<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></SPAN>CHAPTER XVI</h2>
<h3>CHANCTONBURY, WASHINGTON, AND WORTHING</h3>
<blockquote><p>Chanctonbury Ring—The planter of the beeches—The Gorings—Thomas
Fuller on the Three Shirleys—Ashington's chief—Warminghurst and
the phantasm—Washington—An expensive mug of beer—Findon—A
champion pluralist—Cissbury—John Selden's wit and wisdom—Thomas
à Becket's figs—Worthing's precious climate—Sompting church.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>For nothing within its confines is Steyning so famous as for the hill
which rises to the south-west of it—Chanctonbury Ring. Other of the
South Downs are higher, other are more commanding: Wolstonbury, for
example, standing forward from the line, makes a bolder show, and Firle
Beacon daunts the sky with a braver point; but when one thinks of the
South Downs as a whole it is Chanctonbury that leaps first to the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_146" id="Page_146"></SPAN></span>
inward eye. Chanctonbury, when all is said, is the monarch of the range.</p>
<p>The words of the Sussex enthusiast, refusing an invitation to spend a
summer abroad, express the feeling of many of his countrymen:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>For howsoever fair the land,</div>
<div class="i1">The time would surely be</div>
<div>That brought our Wealden blackbird's note</div>
<div class="i1">Across the waves to me.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>And howsoever strong the door,</div>
<div class="i1">'Twould never keep at bay</div>
<div>The thought of Fulking's violets,</div>
<div class="i1">The scent of Holmbush hay.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>And ever when the day was done,</div>
<div class="i1">And all the sky was still,</div>
<div>How I should miss the climbing moon</div>
<div class="i1">O'er Chanctonbury's hill!</div>
</div></div>
<div class="sidenote">CHANCTONBURY RING</div>
<p>It is Chanctonbury's crown of beeches that lifts it above the other
hills. Uncrowned it would be no more noticeable than Fulking Beacon or a
score of others; but its dark grove can be seen for many miles. In
Wiston House, under the hill, the seat of the Goring family, to whom
belong the hill and a large part of the country that it dominates, is an
old painting of Chanctonbury before the woods were made, bare as the
barest, without either beech or juniper, and the eye does not notice it
until all else in the picture has been examined. The planter of
Chanctonbury's Ring, in 1760, was Mr. Charles Goring of Wiston, who
wrote in extreme old age in 1828 the following lines:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>How oft around thy Ring, sweet Hill,</div>
<div class="i1">A Boy, I used to play,</div>
<div>And form my plans to plant thy top</div>
<div class="i1">On some auspicious day.</div>
<div>How oft among thy broken turf</div>
<div class="i1">With what delight I trod,</div>
<div><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_147" id="Page_147"></SPAN></span>With what delight I placed those twigs</div>
<div class="i1">Beneath thy maiden sod.</div>
<div>And then an almost hopeless wish</div>
<div class="i1">Would creep within my breast,</div>
<div>Oh! could I live to see thy top</div>
<div class="i1">In all its beauty dress'd.</div>
<div>That time's arrived; I've had my wish,</div>
<div class="i1">And lived to eighty-five;</div>
<div>I'll thank my God who gave such grace</div>
<div class="i1">As long as e'er I live.</div>
<div>Still when the morning Sun in Spring,</div>
<div class="i1">Whilst I enjoy my sight,</div>
<div>Shall gild thy new-clothed Beech and sides,</div>
<div class="i1">I'll view thee with delight.</div>
</div></div>
<p>Most of the trees on the side of Chanctonbury and its neighbours were
self-sown, children of the clumps which Mr. Goring planted. I might add
that Mr. Charles Goring was born in 1743, and his son, the present Rev.
