not uncommon in Devonshire, though not usual elsewhere; and in that churchyard lies the body of a man whose murderer affords the last recorded instance of the infliction of burning as a punishment for the crime of poisoning. The epitaph is curious, and runs thus: "Through poison strong he was cut off,

And brought to death at last:
It was by his apprentice girl,

On whom there's sentence past.

O, may all people warning take,

For she was burned to a stake!"

The tombstone bears date May 25, 1782; and the execution of the criminal was performed at Exeter; but, in her case, the burning did not take place until after death by hanging. Fearful as this sounds, it is some improvement on the punishment of boiling to death, which was enacted by statute 23 Henry VIII, 1532. This Act was occasioned by seventeen persons having been poisoned by Rouse, the Bishop of Rochester's cook. Margaret Davie, a young woman, suffered in a similar manner for a similar crime, in 1541. (See Haydn's Dictionary of Dates.)

The Church contains one of those elaborate screens which are so frequently seen in that neighbourhood; and the font is also worthy of observation.

Should these pages meet the eye of a botanist, it may be pleasant to know that the somewhat rare dadder (Cuscuta Epithymum). grows in profusion on the furze bushes on the top of this hill, continuing their beauty when the flowers are faded, by the delicate little pink blossoms, connected by filaments of the same colour, which entwine the stems like threads of silk. It is always a marvel how the Cuscuta contrives to exist on such a bare maintenance as the dry-looking furze affords, but it strikes me as an emblem of contentedness,

"Willing to give thanks, and live

On the least that Heaven may give;"

and the wonder is not lessened by observing how plump the little threads are, as full of sap as if they throve on the most succulent

nourishment. Here too we saw the hairy violet, but its rarity does not compensate for its want of perfume. Nearly all the Devonshire violets are destitute of fragrance, a circumstance for which I am at a loss to account, as well as for the total absence of nightingales from a county which I should have thought so particularly favourable for them.*

Did any one ever hear of nightingales being a nuisance? Probably not; but here is an instance which is well authenticated. Once upon a time the servants at Ditchingham Hall, in Suffolk, gave notice to leave in a body. An inquiry being made as to the cause of such general dissatisfaction, their mistress was gravely informed that they found sleep to be impossible, because "them nightingales made such a noise!" I can partially confirm this story from the experience which we had of their vocal powers when we resided in Bedfordshire: it was really intolerable to those who wanted sleep.

The effect of the lemon wreck, as we used to designate it, was to make that fruit very cheap in Salcombe for weeks afterwards. Every child you met was sucking a lemon with apparently as great satisfaction as if it were an orange. To such a pass did things arrive that fifty for sixpence were freely offered by those who had been lucky enough to secure a great many. We made a good stock of marmalade on the strength of it, and greatly did our friend Mr. Strong approve of our manufacture, though when I took him a jar of it he politely told me that he did not think I could have made anything so good!

* Since writing the above, I have read in White's "Selborne" his opinion that the deficiency of nightingales in Devonshire is to be attributed to the circumstance that they come from the Continent, cross the sea at the narrowest part, and do not penetrate so far into the country.

CHAPTER IX.

TORCROSS.

WE had heard much of the beauty of Torcross, and had long determined to see it, but the difficulty was always great, as no conveyance was to be hired, and there were obstacles of another sort to be overcome. At last it was suggested that we should try to approach it by water; so having made friends with one of the pretty boys with whom Salcombe abounds we sallied forth one fine April day to see what it was that attracted so much admiration.

Now for want of a better, the boy was to be our guide, but as he knew nothing beyond a place called Frogmore, which lay at the end of one of the little creeks I have described as running up from the estuary into the country, it might be thought that he would not prove of much use; but only the natives of the place are aware of the precise bed of the stream, which they call "the lake," and which is so capricious in its situation that a person unacquainted with it might easily run aground, and there be left to the mercy of a higher tide. This "lake" alone has water in it during all states of the tide, and sometimes that is little enough: we were therefore obliged to be very punctual in the times of our departure and returning, especially the latter, as we heard of instances in which people had been compelled to sleep in their boat all night.

Our boat was a heavy old lumbering affair, more suited to stormy seas than to inland navigation, twice too large for the party, but the only one to be procured; we therefore started in it-my husband, myself, E., and the boy to row, and L. to steer