The town of Tavistock, situated about fourteen miles from Plymouth, in a country abounding with the most varied and picturesque scenery, was once a place of considerable opulence, and famous for its costly abbey, originally erected by Orgar, Earl of Devon. This was destroyed by the incursions of the Danes. But a second monastic edifice was afterwards erected, and the town once more became a place of importance. With the lover of poetry, as well as of history, it must ever be replete with interesting associations; since it was here that Elfrida triumphed in her prime over the heart of her youthful sovereign. And it was near this spot that Drake, who, in the language of a contemporary poet, may be said first to have placed 'a girdle round about the earth,' was born; and passed in obscurity the dawn of a life afterwards so glorious in the annals of our country. And though the humble remains of the house in which Drake spent his childhood have been unfortunately taken down, yet the quiet valley of Crowndale, where it stood, and the Tavy which wanders through it, just as it did at the hour of his birth, must ever be held as a sacred and endearing scene. Here too was born Browne the poet, and many other worthies whose names have long outlived the sculptured pomp of their tombs.

But as all things human are subject to decay and change, so is it with this interesting spot. Cromwel, earl of Essex, demolished, in the reign of Henry the Eighth, a considerable part of the noble abbey. About a hundred years since, the Chapter-house was pulled down to make room for a private dwelling, which now, also changed in its nature, is become a public one, for the accommodation of travellers; as their eyes will instantly inform them, by the sign of the Bedford Arms which swings above the door. And, though the antiquary may deplore the change, and wish that in its stead the venerable Chapter-house had still maintained its ground, yet all such persons as business, or the desire of visiting the beauties of this neighbourhood, may bring to the spot, will find some consolation in the comforts of an excellent inn, and an obliging host and hostess. And there, too, may be seen a beautiful gothic portal, now converted into a dairy, a spacious room supposed to have been the refectory, and other portions of the monastic buildings.

The abbey church, which stood adjacent to that of the parish, is entirely destroyed, saving a solitary ruined arch, once the part of a tomb, that most probably was situated in a lateral chapel or cloister of the building. The parish church,

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though large and ancient, is not remarkable for beauty. In it may be seen the mausoleum of the family of Fitz. tains also a fine monument of the Elizabethan age, with the effigies of Judge Glanville and his wife; both so characteristic, that no doubt can exist of their being excellent likenesses of the deceased persons they represent. And as a farther confirmation of it, I have often heard my husband say that he remembers, when a boy, his late father possessed an old portrait of Judge Glanville, in his scarlet robes, with a black cap on his head, which exactly resembled the effigy in the church; and that whenever a strolling company entered the town, and wanted a picture for the farce of 'My Grandmother,' or any other scenic exhibition in which a portrait was required, Judge Glanville was constantly lent to supply their want.

To return from this digression. The larger portion of the abbey walls, still adorned by their embattled summits, extend for a considerable space, on a raised causeway, along the banks of the river. These formed the boundary of the Abbot's grounds, and now those of the vicarage gardens; since within them his Grace the present Duke of Bedford has erected a handsome edifice for the use of the incumbent of Tavistock. Within the precincts of the vicarage, at the entrance next the town, stands a gothic arch, supported on either side by a polygonal tower overgrown with ivy, and decorated with wild flowers; it presents altogether such a subject as an artist would select for his pencil.

This archway was once a private entrance to the orchard and pleasure grounds of the abbey. Ascending the dilapidated steps of one of its towers, you reach the top, whence may be seen a partial view of the town; the inn above named being a near object in the foreground. Here a busy imagination might find employment, in conjuring up the black hooded monks to people the now mouldering walls; only that such reveries, from the proximity of this tower to mine host's stables, stand a chance of being somewhat disturbed by the crack of the post-boy's whip, or a dialogue between the ostler and his cattle, given in the true accentuation of broad Devonshire. However, we have but to descend again the winding stairs, and the imagination need fear no interruption of her poetic mood, for here will be found food enough for cogitation beneath the vaulted arch, where lie scattered around, in not unplanned disorder, various fragments of gothic sculpture, broken pinnacles, mullions of old windows, with several heads

of grim and gaping monsters, erst the ornaments of many a stately column.

A stone coffin, or sarcophagus, said to be Saxon, may also here be seen. Tradition declares it to be that which once contained the bones of Orgar, Earl of Devon, the founder of the abbey. If this be true, either the bones must have been placed in it after exhumation, or Orgar must have been a dwarf; a thing which his bones contradict, since they are still shewn, as the lion in the sexton's own keeping, within the church, and are of such magnitude, that they proclaim Orgar to have been equal in size to those men when giants walked the earth. A portion of these sculptured fragments might, with the help of the antiquary's quizzing-glass, be readily converted into a piscina, or basin for holy water. This is now partially covered with ivy, and receives the damp droppings of the roof, whose humidity cherishes the maiden-hair, the snap-dragon, and other wild flowers that grow between the groinings of the stones, and unite themselves with the pendant ivy that fantastically twines about the fragments of the gothic carvings. This archway bears a name, not however the most inviting for a tale of romance; since it is distinguished by the somewhat formidable appellation of 'Betsy Grimbal's Tower.' For, 66 as the old tale goes," a woman of that name in former times was murdered on this spot. Her ghost is still averred to haunt it; though I confess I have never yet seen the apparition. But perhaps the country hours we keep may be the reason. For what ghost, except that of Mrs. Veal, was ever yet seen to wander before "the witching time of night, when church-yards yawn."