John Goring, in 1823, when his father was eighty; so that the two lives
cover a period of one hundred and sixty years—true Sussex longevity.</p>
<p>Wiston House (pronounced Wisson) is a grey Tudor building in the midst
of a wide park, immediately under the hill. The lofty hall, dating from
Elizabeth's reign, is as it was; much of the remainder of the house was
restored in the last century. The park has deer and a lake. The Goring
family acquired Wiston by marriage with the Faggs, and a superb portrait
of Sir John Fagg, in the manner of Vandyck with a fine flavour of
Velasquez, is one of the treasures of the house.</p>
<p>Before the Faggs came the Shirleys, a family chiefly famous for the
three wonderful brothers, Anthony, Robert, and Thomas.</p>
<div class="sidenote">SIR ANTHONY SHIRLEY</div>
<p>Fuller, in the <i>Worthies</i>, gives them full space indeed considering that
none was interested in the Church. I cannot do better than quote
him:—"SIR ANTHONY SHIRLEY, second Son to Sir <i>Thomas</i>, set forth from
<i>Plimouth</i>, <i>May</i> the 21st, 1596, in a Ship called the <i>Bevis of
Southampton</i>, attended with six lesser vessels. His design for <i>Saint
Thome</i> was violently diverted by the contagion they found on the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_148" id="Page_148"></SPAN></span> South
Coast of Africa, where the rain did stink as it fell down from the
heavens, and within six hours did turn into magots. This made him turn
his course to <i>America</i>, where he took and kept the city of <i>St. Jago</i>
two days and nights, with two hundred and eighty men (whereof eighty
were wounded in the service), against three thousand <i>Portugalls</i>.</p>
<p>"Hence he made for the Isle of <i>Fuego</i>, in the midst whereof a
Mountaine, Ætna-like, always burning; and the wind did drive such a
shower of ashes upon them, that one might have wrote his name with his
finger on the upper deck. However, in this fiery Island, they furnished
themselves with good water, which they much wanted.</p>
<p>"Hence he sailed to the Island of <i>Margarita</i>, which to him did not
answer its name, not finding here the <i>Perl Dredgers</i> which he expected.
Nor was his gaine considerable in taking the Town of <i>Saint Martha</i>, the
Isle and chief town of <i>Jamaica</i>, whence he sailed more than <i>thirty</i>
leagues up the river <i>Rio-dolci</i>, where he met with great extremity.</p>
<p>"At last, being diseased in person, distressed for victuals, and
deserted by all his other ships, he made by <i>New-found-land</i> to
<i>England</i>, where he arrived June 15, 1597. Now although some behold his
voyage, begun with more courage then counsel, carried on with more
valour then advice, and coming off with more honour than profit to
himself or the nation (the Spaniard being rather frighted then harmed,
rather braved then frighted therewith); yet unpartial judgments, who
measure not worth by success, justly allow it a prime place amongst the
probable (though not prosperous) English Adventures.</p>
<div class="sidenote">SIR ROBERT SHIRLEY</div>
<p>"SIR ROBERT SHIRLEY, youngest Son to Sir <i>Thomas</i>, was, by his Brother
<i>Anthony</i>, entred in the <i>Persian</i> Court. Here he performed great
Service against the <i>Turkes</i>, and shewed the difference betwixt
<i>Persian</i> and <i>English</i> Valour; the latter having therein as much
Courage, and more Mercy, giving Quarter to Captives who craved it, and
performing Life to those to whom he promised it. These his Actions drew
the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_149" id="Page_149"></SPAN></span> Envie of the <i>Persian</i> Lords, and Love of the Ladies, amongst whom
one (reputed a Kins-man to the great <i>Sophy</i>) after some Opposition, was
married unto him. She had more of <i>Ebony</i> than <i>Ivory</i> in her
Complexion; yet amiable enough, and very valiant, a quality considerable
in that Sex in those Countries. With her he came over to <i>England</i>, and
lived many years therein. He much affected to appear in <i>forreign
Vestes</i>; and, as if his <i>Clothes</i> were his limbs, accounted himself
never ready till he had something of the Persian Habit about him.</p>
<p>"At last a Contest happening betwixt him and the Persian Ambassadour (to
whom some reported Sir Robert gave a Box on the Ear) the King sent them
both into <i>Persia</i>, there mutually to impeach one another, and joyned
Doctor <i>Gough</i> (a Senior Fellow of <i>Trinity colledge</i> in <i>Cambridge</i>) in
commission with Sir Robert. In this Voyage (as I am informed) both died
on the Seas, before the controverted difference was ever heard in the
Court of <i>Persia</i>, about the beginning of the Reign of King <i>Charles</i>.</p>
