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RAMBLES AROUND FOLKESTONE

HHD OTHER SPECIBL HRTICLCS

"FELIX."

PUBLISHED BY W. G. GLANFIELD

AND PRINTED BT

RJ. PARSONS LTD., HERALD WORKS,
FOLKESTONE.

THE LIBRARY

THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA

LOS ANGELES

RAMBLES AROUND FOLKESTONE
AND OTHER SPECIAL ARTICLES

" H E R A l_ D"
PRINTING WORKS,
THE BAYLE, :: ::
FOLKESTONE.

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INDEX.

Wreck of the "Benvenue" off Sandgate ... 3

RURAL RAMBLES AROUND FOLKESTONE.

Kingston, Bishopsbourne, and Bridge... ... 7

"Ingoldsby Land," Woolwich Green, and

Fredville Park 10

From Elham to Clambercrown ... ... ... 12

From Lyminge to Stowting ... ... ... 16

With Night Walkers to Paddlesworth 21

Another Ramble by Night to Barham 24

Early Morning Ramble in the Woods ... ... 26

Shorncliffe Camp, Cheriton, Newington, Shorn-

cliffe, and Hythe 28

Over the hills to Acrise, Pay Street, Denton,

and Broome Park 31

Capel, Hougham, St. Radigund's Abbey, Vale

of Poulton, etc. ... ... ... ... 34

Through Sibton Park to The Farthing 37

To Sandling, Pedling, Lympne, and West Hythe 39

Swingfield, Wootton, etc. 43

Our range of Noble Hills 47

Along Albion's White Cliffs to Dover 51

A Moonlight Walk... ... ... ... ... 53

The Warren (I) 59

The Warren (II) 61

An interesting Cross-country Stroll 63

A Grand walk through "unknown" country to

Wye 67

INDEX— continued.

My Discovery of North Wales 76

Awful Wreck at Dymchurch 112 years ago... 80

Queen Victoria's last voyage to the Continent.

Embarkation at Folkestone ... ... 8r

Active Service Company "Buffs" home from

War 97

Visit to Nelson's Flagship "The Victory" ... 108

Sandgate's Welcome to Ladysmith Heroes... 110

How a Shellfish made the English Channel ... 115

Making of the Railway between Folkestone

and Dover 118

Shakespeare and His Strolling Players at

Folkestone ... ... ... ... ... 121

An Emperor of Russia at Hythe 122

A Noteable M.P. for Hythe 123

"Comfort ye My People" 126

Napoleon's Column at Boulogne ... ... I2&

Miscellaneous ... ... ... ... 130- 192-

Humourous Old Folkestone ... ... ... 193

Charles Dickens on Folkestone ... ... 210

Sandgate's Famous Orator ... „.. ... 211

"Nothing" 212

Holiday Notes on York, etc. ... ... ... 215

A Week-end on Wheels 222-

Some Notable Events 227-235

Thanks and Acknowledgments ... 237-

PREFACE.

IN a sense the issuing of this little work is none of
my doing. I have as a rule attached but little
importance to what I have written (often hurriedly),
but several of my kind friends at different times and
places have suggested I should produce some at least
of my " Rambles," together with a selection of con-
tributed and collected articles, in book form.
After considerable thought I have acceded to
their wishes. Many of those whose names are men-
tioned in the foregoing pages have passed to the Great
Beyond, but in this way their names will, I hope, be in
a measure preserved and perpetuated for many years to
come. Here, then, I launch my small venture, and
trust that its pages may afford some pleasure and satis-
faction to those who do me the honour of reading them.

FELIX.

The Lord of the Manor (Karl Radnor) Mayor of Folkestone 1901-2.

with other

SPECIAL ARTICLES & NOTES
By " FELIX/'

Reprinted by kind permission of the Proprietors
from " The Folkestone Herald " (1891-1913).

PUBLISHED BY

WILLIAM GEORGE GLANFIELD,
6, Russell Road, Folkestone.

INTRODUCTION,

••» AM asked to write a few words of Preface to
"Rambles Around Folkestone." I consent
for two reasons. First, because the father of
the writer of these collected articles was one of my
valued workers in old days at Sandgate, and secondly
because the author is one who knows thoroughly
the country about which he has written. Many a
time have I seen, him taking his walks abroad and
saturating himself with knowledge of Kentish
country. I am confident that readers of this book
will not only be greatly interested, but that their love
for the garden of England, and their respect for the
many distinguished persons who have lived and

worked in it will be stimulated and intensified. The
rural parts of England are being more and more en-
croached upon amd it is well for us to have a record
of such as remain still untouched. Who knows
whether in the days to come coalfields may not de-
stroy some of our Kentish beauty almost as
completely as has been the case round about the
"Hills of Annesley bleak and barren," of which
Byron wrote a century ago. I wish this book every
success.

H. R. BIRMINGHAM.

WRECK OF THE "BENVENUE" OFF
SANDGATE, NOVEMBER llth, 1891.

DRAMATIC INCIDENTS.

As this was the first special article I wrote for "The
Folkestone Herald" I give it in full : —

'E have been visited by a succession of heavy gales
during the past few weeks, but that of Wednes-
day last eclipsed all others in its destructive
effects, both on sea and land. When it became known
that a full rigged ship had stranded at Sandgate and that
other exciting incidents were occurring in its vicinity much
excitement was manifested, and thousands of spectators
made for Sandgate, and were witnesses throughout the
day of the most dramatic and thrilling scenes. The
wind blew with really awful power, and it was with the
greatest difficulty I made my way along the cliff to Sand-
gate. From the top of the hill, by the Martello Tower,
the tall masts of the ship could be seen standing out
above the white foam of the sea. On one of the yard arms
there appears to be a black patch. What was it? I looked
through a powerful telescope, and found that the black
mass made up of human beings was holding on to the
rigging for their lives, their faces plainly seen turned for
help towards the land only a comparatively few yards
off. Arrived at Sandgate I made my way to the Espla-
nade, tiles, slates, and glass flying about in all directions.
Here there was the most intense excitement. The vessel
proved to be the ship Benvenue (2,033 tons), bound from
London to Sydney (N.S.W.) with a general cargo. She
had left London on the previous Monday in tow of two
tugs, one of which left her in the Downs, the other keep-
ing in contact until she struck, when the hawser
parted. The rocket apparatus was at once brought into
requisition by the coastguard, but their efforts were un-
availing. One shot went over the vessel, but the rope had
broken, and therefore was of no use. In the meantime
the lifeboat had been taken to Hythe and launched, but
it had only proceeded a short distance before the boat was
upset, one poor fellow, by name of Fagg, perishing in
the noble attempt to save that little silent group on the
mast. One of the brave lifeboat crew who bore bruises

727489

on his face, gave me an account of his experiences. He
said: "We launched the 'Meyer de Rothschild' between
nine and ten ajn. in a terrible sea. It looked like cer-
tain death to venture out, but we all felt an attempt must
be made. We hauled the boat off, and it was not long
before all of us were struggling for our lives in the boil-
ing surf. I held on to a life line as long as I could, and
struck out for the shore. I was helpless. A huge wave
dashed me on to the beach, and these marks on my face
are the result I now thought it was all up with me, but
four or five men came, at the risk of their own lives, and
dragged me out of what looked liked a watery grave.
Thank God, I am ready to try again if I am called on
during the day."

The waves were now (11.30 a.m.) running mountains
high, and the sea increasing. All eyes were fixed on the
doomed ship, and people were wondering what could be
done. A telegram had been despatched to Dover, asking
that the tug and lifeboat might be sent over, but to that
a reply was received from the Deputy Harbour Master:
"Impossible to tow boat round at present. Terrific sea
running." At this time part of the crew of a vessel that
had been blown ashore between Sandgate and Hythe ar-
rived at the Coastguard Station. The vessel was the
"Eider," bound from Bordeaux to Belgium with a cargo of
griain. Directly the vessel struck the Captain (Girordie),
his wife, and nephew, were drowned. The body of the
woman was subsequently picked up and taken to the
Convalescent Home, where it was identified by the sur-
vivors. An affecting scene here took place, which touched
all of us who witnessed it. The excitement on
the shore opposite the stranded " Benvenue"
was now intense. Large bodies of the mili-
tary were patrolling the beach, protecting the
wreckage that strewed the shore. An attempt was made
to fire shot, with chain and rope attached, from a cannon,
but the chain snapped at the muzzle through the great
velocity. This means of communication with
the ship was given up as impracticable, and so the hours
dragged on. The whole afternoon there must have been
many thousands assembled on the sea front and shore,
gazing at the poor men on the rigging. Every rocket fired
off was followed by the prayers of the crowd that it might
reach its destination, but a despairing cry went up when
it was seen that each effort had failed. At last the supply
of rockets had ruji out, and nothing, apparently, was being
done. Added to the horrors of the situation, night
was fast coming on. The sun set in a clear sky, and the
after glow was a beautiful sight. The moon now threw

its rays across the angry waters, and still the little band
could be seen in the mizen of the ship. Would no one
make an effort to save them perishing before our eyes?
The sea and wind were now abating, and the hopes of the
spectators consequently arose. A cheer was heard. This
was caused by the arrival of another rocket cart from the
west Willing hands soon got the apparatus out, and the
rocket was fired, followed in its course by thousands of
anxious eyes. It fell short of its mark. A groan of des-
pair'arose from the crowd. The rocket stand was shifted,
and another "messenger of mercy" was fired, but with the
same result. "How cold and hungry they must feel in
that rigging, after standing there the livelong day !" "What
can be done?" This and similar ejaculations were heard
from the crowd. "Why don't they try the lifeboat again ?"
A mighty cheer was now heard, and shouts
of " Make room for the volunteer crew."
A huge bonfire on the bank under the
hospital threw a lurid light on the scene, the waves of tne
sea being tinged with the reflection. The crowd then
made way for the lifeboat house, and here the volunteers,
ready to go on their errand of mercy, had their places in
the boat. When the preparations were complete the craft
was pulled out on her carriage and an attempt made to
launch her. But the slipway having been knocked away
by recent gales, the huge wheels of the carriage of the
boat on being sent down toward the sea stuck fast in a
mass of faggots that had been laid down for a passage
way. Here an hour or two was consumed, and still it
appeared nothing practical in the form of rescue was
forthcoming for those half frozen men on the m>ast. There
the little band still held out How much longer could
they endure it? We scanned the horizon east and west
and still no sign of a light from a friendly tug. The crowd
now worked in sheer desperation, pulling on the ropes to
extricate the boat from its position. It would seem im-
possible to move her. After patient working for a
considerable time a launch was made amidst deafening
cheers. In a few moments the boat was making toward^
the ship, and its position could be clearly defined in the
bright moonlight, and also by the burning of an occa-
sion blue light When it arrived under the mast and took
on board the men who had faced death for many hours,
cheering again broke forth. The lifeboat now drifted
away from the wreck amidst cries of "They're saved!
They're saved!" "Hurrah! hurrah!" These were the cries
that gave vent to the feelings of the crowd, which had
been wrought up to a pitch of intense excitement through
the thrilling incidents of the day, and which culminated

in this dramatic scene. Such genuine rejoicing had not
been seen for many a day.

The twenty-seven rescued men were brought into
Folkestone Harbour (the Captain and an apprentice were
drowned), and thousands gathered to greet them, together
with the brave lifeboat crew. After a good night's rest
the shipwrecked sailors attended a thanksgiving service
at the Parish Church. The rescued crew were photo-
graphed outside the Queen's Hotel. The picture was re-
produced in the "Folkestone Herald," many thousands of
which were sold. I took the precious negative to London,
and after waiting for some hours I returned to Folkestone
•with the process block from which the first picture of the
sort was printed in a newspaper in Folkestone.

RURAL RAMBLES AROUND
FOLKESTONE.

KINGSTON, BISHOPSBOURNE, AND BRIDGE.

"O famous Kent, quoth he,

What county hath this Isle that can compare to thee?
Which has within itself as much as thou canst wish,
Thy conies, ven'son, fruit, the sorts of fowl and fish;
And what comports with strength, thy hay, and corn and

wood,
Not anything thou wan'st, that any where' s so good."

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

Perhaps this ramble can be covered in four miles;
yet within that compass there is much calling for obser-
vation. One summer's day, in company with a
little "olive branch," I took the 9.45 train from
the Central Station to Barham (9 miles). There
was scarcely a breath of air, and the sun blazed down
with almost scorching severity. The map told me of a
nice stretch of wooded country, and I found it was quite
correct. Let us then commence our ramble. We leave
Barham Station, and then take the first turning to the
left, the church steeple standing out amidst the trees on
the right. Don't walk along the dusty road, but stroll
leisurely under the shady trees planted in a meadow at
regular intervals just over the adjoining fence on the right.

We at length come out at a junction of the roads.
Here is a little bridge, and you will note several others
along the route we are traversing. Perhaps there are
scores of them. But what is the object of these bridges
and arches? Just observe the formation of the ground,
and then you will notice a river-bed winding in and out
for many miles across the country. This is, or rather was,
the course of the Little Stour, or Nailbourae. It had its
rise near Lyminge, and when running joins the Greater
Stour. But the river at the date of my writing this article
had disappeared. It has not flowed for seven years.
Some of the natives declare that the. springs feeding the
stream were interfered with when the railway was made
through this district Others will have it that pumping
operations in various localities are responsible for its,

apparent disappearance. Read in the face of what is
known, however, these are absurd theories. It is beyond
human calculation, but the Nailbourne may suddenly com-
mence filling up that dry course at any unlikely time.
The river has been known to run for a considerable period,
and then to as suddenly vanish.

It is the same with the intermittent spring at Drelin-
gore. Here, then, is a wonder of Nature, and those
apparently useless bridges remind us of the fact. [Since
this article was written both the springs mentioned have
been running freely, and in considerable volume.] Let us
resume. We are on the high road again, walking towards
Kingston. On the left is a large and pretty residence
known as "The Laurels," and the fine trees surrounding
it spell coolness on this hot morning. What a magnificent
copper beach that is immediately in front of the house!
It is very dusty for, say, half a mile, but the sight of a
pretty thatched cottage on the left, with is diamond-
shaped window panes, and a lovely garden planted with
old-time flowers, refreshes us. A little farther on there
are some nice trees on the right, and here we rest for a
few moments. Over in yonder meadow, and standing
well in from the road, is a large red-bricked building.
That is Digg's Place. It has a long and very interesting
history, and reference is made to it, I believe, in Hasted's
"History of Kent," probably under the heading of Barham.
Well, we will get on — still on the high road. Before us
are some cottages, almost hidden by trees. Leave the
high road, and bear to the left across one field, and you
are at Kingston. Walking through the tiny hamlet I
heard music coming from somewhere amongst the
trees. In a moment or two it was all explained. Hidden
amidst the foliage was the church, with its low tower.
Morning service had just commenced, and that was the
"Venite" that greeted our ears. Under "that yew tree's
shade" we made our way into the churchyard, and then
quietly entered the little fane itself. Sultry outside, but
within these walls it was refreshingly cool. The scene
itself spoke of peace. Perhaps, all told, the congregation
did not number more than two score. The singing was
creditably led by a surpliced choir, a lady playing a small
pipe organ. It was altogether a nice service — plain, but
well ordered. On the walls of this church is a suit of
chain armour, and hanging above and below it are a
helmet, gauntlets, and sword.

We leave this pretty church, and after admiring the
rectory and keeping to the left, leave 'the road, 'and
enter through the gate on the right. We are now in
Charlton Park. Keep to the path, enter through more

gates, and then, after a mile, mostly under the shade of
magnificent trees, we come out by the Lodge Gates and
find ourselves in the village of Bishopsbourne. But before
leaving the subject of Charlton Park, let us pause a
moment to remark on the proverbial fickleness of fortune.
This fine estate has been in the Tattersalls' hands for two
generations. That old mansion on the left was frequently
visited by George IV. But I am digressing. It was not
so many years ago — well within the memory of many of
the villagers — that a pathetic figure was seen near the
very lodge gates I have alluded to. He was in the very
lowest depths of poverty, but as he looked around at the
estate he could say "This once belonged to me." It
slipped through his fingers — as they would say. Not a
stick could he claim. An educated man, what must his
thoughts have been as he gazed on the old and familiar
scenes ?

"Of all the sad thoughts of tongue and pen,
The saddest of all is: It might have been."

Bishopsbourne is not only famous for the beauty of
its surrounding wooded country, but as being the scene
of the labours of Bishop Hooker, who, as all the world
knows, wrote that authoritative work, "Ecclesiastical
Polity." Hooker's admirers, both in England and America,
a few years since did justice to his memory by erecting
a really magnificent stained glass window in Bishops-
bourne Church, of which he was some time Vicar.

Barham Downs are in close vicinity to the village,
and some of the natives will have it that Julius Caesar, with
his hosts, encamped hereabouts. Indeed, some time back
excavations were made in adjoining Gorseley Wood, with
the object of finding Roman remains, and the result was
partially successful. All around this district are evidences
of the Roman occupation.

There is a pathway fringing the churchyard. This
we now followed, and it led us into 'Bourne Park. No
hot and dusty roads, but springy turf and noble trees, the
landscape dotted here and there by browsing cattle or
flocks of sheep and lambs lying under the foliage. Stroll-
ing gently over the greensward we note on the left the
red-bricked ancestral mansion. What a pretty setting it
has amongst the lordly trees ! Immediately in front is a
large and winding lake, on the waters of which swans
glide gracefully here and there. And every now and then
little moorhens appear, only to disappear amongst the tall
rushes fringing the lake. We pass on and notice on the
right bank of a wood scores of rabbits, which, on our
approach, bolted off into the undergrowth or to the shelter

of their burrows. Another lazy quarter of an hour under
die foliage for the purpose of enjoying the contents of a
little knapsack. What restaurant or hotel could compare
with this? And, again, we look around. Close at hand
are what appear to be three large trees, but on closer
examination it turns .out to be one growth. The trunks
spring out clear and directly from the roots, and the sight
is one worthy of the camera. This is near the path, and
by a stile, and cannot be missed. How delicious is the
quietude! Save for the twitter of the birds, the cooing of
the many wood pigeons, and the chiming of some distant
church bells, there are no sounds.

To conclude, passing through Bridge, with its many
red-tiled cottages, and noting once more the magnificent
stretch of wooded country surrounding it, we took train
from the tiny station for Folkestone.

"INGOLDSBY LAND," WOOLWICH
GREEN AND FREDVILLE PARK.

As one meanders along in perhaps some "unexplored"
district, one realises more than ever why Kent has been
termed "The Garden of England." Let us start on pur
stroll. Once more we take train from the Central Station
to Barham. This is but a short distance from the town,
and is the centre of much charming country — woodland,
vale, and hill. This time our destination is Fredville
Park. We cross over the railway bridge, and leaving the
station, walk through the village of Barham to Broome
Park, the manifold beauties of which I have before en-
deavoured to describe. Keeping to the path, you cannot
fail to notice the extent of the estate, its noble trees, and
the Elizabethan-style of mansion. Broome was for many
years the home of the Oxenden family, but it is now
tenanted by England's greatest soldier. Lord Kitchener.
We have sauntered easily along admiring the while the
various effects of the sun's golden rays on the undulating
country, and then, crossing a stile, come out at the roadway
near historical May Deacon. Turn to 'the right and there
is Denton, its church, dedicated to St. Mary Magdalene,
being almost enshrouded from view by some fine old yew
trees. Let us go on — the way is pleasant. Stroll
up to the brow of the adjacent hill and we arrive at the
"Eagles" on the left, the name being taken from the
armorial bearings surmounting each pillar of the principal
gateway of Broome Park. Here is the junction of the
Dover and Folkestone roads, and a short distance is the
inn known as the "Half-way House," a posting station of

considerable notoriety in the "good old times." Just on
the right is a narrow shady lane leading through the wood
to Woolwich Green, a little village surrounded by trees,
with a spacious green in front, from which it takes its
name. Fredville Park is close at hand. Enter the gates
and walk through the domain, which belongs to the
Plumptre family. Far famed for its noble trees
is Fredville, and outside the mansion are some
of the finest growths in the country. One
of these monarchs is of really immense
girth, measuring over 36 feet in circumference, and there
are steps leading up into its branches. Here seats are
arranged for about twenty people, and as I sat here in the
cool of the evening I could but think of the ages upon
which this tree 'and its fellow had gazed. There, close by,
through pretty lanes, is Barfrestone, the church of which
is well-known to every lover of antiquity. The sacred
edifice is very ancient, and the beautiful porch, with its
curious and grotesque carvings, is worth more than a pass-
ing reference. The one-time lord of the manor, while
hunting, met with a severe accident, and with the super-
stition of the times, vowed, if he recovered, to erect a
chapel to the Virgin, and to forswear the chase. He
recovered, and the chapel was accordingly built. The
legend is sculptured on the porch, and represents the chase
on one side, and the stag in various positions on the
other. Most curious is it all. Here are two items in this
district, then, for those interested in the church and the
trees. A reminder that the summer glory is waning is the
sight of the cornfields, many of which are already garnered.
In many a country cottage I came across there was
gloom. Some of these people, particularly the women and
children, travel considerable distance in order to add to
their scanty incomes by picking the hops. This year,
however, they are a general failure. The blight is general.
And so hidden away in some of these picturesque cottages
in East Kent is a tinge of sadness. The garden produce,
however, is generally good. What strange superstitions
survive ! One is constantly reminded of this. I will give
an illustration. Walking across a stubble field I per-
ceived a couple of moles running almost at my feet.
These four-footed miners were quite out of their element.
Perhaps it was wrong, but my stick was responsible for
one of the pair. What exquisite fur has this little animal,
with snout-like head, and its "shovel" fore feet !
Walking subsequently through a lane, an elderly rustic,
when passing, said : "I see you ve got a mole there." "Yes,"
I replied, and then stopped for a chat. "Ah!" further
remarked the old man, with a shake of the head, "Cut

off one of them fore feet and carry it in your pocket, and
you will never be troubled with rheumatics. It's a terrible
good charm agin' that complaint." I thanked my tem-
porary companion for his advice, and walked on, thinking
the while what dark recesses there are still left in the
human mind. I might write quite a chapter on this
subject, but will content myself with the horseshoe as a
token of luck. Let it be on the cottage, village black-
smith's door, the farmhouses, or mansion, in town or
country, the horseshoe is universal. And in many cases
there is real belief, especially in the rural districts, in the
efficacy of these charms and tokens. What have men of
education and scientists to say in the matter? I have
come to the conclusion that in all ranks there is some sort
of latent superstition. However, my newly-found-out
mole's-foot charm adds to our store of education in this
matter. With a little rest here and there one could keep
sauntering pleasantly along, but we return. I repass
through pretty Woolwich Green. Resting is the sunburnt
labourer in his garden. It is Saturday night. His
youngsters are running about joyously, whilst the house-
wife is preparing "a little bit extra" for tea-supper, as
they call it in the country. Real pretty is the quiet
secluded village. How sweet is the scent of the smoke
from the wood fires — so different to that of burnt
petrol. Like the ploughman in Gray's immortal
Elegy, we plod homewards again once more across the
Park to Barham Station, and in a few moments are re-
minded by the general animation that Folkestone is enjoy-
ing a splendid Season.

FROM ELHAM TO CLAMBERCROWN.

EXPLORING UNKNOWN LAND.

If my objective had been the Rocky Mountains or
any other patch of the world's surface, I could not have
looked forward with greater, pleasure than to my
anticipated trip to Wheelbarrow Town and Clambercrown.
And this is how it came about. Our esteemed fellow-
townsman, Mr. Walker (Messrs. Tucker and Walker),
button-holed me on a certain morning, with the remark,
"I note by articles I have read from time to time that
you are fond of rural rambles." I assured my friend that
he was correct in that surmise. Then he added : "If you
want a treat, then, run over to Wheelbarrow Town and
Clambercrown." He drew such a delightful word picture
of the district that I at once said : "I will go at the first
opportunity." In fact, we arranged to make the trip
together, but fate ordered otherwise. A certain recent

Sunday saw the fulfilment of my wishes. I travelled up
to Elham by the 9.40 train, walked up the lane skirting the
Kennels on the right, and then, turning to the left proceeded
across the meadows with Pleasant Tie Wood on the left
and Elham Park Wood to the right. What a glorious
morning for a stroll! — Sunshine, sweet air, and restful
green for the eyes. It was peace broken only by the
soothing chimes of distant church bells or the songs of
the feathered tribe.

THE LAPWING.

Last Saturday I looked into our Public Library for
the purpose of inspecting the temporary museum arranged
in connection with the visit of the East Kent Scientific
Societies. Included amongst the interesting objects on
view was a stuffed bird — the hoopoe. An inscription on
the pedestal set forth the fact that the specimen was shot
at Elham. In death this bird is attractive ; in life it is, of
course, more beautiful On Sunday morning I was con-
gratulating myself on having a sight of a live hoopoe.
Walking across the springy turf of the meadow, a bird
attracted my attention. It followed my steps, and circled
round and round in irregular flight. Then it settled, say
at a distance of some 150 yards. I had my field glasses with
me, and levelled them at the strange object As it ran
rapidly along the ground the bird threw up a cockatoo-
like crest over its head. It was indeed a pretty sight.
"That's the hoopoe," I mentally remarked Then it would
resume flight, and settle again. However, a subsequent
reference to an authority on birds put me right. I had
not seen the hoopoe, but the lapwing. Thus my life's
education was added to. That the lapwing was a crested
bird was unknown to me until Sunday.

THREE TOMBSTONES.

"Wheelbarrow Town" is about a mile and a half in
a northern direction. "Keep to the footpath and stiles and
you will soon reach there." Thus a kind rustic informed me
in answer to a query as to the direction of "the city '" At
last I came to the parting of the ways. "Here's a pretty
go," thought I. Shall I turn to the right or left? Happy
thought ! I will enquire up at that pretty isolated cottage.
Knocking at the door, I asked the lady of the house
where "Wheelbarrow Town" might be found. She
waved a hand, remarking "You are standing in it now."
There is a small farm, with a scattered cottage or two,
and that is "Wheelbarrow Town." Strange how some of
these names come about ! Why should the "wheelbarrow"
and "town" be associated. Then "Clever-tie" wood —

there's another puzzler. But I had almost forgotten.
There is a "sight" in the "town" which should be mentioned.
A solitary rustic with shirt sleeves rolled up was leaning
against a five-barred gate. I joined him in a quiet Sunday
morning pipe. Between the puffs we had quite a pleasant
chat. "Seen the tombstones'"' he queried. "In my time
I've seen a lot!" was perhaps a natural reply. "Noa," my
friend Hodge replied, "I mean the tombstones up in the
medder near the wood." It was some distance off. I
found the "medder" and the tombstones. There are three
of them. Age and growth of lichen have obliterated the
inscriptions, out I fancy one name is Shrubsole, and the
date about "1726. Search the globe over and a quieter
resting place could not be found. In explanation it is said
a chapel existed hereabouts some years ago. It is not
within my knowledge to state whether the little ceme-
tery up in the woods is consecrated ground or not, but
as I gazed on the stones, I could but lift my hat and
utter a "Rest in Peace."

"CLAMBERCROWN" AND "THE DOG."

Take a large scale map of Kent, and you will find
what great patches of woodland are marked to the north
of Elham. In addition to North Elham Park, Clever Tie,
there are West Wood, Elham Park, and the Great
Covet Wood, which alone spreads itself over 1,000 acres.
These great woodlands are practically joined together, and
one can walk for hours through scenes which suggest "a
thousand miles from any where." On Sunday my route
was entirely off the main roads. Solitude! Here it is.
But yet no solitude. There is an endless feast of delight
for the observer. It is indeed good to have the companion-
ship of Nature for a few hours — away from the stress and
battle of life. On the "Clambercrown" I saunter easily
along. The farm houses are few and far between. A
human being is a rarity. Look ! There are two or three
fluttering objects! What are they? Specimens of the
lovely clouded yellow butterfly. In the sunshine their
colours show grandly against the deep green foliage.
Only a momentary glance, yet one to be remembered. But
I make no secret about it — I want "The Dog." After a
considerable spell of more quiet walking, I arrived in front
of another farm building. Some of the hands were resting
over the gate. I enquired "Where's 'The Dog'?" In
chorus they directed me up a narrow lane, and added:
"When you come to a signpost take to the road leading
to Lower Hardre_s ; then you will find 'The Dog' on the left-
hand side." And sure enough, on the confines of "The

Covet" was a small inn. Where is the custom, you will
ask, to maintain it I entered, and felt entitled to ask
for refreshment As the saying goes, "I could do with
it." Through its very solitude, "The Dog" is famous. It
is owned by a pair of "originals" — a middle-aged brother
and sister of the name of Philpptt. Both unmarried, they
have lived their lives here, amidst these surroundings, as
their parents did before them.

I LIVE "A HUNDRED YEARS AGO."

Made quite happy with some home-made bread ("our
own baking"), a nice piece of old Dutch cheese, and a
draught of Nectar known in wine lists as "shandy gaff,"
I took some stock of my surroundings. I turned my mind
back a hundred year?. There I sat in a kind of high-
backed pew (there was no saloon bar touch about it), a
bare, wooden table before me. In the great fireplace
were "the dogs," and over the wood fire hung suspended
from a hook the big iron pot. It is a hundred years ago !
There is not a touch of modernity here. Yes, I was indeed
transported back a century. Mine hostess, too, had a fund
of the old time country talk that was charming. "My
father first saw the light of day in this little house. On
reaching eighy-five years of age he passed away. Yes,
he never left this house. I, too, was born here." And
then, half apologising, she left me to solve the mystery
of the old iron pot over the crackling wood. Subse-
quently from its depths issued a splendid beef pudding,
but I'll write no more on this score. If I had not ordered
the aforesaid bread and cheese I should have been tor-
tured. But all was well.

HOMEWARD BOUND.

My good friends now directed me through the wilder-
ness to Bishopsbourne, giving me all manner of directions
in regard to turning to left and the right, and to the left
again, and then yet again to >the right. I got a bit
mixed up, however. But directly on leaving
"The Dog" my way led through a wood, with wild roses
and honeysuckles abounding on either side. Walking
leisurely by leafy ways I at length found myself at King-
ston, and, then taking train at neighbouring Barham,
arrived home about 4.30 p.m. Now, it may be that several
of my readers are acquainted with "Wheelbarrow Town*
and "Clambercrown," but I'll wager the majority are not
Well, all I can say to such of these is : Pay a visit to this
"unknown land." Walk it from Elham, and make your
way round either to Bishopsbourne or Barham, and take
the path through the wood. If you are
fond of woodland ancl a quiet day off the road district,

where the sound of the motor is practically unheard, if
you want to enjoy Nature at its best, then let me lead
you to the charming district I have made some attempt
to describe.

"BJLL HORNE," CLAMBERCROWN, AND "THE DOG."

The above article on exploring "unknown land"
created considerable interest. At the time Bill Home (if
I termed him William, it would be considered somewhat
infra dig.), the Parish Church gardener, was good enough
to figuratively pat me on the back for my small effort.
Thus Bill delivered himself: — "Every word you wrote
about Clambercrown is the truth." [What a compliment
to a newspaper man!] "I was born up in those parts.
You are correct, too, when you describe the district as
being like 'a thousand miles from anywhere.' I remember
once one of my Folkestone mates was driving a van up
yonder. Night came on. He lost his way, and so what
did he do? Why, tucked himself up in his van for the
night" Bill added: "If I had the time I could tell you
some yarns about the country out yonder." Again, I met
our mutual friend Mr. W. H. Pearson, the coal merchant,
and that gentleman, who hastens from the busy
town when opportunity presents itself, was kind
enough to remark, "I say, 'Felix,' you made by mouth
water by your description of Clambercrown. I must run
up there on Sunday, with the partner of my joys and
sorrows." Then there is another old Folkestonian, Mr.
Wright, of Dover-street This well-known tradesman
buttonholed me on Monday night with the remark: "I
thought I knew every inch of the country round this part,
but, 'Felix,' you have done me this time. Where is 'The
Dog* -—Yes," he repeated, "You have fairly done me. 1
must go on a voyage of discovery." Mr. J. Harnett, the
pork butcher of the Bayle, and others, are also off to
Clambercrown — and "The Dog" — at the earliest oppor-
tunity, and I, too, if all goes well, intend to make some
further discoveries up that way before long. The pleasures
of life ! Ah ! Some of the greatest are to be found in the
rural districts around our beautiful Folkestone.

FROM LYM1NGE TO STOWTING AND
ONWARDS.

A month had sped since my exploration of the "wilds"
of Clambercrown, and methought the time was due for yet
another quiet tramp over unknown land — to myself.
Several years since I paid a Sunday visit to Brabourne

and Stowting, but approached the villages via Postling
and Monks Horton Park. By way of a change, then, I
re-visited these two old-world places via Lyminge.
Taking the midday train from the Central, I soon found
myself in Folkestone's principal hill suburb, and in a few
moments was walking along the carriage road of Sibton
Park. And, by the way, how nicely the Hon. Mrs. John
Howard has beautified the entrance to her charming
domain. The additional and thriving shrubs on the right-
hand side, the well-designed rockery (now bright with early
spring flowers), and the miniature lake, have all truly
made "the wilderness to blossom as a rose." Refined
taste is everywhere in evidence, and I am sure pedestrians
through the Park will not fail to appreciate the picture.

OVER RHODES MINNIS AND THROUGH THE WOODS TO THE

COMMON.

Soon leaving Sibton Park behind, we meander slowly
up the main» road over the Minnis, to the Gate Inn. Here-
abouts is a signpost, and one of its fingers point to Stow-
ting, three miles distant. The way thither is very plea-
sant, and for a good stretch we stroll with West Wood on
either side. Then, keeping straight on, we reach a forked
road on the open, in the centre of which is
Limmeridge Green, and, turning to the left, walk on until
Stowting Common is reached. On the right is meadow
land ; on the left are Mrs. Andrew's "Roughs" — a beautiful
stretch of woodland in which a noble clump of pines rear
their lofty heads. In a month I notice a great change in
regard to the "coming of the leaf." Of course, to the
ordinary onlooker, trees are yet bare, but in many cases
the buds have burst, and are bursting almost hourly.
The countryside is yellow with primroses, and dog
violets are greatly in evidence on the banks. Herbs,
especially the feathery yarrow, are seen sending up,
too, their shoots. I notice several fresh arrivals in the
feathered kingdom. In the brilliant sunshine, for instance,
look at the plumage of those two bluetits, or at the gayer
dress of the bullfinch. This latter, with the exception, I
should say, of the kingfisher, is ^amongst the most showy
of our British birds. The yellow hammer, too, was in
evidence, but not nearly in such large numbers as the
first two named above.

VIEW FROM STOWTING HILL AND TWO REMARKABLE YEW

TREES.

A week or two since one of my correspondents plied
me with the query, "What are the six best views in
Kent?" Well, until I have undertaken a little more ex-
ploration, I do not feel prepared to answer that question.

Really, however, the view from this particular hill is very
fine. It takes in a vast expanse of landscape,
with the shimmering water of the Channel in the far
distance. My own fault, I admit, but this was my first
experience here. And delight was mine. Immediately
below is the tiny village of Stowting. Sheltered under
the hills, with the few houses clustered together, there it
stands, as it has probably much the same for centuries. I
had been tramping along alone for a considerable stretch,
but just at an opportune moment I met an individual
who, moreover, was very intelligent. For my information
he pointed to the Parish Field. Years ago, it appears,
old armour and skeletons were found in this particular
meadow, which is now given over to sheep and lambs.
Then over yonder is a large clump of closely planted
trees. "That was the site of the old Castle. You can
see the moat around it" Sure enough, there is a deep
moat. Whether the story of the castle is legendary, I
do not know. My informant ought to be an authority, for
he told me he could trace his family back in Stowting for
five hundred years. The bells! the bells! How charm-
ing was that mellow sound. It was all explained. It
was a great day in Stowting, for the new Vicar, the Rev.
"C. J. Duffield, late of Maidstone, was about to be inducted,
according to ancient rites, to the living of Stowting. All
the villagers were making for the little fane amongst the
trees, but I did not get further than the churchyard,
whither I proceeded to examine two wonderful yew trees.
One of these measures 21 feet in circumference, and the
other 1 7 feet 9 inches. These measurements were recently
taken, three feet from the ground. There these giants
have stood for centuries. They have looked down upon
the coming and going of generations of men and women,
and appear to stand sentinel-like over "many a mouldering
heap" in this, one of the prettiest of God's Acres I have
ever gazed upon.

SWEET SMELLING VIOLETS AND BRABOURNE.

A pleasant mile or so was the walk to this last named
village. When, say, half the distance is covered, on look-
ing round one obtains another picture of Stowting and its
surroundings. Comparatively far from any town, the in-
habitants here of necessity must lead the quietest of lives.
Just now I mentioned dog violets, but hereabouts in the
lanes I found the banks in parts covered with sweet
smelling variety, some white blossoms being amongst them.
I picked quite a nice bunch, and brought them into Folke-
stone. Here, then, is Brabourne. Of course, the ancient
church is "the lion" of the place. The door was open.

I entered, and became quite interested. Under the church
tower is a framed history of the sacred Building. From
this it can be seen the church dates back for many hun-
dreds of years. This aforesaid history is well worth
reading. The magnificent stained glass window over the
altar was shown in a Paris exhibition several years ago.
It is placed here as a "Memorial to eighteen generations
of the Scot family, buried in this church." There are
other monuments and windows to the Scot's — a famous
family indeed. A stained glass window in the south
chancel rather puzzled me It bears this inscription: —
"Calais, Dover, Armada." Over two windows, adjoining
each other, I noted these words (partly painted on each) :
"Enquire, I pray thee, of the former ages, and prepare
thyself to the search of their father." These words are
from the Book of Job, but I am at a loss to explain their
application. A volume, however, might be written on
Brabourne and its Church. I can only indicate. It is
worth the looking up, and those interested I would refer
to "Hasted's History of Kent," or any other book of
authority.

"NOT ONE STONE LEFT UPON THE OTHER."

This Scriptural phrase aptly applies to the once
famous Scot's Hall. As I have already stated, there are
eighteen generations of the Scot's buried in Brabourne
Church, and the places all around are interwoven with
memories of this gieat Kentish family. The hall was built
in magnificent style. Hospitality was lavished with a free
hand. Royalties were entertained. Sports, including the
chase, were fully patronised. Scot's Hall, indeed, was a
palace, but it was burned down in the eighteenth century,
and now not one stone is left upon the other. Although
the oldest inhabitant cannot remember the hall, yet tales
of its glories have been handed down from generation to
generation. The "history" referred to in the preceding
paragraph above sets forth in detail' the value and extent
of the building.

AN AWFUL STORM.

When I was in Brabourne Church I copied down the
following from the record I discovered under the tower.
Many people who remember the wreck of the Benvenue
will recall the power of the wind on that day. For my-
self, I have never experienced anything like it before or
since. However, read this extract from the aforesaid his-
tory. In referring to one of the Vicars, it says : "Halfway
through his incumbency occurred the great storm, which
raged, with scarcely any intermission, from November

26th to December 1st, 1708, doing incalculable damage
throughout the country. Twelve ships and 1,500 men
of the Royal Navy were lost, besides several merchant
vessels. In Kent alone 1,107 dwelling houses and barns
were demolished, and 17,000 trees blown down by the
force of the wind. Brabourne Church stood the strain
well, but some repairs were needed, as witness the follow-
ing entry : —

"For 22 bushills of lime after ye great wind, 95. id.

"For fetching same lime to ye church, 6s. id.

"For tiles and carriage after ye great wind, £i IDS. od."

HOMEWARD BOUND.

Leaving the village, I plod my way (but not a weary
one) to Braoourne Leas, past Stone Hill, coming out on
the main Ashford-road to Sellindge. Here I had the
pleasure of meeting that well-known farmer, Mr. Charles
Buss. Just a little chat, in the course of which he pointed
to what he termed a wonderful sight for
the time of year (April) — a large plum
tree out in full blossom. Certainly it was
a picture. Then a "good-bye" to our old friend, and on
to Newingreen. The sun had set in anghy mood. *'There
will be 'weather' to-morrow," I mentally remarked. And
truly "weather" there was. "Now fades the glimmering
landscape on the sight." One by one objects drop out of
view. It is night. We pass over the cross road by the
Royal Oak, walk the road skirting Sandling, mount the
stile at Pedlinge, stroll across two meadows, then down the
hill to a stile, where we join the main Ashford-Hythe
road. In a few minutes I board a motor car, and in half
and hour find myself again in Folkestone.

WITH THE NIGHT WALKERS.

A CLIMB OF 650 FEET FOR A SUPPER.

I like originality. It means, at the very least, some-
thing out of the common — out of the ordinary. Thus half
a dozen young fellows, known as "The Night Walkers,"
favoured me with an invitation to a country
stroll, with a steak and kidney pudding and usual trim-
mings at one end of the journey. Rain, hail, snow, or
wind, the walk was to be undertaken, for the banquet
had been ordered. To tell the truth, although I approved
of the idea, yet I did not feel quite up to the exertion.
When, however, "mine hosts" informed me that the objec-
tive was "The Cat and Mustard Pot," alias "The Red
Lion," alias "The Sprawling Cat," alias "The Ramping
Cat," alias "The Cat," at Paddlesworth, I unlocked one of

the cells of memory. A vision appeared before me of a
famous late dinner I once attended there, the principal
item in the menu being spring chicken and marrowfats.
With this pleasant recollection, then, in mind, I accepted
the invitation.

ON THE WAY THITHER.

It was on a winter's night, and the order issued by
the leader was: "7.30 p.m. sharp, outside the Town Hall
entrance." And we all met to time, each armed with an
ash stick. Then off we strode, turning our backs on busi-
ness at least for a few hours. Not many minutes elapsed
ere we found ourselves bowling through Foord, up the
Black Bull-road, and Canterbury-hill. We did not
hurry, but rather "took things easy." Passing
"The Sugarloaf " quite a learned discussion took
place as to whether that great hill is
artificial or not. One of our party — no mean authority
—is strongly of opinion that it is. Our friend also further
expressed his views on the Dover-hill "find" of skeletons
and relics, and gave it as his opinion that the Downs in
this immediate quarter would, if excavated, yield on a
large scale much similar "treasure." We had by this time
passed the limekiln on the right, and a few pleasant steps
higher up the road brought us to the old tollgate. Here
we took the road to the left, obtaining at the same time a
partial sight of the now distant lights of Folkestone.

SINGING AND WALKING.

In less than half an hour we were in the midst of
solitude. Off the main road there were no vehicles. The
only sound was that of our own footsteps. How beautiful
is night! — this night particularly so. The moon, screened,
perhaps, by a slight .haze, shed its pale light over
hill and meadow. Dim, shadowy forms were the sheep
and cattle. The very trees would appear to take fantastic
shapes — some almost human. With the radiance of
diamonds tRe frost glittered on the vegetation or the hard
roads. How sweet, too, was this hill air com-
pared to that of the streets! It both invigorated
and exhiliarated. Perhaps it was this latter quality that
prompted one of our party to suggest a marching song;
perhaps it was the same reason that impelled us all to join
in the chorus of "The Men of Harlech." And
why shouldn't we sing? It is just as good as,
and often better, than talking. We were out in
the country, and disturbed no living soul. But we
made the welkin ring. Thus we sang, in a sense,
for our supper. Slowly the air was accomplishing its work,

for "a night walker" was heard to say : "I expect our pud-
ding is well on the boil."

"GIBRALTAR," THE MEADOWS, AND CHURCH.

Still mounting upwards, we passed ?n aggregation of
small cottages called after the great fortress mentioned
above. So peaceful is their setting, and so dissimilar in
situation, that one mentally asks : "Why the name ?" Then
turning sharp to the left, we clambered over a stile, and
marched over two or three meadows, singing the while a
stave or two from the "Soldiers' Chorus,'' from "Faust."
Of course, we did not soar towards perfection, but we
pleased ourselves. That was our object. And the thick
grass hereabouts on the higher ground sparkled grandly
with its frosty dress. There yonder, quite alone, is
the tiny Norman church, dedicated to St.
Oswald — standing there as it has done for
many generations. Dim were its outlines, but the
little fane appeared to be a very monument of peace.
Dimmer still were the few white headstones in the grave-
yard, and there, too, also, were many mouldering heaps
where "the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep." Our
voices were silent. Listen ! Here, indeed, is a silence pro-
found. And only an hour's walk from the busy town,
with its rush and tear of business life. Almost exquisite
was the change.

AN OLD ENGLISH WELCOME.

Now we had entered on the last stage of of our com-
paratively long stroll. Folkestone was 650 feet below
us. It had been a glorious walk, and the blood was pul-
sating through our veins. We thought of other days, and
of those who fain would have joined us that night. Thus
on entering Paddlesworth we asked in song: "Where are
the boys of the old brigade ?" Some are in distant lands
"far away, far away." Some, too, have accomplished life's
journey. They are at rest But we must not soliloquise
too much, for here we were at "The Cat." Mine host of
the inn was standing at the door. There was
a genuine smile of welcome on his face as he bade us
enter the 'Banqueting hall" It was illuminated by an
oil lamp, and a splendid fire glowed in the grate. In the
fender were six white dinner plates. These were absorb-
ing the heat. There was no delay. Hardly had we taken
off our hats and coats before the host queried : "All ready,
gentlemen?" Came the answer in chorus: "Ready, aye
ready."

THE SUPPER.

If it had been the boar's head at Oxford, the Host

could not have cut a prouder figure than when
he brought in a steaming pudding. I suggested it
was rather a big one for six. Our friend, however, an-
swered: "Why, there's another one to come in yet. It's
no good walking oip here for nothing." And, in short time,
the companion pudding was on the snowy-white table
cloth. Then the red hot plates from the fender were
gathered together, and in each of these was soon placed
a portion of one of the finest steak and kidney puddings
ever boiled. And then the potatoes! They were not
those "slabs of soap" that one is often served with in
foreign restaurants, but real "balls of flour." The hostess
now appeared on the scene. She was full of anxiety as to
whether she had provided sufficient "Ah !" the good lady
remarked, "I know those Brussels sprouts are fresh. They
were growing in the garden but a few hours ago." Then,
suddenly she remembered "Some ketchup. Try it," she
exclaimed, "I made it myself two years ago." "By Jove!"
said one of the party, as he sampled this dainty home-
made sauce, and then, following his example, five other
"By Joves" were heard. Well, this supper was altogether
excellent. The puddings, however, won the victory.
Although our appetites were grand, yet we could not com-
pete with the overwhelming abundance. It was a rare
bit of fun. We hadn't any bon-bons, so we cracked a few
jokes, such as they were. But it was enjoyment — pure
enjoyment — we were seeking. We found it. After a
song or two we saw the clock pointing to ten (closing
time). Then it was a case of "Good-night," not only
to the Host and Hostess, but to the Mayor of Paddlesworth
(Farmer Gammon) and most of the villagers.

THE RETURN.

"After supper walk a mile" is a good old adage.
We improved on this^ and covered four. We returned by
the lane, passed Hope Farm in the hoollow, and then
mounted to the ridge of the hills on the left of the
Waterworks. And /what a grand sight was unfolded!
From the Warren to Cheriton and Shorncliffe twinkled
thousands of gas and electric lights. This picture of
Folkestone by night is one that every inhabitant should
gaze upon. It is worth the climb to look upon such a
scene of beauty. And the moon, how it lighted up the
hills and the wide-stretching landscape immediately be-
low ! As one took in the whole scene one could not help
thinking of Barker's lines: —

"I love to gaze at the midnight hour

On the heavens when all is shining ;

I feel as if some enchanting power

Around my heart was entwining.
To see the moon, like a beacon fair,

When the clouds sail swiftly Sy;
And the stars, the watch-lights in 'the air,

Illumine the northern sky."

