Passing along the Ridgeway to the west for about a mile, we come to a
little clump of young beech and firs, with a growth of thorn and privet
underwood. Here you may find nests of the strong down partridge and
peewit, but take care that the keeper isn't down upon you; and in the
middle of it is an old cromlech, a huge flat stone raised on seven or
eight others, and led up to by a path, with large single stones set up
on each side. This is Wayland Smith's cave, a place of classic fame now;
but as Sir Walter has touched it, I may as well let it alone, and refer
you to "Kenilworth" for the legend.

The thick, deep wood which you see in the hollow, about a mile off,
surrounds Ashdown Park, built by Inigo Jones. Four broad alleys are cut
through the wood from circumference to centre, and each leads to one
face of the house. The mystery of the downs hangs about house and wood,
as they stand there alone, so unlike all around, with the green slopes
studded with great stones just about this part, stretching away on all
sides. It was a wise Lord Craven, I think, who pitched his tent there.

Passing along the Ridgeway to the east, we soon come to cultivated land.
The downs, strictly so called, are no more. Lincolnshire farmers have
been imported, and the long, fresh slopes are sheep-walks no more, but
grow famous turnips and barley. One of these improvers lives over there
at the "Seven Barrows" farm, another mystery of the great downs. There
are the barrows still, solemn and silent, like ships in the calm sea,
the sepulchres of some sons of men. But of whom? It is three miles from
the White Horse--too far for the slain of Ashdown to be buried there.
Who shall say what heroes are waiting there? But we must get down into
the Vale again, and so away by the Great Western Railway to town,
for time and the printer's devil press, and it is a terrible long and