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Weibsler  Family  Library  of  Veterinary  Medicine 

Cummmgs  School  of  Veterinary  Medicine  at 

Tufis  University 

200  Westbofo  Road 

Morth  Grafton.  MA  01536 


WAYFARING     NOTIONS 


Photo  by 


KUis  A   Walery,  London. 


f\LAjM^^^-6Mji^- 


Wayfaring  Notions 


BY 

MARTIN     COBBETT 

("  Geraint"  of  the  "  Referee  ") 

AUTHOR  OF   "  RACING  LIFE  AND  RACING  CHARACTERS,"   "  BOTTLED   HOLIDAYS," 
"THE  MAN  ON  THE  MARCH,"   ETC.,   ETC. 


Edited    by    ALICE    COBBETT 


WITH   A   PORTRAIT   AND    MEMOIR   OF   THE   AUTHOR 


€ 


SANDS     &     CO. 

EDINBURGH:   21   HANOVER  STREET 

LONDON  :    23   BEDFORD   STREET,   STRAND 

1906 


TO 

MY    FATHER'S    COMRADES 

OF  THE 

''REFEREE'' 
I   DEDICATE   THIS   BOOK 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. 

PAGE 

Life  of  the  Author        .           .           •           , 

ix 

I. 

Glorious  Goodwood         .           .           .           , 

I 

II. 

In  the  Sussex  Dukeries 

15 

III. 

Patching  and  Selsey 

27 

IV. 

The  Downs  in  Winter    . 

37 

V. 

Brighton  to  Newhaven 

52 

VI. 

Plumpton  and  its  Country 

.        65 

VII. 

Lewes  and  its  Country  . 

75 

VIII. 

Sussex  Road-Lore 

100 

IX. 

Rye  and  Eastbourne 

no 

X. 

Around  Hampton  Court 

.      125 

XI. 

In  and  About  Epsom 

.      141 

XII. 

Around  Epsom  and  Leatherhead 

.      152 

XIII. 

Newmarket  ..... 

.      168 

XIV. 

Newmarket  Reminiscences 

.      182 

XV. 

Rambles  about  Newmarket 

202 

XVI. 

DONCASTER     ..... 

222 

XVII. 

DoNCASTER  Reminiscences 

.      234 

XVIII. 

Chester  and  the  Dee      . 

248 

XIX. 

In  Devonshire       .... 

.      261 

XX. 

In  Somerset            .... 

.      271 

XXI. 

In  and  about  Bath 

.      281 

XXII. 

Ascot  and  Newbury 

.      289 

XXIII. 

In  Wiltshire          .... 

.      302 

XXIV. 

Wilts  and  Horses 

.      316 

vii 


LIFE    OF   THE    AUTHOR 

It  has  been  thought  that  those  who  knew  my 
dear  father,  Martin  Cobbett,  either  personally  or 
as  his  readers,  would  like  this  selection  from  his 
later  work  to  be  prefaced  by  a  brief  sketch  of  his 
life.  No  one  can  feel  more  keenly  than  myself 
how  inadequate  this  memoir  must  be  to  give  a 
real  impression  of  my  father's  personality  and 
character.  What  those  were  can  best  be  indicated 
by  the  tenor  of  the  many,  many  letters  of  regret 
and  mourning  evoked  by  the  news  of  his  death. 
From  all  classes,  all  callings,  all  parts  of  the 
world,  with  significant  unanimity  they  struck 
the  same  two  notes  :  "  He  was  so  kind,"  and, 
''  I  have  lost  such  a  friend." 

Martin  Richard  Cobbett  was  born  on  29th 
March  1846.  His  forbears  were  yeomen  of 
Surrey.  The  Farnborough  district  is  the  home 
of  the  Cobbetts,  and  thence  came  the  famous 
William.  Cobbett,  from  whom  the  subject  of 
this  memoir  was  collaterally  descended.  Martin 
Cobbett  was  born  and  bred  at  Brighton,  between 
the  sea  and  the  Downs — an  environment  which 


X  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

brought  out  and  fostered  that  love  of  rowing, 
swimming,  and  rural  roaming  which  was  born 
in  him  and  distinguished  him  through  life. 
The  first  business  he  learnt  was  that  of  timber 
merchant ;  but  he  had  ever  a  notable  turn  for 
sporting  journalism,  and  in  the  seventies  he 
took  to  writing  for  the  Sportsman  and  the 
Sporting  Life.  Here  are  his  own  words  on 
this  subject,  taken  from  the  Referee  of  9th 
November  1902  : — 

"  Sporting  reporting  life  is  an  estate  for  which 
I  hold  the  greatest  admiration,  because,  so  far 
as  its  inner  life  is  concerned,  you  can  translate 
envy,  malice,  and  all  uncharitableness  into  jolly 
old  pallishness  ;  and  no  matter  what  part  of  the 
world  a  sporting  Pressman  comes  from,  he  can 
rest  assured  of  being  put  and  kept  straight.  I — 
moi  qui  vous  parle — have  probably  had  more 
good  turns  done  me  than  I  have  rendered.  That 
last  was  not  my  fault,  I  do  assure  you.  Speaking 
from  within  the  prison-house  walls  of  a  craft 
which  has  the  strange  peculiarity  that  generally 
when  you  want  a  capable  hand  to  join  it  you 
can't  find  him,  and  if  you  do  not,  you  are  besieged 
with  applicants,  I  venture  to  say  that  no  unhand- 
some turn  will  be  given  to  a  member  of  the 
profession,  and  if  he  is  in  difficulty  he  will  be 
seen  out  of  it — and  no  charge  made  nor  price 
accepted. 

''  Plumming  up  my  own  sort,  am  I  ?  Probably 
I  am,  and  you  can  take  it  at  that.  I  did  not 
want  to  bring  myself  in,  but  as  the  Sportsman 
has  occurred,  I   may  cite  that    for   purposes    of 


LIFE  OF  THE  AUTHOR  xi 

illustration.  Say  I  was  '  doing '  cricket,  or 
football,  or  fighting,  or  rowing,  or  racing,  and 
I  was  hors  de  combat,  does  anyone  suppose  that 
some  good  fellow  of  a  competing  paper  or  service 
wouldn't  see  me  or  my  stuff  through,  or  do  the 
same  for  anyone  else  in  the  line  of  business  ?  I 
give  you  my  word  they  would,  and  be  pleased  to 
do  so.  Take  self  and  the  Sports7nan.  Barring 
its  Dramatic  Notes,  I  think  there  is  no  part  of 
its  repertoire  that  I  have  not  done  at  one  time 
or  another  to  help  a  lame  dog — excuse  the  simile 
as  only  partly  appropriate — over  the  stile,  and  all 
the  time  was  only  doing  what  I  feel  quite  certain 
would  be  done  for  me  in  difficulties. 

"  '  Vigilant  ?  '  How  many  '  Vigilants '  have  I 
written — goodness  only  knows,  many  and  many  ; 
just  as  I  have  '  Augurs  '  for  the  Sporting  Life 
when  the  distinguished  regular  author  was  *  out.' 
My  first  connection  with  '  Vigilant '  was  funny. 
Brother  Sportsman  and  Sportsmen,  you  will 
forgive  me  for  going  a  long  while  back.  Many 
years  ago,  a  good  old  friend.  Jack  Mitchell,  used 
to  grind  out  that  article,  and  I  was  engaged 
otherwise  than  in  sport  or  journalism,  but  all  the 
same  an  occasional  contributor  to  the  Life  and 
the  Man,  and,  I  regret  to  add,  a  frequenter  of 
race  meetings.  At  Goodwood  and  Newmarket, 
Mitchell,  rest  his  soul,  would  lure  me  on  by 
offering  me  a  seat  in  his  reserved  compartment. 
He  always  went  through  a  set  form  :  how  tired 
he  was,  short  of  sleep,  and  how  much  better  a 
fresh  new  hand  could  do  a  big  day.  At  which  I 
bit,  and  found  myself  with  his  notebook,  his 
pencil,  and  his  instructions  to  do  a  thousand 
words  and  leave  the  last  race  to  him.  After  a 
time  my  wages  were  raised  from  getting  nothing. 


xii  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

It  came  to  be  an  agreed  bargain  that  I  was  to 
have  something ;  so  when  we  left  Newmarket 
poor  old  Jack  would  produce  two  apples — one 
for  me  in  praesenti,  and  t'other  if  I  finished  his 
copy  and  woke  him  up  at  Tottenham  ;  guerdon 
which  reduced  me  from  the  amateur  to  the  pro- 
fessional ranks,  because  I  was  working  for  pay. 
In  those  days  I  used  to  buy  the  Sportsman  as 
early  as  I  could,  and  gloat  over  my  'Vigilant,' 
thinking  what  a  clever  chap  I  was. 

**  One  of  my  funniest  experiences  was  with  a 
new  man  imported  from  a  Midland  paper,  where 
he  had  been  doing  Board  of  Guardian  meetings, 
inquests,  and  that  sort  of  business,  and  was 
quite  innocent  of  sport.  He  occurred,  poor  chap, 
full  of  faith  in  himself  to  report  cricket,  concern- 
ing which  he  did  not  know  the  leg  side  from  the 
off.  He  had  assured  the  firm  he  was  quite 
au  fait  at  the  game,  and  they  believed  him.  Bless 
my  soul !  we  had  not  had  more  than  two  drinks 
and  a  little  talk  before  I  found  that  cricket  was 
an  unknown  land  to  him.  So,  says  I  to  him, 
says  I,  'You  sit  down  tight,  and  watch  and 
listen  to  what  I  tell  you  ;  never  mind  about  your 
copy,  I  will  do  all  that.  You've  got  to  learn — 
put  your  mind  on  the  learning,  let  me  write  all  your 
stuff.'  And,  after  all,  he  was  a  cocktail,  because 
he  suspicioned  I  would  give  him  away.  So  what 
do  you  think  he  did  ?  Took  the  report  I  wrote  for 
him,  and  varied  it  on  his  own.  If  he  had  mixed 
the  introduction  as  to  the  weather,  the  wickets, 
the  company,  and  all  that,  no  harm  would  be 
done.  But  he  carved  the  technical  section  about, 
and  made  a  man  stumped  at  mid-off  run  out  by 
a  brilliant  catch  and  bowled  at  long-leg,  so  that 
my   account   and    his   should    read   differently — 


LIFE  OF  THE  AUTHOR  xiii 

which  they  did.  He  was  a  man  of  little  faith, 
and  vexed  me  exceedingly,  but  no  worse  than 
another  artist  who  performed  quite  the  same  feat 
with  billiards,  and  changed  the  name  of  the 
strokes  so  as  to  make  variety.  He  succeeded  : 
but  the  variations  were  startlingly  original,  as, 
for  instance,  making  'long  spot  strokes  off  three 
cushions  '  and  '  runs  of  winning  hazards  off  the 
red  into  the  middle  pocket ' ! 

''  Dear,  dear,  how  fondly  I  look  back  to  those 
old  days  and  enjoy  reminiscences  of  the  fine  fun 
incidental  to  hurrying  away  telegrams  of  results, 
etc.  ;  grand  sport,  requiring  you  to  be  on  your 
toes  all  the  while,  and  up  to  all  manner  of  dodges 
to  beat  time.  Nobody  shall  ever  be  told  how  I 
beat  all  the  rest  of  the  agencies  in  getting  off 
the  result  of  a  boat  race,  Hanlan  v.  Boyd,  on  the 
Tyne.  There  I  was,  in  London,  commissioned 
on  a  Saturday  night  by  a  rival  agency  to  beat  the 
Man  in  Newcastle,  and  had  to  do  it.  Beautiful 
it  was  for  me.  I  got  to  Newcastle  on  the  Sunday, 
the  race  was  to  be  sculled  on  the  Monday,  and 
not  a  soul  to  help  me.  The  Sportsman — fine 
organisers  they  always  were — Messrs  Ashley  and 
Smith's  services  covered  the  whole  ground — had 
enlisted  all  the  Newcastle  papers  to  aid  them. 
Systems  of  rockets  and  pedestrian  runners, 
cyclists,  carrier-pigeons,  guns,  fast  trotters,  flags 
— everything  but  wireless  telegraphy  came  to  be 
laid  on.  Turn  which  way  you  would,  the  ground 
was  jumped  ;  wherever  you  looked  for  help — at 
least,  where  I  looked — I  was  in  the  enemy's 
country.  And  I — poor  me  ! — my  instructions 
were  to  be  first.  How  the  devil  can  you  hope  to 
be  first  when  you  are  single-hand,  and  all  the 
powers  are  co-operating,  defying  competition  ? 


xiv  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

''There  were  my  orders  to  be  first.  I  had 
to  get  there  somehow — and  I  did.  I  couldn't 
do  it  now — at  least,  I  think  not,  though  I  can 
always  run  with  a  boat-race  so  long  as  I  am 
allowed  to  shout.  Once  that  day  I  was  fairly 
beat,  or  looked  like  getting  so.  I  hired  a  man 
with  a  wherry,  or  cobble,  or  whatever  the  boat's 
name  is,  and  put  him  on  a  fiver  to  come  to  the 
umpire's  steamer  as  soon  as  she  got  to  Scotswood 
Bridge  and  take  me  off,  and  no  one  else.  He 
was  there  all  right.  I  did  a  wild  jump  from  the 
paddle-boat  and  landed  in  his  craft  somehow. 
What  did  he  do — pull  like  blazes  to  the  shore  to 
earn  his  fiver  (it  was  worth  a  pound  a  second  to 
get  a  start)  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  He  backed  to 
the  side  of  the  steamer  and  took  all  my  rivals  off 
at  a  shilling  a  head.  Beautiful,  was  it  not  ? 
Truly  beautiful.  He  collected  eight  shillings, 
but  never  a  stiver  of  the  five  pounds  has  he  got 
from  me  to  this  day,  for  I  was  first  ashore  and 
running  for  dear  life  to  the  telegraph  office,  and 
would  not  have  paid  him  had  I  waited. 

''Very  many  old  rowing  men  recollect  Billy 
Winship,  the  Tyneside  boat-builder,  long  with 
Johnny  Clasper  at  Putney.  Billy  did  me  a  fine 
turn  that  day,  and  I  have  heard  him  tell  the  story 
about  it  many  a  time  and  oft.  I  ran  that  time 
like  as  if  the  Devil  was  after  me.  Please  note 
that  I  never  could  run  fast  with  any  comfort 
or  precision,  not  being  built  for  it,  but  needs 
must  when  the  Devil  drives.  I  was  in  the 
same  position  as  a  butcher's  horse — I  had  to  go 
somehow.  Of  I  went  to  the  best  of  my  ability 
from  Scotswood  Bridge,  with  one  of  the  opposi- 
tion crowd,  a  Sheffield  pro.,  left  a  hundred  yards 
at  the  landing-stage — a  nice  start  for  me.     And 


LIFE  OF  THE  AUTHOR  xv 

I  ran  myself  right  out,  so  that  I  came  a  most 
mortal  involuntary,  with  no  use  to  '  call  for  a  cab,' 
as  the  steeplechase  riders  put  it.  Then  occurred 
with  the  hour,  the  man — and  the  man  was  Billy 
Winship,  whom  I  will  quote  for  the  finish  of  the 
story.  Says  Billy :  '  There  was  Mr  Notions 
a-running '  (you  should  hear  this  in  the  Newcastle 
lingo  !)  ;  *  he  was  a-running,  a-running,  a-running, 
at  last  he  falls  down,  and  he  says,  *  I  am '  (very 
Novocastrian  language)  *if  I  can  run  anymore.' 
Instead  of  which  good  old  Billy  collared  the  copy 
out  of  my  hand,  ran  himself  to  the  Scotswood 
telegraph  office,  bunged  in  the  message,  and  the 
wires  broke  down  before  the  next  despatch 
arrived. 

"Once,  in  Mr  Billy  Innes's  great  sculling 
tournament,  I  got  knocked  overboard  from  the 
Press  boat,  and  swam  ashore  at  Barnes,  as  did 
the  Sportsman  s  young  man,  who  was  supposed 
to  go  down  one  side  and  up  the  other.  Nothing 
but  my  old  good  friend  Tom  Tagg's  stern 
resolution  and  presence  of  mind  saved  a  whole 
launch-load  from  being  turned  into  the  water  out 
of  his  launch  that  day  and  probably  drowned. 
When  you  were  in  the  water  as  I  was  you  were 
not  too  happy  because  of  efforts  to  administer 
first  aid.  An  old  gentleman  hurled  an  iron  pail 
at  my  head  to  keep  me  up,  and  two  others 
launched  a  penny-steamer's  quant  or  exaggerated 
boat-hook,  which  would  have  killed  me  fatally 
dead,  and  sunk  itself,  by  reason  of  its  weighty  iron 
shoe,  as  soon  as  it  got  to  the  water.  Thanks  to 
not  being  assisted,  I  got  ashore,  and  forthwith 
dispatched  my  account  by  wire  from  the  Barnes 
post-office,  whose  mistress  ordered  me  out  of  the 
place  because    I    made  it  so  wet.     My  confrere 


xvi  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

hadn't  thought  about  Barnes  for  telegraphing, 
but  made  for  Mortlake.  (Later,  twenty- four 
gentleman  turned  up  at  a  Putney  Rowing  Club  of 
which  I  hold  the  honour  of  membership,  and 
wanted  rewarding  for  saving  my  life.  If  I 
recollect  right,  Mr  Pat  Labat  scored  twelve 
quarts  of  beer  to  my  debit,  and  finding  the  stairs 
full  of  applicants  then,  kicked  the  rest  down.) 

**  Thanks  to  the  Sportsma^i,  I  went  Down 
Under  with  the  Hon.  Ivo  Bligh,  and  there  was 
made  a  member  of  the  cricket  expedition,  and 
had  the  best  time  I  ever  found  in  my  life.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  that  commission  as  Special 
Correspondent  represented  one  long  holiday, 
seeing  men  and  cities,  and  writing  about  them. 
With  Mr  Ivo  Bligh  I  was,  as  attached  to  his 
team,  a  persona  grata  in  all  the  Colonies  of 
Australia,  and  I  saw  more  of  Australia  in  five 
months  than  most  old  Austral-Colonials  do  in  a 
lifetime.  Everyone  was  kind  to  me  out  there. 
Thank  goodness,  I  have  found  many  oppor- 
tunities to  wipe  the  slate  clean  by  returning  good 
offices,  but  at  that  I  am  much  in  debt.  I,  as  I 
say,  had  the  best  time  of  my  life,  thanks  to  the 
Sportsman,  gathered  experience  which  has  served 
me  for  long,  and  made  friendships  among  Colonials 
which  have  borne  good  fruit." 


The  series  of  special  articles  on  that 
Australian  cricket  tour  may  perhaps  be  taken  to 
have  established  Martin  Cobbett's  position  as  a 
sporting  journalist.  But  his  knowledge  of  the 
racingf  world  was  so  extensive  that  he  came  to 
write  more  on  the  Turf  than  on  any  other  sport. 


LIFE  OF  THE  AUTHOR  xvii 

He   was    the   first    *' Man    in  the   Ring"  of  the 
Sporting  Life,    and    the    pioneer    of    returning 
starting    prices    at    race    meetings.     For   many 
years  he  wrote  for  the  Globe  ;  he  was  the  People  s 
first  sporting  editor,  under  the  name  of  ''William 
of  Cloudeslee " ;    for   a    long    time    he   did    the 
sporting   article   of  the    Penny   Illustrated ;    he 
succeeded  the  late  Mr  Innes  as  '*  Pegasus  "  on  the 
News  of  the   World.     A  few  months  before  the 
end   he    joined    the    newly-started     Tribune    as 
sporting  editor.    His  connection  with  the  Referee 
began    in      March     1886,     when     that     paper's 
honoured  founder,  Mr  Henry  Sampson,  started  on 
a    tour   round    the   world.      From    19th    August 
1877    (when    the    first    number   of    the   Referee 
appeared),  up  to  the  date  of  his    departure    for 
Australia,  every  line  of  "  Pendragon's  "  *'  Sporting 
Notions "     article    had    been     written     by    Mr 
Sampson  himself;  and  the  article  had  obtained  a 
deservedly   high  position  in  the  world  of  sport. 
It  was  therefore  a  matter  of  considerable  diffi- 
culty to  find  a  sufficiently  ''all-round"  sporting 
authority    to     temporarily     fill     "  Pendragon's " 
place.      It     was     originally     arranged     between 
Mr  Sampson  and  Mr  Richard  Butler  (who  was 
entrusted  with  sole  charge  of  the  paper  during 
his   chief's    absence)    that  the  article   should    in 
future   be   a    composite    one,    each    contributor 

being  a  specialist    in  his  own  branch    of  sport, 

6 


xviii  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

instead  of  being  as  hitherto  the  work  of  one  man. 
This  plan  was  tried  for  two  or  three  weeks ;  but 
the  salad  didn't  mix  well,  and  the  result  was  that 
Mr  Butler  placed  the  entire  article  in  the  hands 
of  Martin  Cobbett,  and  in  Martin  Cobbett's 
hands  it  remained  until  the  week  before  his 
death.  He  became  known  as  ''  Mr  Notions  "  all 
over  the  world,  the  name  clinging  even  after  all 
the  contributors  had  taken  signatures  in  the 
style  of  Mr  Sampson's  (**  Pendragon"),  his  own 
being  **Geraint."  In  recent  years  he  furnished 
the  *'  Boris  "  article  as  well.  It  may  be  said  that 
Martin  Cobbett  valued  above  all  his  other 
connections  his  position  on  the  Referee.  He 
never  undertook  fresh  work  that  he  thought 
might  interfere  with  its  claims,  and  perhaps  it 
received  his  finest  writing,  unconsciously,  as  what 
we  care  for  most  inspires  us  best. 

For  the  calling  of  all-round  sporting 
journalism  Martin  Cobbett  had  remarkable, 
perhaps  unique,  qualifications.  On  this  point  I 
may  quote  the  appreciation  written  by  one  of  his 
comrades  in  the  Referee  of  29th  April  1906. 

**  It  chanced  that  when  I  first  met  him  a  big 
sculling  match  was  occupying  general  attention, 
and  his  conversation  showed  him  to  be  such  a 
master  of  the  subject  that  I  put  him  down  as  an 
expert  on  rowing.  I  came  across  him  shortly 
afterwards  at  Lord's,  and  then  it  soon  occurred 


LIFE  OF  THE  AUTHOR  xix 

to  me  that  if  he  had  a  strong  point  it  must  be 
cricket.  A  week  later  I  read  an  extraordinarily 
graphic  account  of  a  race — not  the  skimpy 
summary  to  which  one  is  accustomed,  but  a 
detailed  picture  of  the  struggle  from  first  to  last. 
You  were  made  to  see  what  each  horse  and 
jockey  were  doing  from  the  moment  the  flag  fell 
— this  was  in  the  days  of  the  flag — till  the  winner 
had  been  weighed  in.  *  I  wonder  who  wrote 
that  ? '  I  asked  a  friend.  '  Oh,  that  was  Martin 
Cobbett,'  came  the  reply,  and  ever  since  I  have 
looked  anxiously  for  this  pen-and-ink  realisations 
of  famous  events." 


His  great  endurance  and  resolute  industry 
(''The  Cobbetts,"  he  remarked,  **are  stayers") 
also  formed  invaluable  qualifications  for  one  of 
the  most  continuously  arduous  callings  on  the 
face  of  the  earth.  In  his  work  he  drew  on  his 
staying  powers  to  almost  any  extent,  without 
grudge  or  stint.  At  the  same  time  he  took  the 
extra  trouble — for  a  trouble  and  nuisance  it  very 
often  is — to  do  everything  possible  in  his  scanty 
leisure  to  keep  healthy  and  fit.  Regarded  as 
mere  mechanical  writing,  leaving  out  his  obliga- 
tion to  watch,  remember,  and  form  his  own 
opinion  of  all  he  discoursed  on,  the  amount  of 
labour  he  undertook  and  carried  through,  always 
against  time,  was  excessively  heavy.  Those  who 
read  his  writings  of  the  country,  or  who  heard 
him  talk  about  it — the  half  of  what  he  knew  never 


XX  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

appeared    in  print — found  it  not  easy  to  realise 
that  he  ever  did  anything  but  ramble  and  explore. 
Yet  here  is  an  ordinary  specimen  of  his  working 
day  :     Up  at  five  or  six,  write  till  nine  or  ten  ; 
*'  go  for   a    run "  ;    cold  sponge  and    breakfast ; 
walk  three  to  eight  miles  to  a  racecourse,  hard  at 
work  there  all  the  racing  time ;  very  likely  walk 
back,  change  and  dinner,  write  till  ten  or  eleven 
at  night ;  and  repeat  the  whole  as  a  matter  of 
course  next  day.     Many  were  the   articles   and 
also  short  sporting  stories  done  incidentally  to  all 
his   regular    undertakings,    as    were    his    books 
*•  Bottled  Holidays  for  Home  Consumption"  and 
**  Racing  Life  and  Racing  Characters,"  which  last 
filled  a  very  long-standing  gap ;  it  described  the 
ways  and  inhabitants  of  the  racing  world  for  the 
benefit  and  amusement  of  outsiders  as  well  as  of 
the  initiated.     In  conjunction  with    his   brother, 
Mr  John  Cobbett,  he  contributed  a  handbook  on 
**  Swimming  "    to    the  All-England  series.     His 
first  book,   "The   Man  on  the  March,"  was  the 
outcome  of  a  series  of  articles  written  while  he 
was     accompanying    the    American    pedestrian, 
F.  P.  Weston,  on  the  latter's  memorable  tramp  at 
high  pressure  through  England.     In  harness  to 
the  last,  always   cheery,  and   never  complaining, 
he  had  done  at  sixty  as  much  labour  as  most 
hard-working  men  at  eighty  —  so  remarked  Dr 
Hearnden  of  Leatherhead,  his  physician  and  old 


LIFE  OF  THE  AUTHOR  xxi 

friend.  Literally,  he  died  of  work  ;  but  it  was 
through  a  piece  of  his  own  inveterate  kindness 
and  helpfulness  that  the  finishing  stroke  was 
incurred.  Heated  with  walking,  on  a  bitter 
afternoon  in  a  bleak  district,  he  halted  to  help  an 
old  country  couple  whose  little  nag  had  fallen  on 
a  deserted  road,  and  the  consequent  chill  was  the 
direct  cause  of  his  death. 

Among  his  friends  he  was  always  called 
"  Martin,"  or,  perhaps,  ''  Martin  Cobbett," — never 
his  surname  alone.  His  friends  were  not  few  ; 
for,  extra  to  his  own  brotherhood,  the  right  good 
comrades  of  the  Press,  his  acquaintance  was 
immense.  He  knew  and  was  liked  by  the  whole 
great  gamut  of  racegoers.  Railway  men  hailed 
him  as  a  looked-for  face  all  over  England.  So 
did  the  rowing  and  boxing  spheres :  so  did 
innumerable  hotels  and  inns  where  he  put  up  "on 
circuit,"  or  called  in  during  his  walks ;  so  did 
three-quarters  of  the  inhabitants,  dogs  included, 
of  every  place  where  he  lived.  As  for  ''  the  folk 
in  fur  and  feather,"  he  knew  and  loved  them  all, 
and  was  their  general  favourite.  Our  own  dogs 
invariably  adored  him,  and  he  had  canine 
acquaintances  all  over  England  who  thought  it 
the  greatest  treat  in  the  world  to  go  for  a  walk 
with  him.  There  was  a  couple  of  handsome  poodles 
— they  did  not  see  him  half  a  dozen  times  a  year 
— who  used  to  scream  with  joy  whenever  he  was 


xxii  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

heard  approaching  their  front  door.  A  stable  of 
his  own  he  never  had,  greatly  as  he  would  have 
enjoyed  it  with  his  extensive  knowledge  and 
appreciation  of  good  horses.  As  it  was,  he  used 
to  take  delight  in  visiting  training  quarters  and 
*' paying  calls,"  as  he  put  it,  on  the  grand 
creatures  in  their  quarters. 

His  knowledge  of  English  country,  on  and 
off  the  road,  I  take  to  be  unrivalled — certainly 
unique  among  men  so  cribbed  and  confined  by 
the  exigencies  of  their  work  as  he  was.  Delight 
in  ''  seeing  the  land  "  was  born  in  him,  and  never 
flagged.  Our  lately  developed  cult  of  the  country 
found  him  already  its  past  master,  practising 
it  instinctively,  habitually,  for  love.  He  was 
passionately  fond  of  the  South  Downs,  and 
stands  alone  as  a  word-painter  and  interpreter  of 
that  curiously  neglected  and  fascinating  chalk 
range.  It  is  doubtful  if  any  other  man  could  be 
found  with  such  appreciation  and  intimate  know- 
ledge of  the  Downs,  though  born  and  bred 
among  them.  How  many  would,  for  the  pleasure 
of  it,  start  from  Plumpton  at  four  o'clock  on  a 
December  afternoon  to  make  across  the  hills  to 
Palmer.'^  How  many  know  "the  high  ridges 
behind  Lavant  where  the  yew-trees  grow  ?  "  or 
would  take  a  "nice  little  walk "  from  Lewes  to 
Telscombe,  and  then  on,  say,  to  Newhaven — and 
this  with   never  a  halt  to  ask  the  way  (though 


LIFE  OF  THE  AUTHOR  xxiii 

plenty  to  pass  the  time  of  day  with  the  lone 
shepherds  and  labourers  to  whom  a  cheery  word 
is  a  boon).  He  was  marvellously  waywise,  and 
used  to  complain  humorously,  with  considerable 
truth,  that  when  he  did  ask  for  directions  he  was 
always  sent  wrong,  and  could  make  out  his  route 
far  better  on  a  lone  hand,  though  he  might  never 
have  set  foot  in  that  district  before.  His  work 
obliged  him  to  live  ''on  circuit,"  and  to  reside 
within  fairly  short  distance  of  the  London  termini 
and  close  to  more  than  one  racecourse.  Wherever 
we  lived,  he  always  made  the  place  and  district 
a  source  of  enjoyment,  and  struck  out  any  amount 
of  excursions  and  rambles  where  no  one  else 
might  have  thought  of  looking  for  them.  The 
family  expeditions  that  he  personally  conducted 
among  the  Surrey  Hills  were  a  **  liberal  educa- 
tion" in  better  things  than  chopped-up  book- 
learning,  and  joys  for  ever  to  look  back  upon. 
His  habits  of  carrying  a  stone  in  each  hand  when 
walking  for  exercise,  and  of  never  wearing  an 
overcoat  or  taking  an  umbrella,  came  in  for 
good-humoured  chaff  from  his  friends,  but  he 
had  his  reasons.  The  stones  helped  his  peculiar 
swinging  walk  when  they  were  grasped  closely — 
**on  one  occasion  in  walking  a  trial  he  nearly 
pulped  the  second-recording  watch  doing  duty 
for  the  right-hand  stone."  Either  overcoat  or 
umbrella  would  have  sadly  hampered  his  action, 


xxiv  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

in  which  the  balance  of  the  shoulders  played  a 
considerable  part ;  and  he  said,  truly,  that  both 
were  nuisances  to  carry  and  extremely  liable  to 
get  stolen  or  lost,  especially  at  race  meetings,  and 
then  there  you  were,  exposed  to  any  chill  that 
might  be  going.  So  he  made  a  study  of  suitable 
underclothing  and  never  sported  more  than  one 
coat  at  once.  But  he  stuck  up  for  the  tall  hat, 
which  he  always  declared  to  be  really  the  most 
convenient  and  hygienic  headgear  going,  point- 
ing out  that  it  held  plenty  of  air,  and  arranged 
for  ventilation,  whereas  the  pseudo-athletic  cloth 
cap,  which  he  never  wore,  was  apt  to  become  a 
sort  of  hot  poultice,  and  was  stuffy  at  best. 

Owing  to  the  exigencies  of  business,  my 
father  could  scarcely  ever  visit  a  district  out  of 
short  reach  of  the  places  where  his  work  lay. 
Thus  much  fair  country  that  he  would  have 
keenly  appreciated — for  instance,  a  great  part 
of  Devonshire — he  could  never  see.  Moreover, 
his  *'off"  and  '* slack"  times  occurred  simply  and 
solely  when  frost  or  fog  rendered  racing  and 
other  sports  impracticable.  He  never  got  a  free 
week  in  pleasant  weather.  Yet  I  never  remember 
his  complaining  of  this,  nor  of  the  circumscription 
of  his  areas  of  exploration.  He  acted  up  to  his 
own  maxims  :  **  If  your  time's  short,  make  the 
most  of  it,"  and,  "  Take  what  you  can  get,  and 
be  pleased  with  it."     He  varied  his  rambles  as 


LIFE  OF  THE  AUTHOR  xxv 

best  he  could,  and  welcomed  any  opportunity 
for  a  walk  or  a  scull  which  he  could  get — or 
rather  make,  for  the  vast  majority  of  his  open-air 
jaunts  he  did  in  overtime  taken  before  or  after 
a  hard  day's  work. 

With  his  wealth  of  open-air  lore  he  naturally 
came  to  interlude  among  the  strictly  "  Sporting 
Notions  "  country  notes  and  descriptions  of  way- 
faring by  river,  road,  and  footpath,  such  as  only 
he  could  write,  and  these  came  to  form  a  feature 
of  the  paper.  They  attained  a  spontaneous 
popularity  widely  beyond  expectations,  ''  no  one 
more  surprised  than  the  striker,"  as  he  used  to 
say.  People  who  not  only  knew  nothing  of 
**  sport "  in  the  technical  sense,  but  who  dis- 
approved of  it,  took  in  the  Referee  year  after 
year,  as  their  letters  testified,  in  order  to  enjoy 
**  Mr  Notions' "  country  writing.  To  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  men  and  women  it  seemed  to 
appeal  equally.  He  was  looked  upon  as  Richard 
Jefferies'  successor,  and  the  literary  descendant 
of  White  of  Selborne  and  William  Cobbett,  while 
his  originality  was  praised  by  all.  The  contents 
of  this  book  are  selected  from  his  later  open-air 
writings  for  the  Referee,  The  easy,  cheery 
vivid  style  that  appealed  to  every  one  never 
betrays  at  what  cost  the  writing  was  sometimes 
done.  Severe  illness  might  oblige  my  father  to 
dictate  ''  Sporting  Notions  "  instead  of  writing  it 


xxvi  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

himself,  but  even  with  his  life  in  danger  there 
never  was  a  gap.  The  last  columns  he  had 
strength  to  evolve  appeared  on  8th  April  1906. 
''There  won't  be  any  Notions  this  week — the 
first  time  for  twenty  years,"  he  said  to  me  a  few 
days  later.  I  could  only  try  to  say  cheerfully 
how  the  gap  would  be  noticed. 

Naturally,  he  had  little  or  no  time  for  reading 

except  in  hours  taken  from  sleep,  but  he  always 

enjoyed  a  sterling  book,  and  his  taste  in  literature 

was    as    instinctively   good   as    it    was    catholic. 

Dickens  he  knew  and  appreciated  from  end  to  end. 

He  once  characterised  that  author  most  shrewdly 

as  "a  shorthand  reporter  of  genius."     He  knew 

Shakespeare  and  Sheridan,  Lindsay  Gordon  and 

William  Cobbett,   Marryat  and   Besant  &  Rice. 

In    Miss    Jekyll's    ''Old   West   Surrey"    he   was 

much  interested,  and  he  thoroughly  enjoyed  the 

Irish  horse-and-hound    tales   of  the    Somerville- 

Ross    partnership    and    of    Dorothea    Conyers. 

The  last  new  book  he  ever  read  and  liked  was 

Agnes    and    Egerton    Castle's     "  Rose    of    the 

World."     Indeed,   though   the  most   ungrumble- 

some  and  readiest  to  be  pleased  of  men,  he  had 

a  remarkably  fine  natural  taste  in  all  directions. 

His  life  was  too  busy  for  "culture,"  but  it  was  a 

family  joke  that  whether  in  antique  furniture  or 

new  books,  live  horseflesh  or  defunct  Southdown 

mutton,  "  Cobbetts  always  knows  the  best." 


LIFE  OF  THE  AUTHOR  xxvii 

He  was  superbly  unselfish,  and  his  idea  of 
pleasure  in  spending  was  to  give  and  to  share. 
It  was  a  delight  to  him  to  cater  for  home.  He 
provided  dainties  for  us,  particularly  local  ones, 
such  as  simnel  and  Eccles  cakes,  parkins,  or 
Melton  Mowbray  pork  pies,  on  the  most  lavish 
scale,  and  it  became  a  commonplace  that  the 
quality  of  the  meat  he  took  habitual  pains  to 
secure  for  home  consumption  entirely  spoilt  one 
for  ordinary  grades.  Hospitable  he  was  to  a 
degree  which  scarcely  appears  in  ordinary  ideals, 
let  alone  ordinary  practice.  No  one,  if  he  could 
help  it,  ever  came  to  see  him  without  being  enter- 
tained with  the  best  he  had  to  offer. 

Of  his  charity  and  kindness  to  all  and  any 
needing  help,  I  will  only  say  that  it  was  as 
painstakingly  sensible  and  discriminate  as  it  was 
generous  and  wide.  To  take  one  small  instance, 
in  his  walks  abroad  he  was  always  on  the  look- 
out to  give  a  few  coppers  and  a  pleasant  word 
— neither  trifles  to  the  recipient — to  any  honest 
tramp — the  man  looking  for  work  who  does  not 
beg,  or  when  pushed  to  it  begs  reluctantly ;  or, 
indeed,  to  any  decent  plodder  who  looked  as  if 
he  **  could  do  with  a  bit." 

The  loafer  who  pretends  to  want  a  job  and 
invariably  shirks  it  when  given,  he  detested. 
Equally  he  disliked  and  despised  the  incredibly 
low  dodges  of  landgrabbers,  the  mean  rich — of 


xxviii  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

whom  there  are  many,  when  the  meanness 
cannot  be  resented  ;  the  caddishly  inconsiderate 
persons  of  any  class  who,  being  charged  a  usually 
very  moderate  fee  proceed,  not  only  to  take 
money's  worth,  but  to  waste  and  spoil — who, 
when  changing  in  a  hotel  bedroom,  smother  it 
with  mud,  or  take  out  a  trim  dainty  skiff,  and 
do  their  best  to  wrench  and  grind  her  to  pieces  ; 
the  hooligans  who  leave  a  track  of  smashed 
bottles  and  general  ruin  ;  the  bigots  who,  hard- 
fisted  enough  themselves,  look  down  on  the  kind 
and  generous  whose  calling,  however  strictly 
honest,  it  does  not  please  them  to  approve  of. 
''Manners"  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word  were 
a  point  of  honour  with  him,  and  he  thoroughly 
approved  of  the  Winchester  motto.  In  this 
spirit  of  careful  consideration  for  others  he 
always,  though  so  broad  -  minded  himself, 
strongly  deprecated  hurting  opponents'  or  any- 
one's prejudices  and  sentiments,  particularly 
about  sacred  things,  and  went  out  of  his  way 
to  avoid  doing  so.  His  opposition  to  racing 
on  Good  Friday,  and  indeed  in  all  Holy  Week, 
is  well  known.  He  was  absolutely  fearless  in 
standing  up  for  justice  and  humanity.  It  was 
well  remarked  in  the  fine  appreciation  of  his 
character  which  appeared  in  Horse  and 
Hound  for  28th  April  1906,  that  ''he  would 
always  fight  for  the  under-dog,    so  long  as  the 


LIFE  OF  THE  AUTHOR  xxix 

under-dog  would  fight  too,"  or  indeed  much 
longer,  if  he  considered  the  under-dog  was 
really  overwhelmed  by  odds. 

The   article  just    referred    to   also   remarked 
most    truly,    that    his    motto    might   have   been 
that  of  his  old  swimming  club,  the  famous  Ilex, 
*'  Labor  ipse  voluptas."     He  was  a  good  sports- 
man  and   a    twenty-four-carat   amateur    in    the 
loftiest  sense  of  that   much-abused    word.     His 
idea  of  it   was   the  etymological   one,  pure   and 
simple — one  who  does  things  for  love  of  them. 
In  his  eyes,  no  one  was  a  true  sportsman  who 
did     not     regard     the    incidental     trouble    and 
exertion  of  his  pleasure  as    ''part  of   the    fun," 
from  filling  and  carrying  down  your  own  boat- 
ing hamper  to   going  a  long  tramp  simply  for 
the  walk's   sake.     The  pot-hunter,   the   man  or 
club   who   will    not    enter   for   an    event    unless 
pretty  sure  of  bringing  it  off,  the  young  fellows 
who   lounge   about   without  energy    to  do  any- 
thing   unless    they  can   ''show  off"    or    ''get   a 
bit "  in  some  way — such  as   these  he  despised. 
He   loathed   all    cheapening   and    coarsening   of 
sport  into  mere  gladiatorial  show,  and  expressed 
himself  on  this  point  with  a  definite  and  most 
wholesome   clearness.       At    the   same    time,    no 
one   was   ever   less    snobbish    in    his    views    of 
professionalism.     He  stuck  up  with   kindly  dis- 
interestedness for  the  honest  worker,  making  or 


XXX  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

trying  to  make  an  honest  living,  whether  he 
were  waterman,  ''player,"  or  ''bookie."  For 
bookmakers  especially  he  never  missed  saying  a 
good  word.  He  declared  and  showed  solid 
grounds  that,  taken  as  a  whole,  no  business  is 
conducted  on  such  absolutely  honourable  lines, 
engagements  of  the  greatest  magnitude  being 
faithfully  fulfilled  with  no  other  obligation  or 
pledge  than  a  pencil  dash  or  two — and  that  no 
more  charitable  folk  were  to  be  found  anywhere. 
Indeed  he  claimed  ungrudging  beneficence  as  a 
virtue  of  racing  people  generally,  and  he  knew 
what  he  was  talking  about.  I  remember  that 
in  one  day  he  collected  on  Lewes  Racecourse 
over  a  hundred  pounds  for  the  local  free 
hospital,  an  institution  in  which  not  one  per 
cent,  of  the  donors  could  have  possessed  the 
slightest  personal  or  local  interest. 

For  a  due  appreciation  of  my  father  s  powers 
as  an  all-round  athlete,  I  must  quote  those  who 
can  speak  with  authority,  "An  Old  Hand"  says 
in  the  article  already  quoted  :  "  He  was  possessed 
of  great  physical  strength  and  very  exceptional 
powers  of  endurance.  Circumstances  prevented 
him  in  early  life  from  taking  that  position  on  the 
path  and  the  river  which  he  could  easily  have 
attained  had  he  been  able  to  spare  more  time,  but 
for  all  that  he  proved  himself  a  first-rate  oarsman 
and  swimmer,  and  did  some  remarkable  perform- 


LIFE  OF  THE  AUTHOR  xxxi 

ances  when  well  on  in  middle  age."  The  News 
of  the  PVo  r/d  notGs  his  ''long,  careless  stride  that 
won  him  a  momentous  series  of  matches  in  the 
Leatherhead  road,  and  often  puzzled  emulous 
pedestrians,  who  with  quickening  footsteps  got 
no  nearer."  He  walked  from  London  to  Brighton 
over  and  over  again.  When  living  at  Brighton, 
he  used  to  row  in  a  salt-water  wager-boat  between 
Brighton  and  Shoreham — which  towns  did  not 
then  coalesce  —  and  in  rough  weather.  His 
style  of  fresh-water  sculling  was  the  old  workman- 
like, healthy  kind  which,  as  he  himself  described 
it,  finishes  with  shoulder  blades  flattened  on  a 
straight  back.  He  always  took  an  intense 
interest  in  the  river ;  Henley  Regatta,  he  used 
to  say,  was  the  greatest  treat  he  allowed  himself, 
and  the  place  would  not  have  seemed  complete 
without  *'his  familiar  straw  hat  with  the  L.R.C. 
colours."  The  London  and  the  Thames  Rowing 
Clubs  valued  and  mourned  him  alike.  A  few 
years  ago,  he  formed  one  of  a  Press  *'Four" 
whose  united  ages  compassed  two  hundred  years, 
and  who  issued  a  challenge  to  take  on  any  crew 
of  equal  age,  amateur  or  professional,  at  their 
own  distance,  but  the  challenge  was  never 
accepted.  His  ceaseless  energy  and  pleasure  in 
walking  became  proverbial. 

In  the  racing  world,  Martin  Cobbett's  position 
was     unique.        His     profound    knowledge,     his 


xxxii  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

resolute  energy,  his  absolute  ''  straightness  "  and 
impartiality,  his  fearlessness  and  geniality,  made 
him  a  place  which  perhaps  no  other  will  ever 
occupy.  "  His  lovable,  almost  unique  personality," 
said  the  Tribune  in  its  obituary  notice,  "made 
him  the  trusted  friend  of  high  and  low,"  and  this 
note  of  his  lovable  personality  was  sounded  by 
all  who  knew  him.  "  He  never  made  an  enemy, 
or  lost  a  friend."  In  his  home  he  was  ever  and 
wholly  unselfish,  devoted,  and  tender.  He  passed 
peacefully  away  on  the  24th  of  April  1906,  and 
w^as  laid  to  rest  in  the  churchyard  of  Stoke 
d'Abernon,  Surrey,  loved  by  every  soul  who 
knew  him.      How  regretted  cannot  be  told. 

For  permission  to  reproduce  the  following 
selections  from  ''  Sporting  Notions,"  my  best 
thanks  are  due  to  the  proprietors  of  the  Referee. 

ALICE  COBBETT. 

Novemher  1906. 


WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

CHAPTER  I 

GLORIOUS    GOODWOOD 

Dear   me!     They  talk,  they  do  talk  of   Long- 
champs'  beauties.      I  am  perhaps  rather  inclined 
to  be  of  a  Peebly  disposition,  and  claim  my  ain 
countree  for  pleasure,  but  how  can  you  put  Paris 
and  Goodwood  together  ?     Take  your  place  on 
the  Stand.     In  any  direction,  on  all  the  points 
for  boxing  the  compass,  you  shall  see  a  prospect 
to  knock  the  best  Longchamps  can  do.     You  are 
offered  all  sorts.     High  bare  wind-swept  down  ? 
There  you  are  with  Trundle  (or  Troundel)  Hill. 
Wooded  sylvan  country  ?     Gaze  just  a  little  bit 
off  to   the  left,  where  lies  Mr  James's  beautiful 
park.     Mixed  hill  and  vale  pictures  do  you  re- 
quire ?     Look  out  straight  in  front  of  you,  there 
is  the  article  made  to  order,  with  the  lofty  ridges 
backing    Charlton    and    Lord    Leconfield's   long 
wood  in  the  far  distance,  a  range  of  plantations 
running  thirteen  miles,  and  a  most  easy  place  to 
lose  yourself  in.      Perhaps    you  prefer  coppice- 
clothed  high  lands.     Just  off  the  course,  if  you 
please,  beyond  the  Stewards'  Cup  starting-post, 
you  find  your  wants  catered  for.      Or  the  varied 
belts,  clumps,   and   thick  woods  of  rolling  park 

A 


2  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

lands.  There  is  the  mixture,  a  little  to  the  south 
and  east,  and  the  flat  fat  lands  between  the  hill's 
feet  and  the  sea  in  the  distance,  all  stained  patchy 
with  the  orange  to  light  creamy  straw  of  the  corn 
crops.  Maybe  the  sea  is  in  your  line.  Plenty  of 
the  same  (not  forgetting  the  queer  indents  of 
Chichester  and  Pagham  harbours)  is  in  your  line 
of  sight  to  help  yourself  to,  and  the  Isle  of  Wight 
chucked  in  free  gratis  and  for  nothing.  All  these 
good  things,  and  plenty  more,  are  at  your  service 
when  you  go  racing  at  Goodwood.  And  yet  no 
one  appears  to  think  it  bad  form  to  take  the  best 
a  stranger,  such  as  the  Duke  of  Richmond,  has 
in  the  way  of  scenery  and  freedom  to  range,  and 
then  march  off  without  so  much  as  a  simple 
**  thank  you."  What  would  His  Grace  think  of 
a  stranger's  coming  up  and  returning  thanks  for 
being  allowed  to  use  his  lovely  estate,  the  domain, 
and  miles  of  the  countryside  ?  Mad,  very  likely, 
so  unusual  would  the  civility  be  ;  but  somehow, 
instead  of  being  so  unusual  an  occurrence  as  to 
stamp  one  as  quite  eccentric  and  unconventional, 
the  civility  ought  to  go  as  a  matter  of  course — at 
least  so  I  think. 

Lovely,  lovely  indeed,  is  the  Goodwood 
country,  beautiful  enough  to  make  a  poor  man 
glad  that  it  does  not  belong  to  him,  because  it 
must  be  very  hard  to  leave.  Moreover,  there  it 
is,  kept  up  for  him,  the  casual  or  habitual  visitor, 
to  enjoy  as  freely  as  the  proprietor  who  bears  the 
expense  of  maintenance.  Each  year  that  I  am 
at  the  meeting  I  make  vows  to  come  down  to 
Charlton  Forest  and  the  Park  when  racing  is  not 
on  and  enjoy  myself  as  I  could  roaming  about. 
But,  alas  !  there  is  a  faulty  part  in  the  programme, 
and  I  shall,  I  fear,  never  get  my  holiday  there ; 


GLORIOUS  GOODWOOD  3 

for,  you  see,  racing  is  always  on,  if  not  in  West 
Sussex,  somewhere  else,  and  business  is  business. 
So  the  best  one  can  do  is  to  make  the  most  of 
what  opportunities  offer  of  themselves  or  can  be 
manufactured  by  taking  a  little  thought  and 
enofineer  a  little  overtime  a'  morninofs  and  in  the 
early  evenings.  Somehow,  people  do  not  seem 
to  care  to  go  in  for  this  sort  of  thing  much. 
They  want  all  brought  right  to  them,  put  down 
on  the  doorstep,  so  to  speak,  or  carried  into  the 
house  and  spread  out  for  consumption.  Take  an 
example.  Within  a  minute's  walk  of  the  racing 
establishment  is  Trundle  or  Troundel  Hill — 
Troundel  on  the  old  maps — a  great  mound  making 
a  landmark  on  the  high  ridge  of  these  downs, 
ringed  at  its  crown  by  the  ditch  of  an  ancient 
encampment,  and  marked  in  the  centre  by  the 
site  of  the  beacon  revived  at  rare  intervals  nowa- 
days. To  climb  from  the  course  level  to  its 
summit  takes  a  very  few  minutes.  Once  in  the 
camp  you  have,  oh !  such  a  view,  such  views,  in 
every  direction*  How  many  go  there  during  the 
four  days  ?  One  per  cent.  ?  Not  one-tenth  per 
cent.,  if  you  leave  out  the  natives  who  in  dry 
weather  picnic  on  its  slopes.  There  is  the  grand 
show,  one  scarcely  to  be  equalled  in  any  country, 
at  your  service  free  gratis  and  for  nothing. 

If  the  roadway  that  crosses  the  range  at  the 
foot  of  Trundle  Hill  were  a  "pass,"  or  the 
eminence  itself  a  ''pike"  or  a  ''peak,"  and  there 
was  a  "  fell  "  to  it,  we  might  find  it  quite  cele- 
brated as  a  centre  for  tourists,  home  made  and  of 
foreign  manufacture.  As  it  is,  plain  Trundle  Hill 
suffers  alike  from  simplicity  of  nomenclature  and 
easiness  of  access.  Views  ?  You  can  from  its 
summit  take  in  enough  views  full  of  variety  to 


4  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

last  a  moderate  sightseer  for  a  twelvemonth. 
You  can  hardly  ask  for  a  brand  that  is  not  pro- 
ducible in  the  scope  of  a  look  round  commanding 
range  from  far  out  to  sea  on  the  south,  right  over 
to  the  Surrey  ridges  on  the  north  ;  from  East 
Sussex  on  the  one  hand  to  well  into  Hampshire 
and  Dorset.  Very  hard  to  beat  is  this  part  of 
the  South  Downs  by  reason  of  its  being  so  well 
wooded,  as  they  may  not  be  farther  east,  because 
of  exposure  to  the  south-westers.  I  am  not  sure 
that  they  can  be  beaten.  You  see,  they  have 
pretty  much  all  that  can  be  claimed  for  the  best 
of  the  inland  ranges — Dorset,  Wiltshire,  Berkshire 
in  the  south,  or  the  Wolds  of  the  north — and  the 
look-out  over  the  sea  as  well,  a  very  pleasant  one 
with  the  fine  grain  crops  on  the  belt  of  land  that 
stretches  under  the  hills'  southern  face  right  away 
from  Portsmouth  to  Brighton,  where  it  ends  by 
reason  of  the  chalk  hills  coming  down  to  the  sea. 
Over  this  belt  the  dews  are  heavy,  and  drought 
is  not  felt  as  it  is  further  inland,  a  circumstance 
which  accounts  for  the  going  being  good  at  train- 
ing quarters  within  this  zone  when  further  inland 
it  may  be  desperately  hard.  Better  wheat  land 
you  will  scarcely  find  in  the  south  of  England, 
nor,  I  should  say,  much  better  wheat  crops  on  an 
average.  (Farmers  in  the  Chichester  district 
used  to  race  for  the  distinction  of  first  getting 
into  the  market  a  loaf  made  from  flour  ground 
from  the  current  season's  harvest,  and,  if  they 
landed  by  Goodwood  Week,  thought  they  had 
done  pretty  well.) 

As  for  the  harvests  nature  provides  free  gratis 
for  nothing,  there  are  lashings  and  lavers  of  them 
in  the  Duke's  country,  go  high  go  low.  Our 
small    friends'    winter   store    is    served   up   with 


GLORIOUS  GOODWOOD  5 

abundance.  Wild  berries  of  all  sorts  show  in 
great  profusion,  making  not  the  least  pretty 
feature  of  the  down  country.  In  that  I  include 
with  the  uplands  the  spurs  and  deep  shady 
hollows,  the  hangers,  coppices,  and  sometimes 
far-extending  woods,  the  borstals  an,d  steep,  rutty 
roadways  off  the  crests,  and  the  network  of  lanes, 
ancient  bridle-roads  mostly,  which  begin  on  the 
neutral  territory  before  the  hilly  part  is  properly 
done  with  and  the  weald  can  be  said  to  have 
fairly  established  monopoly — the  meeting-place 
of  the  chalk  flowers  and  such  as  flourish  on  the 
clay.  In  Goodwood  Week  the  down  flowers  are 
almost  at  their  best. 

In  the  hedges  and  about  the  lower  growing 
trees  is  the  English  clematis  galore,  the  old  man's 
beard,  or  traveller's  joy,  a  rather  mixed  one  to  me 
in  that  it  speaks  of  the  year's  wane  and  time's 
rapid  flight.  Can  you  find  a  more  beautiful 
classic  design  than  the  briony,  also  abundant  ? 
Just  here,  where  chalk  and  claylands  join,  the 
little  clear  springs  come  creeping  out  of  the 
great  sponge  reservoir  and  go  their  way  with 
cool  alacrity  to  be  regretfully  remembered — the 
''coolth" — by  the  wayfarer  who  has  climbed  to 
the  breezy  but  very  sunny  hilltops,  for  the  farther 
he  goes,  so  much  the  more  distance  does  he 
probably  put  between  himself  and  the  possi- 
bilities of  a  modest  quencher  till  he  return  to 
the  lower  levels.  There  you  are — in  West 
Sussex,  at  least — within  easy  reach  of  any 
number  of  pretty  hamlets,  generally  boasting  a 
church  a-piece — what  a  lot  of  money  there  must 
have  been  about  at  one  time  for  church-building ! 
— mostly  with  a  bit  of  a  green,  if  not  enough 
land  of  that  sort  to  rise  to  the  dignity  of  a  common  ; 


6  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

at  least  one  biggish  farmhouse  good  enough  for 
the  half-squire,  half-farmer  yeomanry  who  used 
to  dwell  in  them,  and  a  number  of  ancient,  with 
a  very  few  modern,  cottages,  the  former  much 
the  prettier  to  look  at,  and  the  new-comers  better 
to  live  in.  Once  a  year  some  small  proportion  of 
visitors  to  Goodwood  make  more  or  less  close 
acquaintance  with  certain  of  these  hamlets  and 
their  approaches,  and  are  all  the  better  therefor, 
as  should  be  anyone  for  experiencing  only  one 
fine  day  at  Goodwood,  not  counting  the  racing 
in  at  all.  Why,  it  is  worth  the  money  to  have 
the  sun  bring  out  the  delicious  thymy  smell  of 
the  down  turf,  vvhich  may  call  up  memories  to 
make  one  sentimental  or  extremely  material  in 
thought,  according  as  the  cue  given  through  the 
olfactory  sense  leads  to  reminiscences  of  past 
days  and  departed  friends,  or  to  the  recalling  of 
such  gross  pleasure  as  may  be  afforded  in  the 
consumption  of  Southdown  mutton,  whose  excel- 
lence is  in  part  ascribed  to  the  aromatic  seasoning 
in  its  "  native  "  herbage. 

Occasionally,  when  I  do  find  time  to  think,  I 
grieve  that  familiarity,  through  long  acquaint- 
ance with  much  that  is  enjoyable,  has  bred — no, 
not  contempt,  that  is  impossible,  but  a  sort  of 
indifference.  Thank  goodness  I  can  still  derive 
excellent  pleasure  from  doing  duty  at  a  venue 
such  as  the  Duke  of  Richmond's  ''best  farm." 
But  I  always  feel  a  bit  sorry  for  myself  in  that 
the  freshness  has  died  out,  and  I  rather  expect 
all  to  be  in  its  very  best  form  before  I  can  be 
satisfied,  instead  of  being  made  to  feel  small  in 
admiration  at  the  glories  of  Goodwood  Park  and 
the  parts  thereabouts.  Imagine  the  pleasure  a 
novice  who  came  out  of,  say,  the  Black  Country 


GLORIOUS  GOODWOOD  7 

would  gain  from  his  first  experience  of  the  Ducal 
Park,  Ducal  scenic  accessories,  and  Ducal  sport ! 
Probably  anybody  ought  to  be  thankful  for 
having  to  take  as  work  what  so  many  regard  as 
a  luxurious  pleasure,  and  that  is  what  riles  me, 
because  I  so  often  feel  that  I  ought  to  be  enjoying 
myself  very  much  indeed,  and  I  am  taking  no 
more  notice  of  estimable  points  in  scenery  and 
other  interesting  details  than  a  shopkeeper  in  St 
Paul's  Churchyard  does  of  Christopher  Wren's 
cathedral,  or  a  Westminster  'bus-man  of  the 
Houses  of  Parliament.  All  that  is  rather  a 
pity,  because  if  one  did  not  get  tired  and  the 
business  miofht  be  carried  out  free  of  wear  and 
tear  to  pocket  and  person,  the  post  of  wandering 
correspondent  which  I  have  the  honour  to  occupy 
would  leave  little  to  be  desired.  Very  little,  I 
mean,  so  long  as  its  occupier  happened  to  be 
suited  by  being  a  cross  between  the  Wandering 
Jew  and  an  almost  automatic  realisation  of 
perpetual  motion,  and  preferred  not  living  any- 
where in  particular.  I  grow  so  used  to  perpetual 
changing  as  to  scarcely  notice  doing  anything  of 
the  sort,  though  if  you  do  pull  up  now  and  then 
to  think  (it  is  not  often  there  is  time  for  such  a 
luxury),  the  rushing  about  is  rather  extraordinary. 
Certainly  it  did  strike  me  that  way  one  Monday 
when  I  happened  to  be  filling  my  pockets  with 
thunderbolts — that  is  what  we  call  them  in  this 
part  of  the  country  where  I  at  present  reside 
and  indite.  I  say  that  the  quick  and  frequent 
chano-incr  of  venue  did  come  home  to  me  this 
Monday  when  I  was  on  an  old  Sussex  hill  road 
washed  clean  by  the  temporary  torrents  of 
tropical  storms  which  had  been  flooding  the 
land,  and  was  picking  up  here  and  there  quite  a 


8  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

lot  of  thunderbolts  (iron  pyrites,  are  they  not  ?) 
revealed  by  the  water's  rush,  which  had  scraped 
off  the  face  of  the  chalk  roadway. 

You  all  forget,  don't  you,  sometimes  ?  I  did 
with  these  precious  curiosities.  They  are 
curiosities  in  several  senses,  and  more  particu- 
larly because  no  one  can  account  for  their 
presence  in  the  chalk  (so  says  legend),  unless 
they  do  really  come  with  the  lightning,  or  did 
drop  from  aerolites.  As  I  was  going  to  say 
about  forgetfulness  :  here  had  I  been  fossicking 
about — fossicking,  please,  not  fossilising — and 
collecting  specimens  by  the  dozen  which  were 
stowed  in  my  pockets.  When  the  apparent 
supply  was  exhausted  I  moved  up  over  the  brow 
on  to  the  Downs  to  refresh  myself  with  wild 
raspberries  which  hereabouts  grow  by  the 
thousand  (of  canes),  and  after  treating  myself 
to  as  many  as  I  cared  for,  I  experienced  a  most 
unusual  sensation — that  is,  I  could  scarcely  drag 
about.  I  was  tired,  oh  !  so  tired  all  at  once  ;  so 
very  tired  that  I  wanted  to  sit  down  and  calmly 
consider  the  situation,  which  began  to  appear 
rather  serious,  and  for  choice  go  to  sleep.  There 
I  was,  right  on  the  crest  of  a  long  series  of  high 
downs  and  for  all  the  prospect  of  being  come 
across  by  anyone  in  two  or  three  days,  I  might 
almost  as  well  have  been  on  a  desert  island. 
What  was  to  become  of  me  if  I  collapsed  ? 
What  was  I  to  do  if  this  extreme  lassitude,  this 
inability  to  walk  my  weight  was  progressive  ? 
(You  pull  your  weight,  so  why  not  walk  your 
weight  ?  If  you  understand  the  rowing  expres- 
sion, the  other  puts  a  case  very  handily.) 
Suppose  that  I  grew  tired,  more  tired,  most 
tired,  and  became  a  fixture — and  I  did  feel  quite 


GLORIOUS  GOODWOOD  9 

beaten — done  up  to  such  an  extent  that  I  was 
absolutely  afraid  to  sit  down  for  fear  I  wouldn't 
be  able  to  get  up  again,  in  which  case  there 
would  be  no  Goodwood  for  me. 

This  was  a  very  nice  situation,  for  a  poor 
body  all  alone  by  himself  and  fixed  in  a  dilemma, 
not  strong  enough  to  keep  on  the  move  and 
morally  compelled  not  to  stop.  You  wouldn't 
believe  how  foolish  you  can  be — at  least  not  till 
you  try.  My  disease,  which,  as  I  have 
endeavoured  to  demonstrate,  was  very  alarming 
in  its  symptoms,  made  me  chuckle  when  I 
diagnosed  it  properly.  All  the  strange  sensa- 
tions, the  loss  of  power,  weakness  of  the  legs, 
and  drawn  feeling  about  the  shoulders  were  due 
to  a  very  simple  cause.  Old,  very  old,  iron 
pyrites  dropped  from  the  clouds  or  somewhere 
else,  was  the  matter  with  me.  I  don't  want  any 
scientific  gent  to  tell  me  that  a  thunderbolt  is  not 
a  thunderbolt,  because  by  no  other  name  would 
it  be  so  interesting.  What  I  am  going  to  say  is 
that  I  quite  overlooked  the  fact  that  I  was  cart- 
ing about  two  pocketfuls  of  the  thunderbolts  I 
picked  up,  and  had  little  by  little  declared  myself 
goodness  only  knows  how  much  overweight.  It 
was  a  good  job  I  made  this  important  discovery, 
for  I  was  much  perturbed  in  mind,  and  was 
wasting  what  ought  to  be  to  me  a  treat. 

A  great  treat  it  is  to  be  up  on  the  Downs 
between  Petersfield  and  the  Arun  in  the  sweet 
scent-laden  air,  with  grand  panorama  views 
spread  out  before  you,  the  scenty  turf  to  walk  on, 
and  the  beech  coppices — woods,  I  should  say — 
for  shade  if  you  desire  it — I  do  not,  because  I 
believe  in  absorbing  all  the  sun  to  be  found — no 
company  save  the  birds  and  insects,  and,  perhaps, 


10  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

a  shepherd,  ditto  dog  and  sheep,  and  liberty  to 
range  where  you  please  just  as  freely  as  if  you 
were  lord  of  the  soil  and  tenant  as  well.  Do  you 
like  to  be  perched  up  ever  so  high  and  play  at  a 
game  of  geography,  endeavouring  to  give  a  name 
to  the  hamlets  and  commons,  hills  and  pools, 
churches  and  woods  you  see  dotted  about  away 
out  on  the  weald,  and  mentally  follow  up  the 
roads  streaking  the  real  visible  map  plan  ?  I  do. 
I  dearly  love  this  diversion,  even  to  the  extent  of 
taking  interest  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  which  tells  you 
that  sheep  are  on  the  move  along  the  far-away 
road. 

Does  it  give  you  pleasure  to  watch  the  sly 
squirrels  peeping  at  you  from  the  other  side  of 
tree  holes,  and  the  young  rabbits  settling  down 
to  play  after  you  have  been  still  a  little  while, 
just  as  if  you  were  not  there  at  all,  or,  being 
there,  didn't  count?  Is  it  a  delight  to  follow  the 
course  of  the  fleecy  clouds,  some  of  them  scraping 
the  hills  and  on  occasions  illustrating  the  manu- 
facture of  Scotch  mist,  or  on  a  bright  day  mark 
their  progress  across  the  low  lands  as  their  sheet 
of  shadow  runs  over  the  landscape  ?  Can  the 
birds'  little  ways  charm  you  ?  Do  you  like  to  be 
**  chatted  "  at  by  little  'uns  of  that  nature  and 
practice,  or  scolded  by  the  jackdaws  from  the  old 
chalk-pits,  or  made  funny  noises  at  by  stray 
pheasants,  or  whirred  at  by  partridges,  some  of 
them  young  'uns  already  nearly  as  big  as  their 
fathers  ?  I  do,  I  assure  you,  derive  much  satis- 
faction from  all  these  matters,  and  that  was  partly 
the  reason  why  I  was  so  charmed  to  find  that  I 
was  only  suffering  from  a  heavy  attack  of 
thunderbolts,  and  was  otherwise  all  right,  so  that 
I  was  not  to  scare  myself  out  of  coming  again. 


GLORIOUS  GOODWOOD  11 

That  being  so,  I  was  no  longer  timid  about 
sitting  me  down  to  rest,  a  relief  which  gave  pause 
to  dwell  on  the  flying  about  to  which  I  alluded 
just  now.  ''What  a  game  it  all  is,"  says  I  to 
myself,  says  I.  ''This  is  Monday.  Here  am  I, 
up,  up  aloft — like  all  jolly  sailor  boys  when  stormy 
winds  do  blow,  do  blow — on  the  South  Downs. 
On  Sunday — which  is,  or  was,  yesterday — I  was 
being  half-poisoned  on  the  Thames  through  the 
water  companies  sneaking  too  much  of  the  element, 
and  in  so  doing  exposing  the  mud  to  the  sun's 
influence  (and  does  it  not  niff?)."  I  may  also 
mention  that  while  on  the  Thames  I  was  run 
down  by  an  energetic  young  lady  sculler  and  a 
contemplative,  reposeful  gentleman,  the  latter 
with  notions  of  steering  which  were  somewhat 
strange.  He  steered  with  the  ropes  loose,  the 
boat  heading  up  the  middle  of  the  river,  and, 
oh!  the  Ironmould  of  Fate,  the  Referee  in  both 
hands,  so  as  to  be  read  comfortably. 

The  countryside  at  Goodwood  does  not  alter 
much.  If,  as  Is  inevitable,  one  friend  or  acquaint- 
ance drops  out,  you  may  pretty  safely  reckon  on 
the  successors  going  on  their  predecessors'  lines. 
The  same  biggish  houses  are  let  each  year  to 
the  same  kind  of  customers,  and  the  same  cottages 
very  profitably  and  similarly  tenanted.  If  not 
the  same  horses  draw  the  racing  folk  up  the 
north  or  southern  face  of  the  Downs,  the  gees 
are  very  much  the  same  sort,  and  I  dare  swear 
that  a  great  many  of  the  traps  are  survivors  of 
the  original  stock  put  to  this  trade  after  being 
condemned  for  all  other.  The  same  dirt  is  on 
many  of  the  aged  gippos  as  encrusted  them  in 
the  days  of  their  youth — an  altogether  economical 
arrangement    this,  because  one  set  of  dirt  does 


12  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

for  a  lifetime  instead  of  having  to  be  constantly 
renewed,  as  is  the  case  with  the  misguided  victims 
of  conventionality  who  occasionally  wash.  The 
same  children,  or  later  editions  qualified  to  person- 
ate those  now  grown  up,  chant  the  same  doggerel 
about  mouldy  coppers,  call  you  Johnny,  and  shout 
*'  Hooray  "  with  identical  enthusiasm.  The  same 
farm  hands  continue  to  regard  racing  and  all  its 
works  with  bovine  indifference,  save  on  the  Cup 
day,  when,  possibly  with  a  little  outside  assistance, 
they  may  over-celebrate  the  event  of  the  day  in 
evening  beers  at  the  pub.  The  same  sort  of  dust 
millers  the  driving  passenger  on  parts  of  the  road 
not  watered  by  the  South  Coast  Railway  Company 
and  the  Duke  of  Richmond.  A  lucky  dog  like 
me  meets  with  the  same  free-handed  hospitality 
from  his  friends  with  the  fine  tables  under  his 
beechwood  shelter.  The  harvest  presents  much 
about  the  same  appearance.  The  same  wild 
flowers  deck  the  hedgerows  and  struggle  for  life 
in  the  turf.  You  have  to  go  through  the  same 
routine  as  ever — at  least,  I  do — to  get  a  news- 
paper or  a  shave,  that  latter  being  obtained  at 
the  cost  of  a  three  miles'  walk  each  way  to  the 
excellent  barber  and  amateur  nigger  melodist 
Wright,  late  Clark  —  poor  old  Clark  of  Mid- 
hurst — or  after  a  similar  in  distance  excursion  to 
Singleton,  where  you  sit  in  a  tent  at  the  back  of 
a  pub,  and  find  that  a  scrubby  chin  like  adver- 
sitee  makes  you  acquaint  with  strange  company. 
A  foot-padder,  which  is  not  the  same  as  a  footpad, 
finds  the  usual  difficulty  in  dodging  hospitality  in 
faring  through  the  hamlets.  I  regret  to  say  that 
the  same  sports  do  not  appear  to  be  carried  on  in 
the  villages  of  an  evening — there  used  to  be  good 
fun  with  the  foot-racing. 


GLORIOUS  GOODWOOD  13 

The  Immemorial  hills  are  there,  thank  good- 
ness little  touched  by  ill-advised  cultivation  as 
they  are  farther  east.  The  woods  vary  scarcely 
from  year  to  year,  except  in  seasonable  changes. 
If  you  care  to  pick  up  local  country  lore,  you  may 
gather  the  same  old  stories  about  the  truffle- 
hunting  dogs  ;  the  frequent  fox  and  the  occasional 
badger ;  the  trout  which  seem  too  big  for  the 
streams  they  adorn  ;  the  apocryphal  big  snakes  ; 
the  wopses  ;  the  hornets  (four  kill  a  man  and  five 
settle  a  bullock) ;  the  poachers ;  the  lying-out 
deer;  the  new  men  and  the  old.;  the  very  little 
men  claiming  this  for  their  "  native "  who  were, 
to  begin  with,  thought  nothing  of,  like  a  prophet 
in  or  out — which  is  it  ? — of  his  own  country,  and 
finished  big  in  London  ;  and  the  game  fowl  for 
whose  fighting  abilities  no  further  use  offers 
because  Cocking — the  sport,  not  the  village — 
has  been  quite  done  away  with.  The  yarn  about 
the  bold  smuggler,  captain  of  the  band,  who, 
challenged  by  the  Preventive  man  in  the  *''oods," 
downed  'un  and  left  half  a  dozen  kegs  under  the 
defeated  coastguardsman's  bed  next  day  and  did 
it  all  unbeknowst,  is  an  annual  so  hardy  as  to 
rank  as  a  perennial  classic  which  never  alters, 
save  that  the  gentleman  who  ran  the  illicit  goods 
gradually  becomes  more  and  more  terribly  noble. 
And  the  same  jokes  go  with  the  same  success 
each  night  at  pipe-smoke  time  in  the  pubs.  One 
ancient  vested  interest  though,  is  being  knocked 
out  by  the  march  of  civilisation,  A  genius 
has  started  cycling  for  correct-card-distributing 
purposes.  The  poor,  old-fashioned,  hard-working 
bodies  who  used  to  run  from  Chichester  for  miles 
to  serve  their  customers  are  being  easily  defeated 
by  the  innovators  who  slip  over  from  the  printing 


14  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

office  to  Midhurst  in  no  time,  and  can  beat  the 
train. 

Of  course,  when  you  come  to  the  racecourse 
itself  there  are  indeed  alterations.  The  old 
stands  and  buildings  have  gone.  Being  gone, 
we  might  say  nothing  but  good  of  the  former 
installations  or  say  nothing  at  all.  That  last 
would  be  scarcely  fair  and  quite  ungrateful,  for 
if  the  buildings  were  not  suitable  for  the  custom 
that  had  grown,  and  grown  out  of  all  knowledge, 
as  Sussex  people  say,  and  failed  to  give  all  that 
was  wanted,  they  seemed  to  serve  well  enough 
before  we  began  to  get  so  particular,  and 
everybody  must  have  the  best  berth  in  the  ship. 
Bear  in  mind,  people  raced  differently  when 
George  Tattersall  put  up  the  stand  we  knew,  and 
the  idea  that  on  a  racecourse  you  should  have  as 
good  a  lunch  as  would  serve  for  a  lord's  wedding 
breakfast,  with  attendance  to  match,  and  at  about 
a  third  the  price,  had  not  even  germinated. 


CHAPTER  II 

IN    THE    SUSSEX    DUKERIES 

I  ASK  nothing  better,  come  spring,  summer,  autumn, 
and  winter,  than  to  visit  the  Sussex  Dukeries. 
An  opportunity  cam.e  in  the  second  week  in 
January  ;  so  I  accordingly  offd  it  to  Goodwood 
with  a  willing  mind,  as  the  sailors  used  to  say 
in  round-robins.  I  will  mention  the  great  good 
luck  I  had  as  reward  for  starting  with  a  falling 
barometer,  a  south  wind,  and  a  cloudy  sky  to 
take  my  chance  on  a  tramp  from  Arundel  to  the 
Grand  Stand — only  one  stand  ranks  here,  and 
that  is  the  Duke  of  Richmond's  new  one. 

I  expected  bad  weather,  met  nothing  but  the 
very,  very  best,  and  was  thereby  induced  to  make 
the  most  of  a  good  thing  by  going  the  full  course 
and  a  distance,  a  very  considerable  distance.  A 
full  course  it  is,  too,  for  a  poor  old  man  on  pappy 
footing  to  cover  out  and  home  from  Arundel  to 
Trundle  Hill,  overlooking  the  Grand  Stand. 
Still,  every  inch  of  it  meant  solid  enjoyment. 
What  a  day  was  Thursday,  bright,  clear,  with  a 
keen  wind  to  wake  you  up  while  you  were  out  of 
shelter  and  almost  too  advanced  spring  on  the  lee, 
which  was  also  the  sunny  side !  Being  a  bit  of  a 
believer  in  chancing  your  luck  on  your  own  rather 

15 


16  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

than  ask  your  way  anywhere,  I  did  get  vexed  with 
myself  for  at  first  listening  to  local  topographists 
bound  to  be  wrong,  as  they  were.  Still,  they 
could  not  make  anyone  put  a  foot  wrong  in  such 
lovely  weather  and  grand  country.  An  eminent 
tradesman  at  Arundel  sent  me  four  miles  round- 
about. All  extra  blessings  on  his  kindly  head ! 
I  only  wish  he  had  directed  me  to  wander  forty 
miles  instead  of  four  if  only  time  and  the  legs  for 
the  meander  were  available. 

I  made  a  short  cut  from  Arundel  to  Slindon, 
going  right  through  the  Duke  of  Norfolk's  park- 
domesticated-downland  de  luxe  to  Whiteways 
Gate,  which  is  on  the  road  from  London  by 
Pulborough  to  Chichester  and  Portsmouth. 
Getting  on  for  two  miles  and  a  half  it  is  through 
this  lovely  holding  of  the  Duke  of  Norfolk's.  All 
the  way  the  intelligent  observer  can  discover 
objects  of  interest,  views  sylvan  or  romantic, 
restricted  to  a  visible  horizon  formed  by  the 
wooded  crests,  with  the  thorn  and  maple,  dotted 
hollows,  or  far  reaching  as,  for  example,  the  vast 
grand  scape  over  Arunside  to  where  Chancton- 
bury  Ring  dominates  a  climbing  scale  of  high 
hills  or  the  broad  outlook  northwards  with  Black 
Rabbit's  disused  old  chalk-pit  standing  up  bluff  as 
a  Derbyshire  peak  cliff  in  the  foreground. 

If  the  domain  and  the  ducal  estate  generally 
was  not  so  important,  I  would  envy  His  Grace  of 
Norfolk.  But  I  am,  I  expect,  better  off  than  he 
as  regards  his  property — richer  except  in  thanks, 
which  I  tender  now,  as  I  always  do  in  spirit  after 
being  privileged  to  make  use,  free,  gratis,  and  for 
nothing,  of  great  folk's  property.  Bless  me, 
surely  it  is  a  thousand  to  one  on  the  casual 
visitor    against    the    proprietor  —  at     least,    so 


IN  THE  SUSSEX  DUKERIES  17 

appeared  to  me  as  I  doddled  along  thinking  of 
Lord  Carnarvon's  great  house  near  Bingham,  up 
Nottingham  way,  with  its  window  for  each  of  the 
365  days  in  the  year.  I  hope  that  he  does  not 
find  it  so,  but  I  can  well  imagine  the  lord  of  the 
place  seeing  cause  for  a  fresh  incidental  worry, 
disappointment,  or  vexation  out  of  every  window, 
while  the  man  who  contributes  ''nix"  to  upkeep 
has  no  reckoning  of  such  drawbacks  in  his  con- 
stitution. 

From  Whiteways  Lodge  towards  Slindon  the 
high    road    runs    through    quite    as    park-like    a 
country  as  you  might  name.     Curiously  enough, 
I  came  straight  from  the  box,  elder,  and  yew,  and 
enclosed  down  park  of  Norbury,  hard  by  Mickle- 
ham,  where  continually  crop  up  groves  that  make 
you   expect    Claude    Lorraine  or    Poussin  to  be 
about    sketching,  or   at   any  rate    successors    in 
their   specialities.     For,  say,  a   couple   of  miles 
this  highway  runs  through  a  ribbon  of  this  sort 
of  country,  carrying  more  yews  and  finer  than   I 
have  seen  elsewhere.     Peeps  of  farms  show  you 
Caldecott  rufous-toned  brick,  old-fashioned  home- 
steads, peaceful  havens,  no  more  in  the  world  as 
regards     noise    and    racket    than    they   were    a 
hundred  years  ago.     Smoke  is  a  thing  not  to  be 
dreamed  of.     Mist  is  mist,  not  fog,  and  the  high 
woods  ward  off  the  tearing  gales  which  a  mile  or 
two  south  cut  up  vegetation  as  though  sliced  with 
a  knife.      Pretty  good  to  go  on  with,  says  I,  and 
better  still  was  Goodwood  when  I  arrived,  taking 
on  the  way  some  of  the  grandest  Spanish  chest- 
nut trees  in  the  land.    Cowdray  Park,  at  Midhurst, 
where,  on  the  occasion  of  a  fire  a  long  while  ago, 
the  country-side    braved    danger    to   save    Lord 
Egmont's  furniture  and  pictures,  and  saved  them 

B 


18  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

for  themselves,  is  not  in  it  with  these.  Many- 
choice  bits  and  articles  came  my  way  on  the  road 
to  the  ridge,  where,  in  air  clear  as  an  Australian 
sun  can  give,  and  with  half  a  gale  to  blow  all 
cobwebs  out  of  your  brain,  you  didn't  want 
any  Davos  Platz,  or  places  of  that  sort,  to  make 
you  well  and  keep  you  so.  Will  my  readers 
take  all  the  complimentary  things  I  have  said 
from  time  to  time  of  Goodwood  in  and  about, 
draw  a  thick  line  under  them  so  as  to  read  them 
in  italics,  and  make  that  do  for  this  appreciation. 
What  a  course  it  is,  with  its  old  down  turf! 

I  stayed  about  the  tracks  as  long  as  I  could, 
and  then,  not  minding  about  directions,  made  off 
on  a  line  of  my  own  along  the  ridge,  never  going 
to  right  nor  left,  but  straight  away  on  a  voyage 
of  discovery  over  a  delightful  road  where  it  was 
a  road,  one  not  ruined  by  steam-rollers,  as  is  the 
highway  from  Arundel  to  Chichester.  In  eight 
miles  I  did  not  meet  a  soul  barring  two  children 
and  a  donkey,  one  of  the  children  riding  in  the 
bleak  breeze  without  an  inch  of  stocking  on  its 
poor  little  legs,  and  didn't  want  to.  Thanks  to 
going  my  own  road  I  came  out  right  at  the 
Whiteways  Lodge  before-mentioned — I  guess 
this  was  a  Roman  road  to  begin  with — and  so 
back  to  the  Norfolk  Hotel,  the  changing  light 
putting  new  faces  on  the  landscape  with  each 
new  tone,  the  big  red  deer  stalking  about  with 
alarming  dignity,  and  the  ancient  maples  looking 
sturdier  and  more  obstinately  unflinching  as  the 
fading  daylight  showed  them  bigger  than  they 
really  were.  Anyone  who  can  do  fine  art  criticism 
with  ''  motives,"  ''themes,"  ''  notes,"  and  all,  might 
make  quite  a  pretty  study  of  the  English  maple 
as    it    grows    in  the  South,  expressing  in  every 


IN  THE  SUSSEX  DUKERIES  19 

branch,  twig,  leaf,  and  seed-key  the  Sussex  man's 
motto  on  the  Rye  china  pigs,  '*  Wun't  be  druv." 

Now  suppose  you  want  another  walk — in 
August,  say.  What  about  Cocking  and  its  peace- 
ful churchyard,  with  the  beautiful  many-boled 
lime  tree  and  the  chalk  stream,  its  boundary, 
running  into  the  mill-pond  ?  Does  the  persistent 
lady  dabchick  still  insist  on  building  among  the 
reeds  on  that  pond — when  I  was  last  there  a 
much,  too  much,  weed-grown  dammed-up  piece 
of  water,  whose  overflow  makes  a  most  romantic 
cataract  and  falls  ?  By  the  way,  while  talking  of 
cataracts,  I  noted  the  other  day  reference  to  the 
late  Captain  Webb  and  his  final  swim.  Reading 
the  memoir  one  would  be  led  to  believe  in  the 
Falls  and  the  Rapids  and  the  Whirlpool  being 
all  of  a  piece.  End  from  end  they  must  be  nearly 
two  miles  apart.  Everyone  who  sees  illustrations 
knows  the  Falls  by  sight.  After  the  river  has 
tumbled  over  it  enters  on  a  wide  expanse,  with  a 
by  no  means  startling  flow,  and  remains  thus  so 
long  as  its  walls  are  far  separated.  Below  the 
suspension  bridge  the  river's  bed  narrows  and 
deepens  till  the  weight  of  the  stream  from  above 
causes  a  mighty  rush  in  the  restricted  channel 
fearsome  to  look  on,  seeing  that  the  current  abso- 
lutely piles  itself  above  bank  level,  terribly  fasci- 
nating in  its  course,  calling  to  you  to  come,  yet 
simultaneously  telling  plainly  your  probable  fate 
among  the  submerged  rocks.  These  send  up 
great  jets  like  to  a  whale's  spouting.  Webb 
would  have  come  out  all  right,  given  luck — great 
luck  is  wanted — to  escape  being  driven  on  to  these 
rocks.  But  his  chance  was  a  very  outside  one, 
and,  as  those  who  know  the  circumstances  can 
tell,  fully  taken  into  consideration  by  the  plucky 


20  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

sailor  who  had  lived  his  life.  You  will  not  find 
anything  terrifying  in  the  Cocking  waterfall,  only 
a  few  feet  deep,  but  charmingly  pretty  all  the 
same  ;  though  the  poor  dear  dabchick  nesting  a 
few  yards  away  used  to  endure  many  tremors 
through  the  British  boy  and  his  stone-throwing, 
causing  the  good  lady  to  dive  and  hold  on  to  her 
nest's  reed-stem  supports  under  water  till  the 
bombardment  ceased.  With  pleasure  I  would 
have  looked  her  up — her  daughter,  granddaughter, 
or  whatever  matron  carries  on  the  succession  now 
— as  also  the  swallows  who  build  on  a  beam  not 
a  foot  above  the  sawyer's  head  in  the  wheel- 
wright's yards. 

Lower  are  little  pools,  icy  cold,  under  the 
overhanging  bushes  —  drinking-fountains  for 
wood-pigeons,  doves,  and  all  manner  of  thirsty 
birds  ;  and  farther  away  a  shelving  rabbity  hill- 
side, beloved  of  kingfishers,  whose  name  I  left  off 
mentioning  years  and  years  ago.  'Cos  why  ?  I 
reported  to  a  local  worthy  my  seeing  a  pair  of  the 
rufous-chested  beauties.  "  Danged  If  I  don't  go 
and  shoot  'un  !  "  says  he,  straightway  taking  down 
from  an  unlocked  rack  a  double-barrelled  gun  kept 
loaded  and  cocked  in  case  one  of  the  family 
happened  to  want  to  manslaughter  another,  I 
suppose.  Had  I  fared  to  Cocking,  on  I  must  go 
to  at  least  Cobden's  house  and  memorial  monolith 
half-way  to  MIdhurst,  and,  being  so  far,  wander 
to  Midhurst's  lovely  common — a  blaze  of  purple 
bloom — where  I  used  to  be  pretty  sure  of  finding 
white  heather,  genuine  white  heather,  not  ling, 
finishing  up  the  trip  in  that  direction  by  crossing 
the  bridge  at  MIdhurst  and  twisting  round  under 
a  long,  hanging  wood  for  a  swim  in  the  Rother. 
Would   you    care    to    do  that    last,    my   reader, 


IN  THE  SUSSEX  DUKERIES  21 

should  you  chance  tx)  fare  to  the  quaint  old  town  ? 
Well,  that  being  your  inclination,  you  might  as 
well  inquire  of  a  native  for  the  bathing-place's 
"marks."  What  sort  of  cheerful  direction  will 
you  receive  ?  Very  plain  and  encouraging,  You 
go  through  the  wood  till  you  see  the  post  put  up 
''  where  the  butler  was  drowned." 

Branch  off  to  Lavington,  home  of  several 
Wilberforces,  and  a  cure  once  held  by  Manning. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  my  first  pilgrimage  to  the 
beautiful  little  hamlet,  near  where  is  Mr  Buchanan's 
new  stud,  was  on  account  of  Cardinal  Manning's 
association  with  the  locality  one  should  on  no 
account  miss  exploiting,  for  it  is  very  lovely.  I 
have  a  lively  recollection  of  a  longish  journey  from 
Shillinglee  Park,  and  a  remarkably  short  bill  for  a 
very  fine  meal  of  rabbit-pie  baked  hot-pot  fashion, 
cold  fat  pork,  and  lashings  of  beer.  What  the 
precise  sum  was  I  forget,  but  I  do  recollect  the 
lot's  coming  to  under  sixpence  and  there  being  an 
odd  farthing  in  it,  also  the  landlord's  refusal  to 
take  more.  I  know  I  calculated  that  if  bed  was 
assessed  on  the  same  moderate  platform  as  board 
I  could  live  for  about  ;^i5  a  year  and  spare  a 
quarter  of  that  for  washing. 

Or  pull  up  one  of  the  chalk  lanes,  where  are 
hangers  in  place  of  East  Sussex  bostals,  on  roads 
studded  with  pyrites,  commonly  called  thunder- 
bolts, plain  to  see  after  rain  has  washed  the  chalk 
surface  clean,  just  as  you  may  pick  out  specks  of 
gold  in  some  Australian  towns.  Wild,  desolate 
country  some  would  call  the  land  you  strike  on 
the  highlands.  It  is  homely  to  me,  though  dis- 
figured through  digging  out  fiints,  thus  making 
perilous  walking  for  the  unwary.  Here  you  are 
with  a  view  hard  to  beat  wherever  you  strike  on 


22  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

a  range  of  downs  bordering  one  of  Lord  Lecon- 
field's  woods,  miles  and  miles  and  miles  long. 
Had  I  been  sound  up  to  this  I  must  go  to  make 
myself  qualmy  inside  with  wild  raspberries  out  in 
the  open,  also  strawberries  on  the  edge  of  the 
rides  engineered  with  eight  or  more  dials  from 
any  number  of  centres.  Lord  help  the  inexperi- 
enced stranger  lost  in  these  woods.  He  might 
take  a  week  to  get  out  and  not  see  a  soul  all  the 
while. 

Then  there  are  the  chains  of  villages  from 
Lavant  by  West  Dean,  Singleton,  Charleton, 
East  Dean,  worth  exploring.  I  have  been,  and 
still  would  go  through  these  if  only  to  fossick 
about  the  stabling  and  pick  up  cues  from  the 
plates  bearing  names  of  winners  housed  at  the 
various  yards,  calling  to  mind  generations  of 
bygone  equine  celebrities — their  owners,  trainers, 
riders,  and  ''  schools,"  mostly  all  passed  away  into 
forgotten  memories,  only  revived  by  Turf  students 
who,  speaking  by  the  book  or  record,  make  very 
skeleton  stories  of  true  happenings. 

