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 viev? ! " 



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 



