e attended the Quakers' meeting and where
services are still held. The meeting-house was built of timber from one
of Penn's ships.

A later owner than Penn, James Butler, rebuilt Warminghurst and
converted a large portion of the estate into a deer park; but it was
thrown back into farm land by one of the Dukes of Norfolk, while the
house was destroyed, the deer exiled, and the lake drained. Perhaps it
was time that the house came down, for in the interim it had been
haunted; the ghost being that of the owner of the property, who one day,
although far distant, was seen at Warminghurst by two persons and
afterwards was found to have died at the time of his appearance.
Warminghurst in those days of park and deer, lake and timber (it had a
chestnut two hundred and seventy years old), might well be the first
spot to which an enfranchised spirit winged its way.

From Warminghurst is a road due south, over high sandy heaths, to
Washington, which, unassuming as it is, may be called the capital of a
large district of West Sussex that is unprovided with a railway.
Steyning, five miles to the east, Amberley, seven miles to the west, and
West Worthing, eight miles to the south, on the other side of the Downs,
are the nearest stations. In the midst of this thinly populated area
stands Washington, at the foot of the mountain pass that leads to
Findon, Worthing and the sea. It was once a Saxon settlement (Wasa inga
tun, town of the sons of Wasa); it is now derelict, memorable only as a
baiting place for man and beast. But there are few better spots in the
country for a modest contented man to live and keep a horse. Rents are
low, turfed hills are near, and there is good hunting.

[Sidenote: A COSTLY QUART]

The church, which was restored about fifty years ago, but retains its
Tudor tower, stands above the village. In 1866 three thousand pennies of
the reign of Edward the Confessor and Harold were turned up by a plough
in this parish, and, says Mr. Lower, were held so cheaply by their
finders that half a pint measure of them was offered at the inn by one
man in exchange for a quart of beer. Possibly Mr. Hilaire Belloc would
not think the price excessive, for I find him writing, in a "Sussex
Drinking Song":

They sell good beer at Haslemere
And under Guildford Hill;
At little Cowfold, as I've been told,
A beggar may drink his fill.
There is a good brew in Amberley too,
And by the Bridge also