[Illustration:  A TYPICAL DEVONSHIRE LANE.]

  In a Devonshire lane, as I trotted along
  T’other day, much in want of a subject for song,
  Thinks I to myself, I have hit on a strain—­
  Sure, marriage is much like a Devonshire lane.

  In the first place ’tis long, and when once you are in it,
  It holds you as fast as a cage does a linnet;
  For howe’er rough and dirty the road may be found,
  Drive forward you must, there is no turning round.

  But though ’tis so long, it is not very wide,
  For two are the most that together can ride;
  And e’en then ’tis a chance but they sit in a pother. 
  And joke and cross and run foul of each other.

  But thinks I too, the banks, within which we are pent,
  With bud, blossom, berry, are richly besprent;
  And the conjugal fence, which forbids us to roam. 
  Looks lovely, when deck’d with the comforts of home.

  In the rock’s gloomy crevice the bright holly grows: 
  The ivy waves fresh o’er the withering rose,
  And the evergreen love of a virtuous wife
  Soothes the roughness of care—­cheers the winter of life.

  Then long be the journey, and narrow the way,
  I’ll rejoice that I’ve seldom a turnpike to pay;
  And whate’er others say, be the last to complain. 
  Though marriage is just like a Devonshire lane.

Late though it was in the year, there was still some autumn foliage on the trees and bushes and some few flowers and many ferns in sheltered places; we also had the golden furze or gorse to cheer us on our way, for an old saying in Devonshire runs—­

  When furze is out of bloom
  Then love is out of tune,

which was equivalent to saying that love was never out of tune in Devonshire, for there were three varieties of furze in that county which bloomed in succession, so that there were always some blooms of that plant to be found.  The variety we saw was that which begins to bloom in August and remains in full beauty till the end of January.

  Beside the fire with toasted crabs
    We sit, and love is there;
  In merry Spring, with apple flowers
    It flutters in the air. 
  At harvest, when we toss the sheaves,
    Then love with them is toss’t;
  At fall, when nipp’d and sear the leaves,
    Un-nipp’d is love by frost. 
      Golden furze in bloom! 
      O golden furze in bloom! 
      When the furze is out of flower
      Then love is out of tune.

Presently we arrived at Cockington, a secluded and ancient village, picturesque to a degree, with cottages built of red cobs and a quaint forge or smithy for the village blacksmith, all, including the entrance lodge to the squire’s park, being roofed or thatched with straw.  Pretty gardens were attached to all of them, and everything looked so trim, clean, and neat that it was hard to realise that such a pretty