these bleak unenclosed uplands grow dark and mysterious, the centuries
pass away like a fevered dream. Here and there the solemn expanse of the
barren land is diversified by a few trees; here and there a few yards of
hedge, beginning nowhere in particular and ending with equal strangeness,
skirt the way; weather-beaten sign-posts start suddenly out of the
moorland, and occasional haycocks take on a dead and awful blackness as
the evening light dies out of the sky in long and angry streaks of red.
When the moon rises and casts her cold beams upon the road and plays
strange pranks with the shadows of trees and bushes, then the days of the
Romans are come once more, and the legionaries live again. They rise from
their camp of nineteen hundred years ago; they march along the Watling
Street that was made by their descendants; and the sheen of their armour,
the glitter of the pale moonlight on their eagle standards, and the
tramp of many feet are as real to the imaginative traveller, if not of
a greater reality, than the moaning telegraph that runs on countless poles
in a diminishing procession beside the road as far as eye can reach.
[Illustration: WATLING STREET: MOONRISE.]
XL
By daylight the traveller can see that the barren chalk of Barham Downs,
although left so long in repose, has been lately cut up into golf links. A
racecourse, little frequented now, also stands on the ridge. Bourne Park
skirts the road for some distance on the right, and the spire of Barham
Church, rising from behind a thick clump of trees in a little valley,
shows where the village of Barham lies secluded, some three hundred yards
down a country lane.
[Sidenote: THE BARHAM FAMILY]
How few the wayfarers who either notice where Barham stands or who visit
it even when they know its situation! And yet that place, together with
its hamlet of Denton, is full of memories of one of the best and most
genial among the humorists of the nineteenth century. There is a great
deal of history, ancient and modern, genealogical and literary, about
Denton and Barham, and the genealogical part of it commences in the reign
of Henry the Second. At that time, the manor, including Denton and a great
number of other hamlets round about, belonged to that Sir Randal, or
Reginald, Fitzurse, who has come down through the ages as one of the
murderers of Becket. Immediately after their crime, the murderers fled,
Fitzurse escaping to Ireland, where he is said to have taken the name of
MacMahon, which, meaning "Bear's son," was an Irish form of his original
patronymic. He died an exile, leaving the Manor of Barham to his brother,
who, so odious had the name of Fitzurse now become, changed it for that of
his estate, and called himself De Bearham. His successors clipped and cut
their name about until it became plain "Barham," and the manor finally
descended to one Thomas Barham, who, in the reign of James the First,
alienated it to the Rev. Charles Fotherby, Archdeacon of Canterbury. Thus
were the Barhams torn from their native soil and rendered landless, for
already they had sold their adjacent manor of Tappington Everard situated
at Denton. Some improvident Barham had done this deed in the reign of
Henry the Eighth, and the property passed through a number of hands until
it was bought from Colonel Thomas Marsh by a wealthy hop-factor of
Canterbury, Thomas Harris. The hop-factor died in 1726, leaving as sole
heir his daughter, married to a Mr. John Barham. In this manner the
Barhams became once more owners of a portion of their ancient heritage,
and from this John Barham was descended that witty Minor Canon of St.
Paul's, Richard Harris Barham, author of the _Ingoldsby Legends_. To one
who knows his _Ingoldsby_ well, and is possessed, moreover, of some
antiquarian fervour, the neighbourhood of Denton and Barham must needs be
of the greatest interest. Fact and fiction are so inextricably mixed up in
those delightful tales of mirth and marvels that it would require all the
knowledge of an expert in local and family history to disentangle them.
The countryside appears in those pages under fictitious names, and the
deeds or misdeeds of local families are decently veiled under many an
_alias_; and yet here and there are real names, and actual facts are
cited, leaving the stranger in a delightful uncertainty what to accept for
truth and what to disbelieve. The manor-house of Tappington, where Barham
spent his youth, would seem to readers of the _Legends_ to be a grand
Elizabethan mansion, approached by a long avenue and guarded by gates
bearing "the saltire of the Ingoldsbys." Indeed, Barham's fertile
imagination led him to picture such a place on the frontispiece of the
_Legends_; but the stranger would seek for it in vain. Instead, he would
find an ancient farmhouse, standing in a meadow skirting the road to
Folkestone, a mile from the place where it branches from the Dover Road.
