left which promises a short cut for the stray cyclist to Morthoe. Appearances are deceptive, and, quite a long way up hill, the lane ends and the aggrieved stranger finds himself in an almost trackless succession of fields of oats. Negotiating these with what patience he may, and floundering through the fearsome mud of the two farmyards (Heaven send it be not wet weather!) of Warcombe and Damage Bartons, he comes at length to a road, which, to his dismay, he finds is a private road to Bull Point lighthouse. From it there is no exit towards Morthoe save through a formidable padlocked gate eight feet high, but a notice (on the outer side of the gate only, and therefore likely to be overlooked by the raging cyclist within) directs those who want to drive or ride to the lighthouse to call for the keys at a neighbouring cottage. As for the lighthouse, it is own brother to dozens of other modern structures of the kind, and was built in 1874. It was built especially to guard against the dangers of Morte Point, and in addition to its occulting light has a lower fixed red beacon on the west, to mark the position of Morte Stone. A reef-strewn indentation, known as Rockham Bay, separates this spot from Morte Point. Morte Point does not impress me, and although I have every wish to “write it up” to its grim name--as every journalist who properly understood what is expected of him would most assuredly do--I cannot see the grimness of it; only a projecting tongue of land that runs down to the sea and ends in low, insignificant cliffs, with a chaotic scatter of formless rocks projecting from the waves, and the “Morte Stone,” rather larger than the others, seaward. And there are, you know, squalid little gardens of the allotment type in the fields, and Morthoe village itself is so commonplace that the tragical names, “Death Point,” “The Hill of Death,” seem absurdly misapplied. But Morte Point is a great deal more deadly than it looks, and although the landsman who sees with his own vision, rather than at second hand, may slight the name, seafaring men dread it more than the really magnificent spectacular bulk of Hartland Point. It is not the size, but the awkward situation, of Morte Point, together with the currents which set about it, that make it dangerous to shipping. The removal of Morte Point is, naturally enough, beyond the powers of man, but it should at any rate, in these days of high explosives and engineering skill, not be impossible to abolish the isolated rock of Morte Stone, in spite of the ancient sardonic jest that the only person to remove it will be the man who can rule his wife.