Julia Griffiths to Frederick Douglass, September 16, 1858

Our Correspondence.

LETTERS FROM THE OLD WORLD.

NUMBER LIX.

ILFRACOMBE, North Devon, Eng.;

September 16, 1858.

MY DEAR FRIEND:—A change has come "o'er the spirit of my dreams." I am no longer rambling on the dark, purple moors of Yorkshire, gazing at the manifold beauties of lovely Wharfedale; but sitting on the rocks of Ilfracombe, that overhang the wide, wild sea, and listening to the music of the waves.

Two days' journey, by land and by sea, brought me from the great, northern Shire of York, to the sunny, southern clime of Devon. One morning I beheld the picturesque outlines of the grey rocks of Rumbald's moor; the next evening the precipitous rocks (or Tors, as they are here called) of Ilfracombe were in view, and the silver thread of the meandering river Wharfe was exchanged for the vast expanse of the mighty ocean.

Do not suppose that I had become tired of the Moors—very far from it. Every week I staid at the pretty little Ilkey, I better understood Charlotte Bronte and her sisters' passion for the moorlands, with their wild and varied beauties, and more fully sympathized with them in it.

Among the kind invitations sent my by good friends, solicitous for my health, came one from Ilfracombe, (to join a party here,) which was rendered additionally attractive from the fact of my never having visited far-famed, beautiful Devonshire. The contrast between the bracing, stimulating air of Ilkey, and the balmy enervating clime of Devon, is indeed great. I have never, anywhere in England, met such exuberance of vegetation, nor such an abundance of lovely flowers and fine fruits. It is, in truth, "the land of the myrtle and fuchsia—the land where the flowers blossom."

Large myrtle trees, covered with beauteous blossoms, magnificent fuchsias, with their graceful flowers drooping on all sides, arrest the eye in every garden, growing in the open air. The steep banks of all the narrow, winding lanes are covered with varieties of ferns and flowers. The hedges are redolent of sweet scented honeysuckle, and full of divers kinds of berries. Out of every crevice in the stone walls peeps some little gem of green, or fairy flower. From the top to base, many of the tall, precipitous cliffs that bound the ocean, are covered with innumerable forms of the vegetable kingdom, and decked with climbing ivy. But for the frequent mist, I should sometimes find it difficult to realize that I am in our little

island, amidst such a rich profusion of bloom and beauty. The coast is, in sober truth, rock-bound. We have no beach here —no sands here—rocks, rocks, of all shapes; and sizes, and heights, from the coast to many miles east and west of Ilfracombe—which pretty little town, long ago a seaport and market town, is not a fashionable watering place, situated on that part of the coast of Devon that overlooks the Bristol Channel, nearly opposite Swansea Bay, which is twenty-seven miles distant. The town is built partly up the side of a hill, and partly at the bottom of the declivity. Many of the old houses present a picturesque and irregular appearance, now and then reminding one of some of the quaint and curious confidential towns.—Ilfracombe is said to have been, in days of yore, a considerable sea port and to have con0 tributed six ships, and eighty-two mariners to the fleet destined for the Calais expedition by Edward III. There is a fine and safe harbor, defended from the violence of the sea by a bold mass of rocks, stretching nearly half way across the entrance, and an artificial pier, built many years ago. The coast is a very dangerous one, and the harbor is much resorted to when particular winds blow. To the east of the harbor, Hillsborough Rock rises to the height of 450 feet. Its rugged outline forms one leading feature in the Ilfracombe picture. On the western side is a smaller rock, surmounted by a lighthouse, anciently a chapel, dedicated to St. Nicholas. This is called Lantern Hill. Within a short distance stands Capstone Hill, a magnificent cliff, round the northern base of which, overlooking the sea, a delightful walk has been cut, called the Capstone Hill Parade, amply provided with seats, and justly termed one of the finest sea-walks in England. Below this Parade a lower winding walk is cut in the rock, and numerous seats are hewn out, whence a lover of the freshening sea breeze can inhale them to his heart's content. Below this lower walk, east and est, and stretching far out into the ocean, is the base of the Capstone Cliff, and its rocky neighbors. Ledge above ledge it rises from the sea, varied and broken, with all manner of picturesque or grotesque outline. Against these rocks, over them, and through them, dash the waves in foaming splendor It's the height of my delight to sit in a rocky nook, and look and listen, 'till the roaring waters of the rapidly advancing tide warn me to seek a loftier eminence. On one of these rocks I am now seated. The scene is, to-day, indescribably grand. It is eleven o'clock, and just high water. The breaking waves are dashing in full fury against the cliffs, and leaping high in the air, crested with sparkling white foam—From ledge to ledge of rocks fall countless cascades of foaming water, that leap form rock to rock, "with delirious bound,"

"And mount in spray the skies and thence again Return in an unceasing shower."

The voice of old ocean is heard, speaking in thunder, and the winds lift up their voice in full chorus—"welcome to the roar!" It is one of nature's grandest concerts. There is no describing the sound; and as to the scene— why one may as well attempt "to gild refined gold, to paint the lily," or to portray Niagura!

