WEST OF THE ADUR 233 



that many a pilgrim to the South Downs, who has 

 cooled himself in burning summer weather in the 

 delicious shade of Stanmer, wUl consider my words 

 almost sacrilegious. Then I have to reckon with 

 Parson Gilpin, who rode over these downs a century 

 or longer ago, and scornfully said of them that they 

 were " entirely destitute of ornament." An occasional 

 glimpse of the sea, he wrote, imparted a little life 

 and variety to the tame monotonous scene. It is true 

 that he gave a little faint praise to the situation of 

 Lewes; but even this he qualified by saying that 

 the hills round Lewes were chalk — " and chalk spoils 

 any landscape." Poor old chalk ! 



I am not abusing Gilpin ; on the contrary, I love 

 and reverence his memory because of his life-work, 

 about which he wrote no book, and told the world 

 nothing. Nevertheless, I cannot help smiling when I 

 recall the fact that this last book, in which, like the 

 glorified landscape gardener that he was, he spoke in 

 dispraise of the downs, was inscribed to the memory of 

 a still living wife, the faithful companion of his rambles 

 for over fifty years. Of course he quite expected that 

 she would be gone before the book was out ; but he was 

 greatly mistaken, just like the rogues who lied in the 

 famous ballad of the mad dog and the man who was 

 bitten by it. He it was, even Gilpin, who died, leaving 

 his good wife alive and well to publish the book, dedi- 

 cation and all ! 



One need not fear to offend the parson of Boldre 



