of pond and then slips away unseen, almost unheard amidst the tall grass and thick cresses; and for a moment pause to examine on our left the curious old castellated farm house of Tiddebrook. How came it to be erected in this form? how long has it been built? who were its former inhabitants? are questions vainly asked. The pointed windows and arched door are there; the supporting buttresses, and battlemented walls rise above; but the dame and squire who once dwelt therein are gone: their very names are lost in the ruthless sweep of time. The oddest thing is that the dwelling is so small. Who could have taken the trouble to erect such a baby-house in this extra cathedra style of architecture? The place is more like a pigeon house than a dwelling for man and beast. It could only be made for the pigmies; for such Lilliputians as Sancho Panza and his ass.-Perhaps he dwelt there, shall we ask him? With due apologies for the above badinage which slipped unconsciously from my pen, I must give what appears to me the most reasonable solutions to the questions respecting Tiddebrook. In the first place then it was evidently designed for religious purposes. "The western end has remained unaltered from the time of its erection; but not so the eastern, which for a while was quite delapidated. Some years since Mr. Long of Tavistock farmed the estate and lived in the dwelling of Tiddebrook as the farm house. When Mr. L. came to the place he found the approach to the eastern portion of the front inconvenient from its declining position, and had it levelled, when it was discovered that the elevation was the fallen ruins of what had been traditionally known as "the abbey:" from these ruins some ornaments for the window of a room built by the present proprietor Miss Burrington,-painted glass &c.—were obtained; other portions of these ruins are to be seen scattered about. The ceiling of the porch is the floor of the tower and is remarkable as

L

being one immense granite slab: the limited height of the tower determines the fact of its never having contained bells.

At a short distance from "the Abbey" were fields,— now an orchard, in which a portion of elevated ground raised all around is traditionally known as having been the ancient burial ground.* The above information was kindly furnished me by Mr. Crapp of Tavistock, and in corroboration of its being used for the purposes of religion, I find a passage in Mr. Oliver's account of the Monasteries of Devon which I imagine refers to this place. He says; "In consequence of the Abbot's petition, Bishop Stapelton approved and confirmed a perpetual chantry, to be erected in the parish Church of Whitchurch near Tavistock, for four priests who should be bound to celebrate the daily and nightly office, together with the service for the dead; to say three or at least two requiem masses every day besides one of Our Lady. In their suffrages they were to pray for the prosperity of the said Abbot and convent; for King Edward 2d. and his queen Isabella, for the Bishop, Dean, and chapter of Exeter; and for the founders and benefactors of Tavistock Abbey. The Superior of these Priests was to be called the Archpriest; he was to live in common with them, and they were to be called his Socii or Fellows. He was also to be charged with the care of the parishioners." Leaving out the word "church" which may have been introduced by mistake, the description would exactly suit our miniature Abbey of Tiddebrook. But to proceed;

The village of Whitchurch is picturesquely situated, yet it presents no beauty in itself, if we except the curious church of very ancient date with its antiquated tomb stones; and the neighbouring parsonage and grounds.

* Further remains of the Abbey lie scattered about the farm.

Some of the memorials to the Pengelly family within the church are very interesting: there is also a monument of interest to the Mooringe family who resided in their estate of Moretown near Putor, (now belonging to Jonas Ridout, Esq.) The inscription is on black slate, and on this is also sculptured a procession of ten strangely attired figures, some with sculls in their hands, and all kneeling. Above the monument is a death's head with the motto "Mors nolis lucrum." and on each side a shield with the arms of the family. There are niches for holy water, and stone supporters for the figures of saints in the church denoting its consequence in catholic times. A road by the church leads to a delightful down on which the annual races were formerly held; and whence a charmingly diversified prospect is gained of the surrounding country. An artist of great originality (Albin Martin Esq.) has given a remarkable sketch of the peculiar features of the landscape. A large stone cross crowns the highest point of the down. Here the pilgrim of the middle ages rested on his weary way across the apparently interminable moor; it is probable that these crosses which are frequently found, were used as land-marks for the way-worn traveller. Who would not with pleasure lie down at their feet on one of those glowing summer nights with which our misty isle is sometimes favoured, and look into the depths of the azure firmament above him. "The stars are windows in heaven through which the brightness of the Almighty is visible." Who is so blind as not to behold it? Who would not watch with rapture the eternal transit of the brilliant spheres as they wander in glory along their radiant courses? Whether they lift their pale light above the eastern horizon, or mount higher in their glorious zenith, or decline towards the darkened west, still our eye follows them with delight, still are we filled with wonder at their matchless loveliness. Oh pilgrims of the eld, ye did well to seek the pathway

