Widecombe on the MoorWidecombe on the Moor(Page 38)
Widecombe on the Moor(Page 38)
We are reminded of London by the dedication of Widecombe Church, which is to St. Pancras; and thoughts of the metropolis again come to us at Hey Tor, which provided granite for London and Waterloo Bridges. These eastern heights, Rippon and Hey Tors, are not so lofty as those of the north-west, but they both command very fine views. It is magnificent to see sunset flame across the moors from this eastern borderland. Patches of cultivation, open moorland dotted with sheep, lovely river-valleys, and wide undulations of heather and gorse fade into horizons of the westward summits. There is always the changeful charm of atmosphere. The scene may be of vast, glorious peacefulness, but it is great also when there is the confusion of cloud-strife, rain raking the hillsides—when the spirit of the moor is abroad in storm and darkness, when colour is quenched in wet and driving wrack. It is easy then to picture the moor as the phantasmal haunt of lost races. Dartmoor has many moods, variable as the soul of man—sometimes of gentle pensiveness and dreaming, touched with sentiment, sometimes of fierce striving passion or inconsolable woe, sometimes of desolation deepened to despair. In all these there is a quality of the unconventional and untamed, a sense of the nearness of mystery, the brooding of the unseen, the force of powers that we sometimes feel to be in profoundest sympathy with our own longings and imaginings, sometimes in the most vexed antagonism. Here, as elsewhere, we find very much what we bring, but we find it intensified, vivified; it may lure us as a kindly home, or repel us as a desert. Even the repulsion has its own manner of charm, because it braces us to self-assertion and manhood.
It was from this Hey Tor side of the moorland that William Howitt once looked forth upon Dartmoor. He tells us: "My road wound up and up, the heather and the bilberry on either hand shewing me that cultivation had never disturbed the soil they grew in; and one sole woodlark from the far-ascending forest to the right filled the wild solitude with his autumnal note. At that moment I reached an eminence, and at once saw the dark crags of Dartmoor high aloft before me, and one large solitary house in the valley beneath the woods. So fair, so silent, save for the woodlark's note and the moaning river, so unearthly did the whole scene seem, that my imagination delighted to look upon it as an enchanted land, and to persuade itself that that house stood as it would stand for ages, under the spell of silence but beyond the reach of death and change." This was written three-quarters of a century since, before nature had begun greatly to inspire our prose writers; and for its period it is very creditable. In poetry we have made no progress; but in the prose literature of nature—that is to say, of natural scenes viewed under human emotion—it is an immense step from the writings of William Gilpin and Richard Warner, and even of Howitt, to those of George Borrow and Richard Jefferies. Even in prose it had been the poets, Gray and Wordsworth, who had shown the way, very slowly followed. Warner was an enterprising and intelligent traveller, and visited many parts of the south and west from his Bath home, long before the time of railways. It is interesting to notice how he was daunted by Dartmoor. Overnight he had decided to walk from Lydford to Two Bridges, though the idea of "travelling twelve miles over a desolate moor, wild as the African Syrtes, without a single human inhabitant or regular track, had something in it very deterring". Next morning it actually deterred. "As the trial approximated, my resolution, like Acres' courage, gradually oozed away, and before breakfast was finished I had dropped the idea, and determined to take a circuitous route by Oakhampton." His landlord had just told him how the body of a dead sailor had been discovered in a lonely spot, where it must have lain for weeks; and Warner's discretion proved greater than his valour.
But we need not sneer at him. It is still easy to be lost on Dartmoor.
Those who are fond of logan-stones may find some in this district: there is one at Lustleigh, a fine one on Rippon, and others elsewhere. Some of them no longer "log" satisfactorily, and certainly none are connected with Druidic or other ceremonial. They are natural formations, like the rock-basins and the tors themselves.