An ancient farmhouse, its roof bent and bowed with age, and the greater
part of it shrouded in ivy, from which Tudor chimneys peep picturesquely.
In the meadow are traces of walls and an old well which before the greater
part of Tappington Manor-house was destroyed stood in a quadrangle formed
by the great range of buildings. Within the farmhouse there remains much
that is quaint and interesting. The chief feature is a grand oak staircase
of Elizabethan or Jacobean period, with the merchant's mark of that
"Thomas Marsh of Marston," familiar to readers of that fine legend _The
Leech of Folkestone_, carved on the newel. On the whitewashed walls,
crossed here and there by beams of black oak, hang portraits of half-real,
half-legendary Ingoldsbys, and on the staircase landing, outside the
bedroom of the "bad Sir Giles," are still shown bloodstains, relics of an
extraordinary fratricide that was committed here while the war between
Charles and the Parliament was raging.
[Sidenote: TAPPINGTON]
It is quite remarkable that while Barham clothed Tappington with many a
picturesque legend and detail of his own invention, he never alluded to
the genuine tragedy. The secret staircase, the "bad Sir Giles," "Mrs.
Botherby," and many another picturesque but fictitious character or
incident are introduced, and perhaps the visitor may feel somewhat
disappointed at not finding the turrets, the hall, or the moat described
so fully in the _Legends_; but the story of the fratricide is genuine
enough for the most sober and conscientious historian. It seems that when
all England was divided between the partisans of Charles and his
Parliament, Tappington Manor-house was inhabited by two brothers,
descendants of the Thomas Marsh whose mark is on the staircase. They had
taken different sides in the great struggle then going on, and had
quarrelled so bitterly that they never spoke to one another, and actually
lived in different parts of the house; only using this staircase between
them as they retired along it at night to their several apartments. One
night they met on top of the stairs. No one knew what passed between them,
whether black looks or bitter words were used; but as the Cavalier passed,
his Puritan brother drew a dagger and stabbed him in the back. He fell and
died on the spot, and the blood-stains are there to this day.
Opposite Tappington is the modernized Denton Court, with the old chapel of
Denton standing in the Park. Of this you may read in the _Legends_, but
those who seek the brass of the Lady Rohesia, with its inscription--
"Praie for ye sowle of ye Lady Royse
And for alle Christen sowles!"
will be disappointed, for it is one of Barham's embellishments upon fact.
"Tappington Moor" is, of course, Barham Downs, and the wild
characteristics of the place are very well described in _The Hand of
Glory_. The nearest approach to the Tappington gates existing in fact are
the entrance gates to Broome Park, standing on the road near the lane
leading to Barham; and the mansion of Broome, an Elizabethan country
house, bears a strong resemblance to the stately seat seen in Barham's
drawing.
[Sidenote: THE "HALFWAY HOUSE"]
The whole district abounds with legends and folk-lore suitable to this
wild and treeless country, and that so romantic a humorist as Barham
should have sprung from a local family of Kentish squires is only fitting.
