During my visit at Cheltenham, we contrived to spend a Sunday in the country—and such a Sunday as should realize my ideas of an English Sunday among a rural population. Early in the morning we went to Bredon, and there surveyed its parish Church, just opened for Divine service, and exhibiting a neat interior, which, but for my growing familiarity with so many superior examples, I should have considered very noteworthy. In the floor of the nave is a plain slab covering the grave of “Bishop Prideaux, 1650.” This Church, too, showed the hand of the restorer, and had been much improved and beautified in the spirit of what I suppose will be called the Victorian Restoration. Leaving this Church, we started over the field for Kemerton. It was a beautiful morning—what I am wont to call a _George-Herbert-Sunday_; and as I went through the fragrant meads and harvest lands, or turned into a shady lane, amid the hawthorn hedges, I felt those quiet influences stealing over me which are the sweetest preparation for enjoyment in the house of God. By and by we descried above the foliage the tower of Kemerton Church; and hard by was the parsonage, where that estimable dignitary, the venerable Archdeacon Thorp, gave us a most cordial welcome. Before service, my friend V—— called me aside into the churchyard, and pointed to a little grave beautifully decorated with fresh flowers. I understood at once that it was the grave of a beloved child he had lately lost, and whose transient but lovely life had shed a charm around these scenes of its sweet and holy habitation, and endeared them to the hearts of all who knew him. For a moment I entered into the sorrows of a bereaved parent, and wept with one that wept.