How choice a place is the Bemerton parsonage. If holy ground anywhere exists, this spot has indisputable claims to the title. Across the road, not more than thirty feet away, is the house in which Herbert lived, much in its old condition, though somewhat enlarged. Humble and unpretentious, it is still the Bemerton parsonage, and occupied by Rev. Mr. Piggot, the present rector. The house is a story and a half high, standing sidewise to the road, and parallel to the church, which might be its twin. Mr. Piggot, a gentleman of means and taste, was absent; but with extreme courtesy his man-servant met us at the door, and cheerfully showed us over the house, especially into the study which makes it historic. The efforts he made for our pleasure, the permission granted us to walk at will over the old garden, indicated the present incumbent as one who would do honor to the memory of the sweet singer of that Israel. How charming that Eden! Walks and lawns are as they were in Herbert's day. There is the medlar tree he planted, now more than two hundred and fifty years old,--decrepit, and supported by props. The trunk, six or eight inches in diameter, is protected by thin metal plates, and cared for like an invalid or a pet child. It yet bears a little fruit, and is a living link between the centuries, bridging over the long chasm from George Herbert to ourselves. The little River Avon, at the rear of the garden and washing its banks, still runs as it did then, and every foot of the acre is sacred. In the immediate rear of the old house, opposite from the river, perhaps two hundred feet away, is a beautiful lawn. Vines climb the housewalls and flowering shrubs complete the picture. Inside the house, works of _vertu_ and evidences of scholarly life abound. All is befitting to the dear memory of Herbert. Exquisite is the beauty of the road, and perfect the shade of the overhanging trees. What a charm seemed to permeate everything! "Take it for all in all, We shall not look upon its like again." Carrying with us better influences than had come from the hills and on the great plain of Sarum and Stonehenge, we bade Bemerton farewell. Passing through Fisherton, a suburban village of Salisbury,--like Bemerton, watered by the Avon,--we reached Salisbury at noon, and at two o'clock took a train for WINCHESTER,