ROUND ABOUT DOWNSIDE.

IV.

GURNEY SLADE.

AT about a mile away on our south-west, where the gentle rise of the Mendips on which we stand comes to an abrupt end in a steep gully, is the little village of Gurney Slade. It is old-older than the Norman conquest; older than the Roman conquest; older perhaps than the Belgic conquest which made known the Celts of Britain and their mineral treasures to the European Continent, some centuries before the invasion of Cæsar.

The compilers of the Domesday Book marked it down as a sub-division of the parish of West-Harptree. The son of its first Norman holder, doubtless submitting to the Saxon influences which closed him in on all sides, changed his name from Percheval to Harptree. His son was created Baron Harptree, and as such held his own with the Barons against King Stephen. A descendant thought fit to assume his mother's name, Gournay. It was a great-grandson of his, Sir Thomas de Gournay, or Gurney as the dramatist Marlowe presents him to us, who was implicated in the murder of Edward II., in consequence of which he was privately executed at sea, and his broad lands, in which Stratton was included, escheated to the crown as portion of the Duchy of Cornwall. Such is the significance of the name Gurney. Slade is a Saxon word meaning a tract of land,

or valley.

But we have facts of a higher antiquity to deal with. Instead of following the road where it falls precipitately into the valley, we will turn to the right, and skirting the crest of the hill for a short distance, by a narrow and unpromising lane known only to the initiated, we steal upon a rude ancient fastness. Roman camp it used to be called; British camp a better informed generation calls it; while the more curious who consult Phelp's History of the antiquities of Somersetshire will learn that it belongs rather to the Belgic-British period. The huge mound still encircles it on the east and north sides; on the south and west it needs no defence, for the steep flank of the hill tries the sturdiest climber. We pass along the silent fortification, following the vallum until we look down upon Romantic Valley. The site of the camp was well chosen. Along the two valleys which encircle it, the smaller leading with

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gradual descent from Lechmere, or Sir John's; the other widening into magnificent prospect as it sweeps round the hill to Mells,-no enemy could come upon them unobserved. A short distance to the south, the Mendip Beacon, known to us as Constitution Hill, could receive and answer the signal-fires of three counties, Wilts, Somerset and Dorset. Blacker's Hill camp, on which we stand, was one of many clustered along the ridge of Mendip, meant to protect the mining settlements which burrowed into the hill-side and valleys at their feet. The whole side of the hill which faces us on the south is broken with now verdant hillocks, thrown up by miners for who can say how many generations.

Descending into Romantic valley, the happy-hunting-ground of the Downside Naturalist, we follow the little stream which pushes its way with bright sparkling persistence through matted water-cress and mossy stones, till we come out upon the road at the foot of Blacker's Hill. Sunny memories haunt the path we tread. Romantic Valley is only half conquered from the animal world. The bright dragon-fly that flashes from bank to bank, the meek-eyed calves standing dew-lap high where the waters, gathered into a clear pool, mirror the rich soft green of the young beech-leaves overhead and the glow of last year's leaves on the shelving bank beneath, the contemplative geese that stand complacent where the oozy bank is thick with wild thyme and mint, all seem not so much to treat us as intruders, as to disregard our very presence. One old tree stands sentry to this sanctuary which must be a part of the memory of all of us; an old oak, venerable in its ruin, cloven in two from where its gnarled trunk lifts from the ground, the mystic runes of its "monumental" sides filled in with moss and overshadowed with a growth of ferns; its shattered bulk, laid bare to us, showing where its heart-blood is dying from it in the tenderest of tints. Long may it keep its rustic treasure unprofaned by the hand of improving man! But alas! already part of its beauty has passed away; the hazel-copse, which we plundered of old when Autumn's days were young, has gone, and left the bare ragged slope unpleasant to eye and to foot.

We make our way now unhindered to Gurney Slade. The rush of the waters of the mill-sluice is the first sound which challenges our entry into the village. A short distance beyond the mill we come upon the "Cyclops." Let us bait our breaths as we approach; for here if at all, where the world wags a full century in arrear of the calendar year of grace, we may expect to steal upon old-world secrets long forgotten. Here, if anywhere, the privileged eye of the believer may hope to catch a glimpse of the lubber-fiend, prone along the ground before the forgefire, while the anvil is still warm and trembling with his mighty blows, and the crevices of the hill-side quarries let fall the dying echoes of his

ringing sledge. But no; it is the hour of mortals. The rude blowing of the forge-bellows, the heavy thud of the massive hammer, the spurting of the fiery flakes of the slow-yielding metal make us pause a moment on the threshold before passing into its weird shade. Two forges are at work, panting and throwing an intermittent light into the rafters of the low roof. A third is dimly seen beyond through a wide arch of bricks; while on all sides, strewn upon the black shelving floor, every shape and every hue of discarded iron lies in picturesque confusion. In the centre of the wall opposite, the huge hammer, the master-altar of this temple of Vulcan, thrusts out its brawny bulk from the shade. Hydraulic power being the agent used to work the ponderous machinery, the whole foundation is necessarily below the surrounding level. The floor shelves from all sides to where the anvil marks the centre. But oh! the wonders of the mechanism that induces the subtle fluid-force to the menial service of the sooty craft. A bewildering maze of rods and cranks, outside and in, moving with intricate intersection as the unwieldy hammer rises and falls. The genius and invention of cyclopean generations, dating back to unknown ages, is concentrated and embodied there. Well might our remote forefathers term their crafts "mysteries," if this is a sample of their "ars technica." Cyclops fils, a stalwart well-built youth, stands nearest to us, and to him we venture the conciliatory remark that "it looks like busy times." We doubt as to the result of our overtures, when, with contracted brow and not deigning reply, he disappears into an adjoining recess. But in a moment he returns and informs us that "it is three o'clock."--Emboldened by this manifestation of human infirmity, and assured thereby of the mortality of the grimy crew, we next accost cyclops père. From him we obtain a pass to the inner unused forge, whence we attempt our sketch. The labyrinth of undefined forms is enough to dishearten us, even apart from the straggling light which falls from the window at our back, and the blinding sparks which fly upon our very page. At times we pause to gaze while Cyclops père wields masses of metal which fill us with wonder. At last the failing light drives us forth, and as we mount into the road the slant rays of sun-set strike into our dazzled eyes.

Soon wreaths of yellow smoke shew us where the hillside is smouldering into lime. The little roadside cottages become more frequent, clustering round the clear-welling freshets, that tell us with babbling joyousness of their escape from the gloom of their rock prison. Finally the houses become continuous where the high-road to Bristol sweeps across our path, and follow it round for perhaps a quarter of a mile. The old inn, falling to ruins, shews few signs of its importance in the days when the smoking team drew up a breathing-while before they took