<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></SPAN>CHAPTER XXVII</h2>
<h3>THE OUSE VALLEY</h3>
<blockquote><p>The two Ouses—Three round towers—Thirsty
labourers—Telscombe—The hills and the sea—Mrs. Marriott Watson's
Down poem—Newhaven—A Sussex miller—Seaford's past—A politic
smuggler—Electioneering ingenuity—Bishopstone.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The road from Lewes to the sea runs along the edge of the Ouse levels,
just under the bare hills, passing through villages that are little more
than homesteads of the sheep-farmers, albeit each has its church—Iford,
Rodmell, Southease, Piddinghoe—and so to Newhaven, the county's only
harbour of any importance since the sea silted up the Shoreham bar. You
may be as much out of the world in one of these minute villages as
anywhere twice the distance from London; and the Downs above them are
practically virgin soil. The Brighton horseman or walker takes as a rule
a line either to Lewes or to Newhaven, rarely adventuring in the
direction of Iford Hill, Highdole Hill, or Telscombe village, which
nestles three hundred feet high, over Piddinghoe. By day the waggons ply
steadily between Lewes and the port, but other travellers are few. Once<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_256" id="Page_256"></SPAN></span>
evening falls the world is your own, with nothing but the bleat of sheep
and the roar of the French boat trains to recall life and civilisation.</p>
<div class="sidenote">THE OUSE VALLEY</div>
<p>The air of this valley is singularly clear, producing on fine days a
blue effect that is, I believe, peculiar to the district. In the
sketches of a Brighton painter in water colours, Mr. Clem Lambert, who
has worked much at Rodmell, the spirit of the river valleys of Sussex is
reproduced with extraordinary fidelity and the minimum loss of
freshness.</p>
<p class="center"><SPAN name="page256.png" id="page256.png"></SPAN><ANTIMG src="images/page256.png" width-obs='700' height-obs='564' alt="Rodmell" /></p>
<h4><i>Rodmell.</i></h4>
<p>Horsfield, rather than have no poetical blossom to deck his page at the
mention of the Lewes river, quotes a passage from "The Task":</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain</div>
<div>Of spacious meads, with cattle sprinkled o'er,</div>
<div>Conducts the eye along his sinuous course</div>
<div>Delighted.</div>
</div></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_257" id="Page_257"></SPAN></span>Dr. Johnson's remark that one green field is like another green field,
might, one sees, be extended to rivers, for Cowper was, of course,
describing the Ouse at Olney.</p>
<p>The first village out of Lewes on the Newhaven road is Kingston (one of
three Sussex villages of this name), on the side of the hill, once the
property of Sir Philip Sidney. Next is Iford, with straw blowing free
and cows in its meadows; next Rodmell, whence Whiteway Bottom and Breaky
Bottom lead to the highlands above: next Southease, where the only
bridge over the Ouse between Lewes and Newhaven is to be crossed: a
little village famous for a round church tower, of which Sussex knows
but three, one other at St. Michael's, Lewes, and one at Piddinghoe, the
next village.</p>
<div class="sidenote">SOUTHEASE THIRST</div>
<p>The Southease rustics were once of independent mind, as may be gathered
from the following extract from the "Manorial Customs of
Southease-with-Heighton, near Lewes," in 1623: "Every reaper must have
allowed him, at the cost of the lord or his farmer, one drinkinge in the
morninge of bread and cheese, and a dinner at noone consistinge of
rostmeate and other good victualls, meete for men and women in harvest
time; and two drinkinges in the afternoone, one in the middest of their
afternoone's work and the other at the ende of their day's work, and
drinke alwayes duringe their work as neede shall require."</p>
<div class="sidenote">PIDD'NHOO</div>
<p>Telscombe, the capital of these lonely Downs and as good an objective as
the walker who sets out from Brighton, Rottingdean, or Lewes to climb
hills can ask, is a charming little shy hamlet which nothing can harm,
snugly reposing in its combe, above Piddinghoe. Piddinghoe (pronounced
Pidd'nhoo) is a compact village at the foot of the hill; but it has
suffered in picturesqueness and character by its proximity to the
commercial enterprise of Newhaven. Hussey, in his <i>Notes on the Churches
of ... Sussex</i>, suggests that a field north of the village was once the
site of a considerable Roman villa. A<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_258" id="Page_258"></SPAN></span> local sarcasm credits Piddinghoe
