perpendicular cliff, presenting an irresistible front to the waves. Peer over the edge and you will see how the hard, pale-red limestone is mottled with numerous veins, and polished by ages of storm. Here the outer slope of the earthy parapet makes a comfortable restingplace, where you may lie and enjoy the view of the

sea.

If

Going out again at the strong palisaded gateway you see another fort on the left, near to which is a footpath running across the fields to the high road for Dartmouth. The farm-yards on the way are surrounded by walls so thick and high that you might believe their owners lived in constant dread of bombardment. intended merely to resist the wind, the blasts must be tremendous. The sight of the valley of the Dart is hailed with the more satisfaction, as the long, tedious ascent is then overpast, and the next two miles are all down hill, with pleasing views before you-at times a momentary glimpse of the sea, and the windings of the river between the leafy hills and fruitful fields that slope towards it from either side. The scent of honeysuckle growing thickly in the hedges perfumes the air all down the descent, and every bend of the road reveals a new prospect, till with the last the town opens on the opposite side of the stream. The ferry-boat, with its two guide-chains, is a large, lumbering machine, worked by horses, at a rate slow enough to give time for seeing all that is to be seen while crossing. There are some pretty peeps up and down the river, which, in the latter direction, appears to be a lake shut in by hills

beautifully wooded. As we neared the ship-yards on the western shore, a small schooner, ready for launching, was pointed out to me as the Allen Gardiner, named after the unfortunate captain who perished so miserably on the coast of Patagonia; and, judging from the handbills posted for miles around the neighbourhood, the launch of the "missionary schooner" was looked forward to as an interesting event.

Dartmouth is a rare little town; quaint old houses, real studies; narrow and hilly streets, and a church worth the trouble of finding out the sexton to unlock the gate. Some of the old houses have a piazza in front, and the projecting upper storeys, curiously carved and ornamented, with their antique gables, are remarkable specimens of what architecture was three hundred years ago. Mr. Ruskin says that our cathedrals are but the highest expression of what was then universal-a beautiful and picturesque style of building. If the whole of Dartmouth was ever anything like those fine old relics still left to dignify some of her streets, modern "improvements" have much to answer for.

I glanced but briefly at all this, for it was near noon, and I had not yet breakfasted, having lingered the time away on Berry Head. How the fish relished! And, to speak of material enjoyments: one of the pleasures of a seaside ramble is the choice of excellent fish at meals, with a flavour unknown to those who dwell inland,

Before or after breakfast makes a difference in one's impressions; to be cynical or censorious becomes hardly worth while when the cravings of hunger are satisfied.

I went on again, caring nothing for the heat, which earlier in the day had been rather distressing. The street, parallel with the river, gradually rises, and looking back you see how the houses are built one above another on the hill-side, giving a lively view of roofs and chimneys to those who live in the upper tiers. Groundfloor and attic may hold a neighbourly talk on the same level—an arrangement certainly more picturesque than convenient. Modern improvement is clearly not wholly wrong. Dartmouth is left behind now; but I shall, perhaps, pay it another visit on my way back to London.

The road commands beautiful views across the river; the woods grow so close down to the water that no break is seen where they merge into their shadows. But soon it turns aside at a cove where stands a mill with a wheel fifty feet in diameter, whirling round and round, and exciting a busy clack amid the green seclusion. Then a long stiff pull up hill, that makes you eager for air, and covetous of the narrow strip of shade under the hedge. It seemed aggravating that while I had no more breath than the exertion demanded, three women, a little in advance, had enough to spare for a loud and ceaseless chatter. "How was it?" I asked, on coming up with them. "'Tis the ale as does it, master. We had some afore we started. Nothing like ale for goin' up hill." An assertion to which I begged to demur; for do not the peasantry in the Alps carry heavy burdens easily over a mountain-pass, and hold conversations, where the traveller finds himself nearly breathless?

But once past the toll-bar at the top and there is the sea again, a grand sweep of Start Bay; and then it is all down hill to Stoke Fleming, and Blackpool, a pleasant spot, which will tempt you to turn down by the side of the little river underneath the elms, and take a foot-bath where it oozes through a pebbly bank to the sea against a rocky point. The scenery about here is extremely pleasing.

Up hill again, and turn off where the finger-post points To Slapton, through the little village of Street, beyond which you descend to Slapton Sands-a remarkable bank of shingle, in which a grain of sand is scarcely to be seen, forming the shore on a dead level for more than three miles, and high enough to keep out the tide, which here rises twenty feet. A well-beaten road runs from one end to the other, bordered in places by patches of grass, refreshing to the feet, but lost in the general barrenness. Step off the road, and you are ankle deep in the minute pebbles of which the bank is composed. The quantity is perfectly amazing, and all so smooth and clean; from the size of horse-beans down to pins'heads. Yet there is vegetation even here: a species of convolvulus-the sea-bindweed-growing with a dirty pink flower from a thread-like wiry stalk creeping among the stones. What adds to the singularity of the bank is Slapton Lea, a broad lake by which it is separated from the main shore for nearly its entire length, produced by the accumulated waters of three small streams that drain the country behind. Their current not being strong enough to keep their outfall clear, the

sea has heaped up the bank at their mouth without interruption. Most of the small rivers of Devonshirethe Axe and Teign, for example-would become similarly dammed did anything happen to diminish their stream. As it is, the Axe only keeps its mouth clear by a constant struggle with the encroaching pebbles. The margin of the Lea is swampy, and the surface overgrown with sedge and forests of rushes, in which numbers of wild fowl find shelter. The reeds are harvested in autumn for thatch, and in winter sportsmen come and shoot the birds. At intervals along the beach you see a party of fishermen and women, boys and girls, hauling in their nets, hand over hand, with an irregular pull-a half-hour's task; others sleeping away the time in and around their boats till their turn comes; others, again, cutting bait, or spreading their nets to dry. The Sands Hotel is a respectable but solitary house, about three miles from Street, well known in the neighbourhood; and Torcross, a village at the southern extremity of the sands, is much resorted to by visitors, who find on its beach the perfection of sea-bathing. I felt inclined to rest here, but remembering that the next day's walk would not be easy, I kept on, willing to take my chance of sleeping-quarters nearer to the Start.

At Torcross the cliffs begin again, and you mount to the top by a rude stair, and get a view in the reverse direction to that seen from the heights at Street. A little farther and you are stopped by a deep gap leading into a slate quarry, where the noise of a steam