And  then  the  rivers.  You've  been  to  school, 
how  many  rivers  are  there  in  Sussex?  Quick 
now !  I  know  three  through  experience  as  an 
angler  and  a  navigator — the  Ouse,  which  might 
be  a  deal  better  than  it  is ;  the  Adur,  about 
whose  estuary  arms  I  could  amuse  myself  for 
many  a  day  ;  and  the,  in  many  places,  dangerous 
Arun,  good  for  the  angler  from  mouth  to  source — 
perhaps  I  ought  to  begin  at  the  beginning  and 
turn  the  ends  round — and  affording  variety  of 
scenery  not  to  be  equalled  by  many  far  more 
pretentious  streams.  One  of  the  ambitions  of 
my  life  was  in  connection  with  the  Arun,  and 
will  never  be  gratified.     I  did  want  very  much 


IN  THE  SUSSEX  DUKERIES  23 

indeed  to  voyage  from  Putney  to  Littlehampton 
via  Thames,  Wey,  Wey  and  Arun  Canal,  and 
Arun,  but  I  missed  the  chance  I  had,  and  next 
time  I  might  have  gone  in  for  the  journey  cattle 
were  feeding  on  parts  of  the  canal's  bed,  and 
there  was  an  end  of  that  idea.  Then  there  is 
the  Rother — I  have  been  in  that  more  than  on 
it — and  the  Mole,  which,  as  a  Sussex  river  does 
not  fairly  count,  being  only  a  little  chap  till  he 
begins  to  get  clear  of  the  county  and  play  pranks 
with  sinks  and  swallows,  justifying  his  name  by 
working  in  the  earth  like  the  gentleman  in  the 
fur  waistcoat.  Some  day  I  mean  to  make  up  for 
the  Wey-Arun  disappointment  by  tracking  the 
Mole  to  its  very  source  in  Tilgate  Forest,  like 
Mr  Pickwick  and  the  Hampstead  ponds. 

These  are  all  the  Sussex  rivers  I  kn.ow  as  a 
fisher  and  boater.  I  ought  to  explain  that  my 
Rother  is  the  one  so  pretty  by  Petersfield  and 
Midhurst  way,  not  that  near  Rye,  which  finds  its 
way  along  to  the  sea  from  Rotherfield.  This 
Rother  and  I  are  acquaintances  only.  It  is  not 
an  associate,  as  the  others  have  been,  old  friends 
for  whom  I  am  not  afraid  to  stick  up.  Shoreham 
Harbour,  the  Adur's  outlet,  may  not  be  all  fancy 
paints  the  Rhine,  but  it  can  serve.  Bits  on  the 
Arun  about  Black  Rabbit  might  be  backed 
against  the  pick  of  Clieveden  without  being 
beaten.  Not  many  more  beautiful,  quiet,  fishy, 
wooded  corners  than  the  Western  Rother  owns 
are  to  be  quoted  from  your  show  rivers  ;  and  a'^ 
for  the  Sussex  Ouse — well,  if  it  were  not  for  the 
slime  and  the  sewage  and  the  absence  of  landing- 
places,  and  the  defunct  dogs  and  other  animals — 
some  in  mysterious  packages  of  quite  Bosphorean 
tone — doomed   to  find  no   rest  after  death,  but 


24  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

float  for  years  and  years  and  years  up  with  the 
flood  and  down  with  the  ebb,  and  other  little 
matters,  why  the  Ouse  would  be  something  to 
be  proud  of  in  a  small  way.  This  Ouse,  whose 
mud  is  own  brother  to  the  Yorkshire  namesake's, 
a  proved  salmon  river,  while  the  former  has  only 
traditionary  claim  to  the  distinction,  is  a  very 
fishy  river  and  gives  much  sport,  like  another 
member  of  the  family — the  one  which  is  fond  of 
wandering  over  Huntingdon  racecourse  and 
which,  down  by  King's  Lynn,  has  fine  stretches 
for  boat-racing,  though  a  very  muddy-banked 
customer,  as  I  suppose  nearly  all  tidal  streams 
must  be. 

Correspondents  have  been  kind  enough  to 
write  giving  descriptions  of  canoe  voyages  made 
over  the  course  I  mentioned  recently  as  now 
impracticable  —  viz.,  from  the  Thames  to  the 
English  Channel  by  way  of  the  Wey  and,  so  far 
as  practicable,  the  Wey-Arun  Canal  to  the  Arun 
River  and  so  on  to  Littlehampton.  No  doubt 
the  logs  would  be  read  with  interest,  but  you  can 
hardly  be  said  to  navigate  your  boat  from  Surrey 
to  Sussex  when,  instead  of  carrying  you,  it  has 
to  be  carried  ;  but  still,  one  good  turn  deserves 
another,  and  though  hoicking  a  canoe  about  on 
land  is  bothersome  if  you  feel  it  that  way,  and 
struggling  through  weed  and  reed  beds  toilsome, 
especially  when  you  are  in  any  sort  of  a  hurry, 
you  can  make  good  fun  out  of  the  work.  While 
thanking  the  gentlemen  for  telling  me  how  the 
transit  has  been  engineered  I  feel  that  I  ought 
to  put  in  a  word  of  caution  for  general  benefit. 
I  do  not  say  anything  about  contingencies  attach- 
ing to  getting  yourself  and  craft  across  country 
which   in  parts   involves    trespass,   always  likely 


IN  THE  SUSSEX  DUKERIES  25 

to  lead  to  differences  with  unsympathetic  owners 
or  holders  of  land  and  their  representatives.  You 
must  do  your  best  to  get  out  of  such  scrapes, 
which  do  not  matter  much  supposing  you,  being 
in  the  wrong,  take  the  right  course  and  acknow- 
ledge yourself  so.  What  I  do  wish  to  point  out 
to  friends  who  may  be  induced  to  follow  the  lead 
given  by  my  correspondents  is  that  voyaging  on 
the  Wey  is  a  business  which  should  only  be  taken 
in  hand  quite  seriously,  because  the  locks  used 
to  be  frequently  awkward  to  dangerous  degree, 
and  I  believe  this  is  still  so.  You,  as  a  rule, 
have  to  work  them  yourself.  Accidents  at  these 
were  of  common  occurrence,  and  are  very  easily 
brought  about.  It  is  a  pity  that  the  Wey  canal- 
river — I  fancy  this  was  the  first  stream  converted 
into  a  canal- — should  be  made  or  left  to  be  difficult 
for  transit ;  but  so  it  is,  and  bearing  in  mind  how 
people  get  into  trouble  for  lack  of  a  friendly  hint, 
I  now  give  it. 

Some  day  we  shall,  I  fancy,  want  to  restore 
many  of  the  canals  now  fallen  or  falling  into 
disuse  more  or  less  partial  or  complete.  These 
waterways  might  be  brought  once  more  into 
profitable  use.  A  curious  thing  in  connection 
with  some  of  them  is  that  their  natural  enemies 
the  railway  companies  who  by  hook  or  by  crook 
took  them  over  pursue  so  strange  a  policy  in,  so 
to  speak,  strangling  them  as  nearly  as  possible. 
Though  saddled  with  responsibilities  which  old 
Acts  of  Parliament  enforce,  the  new  proprietors 
go  to  work  to  starve  the  water  traffic  as  much  as 
may  be  instead  of  trying  for  profit.  We  know 
all  about  the  ancient  argument  re  the  balance 
of  increment  between  the  swings  and  the  round- 
abouts, but   I   fail  to  see  why,   in  order  to  raise 


26  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

the  profits  on  the  railroad,  the  directors  should 
lay  themselves  out  to  lose  by  their  canals.  Still, 
there  it  is.  They  do  so,  just  as  the  trunk  lines 
have  many  a  time  starved  their  feeders,  the 
tributaries,  little  local  companies,  till  their  share- 
holders capitulated  and  turned  them  over  to 
the  big  company  at  woeful  loss.  You  v^ould 
fancy,  would  you  not,  that  what  was  good  for 
the  small  company  would  be  so  for  the  great 
also  ? 


CHAPTER    III 

PATCHING  AND  SELSEY 

It  has  been  thought  strange  that  the  Goodwood 
programme  does  not  include  a  stake  named  after 
Lord  George  Bentinck.  So  it  is,  considering 
what  that  nobleman  did  to  put  the  establishment 
in  order  for  training  and  racing  purposes,  and 
his  family  connection  with  the  lords  of  the  land. 
To  me  this  sort  of  Turf  nomenclature  is  a  good 
and  fitting  thing,  stamping  the  connection  of 
races  with  men,  also  when  the  same  idea  is 
carried  out  localising,  if  I  may  so  term  it,  the 
programme  with  the  neighbourhood.  Epsom's 
card  abounds  in  names  of  notables  and  localities. 
Lots  of  villages  stand  sponsors  for  its  numbers, 
and  pretty  work  it  is  for  one  interested  in  the 
game  to  follow  up  the  hints  given  in  the 
programme.  Maybe,  when  work  is  easier,  and 
one  can  put  more  than  twenty-four  hours  into 
one  day  (and  every  day),  you  and  I,  friends,  will 
have  a  round,  starting  from  the  Goodwood  bill 
of  fare,  and  see  what  we  shall  see.  Plenty  of 
good  amusement  can  be  got  out  of  the  business, 
and  I  may  say  that  when  you  can  start  to  do  the 
sort  of  thing  honestly,  really  visiting  the  places, 
fossicking  about    and   seeing   for  yourself,   it   is 

27 


28  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

wonderful  what  a  lot  of  little  and  bigger  pieces 
of  history  and  folk-lore,  not  to  mention  the 
picturesque  and  curious,  you  may  hit. 

The  Gratwicke  Stakes  is  cited  as  showing 
the  strangeness  of  there  not  being  a  Lord  George 
Bentinck.  Bentinck  would  scarcely  do  nowadays 
as  a  new  stake,  because  the  reference  would  be 
taken  as  applying  to  the  Duke  of  Portland 
instead  of  to  the  Napoleon  of  the  Turf,  who  in 
some  of  his  methods  was  very  Napoleonic 
indeed,  seeing  how  exhaustively  he  believed  in 
Heaven's  helping  him  who  helps  himself  to  what 
he  wants,  as  witness  the  style  in  which  Red 
Deer's  Chester  Cup  was  engineered.  A  game 
like  that  wouldn't  be  stood  at  an  unrecognised 
flapping  meeting  in  these  enlightened  times. 
Certainly  there  is  more  call  for  a  Lord  George 
Bentinck  Stakes  than  one  named  after  Mr 
Gratwicke.  Was  Lord  George  properly  Sussex  ? 
I  am  not  so  sure  about  that,  though  one  way  or 
the  other  that  does  not  affect  the  classical 
connection  between  the  great  dictator  of  racing 
and  Goodwood.  Squire  Gratwicke  was  Sussex 
as  Sussex  can  be.  He  lived  at  Ham  Manor — 
whence,  I  presume,  the  Ham  Stakes — a  very 
pretty  place  at  Angmering,  just  off  the  road  from 
Worthing  to  Arundel,  and  only  a  bittock  from 
Patching  Pond,  the  name  of  a  village  not  far 
from  which  used  to  be  a  decoy.  Patching  Pond 
lies  about  half-way  between  Angmering  and  the 
most  charming  training  quarters,  formerly  William 
Goater's,  at  Michel  Grove,  later  Halsey's  for  Mr 
J.  A.  Miller,  and  later  still  Captain  Davies's. 

The  little  inn  at  Patching  Pond,  on  the 
shores  of  the  lakelet,  is  a  sort  of  half-way  house 
between    Worthing    and    Arundel,    though    you 


PATCHING  AND  SELSEY  29 

have  done  the  bigger  half  before  you  get  to  it. 
At  Angmering,  the  Ram,  a  much  larger  and 
more  pretentious  establishment,  came  in,  I 
believe,  for  coaching  purposes.  Of  both,  as 
of  Squire  Gratwicke's  park,  I  have  pleasant 
memories,  dating  back  I  must  not  say  how  many 
years,  and  in  the  beginning  built  on  an  unprofit- 
able system  of  economy  and  thrift.  Once  upon 
a  time  I  lodged,  not  my  banking  account,  but 
personally,  with  an  old  stifT-backed  wheelwright 
devoted  to  fishing  after  his  kind.  Nothing 
pleased  this  honest  man  more  than  to  be  angling 
in  his  way,  as  I  said  before,  and  I  invented  a 
scheme  to  gratify  the  good  chap.  We — he  was 
in  it  so  far  as  distribution  went — started  a 
money-box  as  follows  :  each  night  I  cleared  my 
pockets  of  all  coppers  and  banked  them.  Unless 
you  have  tried  this  dodge  for  founding  and  filling 
a  stocking  you  could  never  believe  how  the 
mony  mickles  bulk  into  a  quite  appreciable 
muckle.  As  soon  as  the  latter  had  sufficiently 
grown,  off  we — self  and  the  wheeler — would  be  to 
Patching  Pond  for  a  day's  fishing  from  a  rather 
leaky  old  boat  on  the  reed-bordered  waters,  and 
caught  perch  by  the  score — little  ones  mostly, 
that  were  put  back,  if  they  didn't  prick  our  hands 
too  much  with  their  spiky  spines.  We  divided 
the  labour  equally.  I  caught  the  fish,  partner 
was  in  the  outing  more  than  the  regular  fishing 
line.  He  was  told  off  to  bale  out  and  potir  out. 
The  last-mentioned  function  he  performed  with 
wonderful  ease,  precision,  and  perseverance. 
Happy  days,  or  big  bits  of  them,  I  have  spent 
on  that  old  pond  (I  call  it  old  in  a  companionable, 
affectionate  sense),  in  the  sweet  air,  with  no 
sound  except,  maybe,  a  swallow's  splashing  as  it 


30  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

dipped ;  the  swans'  talking  generally  of  some- 
thing unpleasant,  I  fancy,  because  they  seemed 
ever  on  the  grumble  ;  and  the  moor-hens  giving 
off  their  perky  little  remarks.  All  manner  of 
little  and  big  strangers  would  come  peeping  out 
of  the  reeds  and  bulrushes.  I  can't  call  to  mind 
any  bulrushes  fatter  than  these  used  to  come  in 
due  season.  Very,  very  fascinating  all  this  was, 
and  I  never  could  tire  of  it.  Neither  did  he,  the 
wheeler,  who  used  to  study  the  creatures'  ways, 
tricks,  and  manners,  and  take  in  the  beautiful 
little  mise-en-scene  to  such  an  extent  that  he 
invariably  on  warm  days  fell  asleep,  not  seldom 
dropping  the  corkscrew  overboard  in  the  process. 
I  wish  the  old  man  was  about  now,  and  I  with  him 
in  the  boat,  the  one  in  which  we  cramped  our 
limbs,  and  called  the  suffering  all  in  the  day's 
pleasure,  or  any  other  boat  so  long  as  I  could 
have  one  more  spell  of  perfect  restful  peace  in 
pure  air,  with  an  excuse  for  pretending  to  be 
occupied,  and  not  forgetting  the  corkscrew  section 
of  the  business. 

Here,  you  say,  where  on  earth  is  the  connec- 
tion between  Squire  Gratwicke  and  corkscrews  ? 
You  do,  do  you?  Look  here,  now,  and  I'll  tell 
you  how  the  links  come  along.  Patching  Pond, 
the  village,  is  only  a  step  from  the  squire's  old 
home.  It  happened  that  the  owner  of  Merry 
Monarch,  winner  of  the  Derby  in  1845,  ^^^  ^ 
real  good  sort.  (Half  West  Sussex  was  con- 
cerned as  claiming  in  a  massive  law  suit  when 
his  estate  was  to  be  administered.  This  I 
mention  not  as  proof  of  his  moral  worth,  but 
because  the  incident  occurred  to  my  memory  at 
the  moment  of  writing.)  At  different  periods  he 
had  set  up,  as  was  formerly  a  kindly  patriarchal 


PATCHING  AND  SELSEY  31 

fashion,  retiring  butlers  and  coachmen  in  the 
local  houses,  the  Ram  at  Angmering,  and  the 
Horse  and  Groom  aforesaid  at  Patching  Pond. 
I  fancy  Merry  Monarch  was  the  racehorse  which 
Herring  painted  in  ''The  Start  for  the  Derby." 
Moreover,  it  was  a  custom  with  local  worthies  of 
this  class  to  give  their  former  dependents  a  turn 
by  making  themselves  customers,  occasionally 
calling  with  friends  to  partake  of  light  refresh- 
ment. Naturally,  good  stuff — frequently  of  the 
patron's  own  selection  or  purchasing — was  kept 
in  stock  for  occasions  when  the  great  folk  looked 
in,  wine  far  above  the  character  of  the  inn's 
ordinary  trade.  Of  course  the  day  would  come, 
as  it  did  with  Mr  Gratwicke,  when  patron  and 
client  no  longer  were  concerned  in  the  drinking  or 
vending  of  good  wine.  (I  saw  Mr  Gratwicke's 
wine  sold,  as  also  the  Merry  Monarch  picture, 
so  well  known  to  most  interested  in  racing, 
though  many  are  not  aware  whose  year  it  com- 
memorated, nor  that  the  start  was  drawn  from 
behind,  not  in  front,  of  Sherwood's,  formerly  Sir 
Gilbert  Heathcote's,  cottage.) 

With  the  special  customers  dropping  out,  all 
call  for  the  good  port,  Madeira,  brown  sherry — 
dry  had  not  then  been  invented,  I  think — and 
sound  full-bodied  claret  ceased.  After  the  land- 
lord and  his  wife,  maybe,  had  followed  the  old 
master,  these  stores  lost  their  identity.  Scarcely 
any  wine  trade  attached  to  the  premises.  One 
tenant  after  another  would  in  succession  have  the 
stock  valued  to  him,  taking  it  over  as  ''changes" 
were  worked,  and  there  the  stuff  would  lie  in  the 
cellars  unless  somebody  happened  to  call  for  a 
bottle.  Then  wine  almost  unbuyable  from 
anyone  who  understood  its  value  would,   I  regret 


32  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

to  say,  be  wasted,  absolutely  thrown  away,  at  the 
standard  price,  three  and  sixpence  a  bottle. 
Alas !  I  found  some  of  Squire  Gratwicke's 
magnificent  port  being  put  on  the  table  at  a 
beanfeast  at  Angmering.  The  landlord,  a  cranky 
kind  of  fellow — one  of  those  who  call  themselves 
"  independent " — declined  to  deal  for  what  he  had 
left  of  the  good  old  comforts.  While  it  was  there 
it  would  save  his  having  to  buy  any  more.  What 
could  a  bit  of  a  judge  do  under  the  circumstances  ? 
I  know  what  I  did,  the  best  possible  in  face  of 
his  determination — or,  rather,  we  (wheeler  and 
self).  We  went  a-fishing  whenever  the  funds 
were  flush,  and  drank  all  we  could  for  fear  that 
someone  else  might  come  along  and  selfishly  mop 
up  our  own  private  particular  bins.  If  anyone 
had  known  of  the  precious  stores  earlier  it  would 
have  been  almost  worth  while  to  have  become  a 
landlord  pro  tem.,  so  as  to  get  hold  of  the  fine 
stock.  "We  are  not  asked  for  a  bottle  of  wine 
once  in  a  blue  moon,"  said  one  of  the  holders  of 
the  unknown  treasure.  He  was,  though,  when 
we  tumbled  on  to  the  tap  all  along  of  its  being 
the  wheeler's  birthday  and  his  insisting  on 
standing  a  glass  of  port,  a  sample  leading  to 
seriously  coveting  our  neighbour's  cellar  stock. 

Don't  you  go  starting  off  to  West  Sussex, 
good  readers,  under  the  idea  of  touching  a  vein 
of  stuff  as  we  did.  At  the  old-fashioned  inns 
that  were  you  will  nowadays  probably  strike  a 
wine  card,  with  all  the  items  supplied  from  one 
tied-house  squeezer's  cellars.  You  have  in  a 
general  way  as  much  chance  of  picking  up  the 
right  sort  held  through  accident  as  of  coming  by 
genuine  sporting  prints.  All  the  same,  you  can 
become    the    fortunate    possessor    of    as    many 


PATCHING  AND  SELSEY  33 

wrong   'uns    specially  planted  for  you  and  your 
^tarnp  as  would  fill  an  Atlantic  liner. 

Clearing,  pro  tern.,  for  once  from  Goodwood's 
immediate  vicinity,  I  did  a  bespeak  at  Selsey 
one  July.  A  subscriber  from  the  first,  a  lady 
subscriber  too,  and  an  invalid,  sent  the  Referee 
notice  that  she  would  take  it  as  kind  if  I  might 
be  told  off  to  do  a  walk  for  her,  as  she  was  unable 
to  take  one  at  first  hand,  alleging  that  rambling 
notes  did  her  good.  So,  by  way  of  providing  a 
tinge  of  novelty,  I  went  in  for  a  short  course  of 
Selsey,  which  (the  course),  the  way  I  took  it  (by 
tram),  carried  some  of  the  most  striking  features 
of  rough  sea  voyaging,  barring  stewards  and 
fixings.  During  a  journey  of  eight  miles  all  told 
betv/een  Chichester  and  Selsey  on  a  light  steam 
tram  line  you  had  the  lurchings  and  rollings,  the 
gradual  sideways,  sinkings,  and  sharp,  jerky 
recoverings,  the  temporary  poisings  on  nothing, 
which  frail  support  appears  to  melt  as  you  dip, 
and  the  general  sensation  that  the  part  of  you 
believed  by  the  Chinese  to  be  the  seat  of  the 
affection  was  capable  of  shifting  to  anywhere 
between  your  brain-pan  and  knee-caps.  Never 
was  anything  more  realistic  than  the  imitation  of 
mal  de  mer  exhibited  to  your  humble  servant, 
and  all  for  the  small  sum  of  a  bob  return,  and 
cheap  at  the  price. 

Selsey — a  flat  ledge,  a  little  above  high-water 
mark — is  now  on  my  list  of  places  to  be  done  at 
length  as  soon  as  occasion  offers.  When  will  that 
be,  I  wonder,  and  will  Selsey  be  on  view  when  I 
want  it  next,  also  the  at  present  lucky  folk  pitched 
there  in  houses  and  bungalows  of  sorts,  with  a 
cape  between  two  half-mbon  bays  and  a  charming 
view,  with  lobster  pots  in  the  foreground,  which- 

c 


34  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

ever  way  they  please  to  look  seawards  ?     There 
are,  as  objects  of  interest,  two  churches,  Established 
and  Primitive  Methodist,  a  liberal  supply  of  hotels 
and   fresh,    clean  inns,    a    beach  pebbled  almost 
exclusively     with     white    stones,    a    roomy    tin 
refreshment    room,    boasting    for    only   signs  of 
civilisation  and  occupancy  a  draught-board  lined 
out  on  a  table  with  a  knife,  and  played  on  with 
clinkers    for    the   black    men    and    the   aforesaid 
white  pebbles  to   represent    the  white  warriors  ; 
a  lakelet  tenanted   by   a   sunken   canoe,    and   a 
receding  foreshore   in   places  sought  to  be  pro- 
tected by  V-outlined  groynes  that  on  a  cursory 
glance  looked  more  likely  to  help  the  sea  in  its 
encroachments  than  stay  depredations.     A  lovely 
air  was  on,  and  a  little  lively  breeze,  making  the 
sea  popply,  ideal   water   for   swimming.     Along 
the  coast  ran  a  wisp  of  spray,  rising  from  the 
waves'  gentle  fall  between  breadths  of  bright  clear 
sunshine.      Overhead  was  a   sky   of  blue   deep 
enough    to    satisfy    a    captious    Australian    dis- 
contented    with     the     English    climate.       The 
dowdiest    old    tan    sails,     grateful    to    the   eye, 
showed    by  this  light  well-to-do  in  the  distance 
as  the  whitest  of  the  ''white  wings,"  convention- 
ally reckoned  a  proprietary  article  for  the  Solent. 
Selsey's  little  fleet  a-lying  at  anchor,  backed  by 
a  salvage  galley  ashore,  made  quite  an  imposing 
show  for  numbers,  not  tonnage,  and  the  railway 
carriage  bungalows  came  out  absolutely  smart, 
though,  of  course,  not  to  compare  with  the  best 
of  all  the   collection    of  low   houses   artistically 
thatched  in  style  to   make  you  cast  eyes  over 
the  water  to   where   Shanklin  would  be   in  the 
Island   according    to    your    reckoning    and    its 
thatched    cottages.       To    the    East    along    the 


PATCHING  AND  SELSEY  35 

littoral  stood  out  Bognor,  and  were  to  be 
identified  bits  of  Littlehampton,  also  Worthino- 
Point.  Farther  you  might  really  be  seeing 
Beachy  Head  when  you  said  and  thought  you 
did,  and  very  likely  your  range  didn't  carry  so 
far  by  a  long  way.  But  there  was  no  mistake 
about  you  being  able  to  follow  the  lines  of  the 
Downs  farther  in  that  direction  than  Chancton- 
bury  Ring ;  and  the  face  of  the  highlands  from 
Portsdown  through  Goodwood,  Halnaker,  and 
Highdown — where  you  know  the  Miller's  Tomb 
is,  if  you  can't  see  it — to  the  range  east  of  the 
Adur  makes  a  pretty  panorama.  Round  the 
point,  the  crook  of  the  Bill,  I  suppose,  by  the 
Marine  Hotel  you  command  a  run  to  the  barracks 
on  the  Hayling  side  of  Southsea  Common,  and 
there  is  the  Wight  with,  glaring  white  in  the 
sun,  the  great  chalk  cliff,  which  makes  you  say 
to  yourself  Eurydice,  and  not  want  to  think 
about  it  again. 

What  a  time  I  could  have  had,  to  be  sure, 
taking  rn  a  bit  of  bathing  and  boating  and  admir- 
ing the  wild  spinach  that,  with  the  yellow  horn 
sea-poppies,  sweet  little  convolvuluses,  dwarf 
nightshades,  and  other  persevering,  struggling 
colonists,  will  soon  clothe  the  barest  shingle 
beach  and  make  their  own  soil  to  grow  in  if 
they  once  effect  a  lodgment.  The  hard-working 
fishermen,  too — civil  chaps,  with  no  trace  of  the 
mouching  longshoremen  about  them,  wouldn't 
they  be  aids  to  real  holiday-making  ?  My  word  ! 
they  would  so,  and  I  have  not  cited  the  greatest 
charm  of  all  that  took  hold  when  that  I  was  and 
a  little  tiny  boy,  and  is  strong  as  ever  now,  though 
I  never  told  you  about  it,  good  readers.  Well, 
you  must  know  that  even  in  midsummer  Selsey's 


36  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

flat  coastline  Is  pretty  lonely,  and  if  I  have  a  mania, 
it  is  for  treasure-seeking  on  the  sea-shore. 
From  force  of  habits  displayed  by  writers  for 
the  young  and  upwards,  I  have  learned  to  expect 
palm  trees  chucked  in  and  a  coral  reef,  not  con- 
sidered as  an  extra,  laid  on  for  seeking  in  good 
form.  But  if  palms  and  corals  and  wrecks  are 
*'  off "  I  can  do  without  them  so  long  as  the  shore 
is  there  and  I  have  a  fair  chance  of  besting  the 
Lord  of  the  Manor  and  the  Crown  and  the  Lords 
of  the  Admiralty,  the  underwriters  or  original 
owners  of  precious  flotsam,  jetsam,  and  lagan  that 
comes  my  way  cast  up  by  the  sea  or  hidden  by, 
for  preference,  buccaneers,  homicidal  volunteer 
fleeters.  All  or  some  of  the  powers  named  might, 
you  know,  want  a  corner  if  you  discovered  treasure 
too  openly.  That  is  why  I  prefer  a  lonely  coast 
like  Selsey's.  But,  lonely  or  lively,  in  the  sense 
of  being  populous,  all  are  alike  to  me,  for  search 
I  must,  buoyed  up  by  faith  in  somebody's  ship- 
load, or  part  of  it,  coming  home  for  me  before  I 
give  up  treasure-seeking,  which,  I  give  you  my 
word,  is  (the  seeking)  a  thing  I  have  never  once 
missed  doing  on  any  sea-shore  I  have  trodden. 
As  it  was,  at  Selsey  I  nearly  missed  the  return 
tram  and  a  second  dose  of  land-on-sea  sickness 
through  straying  farther  along  the  beach  than 
time  really  allowed,  and  satisfying  myself  that 
what  looked  like  an  old  broken  boat-side — and 
was  such,  too^ — was  not  treasure  in  disguise,  and 
so  was  obliged  to  scamp  the  village  In  hurry  to 
get  to  the  tin  station. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    DOWNS    IN    WINTER 

Naturally,  when  I  wanted  to  expatiate  to 
strangers  on  the  uplands  and  downlands  com- 
manded by  Chanctonbury  Ring  where  it  towers 
above  Steyning,  we  found  a  fog.  Perhaps  not 
unreasonable  in  February  and  a  hard  frost  ;  but 
somehow  fog  has  almost  always  happened  to  me 
on  occasions  permitting  a  visit  to  that  living 
memorial,  a  landmark  with  which  everybody 
almost  who  has  been  in  Sussex  is  acquainted,  for 
which  we  and  the  countryside  have  to  thank  the 
Gorings  of  WIston.  The  frost  having  thrown 
me  out  of  work  after  a  fashion,  because  of  stop- 
ping many  sports,  by  way  of  making  overtime,  I 
paid  half-holiday,  part  business  visits  to  the  quadri- 
lateral— or  something  like  that  it  is — shaped 
range  of  downs  bounded  on  the  east  by  the  Adur 
River,  the  west  by  the  Worthing-to- London  stage- 
coach route,  and  the  north  by  Weald,  and  south- 
wards, trending  to  the  sea-shore,  are  West  Sussex 
lowlands,  some  salt-marsh,  some  of  higher  level, 
where  the  fig  tree  ripens  its  fruit  in  the  open, 
asparagus  brings  itself  on  early,  fruit  trees  gener- 
ally flourish  exceedingly,  the  best  of  sea-kale  and 
tomatoes  reward  gardeners,  and,  as  a  good  lady, 

37 


38  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

somewhat  enthusiastic  in  territorial  prejudice, 
favouring  her  ''  native  " — this  is  Sussex — declared, 
if  you  planted  a  broken-down  old  cap-shape  it 
would  come  up  a  best  bonnet  all  over  flowers. 
Had  my  feminine  authority  (deceased  before 
latter-day  palatial  creations  perhaps  too  ex- 
tensively and  outwardly  adorning  the  fair  sex) 
returned  in  these  days,  she  might  have  hedged  a 
trifle,  though,  from  what  I  knew  of  her,  I  fancy 
she  would  have  stuck  to  what  she  said.  Anyway, 
if  erring  a  little  on  extravagance's  side,  she  was 
not  far  wrong,  for  you  can  grow  anything  down 
Lancing,  Sompting,  Worthing,  Broadwater,  and 
Tarring  way. 

But  let  me  get  up  from  the  belt  between  the 
hills  and  the  shore  to  the  breezy  plateau  whither 
I  have  on  four  memorable  trips  guided  friends 
into  the  mists  seeking  views  and  finding  none. 
*' They  are  skating,"  said  good  Mrs  Cuddington, 
at  the  little  inn  facing  old  Shoreham  Bridge.  I 
always  pay  that  roadside  hostelry  a  visit  out  of 
respect  for  the  proprietor  and  better-half,  also  to 
show  friends  the  massive  wood  tables  a  former 
village  blacksmith  used  to  raise  to  the  ceiling — a 
low  one,  mind — with  his  brawny  arms.  Said 
arms'  muscles  must  have  been  strong  as  iron 
bands  if  he  performed  the  feat,  as  tradition  asserts, 
with  a  palm  under  each.  "  They  are  skating," 
said  Mrs  Cuddington,  and,  says  I,  to  brother 
visitor,  ''  the  way  we  strike  across  to  Findon  we 
shall  see  very  lonely  ponds,  and  I  will  bet  the 
boys  have  spoilt  the  ice."  That  I  knew  was  as 
sure  a  thing  as  an  explorer  finding  an  uninhabited 
island's  lakes  lined  on  the  bottom  with  old  coal 
scuttles,  no  matter  how  hot  the  climate,  and  our 
running  into  fog  as  soon  as  ever  we  won  to  the 


THE  DOWNS  IN  WINTER  39 

top  of  the  down  range.  The  pond  just  by  the 
Chanctonbury  Ring  is  one  of  the  most  out-of-the- 
way.  I  wanted  to  inspect  that  which  so  long  as 
local  memory  serves  has  always  helped  itself  to 
plenty  of  water,  taking  toll  from  clouds,  dews, 
and  rains.  That,  however,  we  w^ere  destined  to 
leave  unvisited  because  of  the  mists — but  another 
sheep-pond,  almost  as  remote  from  the  madding 
crowd's  beats  or  runs,  also  ignoble  strife,  was 
being  decorated,  a  shepherd's  boy  heaving  stones, 
lumps  of  chalk,  and  bits  of  turf  stubbed  out  by 
his  heels  on  to  the  surface,  just  thawing  for  the 
time.     Wonderful,  is  it  not  ? 

Holiday  we  were  making  and  holiday  we 
made,  because  we  were  there  on  purpose,  also 
the  best  of  what  we  could  see  between  Findon 
and  ever  so  much  farther  east.  How  far  east 
we  were  when  a  hawk  as  big-  as  an  eao^le  occurred 
I  won't  say,  because  if  I  did  so  much  as  hint  at 
the  locality  sportsmen  might  go  to  slaughter  the 
creature.  The  bird  may  have  been  a  real  eagle, 
his  size  was  so  great.  A  couple  of  rooks  who 
resented  his  company  as  an  intrusion  were  to  him 
or  her  in  like  proportion  as  the  little  birds  who 
heckle  a  sparrowhawk  are  to  that  small  highway- 
man, so  you  may  guess  what  a  great  fellow  our 
specimen  was.  Of  views  we  had  none — no  grand 
outlook  over  the  sea,  no  proper  comprehension  of 
the  high  hills  and  deep  dales,  no  pleasant  feel  in 
footing  it  on  the  turf,  which  was  frozen  iron-hard, 
nor  pick-me-up  touch  from  the  glorious,  strong 
air  in  which  the  hale  and  lung-sound  ought  to 
live  for  ever — a  tonic  the  weak  should  take  as  a 
sure  curative  worth  a  guinea  a  bottle  for  home 
consumption,  and  cheap  at  that. 

Good  old  Sol  did  his  best  to  beat  the  bitter 


40  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

wind  and  make  Nature's  face  cheery.  But  Mr 
Q.  S.  was  a  bad  second  to  spoil-all  mist  and  fog, 
which,  I  declare,  tasted  of  the  great  metropolis 
fifty  miles  away.  Lapwings,  fieldfares,  partridges, 
larks,  linnets,  yellow-hammers,  or  ammers — which 
is,  I  believe,  more  correct — went  about  in  a 
forlorn,  chilled-to-the-bone,  influenza  patient's 
despondent  manner.  Even  the  seagulls  seemed 
too  much  depressed  to  quarrel  with  each  other,  as 
is  their  wont,  and  the  aforementioned  pair  of 
rooks,  only  members  of  their  tribe  on  view, 
settled  down,  after  annoying  the  hawk  or  eagle 
off  the  premises,  as  if  the  domain  they  had  been 
protecting  was  no  good  to  them  when  it  was  left 
to  them  to  do  what  they  liked  with.  The  hares 
were  unapparent,  apparently  frozen  out,  and  the 
out-of-sight  conies  frozen  in.  Cissbury  Hill, 
with  its  vast  castrum,  fosse,  and  vallum,  loomed 
ghostly  in  his  gloomy  height,  and  the  training 
gallops  were  by  comparison  comforting  by  reason 
of  hoofprints,  reminders  of  life  and  go,  more  or 
less  recently  recorded,  even  if  work  up  to  date  on 
them  was  as  impracticable  or  inadvisable  as 
galloping  horses  round  Admiral  Nelson's  column 
in  Trafalgar  Square.  All  vegetation  was  frost- 
bound,  down  to  the  fuzzes,  with  never  a  yellow 
blossom  to  remind  you  of  kissing's  being  always 
in  season.  The  stunted  thorns  might  live,  but 
looked  very  dead  indeed,  and  past  hope  of  being 
once  more  sap  rising,  not  to  think  of  ever  again 
coming  white  with  blossom  with  spring's  fountains 
playing  again.  The  only  touch  of  warm  colour 
came  from  the  mosses'  golden-brown  flower  or 
seed  stems  ;  and  a  farm  labourer  in  amphibious 
get-up — seafaring  down  to  the  boots,  where 
agriculture  asserted  itself  through  weighty   old 


THE  DOWNS  IN  WINTER  41 

mud  and  muck-stained  high-lows — was  so  out  of 
sorts  and  despondent  as  to  lose  all  sense  of 
locality  and  direct  us  altogether  wrong. 

Not  much  of  a  holiday,  eh  ?  Well,  things 
might  have  been  better,  but  might  have  been 
worse.  Self  and  partner  might  have  lost  ourselves 
and  been  discovered  mere  remains  when  the  frost 
broke  up  or  the  fog  lifted.  One  of  us  might 
have  sprained  his  ankle  and  the  other  had  to 
carry  him  if  he  could,  and  neither  of  us  twain 
might  have  reached — as  at  length  we  did — 
William  Goater's  old  training  stable,  where  John 
Porter  was  a  long  while,  later  Fred  Barrett's,  and 
now  claiming  Mr  Bob  Gore  for  master.  That 
might  have  happened,  and  might — indeed  did — 
not,  for  we  fetched  these  hospitable  quarters  all 
right,  and  were  sent  on  our  way  rejoicing  in  the 
turn  of  luck  to  renew  acquaintance  with  Steyning's 
White  Horse  and  the  sausage-making  butcher 
opposite — none  better.  Later,  the  light  was 
good  but  the  going  awful.  We  had  to  blunder 
along,  slipping  and  slithering,  half-thawed,  frozen 
clayey  paths  and  byways,  and  so  under  the  hills 
through  Edburton  and  Carrington,  with  its 
sparkling  spring  rivulets,  to  the  Royal  Oak, 
Poynings,  where  is  purveyed  a  strong  ale — 
mighty  grateful,  comforting,  and  staying  on  a 
cold  day,  and  a  credit  to  the  local  brewer.  Then 
we  fared  by  way  of  Squire  Gurdon's  at  New- 
timber,  in  whose  family  history  is  the  story  of 
a  steward's  murder  over  by  Pyecombe  ;  Damny 
Park,  home  of  the  Campions,  of  whom  in  their 
connection  with  Norton  Folgate  and  the  West 
Indian  rum  and  slave  trade  Sir  Walter  Besant 
wrote  so  pleasantly ;  Clayton,  whose  tunnel  calls 
to    memory    a     direful     smash ;     and     pleasant 


42  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

Plumpton,  for  once  robbed  of  a  day's  racing — 
coursing  it  was  to  have  been  this  time — to 
Lewes,  and  not  a  bad  holiday  scored  after  all. 
We  had  been  on  ancient  bridle-paths  and  pack- 
horse  tracks  nearly  all  the  while,  and  in  almost 
as  old  forgotten  country  as  Mr  Far-from-the- 
Madding  -  Crowd  Hardy  might  find  in  his 
Wessex. 

With  a  view  to  further  excursions  round 
about  Chanctonbury  Ring  I  proceeded  to  pro- 
spect from  Steyning.  I  know  of  no  more 
representative  old-time  Sussex  town  than  this, 
with  its  many  quaint,  ancient  houses,  rag 
stone-slabbed  peaked  roofs,  half  timbers,  and 
quiet,  take-it-easy  air,  for  which  I  am  not  sure 
whether  the  inhabitants  or  their  dwellings  are 
the  more  responsible.  There  is  a  venerable 
church  in  Steyning  and  a  river,  not  gay,  but 
still  a  river,  the  River  Adur,  handy — two  very 
desirable  things  in  my  eyes.  Walled  gardens 
are,  so  to  speak,  buijt  into  the  town,  and  though 
what  is  called  improvement  comes,  and  expansion 
by  way  of  extra  rateable  eligible  property,  the 
expanding  is  mostly  done  outside  the  old  part,  so 
that  you  get  genuine  large-sized  instalments  of 
unadulterated  antique  all  in  a  piece  of  some  two 
hundred  yards  or  more  at  a  time,  instead  of  the 
native  being  all  mixed  up  with  modern  town- 
housy  samples. 

Now  take  some  downs  farther  east,  under  an 
equally  wintry  but  very  different  aspect.  Come 
out  of  the  London  and  low-lying  fog  which  is  so 
apt  to  spoil  Christmas  into  fresh  country  air, 
brisk  and  snappy  with  frost,  under  a  clear  sky, 
worth  a  pound  a  minute  no  matter  whether  you 
could   afford    the   luxury   or   not.     Finding    the 


THE  DOWNS  IN  WINTER  43 

right  brands,  I  made  for  the  pleasant  holding 
under  the  hills  at  Plumpton,  the  place,  or  rather 
at  whose  Place — the  Place  with  a  capital  P — 
carp  and  golden  pippins  first  occurred,  so  far  as 
England  is  concerned.  After  the  filthy  fogs  one 
was  indeed  well  off  to  strike  a  spell  of  any  sort 
of  decent  weather,  a  piece  of  luck  not  quite 
achieved,  for  Plumpton,  like  London,  had  its 
thick  mist — not  a  poisonous  one,  but  a  view 
obscurer  and  unpleasant  to  the  "pipes."  There 
was  I  on  an  afternoon  in  late  December  set  at 
liberty  in  the  betwixt  and  between  time,  just 
before  the  sun  went  down  and  the  moon  came  up, 
as  they  did,  dead-heating  vividly  in  the  process, 
at  the  end  of  a  little  trudge  from  the  race-ground 
to  the  top  of  the  high  ridges  where  lies  the  plain 
on  which  Simon  de  Montfort  and  Henry  III. 
fought.  I  was  very  nearly  monarch  of  all  I 
surveyed  from  the  crest  of  Plumpton  Borstal, 
drinking  in  draughts  of  frosty  air  by  the  chestful, 
and  bound  for  a  cruise  across  country  towards 
Brighton.  A  charming  undertaking  this  is  not 
for  anyone  at  all  nervous  or  a  trifle  indefinite  in 
geographical  information.  Chance  of  going 
wrong  in  the  dusk  that  was  creeping  on,  despite 
two  great  glares  east  and  west,  was  not  to  be 
put  quite  out  of  mind,  and  added  to  the  expedi- 
tion that  tinge  of  excitement  supposed  to  be 
desirable ;  though,  personally,  I  would  rather  be 
without  even  the  most  distant  prospect  of  lying- 
out  all  night  on  hilly  and  daley  uplands  with  not 
a  ten-thousand-to-one  outside  hope  of  coming 
across  a  soul ;  but  to  make  up  for  that,  very 
great  probability  of  wandering  over  a  chalk  pit 
or,  minor  evil,  coming  a  cropper  every  few  yards 
as  you  got  among  the  furzes  and  thorns,  or  on 


44  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

the  frozen  grass,  spongy  with  rime  where  the 
growth  was  thick  and  like  a  greased  slide  on  the 
open  patches. 

The  family  of  Mr  William  Burbidge,  who 
trains  just  outside  Chichester,  have  been  in  the 
training  interest  about  Sussex  for  many  years, 
as  also  up  Epsom  way.  I  recollect  Mr  Burbidge's 
father  at  Smitham  Bottom,  where  was  and  is 
the  mile  on  the  road  almost  as  celebrated  for 
foot-racing  as  any  of  our  latter-day  grounds. 
Captain  Machell  ran  on  this  mile,  and  all  manner 
of  peds.,  high  and  low  in  degree  ;  but  I  was  bear- 
ing the  Sussex  part  of  Mr  Burbidge,  sen.,  in  mind, 
not  the  Surrey.  What  I  was  going  to  say  was 
this.  His  son  was  at  Plumpton ;  some  seven 
miles — or,  perhaps,  eight — away  as  the  crow  flies 
is  Telscombe,  a  mile  from  the  sea  cliffs,  a  hidden 
hamlet  very  difficult  to  find  by  the  uninitiated, 
unless  you  accept  a  self-evident  tip  and  stick  to 
the  line  of  a  telephone  wire  originally  put  up  for 
Mr  Joe  Gubbins  when  he  contemplated  settling 
down  a  team  of  horses  there.  For  him  were  the 
stables  occupied  by  the  late  Edwin  Parr  (trainer 
of  Lord  Clifden)  greatly  enlarged  and  extensive 
alterations  made.  There  it  was  that  the  great 
scare  about  Lord  St  Vincent's  horse  arose. 
I  suppose  that  someone  really  did  try  to  nobble 
the  horse.  I  wonder  whether  he  was  by  New- 
minster  out  of  The  Slave  ?  The  pedigree  comes 
to  me  automatically,  but  he  won  his  Sellinger  in 
1863,  and  that  is  forty-one  years  ago — a  long 
while.  The  story  of  the  nobbling,  which  did  not 
come  off",  was  diabolical.  According  to  it,  some 
villain,  or  villains,  removed  a  patch  of  turf  in  the 
gallop,  scraped  out  the  earth  under  it,  and 
replaced    the    sods    over    sharp,   jagged    flints, 


THE  DOWNS  IN  WINTER  45 

hoping  that  Lord  Clifden  might  strike  on  the 
spot  and  get  a  foot  through.  A  mighty  pother 
there  was  about  this,  as  well  could  be,  but  not 
a  percentage  of  the  sensation  special  editions 
would  work  up  out  of  such  an  incident  nowadays. 
Why,  it  would  keep  them  in  headlines  for  a  week 
all  of  itself. 

In  1863  I  did  not  know  so  very  much  about 
going  and  so  forth  as  I  do  now.  Looking  back 
to  the  nobbling,  I  take  it  that  one  might  safely 
bet  on  there  being  a  wettish  period  when  it 
occurred,  or  that  trainers  and  owners  were 
content  with  going  their  successors  would  not 
look  at.  Mr  Gorham,  who  has  had  the 
Telscombe  gallops  in  hand  for  a  good  long 
while,  has  laid  out  a  lot  of  money  on  making 
them  better,  and,  I  may  say,  made  things  better 
for  the  people  all  round.  Like  a  good  sportsman, 
he  does  for  his  'chasers  what  would  make 
hunting's  life  last  a  deal  longer  than  it  will — 
viz.,  buys  all  the  fodder  from  the  farmers 
and  considers  the  neighbour  folk  in  every 
way.  It  would  have  been  a  bad  day  for 
Telscombe  if  the  military  scheme  took  effect 
and  in  its  process  knocked  out  facilities  for 
training,  thus  driving  the  horses  away.  We 
hear  a  lot  of  talk  about  manoeuvring  on  turf 
without  damage.  Those  who  talk  that  way  do 
not  know,  neither  can  they  conceive  what  the 
highroads  would  be  like  in  a  little  while  with  the 
heavy  steam  hauliers  at  work  grinding  up  the 
macadam  surface.  Not  allowing  for  such  wear 
and  tear  as  must  accompany  dragging  guns  and 
siege  trains  about,  it  is  a  well-known  fact  that 
though  liberal  treatment  in  care  can  do  a  deal 
for  these  downs,  you  cannot  make  them  the  sort 


46  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

of  going  in  summer  one  wants  for  swell  flat- 
racers  unless  you  are  favoured  with  plenty  of 
rain  or  a  succession  of  heavy  dews.  What  you 
can  do  on  the  downs  near  the  sea  if  you  turn  out 
with  your  horses  very  early — which  is  to  say, 
before  the  dew,  mostly  from  the  sea,  has  eva- 
porated— is  surprising.  All  the  same,  I  cannot 
see  an  experienced  trainer  taking  a  Derby  horse 
there. 

A  goodish  while  ago,  but  not  so  very  long — 
it  was  just  when  my  old  friend  Mr  Gubbins 
had  taken  possession,  with  Vasey  for  trainer, 
and  there  was  a  good  deal  of  unreadiness  about 
the  place — I  walked  over  there  from  Brighton  on 
a  day  after  the  corresponding  Plumpton  meeting 
to  this  just  held.  I  shall  never  forget  the  impres- 
sion the  menagerie  gave  me.  There  were  self 
and  a  'Varsity  steeplechase  winner,  his  brother, 
and  a  fourth.  We  arrived  at  two  in  the  after- 
noon, just  looked  round,  and  came  away  again 
in  about  an  hour.  All  we  saw  of  the  horses  was 
old  Spahi,  with  a  leg  about  the  same  size  as  his 
barrel,  some  more  'chasers  up  to  very  little,  and 
a  little  string  of  yearlings — to  be  two-year-olds 
in  a  few  days.  Now,  such  a  collection  does  not 
afford  much  scope  for  ''  brussling,"  does  it  ?  One 
of  the  young  'uns  was  brought  out  by  itself  on 
account  of  being  bad  mannered,  and,  in  hope  of 
its  becoming  more  tractable,  was  sent  over  to 
Telscombe  for  the  mail.  You  have  to  go  three 
miles  from  Telscombe  to  buy  a  glass  of  beer, 
you  know ;  and  Rodmell,  its  post  town,  is  about 
as  big  as  Bolt-court,  Fleet-street,  throwing  in 
the  little  pub.  of  the  village,  celebrated  in  a  former 
landlord's  time  for  home-made  hop-bitters,  its 
windmill,  the  stock-in-trade  of  a  dealer  in  appar- 


THE  DOWNS  IN  WINTER  47 

ently  busted-up  agricultural  machinery  qualifying 
for  scrap-iron  ;  also  the  church  on  the  edge  of 
the  marshes,  otherwise  brooks,  where  a  tired 
body  can  sit  in  the  summer  sun  and  absorb 
peace  from  the  surroundings,  while  the  children 
sing  in  the  schools  next  door,  the  cattle  low  on 
the  marshes,  and  the  local  birds,  with  proprietary 
interest  in  the  church  and  churchyard,  size  you  up 
— I  trust  returning  a  favourable  verdict. 

If  you  wanted  to  go  to  Telscombe  from 
Lewes  you  would  surely  be  instructed  to  make 
for  Rodmell,  **  where  anyone  will  tell  you  the 
way."  Perhaps  you  will  find  this  anyone, 
perhaps  you  w^on't,  unless  you  think  of  making 
an  inquiry  office  of  the  inn,  and  when  you  are 
told  your  way,  you  are  by  no  means  sure  to 
fetch  your  desired  destination.  Before  this,  I 
have  quoted  the  directions  for  discovering  the 
place  as  given  by  a  Lewes  trainer:  ''You  won't 
get  there  at  all  except  by  accident,  and  you  will 
know  the  place  by  putting  your  foot  into  a 
chimney  —  that  will  be  Telscombe."  I  was 
gossiping  about  a  visit  during  the  Gubbins 
regime.  Well,  we  saw  the  bad  -  mannered 
colt  dispatched  to  Rodmell  for  the  letter-bag, 
toddled  up  on  to  the  gallops  towards  the  sea 
— the  village  is  in  a  little  cup  in  the  hills — 
watched  the  yearlings  do  some  pottering  about, 
wished  the  trainer  a  Merry  Christmas,  and 
marched  off  in  good  order  on  the  way  back  to 
Brighton.  What  do  you  think  came  of  our 
friendly  call  ?  Somebody  wired  to  authority  to 
report  the  presence  of  four  more  well-known 
touts — Self  and  Co.  were  the  brussels  sprouters 
— and  the  stable-boy  who  carried  the  letters  on 
the  troublesome    young    'un    was    charged    with 


48  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

taking  news  from  us  for  a  big  bookmaker.  We 
had  only  gone  there  because  some  of  the 
company  refused  to  believe  in  my  yarn  about 
Mr  Burbidge  being  feasible — an  anecdote  I  set 
out  to  give  miles  back,  but  once  I  am  going  on 
the  downs  I  never  seem  able  to  get  off  them 
again.  (I  never  would,  if  I  had  my  choice  and 
a  handy  house  to  live  in.)  One  foggy  evening 
Mr  Burbidge  set  forth  from  Lewes  to  go  home  ; 
to  that  end  he  rode  all  night  long,  determined 
to  find  Telscombe ;  but  did  not  until  daylight  did 
appear.  This  is  true  of  the  old  gentleman,  who 
thought  he  knew  every  inch  of  the  land,  every 
cart-rut,  flint  on  the  turf,  and  blade  of  grass. 

His  own  version  was  that  he  might  have  been 
riding  round  Telscombe  till  kingdom  come  and 
not  spot  it  but  for  daylight ;  and  what  is  true  of 
that  locale  holds  pretty  much  for  the  whole  tract. 
Once  you  get  off  your  line  ever  so  little  in  the 
dark,  or  even  dusk,  and  goodness  only  knows 
where  you  may  not  stray  to.  As  I  was  a-saying, 
I  landed  at  four  in  the  afternoon  on  the  crown  of 
Plumpton  Borstal — next-door  neighbour  but  one 
to  the  highest  point  in  the  range,  Ditchling 
Beacon.  I  should  say  we  landed,  for  a  game 
little  toddler,  an  ex-steeplechaser  rider,  was  with 
me,  as  also  a  sort  of  unattached  companion,  an 
old  soldier  of  twelve  years'  service,  not  so  very 
much  more  than  twice  so  much  in  age,  and  no 
pension  at  all,  a  Lanky  Lad  from  'Owdham,  who 
had  served  in  India  and  South  Africa.  Down  in 
the  Weald  I  heard  my  gentleman  asking  his 
shortest  way  to  Brighton,  and  being  locally 
directed  to  *'  Go  up  to  the  top  of  that  road  on  to 
the  downs,  turn  to  the  right  till  you  get  to  the 
telegraph  wires,  and  follow  them  till  you  get  to 


THE  DOWNS  IN  WINTER  49 

the  town."  All  very  well  this  for  one  who  knows, 
but  likely  to  lead  to  trouble  for  the  stranger, 
since  as  soon  as  the  light  failed  he  might  range 
about  till  he  dropped  before  he  did  strike  the 
telegraph  or,  what  is  the  same  thing,  the  old 
coach  road  from  London  through  Ditchling  to 
Brighton.  So  I  suggested  that  it  would  be  safer 
to  come  with  me,  a  proposition  he  scorned  on  the 
ground  that  my  division  could  not  go  fast  enough 
to  keep  him  warm. 

All  the  same,  he  didn't  mean  getting  out  of 
touch  with  us,  and  a  good  thing  he  didn't.     As  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  did  not  know  what  Downs  were. 
They  might    be    the  Downs  of  Deal,  for  all  he 
knew ;  and  when  he  first  beheld  what  I  rank  as 
the    most    beautiful    country    of  my    experience 
(Tommy     Atkins     mentioned     the     Himalayas, 
which  were  not    admitted  for   comparison)  they 
came  as  an  appalling  revelation.     They  were  too 
much    for   him — the   silent    ranges   flecked   with 
white  patches  of  hoar  frost,  hills  upon  hills  slip- 
ping down  in  outline  from  the  sky  to  the  bottom 
of  the   valleys,    making   a  sort   of  herring-bone 
stitch    crossing    of  gently  slanting  ridge   across 
ridge,  all  almost  identical  in  ewe-necked  fall,  and 
gloomier   and    more   impressively  mysterious  as 
they  almost  faded  away  from  recognition  in  the 
distance.     Behind    was    the   moon    rising    over 
Black  Cap,  a  burnished  copper  disc  more  glowing 
than  many  a  setting  sun.     Facing  her  was  the 
sun  dying  out  in  an  orange  and  pink  glory,  the 
two   between  them  making  a   remarkable   effect 
with  a  shadow  cast  backwards  and  forwards  at 
one   and    at   the   same   time,    an    event    to   be 
remembered.     Never  did  my  favourite  haunting 
ground  strike  me  as  more  romantic  and  precious 

D 


50  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

a  bit  of  prehistoric  country  almost  untouched 
in  the  centuries  since  the  chalk  waves  were 
formed,  no  scientific  man  knows  how.  I  could 
have  wasted  quite  a  lot  of  time  taking  in  the 
strange  changing  aspects,  for  the  tints  went  out 
to  greyness  as  the  sun  dipped  into  the  sea,  and 
the  moon,  clearing  the  vapours,  gave  out  its  white 
light,  cruelly  cold,  the  colour  of  a  chalk-hill  blue's 
wing,  but  dwelling  was  not  advisable  if  you  didn't 
want  to  be  caught.  Moreover,  the  soldier  man 
gave  a  strongish  hint.  The  overpowering  soli- 
tude had  knocked  all  the  Tommy  self-sufficiency 
out  of  him.  ''Is  this  the  downs,  mister?"  he 
inquired  rather  anxiously.  "  Yes,"  says  I  ;  "  and 
the  man  down  in  Plumpton  told  you  to  turn  off 
here  and  keep  to  the  right."  "'Strewth,"  he 
says,  "  I  don't  turn  off  nowhere  nor  slip  you  till 
I'm  on  the  hard  road  again." 

He  was  a  man  of  his  word,  and  a  wise  one, 
too,  for  the  way  was  difficult,  and  not  made  more 
easy  by  our  finding  the  gates  of  Lord  Chichester's 
park  locked  when  we  came  to  that  last  link  in  a 
short  cut  and  were  obliged  to  climb  a  hill  like  a 
church  steeple,  all  ice  and  slippery,  so  that  your 
feet  went  away  from  you,  and  your  nose  rubbed 
itself  painfully  on  the  cold  grass  or  mole  hills' 
gritty  surface.  However,  by  hook  or  by  crook, 
we  made  shift  to  go  round  where  we  might  not 
get  through,  and  arrived  latish  at  Falmer  Station, 
whence  I  dispatched  the  warrior,  forepaid  and  the 
price  of  a  drop  of  beer  over,  with  suggestion  that 
if  ever  he  was  this  way  again  in  summer  he 
should  test  the  downs'  charms.  The  poor  man 
had  no  eye  for  the  picturesque — at  least,  not  if  I 
may  judge  from  his  reply,  "  Not  me,  never  again, 
winter  nor  summer  ;  not  if  there  was  an  electric 


THE  DOWNS  IN  WINTER  61 

light  every  ten  yards  and  a  licensed  house  every 
quarter  of  a  mile."  So  we  separated  on  a  point  of 
incompatibility  of  artistic  perception,  and  on  my 
way  back  to  Lewes  I  called  to  pay  my  respects  to 
Falmer  pond,  on  whose  ice  I  once  skated  all  day 
on  the  fifth  day  of  November.  That  was  the 
year  after  Inkerman,  and  there  was  only  one 
night's  frost.  I  do  hope  that  the  new  Lord 
Chichester  will  try  and  restore  the  old  regula- 
tions under  which  the  men  on  the  estate  were 
able  to  look  on  a  long  frost  as  a  blessing,  because 
they  were  given  possession  of  the  pond  to  sweep 
and  keep  in  order,  being  rewarded  by  a  liberal 
collection.  Besides,  the  Brighton  roughs  were 
kept  off  and  the  right  people  got  the  money. 


CHAPTER  V 

BRIGHTON    TO    NEWHAVEN 

On  a  fine  day  in  February  I  took  the  air  in  what 
I  consider  very  beautiful  country,  when  I  pro- 
ceeded to  Brighton  to  inspect  disappearing  Black 
Rock  and  the  racecourse.  The  long  part  of  the 
track — by  long  I  mean  the  portion  more  adjacent 
to  the  old  Cup  start — answered  the  conundrum, 
When  is  a  Brighton  Racecourse  not  a  Brighton 
Racecourse  ?  with  When  it's  a  Kemp  Town  golf 
links.  Poor  crumbling  Black  Rock  presented  a 
puzzle  also,  one  very  difficult  to  solve.  That  the 
line  of  cliffs  right  along  to  the  east  of  the  borough 
must  be  damaged  more  and  more  severely  as 
Brighton  groynes  its  sea  frontage,  was  always 
self-evident.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  no  one  can 
afford  to  be  idle  in  such  work  while  his  neighbour 
is  busy  making  groynes.  The  tide  is  bound  to 
curl  round  and  eat  in  next  door  to  begin  with, 
and  right  along,  too.  Now,  just  at  the  most 
insidiously  attacked  piece  of  the  cliff,  whose  being 
undermined  by  the  sea  was  a  mere  matter  of  time 
— and  not  much  of  that,  either — the  land's  end  or 
face  to  the  waters  and  wind  and  frost,  rain  and 
snow,  consists  of  a  big  pocket  of  naturally  crumb- 
ling,  half  decomposed,   loamy  chalk    known    as 


BRIGHTON  TO  NEWHAVEN  53 

combe  rock,  worth  a  lot  for  path-making,  because 
it  sets  so  well.  Beneath  this  is,  in  this  particular 
spot,  a  bed  of  chalk.  All  above  this  bed  has  to 
slide  into  the  water  and  be  wasted,  or  can  be 
raised  landwards,  and  so  become  a  gold-mine  in 
a  way.  What  puzzled  me  about  the  matter  was 
the  owners  practically  making  a  present  of  the 
stuff  to  the  sea.  Moving  it  landwards  cannot 
accelerate  the  elements'  destructive  work — a  sharp 
frost  and  a  shower  of  hard  rain  to  follow  can 
bring  the  valuable  material  down  by  the  hundreds 
of  tons. 

Farther  inland  was  the  great  puzzle  round 
about  which  I  was  writing  before.  How  is  it — 
how  the  devil  is  it  ? — that  so  magnificent  a  play- 
ground as  the  Downs  constitute  are  scarcely 
noticed  ?  Going  inland,  for,  say,  five  miles  from 
the  sprint  races'  start,  not  one  man,  woman,  boy, 
or  girl  did  I  meet,  overtake,  or  see  about  in  the 
offing.  What  were  Brighton's  two  hundred 
thousand  or  so  residents  and  temporary  visitors 
about  not  to  get  out  in  the  sweet  air  and  on  the 
turf?  Goodness  knows  we  all  hear  enough 
railing  at  the  dirty  weather  !  Per  contra,  can  we 
expect  a  Clerk  of  the  Department  to  turn  on 
bright  sun,  balmy,  comforting,  placid  warmth,  in 
a  Morland  blue  ground  and  a  Constable  white 
fleecy  clouded  sky  if  his  customers,  so  to  speak, 
make  no  use  of  the  treat?  Not  one  single 
solitary  soul  took  his  pleasure  out  of  the  supply 
where  I  was.  Spring  might  not  be  coming  in  or 
have  any  harbingers  at  all  so  far  as  they  were 
concerned.  There  were  we,  the  furze  chats  (''  fuzz 
chaps  "  shepherds  will  call  them  occasionally),  a 
few  stray  yellow-hammers,  or  ammers,  styled  in 
parts  squibbly  larks,  an  odd  jackdaw  or  so,  rooks 


54  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

mostly  lurking  about  in  very  small  bands,  and 
never  a  seagull  for  a  wonder — we  were  there  with 
the  place  all  to  ourselves.  Down  in  the  hollows 
of  the  valleys,  punch-bowls,  or  combes,  where  are 
here  and  there  *' deans  "  with  a  prefix  (as  Stang, 
Pang,  Oving,  and  Rottingdean),  were  now  and 
then  furze-wattled  folds  for  the  ewes,  whose  bells' 
tinkle  mounted  tunefully  from  the  hill  spurs  to  the 
ridges.  An  unusual  yet  welcome  sight  presented 
itself  here  and  there — viz.,  Scotch  cattle  helping 
dress  with  life  some  of  the  ranges'  sides  and  not 
before  they  were  wanted,  to  get  the  long  self-saved 
grass  off,  and  make  a  chance  for  the  coming  young 
growth. 

That  grey,  pearly,  only  slightly  opaque,  mist 
seldom  absent  from  the  chalk  country  magnified 
distance  and  proportions  magically,  bringing  about 
romantic,  almost  grand,  effects,  so  that  if  you 
knew  no  better  you  might  fancy  yourself  in  a  land 
of  mighty  mountains  instead  of  mere  downs. 
Between  the  crests,  peeps  at  the  sea  relieved  the 
(alleged)  sameness  of  slope  piled  on  slope.  Here 
and  there  the  beach  and  fur  spinnies  bulked  far 
more  important  to  the  eye  than  their  real  size 
warranted.  Stanmer  Park  shaped  a  great  forest, 
and  the  Dyke  a  big  settlement  miles  and  miles 
away.  From  Lewes  Race  Stand  over  the  way 
the  land  climbed  and  climbed  till  DItchling  Borstal 
was  almost  in  the  clouds  with  Mount  Harry's 
comparatively  mild  eminence,  a  peak  or  pike 
carrying  quite  minor  distinction.  Across  the 
Ouse's  estuary,  the  sears  on  Seaford's  golf  hill 
almost  blazed  as  the  bright  white  light  caught  it. 
Newhaven  harbour's  masts  and  funnels,  not 
forgetting  its  giant  spidery  shear  legs,  was  to  all 
appearance  nearer  twenty  than  half  a  dozen  miles 


BRIGHTON  TO  NEWHAVEN  55 

away,  with  lakes  and  lakes  of  flood-water  flanking 
the  bank-full  river,  now,  for  the  most  part,  of  one 
tide  only — a  perpetual  ebb  dominated  by  the  force 
of  land  water.  Greater  than  ever  I  saw  it  before 
appeared  the  gulf  across  the  brooklands,  over- 
looked by  the  tall  sentinels,  Mount  Caburn  and 
Firle  Beacon.  Splashes  of  red  on  the  lowlands 
told  you  of  the  buckthorn's  twigs,  a  rosy-apple 
lake  colour ;  minor  tones  of  woolly  eflect  in  grey 
and  brown  spoke  of  tall  trees  risking  frost's  attacks 
after  the  fashion  of  an  imprudent  mortal  tempting 
Providence  by  shedding  his  overcoat  on  the  faith 
of  a  midday  winter  sun.  You  knew  that  away 
on  the  "  brooks' "  borders  the  lords  and  ladies 
were  peeping  lettuce  tree  green  to  the  general's 
olive  leaf  tone ;  the  guelder  roses'  flat-headed 
bunches  of  blooms,  in  evidence  for  weeks  and 
weeks,  were  ready  for  an  early  call ;  the  primroses, 
starting  in  the  warmer  bands  between  the  downs' 
feet  and  the  rim  of  the  weald  and  the  birds  house- 
hunting for  eligible  building  sites  ;  you  needed  no 
prompting  to  note  the  blazing  lichen  gilding  slate 
roofs,  tile  roofs,  flint  walls,  all  wrought  wood  that 
faced  southwards,  and  live  woods,  too,  even 
setting  up  instant  contrast  with  the  gamboge  of 
the  hawthorns — a  tone  the  May's  own  monopoly 
in  vegetable  nature  or  art. 

Lots  and  lots  of  ''  details  "  good  to  forgather 
with  were  on  view  or  to  be  had  on  the  ask-for-it- 
and-see-you-get-it  system,  and  nobody,  not  a  soul 
except  me,  the  birds,  and  bunnies,  who  kept 
mortal  close,  there  to  draw  on  them  for  satisfac- 
tion. Ought  not  somebody  in  the  Parliament 
House  to  make  laws  so  that  such  waste  might  be 
prevented,  even  if  the  force  had  to  be  called  out 
to  collar  His  Majesty's  lieges  by  the  scruff  of  the 


56  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

neck  and  compel  them  to  take  the  goods  the  gods 
provide  them  with  no  black  -  care  -  to  -  follow 
company  ?  Mind,  I  write  as  I  do  from  a  sense  of 
duty,  but  I  should  not  be  a  little  bit  pleased  if 
they  came  by  twos  and  threes,  as  in  the  pathetic 
ballad  of  the  ''  Love  on  Saunders  Hall,"  not  to 
speak  of  '*  swarms."  The  available  population's 
indifference  and  laziness  zs  lamentable.  At  the 
same  time,  I  remember  my  painter  friend,  who 
lectured  rustics  on  the  parsley  fern's  charms, 
"instead  of  which"  the  yokels  tore  every  scrap 
out  of  the  walls  where  it  grew,  boiled  the  take 
like  cabbage,  and  cast  at  their  self-elected  educator 
hard  names  and  hard  stones  as  well.  All  the 
while  I  recommend  others  to  do  themselves  a 
power  of  good  free  of  cost  I  know  that  the  whole 
game  can  easily  be  spoilt.  Still,  I  thought  I 
would  put  in  a  word  in  season  while  I  had  a 
chance. 

Newhaven,  Brighton's  unfashionable  neigh- 
bour, is  a  rare  nice  little  place  taken  right,  and 
would  be  ever  so  much  better  if  Brighton  was  not 
allowed  to  poison  the  coast  to  its  (Brighton's) 
eastward.  A  capital  (capital  if  you  make  allow- 
ances) tidal  river  flows  by  it,  helping  at  its  mouth 
make  the  harbour,  about  which  is  the  perpetual 
going  and  coming  of  ships,  the  passing  of  small 
boats,  the  snorting  and  puffing  of  steam  tugs,  the 
cheery  sounds  of  sailors  at  work,  or  lumpers 
loading  and  unloading,  the  life  of  the  moving  tide, 
and  the  sparkle  of  the  sea  outside,  all  so  fascina- 
ting to  some  of  us,  yours  truly  in  particular. 
Newhaven  has  not  anything  like  justice  rendered 
it  as  a  seaside  resort.  A  fine  centre  this  is  for  a 
fortnight's  ranging  about  the  downs,  on  the  river, 
sea-fishing,  and  bathing,  and  do  not  let  me  forget 


BRIGHTON  TO  NEWHAVEN  57 

to  give  its  Bridge  Inn  a  good  word  ;  first,  because 
I  have  been  done  there  well  and  economically 
(kindly  understand  I  am  not  now  discovering 
Newhaven),  but  also  for  the  sake  of  the  late  land- 
lord, Mr  Wright,  well  known  to  many  racing  men 
as  a  zealous  and  able  racecourse  official,  and  at 
home  a  good  citizen,  sportsman,  volunteer,  and 
jovial  assister  in  all  sorts  of  entertainments.  The 
Bridge  is  not  a  Metropole,  thank  goodness,  but  a 
comfortable,  cosy,  roadside  inn,  where  you  can 
get  a  bit  of  lunch  on  moderate  terms  (Tipper 
always  in  stock),  and  see  the  pictorial  representa- 
tion of  Louis  Philippe's  landing,  all  free,  gratis, 
and  for  nothing. 

I  have  mentioned  Tipper.  Are  you  acquainted 
with  that  excellent  beverage,  a  local  speciality  in 
ale,  local  speciality  possessed  of  almost  world- 
wide reputation.  Tradition  said  that  Tipper  ale 
was  brewed  from  salt  water.  History  records 
that,  during  the  times  of  George  IV.  and 
William  IV.,  there  was  a  great  consumption  of 
this  popular  Tipper,  which  commanded  consider- 
able sale  in  far  away  London.  The  last  of  the 
Georges  to  *'  descend  "  was  very  fond  of  it,  and 
not  to  know  Tipper  ale  argues  oneself  unknown 
in  Sussex.  Thomas  Tipper,  its  author,  achieved 
posthumous  distinction  in  an  epitaph  recording 
among  his  virtues  and  accomplishments  his 
knowing  "  immortal  Hudibras  by  heart,"  and 
seems  to  have  been  a  jolly  good  sort.  He  might 
turn  in  his  grave,  the  narrow  cell  on  the  windy 
hill-side,  where  so  many  "records"  talk  to  you  of 
the  sea  and  East  Sussex's  roving  sons,  to  hear 
that,  in  his  very  own  town,  whose  celebrated 
Tipper  ale  is  manufactured  still,  and  sworn  by 
locally  at  least,  the  wayfarer  ''calling"  for  it  was 


58  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

made  game  of.  One  barmaid  wanted  the  *'  call" 
repeated  three  or  four  times,  and  then  naturally, 
being  uninformed  on  the  subject,  ''  put  it  down  to  " 
the  caller's  ignorance,  so  invited  other  barmaids  to 
snigger  at  the  poor  silly.  Still,  that  didn't  matter. 
The  cure  was  working,  the  sick  man  craved, 
thirstincr  for  ale.  Thouofh  he  didn't  Q^et  his 
Tipper  then  and  there,  not  till  the  river  was 
crossed  and  the  Bridge  Inn  reached,  hope  was 
then  turned  into  certainty.  For,  great  good  sign, 
he  relished  the  beer,  which  I  defy  anyone  who  has 
been  off  colour  to  do  at  the  first  time  of  tasting 
unless  he  is  much  on  the  mend.  Do  we  not  most 
loyally  recollect  how  his  most  gracious  Majesty 
our  King  did  make  the  nation's  heart  rejoice  when, 
as  the  Prince  of  Wales,  he  lay  at  Sandringham 
sick  unto  death,  as  had  been  feared,  and  with 
reason  ?  One  almost  smiles  to  remember  the 
vast  importance  attached  to  a  bulletin  announcing 
that  the  illustrious  patient  had  asked  for,  been 
given,  and  enjoyed,  a  glass  of  ale. 

Personally  I  always  look  on  a  sick  man's 
craving  for  ale  when  he  is  just  about  turning  the 
corner  as  a  most  promising  sign — if,  that  is,  the 
party  concerned  can  e7tyoy  it.  Now,  the  person 
who  asked  for  Tipper  and  got  laughed  at  was  a 
patient  of  mine — a  Refereader  whom  I  treated  for 
indigestion,  and  he  was  under  treatment  only  four 
days  before  he  convalesced  sufficiently  to  go  in 
for  beer,  ask  for  it,  see  he  got  it,  and  relish  it,  too. 
His  symptoms  indicated  liver  trouble,  accumula- 
tion of  internal  fat,  and  consequent  scantiness  of 
soup,  otherwise  breath.  (Singular,  is  it  not,  that 
the  slang  word  ''soup"  should  be  so  close  to  the 
French  ''soupir"?)  Early  rising,  digging,  and 
sculling  in  very  correct  form  made  the  foundation 


BRIGHTON  TO  NEWHAVEN  59 

of  my  course.  The  first  cures  a  lot  of  things, 
more  especially  in  the  autumn  ;  the  second  does 
your  garden  good  as  well  as  the  patient ;  t'other 
saves  labour  and  enables  one  to  let  off  steam  as  a 
coach.  Pull  your  dyspepsiamatic  out  of  bed  just 
as  the  air  is  warmed  enough  to  grow  crisp  with- 
out being  too  shrewdly  ''nipping"  and  "eager," 
and  make  him  dig  for  an  hour  with  a  spade,  being 
equipped  with  strong  and  moderately  tightly-laced 
stays  to  ensure  squeezing  the  subject's  vitals.  A 
fork  is  well  enough  in  its  v/ay,  but  does  not  as  a 
rule  move  so  much  earth  as  t'other  agricultural 
implement.  Cause  the  invalid  to  do  his  digging 
in  adapted  'Varsity  rowing  form,  with  shoulder- 
blades  flattened  back  straight  all  the  time,  the 
stoop  being  done  in  the  fashion  of  a  wooden  doll, 
and  no  more  roundness  of  shoulders  or  spine  than 
you  can  find  in  a  black — or  is  it  back  ? — board. 
Forcing  the  spade  in,  levering  it,  and  lifting  the 
mould  entails  much  pressure  on  the  tummy  and 
surprising  strain  about  the  small  of  the  back, 
making  fine  work  for  the  inward  machinery,  not 
to  mention  the  medicinally  curative  influence 
coming  by  means  of  the  freshly-turned  earth's 
cleanly  odour.  You  cure  your  customer  and  save 
paying  a  gardener  wage  through  this  exercise. 

Only  four  days  of  digging  with  a  spade  into 
the  earth  and  digging  with  sculls  into  the  water, 
and  being  laced  into  an  elegant  figure,  made  a 
new  man  of  my  experimented-on  person,  partly, 
as  I  believe,  because  of  compelling  him  to  stick 
to  most  elaborate  'Varsity  high  home  and  easy 
stomach-straining,  hip-tiring,  neck-wrenching, 
fixed-seat  form  or  posturing  while  performing  his 
labours  with  the  sculls.  Then  I  took  him  for  a 
cruise   on    the    Ouse   (be   particular   about   the 


60  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

spelling,  please — Ouse,  not  Booze).  After  scull- 
ing down  from  the  Bear  at  Lewes — good  old 
Bear ! — he  proved,  as  I  have  said,  genuine 
convalescence  by  going  in  for  Tipper  ale. 

Before  leaving  Newhaven  I  want  to  compli- 
ment Mr  Rudyard  Kipling  on  a  little  touch  of 
his  invariable  local  accuracy.  In  one  of  the  very, 
very  few  Sussex  poems  ever  written,  alluding  to 

"  Where  beside  the  broad-banked  Ouse 
Lie  down  our  Sussex  steers," 

he  rhymes  "Ouse"  with  *' Piddinghoe's."  Now 
I  should  like  to  know  how  many  of  his  readers 
are  aware  that  that  rhyme  is,  according  to 
Sussex  pronunciation,  not  lame  but  perfect? 
The  natives — and  they  ought  to  know — pronounce 
the  name  of  Newhaven's  little  neio^hbour  with  the 
dolphin  weathercock  as  if  it  were  spelt  ''  Pidding- 
hoo." 

The  skiff-pulling  frequenters  of  the  Ouse 
generally  make  my  blood  run  cold  when  I  watch 
their  antics.  If  there  is  one  thing  more  than 
another  that  upsets  me  it  is  seeing  anybody 
standing  up  in  small-floored  craft.  The  New- 
haven  Ouse  navigators — don't  forget^  please,  that 
this  is  accorded  the  dignity  of  a  salmon  river, 
and  is  subject  to  regulations  accordingly — bear 
charmed  lives.  They  go  out  in  old  Thames 
skiffs  and  stand  up  on  the  slightest  provocation. 
If  they  want  to  know  the  time,  they  ask  a — no,  I 
mean  they  stand  up.  So  they  do  to  blow  their 
precious  noses,  to  hoist  their  slacks,  or  call  out 
to  an  acquaintance  afloat  or  ashore.  To  change 
places,  up  they  get.  For  purposes  of  harrying 
peaceful  cattle  on  the  banks  or  startling  horses 


BRIGHTON  TO  NEWHAVEN  61 

turned  out  for  well-deserved  holiday,  stand  up 
they  must,  as  if  they  were  unable  to  yell  and 
make  other  horrible  noises  while  sitting  down. 
Nearing  a  landing-stage — and  nice  things  those 
are — they  rise  in  a  body.  Body  is  the  word  I 
am  always  thinking  of  for  these,  trying  their  level 
best  to  convert  themselves  into  demned,  damp, 
moist,  unpleasant  bodies.  I  never  can  make 
out  why  they  are  not  all  drowned,  or,  if  there 
was  one  sensible  person  aboard,  knocked  into  the 
bottom  of  the  skiff  by  means  of  the  paddle-boat- 
hook  applied  to  the  top  of  their  heads,  just  to 
show  them  the  error  of  their  ways. 

These  navigators  must  be  awfully  disappoint- 
ing people  to  the  local  coroner.  If  he  understands 
watermanship  at  all  he  must  feel  defrauded  of 
many  fees  quite  his  due,  for  they  do  play  with 
death  most  fearlessly  or  unthinkingly  on  the 
river.  River!  I  saw  some  of  them  the  other 
day  going  on  in  just  the  same  way  on  the  sea, 
till  they  landed,  and  then,  to  give  their  skiff  a 
fair  chance  of  reaching  old  age,  they  set  to 
jumping  over  her.  As  to  personal  regard  for  the 
ship  that  carries  you,  I  do  not  believe  they  know 
what  it  means  to  care  for  your  craft  pretty  much 
in  the  same  spirit  as  a  ''merciful  man"  cares  for 
his  horse,  making  it  a  friend  rather  than  a  mere 
conveyance  or  conveyer,  and  being  concerned  in 
its  welfare. 

It  was  on  the  road  from  Newhaven  to  Lewes, 
via  Telscombe  and  Swanborough  that  at  twilight 
of  a  dull  December  day  I  found  a  black  kitten — 
or,  rather,  it  found  me.  Here  we  are  in  co. 
still,  and  are  likely  to  be,  for  the  critter  shows  no 
intention  of  quitting,  and  as  it  is  a  good  bit  better 
than  me  on  a  very  public  trial,   I  am  not  foolish 


62  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

enough  to  go  against  the  book  and  take  It  on  a 
second  time.  We  met' — not  by  any  means  in  a 
crowd  far  from  it — quite  a  mile  on  the  Telscombe 
side  of  Newhaven,  no  one  in  sight  and  not  a 
house  for  ever  so  far.  Naturally  I  ventured  to 
stroke  the  tiny  mite  ;  perhaps,  naturally,  too,  she 
took  dislike  to  my  tyke,  the  mildest-mannered 
old  poodle  that  ever  got  himself  smothered  in 
dirt  directly  he  was  put  into  company  trim. 
Anyway,  before  you  could  say  the  initials  of 
''Jack  Robinson,"  his  lordship,  or  her  ladyship, 
was  on  the  back  of  my  neck,  and  there  it,  he,  or 
she  stopped  for  the  next  three  hours  or  so. 
Perhaps  it  is  a  French  cat,  and  said  to  itself, 
''  J'y  suis,  j'y  reste." 

Be  the  nationality  as  it  may,  the  motto  was 
acted  up  to  all  right,  and  stuck  to,  the  motto 
and  me,  the  kitten  doing  the  sticking  like  a 
Briton.  Not  an  inch  would  it  budge  to  oblige 
anybody,  and  I  couldn't  reach  round  to  shift  the 
plucky  little  beast,  so  must  march  ''with  a  black 
cat  on  my  shoulder"  right  through — or,  rather, 
round,  for  I  skirted  it  for  fear  of  being  chaffed — 
the  City  of  Telscombe  and  all  the  way  to  Lewes 
Railway  Station.  Thereabouts  we  got  on  better 
terms  through  community  of  taste.  After  two 
years'  trial  I  have  declared  on  Horlick's  malted 
milk  tablets,  and  many  a  time  get  all  the  stay  I 
want  between  breakfast  and  dinner  out  of  a  dozen 
or  so.  Not  knowing  how  long  the  morsel  of  a 
pussy  cat  playing  Old  Man  of  the  Sea  to  my 
Sindbad  the  Sailor  might  have  gone  without 
refreshments — it  gave  me  a  hint  by  chewing  my 
ears — I  tried  to  purchase  a  refresher  on  the  road, 
but  failed.  In  those  parts  small  roadside  land- 
lords are  apt   to  be  what  they  themselves  call 


BRIGHTON  TO  NEWHAVEN  63 

independent,  or  others  surly,  and  only  trouble  to 
open  for  you  in  Sunday's  closing  hours  during 
the  summer.  So  I  tried  Horlick  on  the  dog — 
which  was  a  one-pound  cat — and  she  ought  to 
write  the  firm  a  testimonial.  About  a  dozen 
tablets  do  me  well  for  a  lunch.  My  young  friend 
wolfed  eight — ^just  gave  'em  two  or  three  licks 
for  a  start  and  then  bolted  them  whole — in  as 
many  minutes,  and  asked  for  more.  But,  malted 
milk  or  no  malted  milk,  she  was  like  the  gentle- 
man rider  who  won  a  race  at  Plumpton  a  few 
years  ago,  and  only  smiled  superior  when  adjured 
to  get  off  to  be  weighed  in.  "  Not  till  they  call 
*  all  right,'  "  said  the  clever  amateur.  *'  You  don't 
get  me  disqualified  like  that."  As  close  as  a 
limpet  she  stuck  until  I  was  safe  in  my  stable. 
Right  along  she  selected  the  back  of  a  high  chair, 
and  has  bossed  the  show  ever  since. 

From  Lewes  to  another  training  centre,  which 
you  could  also  do  from  Newhaven,  is  only  a  step, 
or  at  least  not  much  more.  This  step  I  took 
many  a  time  and  oft  while  Gatland  had  the 
training  quarters  at  Alfriston,  on  the  Cuckmere 
River  bank — the  establishment  christened  Win- 
grove  House  by  Charley  Archer,  after  a  very 
well-known  and  popular  racing  gentleman,  and 
now  in  Batho's  hands.  The  pace  did  not  kill 
Gatland,  a  singularly  careful  man  in  all  his  habits. 
Poor,  plucky  chap  that  he  was,  he  died  of  a  painful, 
lingering  disease,  and  lies  in  Alfriston's  breezy 
churchyard,  only  "moved  from  over  the  way," 
with  the  stables  just  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Tye,  a  bit  of  common  land,  dividing  his  old 
house  from  the  church.  Finding  Gatland's 
almost  unmarked  grave,  I  called  to  mind  Lindsay 
Gordon's  sick  stock-rider,  and  did  so  the  more 


64  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

easily  because  of  something  in  the  Australian 
line  that  happened  to  me  at  Litlington,  about  a 
mile  off  across  the  Cuckmere  River  as  the  crow 
flies.     Gordon's  words  were  : — 

*'  Let  me  slumber  in  the  hollow,  where  the  wattle-blossoms 
wave, 
With  never  stone  or  rail  to  fence  my  bed. 
Should  the  sturdy  station  children  pull  the  bush-flowers  on 
my  grave, 
I  may  chance  to  hear  them  romping  overhead." 

Neither  stone  nor  rail  fences  Gatland's  bed  on 
the  grassy  knoll  under  the  grand  ancient  church's 
shade.  Just  a  green  coverlet  and  a  little  fence 
of  evergreens  does  duty — nothing  more  formal. 
He  may  not,  I  hope,  chance  to  hear  the  Alfriston 
children  romping  overhead.  /  hope  not,  for  I 
am  a  little  old-fashioned  in  such  regard,  but  as 
he  dozes  and  rests  he  may  hear  the  youngsters, 
as  they  play  on  the  Tye  next  door,  and  run  down 
to  the  river  bridge  through  the  narrow  passages, 
locally,  ''  twittens  "• — he  himself  was  the  first  to 
teach  me  the  meaning  of  that  Sussex  word — or 
might  catch  the  measured  tread  of  the  occupants 
of  the  stables  that  were  his  as  Batho's  string 
goes  out  making  for  the  rise  to  the  dov/ns  or, 
returning,  paces  through  the  narrow  street  to  the 
yard.  Besides,  all  the  details  of  training  stable 
home  routine  which  the  experienced  ear  can 
catalogue,  each  by  its  separate,  distinct,  incidental 
sounds  are  within  easy  range. 


CHAPTER  VI 

PLUMPTON    AND    ITS    COUNTRY 

Incredible  as  it  may  seem,   nevertheless   I  do 
assure  my  readers  one  and  all  that  very  many  of 
the  (now  old)  boys  who  went  to  school  at  East- 
bourne,   Littlehampton,    Worthing,     Bognor,    or 
Brighton,  before  that  spread  itself  so  much,  never 
for  a  moment  dreamt  that  anybody  could  put  his 
foot  or  any  other  part  of  him  on  the  Downs  and 
say,  ''This  bit  is  mine,  so  you  must  keep  off  it." 
Pretty  nearly  every  condition  favoured  the  belief 
that  they  were  public  property.     You  might  go 
bird-nesting  there  without    fear  of  interference, 
and  so  you  might  disport  yourself  butterfly-catch- 
ing to  your  heart's  content.     No  one  ever  checked 
you  in  that  sort  of  hunting  any  more  than  they 
did  those  who  pursued   their  game  with  packs, 
harriers,  or  fox-hounds.     What  is  more,  trainers 
— I  am  not  speaking  of  the  day  before  yesterday, 
you  know — were  given  the  run  of  gallops  they 
wished  to  use,   the  owners  and   farmers  of  the 
land  being  quite  pleased  to  have  the  gees  exercised 
where  they  could  see  them,  more  especially  since 
the  stables   made  a   market   for   hay  and   corn. 
Very  little  land  was  then  broken  up  on  these  hills. 
(Speaking  for  myself,  I  wish  a  plough  had  never 

65  g 


66         .  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

been  seen  on  them,  nor  a  turf  moved  to  get  the 
stones  away,  and,  I  may  add,  spoil  the  going.) 
Villages  here  and  there,  detached  farms  or  solitary 
barns  with  walled  yards  for  lambing,  also  sheep 
and  shepherds  and  shepherds'  dogs,  were  details 
about  which  most  people,  old  and  young,  did  not 
bother.  They  ''occurred,"  but  were  not  un- 
pleasant nor  worth  objecting  to.  Goodwood, 
Brighton,  and  Lewes's  race-stands  might  want 
some  explaining  away  to  keep  the  notion  of 
freedom  quite  entire ;  but  then,  also  after  a 
fashion,  they  were  evidences  of  the  tract  on  which 
their  racing  was  held  being  a  playground  open 
to  all. 

About  the  only  obstacle  you  ordinarily  found 
in  miles  of  walking  or  riding  would  be  a  sheep- 
fold,  and  that  would  not  interfere  with  you  much, 
because  such  were  pitched  in  sheltered  hollows, 
and  anyone  who  knows  how  to  get  about  downs 
is  aware  that  the  wise  man  never  thinks  of  going 
into  the  bottoms  if  he  can  possibly  make  his  way 
round  on  the  tops.     When  some  of  us  began  to 
give  the  ranges  a   tone  by  our  presence,   their 
green  spurs  abutting  on  the  towns  were  not  of 
much  value.      One  need  not    have   lived    many 
years  to  recollect  when  they  began  at  the  bottom 
of  Elm  Grove  in  Brighton  and  the  Queen's  Park 
Cricket   Ground  was   an  encroachment  on  their 
area.     Thence  the  turf  was  unbroken  from  the 
town  to  Palmer  on  the  one  hand,  and  to  Rotting- 
dean  and  Newhaven  on  the  other,  and  when  rifle- 
ranges   were  proposed   to   be,  and  subsequently 
were,  set  up   in  the  valley  under   White  Hawk 
Hill,  where  the  races  are  held,  not  a  few  locals 
were  unpatriotic  enough  to  grudge  them  to  the 
volunteers  just   enrolled.     Objection   was    based 


PLUMPTON  AND  ITS  COUNTRY  67 

on  the  shooting's  interfering  with   the  assumed 
rights  the  public  had  to  the  downs. 

As  I  said,  the  idea  that  these  belonged  to 
individuals,  were  theirs  to  give  or  sell  or  take 
away  by  enclosing,  or  make  impracticable  for 
pleasure  purposes  by  converting  pasture  into 
arable,  would  have  been  scouted  as  quite  absurd  ; 
though  occasionally  one  did  hear  of  the  Marquis 
of  Bristol  or  the  Marquis  of  Abergavenny  or 
Lord  Chichester  at  Stanmer,  Admiral  Shiffner  of 
Offham,  Lord  Gage  at  Firle,  the  Gorings  of 
Wiston,  the  Campions  of  Danny,  the  Beards  of 
Rottingdean,  Lord  Leconfield  and  the  Duke  of 
Richmond  out  in  West  Sussex,  and  the  like. 
The  farthest  one  got  then  was  to  conclude  that 
'*  perhaps  they  had  something  to  do  with  it,"  in  a 
vague  sort  of  way — maybe  as  Lords  of  the  Manor, 
or  possibly  as  trustees  for  us  who  played  about 
on  them  a-foot  or  a-horse. 

