A sexton once looked in at the bones, but did not dare to touch them, lest his "quietus" should be made with a bare bodkin.
From the church door we mounted our carriage; and crossing the Avon on a bridge which the lord mayor of London built four hundred years ago, we start on one of the most memorable rides of our life.

The country looked fresh and luxuriant from recent rains.

The close-trimmed hedges, the sleek cattle, the snug cottages, the straggling villages with their historic inns, the castle from whose park Shakspeare stole the deer, the gate called "Shakspeare's stile," curious in the fact that it looks like ordinary bars of fence, but as you attempt to climb over, the whole thing gives way, and lets you fall flat, righting itself as soon as it is unburdened of you; the rabbits darting along the hedges, undisturbed, because it is unlawful, save for licensed hunters, to shoot, and then not on private property; the perfect weather, the blue sky, the exhilarating breeze, the glorious elms and oaks by the way,--make it a day that will live when most other days are dead.
At two o'clock we came in sight of Kenilworth Castle.

Oh, this is the place to stir the blood.

It is the king of ruins.