The summit of the Capstone is surmounted by a flag staff, used as a signal post. A good winding path is made to the top of the cliff; seats are placed at convenient distances; the summit commands a beautiful sea view, and an equally fine view of the sunsets. A few evenings since I spent some hours on these heights. The day had been one of the clearest and brightest; not the smallest cloud was visible in the pale blue sky, as we watched the sun sink into the ocean, and felt that another day had gone to join "the past Eternity." The golden West, with its magical variety of coloring—the pale moon shining, with "a single star" at her side—the long line of light playing upon the waters—the vast expanse of the ocean, then thickly studded with sailing boats, of all sizes, that had been waiting for days for a favorable wind to carry them to the various havens their occupants desiredd to reach, and were now all come forth, with outspread sails, (gallant little barks! to the number, I should think, of one hundred and fifty,) to avail themselves of the freshening breeze, and be borne onward on the waters. They looked like a very fleet approaching our coast! Lundy Island in the distance—the faint line of the opposite Welsh coast—the grand Tors all along our shores--the pretty little town of Ilfracombe nestled in a hollow, and backed by hills—the deepening twilight— the stars coming out by degrees, until the whole firmament was thickly studded with "isles of light"—the milky way in full brilliance—all these combined to form a scene that will never be forgotten.

I find I have omitted all mention of the Tors, a ridge of hills, seven in number, "with verdure clad," and very picturesque in outline, which lie to the west of the Capstone, and to which we made an excursion one evening this week. There are narrow, winding walks in all directions round them; the scenery is fine and diversified, and the view from the top of the Tor we climb was grand. Time fails me to tell of the many lovely places within reach of Ilfracombe. One very fine afternoon we climbed up the heights of Hillsborough, and were amply repaid. This splendid cliff forms a direct contradiction to the assertion that "distance lends enchantment to the view." It was not until my near approach to Hillsboro'

that I could form any idea of its exquisite beauty. In the distance it looks a tall and stately cliff, jutting out into the sea; when you climb it, and look into its numerous clefts, you see that foliage of very variety and every color decks many parts of it from top to base —the grey rocks peeping between. I must not linger to tell you of the pretty little village of Hele, near by, lying in a smiling valley, nor of Berry harbor, two miles farther; but I must hasten to Watermouth, where we went the other day, some walking, others mounted on beasts that re in these regions, deemed highly respectable and of good repute, —viz: donkeys. Though winding lanes, bounded with high hedges and banks of verdure, we wound our way. Passing the villages above named, and looking on rich and lovely inland scenery of hill and valley, we come at length to Watermouth Castle, which, with its garden and extensive grounds is delightfully situated in a pretty little cove, called Watermouth Cove. The adjacent rocks are very striking and romantic. Some of them stand "like giant sentinels," to guard "the enchanted land." There are some curious caverns here, which, as it was low water, we were able to explore, and were greatly interested in do going. Our walk back over the cliffs was very fine, uniting a grand sea view with rich inland scenery.

Our longest excursion had been one to Barnstaple, Bideford, Appledore and Instow, all of which we visited in one day. The intense heat of the weather much marred my enjoyment of the eleven miles drive to Barnstaple. We were out of reach of sea breezes, and within reach of the rays of Bright Phoebus, who shone fiercely on our devoted heads as we drove between the exceedingly tall hedges of the winding narrow Devonshire lanes; nevertheless, when we came out of those lanes, some scenes met our eyes that may well vie in beauty with the far-famed Bergstrasse, between Frankfort and Heidelberg!

Barnstaple is a neat looking town, which stands on the river Taw. There is nothing very particular to see there—so, by railroad, we went on direct for eight miles to Bideford, an ancient and picturesque town, which stands chiefly on the left bank of the Torridge, was once a place of great mercantile importance, and has much interest attached to it by being referred to in Mr. Kingsley's just celebrated "Westward Ho!" The long bridge that spans the Torridge, at Bideford, arrests the attention of all visitors. It stands on twentyfour arches, and is 741 feet in length. It forms a delightful promenade for the inhabitants one fine day, when the tide is up. The torridge is a lovely river; we much enjoyed boating on its waters—down first to the quaint, old fashioned, little fishing village Appledore, whose inhabintants looked as primitive

as if they had never been any where else, and knew naught of the world beyond their own queer little narrow winding streets of curious old houses, and gaily painted doors and windows, at which chubby-faced girls and women might be seen industriously knitting garments [illegible] the fishermen.

We again entered our boat, and were speedly [illegible] at the new little watering place of [illlegible] which is just opposite to Appledore, with the Torridge, a mile wide, flowing between them. The rive Taw, coming from Barnstaple, at this point unites its waters with the Torridge, and both full into the ocean together a short distance off. Some of our part were rather disappointed in Instow, having heard much of its beauty. It was low water—so we say it to great disadvantage, and the intense heat, possibly, blinded some of us to its charms. Certainly, with such a lovely spot as Ilfracombe within reach, I sho'd never desire to locate myself at Instow. Railway to Barnstaple, and carriage drive thence, bro't us again to this sweet place, of which an ardent lover of nature, I am inclined to think, never could tire.

I have said nothing of the people of Devonshire. They are a jolly, happy looking race. It is a pretty sight to see the many nice, neat looking market women come each morning to the windows, as you sit at breakfast, presenting their baskets of poultry, fresh eggs, honey and fruit, all so neatly arranged. But it is actually post time, and I must close somewhat abruptly, as is (I fear) my wont.

I must trust to the kindness of my friends to pardon all sins of omission and commission, and once more assure you that I am, as ever, Yours, sincerely

JULIA GRIFFITHS.