ravishing that I can never expect any enjoyment beyond it but the
Kingdom of Heaven." Aubrey has been called ill-natured, and a
scandal-lover. Nobody ever called him that who has met him in a garden.

East of Dorking and the Deepdene are half-a-dozen Betchworths.
Betchworth Clump rides a shoulder of the downs, with a superb view to
the south; Betchworth village lies under the Clump a mile and more from
the foot of the hill; Betchworth Park and Castle are between the village
and Deepdene. Through the park runs a road, and an avenue of wonderful
limes, but the Castle, which cannot be seen from the part of the park
open to the public, is a castle no longer. It was never more than a
castle in name; Sir Thomas Browne fortified it under Henry VI, but it
saw no fighting. Thomas Hope's father, when he added Betchworth to his
purchase of the Deepdene, pulled it down, and a mere fragment remains.
Not much younger than the ruins, perhaps, are the gnarled and twisted
boles of the Betchworth sweet chestnuts. Albury Park holds some giants,
and there are a few trees quite as fine in Weybridge gardens that once
stood on royal ground, but the Betchworth chestnuts must be older than
either.

Badgers must have been common by Betchworth, for Brocks multiply in the
local names. Brockham village, with a pretty green, stands beyond
Betchworth Park on the Mole; probably the badger has left Brockham since
the bricklayer came out of Dorking.

[Illustration: _The Red Lion, Betchworth._]

Other outdoor life has survived; Brockham still plays good cricket.
Cricket was a favourite game on Brockham Green very early in its
history. Cotmandene was not far away, and no doubt Cotmandene cricket
encouraged smaller games. One of the customs of Brockham players was to
wear straw hats of a pattern made in the village, and when the eleven
went to play over at Mitcham there were derisive shouts--"Here come the
Brockham straw yards." But the straw yards won, and in an innings.

It would be quite easy for a stranger to pass through the Betchworth
that lies on the main road between Dorking and Reigate, and to believe
he had seen it all. But the best of Betchworth is by the little church,
south of the main road on a bend of the Mole. The church, cool and
white, stands deep in a ring of beeches, elms, and ash-trees, and the
baker and grocer of the village lives among roses in a little street of
cottage gardens opposite. At least one of the bequests to the par