It is more interesting to pass on to one of the loveliest portions of the moorland border, that which is watered by the Rivers Dart after their junction at Dartmeet. We have already seen the West Dart at Two Bridges, and the East Dart should be explored at least to Postbridge. It is especially beautiful where it is joined by the Walla, at the foot of Yes Tor. Dartmeet is a small settlement of houses, and deserves to be popular, for while quite on the moorland it has none of the desolate aspect that some persons find depressing, and those who love woods can get them to perfection around Holne and Buckland. Tourists who have been up the river from Dartmouth to Totnes are inclined to think that they know the Dart; they are as much mistaken as those who think they know the Wye when they have been to Symond's Yat. To know the Dart its moorland recesses must be explored, where the stream is in its fresh impetuous youth; below Totnes, though its banks are undoubtedly lovely, it has become chastened and sobered. At the junction of the Wallabrook with the Dart is a very fine view of Yar Tor, near which is the luxuriant Brimpts plantation.
The meeting of the two Darts is in a low rock-strewn gorge, to appreciate which the roadway must be left. Near is the Coffin-stone, with its inscribed crosses, used as a resting-place for the dead on their way to burial. It is said that when a man of notorious wickedness was being carried to his grave, his coffin as usual was rested on this stone, and a flash of fire struck downward from a passing cloud, consuming the body and splitting the solid rock. The cleft remains as a proof. The rocks of this district are frequently of metallic substance, and are often struck by lightning; perhaps this kills the romance of the legend.
Buckland-in-the-Moor, so called to distinguish it from other Bucklands, is not strictly on the moorland at all, and is cradled in woodland; it is a very small, delightful village, close to the united Webburns, which join the Dart below. The river here flows in most tortuous fashion under the beautiful woods of Buckland Drive and Holne Chase. Holne Cot has a place in literature as the birthplace of Charles Kingsley, in 1819, but he left it when an infant. Another literary remembrance is the birth of the dramatist Ford at Ilsington, and Tavistock had a true poet in William Browne; but it must be confessed that the literary glories of the moorland are not great, and Carrington, its special poet, is quite a third-rate writer. There has been no Wordsworth to interpret Dartmoor. We have to come to modern fiction, in the books of Mr. Baring-Gould and Mr. Phillpotts, for anything like an adequate literary treatment; and even in this department there has been noLorna Doone.
At Holne and Buckland may be found some of the most luxuriant woodland of the moor-borders, yellow with dense primroses in the spring. On both sides of the river there are rich woods of birch and oak and fir, while in the valley through which the Dart runs are fertile succulent marshes, beautified with bogbeans, asphodels, and sundews, and with the exquisiteOsmunda regalisflourishing where, happily, it is very difficult to reach. In parts the river flows through ivied crags, above which hang clusters of mountain-ash. There are prehistoric remains at Holne and at Hembury, but it is difficult to think of the past where the present is of such insistent charm. Moor, woodland, river, stone-strewn waste and fertile pasture here meet, with no discord or violent contrast, but harmonized by a reconciling atmosphere of beauty. The churches both at Buckland and Holne have very interesting screens, and at Holne is a finely-carved wooden pulpit.
Though it can scarcely be said to belong to the moors, Ashburton is a good starting-point for the examination of the eastern moorlands. Here and at Buckfastleigh are the only remains of the once extensive Devon woollen manufactures; and Ashburton was also at one time a Stannary town. It has a good church and many interesting associations, but we cannot linger either here or at Buckfast, where a settlement of Benedictines has restored the old abbey.
There is a great temptation to stay awhile at Dean Prior for the sake of Robert Herrick, one of England's sweetest lyrists, who was twice vicar here, being presented by Charles I in 1629, dispossessed at the Commonwealth, and reinstated at the Restoration. He abused the neighbourhood so heartily in his verse that it is surprising he should have accepted the living a second time; but perhaps he said a little more than he meant. The exact spot of his burial in the churchyard is unknown. Some of Herrick's lyrics are so lovely that even Devonians must forgive him, though he wrote:
"O men, O manners; now and ever knownTo be a rocky generation,A people currish, churlish as the seas,And rude almost as rudest savages;With whom I did and may re-sojourn whenRocks turn to rivers, rivers turn to men".
