"'Muggleton.'

"'It _is_ them,' exclaimed Wardle. 'By heavens,

we've found them.'"

What happened afterwards every reader of _Pickwick_ very well knows.

Near Town Malling there is a curious monument erected to the memory of

Beadsman, the horse, belonging to Sir Joseph Hawley, which won the Derby

in 1859, and which was bred in the place. The monument (an exceedingly

practical one) consists of a useful pump for the supply of water.

[Illustration: The Medway at Maidstone]

After some luncheon at the Boar Inn, we are sorry to terminate our visit

to this pleasant place; but time flies, and trains, like tides, "wait

for no man." So we hurry to the railway station, passing on our way a

fine hop-garden, and take tickets by the London, Chatham, and Dover

Railway for Maidstone. We have a few minutes to spare, and our notice is

attracted to a curious group in the waiting-room. It consists of a rural

policeman, and what afterwards turned out, to be his prisoner, a

slouching but good-humoured-looking labourer, with a "fur cap" like

Rogue Riderhood. The officer leans against the mantelpiece, pleasantly

chatting with his charge, who is seated on the bench, leisurely eating

some bread and cheese with a large clasp-knife, in the intervals of

which proceeding he recounts some experiences for the edification of the

officer and bystanders. These are occasionally received with roars of

laughter. One of his stories relates to a house-breaker who, being

"caught in the act" by a policeman, and being asked what he was doing,

coolly replied, "Attending to my business, of course!" (This must surely

be taken "in a Pickwickian sense.") After finishing his bread and

cheese, the charge eats an apple, and then regales himself with

something from a large bottle. The unconcernedness of the man, whatever

his offence may be (poaching perhaps), is in painful contrast to the

careworn and anxious faces of his wife and little daughter (both

decently dressed), the latter about seven years old, and made too

familiar with crime at such an age. After we arrive at Maidstone (only a

few minutes' run by railway), it is a wretched sight to witness the

leave-taking at the gaol. First the man shakes hands with his wife, all

his forced humour having left him, and then affectionately kisses the

little girl, draws a cuff over his eyes, and walks heavily into the gaol

after the officer. We are glad to notice that he is not degraded as a

wild beast by being handcuffed. It was an episode that Dickens himself

perhaps would have witnessed with interest, and possibly stored up for

future use. What particularly strikes us is the difference in the

relations between these people and what would be the case under similar

circumstances in a large town. There is not that feature of hardness,

that familiarity with crime which breeds contempt, in the rural

incident. Poor man! let us hope his punishment will soon be finished,

and that he may return to his family, and not become an old offender;

but for the present, as Mr. Bagnet says, "discipline must be

maintained."

Maidstone, the county and assize town of Kent, appears to be a thriving

and solid-looking place, as there are several paper-mills, saw-mills,

stone quarries, and other indications of prosperity. There are but few

historical associations connected with it, as Maidstone "has lived a

quiet life." Sir Thomas Wyatt's rebellion, and the attack on the town by

Fairfax in 1648, are among the principal incidents. Dickens frequently

walked or drove over to this town from Gad's Hill. Many of the names

which we notice over the shops in the principal street are very

suggestive of, if not actually used for, some of the characters in his

novels, _e.g._ Pell, Boozer, Hibling, Fowle, Stuffins, Bunyard, Edmed,

Gregsbey, Dunmill, and Pobgee.

It has been said that Maidstone possesses a gaol; it also has large

barracks, and, what is better still, a Museum, Free Library, and Public

Gardens. Chillington Manor House,--a highly picturesque and

well-preserved Elizabethan structure, formerly the residence of the

Cobhams,--contains the Museum and Library. Standing in a quiet nook in

the Brenchley Gardens, the lines of George Macdonald, quoted in the

local _Guide Book_, well describe its beauties:--

"Its windows were aerial and latticed,

Lovely and wide and fair,

And its chimneys like clustered pillars

Stood up in the thin blue air."

The Museum--the new wing of which was built as a memorial of his

brother, by Mr. Samuel Bentlif--is the property of the Corporation, and

owes much of its contents to the liberality of Mr. Pretty, the first

curator, and to the naturalist and traveller, Mr. J. L. Brenchley. It

contains excellent fine art, archaeological, ethnological, natural

history, and geological collections. Among the last-named, in addition

to other interesting local specimens, are some fossil remains of the

mammoth (_Elephas primigenius_) from the drift at Aylesford, obtained by

its present able curator, Mr. Edward Bartlett, to whom we are indebted

for a most pleasant ramble through the various rooms. We notice an

original "Dickens-item" in the shape of a very good carved head of the

novelist, forming the right top panel of an oak fire-place, the opposite

side being one of Tennyson, by a local carver named W. Hughes, who was

formerly employed at Gad's Hill Place. No pilgrim in "Dickens-Land"

should omit visiting Maidstone and its treasures in Chillington Manor

House; nor of seeing the splendid view of the Medway from the

churchyard, looking towards Tovil.

[Illustration: Chillingham Manor House Maidstone]

We are particularly anxious to verify Dickens's experience of the walk

from Maidstone to Rochester. In a letter to Forster, written soon after

he came to reside at Gad's Hill Place, he says:--"I have discovered that

the seven miles between Maidstone and Rochester is one of the most

beautiful walks in England," and so indeed we find it to be. It is,

however, a rather long seven miles; so, cheerfully leaving the

gloomy-looking gaol to our right and proceeding along the raised terrace

by the side of the turn-pike road, we pass through the little village of

Sandling, and soon after commence the ascent of the great chalk range of

hills which form the eastern water-parting of the Medway. The most

noticeable object before we reach "Upper Bell" is "Kit's Coty (or

Coity) House," about one and a half miles north-east from Aylesford,

and not very far from the Bell Inn. According to Mr. Phillips Bevan, the

peculiar name is derived from the Celtic "Ked," and "Coity" or "Coed"

(Welsh), and means the Tomb in the Wood. Seymour considers the words a

corruption of "Catigern's House." Below Kit's Coty House, Mr. Wright,

the archaeologist, found the remains of a Roman villa, with quantities of

Samian ware, coins, and other articles.

There are many excavations in the chalk above Kit's Coty House,

apparently for interments; and the whole district appears in remote ages

to have been a huge cemetery. Tradition states that "the hero Catigern

was buried here, after the battle fought at Aylesford between Hengist

and Vortigern."

The Cromlech, which is now included in the provisions of the Ancient

Monuments Protection Act, 1882, lies under the hillside, a few yards

from the main road, and is fenced in with iron railings, and beautifully

surrounded by woods, the yew,[29] said to have been one of the sacred

trees of the Druids, being conspicuous here and there. That somewhat

rare plant the juniper is also found in this neighbourhood. The

"dolmens" which have been "set on end by a vanished people" are four in

number, and consist of sandstone, three of them, measuring about eight

feet each, forming the uprights, and the fourth, which is much larger,

serving as the covering stone.

In a field which we visit, not very far from Kit's Coty House, is

another group of stones, called the "countless stones." As we pass some

boys are trying to solve the arithmetical problem, which cannot be

readily accomplished, as the stones lie intermingled in a very strange

and irregular manner, and are overgrown with brushwood. The belief that

these stones cannot be counted is one constantly found connected with

similar remains, _e.g._ Stonehenge, Avebury, etc. We heard a local story

of a baker, who once tried to effect the operation by placing a loaf on

the top of each stone as a kind of check or tally; but a dog running

away with one of his loaves, upset his calculations.

[Illustration: Kit's Coty House]

Both the "Coty House" and the "countless stones" consist of a silicious

sandstone of the Eocene period, overlying the chalk, and are identical

with the "Sarsens," or "Grey Wethers," which occur at the pre-historic

town of Avebury, and at Stonehenge; the smaller stones of the latter

are, however, of igneous origin, and "are believed by Mr. Fergusson to

have been votive offerings." These masses, of what Sir A. C. Ramsay

calls "tough and intractable silicious stone," have been, he says, "left

on the ground, after the removal by denudation of other and softer parts

of the Eocene strata." We subsequently saw several of these "grey

wethers" in the grounds of Cobham Hall, and we noticed small masses of

the same stone _in situ_ in Pear Tree Lane, near Gad's Hill Place.

Speaking of Kit's Coty House in his _Short History of the English

People_, the late Mr. J. R. Green, in describing the English Conquest

and referring to this neighbourhood, says:--"It was from a steep knoll

on which the grey weather-beaten stones of this monument are reared that

the view of their first battle-field would break on the English

warriors; and a lane which still leads down from it through peaceful

homesteads would guide them across the ford which has left its name in

the little village of Aylesford. The Chronicle of the conquering people

tells nothing of the rush that may have carried the ford, or of the

fight that went struggling up through the village. It only tells that

Horsa fell in the moment of victory, and the flint heap of Horsted,

which has long preserved his name, and was held in after-time to mark

his grave, is thus the earliest of those monuments of English valour of

which Westminster is the last and noblest shrine. The victory of

Aylesford did more than give East Kent to the English; it struck the

keynote of the whole English conquest of Britain."

Dickens's visits to this locality in his early days may have suggested

the discovery of the stone with the inscription:--

[Illustration:

+

B I L S T

U M

P S H I

S. M.

A R K]

In later life he was fond of bringing his friends here "by a couple of

postilions in the old red jackets of the old red royal Dover road" to

enjoy a picnic. Describing a visit here with Longfellow he says:--"It

was like a holiday ride in England fifty years ago."

Returning to the main road, we reach the high land of Blue Bell--"Upper

Bell," as it is marked on the Ordnance Map. We are not quite on the

highest range, but sufficiently high (about three hundred feet) to

enable us to appreciate the splendid view that presents itself. In the

valley below winds the Medway, broadening as it approaches

Rochester.[30] The opposite heights consist of the western range of

hills, the width of the valley from point to point being about ten

miles. The "sky-line" of hills running from north to south cannot be

less than sixty miles, extending to the famous Weald of Kent (weald,

wald, or wolde, being literally "a wooded region, an open country"); all

the intervening space of undulating slope and valley (river excepted) is

filled up by hamlets, grass, root, and cornfields, hop-gardens, orchards

and woodlands, the whole forming a picture of matchless beauty. No

wonder Dickens was very fond of this delightful walk; it must be gone

over to be appreciated.[31]

[Illustration: Kits Coty House and "Blue Bell" From the Painting by

Gegan]

We tramp on through Boxley and Bridge Woods, down the hill, and pass

Borstal Convict Prison and Fort Clarence, where there are guns which we

were informed would carry a ball from this elevated ground right over

the Thames into the county of Essex (a distance of seven miles); and so

we get back again to Rochester.

FOOTNOTES:

[26] Lambarde says, "Malling, in Saxon Mealing, or Mealuing, that is,

the Low place flourishing with Meal or Corne, for so it is everywhere

accepted."

[27] The italics are interpolated.

[28] Burham, although now enshrouded in the smoke of lime-making, was

probably sixty years ago a delightfully rural spot.

[29] Mr. Roach Smith reminded us that the yew was in times past planted

for its wood to be used as bows.

[30] Professor Huxley, in his _Physiography_, has estimated that "at the

present rate of wear and tear, denudation can have lowered the surface

of the Thames Basin by hardly more than an inch since the Norman

Conquest; and nearly a million years must elapse before the whole basin

of the Thames will be worn down to the sea-level"; and Dr. A. Geikie,

after a series of elaborate calculations, has postulated "as probably a

fair average, a valley of 1000 feet deep may be excavated in 1,200,000

years." Taking these estimates as a basis, and allowing for an average

height of three hundred feet, we roughly arrive at a period of about

four hundred thousand years as the possible length of time which it has

taken to form this beautiful valley. Professor Huxley may well say that

"the geologist has thoughts of time and space to which the ordinary mind

is a stranger."

[31] Mr. Kitton's illustration (from the painting by Gegan, a local

artist, executed many years since) gives a good idea of the scenery of

this beautiful district. It also reproduces the profile of a huge chalk

cliff not now visible, but which existed about half a century ago,

having a curious resemblance to the head of a lion, and forming at the

time a conspicuous landmark to travellers.

CHAPTER XI.

