipping at the pier from the dancing
fleet of village boats, and from two or three little coasting
traders. As the beasts of burden ascended laden, or des-
cended light, they got so lost at intervals in the floating
clouds of village smoke, that they seemed to dive down
some of the village chimneys, and come to the surface again
far off, high above others. No two houses in the village
were alike, in chimney, size, shape, door, window, gable,
roof -tree, anything. The sides of the ladders were musical
with water, running clear and bright. The staves were
musical with the clattering feet of the pack-horses and
pack-donkeys, and the voices of the fishermen urging them
up, mingled with the voices of the fishermen's wives and
their many children.
The pier was musical with the wash of the sea, the
118 NORTH DEVON.
creaking of capstans and windlasses, and the airy fluttering
of little vanes and sails. The rough sea-bleached boulders
of which the pier was made, and the whiter boulders of the
shore, were brown with drying nets. The red-brown cliffs,
richly wooded to their extremest verge, had their softened
and beautiful forms reflected in the bluest water, under the
clear North Devonshire sky of a November day without a
cloud. The village itself was so steeped in autumnal foliage
from the houses giving on the pier, to the topmost round of
the topmost ladder, that one might have fancied it was out
a bird's-nesting and was, (as indeed it was) a wonderful
climber. And mentioning birds, the place was not without
some music from them too ; for the rook was very busy on
the higher levels, and the gull with his flapping wings was
fishing in the bay, and the lusty little robin was hopping
among the great stone blocks and iron rings of the break-
water, fearless in the faith of his ancestors and the "Children
in the Wood."
Wc\t ©obbjj, Clobellir-
From Wayside Warbles, by Edwakd CafSBN,
London, Sampson Low and Co., 1865.
They told me 'twas enchanted ground,
The fairies sweetest ferny haunt ;
I deemed it but an empty sound,
A fancy, or an idle vaunt.
But when I passed its rustic gate,
My Muse all buoyant spread her wing,
And Melody, with joy elate,
In ecstasy began to sing —
NORTH DEVON. 119
Of beautiful and balmy spots,
And pathways buried in the shade ;
Of sultry nooks and cooling grots,
And flowers that gem the sunny glade ;
Of trees depending, till the leaves
Rest on the roadway's rocky ground,
Where hares disport on summer eves
Ere they into the dingles bound ;
Bright glimpses of the Severn sea,
Like its reflected heaven at rest,
Where Lundy in serenity
Sleeps like an island of the blest ;
Of broad sea-plains of meadowy green,
And witching peeps of cove and pier,
And boats that dot the liquid scene
Of blue and purpling waters near ; .
Of rich oak-bosses on each height,
And rills that ripple down the glen,
Now foaming into purest white,
Now running into gloom again ;
Of deep ravines and hollow combes,
Of foxglove banks and ferny dells,
And a fair bay which ever booms
Its music as the ocean swells ;
And hawks that wildly screaming, wheel
Around each rude and savage cliff,
And sea-birds, that with downy keel
Skim o'er the billows like a skiff ;
120 NORTH DEVON.
And trawlers which like butterflies
Flit o'er the main with tawny wing,
And barks whose topmasts pierce the skies,
And breakers ever murmuring ;
And a bluff rock with thorny crown
A shelter for the timid fawn,
And woods for ever sloping down,
As smooth to sight as shaven lawn ;
A village like a waterfall,
Or torrent rushing to the tide,
Where brawny fishers, stout and tall,
Trip laughing down its craggy side ;
Quaint bridges hung with mossy curls,
Where strings of polished ivy shine,
And troops of merry dark-eyed girls,
Who boast a beauty half divine.
My numbers fail — no human eye
A sweeter spot shall e'er behold ;
And truth must utter with a sigh,
Not half its glory can be told !
The sylvan pomp and majesty
Which there in harmony have met ;
The bay which in the neighbouring sea
A sapphire seems in emerald set,
Enslave the vision and the thought,
As charm on charm is quick revealed,
Till pleasure is to rapture wrought,
And language is in silence sealed.
NORTH DEVON. 121
CloMlg*
Robert Stephen Hawker.
' Tis eve ! ' tis fading eve ! how fair the scene,
Tinged with the soft hues of the glowing west !
Dim hills afar, and happy vales between,
With the tall corn's deep furrow calmly blest !
Beneath, the sea by eve's fond gale caressed,
And groves of living green that fringe its tide,
Dark sails that gleam on ocean's bounding breast
From the light fisher-barks, that homeward glide,
To make Clovelly's shores of beauty and of pride !
Hearken ! the mingling sounds of earth and sea !
The pastoral music of the bleating flock,
Blent with the sea-bird's uncouth melody ;
The wave's deep murmur to tli ' unheeding rock ;
And ever and anon th ' impatient shock
Of some rude billow on the sounding shore.
And hark ! the rowers' deep and well-known stroke !
Glad hearts are there, and joyous hands once more
Weary the whitening wave with their returning oar !
But turn where Art with graceful hand hath twined
The living wreath for Nature's placid brow,
Where the glad wanderer's joyous footsteps wind
Mid rock, and glancing stream, and waving bough,
Where scarce the valley's leafy depths allow
The lingering sunbeam in their shade to dwell :
There might the Naiad breathe her softest vow,
Or the grim Triton sound his wreathed shell,
Lured from their azure home by that alluring dell.
122 NORTH DEVON.
A softer beauty floats along the sky,
And moonlight dwells upon the heaving wave ;
Far off the night winds steal away and die,
Or, murmuring, slumber in their ocean cave.
Tall oaks whose limbs the giant storm might brave,
Bend in rude fondness o'er the silvery sea ;
Nor can the mountain ash forbear to lave
Her blushing clusters where the waters free
Murmur around her feet such soothing melody.
Lovely Clovelly ! in thy shades of rest,
When timid Spring her pleasant task hath sped,
Or Summer pours from her redundant breast
Her fruits and flowers along the vale's deep bed !
Yes ! and when Autumn's golden glories spread
Till we forget near Winter's withering rage,
What fairer path could woo the wanderer's tread,
Soothe wearied hope, or worn regret assuage ?
Lo, for firm youth a bower ! a home for lapsing age !
From The Fern World, by Francis George Heath,
7th edition, London : Sampson Low and Co., 1882.
"A turn in the road brings us suddenly in view of Clovelly.
Away below us on our right the sea is softly murmuring on
the shingle beach, its blue expanse dotted here and there
with white sails. Looking across and beyond the high cliff
which rises over the wooded height under which from this
point Clovelly appears to nestle, Lundy island is seen
stretching its length across the sea. Now, as we go on,
screening trees close over our path, and the scene changes
NORTH DEVON. 123
in detail. On our left a gently sloping bank, now densely
crowded under its overgrowth of trees with fern forms.
On our right also a sloping bank now falling gently
and now steeply to the sea, and now presenting a
level surface charmingly wooded and Fern dotted. Then for
a moment the sea is hidden by a ferny bank on our right,
but almost immediately it again bursts on the view, seen
through the leafy openings in the trees on the steep bank on
our right. In a minute or two more we get a peep by the
beach of two or three of the white houses of Clovelly, and
we catch sight momentarily of the foreshore of its harbour.
Then as our road descends, we lose sight of the little place.
But it is only for a moment, for anon we come upon an
opening on our right, where an iron chair invitingly placed
tempts us to be seated, and to look on the pretty little town.
Charming indeed is the scene which now opens before us.
Down away below us on our left nestles a wooded glen,
its sides densely clothed with a dark -green mantle of trees.
At the foot of this glen two bright-green meadows lie, whose
lighter verdure charmingly contrasts with the darker shade
of the trees above them. Away in front is the tiny harbour
of Clovelly, backed by its sloping beach, both calmly resting
at the foot of the wooded hill topped by a bare cliff, which
rises high over it. Beyond all, the blue sea with Lundy
island again in sight.
Turning from this spot, our road for a little distance is
free from the shadow of overarching trees, and there is
nothing to shelter us from the fiery glare of the July sun,
save that the soft sea-breeze which gently fans us imparts a
delicious coolness. Presently, however, our path winding
round and descending takes us by a rude stone bridge to
the opposite side of the wooded glen we have just described.
124 NORtB DEVON.
Here are we indeed in a veritable paradise of Fern-land.
Compelled to pause for a moment by the delightful sense of
delicious coolness which comes over us, we take our stand
upon the bridge, lean over its huge parapet and look down,
attracted by the music of the flowing stream beneath, at the
wealth of ivy clothing its arches — the dark green leaves of
the delightful climber being relieved here and there by
glossy fronds of the lighter-coloured hartstongue, which
peep out from rootstocks nursed under the moist and con-
genial shelter of the ivy-trailers. We linger but a moment,
however, upon this wealth of evergreen. The dreamy
murmur of the stream below us, as it runs down to the
bottom of the ravine to the sea, rivets our attention. The
sides of the ravine shelve steeply to the bed of the stream,
the trees on each side of which droop forward to meet each
other from opposite sides, their ivy-and-moss-covered
branches interlacing. From each side of the stream-bank,
under the moist shelter of the overhanging trees, huge ferny
forms fling out their graceful fronds, and mingling with the
wealth of green branches away beyond, form a vista beneath
which the stream disappears, its murmur becoming less and
less distinct as it melts away in the distance.
Turn we now to the opposite side of this rustic bridge,
and we shall get a charming peep at a spot where Nature
delightfully holds her own. In mid-stream a few yards
above the bridge, an islet is planted narrowing on each side
of it the channel of the brook whose waters, divided for a
moment into two rills, unite again ere they flow under the
dark arches. A charming bit of Fern-land is this same islet,
formed no doubt by the aggregation of earthy particles
arrested by a group of stones in mid- stream ; but as we see
it, with its ferny fronds and moss and ivy, it is one dense
NORTH DEVON. 125
mass of delicious green. Snugly sheltered as it is by the
protecting shadows of little trees, which in their turn are
sheltered by the larger tree-growth above them, the green
and graceful tops of the Ferns are nevertheless silvered by a
few rays of the July sun which have coyly crept down to
the stream through the overgrowth of arching branches,
which in a wealth of leafiness spread themselves like a
canopy between the blue sky and the glancing waters of the
music-loving brook.
Leaving this charming spot, and rounding the glen which
on our right opens up in all its splendour to the sea, nothing
being seen but sea and wood, the two sides of the glen
uniting in a point, our path rapidly descends. We cross
another murmuring stream tumbling down the glen to the
sea, and then we appear to be almost lost in a sylvan maze.
On our right is the musical glen, on our left a hillock, steep
and tree-crowned, with trees of stately growth overarching
ferny banks.
On we go, our road winding round and round, and down and
down — giving ever-changing peeps of steep glen and ferny
bank, blue sea and sky — until we come at length upon a spot
whence we appear to be looking out from a leafy heaven
upon the snug little world of Clovelly lying below us, and
seen only between the leafy interstices of the trees, its
white-slated and thatched houses clustering on the hill-side.
For a moment the place has the appearance of being buried
under the trees. So much indeed do the trees outslant, that
they appear as if they had been hewn down and thrown on
to the houses.
Again we cross a stream that flows down a little ravine
right into Clovelly. We pass down on the other side of this
ravine. Now our path rounds the back of the town, lying
126 NORTH DEVON.
from oar point of view embowered on the hill, the blue sea
seen beyond in all its loveliness through the green interstices
of the trees.
At the end of the road continuing the Hobby Drive
towards Clovelly (the New Road is the name given to the
last mile), a turn to the right leads us on to a spot whence
we get a most charming peep of the cliff along which our
path has been cut. But pursuing our road towards the
romantic little town, we come into its High-street, and begin
to explore this singular place, the site of which has been cut
out from the steep hill-side. First, the street goes straight
down by a series of paved steps. Then it winds and winds
down to the beach, the houses being placed one over the
other, each with its bit of garden railed off. The houses
seem to adhere as by an effort to the wooded hill-side — a
hill which is in fact so steep that it may be called a cliff.
Let us begin our exploration of this singular place from the
beach.
Around the quay at Clovelly and opposite the small
breakwater which is built up to enclose its tiny harbour,
small houses cluster, built on rocky foundations which are
daily washed by the tide. These houses are curiously
arranged, some of them with wooden balconies, erected
probably to keep children from tumbling out on to the
beach.
Turning away from the beach in commencing our ascent
through the heart of Clovelly, hung on the steep and wooded
hill which rises over the sea, we enter, passing under an
archway, the lower end of the High-street, corresponding to
the bottom of the town. In doing this, we are actually
passing under the foundations of a house which has been
built on the archway in question.
NORTH DEVON. 127
And now we commence the singular ascent to ' the top of
the town.' To make this ascent as easy as possible for the
pedestrian, the entire road through the heart of Clovelly is
not only paved with rounded stones like very big pebbles, but
the whole of the way is divided into broad steps, each some-
what the shape of a parallelogram, and rising two or three
inches above the next below it — the division where the
upper steps rise above the lower being marked by a line of
larger stones. The crevices between the stones are filled with
small tufts of grass, and at the end of each division below
the line marked by the big stones are larger tufts of grass and
weeds. Grass, too, grows along the way at the foot of the
walls of the houses which are some of brick and others of
stone, and some composed partly of brick and partly of
stone. Some of the houses are perched over others, and are
approached by winding-steps. Fern and grass fill the inter-
stices between the bricks and stone. Gardens are placed in
odd corners in all sorts of spaces, which exist in all kinds of
almost impossible situations ; and where there is no room
for gardens, little spaces at the foot of the walls are utilised,
where fuchsias and creepers, snapdragons, geraniums and ivy
grow.
From the quay the road winds round and round in its
first ascent. Some steps in almost every direction appear to
lead everywhere, up into the houses which would, but for
them, be impossible of approach, dowu into and up into
gardens placed in marvellous corners, and away into pantries
and out-houses. Now on the side of the High-street a wall
parts off a small enclosure which does service for a garden.
In other places such enclosures are filled with high and rank
weeds.
Now as our paved path winds on and up, we pass under a
128 NORTH DEVON.
wall built up of big stones ; and topping this wall above us
and springing out over our path are long clumps of fuchsia
and other garden flowers. As we wind upwards, we reach
a point where our path opens up a view of the harbour and
the sea beyond. At this spot, looking over the wall on our
right in the direction of the sea, we catch sight of a tiny-
garden bright with hydrangia, sweet pea, nasturtium, and
fuchsia. This garden is hung as it were over the wall, and
is actually higher than the pointed slate roof of a house,
which from where we stand has the appearance of clinging
by its side to the cliff.
We go on winding up and up. All at once, we hear the merry
voices of children, appearing to come from high up in the
air. Looking up to whence the voices proceed, and far above
us, we see children playing in gardens that seem almost to
hang over our head. A few minutes more and from the
ledge where we stand, if we look across on our left, we espy
a cottage giddily perched right on the top of a cliff covered
with ivy and shrubbery. A little further on and a turning
to the right leads into a sort of paved quadrangle, which is
in fact a little world in itself, having little flights of steps
leading up to and leading down into gardens placed in every
imaginable position, the houses to which they are attached
respectively being so placed as to command a view of several
tiers of houses lying below them.
Then after winding and turning in every possible way,
we at length reach once more the steep and almost straight
part of the High-street which leads away up to the top of
the town."
*
NORTH DEVON. 129
EJje HLoxxitiQt.
From Wayside Warbles, by Edward Capern.
London : Sampson Low & Co., 1865.
I have seen thee in thy glory, like a virgin in her pride,
When a myriad suns were flashing on the bosom of thy tide,
As the arm of the Atlantic, stretching inward from the bay,
Roll'd its wave along the golden sands that pave thy
water-way.
I have seen thee when the May-time, in her frock of
Whitsun- white,
Strew' d thy banks with red-rimmed daisy flowers, like
broken clouds of light ;
And in Summer, when the cattle cooled their hot hides in
the stream,
And thy white town on the hillside looked the picture of
a dream.
In Autumn, too, I've watched thee, when the rugged woods
that slope
Beneath thy undulating heights seemed like a withered hope ;
And in Winter, when the heavy clouds were tempest rent
and grey,
And thy torrent, like a troubled soul, rolled on its turbid way.
In the morn, when the town lattices were rich with goldenfire,
At the noontide, when thy wavelets brushed the old bridge
like a lyre,
In the even, when the dreamy sun behind the hill went down,
And at night-time, when old Bideford made thee a brilliant
crown.
K
130 NORTH DEVON.
I have loved thee when thy shipping threw its shadows
o'er thy face,
As the stars came out all silently along the realms of space ;
But when the moon was mirrored on thy ripples soft and
bright,
With a passion I have worshipped thee, my beauty and
delight.
And had I but an artist's hand, I'd paint some pleasant scene
Of thy iris-tinted waters in their richest summer sheen,
When our little ones like love gods are sporting in thine arms,
And I'd envy not the lover of the Yarrow and its charms.
BiticfortJ.
From Westward Ho I by Charles Kinqsley.
London : Macmillan & Co.
"All who have travelled through the delicious scenery of
North Devon must needs know the little white town of
Bideford, which slopes upwards from its broad tide-river
paved with yellow sands, and many-arched old bridge where
salmon wait for autumn floods, toward the pleasant upland
on the west. Above the town the hills close in, cushioned
with deep oak woods, through which juts here and there a
crag of fern-fringed slate : below they lower, and open more
and more in softly rounded knolls, and fertile squares of red
and green, till they sink into the wide expanse of hazy flats,
rich salt marshes, and rolling sand-hills, where Torridge
joins her sister Taw, and both together flow quietly toward
the broad surges of the bar, and the everlasting thunder of
the long Atlantic swell. Pleasantly the old town stands
NORTH DEVON. 131
there, beneath its soft Italian sky, fanned day and night by
the fresh ocean breeze, which forbids alike the keen winter
frosts, and the fierce thunder heats of the midland, and
pleasantly it has stood there for now, perhaps, eight hundred
years since the first Grenvil, cousin of the Conqueror,
returning from the conquest of South Wales, drew round
him trusty Saxon serfs, and free Norse rovers with their
golden curls, and dark Silurian Britons from the Swansea
shore, and all the mingled blood which still gives to the
seaward folk of the next county their strength and intellect,
and, even in these levelling days, their peculiar beauty of
face and form."
Ed BtorforH,
IN PROSPECT OF LEAVING IT.
From Wayside Warbles, by Edward Capern.
London : Sampson Low and Co., 1865.
And must I leave thee, my adopted home,
Nurse of my inspiration and my vaunt,
Thy broad strands silver'd with the salt sea-foam,
Each fairy inlet and each sylvan haunt ?
What visions of blue skies, and purple hills,
And ocean-plains will rise upon my view !
And 0, what melodies of birds and rills
Will fill the silence, when I sigh, Adieu !
I cannot say farewell without a tear ;
My spirit bleeds to think that we must part :
Yet there are claims more sacred and more dear
Than thine enchantments, darling of my heart !
132 NORTH DEVON.
Oft in my dreams, when far away from thee,
Amid thy matchless charms my soul shall stray,
To list the music of some wandering bee,
Or mark the sea-gull sporting in the bay.
Watching the stars burn through the silent sky,
Or the moon trembling in the rippled flood ;
Or listening to the tempest's lullaby
To drowsy Nature in a neighbouring wood.
Treading again the valley of the Yeo,
A dreamer in the deepening hush of eve ;
Or gliding where the waters gently flow
Beneath the shadow of sweet Oldiscleave.
Perchance the pilgrim by me hither led
Shall thread thy paths and syllable my name,
And talk of days when on thy banks I led
My dark-eyed joys, and married thee to fame.
'Twas here I felt that sweet, oppressive power,
Which beauty treasures up in solitude,
The Godhead's presence in the simplest flower,
The poet's passion and his gratitude.
Weak was my praise, but what I had I gave
As some return for my continuous joy ;
And when the minstrel slumbers in his grave,
Think of him kindly for his loved employ.
For each dumb beauty I have found a voice,
The peasants bless me in their uncouth tongue,
Thy merry maidens in my lays rejoice,
And all thy rivers warble in my song.
Yes I do love thee, and if I forget
How much I owe thee, let my right hand fail
To prove its cunning, till the countless debt
Is wiped away by some melodious tale.
