some of them are gabled, buttressed, stone-mullioned, irregular in
outline, but yet with a wonderful sense of proportion. Some are
Georgian, with classical pilasters and pediments. Yet they are all
for use and not for show; and the weak modern shop-windows, which
some would think disfigure the delicate house-fronts, seem to me
just to give the requisite sense of contrast. At the end of the
street stands the church, with a stately Perpendicular tower, and a
resonant bell which tells the hour. This overlooks a pile of
irregular buildings, now a farm, but once a great manor-house, with
a dovecote and pavilions; but the old terrace is now an orchard,
and the fine oriel of the house looks straight into the byre.
Inside the church--it is open and well-kept--you can trace the
history of the manor and its occupants, from Job Best, a rich
mercer of London, whose monument, with marble pillars and obelisks,
adorns the south aisle; his son was ennobled, whose effigy--more
majestic still, robed and coroneted, with his Viscountess by his
side, and her dog (with his name, Jakke, engraven on his shoulder)-
-lies smiling, the slender hands crossed in prayer. But the house
was not destined to survive. The Viscount's only daughter, the Lady
Penelope, looks down from the wall, a fair and delicate lady, the
last of her brief race, who, as the old inscription says with a
tender simplicity, "dyed a mayd." I cannot help wondering, my
pretty lady, what your story was; and it will do you no hurt if
one, who looks upon your gentle face, sends a wondering message of
tenderness behind the veil to your pure spirit, regret for your
vanished charm, and the fragrance of your soft bloom, and sadness
for all sweet things that fade.

The manor, so I learn, was burnt wantonly by the Roundheads--there
was a battle hereabouts--on the charge that it had harboured some