This Mary-gold lo here doth shew Marie worth gold lies neer below Cut downe by death, the fair’st gilt flow’r Flourish and fade doth in an hour. The MARYGOLD in sunshine spread (When cloudie) clos’d doth bow the head This orient plant retains the guise With splendid SOL to set and rise Even so, this Virgin MARIE rose In life soon nipt, in death fresh growes With CHRIST her Lord shall rise againe When shee shall shine more bright by farre Than any twinkling radiant starre For be assur’d that by death’s dart MARY enjoys the better part. An anagram follows, in this wise: MARIE WESTCOTT _Mors evicta tuta_, and the representation of a yellow marigold concludes the curious monument. Not the least curious part of it is the fact that these verses do not commemorate a girl who died untimely, but a spinster aged seventy. The old farmhouse of Bowden, where Bishop Jewell, the apologist of the Anglican Church, was born in 1522, remains. His defence of the newly established church was at the time thought so admirable that it was directed by the Government of Queen Elizabeth to be chained in the parish churches of the kingdom. CHAPTER X LEE--MORTE POINT--MORTHOE AND THE TRACY LEGEND--WOOLACOMBE--GEORGEHAM-- CROYDE--SAUNTON SANDS--BRAUNTON, BRAUNTON BURROWS, AND LIGHTHOUSE The way out of Ilfracombe to Lee, for the pedestrian, is through the Tors Walks, and so by clearly defined cliff paths for two miles. The carriage road leads past Ilfracombe parish church, and, turning to the right, goes up hill to Slade. Finally, having climbed to an extravagant height, it plunges alarmingly down, and still down, steep and winding, through a luxuriant valley, where you encounter the hot steamy air, like entering a conservatory. Fuchsias in full-bloom take the place in the hedgerows generally occupied by privet, thorn, or blackberry-bramble, for this is the locally famed “Valley of Fuchsias,” where frost comes rarely and the keenest winds are robbed of their sting. At the foot of this descent, the village of Lee is gradually disclosed; a graceful little Early English Church, built in 1836, the old Post Office, where visitors do most resort for tea, a few clusters of cottages, and then the sea, furiously rushing into a little rocky bay, or calmly lapping among the rocks, or retired at low tide, leaving exposed a thick bed of seaweed that sends up a strong bracing scent; all according to the mood and circumstances of the moment. A strikingly handsome hotel--the “Manor Hotel,” standing amid lawns and gardens, for it was once the manor-house--occupies the middle of the tiny bay, and is the resort of those who like to be within easy reach of Ilfracombe, and yet out of its exuberant life; and that is all there is of Lee. The coastguard path clambers round to Bull Point lighthouse, and there is a steep and rocky, but hopeful-looking, lane on the