NORTH DEVON. 133
UtUefortr Brtoge.
From Westward Ho ! by Chakles Kingsley.
London : Macmillan & Co.
" Every one who knows Bideford cannot but know
Bideford Bridge, for it is the very omphalos, cynosure, and
soul, around which the town, as a body, has organized
itself; and as Edinburgh is Edinburgh by virtue of its
Castle ; Rome Rome by virtue of its Capitol ; and Egypt
Egypt by virtue of its Pyramids, so is Bideford Bideford by
virtue of its Bridge. But all do not know the occult
powers which have advanced and animated the said
wondrous bridge for now 500 years, and made it the chief
wonder, according to Prince and Fuller, of this fair land of
Devon ; being first an inspired bridge ; a soul-saving
bridge ; an alms-giving bridge ; an educational bridge ; a
sentient bridge ; and last, but not least, a dinner-giving
bridge. All do not know how, when it began to be built
some half-mile higher up, hands invisible carried the stones
down stream each night to the present site ; until Sir
Richard Gurney, parson of the parish, going to bed one
night in sore perplexity, and fear of the evil spirit who
seemed so busy in his sheepfold, beheld a vision of an angel,
who bade build the bridge where he himself had so kindly
transported the materials : for there alone was sure founda-
tion amid the broad sheet of shifting sand. All do not
know how Bishop Grandison of Exetsr proclaimed through-
out his diocese indulgences, benedictions and ' participation
in all spiritual blessings for ever/ to all who would promote
the bridging of that dangerous ford; and so, consulting
134 NORTHlDFA T ON.
alike the interests of their souls and of their bodies, ' make
the best of both worlds.'
" All do not know, nor do I, that ' though the foundation
of the bridge is laid upon wool, yet it shakes at the slightest
step of a horse'; or that 'though it has 23 arches, yet one
William Alford (another Milo) carried on his back, for a
wager, four bushels salt-water measure, all the length
thereof; or that the bridge is a veritable esquire, bearing
arms of its own (a ship and a bridge proper on a plain field),
and owning lands and tenements in many parishes, with
which the said miraculous bridge has from time to time
founded charities, built schools, waged suits of law, and
finally given yearly dinners, and kept for that purpose
(luxurious and liquorish bridge that it was) the best stocked
cellar of wines in all Devon."
JSrauntott JSurrofos.
From The North Devon Seenery Book,
By George Tugwell, M.A.
The Burrows are a great chaos of wind-strewn sand-hills,
covering a tract of ground, say of two miles in length, and,
from half to three-quarters of a mile in breadth, and
forming a natural and most necessary barrier to the further
inland incursions of the drifting sands. It is curious to
notice the manner in which an impassable barricade is
naturally formed out of such shifting and perishable
materials as drifting sand and decayed vegetation. A
hillock of white ever-moving sand is driven up by the
wind — by and by a long creeping trailer of the tufted sand-
grass slides along from a neighbouring hillock, where the
NORTH DEVON. 135
process is already in a forward state, — then another under-
ground-root shoots out in a straight line, and another, and
another, till at last an interlacing mat of sturdy grass is
constructed. Then a few rushes perhaps will spring up ; by
and by the sword-like leaves of the lesser Iris, (whose grey-
blue blossoms and bright scarlet berries are so great an
adornment of this and other like waste places) put in an
appearance ; then more grass springs up, and more plants
burst out into flower ; and so, in the end, the whole surface
is covered with luxuriant many-hued vegetation, and a
barrier is formed against which the stormy winds may rage
in vain.
The Burrows, waste and desolate as they seem to a
careless observer, are in truth full of life and beauty.
Countless troops of rabbits hurry in and out and round
about in ceaseless motion ; overhead the pee-wit screams,
the white gulls soar, the lark chants ; in the marshy pools
the brown-winged water-beetle dives, the water-snails
crawl, and swarms of grey-winged gnats and gayer
ephemeridse live out their brief and sunlit hours. Over the
jagged leaves and yellow blooms of the Ragwort, the pretty
pink-winged moth (Phalcena Jacobcea) is fluttering his
bright colours. And the plants ! 0, brother botanist, go and
visit the Burrows, and thank me for the harvest which I
point out as a reward for your happy labours ! In this short
summer afternoon I gathered more rare and beautiful
specimens than I must here catalogue ; amongst many
others were the dull and livid blossom of the Henbane, the
blue and crimson Viper's Bugloss, the woolly great Mullein,
the pretty pink Centaury, the yellow Chlora, the delicate
Bog-pimpernel, the dull-purple Hound's-tongue, the square-
stemmed St. John's-wort, with which and divers others not
136 NORTH DEVON.
to be here recorded I filled my vasculum, and intend to
enrich my home herbarium.
And the views from those Burrows ! Over the white
sands, all down the glittering reach of the brimming river
my eye is wandering : now it rests on the winding water-
wasted curve of white Appledore : now it loses itself amid
the leafy mazes of Northam, nestling among its fair green
hills : now it catches the twinkling of the tossing flood on
the wreck-sown Bar : now it rests on the far-off cliff outline
where Clovelly sleeps in its wooded gorge, and great Harty
Point keeps lonely watch amid the Atlantic surge.
Yes — whatever you do in North Devonshire, go and
" do " the Burrows : and if you pronounce them to be (as
they are) " a number of sand-hills in the neighbourhood of a
marsh," it will be your own fault, and not mine — nor
theirs.
Sunset front tije (Capstone Sill, Elfraeombe.
From Combe Flowers, by Anne Irwin.
2nd Edition. London : Hatch ards, 1879.
Sweet sunset hour ! now wearied earth
Lies pillow'd on thy breast ;
And jarring sounds of daily birth
Are hush'd by thee to rest.
With rosy fingers, soft and light,
Thou draw'st the curtains of the night.
Yon sun — a mighty alchemist —
Is turning all to gold ;
And from the vales the wreathing mist
In purple light is rolled :
Far o'er the waves the seabirds roam,
Dipping their wings in silver foam.
NORTH DEVON. 137
I would the inmates of a cell —
The toilers in a mine —
Could lift their heavy gaze, and dwell
On beauty fair as thine ;
Till o'er and round the darken'd soul
A new sweet thrill of pleasure stole.
I would the weary hand and brain,
Weary with counting o'er
Another's deftly-gotten gain,
His own, alas, so poor !
I would he saw this sunset now,
And felt those breezes on his brow.
And children in whom want and pain
Have bitter memories stored ;
Whilst fields and flowers and woods remain
A region unexplored ;
I would these caves and rocks rang out
Glad echoes to their merry shout.
Fair scenes of loveliness ! that glow
Like nearer gleams of Heaven ;
Ye fain would smooth from every brow
The primal curse there graven.
The curse of toil and care and strife,
The greed of gold, the pride of life.
How futile seen by Heaven's calm light
Are all our cherished schemes !
Bubbles that burst when just in sight,
Vague unsubstantial dreams ;
Green gourds that promised noonday shade,
Yet 'neath the first fierce blast decayed.
138 NORTH DBVON.
O Thou ! whose hand alike sustains
Yon orbed fount of day,
And fragile flowers that gem the plains
Beneath his fervid ray ;
Glad Nature's secret may we see —
Of restful happy trust in Thee.
Kxu% trx Broati $arfe, Ilftacomfa,
From Combe Flowers, by Anne Irwin.
Vainly ye stretch bare wither'd arms across
My homeward path, ye trees ! as vainly, too,
For pitying glances do ye bend and sue,
Forgetful that I see, amid the moss,
The sturdy little buds shy peeping through.
Ye stand as wily mendicants, whose hoard
In hidden wallet lieth amply stored,
And soon your leafy wealth shall burst anew.
Awaiting you are birds, and sunny hours,
Fresh wandering winds, and rainbow-lighted showers
Sweet fragile flowers shall blossom at your feet,
And ferns and mosses clothe your green retreat ;
And so, though tossed by every rough, rude breeze,
No pity can ye win from me, trees !
3Sg tfje Sea-Sijore, Eftacombe.
Siu Aubrey de Verb.
Yes, I delight, when winds and waters roar,
To tread with shrinking foot the craggy shore ;
And watch each billow with collected force
Urge o'er the whirling sands its frothy course :
NORTH DEVON. 139
O'er yon black rock, whose frowning bastion braves
And breaks the onset of the wintry waves,
To mark it dash in snowy showers its spray
That flames and flashes in the blaze of day ;
Or fall from ledge to ledge like mountain stream,
Its foam-balls reddened by the evening beam.
Lulled by the tumult, oft, in thoughtful mood,
On yonder rock how often have I stood,
And breathed moist air, and wooed the briny shower,
Absorbed, and reckless of the passing hour ;
Nor moved until the tide, with deafening sound,
Circled my narrowing station close around ;
Then, as the exhausted wave forsook the strand,
With foot elastic pressed the yielding sand ;
And ere its force regathered, with a bound
Gained the dry shore, and spurned the grassy ground.
Thence with rude toil I climbed yon cliff s steep brow,
And viewed, enraptured, all the scene below,
A vast expanse of heaving billows, crowned
With trembling, snowlike foam, exulted round ;
And 'neath my feet, between each watery vale,
I marked the white- winged sea-gull slowly sail.
Eftacomfo Hanes.
From Sea- Side Studies, by George Henry Lewes.
2nd Edition. Blackwood & Soxs, 1868.
Where shall we ramble ? At Ilfracombe the question is
really puzzling, because so many lovely walks solicit you.
Go where you will, you cannot miss a lovely walk, that is
some comfort ; but there is an embarrassment of riches.
140 NORTH DEVON.
Towards the close of Spring, when the trees are in full leaf
but still keep their delicate varieties of colour — varieties
lost in the fulness of Summer, to be regained with even
greater beauty in Autumn — at this time, when the furze is
in all its golden glory, perpetually tempting one to pluck a
tuft of blossoms as the largest specimen ever seen, and
scenting the air all round, Ilfracombe is enchanting. So it
is in Summer ; but the loss of the furze is almost like the
fading away of the evening red. Contemporary with the
furze is the lovely primrose, here seen to perfection,
covering the hill-sides with pale stars, almost as plentifully
as butter-cups and daisies elsewhere. In such a season, the
walk to Lee seduces with its beauties of rocky coast and
wooded inland hill ; or the woods of Chambercombe lure
you into their coolness. When the sun is broiling in cloud-
less blue, the coolness of a wood, in which the sunbeams
only flicker through branches and elicit all their beauties,
forms a pleasant retreat, and before you reach Chamber-
combe the eye has been delighted with perpetual landscapes.
There is a lane leading into a farmyard — a Devonshire lane
remember — which will long hold a place in my memory.
Close to the gate of this farmyard there is a spring which is
a perfect miniature of some Swiss " falls." It spreads itself
like a crystal fan on successive ledges of the hedge-bank,
until it reaches a much broader ledge, where it forms a
little lake on a bed of brown pebbles ; then down it goes
again till it reaches the road where it runs along a tiny,
happy, babbling stream. One of the endless charms of these
lanes — as of all mountainous districts — is the frequency of
the springs, glossy with liverwort and feathery with fern,
making a pleasant music day and night. Passing through the
farmyard, where the pigs wallow, and grunt sensual satis-
NORTH DEVON. 141
faction, and the cows look at you with bovine stupidity, you
come upon a widening of the lane, where several gateways
meet, and here the exquisite wild flowers, everywhere so
abundant, seem more than ever luxuriant. What a perfect
bit of foreground is that ! A few rough mossy trunks lying
against the tufts of fern, and a quiet donkey stretched
across the lane in " maiden meditation, fancy free " ; it is one
of those exquisite nothings which somehow affect you more
than a fine landscape. At least it so affected us ; and this
was surpassed a little further on, when we came to a spot
where a brook runs brawling across the lane, and a wooden
bridge allows those to pass who prefer not wetting their
feet. A rough hurdle is fixed up where the brook gushes
from the field into the lane, over brown stones, which it
polishes into agate. Against the little bridge rises a tree,
and all round its roots by the brook-side are varied tufts of
fern, and gems of wild-flowers. How I wished to be a
painter that I might sketch such " bits " as these, and not
let enthusiasm evaporate in oh's !
Another favourite walk was to Watermouth and Berry-
narbor, over the edges of majestic cliffs, revealing inlet after
inlet, each differing in its wealth of colour, each a picture, till
we passed into what are called the "meadows," really a
noble park, through which runs a stream fringed with wild
flowers, and clear as crystal ; every twenty or thirty yards
the stream falls over an artificial precipice of stones, making
a dulcet music. The slopes on each side are richly wooded ;
and the sequestered silence of this spot adds to its many
charms.
142 NORTH DEVON.
Elftacomie.
From The North Devon Scenery Book,
By Georgk Tugwell, M.A.
People in general like Ilfracombe because it is different
from most other summer sea-side haunts ; because it has no
esplanade, or reach of sand, where everybody must of
necessity walk up and down if they walk anywhere ;
because there is a wide sea-side walk at some distance from
the lodging-houses, for those who like to enjoy sea-air and
sunshine without fatigue ; because there are innumerable
walks in all directions for those who like walks and do not
care to meet " everybody " in such proceedings ; because one
needs not always wear fine clothes, but may ramble about
over damp rocks or dry cliffs unobserved and not un-
observant ; because from the very configuration of the
ground it is one of those rare places which man cannot
utterly mar, however much he may try and has tried to do
so — the houses must be built in detached groups and in
irregular lines : roads and paths must serpentine and rise
and fall, and even the most rectangularly-minded of
architects and land-surveyors cannot ruin .the picturesque
by straightness and regularity ; because the climate is not
one of extremes, for it is never too hot in summer, and
rarely too cold in winter — the grass is green, and sheltered
trees and shrubs grow, and flowers bloom even at Christmas-
time as they do not in colder districts ; because the ground
is dry and the air moist, and one's body and mind are
therefore invigorated and braced without being chilled and
withered as they are in less genial latitudes ; because,
in fine, there is more freedom and more health to be enjoyed
here than in most other resorts of the kind,
NORTH DEVON. 143
% BBorU for Comimartin.
From Combe Flowers, by Anne Irwin.
Fair, fruitful vale, and can it be,
That jibe and jeer are thrown at thee ?
That shallow brain and foolish tongue
At thee their petty sneers have flung ?
' Out of the world ' they call thee — True :
Thy rounded ba,j of loveliest blue,
Thy soft hills veiled in silvery grey,
Where glancing lights and shadows stray ;
Thy orchards gemmed with milk-white bloom,
Thy whispering woodlands' grateful gloom,
Thy tower whose fair proportions rise
' Mid the green trees to summer skies ;
Viewed thus afar by one just fled
From the vast city's restless tread,
He well might deem, whilst gazing here,
His footsteps press'd some lovelier sphere.
And though with nearer look beheld,
Perchance the illusion be dispelled,
And faces we imagined fair,
Bear the hard lines of toil and care ;
If he for benefactor pass,
Who doubles e'en a blade of grass,
'Tis meet some gratitude we give
To those who toil that all may live ;
144 NORTH DEVON.
Who early rise, and late take rest,
To woo from out earth's rugged breast
The waving grain, the pleasant root,
The fragrant herb, the luscious fruit.
Then cast not round a scornful eye,
Ye who in cushioned ease roll by,
Though wealth and rank be yours on earth,
They're but the accidents of birth.
ijmmoutfj.
Robert Southey.
" My walk," says Southey, " to Ilf racombe led me
through Lynmouth, the finest spot, except Cintra and
Arribida, that I ever saw. Two rivers join at Lynmouth.
[The East and West Lyn.] You probably know the hill
streams of Devonshire. Each of these flows through a
combe, rolling down over huge stones like a long waterfall;
immediately at their junction they enter the sea, and the
rivers and the sea make but one noise of uproar. Of these
combes, the one is richly wooded, the other runs between
two high, bare, stony hills. From the hill between the two
is a prospect most magnificent ; on either hand combes, and
a river before the little village — the beautiful little village —
which I am assured by one who is familiar with Switzerland
resembles a Swiss village. This alone would constitute a
view beautiful enough to repay the weariness of a long
journey ; but to complete it there is the blue and boundless
sea, for the faint and feeble line of the Welsh coast is only
to be seen if the day be perfectly clear."
NORTH DEVON.
145
JHustc of tfje ILps.
" With reference to the music of the Lyns, the following extract from the
arrival book of the " Lyndale Hotel," will be interesting. It is from the pen
of the Rev. H. Havergal, a name well known to all lovers of ecclesiastical
music."
"An honorary Canon (well satisfied with the hotel)
waking up in the night, and listening to God's music in the
continuous tones of the Lyn at low water, composed the
following canon-\ike chant."
_^T_ ■
TT
H — _
u Wednesday, September 5th, 1849."
Wt)t Falleg of Eocfts*
Robert Southey.
"Imagine a narrow vale between two ridges of hills
somewhat steep ; the southern hill turfed ; the vale, which
runs from east to west, covered with huge stones and frag-
ments of stone among the fern that fills it; the northern
ridge completely bare, excoriated of all turf and all soil, the
very bones and skeletons of the earth ; rock reclining upon
rock, stone piled upon stone, a huge terrific mass — a palace
h
146 NORTH DEVON.
of the preadamite kings, a city of the Anakim must have
appeared so shapeless, and yet so like the ruins of what had
been shaped after the waters of the flood had subsided. I
ascended, with some toil, the highest point ; two large
stones inclining on each other formed a rude portal on the
summit. Here I sat down. A little level platform, about
two yards long, lay before me, and then the eye immediately
fell upon the sea, far, very far below. I never felt the
sublimity of solitude before."
ffifje Eiber Hurt: ratater^Jflect
(Recollection of Homer.)
From the Poems of the late Dean Alfotd.
Even thus, mechinks, in some Ionian isle,
Yielding his soul to unrecorded joy,
Beside a fall like this, lingered awhile
On briery banks that wondrous minstrel boy ;
Long hours there came upon his vacant ear
The rushing of the river, till strange dreams
Fell on him, and his youthful spirit clear
Was dwelt on by the power of voiceful streams.
Thenceforth began to grow upon his soul
The sound and force of waters ; and he fed
His joy at many an ancient river's head,
And echoing caves, and thunder, and the roll
Of the wakeful ocean, — till the day when he
Poured forth that stream divine of mighty melody.
NORTH DEVON. 147
From the Poems of the late Dean Alford.
This onward-deepening gloom ; this hanging path
Over the Lyn that soundeth mightily,
Foaming and tumbling on, as if in wrath
That aught should bar its passage to the sea ;
These sundered walls of rock, tier upon tier,
Built darkly up into the very sky,
Hung with thick woods, the native haunt of deer
And sheep that browse the dizzy slopes on high, —
All half unreal to my fancy seem ;
For opposite my crib, long years ago,
Were pictured just such rocks, just such a stream,
With just this height above and depth below,
Even this jutting crag I seem to know, —
As when some sight calls back a half-forgotten dream.
Ignmoutfj*
From The Life of the late Dean Alford, 1873.
Returning to Wymeswold after his brief journey in
Wales, he [Dean Alford] took his wife and children, and
their friend Miss Mott, to spend a summer holiday on the
north coast of Devonshire.
The lodging which they occupied at Lynmouth was
near a bridge across the Lyn, and the window of their
sitting-room looked down upon the stream. In the dry
season, when they arrived, the supply of water was scanty,
and the incessant noise made by the shallow stream in its
course through its rocky channel to the sea became an
annoyance to the family. One morning they were struck
L 2
148 NORTH DEVON.
by the perfect stillness of the river, the cause of which
proved to be the advance of the spring- tide up the mouth of
the stream. It is one of the many indications of his habit
of observing and recording all natural phenomena that he
made use of this incident eight years afterwards, when,
preaching in London a sermon on church-building, he wished
to illustrate (after quoting) the well-known saying of Dr.
Chalmers on " the expulsive power of a new affection," and
he thus refers to our morning's surprise at Lynmouth : —
* " I remember once, during the summer weeks, fixing
our lodging on the sea-coast close to the roar of a torrent
which chafed beneath our windows. Morning, noon, and
night it was the same. Conversation and reading required
exertion, and before long we grew thoroughly weary of the
incessant din around us. But one morning we awoke and
all was still. The spring- tide had come up the water-course
and flooded out the noisy torrent. You might have toiled
long to silence that unceasing roar ; you might have
removed stone after stone and smoothed the channel, but
the next rains would have brought down more ; no amount
of labour and expense would ever have produced the effect
which the fulness of the ocean produced that morning.
