time on either side. The bridge, nearly 1700 feet. long, commands a fine view, especially at high tide, when the stream resembles a broad lake, particularly striking, as is said, if seen by moonlight. Then Chudleigh, famous for cider and its remarkable rock, are within reach, eight miles up the valley, and all round the neighbourhood there are delightful excursions, with such a plexus of lanes as almost to insure the excitement of losing yourself. Between the town and the sea is a large bank of sand, called the Den-a marine parade of Nature's own making-covered in places with turf. In the rear stand the assembly-rooms, the centre of a showy crescent, and at the outer corner a small lighthouse to guide vessels entering the river. Turning your back on the sea you have bold heights on either hand, the town narrowing off in the distance, the masts of shipping above the roofs, the railway running away inland, and beyond all green woods and hills. Breakfast, and on again; through the town and over the lengthy bridge, or along the Den, past the shipyards and across the ferry to Shaldon. You will see a stair leading up the cliff, a short distance to the left of the landing-place, which gives access to a private road traversing the Ness—a fir-crowned height at the mouth of the river-and to the cliffs beyond. Steeper ups and downs here than any yet, and the heat reflected as you toil up the ascents compels a little philosophy. But there are grand views from the summits over a wide expanse of country to the sullen rocky ridge of Dartmoor, and far, far across the flashing sea. There is a small undercliff, too, a pleasing subject for contemplation. I lay down and look over the edge of the precipice; there, some two hundred feet below, was a charming snuggery—a modest cottage, a gravelled court and lawn in front, behind and on either side well-kept gardens, a circular basin filled by a bubbling spring, and little channels along which the water sparkled to the beach. There were a couple of boats for excursions. or fishing; and behind, the cliffs alive with thrift, grasses, and ivy. All lay there open to the eye. What a pleasant spot for a quiet life!—a place to bring peace to a sorrowful spirit. Presently, a greater undercliff, where you must look to your footing on the narrow paths. In a field beyond, so steep that anything short of a double-quick descent was scarcely possible, a noisy party of haymakers at work cried to know what I had to sell. They took my knapsack for a pedlar's pack. If nothing to sell, perhaps I could tell some news-how was the war going on ? and so forth. I was minded to humour them, and sat down on a haycock, when they drew round me, and half a dozen cider-kegs were held out for me to drink from. One among them, evidently the politician, had plenty to say, and delivered his opinions with an eloquence that surprised me. "If the Zarr, as people called 'n, would only come into the field for about half an hour, he'd show 'n what 'twas to go to war. He'd mark 'n. Bread was dear enough a'ready, and what was poor men to do when 't got dearer? If Austria and Prussia would come too, he'd rub them down into the bargain: none of 'em was a bit better 'n they should be; they was all in the same boat"—and more to the same purport. The sunburned orator was warmly applauded by his companions; and when I told him there were people in London who thought as he did, he looked round with an air of triumph. With dear bread in prospect, they were, however, for the moment in gay good-humour, perhaps owing to the cider-kegs, and made a show of keeping me prisoner, unless I would consent to "zing a zong." Singing in public was not one of my accomplishments, but if they liked I would say a song. The compromise was accepted; and men and women, boys and girls, came closer together as I drew back a few paces up the slope, so as to catch the eyes of the whole group. I then began Macaulay's spirited poem The Armada: "Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise; I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, These first four lines completely fixed their attention, and they listened in silence to the end, though here and there an eye brightened, and a face glowed, as the recitation stirred their latent patriotism. Besides the heroic spirit, the poem contains many proper names belonging to Devonshire, and these being familiar to the haymakers, made it the more interesting to them. They gave a cheer as I concluded, and were still re peating "Thot be a good un," "Thot's better 'n a zong," when I bade them good-day. Half an hour later a couple of ploughmen, who caused me the trouble of beating a new path across the field they were furrowing, made an offer also of their cider-keg. So rarely did strangers come "drow and auver" - through and over-that the sight of one kindled their hospitable feelings. They, too, had the same story to tell about dear bread, and the difficulty of providing for a family out of nine shillings a week; yet with somewhat of resignation in their tone, the result, perhaps, of long endurance. The patience of the agricultural labourer is indeed wonderful! He gets but little sympathy, has the worst seat at church, the most uncomfortable railway-carriage, and yet he, and such as he, will put on a red jacket, go away to the East or anywhere else, fight like a lion, and win a "soldiers' victory." Is it not an opprobrium to our civilization that a man, willing and able to work, should be expected to content himself and feed a wife and family with eighteenpence a day? On again, the walking by no means easy; the land having shaped itself, apparently, on the model of the stormiest sea. Good exercise, nevertheless; and the muscles soon accommodate themselves to the frequent ascents and descents, slippery with the wind-and-sundried grass. How delightful, too, to scramble down every morning to one of those tiny coves, where the water seems liquid sapphire resting on the pale sandy bottom, and splash and tumble in the cooling brine, or sit on a weedy lump of rock, immersed to the chin in a bath which a merman might envy. And then, to bask in the sun, while fanned by the breezes, fearing no intrusion, and dress at leisure: what process of invigoration is there half so delicious? And besides the swim, little basins, lined with sea-moss, may always be found among the rocks, wherein the feet may be cooled and strengthened two or three times a day. The opportunities were there, and I enjoyed them to the full. More ins and outs, freakish paths, and mazy hedges, and the cliffs in places covered with verdure from top to bottom, down even among the huge boulders heaped on the beach-and so to Maidencombe-a dell filled with trees and about a dozen houses, and a charming little bay, which, having looked at from above, you will scarcely be able to pass without descending to look at from below. Fail not to observe the ferns grouped along the course of the rill and scattered in the damp hollows, where it droops over the cliff. Going on from here the path soon ends: I was unwilling to leave the wooded cliff, but had to make a détour over the fields, and approach them again at Watcombe. This is another landslip, deep, horseshoe-shaped, with perpendicular sides, and an uneven slope to the top of the hill behind; but so full of hillocks and hollows, ridges and rocks, coated with the softest turf-here smooth and open, there filled with a dense growth of brambles, ferns, rushes, and a miscellaneous tangle-that for the moment you fancy it the most romantic scene of all. The |