Yes, the combination of celestial and terrestial illuminants,
as seen on a moonlight night from our hills, is too beauti-
ful for words. In a few moments we had safely descended
the rugged path, and after a pleasant stroll over the golf
links arrived in Folkestone at 11.20. Before separating
all agreed that our supper at "The Cat," and the walk to
and from Paddlesworth formed an experience to be re-
membered with pleasure.

ANOTHER RAMBLE BY NIGHT.
To BARHAM, ETC.

Hard roads, a sky bespangled with stars, and a nice
westerly breeze — these were the pleasant conditions under
which seven "Night Walkers" (including myself)
toured a portion of the above interesting district on
a Monday night. We trained to Barham. Arrived at
our destination, we prepared for a good walk home by en-
joying a light supper at the old-fashioned hostelry, "The
Duke of Cumberland." The host acquitted himself
well. He was a jovial type of Englishman, and,
if I may write it, a credit to his calling. And now for the
walk. We all felt fit, and, bidding good-night to the
quiet village, and noting the Nailbourne, which is making
one of its periodical rushes through this charming valley,
made across country to the "Eagles," on the main Canter-
bury-road, distant g\ miles from Folkestone. Putting on
an easy stride, we soon covered the distance to Denton (i£
miles), passing Broome Park and historical May Deacon
on the right. It was not yet ten, but the peaceful village
appeared to be sleeping. Then we did some collar work
in ascending Denton-hill. Down below in the hollow r
single light could be observed. And that single light
signified much. It marked Tappington Hall (Tappington
"Everard). As we passed through this country we could
but 'think of the brilliant wit who has cheered the hearts
of millions, as he will the hearts of many more. Truly,
such men as Barham never die.

THE SPIRIT OF INGOLDSBY.

Although we could not discern "the spectre of Tap-
pington," yet we one and all felt something of the spirit and
influence of Thomas Ingoldsby (the Rev. Richard Harris

Barham). A few facts in regard to this wonderful rhymster
and wit will not be out of place here. He was born at
Canterbury in 1 788, and when he was about six years old in-
herited a small estate. A portion of this consisted of a
manor called Tappington, already referred to. In 1802
the poet was travelling on the Dover mail coach. The
horses took fright, and an accident to his arm almost cost
Barham his life. Subsequently he entered the Church,
and held positions at Ashford, Westwell, Warehorne
(Romney Marsh), and London, where he Became a minor
canon at St Paul's. In 1825 a series a domestic sorrows
T^efe! him. He lost his dearly-loved eldest daughter, and
this bereavement was followed at intervals by the deaths
of four of his other children, to whom he was devotedly
attached. Still further trouble came upon him. His
youngest son, a boy of great promise, was taken from
him, and then his second son died of cholera in 1832.
Then his lifelong friend Hook was separated from him
by death.

HIS CURE FOR SORROW.

In the whole of his prose and poems there is not a
line to wound the most sensitive soul. His biographer
says : "How deeply the gentle-hearted clergyman felt these
severe afflictions some touching lines in 'Blackwood's
Magazine' of that date testify, though he bore them with
a Christian resignation." "The best substitute for stoicism
which a man of keen and sensitive feeling finds it possible
to adopt is to think a Ettle less of his own sorrows, and
more of those of others ; and this," writes Mr. Hughes, "I
believe to have been Barham's secret for bearing with
equanimity the loss of more than one 'who ne'er gave
him pain till they died.' He strove to be happy in mak-
ing others so, especially those more congenial spirits who
more directly shared in his affections." As every lover
of "The Legends" is aware, there are frequent references
to this district, one whole chapter being devoted to f'The
Leech of Folkestone." It is astonishing, however, to find
out of one's acquaintances, how few have made themselves
acquainted with this remarkable book. Ask a dozen men
haphazard "Have you read 'The Ingoldsby Legends ?"' and
the answer from at least nine of the number will be "No."
This should not be so.

OVER SWINGFIELD MINNIS.

The woods had now shut out the light of Tappington
Hall, and, as we approached the Minnis we were reminded
of the scene in "The Witch's Frolic," where grandpapa
riseth, yawneth like the crater of an extinct volcano, and

proceeding to the window, thus apostrophises the
Abbey in the distance: —

"I love thy tower, grey ruin,
I joy thy form to see,

Though reft of all, bell, cloister, and hall,

Nothing is left save a tottering wall

That, awfully grand and darkly dull,

Threatened to fall and demolish my skull

As ages ago I wander'd among,

In sky-blue jacket and trousers laced,

The latter uncommonly short in the waist.

Thou art dearer to me, thou ruin grey,

Than the Squire's verahHah over the way;

And fairer, I ween, the ivy sheen

That thy mouldering turret binds,

Than the alderman's house about half-a-mile off

With the green Venetian blinds."

In a note in "The Legends" we find the ruins referred
to were the remains of a "Preceptory, once belonging to
the Knights Templars, situate near Swynfield, Swinkeneld,
or, as it is now generally pronounced, Swingfield Minnis."
But I must desist, and, to adopt the title of another
chapter, "Look at the Clock!" Then, noting the
hand of time, we put on a spurt, passing through Hawkinge,
Uphill, until we reached the crown of the hills, where
Folkestone by night once again delighted our sight.
Still full of vigour, we parted as the "Great Thief" boomed
out the hour of twelve.

EASTER MORNING RAMBLE IN THE
WOODS.

In company with a couple of "olive branches" (who are
as keen on country strglls as myself), I spent a considerable
part of Easter morning in a wood. The day was
perfect —

"When the warm sun that brings
Seed-time and harvest has returned again,
'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs

The first flower of the plain."

And it was "still" and "sweet." It was just far enough out
of Folkestone, and well off the track of rushing motors.
What a change is this from the worries, the distractions,
and often the disappointments of town life! All around
Dame Nature had painted an Easter fairy picture — peace-
ful and beautiful in the extreme. The ground was thickly
powdered with the brimstone of the primrose, while in the

recesses of the thickets, anemones in thousands saucily
nodded their heads. Here and there the wild hyacinth
was pushing up its blue flower through a series of long
and glistening leaves. A pure white cloud could be seen
over yonder. It was a great patch, and would seem to
have fallen into the wood from the sky. Closer examin-
ation proved this mass of beautiful white to be a thicket
of blackthorn. The trees had not put on their foliage,
tut the blossom was there. Could any artist living repro-
duce this picture? Impossible.

"WE HAVE ALL SOMETHING TO BE THANKFUL FOR."

In this age of rush and tear we are often tempted to
forget. A visit to the quiet rural districts tends to concen-
trate the thought — to focus the mind. Some months previ-
ously I attended a harvest festival at Bowness Church, on
the shores of Lake Windermere. The sermon was finely
conceived, and well delivered. Suddenly the preacher
said : "We have each and all something to be thankful for.
Think !" Then he paused for a moment or two. It was
what might have been termed a dramatic interlude. But
it made one think. And I recalled those words again on
Sunday morning. And I'll tell you why. After the stern
months of winter this sudden sight of the resurrection of
Nature appeared to be doubly delightful. And then I
thought of the marvellous blessings of sight that enabled
us to gaze on this scene so fair. Although Nature is but
slowly putting on her dress, yet the birth of the summer
is out yonder. The emerald green of the meadows is
there, and many of those marvellous birds of passage have
already arrived.

BLIND AND HAPPY.

Sitting out in the sunshine and enjoying these sights
of woodland and hillside, I could but think of a compara-
tively young lady resident in Folkestone who has become
totally blind. There is no need to mention her name, and
she would not thank me if I did so. Enough that both this
afflicted lady and her husband are much respected residents.
This lady, although bereft by a cruel fate of "the priceless
gift," has a great taste for the country. She is very
happy in her mind, and thoroughly appreciates any intel-
ligent description of the surrounding natural pictures.
The voice of loving friends, the sound of the feathered
songsters, the scent of flowers, and the breezes of heaven
are joys made more intense by the very rea-
son that through some mysterious dispensation
of Providence she has lost her sight. Yes,
we have all " something to be thankful for,"
and we who "love the haunts of Nature," when

gazing on, say, some charming stretch of landscape, or
the ever changing glories of the ocean, may well give a
thought to those who are similarly situated as the lady
I have referred to. Let us hope that Nature will give her
many compensations.

SHORNCLIFFE CAMP, CHERITON, NEWINGTON,
HORN STREET, HYTHE, ETC.

WHERE PLIMSOLL SLEEPS.

The localities referred to above are all within the
powers of the ordinary pedestrian, and there is the
choice, too, of breaking the journey either by various
road conveyances or rail. A pleasant and easy way to
gain the important military encampment of Shorncliffe
is to branch off at the cross roads on the south side ot
the Central Station, stroll along Shorncliffe-road and
across the fields 'to Coolinge-lane. This is opposite Folke-
stone's most westward station. On the right-hand side of
the road is Coolinge Farm. There is a gate just here, and
the pathway through the fields lead to another gate.
Pass through this, note the Enbrook estate on the
left, and take the path down the valley and up towards
those high and narrow buildings known as the Ross Bar-
racks. Perhaps you will need a little rest after the pull
up the hill, but the admiration of the scenery will well
take up a few moments at .your disposal. Here, then, is
the Camp. The various phases of military life will much
interest the visitor, who may or may not know that it
was here that the hero of Corunna trained and disciplined
those soldiers who proved themselves invincible during
the Periinsular War.

On any fine day the scenes at Shorncliffe are of a
stirring nature — well calculated to kindle the patriotic
spirit. An inspiring sight is to be witnessed on Sunday,
when the troops, smart in their best dress, march to the
Garrison Church. There is limited accommodation for
civilians, and to those desirous of attending, my advice
is "Be in time." To listen to those hundreds of soldiers
joining in some well-known hymn is indeed a pleasing
experience.

Now let us take a stand by the Garrison Church, and
look over the valley towards Hythe and the country be-
yond. It is indeed a lovely prospect, and one that should
not be missed. Indeed, from 'all points the scenery, as
viewed from Shorncliffe Camp, is superb. On the north
there are the noble Downs, and to the south the sea.
Towards the east ever-growing Folkestone looms up well,

whilst intervening is the prettily wooded Enbrook Estate
Out towards the north-west are the slopes of Beach-
borough with its gleaning white mansion set off well by
the adjoining cone-shaped summer house hill.

Out towards this latter point, and standing alone at
the entrance of the valley, is St. Martin's Church, Cheri-
ton. This 'is a good landmark. Let us saunter through
the fields towards the sacred edifice, if only to gaze on
the isleeping ,place of Samuel Plimsoll, the "sailor's
friend." This well-kept graveyard, with its fine lych-
gate, is the Mecca of many a sailor. And well it might
be, for we recall how hard Plimsoll worked on behalf of
those who "do their business in the great waters." We
think of .his tenacity of purpose, his scorn of difficulty,
and the faith in the cause he had at heart. We think of
that stormy scene in the ,House of Commons when, dis-
appointed by delay, he shook his fist at close quarters at
Disraeli. But all is over. It is "peace, perfect peace,"
and "Plimsoll's mark" on English vessels tells its own
tale. It tells the tale of sailors being often saved from
a watery grave, and that English craft may be no longer
classed ,as "coffin ships." Plimsoll, in his later years,
was very fond of Folkestone, and it was 'his great desire
to be laid to rest in this pretty churchyard, from which
can be seen the ever-changing colours of the English
Channel. I have been told that many mariners, looking
towards this landmark — Cheriton Church — point out the
place "where Plimsoll sleeps." The interior of the
sacred edifice itself is well worth a visit. Over the en-
trance porch are these words: "A shadow from the heat,
and a refuge from the storm." On the northern side of
the churchyard it St. Martin's Plain, where at various
times large numbers of troops are encamped under can-
vas. We descend by the pathway and down the steps
to the "street" or vale, the scenery of which on either
side is charming. There on the left nestles the Rectory,
and not far off are the schools. Lower down the road
the water from the old mill tumbles in silver cascades
over the rocks, and hustles along towards the sea.
There are trees in plenty down by the Vale, and on to
Seabrook itself. Here we are on the high road, and if
fancy impels us, we can ride home to Folkestone by the
frequent conveyance passing along. But let us stroll
along on the greensward by the Canal and on to Hythe.
There is a pathway just opposite the Sluice House (the
termination of the Canal). Cross here and keep on the
south bank. This is one of the most beautiful walks in
the neighbourhood. You note the merry boating parties,
the patient followers of Izaak Walton, and then

under the shadow of the many trees admire those
prettily-designed houses on the right, facing the Sea-
brook-road. The distant view of Hythe, with its noble
old church, is very fine. Time has gone on apace, and
here we are in the Cinque Port town itself.

A separate article might well be written on this de-
lightful old town, which appears to be favoured increas-
ingly as the years roll on. Look around the shady
Grove, and what is known as the Mayor's Avenue, and I
know you will thank me for the hint. By no means miss
the church. Proud, indeed, is the town of this sacred
edifice, which was restored under the supervision of the
late Sir Gilbert Scott. That grand chancel window was
erected to the memory of Lionel Lukin, the inventor of
the principle of the lifeboat. You can but admire it, and
also the pulpit — a work of art. The architecture of St.
Leonards is somewhat plain, but nevertheless chaste and
beautiful. Its appearance once more tells the tale that
simplicity is closely allied to grandeur. One could
dwell upon the varied attractions of this church, but
those in search of further knowledge in this respect I
would refer 'to a little work, which I believe was issued
by a former Vicar. Then there is the adjoining Crypt,
with its famous skulls and human bones.

But all this rather savours of the many guide books
which deal in detail with such matters. Shall we just
finish our walk with a stroll up the rather steep hill to the
neighbouring village of Saltwood — "the sweet Auburn"
of Kent? A mile distant from Hythe, everyone should
visit it. There are the American Gardens, and the
Castle — both very interesting. The former were planted
with rhododendrons and flowering shrubs by the late
Archdeacon Croft, and are opened to the public on pay-
ment of a small sum, which, by the way, is given to
charities. Then the restored Castle — that again is
opened to the public on Wednesdays in summer.
Those fine almshouses and the Village Hall deservedly
attract attention. Their history is interesting. They
were the outcome of a bequest made by Mr. R. Thomp-
son, who lived for many years in Saltwood. Exceedingly
fond of the Hunt, this esteemed gentleman rode to
hounds when well past ninety. He was a marvel in his
way, and filled the office of Superintendent Registrar for
years. The church and beautifully situated rectory are
both worthy of notice. Several hours might well be
spent here, and the return journey made either by Sand-
ling Junction, or by one of the numerous conveyances
running from Hythe to Folkestone.

OVER THE HILLS TO ACRISE, PAY STREET,
DENTON, AND BROOME PARK.

A friend, some few years back, brought to my notice
a series of articles signed "The Pathfinder." They
appeared in a Croydon newspaper, and created wide
interest Little need for wonder, for the writer, who was
a real lover of Nature, revelled in his work. In picturesque
language he set himself to describing the unfrequented
"beauty spots" surrounding the Surrey town. So well did
he accomplish his task, that many sought the pleasure
of his company when on the pathfinding quest With a
good pair of walking boots, a stick^ perhaps a friendly
briar, with a pair of good eyes, observation alert, and the
capacity to enjoy, what purer, innocent, or more healtful
recreation can be found in the wide world than roaming
over hill and dale, through "pastures new," and the mag-
nificent woodland which contributes largely towards the
making up of the "Garden of England" — Kent? "Path-
finder's" descriptions long since found an echo in my
mind, and in a humble and lesser degree I propose to
emulate his example, in the hope that some at least of
my readers may be induced to share experiences which
I shall endeavour to set forth in this and other articles.
As many people rush off to foreign lands, turning
their back the while on "that gem set in the Northern
seas" — England — so there are others who live their lives
in towns without a thought of the natural beauties and
wondrous landscape which the Great Painter has provided
for their enjoyment and pleasure. Folkestone, indeed, is
fortunate in its rural haunts, but hundreds, nay, thousands,
live in ignorance of what is, as it were, at their very doors.
And so it came about that I started one day, with two
objects in view — my own enjoyment and the desire to
create an interest <in the minds of others — visitors and
residents alike — whose taste might possibly be in a similar
direction. Provided with a map and compass, I com-
menced my initial walk, by following the path which runs
on the north side of Radnor Park, and on through the
meadows to the Waterworks buildings. Arrived here, and
crossing the main road, the way leads on the left through
the fields and up to the base of the hills. Ascending by
the zig-zag path we gain the ridge, .and resting awhile,
one instinctively pauses to gaze on the wonderful views of
sea and land, and also the contour of !tha hills, terminating
in the west with Brockman's summer house, at Beech-
borough. Still keeping to the left, and strolling leisurely
through the path fringed with golden gorse, we come to
a gate on the right. Passing through, the way leads again

by the fields. Over a stile, and there down in a hollow,
is a sheltered Farmhouse. Through the gate, and turn-
ing to the left is a lane. Flowers are everywhere. Leav-
ing Grove and Arpinge Farms to the left, higher ground
is reached. The path is clearly ahead, and Hawkinge
Windmill on the right is to be seen set in a pretty wood-
land picture. Skirting a wood, we note a clump of fir
trees in the immediate distance. Those trees stand on
ground 650 feet above sea level. This is Paddlesworth —
the highest village in Kent. You cannot mistake it, for
the tiny church is on the left, dedicated to St Oswald.
There is an old saw connected with this scattered place :
"The highest ground, the lowest steeple,
The smallest parish, and the poorest people."

With variations I believe that couplet does duty for
many villages in England. This is a lonely spot, but a
visit might be made here for the purpose of feasting the
eyes on the superb scenery. But we are walking across
the fields, and leaving the one inn of the place on the
left, the way ahead is through a leafy lane until a stile
is reached. Crossing two meadows and mounting another
stile Pay Street and its two or three cottages are soon
passed. Leaving one of these dwellings on the right, and
following a narrow track, we reach a wood. How delicious
after the pavement and noise of the town! There on each
side are the red, white, and blue of the bachelors button,
anenome, and bluebell. Rejoicing in the sunshine, the
birds are singing in chorus, and now and again one listens
to the subdued coo of the wood pigeon, or the distant
bleating of the lamb. Quietly plodding on, and leaving
Pay Street and its wood behind, a carriageway is reached
leading into the main road by the Black Horse. There
is a sign post here, and the finger points to Acrise one
and a half miles to the left. Pleasant it is to walk along
this road, for it is shaded with firs, pines, and the grace-
ful larch. Stroll on until another sign post is seen on the
left, opposite Acrise House.

Now turn to the right, and pass along a lane until
the cross-roads are gained. Note three fine specimens
of the copper beach, and then, bearing left, is the Rectory
of Acrise, with its white paling in front of a lovely garden.
Now, near the Rectory is an ill-defined path, but looking
ahead a white gate is seen. This gives entrance to a small
wood, and still another gate leads to the open. It is now
that a charming view of the wooded sides of the smiling
valley can be enjoyed. What a picture are the many noble
trees, the several tints of green, accentuated the more by
the sombre firs. The paths guide us through a meadow,
and after negociating a carriage track, we enter the road

Kearsney Abbey Near Dover.

Fair Rosamund's Bowtr, Weslenhanger Racecourse.

opposite Raike's Hole Farm. Leaving the highway to
the right, which leads to Selstead, and keeping straight
ahead, with the farm buildings on the left, we take the
little-used bridle road, and then on through a glorious
stretch of wooded country until lonely Gutteridge Farm
is reached. No dust, no motors, no rattle of traffic, no
thousand and one diversions of town life, but here is
o1most silence. Close at hand is a wood. Away ir
the west the sun — a lurid ball of fire — is sinking to rest,
gilding the landscape with its rays. I pause awhile.
Near at hand, although unseen, is a nightingale pouring
out its marvellous liquid trill.

"Hail! beauteous stranger of the grove,
Thou .messenger of spring !"

In the absolute quietude of the evening it was the
treat of my walk to listen to the strains of this wonderful
bird, and all too soon I left it in its solitude. Continuing
my journey along the same bridle path, and leaving
another farmhouse on the right, I gained the main road
opposite that picturesque mansion known as Denton
Court. Now we saunter along, until Denton Village,
the cottages of which are bright with flowers, is reached.
But night is coming on, and we must complete
our walk. Passing along the main road, and leaving
May Deacon on the left, and again turning to
the left, we mount over a stile, and take the path across
Broome Park for the purpose of reaching Barham Station,
a mile and a half distant. Over velvety turf we make our
way. Amidst noble trees stands one of the stately homes
of England. It belonged at one time to the Oxenden
family, and there were once pictures within its wall dat-
ing back to the 1 3th century. As stated elsewhere, the
Mansion is now owned by Lord Kitchener. Undulating
land, studded with oak, elm, birch, and other trees,
this park is one of the most picturesque in Kent. We
have strolled on and crossed another stile. Before us,
peeping out amidst the foliage, can be seen a slender
steeple. It not only points heavenward, but also
to the railway station. Now the red-tile cottages of
Bai-ham are seen, wreaths of smoke issuing from the
chimneys. Soon Broome Park and its glories are behind.
We scent the aroma of wood fires, and listen to the rip-
pling laughter of the village children. It is .a beautiful
and typical English scene, and as in the distance we hear
the whistle of the train that is to take us to Folkestone,
we ask, after our ten-miles walk, who would not leave
the crowded towns, with their eternal dust .and din, for such
lovely scenes as 'these? A walled city is a prison, and to
shut oufrselves up from beholding the beauty with which

the hand of the All- Wise has clothed the earth, an iniquity
and moral death.

CAPEL, HOUGHAM, ST. RADIGUND'S ABBEY, THE
VALE OF POULTON, AND DOVER.

The day on whicih I .took this stroll was perfectly
typical of June. After an overnight shower the country
was bright and beautiful. The rays of the glorious sun
were tempered by a sweet and cooling breeze, and over
the blue vault of heaven white gossamer clouds sailed
slowly and majestically. Under these well-nigh perfect
conditions I started on my ramble. Making straight
for the hills by the Canterbury-road, and turn-
ing off at the new steps opposite Walton Farm, and
keeping to the one path across ,the fields, the summit of
our noble Downs is reached, after a gentle climb. There
is a carriage track on the ridge, known as Creete-road.
Sitting awhile <on a welcome seat, one can but admire
the extensive views, whether of the landscape immedi-
ately below, the distant sparkling sea, or the myriad
flowers carpeting the hill slopes. If the visitor, who
happens to be a botanist should visit this particular
locality, he will find specimens (many rare) by the
legion. To renew our walk. Keeping to the "Creete,"
the well-known Inn, "The Valiant Sailor," and the main
Dover-road are shortly reached. Strolling on a great
dip in the hills on the right will be noticed. This is
Steddyhole. It has a tragic interest, for hereabouts
many years since, two young women, met violent deaths
at the hand of a Servian — a member of itihe Foreign
Legion, then stationed at Shorncliffe Camp. But this is
a landmark. We leave just at this point the high road,
and take to the footpath by the hedge. Bearing to the
left, and keeping straight ahead, a signpost points to
Capel. It seems but .a few moments since tihat I was in
the busy town, but we are now in " the heart
of the country." The sound of the rattling cart,
or snorting motor, is supplanted by the music of the
lark, poised, as it were, in the blue of the sky, or the
double note of the cuckoo. Down this pretty lane we
saunter until the ancient churdh, almost hidden by trees,
is seen. To the right of this sacred edifice is a wicket
^ate. We pass through this, and walk across two or
three meadows to West Hougham, where there are a few
cottages with ample gardens. Opposite the quaint
* 'Chequers , Inn" is a stile. I asked a young man where
the path led on the other side of the stile. He answered

in his own vernacular, "I'm blow'd if I know. I was
born and brought up in Folkestone." Really I was "in
the same boat," ,for I pleaded ignorance as to the geo-
graphy of the immediate surroundings. That's just it.
We live and die without a thought of what is around us.
Many will not get off the beaten track, and in conse-
quence their loss is great indeed. The pathway, ill-de-
fined, pointed a way to St. Radigund's Abbey, which
stood out .yonder amidst the trees. This was an un-
known country to me. Keeping to the track across a
couple of meadows, I came to a bridle road, and pushing
on, clambered over a stile on the left. There is no mis-
taking this. It is almost opposite a large corrugated
building on the left, half a mile distant. Now descend-
ing a somewhat zig-zag path, and crossing over another
stile, I wandered down into the Vale of Poulton. Hitherto
the country had been fairly flat, anH this sudden
change delighted me. The sides of the valley are
covered with woods, and there are pathways here and
there that lead by leafy ways to Dover, about three or
four miles distant. In a secluded spot is a farm house,
which takes its name from the Vale. There are no other
buildings within sight. The lowing of the cattle, the
honest watch dog's bark, together with the other sweet
sounds of Nature, these alone disturb the silence. Over
the farm buildings is a fine chestnut tree, its candelabra-
like blossoms standing out grandly against the emerald
green of the foliage. Under this giant tree, and near
the well, is a gate. You enter by this, and climb up a
gentle incline skirting .a wood. This is an unfrequented
spot, and the rabbits scampered at every footfall into
the undergrowth. How sweet is this! No cycle or
motor could have brought me hither. On one side is
undulating country; on the other the white and richly-
scented hawthorn, the golden broom, and here and there
patches of sapphire in the form of wild forget-me-nots.
The ferns, too, are fast uncurling their snake-like fronds.
Yes, this Vale of Poulton, within easy reach of the town,
is well worthy of a visit. Now I have gained the top of
the hill, and leaving the corrugated buildings referred to
on the left, I keep to the road, and after ten minutes'
easy stroll through pleasant lanes I reach St. Radigund's
Abbey, which is now part and parcel of a farmstead.
The ruins are covered with ivy, the growth of which is
many years old. Built or faced with flint, the Abbey, in its
decay, tells of past glories. The work of Time's ruth-
less hand is seen everywhere ; indeed, parts of the build-
ings have altogether vanished. Guide books tell us the
Abbey was founded about 1190, by Jeffery, Earl of

Perch, and Maude, his wife, and that it was suppressed
in 1535 by King Henry VIII, when it was given to Arch-
bishop Cranmer. Amateur photographers will find many
subjects here, and historical students will also be able to
indulge their bent. Keeping to the right, and leaving
the meadow in which the Abbey stands, we pass through
the open gateway, and take the carriage road, leaving a
brickfield on the left. On the right is a coppice, and
amidst the undergrowth I note bracken and graceful
ferns, the bluebell here and there peeping out amidst the
greenery. The sun beats down from a clear sky, but
just here is coolness itself. Just a rest for a few
moments, even if only to listen to the notes of that
golden- beaked blackbird, or the speckled thrush. It is
that hush, that beautiful quietude, that renders the
music so delicious. Whiffing quietly at my briar, I think
the while, .and wonder why it is that many people rush
off madly to insanitary continental watering-places, with
their garlish novelties and artificial attractions. It is
the fashion, but I believe the time is coming when Nature
in the country will be worshipped by the millions who but
seldom give a thought save to that pertaining to their
own environment. Nature is ever calling such as these.
Heber truly sings —

" Lo, the lilies of the field

How their leaves instruction yield!

Hark to Nature's lesson, given

By the blessed birds of Heaven!

Every bush and tufted tree

Warbles sweet philosophy;

'Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow;

God provideth for the morrow! '

But we must renew the last stage of our journey, which
is straight ahead, along the same pleasant road.
Abruptly the scene alters. Out towards the south-east
Dover Castle looms up grandly. Grim and grey it
stands like a sentinel. As we approach its massiveness
grows. Representing England, it frowns over the blue
Channel beneath, and-from this point of view the sight of
the historical fortress is grand indeed. We have walked
on, and now the great National Harbour claims atten-
tion, it not admiration. We take the path to the left, and
forging ahead leave behind the green fields and wood-
lands. Passing the Gasworks at Buckland, and Dover
Workhouse, with its uninviting surroundings, we are
again impressed with the truth of Cowper*s remark
"God made the country and man made the town."
Walking through the dusty Dover streets, we enter the
train, and in a few minutes arrive a't Folkestone Central.

I should add that the .somewhat straggling walk I have
endeavoured to describe can be covered in about eight
miles.

THROUGH SIBTON PARK, OVER RHODES
MINNIS, THE FARTHING, ETC.

Of all the scenery in the neighbourhood, I should say
nothing could be found of a grander description than that
included in the localities mentioned above. Take a rail-
way trip to Lyminge (5 miles), and after an inspection of
one of the most ancient churches in England, stroll
through the growing village, leaving the windmill on
the right, and enter the small but well-kept Sibton Park,
owned by the Hon. Mrs. John Howard. The
carriage road is open to all, and those on
foot, in passing through, would do well to note
the pretty mansion in the trees. It would make an admir-
able subject for" a snapshot. There was many a pleasant
meet of the East Kent Hunt here, when the hounds were
under the joint control of Mr. Prescott-Westcar, and the
late owner of the Estate. Nicely timbered, Sibton just
now is a picture with its emerald meadows and many
flowering shrubs. Outside the Park Gate, however, is a
signpost, one finger of which points to Stanford, Westen-
hanger, etc. Follow this, turn to the left, and keep-
ing a southerly direction, the road leads through
a beautiful tract of country — much of it wooded
—to " The Farthing." Why this tract of open
land should have been thus named is somewhat
of a mystery, and enquiries made in various quarters
fail to elicit an explanation. The immediate locality of
"The Farthing" cannot be said to present very much of
an attractive character, but what shall we say of the view ?
With my experience of Kent and many other parts, I
honestly assert that on a clear day no grander scene can
be imagined. This isolated land is probably between 500
and 600 feet above sea level, and it is so situated as to
command a series of lovely pastoral pictures which well
repay the task of making the journey thither. For miles,
stretcHing away to the westward, is a vast landscape, tiny
villages, and church steeples, ever and anon peeping out
amidst the trees. A touch of animation is added by the
steam from the frequent distant trains running to their
various destinations. And then out south sparkles the
sea. On the day of -my last visit to "The Farthing," the
Channel's complexion was sapphire, and the sky of the
same hue. I often wonder why "The Farthing" is not

more heard of or sought after. As a lover of the country,
I consider it is quite a "lion" of the neighbourhood. Close
by on the left is Monk's Horton Park — a delightful place,
abounding in splendid timber and interesting history.
Westenhanger and Fair Rosamund's Bower, now
included in the Folkestone Racecourse enclosure, are
all well within the locality of "The Farth-
ing." Now we must descend the steep hill (of which
cyclists should beware). Wonderfully pretty is the setting
of the lime kiln in the bend of the road on the left. It is
perhaps loneliness itself, but with all this there is ample
to attract attenion. For a few moments I rested here, if
only to listen to the feathered choristers who love to
make their homes amidst the trees.

The road which we are now rapidly descending is
known as the famous "Stone Street," which, with the
exception of pine small curve on the right of Horton Park,
is perfectly straight from Stanford well nigh into Canter-
bury. It is said the Romans were master hands as road
makers, and the "street" is a further testimony in this
respect. For .cyclists it is a joy, and with the exception
of a steep shoot from Westenhanger to "The Farthing,"
it is almost level. A glance at the map will show the
"street" to be one of the straightest roads in the county.
We must get along. It makes a pleasant change to take
the road on the left towards the village of Postling, but
on this occasion I kept on, down past Stanford on the left
and right to Westenhanger, and over the bridge to the
station. Of course, the visitor can take the paths and
roads on the left leading to Folkestone,
The country is so pretty hereabouts that
the extra labour involved by the rather longer
journey is well repaid by the trouble. Historians will find
an abundance ,to interest them around here, especially
at Fair Rosamund's Bower. All guide books of any repute
refer to it The locality has been known successively as
Oeschanger, and Ostenhanger, and Westenhanger. How-
ever, time is creeping on. Turning to the left, after
visiting the village, we then reach the cross roads at
Newingreen. One now has a wide choice. It would
prove a nice diversion !to travel down to Hythe by the
road on the left, or that also on the left leading to Sand-
ling. Both routes are admirable. I walked by the latter road
over fields until I (reached Beechborough cross roads —
beautiful country all round. A charming picture is that
of the Brockman mansion on the left. Painted white, it
shows up well under lofty Summer House Hill. It does
not look it, but there is room for more than a score in
that building on the top of the hill But that is private

property. On we go down the shoot until Frogholt farm
is passed on the left. The white palings, the cool stream,
and thatched cottage, have provided a picture for many
a canvas, and now coloured post cards have made the
scene famous far beyond the limits of these islands. A
little ahead will be noted a wicket gate, and there at the
end is Newington Church bell turret, one of few examples
of its sort in England. It was evening as I came through
here. Grand, indeed! On the north lay those superb
hills — our local pride — and just beyond the village itself.
Peace and serenity indeed ! The labourer "homeward
plods his weary way," or, making the most of the long
evenings, is out on his vegetable garden.

Newington Church tower has been recently re-
stored. For hundreds of years has that little church
stood there, and around are mounds telling where "the
rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep." May it long con-
tinue to be the beautiful landmark it is! We are
now in the village street, and although but within a few
minutes of Folkestone, note the diminutive post office and
one or two' quaint little shops. Passing through the
wicket gate, the pathway skirts the Vicarage
grounds. Now we are reminded by various
sounds that the town is near. Out yonder stretches
Shorncliffe Camp, and the square tower of Cheriton
Church is a prominent object in the landscape. Looking
towards the hills we note a newly-erected house standing
alone, directly under the base of the hills. This is near
the site of a disastrous landslip. In the dead of the night
a large portion of the cliff descended on to a cottage.
Fast asleep were the mother and father and their little
family. Three of the number never awoke again, and
the rescue of a baby sister by her brother formed a
thrilling episode in local history. But my space is con-
sumed. Between the roadway and the hills are fields wav-
ing with beautiful green of spring and autumn sown corn,
and the many singing skylarks now that the shadows ol
night are falling remind us that here they make their home.
We have strolled along, and at last Folkestone comes
within view. The walk we have now all but concluded
once more reminds us that for number and variety there
is no town on the South Coast that can boast of more
beautiful surroundings than our own.

SANDLING, PEDLINGE, LYMPNE, WEST HYTHE,

ETC.

ONE OF OUR GRANDEST VIEWS.

The above combination makes an enjoyable round
tour. After a terrible thunderstorm the weather on

Sunday morning did not look promising. Moreover, the
atmosphere was close, and it appeared almost as it ithe
"heavenly artillery" would be again in evidence. But
knowing something of the vagaries of English weather,
I set forth on yet another tour. As things turned
out, there was nothing to grumble about, for the Clerk
of the Weather cleared things up as time fleeted along.

The better plan, in order 'to get at once "into the
heart of the country," is to take a ticket from the Cen-
tral or Junction Station 'to Sandling (4^ miles), and then
stroll along the ;main road towards Saltwood village —
a mile distant. Pause, however, under that noble
clump of trees adjoining the dip in 'the road, and pass
through the five-barred gate at the right. You are now
in Sandling Park, which belongs to that kind-
heated gentleman — Mr. Laurence Hardy, M.P., One is
bound to pause to admire the well-timbered, undulating
country hereabouts, or the irregular hills to the north.
Well, we stroll along until a sign-post is reached, wfth
its one finger pointing "To .Pedlinge." Now a very
pleasant part of our walk commences by leafy ways, and
to the rippling music ,of a little brook. Out in the open
once again, the path leads gently upwards to the village
named above. Brockhill and Sandling Estates provide
splendid patches of woodland, and render this typical
scenery perfect from the English point of view. It
may interest many visitors to learn that Brockhill
was once owned by a notable hunter — the late Mr.
Tournay. This gentleman gathered a fine collection
of natural objects from all parts of the world, and
some of these are now to be seen at Hythe.
He was passionately fond of Brockhill, and in death
was not divided from it, for his remains were
buried, at a comparatively recent date, on the island in
the centre of the lake which forms one of the prnaments
of the park. These facts are, pf course, well known to
residents, but to visitors they will have a freshness all
their own. We are now in the small but pretty Pedlinge.
Turn to the left, and then walk along the main road for
a short distance, if only to gain a distant sight of Hythe.
Tree-embowered, this delightful old town appears to be
renewing its youth year by year. This is quite in the
keeping of things, for historical writings informs us that
Hythe "had bene a very great town in length, and con-
teyned iiii. pariches, that now be clene destroied." The
lately-established Society for the Preservation of the
Natural Beauties of Jlythe has come into existence at a
rery opportune moment, for it is fearful to contemplate
any vulgar interference with the picturesque setting of

this unique town. The scenery from the top of the hill,
where we are standing, is very diversified, and I am .sure
will be highly appreciated by the "strangers within pur
gates." Now ,let us turn back on the main road until we
reach the Newingreen cross roads. These highways
leads respectively to Ashford, Folkestone, Hythe, or to
"Stone Street" (the way to the Cathedral City).
Branching off on the left there is a sign post, the finger
indicating Lympne — one mile ,ahead. Through the nar-
row lane we stroll gently, the glories of earth and sky,
delighting our senses. Perhaps it may border on ex-
aggeration, but after the showers and tropical weather,
I have never seen .growing crops look better. How
many tints of green are there around us? It .would be a
puzzle to tell, but they are wonderful everywhere in their
variety, /rom the glistening blades of corn to the waving
trees in yonder wood. On these rambles there
is time to reflect on natural objects. The
colour green is a -wonder. Of course, it is common
knowledge that green is restful to the eye. Hence the
coloured spectacles of that shade. A walk along glar-
ing, dusty road, and .then the change to, say, the wheat-
field. How refreshing! Never mind a man's religious
opinion, he can but admit, when gazing on the beautiful
green of Nature, that here, at all events, is the finger of
the Great Designer. Had the foliage or grass been
painted glaring white, red, etc., where should we have
been? This is a scientific or optical subject, which be-
comes interesting when out in country districts. Whilst
perusing these thoughts our attention is arrested by the
presence of several cottages, smiling with those sweet
old English flowers. Perhaps the inhabitants of these
little communities are what is often termed more up-to-
date than their forefathers, but the appearance of the
flower-bedecked homesteads remains much the same as
it was in the years far back. And well that this is so.

We have arrived at the quaint old village of Lympne.
It may be said to be famous for three things — its
ancient church, castle, and the truly magnificent view
from the churchyard. Here is what an old guide book
remarks on the matter: "From the castle and church
the prospect, for extent, equals, if it does not surpass,
any view in the county. Indeed, so lovely is it that all des-
criptions of it must fall far short of the many beauties
which ,are spread before you." What is the view ?
It takes in an immense tract of Romney Marsh,
and. this, just now, and from this point, appears as a
carpet of green velvet. Beyond can be seen the wooded
country around Bilsington and Bonnington, and away to

the west loom up Fairlight Downs — Hastings barrier
against the cold winds. The grand sweep of the bay,
terminating at Dungeness, cannot fail to clain admira-
tion. And there is the tree lined Royal Military Canal,
and West Hythe. These are only some of the objects
that delight the eye in this beautiful locality, which, by
the bye, teems with historical interest that cannot be
referred to in the space at my command. The church,
under the shadow of which we are standing on
the brow of the hill, is a prominent landmark,,
and can be seen for miles around. I have heard
harmonies in some of the greatest cathedrals, but
with ah1 their grandeur I think there is nothing
sweeter than to listen to that simple music associated
with a village choir. It has a charm all its own. This
was my experience on Sunday morning at Lympne, as I
gazed on the matchless view.

" How still the morning of the hallow'd day!

Mute is the voice of rural labour; hushed

The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song;

The scythe Ties glittering in the dewy wreath."
We leave the pretty ,scene, which, in all probability, will
delight generations to come. May it never be "im-
proved" by the speculating builder, but remain an un-
sullied page in Nature's wonderful book !

The remaining part of our journey is by a path lead-
ing from the eastward side of the churchyard, and
down a .steep hill until a stile is reached on the other
side of the Carpenter's Arms. Cross over the stile, and
then gaze for a moment at the wooded Lympne Hill. It
is a picture just now. We stroll comfortably on the
greensward, by the side of the clear waters of the Canal.
The noble trees planted at intervals provide ample shade,
and the views of the hill slopes on the left are both
varied and interesting. Pleasant, indeed, is this ap-
proach to Hythe. The old Cinque Port town should be
proud of the walk, and I have no doubt it is. We arrive
amongst the bricks and mortar again, and in a brief
period a motor conveys us along to Folkestone.

Sometimes it is one's fate to write in uncertainty
as to whether one's efforts are appreciated or not. How-
ever, I have received from various quarters encourage-
ment which I much appreciate. One gentleman kindly
informed me he had walked over to the Vale of Poulton
as a consequence of my second article, and that he was
astonished at the beauty of the scenery. A tradesman-
friend, too, informs me that he takes a dozen of his
"boys" out on different rural excursions during the Sun-
days in summer, and finds great delight in so-

•doing. During the appearance of this series of articles
I shall always .welcome suggestions, because it is my
desire to make the "rambles" as varied as possible.

SWINGFIELD, WOOTTON, ETC.

WHITE HORSE HILL, REINDENE WOOD — THE LABOURER'S
COTTAGE — WILD ROSE AND HONEYSUCKLE SUNDAY.

Without preliminary let us start. It is Saturday.
The week's work is done, and glad we are once more to
leave the noises of the streets, and the thousand and one
distractions summed up in the word — business. But
twenty-four hours since something like a cyclone was
blowing from the north, and "the rain a deluge showVd."
Now the glorious orb of day is smiling its best, and the
sweet wind of Heaven whispers only in gentlest zephyrs.
"As changeable as the weather" is a common-place in Eng-
land, and of that we have had abundant proof within 'the
Ir.st few weeks, or, rather days. We are strolling up the
Canterbury-road, making towards White Horse-hill, which
is part and parcel of the road itself. You will note Killing
Wood on the left, and just beyond, fringing the road, and
standing alone, are three or four cottages, over one of
which is this inscription: "1779. God's providence is my
inheritance." What particular form "God's providence"
revealed itself to the owner of this old cottage I cannot
say, but I have heard various theories advanced. To the
right you will pote, on the hillside, Hawkinge Church and
wifrdmill — picturesque, objects at the entrance of the Alk-
ham Valley. We are now opposite the White Horse Inn.
Here there is a stile. We cross over, leaving the dusty
road for meadows, hayfields, and the sweet aroma of white
dover, honeysuckle and the wild rose. Indeed if I go by
the promise of buds I should say that to-morrow should
be known as"Wild rose and honeysuckle Sunday," so
great is the show. Across the meadow path, and then
alongside the hedge we make our way towards a lonely
cement-faced cottage. On all hands I note the ravages
of yesterday's storm. There is a magnificent tree snapped
asunder at a point where the branches fork out of the
trunk — a sad spectacle. After braving many a tempest
this "monarch of the wood" lies prone upon the grotrtnd.
We have gained the open carriage road, and after passing
a poultry farm, well guarded by a couple of fierce dogs,
turn to the right, a hedge skirting -eat left.

Six haymakers were out in an adjoining field raking
up a splendid crop of grass. "Can you direct me to
"Swingfield?" I enquired of the six. I want to keep off the
roads, and steer across country. Isn't there a way through

Reindene Wood?" There came a chorus: "Yes, that's
the way by the cottage, but you'll never find your
way through the wood." Out for the afternoon,
and enjoying a little adventure, I replied, "Well,
anyway, I mean to try the wood route." After
exchanging a little good-humoured chaff with my
hay-making friends, one of the party remarked to his
mates: "You will read all that in the paper next week."
Evidently those labourers had heard of the "Herald," and
one, at least, was not slow to associate your contributor
with it. I left the men, their bronzed faces and arms
telling the tale of manly health and strength. Resuming
my lonely walk again, I discovered the cottage referred
to. There is a stile close to the dwelling. Pass this, and
make across a meadow in a northerly direction towards
the red buildings of a brickyard. This is a good landmark.
After leaving the meadow behind, you gain a road, but
keep straight ahead. In front there is a great mass of
woodland. This is the famous Reindene. I made tracks
for this, taking a path at the side of a field of red clover.
In the dense undergrowth I discovered an opening, and
something bearing resemblance to a cart track. There
were the marks of horses' hoofs in the clayey soil, but no
human footprints could I find. Plunging into the wood,
and "hugging" the track, I kept going ahead. For a con-
siderable distance of the way light scarcely penetrated
through the dense foliage. So far as loneliness is con-
cerned, one might be out in an African forest. The stir
of a frightened rabbit, the songs of the feathered tribe —
these were the only sounds that greeted my progress through
this enormous thicket. After a stiff walk, I came to a place
where a clearance had been made on either side of the
track. The sun beat down with great power, and owing
to the non-circulation of the air the heat was considerable.
Just by way of a rest, I sat down on an old tree stump,
puffing the while at my Jriendly briar. Grand was it to
rest here awhile on this glorious summer afternoon. Look
at the vine of that giant convolvulus, with its burnished
green leaves, or the creeping wild clematis, smothering
the stunted shrubs with its quick and wonderful growth.
Listen! There is a loud squeal in the undergrowth.
The sound tells me that a stoat or weasel has probably
finished the career of some young rabbit. And watch,
too. There is a couple of moles, strangely out of their
element, tunnelling a way in the soft loam on the bank,
where they can well carry on their navvy ing work. Thus
there is plenty to please the eye of the observer in these
solitudes.

I stroll on and on, still keeping to the track, until at

length I gain the open country, with cultivated fields on
either side. Keeping straight ahead, and taking no notice
of the road on the left, I clung to the path, and once more
entered a dense thicket. The foot-track was ill-defined,
But a labourer wending his homeward way informed me
that was the way to Swingfield. Once I felt like turning
back, for the gale of the previous day had blown the high
grass, nettles, and other growths clean across the footway,
which ever and anon was obliterated through this cause.
However, this part of my walk was a novel experience, and
I quite ehjoyed it. Patience rewarded! There on the
right was a dwelling, which I subsequntly found was
Boyington Farm. Here we are out in the open road once
more. Keep on past some newly-built red cottages on the
right, and then cross a stile on the same side.

Now our way lies through some meadows knee deep
with hay, and then, a short distance away, we discern
the quaint tower of Swingfield Church, and the one or
two houses comprising the straggling village.

The shadow on the sun-dial in the churchyard told
me it was nearly six, but I found time to examine the
interior of the sacred edifice, which, by the way, appeared
to be undergoing a process of spring or summer cleaning.
Looking round, I noticed on the tombstones such names as
Prebble, Buley, and Seath.

A short pause here, and then, renewing my pleasant
journey, I crossed the stile near to the chancel of the
church, and making tracks across two or three meadows,
and through St. John's Farm, came out at the cross
roads.