BROADSTAIRS, MARGATE, AND CANTERBURY.

"We have a fine sea, wholesome for all people;

profitable for the body, profitable for the

mind."--_Our English Watering-Place._

"All is going on as it was wont. The waves are

hoarse with repetition of their mystery; the dust

lies piled upon the shore; the sea-birds soar and

hover; the winds and clouds go forth upon their

trackless flight; the white arms beckon in the

moonlight to the invisible country far

away."--_Dombey and Son._

"A moment, and I occupy my place in the Cathedral,

where we all went together every Sunday morning,

assembling first at school for that purpose. The

earthy smell, the sunless air, the sensation of

the world being shut out, the resounding of the

organ through the black and white arched galleries

and aisles, are wings that take me back and hold

me hovering above those days in a half-sleeping

and half-waking dream."--_David Copperfield._

TAKING advantage of an excursion train (for tramps usually go on the

cheap), we start early on Wednesday by the South-Eastern Railway from

Chatham station for Broadstairs. As usual the weather favours us--it is

a glorious day. Passing the stations of New Brompton, Rainham,

Newington, and Sittingbourne, we soon get into open country, in the

midst of hop gardens with their verdant aisles of the fragrant and

tonic, tendril-like plants reaching in some instances perhaps to several

hundred yards, and crowned with yellowish-green fruit-masses, which

have a special charm for those unaccustomed to such scenery. The

odd-looking "oast-houses,"[32] or drying-houses for the hops, are a

noticeable feature of the neighbourhood, dotting it about here and there

in pairs. They are mostly red-brick and cone-shaped, somewhat smaller

than the familiar glass-houses of the Midland districts, and have a

wooden cowl, painted white, at the apex for ventilation. We are rather

too early for the hop-picking, and thus--but for a time only--miss an

interesting sight. Dickens, in one of his letters to Forster, gives a

dreary picture of this annual harvest:--

"Hop-picking is going on, and people sleep in the garden, and breathe in

at the key-hole of the house door. I have been amazed, before this year,

by the number of miserable lean wretches, hardly able to crawl, who come

hop-picking. I find it is a superstition that the dust of the

newly-picked hop, falling freshly into the throat, is a cure for

consumption. So the poor creatures drag themselves along the roads, and

sleep under wet hedges, and get cured soon and finally."

On the whole it is said to be a very indifferent season, but many

plantations look promising. "If," as a grower remarks to us in the

train, "we could have a little more of this fine weather! There has been

too much rain, and too little sun this year." The apples also are a poor

crop.

[Illustration: Hop-picking in Kent]

On a second visit to this pleasant neighbourhood, we see at Mear's Barr

Farm, near Rainham, the whole process of hop-picking. True, it is not

executed by that ragamuffinly crowd of strangers which Dickens had in

his "mind's eye" when he wrote the words just quoted, and which

usually takes possession of most of the hop-growing districts of Kent

during the picking season, but by an assemblage of native villagers,

mostly women, girls, and boys,--neat, clean, and homely,--together with

a few men who do the heavier part of the work. They are of all ages,

from the tottering old grandmother, careworn wife, and buxom maiden, to

the child in perambulator and baby in arms; and in the bright sunlight,

amid the groves of festooning green columns, form a most orderly,

varied, and picturesque gathering--a regular picnic in fact, judging

from the cheerful look on most of the faces, and the merry laugh that is

occasionally heard.

Mr. Fred Scott, tenant of the farm, of which Lord Hothfield is owner, is

kind enough to go over the hop-garden with us, and describe all the

details. When the hops are ripe (_i. e._ when the seeds are hard) and

ready to be gathered, the pickers swarm on the ground, and a man divides

the "bine" at the bottom of the "pole" by means of a bill-hook--not

cutting it too close for fear of bleeding--leaving the root to sprout

next year, and then draws out the pole, to which is attached the long,

creeping bine, trailing over at top. If the pole sticks too fast in the

ground, he eases it by means of a lever, or "hop-dog" (a long, stout

wooden implement, having a toothed iron projection). "Mind my dog don't

bite you, sir," says one of the men facetiously, as we step over this

rough-looking tool. Women then carry the poles to, and lay them across,

the "bin," a receptacle formed by four upright poles stuck in the ground

and placed at an angle, supporting a framework from which depends the

"bin-cloth," made of jute or hemp, holding from ten to twenty bushels of

green hops, weighing about 1-1/2 lbs. per bushel when dry.

The picking then commences, and nimble fingers of all sizes very soon

strip the poles of the aromatically-smelling ripe hops, the poles being

cast aside in heaps, to be afterwards cleared of the old bines and put

into "stacks" of three hundred each, and used again next season.

The bins, which vary in number according to the size of the hop-garden,

are placed in rows on the margin of the plantation, and usually have ten

"hop-hills" (_i. e._ plants) on each side, and are moved inside the

plantation as the poles are pulled up. Each bin belongs to a "sett" (_i.

e._ family or companionship), consisting of from five to seven persons,

and is taken charge of by a "binman." When the bin is full, a "measurer"

(either the farmer himself or his deputy) takes account of the quantity

of hops picked, and records it in a book to the credit of each working

family. Then the green hops are carted off in "pokes" or sacks to the

"oast-houses" to be dried. For this purpose, anthracite coal and

charcoal are used in the kiln, a shovelful or two of sulphur being added

to the fire when the hops are put on. The process of drying takes eleven

hours, and afterwards the dried hops are packed in pockets which, when

full, weigh about a hundredweight and a half each, the packing being

effected by hydraulic pressure. They are then sent to market, the

earliest arrivals fetching very high prices. As much as L50 per cwt. was

paid in 1882, but the ordinary price averages from L4 to L8 per cwt.

_Humulus Lupulus_, the hop, belongs to the natural order _Urticaceae_--a

plant of rather wide distribution, but said to be absent in

Scotland--and is a herbaceous, dioecious perennial, usually propagated

by removal of the young shoots or by cuttings. According to Sowerby, the

genus is derived from _humus_, the ground, as, unless supported or

trained, the plant falls to the earth; and the common name "hop" from

the Saxon _hoppan_, to climb. William King, in his _Art of Cookery_,

says that "heresy and hops came in together"; while an old popular rhyme

records that:--

"Hops, carp, pickerel, and beer,

Came into England all in one year."

Tusser in his _Hondreth Good Points of Husbandrie_, published in 1557,

gives sundry directions for the cultivation of hops, and quaintly

advocates their use as follows:--

"The hop for his profit I thus do exalt,

It strengtheneth drink, and it savoureth malt;

And being well brewed, long kept it will last,

And drawing abide--if you draw not too fast."

The hop has many varieties--thirty or more--among which may be mentioned

prolifics, bramblings, goldings, common goldings, old goldings,

Canterbury goldings, Meopham goldings, etc. When once planted they last

for a hundred years, but some growers replace them every ten years or

sooner.

The principal enemies of the hop are "mould" caused by the fungus

_Sphaerotheca Castagnei_, and several kinds of insects, especially the

"green fly," _Aphis humuli_, but the high wind is most to be dreaded. It

tears the hop-bines from the poles and throws the poles down, which in

falling crush other bines, and thus bruise the hops and prevent their

growth, besides obstructing the passage of air and sunlight, and causing

the development of mould or mildew. The remedy for mould is dusting with

sulphur, and for the green fly, syringing with tobacco or quassia water

and soap, "Hop-wash," as it is called. Sometimes the lady-bird

(_Coccinella septempunctata_) is present in sufficient numbers to

consume the green fly. Very little can be done to obviate the effects of

the wind, but a protective fence of the wild hop--called a "lee" or

"loo"--is sometimes put up round very choice plantations.

The hop-poles, the preparation of which constitutes a distinct industry,

are either of larch, Spanish chestnut, ash, willow, birch, or

beech--larch or chestnut being preferred. Women clear the poles of the

bark, and men sharpen them at one end, which is dipped in creosote

before being used. The ground is cleared, and the poles are stuck in

against the old plants in February or March.

We are informed that the hop-picking is much looked forward to by the

villagers with pleasure as the means of supplying them with a little

purse for clothing, etc., against winter-time. Each family or

companionship earns from thirty shillings to two pounds per week during

the season.

We proceed on our excursion, and pass Faversham, which stands in a

rather picturesque bit of country some way up Faversham Creek, and is

sheltered on the west by a ridge of wooded hills where the hop country

ceases, as the railway bends north-easterly for Margate and Ramsgate.

Whitstable, the next station passed, is famous for the most delicate

oysters in the market, the fishery of which is regulated by an annual

court; and it is said that one grower alone sends fifty thousand barrels

a year to London from this district. We speculate whether these

delicious molluscs were supplied at that famous supper described in the

thirty-ninth chapter of _The Old Curiosity Shop_, at which were present

Kit, his mother, the baby, little Jacob, and Barbara, after the night at

the play, when Kit told the waiter "to bring three dozen of his

largest-sized oysters, and to look sharp about it," and fulfilled his

promise "to let little Jacob know what oysters meant." All along, as the

railway winds from Whitstable to Margate, glimpses of the sea are

visible, and vary our excursion pleasantly.

The next noteworthy place we pass is Reculver--the ancient

Regulbium--which, according to Mr. Phillips Bevan, is "mentioned in the

Itinerary of Antoninus as being garrisoned by the first cohort of

Brabantois Belgians. After the Romans, it was occupied by the Saxon

Ethelbert, who is said to have occupied it as a palace, and to have been

buried there." "The two picturesque towers" (quoting Bevan again),

"which form so conspicuous a land and sea mark, are called 'The

Sisters,' and are in reality modern-built by the Trinity Board in place

of two erected traditionally by an Abbess of Faversham, who was wrecked

here with her sister on their way to Broadstairs." The sea is fast

encroaching on the land here, notwithstanding the erection of a large

sea-wall and piles.

Passing Margate, we reach Broadstairs, about thirty-seven miles from

Chatham. Broadstairs, immortalized in _Our English Watering Place_

(which paper, says Forster, "appeared while I was there, and great was

the local excitement"), is so inseparably associated with the earlier

years of Charles Dickens's holiday-life, that it becomes most

interesting to his admirers. Forster also says, "His later seaside

holiday, September 1837, was passed at Broadstairs, as were those of

many subsequent years; and the little watering-place has been made

memorable by his pleasant sketch of it." At the time of his first visit

(1837) he was writing a portion of _Pickwick_ (Part 18); in 1838 part of

_Nicholas Nickleby_; and in 1839 part of _The Old Curiosity Shop_. He

was also there in 1840, 1841, and 1842, when writing the _American

Notes_; in 1845 and 1847, when writing _Dombey and Son_; in 1848 and

1850, when engaged on _David Copperfield_; and in 1851, when he was

drafting the outlines of _Bleak House_. At the end of November of that

year, when he had settled himself in his new London abode (Tavistock

House), the book was begun, "and, as so generally happened with the more

important incidents of his life, but always accidentally, begun on a

Friday." After 1851, he returned not again to Broadstairs until 1859,

when he paid his last visit to the place, and stayed a week there. The

reason for his forsaking it was that it had become too noisy for him.

Broadstairs stands midway between the North Foreland and Ramsgate, and

owes its name to the breadth of the sea-gate or "stair," which was

originally defended by a gate or archway. An archway still survives on

the road to the sea, and bears on it two inscriptions, (1) "Built by

George Culenier about 1540"; (2) "Repaired by Sir John Henniker, Bart.,

1795."

Broadstairs has good sands, precipitous chalk cliffs, and a very fine

sea-view. The railway station is about a mile from the pier, and the

town is approached by a well-kept road ("the main street of our

watering-place. . . . You may know it by its being always stopped up

with donkey chaises. Whenever you come here and see the harnessed

donkeys eating clover out of barrows drawn completely across a narrow

thoroughfare, you may be quite sure you are in our High Street"), with

villas standing in their own gardens, most of which are brightened by

summer flowers, notably the blue clematis (_Clematis Jackmani_) and by

those charming seaside evergreens the _Escallonia_ and the _Euonymus_.

