The cathedral, though not one of the largest or most imposing, is remarkable for the elaborate carving of the exterior.  The west front is literally covered with life-sized statues set in niches in the wall, but the figures are all sadly time-worn, many of them having almost crumbled away.  Evidently the Roundheads were considerate of Exeter Cathedral that such a host of effigies escaped destruction at their hands; and they were not very well disposed towards Exeter, either, as it was always a Royalist stronghold.  Possibly it was spared because the Cromwellians found it useful as a place of worship, and in order to obtain peace and harmony between the two factions of the army the cathedral was divided into two portions by a high brick wall through the center, the Independents holding forth on one side and the Presbyterians on the other.

The road from Exeter to Torquay follows the coast for some distance, affording many fine views of the ocean.  We were now in the “limestone country,” and the roads are exceedingly dusty in dry weather.  The dust, in the form of a fine white powder, covers the trees and vegetation, giving the country here and there an almost ghostly appearance.  No wonder that in this particular section there is considerable prejudice against the motor on account of its great propensity to stir up the dust.  So far as we ourselves were concerned, we usually left it behind us, and it troubled us only when some other car got in ahead of us.

Torquay is England’s Palm Beach—­a seacoast-resort town where the temperature rarely falls below forty degrees, thanks to the warm current of the Gulf Stream; and where the sea breezes keep down the summer heat, which seldom rises above sixty degrees.  It is especially a winter resort, although the hotels keep open during the year.  Most of the town is finely situated on a high promontory overlooking a beautiful harbor, studded with islands and detached rocks that half remind one of Capri.  From our hotel window we had a glorious ocean view, made the more interesting for the time being by a dozen of King Edward’s men-of-war, supposed to be defending Torquay against “the enemy” of a mimic naval warfare.

On the opposite side of Tor Bay is the quiet little fishing village of Brixham, the landing-place of Prince William of Orange.  We reached here early on a fine June day when everything was fresh after heavy showers during the night.  The houses rise in terraces up the sharp hillside fronting the harbor, which was literally a forest of fishing-boat masts.  A rather crude stone statue of William stands on the quay and a brass foot-print on the shore marks the exact spot where the Dutch prince first set foot in England, accompanied by an army of thirteen thousand men.  Our car attracted a number of urchins, who crowded around it and, though we left it unguarded for an hour or more to go out on the sea-wall and look about the town, not one of the fisher lads ventured to touch it or to molest anything—­an instance of the law-abiding spirit which we found everywhere in England.