And so it is with our vast and neglected districts, seething
in profligacy and wrong, sending up to heaven their
unceasing cry of iniquity and excess. You may remove a
mischief here, and may smooth a rough place there ; but the
turmoil will return as loud as ever. Nothing but the great
deep of God's mercies will ever suffice to flood out this
tumult of sin."
See Quebec Chapel Sermons, V. 241,
SORTH DEVON. 149
Ualleg of ILgnmoutfj, Nortjj ©ebon.
L. E. L.
Tis a gloomy place, but I like it well ;
There would I choose alone to dwell ;
The rocks around should friends supply,
Less cold, less hard than those I fly.
I do not care for the rosy flowers,
On them is the shadow of other hours.
I gathered a rose beneath the sun,
In an hour its lovely life was done.
No ! here I will find for myself a cave,
Half a home and half a grave ;
Dark in the 'noontide hour' twill be —
Dark — and the darker the fitter for me.
The hills are rough and the hills are bare,
More like the heart that laboureth there.
I shall hear the storm that rolleth by,
I shall watch the clouds that shadow the sky.
All I ask is never to hear
Of human hope or of human fear ;
I have had enough of both in my day,
And I know how their seeming passes away.
The wind may sometimes bear along
The distant sound of the shepherd's song ;
I shall rejoice that no more I share
In fancies and follies that make his care.
The falling leaves will make my bed,
The granite stone will pillow my head ;
The cave in the rock is a fitting shrine
For heart so wither'd and worn as mine.
150 NORTH DEVON.
Wit fLgtu
From the Gentleman's Magazine, 1842.
Impatient of his sojourn on the hills,
The Lyn comes thundering down his mountain way
From rock to rock, 'mid clouds of flashing spray,
And with stern voice the tributary rills
Calls to his course impetuous ; — then he fills
The hollow concave of the vale ; delay
Is none from silent cove, or root-bound bay
That with the whirling current ceaseless thrills
Yet safe beside each dripping stone its bells
The fox-glove hangs ; the green fern smiles to see
The headlong surges in their anarchy
Bathing its feet ; and, mid their mossy cells,
Each sweet and solitary flow'ret dwells
As in the bosom of tranquillity.
SBje-Falleg of iftocfes,
L. E. L.
Summer, thou hast lost thy power,
Nor thy sunshine, nor thy shower
Can from out the stubborn earth
Call the beautiful to birth.
Never springs the green grass here
Filled with insects and with flowers,
Musical and fragrant life,
Making glad the passing hours.
Groweth not one ancient tree
Here ; the eye can only see
NORTH DEVON. 151
Broken mass of cold grey stone ;
Never yet was place so lone !
Yet the heart hath many a mood
That would seek such solitude,
When the summer earth and sky
Mock those who but pine to die.
Wherefore should the flowers be bright
When they yield us no delight ?
What avails the gladsome spring ?
Misery is a selfish thing,
And the wretched one would fain
That all Nature shared his pain.
Then the piled and riven rock,
Of earth's agony the sign,
And the lone and barren place
Seem like sorrow's fitting shrine.
Gloomy vale ! if thou could'st be
Haunt for human misery,
Half our life were spent with thee.
Ignton.
From the Western Times, June 14, 1834.
Lynton ! one village peering o'er the deep ;
Thy fetures are all beautiful ! thy woods
In verdur hung down each majestic steep
Enwraia thousand blissful solitudes,
Where no stern glance or noisy throng intrudes
To mar he sacred magic of the scene ;
Cliffs, grotos, deepening glens, and foaming floods,
Are herein aspect noble, wild, serene,
And cheer he heart with joy before unfelt, unseen.
152
NORTH DEVON.
Cresting the mountain's tops, a grot looks clown
On streams that rudely kiss the mountain's feet,
Cambria's far shore, and Lynmouth's whiten'd town,
The sea, the strand, and Sandford's wild retreat ;
Mount the steep path to where the waters meet,
Tremendous heights ! above, beneath, behold
Where towards the " Vale of Rocks " the proud cliffs g
The eye with charming terror, and unfold
Crag piled on crag, on ruin mightier ruin rolled
Again may I survey them all ; but not
Alas ! again with those for ever dear,
Whose presence adds a charm to every spot,
More rapturously traced together here :
Yet why those saddening accents of despair ?
Hope, wake once more thy slumbering oracle,
Proclaim that we may all, all meet to share
Again such joys as now our bosoms swell,
Sweet hope, this may not, shall not be our last farlwell
J
[atosmeet: Hjm anU tije Sea.
Rev. George Tugwell, M.A.
It is difficult to describe Watersmeet. Thejb are two
rivers of colour and sound and fragrance, flofing down
from the purple moor in two river-beds of greerjst foliage ;
and meeting here (at Lynmouth), a broader rivel of beauty
and music ripples on in winding curves of light ad shadow,
till all light and music are lost in the glitter an/ the chorus
of the neighbouring full -voiced sea.
So it seemed to me. Though after all, I kne^ it was but
where, under the shade of the summer woods, ne hurrying
NORTH DEVON. 153
waters of the Lyn and the Brendon united after lonely
wanderings in far-off Exmoor, and whence they rambled
onwards beneath red-stained scarp and fern-crowned slope
to the fuller waters of the ever-wandering ocean.
That was the Watersmeet up among the rustling hills.
And yet, beautiful as that was, Lynmouth will ever live
in my memory, not for that alone, or for that chief of all,
but rather for that other Watersmeet down by the mur-
muring sea.
It is now deep midnight, but I lie awake on this warm
summer night with the full moon streaming in at my open
window, and as I lie, so I listen. There is a great deal to
be heard, as there always is, if one will only listen.
I hear the quiet lapping of the sea among the slushing
beach -pebbles, and its rolling swirl as it eddies about the
angles of the weed-grown rocks : now a white owl hoots
fitfully from about some far-off hill-barton : now a night-jar
is clamouring in the hill-side woods ; now a stray footstep
patters down the empty village street ; now a fisherman's
boat grates slowly against the wet wood- work of the pier-
head ; now a sudden gusty wind rustles among the sleeping
trees for an instant and is gone.
But in all and above all and every sound is the sound of
the merry brown Lyn. I hear the tinkling melody of its
treble as its surface water is falling and falling in ten
thousand tiny cascades and streamlets, the full rich harmony
of its tenor and bass as the under-current rolls and gathers
in the lower depths of its rocky bed.
Stay ! surely I am drowsy ; surely that marvellous music
is hushing, is " fainter still and fainter pealing." It cannot
be so, but it is — and —
I know now.
154 NORTH DEVON.
It is the Watersmeet.
I look at my watch by the moonlight. Yes, in another
five minutes it will be high water. The flood-tide is coming
into the Lyn from the misty Atlantic. All along the coast
the fall of the yeasty breakers is clearly audible : but now,
in the lower channel of the Lyn there is no sound ; there
the waters have met, and in the joy of their meeting the
moorland symphony is hushed, the song of the sea is stilled.
I go to sleep and dream about that great Peace which
shall surely come when Eternity meets time at the last
flood-tide.
ILpton.
From Ballade and Sengs by Edward Capern.
London : W. Kent and Co., 1858.
'Twas when the purple evening painted heaven,
And day declining sought a place to die,
Sojourning in the Switzerland of Devon,
I wandered out beneath its twi-lit sky;
Around the north walk strolled my friend and I,
And gazed with wonder from our dizzy height.
Beneath us roared the sea, and far on high
Rude rocks hung threatening, and might well affright.
It seemed much as we went on our way,
Eyeing the toppling ivy-mantlecl pile,
That Nature on that spot had ceased to smile,
And Earth itself was tumbling to decay.
Nought saw we in that evening's dusky grey,
But one lone sheep, which wondering fled away.
NORTH DEVON. 155
EJje Falleg of Eocfes.
From Ballads and Songs by Edward Capern.
London : W. Kent and Co., 1858.
Wild vale of rocks, stern monument sublime
Of Power Almighty, here the hoary sage
Long walked and worshipped in the morn of time,
Nor needed he the aid of lettered page
To speak of God in that primeval age.
Those forms grotesque that crown the seaward steep,
The gloom, the silence which the waste doth keep,
The thunder's voice, and the hoarse tempest's rage,
The Druid filled with reverential awe.
O, wilderness of echoes ! when the moon
Lifted her crescent on that night of June,
And threw her weird light on the rocks below,
I and my friend, with solemn words and slow,
Thanked God one tiny star- worm there did glow.
Mzxmttt
THE LYN AND THE BRENDON.
Rev. Francis Phillott, in The Churchman's Companion.
The Lyn and the Brendon, sparkling diamond-like through the foliage, as they
rush rapidly over their stony beds, unite their waters at a point called
Waters'-meet, forming from thence the East Lyn ; which, after flowing for
two miles through a deeply gorged and densely wooded combe of indescri-
bable beauty, empties itself into the little harbour of Lynmouth. The West
Lyn flows through another lovely valley, but running too swiftly to lose the
race (the Lyns are a fast and dashing family) pours its waters into the latter
stream, under a picturesque stone bridge beneath the houses of Lynmouth,
just before entering the sea.
Oh, take me to the watersmeet,
In Devon's loveliest vale,
Where Lynmouth's jewelled daughters meet —
Twin sisters of the dale ;
156 NORTH DEVON.
Oh, take me where the moor-nursed rill —
A wandering, heather-crowned
Child of the Spring — at Heaven's will
Its pearly path has found.
Oh, take me where I love to stray,
Feasting my tranced sight —
Where, Lyn, thou cleav'st thy sparkling way
'Neath verdure-bosomed height ;
Bid me in raptured silence stroll
Thy sylvan banks along,
Where I may watch thy waters roll,
Moaning their plaintive song.
Oh, take me where thy eddying stream
To caverned nook has sped ;
Where foliaged deep, no wanton beam
Lights thy foam-silvered bed.
Skilled brothers of the gentle art
Thy rugged margin trace ;
For through thy waters leap and dart
Lords of the finny race.
Take me where I may see thee rush,
Proud in thy gathered strength,
Past many a boulder stone and bush
That bar thy sinuous length :
Through glen and gorge, thou lov'st to leap
O'er barriers tempest-strown ;
To mingle with the hoary deep,
Gushes thy torrent down.
Oh, take me where thy waters wail,
Where peerless beauties shine ;
He who has wooed thy paths, Lyndale,
Has sipped a joy divine.
NORTH DEVON. 157
Upton to Barnstaple.
From the Daily Telegraph, 1871.
"A genuine coach and four leaves the aerial village on the
Lyn every morning for the pleasant town on the Taw, I say
a genuine coach and four, by way of distinction from the
aristocratic playthings now known to Londoners. The
North Devon "Vivids" and "Lightnings" are unquestionable
remnants of the system of locomotion which Geo. Stephen-
son superseded, and like many another remnant they have
made the hills their final strong-hold. Alono; the wild
uplands and down the deep combes which I traversed, the
coach and four takes its way with the proud confidence of
absolute sovereignty ; no whistle frights the bucolic inhabi-
tants into excitement, no thunderous roar startles the deer
on distant Exmoor. The coach and four with its uncertain
horn and its merry racket of hoofs and wheels is master of
the situation. You run over the breezy moorlands, not
under them, and inhale the pure air which comes from the
Atlantic laden with ozone, while the eye feasts upon miles
of golden gorse and purple heather, or wanders along a
coast made beautiful by nature and classical by Art. Anon
you descend almost precipitately into the depths of some
leafy combe, and cross its " troutful stream " by a rude
bridge, around which lies scattered the picturesque though,
I should say, most incommodious cottages of a quiet hamlet.
At length the way runs for miles along a fat valley where
the pretty little Devon cattle crop the greenest of herbage,
and — I may as well out with it — suggest thoughts of
junkets and of cream. Thus is Barnstaple attained, and
thus ends a journey to be remembered."
158 SOUTH DEVON.
From Devon's Poly-Olbion in Poems,
By John Herman Merivale, 1838.
First of Devon's thousand streams,
(Beside whose banks no poet dreams,
Since to her praise old Drayton framed
His pastoral reed, yet scarcely named),
Silver Axe, — who, though her course
She fetches from a distant source,
And Dorset's Downs, as on she glides,
From fruitful Somerset divides,
Yet justly I Devonian name her,
And for that noble province claim her
(No less than Exe, or western Tamar),
Amongst whose nymphs she's always numbered,
And christens seaport, burgh, and hundred.
From London smoke and London follies
To Devon's verdant oaks and hollies
As year by year the dog-star leads me,
And with sweet thoughts of childhood feeds me,-
(Those best and purest thoughts that ever
Through life's long intermittent fever,
Like health restoring cordials enter,
And in our inmost bosom centre) —
Thee first, sweet nymph, my eyes salute,
Thee last, when Autumn's faded fruit
Falling in lap of sad November
Bids me the waning months remember,
And leave the country's tranquil joys
For city crowds and wrangling noise.
SOUTH DEVON. 159
Hail, modest streamlet ! on whose bank
No willows grow, nor osiers dank ;
Whose waters form no stagnant pool,
But ever sparkling, pure, and cool,
Their snaky channel keep between
Soft swelling hills of tender green,
That freshens still as they descend
In gradual slope of graceful bend,
And in the living emerald end, —
On whose soft turf supinely laid
Beneath the spreading beechen shade
I trace in Fancy's waking dream
The current of thine infant stream.
Then crowd upon my mental gaze
Dim visions of the elder days ;
Shrouded in black Cistercian cowl*
They pass like spectres o'er my soul,
On each pale cheek and furrowed brow
Impressed the wretched exile's woe.
* * ♦ *
But pious Adeliza there,
Fair Devon's Countess, rich as fair,
And more than fair or rich, devout,
Beheld them on their homeward rout,
With liberal hand relieved their woes,
And Ford's majestic Abbey rose.
Age after age since then has roiled
O'er generations dead and cold,
From sire to son twice ten times told,
Yet flows and will flow on for ever
The current of that peaceful river ;
* See Lysons' Devonshire, page 501.
160 SOUTH DEVON.
While priest and monk have passed away,
And sable cowl, and amice grey,
And broidered cope with jewels shine,
High rood and consecrated shrine.
In dust the holy relics lie, —
The hands that rifled them, hard by, —
The mitred abbot dispossest,
The leveller with his ribald jest,
The wily lawyer, by whose craft
Was tempered the destructive shaft
That kept its destined aim concealed
Behind Religion's frowning shield,
The work of reformation ended,
And in one common ruin blended
All holy and all hallowed things,
Altars and thrones, and priests and kings.
The solemn pageant passed away,
Where next, sweet river, wilt thou stray ?
To Wycroft's bridge, and mouldering wall
Which faintly marks the embattled hall
By lordly Cobham once possest,
And trod by high and princely guest.
In Thorncombe's aisle you still may trace
The features of a gentle face
Of knight's degree, and Cobham's race, —
Glorious in brass, — and at his side
The image of his lady bride ;
And charactered in letters fair,
^S© Jt^S #&<D<S>St®, lUflfcyK, engraven there.
No more remains, the when, the where,
The hour he lived and fought and died,
Or who the lady at his side,
SOUTH DEVON: 1(51
The brass has long forgot to tell.
Nor can the keen explorer spell
With all his pains one smallest trace
Of the short, pious prayer for grace
That ends the monumental scroll, —
" Wxz gCtfrb habe mercg on his soul"
Yet to the heart it teaches more i
Than tomes of theologic lore ;
A proverb, or grave homily
Of most sententious brevity
On mortal durability :
Such wisdom is in crumbled bones !
Such are the sermons preached by stones !
Let but a few short lustres pass,
The tablet of recording brass
(Raised for eternity) may show
No more than he who sleeps below, —
Nay. even his feeble, fleshly form,
Spite of corruption and the worm,
Outlasts, within its bed of earth,
The pompous verse that boasts its worth.
So hard the pious task to save
One plank from time's o'erwhelming wave ;
But would we trace his earlier stream,
" 'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream ! "
Yet may we trust without a crime
The legends of the olden time,
And still pursue by croft and mill,
Deep vale and gently sloping hill,
Sweet Axe, the mazes of thy rill
To plains which, long ere Ford was known,
And Newenham's sister abbey shone
M
162 SOUTH DEVON.
Transcendent with the blessed rood,
Blushed crimson deep with Danish blood. *
Are yonder straggling orchard wall,
And yon dark ivied window all, —
All that unpitying Time has spared
Of that illustrious fabric reared
And consecrate to Heaven above
In union of fraternal love ?
And has destruction seized so soon
The saintly labours of Mohun ? -f*
When scarce a river flows unsung,
Or murmuring brook but hath its tongue,
To praise whate'er of great or good
Beside its sacred banks hath stood,
Shall Marlborough's native current keep J
Its channel to the ocean deep,
Unhonoured by one tuneful voice
That may his mighty ghost rejoice ?
No — through the dazzling radiance shed
By conquest round his laurelled head,
Let him in dim perspective see
The tender scenes of infancy
Reflected by the muse's art, —
Then feel the welcome teardrop start,
Richer than all the jewels set
In his bright princely coronet.
Dismantled now the courts and void,
The goodly fabric half destroyed,
Yet still you may distinguish o'er
* At the battle of Brunanburgh, a.d. 937, near Axminster.
f Newenham Abbey.
X The victor of Blenheim was born at Ash in the parish of Musbury,
SOUTH DEVON. 163
Yon consecrated chapel's door,
Displayed the coil and winged snake,
That figures forth the name of Drake ;
With daring crest, and scaly hide,
Such as Sir Bernard's ill-starred pride
In pomp of heraldry denied
To a far greater Drake, whose fame
Outshone the herald's loftiest claim.
* * * #
Now to old Ocean's hollow cave
Axe pours a broader, deeper wave
Swoln by a thousand nameless rills,
Fast trickling from the western hills,
That with their woody summits crown
Old Colyton's baronial town,
And Colcombe's walls with ivy dark,
And Shute's grey towers and mossy park —
No longer now defiance breathing,
As when stout Devon's earl unsheathing
The sword in sainted Henry's right,
Challenged fierce Bonville to the fight,
(Plantagenet's devoted knight).
This is no dream ! I see them yet
As when on Clyst's brown heath they met
Radiant in arms, and with them, set
In meet array on either side
(As swayed by favour, or allied
In kindred ties of blood and name),
All Devon's worthies crowding came,
Eager to try the desperate game.
Alike regardless of the cause,
Each for his feudal chieftain draws
M 3
164 SOUTH DEVOtf.
The ready glaive, content to share
With him the toils and need of war,
And leave the schoolmen to debate
Those knottier subtleties of state,
Whether the red rose or the white,
The king in fact or king by right,
Holds Heaven's commission in the fight.
Su ©Itf'JFasJjtotreti (Eornrr.
By Richard John King.
From the Standard, September 4, 1874.
In one of his romances, Hawthorne refers to the life of
the flitting moment, existing in the antique shell of an age
gone by, as having a fascination not to be found in either
the past or present taken by themselves. It is a spell
which, in these railroad days, not very often falls upon us
even in an old country like our own. Nevertheless, a corner
or too may still be found where not only the shell of former
ages still survives, but where the very life seems to have
been fossilized within it ; so that on entering such a district
we find ourselves carried back all at once for two or three
centuries. The charm is undoubtedly great for the time. It
is like intruding on some happy valley where the hopes and
anxieties of ordinary life are altogether unknown. Of
course this is only seeming ; and after a short experience of
its glamour, we begin to find that humanity in its antique
shell is troubled by much the same disorders as humanity in
its most modern habiliments, and we are contented to leave
the valley to its own old-fashioned existence.