"O men, O manners; now and ever knownTo be a rocky generation,A people currish, churlish as the seas,And rude almost as rudest savages;With whom I did and may re-sojourn whenRocks turn to rivers, rivers turn to men".
"O men, O manners; now and ever knownTo be a rocky generation,A people currish, churlish as the seas,And rude almost as rudest savages;With whom I did and may re-sojourn whenRocks turn to rivers, rivers turn to men".
"O men, O manners; now and ever known
To be a rocky generation,
A people currish, churlish as the seas,
And rude almost as rudest savages;
With whom I did and may re-sojourn when
Rocks turn to rivers, rivers turn to men".
As he returned voluntarily to this exile, we must imagine the miracle to have taken place, or perhaps his own heart had been tamed by his adversity.
The southern moor is watered by beautiful but less familiar rivers than those of the west and east; the Avon, the Erme, the Yealm have all their own charm, and are as genuinely children of Dartmoor as the Teign, the Dart, or the Tavy. Probably the best centre for this district is South Brent, where there is a church that has been badly treated by restoration. Brent Hill, rising to about 1000 feet, must not be confused with Brent Tor. Both are strikingly conspicuous hills, but this southern height no longer boasts its chapel dedicated to St. Michael. The hill is a fine landmark for a large extent of country. The Avon, sometimes called the Aune, is a beautiful river, but its source in the treacherous mire of Aune Head is very dismal.
DartmeetDartmeet(Page 44)
Dartmeet(Page 44)
It may be worth while to tell a story told of Aune Mire by Mr. Baring-Gould, for the authenticity of which we must hold him responsible. A man was making his way through the bog "when he came on a top-hat reposing, brim downwards, on the sedge. He gave it a kick, whereupon a voice called out from beneath, 'What be you a-doin' to my 'at?' The man replied, 'Be there now a chap under'n?' 'Ees, I reckon,' was the reply, 'and a hoss under me likewise.'" This is a fair representation of the swallowing capacity of Dartmoor mires, and they should certainly be avoided by any strangers without an expert guide.
The Avon on its southward course passes the old Abbots' Way, the track of the monks from Buckfast to Tavistock. A good deal of the path can still be traced. Approaching Shipley Bridge, the river becomes very lovely, shadowed by Shipley and Black Tors, and flowing beneath a bridge of single span among rocks, trees, and ferns. Not many tourists come hither, and the result is greater wealth of specimens—mountain and lady ferns, false maidenhair, various hart's tongues.
The beautiful situation of Didworthy might make one in love with farming; and there are numberless remains here for those who wish to be in touch with the "old people". This is one aspect that is always present, from end to end of Dartmoor—the silent tokens of vanished peoples; they may be absolutely intrusive if we choose, or they may blend, scarcely noticed, with the natural features of their surroundings. Some persons will come and think of nothing else; but to those who come with wider purpose the old stones and memorials give a hint of far-off human interest, softening the harshness of the wilder scenes, and enriching the gentler with a touch of pathos. The solitude of places where man has been is always different from that of untrodden wildernesses.
The Avon runs beneath another lovely bridge when it comes to South Brent, which is locally noted for its fairs and pannier market, and is a favourite resort with excursionists from Plymouth. The curious winding streets of the little town are in perfect accord with their setting. At Wrangaton, not far distant, are the links of the South Devon Golf Club; but this is only one of the many opportunities that golfers have of exercising their sport on Dartmoor or in its immediate neighbourhood. It is fairly evident that a considerable section of the public to-day will go nowhere unless accompanied by its golf clubs, and certainly the game often introduces these people to much beautiful scenery that they might otherwise miss. They must decide themselves as to which is the real attraction.