I  cannot  bear  to  picture  to  myself  what  the 
hills  might  be  like  between  Brighton  and,  say, 
Plumpton,  if  they  were  all  brought  into  use  as  is 
the  land  in  the  farmer's  near  neighbourhood.  As 
it  is,  after  all  the  cutting  and  carving  about  of 
the  fine  old  pastures,  there  are  about  a  dozen 
nice  long  or  short  driving  and  walking  or  hackino- 
ways  of  getting  across  from  one  to  another  if  you 
count  in  lifts  by  the  railway  which  are  available. 
The  wedge  of  land  which  lies  between  the 
Brighton  and  Lewes  roads  never  was  particularly 
interesting  quite  near  Brighton — at  least,  not  as 
down  land.  For  instance,  it  was  not  until  one 
got  along  on  the  Ditchling  road  to  a  square  copse 
where  the  track  from  Withdean  came  in,  that  one 
seemed  to  get  fairly  into  the  open.  Civilisation, 
as  represented  by  walls  and  houses,  even  if  the 


68  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

latter  were  few  and  far  between,  extended  that  far 
along  the  London  road  and  past  the  Preston 
military  barracks  on  the  Lewes  road  till  by  the 
latter  you  got  under  the  brow  of  the  old  Roman 
encampment  known  as  Hollingbury  Castle.  So, 
though  Brighton's  feelers  have  radiated  vastly  of 
late  and  the  area  between  them  been  covered 
with  houses,  the  rider,  driver,  or  walker  making 
from  the  sea  to  the  weald  between  Lewes  and 
Clayton  gets  about  as  soon  into  the  real  country 
now  as  he  did  nearly  fifty  years  ago.  Then 
Hanover  crescent  on  the  east  of  the  aforesaid 
wedge  overlooked  fields,  and  on  the  west  or 
London  road  side,  where  Brighton  ended  half  a 
mile  south  of  the  Viaduct,  was  a  very  extensive 
and  highly-flavoured  tract  of  allotment  ground 
devoted  chiefly  to  the  cultivation  of  pigs,  and 
named  California  out  of  compliment  to  that  re- 
mote district,  whose  recently-discovered  richness 
was  nothing  compared  to  that  of  Brighton's  Cali- 
fornia piggeries.  Then,  as  now,  if  you  started 
for  Plumpton  by  the  London  road  you  would 
not  turn  off  till  you  got  to  Patcham,  either  (early) 
to  go  up  on  the  Ladies'  Mile  to  join  the  Ditchling 
road  at  Stanmer  Park  gates,  by  the  side  of  which 
was  good  cantering  and  galloping,  or,  better  still 
(delayed),  branching  away  till  farther  on  near 
Patcham  Church,  near  to  which  an  old  bridle- 
path takes  you,  mainly  on  turf,  right  up  to  the 
north-west  extremity  of  the  Park  close  by  Ditch- 
ling  Borstal.  You  go  down  that,  if  you  please, 
or  along  the  face  of  the  downs,  and  so  by  West- 
meston  or  Plumpton  Borstal  to  the  cross  roads. 

Taking  train  from  Brighton  to  Hassock's 
Gate  and  walking  through  Ditchling  and  Street, 
is  pleasant  in  fine  weather.     (I   call    the  station 


PLUMPTON  AND  ITS  COUNTRY  69 

Hassock's  Gate,  and  I  mean  to.  What  business 
has  anyone  to  take  the  gate  off?  No  more,  I 
guess,  than  to  cut  away  Burgess's  hill  or 
Hay  ward's  heath,  or  Wivel's  field.)  I  believe  as 
nice  an  excursion  as  a  moderate  walker  can  want 
can  be  had,  starting  by  rail  to  Falmer,  then 
through  Lord  Chichester's  Park,  and  over  the 
downs  straight  across  to  Plumpton  Borstal.  A 
second,  also  by  way  of  Falmer  Station,  can  be 
mapped  out,  turning  to  the  left  past  the  Swan  in 
the  village ;  and  a  third,  perhaps  the  pleasantest 
of  all  while  it  lasts,  is  to  make  the  longer  little 
railway  journey  on  to  Lewes,  then  pass  the  race- 
stand  (there  are  three  distinct  picturesque  ways 
of  walking  between  the  White  Hart  and  the 
racecourse),  and  on  over  by  Black  Cap  and  down 
through  a  long  copse  which  brings  you  not  far 
from  Plumpton  Crossways,  on  the  very  ancient 
road  between  Lewes  and  Bramber  castles.  By- 
the-by,  if,  starting  from  Lewes,  you  stick  to  the 
metal  and  keep  under  the  hills  by  Offham,  after- 
wards leaving  Cooksbridge  on  your  right,  you 
have  rare  going  along  one  of  the  best  roads  in 
England,  and  pretty  scenery  on  each  hand  all  the 
way.  I  have  not  come  to  the  end  of  my  list  yet, 
but,  as  I  have  a  good  deal  more  to  say,  let  the 
remainder  of  the  routes  stand  over,  merely 
remarking  that,  thanks  to  fossicking  about  in  the 
style  indicated,  I  can  always  if  I  so  desire  do 
Plumpton  pretty  fully  without  going  near  the 
place.     What  do  you  think  ? 

I  never  go  near  Plumpton  without  wishing 
that  someone  would  put  up  a  nice  hotel  there, 
and  bring  enough  customers  to  make  the  spec, 
answer.  A  rare  site  this  for  a  convalescents' 
resort,  to  which  sound  folk  might  come  at  will. 


70  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

You  cannot  find  a  better  for  poor  bodies  with 
inclination  to  weakness  in  the  lungs.  I  wouldn't 
swop  Plumpton  for  Ventnor  if  the  patients 
concerned  were  only  a  little  bit  inclined  to  be 
weak,  you  know.  But,  then,  as  readers  may 
perhaps  be  aware,  I  am  very  partial  to  the  South 
Downs  and  the  Sussex  Weald  country  that  lies 
near  the  northern  feet  of  the  great  chalk  ranges. 
None  of  the  seasons  would  come  amiss  to  me 
down  that  way,  but  for  choice  give  me  spring. 
When  the  days  are  drawing  out  strongly  and  the 
sun  is  asserting  its  power ;  the  early  butterflies 
need  not  fear  getting  nipped ;  the  hedges  are 
growing  blind  fast,  and  most  of  the  big  trees' 
leaves  following  their  blooms  out ;  when  those 
who  know  where  to  seek  for  them  may  find  small 
birds'  eggs,  and  not  only  the  voice  of  the  turtle  is 
heard  in  the  land  (when  is  it  not  ?),  but  the 
cuckoo  has  a  word  to  say,  and  in  quite  different 
fashion  from  his  June,  July,  and  August  speech  ; 
then  is  the  time  for  the  lover  of  the  country  to 
take  liberal  doses  of  Plumpton.  **  Lord  help 
'em!  How  I  pities  those  unhappy  folk"  who 
just  run  down  to  the  meetings  and  bundle  off  at 
the  earliest  opportunity — that  is  to  say,  by  the 
special  train  service  which  the  South  Coast 
Railway  Company  have  made  very  good  lately. 
I  trust  that  while  they  are  on  the  spot  they  do 
appreciate  the  solemn  old  grey-green  downs  that 
overlook  the  racecourse's  slope,  itself  a  strong 
rise,  but  paltrily  insignificant  by  comparison 
with  their  towering  steeps,  the  highest  getting  on 
for  900  feet  above  sea  level.  Also,  we  will  hope 
that  the  outlook  among  the  oak-timbered  country- 
side may,  perchance,  be  grateful  and  comforting 
during  the  restless  division's  brief  visits. 


PLUMPTON  AND  ITS  COUNTRY  71 

Let  me  tell  you,  my  brothers  who  like 
Plumpton's  pickles,  you  have  no  conception  of 
what  relishing  sauce  is  to  be  had  free,  gratis,  and 
for  nothing  right  on  the  premises,  or  next  door  to 
them.  Only  half  a  mile  from  the  cottage  garden 
at  the  corner  of  the  course,  into  which,  as  I 
wrote  a  few  weeks  ago,  poor  Sensier  jumped  and 
upset  a  hive  or  two  of  bees,  is  a  marvellous  bit  of 
romantic  river  country  in  miniature.  Our  up-to- 
date  photographers  could  take  bits  of  this  and 
develop  'em  in  such  style  that  you  would  believe 
you  were  looking  on  a  mighty  river  hemmed  in 
by  gigantic  rocks  and  rushing  over  stupendous 
falls.  That  is  the  way  they  bring  out  authors' 
houses  in  celebrities  at  home,  lending  to  a  mere 
dustbin  an  importance  which  almost  makes  you 
cease  to  wonder  how  the  great  Mr  Backscratcher 
can  get  a  study  as  big  as  the  Royal  Exchange 
into  a  forty-pound-a-year  villarette.  The  thing 
is  done,  you  know,  because  you  see  it  in  print  as 
per  photograph  ;  and  we  all  know  that  one  must 
believe  all  said  in  newspapers,  also  that  the 
(photographic)  instrument  cannot  lie.  For 
myself,  I  do  not  want  any  enlargements  of 
Plumpton's  purling  brook,  which  even  a  Mr 
Cheviot  Hill  might  pronounce  beautiful  without 
an  artful,  artless  Scotch  lassie  to  give  him  a  lead. 

The  soft-voiced  chatterer's  flow  is  good 
enough  for  me  as  it  is,  with  its  steep  walls  and 
pools  worn  out  of  the  red  sandstone,  its  ferns  and 
flowers,  overhanging  bushes,  and  trees  that  quite 
hide  the  best  part  of  its  beauties  from  strangers. 
You  miorht  drive  down  the  lane  a  score  times  in 
summer,  with  the  water  not  half  a  dozen  yards 
away,  and  not  know  that  the  brook  was  busily 
going  on,  unless  you  had  to  look  for  it.     And  the 


72  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

flowers !  Where  is  there  such  choice  ?  You 
have,  in  different  parts  of  the  place,  clay  soil  and 
sandy  soil,  and  on  the  higher  ground  chalk,  and 
the  vegetation  appertaining  to  each,  as  also 
results  In  growth  and  colour  tone  consequent  on 
blending  the  various  plant  foods.  I  declare  that 
you  get  almost  as  many  different  kinds  of 
flowering  nettles  here  as  you  do  varieties  of  other 
blooms  of  all  sorts  in  less  favoured  localities. 
Primroses — despite  the  traffic  in  these  for  market, 
especially  on  Disraeli  day — you  may  stand  in  one 
place  and  pick  a  basketful.  Bluebells — the  banks 
will  be  blue  with  them.  Wild  anemones — they 
make  a  pinky- white  carpet,  thick  as  Millais's 
fallen  apple  blossoms.  Cowslips  —  If  the 
Lincolnshire  people  came  this  way  they  would 
start  a  cowslip  wine  brewery  as  big  as  Bass's 
show,  or  getting  on  towards  that  in  importance. 
Wild  geraniums  and  orchids,  dog  violets,  cuckoo 
flowers,  lords  and  ladles  In  full  orange-berry  glory, 
and  all  the  many  blooming  weeds  with  which  we 
are  so  familiar,  except  In  giving  them  a  name — 
there  they  are  so  that  you  can  mow  them  with  a 
scythe. 

Healthy  ?  I  believe  you.  I  said  it  was  just 
now,  but  will  not  write  too  much  for  fear  that 
Mr  Hodgkinson  may  do  away  with  the  racing 
in  order  to  cover  his  acres  with  a  gigantic  sana- 
torium, and  so  over-populate  the  land  that  there 
will  not  be  flowers  enough  to  "go  round."  Just 
one  word  more,  though,  as  to  health.  Come 
with  me  and  be  introduced  to  an  old  friend,  quite 
a  young  chap  In  his  way,  who  shall  be  a  sample 
ofa  dweller  in  these  parts.  How  old  .-^  Eighty 
last  Christmas,  and  as  sound  as  a  bell.  (You 
may  prefer  a  bell  of  brass — why  bell  of  brass,  or, 


PLUMPTON  AND  ITS  COUNTRY  73 

for  that  matter,  bell,  I  never  could  make  out,  but 
as  ''a  bell  of  brass  "  is  the  standard,  we  will  bring 
that  in.)  A  rosy  apple-faced  little  man  he  is, 
with  a  delightful  frock  all  over  quiltings  and 
smockings,  and  a  pair  of  nimble  little  legs  in 
leather  gaiters,  warranted  by  wear  to  stand  any 
weather.  You  see  that  hill  in  front  of  you,  a 
furlong  and  more  high  from  foot  to  crest,  with 
a  road  cutting  up  its  face,  quartering  it  in  a 
way?  Good!  Now  you  may  not  see,  but  will 
believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  Ditchling  Common 
lies  some  miles  away  from  where  we  are,  and  is 
a  great,  roomy,  open  expanse.  Well,  the  last 
time  that  I  called  on  my  young-old  friend  he 
was  not  at  home,  because  he  had  gone  off  on 
foot  to  find  and  bring  back  single-handed  some 
runaway  cattle  reported  to  have  located  them- 
selves up  there.  Not  bad  for  eighty,  is  it  ?  And 
as  to  the  Borstal — that  is  what  Sussexers  call  the 
hill  and  its  descending  road  (you  see  a  Borstal 
stake  in  the  Plumpton  programme) — I  would 
back  mine  ancient  to  make  straight  up  the  grass 
while  most  of  us  toiled  by  the  road,  and,  when  we 
were  puffing  and  blowing,  after  winning  to  the 
top,  find  wind  enough  to  tell  us  all  about  Plump- 
ton  Place,  a  fine  manor  house  once,  and  its  moat, 
and  the  reedy  pond,  and  what  the  fox  does  if 
found  in  this  part  or  that,  and  the  company  he 
has  seen  at  Plumpton  Crossways,  meets  of  the 
hounds,  and  a  lot  more. 

A  very  swell  manor  house  this  was  once  upon 
a  time,  as  you  would  scarcely  believe  on  looking 
at  it  now.  I  wonder  the  owner  has  let  it  go  so 
wrong.  The  moat  used  to  be  noted  for  its  bright, 
clear  water,  which  shows  that  the  Mascall,  late 
Marescal,  who  first  brought  carp  from  the  Danube 


74  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

and  introduced  them  to  England,  did  not  know 
too  much  about  their  likings  when  he  planted 
them  here.  He  made  Plumpton  celebrated,  too, 
by  introducing  pippins,  of  which  the  golden  pippin 
is  a  great  Sussex  favourite  now.  Another  owner 
of  Plumpton  was  a  Nicholas  Carew,  the  family 
some  of  us  recollect  as  holding  Beddington  and 
miles  of  land  right  away  from  that  village  up  to 
Banstead  and  farther.  A  Carew  it  was  who  first 
imported  an  orange  tree  to  England.  The  last 
we  racing  men  know  of  the  Carews  was  poor 
**  Stunner,"  who,  in  Delight,  owned  the  best  three- 
year-old  of  Lord  Lyon's  year.  Mr  Sutton  would 
not  have  won  that  Derby  if  Delight  had  kept  all 
right  instead  of  breaking  down — in  the  Chester 
Cup,  was  it  not?  Next  door  to  Plumpton,  at 
Street,  were  another  family  bearing  a  name  rac- 
ing folk  knew  well.  This  was  only  a  matter  of 
three  or  four  hundred  years  ago,  and  the  name 
is  Dobell.  One  of  that  ilk  was  a  persecuted 
Royalist,  and  escaped  Cromwellian  pursuers  by 
riding  his  charger  up  a  chimney  into  a  secret 
chamber,  where,  of  course,  he  would  be  safe. 
My  old  friend  recollects  "hearing  tell  of  it,"  but 
does  not  commit  himself  to  facts  or  dates  ;  as 
also  he  is  guarded  about  another  temporarily 
local  celebrity,  Simon  de  Montfort,  whose  camp 
was  up  aloft  on  Plumpton  Plain  when  he  set 
forth  to  meet — and,  as  it  turned  out,  beat  and 
take — King  Henry  in  the  battle  of  Lewes. 
Guarded  he  is,  but  has  seen  relics  of  the  fight 
discovered. 


CHAPTER  VII 

LEWES    AND    ITS    COUNTRY 

I  FIRST  knew  this  most  ancient  borough  when 
Drewitt  trained  at  Astley  House,  where  Escott 
is  now  located  in  a  vastly  improved  establish- 
ment. Then  George  Fordham,  his  son-in-law, 
had  a  house  not  so  far  off  on  the  Brighton 
road.  That  was  before  Lord  St  Vincent  had 
moved  to  the  Telscombe  quarters  now  held  by 
Mr  Gorham,  and  when  William  Goater  was 
turning  out  big  winner  after  big  winner  for  Lord 
Westmorland.  What  a  fine  figure  of  a  man  his 
lordship  was,  and  what  scope  Goater  had  at 
Findon,  with  practically  all  the  downs  within 
reach,  east  and  west  of  the  Worthing- London 
road  at  his  command,  and  nothing  to  pay  for 
going  on  to  the  ground ! 

If  you  want  to  find  out  all  about  this  very 
characteristic  county  town,  start  by  reading  up 
at  the  excellent  Fitz-Roy  Free  Library,  where 
to  my  joy  I  discovered  a  collection  of  works  of 
reference  mostly  dealing  with  Sussex,  for  which 
the  town  is  indebted  to  Mr  George  Holman, 
thrice  in  succession  Mayor  of  Lewes.  I  began 
to  read  myself  up  regarding  the  ancient  town, 
which — so  says  a  friend — Chaucer  styled   Louse. 

76 


76  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

This  find  was  very  all  right  up  to  a  certain  point, 
as  I  went  well  with  Maro  Antony  Lower,  a 
real  authority  on  the  county  and  all  its  works, 
went  strong  indeed,  and  was  as  one  should  be 
at  Rosherville,  doing  a  Happy  Day,  till  I  came 
to  his  playing  William  Cobbett,  who  is  made 
responsible  for  calling  this  the  town  of  pretty 
girls  and  clean  windows,  in,  as  I  think,  his 
(Cobbett's)  ''Rural  Rides."  That  led  to  my 
downfall.  I  like  to  verify  my  references  (or, 
better  still,  get  them  verified  for  me).  Accord- 
ingly, remembering  where  a  collector  of  Cobbet- 
tiana  had  recently  located  himself  in  the  place, 
I  looked  his  establishment  up,  and  we  together 
looked  up — or  rather,  after — the  "  Rural  Rides  " 
for  hours  and  hours  in  a  small  cupboard  sort  of 
box-room  and  an  atmosphere  richly  impregnated 
with  that  pungent,  nose-tickling  dust  begotten 
of  closely-packed  old  books.  One  of  us  had  to 
hold  the  candle  and  the  other  cope  in  its  dim 
light  with  books  packed  in  piles  which  slid,  books 
stacked  in  rows  v^^hich  toppled  over  on  the  least 
provocation,  little  books  wedged  under  big 
weighty  ones,  and  great  tomes  that  cast  them- 
selves at  you  if  you  meddled  in  the  least  with 
their  foundations. 

We  found  Cobbett  galore  : — ''  Paper  against 
Gold,"  ''Advice  to  Young  Men,"  "Advice  to 
Young  Women,"  "Cottage  Gardener,"  "Cobbett's 
Sermons,"  "  Legacy  to  Parsons,"  also,  "  Legacy  to 
Labourers,"  each  with  a  lovely  dedication  about 
1 80  deg.  in  the  shade  ;  "  History  of  the  Reforma- 
tion" (a  sweet  book  that),  "Ann  Cobbett's  Cookery 
Book  "  (dear  old  Ann's  cuisine  wanted  a  cask  of 
brandy  and  a  two-quart  jug  of  cream  always  on 
tap  in  the  larder,  if  you  were  to  follow  her  recipes), 


LEWES  AND  ITS  COUNTRY  77 

''Cobbett's  English  Grammar"  (William's 
English  grammar  was  irreproachable),  his 
''French  Grammar,"  ''American  Gardening," 
his  "Life,"  and  "Emigrant's  Guide";  in  short 
or  in  long,  all  manner  of  Cobbett's  works, 
a  whole  library  of  him,  save  and  except  the 
"  Rural  Rides."  We  at  last  retired  defeated, 
disgraced,  sneezing  to  disagreeableness,  aching 
most  woundily  in  our  poor  backs — myself  no 
forrader  than  when  I  started. 

Still,  next  day  I  got  some  compensation,  for 
the  downs  were  simply  grand  where  I  was,  up  on 
the  Cliffe,  the  great  island  dump  of  downs  styled 
by  the  authorities  "a  fault."  If  the  Cliffe  is  a 
fault,  I  am  grateful  for  the  error  made  in  forming 
the  face  of  the  country  out  of  accord  with  what 
the  scientific  gents  consider  proper  order.  But 
for  a  certain  amount  of  hogheadedness,  I  should 
not  have  done  the  Cliffe,  for  I  thought  I  saw  a 
motor-car  up  on  the  crest  of  the  hill.  There 
was  something  high  up  on  the  crest  by  the  golf 
links,  going  along  as  one  would  think  only  a 
motor-car  can.  "This  ends  the  downs  for  me," 
says  I.  "  If  such  articles  are  to  do  the  downs 
as  well  as  the  roads,  all  is  up  with  me,  for  I  have 
now  no  refuge  from  their  noise  and  smell."  To 
know  the  worst,  I  climbed  and  found  no  motor 
carriage,  but — steam  ploughing-machine  tackle 
in  full  work  dragging  up  granite  blocks  to  build 
a  Martyrs'  Memorial !  The  "  cars  "  that  appeared 
to  be  climbing  the  face  of  one  of  the  steepest 
combes  in  the  county  and  careering  along  the 
ridges,  were  sleighs  carrying  big  cubes  of  stone, 
dragged  by  steel  ropes.  The  spectacle  instructed 
me  a  lot  in  what  may  be  done  in  warfare,  and 
relieved  my  mind  much  regarding  the  future  of 
one  of  our  most  precious  English  playgrounds. 


78  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

Up,  up  aloft  there,   pretty   nearly  all  alone, 
with  the  steam-engine  and  the  larks,  the  granite 
blocks  and  the  last  of  the  swallows,  the  lovely 
view  and  the  black-faced  sheep,    I   had  time  to 
rest  and  wonder  how  the  late  Mr  William  Cobbett 
came  to  set  himself  up  as  a  judge  of  clean  windows 
and  pretty  faces.     Judging  from  what    I    know 
of  the  male  married  members  of  the  family,  he 
must    have    got    some   of    this    information    at 
second-hand,  and  not  by  looking   at  the  pretty 
faces.     He  surprised  me  at  Lewes,  did  William, 
because    he    was,    for    his    day,    a    very    up-to- 
date    journalist,   and    I    wonder  at    his  missing 
a    chance    of    lugging    in    gridirons    instead  of 
talking    about    pretty   girls.       He   couldn't  well 
have  missed  doing  so  if  he  had  happened  along 
when   a    Martyrs'    Memorial    was   in    course   of 
erection.     You  see,  they  used  to  keep  in  stock  at 
the    Sussex   county  town    gridirons    for   grilling 
martyrs  (that  is  where  the  memorial  comes  in) ; 
but  holders  of  the  true  faith,  whichever  it  might 
be,    were    not    particular   about   locality.       The 
religious   party    boss    for  the    time    didn't    mind 
where  they  burned,  so  long  as  they  could  get  a 
supply  of  obdurates  who  would  rather  be  killed 
than  give  in  to  con-  or  per-version.     So  far  as 
I  can  make  out,  when  the  Old  Faith  section  was 
in  the  chair  they  served  up  Protestants  hot  and 
hot ;  but  the  Protestants  also  had  their  innings 
now    and    then,     and    indicated    a    difference    of 
opinion    which    did    alter    friendship    by    spatch- 
cocking or  pulling  out  of  joint  the  opposition,  just 
to  show  how  Christians  love  one  another. 

Seeing  how  things  went,  I  do  marvel  that  old 
William  missed  playing  martyrs'  gridirons  for  all 
they  were  worth  in  order  to  gently  lead  up  to  his 


LEWES  AND  ITS  COUNTRY  79 

light-sparring  publication  "The  Gridiron."     He 
had  already  had  a  few  words,  you  know,  on  the 
subject  in  his  ''  History  of  the  Reformation,"  and 
could    have    so    easily    worked    up    to    his    own 
*'  Gridiron "   through    natural    steps    afforded   by 
Henry  V HI.   (how  he  loved  the  Bluff  old  Blue- 
Beard  !  also  the  Virgin  Queen  with  the  vermilion 
hair  and  general  tendency  to  very  high  colour), 
Sir  Thomas  Cromwell,  and  Lewes's  Great  Priory 
of  St  Pancras,  which  master  and  man  broke  up 
for    building   materials.     William,    William,    you 
were  a  fine  journalist  for  your  times,  and  wrote 
jolly  good    English,   also    handbooks    of  quality 
and  usefulness  never  surpassed,  but  you  missed 
picking  up  cues  when  you  failed  to  play  gridiron. 
The  identical  gridiron  on  which  between  a  dozen 
and  a  score  of  men  and  women  were  stood  to  be 
burnt   alive   in    Lewes,    is   shown    to   this    day ; 
likewise,    like    Flora's    back     drawing-room     in 
''Little    Dorrit,"    there   is    the   spot   where    the 
roastings  came  off,  still  at  the  top  of  School  Hill, 
and  still  almost  in   front  of  the  White   Hart — 
where   doubtless    fancy  prices    were   paid    for   a 
good  window  to  see  the  show;  and  where  now 
the   greatest   of   all    the    Lewes    bonfires — every 
division  of  the  town   has    one    to   itself — blazes 
annually  in  memory  of  the  martyrs  and  defiance 
of  the  system  which  they  did  so  pluckily  defy. 
And   if    the   true    Lewesians    seem    rather   over 
tenacious    and   vindictive    in    keeping    up    such 
unpleasant  memories,  be  it  remembered  that  the 
roastees  were  one  and  all  Sussex  folk,  some  from 
the  town  itself,  and  very  likely  related  to  many 
of  those   who   saw  them    burn.     Suppose    your 
cousin  or  your  sister —  ?  I  think  you  would  hand 
down  the  record  pretty  vividly  to  your  descend- 


80  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

ants  :   and  remember  it  takes  astonishingly  few 
generations    to    reach    back    a    trifle    of    three 
hundred    and    fifty    years.     The    institution    of 
bonfiring  suits  Lewes  and  vicinity,  and  is  harmless 
enough,    take    it    all    round,     if    you    do    your 
"remembering"    wisely   and   insist   on    not   for- 
getting  that    the    bearings    of  uncomplimentary 
sectarian  remarks  lie  in  their  application  to  Sir 
Guido  Fawkes's  era.     Those  who  call  the  tune  pay 
the  piper.     The  Bonfire  Boys  take  possession  of 
the  borough  in  their — well,  hundreds  is  too  few,  and 
thousands  is  perhaps  too  many.     They  to  a  great 
extent  take  over  the  functions   of  the  police  as 
well.     There  is  very  great  method  of  order    in 
the  apparent  disorder  which  they  control :  a  grand 
raree  show  is  organised  for  an  enormous    con- 
stituency who  enjoy  themselves,  and  what  to  the 
inexperienced  appears  terribly  dangerous  is  proved 
to  be  very  otherwise.     Time  was,  says  my  friend 
Mr    G.    F.    Verrall — chairman    of    a    bench    of 
magistrates,  if  you  please,  and  an  ardent    Bon- 
f^rer — that  a  good  deal  of  rioting  was  incidental 
to  the  performances.     That  was  mainly  because 
of  police    interference   and   unwise   attempts    at 
repression.     This  led   to   trouble,   out   of  which 
undesirable  outsiders  made  opportunity  after  the 
manner   of  their  kind.     But  now  the    Boys  are 
allowed  to  do  pretty  much  as  they  like,  and  by 
consequence  ensure  order,  also  respect  property 
on  their  own  account. 

The  best  proof  that  the  organisers  and 
conductors  know  what  they  are  about  and  can  be 
trusted — it  is  desirable  to  recollect  this  when  you 
behold  flaming  barrels  dragged  full  tilt  down  the 
steep  pitch  of  School  Hill — lies  in  the  simple  fact 
that  the  Cliffe  bonfire  has  never  yet  burnt  up  the 


LEWES  AND  ITS  COUNTRY  81 

old  houses  which  every  year  it  must  (apparently) 
almost  touch.  This  means  experience  and  care. 
My  word !  you  should  have  heard  the  magisterial 
Mr  Verrall,  at  the  White  Hart,  expounding  the 
unwritten  law  of  the  societies  to  a  company  of 
young  gentlemen  who  suffered  somewhat  through 
inadvertently,  maybe,  interfering  with  arrange- 
ments. They  came  for  the  bread  of  sympathy — 
not  that  bread  is  so  efficacious  in  cases  of  black 
eye  as  beef — and  were  given  the  stone — a  rather 
good  thing  a  stone,  laid  on  cold  in  the  early 
stages  of  a  mouse's  development — of  admonition. 
Theirs  was  the  only  instance  I  came  across  where 
a  ''collision"  happened,  and  this  didn't  matter 
much  one  way  or  the  other.  The  sportsman 
with  the  variegated  peeper — a  pretty  sight  he 
would  have  been  next  morning  if  the  kind  lady 
who  prescribed  arnica  for  him  had  applied  that 
remedy  ;  I  tried  that  tincture  once,  and  came  out 
as  chromatic  as  a  bit  of  oxidised  copper  ore — he 
didn't  mind,  nor  the  brother  visitor,  who  had  a 
bare  patch  where  the  skin  had  been  knocked  off 
the  bridge  of  his  nose.  They  sensibly  consoled 
themselves  in  that,  like  the  celebrated  Roman 
Matron,  they  too  had  not  been  idle,  and — but  I 
must  cut  Fifth  of  Novembering  and  get  on. 

Stay,  I  must  just  re-tell  a  true  yarn  about  the 
first  original  Guy  Fawkes  day.  I  say  true, 
because  two  old  friends  used  most  solemnly 
swear  to  the  truth  of  this  ghost  story.  One  poor 
chap,  a  good  sportsman,  is  dead  and  gone — Mr 
Fred  Howcroft,  who  ran  one  or  two  comic  opera 
companies.  The  other  friend  would,  I  know, 
corroborate  me.  Here  is  the  story  cut  short. 
My  informants  used  to  live  near  Tilbury,  in  an 
old  manor  house,  rendezvous  for  some  of  the  Guy 

F 


82  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

Fawkes  conspirators,  to  which  at  least  one 
repaired  after  the  coup  manque  at  St  Stephen's. 
They  both  declared  that  at  midnight  on  every 
Fifth  of  November — and  mind  you,  one  lived  for 
years  In  the  house,  and  the  other  who  rented  it, 
went  down  on  purpose  to  investigate — they 
distinctly  heard  as  twelve  struck,  the  clatter  of  a 
horse  galloped  into  the  stable  yard,  the  ring  of  a 
horseman's  heavy  riding-boot  heels  as  he 
hurriedly  dismounted,  and  the  jingle  of  his  spurs 
on  the  cobble  stones,  then  the  stable  door  open, 
the  footfalls  of  a  horse  being  led  into  the  stall, 
the  banging  of  the  door  as  it  closed,  and  the 
tired  tread  of  an  armed  man  as  he  marched  into 
the  house.  Do  I  believe  a  word  of  it  ?  That  is 
as  may  be,  so  far  as  regards  the  manifestations. 
But  so  far  as  the  narrators'  good  faith  and  the 
trustworthiness  of  their  evidence  as  the  truth,  the 
whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth,  according 
to  their  personal  observation,  I  always  was  quite 
satisfied. 

But  let  us  quit  gunpowder-treasoning  and 
turn  on  the  country  tap.  What  go  we  forth 
for  to  see  down  in  Sussex  ?  Summer.  Not  the 
summer  season  according  to  the  calendar,  which 
may  be  winter,  autumn,  or,  still  worse,  spring ; 
but  jolly  fine  old-fashioned  hot  weather.  Summer 
with  Mr  Sol  blazing  over  your  head  and  on  your 
back,  more  power  to  him,  all  sorts  of  vegetation 
a-growing  and  a-blowing  at  express  speed,  and 
the  farmers  as  crooked  as  two  sticks  in  their 
tempers,  being  afraid  of  losing  their  grumbling 
form  by  reason  of  falling  out  of  practice  for  ten 
minutes  or  so,  since  they  had  a  fill  of  rain  to 
grow  the  grass  and  now  a  baking  sun  for  hay- 
making.      Summer,    the  sort  to  make  you  cast 


LEWES  AND  ITS  COUNTRY  83 

back  to  the  old  days  when  as  a  boy  you  kicked 
all  the  clothes  off  at  night  and  tumbled  yourself 
into  river,  pool  (or  pond,  for  that  matter),  or  sea 
by  day,  even  if  you  had  to  play  truant — '*  dolly," 
we  used  to  call  it — to  let  instinct  have  an  innings. 
Summer,  with  the  glaring,  blazing,  broiling  sun 
to  make  you  jump  for  thinking  of  boxing  about 
in  a  sailing  boat  from  Newhaven  Harbour,  as 
soon  as  a  whiff  of  Stockholm  tar  gave  you  the 
office,  or  want  to  loot  the  fit-out  of  the  innocent 
angling  stranger — piscator  and  viator  in  one — 
making  up  to  the  upper  reaches  of  the  Ouse  on 
fishing  intent.  The  Ouse  ?  Oh !  yes,  there  are 
Ouses  and  Ouses,  and  salmon  in  both — I  mean 
in  some — and  Lewes  has  one,  as  I  have  mentioned 
before.  How  many  do  I  know,  not  by  sight,  as 
you  may  say,  but  on  speaking  terms  ?  There  is 
the  Yorkshire  one,  by  whosejbanks  have  I  trudged 
many  and  many  a  mile,  a  very  presentable  stream 
up  by  York,  and  a  very  muddy  flow  down  by 
Selby,  where  the  saffron  grows,  and  the  wild 
hop  flourishes  to  an  extent  which  Kent's  culti- 
vated branch  of  the  family  might  well  envy,  and 
the  dewberries  are  big  as  raspberries.  Then 
there  is  the  Bedfordshire  member  of  the  family, 
which  helps  Cambridge  to  train  its  crews  and 
passes  into  the  sea  down  King's  Lynn  way,  a 
very  muddy  sort  of  flow.  The  French  Oise,  on 
whose  banks  I  was  last  week,  is,  I  suppose,  to  be 
reckoned  a  member  of  the  class — and  there  are 
others. 

The  Ouse  and  the  Cliffe — they  come  together 
along  the  Glynde  road — seem  perhaps  Lewes's 
most  special  landmarks.  The  pleasant  old  Bear 
Inn  achieves  the  feat  of  being  literally  in  the 
one  and  the  other.     Let  me  explain  that  this  is 


84  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

managed  by  what  is  sometimes  called  a  double 
intender.  One  side  of  the  inn  merges  into  the 
bricked  face  of  the  river's  channel  by  the  bridge. 
{The  bridge,  if  you  please,  there  is  no  other  for 
miles.)  Thus  the  inn  may  be  said  to  be  actually 
in  the  stream.  It  is  also  in  the  Cliffe,  which  in 
Lewes  means  not  only  the  great  hill-face,  but 
also  the  straight,  shady,  old  street  leading 
thereto,  said  street  named  on  the  lucus  a  non 
lucendo  principle,  seeing  that  it  is  about  the 
lowest-lying  and  levellest  street  in  the  place. 
This  low-lying  Cliffe  district  distinguished  itself 
once  in  the  good  old  no-sanitation  times  by 
showing  a  clean  bill  when  the  rest  of  Lewes  was 
terribly  afflicted  by  one  of  the  fashionable 
epidemics  of  the  period — typhoid,  I  think.  As 
it  might  have  been  reasonably  supposed  that  the 
higher  parts  would  have  stood  the  better  chance, 
this  was  puzzling.  The  reason  lay,  of  course,  in 
accidentally  superior  water  supply.  The  Cliffe 
furnished  itself  from  a  spring  descending  fresh 
and  sweet  from  its  elevated  namesake,  subject  to 
no  fouling  en  route.  Let  me  hasten  to  add  that 
all  the  town's  water  has  long  been  above  reproach. 
Let  me  also  explain  to  the  Bear  that  I  do  not 
call  him  or  it  a  hotel  because  it  seems  too  old- 
fashionedly  solid  and  snug ;  one  does  not 
somehow  associate  the  more  modern  appella- 
tion with  either  quality.  The  good  hostelry  is 
roomy  enough,  as  witness  that  spacious  apart- 
ment, or  rather  pair  of  apartments,  where  the 
farmers  used  to  have  such  fine  market-dinners  in 
the  days  of  yore. 

The  Sussex  Ouse  holds  big  sea  trout,  and  is 
a  salmon  river  according  to  Cocker  and  the 
Fisheries   Act.     "  Muwh  improved,"  is  the  local 


LEWES  AND  ITS  COUNTRY  85 

verdict — and  so  I  found  it,  strangely  so.  Never 
a  dead  dog  or  cat  floating  could  I  spot.  Some- 
body must  have  bought  them  up  and  taken  them 
home ;  they  never  decay  on  this  river,  and,  once 
a  dead  dog  or  dead  cat,  always  the  same,  is  the 
motto  they  float  up  to.  The  isolation  fever 
hospital  mattresses,  which,  cast  like  bread  on 
the  waters,  travelled  in  former  years  again  and 
again  to  extreme  points  between  Newhaven 
Harbour  and  Barcombe  Mills,  appeared  to  have 
finished  their  course  of  almost  endless  voyages. 
Nobody  had  doctored  the  town's  drains  with 
stuff  to  kill,  or  which  did  kill,  eels  by  the  million. 
No  barge  in  evidence,  to  bung  up  the  whole  of 
the  fairway.  The  swans,  who  look  so  pretty 
but  are  so  ruinous  to  fishing,  were,  as  usual  on 
this  river,  quite  docile  and  amenable ;  perhaps 
their  being  amiable  is  the  reason  why  boys  are 
permitted  to  steal  their  eggs.  Wild  flowers  on 
the  bank,  from  kingcups  to  ragged  robins,  were 
a  treat,  and  homely  familiar  the  tame  animals, 
beginning  with  the  mighty,  lusty,  black  oxen  and 
finishing  with  the  little  bright-eyed  field  mouse. 
On  each  hand  looked  down  the  great  chalk 
ranges,  good  enough  to  rank  as  mountains  to 
the  ridiculous  quadruped  cited. 

Let  no  man  run  down  the  Sussex  Ouse,  for 
it  is — well,  if  you  fancy  that  sort  of  stream,  this 
would  very  likely  be  the  sort  you  might  fancy, 
not  otherwise,  because  you  may  not  care  for  a 
river  with  no  convenient  landing-place  for  eight 
miles  on  the  tidal  part,  and  no  desire  on  anybody's 
part  to  make  matters  better.  And  talking  of 
accommodation  on  the  tidal  stream,  I  wish  some- 
one would  put  before  the  South  Coast  directors 
the  claim  Newhaven  has  for  consideration  as  a 


86  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

resort  for  yachting  and  boating  folk.  I  hear 
that  at  least  one  of  our  leading  yacht  clubs  is 
approaching  the  railway  company  on  the  subject 
of  better  accommodation  for  pleasure  craft  in  the 
harbour,  which  has  been  exceedingly  poor,  if  I 
can  believe  friends  who  have  put  into  that  port 
and  regretted  the  experience.  For  sure,  if  their 
custom  was  cultivated — and  only  the  will  is 
needful  to  provide  all  desired — much  use  would 
be  made  of  the  harbour,  an  extremely  handy  one 
as  regards  its  position  for  channel  sailing.  And 
when  anything  is  being  done  I  do  hope  that  safe 
landing-places  for  those  in  small  boats  may  be 
provided.  At  present  there  is  not  any  at  all 
fitting  for  the  purpose,  unless  your  craft  is  of 
the  dinghy  order  ;  and  at  the  only  stairs  which 
can  be  so  called,  risk  of  accident  in  embarking  or 
disembarking  is  great,  unless  you  have  two  or 
three  hands  to  manage  a  boat  of  any  length. 
Again,  the  town  would  benefit  if  the  ferry  at  the 
Harbour  Station  were  managed  properly,  so  that 
visitors  could  easily  cross  from  west  to  east,  and 
vice  versa.  According  to  local  gossip,  the  exist- 
ing ferry  will  shortly  be  reserved  exclusively  for 
the  railway  company's  staff.  In  that  case,  visitors 
and  others  who  go  on  the  western  side  to  look 
at  the  fort  and  the  cliffs  over  against  the  jetty 
or  mole,  and  are  desirous  of  crossing  to  make 
towards  Seaford,  will  be  compelled  to  walk  the 
best  part  of  a  mile  to  the  bridge,  and  again  as 
far  back  to  the  beach  on  the  eastern  coast,  so 
realising  the  late  Mr  Richard  Swiveller's  un- 
fortunate condition,  being  obliged  to  go  a  mile 
and  a  half  to  reach  over  the  way.  Now  that  the 
sea-wall  from  Ousemouth  to  Seaford  is  complete 
— and  a  very  fine   marine   promenade   afforded, 


LEWES  AND  ITS  COUNTRY  87 

adding  greatly  to  local  attractions — doing  any- 
thing   to    put    difficulties    in    the    way    of  folks 
appreciating  the  improvements  would  be  a  pity. 
Surely  the  railway  company,  who  are  practically 
the   Harbour  Company,  must  be  going  against 
old    public    ferry    rights    in    preventing    or    not 
furnishing  means  of  free  crossing.      Still,  with  all 
its  deficiencies,  from  the  salmon-leap  at  Barcombe 
Mills  to  the  British  Channel,  the  Ouse  has  good 
qualities,  as  a  naturalist  can  soon  find  out  and  a 
fisherman    must.       Its   best   is  proximity  to  the 
downs  ;    in   genuine    June  weather,    most    lovely 
country  on  or  off.     What  do  I  mean  by  ''on  or 
off"?     Look  you  here.      U  may    not    be   quite 
accurate  in  taking  the  Weald  in  with  the  Downs 
or  the  Downs  in  with  the  Weald,  but  for  purposes 
of  this  argument  I  make  them  march  together. 
Some  folk — foolish  to  my  mind,  but   I  admit  that 
personal  taste  may  lead  me  away — do  not  care  for 
the  South  Downs.     I  do,  and  could  live  on  them  all 
the  year  round,  making  up  for  bleak  periods  by  the 
sweet  balmy  turns  you  have  served  out  to  you  in 
due  season.     Moreover,   I    believe    that   a    man 
might    camp  on    them    through  a  long  life  and 
never  reach    the   limit    of  their   infinite  variety. 
Mind    you,  too,   if  he  did  pitch  his  tent  up,  up 
aloft,  he  is  always  within  handy  reach  of  marked 
change,  for  no  farther  off  than  next  door  down  in 
the  Weald — or,  as  in  the  West  they  would  call  it 
the   vale  —  is    different    climate,    different    soil, 
different  method  of  growth,  of  tree,  herb,  and  plant, 
and  between  the  two  a  border  land  of  alluvial  wash- 
ing.   Nature's    neutral  territory,  where  both  the 
highlands  and  the  plain  give  of  their  best.      Let 
me  have  the  upland  for  health  and  enjoyment,  and 
when  I  am  ill  if  anyone  thinks  I  am  going  and  is 


88  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

good  enough  to  want  to  give  me  a  chance,  put  me 
somewhere  up  on  the  South  Down  range. 

Never  mind  about  Switzerland  or  foreign 
health  resorts  ;  do  not  listen  to  talk  about  bleak- 
ness and  south-westerly  gales  :  take  me  up  on 
the  ridges  and  find  me  a  roof  somehow.  And  in 
summer  never  mind  about  the  roof,  good  Dr 
DoJivns  taken  a  few  hours  per  day  will  put  you 
straight  if  anything  or  anybody  can.  Pine 
woods  ?  I  know  plenty  about  pine  woods,  and 
like  them  much  at  home  and  abroad.  Beautiful 
it  is  to  be  among  the  firs  when  the  sun  draws 
the  ''  medicinal  gum  "  aroma  from  their  spines  and 
bark,  mostly  from  the  fallen  spines,  as  I  believe, 
and  the  old  cones,  also  the  trunk's  scales,  crackle 
in  the  heat.  Grand  it  is  to  be  on  the  edge  of  a 
coppice  with  foliage  of  sorts  distilling  delicate 
scent,  notably  the  tender  leaves  of  the  oak's 
second  shoots,  the  hazel,  and  the  briars.  What 
more  can  the  tired  man  need  in  an  ordinary  way 
than  to  look  over  a  bridge  or  from  a  terrace  on  to 
tree-tops  shot  up  from  far  down  valleys  with  a 
ripple  of  running  or  falling  water  singing  gentle 
accompaniment  in  time  to  their  sway  and  rustle  ? 

Not  for  a  moment  do  I  underrate  the  charms 
of  fat  meads  and  crystal  streams  where  the  lusty 
trout  lie  ;  the  moorhens,  built  galleon  fashion, 
perk  along  mincingly  ;  the  dabchicks  worry  them- 
selves needlessly  into  diving  out  of  sight ;  the 
water  rats  imagine  vain  things  in  danger ;  the 
swallows  skim  the  surface  ;  and  the  poor  human 
can  see  many  strange  sights  if  so  be  he  has  only 
sense  enough  to  keep  quiet  for  a  spell  so  that 
things  get  settled  down,  and  he  is  regarded  as  a 
fixture  like  a  pollard  willow  or  an  osier  stump. 
Lanes  ?     Did  anybody  ever  hear  me  say  a  word 


LEWES  AND  ITS  COUNTRY  89 

against  lanes  ?  Why  would  I,  when  I  count  one 
of  the  Downs'  chiefest  charms  their  being  footed 
by  bands  of  ancient  ways,  paved,  absolutely  paved, 
with  history  and  romance,  old-time  thoroughfares 
to  be  peopled  at  will  by  the  imaginative  day- 
dreamer,  dressed  by  actors  in  life's  drama,  making 
a  procession  a  thousand  years  long  for  certain,  as 
we  know  the  history  of  England  from  the  Con- 
queror's time,  and  marked,  many  of  them  by 
dwellers  in  our  land  before  the  Romans  made 
roads  not  beaten  up  to  date.  Good — I  say  very 
good — are  all  the  samples  I  quote  and  others  to 
be  cited,  as,  for  instance,  the  coast.  I  have  not 
brought  in  that  yet,  nor  the  river.  Good  old 
Father  Thames  !  As  he  has  cropped  up,  put  him 
in  the  parcel  with  the  rest,  and  then  you  can  take 
the  rest  while  I  go  for  the  Downs,  more  especially 
as  they  are  in  summer,  and  were  when  I  made 
spells  off  to  pay  my  respects  to  them  this  week. 

Not  all  the  scents  of  Araby  can  match  the 
perfume  of  their  turf.  Araby  ?  Araby,  be  blowed  ! 
Where  does  Arabia  Felix,  or  any  other — unhappy 
or  otherwise — come  in  with  a  bouquet  ?  They 
couldn't  do  anything  for  Lady  Macbeth's  little 
hands.  She  said  so,  and  I  shall  never  forget 
Mme.  Ristori's  making  the  statement.  She  was 
convincing,  if  you  like.  She  and  Mr  Macbeth 
wouldn't  have  wanted  any  scents  of  Araby  if  they 
had  exploited  the  South  Downs  before  coveting 
their  neighbour's  crown,  because,  thanks  to  their 
corrective  influence,  they  must  have  put  all 
daggering  out  of  the  question,  the  mens  sana 
being  in  corpore  sano.  Our  Royal  blend  is  of 
wild  thyme  and  marjoram,  burnet  and  meadow- 
sweet, lady's-shoes-and-stockings  and  plantain, 
cock  sorrel  and  sloe  shoot,  white  clover  and  red 


90  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

clover,  buttercups  and  the  other  yellow  flower 
related  to  the  sweet  sultan,  the  last  of  the  may, 
and  some  of  the  furze,  also  elder  flowers  and 
buckthorns,  the  daisies  and  the  dog  violets,  the 
scented  violets'  leaves  and  the  cowslips,  the 
mosses  and  the  grasses  themselves  making  hay 
scent  under  your  footfall,  the  kidney  vetch,  the 
milk  worts  and  the  stitchwort,  the  wild  raspberry 
canes  and  the  blackberry  leaves — strongly  aro- 
matic both — and  the  hundred — hundred  is  it,  or 
thousand  ?  —  other  inhabitants  of  Downland. 
Our  blend  and  want  of  music  in  the  soul,  which 
induces  acting  up  to  the  deficit  with  a  tendency 
to  stratagems  and  spoils  as  well,  could  not  go 
together. 

I  have  often  wondered  why  someone  does  not 
start  a  sanatorium  on  the  Downs.  What  price 
that,  with  poor  run-down  mortals  resting  their 
eyes  doing  nothing  but  watching  the  rooks 
manoeuvring  and  the  jackdaws  trying  to  go  one 
better,  the  rabbits  slyly  playing,  and  the  thrushes 
seeking  a  living  far  from  cover,  the  plovers  com- 
plaining, as  is  their  wont,  a  stray  seagull  seeking 
what  it  may  devour,  the  chats  a-chatting,  and  the 
larks  never  at  a  loss  for  a  voluntary  till  a  dis- 
cordant element  presents  itself  in  the  person  of  a 
hawk,  the  doves — not  wood  pigeons,  doves — busy 
in  the  hollows,  where  the  mixed  clover  hay  crops 
are  so  heavy  this  year,  and  the  wagtails,  ever 
fidgeting,  the  wheat-ears,  who  may  not  be  caught 
as  they  used,  and  are  now  in  consequence  scarcer 
than  before  protection  came,  and  the  waves — not 
waves,  but  seas  of  clouds,  shadows  running  over 
the  shoulders  of  the  hills  and  into  the  bosoms  of 
the  dells. 

Who  was  it?     Old  '*  Ingoldsby,"  was  it  not. 


LEWES  AND  ITS  COUNTRY  91 

who  wrote  *' As  I  lay  a-thynkynge,  and  heard  a 
merrle  Birde  as  she  sat  upon  the  spraye."  He 
did,  and  finished  with  ''Here  is  rest!"  He 
dwelt  hard  by  some  pretty  Downs,  Barham  way, 
as  you  rise  from  Bridge  on  the  Dover  road  from 
Canterbury.  I  wish  the  reverend  gentleman 
mieht  have  criven  our  Sussex  Downs  a  turn  before 
he  came  to  the  "as  I  lay  a-thynkynge "  stage.  I 
would  have  liked  to  read  his  views  on  the  views 
from  them,  which — but  here  I  am  a'most  at  the 
end  of  my  tether,  and  not  half  got  into  my  stride 
up  aloft  with  the  white  clouds  showing  the  clear 
blue  sky,  more  and  more  illimitable  in  its  depths, 
a  grey  haze  hanging  over  the  coast  line,  the 
brook-lands  and  weald  spread  out  right  away  to 
Eastbourne  and  Pevensey  like  a  map  ;  over  the 
way,  three  great  chalk  ranges,  with  on  the  sky 
line  farther  off  the  ridges  cutting  from  Crow- 
borough  and  up  that  way  to  East  Grinstead,  and 
right  on  to  Reigate,  pretty  well.  One,  two,  three, 
four,  five,  six  beacon  bonfires  I  can  count,  built, 
or  being  built,  like  conical  huts  to  hold  a  hundred 
people  at  a  time,  and  against  some  of  these 
another  wagon-load  of  furze  or  faggot-wood  or 
brush  stands  outlined  waiting  to  be  unloaded. 
Down  and  over  the  hill's  face  I  can  see  the  patient 
bullocks  deliberately  drawing  the  plough  ;  smart 
Iambs — children  of  silly  sheep — are  taking  advan- 
tage of  the  golf  club's  bunkers  to  make  the  most 
of  the  breeze,  and  doubtless  passing  votes  of 
thanks  for  the  kindly  consideration  shown  in 
throwing  up  these  nice  little  hillocks.  Not  a  soul 
is  within  half  a  mile  range,  and  enjoyment  would 
be  as  nearly  as  possible  perfect  if  one  might  lie  on 
the  turf,  rest  and  be  thankful. — But,  good  friends, 
don't  you  try  lying,  for  our  friends  about  here  won't 


92  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

take  a  halfpenny  worth  of  trouble  to  prevent  the 
Downs  from  becoming  one  vast  thistle  farm,  and 
if  you  do  sit  down  you  will  know  torture,  as  do 
the  poor  dogs,  who,  like  King  Agag,  come 
delicately.  If  you  feel  that  way  inclined,  play  at 
having  your  foot  on  your  native  down  and  your 
name  being  anything  you  please  to  call  yourself. 
But  don't  put  anything  else  that  belongs  to  you 
on  to  your  native  or  otherwise  territory,  unless 
you  fancy  being  an  animated  pin-cushion. 

In  a  fine  September  week,  when  tied  down 
to  go  racing  instead  of  wandering  at  Lewes,  a 
cutting  from  Mr  Lucas's  '*  Sussex  Highways  and 
Byways "  came  my  way.  The  writer  of  the 
Sussex  book  put  before  strangers — i.e.,  readers 
not  personally  acquainted  with  a  recently  deceased 
Sussex  worthy — a  word  portrait  so  skilful  that 
these  ought  to  be  able  to  make  for  themselves 
a  presentment  of  the  old  sportsman,  a  picture 
very  near  to  the  good  fellow  in  his  habit  as  he 
lived.  For  myself,  had  I  happened  promiscuously 
on  the  sketch  without  a  word  of  reference  to  the 
original's  name  or  locale,  I  should,  as  must 
almost  everyone  personally  acquainted  with  the 
Mr  Home  in  question,  have  confidently  identified 
my  old  friend.  At  his  feet  I  have  sat  many  a 
time  and  oft,  absorbing  sport  and  love  of  country 
life,  and  wanting  with  eager  longing  to  be  free 
to  go  and  do  likewise,  as  he  descanted  on  wander- 
ings far  and  near  in  the  country  where,  getting 
on  for  almost  three  parts  of  a  century,  he  was  a 
notable  character.  Once  upon  a  time  John 
Home  had  been  a  well-to-do  sportsman,  and  a 
sort  of  halo  from  his  better-off,  fast-going  days 
hung  round  him  ever  afterwards.  Quaker-bred 
he  was,  and  a  quaker  connected  with  many  rich 


LEWES  AND  ITS  COUNTRY  93 

families  of  that  faith — do  you  call  it  a  faith? 
Whatever  it  is,  I  can  say,  as  mixing  many  years 
with  Quakers,  it  turns  out  real  good  sorts  when 
you  know  them,  and  I  knew  many.  One  great 
financial  magnate  used  to  learn  to  play  the 
concertina  in  fear  and  trembling  in  one  of  our 
top-storey  bedrooms  ;  and  a  son  of  his,  though 
wild  and  a  runner-away  to  sea,  declined  to  cut 
the  connection.  Also  he  declined  to  give  up 
chewing  tobacco  while  nautically  home  for  the 
holidays,  and  carried  that  habit  and  great  dis- 
may into  the  meeting-house,  where  he  was  an 
assiduous  attendant,  frequently  moved  to  let  off 
strange  words.  Quakers  by  the  score  I  have 
had  to  thank  for  many  pleasant  days,  so  I  hope 
you  will  excuse  my  excursing  a  little  on  their 
account. 

A  great  ''character"  was  John  Home  (in  his 
county  ''character"  means  little  more  than  a 
person  of  strong  hobby,  who  treats  convention- 
ality lightly ;  it  carries  no  disrespect),  and  he 
was  widely  known.  I  am  not  surprised  therefore 
that  Refereaders  who  recollected  the  kindly  old 
man,  some  earlier  than  I,  should  write  me  regard- 
ing him  and  his  ways,  particularly  his  partiality 
for  sticks,  the  cutting  them  and  seasoning.  Now, 
when  I  find  anybody  interested  in  this  line  of 
collecting  I  often  want  to  foregather  with  him 
or  them  and  discuss  the  ethics  of  the  stick 
business — mostly  illegal,  viewed  strictly.  Acts 
such  as  taking  short  cuts  where  you  do  no 
damage  to  crops  or  disturb  game,  or  cutting  a 
promising  brier  or  thorn  walking-stick  of  high 
value  in  your  eyes,  though  not  at  all  likely  to 
be  turned  to  account  by  its  proprietor  except  for 
stopping  a  gap  in  a  hedge,  are  unlawful,  I  believe. 


94  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

At  the  same  time,  if  you,  the  trespasser  or  depre- 
dator, don't  mean  any  harm,  well,  where  is  it — 
the  harm,  I  mean — seeing  that  you  are  in  your 
own  estimation  honest  as  Izaak  Walton's  fishers  ? 
Feeling  on  a  safe  platform  of  morality,  I  would 
still  like,  as   I  say,  to  talk  over  the  rights  of  the 
case,  because  it  is  hard  to  read  of  old  and  poor 
people  being  sent  to  prison  for  pulling  a  few  dead 
sticks  to  boil   the  kettle,  while  you,   well-found, 
deliberately  help  yourself  to  live  wood  which  does 
not  belong  to  you.     John  Home  would  no  more 
dream  of  taking  what  wasn't  his'n  than  of  hurting 
a  child,  if  he  considered  the  something  conveyed 
really  belonged  to  anyone ;  but  when  you  come 
to  think  it  out,  a  pretty  taste  in  the  walking-stick 
line    might   easily   get   you   locked   up  with  an 
awkward  difficulty   before  you  in  the  matter  of 
ofettinof  out  agfain.     At  our  last  interview  I  asked 
him  if  he  still  had  natural  sticks  all  over  Sussex  ? 
Yes,  he  had  ;  and  forthwith  he  wanted  to  give 
me  a  holly  sapling  with  a  natural  knob,  one  that 
had  been  in  a  midden  for  months,  he  said,  and 
up  a  chimney  for  a  year.     Wherever  he  went  he 
would  mark  out  a  stick,  and  in  due  time  cut  and 
season   it,    usually  with    the  future  possessor  to 
whom  it  was  to  be  presented  already  fixed  in  his 
eye.     At  all  manner  of  out-of-the-way  houses  had 
he  saplings  of  one  sort  and  another  stored.     How 
a  man  who  loved  the  things  as  he  did,  like  a  real 
connoisseur  with  a  curio,  managed  to  bring  him- 
self to  part  with  them  I  could  scarcely  make  out, 
except  in    one   regard,   and  that    is  the  point  I 
particularly  want  to  put  before  brother  walkers. 

The  veteran  was  of  my  old-time  friends,  the 
warmest  apostle  of  walking  as  a  pleasure,  exercise, 
and  health-maker,  and  in  seeking  to  make  a  con- 


LEWES  AND  ITS  COUNTRY  95 

vert  of  a  youngster  he  would  bring  a  stick  into 
play.  In  my  day,  you  know,  a  straight,  well- 
seasoned  ash-plant  was  well  worth  half  a  guinea. 
You  scarcely  find  one  genuine  naturally  grown 
ash-plant  in  a  thousand — nay,  ten  thousand — 
now  because  they  are  grown  in  moulds  *'to 
order "  by  the  thousand,  so  that  soft,  quickly- 
shot-up  seedlings  are  to  be  had  for  a  few  pence. 
Ash-plants  they  are  by  the  dictionary,  but  not 
in  the  same  street  with  the  old  sort  that  grew 
themselves.  No  one  knew  the  value  of  a  speci- 
men better  than  John  Home ;  but  if  only  he 
could  persuade  a  novice  to  take  to  his  style  of 
walking  with  a  stick  he  would  incontinently 
present  a  fine  sample.  How  many  trudgers 
have  ever  tried  his  specific  method  ?  Scarcely 
any  have  heard  of  it,  I  believe.  Here  it  is  :  he 
used  to  declare  that  to  properly  balance  the 
body  in  walking  and  ''draw  out  your  stride" 
you  should  hold  a  stick  or  umbrella  poised  on 
your  finger-tips  at  about  half-arm  range.  Instead 
of  swinging  your  arms  you  were  to  sway  them 
from  side  to  side,  and  after  practising  any  time 
this  way  you  will  find  it  difficult  to  do  as  well 
without  the  expedient  as  while  being  'Med  in 
your  work  "  by  the  stick.  I  can  strongly  recom- 
mend the  plan  for  at  least  a  change  on  long 
journeys,  especially  for  walkers  whose  hands  are 
inclined  to  swell.  But  of  course  as  it  may  mean 
holding  your  arms  in  a  set  position  for  a  long 
while,  practice  is  needed  to  guard  against  cramp 
and  tiredness  ;  when  you  are  used  to  the  method, 
you  find  it  very  helpful. 

Mr  Home  was  understood  to  have  run 
through  his  money  owing  to  a  love  of  sport  not 
altogether  going  on  all  fours  with  strict  attention 


96  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

to  business.     The  business  John  Home  took  up 
turned   him    into   a  sort    of  very    uncommercial 
commercial  traveller,  calling  all  over  the  country 
where  a  farmhouse  might  be,  and  he  took  it  as  a 
sort  of  unconsidered  supplement  to  one  unbroken 
round  of  holiday-making  in  the  open.     He  loved 
walking  for  walking's  sake,  and  covered  in   the 
aggregate  enormous  distances  per  annum.     More- 
over, he  loved  best,  loving  most  all  things,  both 
great  and  small,  being  a  sportsman  who  held  a 
gun   straight,  and  could  take  fish  cunningly  ;   a 
fine  rider,   boxer,  and  runner  ;   but  kind,  always 
soft-hearted.     No  one  knew  more,  of  birds  and 
beasties'  haunts  and  runs,  nests  and  lairs.     Who 
could,  since  he  was  always  about  with  both  eyes 
open,  eyes  that  knew  where  to  look  as  he  trudged, 
and  a  most  dependable  memory  ?     Last  autumn 
I  ran  against  the  old  gentleman,  still  upright  as  a 
(straight)    dart   and  the   ''moral"   of  Jorrocks's 
James  Pigg  in  figure  and  get-up,   only  a   Tom 
Pinch   in  feature   and   expression.     ''  Eighty    in 
some  months   I  am,"  said  he,   ''and  never  shot 
better  at  rabbits  than  I  did  this  week." 

Quite  thankful  I  was  to  have  Lucas  on  Home, 
as  it  happened  to  be  while  I  was  fermenting 
over  that  unpleasant  side  of  sport  which  makes 
me  tired.  Invaluable  for  disinfecting  antiseptic 
purposes  is  keeping  a  book  like  the  "  Sussex  High- 
ways and  Byways  "  by  you — also  to  recuperate, 
clearing  the  cobwebs  away,  using  it  for  guide  to 
take  many  a  joint  run  with  its  writer.  To  tell 
the  whole  truth,  as  I  chanced  to  be  in  view  of  my 
old  crony's  favourite  country  I  half  made  up  my 
mind  to  cut  work  and  let  it  slide  while  I  took  a 
spell  off,  following  some  of  his  routes  over  the 
Downs  or  in    the    Weald,   where   once   he    was 


LEWES  AND  ITS  COUNTRY  97 

qualified  to  make  a  census  of  man,  woman,  child, 
man-servant  and  maid-servant,  with  a  shrewd 
guess  at  the  strangers  within  the  gates,  the  oxen 
and  other  stock,  and  a  certain  knowledge  of  all 
regular  carriers'  and  callers' ''  days,"  fairs,  markets, 
and  cross-roads,  where  lifts  might  be  reckoned  on 
with  certainty.  For  two  pins,  or  one,  or  none  at 
all,  only  a  congenial  soul  putting  me  up  to  play- 
ing truant,  I  would  have  forsaken  Lewes  racing 
summarily  and  ''offed"  it  somewhere,  say  to  the 
sheep  fair  towards  the  Falmer-road,  where  im- 
memorial shepherds  and  prehistoric  dogs  congre- 
gate, and  wealthy  dealers  and  farmers  haggle  for 
dear  life  over  twopence-halfpenny  on  a  five 
hundred  pounds  turnover.  The  air  was  all 
against  walking,  in  that  it  made  you  want  to  run, 
and,  so  to  speak,  throw  rheumatismi  and  stiff 
knees,  twinges  in  the  easterly  breeze,  and  short- 
ness of  puff  to  the  metaphorical  dogs,  and  start 
away  at  a  good  round,  sound  trot. 

Whichever  way  you  went  you  could  not  be 
wrong  in  poor  old  Home's  country,  its  uplands 
free,  and  the  low  cut  up  into  all  manner  of  patterns 
by  frequent  footpaths,  occupation  roads,  quite 
public  lanes,  and  parish  or  council  roads.  Within 
easy  range  you  might  pick  half  a  dozen  distinct 
tracts  of  country,  strongly  individual  in  character 
— neighbours,  but  distinct  in  type  as  are  families 
of  humans,  from  the  great  grey-green  chalk 
ranges  through  the  zone  where  the  chalk  and  the 
clay  meet,  with  changed  vegetation  to  match  the 
blend,  the  oak  begins  to  grow  sturdily,  and  the 
water  to  gather  readily.  Farther  out  crop  up 
sandy  Surrey-and-Birket-Foster  heath  and  fir 
belts,  with  wide,  windy  commons,  made  for 
squatters   and   geese   and   donkeys,    with    white 

G 


98  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

windmills,  half  of  them  cashiered  by  foreign  im- 
portations, making  landmarks  like  lighthouses  or 
seafarers'  beacons,  and  storm-tried  and  twisted 
firs.  Again  at  your  service  are  harder  sandstone 
— ferruginous,  often  quarters  good  to  grow  any- 
thing, and  leading  up  in  series  to  high  elevated, 
heather-clad  hills,  wild  and  poor  as  many  a  York- 
shire wold  or  Scotch  moor,  and  for  all  we  know 
rich  in  minerals  ;  certainly  holding  plenty  of  iron. 
Through  the  brook-lands,  where  the  Ouse  was 
once  a  vast  lagoon  to  Newhaven,  the  sea  peeps 
up  between  Newhaven's  head  and  the  white 
Scars  of  Seaford.  Villages  by  the  dozen,  mostly 
no  bigger  than  a  hundred  years  ago  ;  hamlets  by 
the  gross,  certainly  smaller ;  parks  and  manor 
houses ;  old  and  new  churches,  flint  and  tile 
churches,  brick  and  ragstone,  and  churches  buried 
in  ivy.  Churches  with  shingle  spires,  churches 
thatched  and  walled  with  limestone  blocks,  tall 
stone  ones,  all  sorts  and  sizes,  except  great,  but 
mostly  too  many  for  the  existing  population — not 
to  say  congregation — dot  the  wide  area.  Many 
enough  to  half  excuse  the  poor  old  devil  who 
always  gets  cheated  in  trying  to  dig  a  canal  to  let 
the  sea  through  and  drown  out  the  garrisons  of 
these  forts  and  picket-houses. 

All  the  country-side  was  calling  in  familiar 
voices  as  I  expect  it  called  old  John  Home  when 
he  made  up  his  mind  that  the  sensible  man's  con- 
ventional wants  are  few  and  the  luxury  of  free 
elbow-room,  fresh  air,  and  exercise  necessities. 
Tempted  I  was  to  cut  work  and  do  myself  a 
power  of  good  ranging  as  chance  or  fancy  directed. 
Instead  of  which  I  ''minded  my  book"  and  made 
believe  to  be  content  with  a  trifling  turn  next  day 
round  Lewes's  big  chalk  detached  lump  of  down 


LEWES  AND  ITS  COUNTRY  99 

called  the  Cliffe,  in  the  grey  filmy  dawn  almost 
stern  and  quite  romantic,  with  the  hill-tops  only 
half  revealed  and  the  mist  veils  slowly  clearing  to 
presently  leave  the  blue  sky  you  get  scarcely  any- 
where— except  about  the  downs,  and  at  that  with 
an  east  wind.  Fresh  and  clear  soon  came  the 
views,  as  if  smoke  manufactured  by  gas,  and  lime, 
and  cement,  and  electric  light  works  were  un- 
known industries,  and  nothing  more  dingy  than 
a  wood  camp  fire's  blue  wreaths  soiled  the  turf 
whose  every  seed  spike  held  gossamer  webbing 
with  dew-crystalled  thistle-down  caught  by  the 
thousand  to  the  square  rod.  A  trifling  turn  did 
I  call  it  ungratefully  ?  Perhaps  I  did  ;  but  not 
really  unmindful  of  a  great  enjoyment  available 
to  any  dweller  in  or  visitor  to  Lewes  with  an  hour 
to  spare  and  power  to  appreciate  these  country 
charms  what  time  brisk  air  made  one  wonder 
how  poor  folk,  however  rich  in  money  or  material 
money's  worth,  managed  to  live  in  towns  or  on 
low  level  anywhere.  Available  was  the  word,  but 
availed  of!  no,  as  has  happened  so  often  within 
my  experience  as  to  make  me  consider  dyspepsia 
among  folk  neglectful  of  their  great  opportunities 
to  absorb  perfect  health  a  wilful  criminal  offence, 
and  distaste  for  brisk  exercise  punishable  without 
the  option  of  a  fine. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

SUSSEX    ROAD-LORE 

Would  organising  a  milestone  maintenance  and 
restoration  fund  be  possible  ?  Often  I  have 
alluded  to  their  being  removed,  maimed,  or 
destroyed,  wantonly  or  of  set  design.  Nowhere 
do  I  find  the  work  of  restoration,  or  even  substi- 
tuting poorer  apologies  for  the  old  indicators. 
Still,  one  may  as  well  keep  on  appealing,  as 
perhaps  sooner  or  later  we  may  wake  up  the 
somebody  whose  business  it  is  to  see  after  such 
matters  and  who  makes  a  business  of  not  doing 
so.  Foundation  of  complaint  is  apparent  pretty 
much  all  over  the  country,  in  some  parts  more 
than  others,  but  nowhere  is  the  inquiring  traveller 
who  wants  to  know,  you  know,  worse  off  than 
about  Brighton  and  those  parts.  On — or,  rather 
off — the  Shoreham  road  the  milestones  have 
pretty  well  gone  altogether.  The  going  of  one 
noted  landmark — ''the  six-mile  stone,"  as  it  was 
generally  spoken  of,  opposite  a  small  pub.  at  New 
Shoreham,  the  Royal  George,  if  I  recollect  right — 
marks  a  quite  serious  local  loss.  What  for  should 
anybody  move  it  away,  I  want  to  know.  Again, 
the  little  bits  of  wood  which  did  duty  between 
Brighton  and    Lewes,  and  along  towards  East- 

100 


SUSSEX  ROAD-LORE  101 

bourne,  are  going  or  gone.  Letting  them  fall  to 
decay  is  paltry  meanness,  and  stealing  them  is 
low  work,  something  in  the  canary-birds'  sugar- 
lifting  or  blind  man's  dog's  pannikin-buzzing  line, 
quite  at  the  bottom  of  the  pettiest  larceny. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  Lewes  Corporation 
did  walk  off  with  one  or  two  of  the  old  mile-posts 
to  use  for  their  own  purposes.  That,  perhaps, 
may  be  a  reason  why  the  eighth  from  Brighton 
on  their  road  is  not  a  post  at  all  but  a  stone  slab 
set  up  out  of  their  reach  in  a  first-floor  wall  nearly 
opposite  Keere-street,  a  slope  whose  steep  way  is 
paved  with  the  stony-heartedest  of  flint  boulders. 
They  can't  get  at  that,  I  am  pleased  to  say,  or 
likely  enough  they  would,  for  familiarity  has  bred 
indifference  to  the  lessons  offered  by  two  gaols 
giving  the  town  a  tone.  On  the  old  London-to- 
Brighton  turnpike  which  runs  through  Lewes 
and  Uckfield,  are  (where  they  have  been  left)  very 
prettily  adorned  iron  milestones  with  a  device  of 
bells,  wild  lily-bells,  somewhat  similar  to  the  old- 
fashioned  bell,  which  was  a  cup  used  for  drinking, 
as  also  for  racing  prizes.  Witness  the  Paisley 
silver  bells.  Going  from  one  Brighton-through- 
Lewes- to- London  road  to  another — that  running 
by  way  of  the  Chaileys  and  Sheffield  Park,  and  so 
on  by  East  Grinstead — you  find  the  same 
character  of  lily-bells  adopted  for  the  Chailey 
Five  Bells  Inn.  Now,  what  is  the  true  inward- 
ness and  significance  of  the  device  ?  When  I 
take  my  walks  abroad  on  those  highways  I  ask, 
but  no  one  has  reasonable  explanation  to  offer — 
not  even  the  hostelry  landlord. 

Recurring  to  the  subject  of  missing  milestones 
and  the  Lewes-to- Uckfield  road,  I  feel  pretty 
certain  as  to  what  has  become  of  some  of  these 


102  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

bell-ornamented  distance-markers.  Simply,  they 
have  buried  themselves  in  the  earth  by  their 
own  weight.  I  found  one  the  other  day  nearly 
sunk,  little  more  than  the  numerals  48  at  the 
top  of  the  casting  remained  above  ground — that 
and  just  one  bell.  An  almost  if  not  quite, 
identical  device  occurs  in  the  graveyards  near 
about.  Mr  F.  Chatterton,  writing  from  Sussex 
to  kindly  enlighten  me,  ought  to  know  when  he 
says  that  of  the  bells  of  which  I  spoke,  with  a 
true-lover's  knot  sort  of  scroll  bow  at  the  top 
symbolise  Bow  Bells — a  suggestion  another  good 
friend  made  previously.      Here  is  the  letter  : — 

"  Apparently  you  did  not  notice  the  very  evident 
bow  above  the  bells.  The  assumption  that  because 
there  are  bells  on  some  of  the  tombstones  they  must 
have  the  same  explanation  as  those  on  the  milestones, 
is  entirely  your  own.  People  living  in  the  district  have 
always  been  aware  that  on  the  milestones  it  signified 
miles  so-and-so  from  Bow  Bells.  Whether  from  Bow 
Church  or  the  parish,  is  not  clear ;  probably  from  Bow 
Church." 

But  even  now  I  am  not  certain  that  we  have  the 
right  solution  of  a  puzzle  I,  at  one  time  and 
another,  took  a  goodish  deal  of  trouble  to  unravel. 
When  my  informant  says  that  people  living  in 
the  district  have  always  been  aware  that  the 
numerals  indicate  distance  in  miles  from  Bow 
Bells,  the  church,  or  parish,  he  quotes  authorities 
never  available  in  my  little  investigations.  Not 
once  but  many  times  have  I  consulted  people 
living  in  the  district — Brighton,  through  Lewes 
to  East  Grinstead  by  two  roads,  makes  my  district 
for  purposes  of  this  argument — also  asked  Sussex 
archaeological  celebrities,  and  gone  empty  away. 


SUSSEX  ROAD-LORE  103 

Really,  for  myself  and  quite  a  number  of  friends 
struck  by  the  charming  bells'  device,  I  should  be 
only  too  pleased  to  arrive  at  the  true  inwardness 
of  the  decoration  ;  also  to  be  told  what  roads  to 
London,  from  north,  south,  east,  or  west,  counted 
from  Bow  Church.  ''  Paterson's  Roads "  does 
not  appear  to  afford  the  required  data,  and  I  was 
almost  discouraged  from  further  search  because 
my  good  friend  Henry  Hewitt  Griffin — most 
alarmingly  patient,  persevering  prober  Into 
statistics  and  all  sorts  of  musty  records  — 
happened  to  write  about  a  book  he  thought  of 
making  out  of  tracking,  like  Mr  Pickwick  and 
the  Hampstead  Ponds,  the  London  roads  to 
their  very  source  or  first  recognisable  existence. 
Mr  G.,  in  sketching  his  plan,  mentioned  the 
extraordlnray  number  of  different  points  of 
departure  or  termination  these  highways  radiat- 
ing from  the  metropolis  had,  so  that  when  you 
made  any  place  so  far  from  or  to  London  by  the 
stones,  real  understanding  of  the  exact  distance 
could  be  arrived  at  only  if  the  particular  point  In 
London's  City — or  Southwark's  Borough — was 
understood.  If  the  Brighton  via  Lewes  to 
London  roads  were  measured  to  Cheapslde,  then 
possibly  my  correspondents  are  correct ;  but  I 
cannot  help  fancying  there  is  more  local  character 
in  the  bells  on  the  Sussex  milestones  and  the 
Sussex  gravestones  and  finlals  of  ancient  Sussex 
houses  than  comes  from  connection  with  routes  to 
Bow.  I  hope  that  recent  correspondents  will 
excuse  my  challenging  their  assumption  that  I 
did  not  notice  the  very  evident  bow  above  the 
bells.  That  Is  just  what  I  did,  on  the  milestones 
and  the  tombstones  as  well,  and  the  coincidence 
struck   me  as    precluding    the   explanation    now 


104  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

SO  kindly  volunteered,  because  the  graveyard 
memorials  appeared  the  older.  My  road-book 
makes  the  stones  date  from  London  Bridge  and 
makes  no  mention  of  Cheapside  at  all,  while  one 
of  the  recorders  itself  states  a  distance  from 
Westminster  and  the  Standard  in  Cornhill.  I 
do  not  call  to  mind  Bow  Church  coming  in  in 
this  connection. 

The  Commons  and  Footpaths  Preservation 
Society  is  quite  willing  to  go  as  low  as  milestones. 
I  have  a  letter  from  Mr  Lawrence  W.  Chubb, 
the  society's  secretary,  explaining  this,  and  also 
explaining  but  too  clearly  the  reasons  why  they 
disappear.  Unfortunately  the  state  of  affairs  he 
indicates,  with  milestones  on  the  inner  side  of 
hedges,  or  made  off  with  altogether,  in  process  of 
removing  neighbours'  landmarks,  can  be  noted 
all  too  frequently.  The  way  in  which  small  or 
large  grassy  selvedges  between  the  actual  high- 
ways' edges  and  the  adjacent  proprietors'  legal 
limits  are  absorbed  is  almost  wonderful.  Many 
of  us  are  old  enough  to  remember  how  forest 
land  got  itself  enclosed  wholesale,  brought  into 
cultivation,  and  then  chained  up  to  a  title  some- 
how manufactured  in  face  of  apparent  barefaced 
robbery.  A  great  deal  of  this  assimilation  has 
been  stopped,  yet  much  is  engineered  still  from 
more  or  less  common  lands,  and  quite  a  lively  in- 
dustry regularly  carried  on  by  swell  land-grabbers 
in  picking  up  odds  and  ends  anywhere  from  road- 
sides, etc. 

The  iron  markers  on  certain  Sussex  roads 
were  without  doubt  turned  out  from  the  county's 
own  works.  The  very  first  of  these  smelteries 
for  native — i.e.,  local — iron  was  installed  just  on 
the   Crowborough    side   of  the   pretty   park    at 


SUSSEX  ROAD-LORE  105 

Uckfield,  formerly  a  residence  of  the  Lords 
Liverpool,  and  I  should  say — this  being  so 
handy — their  actual  iron  milestones  were  cast 
hard  by  Uckfield,  handy  to  Buxted  probably. 
Sussex  iron  was,  you  know,  about  the  best  in 
England,  as  it  ought  to  be,  because  it  was 
smelted  with  charcoal,  a  circumstance  this  last  to 
make  the  district  lament  loss  of  any  quantity  of 
timber  from  the  semi-common  forests.  Pro- 
prietors were  not  going  to  cut  their  own  fuel  or 
buy  in  the  regular  way  when  they  might  collar  it 
at  first  hand  or  be  cheap  receivers  to  inferior- 
grade  thieves.  Very  dreadful  such  depredations 
were  and  are  ;  but,  after  all,  sneaking  other  folks' 
wood  is  not  so  bad  as  laying  felonious  hands  on 
the  land  where  the  timber  grows,  and  keeping 
the  lot,   stock,  lock,  and  barrel. 

Miles  rather  than  acres  of  Sussex  forests 
went  in  the  not  long  ago,  and  I  can  see  plenty 
more  being  put  in  trim  to  be  swallowed  up.  A 
nice  ingenious  dodge  to  this  end  is  in  vogue,  and 
easy  as  anything  if  worked  skilfully.  All  you 
have  to  do  is  to  encourage  gorse  to  grow  right 
on  the  edges  of  the  lands  over  which  are  certain 
rights  for  copyholders,  etc.  Its  growth  is  care- 
fully tended  and  directed  till  at  last  what  were 
odd  bushes  scattered  about  irregularly  take 
formal  order,  and  presently  constitute  a  remark- 
ably compact,  complete,  well-trimmed  hedge,  to 
be  judiciously  strengthened  by  and  by  with  posts 
and  wire,  and  there  you  are,  with  the  job  done. 
I  could  show  you  hundreds  to  thousands  of  acres 
being  so  transmogrified  from  common  to  freehold, 
and  so  I  could  whole  parishes  dominated  by  a 
big  proprietor  who  pushes  his  hedges  out  so  as 
to  mop  up  all  the  strips  of  green  lining  the  high- 


106  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

ways.  Little  folk  do  not  dare  protest,  big  ones 
stand  waiting  their  turn  for  a  bit  of  swag.  Mr 
Chubb's  society  fights,  or  puts  others  in  the  way 
of  so  doing,  when  warfare  is  practicable.  But, 
strive  all  one  can  to  check  the  abuse,  grabbing 
never  ceases,  and  expense  beats  protestants 
against  the  systematic  land-lifters.  Most  interest- 
ing work  is  to  be  found  in  tracing  out  the  course  of 
ancient  green  lanes  and  piecing  them  together  as 
best  you  may,  filling  in  stretches  where  between 
recognised  remnants  instalments  have  disap- 
peared. More  interesting  would  be  looking  into 
the  titles  of  land  across  or  along  which  these 
lanes  formerly  took  their  course.  You  and  I, 
Refereaders,  may  not  be  exactly  in  position  to 
grumble  at  the  species  of  land-grabbing,  because 
if  we  had  been  about  while  the  lanes  were  in 
existence  and  fit  for  circulation,  our  share  of  them 
would  go  no  farther  than  privilege  to  use  them 
for  passage.  Now,  in  the  majority  of  cases — not 
by  any  means  always — a  good  hard  road  has 
superseded  the  indifferent  unmade  way.  But,  all 
the  same,  that  someone  did  collar  the  land  itself 
is  a  sure  thing. 

Thinking  on  the  days  when  the  Weald  of 
Sussex  rang  with  the  clang  of  the  local  iron- 
foundry's  hammerers — ''strikers"  are  they  not 
called  ? — suggested  comparisons  on  a  time. 
(Pray,  readers  of  the  North  Countrie  also  the 
Midland,  pardon  my  lugging  in  a  good  John 
Wesleyism  presently.) 

I  was  making  survey  of  the  charming  Sussex, 
so-called  Wealden,  scenery  up  Uckfield  way,  on 
the  borders  of  Ashdown  Forest,  overlying  un- 
doubtedly rich  iron  deposits,  also  the  Kentish 
coalfields   that  (maybe)  are  to  be.     So    much    I 


SUSSEX  ROAD-LORE  107 

did,  as  I  always  can,  to  my  Intense  satisfaction. 
Next  I  was  dumped  in  Lancashire  with  skies 
made  murky  by  stalks'  smoke  and  grimy  spoil 
banks  ;  big  wheels  like  revolving  gallows,  and 
cables  coming  out  of  the  pits'  depths  ;  smutty 
canals  and  inky  water  gathered  on  the  barren 
wastes'  undermined  faces  ;  doleful,  disused,  dingy 
brickworks'  buildings  and  forsaken  cottages, 
looking  all  the  dirtier  for  having  been  whitened  ; 
and,  worst  of  all,  deserted  shafts,  shuddery 
spectacles  to  the  inexperienced  in  colliery  ways 
and  practices.  Money,  much  money,  more 
money,  most  money,  might  be  in  It — very  likely 
was.  Land  paid,  we  will  allow,  far  better  from 
its  subterranean  crop  than  pastorally  or  agri- 
culturally treated.  What  was  dreadfully  dull  and 
depressing  to  one  used  to  clean  country,  clear 
skies,  and  green  trees  and  fields  was  no  doubt 
just  homely  to  those  bred  and  born  to  the 
conditions.  The  pitmen's  gritty  life  must  be 
healthy,  otherwise  they  could  not  be  so  spry  and 
smart  out  of  their  coal  dust,  and  their  labour  is 
well  paid  for — well,  look  at  their  spending-money. 
Nobody  wanted  pitying,  and  possibly  all  had 
happened  for  the  best  all  round.  Yet  there  was 
I  mentally  addressing  the  Sussex  iron  and  Kent 
coal  lands  with  the  Wesleyism,  ''There,  but  for 
grace,  go  Kent  and  Sussex." 

Did  Sussex  Iron-smelting  carry  with  It 
blackness  for  the  country  ?  Not  much,  I  expect, 
judging  from  the  prospects  round  and  about  the 
site  of  the  first  foundry  in  the  county,  overlooked 
by  Hog  House,  decorated  with  a  pig  in  Iron,  the 
Hogges'  family  rebus  moulded  at  the  works  just 
over  the  way,  scene  of  operations  for  '*  Ralph 
Hogge  and  his  man  John,  who  atte  Buxtede  cast 


108  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

ye  first  can-non  for  Henry  the  Eight  times,"  as 
he  would  be  called  in  the  ring  and  in  the  year 
1543.  One  local  foundry  hereabouts  turned  out 
for  the  Earl  of  Cumberland  forty-two  cast 
cannons  of  6000  lb.  each  ;  but  no  trace  is  left 
except,  perhaps,  in  an  openness  of  country 
suggestive  of  forest-clearing  for  fuel.  Here  you 
are  on  a  Kenty  sort  of  hop-growing  land,  with 
mighty  rocks  occasionally  and  irony  sandstone  to 
be  had  all  over  the  place  for  the  getting  out,  to 
build  houses  or  make  walls  for  ferns  to  grow  on. 
Away  on  the  high  ridges,  fir  clumps  and  bare 
lands — not  really  bare,  you  know,  for  heather, 
bracken,  gorse,  broom,  stunted  thorns,  and  heath 
flowers  grow — do  remind  you  of  Staffordshire 
Hednesford's  bleakness  ;  but  on  three  other  sides 
you  have  farm  fields  and  meadows  richly  wooded. 
Then  at  the  back  of  you  is  Buxted  Park,  adorned 
with  mighty  oaks  and  thick  pine  woods,  a  branch 
Ouse  to  water  the  low  meads  and  the  old,  short- 
cropped  turf,  telling  of  deer-pasturing.  Deer 
there  are,  too,  in  plenty,  and  other  game,  wood- 
pigeons  in  clouds  wheeling  again  and  again  over 
the  tall  tree-tops  before  going  really  to  roost, 
after  making-believe  to  settle  down  for  the  night 
times  out  of  number,  and  taking  twice  as  long  as 
the  rooks  to  tuck  themselves  up. 

The  sky  is  clear  and  glowing' — at  least,  was 
on  the  day  in  early  December  to  which  I  refer — 
the  wind  keen  and  clean  ;  for  all  suggestion  of 
shafts  upwards  or  downwards,  or  racket  of 
machinery,  or  din  of  works,  such  might  not  be 
and  never  have  been.  The  halls'  red  brick  might 
have  endured  all  its  days  in  Holland,  where  the 
new  house  set  up  yesterday  and  the  centuries-old 
cathedral  hard  by  are  alike  to  a  shade  in  colour. 


SUSSEX  ROAD-LORE  109 

Age  does  the  church  in  the  Park — once  hemmed 
in,  so  says  local  authority,  by  cottages,  now  non- 
apparent — show,  but  a  rustic,  green,  well-cared-for 
old  age  it  is.  Rest  and  peace  you  are  offered  all 
about  the  domain,  though  you  are  forbidden  to 
go  off  the  paths  or  roads,  and  you  may  not  bring 
bicycles  or  perambulators,  neither  may  you 
wander,  picnic,  nor  saunter?  Cruel  is  that  last, 
or  would  be,  if  Lord  Liverpool's  descendant 
enforced  the  notice-board  order.  If  ever  a  place 
was  designed  for  sauntering  Buxted  Park  is, 
more  especially  for  a  meditative  man  taking  his 
recreation  wondering  whether  the  spirit  of  quiet 
was  ever  driven  away  by  Messrs  Ralph  Hogge 
and  Co.,  smelters,  gun-casters,  and  all  the  rest, 
but  returned,  and  whether  if  works  are  to  take 
their  spell  in  due  course  Buxted  Park  is  to  be 
like  the  northern  ones  I  can  quote — oases,  green 
spots  in  a  desert  of  noise  and  fire  and  blackness. 

