41 6 DARTMOOR AND THE DART. 



Near Ringershots, the driver pointed out to us an 

 ancient tin-stream, and it was with curious interest 

 that I examined it. It is a romantic little gully, or 

 glen, close by the road-side, all overhung and con- 

 cealed by mountain-ashes, where a tiny thread of 

 water now trickles with a metallic tinkle down the 

 black, boggy soil. It has probably been unused for 

 ages ; but tradition has preserved the record of its 

 former use, though the water which once made it 

 available has long been drawn into other channels. 



Thoughts of the old Phoenician rovers came up be- 

 fore my mind as the shadows of evening gradually 

 shut out the scenery ; and in imagination I followed 

 the white metal, scarcely less precious than silver, 

 across the stormy Bay of Biscay, through the Pillars 

 of Hercules, and up the Mediterranean, till I saw it 

 spread out in the market of Tyre ; and, amidst the 

 concourse of traffickers, heard the voices of the eager 

 merchant-princes, crying, as they strode in front of 

 their stalls, " Bedil from Tarshish ! * Bedil ! Pure 

 Bedil! Bright Bedil I Buy, buy, buy I" And then 

 there came a twinkling of blue, and purple, and 

 fine linen ; and a chaffering and charming of many 

 voices ; and a Babel-hum of confused sounds. But 

 the familiar voice of the driver said, " Here we are 

 at Holne Bridge ;" and the vision vanished. Yet I 

 was glad that such was the last impression I had of 

 Dartmoor. 



* See the following Note. 



