A fourteenth-century brass, to the memory of John and Elyenore Corp, with curious French and Latin epitaph, was interesting. Then we heard the horn of the coach, and rushed out just in time to secure our seats. With our advent the coach became filled. We of the outside were tourists all. All the way the gentleman-driver and the passenger beside him talked “horse,” and some of the talk was very tall indeed. We passed down extremely steep roads, through Blackpool valley, from thence up again, through the miserable village of Street down at last to Slapton Sands, the driver throwing out, now and again, packages of newspapers as we passed various estates. Slapton Sands is a three miles’ stretch of shore, with a perfectly straight and level coach road the whole distance. On one side is the sea, and on the other the waters and marshes of Slapton Lea--fresh water on one hand, salt on the other: the Sands Hotel between. Our coach stopped a moment to unload some luggage for the sportsmen staying here, for the fishing and the wild-fowl shooting are famous; then on again to Torcross, where we changed horses. At this modern settlement the road turns inland, and goes, through comparatively uninteresting country, past Stokenham, Chillington, and Charleton. Then over a sturdy bridge spanning a creek, and at last upon the road that borders Salcombe River, and leads past the Quay into Kingsbridge. The coach rattled up to the “Anchor,” at the foot of the steep Fore Street of Kingsbridge. We discharged our obligations to the gentleman-driver, secured our beds, and ordered dinner, eventually despatched amid the litter of our mail from London, which was duly lying at Kingsbridge Post-Office on our arrival. The Wreck, knowing (good soul) that it would be impossible otherwise for me to keep my attention off my proofs, filched those entrancing sheets away, and sat on them until the advent of the coffee. But let us have done with these domestic details: what of Kingsbridge? XLVI. Kingsbridge at the time of writing is chiefly noted for its being ten miles from the nearest railway station; but when these lines see the crowning glory of print, it will probably have lost that claim to distinction, for there is now building a branch to it from the main line at Brent, and when that branch is opened, Lord alone knows what the place will do for name or notoriety, unless indeed it can keep the mild fame of its “white ale” in the forefront, together with what _kudos_ may accrue from the sister parish (of Dodbrooke) having been the birthplace of Dr. John Wolcot. [Illustration: Fore Street Kingsbridge] For “Peter Pindar” was born at Dodbrooke in 1738, and has he not immortalised the twin-towns of Kingsbridge and Dodbrooke in one of his “Odes to my Barn”? The first ode was called forth by the Doctor’s sheltering a persecuted band of strolling players, who ran no small risk of stocks and pillory.