To detail more of the garden would appear ostentatious, and I fear I may
be thought egotistical in detailing so much. I shall, however, take the
reader, before we part, through an arch, to an old yew, which has seen
the persecution of the loyal English clergy; has witnessed their return,
and many changes of ecclesiastical and national fortune. Under the
branches of that solitary but mute historian of the pensive plain, let
us now rest; it stands at the very extreme northern edge of that garden
which we have just perambulated. It fronts the tower, the churchyard,
and looks on to an old sun-dial, once a _cross_. The _cross_ was found
broken at its foot, probably by the country iconoclasts of the day. I
have brought the interesting fragment again into light, and placed it
conspicuously opposite to an old Scotch fir in the churchyard, which I
think it not unlikely was planted by Townson on his _restoration_. The
accumulation of the soil of centuries had covered an ascent of four
steps at the bottom of this record of silent hours. These steps have
been worn in places, from the act of frequent prostration or kneeling,
by the forefathers of the hamlet, perhaps before the church existed.
From a seat near this old yew tree, you see the churchyard, and
battlements of the church, on one side; and on the other you look over a
great extent of country. On a still summer's evening, the distant sound
of the hurrying coaches, on the great London road, are heard as they
pass to and from the metropolis. On this spot this last admonitory
inscription fronts you:--

"There lie the village dead, and there too I,
When yonder dial points the hour, shall lie.
Look round, the distant prospect is display'd,
Like life's fair landscape, mark'd with light and shade.
Stranger, in peace pursue thy onward road,
But ne'er forget thy lone and last abode!"