ers in the field; and later we saw varied | held riotous sway. An ancient building, groups about the hay-stacks, drinking tea with the gargoyles and casements of ages, and talking and laughing gayly, the looking out from behind crimson and bright colors of their gowns and cordu- white roses that some young hands may roys blending with the evening lights and the pale yellow grain stacked about them. This old farm, like most others in England, belonged to a manor property, and paid rent to the "lord of the manor," though for generations it had been in the hands of one family, and was almost considered their property. The tenant farmers are a fine class; though entirely distinct from the "gentry," still possessing in many instances the qualities which make the backbone of a nation. They are famous in the hunting field, as all readers of English fiction know; and down in that moorland country I heard a group of old farmers lamenting the hunting tendencies of their own class in the present day. "Not a one of 'em now but must keep his two or three beasties in the stable," said an old prophet, lugubriously. "I tell 'ee what it's a-coming to; swamp an' ruin it be. They be for a 'unt, un be, if the crops war all a-goin' back into the airth agin." Three other old heads nodded gravely, and I saw the unwitting subject of these remarks making his way across the common, a tall young man with a free, bold step, and an air better fitted, it is true, for the squire than the yeoman. Now and then the two or three great gentlemen of the neighborhood used to be seen in the village. "The old duke" was of course the leading gentleman; but the county had its earl, baron, baronet, and various esquires of lesser degree, all of whom, together with the clergy, constituted the "county society." The very grand houses were rather dull places, we thought; but some miles from our village was a manor-house which seemed to embody all our ideas of traditional form and quaintness. It was a rambling old house set deep down in a park that was luxuriant in glades and meadows and blooming gardens. The house was approached by a noble avenue of ancient elms, its gable ends peering above a belt of firs, and its old chapel window rising up from a gay garden bed. It was made up of a series of quaint buildings which rambled about a court where shrubs and flowers grew in rich profusion against the gray old walls. A vine with blossoms that later were scarlet hung over the entrance porch, and at one side a white and yellow rose-bush HALL IN MANOR-HOUSE. have planted a few summers ago, is very striking to an American eye. At this manor the contrast was peculiarly impressive. As we stood in the porch, still rough hewn with the stone benches of the fifteenth century, we could lift our hands and pick a whole armful of deep crimson and pale "lady white" roses; and the windows fronting the court were ablaze with blossoms. It I think I never saw a more enchanting hallway than that in the old manor. was long and low, and lined on one side with the quaintest windows, whose diamond-paned casements swung out against the tangle of vines and flowers; on the other with heavily carved old oak presses, which our friends told us had been there since the time of Queen Elizabeth. The music-room had been a chapel long ago, somewhere in the fifteenth century, when the building was a monastery, and its form was so little changed that the niches for statues and holy-water fonts remained, and the vaulted roof still bore the legends and arms of the various bishops who dwelt here in early days. Near by was an old turret stair; and midway down the hall was a grand room with a great sweeping bay-window; such a room as might have seen stately dances centuries gone by, in all that was sumptuous in fabrics and laces; might have heard of the prettiest lanes led away into the quiet country. Who that has ever walked through a genuine English lane forgets its charm? About our moorland village we found every variety, and studied the Devonshire verdure and blossom in many aspects. The roadways are generally narrow; a firm foot and wagon path, with close hedge-rows diversified by bramble, holly, woodbine, honeysuckle, and clematis. Sometimes the tangle of greenery hangs above a rugged stone wall or earthen embankment; sometimes tall trees break the line, and sway across the road with feathery branches through which the sunshine filters slowly; sometimes the banks are all delicately fringed with maiden-hair and ferns, the long fern and the broad-leafed growing in rich profusion, with here and there the color of some dainty wild flower. In the springtime we saw these hedges starred with primroses, and the lower edges plentiful the voices and laughter of all that was fair and grand in Devon. Up stairs the rooms were perpetual surprises as we went from one to another through the picturesque corridors, dipping up and down, with queer angles, and high, deep windows. The most fascinating room of all was that prepared two hundred years ago for the birth of the heir. The roof was arched, the walls were wainscoted, and above was a beautiful frieze with vines and fruit in bass-relief, and over the carved mantel a huge shield with the family crest and coat of arms, and a Latin motto signifying force and courage and fidelity. Those mottoes of old families are fine souvenirs of power; they blazon forth the ambition, the ideal, the final tradition of an old house that perhaps contended for these brave virtues with feasting, riot, and decay. The nineteenth century had crept into the rooms with a slow and not ungraceful movement; bits of the artistic decoration of to-day show-ly colored with lenten lilies and crocuses ed here and there like paint and powder on a worn court beauty; the pale, faded colors of the past, wherever they remained, were treasured with pious care; but of the mediæval furniture which once graced the rooms hardly any was left, and my lady's fireside looked curiously rejuvenated with a deep cushioned chair before it covered with dainty chintz and lace. It was near this old manor that some and the bold "daffadowndillies" which flourish like gay maidens in the heart of the west of England country. In the later summer, when we went down to the moors, all the bold glory had vanished but there were still rich blossoms-foxglove with stems of purple bells, blue flowers, narcissus that lays its pure pale blossoms so softly against the ferns, the gleam of sweet-robin here and there, dan delions, and a tiny white flower that rests on the bosom of the hedges, and even of | We could not see it fairly from the village the moors, in spite of all the fierce winds street, but sauntering one day across a that sweep across the furze and heather, bridge that led into a vine-embowered and finally, best of all, the intense glow of | lane, we came suddenly in view of the the scarlet poppy in fields and road-side, rich upland, with its alternate shades of blazing like live coals in the deep, cool verdure. of Devonshire, between Exeter and Plymouth-a reBehind all this, far back against the gion about ten miles wide and thirty in length; horizon, lay the rich dark coloring of the rocky, barren, uninhabited save by cattle and wild animals, covered with gorse and heather, but destimoor, which can not be written down, or tute of trees, by reason of the fierce blasts that rage even, I think, done justice to in painting; there at all times save in the mildest months of sumit formed the background for our little mer. The region takes its name from the beautiful village, its varied shades toning the per- and flows into the sea at Dartmouth. Much of the river Dart, the English Rhine, which rises in the moor, spective with so rich and dark a beauty land belongs to the Prince of Wales, who visits it that all paler bloom seemed faded and occasionally to hunt the deer, this being now the only lustreless in comparison. The aspect of part of England where the native wild deer exists. The the moor is totally unlike that of any oth-country bordering upon this desolate region is densely er scene; it has an individual character as marked as that of the ocean, or the Alps, or the arctic ice-fields, and no amount of description prepares one against surprise on beholding it for the first time.* Dartmoor, or "the Moor," is a famous tract of half-mountainous country lying across the centre VOL LXI.-No. 361.-2 populated, and has been so for centuries; in fact, if we may judge from tradition, and also by the number of ancient Norman churches which dot the landscape, it is probable that the population of the rural districts was even greater four or five centuries ago than now. One can hardly drive a mile in any part of South Devon without seeing the towers of one or more of these picturesque old churches, and from a hill-top half a dozen may often be counted, but they are not half filled by the modern congregations. purple, brown, and yellow. No need for us to feel the strong pure air blown across it; it typified in a glance the "wind-swept moorlands of the west." We could scent the breath of the strong air, the heather, the mingled odors of herb and earth which make the moorlands keen with fragrance. We felt all impatience for a drive out upon the desolate, fascinating region; but Brunt shook his head. "Not tew-day, zur," he said, looking at the sky. "Yew can't go on to the moor if it has been rainy." "Why not, Brunt?" "Why, zur, it be so moist and soggy like the horses can't stand in it; they gets they feet caught tew once, zur. A day or two later, however, our desire was gratified, and we drove across the bridge, and round by a pretty, peaceful country, the road curving about a hill. We came suddenly upon a strong, fresh breeze charged with life. At the same moment we found the surroundings swiftly changing; from a green-embowered