North of Plummer's Plain, in a hollow, are two immense ponds, Hammer Pond and Hawkin's Pond, our first reminder that we are in the old iron country. St. Leonard's Forest, and all the forests on this the forest ridge of Sussex, were of course maintained to supply wood with which to feed the furnaces of the iron masters--just as the overflow of these ponds was trained to move the machinery of the hammers for the breaking of the iron stone. The enormous consumption of wood in the iron foundries was a calamity seriously viewed by many observers, among them Michael Drayton, of the _Poly Olbion_, who was, however, distressed less as a political economist than as the friend of the wood nymphs driven by the encroaching and devastating foundrymen from their native sanctuaries to the inhospitable Downs. Thus he writes, illustrating Lamb's criticism of him that in this work he "has animated hills and streams with life and passion above the dreams of old mythology":-- The daughters of the Weald (That in their heavy breasts had long their griefs concealed), Foreseeing their decay each hour so fast come on, Under the axe's stroke, fetched many a grievous groan. When as the anvil's weight, and hammer's dreadful sound, Even rent the hollow woods and shook the queachy ground; So that the trembling nymphs, oppressed through ghastly fear, Ran madding to the downs, with loose dishevelled hair. The Sylvans that about the neighbouring woods did dwell, Both in the tufty frith and in the mossy fell, Forsook their gloomy bowers, and wandered far abroad, Expelled their quiet seats, and place of their abode, When labouring carts they saw to hold their daily trade, Where they in summer wont to sport them in the shade. "Could we," say they, "suppose that any would us cherish Which suffer every day the holiest things to perish? Or to our daily want to minister supply? These iron times breed none that mind posterity. 'Tis but in vain to tell what we before have been, Or changes of the world that we in time have seen; When, now devising how to spend our wealth with waste, We to the savage swine let fall our larding mast, But now, alas! ourselves we have not to sustain, Nor can our tops suffice to shield our roots from rain. Jove's oak, the warlike ash, veined elm, the softer beech, Short hazel, maple plain, light asp, the bending wych, Tough holly, and smooth birch, must altogether burn; What should the builder serve, supplies the forger's turn, When under public good, base private gain takes hold, And we, poor woful woods, to ruin lastly sold." [Sidenote: GREAT GUNS]