As we near the sea, the shops become more numerous, and, on the

right-hand side, we have no difficulty in finding (although we heard it

had been altered considerably) the house "No. 12, High Street," in which

Dickens lived when he first visited Broadstairs. It is a plain little

dwelling of single front, with a small parlour looking into the street,

and has one story over--just the place that seems suited to the

financial position of the novelist when he was commencing life. The

house is now occupied by Mr. Bean, plumber and glazier, whose wife

courteously shows us over it, and into the back yard and little garden,

kindly giving us some pears from an old tree growing there, whereon we

speculate as to whether Dickens himself had ever enjoyed the fruit from

the same old tree. He appears to have lived in this house during his

visits in 1837 and 1838. We ask the good lady if she is aware that

Charles Dickens had formerly stayed in her house, and she replies in the

negative, so we recommend her to get her husband to put up a tablet

outside to the effect "Charles Dickens lived here, 1837," in imitation

of the example of the Society of Arts in Furnival's Inn. There can be no

doubt as to the identity of the house, for we take the precaution of

ascertaining that the numbers have not been altered.

Our efforts to discover "Lawn House," where Dickens stayed on his visits

from 1838 to 1848, are attended with some difficulty. First we are told

it lay this way, then that, and then the other; a smart villa in a new

road is pointed out to us as the object of our search, which we at once

reject, as being too recent. But we are patient and persevering,

feeling, with Mr. F.'s aunt, that "you can't make a head and brains out

of a brass knob with nothing in it. You couldn't do it when your Uncle

George was living; much less when he's dead!" Finally, we appeal to some

one who looks like the "oldest inhabitant," and obtain something like a

clue. We are eventually directed to a veritable "Lawn House," which is

the last house on the left as you approach "Fort House." It must have

changed in respect of its surroundings since forty years have passed,

and although there is nothing outside to indicate it as such, it seems

fair to assume that this was the house described in the _Life_ as "a

small villa between the hill and the cornfield." The present occupier,

who has no recollection of Dickens ever having been there, courteously

allows us to see the hall and dining-room. The house is of course a

great improvement upon "No 12, High Street."

A few steps from "Lawn House" lead us to the drive approaching "Fort

House," pleasantly surrounded by a sloping lawn and shrubbery. John

Forster, alluding to it in the _Life_, says:--

"The residence he most desired there, 'Fort House,' stood prominently at

the top of a breezy hill on the road to Kingsgate, with a cornfield

between it and the sea, and this in many subsequent years he always

occupied."

Alas! the cornfield is no more, but "Fort House," or "Bleak House," as

it is indifferently termed locally, remains intact. It is the most

striking object of the place, standing on a cliff overlooking the sea,

the harbour, and the town (made familiar by several photographs and

engravings), with its curious verandahs and blinds, as seen in the

vignette of J. C. Hotten's interesting book, _Charles Dickens: The Story

of His Life_. An excellent photograph is published in the town, of which

we are glad to secure a copy.

[Illustration: "Bleak House" Broadstairs]

In the sixth chapter of _Bleak House_ it is called "an old-fashioned

house with three peaks in the roof in front, and a severe sweep leading

to the porch." In the same chapter there is a minute account of the

interior, too lengthy to be quoted; but the description does not

resemble Fort House. We are kindly permitted by the occupier to see the

study in which the novelist worked, a privilege long to be remembered.

This room is approached by "a little staircase of shallow steps" from

the first floor, as described in _Bleak House_; but it will be borne in

mind that the "Bleak House" of the novel is placed in Hertfordshire,

near St. Albans, and _not_ at Broadstairs, although many persons still

believe that Fort House is the original of the story. From the study we

have a lovely view of the sea--the balmy breeze of a summer's day

lightly fanning the waves, and just sufficing to move the delicate

filamentous foliage of the tamarisk trees now standing in the place

where the cornfield was. Even at the time we see it, changed as all its

surroundings are, we can imagine the enjoyment which Dickens had in this

healthy spot on the North Downs.

In that interesting "book for an idle hour" called _The Shuttlecock

Papers_, Mr. J. Ashby-Sterry thus sympathetically alludes to "Bleak

House":--"What a romantic place this is to write in, is it not? What a

glorious study to work in! Indeed, both from situation and association,

it would be impossible to find a better place for writing, were it not

that one feels that so much superb work has been done on this very spot

by so great an artist, that the mere craftsman is inclined to question

whether it is worth while for him to write at all."

How well Dickens loved Broadstairs is told in his letter of the 1st

September, 1843, addressed to Professor Felton, of Cambridge, U. S. A.,

as follows:--

"This is a little fishing-place; intensely quiet; built on a cliff,

whereon--in the centre of a tiny semi-circular bay--our house stands;

the sea rolling and dashing under the windows. Seven miles out are the

Goodwin Sands (you've heard of the Goodwin Sands?), whence floating

lights perpetually wink after dark, as if they were carrying on

intrigues with the servants. Also there is a lighthouse called the North

Foreland on a hill behind the village, a severe parsonic light, which

reproves the young and giddy floaters, and stares grimly out upon the

sea. Under the cliff are rare good sands, where all the children

assemble every morning and throw up impossible fortifications, which the

sea throws down again at high-water. Old gentlemen and ancient ladies

flirt after their own manner in two reading-rooms, and on a great many

scattered seats in the open air. Other old gentlemen look all day long

through telescopes and never see anything.

"In a bay-window in a one-pair sits, from nine o'clock to one, a

gentleman with rather long hair and no neckcloth, who writes and grins

as if he thought he were very funny indeed. His name is Boz. At one he

disappears, and presently emerges from a bathing machine, and may be

seen--a kind of salmon-coloured porpoise--splashing about in the ocean.

After that he may be seen in another bay-window on the ground-floor,

eating a strong lunch; after that, walking a dozen miles or so, or lying

on his back in the sand reading a book. Nobody bothers him unless they

know he is disposed to be talked to; and I am told he is very

comfortable indeed. He's as brown as a berry, and they _do_ say is a

small fortune to the innkeeper who sells beer and cold punch. But this

is mere rumour. Sometimes he goes up to London (eighty miles or so

away), and then I'm told there is a sound in Lincoln's Inn Fields at

night, as of men laughing, together with a clinking of knives and forks,

and wine-glasses."

And further in a letter to another correspondent recently made public:--

"When you come to London, to assist at Miss Liston's sacrifice, don't

forget to remind your uncle of our Broadstairs engagement to which I

hold you bound. A good sea--fresh breezes--fine sands--and pleasant

walks--with all manner of fishing-boats, lighthouses, piers,

bathing-machines, are its only attractions, but it's one of the freshest

little places in the world, consequently the proper place for you."

In the year 1851, in a letter dated 8th September, addressed to Mr.

Henry Austin, he thus alludes to a wreck which took place at

Broadstairs:--

"A great to-do here. A steamer lost on the Goodwins yesterday, and our

men bringing in no end of dead cattle and sheep. I stood supper for them

last night, to the unbounded gratification of Broadstairs. They came in

from the wreck very wet and tired, and very much disconcerted by the

nature of their prize--which, I suppose after all, will have to be

recommitted to the sea, when the hides and tallow are secured. One

lean-faced boatman murmured, when they were all ruminating over the

bodies as they lay on the pier: 'Couldn't sassages be made on it?' but

retired in confusion shortly afterwards, overwhelmed by the execrations

of the bystanders."

Dickens got tired of Broadstairs in 1847, for reasons given in the

following letter to Forster, though he did not forsake it till some

years after:--

"Vagrant music is getting to that height here, and is so impossible to

be escaped from, that I fear Broadstairs and I must part company in time

to come. Unless it pours of rain, I cannot write half an hour without

the most excruciating organs, fiddles, bells, or glee singers. There is

a violin of the most torturing kind under the window now (time, ten in

the morning), and an Italian box of music on the steps--both in full

blast."

By good luck we fall in with an "old salt," formerly one of the boatmen

of _Our English Watering Place_ who are therein immortalized by much

kindly mention, with whom we have a pleasant chat about Charles Dickens.

Harry Ford (the name of our friend) well remembers the great novelist,

when in early days he used to come on his annual excursions with his

family to Broadstairs. "Bless your soul," he says, "I can see 'Old

Charley,' as we used to call him among ourselves here, a-coming flying

down from the cliff with a hop, step, and jump, with his hair all flying

about. He used to sit sometimes on that rail" (pointing to the one

surrounding the harbour), "with his legs lolling about, and sometimes on

the seat that you're a-sitting on now" (adjoining the old Look-out

House opposite the Tartar Frigate Inn), "and he was very fond of talking

to us fellows and hearing our tales--he was very good-natured, and

nobody was liked better. And if you'll read" (continues our informant)

"that story that he wrote and printed about _Our Watering Place_, _I_

was the man who's mentioned there as mending a little ship for a boy.

_I_ held that child between my knees. And what's more, sir, _I_ took

'Old Charley,' on the very last time that he came over to Broadstairs

(he wasn't living here at the time), round the foreland to Margate, with

a party of four friends. I took 'em in my boat, the _Irene_," pointing

to a clinker-built strong boat lying in the harbour, capable of holding

twenty people. "The wind was easterly--the weather was rather rough, and

it took me three or four hours to get round. There was a good deal of

chaffing going on, I can tell you."

[Illustration: Old Look-out House Broadstairs]

Mrs. Long, of Zion Place, Broadstairs, the wife of an old coastguardman,

who was stationed at the Preventive Station when Dickens lodged at Fort

House, also remembered the novelist. The coastguard men are also

immortalized in _Our English Watering Place_, as "a steady, trusty,

well-conditioned, well-conducted set of men, with no misgiving about

looking you full in the face, and with a quiet, thorough-going way of

passing along to their duty at night, carrying huge sou'wester clothing

in reserve, that is fraught with all good prepossession. They are handy

fellows--neat about their houses, industrious at gardening, would get on

with their wives, one thinks, in a desert island--and people it too

soon."

Mrs. Long says "Mr. Dickens was a very nice sort of gentleman, but he

didn't like a noise." The windows of Fort House, she reminds us,

overlooked the coastguard station, and whenever the children playing

about made more noise than usual, he used to tell her husband gently "to

take the children away," or "to keep the people quiet." This little

story fully confirms Dickens's often-expressed feeling of dislike, which

subsequently grew intolerable, to Broadstairs as a watering-place.

After taking a turn or two on the lively Promenade,--made bright by the

rich masses of flesh-coloured flowers of the valerian which fringe its

margin,--to enjoy the sunshine and air, and watch the holiday folks, we

bid adieu to Broadstairs, and proceed to Margate.

Of Margate there is not much to say. We reach it by an early afternoon

train of the London, Chatham, and Dover Railway, to get the quickest

service by the South-Eastern Railway on to Canterbury. Our stay at

Margate is consequently very limited.

To some minds this popular Cockney watering-place has great attractions;

its broad sands, its beautiful air, and its boisterous amusements,

negro-melodies, merry-go-rounds, and the like; but it was a place seldom

visited by Dickens, although he was so often near it. Only twice in the

_Life_ is it recorded that he came here; once being in 1844, when he

wrote to Forster respecting the theatre as follows:--

"'_Nota Bene._--The Margate Theatre is open every evening, and the four

Patagonians (see Goldsmith's _Essays_) are performing thrice a week at

Ranelagh.' A visit from me"--Forster goes on to say--"was at this time

due, to which these were held out as inducements; and there followed

what it was supposed I could not resist, a transformation into the

broadest farce of a deep tragedy by a dear friend of ours. 'Now you

really must come. Seeing only is believing, very often isn't that, and

even Being the thing falls a long way short of believing it. Mrs.

Nickleby herself once asked me, as you know, if I really believed there

ever was such a woman; but there will be no more belief, either in me or

my descriptions, after what I have to tell of our excellent friend's

tragedy, if you don't come and have it played again for yourself, 'by

particular desire.' We saw it last night, and oh! if you had but been

with us! Young Betty, doing what the mind of man without my help never

_can_ conceive, with his legs like padded boot-trees wrapped up in faded

yellow drawers, was the hero. The comic man of the company, enveloped in

a white sheet, with his head tied with red tape like a brief, and

greeted with yells of laughter whenever he appeared, was the venerable

priest. A poor toothless old idiot, at whom the very gallery roared with

contempt when he was called a tyrant, was the remorseless and aged

Creon. And Ismene, being arrayed in spangled muslin trousers very loose

in the legs and very tight in the ankles, such as Fatima would wear in

_Blue Beard_, was at her appearance immediately called upon for a song!

