<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></SPAN>CHAPTER XXVI</h2>
<h3>LEWES</h3>
<blockquote><p>The Museum of Sussex—The riches of Lewes—Her leisure and
antiquity—A plea from <i>Idlehurst</i>—Old Lewes disabilities—The
Norman Conquest—Lewes Castle—Sussex curiosities—Lewes among her
hills—The Battle of Lewes—The Cluniac Priory—Repellers of the
French—A comprehender of Earthquakes—The author of <i>The Rights of
Man</i>—A game of bowls—"Clio" Rickman and Thomas Tipper—Famous
Lewes men—The Fifth of November—The Sussex martyrs.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Apart from the circumstance that the curiosities collected by the
county's Archæological Society are preserved in the castle, Lewes is the
museum of Sussex; for she has managed to compress into small compass
more objects of antiquarian interest than any town I know. Chichester,
which is compact enough, sprawls by comparison.</p>
<p>The traveller arriving by train no sooner alights from his carriage than
he is on the site of the kitchens of the Cluniac Priory of St. Pancras,
some of the walls of which almost scrape the train on its way to
Brighton. That a priory eight hundred years old must be disturbed before
a railway station can be<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_240" id="Page_240"></SPAN></span> built is a melancholy circumstance; but in the
present case the vandalism had its compensation in the discovery by the
excavating navvies of the coffins of William de Warenne and his wife
Gundrada (the Conqueror's daughter), the founders of the priory, which
otherwise would probably have been lost evermore.</p>
<p>The castle, which dominates the oldest part of the town, is but a few
minutes' stiff climb from the station; Lewes's several ancient churches
are within hailing distance of each other; the field of her battle,
where Simon de Montfort defeated Henry III., is in view from her
north-west slopes; while the new martyrs' memorial on the turf above the
precipitous escarpment of the Cliffe (once the scene of a fatal
avalanche) reminds one of what horrors were possible in the name of
religion in these streets less than four hundred years ago.</p>
<div class="sidenote">THE RICHES OF LEWES</div>
<p>Here are riches enough; yet Lewes adds to such mementoes of an historic
past two gaols—one civil and one naval—a racecourse, and a river, and
she is an assize town to boot. Once, indeed, Lewes was still better off,
for she had a theatre, which for some years was under the management of
Jack Palmer, of whom Charles Lamb wrote with such gusto. Added to these
possessions, she has, in Keere Street, the narrowest and steepest
thoroughfare down which a king (George IV.) ever drove a coach and four,
and a row of comfortable and serene residences (on the way to St. Ann's)
more luxuriantly and beautifully covered with leaves than any I ever
saw. (Much of Lewes in September is scarlet with Virginia creeper.)</p>
<p class="center"><SPAN name="page241.png" id="page241.png"></SPAN><ANTIMG src="images/page241.png" width-obs='700' height-obs='693' alt="High Street, Southover" /></p>
<h4><i>High Street, Southover.</i></h4>
<div class="sidenote">"BRIGHTHELMSTONE, NEAR LEWES"</div>
<div class="sidenote">JOHN HALSHAM'S DREAM</div>
<p>Although less than half an hour from Brighton by train, and an hour by
road, Lewes is yet a full quarter of a century behind it. She would do
well jealously to maintain this interval. Lewes was old and grey before
Brighton was thought of (indeed, it was, as we have seen, a Lewes man
that discovered Brighton—Dr. Russell, who lies in his grave in South
Malling church); let her cling to her seniority. As a town<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_241" id="Page_241"></SPAN></span> "in the
movement," as a contemporary of the "Queen of Watering Places," she
would cut a poor figure. But it is amusing to think of the old address
of a visitor to Brighton, "at Brighthelmstone, near Lewes," and to read
the county paper, <i>The Sussex Weekly Advertiser; or, Lewes Journal</i>, of
a century ago, with its columns of Lewes news and paragraphs of Brighton
correspondence. Lewes will cease to have charm the moment she
modernises. In the words of the author of <i>Idlehurst</i>, as he looked down
on the huddling little settlement from the Cliffe Hill: "Let us keep a
country town or two as preserves for clean atmospheres of body and soul,
for the almost lost secret of sitting still.... I find myself tangled