But a glimpse into such a bygone world is full of
SOUTH DEVON. 165
interest, and we know of no corner that more completely
satisfies the conditions than a certain strip of the English
coast stretching away westward for some miles from the
little town of Axmouth on the extreme border of Dorset-
shire. There are certain peculiarities of the coast-line here
which, as well as the unwillingness of proprietors to intro-
duce or to encounter change, have led to the comparative
isolation of the district. It is greatly shut off from the land
behind it. High ranges of hills, flanked here and there by
single heights of much steepness, rise above the sea, and
from them descend at intervals long narrow combes, each
carrying its own streamlet. Sometimes, indeed most
frequently, there is no pass over the hill from the head of
the combe, so that from the sea the valley opens like a
cleft, often broadening as it ascends, and occasionally
spreading out on the upper hill-side in a cluster of hollows
like the fingers of an open hand. The descent into these
combes must always have been difficult. The roads are bad
enough now, but in former day.:; they could hardly have
existed at all, and the tracks deep in mire can scarcely have
been passable in winter. Yet almost every valley has its
church, its group of cottages about it, and its farms and old
squires' houses scattered through the more distant recesses.
And the church is generally so ancient, showing portions
which are at least Norman and may be older, as to prove
that each valley received its settlement at a very early
period. The seaboard itself, with a broken undercliff— for
the chalk and the sandstone have been crumbling away for
centuries — had always its own attractions ; but except the
Cob at Lyme Regis, a very ancient work no doubt, and one
which has been of infinite service, there is no place of
shelter for a vessel between Portland on one side and the
166 SOUTH DEVON.
mouth of the Exe on the other ; and landing on this rocky
coast is difficult and sometimes dangerous. This, while it
has helped, of course, to isolate the district, has also
produced results and habits which have gone far to colour
the life of it. It was often what Bacon calls Cornwall, with
more injustice, a "back door of rebellion." Secret messengers
and bearers of mysterious tokens and packets arrived here
and despatched from this little- watched coast, and the caves
and cliffs which abound along it were long the haunt of the
most daring company of smugglers to be found between the
mouth of the Thames and John o' Groat's House.
The head-quarters of the smugglers was the little cove of
Beer, one of the most picturesque hollows throughout the
whole range of the western coast. Here the chalk, which
extends across England in a south-westarly direction
from Flamborough Head, terminates in a great headland,
shattered into towers and peaks and pinnacles, and pierced
below with broad-arched caves, through which the sea
flows, filling them at high tide with strange colours and
reflections. Higher up in the cliffs are other caverns, some
of which have partly been fashioned by human handiwork.
These are Jack Rattenbury's caves, and in them that
famous smuggler — as well known in the west as Rob Roy
round Loch Lomond — was wont to disport himself with his
companions, and to stow away certain of his ventures.
Certain solitary woods and plantations also are still pointed
out as the favourite hiding places of the smugglers.
All this has passed away ; but the village of Beer is as
quaint and old-fashioned as ever. A streamlet dashes down
the steep street, and falls over a cliff at the end. Red-
capped fishermen lie sunning themselves on the rocks ; and
changing lights, through which flocks of sea-birds Hash and
SOUTH DEVON. 167
whirl, flit across the white glimmering headland. * * • *
Over the cliffs from Beer, with all the great Western Bay
open before us, with Portland and the Start both visible at
the horns of the bay, and with the long range of Dartmoor
stretching inland in the extreme distance, we pass on to the
hollow of Branscombe — the most important and most
interesting of the valleys that break the cliff line. On the
heights there is but little furze and heather. The combe
that is broken into at least three narrow valleys, each of
which has its spurs and its tributary " goyles " — to use the
local word — is tufted with thick wood, and green with
bright crofts and meadows. To look down upon it from the
edge of the overhanging hill is like looking into another
region. You see the little clusters of houses that have
gathered in the most sheltered spots. You mark the patches
of coppice, and the old, far spreading trees that encircle the
outlying, solitary dwellings, and towards the centre of the
combe you distinguish the tower of the church, rising grey
and massive, with a circular projecting turret, above the
principal group of cottages. All round, the hills sweep
projectingly, and seaward beyond the combe mouth, are
broken into a strange outline, like a long entrenchment
with an occasional barrow — due in reality to abandoned
chalk works which have been again covered with soft
green turf. Before descending into the combe you see how
secluded and how little changed it is. The little fields and
pastures keep their ancient hedges, and the trees in them
have not been pollarded. They spread their branches as
they will; and the banks of the stream, at least near the
sea, are a tangle of wild plants and flowers ; some of them,
as the larkspur and the great purple pea, not very often to
be met with. With hardly an exception, the houses, so far
168 SOUTH DEVON.
as they can be seen from the height, seem ancient and
weather-spotted ; and as we pass down from the hill-side
we find that they have even a more antique character than
we imagined.
$kar Stonoutt): Wyz ffiotom 3LattU,
From Lyrical Poems, by Francis Turner Palgrave, 1871.
sweet September, on the valley
Carved through the green hills, sheer and straight,
Where the tall trees crowd round and sally
Down the slope sides with stately gait
And sylvan dance ; and in the hollow
Silver voices ripple and cry,
Follow, follow !
Follow, follow ! — and we follow
Where the white cottages star the slope,
And the white smoke winds o'er the hollow,
And the blithe air is quick with hope ;
Till the sun whispers, remember !
You have but thirty days to run
O sweet September !
O sweet September, where the valley
Leans out wider and sunny and full,
And the red cliffs dip their feet and dally
With the green billows, green and cool ;
And the green billows, archly smiling,
Kiss and cling to them, kiss and leave them,
Bright and beguiling, —
SOUTH DEVON. 169
Bright and beguiling as she who glances
Along the shore and the meadows along,
And sings for heart's delight, and dances
Crowned with apples, and ruddy and strong ; —
Can we see thee and not remember
Thy sun-browned cheek and hair sun-golden
sweet September ?
SBrattscomuT.
From Wanderings in Devon, by W. H. Hamilton Rogers,
Seaton, 1869.
The parish of Branscombe is one of the most romantic
and picturesque in the county. The name itself, as chosen
by its early colonists, gives a free and comprehensive
description of its scenery — Brans-Combe — two British
words, whose modern equivalent would imply, the Crow's-
dingle — and there is no better introduction to its attractions
than a walk over the hill from the neio-hbourino; village of
Beer. As we gain the crest of the hill, which is a very high
one, we look down at once into the place.
Facing us first, and somewhat to the left, is the ever
beautiful sea (which to-day is intensely blue and calm),
revealed in a sort of triangular peep, as the hill sides run
down with sharp obliquity to almost a point at the bottom
of the narrow, gorge-like valley, and meet at a strip of
white building, where a tall signal post and a dot of red
bunting tell us Her Majesty's coast watchmen are domiciled.
Directly in front, the cliff line is broken and jagged in a
remarkable manner into huge plateaus and ravines, and
170 SOUTH DEVON.
looks like colossal fortifications raised by some past Cyclo-
pean race. At our feet, far below, is Branscombe proper — a
series of deep, narrow, tortuous combes, convoluting round
high coniformed hills of differing shape : —
" Crags, knolls and mounds confusedly hurled,
The fragments of an earlier world,
And mountains that like giants stand
To sentinel enchanted land."
The villages forming the place are three in number — little
nests of houses at the bottom of these valleys, half-a-mile
apart, but connected together by the main road of the
parish, which runs round the base of one of the hills, with a
sort of esplanade appearance, well defined by strings of
cottages skirting its margin at intervals. The first of these
hamlets contains the parsonage, also a portion of an old
manse, with tall gable and quaint gargoyles and the village
" public " ; the second, the church and one or two antient
farm-houses ; the third, the village smithy, the ubiquitous
preaching-house of the disciples of Wesley, and sundry
cottages.
We must now descend from this elevated station, and
our path zig-zags down the steep declivity through a copse
of stunted trees and thick under-growth. To our right
rises a noble rocky hill at the base of which are the remains
of an old unused lime quarry of large size, whose crater,
scooped out of the side of the eminence, and serrated at the
edges, gives it a sort of volcanic appearance. And, see ! one,
two, three — down the path with express speed, their long-
ears laid flat on their shoulders, and little white dossils of
tail in the rear, rising and falling in jerky gallop, and now
evanished in the bushwood instanter ! Plenty of these
"feeble folk" here about we surmise, dwelling in "their
SOUTH DEVOiV. 171
houses in the rocks " around, with ample range for their
teeming families.
This is not a region of flowers exactly, but beautiful
patches of the purple-tufted heath fringe the path at
intervals ; while above rise sharp growths of the prickly
gleaming-leafed holly, interspersed anon with glorious
bursts of the thousand-flowered aureous-tinted furze —
" Each blossom with a troop of swords,
Drawn to defend it, — "
the faint peculiar odour from which, as we pass, salutes the
sense, borne on the wings of the light breeze, that eddies
upward from the valley.
a Bebrnwijire Watering Pace,
Kichard John King in the Standard of August 22, 1874.
The oldest watering-place on the Devonshire coast — yet,
in one sense, the very newest — is Sidmouth. It was
" discovered " by an occasional aristocratic visitor long
before the end of last century. It has only within the last
month or two been brought into contact with the world by
means of a railway. At present Sidmouth is one of the
pleasantest retreats on the southern coast. It is not
fashionable. The marvellous toilettes of Trouville or of
Deauville would create on its esplanade at least as much
wonder as admiration. As yet there has been no great
172 SOUTH DEVON.
accession of visitors, for there are no new lodging-houses or
hotels, and the old supply was but scanty. To visit it is
almost like passing back to the days when a journey to such
a watering place was an event, when Torquay was a little
more than a collection of fishermen's huts, and when King
George used to dip himself in the sea at Weymouth whilst
a military band stationed at becoming distance played "God
save the King " as he took the first plunge from his
" bathing chariot." There are few modern villas or modern
houses at Sidmouth. The old town (it is little more than a
village), narrow streeted, with here and there a quaint
gable or frontage, winds down the valley toward the sea,
and opens on a wide esplanade, under which the waves
murmur or roar at their pleasure. There is no lack of sea
breeze and sea spray ; but it is the beauty of the situation,
the quiet, old-fashioned surrounding country, lovely with
its broken hills and valleys, and shadowed with wood that,
wherever the cliffs afford an opening, overhangs the very
shore — it is this that gives especial character to Sidmouth,
and distinguishes it even among its sister watering places —
Seaton, Exmouth, Dawlish, Teignmouth. As to Torquay,
she has long since become a sort of west country Brighton,
and, beautiful as the whole neighbourhood may be, you
have to walk through a forest of brick and mortar before
you can get at the true greenwood, and further still if you
desire to make an acquaintance with an untouched Devon-
shire lane. At Sidmouth every thing remains much as it
was fifty years ago. The church has been rebuilt, not
perhaps before it was needful, though certainly to the
destruction of some ancient memorials ; but with this
exception there is little sign of serious change. The place
has all the appearance of being well cared for by its
SOUTH DEVON. 173
permanent inhabitants, who perhaps feel little desire to see
their quiet valley invaded by troops of summer visitors,
who if they are to come in their usual numbers will
necessarily change its appearance. The streets are admirably
kept and cleaned. Field paths lead everywhere into the
open country and to the beautiful cliffs that guard the bay,
and there are plenty of seats at due intervals. The whole
valley beyond the town is scattered with houses which are
not of yesterday, as the old trees and enclosures about them
sufficiently prove. Many of these houses may date from the
time when Sidmouth first began to rise into notice as a sea-
side resort ; but they are one and all real homes, not places
whose inhabitants change with every month, The equable
climate — the average daily range of temperature is indeed
less here than on any other part of the Devonshire coast —
and its comparative dryness were duly felt and appreciated
long ago, although it is of course only of late years that
such subjects have been examined with real knowledge.
Some Devonshire families built winter villas here. Some
wandering strangers, struck with the beauty of the country,
the soft air, and the gardens full of hydrangeas, roses and
myrtles, thought that a retreat among them would be the
pleasantest change possible from the noises of town. One
of the first of these was a Mr. Boehm, at whose house in St.
James's Square, the Prince Eegent was attending a grand
ball, when the news of the Waterloo victory was brought to
him, and three of the French eagles were laid at his feet in
the midst of the ball-room by Henry Percy. Mr. Boehm
built a house at Sidmouth, which was afterwards occupied
by Bacon, the sculptor, and the lines which exist of his
composing prove that the charms of Sidmouth were not lost
on the Bacons ; — ■
174 SOUTH DEVON'.
" Mrs. Boehm wrote a poem
On the Sidmouth air ;
Mr. Boehm read the poem,
And built a cottage there.
Mr. Bacon all forsaken,
Wandered to the spot ;
Mrs. Bacon he has taken
Partner of his lot ;
As they longer live, the stronger
Their affection grows,
Every season they with reason
Bless the spot they chose ! "
Sidmouth moreover, as we all know, was at this early time
not without the occasional presence of Princes. The Duke
of Kent occupied for some time a villa close to the sea
belonging to General Baynes, and he died in this house in
January, 1820. The villa — by no means one of the most
attractive in the neighbourhood — stands at the end of a
narrow green hollow, opening to the esplanade and the sea.
It looks damp and dark, overshadowed as it is with trees ;
but it has, and always must have, an especial interest above
other houses in the place since it was the home of her
Majesty the Queen, during some of the first years of her
life. As a memorial of that time, and of the event which
saddened her residence at Sidmouth, the western window of
the rebuilt church has been filled with stained glass as a
gift from the Queen. It was somewhat later that Sidmouth
made an impression on the youthful mind of Thackeray,
who in his Charterhouse days, between the years 1825 and
1828 used to spend his vacations at Larkbeare, in the parish
of Ottery St. Mary, then occupied by his step-father Major
Carmichael Smyth. There can be little doubt but that
some memories of Ottery, of Exeter, and of Sidmouth,
interwove themselves in the descriptions of " Clavering St.
SOUTH DEVON. 175
Mary," the "Chatteris," and the "Baymouth" of "Pendennis"
although the scenic pictures in that novel, as in others by
the same " eminent hand," never impress us so vividly as
the pictures of human life to which they form the back-
ground. It is doing no injustice to Thackeray, to say that
he was more at home on the shady side of Pail-Mall, than
on the breezy heights of " Baymouth." One had all his
sympathies ; the other he cared for only so far as the heath
or the shore were speckled with human figures.
But that shore — the shore of Sidmouth — is one to delight
a poet or a poet painter. The Great Western Bay, as it is
called — that vast indentation of the coast which extends
from the Bill of Portland to Berry Head — is here at its
deepest point, indented yet more deeply, so that a consider-
able portion of the shores of the main bay is hidden from
the beach at Sidmouth. The Great Bay, it has been suggest-
ed, may have been hollowed by the action of the Gulf
Stream, which divides at the Land's End; part of the
current passing westward, another portion up the Channel
and curving round the bay. The stream indeed, has never
borne tropical fruits and woods to the beach at Sidmouth,
as it has sometimes carried them to the shores of the
Orkneys ; but the equable climate of the place, no less than
the rich growth of the cliff sides and the valleys, are
possibly due to it. All manner of green things — furze,
heath, holly, streamers of honey suckle, and thickets of
" traveller's joy," cluster at the very edge of the cliffs, and
wherever the rock has fallen in landslips, descend and occupy
it as their own property. The colouring of the whole coast
is varied, with the cliffs of Beer Head, the most southernly
extremity of the chalk in England, projecting whitely
at one end, whilst intervening heights exchange pale green
176 SOUTH DEVON.
sand, capped with yellow clay, for the dull red of the
sandstone, until the High Peak sends its long spined outline
toward the sea, with a single inaccessible pinnacle of rock
isolated beyond it. Between the spines, and in the hollows
of the High Peak, tufts and thickets of green plants have
established themselves, in fine contrast with the red of the
cliff, which has been called the most beautiful, as the
Prawle is the grandest on the Devonshire coast. The beauty
of outline is great, but the High Peak is even more indebted
to its wonderful variety of colour — colour that changes with
every mood of the sky and with every hour of the day.
Half veiled with mist, through which the sea birds float
and wheel, sparkling in sunlight, or resting half in shadow,
with the bluest of seas stretching far away from its point,
there is no limit to its changeful " shows " and the eye is
never tired of watching them.
There is considerable resemblance between the climate of
this part of the Devonshire coast, and that of St. David's, in
South Wales — with the exception of the Land's End the
most westerly promontory of Britain. In both cases, the
equable temperature and the absence of severe winters seem
to have been some kind of inducement (they are advantages,
it must be remembered, which would certainly not be over-
looked by half-civilised tribes at present) at very early
periods to the settlements of wandering races, who gradu-
ally spread themselves over the country. The Welsh coast
abounds in " Cliff Castles," and in more inland strongholds.
This part of Devonshire was, as careful exploration has
shown, thickly peopled during the Bronze Age — a time of
unknown and scarcely (as yet) measurable antiquity, to
which however the hill forts and barrows scattered all over
the country have been referred by competent archaeologists,
SOUTH DEVON. 177
The country, as seen from any of the heights which
command it, is as naturally formed for camps and hill forts
as Dorsetshire itself. The red sandstone runs out into long
ridges with deep spurs and buttresses, and rises in isolated
hills commanding the many valleys that open round their
bases. On one of these hills, a mile or two up the little
stream of the Sid, is what we may regard as the parent
settlement of the valley — the hill-fort of Sidbury. This is
a large and strong camp, nearly oval, with a double rampart
40 feet high. From its area you look in one direction upon
a maze of winding coombes and ravines, and in another
down the richly wooded valley to the patch of blue sea at
its mouth. It may have been the fortress successively of
those unknown tribes whose bronze hatchets and daggers
have been found in the tumuli about it — of Britons and
Saxons, until the latter, as the world around them became
somewhat less wild, deserted the hill-top for the valley, and
raised the little church of Sidbury near the stream below.
Here was the second settlement. The church as it now
stands can show nothing more ancient than the Conquest,
but it has some quaint Norman work, and rises picturesquely
from the hamlet that nestles round it. Long after the bells of
Sidbury had first sounded through the valley, colonists crept
downwards towards the sea, and the third settlement was
founded at the mouth of the Sid. This is the story we can
read plainly enough from the broken ramparts of the
" Bury," which overlooks the whole country.
N
178 SOUTH DEVOJY.
Sonnet to tije J&iber ©iter.
By Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
Dear native brook ! Wild streamlet of the West !
How many various-fated years have past,
What happy and what mournful hours, since last
I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Numbering its bright leaps ! yet so deep imprest
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes
I never shut amid the sunny ray,
But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,
Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey,
And bedded sand, that veined with various dyes,
Gleamed through thy bright transparence ! On my way,
Visions of childhood ! oft have ye beguiled
Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs !
Ah ! that once more I were a careless child !
Wtjt Uale of ©tter.
From Poetical Remains of the Rev. George James Cornish, M.A., 1850.
Sal'ston knoll ! I love you well,
And all your beechen skreen,
And yon East hill's continuous swell,
And Otter's brook between ;
Your breeze, your waters, and your shade,
Such as it is my being made.
SOUTH DEVON. 179
I love you well, sweet Yale ! for here
My stream of life arose ;
That stream that through the eternal year
Shall flow as now it flows ;
And howsoe'er it flows, from you
Borrows a still unchanging hue.
' Tis true ; I know not what shall be,
When, all its wanderings ceased,
It joins at length its parent sea;
But this I know at least,
He who a proper being gave,
That proper being still will save.
And therefore if some thoughts of blame
And sorrow round thee cling,
Yet still, sweet Yale, I love thy name ;
Thou art a sacred thing ;
Alike for evil or for good,
I cannot quit thee if I would.
Then honour to St. Mary's tower,
The college and the school !
And honour to the Pixie's bower,
And to the maiden pool !
May they to boys hereafter be
The teachers they have been to me.
Still may these haunts, these groves, this sky,
Kind ministrations yield,
The " common things that round them lie "
Their better nature build,
And teach them gently to improve
All harsher feelings into love,
]S0 SOUTH DEVON.
Jtom ffiolgton Cfjurcfj ®obm*.
From Twelve Sonnets on Colyton Church.
By John Faemer.
