on's
ancient bridge, restored by the bishops of Chichester in the fifteenth
century), and a few minutes by rail, is Amberley, the fishing metropolis
of Sussex, where, every Sunday in the season, London anglers meet to
drop their lines in friendly rivalry. "Amerley trout" (as Walton calls
them) and Arundel mullet are the best of the Arun's treasures; and this
reminds me of Fuller's tribute to Sussex fish, which may well be quoted
in this watery neighbourhood: "Now, as this County is eminent for both
_Sea_ and _River-_fish, namely, an _Arundel Mullet_, a _Chichester
Lobster_, a _Shelsey Cockle_, and an _Amerly Trout_; so _Sussex_
aboundeth with more _Carpes_ than any other of this Nation. And though
not so great as _Jovius_ reporteth to be found in the _Lurian Lake_ in
_Italy_, weighing more than fifty pounds, yet those generally of great
and goodly proportion. I need not adde, that _Physicians_ account the
galls of _Carpes_, as also a stone in their heads, to be _Medicinable_;
only I will observe that, because _Jews_ will not eat _Caviare_ made of
_Sturgeon_ (because coming from a fish wanting Scales, and therefore
forbidden in the _Levitical Law_); therefore the _Italians_ make greater
profit of the _Spaun_ of _Carps_, whereof they make a _Red Caviare_,
well pleasing the _Jews_ both in _Palate_ and _Conscience_. All I will
adde of _Carps_ is this, that _Ramus_ himself doth not so much redound
in _Dichotomies_ as they do; seeing no one bone is to be found in their
body, which is not _forked_ or divided into two parts at the end
thereof."

Amberley proper, as distinguished from Amberley of the anglers, is a
mile from the station and is built on a ridge. The castle is the extreme
western end of this ridge, the north side of which descends
precipitously to the marshy plain that extends as far as Pulborough.
Standing on the castle one sees Pulborough church due north--height
calling unto height. The castle is now a farm; indeed, all Amberley is a
huge stockyard, smelling of straw and cattle. It is sheer Sussex--chalky
soil, whitewashed cottages, huge waggons; and one of the best of Sussex
painters, and, in his exquisite modest way, of all painters living,
dwells in the heart of it--Edward Stott, who year after year shows
London connoisseurs how the clear skin of the Sussex boy takes the
evening light; and how the Southdown sheep drink at hill ponds beneath a
violet sky; and that there is nothing more beautiful under the star