Old Roar was a waterfall, and the ravine through which it roared exists to this day, as those who seek it, after tracing several fields and pathways hemmed in between villas, shall find. Even so far back as 1827 it was described as “not so considerable as thirty years ago,” and sceptical writers of that time declared there never had been a period when it was not said of Old Roar that “he is not so good as last season.” In 1841 Mrs. Mozley, sister of Cardinal Newman, wrote a novel called “The Lost Brooch,” which no one has ever succeeded in reading, and in it she describes Old Roar as possessing “all the points necessary for a very good cataract, except one—water: rather a serious want in a waterfall.” Yet there was a time when its hoarse voice was to be distinctly heard a mile away. Pause to-day on the wooden bridge that spans the gorge, and only a dampness that discolours the stones is seen through the trees that spring from the sides. This is typical of much else around Hastings or any other town that has equally expanded. To the right of the road lies Hollington church: the “Church in the Wood,” famous in all this country-side as a romantic solitude. There are woods here now, but not so extensive as before, and the church is no longer in them, but on the fringe of what remains. The church itself, restored and practically rebuilt, is utterly and absolutely without interest; and the churchyard is now nothing but a cemetery filled with costly and pretentious monuments. Yet, such is the force of habit and tradition, it will be found, on examining the huge, ledger-like visitors’ book kept in the porch, that an average of five hundred people make pilgrimage to the spot daily in the holiday season. They see nothing worth the trouble, and having seen it go away again not displeased, for to visit the “Church in the Wood” is a duty laid upon the holiday-maker, and will be, even when there is no wood remaining. The way to and from it is by “Old Church Road,” where you find houses named with even more than the usual want of propriety. Thus “Sea View” does not look upon the sea, “Fair View” is opposite a manure-heap, and from “Old Church View” you cannot view the church. It is not worth the while exploring the New London Road. It is dispiriting, and those electric tramways that are the tyrants of the roads for miles around Hastings and St. Leonards render the way of the cyclist down Silverhill hazardous in the extreme. It is true the map shows the attractive name of “Bohemia” here, but it is only a mean—the meanest and miserablest—suburb. Henri Murger, Bohemian of that artistic and literary Bohemia that is not mapped, died, disillusioned, exclaiming against his wasted life in that land of rosy visions, “_pas de Bohème_,” and we may adopt his saying and, appropriating it to this drab purlieu, turn back and make for Hastings by the Old London Road, itself not particularly attractive in these times.