Ha ! ' tis a goodly landscape spread around,
Meeting the view from this, the tower's proud height ;
Eastward fair Axa's vale enchants the sight,
Its verdure rich, smooth silv'ry stream, the bound
Of foliaged hills, and yon the sea profound ;
Nor pass unnoticed Axmouth and her fane,
Nor Stedcombe mansion with its rich domain ;
Each beauty mark : — then turn. Yon rising ground
Presents the Colcombe ruins scathed and grey ;
Beyond, Shute Park, with many an old oak tree,
And spreading beech. Westward, Col winds her way
Adown her beauteous vale, fresh, fair, and free ;
But why describe ? where will description end ?
The eye, the eye alone, the scene can comprehend.
W$z Jfttber ©tter.
From Poems by Lewis Gidley, 1857.
The silvery river, gliding softly, takes
An easy journey to the sea, and makes
Its sinuous liquid progress by the side
Of a long hill, with slopes diversified,
And walls of red rock perpendicular,
Along the edge of waters stretching far.
Upon the grassy slopes are bushes seen,
At intervals, of ruscus darkly green ;
And the fair upright holly rears amid
SOUTH DEVON. 181
The baser briars its verdant pyramid ;
And oft upon the ridge, the dazzled sight,
Gold furze-flowers, with their yellow flush, delight ;
And many a forest pillar stands between
The low hill's summit, and the waters sheen.
Upon the ridge are oak trees, which have doft
Their summer foliage ; and, like velvet soft,
A mossy green-sward ; thence, with various bends,
A row of beeches and gnarl'd oaks ascends
Unto the crowning summit, whence a view
Of sea-side cliffs, but not of the sea's blue,
Is gained ; and there a red-brick lordly home
Gleams through the loop-hole boughs, and other some
More humble dwellings. On the higher bank
Of the stream, past the double oaken rank,
And the long line of hill, are craggy rocks
With furze and ivy clad ; the river mocks,
Glancing beneath, the live enamelling
Of mosses green, which at their bases cling,
And their red-ribbed sides and f oliaged heads :
But when the westering sun a full jet sheds,
Across the water, of unclouded light,
Striking against the crags, and kindling bright
The magic-mirror surface of the stream,
Most vivid then the imaged colours gleam,
So that a brighter counterpart they seem.
Beyond the mound-path, on the other side
Of the soft-flowing stream are meadows wide,
Deform'd with patches harsh of tufted reed,
Where herds of dun or spotted cattle feed :
And here and there a plashy pool is seen,
Varying the sameness of the level green,
182 SOUTH DEVON.
And picturing within its mirror bright
The canopy of heaven, blue and white.
But higher up, 'twixt sheltering hedge-row trees,
Appear the snowy fronts of cottages.
And when the tide is out, and mudbanks bare,
Black-plumaged rooks, white gulls, together fare,
Strutting about the slimy broad expanse,
And uttering their clamorous dissonance :
The slaty heron also at their feast
Is present, a tall self invited guest,
And thrusts its long legs in the brackish mud,
And stretches its lean neck over the flood.
Beyond, grey heaps of beached stones arise,
The seaward land's extremest boundaries ;
And distantly sky-joining last of all,
Is rear'd the ocean's crisp'd cerulean wall.
Hatrram Bag.
From Poems by Lewis Gidley, 1857.
Now the caldron of the sea
Troubled seethes continually;
And shore waters with sand red
Fluctuate discoloured ;
On the far-off tortuous brine
Olive lustres greenly shine ;
And a blue and gleamy streak
Tints the farthest wavy freak
Seen of Ocean. To the Shore
Ceaseless press the waters hoar ;
And the wave-struck cavernous rocks
Groan with fitful thunder-shocks,
SOUTH DEVON. 183
Which reverberating near,
Sharp and sudden strike the ear.
Two twin cliffs from land exiled
Stand, amid the tumult wild
Of stormy waves, or mid the smooth'd
Salt blue streams by summer sooth' d ;
On either side the narrow bay
Alike in bulk and height are they ;
Ever stand they each defiant
Like a nothing-fearing giant ;
Each is rugged, and one's head
Shagg'd with furze, where no feet tread.
With quaint visage peer they out
On the sullen waves, which pout
At their feet or make wild bounds
Up their sides like leaping hounds.
Here the fisher's dusky skiff
Rests beneath a beetling cliff.
From this bay an oared boat
May with easy transit float
Neath a rocky arch, and so
Gently penetrating through
This loop-hole enter a new chamber
Of blue Thetis ; Those who clamber
To the summit, thence no less
Well perceive a round recess,
Cliff-engirt and cavernous,
Where the waves seeking to house
Themselves, are forcibly cast out,
And retreat in foaming rout,
Bellowing, like wolves or bears
Torture-driven from their lairs.
184 SOUTH DEVON.
jftom tfje SHtettiobm Beacon, SSutrletcjfj Saltcrton.
From Short Studies in Verse, by Musopolus — Hamilton, Adams & Co., 1877
There is a height on Devon's ruddy coast
Looks to the channel south — the tallest head
Of a long slope of cliffs, whose crumbling fronts
Tremble before the surge when winds are high.
No mountain this, for all its purple cloak
Of arid heath ; yet vantage-ground enough
To tell how fair is Devon : how she smiles
Well-pleased amid her soft green hills to dwell,
With oaken garlands crowned or crests of fir.
Before us smoke her low-thatched farms ; and there —
Where to the right that valley hears the sound
Of roughened waves — the houses glisten white,
Signs of the sea-beat village nestled by
The lowest step of this long pyramid,
Our prospect tower.
Yon ridge that fronts the morn
Reared from a gulf whose answering azure tells
How differently from earth old ocean meets
The eye of Heaven, — goes inland, a slant wave
Of fruitful fields blue-shadowed in the north.
There if the westering sun from under clouds
Collect his beams, a strange and sudden light
Flows down the vale as of a distant pomp
Of Heaven, advancing from behind the hills.
Nor does our picture want a sterner shade ;
For in the dark North-west dun heaths arise
Spotted by frequent fir-groves vocal there
With ocean-sounds, although we hear them not.
SOUTH DEVON. 185
Yet his true tones are with us, as we gaze,
Caught where the waves die foaming at the foot
Of this time-cloven height, whose ancient wound
Sweet Nature heals with gorse and tangled rose.
But follow now, beyond those evening fields,
The long-drawn tides that rise like mercury bright,
Or fall as Ocean wills it, twice a day.
There distant masts we see and gliding sails,
Mark of a haven : there the ships are met,
For that cathedraled city inward bound
Whose vapours close the river- vale remote.
Again look west. Beyond those tufted slopes
Low rocky horns are thrust by that strange moor
Which, wheresoe'er in all the pleasant shire
Your feet may roam seems lowering like a glimpse
To Prophets' eye of future doom ; a land
Of ancient pagan rite — of Taranis,
And Hesus ; conscious eke of travellers death.
Turn we at last to Ocean, laughing far
As eye can reach ; and with that sailor's glass —
Who peers for hull of trader contraband,
Leaning against that banner-pole which points
Amid the fields a crazy sign indeed
Of Royalty, without one scarlet rag
To flutter in the breeze ; — with that keen glass
Sweep round in search more grateful, which at once
Rewards the gaze, for beauty is our prey.
Whether we seek the western shores, and mark
How England draws her royal red athwart
The blue ; or where in whiter light she sits
By the pale east, a Mistress of the sea.
186 SOUTH DEVON.
21 3unt CB&mtng near Butiletgi) Saltoton*
By Musopolus.
By river marge and rushy fen
The lights proclaim 'tis evensong ;
And woods grow darker to the ken,
While swift and swallow dart along.
Across the timber bridge I see
Long files of bleating sheep go by ;
Now scattering here and there they flee,
And now the sloping fields reply.
A gloomy furnace seems to glow
Behind yon western hills of fir ;
Methinks a blacksmith wind should blow
Heaven's lazy smouldering fires to stir.
But lo ! that edge of golden gleam
Eating the vapours as they rise,
And now before the setting beam
Splits the piled carbon of the skies.
The stream was falling as I went —
'Tis falling now as I return ;
With ebb and flow alike content
From eve to eve, and morn by morn.
In this remote and silent scene
Of pasture flats and oozy lake,
What common sights are hailed, I ween,
A flagging fantasy to wake.
Here weeds have virtues of their own,
Here thistles rank as purple kings,
And sandy cliffs with beech o'ergrown
Are grand indeed 'mid humbler things.
SOUTH DEVON. 187
The dusty kiln in this dim light
Some ruinous old fort appears ;
E'en yon red bluffs unnoticed height
A mystery on its forehead wears.
The heavy lime boats are away —
Their sails were flapping at the shore
An hour ago. With parting day
They hasten now the gray seas o'er.
The stream pours back its borrowed salt,
The barges push across the foam,
They have a task that does not halt,
And I the gazer, — I've my home.
€\}t Fale of Ito,
Sir John Bowring.
Green vale, I always loved thee ! and in youth
Sought out each wild recess and grassy hill,
Led by the light of poesy and truth,
And held high converse there : — I love thee still,
And with intenser passion : thou hast given
Promise of health to one who flew to thee ;
Complete thy work, sweet vale ! and thou shalt be
Of all the spots on earth the most like heaven !
And every stream of thine and every tree
Shall hear the minstrel's song. If thou art bright
With vernal sunshine now, the holier light
Of generous joy and grateful sympathy
Shall guide thee — every echo, rill, and grove,
Join in the gayest notes of praise and love.
188 SOUTH DEVON.
Wqz praise of feca.
John Herman Merivale.
Ere while, in Richmond's hawthorn bower
I rested from the noon-tide fire,
There woo'd the long neglected power
Of song to wake my idle lyre
And, more my visions to inspire ;
Though deep yet clear, though gentle, strong,
By mead and wood, by cot and spire,
Slow rolled majestic Thames along ;
But whilst I traced his winding course
From Twick'nam's meads to Fulham's grove,
Where late, from dawning beauty's source,
I drank delicious draughts of love ;
Though soul subduing phantoms strove
Imagination to detain,
Still would the goddess further rove,
And Isca mingle with the strain.
When gliding late up Medway's stream,
Our bark explored her fountain cells,
I thought, while freedom was my dream,
(Bright genius of her oak clad dells),
Proud Kent ! though manly vigour swells
Thy sons, thy nymphs each maiden grace,
Yet freedom too in Devon dwells,
And Isca bathes as fair a race.
Though Pale's sheds her choicest store
On gentle Coin and sedgy Lea,
Yet Pan himself on Isca's shore
Has fix'd his rural sovereignty.
SOUTH DEVON. 189
While chained by Bath's dull pool, yet free
My soul, to wander where it chose,
Oft strayed, majestic Thames to thee,
But oftener still where Isca flows.
I saw Sabrina's yellow hair,
— Sabrina, famed in British song, —
Through peopled vales and cities fair
Curling its silken tresses long,
Wild float, luxuriant meads among ;
Methought I saw her reed-crowned head
Mid deafening din, with heavings strong,
High-raised above its oozy bed.
I wandered on poetic ground,
Where Shakespeare's Avon sweetly flows,
And woo'd each softly whispering sound
That trembled midst his osier rows ;
I sought the vale of deep repose
Where Vaga hoarsely pours her wave,
And trod at evening's solemn close
Old Tintern's dim religious cave.
Yet poets too by Isca dream ;
Rich meadows kiss her sparkling face,
And ancient walls o'erhang her stream,
And peopled towns her borders grace :
Let all old Ocean's vassal race
Conspire to check the vaunting strain,
So thou thy loyal bard embrace,
Maternal stream ! their toils are vain.
190 SOUTH DEVON.
Stutrg near QSxtttx.
From Short Studies in Verse, by Musopolus, 1877.
From the fields that slope anon
By the Cross of Little John,
Sloping with their yellow flowers
And the gray heads manifold
Of the dandelions old,
You may view the city towers.
The restless roving vision here
Finds its pleasure far and near ;
In the hemlocks of the bank
Leafing from the herbage rank,
Fancy sidelong thinks it sees
Folia ged boughs of elfin trees,
Thinks the gnats that quiver through
Birds of some small fairyland !
Till the elms on either hand,
Hedge-row elms y-clad anew
In the green livery of June
Tell us our thoughts are out of tune.
Seasonably they doff and don
Those leaf -garments yearly spun
Thicker and wider in the ken
Of yon clustering homes of men,
Till the wasteful axes thence
Come and smite the living fence.
Through the maze of yonder streets,
In the June evening all so still,
Scarcely heard from this low hill
Multiformed being fleets,
SOUTH DEVON. 191
Like those globes the veins that fill.
Dun-gray through the smokeless air
High amid the silent town
Pointeth its cathedral crown,
Sister-towers of Norman square ;
In the landscape rooted fast
By the Norman Warelwast,
Comrade of the sworded King
Who loved the fame that lore could bring.
Mutely rises each stone crest,
Though oft inspired with organ peals
And the musical shout of belJs,
Our Parnassus of the West.
Here the air is vocal round
With many an intermitting sound ;
Sometimes a bell his curfew hour,
Sometimes the cuckoo from his bower.
And see, from out the valley broke
Snowy whirls of shrieking smoke !
"lis the form and 'tis the scream
Of the great Familiar, Steam.
As the slow light sinks away,
Thin and slant the clouds of even
Strew the azure beds of heaven,
Left aground by ebbing day.
Motionless and shrunk and pale
As water- weeds when rivers fail,
Now the wind streams not, are they.
From the south unto the sight
Comes a long blank watery light :
Hardly could a stranger's eye
Separate it from the sky,
192 SOUTH DEVON.
So thick the mists that hover o'er
Mingling hill and stream and shore.
We may guess it for the line
Where Exe runs big with tidal brine ;
And in that faint space are blent
Growths of either element,
Bird and fish and weed and flower,
Fresh and salt along that marge,
Coaster from the sea, and barge —
All are one at this dim hour,
As the life invisible
Moves in that piled Capital.
But the sable rooks in troop
O'er the suburbs cawing stoop.
Citywards they take their flight
Through the gathering films of night,
O'er the bowery orchard plots
A breaking wheel of dusky spots.
And the landscape vanishing-
Colourless beneath night's wing,
And the sparks of fire that lie
Gems upon the city's breast,
Earth-stars glowing in her crest
To the white stars of the sky,
Light and dark, and birds that roam
Now no longer, warn us home.
SOUTH DEVON. 193
Abetting iSHalfc fou tije 8&e,
In lovely scenes we oft have strayed
While twilight o'er them stole ;
But is not this, around displayed,
The loveliest of them all ?
My Jane ! a moment let us pause,
And mark how gracefully
The placid river winding flows
In silence tow'rds the sea.
Afar, receding from its side,
See ! Exon doth arise,
Whose image on its gleaming tide
In trembling beauty lies :
There, to the right, may be descried,
Between yon lofty trees,
Those massive towers, the city's pride
Through by-gone centuries.
From the broad sun, as he declines
Behind the west'ard hills,
A tempered radiance sweetly shines,
And heaven and earth it fills ;
It robes the town with hues so fair,
That joy we deem may dwell
In homes which, seen by day's full glare,
Of misery only tell.
Now evening doth as softly fall
As o'er lost Eden's glades ;
Slow deep'ning it disposes all
For midnight's darker shades ;
191 SOUTH DEVON.
On earth descends profound repose,
As day fades from the skies —
Sure heaven in mercy still bestows
Some joys of Paradise !
Imagination long might try,
Though wondrous is its power,
To fancy bliss which should outvie
Mine in this silent hour.
Oh ! often may I note with thee,
Whilst thus we lonely rove,
The charms spread round, then turn and see
Thy dark eyes beam with love.
©n Ktre fiill (obtrloofung CFxctn*).
From Maud Vivian and Poems, by Walter Eew, 1873.
Oh ! fairest native City, thou art crowned
With an enthralling beauty. Ay ! a Queen,
Enthroned conspicuous o'er the glorious scene,
Tak'st homage from the gazing hills around.
A thousand years protecting watch and ward
These guardians have held, and loving wiles
Oft used to pleasure thee, now wreathed in smiles
And in grey glooms anon. Their influence reared
Thy tall Cathedral's majesty : it stands
In eloquent calm grandeur, and its tale
Speaks to the Stars, — how works by human hands,
And through man's brain, the Universal Soul !
Fringes thee round with leafy dusk the vale,
And 'neath the blue a pomp of cloud doth roll !
SOUTH DEVON. 195
Sonnet to (EfjuMetg!),
Kev. Wm. Pulling, M.A.
How silv'ry winds that stream adown the dale !
How soft it warbles, Chudleigh ! as it flows !
How dulcet is that wild bird's amorous tale !
How wide that ancient wood its branches throws ! —
Hail, beauteous scene which Memory bids me hail !
For thee, though distant, mine affection grows
And till the life-drops in my bosom fail
To thee will fly my spirit for repose ! —
Within thy bounds how oft by me was seen
Celestial Peace with mildly-beaming eye ;
And her white vestment matched her modest mien !
And, while enjoying converse with the sky,
Still more I loved thy flow'rs and rills and green,
And prayed therein to heave my latest sigh !
3Sabbacomto.
Rev. Charles Strong, M.A.
Oft Winter, Babbacombe, thy lonely shore
Hath lashed, since, freighted with a laughing crew,
Our bark along the marge of Ocean flew,
And stirred with gentle keel thy pebbly floor :
We recked not what the future had in store,
Bright, as thy embayed waters, to our view
The present smiled, for life and hope were new,
And look of peace the far horizon wore.
Landed, in happy groups we wandered free,
Some ranged the woods, some 'thwart the deep blue air
Walked the high cliff, and traced a wider sea.
The rock our table formed, the turf our chair,
Nor sad the guests beneath the whispering tree,
For Youth and Innocence and Love were there.
O 2
196 SOUTH DEVON.
jfrom tfje JftocfeWalft, Eorquag;
Kev. Charles Strong, M.A.
A Spot, whose beauty ev'n from gainful haste
Wins brief delay, long space enjoyed by those
Who the slow walk repeat, or in repose
Eye the blue waves, and sea-born breezes taste :
Green swelling hills of Devon, foliage-traced,
With cliffs romantic, round bright waters close —
Here blushes early, lingers late the rose,
The myrtle here survives the leafy waste.
Like isles pine-pinnacled the glassy deep
O'ershadowing, when War's loud note alarms,
Here England's battle-ships dread muster keep :
The peasant oft, so glory's service charms,
Viewing the bannered squadrons from this steep,
Joins the bold crew and dares the strife of arms.
Eortms anti ftorquag..
From Olaucus by Charles Kinqslet,
London : Macmillan & Co.
" Torbay is a place which should be as much endeared to
the naturalist as to the patriot and to the artist. We cannot
gaze on its blue ring of water, and the great limestone
bluffs which bound it to the north and south, without a
glow passing through our hearts, as we remember the
terrible and glorious pageant which passed by in the
glorious July days of 1588, when the Spanish Armada
ventured slowly past Berry Head, with Elizabeth's pack of
Devon captains following fast in its wake, and dashing into
SOUTH DEVON. 197
the midst of the vast line, undismayed by size and numbers,
while their kin and friends stood watching and praying on
the cliffs, spectators of Britain's Salamis. The white line
of houses, too, on the other side of the bay, is Brixham*
famed as the landing-place of William of Orange ; the stone
on the pier-head, which marks his first footsteps on British
ground, is sacred in the eyes of all true English Whigs;
and close by stands the castle of the settler of Newfound-
land — Sir Humphrey Gilbert, Raleigh's half-brother, most
learned of all Elizabeth's admirals in life, most pious and
heroic in death.
"And as for scenery, though it can boast of neither
mountain peak nor dark fiord, and would seem tame enough
in the eyes of a western Scot or Irishman, yet Torbay
surely has a soft beauty of its own. The rounded hills slope
gently to the sea, spotted with squares of emerald grass, and
rich red fallow fields, and parks full of stately timber trees.
Long lines of tall elms, just flashing green in the spring
hedges, run down to the very water's edge, their boughs
unwarped by any blast ; and here and there apple orchards
are just bursting into flower in the soft sunshine, and narrow
strips of water-meadow line the glens, where the red cattle
are already lounging knee-deep in rich grass, within two
yards of the rocky pebble beach. The shore is silent now,
the tide far out; but six hours hence, it will be hurling
columns of rosy foam high into the sunlight, and sprinkling
passengers, and cattle, and trim gardens which hardly know
what frost and snow may be, but see the flowers of Autumn
meet the flowers of Spring, and the old year linger smilingly
to twine a garland for the new."
