anemones and other curious ocean flowers; and round about numerous jelly fishes, stranded or melting away, or gently rotating on the surface of the water: all the life of an aquarium, without its confinement. And as the glinting ripples danced to the beach before the gladsome breeze, the poet's imagery seemed yet more exquisite than when viewed merely through the words: "The bridegroom sea Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride; A little farther, and you come to a port in miniature-a small basin in which some half-dozen fishingboats may float, surrounded by rocks, with no outlet but a narrow groove worn through the reef. The fishermen, however, turn it to account, notwithstanding the contracted entrance, which must necessitate delicate steering, and use it as a harbour; and in the hollows of the big rock close by they find store-rooms for their tackle and vaults for their fish. Now Prawle Point is in full view, rising grandly from the waves; a majestic pile of crags, pierced by an arch below, through which the adventurous may row a boat in calm weather. Its sides are steep; but when at the top, among the huge gray hummocks of gneiss, treading the soft turf and pink thrift-blossoms, you will find delightful restingplaces. The rocks dip inwards, and form numerous ledges on the face of the Point, where, scrambling from one to the other, you may sit on a cushion of lichens and enjoy the scene. Westwards, Bolt Head, outrivalling the Prawle in elevation, terminates a bay, the shores of which, alternate hill and hollow, and full of indentations, where ivy creeps down to the green twinkling water, are wondrously wild and beautiful. That break yonder shows the entrance to Salcombe estuary, which you will have to cross before the day is over, and there are the sloping hill-sides along which lies your route for the next few miles. Had I time I would visit all the headlands round England. I like these outstretched points that dispute old Ocean's empire. Whether in calm or storm there is something interesting about them-oftentimes magnificent and sublime. Drenched by the salt spray, and swept by howling gales when seasons are fitful, there are times when the sunlight sleeps on their brow, when soft breezes caress their sturdy front, and the ripples whisper low at their foot. Hours are too short to familiarise oneself with their moods and features; I wished for days, but holiday limits were not to be overstepped. The Prawle and the Bolt are the southernmost extremities of Devonshire. It is something to sit on the outward ledge and think of all that lies behind. So quiet was the time during my halt that the voices of the men speaking to one another in the trawl-boats off the Point could be distinctly heard, though some three hundred feet below. In such moments one forgets some of the hard realities of life. Just then, however, the bow of a steamer, leaving Plymouth Sound, emerged slowly from beyond the Bolt, then the entire hull, labouring and smoking as if overtasked; another moment and there appeared the mighty bulk and tall masts of a ship of the line, compared with which the steamer appeared but a pigmy. It was the Royal William, the first of our vessels of war towed across Channel to embark French troops for service in the Baltic. It was an interesting sight; but not at all in harmony with a peaceful reverie. Then across the slopes and levels, climbing two or three stone fences on the way until you see the path again, as a faint, irregular line running along the hillside midway between the summit and base; now inwards, now outwards; now up, now down; and everywhere dense patches of gorse over which the red dodder spreads here and there its slender fibres, complex as a spider's web. You see all the sweep of the hills: one side, as it were, of a Scottish glen transferred to the sea-shore. You must look to your feet, for the path in places takes sharp and awkward turns, which are marked by a lump of white crystalline rock, placed by the coastguard men to serve as indicators when nights are dark and foggy. I found this part of the route particularly exhilarating, and wished it longer. But after two or three miles you come to the foot of the hill crowned by the Rickham coast-guard station. It was warm work mounting the steep field that covers the whole of the slope. "Ain't she a pictur', Sur?" said a woman on her way down, pointing to the great war-ship that crept farther and farther from the land. A picture truly; and to meet with a haymaker able to appre ciate it was an event: the first of the kind in my experience. ap All hands were out at the top looking at the vessels through their telescopes, and commenting on their pearance with emulous pride. It was "all up" with the Russians. The chief boatman was going down to Salcombe on an official errand, and offered to accompany me. The path was still high up on the hill-side, and every step brought us nearer to the mouth of the estuary I had seen from the Prawle. He had something to say as we walked about the effect of the sudden demand of men for the navy; all the able-bodied men under fifty had been taken away from Rickham, and their places partly supplied by old pensioners, not to the advantage of the service. At some stations the lieutenant had gone too, leaving the chief boatman in charge, so urgent was the call for competent officers. The men rather liked the promotion, as it brought them an extra shilling per day; and smuggling now-a-days "wasn't much to speak of." Each man has to find his own clothes, and give five pounds a year rent for his house and garden, and he receives as pay a guinea a week, and an annual bonus of five pounds, equivalent to living rent free. "It isn't over much," said my companion, talking over his shoulder, "but there's excitement in our life, hard as it is at times. And then we have always the chance of getting our boys apprenticed on board government ships, and off our hands pretty early; so we make out on the whole tolerably well." The path, gradually descending at it turned, brought us to a level on the margin of the estuary, where stands a low, square shed, sheltering the two guns with which the men occasionally practise firing at a mark moored a mile or more out to sea. When near the ferry-house we scrambled down the steep bank to the coast-guard boat that lay in a snug little cove, and were soon rowing towards the western shore. There lay Salcombe, looking pleasant and respectable in the distance, the woods about it greener and more luxuriant than any, and the water bluer. Yonder on the right, its church-tower prominent on the hill-top, is the village of Portlemouth; and the view up the estuary tempts you to explore its windings as far as Kingsbridge. There is Lord Kinsale's estate of Ringrone; there Lord Courtenay's on the Molt, that singular wooded eminence projecting between two bare sandy beaches. Indeed, Salcombe and its neighbourhood are so well sheltered that the vegetation partakes somewhat of a tropical character; the aloe grows, and orange and lemon trees blossom in the open air; myrtles flourish as gardenhedges; and the teeming flower-beds respond to the genial warmth. The two sides of the estuary are in striking contrast; and when the heights beyond the town are crossed, the prospect is dreary enough to please a misanthropist. To seaward you see the Black Rock, and smaller rocks peering out here and there, and buoys and channel marks. "The harbour is a good one," as the boatman said, "when once you are in it." The road to Bolt Head runs parallel to the estuary. |