wine, with just enough wind to carry our light craft toward our
destination. But, instead of six hours, we were all day trying to reach
the land, and, as the twilight deepened and the last breeze died away,
the pilot said: "We are now two miles from shore, but the only way you
can reach there to-night is by a rowboat."

As we had no provisions left and nowhere to sleep, we were glad to avail
ourselves of the rowboat. It was a bright moonlight night, the air
balmy, the waters smooth, and, with two stout oarsmen, we glided swiftly
along. As Mr. Birney made the last descent and seated himself, doubtful
as to our reaching shore, turning to me he said: "The woman tempted me
and I did leave the good ship." However, we did reach the shore at
midnight and landed at Torquay, one of the loveliest spots in that
country, and our journey to Exeter the next day lay through the most
beautiful scenery in England.

As we had no luggage with us, our detention by customs officers was
brief, and we were soon conducted to a comfortable little hotel, which
we found in the morning was a bower of roses. I had never imagined
anything so beautiful as the drive up to Exeter on the top of a coach,
with four stout horses, trotting at the rate of ten miles an hour. It
was the first day of June, and the country was in all its glory. The
foliage was of the softest green, the trees were covered with blossoms,
and the shrubs with flowers. The roads were perfect; the large,
fine-looking coachman, with his white gloves and reins, his rosy face
and lofty bearing and the postman in red, blowing his horn as we passed
through every village, made the drive seem like a journey in fairyland.
We had heard that England was like a garden of flowers, but we were
wholly unprepared for such wealth of beauty.