terrupted plain of smooth grass; seawards, when the tide is down, all is a level, uninterrupted plain of smooth sand. The Ridge stretches out to the bar of the Taw and Torridge; and then it is no more a pebble-ridge, but a heap of sand-hills.

Strange feelings and sensations arise, as you stand on the top of the Ridge, and watch the incoming waves of the sea break at your feet. The sound is that of a continuous thunder-roll heard at a distance; but the sight beggars all description. Although there was scarcely a breath of air stirring, the waves were magnificent, as they rolled one after another, foam-crested, in mighty sweeps, only to be dashed to pieces on the immoveable barrier of stones wonderfully erected there, as if to protect the land from its angry foe. In stormy weather, we were told by our very intelligent friend, the master of the Appledore National School, the sight from the bridge is sublimely grand. At such times it is impossible to stand on the top of the ridge; and he had often laid himself down on the bare stones, while the waves dashed over his body. The combined roar of the winds and waves at such times is terrible to hear. Nothing can be heard, except, on some occasional lull in the storm, the sad and melancholy cry of the gulls, as they fly over the troubled waters. We were not lucky enough to get such a scene as this; but the sight on ordinary days is not one to forget. We saw the place in its brightest and most loveable aspect,—in its Tennysonian, and not its Byronic, mood. In a storm, what a place to read Childe Harold's sublime apo

strophe to the ocean; in a calm like this we more appropriately chose the laureate's exquisite lyric; and as wave after wave rolled harmlessly on the pebbles, we exclaimed, with an appreciation of the words never experienced before,

"Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

"O well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play!

O well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

"And the stately ships go on

For the haven under the hill;

But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,

And the sound of a voice that is still!

"Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me."

The coast scene about here is very wild. You have a fine view of the Lundy Island; of the Braunton Burrows and their two lighthouses; the lonely ferry-house, the landing where at high water a red ball is raised to tell the sailor that he may safely cross the dangerous bar which stretches across the mouths of the Taw and the Torridge, and which has proved so fatal to many a goodly vessel and her crew. It was low water when we left the Burrows; and there we saw the deadly sand-ridge barring up, as it

were, the entrance to the two rivers. At such a time the whole of the surrounding scenery looks wild and desolate. Just the coast for wrecks, and one in whose sight many have occurred. Now, however, the peaceful ocean lay smiling in its strength, and its waters broke in gentle ripples at our feet; bringing starfish, anemones, shells, and beautiful weeds, as their offerings and tribute to us. We would gladly have taken a boat to Bideford; but, not being able to obtain one, had to walk.

We are now rambling over the stony road which the Romans made, and on which the feet of their world-conquering legions have trod; on which, later down in our country's history, the fierce Danes and fiery Saxons had marched to their bloody contests and terrible encounters; and, later still, the noble Devonshire heroes had gathered in answer to England's call; and here, in our day, wonderingly walk some of the bravest sailors of our coast. For such are the Appledore men. Living on a dangerous coast, their mettle is often put to the test; and we were told with a just pride, that never did the Appledore men refuse to put off the boat in aid of a struggling and storm-driven ship. The winds may rage, the thunders roll, the lightnings flash, the waves be "mountains high;" but the noble-hearted men will "man their life-boat," and the not less noble-hearted women stand on the wave-dashed coast, cheering by their presence, their shouts, the waving of their handkerchiefs, the men in their heroic task. Thus are husbands, lovers, sons, encouraged in their perilous

errand of mercy; and of such pith are the men and women made who keep England the mistress of the sea.

With, if possible, a deeper love for our land, with a thorough conviction of her worth, and a firmer faith in her continual greatness, we slowly "wended our way" through Northam village into Bideford town; where in pleasant talk we again enjoyed our delightful ramble through Appledore, over the Northam Burrows, and again heard in fancy the deep-sounding murmur of the sea, as its foam-crested waves broke on the Pebble Ridge.

223

THE VILLAGE OF ST. BRANOCK.

It was one of the hottest of English summer days, when we stepped into a boat to be rowed from Appledore to Braunton,-the village of St. Branock. The tide was out, and our sea ride was unfortunately a short one, while our walk over the Braunton sands was from the same cause a long and heavy one. From the spot where we stepped out of the boat to the house of our destination were some four miles of walking, almost one and a half of which was over the wet, sandy coast. It was a most fatiguing walk, which only the matchless glory of the day, the magnificent scenes by which we were environed, and the occasionally refreshing sea breeze, rendered at all tolerable. We scarcely need add, that the walk was a very slow one; that we paused frequently enough to talk on every object that presented itself to our notice, and that probably more than an hour was spent in trudging through that mile and a half. With light hearts, but with wet skins, we did trudge it; and at last left the sands for a walking path, much more easy, but not a whit less hot.

From the edge of the coast-line, till you reach Braunton, the road lies over a magnificent stretch of alluvial land, which has been rescued from the sea.