When we lived in New York, you and Dad and I, we used to joke about the way we should feel in England if we should ever go to visit Dad's ancestral Devonshire. We used to pretend that, after being accustomed to the vast distances of America, we should be afraid of tumbling off the edge of England; but so far I find that I don't dread that imminent peril. Just now England seems so vast that my only fear is I mayn't have time to reach the Roman Wall.
The Duke's midges bit us a good deal, in the park, so we didn't linger, but went back to Apollo, where Young Nick's remarkable appearance had attracted a crowd of boys and girls from Arundel town. They stood in the road gaping at him, with that steady, unblinking stare English children and French grown-ups have, while the brown image sat motionless in the car, as scornfully oblivious of his critics as if he'd been the idol he looked.
Poor Sir Lionel hates the attention his extraordinary little chauffeur excites, for, in spite of his long expatriation, he loathes being conspicuous in any way as heartily as other Englishmen do. But (Mrs. Norton has told me) he saved Young Nick from being murdered by someone who was a "family enemy." Since then—it was when Nick was scarcely more than a child—the brown image has worshipped the Dragon, and refused to be separated from him. When Sir Lionel proposed providing for him well, and leaving him behind, Nick made no complaints, but began industriously to starve himself to death. So, of course, he had to be brought to England, and his master just makes the best of him, costume, features, broomstick legs, and all.
We had tea in a picture of Turner's: for Littlehampton, with its tidal river, its harbour and pier, its fishing boats and shining sails, its windmill, its goldy-brown sands, and its banked violet clouds, was a genuine Turner. Of course, he wouldn't have painted the Beach Hotel, in spite of its nice balconies, but we were glad it was there, and it didn't spoil the picture.
By that time, it was nearly half-past five, but we had hours of daylight before us, so we stopped for a look at Climping Church (don't you love the "ing" that shows a place has kept its Saxon name?) with its splendid Norman doorway and queer, long windows, shaped like open pods of peas beautifully ornamented round their edges. Thank goodness, there was nothing "perp" about it! I get so tired of "perp" things in guide books.
Slinden we glanced at, too, a most idyllic village, garrisoned with the noblest beeches I ever saw. Hilaire Belloc, whose "Path to Rome" we liked so much, stayed at Slinden, writing delightful things about Sussex. I mean to get and read all I can, because, even in the glimpse I've had, I can see that Sussex has a character, as well as a charm, individually its own. The Downs give it, and make you feel that a true man of Sussex would be frank, warm-hearted, simple and brave, with old-fashioned ways which, with a pleasant obstinacy, he would be loath to change. I heard Mrs. Tupper quote two or three quaint proverbs which were new to me, but Sir Lionel said they were old, almost, as the Sussex downs, and as racy of the soil. I always associated Brighton with Sussex, which made it seem a sophisticated county: but you see, true Sussex—the Downs—stands all independent and sturdy, between the pleasure-places by the sea and the snug Weald.
The faces we passed didn't look like faces descended from smugglers, they seemed so kind and good; but then, of course, smuggling was quite a respectable industry in Sussex, where the secretive formation of the coast clearly showed that Providence had meant it to epict. I love the Sussex downs, I like the Sussex faces, and I admire the Sussex church spires—tall and pointed, covered with lichened shingles.
We stopped at Boxgrove, too, a church adored by architects; and as we went our way to Goodwood the sea was a torn sheet of silver seen behind great downs which the afternoon sun was gilding. Oh, the Lebanon cedars and the views of Goodwood! If I were there for the races, I think not even the finest horses, the most beautiful women, and the prettiest frocks in England could hold my eyes long from that view. I can shut my eyes now—the day after—and see those Lebanon cedars black against an opal sky. Another picture I can see, too, is Bosham Church, standing up tall and pure as a gray nun singing an Ave Maria beside the clear water. It comes back to me from my studies of English history that Vespasian had a villa there, and that Harold sailed from Bosham. Do you know, he's in the act of doing it on the Bayeux tapestry? Once, the Danes stole the Bosham church bells, and the dear things still ring at the bottom of the sea, because the robber ship was wrecked, and went down with the chime, in mid channel. I like that story. It matches the picture and the tapestry.
Our day stopped at Chichester, and my letter must stop, too, for all this I tell you of was only yesterday. We arrived last evening, and now it's nearly midnight of the next day. I began to write just after dinner, sitting in my dear old-fashioned room, and if I don't soon say good-night I shan't get much beauty sleep. To-morrow morning, at half-past nine, we're going on; but before we start I'll scribble a Chichester postscript. So you see, I must be up bright and early, especially as I mean to fly out for one more glimpse of the cathedral—though I spent most of this afternoon in it.
I wonder if you are sparing a few minutes to-night to dream of