in<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_242" id="Page_242"></SPAN></span> half-dreams of a devolution by which, when national amity shall have
become mentionable besides personal pence, London shall attract to
herself all the small vice, as she does already most of the great, from
the country, all the thrusters after gain, the vulgar, heavy-fingered
intellects, the Progressive spouters, the Bileses, the speculating
brigandage, and shall give us back from the foggy world of clubs and
cab-ranks and geniuses, the poets and painters, all the nice and witty
and pretty people, to make towns such as this, conserved and purified,
into country-side Athenses; to form distinct schools of letters and art,
individual growths, not that universal Cockney mind, smoke-ingrained,
stage-ridden, convention-throttled, which now masquerades under the
forms of every clime and dialect within reach of a tourist ticket."</p>
<p>The customs of Lewes at the end of the Saxon rule and the beginning of
the Norman, as recorded in the pages of the Domesday Book, show that
residence in the town in those days was not unmixed delight, except,
perhaps, for murderers, for whom much seems to have been done. Thus: "If
the king wished to send an armament to guard the seas, without his
personal attendance, twenty shillings were collected from all the
inhabitants, without exception or respect to particular tenure, and
these were paid to the men-at-arms in the ships.</p>
<p>"The seller of a horse, within the borough, pays one penny to the mayor
(sheriff?) and the purchaser another; of an ox, a half-penny; of a man,
fourpence, in whatsoever place he may be brought within the rape.</p>
<p>"A murderer forfeits seven shillings and fourpence; a ravisher forfeits
eight shillings and fourpence; an adulterer eight shillings and
fourpence; an adultress the same. The king has the adulterer, the bishop
the adulteress."</p>
<div class="sidenote">THE PROVIDENT DE WARENNES</div>
<p>With the Conquest new life came into the town, as into South Sussex
generally. The rule of the de Braoses, who dominated so much of the
country through which we have been passing, is here no more, the great
lord of this district<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_243" id="Page_243"></SPAN></span> being William de Warenne, who had claims upon
William the Conqueror, not only for services rendered in the Conquest
but as a son-in-law. When, therefore, the contest was over, some of the
richest prizes fell to Earl de Warenne. Among them was the township of
Lewes, whose situation so pleased the Earl that he decided to make his
home there. His first action, then, was to graft upon the existing
fortress a new stronghold, the remains of which still stand.</p>
<p>Ten years after the victory at Hastings the memory of the blood of the
sturdy Saxons whom he had hacked down at Battle began so to weigh upon
de Warenne's conscience that he set out with Gundrada upon an expiatory
pilgrimage to Rome. Sheltering on the way in the monastery of St. Per,
at Cluny, they were so hospitably received that on returning to Lewes
William and Gundrada built a Priory, partly as a form of gratitude, and
partly as a safeguard for the life to come. In 1078, it was formally
founded on a magnificent scale. Thus Lewes obtained her castle and her
priory, both now in ruins, in the one of which William de Warenne might
sin with a clear mind, knowing that just below him, on the edge of the
water-brooks, was (in the other) so tangible an expiation.</p>
<p>The date of the formation of the priory spoils the pleasant legend which
tells how Harold, only badly wounded, was carried hither from Battle,
and how, recovering, he lived quietly with the brothers until his
natural death some years later. A variant of the same story takes the
English king to a cell near St. John's-under-the-Castle, also in Lewes,
and establishes him there as an anchorite. But (although, as we shall
see when we come to Battle, the facts were otherwise) all true
Englishmen prefer to think of Harold fighting in the midst of his army,
killed by a chance arrow shot into the zenith, and lying there until the
eyes of Editha of the Swan-neck lighted upon his dear corpse amid the
hundreds of the slain.</p>
<div class="sidenote">THE CASTLE'S CURIOSITIES</div>
<p>The de Warennes held Lewes Castle until the fourteenth century; the
Sussex Archæological Society now have it in their<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_244" id="Page_244"></SPAN></span> fostering care.
