Our road was of the best, and always interesting, with some fine distant
views, and here and there an avenue of trees like a vast Gothic aisle in
a cathedral. "We could see things so nicely if it weren't for the
mists!" sighed Emily, who, if her wish had been a broom, would have
ruthlessly swept away those lacy cobwebs clinging to the hill-sides.
"Why," replied Ellaline, "you could see a bride's face more clearly if
you took away her veil, but it's the prettiest thing about her." That
put my feelings in a nutshell. England would be no bride for me if she
threw away her veil; and nowhere did it become her more than in Dorset,
Somerset, and Devon, where it is threaded with gold and embroidered with
jewels toward the edge of sunset.
Of course, there's only the most fanciful dividing line between Somerset
and Devon, yet I imagine the two counties different in their attributes,
as well as in their graces. Surely in Somerset the Downs are on a
grander scale. Between two of them you are in a valley, and think that
you see mountains. In Devonshire you have wider horizons, save for the
lanes and hedges, which do their best to keep straying eyes fastened on
their own beauty.
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