After this can you longer--?'"

[Illustration: The "Falstaff": Westgate Canterbury]

He speaks in a letter to Forster, dated September, 1847, of

"improvements in the Margate Theatre since his memorable first visit."

It had been managed by a son of the great comedian Dowton, and the piece

which Dickens then saw was _As You Like It_, "really very well done, and

a most excellent house." It was Mr. Dowton's benefit, and "he made a

sensible and modest kind of speech," which impressed Dickens, who thus

concludes his letter:--"He really seems a most respectable man, and he

has cleaned out this dusthole of a theatre into something like

decency."

There is also the following significant mention of Margate in chapter

nineteen of _Bleak House_:--

"It is the hottest long vacation known for many years. All the young

clerks are madly in love, and according to their various degrees, pant

for bliss with the beloved object at Margate, Ramsgate, or Gravesend."

If Broadstairs was noisy, Margate must have been intensely so. We leave

the crowded holiday-making place without much feeling of regret, and

passing Ramsgate--of which there is but one mention in the _Life_--on

our way, reach Canterbury in the afternoon.

We are delighted with this exquisitely beautiful old city, our only

regret being that our time is very limited, and our means of

ascertaining places situated in "Dickens-Land" more so.

Taking up our temporary quarters at the "Sir John Falstaff" Hotel, in

remembrance of its namesake at Gad's Hill, after the refreshment of a

meal, we commence our tramp through Canterbury, where David Copperfield

passed some of his happiest days. Of the Falstaff here there is an

excellent picture in Mr. Rimmer's _About England with Dickens_; a very

quaint old inn with double front, and bay-windows top and bottom,

possibly of the sixteenth century, and with a long swinging sign

extending over the pavement, on which is painted a life-like presentment

of the portly knight, the pretty ornamental ironwork supporting it

reminding one of Washington Irving's description in _Bracebridge Hall_,

"fancifully wrought at top into flourishes and flowers."

[Illustration: The "Dane John" from the City Wall Canterbury]

A few steps further on is the West Gate, "standing between two lofty and

spacious round towers erected in the river," built by Archbishop

Sudbury, who was barbarously murdered by Wat Tyler in the reign of

Richard II., which is the sole remaining one of six gates formerly

constituting the approaches to the city. From this gate, looking

eastward, with the river Stour on either side, banked by neatly-trimmed

private gardens, a beautiful view of the city is obtained. The High

Street, crowded with gables of the sixteenth century and later timbered

houses, slightly bends and rises as well, until the perspective seems to

lose itself in a distant grove of trees, locally called the "Dane John,"

a corruption of "Donjon." This view, especially when seen on a summer

afternoon, is most picturesque. The present appearance of the quiet

street is decidedly unlike that which it presented on that busy

market-day when Miss Betsey Trotwood drove her nephew along it, for

David says, "My aunt had a good opportunity of insinuating the grey pony

among carts, baskets, vegetables, and hucksters' goods. The hair-breadth

turns and twists we made drew down upon us a variety of speeches from

the people standing about, which were not always complimentary; but my

aunt drove on with perfect indifference."

We notice in the windows and in many of the shops an abundance of

brightly-coloured cut-flowers, a notable feature of the county of Kent;

but we have little time to spare, and hasten on to the Cathedral

precincts.

"What a magnificent edifice!" is our first thought on beholding the

Cathedral, a noble pile so well befitting the Metropolitan See of

England, from which the Christianity of the Kingdom first flowed. Dating

from Ethelbert, at the close of the sixth century, three structures have

successively occupied the site, culminating in the present one, which,

according to Mr. Phillips Bevan, was erected at different times between

1070 and 1500; and he goes on to say:--"No wonder that it exhibits so

many styles and peculiarities of detail, although the two most prominent

architectural eras are those of 'Transition-Norman' and

'Perpendicular.'"

The appropriate stone figures in niches of distinguished Royal and

Ecclesiastical personages associated with the Cathedral (which at the

suggestion of Dean Alford in 1863 replaced those of the murderers of the

martyr, Thomas a Becket), from King Ethelbert to Queen Victoria, and

from Archbishop Lanfranc to Archbishop Longley; the lofty groined arches

and stately towers, the beautiful carved screen, the noble monuments,

the splendid choir (a hundred and eighty feet in length) approached by

many steps, the rich stained-glass windows, all attract our admiring

attention, and confirm our impression that a modern pilgrimage to

Canterbury is a thing to be highly appreciated; and on no account would

we have missed this part of our excursion. The murder of Thomas a

Becket (1170) took place between the nave and the choir in a transept or

cross aisle called "The Martyrdom."

[Illustration: Bell Harry Tower: Canterbury Cathedral:]

There is an interesting Sidney Cooper Gallery of Art, and also a Museum

in the city, the latter containing some rare old Roman Mosaic pavement

discovered in Burgate Street at a depth of ten feet.

But our object is to identify spots made memorable in _David

Copperfield_, and we walk round the spacious Cathedral Close and "make

an effort" (as Mrs. Chick said) in trying to find the simple-minded and

good Dr. Strong's House. It is described as "a grave building in a

courtyard, with a learned air about it that seemed very well suited to

the stray rooks and jackdaws who came down from the Cathedral towers,

and walked with a clerkly bearing on the grass-plat."

Alas! it is not here, although there are many such houses that

correspond with it in some particulars. So we try several of the "dear

old tranquil streets," but fail to discover the identical building.

The next object of our search is Mr. Wickfield's residence, "a very old

house bulging out over the road; a house with low latticed windows,

bulging out still further, and beams with carved heads on the ends,

bulging out too." How strongly the description in many parts tallies

with the houses in Rochester opposite "Eastgate House"; but here again

we are baffled, as other modern pilgrims have been before, and we cannot

associate any particular building with either of the two houses. The

house in Burgate Street now occupied as offices by Messrs. Plummer and

Fielding, Diocesan Registrars, who obligingly permit an examination of

it, is suggested to us as being Mr. Wickfield's house, but, after an

inspection, on several grounds we are obliged to reject this suggestion.

[Illustration: Scene of the Martyrdom Canterbury Cathedral]

[Illustration: "Bits" of Old Canterbury.]

There was many a "low old-fashioned room, walked straight into from the

street," which would have served for the "umble" dwelling of Uriah Heep

and his mother, but none can be pointed out with absolute certainty as

being the veritable one.

By the kindness of Dr. Sheppard and Mr. T. B. Rosseter, F.R.M.S., we

are, however, enabled to identify two houses in Canterbury alluded to

in _David Copperfield_. The "County Inn," where Mr. Dick slept on his

visits to David "every alternate Wednesday," was no doubt The Royal

Fountain Hotel in St. Margaret's Street (formerly the Watling Street),

which is still recognized as such. A passage in the seventeenth chapter

thus refers to these visits:--

"Mr. Dick was very partial to ginger-bread. To

render his visits the more agreeable, my aunt had

instructed me to open a credit for him at a

cake-shop, which was hampered with the stipulation

that he should not be served with more than one

shilling's-worth in the course of any one day.

This, and the reference of all his little bills at

the County Inn, where he slept, to my aunt before

they were paid, induced me to think that Mr. Dick

was only allowed to rattle his money, and not to

spend it."

The "little Inn" (as recorded in the same chapter) where Mr. Micawber

"put up" on his first visit to Canterbury, and where he "occupied a

little room in it partitioned off from the commercial, and strongly

flavoured with tobacco smoke," is doubtless the "Sun Inn" in Sun Street,

which is at the opposite corner of the square where the ancient

"Chequers" in Mercery Lane--the Pilgrim's Inn of Chaucer--stood. It was

a place of resort from afar, and was altered in the seventeenth century.

Dr. Sheppard calls attention to the interesting fact that the omnibus

from Herne Bay stopped at the Sun; and probably, in his visits to

Broadstairs, Dickens would often run over for a day's trip to

Canterbury.

On their first visit to the "little Inn," Mr. and Mrs.

Micawber--notwithstanding their chronic impecuniosity--thus entertained

David Copperfield:--

"We had a beautiful little dinner. Quite an

elegant dish of fish; the kidney end of a loin of

veal roasted; fried sausage-meat; a partridge and

a pudding. There was wine, and there was strong

ale; and after dinner Mrs. Micawber made us a bowl

of hot punch with her own hands."

They spent a jolly evening, and ended with singing _Auld Lang Syne_.

The "little Inn" is again alluded to later in the story, where Mr.

Micawber announces his full determination to abstain from everything

until he has exposed the machinations of, and blown to pieces,

"the--a--detestable serpent--HEEP;" and finally, where David Copperfield

"assisted at an explosion," and Mr. Micawber is triumphant, and the

"transcendent and immortal hypocrite and perjurer, HEEP," is forced to

succumb.

Speaking of the "little Inn" for the last time, David says:--"I looked

at the old house from the corner of the street. . . . The early sun was

striking edgewise on its gables and lattice-windows, touching them with

gold; and some beams of its old peace seemed to touch my heart."

Dr. Sheppard subsequently told us that, when he was beginning to turn

his attention to the deciphering and utilizing of ancient MSS., he was

much impressed, when perusing some articles in _Household Words_, or

some other papers written by Dickens, relating to the neglected state of

public records, more particularly at Canterbury; and when many years

after the very records of which he wrote came under his (Dr. Sheppard's)

care, he was surprised to find the names of Snodgrass, Sam Weller, and

others therein. The records to which Dr. Sheppard referred were those in

charge of the Archbishop's Registrar at Canterbury.

If time permits it would be pleasant to go on to Dover,[33] to see "Miss

Betsey Trotwood's house," but this is impossible; and indeed, all that

can be said about a tramp in search of "that very neat little cottage

with cheerful bow windows in front of it, a small square gravelled court

or garden full of flowers carefully tended, and smelling deliciously,"

has been well said by Mr. Ashby-Sterry in his delightful little volume,

_Cucumber Chronicles_.

[Illustration: "The Little Inn" Canterbury]

After much perseverance, and in spite of almost as many difficulties as

beset poor little David Copperfield himself in his search for his aunt

(who, as the Dover boatmen told him, "lived in the South Foreland Light,

and had singed her whiskers by doing so"--"that she was made fast to the

great buoy outside the harbour, and could only be visited at

half-tide"--"that she was locked up in Maidstone Jail for

child-stealing"--and that "she was seen to mount a broom in the last

high wind and make direct for Calais"), Mr. Ashby-Sterry succeeded,

although his greatest embarrassment arose from that irrepressible

nuisance, "Buggins the Builder," who cannot be controlled even in the

neighbourhood of Dover, so "hugely does he delight to mar those spots

that have been hallowed by antiquity, seclusion, or the pen of the

novelist. Hence the abode of Betsey Trotwood is not so pleasant as it

must have been formerly, for other houses have clustered about the back

and the front." But Mr. Ashby-Sterry quite satisfied himself as to the

identity on Dover Heights of the very neat little cottage, and assures

us that "the house, however, still stands high, the fresh breezes from

over the sea and across the Down smite it. It still has a view of the

sea, though perhaps not so uninterrupted as it was in the days of David

Copperfield." He further states that it is, perhaps, not quite so neat

as it was in Miss Betsey Trotwood's time, though there are no donkeys

about. Here are the bow windows, with the room above, where Mr. Dick

alarmed poor David by nodding and laughing at him on his first arrival.

The window on the right must have belonged to the neat room "with the

drugget-covered carpet," and the old-fashioned furniture brightly

polished, where might be found "the cat, the kettle-holder, the two

canaries, the old china, the punch-bowl full of dried rose leaves, the

tall press guarding all sorts of bottles and pots, and wonderfully out

of keeping with the rest." On the strength of this description by an

ardent lover of Dickens, we fully make up our minds to visit Dover at no

distant date to see Miss Betsey Trotwood's house for ourselves.

_A propos_ of Miss Trotwood's domicile, we have been favoured by Mr. C.

