HOME-TRAVEL.*

Mn. HISSEY has chosen a delightful subject for his pencil and pen. The beauty of the Howe Counties is inexhaustible, and he who knows them best is the most conscious how much there is still to know. It is because this lovely country is, as it were, at our door, that people neglect it. Even scenery has no charms for many tourists unless it happens to be in vogue, and bears the hall-mark of fashion. Kent and Sussex own several watering-places to which visitors crowd during the season; but there is not one of these resorts, with the exception of Hastings, and perhaps of Eastbourne, which gives any indication of the rural beauty that makes the interior of these counties so attractive to the lover of Nature. What this beauty is, can be known only to the patient tourist who, on horseback or on foot, wanders out of beaten tracks, and visits villages and hamlets which are almost as primitive now as in the days before railroads. Even Surrey—one of the smallest of counties, and near though it be to London—contains many a stretch of country rich in the loveliness of hill and moorland, and some- times not without wild and varied features that remind us of Scotland. And it is possible, as the writer of this article can bear witness, to find in some parts of Surrey a solitude and silence unbroken save by the song of the skylark or the whistle of the ploughboy. Nowhere in England, perhaps, are there more famous memories within a range so narrow; and nowhere are there spots more satisfying to the eye that loves to rest on what is all the fairer because it is familiar. Assuredly Fox did not exaggerate when he called Mickleham "the most beautiful valley within two hundred miles of London."

Mr. Hissey skirts only a corner of this county, and after a few pages of travel, the reader finds himself in Sussex. While upon the road, the author omits no opportunity of lamenting the change from the good old times, which we venture to say he would not have liked so well had he lived in them. Would he have undertaken the expedition here described in the last century, and could he if he would? A hundred years ago, the main coach-roads throughout England were fairly good, though it took two days to travel from Bath to London ; but it is only necessary to refer to the Rural Rides of Cobbett, to prove that Mr. Hissey would never in those days have attempted to drive a pair of horses in a phaeton through the by-roads of Sussex and Kent. In Pope's time, the roads of Sussex were the worst in the Kingdom, and it took Prince George six hours to travel nine miles. "Indeed, we had never done it," says one of his attendants, "if our good master had not several times lent us a pair of horses out of his own coach, whereby we were able to trace out the way for him." Half-a-century later, Horace Walpole wrote,—" If you love good roads, be so kind as never to go into Sussex." In this respect, therefore, the old times, of which our praise is often due to ignorance, cannot be accounted good. Some of the writer's complaints are not unreasonable. The keen spirit of competition, carried as it is to excess, is not a sign of modern progress to be re- garded with satisfaction. It infects every trade, and forces people to be content with inferior work. An ordinary builder, for instance, is satisfied with putting up a house that will sell, without much regard to the quality of his workmanship. "I call it a scandalous waste of good material, a building like this," said a country builder to Mr. Hissey ; "why, I could make three houses of the stuff used in this one." "'But do

• A Holiday on the Road : an Artist's Wanderings in Kent, Sussex, and Surrey, By James John Hissey. London; Bentley.

you think,' I ventured to remark, your new houses would be quite as pleasant to live in as these old ones?' I don't know about that,' he replied ; I builds houses for others to live ihi if a house lasts a man his life, what more can he want P' " And, while making allowance for the pessimism of an old man, there is, we fear, more than a grain of truth in the opinion expressed by a village tradesman who was asked if things were not improved since he was young :—

"No, Sir, I can't say as how I think they have ; it is much harder to get a living now than it was then. In the old times the gentry used to spend a great deal of money where they resided ; now they gets all their things down from London ; they only deal with us for small trifles, or when pressed for something. It's not fair ! How are we to pay rent and taxes if we gets no customers but the poor folk who haven't much to spend ? I can remember in the past, when the travellers from the wholesale houses came round to collect money for goods, if any of us run a little short, our neighbours would help us,—we used to lend and borrow of each other ; nowadays, we try and cut each other out, the old friendly feeling has quite gone, and the world is in consequence not so good a placate live in,—leastways, that is my opinion."