198 SOUTH DEVON.
3Hje Mibzz of Brtxijam*
M.B.S.
The Editor has not been able to discover the original source of this poem.
You see the gentle water,
How silently it floats,
How cautiously, how steadily
It moves the sleepy boats ;
And all the little loops of pearl
It strews along the sand
Steal out as leisurely as leaves,
When summer is at hand.
But you know it can be angry,
And thunder from its rest,
When the stormy taunts of Winter
Are flying at its breast ;
And if you like to listen,
And draw your chairs around,
I'll tell you what it did one night,
When you were sleeping sound.
The merry boats of Brixham
Go out to search the seas, —
A fleet all staunch and sturdy,
Who love a swinging breeze ;
And off the woods of Devon,
Or silvery cliffs of Wales,
Is seen on summer evenings
The light upon their sails.
SOUTH DEVON. 199
But when the year grows darker,
And grey winds hunt the foam,
They then go back to Brixham,
And ply their toils at home.
And thus it chanced one winter,
A storm began to roar,
When all the men were out to sea,
And all the wives on shore.
Then as the wind grew fiercer,
The women's cheeks grew white, —
It fiercer blew at twilight,
And fiercest in the night,
Like ice the clouds grew denser
Without a star to melt ;
The blackness of the darkness
Was something to be felt.
The storm, like an assassin,
Went on its secret way,
A hundred boats went drifting,
And staggering in the bay.
They meet, they crash, — God keep them !
God give a moment's light !
For all around is tumult,
The tempest and the night.
The men on shore were anxious,
They grieved for what they knew ;
What think you did the women ?
Love taught them what to do !
Outspoke a wife : " We've bedding,
We'll burn it for a light !
Give us the men, — the bare ground
Will do for us this night ! "
200 SOUTH DEVOiV.
They took the Grandame's blanket,
Who shivered and bade them go ;
They took the baby's pillow,
Who could not say them no ;
They fired the blazing signal,
And knew not all the while,
If it might prove a beacon,
Or but a funeral pile.
Soon as the costly signal
Shone bravely on the black,
A cry rang through the people —
" A boat is coming back."
And through the darkness dimly
They see and then they doubt ;
But when the first prow grated,
You should have heard them shout.
Across the fire-light wildly
Dark figures shrieked and ran,
With, " Child, here comes your father ! "
Or, " Wife, is this your man ? "
And faint feet touch the landing
And stay a little while ;
And frozen lips give kisses,
Too tired to speak or smile.
So, one by one, they landed,
All that the sea could spare :
We will not dare to reckon
The names that were not there ;
But some in bedless chamber,
When all the tale was told,
Sat up too cold with sorrow
To know the night was cold.
SOUTH DEVOK. 201
And this is what the men do,
Who work in wind and foam ;
And thus do their good women,
Who watch for them at home.
So when you see a trawler
Go out to face the gales,
Think of the love that travels
Like light upon her sails.
Eofomstal dfjurclj, Bartmoutlj.
From The Battle of Hastings and other Poems, by Sydney Hodges, 1853.
The calm of eve is round thee now,
Old Townstal ! with its floods of gold ;
That shed a glory round thy brow,
Like that around the saints of old.
The purple shades beneath thee creep, ,
The cloudless sky shines overhead ;
The river wanders calm and deep,
And hills of gold afar outspread.
Oh ! let me pause awhile, and think : —
Such soul-born feelings of repose —
That to the past the present link —
Steal o'er me as the day-beams close ;
The heart-chords swelling send the while
Their sacred music through the soul,
As through thy old and hallowed aisle
The chant of praise is wont to roll.
202 SOUTH DEVON.
Oh ! for a life of hours like this !
To cast aside the anxious fear,
The struggle and the toil, for peace
Like this which reigns around me here.
To let the free soul soar away,
Like winds that o'er thy turret climb ;
And bid the wandering fancy stray
Mid memories of olden time.
That olden time comes back once more,
The time when thy grey walls were young,
When hallowed feet first trod thy floor,
When midnight masses first were sung.
When erring souls with trembling sigh
First drop the penitential tear :
And fervent prayers went up on high,
In mingled tones of hope and fear.
A silent awe is on my soul
To think what vigils thou must keep
When nightly stars above thee roll,
And all wide earth and ocean sleep.
Those countless stars to whom is given
That inextinguishable glow
Which marks the truth of God in Heaven,
As thou upon the earth below.
The sun-lit tower is all so bright,
I do not care to gaze below,
Where sleep the dead in endless night
Beneath the turf where daisies grow.
But yet their souls are bright above,
Yes brighter than this evening hour ;
And beauteous in these realms of love
As air-gold on thy shining tower.
SOUTH DEVON. 203
The latest beam is lingering still
Upon thy topmost crumbling stone :
It fades beyond the western hill,
And leaves thee to the night alone.
The light, too, passes from my mind,
But leaves, ere yet its beams depart,
Another joy in memory shrined,
Another lesson on my heart.
ffiompton Sail*
From Rambles in Devonshire, by the Rev. H. J. Whitfeld, M.A.
The Editor cannot here refrain from expressing his love for Mr. Whitfeld's
book, and wishes it could be reprinted. It bears the impress of a gifted, and
cultivated, and reverent mind.
Three centuries have passed, since the chimes of Marldon
were answered by those of Compton, and since they both
took up the notes borne upon the wind from Torre Abbey.
In one of these consecrated places the old faith is still pro-
fessed. In a second, it has but a memory, amid darkness
and decay. And in a third it has given way to another, and
a purer, form. Yet when the Sunday peal is rung out, as it
lingers around the ruined chapel, and echoes in the deserted
courts, it has a strange, sad language, a call which we might
deem the dust and the dead that sleep within it would feel
and answer.
Hark ! upon the wings of twilight
Solemnly a cadence swells,
Hark ! with fitful falls and dying,
Comes a voice from Marldon bells, —
204 SOUTH DEVON.
M Never more, oh ! never more
Shall the past its kin restore ;
Never shall our chimes recall
Answering tones from Compton Hall."
Spirits murmur in their pealing,
Tales are in their echoes told,
Of the happy days of Compton,
Of the days and deeds of old,
Till, within the ancient hold,
Holy Rood and hearts were cold,
Till of all the ancient strain,
Memories and the dead remain.
Yet a light of joys departed
Lingereth with a ray divine
O'er the vacant hearth of Compton,
O'er its long deserted shrine :
For where ivy boughs are green,
Where the owl. hoots out between,
O'er the Chapel, high in air,
Still the Cross of God is there.
And the bells of Marldon whisper
Welcome to the blessed sign,
To the lonely Rood of Compton
Watching o'er its ruined shrine ;
Bearing from the world of rest
Tidings of each parting guest,
With a ghostly sound and dread,
Like a message from the dead.
Arch and oriel all are broken,
Broken is the winding stair,
And the lichen, rainbow-tinted,
Hangs its wild festooning there.
SOUTH DEVON. 205
There are dust and doom beneath,
And the flowers of Nature's wreath,
And the signs of grace and love
And the deep blue Heaven above.
So to every musing pilgrim
Sighs the voice of Marldon bells,
Sighs the crowned shade of Compton,
Answering, as the cadence swells ;
Though the walls in ruin lie,
All is hope and light on high ;
And the Cross against the sky
Speaks of immortality.
©ofoit tfje ©art*
From Rambles in Devonshire by the Rev. H. J. Whitfeld, M.A., 1854.
Sailing in a boat down the Dart on a fine day is a very
pleasant affair. There is not the grandeur of the Rhone, nor
the legendary beauty of the Rhine, but perhaps you enjoy it
quite as much. It is only the Dart, after all, coming down
gently from its native tors, and winding here and there,
with a wood on one side, and on the other a ruin, and then
a current that might almost be termed rapid, and then
again a broad silver bay, and at last, to your surprise, a
seaport and the sea, and an end to your quiet voyage.
Still it has no lack of objects on its banks to interest and
to charm. There is that fine old mansion, Dartington Hall
with its memories of the Duke of Exeter, and of the
Champernounes, its present possessors. There is Dartington
Parsonage, linked with a name known to every Churchman
the name of Froude. There is Berry Pomeroy with a host
206 SOUTH DEVON.
of traditions ; and the old keep of Joel de Totnes ; and
Sharpham, reminding me of a dear place which I shall
never see again ; and Stoke Gabriel, nestling in its little
amphitheatre of slope and wood ; and Sandridge ; and
Waddeton Court, showing its Elizabethan outlines well
upon the hill ; and Dittisham ; and Greenaway ; and the
rock in the stream upon which Raleigh is said to have
smoked his first pipe ; and then the oak groves of Lupton
House ; and then Dartmouth. All these are peaceful
beauties, but they are such as one does not often see
compressed in so small a compass. There you have in
succession wood, and ruin, and hill, and between all, the
Great Deep. It would, I think, be difficult to find an
additional charm, or to say where one is wanting in the list.
Gliding downjglidinor down,
O '*.© o »
Gliding down the stream,
Like an old familiar tune,
Like a quiet dream,
Every whisper breathes a song,
Bright is every beam,
As we muse, and float along
Gliding down the stream.
Holy light, o'er earth and sky,
Hovereth ever near,
And a voice from days gone by
Answereth to the ear,
Telling us of those who thus
Basked in pleasure's beam,
Those who passed away like us
Gliding down the stream.
SOUTH DEVON. 207
We are on a quest as gay,
Ours are smiles as fond,
They have left the bright to-day
For the Deep beyond,
They have closed their pilgrimage,
And to us they seem
Guides along the unknown Dark
GKding down the stream.
And then we come upon Dartmouth, and a pretty
panorama it is. The town lies in a not ungraceful cluster,
on the right, below Mount Boone. Facing us is Kingswear,
and beyond is Brookhill, and the Beacon, and opposite to
them Clifton Castle, and St. Petrox Church. And between
their shores, amid scenes as beautiful as ever eye beheld, or
mind conceived, the Dart is lost upon the bosom of the deep
broad sea, never seeming so fair as when it is bidding you
farewell.
Bucfefast SPbheg,
Eichard John King.
Buckfast had been at first a Benedictine Abbey, but when
it was refounded by Ethel werd de Pomeroy in 1137, it
received, like Ford, a colony of Cistercians from Waverley.
From the high ground above Buckfast, the castle of the
Pomeroys on its scarped rock in the midst of thick woods
is visible in the far distance. The site of Buckfast itself
was far more fitting for the quiet-seeking, hard-labouring
white monks than for the Benedictines ; and of all the
Devonshire Monasteries it most recalls the wild and
picturesque positions of the great Yorkshire houses. It
208 SOUTH DEVON.
stood — its scanty ruins yet stand — on the right bank of the
Dart, where the river winds under a steep wooded hill, and
leaves a broad stretch of green meadow between itself and
the much steeper hills that rise, crest on crest, towards the
open moorland. The river is here in the middle portion of
its course ; between the wilder scenes where it sparkles and
dashes among the huge masses of broken granite under
Benjie Tor and the woods of Buckland, and the more
cultivated and richer, but hardly lest striking country
through which it passes below Staverton and Totnes.
Above the site of the Abbey and beyond the meadows,
tufted with patches of coppice and still known as the
" Monks' Walk," oak woods and coppices of birch close in
the stream on either side ; and far away over the wide,
wooded landscape, the rocky peaks of Dartmoor rise grey in
the distance. Nothing can well be imagined more truly
monastic, more full of quiet, peace, and seclusion, than the
whole of this valley in the earlier days of the Cistercian
house, when the white monks were still workers, and the
life of the Convent was still true to its rule. The great
church, whose ruins at the end of the last century, in the
words of a Devonshire historian, " moved all beholders to
wonder and pity," rose, the centre and protection of the
whole monastery. Round it were grouped the various
buildings of such a house : the cloister of the monks, the
abbot's lodging, the various guest chambers and the outer
offices ; the great barns also or spicaria, of which one noble
example still remains and which were especially prominent
in the establishments of the agricultural Cistercians. The
meadows lay green and sunny round the monastery. The
river murmured onward close to the eastern end of the
church. Little crofts of arable, and patches of corn land,
SOUTH DEVON. 209
won hardly from the rough brake and coppice, showed
where cultivation was stealing up the hill sides ; and here
and there, on the further heights, the cross rose against the
sky, " Signa" says a charter of the Abbey, " Ghristiano
digna." The scene is still most beautiful, in spite of
its later adornments and associations. The ruins of the
church were used early in the century for building a
factory ; and on the site of the abbot's house has arisen a
modern Abbey of very different character from that known
by the Cistercians. But the valley and the meadows are
little changed ; and we may still mark the green sward of
the " Abbot's Way," — a track so called that winds over the
moors, between the fern and the heather, from Hulne Lee to
Brent, — both of which manors belonged to the Abbey.
These moors, lying outside the ring of the Royal Forest,
were the Cistercian sheep tracts ; answering here to the
wide fells and mountain pastures over which ranged the
flocks belonging to Fountains or to Rievaulx.
©it Portlemouti) f&ill: ® Sonnet.
From South Devon Songs and Sonnets.
By S. Wills, Dartmouth, 1882.
On this enchanting height I love to stand,
Where prospects please the eye on every side,
Removed from scenes of luxury and pride,
And view the wonders of this happy land.
O'er verdant vales my fancy wings her flight,
There, venerable trees before me rise,
There, lofty hills that bear the incumbent skies,
There, distant Kingsbridge strikes my ravished sight,
There, the broad estuary's glossy surface spreads,
P
210 SOUTH DEVON.
There, Malborough's spire in airy state ascends ;
Below, in ruins Salcombe castle bends,
And here gay flowerets wave their blushing heads ;
And ocean's accents fill the sounding shore,
While vocal rocks reverberate the roar.
Wt)z ^ome of tije <Sea Jtrn,
From The Fern World, by Francis George Heath,
t 7th Ed. London, Sampson Low & Co., 1882.
" Amongst the boldest and grandest of the coast scenery
of Devon is the wild, uninhabited, and we may really say
almost unknown region which extends from Portlemouth to
Prawle Point, the southernmost extremity of the county. To
reach Portlemouth we took a cross-country course from
Torcross, mounting the steep hill behind it and then pro-
ceedino* along the high table-land to South Poole. It was
late in the afternoon when we left the Torcross Hotel, and
we had gone but a little distance when the last faint
glimmer of day sank behind the hills. For miles we
pursued our way in the darkness, lighted only by the faint
glitter of the stars. But the depth of the shadows which
fell upon our path was relieved here and there by the lights
of the glow-worms which crept forth in their mimic
brilliance along the bushes on both sides of the road.
Wearily we approached our journey's end for that day at
South Poole, in whose little inn we passed the night.
The sun shone out brilliantly, as early the next morning
we took our way along the picturesque bank of the Kings-
bridge Water, on the opposite side of which we soon
sighted Salcombe. Skirting the higher edge of Portle-
mouth, we made over the point of coast which commences
SOUTH DEVON. 211
the line from KingsbrioVe Creek to Prawle Point. Calling
to get a draught of milk at a farmhouse on our line of
route, we passed through a kind of water-lane, the stony-
sides of which were in places absolutely crowded with plants
of the beautiful Aspleniwn lanceolatum. Thence across
some fields we made for the terrific but beautiful coast, in
search of Asplenium Marinwm, which we had been assured
grew in splendid luxuriance along the sheltered rocks in
this neighbourhood.
We were not long in reaching the top of a steep inlet of
the sea. But the cliffs reared up almost perpendicularly,
and appeared to forbid the possibility of access to the wild
beach which lay far down below. With some difficulty,
however, and at some risk we clambered down the rocky
sides of the solitary chasm, and made our way on to the
rugged beach which was wildly strewn with great masses of
rock, over which the boiling waters of the sea broke in
fury. We had indeed reached the home of the Sea Fern ;
for on the first glance around we espied under the moist
shelter of a great mass of rock just over our head, a
splendid specimen of Marinum with fronds fully twelve
inches long, hanging down in a great and shining mass of
purple stem and leafy glossy green.
For some distance we made our way along this terrible
but beautiful shore, terrible to the hapless bark which
might be flung on to it in the wild rage of a south-westerly
gale, but beautiful to those who love to see Nature in her
grandest aspects. Above, steep, jagged, precipitous cliffs ;
below, fallen rocks of every form and shape, strewn wildly
upon the savage beach, and meeting sternly and immoveably
the heavy roll of the sea, which comes in with a sullen roar,
and is broken into a dozen reverberations as wave after
P 2
212 SOUTH DEVON.
wave finds its way in amongst the rocky masses of the fore-
shore. Now against a solid front of rock the incoming wave
comes with a swinging crash, and the liquid missile hurled
against the stony surface flies far into the air in ten
thousand points of snow-white foam. Now there is a dull
roar followed by a succession of mournful echoes as a great
wave rolls into a cavernous hollow in the cliff". In one of
these, where the incoming waves sped through a huge
channel — formed between two great masses of almost per-
pendicular rock — we espied growing beyond the tide mark,
but just within reach of the finest spray of the waves, a
noble specimen of Marinum, its roots imbedded in the
veins of rock, and its fronds hanging down as if to meet the
fresh onset of the sea. But we encountered in all directions
abundance of these beautiful plants, sometimes perched
boldly on a cleft of rock which lay under the shelter of a
larger rock above, sometimes ensconced in the hollows
formed by two masses of superincumbent rock, and some-
times clinging to the side of the open cliff in places where
trickling moisture came oozing down from the height above.
o on
Presently we found that our progress along this rugged
beach was no longer possible, for giant masses of rock lay
right in our path, too precipitous to climb, and too steep to
round on the seaward side. We therefore once more sought
the high ground over the hill-top, along which the coast-
guard path took us for a considerable distance. A hill rose
above us on our left like a great ridge, its side and top
presenting a peculiarly wild appearance, strewn in some
places as they were by great masses of contorted rock,
whilst in others the surface of the ground was covered by
waving bracken, purple heather, and golden gorse. Here
we found in great abundance many fine plants of Asplenium
SOUTH DEVON. 213
Lanceolatum, ensconced under the shady projections of the
hill-side rocks. In places where a mass of rock was piled
up in a conglomerate heap, forming a variety of dark, moist,
and shady recesses, these beautiful Ferns would be found
growing in the greatest luxuriance, their pinnules having
the peculiar crisped or curled appearance which is charac-
teristic of Lanceolatum.
But perhaps the most beautiful part of this singularly
wild and beautiful coast was that which lay between the
coast we have just described and Prawle Point. We marvelled
indeed that the railway which so quickly opens up the most
beautiful parts of our beautiful island had not long since
been brought to this charming part of the coast of Devon.
We passed a succession of the most lovely bays, which
would make the most delightful of seaside retreats ; now
fronted by strips of golden sand, as smooth as velvet to the
touch ; now by a stretch of snow-white pebbles : now by
shingle of varying hue. Studded along the foreshore and
partly covered by the sea were scattered about great masses
of rock on which the sea-fowl perched, and around which
the waves foamed and boiled. In places the tiny strips of
beach were unapproachable from the cliff-top, which rose
sheer above them to a vast height. At one particular spot
to which we were led by following the coastguard path, we
stood for a few moments, and gazed down a terrible precipice
which suddenly yawned away below us. It was formed by
two projecting point of cliffs, which spread out in horseshoe
shape, approaching each other at their seaward extremity,
and forming what might be almost likened to a huge well
in their rear. Terrible indeed was this chasm, the jagged
walls of which, down far, far below, appeared covered in
places with a film of green which we knew must be the
214 SOUTH DEVON.
wild rough grass which is so often seen growing on sandy-
soil. Looking down the giddy height, we espied across and
below on a glittering point of rock what looked like a small
white stone. As we looked, however, the object appeared to
move, and then by the aid of a glass we found that it was a
sheep grazing on the cliff-side. The white gulls skimming
in mid-air below us looked like butterflies, and down
farther still the sea, whose roar we could not hear, except in
a faint sigh, showed its fringe of snowy foam, as it broke
upon the desolate rocks and spread itself over the golden
sand.
