er was the spoliation of their nest by a boy, who removed
all four of the children, or "squabs" as he called them. Mr. Knox, who
used to come every day to examine them through his glass, was in
despair, until after much meditation he thought of an expedient. Seeking
out the boy he persuaded him to give up the one "squab" whose wings had
not yet been clipped, and this the ornithologist carried to the clump
and deposited in the ruined nest. The next morning the old birds were to
be seen, just as of old, and that was their last molestation.

Just under the park on the road to Midhurst is Tillington, a little
village with a rather ornamental church, which dates from 1807. There is
nothing to say of Tillington, but I should like to quote a pretty
sentence from Horsfield's _History of Sussex_ concerning the monuments
in the church, in a kind of writing of which we have little
to-day:--"And as the volume, for which this has been written, is likely
to fall chiefly into the hands of men who are occupied almost solely
with the cares and business of this life, this slight reference is made
to the monuments of the dead in order that, should the reader of this
book find, in the present dearth of honesty, of faithfulness, of
disinterested valour and of loyalty, an aching want in his spirit for
such high qualities, let him hence be taught where to go--let him learn
that, though they are rarely found in the busy haunts of men, they are
still preserved and have their home around the sanctuary of the altar of
his God."

[Sidenote: A TREASURY OF ARCHITECTURE]

Petworth should be visited by all young architects; not for the mansion
(except as an object-lesson, for it is like a London terrace), but for
the ordinary buildings in the town. It is a paradise of old-fashioned
architecture. The church is hideous; the new hotel, the "Swan," might be
at Balham; but the old part of the town is perfect. There is an
almshouse (which Mr. Griggs has drawn), in which in its palmy days a
Lady Bountiful might have lived; even the workhouse has charms--it is
the only pretty workhouse I remember: with the exception, perhaps, of
Battle, but that is, however, self-conscious.

Petworth has known, at any rate, one poet. In the churchyard was once
this epitaph, now perhaps obliterated, from a husband's hand:--

"She was! She was! She was, what?
She was all that a woman should be, she was that."

[Sidenote: NOAH MANN]

In a book which takes a