Part 7 (1/2)

will scarcely wonder that the spirits of the elder world should not yet have been effectually dislodged from their ancient solitudes.... The Pixies, thoroughly mischievous elves, who delight to lead all wanderers astray, dwell in the clefts of broken granite, and dance on the green sward by the side of the hill streams; ... sometimes, but very rarely, they are seen dancing by the streams dressed in green, the true livery of the small people. They ride horses at night, and tangle their manes into inextricable knots. They may be heard pounding their cider and thres.h.i.+ng their wheat far within the recesses of their ”house” on Sheepstor--a cavern formed by overhanging blocks of granite. Deep river pools and deceitful mora.s.ses, over which the cotton gra.s.s flutters its white ta.s.sels, are thought to be the ”gates” of their country, where they possess diminutive flocks and herds of their own. Malicious, yet hardly demoniacal, they are precisely Dryden's ”spirits of a middle sort”--

”Too black for heaven, and yet too white for h.e.l.l, Who just dropped half-way down, nor lower fell”

--a character which cannot, however, be a.s.signed to their unearthly companions, the wish-hounds. These have no redeeming tinge of white, and belong to the gloomiest portion of the underworld.'

A true lover of the moor, and very sensitive to its element of mystery, Mr King has put what he has seen and imagined into verse that must be most appreciated by those who know the Forest best:

THE FOREST OF THE DARTMOORS.

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's 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.

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 white 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 sh.o.r.e of the rocky Cornewayle, In the castle by the sea.

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.

'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 impressive than under those evening effects which have last been suggested. The singular shapes a.s.sumed 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 pa.s.sages 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.'

CHAPTER V

The Teign

'Ting (whose banks were blest By her beloved nymph dear Leman) which addrest, And fully with herself determined before To sing the Danish spoils committed on her sh.o.r.e, When hither from the east they came in mighty swarms, Nor could their native earth contain their numerous arms, Their surcrease grew so great, as forced them at last To seek another soil, as bees do when they cast; And by their impious pride how hard she was bested, When all the country swam with blood of Saxons shed.'

DRAYTON: _Poly-olbion_.

The Teign rises, as do most of the rivers in Devon, on Dartmoor, and starts across the moorlands towards the north. After a few miles it is joined by the Wallabrook, and at that point turns eastwards.

The moorland country about it is very beautiful, but especially when the heather and furze are in flower together, and far and wide stretches a most royal display of rose-purple and gold. Ferns hang over the transparent brown water, with its glancing lights, and tiny ferns and polypodys peer out from the crannies and hollows of big grey boulders.