A shepherd Mr. Hissey accosted on the hills told the same story as the shopkeeper, and even made out that dogs were not as good as when he was young, that his dog was "not a patch" to the dog's mother, and that his crook was not half as good and cost twice as much as his father paid for his. "That were a real Pyecombe crook, but they don't make the like now." It is an old tale, with a partial truth in it, and a truth that may seem evident to individuals when it will not hold good of the community. Even the appliances of modern life are not advantages without drawbacks, as every business man knows who is worried with telegraphs and telephones ; but no sane man wishes to return to the England of half-a-century ago, when it took months to communicate with places that are now divided from us by days. "I am doomed," said Constable, "never to see the living scenes that inspired the landscape of Wilson and Claude. No; but I was born to paint a happier land, my own dear England; and when I cease to love her, may I, as Wordsworth says, never more hear— Her green leaves rustle, or her torrents roar."

The wholesome feeling of Constable animates Mr. Hissey, and for the sake of it, the reader will readily pardon his rather wearisome lamentations over the decay of old ways and manners caused by modern enterprise. "The more I travel abroad," he writes, "the more beautiful seems my own country to me." He holds, too, and perhaps he is right, that a perfect day in England is a thing that cannot be equalled or approached anywhere in the world. The author's style is not generally to be praised ; it is too wordy and exclamatory ; but we are glad to quote the following passage, written as it evidently is with a heartfelt sense of pleasure. He is de- scribing the beautiful road leading from Mayfield to Hailsham,

right through the heart of Sussex :—

" The landscape was bathed in a soft golden sunshine, the tender blue above was flecked with careless drifting clouds, causing ever-changing lights and shadows to chase each other in endless succession over the far-extending prospect, till they lost themselves in the dim dreamy distance. A balmy southern air, too, was blowing a delicious soft south-west breeze, wild and warm, balmy yet bracing, the kindliest and pleasantest breeze there is. Even upon such a day a London street might have appeared almost beautiful ; but after all the bright inspiriting day did not make the scenery, it merely lent an added charm to it. However, the country we passed through seemed to us surpassingly lovely, a combination in itself of all sorts of pleasantness aud good things, small as well as great, from the little daisy that dotted the fresh green meadows to the mighty swelling distant downs. A country it was of hills and woods, of sheltered valleys and windmill- crowned heights, of cultivated lands and wild wastes charmingly contrasting. A country abounding as well in human associations, a country of old homes and picturesque manor-houses, many of these in former times having been the residences of thriving iron- masters, which fact may account for their number and importance ; now they are mostly converted into farmsteads, less ambitious, but not less eye-pleasing than when in the full prosperity of their former estate. Possibly even more delightful to look upon with their additional outlying barns, oast-houses, rambling sheds and cattle shelters, their deeply strawed yards, and the general gathering of odds-and-ends—ricks, waggons, carts, ploughs, harrows, wheelbarrows, and the like, grouped about in delightful disorder, giving charming effects of light and shade, of form and colour. Now and again we caught a glimpse of a stately mansion, and by the side of our way we passed many a cosy cottage, with gardens of homely flowers, comfortable-looking cottages and picturesque, and more than once we observed one that would almost come up to a poet's ideal of what such English homes should be. Cottages whose gardens were colourful, sweet-scented and gay with roses, carnations, stocks, passion-flowers, sun-flowers, hollyhocks, and I know not what else. These gardens were cheerful spots of bright colour in the green landscape. Cottages whose walls were smothered in honeysuckle and various creepers, whose red-tiled roofs were golden with lichen, green with mosses, and yellow with stonecrop, and whose whole appearance betokened homely content- ment."

Cowper, it may be remembered, writes of being daunted by the "tremendous height" of the Sussex hills ; and Horace Walpole, writing in 1749, says :—" We thought ourselves in the northernmost part of Britain We journeyed over alpine mountains drenched in clouds." In actual measurement, the South Downs, which extend for fifty-three miles, have an average height of five hundred feet, and there are four or five hills upwards of eight hundred feet in height ; but it is not always the loftiest eminence that impresses the traveller most strongly, and there are spots in Sussex where, without much exercise of imagination, he might fancy himself in Yorkshire or in Scotland.

