A place I'd suggest
As one of the best
For a man breaking down who needs absolute rest,
Especially too if he's weak in the chest;
Torquay may be gayer,
But as for the air
It really can not for a moment compare
With snug little Dawlish--at least so they say there.
[Illustration: ON THE COAST NEAR DAWLISH.]
The light-coloured cliffs of Dorsetshire had now given place to the dark
red sandstone cliffs of Devonshire, a change referred to by Barham in
"The Monk of Haldon," for he wrote:
'Tis certainly odd that this part of the coast,
While neighbouring Dorset gleams white as a ghost,
Should look like anchovy sauce spread upon toast.
We were now bound for Teignmouth, our next stage; and our road for a
short distance ran alongside, but above, the seashore. The change in
the colour of the cliffs along the sea-coast reminded my brother of an
incident that occurred when he was going by sea to London, about nine
years before our present journey. He had started from Liverpool in a
tramp steamboat, which stopped at different points on the coast to load
and unload cargo; and the rocks on the coast-line as far as he had
seen--for the boat travelled and called at places in the night as well
as day--had all been of a dark colour until, in the light of a fine day,
the ship came quite near Beachy Head, where the rocks were white and
rose three or four hundred feet above the sea.
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