There is a sign-post here, and one finger pointed to
"Wootton, 2f miles — first turning on right." That was
now my destination. Making my way down the road I
turned to the right, walked along a bridle path, with a
hedge on one side, and then on through another wood.
Delightful was tKis in the coot of the evening. Ferns
and bracken amongst the undergrowth spelt coolness
itself. Here again was silence, only broken by the billing
and cooing of the wood pigeon, or the scream of a black-
bird who resented my intrusion on his privacy. Once
more I gained the open, and making my way across a
field of newly-cut clover I startled a brace of pheasants,
which, in turn, startled me, for I was not prepared for the
whirr and bustle they made in their flight. Out yonder
is a solitary farmhouse. This I made for, and asking
a lady the direction of Wootton, she readily pointed it
out: "Just down the lane, over the stile, and through the
meadow, and then you will notice the Rectory amongst
the trees." This I discovered to be correct. Pretty in

the fading b'ght was the prospect of this home of the
Rector, and nearer acquaintance compelled me to admire
the garden, with its beautiful roses, and trellis work of
creepers. We pass this quiet and peaceful abode, and
soon find ourselves in the village. There on the right,
and embowered in trees is red-bricked Wootton Court
This is now used as a school, and the youngsters were
out in the Park, enjoying a game of cricket. I had a
little time to look around, and this being my first visit to
the place, I was interested. A peaceful English village!
Here was one indeed. The scent of flowers everywhere.
I leant against a hedge outside a pretty two-storied
cottage, and knocked up a chat with the owner. He was
looking on at his ten or twelve perches of garden, and I
remarked : "You have a nice show of potatoes and peas."
The man I was addressing had finished his week's work.
He had "washed up," and rejoiced in a clean print shirt.
He placed his thumbs through his waistcoat sleeves, and
said, in reply: "They the potatoes don't look bad,
do they? I grow 'enough here' to last the winter.
We chatted on, and I had the hardihood to ask: "Now,
what is your rent far the cottage and that mice piece of
garden?" He replied: "Two and threepence per week,
or two and six if the rates are included." I don't want to
make my fellow-townsmen green with envy, but
how would some of them like to exchange? I
did not enquire as to this sturdy labourer's
pay, or Ithe length of hours he worked,
but whatever these may be, there was one word written
across his bronzed face, and that was "Contentment."
"Good-night." I left that man in his garden, to all
appearance as happy as a man could wish to be. Now we
walk across pleasant fields again, and down in the bottom
of the valley, on the left, is Denton Court in the trees.
Tappington Everard, too, is just close here, and it reminds
me that over Swingfield way, and through these very
roads and meadows "Barham," the author of the Ingoldsby
Legends must have strolled.

But Night was drawing down her curtain, and
passing through reposeful Denton and the adjoining Park,
we make our remaining way by easy stages to Barham,
and there await the train that is to bear us homeward.
Perhaps a straggling walk, yet this last, tested by actual
experience, was enjoyable to a degree.

47
OUR RANGE OF NOBLE HILLS.

CHALYBEATE SPRINGS AT FOORD — AN ATTRACTION THROWN
AWAY — FOLKESTONE'S MAGNIFICENT WATER SUPPLY.

It all depends upon taste. There are some who come
here for their holidays from crowded cities, finding all
they want in listening to bands, or the various entertain-
ments provided by enterprising managers. True, such
as these, when not confined within the four walls of a
building, breathe our pure air, and that is something
gained. Others, too, make the most of their time by
seeking out our natural attractions, and these, by the way,
are not easily exhausted. All this kind of thing, as I
before remarked, is a matter of taste. One man's food
is another man's poison. And so it is in regard to spending
one's holiday. Recreation, rest, change — these are the
factors that in various directions make up what is known
as a "good time" at the seaside. Be this as it may, how-
ever, I think a summer or autumn visit to Folkestone is
not complete without a stroll over or along the ridge of
the hills, which do not count for half they should do in
our assets of attractions. From the distance — say from
the Leas — those treeless heights do not appear to present
much of interest beyond their varied forms. True, they
are a noble background to the town. But is that all? Let
us make the effort, and explore them. In this case it is
truly a matter of closer acquaintance if you would really
appreciate their true value. Involving, perhaps, a little
effort, yet how much there is to reward the pedestrian. Let
us start, say, from the Town Hall, and walk along under
the viaduct, through which was once known as the village
of Foord," but now part and parcel of the town itself.
Once upon a time an imitation ruin stood opposite
the Public Baths. Its site is adjoining a series
of ordinary shops, known as Chalybeate-terrace.
The visitor will, perhaps, be astonished to learn
that Folkestone was once somewhat celebrated for
its medicinal waters. It was in these old "ruins"
that they were obtainable at .a small fee. Now the
spring is covered up, and probably running to waste.
Years ago the waters were resorted to in cases of stomach
affections and nervous debility. The following are the
chemical qualities of the spring: — Carbonate of soda,
muriate of soda, sulphate of soda, carbonate of lime,
muriate of lime, carbonate of iron. The water is princi-
pally alkaline, from carbonate of soda, the quantity of
muriate being small. Walking straight ahead up the
Black Bull Road, let lus ,stroll easily up to the

main Canterbury-road, past Walton Farm on the left,
until we reach the summit of the hill, with an isolated
cottage and the adjoining chalk pit on the right. Then
cross the stile on the left. Now look down and around.
This is one of our choicest local views, and although but a
few minutes walk out of the town, yet scarcely a house can
be seen. Immediately beneath, amidst a clump of trees,
is "Holy Well." Why this particular pond and spring
should be termed "holy" I cannot tell. Tradition, however,
is responsible for the statement that pilgrims were wont to
stop here when on their way to Thomas a Becket's Shrine,
at Canterbury; also that the great pilgrim himself (Henry
II) rested at the well during his memorable journey
to do penance at the shrine of the murdered Archbishop.
A few steps and we are on the summit of "Sugarloaf"
Hill. What a view! It is worth while to note the for-
mation of this cone-shaped hill. It has its almost exact
counterpart in Brockman's Mount, which looms up two or
three mile to the westward. Old guide book writers, who
generally follow in each other's footsteps, would have us
'believe that the "SugarloaF" upon whose summit we are
standing, is artificial. One writer of the early part of the
last century says : — "It (Sugarloaf) is evidently not a hill
of Nature's formation, and was probably fashioned to its
present shape, as a monumental remembrance of some
eminent warrior, or as a trophy of some great warlike
achievement. That it is a mound erected for some such
purpose is evident from the nature of the soil." Others
will have it that this hill is the burial place of Vortimer,
the British King, who fought a great battle here with the
Saxons in 456, defeating them with great slaughter. It
is said that Vortimer died soon after the battle, and ex-
pressed a wish to be buried near the scene of the great
and victorious conflict. Geology and science, however,
lead us to think that this idea of the artificial nature of
"Sugarloaf" is only another of those "vain imaginings"
that were so often indulged in by our forefathers. Before
leaving this point, the visitor might take note of the
carriage road on the right above the chalk pit. This is
called the Crete-road, and it leads into the Dover-road.
Cyclists can travel along here very well. The views are
varied and extensive. "Folkestone by night," with its myriad
lights, is a real picture as seen from this point. Walk-
ing along the Canterbury-road, and making a half circle of
Holy Well beneath, we turn to the left, and gain the
ridges, until we arrive at Castle-hill, or as it is popularly
known — Caesar's Camp. We have gained this from
behind, for a frontal climb would be too much for the
average person. Where we are now standing is 520 feet

above sea level. Beyond is the blue sea, with the white
cliffs of France hanging as clouds in the .far south-east.
Folkestone, Cheriton, and Shorncliffe appear to be laid
out as part as some gigantic plan on
the flat landscape beneath. Away to the
west are waving cornfields, interspersed with the deep
green of the mangold or turnip fieldSj and the wooded
country beyond. We note how Folkestone year by year
is stretching westward, and although our eyes will not
gaze upon it yet, imagination pictures a mighty town
where now are fields. Below to the left is Earl Radnor's
new and famous road, 100 feet wide, and planted with
rows of trees. His lordship has taken time by the fore-
lock, for he knows that in a few years all available sites
for building will be filled in along "the front." Thus
Folkestone will enlarge its borders towards the west and
north. All around that magnificent road new and palatial
residences will spring up, and a new people will have
appeared. Let us look inland. What a pretty prospect
all around ! Here, turning your back on the distant sea,
you are gazing on a wide stretch of charming rural sur-
roundings, as varied as they are extensive. And then,
immediately under your feet is history of centuries back.
The very formation of the ground tells the observer at
once that this magnificent position was not lost sight of
by the Romans. 'Thorough" was the watchword, and
this trait in their character tells its tale to the present
day. Those deep entrenchments and earthworks are a
study in themselves. History tells us also that a watch
tower once existed here, of which Lambarde remarked:
"For the height thereof might serve for a watch-tower to
espie the enemy, and for the compasse it might be a
sufficient receptacle for the inhabitants of the Castle." But
all this savours of the guicLe book, and to this authority
I must refer those who are interested — and who could not
be interested ? Csesar and his hosts are said to have en-
camped here, and in all probability they did. We now
pursue our journey, and a little to the westward note a deep
bay in the hills. This is kndwn as the Cherry
Gardens. In three artificial lakes the water
sparkles, or changes to blue or olive green, according to
the varied lights of sun and cloud. The visitor will be
interested in learning that those are the reservoirs, the
storage from which Folkestone obtains its supply of pure
water, which bubbles up from the cool depths
of chalk or the greensand. An elaborate system
of barbed wire fencing keeps off all intruders from
the "sacred land" surrounding the water. Everywhere is
cleanliness. Even the reservoirs and all their surroundings

•v-V- 50

are cemented in order that no dust or impurities of any
description may accumulate. A more ideal spot for water
storage could not be devised. The Waterworks is in the
hands of a Company, of which Mr. Alderman Spurgen is
Chairman, and Mr. Turner, the resident engineer. For
many years this latter gentleman has "reigned"
in this charming locality, and the beauti-
ful surroundings of the "Cherry Gardens" speak
their own tale of his industry and pride. Both residents
and visitors owe a great deal to the local Water Company,
whose one desire is to provide a supply as abundant as
it is undoubtedly pure. After feasting our eyes on this
pretty view, we will follow, as near as we can, the winding
ridge of the hills. Having walked a quarter of a mile, we
note in a sequesterd and isolated nook, Hope Farm.
Looking further inland, a large clump of fir trees is noted.
This is known as Paddlesworth, the highest village — not
the highest .ground — in Kent. We have no time to walk
thither just now, but I might say in passing that the the
tiny hamlet is worth a visit, if only to gaze on the series
of exquisite views that can be seen from this elevated
position. Charles Dickens once wrote in "Household
Word" that our hills were "carpeted with wild flowers."
That is literally true. They are tjoo many to enumerate,
but those who love these wonders of creation can possess
themselves, in a short space of time, of some beautiful
specimens. Some of these hardy plants survive the win-
ter's icy blast, and the intense heat of summer. When one
examines the dry soil of these hills this fact alone is a
wonder. We rest awhile near "a bank whereon the wild
thyme grows," and thank Providence whilst thinking of
burnt petrol, that the perfume of that sweet smelling herb
is still left to us. And close at hand, too, is one of the
most fragile of wild flowers — the harebell. Its stem, not
much thicker than a hair, carries a blossom of exquisite
design and intense blue. How it manages to grow on
those wind-swept slopes, indeed, provides food for thought.
Amongst all "the lilies of the field" this flower, I think, is
calculated to excite much admiration. We could pursue
this subject further, but will leave "our wild flowers" for
a separate article. Just look down that grassy bank. One
or two .giant thistles rear their formidable forms. They
have no terror, however, for that pair of goldfinches revel-
ling amongst thistledown. The sun is shining brilliantly,
and one can note the lovely plumage of these birds.
They flit hither and thither, but always return to their
thistle-seed food. A pretty sight, indeed ! Now let us get
on again — still keeping to the ridge. Yonder on the
right, and down in the valley, are many iso-

lated farmsteads. Here, again, we are at a
commanding point, and panoramic pictures meet
us on every hand — outwards towards the sea and inland.
We bear to the left, and descend the road towards the
chalk pit facing 'Newington. Ever and anon we are
reminded, as gazing upon the stubble in many fields be-
neath, that "the frequent gun" will soon be heard. On
that hedge we have just passed are bright red
berries. The trailing clematis is, in some places, already
shedding its blossom, only to make room for the "gray
man's beard," and we note, too, with a sigh of regret, that
the many leaves are warning us that summer will not
always be here. However, we will not anticipate, but
rather rejoice in the living present of this glorious month
• — August — for

She brings the thought of sunlit seas,

Of shining sands and sparkling waves,
Whose foam-tipped ripples lightly break

In sheltered bays and rocky caves;
She whispers of the mountain side,

Where brown bees hum o'er purple thyme,
And bids us leave the murky town

While yet her days are in their prime."

And those days have truly been "in their prime" of late.
We have revelled in the glorious sunshine, and as we take
the path across the fields towards that red-bricked block
of buildings — the Cottage Homes — and then set face along
the main road homewards, we think yet again what a
wonderful set of natural attractions our Folkestone pos-
sesses, and that the glorious hills are second only to the
sea in the pure health-giving enjoyment they afford to all
who seek their manifold delights.

ALONG ALBION'S WHITE CLIFFS TO DOVER.

A MARVELLOUS VIEW — NOTES ON THE RAILWAY, THE
CHANNEL TUNNEL, AND COAL MINE — THE OLD "PELTER"

BRIG.

By way of preliminary, I have to thank several old
and new friends who have done me the honour of reading
these small efforts of mine, for their letters and mes-
sages of appreciation. I will deal with one case in this
connection, as it illustrates others. Mr. Allsworth, the
well-known ironmonger, of Guildhall-street, has con-
veyed his thanks to me for giving him what he terms "a
treat." It appears he reads the article in which I en-
deavoured to describe a walk I had enjoyed through

Charlton Park, Bishopsbourne, and Bourne Park. He, in
company with his wife, recently followed my example,
and they, too, like myself, were astonished at the beauty
of the woodland scenery around this district. Hundreds
of Folkestonians, let alone visitors, have probably never
strolled through here, and if only a few of these, like Mr.
Allsworth, gain a fresh and delightful experience through
any humble words of mine, then so much the more
satisfaction to myself.

We will have a little change this week.
Let us stroll along the cliffs towards Dover.
There is the dusty and somewhat monot-
onous road, but our way is much the plea-
santer of the two. For the guidance of the visitors I
might point out the route to the cliffs. Let us start from
the Town Hall, then through Rendezvous-street, down
the rather steep High-street, and crossing the road, pass
along Beach-street, under the arches to North-street,
mount the steps on the right to a point near St. Peter's
Church (on the hill), and then it is "all plain sailing."
We are now on the Durlocks, overlooking the red-tiled
houses of old Folkestone, the Harbour, and the steam-
boat pier beyond. We have left the little church
behind us, and strolling leisurely along the
greensward known now as the East Leas, we
arrive at the extreme end near the swing gate.
Here a fair view of East Wear Bay, with an inter-
vening portion of the Warren, is obtainable. A fit "sub-
ject" this for the artist's canvas or sketch book. In-
deed, it has been painted times without number. No
photograph, however good, can do justice to this charm-
ing scene, which, if the sun is shining, provides a fine
contrast in colours. Resuming our walk along the Wear
Bay-road, still overlooking the broken slippery ground
of this part of the Warren, we see a little isolated cottage
on the right. Above this is a disused martello tower. It
is just here that the ascent is made by a well-defined
path up what is known as the Green Hill to
which I referred to in a previous article. Perhaps
after this stroll you will need a rest, for
you have climbed between four and five hundred
feet. You need to pause, for the view from this point is
one of the choicest we can boast. The scenes from
Lympne Churchyard and "The Farthing" are remark-
able, but here there are the distant views of Folkestone
"Little Switzerland" immediately beneath, and the Chan-
nel beyond. A guide book writer tells us that when the
celebrated statesman, Pitt, viewed the scene from this
hill he exclaimed: "Well, this is a glorious sight, indeed!

I never beheld anything more striking that this, except
the Bay of Naples!" My travels have not yet extended
to the famous Neapolitan Bay, and so it is not possible
to indulge in contrasts, but I do not know that the
view I have alluded to is very beautiful indeed, especially
when lighted up with sunshine. Crossing the stile, we
now keep to the path fringing the cliffs. We note ever
and anon depressions and gullies in the formation of the
ground, and gazing down note what appears to be a
toy-like train rushing through the Warren cuttings. The
winding pathways, too, over "mountains," or down in
the "valleys," appear as so many gigantic white threads.
Keeping religiously to the path, we have arrived at
Steddyhole. This is a deep cutting, and in passing I
might say it is famous as being the scene of a terrible
double murder. Two Dover girls were the victims, and
their murderer was a soldier — a Servian — one of the
Foreign Legion encamped at Shorncliffe.

Now we have gained the other side of
Steddyhole, and resume our journey towards Dover.
The inland scenery is somewhat interesting. Out yonder
to the north is pretty Capel, and further eastward Houg-
ham. As we stroll along we note what efforts have been
made to fight the sea on the shore by means of a sea
wall. The railway authorities have spent, and are
spending, vast sums on making the rail-
way as safe as human hands can make it.
We stroll along, enjoying the sweet sea breeze and the
matchless seascape. The Channel is now almost at its
narrowest point. Here we can obtain a lesson of Em-
pire, as we gaze at the vast amount of shipping (the
majority British) coming from, and going to, the distant
parts of the globe. On this bright day the sea is a lovely
blue, with a nice breeze to just ruffle its surface. Close
in shore a great liner passes down Channel, followed by
a couple of forbidding-looking torpedo craft, both flying
the white ensign. There, too, carrying a cloud of white
canvas, is a four-masted sailing ship — a picture in itself.
And, by way of contrast, there is a pair of lazy-looking
tanned-sailed barges, and the "white wings" of a well-
equipped yacht. The picture .of the shipping
passing within this narrow area is not to
be equalled in England or the world. A telescope for a
companion, and how well can one here enjoy oneself in
this respect. We are now walking over the mighty
Abbott's Cliff. That large house, with the spacious sky-
light on its roof, was, up till a year or two since, tenanted
by the late Mr. Morris I have already referred to. He
died at a great age. In the course of his career he was

associated with Rowland Hill in introducing the penny
post, and took a large and active part in developing the
telephone in England. Here, a few years' since, he
celebrated his golden wedding, and the villagers all
around made him and his happy partner handsome pre-
sents.

Still walking along the cliff, we note a large
flagstaff. This is Lydden Spout. Here there is
a deep gully in the cliff from top to bottom,
and if you wish to gain the beach, hundreds of feet be-
low, you will have to descend the wooden steps. Lydden
Spout, too, is a coastguard station, and here, almost
perched on the edge, is a watch-house, where, night and
day, and in all weathers one of these guardians of our
coast takes his stand. In the day time, with the aid of
a good glass, he can sweep the horizon, and at night
"reads" the various lights and signals. By the way, at
one time there was a coastguard station farther west-
ward in the Warren. This took the form of an old brig,
"The Pelter." It was high up on the beach, and 'tween
decks the coastguards and their families lived. Later
the brig was dispensed with, and permanent build-
ings erected near the spot. But these, too,
owing to the inroads of the sea, have dis-
appeared. Lydden Spout answers all the purposes,
and a more ideal spot for observation than this wind-
swept spot could not be found. Still keeping to the path,
we note a scene of activity below. They have been
digging and delving for coal here for several years.
Nearly at our journey's end, we are passing
over the famous Shakespeare Cliff, under which
runs the Railway Tunnel, 1331 yards long. It is venti-
lated by numerous shafts, which pass upward through
the cliff at an average height of 200 feet. The tunnel,
in every particular, is a wonderful piece of engineering
work. Now we are on the highest point of the cliff, and,
of course, the oft-quoted lines from Shakespeare's "King
Lear" come before our mind. The view of the town and
port of Dover is a grand one indeed. There is such
variety in the scene that it well repays the six mile walk.
The National Harbour, Admiralty Pier, the mail steamers
coming and going to Calais or Ostend, the grand sweep
of the Bay, with the gray and grim old Castle standing
sentinal over all — thsee combine to make a won-
derful picture of this, the principal gate to Europe. We
now descend by the side of the cliff, and passing by
Archcliffe Fort, soon find ourselves in the railway sta-
tion, having enjoyed a stroll which, for variety and
novelty, is not to be equalled in Kent, if in the whole of
England.

55
A MOONLIGHT WALK.

THE MESSAGE OF THE BIRDS — A VILLAGE SMITHY.

It is evening. Like a lurid ball of red fire the sun
is sinking. In a few moments the great orb of day has
vanished behind the north-west hills, painting its path
with golden colours which change to varying hues with
almost chameleon-like swiftness. We are strolling
quietly upwards towards the chalk pit on the right hand
side of Canterbury-road. . It is now nearly dark, and
the faint streaks af daylight are deepening — deepening
into night. But it is not yet dark, and the birds — especi-
ally the swallows — are making the most of their time.

We need no almanack to remind us that summer
is behind us. The birds tell that tale. Already hun-
dreds of these wonderful birds of passage are holding
preliminary meetings previous to flying to their
late autumn and winter quarters. Their holiday in
England is nearly over. Again, as we pass through Up-
hill, there is that strange bird, the robin, which always
seeks the haunts of men as the autumn approaches. We
listen to him as he pipes his plaintive lay — singing, as it
were, a requiem to the dying summer. The redbreast
is a mysterious little customer, and the legends surround-
ing him are innumerable. When I first started these
"rambles" it was springtide, and the feathered tribe,
especially the thrushes, blackbirds, and skylarks, filled
the air with joyous sound. But the song has already les-
sened in volume. The woods are practically silent. Un-
mistakeable is the message of the birds. Trie robin
practically tells us that winter is coming.

Turning to the left, we now walk across the fields
to Paddlesworth.
" Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,

And all the world a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels its droning flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds."

This exactly fitted the scene. Save for an occa-
sional bark from the honest watch dog, or the bleating
of sheep, there was scarce a sound. After a sweltering
day it was delightfully cool. We saunter up a dark,
narrow lane, and suddenly note a flash of light ever and
anon appearing. At the same time the anvil's ring is
heard, clear and sharp. A few steps, and we are before
Dixon's forge. It stands alone. The flames, witH their
ruddy glow, light up the faces of a little group of
labourers, who, to all appearances, had just come off the
land. It was a real picture — one that can only be seen

in the rural districts. For many years the late Mr. Dixon
was the village smith. One thinks of Longfellow's
beautiful poem, when listening to the music of
the anvil and hammer, and I often think of that
notable incident when the famous American
poet was presented by the children of Cambridge
(U.S.A.) on his seventieth birthday, with a chair made out
of the "spreading chestnut tree" of which he sung so
well We recall his letter, or really song, of thanks, in
which occurs the lines: —

" And thus, dear children, have ye made to me

This day a jubilee,
And to my more than three score years and ten,

Brought back my youth again.

The heart hath its own memory like the mind,

And in it are enshrined

The precious keepsakes into which is wrought
The giver's loving thought.

Only your love and your remembrance could

Give life to this dead wood,
And make these branches leafless now so long

Blossom again in song."

One seldom notes this poem quoted, but it is worth the
reading. We walk on through the fields towards Folke-
stone. Pause ! Brightly the moon paints up the familiar
scene with almost ghostly effect. Clear and distinct the
lights of Calais, Grisnez, and Dungeness flash, the Varne
glimmering faintly. The walk home on this night down
the hillside, across the golf links, and into the town, can
only be described in one word— delightful.

How deliciously quiet it all is. Save for the night-
jar's note, or that strange chirp of the grasshopper,
there is no sound. T«he bats even and anon fly past. A
strange creature, this. All day long it is hidden from view,
and only when the curtain of night descends does it rouse
itself from slumber. "As blind as a bat" is a saying I
cannot altogether appreciate, for if this bird-like animal
seeks its food at night its powers of sight must be great
indeed. How different the rural from the town life !
Only here and then can one discern some twinkling light
in the scattered farm houses around — little worlds in
themselves, and no neighbours to quarrel with.
Noting these things we stroll leisurely on towards
the path to west of the Waterworks. The still
air, the almost myriad lights, and the influence of lovely
Night — all combine to render a stroll in the direction

we have followed a charming experience. We stroll
gently through the fields forming the golf links, and are
soon reminded that this is the town.

I have during my strolls noted an increasing number
of people who are "camping out" — a really nice way of
spending an outing. Mr. Richard Cooper and that
veteran campaigner, Mr. Sam Pilcher, are still enjoying
their tent life on White Horse Hill. They could not have
chosen a more ideal spot for the purpose . During the
time this pair have followed this form of holiday-making
they have had many varied and amusing experiences, and
these I hope to relate in the course of a subsequent article.
It is said "the gipsy's life is a joyous life, so roving, gay,
and free," and this in a measure may be applied to the
"tenter.s-out." (Alas! The Mr. Sam Pilcher referred to
has now passed away, much to my personal regret).

The other day I came across a gentleman who
could revel, as it were, in luxury, but adopting this form
of life ; he appeared altogether a rancher of the regulation
type. He was carrying a frying pan, and also
what he believed to be a real juicy rump steak. This
lie was about to cook over the camp fire, and was
also looking forward to enjoying it in the open. This
kind of "run wild for a ti'me" is no doubt good for man,
woman, and children. The pure, fresh air, the change
of scene and food, and the novelty of it all work health
wonders. It seems that the open-air life is more than
ever to the front — at least, this is my experience. And
how much this might be developed. It was my lot a few
few days since to walk through an absolutely filthy
slum in the north of England manufacturing town.
I noted the pale faces of the women and child-
dren, and thought of the thousands of acres I had
passed over on the occasions of my weekly wander-
ings. There was the land, much of it out of cultiva-
tion, and in many cases not a cottage to be seen for
miles around. England is overcrowded, it is said, but
it appears the rural districts need the population. Per-
haps some day the complicated land laws 'may be
altered, and people — men, women, and children —"will be
able to enjoy that which an All- Wise Creator intended
for their use. Over the Stock Exchange entrance there
is this text: "The earth is the Lords, and the fulness
thereof," and all who love their native country will look
forward to the time when those words will be fully rea-
lised.

THE WARREN: FOLKESTONE'S "WORLD OF
WONDERS"— I.

ITS INEXHAUSTIBLE ATTRACTIONS.

Difficult of access, perhaps, yet did Nature ever offer
her choicest and best without exacting from those who
would enjoy her gifts some little effort or trouble? The
fact is we are in danger of becoming lazy. We live in a
pampering age, when everything is done for us. Our
food is not yet placed in pur months, but it is often "pre-
pared." Our teeth are given a rest, and mastication is an
artificial instead of a natural process. And this often
applies in a measure to exercise. We must lie back in a
motor, tram, railway carriage, tube, or other conveyance,
whether on business or pleasure bent, and that even for
short distances. For the old, very young, or weakly
individual, or the man or woman on rapid business bent,
this may be necessary — in fact, it is necessary; but I do
say the tendency of the age is against "an effort," even in
walking. Cycling, motoring, or riding — I have done
hundreds of miles through Kent' and Sussex, and I say
that the best results to health are obtained 'through a
moderate indulgence in walking. As a result, the legs,
arms, the very lungs and vital organs of the body are
beneficially affected, the Blood is stirred, and the brain
obtains that rest so necessary in this hustling, busy life.
And so I sing the praise of walking for all it is worth.

But I am forgetting that space is limited. With-
out further preliminary, let us then get into the heart of
our subject — the Warren. And what a subject! It is so
fascinating that one is compelled to reflect on the Alpha
and Omega of it all. Of course, residents know their
Warren well — or should do. These will have no need to
travel with me over familiar ground. It is my desire
rather to interest the visitor, who is, perhaps, often in-
clined to think that the Leas, UnderclifF, and the attrac-
tions of the Piers sum up the attractions of Folkestone.
No ; the stranger who leaves us without gazing on the
Warren has not seen Folkestone. Now we wall stroll
down the steep High-stredt, through the Radnor
Arches, over the Durlocks (near St. Peter's or
Mariners' Church), and then along the Wear Bay-road,
with the sea on one side and the hills on the other, until
we stand, as it were, under the shadow of the Martello
Tower — a prominent object on the landscape here. Now
you will have a distant view of your destination. Immed-
iately beneath is much broken ground. Over this you
might, perchance, pick out a way by rugged paths, and so
on along by the seashore. But I am going to combine in

this ramble a stroll up the Green Hill, the commencement
of which is close by another Martello Tower — this one in
ruins. Yes, the climb involves "an effort." I am so
anxious not to weary you, but, on the other hand, the view?
of the Warren and the sea beyond, as gained from the
summit, is so incomparably beautiful that I should be
something near to abusing confidence if 1 did not point
this out. Now we have climbed some 400 feet by a
gradual incline. Rest a while on the stile, and then thank
me, if you like, for bringing you further. Is it not
a grand prospect before you? Those min-
iature "valleys" and "mountains," the blue of the Channel,
those steam and sailing vessels gliding hither and thither,
that distant view of Folkestone, the trains appearing as
mere toys running through the deep chalk cutting^ — aD
these things, and more, make up an unforgetable picture.
Interesting to the resident, what must all this be to the
stranger?

Now we have crossed the stile, and walking along the
path by the edge of the cliff, arrive at Steddyho-le. Here
we shall find a zig-zag pathway cut into the face of the
cliff. This work was carried out at a comparatively recent
date, and at his own expense, by the late Mr. William
Morris, of Abbott's Cliff. As the Scotchmen, when,
through an irritating cause, rub themselves against cer-
tain posts, exclaim "God bless the Duke of Argyle!" so
visitors and residents alike, wHera descending this path,
should similarly ejaculate in gratitude : "God bless William
Morris," for it is through that real benefactor's kindness
that we have this now easy means of access to this lovely
resort Here we 'are, then, in the Warren. There is
nothing quite like it in England. It is, indeed, one of
Nature's storehouses, and crammed with good things.
The very scenery is unique. What is the Warren ? How
came it about? It has been said that its formation is
due to some volcanic agency, but thus theory can be dis-
missed as absurd. Those hills and dells have come about
by successive falls or landslips. The sea on one side, land
springs on the other, the treacherous glue gault, heat
and cold — these are the agencies that brought our Warren
into existence. It needs no profound knowledge of
geology to establish thiis fact. The work is going on
before our eyes. We have known a great fall of chalk
here which closed the railway for three months. Once
a tunnel all but collapsed — in fact, a portion did. The
land, through the agencies I have referred to, is ever "on
the work," and that which appears stable is most unstable.
But it is not alone in its wonderful formation that the
Warren attracts. Let us stroll down on the seashore.

Here is one of the most famous fossil beds in England.
Pick up one of those strange forms. If the sun be shin-
ing, (note the exquisite colours, and then try to think of the
illimitable ages since that form possessed life. The
species is extinct, but there is, indeed, revealed a page
from the book of Nature which has a fascination all its
own. However, if you happen to be interested in this
subject, just hunt out old John Griffiths, who has wan-
dered about these solitudes over fifty years or more, both
in winter and summer. He can quote the Latin names
of these wonderful relics of a bygone age ; he can tell of
the geology of the locality, and can act as an intelligent
guide. Poor .and humble in his walk of life, John Griffiths,
•the old Warren wanderer, is what Nature has schooled
to be — a gentleman. [Since writing the above old John
Griffiths has passed to the Great Beyond.]

Well, we Wave quite enjoyed 'that saunter on the
sandy sea shore, amongst the fossils, and let us return
into the depths of our "world of wonders." Do your tastes
run in the direction of botany? If so, then here, indeed,
shall you indulge them to the full. In a comparatively
small compass it is truly wonderful what is crowded here
in this respect. On 'these almost inaccessible
cliff slopes it may be there are other "worlds"
for the botanist to conquer, but anyhow, there
is enough for the purpose around us. What
pleasure there, say in a hunt after the comparatively rare
Bee orchid. And what reward in the finding! Truly a
wonderful blossom on a beautiful stem. There is the form
of "the bee," and so plain is it that a novice
might be tempted to think it was the in-
sect itself he was gazing at. A few even-
ings since I was shown quite a hundred of these
blooms, which had been gathered by a working man of
this town. The flowers were packed in damp wool and
sent to London. Then, again, there is the Spider and
Pyramidal orchid — both remarkable flowers. The "bee,"
however, remains supreme in its curious and realistic
design. The wild orchis family represents between 30
of 40 varieties, and one of the rarest of these is the
"Lizard." Look, too, at the stretch of bank painted golden
with the Bird's Fool Trefoil, and whilst gazing at this,
how delicious is it to inhale the perfume from the hundreds
of sweet-briar bushes scattered around. Here the wild
rose flourishes, as do Wild Mignonette, the Rose Bay
Willow Herb, Yellow Wort, the Yellow Horned Poppy,
tufts of Wild Pea (Lathyrus latifolius), the Fustan, etc.
To enumerate and classify would mean more space than
I can give. However, fair Flora bids you all a welcome

to her treasure house. There is no stint; she only
yearns to afford your innocent delight. Let her lead
you whither she will. What is that flash of blue and
red that has flitted past? We will answer that ques-
tion in another chapter.

THE WARREN.— II.

ITS BUTTERFLIES AND MOTHS — WHEN NIGHT DRAWS
DOWN HER CURTAIN.

My last article ended rather abruptly with the ques-
tion: "What is that flash of blue and red that has flitted
past?" Let me try in some measure to answer the
query. That reference to the foregoing colours applied,
of course, to the marvellous collection of butterflies that
live their short lives in this secluded spo't. The Warren
in turn has been termed the El Dorado and the "terra
felix" of the entomologists. And not without reason.
At certain periods of the summer these hills and dells
are "alive" with the delicate forms of the Little Blue (L.
Alsus), Azure Blue (L. Argiolus), Chalk Hill Blue (L.
Corydon), or Adonis Blue (L. Adonis), and by way of
contrast, the Painted Lady sails past in all her majesty;
and then there are the beautiful Clouded Yellow (Cqlias
Edusa), the Orange Tip and the Brimstone, the Grayling,
the Grizzzled Skipper, and the Dingy Skipper, etc.
There are many, many more I could mention. The
enthusiastic entomologists never knows when he may
light on a prize, for the Warren appears to be the home
of all moths and butterflies known within an area of
many hundreds of miles. For instance, in 1869-70, and
later, several specimens of the Large Tortoiseshell (Van-
essa Polychloros) were taken. I remember, too, an ex-
tremely rare butterfly or moth was netted here by a work-
ing man, who sold dt for a large sum. Fashion, how-
ever, has altered in this direction, and where, some
years ago, one would notice dozens of people roaming
over the Warren or the hills with nets, in search of these
fragile and beautiful wonders of creation, now one
scarcely notes a solitary individual. But, after all, it
is a far more delightful experience to watch these in-
sects flitting about in our "world of wonders" than to
gaze upon them, say, in their hundreds, pinned in glass
cases in some musty museum. It is impossible to
exaggerate the sight afforded here by the butterflies,
whether regarded from point of variety or number.
Are you a little tirecl? Then let us rest awhile on
that grassy bank in one of the dells where the crystal
water gurgles out of the chalk. The atmosphere is

warm, but that pure stream, coming from great depths,
is almost icy in its coolness. And the scent of the young
shoots of the tufted grass — how exquisite! Rush off to
your insanitary Continental resorts, with their garish
novelties; taste all the so-called delights of fl Vanity
Fair," listen to the small-talk of "At Homes" and So-
ciety functions, move about in josting crowds, breathe
the vitiated air of many public buildings, and then come
here, down in this Warren, either in company or alone,
and you will be almost compelled, with the memory of
these things behind you, to say : "This is not far off perfec-
tion." Look up! What is that strange object hover-
ing in the air? It scarcely moves. True, ever and anon
one perceives a tremor. How strange to the dweller of
the street does the apparition appear. No, it is not sus-
pended. How could it be, for there is only the vault of
Heaven above? That black, almost immoveable speck
is a bird of prey. It is a member of the hawk tribe, and
with the "eye of a hawk" it perceives something mov-
ing in those green depths below. Watch it. Suddenly
it drops like a stone, and a fledgling, a
mouse, or young rabbit, has ended its
life. The hooked beak has done its work.
These birds are constantly hovering over the Warren,
and are worth studying. Up yonder, too, on those chalky
heights, and safe from the ruthless birdnester, the jack-
daws live and thrive. And again, as we lie prone upon
the grass, we catch a glimpse, between two hillocks, of
the sea. The sun has already set, and the mirror-like
water is painted in delicate tints. There is scarcely a
breath of wind. A school of smacks, with their brown
flapping saids, drift helplessly with the tide. Not so,
however, with that great liner, which is fast vanishing
in the west. Those " white wings that never grow
weary," remind us, too, that the delights of yachting
are being tasted by the wealthy out yonder in the Chan-
nel. Truly a pretty picture js framed for us! But
the fast disappearing after-glow reminds us that night
is near. Already the featherd tribe has gone to rest,
the butterflies are Hidden from view, and the sound of
human voices all but gone. It is night, "wherein all
the beasts of the forest do move." Those words are,
figuratively, true of the Warren, for when the curtain of
darkness descends a new race of wonderful beings come
into existence. Just light a small lamp. Stand
still for a few moments and 'watch. There they
go, flitting hither and thither with their strange and
beautiful forms. A weird sight is this. Like little
ghosts they come and disappear into the black darkness

— their shield and protection. Collectors frequently spend
nights in the depths of the Warren in order to secure
specimens of the night moths, which are all known and
classified. And then again, there are creeping things
innumerable," which only appear at night. Beetles, not
the domestic specimens, but remarkable insects, which
are all sought after by those who take an interest in this
direction; little insects, too, that are found on the barks
and trunks of trees — these all come out under the cover
of darkness, and many of these find a place in local and
national collections.

Thus, by night and day, our "World of Wonders"
provides attractions. This workshop of Nature is never
still. Even the ponds are filled with living wonders.
And now we must leave this fascinating subject. Yes,
the Warren is our pride and wonder. Dame Nature her-
self preserves it for us. She does not want it popular-
ized in the vulgar sense of the word, for it is too sacred,
too beautiful.

During my visit here I was alone, but yet not
alone, for my guide was the gentle spirit of the late Mr.
Henry Ullyett, who loved to roam these solititudes. His
work, "The Rambles of a Naturalist," in which he
painted the Warren in his own incomparable manner,
should find a place in the home of every Folkestonian
who loves his beautiful town. The late schoolmaster of
St. Mary's School, whose bust finds a place in our Pub-
lic Library, taught the lesson that a mere race after
wealth, position, and power is often a delusion and a
snare, but that the cultivation of a love for the bright and
beautiful in Nature is one of the finest tasks man or
woman can set themselves. And so we saunter home-
wards, under the star-bespangled heavens, thinking the
while of Mr. Ullyett, and how he would adopt Sigour-
ney's beautiful words:

Methinks an angel's wing
Floats o'er your arch of verdure.

Oh! ere we part —

For soon I leave your blessed company,
And seek the dusty paths of life again —
Give some gift, some token of your love,
One heavenly thought, in heavenly silence born,
That I may nurse it till we meet again."

AN INTERESTING CROSS COUNTRY STROLL.

I should say there is no better centre for a series of
country rambles than Lyminge. The pedestrian has a
good choice of scenery as diversified as it is interesting.
For example, one may walk across to the "Farthing" —

a comparatively short distance — and there enjoy, on a
clear day, one of the finest sea and landscapes in Kent.
Down below, on the right, is beautiful and historical
Monks Horton Park, with a road leading through it to
the old-world villages of Stowting and Brabourne (both
with interesting Churches); there are Lympne, Alding-
ton, Court-at-Street — all with their splendid views of
Romney Marsh, etc, dotted with many thousands of
sheep. And then, if Folkestone is to be reached by train,
there are the stations of Smeeth, Westenhanger, and
Sandling in the near neighbourhood. Coming back to
our centre there is, too, that really wonderful stretch of
wooded country out towards the east, with the stations
of Elham, Barham, and Bishopsbourne within easy
reach. And then we may stroll out towards the north
on to the Stone Street Road — the old Roman way — and
lose ourselves in the solitary country around it. Yes,
Lyminge, I repeat is a capital centre, and if my readers
who favour walking will take the trouble to consult a
large scale map (an Ordnance section preferable), they
will, I am sure, agree with me. On a recent Saturday
I "ran up" thither and walked from Lyminge to Elm-
stead and back. In the course of my perigrinations I
trampled over some "unknown" country — to myself —
and of course it proved interesting.

TO "SIX-MILE-HOUSES" AND ELMSTEAD.

I immediately pursued "the even tenour of my way,"
and made tracks across Sibton Park to the cross-roads
near "The Gate," on Rhodes Minnis. Here there is a
signpost. One finger points the road to Stelling — two
miles distant. I walked along in this direction for a
considerable distance. On either side were woods, and
countless primroses, bluebells, and anemones, painted the
familiar but glorious picture of spring. Although the
sun was screened by grey clouds, the feathered tribe
were revelling in song, above which could be heard the
two notes of the cuckoo, and as one listened to the bird
the truth of the couplet came home:

' Thou hast no autumn in thy song,
No winter in thy year."

I come to a clearance. There is meadow land on either
side, and there my eyes are once more gladdened by the
sight of the swallows and martins flying over the mea-
dows. Springtime is here, indeed. And the trees pro-
claim it. What is more beautiful in this respect than to
gaze on the graceful and feathery larch? Here before
me is a big clump of sombre firs. At a distance their

64-55

ftl

curious foliage would appear to be almost black, and
the two larch trees in front, with their exquisite spring
toilet, only serve to give greater effect to the picture. I
did not proceed as far as Stelling, but turned sharp to
the left at the parting of the ways. Then, perhaps,
after another mile's walk, I arrived at "Six-mile-
houses."

ON TO ELMSTEAD.

"Six-mile-houses" are on the Stone Street Road.
But why this strange name? They are distant nine
miles from Hythe, three miles from Lyminge, and,
I think, ten from Folkestone. At "Six-mile-houses,"
however, is a signpost. The fingers pointed
to many places, but not to my objective — Elmstead.
The country I had walked over from Lyminge had been
for the most part one of unbroken flatness, but now the
land, both arable and pasture, became undulating.
How interesting it is to note the gradations of the colour
of the soil, most of which has been lately turned up by
the plough. One can detect deep red, shading off into
white or grey. This is unknown land to me. Solitude!
Here it is. Houses are miles apart, and human beings
are rarities. Well one of the inmates of "Six-mile-
houses" put me on my way, and walking along a lane, I
vame to two houses — one comprising a farmstead. Thk
is dignified by the name of Maxted-street.

DISTANT VIEW OF ELMSTEAD.

After leaving the "street" before mentioned, I
turned sharp to the right, and then caught my first
glimpse of Elmstead Church. Like unto the city that
stood on a hill, it cannot be hid. Here now is a delight-
ful but lonely valley, in which pasturage and arable
land, with a little woodland, make up the picture. Then
ascending the opposite side of the valley, I arrived at Elm-
stead. But where is the village? There is the church,
with its curious belfry, the "God's Acre," with its three yew
trees and sun dial, an adjoining farm house, and again
one asks; Where is the village? It is scattered, indeed,
and one wonders where the congregation comes from to
fill such a spacious place of worship. There is no
scenery of any account to be seen from this point, but
half a mile further on is a beautiful stretch.

EVINGTON AND ITS PATHETIC STORY.

Still walking along by the high road, I at length
reached Elchin Hill, and a really superb view came sud-
denly before me. Down below in the dip of the valley
was a mansion. It was painted white, and adjoining it

were several red-bricked out-buildings. Backed by
sloping emerald meadows, over which hung a fine belt of
trees, one could hardly conceive a more delightful and
secluded spot for a country house than this. Just at the
right moment I met a gamekeeper, who was pottering in
his garden. Tied up were three retriever dogs, and my
newly-made friend informed me they "worked." That
is to say, the dogs were used for sport as well as guard-
ing the cottage. Down below me was the mansion
already referred to. This was Evington, the one-time
home of the Honywoods. The late Sir Courtenay and
the late Sir John Honywood both resided here. It will
be remembered this beautiful estate became encum-
bered, and the latter owner was compelled, through
force of circumstances, to leave this beautiful home.
The late Sir John died in Folkestone, and the circum-
stances of his passing away a year or two back in a
humble cottage in Garden Road are well within memory.
I learn from my esteemed friend Alderman Dunk that in
the late Sir Courtenay 's days cricket was in great vogue.
The pitch was said to be one of the finest in the county,
and the records of some very excellent matches in those
days are still in evidence. I repeat, this view of Eving-
ton from Elchin-hill is beautiful in the extreme, and if
any of my readers are desirous of a new walk — some-
thing out of the beaten track — let me advise this. I
had intended to walk on to Wye by way of Hastings-
leigh, but darkness co/ning on, I retraced my steps to
Lyminge, via "Six-mile-houses."

"THE PLOUGHMAN HOMEWARDS PLODS HIS WEARY WAY."

Frequently when tramping out alone in some of
these rather out of the way places, the noble lines of
Gray's Elegy come across the mind. How this poet
was seized with the country spirit. There is scarcely a
line in which this does not appear. Only a few days
since I was talking to a generally well-informed man,
and he told me he never heard of, much less read, this
magnificent poem, the pathos and beauty of which are
the priceless inheritance of the Anglo-Saxon race. If
one desires to read perfect English, here it is, in these
noble lines, the polished diction of which is not
far off perfection. "The ploughman homeward plods
his weary way." Here, as I descend the valley to reach
Elmstead once more, the picture comes before me. It
is Saturday evening, and darkness is closing in. The
ploughman has been out at his work from early morning
to six p.m. For him there is no knocking off at one on

Saturday, for him no Shop Hours Act applies. I had a
short conversation with him, and remarked, after en'
quiring as to his hours of work, etc., "To-morrow is
Sunday," And the ploughman replied with a deep
meaning in his voice, "Yes, and thank God for that."
And then he left me with a cheery "Good night."

THROUGH SIBTON PARK TO LYMINGE AND A MEMORY.

Coming down from Rhodes Minnis, and walking
through the Park, one obtains a beautiful vista of
Lyminge. There is the ancient Church, with its nearly
thousand years' of history. The village is growing. In
the quiet evening I think of that good man, the late
Canon Jenkings — the Rector, whose name is fondly re-
membered on the country-side. I see, in imagination,
his slim figure walking through the country lanes, walk-
ing on some errand of mercy, perchance to a labourer's
solitary cottage. The late Canon might not have been
a great ecclesiastic, but he was a profound scholar. He
spoke and corresponded not only in English, but French
and Italian. His knowledge of Latin, and I believe Greek,
was great. He kept up a correspondence with many of
the great contemporaries of his time. Yes, as we stroll
down to Lyminge Station we can but think of one who
has left so well "his footprints on the sands of time."
The late Canon's sympathies with his co-religionists
were as broad as the firmament. Narrow-mindedness
had no place in his character. Well, to conclude. Tak-
ing the train home from Lyminge, I arrived in Folke-
stone after a delightful experience. "It is not always
May," and I advise my readers in this connection to
make hay whilst the sun shines."

A GRAND WALK THROUGH "UNKNOWN" COUNTRY
TO WYE.

A while back I was travelling down to the Central
Station from Lyminge when a well-known tradesman
patronized your contributor with a little converse.
"Ah!" he queried, "have you been on one of your
rambles?" I answered him he was correct in his sur-
mise. Then he proceeded to commiserate with me on
the fact that, unlike himself, I had not "done" the
Rhine, the Ardennes, etc. True, my foreign experience
is confined to the somewhat hurried trips to Belgium and
North of France, but nothing I witnessed there gave me
more delight than my beloved Kent, or the mountains,
lakes, and valleys of Scotland and Wales. My friend

did not excite in me a feeling of envy. Not at all.
Given the capacity to enjoy — and thank my stars I have
that gift — there is a world of delight in this land of ours,
aye, even at the very doors of Folkestone. It may be
that Fate will never permit me to gaze on the Alps or
the marvels of the Rhone Valley; it may be that some
day the opportunity will come my way. However that
may be, in the meantime I am content with that nearest
to my hand, or rather feet, for walking is my prime de-
light. On the first day of "the leafy month" I had one
of the grandest strolls of my life — twelve miles — from
Lyminge to Wye, and what follows is something of my
delightful experience.

