THE SUSSEX DOWNS 213
" Grey Shepherd," as Kipling calls the wolf, leapt into the sheep folds of the Flint men, these trampled paths have been slowly forming. Sheep have always followed in each other's footsteps and have grazed neither up nor down the steep slopes, but straight ahead on one level. Thus the narrow terraces. The rhythm of the Downs is inevitable. Swinburne has put them in a breathless line :
" Downs that swerve and aspire in curve and change of heights that the dawn holds dear."
Even the sheep have added to the great rhythm of the Downs. In their quiet unquestioning submission they have trodden out a colossal rhythm of their own, and stamped the bare slopes with vast mysterious striation that must lift the wayfarer who beholds them up from the carking cares of work-a-day life. Words seem useless to express the peace of these uplifted spaces. They sink into the mind, plough up the soul, and sow their seeds, which like the wizard's plant of the East, spring up at once and blossom into worship, reverence, awe.
E. Hallam Moorhouse, in the Ditchling " Beacon," writes of the Downs with such sureness and sympathy that I cannot refrain from giving