<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></SPAN>CHAPTER XX</h2>
<h3>THE DEVIL'S DYKE AND HURSTPIERPOINT</h3>
<blockquote><p>Sussex and Leith Hill—The Dyke hill—Two recollections—Bustard
hunting on the Downs—The Queen of the gipsies—The Devil in
Sussex—The feeble legend of the
Dyke—Poynings—Newtimber—Pyecombe and shepherds' crooks—A
Patcham smuggler—Wolstonbury—Danny—An old Sussex
diary—Fish-culture in the past—Thomas Marchant's Sunday
head-aches—Albourne and Bishop Juxon—Twineham and Squire
Stapley—Zoological remedies—How to make oatmeal pudding.</p>
</blockquote>
<p class="center"><SPAN name="page193.png" id="page193.png"></SPAN><ANTIMG src="images/page193.png" width-obs='586' height-obs='700' alt="Poynings, from the Devil's Dyke" /></p>
<h4><i>Poynings, from the Devil's Dyke.</i></h4>
<p>Had the hill above the Devil's Dyke—for the Dyke itself wins only a
passing glance—been never popularised, thousands of Londoners, and many
of the people of Brighton, would probably never have seen the Weald from
any eminence at all. The view is bounded north and west only by hills:
on the north by the North Downs, with Leith Hill standing forward, as if
advancing to meet a southern champion, and in the west, Blackdown, Hind
Head and the Hog's Back. The patchwork of the Weald is between. The view
from the Dyke Hill, looking north, is comparable to that from Leith
Hill, looking south; and every day in fine weather there are tourists on
both of these altitudes gazing towards each other. The worst slight that
Sussex ever had to endure, so far as my reading goes, is in Hughson's
<i>London ... and its Neighbourhood</i>, 1808, where the view from Leith Hill
is described. After stating that the curious stranger on the summit
"feels sensations as we may suppose Adam to have felt when he
instantaneously burst into existence and the beauties of Eden struck his
all-wondering eyes," Mr. Hughson describes the prospect. "It<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_193" id="Page_193"></SPAN></span><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</SPAN></span> commands
a view of the county of Surrey, part of Hampshire, Berkshire, Nettlebed
in Oxfordshire, some parts of Bucks, Hertfordshire, Middlesex, Kent and
Essex; and, by the help of a glass, Wiltshire." Not a word of Sussex.</p>
<div class="sidenote">A SEA OF MIST</div>
<p>The wisest course for the non-gregarious traveller is to leave the Dyke
on the right, and, crossing the Ladies' Golf Links, gain Fulking Hill,
from which the view is equally fine (save for lacking a little in the
east) and where there is peace and isolation. I remember sitting one
Sunday morning on Fulking Hill when a white mist like a sea filled the
Weald, washing the turf slopes twenty feet or so below me. In the depths
of this ocean, as it were, could be heard faintly the noises of the
farms and the chime of submerged bells. Suddenly a hawk shot up and
disappeared again, like a leaping fish.</p>
<p>The same spot was on another occasion the scene of a superb effort of
courageous tenacity. I met a large hare steadily breasting the hill.
