RYE AND EASTBOURNE 117 



clean country, among clean trees, clean fields, 

 clean farming, clean houses, and clean peasantry 

 to Westenhanger. On the march I included a 

 call at a church, where every text — and many 

 are illuminated in fresco on the walls and pillars 

 — Is cheerful and hopeful, and a man can go out 

 from them conscientiously free to feel as little 

 miserable as circumstances permit, and, if 

 absolutely joUy, no worse a sinner than he is 

 obliged to be. And that's all — nay, wait a 

 moment — I forgot the clean, brisk, cobweb- 

 clearing breeze that somewhat discounted 

 jolliness. 



I don't know what such a mighty swagger 

 place as Eastbourne will say to being put in the 

 same chapter with little old-world Rye. East- 

 bourne is one of my unlucky places as to 

 weather. Somehow I always get under streaky 

 weather there, arriving in sunshine and a balmy 

 or clear frosty atmosphere good enough to tempt 

 a cripple to try and hop because it makes him 

 feel so lightsome, and finish with bitter gales 

 searching out and finding the rheumaticy patches 

 in my poor old bones what time the stormy 

 winds do blow at me cutting rain, sleet, snow, or 

 hail. The old place I knew when I was in the 

 hobbledehoy stage. Then its best friend — which 

 was, and is now, the Duke of Devonshire — could 

 scarcely have dreamed of bringing it, even by 

 unceasing liberal nurture. Into so splendid mature 

 personality as It has reached. Success worthily 

 attained makes a grateful spectacle, and East- 

 bourne the Successful in the forenoon of a 

 brilliant brisk day In April was comforting to 

 contemplate. Moreover, I had a good time on 

 the way there in Willingdon Church, whose 



