The Unconquerable Charm of Sussex

In my casual reading the other day I came across a book written by Mr. Hilaire Belloc and published by Nelson. It is called The Four Men, and relates the doings of a small band, who in a kind of little antiphony set forth the virtues of Sussex. They are, indeed, a wise and jolly company, these four men who travel together the roads and woods of Sussex, and interpret the moods of this fine county through their own. It is, at the same time, a journey across the Map of Life, for though it only lasts four days, these four days seem to correspond to the four seasons of the year, in another sense to childhood, youth, maturity and old age. And the men are types⁠—old Grizzlebeard, the ripe philosopher, a Poet, a Sailor and “Myself.” “Myself” starts alone, and picks the others up along the route; but they all love Sussex, understand its unconconquerable charm, know its history in and out, and all their diverting discussions are Sussex, for they are inspired by the various qualities of Sussex they meet upon their way. The Weald, the oak woods, the wide, sea-tasting skies of Sussex pour through every page; the Downs hold the chapters in their hollows. Wind carries the reader along. The vitality of this rushing, stimulating book is equal to the sincerity that produced it. You feel the author has a passionate sense of the beauty of this old county where he lives himself. His illustrations reveal it too. As you read it you feel you walk the Downs by his side and hear his cantering mind reveal them to you: “There, a day’s march away to the south, stood the rank of the Downs. No exiles who have seen them thus, coming back after many years, and following the road from London to the sea, hungry for home, were struck more suddenly or more suddenly uplifted by that vision of their hills than we four men so coming upon it that morning, and I was for the moment their leader; for this was a place I had cherished ever since I was a boy.” Mr. Belloc, born in France, was on the Downs at three; they brought him up; their spell⁠—you feel it in this book⁠—still holds him fast today. The “nightly majesty of the Downs” lies close about his heart. Thus, as they dream and wander, sleeping in copses, inns or hedges, as the case may be, these four men talk, and their talk is entertaining or instructive as you choose to find it. They talk of everything under heaven and upon the other side of hell, but the talk always carries you along with them towards the Downs and towards the spot of magic where the Arun meets the sea. This is their objective, their end of life. “What the Sailor says is true. When we get over that lift of land upon the Amberley Road before us we shall see Arun a long way off between his reeds, and the tide tumbling in Arun down towards the sea. We shall see Houghton and Westburton Hill, and Duncton further along, and all the wall of them, Graffham and Bailton, and so to Harting, which is the end where the county ceases and where you come to shapeless things. All this is our own country, and it is to see it at last that we have travelled so steadfastly during these long days.” The book is an expression of the hunger for home which lies deep in the heart of every decent man. That is why you will find sincerity and passion and a burning touch of poetry all through the talk and travel. And when they come to Arun, and before they say goodbye and go their separate ways again, these four men tell their early loves⁠—look back, that is, upon the early beginnings of their roving lives and speak a little sadly of the things that lured them on towards adventure down the years. It is very fine, this last bit of the book. Their discussions, moreover, never hold you over-long; they are stories by the way, as told round the campfires of nightly bivouacs, or by the roadside when they halt for lunch and watch the nearing Downs. They talk of literature and politics, of poetry and pigs, of the little people, of what is best in life and what is worst, and of what each man would do if he were rich. The account of the Hideous Being (his card bore the inscription, “ Mr.  Deusipsenotavit⁠—Brooks’s”), who overheard this last discussion and, when finally urged, contributed his own opinion, “I am rich,” is as deep a bit of true philosophy as you may find in all the schools; but there is everywhere wit and fun and laughter besides, lambent strokes of irony, keen judgments of modern life flung off by one or other, and a boisterous high spirits through it all that is contagious and makes you feel the winds of Sussex blowing strong and free. And the old Sussex songs ring through every chapter, given with the music for all to echo who have voices (“I will sing Gol-ier,” that delightful, ancient song of Sussex), and other songs as well, not so easily classified. Mr. Belloc has put a bit of his heart, certainly of his early love, into this modest two-shilling volume. His love of battle too⁠—and battles. All the Sussex battles live again as you read about them howling and clashing among the undulating wood-lands and over the grand old Downs of Sussex. All had seen fairies, too, except “Myself,” and he had heard them only. “ ‘What did they say to you?’ asks the Sailor, ever athirst for information. ‘They told me I should never get home, and I never have.’⁠ ⁠… As we talked the darkness began to gather, for we had waited once or twice by the way, and especially at that little lift in the road when one passes through a glen of oaks and sees before one great flat water-meadows, and beyond them the high Downs quite near. The sky was already of an apple green to the westward, and in the eastern blue there were stars. There also shone what had not yet appeared upon that windless day, a few small wintry clouds, neat and defined in heaven. Above them the moon, past her first quarter, but not yet full, was no longer pale, but began to make a cold glory; and all that valley of Adur was a great and solemn sight to see as we went forward upon our adventure that led nowhere and away. To us four men, no one of whom could know the other, and who had met by I could not tell what chance, and would part very soon forever, these things were given. All four of us together received the sacrament of that wide and silent beauty, and we ourselves went in silence to receive it.⁠ ⁠…”  The Southern Hills and the South Sea They blow such gladness into me, That when I get to Burton Sands And smell the smell of the Home Lands, My heart is all renewed and fills With the Southern Sea and the South Hills. And on All Hallowe’en they sleep in the open, the spell of Chanctonbury, that grave Sussex landmark, mightily upon them. “The moon stood over Chanctonbury, so removed and cold in her silver that you might almost have thought her careless of the follies of men; little clouds, her attendants, shone beneath her worshipping, and they presided together over a general silence. Her light caught the edges of the Downs. There was no mist. She was still frosty-clear whea I saw her set behind those hills. The stars were more brilliant after her setting, and deep quiet held the valley of Adur, my little river, slipping at low tide towards the sea.” My little river! My dear old Sussex! There you have the keynote of this delicious book.  On Sussex hills where I was bred, When lanes in autumn rains are red, When Arun tumbles in his bed, And busy great gusts go by; When branch is bare in Burton Glen And Bury Hill is whitening, then, I drink strong ale with gentlemen; Which nobody can deny, deny, Deny, deny, deny, deny, Which nobody can deny! Above all, however, do not miss the exquisite story of how St. Dunstan pulled the Devil’s nose. For that also reveals Sussex.