Architecturally it is of no great interest, although it was once unique
in England by the possession of two keeps; nor has it romantic
associations, like Kenilworth or even Carisbrooke. The crumbling masonry
was assisted in its decay by no siege or bombardment; the castle has
been never the scene of human struggle. Visitors, therefore, must take
pleasure chiefly in the curiosities collected in the museum and in the
views from the roof. A few little rooms hold the treasures amassed by
the Archæological Society; amassed, it may be said, with little
difficulty, for the soil of the district is fertile in relics. From
Ringmer come rusty shield bosses and the mouldering skull of an
Anglo-Saxon; from the old Lewes gaol come a lock and a key strong enough
to hold Jack Sheppard; and from Horsham Gaol a complete set of fetters
for ankles and wrists, once used to cramp the movements of female
malefactors. Here, in a case, is a tiny bronze thimble that tipped the
pretty finger of a Roman seamstress—one only among scores of tokens of
the Roman occupation of the county. Flint arrow heads and celts in
profusion take us back to remoter times. A Pyecombe crook hangs on one
wall, and relics of the Sussex ironworks are plentiful. The highest room
contains rubbings of our best brasses. Outside is an early Sussex
plough. In a corner is a beadle's staff that once struck terror into the
hearts of Sabbath-breaking boys; and near one of the windows is a little
brass crucifix from St. Pancras' Priory. But nothing, the custodian
tells me, so pleases visitors to this very catholic collection as the
mummied hand of a murderess.</p>
<div class="sidenote">THE BATTLE OF LEWES</div>
<p>Looking down and around from the roof of
the keep, you are immediately struck by the wide shallow hollow in which
Lewes lies. It is something the shape of a dairy basin, the gap to the
north-west, between Malling Hill and Offham, serving for the lip.
Nothing could be flatter than the smiling meadows, streaked with tiny
streams, stretching between Lewes and the coast line to the south-east
(with the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_245" id="Page_245"></SPAN></span> exception of one symmetrical hillock just out of the town).
Among them curls the lazy Ouse; just beneath you Lewes sleeps,
red-roofed as an Italian town, sending up no hum of activity, listless
and immovable save for a few spirals of silent smoke. The surrounding
hills are very fine: Firle Beacon in the far east; Mount Caburn, a noble
cone, in the near east; Mount Harry to the west, on whose slopes Henry
III., assisted by the fiery Prince Edward, fought the Barons. So fiery,
indeed, was this lad that he forgot all about his father, and gave chase
to a small detachment of the enemy, catching them up, and hewing them
down with the keenest enjoyment, while the unhappy Henry was being
completely worsted by de Montfort. It was a bloody battle, made up, as
old Fabian wrote, of embittered men, with hearts full of hatred, "eyther
desyrous to bring the other out of lyfe." Great fun was made by the
humorists of the time, after the battle, over the fact that Richard,
King of the Romans, Henry's brother, was captured in a windmill in which
he had taken refuge. This mill stood near the site of the Black Horse
inn. In <i>The Barons' Wars</i>, by Mr. Blaauw, the Sussex antiquary, the
whole story is told.</p>
<p>Lewes has played but a small part in history since that battle; but, as
we saw when we were at Rottingdean, it was one of her Cluniac priors
that repulsed the French in 1377, and her son, Sir Nicholas Pelham, who
performed a similar service in 1545, at Seaford. As the verses on his
monument in St. Michael's Church run:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>What time the French sought to have sackt Sea-Foord,</div>
<div>This Pelham did repel-em back aboord.</div>
</div></div>
<p class="center"><SPAN name="page246.png" id="page246.png"></SPAN><ANTIMG src="images/page246.png" width-obs='669' height-obs='700' alt="Ann of Cleves' House, Southover" /></p>
<h4><i>Ann of Cleves' House, Southover.</i></h4>
<div class="sidenote">THE CLUNIAC PRIORY</div>
<p>The Cluniac priory of St. Pancras was dissolved by Henry VIII. in 1537,
Thomas Cromwell, that execrable vandal, not only abolishing the monks
but destroying the buildings, which covered, with their gardens and fish
ponds, forty acres. The ruins that remain give some idea of the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_246" id="Page_246"></SPAN></span> extent
of this wonderful priory, another relic being the adjacent mound on
which the Calvary stood, probably constructed of the earth removed for
the purpose from the Dripping Pan, as the hollow circular space is
called where Lewes now plays cricket. One very pretty possession of the
monks was allowed to stand until quite recent times—the Columbarium,
which was as large as a church and contained homes for 3,228 birds. It
has now vanished; but an idea of what it was may be gained from the
pigeon house at Alciston, a few miles distant, which belonged to Battle
