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the umbrageous foliage of its protecting trees. rude tomb stones attract our notice for their quaint design, or curious epitaph. Quitting the low gate that forms an entrance to the hallowed ground, we descend a small declivity, and turning to the left arrive at a spot which has often been the subject of the artist's pencil. An ancient mill covered with ivy, and a rocky mountain brook with its rustic bridge once formed the picture. Now the old house is replaced by a new one, which, however neat in its design, and pretty in situation, does not please us so much as its predecessor; such is the force and bond of old associations. Crossing the bridge we follow the mill-stream, admiring the green meadows and noble trees that border it, taking a sketch too of some old cottages, with a gate and trees, and soon after come upon the object of our search,-"the Combe;" a little gem of the kind, with its scattered rocks, and the same foaming stream, and another "clam" or a bridge formed of two rude flat stones, and a supporting rail. This conducts to a turfy slope broken by masses of granite, seemingly hurled from the tor which crowns the height, and on one side encloses the valley. Camomile flowers,

and wild thyme fill the air with fragrance, while the rocks are variegated with red and yellow lichen, the most beautiful that can be seen, and with green moss, as bright and soft as the richest velvet. A succession of mimic waterfalls resound through the valley; in one spot, five can be seen at once, leaping in playful gambols above and around a blackened rock, whose summit is worn into a deep basin by the constant rush of the sportive stream. This is a fine place for a feast in the open air. Our provisions may be spread without fear of intruders, so secluded is the spot, altho' not above a quarter of a mile from the neighbouring village. As we retrace our steps from the head of the combe, we catch in the distance a fine view of the pointed eminence of

Brentor, illuminated by the rays of the setting sun. The trees around the village church stand out cold and colourless, while the church itself looks more solemn and unearthly contrasted with the bright radiance. On leaving Petertavy we may wander homeward by its sister village of Marytavy. A pleasant walk unites the twin churches, which are as like as twins always are, with a shade of difference which a stranger at a distance could scarcely perceive. There is the same tower turning eastward to present its orisons to the rising sun, the same number of roofed aisles with a projecting chancel; a similar churchyard with surrounding trees; and a cross at the gate of each, once showed that the edifices were erected under the rule of Catholicism. But the cross at Petertavy is there no longer; that at Marytavy is still to be seen. The trees at Petertavy are umbrageous limes, planted in regular order around the church-yard, and growing in as perfect symmetry as if cropped by a skilful gardener in the avenues of Versailles. Those at Marytavy are detached noble looking sycamores spreading their crooked branches here and there and every where, totally regardless of prescribed forms, but setting forth all the loveliness of nature. The villages are alike straggling and dirty, painful to examine when near, but like squalled poverty looking well in a picture. They are only "hafe a mile apeart" so the miners say, but it may be a Cornish half mile, which is half as long again as a Devonshire one. A pleasant walk it is that unites them, first between close hedge-rows, and then opening upon a valley unique in its character, as radiant in beauty. The Tavy here flows by a line of rocks which rises precipitously like the wall of an ancient castle. So perfect is the resemblance that you look for the turretted battlements above, and may fancy the old warder sounding his horn to announce the arrival of strangers to the lordly tenants within. On the nearer bank of the stream is "the keep," an isolated

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