Turning neither to the right nor left it was soon out of sight over the
crest. Five or more minutes later there appeared in view, on the hare's
trail, a very tired little fox terrier not much more than half the size
of the hare. He also turned aside neither to the right nor the left, but
panted wearily yet bravely past me, and so on, over the crest, after his
prey. I waited for some time but the terrier never came back. Such was
the purpose depicted on his countenance that I can believe he is
following still.</p>
<p>On these Downs, near the Dyke, less than a century ago the Great Bustard
used to be hunted with greyhounds. Mr. Borrer tells us in the <i>Birds of
Sussex</i> that his grandfather (who died in 1844) sometimes would take
five or six in a morning. They fought savagely and more than once
injured the hounds.</p>
<p>Enterprise has of late been at work at the Dyke. A cable railway crosses
the gully at a dizzy height, a lift brings travellers from the Weald, a
wooden cannon of exceptional calibre threatens the landscape, and
pictorial advertisements of the Devil and his domain may be seen at most
of the Sussex<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_195" id="Page_195"></SPAN></span> stations. Ladies also play golf where, when first I knew
it, one could walk unharmed. A change that is to be regretted is the
exile to the unromantic neighbourhood of the Dyke Station of the Queen
of the Gipsies, a swarthy ringletted lady of peculiarly comfortable
exterior who, splendid (yet a little sinister) in a scarlet shawl and
ponderous gold jewels, used once to emerge from a tent beside the Dyke
inn and allot husbands fair or dark. She was an astute reader of her
fellows, with an eye too searching to be deceived by the removal of
tell-tale rings. A lucky shot in respect to a future ducal husband of a
young lady now a duchess, of the accuracy of which she was careful to
remind you, increased her reputation tenfold in recent years. Her name
is Lee, and of her title of Queen of the Gipsies there is, I believe,
some justification.</p>
<div class="sidenote">"HE"</div>
<p>Sussex abounds in evidences of the Devil's whimsical handiwork, although
in ordinary conversation Sussex rustics are careful not to speak his
name. They say "he." Mr. Parish, in his <i>Dictionary of the Sussex
Dialect</i>, gives an example of the avoidance of the dread name: "'In the
Down there's a golden calf buried; people know very well where it is—I
could show you the place any day.' 'Then why don't they dig it up? 'Oh,
it's not allowed: <i>he</i> wouldn't let them.' 'Has any one ever tried?' 'Oh
yes, but it's never there when you look; <i>he</i> moves it away.'" His
punchbowl may be seen here, his footprints there; but the greatest of
his enterprises was certainly the Dyke. His purpose was to submerge or
silence the irritating churches of the Weald, by digging a ditch that
should let in the sea. He began one night from the North side, at
Saddlescombe, and was working very well until he caught sight of the
beams of a candle which an old woman had placed in her window. Being a
Devil of Sussex rather than of Miltonic invention, he was not clever,
and taking the candle light for the break of dawn, he fled and never
resumed the labour. That is the very infirm legend that is told and sold at the Dyke.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_196" id="Page_196"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="sidenote">HANGLETON</div>
<p>I might just mention that the little church which one sees from the Dyke
railway, standing alone on the hill side, is Hangleton. Dr. Kenealy, who
defended the Claimant, is buried there. The hamlet of Hangleton, which
may be seen in the distance below, once possessed a hunting lodge of the
Coverts of Slaugham, which, after being used as labourers' cottages, has
now disappeared. The fine Tudor mansion of the Bellinghams', now
transformed into a farm house, although it has been much altered, still
retains many original features. In the kitchen, no doubt once the hall,
on an oak screen, are carved the Commandments, followed by this
ingenious motto, an exercise on the letter E:</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>Persevere, ye perfect men,</div>
<div>Ever keep these precepts ten.</div>
</div></div>
<p class="center"><SPAN name="page196.png" id="page196.png"></SPAN><ANTIMG src="images/page196.png" width-obs='700' height-obs='476' alt="Hangleton House" /></p>
<h4><i>Hangleton House.</i></h4>
<p>From the Dyke hill one is within easy walking distance of many Wealden
villages. Immediately at the north end of the Dyke itself is Poynings,
with its fine grey cruciform church<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_197" id="Page_197"></SPAN></span> raising an embattled tower among
the trees on its mound. It has been conjectured from the similarity of
this beautiful church to that of Alfriston that they may have had the
same architect. Poynings (now called Punnings) was of importance in
Norman times, and was the seat of William FitzRainalt, whose descendants
afterwards took the name of de Ponyngs and one of whom was ennobled as
Baron de Ponyngs. In the fifteenth century the direct line was merged
into that of Percy. The ruins of Ponyngs Place, the baronial mansion,
are still traceable.</p>
<p>Following the road to the west, under the hills, we come first to
Fulking (where one may drink at a fountain raised by a brewer to the
glory of God and in honour of John Ruskin), then to Edburton (where the