Both  Sussex  and  Kent  may  be  fortunate  or 
unfortunate  as  one  pleases  to  value  circumstances 
enough  to  become  most  prosperously  black  some 
day ;  after  my  time,  I  hope,  if  postponement  will 
not  hurt  anyone.  Sussex  seems  less  likely  of  the 
two  to  be  converted  (and,  I  may  add,  that 
working  its  iron  from  the  days  of  the  Romans 
down  to  1825  has  left  it  clean  enough  all  the 
same),  but  the  neighbours'  native  prettiness  is 
against  their  chances  of  being  left  as  they  are, 
for  fate  has  ordained  that  beauty  should  in  so 
many  cases  carry  the  fatal  concomitant  of  coal  or 
iron  bearing.     I  know  which  aspect  I  like  best 


CHAPTER    IX 

RYE    AND    EASTBOURNE 

That  old-world  outpost  on  the  marsh,  the  Cinque 
Port  of  Rye,  is  a  place  I  wouldn't  willingly  have 
missed  doing,  and  would  always  take  some 
trouble  to  renew  the  experience,  if  only  because 
I  like  to  be  right  in  understanding ;  and  a 
travelled  stranger,  viewing  the  town  and  the 
great  hummock  its  site,  must  evolve  a  wrong 
environment  for  the  grey  stone  and  red  brick 
turtle-backed  settlement.  You  are  impressed 
with  its  Low  Country  stamp,  and  in  your  mind's 
eye  plan  it  out  to  fit  in  with  Flemish  towns  and 
pictures.  Suppose,  my  friend,  you  who  have 
seen  men  and  cities,  you  were  shown  in  the 
distance  a  thickly-built-over  island  mound,  set 
on  a  dead  level  of  flats,  dyke  or  ditch-drained, 
with  on  one  quarter  of  the  horizon  sea  rising 
from  the  shore-line.  Would  you  not  expect  this 
city  or  burgh  to  be  invested  by  moats,  and 
poplars  and  willows,  and  quinces,  with  stagnant, 
none-too-wholesome-smelling  waters,  and  walks 
or  promenades  mortifying  gritty  to  the  foot  tread, 
as  is  invariably  the  case  on  water-side  all  the 
world  over  ?  You  will,  my  friend,  I  guess,  while 
first  viewing  Rye,   the  colony  in  question,  be  so 


RYE  AND  EASTBOURNE  111 

impressed  by  a  feeling  of  knowing  it  already — 
somewhere  abroad.  Accordingly  you  set  to  work 
to  explain  away  the  absence  of  copperasy  green 
sheen  from  the  tall  buildings'  roofs  by  light  s 
effect,  and  take  as  heard  a  cheerful  carillonade,  a 
practically  incessant  discourse  from  the  church 
belfries  on  the  hill.  A  market-place  must  be,  you 
know,  nearabouts  to  the  high-standing  church 
or  churches,  and  ponderous  dogs  patiently  waiting 
their  masters  and  mistresses'  orders  to  tug  big 
loads  over  very  cobbly  cobbled  stones,  or  rattle 
off  *'  light "  save  for  two  or  three  hundredweight 
of  passengers.  Probably  hard  by  is  a  barracks 
and  small  soldiers  doing  a  power  of  nothing  with 
miHtary  but  dilatory  precision.  The  embar- 
rassingly polite  inhabitants  you  can't  see,  for  the 
houses  in  between,  make  you  pity  a  Royalty  who 
must  acknowledge  salutes  each  moment.  Nippers 
invisible  to  the  naked  eye  ungifted  with  extra 
double  microscopes  are,  you  dare  swear,  respon- 
sible for  much  of  the  mild  din,  the  noise-dust 
raised  by  life's  friction  within  the  township's 
walls,  an  olla  podrida  of  sounds  floating  over  the 
flats  like  a  busy  coast  city's  roar  to  the  shipping 
far  out  at  sea.  Under  the  hillock's  shadow  are 
lusthausen  to  which,  mere  toy  locations  just  over 
the  canals  from  the  burgh,  citizens  resort,  cutting 
themselves  off  in  imagination  from  town  ways 
and  responsibilities.  The  elders  in  and  out  of 
the  settlement  are  deliberate,  the  youngsters 
nimble  of  foot  and  brisk  of  speech,  fast  in  their 
games,  childishly  good-natured,  and  sweetly, 
sociably  unselfish.  You  have  seen  the  place,  or 
something  own  brother  to  it,  by  the  score  in  the 
Low  Countries — the  real  thing.  '*  Set  "  with  the 
sheep  on  the  flats,  now  in  evidence,  more  cows. 


112  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

bigger  dykes,  and  a  shower  of  windmills  scattered 
about  the  whole  mise-en-scene — its  own  brothers 
have  appeared  to  you  time  and  again  on  canvas 
coloured  by  Nicholas  and  the  other  (Gaspard) 
Poussin,  Berghem,  and  by  plenty  more  who 
drew  what  they  saw  in  Flanders  and  Holland.  I 
put  it  to  you,  Refereaders,  whether  if  you  didn't 
know  who  Rye  was,  so  to  speak,  and  took  it  on 
in  casual  rencontre  without  Winchelsea  to  give 
you  hints,  you  would  not  write  down  this  Cinque 
Port  as  Dutch.  You  must,  I  am  sure  of  that, 
and  so,  as  I  said,  I  felt  satisfaction  in  proving  the 
place  for  myself. 

Dutch,  not  a  bit  of  it ;  but  very  English, 
though  English  of  a  peculiar  type,  is  old  Rye, 
what  is  left  of  it,  and  New,  what  has  been  added 
of  late,  mostly  with  reverential  desire  to  preserve 
the  unities  and  assume  mediaevality  if  you  have 
it  not.  A  quaint  mosaic  in  many  anomalous 
ways,  an  ''amphibious"  resort  where  the  agri- 
cultural and  sea-going  industries  meet  and  merge, 
is  this  most  peaceful  haven  of  rest,  eloquent 
always  of  stormy,  strifeful  days,  yet  a  nook 
wherein  to  take  breathing  time,  thinking  of  made 
rather  than  making  history.  Rye  offers  a  calm 
land  anchorage  wherein  to  lay  up  for  repairs  ;  or 
as  paid  off,  in  permanence  to  dwell  and  be 
thankful,  putting  aside  tiresome  harness  of  life's 
hard  Sturm  und  Drang.  Here,  if  anywhere,  you 
should  ''forget"  as  one  forgets  long  toil  in  the 
transient  sleep  that  might  be  a  night's  or  of  a  few 
seconds  only,  but  means  an  absolute  break  of 
some  sort  in  labour's  continuity  and  refreshment 
withal  beyond  the  power  of  all  stimulant,  cordial 
or  medicinal.  "That  solar  shadow  as  it 
measures  time  it  life  resembles,  too,"  says   the 


RYE  AND  EASTBOURNE  113 

sun-dial  facing  the  wonderful  old  clock  in  Rye's 
church  tower.  A  busy  man  couldn't  absorb  this 
text  and  sermon  in  one,  taking  it  well  into  his 
system,  nor  an  easy-going  one  either,  unless  in 
such  environment  as  the  setting,  where  it  came  to 
me  at  the  back  of  the  market  hall.  (Under  the 
hall  is  stored  a  century-and-a-half-old  fire  engine 
bearing  the  name  of  Brahma,  relation  of  the 
lock-maker,  I  suppose.)  An  inoffensive,  appro- 
priate method  of  mensuration,  too,  is  the  dial's  ; 
no  noise,  no  wheels  to  go  round  and  click,  no 
whirrings  at  recurrent  crises,  marking  more  or 
less  important  sub-divisions  of  time  which  means 
life,  no  strikings  and  chimings,  no  windings  up, 
no  labour,  manual  or  mechanical — simply  auto- 
matic record  of  slipping,  solving  lapse  with  the 
total  loss  or  gain — who  shall  say  which  ? — wiped 
out  at  sundown  and  no  score  carried  forward. 

Worth  a  bit  to  a  hard-driven  worker,  you 
know,  is  a  spell  of  sitting  under  the  sun  on  a  day 
in  late  August  while  he  preaches  to  you  from  a 
text  like  that.  I  wonder  whether  good  old 
Ingoldsby  used  to  come  over  from  Barham  way 
— (Tapperton  Grange,  was  ii,  he  called  Barham  ? 
I  think  I  saw  the  pretty  old  house  advertised  in 
Rye  for  sale  by  auction) — and  had  been  resting 
under  the  dial  opposite  the  great  church  clock 
when  he  wrote  "  As  I  lay  a-thynkynge."  Perhaps 
he  had,  for  he  must  have  been  fond  of  Rye  and 
Winchelsea,  and  his  fifth  quarter  of  the  world, 
Romney  Marsh,  that  in  his  days  had  not  so 
grown  out  of  the  sea,  not  by  many  a  hundred 
acres,  now  making  good  feed  for  the  white-faced, 
symmetrically-built  sheep,  who  are  treated  so 
much  better  than  humans  in  these  parts.  Their 
lambs,    flourishing   exceedingly    in   the   summer, 

H 


114  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

are  moved  to  kinder  quarters  when  wintry  rigours 
arrive.  The  human  dwellers  on  the  low  lands 
can't  send  their  lambs  to  the  hills  and  downs,  and 
he  who  walks  and  sees  with  understanding  eyes 
needs  only  a  little  looking  at  the  youngsters* 
complexions  to  tell  what  the  cold  wet  marshes 
and  the  white  mists  do  for  this  sort  of  youngsters. 
Pleasant  places  the  Rye  men's  lines  are  laid  in 
while  fine  weather  lasts,  pleasant  enough  to  make 
me  often  wish  for  much  racing  at  Folkestone, 
making  excuse  to  drop  over  (by  convenient 
trains,  you  know)  to  the  colony  on  the  cape 
point  of  a  long  promontory  shelving  on  the  edge 
of  the  Rother's  course.  A  regatta  was  on  as  I 
arrived,  the  riverside  *'buntinged"  up  to  the 
eyes,  and  the  main  street  full  of  committee-men — 
so  I  made  for  the  marshes  and  the  golf-links  at 
Camber,  where  the  process  of  vegetable  colonisa- 
tion I  alluded  to  from  Selsey  gallops,  absolutely 
gallops.  There  can  you  see  shingle  turned  into 
pasture  almost  while  you  wait,  and  the  yellow- 
horned  poppies  grow  and  the  bugloss  and  the 
thrift  and  the  nightshade  feeding  on  air  and 
carpeting  the  loose  pebble  beach  with  a  network 
of  vegetation,  mostly  "annuals,"  shortly  to  be 
starved  out  by  the  hardly  perennial  usurper  turf, 
that  turn  reclaimed  waste  into  pasture  before 
Neptune  knows  he  is  in  the  hands  of  the  land- 
grabbers. 

Why  the  deuce  could  I  not  begin  by  con- 
verting the  South- Eastern  so  as  to  get  a  time- 
table all  for  my  own  purposes.-^  If  I  had  I 
would  not  have  come  away  hungering  with 
gnawing  desire  to  see  Dungeness  as  the 
Micawbers  saw  the  Medway.  *'  Over  there," 
said  an  enthusiastic  native  gentleman  of  Kent, 

/ 


RYE  AND  EASTBOURNE  115 

or  Kentish  gentleman,  *'they  walk  about  the 
shingle  on  boards  like  mud  pattens,  which  are 
not  a  bit  like  them,  and  before  the  shingle  has 
properly  left  off  being  rolled  along  coastwise  by 
the  tide,  an  army  of  foxgloves  jump  all  the  space 
and  stick  themselves  up  on  every  square  foot  of 
their  free  selection.  Miles  of  'em  you  can  see." 
Perhaps  I  could  if  I  was  there  to  see,  but  must 
content  myself  with  the  good  old  Honourable 
Artillery  Company  Captain's  ballad's  wish  that 
that  I  may  be  there  to  see  some  day.  Marked 
for  examination  are  Lydd  and  Appledore,  and 
the  moated  Castle  up  the  Rother,  and  a  lot  more 
(which  I  had  to  miss)  of  Rye  and  Winchelsea, 
before  the  painters  make  off  with  their  remains. 
Not  much  can  be  left  shortly,  for  artists  by  the 
score  were  busy,  every  man  of  them,  and  women, 
too,  taking  bits  for  all  he  or  she  was  worth. 
Rye  suited  me,  and  its  George  Hotel,  pretty 
much  a  fellow  hostelry  to  another  *'  George  "  at 
Knutsford  —  Mrs  Gaskell's  ''Cranford."  An 
excellent  house  this  first,  with  capital  lamb  (I 
never  could  believe  in  Kent  lamb  being  so  good 
till  I  tried  it,  but  the  lamb  du  pays  is  highly 
commended),  and  an  old-fashioned  assembly 
room,  adorned  with  a  musician's  perch,  twin  to 
the  one  at  the  Cheshire  Knutsford  George. 
This  hotel  would  give  proper  surroundings  in 
which  to  read  Mrs  Stepney  Rawson's  charming 
tale  of  old  Rye,  "The  Apprentice." 

Did  I  do  the  Ypres  Tower,  and  the  Land 
Gate,  and  the  Mermaid  Inn,  now  a  private  hotel, 
a  reservoir  of  old  furniture  in  its  own  home,  and 
the  queer  corners  and  high-walled  gardens  and 
the  ''kidney"  paved  lanes  called  streets,  and  the 
patriarchal  coasters  and  the  Strand  ?     I   did  as 


116  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

fast  as  I  could,  so  destroying  the  repose  that 
marks  the  house  or  town  of  Rye.  Also  I  did 
Camber's  ruined  castle,  built  by  Henry  VIII., 
whose  brickmaker  must,  I  think,  have  rung  in  and 
used  up  a  stock  of  old  Roman  tiles,  a  mediaeval 
watch-house  of  circular  scheme,  ancestor  in  some 
back-handed  way  to  the  litter  of  martello  towers 
dotted  along  the  shores  which  round  our  coast 
from  Deal  to  Margate  span  also  on  to  Pevensey 
and  Eastbourne.  Quite  in  American  fashion  I 
ticked  off  at  a  canter  Winchelsea's  gates  and 
New  Inn  and  church  and  crypts  and  workhouse- 
gaol,  which  must  have  been  a  monastic  house 
some  time  or  other,  the  almost  tropical  luxury  of 
plant  and  bloom,  and  John  Wesley's  ash-tree.  I 
was  going  to  skirmish  over  to  Fairlight  on  the 
way,  and  look  up  the  chalk  cliff  next  to 
Winchelsea  ;  but,  you  see,  the  railway  company 
hadn't  taken  into  consideration  the  possibilities 
of  racing  folks'  rapid  touring  with  a  notion  of 
settling  down  another  time  to  take  the  sauce  on 
the  strength  of  a  sweetener  on  the  pickles.  I  felt 
it  hard,  deuced  hard,  to  be  unable  to  help  myself 
to  these  other  good  things  offering  all  round. 
(Did  you  ever  come  across  the  longshoremen's 
sweetly  poetical  realisation  of  the  situation  ? 
*'  Sentenced  to  live  in  a  cookshop  with  your 
mouth  sewed  up,"  they  put  it.) 

Perhaps  after  reading  my  very  sketchy  Notions 
on  Rye  and  Ryeabouts,  folk  doing  Folkestone 
may  fancy  to  circulate  to  the  little  town.  They 
can  manage  all  that  by  persuading  the  railway 
company  to  help  itself  to  trade  easy  to  be 
cultivated.  I  fared  well  on  small  limits,  but 
then  I  made  up  for  being  obliged  to  quit  early 
by  doing  Ashford,  and  the  clean  road,  through 


RYE  AND  EASTBOURNE  117 

clean  country,  among  clean  trees,  clean  fields, 
clean  farming,  clean  houses,  and  clean  peasantry 
to  Westenhanger.  On  the  march  I  included  a 
call  at  a  church,  where  every  text — and  many 
are  illuminated  in  fresco  on  the  walls  and  pillars 
— Is  cheerful  and  hopeful,  and  a  man  can  go  out 
from  them  conscientiously  free  to  feel  as  little 
miserable  as  circumstances  permit,  and,  if 
absolutely  joUy,  no  worse  a  sinner  than  he  is 
obliged  to  be.  And  that's  all — nay,  wait  a 
moment — I  forgot  the  clean,  brisk,  cobweb- 
clearing  breeze  that  somewhat  discounted 
jolliness. 

I  don't  know  what  such  a  mighty  swagger 
place  as  Eastbourne  will  say  to  being  put  in  the 
same  chapter  with  little  old-world  Rye.  East- 
bourne is  one  of  my  unlucky  places  as  to 
weather.  Somehow  I  always  get  under  streaky 
weather  there,  arriving  in  sunshine  and  a  balmy 
or  clear  frosty  atmosphere  good  enough  to  tempt 
a  cripple  to  try  and  hop  because  it  makes  him 
feel  so  lightsome,  and  finish  with  bitter  gales 
searching  out  and  finding  the  rheumaticy  patches 
in  my  poor  old  bones  what  time  the  stormy 
winds  do  blow  at  me  cutting  rain,  sleet,  snow,  or 
hail.  The  old  place  I  knew  when  I  was  in  the 
hobbledehoy  stage.  Then  its  best  friend — which 
was,  and  is  now,  the  Duke  of  Devonshire — could 
scarcely  have  dreamed  of  bringing  it,  even  by 
unceasing  liberal  nurture.  Into  so  splendid  mature 
personality  as  It  has  reached.  Success  worthily 
attained  makes  a  grateful  spectacle,  and  East- 
bourne the  Successful  in  the  forenoon  of  a 
brilliant  brisk  day  In  April  was  comforting  to 
contemplate.  Moreover,  I  had  a  good  time  on 
the   way   there    in    Willingdon    Church,    whose 


118  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

Ratton  faculty  chapel — I  take  it  to  be  a  faculty — 
is  worth  a  long  pilgrimage  to  visit,  with  its 
memorials  of  the  Parkers  and  Freeman  Thomases, 
also  a  priceless  muniment  chest  poked  into  a 
dark  corner  as  a  store  for  firewood  and  mean 
odds  and  ends.  Further,  I  promised  myself  to 
look  up  Mr  Lewis,  the  celebrated  South  Coast 
sculler,  and  get  him  to  let  me  look  over  the 
Eastbourne  Rowing  Club's  boats,  craft  in  which 
I  am  greatly  interested,  and  had  thoughts  of 
striking  across  the  hills  to  the  Jevington  stables, 
also  Batho's  at  Alfriston.  Alas !  the  light  was 
turned  off  the  ''old  min."  Mr  Elements  became 
distinctly  unfriendly ;  going  on  the  hills  was 
unwise,  so  I  started  off  on  a  long  walk.  What 
luck  do  you  imagine  came  my  way  for  fifteen 
blessed  miles  ?  I  was  in  the  wake  of  a  motor  car 
which  wouldn't  go  except  by  fits  and  starts,  but 
went  enough  to  be  always  just  ahead  of  me, 
jibbing,  or  doing  something  else  refractory,  at 
short  intervals,  and  going  again  as  I  came  near, 
just  as  if  I  was  the  starter's  man  with  the  long- 
thonged  whip.  I  was  following  a  hot  drag  of 
methol  for  hours,  and  don't  want  any  more  walk- 
ing in  that  way. 

One  of  the  last  names  I  should  expect  to  hit 
upon  came  to  me  at  the  Eastbourne  excursionists' 
favourite  resort,  Litlington,  as  I  was  making  for 
Alfred's  Town,  which,  authority  says,  was  someone 
else's.  Colonial  brothers  who  happen  to  go  that 
way,  you  must  visit  the  churchyard  and  pay  your 
respects  to  "  Charles  Joseph  La  Trobe,  Esq., 
C.B.,  first  Lieutenant-Governor  of  the  Colony  of 
Victoria,  Australia,  who  died  at  Litlington  on 
December  4,  1875,  aged  74,"  and  was  buried 
there.     Born  much  about  at  the  opening  of  1800, 


RYE  AND  EASTBOURNE  119 

was  he  not  ?  A  hundred  years  in  the  history  of 
the  Old  Mother  Country  means  a  lot.  What  has 
the  nineteenth  century  meant  to  Young  Australia 
in  its  advancing  ?  The  gulf  between  the  days  in 
which  Charles  Joseph  La  Trobe  was  Lieutenant- 
Governor — I  presume  this  was  the  La  Trobe 
known  as  Governor  La  Trobe,  after  whom  the 
street  in  Melbourne  was  named — and  the  present 
year  is  almost  impossible  to  realise  in  its  vastness. 
One  may  safely  reckon  that  when  the  to-be 
Governor  went  out  there  was  no  Victoria  so 
catalogued  as  an  independent  colony  ;  Separation 
Day  had  not  arrived ;  far  the  larger  part  of  the 
great  continent  by  now  brought  into  profitable 
use  was  terra  incognita  ;  sailing  ships  took  nearly 
two-thirds  of  a  year  to  get  out  from  the  Old 
Country,  and,  if  they  arrived  in  the  days  of  the 
gold  rush,  might  lie  and  rot  for  want  of  hands  to 
work  them  back.  Australia  had  been  made  the 
rendezvous  for  the  scum  of  the  world  because  of 
the  diggings ;  at  the  gold  fields — all  alluvial 
workings  (mining  in  the  rock  was  not  dreamed 
of,  and  machinery  consisted  of  a  cradle  and  bowl) 
— lucky  ones  made  money  in  lumps  ;  the  mining 
army  as  a  body  earned  rather  less  than  labourers' 
wages  ;  said  army  was  somewhat  more  rigorously 
bullied  by  jumped-up  police  officers  than  convicts  ; 
regular  industry  was  at  a  discount,  and  Governors, 
also  Lieutenant-Governors,  had  to  fight  very 
hard  to  get  their  colonies  recognised  as  worthy  of 
respect  and  entitled  to  fair  consideration  by  the 
home  authorities. 

Bearing  in  mind  how  events  have  shaped 
themselves  down  under,  it  sets  one  thinking  to 
fall  across  in  an  out-of-the-way  rustic  English 
hamlet     the    tomb    of    a   character    notable    in 


120  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

Australian  history,  when  making  it  was  rough 
work  indeed.  Austral-Colonials  "come  home" 
to  England  :  doing  the  return  journey  is  called 
''going  back."  The  homing  instinct  strong  in 
our  race  is  manifest  in  these  two  expressions,  is 
it  not  ?  Most  English-bred  Colonials  must,  I 
fancy,  yearn  to  ''come  home"  when  there  is  no 
chance  of  making  the  return  journey  and  "going 
back,"  because  time  has  come  to  end  all  travel. 
About  this  is  always  to  some  of  us  suggestion  of 
the  pathetic,  even  when  poor,  despised  John 
Chinaman  is  the  sacrificer  to  home  hunger,  and 
can  get  no  nearer  to  his  heart's  desire  than  having 
his  bones  shipped  to  the  Flowery  Land,  part  of  a 
wholesale  freight  of  such  remains. 

I  wonder  if  ever  our  rulers  will  leave  off 
cramping  facilities  for  learning  swimming,  and 
practising  that  most  valuable  art  may  at  last 
wear  into  our  ruler's  hearts.  For  years  and 
years  the  Referee  has  begged  that  bathers  who 
cannot  swim  and  those  who  can  should  be  given 
a  fair  chance.  The  Life-Saving  Society,  started 
by  Messrs  Henry  and  Sinclair,  has  done  wonder- 
fully good  work  in  extending  opportunities  in 
certain  directions  and  arousing  sympathies  which 
wanted  wakening.  Certainly  the  society,  though 
opposed  or  discouraged  in  various  ways,  has  at 
least  brought  swimming's  claims  more  before  the 
people,  who  might  give  it  a  lift  if  they  pleased  ; 
but  with  all  tried  and  done  you  find  genuine 
support  rare  where  it  should  be  strongest  and 
most  frequent.  To  get  the  best  swimmers  you 
must  XMxxs.from  the  natural  school  for  them,  the 
coast,  and  to  the  inland  counties.  To  understand 
what  proper  encouragement  means,  go  to 
Lancashire.       Take    Manchester,    as   we   under- 


RYE  AND  EASTBOURNE  121 

Stand  the  assemblage  of  municipalities  collected 
under  the  city's  style,  and  look  at  its  public  baths. 
Then  turn  to  places  such  as  abound  on  the  South 
Coast — Brighton  and  Eastbourne,  for  example. 
Encourage  use  of  the  natural  advantages  their 
littoral  offers  ?  Not  much,  unless  setting  encroach- 
ing, offensive,  or  vexatious  restrictions  mean 
promoting  bathers'  interests,  and  stringing 
together  a  row  of  prohibitions,  limitations,  and 
penalties  is  calculated  to  act  as  a  stimulant. 
True,  Brighton  has  a  Corporation  fresh-water 
bath  and  Hove's  municipality  a  very  fine  sea- 
water  affair,  carefully  constructed  of  an  odd  length 
to  spoil  it  for  racing,  but  not  a  penny  is  spent  on 
turning  the  shore  line  to  advantage  for  sea-water 
baths.  As  to  the  "open,"  unless  you  are  willing 
to  *'go  in  "  earlier  than  the  most  like  or  later  than 
suits  the  majority,  you  are  left  to  do  the  best  you 
can  for  yourself  from  bathing-machines. 

Eastbourne,  though  extremely  arbitrary  and 
dictatorial  in  its  arrangements  for  bathing, 
flourishes.  Brighton's  best  friend  could  not  have 
the  audacity  and  mendacity  to  declare  that  it  was 
''going  strong."  The  reason  why  the  latter 
wilters  in  the  heat  of  opposition  and  rivalry  is  not 
far  to  seek.  The  high-class  business  that  made 
its  fortune  has  been  driven  away  through 
interfering  with  its  convenience,  also  by  cheap 
tripping,  and  cheap  tripping  does  not  keep  trade 
going.  It  used  to  be  one  of  the  places  for 
children  because  of  its  beach  and  sands,  and  a 
popular  resort  for  boating,  pulling,  and  sailing. 
The  big  steamers  now  serving  well,  probably 
gave  more  in  themselves  than  they  took  in 
ruining  the  longshore  working-boatmen's  trade. 
Besides,    the   perhaps    necessary  new  system  of 


122  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

concrete  groyning  would  have  knocked  the  latter 
out  in  any  case.  Still,  the  small  boating  has 
been  knocked  out  and  the  foreshore  is  not  what 
it  was  at  all.  As  a  watering-place  old  Brighton 
has  vanished,  and  given  way  to  a  new,  which  is 
by  the  sea,  but  not  seaside,  as  it  used  to  be. 
Who  would  go  there  for  sea-bathing  except 
perhaps  fine  swimmers  who  dare  venture  from  the 
piers  ?  You  would  not  select  Brighton  as  it  is  for 
teaching  youngsters  swimming,  nor  for  any 
bathing  from  the  shore,  with  a  "machine"  for 
dressing-room- — at  least,  not  as  things  are  now. 
Still,  I  wonder  if  history  might  be  made  to  repeat 
itself.  Brighthelmstone  grew  from  a  little  fisher 
village  into  a  great  town.  Why  ?  Because  of  its 
sea-bathing.  Suppose  the  authorities,  who  are 
trained  in  laying  out  money  in  big  lumps,  tried 
taking  in  hand  the  splendid  advantages  lying 
literally  at  their  feet,  and  set  about  making  the 
town  what  it  might  easily  be — one  of  the  finest 
sea-bathing  resorts  in  England.  They  need  not 
find  the  capital  themselves,  I  fancy,  if  proper 
plans  were  prepared  and  sites  for  open-air  baths 
granted.  The  resort  is  there,  and  the  sea.  All 
that  is  wanted  is  to  make  the  bathing  easily 
practicable. 

Instead  of  providing  sufficient  accommodation, 
municipalities,  conservancies,  and  such  keep 
driving  bathers  within  narrow  limits  of  space  and 
hours,  all  of  which  means  waste  of  good  material. 
For,  as  has  been  pointed  out  so  often  with  regard 
to  modern  education  at  ratepayers'  expense,  after 
spending  so  much  to  educate  our  Board  scholars 
we  ought  at  least  make  them  go  to  Nature's 
insurance  office  to  cover  against  risk  of  drowning. 
Find  the  kiddies  a  place  to  learn,  and  they  will 


RYE  AND  EASTBOURNE  123 

present  themselves  freely  enough  for  schooling, 
you  may  depend  upon  that.  Unfortunately,  our 
method  is  too  often  to  warn  them  off  their 
natural  water  playgrounds.  More's  the  pity — and 
shame. 

Do  you  know  that  if  only  your  eyes  could 
take  a  slant  down  the  farther  side  of  a  higher 
point,  you  could  see  Eastbourne  from  Brighton 
racecourse?  The  quality  of  the  light  on  the 
South  Downs  is  marvellous.  Sometimes, 
between  the  light  and  the  genial  balmy  air  it  is  a 
privilege  to  be  alive,  to  sit  and  absorb  health  and 
tone  by  the  bushel,  or  however  you  measure  it. 
Not  often  on  a  race  day  can  you  make  out  so 
very  much  beyond  the  cliffs  over  against 
Seaford,  scraped  white  in  making  the  new 
roadway.  But  I  have  known  the  sight  carry 
right  to  the  highest  point  of  the  downs  looking 
on  to  Eastbourne.  All  the  same,  not  a  trace  of 
the  several  towns  and  villages  en  route — 
Ovingdean,  Rottingdean,  Telscombe,  Newhaven, 
Bishopstone,  Seaford,  and  those  between  the 
Ouse  and  Eastbourne  would  you  see,  because  of 
the  hills  in  between.  Save  for  an  occasional 
farm  building  or  so,  the  whole  territory  might  be 
a  deserted  waste.  A  nice,  long,  droughty  walk 
that  represents,  to  go  between  the  two  points 
noticed,  one  of  the  most  tiring  I  know  on  the 
road,  as  also  if  you  fare  along  the  switchbacks 
made  by  the  chain  of  hills,  locally  the  Seven 
Sisters,  but  worth  a  score  of  the  macadam  taken 
that  way.  By  the  road  you  miss  the  interesting 
part  of  the  Cuckmere  haven,  with  its  fishing 
river,  which  mostly  silts  through  the  shingle  bank 
thrown  up  by  the  sea's  raking.  Neither  do  you 
lie  in   the  way  of  foregathering  with  the  coast- 


124  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

guards  at  the  stations — gentlemen  all  are  these 
patient,  dutiful,  public  servants,  and  good  to  chat 
with.  You  can  have  a  word  at  two  or  three 
more  stations  before  you  reach  the  last  hill-crest 
after  passing  Beachy  Head  new  lighthouse, 
which,  you  know,  is  not  the  one  on  the  high  land 
up  by  where  Eastbourne  races  used  to  be  held, 
but  a  later  beacon-house  set  down  on  iron  piles 
under  the  face  of  the  cliff.  At  first  sight  you 
would  scarcely  believe  what  is  fact — viz.,  that  its 
lowlier  situation  is  better  than  the  lofty  one, 
because  the  spray  and  mist  do  not  tell  so  greatly 
against  the  light's  carrying  powers. 


CHAPTER  X 

AROUND    HAMPTON    COURT 

On  a  certain  Eas'ter  Monday  at  East  Molesey  I 
was  busy  observing  the  populace  (bless  their 
hearts !)  and  levelling  myself  down  from  a  ridicu- 
lous imaginary  platform,  and  writing  myself  down, 
too,  for  a  prig,  which  is,  I  take  it,  the  latter-day 
equivalent  for  a  Pharisee.  There  wasn't  much 
of  the  Pharisee  left  about  me  by  the  time  I  had 
finished  lecturing  myself  with  some  very  pro- 
nounced Bank  Holiday  folk  for  text.  It  was  like 
this.  I  happened  to  be  one  of  a  little  group 
observing  the  manners  and  customs  of  a  small 
party  of  East-Enders,  who  were,  so  to  speak, 
piping  and  dancing  in  the  market-place  and  doing 
so  like  anything  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
For  market-place  please  read  the  pavement  out- 
side Mr  Georofe  Brown's  Prince  of  Wales'  Hotel 
at  Molesey.  Mr  Brown,  a  relic  of  the  ring,  is,  I 
am  glad  to  hear,  getting  into  good  health  again. 
What  a  many  years  have  flown  since  old  George 
Brown  and  Alec  Keene  began  racecourse  refresh- 
ment catering !  Keene  and  Brown's  booth  at 
Happy  Hampton  was  a  great  institution,  with 
''everything  iced  but  the  welcome,"  to  quote  their 
advertisement  issued  for  such  occasions.  But  let 
me  get  on  with  my  festive  party. 

125 


126  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

We,  as  I  say,  observed  them,  and  did  so  in 
quite  a  superior  de  haut  en  bas  manner,  because 
their  ways  were  not  conventional  according  to 
our  lights.  One  gentleman  doubled  the  parts  of 
dancer  and  piper,  or  what  did  as  well,  performer 
on  the  mouth-organ.  A  second  and  two  ladies 
made  up  a  quartette,  who  did  step  it  most  vigor- 
ously to  his  music.  "  What  a  sight !  "  says  one 
of  us,  and  '*  What  a  sight ! "  we  all  said  to  our- 
selves— at  least  I  did  till  I  asked  myself  a  question 
— several  questions,  in  fact.  In  the  first  place,  I 
came  to  wonder  whether  any  of  us  could  do  a 
step  so  well  as  the  least  expert  of  the  four,  or,  for 
that  matter,  whether  we  could  do  a  step  at  all. 
And,  assuming  that  a  representative  might  be 
found  to  stand  up  with  the  East-Enders,  whether 
it  was  not  a  thousand  to  one  against  his  being 
equal  to  playing  the  mouth-organ  in  good  time 
and  footing  it  also.  Granting  that  extremely 
unlikely  matter,  I  am  quite  certain  that  not  the 
best  of  us  would  have  had  a  chance  in  a  match 
against  the  ladies,  all  to  start  fair,  off  the  same 
mark,  at  level  weights  as  regards  clothing. 
When  you  came  to  think  of  it,  the  performance 
was  wonderful,  for  the  ladies  had  on  thick  dresses 
of  a  draggy,  velvety  sort  of  material,  the  very  last 
kind  of  equipment  to  favour  athletic  exercise,  and 
don't  you  think  that  their  dancing  was  not  a  very 
athletic  exercise  indeed,  because  it  was.  More- 
over, like  the  famous  gentleman,  on  the  top  of 
the  wig  was  the  hat,  and  such  magnificent 
structures  as  theirs  require,  you  would  fancy, 
most  exact  adjustment  and  balancing.  But,  bless 
you,  not  even  the  final  high  kick,  the  full  stop  of 
the  saltatory  display,  so  much  as  put  a  feather 
out  of  place. 


AROUND  HAMPTON  COURT  127 

All  of  this  business  was  very  wonderful  and 
clever  when  you  valued  it  on  its  merits,  not  the 
least  wonderful  and  admirable  being  the  life  and 
go  these  hardworking  folk — I  dare  swear  that 
they  were  jolly  hard  workers — must  have  in  them 
to  feel  like  kicking  up  ahind  and  afore  and  doing 
shuffles  and  rocks  and  all  manner  at  ten  a.m., 
and  to  the  melodious  breathing  of  the  mouth- 
organ  as  aforesaid.  I  stood  to  scoff"  or  something 
like  it,  and  remained  to  envy  very  much  indeed, 
so  that  the  spirit  was  willing  to  make  straightway 
to  the  green  at  Hampton  Court  over  the  way — I 
mean  over  the  bridge — and  join  in  the  sports 
there  in  progress.  The  flesh,  unfortunately,  was 
weak,  so  I  perforce  contented  myself  with  joining 
as  a  spectator  only  of  the  wonderful  energy  dis- 
played. If  looking  on  will  enable  you  to  do  a 
thing  such  as  skipping,  I  ought  soon  to  be  an 
expert,  for  I  looked  on  till  I  started  almost  too 
late  to  get  to  Kempton  in  time  for  the  first  race, 
and  got  along  feeling  a  bit  small,  because,  running 
myself  a  trial  on  book  form  against  the  crowd  so 
many  generally  rather  pity  than  envy,  I  found 
that  they  could  do,  and  do  very  well,  too,  a  whole 
row  of  things  which  I  cannot.  But  I  will  qualify, 
though,  if  I  die  on  the  thrack,  as  a  bogus 
champion  walker  used  to  say  when  endeavouring 
to  beat  Charley  Rowell  at  Madison  Square 
Gardens,  New  York.  What  was  the  chap's 
name.'^  Something  like  Campagna  it  was,  and 
his  way  of  putting  things  was,  ''give  me  more 
champagne "  (fine  stuff  to  do  a  six  days'  walk 
on!)  "and  I'll  bate  him  if  I  die  on  the  thrack!  " 
But  champagne  or  no  champagne,  please  under- 
stand that  I  do  not  dream  of  soaring  to  the 
heights  of  the  mouth-organ  by  itself  or  taken  in 


128  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

conjunction  with  the  stepping — if,  that  is,  I  am 
to  be  the  mouth-organist. 

I  wish,  I  do  wish  so  much,  that  some  of  the 
folk  who  are  led  away  by  "anti-"  agitators,  and 
so  throw  in  their  lot  with  those  often  artful, 
scheming,  professed  moralists,  would  come  and 
look  at  one  of  our  Bank  Holiday  racing  crowds, 
for  instance  at  Kempton  Park  or  Hurst  Park. 
If  you  make  up  your  mind  to  find  fault,  you 
could,  as  John  Hollingshead  said  of  the  captious 
person,  grumble  about  the  cut  and  fit  of  your  own 
halo  ;  so  I  do  not  say  that  no  fault  could  be  found 
among  all  these  many  thousands  who  made  long 
journeys,  had  a  whole  afternoon's  racing,  and 
then  most  of  them  must  wait  getting  on  for  an 
hour  before  their  turn  came  to  join  on  the  road 
in  a  procession  of  vehicles  three  miles  long  and 
not  doing  that  distance  per  hour.  You  could,  I 
repeat,  pick  out,  I  dare  say,  flaws  in  a  grand 
general  effect ;  but  from  personal  experience  I 
can  say  that  the  crowd's  good  temper,  nature, 
and  humour  were  something  to  admire,  and  their 
behaviour  to  be  nationally  proud  of 

Poets  are,  I  fear,  apt  to  be  very  material  in 
their  likings,  and,  like  human  beings,  inclined 
towards  treating  by  preference  what  you  may 
call  comfortable  features  of  their  territory.  For 
instance,  they  love  to  dwell  upon  smiling  plains 
(with  a  good  deal  of  emphasis  on  their  fruitful 
character)  bringing  forth  the  good  things  of  the 
earth,  the  corn,  and  the  oil,  and  the  wine,  that 
maketh  glad  the  heart  of  man,  and  maybe,  his 
head  very  sorry.  By  all  means  let  them  do  so, 
for  without  this  land,  by  implication  good,  we 
should  go  short,  and  they  being  a  superior  order, 
would  feel  the  poverty  most,  as  they  are  to  be 


AROUND  HAMPTON  COURT  129 

considered  before  everybody  else.  Good  fat  land 
is  a  great  gift ;  all  the  same,  I  often  feel  that  we 
— I  am  speaking  now  as  a  temporary  dweller 
where  commons  are  many  and  wide — ought  to  be 
grateful  for  the  bad  and  barren.  We  have,  you 
see,  followed  those  who,  if  it  had  not  been  for 
precious  poor  stuff  being  mixed  up  with  the  other 
sort,  would  not  have  had  the  use  of  any  land  at 
all.  As  we  are  all  descended  from  the  very  highest 
aristocracy,  and  could  prove  that  same  if  we  only 
go  back  long  enough,  I  shall  not  be  hurting  any- 
one's feelings  except  in  a  family  way,  in  writing 
that  the  great  folk,  who  permitted  the  inferior 
clay  to  get  what  they  could  out  of  unproductive 
sandy  wastes  and  such,  were  liberal  only  to  the 
extent  of  giving  away  what  was  of  no  earthly  use 
to  themselves.  That  explains  why  where  the 
ground  is  bad  you  get  good  measure  of  common  ; 
and,  according  to  my  view,  we  of  this  present 
century  have  to  give  thanks  that  such  a  large 
acreaofe  was  no  ofood  for  the  lord  of  the  manor  or 
other  big  man  to  use,  and  not  worth  anyone's 
grabbing  before  our  natives  left  off  wanting  a 
bit  of  ground  good  enough  to  cultivate  round 
their  dwellings,  and,  let  me  add,  ere  golf  came  to 
be  in  vogue.  We  should  not  have  any  commons 
now  to  speak  of  if  golf  had  been  popular  a  century 
ago.  Look  at  Weston  Green  !  There  is  practi- 
cally no  common  left  since  a  golf  club  established 
itself  there. 

In  those  same  parts  an  old-time  advertise- 
ment in  which  I  took  considerable  delight  has 
been  disestablished.  That  is,  the  ancient  legend 
set  forth  for  many  years  on  the  pub.  near  the 
corner  of  Weston  Green  as  you  go  from  Thames 
Ditton  to  Esher.     I  felt  several  pangs  on  missing 

I 


130  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

the  accustomed  invite  which  formerly  adorned  the 
Harrow  Inn.      I  forget  at  the  moment  quite  how 
it  ran,  but  know  that  it  began  :  ''  Come,  my  dear 
brother,    let's    comfort    each    other."      Then    it 
went  on  something  Hke  this  :  ''  Here's  wine  and 
good  ginn  "  (gin  with  a  double  ''  n  "  or  *'  n  n,"  as 
the    School    Board    says    the    repeat    should    be 
expressed),    "  Brandy    within.     Cyder   and    two- 
penny fit  for  a  king."     A  friend,  kind  enough  to 
keep    me    posted    regarding    sporting    news    as 
chronicled  in  Chicago,  wanted  to  know  whether 
the  Alma  on  Weston  Green — or  Cow  Marsh,  as 
some  call  it — stands  where  it  did.     To  that  query 
I  could  answer  that  the  Alma  is  In  one  respect 
like  Scotland,  in  that  It  does  stand  where  it  did. 
But — and   this    is    a   dreadful    but — under    new 
management    the    sale  of   ''Grandfather's    Ale" 
has    been    discontinued  ;   at  least,  so   the  polite 
new  boss  told  me  last  time  I  ventured  into  that 
part  of  the  country  where  strangers,  golfers  claim- 
ing no  local  connection,  play  their  game  on  a  bit 
of  common  cut  up  by  footpaths  as  Is  a    Union 
Jack  by  stripes.     'Twas  with  a  heavy  heart  that, 
after  seeing    the    "  Orate  and  VIgllate "  on    the 
almshouses    opposite    Thames    DItton    Station, 
allowed  to  be  covered  by  creepers,  and  so  hidden 
from  the  gaze  of  wayfarers  who  might  profit  by 
the  pious  Instruction,  I  passed  to  the  Harrow  and 
found  ''Come,  my  dear  brother,"  etc.,  no^  to  be 
found,  and  going  round  the  corner  to  the  little 
ale-house  by  the  pond,  and  Hansler  House,  where 
poor  old  Charley  Hewitt  used  to  live,  then  heard 
the  sad   news    that  the  grandfather's    clock  had 
stopped,  never  to  go  again — I  mean  that  Grand- 
father's   Ale   at    the    Alma   was    disestablished. 
*'  Iconoclasm,"  says  I,  "is  making  my  little  world 


AROUND  HAMPTON  COURT  131 

too  uninteresting,"  and  fell  to  wondering  whether 
that  had  anything  to  do  with  the  gosling  crop  on 
the  common  falling  so  short  that  I  was  only  hissed 
at  once  by  my  much-respected  friends  the  ganders 
and  geese,  best  of  fathers  and  mothers,  and  at 
that  conspired  only  by  a  limited  liability  company 
of  old  'uns,  who  mustered  no  more  than  a  couple 
of ''gulls  "  among  them.  Probably  the  changes 
are  breaking  the  old  birds'  hearts. 

Taking  my  ease  at  my  favourite  inn,  the  Mitre, 
at  Hampton  Court  at  Christmas  time,  I  fell  a- 
reminiscing.  Natural  enough,  lodged  in  a  house 
from  which  radiates  sport  galore,  and  in  which  it 
centres.  At  the  Mitre  you  can  have,  are  sure  to 
have,  whatever  is  written  on  the  bill  of  fare,  are 
certain  to  have  the  best  procurable  of  that  item, 
and  to  be  treated,  not  as  a  number,  but  as  a 
member — a  welcome  guest,  one  of  the  Mitre's  con- 
nection, whose  tastes  and  fancies  are  humoured 
and  remembered.  I  found  myself  primed,  filled 
up  to  the  bung,  with  memories  of  good  sportsmen 
to  whom  the  Mitre  was  a  happy  centre  for 
rendezvous.  Subjects  ?  Why,  bless  you,  I  could 
write  for  a  month  round  Hampton  Court  and 
not  write  myself  out. 

How  might  I  let  myself  loose  about  the  old 
house,  with  its  silver  show  and  its  old  Sheffield 
plate  show — better,  in  my  eyes,  than  the  other 
— of  Jack  Sadler,  the  L.A.C.  champion,  son  of 
the  Mitre ;  of  Coombe  over  the  way,  at  the 
Greyhound,  who  walked  so  well ;  of  the  Hampton 
Court  Harriers  ;  of  the  Molesey  Boat  Club,  with 
old  Joe  Sadler,  trainer ;  the  Canns,  the  Blocks, 
the  Kents,  and  the  Pipers  ;  and  Alexander  Pain, 
who  won  the  Wingfield's ;  Gilbert  Kennedy,  who 
did  ditto.     Then  there  were  in  the  long  ago  the 


132  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

Oscillators — who  were  they,  the  good  crew?  I 
almost  forget.  There  were  two  Shoolbreds,  I 
think  ;  Willy  Ward,  good  man,  about  now,  who 
wrestled  someone  at  Henley,  and  beat  him — Jem 
Robey,  was  it  ?  I  forget ;  the  Leaders,  sons  of 
the  chairman  of  the  Alhambra  directors — one  of 
them,  the  fine  swimmer,  was  drowned  at  Staines, 
a  champion  swimmer  almost.  Francis  Stepney 
Gulston,  afterwards  to  be  captain  of  the  London 
Rowing  Club,  that  finest — I  make  no  exception — 
gentleman  oarsman,  who  stood  out  by  himself  as 
a  waterman,  was  an  Oscillator  before  he  moved  to 
the  London  Rowing  Club.  I  think  I  am  right 
in  saying  that  Gully,  who  was,  in  my  eyes,  the 
greatest  of  all  amateur  watermen,  went  to  Cam- 
bridge mainly  and  merely  to  row.  Well  do  I 
recollect  poor  dear  old  Jemmy  Moxon,  who 
worked  hard  to  start  the  Skating  Association — 
Moxon,  LL.D.  I  shall  never  forget  his  descrip- 
tion of  Gulston's  taking  up  residence  at  the 
college  with  a  pilot  jacket  on,  a  bottle  of  gin  in 
the  o.p.  side  pocket,  and  a  bottle  of  bitters  in  the 
prompt.  The  sapient  authorities  would  hardly 
give  him  a  chance  in  a  college  crew,  and  as  for 
the  'Varsity  eight,  they  wouldn't  look  at  him — 
his  style,  those  clever  judges  said,  was  too  pro- 
fessional. 

Then  there  was  the  pro.  side,  fully  furnished 
by  the  Taggs.  Bless  you,  merry  gentlemen, 
start  me  on  the  Taggs,  and  I  will  go  for  a  Beacon 
Course!  Of  old  man  Tagg  I  do  not  enlarge, 
though  I  must  remember  the  time  when  telegraphy 
was  not  what  it  is  now,  pigeons  were  useful,  and 
a  Cambridge  crew  went  under  Hammersmith 
Bridge — was  it  in  Griffith's  year  ?— with  a  big 
lead,  and  the  pigeon  bearing  a  light-blue  ribbon 


AROUND  HAMPTON  COURT  133 

caused  the  Count  to  bet  freely  and  lose.  I  think 
it  was  in  Griffith's  year,  when,  as  I  recollect,  he 
rowed  all  his  men  right  out,  then  tried  to  pull  the 
boat  all  alone  by  himself  for  half  a  mile  or  so, 
and  spurted,  and  spurted,  mtd  spurted.  There 
was  Jack  Tagg,  one  of  the  finest,  handsomest 
men  I  ever  saw.  Jack,  the  ever  free  and 
frolicsome,  who  once  whitewashed  a  donkey  on 
the  fifth  of  November,  bundled  the  creature  into 
a  barber's  shop  and  wanted  him  shaved,  saying 
that  he  was  already  lathered ! 

Dear  me,  how  old  am  I  ?  I  used  to  own 
wager-boats  when  Jack  Tagg  was  racing.  Poor 
old  Jack  has  been  dead  years  and  years.  Tom, 
of  Tagg's  Island,  has  gone  too.  A  rare  good 
sort,  a  fine  sportsman,  who  could  walk,  run,  and 
fight  when  fighting  meant  P.R.  business,  and 
would  take  on  anyone  who  upset  him,  weight  of 
no  consequence.  Tom,  who  was  one  of  a 
Thames  Championship  four,  was  an  inborn 
genius  In  devising  craft,  from  a  skiff  to  a  steam 
launch.  He  was  an  honoured  member  of  the 
Institute  of  Naval  Engineers.  Also  he  was  one 
of  the  best  friends  I  ever  had.  We  once  were  as 
nearly  as  possible  shipwrecked  together  during 
Mr  Billy  Innes's  International  Regatta.  I  was 
knocked  off  his  launch  into  the  water,  had  to 
swim  ashore,  and  was  ordered  out  of  the  telegraph 
office  at  Mortlake  because  I  made  the  place  wet. 
Poor  old  Tom  kept  a  special  dispatch-box  of 
mine  which  was  rescued,  and  preserved  it  as  a 
trophy.  I  wonder  if  I  could  swim  ashore  now  if 
I  was  cast  Into  mid-Thames  at  Barnes  with  the 
water  churned  up  by  a  score  of  steamers,  and  old 
gentlemen  throwing  trifles  such  as  tin  buckets 
and  boat-hooks  at  me  to  represent  lifebuoys  ? 


134  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

How  many  of  you  recollect  little  Jerry 
Hawkes,  one  of  Bill  Richardson's  light-weight 
pets,  I  believe  ?  I  remember  Jerry  and  George 
Dove,  who  was  humpbacked  with  muscle  behind 
his  neck,  having  a  tremendous  fight  with  the 
gloves  at  Bow  Running  Grounds  on  the  day 
when  Bat  Mullins — Bat  with  the  synonymous 
ears,  the  abnormal  reach,  and  the  wonderful 
endurance — met  a  Life  Guardsman,  who,  had  he 
known  the  tricks  of  the  trade,  would  have  won 
for  sure.  Bat  is  about  teaching,  and  a  good 
instructor,  too  ;  but  this  was  nearly  thirty  years 
ago.  Who  reading  this  will  recollect  the  pro- 
moters of  the  show  ;  Old  Bill  Richardson,  Harry 
Read,  the  runner  of  *'  Bell's  Life,"  and  one 
Preston.  I  can  see  the  Bow  Grounds  and  the 
sparrers  as  I  write  ;  so  I  can  Jerry  Hawkes,  up 
on  the  barge- walk  just  above  Molesey  Lock, 
when  we  put  him  on  to  a  try-your-weight 
machine  pitched  on  the  tow-path.  Jerry  knocked 
the  whole  apparatus  bang  into  the  river.  Then 
Molesey  Hurst  was  considered  to  be  common 
land,  and  about  it  hung  all  manner  of  traditions 
of  old  fights,  for  which  see  your  ''Boxiana"  or 
*' Fistiana."  The  vicar  of  the  parish,  on  the  day 
I  name,  took  the  chair  at  a  banquet  after  an 
amateur  swimming  race,  and  the  first  thing  he 
knew  was  that  he  was  hit  in  the  eye  by  a  hot 
baked  potato.  Such  were  the  manners,  or  want 
of  manners,  of  the  British  amateur  then. 

Hampton  Court? — why,  when  Kempton  was 
first  started,  and  Sandown,  you  couldn't  get  a 
bed  In  the  Mitre,  or  the  Lion,  or  the  Greyhound 
for  love  or  money  1  All  the  Newmarket  trainers 
pitched  there,  as  did  many  of  the  big  owners  and 
jockeys.       Such    a    thing    as    trainers    making 


AROUND  HAMPTON  COURT  135 

London  their  headquarters  for  these  was  scarcely 
dreamed  of,  and  most  of  the  well-to-do  who  came 
to  the  meetings  drove  each  way. 

Do  not  think  that  with  racing  reminiscences 
I  can  write  myself  out,  because  if  you  do  you  are 
much  mistaken.  There  is  the  angling  sect  who 
swore  by  Hampton  Court  as  a  centre.  I  am  a  bit 
of  a  Philistine  on  fish-catching,  cos  why,  I  have 
lived  contagious  to  the  Thames  on  and  off"  for 
very  many  years,  and  never  yet  saw  more  than 
three  good  ones  landed.  This  is  not  to  say  that 
the  fishing  correspondents  who  turn  in  thirty 
dozen  of  dace,  forty  ditto  of  roach,  seven  score  of 
gudgeon,  a  creel  full  of  barbel,  and  specimen 
samples  of  jack,  all  taken  by  ''a  gentleman 
fishing  with  So-and-so,"  depart  from  the  truth. 
I  take  those  reports  as  they  come.  They  do  not 
enter  into  this  argument  when  I  say  that  I  have 
known  two  ardent  fishers — the  late  Mr  J.  P. 
Wheeldon  and  our  present,  may  he  live  for  ever, 
Mr  Henry  Smurthwaite — who  loved  the  Hampton 
reaches,  and  made  big  takes  there. 

Poor  old  Wheeldon !  most  fertile  of  writers,  a 
sportsnan  bred  and  born,  also  educated  that 
way !  l.e  was  a  sportsman,  a  marvel  at  fishing, 
and  a  jood  un  all  round.  He  could  do  almost 
anything.  At  the  Mitchell-Sullivan  fight,  J.  P., 
who  was  reporting  it,  was  there  all  through,  and 
asserted  himself  in  the  cause  of  fair  play.  Once 
came  c  chance  of  interruption — as  the  word  used 
to  be  understood  —  and  interruption  that  day 
meant  very  ugly  work.  Wheeldon  said,  says  he, 
to  the  chief  would-be  interrupter  —  an  old-time 
pro.,  wio  would  as  soon  chew  your  nose  off  as 
argue  i  point  out  logically — "  If  you  don't  shut 
your  mouth,  I  shall  hit   you  on   it."     Good  old 


136  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

J.  P.  Wheeldon !  He  meant  what  he  said. 
Hampton  Court  or  Molesey,  which  is  only  just 
t'other  side  of  the  water,  claims  one  of  the  finest, 
if  not  absolutely  the  best — I  never  knew  a  better 
—  stroke  in  amateur  boat-racing,  and  that  is 
Mr  Willie  Kent.  His  record  as  a  stroke  for 
Oxford  and  Leander  stands  by  itself,  and  no 
doubt,  but  for  the  folly  of  the  Henley  umpire 
when  Leander  was  left  at  the  post  and  the 
American  crew  let  go  away  by  themselves,  he 
would  have  been  associated  with  a  series  of 
victories  not  at  all  likely  to  be  paralleled.  A 
rare  sporting  centre  is,  and  always  was,  Hampton 
Court,  with  which  you  must  include  Molesey. 

As  I  sit  giving  off  these  notions   I  think  of 
the  great  growth  and  excellent  management  of 
Molesey  Regatta,  with  which  firm  I  had  a  feud 
for   years.      Mentioning    it    brings    to    mind   my 
dear  dead  and  gone  friend  Jemmy  Milner,  suavest 
of  secretaries,  handiest  of  all-round  men ;  good 
old  Jemmy,  who,  a  bachelor,  had  for  family  all 
the  children  of  the  village,  and  was  appointed  by 
them  entertainer  and  bosom  friend  to  all.     Then 
I  must  not  forget  the  late  H.   B.  Bromhead,  of 
ours,  who  was  a  very  useful  all-rounder,  and  not 
at  all  averse  to  putting  'em  up    and  tak;ng  his 
chance.      Brom.    was    an   enthusiastic  fislierman. 
The  Royal  stud  in  Bushy  Park  and  the  Home 
Park    has    long    been    wiped    out,    so    has    the 
Spelthorne    Coursing    Club.     Fancy   couising — 
and  good   coursing,  too  • —  in    the    Home  Park  ! 
Were  ever  luncheons  so  good  as  Mrs  Moo^e  used 
to  send  over  from  the  Swan  at   Leatherliad  for 
the  sales  at  Eltham  in  the  Blenkiron  d^s,  and 
on  the   occasion  of  Mr  Tattersall's  offering  the 
Royal    Rats  ?     I    do  not    think  they  evjr   were 


AROUND  HAMPTON  COURT  137 

matched.  It  seems  only  a  day  or  two  ago  since 
I  was  talking  to  Mr  Scott,  the  stud  groom  of  the 
Royal  establishment,  on  the  day  that  Springfield 
died,  or  when  the  boys  held  up  and  calmly  went 
over  the  whole  big  ferry-boat  load  of  people 
being  taken  across  from  Hampton  Court  to 
Molesey  Hurst  on  a  Hampton  Court  race  after- 
noon. They  were  told  to  think  themselves  lucky 
they  weren't  put  into  the  water  as  well.  What 
an  awful  meeting  that  used  to  be !  The  wonder 
is  that  someone  was  not  killed  there  every  ten 
minutes.  Then  there  was — but  I  shall  be  accused 
of  falling  into  my  anecdotage. 

Let  us  take  the  Mitre  under  another,  a 
summery  aspect,  and  a  very  nice  place  to  get  to 
Epsom  from.  To  the  useful  plodder,  I  think  no 
better  starting-point  for  the  Downs  can  be  desired 
than  Hampton  Court.  Many  a  time  I  have 
tried  it.  If  a  body  knows  the  route,  no  nicer  plan 
can  be  for  a  visitor  from  Northern  parts  to  pitch 
his  tent  at  than  the  Mitre,  best  of  hotels  within 
telegraphic  reach  of  London^ — at  least,  one  of  the 
best — and  with  a  light  heart  and  a  thin  or  thick 
pair  of  breeches,  according  to  taste  and  the 
wickedness  or  otherwise  of  the  weather,  go 
merrily  over  the  footpath  way  and  ditto  over  the 
stile-a  by  Tanner's  bridge,  which  gives  one  of  the 
prettiest  bits  of  Thames  scenery,  on  across  the 
Mole  and  its  understudy  the  Imber,  by  Imber 
Court,  adorned  with  an  Inigo  Jones  house,  which 
looks  as  if  it  were  built  for  suburban  residential 
purposes  by  an  architect  of  metropolitan  taste 
and  late  Victorian  period.  Then  cross  to 
Weston  Green  and  the  pond  into  which  a  late 
amateur  coachman  quite  frequently  speeded  his 
parting   guests,   telling    them    to  go  on  a  dead 


138  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

straight  line  to  the  lights  of  Esher  Station.  You 
can  keep  on  grass  almost  all  the  way  to  Claygate, 
and  shortly  after  strike  across  the  Common,  which, 
so  far  as  general  enjoyment  goes,  the  golfers  have 
managed  to  withdraw  from  popular  circulation  ; 
continue  through  Lord  Foley's  park,  and  thence 
on  several  different  lines  into  Epsom  by  way  of 
its  Common,  where  steeplechases  used  to  be  run  ; 
past  Clay  Hill,  where  Eclipse  passed  the  earlier 
years  of  his  stud  life  ;  and  once  in  the  town — well, 
all  roads  lead  to  the  Downs,  but  some  are  mighty 
twisty. 

A  long  journey,  you  say.     Well  not  so  long. 
If  it  is  nine  miles,  and  if  you  can  spare  the  time, 
how  may  you  spend  it  better,  given  fine  weather ; 
and  I  defy  you  to  find  a  pleasanter  resting-place 
after  the  return  journey  than  just  about   Hamp- 
ton Court,  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  or  early  in 
the  morning  before  breakfast,   paddling    on    the 
river  or  ranging  the  park   among   the  deer,  or 
strolling  in  the  Palace  gardens,  which  are  most 
beautifully  kept  up,  and    seem   scarcely  appreci- 
ated    at     all.       Good     business?       It    is    good 
business  indeed  in  the  summer  weather,  or  spring 
for   that  matter.     To  begin  with  Molesey,  there 
song  sends  you  to  sleep  in  the  Mitre  overnight, 
and  wakes  you  up  in  the  morning.     First  of  all 
you  become  aware  of  a  paddling,   scuttering  sort 
of  noise — ducks  busy  in  the  shallow  waters  of  a 
little  creeklet  under  Hampton  Court  Bridge,  and 
then  a  good  deal  of  quacking  and  wing-flapping. 
You  don't  need  get   out  of  bed  to  see  what  is 
going  on  amongst  this  industrious  family  party  ; 
but  next  comes  an  arousing  diversion,  by  reason 
the  man  on  the  horse  and  the  man  on  the  barge 
being  towed  up  against  the  stream  differing  on 


AROUND  HAMPTON  COURT  139 

the    subject  of  steam  and  direction.     You  must 
look  out  of  window  so  as  to  discover  what  sort  of 
mess   the  two  are   making  of  it  between  them, 
through    the   chief  engineer    driving    the   horse 
slacking   up    too   soon.     The    hotel    proprietary 
thrush  starts  singing,  and    an  early    swallow  or 
two  are  up  already,  which  is  more  than  can  be 
said  for  riparian  residents,  judging  by  the  general 
lack  of  smoke  out  of  the  chimneys.     Where  the 
breakfast  fire  is  occasionally  alight,  up  goes  the 
smoke  slowly  and  dead  straight — we  are  in  for  a 
hot  day.     You  take  another  turn  at  bed,  listening 
to  that  musical  soother,  the  weir,  when  a  winch 
starts  clicking  right  under  the  bedroom  window, 
and  on  the  chance  of  a  fish  being  at  the  other 
end,  the  alarum  induces  another  excursion  to  find 
the  winch   a    mowing   machine   that  clicks,   not 
clacks,  and  is  managed  by  a  good,  good  yellow 
collie  dog  with  a  nice  broad   nose — none  of  the 
up-to-date  show  ones  with  pointed  masks  as  of 
a   starved    fox — and    his    under-gardener.     The 
man  does  the  pushing,  the  collie  bosses  the  job, 
walks  solemnly  across  from  edge  to  edge  of  the 
lawn,  and  now  and  then   expresses   approval  of 
his  lieutenant's  industry,  but  always  keeps  an  eye 
open  to  spot  malingering,  a  complaint  to  which 
gardeners    are  dreadfully  subject.     Sweet  is  the 
smell  of  close-shorn  dewy    herbage.     I    fancy  I 
can  just  get  a  whiff  from  the  lilacs  half  out  and 
the  daffy-down-dillies  ;  no  mistake  can  be  made 
about  the  wallflowers  ;  the  little  white  clematis  is 
well  forward,  and  the  horse  chestnuts  soon  going 
to  be,  for  their  bloom  spires  are  whitening,  while 
already  the  apple  blossom  is  making  a  good  show 
of  its  sort.     The  sun  is  warming  the  air  kindly, 
the  south-wester — a    real  one,    not  an  imitation 


140  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

north-easter — suggests  possibility  of  a  shower  or 
two,  so  to  make  sure  of  a  little  good  time  while  it 
lasts,  up  you  get  and  be  out  in  the  open.  And 
all  that  and  a  lot  more  you  can  do  as  part  of  an 
Epsom  outing. 


CHAPTER  XI 


IN    AND    ABOUT    EPSOM 


I  AM  afraid  to  say  how  often  I  have  been  at 
Epsom,  in  and  out  of  race  times.  I  used  to  think 
that  I  knew  all  about  it,  from  the  wicked  lord 
story  to  the  goldfish  in  the  ponds ;  from  the 
oldest  house  to  the  new  clock  building  made  to 
accommodate  the  fire-engine,  and  built  a  few 
sizes  too  small,  so  that  the  fire-escape  has  to 
lean  up  against  the  tower  outside  ;  from  Amato's 
grave  to  the  Marquis  of  Epsom's  open-air  studio, 
where  he  used  to  paint  his  railings  so  artistically  ; 
I  knew  it  all — everything  except  the  number  of 
different  ways  for  getting  between  the  South- 
western Station  and  the  Grand  Stand.  Epsom  is 
an  old  typical  Surrey  town,  with  just  a  cut  of 
Tunbridge  Wells  in  it ;  one  about  which  you 
might  profitably  spend  a  good  long  while  in 
exploring.  You  can't  beat  these  places,  which 
before  the  days  of  railways  were  just  far  enough 
out  for  London's  rich  City  merchants,  whose 
substantial  houses  and  fine  gardens  occur  all 
over  Epsom  Town ;  and  you  can't  beat  the 
place  for  air — good,  strong,  wholesome  fresh  air, 
with  plenty  of  character ;  not  the  sort  like 
Brighton's,    which    is    associated   with    a    blinky 


142  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

feeling,  nor  the  bilious  tap  frequently  turned  on 
at  Newmarket ;  but  just  a  good,  honest,  robust, 
healthy,  hearty  sample  calculated  to  make  you 
eat  well  and  sleep  well ;  and  if  you  deserve  such 
luck  as  getting  it,  be  thankful  that  your  lot  is 
not  cast  in  a  depressing  place  like — well,  we 
won't  mention  names,  one  can  praise  Queen 
Ebba's  town  without  running  down  others. 

I  only  wish  I  might  pitch  my  tent  up  near 
the  top  of  the  hillside,  where  you  get  the 
southerly  breeze  straight  from  the  sea,  and 
often  tasting  of  it,  too.  Cold  ?  Oh !  yes,  cold 
it  is,  of  course,  in  such  weather.  It  can  be  cold 
in  this  part  of  the  world,  which  ''has  quite  a 
name  "  for  that  sort  of  thing.  But,  locally,  pride 
is  not  taken  in  the  superiority  of  cold  on  the 
hilltop.  The  spot  specially  celebrated  for  it  is 
away  down  on  the  flat  by  the  half-mile  Bush 
between  Epsom  and  Ewell.  According  to  tradi- 
tion, which  preserves  opinions  expressed  by 
stage  coachmen  (who  ought  to  know,  ought  they 
not  ?)  about  weather,  that  was  the  bleakest, 
freshest  bit  between  London  and  the  coast, 
take  which  road  you  would  to  Portsmouth,  or 
Worthing,  or  Brighton.  As  a  rule,  my  chief 
trouble  with  regard  to  Epsom  is  to  get  out  of 
the  place  when  once  I  am  landed  there.  I  think 
it  is  at  its  best  about  the  last  week  in  April, 
say  during  the  Spring  Meeting.  I  like  it  then 
better  than  in  Derby  week.  Of  course  the 
''country,"  as  people  say  in  speaking  of  vegeta- 
tion's progress,  may  be  at  the  time  of  the  earlier 
fixture  a  month  late  if  the  weather  has  been 
unkindly.  But  sufficient  advance  will  have  been 
made  to  make  the  Surrey  country  (where  is 
better  ?)  very  beautiful  indeed.     Nowhere  do  you 


IN  AND  ABOUT  EPSOM  143 

get  such  good  opportunities  for  enjoying  Nature's 
best  adornments  as  in  an  old  suburban  town. 
There  you  have  more  variety  than  in  the  country 
proper,  because  of  the  specimen  trees  and  shrubs 
imported. 

There  are  many  ways  of  approaching  Epsom. 
The  last  time  I  did  one  of  the  best,  which  takes 
you  to  and  fro  Epsom  from  town  without  striking 
the  general  traffic,  and  a  charming  walk  before 
and  after  racing,  but,  upon  my  word !  the  bad 
almost  outbalanced  the  good,  and  I  feel  equal  to 
little  more  than  organising  a  national  petition  to 
the  King  and  his  Parliament  to  do  something 
for  us.  Cannot  somebody  throw  the  right  sort 
of  oil  on  the  troubled  dusts,  or,  what  is  the 
alternative,  make  footpaths  everywhere  from 
which  all  wheel  traffic  should  be  forbidden? 
Truly,  I  am  so  disappointed  at  being  cut  off  at 
almost  every  step  from  taking  outdoor  pleasure 
that  I  keep  searching  about  for  refuge,  of  which 
now  have  I  none.  For  the  automobilists,  who 
hate  dust  as  much  as  anybody  else,  are  now 
illustrating  the  old  idea  of  the  Royal  Academy 
being  crowded  on  a  Derby  day,  because  nobody 
would  be  there  —  at  the  picture  exhibition,  I 
mean.  The  byways,  narrow  as  are  many,  are 
crowded  with  the  car-eerers,  who,  for  the  same 
reasons  as  mine,  take  to  them  to  avoid  the  main 
arteries.  A  horrid  pity  I  found  last  week  s  dis- 
appointment, for  I  had  my  own  route  all  on  my 
own,  which  I  am  selfish  enough  to  like,  barring 
a  jolly  companion.  Give  yourself  time,  and  you 
may  have  some  of  the  prettiest  walking  in  Surrey 
before  and  after  business  on  the  Downs  com- 
mences, and  very  cheaply  too.  My  latest  plan 
is  to  drop  down  by  an  early  train  on  the  new 


144  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

Guildford  line  to  Claygate,  Oxshott,  Cobham, 
or — but  this  last  makes  it  too  far  for  most — 
Effingham,  and  walk  from  one  of  those  points. 
If  you  only  desire  to  see  country  from  the  train 
and  travel  in  comfort,  free  from  crowding,  then 
you  can  change  at  Effingham  and  rail  it  to 
Epsom.  But  for  the  toddler  a  good  route  offers 
from  each  and  every  one  of  the  depots  named. 
I  think  I  once  gave  the  log  of  a  trudge  between 
Claygate  and  Epsom's  Town  Clock.  To  that 
route  are  three  or  four  variations.  I  do  not  take 
it  on  now,  because  Claygate  is  getting  townified  ; 
the  pretty,  rough  common  has  been  jumped  for 
golf,  while  an  old  road  which  led  through  the 
Prince's  covers  is  stopped,  and  the  covers  them- 
selves are  apt  to  mire  you  up  to  the  chin,  or  on 
that  way,  after  so  long  a  spell  of  wet  as  we  have 
had. 

My  march  was  by  way  of  Stoke  D'Abernon, 
on  Mole-side,  with  its  pretty  little  church,  where 
used  to  be  a  memorial  to  a  brave  knight.  The 
hero,  to  show  his  chivalry,  made  solemn  vow  to 
please  his  fair  lady,  or  somebody  else,  by  slaying 
the  first  man  he  met,  and  timed  himself  so  as  to 
drop  on  to  the  next-of-kin  between  him  and  "  the 
property,"  or  his  principal  creditor,  the  King's 
taxes,  his  landlord,  or  somebody  like  that,  quite 
of  no  consequence.  For  the  gallant  deed,  t'other 
man  being  probably  unarmed  and  out  of  training, 
he  received  a  medal  with  a  "bloody  hand"  on  it, 
and  gained  enviable  distinction.  From  Stoke 
you  work  up  to  Leatherhead  Common,  which 
is  not  a  common,  because  it  was  collared  by  Act 
of  Parliament  within  the  memory  of  man,  and  is 
now  being  turned,  some  of  it,  into  golf  links  and 
building  land.      Really,  we  are  lucky  to  have  any 


IN  AND  ABOUT  EPSOM  145 

common  land  left,  and  must  be  truly  grateful 
that  golf  caught  on  in  the  South  so  late.  Had 
it  been  followed  a  hundred  years  ago  as  it  is  now, 
there  would  not  have  been  a  bit  of  our  wastes 
left. 

A  lovely  bit  of  mixed  woodland  is  this  en- 
closed Leatherhead  Common,  otherwise  known  as 
Pachesham  Park.  Just  over  the  way  towards 
Epsom  is  Ashtead  (which  adjoins  Epsom) 
Common,  a  big  bed  of  very  stiff  clay,  in  which 
oaks  flourish,  wild  flowers  grow  luxuriously,  and 
thorns  are  much  at  home.  The  water  lodges, 
being  mopped  up  as  with  a  sponge,  and  gives 
the  unwary  many  fancy  surprises  in  the  way  of 
impasses  where  the  grass  grows  green.  About 
here,  too,  is  iron,  and  so  is  the  stuff  that  makes 
Epsom  salts  ;  in  fact,  on  the  edge  of  Ashtead 
Common  is  the  old  Epsom  Wells,  and  in  plenty 
of  places  you  can  get  the  delightful  beverage  first 
hand  for  the  finding.  Cross  the  Common  to  the 
village  and  you  are  soon  in  Ashtead  Park,  an 
ancient  walled-in  deer  park,  on  whose  borders 
are  some  rare  pretty  old-fashioned  farmery 
houses.  You  can  cut  up  a  byroad  from  the 
park  to  the  old  Roman  road  which  runs  from  the 
paddock  to  Mickleham,  or,  bearing  on  the  low 
ground  towards  Epsom,  pass  in  the  gates  of  the 
Woodcote,  and  through  its  beautiful  domesticated 
downland  up  to  the  corner  of  the  Durdans  estate. 
A  little  bit  late  as  vegetation  was,  still,  in  all  this 
I  have  catalogued  was  much  to  enjoy,  and  I 
ought  to  have  enjoyed  myself  accordingly,  but 
while  I  served  my  purpose  in  clearing  the  race 
traffic,  being  smothered  five  miles  away  from  it, 
put  me  right  out  of  heart.  Instead  of  being 
truly  grateful  for  the  good  I  got  out  of  the  parks 

K 


146  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

and  the  commons,  I  made  my  leading  features 
getting  bogged  on  the  top  of  a  hill,  walking 
through  a  mile  of  midges  on  the  edge  of  Martin 
Rucker's  old  place,  and — well,  I  won't  say  any 
more  about  the  motors  for  the  present,  but  if 
relief  is  not  speedily  engineered  what  is  to 
become  of  poor  me,  or  how  I  shall  be  able 
to  do  my  work,  goodness  only  knows.  I  do 
not. 

I  have  already  described  another  route,  that 
from  Hampton  Court.  Going  a  more  conven- 
tional way  through  Ewell,  lo !  and  behold,  as  we 
went  over  the  bridge  which  crosses  Kingston 
lane,  the  road  which  takes  you  either  to  Kingston 
or  round  by  Bone's  Gate  to  Hook,  Chessington, 
Claygate,  Ditton,  and  the  parts  about  Giggs'  Hill, 
I  saw  an  unmistakable  Gippo  whose  identity  I 
can  swear  to  at  long  range.  That  was  the 
Reverend  Mr  Dan  Cooper,  who  used  to  carry 
on  business  in  or  about  the  Half-Moon  Cricket 
Ground,  Putney,  and  was  a  very  useful  scrapper 
in  his  day,  also  extensively  engaged  in  the  coker- 
nut  line.  It  is  always  like  putting  the  clock  back 
for  me  a  score  years — or,  say,  a  score  and  a 
half — to  come  across  this  Gipsy  Cooper — one  of 
the  Stockbridge  Coopers,  if  you  please,  the  family 
which  the  well-known  aged  gentleman  with  the 
orange  silk  bandanna  round  his  throat  and  a 
large  stock  of  view-halloas  inside  it  adorned  so 
many  years.  There  was  my  old  friend  Cooper 
with  a  steam  roundabout  of  fiery,  untamed  ostrich 
steeds,  and  all  manner  of  diversions  at  the  public 
service,  also  his  name  painted  in  big  letters  on 
the  revolving  machine.  Business  called  me 
t'other  way,  but  I  would  have  liked  to  go  and 
have  a  crack  w4th  Mr  C ,  and  investigate  as 


IN  AND  ABOUT  EPSOM  147 

to  whether  an  expert  could  still  make  sure  of 
ringing  the  bell  every  time  in  the  shooting 
gallery,  and  try  if  knack  of  sending  the  marker 
right  up  to  the  top  of  the  try-your-strength- 
with-the-sledge-hammer  apparatus  was  a  lost 
art  or  not.  Friends,  if  you  want  to  study 
a  fine  type  of  the  English  gipsy,  you 
cannot  find  a  better  specimen  than  my  Egyptian 
crony. 

Epsom  recalls  a  pet  scheme  of  mine  which 
strikes  me  as  worth  entertaining.  Ponds  of  size 
are  scarce  nowadays  in  the  district  on  which  the 
monastical  fish-on-fast-day  old  uns  left  their 
mark  through  large  stews — still  clearly  traceable, 
chains  of  them — on  certain  commons.  Both  on 
Bookham  Common,  close  to  the  station,  made 
there  when  the  extension  line  from  Epsom  to 
Guildford  via  Effingham  was  constructed,  and  on 
Epsom  Common,  where  the  steeplechases  were 
run  formerly,  you  find  the  plan  of  ancient  stews 
with  a  section  remaining.  Barring  the  last  of 
the  chains,  the  lower  earth  wall  has  been  cut  to 
drain  the  higher  ponds,  and  the  sluices  removed, 
so  that  the  only  sliding  or  skating  on  the  former 
large  area  is  on  dry  ground — the  safest,  I  admit, 
but  not  diverting.  Field  for  skating  is  very 
scarce,  as  is  also  water  for  fishing.  If  the 
commoners  and  others  with  rights  of  grazing, 
etc.,  could  be  induced  to  acquiesce  in  the  scheme, 
one  could  by  restoring  these  stew  ponds  at  a 
trifling  cost  create  great  opportunities  for  amuse- 
ment in  the  direction  indicated,  not  to  mention 
furnishing  facilities  for  bathing.  There  used  to 
be  a  fine  series  of  pools  within  a  mile  and  a  bit 
of  Epsom  Town  ;  these  could  be  reinstated  very 
easily,  and  no  one  the  worse  for  missing  a  few 


148  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

acres  of  pasturage.  Apropos  of  skating  and  the 
like,  I  used  to  wonder  at  the  Sandown  and 
Kempton  directors,  who  might  readily  Instal  big 
areas  for  use  in  winter,  when  frost  would  bring 
them  much  profit.  All  required  Is  to  puddle  the 
acreage  to  be  brought  into  work,  make  a  low 
clay  wall,  lay  on  water  company's  service,  and 
wait  till  the  time  comes  in  which  to  flood  the 
space.  Turf  might  be  allowed  to  flourish  at  other 
periods  ;  no  disfigurement  would  accrue,  and  now 
and  then  gate-money  would  roll  In  to  help  the 
dividends. 

I  bear  nothing  but  goodwill  towards  golfers, 
but  I  do  wish  they  could  make  some  land  for  them- 
selves, or  have  It  made  without  wanting  to  take 
It  out  of  stock.  As  I  have  previously  remarked, 
golfs  powers  of  absorbing  common  lands,  or  we 
will  call  them  free  wastes,  is  great.  Not  only 
ordinary  common  but  in  these  enlightened  days 
village  greens  can  be  practically  jumped  for  the 
game,  so  that  ''aliens"  who  have  no  part  or 
parcel,  kindred  or  tie  In  the  district,  except 
membership  of  a  club,  do  drive  off  peaceful 
Inhabitants  from  exercising  their  lawful  rights. 
Why,  bless  me !  there  would,  as  I  said,  not  have 
been  any  commons  at  all  if  golf  had  caught  on  a 
century  ago,  and  very  likely  no  horse-racing 
except  in  great  lords'  and  others'  private  parks. 
Fancy  there  being  no  Epsom  Downs,  as  downs 
are  understood — a  sort  of  no  man  s  land  on  which 
somebody  was  allowed  to  run  sheep  at  his  own 
risk,  and  Dick,  Tom,  or  Harry  might  come  and 
do  jolly  well  as  he  pleased,  how,  when,  where, 
and  as  often  as  suited  him!  It  was  an  awful 
shock  to  me  the  first  day  I  recognised  that  the 
Downs    belonged    to    somebody.       But   what   a 


IN  AND  ABOUT  EPSOM  149 

terrible  thing  if  we  had  no  commons  !  Of  late  a 
power  of  land  in  the  Epsom  district  has  dis- 
appeared, or  been  retired  behind  fencing  of  sorts 
— acres  and  acres  and  acres,  over  which  local  folk 
had  roamed  at  will  so  long  as  memory  of  man 
carries.  But  he  takes  who  has  the  power,  and 
can  keep  while  law  is  so  expensive. 

I  wonder  how  many  who  were  at  Epsom 
Spring  or  Summer  Meeting  have  any  idea  of  the 
extent  of  land  over  which  the  public  is  still  per- 
mitted the  indulgence  of  ranging ;  what  the 
acreage  and  mileage  Is  approximately,  starting 
from,  we  will  say,  the  top  of  Reigate  and  Betch- 
worth  Hills,  and  following  the  line  of  the  ranges 
round  to  Box  Hill  over  to  Ranmore,  along  to 
Guildford,  and  from  there  through  Ripley  and 
Weybridge  to  the  Thames,  with  return  from 
Walton-on-Thames  by  Banstead  and  Walton-on- 
the- Heath.  Practically  you  can  take  a  line  from 
Betchworth  to  Oxshott  and  right  away  down  to 
Walton  Bridge — say,  fourteen  miles — without 
touching  more  than  a  scattered  hamlet  till  you 
get  to  Walton,  and  never  be  more  than  a  trifle 
over  twenty  miles  from  St  Paul's  Cathedral.  Of 
course,  I  am  not  saying  that  this  is  all  common 
land.  It  is  open  country,  though,  with  a  surpris- 
ing percentage  of  it  subject  to  some  sort  of 
common  rights,  and  that  after  wholesale  stealing, 
as  In  the  case  of  Letherhead  Common — say,  the 
best  part  of  two  square  miles  gobbled  up  in  one 
Act  (of  Parliament),  and  the  wholesale  looting 
along  Ermyn  Street.  It  seems  a  downright 
shame  that  all  these  beautiful  pleasure-grounds 
should  be  at  citizens'  convenience  to  use  as  they 
please,  and  they  not  so  much  as  know  about,  let 
alone  enjoy  them. 


150  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

Lots  do  not  even  know  the  name  of  the  hills 
where  the  race  stand  and  courses  are.      It  is  the 
fashion,  or  was  so,  to  talk  of  Banstead  Downs  as 
the  place  where  the  Derby  is  run,  which  is  wrong. 
Some   of  the   track    goes    over   what    must    be 
Walton    Downs,     but    barring    that    you    have 
Epsom's.     What  a  row  there  was  about  the  odd 
bit !     What  a  fearful  overpowering  rush  and  gush 
of  condemnatory  criticism  launched  at  the  head 
of    Mr    ''  Salamander "     Studd,    who,    becoming 
possessed  of  the  lord  of  the  manorship  of  Walton, 
presumed  to  ask  for  a  financial  corner  out  of  the 
racing's  profits,  claiming  such  as  his  due  because 
some  of  it — the  Derby  and  Oaks  particularly — 
was  carried  on  over  a  corner  of  what  was  his  land, 
for  purposes  of  the  argument !     If  he  had  set  fire 
to  the  Jockey  Club  building  at  Newmarket,  blown 
up  Epsom's  grand  stand  and  looted  the  cellars, 
also    arsoned    Messrs    Weatherby's    offices    and 
their  printing  place,  records,  unpublished  entries, 
handicaps    and    all,    and    started    ploughing    up 
Ascot,  Goodwood,  York,  and  Doncaster,  the  late 
owner   of   Salamander   and    father   of   the   long 
family  of  Eton  cricketers   could  not  have  been 
dropped  on  more  severely.     So  far  as  the  sport- 
ing papers  went,  and  writers  on  racing  in  other 
publications,  the  gentleman,  whose  action  would 
now  be  approved  and  taken  as  a  matter  of  course, 
was  treated  as  a  sort  of  Ishmael  and  bandit  com- 
bined.    No    one    seemed   to    think    that    if  this 
money  required  had  to  be  paid,  the  consideration 
was  worth  the  fee.     As  for  sympathising  with  the 
Manor  of  Walton  and  its  representatives,  who  for 
so   many  years  had  been  giving  something   for 
nothing — a  form  of  barter  which  the  Grand  Stand 
Association  could  never  be  accused  by  its  worst 


IN  AND  ABOUT  EPSOM  151 

enemy  of  going  for — no  one  took  that  side.  Re- 
membering these  things,  which  cannot  have  a 
second  edition,  because  the  company  is  now  by 
right  of  purchase  its  own  lord  of  the  manor,  I 
must  laugh. 


CHAPTER  XII 

AROUND    EPSOM    AND    LEATHERHEAD 

On  a  misty  day  in  December  when  I  looked  up 
Mickleham,  more  fog  was  on  the  high  land  than 
in  the  valley  through  which  the  Mole  flows,  by 
hook  or  by  crook,  presenting,  as  it  can,  the 
anomaly  of  superficially  stagnant  pools,  and 
almost  dry  stony  shallows,  between  little  water- 
falls. A  fine  hunting  ground  for  the  student  of 
old  Epsom  racing  is  this,  right  along  from  and 
including  Leatherhead  to  nearly  Dorking. 
Horses  trained  at  a  distance  from  Epsom  used 
to  be  quartered  for  quite  long  visits  and  galloped 
on  Mickleham  Downs,  not  so  long  ago  very 
beautiful  going.  John  Scott  was  very  fond  of 
the  district,  and  so  were  many  Northerners 
before  the  railway  days.  I  forget  whether  there 
was  local  connection  between  Mickleham  and  the 
dead-heat  for  the  Blue  Riband,  which,  being-  run 
off,  saw  Cadland  beat  The  Colonel ;  but  in  the 
village  you  find  the  contest  spiritedly  depicted 
one  side  of  the  inn's  signboard,  and  on  the  other 
the  winner  alone,  his  jockey  in  light  blue  and 
dark  blue  sleeves.  I  know  no  country  anywhere 
more  beautiful  than  this  dale  or  the  overlooking 
ranges  in  summer,  nor  a  lovelier  playground  than 

152 


AROUND  EPSOM  AND  LEATHERHEAD       153 

the  tract  comprised  in  the  title,  Boxhill,  and 
about  ten  times  as  large  as  its  visitors  generally 
think  this  part  of  the  Deepdene  Estate  is. 
Deepdene  itself,  where  Lord  William  Beresford 
lived,  is  farther  along  towards  Dorking,  and  will 
long  be  remembered  ;by  racing  men  because  of 
its  plucky  owner  and  the  mark  he  unfortunately 
was  the  prime  cause  of  making  on  our  Turf 
affairs.  To  my  thinking,  the  worst  day's  work 
in  the  history  of  racing  was  done  when  Lord 
William  introduced  the  American  jockeys  into 
this  country.  I  do  not  pretend  that  we  were  an 
altogether  happy  family  up  to  then,  but,  most 
assuredly,  we  have  scarcely  ever  known  what  it 
is  to  live  in  peace  and  comfort  since. 

The  United  States  riders  brought  with  them 
very  unorthodox  methods  in  addition  to  the 
forward  seat,  which  was  by  no  means  their 
original  invention,  and  I  sincerely  wish  had 
never  been  exploited,  as  it  was,  to  our  dis- 
comfort. Without  going  into  the  old  story  of 
the  reign  of  terror,  during  which  our  most  trust- 
worthy English  riders'  word  made  no  weight 
against  any  Yankee  boy's,  and  so  long  as  an 
American  was  put  up  when  the  winning  time 
came,  all  previous  performances,  including  running 
horses  pig-fat  with  such  men  as  Morny  Cannon 
up,  were  considered  quite  legitimate  by  Stewards 
and  others,  some  of  whom  were  misled  and  some 
wisely  made  their  market,  one  could  not  help 
being  reminded  of  the  bad  days.  It  seems  but 
yesterday  since  I  saw  a  Steward  of  the  Jockey 
Club  march  into  the  weighing-room  of  the 
Rowley  Mile  Stand  with  his  arm  round  a  pigmy 
American  pilot's  neck ;  or  the  date  of  the  other 
occasion  on  which  the  late  Prince  Soltykoff  pre- 


154  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

sented  Johnny  Reiff,  then  a  boy,  with  a  handsome 
cheque  for  a  meritorious  win,  and  the  little 
nipper,  accepting  the  douceur,  stuffed  it  into  his 
pocket  without  so  much  as  looking  at  it.  I 
suppose  you  remember  poor  Prince  Soltykoff  s 
lament  at  the  personal  sacrifice  of  dignity 
necessary  for  an  owner  desirous  of  keeping  in 
an  imported  jockey's  good  graces.  ''  He,"  said 
the  Prince  of  his  jockey,  '*sit  on  my  table  and 
swing    his    leg,    he    smoke    my   cigar,    call    me 

'  boss,'  and  use  my  boots  for  spittoons,  and " 

But  as  we  have  somehow  got  to  Boxhill,  let  us 
quit  racing  as  it  was  and  ought  not  to  be,  and 
get  up  by  the  old  road — Roman,  say  the  local 
folk,  and  likely  enough,  too,  because  Ermyn 
Street  comes  right  along  past  Epsom's  paddock 
down  to  Myrtle  Hall  at  Mickleham,  only  half  a 
mile  or  so  away  from  the  foot  of  Boxhill's  grown- 
over  track.  Likely,  too,  it  was  a  Pilgrim's  Way 
for  those  who,  coming  from  Winchester  over  by 
Merrow  Downs  and  the  back  of  Ranmore  to 
Burford,  cut  across  to  Betchworth  on  their  road 
towards  Canterbury. 

Let  every  reader  who  does  not  know  Boxhill 
make  a  great  point  of  exploring  this  almost 
unique  territory  of  down  land,  thickly  wooded,  in 
parts  a  dense  jungle  of  yew  and  box,  mixed  with 
almost  every  tree  that  flourishes  in  England, 
and,  in  the  open,  showing  detached  specimens  to 
which  the  like  can  scarcely  be  found.  An  eerie, 
mysterious,  ghostly  sort  of  gulf  is  the  great  gully 
on  the  left  as  you  make  from  the  road  to  the 
fort,  or,  at  least,  it  was  when  I  climbed  up  there 
with  the  mist  lying,  as  one  may  say,  in  strata, 
the  light  varying  from  minute  to  minute,  and  no 
sign  of  life  except  birds  stealing  stealthily  about 


AROUND  EPSOM  AND  LEATHERHEAD       155 

from  one  shelter  to  another  in  the  dense  jungle 
capped  with  old  man's  beard,  and  straggling 
flocks  of  fieldfares  silently  passing  over — too 
tired,  I  guess,  to  even  say  chac.  Here,  twenty 
miles  from  London,  was  as  complete  solitude 
as  in  the  bush.  Judgment  of  distances  and 
measurements  was  mere  guess-work,  and,  for  all 
you  could  tell  by  sight  or  hearing,  you  might  be 
a  mile  above  the  river  level  when  you  stumbled 
on  a  fort  apparently  built  to  dominate  the  valley 
if  the  real  Battle  of  Dorking  should  come  off, 
and  forgotten  altogether — kind  of  mislaid,  like 
the  two  regiments  left  for  fifteen  years  in  New 
Zealand,  on  nobody's  books  but  the  Paymaster- 
General's.  Signs  of  life,  however,  were  discover- 
able in  cottages  put  up  adjacent  to  the  battery 
depot,  and,  I  may  mention,  one  began  to  get 
quite  glad  to  strike  something  that  was  alive, 
even  if  it  was  only  a  kid  that  pretended  to  be 
frightened  into  dragging  its  anchor,  and  a  couple 
of  very  warlike  dogs,  outwardly  fierce  little  tykes 
but  inwardly  glad  enough  to  see  a  stranger. 

