with labourers' cots, standing amongst green gardens and tall trees, all gathered round the quaintest little church it is possible to find in England. What a spot for an English Hans Christian Anderson! How cleverly would he describe the look of that little church tower crowned with its conical hat, just for all the world like an old witch; its three windows answering to eyes and nose, giving her a queerly solemn expression, like some ancient tabby who has sat there dreaming, dreaming for ages! For down in this quiet Dean every one must rub his eyes now and then to assure himself that he is not asleep. Up the high slopes of the downs, here and there, a flock of sheep are browsing, but it is too far off to hear their bleat, or even the tinkle of their bells. Swallows and blackbirds are for ever flying across the hollow, just as their ancestors have done for centuries.
What traditions, what tales one might listen to if some old dreamer lying in yonder little graveyard could wake up and relate them! Of the old Saxon, grown peaceful and home-loving, who hid himself away in this nook, and built a church where he might daily pray, "From the terror of the Northmen, good Lord, deliver us"; of the watch and ward there was when the news came that a Danish chuile had been seen in the Sea Ford, or lying under Beachy Head; and how they prepared to carry off wives and children, cattle and goods, up to some town which lay deeper in the heart of the Downs.
Age after age has passed away, and no change has this little village known, save when the old religion passed away and gave place to the new. Still remains the big old font, in which they were ready to immerse a Danish sinner, if he would only give up his wolfish rapacity and be friends with his Saxon brother. Here too, is the priest's house, so ancient that one can imagine the thralls, clad in the same smocks then as now, only wearing the great iron collar of service round their neck, coming to their pastor to recount their griefs, and to crave his intercession with their master to save them from the lash.
Returning once more into the valley of the Cuckmere, we try to wake up, but the spirit of the place is not conducive to concentration of purpose, and we soon find ourselves wandering up an opening in the hills which seems to invite investigation. A