There are several other river sources not far from that of Avon—Erme Head, Yealm Head, Plym Head; this cluster of bogs almost rivals the cradle of rivers at Cranmere. The Erme valley and plains are thickly strewn with prehistoric relics and traces of old tin workings; but, well populated as this district must once have been, it is now one of the most lonely and desolate parts of the moorland. Dreary as the Erme may be at its source, however, it develops to great beauty during its brief course to the sea, issuing at Mothecombe, in a series of windings and wooded reaches, with a swiftness of tide that tells its moorland birth. The general public makes the river's acquaintance at Ivybridge; otherwise it is by no means a familiar stream.
At Harford, which is practically a moorland parish, we have a church dedicated to St. Petrock, like those of South Brent and Lydford, emphasizing his claim to be the patron of Dartmoor. The chief heights in this region are the Three Barrows, Staldon, and Sharp Tor. Perhaps the most remarkable of the moor's stone avenues starts from a circle on Stall Moor, and terminates with a kistvaen not far from Aune Head. There are other stone rows near, all of which have been partially despoiled, but less so than elsewhere; the mystery of their significance remains unsolved. Ugborough Beacon and Butterton Hill, both about 1200 feet in height, stand like southern sentinels of the moorland to the east of Harford. On the slopes of Sharp Tor is a stunted wood, very like Wistman's.
Westward, near Cornwood, is the ravine of the River Yealm, known as Awns and Dendles, which it is best not to visit on Plymouth's early-closing day or on Bank Holidays. It is a pity that popularity should mean vulgarizing, for it is right that every lovely spot should be accessible to the greatest possible number of those who can appreciate it. The qualification is an important one; nothing is gained by the thronging to such scenes of those whose tastes are best met by entertainment pavilions and roundabouts. Besides which, the conscienceless tripper is a terror to all who love ferns, and there are still some rarities to be found in the Yealm valley.
Near Cornwood is Fardell, once a manor of the Raleighs; and though Sir Walter was not born here he undoubtedly paid the spot many visits. The place is also interesting because of a stone discovered here, bearing Ogham inscriptions supposed to prove the extent of the Irish invasion somewhere about the sixth century, when Devon and Cornwall were overrun by saints and chieftains from the green island. There are a number of attractive manor houses in this part of the moorland's fringe, together with some fine heights, such as Pen Beacon and Shell Tor, rising to about 1500 feet. But there is no particular charm in the china-clay works of Lee Moor—an industry which may be studied on a larger scale in the St. Austell district of Cornwall. China-clay, or kaolin, is a detritus of granite, much used for pottery and in the preparation of calicoes; partly also for the supposed white sugar of confectionery and in cheap adulterated flours. The neighbourhoods of its workings are as white as those of coal are black, and in this respect china-clay must be given the preference; but neither tends to beautify a district.
A Moorland TrackA Moorland Track, the Devil's Bridge
A Moorland Track, the Devil's Bridge
None of the lovely rivers already mentioned water a town of any great importance; but when we come to the Plym it is different. The Plym is not the most beautiful of Dartmoor streams, but it has given its name to Plymouth, and Plymouth has imposed its own title on the three towns which united form the supreme naval and industrial centre of the west country. Other western seaports have decayed rather than advanced—they have deteriorated at least in their relative importance; but Plymouth has advanced and is still advancing. In no sense does it belong to Dartmoor, but the Plym and the Tavy, whose waters go to swell Plymouth Sound, are both genuine children of the moorland. The Plym, rising not far from the Yealm, makes its way to its junction with the Meavy through a grand ravine, overshadowed by the Dewerstone. Before reaching the Dewerstone, however, the river passes under the Cadover (or Cadaford) Bridge, and from this circumstance there has been some dispute as to whether the true name of the stream should not be the Cad. Carrington gave it this name, but he cannot be taken as an authority; and it is probable that thecadin Cadover is simply a corruption of the Celtic wordcoed, or wood, and has nothing to do with the river at all. From Cadover to Shaugh Bridge are some wonderfully beautiful scenes, banks strewn with granite fragments amidst tangled undergrowth. The Dewerstone towering above is appropriately the haunt of a demon huntsman of the moors, who careers abroad on stormy nights with his fierce-eyed baying wish-hounds.
