CHAPTER VIII 



The Downs 



old Gilbert White goes into raptures over 

 that " magnificent range of mountains, the 

 Sussex downs," we may smile and think of making 

 mountains of molehills ; but none of us who know 

 the country half as well as he did will be much inclined 

 to quarrel with his enthusiasm. For the downs grow 

 upon one, and theirs is far more the beauty of ex- 

 pression than of form. Rarely, indeed, is it a case of 

 strong love at first sight ; rather it is a friendship 

 warming into affection as you become aware of count- 

 less lurking graces and alive to a bewitching play of 

 feature in sun, shade, and storm. Unless to the little 

 craft that run in and hug their shores, tacking and 

 twisting by each waving beauty bend of the coast, the 

 downs are a closed book to passers-by on the great 

 waterways of the Channel. The sections of white 

 cliffs show like so many blank title-pages, giving no 

 clue to all that lies behind. Wind round their inland 

 skirts by rail or road, and you look up to a rolling 

 succession of mammoth barrows, strongly suggestive 