ON THE WAY TO OLANTIGH TOWERS AND WYE.

It was Captain D'Aeth, himself a mighty walker,
and a follower to hounds on foot, who first put me on
the track of a walk to Wye. Then later my friends Mr.
E. C. Hann, of Cheriton-road, and Mr. Fred Baker, of
the Leas, suggested in so many words that the treat of
my life in the matter of walking lay out towards Olantigh
and the pretty village which is watered by the winding
Stour. To the three gentlemen amed above, then, I
owe a debt of gratitude. Little did I imagine what a
treat they were recommending me. And now for the
tramp — always at the rate of two and a half miles an
hour. It was just ten when I stepped out of the train
at Lyminge. Field glasses, pipe, stick, a little proven-
der, and a map — these were my friends and companions.
Ah! but I had left other friends behind — friends who, I
have pleasant reason to know, often follow me in my
wanderings. In office, shops, private residences, or
schools, I think of you, and having your kind approval, it
gives one a sense of encouragement to continue my
pleasant jaunts. To resume. In a short time I had
covered Sibton Park (looking more attractive than ever),
passed Rhodes Minnis, and, leaving "The Gate" on my
right, taking my cue from the finger of the sign post at
the adjoining cross roads, made for the direction of
Sfcowting Common. For a mile or so I strolled on the
road through West Wood, and feasted my eyes for a
few moments in "considering" trie "lilies of the field"
(valley). Here they grow in wild luxuriance, and yours
is the enjoyment of beholding them in the depths of the
wood on the payment of a small sum. But you must
be quick if you would gaze on the picture, for the flowers
will soon have lived their shbrt lives. Now I am once
again at "Six-mile-houses" on the Stone Street.

L1MMERIDGE GREEN, EVINGTON PARK, AND BODSAM
VILLAGE.

In reply to a query as to the route I should take, a
kindly farmer at once put me on the track for Limmer-
idge Green, near Stowting Common. In a few minutes
I arrived there, and, "picking up" Elmstead Church on
the hill opposite, I crossed the meadows and gained the
roadway which skirts that place of worship. Some
weeks ago I endeavoured to describe a tramp out this
way — how I stood on Elchin Hill overlooking Evington
Park and its mansion. But darkness coming on, I was
obliged to retrace my steps without walking through the
estate which is associated with the Honywood family.
On this glorious Sunday morning, however, I walked
across the Park, which is surrounded with well-wooded
hills. Jn a few moments I joined the road close to the
mansion, and bearing to the right made for Bodsam Vil-
lage, half a mile distant. The pedestrian may also walk to
Wye via Hastingleigh. The sign-post, near the man-
sion, points the way. There are about twenty houses
forming the village, and the inhabitants are associated
either directly or indirectly with the estate. Very
beautiful does one cottage appear with its frontage
covered with the mauve chains of the flowering wisteria,
the roses in the garden perfecting the picture. It was
my first visit to Bodsam. There was not a soul about,
and I really felt a stranger in a strange land. Although
walking gently, I felt that I could rest awhile. Now
feeling refreshed I tramped on to Hassell Street (the
natives pronounce it "Hazel").

A FRIENDLY GAMEKEEPER.

Human beings are rarities in this district, and the
motor cars and cycles are seldom, if ever, seen. Woods,
belonging to the Evington Estate, now encompassed me
on every side. To lose one's way out here is no joke,
and I was glad to have the assurance from a gamekeeper
who had just emerged from a wood with a fine retriever
and a gun that I was "all right for Hassell Street."
"Yes, keep on. Don't take any notice of the cross
roads, but go straight on." A nice fellow was this
ruddy faced son of Nature, and we had quite a pleasant
chat about the good old days of the late Sir John. It
appears the estate is now owned by Lord Ashburton, who
has sub-let it, with all its woodlands, to a private gentle-
man, who, moreover, is endeavouring to revive the
glories of the cricket so famous in the late Sir Courte-
nay's days. The celebrated "pitch" is being got into

condition, and I expect to learn of some good sport out
here in the not far distant future.

HASSELL AND PETT STREET.

In Chambers 's Dictionary I find the word "street"
denned thus: "A road in the town lined with houses,
broader than a lane." Well, out in these rural
"streets" houses are remarkable for their absence.
When I reached Hassall Street I found about three cot-
tages, and I may mention here, I was much amused.
On the right hand side of the roadway was a pond, on
the bank of which was a hen in a great state of agita-
tion. Her brood of ducks which she was bringing up
had just jumped into the water, and the bird without
webbed feet was flapping her wings and giving utterance
to queer sounds. Still not a soul about. I knocked at
one of the cottage doors and enquired yet again as to
my route. One of my halting places was to be Marriage
Farm. A rural friend came out in the roadway and
pointed to a red-bricked house standing alone upon a
hill about a mile distant. On again, and then down a
really entrancing lane, interlaced with foliage, I passed
Sutton Farm and arrived at Pett Street (one house here).
The roadway ceased, and it was a case of making tracks
over field and meadow paths. I had lost sight of the
farm, because of a "dip" in the valley.

LOSING MY WAY I SOON FOUND IT AGAIN.

At Pett Street I lost my track for a little time by
bearing to the left instead of the right. However, I did
not regret this, because the scenery was wonderfully
varied and charming. After a bit of aimless wandering
I made my way back to the one dwelling in Pett Street.
This lies in a kind of "sleepy hollow," tucked in amidst
the woods and the hills. I tapped at the open door.
This caused quite a little excitement. The children ran
off with the cry, "There's a man out there in the gar-
den," and the whole family, including the husband and
wife, and dog, came out to gaze upon me. I submitted
to the ordeal, and then informed the gentleman of the
house (who was attired in his shirt sleeves) that I
wanted to reach Marriage Farm. I pointed the way
I had taken, up a bridle path and across a meadow
which appeared to lead to nowhere, and then my friend
chuckled. "Why, you wus going quite out of the way.
Marriage Farm you want, der you? Well, you see that
track acrost the medder. There is no path, only a
track. Keep to that till yer come to d'ole hedge. Keep
alongside te 'ole hedge, bear to right, and up t* hill, and

there's Marriage Farm." A good old sort was this only
adult male inhabitant of Pett Street. I thanked my
friend profusely, and handing him an illustrated weekly
paper 1 had in my possession (and which he termed a
"godsend") I was soon well on the way to Marriage
Farm. This I soon reached. Standing well alone, it
could not be mistaken.

LOVELY SCENERY.

All the way from Elchin Hill and Evington the
wooded country presented a fine spectacle, but now I
gazed on scenery of quite a distinct character. _ After a
call at Marriage Farm I sought for Little Olantigh Farm,
which was down below the hillside. Taking my instruc-
tions from the farmer at "Marriage," I made my way
across a meadow on rising ground. Reaching the sum-
mit a really marvellous view suddenly burst upon my
astonished gaze. There beneath was a somewhat flat
but well-wooded country, which included Wye and far
beyond. (In this vicinity is the far famed racecourse.)
The grand amphitheatre of hills rising from the Stour
Valley rolled away towards Gomersham and Chilham.
The woods now became veritable forests. There on the
opposite ridges was the famous King's Wood, about
15,000 acres in extent. This stretches from Wye and
miles out towards the north-west. My field glasses
helped me to take in the really glorious panorama, of
which I heard so much. I was rewarded at each turn
with a fresh picture. The scenery for all the world re-
minded me of Ilkley and Patterdale (the Switzerland of
England), in Yorkshire, and if a wide river had been
winding through the valley it would almost prove the
counterpart of the view from Richmond Hill (Surrey).
So vast, varied, and charming is the panorama of this
undulating wooded country, that my weak words can
poorly convey what it means. Really my walking
friends must go out this way. It was now half-past one
when I arrived at Liftle Olantigh Farm, where I received
a right royal welcome.

A FARMER'S WELCOME.

At length I arrived at Little Olantigh Farmhouse.
The front of this is covered with self-clinging ivy, and
a nice garden flourished with old English flowers. Mr.
Bond, the head gardener at Olantigh Tower mansion,
lives in a pretty house opposite. Save for this there is
no other tenement near. Regarding Mr. Bond, he is
well known both at Folkestone and elsewhere as a just'
judge at flower shows. I tapped at the door of Little

Olantigh, and it was opened. Then there was a brief
converse between mine host-that-was-to-be and myself.
We were complete strangers. However, both had heard
of each other; I was welcomed (and the right ring about
it, too) with that good old Kentish handshake and
"Come in and make yourself really at home." I be-
lieve I carried out this kindly command to the letter.
Mine host was none other than Mr. William Hann (he
is known as "Sweet William" out this way), the brother
of our esteemd towtnsman, Mr. E. C. Hann, of Cheri-
ton-road. Yes, I carried this latter gentleman's cre-
dentials with me, and these acted like magic. "Now
you must feel peckish after that long walk," remarked
mine host. He then vanished, but only to reappear
again with his good wife, who, after an introduction,
placed before me a cold collation which did not err on
the side either of quality or quantity. "Peg away, and
dont hurry." That was the order I received, and I sat
down and enjoyed a meal fit to set before a king, for the
air on the uplands of Wye had done its work.

OLANTIGH TOWERS, THE PARK, AND THE RIVER STOUR.

After a rest Mr. Hann and myself walked
round the park. The noble trees here compel attention.
Many of them appear as if they had been trimmed, so
perfect are their forms. Truly grand, with its wealth
of foliage, is a beech immediately opposite the gates of
Olantigh Towers. A great part of this mansion was
consumed by fire a few years back, but, phoenix-like, a
new building has arisen from the ashes, and the archi-
tect may be congratulated on the design. I caught a
glimpse of The Towers, its flowers, and terraced gar-
den, watered by the silvery and winding Stour. Grand,
indeed, are the tapering forms of the Wellingtonians out
on the lawn. These magnificent trees, natives of Cali-
fornia, appear to do well in this county. A fine speci-
men of them, by the way, is to be seen in the American
Gardens. A break in the foliage of the enclosed ground
revealed a fine life-sized equestrian statute of old Squire
Drax. The pose of the horse and its rider (who has
the reins in one hand and his hat in 'the other) is excel-
lent. Both figures are facing the mansion. The pre-
sent Squire, who bears the family name, has reason
indeed to be proud of his residence. The situation is
perfect. It ensures privacy, tranquility, and, I trust,
peace and prosperity. After <& pleasant time, and
counting the sheep and lambs (according to farmer's
method) in a large meadow, mine host and myself returned
to the farm.

"DROWSY TINKLINGS LULL THE DISTANT FOLD."

Then later in the day I was present at a nice little
family gathering — a round dozen or so. And what a
pleasant time we had! I think we were all youngsters
for a time. Yes, I thought of that line from Gray's
Elegy, as I looked up and noticed in the living room of
this farmhouse sixteen bells. These were affixed to a
pole, and this was secured in turn to a big beam on the
ceiling. A townsman, I was curious as to those bells.
It appears many years ago they were fastened round
the necks of sheep in yonder "distant fold." They con-
prised two octaves, from the lower to the middle and
upper C. And I could understand Mr. Hann when he
said, "The sound of the bells was beautiful, and many
from a distance would come to listen to the sounds."
One can imagine, say in the quietude of a summer or
autumn evening, what that meant. In days gone by,
when the bells were used, foxes or stray dogs came
down from the woods and worried the sheep and
lambs, and H: he agitated bells would keep off intruders.
Those on the beam often now emit musical
sounds. "I should like to hear a tune on them," I re-
marked, perhaps naturally. My desire was gratified,
for one of the elder children mounted a chair, and with
a couple of improvised hammers, played in capital style
some of the hymn tunes which have been our priceless
possessions since childhood's earliest' days. The novelty
of it all and the excellence of 'the performance, delighted
me exceedingly. Ah! those old sheep bells on the beam
carry with them for me a delightful memory.

IT SEEMED LIKE OLD TIMES.

Away from the tear and rush of town life, one seemed
transported into another age. There was the wood fire
in the grate (coals are somewhat of a rarity up here), and
the sweet scent from the same pervaded the atmosphere.
There in the adjoining scullery is a well. As I gazed on
this with a bit of curiosity, mine host informed me that
the bucket (which holds nine gallons) had to be lowered
165 feet before it reached the precious fluid. "Still mak-
ing myself at home," and entering into the spirit of the
thing, I laid on to the handle and turned 160 feet of chain
with a full bucket attached. I confess it was the hardest
bit of physical work I had done for many a day. "Well
done!" remarked by jolly farmer, and those also who
had gathered round. There's no turning on the tap
here, as in town. True, there is a constant supply 165
feet below, but it "wants raising."

A LAST LOOK ROUND.

The sands of time were fast running out, and there
was the last train to catch at Wye Station — a mile and
a half distant. However, before leaving Little Olantigh
Farm, I had a look round at the stock and the outbuild-
ings. Amongst many other things I noted how well the
place was kept up, glanced at the healthy cattle and well-
conditioned sheep, lambs, and some lively members of the
porcine race. There was the pony in the meadow — sleek
and fat — in spite of his two-score years; in a manger,
too, was a fine tortoiseshell cat (a famous ratter), happy
with its kittens; and a thousand and one otiher little
things might be mentioned. And I might here remark to
those who favour the English meat supplied by Mr. E. C.
Harm, of Cheriton-road, that nearly all the beef, mutton,
lamb, etc., is grown here on the magnificent pasture land
in this district Besides Marriage and Little Olantigh
Farms, our fellow townsman has fine fattening pasturage
down at Wye itself. Next we trotted round the cherry
and apple orchard, and I talked learnedly (or thought so)
about good fruit trees, etc. "The shadows of departing
day creep on once more," and the time had arrived for
my departure, but not before a lovely nosegay out of the
front garden was placed in my hand. And then "Au re-
voir" to the kindest of new-made friends. "But you must
not go alone ; someone must see you off to the station."
And three of us then went bowling along — not at two and
a half miles an hour, but I should say at about five-
through the glorious park. The nightingales here and
there were pouring out their glorious song ; and then one
could hear the mellow sound of the bells of Wye Church.
These bells number. eight. They were cast at the White-
chapel Foundry in the eighteenth century. The tenor
weighs 22cwts. 3qrs. 2olbs. Nearing the town, or en-
larged village, a railway whistle fell on my ear. Then the
station, and a parting. My final words were these: "I
thank you all very much for your kindness, and I hope
to come down this way again some day." And a voice
was heard to reply: "Wye (why) not?" (No pun in-
tended.) And that question will live in my mind until I
have made yet another exploration of this lovely part of
our lovely Kent.

WHEN WOODS ARE BARE.

One winter's morning I walked through at least twelve
miles of that grand cathedral, not made with hands, viz.,
the rural districts around Acrise and Elham. It was what
they call "a bit heavy going." There was mud about,

and grey clouds veiled the winter sun. But the air — how
sweet it was ! What ? Nothing of interest in the country
during these dull months? Absurd! The very leafless
trees, with the appearance of death upon them,, really tell
a wondrous tale of life. All around them are the leaves —
golden russet, brown. Yes, these leaves resemble the
human kind. They have lived their lives. Back again
they go to be absorbed into mother earth. But the sway-
ing branches are full of life. There are the buds already
formed. Some are more prominent than others. Sealed
over with Nature's gum, they only await the breath of
spring to burst and clothe the bare trees vsith a
glorious dress. We are reminded of the mildness
of the weather, for here and there a primrose or a
wild strawberry blossom is to be seen. Gleaming, too,
through the tangled growth one occasionally notices the
red bloom of the bachelor's button. These, however,
similarly to centenarians, are few and far between. Nothing
of interest in the country in winter? Of the beautiful
sights one may gaze upon just now are the mosses. On
the roadside through which I strolled were some truly
magnificent specimens. Strange, but true, the mosses
just now may be seen to perfection. There is a little tuft. In
imagination one may fancy oneself in the presence of a
forest of pines. The trees rear their lofty forms — we are
in a measure compelled to admire their beauty — but this
beauty of the mosses must be sought for. And it is worth
the seeking. It reveals a new world. And, mentioning
these fascinating and modest growths, I was informed a
few days since that if by chance you should be without
compass and lost in a wood or forest, seek out the mosses.
By doing so it would be possible to pick up the bearing,
as these growths always turn towards the point of the
compass from which the most moisture can be obtained,
viz., south-west. And so there is some knowledge to be
gained even from the mosses, which millions of eyes pro-
bably pass by without so much as a glance. Then walk-
ing on by the side of a wood I noticed for a few moments
a couple of squirrels running up and down a tree trunk,
and then gracefully leaping from branch to branch. A
pretty sight, indeed. As I watched them in their native
haunts I could not but think of the cruelty of caging
these engaging little animals, who, through the plenitude
of this year's nuts, are having the time of their lives.

And now my "Rambles Around Folkestone" must close
tor the present. If Providence, however, permits, I intend to
write yet another volume on this subject which is very near to
my heart.

MY " DISCOVERY " OF NORTH WALES.

THE LONDON AND NORTH WESTERN RAILWAY AND
FOLKESTONE.

Of the many railway companies who cater for holi-
day folk in these islands none is more enterprising and
progressive than the London and North Western
Conscious that their far-flung system, with its wide-spread
branches and splendid steamers, reaches the choicest beauty
spots in Great Britain and Ireland, the "Chairman and
Directors, together with a well-administered publicity or
intelligence department, are accomplishing their full share
in the necessary task of educating the public to the fact
that there is some of the grandest scenery in the universe
to be found, as it were, at our very doors. We have a
beauty all our own. It is characteristic of a type. Some
have had first-hand experience of the marvellous natural
scenery in other countries, but this does not prevent us
from appraising our own at its true value.

ANTICIPATIONS MORE THAN REALISED.

A word as to the railway run. Entering a corridor
train at Euston, I travelled luxuriously towards the remote
mountain village of Llanberis, at the foot of Snowdon.
Our train ran for four hours without a stop. On we sped,
through such great centres as Rugby, Stafford, Crewe, until
Rhyl was reached. True, we slowed down occasionally,
but the speed was well maintained. Gliding is the word
to use for travel on this system. When trie train was
dashing along at a mile a minute or more, I called for
a cup of tea. It was full to the brim, but there it stood
as quietly as it would on one's own table. Not a drop was
spilled into the saucer. My readers can make this test for
themselves. What a treat and revelation to a Southerner
was that 'portion of the journey (a hundred miles or so)
from Rhyl to Carnarvon. The train runs along almost
on the seashore. We passed in turn many a watering place,
including Rhyl, Colwyn Bay, Llandudno, Conway, with
its splendid Castle in a setting of grand scenery, and
Bangor. Then the water narrows, and the Isle of Angel-
sey, with its shelving banks of foliage, appears on the
opposite shore. Gracefully hanging in the air, as it were,
is the lace-like and famous Bridge of Menai, whilst a little

77
further on the railway tubular bridge arrests attention.

LLANBERIS AND SNOWDON.

And now for the last stage of the journey. We
board another train, and run down on a single line of
rails to the pretty village, nestling under the monarch of
Welsh and English mountains. It is a short run, but very
interesting, especially as we pass along the shores of
Lake Padarn — a nice stretch of water. Mountains now
loom up all around, and some of their sides were covered
with purple heather or the yellow blossom of stunted
gorse bushes. Here we are now at the journey's end. In
a clear sky the harvest moon is just peeping over the dim
forms of the mountains. To have gazed on that picture
was alone worth the journey. And on this night two or
three hundred young men from Carnarvon, Bangor, and
other neighbouring places, are coming in to climb Snowdon
in order to witness one of the grandest sights in the world
— the rising of to-morrow's sun.

AN INTRODUCTION TO MR. LLOYD GEORGE.

It was now Saturday morning, and all North Wales
was talking and thinking of the opening of the new non-
sectarian Institute which had been presented by the
Chancellor of the Exchequer to the village of his youth —
Llanystumdwy, about two miles from Criccieth. As this
place was only a few miles off Llanberis, I followed the
crowd. This for many reasons is a day I shall ever
remember. Quarrymen, miners, farmers, labourers,
Churchmen and Nonconformists, Conservatives and
Liberals were assembled to do honour to the Chancellor.
For a few hours, at least, they were united. In-
tense feeling is associated with the name of Lloyd
George, but here in this tiny village the man is
regarded as something approaching an idol. There
were Sir Rufus Isaacs, Mr. Masterman, Sir Hugh
Ellis Nanney (the Conservative candidate whom Mr.
Lloyd George defeated at the last General Election), the
Rector of the Parish (who has crossed swords with the
Chancellor on many occasions over the Welsh Disestab-
lishment Bill), the Baptist Member, the village blacksmith,
who conducted the music, the postman, and many others.
The only discordant note was from a group of suffragists.
They just escaped with their lives, thanks to the police.
After the opening of the Institute an adjournment was
made to the village school, where Mr. Lloyd Georr"
received a greater part of his education. Here a tea was
served to the children and old age pensioners, _With
others, I entered the building, and was introduced to the

Chancellor as one who "had come all the way from Folke-
stone." The hero of the day shook me heartily by the
hand, as did also Sir Rufus Isaacs. I laughingly informed
Mr. George that I was associated with a red-hot Conser-
vative paper, but that made no difference to his courteous
welcome. I informed him of the death of an old friend of
his — Mr. Mather, the interpreter at the Harbour, at which
he expressed his sorrow. And many of his friends will
be interested to hear that Mr. Lloyd George referred to
the Rev. J. C. Carlile as "that most able man." Once more
shaking me by the hand, the Chancellor said : "You have
come to a beautiful country, and I hope you will enjoy
yourself."

LLANBERIS PASS AND SNOWDON.

Sunday is Sunday here. The church bell is about
the only sound that disturbs the silence. All licensed
premises are closed. On this particular Sunday morning
the sun shone brilliantly from a clear blue sky, but the
wind blew strongly. Under these conditions I set out
alone to walk through the really wonderful pass alluded
to above. "Wild and Solitary," "A scene of awful gran-
deur"— these are descriptions of the Pass in the local
guide book. Truthful descriptions, too. The pedestrian
winds his way through a deep gorge, with towering slate
mountains on either side. On each side of the road are
masses of fallen rock, some weighing thousands of
tons. Others there are of lesser size. And when one
looks upwards it would appear that other masses are
likely to become detached. They appear, as it were,
to be almost in the act of falling. With the
wind roaring as through a funnel, the rushing
of the river over its rocky bed, and being
'far away from a human habitation, one mentally remarks :
"How dreadful is this place!" On I walked until I
reached the summit, and sat down once again to wonder-
ingly admire. To gaze upon such a scene is calculated
to make a man think of his littleness, to make him think
that he is as a speck of dust pTaying in trie sunbeam. On
the following day I climbed Snowdon from the Llanberis
side. It took me two and a half hours each way, but my
labour was in vain. I was robbed of the view I was ex-
pecting to enjoy. A cloud settled on the summit, and
there it obstinately remained. Coming down the mountain,
however, the atmosphere became clearer, and I was
rewarded with several fine views of distant peaks. There
is, of course, a railway to the summit, but with others I
preferred to walk the nine miles (double journey), which
in some places is over a very rocky track. But a pair of

Vickery's famous walking shoes held me in good stead.
They never failed me in all my wanderings.

SOME CONCLUSIONS.

Last year I wrote a little description of Windermere,
which is also served by the London and North Western
Company. I was glad to know it was not written in vain,
for it was the means of sending a party of Folkestone
tradesmen to that charming district. Through carriaget
from this town run to or are connected with all the places
I have mentioned. And thus the tourist has this advan-
tage. At a moderate figure he may take a tour ticket for
a period, which will convey him to all the principal beauty
spots in North Wales. In addition to this, the London
and North Western run what are termed observation cars
through the choicest scenery. By this means
the eye has a wider range to take in
the truly glorious scenery that passes in
turn before the view. Without decrying foreign resorts
and countries, I would say to many who have the means
and power, not to turn their backs on this land of ours, for
its beauties would appear to be inexhaustible in its various
types. It is said Shakespeare wrote for all times. And
in its wisdom and foresight the London and North Western
Railway Company appear to have adopted that view, its
enterprise being enshrined in these noble words of the
Bard of Avon: —

"This earth of majesty; this seat of Mars,
This other Eden ; demi-paradise,
This fortress, built by Nature for herself,
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, fliis little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house
Against the envy of less happier lands;
This blessed spot, this earth, this realm,
This England."

And for the purposes of this article I will add Wales,
Scotland, and Ireland. I say to all those then who have
not made the trip to North Wales : Do so when opportunity
offers. And if you want your way made easy, if you need
information as to the journey, communicate with the agent
of the railway, Mr. James Quick, The Broadway, Maid-
stone, or Mr. Ferris, Grace-hill, Folkestone.

AWFUL WRECK OF AN EAST INDIAMAN
OFF THE DYMCHURCH WALL.

ONE HUNDRED AND TWELVE YEARS AGO.

OVER FOUR HUNDRED LIVES LOST, INCLUDING NEARLY
FOUR HUNDRED DUTCH SOLDIERS.

FULL AND UNABRIDGED ACCOUNT.

Through the kindness of Mr. H. Waddefl, of Folke-
stone, I was enabled to give extracts some years ago of an
account of a terrible shipwreck which took place off Dym-
church Wall on November 23rd, 1802. As far as I am
aware this record, which is contained in a small volume,
"The Mariner's Chronicle" (published in 1809 by James
Cundee, Ivy Lane, Paternoster Road) has never appeared
in locally published book or newspaper. At the request
then of several Hythe and Dymchurch friends I now give
the account, which was written by the late Mr. Archibald
Duncan, R.N. It is thrilling reading indeed. Here, then,
is the record : — "The Melville Castle, a British East India-
man, after performing the usual number of voyages, was
put up by the East India Company for sale, and purchased
by an agent of the merchants of Amsterdam trading to
the East Indies. She was navigated to the Dutch port,
where she underwent a tolerable repair in her upper works,
and was now sheathed and coppered, while her 'kness' and
timbers remained in a very decayed state. Thus patched
up, the Company tendered her to the Government, which
then chanced to want a large ship to carry out troops and
stores to the Cape of Good Hope and Batavia, reserving
the liberty to bring home a return freight. A surveyor
was immediately ordered on board, who reported that
the ship was in perfect repair, and wanted nothing but the
necessary stores to equip her for the voyage. The ship
was accordingly furnished with stores of every kind, was
painted throughout, and received the name of the "Vry-
heid," On Monday, November 8th, 1802, the troops des-
tined to embark on board the vessel received orders to
march from Rotterdam to Amsterdam .where three hundred
and twenty men, the flower of the regiment, were selected
out of nearly one thousand, who formed the second
battalion of marines in the service of the Batavian

Republic On Saturday, the 2Oth, the troops were ordered
to embark, which was done without delay ; and early the
following morning the Admiral, Colonel, and all the
officers, went on board the "Vryheid," accompanied by
their ladies, attendants, and domestics. The ship im-
mediately got under weigh, and

PROCEEDED WITH A FAVOURABLE BREEZE

till early in the morning of the 22nd, when it
blew a heavy gale from a contrary direction. The cap-
tain hereupon ordered the top-gallant masts and yards to
be struck, when she seemed to ride much easier than be-
fore. As the day opened, the wind, however, blew with
increased violence, and every exertion of the crew to
render the ship manageable proved ineffectual. The most
serious apprehensions now began to be entertained for the
safety of the vessel, and the state of the ladies on board
was particularly distressing. Some embraced their
children, and wept over them in speechless agony, while
others, in vain, implored their husbands to procure the
means of landing them in safety on their native shore,
and to give up the voyage. The Commander, Captain
Scherman, was himself in a very trying condition. His
lady was on board with an infant only" three months old at
her breast, and her affliction was aggravated by being-
surrounded with so many females weeping over their off-
spring, and imploring aid at the hands of the Captain,
who had the utmost difficulty to prevail on them to leave
him, that he might attend to the duties of his station.
The ship continued to drive before the wind till about
three o'clock on Monday afternoon, when the storm in-
creased to a perfect hurricane. The mainmast soon
afterwards went by the board with a tremendous crash, by
which accident several of the crew were swept overboard
and drowned, and four or five were wounded. This
disaster greatly augmented the fears of all on board ; the
Captain himself, the admiral, and the other officers, now
seemed to consider their lives in the most imminent
danger ; for though they were near enough to the Kentish
shore to discern objects, yet the waves, which then rolled
mountains high, totally precluded the possibility of receiv-
ing any assistance.

A SIGNAL OF DISTRESS

was now hoisted, and after great exertion the
ship came to anchor at the entrance of Hythe
Bay, but as it was quite dark no assistance arrived
from the shore, though the wind was not quite
so tempestuous. The crew were plentifully regaled

by the Captain's orders, and a beam of hope illumined
every countenance, but it wasz alas! of short duration.
The ship was found to have sprung a leak ; all hands were
ordered to the pumps, and while thus employed the storm
came on again with redoubled violence. Universal con-
sternation now prevailed ; the shrieks of the females and
the children at each successive blast of wind were sufficient
to unman the stoutest heart. Every relief that circum-
stance would admit was afforded by the ship's company and
the troops to the unfortunate ladies, many of whom were
by this time clinging round their husbands and fainting
in their arms. In this dismal situation they remained
several hours, during which time the greatest order and
sobriety jeigned. She was now near Dymchurch Wall,
where the coast for a space of about two miles is pro-
tected from the encroachments of the sea by overlaths
and immense piles, and is further secured by large wooden
jetties stretching far into the sea. On the first of these
jetties the unfortunate vessel struck. In this desperate
situation, the wind becoming more and more boisterous,
the Captain ordered the mizen-mast to be cut away, and
all the water in the hold to be starter, by staving the
casks, while a part of the crew, under the direction of the
officers, were incessantly employed at the pumps. Almost
all the ballast was heaved overboard, but in spite of every
exertion,

THE DANGER SEEMED EVERY MOMENT TO INCREASE.

The officers could not now refrain from reproaching the
Captain with having slighted the advice of the English
in the boat ; he appeared deeply sensible of his error, but
it was too late to repent. The admiral recommended the
sheet anchor to be cut away, which was accordingly done,
and nearly two cables were veered out, in the hope of
bringing off the ship. Meanwhile, she continued to beat
upon the piles, and the sea to break over her with such
violence that the men were no longer able to remain in
the hold. The pump had, by this time, become so com-
pletely choked with sand and mud as to be rendered totally
useless, and a speedy death appeared inevitable. The
foremast soon afterwards went over the ship's side, hurry-
ing along with it twelve of the crew, who were instantly
out of, sight. The ladies now began to strip themselves,
a custom which is seems is usual among the Dutch females
on similar occasion, and several were handed to the bow-
sprit, attended by their husbands. The others choose to
await their fate on the quarter deck, where stood the
Admiral and Colonel of the Regiment, with their ladies,
who were affording assistance to Mrs. Scherman, then suck-

ling her infant at the feet of her husband. About eight
o'clock the rudder was discovered to be unshipped, while
the tiller was tearing up the gun deck, and the water rush-
ing in very fast at the ports. At this moment most of the

PASSENGERS AND CREW JOINED IN SOLEMN PRAYER,

to the Almighty, and while engaged in this
act of devotion, the sea foamed dreadfully,
and made a fair break over them, so that
they were obliged to exert every effort to remain
in the ship. From the uncommon fury and roaring of the
waves the guns could scarcely be heard even on board, and
no hope remaining of obtaining success from the shore.
As a last expedient, the Captain gave orders to cut away
the anchors" from the bows, when a violent swell immed-
iately parted them, and the ship drifted with irresistible
force further on to the piles. The unhappy sufferers
had no other prospect than that of instant destruction;
every human exertion had been made to save the vessel;
nothing more could be done, and all stood in silent suspense
awaiting 'the awful moment that should hurry them into
eternity. The morning was unusually dark, and what
aggravated the horrors of the terrific scene, the ship
was not more than four or five cable lengths from the
shore, so that the crew could discern several people on
the Wall, but who were unable to attempt to afford any
relief. It was about twenty-five minutes after eight
when a tremendous sea dashed with such force against
the ill-fated vessel, that after rocking like a cradle for
two or three seconds, she split her timbers and imme-
diately broke her back. A*bout 170 persons were im-
mediately overwhelmed by the furious element, and not
one of them reached the land. The wreck, then torn
asunder, still presented nearly 300 miserable objects
clinging to the various parts that remained above water,
and

THE TREMENDOUS NOISE OF THE FOAMING BILLOWS

was entirely drowned by the piercing shrieks of the females
and children. At the earnest request of the Admiral,
the jolly boat, which was hanging over the stern, was
now launched, and he, together with the colonel and
eight females, were helped into her. Mrs. Scherman
wept incessantly, but refused to quit her husband to
accompany them. They had noft proceeded far when
a dreadful sea broke over them, and the boat immedi-
ately disappeared. In a few moments the Colonel was
observed endeavouring to support his lady above water,

when a returning wave overwhelmed them and they rose
no more. The ship was settling rapidly, and each de-
termined to risk .some experiment to reach the shore.
The captain proposed to his lady that they should make
themselves fast to a large hen-coop, and commit their
lives to the mercy of the waves. A few of the crew
having cut away the coop, and with great difficulty made
fast the captain and Mrs. Scherman and her infant, an
affectionate parting, lowered them down over the
stern. They had nearly reached the Wall, followed by
the anxious looks of those on board the wreck, when
a huge piece that had been ddtached from it drove them
completely under, and they were never seen to rise,
painful as was this spectacle to the remaining survivors,
their whole attention was absorbed in contriving (the
means of their own preservation. A lieutenant, his
wife, and two female domestics of the unfortunate
admiral, sltill remained on the wreck, and the men
agreed to make one more effort to save them. Seizing
one of the hatches which had been torn asunder, they
fastened it to 3, piece of the quarter galley, and

LASHED THE FEMALES TO THE PLANKS,

while the lieutenant, being a good swimmer,
stripped, and having likewise taken a rope
round his middle, the raft was lowered into the
water. In a few .seconds a tremendous gust of wind
overturned the raft and hurled every soul to the bottom.
Thus perished all the officers and females who remained
on the stern of the wreck. The bow-sprit was about this
time torn asunder from the other piece of the wreck.
There, as it has been already observed, many of the females
and officers had taken refuge. The number of persons
about the rigging and various parts of the bows was now
about one hundred and five, who were driven towards the
wall by the violence of the surf. Those on the stern
watched the event wifh the utmost solicitude, and just
when they supposed their unfortunate companions to be
beyond the reach of further clanger, a tremendous sea
broke urx>n them and overwhelmed them all in one general
destruction. The sea was instantly (covered with their
bodies, and many of the unhappy wretches had nearly
reached the shore, when wave upon wave at length
triumphed over all their exertions. Among the most in-
teresting of the sufferers was a captain of marines,
swimming with one hand, and supporting his lady by her
hair with the other, tilt, overcome with cold and fatigue,
he turned round, clasped her in his arms, and both
immediately sank.

THE WRECK MEANWHILE WAS GRADUALLY DISAPPEARING,

and many of the seamen and marines suc-
cessively seizing on various timbers, precipitated them-
selves into that destruction that they were so anxious to
escape. It was natural, that after so many dreadful exam-
ples, none of those who remained on the wreck should be
willing to attempt similar experiments. Not more than
forty-five were now left on both parts of the wreck, which
frequently become so entangled that the men were near
enough to converse with each other. Their situation was,
however, rapidly approaching to a crisis ; the planks were
torn away from all parts, and each succeeding sea swept
away two or three of the survivors. At length two of the
seamen determined to lash themselves to a large hog-
trough, and to endeavour to reach the land. They were
handed over to the larboard side, and after a miraculous
escape from a f rajgment of the wreck they made the beach
in safety. Out of all the adventurers who had quitted the
ship these were the first that reached the desired shore.
Their success contributed greatly to animate those who
remained behind, who instantly fell to work to form a kind
of raft, which, in a few minutes, was sufficiently rigged.
To this frail conveyance the survivors committed their
lives, and had scarcely cleared the wreck when a heavy
sea struck the wreck with such impetuosity as to dash
her into a hundred pieces. From the numerous fragments
of the wreck, floating in every direction, each of which
seemed to threaten inevitable destruction, the situation of
those on he raft was perfecly awful. They continued,
however, to drift nearer the Wall, when a piece of the
wreck ran foul of them, swept off eighteen out of thirty-
three, and wounded all the rest in a greater or lesser degree ;
at the same time they were driven forward with such
velocity as to be unable to afford any relief to those who
were struck off. One of these poor fellows was snatched
from the deep by the enterprising

HUMANITY OF A MR. KEMP, OF HYTHE,

who, at imminent hazard of his own life, was
observed endeavouring to to save another, a soldier,
when a piece of timber struck the latter on the
head, and he sunk. About ten minutes after this fatal
accident the survivors reached the wished for shore, half
dead with fatigue and the severe bruises they had re-
ceived. Thus out of four hundred and seventy-two per-
sons who embarked in the "Vryheid" not more than
eighteen escaped. The wretched remnant of the crew of
that ill-fated vessel received from the inhabitants of the

adjacent coast such generous attention as not only con-
tributed to their recovery, but amply relieved all their
necessities. They likewise collected the bodies of the
unfortunate sufferers, scattered for many miles along the
coast, and were at the expense of interring them in a
decent manner. Captain Scherman, his wire, and child,
who was found at the breast, and many more of the
officers and their bodies were committed to the grave
with every mark of respect. A very liberal subscription
was raised by the inhabitants of Folkestone and Hythe
to enable the survivors to return to their native land, which
they reached about ten days after the fatal accident. It
is a circumstance worthy of remark that a small merchant
vessel, which left the Texel the same day as the "Vry-
heid" took on board a pilot off Margate, and was brought
safe into port without losing a single hand during the
storm. The following is an accurate statement of the
crew and passengers of the "Vryheid": — 312 soldiers, 12
officers, 22 women, 20 passengers, 7 children, 51 seamen.
Total: 454 persons LOST. 8 soldiers, 10 seaman.

Total, 1 8 SAVED.

After reading the above and remembering the dreadful
shipwrecks that have occurred in this neighbourhood we
may well endorse the words of a famous writer, that "the
stretch of the Channel reaching from Dungeness to the
Downs is the greatest marine graveyard of the world."

QUEEN VICTORIA'S LAST VISIT TO
FRANCE.

THE ROYAL JOURNEY VIA FOLKESTONE AND BOULOGNE.
STIRRING SCENES AT THE EMBARKATION.

The date of March nth, 1899 will live in the memory
of thousands who were* witnesses of the scenes connected
with the embarkation at the Harbour of the late beloved
Queen Victoria. There are reasons I think, why some pro-
minence should be given to a description of this event, be-
cause, with the exception of Mr. Richardson, of the "Daily
Telegraph," I was the only press representative on board
the Royal steamer and who moreover had the privilege of
witnessing at close quarters all that occurred in connec-
tion with the departure of Victoria the Good. There was a
pathetfc interest attaching to the event, as it proved that
Folkestone was to be the last time her Majesty would leave
these shores for a foreign land. How I managed to get
through the lines of the military drawn round the Harbour
and bow I ran the gauntlet of scores of detectives and
policemen was somewhat of a mystery at the time. "No
reporters" — so the edict went forth. However, the late
Mr. John Taylor, the then Superintendent of the police,
smuggled me through with the result that I was able to
give the "Herald" readers the only firsthand report, and
here it is.

Saturday, (March nth, 1899) was an epoch-making
day in the history of Folkestone. Forty-four years have
come and gone since our beloved Monarch visited this
town on her way to Shorncliffe Camp. It is

ALWAYS THE UNEXPECTED THAT HAPPENS,

and this embarkation of the Queen at our port
is only another illustration of the truth of that
oft-repeated saying. People were almost incredu-
lous when it was first announced that the Royal Lady
would pass through here. In some quarters doubt was
openly thrown on the statement. However, Saturday last
was the answer to it all. A proud day indeed was it for
this town, the memory of which will be cherished by this
and succeeding generations. There was no pompous dis-
play or show, but the quiet air of dignity and refinement

about the proceedings — worthy alike of the Sovereign and
her loyal Folkestone subjects. When that splendid type
of the British sailor — Admiral Fullerton — caused the date
of the embarkation to be postponed, perhaps a little dis-
appointment was felt, but, after all, the alterations turned
out to be for the best. Saturday was an off-day with
many work-people, and these were enabled to obtain a
glance of the royal spectacle. "I hope it will be fine for
Her Majesty to-morrow." That expression escaped the
lips <5F thousands on the night of Friday. When at length
morning broke, all doubts on this score were at rest.
Early in the day a little mist hung over the town, but
gradually the sun smiled, shining at length in all its glory.
Above was the blue sky, flecked now and then by a silvery
cloud. The seas sparkled, and the gentle breeze made the
water dance in little wavelets. Sweet it was to breathe
the balmy air of the early spring morn. It was veritable
queen's weather — perfect. All doubts as to Her Majesty's
departure were now at rest, for although it was but nine
o'clock, the Calais-Douvres had taken up her position at
the Pier. It seemed that the whole population had turned
out. Hours before the steamer started crowds had
gathered at any point where a glimpse of the Queen or
the Royal train could be obtained. The shipping in the
Harbour,

FROM THE WELL-FOUND BRIG TO THE TINY FISHING PUNT,

was gay with fluttering flags. From the tower of the
ancient Parish Church, the Town Hall, Custom House, and
other public buildings, waved grandly the Royal Standard
or the Union Jack. In some of the poorer parts of the
town little bannerets were also waving, telling their
tale of love to that great Lady who has won the affection
of her people through her very goodness. The chief
centre of interest was, of necessity, in the neighbour-
hood of the Harbour. A large number of people made
their way thither, in the hope of gaining admittance to
the lighthouse promenade, but not having the coveted
tickets, were doomed to disappointment. Never at any
time, however, wa§ there any confusion, owing to the
very admirable manner, in which the police, both civil and
military, carried out their onerous duties. It was just on
noon when I entered the Harbour Station. Here was a
scene of bustle and activity. The tidal train had just
steamed in. It was heavily-laden with passengers,
amongst whom was our newly-elected Borough Member,
Sir Edward Sassoon, who was accompanied by the Lord
Lieutenant of the County (the Earl Stanhope). Our
Member was carrying a large card-board box, which con-

tained a very beautiful bouquet. The Pier itself
was bright with flags, whilst the scarlet uniforms of the
.guard of honour, which had just arrived under the com-
mand of Captain De Gex, were ranged up in double
lines. A smart body of men were these. Close at hand
stood the splendid band. The regimental colours, too,
emblazoned with the names of many a gloriously-gained
victory, were also a prominent object in the display,
Colour-Sergeants Rollinson and Lloyd standing beneath
the precious folds. The uniforms of the officers added to
the brilliancy of the scene. There was Major-General
Hallam-Parr (although a comparatively young man), his
breast from shoulder to shoulder bedecked with medals
and orders, whilst the same may be said of that gallant
soldier, General Sir Leslie Rundle (Commanding South-
Eastern District), Captain H.S.H. Prince Francis of Teck
(A.D.C.), Captain Everett (A.D.C.), and other officers of
the general staff.

THE BELLS OF THE PARISH CHURCH WERE NOW SENDING
OUT THEIR JOYOUS SOUND

acioss the water. Over yonder, fringing the
Leas, with their faces turned seaward, were
many thousands, whilst the brow and slopes
of the East Cliff were black with masses of people.
Nearer at hand, on the lighthouse promenade or the East
Pier the spectators had taken up positions — all waiting for
the royal train. The temporary scarlet covered gangway
and platform down which the Queen would pass to the
deck of the steamer was all in readiness. There was still
an hour to wait, and I employed that time in exploring the
magnificent Calais-Douvres, which, it goes without the
saying, was spick and span from stem to stern. A sailor
lad carried my card to Captain G. W. W. Payne, and that
fine specimen of the British seaman gave me the heartiest
of welcomes to his ship. In his spell of thirty-four years'
service I suppose Captain Payne has carried across nearly
every royal head in Europe, including the ever-to-be-
regretted Empress of Austria. Said the Captain to your
contributor on Saturday: "It has always been the height
of my ambition to take Her Majesty across. This is a
proud day for me." The Captain, who looked as proud
as he felt, then .gave me permission to stroll at will over
the vessel. On the scarlet quarter deck was the Queen's
private cabin — a very cosy little apartment, comfortably
furnished. The table was adorned with little vases of
flowers — lilies of the valley, violets, pansies, and other
varieties — all fresh from Osborne. In one corner stood
a small cabinet on which stood a rack

containing writing paper and envelopes, black-
bordered, and stamped with the Imperial Crown. On the
same deck was another private cabin, to be used by the
Royal Princesses and the other distinguished members of
the suite. This was draped in material of delicate pink,
made still more attractive by several graceful feathery
palms. The vessel was scrupulously clean, and not a speck
of dust or dirt could there be seen. Strolling down below
decks, I was introduced to Mr. W. P. Huddle, the chief
engineer, who had been crossing and re-crossing this
Channel for the past six and thirty years. As with the
Captain of the ship, so with this estimable gentleman, he
had taken across the great ones of the earth, but

IT WAS THE CROWNING JOY OF HIS LIFE

that he should stand by his engines with
the Queen of his country on board. " Come
and look at the engines" said Mr. Huddle, as he pointed
to them with something akin to affection. "Aren't they
beauties " Yes, I will say, they were a picture — models
of cleanliness. Every bright part glistened like silver.
Those masses of s'teel, now lying dead and dor-
mant, represented the indicated horse power of 6,500
horses. They drive the vessel through the
water at a 2O-knot speed. Altogether I understand the
Calais- Douvres cost the good round sum of £95,000.
She is indeed a magnificent specimen of the shipbuilder's
handiwork. The inspection of the engineer's department
gave me great satisfaction, made all the more enjoyable
by the gentlemanly courtesy with which I was received.
Entering the saloon I found quite a scene of bustle and
activity. Here the preparation for the Royal luncheon
was going on, under the superintendence of Mr. Evans, of
the Royal Pavilion Hotel. The tables in the saloon were
set out with the greatest possible taste, with the best that
money could procure. Mr. Evans had a great respon-
sibility, having no less than three separate luncheons to
prepare and serve. As a matter of interest I herewith
quote Her Majesty's menu : —

Consomme.
Cotelettes d'Agneau Pannes.

Volaille Braisee au Riz.

Cailles au Feuilles de Vigne.

Pommes Nouvellesi Pois Nouveaux.

Salade.

Asperges en Branche.
Sauce Hollandaise.

Froid.
Roast Beef. Chicken, Tongue.

Patisserie Assortie. Milk Puddings.

Pommes Curtes.

Dessert.

I have heard on the best authority that Mr. Evans received
the highest commendation or the very able manner in
which he carried out his arduous duties, in the execution
of which he received the loyal support of his friend and
neighbour, Mr. Waind, of the Burlington Hotel, Dover.
As the hour for the arrival of the royal train drew near
expectancy grew higher. I now stepped on to the open
deck, and a picturesque sight unfolded itself to me.
Admiral Fullerton, of the Royal Yacht, arranged in a gor-
geous uniform, was wearing his scarlet sash. The gallant
sailor was attended by an aide-de-camp. A large area of
water on the east side of the steamer was marked off with
buoys. Within that limit no craft of any sort was allowed.
The gallant coastguardsmen in their smart galley were
rowing about on police duty, whilst chief officer Onslow
at the tiller was constantly exchanging signals with a sailor
stationed on the scarlet-covered bridge of the Calais-
Douvre. Look over the side of the vessel and gaze shore-
ward. Those storm-Beaten cliffs, the famous Leas, the
liglrthouse promenade, were literally alive with human
beings — all with their eyes turned towards us. Still the
glorious sun shone brightly ; the bells shout out their song
of joy over sea and ,land. Perhaps the prettiest sight of
all was the scores of little boats rowed out from the
Harbour by

THE TAN-FROCKED FISHERMEN.

