unlikely, but the design of
the tower is familiar to anyone acquainted with London City and dates,
with the remainder of the fabric, from 1717. The red-brick walls
relieved by white stone are a little startling at first in such an
out-of-the-way village, but their effect is not unpleasing, and when
the church is entered its fine proportions will be admired by anyone
not slavishly bound to the worship of "Gothic." The powers that once
ruled here evidently thought otherwise, for several attempts have
obviously been made to do away with some of the classic details. The
fine contemporary woodwork of the chancel and other irreplacable
details were destroyed or seriously damaged by a destructive fire about
twelve years ago.

[Illustration: WOLVERTON.]

In another two miles Kingsclere is reached. This is a very ancient
town and was under the Saxon Kings, as its name proclaims, a royal
manor. Its "papers" go back to the eighth century. After the
Conqueror's day it passed into the hands of the church, and Rouen
Canons were its overlords. When they became aliens in political fact,
the manor passed to William de Melton. King John had one of his
hunting lodges at Freeman tie on the south of the town. No history has
been made at Kingsclere since Charles passed the night of October 21,
1644, here, on his way to Newbury, but there is an air of "far-off
things and battles long ago" about the quiet little town and its grey
and solemn Norman church. The stern square church tower is a fine
example of early twelfth-century work, majestic in its simplicity, but
apart from this the exterior appears to have been scraped clean of
ancient details by a drastic restoration. Within, the spacious and
fine proportions of the building atone for a great deal that has been
lost by the mistaken zeal of Victorian renovators. The font, pulpit
and Norman north door are of especial interest; of less ancient
details, the Jacobean pulpit and the great chandelier, dated 1713,
call for notice.

The Downs to the south of Kingsclere are of much beauty and
comparatively unknown to the tourist. Although of no great height and
unremarkable in outline, the splendour of the colouring, especially
after August is past, of the woods that cover the sides of the
undulating billows of chalk is unforgettable. The Port Way, ignoring
all hills and dales in its uncompromising straightness, occasionally
shows itself as a rough track along the open side of a spinney, or as