<div class="sidenote">SIR THOMAS SHIRLEY</div>
<p>"Sir THOMAS SHIRLEY, I name him the last (though the eldest Son of his
Father) because last appearing in the world, men's <i>Activity</i> not always
observing the method of their <i>Register</i>. As the Trophies of <i>Miltiades</i>
would not suffer <i>Themistocles</i> to sleep; so the Atchievements of his
two younger brethren gave an Alarum unto his spirit. He was ashamed to
see them worne like Flowers 'in the <i>Breasts</i> and <i>Bosomes</i> of forreign
Princes, whilst he himself withered upon the stalk he grew on'. This
made him leave his aged Father and fair Inheritance in this <i>County</i>,
and to undertake <i>Sea Voyages</i> into forreign parts, to the great
<i>honour</i> of his <i>Nation</i>, but small <i>inriching</i> of <i>himself</i>; so that he
might say to his Son, as <i>Æneas</i> to <i>Æscanius</i>:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>'Disce, puer, Virtutem ex me verumque Laborem,</div>
<div>Fortunam ex aliis.'</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div>'Virtue and Labour learn from me thy Father,</div>
<div>As for Success, Child, learn from others rather.'</div>
</div></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_150" id="Page_150"></SPAN></span>"As to the generall performance of these <i>three brethren</i>, I know the
<i>Affidavit</i> of a Poet carrieth but a small credit in the <i>court of
History</i>; and the <i>Comedy</i> made of them is but a <i>friendly foe</i> to their
Memory, as suspected more accomodated to please the present spectators,
then inform posterity. However, as the belief of Mitio (when an
<i>Inventory</i> of his adopted <i>Sons misdemeanours</i> was brought unto him)
embraced a middle and moderate way, <i>nec omnia credere nec nihil</i>,
neither to <i>believe all things nor nothing</i> of what was told him: so in
the <i>list of their Atchievements</i> we may safely pitch on the same
proportion, and, when abatement is made for <i>poeticall embelishments</i>,
the remainder will speak them Worthies in their generations."—Such were
the three Shirleys.</p>
<p>Wiston church, which shelters under the eastern wall of the house,
almost leaning against it, has some interesting tombs.</p>
<div class="sidenote">BIOHCHANDOUNE</div>
<p>Walking west from Wiston we come to the tiny hamlet of Buncton, one of
the oldest settlements in Sussex, a happy hunting ground for excavators
in search of Roman remains, and possessing in Buncton chapel a quaint
little Norman edifice. The word Buncton is a sign of modern carelessness
for beautiful words: the original Saxon form was "Biohchandoune," which
is charming.</p>
<p>Buncton belongs to Ashington, two miles to the north-west on the
Worthing road, a quiet village with a fifteenth-century church (a mere
child compared with Buncton Chapel) and a famous loss. The loss is
tragic, being no less than that of the parish register containing a full
and complete account, by Ashington's best scribe, of a visit of Good
Queen Bess to the village in 1591. A destroyed church may be built
again, but who shall restore the parish register? The book, however, is
perhaps still in existence, for it was deliberately stolen, early in the
eighteenth century, by a thief who laid his plans as carefully as did
Colonel Blood in his attack on the regalia, abstracting the volume from
a cupboard in the rectory, through a hole which<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_151" id="Page_151"></SPAN></span> he made in the outside
wall. No interest in the progress of Queen Elizabeth prompted him: the
register was taken during the hearing of a law suit in order that its
damning evidence might not be forthcoming.</p>
<div class="sidenote">WILLIAM PENN IN SUSSEX</div>
<p>While at Ashington we ought to see Warminghurst, only a mile distant,
once the abode of the Shelleys, and later of William Penn, who bought
the great house in 1676. One of his infant children is buried at
Coolham, close by, where he attended the Quakers' meeting and where
services are still held. The meeting-house was built of timber from one
of Penn's ships.</p>
<p>A later owner than Penn, James Butler, rebuilt Warminghurst and
converted a large portion of the estate into a deer park; but it was
thrown back into farm land by one of the Dukes of Norfolk, while the
house was destroyed, the deer exiled, and the lake drained. Perhaps it
was time that the house came down, for in the interim it had been
haunted; the ghost being that of the owner of the property, who one day,
although far distant, was seen at Warminghurst by two persons and
afterwards was found to have died at the time of his appearance.