leaden font, one of three in Sussex, should be noted), then to Truleigh,
all little farming hamlets shadowed by the Downs, and so to Beeding and
Bramber, or, striking south, to Shoreham.</p>
<div class="sidenote">NEWTIMBER</div>
<p>If, instead of turning into Poynings, one ascends the hill on the other
side of the stream, a climb of some minutes, with a natural amphitheatre
on the right, brings one to the wooded northern escarpment of
Saddlescombe North Hill, or Newtimber Hill, which offers a view little
inferior to that of the Dyke. At Saddlescombe, by the way, lives one of
the most learned Sussex ornithologists of the day, and a writer upon the
natural history of the county (so cavalierly treated in this book!), for
whose quick eye and descriptive hand the readers of <i>Blackwood</i> have
reason to be grateful. Immediately beneath Newtimber Hill lies
Newtimber, consisting of a house or two, a moated grange, and a little
church, which, though only a few yards from the London road, is so
hidden that it might be miles from everywhere. On the grass bank of the
bostel descending through the hanger to Newtimber, I counted on one
spring afternoon as many as a dozen adders basking in the sun. We are
here, though so near Brighton, in country where the badger is still
found, while the Newtimber woods are famous among collectors of moths.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_198" id="Page_198"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="sidenote">PYECOMBE CROOKS</div>
<p>If you are for the Weald it is by this bostel that you should descend,
but if still for the Downs turn to the east along the summit, and you
will come to Pyecombe, a straggling village on each side of the London
road just at the head of Dale Hill. Pyecombe has lost its ancient fame
as the home of the best shepherds' crooks, but the Pyecombe crook for
many years was unapproached. The industry has left Sussex: crooks are
now made in the north of England and sold over shop counters. I say
"industry" wrongly, for what was truly an industry for a Pyecombe
blacksmith is a mere detail in an iron factory, since the number of
shepherds does not increase and one crook will serve a lifetime and
more. An old shepherd at Pyecombe, talking confidentially on the subject
of crooks, complained that the new weapon as sold at Lewes, although
nominally on the Pyecombe pattern, is a "numb thing." The chief reason
which he gave was that the maker was out of touch with the man who was
to use it. His own crook (like that of Richard Jefferies' shepherd
friend) had been fashioned from the barrel of an old muzzle-loader. The
present generation, he added, is forgetting how to make everything: why,
he had neighbours, smart young fellows, too, who could not even make
their own clothes.</p>
<p>Pyecombe is but a few miles from Brighton, which may easily be reached
from it. A short distance south of the village is the Plough Inn, the
point at which the two roads to London—that by way of Clayton Hill,
Friar's Oak, Cuckfield, Balcombe and Redhill, and the other (on which we
are now standing) by way of Dale Hill, Bolney, Hand Cross, Crawley and
Reigate—become one.</p>
<p>On the way to Brighton from the Plough one passes through Patcham, a
dusty village that for many years has seen too many bicycles, and now is
in the way of seeing too many motor cars. In the churchyard is, or was,
a tomb bearing the following inscription, which may be quoted both as a
reminder of the more stirring experiences to which the Patcham people
were subject<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_199" id="Page_199"></SPAN></span> a hundred years ago, and also as an example of the truth
which is only half a truth:</p>
<div class="sidenote">SMUGGLER AND EXEMPLAR</div>
<blockquote><p><br/><br/><br/>Sacred to the memory of Daniel Scales, who was unfortunately shot
on Thursday Evening, Nov. 7, 1796.</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>Alas! swift flew the fatal lead</div>
<div>Which pierced through the young man's head,</div>
<div>He instant fell, resigned his breath,</div>
<div>And closed his languid eyes in death.</div>
<div>All ye who do this stone draw near,</div>
<div>Oh! pray let fall the pitying tear.</div>
<div>From the sad instance may we all</div>
<div>Prepare to meet Jehovah's call.</div>
</div></div>
</blockquote>
<p>The facts of the case bear some likeness to the death of Mr. Bardell and
Serjeant Buzfuz's reference to that catastrophe. Daniel Scales was a
desperate smuggler who, when the fatal lead pierced him, was heavily
laden with booty. He was shot through the head only as a means of
preventing a similar fate befalling his slayer.</p>
<p>Just beyond Patcham, as we approach Brighton, is the narrow chalk lane
on the left which leads to the Lady's Mile, the beginning of a superb
stretch of turf around an amphitheatre in the hills by which one may
gallop all the way to the Clayton mills. The grass ride extends to
Lewes.</p>
<p>Preston, once a village with an independent life, is now Brighton; but
nothing can harm its little English church, noticeable for a fresco of
the murder of Thomas à Becket, a representation dating probably from the
reign of Edward I.</p>
<p>This, however, is a digression, and we must return to Pyecombe in order
to climb Wolstonbury—the most mountainous of the hills in this part,
and indeed, although far from the highest, perhaps the noblest in mien
of the whole range, by virtue of its isolation and its conical shape.
