came the struggle, and an Exmoor bog swallowed up the murderer, who
was the last of the robber chieftains; and afterwards the bride
recovered and the happy pair were united. Exmoor is the only place
remaining in the kingdom where the wild stag is still hunted with
hounds, the season being in the early autumn, when all the inns are
crowded, and on the day of a "meet" all the country seems alive.

[Illustration: BAGWORTHY WATER.]

[Illustration: JAN RIDD'S TREE.]

LYNTON AND LYNMOUTH.

[Illustration: VIEW ON THE EAST LYN.]

[Illustration: CASTLE ROCK, LYNTON.]

[Illustration: THE DEVIL'S CHEESE-RING.]

[Illustration: TOWER ON THE BEACH, LYNMOUTH.]

From Oare the valley of the Lyn can be followed down to the sea, flowing
through its wooded gorge and disclosing many pretty views. It runs
rapidly over the rocks, and, when at last seeking the sea, the little
stream manages to escape out of the hills that have so long encompassed
it, we again find coupled together an upper and a lower town--Lynton,
perched hundreds of feet above on the crags, and Lynmouth, down by the
water's edge, both in grandly picturesque locations. Crowded between the
bases of the crags and the pebbly beach is the irregular line of old
cottages beside the bubbling stream, with creeping vines climbing over
their walls and thatched roofs, while beyond is thrust out the ancient
pier that made the port of Lynmouth. Up on the crags, with houses
nestling here in nooks and perched there upon cliffs, Lynton mounts by
zigzag paths, until, on a rocky terrace above, it gets room to spread
into a straggling street. The two streams called the East and West Lyn
unite here before seeking the sea, and join their currents at the edge
of the town. Here they leap over the boulders:

"Cool and clear, cool and clear,
By shining shingle and foaming weir,
Under the crag where the ouzel sings,
And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings."

Southey rapturously described the East Lyn Vale as the "finest spot,
except Cintra and Arrabida, that I ever saw." It is like a miniature
glen in the Alps or the Pyrenees, and every turn in the road up to the
Waters-meet, where the Brendon joins the Lyn, discloses new beauties. It
is an exquisite combination of wood, rock, and stream that baffles all
description. Gentle flowers grow here to luxuriant perfection, protected
from all chilling blasts and with ample moisture to assist the sunshine
in their cultivation. But