Lost Upon Dartmoor

by Thomas Waters

The thickly-scribbled pages of my note-book record no more pleasant reminiscence than that which I am now about to transcribe.

I was spending a few days in delightful Devonshire for the recruitment of my health, when, being something of a botanist, the fancy seized me of visiting Dartmoor, and passing a few hours in the examination of its peculiar Flora. I did pass a very pleasant day there, and scarcely felt the fatigue, the exhaustion, which eager rambling here and there during seven or eight hours must have caused; forgetting, too, that the far-stretching wilderness was unknown to me; that, except in broad daylight, the faint foot-tracks which cross it leading to and from the habitations of man could not be discerned. The summer day had, moreover, been unusually warm, and at about five in the evening I—having eaten heartily, drunk a quart of strong bottled ale—felt, and no wonder, as I lay upon the grass, an irresistible drowsiness steal over me. Ah, well, there would be at that season of the year four hours of daylight; I might indulge, therefore, in a short nap, just half-an-hour; I should awake at the mentally-determined time, as I had done in scores of instances before; and, refreshed with sleep, should reach home in three hours at the most. Man proposes, God disposes; and I sometimes think—I confess to being somewhat superstitious (who that has gone to and fro upon the face of the earth, and witnessed the moral marvels constantly occurring in its daily life, is not more or less so?)—I sometimes think—that the want of caution on my part, in permitting myself to go to sleep on a wild, trackless moor at five in the evening, after a day of such exhaustive, however pleasurable, exertion, was supernaturally inspired. That may be a foolish fancy. The unquestionable fact was, that the half-hour I had allowed myself expanded to at least ten half-… Read More