A PARADISE OF FERNS. 
67 
Rhine; 5 for the Dart is the only English river 
which can claim, with its intended significance, 
that distinctive title. 
From the brow of a hill whose summit, about a 
mile from the town, commands a magnificent 
prospect of hill, dale, and river, two lanes run, 
uniting in a point at the hill-top, but spreading 
away from each other as they sweep downwards 
towards the river’s brink. 
On leaving the town in the vicinity of the Quay 
the road turns round to the right, passes between 
high, moss-covered walls, and, after a short and 
sharp ascent for a few yards, suddenly wheels 
round to the left, and narrows into the dimensions 
of a lane. Turning for a moment before con¬ 
tinuing the ascent, we get a lovely peep of the 
cluster of houses lying just a little below us, with 
the church tower rising from their midst. 
Now—wending upwards—the path narrows 
still more between high hedges which rise on each 
side. Two or three more graceful bendings to 
right and to left, and then our lane suddenly 
widens as if to invite the tourist to pause in his 
ascent, and turn round. 
