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WALK THE THIRD.

WALREDDON, CONFLUENCE OF THE TAVY AND WALKHAM, VIRTUOUS LADY MINE, ABBOTT'S WEIR, &c.

"A broader flood

Soon Tavy pours; for lo! the Walkham comes,
Swoll'n by fresh brooklets from the deep-seemed hills
To mingle with his waters."

CARRINGTON.

N our third walk we may leave Tavistock by the Plymouth road, and turning off a short way beyond the turnpike, enter a lane which leads

to Walreddon, an old estate belonging to the family of the Courtenays. There is little at first to interest us in our walk, except the quiet mill and cottage of Brook, and a few peeps to be caught of the vale of the Tavy through the breaks in the high hedges.

At length a neat lodge in the Elizabethan style marks the approach to Walreddon House. This handsome mansion is supposed to be of great antiquity; the hall now converted to a Dining room, is wainscotted, and ornamented

* It was brought to Fytz of Fytzford by the Lady Elizabeth Courtenay, who married John Fytz, but returned to the original owners by the will of the daughter of John Fytz, commonly but erroneously called Lady Howard.

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with the arms of Edward the 6th carved in oak. The other apartments have been modernized; a number of crooked staircases and small sleeping rooms denote as usual the curious architectural taste of former days. From the lawn in front a beautiful view of the wooded vale is presented, crowned by the noble rocks in the neighbourhood of Harts' Hole.

On leaving Walreddon we pursue the road behind the house until it terminates in a common, which is known as West Down. Hence the eye wanders over an extensive tract of country as far as the well-marked promontory of Mount Edgcombe. A rough track leads from West Down to a retired nook, where, sheltered by the overhanging heights, is the confluence 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 on

THE WATER'S MEET.

VALE OF THE TAVY.

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 flow'rs,
To each a shadow lending,
Unite their magic pow'rs.
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 arms around them,

Still murmuring, they sleep.

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.

Crossing the Walkham by a rude clam, and another little stream by even a smaller foot bridge, we pursue our way towards the curious mine by some odd conceit ycleped "The Virtuous Lady." And surely no virtuous lady had ever a brighter home than this. There are crystal gems around her on every side: a small rill forms a sparkling cascade as it bounds from the hill tops to turn the works of the mine, and the waters of the Tavy below throw up pearly drops of every hue as they foam over the dam formed in ages long past and from some old association called the "Abbot's Weir"; it is probable that the monks, who appear never to have been backward in catering for good cheer, constructed the dam for the convenience of fishing, in the time of some sainted abbot, who bestowed his benediction and name on the scene of their labors. Another interpretation for the nomenclature has been given in the following lines:

THE ABBOT'S WEIR.

The Abbot riseth at break of day,

And duly foldeth his hands to pray,

But his thoughts are wandering far away,

He hath had a wondrous dream.

And his fancy seeketh a certain cave
Hard by the Tavy's rushing wave,
Its hidden treasures he fain would have.
Shall he follow the guiding stream?
The Abbot's matins are quickly said,
The mass is sung, the prayers are read,
And he giveth thanks for his daily bread
With a calm and thoughtful mien :
But his mind is troubled with sore unrest,
He pondereth how he may journey best,
For the Abbot with goodly cheer is blest,
And he quickly tires, I ween.

Shall he wander on foot by the rocky shore,
Bearing besides, his secret store

Of things more needful than learned lore
To an Abbot of high degree?

Or shall he bestride his faithful mule,
That, bred in a stately monkish school,
Is happy to do all things by rule,
So that his will agree.

The Abbot mounteth with subtle grace,
And moveth awhile with steady pace,
Then speedeth, as he would try a race
With the fast out-stripping wind.
But soon he reacheth the Tavy's side,
And now with caution he fain must ride,
Lest he haply bathe in the flowing tide,

To which he is not inclined.

Through bush and briar, "o'er stock and stone"

The Abbot wendeth his way alone,

His brethren wot not where he is gone,

T'were heinous sin to spy.

Though they watched to see what course he'd take,

His stern command they dare not break,

Lest with mighty penance their bones should ache,
So their daily task they ply.

Meanwhile the Abbot has gained the spot,
Where a bending vale with beauty fraught,
Concealed by its verdure the magic grot,
Close by the rushing stream.

Thick woods arising on every side

Display the rock, that with frowning pride,
And flowers enwreathed, their boughs divide,
As in the Abbot's dreams.

He fordeth the wave with anxious care,
Uttering meanwhile a fervent pray'r,
Until he hath passed a narrow weir,

By the boiling waters made.

The river above is still and deep,

But through this channel the billows sweep,
And so a constant roar they keep,

Resounding through the glade.

The Abbot has reached his wished-for goal,

And now he is standing with fallen cowl,
In wonder eyeing the murky hole;

And striking the flinty rock.

The well dealt blows through the cavern rung,

And as in the air the hammer swung,

The vaulted roof hath found a tongue,

And echoeth to the shock.

Down come the clattering stones apace,
The Abbot repeateth a saving grace,
And bending to see if ore he can trace,
Now starteth with glad surprize;
Presented to his delighted view

He findeth the print of a fairy shoe,
And crystal boxes of varied hue,
He seizeth the tempting prize:

"Now Virtuous Lady! these first are thine
"I'll lay them with joy on thy sacred shrine,
"So grant thy aid that the rest are mine,

"And Benedicite!

Once more he aimeth his blows aright

You might have deemed some valiant knight

With giant monster was close in fight;

So loudly worketh he.

Meanwhile the mule hath cropp'd the grass,
And gazed at his form in the watery glass,
He doubteth the Abbot forgetteth mass,
And peereth about to see.

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