eturn the
keys. From West Horsley to Leatherhead is a pilgrimage by locked
churches: East Horsley is locked, though you can get the key; Effingham
and Little Bookham are locked, but I had no time to search for more keys
when I was there; possibly they are easily found. Great Bookham is open,
but Fetcham is locked; Leatherhead is more hospitable.

The great families of West Horsley are those of Berners and Nicholas.
The effigy of Sir James Berners, of West Horsley Place, is in the
church: he was one of the followers of Richard II, and was beheaded on
Tower Hill, in 1388. His daughter, according to tradition, was the
famous Dame Juliana Berners, Prioress of Sopwell, and author--or part
author--of the _Boke of St. Albans_, a "Treatyse perteynynge to
Hawkynge, Huntynge, Fysshynge, and Coote Armiris." Probably she wrote no
more than the hunting, but it is pleasant to think that she may have
watched her greyhounds "headed like a snake, and necked like a drake" on
the downs above Horsley. Another Berners, the second Baron of the name,
translated Froissart. Of the Nicholas family, Sir Edward was a Royalist
and Secretary of State under both the Charleses. Of other owners of West
Horsley Place, its mistress, Geraldine Browne, wife of Sir Anthony
Browne, is claimed to be the "Fair Geraldine" of Surrey's poem; but any
other Geraldine would suit as well, if, indeed, Geraldine ever existed.
Another doubtful tradition of West Horsley is that the head of Sir
Walter Raleigh is buried in the church with his son Carew. Certainly no
one knows that it was buried anywhere else.

Leaving West Horsley, you are immediately in an atmosphere of war. At
East Horsley, the Duke of Wellington guards the cross-roads and
dispenses excellent bread and cheese and beer; at Effingham Prince
Bluecher used to stand on the main road, quite correctly placed to the
east of the Duke; he has now marched down into the village and billeted
himself as comfortably as before. The atmosphere of swords and sharpness
has even entered ecclesiastical precincts. In East Horsley church there
is a curious fresco, painted, I am told, by the late Lady Lovelace. It
shows St. Martin dressed as a soldier in high boots, cloak and hat,
cutting off the skirt of his cloak with his sword, to clothe a naked
beggar kneeling before him. It is curious that a second legend of a
cloak should belong to a neighbourhood connected with Sir Walter
Raleigh.

Horsley Towers, on the left of the r