h
to hold Jack Sheppard; and from Horsham Gaol a complete set of fetters
for ankles and wrists, once used to cramp the movements of female
malefactors. Here, in a case, is a tiny bronze thimble that tipped the
pretty finger of a Roman seamstress--one only among scores of tokens of
the Roman occupation of the county. Flint arrow heads and celts in
profusion take us back to remoter times. A Pyecombe crook hangs on one
wall, and relics of the Sussex ironworks are plentiful. The highest room
contains rubbings of our best brasses. Outside is an early Sussex
plough. In a corner is a beadle's staff that once struck terror into the
hearts of Sabbath-breaking boys; and near one of the windows is a little
brass crucifix from St. Pancras' Priory. But nothing, the custodian
tells me, so pleases visitors to this very catholic collection as the
mummied hand of a murderess.

[Sidenote: THE BATTLE OF LEWES]

Looking down and around from the roof of the keep, you are immediately
struck by the wide shallow hollow in which Lewes lies. It is something
the shape of a dairy basin, the gap to the north-west, between Malling
Hill and Offham, serving for the lip. Nothing could be flatter than the
smiling meadows, streaked with tiny streams, stretching between Lewes
and the coast line to the south-east (with the exception of one
symmetrical hillock just out of the town). Among them curls the lazy
Ouse; just beneath you Lewes sleeps, red-roofed as an Italian town,
sending up no hum of activity, listless and immovable save for a few
spirals of silent smoke. The surrounding hills are very fine: Firle
Beacon in the far east; Mount Caburn, a noble cone, in the near east;
Mount Harry to the west, on whose slopes Henry III., assisted by the
fiery Prince Edward, fought the Barons. So fiery, indeed, was this lad
that he forgot all about his father, and gave chase to a small
detachment of the enemy, catching them up, and hewing them down with the
keenest enjoyment, while the unhappy Henry was being completely worsted
by de Montfort. It was a bloody battle, made up, as old Fabian wrote, of
embittered men, with hearts full of hatred, "eyther desyrous to bring
the other out of lyfe." Great fun was made by the humorists of the time,
after the battle, over the fact that Richard, King of the Romans,
Henry's brother, was captured in a windmill in which he had taken
refuge. This mill stood near the site of the Black Horse inn. In _The
Barons' Wars_, by Mr. Blaa