Many persons do not like to go near a churchyard:  some do not like even to hear a churchyard mentioned.  Many others feel an especial interest in that quiet place—­an interest which is quite unconnected with any personal associations with it.  A great deal depends upon habit; and a great deals turns, too, on whether the churchyard which we know best is a locked-up, deserted, neglected place, all grown over with nettles; or a spot not too much retired, open to all passers-by, with trimly-mown grass and neat gravelled walks.  I do not sympathize with the taste which converts a burying-place into a flower-garden or a fashionable lounge for thoughtless people:  let it be the true ‘country churchyard,’ only with some appearance of being remembered and cared for.  For myself, though a very commonplace person, and not at all sentimentally inclined, I have a great liking for a churchyard.  Hardly a day passes on which I do not go and walk up and down for a little in that which surrounds my church.  Probably some people may regard me as extremely devoid of occupation, when I confess that daily, after breakfast, and before sitting down to my work (which is pretty hard, though they may not think so), I walk slowly down to the churchyard, which is a couple of hundred yards off, and there pace about for a few minutes, looking at the old graves and the mossy stones.  Nor is this only in summer-time, when the sward is white with daisies, when the ancient oaks around the gray wall are leafy and green, when the passing river flashes bright through their openings and runs chiming over the warm stones, and when the beautiful hills that surround the quiet spot at a little distance are flecked with summer light and shade; but in winter too, when the bare branches look sharp against the frosty sky, and the graves look like wavelets on a sea of snow.  Now, if I were anxious to pass myself off upon my readers as a great and thoughtful man, I might here give an account of the profound thoughts which I think in my daily musings in my pretty churchyard.  But, being an essentially commonplace person (as I have no doubt about nine hundred and ninety-nine out of every thousand of my readers also are), I must here confess that generally I walk about the churchyard, thinking and feeling nothing very particular.  I do not believe that ordinary people, when worried by some little care, or pressed down by some little sorrow, have only to go and muse in a churchyard in order to feel how trivial and transient such cares and sorrows are, and how very little they ought to vex us.  To commonplace mortals, it is the sunshine within the breast that does most to brighten; and the thing that has most power to darken is the shadow there.  And the scenes and teachings of external nature have, practically, very little effect indeed.  And so, when musing in the churchyard, nothing grand, heroical, philosophical, or tremendous ever suggests itself to me.  I look with pleasure at the neatly cut walks and grass.