Highways and Byways in Sussex Part 3

After the Briton came the Roman, to whose orderly military mind such a chain of hills seemed a series of heaven-sent earthworks. Every point in a favourable position was at once fortified by the legionaries. Standing upon these ramparts to-day, identical in general configuration in spite of the intervening centuries, one may imagine one's self a Caesarian soldier and see in fancy the hinds below running for safety.

After the Romans came the Saxons, who did not, however, use the heights as their predecessors had. Yet they left even more intimate traces, for, as I shall show in a later chapter on Suss.e.x dialect, the language of the Suss.e.x labourer is still largely theirs, the farms themselves often follow their original Saxon disposition, the field names are unaltered, and the character of the people is of the yellow-haired parent stock.

Suss.e.x, in many respects, is still Saxon. In a poem by Mr. W. G. Hole is a stanza which no one that knows Suss.e.x can read without visualising instantly a Suss.e.x hill-side farm:--

The Saxon lies, too, in his grave where the plough-lands swell; And he feels with the joy that is Earth's The Spring with its myriad births; And he scents as the evening falls The rich deep breath of the stalls; And he says, "Still the seasons bring increase and joy to the world--It is well!"

[Sidenote: THE ESCAPE OF CHARLES II.]

Standing on one of these hills above the Hartings one may remember an event in English history of more recent date than any of the periods that we have been recalling--the escape of Charles II in 1651. It was over these Downs that he pa.s.sed; and it has been suggested that a traveller wishing for a picturesque route across the Downs might do well to follow his course.

According to the best accounts Charles was met, on the evening of October 13, near Hambledon, in Hampshire (afterwards to be famous as the cradle of first-cla.s.s cricket), by Thomas and George Gunter of Racton, with a leash of greyhounds as if for coursing. The King slept at the house of Thomas Symonds, Gunter's brother-in-law, in the character of a Roundhead. The next morning at daybreak, the King, Lord Wilmot and the two Gunters crossed Broad Halfpenny Down (celebrated by Nyren), and proceeding by way of Catherington Down, Charlton Down, and Ibsworth Down, reached Compting Down in Suss.e.x. At Stanstead House Thomas Gunter left the King, and hurried on to Brighton to arrange for the crossing to France. The others rode on by way of the hills, with a descent from Duncton Beacon, until they reached what promised to be the security of Houghton Forest. There they were panic-stricken nearly to meet Captain Morley, governor of Arundel Castle, and therefore by no means a King's man. The King, on being told who it was, replied merrily, "I did not much like his starched mouchates." This peril avoided, they descended to Houghton village, where the Arun was crossed, and so to Amberley, where in Sir John Briscoe's castle the King slept.[1]

[Sidenote: ROUNDHEADS OUTWITTED]

On Amberley Mount the King's horse cast a shoe, necessitating a drop to one of the Burphams, at Lee Farm, to have the mishap put right.

Ascending the hills again the fugitives held the high track as far as Steyning. At Bramber they survived a second meeting with Cromwellians, three or four soldiers of Col. Herbert Morley of Glynde suddenly appearing, but being satisfied merely to insult them. At Beeding, George Gunter rode on by way of the lower road to Brighton, while the King and Lord Wilmot climbed the hill at Horton, crossing by way of White Lot to Southwick, where, according to one story, in a cottage at the west of the Green was a hiding-hole in which the King lay until Captain Nicholas Tattersall of Brighton was ready to embark him for Fecamp. George Gunter's own story is, however, that the King rode direct to Brighton.

He reached Fecamp on October 16. Two hours after Gunter left Brighton, "soldiers came thither to search for a tall black man, six feet four inches high"--to wit, the Merry Monarch.

Such is the bare narrative of Charles' Suss.e.x ride. If the reader would have it garnished and spiced he should turn to the pages of Ainsworth's _Ovingdean Grange_, where much that never happened is set forth as entertainingly (or so I thought when I read it as a boy) as if it were truth.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] That is the story as the Amberley people like to have it, but another version makes him ride from Hambledon to Brighton in one day; in which case he may have avoided Amberley altogether.

CHAPTER IV

CHICHESTER

William Collins--The Smiths of Chichester--Hardham's snuff--C. R.

Leslie's reminiscence--The headless Ravenswood--Chichester Cathedral--Roman Chichester--Mr. Spershott's recollections--A warning to swearers--The prettiest alms-house in England.

I have already quoted some lines by Collins on Otway; it is time to come to Collins himself.

When Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Pa.s.sions oft, to hear her sh.e.l.l, Throng'd around her magic cell--

The perfect ode which opens with these unforgettable lines belongs to Chichester, for William Collins was born there on Christmas Day, 1721, and educated there, at the Prebendal school, until he went to Winchester. William Collins was the son of the Mayor of Chichester, a hatter, from whom Pope's friend Caryll bought his hats. I have no wish to tell here the sad story of Collins' life; it is better to remember that few as are his odes they are all of gold. He died at Chichester in 1759, and was buried in St. Andrew's Church.

With eyes up-raised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired; And, from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul: And, dashing soft from rocks around Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away.

[Sidenote: GEORGE SMITH'S ECLOGUE]

Collins is Chichester's great poet. She had a very agreeable minor poet, too, in George Smith, one of the Three Smiths--all artists: William, born in 1707, painter of portraits and of fruit and flower pieces, and George and John, born in 1713 and 1717, who painted landscapes,--known collectively as the Smiths of Chichester. I mention them rather on account of George Smith's poetical experiments than for the brothers'

fame as artists; but there is such a pleasant flavour in one at least of his _Pastorals_ that I have copied a portion of it. It is called "The Country Lovers; or, Isaac and Marget going to Town on a Summer's Morning." The town is probably Chichester--certainly one in Suss.e.x and near the Downs. Isaac speaks first:--

Come! Marget, come!--the team is at the gate!

Not ready yet!--you always make me wait!

I omit a certain amount of the dialogue which follows, but at last Marget exclaims:--

Well, now I'm ready, long I have not staid.

ISAAC.

One kiss before we go, my pretty maid.

MARGET.

Go! don't be foolish, Isaac--get away!

Who loiters now?--I thought I could not stay!

There!--that's enough! why, Isaac, sure you're mad!

ISAAC.

One more, my dearest girl--

MARGET.

Be quiet, lad.

See both my cap and hair are rumpled o'er!

The tying of my beads is got before!

ISAAC.

There let it stay, thy brighter blush to show, Which shames the cherry-colour'd silken bow.

Thy lips, which seem the scarlet's hue to steal, Are sweeter than the candy'd lemon peel.

MARGET.

Pray take these chickens for me to the cart; Dear little creatures, how it grieves my heart To see them ty'd, that never knew a crime, And formed so fine a flock at feeding time!

The pretty poem ends with fervid protestations of devotion from Isaac:--

For thee the press with apple-juice shall foam!