Warminghurst in those days of park and deer, lake and timber (it had a
chestnut two hundred and seventy years old), might well be the first
spot to which an enfranchised spirit winged its way.</p>
<p>From Warminghurst is a road due south, over high sandy heaths, to
Washington, which, unassuming as it is, may be called the capital of a
large district of West Sussex that is unprovided with a railway.
Steyning, five miles to the east, Amberley, seven miles to the west, and
West Worthing, eight miles to the south, on the other side of the Downs,
are the nearest stations. In the midst of this thinly populated area
stands Washington, at the foot of the mountain pass that leads to
Findon, Worthing and the sea. It was once a Saxon settlement (Wasa inga
tun, town of the sons of Wasa); it is now derelict, memorable only as a
baiting place for man and beast. But there are few better<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_152" id="Page_152"></SPAN></span> spots in the
country for a modest contented man to live and keep a horse. Rents are
low, turfed hills are near, and there is good hunting.</p>
<div class="sidenote">A COSTLY QUART</div>
<p>The church, which was restored about fifty years ago, but retains its
Tudor tower, stands above the village. In 1866 three thousand pennies of
the reign of Edward the Confessor and Harold were turned up by a plough
in this parish, and, says Mr. Lower, were held so cheaply by their
finders that half a pint measure of them was offered at the inn by one
man in exchange for a quart of beer. Possibly Mr. Hilaire Belloc would
not think the price excessive, for I find him writing, in a "Sussex
Drinking Song":</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>They sell good beer at Haslemere</div>
<div class="i1">And under Guildford Hill;</div>
<div>At little Cowfold, as I've been told,</div>
<div class="i1">A beggar may drink his fill.</div>
<div>There is a good brew in Amberley too,</div>
<div class="i1">And by the Bridge also;</div>
<div>But the swipes they take in at the Washington Inn</div>
<div class="i1">Is the very best beer I know.</div>
</div></div>
<p>The white road to Worthing from Washington first climbs the hills and
then descends steadily to the sea. The first village is Findon, three
miles distant, but one passes on the way two large houses, Highden and
Muntham. Muntham, which was originally a shooting box of Viscount
Montagu, lord of Cowdray, was rebuilt in the nineteenth century by an
eccentric traveller in the East, named Frankland, a descendant of Oliver
Cromwell, who, settling at home again, gave up his time to collecting
mechanical appliances.</p>
<p>Findon is a pleasant little village at the bottom of the valley, the
home of the principal Sussex training stable, which has its galloping
course under Cissbury. Training stables may be found in many parts of
the Downs, but the Sussex turf has not played the same part in the
making of race horses as that of Hampshire and Berkshire.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_153" id="Page_153"></SPAN></span><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</SPAN></span>Lady Butler painted the background of her picture of Balaclava at
Findon, the neighbourhood of which curiously resembles in configuration
the Russian battlefield.</p>
<div class="sidenote">A FINISHED PLURALIST</div>
<p>The rector of Findon in 1276, Galfridus de Aspall, seems to have brought
the art of pluralising to a finer point than most. In addition to being
rector of Findon, he had, Mr. Lower tells us, a benefice in London, two
in the diocese of Lincoln, one in Rochester, one in Hereford, one in
Coventry, one in Salisbury, and seven in Norwich. He was also Canon of
St. Paul's and Master of St. Leonard's Hospital at York.</p>
<p>Above Findon on the south-east rises Cissbury, one of the finest of the
South Downs, but, by reason of its inland position, less noticeable than
the hills on the line. There have been many conjectures as to its
history. The Romans may have used it for military purposes, as certainly
they did for the pacific cultivation of the grape, distinct terraces as
of a vineyard being still visible; traces of a factory of flint arrow
heads have been found (giving it the ugly name of the "Flint