Whether we pursue the Meavy upward from the bridge or follow the united rivers through the exquisite Bickleigh vale, there is much loveliness; but there are times when Bickleigh valley is too popular to be pleasant, unless our chief study is human nature. We can best study human nature in the towns; and we do not want to be pursued by its noisier manifestations amid scenes that call for the sympathetic presence of peace. Shaugh Prior, finely placed on the border of the moorland, is entirely delightful, as also is Meavy, with its famous oak, twenty-five feet in girth, and its village cross. Lovers of such things will specially notice the old font-cover of the church at Shaugh. There is also a notable cross on the slope of Ringmore Down, over eight feet in height, the tallest on the moor.
One of the pleasantest spots of this corner of Dartmoor is the village of Sheepstor, a familiar sight from the railway to all who are making the journey to Princetown by train. It lies at a little distance from the rail, but the Burrator reservoir here constructed for the supply of Plymouth, in the bed of an ancient lake, probably draws more curious visitors than do the beauty and interest of its surroundings. Sheepstor Church has been unhappily restored, to the sad detriment of its exquisite screen, enough of which has been preserved to tell of its original glory. The tor itself rises finely above the clustering cottages of the village, and a cavern called the Pixies' Cave is shown as the refuge of one of the Elford family during the Civil War. It is said that he lay concealed here, somewhat in the manner of the Baron Bradwardine's concealment in Scott'sWaverley, while the Roundhead troopers were closely searching his house and grounds, at Langstone by Burrator. Having won the affection of the peasantry, they kept his secret and provided him with food. It is said that he occupied his enforced leisure by painting the sides of the cave, but no traces of painting can now be seen. The cave is difficult to find, and nothing but treachery could have revealed the hiding-place. It is not stated whether Elford's presence drove out the pixies to whom the cavern really belonged; but in case they still remain it is well to remember the usual etiquette of leaving a pin or some other small gift. Pixies seem to be as easily pleased as are the patron saints of some holy wells.
A remarkable story is told by Mrs. Bray as to the manner in which the cholera reached Sheepstor during the terrible visitation of 1832. A man of supposed poverty died, with his wife and children, at Plymouth, where the plague was raging fiercely, and their home was visited by two brothers, with small hope of picking up anything valuable. To their surprise a large sum in cash was found, and the brothers fought together over the dead bodies in order to possess it. While fighting, they were disturbed by the police, and one of the two, having actually assumed some of the clothes of the dead man, took refuge in a cottage at Sheepstor. Strangely enough, he escaped the infection himself, but it was taken by the two worthy cottagers, and they both died. Their little boy, thus orphaned, carried word to Tavistock that his parents had both died and that he had been left alone with the dead. It was considered so remarkable that the cholera should have visited so healthy a spot, and especially people of such known cleanliness, that an enquiry was instituted and the story came out.