people with the habit of shoeing their magpies.</p>
<p class="center"><SPAN name="page258.png" id="page258.png"></SPAN><ANTIMG src="images/page258.png" width-obs='700' height-obs='537' alt="Piddinghoe" /></p>
<h4><i>Piddinghoe.</i></h4>
<p>The Downs when we saw them first, between Midhurst and Chichester,
formed an inland chain parallel with the shore: here, and eastward as
far as Beachy Head, where they suddenly cease, their southern slopes are
washed by the Channel. This companionship of the sea lends them an
additional wildness: sea mists now and then envelop them in a cloud; sea
birds rise and fall above their cliffs; the roar or sigh of the waves
mingles with the cries of sheep; the salt savour of the sea is borne on
the wind over the crisp turf. It was, I fancy, among the Downs in this
part of Sussex that Mrs. Marriott-Watson wrote the intimately
understanding lines which I take the liberty of quoting:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_259" id="Page_259"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="sidenote">A HILL POEM</div>
<p class="center"><br/><br/><br/>ON THE DOWNS.</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>Broad and bare to the skies</div>
<div>The great Down-country lies,</div>
<div>Green in the glance of the sun,</div>
<div>Fresh with the clean salt air;</div>
<div>Screaming the gulls rise from the fresh-turned mould,</div>
<div>Where the round bosom of the wind-swept wold</div>
<div>Slopes to the valley fair.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>Where the pale stubble shines with golden gleam</div>
<div>The silver ploughshare cleaves its hard-won way</div>
<div>Behind the patient team,</div>
<div>The slow black oxen toiling through the day</div>
<div>Tireless, impassive still,</div>
<div>From dawning dusk and chill</div>
<div>To twilight grey.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>Far off the pearly sheep</div>
<div>Along the upland steep</div>
<div>Follow their shepherd from the wattled fold,</div>
<div>With tinkling bell-notes falling sweet and cold</div>
<div>As a stream's cadence, while a skylark sings</div>
<div>High in the blue, with eager outstretched wings,</div>
<div>Till the strong passion of his joy be told.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>But when the day grows old,</div>
<div>And night cometh fold on fold,</div>
<div>Dulling the western gold,</div>
<div>Blackening bush and tree,</div>
<div>Veiling the ranks of cloud,</div>
<div>In their pallid pomp and proud</div>
<div>That hasten home from the sea,</div>
<div>Listen—now and again if the night be still enow,</div>
<div>You may hear the distant sea range to and fro</div>
<div>Tearing the shingly bourne of his bounden track,</div>
<div>Moaning with hate as he fails and falleth back;</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>The Downs are peopled then;</div>
<div>Fugitive, low-browed men</div>
<div>Start from the slopes around</div>
<div>Over the murky ground</div>
<div>Crouching they run with rough-wrought bow and spear,</div>
<div>Now seen, now hid, they rise and disappear,</div>
<div>Lost in the gloom again.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_260" id="Page_260"></SPAN></span>Soft on the dew-fall damp</div>
<div>Scarce sounds the measured tramp</div>
<div>Of bronze-mailed sentinels,</div>
<div>Dark on the darkened fells</div>
<div>Guarding the camp.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>The Roman watch-fires glow</div>
<div>Red on the dusk; and harsh</div>
<div>Cries a heron flitting slow</div>
<div>Over the valley marsh</div>
<div>Where the sea-mist gathers low.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>Closer, and closer yet</div>
<div>Draweth the night's dim net</div>
<div>Hiding the troubled dead:</div>
<div>No more to see or know</div>
<div>But a black waste lying below,</div>
<div>And a glimmering blank o'erhead.</div>
</div></div>
<p>Of Newhaven there is little to say, except that in rough weather the
traveller from France is very glad to reach it, and on a fine day the
traveller from England is happy to leave it behind. In the churchyard is
a monument in memory of the officers and crew of the <i>Brazen</i>, which
went down off the town in 1800, and lost all hands save one.</p>
<div class="sidenote">A SUSSEX MILLER</div>
<p>On the way to Seaford, which is nearly three miles east, sheltering
under its white headland (a preliminary sketch, as one might say, for
Beachy Head), we pass the Bishopstone tide mills, once the property of a