Funny  birds  you  do  see,  to  be  sure,  when  you 
have  not  a  gun,  as  also  when  you  are  provided 
with  artillery.  What  do  you  think  I  heard, 
while  taking  my  diluted  holiday,  one  rustical 
dweller  say  to  another  agricultural  gentleman  of 
a  third  party  unknown  ?  I  happened  on  them 
at  the  end  of  an  oration  in  which  the  story-teller 
said,  in  effect,  as  Mr  Bettinson  does  at  the 
National  Sporting  Club  :  ''  So-and-so  is  the 
winner,  gentlemen  "  ;  only  he  meant  to  say  that 
himself  had  won — on  points  and  a  knock-out, 
too,  I  should  think,  by  his  style.  The  part  I 
caught  was  this  :  ''  What  did  he  do  then  ?  "  asked 
number    two,       '*Do?"    replied    t'other;    ''the 


156  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

only  thing  he  could  do — 'ang  'is  'ead  and  hexit." 
A  saying  which  lasted  me  till  I  came  to  another 
fort  by  Betchworth  Clump,  and  that  very 
excellent  little  roadside  inn  which  the  noble 
conqueror  cited  would  have  called  the  'And  in 
'And.  If,  on  my  recommendation,  Refereaders 
do  not  look  up  the  little  inn  from  Betchworth,  on 
the  South-Eastern  ;  or  Dorking,  South-Eastern 
or  South  Coast ;  or  Burford  Bridge,  South  Coast 
Railway  stations,  and  take  their  fill  of  the 
wonderful  views  from  the  ridges,  and  explore 
the  downs  at  the  woodlands,  in  which  they  are 
free  to  wander  at  discretion  and  with  discretion, 
they  will  have  themselves  to  blame.  I  never 
have  myself  been  to  blame  in  this  regard,  nor 
for  neglecting  Headley,  Walton  -  on  -  the  -  Hill, 
Banstead,  Nork,  or  any  of  those  places,  when  I 
had  an  opportunity  of  looking  them  up.  Some 
day,  perhaps,  when  a  hard  frost  prevents  racing 
at  Epsom  Summer  Meeting,  I  may  be  able  to 
take  a  turn  under  rather  more  favourable  condi- 
tions than  obtained  while  I  was  trapesing  round 
last  week,  making  the  best  of  my  holiday  in  the 
mire — mire  I  write — but,  bless  you,  thawing 
ploughed  fields  are  nothing  to  cross  when  you 
are  used  to  them,  unless  you  are  conscientiously 
worried  about  taking  the  proprietor's  freehold 
away  on  your  boots.  Towards  the  end  of  the 
day,  as  the  ground  became  more  and  more 
giving,  it  came  to  be  quite  enjoyable,  so  easy  it 
was  to  the  feet,  though  the  railway  officials  did 
not  seem  to  be  fond  of  my  custom  when  I  wanted 
to  take  a  lift  for  two  or  three  miles  to  rest  my 
faithful  long-haired  dog,  who  will  never  interfere 
with  a  fellow-passenger  so  long  as  he  has  a 
comfortable  seat.     Perhaps  they  recognised  the 


AROUND  EPSOM  AND  LEATHERHEAD       157 

bushel  or  so  of  land,  and  thought  we  had  stolen 
the  same  ;   ''lifted  "  we  certainly  had. 

Once  upon  a  time  I  spent  many  hours  reading 
the  Derby's  conditions  through  from  its  initiation 
to — well,  I  forget  how  far  I  carried  the  quest, 
but  I  know  I  got  jolly  well  tired  of  the  job,  and, 
thanks  to  the  dust  off  the  old  volumes  of  the 
Racing  Calendar  consulted,  I  contracted  an  irrita- 
tion of  the  nose  forty  times  worse  than  any  hay 
fever.  The  Derby  began  as  a  biennial  or  triennial, 
and  has  been  chopped  and  changed  about  very 
much  over  and  over  again.  As  to  its  course  and 
the  distance,  some  of  us  about  now  can  remember 
two  or  three  variations.  Before  my  time  the  start 
was  out  of  sight  from  the  present  stand ;  but 
perhaps  in  view  of  the  ancient  betting  ring,  which, 
so  far  as  I  can  make  out,  was  on  the  high  ground 
about  where  the  mile  races  start  now.  The  horses 
came  from  a  point  behind  the  cottage  marked 
on  ancient  maps  as  Sir  Gilbert  Heathcote's,  and 
the  track  was  a  lot  better  than  the  present  one, 
because  the  hill  to  climb  was  less  severe  and  the 
field  edged  far  more  gradually  to  the  bend,  leaving 
the  Craven  post  well  to  the  left.  When  most  of 
us  first  remember  the  Derby  the  starting-place 
was  a  good  bit  nearer  the  stand  than  it  is  now, 
and  competitors  were  set  a  very  stiff  climb  indeed 
from  the  fall  of  the  flag.  The  trouble  with  Mr 
Studd,  who,  as  Lord  of  the  Manor  of  Walton, 
had  the  temerity  to  want  a  share  of  the  money 
earned  by  racing  over  his  territory,  was,  I  believe, 
responsible  for  some  alteration — or  was  such  only 
schemed  out  for  an  alternative  course  ?  But  that 
does  not  matter,  I  only  wanted  to  show  that  when 
one  talks  of  a  St  Leger  or  Derby  time,  comparing 
it  with  another,  there  may  be  penalties  in  differ- 


158  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

ences  of  plan  and  allowances  for  variations  of 
distance  to  trim  the  measurements  taken  off-hand 
as  identical,  not  to  mention  weights  differing  from 
period  to  period. 

People  in  general  are  much  too  apt  to  assume 
that  because  it  is  winter,  you  cannot  take  an 
enjoyable  and  pretty  walk.  You  find  out  what 
a  fallacy  that  is  if  you  want  to  take  walks  and 
have  to  take  them  jolly  well  when  you  get  a 
chance,  which  chance  seems,  to  a  racing  man,  to 
be  frequently  given  on  the  same  principle  as  the 
commons  were  left  common — because  they  seemed 
no  good  for  anything.  Take  my  walks  abroad 
at  these  unvalued  periods  I  must,  seeing  what 
a  creature  of  circumstances  my  trades,  occupa- 
tions, and  professions  (I  seem  to  have  about  as 
many  as  a  bundle  of  them)  render  me,  and,  so 
far  as  in  me  lies,  make  the  best  of  things  as  they 
"fall,"  missing  no  opportunity  of  washing  the 
slate  clean  with  due  gratitude,  a  little  superior 
to  the  lively  sense  of  favours  to  come,  for  all  the 
pleasure  one  can  extract  from  them. 

Fairly  dry  weather  in  December,  even  when 
things  are  not  slicked  up  by  frost,  offers  whole- 
some and  suitable  conditions  enough  for  getting 
about.  Certainly  you  miss  the  little  touch  of 
tingly  frost,  so  stimulating  and  precious  to  the 
well-clothed,  and  at  the  same  time  health-giving ; 
but  in  winter,  you  know,  a  sort  of  compensating 
thermometer  is  always  before  the  pitiful  man's 
eyes.  His  imagination  sees  with  each  falling 
degree  the  going  up  of  increasingly  sore  times 
for  the  hard-up.  Open  weather  does  mean  such 
a  lot.  In  it  most  trades  can  be  carried  on  with- 
out interruption,  ensuring  continuous  supply  for 
the  needy  worker. 


AROUND  EPSOM  AND  LEATHERHEAD       159 

Cows  in  the  meadows  and  horses  turned  out 
do,  as  every  child  knows,  keep  Sunday.  I  do 
not  mean  horses  which  are  given  a  run  in  the 
fields  on  the  day  that  comes  betwixt  the  Saturday 
and  Monday  —  they  ought  to  know  —  but  gees 
having  a  spell  of  long  rest,  or  lucky  ones  with 
all  their  working  troubles  to  come  and  no  record 
of  labour  so  far.  Do  the  little  dicky  birds  and 
the  big,  the  undomesticated  who  live  on  their 
own — can  they  tell  when  Christmas  comes  once 
a  year  ?  The  robin  of  the  picture  should  be  able 
to  spot  the  date  and  be  pleased  with  it,  because 
he  is  always  (in  them)  being  treated  to  about 
enough  to  make  too  much  for  twenty  birds  ten 
times  his  size.  My  word !  that  means  a  lot  too, 
as  you  would  find  out  if  an  old  man  redbreast 
selected  you  for  purveyor  and  insisted  upon  being 
fed  at  all  hours  during  the  day,  with  quick  lunches 
going  perpetually  between  the  meals.  If  the 
birds  of  the  air  are  informed  in  the  matter  of 
the  seasons  other  than  by  Nature's  calendar — 
the  coming  and  going  of  the  fruits  of  the  earth, 
the  cold  and  warmth — I  guess  the  very  one  they 
do  most  dislike  is  old-fashioned  Christmas  winter. 
And  so  do  I,  for  their  sakes.  Seeing  the  poor 
little  bodies  puffed  out  with  cold,  being  starved 
and  clemmed  when  human  attention  is  dwelling 
quite  sufficiently  on  plentiful  eating  and  drinking, 
makes  you  feel  that  there  is  something  wrong. 
We  are  not  half  so  bad  as  we  used  to  be,  thanks 
in  great  measure  to  the  gun  licensing  being  so 
well  looked  after,  and  one  seldom  now  sees  hobble- 
dehoys blowing  to  pieces  little,  little  songsters,  as 
easy  to  hit  as  a  winter  cabbage. 

I  took  particular  notice  of  the  birds  at  Christ- 
mas as  I  perambulated  round  about  in  a  sort  of 


160  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

semicircle  with  a  diameter  drawn  from  Ripley 
to  Leatherhead.  Finely  varied  country  this,  its 
borders  trenching  on  the  devious  flow  of  the 
Mole,  a  river  rendered  harder  and  harder  of 
access  by  reason  of  a  gradual  progress  in  shut- 
ting up  old  footpaths  and  rights  of  way.  A  funny 
chap  is  this  Mole,  well-named,  as  Refereaders 
are  aware,  because  of  his  burrowing  habits  and 
hidings  in  sinks  or  swallows,  subterranean  hollows 
accounting  for  a  bed,  dry  superficially,  with  run- 
ning water  on  each  side.  Each  side,  I  say,  not 
on  each  edge.  No  other  river  in  the  South  of 
England  so  quickly  gets  into  flood  or  empties 
itself  to  normal  level — if  the  Thames  will  allow 
it.  Occasionally,  you  know,  the  Mole  cannot 
get  out  at  Molesey,  because  the  big  river  shuts 
the  other's  mouth  up  and  does  serious  damage, 
otherwise  a  comparison  of  the  two  streams'  goings 
on  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Mole's  outlet  can 
be  quite  comical. 

To  get  away  from  our  birds  for  a  bit,  Ripley, 
a  very  slightly  altered  typical  Surrey  village,  is, 
I  think,  looking  up  again  a  little,  but  the  motors 
have  driven  off  very  much  of  the  cyclists'  custom 
and  stopped  nearly  all  the  walkers  who  like  to 
take  their  tikes  with  them.  There  are  two  things 
impossible  to  do  with  satisfaction  to  yourself  and 
other  people.  One  is  to  back  your  horses  at  S.P. 
and  go  on  to  the  course  without  being  fixed  up 
between  giving  your  business  away  and  giving 
other  people  away.  The  just-mentioned  walking 
with  your  dogs  on  a  motory  road  or  by  the  side 
of  it,  is  another,  if  you  are  going  to  get  pleasure 
out  of  it.  Thank  goodness,  we  have  yet  to 
experience  the  dog-followed  motor.  I  should 
very  much  like  to  see  it  once,  and  have  the  dog 


AROUND  EPSOM  AND  LEATHERHEAD       161 

myself  that  could  worry  along,  as  some  owners 
used  to  make  their  tikes  come  on  long  journeys 
after  a  bicycle.      In  general,  dogs  and  cycles  do 
not  go  together.     The  faithful  animal  never  has 
quite  taken  to  cycles — I  do  not  mean  as  a  rider 
— except  to  his  master's,  and  a  lot  of  him  were 
and    are   pests    seeking,    of  malice   prepense,  to 
cause  an  accident.      Unhappily,  too,  their  tendency 
to  interfere  with  a  wheeler's  indisputable  right  to 
the  road  was  frequently  fostered  by  proprietors. 
Not  so  much  was   I   thinking  of  this  sort  as  of 
an  artful  section  who,  confident  in  their  judgment 
of  pace  and  so  forth,  would  deliberately  lay  them- 
selves out — dogs,  not  their  masters — to  spoof  the 
wheel-rider  and    involve    him   in    entanglements. 
Canines    I    have  known  who  could   play  out  of 
their  heads   all  the  tricks  the  nervous  old   lady 
will  involuntarily  illustrate,  offering  and  retreat- 
ing,  stopping  when  she  shouldn't  and  going  on 
when  she  didn't  ought,  in  making  passage  from 
one  kerbstone  of  a  busy  road  to  that  opposite. 
One   gentleman    in    particular    I    recollect    who 
regarded     every     cyclist's     bell    as    a     warning 
requiring  him   to  cross  the   ringer's  course,  get 
himself  as  nearly  as  possible  but  not  quite  run 
over,    and   give    the    unhappy    wheelman    every 
chance  of  coming  to  grief.     Not  once  but  hundreds 
of  times  in  a  year  would  he  play  this  trick ;  and 
the   worst    of  it  was  you  dare  not  say  a  word 
to  him,   because  if  he  did  answer  your  signals 
from  the  bank — I  should  say  road-edge — he  would 
make   an   outward  tack  before  coming  back  on 
another  board,  so  by  interference  you  only  turned 
bad    into   worse.       The  sensible   course   was   to 
pretend  that  you  did  not  know  anything  about 
him,   he  was   no  dog  of  yours,   more  especially 

L 


162  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

should  catastrophe  arrive,  and,  Hke  the  pair  in 
**  Struwwelpeter,"  boy  or  man  and  doggie  come 
bump,  thump,  in  a  lump.  I  never  knew  the  last- 
named  hurt  himself;  in  fact,  he  was  always  ready 
to  render  first  aid,  either  by  barking  at  his  brother 
in  misfortune  or  by  licking  his  face,  both  pro- 
cesses irritating,  I  am  told.  That  this  eccentric 
character  died  in  his  own  bed,  so  to  speak, 
sufficiently  explained  that  in  his  little  games  he 
was  able  to  discriminate  between  cycles  and 
motors.  One  application  of  these  latter  is  too 
apt  to  act  like  the  celebrated  soothing  syrup 
with  trade  mark,  *'  Baby  never  cries  after  one 
dose." 

One  beauty  of  our  Christmas  holiday  weather 

at  the  time  I  am  talking  of,  lay  in  its  being  not 

too  wet   nor   yet    too  dry,   only  just  beautifully 

middling  for  the  roads.     They  were  really  perfect 

for  walking,  too  dry  for  mud,  too  damp  for  dust, 

and  neither  sticky  nor  slippery.     The  big  tyres 

ran  well  on  the  going,  and  the  fancy  varieties, 

capable  of  putting  it  into  as  gritty  state  as  could  a 

flock  of  sheep,  by  grinding  out  and  lifting  up  the 

small  particles  of  the  macadam,  left  no  trace  of 

their    handiwork.       Not    one   motor   did    I    see 

scorching ;    cause  why,  I  may  be  asked  ;  I  know 

the  ''because"  very  well,  but  am  rather  willing 

to  believe  in  a  better  motive  than  fear  of  (police) 

consequences.     As  to  those  who  only  did  not  go 

faster    because    they  did    not    dare,   they  and   I 

differ  in  perception  actual  and  moral.     Leaving 

the  latter  out  of  the  question  as  debatable  matter 

leading    possibly    to    unfriendly    discussion   and 

therefore  unseasonable,  I  cannot  see  the  pleasure 

of  going  at  a  high  speed  past  or  through  country 

worth  looking  at.     Perhaps,  with  better  practice, 


AROUND  EPSOM  AND  LEATHERHEAD       163 

I  could  educate  my  vision  so  as  to  take  in  the 
objects  of  interest  that  make  so  much  amusement 
for  me.  Try  as  I  will,  I  seem  to  miss  an  awful 
lot  progressing  at  the  rate  of  a  mile  in  three 
minutes  ;  but,  then,  I  dare  say  a  very  great  many 
do  not  care  a  tinker's  cuss  for  the  small  beer  and 
small  potatoes  in  beast,  bird,  vegetable,  insect, 
and  reptile  life. 

I  had  one  turn  at  high  speed.  We  only  did 
nineteen  miles  in  eleven  minutes  downhill  on  a 
narrow  road  and  a  Bank  Holiday,  and  I  fear  I 
discredited  the  cloth  in  describing  my  sensations 
to  the  kindly  chauffeur-host  who  took  me  out  to 
give  me  a  treat.  He  asked  how  I  felt.  Really  I 
meant  no  offence  in  likening  myself,  and  by  con- 
sequence him — I  had  forgotten  that — to  a 
member  of  the  herd  of  swine  rushing  violently 
down  a  steep  place,  with  acute  preference  for 
going  into  the  sea  if  we  went  into  anything.  In 
the  sea  you  might  have  a  chance  by  swimming, 
but  otherwise  touching  meant  going. 

Cannot  something  be  done  to  alter  the  system 
of  carriage  illumination  ?  I  will  not  describe  the 
up-to-date  lamplight  as  too  brilliant^ — scarcely 
can  that  pitch  of  intensity  be  reached.  Theoreti- 
cally and  practically,  no  light  can  be  too  good  for 
distribution.  Where  the  trouble  comes  is,  like 
the  Bunsbyan  philosophy,  in  the  application  of 
it.  Will  not  some  firm  of  opticians,  lampmakers, 
inventors,  or  manufacturers  take  the  job  in  hand 
and  bring  out  a  lamp  to  lighten  up  the  road  with- 
out blinding  wayfarers  ?  A  splendid  creation, 
to  my  mind,  is  a  big  motor-car,  with  its  cleverly 
devised  appointments,  carrying  a  certain  touch  of 
ocean-going  trimness  and  tautness  about  it,  an 
idea  suggested,  perhaps,  by  its  lights.     By  day  I 


164  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

can  stand  and  admire  a  swagger  machine  for  a 
long  while  at  a  stretch.  After  dark  that  same  is  a 
terror  to  me.  This  story,  scarcely  new,  is  all  the 
same  worth  re-telling  because  of  the  fearful 
nuisance  and  danger  caused  by  the  very  excel- 
lence of  the  means  adopted  mostly  in  the  cause 
of  safety  itself.  With  one  of  these  monstrous- 
eyed  machines  coming  at  you  out  of  the  dark 
you  are  blinded  and  paralysed  for  action.  Not 
only  do  motors'  big  lamps  act  in  this  way,  but 
the  humble  cyclist's  acetylene  lighter-up,  if  you 
happen  to  catch  its  glare  full.  All  you  know  is 
that  you  think  yourself  in  danger,  whether  you 
are  so  or  not,  and  are  pretty  much  unable  to 
help  yourself  in  getting  out  of  the  way,  because 
the  fierce  white  light  cuts  through  the  air  like  a 
guillotine.  Inside  the  edge  of  its  rays  you  might 
be  in  the  limelight.  At  a  line  outside  is  created 
an  artificial  darkness  that  can  be  felt,  and  makes 
unknown  territory.  Quite  unsuccessful  are  my 
best  endeavours  to  mend  this  trouble  for  myself  ; 
the  only  way  is  the  old-fashioned  one  for  a 
traveller  on  a  very  dark  road — viz.,  getting  out  of 
the  way  when  you  saw  a  lighted  trap  coming 
(they  used  not  always  to  be  lighted  up,  you  know, 
till  recent  Acts),  and  shutting  your  eyes  till  the 
machine  had  gone  by,  so  preventing  them  from 
getting  out  of  focus.  I  do  wish  for  someone  to 
experiment  with  an  apron  shade  to  send  the 
bright  white  rays  out  ahead  along  the  road 
instead  of  straight  away  into  your  brain.  Under 
this  arrangement  the  lamps  would  be  twice  as 
efficacious  for  the  drivers'  purpose  as  they  are 
now. 

Talking  about  seeing,   those  who    believe  in 
funny   birds   cropping  up  only  when    you   have 


AROUND  EPSOM  AND  LEATHERHEAD       165 

not  a  gun,   do  not  have  all  the  best  of  the  argu- 
ment,   because    a-many   fearful    fowl   and   other 
curiosities  are  brought  down  by  the  gunner.     I 
fixed    up    two    or    three   curious    specimens    on 
Christmas    Day.     Possibly    number    one    would 
not  be  a  rarity  to  gents  in  one  particular  fancy 
line — i.e.,  donkey  keeping  and  breeding.     Dead 
donkeys    are,    in   accordance  with    the   proverb, 
seldom    on   view,  though  the  fact  that  you  can 
buy  all   the  skins  you    want   at  about  a  dollar 
apiece   proves    that    somebody    must    see    them 
sooner  or  later.      The   well-groomed    moke,    as 
proud  of  himself  as  his  master  is  of  the  creature, 
is   to  me  a  thing  of  beauty  and  of  joy.     I  have 
always  coveted  some  of  these,  but  never  attained 
the  distinction   of  ownership  in  a  willing  speci- 
men.    Now,  what  do  you  think  I  came  across  in 
the  way  of  donkeys  ?     A  nice  little  fellow,  well- 
done,  fat  and  sleek,  and  with  string  halt  in  front, 
pretty  near  as  pronounced  as  Memoir's.     I  have 
heard  dealers,  in  praising  a  horse's  high  action, 
chaffingly  liken  it  to  string  halt  all  round.     This 
one  had  it  in  front,  and  very  rum  he  looked.      In 
another    strange    discovery    I     was    rather    the 
discoveree    than    the    discoverer,     for    only    by 
decimals    of    inches     did     I     miss     being     dis- 
covered  in  the  back  by  a  cyclist's  tyre,  he,  his 
partner  in  bad  watermanship  on  the  road,  and  my- 
self all  being  within  about  a  yard  of  the  off-edge  of 
the  road.     They  were  a  mile  out  of  Leatherhead, 
not  going  above  fifteen  miles  an  hour,  so  were, 
they  stated,  perfectly  justified  in  not  ringing  the 
bell   till  they  were  in  touch  of  me.     Nowadays 
you  expect  even  holiday  cyclists  to  know  the  near 
side  of  the  road  from  the  off  without  tying  a  hay- 
band  on  one  wrist  and  a  straw-band  on  the  other. 


166  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

These  young  parties  declined  to  discuss  the  rule 
of  the  road,  but  pitched  into  me  because  I  had 
crossed  a  little  while  before  we  got  mixed  up. 
In  the  matter  of  logic  they  were  triumphantly 
unassailable.  How  can  you  controvert  the 
assertion,  *'  If  you  had  stopped  over  there  you 
would  not  have  been  here." 

I  saw  a  funny  bird  who  had  views  on  the 
rights  of  the  road,  practically  to  the  effect  that  it 
didn't  mind  how  much  of  it  it  took.  When  I 
came  across  this  masterful  man  he  was  playing 
wolf  to  the  lamb  of  a  little  boy  carrying  a  burden 
in  the  very  place  where  he  ought  to  be,  the 
extreme  right  edge  of  the  footpath  ;  t'other  party, 
an  equestrian,  had  a  led  horse,  and  all  the  road  to 
himself.  Very  properly,  as  I  understand  the 
rules,  he  took  the  second  steed  on  his  off-side  so 
as  to  be  between  it  and  advancing  traffic,  while 
nothing  coming  behind  should  cause  disturbance. 
With  the  great  highway  all  his,  pro  tem.,  his  line 
was  right  on  the  path's  coping.  Instead  of 
which,  he  blew  the  poor  little  nipper  up  sky-high 
and  said  horse-kicking  would  serve  him  right. 
This  notion  set  me  thinking  whether  conven- 
tional handling  of  led  horses  is  quite  as  common- 
sensible  as  it  might  be,  where  the  road  is 
bordered  by  paths.  The  question  is,  you  know, 
whether  an  obstreperous  led  animal  should 
chance  kicking  traps  and  other  horses  or  human 
beings.  A  lot  of  points  must  be  taken  into 
consideration  when  the  Imperial  rules  of  the  road 
are  drawn  up.  They  do  not  exist  at  present,  I 
believe.  While  such  rates  are  being  drafted  I 
hope  pronouncement  will  be  made  to  guide  the 
pedestrian  using  the  road.  According  to  some, 
he  should  rank  himself  as  a  vehicle,  seeing  that 


AROUND  EPSOM  AND  LEATHERHEAD       167 

he  consorts  with  such,  and  so  steer  to  the  left. 
More  is,  I  think,  to  be  said  for  his  taking  the 
right  edge  while  he  uses  the  track  as  a  footpath. 
On  the  latter  course  he  should  be  quite  safe  from 
anything  coming  the  way  that  he  is  going,  and 
with  a  proper  lookout,  can  make  his  own 
arrangements  to  accommodate  himself  with  what 
meets  his  advance. 

One  more  funny  bird.  I  came  on  a  dis- 
mounted steeplechase  rider  hanging  on  to  the 
end  of  his  reins  while  he,  up  a  steep  bank,  was 
endeavouring  to  keep  his  horse  in  hold  and  reach 
some  privet  berries.  "  For  the  bullfinch  at 
home,"  says  he,  so  we  took  a  department  each — 
he  minded  the  horse  and  I  harvested  the  little 
black  fruit.  Here  is  where  the  funny  part  comes 
in.  Up  to  then  I  had  not  seen  a  single  bully, 
who  is  a  very  attention-attracting  chap,  because 
of  the  brilliant  white  he  shows  in  flying.  I  give 
you  my  word  that  going  back  on  my  tracks  I 
seemed  scarcely  ever  free  from  bullfinches.  They 
were  for  ever  zig-zagging  across  from  hedge  to 
hedge,  or  flitting  along  them,  and  seemed  almost 
as  plentiful  as  robins.  That  bold  customer  is  to 
be  found  wherever  anything  to  eat  is  going. 
You  may  not  hit  on  one  all  day  till  you  pull  out 
food  ;  so  doing,  you  call  him  up  from  the  vasty 
deep.  So  no  one  with  a  bit  of  bread,  and  cheese 
for  preference,  need  ever  be  without  a  robin's 
company. 


CHAPTER   XIII 


NEWMARKET 


Newmarket,  you  know,  is  the  Metropolis  of  the 
Turf,  and  all  other  centres  quite  countrified. 
Outside  racing  matters,  the  little  town  places 
itself,  I  believe,  second  to  London,  with 
Yarmouth  third.  Of  Newmarket  I  am  very- 
fond,  as  anyone  must  be  who  knows  the  place 
and  is  able  to  get  about.  Its  air,  water,  and 
Mr  Musks's  mutton  are  almost  unapproachable, 
in  combination  for  hygienic  purposes.  I  have 
wondered  if  a  sort  of  balance  to  racing's  fortunes 
might  not  be  found  in  exploiting  Newmarket  as 
a  health  resort.  Testimonials  by  the  tens  of 
thousands  are  always  available  from  frequenters, 
or  merely  occasional  visitors  ;  who  mostly,  in 
spite  of  setting  quite  the  wrong  way  to  work,  do 
reap  great  benefits  from  passing  a  few  days 
between  the  Heath's  remainders  as  cut  up  for 
civilisation's  requirements.  How  do  most  of  us 
go  while  doing  a  meeting  ?  What  percentage  of 
the  racing  army  gets  its  pennyworth  out  of  the 
grand,  strong  air  a-mornings,  or  then  takes 
exercise  enough  ?  A  precious  small  one,  as  you 
must  know,  if  you  patrol  the  roads  within  a  quite 
moderate  radius  of  the  late   Mr  Blanton's  clock 

168 


NEWMARKET  169 

and  its  tower.  Do  we  lead  a  country  life,  rising 
betimes,  and  retiring  to  roost  correspondingly- 
early  ;  or  is  the  custom  in  this  part  of  the  country 
to  lengthen  the  days  by  taking  a  bit  out  of  the 
night,  boys !  The  lot  of  us  on  the  average  set 
Newmarket's  grand  air,  grand  water,  and  fine 
meat  an  unfair  trial — viz.,  to  keep  us  from  going 
back  instead  of  "keeping"  as  we  ought,  to  use 
the  North-country  word.  In  brief,  the  practice 
is  to  ask  to  be  done  up,  and  work  towards  that 
end  ;  and  yet,  thanks  to  beneficial  surroundings 
and  accessories,  you  mostly  come  out  with  a 
balance  to  the  good  in  hand.  If  such  desirable 
results  can  be  and  are  achieved  under  severe 
handicapping,  what  price  Newmarket  for  health 
resorters  honestly  bent  on  turning  its  good  gifts 
— among  which  I  number  the  mutton,  especially 
the  mutton,  and  the  clean  grown  vegetables — to 
best  account.  Please  understand  me  to  be  keep- 
ing out  of  view  making  our  Newmarket  a 
sanatorium  or  cure  centre,  which  always  must 
carry  a  lot  of  depression  with  it  as  the  proportion 
of  invalids  to  the  sound,  or,  at  any  rate,  the 
active  service  hands  is  increased  beyond  normal 
proportions.  I  simply  ask  what  price  New- 
market as  a  desirable  residential  district  for  folk 
to  come  and  enjoy  life  in,  building  themselves  up 
the  while  ?  Half  the  people  sent  to  be  braced  up 
at  the  seaside  are  at  the  wrong  place  when  they 
get  there,  because  the  sea  air  and  their  livers 
cannot  rub  on  together.  For  these  inland,  with 
quite  as  strong  air,  but  none  of  the  blinky, 
owly,  sluggish  sleepiness  affecting  certain  con- 
stitutions while  on  the  coast,  works  like  a  charm. 
If  you  go  to  Newmarket,  ask  for  restoration,  and 
do  not  get  it,  you  must  be  very  unlucky.     Any- 


170  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

way,  there  is  recommendation  for  households  who 
frequently  find  members  in  need  of  setting  up, 
and  I  suppose  the  equivalent  for  half  a  brick  on 
the  head  at  my  service  for  dreaming  of  a  New- 
market quarter  not  altogether  for  Newmarket 
racing  and  training. 

Perhaps  the  half  might  be  reduced  to  say  a 
brickbat,  on  my  mentioning  as  one  of  the  charms 
of  the  said  sanatorium  the  interest  the  patients 
might  get  out  of  the    training.      Newmarket    to 
the  person  not  concerned  in  expense,  jj/^/  interested 
in  horses,  stands  by  itself  as  offering  free  every 
day,  unless  weather  interrupts,  a  moving  pano- 
rama of  the  life  of  the  high-metalled  racer,  leaving 
out  (though  perchance  you  might  find  it,  if  you 
care  or  can  bear  to  look  for  it)  the  last  scenes  in 
that  eventful  history  as  painfully  depicted  in  the 
old  series  of  prints  once  so  popular.     From  the 
mighty  stud-horse  taking  his  walks  abroad,  and, 
contrary  to   general  idea,  a  marvel  of  well-bred 
docility,  with  frequently  strong  affection  for  his 
companion    and    attendant,     to    the    little     foal 
gambolling  at  its  mother's  feet,  tottery  on  legs, 
which  have  had  only  a  few  hours'  practice,  you 
can  see  the  whole  seven  ages  of  the  thorough- 
bred.    The    two    mentioned   you    must    seek    in 
their    proper   places,    but    the   older   youngsters 
being  lunged,  those  broken  to  work  at  exercise, 
strings    of    horses    representing   thousands    and 
thousands    of    pounds,    cantering   and    practice- 
galloping,  with,  almost  every  day  in  the  season, 
trials,  undress  rehearsals  of  hard  races,  are  at  the 
onlooker's  service. 

To  many  the  actual  racing  ranks  in  attraction 
but  little  before  the  operations  of  raising  and 
educating  which  appeal  so  strongly  to  lovers  of 


NEWMARKET  171 

horses.  And,  seeing  how  great  a  proportion  of 
those  who  find  the  money  to  make  Newmarket 
to  go  miss  being  sufficiently  in  their  horses' 
society  to  become  even  their  acquaintances,  let 
alone  friends,  I  do  often  greatly  marvel  that  the 
little  town  does  so  well,  while,  at  the  same  time, 
feeling  sorry  for  the  sportsmen  who  have  the 
means  to  keep  up  a  stud,  but  not  the  time  to 
draw  from  it  consideration  that  comes  from 
being  in  close  touch  with  your  animals.  These 
are  almost  in  the  same  position  as  the  proprietor 
of  dogs  kept  by  an  agent  for  show,  as  compared 
with  one  who  makes  his  tikes  companions  on  a 
basis  of  mutual  esteem  and  understanding.  The 
next  best  thing  to  having  all  you  want  is  to 
take  what  you  can  get,  and  be  content  as  you 
can  ;  but  lucky  indeed  is  the  proprietor  who  has 
his  stock  grow  up  under  his  eyes,  and  can  follow 
their  education,  development,  and  training  in 
detail — a  fascinating  operation,  more  especially 
when  you  have  personal  interest  in  the  creatures. 
To  not  a  few  these  pleasures  are  denied,  and  for 
all  friendly  relation  there  is  between  them  and 
their  horses,  the  latter  might  almost  as  well  be 
mere  machines.  Of  course  there  are  times  when 
every  stable's  affairs  go  wrong,  and,  so  to  speak, 
living  in  it  means  having  its  troubles  always 
before  you.  Still,  the  same  sort  of  thing  occurs 
to  an  extent  under  the  other  arrangements, 
where  the  pleasures  indicated  for  make-weights 
are  lacking. 

Undoubtedly  the  owner  who  breeds  his  own 
stock  and  has  training  grounds  also  within  handy 
distance  of  his  residence,  must  get  a  very  great 
deal  more  for  his  money  than  do  the  less  fortu- 
nate, who  must  make  excursions  to  and  appear  at 


172  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

their  raising  or  training  studs  as  visitors  rather 
than  residents.  I  can  conceive  nothing  more 
charming  than  the  position  of  the  former  species 
of  owner,  who,  among  his  stud  matrons,  sires,  and 
their  progeny  of  various  ages,  is  as  was  the  old- 
fashioned  squire  on  his  estates  and  in  the  village 
we  will  suppose  adjacent,  and  pretty  much  his 
property,  where  he  knows  every  man  Jack  of  'em, 
also  Dick,  Tom,  and  Harry,  with  Jill  and  the 
rest  to  match,  their  histories  and  forbears,  their 
occupations,  prospects,  joys,  and  troubles,  and 
has  no  small  hand  in  making  the  world  go  well 
for  all.  Births,  deaths,  and  marriages  in  his  stud 
are  on  a  par  with  like  news  among  the  villagers. 
The  foals  are  the  babies,  the  yearlings  the  little 
children,  the  two-year-olds  the  "growing"  boys 
and  girls,  lads  and  lassies,  and  the  three-year-olds, 
the  come-of-age  men  and  women,  as  are  the 
elders,  to  be  located  among  the  other  s  lot — ages 
with,  at  every  stage,  the  real  head  of  the  stable's 
eye  and  heart  on  them,  as  part  of  his  own 
establishment.  Here  comes  in  sentiment  which 
should  keep  sport  at  its  strongest.  The  other 
sort  more  mature  humans  have  to  take  on  the 
principle  of  eating  crust  if  you  can't  get  crumb, 
but  is  nothing  like  so  enjoyable,  though,  of 
course,  for  many  busy  owners,  the  only  kind  to 
be  had. 

A  treat  I  always  prize  greatly,  is  doing  a  stud 
farm  and  training  stable  in  leisurely  fashion, 
without  any  obligation  to  go  through  the  stables 
or  the  paddocks  beyond  taking  general  observa- 
tions. In  March  of  1905  I  made  a  pilgrimage 
through  the  geographical  district  known  as  Choke 
Jade,  to  renew  acquaintance  with  my  old  friend 
Moifaa,  whose  appearance,  I  was  informed,  had 


NEWMARKET  173 

been  strangely  altered.  Going  by  the  quidnuncs' 
stories,  I  might  not  have  been  surprised  to  see 
the  noble  steed's  long-visaged  napper  thrown  into 
greater  prominence  than  ever  by  having  his  mane 
hogged,  while  as  for  his  tail — well,  you  know  the 
pictures  of  the  old-fashioned  hunter  with  a  short 
dock,  suggesting  that  a  dog-fancier  had  done  it 
with  his  teeth — and  a  three-cornered  remains  of 
a  caudal  appendage,  about  as  useless  as  it  was 
inelegant,  and  almost  a  replica  of  a  trimmed  fight- 
ing-cock's. You  are  familiar  with  such  animal 
sketches,  of  which  early  proofs  are  turned  out 
every  week  by  the  thousand — date  and  all,  while 
you  wait.  So  you  know  what  sort  of  apparition 
I  was  prepared  to  be  startled  by,  say,  the 'big 
bony  Colonial  all  Elgin  marble  elegance  in  the 
bows,  and  Tom-and-Jerry  trimmed  aft.  His 
manners,  too,  had  been  disparaged,  and  much 
made  of  his  invincible  predilection  for  going  off 
to  the  left,  and  altogether  I  felt  I  might  be  on 
the  line  of  an  abortional  phenomenon.  ''  Instead 
of  which,"  there  was  old  Moifaa,  with  his  honest, 
unbeautiful  face,  just  the  same  powerful  chap  as 
ever,  brightened  up  on  his  coat,  certainly,  with  a 
nice  mane,  and  his  tail — long  flowing  tail — no 
more  cut  off,  as  they  said,  than  was  your  beard, 
my  good  reader,  when  you  went  to  the  hair- 
dresser to  have  the  points  taken  off  so  as  to 
spruce  you  up  a  little. 

Between  Moifaa  in  his  old  stable  at  Epsom 
and  Moifaa  at  Egerton  House,  Newmarket,  is 
much  the  same  difference  as  with  any  of  us  in 
working  trim  and  got-up  a  little  for  an  occasion 
— no  more  for  sure.  He  never  looked  better  so 
long  as  I  have  known  him,  nor  could  he  have 
moved  better.      His  peculiarity  of  hanging  to  the 


174  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

left  in  jumping  is  well  known,  but  a  more  tactable 
chap  in  ordinary  exercise  could  not  be  made  to 
order.  The  boy  who  walked  him  off  to  the 
stables  after  John  Watts  had  been  on  his  back  in 
a  canter  may  have  weighed  fifty  pounds,  but  I 
think  I  should  rather  bet  that  he  did  not  go  four 
stone  than  wager  the  other  way.  This  tiny  mite 
and  the  big  horse  got  on  together  admirably. 
Among  the  string  Mr  Marsh  had  out  were  some 
two-year-olds  calculated  to  take  anyone's  fancy, 
and  tried  performers  whose  records  can  be  read 
in  the  Calendar.  They  and  their  work  made  one 
chapter  in  a  delightful  volume.  The  well-drilled 
army  of  retainers,  units  in  the  great  machinery 
of  the  vast  establishment,  could  furnish  another, 
with  system  and  consequent  economy  of  time  and 
labour  always  accentuating  themselves  on  your 
observation.  The  parade  on  the  home  walking 
ground  before  making  for  the  Heath  gave  another 
charming  scene,  but  the  prettiest  of  all  was  to  see 
the  stud  matrons  with  their  babies — some  little 
leggy  things  only  a  few  days  old,  and  as  pretty  in 
their  ways  as  fawns,  with  the  old  ladies'  eyes 
always  on  them.  One  very  distinguished  lady  I 
came  across  looking  as  sober  and  demure  as  if 
she  had  never  known  what  excitement  spelt — 
still,  a  very  observant  party  all  the  same,  taking 
interest  in  everything  going  on  within  her  view. 
This  was  Sceptre,  one  of  the  greatest  popular 
idols  of  any  age,  and  I  should  not  like  to  say 
how  good  at  her  best.  If  anyone  could  have 
such  things  as  racing  establishments  for  play- 
things, as  do  children  toys,  and  I  were  given  only 
one  choice,  I  think  someone  else  would  have  to 
decide  for  me  between  a  farmyard  and  a  trainer- 
breeder's   household.      I    rather   fancy   best    the 


NEWMARKET  175 

homestead  and  stockyard,  with  a  peacock  on  the 
wall,  pigs  and  piglings,  draught-horses  and  kine, 
a  gobbling  turkey-cock,  and  a  gamecock  crowing 
to  his  ladies,  and  in  defiance  of  the  other  fellow 
over  the  way ;  ducks  waddling  in  procession, 
martins  working  from  under  the  eaves,  a  shepherd 
and  his  dog  coming  about  their  business,  hinds 
and,  of  course,  a  milkmaid,  going  about  theirs  ; 
all  the  stock  sleek  and  well-fed ;  the  old  hunter 
poking  his  nose  out  over  his  box's  half-door,  the 
granary  cat  sunning  herself  on  the  wall,  the  rooks 
building  in  the  high  elm,  a  thrush  conversing  on 
the  highest  perch  obtainable,  and  the  pigeons 
slithering  over  the  moss-grown  tile  roof.  That 
is  the  sort  of  toy  I  should  best  like,  marked  with 
prosperity  stamped  on  each  article ;  but  perhaps 
I  could  make  this  dead-heat  with  the  well-ordered 
training  establishment  when  things  go  well. 

Mind,  I  am  only  talking  of  toys  ;  I  might 
talk  of  such  possessions  literally  and  seriously, 
and  have  as  much  chance  of  getting  one  as  the 
other,  except  as  an  unendowed  spectator,  in  which 
capacity  paying  my  visit  to  Moifaa  placed  me,  an 
unrecognised  proprietor  pro  tem.,  without  any 
liability  as  to  the  up-keep  or  responsibility  other 
than  coming  and  departing  in  peace.  Still,  if  you 
can,  be  friends  with  plenty  of  people  too  rich  and 
grand  for  you  to  live  in  the  same  house  with.  I 
mention,  among  many,  a  couple  of  settled-down 
old  married  gentlemen,  well-to-do,  very  well  to  do 
— indeed,  too  swagger  in  their  style  of  living  for 
the  likes  of  me  to  keep  up  with,  but  still  careful 
of  their  precious  healths  to  the  extent  of  taking  a 
strong  constitutional  every  morning,  and  for  all 
I  know,  of  an  afternoon  too.  Often  I  set  out  in 
their  direction,  Cheveley,  on  purpose  to  have  the 


176  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

pleasure  of  passing  the  time  of  day  with  them 
and  a  couple  of  attendants  whom  they  take  about 
for  company.  A  couple  of  fine  old  swells  these 
retired  sportsmen,  Mr  Suspender  and  Mr  Isin- 
glass. Mostly  they  toddled  down  from  Cheveley 
to  Newmarket  to  fetch  the  papers,  going  by  the 
Duchess's  drive  and  coming  back  by  the  Ashley 
road.  Better  pals  than  they  and  their  attendants 
you  could  not  desire,  nor  men  prouder  of  their 
charges — proud  as  the  cocky  pheasants  who  here- 
abouts abound  in  marvellous  foliage,  as  the 
gardener  said  of  the  other  thing,  and  by  the 
thousand  too. 

Our  owners,  trainers,  and  others  at  New- 
market, holders  of  houses  or  stables  interesting  to 
the  public,  might  confer  a  great  boon  on  strangers 
by  labelling  their  establishments  legibly.  Tens 
of  thousands  pass  in  and  out  of  the  little  town  in 
the  course  of  a  few  years,  and  most  of  them 
depart  no  wiser  in  local  topography  than  when 
they  first  set  foot  in  the  place.  Certainly  a  house 
is  the  Englishman's  castle,  private  to  the  pro- 
prietor if  anything  can  be,  and  good  folk  do  hate 
advertising  themselves  ;  so  objection  on  the  latter 
score  might  easily  be  considered  as  fatal  to  the 
idea  of  cataloguing  places.  At  the  same  time,  so 
marking  them  off  need  do  no  harm,  and  must  be 
of  great  service  to  the  uninitiated  who  seek  to 
localise  estabHshments  of  which  they  read  and 
hear  so  much.  They  do  want  to  see  for  them- 
selves where  this,  that,  and  the  other  bygone 
swell  performer  was  housed  while  in  training,  and 
are  still  more  curious  concerning  current  celebri- 
ties. iVlso  is  wanted  a  cheap  map  of  the  Heath. 
The  only  one  I  know  would  be  dear  at  the  price 
if  it  served  for,  say,  the  United   Kingdom,  with 


NEWMARKET  177 

Greater  Britain  delineated  and  chucked  in.     May 
not  somebody  bring  out  a  popular  chart  at  popular 
price  for  folk  to  consult  while  on  the  spot,  and 
take  home  for  future  reference?     Here  is  oppor- 
tunity for  satisfying  a  long-felt  want.     The  cost 
of  production    would    be   slight,    and    surely    a 
constant  sale  be  assured — if  the  price  was  right. 
Half  Newmarket  knows  very  little  of  its  own 
surroundings,  and  it  is  precious  little  denizens  in 
the  "parts  about"  can  tell  you  of  villages  only  a 
little  way  off,   comparatively  speaking,   and  that 
though  the  labourers  are  a  quick-walking  race, 
thanks  to  two  fine  sports,  poaching  and  skating. 
Some    readers,    I    daresay,    have    been    in    and 
admired  Icklingham,  a  typical  long  Suffolk  village 
— flint,    brick,     mud,     plaster,     and    thatch-built 
principally,   with  here  and  there  a  good    house, 
everybody   apparently  well-to-do,  and   the   elder 
women — the  men  do  not    show  it — bearing    the 
Fen  mark,  the  darkness  under  the  skin  which  used 
to  go  with  intermittent  fevers  and  agues.      Here- 
abouts  is   a  tract    of  miserably  poor  scrub-land 
inhabited  by  rabbits,  who  eat  all  its  flesh,  which 
is  grass  and  the  heather,  down  to  the  bone,  and 
polish  up  the  remains  so  close  that  on  a  hot  day 
you  can't  walk  because  the  surface  of  the  vegeta- 
tion left  over  the  sandy  soil  is  like  a  slide.     You 
may  meet  someone,  again  you    may    not,    most 
likely   not,    as   you    range   about   an    object    of 
curiosity  to  the  wheatears,  whose  brilliant  white 
skirts  make  them  a  mark  as  far  as  the  eye  can 
carry  as  they  skim  about.     Near  the  river,  which 
makes  a  wedge  of  fen  in  the  sandy  waste,  sand- 
pipers breed  and  greet  your  advance  with  whistles 
in  their  own   singular   minor   key.     Just   a   few 
thrushes  lope  about,  and  I  had  the  pleasure  of  a 

M 


178  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

blundering  old  stupid  of  a  yofful's  society  for 
quite  a  considerable  time.  Wood-pigeons'  powers 
of  flight  are  so  great  that  they  are  bound  to  occur 
anywhere,  everywhere,  and  with  them  were  bigger, 
owl-coloured  birds  I  could  not  earmark,  because 
of  the  sun's  great  glare.  Green  plovers  were  few, 
imitating  their  relations,  the  sandpipers,  by 
running  instead  of  wheeling  on  the  wing,  com- 
plaining about  being  disturbed,  and  compelling 
attention  which  need  not  be  pointed  at  them 
at  all. 

On  the  waste's  edge  big  trees  made  an  olive 

setting  to   a  picture  quivering  in  the  heat  haze 

and  of  remarkable  tone,  because  of  the  face  of  the 

land  being  coloured  by  pinky  purple  patches  of  a 

starveling  sorrel,  studded    with    bosses   of  dark 

sprouting  heather  almost  flat  to   the   ground,  a 

glow   that    made   you   look   up   at  the  sun  and 

wonder  what    he   was  doing   over   the   yardarm 

instead  of  dropping  in    glory    over    the    western 

horizon.     No  artist  who  put  the  tint  on  canvas 

would  be  believed  if  he  dated  and  time-o-day'd 

his  picture,  but  there  it  was  at  your  service  all 

for  you,  and  the  birds  and  the  rabbits,  who  were 

'*  brusselling "    very    industriously.       The    scene 

seemed    incomplete  without  a  big  hawk  on  the 

watch,  but  was   short    of  that  accessary  all  the 

same,  so  his  natural  prey  went  about  on  business 

free  enough  to   annoy  a  poor  chap  like  myself, 

who,  though  confessing  himself  a  fool,  hates  to  be 

called  one,  and  a    malevolent    imbecile   at    that. 

What  annoys  me  about  the  tricks  played  on  your 

humble  servant  is  the  assumption  that  little  bird 

babies  would  not  be  safe  with  me,  and  that  since 

I  go  about  seeking  whom  I  may  wantonly  maim 

and  destroy,  so  must  I  be  humbugged. 


NEWMARKET  179 

I  might  have  been  all  the  monsters  of  history, 
from  Herod  and  the  ogres  of  fairyland  to  the 
unamiable  uncle  of  the  Princes  in  the  Tower,  to 
judge  by  the  way  I  was  treated.  The  confounded 
peewits  were  quite  certain  I  was  after  their  little 
balls  of  fluff,  and  played  all  sorts  of  shallow  tricks 
to  take  me  away  from  the  shelter  under  a  bank  s 
edge  where  "the  babies"  would  be  clustering  up 
*'  still  as  a  mouse."  ''  Same  here  "  it  was  with  the 
wheatears,  who  offered  to  take  me  for  a  walk  and 
show  me  something  I  should  very  much  like  to 
have,  or  some  tale  like  that.  Let  em  keep  their 
youngsters.  Surely  if  I  desired  to  commit  bird 
slaughter  I  should  go  for  the  grown-up  creature 
toddling  along  almost  within  stick  stroke,  instead 
of  searching  for  immature  nestlings  coloured  to 
match  their  habitat  and  its  fittings.  Then  the 
sandpipers.  Was  it  likely  I  could  be  whistled 
and  wheedled  to  '*come-along-o'-me"  sort  of 
wanderings  just  because  they  pantomimically 
declared  that  I  had  better  forsake  my  route  and 
meander  away  into  the  bush,  goodness  knows 
where  ?  Partridges  were  playing  much  the  same 
game  last  time  I  was  at  Newmarket.  Nobody 
seems  to  leave  me  alone.  Even  the  wrens  came 
out  of  the  reeds  by  the  Lark  and  scolded  and 
fussed.  A  wren  would  be  a  chatter-mag  in  church 
or  while  being  presented  at  Court — it  is  their 
nature  to.  And  the  benighted  great  woodpecker, 
who  wants  to  hank  his  little  lot  out  of  a  hole  ? 
What  call  had  he  to  follow  me  up  from  tree  to 
tree,  always  sitting  on  the  next,  keeping  still  and 
quiet  till  I  passed  and  then  going  ahead  again, 
with  his  ewe  neck  making  him  look  as  if  he  would 
fall  in  half,  to  roost  and  restart  so  long  as  the  old 
Scotches  lasted — rather  a  bibulous  flavour  that 


180  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

has.  They  were  somewhat  scraggy  and  battered 
in  battles  with  gales — all  the  winds  of  heaven  have 
free  run  over  Icklingham's  waste,  scrub,  heath, 
common,  or  what  you  please  to  style  it ;  but  in 
the  sun — and  it  was  sun,  too — the  wind  was  heated 
till  it  almost  bit,  and  you  expected  to  hear 
vegetation  crackle  like  fir-cones  and  furze-pods 
bursting. 

In  the  sun  these  elderly  firs  gave  off  resinous 
aroma,  making  an  air  pine-bath  from  their 
''  medicinal  gums  " — bress  'em  ! — joyful  to  dwell  in 
and  fill  your  lungs  with.  A  big,  long  day  I  could 
have  spent  in  their  company,  or  a  little  further  on 
where  giant  aspens  rustled  soothingly  and  sleepily 
as  might  any  waterfall,  and  a  few  steps  beyond 
them  the  Lark  comes  to  a  lock  and  sluice,  which 
might  have  sat  for  Constable's  Flatford  Lock  on 
the  Stour.  Here,  before  you  actually  get  to 
Icklingham,  is  a  bridge  with  rails  of  exactly  the 
right  height  to  lean  upon,  not  too  high  nor  too 
low,  but,  as  was  the  bear's  chair,  exactly  a  fit ; 
and  good  playfellows  too,  among  the  willows  and 
sedges,  the  great  trusses  of  purple  loose-strife, 
and  waves  of  scented  meadow-sweet,  with  a  tall 
lime,  a  vast  hive  for  the  bees  using  up  the 
blossoms  and  the  honey-dew,  and  more  amusing 
company  in  the  clear  clean  water,  where  dace  and 
roach — big  chaps  some — skirmished  in  shoals, 
droves  of  fifty  and  more,  nice  sizeable  fish  for 
those  who  want  to  catch  them — I  do  not. 

What  a  power  of  quiet,  peaceful  thinking  a 
body  can  do  looking  down  on  green  leaves  and 
moving  water,  and  how  disturbing  to  orderly 
soothing  meditation  it  is  to  have  a  forty-hum- 
ming-bird power  vivid,  lurid  blue  kingfisher  streak 
like  straight   lightning  through  a  bridge's  dark 


NEWMARKET  181 

shadow  at  the  moment  when  you  are  half 
persuading  yourself  that  the  monster,  a  live 
green-backed  fat  fish,  who,  making  no  apparent 
exercise  of  motive  power,  sleepily  glides  through 
the  gloom  of  the  arch's  shelter  from  the  light  for 
a  moment  into  view  is  the  ghost  of  the  King  of 
the  Carp  having  his  day  out.  Ghost  he  must  be, 
for  surely  no  chap  of  that  size  could  be  alive  and 
not  sought  to  his  destruction  ;  if  only  of 
fisherman's,  not  avoirdupois,  weight,  he  is  a 
whopper ;  and,  seen  through  your  half-closed 
eyes,  he  might  weigh  a  ton.  The  kingfisher's 
doing  away  with  dreamy  estimates  and  breaking 
up  the  party  was,  perhaps,  as  well,  for  the  trudge 
back  to  headquarters  is  long,  refreshments  scarce, 
and  stops  to  investigate  odds  and  ends  many. 
Such  as  the  keeper's  cemetery,  started  with  a 
jackdaw  and  half-a-dozen  squirrels  ;  a  mavis's  nest 
low  down  in  a  willow's  trunk,  made  of  bent  to 
match  the  tree's  own  stringy  growth  from  the 
crown  of  its  pollarding  ;  a  stoat,  sitting  up  for  all 
the  world  like  a  cobra  about  to  strike  ;  an  old 
gentleman  of  my  acquaintance,  with  a  half-gallon 
thirst  after  mowing  a  rough  meadow  down  by  the 
little  river  that  crosses  the  Thetford  road  handy 
to  the  Red  Lodge  (good  entertainment  for  man 
and  beast  there),  and  others  sure  to  be  responsible 
for  detours  and  excursions  that  eat  up  time. 
Talking  about  excursions,  I  hope  I  have  not 
been  wandering  at  all,  for  if  there  is  one  thing  on 
which  I  pride  myself  it  is  sticking  to  my  text. 
In  effect  I  begin  with  the  cognac,  I  finish  the 
cognac.  I  never  mix  —  but  what  price  New- 
market, this  style,  as  a  health-giver  ? 


CHAPTER  XIV 

NEWMARKET    REMINISCENCES 

How  long  ago  is  it  since,  by  an  act  altogether 
unjustifiable  legally,  so  say  the  Newmarket 
protestants,  the  Red  Post  was  moved  ?  Now 
anger  has  subsided  and  sorrow  supervened,  I  can 
forgive  but  never  shall  forget  the  crime — a  sort 
of  licensed  body-snatching.  With  Jockey  Club's 
rights  and  Newmarket  town's  privileges,  alienation 
of  property,  or  conservation  thereof,  maintenance 
or  denial  of  claim  to  free  use  and  passage  on  the 
Heath  for  the  general  public  or  locally  qualified, 
and  destruction  of  these  assets,  I  have  nothing  to 
say  just  now,  except  that,  as  a  rule,  big  people's 
improvements  such  as  have  led  to  a  considerable 
bobbery  in  and  about  the  little  town,  almost 
invariably  end  in  exclusiveness,  as  regards  posses- 
sion, being  extended  for  the  great  to  the  little 
ones'  cost.  My  concern  is  not  with  alleged 
extinguishing  of  metalled  roads  and  footpaths,  or 
enclosures  where  all  was  open  ;  not  even  with  the 
blotting  out  of  a  largish  area  from  the  Top  of  the 
Town  to  the  Turn  of  the  Lands  as  a  raceground 
dedicated  to  the  Newmarket  people.  Much 
grievance  has  been  felt  and  expressed  on  these 
several  heads,  and  I  am  glad  to  find  some  being 
relieved.       Mine    is    not    a    protest   with    solely 


NEWMARKET  REMINISCENCES  183 

material  foundation,  but,  oh !  Mr  Marryott,  you 
acting  for  the  Stewards,  Directors  of  the  Jockey 
Club,  did  give  sentiment  a  very  nasty  body-blow 
and  landed  in  a  most  tender  place. 

How  could  you  go  for  to  do  so,  Mr  M.,  and 
yourself  as  prime  mover,  or  merely  active  acces- 
sory, in  the  fact,  take  away  the  Red  Post,  or  allow 
anyone  else  to  lay  hands  on  that  sacred  bit  of 
timber  ?  Rather  should  I  have  pictured  author- 
ity's representative  leading  a  choral  service, 
assuring  the  ancient  race  mark  of  a  kind  of  filial 
reverence,  attachment,  and  defiance  to  all  and 
sundry  threatening  it  with  damage,  not  to  mention 
tearing  it  up  by  its  ancient  roots,  and  casting  the 
relic  away  to  be  stuck  up  in  a  stableyard.  Has 
not  the  Jockey  Club  ever  read,  said,  or  sung 
anyone  of  it,  ''Woodman,  Spare  that  Tree!" 
Surely  a  version  adapted  to  the  object  and 
occasion  must  have  suggested  itself  to  many  old 
parties  when  they  heard,  too  late,  of  this  terrible 
act  of  vandalism.  Some  years  ago,  when  moving 
off  this  object  of  interest  in  the  neighbourhood 
was  half,  only  half,  hinted  at,  a  shudder  spread 
from  the  centre  of  information  through  the  racing 
world's  constitution  as  ripples  decentralise  in  a 
pond  from  the  splash  of  a  stone.  Several  then 
put  in  pleas  for  the  woodman  of  the  Heath  to 
spare  that  bit  of  a  tree,  associated  with  so  many 
stirring  events  to  be  remembered  in  the  history 
of  English  sport,  mostly  in  Criterions  and 
Cambridgeshires.  If  I  remember  right,  myself, 
I  treated  the  rumour  as  a  very  savage  canard 
indeed,  and  rated  the  story's  materialisation  as 
an  absurdity  only  to  be  equalled  by  the  idea  of 
the  Stewards  selling  the  Bushes  to  warm  bakers' 
ovens. 


184  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

Alas  !  we  live  and  learn,  and  the  object  of 
admiration,  the  material  fetish,  which  people  who 
are  not  superstitious,  yet  liked  to  do  as  others 
did,  could  lovingly  pat,  on  their  way  down  to  the 
Rowley  Mile,  in  case  that  process  could  bring 
them  luck  ;  the  point  in  Cambridgeshire  "  descrip- 
tions "  so  conveniently  situated  as  was  the 
Shepherd's  track,  to  gain  which  was  supposed 
to  give  its  possessor  such  advantage  ;  the  some- 
what decayed  but  still  sturdy  post,  so  easily 
turned  out  respectable  at  the  cost  of  a  coat  or 
two  of  paint  to  repair  the  ravages  of  weather  on 
its  complexion,  has  gone.  That  it  will  be 
cherished  by  Mr  Felix  Leach,  who  has  got 
sentiment  in  his  system,  while  its  late  guardians 
that  ought  to  have  been  have  not,  is  a  comfort. 
But  what  a  dreadful  thing  for  us,  who  look  up  to 
the  Jockey  Club,  many  of  whom  have  spent — well 
thousands  is  not  too  much  to  say — in  collecting 
racing  relics,  such  as  pictures  and  cups,  and  find 
them  without  sentiment  enough  to  keep  to  them- 
selves a  memorial  really  an  integral  part  of  the 
great  Heath  and  its  traditions.  I  do  not  drop 
into  poetry,  that  being  an  unconsidered  extra,  at 
first  or  second  hand.  Let  those  who  wish  a  little 
in  that  line  overhaul  their  Peter  Bell  and  note 
how  handy  for  adaptation  his  primrose  comes  in 
with  the  poor  old  Red  Post  on  the  course's  brim. 
And  ''a  bit  of  timber  'twas  to  him,"  the  custodian, 
or  them — the  Jockey  Club — '*and  it  was  nothing 
more." 

Personally,  I  am  not  so  altogether  surprised 
at  this  manifestation  of  the  policy  of  immediate 
convenience  as  against  looking  on  things  with 
what,  for  want  of  a  better  word,  I  have  called 
sentiment.     Some  years  ago  I  thought  to  requite 


NEWMARKET  REMINISCENCES  185 

kindness  shown  me  by  a  Colonial  Jockey  Club. 
I  offered  to  send  them  out — free,  of  course,  of  all 
expenses — a  very  historical  starting-post,  and 
expected  to  receive  a  reply  urging  me  to  make 
sure  of  getting  the  article  packed  up  and  on 
board  ship  as  soon  as  possible.  How  I  was  to 
come  by  the  article  I  will  not  say  here,  except 
that  a  friend  in  office  was  to  be  judiciously 
oblivious  of  what  was  going  to  be  done,  and  that 
the  scheme  for  this  household  word's  removal  on 
a  dark,  moonless  night  was  all  laid  out.  Mind, 
it  was  to  be  treated  with  every  proper  respect, 
and,  after  its  emigration,  set  up  in  a  place  of 
great  honour,  to  make  a  link  carrying  racing 
men's  thoughts  many  thousand  miles  across  the 
seas  to  the  Old  Country,  and  in  the  new  land  of 
ours  keep  green  memories  of  mighty  horses  who 
had  run  in  the  greatest  of  all  our  contests  from 
a  date  not  less  than  a  century  old.  *'  Instead  of 
which,"  the  reply  was  that,  in  effect,  all  concerned 
did  not  care  the  price  of  firewood  about  the  post, 
being,  in  short,  the  lot  of  them,  just  so  many 
Colonial  Peter  Bells. 

Seriously,  I  do  think  that  as  regards  the  Red 
Post  or  a  similar  monument,  remains,  or  trophy, 
the  Powers  might  have  felt  for  it  more  pro- 
prietorial respect  than  to  allow  of  its  being 
presented  to,  or  appropriated  by,  any  individual  ; 
and  I  am  quite  certain  that  wiping  out  the 
sentimental  side — which,  mark  you,  includes  a 
good  deal  of  the  enthusiasm  that  should  form 
the  basis  of  true  sport — is  a  mistake.  We  do 
not  want,  it  is  not  good  for  pastime's  estate,  to 
have  everything  measured  by  a  pounds,  shillings, 
and  pence  standard,  or  disposed  so  that  directly 
its  value  for  active  purposes  passes  it  shall  be  in 


186  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

effect  bundled  off  to  the  marine  store  dealer — by 
which,  Mr  Leach,  please  understand  I  ain't  a- 
aiming  at  you.  We  are  hurried  quite  enough 
already,  so  that  history  made  one  day  is  forgotten 
the  next — almost  as  if  its  events  had  never  been — 
and  simple  little  matters  like  the  Cambridgeshire's 
Red  Post — late  our  western  boundary  of  the  fiat 
galloping  to  the  finish,  now  abolished — do,  I 
believe,  have  their  valuable  uses  as  reminders  of 
old  times  and  old  timers — man  and  horse.  I 
always  was  very  sorry  when  another  high-coloured 
adjunct  to  racing  disappeared,  and  with  him  his 
office.  Old  Martin  ^Starling,  in  his  scarlet  coat, 
a.shade  or  two  paler  than  his  rubicund  old  crusted 
complexion,  was  a  fine  figure  of  a  man  on  a 
horse  (grey  for  choice)  as  an  active  and  visible 
Master  of  the  Ceremonies,  conducting  the  com- 
petitors to  the  start,  aiding  with  his  long  whip 
in  clearing  the  course,  and,  in  my  opinion,  in 
type  a  requisite  functionary  to  take  charge  of  the 
winning  horse  and  personally  conduct  it  and  its 
rider  to  the  weighing-in  place. 

You  cannot  now  make  a  picture  of  a  race- 
course scene — "Returning  to  Scale" — without 
one  thing  being  lacking  to  those  who  recollect 
the  old  regime.  For  giving  local  colouring  to 
the  track,  old  Martin  Starling  (I  knew  him  and 
his  son  Martin,  too — two  of  tl  e  only  five  Martins 
I  recollect  being  on  the  Turf)  was  worth  all  his 
money  in  the  last  capacity,  shepherding  the 
winners,  and  I  should  be  very  glad  to  see  his 
office  revived.  Had  he — that  is  to  say,  his 
successor — been  on  duty  in  these  later  days,  we 
should  have  missed  unpleasantnesses,  disquali- 
fications of  horses  who  had  fairly  won  their  races, 
and  then  lost  them,   owing  to   their  riders  dis- 


NEWMARKET  REMINISCENCES  187 

mounting  before  they  should.  On  disqualification 
for  technical  irregularities  I  hold  very  strong 
opinions  indeed,  as  Refereaders  are  aware.  Of 
course  one  desires  that  wrongdoers  should  suffer 
for  their  faults,  but  too  often  these  mistakes  do 
not  hit  those  intimately  concerned  so  hard  as  the 
public,  and,  bearing  that  in  mind,  I  am  all  for 
hedging  round  actors  in  the  great  game  with 
precautions  against  their  falling  into  error.  That 
is  why  I  have  so  long  fought  for  a  better  system 
of  examining  entries,  to  guard  against  technical 
objections,  and  why  also  I  consider  that  a 
competent  official  to  take  charge  of  the  winning 
jockey  and  personally  conduct  him  to  the  Clerk  of 
the  Scales  is  a  necessity.  This  was  amply  proved 
at  Leicester  when  a  boy  who  won  was  told  by  a 
bystander  that  he  was  beaten,  and  so  induced  to 
get  off  before  reaching  the  right  place  for  the 
purpose. 

The  editor  of  the  Sporting  World  aston- 
ished me  once  by  advising  the  Jockey  Club  to 
turn  Newmarket's  into  gate-money  meetings.  I 
can't  see  where  the  Club  can  do  itself  any 
good  by  declaring  the  Heath,  which  is  crossed 
by  several  rights-of-way,  a  close  borough  alto- 
gether, and  I  would  be  sorry  indeed  to  find 
them  make  such  a  move.  In  the  first  place,  the 
crop  they  would  get  must  be  the  same  as  the  old 
lady's  when  she  sheared  her  pigs — much  cry  and 
little  wool — for  those  outside  at  Newmarket's 
meetings  are  not  at  all  likely  to  pay  to  go  in, 
seeing  that  they  can't  find  the  money ;  and, 
again,  the  Club  would  be  cutting  away  the  last 
remnant  of  the  old,  almost  feudal  idea  of  racing— 
that  the  big  were  not  unwishful  to  provide  sport 
for   the    small   folk.     Oh,    Mr   Sporting    World, 


188  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

fancy  capping  the  stable-boys  and  the  broken- 
down  old  sportsmen — once  celebrities,  maybe — 
who  go  so  far  towards  making  up  the  crowd 
**over  the  way"  at  Newmaket !  Only  think 
what  you  are  councilling  the  Club  to  do,  and  if 
your  kind  heart  does  not  make  you  sorry  you 
spoke,  I  am  a  Dutchman  of  the  Cape  brand. 
Just  you  run  through  the  list  of  has-beens  whom 
you  know  personally,  and  think  to  yourself  what 
you  might  have  done  for  those  who  cannot  now 
afford  to  pay  to  see  the  game  played  at  which 
they  were  once  proficient,  and  who  will  be  broken- 
hearted if  obliged  to  stay  away,  thanks  to  the 
bar  you  talked  of  putting  up. 

If  you  ask  me  how  the  Club  might  ensure  a 
better  revenue,  I  should  say  by  reducing  their 
fees  rather  than  by  sticking  them  on,  and  by 
inducing  the  Great  Eastern  Railway  Company 
to  accelerate  their  service.  If  the  old  line^ — from 
Chesterford  to  Six- Mile  Bottom,  I  believe  it 
was — was  in  existence  now,  and  specials  run  to 
do  the  journey  in  an  hour  and  a  bit — not  as  big 
a  bit  as  the  hour — and  the  fines  on  the  course 
were  lowered,  the  turnover  must  be  much  greater. 
At  least,  so  I  believe,  and  I  know  that  Kitty, 
which  her  proper  name  is  Exes,  is  killing  racing 
for  many,  at  any  rate,  knocking  out  half  the 
regulars.  Most  of  the  charges  are  unreasonably 
dear. 

The  Newmarket  Ditch,  locally  known  as 
Choke  Jade,  on  the  edge  of  the  Cesarewitch 
course  cuts  across  the  opening  cleared  in  the 
great  artificial  earthwork  and  rampart,  which 
may  be  a  Fosse  cum  vallum  of  Roman  origin  or 
due  to  their  predecessors,  for  military  purposes 
of  defence   and   offence,  the   Devil's   dodges   or 


NEWMARKET  REMINISCENCES  189 

caprices,  or  created  in  other  ways.     Only  one  of 
these   alleged    explanations    of  its    making  is,   I 
hold,    not    acceptable — viz.,   that    golf  flourished 
in   a   period    far   more   ancient   than  any  Royal 
Society  dreamed  of  in  connection  with  the  game, 
and  there  being  giants  in  the  land,  the  Ditch  was 
planned  and  executed  for  a  bunker  suitable  to 
the  clubs  and  clubbists  of  the  period.     Anyway, 
a   bit    more   of  the    long-lined   mound  is  being 
removed,  and  the  corresponding  section  of  dug- 
out trench  filled  up  so  as  to  clear  off  some  of  the 
corner  which  interferes  with  the  easy  progress  of 
horses   started   on    the   far   side   of  the    Jockey 
Club's  holding,  and  I  should  guess  that  the  track 
will    be    improved  in   consequence.      What    anti- 
quarian societies  will  say,  goodness  only  knows. 
Perhaps  they  had  better  hold  their  peace,  for  the 
club  is  autocratic,  and  protestants  can  easily  be 
turned  into  martyrs,  especially  where  graves  are, 
so  to  speak,  already  dug  waiting  to  be  filled  up 
with  material  stored    to    hand.     You  could  put 
away  a  lot  of  learned  authorities  in  the  Ditch, 
and  ensure  their  ceasing  from  troubling  by  piling 
chalk  off"  it  over  their  corpses.      Interesting  it  is 
to  look  over  the  new  scars  in  the  aged  monument 
and  note  how  little  in  all  the  centuries  the  particles 
of  chalk  in  various  sizes  and  weights  have  shaken 
down  towards  consolidation.     You  could  scarcely 
believe  in  sufficient  force  being  used  to  heap  it 
up  so  as  to  remain  where  it  was  shot,  even  if  the 
old    'uns    understood    barrows,    running    planks, 
tipping,    and   such    details    of    navvy ing.     How 
could    the   material   be   so   loosely   disposed,    or 
stand    trampling,    if    the    barrier   was    used    for 
watching   and   fighting  purposes  ?     Loose  it  is, 
and  one-fourth  of  the  bulk,  I  should  say,  consists 


190  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

of  interstices,  if   I    may  put  the    situation    that 
way. 

Nobody  seems  to  find  much  while  dealing 
with  the  ditch,  but  you  would  expect  some 
oddments  to  turn  up  or  be  turned  up,  if  only  the 
early  British,  Pictian,  Roman,  or  other  navvy  of 
the  long  ago's  "old  man."  What  is  an  ''old 
man "  ?  As  I  understand  the  article,  it  is  the 
little  miniature  wooden  spade  thing  that  dealers 
with  dirt — i.e.,  ballast  of  sorts — use  to  clean  their 
spades  or  shovels  with,  and  for  handiness  stow 
in  the  strap  below  the  knee  that  keeps  sufficient 
play  in  the  breeches  to  obviate  tension  and  strain 
in  stooping.  But,  there,  perhaps  our  ditch-makers 
of  the  dim  far  long  ago  couldn't  accommodate  an 
''old  man"  in  a  strap  round  their  trouser-legs 
because,  not  wearing  the  things,  there  would  be 
no  place  for  the  cincture  and,  by  consequence, 
none  for  the  "old  man."  I  wonder  whether 
expert  navvies  could  tell  you  by  inspecting  the 
work  left  centuries  ago  what  class  tools  were 
used  and  the  methods.  Likely  enough,  the 
useful  lads  I  watched  playing  at  being  locusts 
with  the  grains  of  corn,  taking  in  turn  another 
barrow-load  of  chalk,  were  repeating  the  "  form  " 
of  the  workers  who  dug  out  and  built  up  on  the 
Heath  so  long  before  any  of  us  "bought  his 
shovel,"  which  is  a  trade  phrase  appropriate  to 
the  occasion. 

In  the  days  gone  by,  when  at  meeting  times 
strangers  evidently  unacquainted  with  New- 
market thronged  the  wide  main  street  and  filled 
all  the  hotels  and  inns  in  search  of  luncheon, 
those  who  did  not  so  attend  to  that  department, 
or  were  unprovided  with  thumbers  and  like 
substantial   sustenance,    had    only   Jarvis's   long 


NEWMARKET  REMINISCENCES  191 

booth  to  fall  back  upon.  There  was  no  Rowley 
Mile  Stand,  so,  perhaps,  naturally  refreshment 
rooms  in  it  were  lacking.  If  I  recollect  right,  the 
tent  was  pitched  about  where  the  *'yard"  of  the 
present  stand  is  now.  Bookmakers  betted  at 
*'  the  cords,"  many  of  them  on  cabs  and  carriages, 
or  in  the  ring  opposite  the  Bushes,  whose  wooden 
stand  was  removed  a  few  years  ago,  and  a  great 
proportion  of  spectators  made  this  their  head- 
quarters. The  judge's  box  was  dragged  from 
station  to  station,  and  by  the  side  of  the  course 
a  flying  brigade  of  horsemen  scurried  with  the 
racers  to  the  best  of  their  ability.  I  forget  what 
you  paid  for  the  stand,  such  as  it  was — ten 
shillings  a  meeting,  I  fancy ;  but  I  know  that 
the  collectors  would  not  consider  them  taking 
any  but  a  friendly  view  of  proprietorial  co-opera- 
tion in  putting  acquaintances  on  the  free  list  or 
accepting  fees  as  a  sort  of  recurring  testimonial 
to  themselves,  in  no  way  ranking  for  division  ; 
not  to  mention  the  takings  going  into  revenue — 
the  Jockey  Club's  revenue — account.  A  power 
of  sharping  went  on  between  this  ring  and  the 
winning-posts  in  quickly  signalling  the  winner's 
numbers  for  betting  after  the  event,  and  there  is  no 
exaggeration  in  stories  representing  ''foreigners" 
as  being  on  the  course  waiting  for  sport  to  begin 
while  racing  was  being  carried  on  to  the  various 
finishes.  Jockeys  then  wasted  in  cruel  fashion. 
You  find  very  little  wasting  by  exercise  now, 
which  to  a  great  extent  is  a  good  thing,  because 
the  operation  is  unnatural  and  unfair  to  the 
constitution.  In  the  first  place,  a  growing  boy 
or  lad  ought  never  to  go  through  severe  work  to 
reduce  his  weight.  The  youngster  must  lose 
through    the    transaction    in    the   long    run    by 


192  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

gaining  poundage  as  the  recoil  comes,  and 
murderous  I  call  the  system  for  the  set  man — 
mind,  I  speak  of  serious,  strenuous  efforts  to 
reduce  tissue  by  going  in  for  strong  exercise  on 
starvation  diet.  Barbarous,  simply  barbarous, 
some  wasting  was.  You  see  very  little  indeed  go 
on  now — and  a  good  job,  too — of  the  sort,  with  a 
starved  shrimp  of  a  chap,  overloaded  with 
clothing,  frequently  so  hampered  about  the  legs 
as  to  make  striding  out  irksome  and  chafing 
almost  a  certainty,  struggling  along,  physically 
beaten  and  organically  overtaxed.  Old  'uns  can 
stand  reducing  themselves  better  than  young- 
sters, but  they  rely  mostly  on  the  Turkish  bath. 
On  the  day  before  the  Cambridgeshire,  Halsey 
got  down  to  ride  7  st.  12  lb.  on  Love  Charm,  and 
would,  with  his  careful  management,  be  little  the 
worse  for  the  operation.  Taking  some  pounds 
off  a  youth — and  remember  you  do  not  start  with 
a  fed-up  subject  in  dealer's  condition,  but  a  skin- 
and-bone  fine-drawn  one  at  best — as  Halsey  did 
for  himself,  might  mean  lifting  his  normal  weight 
by  a  couple  of  pounds,  and  it  may  mean  settling 
him  altogether.  That  has  happened  before  now. 
The  worst  waster  I  ever  knew,  the  least  adapted 
for  enduring  the  process,  was  the  late  Fred 
Barrett,  who  underwent  miseries  and  dreadful 
dangers — he  had  a  weak  heart — in  getting  down 
to  steer  Alicante  for  Mr  Ephrussi  in  the  1890 
Cambridgeshire. 

In  the  nineties,  when  'Mittle"  Dick  Chaloner 
was  beginning  to  get  a  tall,  broad-shouldered, 
big  boy,  the  middle  and  last  Newmarket  back- 
end  meetings  were  celebrated  in  melting  hot 
haymaking  wxather,  and  little  Dick,  with  a  view 
to  a  mount  at  a  North  Country  venue,  had  to  be 


NEWMARKET  REMINISCENCES  193 

busy  and  get  off  a  lot  of  weight,  so  as  to  be  able 
to  do  9  St.   7  lb.     He  had  a  month's  notice,  to 
give  him  a  chance,  but  set  to  work  like  a  Trojan 
(did  those  lying  gentlemen  ever  go  out  wasting, 
I  wonder  ?)  and  plodded  along  for  hours  a  day 
with  a  heavy  burden  of  clothing,  in  addition  to 
his  own   lo  St.   7  lb.  or  more.      My  word !    how 
hot   it   was,    and    what    fine    times    for   anybody 
seeking    to  reduce    his    bulk    unless    inclined   to 
moisten    the   clay,    and    then    you    put    on  more 
than  you  could  take  off.     Poor  Dick  toiled  and 
slaved,  trudged  till  his   feet    went,    and    bravely 
kept  the  muzzle  on,  for  which  he  was  rewarded  by 
being    pumped    on    at    roadside    pubs.,     whose 
quidnuncs    took    special    interest    in  him  on  the 
supposition  that  so  big  a  chap  was  training  to 
fight,  and  was,  so  far,  more  worth  attention  than 
a  jockey.     To  cut  a  long  story  short,   Chaloner 
did  at  infinite  pains  get  down  to  weight  all  right, 
and  kept  there  ready  for  duty,  mid  the  horse  he 
had  wasted  for  won  in  due  course.      So    there, 
you  say,  all  ends  happily.     Well,  it  did  and  it  did 
not,  because,  as  it  happened,  the  gee  was  given 
9  St.  by  the  handicapper  instead  of  being  set  to 
carry  the  extra  7  lb.     Under  the  circumstances, 
brother  George  was  put  up  in  place  of  the  patient 
sufferer  Dick,  and  all  his  trouble  and  mortifica- 
tion of  the  flesh  counted  for  nought. 

That  was  not  so  long  ago,  but  we  have  seen 
many  changes  in  jockeys  and  jockey  methods. 
Even  at  Newmarket  on  race  days  you  scarcely 
ever  meet  or  come  across  a  rider  doing  road  work 
to  waste.  Of  course  a  reason  for  this  might  be 
found  in  your  going  out  pretty  much  at  the  hours 
when  jockeys  are  in  great  demand  on  the  training 
gallops,  but  that  does  not  really  account  for  the 

N 


194  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

circumstance,  because  it  is  much  about  the  same 
on  other  mornings  and  afternoons.  Ten  years  or 
so  back  you  would  be  almost  certain  to  pick  up 
a  companion,  no  matter  what  road  out  of 
Newmarket  you  took.  Nowadays  you  might 
march  about  for  weeks  and  not  find  one  on  the 
highways,  unless,  perhaps,  an  American  doing  a 
run  for  a  short  spell.  Soon  the  craft  will  forget 
what  used  to  be  done,  and  want  teaching  what  to 
wear  and  how  to  w^ear  it.  Certainly  some  would 
be  better  for  a  little  practical  schooling.  I  did, 
for  a  wonder,  hit  on  a  waster — I  mean  a  jockey 
wasting ;  this  is  no  waster — a  few  days  ago,  and 
he  was  laying  himself  out  to  walk  in  comfort  and 
very  natty  little  pointed-toed  patent  leather  boots 
fixed  up  on  high  heels  that  added  a  good  instal- 
ment of  an  ell  to  his  stature,  and  meant  shooting 
the  front  half  of  his  foot  like  a  wedge  into  the 
pick-axe  point  of  the  boot.  Moreover,  he  had 
on  hard-like-a-board  trousers,  eminently  calculated 
to  promote  chafing,  and  altogether  fitted  himself 
out  as  uncomfortably  as  possible.  Still,  the  get- 
up  served — at  least,  the  desired  end  was  reached, 
as  the  weight  came  off  all  right.  But  at  what 
a  cost  to  his  poor  feet ! 

Between  two  strong  interests  linked,  the  Gen- 
eral Post  Office  and  the  Jockey  Club  combined, 
against  the  Exchange  Telegraph  Company,  has 
for  some  time  been  waged  a  sort  of  one-sided 
war.  The  news  agency  tries  to  beat  the  Depart- 
ment at  Newmarket  by  means  of  spirited  experi- 
ments in  up-to-date  getting-off  and  transmitting 
news  by  telephone  and  wire.  The  Post  Office 
does  not  carry  the  war  into  the  enemies'  camp 
by  adopting  their  methods  and  giving  the  public 
benefit  of  smarter  services,  but  impedes,  harasses, 


NEWMARKET  REMINISCENCES  195 

and,  so  far  as  possible,  abolishes  its  unauthorised 
rivals.  ''With  them"  the  Jockey  Club — and 
where  other  course  proprietors  are  affected  or 
deemed  to  be  in  risk  of  being  prejudiced,  their 
strength  Is  lent  to  the  P.O.  also.  The  agency's 
agent  gets  telephone  wires — they  are  cut  or 
confiscated;  employs  telescopes  —  warned  off; 
calls  into  play  tick-tacking  of  sorts — put  down 
by  the  strong  arm  of  power,  if  not  the  law.  I 
cannot  help  laughing  to  myself  at  a  memory  this 
fight  calls  up,  because  it  shows  the  benighted 
slothfulness  with  which  we  move,  or  used  to 
move,  and  demonstrates  to  absurdity  how 
intrinsically  innocent  and  well-deserving  dodges 
may  be  classed  as  irregularity  even  to  unlaw- 
fulness. Years  ago,  before  1880,  I  think,  I  was 
asked  to  assist  one  of  the  tape-machine  companies 
by  getting  off  cricket  news  from  Lord's.  The 
Press  "hutch" — as  it  used  to  be  called,  to  bring 
it  into  line  with  the  shepherd's-hut-on-stilts 
perch  at  Kennington  Oval — was  located  in  the 
middle  of  the  long  grand  stand  facing  the  clock 
at  the  M.C.C.'s  place.  In  the  ground  floor  to 
our  bit  of  gallery  were  the  telegraph — electric,  not 
semaphore — number-board  operators.  From  the 
first  installation  of  the  branch  office  on  the  ground 
it  was  customary  for  such  as  had  to  dispatch 
bulletins  to  make  the  long  journey  half  the  length 
of  this  stand's  gallery,  and  do  ditto  on  the 
ground  by  the  refreshment  bar — not  necessarily 
always  by  the  bar — to  the  office,  which  was 
equivalent  to  going  a  mile  and  a  half  to  get  over 
the  way,  with  the  difference  that  our  voyage  was 
from  one  floor  to  the  next.  As  this  company's 
service — perhaps  it  was  the  same  Exchange 
Company  concerned   in   the    Newmarket    opera- 


196  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

tions — was  to  be  very  extra  specially  fast,  I  was 
called  upon  to  make  adequate  arrangements,  so 
fell  back  on  something  in  the  David  way — a  sling 
and  a  stone,  in  the  line-and-plummet  direction. 
With  this  ingenious  apparatus  (why  did  I  not 
patent  so  clever  a  notion  ?)  we  used  to  drop  the 
wire  that  was  to  be  sent,  making  a  descent  of, 
say,  eight  feet,  and  thus  saving  some  hundred 
yards  of  tramping,  which,  with  the  passage 
upstairs  crowded  and  the  B.P.  massed  below  in 
their  cherished  haven,  the  front  of  the  bar,  was 
apt  to  be  tedious. 

My  method  possessed  sporting  features  to 
relieve  monotony  and  induce  pleasure  into  busi- 
ness. A  great  recommendation  was  cheapness. 
All  you  had  to  do  was  to  tie  your  copy  in  a  loop 
provided  for  the  purpose,  and  drop  the  anchor  or 
stone.  Did  you  not  want  to  retain  aid  below, 
below,  below-o-o-o,  where  land-lubbers  go,  while 
jolly  sailor-boys,  are  up,  up  aloft  ?  Dear  me ! 
no  ;  nothing  of  the  sort — that  is  where  the  charm 
of  the  system  came  in  so  beautifully.  Someone 
was  always  about  in  front  of  the  telegraph  office. 
We  Britishers  are  proverbially  polite  and  obliging, 
as  selves  and  all  foreign  nations  are  unanimously 
agreed,  and  all  you  need  do  to  enlist  aid, 
eleemosynary  and  ready-made,  was  to  call  atten- 
tion to  your  wants,  which  were  for  somebody  to 
hand  the  plummet  arrangement  to  the  "gentleman 
in  the  shop."  And  if  you  can't  catch  a  person's 
attention  by  dropping  a  stone  of  four  or  five 
pounds  on  to  his  head  or  hat  first,  he  must  be 
too  dense  for  anything.  At  any  rate,  I  never 
found  one  fail  to  notice  the  appeal  after  the 
plummet  tapped  the  top  of  him.  Now  I  wonder 
whether  the   Department,  if  it  got  wind  of  my 


NEWMARKET  REMINISCENCES  197 

great  invention,  would  have  warned  me  off 
without  giving  me  back  the  money  I  had  not 
paid  at  the  gate,  confiscated  the  elegant 
apparatus,  string,  stone,  and  all,  and  insisted  on 
the  old  roundabout  way  being  reverted  to. 
Whatever  they  might  have  done,  they  did  not 
interfere,  and  for  days  we — self  and  Exchange 
Company,  if  it  was  so — outstripped  competition, 
as  conservative  prejudice  prevented  the  opposition 
from  lowering  themselves,  or  themselves  lowering 
a  bit  of  weighted  string  when  they  could  take  so 
much  exercise.  Of  course,  my  short  cutting  had 
a  drawback  ;  the  other  way  did  lead  you  con- 
veniently ''contagious"  to  the  bar,  which  was  a 
consideration  dealt  with  by  making  occasional 
excursions  to  ask  the  genial  gentleman  tele- 
graphists whether  everything  worked  satisfac- 
torily. As  regards  forbidding  the  plan's  execution 
and  confiscating  or  looting  the  apparatus,  instead 
of  so  doing,  the  office  followed.  At  least,  I  do 
not  exactly  say  that  the  whole  of  the  pneumatic 
system  was  founded  on  my  lead,  but  no  tubes 
had  been  laid  on,  and  to-day  we  have  pneumatic 
appointments  all  complete,  have  we  not  ? — and  of 
their  proper  merits  modest  men  are  dumb,  are  I 
not — at  least,  don't  I  ? 

While  I  am  at  it,  and  although  a  few  words 
on  Newmarket  and  this  wire-cutting  crusade  are 
waiting,  I  must  be  permitted  to  run  on  a  bit 
about  early  Press  telegraphy  and  difficulties 
round  which  I  might  spin  long  yarns.  There 
was,  for  example,  an  offfce  at  Canterbury.  This 
was  in  1880.  Telegraph  offices  on  cricket 
grounds  were  unknown  up  to  1875  or  so,  and 
you  were  at  the  tender  mercies  of  local  branches 
carried    on    in    tradesmen's    shops.     These  were 


198  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

frequently  run,  the  post-office  part,  by  young 
persons  of  severe  mien  and  inexorable,  impracti- 
cable readings  of  rules  and  regulations,  who  must 
have  spent  all  their  spare  hours,  including  lying 
awake  at  night  and  Sundays  at  church,  chapel, 
and  all,  in  inventing  new  dodges  for  not  doing 
what  was  wanted.  There  was,  I  said,  the  branch 
office  at  Canterbury.  It  was  also  a  sweetstuff 
establishment,  and  mighty  handy  while  all  went 
well,  because  the  mistress  herself  saw  to  the 
wires,  and  she  was  a  female  man  of  the  world 
with  no  nonsense — kindly,  obliging,  and  ready 
to  help.  But,  *'alas  and  alack!"  someone  next 
door,  or  just  close,  took  to  keeping  bees,  the  bees 
took  to  robbing  the  shop's  stock,  and  as  another 
apiary  ''joint "  also  discovered  this  food  bonanza 
and,  like  the  former  finders,  wanted  all  the  lot 
themselves,  both  factions  got  into  bad  tempers, 
and  made  themselves,  like  the  promoted  rustic  in 

"The   Squire,"  d d   nasty   to    some    on   'em, 

including  the  shop's  customers.  Once  I  got 
among  what  appeared  to  be  a  drunken  swarm. 
That  was  enough  for  me,  so  that  handy  office 
was  closed.  Now,  at  St  John's  Wood  you  had  to 
walk  all  the  way  from  the  far  side  of  the  play  to 
beyond  the  church,  and  there  cope  with  an  awful 
person  on  her  own  fighting  ground.  She  might 
condescend  to  attend  to  you  at  less  than  a 
quarter  of  an  hour's  notice.  Again,  she  might 
not — most  likely  not — and  when  she  did  take  the 
wires  in  hand  you  had  only  just  begun.  Besides, 
if  she  wanted  her  lunch,  lunch  it  was,  and  you 
might  go  to  the  devil — which  was  awkward, 
because  the  "interval"  did  not  allow  for  much 
waste  of  time.  Then  the  commercial  instinct 
had  to  be  considered.      Buns,  bread,  and  so  forth 


NEWMARKET  REMINISCENCES  199 

paid  better  than  telegrams,  and  accordingly  con- 
fectionery customers  were  given  precedence.  Let 
even  a  kiddy  come  in  for  a  stale  halfpenny  bun, 
and  the  counting  of  your  telegram  was  suspended 
automatically.  An  old  lady  who  wanted  her 
savings-bank  book  audited  would  lose  you  the 
first  edition  of  the  evening  papers  for  sure.  And 
when  you  had  lodged  your  batch,  and  settled  up, 
you  hadn't  got  them  half  off,  because,  despite 
furious  remonstrance  made  to  the  head  office,  the 
Terror  in  charge  made  it  a  rule  to  let  the  things 
accumulate  till  there  w^as  enough  work  to  be 
worth  while  attending  to  in  a  lump.  Further,  as 
a  matter  of  tidiness,  she  used  to  plant  the  forms 
face  upwards  as  they  were  taken  in — a  scheme 
that  ensured  the  earliest  deposited  going  away 
last  of  all.  That,  I  remember,  was  done  else- 
where, at  West  Brompton,  on  the  day  that 
George  beat  Cummings  at  Lillie  Bridge,  and 
ran  his  mile  in  4  min.  I2f  sec.  I  played  every 
conceivable  dodge  for  getting  the  result  into  the 
office  first,  and  did  so  within  seconds  of  the 
finish.  Three  hours  later  my  message  dribbled 
through,  sent  ofi"  last  of  a  pile  a  foot  high. 