These fearless men and boys were deter-
mined to give the Queen a send off in
their own peculiar way. Out yonder is a steam
barge, and on its deck is an operator working the cine-
matograph, the film, no doubt, faithfully recording the
historic scenes. Mr. Neville Wyatt, as enthusiastic a
photographer as he is a cricketer, has chartered a sailing
vessel, and he, too, is taking permanent records of the
characteristic scenesV Photographers are everywhere —
one enthusiastic youth by the name of Green climbing up
into a mast of a ship to obtain a "shot" of the royal train
as it passes over the Harbour bridge. It is now nearly
one o'clock, and the royal train is due in a few minutes.
Looking towards Dover I noticed the Trinity Yacht, Irene,
steaming easily towards the Pier. But everyone, with the
exception of those "in the know," was asking what of the
torpedo destroyers. Had rtiere been any mistake as to
time ? Here it was just on the time for starting, and the

escort was not even in sight. But wait a minute! Over
the water there still hung a veil of haze. Gazing towards
the east there suddenly appeared some moving black
specks. They proved to be the destroyers. Only those
who witnessed it will remember the scene. On came those
low-lying craft with lightning speed, throwing up the
spray in clouds before them. In almost a twinkling they
dashed into their allotted positions, awaiting the depar-
ture of the royal steamer. As they lay there almost
motionless on the water, they looked the most innocent
craft in all the world. Now there was all bustle. A mes-
sage arrived that the train had arrived in the Junction
from Windsor two minutes before time. The band had
just played through a fine selection from the opera,
"Romeo and Juliet," when the officer in command of the
guard of honour called his men to attention. Like statues
they stood — smart, erect, soldier-like. The royal train had
now smarted from the Junction. A roll of cheers reached
our ears. We heard the whistle of the engine as the
coaches ran down the Tram-road. The train came on
nearer and nearer. Now the soldiers presented arms, the
band playing the National Anthfem. All anxiety was at
rest. The railway journey had been safely completed,
and the royal carriage in which Her Majesty was seated
drew up to within an inch of the appointed place. The
train was brought down by the Harbour engine No. 69, in
charge of Adam Baker, his fireman being John Davis.
Mr. Charles Croucher (Junction) acted as pilot, and
Messrs. Cheeseman and Hinckley as guards. His Worship
the Mayor (Alderman Salter) and Miss Salter, Earl Stan-
hope (Lord Lieutenant of Kent), Sir Edward Sassoon,
M.P., the Rev. Erskine Knollys (Vicar of Folkestone), and
Mr. A. F. Kidspn (Town Clerk), stood by the gangway,
whilst a few privileged spectators stood on either side.
On the deck to receive the Queen were Major-General
Leslie Rundle, Major-General Hallam Parr, Admiral
Fullerton, Captain Boxer, R.N., Captain Dixon, and
others. All eyes were now turned towards the open door
of the saloon. In a few moments two attendants appeared
carrying our gracious Sovereign in a wheeled chair. All
were bareheaded, and bowed low as she passed by. When
gazing upon the features of Her Majesty one could better
realize those beautiful words of Tennyson —

"Reverend, beloved! O you that hold
A nobler office upon earth
Than arms, or power of brain, or birth
Could give the warrior kings of old.
Her court was pure; her life serene;

God gave her peace; her land reposed;
A thousand claims to reverence closed
In her as mother, wife, and queen.
By shaping some august decree,
Which kept her throne unshaken still,
Broad-based upon her people's will,
And compassed by the inviolate sea."

Interest was now centred in the steamer, as the
Royal Standard was hoisted at the main, the band striking
up the National Anthem.

THE QUEEN,

who was accompanied by their Royal High-
nesses Princess Henry of Battenberg, the
Duchess of York, Princess Victoria of Schles-
wig-Holstein, and the young Prince Leopold of
Battenberg, was then wheeled to her private cabin on the
port side of the vessel. The ladies of the suite were the
Dowager Lady Southampton, and the Hon. Mrs. Bernard
Mallett. There were also present in attendance, Lieut-
Colonel Sir Arthur Bigge (Private Secretary), Lieut.-Col.
the Hon. W. Carrington (Equerry), Captain F. Ponsonby,
and Sir James Reid (the Court physician). The follow-
ing S.E. and L.C.D. officials also travelled down by the
Royal train — Mr. Cosmo Bonsor, M.P. (Chairman), the
Hon. A. Gathorne Hardy (Deputy Chairman), Mr. Alfred
Willis (General Manager), Mr. Charles Sheath (Secretary),
Mr. W. Thomson (Joint Superintendent), Mr. Wainwright
(locomotive and carriage department). The Great
Western representatives were: Earl Cawdor (Chairman),
Mr. Mortimer (Director), Mr. G. L. Wilkinson (General
Manager), Mr. T. J. Allen (Superintendent), Mr. W. L.
Hart (Divisional Superintendent), and Mr. W. H. Waister.
At the instant the band was playing a selection from Her
Majesty's favourite opera "Zampa," and both Miss Salter
and Sir Edward Sassoon had the honour of presenting
magnificent bouquets to the Queen. Her Majesty then
graciously received His Worship the "Mayor. Before lun-
cheon Mr. Alfred Willis was also presented to the Queen
by Sir Alfred Bigge. The baggage was now all on board,
and everything was ready for starting. It was just 1.45
when Captain G. Davies (who as pilot was in supreme
command of the vessel) and Captain Payne mounted the
bridge. The whistle blew, and every seaman and artificer
was at his post. In a moment the signal gong of the
engine room could be heard, the mooring ropes were cast
off, and the great paddlewheels churned up the foam.
Before the vessel had started well on her way Admiral

Fullerton hurriedly came to the side of the bridge and
said to Captain Boxer, R.N.:

" THE QUEEN SAYS, 'NOTHING COULD BE NICER,' "

— of course alluding to the perfect arrange-
ments. As the stately royal steamer (with the
Trinity .flag at the fore and the Royal Standard at the
mam) glided away, the fishermen and the crowds on
shore sent up a ringing cheer, whilst innumerable hand-
kerchiefs fluttered in .the brilliant sunshine.

The bells, too, proclaimed, in their sweet way, a joy-
ful au revoir. The Calais-Douvres was now steaming
along grandly, with the torpedo destroyers on either side,
each of the curious low-lying vessels flying the Union
Jack at the bow. The vessels ran into the bank of haze,
and were soon lost to sight. Thus the
Queen left our shores. It was a sight that
old and young, rich and poor, will ever
remember with feelings of joy, and I cannot close this
article without congratulating the South-Eastern officials,
who were responsible for carrying out all the arrangements,
and in this connection I may mention the name of Mr.
Alfred Willis, who has laboured incessantly to bring about
a good result. When the Queen stepped on board the
vessel, after that fine run of 99 miles, there were not a few
that congratulated Mr. Willis and his loyal colleague, Mr.
Sheath, on this railway tiiumph — for it was a triumph in
many ways. This was the first occasion upon which Her
Majesty had ever left England in the vessel of a private
company. The port of Folkestone is rightly proud of
the honour that has befallen it, and we will all hope and
trust that from this day a new era of prosperity will be
secured for the town. I should add that Captain Davies
and Captain Payne were each presented by Her Majesty
with a breast pin as a souvenir of the crossing. These
practical marks of royal favour were of enamel and gold,
surmounted by a crown.

THE PRESENTATION BOUQUETS.

The following is a description of the bouquet pre-
sented by Miss Salter to the Queen : — Cartleya crispa,
Denarobium Jamiesiana, Odontoglossum Rossii Major,
General Jacquiminot roses, Catherine Mermets, and lilies
of the valley, with spray of asparagus fern.

The bouquet presented to Her Majesty by Sir
Edward Sassoon, consisted of Denarobium and Cattleya
orchids, Catherine Mermet roses, lilies of the valley, and
asparagus fern.

CALA1S-DOUVRES DECORATIONS.

In connection with the Queen's journey, it may be
interesting to know the preparations which have been made
locally. A new state cabin had been built on the upper
deck of the royal mail steamer Calais-Douvres, as also a
specially arranged sloping gangway from the paddle box
to the door of this cabin, so that Her Majesty could be
wheeled from the saloon carriage on to a receiving plat-
form leading to the gangway in the steamer, and so into
the cabin without leaving her wheel chair. This cabin,
fitted up with every convenience, was decorated in white
enamel, and the walls hung with cretonne of an apple-
green ground, with floriated stripes in a creamy white.
The floor, covered with a Brussels carpet, and the windows
with dark green morocco pulls, were screened by green
silk spring blinds with plated fitting, and the doorways
hidden under embroidered Oriental portieres. The furni-
ture for the cabin is a suite of favourite chairs which
always accompany Her Majesty in her journeyings. The
ordinary state cabin in the main deck had also been en-
tirely re-decorated in white enamel, the upholstery re-
made and added to, and covered in a pretty cretonne of
daffodil pattern in shades of cotta pink, and the windows
with the same material; and, as may be gathered, these
apartments presented a refreshing and withall a cosy
appearance, devoid of ostentation. The structural and
decorative work has been carried out by the railway
authorities' own artisans, whilst the upholstery work
has been done by Her Majesty's upholsterers at Dover,
Messrs. Flashman and Co.

THE MAYOR'S CELEBRATION BANQUET.

This historic event took place immediately after the
departure of Her Majesty. The Mayor (Alderman
Salter) presided, and was supported by his Chaplain (the
Rev. Erskine Knollys), Sir Edward Sassoon, M.P., H.S.H.
Prince Francis of Teck (A.D.C.), Major-General Sir Leslie
Rundle, K.C.B., Major-General Hallam Parr, C.B., Captain
Everett (A.D.C.), Mr. Cosmo Bonsor, M.P. (Chairman
South-Eastern Railway), Mr. Gathorne Hardy (Deputy
Chairman S.E. Railway), Captain Boxer, R.N., Earl
Cawdor (Chairman Great Western Railway), Mr. Wilkin-
son (Great Western Railway), Mr. W. H. Waister (Loco-
motive Superintendent, Great Western Railway), Mr. T.
J. Allen (Superintendent of Great Western Railway lineX
Mr. Alderman Spurgen, Mr. Alderman Banks, Mr. Alder-
man Pledge ; Councillors Carpenter, Jones, Peden. Tolputt,
Jenner, Vaughan, Payer, Dunk, Bishopj Mr. A. F. Kidson

(Town Clerk), Mr. H. B. Bradley (Clerk to the Justices),
Mr. A. H. Gardner, Mr. John Taylor (Superintendent of
Borough Police), Mr. W. G. Glanfield ("Folkestone
Herald"), Mr. Nelson Smart ("Express"), and represen-
tatives of the "Daily Telegraph," Standard," "Daily
Graphic," etc.

[Sir Philip Sassoon, Bart., M.P. for the Borough of Hythe. (See Page 136).

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Address presented to M. Paul Cambon (French Ambassadoi) on the occasion of his laying the
Final Stone of the New Pier, July, 1 904.

HOME FROM THE WAR.

THE ACTIVE SERVICE COMPANY OF 5th BATT.
'THE BUFFS."

MEMORABLE SCENES AT SOUTHAMPTON.
A TRIUMPHAL TRAIN JOURNEY WITH THE "BOYS."

At short notice I was despatched to Southampton to
meet the .little band of local heroes which, under Captain
(now Lieut-Colonel) Gosling, represented Folkestone's
patriotism in the Boer War. The arrival oF the "Avon-
dale Castle" at the Empress Dock and the journey home-
ward through Hampshire, London and Kent, was accom-
panied by such stirring scenes that I <>print the account I
wrote at the time. On the score of local patriotism alone
a orecord such as this should be preserved. I was the only
Fblkestonian on the dockside to meet "our boys," and my
experiences on that occasion will only end with life.
Here is the account then which appeared in the "Herald"
on June I5th, 1901 :—

ARRIVAL OF THE AVONDALE CASTLE.

Overnight I had made arrangements for a "wire" to
be sent from Hurst ,Castle apprising me of the passing of
the ship, but through some mischance this did not arrive.
The sea's delays and surprises are proverbial. Having
tTiis in mind I was the more determined to leave nothing to
chance. Accordingly I >was on the quay of Southampton
Dock between four and five a.m. The golden orb of day
had already chased away "the roseate (hues of dawn."
Still as a lake was the glistening water, and a pleasure
it »was to breathe the sweet air of early morn. Numbers
of people, including several smartly-dressed ladies, carry-
ing parasols at this hour, were now making their way to
the quayside. The moorings were all in readiness. Word
went found that the Avondale Castle was at her anchorage
some distance off. Eyes peered out towards the wide
mouth of the river. Several little craft could IDC seen, but
overshadowing these Was the dimly-discerned form of a
large steamer. That proved to be the great liner. Her
6,000 miles journey was all but completed. The dock tug
Ajax (a cheeky-looking little craft) silently crept out for
the purpose of towing in the Avondale. At the dock-head

signals were run up indicating that the vessel might enter.
We knew now that she had left her anchorage, and that
that there would be no more stoppages. Gradually the
dim form in the distance took shape. Now

THE GREAT WHITE HULL OF A STEAMER WITH FOUR MASTS
AND A RED FUNNEL,

burst clearly upon the view. It became the principal object
in a beautiful piceure. Almost imperceptibly 'the Avondale
Castle ^steamed onward towards us, her graceful lines
standing out grandly. The sun, more brilliant than a
couple of hours ago, added to the glory of the scene. So-
near to us now was the vessel that we could hear the
throbbing of the ship's propellers. Ah! there were
other throbbings, too, just now — the throbbing of human
hearts. A white-haired man and his .wife stood near me.
Poor old fellow, he turned his head away and completely
broke down, weeping, like a child. "I hope he's safe, my
son ! my son !" His wife and I whispered to him, and the
old chap regained somewhat of his composure. He had
heard of the seven deaths on the Mongolia/! (a vessel that
had arrived from /South Africa on the previous night),
and the strain of uncertainty was too great Tor him.
There were others, too, who /could not bear the tension.
Little need to wonder at it. These were supreme moments,
and strong emotions had their sway. On comes the grand
and stately ship, the little tug at her bow appearing as a
toy boat. Fringing the rails of the bulwarks, on the
upper decks, in the riggings, a mass of khaki-colour could
be seen. Nearer and nearer the ship comes
onward. Now for a moment she is lost
to view as she is navigated through the
regulation approach. We hear a great roar of cheer-
ing. This proceeded from the 700 men on the Mongolian.
An answering cheer from the Avondale Castle came
promptly. The tug is now rounding the dock head, but
oh! so slowly. "Why don't they come along quicker,"
exclaimed one lady. "This is tantalising," remarked
another. The liner by this time has entered the dock
basin, her huge bows standing thirty feet or more out of
the water. We can now discern that what appeared a
few moments ago to be a dull inanimate mass of brown
or khaki is alive with human faces, but the features cannot
yet be discerned. The excitement on board and on the
Ocean Quay was now intense. High on the promenade
deck of the Avondale Castle stood the whole of the buglers
attached to the troops. With sudden and dramatic effect
these sent out their

NOTE OF JOY ON THE STILL MORNING AIR.

There was no band pn board, but the shrill note of the
bugle under the circumstances was perhaps more appro-
priate than the richest harmony. Two tiny tugs, one at
either end, now pushed the great ship towards her moor-
ings. At last we commenced to recognise those on board.
What a sight is this we now gaze upon ! Thirteen hundred
human faces illumined with joy, that dear old England's
shores had been reached once more.

'(No more the foe can harm ;

No more of leaguered camp,
And cry of night alarm,

And need of ready lamp."

The Avondale Castle, with her precious living freight, is
now moored. Greetings are exchanged between husband
and wife, mother, son, and sweethearts. With the rest of
human kind, I have often gazed on the hot tears of grief,
but never did I see such tears of joy as on this bright June
morning. It was my pleasure to know that the grey-
headed old man I previously alluded to had the pleasure of
greeting his son, and that the officer in charge allowed him
to travel to Aldershot in the troop train. You would now
hear such questions as this from the crowd : "Is Jack so-
and-so on board," and the answer would probably come
back, "Yes, he's all right." And then there would pro-
bably be a fervent "Thank God." Ladies waved their
handkerchiefs or kissed their hands, men shouted, and
some fairly danced with joy when they were assured their
friends were safe on board. This was a really moving
scene that I witnessed on Sunday morning, when Folke-
stone was probably as yet asleep. And now for "our boys."
I had some little difficulty in picking them out, but success
at last rewarded my efforts. There they sat in a group
high up in the forepart of the vessel. As I was the only
Folkestonian on the scene, needless to state, there was a
hearty recognition on both sides. When it became pos-
sible it was with them all "Give us your fist, old man."
I did, and thought it would almost have Been shaken off.
On behalf of the "Folkestone Herald" readers,

I WELCOMED OUR BRAVE LADS HOME.

It was with the idea of providing our gallanl
" Buffs " with the latest local news that I took
down to Southampton a supply of the "Folke-
stone Herald," containing the particulars of the home-
coming festivities. I threw copies aboard the vessel, and
sent one to Captain Gosling (who was now on another
part of the ship) with my card. Needless to state, the

IOO

contents of the "Herald" were eagerly devoured. It was
some time before the troops were allowed to walk ashore.
In the meantime I had the pleasure of waving a welcome
to Captain Gosling, who was standing on the bridge. The
gallant officer appeared bronzed, in the pink of condition,,
and every inch a soldier. There were a few spare moments
at my disposal, and interpreting the wishes (as I found
afterwards) of the boys, I despatched a few telegrams to
Folkestone announcing the safe arrival of the ship. Now
the process of disembarkation commenced, and a sight
it was to watch the khaki-clad warriors file through the
two gangways to the disembarkation shed (a vast wooden
building). Here, for a time, the scene baffled description.
Such welcoming and rejoicing had not been seen for many
a day. All counties were represented, not forgetting
Ireland and Scotland. In an incredibly short time
mountains of baggage were piled up. The great place
resounded with the hum of animated conversation and
laughter; pet cockatoos screeched and monkeys chattered.
Curios by the score appeared on the scene. Zulu shields
and spears, the graceful horns of some South African
animal, curiously wrought bird cages — all these were
mixed up in delightful confusion. Colonel Stacpoole, the
disembarkation officer, calmly surveyed the scene. His
marvellous organising powers in regard to the handling of
returning or departing troops have become famous through-
out the world. The gallant officer lifts his finger and
order at once appears to emerge from chaos. Everything
is worked here with mathematical precision. Just now

I WAS DELIGHTED TO GRASP CAPTAIN GOSLING BY THE

HAND.

The gallant officer is in capital spirits. In the brief con-
versation I enjoyed with him, he said, referring to his
men : "Well, all they do for them in Folkestone will not
be too much. They deserve every consideration. A
better lot of fellows do not exist." From all I heard sub-
sequently and from an independent source, Captain
Gosling has every reason to be proud of his lads. Now
the sharp word of command is heard. A long train runs
into the building, and in a few moments the first section
of the 1,390 returned troops steam out of the building,
the remaining men giving a ringing cheer to their depart-
ing comrades. At length another empty train runs in,
and over some of the carriage doors is the magic word
"Canterbury." Into these our brave boys enter, and
tWrough a special favour of the military authorities I was
allowed' to .accompany them on what proved to be a
memorable journey. Out of Southampton we steamed to

101

the accompaniment of ringing cheers. Stifling hot was
the day, and the carriage like an oven. The boys, how-
ever, remarked it was beautifully cool. A nice little lot
we were, and, following the general example, I took off
my coat and rolled up my sleeves. Now we had reached
the open country, and "Doctor" Pemble (who has done
splendid hospital work both at the front and on the voyage
home) remarked : "I can't make it out. It seems too good
to be true, after the many disappointments we have had.
It seems impossible to be in old England again." The
others agreed that it could scarcely be realised. And
as the train sped along what a glorious scene was unfolded
before us. Nature could not have painted a fairer picture.
Earth, air, and sky appeared to have combined to produce
a charming effect.

IN PLACE OF THE BURNT-UP VELDT,

and the bare precipitous kopje, there spread out before our
gaze the green meadow lands carpeted with myriad wild
flowers or the grand stretch of woodland scenery through
which the sparkling river meandered slowly towards the
ocean. For many months past the sweet note of the
singing bird had not fallen upon the ear of these lads,
but on this fair day the larks, soaring towards the blue
vault of heaven, were warbling out their glorious trill.
One of the khaki passengers remarked : "The very sight
of these green fields is much better than a draught of
South African water.?? '^You're right, there,* remarked
the "doctor." And so our journey passed pleasantly
enough. I heard stories of the war that do not appear
in newspapers; I heard of a wonderful devotion to Cap-
tain Gosling ; I heard the boys speak of him as being both
a soldier and man. Out came some curious Dutch pipes
and English tobacco; out came the fags (cigarettes), and
we puffed away and yarned. I had to supply the history
of Folkestone for the past twelvemonth or more, for there
was a real thirst for news. Anxiously the men enquired
after the Deputy Mayor, Mr. Councillor Carpenter (now
deceased), who sent them off in such splendid style. They
were grieved to learn that the senator had not been in
the best of health. We are now rapidly running through
the most picturesque parts of Hampshire, and lovely
scenes of English summer beauty change with almost
startling rapidity. Over yonder, on the hill-slope, in a
setting of emerald green, a newly pkmghed field is dis-
cerned. For all the world the colour of the soil might be
described as khaki. One of the lads, with a keen sense
of observation, pointed to this, and said :

"YOU SEE THAT FIELD ? WELL, THERE'S AFRICA.

102

Dull brown, without a tree or shrub, a d this,
perhaps, for hundreds of miles." All the lads
agreed that this was a correct description of the
land they had left behind. What need to wonder,
then, that at intervals during the journey they sang for
joy. After a brief stay at a junction, the train ran on to
Winchester. Here was assembled a great crowd, soldiers
with a band standing on the platform. These were wait-
ing for a contingent of returned heroes that were to follow
in another train. On we travelled towards London. A
dream of beauty burst upon us. We pass through
Twickenham and Staines, and the Thames below, glitter-
ing as a winding thread of silver beneath the thick foliage
on the river banks, was a glorious sight indeed. In a few
minutes the training is running through the outskirts of
London. Many people in the streets cheer; the children
wave flags; and some tantalise the men by holding up a
jug of foaming English beer. By this time we had been
pent up in an oven of a carriage for close upon four hours,
and the sight of "John Barleycorn" (the taste of which
was all but forgotten by my friends) was torture indeed.
Now we run into Waterloo Station. Here was indeed an
inspiring spectacle. The platforms of the great ter-
minus were literally packed with thousands of people.
Above and over the rail-tracks the iron bridge was packed
alive with human kind. As our train slowed down, this
mighty throng burst into a roar of cheering, which nearly
drowned the touching strains of "Home, Sweet Home,"
played by the splendid band of the London Fusiliers. In
our train was a detachment of this famous corps, and that
was the meaning of the 'demonstration. When the London
soldiers had detrained, the crowd once more gave vent
to its feelings. Cheer upon cheer rent the sultry air of the
station, and flags waved in pretty confusion. All the
ranks of the Fusiliers had gathered to meet 'their com-
rades, and volunteers from other corps, grizzled veterans,
sweethearts, wives, fathers, mothers, sons, brothers, sisters
— all were there on this summer's afternoon jto offer wel-
comes to their kith and kin. Do you think our Kentish
lads -were behind with their tribute to comrades-in-arms?
No, not a bit of it There was a ten minutes' stop here
for a change of engines, and taking advantage of this, the
"Buffs" had a stretch on the platform, and taking the cue
from Captain Gosling, they cheered as only Kentish men
can cheer, as the gay Fusiliers, headed by bands, marched
out of the station. This was indeed

A MOVING SPECTACLE, AND ONE WE SHALL ALL REMEMBER.

"Time's up," shouted the guards, and now we

IDS

start on the concluding stage of the journey, crowds
of people cheering as the train ru s on to the
South Eastern system. A short interval elapses,
and we are again gliding along, soon passing the unique
beauti.es of Chistlehurst. As in turn the trailing hops were
noted, the rich meadow land, the hedgerows sprinkled with
flowers, the tiny villages nestling amongst ithe trees, or
rosy-cheeked children waving their hands, "The Buffs"'
almost as one man exclaimed : "This is Kent. There is no
mistake about that." The train now pulled up in front
of a large red 'flag fixed to two uprights across the line.
There was a long wait, and some of the lads jumped out
of the carriages and gathered a few flowers on the adjoin-
ing "banks. They were almost childish with glee. At
last the danger signal was removed, and we fnade another
start, a number of platelayers, who were repairing the line,
giving a ringing cheer. Staplehurst, Headcorn, Marden,
all gave us $. cheer as we passed through, but Ashford was
apparently enjoying an afternoon nap. There appeared
on the platform a yawning porter, together with a woman
and a little girl. The former was very demonstrative in
her welcome, handing at the same time a half-quartern
bottle of whisky to one of the returning heroes. Ashford
missed a chance. In a moment or two we were running
on to Canterbury, and after "slowing up" several times,
we reached the Cathedral City about 4.30, having been
nearly seven hours on the 160 mile journey. All Canter-
bury appeared to be out of doors— a contrast to Ashford.
The boys immediately detrained to the tune of a roar of
cheering. Local magnates (great and small) were ready
with a welcome. The Mayor of Canterbury (Mr. Coun-
cillor Hart) was in his robes ; the Town Clerk wore the pro-
verbial ,wig and gown ; military men in brilliant uniforms
also swelled the throng. I also noted on the platform the
Mayor of Folkestone, Mr. and Mrs. A. »H. King, Acting-
Captain Griffin, Surgeon-Captain Gilbert, Mr. B. Shaul,
Mr. Clark, and other Jesser lights. Tfie Mayor of Canter-
bury made a speech which had the great merit of brevity.
Captain Gosling called pn his men to give thre^e cheers in
token of gratitude to

HIS WORSHIP THE MAYOR OF CANTERBURY.

Then the station doors were opened, the boys in
khaki emerged into the open, volley upon volley of cheer-
ing was let pff by the crowd, the band of the battalion
played vigorously, and then the procession made its way
through a seething mass of excited human beings to the
barracks. I took a short cut across the fields, and was
amongst the ^first to receive the "boys" on the drill ground.

A brief inspection followed, and then the tired heroes
were conducted to their sleeping quarters — and a picture
of comfort they were. A wash-up, and then a sumptuous
tea was served in the institute. The boys needed some-
thing in the shape of refreshment, for twelve hours had
elapsed ere food or water had passejd their lips, and seven
hours rof this time were spent in the bake-house of a train.
Never mind. Not a murmur escaped their lips. Glad
were they to be home in dear old Kent once more. And
now my pleasurable task is completed. During my ten
years' connection fwith the "Herald" I have witnessed many
stirring scenes by land and sea, scenes destined to live in
history, but never before have J experienced such thrilling
moments as will for ever be associated with the home-
coming of as Jbrave and smart a set of young fellows as
ever donned the uniform of our late beloved Queen and
present King. May these lads live long and 'prosper in
the land ! When the shouting and the waving of flags is
done with, let us still remember our duty to the lads, and
see to it that they shall have no worry on the score of
employment. If this fis properly considered, then all this
welcoming home will have a truer and deeper meaning.
The Volunteers have done well. They have helped to save
the old flag; they have shown that the bull-dog tenacity
of the English race is still the same ; they have proved
themselves worthy of the trust reposed in them. And the
Folkestone lads -will be ready at the call of duty should
occasion again arise.

"All he wants is just a chance to face the foe ;
All he asks is just to get the word to go.
With a smile he'll march away eager for the fray,
We #re proud of you to-day,
Volunteer !

FIRST NEWS AT FOLKESTONE.

As early at 7.53 on Sunday morning I handed in at the
Southampton Post Office the following telegram to the
Editor 01 the "Herald," which was received at Folkestone
at 8.29 a.m. : —

"Vessel arrived. Indescribable scene of enthusiasm.
Had pleasure -of being first to greet Captain Gosling and
his brave lads. I am returning with Company by special
train to London and Canterbury. — Felix."

Interpreting the wishes of Captain Gosling, who was
detained for some time by the pressure of military duties,
I sent a telegram also to Mrs. Gosling, Folkestone, the
esteemed mother of the gallant Captain, announcing the
arrival of her son jn the best of health and spirits. The

message was at once telephoned to the Mayoress (the
Captain's sister), the ,Mayor (his brother-in-law), and to a
large circle of anxious and interested friends, and at a
later hour in the afternoon my telegram was handed to
the Mayor at Shorncliffe Station as he was entering the
2.25 p.m. train for Canterbury, en route to meet Captain
Gosling and his men on their arrival at 4 o'clock in the
Cathedral City.

What occurred on the arrival of the "boys" in Folke-
stone is still fresh in the memory, and I am content in
this respect to let the pictures of the reception tell their
own story.

io6

'TWAS ON TRAFALGAR'S DAY."

MY VISIT TO NELSON'S FLAGSHIP, "THE
VICTORY."

I had been spending two or three days at Ports-
mouth and the Isle of Wight, and the period of my visit
happily coincided with the anniversary of the day when
Britain established her supremacy of the ocean. I will
not quote the whole of the article written descriptive of
the visit, but content myself with that part having to do
with a tour of inspection of the famous three decker, which
is such a feature in the magnificent harbour of Portsmouth.
This, then, is my "Nelson" article: —

. . "But beyond and above all the thousand and one
attractions of this truly wonderful port is that jewel
amongst all the vessels of the world, the "Victory," where
shines with undimmed splendour the spirit of the immortal
Nelson. It is now Sunday morning, and refreshed with a
good night's rest, I was out and about early. The sun
shone brightly, and just sufficiently neutralized a cutting
wind. By a strange coincidence, it was the anniversary
of the Battle of Trafalgar. There the "Victory" lay, peace-
fully enough, at anchor in yonder harbour. Bands were
sounding in all directions, and clean, prim, and well set-
up contingents of soldiers were marching to various
places of worship. The deep and distant boom of the
Town Hall clock was iust striking the hour of nine as
I was strolling on the Hard. It was here that a water-
man accosted me with "A boat, sir? It's Nelson's day.
Wont you let me row you off to the 'Victory'?" I did
not want much persuasion, for that was my intention. In
a few minutes our little boat was skimming over the water
in the direction of the famous three-decker. My water-
man was very communicative, and for my edification, he
gave a nut-shell history of Nelson's life. The narrative
was exceedingly racy, and the old salt added: "Ask a
Frenchman if he would like to go on board the 'Victory.'
If they can understand you, then, oh! dear." Here we
are at he bottom of the "Victory's" "stairs," and, mount-
ing these, I was soon on deck. "You're early, sir," re-
marked the courteous marine, as" he requested me to enter
my name in the visitors' book. Nothing could have suited
me better. From the towering masts above there fluttered

ID;

gaily in the breeze many coloured flags. It was an exact
replica of the famous signal : "England expects that every
man this day will do his duty." On the yards and masts,
too, were evergreens. One of the gallant sailors con-
ducted me over the ship. On the main deck was fixed a
small piece of the original deck. It was inscribed "Here
Nelson fell." This was surrounded with a wreath of
laurels. Everyone on board either bared his head or
saluted. 'tBreathes there an Englishman with soul so
dead," who, on such a day and at such a moment, could
resist a feeling of deep reverence, as, gazing on that little
square of very ordinary wood, with its temporary decor-
ation of evergreens —

"But those bright laurels ne'er shall fade with years,
Whose leaves are watered by a nation's tears."

My custodian pointed out the many interesting features
of interest in the ship. Of course, it is well known that
the first and second decks have been replaced owing to
the wood having decayed, but the lower or orlop deck,
remains in its original state. This is the famous cock-
pit where the herb breathed his last. This, at the time
of Trafalgar, was below the water line. Now, however,
the vessel has been lightened, the port-holes look out on
to the water immediately below. In Nelson's day this
was lighted with lanterns, and grim, indeed, with its low
roof, must this have appeared on that memorable October
2 1 st. Imagination comes to aid here. We think of the
roar of .the battle, and the tremendous issues depending
upon it. "The cockpit was crowded with wounded, and
with difficulty he (Nelson) was borne to a place on the
portside at the foremost end of it, and placed on a purser's
bed, with his back resting against one of the wooden
knees of the ship." That "wooden knee" bears the in-
scription: "Here Nelson died." This was also decorated
for the day. So sacred is this little place held in esti-
mation that it is railed round with iron. Every schoolboy
knows the story by heart, but once more it may be re-
peated, as it will be repeated in generations to come : —
"By 4.30 p.m. the action was over, and victory was re-
ported to Nelson just before his death. We left him in the
cockpit, where he was attended by Dr. Scott, the chap-
lain, and Mr. Burke, the pursuer. He had sent the doctor
away to attend to the other wounded, and lay in great
agony, fanned with paper by those two officers, and giv-
ing his last directions as to those he loved ; but ever and
anon, interrupted by the cheers of the 'Victory's' crew,
he .would ask the cause, and being told it was a fresh
enemy's ship that had struck her flag, his eye would flash

io8

as he expressed his satisfaction. He frequently asked for
Captain Hardy, and that officer not being able to leave
the deck, his anxiety for his safety became excessive,
and he repeated: 'He must be willed; he is surely
destroyed.' An hour had elapsed before Hardy was able
to come to him, when they shook hands, and the Admiral
asked — 'How goes the day with us?' 'Very well, my
lord,' was the reply; 'we have about 12 of the enemy in
our possession'. Captain Hardy again visited him in
about another hour, and, holding his lordship's hand, con-
gratulated him on a brilliant victory, saying he was certain
that 14 ships had surrendered. 'That is well,' he
answered, 'but I bargained for 20.' Then, Hardy having
again to go on deck, Nelson, after emphatically telling
him to ancrror, and declaring his intention to direct the
fleet as long as life remained, said, 'Kiss me, Hardy,' the
Captain knelt down and kissed him, when he said : 'Now
I am satisfied. Thank God I have done my duty.' Twenty
minutes later he quietly passed away." On this peaceful
Sunday morning, with hardly a sound to break the silence,
imagination had its play. Once more the cockpit was
crowded. Without was once more the roar of cannon and
rattle of musketry, the hoarse shouts of command, cursing
of the sailors, crash of falling masts and spars. All around
were .surgeons at their grim work, with the aid of dim
lanterns. The groans and despair of the dying also fell
upon my ear, and there, in the corner, under these circum-
stances, laid the immortal hero — unselfish to the last.
"Heaven fights upon our side,
The day's ours, he cried;
Now long enough I've lived,
In honour's cause my life was past,
In honour's cause, I die at last,
For England, home, and beauty."

Turning away from this deck, I visited the newly-opened
Nelson Museum, which is filled with many relics of the
hero, including autograph letters, portraits, a magnificent
picture of the death of Nelson, painted by Devis, and
framed from the oaken timbers of the "Victory," besides
many other items contributed by many generous admirers
of the great sea hero. The condition of . one of the
"Victory's" topsails, literally riddled with shot holes, attests
more plainly than -any words the nature of the fire that
she had to face as she slowly bore down /to b/eak the
enemy's line. After noting the state barge in which the
remains of -Nelson were borne from Greenwich to White-
hall, and inspecting the guns, cannon balls, and muskets
of other days, I enjoyed a pipe -with several sailors on the

log

main deck. It appeared that on the next Tuesday about
300 children (from the Seamen and Mariners' Orphan
School were to be entertained to tea on the vessel." Yes,
these youngsters have a regular 'dust pp' once a year.
They have the run of the vessel. We erect swings, magic
lantern entertainments, -and music, singing, and horn-
pipes, all have a place in the programme, and everything
is done to make them remember the name of Nelson." I
spent a most pleasant hour here, and taking leave of the
sailors, >my "jolly young waterman" rowed me back to the
landing.

110

SANDGATE'S WELCOME TO THE
LADYSMITH HEROES.

STIRRING AND PATHETIC SCENES — THE RECEPTION AT THE
BEACH ROCKS CONVALESCENT HOME — AFTER FOUR MONTHS
SIEGE AND 6,000 MILES SEA JOURNEY, THERE IS REST AT

LAST!
APRIL 23RD, 1900.

"There's a land, a dear land, where the rights of the free,
Thougih tinn as the earth, are as wide as the sea;
Where the primroses bloom, and the nightingales sing,
And the honest poor man is as good as a king.
Showery! Flow'ry! Cheerful! Tearful!
•England, wave guarded, and green to the shore !
West land! Best land! 'Thy land! My land!
KJlory be with her, and peace evermore."

CHARLES MACKAY.

Sandgate — that excellent little Kentish town — nest-
ling under the tree-clad hills, and standing as it does on
the very verge of the sea — has not only done itself honour,
but also the British Isles and the Empire at large. The
District Council, over which Lieut.-Colonel Fynmore so
well presides, rightly interpreted the wishes of the inhabi-
tants when it decided to accord a popular welcome to a
band of heroes who have faced death by day and night
in sorely-pressed Ladysmith — a band of heroes whose
thrilling deeds, splendid daring, and indomitable pluck,
will only be forgotten when lips cease to lisp the
Anglo-Saxon tongue. All honour, I say, to Sandgate for
its hearty home-coming welcome to our brave and noble
soldiers! Other towns have had their enthusiastic send-
offs, but it has been left to our neighbours to initiate the
first popular public reception of our returning soldiers.
Portsmouth did its duty in regard to the crew of H.M.S.
Powerful, and Sandgate has said ditto to the sister branch
of the service.

Monday morning dawned, and soon news came that
the vessel with the troops had arrived at South-
ampton. It was now only a question of a few
hours. About ten o'clock it was notified in a
special order from Shorncliffe Camp that the wounded
and invalid men would reach Sandgate about 5 p.m.
This news was telephoned far and near, and soon the
streets were packed. Additional flags were soon unfurled,
and more festoons fluttered across the thoroughfares. At
the Coastguard Station Chief Officer Onslow and his

I II

"handy men" were busy putting in their share towards
welcoming home the heroes who had faced death, disease,
and privation with the noble fellows of H.M.S. Powerful.
Up the flagstaff of 'the station were hauled up the signal
flags, and these, according to the commercial code, read
"Welcome." Chief Officer Onslow and the fine, sturdy
fellows under his charge did well, as they always do. I
must just say a general word as to the decora-
tions. It was St. George's Day, and every other person
sported a rose. Appropriately over the Castle, too,
fluttered the flag of the patron Saint. Chichester Villas,
on the hill, were aflame with patriotism, and so, too, were
the pretty little cottages a few yards away. Sandgate
Schools had not forgotten that the hour had come, for in
addition to flying a Union Jack at the mast head, all the
scholars rejoiced in a half-day's holiday, and there is no
doubt the chorus of the old song of the American Civil
War would have just interpreted their young feelings —

The men will sing, the boys will shout,
The ladies gay will all turn out,
And we'll all feel gay when Tommy comes marching
home.

To attempt to detail the decorations would be too much
of a task, but I might say that in almost every cottage
there appeared some outward manifestation of joy. Com-
mencing at the Duke of York, with its festoons of bunting
over the roadway to Enbrook Lodge, there were all
manner of devices and mottoes, the principal of which
were eloquent with the one word "Welcome." It would
almost be invidious to single out any particular decoration
for special praise, where all had done so well. Excep-
tion, however, must be made in a few cases. Over the
Council Chamber floated the Union Jack, and Mr. Bowles,
Sandgate's popular Surveyor, appeared very proud of that
fact, for he directed my attention to that symbol of
England's power with apparent satisfaction. Sussex
House was a blaze of colour, so, too, were Farleigh House
and other residences in the immediate neighbourhood.
Wellington Terrace came out grandly, most of the tenants
of the houses appearing to have gone in for a little
friendly competition. A little cottage on the side of
Sunnyside Hill was conspicuous in its festive dress.
Nelson and Portland Villas come out splendidly. Glou-
cester Terrace did its full share in the voluntary work.
Although partially hidden from view, the rainbow of
flags at Varne View did not escape the general attention.
Shorncliffe and VaFentine Villas, Littlebourne Lodge, and
the Homestead, all were very prettily and effectively

112

decorated. During the interval of waiting for the train,
I had time to run into the Beach Rocks Convalescent
Home, where the invalids are now located. Although
closed to the general public, the presentation of my card
was sufficient to procure for me a very hearty welcome
from the officer in charge, Surgeon-Captain R. Howell,
R.A.M.C. I have to thank this gallant gentleman for the
courtesy and help extended to me on this occasion.
Although "up to his eyes in work," he nevertheless found
time to conduct me round the building. It is a perfect
picture of cleanliness, and well adapted for its present use.
With pardonable pride, Captain Ho well directed my atten-
tion to the spacious dining hall — light, airy, and with a
fine view of the sea. On Sunday afternoon Major-
General Hallam Parr and his aide-de-camp, Lieut. Tring-
ham (3rd Royal Welsh Fusiliers), visited the Home, and
after making a minute inspection, expressed himself highly
pleased with all that came before his notice. Mrs. Hallam
Parr and other ladies also tastefully adorned the tables
of the dining hall with the choicest flowers, some of which
had been sent by the late Lady Sassoon. The Duke of
Abercorn, who has taken a deep interest in all the arrange-
ments, also sent a supply of games, etc., whilst a Folke-
stone lady has provided a liberal quantity of stationery
and reading matter. The scene now changes
to the Sandgate Railway Station. It is nearing
four o'clock, and the crowd thickens. On the platform
I note several familiar faces. Major-General Hallam-
Parr (Commandant of Shorncliffe) is there, attended by his
aide-de-camp. Several other distinguished officers were
also present, and the Sandgate District Council was in
waiting with the following address: —

"To the Officer Commanding and the members of
Her Majesty's Forces returned invalided from the war
in South Africa.

We, the District Council of the Urban District of
Sandgate, in the County of Kent, desire upon the occasion
of your return to this country, and upon taking up your
residence within the district of Sandgate to extend to
you on behalf of ourselves and of the inhabitants of the
town, whom we have the honour to represent, a hearty
welcome, and to express the hope that you may by. the
blessing of God be speedily restored ftp complete health
and strength, and that you may otherwise feel the benefit
of your isojourn amongst us, feeling, as we do, that every
man has, to the best of his ability, carried out his duties
in distant lands for the honour of his Queen and country,
and the upholding of the integrity of the vast Empire
to which we all have the honour to belong.

"Given under the common seal of the Urban District
Council, by virtue of a resolution passed at a meeting
held on the '2Oth day of April, one thousand, nine hundred.

"RICHARD JOHN FYNMORE,

"Chairman."

CHEERS FROM BRITISH THROATS.

The late Alderman H. T. Cobay and Alderman J. J.
Jeal were also in evidence, the latter with several boxes
of the right sort of cigars for distribution amongst the
"gentlemen in khaki." There was no band to welcome the
heroes, but instead the music of three very hearty cheers as
can only proceed from British throats. The Commandant
of Shorncliffe and his brother officers at once proceeded
to welcome the men, who were under the charge of Capt.
Surgeon Milmer, R.A.M.C. All told they numbered 115
rank and file. Poor fellows! Well might they excite
compassion and pity. All of them bore evidence of their
dreadful experiences. Their complexions had assumed a
deep yellow hue, with eyes sunken in their sockets. The
rank and file had now detrained. Some were assisted to
walk ; others hobbled on sticks or dragged their weary
limbs along. One poor fellow of the King's Royal Rifle
Corps had lost one eye at Spion Kop; others had their
heads in bandages, or were .suffering from other injuries
or severe weakness. No need to dwell on this sad feature
of the occasion. There they stood — 'those (noble heroes
war and travel stained, and very weary. Never mind!
After four months' seige, with Death in its many forms
ever before them, and enduring a 6,000 miles jour-
ney over sea and land, here they were at rest
and peace at last in one of the prettiest towns of the
Garden of England. The sight before their eyes was
calculated to make them forget all the horrors and
miseries of the past few months. It was a gtefious
April afternoon. Around them on the green hillsides
(near the station) the golden gorse was gleaming.
There were there, too, thousands of happy British men,
women, and children — their hearts aglow with compas-
sion and loving sympathy. No whistling bullet or
whirring shell were there, but instead the sweet
notes of the feathered tribe in the surrounding copses.
Out yonder the sea was of that blue which denes the
painters' brush. Such, then, was something of the
scene that these gazed upon, and if their lips did not
give it utterance, they one and all must have felt the
force of the words —

" This is my own, my native land."

THE FINALE.

The men were now conducted to the conveyances
in waiting, and their progress onward was a triumphal
one. On the arrival of our heroes at Beach Rocks, a
vast crowd had posted themselves at the front entrance,
and there was some difficulty in keeping the crush
within bounds. On entering the establishment, they
were received by Capt. Howell and staff, who speedily
conducted them to their wards, where a rapid transfor-
mation took place, each man changing his field
garments for a new suit of flannel, shirts, socks,
slippers, and in less than half-an-hour they were all "at
home." A good dinner awaited them, to which after
their long journey from Southampton, they did ample
justice. Beer was provided, and milk for the temper-
ance men. The Matron and Assistant Matron were un-
tiring in their efforts to render any assistance to the
men at table. Referring to these, one poor fellow
was heard to remark to his comrade — "I say, Jim,
if them two stout ladies had been shut up in
Ladysmith with us, they wouldn't have come out
as big as they are now." After dinner the men
were examined by Dr. Craig. Some went early to bed,
whilst others enjoyed their pipe in the recreation room.
The Medical Officer in charge, Lieut. -Colonel Dwyer,
R.A.M.C., and the Senior Medical Officer, under whose
direction all the medical arrangements were carried out,
deserve great credit, as everything went off without a
hitch. A word of praise is due to Mr. Councillor O. H.
Smith, who did such excellent service in securing a few
extra luxuries such as pipes, tobacco, cigarettes, etc.,
for the returning heroes.

HOW A SHELL FISH MADE THE
ENGLISH CHANNEL.

The articles, "The Collector at the Seaside," which
once appeared in "The Herald" week by week, from the
pen of Mr. F. W. Burgess, afforded considerable pleasure to
a large number of readers. In his latest contribution the
writer refers, amongst other things, to the giddock — one
of a type of boring shell-fish — which is often found em-
bedded in chalk into which it has bored with wonderful
skill and persistency. Indeed, some cliffs become honey-
combed with the borings of this small but marvellous shell
"fish. Mr. Burgess's remarks have quickened my interest
in a series of charming articles which appeared several
years ago, entitled "The Shore in Winter," by that fas-
cinating writer, Theodore Wood. This is what he has to
say of the piddock: — "A simple white shell, fragile and
unpretending, with little in its appearance to single it out
from shells in general. Not beautiful as we generally
interpret that word, scarcely ever elegant ; yet on that shell
has turned the modern history of Europe ; and every
naturalist knows that its influence is not yet at an end."

THE PIDDOCK AND THE ENGLISH CHANNEL.

