JUNE IN DEVONSHIRE.

TOURISTS should visit Devonshire before they go to the Lakes or to Scotland, or they will be disappointed. Devonshire has beauties of its own; but when so much has been written in its praise, the traveller is apt to form exaggerated expectations.

Now-a-days we can breakfast in London and dine at Torquay, but it was not so formerly, and the traveller by railway pays for this convenience by not having those extensive views from the brows of hills which were continually rewarding one for many a weary mile of jolting in the good old days of mail-coach travelling.

Soon after leaving Exeter the railway runs parallel to the course of the Exe, which at high water presents a very respectable appearance; but it is always low water when the train in which you are is going past, and you seem to see so many sandbanks that, unless you are well grounded in your geography, you may be inclined to doubt whether that is really the estuary of the Exe after all. But after passing the Starcross station, and also a little tongue of sand

which projects a long way into the Exe, just at its mouth, you find that the railway is running parallel to the sea wall of the open sea; and a curious sight it is, till you get habituated to it, to see the heads of the promenaders just above the top of the parapet, whilst you are being whisked past them at the rate of thirty miles an hour.

After leaving Dawlish, a succession of tunnels varies the monotony of the line, and, after leaving Teignmouth you recede from the sea, and penetrate inland, following upwards the estuary of the Teign, where, of course, it still being low water, you perhaps see a heron busily employed on some piscatorial excursion.

At Newton Abbot you leave the main line, and a branch conducts you to Torquay.

Never having been in Italy I cannot speak on that point from my own experience, but I am assured by one, who has lived long in the southern peninsula, that Torquay is the most Italian-like of all the English watering-places; and, certainly, when from the heights above Daddy's Hole I looked across the Bay, and gazed on its deep blue waters, the first question I asked myself was, "Can the Bay of Naples be more beautiful?"

The height of the cliffs, and the depth of the bay, give it a peculiar character, and those who

have once gazed on the scene will not find it easily fade from the memory.

It is true you cannot look across the Bay without thinking of some of the many historical scenes enacted on its waters, and this, no doubt, adds to the interest felt in the scene, so that we cannot pass an opinion on the view simply as a beautiful spot, wild from the hands of nature.

I have not visited this spot many times, but I always found it set me in a contemplative mood. I could not but reflect on the extreme grandeur of all beautiful scenes caused by diversities in the configuration of the earth's crust. A mountain or a waterfall is not merely something pretty for a few people to look at; it is a heirloom to all the races of man for all generations. Think of the millions yet unborn who will derive pleasure from gazing on Mont Blanc or Niagara! The productions of the earth, whether animal, vegetable or mineral, appeal only to the sympathies of a few of us, but the outward form of the globe itself is a grander object, and there are few who can look on any extraordinary conformation un.moved.

To those who are of a more dreamy temperament there is something exquisitely refreshing in resting on the short slippery turf, fanned by the soft sea breezes, the wild bee's hum mingling

with the music of the distant

waves,

and the per

fume of the thyme, bruised by the superincumbent weight of the reclining Sybarite, adds yet another to the pleasures of the senses.

But never being an advocate of the dolce far niente, I cannot recommend a too long indulgence in such pleasures; whilst there is work to be done we must be up and doing; and there is no lack of work for those who are capable of doing it.

How prettily are situated many of the villas scattered about in the neighbourhood of Torquay; every here and there you come upon one which appears a perfect snuggery, and which you might be disposed to imagine the perpetual abode of bliss.

But let us leave Torquay and its villas behind us, and sally forth to one of the numerous lanes. A lane in Devonshire is very different from a lane in other parts of the country; and though, no doubt, it has its beauties, it acts as a sad drawback, by preventing you seeing anything of the surrounding country. The high earth-banks on either side are carpeted with flowers-there are the bright blue blossoms of the bird's eye (Veronica Chamædrys), the pink flowers and ruddy stems of the Herb Robert (Geranium

Robertianum), the yellowish spikes and shining leaves of the navelwort (Cotyledon umbilicus), and many other less conspicuous plants. The hawthorn blossoms still linger on the hedge that tops the bank, the thrush sings forth his merry note, the chiff-chaff appears never to wearyclouds, so necessary to a full enjoyment of a summer's walk, shielding us from the heat of the sun, and causing a variety in the face of nature it would not otherwise possess. A gleam of sunshine affords more pleasure than one hour's uninterrupted bright sunlight, simply owing to the change it produces.

Oh! it is pleasant after toiling along a Devonshire lane for several miles, to find, near the summit of the hill, some gate leading into a field, whence you can get a view of the surrounding scenery; and if your position commands an extensive range of view, both of land and sea, the blue waters rippling in the breeze, or showing here and there a few white streaks of foam, and the contrast of the dull red fallow fields, and varied shades of green of the different fields that are in cultivation-there is much to please the eye, much on which it can feast with evident satisfaction.

But how much are these pleasures increased to the naturalist! to him the note of each bird,