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it extends for miles around, towards the
horizon. A shower stands in the heavens; the
wind has increased: see how the rain falls to
the ground like a darkening veil. The branches
of the trees lash one another like penitential
dryades. Old Husaby church lies near us,
yonder; though the shower lashes the high
walls, which alone stand, of the old Catholic
Bishop’s palace. Crows and rayons fly through
the long glass-less windows, which time has
made larger; the rain pours down the
crevices in the old grey walls, as if they were
now to be loosened stone from stone: but
the church stands -- old Husaby church -- so
grey and venerable, with its thick walls, its
small windows, and its three spires stuck
against each other, and standing, like nuts, in
a cluster.
The old trees in the churchyard cast their
shade over ancient graves. Where is the district’s
"Old Mortality," who weeds the grass, and
explains the ancient memorials? Large granite
stones are laid here in the form of coffins,
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