"Does this appear an unwarrantable assertion?" asks
Mr. Wood. "It is a very true pne. But for the piddock,
a mere mollusc, such as inhabited the cast-off shell before
us, Europe as we know it now, would not exist. There
would be no Straits of Dover, no 'silver streak' separating
us from the mainland. . . . Geologists tell us, and
offer indisputable evidence in support of their statement
that once the Channel did not exist j that it has been
opened almost within historic times; and that we behold
in this great inroad of the sea merely a pre-
lude of that which is to come. But this
mighty work has been the outcome of more
influences than one. The sea has washed away
the chalk, no doubt, but the piddock first honeycombed
that chalk with its burrows, and enabled the water to per-
form a task, which, unassisted, it could not even yet have
accomplished. Let him who doubts this note the rapidity
with which a piddock infested cliff is washed away, and
the stability of that in which, all other conditions being
equal, the mollusc is absent. Day by day, and year by

year, the piddock worked steadily on, and day by day,
year by year, the sea completed the task which the
mollusc had begun."

DESTRUCTION AND CONSTRUCTION.

"Tiny shell and mighty ocean — co-workers in the same
cause, undoing what tiny shell and mighty ocean had done
in the distant past, for that chalk, as the microscope tells
us, is little more than a vast mass of infintesimal shells,
each one of which was in its day a home and covering of
a living being. . . . What is to be the influence of the
piddock in the future? It is still labouring as steadily as
ever, and the sea still completing its half -performed work.
Is England, in the course of time to cease to be? Is
Europe at last to sleep with lost Atlantis beneath the
waves?" Thus do the common and often unobserved
objects appeal to such writers as I have referred to. Of
course, in Regard to time we are dealing with probably
millions of years, but if we recollect how the coral insect
builds islands we can grasp the idea that Nature can be as
destructive as she is constructive. What wonders then
are around us on every hand!

THE CHANNEL'S NOTORIETY.

There is probably no stretch of water in the world
more talked, written, and read about than the sea that
washes the shores of Folkestone and Dover on one
side, and Boulogne and Calais on the other.
"From Caesar's days aownwards it has claimed the attention
of generations of men and women. Within our own period
we can recall many things in this connection. There was,
for instance, a craze on at one time to abolish sea sickness.
Experimental steamers, "The Castilia," "The Bessemer,"
and the twin vessel, "The Calais Douvres," were built, and
mal-de-mer was to be no more. Regarded lay the majority
of "old salts" as freaks, "failure" was the word written on
their hulls. "The Castilia," which was designed to carry
the cream of society between Dover and Calais, ended her
days on the Thames ingloriously as a floating small pox
hospital. Then the Straits tempted Sir Alfred Watkin to
construct the Channel Tunnel. Works were started
between here and Sandgatte on the opposite
side. The entente cordiale did not exist in those days,
and when the work had proceeded the Board of Trade,
through the mouth of the Right Hon. Joseph Chamberlain,
said "Stop." Then, too, there were the bold spirits who
conceived the building of a Channel Bridge. The idea,
however, was looked upon as one of the crack-brained
order. This was followed by a proposal of

ii;

building gigantic ferry boats, which were to carry the
Continental trains and passengers across. This is feasible,
but the expense stands in the way. And then there have
been swimmers galore, from Captain Matthew Webb to
Holbein and Wolff. There was Captain Boyton, also, who
paddled and floated across in a patent safety suit, which,
although much advertised, was never adopted. Canoes,
racing galleys, and row boats, the occupants of these have
all been tempted one by one. And now at the moment
of writing the Channel Tunnel is likely to become an
accomplished fact.

MAKING OF THE RAILWAY BETWEEN
FOLKESTONE AND DOVER.

The following will be of interest to many. It has to
do with the making of the railway between Folkestone
and Dover. An old handbook reports the matter
as follows: — " A chalk cliff rose to a height of
375 feet above the level of the sea, and
a passage had to be made in a direct line from
Abbott's Cliff to Shakespeare Cliff . To tunnel it was im-
possible; to dig it down would have taken, it is said, 200
men two years, and at an expense of at least £1 5,000.
To remove the obstacle, a mass of chalk 300 feet
long and 375 feet high, with an average thickness of 70
feet, Mr. Cubitt determined to try the effect of gun pow-
der by means of galvanism — one of the boldest attempts,
probably, at the time, that the mind of man ever con-
ceived. The explosion took place on January 26th, 1843
A great deal of anxiety .had been manifested by various
parties in consequence of the immense quantity of gun-
powder used on the occasion, there being no less than
ten tons of that destructive article employed. The sole
management of this undertaking was vested in the per-
son of General Pasley."

A GIGANTIC OPERATION'.

The account goes on to state: "Three galleries, and
three different shafts connected with them, were con-
structed in the cliff. The length of the galleries or pas-
sages was about 300 feet. At the bottom of each shaft
was a chamber lift, long, 5ft. high, and 4ft. 6ins. wide.
In each of the eastern and western chambers 5,ooolbs. of
gunpowder were placed, and in the centre chamber
7,5oolbs., making in the whole i8,5oolbs. The gun-
powder was in bags placed in boxes. Loose powder was
sprinkled over the bags, of which the mouths were
opened, and the bursting charges were in the centre of
the main charges. The distance of the charges from the
face of the cliff was from 60 to 70 feet. It was calcu-
lated that the powder, before it could find a vent, must
move 100,000 yards of chalk, or 200,000 tons. It was
also confidently expected that it would move one million
tons.

iig

PREPARATIONS FOR IGNITION.

"At the back of the cliff a wooden shed was con-
structed, in which three electric batteries were erected.
Each battery consisted of 18 Daniels' cylinders, and two
common batteries of 20 plates each. To these batteries
were attached wires, which communicated to the end of
the charge by means of a very fine wire of platinum,
which the electric fluid, as it passed over it, made red hot
to fire the powder. The wires, covered with ropes, were
spread on the grass to the top of the cliff, and then, fall-
ing over it, were carried to the eastern, the centre, and
the western chambers. Lieut. Hutchinson, of the Royal
Engineers, had the command of the three batteries, and
it was arranged that when he fired the centre Mr. Hodges
and Mr. Wright should simultaneously fire the eastern
and western batteries.

THE EXPLOSION.

" Shortly after ten o'clock the Directors of
the South Eastern Company, accompanied by
Mr. Cubitt, the engineer, and several of their
friends, proceeded from the Ship Inn through
the new tunnel recently cut through the rock
under the battery, which is also a tunnel in the railroad,
to the Shakespeare tunnel, and thence to the foot of the
cliff to be blasted down. Two o'clock came, and the
general excitement amongst the great crowd became in-
tense. At ten minutes past two Mr. Cubitt ordered the
signal flag at the Directors' tent to be hoisted, and that
was followed by the hoisting of the rest. A quarter of
an hour soon passed in deep anxiety. Not a word was
uttered. At exactly 2.26 p.m. a low, faint
indistinct, indescribable, moaning, subterraneous rumble
was heard, and immediately afterwards the bottom of the
cliff began to bulge outwards, and then almost simul-
taneously about 500 feet of the summit began gradually,
but rapidly, to sink, the earth on which the marquee was
placed trembling sensibly under the shock.

SOME EFFECTS.

"There was no roaring explosion, no bursting out
of fire, no violent crashing, splitting of rocks, and, com-
paratively speaking, very little smoke; for a proceeding
of mighty and irrepressible force, it had little or nothing
of the appearance of force. The rock seemed as if it had
exchanged its solid for a fluid nature, for it glided like a
stream into the sea, which was at a distance of about
100 yards — perhaps more — from its base, filling up

120

several large pools of water. The first exclamations
which burst from every lip were: 'Splendid/ 'Beautiful.'
The next were isolated cheers, followed by three times
three general cheers, from the spectators, and then one
cheer more. All were excited — all were delighted at the
success of the experiment, and congratulations flowed on
upon Mr. Cubitt for the magnificent manner in which
he had carried his project into execution. Thus termin-
ated an experiment which had been completely crowned
with success." As Round Down was, or is, on the main
Folkestone-Dover line, I thought many of my readers
would read the above with some interest.

121

SHAKESPEARE AND HIS STROLLING
PLAYERS AT FOLKESTONE.

Did the immortal baxd of Stratford-on-Avon ever
make his bow before the villagers of Folkestone? The
answer is in the affirmative if the following, which I
^recently dug up from a newspaper (July nth, 1885)
is correct: —

"An interesting discovery has been made that Shakes-
peare and his company of players, in May, 1609, and
April, 1612, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, performed
in Folkestone, Dover, Hythe, and New Romney, doubtless
in the course of a professional tour. This fact has been
brought to light by Mr. Halliwell Philips, who has written
a book called 'Outlines of Shakespeare,' giving sketches
of the poet and his times. He is now engaged in tracing
the origin of the English Theatre generally, and its pro-
gress in London and elsewhere."

SHAKESPEARE'S FEE AT NEW ROMNEY.

The writer, pursuing his subject, gives us an insight
in regard to the recognition of talent or gTenius in the far
off days referred to, and when one considers the enormous
sums paid to even a comic singer of repute in the 2Oth
century, the contrast is great indeed. The extract con-
tinues thus: —

"Mr. Phillips went to New Romney to look over the
Chamberlain's books of the old Corporation, for the pur-
pose of seeing how the players were paid. The Chamber-
lain, it seems, paid Shakespeare for the performance the
munificent sum of twenty shillings. It was only on one
day, and took place at the Town Hall. The players did
not go to Lydd. The Chamberlain's account at New
Romney contains entries for centuries of payments made
to strolling players, who were, it seems, rewarded by the
Corporations in former days. The records of payments
to Shakespeare's company are, therefore, distinctly
traceable among others, as they are written in English."

Now I venture to consider this opens up a most in-
teresting subject, and 1 trust lovers of Shakespeare will
pursue the matter further. Where did the immortal bard
perform in Folkestone? What was the play, and who
were the players? Are there any references to the
subject to our local official records?

122

AN EMPEROR OF RUSSIA AT HYTHE.

Through the kindness of an old friend, I have come
into possession of the following, which I think will be read
with much interest: —

(Copy).
THE SWAN INN.

(1814).
Hythe, Sunday, 26th June, 1814.

The expected arrival of the Royal Visitors of Old
England caused an assemblage of the most animated
description at Hythe on Sunday. The houses were pro-
fusely decorated with oak boughs and laurels, and in
several parts of the town, banners, flags, etc., were dis-
played. The Swan Inn was particularly distinguished for
its appearance in this respect, and exhibited a very large
flag, made purposely of white, with a blue cross — also
a motto, alluding to the present joyous occasion en-
vironed by a wreath of oak with flags, etc. Thirty pairs
of post-horses were provided by Mr. Knott, who had also
placed under his direction several sets of the Artillery
horses; and the promptitude with which the several car-
riages were forwarded from the Inn excited admiration,
from the excellent arrangement it developed. His
Majesty the King of Prussia, accompanied by his sons,
in one of the royal carriages, arrived about half-past
four, was loudly greeted, and proceeded in a few
minutes without alighting.

The Emperor of Russia, accompanied by the
Duchess of Oldenburgh, did not arrive till past eight.
The town's people had made preparations for drawing
his Majesty through the town, but the rapidity with
which he travelled rendered their attempt fruitless. On
arriving at the Swan Inn, the Emperor and the Duchess
alighted from their travelling carriage, and were received
by Richard Shipdem, Esq., Mayor, and a number of
ladies and gentlemen of the town and neighbourhood.
They remained about an hour, during which time they
took refreshments of tea, coffee, etc. Mrs. Nicolay
did the honors of the tables, assisted by
the fair and accomplished daughter of Wil-
liam Deedes, Esq., of Sandling Park. His
Majesty and the Duchess shook hands, conversed fam-
iliarly with many persons, and left the town about a
quarter-past nine followed by the greetings of the
people, to whom their free and affable deportment en-
deared them."

123

A NOTABLE M.P. FOR HYTHE.

THE LATE BARON MEYER DE ROTHSCHILD.

It was when Sir John Ramsden resigned in February,
1859, for the purpose of seeking a seat in the West Rid-
ing, that Baron Rothschild came forward. This, how-
ever, was not the first time, for in 1847 he nearly suc-
ceeded to the representation of this constituency. On
the occasion under notice, however, the Baron meant
business. He had several opponents, amongst them a
Mr. James Wilde, but on nomination day the representa-
tive of the illustrious House of Rothschild was left in un-
disputed possession of the field. Thus the local poet of
the day wrote: —

" The tocsin has sounded the signal for war,
Though a few "wild(e)' notes it did sound,
That the 'Campbells' are coming, but soon it did prove
That, the clan could not keep to their ground.
For the Liberal banner so proudly did float,
With 'the ballot' inscribed on so neat,

But the sight of the flag made those candidates lag,
And they deemed it wise to retreat.
Then Folkestone and Hythe,

With other voters besides,
Proved they were unwilling to yield,
For the true men of Kent
On Reform thus were bent,
And left Rothschild the Lord of the Field."
The Baron, in the course of his printed address,
said: "I am an advocate for the ballot and such an ex-
tension of the suffrage and redistribution of seats as will
effectually secure a full, fair, and free representation of
the people. I am by sympathy and from conviction an
ardent supporter of the rights of conscience."

THE MAYOR OF HYTHE's WELCOME TO THE BARON.

Mayor Rayner, of Hythe, at the nomination of the
Baron, made a speech worthy of the occasion. It reads
now like a dream. In the course of his remarks his
Worship said it was nearly twelve years since (1847)
that the Baron had offered himself as a candidate, and he
nearly arrived at the winning post. Had he been re-
turned at that time the House of Commons would not
have been opened to him, but since then he (the Mayor)
was glad to say that the last flag of intolerance had been
torn from our glorious constitution. For eleven years
had the battle been going on, and for eleven successive
sessions had such a Bill (the Jewish Disabilities Bill)

124

been adopted in the House of Commons and refused in
the House of Lords. However, victory had declared it-
self on the side of religious and civil liberty. The Mayor
then introduced the Baron as a splendid business gentle-
man to the electors. The account: before me states: "The
crowd cheered vigorously, and one enthusiastic individual
called for three cheers for the Bishop of Dublin, who voted
for the admission of Baron Rothschild into the House ot
Commons. These were heartily given. Then Capt. Gilbert
Kennicott, R.N. (Mayor of Folkestone), who fought with
Nelson at Trafalgar, seconded the Mayor of Hythe's
nomination."

THE BARON'S THANKS.

Filled with emotion, Baron Rothschild came forward,
and in course of a spirited reply, said: "I know you have
elected me through your great and sincere attachment
to the noble cause of civil and religious liberty. You and
your fathers before you have always been foremost in
supporting that cause, and you have never flinched from
maintaining the cause of that race which has suffered so
much from the bigotry of bygone ages. (Loud cheers).
It would, indeed, have been strange, then, if you had
shrunk from that cause at a time when one who has sur-
vived that last pledge of bigotry and intolerance pre-
sented himself for your support. (Cheers). The kind-
ness which you have shown towards my cause renders it
incumbent on me to see that your liberties are not in-
fringed upon — that your rights are not invaded, that your
local interests are promoted, your liberties extended, and
your happiness increased. (Great cheering). I shall go
into the House of Commons free and unfettered."

A WONDERFUL JEWISH PATRIARCH.

And then, to crown all on this momorable day, Sir
Moses Montefiore, that wonderful benefactor of his race,
who, it will be remembered, travelled to the
Holy Land, in the interests of his co-religion-
ists, when he was well past four-score years
and ten, addressed the crowd from the win-
dow of the White Hart Hotel, Hythe. He said "You have
shown your sympathy with Liberal and enlightened
views. You have my heartiest wishes for your pros-
perity, and I thank God that, old as I am, I have been
permitted to see this day. May God bless you!" Thus
spoke to the electors of the Parliamentary Borough of
Hythe one of the most remarkable men of his day — a man
beloved by royalty as he was by the poorest of the Jews.
It will be seen, by what I have written and collected, that
there is a veritable romance associated with our represen-

125

tation. The House of Rothschild has a great affection
for Folkestone and Hythe, and we can understand it.

A NOBLE-MINDED CONSTITUENCY.

It may not be generally known that the Hythe con-
stituency was one of the very first in England to take
advantage of the Act which enabled a candidate of the
Hebrew Faith to take a seat in the House of Commons.
In thus doing, the electors of this borough covered them-
selves with glory. They led the way. They soared
above the mean and petty; they proved themselves men.
They set their seal on that splendid Act which told the
world that England would not stand in the way of any
man who desired a seat in our House of Parliament be«-
cause of his faith or creed. No nobler Act was ever
passed than that which allowed the Jews to have a place
in the councils of the nation, and we may well be proud
that this constituency did not lag in putting forth
an effort to recognise the genius, the persistency, the
high courage of a persecuted race.

THE BARON AS WINNER yOF THE DERBY AND OAKS.

It was during the time that he represented us that our
Member won both the Derby and Oaks with Favonius and
Hannah respectively. Sportsmen, and for the matter of
that, the whole of the constituency, were wild with delight
when the news arrived. So great was the enthusiasm that
the bells in the Parish Church tower were set ringing
"ostensibly (says the report) because it was the Queen's
birthday, but really because of the result of the Derby."
There was a slight breeze about this incident at the time,
and a writer humorously suggested that the Baron
should follow the example of Mr. Henry Chaplin
when his famous Hermit won the blue ribbon of the turf.
It appears the bells were set ringing in Mr. Chaplin's
village church without permission of the Vicar. The rev.
gentleman was annoyed, but the owner of Hermit was
equal to the occasion, and presented the Vicar with a
little "balm" in the shape of a cheque for £500, to be
devoted to Church work. Whether our Member was ready
with his "balm" I know not, but the chances are he was not
behind. Well, our dear old Baron died in February, 1874,
within two days of Sir Edward Watkin being elected over
Captain Merryweather by 1,047 votes, the numbers being
1,347 and 300 respectively. It is pleasant to look back
on such a past as here set out, for it is associated with
one of the noblest incidents in our political history, viz.,
the raising ,of the status of the Jews to the highest rank
of citizenship. In this respect we made be proud of our
past, indeed.

126

" COMFORT YE, MY PEOPLE."

It was one Sunday evening, two years ago, I was
absorbed in reading, when suddenly there fell upon my
ear the sound of that beautiful tenor air, "Comfort ye,
My people." Fond of music, and pretty well acquainted
with many of the standard oratorios, I listened intently.
There could be no mistake, the solo referred to was
being rendered by an artiste, whoever he might be.
Robbe/i of much of its beauty by the absence of accom-
paniment, there at the same time was the theme which
emanated from Handel's genius. Then for a few
moments there was that silence generally associated
with the Day of Rest. Mystery, however, increased
when, in the same faultless style, the unseen vocalist
sang, "If with all your hearts ye truly seek Me." The
sound came nearer. Perhaps it is a neighbour or a visi-
tor, thought I, thus indulging a musical taste. However,
curiosity thoroughly aroused, I looked out of a window in
the front of my house. Then it was I found an explana-
tion. There, standing in the road was the singer — a
middle-aged man, with grey hair. His appearance was
respectable — a shade or two above the ordinary street
vocalist.

PATHOS.

"There is something above the average here."
That appeared to be the thought uppermost in the minds
of kindly neighbours, many of whom gave the singer a
little monetary assistance. Could I but follow their
example? Thus my mite helped to swell the total. I
called the singer to my cottage door, and remarked to
him, "You have sung in a choir, and are well acquainted
with solo work in oratorio? Am I wrong?" The man
was the acme of politeness, and his words were those
of a cultured man. He said, "Ah! I have had my ups
and downs. I remember the Folkestone of many years
ago. They were, indeed, happy days. Yes, I sang in
the choir on occasions at Mr. Hubbard's (Husband's)
church at St. Michael's." He lifted his hat with all the
air of a gentleman, and turned to leave. But my curiosity
was, as I have said, thoroughly aroused, and I asked:
"Is it too much to ask your name?" The singer replied,

"Not at all. It is Me ," Astounded, I exclaimed:

"You don't mean that." Sadly he replied, "It is true.
Folkestone, Ashford, indeed half the county knew me

127

well as a singer. I left Kent, and after a trial of my
voice was engaged as tenor in the Moore and Burgess
Minstrels. As I said, I have had my ups and downs
since then, and here I am now." At the moment I did
not pursue the subject further. In a sense I was too flut-
tered, and I wished poor Me— "Good evening."
Again he went out into the damp street, and sang, per-
haps more sweetly than before. "Comfort ye, My
people." Indeed, he seemed in need of comfort— a
comfort, perhaps, this world could never give.

Me .

I purposely leave my old friends — my singing
friends — to fill in the blank. There is no desire on my
part to make what is called "copy" or interesting read-
ing out of this poor fellow. Remember him! I should

think we do. Me , as a tenor vocalist, was at one

time of day in request everywhere. Only to secure his
name meant the concert room being filled. With his jet
black hair, his ruddy face, and silvery note, he was a
notable figure. Both at Ashford and Folkestone he was
a rare favourite, and scarcely a song did he ever sing
without an encore being demanded. Have I committed a
wrong in thus bringing him into the light of day? Think-
ing over this, not once, but many times, I have come to
the conclusion that I am doing the right thing. It may
be that some who knew our old friend in other days may
seek him out, and direct him on another path but the
street. It is not my business to enquire the reason of
this fine singer's position. I state only the fact, and,
remembering past days, can but express the hope that
some of his old friends will show an interest in him, and
that, seeing this, Me "will take heart again."

128

NAPOLEON'S COLUMN AT BOULOGNE.

THE VIEW FROM THE SUMMIT.
SOME THOUGHTS ON THE "FALLEN IDOL."

During a brief stay at Boulogne I found time to visit
this famous memorial, which is some distance out of the
town. Here I met the custodian of the place — a fine old
French veteran in full uniform. Upon his breast there
hung four medals bearing inscriptions — Italy, Mexico,
Algiers, and one for valour and discipline. The white-
haired old fellow was leading a little toddling child, whom
he termed in broken English his "leetle darling." I thought
it a pretty picture. Now for my journey up the column.
It was an uncanny undertaking. The old man lighted me a
kind of stable lantern containing a tallow candle, and then
I commenced the climb alone, in the pitchy darkness. The
place was reeking and dripping with wet. Above there
was a roaring sound. That was caused by the stiff breeze
blowing through the railings round the promenade at the
top. In the darkness, however, it struck a stranger with
a feeling of awe. Up, up, up the magnificent spiral stair-
case, but still no light, with the exception of an occa-
sional tiny slit in the stonework. At length I reach the
summit, and suddenly darkness gives way to the splen-
dour of a perfect morning. I stood alone at that great
height, and gazed on a glorious scene lighted up by the
radiance of the sun. In those leafless thickets below the
birds are telling us that spring is all but here', and that
soon the surrounding landscape will be painted in more
beautiful tints. I looked around a stretch of fair
France, and noted how well the land was culti-
vated. I also noted the conformation in the harbour
and other poi ts of interest, in and near the town.
But at such a moment could I but be interested in a
little ill-defined speck far away there over the sparkling
sea. Could I but think, standing under this shadow of
the Man of Destiny, that land of freedom — "that right
little, tight little island," but less than two hours' journey
away. No. To stand at this height, to gaze on the land
of one's birth, to recall the incidents connected with the
reign of Napoleon, is to awaken emotions that are a
part of the nature of Englishmen. Most people are under
the impression that the statue of Napoleon at the summit of
the column is looking towards England. This is a popular

H.M.S. " Leda " which fired a fatal shot into a French Boat, fishing within the limits.

Fishing Boat with dead man on board. Killed by a shot from H.M.S. " Leda " when
fishing within the limits.

128-129

1 2Q

mistake. It is facing the interior of France. Why is
this? Did Napoleon turn his back on England because
he knew that if he invaded the island he had no retreat?
Yes, his back, too, is turned on the glory of England — the
sea — and he would seem to be for ever saying —
"Farewell to thee, France ! where thy diadem crown'd me,
I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth;
But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee.
Decayed in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth.
Oh, for the veteran hearts that were wasted
In strife with the storm, when their battles were won;
Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted,
Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun."
I descend to the base and renew acquaintance with m>
medal-bedecked friend. With lanterns we explore a kind
of subterranean gallery. Here there are niches, in which
are placed beautiful and pure-white marble busts of
Napoleon, Marshal Sojilt, and Admiral Bruix — made all
the more attractive by the sombreness of the surroundings
and the dim light This column is a piece of work that
any nation might look upon with pride. It is built of
marble, including even the nearly three hundred steps.
Truly, it is one of the "lions" of Boulogne.

130

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE SADDEST SIGHT I EVER WITNESSED.

In all the annals of this present fierce (Boer) war I
doubt if anything more pathetic than this will be recorded,
A poor, weak, distressed woman in the early hours of the
morning, ventures from the married women's quarters of
Shorncliffe Camp to bid her husband adieu, previous to
his departure for the Cape. His name is Sergt. Archer,
2nd Dorset Regiment. In the hurry and bustle on the
one hand, the stern call of duty on the other, the des-
cription of the final parting can be imagined. Sad enough
in all conscience. The wife turns her head away. There
is grief at the parting from the good husband, and hope,
too, is mingled with fear as she utters to herself "Will he
come back again to myself and the three little ones?"

MOTHERS, THINK OF THIS.

You, who have loved ones of your own — you who
are surrounded, perhaps, with all that wealth and love can
afford — think of the anguish of this poor Mrs. Archer as
she turned away from her soldier husband on that winter
morning of last week. Surely her trial was great enough,
but the cup was not full. In the little home in C Block,
the youngsters were playing all unconsciously around the
fire. They did not know that father was gone to war.
Not they. The innocents were playing together. One of
them ventured too near the fire, and was soon enveloped
in flames. On the mother's arrival home it was found he
was in flames. Willie was his name. Soon afterwards he
died from shock. Everything that medical skill coukl
suggest was done or him, but the little one passed away.

THE FATHER.

With his regiment the father had marched to the rail-
way station, but through the kindness of a lady on the
Camp, Sergeant Archer was informed just as the train
started that his little boy had met with a slight accident
since his departure from the Camp. Although somewhat
disturbed in his mind, the gallant fellow left here, thinking
and hoping that all would be well. It was only when

he was just on sailing from Queenstown for the Cape that
the poor fellow heard the whole truth. A telegram was
sent to him telling him that Willie had gone where pain
and suffering was unknown. Poor fellow, he immediately
wrote a pencilled note to his wife. I have had the melan-
choly privilege of reading that communication. It was
indeed worthy alike of a soldier and a man. It is too
sacred to quote here, but the whole burden of it was this.
He informed his wife that he had received the sad intel-
ligence of his son's death. "It has fairly upset me, but
let us try and bear it, dear. I shall soon be back to you
again. Cheer up, dear. The Lord is good. Cheer up
Cheer up. Yes, I will soon come home to you again."
Let me say this. It was one of the most touching letters
that the eye of man could gaze upon. In this statement
there is much.

THE FUNERAL OF WILLIE.

I have during my connection with "The Herald" had
many sad experiences, but never a more pathetic one than
this. I do not wish to "draw out the agony," as the say-
ing goes, but to paint in my humble way one of the most
pathetic scenes I have ever witnessed, a scene at which
many men who endeavoured to restrain their feelings, were
unable to do so. Sergeant Archer and his family belonged
to the Catholic Church. In the churchyard, surpliced with
his acolytes and choristers, was Father Foran (Chaplain
to the Forces). Several spectators were present, awaiting
"the funeral train at the open gate." There was a solemn
pause.

"FOR OF SUCH is THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN."

It was just on 3.30. In the distance could be seen a
little procession. Silently it wound its winding way over
the white roads to the Garrison Churchyard. Six
miniature scarlet-coated drummer boys carried a white
flower-covered coffin. There followed in the rear a single
carriage. It contained the bereaved parent, her mother,
a little four-year-old boy, and another faithful female
friend. Behind these were Sergt. Goddall, an Army
Schoolmaster, Mr. Neumann, and your contributor.
Arrived at the gates, the procession made its way down
the bleak hillside to the grave. This is not the place
to record the affecting scene that here took place. It
shall suffice to say that to gaze upon that poor woman and
her surviving offspring was enough to strike pity into a
heart of stone. As the husband said in the letter I have
alluded to, "The poor little chap is now free from all
pain." As that little coffin was lowered into the grave

132

by the tear-bedimmed drummer boys on that winter's
afternoon, those words suggested themselves which came
from the lips of One as man ever spake — "For of such is
the Kingdom of Heaven." There were many tokens of
outward sympathy, and these included wreaths from
Major-General and Mrs. Hallam Parr, and all the corps in
garrison.

THE STORY OF A BATH CHAIR.

A CYCLE RUN FROM FOLKESTONE TO HASTINGS VIA
HAWKHURST.

I make the following extract from an article I wrote
and which appeared in the "Herald" July 4th, 1896.
Caught in a thunderstorm I was compelled to take shel-
ter, with the result that follows: "The rain now abated,
and being anxious to reach Hastings before four o'clock
I renewed my journey via Hurst Green and Roberts-
bridge. I bowled along merrily for a few miles only to
be detained by a renewal of the storm. The country
hereabouts is almost indescribable in its grandeur, and
I shall not forget for many a day the circumstances un-
der which I gazed upon it. Away to the eastward the
sky was of inky blackness, only relieved now and then
by the zig-zag course of the electric current, followed
by crashes of thunder. The view on the right between
Hurst Green and Robertsbridge and Whallington is said
to be the finest in Sussex. Certainly in my wanderings
I have never seen anything to approach it, and if only
to have enjoyed it, I feel the journey of Sunday was not
made in vain, for

" It is not while we look upon
A lovely landscape that its beauties only please.
In distant days when we afar are gone
From such, in Fancy's idle reveries,
Or moods of mind which Memory love to seize,
It comes in living beauty, fresh as when
We first beheld it, valley, hill, or trees
Overshadowing unseen brooks or outstretched fen
With cattle sprinkled o'er, exist and charm again."
With confidence I ask the nature-loving cyclist to make
this journey, and feast his eyes upon a scene I would
fain dwell upon. By this time I had skimmed along
another half-score of miles, and as there was a renewal
of the storm, the announcement outside a one-storied
and very lonely dwelling, "Lemonade and ginger beer
sold here," had some attractions for me. I tapped at
the door and asked for a cooling drink.

133

"COME AND SIT DOWN,"

said a little maiden. I gladly did so. One could dis-
cern at a glance that it was a very humble abode. On
the table was an open Bible, on which a pair of spec-
tacles laid. In the corner sat an old agricultural
labourer, and opposite to him was his wife, propped up
with pillows, lying in a chair. The girl had poured out
my draft, and how delicious it was! "Rest awhile,"
said the old fellow. Glancing over in the direction of
the pale-faced woman, I said, "You are ill, are you
not?" She replied, slowly and softly, with pauses be-
tween her words, "Yes, sir, I'm an invalid. I have lain
here now for sixteen or seventeen years.." Astonished
I almost instinctively replied, "I feel very sorry for you."
but I was rebuked for my pains. A smile lighted up the
sufferer's worn face, as she said with an evident effort,
"You see, sir, it's what our Maker has put upon me. I
must bear it until He thinks fit to take the burden off
me. Now, I do not wish to sermonize or moralize, but
who could fail to be touched by the words of this poor
creature who had lain here helpless in this lonely cottage
all these years. It was all unrehearsed — all so natural
— and without the slightest knowledge that I was mak-
ing so much as a mental note. Before I departed from
this humble roof, I remarked, "It is a pity you cannot be
lifted into a bath chair, and obtain a change of scene
and air outside this dwelling." And again came the
words, "I had an old bath chair once, but that has long
since been broken up, and now I am quite done."
"Yes," she continued in a feeble voice, "it is hard to lay
here day after day, week after week, and year after
year, to see the summer come and go, and watch the
people passing my window all so happy. But the people
will not think of me." And then the poor creature,
pausing again, said, "But I must learn to be patient."
At length I took my leave of this good woman, and left
her with her husband, and cheerful little girl, who ap-
peared to be the joy of the humble household. There
were many able discourses preached from the pulpits of
the churches last Sundy, but never a more eloquent ser-
mon than this suffering creature preached to me on
resignation and patience. I have purposely abstained
from giving even the suspicion of colouring to this little
incident which came before my notice in a far away
lonely cottage in Sussex. It may be that some kind
person, with time and means, may be able to make the
journey thither and provide a wicker chair for this in-
valid. What a pleasure could they give themselves in

134

trying at least to alleviate the lot of one of God's
nobility. The cottage is in Kent Street, about two miles
to the west of Westneld. It stands quite alone, and the
invalid's name is Merritt. This is only another instance
of the silent suffering one hears of occasionally in the
country districts. As I before stated, this little family
was totally unaware of any intention on my part in
bringing this case before the public, but I feel it a privi-
lege to be able to publish the facts to the world."

I WAS A JOYFUL MESSENGER.

My appeal for a bath (wicker) chair was not made
in vain. Money in a sense poured on me with the fol-
lowing result. This is what I wrote at .the time. "I
sent out for prices for a three-wheel invalid's chai^ and
accepted Mr. Adolphus Davis 's tender. The chair was
sent on at once. I need hardly write it, but the experi-
ence I had last Sunday was a very pleasant one. It was
about five o'clock when I reached the little cottage (40
odd miles from Folkestone). There was the old man,
the daughter, and the invalid still propped up with pil-
lows. I called for a 'home-brewed,' but one of the
family, noticing I was tired, offered me a cup of tea.
This I glady accepted. And now the fun began. I re-
marked, 'I called here a fortnight ago. Don't you re-
member me?' The old gentleman said he thought he
called me to mind, but the sick woman and her
daughter could not. Well, we went on discussing the
refreshing cup, and at last I remarked to the invalid,
'I have come all the way from Folkestone to see you to-
day.' 'To see me,' the sufferer answered, with perhaps
natural surprise. 'Yes. You told me, when I was here
a fortnight since, that you had been an invalid for many
years, that your bath chair was broken, and you were
now compelled to lay aside altogether.' 'Yes, sir, that
is quite correct,' answered my friend, adding, 'It is
strange; I was only saying to my daughter how I should
like to be wheeled out this afternoon. But it's no use
complaining.' It was then I chimed in with my joyful
message. 'Well, my good woman, I have been sent
here by some kind-hearted people, who had heard of
your case, to say that a bath chair has been purchased
for you. In fact, it is now waiting for you (carriage
paid) at Battle Station." (This was about two miles
from the cottage.) The poor creature stared at me for
a long time and then broke down, grasping with her only
hand that of her husband's. It would be out of place to
repeat all that was said in my hearing, but I can say if
the kind donors to this little fund could have accom-

135

panied me, they would have shared my joy at being
privileged to throw just a beam of sunlight into the life
of this sufferer and her little home. I could not help
thinking, as I sat there on this Sunday afternoon, that
there was a peculiar significance 'in the lines that hung
on a printed card over the head of the invalid: —
" Leave the future, let it rest,

Let it not thy peace molest;

God will for His own provide,

Only take Him for thy guide."
(I visited this self-same cottage about five years-
after my interview, found the old lady alive, and looked
at the bath chair, which was "wrapped up in lavender,'*
or rather, a covering.)

DERWENT WATER.

During my holiday in the Lake District I stayed at
Keswick, and this is an impression I wrote at the time of
Derwent Water.

This lake and its surroundings are a poem of beauty
only to be read by the real lovers of Nature. It was a
quiet Sunday morning, and I walked gently round (nine
miles) this delightful stretch of water. The whole scene
is so beautiful that, as the guide book declares, it cannot
be described in words. It was the walk of my life. The
lake, studded with little islands, is as clear as crystal.
Its calm surface reflects as a mirror. One can stand on
the edge, and note the shadow of the passing fleecy
clouds, the forms and varying colours of the mountains.
It is a picture such as the Great Artist alone can paint.
One in a measure can understand why Ruskin and Words-
worth loved to dwell amid such scenes as these. I stood
on a miniature cape — "Friar's Crag" it is called. From
this point is to be obtained what is termed "Ruskin's
view." Here has been erected a memorial to the author of
"The Stones of Venice." In a sense one can understand
Ruskin's fierce opposition to the railways invading this
sanctuary of Nature. A few birds twittering in the trees,
the untroubled water, the filmy clouds ever and anon
kissing the mountain tops, the glow here and there of the
dying bracken fern, combined to render the scene a
memorable one. To gaze on such a scene as this is some-
thing of a privilege, and one is tempted to ask: Could
anything be more beautiful? In the afternoon I rowed
out on the lake, and finished the day by attending the
service at the little Parish Church. My all too brief stay
came to an end, but I felt thankful that I had been per-
mitted to just taste the pleasudes of Lakeland and its
glorious mountains.

136

OUR YOUNG M.P.

Durmg the several years I have contributed this
weekly article it can be said with truth that politics have
not formed a text for any of my paragraphs. All parties
are so well provided with leaders and counsellors that
there is room at least for one outside the magic circle. I
am well! content to be that one. However, during the
recent election one could not fail to hear representative men
— both Conservatives and Liberals — express the opinion^
when Sir Philip Sassoon's candidature was first proposed
that the now elected Member for this constituency was too
young, too inexperienced. Surely such as these have not
taken to heart the lessons of history. My knowledge of
Sir Philip is confined to one of his speeches
which he delivered at the Town Hall at the open-
ing of the late campaign. He did well for one
so young. His delivery, phrasing, and posing alike gave
promise of his becoming an orator of no mean merit.

THE TEACHING OF HISTORY.

When we turn our thoughts to the past — when we
think of the very young men who have left their names
emblazoned on the scroll of fame — we may well ask those
who have decried Sir Philip Sassoon's age and inexper-
rence whether such remarks are altogether warranted. It
may be that the Member for Hythe is not a heaven-born
genius. That is neither here nor there. But what do
we find in history? Disraeli (Earl Beaconsfield), for one,
has written that the greatest captains of ancient and
modern times, both conquered Italy at twenty-five ; that
youth — extreme youth — overthrew the Persian Empire;
that Don John of Austria won Lepanto at Twenty-five —
one of the greatest battles of modern times ; that had it
not been for the jealousy of Philip, the next year he would
have been Emperor of Mauretania. Gaston de Fiox was
only twenty-two when he stood a victor on the Plain of
Ravenna. Everyone remembers Conde and Roeroy at
the same age. When Maurice of Saxony died at thirty-
two all Europe acknowledged the loss of the greatest cap-
tain and profoundest statesmen of the age.

OTHER INSTANCES.

Again I say, when considering this subject of youth,
read history. Both Ignatius Loyala (the founder of the
Jesuits) and John Wesley worked with young brains.
Pascal — one of the greatest Frenchmen that ever lived—
wrote a great work at sixteen, and died at thirty-seven.
Was it experience that guided the hand of Raphael when

137

he painted the palaces of Rome ? He died at thirty-seven.
The mighty Richelieu died at thirty-one. Pitt and
Rolingbroke were both ministers before other men leave
off cricket. Grotius was in practice at seventeen, and
attorney-general at twenty-four. These instances could
be multiplied, if necessary, to prove that it does not lie
with any man, be he Conservative or Liberal, to endeavour
to decry those who are fortunate to be young in years.

HENRY RUSSELL'S MAGNIFICENT SONGS.

" A relic of bygone days was he,
And his locks were as white as the foamy sea;
And these words came from his lips so thin,
I gather them in, I gather them in."

Henry Russell, the composer of the magnificent
songs, which are known the world over, has breathed his
last after 87 years of useful life. During the evening of
his career he often favoured Folkestone with his genial
presence, and there are many — myself among the num-
ber— who can recall pleasant chats on the harbour with
this fine old Englishman. His grand dramatic songs are
worth the study, but how seldom do we hear them now?
The often sickly sentimental ballads of tlhe day are not
to be compared with these for descriptive power and
wonderful effects. Amongst his many beauitful compo-
sitions is "The Old Sexton," from which I quoted above
and below. The verses appear to have a deeper mean-
ing at this hour:

" Come they from cottage, or come they from hall,
Mankind are my subjects — all, all, all;
They may revel at ease, or toilfully spin,
I gather them in, I gather them in."
Grand old composer, good old man, a true-as-steel friend
— you, too, are gathered in. Peace to his ashes!

OLD NED'S HORSE.

Ned Parker has passed to the great beyond at the
age of eighty. He drew his last breath at
Each End Hill "Hotel," and was buried in the
cemetery. Ned was one of the last des-
patch riders who used to travel between Dover
and London, before the coming of the railway.
In all weathers, and at any hour, he would set out on
his journey, having ten horses at his disposal for the
purpose. Many a yarn could the old boy spin of those
far-off days. It was due to the kindness of the "Herald"

138

readers that Ned was kept out of the House years ago.
It was in this way. He was driving a fare out towards
Newington. The ground was covered with snow, and
the horse Parker was driving dropped down dead. I
happened to be passing at the time, and, of course,
naturally sympathised with Ned. The poor old fellow
was weeping, and remarked: "Now I have lost my all.
There is nothing but the Workhouse for me now." How-
ever, it was my privilege to record the above facts in
the "Herald," with the result that in a week a sufficient
sum was subscribed for the purchase of a new horse.
The old man was very grateful, and he never forgot the
many friends who rallied around him in his hour of need.
Ned, was indeed, a veritable relic of the past.

THE SWITCHBACK RAILWAY AND ITS OWNER.

Twenty-two years or more have rushed past since
Folkestone received something of a shock when it heard
that a lease had been granted on a portion of the fore-
shore as a site for a switchback railway. Some were
heard to declare that the introduction of this American
invention would detract from the beauty and dignity of
the town, that it would only be patronised by a host of
'Arrys and 'Arriets, etc. However, the poor old switch-
back, similarly to many existing institutions, has sur-
vived the attacks of unfriendly critics as it has resisted
successive assaults of "Davy Jones." Yes, not only
have the waves themselves dashed against the frail struc-
ture, but floating wreckage — huge baulks of .timber —
have hammered at and through it. Creaking doors
hang on the lortgest. So it seems to be in regard to this
wooden railway on the beach.

THE RIGHT HON. H. H. ASQUITH AND MRS. ASQUITH ON
THE SWITCHBACK.

No greater patron of the switchback can be found
than Mrs. Asquith and iher children. These have en-
joyed the fun of the ride times out of number. For
them to pay a visit to Folkestone and not patronise the
attraction to the west of the Victoria Pier would be
strange indeed. And thus it came about that about three
seasons since Mrs. Asquith prevailed on her distin-
guished husband to take a trip. And so much did the
Prime Minister enjoy his experience on that occasion
that no less than five times did he brave the up and down
motion. I am indebted to Mr. T. C. Sinclair, the present
proprietor, who has been associated with the venture

139

since its erection, for the foregoing information, and for
much that follows. In answer to my query: "Did Mr.
Asquith express an opinion?" Mr. Sinclair replied:
"Well, he said nothing, but he laughed heartily at the
fun, especially at the low dip. The owner of the switch-
back speaks highly of Mrs. Asquith. "Here," said he,
are two portraits of her husband and little girl." These,
I should say, were hanging on the wall of Mr. Sinclair's
cosy home at 41, Pavilion-road. It was here I also
learned that on one occasion Mr. Sinclair had carried on
his car the Princesses Helene, Louise, and Isabella of
Orleans. These royal ladies, with their suites, stayed
in Folkestone for three seasons, and were constant in
their attendance at the Switchback. I should here state
that Mr. Sinclair is generally known among his patrons
as "Uncle Tom," and the name is likely to stick to him
to the end. When Princess Helene was married to the
Duke D'Aosta our hero sent a message of congratula-
tion to the royal lady on the wedding day, and received
a wire in reply to this effect: "The Duchess D'Aosta de-
sires 'Uncle Tom' to be 'thanked." The original tele-
gram Mr. Sinclair has hanging in a frame on the walls
of his museum. Sir Edward Sassoon's family, repre-
sentatives of the House of Rothschild, General Sir Baker
Russell (one time Commandant at Shorncliffe Camp),
an Admiral of the Fleet, the Bishop of Birmingham
and his children, and many other men and women
of note, have been amongst those who have enjoyed this
particular kind of fun on the beach.

" UNCLE TOM" SINCLAIR.

I have met many "characters," in my time, and this
is an "original." Strange indeed that I should not have
fallen across him before. However, as the saying goes,
"he's just my handwriting." After listening to some of
his cursory remarks the other evening, I said: "Mr. Sin-
clair, you must have had a varied career. May I ask a
few questions for my "Herald" friends?" Possessing a
bluff, hearty, and open nature, he replied, "Fire away,
my boy." and then I "fired" into him, but I did not
riddle him through and through, for I found him a three-
volume novel bound up in one.

EARLY LIFE.

I will summarise. Mr. Sinclair started to earn his
own living as an engine fire-box boy when seven years of
age. His duties were cleaning out boilers and furnaces,
It was "all night" work at a small wage, and this for
seven days a week. When he reached fifteen years our

140

hero was fireman on a London and Chatham engine for
a year or two. Our hero now had a spell at sea,
and tiring of this, Mr. Sinclair shipped to Queens-
land, Australia, by an emigrant's assisted passage. It
was on this occasion, when walking the steamer's deck,
that the ship's surgeon accosted him. "By your ap-
pearance you are a seaman, I take it," remarked the
medical man. "I am," replied Mr. Sinclair. The result
of further conversation, and a perusal of his credentials,
was that our hero was then and there appointed assist-
ant ship's doctor. His experience amongst the 800 emi-
grants in this capacity would fill a small book. How-
ever, so satisfactorily did he fulfil his duties that his
passage money was refunded, and a parchment certifi-
cate presented to him by the Queensland Government.
This document Mr. Sinclair naturally prizes, for its elo-
quence is louder than words.

IN BRISBANE AND CANADA.

"Uncle Tom," as I have indicated, was an emigrant.
A thought seized him. He would buy an Australian daily
newspaper. Looking down the small advertisements,
he noticed one setting forth that an engineer was wanted
in the Brisbane Brick, Tile, and Pottery Works.
"Nothing venture, nothing have." He had had experi-
ence on locomotives, and also in the engine rooms of
the Dover Harbour tugs, but was never in a brickyard.
However, Mr. Sinclair s credentials were so satisfactory
that he was chosen for the post out of 77 applicants.
Tiring of Australia, he returned home. Altogether in
steamers he travelled out to Australia on seven occasions,
besides voyaging to various Mediterranean ports. Nor
did his foreign service stop here, for we find him out in
Canada, where, amongst other things, he did a lot of
farming in the district where runs the Grand Trunk Rail-
way. Possessing a keen, observant mind, Mr. Sinclair
is, as it were, packed full of knowledge. It is a treat
to converse with him. He does not boast, but if any-
thing, is reticent.

CHANNEL TUGS AND MAIL STEAMERS.

A short spell on the Dover and Folkestone mail
boats is also included in this busy career, as are also
eight years as engineer on the Dover Harbour tugs Pal-
merston, Lady Vita, and Granville. The experiences of
this part of Mr. Sinclair's life would provide many an
exciting and thrilling chapter, for it must be remembered
these tugs are what might be termed the "Stormy
Petrels" of the Channel. As that grand old sailor, Capt.

141

Irons, the Dover Harbour Master, once said to the crew
of the Palmerston: — "In all bad weather your place is at
sea." And true this is. When waves are rolling moun-
tains high, when the wind shrieks with the sound of a
thousand furies, when fog throws its mantle over the
water, and when blinding snow is falling, .then it is that
these little tug boats go out to do and to dare. The
engineers and crews of such vessels are amongst the
bravest of the brave. Had I space at my disposal, I
might spin many a yarn in connection with these little
craft, for had it not been for one of them the probabili-
ties are that I should never have written these notes.
But this is personal, and would be of little interest to
my readers.

