aths, its rose-beds, the red walls round it and its view of the
Weald, has the serenity of deep meadowland and sunlit cloisters; the
church itself, with its sculptured oak and baronial tombs, belongs to
all English history from Crecy. If the churches of the surrounding
parishes, with their brasses and their registers, make up an admirable
local guide-book, the records of Lingfield church are a chapter of Hume.

[Illustration: _The Village Cage, Lingfield._]

The village itself is the pleasantest mixture of every style of Surrey
cottage, brick and timber, weather-tiling, plain brick, plain wood, and
a queer row of square white-stuccoed buildings which looks as if it had
been dumped inland from opposite shingle and dancing seas. It only lacks
tamarisk to be sheer Worthing. The village centres on its pond; not a
broad nor a very limpid piece of water, but distinguished by a pair of
swans, and by a curious obelisk standing at its head which once may
have marked a shrine. Built on to the bole of an old oak by the obelisk
is an apartment engagingly labelled "Ye Village Cage." Other Surrey
villages have had their cages, but only Lingfield has kept one. The door
is massive and threatening, and you get the keys at the chemist's the
other side of the road; or rather, a guide politely accompanies you and
displays the cage's secrets. The cage not long ago fell into disuse. It
was once used as a temporary lock-up for drunk or disorderly persons, or
others who had traversed the local by-laws of morality. Local justice
descended upon them, and they were cast into durance until morning
should bring soberness with a headache, or, in more serious cases, until
proper conveyance could be got round for Godstone. The cage has seen at
least one exciting rescue. This was some fifty or sixty years ago, when
a number of desperate characters vaguely described as the Copthorne
poachers were captured and haled into prison. As to the exact number of
captives, tradition varies; but the legend which is the most respectful
to the powers of the local constable sets it at eleven. The eleven were
surrounded, the door of the dungeon closed on them, and the village
tried to go to sleep. Darkness came on, and a daring deed. Other
poachers stole into the village, got to work with picks and crowbars,
took the roof off the dungeon and hauled out their comrades exulting.
The village wisely did not attempt a recapture.

The cage saw its last tenant in 1882, and