fully appreciated. Many a happy and devout hour may be enjoyed here by him who loves the solitude and the beauty of Nature:

Here you stand,

Adore, and worship, when you know it not;
Pious beyond the intention of your thought;
Devout above the meaning of your will.

Nature fails not to provide,

Impulse and utterance. The whispering air
Sends inspiration from the shadowy heights
And blind recesses of the caverned rocks;
The little rills and waters numberless,
Inaudible by daylight, blend their notes
With the loud streams.

Very reluctantly I left this beautiful Glen, in which I fain would have tarried for many an hour longer. I scaled innumerable heights, in company with my guide, on our homeward way. I hungered and thirsted, for verily the keen air of the mountain was keenly provocative of hunger and thirst. Grateful, very grateful, did I feel to find a humble hostelry near to Sourton Down, where we duly regaled our selves on biscuits and cider-a fare most welcome to an undyspeptic tourist. A Moorman, with his hat fastened to his head by "whisks" of hay, was also feeding with great gusto in this little wayside inn. "Here's your onner's elth and appyniss," he said, as he drank the beer that had been presented to him. "Ees, zir, (he continued), tis a turribul place es the Moer for to maik ee ait. By Gor I nawd a man, who went with a gentleman a-fishing where you've abeen. Beel Bradden-vor that wos es nam-had tookt with en a gert piece of raw bacon. Prisently the gennelman begun to confess hunger, and then Beel pulled out es bacon. 'Wot's that you've a-got ?' said the gennelman. 'Bacon zir,' said Beel. 'Give us a bit do ee,' said the gennelman. 'I weel, zir,' said Beel. And the gennelman ait a gert lump of the raw bacon,

with a crist of bread, and zed he'd nivver ait anything swait avaur."

The Sun was sinking behind the green hills, as he has gone down these many years; and all Nature was seeking repose, as she has sought it in many a bright April day of past joyous spring times, never, never more to return to us, as I, greeting the loved ones at the welcome, open door, passed, my heart beating with grateful emotion-for did I not feel that a happy communion with the beautiful forms of Nature had inspired me with fresh hope and courage and strength to discharge the manifold duties of Life, the awful significance and inestimable value of which I fear too many of us eldom or never realize.

LIDFORD.

It was a balmy day in May which I had the good fortune to select for the purpose of exploring some more of the picturesque Moorland scenery, lying near to the old town of Okehampton. The morning was fair and lustrous, as with a couple of agreeable companions I rattled merrily and rapidly along in a comfortable trap, drawn by a well-bred animal. How can I better describe the radiant features of Nature than in the graphic words of Browning :

The dripping blossoms, and the fire-tinted drops
On each live spray, the vapours steaming up,
And an expressless glory in the East.

We arrived, after a pleasant and expeditious journey, within the bounds of the ancient borough. The streets were lively with rustics preparing to return from market; and vocal, or rather squeaking, with recalcitrant pigs, who had just changed owners, and were not yet quite at home with their new masters. We arrived at our hostelry a few minutes before the market ordinary-an admirable and ancient insti. tution, which is far more honoured in the observance than in the breach, as all those who know what is good for themselves can testify. One gentleman whom I met lives a few miles off, and he has no less than eight hundred acres of land devoted to silkworm cultivation-the trees for food being brought all the way from Japan. Verily it is a wonderful thing that from a far-off, and until lately almost undiscovered, country should come food for the sustenance of the

little organism that, on the once barren wastes of the Moor, or adjacent thereto, spins silk to adorn "lovely woman in the dear old country. When the London gentleman present had formed a company, and had commenced to cultivate and colonize the moorland, it was suggested that he should invite a judicious number of the Moor farmers to his hospitable table. A humorous gentleman suggested the provision of a sufficient quantity of liquor, on the ground of the absorbent qualities of the said Moormen's stomachs, which he compared to a sponge. One John Roberts was selected as a fair type of a Dartmoor convive. John was the keeper of a small hostelry at Newhouse, and he was a very waggish and eccentric character. Moreover he was a bit of a poet, and his sign contained these lines:

John Roberts lives here,

Sells brandy and beer,

Your spirits to cheer;

And should you want meat,

To make up the treat,

There be rabbits to eat.

One hard frosty night, John was returning across the Moor from a carousal. Being in a jolly and comfortable mood, and thinking probably that he was in his bed, he laid himself down on the heathery but frosty couch, and when he awoke in the morning he found his head, as he said, so "clitched" (or frozen) to the soil as to make it supremely difficult to detach it therefrom. He contrived to relieve his eranium however, and to appear before his weeping spouse-who thought he had perished in the Moor-not much the worse for sleeping on the "cold, cold ground." John Roberts was a Jacobin, and was wont to say that the country no more wanted a king than his coat required two rows of buttons. It was said of him that he was one of the most accomplished of rustic orthographers, inasmuch as he once accomplished the feat of spelling

the word "usage" without a single letter belonging to it-viz.: "yozitch."

We ascended Ashbury Tor, a rocky eminence, from which I viewed the Exmoor-hills, Whitstone, Winkleigh, North Tawton, Iddesleigh, and Hatherleigh Moor. From here also I gazed down into a deep valley of the most picturesque and romantic character. On the opposite side are the wooded slopes of Holstock, with Belstone Tor, or tors, and the grand old summit of Cesdon, not far in the distance. Down in the valley Moor Brook unites, in melodious concord, with the East Okement. I decended into the valley, the slopes of which, although rugged, were bright with the golden light of the gorse. We walked, or rather crawled, through a road by the side of the river. The stream rippled, and babbled, and sung, over its rocky bed of granite, and here and there flashed into myriads of bright, lively, and harmonious cascades. We crossed the river at a spot, called St. Michael's Ford, and ascended the height on the other side, en route to Belstone village. We were on the summit of the hill; and here we rested awhile, for the ascent had been toilsome. The sun was setting in a lustrous sea of gold, and clouds like golden ships were sailing in it. There was rapturous melody in the distant woodlands, and whispers of peace and love in the circumambient air. Verily

There are spirits in the air,

And genii of the evening breeze,
And gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair

As star beams among twilight trees.

I lingered amidst the deepening shadows, listening to the sweet evening sounds, finding solace and comfort in the beneficent presence of bounteous and beautiful Nature.

A night of sweet, if short repose, and we were off on the following morning to Lidford. Our vehicle was filled with joyous spirits. We passed over