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Surrey, or Hampshire, possess hardly any-none, as far as I am aware. These, on the other hand, possess sturdy towers surmounted by a low roof, or else crowned with a slight spire constructed of timber, often covered as well with wooden shingles. Then, again, it is curious to observe, by way of contrast, the frequent absence of any kind of tower in Wales and amongst our mountain lands: the inhabitants of these were poor, and, as a rule, a simple bell-turret sufficed them. But there are notable exceptions to this rule, as at Great Salkeld church in Cumberland, and others scattered about near the Border. tower of this is embattled, strongly built with massive walls, pierced with narrow slits for windows, with a substantial oaken door for access-iron-plated this outside, and further strengthened within by iron bars; more like a stern Norman keep than a portion of a peaceful place of worship, but evidently so built to afford a place of refuge and temporary defence against a sudden Border raid. But one might write pages without exhausting this subject; an old country church, with its stone records of past centuries, its ancient brasses and altar-tombs to knight-crusaders and valiant warriors, affords never-ending food for reflection. And such romances in stone are to be met with almost everywhere throughout the land. Our old churches form part and parcel of our history : within their hallowed walls the presence of our longdeparted and forgotten forefathers seems to linger still; as we step through their ancient, crumbling doorways we step back centuries, and as we stand before the sculptured monuments of the brave dead,

OLD-FASHIONED GARDENS

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and trace their ancient records, when such is possible, we may bring back to our mind some picture of the past:

Warrior! whose image on thy tomb,
With shield and crested head,
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom

By the stain'd window shed;
The records of thy name and race
Have faded from the stone,

Yet through a cloud of years I trace
What thou hast been and done.

Leaving Great Wigsell, we shortly afterwards came to the picturesque little town of Hawkhurst. Considering its size, it is astonishing that the railways have not yet invaded it; it does not even indulge in a branch line. Perhaps the hilliness of the surrounding country may have something to do with the fact; be that as it may, it is pleasant to discover, in this iron age, when the land is gridironed all over with railways, some town actually out of sight and sound of the ubiquitous steam whistle. Hawkhurst is a much-spread-out place, and, in proportion to the number of its inhabitants, covers a quantity of ground. A picturesque spot it is, with some fine old Scotch firs upon its ancient green, that give a character to the place. Most of its houses, great as well as small, are surrounded by pleasant gardensreal old-fashioned gardens, not the miserable bits of brick-wall enclosed ground that do duty for such in suburban London. And is there a more delightful spot to wander or moon about in than an old English garden? and if it has some clipped yews

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and a moss-begrown sundial, so much the better. Hawkhurst possesses an interesting church of the time of Edward III.; above each of its two porches is a parvis chamber. It possesses, also, by way of contrast, an uninteresting modern church. One might spend a day in the old building, and find it all too short; a few minutes in the new one would more than suffice. The one has made its history, romance is written on its every stone; the other has its history to make. Possibly but few people are aware that this rural and retired spot was once the seat of a busy iron industry, and that none other than William Penn started and worked the first furnace.

As we approached the town, we noticed an old cottage with a tree-surrounded pool of water in front. It looked familiar to us, though we had never been in Hawkhurst till that day; then it suddenly came to our remembrance that it had formed the subject of a drawing copy at school, and very faithfully had the artist represented it. Yes, we had painted that very cottage long years ago, with the tree-girt rush-grown pool and bordering trees, without ever having seen them. It was a somewhat strange fact that, during our drive through both Sussex and Kent, we ever and again came upon spots and scenes that we recognised as old acquaintances, from having seen them previously reproduced in paintings upon the walls of various picture galleries. One especially impressed us: an old moated manor house that attracted our attention in a water-colour collection, where it was entitled, if I remember

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