“Good and great God, to Thee we do resigne Our four dear sons, for they were duly Thine, And, Lord, we were not worthy of the name To be the sonnes of faithful Abrahame, Had we not learnt for Thy just pleasure’ sake To yield our all, as he his Isaack. Reader, perhaps thou knewest this field, but ah! ’Tis now become another Macpelah. What then? This honour, it doth boast the more, Never such seeds were sowne therein before, W^{ch} shall revive, and Christ His angells warne To beare with triumphe to the heavenly Barne.” It was in the same year of this tragical trover that Barnstaple was stricken with the plague, probably by the agency of the same ship: a cargo of wool having then been landed at Bideford quays from the Levant. Bideford suffered first, and then Barnstaple. A hilly road takes you up, out of Barnstaple, on the way to Bideford, out of sight of the river. Past Bickington it goes, and Fremington--Fremington that was once a borough town and port, returning two members to Parliament in the reign of Edward the Third. Fremington finds mention in Blackmore’s “Maid of Sker,” where its creek is styled “Deadman’s Pill”; but there is little, otherwise, to remark about it. Pretty, and overhung with trees where the road runs past the old church; but otherwise, no place to demand much attention. It is different with Instow, down the road, where the rivers Taw and Torridge join forces with the sea. Instow is in two parts; the somewhat inland village and the waterside fringe of houses known as Instow Quay. The first of these two is old enough to find mention in Domesday Book, where it is called Johannestow; and from that to “Johnstow” and the present form was only the inevitable action of the centuries. The church gave it that name, having been dedicated to St. John Baptist. The Quay, looking straight across to Appledore and out to the west, commands magnificent sunsets over the sea, with lovely views up the river Torridge and its heavily-wooded banks; the famous bridge of Bideford and the white houses of that town clearly to be seen, three miles away; or, lovelier still, and mysterious in the twilight--“the dimpsey,” as they call it in North Devon.