ry ignorant and superstitious, though
sufficiently devout. They had "no farrier for their cattle, no medical
man for themselves, no beer-house, no shop; a man who travels for a
distant town (Stratton) supplies them with sugar by the ounce, or tea
in smaller quantities still. Not a newspaper is taken in throughout
the hamlet, although they are occasionally astonished and delighted by
the arrival, from some almost forgotten friend in Canada, of an
ancient copy of the _Toronto Gazette_. This publication they pore over
to weariness, and on Sunday they will worry the clergyman with
questions about Transatlantic places and names, of which he is obliged
to confess himself utterly ignorant. An ancient dame once exhibited
her prayer-book, very nearly worn out, printed in the reign of George
II., and very much thumbed at the page from which she assiduously
prayed for the welfare of Prince Frederick." He himself used to act
as their postman. Perhaps it is misleading to say that Welcombe is
only three miles from Morwenstow; visitors who try to find their way
through the rambling narrow lanes will find it much nearer to five or
six. But the loveliness of Marsland vale is a recompense, and a
charming introduction to the beauties of North Devon.

On the Cornish side of Marsland-mouth is a secluded old farmhouse,
which Hawker solemnly averred was haunted. It was once truly haunted
by smugglers. Mr. Baring-Gould introduces it into his novel, _The
Gaverocks_. Hawker once said to a visitor, "You must go and look at
the old house there--there is a very curious old lady there you may
see--come into my study and I will show you her picture--she died, at
least her body did, some sixty years ago. I frequently see her and
talk with her." This spot must not be quitted without recalling that
Marsland-mouth is the home of Lucy Passmore, the white witch in
_Westward Ho!_ It was hither that Rose Salterne came to perform the
love-charm that should reveal her lover. It can hardly be said that
such superstitions have yet died out of the West Country, but it is
the older people now that cherish these ideas, secretly and furtively.
The youngsters are being taught differently in the Council Schools.

There are some fine headlands in this part of the coast, such as the
two Sharpnose Points, but the finest of all is Hennacliff, which rises
to about 450 feet, and drops sheer into the Atlantic waves. Even where
there is a beach beneath these rugged cliffs, i