The terror of these parts at the end of last century was Black Robin, a
highwayman who frequented the roads and made his headquarters at a little
inn on the by-road between Bishopsbourne and Barham. "Black Robin's
Corner" it is still called, but the negro's head of the sign is a libel
upon that "gentleman of the road." He took his name, not from the colour
of his skin, but from the crape mask and the black clothes he wore, and
from the black mare he rode. Not a pleasant fellow to meet
On the lone bleak moor at the midnight hour,
Beneath the gallows tree;
but almost preferable to the spectre horseman who led a foreign traveller
out of his way on these Downs. Night had come on, overtaking a party of
mounted travellers making for Dover, and so dark had it grown that they
soon became separated. However, the hindmost party dimly perceived two
cavaliers in front, and spurred towards them; but when the horses' hoofs
in advance flashed fire and their riders were seen to grow strangely
luminous, these pixie-led travellers thought it time to turn back. It
_was_ time they did so, for already their horses were sinking in a bog,
and as they turned they heard the rest of their party blowing their horns
in quite another direction. Possibly they turned in at the "Halfway House"
that stands away back from the road behind a screen of trees, just past
the eighth milestone; both to take something to enliven their spirits
withal and to tell the landlord of these strange happenings. If they did,
I have no doubt that they saw stranger sights still when they came forth,
when the earth would rise up and smite them in the face, and the swinging
sign of the "Halfway House" would perform a somersault over the
constellations. For they dealt in strange and curious liquors here in the
days of old; spirits that had never paid tribute to the Excise, and were
ever so many degrees over-proof, made the heart of man glad and his legs
to tie themselves into Gordian knots. You cannot get so immediately and
incapably drunk nowadays at the "Halfway House," and 'tis better so, but I
have seen the place drunk dry in the space of an hour by thirsty
Volunteers marching from London to Dover at Eastertide. When they had
gone, it was as hopeless to call for a draught of ale as I imagine it
would have been to ask the hostess for that old-time Kentish delicacy,
the "pudding-pie," that was once to be had for the asking at any inn
during Easter week. The "pudding-pie" has almost entirely vanished from
Kent, but, "once upon a time," not to have tasted one was regarded as
unlucky, and it was the usual thing for ale-house customers to ask for a
"pudding-pie" as a right. "Neow, missus," the Kentish yokel would say,
"let uz teaste one o' them 'ere puddeners o' yourn," and the "missus"
would hand him a flat circular tart, about the size of a saucer, and
filled with custard sprinkled thinly with currants.
Downs extend all the way from here to Lydden, three miles away, and Lydden
itself lies enfolded in a chalky bottom through which the road runs
steeply. Downs stretch on either side of the tiny village and frown down
upon it, making its insignificance more marked and its little cottages and
little church look like toys. On the left hand, at the distance of half a
mile, goes the railway, past that old village of Sibertswould, which
railway directors in a conspiracy with Kentish rustics have agreed to call
"Shepherdswell," and it continues in a deep, precipitous cutting through
the chalk to Kearsney station, another three miles ahead; and so presently
into Dover. And now the road leads uphill to Ewell, where the springs of
the little river Dour burst forth and gem all the valley hence to Dover
with gracious foliage. The good folk of Ewell have recovered the "Temple"
prefix to the village name. As "Temple Ewell" it was anciently known, for
here once was situated a Preceptory of the Knights Templar.
[Sidenote: THE DRELLINGORE STREAM]
The Dour, whose name means simply "water," bubbles up in springs at Temple
Ewell, and is fed by a stream which comes down the valley on the right,
from Alkham, two miles or so away, and from Drellingore, a further mile.
That stream is intermittent; being a "nailbourne," or chalk stream;
storing up water in its caverns until, these being filled, either by
exceptional rains, or long accumulation of springs, there comes an
overflow, generally doing more than fill the usually dry bed. The
Drellingore stream will then very often flood the road.
[Illustration: FLOODS AT ALKHAM: THE DRELLINGORE STREAM.]
The romantic name comes from the old Norman-French "Drelincourt," the name
of an extinct manorial family once holding land in these parts. The
watercourse is often dry for years, and the filling of it is thus a local
event, long ago made the subject of legends of dread and prophecies of
scarcity. Thus the old saying:
When Drellingore stream flows to Dover town,
Wheat shall be forty shillings and barley a pound.
So much a quarter is understood by that.
Well, then, Drellingore stream burst out with exceptional floods in April,
1914, and flowed to Dover town, and flooded the valley at Alkham. Wheat
was then round about 37_s._ 10-1/2_d._ a quarter, and barley was 20_s._
4-1/2_d._
Wheat had been steadily rising from its lowest, at 22_s._ 10_d._ in 1894;
and barley from 21_s._ 11_d._ in 1895. Barley was never so low as 20_s._
What, therefore, is the implication of the ominous legend, in respect of
barley?