Another portion of the ruined abbey, in the vicarage garden, which unites with the stupendous walls looking toward the river Tavy, is highly interesting. It is an ancient tower called the Still-house, beautifully hung with ivy, and having within it an upper and lower apartment, with their narrow roundheaded windows. A door from the upper chamber gives egress to the battlements, whence the eye enjoys a beautiful prospect of the Tavy foaming and roaring beneath its picturesque bridge, and taking its course past the declivity of a gentle eminence on the opposite bank, adorned with many a noble tree. These ruins of the Abbey of Tavistock afford a sufficient indication of the former magnitude and consequence of its monastic foundation. And if I have somewhat dwelt upon the description of them, I trust the good-natured reader will make some allowance, since, whilst writing this in a room that

looks directly on the ancient Still-house, richly hung with its mantle of ivy, a favourite object in my garden rambles, I cannot help pausing to pay a just tribute to so venerable an acquaintance.

Tavistock was formerly a corporate town, but, like other places, it has seen many changes, and has felt the ups and downs in the fortunes of this world; being, at one remote period, so poor, that it was actually disfranchised at the peti tion of the inhabitants, because it could not afford to return, and support, members for Parliament. And, as a curious contrast with the poverty of the church at that period, to its opulence in the days of its mitred abbots, I may also state, that the late Mr. Bray found a document in the church chest which contained a petition from the vicar to the parish for a pair of shoes. Yet the trade of this place was once so thriving, and its woollen manufacture so famous, that in London nothing of that description of cloth was held excellent unless it bore the name of Tavistock kersey. And it ought not to be forgotten that here too was a Saxon school, where that ancient language was taught when almost forgotten in every other part of England. And one of the first books ever printed in this kingdom was a Saxon grammar, at the "exempt monastery of Tavystoke."

To the west of the town, by the side of the new road to Plymouth, stand the ruins of the gateway of Fitz-ford, which, except an old barn, is all that now remains of the mansion and offices of the family of Fitz. This gateway is spacious, and the label ornaments of its architecture proclaim it to be a structure of the time of Henry the Seventh. Such portions of the carving as appear through the ivy, with which it is amply hung, are well sculptured; and the whole might form an interesting subject for the pencil of a Harding or a Prout. The ancient mansion of Fitz-ford, that once stood in an open court beyond this gate-house, was, many years since, pulled down, and the materials used to erect the present markethouse in the town.

It was during a summer evening when, in company with Mr. Bray, I first visited this ancient gateway. And as we passed along, he related to me the various anecdotes, respecting the place of his birth, that I have mentioned above. But he more particularly drew my attention to Fitz-ford, as he told me tradition had peopled even the solitary gateway, now in ruins, with the restless spirits of the invisible world; that strange forms were said to be there seen; and that one of

these was of a truly German character: since a Lady Howard, famed in her life-time for some great offence, was now nightly doomed to a fearful penance, to follow her hound that was compelled to run from Fitz-ford to Oakhampton Park, between midnight and cock-crowing, and to return with a single blade of grass in its mouth; a punishment from which neither the mistress nor the hound could be released till every blade was consumed. I laughed at this wild tradition. And Mr. Bray then told me, there were other and more probable traditions, supported by the evidence of history, connected with this gateway at Fitz-ford, which in early life had much interested his imagination. My curiosity was strongly excited; and, whilst viewing the only vestige of their once magnificent dwelling, it may be supposed that I listened with deep interest to the few, but remarkable facts he related to me of the family of Fitz. He also told me that, having at one period of his life the idea of writing a history of his native town, with some account of its local antiquities, and the delightful scenery of the neighbourhood, he had made some memoranda of the interesting traditions of the place, as well as collected materials of a more historical description. And I here, perhaps, may be allowed to state that he had explored every deep valley and romantic tor of the western parts of Dartmoor, investigating the druidical remains there still existing, accompanying his written accounts of the neighbourhood with a number of sketches, and had frequently indulged his fancy in many a little poem, inspired by the romantic objects around him.

On our return from Fitz-ford, he placed his manuscript in my hands. And as I found much of it so intimately connected with, or descriptive of, some of the most striking scenes in this vicinity, we determined to visit them together. The possession of a quiet pony rendered the plan practicable, as it enabled me to ascend the mountainous heights and tors without the danger of breaking my neck; and I could with equal safety explore the wild valleys and deep glens, that lie hidden, as it were, from the traveller, who is content merely to follow the high road, and, by so doing, may pass along a country teeming with the most romantic beauties, without even suspecting that he is within gun-shot of a valley, a wood, and a waterfall such as Lydford, or an Alpine village like Peter Tavy; both but solitary instances of those numberless scenes of beauty that here abound, and that cannot fail to delight both the poet and the painter.