K. Worsfold, an old resident of Dover, with a letter containing some

interesting particulars, from which we extract the following:--

"Dickens's description of the local habitation of Betsey Trotwood is not

consistent with the surroundings. The hills on either side of the town

belong to the War Department, and are occupied as fortifications; on the

eastern side is the Castle, and on the western side barracks and forts.

On the western heights there is a house somewhat answering to Dickens's

description, having a garden in front of it, and a small plot of grass

in front of the garden; and about forty years ago there lived in this

house a lady of rather masculine character, who always resented any

intrusion of boys, and perhaps donkeys, on the grass in front of her

house and garden, and I believe she was occasionally rather rough with

the boys; but there the likeness to Betsey Trotwood ends. This was a

married lady living with her husband.

"I know it was a matter of conversation forty years ago that Dickens

must have found his original in the lady in question, but I think he was

rather in the habit of selecting his characters without reference to

locality, and then adapting them to his requirements.

"Dickens was a frequent visitor to Dover, and he may possibly have been

a witness of some encounter between this lady and the boys, and on that

occasion donkeys may have been present.[34] I do not know of any

relative of the lady answering to Miss Trotwood's worthy nephew."

"A moderate stroke," as Mr. Datchery said, "is all I am justified in

scoring up"; and we reluctantly leave the "sunny street of Canterbury,

dozing, as it were, in the hot light," and take our places in the train

for Chatham, distant about twenty-seven miles.

The only new parts of interest which we go over, on our return journey

by rail, are the green fields surrounding the ancient city, wherein are

numbers of those beautiful and quiet-feeding cattle, which the eminent

artist, Mr. T. Sidney Cooper, R.A. (who resides in the neighbourhood),

loves to paint, and paints so well; and in due time we pass the

chalk-topped hills called Harbledown, overlooking Canterbury, from

whence the best view of the city is obtained, and safely reach our

headquarters at Rochester.

FOOTNOTES:

[32] According to a "Note" in the _Rochester and Chatham Journal_, the

derivation of this curious term is from _uro_ to burn (ustus).

[33] One of the "Five Cinque Ports, and two Ancient Towns" often

referred to, but not always remembered--Hastings, Sandwich, Dover, New

Romney, Hythe, Winchelsea and Rye.

[34] Mr. Charles Dickens kindly writes to me:--"The lady who objected to

the donkeys lived at Broadstairs. I knew her when I was a boy."

CHAPTER XII.

COOLING, CLIFFE, AND HIGHAM.

"And now the range of marshes lay clear before us,

with the sails of the ships on the river growing

out of it; and we went into the Churchyard . . .

and the light wind strewed it with beautiful

shadows of clouds and trees."

* * * * *

"What might have been your opinion of the place?"

"A most beastly place. Mudbank, mist, swamp and

work; work, swamp, mist, and mudbank."--_Great

Expectations._

* * * * *

"They were now in the open country; the houses

were very few and scattered at long intervals,

often miles apart. Occasionally they came upon a

cluster of poor cottages, some with a chair or low

board put across the open door, to keep the

scrambling children from the road; others shut up

close, while all the family were working in the

fields. These were often the commencement of a

little village; and after an interval came a

wheelwright's shed, or perhaps a blacksmith's

forge; then a thriving farm, with sleepy cows

lying about the yard, and horses peering over the

low wall, and scampering away when harnessed

horses passed upon the road, as though in triumph

at their freedom."--_The Old Curiosity Shop._

NOW for a long tramp in the country of the Marshes--the famous "Meshes"

of _Great Expectations_. The air is sultry on this Thursday afternoon,

and there is thunder in the distance. The storm, however, does not pass

over Rochester, but further on we find traces of it where the roadways

have been washed up. Afterwards the air becomes deliciously cool, and

that hum of all Nature which succeeds the quiet preceding the storm is

distinctly perceptible. Crossing Rochester Bridge, keeping to the right

along Strood and Frindsbury--the churchyard of which affords a splendid

view of Rochester, Chatham, and the Medway--passing up Four Elms Hill

and through the little village of Wainscot, nothing of interest calls

for notice until we have travelled some miles from Strood. After

crossing a tramway belonging to Government, and utilized by the Royal

Engineers as a means of communication between the powder-magazine and

Chatham Barracks, we observe that vegetation, which is so rich in other

parts of Kent, here appears to be dwarfed and stunted. A hop-garden

presents a very miserable contrast, in its struggle for existence, to

others we have seen in the more central parts of the county, and even

some of these were far from being luxuriant, owing to such a peculiarly

wet and cold season. The hedges in places are diversified with the small

gold and violet star-like flowers and the green and scarlet berries of

the climbing woody nightshade, or bitter-sweet (_Solanum Dulcamara_),

often mistaken for the deadly nightshade (_Atropa Belladonna_--a fine

bushy herbaceous perennial, with large ovate-shaped leaves, and lurid,

purple bell-shaped flowers), quite a different plant, and happily

somewhat rare in England. The delicate light-blue flowers of the chicory

are very abundant here.

A tramp of upwards of six miles from Rochester, by way of Hoo,[35]

brings us to Lodge Hill, overlooking Perry Hill, which affords a

magnificent view of the mouth of the Thames beyond the low-lying

Marshes, and of Canvey Island, off the coast of Essex, on the opposite

side. By the kindness of a farmer's wife we are allowed to take a short

cut through the farm-garden and grounds, which leads direct to Cooling

(or Cowling) Church, a cheerless, grey-stone structure, the tower

standing out as a beacon long before we reach it.

Those unacquainted with this part of Kent may be interested in knowing

that the Marshes, which stretch out over a considerable distance on

either side of the Thames, on both the Kent and the Essex coasts,

consist entirely of alluvial soil reclaimed at some time from the river.

They are intersected by ditches and water-courses, and covered with rank

vegetation, chiefly of grass, rushes, and flags, where not cultivated.

Higher up the land is rich, and large tracts of it are planted with

vegetables as market gardens. Sea-gulls, plovers, and herons are

numerous; their call-notes in the still evening sounding shrill and

uncanny over the long stretches of flat lands.

Dear old Michael Drayton, the Warwickshire poet, who touched upon almost

everything, has not omitted to describe the Marshes in a somewhat

similar locality, for in the _Polyolbion_ (Song XVIII.) he gracefully

compares them to a female enamoured of the beauties of the River Rother,

thus:--

"Appearing to the flood, most bravely like a Queen,

Clad all from head to foot, in gaudy Summer's green,

Her mantle richly wrought with sundry flow'rs and weeds;

Her moistful temples bound with wreaths of quiv'ring reeds;

And on her loins a frock, with many a swelling plait,

Emboss'd with well-spread horse, large sheep, and full-fed neat;

With villages amongst, oft powthered here and there;

And (that the same more like to landscape should appear)

With lakes and lesser fords, to mitigate the heat

In summer, when the fly doth prick the gadding neat."

Readers of _Great Expectations_ will remember that the scene in the

first chapter between Pip and the convict, Magwitch, is laid in Cooling

churchyard, and on reaching this spot we are instantly reminded of what

doubtless gave origin to the idea of the five dead little brothers of

poor Philip Pirrip, for there, on the left of the principal pathway, are

indeed, not five stone lozenges, but _ten_ in one row and three more at

the back of them, such peculiarly-shaped and curiously-arranged little

monuments as we never before beheld. They consist of a grey stone

(Kentish-rag, probably, but lichen-encrusted by time) of cylindrical

shape, widening at the shoulders, coffin-like, and about a yard in

length, the diameter being about eight inches, including the portion

buried in the earth. Four little foot-stones are placed in front, and

separating the ten little memorials from the three at the back is a

large head-stone, bearing the name--"Comport of Cowling Court, 1771."

Cooling Church, which has the date 1615 on one of the bells, has an

example of a Hagioscope, a curious, small, square, angular, tunnel-like

opening through the wall, which divides the nave from the chancel. It is

said to have been the place through which those members of the church,

who were unworthy or unable to receive the sacred elements, might get a

look at their more acceptable companions during the administration of

the sacrament. The Rev. W. H. A. Leaver, the Rector, who kindly shows us

over his church, in reply to our question as to whether he could give

any information about Charles Dickens, said that he was a new-comer in

the district, and that all he remembers is, that when his sister was a

little baby in arms, her mother happened once to be travelling in the

same train with the great novelist, who, with his usual kindness, gave

the child an orange, which she acknowledged very ungratefully by

scratching his face!

The following is a picture of the neighbourhood, given in the opening

sentences of the story:--

"Ours was the marsh country, down by the river,

within, as the river wound, twenty miles of the

sea. My first most vivid and broad impression of

the identity of things, seems to me to have been

gained on a memorable raw afternoon towards

evening. At such a time, I found out for certain,

that this bleak place overgrown with nettles was

the churchyard; and that Philip Pirrip, late of

this parish, and also Georgiana, wife of above,

were dead and buried; and that Alexander,

Bartholomew, Abraham, Tobias, and Roger, infant

children of the aforesaid, were also dead and

buried; and that the dark flat wilderness beyond

the churchyard, intersected with dykes, and

mounds, and gates, with scattered cattle feeding

on it, was the marshes; and that the low leaden

line beyond was the river; and that the distant

savage lair, from which the wind was rushing, was

the sea; and that the small bundle of shivers

growing afraid of it all, and beginning to cry,

was Pip."

[Illustration: Graves of the Comport Family: in Cooling Churchyard]

Here follows the appearance of the awful convict, and the terrible

threats by which he induces Pip to bring him "that file and them

wittles" on the morrow; to enforce obedience the convict tilts Pip two

or three times, "and then" [says Pip] "he gave me a most tremendous dip

and roll, so that the church jumped over its own weathercock." Then he

held him by the arms in an upright position on the top of the stone,

finally threatening him "with having his heart and liver torn out," in

case of non-compliance.

All the characters described in _Great Expectations_, and all the scenes

wherein they played their parts--Pip, with and without his "great

expectations"; his sister Mrs. Joe Gargery, "on the rampage with

Tickler;" Joe Gargery, "ever the best of friends, dear Pip;" Mr. and

Mrs. Hubble, the former fond of "a bit of savoury pork pie as would lay

atop of anything you could mention and do no harm;" the stage-struck

Wopsle, _alias_ "Mr. Waldengarver"; "the servile Pumblechook;" the two

convicts, "Pip's convict," Magwitch, with "the great iron on his leg,"

and the "other convict," Compeyson, also ironed; "slouching old" Orlick;

Biddy, simple-hearted and loving; "the Serjeant" and "party of

soldiers"; Mr. Jaggers, "the Old Bailey lawyer"; Estella, Miss Havisham,

Herbert Pocket, and Bentley Drummle at "the market town"; Joe's Forge

(now converted into a dwelling-house); "The Three Jolly Bargemen"

(obviously taken from "The Three Horse-shoes," the present village inn);

the "old Battery," "the little sluice-house by the lime-kiln;"--all

centre round Cooling churchyard, and appear before us as though traced

on a map.

Forster says in the _Life_:--"It is strange as I transcribe the words,

with what wonderful vividness they bring back the very spot on which we

stood when he said he meant to make it the scene of the opening of

this story--Cooling Castle ruins and the desolate Church, lying out

among the marshes seven miles from Gad's Hill!"

[Illustration: Cooling Church.]

Beyond where the river runs to the sea, we conjure up the chase and

recapture of Pip's convict, while poor Pip himself, assisted by his

friend Herbert Pocket, is straining every nerve to get him away. As

illustrative of the wonderfully careful way in which Dickens did all his

work, we also read in Forster's _Life_:--

"To make himself sure of the actual course of a boat in such

circumstances, and what possible incidents the adventure might have,

Dickens hired a steamer for the day from Blackwall to Southend. Eight or

nine friends, and three or four members of his family, were on board,

and he seemed to have no care, the whole of that summer day (22nd of

May, 1861), except to enjoy their enjoyment and entertain them with his

own in shape of a thousand whims and fancies; but his sleepless

observation was at work all the time, and nothing had escaped his keen

vision on either side of the river. The fifteenth chapter of the third

volume is a masterpiece."

