ound like a darkening veil.
The branches of the trees lash one another like penitential dryades.
Old Husaby church lies near us, yonder; though the shower lashes the
high walls, which alone stand, of the old Catholic Bishop's palace.
Crows and ravens fly through the long glass-less windows, which time
has made larger; the rain pours down the crevices in the old grey
walls, as if they were now to be loosened stone from stone: but the
church stands--old Husaby church--so grey and venerable, with its
thick walls, its small windows, and its three spires stuck against
each other, and standing, like nuts, in a cluster.

The old trees in the churchyard cast their shade over ancient graves.
Where is the district's "Old Mortality," who weeds the grass, and
explains the ancient memorials? Large granite stones are laid here in
the form of coffins, ornamented with rude carvings from the times of
Catholicism. The old church-door creaks in the hinges. We stand within
its walls, where the vaulted roof was filled for centuries with the
fragrance of incense, with monks, and with the song of the choristers.
Now it is still and mute here: the old men in their monastic dresses
have passed into their graves; the blooming boys that swung the censer
are in their graves; the congregation--many generations--all in their
graves; but the church still stands the same. The moth-eaten, dusty
cowls, and the bishops' mantle, from the days of the cloister, hang in
the old oak presses; and old manuscripts, half eaten up by the rats,
lie strewed about on the shelves in the sacristy.

In the left aisle of the church there still stands, and has stood time
out of mind, a carved image of wood, painted in various colours which
are still strong: it is the Virgin Mary with the child Jesus. Fresh
flower wreaths are hung around hers and the child's head; fragrant
garlands are twined around the pedestal, as festive as on Madonna's
birthday feast in the times of Popery. The young folks who have been
confirmed, have this day, on receiving the sacrament for the first
time, ornamented this old image--nay, even set the priest's name in
flowers upon the altar; and he has, to our astonishment, let it remain
there.

The image of Madonna seems to have become young by the fresh wreaths:
the fragrant flowers here have a power like that of poetry--they bring
back the days of past centuries to our own times. It is as if the
extinguished glory around the head shone again; th