Sheffield"); while Cissa, lord of Chichester, may have had a bury or
fort there. Mr. Lower's theory is that the earthworks on the summit,
whatever their later function, were originally religious, and probably
druidical.</p>
<p>Salvington (a little village which is gained by leaving the main road
two miles beyond Cissbury and bearing to the west) is distinguished as
the birthplace, in 1584, of one who was considered by Hugo Grotius to be
the glory of the English nation—John Selden. Nowadays, when we choose
our glories among other classes of men than jurists and wits, it is more
than possible for even cultured persons who are interested in books to
go through life very happily without knowledge at all of this great man,
the friend of great men and the writer best endowed with common sense of
any of his day. From Selden's <i>Table Talk</i> I take a few passages on the
homelier side, to be read at Salvington:—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_155" id="Page_155"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="sidenote">JOHN SELDEN'S WISDOM</div>
<blockquote><p class="center"><br/><br/><br/><br/>FRIENDS.</p>
<p>Old Friends are best. King James used to call for his old Shoes;
they were easiest for his Feet.</p>
<p class="center"><br/>CONSCIENCE.</p>
<p>Some men make it a Case of Conscience, whether a Man may have a
Pigeon-house, because his Pigeons eat other Folks' Corn. But there
is no such thing as Conscience in the Business; the Matter is,
whether he be a Man of such Quality, that the State allows him to
have a Dove-house; if so, there's an end of the business; his
Pigeons have a right to eat where they please themselves.</p>
<p class="center"><br/>CHARITY.</p>
<p>Charity to Strangers is enjoin'd in the Text. By Strangers is there
understood those that are not of our own Kin, Strangers to your
Blood; not those you cannot tell whence they come; that is, be
charitable to your Neighbours whom you know to be honest poor
People.</p>
<p class="center"><br/>CEREMONY.</p>
<p>Ceremony keeps up all things: 'Tis like a Penny-Glass to a rich
Spirit, or some excellent Water; without it the Water were spilt,
the Spirit lost.</p>
<p>Of all people Ladies have no reason to cry down Ceremony, for they
take themselves slighted without it. And were they not used with
Ceremony, with Compliments and Addresses, with Legs and Kissing of
Hands, they were the pitifullest Creatures in the World. But yet
methinks to kiss their Hands after their Lips, as some do, is like
little Boys, that after they eat the apple, fall to the Paring, out
of a Love they have to the Apple.</p>
<p class="center"><br/>RELIGION.</p>
<p>Religion is like the Fashion: one Man wears his Doublet slashed,
another laced, another plain; but every Man has a Doublet. So every
man has his Religion. We differ about Trimming.</p>
<p>Alteration of Religion is dangerous, because we know not where it
will stay: 'tis like a <i>Millstone</i> that lies upon the top of a pair
of Stairs; 'tis hard to remove it, but if once it be thrust off the
first Stair, it never stays till it comes to the bottom.</p>
<p>We look after Religion as the Butcher did after his Knife, when he
had it in his Mouth.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_156" id="Page_156"></SPAN></span></p>
<p class="center"><br/>WIT.</p>
<p>Nature must be the ground-work of Wit and Art; otherwise whatever
is done will prove but Jack-pudding's work.</p>
<p class="center"><br/>WIFE.</p>
<p>You shall see a Monkey sometime, that has been playing up and down
the Garden, at length leap up to the top of the Wall, but his Clog
hangs a great way below on this side: the Bishop's Wife is like
that Monkey's Clog; himself is got up very high, takes place of the
Temporal Barons, but his Wife comes a great way behind.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Selden's father was a small farmer who played the fiddle well. The boy
is said at the age of ten to have carved over the door a Latin distich,
which, being translated, runs:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>Walk in and welcome, honest friend; repose.</div>
<div>Thief, get thee gone! to thee I'll not unclose.</div>
</div></div>
<div class="sidenote">SAINT THOMAS'S FIGS</div>
<p>Between Salvington and Worthing lies Tarring, noted for its fig gardens.