In less than four months the Great War, 1914-18, broke out, and wheat in
1915 was up to 52_s._ 10_d._, and barley 34_s._ 7_d._ The course of
prices, 1916-1921, was:
_Wheat._ _Barley._
1916 58/5 53/6
1917 75/9 64/9
1918 72/10 59/0
1919 72/11 75/9
1920 80/10 108/11
1921 85/4 73/7
Prices during the Great War very reasonably agitated the community, but in
the period of the Napoleonic wars wheat rose to its highest recorded
price: 126_s._ 6_d._ in 1812; that is, thirty-one shillings and twopence a
quarter dearer than ever it has been in our own times. Barley, on the
contrary, was very much dearer in 1920 than ever it had been; for the top
price then was 40_s._ 5_d._ above the former highest: 68_s._ 6_d._ in
1801.
The road now grows suburban to Dover, and the valley commences to open out
toward the sea. Where the Dour flows, all the vegetation is luxuriant, and
there are lovely ponds decked with water-lilies beside the Crabble
meadows, below the highway to the right and near the prettily named
village of River; but as the hills rise on either hand they grow barren
again and stretch for miles right and left. One green spot amid these
eternal chalky undulations lies off to the right. This is Saint Radigund's
Abbey, sometimes called by two _aliases_, either "Kearsney" or "Bradsole"
Abbey. The first is the legitimate name, the others are given by its
neighbourhood and by the wide (or "broad") pond (or "sole") that stood
beside the ruins. Little is left of the old abbey but a gatehouse and some
beautiful stone-and-flint diapered walls, built into an old farmstead;
but, although so little remains, what there is left deserves a visit from
either architect or artist. Through this valley came King John on that
shameful day when, having previously made an informal submission to
Pandulf the Papal Legate in the Templars' house at Ewell, he proceeded to
formally ratify the gift of himself and his kingdom in the Templars'
Church on Dover Heights.
Where the Dour crosses the road at Buckland the open highway ends.
[Illustration: ST. RADIGUND'S ABBEY.]
[Sidenote: BUCKLAND]
Buckland church was enlarged in 1880, and it was then found necessary to
move the ancient yew, reputed to be over a thousand years old, in the
churchyard. A writer calling himself "Old Humphrey" mentions the tree in
his _Country Strolls_, 1841:--"The tree is hollow, and time and the
elements have writhed it into fantastic shapes. I can see, or fancy I can
see, snakes and dragons in its twisted branches."
It was not without some anxiety that the people of Buckland viewed the
proposed removal by some sixty feet of a tree for which they have much
affection. The weight was estimated at fifty-six tons. The contractor was
to have forfeited a great part of his price if the removal and replanting
caused the tree to die; but the work was done skilfully, and the old yew
seems actually to have become more flourishing for its change.
Henceforward are streets, first suburban, but presently continuous and
crowded, for the two miles that remain. Dover is reached, and the road is
done.
XLI
In the London Road approach to Dover, one mile from the centre of the
town, there used to stand an old inn called "The Milestone." A hatter's
shop now occupies the site; but two old milestones are yet there. One says
"70 miles to London: 14 miles to Canterbury," and the other proclaims it
to be "1 mile to Dovor."
This old spelling of "Dover" was common until the opening of the railway
era; and the coach-bills of the great Dover Road coach-proprietors, Horne,
Chaplin, and Gray, spelt the place-name "Dovor," with two "o's," instead
of an "o" and an "e."
[Sidenote: "DEAR" DOVER]
It will be expected of me that I should say something of Dover, and I do
not intend to disappoint so very reasonable an expectation, although the
Dover Road having been traversed, the object of this book is accomplished;
and, therefore, any remarks I may have to offer must be informed, not with
the prolixity of the local history, nor with the stodgy statistics of the
Guide Book, but with conciseness and something of the sympathy which shows
that to which but few Guide Books ever attain--the true inwardness of the
place. It is quite easy to be contemptuous of Dover, from the visitor's
point of view; from other vantage-grounds it is a great deal more easy to
acquire a certain enthusiasm for the old Cinque Port, its streets, its
piers, its Castle, and the more modern fortifications which cross the
Western Heights.
