y sprung
up in the parish, and these formed part of the congregation. A
path, nearly obscured by grass and weeds, leads from the main road
to the parish church. It was with difficulty I could trace it, and
there were none to direct me, for I was now walking alone. The
parish burying-ground, thickly sprinkled with graves and
tombstones, surrounds the church. It is a quiet, solitary spot, of
great beauty, lying beside the sea-shore; and as service had not
yet commenced, I whiled away half an hour in sauntering among the
stones, and deciphering the inscriptions. I could trace in the rude
monuments of this retired little spot, a brief but interesting
history of the district. The older tablets, grey and shaggy with
the mosses and lichens of three centuries, bear, in their uncouth
semblances of the unwieldy battle-axe and double-handed sword of
ancient warfare, the meet and appropriate symbols of the earlier
time. But the more modern testify to the introduction of a
humanizing influence. They speak of a life after death, in the
"holy texts" described by the poet; or certify, in a quiet humility
of style which almost vouches for their truth, that the sleepers
below were "honest men, of blameless character, and who feared
God." There is one tombstone, however, more remarkable than all the
others. It lies beside the church-door, and testifies, in an
antique inscription, that it covers the remains of the
"GREAT.MAN.OF.GOD.AND.FAITHFUL.MINISTER.OF JESUS.CHRIST.," who had
endured persecution for the truth in the dark days of Charles and
his brother. He had outlived the tyranny of the Stuarts; and,
though worn by years and sufferings, had returned to his parish on
the Revolution, to end his course as it had begun. He saw, ere his
death, the law of patronage abolished, and the popular right
virtually secured; and, fearing lest his people might be led to
abuse the important privilege conferred upon them, and calculating
aright on the abiding influence of his own character among them, he
gave charge on his deathbed to dig his grave in the threshold of
the church, that they might regard him as a sentinel placed at the
door, and that his tombstone might speak to them as they passed out
and in. The inscription, which, after the lapse of nearly a century
and a hal