sturdy and prosperous Sussex autocrat named William Catt, the grower of
the best pears in the county, and the first to welcome Louis Philippe
(whom he had advised on milling in France) when he landed at Newhaven in
exile. A good story told of William Catt, by Mr. Lower, in his <i>Worthies
of Sussex</i>, illustrates not only the character of that sagacious and
kindly martinet, but also of the Sussex peasant in its mingled
independence and dependence, frankness and caution. Mr. Catt, having
unbent among his retainers at a harvest supper, one of them, a little
emboldened perhaps by draughts of Newhaven "tipper," thus addressed his
master.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_261" id="Page_261"></SPAN></span><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</SPAN></span> "Give us yer hand, sir, I love ye, I love ye," but, he added,
"I'm danged if I beant afeared of ye, though."</p>
<p class="center"><SPAN name="page261.png" id="page261.png"></SPAN><ANTIMG src="images/page261.png" width-obs='556' height-obs='700' alt="Southover Grange" /></p>
<h4><i>Southover Grange.</i></h4>
<p>There was a hermitage on the cliff at Seaford some centuries ago. In
1372 the hermit's name was Peter, and we find him receiving letters of
protection for the unusual term of five years. In the vestry of the
church is an old monument bearing the riddling inscription: "... Also,
near this place lie two mothers, three grandmothers, four aunts, four
sisters, four daughters, four grand-daughters, three cousins—but VI
persons." A record in the Seaford archives runs thus: "Dec. 24, 1652.
Then were all accounts taken and all made even, from the beginning of
y<sup>e</sup> world, of the former Bayliffes unto the present time, and there
remained ... y<sup>e</sup> sum of twelve pounds, sixteen shillings, seven pence."</p>
<div class="sidenote">THE PRICE OF TWO VOTES</div>
<p>Millburgh House, Seaford, was of old called Corsica Hall, having been
built (originally at Wellingham, near Lewes, and then moved) by a
smuggler named Whitfield, who was outlawed for illicit traffic in
Corsican wine. He obtained the removal of his outlawry by presenting
George II. with a selection of his choicest vintages. Another agreeable
story of local corruption is told concerning Seaford's old
electioneering days. It was in 1798, during the candidature of Sir
Godfrey Webster of Battle Abbey. Sir Godfrey was one day addressed by
Mrs. S—— (nothing but Horsfield's delicacy keeps her name from fame) in
the following terms: "Mr. S——, sir, will vote, of course, as he
pleases—I have nothing to do or to say about him; but there is my
gardener and my coachman, both of whom will, I am sure, be entirely
guided by me. Now, they are both family men, Sir Godfrey, and I wish to
do the best I can to serve them. Now, I know you are in great doubt, and
that two sure votes are of great value: I'll tell you what you shall do.
You shall give me <i>£</i>200; nobody will know any thing about it; there will
be no danger—no bribery, Sir Godfrey, at all. I will desire the men to
go and vote for you and Colonel Tarleton, and it will all be right, and
no harm done. The bargain," adds<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_263" id="Page_263"></SPAN></span> Horsfield, "was struck—the money
paid—the votes given as promised; and the election over, the old lady
gave the two men <i>£</i>30 a piece, and pocketed the rest for the good of her
country."</p>
<div class="sidenote">SEAFORD TO LEWES</div>
<p>Seaford's neighbouring village, Bishopstone, in addition to its tide
mills—the only tide mills in Sussex excepting that at Sidlesham, now
disused—possessed once the oldest windmill in the county. In the very
charming little church is buried James Hurdis, author of <i>The Village
Curate</i>, whom we shall meet again at Burwash. From Bishopstone we may
return to Lewes either by the road through South Heighton, Tarring
Neville, Itford Farm, and Beddingham, or cross the river again at
Southease, and retrace our earlier steps through Rodmell and Iford. That
is the quicker way. The road through Beddingham is longer, and
interesting rather for the hills above it than for anything upon it. To
these hills we come in the next chapter.</p>
<p class="center"><SPAN name="page263.png" id="page263.png"></SPAN><ANTIMG src="images/page263.png" width-obs='700' height-obs='552' alt="Near Tarring Neville" /></p>
<h4><i>Near Tarring Neville.</i></h4>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_264" id="Page_264"></SPAN></span></p>
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