Abbey.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_247" id="Page_247"></SPAN></span>The priory's possessions were granted to Cromwell by Henry VIII., who,
tradition asserts (somewhat directly in the face of historical
evidence), murdered one of his wives on a winding stair in the building,
and may therefore have been glad to see its demolition. Which wife it
was, is not stated, but when Cromwell went the way of all this king's
favourites, the property was transferred to Ann of Cleves, who is
supposed to have lived in the most picturesque of the old houses on the
right hand side of Southover's street as you leave Lewes for the Ouse
valley.</p>
<p>Southover church, in itself a beautiful structure of the grave red type,
with a square ivied tower and the most delicate vane in Sussex, is
rendered the more interesting by the possession of the leaden caskets of
William de Warenne and Gundrada and the superb tomb removed from Isfield
church and very ingeniously restored. These relics repose in a charming
little chapel built in their honour.</p>
<div class="sidenote">TOM PAINE</div>
<p>A notable man who had association with Lewes was Tom Paine, author of
<i>The Rights of Man</i>. He settled there as an exciseman in 1768, married
Elizabeth Ollive of the same town at St. Michael's Church in 1771, and
succeeded to her father's business as a tobacconist and grocer. Paine
was more successful as a debater than a business man. As a member of the
White Hart evening club he was more often than any other the winner of
the Headstrong Book—an old Greek Homer despatched the next morning to
the most obstinate haranguer of the preceding night. It was at Lewes
that Tom Paine's thoughts were first turned to the question of
government. He used thus to tell the story. One evening after playing
bowls, all the party retired to drink punch; when, in the conversation
that ensued, Mr. Verril (it should be Verrall) "observed, alluding to
the wars of Frederick, that the King of Prussia was the best fellow in
the world for a king, he had so much of the devil in him. This, striking
me with great force, occasioned the reflection, that if it were
necessary for a king<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_248" id="Page_248"></SPAN></span> to have so much of the devil in him, kings might
very beneficially be dispensed with."</p>
<p>I thought of that historic game of bowls as I watched four Lewes
gentlemen playing this otherwise discreetest of games in the meadow by
the castle gate on a fine September evening. Surely (after the historic
Plymouth Hoe) a lawn in the shadow of a Norman castle is the ideal spot
for this leisurely but exciting pastime. The four Lewes gentlemen played
uncommonly well, with bowls of peculiar splendour in which a setting of
silver glistened as they sped over the turf. After each game one little
boy bearing a cloth wiped the bowls while another registered the score.
And now I feel that no one can really be said to have seen Lewes unless
he has watched the progress of such a game: it remains in my mind as
intimate a part of the town and the town's spirit as the ruins of the
Priory, or Keere Street, or the Castle itself.</p>
<p>The house of Tom Paine, just off the High Street, almost opposite the
circular tower of St. Michael's, has a tablet commemorating its
illustrious owner. It also has a very curious red carved demon which
otherwise distinguishes it. Lewes was not always proud of Tom Paine; but
Cuckfield went farther. In 1793, I learn from the <i>Sussex Advertiser</i>
for that year, Cuckfield emphasised its loyalty to the constitution by
singing "God save the King" in the streets and burning Paine in effigy.</p>
<div class="sidenote">"CLIO" RICKMAN</div>
<p>Mention of Tom Paine naturally calls to mind his friend and biographer
(and my thrice great uncle), Thomas "Clio" Rickman, the Citizen of the
World, who was born at Lewes in 1760. Rickman began life as a Quaker,
and therefore without his pagan middle name, which he first adopted as
the signature to epigrams and scraps of verse in the local paper, and
afterwards incorporated in his signature. Rickman's connection with Tom
Paine and his own revolutionary habits were a source of distress to his
Quaker relatives at Lewes, so much so that there is a story in the
family of the Citizen being<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_249" id="Page_249"></SPAN></span> refused admission to a house in the
neighbourhood where he had eight impressionable nieces, and, when he
would visit their father, being entertained instead at the Bear. His
Bible, with sceptical marginal notes, is still preserved, with the bad
pages pasted together by a subsequent owner.</p>
<p>After roving about in Spain and other countries he settled as a
bookseller in London, and it was in his house and at his table that <i>The
Rights of Man</i> was written. "This table," says an article on Rickman in
the <i>Wonderful Museum</i>, "is prized by him very highly at this time; and
no doubt will be deemed a rich relic by some of our irreligious
connoisseurs." It was shown at the Tom Paine exhibition a few years ago.