Stone Avenue, near MerrivaleStone Avenue, near Merrivale
Stone Avenue, near Merrivale
Before leaving Sheepstor something should be said of the fine stone rows and other remains at Drizzlecombe, but it is impossible here to give full attention to these numerous relics. We find a reminder of the Elford family in the name of Yelverton, a corruption of Elford-town. Yelverton and Dousland have both become popular with residents and visitors, having the convenience of rail and commanding a district of great beauty. But, attractive as they are, neither can claim to be on the moorland, nor can this claim be made by Tavistock itself, though that town boasts of being the "western gate of Dartmoor". There is a rich supply of beauty and of delightful associations at Tavistock, but it was never a moor town. Here and at Buckland Monachorum are many traces of the two rival abbeys, of which Tavistock was far the more ancient and the more wealthy. Both spots have memories of Francis Drake, and at Tavistock there is an admirable statue. Buckland and Buckfast, being both Cistercian, had much communication; and the influence of these three abbeys was great in preserving the moorland trackways, setting up crosses for the guidance of travellers, and keeping the moor open to a gradual course of civilization. They were also centres of art and culture at a period when such things were at a discount, and in this respect we can never be too grateful to the old monastic settlements. Whether or not we class them among those good things whose corruption is worst, they were undoubtedly good in their day. We find around Dartmoor as elsewhere that the monks chose their localities well, with a keen eye for natural beauty and the advantages of water. We may infer also that they ventured across Dartmoor when other men were chary of crossing it, and their faith had certainly the courage of its convictions. If we meet their ghosts along the Abbots' Way by night we need not fear that they will be other than kindly. If they are ghosts now, there was a time when they drove forth ghosts themselves, and when they converted pagan monuments into symbols of the religion of love.
It would be very pleasant to linger about Tavistock, with its bright river that we met in our rambles from Lydford; but the moorland calls us. There is another lovely river, the Walla or Walkham (Walkham is probably Walla-combe), which lures us to one of the most fascinating regions of Dartmoor. The poet Browne, after the fashion of his time, wrote a narrative of the "loves of the Walla and the Tavy" in hisBritannia's Pastorals; but in spite of much freshness of natural description his verses are tedious if taken in large doses, and we can leave this would-be classic legend out of the question. The stream has a typically moorland character as it flows from its source at Lynch Tor, to wind around the foot of the noble Great Mis Tor and pass beneath Merrivale Bridge. The tors of this district are approaching their greatest height, and Mis Tor, a true mother of storms, is one of the most magnificent. Merrivale bridge is on the highroad from Tavistock to Princetown, little frequented since the opening of the railway, and surely there are few finer bits of road in the kingdom than that which here crosses the valley of the Walla, at the base of this grand tor. Whether lying in open sunshine or raked with fog and cloud, Mis Tor is always impressive, apart altogether from the rock-basins, pounds, and hut-circles that surround it. Northward of the bridge is Staple Tor; southward, nearer to the small village of Sampford Spiney, are the Vixen and Pu tors. The Vixen is a curious mass of weathered granite, taking almost any shape that the view-point and the imagination of the spectator may suggest. At Sampford there is a good Perpendicular church, and a picturesque granite-mullioned farmhouse that was once a manor. There is another good church at Walkhampton, and a fourteenth-century church-house, now the inn.
Those who are attracted to Whitchurch Down by reason of its golf links, belonging to the Tavistock Club, will see one of the most impressive old crosses of the moorland; and their sport may be combined not only with the bracing air of a high altitude but with fine views of Dartmoor and of east Cornwall. The beauty of the Walkham River is continued to its junction with the Tavy near the disused copper mine of the Virtuous Lady. Whitchurch proves its antiquity by being theWicerceof Domesday. Its church, thus clearly dating from before the Conquest, has the lovely screen rescued by the Earl of Devon from the ill-advised restoration at Moreton Hampstead. North of Peter Tavy, a charming village in the beautiful Tavy vale, is Whit Tor, with perhaps the best walled encampment of the moorland. There are other old-world relics, such as the Langstone menhir. And so we arrive once more at Lydford.
