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 Of Dartmoor and its Borderland. y ornamentation, and that in a very slight degree ; and, with one or two exceptions, no inscriptions are to be seen on them. Their surroundings, however, invest them with a charm peculiarly their own ; for we cannot behold these old lichen- stained and weather-beaten memorials of the past, standing in close proximity to the remains of the rude habitations of the Celts, without contrasting in our minds the dark times when those huts were peopled, with the clear daylight which beamed forth when the cross was planted, and with the blessings which Christianity has spread over the land. Among the grey tors they stand in solitude — the far- stretching heath on every side — with no sound to break the stillness that reigns around but that of the rushing of the streams from the rugged hill-sides. As we gaze upon them, we can let our thoughts stray back to the time when they were first reared, and in fancy may see the wondrous events which have since taken place on the stage of this world's vast theatre. Nor will it fail to strike us how little have all these events affected what we can see around us. The granite tors still lift their lofty heads to the sky, the heather and gorse still bloom on the moor, the stream yet pursues its way over its rocky bed, and all is here unchanged. While events which have shaken the outside world, and have decided the fate of nations, have been occurring, these hills and valleys, huge rocks and winding streams, have remained as in the days of old, and these venerable stone crosses have been lost in the solitariness of the moorlands. At early morn when all is fresh and bright, when the dew- drops sparkle on the heather, "And drowned in yonder living blue, The lark becomes a sightless song," the impressionable mind will experience a pleasurable emotion at beholding here, far from the haunts of man, the emblem of the Christian faith. At the hour of sunset, when the shades of evening are beginning to settle over the wilds, and we hear that moaning sound so peculiar to the Dartmoor rivers as the twilight approaches, a calm feeling steals over us, which is heightened when, perchance, we find ourselves beside an old granite cross, alone on the heath ; and when night spreads her dark robe over mountain and plain, and the sole light is that