24 
FERNY COMBES. 
lighthouse, stands, guarding the landlocked harbour. 
Hillsborough rises on one side, with the remains 
of an ancient camp, looking down on the town; 
further on are the Seven Tors with their rugged 
tops, and the vast mass of Langleigh Cleve, rising 
high behind them, shuts in the view. 
I cannot attempt to describe a town where steam¬ 
boats, coaches, and vans do congregate, and where 
“parties,” mounted on scraggy donkeys (looking 
as if they were allowed a straw per diem), meet 
you at every turn. 
Ilfracombe is a pretty place,—“ a nice place,” an 
agreeable place, a gay place, for it has a delightful 
public walk, terraced along the rocks, where a hand 
plays twice a day, and folks walk up and down 
admiring the scenery and themselves; to say no¬ 
thing of the soirees and public halls. 
Besides these attractions, there are the tunnels 
cut through the hills to reach the beach, which would 
otherwise he inaccessible, except at low water. 
Here, one day last summer, we counted no less 
than thirty-five of those novel brown mushrooms, 
who have for the last two years infested the sea- 
coast, all seated together so close you could not 
have passed between them: besides sundry other 
specimens, in groups of half-a-dozen, some perched 
upon the rocks, some sketching, some making holes 