THE GROSSER KURFURST AND PLASSEY.

"Granville ahoy! The squadron of German vessels
that passed by here (Dover) a short while ago have been
in collision. Proceed to the scene at once." This was
shouted to the crew of the Granville, of which Mr. Sin-
clair at the time was engineer. Steam was up and the
tug headed for a point five miles off Sandgate. There was
one great ironclad the less, and close on 300 men in that
brief interval had found a watery grave. "Down by the
head" was the Koenig Wilhelm, the colliding vessel.
The Granville, on arriving on the scene, had orders to
"stand by" the crippled warship. This she did, and
was the only tug to accompany the vessel to Portsmouth
Harbour. The bulkheads alone held her up. It was
"touch and go" all the way to the naval harbour, as at
any moment the German ship might have foundered.
Well, they got into Portsmouth "all safe," but, strange
to state, on crossing the harbour to Gosport, a barge
thrust her bowsprit through the stern of the tug right
into the Captain's cabin. The Granville's crew did
splendidly, and the Dover authorities made no charge for
services rendered. The Harbour Master, however, re-
ceived a magnificent gold watch from the German Em-
peror, and the crew's reward was a gaze at the time-
keeper. Again, Mr. Sinclair, with his tug, was present
at the wreck of that fine vessel, The Plassey, at Sea-
brook. He declares the ship might have been saved
had it not been for the captain, who threw off the tug's
rope, which had been made fast to The Plassey by the
mate. No doubt the poor captain for the time being was
demented, and we remember the result. Now I must
"pull up" and tear myself away from an interesting sub-
ject.

142

THE CHERITON OF OTHER DAYS.

When " The Herald " was in its babyhood
it was one of my duties -to attend at evening:
meetings of the Parochial Council in a small
room at the Village Hall. Just the glimmer
of an oil lamp was the only illuminant. The subjects onost
discussed were the lighting and scavenging of the village.
When I contrast the fine building in which the Urban
District Council now hold their meetings, the change
is wonderful There were then about four houses from
what was called Cheriton Arch to the White Lion Hotel—
a low squat building. There were no omnibuses, »and it
was a case of 'Shanks' pony if one did not obtain a lift.
A walk along there by night was a dreary experience, the
only light proceeding from the oil lamps. When one con-
siders the present number of houses, and the rapidly in-
creasing population, one cannot but admire the enterprise
that -has brought all this about. The other day I was
conversing with an old inhabitant, and remarked: "I sup-
pose Cheriton will Se absorbed by Folkestone some (day ?"
the reply was: "Rather not; we shall preserve our indi-
viduality."

THE CAT AND MUSTARD POT."

In (the printed list of appointments for the East Kent
Foxhounds I noticed recently that one of the meets was
fixed to take place at "The Cat and Mustard Pot,"
Paddlesworth. Now this, the highest village in Kent, is
a tiny community, iand is described in the ancient couplet
as the "smallest parish." Paddlesworth is remembered by
many of us with feelings bordering on affection, and so
many nibbed their eyes to find that a new (hostelry had
been erected in this lofty position — 650 feet above sea
level. Some people were heard to ask : "What about the
Red'Lion?" or, as it is more familiarly known, "The Cat"
and "Sprawling Cat." I made a few enquiries, and dis-
covered that "The Cat and Mustard Pot" was jane and the
same house.

"MUSTARD."

Why should this be associated with "The Cat ?" Our
recollection goes back to the time of the pricket week, to
the time, top, of the "harvdst home" suppers, when the
late Mrs. Dixon's famous beef puddings were devoured
with eest by the sons of the plough, and other farm hands.
In the years that are passed the skittle alley and a game
called "jennypins" figured largely. The ordinary towns-

143

man was no hand at this latter game, and the ploughman
would generally lead the way. What splendid times they
were, when a dozen young fellows would climb up the
650 feet from Folkestone, say on some Saturday afternoon,
to sit down later to a nice supper. The appetites
on those occasions were in good working order, and no
sauces were needed to kindle hunger. And later the piano
would be brought into requisition for the /mirth and har-
mony. It was indeed "mustard" to listen to some of those
countrymen's songs, comprising often forty verses or more.
Perhaps the memory of one of these vocalists would fail
him, and then some one would suggest that "Charley
should go back forty verses." There was a humour about
it all. Yes, -I contend that "mustard," if history informs
us rightly, was not inappropriately associated with "The
Cat."

BUT WHY " THE CAT?"

Well, if truth be told, this was due to the village
artist. The old signboard hanging from the branch of the
tree just outside of the hotel was blown down once upon a
time. That was when it was known to be the "Red
Lion." What was to be done? The village artist, who
had earned a certain fame, was equal to the occasion. He
painted a (new signboard in gorgeous colours, and "the
king of the forest" was depicted in remarkable style. His
fierce sprouting whiskers, his pricked up ears, -and bolting
eyes rendered the representation of the lion as one of the
most remarkable on record. The villagers assembled to
gaze on the spectacle, and one and all declared that the
artist had drawn, not a lion, but a "sprawling cat." Hence
the popular designation. ' And now, after all these years we
find that the real name is "The Cat and ^Mustard Pot."
Mr. Selby-Lowndes, a true sportsman, appears to have
known of the title, for, as I have said, it is included in
the hunting fixtures. Perhaps some of my readers can
explain matters. Since writing the above I understand
a reference to the "Cat and Mustard Pot" is made in
the well-known sporting volume of "Yorricks." And
now, after wri-ting all this I hear the "Cat and Custard
Pot" is the rightful designation. However, "Mustard"
fits in well.

A TALE OF SOME HEDGEHOGS.

STRANGE NOISES IN THE NIGHT.

In the stillness of night sound, as it were, becomes
magnified. In the thousand and one distractions and

144

diversions of the day slight noises pass by unheeded as
they become mixed with what may be termed a medley of
sound. When, however, the curtain of night has fallen —
when /everything is "as silent as the grave" — the case is
quite different. Those who may happen to suffer from
sleeplessness fully grasp this fact. The tick of a watch
or a clock, the nibbling of a homely mouse — these and
other such like matters all become sounds magnified — by
the mind. The tenants of a house in Sussex Road,
Folkestone, can give first-hand experience of this fact.
These good people for some time past have heard strange
sounds and movement.

SOMETHING ABOUT THE HOUSE.

At first but little notice was taken. The lady of the
house, however, with a keen ear, declared "there must
be something about the house." Her redoubtable husband
— a well-known Conservative "pillar" — laughed, and de-
clared it was~ nothing but .imagination. However, the
noises — a kind of scratching and a suppressed grunt — con-
tinued. OUT hero then agred with his "better half" that
there must be "something" after all. Then it came about
that he turned out «of his bed in the darkness — after the
midnight hour had struck. Nerving himself for the
occasion, he proceeded with a candle in one hand and a
poker in the other, to probe the mystery. He and his
family had had enough of these "sounds in the night."
It was a case now of death or glory. Was it a bogey
man capering about under <the beds, or a family of rats
or mice that were holding revels under the cover of dark-
ness? These in turn ,were the questions that suggested
themselves to the hero's mind. As he remarked to your
correspondent, "I searched everywhere — high and low —
and could find nothing." Then, laying down his poker, and
blowing out the candle, the Sussex-road resident once
more sought repose.

A SHRIEK, LAUGHTER, AND SURPRISE.

The strange noises in the night continued. The poor
man and his wife at length came to the conclusion that
their humble dwelling must be haunted. Not a sound
was there by day, but only when the family retired to
rest. Was there some uneasy spirits (not the "Scotch"
or "Irish" sort) from the other world? Said our Jfiriend
quite truly: "All this must be something out of the
ordinary." And it was, as the following will prove. In
these small houses there is generally a cupboard under
the stairs. On a certain evening a few days since a
daughter of the family had occasion to pay a visit to the

145

"cupboard." She had taken off her shoes, and, not wear-
ing slippers at the time, her feet were unpro-
tected. It was "dark under the stairs." A loud,
piercing shriek was subsequently heard. "Oh ! What-
ever is it? I must have stood on a score or two
of (needles. Oh! Oh! Oh!" After her recovery from
the natural fright, a light was procured, and here was the
cause of all the trouble. A hedgehog! And tnot one
hedgehog only, but a family of four. Oh, what a surprise !
Was ,there anything like it before in the centre of the
town? Of course, them ost interested could not help
laughing at what they thought to be "Mrs. Hedgehog"
and her little ones. The neighbours all round rejoiced
with them as if they had found the "lost piece of silver,"
and the occupants of the house were heard to say : "Well,
we shall sleep to-night" Truly a happy, though painful
ending. The pricks of the hedgehog -were soon forgotten
in the general satisfaction that the nocturnal disturbance
was explained.

FRENCH PRIVATEERS OFF DOVER.

In that well conducted Sunday newspaper, "The
Observer," there are printed each week extracts of news
which appeared in the journal a century since. Here is
one dated May 5th, 1811: "There were no fewer than
nine French privateers off Dover on Thursday night.
They had the audacity to come close to shore, when the
batteries opened a heavy fire upon them, which they re-
turned with great promptness, but no damage was done
on either side. A foreign vessel was seen to fall into
their hands, but we fear this is not the whole extent of
their captures, as no British cruisers were in sight."
Strange to read the foregoing in view of the entente
cordiale. The extract once more proves what changes
the whirligig of time brings about. "The French are
coming" was a cry that had a very full and deep mean-
ing in these parts a hundred years ago. And the obso-
lete martello towers are an outward expression of the
fears theft entertained in regard to our friends across
the Channel. However, everything has been changed
through the late great and peaceful King.

THE KEARSAGE.

And, writing of privateers, I am reminded that many
years ago the Kearsage, which engaged and sunk the
Alabama off Cherbourg, anchored off Folkestone or

146

Sandgate, for some days. The vessel's presence here
attracted much attention at the time. The crew was
very cosmopolitan, including several nationalities.
There are several who can recollect the vessel, which
proved to be more than a match for the Confederate.
Capt. Semmes, when the vessel sank, was picked up and
taken into Southampton. The subject is referred to as
follows in the late Sir Wm. Butler's Autobiography, pub-
lished recently: — "After a short leave of absence at
home, I was sent with a party of men to Hythe to learn
out of books that theory of musketry in the practice of
which I was already no mean proficient. But Hythe was
no exception to the rule wihich I have found existing in
every part of the world, namely, that a man will find
something of interest, something that is worth knowing
or seeing, no matter what the spot may be on the earth's
surface where fortune has cast him. Visiting Dover .one
day, I turned into the Ship Hotel for luncih. At a table
in one corner of the public room four men were sitting.
The waiter informed me that they were officers of the
American Federal cruiser Kearsage, which was then
lying in the Harbour. Over at Calais lay, also in har-
bour, and afraid to stir from it, the Confederate cruiser
Alabama. The Federal agent in Calais kept the captain
of the Kearsage constantly informed of the doings of
his rival. The Kearsage lay in Dover with steam always
up. The truth was the Alabama's game was up, unless
some extraordinary freak of fortune should again be-
friend her, for the Kearsage had 'the legs of her,' and
whether the brave Semmes headed out into the North
Sea, or went down Channel, he must be overhauled by
his enemy.

THE END OF THE ALABAMA.
"Suddenly" (continues the narrative of General But-
ler) "the door of the coffee-room opened, and four gentle-
men, dressed in rather peculiar suits of 'mufti,' entered
the room. They stopped short, stared hard at the occu-
pants of the table in the corner, turned abruptly round,
and left the room. They were officers of the Alabama,
who had crossed from Calais by the mail boat that morn-
ing, probably to have a look at their enemy from the
pier. A couple of weeks later the Confederate slipped
out from Calais that night, and witih something of a start
made her way down Channel; but the Kearsage was soon
upon her tracks. Cherbourg offered a last refuge for
the little warship, whose career in all the oceans, and
even in the corners of the seas, had cost the Northern
States such enormous loss. When the time limit was up

she had to put to sea. A few miles off Cherbourg the
two cruisers met for the first and last time. It was all
over with the Alabama in an hour. Semmes and his
crew were picked up by an English steam yacht — I have
forgotten her name — but, curiously enough, she had
steamed close alongside for many miles a month or two
earlier, when the two clipper ships were racing each
other along the south coast of England from Plymouth
to Dartmouth."

"AVE MARIA" ON THE LEAS.

No, it did not rain, but .now towards the close of
the well chosen programme a cold fog crept off the
Channel. Wierd indeed did the arc lights and moving
figures appear. And then people were seen to put on
their mackintoshes and wraps, for the temperature had
fallen. Appropriate, then, in a measure, was it to listen
for once 411 "the luxury of silence" to Gounod's immortal
"Ave Maria." The years have flown since that time I
heard Hear Wurm play this exquisite inspiration from
the platform of the Victoria Pier. On Saturday night I
found the (hand of the player had lost none of its cunning,
and that the tone of the instrument revealed a soul. If
Herr Wurm's interpretation of Gounod's notes were almost
flawless, the same may be said for the underlying accom-
paniment Yes, on this unpropitious night those strains
floated towards us as on wings of light ; they appeared to
emphasise the words of the great, great Cardinal Newman,
when he spoke of the mystery of musical sounds : "Some-
thing they are besides themselves which we cannot express ;
which we carmot utter, though mortal man, and he perhaps
not otherwise extinguished above his fellows, has the gift
of eliciting them." And it was a strange thing on
Saturday night that there were no " chatter
boxes" about, and thus, as I have before remarked, we
listened to a really good all round programme in the
"luxury of silence."

"CAMPING OUT" AROUND THE FESTIVE

BOARD.

Bronzed with three or four months of healthy life in
the open, a goodly number of Folkestonians "made jolly
amongst themselves" at the White Horse Inn, Hawkinge,.
a few nights since. A kindly invitation to join the com-
pany came my way, but circumstances prevented my
acceptance. However, "from information received," I am

148

glad to learn that those sturdy young men who year by
year "tent out" on the ..hillsides enjoyed what is popularly
known as "a rattling time." How could it be otherwise,
with genial Dick Cooper in the chair? How could it be
otherwise, too, when Host and Hostess Bridges set to
work to satisfy the hunger which the open air life gener-
ates? There was no printed menu, but the roast and
boiled, cut-and-come-again kind of joints, the "balls of
flour/' the Brussels sprouts, the mashed turnips, etc. — all
these good things told their own tale. The windows of
the banquetting chamber being open, the incense arising
from the steaming viands pervaded Hawkinge for yards
around. Carvers and steels opened the preliminary battle
with knives and forks. In the long and /ancient history
of Hawkmge it Is said never such a supper had been held.
And the "after part," with its flow of soul harmony!
"It was just grand," remarked my informant Farmer
friends were there. Some of these dug up old songs from
a distant past, and they contrasted well with the more
modern ditties. Speeches generally were scorned, ,but
gratitude was expressed to Mr. and Mrs. Bridges for the
manner in ,which they had prepared and served the feast,
and thanks were also expressed towards them for their
unvarying kindness to the campers out, especially those
who pitch their tents at "The Hermitage." Genial Dick
made a nice little speech, and gave the company his bless-
ing. Then the company left the scene of brightness for
the darkness of the meadows and their tents, there to
sleep until the dawn streaked the eastern sky.

"CORPORATION MIXTURE."

How rapidly evil or good examples are copied is
illustrated every day in this highly imitative age. There-
fore one is justified in feeling a trifle nervous that the
recent action of the Sevenoaks Urban Council may be re-
peated in that august body — the Folkestone Town Coun-
cil. I will explain. The aforesaid urban body, after
profound debate, have decided that its members should
have their "pipes on" during meeting hours. This up-
to-date decision, it appears, has been too much for one
member who, in sheer disgust, has forthwith resigned.
Thus Sevenoaks, in regard to future elections, will be
divided between smokers and non-smokers. Such in-
tellectual matters, say, as scavenging, or drainage, will go
for nought. Do you favour the weed or not? — that will
be the question. The unexpected often happens. Who
knows? There are now in the Folkestone Council some

149

very progressive members. It is .well-known that one or
two of these favour cigarettes, whilst others prefer the
briar, or the good old-fashioned, but cool smoking
Brodesly clay. Of course, on the more lofty aldermanic
bench we should probably find lovers of choice .brands of
cigars. We can well imagine, in case the Sevenoaks
system should prevail .here, that our respected friend
Alderman Spurgen would offer his colleague, Alderman
Vaughan, the hospitality of a "Solace" cigarette, whilst
imagination pictures' Aldermen Pepper and Hall remarking,
in declining the offer of a good cigar, "No, we will stick
to our "briars." And, then, as to ithe Town Clerk and
other officials, they would probably not be forgotten, for
Councillor Martingell would probably 'lead by a "head"
with his well-known cigar case. But imagination must not
be allowed to further run riot in the presence of possi-
bilities. One never knows in .this uncertain world what
may happen, and (evidently Mr. Stevenson thinks this, for
he has put on extra .supplies of Smiles' well-known mixture.

"THAT MEANS 'WEATHER.'"

The gale that lashed our shores on a recent Sunday
afternoon and evening will, for intensity and sudden-
ness, rank with .some of the greatest of similar local visi-
tations. Did my readers notice the wild and wonderful
sunset of Saturday? The dominating colours were gold,
silver, and a pale olive green. It was wierdmess rather
than, gorgeousness that rivetted the attention. There was
something awesome, uncanny, almost unnatural in the
fierce but dying light, and it was this, I suppose, that was
responsible for the remark that fell from a keen observer,
as he surveyed the scene, "That means 'weather.' " It is
said that in the southern latitudes, before the coming of a
cyclone, the sky assumes a remarkable hue, and it would
seem that the display of Saturday may Be taken in the
same sense.

A MAGNIFICENT SEA FIGHT.

We have "had nothing but samples of weather this
past few months," but the "weather" referred to in the
previous paragraph arrived in full force during Sunday
afternoon. From three up to midnight it blew from out
of the south-west with hurricane force. Under the roof-
shelter of a comfortable home, or even walking about on
terra firma, we could but flash a thought towards those
"who go down to the sea an ships, and do business in great

ISO

waters." In those few hours referred to how many brave
fellows lost their Jives ? The sum total is not yet known,
but it is great. The storm fiend and duty called me away
from a comfortable fire. I was perusing at the time
Catlyle's wonderful book, "Heroes and Hero Worship."
I left the printed page, and then read a chapter on heroes
which^ Nature had herself provided. Yes, 'in company
with a few sailors and officials, I read it on Folkestone
Pier, amidst the raging storm. There was all the dramatic
setting of a sea drama, the principal scene of which was a
desperate struggle between man and the giant forces of
Nature. And that wonderful being, Man, by means of
doggedness and persistency, had the mastery. The scene,
perhaps /no uncommon one around our shores, is yet well
worth the telling. We, as a nation, are so often self-
depreciative that it is as well to remind ourselves that when
put to the test, those great qualities that have marked
Englishmen as a wonderful race still remain with us.

THRILLING MOMENTS.

I arrived on the Harbour about 7.30 p.m. The cargo
boat Folkestone had just blown her whistle preparatory to
steaming out into the teeth of the gale. "I'd rather be
ashore than aboard her to-night," remarked a landsman,
and I could but say ditto. Tne second whistle blew, and
the steamer started, soon to be lost in the darkness. Out
yonder, over the shallow water of the Copt Point rocks,
we could ever and anon notice the white breakers
"showing their teeth," as the sailors put it. The
flash from the lighthouse, too, illumined the angry
waters or the clouds of spray, turned for the moment, but
only for 'the moment, into golden showers. Alnd then
blackness, ,with wind shrieking, and waters roaring. We
now stand nearly at the end of the pier extension. A
thousand giant waves are bombarding the splendid granite
structure; the sea tumbles over the parapet on to the
landing stage beneath. It is now half past eight. All
eyes are turned towards the pier head. We are watching
for the turbine Queen, which left Boulogne ,a little over
an hour previously. At this time the broken sea is running-
high, the wind at its height, and tide running strong.
It is mow 8.40, and the lights of the Queen are discerned.
The vessel has made a comparatively smart passage, but
will she "make" the pier? We are not long in doubt.
She enters .the boiling, swirling whirlpool of water.

"TOUCH AND GO."

The Queen's hull is not visible, but the mast-head,
port-hole, and saloon lights guide our vision. The first of
the five attempts to pick up her moorings provided a
thrilling sight. These twenty years and more had I
familiarised myself with stormy ^enes at the Harbour.
True, I have seen "more sea on," but never Ead it been
my lot to watch a steamer enter our port under more thrill-
ing circumstances. At one time the Queen appeared to
be on the crest of the "cliff" of .broken water. The huge
vessel then seemed to take a dive.

LIGHT!

The recent discussion in the Town Council on gas
and electricity recalls the time when (with apologies to
Tennyson) "all Folkestone wondered" at its first view of
the electric spark. History, indeed, is soon made now-
adays. It was on the skating rink (now a croquet ground
at the Pleasure Gardens) that electric light was first seen
in this town. A great crowd gathered on the occasion,
the fame of the illuminant having spread far and wide.
A belt attached to a traction engine drove the dynamo.
After considerable waiting the crowd was treated to a few
intermittent sparks, ancl then the experimental affair broke
down. Some wiseacres laughed ; others xecognised a revo-
lution. It was under these circumstances, then, that the
new light first sparkled in this town.

THE LATE MR. F. T. PARSONS AND ELECTRIC

LIGHT.

If the earlier copies of "The Herald" were searched
through, it would be found that a strenuous battle raged
in regard to the introduction of electric light into this town.
The fight .lasted for years. Of course, it meant that cer-
tain vested interests were affected. Read, however, in the
light of the present day, the whole controversy seems
absurd. It is, perhaps, worthy of note that the late Mr.
F. J. Parsons (who would not brook delay) was the first
to introduce the spark locally, at his library in Sandgate-
road. The business was then under the management of
Mr. W. E. Thorpe, but it was Mr. Parsons who first used
the new light for business purposes in Folkestone. For
a time he was "frowned at," but, progress being his abiding
motto, he little cared for retrogade opinion. I repeat, it
seems absurd when we dwell upon these things.

152

INCIDENTS IN TAKING THE CENSUS.

About twelve years since I was one of the enumera-
tors employed in taking the Census. My district em-
braced the eastern part of the town, including the Mar-
tello towers and the "Warren Inn." Amongst the
many incidents that came before my notice are
two recorded below. A little girl brought me
two papers belonging to two separate fami-
lies in the house. One of the schedules was
incorrectly filled, and I told the little girl I must
have it put right. In answer to enquiries, she said
"Mother and the lodgers are all out at work." I was
persistent, however, and added, "Well, my dear, this
paper must be put right. What time does father come
home?" The little one replied in a whisper, "He is at
home now, sir." "Where is he?" I asked, and the
child pointed to a window, the blind of which was drawn.
Standing at the doorway, it was evident the father
could hear my conversation with his daughter, for I
heard a weak voice cry out, "Come in, mister." Led
by the little girl, I entered a bedroom on the ground
floor, and there, lying at full length in the bed, was the
fine form of a man. Asking the reason of his lying
there, the poor fellow told me he was suffering from a
second attack of rheumatic fever and bronchitis. "Only
as my wife moves me can I turn an inch." There, as
helpless as a baby, lay that once strong man. "Do you
belong to a club?" I asked. "No," he replied in his
weak voice, "my heart is so much affected by the rheu-
matics that the doctors will not pass me. It is hard
lines to lay here week after week, with a wife and three
children depending on me, and not be able to move."
Although in a great hurry, I sat by his side for a few
moments, and during further conversation he added,
"What knocked me back more than anything was last
Januarv. In this very room one of my dear children
died. Yes, she laid in the coffin there before me, and I
could not move even to kiss her little face. The loss of
that little one seemed to knock me back." Poor fellow?
His voice wavered as he spoke and I could see what
he felt. And so his wife went out to do a little washing
washing, and the letting of a couple of rooms brought in
something towards the rent. The brightest picture in
that room was the little girl I met at the door. She was
acting as her father's seven-year-old nurse. It ap-
peared the sick man contracted this awful rheumatic
fever by working in damp sand as a labourer. This
little incident was all the more touching because it was

153

unrehearsed. My visit to that humble home, I am glad to
know, was not without some result, and indirectly the
census was the means of doing good where it
was, I believe, much deserved. I might add the poor
man and his little daughter were entire strangers to me,
and it was only by the exercise of a little tact that 1
extracted the information I have given above.

IN A LONELY COTTAGE.

There were other cases that came before my unwil-
ling notice. Here is one that would touch a man with a
heart of stone. In a field on the outskirts stood isolated
a little wooden cottage, the rooms of which were all on
one floor. I knocked at the door, but no answer came.
It was then I lifted the latch. There sat an old woman
at a table — the picture of despair. She looked up with
indifferent interest. I told her my errand, and it was
with difficulty she could understand. Poor old creature!
"They have taken him from me," she exclaimed. "This
is hard to bear." In the dim light the old soul told me
that her husband only a few hours previously had been
put under restraint. Slowly it had been coming, but his
reason had fled. After forty years these two were separ-
ated, and alone in that cottage this distressed old woman
slept on census night. "It is worse than death," cried
the distressed wife. I filled up her census paper, and
left her — all alone — God help her! A last incident. I
visited another house. But another messenger — Death
— had just been before me. There was deep grief in the
hearts of the widow and seven young children that an old
friend of many in this town had left behind. I could
multiply these instances, but what I have related without
any attempt at over-colouring, will serve to remind us
of may hidden tragedies that are occurring day by day
even in this beautiful town. If there is one thing that
census taking in the poorer districts ought to do, it is to
teach men to value the priceless pearl of good health, and
to be thankful even for small mercies. I will say this
for all my brother enumerators, that in Mr. J. Andrew,
the Registrar, we had a gentleman who gave us the best
practical advice, and cheered us in what after all is really
nothing but a thankless task.

"OUR GARDEN OF SLEEP."

During the whole of the years that memory serves,

I cannot recall the time when our Parish Churchyard

looked more trim and beautiful than now. Bright

with flowers, there is here very indication of a loving care.

154

The very appearance of the place is a monument of re-
spect to those who, long since, "crossed the bar," and which
cannot but be gratifying to living relatives as it is to the
public generally. "John Strange Winter," that charming
authoress, once wrote on this very subject. She said: "I
sauntered out again down the Leas until I turned in at
the Parish Churchyard. God's acre — dear Saxon word
that the poet loved — God's garden — no word, ho phrase,
can convey the ideal loveliness of the spot. There is a
song which begins —

On the cliff by the sea,

At the edge of the steep,
God planted a garden,

A garden of sleep.

Perhaps those gentle words may give you some idea ot
SS. Mary and Eanswythe garden of sleep." The fore-
going was written several years ago, and the appearance
of the Churchyard has visibly improved since that date.
Visitors will probably Have some difficulty in realising that
it is well within living memory when this self-same
Churchyard was nothing but a sheep walk with long dank
grass growing, and bearing every appearance of neglect.
Mr. Harry H. Barton, Churchwarden, following in the
footsteps of his predecessors, has made the appearance
of our "God's acre" his special care.

DEATH OF "HIS MAJESTY" OF THE FISH-
MARKET.

Little Mr. Major — otherwise known as "the King
of 'the Fishmarket" — passed away on Friday, at the age
of twenty-nine. He was a frail and diminutive specimen of
humanity, but alway's cheerfulness itself. Some few years
ago "the King" had a serious illness, but his marvellous,
vitality pulled him through. He was, indeed, a little
character, and "many's the time and oft" that I enjoyed
a conversation with him in the Market. For some time
he was the faithful servant of Mr. Harry Pearce, the
fish salesman. Our little friend was a favourite with
his mates, and the Market and its neighbourhood are
robbed of a cheerful, if humble, presence.

REMINISCENCES OF "THE KING."

The first occasion on which I had the pleasure of
meeting the deceased "potentate" was at a banquet
given by Baroness Eckhards'tein to the whole of the
fishermen. The occasion was the embarkation of Queen

155

Victoria on what proved to be Her Majesty's last voyage
to the Continent, and the function referred to took place
in the large room of the Albany Restaurant, in the even-
ing. Never shall I forget the scene. There must have
been between three and four hundred "sons of the sea"
present, and didn't they all do justice to the viands so
liberally provided by the Baroness. After dinner "decks
were cleared," and "incense" arose from scores of
"churchwardens." It was a rare, rollicking, jovial
evening. Jokes were cracked by "Scrammer," "Hog-
ganmy," "Vicked Eye," "Bunny," "Old Clo," "Rigden
Over the Hill," and the rest of the veterans. And such
songs, too. Never, probably, shall I hear the like again.
There was one chorus which had reference to the wreck
of the Belvoir Castle. It was sung with rare gusto,
thus:

" Oh! the Belvey Castle, she was a noble wassal,
And how beauti-ful-li she did svim the vaves,
And in less than one moment she was a broke into

frag-i-ments,
And all 'ands on boord found a vatery grave."

THE BARON AND "HIS MAJESTY."

Then, in the middle of all the fun, came in the
stalwart Baron Erkardstein, with some gentlemen friends
from the German Embassy. I had the pleasure of in-
troducing the diminutive "King" to the big German,
who immediately took out a case from his breast pocket
and offered "His Majesty" a fat cigar. As I wrote at
the time, it was "a sight for the gods" to watch the
twain referred to each discussing their Havanas. "The
King" appeared quite at home, and the Teuton was
highly amused. But times have changed since then.
Now the little "King," like "poor Tom Bowling," is "a
sheer hulk."

"But though his body's under hatches,

His soul has gone aloft."

THE "DEMON" RUNNER OF SHORNCLIFFE.

Ati officer writes thus in regard to a race that took
place at Shorncliffe about a century ago:

"The story of 'Demon,' whom I myself (Harris) en-
listed from the Leicester Militia, is not a little curious,
being neither more nor less than a race. It happened
that at Shorncliffe, soon after he joined, a race
was got up among some Kentish men, who were
noted for their swiftness, and one of them, who
had beaten his companions, challenged any soldier

156

in the Rifles to run against him for two hundred
pounds. The sum was large, and the runner was of so
much celebrity that, although we had some active young
fellows amongst us, no one seemed inclined to take the
chance, either officers or men, till at length 'Demon'
stepped forth, and said that he would run against this
Kentish boaster, or any man on the face of the earth,
and fight him afterwards into the bargain, if anyone
could be found to make up the money. Upon this an
officer subscribed the money, and the race was .arranged.
The affair made quite a sensation, and the inhabitants
of the various villages from miles round flocked to see the
sport; besides the men from the different regiments in
the neighbourhood, infantry, cavalry, and artillery, also
were much interested, and managed to be present, which
caused the scene to be a very gay one. In short, the
race commenced, and the odds were much against the
soldier at starting, as he was a much less man that the
other, and did not look like the winner. He, however,
kept well up with his antagonist, and the affair seemed
likely to end in a dead heat, which would undoubtedly
have been the case, but 'Demon,' when close upon the
winning post, gave one tremendous spring forward, and
won it by his body's length."

GENERAL MACKENZIE AND "THE DEMON."

"This race, in short, led on to promotion. General
Mackenzie, in command of the Garrison at Hythe, was
present, and was highly delighted at the rifleman beating
the bumpkin, and saw that the winner was the very cut
of a soldier, and, in short, that 'Demon' was a very
smart fellow, so that eventually the news of the race
reached the first battalion, then serving in Spain. Sir
Andrew Barnard at the time was then in command of the
Rifles in Spain. Upon being told of the circumstances
he remarked that as 'Demon' was such a smart runner
in England, there was very good ground for a rifleman
to use his legs in Spain. He was accordingly ordered
out with the next draft to that country, where he so dis-
tinguished himself that he obtained his commission."
It would be interesting to know 'Demon's* name and
after career."

THE "HAMMY" FOLKESTONE BLOATER.

The Folkestone cured and smoked herring at one
time was a joy to be remembered, but of late years that
"hammy" flavour associated with it has been conspicu-
ous by its .absence. However, a North-street mariner

157

friend talking over the matter with me recently,
promised to forward me a sample of what he
could do in this direction. I told him if they came up
to my standard I would mention his name, which, by the
way, is particularly well-known east of Radnor Arch.
Well, indeed, I am really pleased to give my report,
backed as it is by others capable of giving an opinion.
All I can say is this, that if the few I was favoured with
are a fair sample of what my man can produce from his
"hang," then the curing and smoking are perfect. I
go further and state I have re-discovered the real old-
fashioned "hammy" bloaters, and as such I commend
them to my friends. Well, here's the name and address
of our fellow-townsman — Mr. Thomas Edward Saunders,
44, North-street, Folkestone. Probably there are other
"real" specimens about, but these having come under
my notice, I am pleased to pay a tribute to this respect-
able fisherman — clean as a new pin in his surroundings,
industrious to a degree, and who knows the secret of
producing one of the most toothsome and nourishing
forms of diet there is in existence. We have only to
read what Sir Jas. Crichton Browne recently said on the
virtues of the humble kipper and bloater to recognise the
truth of this. I would like to know that every herring
hang in Folkestone was full. Much might be done to
support such an industry.

"SCISSORS TO GRIND."

Now I believe that there are many in the world who
could tolerate street shouting if it was a little more
musical. As an illustration, some years since we had
in Folkestone a really wonderful hawker, a "scissors to
grind" man. He sang his calling in the chromatic scale.
It was a treat .to hear him start on the highest note with
"Scissors to grind, penknives, carving knives, umbrellas,
or parasols to mend, etc." Musically inclined visitors
listened to Frank Allum (that was his name) with delight,
and I verily believe if all the hawkers of Folkestone had
only trained their voices in a proper manner, we should
not have so much reason to complain against the bawling
in streets.

AN INTERVIEW WITH A LADYSMITH V.C. HERO.

After the memorable siege of Ladysmith a number
of the wounded and invalids were brought to the Alfred
Bevan Convalescent Home at Sandgate. During their

158

stay here I frequently visited the men — poor fellows
some of them were wrecks indeed. Here is a paragraph
I wrote at the time: —

I don't exactly know how it was, but at the late
Major Howell's request I was a constant visitor at the
Home, and I can truly say some of the happiest hours
I ever experienced were with the inmates, who were
always coming and going. It was here I learned
more of the South African war than I read in the most
brilliant description sent over the wire by "our own cor-
respondent." I gazed upon its effects, and through
repeated conversations with the most intelligent of the
men I obtained a good insight as to what had occurred.
One night the Major said to me: "Do you want to see
and talk with a hero — a V.C. man." Eagerly I said
"Yes." "Come with me, then," answered my friend,
and soon I was in the presence of Private Ward. He
had one arm in a sling; his demeanour was as modest as
his conversation. After recouping at this Home, Private
Ward, V.C., proceeded to his home at Leeds, where he
was accorded a public reception and presented with a
cheque for a thousand pounds. What did he do, this
hero? He volunteered and walked across a zone of the
Boer fire to convey an urgent message, the delivery of
which meant the saving of many lives. It was a fifty to
one chance if Ward came back alive, but he coolly
braved the hail of bullets, and after delivering his mes-
sage, came back to his detachment, but not scathless,
for an explosive bullet had entered the fleshy part of his
chest. I had read of these bullets, buit now I looked
upon their effects. That cruel wound told its own tale
of horror, and I shall never read or hear of "explosives"
without my mind reverting to the time when I inter-
viewed this hero, who so gallantly paid his part of the
price of Empire.

A KENT COAL FIRE AND A QUIET PIPE.

I have to thank my old and tried friend, Mr. W. H.
Pearson, of Grace Hill, for sending me a bag of Dover-
won coal, "just to ,try." Well, on a certain evening, I had
"a night off," and remarked to myself : "Supposing I build
up a fire of ,all Kent coal." This I did, and then proceeded
to load up my pipe with a charge of Smith's Glasgow
Mixture (that in the yellow tins). As I watched the
smoke curl from the bowl my mind went back to that
time when the late Mr. Frances Brady, the Engineer of
the South-Eastern Railway, proved the borings on the site
of the old Channel Tunnel Works. Well, as to the coal.

159

Of course, it has not the "life" of say the Silkstone or the
Wallsend, yet I should say, when the lower measures are
tapped, there will be an improvement. Anyhow, as I can-
not look a "gift horse" in ,the mouth, I will content myself
with writing that the pertinacity of Mr. Arthur Burr and
those associated .with him has been more than justified.
Puffing at my briar, I .think again, and remember that the
real discovery of coal in these parts was due to the late
Sir Edward Watkin. As is well known, the late "Rail-
way King's" great ambition ,was to construct a tunnel
from a point between Folkestone and Dover to France.
This greatest project was stopped at the instance of the
then President of the Board of Trade. But the late Sir
Edward was not & main to be crushed, and he instructed
the late Mr. Frances Brady to make the borings, and
with the result that all the world knows.

THE LATE HARRY JORDAN— A "GOOD SPORT."

"Harry" it always was, and "Harry" it will ever be.
He was an institution, and it is true to state ,that the
town will not be quite the same .to many of us without
him. Bluff and outspoken, he was a typical John "Bull.
He was wont to express himself in unconventional lan-
guage, and it came, as they say, "straight from the
shoulder." Amongst sportsmen on both sides of the
Channel he was known. He was indeed fond of a horse,
and could judge one. Next to his greyhounds, Harry
was passionately fond of cultivating flowers, and many a
nosegay of roses or sweet peas had he presented to me.
People from the West End of the town and many Conti-
nental travellers would make a point of "looking up"
Harry at his little hostelry. In his character glittered the
gold of kindness <and goodness. He did good by stealth,
and this is known particularly in the neighbourhood of the
Fishmarket. Many a time did he drive me and others
to the coursing club dinner at Dymchurch, and it can be
judged that times were gay. The late John Jones, of the
Marsh village, was in life one of his most intimate friends.
Harry was firm in his friendship. Once a friend always a
friend. He did not pose as a saint, but it can be said he
acted and carried out all those attributes to be associated
with the name of Englishman. May a kind Providence
lighten the sorrow of his widow and family in their sad
bereavement — that is the wish of all of us. That is the
wish of /one who was p'roud to term Harry a friend.

i6o

SOME KENTISH CURIOSITIES.

Recently in Tenterden I obtained a cycle
and "furraged" around, with the result that I ob-
tained some excellent "copy." I was wheeling through a
little village called St. Michael's, and noting its curious
gas lamps, proceeded to enquire. This, it appears, is the
first village in England to avail itself of the opportunity
offered by acetylene for public street and general lighting.
The plan consists of generators, etc., which, when fully
completed, will yield 5,400 candle-power lights for six
hours from pne fuD charge of the generators. The church
and institute of the village are also lighted by the same
kind of gas. Trundling the wheels along over some
spanking roads I came to Headcorn — nine miles from Ten-
terden. The "lion" of this place is the largest and oldest
oak tree in the country. It stands in the churchyard,
and measures 42 feet in Circumference. The tree has been
protected by an iron fence, and iron bands around the
trunk. Those who have not seen this monster oak should
by no means lose an opportunity when in the neighbour-
hood. There are also some very ancient .buildings in the
centre of the village of interest to antiquarians. Here
again are some which should be facets I "dug up" from
a book at Tenterden: —

21 Edw. ,IV, 1481. — This yeare Isaack Cade did ryse.

i Hen. VII., 1485-6. — This yeare the Frenchmen came
to Sandwiche, and there laye one night and a daye.

14 Q. Elizabeth, 1572. — This yeare about Barthol-
metide the Queen ,was at Rie, Hempstead and Sesingherst

19 Q. Elizabeth, 1577. — This yeare in November was
a blazing starr in the evening towards -the west.

1 6 James I., 1618. — This yeare in November and
December was seen a blaseing star riseinge towards the
East in the morning .streminge forward.

Feb. 17, 1 66 1. — A greate and fierce wind.

July 20, 1662. — -'Another greate and fierce wind.

December 29th, 1672. — Beneden steeple and church
and 5 houses burnt out but first set on fire by lightening.

February 17, 1673. — A greate and fierce wind when
Staplehurst Spire was blown down and many barnes
about in ye country.

December 28th, 1694. — Quene Mary ye 2nd died of
ye Small Pox.

Among some leaves thus inserted are two of a hand-
somely-illuminated service book of the I4th century, con-
taining one or more Psalms. At one page, written in a
fine hand is this couplet —

2
O

160-161

Snow Scene near Central Station.

Firsl Motor (Steam) to run to Dover. Proprietor. Mr. Sailer.

"At my begin/ninge God be speade,
In grace and virtue to proceade."

One more of these items, and then I must conclude. It
comprises two draper's bills as follows: —

"Master Johnson, I commend me unto you, trusting
unto God that you be in good helth ; the cause of wrytyng
unto you at thye tym, I pray you send unto me by the
brynger of my ,byl (bill) the mony that you do oue unto
me, or I have gret ned of yt." Another to "Olever Gyles"
reads: — "I commende me unto you, trustyng unto God
that you be in good helth ; the causes of my wrytying unto
you ,at thys tym. I pray you send unto me the mony that
you do oue unto me, for I have gret ned of yt, for I
have a gret payment to pay at thys tym." Enough for
the present, or I shall be told these "dug up" old relics are
dry.

DEDICATED TO DR. YUNGE-BATEMAN.

The Medical Officer of Health for Ramsay (Hunting-
donshire) has rendered his annual report quite readable.
He has dispensed in a measure with the generally dry-
as dust official language, and has burst into song as fol-
lows regarding the disease-spreading fly. Here is part
of his effort:—

"The fly comes gaily unto us,

His feet all gummed with poison pus ;

And singing clear his song so sweet,

Alights and cleans them on the meat.

He gathers scarlet fever spores,

And leaves them on the walls and floors.

He is not proud, and oft will stoop

To carry heavy .loads of 'croup,'

And place it where its awful death

May come and go with baby's breath."

Now the above opens up greait possibilities. Perhaps
our energetic Medical Officer may feel inclined to follow
suit. If he did court the muse in this connection, I feel
certain his always able reports would be more widely read
by ratepayers. It might be that others would follow the
example. The learned Town Clerk might sing a song on
the great question of the wearing of the Mayor's robes, the
Chairman of the Highways Committee in turn could com-
pose a nice verse or two on the state of Sandgate-road,
the Borough Treasurer might also rhyme on "dates" and
"rates," the Borough Surveyor on Shelter designs, and
the Chairman of the Library Committee would probably

1 62

delight us all with a sonnet on "Hibbert's Magazine," or
the triumph of common sense. In fact, there is no limit
to the idea. But, seriously, if the compilers of reports,
etc., would follow the example of Ramsay's Medical Offi-
cer, this mundane existence would have added to it a
spice of cheerfulness.

SHRIMPS .WITHOUT JACKETS OR HEAD-DRESS.

Amongst the minor wonders of bright and happy
Blackpool are its shrimps. They are in flavour and size
about the same as our famous Ronmey specimens, but the
strange thing (to myself) about the Lancashire crustaceans
is that they appear in public minus their clothes, that is
to say, they are relieved of their heads and jackets. There
were heaps of them — bushels, in fact — in the fishmonger
and oyster shops, but never was one to be seen in its
natural garb. Of course, "down south" we often notice a
pint or so of shrimps prepared in this manner for sauce,
but never as I have described in the bulk. One of my
Blackpool experiences was to enjoy an afternoon tea
in a palace of a restaurant. The waitress queried, in
pure Lancastrian dialect: "Will you have a few
shrimps with your tea?" In pure Kentish I replied:
"Yes, please." In quick time a fine brew of freshly-made
tea appeared, together with some brown bread and butter,
and a little shallow jar, the contents of which were
coated with a very thin layer of melted butter. I called
the "lass," and told her I wanted shrimps, and not potted
meat "Eh, lad! what ye be driving at?" She smiled
a Lancashire smile, as she took a knife, and lifted the
crust, and exposed the peeled shrimps to view. "Noo d'ye
feee?" she asked. Yes, I did see, and also tasted. Just
sprinkled with the merest dust of cayenne, they were
delicious. Now, what I want to come to is this. Are
these shrimps peeled by hand or machinery ? If the latter,
then I shall expect some up-to-date Folkestone tradesman
to give us the benefit of the invention.

THE FOLKESTONE FOREIGN OFFICE.

"Well, I've passed this place a hundred times, and
never noticed it." That was the remark made to me the
other day after I had pointed out a house, directly opposite
the Royal Pavilion Hotel, Lower Sandgate-road, bearing
the inscription — dim, now, it is true — "Foreign Office.
Passports issued to passengers two hours before the leav-
ing of the tidal boat." That this notice should have re-

mained unoblitexated for many years is remarkable, and
brings to mind a remarkable time, a time probably before
the Harbour was connected with the Junction Station;
when the open-decked boats started according to the tide.
Strange days they must have been ! Then those who
crossed were looked upon with suspicion, if not as enemies
of France and other countries. Now it is a question of
open arms on both sides, and the old inscription noted
serves at Jeast to remind us in a way of this altered state
of affairs.

FOLKESTONE HARBOUR A CENTURY AGO

I am indebted to an old friend for the following inter-
esting item (date 1810) in regard to the old Harbour: —
"On Wednesday last ,(January jgth) was shipped by Mr.
A. H. Spratt, of Canterbury, on board the Perseverance
sloop, of 60 tons, belonging to Messrs. Dray, of Hythe,
from the western pierhead of Folkestone Harbour, a cargo
of paving stones for London. This being the first ship-
ment, the workmen belonging to the Harbour, to the
quarry, and to the ship, drank "Prosperity to the under-
taking," and gave three times three cheers from the pier-
head. The advantages .of this work are placed beyond
doubt by this experiment, as a shipment was effected in
six hours in perfect safety, and which would have taken
some days of exposure in an open and dangerous coast."

REMARKABLE PHENOMENOM AT FOLKE-
STONE HARBOUR A CENTURY AGO.

(From "Kentish Gazette," 28th August, 1812).

"On the ipth a most remarkable circumstance took
place at Folkestone, after the tide had ebBed in the usual
way for three hours, and left the Hope sloop aground in
the Harbour (the crew of which were preparing to unload
her), it suddenly rose three feet perpendicular, and as sud-
denly ebbed, which was repeated three times in less than
a quarter of an hour."

A REMARKABLE MANTELPIECE.

One of the "lions" of Elham is a huge carved oaken
mantlepiece. "Seen the mantlepiece ?" is a question one
is asked by the villagers at least a dozen times in as
many hours. I had long heard of this remarkable piece of

164

work, and on Monday I embraced the opportunity of in-
specting the same. Evening was fast coming pn as 1
entered the portals of the village cobbler's ship. I in-
formed him .of my mission, and the disciple of St. Crispin
answered "Certainly, come in." He thereupon lighted a
tallow candle that I could the more readily examine the
allegorical subject of which the sixteenth century artist
has so quaintly treated. The carving is deep, and the
figures are extraordinary in design. "That's Jonah and
the whale," remarked my cobbling friend, at the same
time pointing to a huge fish and a man flying from its
open jaws. What the artist means is not clear, but here
is doubtless a remarkable work. Over the mantle is some
exquisite panelling, in the centre of which is an illuminated
coat of arms. Although submitted to experts in heraldry
no one "has been able to absolutely identify it with any
family or an ancient Order. Anyway, .the origin of the
mantlepiece and the panelling are so far involved in
mystery that it would be satisfactory if the point could be
cleared up. It is a curious old relic, and I should strongly
urge all my readers when they visit Elham not to forget
its celebrated mantlepiece, for it will repay inspection.