Speaking generally of this fascinating story, which possesses a

thousand-fold greater interest to us now we visit the country there

described (not formerly very accessible, but now readily approached by

the railway from Gravesend to Sheerness, alighting at Cliffe, the

nearest station to Cooling), Forster says:--

"It may be doubted if Dickens could better have established his right to

the front rank among novelists claimed for him, than by the ease and

mastery with which, in these two books of _Copperfield_ and _Great

Expectations_, he kept perfectly distinct the two stories of a boy's

childhood, both told in the form of autobiography."

The marshes are also alluded to twice in _Bleak House_--first, in

chapter one--"Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights;" and

secondly, in the twenty-sixth chapter, in the dialogue between Trooper

George and his odd but kind-hearted attendant Phil Squod, the original

of which, by the bye, was a Chatham character.

"'And so, Phil,' says George of the shooting

gallery, after several turns in silence; 'you were

dreaming of the country last night.'

"Phil, by the bye, said as much, in a tone of

surprise, as he scrambled out of bed.

"'Yes, guv'ner.'

"'What was it like?'

"'I hardly know what it was like, guv'ner,' said

Phil, considering.

"'How did you know it was the country?'

"'On accounts of the grass, I think. And the swans

upon it,' says Phil, after further consideration.

"'What were the swans doing on the grass?'

"'They was a eating of it, I expect,' says

Phil. . . .

"'The country,' says Mr. George, applying his

knife and fork, 'why I suppose you never clapped

your eyes on the country, Phil?'

"'I see the marshes once,' says Phil, contentedly

eating his breakfast.

"'What marshes?'

"'_The_ marshes, commander,' returns Phil.

"'Where are they?'

"'I don't know where they are,' says Phil, 'but I

see 'em, guv'ner. They was flat. And miste.'"

Forster says:--"About the whole of this Cooling churchyard, indeed, and

the neighbouring castle ruins, there was a weird strangeness that made

it one of his [Dickens's] attractive walks in the late year or winter,

when from Higham he could get to it across country, over the stubble

fields; and, for a shorter summer walk, he was not less fond of going

round the village of Shorne, and sitting on a hot afternoon in its

pretty shady churchyard."

Altogether, the place has a dreary and lonesome appearance in the close

of the summer evening, and we can picture with wonderful vividness the

remarkable scenes described in _Great Expectations_, as the lurid purple

reflection from the setting sun spreads over the Thames valley, and

lights up the marshes; the tall pollards standing out like spectres

contribute to the weirdness and beauty of the scene.

Dickens was not the only admirer of the Marshes. Turner also visited

them, and painted some of his most famous pictures from observation

there, namely "Stangate Creek," "Shrimping Sands," and "Off Sheerness."

A few paces from the church brings us to Cooling Castle, built by Sir

John de Cobham, the third Baron Cobham, in the reign of Richard II.,

whose arms appear on the gatehouse, together with a very curious motto

in early English characters. We extract the following interesting

account of the tower from the _Archaeologia Cantiana_ (vol. xi.):--

[Illustration: Gateway Cooling Castle]

"On the south face of the eastern Outer Gate Tower, we see the

well-known inscription, which takes the form of a Charter, with Lord

Cobham's seal appended to it. This is formed of fourteen copper plates

exquisitely enamelled. The writing is in black, while the ground is of

white enamel; the seal and silk cords are of the proper colours. The

whole work is an exquisite example of enamel, which after five hundred

years' exposure to the weather remains nearly as good as when it was put

up. The inscription states very clearly why Lord Cobham erected a castle

here, viz. for the safety of the country. The French invasion had shewn

the need, and the inscription was perhaps intended to disarm the

suspicions and hostility of the serfs by reminding them of that need.

It runs thus, in four lines, each enamelled upon three plates of

copper:--

"'Knoweth that beth and schul be

That i am mad in help of the cuntre

In knowyng of whyche thyng

Thys is chartre and witnessyng.'"

"(Seal, 'gules', on a chevron 'or' three lions rampant 'sable'.)

"Inscriptions are rare on Gothic buildings, especially on castles. This

at Coulyng is remarkable from being in English, at a time when Latin was

employed in all charters; it contains that early form of the plural

'beth' instead of 'are.' The inscription measures thirty-two inches by

fourteen, and the diameter of the seal is no less than seven and a

quarter inches long."

After stopping a short time to admire the imposing entrance gate and the

remains of the ancient moat, we wend our way for two or three miles, by

lanes and "over the stubble-fields," to the straggling village of

Cliffe,[36] the houses of which are very old and mostly weather-boarded.

The approach to the church is by a rare example of a lich-gate, having a

room over it for muniments, and the church itself (which is very large,

and seems to be out of proportion to the size of the village) stands in

a commanding position on a ridge of chalk, overlooking the marshes, from

whence the views of the river in the distance are very fine. It is

supposed to be the place where the Saxon Church held its councils, and

there is a local tradition of a ferry having once existed near here.

Evidence of this seems to survive in the fact that all the roads both on

the Kent and Essex shores appear to converge to this point. The church

has some interesting _miserere_ stalls and brasses to the Faunce family

(17th century). On the walls we find specimens of that somewhat rare

fern, the scaly spleenwort (_Ceterach officinarum_).

[Illustration: Cliffe Church]

Time does not permit us to go on to Gravesend, which like this place

was one of Dickens's favourite spots ("We come, you see" [says Mr.

Peggotty, speaking of himself and Ham to David Copperfield, when they

visited him at Salem House], "the wind and tide making in our favor, in

one of our Yarmouth lugs to Gravesen'"), so we defer our visit to that

popular resort until another occasion.

We notice in places where the harvest has been cleared (which, alas!

owing to excess of wet and absence of sun, has not been an abundant

one), preparations for cultivation next year, exhibiting that peculiar

effect from ploughing which that gifted writer and born naturalist, the

late Richard Jeffreys, described in his book _Wild Life in a Southern

County_, with that love for common things which was so characteristic of

him:--

"The ploughmen usually take special care with their work near public

roads, so that the furrows end on to the base of the highway shall be

mathematically straight. They often succeed so well that the furrows

look as if traced with a ruler, and exhibit curious effects of vanishing

perspective. Along the furrow, just as it is turned, there runs a

shimmering light as the eye traces it up. The ploughshare, heavy and

drawn with great force, smooths the earth as it cleaves it, giving it

for a time a 'face,' as it were, the moisture on which reflects the

light. If you watch the farmers driving to market, you will see that

they glance up the furrows to note the workmanship and look for game;

you may tell from a distance if they espy a hare, by the check of the

rein and the extended hand pointing."

Our destination is now Higham--"Higham by Rochester, Kent,"--Dickens's

nearest village, in which, from his first coming to Gad's Hill, he took

the deepest interest, and after a further long tramp of nearly four

miles steadily maintained, we reach Lower Higham towards dusk; and in a

lane we ask an old labourer (who looks as though he would be all the

better for "Three Acres and a Cow") if we are on the right road to

Higham Station. Curtly but civilly the man answers, "Keep straight on,"

when an incident occurs which brightens up matters considerably. The

questioner says to the labourer, "Do you remember the late Charles

Dickens?" (We always spoke, when in the district, of "the _late_ Charles

Dickens," to distinguish him from his eldest son, who lived at Gad's

Hill for some years after his father's death. Frequently the great

novelist was spoken of by residents as "old Mr. Dickens!")

"Do I remember Muster Dickens?" responds the venerable rustic, and his

eyes sparkle, and his face beams with such animation that he becomes a

different being. "Of course I do; he used to have games--running,

jumping, and such-like--for us working people, and I've often won a

prize. He used to come among us and give us refreshments, and make

himself very pleasant."

"How long have you lived in this parish?" says the questioner.

"Sixty-seven year," is the answer.

Time prevents further inquiries, so we bid our friend "good-evening."

In referring to the sports at Gad's Hill, Mr. Langton has recorded how a

friend sent him a broadside of a portion of one day's amusements, which

from its amateurish appearance was probably printed by Dickens's sons at

the private printing-press before alluded to. The occasion was the 26th

December, 1866, and the Christmas sports were held in a field at the

back of Gad's Hill Place. Mr. Trood, a former landlord of the "Sir John

Falstaff" (whose name has been previously mentioned), had, by permission

of Charles Dickens, a booth erected for the refreshment of persons

contesting. The attendance was between two and three thousand, and there

was not a single case of misconduct or damage. Mr. A. H. Layard, M.P.

(afterwards Sir Austin Layard), was present, and took great interest in

the proceedings, Dickens having appointed him "chief commissioner of the

domestic police." Sir Austin Layard said of the sports, "Dickens seemed

to have bound every creature present upon what honour the creature had

to keep order. What was the special means used, or the art employed, it

might have been difficult to say, but that was the result." We made

every effort to obtain one of the bills of these sports, but without

success, and therefore take the liberty of quoting from Mr. Langton's

copy:--

=Christmas Sports.=

The All-Comers' Race.

Distance--Once round the field.

First Prize 10_s._; Second, 5_s._; Third, 2_s._ 6_d._

Entries to be made in MR. TROOD'S tent before 12 o'clock.

To start at 2.45.

Starter--M. STONE, ESQ.

Judge and Referee--C. DICKENS, ESQ.

Clerk of the Course--C. DICKENS, JUNR., ESQ.

Stewards and Keepers of the Course--MESSRS. A. H. LAYARD,

M.P., H. CHORLEY, J. HULKES, and H. DICKENS.

In a letter written to Mr. Forster next day, Dickens said, "The road

between this and Chatham was like a fair all day, and surely it is a

fine thing to get such perfect behaviour out of a reckless sea-port

town."

We presently meet with another representative of the class of village

labourer at Upper Higham, a cheery old man, although, as is sadly too

often the case in his class, he was suffering from "the Rheumatiz."

"Those are nice chrysanthemums in your garden," we observe. "Yes, they

are, sir," he replies; "but if they had been better attended to when

they was young, they'd have been nicer." "Well, I suppose both of us

would," is the rejoinder. We are in touch on the instant. Our new

acquaintance laughs, and so a question or two is put to him, and the

following is the substance of his answers, rendered _a la_ Jingle but

very feelingly:--

"Mr. Dickens was a nice sort of man--very much liked--missed a great

deal when he died--poor people and the like felt the miss of him. He was

a man as shifted a good deal of money in the place. You see, he had a

lot of friends--kept a good many horses,--and then there was the men to

attend to 'em, and the corn-chandler, the blacksmith, the wheelwright,

and others to be paid--the poor--and such-like--felt the miss of him

when he died."

"How long have you lived here?"

"Well, I come in '45, eleven years before Mr. Dickens."

"And I suppose you are over sixty."

"Well, sir, I shall never see seventy again."

Wishing our friend "good-night," we continue our tramp. On another

occasion we met, in the same place, a third specimen of village

labourer, "a mender of roads," who knew Charles Dickens, and so we

walked and chatted pleasantly with him for some distance. Said our

informant, "You see, Mr. Dickens was a very liberal man; he held his

head high up when he walked, and went at great strides." The "mender of

roads" was some years ago a candidate for a vacant place as

under-gardener at Gad's Hill, but the situation was filled up just an

hour before he applied for it. He said Mr. Dickens gave him

half-a-crown, and afterwards always recognized him when he met him with

a pleasant nod, or cheerfully "passed the time of day." We heard in many

places that Dickens was "always kindly" in this way to his own

domestics, and to the villagers in a like station of life to our

intelligent friend "the mender of roads." A fourth villager, a groom,

who had been in his present situation for twenty years, said:--"Both the

old gentleman and young Mr. Charles were very much liked in Higham.

There wasn't a single person in the place, I believe, but what had a

good word for them."

It may be interesting to mention that Higham--the old name of which was

Lillechurch--is an extensive parish divided into several hamlets. In a

useful little book published in 1882, called _A Handbook of Higham_, the

Rev. C. H. Fielding, M.A., the author, says:--"There are few parishes

more interesting than Higham, as it provides food for the antiquarian

and the student of Nature; while its position near the 'Medway smooth,

and the Royal-masted Thame,' affords to the artist many an opportunity

for a picture, while the idler has the privilege of lovely views." Mr.

