DART 153 



bluebells grew, and the fishermen struggled through 

 jungles of silvery sallow ; the other has passed that 

 old pack-horse viaduct at Postbridge, and reflected 

 many a sheet of shining broom and gorse upon 

 its way. At the tryst, scarlet harvests of the rowan 

 are already ripe ; whortleberries brush the banks of 

 the mingled streams with purple, and green larches 

 dwell above. 



Dart is a young arid happy river still, and innocent 

 of the solemn splendours of deep water that await 

 her ; of the mystery and magic of great woods ; of 

 the unechoing, fertile vales she will presently traverse ; 

 of man's legend, that no year passes but her woman's 

 heart claims toll of human life ; of the song and ripple 

 of advancing flow from the sea ; of her journey's 

 end, when she shall be lost and melted into the 

 eternal lover of all rivers. Past the desolation of the 

 Moor, under the granite crowns of it, and winding 

 about the footstools of giant hills, the river shines 

 and sparkles between her banks by villages, by home- 

 steads, by little mills, beneath ivy-clad bridges ; and 

 as she passes onward, her volume deepens, widens, 

 and wins a more solemn note of song. Here scarps 

 of granite spring from the oak-clad hills ; here pines 

 crown an acclivity ; here the margin meets some ferny 

 combe, and the bracken glimmers blue-green under 

 summer haze glimmers and sweetens the air, and 

 grows to the brink of the water. There rise the 

 forests of Holne, and under aisles of shadows, grow- 

 ing hushed and deep, the river twines where king- 



