ne Thomas Thimble (one of the Squire
Bedell's in Oxford, and his Confident) to him: '_Do not marry her:
if thou dost, she will break thy heart_.' He was not obsequious to
his friend's sober advice, but for her sake altered his condition,
and cast anchor here. One time some of his Oxford friends made a
visit to him she looked upon them with an ill eye, as if they had
come _to eat her out of house and home_ (as they say), she provided
a dish of milk, and some eggs for supper, and no more: They
perceived her niggardliness, and that her husband was inwardly
troubled at it (she wearing the breeches) so they were resolved to
be merry at supper, and talk all in Latin, and laughed exceedingly.
She was so vexed at their speaking Latin that she could not hold,
but fell out a weeping, and rose from the table. The next day, Mr.
Goffe ordered a better dinner for them, and sent for some wine: they
were merry, and his friends took their final leave of him. 'Twas no
long time before this Xanthippe made Mr. Thimble's prediction good;
and when he died, the last words he spake were: '_Oracle, Oracle,
Tom Thimble_,' and so he gave up the ghost."

Halfway from East Clandon to West Horsley is Hatchlands, a fine country
house and park with noble beeches; and next to Hatchlands one of the
prettiest and completest farmsteads in the county. The building in the
neighbourhood is, indeed, some of the best to be seen. West Horsley
itself is a fascinating collection of old cottages, vine-bowered and
fronted with clipped yews. One such yew, standing by the door of what
the picture postcards vaguely designate "old cottage, West Horsley," is
an extraordinarily elaborate piece of rustic topiary. Another feature of
the village is the now disused workhouse, a solid old brick building
overlooking a horsepond: another, the bole of a superb elm, quite
rightly stationed in the carpenter's sawyard. Of West Horsley church it
is more difficult to speak. It is possible to see from outside that
there is a beautiful three lancet east window, but the rest of the
church, with its chapel and fine monuments, is a sealed book. The door
is locked, and the keys are kept at the rectory a mile away: the sexton,
next door to the church, is not allowed a key. It is not easy to write
soberly of an authority which compels for one who should be allowed to
see the church, four journeys of a mile to ask for and to r