I  think,  without  wishing  to  crack  ourselves 
up  unduly,  we,  the  English  people  may  consider 
that  a  grand  object-lesson  to  foreigners  was  pre- 
sented in  the  way  His  Majesty,  when  Prince  of 
Wales,  was  able  to  amuse  himself,  joining  in  the 
national  sport  in  its  headquarters  free  from  any 
restraint  or  apparent  consideration  for  personal 
safety  and  such  embarrassment  as  is  carried  by 
inconvenient  attention  or  misplaced  manifestation 
of  loyalty.  Everybody  would  be  aware  that 
measures  always  were  taken  to  guard  against 
danger  to  the  Heir   Apparent   from    fanatics    or 


200  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

Other  homicidal  lunatics  ;  but,  for  all  one  might 
see,  the  Prince  would  take  his  ease  at  Newmarket 
without  bodyguard,  and  like  any  other  member 
of  the  Jockey  Club,  or,  for  that  matter,  the  least 
inconsiderable  item  of  the  congregation.  His 
safety  was  no  doubt  studiously  guarded,  but  the 
way  in  which  he  went  about  showed  plentiful 
faith  in  precaution  being  unnecessary,  if  advis- 
able. Scarcely  in  any  other  European  country 
might  a  parallel  spectacle  be  presented  to  that 
of  the  Prince  of  Wales  riding  on  the  Heath,  with 
only  one  attendant,  and  perhaps  no  one  else  in 
sight,  or  strolling  solitary  in  the  High  Street, 
''all  by  himself,"  "single-handed,"  yet  with  any 
amount  of  traffic  going  on  near.  Many  have 
quoted  this  quite  ordinary  occurrence  as  one  for 
Prince  and  people  alike  to  be  proud  of  because 
of  the  confidence  shown — and  merited  ;  and,  to 
be  sure,  so  it  was,  for  its  being  possible  spoke 
volumes.  Moreover,  the  British  Public  came  out 
strongly  indeed,  thanks  to  their  common-sense, 
grasping  the  situation  to  a  nicety,  and  doing 
exactly  the  right  thing  at  the  right  time.  For 
this  same  the  intelligent  foreigner  might  have 
blamed  instead  of  admiring  them,  drawing  con- 
clusions wrong  as  wrong  could  be.  To  pass  such 
a  personage  without  appearing  to  notice  his 
presence  and  make  no  formal  recognition  by 
way  of  hat-raising  seemed  gross  breach  of  good 
manners,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  Quite  a  mistake. 
A  hundred,  or  for  that  matter  a  thousand,  might 
do  this  altogether  with  good  intent  perfectly 
fitting  the  occasion.  Only  kindly  regard  was 
shown  in  what  was  open  to  be  read  by  the 
uninitated  as  disrespect,  but  was  really  in  accord- 
ance with  an  unwritten  canon  of  Court  etiquette. 


NEWMARKET  REMINISCENCES  201 

The  same  Englishmen  who  gathered  in  crowds 
at  Ascot  to  cheer  the  Royal  procession,  and  were 
at  Epsom  equally  demonstrative,  made  no  sign 
at  Newmarket — at  least,  not  before  or  after 
racing. 

One  mostly  feels  sorry  that  one's  memories 
are  memories  and  no  more.  Here  is  one  bygone 
which  was  not  a  truly  enviable  distinction.  Head- 
quarters, you  know,  is  usually  very  trying  for  the 
ordinary  punter.  Only  bookm.akers  and  the  truly 
inspired  ever  seem  to  win  there.  Ending  a  bad 
season  on  the  Heath  as  he  began,  a  defeated 
sportsman  announced  at  the  close  of  the  Hough- 
ton Meeting  his  intention  of  then  and  there 
washing  his  hands  of  Newmarket  racing.  *' You 
will  have  to  go  a  long  way  from  the  stand  to  do 
it,"  quoth  a  friend;  ''you  can't  wash  your  hands 
here,  not  if  you  offered  a  fiver."  Neither  could 
he — I  mean  the  washing — which  seems  to  me  to 
be  rather  a  pity.  He  would  be  safe  enough  in 
chancing  the  five  pounds,  not  for  ever,  though. 
At  last,  staggered  but  rejoiced  at  the  marvellous 
innovation,  quite  by  chance  I  discovered  a  real 
wash-basin,  not  a  property  affair,  but  with  real 
water,  real  soap,  and  a  real  towel  laid  on.  Not 
only  one,  but  a  pair  of  these  treasures  were 
modestly  concealed  behind  the  cloak-room  door 
of  Tattersall's  ring.  All  comes  for  him  who 
knows  how  to  wait  is  quite  true,  perfectly 
correct.  I  only  waited  ever  since  the  Rowley 
Mile  stand  was  built,  say,  a  quarter  of  a  century. 
If  you  know  how  to  wait  long  enough  all  does 
come,  though  you  and  the  arrival  may  be  antiques 
before  the  ship  comes  home. 


CHAPTER  XV 

RAMBLES    ABOUT    NEWMARKET 

Newmarket,  just  like  Brighton,  does  not  suit 
some  folk  ;  in  fact,  makes  them  owly  bllnky,  and 
almost  inclined  to  admit  that  they  understand 
what  biliousness  is.  Personally,  I  might  pitch 
my  camp  for  years  on  the  East  Coast  and  never 
get  that  same  kind  of  upsetedness.  Still,  there  is 
a  natural  remedy  offering — viz.,  to  take  plenty  of 
exercise,  as  so  very  few  visitors  and  scarcely  a 
resident  can  be  found  guilty  of  doing.  Who  in 
the  whole  blessed  place  takes  advantage  of  fine 
weather  by  making  overtime  as  I  am  always 
advising  in  the  early  morning  ?  I  cannot  under- 
stand where  the  turn  comes  in  starting  the  day, 
pleasure  or  business,  so  late.  Very  few  of  the 
Newmarket  shops  are  open  at  half-past  eight, 
and  they  are  not  out-of-the-way  late  either, 
because  in  half  the  country  towns  you  seldom 
can  buy  anything  before  nine  o'clock.  I  do  not 
want  people  to  work  harder  than  they  do.  Still, 
this  arrangement  strikes  me  as  having  distinct 
disadvantages  for  the  majority,  and  an  unpleasant 
suggestion  that  either  the  clock  is  merely  turned 
round  and  a  late  opening  followed  by  a  corre- 
sponding shutting  up,    or  that  the  traders  and 


RAMBLES  ABOUT  NEWMARKET  203 

Others  concerned  start  later  than  they  used  be- 
cause there  is  less  to  do.     Anyhow,  there  I  was 
at  half-past  eight,  having  helped  myself  to  a  quite 
nice  little  holiday  outing,  and   unable   to   make 
two  or  three  little  purchases  simply  because  the 
sellers  were    not    in   sight.     A  few  people  were 
about  making  for  places  of  business,  but  in  the 
early  afternoon  of  Wednesday  the  old  ''old"  you 
could  fire  a  cannon-ball  down  the  street  without 
hurting   anyone  called    for  your  notice.     I    had 
hopes    that    someone    had    told    the    inhabitants 
what  fine  weather  was  going  on,  and  they  had 
started  off  to  look  at  it.     No  living  sign  of  such 
alarums  and  excursions  were  to  be  detected  in 
the  neighbourhood,  however,  and  one  felt  almost 
blamishly  selfish  in  utilising  so  much  enjoyment 
at    your   disposal    gratis,    with   scarcely   anyone 
helping   himself  to    the   goods    provided.     It   is 
such  waste  of  good  health,  at  almost  any  time 
of  year.      Take   a    really   cold    but    fine   day   at 
Cesarewitch  time,   what  a   morning  for  outdoor 
exercise !     With  the  roads  washed  clean  of  dust, 
and  mud  also,  all  the  landscape  glazed  with  hoar- 
frost,  a  clear  sky,   and   not  too   thin  a  pair   of 
breeches,    a    gouty    misanthrope    might    possess 
himself  of  a  light  heart  and  go  it  all  the  day, 
merrily  o'er  the  footpath  way,  also  over  the  stile-a. 
Tonics,  tonics  forsooth !  tonics  out  of  chemists' 
shops !      Throw  physic  anywhere  you  like,   the 
stuff  you  take  out  of  bottles — I  know  all  about 
that,  because  I  have  a  mania  for  tasting  anybody's 
medicine.     No  matter  whether  it  is  for  a  chinked 
back  or  the  black  plague,  I  can  always  do  with  a 
taste — and  stand  on  strong  exercise  a-mornings 
in  wintry  autumn,  while  the  air  is  crisp  and  makes 
you  want  to  run  instead  of  fairly  heeling  it  and 


204  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

toeing    it.      I    suppose    I    should   grow    tired   of 
Newmarket   if  I   lived   there ;  but   it  offers   rare 
scope  for  tramping  from  village  to  village,  with 
considerable  diversity  of  country  from  down-land 
(it  is  not  my  sort  of  down-land  ;  still,  let  that  flea 
stick  on   the  wall,   as   the  mediaeval   French   so 
politely  put  it)  to  fenland,  and  from  fen  to  moor 
and  marsh.     Villages  are  plentiful,  and  in  all  is 
good    ale,    with    conversational    landlords,    given 
to   pets — dogs,  jackdaws,  jays,    rabbits,    ravens, 
bantams,  cats,  and  pigs,  most  of  whose  acquaint- 
ance is  purchasable  by  bribery  and  corruption  in 
the  way  of  biscuits,    nuts,   scraps   of  meat  and 
lettuce  leaves,  or  a  carrot  or  two.     The  dogs  will 
eat  anything  down  to  cold   tea-leaves  almost,   if 
they  see  any  other  creature  go  for  them.      Biscuits 
appeal  to  all  the  birds,  the  pigs,  the  dogs,  the 
chickens,  and  the  cats.     At  any  rate,  if  the  raven 
does  not  want  them  it  will  collar  its  whack  rather 
than  let  anybody  else  get  it,  and  the  "jacks  "  are 
game  to  take  anything  within  their  reach.     Even 
if    badly    equipped,    one    ought    to    draw    much 
pleasure  out   of  Newmarket  at  this   season  ;   its 
environs  are  in  places  at  their  very  best  just  when 
the  leaves  are  almost  on  their  last  legs  or  stalks, 
and  the  belts  of  beeches  make  you — or,  at  least, 
make  old  Thames  men — think  of  Cliveden  Woods, 
also  Cookham,  whose  variegated  horse-chestnut 
has    been    broken,    at  any    rate    deprived    of  its 
stripes.      Mind  you,  Newmarket's  belts  of  beech 
and  Scotch  fir  want  a  lot  of  beating  at  their  best. 
Supposing  you  know  and  care  nothing  what- 
ever about  the  noble  animal  or  the  great  game. 
You  can  still  get  a  good  deal  out  of  Newmarket. 
One  July  week,  my  Editor  says  to  me,  says  he, 
''  Take  a  rest.     To  do  this,  go  to  Newmarket  as  an 


RAMBLES  ABOUT  NEWMARKET  205 

amateur — a  visitor  laying  himself  out  for  amuse- 
ment only.  Cast  yourself  behind  the  Ditch. 
Get  yourself  bitten  by  the  flies.  Avail  yourself  of 
that  hospitality  for  which  all  your  Newmarket — 
owner,  trainer,  jockey,  and  other — friends  are  so 
renowned.  Do  yourself  well,  but  never  worry 
about  business.  If  you  like  to  jerk  a  bit  about 
the  environs  of  Newmarket,  well  and  good. 
Disport  yourself  in  the  vicinity.  Spread  yourself 
around,  and,  being  strictly  a  holiday-maker, 
endeavour  to  write  something  which  will  make  all 
your  friends  envious  of  the  opportunities  afforded 
you  of  roaming  about.  Whether  you  make 
capital  or  not  out  of  your  little  trips  from 
Newmarket  s  centre  can  be  of  no  consequence  to 
you — at  least,  you  may  as  well  write  about  them. 
Take  a  round  of  the  villages,  as  Fred  Webb  used 
to  do  with  his  fox  terriers  for  companions. 
Renew  acquaintance  with  the  innkeepers  "  (how 
the  devil  did  he  hear  about  me  and  the  inn- 
keepers ?),  ''their  children,  dogs  and  cats  and 
pigs,  and  their  customers  with  whom  you  have 
established  acquaintance.  Let  us  hear  how  the 
game  is  going  on — not  the  great  game  played  on 
the  Heath,  but  the  pheasants  and  partridges,  also 
the  hares  and  the  rabbits  and  the  small  birds, 
also  hawks,  rooks,  etc.  Pick  up  a  few  notes  about 
the  wild  creatures,  scarce  and  familiar,  and  if  you 
can't  go  far  enough  for  yourself  in  the  study  of 
wild  flowers  and  what  some  of  us  term  weeds, 
also  flies  and  fossils,  persuade  the  eminent 
authority — a  great  all-rounder  in  entomology 
'  and  all ' — Mr  George  Verrall,  to  give  you  a  lift. 
He"  (says  the  Editor)  "is  as  choke-full  of  know- 
ledge as  old  Sol  Gills,  and  has  at  his  finger-ends 
all  the  scientific  learning  which  makes  dwelling  in 


206  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

or  a  trip  to  these  parts  a  never-ending  pleasure 
till  the  visit,  more  or  less  lengthy,  is  over.  Toddle 
off  to  Wicken  Fen,  that  remnant  of  the  old  Fen 
country — almost  the  only  sample  left  in  this  now 
well-drained  county.  Take  a  turn  at  Mr  Willie 
Gardner's  grand  golf  links  at  Worlington,  and 
while  there  travel  on  to  Mildenhall  and  Barton 
Mills  to  inspect  the  fishery.  Do  not  forget  to 
see  how  Kennet  and  Kentford  ;  Soham,  Fordham, 
and  Snailwell ;  Exning  and  Burwell,  Cheveley 
and  Saxon  Street,  Bottisham,  Swaffham,  Dulling- 
ham,  and  Wood  Ditton  (a  nice  round  that),  are 
doing  themselves.  Be  up  and  about  early  and 
finish  off  late.  Give  yourself  plenty  of  spare 
time  and  rest,  and,  in  effect,  be  busy  all  the 
while." 

I  carried  out  my  master's  instructions  to  some 
degree.  I  did  go  to  Newmarket,  and  I  ranged 
about  the  country.  I  foregathered  with  Mr 
George  Verrall,  and  was  at  once  delighted  and 
instructed  by  his  conversation,  in  far  too  scientific 
terms  for  a  very  humble  smatterer  like  myself. 
Dogs  of  my  acquaintance,  cats  who  know  me, 
tame  jackdaws  who  are  aware  that  I  am  good  for 
sugar,  and  captive  jays  accustomed  to  my  atten- 
tions ;  landlords  and  landladies  pleased  to  see  me 
again,  pigs  which  grunt  welcome  and  are  glad  for 
me  to  steal  and  administer  forthwith  the  allotted 
fodder — so  far  as  you  can  call  by  the  name  of 
stealing  the  act  of  anticipating  their  feeding-time 
by  annexing  for  that  purpose  the  provender  laid 
out  for  them — were  looked  up.  The  little  kiddies 
at  roadside  cottages  who  are  so  happy  if  they  get 
a  stray  copper  to  put  in  their  money-boxes  ;  the 
good  lady  who  years  ago  was  so  vexed  with  me 
because  I  declared  myself  out  of  work,  being  by 


RAMBLES  ABOUT  NEWMARKET  207 

trade  a  Hot  Cross  Bun  maker,  and  so  only  wanted 
for  labour  once  a  year  ;  the  gamekeepers  who  do 
not  mind  my  wandering  a  bit  because  they  are 
familiar  with  my  ways,  and  the  watchers  who  so 
sedulously  look  after  the  young  birds  and  tell  me 
their  troubles,  especially  with  the  rooks  ;  the 
clever  housewife  who  brews  her  own  beer  in  the 
scullery  of  her  cottage^ — jolly  good  ale  It  is,  too — 
and  gives  it  to  me  because  she  dare  not  sell  it  (a 
transaction  by  which  both  of  us  profit),  and  always 
gets  a  mug  ready  when  she  sees  me  coming  along  ; 
I  visited  them  all.  I  could  not  help  walking  the 
course,  I  walked  the  course.  Why  do  we  say 
walked  the  course  instead  of  walked  along  or 
over  the  course?  I  can  understand  **  waltzing 
Matilda"  or  "humping  your  swag,"  but  walking 
the  course  I  cannot.  Anyhow,  I  padded  the  hoof 
from  the  Cambridge  road,  where  horses  used  to 
be  started  for  that  iniquitous  fancy  race  the  Whip, 
over  four  miles,  lo  st.  each,  to  the  improved  angle 
at  Choke  Jade,  and  then  on  to  the  Rowley  Mile 
finish,  past  the  place  where  the  post — the  red  one 
— used  to  be,  and  then  up  the  Cambridge  Hill's 
finish,  and  the  sole  wrack  left  behind  of  the  Top 
of  the  Town  fixings,  the  eye-headed  semaphore 
thing  that  marked  the  winning-spot,  I  believe. 
Very  tiring  walking  it  is,  all  over  the  Heath — 
not  a  patch  on  Southdown  footing,  and  scarcely 
anyone  or  anybody  was  about — only  a  shepherd 
with  two  extremely  rackety  bob-tailed  pups  and  a 
flock  of  black-faces,  the  most  graceful  sheep  we 
have,  built  quite  elegantly  about  the  neck  and 
shoulders,  not  at  all  unlike  fawns.  I  inspected 
the  Limekilns  and  Water  Hall,  the  Racecourse 
side,  and  right  along  from  beyond  the  Ditch  to 
the  far-away  starting-point  of  the  weary  Beacon 


208  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

Course,  on  which  are  run  races  that,  considering 
the  awful  weight  carried  and  the  distance,  four 
miles  or  so,  are  a  disgrace  to  racing  civilisation. 
On  the  Round  Course,  now  a  dreadfully  dilapi- 
dated track,  I  voyaged.  I  interviewed  the  good 
lady  at  the  turnpike-house  by  the  corner  of  the 
Ditch,  and  the  other  lady  who  also  sometimes 
refreshes  me  with  ginger  beer,  the  semi-official 
tenant  in  charge  at  the  corner  of  the  road  which, 
at  a  mile  from  Newmarket,  branches  one  way  to 
Thetford  and  the  other  to  Bury  St  Edmunds.  I 
met,  jogging  along,  the  higglers  and  hucksters 
who  make  marketing  so  cheap  in  Newmarket 
town  while  the  shopkeepers  hold  up  prices  so  dear, 
and  I  said  ''How  do?"  to  the  noble  local  army 
of  unauthorised  tipsters,  who  can  and  will  tell  you 
all  the  winners,  and  are  sure  to  be  right,  because 
they  are  always  hard  up  and  stony-broke  them- 
selves. I  did  the  lot  mentioned  and  a  good  deal 
more  ;  and  when  you  have  done  the  same  you  will 
feel  you  have  had  a  run  for  your  money,  or  I  am 
mistaken. 

Mr  George  Verrall  put  me  up  to  the  habitat  of 
a  certain  very,  very  rare  English  flower.  Describe 
it,  not  me,  I  would  as  soon  put  in  print  the 
whereabouts  of  a  scarce  bird  seldom  seen  on 
our  shores,  and  get  the  poor  thing  murdered. 
Once  upon  a  time,  a  philanthropical  botanising 
old  party  of  my  acquaintance  was  ''put  on  to" 
a  choice  fern  which  he  wanted.  How  do  you 
think  he  showed  gratitude  for  the  tip.-^  How? 
He  improved  the  occasion  by  lecturing  to  a  com- 
pany of  able-bodied  loafers,  hangers-on  of  those 
parts,  and  informed  them  of  the  thing's  merits 
and  beauties,  chucking  in  plenty  of  long  book 
words.     And  how  do  you  think  the  don't-want- 


RAMBLES  ABOUT  NEWMARKET  209 

no-work-to-do  brigade  went  to  improve  the 
occasion  for  themselves  ?  They  tore  or  dug 
out  every  blessed  root  as  soon  as  the  elderly 
party  left  with  his  specimens,  and  cooked  the 
lot.  Their  idea  of  vegetable  goodness  was  being 
good  to  eat,  which  the  fern  most  distinctly  was 
not.  That  historiette  has  ever  been  a  warning 
to  me  not  to  give  away  the  runs  or  pitches  of 
scarce  animals,  birds,  fishes,  flowers,  butterflies, 
beetles,  and  the  rest,  so  no  more  from  yours 
truly  about  this  special  decoration. 

Newmarket's  more  remote  suburbs  on  the 
Suffolk  side,  parts  seven  to  more  miles  from 
Jockey  Club  headquarters,  are  unknown  to  the 
majority  of  its  dwellers,  not  to  mention  visitors. 
Wild,  strange  land,  this  terra  incognita  for  many 
Newmarketeers,  lies  handy  to  the  east  end  of 
the  Heath,  some  of  it  so  poor  that  it  seems 
nearly  good  for  nothing  except  growing  firs, 
rabbits,  and  plovers.  The  soil  is  sandy  and 
poor  in  places,  saturation  level  is  only  two  feet 
down  or  so  ;  trees  generally  are  stunted,  though 
some  do  better  ;  and  the  impression  it  gives  is 
that  those  who  tried  to  do  anything  with  it  were 
sorry  they  ever  took  the  job  in  hand.  Many 
traces  are  there  of  unsuccessful  effort  in  this 
direction. 

A  stranger  seeking  directions  for  skirmishing 
in  these  regions  must  be  much  struck  (till  he 
understands  the  derivation)  by  the  peculiarly 
heraldic  nature  of  certain  points.  As  example, 
here  are  a  few  which  the  wayfarer  between 
Kennett  and  Mildenhall  may  be  told  to  make 
for  :  "  Cavenham  Plough,"  ''Tuddenham  Anchor," 
''  Barton  Bull."  These  sound  like  village  names 
or  parishes,  with  their  ancient  appellations  done 

o 


210  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

into  English  from  more  classic  samples,  like  Glen 
Parva,  Ashby-de-la-Zouch,   Kibworth   Harcourt, 
or  plenty  you  can  find.     However,  investigation 
reveals  that  what  might  be  a  sort  of  surname  or 
qualification    merely    refers    to    the   local   pub. — 
from  time  immemorial  the  most  convenient  land- 
mark,    far    superior    to    the    churches.      Other 
counties,   other  manners   in    speaking.     Farther 
south  you  would  say  the  Swan  at  Bottisham,  and 
be   understanded    of    the   people.      In    the   east, 
where  the  "a"  of  ham  is  scarcely  indicated,  not 
to  say  sounded — as,  for  instance,  Sohm  for  Soham, 
Swaffm    for    Swaffam — Bottisham    Swan    is   the 
vogue   with    the    "a"  squeezed  out  like  ''i  '  in 
Narrch,      spelt     Norwich.        Pleasant     hamlets, 
villages,     towns,    are     the     scattered     locations 
between    Kennett     and,    say,    Mildenhall,     with 
individualities,  manners,  and  customs  amusing  to 
study,  and  plenty  of  churches  built  when  money 
was  of  more  value,  labour  fairer,  and  the  Church 
had  more  to  say,  or,  at  any  rate,  must  be  listened 
to  more.     A  great  mixture  of  soils  and  'Mays" 
of  the  land  is  hereabouts — peat,  chalk,  sand,  clay, 
bog,   or  fen  ;  all  are  mixed  in  patches  or  strips, 
with  vegetation  to  match.     You  get  all  sorts  to 
walk  on  except  good  roads,  but  of  these  I  spoke 
before.     Always    I    have  admired  the  smartness 
in  action  of  the   Eastern    Counties'  agricultural 
aid.     I  admit  rating  the  class,  wherever  met,  much 
more  highly  as  workmen  than  do  most  people. 
You  come  across  few  smarter,  brisker  labourers 
than  you  find  in  and  about  Newmarket.      Perhaps 
skating  as  boys,  lads,  and   men  inclines  them  to 
good  natural  pace.     Whatever  may  be  the  cause, 
there  is  the  result. 

You    see   the   cottage-garden    flowers    here- 


RAMBLES  ABOUT  NEWMARKET  211 

abouts  to  much  advantage,  thanks  to  local  fashion 
in  making  parterres  on  the  border  line  of  house 
fronts  and  side- walks  or  bare  roads.  The  kiddies 
must  be  educated  from  their  childhood  into 
respecting  this  sort  of  property,  for  no  one  seems 
to  touch  the  gay  little  beds  whose  boundaries 
consist  merely  of  a  line  of  stones  arranged  very 
much  like  the  ''  claims  "  set  out  on  the  sands  by 
the  sea.  Great  damage  might  be  done  to  these 
pleasure-gardens  by  a  wandering  horse,  cow,  or 
pig.  Are  those  animals  also  brought  up  in  the 
ways  they  should  go,  and  "  learned "  not  to 
depart  from  them  ?  And  if  this  be  so,  what 
about  travelling  flocks  and  herds  ? 

The  Herringswell  district  is  to  me  most 
remarkable  for  the  variety  of  hedges  tried  on  it 
at  one  time  and  another  in  endeavour  to  keep  the 
wind  from  ranging  raging  free  over  the  land. 
Allowing  for  these,  the  belts,  and  more  spacious 
plantations,  you  can  easily  grasp  an  idea  of  what 
Newmarket  Heath  used  to  be  like  when  doubt- 
less all  the  part  on  the  Bury  side  marched  with 
the  country  I  speak  of,  one  great  waste,  practi- 
cally treeless.  Thousands  have  been  spent  on 
remedying  nature's  shortcomings  in  failing  to 
decorate  the  great  plain.  Three  miles  and  a  bit 
from  Newmarket  on  the  Norwich  road  commences 
an  avenue  (mainly  of  elms)  a  mile  and  a  half  long, 
a  good  companion  to  the  long  row  of  beeches 
bordering  the  Duchess's  drive  going  to  Cheveley. 
Between  Kennett  and  Herringswell  is  an  avenue 
of  sycamores  that  runs  a  long  way,  and  has  not 
much  longer  to  run  without  running  down,  I  fear, 
for  they  seem  to  have  got  pretty  nearly  all  there 
is  to  be  had  out  of  the  poor  soil  and  are  quite 
past  their  meridian. 


212  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

My  first  object  in  revisiting  Herrings  well  was 
to  look  up  its  fir  hedges,  a  form  of  barrier  and 
wind  shield  very  unusual  elsewhere,  so  much  so 
that  I  have  not  yet  come  across  anyone  to  tell 
me  how  to  make  them  of  the  most  suitable 
material — spruce.  Properly  treated,  they  are 
most  useful  and  ornamental.  No  others  act  so 
perfectly  as  a  green  wall ;  these  are  far  more 
substantial  than  yew  (mostly  a  hollow  sham), 
grow  very  quickly,  are  easily  trimmed  on  their 
faces,  and  after  each  annual  cutting  give  first  a 
pretty  display  of  aromatic  cream-coloured  buds, 
from  which  shortly  come  early  shoots,  delicate 
in  their  greenery,  a  delight  to  the  eye  in  their 
cool  tone,  and  a  strong  barrier  in  their  interlaced 
face  of  little  feathery  branches.  The  Scotch,  of 
which  are  many,  are  always  a  trifle  on  the  gloomy 
side,  with  so  much  dead  wood  and  matted 
dropped  spines  about  their  lower  parts,  but  still, 
planted  two  feet  only  apart  and  kept  lopped,  form 
a  capital  barrier.  Being  neglected  for  a  while 
they  grow  out  of  all  order,  and  into  fantastic, 
eerie  shapes,  yet  are  mighty  exasperating  if  you 
want  to  get  to  their  other  side,  because  you 
can't  squeeze  through.  As  I  could  get  no 
casual  information  anywhere  on  the  manu- 
facture of  spruce  hedges,  I  applied  to  a  gentle- 
man who  owns  particularly  fine  ones,  and  he 
most  kindly  explained.  You  let  your  young 
firs  grow  till  they  average  as  high  as  you 
want  your  hedge.  Then  that  year  you  just 
take  the  top  shoot  off  each,  and  next  year  you 
begin  to  clip  them.  One  essential  in  keeping 
a  green  hedge  thick  and  well  foliaged  all  the 
way  down — viz.,  slanting  each  face,  when  clip- 
ping,   outwards   towards    the   base — the    natural 


RAMBLES  ABOUT  NEWMARKET  213 

shape  of  the  young  spruce  will  almost  ensure,  at 
any  rate  for  some  time. 

So  good-bye  for  the  time  to  the  fine  domains 
(oases  in  deserts  of  waste)  which  have  seen  better 
days,  and  those  that  have  never,  perhaps,  been 
so  smartened  up  as  now,  when  the  old  acres  are 
in  new  men's  hands  ;  the  churches,  which  some 
of  them  could  do  with  a  little  of  the  money  spent 
by  the  latest  country  squires  on  rough  casting 
and  half-timbering  cottage  property  ;  the  brooks 
and  the  drains  ;  the  little  rivers  ;  and  the  odd 
outlying  scraps  of  fen,  remnant,  I  presume,  of  a 
period  when  the  water  was  a  good  deal  higher  ; 
the  big  fine  trees  that  are  lucky  in  their  soil, 
which  is  good,  and  the  others  who  not  being  well 
fed  do  their  best  on  short  commons  and  hard 
blows;  the  cheery  "hinds,"  who  get  over  the 
ground  fast,  and  the  quick-stepping  team  horses, 
the  wide-sided  sheep,  and  the  leggy  lambs,  the 
wood-pigeons  plunging  out  of  their  cover  in  the 
tree-tops,  and  the  peewits,  who  continually  do 
cry,  but  who  if  they — may  I  be  rude  enough  to 
say  it  ? — had  sense  enough  to  keep  their  mouths 
shut  need  not  put  in  use  so  many  tricks  to  deceive. 
The  casual  observer  wouldn't  know  such  things 
as  plovers  were  about  unless  they  went  out  of 
their  way  to  advertise  the  fact.  Please  let  me 
take  breath  after  that  sentence,  and  in  a  fresh 
start  not  forget  the  squirrels  and  the  myriads  of 
moles,  the  small  birds  who  have  been  woefully 
deceived  this  season  in  nesting  before  the  leaves 
came  out  as  they  promised,  and  the  greater  birds 
— pheasants  and  partridges — generally  speaking, 
all  over  the  place  ;  the  rabbits  by  the  thousand  and 
the  hares  by  the  score  ;  the  briars  sweetly  scent- 
ing   the   air,  whose   force   bruised    them  to  the 


214  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

wayfarer's  advantage  ;  the  great  woodpeckers, 
cheerful  chatterers,  and  the  jays,  who  can't  be 
made  to  rank  that  way,  friendly  as  you  may  be 
inclined,  the  swallows,  who  were  few,  the  martins 
fewer,  and  the  sand-martins  scarcer  still ;  the 
butterflies,  about  one  to  the  square  mile  ;  the 
larks  and  all  the  other  songsters,  from  the  missel- 
thrush  up  among  the  tall  elm  tree-tops  to  the 
nightingale  in  the  bush  at  its  foot ;  the  affable 
long-tailed  wrens  in  the  reeds,  and  the  melodious 
modest  hedge-sparrow  —  worth,  to  my  mind,  a 
gross  of  the  much-too-much-over- written  nightin- 
gale ;  the  genial  roadmen,  and  the  bakers, 
butchers,  and  other  carters  who  offer  a  lift — as 
a  matter  of  course  and  courtesy^ — and -the  good 
folk  who  are  at  home  under  the  sign  of  the 
Plough,  the  Anchor,  and  the  rest. 

I  cannot  help  once  more  talking  on  what 
appears  to  be  a  very  favourite  subject,  roads  and 
milestones,  concerning  which  we  have  again  had 
many  interesting  letters  from  and  for  Refereaders. 
Now,  on  my  own,  and  with  particular  reference 
to  the  dubious  starting-points  of  road  measure- 
ments, let  me  ask  the  many  friends  who  visit 
Newmarket  if  they  know  where  the  town  milestone, 
the  one  from  which  the  to's  and  from's  Newmarket 
announced  on  various  routes  of  approach  or 
departure,  dates  ?  Often  I  used  to  seek  for  the 
memorial,  and  vainly,  since  natives  can  only  tell 
you  about  where  they  think  it  is  or  ought  to  be, 
and  go  no  nearer  absolute  precision.  I  can  mark 
it  right  down.  On  a  house  (Mr  Barrow,  the 
chemist's)  opposite  the  Rutland  Hotel  you  will 
find  it,  round  the  corner,  set  at  right  angles  to  the 
road  line.  I  may  add  that  by  the  time  you  have 
walked  a  couple  of  miles  from  this,  straight  along 


RAMBLES  ABOUT  NEWMARKET  215 

the  Thetford  road,  past  the  first  milestone,  hard 
by   the   old    toll-house   at    the    junction   of   the 
Thetford  and   Bury  roads,  to  where  the  second 
ought    to  be,  you  will  come  to  a  ''remains"  in 
place  of  the  complete  article.     The   stone  post 
stands    all    right,    but   the    iron    plate   with    the 
numbering    and    lettering    has    been    smashed. 
Whatever  satisfaction  do  vandals  or  boys  (a  boy 
is  not  anything  at  all  till  he  grows  out  of  being  a 
boy,  so  vandals  or  boys  is  correct  enough),  derive 
from  perpetrating  such    outrages  ?     I   never  can 
make    out.     One   can    understand    the    hackney 
drivers  in  the  Derbyshire  Peak  district  defacing 
the  milestones,  because  by  so  doing  they  prevent 
travellers  from  telling   what  distance   is  driven  ; 
but  doing  the  harm  simply  for  deviltry  is  almost 
unaccountable.     Still,   perhaps  we  ought  not  to 
talk  too  much  on  this  head,  we  old  'uns.      Not 
ten  minutes  ago,  wrenching  off  knockers  and  bell- 
pulls  (even  doctors',  who  ought  to  be  safe)  and 
smashing  street  lamps  was  considered  high  old 
sport,    so   the   other   form    of  annoyance   is    not 
so  very  unaccountable  after  all.     I  wish  it  was 
far  rarer. 

Some  uncertainty  exists  as  to  the  one  mile 
downhill  at  Newmarket,  which  Bill  Lang,  the  two 
miles  record  holder  (recently  attacked,  I  mean  on 
his  figures),  a  lovely  mover  indeed,  ran  in  4  min. 
and  some  seconds.  One  is,  perhaps,  apt  to  lay 
too  much  stress  on  early  fancies.  To  say  that 
praising  old  times  is  natural,  covers  a  very  obvious 
truth — ^viz.,  the  likelihood  of  your  ranking 
highest  what  you  saw  of  excellence  when  you,  the 
critic,  were  young,  full  of  enthusiasm,  less  inclined 
to  search  for  faults,  and  far  more  prone  to  become 
a  partisan  than  you  are  after  long  years  of  experi- 


216  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

ence.  Allowing  for  all  that,  1  should  take  a  lot 
of  persuading  that  a  better  mover  than  the  Crow- 
catcher  could  be  made.  You  see  that  if  he  ran 
between  the  stones  from  the  fifty-eighth  on  the 
flat  going  nearly  opposite  the  Old  Cambridge- 
shire stand  to  the  one  we  have  been  talking 
about,  he  must  finish  up  a  steep  hill — a  hard  job 
at  the  end  of  a  fast  mile.  My  belief  is  that  he 
was  set  to  cover  a  measured  mile  finishing  at  the 
Rooms,  and  I  am  almost  certain  that  I  am 
right. 

In  July  a  very  delightful  resort  is  the  Heath, 
no  matter  where  you  go — on  the  Cambridge  or 
Bury  or  Thetford  side,  up  along  by  the  Cheveley 
road,  or  across  the  Moulton,  away  to  Water 
Hall,  or  getting  alongside  Chippenham  Park. 
For  its  area  the  great  plain  on  the  Race  side, 
and  so  far  as  it  is  bounded  by  the  Ditch,  has 
probably  fewer  components  in  its  turf  than  any 
other  grass  land,  barring  seeds.  One  sort  of 
grass  predominates  and  dominates,  save  for 
burnet,  which  I  want  to  see  tried  on  its  own  for 
making  gallops.  Wild  flowers  there  are,  but  not 
in  profusion,  on  the  town  hand  of  the  July 
course.  Over  the  way  there  they  are  far  more 
plentiful,  so  are  the  sweet  scenty  herbs  that 
make  Southern  downs  so  fragrant  and  healthy. 
Now,  if  you  take  a  square  foot  of  Southdown 
turf  and  divide  it  up,  planting  its  members,  you 
get  a  surprising  catalogue  of  variorum  growth, 
not  forgetting  crops  of  samples  from  seeds  lying 
dormant  and  doomed  to'  be  starved  should  they 
germinate  in  their  original  stores.  I  would  like 
to  bet  that  a  turf  cut  ofT  Epsom's  or  Lewes's, 
Goodwood's  or  Brighton's  training  tracks  would 
furnish    manifold    more   varieties   of  vegetation 


RAMBLES  ABOUT  NEWMARKET  217 

than  one  taken  at  Newmarket  on  the  Race 
side.  No  two  opinions  can  be  as  to  which 
makes  the  best  going,  allowing  for  difference  ia 
thickness  and  arrangement  of  soil  and  subsoil, 
and  I  wonder  whether,  where  herbage  has  to 
fight  for  existence,  safety  to  horses  going  on  it 
does  not  lie  in  numbers  of  different  material 
brought  in-  for  use.  The  July  courses  beat  the 
Rowley  Mile  all  to  nothing  for  thickness  of 
felting,  elasticity,  and  deadening  hoof-strokes' 
force.  The  former  are  carpeted  with  a  very 
extensive  omnium  gatherum,  grass  forms  nearly 
the  whole  of  the  other. 

The  Dullingham  road  was  formerly  beloved 
of  jockeys  wasting.  Do  they  ever  work  hard 
nowadays  as  they  used  ?  They  may.  I  never 
seem  to  come  across  them,  and  I  have  the 
evidence  of  a  very  old  inhabitant  of  these  (Dull- 
ingham road)  parts  that  he  does  not  come  across 
them.  This  is  the  aged  gatekeeper  of  the  Great 
Eastern  Railway  Company's  level  crossing,  where 
I  recollect  him  for  years  and  years  ;  and  a  handy 
chap  he  was,  too,  in  summer,  because  his  cottage 
hard  by  has  a  well  of  most  beautiful,  always  ice- 
cold  water.  In  the  days  when  jockeys  were 
plentiful  on  this  highway  the  gateman  timed 
himself  so  as  to  be  ready  on  their  return  with  a 
jugful  freshly  drawn  for  purposes  of  a  splash  on 
the  head,  or  a  gargle,  most  welcome  and  refresh- 
ing, helpful  to  keep  the  pores  at  work,  and  freshen 
the  body  up  without  interfering  with  the  weight. 
Jockeys  would  tell  you  that  they  preferred  this 
walk  to  others  radiating  from  headquarters, 
because  it  is  sometimes  so  shut  in  by  high 
hedges,  the  sort  which  were  conventional  but 
went   out  with   picturesque   farming.      A   great 


218  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

screen,  fifteen  or  more  feet  high,  they  make,  very 
charming  to  the  eye,  given  to  much  bloom,  also 
bird-food  producing,  making  rare  harbour  for 
nesting,  and  apparently  constructed  to  order  for 
felts'  winter  operations.  Our  young  and  older 
friends,  the  overweight  riders,  did  not,  I  fear, 
look  on  them  with  other  than  utilitarian  eyes,  as 
a  species  of  vegetable  curtain  hung  to  keep  the 
wind  away,  and  so  negatively  promote  perspira- 
tion. 

Not  for  a  long  while  have  I  been  down  along 
this  road,  which  proceeds  through  a  gap  in  the 
Ditch.  I  can  recommend  the  excursion  to 
strangers — viz.,  to  take  this  highway,  and  then 
when  they  get  to  the  Ditch,  turn  up  to  the  right 
and  keep  along  its  ridge  as  far  as  they  please  in 
the  direction  of  Reach,  on  Fenland's  edge. 
Somebody,  I  noted,  has  put  up  a  notice  to  the 
effect  that  no  footpath  right-of-way  exists.  Per- 
haps it  has  been  legally  juggled  out  of  existence  ; 
perhaps  it  can  be  asserted  or  reasserted  ;  but  I 
should  think  that  Newmarket  will  not  quietly 
stand  this  bit  of  grabbing.  So  far  as  I  heard  old 
folk  talk,  this  Ditchway  was  ever  the  regular 
walker's  route  from  the  fen  to  Wood  Ditton. 
The  section  on  the  east  side  of  the  Dullingham 
road  was  shut  up  some  time  ago,  and  now  the 
rest  will  go  unless  somebody  makes  a  fight.  The 
notice-board  did  not  stop  me,  but,  to  begin  with, 
the  usually  dry  grip,  or  ditch,  by  the  roadside 
was  a  rushing  torrent  on  a  three-feet-deep-and- 
twelve-feet-wide  scale,  and  if  1  got  across  that 
I  couldn't  have  climbed  up  the  steep  bit  of  the 
Vallum  if  you  paid  me  a  pound  an  inch.  So  I 
made  believe  I  didn't  want  to  go  that  way,  nor 
up   to   Dullingham,   where  is  excellent    cool   ale 


RAMBLES  ABOUT  NEWMARKET  219 

(many  a  bait  have  I  had  there,  and  my  friends 
the  wasters  too),  but  had  come  out  a-purpose  to 
just  loaf  and  Hsten  to  the  birds,  notably  the 
nightingale,  whose  notes  just  now  are  so  remark- 
ably like  some  of  the  thrush's  that  you  don't  care 
to  bet  you  know  t'other  from  which,  unless  you 
can  locate  the  level  of  the  song ;  also  to  the 
sheep  and  lambs'  nursery  conversation,  and  have 
a  word  or  two  with  friendly  wayfarers,  who  talked 
of  what  happened  in  the  rain  two  or  three  miles 
off,  as  a  Londoner  might  of  earthquakes  in  Java 
or  forest  fires  in  Canada. 

The  Dalham  district  makes  another  very 
charming  field  for  excursion  in  summer.  You 
do  get  some  beautiful  country  over  that  way. 
Fond  indeed  I  am  of  this  remarkably  picturesque 
rustic  hamlet,  its  church  and  churchyard,  the 
sort  which,  beholding,  you  can  swear  has  a  big 
house  or  place  adjacent ;  sweet  are  its  hill  roads 
lined  with  ivy-grown  trees  of  various  stems  and 
crowns,  as,  for  example,  ash,  maple,  holly,  with 
hedges  clouded  over  with  English  clematis, 
traveller's  joy,  or  old  man's  beard  ;  the  beautiful 
avenues,  and,  most  interesting  of  all,  the  grave- 
yard records.  Lanes  you  have  like  to  the  deep, 
much  water-worn  packhorse  ways  you  find  in 
Surrey  and  Sussex,  and  all  the  typical  plants 
and  flowering  shrubs  peculiar  to  chalky  lands. 
To  me  a  much  greater  treat  cannot  be  had  than 
to  walk  by  the  side  of  the  brook  or  bourne  to 
which  locals  are  shy  of  giving  a  name,  to  Moulton, 
where  the  good  folk  call  it  the  Kennet — a  puny, 
deserted  waterway  track  in  dry  weather,  but  of 
consequence  in  flood,  as  high  arched  flint  bridges 
of  remote  date  testify.  Cool  and  refreshing  to 
the  ear  is  the  trickle-tinkle  of  the  streamlet,  to 


220  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

whose    shallow   pools   doves    and    wood-pigeons 
were    resorting.       Kind    to    the    eyes   was    the 
copious   greenery   on    the    brook's    banks'  sides, 
dotted  with  pollards  of  sorts,  oak,  willow,  elm, 
and  alder,  and  the  grenadier  growths  from  the 
bed-level,    reed   grass,    meadow-sweet,   and    wild 
parsnips — mumbles  they  call  them  in  those  parts 
— six  and  seven  feet  high,  great  billows  of  wild 
roses,  wide  discs  of  elder,  carpets  of  rock-rose  on 
the    shallow  angled    banks,  and  everywhere  the 
scent  of  new-mown  hay,  with  now  and  then  the 
faintish  fermenting  sweetness  of  stacks  "  making  " 
themselves.       Birds,    deeming    themselves    safe, 
were  friendly,  except  the  chats — who  must  chat 
if  every  wish    of  theirs  was  gratified — and    the 
butcher-birds — scolders  much  in  the  chat  style — 
and  a  couple  of  mother  partridges,  who,  for  my 
benefit    and    their   new-born    chicks',    played   at 
being  broken-winged,  and  scuttered  round  (after 
the  manner  of  Cossack  dancers  as  presented  on 
the  stage),  running  on  their  heels  till  all  the  brood 
were  out  of  sight.     Then,  with  a  warning  note  to 
the  family  to  stay  where  they  were,  and  a  cheeky 
chuck  to  myself,  off  they  winged  it,  sound  as  a 
bell,  and  twice  as  saucy.     These  and  plenty  more 
delights  were  mine  on  the  walk,  or  wade,  for,  like 
the  Tennysonian  agricultural  gentleman,   I  was 
in  the  sea  of  meadow-sweet,  or  something  equally 
nice.      But,    after    a   visit    to    the    AfBecks'    old 
domain,   I   always    am  a  bit   sorrowful   now,   till 
well  clear  of  Dalham,  for  thinking  of  the  good 
peaceful  time  Cecil  Rhodes,  who  bought  the  park 
and  place,  should  have  had,  a  reward  he  surely 
earned,   and  his  lying  in   the  land  so   far  away 
from  home  ;  and  how,  soon  after.  Colonel  Frank 
Rhodes  was  carried  home  there  to  be  buried  in 


RAMBLES  ABOUT  NEWMARKET  221 

the  little  churchyard  within  the  walls  of  the  park 
which  his  brother  left  him.  A  great  grief  to  the 
hamlet  his  death  made.  It  is  good  to  hear  a 
man  new  to  the  acres  spoken  so  well  of  as  is 
their  last  master,  whose  possessions  I  used  to 
envy,  with  the  reservation  that  having  to  leave 
them  would  be  so  hard. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

DONCASTER 

I  ALWAYS  count  good  for  the  voyage  down  to 
South  Yorkshire  by  the  Great  Eastern,  of  whose 
line  on  this  road  I  am  very  fond.  In  one  way 
and  another  it  keeps  me  interested,  though 
occasionally  I  find  myself  realising  that  as  I  was 
there  at  the  time  I  gathered  odds  and  ends  linked 
with  the  line,  other  people,  contemporary 
chiffoniers,  must  be  getting  beyond  the  first 
blush  of  youth,  although  personally  I  may  not  be. 
So  far  as  I  can  make  out,  there  will  not  be  any 
old  'uns  soon  to  whom  a  body  can  refer  about 
former  times,  a  point  which,  at  a  more  convenient 
season,  I  would,  in  Mr  Midshipman  Easy's  words, 
like  to  argue  in  a  way.  For  instance,  you  might 
amuse  yourself  with  speculations  as  to  the  feel- 
ings which  come  over  an  oldest  inhabitant,  the 
sort  of  person  whose  evidence  commands  good 
prices  in  right-of-way  cases,  when  he  is  first 
promoted  to  that  proud  position  by  virtue  of 
seniority.  I  am  not  yet  in  a  doyen  line  of  business, 
but  may  confess  that  not  long  ago  when  bent 
Doncaster-wards  I  told  my  cabby  to  drive  me  to 
Bishopsgate  Street  Station.  *'  The  Eastern 
Counties,    in    Shoreditch,"    says    I,    by    way   of 


222 


DONCASTER  223 

making  plain  for  Mr  Jehu,  who  politely  said,  *'  It 

ain't    the    Great    Eastern    in     Liverpool   street, 

guv'nor,  you  mean,  is  it  ? "     How  many  years  has 

the  aforementioned  depot  been  disestablished  and 

the  company's  style  or  title  been  abolished  ?     A 

long   while.     London    is  not  half  so  interesting 

now  as  it  was  in  the  days  of  old    Bishopsgate 

Station,  when  the  racing  army  mostly  went  down 

to    Newmarket    on    Monday   afternoons    with   a 

Sunday's  Bell's  Life  to  read,  and  a  fine  view  of 

myriad  pigeon-lofts  on  the  roofs  of  the  houses  in 

Shoreditch,    Bethnal  Green,  and   those  parts  to 

look  down  upon  ;    also  the  parties  concerned  in 

such  aerial  bird-coops,  always    busy,  apparently, 

like    the    nigger,     disregarding     the    minister's 

direction,  not  to  covet  your  neighbour's  poultry. 

Then  good  yokels  came  to  London  once  in  order 

to   be   on    the   same    platform   of    cosmopolitan 

experience  as  rival  inhabitants  of  the  past,  and 

be  able  to  say  they  had  been  there.     For  them 

were    the    Shoreditch    "houses"   with    good  old 

East    Anglian    signs,    mostly   names    of    towns, 

selling,    likely   enough,    Norfolk   ales ;    Deacon's 

entire,  for  instance,  proclaimed  connection    with 

Yarmouth.     In  such   hostels   you  might  on  the 

occasion  of  excursions  find  groups  of  villagers  up 

to  see  London,  who  saw  it  from  the  inside  of  the 

pub.,  and  didn't  stir  from  their  close  retreat  till 

due   to  catch  the   return  train.     In  the  interval 

they  herded  in  a  lump  like  frightened  sheep  or 

rats  in  a  pit,  regarded  all  but  their  own  crew  as 

workers    in  various  walks  of  dishonest  industry, 

and  kept  their  hands  in  their  own  pockets  so  as 

to    pre-occupy    those    strongholds    against    the 

enemy. 

Please  do  not  take  me  to  mean  that  being  a 


224  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

little  absent-minded  I  directed  the  cabby  to  take 
me  to  Bishopsgate's  old  station,  because  I  used  to 
go  thence  to  Doncaster.  There  was  no  joint 
running  between  the  Eastern  and  the  Great 
Northern  Railways  then,  which  was  a  pity,  for 
the  new  is  a  pleasant  road,  making  far  more 
comfortable  travelling  than  I  can  recollect  on  my 
first  journey  to  the  South  Yorkshire  town.  Five 
shillings  return  I  paid,  I  believe,  and  was  on  the 
road  from  5  a.m.  till  3  a.m.  next  day,  or  some- 
thing like  that.  In  the  interval  I  assisted  at 
Lord  Lyon's  victory  over  Savernake.  How  one 
can  recollect  far-away  occurrences  !  Plain  as  the 
house  was  before  me  as  I  passed  it  a  dozen  times 
this  last  week  I  can  see  the  little  Marquis  of 
Hastings  in  the  Salutation  Inn  yard  where  the 
Danebury  horses  stood,  I  believe.  Anyway, 
there  was  the  Marquis,  also  the  Duke  of 
Beaufort — what  a  splendid  swell  this  John  of 
Gaunt  was,  a  marvel  of  make,  shape,  power, 
politeness,  and  the  grand  air  always ! — and  from 
the  former  I  heard  that  Rustic  was  scratched, 
which  was  good  news — at  least,  to  me,  for  at 
that  early  stage  of  business  life  I  was  a  dabbler 
in  wagering,  and  Rustic's  removal  suited  my 
book. 

No  one  but  a  madman  could  have  dreamed  of 
making  such  a  book  as  I  put  together,  going  as 
solidly  as  might  be  to  get  myself  broke  in  "one 
pop,"  as  the  word  goes.  The  road  to  wealth 
seemed  open  to  me  then.  So  it  was,  if  I  could 
command  such  results  as  came  my  way  while  I 
was  resolutely  plunging  down  the  road  to  ruin. 
Talk  about  playing  the  high  game,  to  do  which 
properly  you  lay  against  one  horse  and  put  the 
money   you   are   going,    with    luck,    to    win   on 


DONCASTER  225 

another !  That  was  only  half  high  compared  to 
mine.  Never,  I  believe,  before  or  since  has  there 
been  such  a  volume  as  mine,  and  I  can  recollect 
each  individual  bet.  A  fielder's  business  being 
to  lay  against  favourites,  I  began  by  backing 
Lord  Lyon.  Then,  to  save  that  money,  I  laid 
against  Savernake  to  win  and  Rustic  each  way, 
backed  Lord  Lyon  for  a  place  (Valentine  and 
Wright,  now  Topping  and  Spindler,  sent  me  a 
voucher  for  this  like  a  dock  warrant)  and 
Savernake  i,  2,  also  backed  Knight  of  the 
Crescent  i,  2,  3,  and  wound  up  by  taking  the 
ridiculous  odds  of  25  to  i  that  I  placed  the  first, 
second,  and  third — and  performed  that  feat. 

Often  I  think  about  that  precious  book  on 
which  I  won  every  wager,  and  wonder  what  idea 
I  could  have  had  of  risks.  Musing  on  the  insane 
successful  speculation  took  me  on  Monday  far 
beyond  the  chain  of  those  most  countrified-named 
once  villages — Bethnal  Green,  Hackney  Downs, 
London  Fields,  and  on  by  Lea  Bridge,  where  I 
shunted  on  the  mental  train  to  memories  of  days 
in,  on,  and  about  the  pleasant  waters  of  the  river 
Lee,  or  Lea — It  is  spelt  both  way,  though  the 
bells  of  Shandon  do  not  sound  so  grand  on  this 
''  L-double-e,"  or  "  L,e,e,"  as  I  believe  one  must 
say  now.  Hackney  Marshes  appear  to  be  turn- 
ing themselves  pretty  much  into  waterworks  now 
— do  they  not  ? — like  all  the  Thames  Valley  on 
both  shores,  Middlesex  and  Surrey,  between 
Hampton  and  Walton  or  Hanworth.  Soon 
there  will  be  no  room  for  the  people  who  drink 
the  water,  but  that  does  not  matter  any  more 
than  the  disappearance  of  the  marshes,  once  a 
playground  where  one  used  to  see  all  manner  of 
sport. 

p 


226  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

Why,  I  recollect — but  perhaps  I  had  better 
recollect  that  I  want  to  get  to  Doncaster  and 
have  only  about  half  started  so  far.  We  will, 
therefore,  skip  the  beautiful  strip  of  low  land 
between  London  and  Cambridge  which  some- 
where about  half-way  has  a  ''divide,"  with  the 
Stort  going  south  to  the  Lea  and  the  Cam  north 
to  the  Ouse,  and  do  ditto  with  Hereward's  hunt- 
ing-grounds in  the  fens.  At  least,  I  must  have 
a  word  about  the  fenland  because  of  the  Mark 
Lane  simple  countrymen,  fellow-travellers,  whose 
talk  was  of  all  manner  of  grain — and  who  quoted 
each  other's  rates  at  odd  halfpence,  and  apparently 
knew  as  much  about  machinery  as  an  engineer. 
From  them  I  was  delighted  to  hear  a  generally 
optimistic  account  of  the  corn  harvest.  Fine 
indeed  were  the  cereals  all  through  the  fens,  and 
the  roots. 

I  take  quite  an  interest  in  roots  in  the  Don- 
caster  connection  because  of  the   (alleged)   non- 
odoriferous  sewage  farm,   run,   I  believe,  by  the 
Corporation.     Non  olet  is,  as  all  are  aware,  one 
of  Danum's  mottoes,  and  it  acts  up  to  that  same, 
being  conveniently  stone  deaf,   colour  blind,   or 
what  you  call  it  where  perfume  is  concerned,  and 
the    town's    reputation    for    Arabian    scentiness. 
This  farm,  you  know,  abuts  on  the  town  moor, 
and  goes  a  long  way  on  the  road  towards  Thorne, 
where  the  bargees  replenish  their  store  of  pure 
water  from  the  Don.      Unfortunately  I  never  can 
crib  time  enough  to  get  down  the  river  so  far  as 
Thorne,  though  now  and  again  I  manage  part  of 
the  journey  along  the    Sheffield  and    Yorkshire 
Canal's  banks,  doing  a  bit  of  surveying  on  my 
own  account.     Amusing  going   it    is,   with    the 
canal  a  designedly  winding  waterway  of  consider- 


DONCASTER  227 

able  current  always  flowing,  and  the  old  river 
serpentining  alongside  the  artificial,  the  big  levees 
or  flood  walls  ;  the  farmsteads,  banked  round  as 
if  fortified  ;  a  general  suggestion  that  ague  might 
be  cheap,  wild-fowl  shooting  good  in  winter,  and 
that  the  monks  had  a  good  time  when  they 
flourished.  Were  they  ague-proof,  the  old 
Churchmen  ?  They  must  have  been  hard  against 
rheumatism,  for  they  loved  to  plant  themselves 
down  in  the  damp,  with,  if  possible,  a  moat  or  a 
stew-pond  to  keep  fish  in  and  give  off  malarial 
white  mists.  These  old  'uns  and  their  patrons 
left  a  beautiful  lot  of  churches  round  about 
Doncaster,  with  stonework  of  a  nature  to  make 
one  remember  with  tears  that  in  earlier  years  he 
had  taken  no  pains  with  his  architecture.  At 
Brantwith — I  believe  that  is  the  name — is  a 
Norman  porch  with  one  line  of  hatchet  work 
perfect  almost  as  the  day  it  was  cut  (not  like  poor 
York  Cathedral,  whose  outer  skin  is  absolutely 
crumbling  to  nothingness),  and  circling  it  a  scroll, 
held,  so  to  speak,  by  eagles'  heads  and  beaks  that 
a  connoisseur  would  go  many  miles  to  see.  That 
is  a  sight  of  the  village,  but  to  me  a  more  striking 
one  presented  itself  as  I  cleared  the  lock,  next  to 
which  huge  canal  works  are  in  progress — you 
don't  come  across  many  new  canals  in  England 
now,  more's  the  pity — that  fairly  made  me  sit  up 
and  rub  my  eyes.  What  would  you  say,  gentle 
reader,  if  all  at  once,  and  without  notice,  you 
stumbled  on  a  range  of,  say,  two  hundred  deserted 
stout  barges'  dinghies — keels  they  call  them — laid 
up  on  a  canal's  bank,  each  with  a  big  hawser 
coiled  in  it  and  an  anchor  ?  The  explanation  is 
this.  When  the  barges  working  up  Sheffield 
way  arrive  at  this  lock  they  cannot  get  through 


228  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

with  the  keel  because  of  want  of  width  to  take 
the  two  alongside  of  each  other,  and  also 
lack  of  length  to  get  the  big  and  the  little 
craft  in  end-on.  So  the  obvious  alternative  is 
adopted,  and  the  two  part  company,  the  little 
uns  being  left  till  called  for,  and  a  rum  show 
they  made. 

I  can  recommend  this  canal  for  trudging,  but 
you  want  thick  boots,  for  the  barge  walk  is 
studded  with  cruelly  nubbly  stones  calculated  to 
stump  your  feet  up  at  short  notice.  Still,  I  am 
sure  you  are  well  off  there  fossicking  about  with 
an  eye  for  the  harebells  and  the  big  pink 
geraniums,  the  silent  pools  with  moorhens'  walks 
among  the  weeds  reminding  you  of  hares'  runs  ; 
the  big  rushes  and  great  beds  of  meadow-sweet, 
here  and  there  a  water  viburnum  (an  English 
guelder  rose,  is  it  not  ?),  own  brother  to  the  mealy 
one,  which  former  has  those  pretty  scarlet  berries 
that,  being  taken  indoors,  do  make  a  horrible 
mess  sooner  or  later ;  the  fat  cows  who  dispute 
possession  of  the  grassy  bank  over  the  way  ;  the 
now  and  then  gulls  sailing  at  their  ease,  and 
rarely  a  kingfisher ;  the  autumn  crocus,  our 
English  saffron,  which  I  couldn't  find,  though  I 
know  where  to  get  bushels  not  far  off  at  Selby  ; 
the  pretty  reeds  in  bloom,  and  the  queer  half- 
bred  Irish  terriers  which  abound  ;  also  the  patient 
fishermen,  and  the  all-too-solitary  pubs,  lying 
yards  below  the  water's  level  behind  the  earth 
wall. 

There  is  excellent  walking  on  the  high  land 
near  Doncaster  if  you  know  where  to  find  it,  but 
perilous  while  motors  are  about.  A  popular 
owner's  chauffeur  all  but  caught  me  on  the  Bawtry 
road  as  he  skirted  round  on  the  off-side,  coming 


DONCASTER  229 

from  a  byroad  in  cutting  round  the  curve  shut 
off  by  a  hedge  from  view  of  what  might  be  going 
on  ahead.  Can't  we  pass  a  law  making  car- 
owners  provide  a  sort  of  wire  fund  to  pay  for  the 
expense  of  removing  hedges  and  other  sight- 
handicapping  boundaries  from  corner  plots  and 
substituting  iron  or  other  railings  penetrable  by 
the  human  optic's  range  ?  Thank  goodness, 
motors  cannot  vex  down  by  the  Don,  nor  on  the 
course  itself. 

When  I  used  to  do  Doncaster  from  outside — 
going  into  the  town  in  the  mornings  and  out 
again  at  nights — I  did  Doncaster  great  injustice, 
because  I  gathered  my  idea  of  its  country  from 
the  low  black  peaty  land  you  go  through  ap- 
proaching the  town  from  London  by  rail.  That 
sort  of  territory  is  plain  enough  even  to  ugliness. 
But  you  mustn't  judge  the  place  by  this  sample 
any  more  than  you  should  gauge  its  everyday 
life  and  aspect  by  the  race-time  performances. 
Out  of  these  it  is  a  remarkably  quiet  sort  of 
country  town,  as  these  go  in  the  North^ — you 
scarcely  expect  the  picturesqueness  of  the  South 
— and  out  of  Doncaster  you  can  find  very  pretty 
country  indeed,  say  you  know  where  to  look 
for  the  same.  Working  up  towards  Shef- 
field on  the  canal  and  river  is  some  charming 
scenery,  which  would  be  vastly  improved  if  you 
could  only  so  much  as  make  believe  that  the 
poor  waterways  were  not  more  filth  than  any- 
thing else. 

Justice  must  be  done,  whether  the  ceiling  falls 
in  or  not,  and  as  to  the  alleged  local  smell,  I  am 
bound  to  say  that  I  believe  the  horse  traffic  was 
often  accountable  for  it.  This  being  thus,  I 
wonder  rather  that  the  committee  whose  duty  it 


230  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

is  to  look  after  the  roads  do  not  follow  the  Duke 
of  Bedford's  example  with  regard  to  Covent 
Garden  Market  and  use  plenty  of  carbolic  disin- 
fectant for  watering  the  roads.  What  I  want 
to  say  is,  the  Town  Council  might,  if  they 
liked,  make  their  town  much  more  pleasant  to 
visitors  at  race  times  if  they  put  down  the  hawk- 
ing nuisance.  Possibly  the  authorities  have  been 
used  all  their  lives  to  pass  one  week  in  the  almost 
constant  din  of  wandering  vendors  of  ''  Yorkshire 
Post,"  official  cards,  butter-scotch,  etc.,  and  are 
like  the  dwellers  near  a  goods  station,  who 
couldn't  sleep  o'  nights  unless  soothed  by  the 
music  of  shunting  trucks.  Similarly,  it  may  be 
that  our  friends  would  be  unable  to  enjoy  their 
beauty  sleep  unless  they  were  woke  up  by  yells  of 
**  Yorkshire  Post,"  let  off"  at  five  o'clock  or  there- 
abouts a.m.  After  that  very  excellent  paper  is  on 
sale — I  do  not  believe  that  the  abnormally  early 
start  helps  its  circulation  in  any  way — the  game 
of  noise-making  is  kept  alive,  and  the  unfortunate 
visitor  is  kept  awake.  That  is  bad,  and  the 
cause  is  preventable  by  municipal  management. 
After  all,  I  am  not  certain  that  we  want  Doncaster 
altered.  The  smell  must  be  to  many  of  us  as 
was  the  odour  of  Brentford  to  King  George.  We 
have  become  so  accustomed  to  the  loud  noises 
that  we  should  probably  wake  up  too  early  if 
these  were  not  let  off  to  tell  us  how  much  longer 
we  were  at  liberty  to  sleep.  Moderate  the  energy 
of  the  drivers  and  drivers'  touts,  and  you  will  cut 
out  two  pleasing  elements  of  uncertainty — first, 
as  to  which  trap  you  are  to  be  pitched  into  and 
taken  carsewey  or  stashunwey,  and  again  as  to 
being  shot  out  or  run  over.  \ou  had  better 
make  up  your  mind  to  a  diet  of  ham  and  butter- 


DONCASTER  231 

scotch — engineering  these  as  a  sort  of  cure — 
there  might  be  money  in  a  ham  and  butter-scotch 
spa.  Consume  all  you  can,  get  above  your 
proper  share  of  the  smell,  and,  generally  speaking, 
take  your  Doncaster  kindly. 

I  learned  a  new  thing  by  observing  the 
Doncaster  barbers'  shops,  and  here  is  a  tip 
concerning  the  same.  When  you  desire  to  be 
shaved,  and  look  into  a  studio,  do  not  be  deceived 
about  the  remoteness  of  your  turn  by  the  strength 
of  the  *' house"  waiting  ia  the  room  or  rooms. 
The  lads  of  these  parts  are  a  very  gregarious 
set,  indoors  or  out.  They  love  to  herd  together, 
and  are  most  sociable.  Nowhere  in  the  South 
do  you  see  such  strong  companies  as  you  will 
at  York  or  Doncaster.  They  set  out  together 
by  the  same  ''trip,"  and  stick  to  each  other  all 
the  while.  So  it  comes  that  they  go  to  be  shaved 
in  troops,  and  those  operated  on  first  wait  after- 
wards for  the  others  till  all  have  had  their  turn. 
Thus  you  may  find  seven  or  eight  apparently 
*'  before  you,"  all  of  them  clean-chinned  and  only 
sitting  till  the  remaining  member  of  the  company 
has  been  done.  A  precious  habit  this  to  the 
studious  chronicler,  because  the  lads  talk.  They 
do  talk  indeed,  and  are  very  instructive.  From 
them  I  learned  that  punching  has  a  wider 
significance  than  some  of  us  allow  to  it.  The 
word,  as  they  use  it,  appears  to  apply  to  almost 
any  sort  of  stroke,  to  a  kick  as  well  as  a  hand 
blow,  after  the  manner  of  the  French  coup  de  pied 
as  well  as  coup  de  main. 

''Did  you  see  bookmaker  yesterday?"  said 
one.  (I  am  not  going  to  attempt  to  render  the 
dialect.)  "Him  as  was  bookmaking?"  asked  a 
mate,   with  a  good  deal  of  accent  on  the  was. 


232  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

"  Aye,"  replied  No.  i  ;  "  him  as  was  bookmaking. 
He  won't  be  making  no  more  books  yet  awhile." 
This  fielder,  so  it  appeared,  attracted  my  party's 
attention  by  the  liberality  of  his  odds.  No.  i 
was  tempted,  but  refrained.  Being  a  man  of 
shrewdness,  he  objected  to  being  given  "aught," 
as  he  would  with  5  to  i  offered  on  the  field  and 
two  3  to  I  favourites  well  backed,  and  the  fielder's 
"  being  too  close  to  the  rails  and  all."  So  it 
appeared  he  didn't  deal,  but  sought  profit  another 
way.  *'  Us'll  wait  here,"  he  instructed  his  pals  ; 
''happen  we'll  see  some  fun."  And  they  did  so. 
At  the  psychological  moment  the  bookie  as  was 
did  the  North-Country  equivalent  for  a  "guy." 
*'  Off  comes  hat,  on  goes  cap,  under  rail  he  ducks, 
and  walks  off,  bold  as  bull  beef,  with  chaps'  brass 
and  all,  and  was  getting  clear  when  little  collier 
chap  spots  him  and  starts  with  stick  on  to  his 
yed."  Then  the  fun  was  supposed  to  begin — at 
least,  the  real  legitimate  entertainment  did  directly 
afterwards,  when  ''little  collier  chap's"  repeated 
efforts  "  wi'  stick  "  brought  the  sportsman  to  the 
ground,  and  the  punching  period  set  in  with  great 
severity.  You  could  hear  them  punching  his 
head  yards  off  till  he  couldn't  halloa.  Lots  who 
had  nothing  to  do  with  it  crowded  in  and  punched 
him  on  the  head  as  he  lay  on  the  ground.  So 
said  my  barber's-shop  recorder.  Forgetting  what 
Mr  Joe  Topping,  of  Leigh,  told  me  about  Lanca- 
shire collier  fighting — punching  in  catch-as-catch- 
can,  go-as-you-please,  up-and-down,  till  one  gives 
in,  with  no  seconds,  no  time,  no  rules  except  beat 
or  be  beaten — I  asked  how  such  a  lot  might  get 
at  the  prostrate  welsher  to  be  able  to  hit  him 
with  their  fists — the  answer  was,  "  I  didn't  say 
punching  with  fists,  I   meant  feet "  ;  and  at  first 


DONCASTER  233 

that  seemed  sufficient  explanation.  ''Oh,  with 
their  boots,"  I  concluded,  but  was  still  inaccurate, 
and  had  to  be  corrected  with  "  wi'  clogs,  most  of 
em."  No  wonder  they  spoke  of  the  gentleman  as 
"him  as  was  "  ! 


CHAPTER   XVII 

DONCASTER    REMINISCENCES 

If  you  want  to  see  life  here  on  race  mornings 
— I  do  not  mean  such  as  is  represented  by  stand- 
ing round  in  a  ring  of  fifty  and  sixty  and  betting 
on  pitch-and-toss,  which  are  popular  forms  of 
athletics  (the  standing,  the  betting,  the  pitching 
and  the  tossing)  on  the  Town  Moor — let  me 
recommend  the  road  to  Rotherham  and  Sheffield, 
and  a  study  of  the  traps  bowling  along.  Once  I 
took  the  trouble  to  go  out  and  look  at  some  of 
the  assembling,  devoting  myself  to  the  Sheffield- 
wey  contingent,  and  to  that  end  made  out  some 
five  miles  of  the  eight  towards  Q)nisboro'.  Not 
at  all  a  job  I  take  to  kindly  is  watching 
streams  of  vehicles  on  the  move,  more  especially 
if  they  are  coming  towards  me.  I  do  not  know 
whether  there  is  any  personal  peculiarity  about 
the  sensation,  but  after  keeping  my  eyes  on  a 
long  succession  of  carriages  moving  towards  me 
I  find  a  sort  of  attraction  in  the  Juggernaut  line, 
something  like  the  pull  a  cliff"  will  give  at  your 
feet  to  persuade  them  to  take  you  over.  More- 
over, the  vehicles  appear  as  if  they  are  leaving 
the  straight  line  and  making  for  the  side-walk. 
Altogether,    I    dislike    the    business    very    much. 

234 


DONCASTER  REMINISCENCES  235 

Still,  it  had  to  be  done,  and  was  worth  the 
trouble.  Most  striking  about  the  procession  was 
its  wonderful  evenness.  Now  and  again  you  did 
find  a  well-got-up  equipage — very  few,  however 
— and  here  and  there  occupants  of  the  swell  order 
— rare  birds,  indeed,  not  enough  to  count  really. 
By  the  dozen,  the  score,  the  hundred,  came  char- 
a-bancs,  wagonettes,  very  long-backed  machines, 
ordinary  landau  cabs,  occasional  hansoms — only 
a  sprinkling — now  and  then  a  little  lot  of  buggies, 
evidently  cruising  in  company  by  arrangement, 
here  and  there  a  light  float  sort  of  shallow,  examples 
of  exceedingly  comfortable  ''  lots,"  pair-horse  open 
flies  with  a  very  high  coachman's  perch  and  a 
dickey  for  two  behind.  No  room  was  wasted  ; 
very  much  the  other  way  about.  Three-a-side 
in  the  landaus  was  the  almost  invariable  rule  ; 
and  as  to  the  wagonette  brake  division,  wonder 
was  how  so  many  passengers  could  squeeze  in  or 
be  extracted. 

Walkers  were  many,  too,  of  all  sorts,  from  the 
well-furnished  hand  who  toddled  for  choice  to  the 
financially  broken-down  enthusiast  who  took  the 
only  stage  within  his  means  ;  lots  of  good  movers 
were  on,  though,  naturally,  as  they  were  near- 
ing  the  end  of  a  long  journey,  not  doing  many 
miles  per  hour.  I  think  that  on  the  whole  the 
section  in  clogs  went  better  than  the  leather- 
shod.  Between  the  presumably  poorer,  who 
walked  more  or  less  like  blazes,  and  the  better- 
off,  riding  in  chaises,  was  little  difference  in  get-up 
or  apparent  social  position.  Working  folk  for 
the  most  part,  going  to  enjoy  themselves  ration- 
ally, with  money  in  their  pockets  to  spend  and 
knowledge  where  to  get  more  when  one  lot  had 
gone.     The  driver  was  as  a  rule  quite  on  equal 


2S6  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

terms  with  the  fares,  and  in  two  hours  I  counted 
two  tall  hats  among  the  lot,  and  they — the  tiles 
— were  of  the  white  sporting  coachman's  order. 
Civilisation  had  spread  so  far  Northwards  that 
little  nippers  cadged  for  coppers  for  all  the  world 
as  if  they  had  been  brought  up  under  the  Windsor 
School  Board,  who  turn  out  beggars  of  this  sort 
by  the  hundred.  But  chaff  there  was  not,  save 
for  one  gentleman  who,  as  an  overflow  customer, 
sitting  on  the  splash-board,  with  his  feet  resting 
on  the  pole,  gallantly  intimated  to  your  humble 
servant  that  there  was  room  for  two  and  nowt  to 
pay.  Of  cyclists  were  many  good  riders,  mostly 
going  fearlessly  at  a  great  pace,  and  able  to  do 
so  safely,  too,  since  the  tide  of  traffic  set  one  way 
only  ;  but  never  a  motor  in  five  miles  out  and 
home. 

New  features  in  the  proceedings  I  am  un- 
fortunately unable  to  chronicle.  The  clans  gather 
from  all  parts,  and,  as  is  their  clannish  way,  stuck 
together  pretty  much,  doing  the  day  in  groups, 
so  to  speak.  Where  one  went  to  try  the  ale  the 
rest  went,  too,  and  partook.  So  long  as  the 
majority  were  pleased  with  the  fire  in  the  pub. 
room,  and  the  smell — as  of  a  week's  wash,  for- 
gotten for  a  fortnight,  being  slowly  brought  to 
the  boil — there  they  were  and  there  they  rested. 
Resolving  themselves  into  a  committee  of  inspec- 
tion, they  sampled  the  outsides  of  the  cooks'  shops 
before  committing  themselves  to  an  order.  Being 
at  last  satisfied  as  to  profitable  selection,  the 
group  would  go  in  and  for  the  joint  picked,  and 
all  order  cuts  off  that  same.  Together  they  had 
started  by  trip  train,  neatly  labelled  with  names 
of  towns  where  it  called ;  together  they  were 
shot  out  like  coals  at  a  siding  ;  all  of  a  row  they 


DONCASTER  REMINISCENCES  237 

proceeded,  as  mentioned,  to  the  pubs,  and  joined 
in  friendly  chorus — eight  a.m.  is  a  favourite  time 
for  a  smoking  concert  on  Sellinger  days — and 
all  of  a  row  they  would  make  their  way,  making 
way  for  no  one,  up  the  High  Street  and  along 
the  Bawtrey  road  to  do  their  day's  sport,  and 
bet,  the  lot  of  them,  with  the  same  outside 
bookie,  who  would,  you  might  reckon,  be  safe 
to  settle  with  them  if  they  won,  because  the 
party  built  round  him  from  the  moment  their 
money  went  on  till  ''  Pay  !  "  ''  Pay  !  "  is  called. 

I  suppose  few  have  seen  pitch-and-toss  played 
on  the  grand  scale  as  is  baccarat  at  casinos, 
and  kursaals,  spas,  clubs,  and  the  like.  Go  to 
the  Town  Moor  early,  and  you  shall  find  the 
sport  carried  out  on  most  scientific  principles, 
with  many  pounds  depending  each  chuck  on  the 
pitcher's  heading  or  tailing  them,  and  a  ring  of 
up  to  a  hundred  ''punting  at  the  tables"  or 
looking  on.  I  suppose  there  must  be  a  ''  fake  " 
in  it,  because  I  have  noticed  the  same  heads 
keeping  the  game  going  day  after  day  ;  but,  on 
the  face  of  it,  the  gambling  seems  straight 
enough,  and  the  turnover  is  something  surprising. 
If  you  have  nothing  about  you  worth  ''pinching," 
and  can  spare  the  time,  you  may  get  plenty  of 
amusement  by  watching  the  lads  at  work,  or  play, 
at  this  diversion.  You  can  also  be  otherwise 
accommodated  at  almost  every  description  of 
thieving  joint  imaginable,  from  the  three-card 
performance  down,  or  up,  to  the  very  latest 
invention  in  the  way  of  roulette,  played  with  a 
marble  descending  "a  spinal  staircase"  after  the 
fashion  of  ancient  lollypop-shop  "  dolly  "  machines. 

In  Flying  Fox's  year,  I  actually  got  excited 
over  the    St    Leger.       Everybody   else   followed 


238  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

suit.  **  My  word  and  all,"  as  my  Yorkshire 
friends  say,  it  was  exciting.  Believe  me,  I  did 
not  have  a  penny  on  the  race,  and  in  my  time  I 
have  stood  to  win  or  lose  biggish  sums  for  a  poor 
reporter  such  as  I  am,  without  (so  far  as  I  would 
admit  to  myself)  turning  a  hair.  But  this 
particular  contest  fastened  itself  on  me,  and  I 
should  have  been  a  most  unhappy  man  indeed  if 
Flying  Fox  had  been  beaten  by  one  of  the 
Yankees.  That  the  Fox  would  be  beaten  I 
never  believed  for  a  moment  beforehand,  but  I 
was  a  trifle  nervous  about  the  start — all  manner 
of  things  may  happen  then — and  once  I  was  a 
little  disturbed  in  my  innards — viz.,  when 
Scintillant,  admirably  ridden  by  F.  Wood, 
seemed  to  me  to  hold  an  off-chance  of  upsetting 
the  favourite.  If  Jarvis's  colt  had  done  that,  I 
wouldn't  have  minded  so  much ;  still,  such  a 
turn-up  would  have  been  a  bit  of  a  shock. 
What  I  desired  was  that  Flying  Fox  might  beat 
Caiman,  and,  as  I  say,  though  I  never  doubted 
before  the  start,  nor  after  it,  all  the  same,  I  was 
in  a  ferment  of  excitement  to  which  I  have  been 
long  a  stranger,  and  I  do  not  want  any  more 
races  like  this. 

The  winner's  reception  was  something  truly 
remarkable.  The  crowd  rose  at  him.  People 
who  pride  themselves  on  not  showing  excitement, 
people,  too,  who  had  not  a  bet  on  the  race, 
cheered,  yelled,  roared,  waved  things,  threw  up 
their  hats,  and  kept  at  such  vagaries  till  the 
Duke's  colt  was  in  the  paddock.  As  for  the 
outside  crowd,  they  fairly  went  off  their  heads 
and  wanted  to  take  limbs  off  horse  and  jockey — 
in  a  friendly  way,  mind  you,  but  they  didn't  care 
what  they  did  take  so  long  as  they  might  collar 


DONCASTER  REMINISCENCES  239 

some  memento  of  the  occasion.  Poor  Morny, 
who  as  a  great  jockey  is  by  duty  bound  to  pull  a 
long  face  and  look  miserable,  as  if,  for  instance, 
he  has  been  most  terribly,  cruelly  deceived  by  his 
best  friend— that  is  jockey  etiquette  after  a  great 
victory — found  excuse  for  seeming  very  cross 
indeed.  The  tikes  went  for  Flying  Fox's  tail 
and  they  went  for  Morny,  to  pull  hairs  out  of  the 
one  and  to  pull  the  other  right  off  the  saddle  by 
shaking  hands,  just  to  show  how  they  admired 
him  and  how  delighted  they  were  that  England 
had  beaten  America.  Mounted  policemen — 
several  of  them — intervened  with  only  partial 
success,  and  it  was  not  long  odds  against  horse 
and  rider  being  chaired  into  the  pesage.  But 
for  the  police,  I  am  sure  the  winners  would  have 
been  carried  bodily.  Flying  Fox  stood  the 
attentions  quite  calmly,  otherwise  an  accident 
must  have  been  toward.  As  it  was,  all  ended 
happily,  and  amid  a  storm  of  cheers  the  victors 
landed  safely  at  the  weighing-room  door,  where, 
as  a  veracious  chronicler,  I  must  record  that 
professional  etiquette  broke  down.  What  Brer 
Fox  said  to  himself  I  do  not  know.  Possibly  he 
was  lying  low,  for  sure  he  wasn't  saying  nuffing. 
But  the  last  batch  of  cheers  relaxed  Brer  Cannon's 
facial  muscles,  and,  good  luck  to  him,  he  started 
to  interview  Mr  Manning  with  a  smile  on  him — 
Brer  Cannon,  not  Brer  Manning — that  had  to  be 
turned  sideways  before  it  could  be  got  through 
the  doorway. 

And  now  let  me  mention  a  very  peculiar 
circumstance.  As  a  rule  there  are  three  demon- 
strations— one  as  the  winner  passes  the  judge, 
another  as  he  makes  his  way  to  be  weighed. 
And  then  one  more,  a  very  big  one,  when  ''All 


240  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

right ! "  is  declared.  Morny  had  to  wait  to  be 
weighed  in  while  a  jockey  for  the  next  race 
weighed  out.  He  passed  the  scale  all  right,  and 
I  went  forthwith  to  the  door  to  see  what  sort  of  a 
burst  of  cheering  would  finish  the  series.  Bless 
you,  the  victory  had  been  so  thorough  and 
complete  that  there  was  no  crowd  to  raise  a  cheer. 
The  official  signaller  waved  his  white  banner,  but 
no  one  took  any  notice  of  it  except  the  ready- 
money  bookies,  who  started,  *'  Pay,  pay."  All 
the  rest,  I  suppose,  had  toddled  off  to  Messrs 
Spinks's  bars.  Spinks  and  Co.,  of  Bradford,  are 
the  best  and  fairest  refreshment  contractors  in 
England,  or,  so  far  as  my  cosmopolitan  experience 
goes,  the  best  in  the  world  at  this  game. 

As  a  rule,  I  do  not  take  very  much  stock  in 
the  old-fashioned-North-Country-fine-sportsman's 
business.  Because  a  school  of  Northerners 
happened  to  do  a  great  deal  of  Press  work  fifty 
years  or  more  ago,  and  naturally  wrote  their  own 
sort  up,  the  world  was  taught  to  regard  Yorkshire 
as  the  true  home  of  racing,  and  to  "make  up," 
the  South,  particularly  that  part  of  it  round  about 
the  London  centre,  was  written  down  to  balance. 
One  of  the  striking  points  was  the  mighty  York- 
shire roar.  I  am  not  for  a  moment  denying  the 
Tikes'  and  Bites'  ability  in  the  noise-making  Hne  ; 
but  while  holding  all  due  respect  for  the  real 
champions,  the  Irishmen,  who  can  do  us  all  at 
their  weight,  I  fail  to  see  where  Yorkshire  can 
beat  our  Cockney  lot.  We  were,  on  the  Leger 
day,  treated  to  a  very  fine  roar,  shout,  or  cheer,  or 
what  you  please  to  call  it,  from  the  moment 
Sceptre  got  her  pretty  head  in  front  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  away  from  Mr  Ford's  perch  in  his  judge  s 
box,  and  a  capital  staying  cheer  it  was,  for  it  lasted 


DONCASTER  REMINISCENCES  24l 

till  well  after  an  official  appeared  at  the  weighing- 
room  door  and  held  aloft  a  snowy,  or,  at  any  rate, 
whitish  banner  tied  on  a  stick,  an  act  which  is  by 
interpretation,  ''All  right."  In  the  matter  of 
cheering  I  give  credit  where  credit  is  due,  but  let 
me  ask,  didn't  we  poor  despised  Cockneys  let 
ourselves  go  a  bit  when  this  same  Sceptre  won 
the  Oaks  ?  A  Leger  crowd  ought  to  outnumber 
the  gathering  collected  for  the  last  day  of  Epsom 
Summer  Meeting,  and,  no  doubt,  did  beat  it 
considerably  ;  but  I  very  much  question  whether 
Sceptre  had  a  bigger  reception  on  her  winning 
race  at  Doncaster  than  on  Epsom  Downs. 
That  St  Leger,  ''my  word  and  all,"  was  worth 
seeing. 

Mr  Coventry  came  out  finely  from  a  most 
unpromising  position,  for  if  ever  a  little  lot  did 
threaten  to  make  a  starter  wish  he  or  they  or  both 
were  anywhere  else,  this  company  might  be  taken 
that  way.  Kicks  were  mighty  cheap.  First  one 
and  then  another  became  obstreperous,  and  more 
than  once  there  was  fair  prospect  of  a  general 
scrimmage.  Sceptre  on  finishing  the  prehminary 
canter  and  being  turned  round,  went  for  a  spin  on 
her  own  account  up  to  the  corner,  where,  so  that 
people  might  miss  a  most  interesting  part  of  the 
fun,  the  horses  used  to  be  hidden  for  starting 
purposes.  Then  when  she  came  back,  the 
young  lady  did  not  want  to  go  to  the  barrier,  and 
was  only  brought  into  position  at  all  under  protest. 
Anyone  who  can  cite  a  better  start  than  Mr 
Coventry  made  when  he  did  let  them  go  beats 
me,  for  I  never  saw  anything  in  the  line  nearer 
to  perfection.  The  dozen  went  together,  all  with 
the  same  leg  first,  as  a  sportsman,  charmed  with 
the  performance,  put  it,  and  you  could  not  say 

Q 


242  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

which  led  till  they  began  to  sort  themselves  out 
a  bit. 

Then  Caro  did  a  wonderful  thing  for  a  pace- 
maker. Being  put  in  to  make  the  running  for 
Friar  Tuck,  he  actually  went  to  the  front,  which, 
as  everybody  must  know,  is  most  unusual  under 
the  circumstances.  Off  went  the  Duke  of  Port- 
land's second  string,  off  and  away,  offing  it  to 
such  an  extent  that  when  he  was  abreast  of  the 
Rifle  Butts  he  must  have  been  getting  on  for  a 
hundred  yards  ahead,  and  some  of  us  wondered 
whether  he  would  ever  come  back  to  the  rest. 
Come  back  was  the  right  phrase  ;  he  would  have 
to  do  that  to  get  beaten,  because  the  rest  wouldn't 
think  of  going  after  him.  For  all  the  good  he 
did  Caro  might  as  well  have  been  at  Cairo  in 
Egypt  or  anywhere  else,  for  no  earthly  connection 
was  established  between  him  and  the  first  horse. 
No  one  took  the  least  notice  of  him,  no  more  than 
if  he  had  run  out.  He  went  on  his  way,  they  did 
likewise,  on  independent  lines.  At  last  Caro  was 
done  for  and  left  Friar  Tuck  at  the  head  of  the 
remainder,  that  was  as  the  straight  was  reached. 
Where  was  Sceptre  ?  folk  asked.  She  was  all 
right,  coming  up  fast,  with  Cheers  going  well. 
Hereabouts  Fowling  Piece  knocked  Cheers's  and 
Cupbearer's  chances  out,  and  directly  afterwards 
Sceptre  put  in  a  typical  piece  of  work. 

Just  as  she  did  in  the  Oaks,  the  St  James's 
Palace  Stakes  at  Ascot,  and  the  Nassau  Stakes 
at  Goodwood,  she  came  and  won  her  race  in  one 
act,  so  to  speak.  Friar  Tuck  and  Rising  Glass 
were  ahead  of  her.  Before  you  could  say 
''Knife,"  or  "Jack  Robinson,"  or  anything  else 
you  wouldn't  think  of  saying,  she  had  passed 
them  and  settled  down  to  show  them  what  racing 


DONCASTER  REMINISCENCES  243 

was  like.  The  rest  of  the  journey  was  accom- 
plished to  a  tremendous  accompaniment  of 
acclamation.  Hardy  steadied  the  mare  quite 
enough,  though  she  had  plenty  in  hand,  and  won 
in  a  canter  by  three  lengths.  Rising  Glass  ran 
Friar  Tuck  out  of  it  for  second  place.  Prince 
Florizel  was  a  respectable  fourth.  Mr  Bob 
Sievier,  in  a  tall  hat — a  very  scarce  curio  at  the 
meeting  nowadays — got  to  the  mare's  head  and 
led  her  in,  one  vast  substantial  smile.  What,  the 
filly  ?  Yes,  if  you  like,  and  Hardy,  too.  The 
crowd  hoorayed  like  mad  or  blazes — and  please 
that's  all,  except  that  femme  varie  souvent,  and 
down  went  Sceptre  in  the  Park  Hill  Stakes  on 
the  Friday.  The  beautiful  old  poor  turf  over 
which  the  races  are  held  on  the  moor — or  *'  t' 
moor,"  as  it  is  locally  called — always  does  make 
good  footing.  Poor  is  a  word  I  used  advisedly. 
When  you  have  all  manner  of  self-sown  vegeta- 
tion, each  article  struggling  for  life,  and  very  hard, 
too,  against  its  neighbours,  and  all  squeezed  up 
together  without  elbow-room — that  is  how  is 
manufactured  the  fine,  springy  carpet  to  make  the 
best  going.  "Short"  is  what  folk  used  to  call 
this,  which  to  a  great  extent  resembles  the  Down 
turf.  Tons  in  front  of  the  best  that  can  be  done 
with  made  courses  and  seeding.  One  of  the 
mistakes  of  the  day  is  preaching  about  thick 
coverings  of  herbage.  If  you  have  a  covering 
with  plenty  of  matted  roots,  you  don't  want  long 
stuff  on  top  ;  in  fact,  the  two  are  inconsistent, 
and  the  latter  is  apt  to  be  very  treacherous  in  wet 
weather,  because  the  muddy  earth  works  through, 
and  horses  slip  about  on  it  disastrously.  Besides, 
leaving  the  grass  long  hides  inequalities,  and,  I 
may  add,  is  somehow  apt   to  induce   too   much 


244  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

faith  in  rollers.  Personally,  I  hate  rollers,  especi- 
ally the  heavy  ones,  and  wouldn't  have  one  on  a 
gallop  of  mine,  except  for  use  perhaps  twice  or  so 
in  a  year.  You  can  safely  bet  a  hundred  to  one 
on  a  track  treated  by  putting  men  on  to  see  to 
the  hoof-prints  and  plenty  of  bush  harrowing 
against  the  latter-day  over-rollered  courses.  If  you 
want  downs  spoilt,  place  a  Young  England  trainer 
of  the  Newmarket  school  in  charge  of  a  ground. 
In  a  season — more  particularly  winter — he  will 
probably  undo  all  the  good  an  experienced 
manager  of  the  old  school  has  effected  in  years. 