Surely there can be few spots of such comparatively small size that so teem with interest and fascination as Dartmoor. In the number of its prehistoric remains it is only equalled by parts of Cornwall, and their preservation is owing to thinness of modern population. We may imagine that most of England was once scattered with similar traces of dead peoples, but in most places these have been eradicated by successive waves of population. Dartmoor has been left in solitude, and though its few inhabitants have done their best to remove or mutilate the immemorial monuments, enough have been overlooked to furnish us with a wide treasure ground. But where the antiquarian will come to measure and dig and conjecture, the artist, the poet, the lover of nature will find many other things to allure. The sportsman will also come here, especially the angler, who finds excellent trout, though the fish are not often large. Perhaps happily, only the few main roads are available for motor traffic, but during the summer these are much frequented; there are also many excursion cars and chars-à-bancs to the more popular beauty-spots, starting from places like Moreton, Chagford, Bovey Tracey, or coming from towns far beyond the moor borders. The cyclist who does not mind dismounting at times has a wider area, and cycling on Dartmoor is not so bad as its reputation. There are some really fine stretches of road; what the rider needs is discrimination and good brakes. But he who truly wins the freedom of the moors is the pedestrian—a species not quite extinct, though discredited and often discomforted. He should come here on what we may call the divine adventure, the quest of beauty; and even on lonely Dartmoor he will find the human touch not absent.
A Dartmoor StreamA Dartmoor Stream
A Dartmoor Stream
Whoever comes, if his eyes be open, will see tracts of primitive mother earth, untamed and unsophisticated. He will see what Devon was before it was cultivated; he will be in a haunt of strange traditions, lingering superstitions, wild fancies. Perhaps when cold clammy fogs blot out the undulations and tors, a chill will strike to the heart; Dartmoor is no kindly nurse to those who have lost their way or those who are overtaken by snowfall. He who comes here must lean on his own resources; he will not be pampered and guided; he must fend for himself. Nature, as Jefferies was fond of saying, does not care for man; he is an alien, exiled by the very civilization of which he is so proud; he can do less for himself than the birds and beasts. Yet the illusion that nature does care is at times very strong; we cannot thrust it wholly from our hearts, and if we regard the earth as but the outward symbol, a mood, a thought, of some inscrutable power, we are not wrong in deeming that she responds to our deepest impulses and cravings. It is glorious poetry and it need not be bad philosophy to dream of a Being "whose dwelling is the light of setting suns"; and he who has seen a sunset flaming across Dartmoor has seen the heavens opened. He can learn also the insignificance of any single individual or race, and yet the undying importance of each if all are a part of the Godhead. Peoples have lived and died here long centuries since, leaving no memorial but grey stones; but the heather and ling are still wonderful, the gorse runs in patches of gold, the rivers sing perpetually among their lichen-stained boulders, and the soul of beauty that is ever mysterious is undying.
Such is Dartmoor, one of the few remaining tracts of uncultivated England; a region not easy to tame, offering small reward to the farmer, but rich repayment to the lovers of beauty, wildness, antiquity. There is nothing quite like it elsewhere, unless it be the Bodmin Moors of Cornwall, where the same granite asserts itself again. There is loveliness of a different sort on the moors of Yorkshire and around the Peak—on the Wiltshire, Dorset, and Sussex Downs, on the high lands or in the New Forest of Hampshire, and at spots like Hindhead in Surrey. There is still a different beauty in the fen country and the land of the Broads. But Dartmoor has its own character, which it does not surrender to a casual acquaintance; it has a reserve and depth of individuality, to be won only by slow confidence. There are strong characteristics also among the moor folk; but here a change has been in progress. It is useless to come now expecting to find a superstitious and credulous peasantry. When a district is haunted by tourist and artist, when cars and brakes unload crowds of chattering sightseers, something of the outside world comes with them; and modernism has other more subtle avenues of approach. The cheap daily paper penetrates to these solitudes, and brings with it other things that are cheap. It may leave its readers still credulous and still ignorant; but the nature of the ignorance and the credulity have altered—and perhaps not wholly for the better. There is loss as well as gain. The old traditions have passed from the minds of the people to the guidebooks. Pixies and wish-hounds and spells are now usually only mentioned in jest where they were formerly whispered of in grim earnest. But the beauty of the moorland changes not, and it is its beauty that is our real concern. We can spare the traditions while the loveliness remains.
Transcriber's Note:Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed.
Transcriber's Note:
Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.
Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed.