green track, and took still further to the left, and by an easy slope made my way to the valley, past an old farmhouse, and a very deep dingle, from the bottom of which trees are growing to a great height. The beauty of this spot comes to a sudden end, for at the head of the dingle, round a bend of the road, is a steep embankment, with a train running on the top of it, leading to lime-works or some other works, and bringing us back at once from the poetry of nature to the prose of real life.

The path takes up the dingle again, at the bottom of which is a brook filled with water-cresses, and finally comes out at the entrance to the village of Cocking, where a finger-post informs the wayfarer that there is a

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bridle-path over the Downs to Chilgrove." Cocking stands close under the Downs, and it might be made a halting place for the night if there were any decent. accommodation to be found there; but there is none. I asked a man where the church was, but he did not answer; when I asked him for the public-house he understood at once, and pointed out the "Bell.” According to my original plan, I had marked this as the half-way house to Amberley, but the young woman who was behind the bar informed me that there was no bed to be had for love or money-there were, she said, but five rooms in the house, and they "wanted them all themselves. It was a very ill-convenient house." Moreover, they had nothing to offer by way of refreshment but bread and cheese. To this, however, I managed to get a cup of tea added. The butter was very rank, the cheese was in the shape of a ball, of

a most beautiful pink colour outside, and a dirty yellow inside. The tea had a strong aromatic odour, but it did not taste like tea, and for once I was reduced to the necessity of drawing upon a small flask which I carry in my pocket for special emergencies, and the top of which I seldom unscrew for months together. But Cocking was too much for it-I quietly poured the tea out of the window, and took some milk slightly modified with the contents of the flask. Then, after consulting the map, I determined to go on to Midhurst, but not by the straight road, for I found that I had still some little time to spare before the hour of darkness. So I made up my mind to go round instead of straight, and turned by the church and a mill-stream below it by a field path running parallel with the Downs for Heyshott-a pretty path, enabling one to see the hills from the plain, and agreeably diversifying the day's walk. Heyshott is a straggling and untidy-looking village, and there is no temptation to loiter there a moment longer than is necessary. After passing through it there is a turnpike road on which a finger-post directs the traveller to Midhurst. We do not take this road, however, but go across it, and continue over another field into a smaller public road, leading, as a man informed me, to "Cobden's big house." "A blackthorn winter, sir," added the man, for the north-east wind was blowing rather sharply at the time. "In the middle of April it always comes on. I've noticed it for years."

The road passes close under the house in which

Mr. Cobden lived, and which was presented to him by the Anti-Corn-Law League. It is a common-place looking house, such as one may see scattered all over the suburbs of London, but it stands in a beautiful situation, and close to fine woods, through part of which a stream flows gently, apparently affording good promise for the angler. At the end of a deep lane is an obelisk to Mr. Cobden's memory, and to the right of that is another path across fields, which ultimately comes out on the high road to Midhurst. The views are very fine in all directions, especially towards the Downs, where Butser Hill stands out prominently, with a cleft between it and War Down through which the Portsmouth road passes. Midhurst was farther off than I thought, but as the Spanish proverb says, "He who goes on, gets there," and I went on, and did "get there," and found tolerable accommodation at the "Angel Inn." Moreover, I had an opportunity of hearing politics discussed, and many curious views expressed which observers of the "signs of the times" might have been induced to ponder over-but to a tired man bed is more attractive than politics, and by nine o'clock I had taken myself beyond reach of all controversy concerning Mr. Gladstone and Lord. Beaconsfield. The distance traversed during the day was about seventeen miles.

South Down Inns.-Poor Accommodation.-The Road to Graffham. -A Village Churchyard.-Lavington Park and Church-An English Scene.-The Bishop's Grave.-Birds and Flowers.Duncton Beacon-Magnificent Views.-Sutton and the "White Horse."-The Wren.-An Old Cottage.-A Roman House under the Downs.- Making Home comfortable 1,900 years ago.The Woods and Hills.-Duncton to Amberley.-Off by Train.

It will be gathered from the last Chapter that there is some difficulty in making a leisurely exploration of the Downs between Petersfield and Amberley. The distance is too great to be accomplished in one day, unless by a professional "walkist," who goes along see

ing nothing, and thinking only of how many miles he can get through in the course of a certain number of hours. That method of spinning through a country would be to me a punishment and not a pleasure, for surely half one's enjoyment when out for a day consists in feeling that one is not pressed for time, but can loiter as long as inclination or opportunity may suggest. Now if the traveller is determined to go from Petersfield to Amberley without diverging from his main route he must take a supply of provisions with him, and camp out on the hills. In the absence of suitable arrangements for such a cruise, he must come down from the hills, and perhaps find himself driven to go a little further from them than he desires, for the villages at the foot of the Downs can offer no accommodation. The Downs are very pleasant by daylight, but when night comes on and the north-east wind sets in, the weaknesses of humanity cry aloud for supper and a bed. Thus it was with me on the preceding day-I did not want to go to Midhurst, but the collapse of Cocking as a place of entertainment obliged me to push on, and most tourists who travel this road will find themselves in the same predicament. But should they never have been to Midhurst before, they will not regret spending a few hours there, for it adjoins one of the most beautiful parks in England, adorned with some picturesque ruins -the park and ruins of Cowdray.* Nowhere in the county of Sussex will the traveller find finer trees or

* Described in the author's "Field Paths and Green Lanes," Chapter IX.