290 THE SUSSEX COAST
in Dorset, and it is natural to connect him with the well-known white horses of the West.
The quiet peace of these heavenly villages will delight all reverent wayfarers, but it utterly declines to be reduced to words. For more than a thousand years at least the great figure on the hill has looked down on the varied activities of man. Probably its origin is yet immeasurably more remote, and very likely it was already mysterious and ancient when the Roman soldiers were conquering the land. Before the days of Mohammed the Saxons had begun to carve out their settlements frorn the dense woods, and very gradually they were to learn to build their thatch-covered homes of wattle and dab and of solid oak timbers amid the wild 'flowers and the ferns. Generation after generation of villagers have gossiped under that aged yew and worshipped in that little church, have heard and told the stories of the forest that spread around. Norman adventurer and Norman monk have called this peaceful spot their home, and built in it for all time to come. The hilly village street with its old houses and its bright gardens seems to be looking its very best when in the sunlight blossoms show white or pink before higher trees or against the blue sky, but the peculiar fascination of the place is in no way diminished when twilight has fallen and bats or white swallow-tail moths fiy about under the deep shadow of the trees. Here in a restless world is one spot at least that keeps green the memory of other days.
Watching over the estuary of the Delaware is a sky-scrapered city that shares the name of this restful place, but Wilmington, Delaware, is not a daughter of the Sussex village, but a fortunate