Rickman escaped prosecution, but he once had his papers seized.</p>
<div class="sidenote">TIPPER'S EPITAPH</div>
<p>According to his portrait Clio wore a hat like a beehive, and he
invented a trumpet to increase the sound of a signal gun. His verse is
exceedingly poor, his finest poetical achievement being the epitaph on
Thomas Tipper in Newhaven churchyard. Tipper was the brewer of the ale
that was known as "Newhaven Tipper"; but he was other things too:</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>Honest he was, ingenuous, blunt and kind,</div>
<div>And dared what few dare do, to speak his mind.</div>
<div>Philosophy and history well he knew,</div>
<div>Was versed in Physic and in surgery too,</div>
<div>The best old Stingo he both brewed and sold,</div>
<div>Nor did one knavish act to get his gold.</div>
<div>He played through life a varied comic part,</div>
<div>And knew immortal Hudibras by heart.</div>
</div></div>
<p>Charles Lamb greatly admired the end of this epitaph. Clio Rickman died
in 1834.</p>
<p>Among other men of note who have lived in Lewes or have had association
with it, was John Evelyn the diarist, who had some of his education at
Southover grammar school: Mark Antony Lower, the Sussex antiquary, to
whom all writers on the county are indebted; the Rev. T. W. Horsfield,
the historian of Sussex, without whose work we should also often<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_250" id="Page_250"></SPAN></span> be in
difficulties; and the Rev. Gideon Mantell, the Sussex geologist, whose
collection of Sussex fossils is preserved in the British Museum.</p>
<p>In St. Ann's church on the hill lie the bones of a remarkable man who
died at Lewes (in the tenth climacteric) in 1613—no less a person than
Thomas Twyne, M.D. In addition to the principles of physic he
"comprehended earthquakes" and wrote a book about them. He also wrote a
survey of the world. I quote Horsfield's translation of the florid Latin
inscription to his memory: "Hippocrates saw Twyne lifeless and his bones
slightly covered with earth. Some of his sacred dust (says he) will be
of use to me in removing diseases; for the dead, when converted into
medicine, will expel human maladies, and ashes prevail against ashes.
Now the physician is absent, disease extends itself on every side, and
exults its enemy is no more. Alas! here lies our preserver Twyne; the
flower and ornament of his age. Sussex deprived of her physician,
languished, and is ready to sink along with him. Believe me, no future
age will produce so good a physician and so renowned a man as this has.