It is probably due to the ruggedness of many parts of
this wild coast that the beautiful Sea Spleenwort flourishes
there in such luxuriance. The shady clefts of rock and
dripping caves, though offering a congenial home to this
Fern, are too difficult, though not impossible, of access to
admit of many visits from any except the most enthusiastic
of Fern hunters. A week might well be spent in an
exploration of the two or three miles of coast between
Portlemouth and Prawle Point, and the Fern gatherer
would find a world of pleasure in examining the charming
nooks of that home of the Sea Fern."
Pgmoutij.
From Sonnets, by Rev. Charles Strong, M.A.
Ye sacred arks of Liberty ! that float
Where Tamar's waters spread their bosom wide,
That seem, with towering stern and rampart side,
Like antique castles girt with shining moat ;
SOUTH DEVON. 215
Should War the signal give with brazen throat,
No more recumbent here in idle pride,
Your rapid prows would cleave the foaming tide,
And to the nations speak with thundering note.
Thus, in the firmament serene and deep,
When summer clouds the earth are hanging o'er,
And all their mighty masses seem asleep,
To execute heaven's wrath and judgments sore,
From their dark wombs the sudden lightnings leap,
And vengeful thunders peal from shore to shore.
From Fancy's Wreath; Poems, by John L. Stevens. Plymouth, 1821.
Speak not of Italy ! — She cannot show
A brighter scene than this \ a richer glow
Decks not the azure of her ev'ning sky
With rarer tints than those we gaze on here :
Her zephyrs cannot wing a sweeter sigh
Than we inhale. favor'd England ! — dear
Art thou to all thy sons, but dearer still
To me : for I have never wandered forth
To seek a better home, and yet each thrill
Of fond affection, honour, virtue, worth,
I've found. Old ocean girds thee round, his tide
Swells proudly to embrace thy rocky strand,
And play upon thy shores ; thou art his pride,
And I exulting boast, Thou art my native land !
216 SOUTH DEVOK.
©it Pgmoutij ©oe: 31 Eefeme.
W. H. K. Wright.
Gazing on the deep'ning shadows
Gath'ring on the summer sea,
Dreamy thoughts and fancy-pictures
O'er the waters come to me.
Day's bright orb hath sunk in stillness,
Sunk in floods of golden light,
Slowly, slowly fades the brightness,
Nature now doth welcome night.
And my fancy, swift awaking,
Peoples all the glimmering scene,
Calls forth strange, fantastic pictures,
Forms and things which erst have been.
Though around me still there linger
Beings of the world I tread,
Waiting till the moon effulgent
O'er the earth its beams doth shed ;
These I heed not — gazing seaward
Where the wavelets darkly lie ;
These I hear not — all my senses
Centre on yon sea and sky !
«
From the darkness, from the dimness,
From the shadows on the sea,
Ghostly forms now flit before me,
Veiled in unreality.
SOUTH DEVON. 217
Countless scenes appear and vanish,
Wondrous visions throng around,
Phantom fleets now crowd the picture,
Silent, void of life or sound.
There I see the princely hero
Clad in dress of sable hue,
Fierce in battle, calm in danger,
True of soul and stout as true.
Swift his war-ship flieth seaward,
Bearing on his valiant train ;
Soon the vision fades before me,
Long I look, but all in vain.
But anon he comes victorious,
Back from War's tumultuous field,
King and prince as hostage bringing,
To his prowess forced to yield.
Many a sail comes silent, ghostlike,
Shadowy vessels throng the deep,
Many a form stands out before me,
Whilst my dreamy watch I keep.
Many a glorious sight enthrals me,
Many a pageant glides away,
Myriads pass from hence to battle,
Eager for the deadly fray.
Many a scene my thoughts had pictured
Glides before my wond'ring view,
And I lose myself in rapture
O'er the visions old yet new.
218 SOUTH DEVON.
And at length the phantoms vanish
As I watch enchanted there :
Hark ! what means that loud commotion
Pealing through the ambient air.
'Tis the evening gun resounding
Through the stilly air of night —
Then, as by magician's fingers,
All is snatched from sense and si^fht.
\->
All is darkness, all is dimness,
'Mid the shadows on the sea
Gone are all my fancy-pictures,
All is stern reality.
Round me still the shades are falling,
Shadows of the deep'ning night,
Thoughtfully I turn me homeward,
Musing on the wondrous sight.
Thinking could yon mighty ocean
All its hidden secrets yield,
Wilder than an Eastern fable
Were the tale to man revealed.
But 'tis vain — roll on, old ocean,
Chant thy dirge, mysterious deep,
Music thine — no mortal singe th,
Secrets thine — thou still must keep !
SOUTH DEVON. 219
From Summer Songs by Mortimer Collins, 1860.
Summertide, my darling,
Comes sweetly o'er the main, —
There's music in the south wind
There's softness in the rain,
There's snowy blossom on the trees,
And bluebells scent the lane,
And glee 's in every eye that sees
The May-time back again.
At eve, my tiny darling,
We'll wander by the Prvm,
And hear the happy blackbird
Pour forth his vesper hymn,
And watch the shadows of the sky
Upon the water swim,
While homeward fast the black rooks fly
Where Saltram woods grow dim.
Ah me, my heart's own darling,
So joyous in thy tread,
A strange and mournful beauty
On this fair world is shed ;
The birds will sing, the river run,
The summer rose blush red,
When thou and I, my little one,
Lie low among the dead.
220 SOUTH DEVON.
Henry Incledon Johns.
Loved Plym ! I owe thee many a blessed hour,
When, 'scaped the town's dull din, thy banks I've sought,
And roamed at will — feeding the unfettered thought
With dreams elysian ; while the placid power,
That dwells in greenwood shades, sweet influence brought,
And hallowed all my musings. Oh ! how oft,
Amid these lonely wanderings, hath the soft
And balmy eve, with gentle pace and slow,
Stolen on my devious walk, — lulling awhile
All bitter sense of past or present woe ;
And when, upon the woods, Day's lingering smile
Diffused its last rich tint of deepened glow,
A holier joy — past utterance, was given,
And wrapt in sweet illusion, Earth to me seemed Heaven !
In t|}e raoote bg tlje Pgm, Autumn, 1882.
I. W. N. Keys.
How changed these woods ! It seems but yesterday
They blazed with flowery gems of every hue ;
A:.vl Beauty revelled all their labyrinths through,
With zone unclapsed and tresses floating gay.
' Twas sweet the while in their calm depths to stray —
So passing sweet, the golden moments flew :
Where'er I wandered rose allurements new,
Which wiled my fancy into busiest play.
— But now the flowers are fled ; — from every tree
In sullen silence leaves begin to fall,
And muffle Nature's face as with a pall ; —
No more is heard the humming of the bee ; —
Birds cease to sing . . . And I am sad as night
To watch dear Summer fading from my sight !
SOUTH DEVON. 221
Caomue Fale, near fiCorntoootr.
Fannie Goddard, in the Young Ladies' Journal.
Bright little rivulet
Dancing and singing,
Soothing and rest
To weary ones bringing,
Recalling sweet childhood
Passed now for ever,
Hushing the madness
Of life's fitful fever ;
Sweet is thy mission,
Gay little brook !
Hurrying onward
Through dim elfin nook,
O'er the green mossy stones,
Moorland and lea,
Losing thyself at last
In the broad sea ! —
Heart, learn the lesson well ;
For others living,
Strive to be pure and true,
Help and love giving,
All through life's changing dav
Like yon wee river,
Soothe, comfort, cheer, refresh,
Then, rest for ever !
WEST DEVON.
St. Butoaux Cljurctjgartr.
From the British Magazine, February, 1841.
Ye whose young souls would treasure deep
Bright visions for a future hour,
Go climb St. Bude's romantic steep
And stand beside his ancient tower.
From that bold eminence appears
A scene of beauty such as cheers
The care-worn spirit, and imparts
Unmingled joy to careless hearts.
Bounding the prospect on the right
Yon dark extent of rugged height,
Do O '
The Dartmoor hills, awaken dreams
Of rock-strewn vales, and foaming streams,
Boiling along with torrent might
Swoll'n by the rains of yesternight ;
But now October's sunbeams throw
O'er each wild ridge their mellowed glow ;
Or glance athwart those volumed woods
Just where they skirt old Warleigh's woods,
That clothed in varied hues appear,
Fair emblems of the waning year.
From sheltered nook, and hedge-row spray
Is heard once more the redbreast's lay :
Sing on, sweet bird ! the year's decline
Is gladdened by a note like thine ;
Thou, favourite minstrel ! need'st not fear,
When tread of man is sounding near ;
From glen to glen thy course is free,
No hand would dare to injure thee.
WEST DEVON. 223
And hark ! the sound of village bells
From Tamerton's secluded vale ;
How merrily their music swells
Upon the freshening northern gale !
Fair vale of Tamerton ! Retreat
For Genius' pensive children meet ;
A minstrel erst thy shades among
Loved to awake the rural song :
To such pure strains thy echo rang,
When Howard swept the lyre and sang
Of Bickleigh vale, a sister theme,
Those leafy depths, that mountain stream.
The beauteous prospect changes ; now
The autumnal day is closing fast,
And gathering over Hengeston's brow
The clouds a darker shadow cast.
Yet soon shall Winter's icy pall
O'er all the lovely landscape fall ;
Full soon St. Bude, around thy tower
Shall tempest sweep on wing of power,
And fiercer rage at midnight hour.
And haply at such season dread,
Wild screams shall break on Fancy's ear,
As though the phantoms of the dead
Were revelling in the storm's career.
Away — the dead they are not nigh,
They rest not where their bodies lie ;
The body moulders 'neath the sod,
The spirit must return to God,
224 WEST DEVON.
And as the cheering beacon height ,
Sheds o'er the deep its friendly light,
Mid lightning's flash and billow's foam
Guiding the weary sailor home ;
Even thus within this Christian shrine
Long may the beams of truth divine
Comfort the sinner's trembling breast,
And lead him to eternal rest.
A. K.
Eo tije &or at Eamerton.
Written in Warleigb Woods.
Fair Queen of Tamerton, the clustering trees
That from thy graceful brow so lowly nod,
Waft a sweet Spirit's whisper on the breeze,
To think of God.
The sunny vale beneath, its glancing streams,
The flow'ry beauty of its rich green sod,
Say as they glow with noontide's glorious beams,
Oh ! think of God.
Turn to that House of Pray'r, there sleep in peace
The quiet dead beneath the dewy sod ;
Thou cans't not look upon that spot and cease
To think of God.
Not in the world, my soul, not in the world,
But in the mountain path, retired, untrod,
Is the soft wing of Piety unfurled
To rise to God.
H.W.
WEST DEVON. 225
Mntmmttt : Eabg anb OTtalftfjam*
From //owe Scenes, by Rachel Evans.
2nd Edition. Tavistock, T. W. Greenfield, 1875.
A rough track leads from West Down to a retired nook,
where, sheltered by the overhanging heights, is the con-
fluence of the Tavy and the Walkham. Two gentle rivers
are they in this favoured spot. The Tavy glides around a
promontory of great sylvan loveliness, and flows softly
onward to meet its murmuring tributary. The peculiar
beauty of this confluence gave rise to the following poem :
The meeting of the waters
With murmurs low and sweet !
Like beauty's modest daughters
When first they kindly greet.
The mountain o'er them bending,
The bank of radiant flowers,
To each a shadow lending,
Unite their magic powers.
The bird above them winging
His flight to realms of day,
In liquid measure singing,
Repeats their soothing lay.
The zephyr, gently stealing,
Glides o'er their mingled streams,
Whose fairy chimes are pealing
Like music in our dreams.
A magic charm has bound them
Within their channel deep,
With earth's strong arm around them
Still murmuring, they sleep.
Q
22G WEST DEVON.
A sunny ray is glancing
Athwart the shady trees,
On the still waters dancing,
Or waving in the breeze.
Oh mem'ry oft steals o'er us
Bringing that valley sweet,
Where aye in chiming chorus
The sister rivers meet.
Eabu Cieabt.
From Home Scenes, by Kachel Evans.
2nd edition, Tavistock, T. W. Greenfield, 1875.
Proceeding onward by two or three farms, we reach the
neighbouring moor, where a scene of utter solitude presents
itself. The marshes are so numerous that even the sheep
and cattle desert the spot, and seek pasturage elsewhere.
The form of man is seldom seen. A wild colt with tossing
mane may sometimes cross our path, and gaze with wonder
at the intruders on his domain. Otherwise no living
creature but ourselves seems to tread the dreary waste. The
solitude is as perfect as if we were in the deserts of Africa,
instead of in the immediate neighbourhood of a civilised
country. I never felt silence more than when I first visited
the Cleaves ; for not even a bird raised its small note to break
the stillness. All was quiet until a raven sprang from some
distant quarter, where it had probably been making a
carrion meal, and with its melancholy " roke, roke," sailed
across the valley, and was lost in the distance. It was a
stormy afternoon ; sudden gusts of wind came against us ;
and the clouds rose majestically over our heads, now
WEST DEVQX. 227
gathering together in large volumes of blackness, and then
scudding in fleecy vapours before the breeze. The sun sent
an occasional ray through the lurid veil, rendering the dark-
ness more visible, and throwing a flickering and uncertain
light over the frowning tors and gloomy valleys. However,
this threatening aspect but heightened the grandeur of the
scene ; and we went on our way impressed with awe and
delight, and really enjoying the prospect of a storm.
A wall of rocks forms a natural barrier to the Cleaves ;
this is of granite, and seems justly fitted to be the bulwark
of a world. A mighty portal opens to the view a deep sunk
and wide-spread vale broken by small clefts or cleaves, by
which the Tavy rushes with all the wild fury of a mountain
stream. Masses of stone, tinted with red and yellow lichen,
give to the hollow the appearance of a ruined town or city.
At our feet a Druidical temple, with its cromlech or altar,
seems to have been hurled from the heights on which we
stand. Nature in her wildest frolics appears to figure forth
the elaborate works of Art. In these fantastic groups of
stones hurled together in motley confusion, we may imagine
the ruins of an ancient Baalbec or Palmyra. " But the
masses of granite are so enormous," says Reason, that no
effort of human power could have brought them together.
" There were giants in those days," we answer, and the idea
of a ruined city again returns. Descending by the pre-
cipitous wall which bounds Tavy Cleaves we gaze upwards
on the scene, and still it wears new forms of grandeur.
Great Tor discovers itself wreathed with mist ; similar tors
embrace the valley on every side, and at their foot the
torrent rushes, mingling its roar with the melancholy sigh
of the mountain breeze.
Q"
228 WEST DEVON.
E\}t Eamar Spring
Robert Stephen Hawker.
The source of this storied river of the West is on a rushy knoll, in a moorland
of this parish. The Torridge also flows from the selfsame mound.
Fount of a rushing river ! wild-flowers wreathe
The home where thy first waters sunlight claim ;
The lark sits hushed beside thee, while I breathe,
Sweet Tamar Spring ! the music of thy name.
On through thy goodly channel, on to the sea !
Pass amid heathery vale, tall rock, fair bough ;
But nevermore with footstep pure and free,
Or face so meek with happiness as now.
Fair is the future scenery of thy days,
Thy course domestic, and thy paths of pride ;
Depths that give back the soft-eyed violets' gaze,
Shores where tall navies march to meet the tide.
Thine leafy Tetcott, and those neighbouring walls,
Noble Northumberland's embowered domain ;
Thine, Cartha Martha, Morwell's rocky falls,
Storied Cotehele, and Ocean's loveliest plain.
Yet false the vision, and untrue the dream,
That lures thee from thy native wilds to stray :
A thousand griefs will mingle with that stream,
Unnumbered hearts shall sigh those waves away.
Scenes fierce with men thy seaward current laves,
Harsh multitudes will throng thy gentle brink ;
Back with the grieving concourse of thy waves,
Home to the waters of thy childhood shrink.
Thou heedest not ! thy dream is of the shore,
Thy heart is quick with life ; on to the sea !
How will the voice of thy far streams implore,
Again amid these peaceful weeds to be !
WEST DEVON. 229
My soul ! my soul ! a happier choice be thine,
Thine the hushed valley and the lonely sod ;
False dream, far vision, hollow hope resign,
Fast by our Tamar Spring, alone with God !
©tt Eamerton Hafte.
Oh, lake of loveliness, thy soothing charm
Falls like fair childhood's slumber on my heart,
And o'er my world-tried spirit breathes a calm
Which Nature's tranquil scenes alone impart.
Dear are thy undulating shores, — thy stream
Reflecting Warleigh's deep majestic shades, —
Thy Tor all bright with sunset's golden beam,
Thy rocky heights, and green romantic glades.
All, all are dear to me, for as I glide
By those rich groves which proudly wave on high,
My worldly cares pass onward with thy tide,
And peace, unearthly peace, alone is nigh.
Sweet Tamerton ! though lowly are thy bowers,
Yet thou, like fairy-land when we are dreaming,
Art rich with all Creation's loveliest flowers ; —
I see thy spire with evening glory beaming,
With ivy wreathed, and veiled in ancient green ;
And it might wake the poet's sweetest lyre.
Though that bright pen alone could paint the scene
Which inspiration touched with heavenly fire.
Dear are thy wild wood-walks, their em'rald down,
And all the gorgeous beauty of that grove ;
Thou art a pearl of price in Devon's crown,
And she may wear thee with a mother's love. F. W.
230 SWEET DEVON.
& tfafcottrtte ©tfjonsijire 4§xzm %mz in Spring.
I. W. N. Keys.
Dear hedge-row flowers ; when last this lane I trod,
Autumns chill breath your beauty had bedimmed ;
But now, like altar tapers freshly trimmed,
(Sweet symbols of an ever-living God !)
Again are you aglow, and smile, and nod,
(Your pretty eyes with tears of joy o'erbrimmed !)
Greeting me kind, though swallow hath not skimmed
The meadow yet, nor skylark spurned the sod.
happy flowers ! who thus, at Spring's returning,
Imbibe new life, and from your graves arise,
Whilst Man o'er his decay unhappy sighs,
In vain for youthful renovation yearning. —
Not so, sad heart ! new life beyond .the skies
To Man is promised — his alone the prize !
W$z ©ear ©ebon ?Lmz%.
John Gregory.
Mr. Gregory to the Editor: — "You mention Mr. W., I hope all is well with
him. Some time in the past I wrote him thus : —
You say you are coming to see me,
And ask with the grace of a king,
As if from all care you could free me,
1 Pray what would you like me to bring ? '
'Tis but a poor exile's desire
Whose life in its winterhood wanes,
Do bring me a sprig of Sweet Briar
With love from the dear Devon Lanes.
SWEET DEVON. 231
I love all the flowers that throng them ;
Though far from the scene I have flown,
My memories wander among them,
And fondly I call them mine own.
The hope of a heart may soar higher
For joys that are followed by banes,
But bring me a sprig of Sweet Briar
With love from the dear Devon Lanes.
The Past is a book I am reading,
And while to my sight it appears,
I scent the sweet Briar leaf bleeding,
And freshen it up with my tears.
My life to its Eden lay nigher,
And freer from thought that profanes,
When I gathered a Maiden Sweet Briar
Adown in the dear Devon Lanes."
W$z streams of Jtonng Btbtm.
From Snatches of Song, by F. B. Doveton', 1880.
The streams of bonny Devon !
I've loved them long and well,
I've trod the breezy Moorland
Where snipe and plover dwell,
Where many a brawling river
Makes music in the wild,
O'er mighty boulders dashing,
In strange confusion piled.
And here enthroned in silence,
The Tors majestic stand,
Like sentinels gigantic
Above that dreary land.
232 SWEET DEVON.
The stillness is unbroken,
Save by the plovers scream
That mingles with the laughter
Of yonder foaming stream.
And if, upon that boulder
You stand — and drop the fly —
A Palmer — very deftly,
Just in the streamlet's eye !
A splash ! a twitch ! and quickly
Your " Copham " bends amain —
And soon a burly fellow
Is number'd with the slain !
The streams of bonny Devon
I've woo'd them in the dells,
Where endless ferns and flowers
For anglers weave their spells !