Doncaster  out  of  race  times  strikes  the 
habitual  follower  of  the  sport  through  which  the 
town  pays  its  rates  pretty  much  as  does  a  great 
public  school  during  vacation,  and  that  to  me 
always  seems  to  suggest  somebody's  being  dead 
and  about  to  be  buried.  I  don't  know  why  but  I 
never  do  go  through  one  of  our  big  schools  when 
the  boys  are  away  without  expecting  to  hear  a 
bell  painfully  tolled.  If  you  want  to  pass  an  hour 
or  two  pleasantly — mind  you,  the  moor  makes  a 
very  pleasant  strolling  ground  and  the  avenued 
high  road  thereto  nice  walking,  when  its  great 
width  is  left  to  the  local  traffic  and  not  guerillaed 
by  wild  "course  wey  "  trappers — go  fossicking 
about  the  old  stable-yards  on  the  edge  of  the 
town  and  study  the  plates  on  the  doors.  For 
instance,  past  the  cross  at  Bennithorpe,  round  by 
the  back  of  the  two  inns,  the  Doncaster  Arms 
and  the  Rockingham,  the  latter  adorned  with  a 
portrait  of  the  1833  Leger  winner.  There  at  the 
portals  of  boxes  and  stalls,  which  in  the  ordinary 
way  of  business  shelter  any  stray  nag  or  harness 
horse,  are  fixed  the  racing-shoes  of  many  great 
celebrities,  with  performances  painted  in  between 


DONCASTER  REMINISCENCES  245 

the  "iron,"  and  if  you  have  a  memory  these  will 
keep  you  busy  so  long  as  you  care  to  stay, 
recalling  chapters  in  history,  perchance  long  out 
of  mind  till  its  elbow  was  jogged  in  this  way. 
Several  times  have  I  lazed  away  hours  visiting 
old  friends'  cards — you  may  almost  call  them 
cards — and  watching  them  fight  their  battles  over 
again.  So  I  have  in  the  Goodwood  country, 
whose  villages  near  the  coast  are  copiously 
adorned  with  plates,  frequently  with  colours,  too. 
We  do  not  seem  to  keep  up  the  custom  now. 
A  pretty  one  it  is,  though,  and  a  sporting  :  some- 
thing in  the  way  of  the  'Varsity  and  other  great 
boat-race  winners  taking  their  oars  home  to  hang 
up  and  dry,  or  cutting  an  old  boat  up  when  she 
really  is  done  with,  to  make  corner  cupboards. 
You  would  be  surprised  to  find  what  a  great 
cavernous  receptacle  a  section  of  an  eight  does 
make,  and  what  a  useful  one,  too. 

We  scarcely  make  enough  of  the  semi-senti- 
mental side  of  sport  and  pastime,  more  especially 
of  horse-racing,  as  witness  the  fact  that  to  only  a 
very  small  percentage  of  contests  does  other  than 
a  money-prize  attach.  I  can't  help  believing 
that  the  old  style  of  including  plate — or,  as  the 
irreverent  athlete  would  say,  pots — made  towards 
keeping  interest  in  the  game  alive.  Also,  it  always 
has  been  a  fancy  of  mine  to  treasure  and  display 
memorials  of  achievements  in  and  about  training 
stables.  Achievement  is  quite  the  word  here  to 
convey  my  meaning.  Surely  some  sort  of  good 
would  come  if,  in  the  lads'  big  room,  records  of 
the  stable's  best  performances  were  displayed,  if 
only  to  give  the  young  'uns  a  good  conceit  of  them- 
selves. Personally,  I  am  a  firm  believer  in  what 
the  extra-special  amateurs,  who  may  be  practically 


246  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

making-  a  living  out  of  sport  by  writing  about  It, 
condemn  so  much — viz.,  getting  something  to 
show  for  your  racing.  Honour  and  glory  attach- 
ing to  victory  ought  to  be  quite  sufficient  to  satisfy 
the  true-hearted  sportsmen.  I  dare  say  that  is 
so,  though  I  am  wrong  made  enough  never  to 
have  felt  that  way  myself.  My  idea  is  that  you 
can  glorify  yourself  and  be  quite  honourable 
enough  to  pass  muster,  and  at  the  same  time 
derive  a  lot  of  pleasure  out  of  possessing  prizes 
you  won.  Something  of  the  sort  comes  in  about 
the  ancient  racing  plates  I  was  talking  about  just 
now,  and  I  suppose  breaks  out  in  another  way 
with  the  noble  red  man's  collection  of  scalps,  or 
the  tough's  notches  on  his  gun,  which  is  nowadays 
a  pistol.  Leaving  that  unpleasantest  side  of  the 
question,  let  me  repeat  faith  in  any  system  which 
keeps  alive  memories  of  a  stable's  or  individual's 
prowess  by  means  of  trophies.  I  do  not  suggest 
carrying  the  idea  to  the  length  of  hanging  Derby 
winners'  and  the  like's  colours  in  a  church,  after 
the  fashion  of  regimental  colours  or  knight's 
armour,  but  we  might  go  some  distance  on  that 
road  and  be  on  the  right  one. 

Now  as  to  the  public-house  stables  and  their 
adornments.  Would  it  be  downright  stealing  if 
you,  being  an  enthusiast,  conveyed  some  of  these 
plates  say,  when  you  came  across  one,  which  a 
great  pet  of  yours  wore  on  the  day  it  did  you  an 
extra  good  turn  ?  Of  course,  I  am  quite  aware 
that  stealing  is  stealing  even  if  you  take  some- 
body's champagne,  not  because  you  want  to  drink 
it,  but  in  order  to  provide  yourself  with  empty 
bottles  to  put  into  his  bed — a  trick  played  on  the 
late  Colonel  North  at  one  Doncaster  meeting  ; 
but  as  regards  these  shoes,  you  would  be  helping 


DONCASTER  REMINISCENCES  247 

yourself  to  something  you  prized  very  much  and 
which  was  not  valued  at  all  by  the  present 
proprietor.  On  one  particular  tumble-down 
door  hard  by  the  High  Street  in  Doncaster  are 
half  a  dozen  of  the  old  recorders  I  covet.  No  one 
seems  to  take  notice  of  them,  nobody  takes  any 
care  of  the  memorials.  I  now  and  then  wonder 
whether  it  would  be  any  good  offering  new  doors 
for  old,  or  offering  to  purchase  the  ancient  stuffy 
stall.  Quite  sure  am  I  that  opening  overtures 
for  buying  the  plates  themselves  would  be  no 
sort  or  manner  of  use,  because  the  price  would  at 
once  jump  right  beyond  the  length  of  my  tether. 
No  sooner  do  you  approach  a  deal  for  a  fancy 
article  than  it  soars  and  soars,  and,  damn  it  !  it 
soars,  as  the  Yankee  said  of  the  American  Eao^le 
when  he  endeavoured  to  make  a  speech.  The 
only  way  with  a  chance  for  you  in  it  is  to  go  to 
work  on  the  lines  of  the  well-known  bric-a-brac 
dealer  who,  seeing  priceless  vases  in  a  house  to 
be  let  furnished,  successfully  negotiated  purchase 
of  the  whole  establishment,  freehold,  furniture, 
fittings,  fixtures,  stock,  lock,  and  barrel  and  all. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

CHESTER    AND    THE    DEE 

There  is  a  river  of  Cheshire  which  also  spends 
some  considerable  part  of  its  time  in  Wales,  and 
there  is  a  river  of  Oxfordshire  which  devotes  a 
good  deal  of  its  wanderings  to  making  a  county 
boundary  or  dividing  line,  and — must  I  say  it  ? — 
there  are  salmon  in  both.  Salmon  there  are,  too, 
in  the  Dee — to  whom  you  may  be  introduced  in 
Welsh  Wales  as  the  Coed^ — but  not  so  many 
salmon  as  are  represented  to  have  come  out  of  it. 
Of  that  I  am  solid  sure,  because  much  of  the 
beautiful  fish  purveyed  as  grown  on  the  estate 
does,  so  to  speak,  carry  a  strong  Scotch  accent, 
and  has  Caledonian  names  on  the  cases  in  which 
it  travels.  Personally,  I  don't  care  where  the 
Chester  fishmongers  get  their  salmon,  or  how 
they  come  by  it.  If  you  prove  to  me  that  it  is 
Dutch,  and  has  been  on  ice  for  a  week,  that  will 
make  no  difference  in  my  appreciation  of  the 
Chester  sample  as  the  brightest  and  most 
attractive-looking  that  comes  under  my  notice, 
and  remarkably  good  to  eat.  It  may  be  caught, 
as  it  used,  by  the  coraclers — patient,  persevering 
toilers,  who  only  need  to  take  off  their  clothes  and 
sit  with  a  dash  of  woad  on    their   skins    to    be 

348 


CHESTER  AND  THE  DEE  249 

ancient  Britons,  which  very  likely  they  are  in 
blood.  What  a  body  knows  is  that  their  goods 
are  there,  and  do  look  simply  beautiful.  If  I  am 
asked  what  I  consider  the  most  remarkable 
features  of  Chester  on  the  good  side,  I  should 
not  name  the  Rows  first,  nor  the  city  walls,  nor 
the  Cathedral,  but  the  fishmongers'  and  poulterers', 
and  orreeno^rocers',  who  are  also  fruiterers,  stores 
— their  goods  are  so  clean  and  fresh  and  well 
displayed. 

For  the  Thames  I  always  do  stick  up.  I 
believe  that  you  ought  to  stick  up  for  your  river 
on  the  Fatherland  principle,  and  a  bit  more.  But 
I'll  tell  you  where  the  Dee  beats  the  Thames,  all 
ends  up.  Whoever  bosses  the  business  there 
does  what  the  Referee  has  begged  and  prayed  the 
Conservancy  to  do,  and  wasted  its  time  at  that. 
About  the  Chester  boathouses  and  along  the 
river's  course  you  find  posted  plain  direction 
for  navigation.  There  being  only  a  little  stream 
above  the  weir,  no  need  exists  to  give  the  craft 
going  against  it  the  preference,  as  Is  only  fair 
with  a  market  current,  letting  those  with  the 
stream  come  down  In  the  middle  and  leaving  the 
slack  water  under  the  banks  to  such  as  have  to 
meet  its  force.  Yet  coming  down-stream  on  the 
Thames  you  must  keep  a  perpetual  look-out, 
because  of  the  misguided  crowd  who  will  make 
their  labour  as  hard  as  they  possibly  can.  Dear 
creatures,  they  don't  know  any  better.  Why 
should  they  know  at  all  ?  No  one  ever  told  them, 
and  if  they  use  their  wits  they  are  pretty  sure 
to  go  wrong,  because  they  will  follow  on  the 
river  the  rule  of  the  road  for  horse  traffic  or 
the  rule  of  the  path  for  foot  passengers. 
Cyclists  are  the  worst  next  to  the  attaches  of  a 


250  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

Thames-side  boatyard.  If  you  see  a  man  or 
men,  obviously  good  scullers,  going  just  wherever 
they  jolly  well  please,  without  the  slightest 
regard  to  their  proper  course,  you  can  safely  bet 
that  they  have  something  to  do  with  a  boatyard. 
If  you  hit  on  persons  similarly  offending,  but 
evidently  not  workmen,  in  a  boat,  you  can  tell 
that  they  are  cyclists,  and  are  keeping  on  the 
near  side  of  the  road.  The  river  would  be  much 
more  comfortable  if  the  populace  were  instructed 
a  little  as  the  Referee  has  begged  should  be  done. 
Why  not  post  at  all  the  locks  and  on  all  the 
bridges,  also  occasionally  on  camp-shedding,  simple 
directions  for  steering,  as  do  the  Chester  Town 
Council  or  Cheshire  County  Council  or  Dee 
Conservators?  Going  up,  say  ''they,"  keep  to 
the  right-hand  side  of  the  river.  Come  down  on 
the  other,  and  there  you  are.  If  they  would  add 
that  anyone  found  guilty  of  standing  up  in  a  boat 
while  it  is  afloat  shall  be  fined,  and  no  one 
allowed  to  get  into  one  at  all  who  cannot  produce 
a  certificate  of  ability  to  swim,  I  would  rejoice. 

Please  to  understand  that  in  praising  the 
Chester  river  authorities  for  publicly  notifying  the 
rule  of  their  river's  waterway,  I  do  not  mean  that 
the  same  rules  ought  to  be  adopted  everywhere 
— only,  that  whatever  the  local  regulations  may 
be  should  be  publicly  shown  you.  There  is 
another  point  in  which  the  Dee's  traffic-managers 
score.  The  river  seems  to  be  so  well  cared  for, 
if  you  may  use  the  expression.  I  couldn't  help 
noting  the  way  in  which  snags  and  the  like  were 
kept  cleared,  and  snags  in  the  Thames  are  a  very 
sore  point  with  many  of  us.  Somebody  ought  to 
see  that  the  banks  are  free  from  these  dangerous 
obstructions.     On  the  face  of  it  you  would  think 


CHESTER  AND  THE  DEE  251 

that  looking  out  for  them  would  be  part  of  a 
riparian  owner's  duty.  I  regret  to  say  that  in 
places  these  proprietors  seem  pleased  if,  through 
a  tree's  falling  or  by  other  cause,  navigation  near 
their  banks  is  made  dangerous.  Anyway,  I  note 
places  where,  as  the  tree  falls  into  the  water,  so 
it  lies — at  least,  the  part  calculated  to  do  the 
damage  does.  The  bulk  is  cut  off  and  removed, 
but  the  snag  part  remains,  clearing  it  being 
nobody's  business  except  for  the  unfortunate 
boating  party  who  discovers  it,  to  his  craft's 
injury.  If  owners  ought  to  keep  their  shores 
clear  of  such  articles,  why  do  not  the  Con- 
servancy wake  them  up  ?  Their  men  know 
every  yard  of  the  river,  and  could  almost  make 
out  a  catalogue  of  all  standing  or  fallen  trees, 
bushes,  loose  camp-shedding,  old  projecting  rails, 
etc.  On  these  items  reports  should  be  made  to 
headquarters,  and  notices  issued  accordingly.  If 
the  business  really  lies  with  the  Conservancy 
itself,  that  institution  would  make  a  large 
constituency  feel  grateful  if  they  did  their  work. 
It  seems  impossible  to  believe  that  because  you 
happen  to  own  a  bit  of  land  fronting  the  river 
you  are  at  liberty  to  let  anything  you  don't  want 
slide  into  it.  For  instance,  the  other  day,  up 
Sunbury  way,  I  came  on  to  a  lump  of  concrete 
which  had  been  a  river  wall  before  it  was  under- 
mined and  tumbled  into  the  stream.  If  the  bank- 
holder  had  not  put  it  where  he  meant  it  to  be  on 
land,  it  couldn't  have  got  into  the  water.  He  is 
responsible  for  its  being  there,  and  ought  to  be 
made  to  get  it  out. 

Between  art  and  nature,  Chester's  river  is 
certainly  a  comfort  and  joy.  Let  me  have  one 
of  the  remarkably    pleasant    easy-moving    skiffs 


252  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

from  the  boatyard  of  poor  Randolph  Cook  and 
his  still  living  partner,  Mr  Arthur  ;  and  let  me 
turn  out,  not  out  of  the  boat,  but  on  to  the  river 
early  in  the  morning  before  the  trippers  can  get 
afloat,  and  then  you  can  couple  me  for  self- 
satisfaction  and  indifference  to  public  opinion  or 
anything  else  with  the  Miller  of  the  Dee  himself 
Possibly  I  might  get  tired  of  its  scenery,  which 
is  well  enough  in  its  way,  only  that  the  Thames 
spoils  you  for  it ;  on  the  Thames  we  have  flags 
and  fig-wort  and  tansy,  and,  for  those  who  know 
where  to  look  for  it,  the  yellow  balsam,  and  reedy 
places  with  sweet-scented  rush  and  osiers,  and 
dabchicks  and  moorhens  and  water-rails,  and  a 
tern  now  and  then,  and  pollard  willows,  as  also 
maiden  trees  and  beech  woods,  and  all  manner  of 
delights  ;  also  drawbacks,  which  I  do  not  discover 
on  my  Dee  voyages — but,  then,  you  do  not 
always  go  out  to  do  nothing  else  but  look  at 
the  scenery ;  something  is  to  be  said  for  the 
exercise,  and  under  certain  conditions  a  reason- 
able person  ought  to  be  satisfied  with  the 
diversion  he  can  get  even  on  the  Lewes  river 
at  low  tide — voyaging  on  low  water  and  Lewes's 
only  product  between  two  walls  of  mud.  On  the 
worst  puddle  I  consider  you  can  work  yourself 
into  such  a  state  of  sublime  satisfaction  as  to  be 
certain  to  run  into  something.  You  become 
affected  with  such  supreme  admiration  of  your 
own  performance  ;  being  safe  from  observation, 
and  the  boat  running  well,  you  reach  out  just  far 
enough  to  get  a  lovely  grip  of  the  water,  pull  the 
stroke  right  through,  swinging  well,  and  putting 
on  a  mighty  wrench  with  the  wrists  as  you 
feather  in  the  Hanlan  style,  to  make  the  hoick, 
so  telling  with   skiff  sculling,   and    flatten    your 


CHESTER  AND  THE  DEE  253 

shoulders  in  fashion  to  satisfy  the  most  precise 
antediluvian  'Varsity  coach.  Doing  all  this  or 
gammoning  yourself  to  that  effect,  I  will  defy 
the  devil  not  to  find  himself,  ox  fancy  himself,  just 
a  perfect  model  of  what  should  be,  and  at  the 
same  time  mind  his  steering  too. 

It  is  not  easy  to  go  out  of  your  course  on  the 
Dee,  but  Cook  and  Arthur's  confoundedly  good 
skiff  did  get  me  into  collision  and  ashore  once. 
If  my  obstacles  had  been  represented  by  a  weir 
or  a  burning  bush,  it  would  have  been  just  the 
same.  The  ship  was  so  good  and  the  work  well 
set,  that,  as  I  say,  I  was  quite  longing  for  some- 
one to  come  and  contemplate  so  much  skill, 
dexterity,  and  elegance,  when  day-dreams  of 
what  never  was  and  never  would  be  being 
realised  were  so  rudely  interrupted  by  a  very 
resistible  force,  the  poor  little  skiff  coming  into 
contact  with  that  immovable  body,  the  coast  of 
Flintshire,  and  subsequently  another  substanti- 
ality in  the  shape  of  the  Eccleston  Ferry-boat,  a 
trifle  only  about  fifty  feet  long,  painted  a  bright 
blue  and  lying  broadside  on.  I  do  consider  that 
anyone  must  be  sculling  very  charmingly  indeed 
to  be  able  to  take  no  notice  of  this  striking 
feature  in  the  waterscape,  although  a  boy  in  a 
dinghy  seemed  phenomenally  fast  when  I  tried 
to  pass  him. 

Once  when  owing  to  recent  rains  the  Dee  was 
liberally  provided  with  flotsam  in  the  shape  of 
trees  washed  off  the  banks,  it  gave  me  an  interest- 
ing interlude,  because  I  became  a  spectator  of  two 
good  chaps  in  a  boat  endeavouring  to  rescue 
what  they  thought  was  poor  me  upset,  but  really 
was  an  old  willow  brought  down  by  the  stream. 
That  was  an  interesting  experience,  was  it  not  ? 


254  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

for  which  my  best  thanks  are  due  to  the  two  men 
from  the  White  House  who  put  it  all  on  to  get 
to  the  supposed  wreck  and  life-save  your  humble 
servant.  Thank  goodness  I  have  not  been  upset 
on  the  Dee  yet,  except  once,  and  then  the 
derangement  was  only  of  a  painful  mental  order. 
It  was  like  this.  For  years  I  had  looked  at  the 
Dee  from  many  points,  and  always  settled  for 
myself  that  so  far  as  continuous  navigation  was 
concerned  voyaging  terminated  just  below  the 
boat  rafts.  'Cos  why?  There  was  a  weir  with 
a  biggish  fall — at  least,  always  there  was  when  I 
saw  it — and  never  a  lock. 

Take  it  this  way.  Suppose  you  came  from 
Chester  to  the  Thames  and  became  almost 
familiar  with  Teddington,  where  was  only  the 
weir  we  all  know  and  no  locks  at  all,  wouldn't 
you  conclude  quite  to  your  own  satisfaction  that 
the  weir  put  a  full  stop  to  navigation  downwards 
of  the  stream  ?  I  think  you  would.  At  any 
rate,  I  satisfied  myself  at  Chester,  and  never 
dreamed  of  being  wrong.  Now,  listen  what 
happens,  and  tell  me  whether  you  would  not  be 
upset  yourselves.  Partner  and  self  go  out  a- 
double-sculling  on  a  time  schedule — so  long  to 
get  up  to  the  Iron  Bridge  against  the  stream,  so 
much  less  to  come  back  with  it.  First  part  of 
the  programme  was  carried  out  all  right ;  second 
instalment,  being  entered  on,  seemed  to  hang  a 
good  bit  after  a  while.  ''  We're  going  home 
slower  than  we  came,"  says  the  partner.  We 
were  so,  but  how  to  account  for  it  deponent 
knowed  not.  A  few  minutes  later  deponent 
(that's  me)  didn't  feel  like  accounting  for  any- 
thing except  the  end  of  the  world,  for  the  pard, 
in    terror-stricken    tones,    came   out  with,   "Oh, 


CHESTER  AND  THE  DEE  255 

Lord !  the  blessed  stream's  turned  round  and  is 
running  up  the  river  "  ;  and  so  it  was,  unless  we 
were  both  stark  staring  mad.  For  a  bit  we  were 
too  flabbergasted  to  do  anything  except  get  to 
the  bank  in  case  some  tilting  up  of  the  world  or 
mighty  local  upheaval  made  getting  on  to  land 
desirable.  Nothing  seemed  to  happen,  how^ever, 
so  we  concluded  to  at  least  get  back  to  the  hotel 
if  we  could  and  make  sure  of  our  portable 
property,  possibly  calculated  to  be  of  some  value 
under  the  altered  conditions  likely  to  follow  water 
running  up-hill  to  find  its  own  level.  When  we 
paddled  back  to  the  boatyard,  lo  and  behold !  all 
was  pretty  much  as  we  left  it,  and  the  people 
about  the  banks  quite  happy  in  their  minds, 
instead  of  playing  the  part  of  supernumeraries  in 
a  scene  such  as  Martin,  the  mad  artist,  delighted 
to  depict.  All  was  serene,  with  no  evidence  of 
the  end  of  the  world  being  due,  except  that  the 
river  did  still  run  up-hill,  and  the  weir  had 
disappeared — which  is  to  say,  the  flood  tide  had 
risen  over  it,  as  was  its  custom,  only  we  two 
poor  ignorant  strangers  did  not  know  such  a 
thing  could  be  done,  and  so  funked  our  lives  out, 
though  we  didn't  say  so  to  each  other. 

The  Dee  bore,  which  did  this,  is  a  remarkable 
sight  when  it  comes  in.  You  see  the  river  as  a 
banked-in  stream-way  ends  at  Connah's  Quay, 
some  eight  miles  or  so  below  the  city.  There  it 
runs  out  over  a  vast  expanse  of  flats,  which  one 
wonders  are  not  reclaimed,  and  so  out  seawards. 
Over  these  flats  the  incoming  tide  gathers,  and 
in  due  course  forces  a  volume  of  water  up  the 
channel.  At  one  moment  you  are  by  a  low  tide, 
which  is  more  just  the  natural  outflow  of  the 
stream  than  the  remains  of  the  tidal  ebb.     The 


256  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

next  you  hear  a  commotion  as  of  an  organised 
rush,  the  river  swells  in  height  suddenly,  little 
white  horses  show,  coming  up  where  a  peaceful 
ripple  slid  down.  You  have  the  impression  of  a 
wild  run  as  of  stampeded  cattle,  or  a  crowd  racing 
from  danger  or  to  attack  in  a  narrow  way  ;  waves 
curl  and  swirl  up  the  sides  of  the  bank,  low 
water  is  turned  into  nearly  high  water  at  a 
stroke,  the  hurly-burly  ceases,  giving  place  to  a 
steady-going,  well-mannered  flood,  and  if  you  are 
a  stranger  ignorant  of  bores  and  eagres,  you  rub 
your  eyes  and  ask  whether  volcanic  disturbances 
are  afloat  or  visions  about.  Anyway  you  must 
be  thankful  that  as  an  explorer  of  strange  waters 
you  are  not  caught  napping  in  navigating  in  the 
face  of  so  startling  a  disturbance,  which  really  is 
very  alarming  on  the  reaches  that  bend  about 
much. 

Poor  Randolph  Cook  I  suppose  turned  out 
such  excellent  little  skiffs  because  he  knew  himself 
so  thoroughly  how  a  boat  should  feel.  In  his 
younger  days  (and  he  always  seemed  to  me  to 
decline  to  grow  old)  he  was  one  of  the  finest 
professional  scullers  in  the  country.  In  his  time 
he  coached  several  of  the  Oxford  College  crews, 
and  after  a  meritorious  career  on  the  Thames  he 
went  to  Chester  in  order  to  coach  the  Royal 
Chester  Rowing  Club.  To  them  Mr  Cook 
introduced  the  Oxford  style  of  rowing,  and 
through  his  able  tuition  the  club  scored  many 
successes.  He  was  the  oldest  boat-proprietor  in 
Chester,  and  one  of  the  first  to  cater  for  pleasure 
boating  on  the  Dee.  Very  much  pleasure  was 
he  thereby  responsible  for  to  myself  among  count- 
less other  river  folk. 

There  is  plenty  to  give  a  good  word  to    in 


CHESTER  AND  THE  DEE  257 

Chester,  and  a  deal  of  the  other  sort.     Of  late 
I  have  generally  "done "  it  from  the  George  Hotel 
at   Knutsford — which  is   Cranford  of  fame.       In 
itself,   Chester — the  central  city  part,    I   mean- — 
suggests  cosy  snugness,   and  is  not  too  well  off 
for    space    in    its    thoroughfares,    especially  such 
main  arteries  as  lead  to  the  Water  Gate  in  the 
Walls,  and    so    to    the  Roodee.     Now,  when  in 
bad  weather  you  get  a  big  crowd,  more  especially 
of  the  sort  one  experiences  at  this  North- Western 
racing  holiday  resort,   the  comfortable  part  dis- 
appears from  the  snug  idea,  and  you  are  more 
impressed   with  a  sense   of  being  hampered   till 
''bunged  up"  seems  language  fully  justified.      It 
was  while  trying  to  get  away  from  the  crowed  for 
a  bit  that  by  good  chance  I  made  acquaintance 
with    the    interiors    of  some   old   houses    in   the 
quarter  which  in  the  long   ago    represented  the 
west  end  of  a  county  town  that  then  was  to  the 
country-side,  for  seeing  life  and  town  gaiety,  what 
the   metropolis    is    to    England.       I    love    these 
ancient  houses — roomy,    well,    solidly   built,    for 
which,  so  long  as  quality  was  assured,  expense  in 
moderation  was  quite  a  minor  consideration — and 
envy  the  folk  who,  mostly  with  plenty  of  capital, 
carried  on  in  them  their  business  or  profession 
on  very  easy  terms,  not  being  above  their  busi- 
ness except  physically  in  that  the  ground  floor 
contained   the   offices,    etc.,    and    the    proprietor 
lived  in  the  upper  part.     Of  all  places  Chester  is 
the  one  where  you  find  finest  specimens  of  these 
old    county-town  mansions.     I  have  qualified  as 
a   kind   of  guide   to  the  city  and   its   objects   of 
interest  from  the  God's   Providence  House  and 
its    ancient    carvings    to    the    still    more  curious 
samples  of  antiquity   to  be  found  in  the  small 


258  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

curioslty-shop  dealers',  reproductions  of  any 
mortal  thing  you  fancy,  of  any  date  you 
like  to  mention,  produced,  like  the  oil  in  the 
widow's  cruse,  so  that  everybody  can  find  just 
one  left.  From  all  these  I  feel  inclined  to  turn 
nowadays,  having  pretty  well  used  them  up  as 
well  as  references  to  Chester  in  former  race  times, 
when  the  Grosvenor  Hotel  had  a  market  as  big 
as  all  our  sporting  clubs  put  together,  and  practi- 
cally anyone  who  had  sense  enough  to  see  that 
honesty  was  the  best  policy  could  not  help 
making  a  fortune  if  his  head  was  screwed  on 
properly. 

Chester  in  a  race  week  does  not  alter  much. 

You  are  rushed  at  not  quite  so  much  as  formerly 

by  the  card  and  newspaper  sellers.     To  make  up, 

the  young  savages  who  rule  over  passengers  in 

the   tramcars   are   more    truculent   and    brutally 

overbearing  than  ever.     Old  furniture  increases 

within  the  city  boundaries  ;    no  age  nor  colour 

barred  ;  all  can  be  made  while  you  wait.     Plate 

of  various  ancient  dates,  like  hope  in  the  human 

breast,    springs   eternal    in    the    Chester    shops. 

The  food  store,  the  fishmongers',  fruiterers',  etc., 

are,  if  anything,  more  attractive  than  ever ;  the 

early  arrivals,  if  possible,  fuller  up  than  of  yore  ; 

the  local  folk  not  engaged  in  getting  a  bit  quite 

up  to  their  best  form  in  looking  out  of  windows 

at  the  crowd  ;  tipsters  hold  possession  of  street 

corners,  as  is  their  custom  ;  the  fair  goes  as  well 

as  could  be  wished,  and  the  walk  round  the  walls 

and  the  look  down  on  the  new  spring  foliage  and 

the    fruit-trees'    blossom   (much    more    backward 

and  therefore  fresher  than  they  would  be  at  this 

time  in  May  down  south)  are  as  good  as  ever. 

I  should  say  that  more  Welsh  folk  gather  on 


CHESTER  AND  THE  DEE  259 

the  Roodee  for  the  Chester  Cup  than  are  present 
at  any  other  one  time  on  a  racecourse.  A  some- 
what strange  similarity  between  almost-forsaken 
Derby- Day  manners  and  customs  and  a  certain 
section  of  Chester  visitors  advertises  itself  still — 
viz.,  extravagant  get-up  by  some  of  the  collier 
companies  who  make  up  parties  to  go  to  the  city 
by  road.  An  accepted  stroke  of  humour  is 
for  men  to  attire  themselves  in  the  other  sex's 
finery,  and  a  good  deal  of  music  is  brought  in  ; 
but  as  regards  that  latter,  you  can  bet  any  odds 
you  like  on  the  Welshmen  for  harmony  on 
wheels.  Nobody  needs  telling  that  the  Taffies 
are  musical  and  take  a  lot  of  trouble  with  the 
art,  so  that  little  villages  turn  out  quite  good- 
class  choirs.  Unless  you  are  versed  in  their 
ways,  however,  you  might  wonder  somewhat  to 
find  freights  of  passengers  by  long-backed  char- 
a-banc  and  all  manner  of  carriages,  amusing 
themselves  on  the  way  with  quite  classic  pieces. 
One  never  gets  time  enough  to  *'do"  such 
subjects  as  the  setting  out  and  returning  home 
of  a  colliery  village  expedition  for  the  Chester 
Cup.  Someone  ought  to  take  the  business  in 
hand  and  follow  it  right  through  from  the  first 
steps  towards  assembly,  generally  at  the  pub. 
where  the  carriage  is  moored,  so  to  speak,  wait- 
ing for  the  crew  and  passengers  to  go  aboard 
before  it  can  cast  off  The  muster  reminds  you 
a  bit  of  the  calling  out  of  a  pack  of  beagles 
quartered  among  the  hunt's  own  houses,  or — the 
other  way  about — of  a  flock  of  geese  marched 
home  from  the  feeding  grounds  and  dispersing  as 
their  own  particular  domiciles  are  neared.  They 
come  at  all  hours — say,  from  the  first  opening  of 
the  inn — and  as  they  filter  to  that  centre,   ''take 


260  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

something  for  it,"  and  mostly  keep  on  taking 
something  more  for  whatever  *'it"  maybe  till 
^*  All  aboard"  is  the  order.  Why  is  it  that  the 
coal  industry  goes  with  taste  for  high-toned  out- 
ward adornment  ?  I  make  no  intentional 
reference  here  to  red  hair,  which  is  a  presum- 
ably natural  development  where  coalfields  lie, 
but  have  in  mind  that  all-the-world-over  miners' 
taste  for  hues,  like  the  ''just  plain  red  and  yaller, 
hinny,"  which  the  collier's  wife  called  for  when 
she  wanted  something  quiet  in  neckties  for  her 
Geordie.  Is  it  that  so  much  of  their  lives  is  spent 
underground,  and  under  grime,  that  when  on  the 
top  the  pit  lads  make  the  most  of  associating 
themselves  with  brightness  ? 


CHAPTER   XIX 

IN    DEVONSHIRE 

Devonshire,  you  say,  is  a  large  order.  It  Is, 
and  I  only  wish  I  could  put  it  into  my  pocket, 
or  say  just  a  nice  little  bit  of  it  on  the  edge  of 
Dartmoor,  for  my  own  use  at  leisure.  Circum- 
stances over  which  I  have  no  control  generally 
combine  to  keep  from  out  of  my  reach  all  of 
Devon  that  cannot  handily  be  reached  from 
Plymouth.  I  have  for  many  years  made  Ply- 
mouth headquarters  at  Lockyer's  Hotel,  and  am 
always  glad  to  be  once  more  at  this  very  excellent 
establishment. 

Always  I  can  do  with  a  spell  in  Plymouth — 
by  going  out  of  it,  that  is,  and  it  is  one  of  the 
nicest  towns  in  England  to  get  out  of — a  remark 
I  intend  in  its  complimentary  bearings.  If  you 
do  not  exactly  want  to  clear  the  town,  or  three 
towns  for  that  matter,  you  can  do  yourself  well — 
at  least,  I  can — round  and  about  the  water  part 
(who  can  tire  of  the  Hoe  ?),  but  should  you  wish 
to  roam,  facilities  are  great.  One  of  the  cheapest 
ways  of  spending  a  week  that  I  know  is  to  treat 
Plymouth  as  a  centre  port  or  depot,  and  go  for 
the  excursion  coasting  trips,  etc.,  which  abound 
on   most   reasonable   terms.      Perhaps  a  cheaper 

261 


262  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

way  is  to  work  the  railways  and  make  for  more 
or  less  distant  towns  or  villages,  according  to 
your  ability,  with  intent  to  walk  back.  Give 
me  Dartmoor,  if  only  the  edge  of  it.  Grand  air 
it  is  indeed,  and  to  my  taste  at  its  best  where 
you  get  a  smack  of  the  sea  as  well  as  the  moor's 
tonic,  lung-filling  brand.  During  my  stay  of  ten 
minutes  or  so — thanks  to  the  G.W.R.'s  splendid 
service  I  was  able  to  have  two  clear  days  right 
in  Devonshire — I  went  cattle-ranching  to  Ran- 
leigh,  a  place  not  exactly  on  the  moor,  but 
charmingly  moorish  in  climate,  whose  proprietor, 
Mr  R.  C.  Cocks,  was  justifiably  proud  of  his 
herds'  condition.  I  like  beef,  though  a  stranger 
to  milk,  and  I  know  what  looks  good.  Here 
were  the  creatures  living  on  the  fat  of  the  land 
and  plenty  of  it,  with  richest  of  rich  pasture  and 
finest  of  old  hay  fit  for  a  racing  stable  ;  water  laid 
on  for  them  in  every  field,  also  in  the  byres  ;  the 
ways  about  the  homestead  and  sheds  all  as  clean 
as  Mrs  Sarah  Battle's  typical  hearth  for  whist  or 
a  Dutch  kitchen,  no  dust  nor  dirt,  never  a 
cobweb,  hygiene  being  preached  about  the  estab- 
lishment in  object-lessons  wherever  you  went, 
and,  what  makes  always  for  health  in  animal 
life,  all  dealings  with  them  regulated  with  clock- 
work or  military  punctuality.  Who  drives  fat 
cattle  should  himself  be  fat.  I  quoted  earlier, 
did  I  not  ?  Here  goes  again,  because  I  cannot 
do  better  in  reference  to  the  hands  about  the 
dairy  farm.  They  have  good  pay — mechanics' 
rather  than  hinds' — short  hours,  and  are  smart 
and  contented.  How  do  I  know  they  are  con- 
tented ?  I  found  that  out  very  easily.  Birds — 
partridge  birds,  as  poor  old  Nicholas  used  to  call 
them — -are  wonderfully   plentiful    on    the   estate. 


IN  DEVONSHIRE  263 

That  sort  of  thing  is  an  almost  sure  guide  where 
much  labour  is  employed  and  the  game  is  near 
to  a  town.  Altogether,  I  was  greatly  interested 
in  my  inspection,  although,  as  I  say,  I  never 
touch  milk  and  do  not  as  a  rule  go  for  cow  beef. 
Still,  I  would  always  be  content  to  take  my 
chance  with  any  of  the  red-coated  acquaintances 
I  made  on  Wednesday.  They  wouldn't  make 
the  sort  of  cow  beef  you  have  to  put  up  with  so 
often  in  Lancashire,  and  I  may  add  that  you  do 
get  very  excellent  eating  in  Devonshire  out  of 
the  bovine  sex,  where  the  producers  have  one 
fault — viz.,   killing  too  young. 

At  Plymouth  South- Western  Station,  as  ever 
was,  I  got  crowned  with  a — to  me — really  novel 

epithet.     The  other  man   called  me   '^  a  d d 

T.G."  He  wanted  to  secure  the  corner  seat  I 
picked  out  for  the  journey  from  Plymouth  to 
Waterloo,  and  made  himself  very  nasty  because  I 
wouldn't  shift.  As  matters  shaped  themselves, 
we  had  what  the  late  Mr  Bobby  Ryan  used  to 
call  a  '*  heated  alteration."  The  other  man's  point 
was  that  he  always  had  that  seat  when  he  joined 
the  train  at  Exeter.  My  contention  was  on  the 
**  J'y  suis,  j'y  reste  "  lines  ;  and,  being  in  posses- 
sion, I,  so  to  speak,  prevailed.  I  wanted  to  be  in 
a  corner  facing  the  line  of  march,  to  enjoy  the 
scenery  as  much  as  I  might.  Circumstances  over 
which  I  have  no  control — meaning  the  Editor — 
required  me  to  go  by  a  fast  train,  which  I  would 
never  do  if  I  were  my  own  master  and  in  no  hurry 
on  my  own  account.  Because,  you  see,  I  am  all 
for  marking  and  enjoying  the  views,  and  while 
one  is  being  whisked  along  at  x  express-miles  per 
hour  one  misses  fair  chance  of  taking  in  the  more 
or  less  beautiful  features  of  the  land. 


264  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

I  often  wonder  why  our  railway  companies  do 
not  make  a  feature  of  slow — as  slow  as  possible 
— trains  through  the  picturesque  lands  they 
pervade.  (Please  understand  that  I  am  quite 
aware  of  the  nasty  things  to  be  said  about  certain 
services  and  want  of  pace.)  For  instance,  take 
a  journey  to  Plymouth  by  the  Great  Western  and 
back  by  the  London  and  South-Western  Railway 
Company.  As  regards  the  earlier  stages  I  am 
blase,  because  I  have  done  them  so  often.  But 
after  the  Great  Western  brings  me  to  Exeter  I 
am  so  interested  in  the  outlook  from  the  carriage 
window  that  I  count  as  only  a  trivial  set-off  a  bit 
of  coal  in  my  eye  from  the  engine's  priming.  For 
more  years  than  I  care  to  count  have  I  enjoyed 
the  view  between  Exeter  and  Plymouth.  So  far 
as  Exeter  I  take  things  as  they  come,  not  being 
keen  except  to  snatch  a  glimpse  of  my  old  friend 
Father  Thames,  who  has  given  me  some  of  the 
happiest  days  of  my  life.  But  after  the  Great 
Western  Railway  slides  away  from  the  Thames 
Valley,  then  as  far  as  Exeter,  the  panorama 
appeals  to  me  vainly  except  in  its  cues.  From 
Didcot  to  Chippenham  I  pass  stations  that  are 
points  from  which  I  might  preach  many  discursive 
sermons.  Take  Didcot  and  Swindon,  for  instance. 
Around  those  centres,  with  leave  to  wander  on  to 
the  training-grounds  thereabouts,  I  might  hold 
forth  ad  infinitum.  Chippenham — why,  I  could 
talk  for  a  month  about  the  stables  handy  thereto 
and  the  old-timers.  I  spent  many  jolly  days 
within  those  quarters.  From  Chippenham,  you 
know,  you  can  easily  get  over  to  some  of  the  most 
celebrated  stables  in  the  Wiltshire  list. 

I  started,  I  believe,  with  a  reference  to  the 
other  man,  who  called  me  ''a  d d  T.G."     F'or 


IN  DEVONSHIRE  265 

the  moment  I  did  not  quite  grasp  what  he  meant 
was  to  be  offensive  about  the  T.G.,  and,  though 
I  am  a  free  and  accepted  craftsman  in  a  lot  of 
travelling  guilds,  I  was  unable  for  a  while  to 
understand  how  I  came  to  be  not  only  damned 
but  a  T.G.  It  so  happened  that  at  the  Lockyer 
I  foregfathered  with  an  old  man  on  the  road. 
Said  commercial  gentleman  had  strayed — as  do 
so  many  at  Plymouth — from  his  own  hotel  to  dine 
at  the  Lockyer,  and  thanks  to  him  I  found  correc- 
tion. ''  He  called  you  a  T.G.,  did  he?"  says  he, 
joining  in  the  palaver  after  the  old-fashioned 
smoking-room  style.  *'  He  did,"  says  I.  ''Well, 
then,"  says  he,  "  I  will  tell  you  what  he  meant. 
He  affected  to  take  you  for  a  commercial  traveller, 
and,  to  annoy  you,  called  you  a  T.G.,  which  is  a 
Travelling  Gent,  as  contrasted  with  a  Travelling 
Commercial  Gentleman." 

As  to  the  ''T.G.,"  I  only  wish  I  was  the  right 
sort  of  *'  travellinof  o-ent." — the  commercial  traveller 
who  finds  or  makes  things  pleasant.  That  we 
have  no  better  friends  than  the  commercial 
travellers,  I  know  from  practical  experience.  As 
it  is  my  lot  to  knock  about  a  good  deal,  I  do  get 
rather  envious  now  and  then  of  brethren  com- 
mercially travelling,  and  would  like  to  swop  with 
them.  There  are,  for  instance,  gentlemen  repre- 
senting houses  who  run  their  travellers  on  quite 
old-fashioned  lines,  such  as  Huntley  and  Palmer, 
and  Peek,  Frean,  and  Co.  These  firms'  repre- 
sentatives seem  to  me  much  to  be  envied.  Some- 
times I  am  almost  persuaded  to  go  in  and  be  a 
''commercial."  If  anyone  is  a  travelling  gentle- 
man, I  am  that  man.  You  see  I  am  always 
cutting  about  the  country.  As  a  cutter-about, 
nothing  pleases  me  better  than  to  happen  on  a 


266  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

real  old-fashioned  commercial  hotel  such,  for  in- 
stance, as  the  White  Hart  at  Spalding.  The 
landlord  is  mine  host  not  only  ex  officio  but  by- 
inclination  to  welcome  his  customers  as  guests. 
You  are  not  a  number,  but  Mr  Somebody,  and 
your  little  likes  and  dislikes  are  remembered  and 
dealt  with  accordingly.  The  chambermaid  knows 
about  the  window  being  closed  or  open,  and  how 
you  want  your  bath.  The  waitress  tells  you  what 
you  would  like  to  eat  rather  than  lets  you  make 
out  a  bill  of  fare  for  yourself,  and  the  boots  not 
only  sees  to  the  booting  department,  but  has  at 
his  fingers'  ends  all  details  of  trains,  junctions, 
excess  luggage,  and  innumerable  details  useful  to 
the  traveller.  The  young  lady  at  the  back  re- 
collects your  particular  vanity,  and  takes  care  that 
letters  left  over  from  a  former  visit  are  at  last 
delivered. 

By  way  of  a  change  one  September,  I 
managed  to  take  a  turn  at  Devonshire  steeple- 
chasing,  in  fulfilment  of  a  promise  made  to  myself 
a  long  while  ago,  and  never  redeemed  though 
frequently  renewed.  A  great  institution  is 
Totnes  old-fashioned  meeting — "  Totnes  and 
Bridgetown  Races  and  Steeplechases,"  as 
described  on  the  bill  of  the  play,  otherwise  card 
• — and  one  that  all  right-thinking  sportsmen 
should  support  and  encourage  as  much  as 
possible.  Grand-stands  are  provided  gratis  by 
nature  or  circumstances  unconnected  with  the 
executive,  and  regardless  of  contributions  levied 
in  support  of  the  expenses  of  the  establishment. 
You  can  settle  yourself  in  a  gratis  front  seat,  or 
if  you  happen  to  make  a  plural,  any  number  of 
front  seats,  on  the  actual  bank  of  the  river, 
which  makes  so  important  a  feature  in  the  land- 


IN  DEVONSHIRE  267 

scape  and  the  list  of  obstacles  to  be  negotiated 
by  the  jumpers.  There  you  have  the  advan- 
tage of  commanding  a  capital  view  of  the  proceed- 
ings on  the  steep  hillside,  over  a  loop  on  which 
two  ''rings"  are  run,  or  nearly  so,  in  several  of 
the  races.  You  are  also  conveniently  situate 
for  sending  to  the  booths  for  beer  or  cyder,  and 
located,  too,  hard  by  the  section  of  the  Flying 
Course  led  round  the  flat  enclosed  by  the  river, 
the  railway  and  the  town  side  boundary  of  the 
meads.  An  it  please  you,  you  may  cross  by  the 
ferry  and  ascend  the  hill  up  and  down  which  the 
gees  run,  and  take  a  comprehensive  bird's-eye 
view  of  the  doings.  Say  your  taste  is  of  a  more 
loftily  soaring  character,  the  edge  of  a  great  stone 
quarry  right  opposite  is  at  your  service.  Verily 
at  Totnes  you  can  get  plenty  for  your  money  if  you 
do  not  want  to  pay  anything  at  all  (that  is  slightly 
by  way  of  a  bull,  but  you  know  what  I  mean), 
and  be  almost  as  well  off  if  you  do  care  to  go  in 
for  contributing  to  the  costs  of  the  show,  since 
ring,  stand,  and  paddock  must  be  cheap  at  six 
shillings  over  all.  So  far  I  have  been  writing 
about  the  open,  as  we  usually  call  it  in  alluding 
to  the  free  part  of  a  course.  There  are  precious 
few  opens  nowadays,  except  where  a  pay-box  is 
open  too,  as  a  toll-taker  not  to  be  dodged.  Still, 
that  is  only  a  detail. 

Now,  please  do  not  misunderstand  me.  I  am 
fully  aware  that  there  are  two  sides  at  least  to 
the  question  as  to  admitting  the  public  free  to 
witness  pastime.  All  I  do  now  is  to  cite  Totnes 
as  a  specimen  of  a  fine  old-fashioned  affair,  which 
by  reason  of  its  openness  does  an  immense 
amount  of  good  in  the  cause  of  sport.  Thousands 
make  their  way  there  who  would  not  go  to  the 


268  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

races  if  they  were  called  upon  to  pay.  If  you 
offered  them  a  gate  show  instead  of  what  they 
are  accustomed  to,  you  would  be  without  their 
company,  which,  after  all,  is  not  wholly  unprofit- 
able, because  they  make  the  value  of  the  sites  for 
booths  and  bars  through  their  custom.  You  would 
also,  while  getting  rid  of  their  patronage,  very 
likely  miss  their  support  and  sympathy,  their 
votes  and  influence,  when  your  pet  pastime  was 
assailed  by  the  anti-amusement  gang.  As  it  is, 
you  lose  little  that  might  be  collected,  strengthen 
the  power  of  sport  in  the  land,  and  give  the 
populace  opportunity  for  making  holiday — surely 
a  worthy  action.  I  would  like  some  of  the 
reforming  folk  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  old  Devon- 
shire place,  whose  townsmen  will  forgive  me  for 
chancing  on  the  word  *' reform."  If  these  folk — 
the  anti  lot — did  not  see  much  to  please  them, 
they  must  be  a  poor-hearted  crowd.  Perhaps 
all  would  not  accord  with  their  views.  That  is 
not  the  question.  The  main  thing  is  that  these 
sports,  paid  for  by  other  people,  do  vastly  please 
the  multitude  and  lead  to  no  harm  fairly  charge- 
able to  their  account.  They  have  flourished  on 
sportsmanlike  lines  for  years,  and  I  hope  will  for 
many  more  to  come. 

The  stand,  I  mean  not  any  of  the  free  ones  I 
mentioned  earlier,  but  the  wooden  one  perched  on 
a  convenient  hillock-side,  affords  accommodation 
for  I  won't  say  how  many  hundreds.  You  do 
not  as  a  rule  associate  the  flower  of  a  county — of 
several  counties — with  presence  in  a  race-stand  at 
four  shillings  per  head.  Yet  in  this  cheap  affair 
was  an  assemblage  which  few  of  our  swagger 
courses  can  beat.  Compared  to  Sandown  it  was 
to  my  thinking,  as  Canterbury  cricket  ground  in 


IN  DEVONSHIRE  269 

the  week  is  to  Lord's  on  a  'Varsity  day. 
Perhaps  I  am  prejudiced,  but  I  always  fancy  that 
the  ladies  on  the  St  Lawrence  cricket  field  beat 
their  sisters  at  Lord's.  To  this  theory,  I  am 
aware  admissible  objection  may  be  laid,  in  that 
so  many  present  at  the  one  are  also  in  evidence 
at  the  other  venue.  But  I  do  not  give  in  farther 
than  to  admit  that  this  may  be  so,  and  get  over 
the  difficulty  by  contending  that  those  who  grace 
both  fields  look  better  at  the  Kent  than  the 
Middlesex  ground.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  there 
were  at  Totnes  many  fair  patrons  of  sport  who 
are  well  known  at  the  ''  Parks,"  Ascot,  Goodwood, 
Newmarket,  etc.  That,  as  I  say,  does  not  alter 
my  case,  which  is  that  I  never  saw  a  gathering  of 
typical  English  beauty  to  beat  this  one.  In  this 
respect  Totnes  is  indeed  favoured,  and  also  by 
the  support  of  all  classes.  Its  racing  is  not 
classically  great,  and  naturally,  where  the  acces- 
sories are  more  or  less  temporary,  some  of  it  must 
be  of  the  rough-and-ready  order.  But  if  you  ran 
the  Derby,  the  Ascot  Cup,  the  Grand  National, 
and  St  Leger  here  all  in  one  day,  the  really 
influential  patronage,  as  evidenced  by  attendance, 
might  not  be  stronger.  The  country-side,  also 
the  townsfolk  from  near  and  far,  could  scarcely 
take  more  genuine  interest,  nor  would  matters 
pass  off  better  as  regards  management. 

To  all  readers,  whether  interested  in  racing 
or  not,  who  may  be  glad  of  pleasing  novelty,  I 
say,  go  to  Totnes.  The  town  is  quaint,  its 
church  is  very  interesting  (an  old  friend  of  mine), 
the  country  round  is  beautiful,  not  counting  the 
Dart's  charms,  which  have  long  been  recognised 
as,  in  Devonian  eyes,  some  good  bit  in  front  of 
anything  that  the  Continent,   Rhine  and  all,  can 


270  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

show.  Some  of  the  pubs,  are  funny  old  shops. 
The  Bridge  ought  to  be  done,  and  there  are 
hereabouts  reaches  of  the  river  which  make  one 
want  to  look  up  the  secretary  of  the  Totnes 
Rowing  Club  and  borrow  a  boat  on  the  spot. 


CHAPTER   XX 

IN    SOMERSET 

What  sort  of  a  time  have  I  not  been  having  on 
a  big  round  in  a  short  spell !  Wonderful — is  it 
not  ? — what  you  can  do  if  the  trains  fit  in  and 
you  are  your  own  master,  without  appointments 
to  hang  you  up  and  prevent  your  keeping  going. 
Still,  talking  of  engagements,  I  would  be  only 
too  happy  to  make  one  any  time  and  cancel  all 
others  if  I  might  be  certain  of  so  charming  a  day 
as  I  found  one  Wednesday  in  March,  investiga- 
ting North  Somerset.  Really,  I  had  almost 
forgotten  what  tonic  weather  was  like,  when  the 
air  does  more  for  you  than  the  second  go  at  a 
tankard  of  champagne  can — nothing  ever  did  beat 
the  first  bite  if  you  wanted  it.  Such  a  bright 
turn  had  not  come  my  way  for  when  ? — why,  for 
**  never."  The  load  of  dull  clouded  sky  seemed 
lifted  ;  the  breeze  nerved  one  up  ;  the  sun  was 
hot,  not  warm,  but  downright  scorching, 
burning  hot ;  the  sea  sent  ozone  into  your 
system  on  some  wireless  telegraphic  system  of  its 
own  ;  vegetation  was  stirring — you  almost  might 
hear  it ;  the  birds  of  the  air,  and  the  water,  too, 
went  about  their  affairs  with  a  hard-times-come- 
no-more   air    of   jollity   and    independence.     All 

271 


272  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

conditions  were  enjoyable  ;  you  were — anyway, 
I  was — at  the  same  time  gifted  to  appreciate  the 
goods  thrown  in  your  way — which  is  mine — and 
I  thought  Burnham  a  very  fine  place  indeed  to 
pitch  your  tent  in. 

Burnham,  is,  or  was,  the  word  right  enough, 
but  I  suppose  that  I  ought  to  have  sort  of  broken 
it  to  you  and  not  sprung  the  name  without 
introduction.  Let  me  go  back  and  begin  again. 
In  the  first  place,  answering  the  question,  which 
Burnham  ?  let  me  explain  that  my  Burnham  on 
this  occasion  was  not  anywhere  near  the  Beeches, 
an  old  favourite  of  mine,  which  I  always  associate 
most  with  the  conscientious  informant  who  gave  me 
miles  of  directions  how  to  make  my  way  thence  to 
Farnham  Royal ;  he  made  a  turn  to  the  right  or 
left  of  every  bend  in  the  winding  road.  Neither 
was  it  the  place  with  the  marching  wood  spoken 
of  by  the  late  Mr  Macbeth,  nor  Burnham-on- 
Crouch,  whence  Rule,  the  old  Mr  Rule,  who  used 
to  reign  in  Maiden  lane,  in  a  low-pitched  shop  of 
a  very  small  old  house,  used  to  procure  his  most 
excellent  oysters — a  shilling  half  a  dozen  with 
bread-and-butter  and  a  glass  of  stout,  was  the 
price  I  first  paid  Rule  pere.  Further,  I  may  put 
out  of  this  argument  Burnham  Market,  a  rare 
healthy  corner  out  King's  Lynn  way.  The 
Burnham  I  mean  is  on  the  estuary  of  the  Parret 
and  Brue,  and  away  down  in  Somersetshire,  just 
this  side  of  Bridgwater,  and  on  the  sea-edge  of 
Sedgemoor.  Now,  concerning  what  I  write  of 
holiday  notes  round  about  Burnham,  Somerset, 
please  understand  this :  that  I  was  so  well 
disposed  towards  everybody  and  everything, 
because  of  getting  strong  air  to  breathe  and 
bright  light  down  on  my  eyes,  mid  a  hot  sun  on 


IN  SOMERSET  273 

my  back,  that  I  could  have  said  kind  words  of 
a  Black  Country  spoil  bank,  or  Barking  Creek. 
I  admit  that  I  might  overdo  Burnham's  recom- 
mendations, but  the  merit  is  great. 

I  did  not  get  there  all  at  once,  though  I  fared 
well   and    might    have  been   through  earlier  if  I 
pleased.     Starting  from  Waterloo  for  a  point  on 
the  Bristol  Channel  seemed  to  me  a  queer  cut. 
However,    it   proved    a    most   excellent   way   of 
reaching   North  Somerset  from  London,  and  to 
me  had  the  advantage  of  making  certain  calls  en 
route  handy.     For  one  thing,   I  wanted  to  take 
down   some  ages   from  a  tombstone  in  Temple- 
combe    Churchyard,    where    is    record    of  a    fine 
staying  family.     That    object   I  accomplished  in 
hope  of  the  memorandum  proving  of  interest  to 
Refereaders.     From  the  stone,  which  is,   I  think, 
a  slate,  you  find  that  a  couple — Rufus  a'  Barrow 
and    his    wife,    Betsy   a'  Barrow — were   interred 
there,  and  six   of  their   children.     Here   Is    the 
great  record.     Rufus  a'  Barrow,  senior,  seventy- 
five    years    of    age ;    Dame    Betsy,    eighty-nine. 
First  to  go  of  the  next  generation  was  Rufus  the 
second,  aged  fifty-four  ;  next  one,  R.  Goddard  a' 
Barrow,    sixty- two  ;     followed    by    Henry,    who 
stopped   only  one  chalk  short  of  the  eighty  his 
brother   Anthony   reached.     Last  but  one  went 
Betsy,  who  lived  a  year  longer  than  her  mother, 
and  saw  her  ninety  years  ;    while    Christian   (or 
Kitty) — was  this  a  son  or  a  daughter?     Kit  is 
short  for  the  male  Christian — left  at  ninety-four. 
Properly  advertised  facts  like  these  ought  to  send 
up  the  value  of  building  land  at  Templecombe. 

Glastonbury  has  long  been  marked  by  me  as  a 
centre  for  exploring  operations,  which  never  have 
materialised  to  my  satisfaction.     Still,  I  managed 


274  .  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

to  sample  the  place  at  a  run,  so  to  speak,  and,  at 
any  rate,  did  the  Tor,  with  its  church-tower 
remnant  of  the  fine  edifice  said  to  have  been 
destroyed  by  an  earthquake,  and  a  carving  of  the 
devil  trying  to  beat  St  Michael  in  a  weighing 
match  by  putting  his  foot  on  the  scale.  Further, 
I  visited  the  George — I  could  not  do  the  Abbey 
properly  and  the  inn  also  (formerly,  according  to 
tradition,  a  house  of  call  for  Joseph  of  Arimathea 
and  Henry  VIII.),  so  the  former  was  remanded — 
and  Inspected  Glastonbury  thorns,  which  had 
bloomed  this — i.e.,  last — Christmas.  The  wet 
season  beat  me  this  time  from  getting  into  the 
peat  country,  which  is  not  exactly  like  any  I 
ever  visited  before  in  Ireland,  France,  or  the 
Eastern  Counties  fenlands.  Weird  to  come  upon 
as  a  stranger  are  the  tracts  of  land  where  the 
turfs  are  cut  and  stacked  In  conical  "houses  "  such 
as  children  build  with  boxes  of  bricks,  and  after  a 
fashion  like  to  giant  chocolate-coloured  bee-skeps. 
The  country  talks  to  you  whole  libraries  about 
Arthur  and  Alfred  and  the  Norman  swells,  among 
them  Robert  of  Lewes,  one  of  the  De  Warrennes, 
who  did  Wells  a  lot  of  good  ;  Monmouth,  who 
did  it  a  lot  of  harm,  and  Sir  Walter  Besant,  the 
best  chronicler  of  that  pretender's  misbegotten 
campaign  ;  and  it  suggests  that,  for  the  benefit  of 
succeeding  generations,  adding  a  second  Van 
Houten  to  cope  with  these  West-country  fens 
would  be  extremely  useful,  since  for  all  the  old- 
world  glamour  ague  and  such  ought  to  be 
anachronisms  when  you  know  what  brings  them. 
However,  give  me  the  place  as  it  is  in  ordinary 
years  before  it  has  been  altered  or  reclaimed 
further,  or  done  anything  to  or  with,  as  one  in 
which  to  spend  a  happy  week  or  two. 


IN  SOMERSET  275 

From  Glastonbury  I  made  to  Wells,  a  rare 
nice  city  or  town.  Wells  has  water,  good  water, 
heaping  itself  up  at  the  springs  and  running  over. 
Also  it  has  the  Mendip  Hills,  inviting  you  to 
climb  into  the  keen  air  from  the  Atlantic.  Wells 
has  one  excellent  hotel,  the  Swan,  and  maybe 
more,  and  a  big  square,  on  which  the  Bishop's  or 
cathedral  close  makes.  Clean  it  is  all  over,  fresh 
and  smart  are  its  lads  and  lassies — the  latter  with 
complexions  no  town  would  allow  long,  and  the 
former  a  rolling  mouthful  kind  of  pronunciation 
rather  than  accent,  at  first  striking  you  as  laboured 
affectation.  Elbow-room  and  lots  of  it  is 
apparently  cheap  and  indisputably  plenty  in  Wells. 
Flowers  grow  about  the  town  as  if  smoke  was  an 
unknown  quantity  ;  trees  as  if  too  many  of  them 
had  been  committed  to  the  care  of  barbers  instead 
of  masters  of  woodcraft,  for  they  seem  to  pollard 
or  poll  every  sort.  There  is  reason  in  all  things. 
What,  I  wonder,  is  the  one  for  pollarding  elms, 
beeches,  oaks,  limes,  ashes,  poplars,  willows, 
larches,  and  alders,  when  they  do  so  well  left  to 
carry  up  maiden  growth.  Whatever  may  be 
the  justification  for  the  method,  you  do  see  it  illus- 
trated somewhat  extravagantly.  For  instance,  take 
the  line  of  elms  by  the  moat  of  my  Lord  Bishop's 
Palace  next  door  to  the  Cathedral.  I  scarcely 
dare  get  nearer  than  next  door  to  Wells  Cathedral, 
for  I  must  be  on  to  Burnham,  and  you  want  a 
week  to  do  the  Minster,  more  by  token  that  the 
guide-books  are  good  and  the  grand  architecture 
appeals  to  even  a  novice.  Then  there  is  the 
wonderful  clock,  with  its  men  in  armour  outside 
who  strike  the  quarters  and  hours,  the  Jack  who 
sits  up  in  a  corner  and  kicks  the  strikers  with  his 
spurred  heels,  and  the  mounted  knights  who  run 


276  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

a  tilt  at  each  other,  with  result  that  one  is 
unseated  in  sight  of  onlookers,  but  put  up  again 
''off." 

Rowing  men  will  find  a  couple  of  memorials 
to  carry  them  back  to  the  eighties.  A  very- 
beautiful  window  with  the  Eton  arms  and  motto 
and  New  College,  Oxford's  Wykeham's  ''  Manners 
maketh  the  man,"  is  to  the  memory  of  the  fine 
oarsman  Douglas  M'Lean,  who  died  of  enteric 
during  the  South  African  war,  and  an  Ionian 
cross  close  to  the  cloisters  to  his  brother  Hector, 
who  succumbed  to  typhus  in  1888.  Sixteen 
years  ago,  can  it  be?  It  seems  more  like  five  or 
six  since  the  two  stalwart.  Colonial-bred  Scotch 
lads — Hector  was  only  twenty-four  at  his  death — 
were  mighty  men  in  a  boat,  while  all  the  while 
each  a  picture  to  the  life  of  Mr  Verdant  Green, 
spectacles  and  all. 

Burnham  I  like  much,  though  I  can't  quite 
understand  a  breeze  coming  straight  there  from 
its  next-door  neighbour  over  the  way.  New  York, 
being  bracing.  Bracing  it  is,  though,  as  the 
Queen's  Hotel  testifies  through  the  bills  of  fare 
provided  by  its  proprietress,  whose  husband  was 
first  to  patent  an  advance  specimen  of  the  cricket 
scorinof-boards  now  in  use  in  various  forms.  If 
claims  had  to  be  heard  for  this  I  should  put  in 
one  myself,  and  not  expect  to  be  beaten — but  that 
by  the  way.  Overnight  I  made  up  my  mind  not 
to  take  the  village  or  town,  because  I  had  not 
been  there  three  minutes  before  I  came  across  a 
Kensit  Wycliffe  sympathiser  haranguing  a  collec- 
tion mostly  of  small  boys  on  the  Englishman's 
rights  to  kick  up  a  bobbery  in  church.  Such 
privilege  may  be  one  of  our  most  precious  heri- 
tages for  what  I  know,  only  I  didn't  go  to  North 


IN  SOMERSET  277 

Somerset's  sea  or  river  board  to  hear  bobberies 
kicked  up  at  second-hand  on  the  shore,  however 
profitable  the  Kensit  agent  In  advance  may  find 
It  to  be  alternately  jeered  at  and  cheered  by  the 
young  'uns.  However,  the  party  was  "off"  in 
the  morning,  and  the  loveliest  day  on — just  what 
you  get  in  Norway  and  Sweden  before  winter 
goes,  but  after  the  sun  gets  power  to  assert 
himself  between  the  night's  frosts.  The  town  is 
like  bits  of  a  score  of  seaside  resorts  made  into 
patchwork — all  of  good  materials,  mark  you. 
The  air  is  Lowestoft  or  Redcar ;  the  dunes  or 
denes  might  be  borrowed  from  Southport, 
Walcheren,  Rossall,  Rye,  or  Yarmouth,  or,  for 
that  matter,  'Frisco.  No  other  coast-line  of  my 
acquaintance  has  quite  such  good  sands.  I 
wonder  these  have  not  been  found  out  for  training 
when  frost  grips  turf  gallops.  The  natives  of  sea- 
going persuasions  are — as  West-country  water- 
men-fishers almost  Invariably  are — kind-hearted, 
respectful,  self-respecting,  plucky,  strong  chaps, 
who  have  put  up  with  much  ill-luck  quite  heroic- 
ally ;  and  the  rural  country  hands  amiable,  hard 
workers  well  affected  to  the  stranger. 

While  difference  between  these  two  classes 
displays  itself  automatically,  you  can  hardly  tell 
quite  where  their  spheres  of  usefulness  should 
begin  or  leave  off.  Sometimes  it  appears  to  be 
the  sea  encroaching  on  the  land,  to  the  lord  of 
the  manor's  loss.  Mostly  the  Crown  or  the 
Admiralty  has  strong  reason  to  call  in  the  aid  of 
the  law  to  restrain  the  land  from  going  out  to  sea 
and  staying  there  on  top.  Meanwhile,  pace  local 
observers,  the  denes  grow,  making  a  bigger 
barrier  between  the  water  and  the  low-lying  peat 
country  stretching  over  by  the  moors  to  Glaston- 


278  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

bury.  Stone,  hard  and  lasting,  is  cheap  in  the 
district,  and  the  bricks  a  credit  to  the  country. 
Houses  crop  up  somehow,  increase  and  multiply, 
with  plenty  of  space  allowed  ;  the  more  building 
is  done,  so  much  the  greater  range  is  devoted  to 
golf  links,  than  which  none  more  sporting. 
Golfers  may  come,  and  houses  be  built  for  them, 
also  other  good  judges,  visitors  who  recognise 
advantages  when  they  see  them.  The  country 
behind  the  denes  is  unaffected,  and  not  to  say  for 
a  moment  spoilt.  The  wild  birds  of  the  littoral 
seem  to  care  no  more  than  the  mosses  and  stone 
crop,  the  sedge  and  the  short  turf,  bonds  and 
weights  to  nail  the  sand  where  it  settles  after 
working  up  from  the  sea.  Listening  to  them 
made  half  a  whole  holiday,  to  the  birds  I  mean — 
the  sheldrakes  and  the  sandpipers,  the  gulls  and 
the  brent-geese,  the  ordinary  wild  ducks,  and 
the  curlews,  apparently  sentinels  on  duty  for  the 
whole  army  of  what  shall  we  call  it,  millions,  well, 
tens  of  thousands.  Larks  do  not,  I  believe,  go 
out  to  sea  for  the  purposes  of  singing  com- 
petitions. Still,  the  Burnham  larks,  by  name 
legion,  were  hard  at  it,  at  any  rate  within  earshot, 
when  I  was  half  a  mile  from  the  shore-line  trying 
to  catch  the  shell-ducks  napping  so  as  to  mark 
their  bright-coloured  trimmings.  Many  took 
flight  and  settled  before  my  eyes,  ideal  embodi- 
ments of  fancy  flying  dragons  ''sketched"  by 
myriads  of  sandpipers  playing  follow  my  leader, 
after  the  manner  of  their  kind,  to  an  accompani- 
ment of  sharp  shivery  whisperings  as  the  flock's 
wings  cut  the  air. 

If  you  go  walking  at  Burnham,  please  under- 
stand need  for  choosing  between  occupations  and 
sticking  to  one.     Golf  on  the  most  sporting  course 


IN  SOMERSET  279 

will  occupy  your  attention  sufficiently  without 
attending  to  the  world  beyond  the  denes,  so  will 
going  along  them  for  the  non-playing  pedestrian. 
If  aquatically  inclined,  make  for  the  fine  hard  sand 
to  take  observations  ;  and  if  you  can  walk,  go 
ahead  laterally,  I  mean  not  over  towards  Cardiff, 
but,  as  with  me,  straightway  till  through  the 
haze  looms  a  mighty  barrier,  a  last  link  of  the 
Mendip  Hills,  a  spur  without  a  principal  to 
buttress  up,  cut  off  from  the  range  by  the  estuary 
of  the  Axe,  across  whose  waters  is  Weston-super- 
Mare. 

Brean  Hill  I  believe  this  peninsula  is  called — 
and  a  grand  view  you  get  from  its  back  when  you 
have  mounted,  only  it  wants  a  bit  of  mounting. 
A  fort  is  up  on  the  high  ridge,  but  a  long  way  out 
of  sight.  Not  a  soul  did  I  find,  though  evidences 
of  civilisation  were  apparent  in  the  shape  of  an 
empty  beer-jar  and  a  tin  house.  You  could  not 
miss  your  way  there,  though  without  the  services 
of  a  guide,  because  the  sea  told  you  very  plainly 
not  to  go  to  the  right  or  left,  and  in  my  case  appe- 
tite set  up  a  big  finger-post  lettered  to  the  Queen's 
Hotel,  a  hint  I  took  more  sharper  and  more  by 
token  that  I  had  to  call  at  the — how  did  the 
Sussex  man  describe  a  house  the  other  day,  four 
square  bobblewise,  I  think  he  said — Burnham 
Church,  with  its  leaning  tower,  made  of  an 
enduring  stone,  now  adorned  by  a  slab  let  in  to 
commemorate  its  jubilee  restoration.  The  slab, 
I  may  mention,  is  crumbling  already  on  its  face. 
Fain  would  I  have  extended  my  holiday  stay  and 
tour,  but  the  full  day  cribbable  was  running  itself 
out,  and  I  must  make  acquaintance  with  Cheddar's 
cliffs  before  getting  back  to  business.  Is  it 
irreverent   to   admit  that,  liking  the    pickles,     I 


280  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

resolved  to  try  the  sauce  again  ?  One  turn  up 
that  hilly  pass  between  the  great  crags  settled  me. 
I  don't  mean  that  I  was  settled  by  the  climb  on 
the  road,  please  understand.  You  do  not  catch 
cliff-climbing  beat  me,  because  it  did  not,  though 
in  places  the  wind  attacking  you  in  between  the 
sky-high  walls  played  on  and  twisted  you  about 
like  a  stream  of  water  from  a  steam  fire-hose. 
What  I  do  mean  is  that  finding  twenty-four  hours 
barely  sufficient  to  combine  perfect  rest  with  doing 
properly  the  places  and  the  travels  hereinbefore 
mentioned,  I  was  settled  by  Cheddar's  charms  in 
resolution  to  explore  the  district  systematically 
and  at  lower  pressure. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

IN    AND    ABOUT    BATH 

I  GO  to  Bath  more,  in  short,  io  go  to  Bath  than 
for  the  racing  there  the  last  week  in  May.  1 
am  always  discontented  while  doing  the  meeting, 
because  I  vastly  prefer  being  in  the  town  and 
fossicking  about  the  shops  and  the  grounds  to 
trudging  or  being  lugged  up  the  dreadfully  long 
hill  to  the  course,  with  certainty  of  being  smothered 
and  choked  by  dust  on  the  out  journey,  and  a 
quite  promising  chance  of  a  smash  on  the  down- 
ward. At  no  other  place  can  you  find  such 
attractive  shops.  Surely  this  must  be  a  rare  good 
settlement  for  sensible  people,  who  like  to  see 
what  is  for  sale  and  buy  for  themselves,  instead 
of  leaving  the  catering  to  others.  The  best  of 
everything  appears  to  me  to  come  to  this  mart, 
and  is  turned  over  at  most  reasonable  rates.  A 
prettier  show  than  a  well-dressed  fruiterer's  shop 
window  makes  is  difficult  to  name.  All  the  Bath 
shops  are  well  dressed,  everything  is  so  clean 
and  bright  that  you  feel  inclined  to  order  the 
stock  en  bloc.  London  is  all  very  well  in  its 
way,  but  for  pleasure  in  shopping  give  me  Bath. 
Where  do  the  linen-drapers  (are  they  linen-drapers 
where  the  dresses  are  sold  ?)  or  the  haberdashers 

281 


282  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

— thank  goodness  !  I  do  know  what  a  haberdasher 
(word  of  reproach  in  *' Pickwick")  is — display- 
so  much  taste  (not  in  London)  or  the  furniture 
people  collect  so  skilfully  ?  The  tailors,  London 
swell  builders,  make  a  merit  of  aping  banks  or 
government  offices  and  appearing  as  private- 
housey  as  possible,  instead  of  using  the  natural 
advantages  attaching  to  window  frontage  in  an 
expensive  situation.  Inside  you  can  view  their 
treasures,  in  a  bad  light.  Bath  does  give  you 
a  show  in  the  front  of  the  house  as  well  as  inside. 
What  with  one  trade  and  another's  exhibits,  I 
can  always  amuse  myself  well  for  a  day  or  two, 
only  I  do  not  get  the  days. 

Bath's  personality  lets  it  change  in  the  times, 
but  scarcely  with  them.j  It  holds  still,  from 
the  Georgian  period,  its  strong  individuality 
as  a  centre  to  which  people  with  money  to 
spend  and  no  apparent  necessity  to  work  and 
earn  it  resort,  a  haven  for  valetudinarians,  a 
county  town  where  ''county"  really  does  mean 
something  of  more  than  merely  geographical 
significance,  and  society  is  apt  to  be  exclusive, 
not  to  say  stuck-up,  or — shall  we  say  ? — sufficiently 
conscious  of  its  own  importance.  About  the  place 
hangs  a  strong  flavour  of  the  Spa  days  during 
our  inland  watering-places'  long,  big  innings, 
scarcely  to  be  understanded  of  the  present  young 
generation,  who  cannot  quite  make  out  how  a 
watering-place  can  be  so  at  all  without  a  sea- 
shore, the  sea  with  it,  and,  equally  important,  a 
pier.  Structurally  the  Fair  City  has  altered  very 
little,  I  fancy,  from  its  Beau  Nash  days,  because 
the  cheapest  building  material  is  stone,  and  that 
naturally  lends  itself  to  the  old-style  scheme, 
adopted  from  the  beginning  of  fashion's  catching 


IN  AND  ABOUT  BATH  283 

on  to  the  town.  Socially,  Bath  has  sobered  down, 
and  now  does  not  at  all  strike  one  as  a  rendezvous 
for  going  the  pace.  But  it  always  reminds  me 
of  ''the  Old  'Un,"  Charles  Dickens,  and  of  the 
Inimitable's  sketch,  a  highly-finished  one — no, 
not  of  the  Pickwickians,  Mr  Weller,  the  foot- 
men, and  the  swarry,  but  of  another  fine  word- 
picture — Flora,  of  *'  Little  Dorrit,"  the  voluble 
and  amiable  relict  of  Mr  F.,  with  whom  gout 
fiying  upwards  soared  to  higher  spheres.  Look 
up  your  **  Little  Dorrit,"  good  readers,  turn  to 
the  description  of  married  life  as  not  romance 
but  solid  comfort  with  any  little  thing,  such  as 
early  lamb  or  asparagus,  thrown  in.  That  is 
the  way  Bath  appeals  to  me  viewed  through 
the  windows  of  the  excellent  York  House  Hotel, 
or  Fortt's,  best  of  restaurateurs.  Fortt's  at 
Bath  and  Parker's  at  Manchester,  with  Booth's 
(Fortt's  uncle)  at  Birmingham,  are  three  firms  to 
remember. 

I  have  pleasant  memories,  which  cannot  be 
too  often  revived,  of  most  localities  indicated  by 
the  stations  on  the  Bath  line.  Glimpses  of  the 
Thames,  Loddon,  and  Kennet  I  find  refreshing, 
and  so  are  peeps  at  the  high  downlands  all  the 
way  down  before  Didcot,  right  on  to  past 
Chippenham.  A  great  help  to  filling  yourself 
from  bottled-up  stores  of  pleasant  outings  is  to 
know  the  highroad  as  well  as  the  railroad,  and 
in  seeking  such  knowledge  I  have,  I  am  glad  to 
say,  been  ever  diligent,  finding  always  due  reward 
therefor.  Perhaps  being  still  inclined  that  way 
accounts  for  my  making  the  worst  of  Bath  meet- 
ing to  myself,  and  going  fossicking  on  the  line 
of  march  instead  of  haunting  the  racecourse. 

The  end    of   May    is   a    good    time    for    the 


284  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

tramper — a  countryman  at  heart,  however,  he 
may  appear  to  the  metropolitan  cabby,  who, 
taking  him  for  a  yokel,  wishes  to  charge  him 
accordingly.  A  backward  season  is,  I  am  afraid, 
the  nation's  loss.  To  anyone  unable  to  gad 
about  earlier,  and  who  has  missed  the  proper 
spring  effects  but  is  free  to  range  now,  it  can 
count  as  gain.  In  most  years  the  country-side, 
though  beautiful  entirely  in  summer,  falls  short 
in  variety  of  late  spring's  tone,  for  as  foliage 
develops  towards  maturity  your  view  becomes 
more  limited,  although,  perhaps,  greater  selection 
of  detail  offers.  In  the  leafy  month  of  June  you 
arrive  at  a  stage  when  you  can't  see  the  wood 
for  the  trees  or  the  trees  for  the  woods,  and 
individuality  of  colour  and  shade  is  far  less 
marked  than  earlier.  An  oak  is  in  ripe  summer 
pretty  much  an  oak,  though  gradations  from 
olive  to  apple-green  do  count.  Certainly,  then, 
the  faithful  painter  might  catalogue  a  many 
shades,  according  to  soil's  and  weather's  tinges, 
but  give  me  the  real  spring  budding  leaf  ere 
rough  gale  or  scorching  sun  has  staled  or  even 
adolescent  age  can  wither  its  infinite  variety. 
When  the  primroses  are  nearly  over,  but  not 
done  with  by  any  means,  and  the  cowslips  are 
long  in  the  stalk,  the  bluebells  rich  in  blue,  and 
the  wood  anemones  having  their  innings  ;  when 
the  buttercups  gild  the  meadows  with  glow, 
deluding  you  into  thinking  the  sun  shines,  while 
delightful  "growing  rain"  is  Scotch-misting  you 
into  rheumatism,  that  is  the  time.  Then  the 
speedwell  makes  brilliant  sapphire  patches ;  the 
green  money  is  throwing  up  its  flower  stalks  ; 
and  the  orchids — /  call  them  orchids,  bother 
whether  they  are  orchises  or  not — are  beginning 


IN  AND  ABOUT  BATH  285 

to  come  on  ;  the  spring  flower,  as  the  Welsh  call 
marsh  marigolds,  are  steadily  staying  ;  and  the 
dog  violets  and  wood  sorrels  are  flourishing  ;  the 
laurels  are  thick  with  bloom ;  the  forest  trees 
mostly  thick  with  blossoms ;  the  old  sombre 
green  branches  of  the  spruces  are  tipped  with 
dainty  green ;  the  larches'  spines  are  tenderly 
new ;  the  limes'  leaf-bud's  sheaths  thickly  strew 
the  ground  ;  and  all  manner  of  humble  flowers 
are  at  their  best ;  such  as  our  white  and  yellow 
nettles,  and  that  sort. 

Then,  friends,  is  the  season  of  the  year  when 
comes  my  delight  on  a  shiny  or  eke  a  rainy  day. 
All  is  fresh  and  delicate  to  soothe  the  eye.  Talk- 
inor  of  humble  flowers,  I  went  into  a  little  church 
down  Sceptre — I  mean  Shrewton  —  way,  and 
found  it — the  church,  not  Sceptre — decorated 
profusely  with  the  wild  spring  flowers  just  noted, 
and  very  beautiful  the  effect  was.  They  were 
sheep-washing  down  the  way  which  was  mine 
pro  tem.,  and  a  Bedfordshire  farmer,  an  emigrant 
to  these  Wessex  parts,  told  me  a  yarn  about  his 
grandfather  and  wool,  showing  that  John  Bull 
can  be  obstinate  sometimes.  *'  When  the  old 
gentleman  died,"  says  my  newly-made  friend, 
who  drove  thirty  miles  to  do  me  a  turn,  "he  had 
tons  and  tons  of  tods  put  away,  some  for  forty 
years.  In  all  that  time  not  a  fleece  would  he  sell 
because  the  price  didn't  suit  him,  and  for  lots  of 
it  which  fetched  under  sixpence  he  had  refused 
half  a  crown." 

The  oaks  provided  more  changes  of  brown 
than  you  could  find  in  all  the  paint-boxes  ever 
turned  out,  unless  you  did  a  power  of  skilful 
blending  of  burnt  umber,  sepia,  chrome,  and  the 
Vandyke  which    in    scenery  serves    all   purposes 


286  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

from  Indicating  your  subject  to  scumbling  in 
your  background.  Just  right  they  were,  with 
pendent  bloom  tassels  a  long  way  ahead  of  the 
ash,  for  the  most  part  hardly  sprouting,  and 
many  frost-nipped  in  the  bud  at  that,  as  are  the 
walnuts,  ever  deliberate  in  putting  forth  their 
shoots.  The  oak  is  before  the  ash  this  year,  and, 
no  mistake,  a  good  winner,  but  in  a  terribly  slow 
race.  These  two  have  been  muddling  on  while 
the  grass  has  been  making  hay  or  getting  along 
so,  sunshine  or  not ;  and  talking  of  oaks,  we  will 
cut  the  rural  rides  cackle.  No  more  words  from 
me  about  the  parks  and  the  cottage  gardens,  the 
grey-green  down  hills  and  the  water  meadows, 
the  old  stone  houses,  and  the  cool  cots  ;  also  the 
cider,  which  goes  better  in  higher  temperature  ; 
the  nests  and  the  fledglings  with  scolding  parents, 
who  had  much  better  keep  their  mouths  shut  and 
not  cry  out  before  the  youngsters  are  hurt, 
because  all  their  nagging  only  gives  the  where- 
abouts away ;  the  cock  pheasants  cavorting  and 
showing  off  to  distract  the  attention  of  their  or 
somebody  else's- — they  don't  care  whose  or  which 
■ — good  ladies  full  of  household  cares  with  roving 
families  ;  the  jack  herons  all  going  to  bed  at  the 
same  time,  and  their  spouses  ;  the  wild  duck,  who 
must  make  a  splutter  when  jbysie  hour  falls  ;  and 
the  moorhens,  who,  male  and  female,  would  be 
old-maidishly  consequential  in  face  of  a  midnight 
earthquake  ;  the  butcher  birds  and  their  larders  ; 
the  blackbirds  and  thrushes,  who  must  look 
ahead  to  a  plentiful  diet  of  worms — they  seem  so 
glad  because  of  rain  ;  the  larks  in  heaven's  gate, 
and  the  little  dabchicks,  under  the  water  when 
you  look  for  them  ;  the  golden  gorse,  marvellously 
full  of  evidence  that  kissing  is  in  season,  and  the 


IN  AND  ABOUT  BATH  287 

broom,  which  can  make  as  brave  a  show  now 
and  stand  three  times  as  much  frost  as  can  furze 
in  winter. 

Admiral  Nelson,  K.C.B.,  he  stayed  in  Bath 
once — there  is  the  house,  and  there  is  the  tablet 
on  it,  alive  to  witness.  Fossicking  in  Bath's 
ancient  crony,  Bradford-on-Avon,  I  very  nearly 
bought  Lord  Nelson  for  a  dollar.  He  was  on 
offer  at  the  price.  Now,  I  ought  to  have  made 
more  than  five  shillings  out  of  faking  up  a  yarn 
with  the  purchaser  of  the  relic  (made  while  you 
wait) — not  your  humble  servant,  but  a  British 
Jack  Tar  all  *'belayings"  and  ''avastings"  and 
*'  slack  hoistings  "  with  a  pigtail  at  the  back  of 
his  head,  a  quid  of  pigtail  baccy  in  the  front  of 
it,  a  rolling  gait,  and  breeches  a  foot  wider  over 
the  toes  than  on  the  knee.  Jack,  naturally, 
seeing  Admiral  No.  ''one  hundred  and  eleven" 
on  sale  in  Staffordshire  ware  for  a  crown,  with  a 
beautiful  blue  uniform,  a  sprigged  satin  waistcoat, 
white  silk  stockings,  three-cornered  hat,  and  wig, 
also  the  regulation  number  of  ones — one  eye,  one 
arm  and  one  telescope  under  the  surviving  wing — 
must  in  the  story  to  be  written  be  indignant. 
Then  would  he  proceed  to  terrify  the  shopkeeper 
with  strong  salt-sea-seasoned  oaths  into  charging 
him  a  guinea — not  a  farthing  less — for  the 
Admiral's  effigy  in  Staffordshire  ware,  a  really 
excellent  fairing,  and  convoy  him  off  to  partake 
of  much  punch  and  toast  drinking.  There  is  the 
scheme  all  ready.  I  am  too  truthful.  I  couldn't 
''make  up"  like  that.  So  also  is  Mr  Pyke,  of 
Bradford-on-Avon,  furniture  dealer,  too  truthful — 
at  least,  for  the  second-hand  branch  of  that  trade. 
"  The  Admiral  seems  very  cheap  at  five  shillings," 
said   I.     "I   am  not  selling  you   this  except  as 


288  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

modern,"  he  explained.  Now  wasn't  that  honest  ? 
Phenomenally  so,  I  think.  '"This,"  a  very  clever 
replica  of  the  old  fairing,  would  take  in  anyone 
except  a  real  expert,  and  is  now  made  by  the 
thousand  weekly  on  purpose  to  deceive.  I 
thought  I  would  mention  Mr  Pyke  to  favourable 
notice.  You  don't  often  come  across  a  sort  like 
this. 

What  do    you   say  to   a   smart,  sharp   little 
silky  Yorkshire  terrier  making  believe  to  manage 
a  herd  of  dairy  cows,  just  for  all  the  world  as  if 
he  was  a  drover's  dog  brought  up  to  the  business 
and  put  in  command  ?     You  wouldn't  stand  that 
yarn,  would  you,   unless    you   saw  the   creature 
acting  as  described  ?     Quite  natural,  too,  to  be 
doubtful.      Still,    I  assure  you,    I  did    meet    with 
the  tike,  and  a  good  tiny  sportsman  chap  he  is 
too,    who    could   live   comfortably    with    a   large 
quart  pot  for  his  kennel.     That  was  at  Freshford, 
between    Bradford   and    Bath,   about   where    the 
Avon  is  joined  by  the    Frome,  and  is    so   very 
pretty.     For  the  matter  of  that,  so  is  the  canal, 
which  I  recommend  to  entomologists  as  a  profit- 
able hunting-ground.     Always  a  beautiful  stretch 
of    country,     this    Avon    valley    is    particularly 
attractive  with  the  fruit  trees  and  the  forest  trees 
in  flower,  everything  brand  new  and  free  from  all 
mark    of    wear,    and    the    meadows   and   woods 
carpeted  with  flowers.     I  should  have  lost  badly 
over  said  blossoms  had  anyone  taken  me  on  and 
offered  to  bet  I  did  not  name  what  made  a  bank 
white  by  the  acre.     Wood   anemones,   I    should 
have  said,  and  bet,  too.     But  nary  an  anemone 
was  there,  only  *'ramson"  by  the  acre.     Though 
pretty  to  look  at,  this  is  not  so  nice  all  round, 
seeing  that  the  stem  smells  about  twice  as  strong 
of  onion  as  garlic  can. 


