Travel in the old days--Sequestered Sussex--Country homes--A mellow
land--A gibbet post and its story--Chiddingly and its church--The
Pelham buckle--Wayside crosses--St. Dunstan's tongs and his anvil--A
curious brass--Iron stocks--Home again.
From Worthing our road led for three or four miles along "the beached
margin of the sea," a straight stretch of dreary and shelterless
shingly road, looking doubly dreary after the pleasant green lanes
we had so recently travelled. At the end of this we crossed the Arun
close above where it joins the Channel, its short race run, its life
almost too brief to grow into a real river; sea-gulls were whirling
about it, but what they did there I could not make out; they were not
catching fish, nor did they alight on the land or the water, but kept
whirling round and round restlessly just over one spot in an apparently
purposeless manner; but it pleased me to watch them, for the freedom of
the wing is a glorious thing. When sea-gulls do this away from the sea
I am told it is a sign of bad weather.
On the other side of the river stood the old town of Shoreham with its
shipping, and above the town rose its weather-beaten, ancient Norman
church tower; square, massive, grey and stern like its builders,
strangely sculptured, too, by the salt spray and sea winds that have
wrought their will upon it. From our point of view the town had an
ancient look, though much of it is modern enough, but the grime of its
smoke had toned down the new to the old. Beyond Shoreham lies Brighton,
and to avoid the tedious and unprofitable drive through both towns and
along a mere succession of houses we turned up by the river-side and
went northward inland in search of old-fashioned places.
We paid a toll at the bridge by which we crossed the Arun, and that was
the only toll we had on the way. Years ago, when I was much younger
and took long driving tours, the tolls I had to pay at the toll-gates
often cost me more than my dinner, to say nothing of the provoking fact
of having frequently to pull up, and often besides be kept waiting for
change. Those old toll-keepers were a race apart, and in remote places
would dally at the gate whilst they asked me for the news of the day.
Such trifles seem to make those old times appear farther off than they
are. It was slow travelling then, and with tired horses often your
choice of an inn for the night was "Hobson's choice," for you could
not go farther--yet these leisured old times make pleasant memory. Now
wherever you go you can rarely escape the morning newspaper; to do
so is a test of remoteness indeed. What with telegraphs, telephones,
railways and motors, news travels fast and the world is made smaller.
It was the coach that brought the first tidings of events in times
past, and its arrival was eagerly watched for in the towns and villages
on the way: so was the news of Trafalgar and Waterloo spread through
the land. Some of those toll-keepers, it is said, were in league
with the highwayman, and signalled to him about any likely passing
and lonely traveller by an open or a shut window, at night by means
of a light in the same window; but this may be scandal. At least we
know that some rascally landlords of inns were accomplices of the
highwayman; rumour indeed has it that Dick Turpin was so indignant at
a certain landlord giving information to a rival "when under articles
to him" that he threatened to shoot that landlord. In return for his
services the toll-keeper was never robbed of his day's takings. There
is a tale told of a certain lady of quality who in those exciting times
of travel always used to take with her a purse filled with base coin to
hand over: but how, I wonder, did that lady become possessed of so much
base coin?
It was a pleasant drive by the side of the river to the pretty village
of Bramber, with its half-timber cottages and fragment of a Norman
castle on a wooded knoll. I think it was at Bramber that a friend told
me a few years ago he visited an interesting little museum and found
the following admission notice: "Adults twopence, Children One penny,
Ladies and gentlemen what they will." I wonder how many extra pennies
good folk were induced to part with for the glory of being in the
latter category? A somewhat similar notice I read in an inn garden:
"People must not pluck the flowers. Ladies and gentlemen never do."
There was some art in that notice.
From Bramber we drove through a fine open country of wide prospects,
the forgathering of the hedgerow trees making the distance look like
one vast forest--a forest never reached but that always circles the
horizon. Next we came to Henfield, a quiet and picturesque village.
After Henfield we got into a sequestered land beyond railways and on to
some pleasant by-roads and narrow lanes where in sunny nooks hosts of
wild flowers flourished, and the hedges delighted in tangled disorder.
