sweeps from above curves one way, and the narrow opening into
which it disappears twists sharply round in another. A cleft, half
hidden in trees, divides the line of hills that shut in the tiny
valley-meadow on the west, and a road and a small stream scramble down a
less severe descent between the high sides, from the north-east. But
from no point near the bridge would it be more possible to see far up
any cleeve, than it would be for a ladybird, perched at one end, to
trace all the lines of a stag's horn. If in one direction there was a
gentle slope and smiling prospect beyond, the peculiar effect would be
gone. There is a stillness, and almost a solemnity, in this little
opening closed in narrowly on every side by the steep hills rising
straight above it on every side, and looking as unchanging as if what
they are to-day, that they have been since the beginning of time.
Besides, there is a feeling of wildness and remoteness which cannot be
exactly accounted for by the scenery. A living writer has said that
there is that, in a beautiful landscape in a country inhabited from
prehistoric time, that there is not in an equally lovely scene in a new
country. Though no tangible marks of the presence of men may be left,
there is an intangible something that makes itself felt though it cannot
be defined, and the view is on that account the more interesting, and
makes a deeper appeal to the spectator.

In Fingle Gorge, actual though not conspicuous traces of the Britons are
easily found. Immediately above a precipitous ascent to the north are
the remains of an old camp, which antiquaries have decided was British.
On the opposite height is another camp, called Cranbrook Castle. 'This
camp is of irregular form, circular towards the north-east and
south-east, but almost square on other quarters. On its south side it
has a high rampart and a deep ditch. On its northern side, the steepness
of the hill formed the only defence.' It has been supposed that at this
narrow pass the last struggle the Damnonians made against the Romans
took place; but whether this were the case or not, the holders of the
camp possessed a supreme coign of vantage, and could have chosen no
better place for checking an enemy's advance.

As the crow flies, Moreton Hampstead is about three miles south of
Fingle Gorge, but the roads are rambling. The name was originally
Moor-Town, standing as it once did on the edge of the moor; and the
manor, like the barton o