Whence often I have wended,
At eve, my thoughtful way,
With heavy-laden pannier,
To crown the happy day !
Rev. John Marriott.
Ye green hills of Devon ! I love to look o'er ye ;
The glow of your verdure refreshes my sight !
In the wild and majestic let Westmoreland glory,
But yours is the palm of more tranquil delight.
SWEET DEVON. 233
Not that robes of rich beauty, in which nature dresses
Her features of boldness, your limits disown ;
To him who could deem so, deep Lynmouth's recesses
And Dart's rocky borders must all be unknown.
But your own proper boast is the Combe, neatly rounded,
Which preserves through all seasons its emerald hue ;
Whilst the dews o'er the uplands by which it is bounded
Impart in soft contrast the mist's tender blue ;
Not deserted, though lonely ; the vale in its centre,
Girt with barn and rough linhay encloses a farm ;
And o'er the warm nook of its deepest indenture
The orchard's fair bloom sheds its fugitive charm.
An eye little used to such leafy profusion
Might fancy yon hedge-row one wide- waving wood ;
And furze and plumed fern, as to aid the illusion,
Here and there on the tameness of culture intrude.
But wildest the mixture of shrub, bush and bramble,
And sweetest the scent which the wild flowers breathe,
Where the birchen-banks mark the stream's devious ramble,
And the ear drinks its musical murmurs beneath.
How soothing the sense of serenity stealing
O'er the mind, whilst on plenty and peace thus we gaze !
Less grateful, perhaps, though more lively, the feeling
Awaken'd by prospects that awe and amaze.
If in those we acknowledge the symbols of greatness
If earth's pillars its Maker's omnipotence prove :
In these let us hail Him " whose clouds distil fatness,"
And who crowneth the year with His goodness and love.
234 SWEET DEVON.
Wtft Jorost of tfje ©artmoors.
Kichard John Kino, in vol. lvi of Fraser's Magazine.
' The King rode down by Caddon ford,
And full five hundred strong rode he ;
He saw the dark forest him before —
He thought it awsome for to see.'
Song o' the Outlaw Murray.
The purple heather flowers are dark
In the hollow of the hill,
Though far along each rocky peak
The sunlight lingers still :
Dark hang the rushes o'er the stream —
There is no sound below,
Save when the fern by the night- wind stirred
Waves gently to and fro.
Thou old, wild forest ! many a dream
Of far-off glamoury, —
Of gentle knight and solemn sage,
Is resting still on thee.
Still float the mists across the fells
As when those barons bold,
Sir Tristram and Sir Percival,
Sped o'er the weary wold.
Still wave the grasses o'er the hills,
And still the streams below,
Under the wild boughs thick with moss,
Sing gladly as they go ; —
Still over all the lonely land
The mountain elves are dwellinsr,
And oft times notes from fairy horns
On the free winds are swelling.
SWEET DEVON. 2S6
Then through the glens of the folding hills,
And over the heath so brown,
King Arthur leads his belted knights
Homewards to Carlyoun ;
A goodly band, with long bright spears
Upon their shoulders set,
And first of all that Flower of Kings
With his golden coronet.
And sometimes, by the clear hill streams,
A knight rides on alone ;
He rideth ever beside the river,
Although the day be done ;
For he looketh toward the western land
Where watcheth his ladye,
On the shore of the rocky Cornewayle,
In the castle by the sea.
And o'er the green paths of the moors,
When the burning sun is high,
Queen Guenever comes forth in state
Beneath her canopy.
Her squires, in robes of sendal bright,
Bear up the silken shade,
And the ringing of their bridal reins
Fills all the forest glade.
And when the stars are few above,
And hills are dark below,
The Fay Morgana sits alone
Beside the river's flow.
She sitteth alone beneath the boughs
That look on the waters clear,
And a low sweet song she singeth there —
The Lady of the Mere.
236 SWEET DEVON.
She telleth of glad, free wanderings
By haunted spring and wave, —
And how, beneath a fairy thorn,
She dug old Merlin's grave ; —
All snowy white with blossomings
The knotted arms outspread, — •
All snowy white the blossoms fall
Upon his darksome bed.
Thou old, wild forest ! through thy glens
Once rang the hart's bell free,
The mountain wolf led forth her cubs
Beneath the dark pine tree ;
And where the broom and the birchen sprays
Hang o'er the sparkling rills,
The giant deer with branching horns
Passed upward to the hills.
And now, thy rocks are silent all,
The kingly chase is o'er,
Yet none may take from thee, old land,
Thy memories of yore.
In many a green and solemn place
Girt with the wild hills round,
The shadow of the holy Cross
Yet sleepeth on the ground.
In many a glen where the ash keys hang
All golden 'midst their leaves,
The knights' dark strength is rising yet
Clad in its wild-flower wreaths.
And yet, along the mountain paths
Rides forth that stately band,
A vision of the dim old days —
A dream of fairyland.
SWEET DEVON. 237
3Lilg Jtore.
From Idylls of Labour, by John Gregory. London : Simpkin, Marshall & Co.
A friend writes to the Editor concerning Mr. Gregory's poems, " Some of them
are, to my thinking, gems." Doubtless, the reader will approve of " Lily
Hore." With such music as this streaming through his soul, John
Gregory, a Devonshireman, is working away bravely at an ordinary handi-
craft in Bristol.
In the fine midsummer weather
Little Lily Hore with me
Hunted health and love together
Down in Devon by the sea,
Hand in hand
O'er the sand
Shining like an amber sheet,
Glancing out beneath our feet,
Far and wide,
In its pride,
Level as the shore of heaven,
Where the crystal wavelets beat,
Where dea.th-parted lovers meet,
And 'tis always summer sweet,
Sweeter than it is in Devon —
Evermore,
Lily Hore S
Lily is a brave man's daughter ;
In an ocean grave he sleeps :
Do the spirits of the water
Know when little Lily weeps ?
All in vain
By the main,
288 SWEET DEVON.
They have laid within her reach
Pretty playthings on the beach :
Polished shells
From their cells,
Gems from the great ocean's coffer,
Treasures from the deep sea cave
Down below the white-frilled wave,
Flowers from her father's grave
Doth the sea repenting offer
Little, poor
Lily Hore.
Sitting on a wall of pebbles
Gazing o'er the dark green bay,
Listening to a skylark's trebles,
And the ocean's roundelay ;
Lily said
As she laid,
Laid her aching head to rest
On the pillow of my breast,
" Tell my heart
Ere we part,
Is it very far from heaven ?
Since our father sailed away
Mothers hair is growing grey,
And we miss him every day —
Will he ever come to Devon
And his poor
Lily Hore?"
" Maiden waiting for thy father,
Heaven is not far from thee,
SWEET DEVON.
239
From this sorrow thou can'st gather
Strength to cross the troubled sea
Of this life
Full of strife.
I have lived to learn this truth
Heaven is not far from youth.
Never fear
Lily dear.
O how calm thy loving face is ;
Is the spirit of thy sire
In a flood of summer fire
Near thee with love's golden lyre ?
Feelest thou his kind embraces,
Little, poor
LilyHore?"
Lily's years are only seven,
But her love is deep and grand.
To my Lily peace is given,
More than we can understand ;
And the wind
Bloweth kind
O'er our darling shorn by death :
As a happy angel's breath,
Breathing bliss,
And a kiss,
To a blossom he left blooming
Full of beauty, life, and glee,
Down in Devon near the sea,
Where soul-sorrow said to me —
'Tis a pity he went roaming
From his poor
Lily Hore,
240 SWEET DEVON.
Wit J&ili jfarm.
Richard John King, in Fraser's Magazine.
Thou art not lonely ; yet through all the vale
No neighbour roofs are gleaming to the sun.
Thou art not lonely ; for the ancient hills
Are clasping thee in love, and every stream
Telleth its own old tale of joy to thee.
Winter and summer, round about thy walls
The knotted trunks of those grey ash trees rise :
And all the glancings of the broad, bright sun,
And every whisper of the mountain winds,
They bring unto thee. Though their leaves hang fair
Now when the sunlight streams between the boughs
And all the heaven is clear ; yet not the less
They stand like guardians round, when misty winds
Are singing through the heath, and glimmering snows
Sleep on the mountain heights the winter through.
Long years have passed, since he who made his home
Here by the rocky stream, first raised thy walls :
Long years have passed ; and out amid the stir
Of the great world hath many a storm swept by.
Thou midst the quiet hills wert sleeping still ;
Nor did the shout of war or clash of swords
Come to thy old grey walls ; nor didst thou know
Aught of the stir that shook the world without,
Save when, far off, along the green hill paths,
A company went by, with halberdines
That sparkled in the sunshine ; or perchance
When by the granite porch some horseman stayed
His course awhile, and resting on the bench
SWEET DEVON. 241
The while he drained his glass, told of the blows
He had seen stricken in the battle-field,
And how the fight was going for the king.
So to thy quiet walls amid the hills,
From time to time came voices of the world,
Faintly, and with a distant echoing,
As when the murmur of the great sea- roll
Is heard far inland. They who dwelt in thee
And tilled thy home fields, bright with corn, that stretch
Along the river side, cared not to roam
Beyond the rocky hills, that crest on crest
Rise toward the western sea. Enough they found
By this clear stream, and in this heathery vale
To soothe them in their sorrow, and to shed
Glad home-born sunshine on their hours of joy ;
Rising above the trees, the steep grey roofs
Where flocks of pigeons sun themselves ; the barn
With its wide oaken beams, whence in the dusk
Comes the owl's cry. The old, well trodden lane
Shadowed with broad-leaved sycamore, and hung
Along its rocky sides with soft green moss
And sunny stonecrop : at whose farther end
The open porch, beneath o'er-arching boughs
Gleams like a welcome. And within the walls
Old chambers of a fashion long gone by,
Where on the dusky floors a faint light sleeps
The whole long summer day, scarce stealing in
Through the small quarrels of the lattice, dim
With years ; and through the thick-set clusters white
Starring the branches of the elder tree
That grows beneath the wall, and evermore
As the wind stirs, taps at the knotted pane. —
R
242 SWEET DEVON.
The weight of years fell on thee silently,
Staining thy roofs with moss, and scattering wide
Short ferns and grasses on thy circling walls ;
And with no sudden change. The child who played
Beneath the ash trees by the river side,
Saw the same quiet home his fathers knew,
Save that a deeper shadow from the boughs
Fell on him : and the same free wandering life
Was his, that had been theirs, along the streams
And upward o'er the heather of the hills.
The mossy path beside the hazel copse,
Where the first primrose of the spring looks up
Between the soft green coolness of her leaves,
Like them he knew ; and the high crested rock
Where golden broom is waving o'er the stream ;
And far away among the hills, the wood
Where flits the blue- winged jay, and where the dove
Sits cooing on her nest ; whence home at eve
Wearied he came, well laden, bearing sheaves
Of bluebells, or the foxglove's stately wand,
Clusters of mountain ash, that fill the breeze
With wild, faint sweetness ; or leaf-shrouded stars
Of the shy wind-flower, borne in triumph forth
From out her guarded bower of blossomed thorn.
So the same life passed down from sire to son.
To the same granite font-stone each was borne ;
And the same chime from out the time-worn tower
Called them to prayer ; and by the same dark bench
Carved by rude hands of old, they knelt to God.
Year after year they trod the same green path
Over the moors with wild thyme thickly spread
To the far valley, where the church lifts up
SWEET DEVON. 243
Her pinnacles between the sycamores :
And there, beneath the shelter of their boughs,
Each, as he passed away, was laid to rest.
Calm was their peaceful life, and all unmoved
By the rude striving of the busy world ;
Happier in that. The while they tilled their fields
Glad sights and sounds were borne into their hearts
From the wild land around. The mid-day shades
Fleeting in rapid chase from rock to rock
Across the withered bent-grass of the hills ;
Or sunlight resting on the turfy moors.
Song of the mountain lark ; or strain that floats
Up from the holly trees, where darkly clear
Straight from the heathery hill the stream comes down.
So when the work was done, they bore away
From the fresh field new stores of nature's strength
That mingled with their evening happiness
When the turf fire was blazing, and the roof
Gave back the gleam ; when round about the hearth
They gathered ; and old stories of the moors
Were telling ; and the sparkling stars sent down
Their light upon the red fern of the hills.
Long mayst thou rise, old house, beside the stream.
And long and happy be the years, ere yet
The sun shall cease to shine upon thy roofs !
And, whilst the fortunes of this hurrying world
Are changing all without, mayst thou remain
'Mongst the wild hills, untroubled as of yore.
Like some old wood that yet hath 'scaped the axe,
And spreads its gnarled boughs out o'er the fields
With their broad furrows, where the plough speeds on,
And where of old its leafy brethren reigned.
244 S WEET BE VON.
So mayst thou linger still, and spread around
The quiet of thy walls, that mid the toil
Of the great world speak with a solemn voice
Of ancient peace and stillness ; like the calm
Of some old minster ; or the deep repose
That twilight brings to all the o'er-shadowed hills.
hi a ffiebonsijire Hane in Spring.
I. W. N. Keys.
What glittering troops of flowers are marshalled here,
In trim costumes of every tint arrayed
(With bees for buglers), so to hold parade,
And celebrate the opening of the year !
Violets shy in purple garb appear, —
Meek Primroses in ruffs of creamy shade ;
Proud Kingcups shine, with burnished gold o'erlaid ;
And Stitchworts mingle, pranked in pearly gear ;
While Daffodils display the saffron plume,
And Daisies their bossed orbs and scalloped rays ;
Sorrels peep forth ; and Hazel-boughs assume
Their tassels light ; and Dandelions blaze . . .
— And I, from city smoke and dust set free,
Thrill with delight such pageantry to see !
SWEET DEVOlt. 245
Eo a 3La&2 for a present of ^rimroseg from JBrijon.
By J. Gregory.
Lady ! what hast thou brought here,
From the dells of Devon dear ?
Flowers, spring flowers, good lady, you say,
And from my native home gathered away
Only this morning. ! what a fair throng ;
Out of my heart they are charming a song,
And to my love they are smiling to please —
There are no flowers as lovely as these.
Will not the blithe birds that sang by their light
Miss the sweet people that gladden my sight,
When on the tree twigs they perch and peep down
On the green heather the primroses crown ?
Dear little birds, do not grieve for their loss,
While to the violets mantled in moss,
Out of your bosoms the story you pour,
You shall be greeted by multitudes more.
Friends from the land where my first lovers dwell,
How much I love you I never may tell.
Why do I love you, my beautiful own ?
Where that ye grew 'twas my joy to be grown :
More may I teach you, fairies unwise !
From the sweet sod where my dead mother lies
Hence you are hither, and in you I see
Eyes of my motherland beaming on me.
246 SWEET DEVON.
Wift Iborj (ffiate.
From Summer Songs, by Mortimer Collins. 1860.
Sunt geminse Somni portse : quarum altera f ertur
Cornea ; qua veris facilis clatur exitus umbris :
Altera candenti perfecta nitens elephanto ;
Sed falsa ad coelum irittunt insomnia Manes. — Virgil.
When, loved by poet and painter
The sunrise fills the sky,
When night's gold urns grow fainter
And in depths of amber die,
When the morn breeze stirs the curtain,
Bearing an odorous freight,
Then visions strange, uncertain,
Pour thick through the Ivory Gate.
Then the oars of Ithaca dip so
Silently into the sea,
That they wake not sad Calypso —
And the Hero wanders free :
He breasts the ocean-furrows.
At war with the words of Fate,
And the blue tide's low susurrus
Comes up to the Ivory Gate.
Or, clad in the hide of leopard,
' Mid Ida's freshest dews,
Paris, the Teucrian shepherd,
His sweet Mnone woos :
SWEET DEVON. 247
On the thought of her coming bridal
Unuttered joy doth wait,
While the tune of the false one's idyl
Rings soft through the Ivory Gate.
Or down from green Helvellyn
The roar of streams I hear,
And the lazy sail is swelling
To the winds of Windermere ;
That girl with the rustic bodice,
'Mid the ferry's laughing freight,
Is as fair as any goddess
Who sweeps through the Ivory Gate.
Or the sky is cloudless wholly,
The lark soars high in heaven,
And the trout-stream ripples slowly
Through moorland vales of Devon :
On the lawn my Minna rambles, —
Sweet May in her youth elate
Sends the shouts of her childish gambols
Right through the Ivory Gate.
Ah, the vision of dawn is leisure,
But the truth of day is toil :
And we pass from dreams of pleasure
To the world's unstayed turmoil.
Perchance, beyond the river
Which guards the realms of Fate,
Our spirits may dwell for ever
'Mong dreams of the Ivory Gate.
248
SWEET DEVON
Jarefoell to Htfjonsfjtre.
Fair fields, rich hedgerows ; the eternal sea,
And its great bounds ; broad hills of green increase ;
White hamlets lone ; and nestling amongst these,
A happy bower, where true-born courtesy
Clasps with its graceful wreaths the goodly tree
Of Home Affection ; — through such scenes of peace,
Borne by his wayward fortune's hurrying breeze,
A stranger passed ; and when the potency
Of that all-mastering blast still swept him on,
As traveller, harboured on some unknown strand,
On mossy trunk or rude memorial stone
Inscribes his homely record ; in like guise
Wove he these uncouth rhymes, to memorise
The welcome which he met in that fair land.
i ^%m^
to
en
CO
W
Q)
o
o
CO
o
a
is
€>
6
>
o
3
«
u
<D
«
a
3J
a
UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO
LIBRARY
Do not
Acme Library Card Pocket
Under Pat. " Ref. Index File."
Made by LIBRARY BUREAU
WEST COUNTRY BOOKS.
DEVON EDITIONS.
Black nore (tt. D.), Lorna Doone. A Romance of Exmoor,
wit'i 6 Photogravure Illustrations from Drawings especially
made by F. J. Widgery for this Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth,
extia gilt edges 6s.
" ' Lorna Doone,' to a Devonshire man, is as good as clotted cream,
almost."
Christowell. A Dartmoor Tale.
With 6 Photogravure Illustrations from Drawings especially
male by F. J. Widgery for this Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth,
extra gilt edges ... ... ... ... ... ... 6s.
Kingsley (Chas.), Westward Ho !
With Photogravure Portrait of Queen Elizabeth, 8 Illustrations
by C. E. Brock, and 6 Photogravure Illustrations from
Drawings specially made by F. J. Widgery for this Edition.
Cr$wn 8vo, cloth extra, bevelled boards, gilt edges ... 6s.
Devonshire Domesday and Geld Inquest: Ext?.-isions,
Translations, and Indices. Two thick vols. 8vo, buckram, top
edges gilt. Plymouth: Brendon, 1884-92. Price to sul .^cribers,
31s. 6d for 2 is.
Only one hundred copies have been printed for the general public.
Leith (Alicia A.), A Plant of Lemon Verbena, a Somerset
Idyl. With a Frontispiece by Warne Browne. Tastefully
printed and ijound. Fcap. 8vo 2s 6d.
Mortimer (Geoffrey), Tales from the Western Moors, a
Collection of Dartmoor Stories. Crown 8vo. ... 6s.
Cheap Edition 3s. 6d.
O'Neill (H. C.)» Devonshire IdyJs. Third Edition. Square
i2mo. Cloth 2s.
Paper Covers ... ... ... ... ... ...is. 6d.
" A book to be read ; no brief notice can do justice to pages so racy
of the soil." — Spectator.
Told in theDimpses. Frontispiece by F*J. Widgery.
Square i2mo, cloth ... 2s. 6d.
" las all the charms of its predecessor."— Spectator.
Quiller- Couch (M. and ft), Anciont and Holy Wells of
Cornwall. Illustrations. Post 8v-,>. Clark, 1897, 7s. 6d. for
2S. 6d.
Rowe (Samuel, MA.), A Perarr julation of the Antient
and Royal Forest of Dartmoor. A Topographical Survey of
the Antiquiti *s and Scenery. Revised and Corrected by
J. Broo' -, Rowe, F.S.A., x'.L.S. 40 Illustrations from
Dravu , r ,s made for this Edition by F. J. Widgery and 5 Maps.
Demy 8vo, cloth extra ... 15s. net.
LONDON:
GIBEJNGS & COMPANY, LIMITED.