We were again in a land of sleepy farmsteads of the old Sussex type,
farmsteads of time-toned walls, weather-tinted tiling, long, low,
lichen-laden roofs, and great chimney-stacks--always a great and
shapely chimney-stack of much the same pattern, but of a very good and
pleasing pattern. This type of farmhouse is not confined to Sussex, but
may be found over its near borders both in Kent and in Surrey. Such
farmhouses are much sought after to-day, I am told, to be converted
into homes for town people, because of their picturesque charm. This
has come about, I believe, in a measure owing to the motor-car making
accessible even remote country places; no longer do people depend
wholly on the railway as formerly; indeed an estate agent told me
that often the stipulation of country home seekers now is "not near a
railway." People,
Weary of men's voices and their tread,
Of clamouring bells and whirl of wheels that pass,
desire to get into the real country and away from the crowd. I have
just been reading in that delightful book, _An Odd Farmhouse_, how
such an old house was found, and the charm of the life in it. "It lay
in a dimple of the Downs, all around it were meadows.... A long, low,
Jacobean building of simple but beautiful lines.... I looked through
the dining-room windows and saw the tiled floor, the oak cupboards
built into the wall, the great beams traversing the ceiling, the
Gargantuan chimney-place, some eleven feet long, and deep enough to
hold settles in the ingle-nook. There was a raised platform for logs,
an old Sussex iron fire-back and a swinging crane with many hooks and
arms." Such a picture sets me longing to live in some similar old
Jacobean farmhouse: would only such good fortune were mine. I know
the picture is true, for I have more than once, and in different old
Jacobean homes, spent a night with mine hosts in them. I have sat
in their ingle-nooks before blazing fires of logs on their hearths,
watching the fitful flames leap up their wide chimneys, as they threw
a ruddy glow on beamed ceiling and panelled wall whilst casting
mysterious shadows around; and I have fed my full of the poetic charm
and the romance, rare in these commonplace days, of those nights. The
builder of a house never invented a better thing than the old-fashioned
big ingle-nook: not the poor pretence affair that the modern architect
calls one, with a cheerless, slow, combustion coal grate in its centre;
but an ingle-nook at least ten feet wide--and many are more--with a big
oak beam above, and deep enough to hold settles to seat comfortably
four about the wide hearth, with its fire-back and fire-dogs intended
for the burning of wood, such as they built in the Jacobean age when
men knew how to build homes to live in and joy in, not merely houses
for shelter--homes that were pictures without and within.
[Illustration: A JACOBEAN DOORWAY.]
But I have strayed from the road. It was a quiet land we were in, one
out of the way of much traffic, for the lanes seemed to lead nowhere in
particular, and only to exist for local convenience, but they take you
into the heart of the real country: a land as hushed as ever it was in
the distant days of "Queen Bess," for there has nothing arisen since
to disturb its foretime tranquillity--unless, perhaps, the rare and
temporary intrusion of a motor-car whose driver has lost his way. It
is for such unpretentious, peaceful scenery that the Englishman yearns
at times when in foreign lands far away. Just a yearning for the sight
of England's green fields, green hedges, leafy elms, and old homes,
nothing more. Even Byron, that wanderer, sings:
A green field is a sight which makes us pardon
The absence of that more sublime construction
Which mixes up vines, olives, precipices,
Glaciers, volcanoes, oranges, and ices.
Also did not Keats, when in Italy, once tell Severn that he lay awake
one night just thinking all the while of England's green fields and her
flowers?
I have often wondered how so simple a thing as a purely English
pastoral landscape can so greatly please; wherein exactly lies its
strong power to charm? I once took an American friend for a long drive
through a beautiful corner of England. I selected it specially,
wishing to give my visitor a pleasant impression of the old country.
There were hills and fair woods on the way, winding streams with
ancient stone bridges across them, a lovely ruined priory in a lonely
glen, old homes, many gabled and ivy-clad, picturesque cottages, and a
quaint, old-world village or two. These were some of the good things we
saw. When the journey was ended--we took it by motor-car, so we went
far--I asked my friend what pleased him the most. "Well, I think,"
said he, "it's the mellow, domesticated look of the country, as though
man and nature had long been on familiar terms there; but what really
appeals to me most are just your green meadows studded with daisies,
and your beautiful hedges." It was actually the simple sight of the
daisied meadows and the green hedges that pleased him more than all the
other good things, and the other things were very good indeed. It is
sometimes enlightening to see our land as others see it. Listen to what
Mark Twain says in his _More Tramps Abroad_:--
After all, in the matter of certain physical patent rights there is
only one England. Now that I have sampled the globe I am not in doubt.
There is the beauty of Switzerland, and it is repeated in the glaciers
and snowy ranges of many parts of the earth; there is the beauty of
the fiord, and it is repeated in New Zealand and Alaska; there is the
beauty of Hawaii, and it is repeated in ten thousand islands of the
Southern Seas; there is a beauty of the prairie and the plain, and it
is repeated here and there in the earth; each of these is worshipful,
each is perfect in its way, yet holds no monopoly of its beauty; but
that beauty which is England, is alone; it has no duplicate. It is
made up of very simple details--just grass, and trees, and shrubs, and
roads, and hedges, and gardens, and houses, and churches, and castles,
and here and there a ruin, and over all a mellow dreamland of history.
But its beauty is incomparable, and all its own.
There must surely be some special charm in a country, unassuming though
it may be, to cause such praise of it to be written. Does not even
cosmopolitan Kipling pronounce his preference for "Sussex by the sea"
over all the world?
We were in Sussex again, but, in spite of Kipling, I love Sussex
inland, sequestered Sussex of woodlands, sleepy villages, ancient
farmsteads and cottages, and genuine ruralness, infinitely more than
"Sussex by the sea," with its fringe of more or less fashionable
watering-places. Inland Sussex, on the whole, is the Sussex and the
England of the long past, delightful to see, but much of seaside
Sussex is the England of to-day, and is rather depressing to me.
The real charm of Sussex lies in its ancientness and in its simple,
good-humoured country folk, not in its modernness. People who rush from
London by rail or by motor on the main highways to Brighton, or other
of its seaside towns, know little of rural Sussex or the rare charms of
its silvan scenes.
Travelling through this peaceful land, loitering along its lanes that
tempted one to loiter because of their pleasantness, we eventually
turned up at Ansty Cross, where we were on one of the three familiar
Brighton roads, for there is a choice of roads from London to Brighton,
all beloved of the speedy motorist who heeds not the scenery he passes;
but they are dusty, with much hasting traffic, and not the roads that
a quiet-loving pilgrim would choose. For this cause we did not go far
on the Brighton road, but left it by the first promising lane, and in
time we reached a little green in an out-of-the-way spot. I could not
find it named on my map; there was no village there, but a cottage
or two faced it, and in the centre of the green was a post with a
weathercock on the top, and the weathercock had the date of years past
pierced in it, a date I have forgotten. The post was railed round for
protection, so I thought there might possibly be some story connected
with it, otherwise why so protected? I asked particulars of a cottager,
and he, nothing loth to be informing, told me that the post was part
of an ancient gibbet--I do not remember having seen such a thing
before--whereon a man was hung in chains for robbery and murder. It
appears from the tale I was told that a tramp sought food and shelter
one night at a cottage close by; the cottager took pity on him and gave
him food and a night's lodging, and was in return robbed of the small
savings he had by the scoundrel of a tramp, who richly deserved his
fate. Such are the tales of the road.
It must have been a gruesome sight in old days, and one not at times to
be avoided, for travellers to see a man hung up thus by the wayside,
his shrivelled body swinging, or perhaps only his bones rattling, in
the wind to the creaking of the chains. I remember a certain church
clerk telling me a story of how in past days, at a spot near his
church, a poor woman's only son was exposed on a gibbet--I think it
was merely for stealing a sheep he suffered death, stolen to provide
his widowed mother with food,--and how in after days the poor,
bereaved, broken-hearted, solitary widow used to tramp all alone on
dark winter nights to the gibbet to pick up any bones of her boy that
might have fallen to the ground, and carry them carefully home, so that
she might secretly bury them in a quiet corner of the churchyard. I
could only hope that the story was not true, but the clerk assured me
it was, "every word of it." Sometimes I am thankful I live in these
latter days.
Then wandering over more winding lanes we came to the top of Scaynes
Hill, where the road dropped down steeply before us, and from where
there is a fine view looking over the fair wooded Weald to the bare
but not barren downs, and just then over their long, undulating line
the sea mists were creeping, and I thought there came wafted inland
the rare scent of the sea. The mists kept rolling in great masses down
the green sides of the hills, then as if by magic vanished from view.
I never saw the South Downs look so glorious or so mountainous as they
looked with their crowning of mists and their dark shadowed bases. To
realise the full beauty of the downs you must see them in all weathers
and not in sunshine alone. Sunshine is cheerful, but sunshine is a
tamer; now mists give the downs just a suspicion of grandeur. Even
Snowdon looks tame on a clear, cloudless day.
Descending Scaynes Hill we mounted again to a wide open common with a
big white windmill topping it and so exposed to all the winds, a mill
boldly in evidence that surely would have tempted Don Quixote, had he
been of to-day and passed by that way, to try a tilt or two at it.
Without the mill the common would have looked bare and have been wholly
characterless except for its openness. I think, after an old castle or
a ruined abbey, there is more character about a windmill than in any
other building; moreover, a windmill is always a telling and a graceful
structure, so a pleasing, even a poetic, feature in any landscape. I
really think that more than half the charm of Holland lies in its many
bickering windmills, and the life their whirling sails give to its flat
and dreamy landscapes with their slow canals.
After a time our road led us between great rocks, so quickly in
England does the scenery change its character, for the rocks suggested
a road in the wild North Country; it was as though we had suddenly
been transported there. So we reached steep-streeted Uckfield, and in
a few more miles the little railless town of East Hoathly, somewhat
beyond which I espied, peeping over distant woods, a tall stone church
steeple; it attracted my eye, for it is an unusual sight in Sussex,
where the churches have mostly square towers, or steeples roofed with
oak shingles. On consulting my map I found the steeple belonged to
Chiddingly church, a little remote village off any main road. I had
indeed some trouble in finding my way there along the narrow lanes that
alone led to it. The church proved interesting. For the village I
cannot say much. It consisted of but a few houses, not more than half
a dozen, I think, a small shop where they appeared to sell everything
from bacon to pins (it was the post office also), and a little inn
boasting of the sign of "The Six Bells," a sign that presumably gives
one the number of bells in the steeple, for it was an old custom to
represent the number of bells in the neighbouring church on an inn
sign--one amongst other odd bits of information I picked up on the
journey; my journey indeed provided me with quite a storehouse of
information about unimportant matters.
Chiddingly church has an ancient and time-worn look. I noticed that
the steeple was bound round with iron chains, and I asked a man of the
place if he knew why they were there, for they were not ornamental.
"They be to keep the old steeple together," said he. Poor old steeple,
thought I, to have to depend upon chains to hold it in place. "It was
the village blacksmith's idea," explained the man. Now I should have
thought it was an architect's job. But iron chains exposed thus to all
storms would in no long time rust away, I should imagine, though I
dare say they will last for some years; but never before have I seen a
building so repaired. It is truly a primitive arrangement without even
the advantage of being picturesque.
The west doorway displays at either end of the drip moulding the quaint
device of the Pelham buckle. Now this device was the crest or badge
of Sir John Pelham, that gallant knight who made prisoner the King
of France at the famous fight of Poictiers, after which he assumed
as his crest or badge a representation of the sword-belt buckle of
the captured king, and on any building he founded, or helped in its
construction, he caused a carving of that badge to be placed. This
bit of information I also picked up on the way, though on a previous
tour. On a good many churches in Sussex you will find the Pelham buckle
engraved. Such was the pride of the Pelhams.
The west window of the church is notably out of the centre of the
tower, and is but one example of many showing how the old builders
considered not strict uniformity, and by so doing, I feel, added a
certain charm of irregularity to their structures; they were content
with eye measurements; to-day the foot-rule settles everything with a
mathematical and eye-provoking accuracy.
Within the church what first caught my eye was the gorgeous monument,
in a side building all to itself, of "Sir John Jefferay, Knt., late
Lord Chief Baron of the Excheqvr," who "dyed the xxiii of May 1575."
This monument is somewhat mutilated, it is said at one time by country
folk who mistook it for the tomb of the hated Judge Jeffreys. A little
away from the church stands a portion of the wing, with its windows
bricked up, of the once stately home of the Jefferays, now converted
into the outbuildings of a farmhouse--and that and their tomb marks the
end of their glory.
I noticed in the church an old-fashioned two-decker pulpit, with a
sounding-board above; you do not see many of these nowadays. This
reminds me of a story of old times I heard on the way and that was
fresh to me. It appears that in a certain country church a strange
parson had taken duty one Sunday. Now it was the custom there not to
begin the service before the squire had arrived. But the strange parson
knew nothing of this nor of the squire, so he promptly started with
"When the wicked man," whereupon the clerk below hurriedly stood up and
in a loud whisper exclaimed, "You must not begin yet, sir, he has not
come in."