CHAPTER     XXII 

ASCOT    AND    NEWBURY 

"Aristocratic  Ascot"  was  a  line  we  used  to 
see  on  the  sporting  papers'  contents  bills. 
''Indents,"  ''cross-heads,"  and  the  like  were  not 
then  in  use  as  finger-posts  to  guide  the  reading 
traveller  to  different  stations  on  his  journey- 
through  the  long  columns  ;  and  if  you  wanted 
to  know  what  was  being  written  about,  you  had 
to  wade  through  the  lot  or  on  towards  that  way, 
or  refer  to  the  "bill."  "Aristocratic  Ascot"  the 
late  Mr  Henry  Feist  (Hotspur  II.,  his  brother 
was  the  first)  christened  the  Royal  meeting, 
partly  out  of  desire  to  achieve  alliteration,  also 
because  of  truthful  aptness  which  was  not  quite 
so  discoverable  in  'Appy  'Ampton  or  Glorious 
Goodwood — two  other  little  bits  of  nomenclature 
for  which  Mr  Feist  was,  I  believe,  responsible. 
Curiously  enough,  the  first  is  a  singularly  smart 
bit  of  naming,  for  while  what  is,  or  passes  for, 
aristocratic  certainly  gives  the  racing  a  tone, 
that  same  is  the  note  of  the  neighbourhood,  the 
one  the  locality  desires  to  strike  and  impress  on 
you.  To  take  the  village — "city  and  suburbs," 
the  people  of  the  country  call  it — as  its  denizens 
desire  the  place  should  be  taken,  you  must  not  go 

289  ^ 


290  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

there  during  the  rush  and  turmoil  of  its  sporting 
week,  when,  though  great  personages  are 
plentiful,  so  are  the  middling,  and  even  less 
distinguished,  whom  extreme  nobility  might 
class  as  common,  and  the  unmistakably  unde- 
sirable, who  are  a  class  with  no  class  at  all, 
poor  creatures.  No ;  to  give  the  settlement  a 
fair  chance  of  doing  itself  justice  in  your  eyes, 
you  should  occur  In  the  quite  off-season,  when 
racing  Is  out  and  hunting  is  in,  and  some 
greatness  has  got  up  a  bazaar  or  a  concert  at 
the  Grand  Stand,  or  a  dance  Is  on. 

Then,  also  on  the  arrival  of  the  fast  afternoon 
after-business  train,  you  get  to  understand  what 
Ascot's    proper    form    Is    according    to    its    own 
estimate.       If  smartness   and    neatness  and  the 
pride   said   to   ape  humility — who   shall   wish   to 
go  scatheless  If  this   is  a  fair  impeachment  ? — 
whose  outward  and  visible  sign  is  most  precious, 
evidenced  as  it  is  In  everything  being  as  good  as 
can  be  without  evidence  of  fiashness — are  indica- 
tions of  the  aristocratic,  then  Ascot  is  O.K.     If 
keeping  houses  and  grounds  in  apple-pie  order, 
driving  and  riding  good  horses,   and,  generally 
speaking,  going  about  as  if  you  enjoyed  life  and 
could  afford  to  pay  for   the  privilege,   is  In  the 
aristocratic   line,    again    O.K.    is    the   word   for 
Ascot — or  are  the  letters.     And  the  roads  !     Old 
as  I  am,  obese  as  I  am,  broken  down  all  round, 
and  standing  over  at  the  knees,  with  a  touch  in 
the  wind,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  little  afflictions 
which  do   not   permit   of  your  passing  the  vet., 
though  they  do  allow  of  your  doing  a  hard  day's 
work  seven   days   a   week ;    crock  that    I    am,    I 
declare    that     I     scarcely   ever   get    on    Ascot's 
highways    in   fine   weather   without    wanting    to 


ASCOT  AND  NEWBURY  291 

break  into  a  canter  instead   of  walking.     Find 
me  a  better   word   than   aristocratic,    and    I    will 
make  it  complimentary  to  the  sand-topped  roads 
round  about  this  centre  of  Berkshire.     One  day 
in   the  middle   of  January  I    bested   the   railway 
company    in    the    only   safe    way    not    involving 
original — no,    not    sin — outlay  for  carriage,  and 
toddled  over  from  Windsor  to  Ascot  and  back, 
and  was  very  glad  I  did.      I  wonder  whether  the 
King    has    got    a    new   road-mender-in-waiting. 
Either  he  has,  or  the  old  one  has  improved,  for 
the  going  through  the  park  was  excellent  indeed  ; 
and  so  it  was  in  the  forest  and  right  on  to  the 
Royal     Hotel,    to    reach    which    one   passes    the 
Crispin,    well    beknown    to    the    Great    Western 
Railway  Company's  passengers  for  the  meeting. 
The  light  was  not  so  bad  for  an  early  January 
afternoon.     You  could    scarcely  desire  a   better 
roadway.     There  were   the   birds   having  a  last 
word  before  going  to  bed,  and  the  deer  marching 
about  in  what  always  seems  to  me  as  rather  the 
manner   of  superior    beings   and   in    aggressive 
**tone  of  voice."     As  the  day  darkened  among 
the  forest  trees  the  great  old  pollard  oaks  looked 
more  ancient,  time-worn,  and  altogether  interest- 
ing than  by  full  light ;  the  owls  had  begun  saying 
their  say  before  the  jackdaws  had  finished  (these 
blacks  never   do   finish,   and,    I   believe,   talk  in 
their  sleep  too) ;  you  could  hear  the  small  deer 
rustling  in  the  dry  leaves  if  you  could  not  see 
them ;    the   cock   pheasants    had    something    to 
go  crock,  crock,  crocking  about  (a  discontented 
vocalist    is    your   pheasant  all   the   world   over)  ; 
partridges  were  carrying  on  companionable-like, 
as    if    already   thinking    of    setting    up    house- 
keeping ;    a   stray    rabbit   or   two   was   out   and 


292  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

about,  and  now  and  then  you  might  spot  a  hare 
whisking  across  the  road.  Plenty  there  was  to 
amuse  a  body  who  kept  a  look-out,  but  in  five 
miles  I  don't  fancy  there  were  five  people  on  the 
line  of  march  to  be  amused.  On  the  return 
journey,  by  daylight,  only  a  few  more  were  dis- 
coverable— say,  five  to  the  mile,  counting  the 
road-menders. 

Ascot  being  a  name   hardly  anybody   hears 
without  some  interest,  and  its  sylvan  approaches 
— there  are  several,  you  know,  through  Windsor 
Parks   and    Forest,   good   going    and   pretty — it 
would   be   an  appropriate   spot  to    hold   classes 
in  the  walkers'  college  for  which  I  have  such  a 
fine  scheme  (which  will  never  be  brought  out). 
It   will    include  various   side-show   branches,   all 
of  them  carrying  nice  pickings  attaching.     The 
nation  will    run  the  college,  with  yours  truly  as 
boss,  and  I  will  see  to  the  branches  where  the 
money  is  to  be  made  easily  on  my  own  account. 
Among   these   supplements    will    be    the    guide 
department,  and    others    calculated    to   pay   are 
the   equipment   and    remedial    bureaus.       When 
anything  special  is  on,  also  when  there  is  not,  our 
college    will    supply    the    public,    or     at     least 
I    will,  with   qualified   perambulating  instructors 
to  personally  conduct   parties  to   and    from    the 
scene  of  action,  if  there  be  any  action,  otherwise 
with  the  simple  object  of  going  there  and  back. 
The  college  (which   I   mean  to  say  myself)  will 
put  the  conducted  in  the  way  of  purchasing  our 
brand  of  coats  and  hats,  and  collars,  ties,  waist- 
coats, jerseys,  shirts,  socks,  and  all — never  a  cap, 
mark  you.     Caps  are  the  worst    invention  ever 
created  to  keep  your  head  hot  and  thin  your  hair 
down.     The  College  Patent  Foot  Preparer,  also 


ASCOT  AND  NEWBURY  293 

the  Chafe  Preventer,  another  proprietary  article, 
the  Catch-cold  Obviator,  and  the  Lissomness 
Assurer  will  be  at  pupils'  service,  and  so  will  a 
whole  library  of  route  books,  teeming  with  infor- 
mation in  bright,  newsy  form  and  heavy  with 
advertisements.  Altogether  we  shall,  if*  we 
strike  while  the  iron  is  hot,  pretty  well  make  our 
fortunes — one  of  us  will,  your  humble  servant. 
For  the  populace  has  been  so  freely  informed  of 
late  that  it  can  walk  if  it  likes — the  information 
coming  for  the  most  part  from  people  who 
manifestly  never  could  walk  themselves — that  a 
fine  market  was  open. 

Speaking  seriously,  there  is  the  making  of  a 
pleasantly  earned  income  out  of  taking  up  the 
walking  guide  business  professionally.  I  wonder 
how  many  answers  I  should  have  received  to  an 
advertisement  offering  to  personally  conduct 
eligible  parties  from,  say,  Datchet  to  Ascot  and 
back  during  the  race  week.  Of  course,  you  must 
chance  the  weather,  and  might  have  bad  luck  ; 
but,  given  good,  "what  larx,"  and  what  a  time 
the  talker  can  have  letting  off  his  local  lore ! 
Once  I  had  the  pleasure  and  honour  of  taking 
our  Editor  over  some  of  the  ground — bossing  a 
class  of  one.  We  didn't  go  the  shortest  way, 
but  did  ourselves  well,  beginning  at  Datchet 
churchyard's  smith's  tomb,  showing  in  miniature 
all  the  implements  of  the  farrier's  trade.  The 
church  lasted  us  a  long  way,  because  of  a 
beautiful  gipsy  funeral  I  saw  there  once,  and  the 
strange  doings  of  the  tribe,  which,  as  my  class 
had  not  heard,  I  related  to  him,  including  the 
affecting  anecdote  of  West  Drayton's  burned 
Grand  Stand  and  the  coup  manque.  We  had, 
I   recollect,  to  hold  over  for  a  mile  or  two  the 


294  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

history  of  Datchet's  wooden  bridge,  carried  away 
in  a  flood,  and  Datchet  Ferry,  with  consequent 
right-of-way  across  the  Home  Park  to  Windsor, 
carried  away  by  Act  of  something  when  the  rail- 
ways were  permitted  to  make  entrance  into 
Royal  Windsor,  and  the  public  were  given  with 
one  hand  a  great  deal  which  was  promptly  taken 
back  by  the  other.  If  I  remember  rightly  we 
nearly  allowed  ourselves  to  stray  off  on  to  the 
towpath  along  to  the  Bells  of  Ousely — locally 
corrupted  into  Boozely — but  were  kept  in  the 
right  way  by  prospect  of  calling  at  the  little 
house  on  the  left  opposite  the  Royal  Gardens, 
where  at  that  time  the  connection  was  almost  as 
much  French  as  English.  A  queer  little  colony 
settled  in  Old  Windsor,  having  to  do  with  Queen 
Victoria  s  tapestry  works.  Capital  fellows,  very 
fond  of  fishing  and  not  bad  at  boating,  were  the 
men  for  whose  behoof  all  manner  of  foreign 
drinkables  and  eatables  were  introduced  into  the 
tiny  village.  For  instance,  at  the  small  pub. 
you  found  staple  articles  of  refreshment  in  ver- 
mouth, cassis,  claret  vended  as  Bordeaux,  coffee 
on  hand  at  very  short  notice,  and  the  constant 
smell  of  stale  cigarettes  that  qualifies  the  French 
cabaret. 

Instead  of  bearing  up  to  the  Union  gate  and 
edging  across,  so  as  to  leave  the  Copper  Horse, 
who  looks  out  from  the  crown  of  the  Long  Walk, 
we  for  a  particular  reason  trudged  straight  on  up 
Priest's  Hill  in  order  to  interview  the  herd  of 
wild  boars  and  other  undomesticated  porcines 
preserved  in  a  compound  for  table  purposes.  I 
don't  like  wild  boars,  except  to  eat,  and  am 
always  half-afraid  of  a  big  old  domesticated  pig. 
What  couldn't  a   weighty  farmyard   creature  of 


ASCOT  AND  NEWBURY  295 

this  sort  do  with  its  tremendous  jaws  if  it  pleased 
to  go  at  you  ?  Besides,  I  once  was  all  alone  in 
a  great  German  forest — one  vast  wild  piggery 
■ — with  nothing  but  slippery  barked  beech-trees 
two  or  three  feet  through,  and  thirty  up  to  the 
first  semblance  of  a  branch. 

We  cut  across  to  the  White  Lodge  and  the 
charming  little  church  hard  by,  and  then  down 
the  hill  and  over  to  Sawyer's  Gate,  making 
company  then  with  the  crowd  who  had  padded  it 
up  Queen  Anne's  Ride,  the  shortest,  or,  as  a 
Yorkshireman  would  say,  the  gainest  way  from 
Windsor.  You  come  out  a  little  distance  from 
the  starting  end  of  the  Royal  Hunt  Cup  course's 
alleged  mile.  My  word !  what  a  hot  day  it  was 
that  we  did  this  walk,  one  of  a  whole  row  to  be 
mapped  out  in  getting  from  Datchet  to  the 
Grand  Stand.  Ascot  week  is  by  no  means 
always  hot — nor  dry.  I  have  had  many  a 
drenching  on  homeward  journeys  from  the  Royal 
Heath.  Which  year  was  it  I  got  wet  to  the 
bone  crossing  the  park  from  Sawyer's  Gate  to 
the  Union — another  of  the  great  chase's 
entrances  and  exits  ?  Curious,  is  it  not,  that 
close  to  the  latter,  which  no  doubt  derives  its 
title  from  proximity  to  Old  Windsor  Workhouse 
(which,  I  may  once  again  repeat,  is  a  beautiful 
Queen  -  Anne  -  baronial  -  hall  sort  of  structure, 
designed  by  the  late  Sir  Gilbert  Scott,  who  only 
beat  the  late  Judge  Clark  by  a  head  after  a 
dead-heat  in  competition  for  the  job)  is  a  near 
neighbour  to  a  ''Union"  pub.,  another  styled 
the  Oxford  Blue,  which  between  them  give  the 
locality  a  strong  'Varsity  flavour  ?  Let  me  explain 
that  our  college  (which  is  to  be)  would  not 
grumble  at   the  temperature   being   low  for    our 


296  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

outward  journey  to  Ascot,  or  anywhere  else,  with 
the  walking  pupils,  because  it  is  a  great  and 
desirable  thing  to  avoid  getting  really  warm  on 
your  way  to  a  halting-place  unless  you  are  going 
to  change,  as  well  as  dwell  there.  New  hands  put 
it  on  to  finish  a  walk,  but  that  is  a  very  bad 
plan  if  you  are  going  to  stand  about. 

Perhaps  you  may  inquire  what  I  would  sub- 
stitute for  the  unwholesome  cap.  Precisely  the 
headgear  associated  with  Ascot  races — the  topper 
of  Society.  People  run  down  the  stove-pipe.  I 
would  never  put  anything  else  on — as  headgear, 
please  understand  ;  I  do  not  intend  anything  in 
the  Lo  the  Poor  Indian  line — if  I  could  arrange 
things  my  own  way.  First,  because  I  consider 
it  the  most  comfortable  wear ;  second,  on 
account  of  its  being  the  cheapest,  and  it  is 
wonderful  how  sensitive  most  of  us  are  about  the 
article.  One  of  the  oldest  Covent  Garden 
Market  stories  is  of  a  much-respected  salesman 
who,  while  the  big  blaze  of  the  theatre  was  on, 
found  himself  in  a  dense  crowd,  and  a  tall  hat, 
with  all  the  morning's  takings  in  his  clothes,  and 
some  pickpockets  of  his  acquaintance  for  next- 
door  neighbours.  They  knew  about  his  money, 
and  he  knew  they  meant  getting  it,  so  kept  his 
hands  fast  in  the  pockets  where  the  gear  was. 
All  manner  of  dodges  did  they  try.  Such 
friendly  pleasantries  as  flicking  his  ears  with 
their  finger-nails  and  grinding  his  toes  with  their 
boots  did  they  inflict.  He  stood  that,  and  the 
money  was  safe.  They  bunted  him  in  the  small 
of  the  back  with  their  knees  and  pinched  him  in 
the  soft  places.  So  much  in  the  way  of  physical 
torture  he  endured  manfully,  and  held  the  bank 
all  right.     Then  they  called  him  names  and  said 


ASCOT  AND  NEWBURY  297 

spitefully  libellous  things  of  him  and  his  relations 
— things  to  which  the  Eastern  "  May  dogs  defile 
the  grave  of  his  grandmother "  were  courtly 
compliments.  If  anything  would  make  a  man 
'*put  'em  up,"  the  marauders'  remarks  must ;  but 
poor  chap,  he  couldn't  put  'em  up  without  taking 
them  out  of  his  pockets,  and  the  wickeder  became 
their  persecution  the  more  determined  was  he  to 
stick  to  his  stuff.  Alas !  though  practically 
armour-plated  nearly  all  over,  there  was  the  one 
weak  spot  by  which  the  whole  strength  of  any- 
thing is  to  be  gauged.  Figuratively  speaking, 
and  without  regard  to  anatomical  accuracy,  he 
had  an  Achilles'  heel  on  the  top  of  his  head,  with 
fiendish  malignity  one  of  the  bandits  turned  his 
smoking,  juicy  quid  out  and  gave  his  prey  to 
understand  what  he  meant  doing  with  It,  and 
that  was  to  dab  It  on  the  top  of  the  tall  hat. 
They  could,  and  did,  pay  Into  his  tender  parts, 
corporeally  and  cruelly  lacerate  his  inward 
feelings  without  moving  him  from  his  line  of 
defence.  Having  his  faith,  also  the  fair  fame  of 
his  female  family,  assailed  had  been  nearly,  but 
not  quite,  enough  to  rouse  the  British  Lion,  but 
the  quid  put  the  finishing  touch.  If  anything 
should  be  sacred  the  silk  hat  must.  Out  came 
his  hands  to  defend  the  cadey ;  in  went  the 
prigs'.  In  saving  his  hat  he  lost  every  shilling 
of  his  money. 

With  everything  up  to  date  at  Newbury  Races, 
I  have  been  much  struck  by  an  unaccustomed 
sensation  of  old-fashionedness  over  all.  Further, 
something  seemed  to  be  missing  to  fit  In  with 
the  mysterious  Impression  that  this  was  not  a 
new  but  a  very  old  going  concern.  Walking 
to    and    from     the     course    from     Newbury    I 


298  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

found  explanation.     Within  the  town  you  came 
on   a   class    drawn  by  the    races,  people   whom 
you  seldom  meet  on  occasions  like  this,  knowing 
enough   on  sporting  matters    in    their  way,  but 
not    bearing    the    usual    stamp    of    the    accus- 
tomed   racegoer.      They   filled   all    the    inns    as 
on  an  extra-special  market  day  with  no  business 
to   do,    except   eat,    drink,    and    be   merry,    and 
thronged  the  streets,  a  very  large  proportion  on 
wheels.     From  all  quarters   they  came,    as   you 
might  find  out  by  getting  about  on  the  roads  a 
few    miles    out,    where    the    ''half-way   houses" 
along  long  lines  did  rare  trade,  both  with  going 
and    returning    wayfarers.       On    all   hands    you 
heard  great  rejoicing  that   *'we"  were  going  to 
have  races  now,  and  make  no  mistake  about  it, 
the  folk  of  the  district  have  only  just  now  had 
supply   put    on    to    cope  with  a  long-established 
demand.     Putting   out    Newmarket,     Doncaster, 
and  one  or  two  other  towns  where  meetings  are 
held,   I   should  say   that  few   benefited   more  in 
their  trade  through  a  fixture  than  did  Newbury, 
which  was  singularly  free  from  the  predatory  and 
cadging  fraternity.     The  solution  of  the  puzzle  as 
to   a    sort    of  anachronistic   inconsistency   came 
after   a   bit,    in    that    this   was  an  old-fashioned 
meeting   held   on    modern    lines.       To    make    it 
complete  you  wanted  a  fair  out  in  the  open.     I 
did  not  want  anything  of  the  sort,  I  only  speak 
of  it   as   an    accessory    to    carry    out   the   idea 
inducted.     The  folk  over  the  way  were  the  very 
stamp   who    brought   off  a   double    event,    with 
racing  one  and  the  fun  of  the  fair  another.      And 
in  the  higher  grades  of  the  attendance  you  found 
here,   there,    and   everywhere    representatives    of 
the  class  who  used  to  do  the   local  races  as   a 


ASCOT  AND  NEWBURY  299 

matter  of  course,  if  not  absolutely  of  duty,  whose 
carriages  were  always  expected  to  be  there,  and 
whose  patronage  was  advertised  in  the  days 
when  Town  and  Trade  subscribed  for  a  town 
plate,  the  licensed  victuallers  put  their  little  backs 
together  and  endowed  a  race  named  after  the 
Trade,  and  you  supported  a  meeting  by  subscrib- 
ing to  the  fund,  also  partaking  of  the  benefits  of 
the  Race  dinner,  in  whose  interests  were  run 
''Claret"  and  "Champagne"  Stakes,  whereof 
the  winners  were  bound  to  furnish  so  many 
dozens  of  each  for  the  race  subscribers' 
delectation. 

Unless  you  knew  the  district,  you  would 
scarcely  believe  what  a  lot  of  interest  villagers  in 
these  parts  take  in  horse-racing.  Yorkshire  is 
supposed  to  talk  horse.  I  should  stand  on  the 
back  blocks  of  Berkshire  against  the  Tikes  or 
the  Bites  for  interest  in  the  Turf.  Great 
believers  they  appear  to  be  in  touts'  tips,  and 
are,  I  guess,  fine  customers  in  their  way  to  the 
local  s.p.  merchants,  not  above  taking  small  bets 
at  a  time.  Certainly  they  get  enough  certain 
winners  for  a  single  race  given  them  to  last 
through  a  three  days  meeting.  I  suppose  this  is 
because  there  are  so  many  stables  handy.  Any- 
way, they  all  seem  to  know  a  powerful  lot  of 
news  more  or  less  inaccurate,  and  do  themselves 
no  harm  through  being  so  privileged.  Fine, 
healthy  sites  have  the  stables  on  the  hills  between 
Lambourne,  Wantage,  and  Newbury,  with  beauti- 
ful country  in  the  Lambourne  Valley  —  the 
Lambourne  had  retired  for  a  while,  after  you 
are  a  little  further  up  the  omnibus  line  than 
Shefford,  and  was  dry  as  a  mouldy  bone.  I 
wouldn't  care  much  to  be  there  long  in  the  winter 


300  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

months,  let  the  bourne  be  bank-full  In  flood  or  dry- 
as  the  turnpike  road.  But  in  summer  what  a 
range  for  a  lucky  holiday-maker  to  strike,  ten 
thousand  miles  it  might  be  from  busy  town  life ! 
As  everyone  knows,  you  have  a  chain  of  pretty 
villages  all  along  the  valley.  Away  on  the  high 
lands  is  some  of  the  most  lovely  down  I  have 
come  across  so  far,  with  fine  scope  for  training, 
but  a  desert  in  the  matter  of  population,  and 
mighty  convenient  for  losing  yourself.  Lam- 
bourne  and  Wantage  have  their  colonies  of 
trainers,  so  has  Foxhill  and  Lyddington  in  a  way  ; 
Kingclere's  stables  are  within  the  village's  bounds, 
but  some  of  the  quarters  I  visited  last  week  near 
the  line  of  the  Lambourne  are  detached,  outlying, 
adapted,  solitary  farm  buildings,  where,  save  for 
touting  purposes,  never  a  soul  might  casually 
come  from  one  year's  end  to  another. 

One  thing  visitors  to  Newbury  for  the  racing 
can  do  if  they  please,  and  that  is,  after  liking  the 
sporting  pickles,  try  the  local  sauce — that  is  to 
say,  sample  the  environs.  A  rare  old-world 
district  this  is,  with  its  water  meadows  and 
remnants  of  what  must  have  been  fens  ;  a  well- 
to-do  corner,  where  everyone  went  in  slow  time 
about  business,  and  I  guess  took  long  over  meals 
and  plenty  of  sleep.  Artistic  authority  rules 
that  any  landscape  is  better  for  water  in  the 
foreground.  Dr  Johnson,  who  declared  on  his 
word  as  lexicographer  that  he  never  recognised 
a  likeness  in  painting,  or  drawing,  held,  as  we 
know,  more  material  views,  and  went  for  a  fully- 
licensed  house,  or  words  to  that  effect,  in  place  of 
the  water.  I  should  be  sorry  to  run  counter  to 
the  art  interest,  but  the  Doctor  is  in  the  instance 
quoted    very    sound,  and    if    I   had  my  choice  I 


ASCOT  AND  NEWBURY  301 

would,  I  think,  go  with  the  Bishop  of  Bath  and 
Wells,  and  take  both.  Anyway,  to  me  water  has 
a  very  powerful  charm,  running  water  especially, 
q,nd  the  Newbury  and  Lambourne  rivers  are  just 
the  sort  I  do  like.  Give  me  something  to  lean 
against — the  coping  of  a  bridge  for  choice — and 
I  have  amusement  for  hours  indefinite,  especially 
if  said  bridge  is  high  enough  for  the  swallows 
and  house-martins  and  sand-martins  to  sail  under, 
and  if  there  is  a  lusty  trout  about,  here  and  there 
a  grayling,  and  may  be  a  shoal  of  sizable  roach, 
with  perhaps  a  warlike-looking  old  warrior  of  a 
perch  investigating  where  a  bit  of  woodwork 
occurs.  I  recommend  all  and  sundry  to  do  their 
Newbury  properly,  and  if  possible  take  Lam- 
bourne's  light  railway,  for  that  quaint  Httle 
settlement  on  the  edge  of  the  great  spread  of 
downs  ;  or  working  towards  Didcot  on  another 
line,  where  are  Compton,  and  Chilton,  and  Ilsley 
(if  you  haven't  seen  Ilsley,  a  collection  of  sheep- 
pens  and  public-houses,  about  one  of  the  latter  to 
every  inhabitant  and  a  half,  pray  do  so). 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


IN    WILTSHIRE 


I  OWE  a  lot  to  the  Great  Western  Railway,  for  it 
is  perhaps  the  one  by  which  I  travel  the  least 
frequently  on  what  I  may  call  hard,  pressing 
business,  but  ever  since  I  can  recollect  went 
holiday-making  by.  I  wonder  whether  others 
have  noticed  what  so  often  strikes  me,  viz.,  the 
wonderful  way  in  which,  as  you  journey  westward 
you  seem  to  get  a  long  way  "out  of"  London 
and  its  belongings  in  short  measure  of  time  or 
mileage.  Fifty  miles  away  on  the  Great  Western 
Railway  is  to  me  almost  twice  as  far  as  on  most 
other  systems.  The  point  forced  itself  on  me 
particularly  one  week  when  I  had  experiences 
available  for  comparison.  On  one  and  the  same 
day  I  made  three  journeys  on  radii  from  the 
Metropolis,  all  of  them  jolly  good,  too.  First  from 
the  Polegate  district  up  to  Victoria.  The  South 
Coast  Railway  did  us  well.  Polegate  is  sixty 
miles  away,  and,  I  need  not  explain,  in  Sussex, 
on  the  plain  between  the  South  Downs  and  the 
next  high  lands  up  Mayfield  and  Crowborough 
way,  where,  if  ventilation  has  anything  to  do  with 
health,  one  ought  to  be  very  healthy  indeed,  for 
the  winds  hold  it  for  a  playground,  and,  my  word ! 


302 


IN  WILTSHIRE  303 

they  do  play  sometimes.  Polegate,  you  know,  is 
Sussexy,  but  I  suppose,  too  near  to  Eastbourne 
to  show  much  marked  provincialism.  You  don't 
feel  there- — at  least,  I  do  not — very  far  away  from 
the  Great  Wen.  My  next  route  was  from 
Paddington  to  Swindon,  to  call  on  Robinson  at 
Foxhill.  I  could  not  make  time  to  pay  a  visit  to 
Eugene  Leigh,  who  rents  the  stables  the  late 
Mr  Bruce  Seton  had  on  part  of  Robinson's  land. 
No  one  ever  accused  Leigh  of  being  a  lazy  man. 
If  he  did  happen  to  be  so  traduced,  and  wanted 
a  character  for  industry,  I  can  find  him  one. 
Said  a  rustic  to  me,  when  I  inquired  for  purposes 
of  drawing  the  countryman,  not  because  I  didn't 
know,  *'what  trainer  had  the  stud  farm  .^ "  **  Mr 
Leigh,  and  you  may  well  call  him  a  trainer,  for 
he's  training  horses  all  day  long,  and,  for  what 
we  know,  all  night." 

Swindon  market  was  on,  and  it  was  quite 
cheering  to  note  the  poor,  long-suffering  agri- 
cultural gentlemen  who  had  so  long  been  losing  so 
much  money  in  farming  all  so  jolly  well-to-do — 
and  doing  themselves  well,  too.  Now,  to  illus- 
trate what  I  say  about  distance,  take  Swindon 
on  a  market  day.  The  town  itself  is  not  so  very 
old-fashioned — the  old  part,  I  mean — in  fact,  is 
rather  up-to-date  than  otherwise ;  but,  with  its 
people,  is  as  far  from  London  as  Dublin  from 
Birmingham,  in  distinctions.  After  sampling  so 
much  Wiltshire,  I  had  to  make  for  Leicester,  and 
again  was  happy  in  the  journey  per  Midland. 
But  for  a  little  bit  of  a  local  accent  Leicester 
might  be  part  of  London  itself  It  is  twenty 
miles  farther  off  than  Swindon,  yet  while  Swindon 
is  remote  in  its  ways,  the  flourishing  Midland 
town  seems  not  more  out  than  a  suburb.     That 


304  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

was  a  pretty  good  day's  work  to  thank  modern 
facilities  in  travel  for,  was  it  not  ?  On  paper  it  is, 
but  the  excellent  going  made  it  quite  easy.  It 
shows  what  you  can  do.  From  East  Sussex  to 
London,  from  London  to  Swindon,  drive  fifteen 
miles  out  and  back,  rail  to  town,  then  to  Leicester, 
which  is  just  on  a  hundred  miles — all  in  sixteen 
hours,  with  breaks  of  one  hour,  two  hours,  and 
four  hours. 

Given  a  good  day  for  an  outing  in  the  country, 
I  know  not  many  tramps  where  I  can  do  myself 
better  than  getting  from  Swindon  over  to  the  old 
inn  where  four  roads  meet  at  Beckhampton — the 
coaching-house,  long  turned  into  a  residence, 
where  Sam  Darling  now  lives,  successor  of  a  line 
of  trainers  established  there.  A  curious  thing 
for  me  is,  in  this  connection,  that  at  various  times 
I  have  approached  Beckhampton  five  different 
ways  —  viz.,  from  Devizes,  from  Calne,  from 
Swindon,  from  Ogbourne,  across  the  Manton 
House  and  Fyfield  gallops  through  Avebury  the 
ancient,  and  from  Marlborough,  on  the  'ard  'igh 
road — and  every  time  had  a  jolly  good  drenching, 
either  on  the  out  or  return  journey.  On  one 
occasion  I  beat  record,  for,  after  having  about 
two  hours  of  it  on  the  outward  journey,  and  then 
a  spell  of  remarkably  fine  weather,  I  was  treated 
for  the  third  instalment  to  a  dose  which  reminded 
me  of  the  Scriptural  threat  of  whipping  with 
scorpions  instead  of  whips.  Such  a  turn  of 
lashing  with  hail  as  fell  to  my  lot  climbing  the  crest 
of  the  long  hill  on  the  Marlborough- Wootton- 
Basset  road  which  comes  out  on  the  Devizes- 
to-Swindon  highway  about  seven  miles  from 
the  last-named  town  I  never  had  before,  and  do 
not  want  again.     I  could  not  hear  the  thunder- 


IN  WILTSHIRE  305 

storm  for  the  noise,  which  is  a  new  parallel  to 
not  seeing  the  trees  for  the  wood.  The  gale 
howled  and  the  hail  hissed  to  such  a  degree 
that  a  trifle  like  a  peal  of  thunder  could  easily 
be  mislaid. 

Under  the  circumstances  I  must  be  excused 
for  missing  objects  of  interest  I  hoped  to  collect. 
Singularly  "collect"  is  one  I  did  bag  from  a  very 
meagre  rustic  of  whom  I  inquired  my  way  when 
half  over  to  Beckhampton,  not  because  I  should 
follow  his  directions,  but  for  the  sake  of  an 
excuse  to  foregather  with  the  old  party.  On  his 
employer's  books  he  was  laid  up  with  the 
''neuralia,"  suffering  also  from  strange  pains 
inwardly,  which  he  thought  might  be  due  to 
taking  six  nerve  pills  instead  of  two.  In  the 
flesh,  and  very  little  of  it,  he  would  not  take  much 
starving  to  make  a  skeleton.  He  was  seeking 
change  of  scene  and  variety  out  on  the  lonely  road 
under  one  of  those  heavy  umbrellas  only  a  rustic 
would  ever  try  to  wrestle  with,  as  relief  from  lone- 
someness  at  home,  where  he  did  for  himself,  and 
had  not  even  a  cat  to  talk  to.  Poor  old  man,  he 
dared  not  go  into  the  public-house,  because  some 
of  his  fellow-labourers,  jealous  of  his  life  of  ease 
and  luxury  while  invalided,  might  report  him, 
and  the  master  put  him  to  work,  neuralgia  in  the 
head  or  no  neuralgia.  A  willing-hearted  sort  of 
chap  he  was,  but  I  should  think  longing  for  a 
little  society,  accounted  for  his  offering  to 
accompany  me  to  the  next  finger-post,  and,  here 
comes  the  word,  ''correct"  me  on  my  way. 
Fortunately,  being  able  to  read,  I  knew  as  much 
as  he  did  when  we  got  to  the  "  resurrections  "  set 
forth  on  the  fingers,  which,  needless  to  add,  he 
interpreted    quite   wrong.     However,    I    believe 

u 


306  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

I  did  him  good  by  listening  to  his  tale  of 
troubles  :  moreover,  I  put  him  in  position  to  start 
fresh  with  his  stock  of  ''neuraly"  pills,  or,  at  any 
rate,  "  take  something  for  it  "  of  another  nature. 

Do  those  who  "use"  the  Crook  and  Shears 
at  Clatford — between  Andover  and  Stockbridge, 
somewhere  about  half-way,  too — still  bump  their 
heads,  I  wonder,  against  its  low  ceilings  ?  My 
word,  what  a  bash  I  gave  my  poor  head  the  first 
time  I  ventured  into  the  Wagon  and  Horses  at 
Beckhampton,  where  the  roads  from  Calne  and 
Marlborough  and  Devizes  meet !  The  one  I 
mean  is  the  little  ale-house  a  stone's-throw  from 
Sam  Darling's  residence,  which  used  to  be  a 
coaching  inn  before  the  rail  ran  away  with  the 
road's  fast-carrying  trade.  Beckhampton  is  not 
Stockbridge,  do  you  say.^^  Certainly  not,  but 
the  low  door  is  at  the  Wagon  and  Horses  in  the 
former  village  to  this  day,  and  so  is  the  bump  on 
my  head  to  prove  me  right — at  least,  I  some- 
times feel  where  I  "raised  a  dent"  on  my  skull. 
Besides,  if  it  comes  to  being  so  critical,  the  Crook 
and  Shears  isn't  at  Stockbridge  either,  but  at 
Clatford,  the  one  right  away  off  the  road  from 
Andover  towards  Red  Rice,  and  not  the  other 
where  the  foundry  is  or  was.  My  hotel,  hard  by 
that  foundry,  where  I  put  up  in  years  gone  by, 
would  have  served  at  last  as  an  illustration  of 
Alice's  residence — I  allude  to  the  timorous  maid 
who  was  to  have  been  Mrs  Ben  Bolt.  As  I  saw 
it  last,  the  little  cottage  was  being  dismantled,  a 
strange  thing  to  do  with  a  licence  obtainable. 
But  then  a  good  many  strange  things  of  the  sort 
happened  down  in  that  part  of  the  country,  more 
particularly  "stopping"  Tom  Cannon's  meetings. 
I  do  hope  that  nobody  has  been  led  to  disestablish 


IN  WILTSHIRE  307 

another  of  my  half-way  houses  of  call,  the  Rack 
and  Manger,  on  the  road  to  Winchester,  or  the 
excellent  shoemaker-sportsman-naturalist,  whose 
tent  was  pitched  in  a  hamlet  hard  by  the  footway 
up  to  Farley  mount,  or  mound,  burial-place  of 
the  celebrated  land  high-diver,  the  noble  steed 
Chalkpit,  whose  godfathers  and  godmothers  gave 
him  that  name  on  account  of  his  carrying  his 
rider  over  the  edge  of  a  chalkpit.  A  landmark 
monument,  familiar,  I  believe,  to  Winchester 
boys,  marks  his  tomb,  and  records  also  the 
horse's  having  survived  the  adventure  and  won 
a  race  or  races  on,  I  believe.  Worthy  Down. 
Some  day  I  may,  perhaps,  go  to  pick  up  my 
marks  again,  and  see  how  the  beautiful  spruce 
hedges  down  by  Houghton  are  doing.  Indeed, 
some  day  I  shall  land  down  Wessex  way  and  not 
come  back  any  more,  but  settle  with  a  nice  holding 
of  my  own,  mostly  upland  downs,  with  a  coppice 
here  and  there,  and  big  trees  round  the  home- 
stead, and  at  the  low  side  of  it  water  meadows, 
with  swift  little  brooks,  and  one  big  one  that  you 
may  call  a  river  running  through  the  valley  to 
make  rich  grass  and  harbour  fat  fish.  That  is 
the  country  for  the  poor  man  to  enjoy  himself  in 
cheap. 

Such  is  the  county  I  came  to  while  breaking, 
to  me,  fresh  ground,  working  within  a  close 
radius  of  Salisbury  while  down  for  the  Bibury 
meeting  one  hot  September.  Grand  it  was  to 
see  the  crops.  I  should  have  liked  to  have  had 
with  me  someone  used  to  Leicestershire,  in  my 
opinion  the  poorest  apology  for  country — all 
right  for  its  particular  sort  of  farming,  but  in  my 
eyes  the  least  picturesque  and  the  poorest  after 
the  market-garden  agricultural  tract   in   the  so- 


308  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

called  Thames  Valley  down  at  the  back  of 
Kempton  Park,  and  pretty  nearly  on  to  Staines. 
It  would  have  seemed  as  strange  to  him,  ac- 
customed to  small  enclosures  with  plenty  of 
hedge  to  them,  to  come  on  widely  spreading, 
rolling  prairie  laid  out  in  parcels  (but  not  divided 
by  boundaries)  I  am  afraid  to  say  how  large — 
very  nearly  a  square  mile  sometimes.  There  is 
an  expression  which  fits  for  describing  the  feelings 
of  one  taken  from  wide  open  plains  or  downs  to 
land  cut  up  into  small  holdings,  and  I  recollect 
its  being  used  by  a  traveller  on  the  Midland 
Railway  route  from  Liverpool  to  London.  He 
had  just  come  across  the  American  Continent, 
and  you  couldn't  wonder  at  his  calling  ours  '*a 
pocket-handkerchief  country." 

Of  course  it  was  hot  getting  about  even  early 
a-mornings  ;  but  then  I  have  a  theory  that  if 
only  you  are  hot  enough  no  amount  of  sun  will 
hurt  you.  That  may  be  wrong  or  right,  as  may 
another  of  mine,  acting  up  to  which  I  drink  just 
as  much  as  ever  I  feel  inclined  to  while  in  a 
profuse  perspiration.  As  soon  as  you  are  old 
enough  to  be  told  anything,  you  are  instructed 
that  you  must  on  no  account  drink  when  you  are 
hot.  So  do  they  warn  you  not  to  go  into  cold 
water  while  you  are  perspiring.  I  don't  say  that 
you  are  to  get  red-hot,  then  drink  what  you  will 
and  stand  about  to  grow  cool,  and  maybe  take  a 
chill.  But  I  do  say  that  if  you  want  to  do 
yourself  real  good  by  sweating  through  physical 
exercise,  a  nice  pull  at  something  wet  is  calculated 
to  forward  your  purpose  all  round.  Being  of  that 
way  of  thinking,  and,  I  may  add,  modelled  by 
Nature  from  a  sort  of  clay  which  readily  absorbs 
moisture,  I  do  find  the  Wiltshire  downs  somewhat 


IN  WILTSHIRE  309 

trying  for  want  of  what  Dr  Johnson  declared  to 
be  one  of  the  most  charming  features  in  any 
landscape.  It  is  a  precious  long  way  between 
the  chances  for  a  drink,  even  if  you  count  water 
in  that  category. 

But  plenty  of  refreshment  of  another  sort  is 
on  hand.  Refreshing  it  is  to  get  on  the  ridges 
under  the  woodside,  or  on  a  drive,  such  as  one 
that  runs  for  seven  or  eight  miles  straightway 
from  Wilton,  as  wide  as  a  cricket  pitch,  mostly 
turf,  and  edged  with  graceful  birches,  stout  oaks, 
and  freely-grown  spruces.  You  don't  want  a 
boundless  contiguity  of  shade  if  you  may  find  a 
way  hke  this,  with  one  bosky  side  always  so  far 
as  my  rambles  went.  Besides,  with  the  aforesaid 
contiguity  you  won't  see  much.  Wild  flowers 
are  not  likely  to  flourish  unless  the  sun  can  get 
at  them,  nor  is  there  much  animated  nature  in 
work  under  such  circumstances.  Very  little  of 
that  sort  of  animation  do  you  find  on  these 
ranges,  unless  it  is  among  the  inferior  animals. 
For  that  reason  it  is  advisable  first  of  all  to  learn 
how  the  points  of  the  compass  lie  before  you  set 
out,  and  at  that  not  to  lose  your  way.  You  may 
go  a  tedious  while  and  not  see  a  soul.  Much 
labour  must  be  employed,  as  the  fine  crops  of 
wheat,  oats,  and  barley  testified.  I  never  saw 
such  good  ones  on  hill  land  like  this  before,  but 
all  the  same  you  may  go  for  miles  without  coming 
across  a  soul  to  speak  to.  That  I  don't  mind, 
and  never  did,  though  it  is  quite  as  well  to  know 
that  if  you  did  happen  to  sprain  your  ankle  you 
would  probably  be  found  in  a  day  or  two.  The 
desolation  of  a  very  great  part  of  England 
preaches  a  strong  sermon  on  centralisation,  does 
it  not?     Some  of  the  sermon  preached  itself  to 


310  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

me  the  other  day  in  what  may  reasonably  be 
called  a  lonely  part  near  Salisbury  Plain ;  but 
the  same  story  tells  itself  also  within  a  dozen 
miles  of  London  as  the  crow  flies,  where  the 
population  outside  the  villages  themselves  is  as 
thin  almost  as  in  a  newly  settled  country. 

A  good  deal  might  be  written  about  the 
Salisbury  downs  and  valleys  such  as  Wylie,  or 
rather  Fisherton  De  La  Mere,  Mr  F.  R.  Hunt's 
fine  fishing  in  the  stream,  which  always  makes 
me  want  to  get  in  and  have  a  swim,  and  the 
beautiful  gallops  that  insist  on  my  walking  to 
look  at  them  ;  of  the  charm  of  the  little  villages 
up  the  valley  to  Wylye  (the  name  is  spelt  all 
manner  of  ways,  and  the  milestones  and  Her 
Majesty's  Post  Office  department  do  not  agree 
on  the  subject),  and  of  one  hamlet  in  particular 
where,  barring  that  the  mise-en-scene  was 
peculiarly  English,  as  English  as  Constable's 
''  Nearest  way  in  Summer  Time,"  I  might  fancy 
myself  among  our  soldier  men  fighting,  say,  in 
South  Africa.  Along  came  a  puffing,  quick- 
moving,  road  traction-engine,  with  a  train  of 
big  wagons,  dusty  as  they  might  be  on  the 
veldt,  and  their  military  occupants,  powdered  to 
match,  looking  hard  and  fit,  not  troubling  too 
much  about  appearances,  but  ready  for  anything 
at  any  moment.  Sun  did  not  damage  these 
hard-working  warriors — a  convoy  who,  curiously 
enough,  called  a  halt  exactly  abreast  of  an  inn 
where,  also  curiously,  I  happened  to  be  at  the 
time — but  it  made  the  inside  more  appreciable  to 
the  drouthy.  I  am  running  on,  I  find,  but  I 
must  have  just  a  word  about  this  pub.,  or  rather 
its  users.  A  party,  evidently  ''  regulars  " — i.e., 
stock  customers— were  partaking  of  their  lunch 


IN  WILTSHIRE  311 

beer,  and  discussing  the  affairs  of  the  nation  at 
large  and  in  small.  The  church  bell  tolled. 
''Who's  that  for?"  asked  one  of  the  little  party. 
''Rasmus  Wintle,"  said  the  landlady.  The 
inquirer  pulled  out  a  book,  referred  to  It,  and 
then  referred  to  the  deceased  In  most  kindly, 
sympathetic  terms.  "  Dang  his  old  eyes,"  says 
he,  "he's  the  third  on  our  club  done  it  this 
month." 

I  have  seen  Weyhill,  but  too  late  to  please 
me.     The  right  time  to  gain  acquaintance  with 
the  place  was  before  I  was  born,  when  railways 
were  not,  neither  auctions  at  every  little  town's 
market ;  and  when  live-stock  exchanges  such  as 
Weyhill's  and  any  number  of  others  flourished 
exceedingly.     Those    were    the   days    of  smock- 
frocks  and  "statties,"  also  pleasure  fairs  as  the 
chief  show  diversions  for  a  country-side,   saving 
the  club  feasts  ;  long  ere  excursion  trains  carried 
off  dwellers  in  the  wilds  and  their  spendlng-money 
to  the  big  towns.     A  celebrated  ditty  relating  to 
Guy  Fawkes,  that   Prince  of  Sinlsters,  does,  as 
readers  will  recollect,  account  for  a  great  many 
things    not    happening,    as,    for   instance,    Guy's 
inability  to  come  that  way — meaning  over  Vaux- 
hall   Bridge — because   it  wasn't  built,   sirs.     On 
analogous  reasoning   I   can  account  for  Weyhill 
in  its  heyday  and  myself  having  been  strangers. 
It  was  built  far  enough  back.      I  was  not,  so  I 
could  not  come  that  way  in  time  for  its  glories. 
Now  that  I  have  gone  over  the  fair  ground  with 
its  very  reminiscent,  if  dilapidated,  fixings,  I  shall 
not  be  satisfied  till  I  have  done  one  of  its  fairs, 
the  best  of  the  period. 

Newmarket,  I  believe,  or  feeders  in  that  corner 
of  the  Eastern  Counties,  used  to  buy  largely  at 


312  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

Weyhill  fairs  from  breeders  of  Hampshire  Downs, 
also  those  crossed  with  the  smaller  Southdown. 
If  only  for  that  reason  I,  as  a  firm  believer  in 
Newmarket  mutton,  must  hold  kindly  feeling  for 
this  centre  of  distribution.  I  went  to  it  full  of 
ideas,  fancy  pictures  of  what  I  should  see  ;  not 
one  of  them,  except  a  biggish  stretch  of  common 
or,  at  any  rate,  open  land,  was  a  little  bit  like 
the  real  thing.  Why,  I  am  unable  to  say  ;  but 
somehow,  though  I  am  on  visiting  terms  with 
many  and  various  fair  fields,  I  had  chosen  to 
construct  this  Hampshire  one  on  the  model  of 
the  not  far  distant  neighbour  in  Berkshire,  East 
Ilsley.  There  you  find  a  small  group  of  buildings, 
a  little  church,  with  a  long-deceased  Lord  Mayor's 
(I  mean  Lord  Mayor  of  London)  tomb  in  it, 
two  or  three  training  stables,  one  "  Somebody's  " 
house,  and  a  mixed  medley  of  more  or  less  fully 
licensed  premises,  with  residential  properties  in 
proportion  of  about  one  and  one^ — a  pub.  for 
each  establishment  not  in  the  licensed  victualling 
interest.  All  the  lot  are  huddled  up  together, 
with  sheep-pens  squeezed  In  among  the  bricks 
and  mortar,  and  hedging  in  the  whole  hamlet. 
Not  a  bit,  not  a  scrap,  like  Ilsley  is  Weyhill  in 
this  regard.  There  is  a  church,  true ;  so  far  the 
two  are  on  Monmouth  and  Macedon  terms,  with, 
I  may  add,  churchyards  to  both  ;  Weyhill,  how- 
ever, has  also  an  annexe  which  makes  you  wonder 
where  all  the  people  come  from  to  be  buried, 
especially  as  the  local  air  is  so  fine  and  strong. 
But,  whereas  dealers  and  pleasures  at  Ilsley  find 
licensed-victualler  traders  to  satisfy  their  wants 
in  refreshment  at  permanent  emporiums,  Wey- 
hill's  connection  bring  their  own  caterers  with 
them,   so   to  speak ;    and    for   these  are   branch 


IN  WILTSHIRE  313 

offices,  shanties  set  up  for  fairing  purposes  and 
shut  up  on  other  dates.  Remains  they  are, 
mostly,  of  former  prosperity  ;  not  exactly  tumble- 
down, still,  the  sort  of  property  you  would  want 
very  well  done  up  by  a  landlord  before  you  took 
any  on  repairing  lease.  When  you  have  got 
them  you  must  take  them  in  the  rough,  the  very 
rough  indeed. 

Do  I  expect  Carlton  Hotels  and  Caf6s  Royal 
in  the  midst  of  wild  Wessex,  and  are  ''a  la" 
menus  in  my  opinion  appropriate  for  hungry 
bucolics  requiring  a  very  great  deal  for  a  very 
little  money  and  going  more  for  quantity  than 
quality?  Them  are  not  my  sentiments  at  all. 
Still,  perhaps  I  am  not  wrong  in  saying  that,  all 
round,  people  want  things  a  little  more  ''classy" 
than  they  were  in  the  Crimean  war  times.  That 
being  so,  I  may  be  excused  for  writing  them  off 
as  not  quite  up  to  date,  if  they  are  now  presented 
unrestored  after  standing  the  stress  of  half  a 
century's  wear  and  tear  without  suggestion  of 
ever  being  closed  for  alteration  and  repair.  A 
concern  out  by  itself  is  the  Weyhill  fair  ground, 
that  has  to  be  experienced  to  be  appreciated,  and 
must  miss  most  of  its  significance  to  an  observer 
who  has  not  seen  men  and  cities  and  chanced  in 
his  travels  through  bookland  to  tumble  on  the 
school  whose  speciality  was  the  agriculturist  of 
the  bygone  age  and  his  aids.  Having  without 
the  slightest  justification  looked  for  a  little  colony 
glued  on  to  the  side  of  a  steep  hill,  after  the 
fashion  of  the  village  in  Robin  Hood's  Bay,  up 
Whitby  way,  only  on  top  instead  of  at  the 
foot  of  the  steep  slope,  I  was  at  first  vexed  that 
all  was  different  from  my  fancy  sketches.  What 
village,   per  se,  exists  is  scattered — at  least   the 


314  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

inhabited  part  is,  with  some  great  men's  places 
outlying.      But  a  great  settlement  of  mainly  flint 
and  slate  with  some  thatch  hutches  and  shanties, 
not  forgetting  the  shebeens,  runs  in  double  file 
for — what  shall   I   say? — half  a  mile,  or  getting 
on  that  way.     Nearly  all  are  constructed  with  the 
upper  half  of  their  low  frontage  to  open  on  hinges, 
and  so  make  a  stall.    There  they  are  by  the  score 
and  score,  all  the  worse  for  wear,  yet  good  enough 
temporary  quarters  for  dealers  in  everything  agri- 
cultural, from  beer  to  breeches  and  from  hops  to 
sheep  dip,  not  to  mention  the  comestibles  and 
indlgestibles,  the  dinners  and  lunches  and  teas, 
and  the  fairings  offering  something  like  percep- 
tible   percentage    of  value   for   money,     as,    for 
instance,  whelks  and  ginger  beer,  down   to  the 
innumerable   collection    of   uselessnesses,    to    me 
symbols  of  teetotalism  as  she  is  spoke  in  the  big 
gala — run  on  Newcastle's  Town   Moor  in  opposi- 
tion to  Gosforth  Park  Races. 

Imagine  three-quarters  of  a  mile  on  end  of 
shedding,  originally  insufficient  for  the  require- 
ments of  the  thousands  of  Jocks  and  Jennies  who 
hied  them  to  the  fair  for  enjoyment  after,  or  con- 
currently with,  the  enormous  trade  done,  having 
live  mutton  for  leading  article.  And  imagine 
your  humble  servant  all  alone  by  himself  gazing 
on  these,  which,  if  spick  and  span,  instead  of  not 
showing  a  foot  of  paint  to  the  lot  of  them,  would 
be  as  cheerful  as  a  "bathing-machine  in  mid- winter. 
I  had  a  long  spell,  peopling  the  place,  dressing 
the  scene  with  early  nineteenth-century  supers 
and  accessories,  while  really  I  had  for  sole 
company  only  broken  bottles,  old  oyster  shells 
(blue  pointers  alleged),  and  notices  two  or  three 
deep  of  somebody's  dinners,  luncheons,  and  teas. 


IN  WILTSHIRE  315 

The  twoness  and  the  threeness  deep  comes  from 
the  practice  of  the  last  holder  of  a  "  restaurant " 
setting  his  name  on  top  of  his  predecessors', 
without  cleaning  the  old  posters  or  other  notice 
off.  I  looked  about  long  for  a  comparison  with 
the  deserted  encampment.  The  great  unoccupied 
town  of  trumpery  holdings  with  no  sign  of  life 
nor  care,  where,  ever  and  anon,  the  pulses  of 
traffic  and  pleasure  have  beat  fast,  up  North, 
gave  me  remembrances  to  go  in  double  harness 
fairly  well. 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

WILTS    AND    HORSES 

I  SUPPOSE,  readers,  that  most  of  you  would  be 
only  too  pleased  to  own  a  Derby  favourite  and 
train  that  same  yourself?  You  would?  So 
would  I  ;  but  I  should  want  to  hedge  a  bit  by 
way  of  insurance  against  going  off  my  head 
while  the  last  turns  in  winding  up  were  being 
twisted  round.  Such  possession  carries  very  big 
greatness,  and  from  greatness  I  always  pray  to 
be  delivered.  No  need  to  pray  on  those  lines, 
say  you,  nor  to  petition  for  guid  conceit  o'  mysel' ! 
Say  what  you  like ;  I  write  what  I  feel.  The 
penalties  of  greatness  make  a  heavy  load,  and  I 
am  with  a  very  eminent  trainer  who  has  won  a 
Derby.  Said  he,  "I've  been  through  it,  and  it's 
killing  business  thinking  of  the  risks."  I  pity 
the  nobbier  who  tried  to  get  at  Sceptre,  for 
instance,  while  the  beautiful  mare  was  being 
prepared  at  Shrewton  for  Epsom.  But  putting 
myself  in  her  owner-trainer's  place — I  did  so 
literally  in  one  way  as  a  visitor — I  felt  that  I 
should  be  heartily  grateful  when  the  Wednesday 
was  over,  win  or  lose.  To  anyone  not  armour- 
plated  in  the  matter  of  nerves  the  tension  as  the 
day  draws  near  must  be  awful,  and  I  can  quite 

316 


WILTS  AND  HORSES  317 

understand  Lord  St  Vincent's  feelings  about 
Lord  Cliefdon  as  he  related  them  to  me,  and  his 
shying  at  seeing  the  St  Leger.  Per  favour  of 
Mr  Sievier  I  went  over  the  gallops — beautiful 
going  they  are  upon  Salisbury  Plain,  where  the 
War  Department  holds  fifty  square  miles — 
inspected  the  favourite's  fine  roomy  box ;  saw 
her  fed  ;  made  friend  with  the  several  dogs,  who 
can  be  very  unfriendly ;  noted  the  perfect 
arrangements  for  keeping  watch-  and  ward  ;  and 
came  away  almost  thankful  that  none  of  the 
great  responsibility  was  my  portion,  for  I  was 
thinking  all  the  time  of  how  some  of  us  have 
felt  before  a  twopenny-halfpenny  athletic  race, 
and  what  we  would  have  given  to  cut  out  a  day 
or  two  prior  to  the  event. 

In  my  experience  I  never  knew  a  less  racy 
village  than  Shrewton  as  harbour  for  a  big 
equine  celebrity.  You  see  none  of  the  usual 
signs ;  the  horsy,  hanger-on  class  loitering 
about  the  public-houses  (of  which  there  are  as 
many  as  usual  in  remote  hamlets  where  much 
sheep-  or  cattle-fairing  goes  on),  the  stable-boy 
off  duty,  the  general  air  of  knowingness 
resident  locals  assume — an  attribute  which,  if 
genuine,  usually  leads  to  their  financial  destruc- 
tion, seeing  that  it  is  customary  for  such  as 
really  do  hold  knowledge  to  back  all  the  stable's 
losers,  and  something  else  in  the  winning  races 
— the  unmistakable  touts  adorning  the  telegraph 
office,  and  the  suspicious-looking  strangers. 
Shrewton  is  an  out-of-the-way  hamlet  ten  miles 
from  anywhere  in  civilisation,  and  eight  from 
the  nearest  railway  station.  So  far  from  look- 
ing like  the  home  of  a  Derby  favourite  in  whom 
all  the  racing  world  was  interested,  it  might  be 


318  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

not  at  all  on  the  map.  More,  if  you  go  a  couple 
of  miles  away  from  it  on  the  great  Plain,  you 
might  almost  fancy  that  you  were  not  only  off 
the  map,  but  out  of  the  live  world — when,  that 
is,  the  horses  are  not  out,  or  the  soldiery  about. 
Save  for  marks  of  military  occupation  hardly  a 
sign  of  life  is  there  in  the  human  way,  and  scarce 
a  bird,  only  great  overmastering  silence,  which 
would  worry  the  life  out  of  yours  truly,  because 
in  any  vast  solitude  with  a  boundless  contiguity 
of  still,  inanimate  scene,  I  invariably  fall  to 
"making  up"  the  worst  that  can  befall.  Put 
me  for  a  week  before  the  Derby — which  Heaven 
forbid — at  Shrewton,  I  would  be  doing  the  amiable 
philosopher  all  upside-down  ways,  finding  books 
full  of  miasmic  fogs  in  the  running  brook — which 
as  a  matter  of  fact  was  all  dried  up,  and  made 
you  wonder  how  the  big  flood  of  1849  could  ever 
happen — sermons  on  accidents  in  all  the  stones 
on  Sceptre's  roads  to  her  gallops,  and  no  good 
in  anything  but  possibility  of  upsetting  the 
favourite.  Give  me  my  choice  of  vocations — 
owning  Derby  favourites,  with  vast  winnings 
ahead,  and  making  holiday  notes  on  very 
humble  scale  of  assured  remuneration,  I  jolly 
well  know  which  choice  would  be  mine.  Go  for 
the  favourites  ?  you  say.  Why,  yes ;  most 
certainly  I  would,  and  as  soon  as  I  was  granted 
my  wish,  pay  to  get  out  and  be  my  readers'  free 
and  unfettered  servant.  Uneasy  lies  the  head 
that  wears  a  crown.  I  would  sleep  easier  on  a 
plank  and  in  a  nasty  spiky  crown — all  points  and 
knob — than  furnished  with  the  cosiest  bed  in  the 
world,  and  a  big  race  favourite  next  door  and  on 
my  mind.  I  might,  too,  happen  to  shoot  the 
head  lad  by  mistake,  and  possibly  disturb  Sceptre 


WILTS  AND  HORSES  319 

every  ten  minutes  to  see  how  she  got  on,  Hke  a 
youngster  pulling  up  a  plant  by  the  roots  to  find 
out  whether  it  was  sprouting  or  not. 

Some  of  our  outlying  trainers  must  at  times 
get  to  feel  very   much  like  the  men  in   charge 
of  lightships.        There    they   are,    approachable 
through  a  long,  eye-tiring  avenue  of  dust  in  the 
summer.     Little  settlements  clinging  for  dear  life 
to  an  almost  perpetually  wind-vexed  anchorage 
in  winter,  and,  but  for  association  of  the  establish- 
ment's hands  about  the  camp,  solitary  as  shep- 
herds out  on  the  downs.     But  don't  think  that 
if  the  master   and  staff  are  detached  from  the 
world  in  voluntary  exile  they  are  lonely  as  the 
word   is  frequently  understood,  because  they  are 
not.     For  no  one  who  has  not  tried  the  life  a 
little  could  realise  what  a  precious  lot  there  is  to 
do  in  never-ending  work.     By  the  time  you  have 
left  off  at  night  the  next  day's  work  is  almost 
due  to  begin,   and,   as   for  accounts  and  corre- 
spondence,   I    think    the    noble    animal    is    more 
provocative  of  these  industries  than  any  article 
of    his    weight.       His     requirements,     too,     are 
various,   and  you   have    never   quite   done  with 
him   to  the   extent    of  being  able  to   close   the 
letter-book   or    block    of    telegraph    forms    and 
saying,    '*  Thank   goodness,    that    is    done   with 
now."     Somehow    or    other,    occasion    will    be 
made  for  posting  a  boy  off  on  a  bicycle  to  cover 
an  item  forgotten.     Just  sit  down  and  make  out 
a   map    of    the    bother   and    fuss    incidental    to 
getting   a   selling-plater  off   from  one    of  these 
hill  stations  to  a  racing  place — say,   Yarmouth 
— the  inquiries  and  answers,   arrangements  and 
informations.       No ;    a    trainer   in   charge   of  a 
moderate  string  has  his  work  cut  out. 


320  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

As    for    fame — fame !     Well,    look    here   and 
listen   to  me  if  you  want  to  know  about  fame. 
Attracted  by  the  large  and  varied  assortment  of 
wide,  tall,  feathery,  dense,  spindly,  bushy  gin  or 
juniper  trees — called,  I  believe,   ''The  Junipers" 
— I  wandered  away  from  Mr  Frank  Hartigan's 
pinkwashed  house,  with  its  most  picturesque  and 
very  excellent  stabling,  and  must  have  got  three- 
quarters  of  a  mile  off.     At  that  remote  range  no 
soul  I  met  had  ever  heard  of  Captain  Saunders 
Davies,    Mr    W.     H.     Moore,    nor    the   present 
occupant   of  the    stables,    some   of   which    were 
built     by    a    great     horse-dealer,     Mr     Barnes. 
Wagoners  I  met,  hinds  doing  something  to  the 
land   I    came  upon    earning    their   wage,    game- 
keepers' good  ladies  and  woodcutters'  families  I 
called   up,    seeking    knowledge    for   myself   and 
finding   none.       Could    they    tell    me   where    Mr 
Hartigan's  horses  did  their  work?     They  could 
not,     because     they    had    never    heard    of    Mr 
Hartigan,    nor    his    occupation,    nor    his    horses 
either.       Citing    Why    Not,    The    Soarer,    and 
Manifesto,    all    Grand    National    horses,    trained 
almost    on    the   edge   of    the   fair   ground — and 
what  a   champion.    Manifesto ! — not    to  mention 
the  then   favourite  for  the   National,   could    not 
touch    any  spot   within  their  memory's   armour. 
They  knew  and  cared  for  none  of  these  things. 
All  that  mentioning  the  creatures  effected  was  to 
render  the  peasantry  somewhat  suspicious  of  your 
working   up    to  a   sell.       They  are    worse  even 
than    the    district's    finger-posts ;    you   can   get 
some  information  out  of  the  latter ;  the  trouble 
is  to  know  what  to  do  with  it.     Whatever  artist 
set  these  up  was  not  too  eager  to  put  you  in  the 
way  you  should  go.     He  left  you  so  that  you 


WILTS  AND  HORSES  321 

might  take  your  route  and  your  chance.  Appar- 
ently, in  their  calculations,  you  can  reach  any- 
where if  you  only  keep  on  long  enough.  A  flat 
bit  of  board  with  **  To  Something  or  Somewhere  " 
is  nailed  on  a  post,  but  whether  you  are  to  go  on 
or  back  is  left  unstated.  The  shortest  plan  is  to 
start  off  and  peg  away  till  you  get  somewhere 
to  make  inquiries. 

We  have  classical  authority  for  the  efficacy  of 
making  believe  a  good  deal,  as  witness  the 
Marchioness,  afterwards  Mrs  Richard  Swiveller, 
and  the  manufacture  of  negus  out  of  orange  peel 
and  cold  water — a  concoction  grateful,  warming, 
and  comforting  provided  you  persuade  yourself 
that  the  base  imitation  is  the  real  genuine  article. 
I  tried  very  hard  one  day  on  Salisbury  Plain  in 
mid- March  making  believe  that  I  was  taking  in 
all  the  joys  of  open  downland.  When  the  sun  is 
on  your  back  and,  metaphorically  speaking,  patting 
all  animal,  insect,  and  vegetable  life  on  their  backs, 
setting  them  going,  so  to  speak,  keeping  them  at 
it,  and  presenting  everything  in  a  kindly  light 
and  doing  its  best  to  be  all  alive  and  interesting, 
the  open  uplands  are  hard  to  beat.  Up  on  the 
great  downland  where  I  happened  to  be,  a  little 
bit  of  sun  makes  a  world  of  difference.  I  never 
can  quite  make  out  where  Salisbury  Plain  begins 
and  ends.  I  do  know  that  it  does  not  go  farther 
one  way  than  the  break  before  you  get  to  Marl- 
borough. Getting  down  on  the  Dorsetshire  side 
it  seems  to  me  that,  though  you  may  call  the 
territory  by  any  other  name,  it  is  the  same  old 
plain ;  and  if  there  is  one  particular  tract  in 
England  where  a  touch  of  sun  makes  a  strong 
difference,  you  can  find  it  up  in  that  direction. 
I  had  heard  so  much  about  Sir  Charles  Nugent's 

X 


322  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

schooling  fences  at  Cranborne,  which  is  a  village 
some  distance  from  his  stables — these  last  being 
a  goodish  step  from  the  gallops — that  I,  following, 
as  I  always  do,  the  Inimitable's  philosophy,  went 
to  see  the  Medway,  as  Mrs  Micawber  did  when 
her  family  perceived  in  the  coal  trade  on  that 
river  an  opening  for  Mr  Micawber's  talents  to  be 
turned  to  account.  The  first  thing,  said  I,  is  to 
see  my  Medway,  the  fences,  and,  as  I  have 
indicated,  these  do  take  a  lot  of  getting  at  if  you 
start  from  London.  The  South- Western's  fast 
service  gets  you  down  to  Salisbury  in  fine  style  ; 
there  you  switch  yourself  on  to  another  line,  the 
one  that  follows  the  Avon's  course  more  or  less  to 
Bournemouth,  or,  I  should  say  Christchurch, 
which  is  next  door  like,  and,  as  I  have  sampled 
it,  gives  one  leisure  to  view  the  land  at  ease.  If 
I  had  to  go  any  distance  there  is  one  means  of 
progression  I  could  not  profitably  adopt,  and  that 
is  walking,  for  every  time  I  could  get  near  that 
beautiful  hurrying,  clear  river  I  should  be  loitering 
and  hanging  about.  I  can  waste  my  time  for 
hours  at  a  stretch  looking  at  a  bit  of  a  brook,  so 
you  can  by  the  aid  of  a  very  simple  sum  in  pro- 
portion arrive  at  the  idling  to  be  got  out  of  a 
fast-flowing,  fishy  stream  like  the  Hampshire 
Avon,  which  adorns  other  counties,  and  was  for 
the  most  part  of  the  run  observable  from  the 
railroad  in  Wiltshire,  and  when  I  left  it  not  so  far 
from  the  Dorsetshire  borders. 

To  return  to  our  muttons,  in  which  flock  is 
the  sun,  a  bit  of  a  black  sheep  this  time  because 
he  would  not  do  what  was  wanted,  and  that  was 
just  to  turn  the  light  on.  Instead  of  which,  we 
had  one  of  the  coldest  southerly  winds  I  ever 
experienced.     Throughout    the  low  land,  full  of 


WILTS  AND  HORSES  323 

lovely  streamlets,  not  forgetting  the  river,  you 
got  the  wrong  impression  altogether,  made  to  see 
it  at  its  worst,  all  bleak,  cold,  and  miserable,  with 
never  a  touch  of  comfort  in  it  when  you  sorely 
wanted  that  same.  Cold  and  cheerless  in  the 
extreme  it  was  down  that  way,  and  hardly  any 
better  in  sheltered  parts  of  the  journey  to  Cran- 
borne  village.  About  Cranborne,  on  the  climb 
towards  the  unbroken  turf  downs,  one  felt  quite 
a  grievance  against  the  sun  for  striking  work. 
Why  the  deuce  wouldn't  he  put  a  smart  face  on 
things  and,  at  any  rate,  have  a  round  or  two  with 
the  chilly  winds?  Apparently,  though  in  the 
hollows  the  primroses  were  just  lovely,  hedgerow 
vegetation  was  very,  very  backward,  and  very 
wisely  so,  too,  you  might  think,  considering  what 
it  would  have  to  put  up  with  in  its  tender  youth 
from  weather  like  I  was  experiencing. 

A  month  later,  I  should  say,  than  their  fellows 
at,  we  will  take  Plumpton,  were  the  bushes  and 
so-called  weeds  that  might  have  been  green  if 
they  were  not  so  backward.  If  it  had  not  been 
for  the  lambs  and  just  a  bit  of  show  of  bloom  on 
the  forest  trees,  you  would  not  have  known  that 
spring  was  on  the  road  at  all.  You  could  not 
make  a  mistake  in  another  direction — viz.,  the 
splendidly  strong  air,  which  might  be  more 
palatable,  perhaps,  if  it  had  been  put  down  in 
front  of  the  fire  or  in  hot  water  for  a  few  minutes 
before  the  contents  of  its  vials  were  poured  forth. 
There  was  sufficient  wind  there  to  the  square  foot 
of  most  bracing  air  to  keep  a  sanatorium  for  the 
weak-chested  going,  and,  for  the  other  sort  of 
strength,  to  turn  enough  mills  to  generate  all 
the  electric  supply  of  the  country.  If  anyone 
cannot   be   healthy  where  Sir  Charles  Nugent  s 


324  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

house  is  placed,  the  subject  must  have  a  very  weak 
place  somewhere.  There  was  wind  there  to  blow 
daffydowndillies  out  of  the  ground  ;  but,  then,  I 
would  a  lot  rather  have  the  benefit  of  such  tonic 
breezes  than  be  able  to  grow  any  quantity  of 
bulbs,  from  the  most  expensive  and  ornate  down 
to  the  very  estimable  savouries  of  the  onion 
family.  The  stables  lie  a  goodish  way  off  in  a 
sheltered  corner,  and  are  made,  in  part,  by  re- 
forming old  farmery  premises.  Over  the  way  is 
a  high  ridge,  beautifully  wooded,  and  in  its  shelter 
Boveridge,  where  is  Mr  Thursby's  house  and  also 
the  stables  whence  so  many  winners  were  sent 
out.  I  had  hoped  to  call  and  see  Mr  Thursby, 
but  heard  of  him  being  out  wasting  on  the  road 
to  Salisbury.  Mighty  convenient  for  that  purpose 
his  place  lies,  because  you  can  have  an  eight  or 
nine  mile  or  a  bigger  walk,  right  away  to  the  city, 
and  make  the  half-way  house,  or,  for  the  purposes 
of  exercise,  your  terminus,  at  the  funny  little 
Turkish  Bath,  which  has  more  than  once  done 
me  good  service. 

Curiously  enough,  I  have  on  several  occasions 
chosen  Salisbury  and  its  meeting  in  May  to  have 
lumbago,  have  gone  to  these  baths,  and  have 
come  away  cured.  Of  this  relief  I  was  pointedly 
reminded  as  I  toddled  along  from  close  to  Wood- 
yates,  for  ever  to  be  associated  with  the  name  of 
William  Day,  writer  of  the  most  informing  racing 
and  racehorse  books  ever  published.  But  of  the 
symptoms  more  presently,  as  we  have  a  word  on 
the  return  journey.  Let  me,  if  possible,  cut  the 
cackle  and  do  the  other  thing.  As  in  duty  bound 
when  the  master  of  the  stables  invites  you,  I 
paid  respect  to  the  stud.  With  most  of  its 
members  I  was  on   speaking  acquaintance,  and 


WILTS  AND  HORSES  325 

was  glad  to  extend  my  knowledge  of  the  company 
by  being  Introduced  to  some  splendid  Irish-bred 
two-year-olds.  Drumcree  was  hospitably  at 
home,  staid  and  friendly.  If  anyone  takes  on  the 
job  of  doing  horses — I  do  not  mean  strapping 
them,  but  the  Special  Commissioner  business — 
at  so  much  per  head,  he  ought  to  get  extra  pay 
for  John  M.P.  Every  time  I  see  John  M.P.  he 
appears  to  have  added  a  cubit  to  his  length.  A 
more  tractable,  docile,  pleasant  old  party,  intelli- 
gent v^^ithal,  you  will  not  meet,  nor  follow,  in  a 
day's  march,  no  matter  how  far  you  go.  John 
gives  the  impression  of  knowing  it  all  the  time 
and  being  quite  satisfied  with  things  as  they  are. 
John  M.P.  is  a  national  favourite — I  am  not 
writing  now  of  the  great  steeplechase,  with  a 
capital  N.  My  reference  is  to  his  being  held  in 
estimation  by  the  English  racing  world,  as  are 
and  have  been  few  horses  whose  catching  on  to 
people's  affections  is  frequently  in  the  first  place 
accidental.  Bendigo's  sensational  Cambridge- 
shire put  him  where  he  was  for  ever  afterwards. 
Mr  Tom  Worton's  Victor  Wild  somehow  attracted 
kind  regard,  and  held  it  throughout.  I  swear 
that  Victor  bowed  to  the  house  when  given  a 
hand  as  he  went  to  the  post.  Sceptre — why, 
those  who  won  when  she  got  beaten  were  sorry 
for  Sceptre  ;  and  as  to  Pretty  Polly,  if  a  general 
subscription  would  save  her  from  bad  luck  the 
money  would  be  there.  Then  look  at  Manifesto. 
Every  man  and  woman  at  Aintree  on  a  National 
day  wanted  to  pet  the  Grand  Old  Man  of  'chasing. 
Other  horses  might  be  all  very  well  in  their  way, 
but  Short — meaning  Long,  for  he  was  wonder- 
fully lengthy — Manifesto  was  the  friend.  As  for 
the  Silent  Member  who  made  so  much  noise — 


326  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

not  as  a  roarer,  please  understand — I  think  it  was 
his  carrying  off  that  little  hurdle  race  at  Windsor 
with  a  hundred  to  one  laid  against  him  that  first 
put  him  in  the  list  of  the  specially  considered. 
Anyway,  there  was,  standing  quiet  as  the  pro- 
verbial sheep,  at  one  end  (the  head  one  nuzzling 
up  to  his  trainer-part-owner,  while  at  the  other, 
some  yards  away,  his  attendant  was  vigorously 
massaging  the  leverage  section. 

Over  at  Woodyates  are  another  lot  of  horses 
trained  by  Sir  Charles  Nugent.  I  did  not  see 
them,  but  I  went  to  see  the  downs,  and,  even 
under  the  influence  of  a  south-wesser  stuffed  full 
of  north-easterly  bitterness  sprinkled  with  flecks 
of  ice-cold  rain,  fell  in  love  with  them.  I  do  not 
know  how  long  it  is  since  I  came  that  way,  and 
then  did  not  do  them  properly.  Here  is  fine  old 
turf,  close  cropped,  so  with  plenty  of  roots — it  is  the 
roots  you  want — bother  the  ''herbage" — elastic 
and  making  true  going.  All  sorts,  lengths,  shapes, 
flats,  descents,  ascents,  every  kind  of  gradient  and 
plan  is  available  for  preparing  horses.  I  had  got 
into  my  head  that  as  Sir  Charles  Nugent  went  in 
almost  exclusively  for  jumpers  there  might  not  be 
the  right  sort  of  galloping  for  flat  racers.  Instead 
of  which  I  should  not  like  to  have  to  name  one 
to  beat  his  grounds.  When  William  Day  was  at 
the  neighbouring  Woodyates,  and  hiring  gallops 
was  not  such  dear  work,  he  must  have  had 
facilities  for  training  pretty  nearly  all  the  horses 
in  England  if  he  could  have  found  stabling  for 
them.  I  was  reminded  of  another  prominent 
figure  in  that  connection  as  I  passed  the  little  pub. 
on  the  Blandford-Salisbury  road.  There  Sam 
Adams,  who  rode  Catch  em  Alive,  once  lived,  and 
I   believe,  for  a  period   was    landlord.     What   a 


WILTS  AND  HORSES  327 

change  from  a  petted  jockey  s  life  to  bossing  a 
roadside  shanty,  nine  miles  from  a  town  and  four 
from  a  village  no  bigger  than  a  hamlet ! 

I  suggested  to  my  host,  who  took  a  lot  of 
trouble  to  shepherd  me  over  the  district — where, 
barring  the  early  wheatears,  the  grey  plovers, 
flocks  of  larks  and  shoals  of  rabbits,  and  a  fine 
foss  and  vallum,  there  was  not  another  Christian 
soul  to  speak  to — that  I  knew  how  it  was  he 
pulled  John  M.P.'s  spine  out  to  be  its  proper 
length  and  a  half.  ''That,"  says  I,  "is  the  dolls' 
secret,  the  secret  of  the  movable  barrier.  It  is 
like  the  milkmaid's  beginning  with  lifting  the 
newly  born  calf,  and  by  virtue  of  doing  the  same 
every  morning,  not  noticing  its  increase  even 
when  it  is  a  great  big  fat  bullock — you  keep  at  it, 
you  see  ;  that  is  where  it  is.  Now,  with  John 
M.P.  and  these  dolls,"  I  says  to  his  master,  says 
I,  "you  have  been  putting  the  shifting-guard 
rails  out  and  out,  an  inch  at  a  time,  after  the 
fashion  of  boys  playing  footit — that  interesting 
game  which  costs  parents  so  much  in  caps.  The 
inches  have  accumulated  till  the  poor  deluded 
animal  has  been  taking  off  in  the  next  field  or 
the  next  parish,  and  the  while  not  knowing  he  was 
doing  anything  extraordinary.  Of  course  nature 
always  adapts  herself  to  circumstances  and  her 
children's  requirements ;  so  in  these  extending 
exercises  John  has  telescoped — or,  rather, 
untelescoped — himself  to  the  length  of  a  street. 

Now  behold  the  irony  of  fate !  At  the  end  of 
my  visit  I  was  kindly  driven  round  on  the  downs 
between  Cranborne  and  Woodyates,  and  landed 
finally  some  half-mile  below  the  latter  isolated 
outpost,  with  a  clear  run  of  nine  miles  or  so  into 
Salisbury.     I  had  heard    that  Mr  Thursby  was 


328  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

out  at  work,  and  as  I  wanted  to  see  that  gentle- 
man, this  promised  to  be  a  very  convenient 
arrangement,  for  Mr  Thursby  does  an  enormous 
amount  of  walking,  and  does  it  mostly  on  the 
Blandford  Road.  And  that  was  where  I  sought 
him.  Without  calling  myself  a  rogue,  I  do  not 
care  for  these  straight  Roman  roads.  You  see 
such  an  awful  lot  in  front  of  you,  and  if  you  look 
back  are  impressed  with  the  amount  of  labour  you 
have  already  had  to  go  through.  Once  in  a  way 
these  straight-ruled  ancient  tracks  are  all  very 
well.  They  were  this  time  as  I  padded  along, 
passing  many  a  lambing-fold  with  attentive 
shepherds  and  watchful  dogs,  meeting  carrier's 
van  after  van  bringing  folk  on  long  journeys  from 
Salisbury  market,  loaded  with  goods  at  the  back, 
and  men,  women,  and  children  huddled  up  forward 
under  the  tilt  or  latter-day  equivalent.  Young 
men  were  trudging  alongside  for  company,  and 
tikes,  mostly  wall-eyed,  personally  conducting  the 
whole  expedition.  I  liked  the  outing  much. 
Besides,  being  able  to  see  the  tip  of  Salisbury 
spire  helped  me  to  forget  the  road's  directness 
while  it  lasted,  and  I  was  getting  plenty  of 
satisfaction  till  I  came  upon  evidences  of  disaster 
and  trouble  for  myself,  of  which  last  I  was  given 
long  enough  warning.  In  the  middle  of  the  road 
was  grief — a  little  nag  lay  with  the  shafts  of  a 
cosy  gig  under  him,  and  the  harness  twisted  so 
that  you  could  not  unbuckle  it.  By  his  side 
knelt  the  good  mistress  holding  his  head,  while 
the  master  vainly  tried  to  ease  the  poor  creature, 
who  was  pretty  bad.  The  nearest  village  was  a 
mile  off,  and  naturally,  when  help  might  come 
through  them,  the  procession  of  caravans  from 
Salisbury  had  ceased.     Night    was  falling,  and. 


WILTS  AND  HORSES  329 

as  the  owners  said,  What  were  they  to  do  with 
the  poor  little  horse  ?  Of  course  I  must  forget 
all  sage  advice,  pull  up,  and  lend  a  hand.  I 
found  that  our  united  strength  availed  nothing  to 
clear  the  trap,  and  the  cold  wind  did  not  fit  the 
extra  warmth  induced  by  exercise.  In  fact,  the 
mischief  was  done.  I  was  reluctantly  obliged  to 
consider  myself  and  travel  on.  But  at  the  pretty 
little  village,  Coombe,  I  interviewed  two  fine  lads 
at  the  smithy,  who  left  a  half-finished  horse-shoe 
to  cool,  whipped  off  their  leather  aprons,  and 
were  on  the  road  at  a  double  to  the  rescue  before 
you  could  say  Jack  Robinson  or  I  could  stand 
them  a  drink  for  being  jolly  good  fellows. 

So  as  to  have  a  proper  understanding  of 
myself,  I  soliloquised.  Says  I  to  myself,  you 
understand  what  you  have  been  doing  and  what 
you  are  to  do.  By  force  of  circumstances  you 
have  been  driving  about  on  the  Downs  in  an  open 
trap  and  a  not  heavy  ordinary  walking  suit,  thin 
socks,  low  shoes,  giving  chances  for  a  bad  cold  to 
come  to  you.  Get  away  brisk  now,  stir  your 
stumps,  don't  slacken  for  anybody  or  anything 
until,  having  got  thoroughly  warm,  you  have 
sweated  out  the  cold  that  may  be  coming.  Then 
you  will  have  enjoyed  yourself,  and  have  had  a 
power  of  good  done  to  you.  Go  at  the  job 
half-heartedly,  and,  if  harm  does  not  come  of  the 
slackness,  count  yourself  better  off  than  you 
deserve,  because  you  are  flying  in  the  face  of 
Providence.  The  matter  is  very  simple :  you 
cannot  afford  to  be  any  colder,  and  you  must  get 
warmer.  Anything  like  simmering  down  on  the 
way  means  bad  trouble.  This  was  Tuesday 
night.  On  Wednesday  I  got  to  Newmarket, 
where    next    morning,    deluded    by   a   patch    of 


330  WAYFARING  NOTIONS 

blazing  hot  spring  sunshine,  I  plunged  into  a 
bath  of  freezing  atmosphere  carried  on  a  gale 
that  sent  the  chilliness  searchlngr  into  me  in  the 
way  that  up-to-date  salt  beef  is  made,  with 
tremendous  hydraulic  pressure.  This  latter  so 
impregnates  the  meat's  tissues  and  fibres  with 
saline  decoction  that  at  the  finish  there  is  a  sight 
more  decoction  than  beef — as  you  find  when  you 
come  to  cook  it. 

The  next  thing  worth  noting  was  my  good 
doctor's  speaking  and  giving  forth  his  opinion 
like  one  who  knows  what  he  is  talking  about. 
"If  you  cannot  understand  that  a  man  with  a 
temperature  of  a  hundred  and  three,  and  no  legs 
to  carry  him,  is  unfit  to  go  out  in  a  bitter  wind, 

you  must  be "  I  was  so  afraid  he  was  going 

to  say  *' A  bigger  fool  than  I  took  you  for,"  that, 
for  fear  he  might  offend  me,  I  interposed  as  some 
sort  of  defence,  that  I  was  sure  he  could  patch  me 
up  for  Lincoln  on  Monday.  Now,  it  is  curious, 
is  it  not  ?  what  a  lot  these  medical  men  get  to  know 
somehow  about  racing.  This  one  must  actually 
have  had  the  fixtures  pat,  for  he  went  through 
the  whole  week,  playing  a  full  hand  on  me.  "  I 
shall  not  patch  you  up  for  Monday  at  Lincoln," 
says  he,  *'nor  for  Tuesday,  nor  for  Wednesday; 
nor  for  Thursday  at  Liverpool,  nor  for  the 
Grand  National  Day,  nor  Saturday  either."  He 
had  got  the  lot  letter-perfect;  "and,"  he  added, 
"if you  start  unpatched,  I  will  come  with  another 
doctor  who  will  do  anything  I  tell  him,  and  two 
ready-filled-up  certificates,  and  have  you  locked  up 
as  a  lunatic."  So  as  not  to  seem  at  all  domineer- 
ing in  the  business,  he  wound  up  with  a  bland 
assurance  that  I  was  altogether  my  own  master ; 
and  left  me  in  the  flattest  part  of  Bedfordshire,  old 


WILTS  AND  HORSES  331 

Bill  Barley  the  Second.  And  it  isn't,  after  all, 
half  a  bad  role  to  play  if  you  got  plenty  of  people 
who  don't  mind  being  blown  up  for  anything  or 
nothing,  to  wait  on  you,  and  are  absolutely 
indifferent  yourself  about  the  whole  blessed 
country's  going  to  pot — not  to  mention  your  own 
business  and  all. 

[Note.— The  chill  taken  by  my  father  in 
halting  to  try  to  help  with  the  "poor  little  horse," 
as  told  above,  was  the  immediate  cause  of  his 
death.  His  self-forgetfulness  and  sympathy  came 
out  unvaryingly  all  his  life  through. — Ed.] 


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THE    FALSTAFF    SHAKESPEARE 


Contents 

The  Life  and  Death  of  King 

Richard  II. 
The     First     Part    of    King 

Henry  IV. 
The    Second    Part    of   King 

Henry  IV. 
The  Life  of  King  Henry  V. 
The    First     Part    of    King 

Henry  VI. 
The    Second    Part   of   King 

Henry  VI. 
The    Third    Part    of    King 

Henry  VI. 
The  Tragedy  of  King  Richard 

III. 
The  Famous  History  of  the 

Life  of  King  Henry  VIII. 
Troilus  and  Cressida. 
Coriolanus. 
Titus  Andronicus. 


The  Tempest. 

The  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verona. 

The  Merry  Wives  of  Wind- 
sor. 

Measure  for  Measure. 

The  Comedy  of  Errors. 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

Love's  Labour's  Lost. 

A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream. 

The  Merchant  of  Venice.    ' 

As  You  Like  it. 

The  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

All's  Well  that  Ends  Well. 

Twelfth  Night;  or  What 
You  Will. 

The  Winter's  Tale. 

The  Life  and  Death  of  King 
John. 

In  this,  the  "  Falstaff  "  Edition  of  Shakespeare's  works,  the  order  in  which  the  plays 
are  presented  is  that  of  the  first  folio  edition  of  1623— "  Pericles,"  which  was  not  included 
in  that  edition,  and  the  Poems  being  added  at  the  end  of  the  volume.  No  new  reading  of 
the  text  is  attempted ;  and  only  those  variations  from  the  text  of  theiearly  editions  are 
included  which  have  been  accepted  by  the  best  Shakespearean  critics.  The  task  of  the 
present  Editor  has  consisted  solely  in  the  choice  between  the  readings  of  these  critics, 
where  they  disagree.    For  the  most  part  the  text  of  Delius  has  been  followed. 

In  one  large,  handsome,  and  well-designed  volume. 

Size — Large  super  royal  Svo,  lOJ  by  TJ  inches. 

Type — Re-set  from  New  Bourgeois  Type,  and  printed  with  large  margins. 

Paper— Choice  Antique  laid. 

TitU'page  printed  in  red  and  black. 


Romeo  and  Juliet. 

Timon  of  Athens. 

Julius  Caesar. 

Macbeth. 

Hamlet,  Prince  of  Denmark. 

King  Lear. 

Othello,  the  Moor  of  Venice. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

Cymbeline. 

Pericles. 

Poems. 

Venus  and  Adonis. 

The  Rape  of  Lucrece. 

Sonnets. 

A  Lover's  Complaint. 

The  Passionate  Pilgrim. 

The  Phoenix  and  the  Turtle. 

Glossary  and  Notes. 


Uniform  in  size  with  the  "  Falstaff  Shakespeare." 

THE     LIFE    OF    SAMUEL    JOHNSON,     LL.D., 

and  the  Journal  of  a  Tour  to  the  Hebrides.  By  James  Boswell, 
Esq.  Edited  with  Notes,  and  a  Biographical  Dictionary  of  the  Persons 
named  in  the  work,  by  Percy  Fitzgerald,  M.A.,  F.S.A.,  Author  of 
"  The  Life  of  James  Boswell,"  "  Boswell  and  Crocker's  Boswell,"  &c. 

This  Edition  is  a  reprint  of  the  Sixth  Edition,  being  the  last  that)  contains  Malone's 
corrections  and  notes  issued  during  his  lifetime. 

"Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson"  is  a  work  that  has  become  so  overburdened  with 
notes,  commentaries  and  speculations,  that  the  Editor  has  thought  it  advisable  in  this 
edition  to  include  at  the  foot  of  the  text  only  the  notes  by  Boswell  himself.  Such  other 
notes,  with  those  of  his  own,  as  have  been  deemed  necessary  by  the  present  editor  will  be 
found  at  the  end  of  the  volume ;  as  well  as  short  biographies  of  those  whose  names  occur 
in  the  work,  arranged  in  the  form  of  a  biographical  dictionary,  and  a  somewhat  longer 
one  of  Boswell  himself. 

These,  in  conjunction  with  Boswell's  Notes,  will,  it  is  hoped,  afford  all  the  information 
that  is  necessary,  without  detracting  from  the  appearance  of  the  volume,  or  distracting 
the  reader's  attention  while  perusing  it. 

The  Editor's  notes  will  be  found  to  be  in  no  way  controversial,  or  in  contradiction  of 
Boswell,  but  simply  in  explanation  of  what  is  obscure. 

Some  modern  editors— notably  Mr  Croker— have  taken  it  upon  themselves  to  divide 
the  work  into  chapters ;  the  present  editor  has  thought  it  wiser  to  leave  the  work  as  it 
originally  was.  The  editor  has  thought  well  to  include  also  "  The  Tour  to  the  Hebrides," 
as  being  a  companion  work  almost  inseparable  from  the  "  Life." 

Elustrations—'PoTtr&it  of  Samuel  Johnson  (Photogravure) ;  Portrait  of  James  Boswell; 
"  The  Round  Robin  "  ;  Facsimiles  of  Johnson's  Writing;  Boswell's  Map  of  the  Tour. 

^t0e— Large  super  royal  8vo,  lOJ  by  7^  inches. 

Type- Re-set  from  New  Bourgeois  Type,  and  printed  with  large  margins. 


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