nd splashes
of vivid colouring to the hill-side;' and about a mile farther on is
Lynton.

Perched on the cliffs nine hundred feet immediately above Lynmouth,
Lynton looks down to the inlet, into which two ravines open from the
south. Down these ravines rush the East and West Lyns, hidden among the
woods; and the two streams join just before they reach the sea-shore.
Countisbury Foreland stands high to the east of the harbour and
stretches far out into the sea, and between the foreland and the
mainland is another long, steep, winding cleft.

I once saw the bay in an exquisite light very early in the morning.
Earth and sky and sea were all veiled in the softest grey, and in the
sky was one little flush of pale rose pink. But for a sea-gull crying
under the cliff, the stillness was absolute.

Lynmouth consists of a tiny quay, a little group of houses, and the
ravines beyond. It is impossible to imagine any place where buildings
and tourists could more exasperate a true lover of earlier days. Still,
they cannot have more than a superficial effect--except at the meeting
of the streams, which is quite spoilt by the houses on either side.

The music of the Lyns has been noticed by many comers, and about sixty
years ago the Rev. H. Havergal, whilst staying here and listening to the
continuous tone of the Lyn at low-water, composed this chant:

[Illustration: MUSIC OF THE LYNS.]

As a place for visitors to admire, Lynton was discovered in the
beginning of the nineteenth century. The French Revolution and
Napoleonic wars obliged those who were in the habit of going abroad for
change and amusement to look for it in comparatively unknown parts at
home. In 1807 the first hotel--not counting a small and inconvenient
village hostelry--was opened; and even at this date there were no
wheeled vehicles in either village, ponies and donkeys carrying
everything. Until this time Lynton and Lynmouth had been the quietest of
little fishing-villages, without even the doings of a resident squire or
rector to furnish a subject for a little gossip.

The ecclesiastical history of the little neighbouring parish of
Countisbury is very much mixed up with that of Lynton. Mr Chanter prints
some of the Countisbury churchwardens' accounts, which, as he observes,
are chiefly remarkable for the prominent part that beer played in every
event, from killing a fox to the visitation of 'ye Dean Ruler.'