From Chiddingly we proceeded over hilly and winding lanes and roads to
Cross-in-Hand, a lonely spot with an inn and a few cottages, so named,
I presume, from a pre-Reformation cross that probably once stood there.
These at the junction of roads (as here), where they often were placed,
were frequently provided with a hand to point out the way, and so were
the forerunners of the later finger-posts. A few more miles brought
us to historic Mayfield, set boldly on a hill, where in the Convent
(once the palace of the Archbishops of Canterbury) they show you the
veritable tongs of St. Dunstan, and point out the very dent made in
them caused by his Satanic Majesty's nose when he pinched it, and
his anvil also at which the saint was at work at the time. They sell
picture post-cards of them in the town also. I thought it was a monk of
Glastonbury, and at Glastonbury, who had the credit of this thrilling
exploit; but at Mayfield they declare the event took place there, and
are not the actual tongs proof sufficient? At Glastonbury there are no
such tongs; now at Mayfield the doubting traveller may see the tongs
and the dent in them.
By the way, I heard a rather quaint story of the palace in the
troublesome old days when the roads were infested with robbers. Late
one night a loud knock was heard at the door, whereupon the porter
opened the little iron-guarded shutter to see who was there, and
discovered a man begging in God's name for some food; but the porter
did not like the look of the stranger and took him for a thief, so
he kept the door closed, when suddenly the big bolts flew aside of
their own accord and the door opened of itself; it was a saint who was
standing outside! But how could the poor porter tell that, if the man
looked not the part? So I think it was hardly fair of the saint to
reprove the porter for not at once opening the door in God's name. The
modern tramp is no saint, but he makes very free use of God's name.
From Mayfield we struck west over a wild, open country in search of
Ticehurst, that appeared, from my map, to be a little village or small
town, fairly remote from the rail and therefore possibly interesting.
It was a fine drive through a rough-and-tumble country, and though
Ticehurst disappointed me, the road to it did not. Ticehurst proved
to be a clean, neat, wide-streeted village, with a village well in
the centre--a village of some old houses and pleasantly situated,
but not otherwise specially attractive. The inn there is said to be
of the fourteenth century, though it hardly looks it. Finding the
village uninteresting I strolled to the church, a grey and ancient
pile overlooking a vast extent of rolling and wooded hills. It was
almost worth going to Ticehurst for that revelation of scenery. Over
the church porch I noticed a parvis chamber, and within the building a
quantity of stained glass in its many and large windows; some of the
glass is old and good, some modern and not so good. I noticed also
the curious circular clerestory windows of singular design, a unique
feature of the church as far as my knowledge extends. Portions of the
stone steps to the former rood-loft still exist, I observed, and there
is an old carved oak cover to the font with a worn inscription on it
that I could not decipher. The chief interest of Ticehurst church,
however, lies in a curious brass to "John Wybarne Armigi," who died
"sexto decimo die ffebruarii Anno Rigni Regis henrici Septimi quinto."
He is represented on his brass in full armour between his two wives,
and at least four times their size. This suggests that the brass was
originally only intended for one figure, and that those of the two
wives were added afterwards, so there was no room to make them larger
in the remaining space available. It is, too, a curious circumstance
that the armour shown is of a considerably earlier period than that in
which this John Wybarne lived. This further suggests to me that it may
have been a memorial to some former knight basely appropriated, for
such things were done in times past, as many a palimpsest brass proves;
to me in the details of its armour it bears a close resemblance to the
one to Sir John D'Agentine at Horseheath in Cambridgeshire, bearing
date of 1382.
From Ticehurst we had a glorious drive through a rolling and
well-wooded country as far as the Hastings main road; this we followed
to Robertsbridge with a long and steep descent to that little,
old-fashioned town. I think it was Walpole, when posting one night
this way, called this descent a precipice, but it scarcely is that.
Those old travellers often took a strangely exaggerated view of things,
some of them going so far as to call even the modest Welsh mountains
"frightful, horrid, awe-inspiring," and so forth in superabundance.
