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A DAY AT CLOVELLY.

Ir was one of the brightest of the bright September days which distinguished that month in the year 1858, that a merry party of us set out to spend a day in the most romantic and picturesque-looking place in Devonshire-if not in England. Clovelly is distant eleven miles from Bideford; and the road is, as all the roads in Devon are, very beautiful. Along these roads we drove leisurely, admiring all that was to be admired; the pleasant lanes; the briony-andconvolvulus-entwined hedges; the banks covered with the red campion, the blue scabious, the yellow golden rod, and ferns of every species in rich and luxuriant profusion; the gentle undulations of the soil making pleasant alternations of softly-rising slopes woodcrowned, and valleys golden with wheat. There away is the sea, whose murmurs the active and sensitive fancy deems it can hear long before the grand roll of the swelling waves is really audible. scenes, and such a day, produced the following verses, which all inadequately tell the glories of summer.

"LIKE a spirit's o'er the earth in song her accents came, And hill and vale in ecstasy burst forth in floral flame,

Such

And bright abodes of glorious things which smiling made them

seem

Like realms of joy, on which the sun had pour'd his richest beam.

"The yellow corn its bristling ears uprear'd in joy and pride, And 'neath the fragrance-laden winds moved on a golden tide Of light and shadow, changing aye their richly-tinted flow, Now deep as tempest-swollen waves, now rich as sunset's glow. “And the apples, ruby-cheek'd, hung like jewels in the sun,

All glittering and sparkling with the splendours they had won ; And the many-tinted, bloom-crown'd plums, like luscious drops of dew,

With their rich aroma haloed, a glory round them threw.

"And the pendulous, bell-moulded pears, ruddy, rich, and rare,
Their branches thickly-clustering swung grandly in the air;
And peaches and pomegranates, like the fruit of fairy land,
So redolent with graces, that all homage they command.

"And the vineyard-seeming hops, with their tendrils clinging round The pleasant-looking trellis-work, or trailing on the ground; Reminding men in England of sunny Italy,

Where nature revels in the pomp of boundless luxury.

"And the gay and gorgeous flower-world led by the Rose, its Queen, To meet the coming spirit, shone in all their richest sheen; With their fragrance fill'd the air, with their beauty crown'd the earth,

The brightest in the smiles of her who gave their being birth.

And all along the hedge-rows, that were bow'd beneath their bloom,

The honeysuckle twined his flowers, and shed his rich perfume;
And from the branches of the shrubs convolvuluses hung
Their beaker-blossoms gracefully the scarlet haws among.

"And over earth thus graced and loved, there arch'd a sunny sky,
And beneath its radiant influence wing'd many a gorgeous fly;
For with life and beauty teeming, well did the world proclaim,
'O, once again 't is Summer-time! Receive her with acclaim!'
Through such scenery, on such a day, we rode
along for some eight miles, when we alighted at the
gate leading to that famous walk known through

all England as the "Hobby," and which is among the finest and most picturesque of places. Some people procure permission (which is easily obtained) to drive through; but all who love nature truly will do as we did, send the carriage on by the ordinary road, and walk the remainder of the way to Clovelly.

The Hobby walk is about three miles and a half; but we were long enough in rambling through beautiful scenery to have traversed some four times that distance. The walk winds through woods of exquisite loveliness; these alternate with thicklyshrubbed dells, through which you hear the ripple of streams hurrying on their musical course to the sea, which is spread out before you, compelling you to gaze on its now calm and unruffled face, as it glows and sparkles beneath the sun. Now that sometime terrible ocean lies as calm and placid as an inland lake. Here and there the eye rests with delight on white streaks, which appear like so many watery lanes intersecting the broad plains of the sea. Dotted about its surface, and glistening in the sun, are the white sails of a few pleasure-boats, or the still more picturesque ones of the red "trawlers" of the fishermen. There sweep along a flight of gulls; and down on the shore, among the boulders, brown-faced, bright-eyed, and naked-legged children are sporting with the tiny waves, which are now breaking among them. Below us is the village of Clovelly; and forming, as it were, a boundary and protection to the place, is the bold carboniferous cliff, called Gallantry Bower," whose far-projecting headland,

stretching out into the sea, is a picture in itself worth seeing.

We turn aside a little from the well-made path, and, up to the middle in ferns, we ramble up the banks of a little brawling stream, whose music has long been soothing our ears with its murmurous, dreamy song. To our minds nothing is more pleasant in this world than rambling up or down the banks of a mountain streamlet. To follow its winding course is one of the treasures of pedestrianism. At every turn you come upon new beauties, which fully reward you for any labour or peril which such an erratic course may entail. Now we are in a little open space, with trees spreading for a short distance their branches over our heads, and forming a welcome shade from the burning sun. In another minute we are entangled in thick brambles and underwood, which gives us an excuse for resting, and gathering the large luscious-looking blackberries, which have for a long time been tempting us. Now the banks are precipitous and bare, and the waters are rippling noisily over the well-washed stones which form the streamlet's bed. You have to tread with caution, lest the suspicious-looking earth give way, and down you go (as we did more than once) into the waters below, and so get an unexpected, and doubtless an unwelcome, cold-water bath for nothing. Now the banks are covered with all the wild flowers of the season. Brightest, bluest, loveliest, and most precious of all are the myriads of forget-me-nots, which gladden our hearts as we gather a bunch. Full, but

not satiated with these and the like joys, we retrace our steps, and make for Clovelly.

There it is, the lovely and romantic spot! hanging in its little cove, or corner, or "nooky wood,' the strangest, quaintest, loveliest, most picturesque spot eye of man ever lighted upon. As is our wont, when it is possible, we scorn the regular orthodox road; and, leaping a stile, we descend by a narrow pathway through a portion of the wood, and we are, as usual, well rewarded for our pains. Half way down is an artist not unknown to fame, and who will be better known yet, transferring to his canvas some of the treasures of this lovely place. He is courteous, communicative, and kind, and stays not his work for our presence. A little bank crowned with flowers is now being placed in the foreground of the picture; and standing in patient docility are two panniered asses, looking as meditative and dull as any of their prototypes to be met in every lane. Away in the distance is the sea, with boats, and trawlers, and gulls, forming a fitting background to the painting. The artist pointed out, with all an artist's warmth of feeling and keenness of appreciation, every beautiful spot around him, leaving us to judge from the evidences before us how deeply he loved them, and how admirably he had transferred some of their most charming characteristics to his picture. We bade him goodday, with the warmest wishes for his success, and moved on toward the village. And now we are at the top of the path which is the only street in Clovelly. But ere we descend, and ere we descant upon the