Among the characteristic features of Sussex are its wind- mills, which add so much to the beauty of a landscape. The oldest, according to Mr. Hissey, are the most picturesque. The whole structure of the mill moves on a huge swivel, and is turned by a long lever. Sailors might find them tolerable, but for landsmen the perpetual motion must be unpleasant. The traveller, upon entering one of these mills, found it difficult to keep his feet. "She rocks about a good deal to-day," said the miller ; "you see, there's a high wind on, and she's running hard; and like a good many of us, she's not so young and strong as she was. But, bless you! you should just be in her in the winter when it's blowing a regular storm ; she rocks then, I can tell you. Soinetimes I don't quite like it myself, and I clear out. You see, she's old ; my grandfather built her when he was a young man, and that's many years gone by; and the old mill is supported upon a single centre-beam ; so if that should give way, the whole concern would blow right over."

With an artist's eye, Mr. Hissey points out the life these windmills give to the landscape, and he observes that from one of the spurs of the South Downs he has counted nearly twenty at a time, and most of them at work. Much as he loves what is old, he has not a word to say in favour of Sussex signposts. They are, he says, of different kinds, some utterly worthless, the arms having long ago disappeared; some with arms, but with the directions on them worn entirely away ; some in good order, but pointing only in one direction ; some with an arm stretched out at the junction of two roads midway between them, so that it is impossible to say to which it refers ; while some which may be perfect, boldly point in the wrong way ; and finally, there is the signpost

in good condition, possessed of all its arms and inscrip- tions, and "this is the rarest post of all." He might have

added to this list the signpost that tells lies as to dis- tances, one of the most irritating of all these wayside guides. The absence of signposts, or their defects, forms, indeed, one of the difficulties of travel in the by-ways of Sussex, and Mr. Jennings, who, in his delightful book, Field Paths and Green Lanes, covers much of Mr. Hissey's ground, when describing what is apparently the same route between Salehurst and Bodiam, which perplexed the artist-traveller, says you must not notice the signposts, or rather you must invariably take the opposite road. "When the road comes out at the finger-post which says go to the left, then go to the right ; do it every time." Both travellers, by-the-way, met with a curious instance of rural stupidity at Salehurst. Mr.

Jennings, who wished to see the church, asked a boy he met, where the clerk lived :—" At whiiam," said he. This was encouraging, but indefinite. And where is his home?' `Down theer,' pointing vaguely all across the horizon. 'Where are the keys of the church ?' 'Don't knoaw." What will you do with twopence if I give it you ?' 'Don't kniiaw ;' but he manifested a hearty desire to find out." And here is Mr.

Hissey's experience, which caps that of Mr. Jennings Can you tell me, my lad, if this is the way to Bodiam Noa, I

can't.' 'Do you know where it leads to?' ' Noa, I don't.' 'Where are you coming from, then ?' Hoara." And what is the name of the place you live in?' It ain't got no name. I lives over yonder,' pointing backwards indefinitely into space. 'Then where are you going to F' 'I don't know.' 'But you are going somewhere, surely?' 'Ees.' 'And you don't know where you are going to?' Noa.' "

Old houses, old churches, old farm-buildings, everything that is quaint and has the moss of age upon: it, has a charm

for Mr. Hissey, who, in spite of his regrets for the past, has a large faculty of enjoyment. The book is one to give us a kindly feeling for the writer, whose warm love of England leads him even to praise the moisture of the climate, which makes it, he says, the most charming of all. For atmo- spheric effects, very possibly, but assuredly not for com- fort; and we prefer agreeing with Mr. Jennings, that if the English climate has a fault, which he is unwilling to admit, "but if it has, excessive dryness of the atmosphere is. not the one." To follow Mr. Hissey through his pleasant pil- grimage would need more space than we can give. It is, enough, perhaps, to recommend a book full of healthy enthu- siasm and agreeable description, a book, too, which may lead some readers—the more the better—to resolve, with old Thomas Fuller, to see their own country before crossing over the threshold. We must not omit to add that the numerous illustrations add greatly to the interest of the text, and do credit to Mr. Hissey's taste and skill.