The earthworks on Wolstonbury, although supposed to be of Celtic origin,
were probably utilised by the Romans for military purposes. More than
any of the Downs does Wolstonbury bring before one the Roman occupation
of our country.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_200" id="Page_200"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="sidenote">DANNY</div>
<p>Immediately below Wolstonbury, on the edge of the Weald, is Danny, an
Elizabethan house, to-day the seat of the Campions, but two hundred and
more years ago the seat of Peter Courthope, to whom John Ray dedicated
his <i>Collection of English Words not generally used</i>, and before then
the property of Sir Simon de Pierpoint. The park is small and without
deer, but the house has a façade of which one can never tire. I once saw
<i>Twelfth Night</i> performed in its gardens, and it was difficult to
believe that Shakespeare had not the spot in mind when he wrote that
play.</p>
<p class="center"><SPAN name="page200.png" id="page200.png"></SPAN><ANTIMG src="images/page200.png" width-obs='700' height-obs='307' alt="Malthouse Farm, Hurstpierpoint" /></p>
<h4><i>Malthouse Farm, Hurstpierpoint.</i></h4>
<p>The Danny drive brings us to Hurstpierpoint, or Hurst as it is generally
called, which is now becoming a suburb of Brighton and thus somewhat
losing its character, but which the hills will probably long keep sweet.
James Hannington, Bishop of Equatorial East Africa, who was murdered by
natives in 1885, was born here; here lived Richard Weeks, the antiquary;
and here to-day is the home of Mr. Mitten, most learned of Sussex
botanists.</p>
<p>To Hurst belongs one of the little Sussex squires to whose diligence as
a diarist we are indebted for much entertaining knowledge of the past.
Little Park, now the property of the Hannington family, where Thomas
Marchant, the diarist in question, lived, and kept his journal between
1714 and 1728, is<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_201" id="Page_201"></SPAN></span> to the north of the main street, lying low. The
original document I have not seen, but from passages printed by the
Sussex Archæological Society I borrow a few extracts for the light they
throw on old customs and social life.</p>
<div class="sidenote">FISH-BREEDING</div>
<blockquote><p>"October 8th, 1714. Paid 4<i>s.</i> at Lewes for ¼ lb., of tea; 5<i>d.</i>
for a quire of paper; and 6<i>d.</i> for two mousetraps.</p>
<p>"October 29th, 1714. Went to North Barnes near Homewood Gate to see
the pond fisht. I bought all the fish of a foot long and upwards at
50<i>s.</i> per C. I am to give Mrs. Dabson 200 store fish, over and
above the aforesaid bargain; but she is to send to me for them.</p>
<p>"October 30th, 1714. We fetched 244 Carps in three Dung Carts from
a stew of Parson Citizen at Street; being brought thither last
night out of the above pond.</p>
<p>"October 31st, 1714 (Sunday). I could not go to Church, being
forced to stay at home to look after, and let down fresh water to,
the fish; they being—as I supposed—sick, because they lay on the
surface of the pond and were easily taken out. But towards night
they sunk."</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The Little Park ponds still exist, but the practice of breeding fish has
passed. In Arthur Young's <i>General View of the Agriculture of the County
of Sussex</i>, 1808, quoted elsewhere in this book, is a chapter on fish,
wherein he writes: "A Mr. Fenn of London, has long rented, and is the
sole monopolizer of, all the fish that are sold in Sussex. Carp is the
chief stock; but tench and perch, eels and pike are raised. A stream
should always flow through the pond; and a marley soil is the best. Mr.
