tongue, which giveth good confirmation thereof.' Sir William Coffin was
one of several Devonshire gentlemen who were 'assistants' to Henry VIII
in the tournaments of the 'Field of the Cloth of Gold,' being of great
courage, and 'expert at feats of arms.' A story which is often told of
him gives a good illustration of his strong will. While living on a
property that belonged to his wife in Derbyshire, Sir William chanced
one day to pass a churchyard, and seeing a group of people standing
about, he asked what was happening. Being told that 'they had brought a
corps to be buried, but the priest refused to do his office unless they
first delivered him the poor man's cow, the only quick goods left,' for
a burial fee, he commanded the priest to read the service. But the
priest declined to do so until he had received his fee. On this answer,
Sir William 'caused the priest to be put into the poor man's grave, and
earth to be thrown upon him; and he still persisting in his refusal,
there was still more earth thrown in, until the obstinate priest was
either altogether or well nigh suffocated.'

Prince is entirely delightful over this story. He goes on: 'Now, thus to
handle a priest in those days was a very bold adventure;' as if to bury
a priest alive was usually considered a pleasant amusement. Sir William,
however, not only lived through the storm that the high-handed action
raised, but actually succeeded in moving Parliament to pass an Act
regulating the burial fees that might be asked of the poor. So our
biographer finishes with the triumphant axiom: 'Evil manners are often
the parent of good laws!'

Eleven miles west of Bideford is Clovelly. Here one feels, rather
despairingly, that anyone who has seen this wonderful village can listen
to no description of it; while to those who have never seen it, no
description is of any value.

A road leads towards it through the Hobby, a wood overhanging the sea,
which Kingsley describes as 'a forest wall five hundred feet high, of
almost semi-tropic luxuriance.' The road was 'banked on one side with
crumbling rocks, festooned with heath, and golden hawkweed, and London
pride, like velvet cushions covered with pink lace, and beds of white
bramble-blossom alive with butterflies; while above my head, and on my
right, the delicate cool canopy of oak and birch leaves shrouded me so
close that I could have fancied myself miles inland, buried in some glen
unknown to any wind of heaven, but t