for a fountain, the bath-room, and other contrivances which in these "enlightened days" would scarcely find a place in the designs of an ordinary architect. Suppose an Englishman, even a rich Englishman, were to build a house here, would he dream of putting up a fountain and running hot-air pipes all through the building? It is not quite certain that room would be found even for a sumptuous bath. Evidently the Roman gentleman who made his home here on the road to Regnum, which we call Chichester-the station at the tenth mile-stone, "Ad Decimum," as Murray reminds us-did everything that was in his power to render his exile tolerable. He brought into a savage country the household appliances of civilization, and must often have wished that he could also have brought the blue skies of his native land-for very dark and sunless must the winters have seemed, to say nothing of too many of the summers! In one of the rooms there was a figure of Winter, still quite fresh and clear-the figure and face of an old man with a bare bough over his shoulder. He stands staring frigidly at the stranger, when the window is opened upon him, just as he did upon the luxurious owner of the villa nearly two thousand years ago. And this house was at least six hundred feet in length, for the remains of it extend over two fields at least, and it is doubtful whether all of it has been discovered. What a spot in which to have built a palace, amid a horde of barbarians!

Not a little impressed with these relics, I made once more for the hills, across the fields in front of the

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villa," and through a wood, which in the old Roman's day was a thick forest infested with wild beasts. Here, doubtless, he often came hunting; here too, it may be, were wont to come his daughters, wandering about the margin of the wood at this very time of the year, picking violets and primroses. Whether these flowers then adorned the woods or not may perhaps be doubtful, but they grow there abundantly now, and the deep combe above was dotted over with cowslips. A little path wanders round the combe, and at the top of the hill there runs a green track, from which the landscape may be surveyed for many a mile. To the right are the woods of Arundel Park, and far beyond is the sea. Northwards there extends a vast plain, with the river Arun winding through it. The town of Amberley stands near the river, and a mile or so from it is the railroad station, under some white chalk gaps in the Downs across the valley. It does not take very long to find one's way through the woods and over the hills to a main road leading to Houghton, and thence to Amberley station, where for the present I suspended my journey—the east wind having set in for a steady blow, and the sunshine having taken its departure, perhaps for days to come. Amberley is another place which provides but sorry accommodation for the traveller, but fortunately the train is at hand to help him on his way to better quarters, and he may please himself whether he will turn his face towards London or Brighton, in either of which haunts of inen he will find better lodgings than at Amberley.

A Sussex Town-Taking Life leisurely.-The Sign-Painter.-A Child's Tribute to the Dead.--The Road to Wiston.-An ancient Park. -Views of the Downs.-A Picture from a Drawing-room Window. Owners of Wiston.-The Entrance Hall.-Carvings and Pictures.-Wiston Church.-Sussex Lanes. - Chanctonbury Ring.-Views of the Surrey Hills.-Characteristic English Scenery.-Muntham Firs.-Over the Hills to Amberley.

STEYNING is a very good example of a Sussex townclean, neat, and old-fashioned, but sunk into a sleep as profound as that which fell upon the hero of the Kaatskill Mountains, after he had drank freely from the

mysterious keg of liquor. A shop or two may be seen here and there, but the wares exhibited in the windows are such as have long gone out of date. Occasionally one of the inhabitants may be seen in the streets, moving with great deliberation, pausing long at a favourable corner, and looking wistfully round to see if he can find any neighbour with whom he may exchange a few musty ideas. Should he be disappointed in his quest, he will return with slow and hesitating steps to his occupation, which most probably consists in staring vacantly at nothing out of his window. One almost expects to see a fine green moss all over an inhabitant of Steyning. One day as I passed through the town I saw a man painting a new sign over a shop, a procceding which so aroused my curiosity that I stood for a minute or two to look on. The painter filled in one letter, gave a huge yawn, looked up and down two or three times as if he had lost something, and finally descended from his perch and disappeared. Five weeks later I passed that way again, and it is a fact that the same man was at work on the same sign. Perhaps when the reader takes the walk I am about to recommend to his attention-a walk which comprises some of the finest scenery in Sussex-that sign will be finished, and the accomplished artist will have begun another; but I doubt it. There is plenty of time for everything in Steyning.

Some old cottages in or around the town are curious and interesting, and the church-dating back, as archæologists say, to the time of Henry the First-cannot be

passed unseen, for it stands close by the high road. Within the building are some ancient monuments, but in the churchyard I saw no token of grief or love so pathetic as that which lay upon a humble newly-made grave. The turf had not long been replaced over the spot where some poor man or woman had found a last resting place, and on the grave were two small, common earthenware mugs, such as children use, with a little bunch of grasses in each, tied loosely with a piece of wool. In one of the bunches was a sprig of southernwood, the "old man of the cottagers; but with that exception the long, wild grasses of the meadows were all that the children could bring to decorate their father's or mother's grave. For it was evidently a child's offering; the homely pot, the bit of wool, the grass such as children love to pluck when it comes into ear, told the story. From some fireside a well-known friend had been taken away, and the little ones had followed the sorely missed parent here, with their simple gift from the fields, wondering, perhaps, how long it would be ere father or mother came home to them again. How just an emblem had they unconsciously chosen of all life! "As for man, his days are as grass; the wind passeth over it and it is gone, and the place thereof shall know it no more."

An old, deep lane, such as the people of Devonshire fancy is peculiar to their county, leads from Steyning towards Wiston; a beautiful lane, with many a wild flower on its banks, and tall trees above to shade the