body of the church are slabs to Samuel Shuckford, 45 years vicar of Warnham and Eartham, Ann his widow, and Matthew Napper gent. In the pavement of the south aisle, the side of an altar tomb, adorned with shields and quatrefoils, and apparently of the time of Edward I, may be discerned: the font is square, and of the same date; the pulpit stands upon a basement of brick, which gives it a particularly singular appearance: the neat embattled tower contains five bells, and is of later construction than the rest of the building. [Picture: Monument of Sir John Caryl] Warnham Court, a handsome mansion in the style of Elizabeth, and a very striking feature of the surrounding country, was erected about three years since, by Henry Tredcroft esq.: the house contains about 50 apartments, and is built of brick faced with stone: the grounds are tastefully arranged, and the park, though so recently laid out, assumes a beautiful and verdant appearance. [Picture: Warnham Court] To the south of Warnham, is Field Place, the residence for several centuries of the family of Mitchell. The only daughter of the Rev. Theobald Mitchell, married the late Sir Bysshe Shelley, by whose son Sir Timothy, it is now possessed. Percy Bysshe Shelley, the celebrated poet and friend of Byron, was born here: a brief but interesting account of his life, may be found in Horsefield’s “History of Sussex” vol. 2nd. under the description of Warnham. [Picture: Field place] To the east of Horsham, is a tract of land, containing between eight and nine thousand acres, called St. Leonard’s forest: although its nearest point is seven miles from the upper part of Beeding, it is within the limits of that parish: the chief part of the soil is poor, it contained considerable quantities of iron stone, which was smelted, but as the timber became exhausted, the smelting of the iron has been long discontinued, and nothing remains to denote the former manufactory of cast iron, but several large ponds in various parts of the forest, still called Hammer ponds. This forest has ever been the subject of the legends of neighbouring peasants, woe (according to their account) to the luckless wight, who should venture to cross it alone on horseback during the night, for no soon will he have entered its darksome precincts, than a horrible decapitated spectre in the shape of a former squire Paulett, disregarding all prayers or menaces, leaps behind him on his good steed, and accompanies the affrighted traveller to the opposite boundaries.—The celebrated St. Leonard also, through whose efficacious prayers “The adders never stynge, Nor ye nyghtyngales synge,” in its gloomy mazes is often the theme of the cottagers fire side conversation.