There it stands, among the surrounding graves, looking just the
same as it did in Bloody Mary's days; just as it did in Cromwell's time.
A bird (and perhaps many birds) had its nest in the steeple, and flew in
and out of the loopholes that were opened into it. The stone framework
of the windows looked particularly old.
There were monuments about the church, some lying flat on the ground,
others elevated on low pillars, or on cross slabs of stone, and almost
all looking dark, moss-grown, and very antique. But on reading some of
the inscriptions, I was surprised to find them very recent; for, in fact,
twenty years of this climate suffices to give as much or more antiquity
of aspect, whether to gravestone or edifice, than a hundred years of our
own,--so soon do lichens creep over the surface, so soon does it blacken,
so soon do the edges lose their sharpness, so soon does Time gnaw away
the records. The only really old monuments (and those not very old) were
two, standing close together, and raised on low rude arches, the dates on
which were 1684 and 1686. On one a cross was rudely cut into the stone.
But there may have been hundreds older than this, the records on which
had been quite obliterated, and the stones removed, and the graves dug
over anew. None of the monuments commemorate people of rank; on only one
the buried person was recorded as "Gent."
While we sat on the flat slabs resting ourselves, several little girls,
healthy-looking and prettily dressed enough, came into the churchyard,
and began to talk and laugh, and to skip merrily from one tombstone to
another.
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