TO BRIGHTON. 213 



There were towns, of course, seventy years ago, but 

 even the towns were penetrated with what, for want 

 of a better word, may be called country sentiment. 

 Just the reverse is now the case; the most distant 

 hamlet which the wanderer in his autumn ramblings 

 may visit, is now more or less permeated with the 

 feelings and sentiment of the city. No written history 

 has preserved the daily life of the men who ploughed 

 the Weald behind the hills there, or tended the sheep 

 on the Downs, before our beautiful land was crossed 

 with iron roads ; while news, even from the field of 

 Waterloo, had to travel slowly. And, after all, 

 written history is but words, and words are not 

 tangible. 



But in this collection of old English jugs, and mugs, 

 and bowls, and cups, and so forth, exhibited in the 

 Museum, there is the real presentment of old rural 

 England. Feeble pottery has ever borne the impress 

 of man more vividly than marble. From these they 

 quenched their thirst, over these they laughed and 

 joked, and gossiped, and sang old hunting songs till 

 the rafters rang, and the dogs under the table got up 

 and barked. Cannot you see them? The stubbles 

 are ready now once more for the sportsmen. 



With long-barrelled flint-lock guns they ranged 

 over that wonderful map of the land which lies spread 

 out at your feet as you look down from the Dyke. 

 There are already yellowing leaves; they will be 

 brown after a while, and the covers will be ready 

 once more for the visit of the hounds. The toast 

 upon this mug would be very gladly drunk by the 

 agriculturist of to-day in his silk hat and black 



