CHAPTER IV. 



A HOLIDAY IN DEVONSHIRE. 



" Fair are the provinces that England boasts, 

 Lovely the verdure, exquisite the flowers 

 That bless her hills and dales, her streamlets clear, 

 Her seas majestic, and her prospects all, 

 Of old, as now, the pride of British song. 



But England sees not on her charming map 

 A goodlier spot than our fine Devon ; rich 

 Art thou in all that Nature's hand can give, 

 Land of the matchless view ! " 



DEVONSHIRE, stealing into one's thoughts in the hot, un- 

 resting City, brings delicious suggestions. Amidst the dust 

 of the desert it is the dream of a land flowing with milk and 

 honey. The overworked man looks forward to its green 

 lanes and luxuriant meads, to its cool darkened woods and 

 refreshing streams, with a grateful sense of coming rest and 

 freedom. Other counties have their special nooks and 

 corners famed for picturesqueness and noted as the beaten 

 track of tourists ; large though it be, there is no other 

 county in England bearing in its entirety so excellent a 

 general character as fruitful Devon. 



Announce that you are going down into Devonshire, and 

 you have said enough. No one asks to what particular 

 district you are shaping your course : so long as it is Devon- 

 shire you must perforce enjoy yourself. Does it not possess 

 a soft, warm coast of surpassing loveliness, where the myrtle 