It is a fond belief that Thomas à Becket planted the original trees from
which the present Tarring figs are descended; and there is one tree
still in existence which tradition asserts was set in the earth by his
own hand. Whether this is possible I am not sufficiently an
arboriculturist to say; but Becket certainly sojourned often in the
Archbishop of Canterbury's palace in the village. The larger part of the
present fig garden dates from 1745. I have seen it stated that during
the season a little band of <i>becca ficos</i> fly over from Italy to taste
the fruit, disappearing when it is gathered; but a Sussex ornithologist
tells me that this is only a pretty story.</p>
<p>The fig gardens are perhaps sufficient indication that the climate of
this part of the country is very gentle. It is indeed unique in
mildness. There is a little strip of land between the sea and the hills
whose climatic conditions approximate to those of the Riviera: hence, in
addition to the success of the Tarring fig gardens, Worthing's fame for
tomatoes and other fruit. I cannot say when the tomato first came to the
English<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_157" id="Page_157"></SPAN></span><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</SPAN></span> table, but the first that I ever saw was at Worthing, and
Worthing is now the centre of the tomato-growing industry. Miles of
glass houses stretch on either side of the town.</p>
<p>Worthing (like Brighton and Bognor) owed its beginning as a health
resort to the house of Guelph, the visit of the Princess Amelia in 1799
having added a <i>cachet</i>, previously lacking, to its invigorating
character. But, unlike Brighton, neither Worthing nor Bognor has
succeeded in becoming quite indispensable. Brighton has the advantage
not only of being nearer London but also nearer the hills. One must walk
for some distance from Worthing before the lonely highland district
between Cissbury and Lancing Clump is gained, whereas Brighton is partly
built upon the Downs and has her little Dyke Railway to boot. But the
visitor to Worthing who, surfeited of sea and parade, makes for the hill
country, knows a solitude as profound as anything that Brighton's
heights can give him.</p>
<div class="sidenote">"HAWTHORN AND LAVENDER"</div>
<p>Worthing has at least two literary associations. It was there that that
most agreeable comedy <i>The Importance of Being Earnest</i> was written: the
town even gave its name to the principal character—John Worthing; and
it was there that Mr. Henley lived while the lyrics in <i>Hawthorn and
Lavender</i> were coming to him. The beautiful dedication to the book is
dated "Worthing, July 31, 1901."</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div>Ask me not how they came,</div>
<div>These songs of love and death,</div>
<div>These dreams of a futile stage,</div>
<div>These thumb-nails seen in the street:</div>
<div>Ask me not how nor why,</div>
<div>But take them for your own,</div>
<div>Dear Wife of twenty years,</div>
<div>Knowing—O, who so well?—</div>
<div>You it was made the man</div>
<div>That made these songs of love,</div>
<div>Death, and the trivial rest:</div>
<div>So that, your love elsewhere,</div>
<div>These songs, or bad or good—</div>
<div>How should they ever have been?</div>
</div></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_159" id="Page_159"></SPAN></span></p>
<p class="center"><SPAN name="page153.png" id="page153.png"></SPAN><ANTIMG src="images/page153.png" width-obs='700' height-obs='479' alt="Sompting" /></p>
<h4><i>Sompting.</i></h4>
<div class="sidenote">SOMPTING</div>
<p>Of the villages to the west we have caught glimpses in an earlier
<SPAN href="#CHAPTER_VIII">chapter</SPAN>—Goring, Angmering, Ferring, and so forth; to the north and east
are Broadwater, Sompting and Lancing. Broadwater is perhaps a shade too
near Worthing to be interesting, but Sompting, lying under the Downs, is
unspoiled, with its fascinating church among the elms and rocks. The
church (of which Mr. Griggs has made an exquisite drawing) was built
nearly eight hundred years ago. Within are some curious fragments of
sculpture, and a tomb which Mr. Lower considered to belong to Richard
Bury, Bishop of Chichester in the reign of Henry VIII. East of Sompting
lie the two Lancings, North Lancing on the hill, South Lancing on the
coast. East of North Lancing, the true village, stands Lancing College,
high above the river, with its imposing chapel, a landmark in the valley
of the Adur and far out to sea.</p>
<p class="center"><SPAN name="page157.png" id="page157.png"></SPAN><ANTIMG src="images/page157.png" width-obs='454' height-obs='700' alt="Lancing" /></p>
<h4><i>Lancing.</i></h4>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_160" id="Page_160"></SPAN></span></p>
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