We followed the Hastings road as far as Battle, where we turned to
the right and proceeded westwards towards Eastbourne and home. In due
course we came to Ninfield, a little village high up in the world, and
not far from "Standard Hill," as shown on the Ordnance map, and where
tradition asserts William the Conqueror of old first raised his banner
in England, and the morrow beheld a kingdom he had won with the aid of
his armoured knights and a ruse. The hill has a commanding position
overlooking the country all round, so there is nothing improbable in
the tradition recording a fact, and the name of the hill, preserved
through centuries to this day, is suggestive. At Ninfield there are
some iron stocks under trees by the wayside. I do not remember having
seen stocks of iron before. There is a tale told of these, that a man
was condemned to be placed in the wooden stocks that preceded them,
only his friends hacked them to pieces overnight, and there were
no stocks to put him in; so fresh ones of iron, not readily to be
demolished, were ordered, which stand to this day as serviceable as
when they were made, and that must be a long while ago, though I am
unaware of the date when the punishment of the stocks was abolished.
We drove on from Ninfield over winding roads that led us along the
top of the hills overlooking the sea, sparkling in the sunshine that
day, and past time-mellowed farmsteads, many with their quaint,
conical-roofed oast-houses adjoining; then we dropped suddenly down
from the hills to the wide plain of the Pevensey marshes, green as a
land may be; we were nearing Eastbourne and home, and the end of our
journey. So now, kind reader--I think I may venture to call you "kind
reader" as you have followed me so far, for that surely is test enough
to admit of such an address--I here bid you a reluctant farewell; for
your company in spirit on our pleasant journey I heartily thank you.
Good-bye.
[Illustration]
INDEX
Abbeys--
Buildwas, 229-231
Haughmond, 213-214, 217-221, 250
Lilleshall, 249-250
Waverley, 89-93
White Ladies, 250, 262-264
Abbot's Bromley, 274-278
Aberdovey, 163-165, 172, 176-178
Abingdon, 316
Albrighton, 195
Aldbourne, 115-117
Alfriston, 15, 17-18, 162
Alton, 344-349
Ansty Cross, 386
Ashdown Forest, 62-63
Atcham, 222-223
Atherstone, 225, 281-285
Bablockhythe Ferry, 317-318
Banbury, 285-287, 290-293
Banwy River, 192-193
Barcombe, 24
Basingstoke, 109
Batemans, 47
Battle, 395
Baxter, Richard, 228
Beachy Head, 8, 9, 23
Beaconsfield, 333-337, 341-343
Blenheim, 320
Bloxham, 293-296
Bognor, 371
Boscobel, 237, 245, 250, 341-343
Boswell, 299
Brighton, 373-374
Broadhurst, 57-58
Broad Marston, 65
Broadway, 139-140
Broom, 65
Browne, Sir Thomas, 65
Bunyan, 228
Burford, 153-156, 304-306
Burnham Beeches, 343
Burroughs, John, 174
Burton-on-Trent, 280-281
Byron, Lord, 118, 150
Cann Office Inn, 188-191
Carlyle, 101
Carno, 170-171
Castles--
Boarstall Tower, 322, 326-328
Bodiam, 10, 37
Bramber, 381
Carreg Cennin, 10
Farnham, 93
Hurstmonceux, 22
King John's, 103
Ludlow, 157
Red Castle, 205, 207
Tong, 251
Tutbury, 280-281
Cemmaes, 171
Chapel House, 298-300
Charles I., 175, 290, 305
Charles II., 236, 239, 263, 267-271
Charwelton, 289-290
Chichester, 370-371
Chiddingly, 389-392
Chipping Norton, 300
Church Stretton, 161-162
Churches--
Alton, 347-348
Bloxham, 294-296
Burford, 153-156, 305
Chiddingly, 389-392
Corhampton, 358-359
Culmington, 159
Dane Hill, 60
Fletching, 31-40
Greywell, 107
Highworth, 313-315
Horsted Keynes, 51-59
Kingsclere, 110
Lilleshall, 248
Odiham, 96-99
Shipton-under-Wychwood, 302-303
Stanton Lacy, 158-159