Milward has drawn carp from his marl-pits 25lb. a brace, and two inches
of fat upon them, but then he feeds with pease. When the waters are
drawn off and re-stocked, it is done with stores of a year old, which
remain four years: the carp will then be 12 or 13 inches long, and if
the water is good, 14 or 15. The usual season for drawing the water is
either Autumn<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_202" id="Page_202"></SPAN></span> or Spring: the sale is regulated by measure, from the eye
to the fork of the tail. At twelve inches, carp are worth 50<i>s.</i> and
3<i>l.</i> per hundred; at fifteen inches, 6<i>l.</i>; at eighteen inches, 8<i>l.</i>
and 9<i>l.</i> A hundred stores will stock an acre; or 35 brace, 10 or 12
inches long, are fully sufficient for a breeding pond. The first year
they will be three inches long; second year, seven; third year, eleven
or twelve; fourth year, fourteen or fifteen. This year they breed."</p>
<div class="sidenote">THOMAS MARCHANT'S HEADACHES</div>
<p>Although fish-breeding is not what it was, many of the Sussex ponds are
still regularly dragged, and the proceeds sold in advance to a London
firm. Sometimes the purchaser wins in the gamble, sometimes the seller.
The fish are removed alive, in large tanks, and sold as they are wanted,
chiefly for Jewish tables. But we must return to Thomas Marchant:—</p>
<blockquote><p>"January 16th (Sunday) 1715. I was not at church having a bad
headache.</p>
<p>"January 25th, 1715. We had a trout for supper, two feet two inches
long from eye to fork, and six inches broad; it weighed
ten-and-a-half pounds. It was caught in the Albourne Brook, near
Trussell House.... We staid very late and drank enough.</p>
<p>"April 15th, 1715. Paid my uncle Courtness 15<i>d.</i> for a small
bottle of Daffey's Elixir.</p>
<p>"July 18th, 1715. I went to Bolney and agreed with Edw. Jenner to
dig sandstone for setting up my father's tombstone, at 5<i>s.</i> I gave
him 6<i>d.</i> to spend in drink that he might be more careful.</p>
<p>"August 7th, (Sunday) 1715. I was not at church as my head ached
very much.</p>
<p>"November 22nd, 1716. Fisht the great pond and put 220 of the
biggest carp into the new pond, and 18 of the biggest tench. Put
also 358 store carp into the flat stew, and 36 tench; and also 550
very small carp into a hole in the low field.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_203" id="Page_203"></SPAN></span>"November 24th, 1716. Fisht the middle pond. Put 66 large carp into
the new pond, and 380 store tench into the flat stew, and 12 large
carp, 10 large tench, and 57 middle sized tench into the hovel
field stew.</p>
<p>"June 12th, 1717. I was at the cricket match at Dungton Gate
towards night.</p>
<p>"January 24th, 1718. A mountebank came to our towne to-day. He
calls himself Dr. Richard Harness. Mr. Scutt and I drank tea with
the tumbler. Of his tricks I am no judge: but he appears to me to
play well on the fiddle.</p>
<p>"January 30th (Friday), 1719. King Charles' Martyrdom. I was not at
church, as my head ached very much.</p>
<p>"February 28th, 1719. We had news of the Chevalier de St. George,
the Pretender, being taken and carried into the Castle of Milan.</p>
<p>"September 19th, 1719. John Parsons began his year last Tuesday. He
is to shave my face twice a week, and my head once a fortnight, and
I am to give him 100 faggots per annum.</p>
<p>"September 30th, 1719. Talked to Mrs. Beard, for Allan Savage,
about her horse that was seized by the officers at Brighton running
brandy.</p>
<p>"December 5th, 1719. My Lord Treep put a ferral and pick to my
stick. [My Lord Treep was a tinker named Treep who lived in Treep's
Lane. My Lord Burt, who is also mentioned in the diary, was a
farrier.]</p>
<p>"July 28th, 1721. Paid Harry Wolvin of Twineham, for killing an
otter in our parish. [An otter, of course, was a serious enemy to
the owner of stews and ponds.]</p>
<p>"February 7th, 1722. Will and Jack went to Lewes to see a prize
fight between Harris and another.</p>
<p>"September 18th, 1727. Dined at Mr. Hazelgrove's and cheapened a
tombstone."</p>
</blockquote><p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_204" id="Page_204"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>Thomas Marchant was buried September 17, 1728.</p>
<p>Less than two miles west of Hurstpierpoint is Albourne, so hidden away
that one might know this part of the country well and yet be continually
overlooking it. The western high road between Brighton and London passes
within a stone's throw of Albourne, but one never suspects the
existence, close by, of this retired village, so compact and virginal
and exquisitely old fashioned. It is said that after the execution of
Charles I Bishop Juxon lived for a while at Albourne Place during the
Civil War, and once escaped the Parliamentary soldiers by disguising
himself as a bricklayer. There is a priest's hiding hole in the house.</p>
<div class="sidenote">A GIANT TROUT</div>
<p>Some three miles north of Albourne is Twineham, another village which,
situated only on a by-road midway between two lines of railway, has also
preserved its bloom. Here, at the end of the seventeenth and beginning
of the eighteenth centuries, at Hickstead Place, a beautiful Tudor
mansion that still stands, lived Richard Stapley, another of the Sussex
diarists whose MSS. have been selected for publication by the Sussex
Archæological Society. I quote a few passages:—</p>
<blockquote><p>"In ye month of November, 1692, there was a trout found in ye
Poyningswish, in Twineham, which was 29 inches long from ye top of
ye nose to ye tip of ye taile; and John fflint had him and eat him.
