76

Old Bridge beneath East Mil Tor.

legend, too, which renders it 'whist' to the country folk, does not detract from the weird feeling which takes possession of the traveller-for Cranmere is haunted.

The spirit doomed to inhabit this dreary hollow is familiarly known as 'Bingie,' and is the wraith, so runs the legend, of one Benjamin Geare, a whilom mayor of Okehampton, who, for his iniquities in the flesh, was condemned to bale out the pool with a sieve. One day, when wandering among the swamps-which might, as a permanent residence, render even a ghost rheumaticBingie lighted upon a dead sheep. Then did the crafty ghost chuckle, and flaying the carcase upon the spot, strain the skin over his sieve, and drawing the water swiftly from the pool, drown Okehampton town therewith. He then retired beneath the bed-why is not apparent, unless, as some say, he wishes to send an occasional flood down the Ockment, and thus disturb the inhabitants of the borough over which he once ruled.

Into the moorlands southward we will not at present penetrate. Leaving the rock basins of Fur Tor for a later inspection, let us find our way back to cultivation by the route secondly described, and which, having once cleared the boggy ground, we shall follow with comparative ease, guided ever by the prominent crags of Mil Tor. In less than an hour we strike the Blackavenn, which we may cross under East Mil Tor by a rough, massive bridge of granite, closely set, but without cement. This structure has two square-headed openings about three feet in height, and is crossed by an old track coming from the south. The history is not known. Some consider it as old as Saxon times; others go still further into the past, and claim for it a Roman origin. What possible reason either people could have had for erecting so massive a structure in a locality so remote I am unable to suggest, and attach, therefore, greater weight to the fact that it is named New Bridge, and to the third tradition, which

ascribes its erection to peat-cutters, but is, with praiseworthy caution, silent as to the date. Although such an hypothesis detracts from its antiquity, the bridge may still boast a very respectable age, for the turf of Dartmoor has been cut for many centuries, both by tinners and the inhabitants of bordering villages.

As we mount the rising across the stream, we shall remark two rocks of peculiar shape. On the right, at the angle of the wall of Skit Bottom, a lonely farm facing the Tors of Belstone, the figure of a recumbent bull will be seen, while the crest of Row Tor on the left presents us with the form of some strange monster, bearing a resemblance to a dog or sphinx. As we approach, however, both these objects become, as is usual, quite shapeless.

And now over Halstock Down, and through the yard of Pothanger to the park, and thence by the steep Moor road below Fitz's Well to Okehampton.

CHAPTER V.

COSDON BEACON, THROWLeigh, gidleIGH, AND SCORHILL

CIRCLE.

Belstone Cleave and Tors-The Nine Stones-Belstone-The Irishman's Wall -Valley of the Taw-Sticklepath-Inscribed Stones-Cosdon BeaconAntiquities on the Summit-South Zeal Cross-John Orchard-Oxenham and its Omen-Raybarrow Pool—Throwleigh—Why Shellstone Pound was destroyed-Hut-Circles at Shellstone and Endsworthy-An Ancient Smelting-House-Creaber Pound-Gidleigh-The Castle-The Gidleys of Gidleigh -The Church-Scorhill Circle-The Tolmen in the Teign-Use of Tolmens--' Clam' Bridge over the Wallabrook.

It will now be our task to explore that portion of Dartmoor lying between Okehampton and the river Teign, of which the most dominant feature is the great mass of Cosdon. Thence shall we cross the waste to Lydford, a march long and lonely, but presenting many features of interest—some, indeed, of grandeur. Bidding farewell, then, to the royal and municipal borough, we again ascend the station hill. Just beneath the line a tramway cut in the side of the slope leads to a quarry almost under Fallaford (query, the Valley Ford) Bridge. This stone viaduct crosses the entrance to Belstone Cleave, which we enter, and scramble along the rugged pathway which follows the wild stream of the East Ockment. On either hand precipitous hills arise, clothed with hanging woodland, whence now and again picturesque crags rear their heads. The rocky brow on the right is the site of the British camp which we visited on the way to Yes Tor. Beneath its shadow we cross the noisy Moor Brook by a

precarious 'clam' bridge of boughs, and passing close to the grassy mounds marking the site of the chapel of St. Michael of Halstock, ere long arrive at the foot of the Belstone Falls, so beloved of artists. Here the river rushes in a mass of spray down a rocky declivity, some thirty feet in height, drowning with its hoarse tones the voice of the birds, which till now have mingled with the rush of the torrent. Across the stream gray pile of rocks breaks forth from the steep hill-side, and moorwards from this point the wood on the further bank ceases.

Not so about our pathway. Thicker and thicker grows the brake, until in some places it is scarcely to be penetrated. And we may not attempt the marshy bottom on the eastern shore, where osmunda grow in clumps shoulder high, for bogs are everywhere. But soon the blue heights of Belstone rise above the trees, and suddenly the woodland ends. We are at the foot of Dartmoor.

Another clam' conducts us across the stream, here sliding down the glen over a bed of rock worn nearly smooth by constant friction, and we mount the stony slope —with due care, too, for certain quaking bogs undermine the ground half-way, and it would be a sorry commencement to the day's work to be 'stugged in a mire,' as the moor-men have it. I have a lively recollection of nearly experiencing the delights of one of these treacherous patches myself. Venturing to prod the crust with a stick rather too vigorously I fell forward headlong, and was only saved from an ignominious plunge by the timely assistance of a companion, who, grasping the tails of my coat, kept me to terra firma. Two moor-men standing by were of course convulsed with laughter; but their countenances wore a less hilarious expression when they were asked whether they could always make up the number of the live stock which pastured on the Moor. 'Well, sir, we do miss a pony now and again,' was a significant answer, and one which bore sufficient testimony

to the fitness of the name applied to these bogs—the Dartmoor stables.

A few paces above a rough road leading towards the farm of Skit Bottom, a number of low upright blocks of granite will attract our notice. They stand out clearly against the sky, and are well to the left of the clatters' which cover the ground in wild confusion. As we approach we shall see that they form a circle of no great diameter, being, indeed, no more than twenty-seven feet. This so-called 'sacred' circle is known as the Nine Stones or Nine Maidens*-why, I am unable to explain, as there are sixteen stones still erect, and one fallen. It will be remarked that some of these stones are set much more closely to one another than is usual in these mysterious monuments, from which it may be gathered that when complete there were many more than now exist, the enclosure apparently having had at least forty. None are a yard high; and a larger stone which appears to have once occupied a horizontal position, but which is now much sunken, lies exactly in the centre. As stated elsewhere, I do not regard small circles of this description as ‘sacred,' but rather as forming the fringe for the base of a sepulchral mound. The central stone would in this event probably represent the remains of a kistvaen, instead of the altar,' a probability which advances some way towards certainty when we observe the uneven state of the ground, pointing to the destruction of a tumulus and the disinterment of its remains.

It is curious that the legend told of this ancient circle is similar to that pertaining to the Hurlers on the Bodmin moors. The gray blocks of granite represent certain Sabbath-breakers, who for dancing on Sunday were turned into stone. The time at which this weird dance takes place is noon; and those who have remarked how, at the

*The tenant at Skit Bottom Farm calls them the Eight Stones. 'Maidens' is probably a corruption of the Celtic maen, a stone.