to virtue amidst the scenes of nature! Man brings us to a level with himself; he lays us low in the dust in the mighty struggle of the ambitious city, while nature elevates the soul to a foretaste of heaven, and alone enables us to realize the grandeur and sublimity of a God. A thousand excuses may be found for the superstition of past ages. Are we not ourselves inclined to fall down and worship the creature instead of the Creator? Are not our minds tuned to praise by the plaintive music of woods and streams? Do not our hearts overflow with pleasure at first beholding the glory of the setting sun? Involuntarilly we bend our knee, and with clasped hands invoke the bright luminary to return once more. Nature worship is spontaneous in those who haunt her scenes. We are infatuated by her loveliness, until the awful characters of reason and revelation, like the hand writing on the wall open to us a knowledge of the mighty Author of the whole. "Oh God how wonderful are thy works, in wisdom hast thou made them all, the earth is full of thy riches!" This rude cross reared by the hand of superstition, is formed of the granite on which thou hast laid the foundations of the world. This wild common traversed in ages long past by the pilgrim fathers, or made the scene of the hideous rites of Druidical worship, was spread by thine all-directing hand. There is no end to the vast discoveries of thy power and goodness. "Come let expressive silence muse thy praise." I remember travelling in an open carriage over the soft turf of Whitchurchdown on such a summer's night as I have before described. The wheels glided on without noise; there was perfect stillness around, while the moon beamed brightly on our path, and the delicious perfume of the heath flowers stole over our senses. On a marsh near us an ignis fatuus waved its magic fire. The hills in the distance glowed with the conflagration of the turf cutters; whole acres were set burning to destroy the vegetation, and aid their

labours in preparing peat which they cut for their winter fuel. There was deep peace in the solitude around. Our carriage has since then rolled over the same soft turf, but on a far different occasion. The glare of day then revealed a busy multitude in gay attire; collected to enjoy the exciting sport of horse-racing. The hum of voices rose merrily on our ear, mingled with loud shouts of laughter, and the neighing of the impatient steeds. Vociferous cries of the ". names, weights, and colours of the riders" intruded on our attention; ballad singers bawled their loudest ditties to the listening rustics; our old friends Punch and Judy fought and chattered as loudly as ever, while a band of musicians played our national airs amidst the continually increasing din and uproar. Vehicles of all descriptions lined the sides of the course; booths with gay streamers denoted the vicinity of good cheer, while a handsome stand protected the charms of a number of ladies from the too powerful rays of a noon-day sun. In the same elevated position, were placed the umpires of the day bending forward to see the necessary preparations for the coming race. At a signal given the Jockeys vault into their saddles, and with conscious pride pace their horses along the cleared course. A bell rings and for a moment the utmost quiet prevails. "Are you ready?" "Yes." "Off."-sound through the air, and away speed the contending coursers outstripping the wind itself in their gigantic efforts. They ascend a hill, and for a second are lost to the gaze of the anxious spectators. A moment more, and they again appear, rounding the eminence, and coming up the course with the fury of the wild horse of the desert. On they come-while the roar of the multitude rises higher; on they come, with flashing eye-balls, dilated nostrils, and strained limbs, scarcely touching the earth beneath them; the crack of the whip is never needed, for the demon of emulation is spurring them on. The wild ambition of man has been imparted