Ticehurst, 393-394
Tong, 250-262
Cirencester, 125, 128-130, 145
Claverham, 19-23
Clifford Chambers, 65
Coalbrookdale, 231
Coate, 118-121
Cobbett, William, 24, 62-63, 81, 109, 347
Coleridge, 196
Constable, John, 42
Corhampton, 357-359, 363
Cotswolds, The, 13, 134, 139, 304
Cox, David, 42
Craven Arms, 160-161
Cricklade, 125
Crondall, 94
Cross-in-Hand, 392
Cuckmere Valley, 17
Culmington, 159
Daglingworth, 129
Dane Hill, 59-61
Daventry, 225, 273, 285
De Quincey, 45
Dickens, Charles, 43
Dinas Mawddwy, 185
Dovey, Valley of, 171-172
Down Apney, 127
Dyfi Valley, 182
Eastbourne, 38
East Hoathly, 389
Eaton Constantine, 228
Emerson, 137
Emsworth, 370
Evesham, Vale of, 141
Eynsham, 319
Fareham, 367-370
Faringdon, 316
Farnham, 93-94
Felpham, 374-376
Fletching, 31-40, 56
Frensham Pond, 84-86
Friston, 9, 162
Gibbon, 35-36, 56
Godalming, 83
Great-upon-Little, 80-81
Great Witley, 142-143
Greywell, 142-143
Hampden, John, 89
Havant, 370
Hawkestone, 200-201, 203
Hazlitt, William, 5-6, 152
Henfield, 382
High Ercall, 210-211
Highworth, 312-316
High Wycombe, 332-333
Hindhead, 109
Hook, 344
Horsted Keynes, 51-59
Huddington Court, 240-243
Hungerford, 111-114
Ironbridge, 227, 231-232
Islip, 322
Jefferies, Richard, 118-120, 168, 373
Johnson, Dr., 45, 58, 201, 204, 299, 372
Jonson, Ben, 137
Joseph's Stone, 321-322
Kennett Valley, 114
King's Bromley, 273-275
Kingsclere, 110
Kipling, Rudyard, 47, 386
Lamb, Charles, 81
Langstone Harbour, 370
Laughton Level, 23
Leighton, 229
Leighton, Archbishop, 56-58
Lewes, 23-24, 49
Lichfield, 225, 273
Lilleshall, 247-248
Liphook, 109
Litlington, 17
Littlecote, 115
Littlehampton, 377
Little Stretton, 161
Llandysill, 144
Llanerfyl, 191-192
Long Crendon, 329
Long Mountain, 165
Ludlow, 157
Machynlleth, 174-176
Madeley, 227-232
Madeley Court, 233-239, 245-246, 266
Maidenhead, 343
Malvern Hills, 141
Marton Mere, 166
Mayfield, 392-393
Meon Stoke, 357-358
Meon Valley, 349
Montgomery, 166-167
Moreton Corbet, 207-210
Moseley Hall, 170
Muchelney, 15
Newbury, 111
Newton, 169, 174-175
Ninfield, 395-396
North Moor, 316
Oddington, 322
Odiham, 94-104, 110, 344
Ot Moor, 321-322
Pepys, Samuel, 132, 150, 305
Pershore, 141
Pit Down, 31
Plynlimmon, 227
Quennington, 129
Robertsbridge, 395
Ruskin, John, 149
St. Leonard's Forest, 64
Scaynes Hill, 388
Scott, Sir Walter, 89, 150
Sedgemoor, 165
Shakespeare, 20, 94, 124, 147
Sheffield (in Sussex), 40-48
Sheriff Hales, 247
Shifnal, 247
Shoreham, 379-380
Shrewsbury, 163-164, 194, 213, 221-222, 225, 281
Siddington, 130
Soberton, 361-363
South Downs, 8, 11-13, 23, 388
South Warnborough, 344
Standard Hill, 395
Stanton Harcourt, 319
Stanton Lacy, 158-159
Stevenson, 2, 41, 168, 324, 372
Stipperstones, 165
Stokenchurch, 332
Stow-on-the-Wold, 300
Swindon, 121
Syde, 133-134
Tal Valley, 171
Tenbury, 146-153
Tennyson, Lord, 108, 131
Tetsworth, 330-331
Thame, 329
Thoreau, 118-119
Ticehurst, 393-395
Tilgate Forest, 64
Tong, 250-262
Tutbury, 280-281
Uckfield, 389
Uffington, 221-222
Uriconium, 223-226
Uttoxeter, 225, 279
Walton, Izaak, 87, 359
Warnford, 350-352
Watling Street, 161, 225, 272-273, 281, 285
Welshpool, 193
Wem, 195-203
Wenlock Edge, 159
West Dean, 12, 14-17
West Hoathly, 15, 63-64, 66-80
West Meon, 350
Weston, 203
White Ladies, 262-264
Wickham, 365-367
Wickhamford, 65
Wokingham, 343
Wollaston, 193-194
Woodstock, 319-321
Wootton Bassett, 121-125
Worcester, 141-142
Worth Forest, 64
Worthing, 378-379
Wrekin, The, 227
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.
* * * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Plain print and punctuation errors were corrected.