He died at Lewes in 1613, on the 1st of August, in the tenth
climacteric, (viz. 70)."</p>
<div class="sidenote">DR. JOHNSON AT LEWES</div>
<p>Dr. Johnson was once in Lewes, on a day's visit to the Shelleys, at the
house which bears their name at the south end of the town. One of the
little girls becoming rather a nuisance with her questions, the Doctor
lifted her into a cherry tree and walked off. At dinner, some time
later, the child was missed, and a search party was about to set out
when the Doctor exclaimed, "Oh, I left her in a tree!" For many years
the tree was known as "Dr. Johnson's cherry tree."</p>
<p class="center"><SPAN name="page251.png" id="page251.png"></SPAN><ANTIMG src="images/page251.png" width-obs='543' height-obs='700' alt="St. Ann's Church, Southover" /></p>
<h4><i>St. Ann's Church, Southover.</i></h4>
<div class="sidenote">THE FIFTH</div>
<p>Lewes is ordinarily still and leisurely, with no bustle in her steep
streets save on market days: an abode of rest and unhastening feet. But
on one night of the year she lays aside her grey mantle and her quiet
tones and emerges a Bacchante robed in flame. Lewes on the 5th of
November is an incredible sight; probably no other town in the United
Kingdom offers<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_251" id="Page_251"></SPAN></span> such a contrast to its ordinary life. I have never heard
that Lewes is notably Protestant on other days in the year, that any
intolerance is meted out to Roman Catholics on November 4th or November
6th; but on November 5th she appears to believe that the honour of the
reformed church is wholly in her hands,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_252" id="Page_252"></SPAN></span> and that unless her voice is
heard declaiming against the tyrannies and treacheries of Rome all the
spiritual labours of the eighth Henry will have been in vain.</p>
<p>No fewer than eight Bonfire Societies flourish in the town, all in a
strong financial position. Each of these has its bonfire blazing or
smouldering at a street corner, from dusk to midnight, and each, at a
certain stage in the evening, forms into procession, and approaching its
own fire by devious routes, burns an effigy of the Pope, together with
whatever miscreant most fills the public eye at the moment—such as
General Booth or Mr. Kruger, both of whom I have seen incinerated amid
cheers and detonations.</p>
<div class="sidenote">LEWES ROUSERS</div>
<p>The figures are not lightly cast upon the flames, but are conducted
thither ceremoniously, the "Bishop" of the society having first passed
sentence upon them in a speech bristling with local allusions. These
speeches serve the function of a <i>revue</i> of the year and are sometimes
quite clever, but it is not until they are printed in the next morning's
paper that one can take their many points. The principal among the many
distractions is the "rouser," a squib peculiar to Lewes, to which the
bonfire boys (who are, by the way, in great part boys only in name, like
the postboys of the past and the cowboys of the present) have given
laborious nights throughout the preceding October. The rouser is much
larger and heavier than the ordinary squib; it is propelled through the
air like a rocket by the force of its escaping sparks; and it bursts
with a terrible report. In order to protect themselves from the ravages
of the rouser the people in the streets wear spectacles of wire netting,
while the householders board up their windows and lay damp straw on
their gratings. Ordinary squibs and crackers are also continuously
ignited, while now and then one of the sky rockets discharged in flights
from a procession, elects to take a horizontal course, and hurtles
head-high down the crowded street.</p>
<p>So the carnival proceeds until midnight, when the firemen,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_253" id="Page_253"></SPAN></span> who have
been on the alert all the evening, extinguish the fires. The Bonfire
Societies subsequently collect information as to any damage done and
make it good: a wise course, to which they owe in part the sanction to
renew the orgie next year. Other towns in Sussex keep up the glorious
Fifth with some spirit, but nowhere in England is there anything to
compare with the thoroughness of Lewes.</p>
<p class="center"><SPAN name="page253.png" id="page253.png"></SPAN><ANTIMG src="images/page253.png" width-obs='700' height-obs='547' alt="The Ouse at South Street, Lewes" /></p>
<h4><i>The Ouse at South Street, Lewes.</i></h4>
<div class="sidenote">THE LEWES MARTYRS</div>
<div class="sidenote">RICHARD WOODMAN</div>
<p>To some extent Lewes may consider that she has reason for the display,
for on June 22, 1557, ten men and women were tied to the stake and
burned to death in the High Street for professing a faith obnoxious to
Queen Mary. Chief of these courageous enthusiasts were Richard Woodman
and Derrick Carver. Woodman, a native of Buxted, had settled at
Warbleton, where he was a prosperous iron master. All went well until
Mary's accession to the throne, when the rector of Warbleton, who had
been a Protestant under<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_254" id="Page_254"></SPAN></span> Edward VI., turned, in Foxe's words, "head to
tayle" and preached "clean contrary to that which he had before taught."
Woodman's protests carried him to imprisonment and the stake.
Altogether, Lewes saw the death of sixteen martyrs.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_255" id="Page_255"></SPAN></span></p>
<p class="center"><SPAN name="page255.png" id="page255.png"></SPAN><ANTIMG src="images/page255.png" width-obs='700' height-obs='414' alt="The Ouse at Piddinghoe" /></p>
<h4><i>The Ouse at Piddinghoe.</i></h4>
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