Roach Smith was of opinion that Higham was the seat of "a great Roman

pottery." A Monastery of importance existed here for several centuries,

Mary, daughter of King Stephen, being one of the Prioresses; but it was

dissolved by Henry VIII. The list of flowering plants given in Mr.

Fielding's book is extensive and interesting, and contains many

rarities.

A "Cheap Jack," a veritable Doctor Marigold, had taken up his quarters

at Higham, and we loiter among the bystanders to hear his patter. We

feel quite sure that had Dickens been present he would have listened and

been as amused with him as ourselves. We heard a few days previously the

public crier going round in his cart, announcing the arrival of this

worthy by ringing his bell and proclaiming in a stentorian voice

something to this effect:--

"The public is respectfully informed that the Cheap Jack has arrived,

bringing with him a large assortment of London, Birmingham, and

Sheffield goods, together with a choice collection of glass and

earthenware, which he will sell every evening at the most reasonable

prices."

On our arrival here we find him on his rostrum surrounded by some

flaring naphtha lamps, and thus disposing of some penny books of songs:

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, what shall we have the pleasure of saying

for this handsome book, containing over a hundred songs sung by all the

great singers of the day--Macdermott, Madam Langtry, Sims Reeves, and

other eminent vocalists--besides numerous toasts and readings. Well, I

won't ask sixpence, and I won't take fivepence, fourpence, threepence,

twopence--no, I only ask a penny. Sold again, and got the money. Take

care of the ha'pence" (to his assistant), "for we gives them to the

blind when they can see to pick 'em up." We of course bought a copy of

the famous collection as a "Dickens-item."

Before returning to Rochester we are anxious to identify the

blacksmith's shop where the _feu de joie_ was fired from "two smuggled

cannons," in honour of the marriage of Miss Kate Dickens to Mr. Charles

Collins. Alterations have taken place which render identification

impossible; but a local blacksmith, who has established himself here,

gives us some interesting particulars of the games in which he took

part. He mentions also a circumstance relating to Dickens's favourite

horse, Toby. It appears that it was an express wish of the novelist that

when he died this horse should be shot; and according to our informant

the horse was shod on the Tuesday before the 9th of June (the day of

Dickens's death), and shot on the following Monday. The gun was loaded

with small shot, and poor Toby died immediately it was fired. The

blacksmith thoroughly confirms the opinion of the old labourers as to

the kindness of Charles Dickens to his poorer neighbours. A curious

episode occurs in our conference with this man: he seems under the

impression, which no amount of assertion on our part can overcome, that

my friend and fellow tramp, Mr. Kitton, is Mr. Henry Fielding Dickens.

Whether there was any facial resemblance or likeness of manner did not

transpire, but again and again he kept saying, "Now ain't you Harry

Dickens?" Among the names at Higham we notice that of a well-remembered

Dickens character--Mr. Stiggins!

On arriving at Higham Railway Station, we chat a bit with the

station-master and porter there, but both are comparatively fresh comers

and knew not Charles Dickens. After an enjoyable but somewhat fatiguing

tramp, we are glad to take a late evening train from Higham to Strood,

and thus ends our inspection of the land of "the Meshes."

* * * * *

By the kindness of Mr. Henry Smetham (locally famed as the "Laureate of

Strood"), we subsequently had an introduction to Mrs. Taylor, formerly

school-mistress at Higham, who came there in 1860, and remained until

some years after the death of Charles Dickens. She knew the novelist

well, and used to see him almost every day when he was at home. She

said, "If I had met him and did not know who he was, I should have set

him down as a good-hearted English gentleman." He was very popular and

much liked in the neighbourhood. On his return from America, in the

first week of May, 1868, garlands of flowers were put by the villagers

across the road from the railway station to Gad's Hill. There was a flag

at Gad's (a Union Jack, she thinks), which was always hoisted when

Dickens was at home. He never read at Higham, and never came to the

school; but he always allowed the use of the meadow at the back of Gad's

Hill Place for the school treats, either of church or chapel, and

contributed to such treats sweets and what not.

Mrs. Taylor remembers that the carriage was sent down from Gad's Hill

Place to the Higham railway station nearly every night at ten o'clock to

meet either Charles Dickens or his friends. It passed the school, and

she well recollects the pleasant sound made by the bells. She heard

Dickens read _Sairey Gamp_ in London once, and did not like the dress he

wore, but thought the reading very wonderful.

This lady says she was in London at the time of the death of Charles

Dickens, the announcement of which she saw on a newspaper placard, and

was ill the whole of the day afterwards. It was a sorrowful day for her.

* * * * *

We are much indebted to Mrs. Budden of Gad's Hill Place for the

following interesting particulars which she obtained from Mrs. Easedown,

of Higham, "who was parlour-maid to Mr. Dickens, and left to be married

on the 8th of June, the day he was seized with the fit. She says it was

her duty to hoist the flag on the top of the house directly Mr. Dickens

arrived at Gad's Hill. It was a small flag, not more than fourteen

inches square, and was kept in the billiard-room. She says he was the

dearest and best gentleman that ever lived, and the kindest of masters.

He asked her to stay and wait at table the night he was taken ill; she

said if he wished it she would, and then he said, 'Never mind; I don't

feel well.' She saw him after he was dead, laid out in the dining-room,

when his coffin was covered with scarlet geraniums--his favourite

flower. The flower-beds on the lawns at Gad's Hill in his time were

always filled with scarlet geraniums; they have since been done away

with. Over the head of the coffin was the oil painting of himself as a

young man (probably Maclise's portrait)--on one side a picture of 'Dolly

Varden,' and on the other 'Kate Nickleby.' He gave Mrs. Easedown, on the

day she left his service, a photograph of himself with his name written

on the back. Each of the other servants at Gad's Hill Place was

presented with a similar photograph. She said he was unusually busy at

the time of his death, as on the Monday morning he ordered breakfast to

be ready during the week at 7.30 ('Sharp, mind') instead of his usual

time, 9 o'clock, as he said 'he had so much to do before Friday.'

But--'Such a thing was never to be,' for on the Thursday he breathed his

last!"

* * * * *

Mrs. Wright, the wife of Mr. Henry Wright, surveyor of Higham, lived

four years at Gad's Hill Place as parlour-maid. She is the proud

possessor of some interesting relics of her late master. These include

his soup-plate, a meerschaum pipe (presented to him, but he chiefly

smoked cigars--he was not a great smoker), a wool-worked kettle-holder

(which he constantly used), and a pair of small bellows. When she was

married Mr. Dickens presented her with a China tea service, "not a

single piece of which," said Mrs. Wright proudly, "has been broken."

She remembers, at the time of her engagement as parlour-maid, that the

servants told her to let a gentleman in at the front door who was

approaching. She didn't know who it was, as she had never seen Mr.

Dickens before. She opened the door, and the gentleman entered in a very

upright manner, and after thanking her, looked hard at her, and then

walked up-stairs. On returning to the kitchen the servants asked who it

was that had just come in. She replied, "I don't know, but I think it

was the master." "Did he speak?" they asked. "No," said she, "but he

looked at me in a very determined way." Said they, "He was reading your

character, and he now knows you thoroughly," or words to that effect.

As parlour-maid, it was part of her duty to carve and wait on her master

specially. The dinner serviettes were wrapped up in a peculiar manner,

and Mrs. Wright remembers that Lord Darnley's servants were always

anxious to learn how the folding was done, but they never discovered the

secret. At dinner-parties, it was the custom to place a little

"button-hole" for each guest. This was mostly made up of scarlet

geranium (Dickens's favourite flower), with a bit of the leaf and a

frond of maidenhair fern. On one occasion in her early days, the

dinner-lift (to the use of which she was unaccustomed) broke and ran

down quickly, smashing the crockery and bruising her arm. Mr. Dickens

jumped up quickly and said, "Never mind the breakage; is your arm

hurt?" As it was painful, he immediately applied arnica to the bruise,

and gave her a glass of port wine, "treating me," Mrs. Wright remarked,

"more like a child of his own than a servant."

When she was married, and left Gad's Hill, she brought her first child

to show her former master. He took notice of it, and asked her what he

could buy as a present. She thanked him, and said she did not want

anything. On leaving he gently put a sovereign into the baby's little

hand, and said, "Buy something with that."

Mrs. Wright spoke of the great interest which Dickens took in the

children's treats at Higham, lending his meadow for them, providing

sweets and cakes for the little ones, and apples to be scrambled for. He

took great delight in seeing the scrambles.

She also referred to the cricket club, and said that when the matches

were going on it was a regular holiday at Higham. Dickens used to take

the scores, and at the end of the game he gave prizes and made little

speeches. Her husband, Mr. Henry Wright, acted as secretary to the club,

and is the possessor of a letter written by Mr. Dickens, in reply to an

address which had been presented to him, of which letter the following

is a copy:--

"GAD'S HILL PLACE,

"HIGHAM BY ROCHESTER, KENT.

"_Tuesday, 29th July, 1862._

"DEAR SIR,

"As your name is the first on the list of

signatures to the little address I have had the

pleasure of receiving--on my return from a short

absence--from the greater part of the players in

the match the other day, I address my reply to

you.

"I beg you to assure the rest that it will always

give me great pleasure to lend my meadow for any

such good purpose, and that I feel a sincere

desire to be a good friend to the working men in

this neighbourhood. I am always interested in

their welfare, and am always heartily glad to see

them enjoying rational and healthful recreation.

"It did not escape my notice that some expressions

were used the other day which would have been

better avoided, but I dismiss them from my mind as

being probably unintentional, and certainly

opposed to the general good feeling and good

sense.

"Faithfully yours,

"CHARLES DICKENS.

"MR. H. WRIGHT."

Both Mrs. Easedown and Mrs. Wright informed us (through Mrs. Budden)

that "Mr. Dickens was the best of masters, and a dear good man; that he

gave a great deal away in the parish, and was very much missed; that he

frequently went to church and sat in the chancel. . . . When he lived in

Higham there used to be a great deal of ague, and he gave away an

immense quantity of port wine and quinine. Since the Cement Works have

been at Cliffe there has been very little ague at Higham."

* * * * *

Mr. Robert Lake Cobb, of Mockbeggar House, Higham, a land agent of high

position and a County Councillor, told us that he took in the _Pickwick

Papers_ as they appeared in numbers, and he recollected how eagerly he

read them, and how tiresome it was to have to wait month by month until

the story was finished. The book made a tremendous sensation at the

time. Many years afterwards Charles Dickens came to reside at Gad's Hill

Place, and the families became intimate. "Mr. Dickens," observed our

informant, "was a very pleasant neighbour, and had always got something

nice to say. He was a dreadful man to walk--very few could keep up with

him."

Mr. Cobb had one son, Herbert, who was a playfellow of Dickens's boys;

and as illustrative of the interest he took in his neighbours, on one

occasion the novelist and our informant were talking over matters, when

the former said, "What are you going to bring your boy up to?" "A land

agent," replied Mr. Cobb. "Ah," said the novelist, "whatever you do,

make him self-reliant." He thought that of all the sons Mr. Henry

Fielding Dickens most resembled his father.

Among the notable people Mr. Cobb met at Gad's Hill Place were Mr.

Forster, Mr. Wilkie Collins, Mr. Fechter the actor, and others. When

Hans Christian Andersen was visiting there, Dickens took him to Higham

Church. Mr. Cobb spoke of the pleasant picnic parties which Dickens gave

on Blue Bell Hill. He was of opinion that Cob-Tree Hall in that

neighbourhood, about one and a half miles from Aylesford, nearly

parallel with the river, suggested the original of Manor Farm, Dingley

Dell. It formerly belonged to Mr. Franklin, and is now occupied by Major

Trousdell. Mr. Cobb believed that Dickens took the title of _No

Thoroughfare_--which he and Wilkie Collins contributed to the 1867

number of _All the Year Round_, and in the dramatizing of which Dickens

subsequently was so interested--from the notice-boards which were put up

by Lord Darnley in many parts of Cobham Park.

On one occasion our informant remembers a stoppage of the train in

Higham tunnel, which caused some consternation to the passengers, as no

explanation of the delay was forthcoming from any of the railway

officials. The station-master coming up at the time, Dickens

remarked--"Ah! an unwilling witness, Mr. Wood."

