The charge that might be brought against Sussex, that it lacks sombre scenery and the elements of dark romance, that its character is too open and transparent, would be urged to no purpose in Kingly Vale, which, always grave and silent, is transformed at dusk into a sinister and fantastic forest, a home for witchcraft and unquiet spirits.
So it seems to me; but among the verses of Bernard Barton, the Quaker poet and the friend of Charles Lamb, I lately chanced upon a sonnet "written on hearing it remarked that the scenery [of Kingly Bottom] was too gloomy to be termed beautiful; and that it was also associated with dolorous recollections of Druidical sacrifices." In this poem Barton takes a surprisingly novel line.

"Nay, nay, it is not gloomy" he begins, and the end is thus:-- Nor fancy Druid rites have left a stain Upon its gentle beauties:--loiter there In a calm summer night, confess how fair Its moonlight charms, and thou wilt learn how vain And transitory Superstition's reign Over a spot which gladsome thoughts may share.
The ordinary person, not a poet, would, I fear, prefer to think of Kingly Bottom's Druidical past.
[Sidenote: THE MARDEN VIOLETS] The last time I was in Kingly Bottom--it was in April--after leaving the barrows on the summit of the Bow Hill, above the Vale, I walked by devious ways to East Marden, between banks thick with the whitest and sweetest of sweet white violets.

East Marden, however, has no inn and is therefore not the best friend of the traveller; but it has the most modest and least ecclesiastical-looking church in the world, and by seeking it out I learned two secrets: the finest place for white violets and the finest place to keep a horse.

There is no riding country to excel this hill district between Singleton and the Hampshire border.
At the neighbouring village of Stoughton, whither I meant to walk (since an inn is there) was born, in 1783, the terrible George Brown--Brown of Brighton--the fast bowler, whose arm was as thick as an ordinary man's thigh.

He had two long stops, one of whom padded his chest with straw.