tomb is quite famous among virtuosi, though I was
unaware of it when I came upon the monument in the quiet of a workaday
afternoon; but its beauty at once claimed my eye, presenting something
so different from the average mediaeval tomb, of interest chiefly for
its age. These figures are slightly defaced, the sharp edges worn
smooth by time, and scores of initials have been scratched roughly on
the surface of his armour or her mantle; but there is a certainty of
line, a sharpness, and at the same time a suavity of angle, a way of
disposing the head and hands and body, all within the stiff convention
of rigid tomb carving, that to any lover of sculpture reveals the sure
hand of a master, whether he were a nameless stonemason, working in a
secluded village, or a renowned man, invited from far.

Standing by this beautiful tomb I can see the sunlight through the open
door, with a black splash across the gold, of the great yews beyond; I
hear the crowing of cocks and the voice of children, the creak of a
passing cart and the song of birds, all the simple, jolly sounds of
that everyday life which is the plain fabric on which all history, of
nations and empires and monarchs, is (if you like) the embroidery.

From Porlock to the little port of Porlock Weir is a walk of two miles
along a narrow lane between high green hedges. The road leads nowhere
else but there and back; it is a kind of enchanted road which goes to
an enchanted village, a village at the world's end, beyond the circle
of mere reality. Every cottage in Porlock Weir is just such a little
cottage as J. M. Barrie's fairies might build, low-browed under a steep
thatch, with great tall chimneys, in which are cut just such little
windows as would frame a fairy's head, looking out and laughing and
nodding at you; whitewashed, half-timbered cottages, grouped together
in a jumble of delicious curves and angles, with dusky, deep oak
doorways, and stone steps hollowed by the feet that have gone in and
out, and long leaded windows, softly yellow with lamplight in the
mellow twilight of summer evenings, and gardens--oh, gardens that are
small, and walled with stone, and running over with colour and bloom as
no other gardens in the world could ever be! Hydrangeas, geranium,
larkspur and evening primrose, columbine, forget-me-not, roses--and,
indeed, the roses have gone wild with freedom, and threaten to overflow
and drown the village, trailing over the wall, running up t