'
But, see, as we round the Hangman, what a change of scene--the
square-blocked sandstone cliffs dip suddenly under dark slate-beds,
fantastically bent and broken by primeval earthquakes. Wooded
combes, and craggy ridges of rich pasture-land, wander and slope
towards a labyrinth of bush-fringed coves, black isolated tide-rocks,
and land-locked harbours. There shines among the woods the Castle of
Watermouth, on its lovely little salt-water loch, the safest harbour
on the coast; and there is Combe-Martin, mile-long man-stye, which
seven centuries of fruitless silver-mining, and of the right (now
deservedly lost) of 'sending a talker to the national palaver,' have
neither cleansed nor civilized. Turn, turn thy head away, dear
Claude, lest even at this distance some foul odour taint the summer
airs, and complete the misfortune already presaged by that pale, sad
face, sickening in the burning calm! For this great sun-roasted
fire-brick of the Exmoor range is fairly burning up the breeze, and
we have nothing but the tide to drift us slowly down to Ilfracombe.
Pages:
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272