HERE LYETH DA. JANE LATE WIFE OF SR. HENRIE CHEYNE KNIGHT LO. CHEYNE OF TODINGTON AND ELDEST DAVGHTER OF SR. THOMAS WENTWORT KNIGHT LO. WENTWORTH AND LORD CHAMBERLAINE TO KING EDWARD THE SIXT WHO DECEASED THE 16 DAIE OF APRIL AO. DO. 1614.
HERE LIES MY BODIE IN CORRVPTIONS BED,
MY SOVLE BY FAITH AND HOPE TO HEAVEN IS LED,
IMPRISONED BY LIFE, DEATH SET ME FREE,
THEN WELCOME DEATH, STEP TO ÆTERNITY.
Before we quit the sacred precincts of the old edifice, our steps take us to the chancel, and in scanning the memorials around, are arrested awhile by the record of an interesting but sad episode of home life, occurring during the last days of the residence of the Cheneys in their grand home at Toddington. A small tablet on the south side of the altar,—despoiled apparently, like the tombs in the transept, of its ornamental accessories,—still speaks to us this tribute of sisterly affection,—
IN MEMORIAM FRATRIS POSUIT-SOROR ALISIA BRVS
AMORIS ERGO.
GYLIS BRVSE ESQR YONGEST SON'E TO SR. JOHN BRVSE OF WENHAM IN SUFF' KNYGHT WHO COM'INGE TO TODDYNGTO' TO VISYTE HIS SYSTER ALICE BRVSE THEN ATTENDING ON YE RIGHT HO' YE LADYE CHEYNE THERE DYED YE 13 OF MARCH 1595 AND WAS BY HIS SAYDE SYSTER HERE INTOMBED YE 14 OF MARCH REGNO REGINÆ ELIZAB: 38 ÆTATIS SUÆ 33.
As our stranger-foot turns to depart, the suggestive reflection crosses the thoughts concerning the untoward fate of the vanished Cheneys,—their name extinct, their sumptuous habitation razed to the ground, and their costly memorials also subjected to almost unparalleled indignity, neglect, and injury, short of actual destruction,—can the well-worn but true adage, sic transit gloria mundi, ever have received ampler verification?
But why should such striking collapse of this world's artificial grandeur sadden the mind that rejoices in the unobtrusive station, and simple unenvied delights—ever the best—of every-day life? In truth it does not; as we pass out into the pleasant daylight, the olden opulence and state of the departed Cheneys fades into the past as a dream, for a much more healthful sight is before us. To-day is the little rural town's holiday, and its inhabitants are enjoying themselves with unrestrained pleasure, while the fine peal of bells in the tower is also adding melodious tribute to the passing hour. Their delightful cadence follows our retreating steps for a long distance, and as their sweet sound dies to the outward ear, our walk continues to be beguiled with this vagrant inward echo to their
DISTANT CHIMES.
Of poets song, inspirer oft,—yet still
Many of thy sweet changes wait unsung,—
Differing as are the hearts thine echoes fill,
As various the thoughts then through them rung:—
Who may define these pleasures that arise
Within the soul by quickening spell set free?
As lief may hand essay to paint the skies,
Whose passing glories change eternally.
Is it because we know not whence they come,
And only feel the magic of their power?
Outside our ken, from some Elysian home,
Spring the delights that charm the passing hour;
And heaven itself, beyond thought's bounding line,
Lies pictured still as wishful hearts incline.