Bideford church is so closely surrounded by narrow lanes that it is not a remarkably conspicuous building. Except the tower, it is quite modern, the people of Bideford having in the eighteenth century been afflicted with that perversity for destroying Gothic buildings and rearing classic in their stead which desolated so many places. In its turn, the fantastic thing that is said to have resembled a lecture-hall, rather than a church, was demolished in 1865. A fine monument to Sir Thomas Graynfylde, 1514, stands on the south side of the chancel, and near by is a brass plate inscribed with the dying speech of Sir Richard Grenville, at Flores. The register of 1591 describes him as “being in his lifetime the Spaniards’ terror.” The monument of John Strange, merchant of Bideford, deserves notice, for he was no less brave a man. He died in 1646, the year the plague made such havoc here. It was the fourth year of his mayoralty. All others in authority had fled the infected place, but he remained to take care of the sick; at last, when the scourge was abating, he took the infection and died. What with civil war and with pestilence, Bideford had a stirring time of it. Licence was then the order of the day, and it was even possible for sour Puritans to defile the font in the church. Polwhele is not unduly severe in his remarks upon how it “was appropriated for the purposes of a trough for his swine to feed out of, by one schismatic. And if he had had his deserts, he would have made one of their company.” From the church, now, to the churchyard, and from the heroic to the eccentric, in the person of Henry Clark, who seems to have been both spendthrift and lazy, as judged by his epitaph, below: A Tribute To the Memory of CAPTAIN HENRY CLARK of this Town Who departed this Life 28 April 1836 Aged 61 Years. Our worthy _friend_ who lies beneath this stone Was Master of a vessel all his own. Houses and Lands had He, and Gold in store: He spent the whole, _and would_ if _ten_ times more. For Twenty years he scarce slept in a _Bed_; Linhays and Limekilns lull’d his weary head, Because he would not to the Poorhouse go, For his proud Spirit would not let him to. The Blackbird’s whistling Notes at Break of Day Used to awake him from his _Bed_ of _Hay_. Unto the Bridge and quay he then _Repair’d_ To see what _Shipping_ up the River steer’d. _Oft_ in the week he used to _view_ the Bay, To see what _Ships_ were coming in from sea. To Captain’s wives he brought the welcome News, And to the Relatives of all their _crews_. At last poor _Harry Clark_ was taken ill, And carried to the Workhouse ’gainst his Will; But being of this Mortal Life quite tired, He liv’d about a month, and then expired.