Sixty years ago St. Martha's was a ruin; as unhappy a little building as St. Catherine's on the hill beyond the Wey. It was restored in 1848, and has taken out of the past a quiet and serenity that set it in the old years, in tranquil sunshine, in the peace of English Sundays. All the winds blow about it; it is alone in its acre of smooth down grass; within its churchyard wall are the graves of country labourers and their children, lowly mounds hardly seen, without the memory of a name, at one with the purpose of the earth they dug and sowed. Pine trees stand round the open space of the hill; bluebells in May spread a film under them; beyond the grasses, heather and ling die from August purples to the bronze of autumn. The Surrey hills are to the south and west; farthest on the horizon is the faint blue of the Sussex downs. There are early Norman walls and arches in the restored chapel. St. Martha's may be one of the three churches which Domesday assigns to the manor of Bramley, belonging to Bishop Odo of Bayeux. A less trustworthy tradition is that Stephen Langton is buried there; the lids of the old stone coffins found in the chapel when it was restored probably account for that legend. Martin Tupper accepted the legend as history. St. Martha's chapel has inspired more than one poet, Tupper among them, but none have written with more charm on the lonely little building than Mr. Sidney Allnutt, in a poem which was published in the _Spectator_ last year. Here are six stanzas out of many:-- A little chapel grey with years, And bleached with sun and rain, One solid four-square tower it rears Above strong walls which still oppose Firm front to elemental foes That rage at them in vain. Far southward from St. Martha's Hill, And to the east and west, The downs heave up green shoulders, till The distance with its magic blue Envelops every other hue, And crest is lost in crest. Safe sheltered by the encircling downs The chequered valleys show Their tapestry of greens and browns, Made rich by fields of golden grain, And threaded by a silver vein Where Wey's clear waters flow. A churchyard bare of shrub or tree, All open to the sky, To every wind of heaven free, Lies round the chapel, carpeted With soft, sweet turf where happy dead In dreamless slumber lie. For, far removed from camp or mart, Beneath the sacred sod Of that blest hill they sleep apart: Forgotten by the world below, After life's spendthrift toil they know The rest that comes from God. And, oh, it must be good to sleep Within that churchyard bare, While turn by turn the seasons keep A bedside watch, and God may see Safe in St. Martha's nursery His children pillowed there.