AN EXTINCT INDUSTRY 73 we rose so the atmosphere grew lighter. The day was hot; and though the shady lanes sheltered us from the warm sunshine, they also robbed us of what little breeze there was. Up and up we went through a wooded country, with peeps downwards between the thick foliage of the trees of gleaming pools of water, glistening out from the dark green gloom. Doubtless these pools were in times past constructed to supply the requisite water-power for forging or other mills. It almost seems to be forgotten now that this part of England, and Sussex in particular, was once the seat of a flourishing and busy iron. industry, for the age at any rate. Of which more anon, as we shall presently come upon some specimens of Sussex ironwork. Reaching more level ground, we passed through Speldhurst, a picturesque village with another halftimbered inn, more important but not so quaint externally as the one at Pounds Bridge. It possesses, however, an old-fashioned room upstairs worthy of inspection. Then we rejoiced in a long stretch of level trotting road: the change of pace from the slow, toilsome climbing and cautious descending was a relief. The very fact of driving along a country road at a good pace is a pleasure of itself. I am speaking now especially of a phaeton (a coach is of course still more delightful; but few people, alas! have the opportunity of this supreme happiness), for in this form of carriage you have an uninterrupted prospect all round, and are sufficiently high to see over the hedges that bound the highway. The pleasant pace and easy swing of the carriage are most agreeable and exhilarating; travelling so, it is almost impossible to be down-spirited. Spinning thus at a merry pace along a good road through a pretty country with the unknown before you, the varying landscape continually opening out, fresh scenes ever taking the place of those gone by, is the best cure for depression of spirits, or ennui, it is possible to conceive. As a healthful and thorough change from town life, there are few things more beneficial to the overwrought brain than a driving tour. You are out in the open air all day long, and this is one of Nature's finest tonics; moreover, on a driving tour you have a constant variety of climates, the mind is pleasantly occupied by all it sees, there is plenty to engage the attention; and still again— and not the least important this--you are free from all the worry of luggage, you have no trains to catch or miss, no wearying waiting in railway stations, no booked places to secure-places that may be already engaged—you are master of your time as to departing from your hotel in the morning, or stopping anywhere you please en route. Surely this is the very perfection of travel! Still harping upon the advantages of a driving tour, it must be remembered that such an outing by no means necessitates constant riding in a carriage. Indeed, contradictory though such an assertion may appear, I may here say that we did most of our driving tour on foot. All the glad day long we were wandering about thus, now resting here and there, now admiring the view, again taking a sketch or photograph, or chatting with a chance wayfarer; or A HAPPY COMBINATION 75 still again, for a change, exploring an inviting footpath, but always with the pleasant knowledge that whenever we might feel at all tired the phaeton was at our command. This of course meant also that our sketching things, photographic instruments, waterproofs, road-books, and so forth were at our service at any moment. Indeed, we most happily combined the delights of a pedestrian tour with the comfort of having a carriage ever at our disposal should we happen to feel at all tired or wish to hurry over comparatively uninteresting ground. A Picturesque Farmstead-Poverty: the Ideal and the Real-The Village Green-Great Things and Small-Tunbridge WellsGuide-book Beauties-A Region of Landscape-Old Roads-A Wise Engineer-The Land of Windmills-A Chat with a MillerAt a Village Inn-Undiscovered Sussex-Mayfield-A Visit to an Old Palace-St. Dunstan's Anvil and Tongs-St. Dunstan's Well -Relics-Why Tunbridge Waters are Chalybeate -- Ancient Houses-Guide-book Facts. NOT only had we an excellent road on leaving Speldhurst, but the scenery was as beautiful as the way was good. As we drove along we passed some charming cottages, covered with creepers, whose little gardens showed a love for flowers. Happy cotters, to dwell in such pleasant homes! Your lot is not always so blest. On, too, past comfortable-looking farmhouses; one especially I remember now, which, with its weather-beaten red-tiled outbuildings, its dove or pigeon cote (for use, not ornament), its beehives and careless ordered' garden, formed such a pretty picture that we could not resist stopping to EXTERNAL INFLUENCES 77 sketch it. A look there was everywhere of quiet prosperity, pleasing to the eye because so suggestive of comfort and contentment. Even the very humblest cottage on our way partook of this prosperous look. An ideal land it seemed to be-one where such a thing as struggling want was utterly unknown. Such outward appearances of wellbeing cannot fail to exert a cheerful influence upon the traveller, if he has a heart at all, and provided he takes the slightest interest in toiling humanity. Only in pictures is poverty picturesque, for in these the artist carefully conceals from us the miseries of the poor; he touches only upon the pathetic side of want; he discreetly disguises the wretched reality. He gives us the poetry of need, not its misery. There is of course some truth in the story he tells, but it is not the whole truth. It is the painter's art and privilege to elevate. In even a simple pastoral scene (where, if anywhere, all things should appear pleasing), in order to produce a real picture he is obliged to hide away much of the existing commonplace-the mechanical division of the fields, the wire fences, the hateful iron sheds, dirt, and other stern facts. Who would look upon, or care to possess, a painting containing such truths? Thus it is an artist idealises facts: he brings before us a world of his own, he invests with a glamour of poetry our prosaic everyday life, by ignoring or subduing what is mean or trivial, and emphasising the beautiful. Journeying on in a delightful daydream, we suddenly came upon a spreading village, built in a charmingly irregular manner round a large green. On |