lane we emerged upon a rocky, trackless hill-side, thick with furze and heather, except were gray bowlders were heaped up. The ground was soft and elastic, with a luxuriant vegetation. Above, the sky was half hidden by swift-flying clouds that cast deep shadows on the moor, with shafts of purple and golden light between. The moor seemed endless, yet when we reached a high point we looked down upon a wide sweep of country, a group of villages framed in the rich landscape of two counties, Devon and Somerset. Church and tower, park and hamlet, lay peacefully below us, while the wild, dark upland we were driving across had a peculiar character of its own, suggesting perhaps some unpainted picture, some touch of Hardy's pen, some bit of witchcraft, yet in reality wholly unfamiliar to our eyes and minds. A gale was blowing furiously before we reached the lower plains again, the twilight was fitful enough to satisfy our ghostliest fancies, and the two or three figures we passed of women gathering brambles and furze seemed to close in the scene with a curious effect. Color, fragrance, solitude, and stormthe moorland had shown us all its elements, and it emphasized our impressions of the western country vividly. There was growing animation in the country during the last days of our stay; understood when we learned that at a neighboring town the great "pleasure fair" of the county was shortly to take place. Perhaps the English fairs no longer congregate all the lads and lassies for fun and frolic as in the olden times; yet SPRING STEPS. I. there is enough of primitive festivity | to the long lines of hedge and border. about them to make them amusing and As we drove away, a gust of wind sent entertaining spectacles. From far and some leaves rustling down upon the near the farmers send their goods for sale coach, not red and glistening autumn foon the great day the market-place is the liage such as we knew was coloring the scene of action, and all the minor inns of banks of the Hudson across the water, the town are brave with the decorations but faded yellow leaves-the color that and good cheer of the occasion. Quite made an old-time poet speak of autumn early in the day we arrived in the market as the "time of fading and decay." As town, which was a jumble of old times we curved the hill-side, we looked back, and new, one end fine with villas, cres- and saw the little village embosomed in cents, and squares, and the smartness of its rich uplands, peaceful, active, and provincial fashion, the other sleepy, primitive-a picture worth seeking and quaint, and old-fashioned. The market- carrying away. place stood midway, circled around with fine market buildings, in which by ten o'clock every variety of booth was arranged. Out in the square the side shows and stalls were prominent, and the scene presented an appearance of the most exciting animation: "cheap Johns" raising their voices above the clown's shrill demand upon the public attention, jugglers tossing their knives deftly, and gypsies calling upon all the "pretty ladies" and gentlemen to have their fortunes told"Now, my lady, now, good gentleman, while luck waits ye." In the midst of these varied performances the soberer booths were ranged, all made attractive by the confection known as "fairings"a twisted colored sweet which all English children expect to have on fair-day. An aged friend of ours sent in some of the fanciful candy on this day, remarking he remembered buying it sixty years before, and nearly every fair-day since. By night-time the fun and festivity culminated. A public ball was given in one of the market rooms; flaring lamps and torches flung a delusive glare over the tents, booths, and stands; the crowd became more emphatically of the countryside, and the clamor was rather boisterous. I don't know quite how long the festivity was kept up, nor how many sheep and cattle were sold; but as we drove out of the town early the next morning, we encountered slowly drawn vans and carts full of a jumble of goods and sleepy-looking people; a shepherd was lazily driving a remnant of his flock down a lane; a group of farmers were talking, with their thumbs in the air and their voices mellow. Our little village looked very peaceful when we came back to it for a final leave-taking. October had fairly come to send a deeper glow across the moorlands, and a fuller tone ONCE more upon the hills my eager feet, Hides close, but vainly, its bright bloom begun, As 'shamed to have their barren liveries seen. And out on the soft air their tassels shake, II. Not yet the tender feet of bright-eyed May In happy freedom sprung, their charms display; Torn by the copses in his northward stress, That chill the venturous violets with dismay, The timid hues that flush the sleeping grass, Forever green, both weald and wold would lack III. I stand, this April-waning morn, between In happy presage of the Spring's sweet birth, |