194 FERNY DELL. A NINETEENTH CENTURY PASTORAL. THE loveliest scenes of nature are often those which are the least frequently visited. Her sweetest and her richest spots are generally remote from the ordinary path of wayfaring men; and they have not the patience, the taste, nor the desire, to seek them out. The pleasant nooks of the world are made for those who have the wisdom to seek, and the love that will not be turned aside; and who from experience have learned to put little trust in guide-books, but like to find out and earn their pleasures for themselves. The countries and the counties which it is proper to visit, or "do," as the phrase is, are mapped and charted to suit the wealthy and too often indolent tourist; but the finger-posts afford but small direction or guidance to the true rambler. He knows that the places mentioned are for the most part worth visiting; but he also knows that the places not mentioned are more so. And, while he wisely takes the guide-book and uses it, he does not allow his judgment to be at its mercy, but strikes out for himself new paths, unfrequented routes, out-of-theway places; and he always finds, at least we always found, that such departures from use and wont amply repay him for any extra toil which such indulgences may cost him. The folk who ride through a country in carriages see but a small part of what is beautiful and picturesque, compared with him who, knapsack on back, and stick in hand, trusts to his own good pair of legs for his pleasure and profit; who turns into the byelanes; trudges up the steep hill-side; wanders up the banks of the mountain streams; or discovers some hidden glen where fairies still make their homes, without any fear of being disturbed by "this noisy, busy nineteenth century of ours," as the philosophers phrase it. Wealth has its advantages and its disadvantages; for in this world happily "one thing is set over against another," and the law of compensation is a pretty fair and just one in the end; and we who walk can afford to commiserate those who ride. The poor in spirit shall inherit the earth, and it is the pedestrian who enjoys the true delights of travel, and to him nature reveals herself in her loveliest and most glorious aspect. It is with pleasure that we confess our love for all such turnings away from the beaten track, for all such unfrequented places. We love "the violet 'neath a mossy stone, half hidden from the eye," and the tree-secluded glen and glade, which, like modest maidens, hide themselves from the too daring gaze of mere passers by. We love the hidden streamlet whose tiny bubble is scarcely heard until you touch the flowers on its banks, and which is ever singing in its joyous carelessness,— "I chatter, chatter as I flow, To join the brimming river; For men may come, or men may go, And we desire to be among the "men" who and let its sweet It is therefore one go and listen to its chatterings, music shed its influence upon us. of our customs, whenever we are able to leave the noise and turmoil of the town, and to quit for a brief breathing-space the ordinary routine of life, to seek out all these secluded beauties, and woo and win their smiles for our delight and pleasure. And amply have we been rewarded by success. Many a time have we left the beaten path in search of some unknown and secluded beauty, and never were we disappointed. "Nature never did betray the heart that loved her," and often she has returned a thousand-fold of what we asked; but never did she show herself more gracious, or prove more lavish in her smiles, or exceed the bounty with which she scattered her riches before us, than when we reclined on the green sward of that loveliest of nooks, Ferny Dell. This "retired fairy scene" is in that most picturesque part of England, North Devon; and many are the people who visit that county times without number, but few are the favoured ones who have seen this little gem, this loveliest of its glens. We will suppose our readers are at Bideford, that they have admired its beautiful position as a town, have stood with delight on its long, narrow, many-arched picturesque bridge; have seen its varying aspects by daylight and moonlight; have rambled to Instow, and crossed the waters to Appledore; have shouted with joy as they bounded over the magnificent Northern Burrows, and listened with awe at the "thunderhymn" of the sea, as its waves are dashed against that natural breakwater called the Pebble Ridge. In a word, we will suppose them to have (if that be possible) exhausted Bideford and its neighbourhood, and to be in want of a day's thorough enjoyment. If such be any reader's case, and he or she can procure fitting company, let them set off to Ferny Dell. We will tell them how it may be done. smitten swains of breathed the tale At the time we Some eight miles from Bideford is a small village enjoying the name of Buckland Brewer; and about half a mile thence is Ferny Dell. You pass through Buckland, and wander with delight along a short and picturesque lane, in which the the neighbourhood have often of love to not unwilling ears. rambled down its brambly path it was richly stored with luscious blackberries, while the glorious green or brilliant red berries of the briony glistened in the rays of the brightest autumn sun. The blue scabious, the scarlet pimpernel, the delicate eyebright, the many-flowered foxglove, and a host of other flowers, made us often pause to admire the rich beauty of the lane. At the end of the lane you come to a narrow footpath, lined on each side by blackberry brambles, which pass over the path, and interlace, so that you have to bend and stoop and dodge, as you run on. Only one can pass along at a time; and it is quite a picture to see the lassies runing down the gentle declivities, the gay colours of their dresses contrasting with the verdure of the trees and brambles; and sweeter than the song of the birds, is their laughter, when pursued and caught by some venturous youth. This was done when we visited Ferny Dell, and we can truly say that a fairer or lovelier picture was never yet painted. At the end of the path you come at once upon one of the most enchanting bits of natural beauty that ever met your eye. A small patch of green sward, with light alder trees here and there, and rich ferns spreading their beautifully delicate leaves, and all the wild flowers of the season, adorn the place. This "patch" is almost shut in by trees; and along its base ripples one of the smallest streamlets that ever murmured its music on the trembling air. As you enter you instinctively pause, expecting to see some fairy inhabitants disputing mortal intrusion into their secluded dwelling-places. After a time you quietly walk round it, and enjoy it bit by bit, gradually letting its charms steal over you until your senses are thrilled with delight, and you feel what a joy a thing of beauty is. If at all of a poetic temperament, you will do as we did,—make a real Pastoral of your day at Ferny Dell. Need we say that we did not come to such a place alone? Companions, friends who could appreciate the scene, were with us, and added to its charms. After our first moments of admiration were over, we |