SUMMER IN SOMERSET. 275 



resound musically as the water strikes them. Ferns are 

 growing so thickly in the hedge that soon it will seem 

 composed of their fronds ; the first June rose hangs 

 above their green tips. A water-ousel with white breast 

 rises and flies on ; again disturbed, he makes a circle, 

 and returns to the stream behind. On the moist earth 

 there is the print of a hare's pad ; here is a foxglove out 

 in flower ; and now as the incline rises heather thickens 

 on the slope. Sometimes we wander beside the stream- 

 let which goes a mile into the coombe — the shadow is 

 deep and cool in the vast groove of the hill, the shadow 

 accumulates there, and is pressed by its own weight — 

 up slowly as far as the ' sog/ or peaty place where the 

 spring rises, and where the sundew grows. Sometimes 

 climbing steep and rocky walls — scarce sprinkled with 

 grass — W e pause every other minute to look down on 

 the great valley which reaches across to Dunkery. 

 The horned sheep, which are practically wild, like wild 

 creatures, have worn out holes for themselves to lie 

 in beside the hill. If resolution is strong, we move 

 through the dark heather (soon to be purple), startling 

 the heath-poults, or black game, till at last the Channel 

 opens, and the far-distant Flat and Steep Holms lie, as 

 it looks, afloat on the dim sea. This is labour enough ; 

 stern indeed must be the mind that could work at sum- 

 mer's noon in Somerset, when the apple vineyards slum- 

 ber ; when the tall foxgloves stand in the heavy heat and 

 the soft air warms the deepest day-shadow so that 

 nothing is cool to the touch but the ferns. Is there 

 anything so good as to do nothing ? 



Fame travels slowly up these breathless hills, and 

 pauses overcome in the heated hollow lanes. A 

 famous wit of European reputation, when living, resided 

 in Somerset. A traveller one day chancing to pass 