He was left in a low slank after a fflood, and ye water fell away
from him, and he died. The fish I saw at John fflint's house ye
Sunday after they had him: and at night they boiled him for supper,
but could not eat one halfe of him; and there was six of them at
supper; John fflint and his wife Jane, and four of their children;
and ye next day they all fell on him again, and compassed him."</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Here we have the spectacle of a good man struggling with
accuracy:—"August 19th, 1698. Paid Mr. Stheward for Dr. Comber's
paraphrase on ye Common Prayer, 20<i>s.</i> and 6<i>d.</i> for carriage. I paid it
at ye end of ye kitchen table next ye<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_205" id="Page_205"></SPAN></span> chamber stairs door, and nobody
in ye room but he and I. No, it was ye end of ye table next ye parlour.</p>
<p>"April 26th, 1709. I bought a salmon-trout of William Lindfield of
Grubbs, in Bolney, which he caught ye night before in his net, by his
old orchard, which was wounded by an otter. The trout weighed 11 lbs.
and ½; and was 3 foot 2 inches long from end to end, and but 2 foot 9
inches between ye eye and ye forke." There is also a record of a salmon
trout being caught at Bolney early in the last century, which weighed
22lbs. and was sent to King George IV. at Brighton.</p>
<p>I must quote a prescription from the diary:—"To cure the
hoopingcough:—get 3 field mice, flaw them, draw them, and roast one of
them, and let the party afflicted eat it; dry the other two in the oven
until they crumble to a powder, and put a little of this powder in what
the patient drinks at night and in the morning." Mice played, and still
play in remote districts, a large part in the rural pharmacopeia. A
Sussex doctor once told me that he had directed the mother of a boy at
Portslade to put some ice in a bag and tie it on the boy's forehead.
When, the next day, the doctor asked after his patient, the mother
replied briskly:—"Oh, Tommy's better, but the mice are dead."</p>
<div class="sidenote">OATMEAL PUDDING</div>
<p>The Stapley family ate an oatmeal pudding made in the following
manner:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>Of oats decorticated take two pound,</div>
<div>And of new milk enough the same to dround;</div>
<div>Of raisins of the sun, ston'd, ounces eight;</div>
<div>Of currants, cleanly picked, an equal weight;</div>
<div>Of suet, finely sliced, an ounce at least;</div>
<div>And six eggs newly taken from the nest;</div>
<div>Season this mixture well with salt and spice;</div>
<div>Twill make a pudding far exceeding nice;</div>
<div>And you may safely feed on it like farmers.</div>
<div>For the receipt is learned Dr. Harmer's.</div>
</div></div>
<div class="sidenote">THE GOOD HORSE'S REWARD</div>
<p>Richard Stapley's diary was continued by his son Anthony<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_206" id="Page_206"></SPAN></span> and grandson
John. The most pleasing among the printed extracts is this:—"1736, May
the 21st. The white horse was buried in the saw-pit in the Laine's wood.
He was aged about thirty-five years, as far as I could find of people
that knew him foaled. He had been in his time as good a horse as ever
man was owner of, and he was buried in his skin being a good old horse."</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_207" id="Page_207"></SPAN></span></p>
<p class="center"><SPAN name="page207.png" id="page207.png"></SPAN><ANTIMG src="images/page207.png" width-obs='700' height-obs='388' alt="Ditchling" /></p>
<h4><i>Ditchling.</i></h4>
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Update Required
To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.