into the gate by Taveyton mills. Here is presented a miniature counterpart of the vale of Parkwood. The same overhanging woods on a smaller scale, the same green fields between, and a mimic Tavy sparkling and dancing on to supply the Mount Tavy pond, and then speeding apace to join the greater river. Retracing our steps, we proceed on our way, ascending one eminence after another reminding one of the Christian pilgrim's eternal "Hill of Difficulty," until a fresh gale plays upon us, and in a short time we are on the heath clad moor:

"A range of unappropriated earth

Where, unmolested wanderers, we behold

The shining giver of the day diffuse
His brightness o'er a tract of barren land.
Gay as our spirits, free as our desires
As our enjoyments boundless."

WORDSWORTH.

What delight to tread the soft turf,-to inhale the health-inspiring breeze, and to listen to the warbling of the lark as mounting to the clouds it fills the air with its ringing melody. The distance is greater than we imagined between the road and the summit of the hill,— the eye is so much deceived on this wild common. Then too, the latter part of the ascent is made difficult by rough blocks of granite scattered in wild confusion, over which we must scramble to gain the desired point. At length we have attained our wishes, and gaze with delight on the scene. I remember visiting it one morning before sunrise. A rich purple glow was spread over the whole landscape. One small eminence to the left was especially deep in shade; then streaks of red began to appear behind it; a golden hue succeeded, whilst a deep stillness prevailed around; suddenly the sun shot up, gilding the summit of each tor with yellow light, and at the same moment a lark sprang from its nest, and a breeze stirred the tops of the heath flowers;-all nature apparently

being called into life at the appearance of the God of day. A sleeping mist rolling from the valleys displayed the wide-spread landscape at our feet. On one side as far as the eye could reach, were cultivated patches of corn, interspersed with smiling fields, and small cottages, each one the centre of some scene of busy life; the town of Tavistock appeared embosomed in its hills, and the river Tamar winding like a thread of silver between its wooded shores, until it reached the sea, which we could just discern with the promontory of Mount Edgcumbe in the distance. Turning to the other side we beheld the uncultivated moor frowning in solitary grandeur with its hundred tors and mountain streams, varied only by the hut of the turf cutter, or the withered trunk of a blasted tree. Such was the view that presented itself on the morning of our excursion to see the sun arise on the waste. Now every thing is smiling under the influence of its noon-tide beams; we descend and seek shelter from its heat in the rocky lane which leads to the quiet farm of Southern-town. Here a colony of rooks are busy in forming their future homes; what a scene of happy industry! they are pulling hard at the tufts of wool on the black thorn, and collecting the broken twigs which lie scattered on the ground. They have settled on some noble elms, but we must not stop to admire them longer; choosing the bye road that leads to the little village of Petertavy, we follow its windings passing Mr. Crossing's white cottage, and the neat parsonage-house, and arriving soon in view of the church tower, surrounded by its spreading trees.

"Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
"Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

"The rude forefathers of the village sleep; "

merry

Quiet and undisturbed, save by the shouts of the boys who frequent the neighbouring school, is the small church-yard. In summer it is quite over-shadowed by

the umbrageous foliage of its protecting trees. Many 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