Thy cliffs, dear Dover! harbour and hotel;
Thy custom-house, with all its delicate duties;
Thy waiters running mucks at every bell;
Thy packets, all whose passengers are booties
To those who upon land or water dwell;
And last, not least, to strangers uninstructed,
Thy long, long bills, whence nothing is deducted.
sang Byron.
Turning, however, to a consideration of the two other objects of Byron's
outburst in _Don Juan_, the hotel and the cliffs, whether Shakespeare's
Cliff or those that form so grand a rampart away towards the North
Foreland, Byron, we find, was justified in his choice of Dovorian features
for due commemoration. For the cliffs, all that is to be said of the white
walls of old Albion has been long ago committed to print, and I do not
propose to attempt the saying of anything new about them. As for the hotel
of which the poet speaks, it was probably the "Ship." The "Ship," alas! is
gone, retired, as many of its landlords were enabled to do, into private
life, and the "long, long bills" by which they earned rather more than a
modest competency are now produced elsewhere. The "Lord Warden," which was
not, unfortunately, built in Byron's time, could probably have afforded
him material for another stanza or two, for that huge and supremely
hideous building was celebrated at one time for the monumental properties
of the bills presented to affrighted guests. Magnificent as were the
charges made by rapacious hosts elsewhere, they all paled their
ineffectual items before the sublime heights attained by the account
rendered to Louis Napoleon when he stayed here.
There are limits even to Princely-Presidential purses and patiences, and
few people cared to incur liabilities at the "Lord Warden," which would
have brought the shadow of the Bankruptcy Court looming upon the horizon.
As for that most doughty of Lord Wardens of the Cinque Ports, from whose
historic office the hotel takes its title--I name here, of course, the one
and only "Duke of Wellington"--_he_ usually resorted to an unpretending
hostelry, the "Royal Oak Commercial Hotel," in Cannon Street, nearly
opposite the old Church of St. Mary's, whenever he was called to the town.
It is not enough to know that Dover is a town of hoary antiquity; that
Caesar landed here B.C. 55 (or that he did not land here, but at Deal, as
the more scholarly antiquaries inform us). It is not sufficient to be
floored with such heavy slabs of historical information as those by which
we learn that the name of Dover has been arrived at through a long series
of British, Roman, and Saxon forms, originating from the little stream
called anciently the Dour, that flowed, once upon a time, through the
chalk valley of Temple Ewell and Buckland, tinkling cheerfully through the
old town and falling into the waves over the pebbles of Dover beach; now,
alas! pouring a contaminating flood through sewer-pipes far out to sea. I
say, it is not enough to know that the Romans latinized the name to
Dubris, that it was variously Doroberniae, Dofris, Dovere, and in the
eighteenth century occasionally "Dovor," finally to have the seal set on
these changes by its present name. It is not even sufficient to know
(although it is highly interesting) that Domesday Book opens with Dover,
commencing as it does, "Dovere tempore regis Edwardi." But this last slice
of historical provand is more than usually welcome because it gives us a
foothold whereon to begin the exploration of the old town. When one comes
to reduce the tough and gnarled latinity of Domesday Book to English as we
speak it, we find this first entry to recite that King Edward the
Confessor held a lien on a portion of the town rents, and that Earl Godwin
also partook of what the Radical politics of our own time term "unearned
increment." Edward the Confessor was a mild-mannered man and weak. It is,
for instance, primarily owing to his unfortunate preference for the
foreigner that we owe the Norman invasion and conquest of England; but for
all his mildness, it is extremely unlikely that this saintly invertebrate
would not have resented the talk of "unearned increment" in his day. He
was sufficiently considerate, however, so it would seem, to reduce the
rents in his town of Dover, seeing that, although a thriving place, it had
had the misfortune to be burned. The entry in Domesday Book goes on to say
that here was a Guildhall, and a mill at the entry of the port, much in
the way of shipping; and here, at this mention of the port we find our
most eloquent text.
[Sidenote: DOVER HARBOUR]