And now we leave the camp, and descend towards the west, and are on the Ashdown.  We are treading on heroes.  It is sacred ground for Englishmen—­more sacred than all but one or two fields where their bones lie whitening.  For this is the actual place where our Alfred won his great battle, the battle of Ashdown ("Aescendum” in the chroniclers), which broke the Danish power, and made England a Christian land.  The Danes held the camp and the slope where we are standing—­the whole crown of the hill, in fact.  “The heathen had beforehand seized the higher ground,” as old Asser says, having wasted everything behind them from London, and being just ready to burst down on the fair Vale, Alfred’s own birthplace and heritage.  And up the heights came the Saxons, as they did at the Alma.  “The Christians led up their line from the lower ground.  There stood also on that same spot a single thorn-tree, marvellous stumpy (which we ourselves with our very own eyes have seen).”  Bless the old chronicler!  Does he think nobody ever saw the “single thorn-tree” but himself?  Why, there it stands to this very day, just on the edge of the slope, and I saw it not three weeks since—­an old single thorn-tree, “marvellous stumpy.”  At least, if it isn’t the same tree it ought to have been, for it’s just in the place where the battle must have been won or lost—­“around which, as I was saying, the two lines of foemen came together in battle with a huge shout.  And in this place one of the two kings of the heathen and five of his earls fell down and died, and many thousands of the heathen side in the same place.” * After which crowning mercy, the pious king, that there might never be wanting a sign and a memorial to the country-side, carved out on the northern side of the chalk hill, under the camp, where it is almost precipitous, the great Saxon White Horse, which he who will may see from the railway, and which gives its name to the Vale, over which it has looked these thousand years and more.

* “Pagani editiorem Iocum praeoccupaverant.  Christiani ab inferiori loco aciem dirigebant.  Erat quoque in eodem loco unica spinosa arbor, brevis admodum (quam nos ipsi nostris propriis oculis vidimus).  Circa quam ergo hostiles inter se acies cum ingenti clamore hostiliter conveniunt.  Quo in loco alter de duobus Paganorum regibus et quinque comites occisi occubuerunt, et multa millia Paganae partis in eodem loco.  Cecidit illic ergo Boegsceg Rex, et Sidroc ille senex comes, et Sidroc Junior comes, et Obsbern comes,” etc.—­ Annales Rerum Gestarum AElfredi Magni, Auctore Asserio.  Recensuit Franciscus Wise.  Oxford, 1722, p.23.

Right down below the White Horse is a curious deep and broad gully called “the Manger,” into one side of which the hills fall with a series of the most lovely sweeping curves, known as “the Giant’s Stairs.”  They are not a bit like stairs, but I never saw anything like them anywhere else, with their short green turf, and tender bluebells, and gossamer and thistle-down gleaming in the sun and the sheep-paths running along their sides like ruled lines.