and beeches, brown and yellow. The steep down rises
over them, and the moving grey patch upon it is a flock of sheep.
The white wall is cold and damp, and the beams of the roof overhead,
though the varnish is gone from them, are dark with slow decay.

In the recess lies the figure of a knight in armour, rudely carved,
beside his lady, still more rudely rendered in her stiff robes, and
of him an ill-spelt inscription proudly records that he 'builded ye
greate howse at'--no matter where; but history records that cruel
war wrapped it in flames before half a generation was gone, so that
the boast of his building great houses reads as a bitter mockery.
There stands opposite a grander monument to a mighty earl, and over
it hangs a breastplate and gauntlets of steel.

The villagers will tell that in yonder deep shady 'combe' or valley,
in the thick hazel-bushes, when the 'beetle with his drowsy hum'
rises through the night air, there comes the wicked old earl,
wearing this very breastplate, these iron gloves, to expiate one
evil deed of yore. And if we sit in this pew long enough, till the
mind is magnetized with the spirit of the past, till the early
evening sends its shadowy troops to fill the distant corners of the
silent church, then, perhaps, there may come to us forms gliding
noiselessly over the stone pavement of the aisles--forms not
repelling or ghastly, but filling us with an eager curiosity. Then
through the slit made for that very purpose centuries since, when
the pew was in a family chapel--through the slit in the pillar, we
may see cowled monks assemble at the altar, muttering as magicians
might over vessels of gold. The clank of scabbards upon the stones
is stilled, the rustle of gowns is silent; if there is a sound, it
is of subdued sobs, as the aged monk blesses the troop on the eve of
their march. Not even yet has the stern idol of war ceased to demand
its victims; even yet brave hearts and noble minds must perish, and
leave sterile the hopes of the elders and the love of woman. There
is still light enough left to read the few simple lines on the plain
marble slab, telling how 'Lieutenant ----,' at Inkerman, at Lucknow,
or, later still, at Coomassie, fell doing his duty. And these plain
slabs are dearer to us far than all the sculptured grandeur, and the
titles and pomp of belted earl and knight; their simple words go
straighter to our hearts than all the quaint curt Latin of the olden
time.

The belfry d