Mr. Cobb mentioned that Miss Hogarth, Dickens's sister-in-law, was a

great favourite in the neighbourhood, from her kindness and

thoughtfulness for all with whom she came in contact, and especially the

poor of Higham.

FOOTNOTES:

[35] Speaking of Hoo, Lambarde says (1570)--"Hoh in the old English

signifieth sorrow or sickness, wherewith the Inhabitants of that

unwholesome Hundred be very much exercised[!]."

[36] Lambarde says, "The Town [of Cliffe at Hoo] is large, and hath

hitherto a great Parish Church: and (as I have been told) many of the

houses were casually burned (about the same time that the Emperor

_Charles_ came into this Realme to visite King _Henry_ the eight), of

which hurt it was never thorowly cured."

CHAPTER XIII.

COBHAM PARK AND HALL, THE LEATHER BOTTLE, SHORNE, CHALK, AND THE DOVER

ROAD.

"It's a place you may well be fond of and attached

to, for it's the prettiest spot in all the country

round."--_The Village Coquettes._

"The last soft light of the setting sun had fallen

on the earth, casting a rich glow on the yellow

corn sheaves, and lengthening the shadows of the

orchard trees."--_The Pickwick Papers._

WE reserve this, our last long tramp in "Dickens-Land," for the Friday

before our departure. Mrs. Perugini, the novelist's second daughter, had

recently told us that this was the most beautiful of all the beautiful

parts of Kent, and so indeed it proves to be. Its sylvan scenery is

truly unique.

Mr. Charles Dickens the younger, in his valuable annotated Jubilee

edition of _Pickwick_, has included this note relating to Cobham:--

"As all the world knows, the neighbourhood of Rochester was dear to

Charles Dickens. There it is that Gad's Hill Place stands, the house to

which, as 'a queer, small boy,' he looked forward as the possible reward

of an industrious career, and in which he passed the later years of his

life; and near Rochester, still approached by the 'delightful walk'

here described, is Cobham, one of the most charming villages in that

part of Kent. Down the lanes, and through the park to Cobham, was always

a favourite walk with Charles Dickens; and he never wearied of acting as

_cicerone_ to his guests to its fine church and the quaint almshouses

with the disused refectory behind it."

Happily the weather again favours us on this delightful excursion. It is

just such a day as that on which we made our visit to Gad's Hill. As we

have had much tramping about Rochester during the morning, we prudently

take an early afternoon train to Higham, to save our legs. The short

distance of about four miles consists almost entirely of tunnels cut

through the chalk.

Alighting at Higham Station, we make our way for the Dover Road and

reach Pear Tree Lane, which turns out of it for Cobham. We notice in

passing through Higham by daylight that the lanes are much closed in by

banks, in fact, the tertiary and chalk systems have been cut through to

form the roads; but here and there one gets glimpses of the Thames, its

course being marked by the white or brown wings of sailing-boats.

The lane above alluded to, a little above Gad's Hill, is the direct road

to Cobham, and on entering it we are immediately struck with the

different scene presented, as compared with any part of the county we

have previously gone over. It is cut through the Thanet Sands, which at

first are of ashy gray colour, but after some distance are of a bright

red hue, probably owing to infiltration, and the road rises gently until

the woods are reached. The vegetation growing on the high banks consists

of oak, hazel, beech, sycamore, and Spanish chestnut, in many places

intermingled with wild clematis. The branches of the trees are not

allowed to grow over into the road, but are kept well cut back so as

practically to form a wall on either side, extending in some places to

twelve feet high. The effect is to present an almost unbroken surface of

various shades of green, deliciously cool and shady in the heat of

summer, and brightened here and there in autumn by the rich

orange-coloured fruit of the arum, the scarlet berries of the white

bryony, and--deeper in the woods--by the pinky-waxen berries of the

spindle-tree, described by Lord Tennyson as "the fruit which in our

winter woodland looks a flower."

As the road continually winds in its upward progress, and as no part

within view extends beyond a few hundred yards before it turns again,

the limit of perspective is frequently arrested by a number of evergreen

arches. It was a Devonshire lane, so to speak, in a state of

cultivation. Of course in the early spring, the delicacy of the fresh

green foliage would give another picture; and again the autumnal tints

would present a totally different effect under the influence of the rich

colouring of decaying vegetation.

No wonder Dickens and his friends had such admiration for this walk, the

last, by the way, that he ever enjoyed, on Tuesday, 7th June, 1870, with

his sister-in-law, Miss Hogarth, the day before the fatal seizure. In a

letter written from Lausanne, so far back as the year 1846, he says:--

"Green woods and green shades about here are more like Cobham, in Kent,

than anything we dream of at the foot of Alpine passes."

When we reach an elevation and are able to get an extended view of the

country we have traversed, a magnificent prospect of the Thames valley

on the west side, and of the Medway valley on the east, discloses

itself. On a bank in this lane we find a rather rare plant, the

long-stalked crane's-bill (_Geranium columbinum_), its rose-pink flowers

standing out like rubies among the green foliage. _Pteris aquilina_, the

common brake or bracken, is very luxuriant here; but we have met with

few ferns in the part of Kent which we visited. We were afterwards

informed that _asplenium_, _lastrea_, _scolopendrium_, and others are to

be found in the neighbourhood. We pass at Shorne Ridgway a village inn

with a curious sign, "Ye Olde See Ho Taverne." On inquiry, we learn that

"See Ho" is the sportsman's cry in coursing, when a hare appears in

sight.

The woods surrounding the entrance to the park are presently reached,

and here the vegetation, which in the lanes had been kept under, is

allowed to grow unchecked. At intervals walks (or "rides," as they are

called in some counties) are cut through the woods, the grass being well

mown underneath, and each of these walks is a shaded grove, losing

itself in the distance. The deep silence of the place is only broken by

the cooing of the wood-pigeon, and the occasional piercing note of the

green woodpecker. It is said that the nightingales appear here about the

13th of April and continue singing until June, and that the best time

for seeing this neighbourhood is during the blossoming season in May.

The temptation to quote Dickens's own description of Cobham Park from

_Pickwick_ cannot be resisted:--

"A delightful walk it was; for it was a pleasant

afternoon in June, and their way lay through a

deep and shady wood, cooled by the light wind

which gently rustled the thick foliage, and

enlivened by the songs of the birds that perched

upon the boughs. The ivy and the moss crept in

thick clusters over the old trees, and the soft

green turf overspread the ground like a silken

mat. They emerged upon an open park, with an

ancient hall, displaying the quaint and

picturesque architecture of Elizabeth's time. Long

vistas of stately oaks and elm trees appeared on

every side: large herds of deer were cropping the

fresh grass; and occasionally a startled hare

scoured along the ground with the speed of the

shadows thrown by the light clouds, which swept

across a sunny landscape like a passing breath of

summer."

Another description of Cobham at another time of the year is found in

the _Seven Poor Travellers_:--

"As for me, I was going to walk, by Cobham Woods,

as far upon my way to London as I fancied. . . .

And now the mists began to rise in the most

beautiful manner, and the sun to shine; and as I

went on through the bracing air, seeing the

hoar-frost sparkle everywhere, I felt as if all

Nature shared in the joy of the great Birthday. . . .

By Cobham Hall I came to the village, and the

churchyard where the dead had been quietly buried

'in the sure and certain hope' which Christmastide

inspired."

We notice in our quiet tramp here a peculiarity in the foliage of the

oaks which is worth recording. It will be remembered that in the late

spring of 1888, anxiety was expressed by certain newspaper

correspondents that the English oak would suffer extermination in

consequence of caterpillars denuding it of its leaves. But naturalists

who had studied the question knew better. The caterpillar, which is no

doubt the larva of the green Tortrix moth (_Tortrix viridana_), spins

its cocoon at the end of June or the beginning of July, and the effect

of the heavy rains and warm sunny days since that time was to encourage

the energy of the tree in putting forth its second growth of leaves.

This second growth of delicate green almost covered the oaks in Cobham

Park, and effectually concealed the devastation of the caterpillars on

the old leaves. The effect was quite spring-like. Truly, as George Eliot

says, "Nature repairs her ravages."

[Illustration: Cobham Hall.]

Cobham Park is nearly seven miles round, and its exquisitely varied

scenery of wood and glade is conspicuous at the spot where the chestnut

tree called "The Four Sisters" is placed. There is a lovely walk from

Cobham Hall to Rochester through the "Long Avenue," so named in

contradistinction to the "Grand Avenue," which opens into Cobham

village. This walk, which slopes all the way down from the Mausoleum,

leads to a seat placed midway in an open spot where charming views of

the Medway valley are obtained. For rich sylvan scenery in the county of

Kent, this is surely unrivalled.

Admission to Cobham Hall, the seat of the Earl of Darnley (whose

ancestors have resided here since the time of King John), is on Fridays

only, and such admission is obtained by ticket, procurable from Mr.

Wildish, bookseller, of Rochester. A nominal charge is made, the

proceeds being devoted towards maintaining Cobham schools.

The Hall is a red-brick edifice (temp. Elizabeth, 1587), consisting of

two Tudor wings, connected by a central block designed by Inigo Jones.

The most noticeable objects in the entrance corridor are a fine pair of

columns of Cornish serpentine, nearly ten feet high, tapering from a

base some two feet square. The white veining of the steatite (soapstone)

is in beautiful contrast to the rich red and black colours of the

marble. These columns were purchased at the great Exhibition of 1851. An

enormous bath, hewn out of a solid block of granite said to have been

brought from Egypt, is also a very noticeable object in this corridor.

The housekeeper--a chatty, intelligent, and portly personage--shows

visitors over the rooms and picture-galleries. There is a superb

collection of pictures by the Old Masters, about which Dickens had

always something facetious to say to his friends. They illustrate the

schools of Venice, Florence, Rome, Netherlands, Spain, France, and

England, and were formed mainly by purchases from the Orleans Gallery,

and the Vetturi Gallery from Florence, and include Titian's 'Rape of

Europa,' Rubens's 'Queen Tomyris dipping Cyrus's head into blood,'

Salvator Rosa's 'Death of Regulus,' Vandyck's 'Duke of Lennox,' Sir

Joshua Reynolds's 'The Call of Samuel,' and others. But the pictures in

which we are most interested are the portraits of literary, scientific,

and other worthies--an excellent collection, including Shakespeare, John

Locke, Hobbes, Sir Richard Steele, Sir William Temple, Dean Swift,

Dryden, Betterton, Pope, Gay, Thomson, Sir Hugh Middleton, Martin

Luther, and the ill-fated Lord George Gordon.

There is also an ornithological museum, with some very fine specimens of

the order of grallatores (or waders). In reply to a letter of inquiry,

the Earl of Darnley kindly informs us that the examples of ostrich

(_Struthio camelus_), cassowary (_Casuarius galeatus_), and common emu

(_Dromaius ater_), were once alive in the menagerie attached to the

hall, which was broken up about fifty years ago.

We are shown the music-room (which, by the bye, his late majesty King

George IV., is said to have remarked was the finest room in England), a

very handsome apartment facing the west, with a large organ, and capable

of containing several hundred persons. The decorations are very chaste,

being in white and gold; and, as the brilliant sun was setting in the

summer evening, a delicate rose-coloured hue was diffused over

everything in the room through the medium of the tinted blinds attached

to the windows. It had a most peculiar and pretty effect, strongly

recalling Mrs. Skewton and her "rose-coloured curtains for doctors."

[Illustration: Dickens's Chalet, now in Cobham Park.]

By the special permission of his lordship, we see the famous Swiss

chalet, which is now erected in the terrace flower-garden at the back of

Cobham Hall, having been removed to its present position some years ago

from another part of the grounds. It stands on an elevated open space

surrounded by beautiful trees--the rare Salisburia, tulip, cedar,

chestnut and others--and makes a handsome addition to the garden,

irrespective of its historical associations. The chalet is of dark wood

varnished, and has in the centre a large carving of Dickens's crest,

which in heraldic terms is described as: "a lion couchant 'or,' holding

in the gamb a cross patonce 'sable.'"