A MYSTERIOUS MONUMENT.
An odd tomb, in the shape of a tower, is to be seen in the churchyard. Now thickly overgrown with ivy, it is a picturesque object, but the peculiarity of it is that the body of the person “buried” here—a certain William London, in 1809—is contained in a stone-encased coffin, projecting from the tower, half-way up. The end of the coffin bears an epitaph, which, however, affords no clue to this freak. Legends, that may or may not be well founded, tell that the descendants of William London, a Scotch merchant, retain the property bequeathed by him so long as he remains “above ground.” This tower is supported on arches filled in with ornamental ironwork, on which appear the mysterious words, “BYDE-MY-TYME.” The inquisitive stranger naturally wants to know what he is waiting for, but the mystery is insoluble.
Leaving Pinner behind, turn left by the church, and so, by the second on the right, past Pinner, L. & N.W.R., Station, and along a very good running road, but otherwise featureless, to Stanmore. This is a good run of four miles. At Stanmore, a beautiful but growing village, there is the old ivy-covered tower of the demolished church standing romantically beside the new building. Past this there are many puzzling roads; an unlikely looking narrow one leads to Whitchurch and Edgware, but it is practically useless to try to indicate it here. Ask one of the many people who are always to be found at this corner. The route lies past Canons Park. Whitchurch Church is an ugly, would-be classic building. In the churchyard is the grave of the so-called “Harmonious Blacksmith,” from whose melodious anvil Handel is (incorrectly) said to have obtained the famous tune. It is decorated with a sculptured headstone.
Within a short distance comes Edgware, and, turning to the right, along the road to London, we spin along up Redhill, and then, after doing a mile and a quarter from Edgware, espy a turning on the right with a sign-post directing to Mount Pleasant. This is a steep little climb, leading to a charming country lane down which to coast. Take the next turning to the left, leading to Kingsbury Green, and then to the right, and, still bearing to the right, find a lane on the left, leading past Chalk Hill House and onward, circuitously leftwards to Wembley, around the park, where the colossal unfinished tower constitutes a distressing eyesore. At Wembley turn right, as for Sudbury, and, immediately after passing the station, to the left, coming down through canal-side Alperton (which every inhabitant will persist in calling “Appleton”), to the junction with our outward journey.
UNDER THE NORTH DOWNS
So wooded are these lofty hills, so rustic their every bend and fold, and of so wondrous a fertility their bounteous soil, that, were it not for the established fact of mere distance from London lending the west country an additional charm, one would dare to compare this district with South Devon itself. Its actual merits are equal; its distance from town less than thirty miles, as compared with two hundred. But beyond compare are its old cottages, the red brick and timbered farmsteads, and the ancient manor-houses of this corner of Surrey, whose ruddy walls, or green and lichened roofs, exercise the palettes and the pencils of artists innumerable. Surrey farmhouses have their likeness nowhere else, and in no other county shall you seek with equal certainty of success these characteristics, or those clustered chimneys that make every humble home of these valley roads and sequestered bylanes an old-world-mansion, dignified and reposeful.