"DAN'L."

Thousands of residents in Folkestone — especially
amongst the working classes — are more or less acquainted
with "Dan'l." His small and unpretentious hairdressing
establishment in George-lane has long been recognised as
one of Folkestone's institutions, for "Dan'l" was well estab-
lished long before the majority of the present day coiffeurs
had seen the light of day. For close upon half-a-century
'Dan'l" has skilfully passed the razor over stubby chins,
whilst his scissors have shorn almost countless shaggy
locks of vari-coloured hair. "Dan'l" has always been
looked upon as something of a philosopher, and his
opinions on men and things have been sought by many of
his customers, be they shining lights of the Church,
bankers, landed proprietors, fishermen, or the swarthy
coalheaver. Although it would be rather dangerous ground
to touch on "DanTs" politics, yet he is conservative
to a degree in his business. He does not believe in putting
up the prices, and rejoices that he is still able to give a
rapid and easy shave for one penny. The time has come,
however, when George-lane, in a business sense, will see
our hero no more.

A GARDENERS' DINNER AT NEWINGTON.

On one Wednesday evening last I found myself once
more with the members of the Newington and Cheriton
Gardeners' Society. The occasion was the annual harvest
home. This is rightly considered in the pretty village as
one of the great events of the year, and it is celebrated
in the real good old English style. At the Star Inn, then,
these jolly gardeners assembled to partake of a substantial
supper, and to listen to capital speeches and songs. The
banqueting hall was resplendent with decorations of
flowers, fruits, and vegetables. Here turnips, carrots, and
beetroots; there a fine specimen of a pickling cab-
bage, branches of red and golden tomatoes, apples, pears,
grapes, .flowers, 3^ fernS) ancj foliage, and, in fact, the
whole vegetable kingdom had been ransacked, and were
arranged with consummate taste and skill, justifying the
remark of the foreman of a well-known Folkestone florist :
"Well, this is the prettiest decorated room I have ever
seen." And it was pretty — magnificent is the more appro-
priate word. Brilliantly lighted with powerful oil lamps,
the scene was to be .remembered. In the chair was the
genial village parson, the Rev. L. Buckwell, M.A., sup-
ported by Mr. Lipscombe (steward to the Beachborough
Estate), Mr. Blunt, Mr. Waters, Mr. Greenstreet, Mr.
Bartter, and many others. Sitting around the loaded
tables were as fine a body of typical Britons as could be
found in a day's march. After grace .had been said, a
knife and fork battle was wageoT for at least three-
quarters of an hour and huge joints of roast and boiled
beef, legs of mutton, and the necessary trimmings were
made to look very small.

MYSTERIOUS PARCEL AT THE DINNER.

Now came the great event. Lying on the table in
front of the Chairman was a mysterious parcel wrapped
in brown paper. The rev. gentleman soon explained
matters. He said a pleasing duty had been cast upon him.
It was to make a presentation to their Secretary, Mr.
Fisher. In that parcel was a black ebony stick, which,
the Chairman said, he would proceed to "unveil." This
was done to the admiring gaze of the whole company, not
least amongst them being Mr. Fisher himself. The Chair-
man said he .believed the gift was ebony, or if it wasn't
then, as the American said, "It was a darned good imita-
tion." (Laughter.) It was "hall marked" .and all right
(Further laughter.) Speaking for himself, the rev. gentle-
man said he could not trust himself ,with a handsome
stick such as that, for he could not resist the habit of

1 66

knocking off a thistle or a nettle if he came across one in
his wanderings. (Laughter.) That was a stick fit to walk
down the Folkestone Leas with, and he trusted and was
sure the whole company would join with him in the hope
that Mr. Fisher might be spared many years to use the
staff. It was given to him as a token of esteem, and also
as a .reminder that the Society recognised how successfully
Mr. Fisher had carried out his duties as Secretary. The
inscription on it told its own tale.

.WALKING STICKS MENTIONED IN GENESIS.

Then Mr. BuckweU, in a happy vein, went on to
chat about the first allusion to walking sticks in the Bible.
As far back as the book of Genesis they were told how
Jacob left his father's house with only a walking stick, or
staff, as the Bible had it. They read the Scriptural
narrative of how that staff accompanied the patriarch in
all his wanderings — of how he returned back to his home
with a walking stick and two wives. "Ah," said the
speaker, amidst laughter, "that would not be allowed now,"
and further they learnt that Jacob died leaning on his
staff. And so there was a great interest attaching to
walking sticks, and some people set great value upon
them. The speaker concluded by handing Mr. Fisher the
gift. The whole company then rose and sang a new
version .of "for he's a jolly good fellow," remarking in
strident tones.

"Which no one can deny,
For if they do they lie;
For he's a jolly good fellow,
And so say all of us,
With a hip, hip, hip hurrah."

This was given with great gusto, and the enthusiasm
appeared to be contagious, for the youths forming the
Cheriton drum and fife band, who had now assembled
under the window, played a lively selection, in which the
sound of the big drum 'predominated. Silence having been
restored, Mr. Fisher said he couldn't speak much. They
must believe him that he felt overjoyed to think that his
efforts fey the Society — a real labour of love — had been
•acknowledged so handsomely. He could assure them that
on the very first opportunity he would take a walk down
the Folkestone Leas, with his wife, of course, accompanied
with the stick. Mr. Maycock, the host, came in for a
lot of praise. He eclipsed himself — and that is saying a
deal.

1 67

BAD BEHAVIOUR OF A CODFISH AT A HARVEST
FESTIVAL.

The Harvest Festival in connection with the Stade
Fishermen's Bethel took place on Sunday and Monday.
There were good attendances at all the services, and
they were of a very hearty character. The interior of
the building was lavishly decorated with fruit, corn,
vegetables, and flowers, pumpkins, onions pickled in
vinegar, huge loaves of bread in fantastic shapes, and
by way of novelty and reminder of that other harvest of
the sea, nets and fishing gear were suspended from the
ceiling. An innovation, too, unique in harvest festi-
vals, was the fine exhibition of fish hanging over the
heads of the worshippers. Cod, plaice, soles, conger eels,
"riggs," mackerel, whiting, crabs, etc., all were brought
into requisition for decorative purposes. It was a strange
sight to behold, and I wouldn't have missed it for a
trifle. The beautiful scent of the flowers, however, was
only slightly neutralised by the odour from the denizens
of the deep.

During the remarks of the preacher, an un-
rehearsed incident occurred. One could not resist a smile
— it was all so original. Without the slightest warning>
a fine specimen of codfish, hanging several feet above,
became detached, and fell with a crash into the midst of
the congregation. No harm was done. It only caused
a slight diversion, and somewhat interrupted the
minister's eloquence. I should think this must be
the firs'! case on record in which the obstreperous
conduct of a codfish was responsible of inter-
rupting the divine service. Why was this? Why
should this cod take umbrage more than his com-
panions? There was the crab and the mackerel and all
the rest of them on their best behaviour. They didn't
move a muscle. Why, I say, should this codfish behave
himself in this unseemly style? It is quite an the tapis
that henceforth this class of fish will not be similarly
honoured at future harvest festivals, and I think the cod
family will have only themselves to blame. One would
have thought that this ill-behaved member lof the finny
tribe would have felt honoured that he should have been
taken from the depths of the Channel and used for such
high purpose. But it appears, after all this, that in-
gratitude is not unknown amongst the fishes.

i68

THE OLD TOLL-GATE KEEPER AT SANDGATE HILL.

According to the current -number of the "Local
Government Journal," the last of the turnpikes will dis-
appear in a short time. Possibly it will be a surprise
to some people to hear that there is even one survivor
of such an unpopular system of road government.
Thirty years ago there was no fewer than 1047 turn-
pike trusts in England and Wales, with 20,189 miles of
road supported by trusts. It was only a comparatively
short time ago that we in this neighbourhood had two
of these "gates," one at the bottom of Sandgate-hill and
the other on the Canterbury-road. I recall one of the
keepers of the former. His name was Jarvis, and he
was the dual owner of a wooden leg and a very bad tem-
per and also deaf in the bargain. There was on doubt
about it he was a "character." A proficient in the art of a
polished Billingsgate, there used to be a constant ex-
change of courtesies between this official and the local
Jehus. Perhaps, a pair of larkish individuals conversant
with the frailties of poor Jarvis would purposely gallop
through the open gate, and thus deprive the man of his
toll of threepence, and then — oh, dear! the scene. The
toll-keeper would stump, stump, stump out on to the
roadway only to find Ihis tormenters a long way off in-
dulging in a laugh at his expense. And then at night,
Jarvis and his poor leg would seek sweet sleep. The
gate was then locked, and many a traveller in stormy
weather has known from bitter experience what it was
for Jarvis to get into a real sound sleep.

A VERY LIVELY "CORPSE."

On one occasion, late at night, a hearse was being
driven up the hill from Sandgate to Folkestone. There
was no coffin inside the grim vehicle, but a lively
"corpse." His name was Bobby Downs. He, too, like
the departed Jarvis, is a "character," and still picks up
his living in the various livery yards of this town. After
considerable shouting Jarvis came out to unlock h/he
gate, and said to the driver, "Now, then, pay up." And
he got for an answer: "Got no money. I'll pay you
when I come back next time, I've got a 'corpse" inside."
Said the toll-keeper, "That won't do for me, corpse or
no corpse." And now the fun began. Jarvis, although
such a blusterer, was withal a very nervous man — and
superstitious into the bargain. The "dead man," who
had been listening to the foregoing dialogue, during a
pause in the wordy warfare, "arose," and placing his
HDS against an aperture in the hearse, said in deep

169

sepulchral tones: "Jarvis, the Lord will pay you." The
old toll-keeper was completely petrified with fear, and
the driver and "Bobby," and the hearse were soon lost
in the darkness of the night, the two actors no doubt
chuckling to their heart's content. But let me add, Old
Jarvis, with all his eccentricities, always looked after the
interests of his employers. He possessed a kind heart,
and many are the yarns the old soldier regaled us
youngsters with as we sat round his cabin fire. For that
alone I hold the old fellow's memory in respectful re-
membrance.

THE MAJESTY OF THE :LAW AND "CHERRY RIPE."

Well, this is how it all came about. It was my lot
one morning to attend the "Palais de Justice" at the
Town Hall. There were several cases, which included a
"six months hard" on a thief trainer. If ever a man
had his deserts, this individual did. It was proved that
the prisoner had trained his boy — his own flesh and
blood — to thieve and steal. This case disposed of,
another defendant was haled before the Magistrates.
He was charged, under the new bye-laws, with shouting.
The Magistrates' Clerk (Mr. John Andrew) asked of the
constable, in his blandest manner, "What was the de-
fendant shouting?" Came the ready reply, "Cherry
Ripe!" The court was very hot and stuffy, and the
Bench, Chief Constable Reeve, and the Magistrates'
Clerk almost melted into tears, for it was at once recog-
nised that in the chequered history of England it
was the first time that "Cherry Ripe" had appeared
before the Bench. The fine was nominal. Strange
but true. A stalwart constable at the con-

clusion of the case, said: " Here goes for a pound
of blackhearts." Our limbs of the law are a real good
lot, but when there is any shouting, I do hope, especially
when the weather is torrid, they will draw the line at
"Cherry Ripe."

MR. CHAMBERLAIN AND "DOCTOR FOLKESTONE."

With a select few on a certain evening a few years
since I was on the Folkestone Central platform when
Mr. Chamberlain arrived with his wife and daughter at the
Central Station. Folkestone was proud to welcome a
great Englishman — one whose name is writ large on the
scroll of fame. Controversy has raged and whirled
round Mr. Chamberlain's name, but here in Folkestone

I/O

it means peace and quiet. If there was no great
cheering crowd, Nature itself bade the nS,ht
hon. gentleman her own sweet welcome. The
sun burst out in all its splendour, and the tempera-
ture was quite summerlike. The distinguished party
enjoyed a stroll on the Leas, and appeared to be
charmed with the unique beauty of the scene. Down
in the copses of the undercliff the warblers were rejoic-
ing in song, the blue sea sparkled, and Mr. Chamberlain
once more beheld a lesson of Empire as he watched the
numerous vessels passing to and from all parts of the
globe. In the afternoon the ex-Colonial Secretary, ac-
companied by Mrs. Chamberlain and his daughter, drove
out to Saltwood Castle. A more ideal spot could not
have been chosen. There are great physicians both in
London and Birmingham, but all these distinguished
men recognise there is one doctor head and shoulders
over all of them. His name is "Doctor Folkestone,"
and many of us will trust, after a week or so's treat-
ment, that Mr. Chamberlain, Mrs. Chamberlain, and
their daughter may go back renewed in health, and that
they may realise the beautiful lines of Bryant:

"The sunshine on our path

Was to us a friend. The swelling hills,
Or quiet dells, retiring far between,
With gentle invitations to explore
Their windings, were a calm society
That talk'd with us and soothed us. Then the chant
Of birds, the chime of brooks, and soft caress
Of the fresh sylvan air made us forget
The thoughts that broke our peace."
Since the above words were written we have all fol-
lowed Mr. Chamberlain's progress with pathetic interest.

NEVER PROPHECY UNLESS YOU KNOW.

That was the advice once given, I believe, by an
American humourist, and the writer of the following,
which appeared in the first number of "The Leisure
Hour," would have been wise to have taken it to heart
when he penned those words on Folkestone, in August,
1852. To use a popular phrase, it will be seen that the
prophet "is right out of it."

"Folkestone lies about six miles to the west ot
Dover Castle, and a disagreeable ride of a quarter of an
hour, through pitch-dark tunnels, and ragged ravines,
brings us within a few minutes' walk of the rising town.
There is nothing particularly attractive in the aspect ot

the place, the interest of which is centred round the
harbour, where a steam packet lies awaiting the next
train which is to bring passengers for France.

"In spite of a grand hotel, and a number of new
buildings of a rather more pretentious appearance than
the old ones, there is an air of forlorn solitariness about
the town, and a dismal species of tranquility quite alien
from one's notion of comfort and ease.

"The coast wears a desolate and hungry look — no
lofty cliffs, no umbrageous foliage, no available prome-
nade, and, above all, no beach for loitering or bathing.

"These disadvantages are not speedily to be over-
come; and though Folkestone is useful as a trajectory
station on the route to the continent, there is little
prospect of its becoming the chosen residence of the
summer idler on the health-seeking invalid.

"There is an interest attached to it, however, as
the birthplace of Harvey, who discovered the circulation
of blood. He died in 1658, leaving his personal estate
for the support of an institution which he had founded
in the town, and in which a yearly oration, now called
the Harveian, is, we believe, yet delivered."

The writer would appear to be in the same boat
as Defoe who in his day described Folkestone as "a
miserable fishing village." Now, when looking around
pur beautiful town, we can at once see the danger of
ignoring the advice to "never prophecy unless you know."

"UNCLE BY POST.

We are constantly reminded that old methods of
business are fast giving way to the new. In times well
within the memory of some of us changes in this respect
were slowly brought about, but now they are almost of
daily or hourly occurrence. Tradespeople at one time
were content to stand behind the counters and wait for
trade to come to them. Now, however, "commercials"
of both sexes and canvassers are an ever growing army,
and advertising both in newspapers and posters has
grown to a fine art. "Shopping by post," too, is
another developing feature of modern life. And thus
has it come about that our old friend "Uncle" has
rubbed his eyes as if to say, "Where do I come in?"
At one time the three golden balls were sufficient to indi-
cate his whereabouts, but now, through an advertise-
ment in "The Herald," we are informed by Mr.
Vandersteen, of Dover and Canterbury, that he is
prepared to carry out pawnbroking by post. Pawn-
broker! In some quarters the description of this

1/2

particular calling is mentioned with almost bated breath.
"Uncle," however, when "the ready" is needed, is
sought for by rich and poor. Although the golden balls
are rarely to be seen in the fashionable quarters of Lon-
don, yet, if needed, the pawnbroker is there to make an
advance on the diamond tiara or bracelet, and with as
much readiness as "Uncle" might be in some squalid
quarter of our great city. What tragedies might be
written around this subject! The truly needy, the
spendthrift, the profligate, yes, many of "the submerged
tenth," as surely as some of the "upper ten thousand,"
all find at times a friend in "Uncle." Those who have
so far not had recourse to the pawnbroker may look
upon upon him with a critical eye, but in our complex
state of civilisation he is often a stern necessity.
"Uncle," then, when all other sources of "raising the
wind" have failed, will still be in all probability a friend
in need to prospective millions.

A GLIMPSE OF THE OLD FOLKESTONE POST OFFICE.

There are many ways of measuring the rapid growth
of Folkestone, and one of these is by comparing the Post
Office of the present with that of the past There are
Folkestonians still living who remember a little grocer's
establishment in Beach-street. This was kept by one,
Punnett, and the Post Office work of the then little town
was transacted here. The old man was what might be
termed "a bit short tempered," and nothing gave him
greater annoyance than to be asked, when engaged in
weighing up, say, a pound of sugar or butter, for a stamp or
a post office order. People had to tap at a little wicket let
in the window; they had to stand outside in the street —
perhaps it was wet weather — and wait until the good
man had finished his weighing, etc. It might be the person
requiring attention was in a hurry, and then the grocer-
postmaster would exclaim, "Can't you see I'm busy?"
But the days of good old Punnett are no more, and a
reference to them only serves, as I say, to remind us ot
the wonderful march of Folkestone, and the important
and marvellous developments that have taken place in
Post Office methods.

FOLKESTONE MAYOR'S DINNER IOO YEARS AGO.

I am certain the following extract will be read with
interest by all true Folkestonians: — "September nth,
1812. — Tuesday last being the Mayor's choice for the
Town of Folkestone, Thomas Baker, Esq., was elected to
the chair, who, after taking the necessary oath, adjourned

173

to the Folkestone Arms Inn, accompanied by the jurats
and the primores oppidi, where a sumptuous and well-
served dinner was prepared for them. After the cloth was
drawn the following toasts, etc., were pronounced from the
chair : 'The King and God bless him' ; 'The Prince Regent,
and under his benign auspices may the Imperial Eagle be
experimentally taught to ply the wing at the roaring of
the British Lion'; 'The Queen and Royal Family';
'Alexander, and may the Gallic Cock be finally brought to
feel the ascending influence of the Northern Constellation.'
Thus passed the fleeting hours, interspersed with convivial
song and merry joke, until 'Nox' was contemplating to
withdraw her sombre curtain from the dusky landscape,
which suggested to the company the idea of 'ite domun,'
and on which they unanimously arose and congratulated
the Mayor on his tenth election to the honour of the white
wand."

A BEEF PUDDING CLUB.

We have had almost a surfeit of geese, turkeys, etc.,
of late. At least, if we have not discussed them with knife
and fork, they have been very much before us in print.
Now, for a moment, I will go back to the more mundane
and satisfying beef pudding. At one time (in the early
days of "The Herald") it was my duty to report the fort-
nightly meeting of the Elham Board of Guardians at the
Workhouse. One day my eye lighted on a printed card
in the window of the "Ark Inn." It bore this inscription :
"Beef Pudding Club held here every Saturday evening."
I had a long walk before me at the time, and the very
thought of a juicy beef pudding was too much for me. I
joined that Club on the spot, and walked up on the
appointed supper night from Folkestone to Each End Hill.
There I found a large number of agricultural labourers—
men off the land — and, thoroughly entering into the spirit
of the occasion I sat down with the sturdy Kentish yeo-
men to one of the best beef puddings ever boiled. On my
arrival the good old landlady informed me the amount of
beef steak she had used, and how many hours' the pudding
had boiled. She also further confided in me that she
could make a crust with anybody in the land. Well, ex-
perience proved that the old lady was correct. The pud-
ding was what might be called a whopper, and when it was
cut it appeared as an island surrounded by gravy. I have
dined in my time at some of the best of hotels, but the
memory of that particular beef pudding is still pleasant to
fall back upon. Of course, the guests just off the fields
were equal to the occasion. "Have another plateful old
Charley, with potatoes, parsnips and turnips." Old
Charley almost looked disdainful as he replied "What?

174

Rather!" Many worse clubs have existed than the Beef
Pudding Club at Each End Hill, which, similarly to many
good old institutions, has passed away.

OUR POLICEMEN.

From the Chief downwards I think it can be fairly
stated that our local constables are a real smart lot of
fellows. Without any show or fuss, they are well disci-
plined, without being dragooned. Always alert, they are
most obliging. Indeed, our constables are accomplished,
for do not half of them speak French with the fluency of
Parisians? Similarly with the milkmen, the growth of
Folkestone can be measured, by its police force. The
"oldest inhabitant" can recall the time when there were
only two "peelers" in this town. It was a small place then,
and so trustful were the inhabitants that they did not
even lock their doors. It was argued : "Why bolt and bar
when there are no thieves to ' break through and steal'."
Happy days! I have said there were a couple of con-
stables. One of the twain was the late Matt Pearson.
Matt was off and on duty at one and the same time. Our
hero was a baker and confectioner, besides acting as a
"limb of the law." It might be he was "up to his eyes"
in flour with a batch of bread. Just then, perhaps, news
would reach him that a row was on up the street. Matt,
hastily divesting himself of white cap and apron, would
proceed to the scene of war. If peace could not be brought
about Matt would probably have to "run in" an offender,
only to engage again at his "dough punching," or in mak-
ing those famous jam puffs of his. What would Chief
Constable Reeve have to say, I wonder, in these latter
days if all his fifty "men in blue" followed old Mart's
example? But we are different now. The watchman's
rattle has gone, and the policeman's whistle and the private
telephone have appeared. People lock up their doors ;
they bolt and bar, and fix burglar alarms. And beyond
all these precautions they have a force of police of which
any town might be proud.

THE -DUSTMEN.

Although his calling does not suggest the outward
smartness of, say, a uniformed soldier, sailor, or police-
man, yet in imagination I often lift my hat to the dustman.
And why should I not make him one of my "subjects?"
So far as my observation leads me, I unhesitatingly affirm
that the Folkestone dustman is one of the most worthy
of our public servants.

"He may not wear a silken vest,
Or boast of high degree,"

'75

Yet he is indispensable to town life. He often has to
"cut his way" through many obstacles in order to reach
the dustbin. If his stomach is weak in the early morning
he must forget that he has a sense of smell. The dustman
must not be deficient in courage, for often a fierce house
dog is roaming about the back yard, and he has to coax the
animal before he can gain the object of his visit. Many a
housewife, too, will give the poor dustman the "rounds of
the kitchen" if he happens to touch with his dirty basket
the clothes hanging in the back garden. And our dusky
friend, too, must have unlimited stores of patience. It is
seven a.m., but the dustman is already on his round.
Often the garden gate is locked and bolted. He bangs
and knocks, at the same time shouting "Dust O !" All to
no purpose ; the people refuse to be awakened. Then pro-
bably a postcard is sent to his superior complaining that
the dustman has not called. In spite of this false accu-
sation he continues to smile. The dustman, happily,
is philosophic. Regularly three times a week do I have
the pleasure of welcoming him at my cottage, and he is
there before the postman and roll boy. The dustmen are
the rank and file in the health army. They do their work
well, and in spite of their appearance, they provide living
illustration of the familiar saying, "Handsome is that hand-
some does."

,THE NAME OF FOLKESTONE.

Although the origin and changes in the name of
Folkestone appear to be obscured in the midst of a dis-
tant part, there is no mystery in regard to the addition
of the letter "e" after the "k" in the modern name ot
our town. It is only within comparatively recent years
that Folkestone was spelt as it is now. Folkstone — that
was the designation. To explain. Before the age of
railways the natives of our fishing village and those of
Dover were at "daggers drawn" with each other. Let
a stranger appear down in the city — I mean Radnor-
street way — and the remark would be heard: "There goes
a furriner" (foreigner). And if he happened to hail
from Dover he was a double-dyed specimen. Let the
"Folson" fishermen and those from the other side of
Shakespeare's Cliff only meet, and there was bound to be
a row. Absurd as it may seem in this more tolerant and
enlightened age, yet the fact is beyond dispute that this
and other feuds between towns existed. This feeling
was reflected in more latter days by the appearance of
snarling articles in the newspapers of the rival communi-
ties. Thus on one occasion a Dover writer declared that

the very name of Folkstone revealed the mental intelli-
gence of its inhabitants. In explanation of this it was
pointed out that the anagram "Kent fools" could be
made out of F-o-l-k-s-t-o-n-e. And so it can, and my
readers can prove it if they take the trouble to dissect
the letters. This subtle blow of the "furriners" at our
intelligence was too much of a good thing, and thus the
addition of the innocent letter "e" saved our enemies
from terming us "Kent fools."

SOME OF THE MILKMEN'S "jOYS OF LIFE."

I reckon the milkman is one of the most industrious
men in creation. Take some of those, for example, that
come down, winter and summer, from over the Folkestone
hills. When the average townsman is in "the arms of
Morpheus" — say between three and four a.m. — the milk-
men are "about." With horses in the shafts, and milk
cans in the cart, the men drive into the town, arriving
here before six. Never mind the weather; let it be a strong
sou'-wester or a bitter nor-easter, down the hills they travel
with horses often slipping at each step. This is, of course,
the winter I am referring to, but the summer tells a reverse
story. The milkman, too, can also count amongst his
"joys of life" certain anxieties. He never knows, when
turning the corner of a street, whether he will "fall into
the arms" of a sanitary inspector, who may demand a
sample. There is a constant dread that his milk may be
deficient in fat (cream) through the cows being "off" cer-
tain feed. He may even worry as to whether one of his
helpers on the farm left any water in the milk pails when
they were cleansed with "aqua pura." And then it should
be remembered, too, that the milkman has a constant race
against time. He must not disappoint his customers.
Almost to the minute must he be on the doorstep. The
whole household, even to the domestic cat, relies upon
him. The morning round over, they get a little rest, and
a snatch at meals. The cows have to be milked, and pre-
parations made for the afternoon round again. Evening
arrives. The utensils have to be cleansed again, beyond
suspicion. A look round the stable and farm. Perhaps
a few moments for a chat and supper. Then welcome
bed, even if it is only between eight and nine. Our milk-
man needs to retire early, for the lark will not have left its
nest ere he is preparing to start the next day's labours.

FLORAL BEAUTY AND A NOBLE CHARITY.

"It is not always May." That is one of the reasons
which drew me to Flora's Temple in the American Gardens

177

one Saturday afternoon. It was not the public day,
and thus it came about that, in company with an "olive
branch" and the head gardener, I was enabled to worship
the Fair One all undisturbed. For this privilege I have
again to thank Mr. Alfred Leney, the owner, who extended
me a cordial invitation to visit his charming place with the
injunction that "I was to go where I liked and stay as
long as I liked." The American Gardens at Saltwood
have often been described, but no pen, however able or
eloquent, can do justice to their unique beauty ; no artist,
however gifted, could delineate the feast of floral beauty
which for the next few weeks will be in the full tide of
its glory. My visit proved an afternoon's real pleasure,
and if, by the means of a few imperfect words that follow,
I can incline my readers to make a similar visit, my re-
ward will be great indeed. As is generally pretty well
known, the owner opens the grounds to the public on
Wednesdays, a charge of sixpence being made. Mr.
Leney, with that kindness of heart that is such a distin-
guishing trait in his characater, has for some years devoted
the whole of the proceeds for admission to charities.

BEES AND SUPERSTITION.

There is a familiar and true saying that one has to
travel into the rural districts to find out news. Example :
On the same night that Mr. Rolls accomplished the double
air journey over the Channel I heard of the fact about
an hour later at Newingreen, where no telegraph office
exists. The explanation, however, is that I met the mail
motor van on its way to Ashford, and the conductor was
kind enough to impart the interesting information alluded
to. Now, to pursue the main subject, I heard a remark-
able yarn the other day in the Alkham Valley in regard
to bees. Two of the sons of Mr. Kerswell, the respected
owner of Drelingore Farm, are my authorities. It appears
that if any member of a household should happen to die,
the owner of the bees must proceed to the hive or hives in
the garden, and tap on each little structure, remarking at
the same timef to the bees/ "Mother is dead," "Father
dead," or "Aunt Mary is dead" as the case may be. Many
of the country folk will have it that if this is not done
the bees will all die or fly away. Mr. Bailey, of Vale Farm,
Hawkinge, it appears, did not tap on the hives informing
the bees of a recent death in the family. The consequence
was that the busy insects took offence, and died. Here,
then, are names of thoroughly reputable people, and I will
leave the townspeople to explain a belief that still has
a hold in East Kent.

THE TOPE AND RIGG V. CHANNEL STURGEON.

Passing along Black Bull-road a few evenings since,
I held a brief conversation with Mr. "Wally" Balchin, who
is in partnership with Mr. Rumsey. Both these well-
known and much respected tradesmen preside over the
destinies of a fried fish and chip potato restaurant, which,
by the way, is as clean as the proverbial new pin. A
customer came along and asked the stalwart and good-
tempered Wally, "What fish to-night ?" Came the answer,
"We have some lovely plaice and Channel Sturgeon." I
pricked up my ears at this, for I had never heard of this
particular denizen of the deep before. "All right," replied
the customer, "six of sturgeon and three of potatoes
(chips)." Then Wally almost lovingly dipped some slips
of sturgeon into nice thick batter, thereafter to be cooked
in a brand of Garden's fine fat. Oh, no, there is no
cotton-seed oil here. Of course, the fish and chips were
done to a turn, and the customer left the establishment
delighted. But what of this Channel sturgeon? I was
quite interested, and made further enquiries. It appears it
is a purely local name for tope, or, as fishermen term it,
rigg. This self-same rigg was once to be obtained at "a
penny per lump." In fact, Douglas Jerrold quoted it
as being "Folkestone beef." That was in the far off days.
I well remember at one time, when the "Folkestone beef,"
as represented by the rigg, was hung outside many of the
fishermen's houses. The backbone of the fish taken out, '
and the flesh, well peppered and salted, was hung in the
sun to dry. A "penny lump" of rigg for tea in those days
was thought a luxury; and so it was after it had been
toasted before the fire. I can hear in imagination some
old Folkestonian remarking : "Hear, hear." But the "penny
a lump" rigg days are no more. However, "Wally" has
provided us with the same article served us as "Channel
sturgeon," and both himself and partner are never happier
than when, "up to their eyes in batter," they are serving
out their toothsome hot suppers to visitors and residents
alike.

[Since writing the above "Wally" has opened an
establishment "on his own."]

THE FOLKESTONE "ROYAL STURGEON.

Well, now I come to think of it, there is a possible
explanation for terming the tope or rigg "Channel stur-
geon." We have it on the authority of an old local guide
book, published in the forties, that once upon a time our
local fisherfolk caught a real royal sturgeon. And report

has it that the specimen was a fine one. Our worthy
manners did not send it to the King and Queen, but to
the Lord Mayor of London. The fish arrived by coach at
the Mansion House in due course. Tradition declares
that the Lord Mayor was so delighted that he then and
there wrote a letter expressing his thanks, and promising
to send his fisher friends an "equivalent" This was at a
time. Folkestone was little more than a village. Education
outside colleges or universities was little thought of. Thus
it came about that the "bigwigs" stumbled at the Lord
Mayor's "equivalent." It was true the writing was bad.
That was the excuse for the fishermen obtaining timber to
build a shed for the reception of an animal. They had
misread 'equivalent" for "elephant.' It can be guessed
when the timbers of the shed were removed that some non-
dictionary words were used. The Lord Mayor, however,,
was as good as his word. He sent an equivalent. It took
the form of a couple of pounds of green tea, which, in those
distant days, was esteemed of value. Thus we may account
perhaps for Wally's famous "Channel sturgeon."

ALL THROUGH MR. LLOYD GEORGE.

The penalties attaching to fame are great indeed-
Men seek great positions, sometimes not realizing that
worries and anxieties and unpopularity often run parallel
with popularity itself. Thus with the Chancellor of the
Exchequer. By one section of the community he is looked
upon as a heaven-sent prophet; by another, his name is
anathema. There is no getting away, however, from the
fact that Mr. Lloyd George is famous. And those asso-
ciated with newspapers (be they local or metropolitan) are
perhaps more alive to this fact than any other section
of the community. Let Mr. Lloyd George stay a week-
end with his friend at Beachborough ; let him play a game
of golf (as he did last Saturday on the Hythe links) ; let
him even wink the other eye, and the fact is recorded.
The same kind of thing applies to all public men who loom
largely in the public eye. For instance, I was robbed of
a country stroll on a recent Sunday morning, all because
of Lloyd George. Here is a copy of orders placed in my
hand : "Please attend morning service at Cheriton Baptist
Church. Lloyd George may probably attend." I followed
up these instructions, but was "sold." The author of the
Insurance Act did not turn up. He was probably on the
top of Brockman's Mount, enjoying the fairy picture as
seen from that altitude.

i8o

A REMARKABLE "BLACKBIRD."

This remarkable "bird" was minus feathers, tail, or
oeak. In short, he was a human "blackbird." He once
possessed a face, and rather a nice-looking one at that.
With this, however, he was not satisfied. The "bird,"
it appears, was seized with a desire to improve on Nature.
Probably he had seen a Wild-Man-of-the-Woods Show, or,
possibly, a Maori chieftain. To cut matters short, this in-
dividual, who has a certain right to dp as he wishes with
his o,wn body, has had both sides of his face tattooed with
the two words (four in all), "The Blackbird." The letters
are bluish in tint, and half an inch in depth. "The
Blackbird" grinds a piano organ, and was working very
hard on the handle when I viewed his face on a recent
morning at Hythe. Is this man going to set the fashion?
Great Scott ! The very thought of it makes one shudder.

IS A CODLING A HADDOCK.

On the face of it an absurd question, you will ex-
claim. Not quite so absurd as it appears, however. I was
nearly "had" once before. Explanation: On a certain
afternoon I entered a fishmonger's shop for the purpose of
purchasing a small haddock. The assistant named a price,
and this suited. Oh! yes, the interior of the fish was a
golden yellow. It was doubtless nicely cured and smoked,
but on turning the haddock over on the reverse side I
failed to find those famous "finger marks" which are always
to be found on the upper sides of this particular kind of
fish. I remarked to the man that served me : "This is not
wha't I asked for. It is not a haddock." With a smile on
his face he replied, "Oh! I forgot, you are the gentleman
what knows. No ; it is a codling." (I had been "had," as
I said once before, at the same establishment). After-
wards I received my haddock with the regulation "finger
marks," and it turned out to be a very nice fish. But this
is not the point. If one asks for a certain article, one
expects to be served in good faith. I am quite aware that
fishmongers as a rule would not resort to such methods, but
the practice prevails in some quarters. And so I warn my
readers, when purchasing a haddock, to always look out for
those tell-tale "finger marks" with which Nature has adorned
this denizen of the deep. No, a codling is not a haddock.
Appearances may be deceptive, but the flavour and "finger
marks" tell the tale.

THE SWIFT AND ITS RAPID FLIGHT.

Recently I penned a paragraph having reference to
the rapid and wonderful flight of the swallow and swift.

This appears to have rather amused a townsman. In
answer to his criticism in regard to the flight of the swift,
I may inform my friend that as I am not a naturalist in
the proper sense of the term, I turn to writers whose busi-
ness it is to know something of what they write about.
Thus it was I quoted .from that charming work, "By Leafy
Ways; or Brief Studies from the Book of Nature," by
Francis A. Knight (pages 41-42). I will quote again, with
a slight addition: "It is not easy to estimate the speed
of flight, but it has been said that a swallow can probably
cover at least seventy miles within an hour, an eider
duck ninety, a peregrine falcon, in pursuit of prey, a
hundred and fifty. But the powers of the swift are un-
doubtedly much greater. No bird can pass him on an airy
highway. His speed has been estimated at no less than

two hundred and forty miles an hour "I turn

also to that wonderful illustrated work, "Morris' British
Birds" (vol. 2, page 79). The writer says in regard to the
swift : "His speed has been conjectured to be at the rate
of one hundred and eighty miles an hour." There is, it will
be seen, a considerable divergence of opinion between two
naturalists, one of whom truly says : "Is not easy to estimate
the speed of flight." I am a novice in such matters, but I
would as soon pin my faith to the former as to the latter.
Even one hundred and eighty miles an hour for a bird that
weighs just on an ounce is to myself and others a marvel
of Nature — more wonderful than any aeroplane.

A WIFE FOR SIXPENCE.

Mr. Henry W. Lucy, known the Anglo-Saxon world
over as the "Toby, M.P.," of "Punch," has sent the follow-
ing communication to our friend the Editor of "The Hythe
Reporter." Mr. Lucy says : "Married ladies in Hythe, dis-
contented with their lot — if such there be — will be inter-
ested in reading the subjoined paragraph. It appeared in
the London 'Observer' of one hundred years ago, on
Sunday, March i/th, 1805." The paragraph is as follows:
"The wife of one of the men employed on the Shorncliffe
(Hythe ?) Canal was, a few days ago, conducted by her
husband to the Market-place at Hythe, with a halter round
her neck, and tied to a post for sale, whence she was pur-
chased for sixpence by a mulatto, the long (big) drummer
of the regiment. She is not more than twenty years of
age, and of likely figure." Mr. Lucy adds, with, perhaps,
much truth, 'To-day our wives are much dearer than
sixpence."

1 82
A LATE .VICAR OF SANDGATE's KINDLY ACT.

This is of a serious, but none the less beautiful char-
acter. It has to do with an anecdote told in a recent
sermon by the Rev. John Hugh Morgan, at the Grace Hill
Wesleyan Church. Illustrating a splendid discourse on
God's poor, the rev. gentleman, in a feeling manner, told
how the late Vicar of Sandgate (now Lord Bishop of
Birmingham), when he was Vicar of St Mary's,
Bryanston-square, London, visited one of his parishioners,,
who was living in a one-room tenement in that wealthy
London parish. The poor but respectable man was in
deep trouble. On the table was what appeared to be a
narrow box. It was covered. The parishioner
apologised. "I am sorry," said he to his Vicar, "that
you should have to visit me under such circumstances.
That," pointing to the object on the table, "is a coffin (the
man lifted the covering). It contains our one dear little
child. We must not keep it here. The authorities will not
allow it. I am about to convey the remains to the mortuary,
from whence it must be buried Thus we must part with
our loved one." The big, generous heart of "Dr. Wake-
field was touched. "What ! buried from the mortuary ! It
shall not be. Your little one's remains shall rest in the
Vicarage for the time being, and be buried from my house."
And with gentle care, all that remained of the "little faded
flower" was tenderly conveyed to the Vicarage, and there
it remained until the time of burial. "That act," exclaimed
the preacher, "is worth twenty sermons. I was pleased to
read that the Vicar of St. Mary's Bryanston-square, has
been made Dean of Norwich, and I hope yet to hear that
he has been elevated to the highest position on the epis-
copal bench." Since the above was penned we all know
that the late Vicar of Sandgate has become the Bishop of
Birmingham.

TEUTONIC SCHOOL METHODS AND SAUSAGES.

Strange mixture this, but it blends well in this letter.
What does the Folkestone school lad say to this? My
young friend goes on : " 'Early to bed, early to rise" is also
a German proverb. It is, however, more practised here
than in the old country. For instance, we have to go to
school every every morning at seven (6 a.m., English time),
and we return home at 12 o'clock (English, 11 a.m.). Then
we have the rest of the day free. This is pleasant in
summer. Putting the character of the average German in
so few words as possible, I find that he is proud, ambitious,
very polite, sociable, and always ready to help another when

it is possible. He is very proud of his country. But not
without cause. The Germans are also a very generous
people. It is remarkable there is not a quarter of the
beggars we have in England, and these are generally lame
or blind. Another important item in German life is the
food, and one .can only describe this item in one word —
sausages. This is about all they eat in Germany. There
are about fifty different kinds, and some make one shiver
to look at them. Would you like to eat pig's liver and
onion sausage? (No thanks; Harnett's brand is good
enough for me. — Felix.) That is what I have "had to eat,
besides other like delicacies. The Germans, too, I should
say, are very fond of raw ham." It seems to me that
young Baron, who corresponds in French as well as
German, is making good use of his time. Although I have
not as yet had the pleasure of "running across him," I hope
to do so on his return to England in April. I admire the
postscript to his interesting letter very much. Out of
gratitude for supplying me with copy I can but give it,
as follows : — "I suppose you already know my father, Mr.
S. Baron — the best tailor in Folkestone?" There's busi-
ness for you!

UNDERTAKER AND CUSTOM BREAKER.

Nipping round a street corner rather sharply a few
days ago, I was at first sight somewhat startled at the
sight of a local undertaker carrying a white covered coffin
under his arms. The tradesman was attired in regulation
costume — black frock coat, trousers, top-hat, and white
gloves. Although very much gazed at, the undertaker pre-
served, as he should do, a solemn expression. Thus he
conveyed the body of a child to its last resting place at
the Cemetery, the funeral being conducted in the ordinary
manner by a Nonconformist minister. A day or two after
I "ran across" the undertaker and queried him on the sub-
ject. He explained : "Well, you see, it was like this. The
parents of the dead child were very poor, and I carried
the remains of the little one through the streets to save the
expense of a conveyance, and I was congratulated by the
parson on my common sense. If occasion arises, I shall do
the same thing again, as I am not a worshipper of many
old customs." That there is something in this last remark
is evidenced by the fact that a few months ago the same
undertaker, Mr. Vant, in the aforesaid costume (top-hat
included), conducted a child's funeral on a
cycle. He strapped the coffin on the handle-
bars of his machine, and rode across country

1 84

from Folkestone to Sandwich — a distance of 25 miles —
much to the ashtonishment of the villagers en route. The-
little one, of course, was decorously buried. Whether this
kind of thing should be extended is an open question.
Perhaps in exceptional cases it might pass muster, but to
frequently meet white-gloved and top-hat undertakers on
cycles or in the streets is a cloth of another colour. Per-
sonally, I am inclined to think some of the old customs are
more than absurd — they are tyrannical, but in this case I
believe most people will say let the old ordier of things
prevail. However, the undertaker in question has obtained
an advertisement, and probably that is not an altogether
absent factor in the case.

A PENNY SHOW.

The voice of a showman a night or two since pro-
ceeded thus from the Tontine -street Assembly Rooms:
"Walk inside, ladies and gentlemen. The great Catania —
half man, half ostrich — is about to partake of his supper.
Catania is over sixty years of age. He will never die.
Methuselah lived to be over 999 years, but the wonderful
being inside will live beyond that. He has been examined
by over 200 doctors and physicians, and his body is sold
for £2,000 to King's College Hospital. Yes, Catania kills
himself every day to live. Walk up! walk up! and see
the show ! This wonder does not eat ordinary food. He
thrives on something solid. Catania is one of the Barnum
and Bailey's 'freaks.' As such he has travelled all over the
world. Walk up! walk up! The show is about to com-
mence."

SOMETHING LIKE A SUPPER.

There is nothing in regard to beef puddings or boiled
leg of mutton and caper sauce about this. Anxious to gaze
upon the man who r'will never die," and one also who is
said to present "a puzzle to over 200 doctors,"
and whose body has been sold for £2,000, I
invested a humble copper, and entered. In the
dim light I and others observed an individual
sitting in a chair. This was Catania. Like the
great man (half ostrich), he did not then deign to gaze upon
us. Puffing at a Ijriar pipe he had a far-off look about
his eyes. Perhaps he was thinking of what he would be
doing in about 500 years time. The piano organ behind
the screen was now being played with a great deal of
feeling, and the voice of the showman and the music com-
bined produced a strange medley of sounds. Suddenly the

great one arose. In a lofty manner he told us of his great-
ness, how he had travelled, how he could speak five lan-
guages. Catania now proceeded to "kill himself that he
might live." Placing a moderate sized piece of coal in his
mouth, he proceeded to crunch it up with his teeth. Then
the muscles of his ostrich-like neck proceeded to work ; he
opened his capacious mouth, and the coal was gone.

WITHOUT ANY GRAVY.

The great one next proceeded with another item on
the menu — a piece of glass. This disappeared in the
same way. The "freak" again opened his capacious jaws,
and placed on his tongue a couple of 2-inch French nails,
followed by about a dozen shoemaker's brass brads.
These he swallowed. He now appeared to be positively
hungry, and this he appeased by biting off and eating two
inches of tallow candle, followed again by a quantity of
wadding. Then he laid boiling sealing wax on his tongue,
and for a finale ate a quantity of fire. Catania, after
all this, exercised a "little privilege" by going round with
the hat. A copper meant a shake of the great one's hand ;
no copper, no shake. All this kind of thing is done in full
view of the audience. It is another illustration of what
some people will do for money. Folkestone, it would seem,
it not without attractions.

A VOICE FROM THE DEAD.

A friend has kindly presented me with a little volume
from the pen of the late Dr. Charles Egerton Fitzgerald,
who for many years loomed largely in the life of this town.
The book in question is entitled "Semi-Scientific Lectures,"
and comprises a series of papers which the distinguished
author read from time to time before the Folkestone
Natural History Society. That the late Dr. Fitzgerald
was a real lover of Nature may be gleaned from the fol-
lowing extract from his first annual address as President
of the Society: "If a love of natural history be once
awakened, the study becomes the most fascinating of pur-
suits ; every surrounding object, however familiar and
commonplace, assumes a new interest; it is like the first
dawn of love in the human breast, when every object
takes a more roseate and lovely hue, and, unlike, too often,
the grosser passion, the love of Nature lasts until the ter-
mination of our lire. What greater difference can there
be, then, between the dull, 'constitutional' along an uninter-
esting road, taken, perhaps, at the urgent instigation of
some tyrannical doctor and the happy 'ramble' of the

1 86

naturalist, to whom every blade of grass, every peeping
wild flower or graceful fern, every stone, becomes an object
of interest, to whom every little pond swarms with curious
and interesting life ; to whom to have discovered a new or
even rare specimen is worth any expenditure of time,
trouble, or exertion. . . . You will find Nature's full
of life ; the very air we breathe is full ; each drop of water
teems with life. The naturalist is invited to an intellectual
repast such as might tempt the most fastidious, and his
researches are the more delightful because there is still so
much to discover, so many difficulties to reconcile, so
many theories to corroborate or disprove, so much in-
formation to impart to others."

THE LATE MR. ROBERT STAGE — SOME RECOLLECTIONS.

Four score years and ten! That was the age at
which Mr. Robert Stace breathed his last at Sandgate.
The deceased gentleman was one of the most unassuming
and retiring of men. He was associaed with the late Mr.
Purday's library and Post Office at Sandgate, ultimately
succeeding to the business. The late Mr. Stace could
easily recall the time when there was not a stone building
at the Camp — when the old wooden huts had been patched
almost beyond recognition. I should say in the history ot
Zion Chapel at the top of Fenchurch-street there was no
more faithful adherents than Mr. Stace and his family.
Never mind the weather, the journey would be made, and
the walk from Sandgate was not what it is now. There
were no lights on either the lower or upper road. The
houses were few and far between. Holy Trinity Church
stood amidst the cornfields, and then on the opposite side
was Clout's Farm. The late Mr. Stace, as I before re-
marked, was one of the most retiring of men, and it was
very rare that he was seen to converse in the street. If
ever there was a man who went on "the even tenour of his
way," it was the gentleman who has just crossed to the
Great Beyond. He was the father of Mr. Arthur Stace,
the well-known stationer of Guildhall-street.

THE BEAUTIES OF JULIAN ROAD.

Saturday saw the coming and goinjy of the longest
day. Now we head towards declining light. The com-
mencement is not perceptible, but the date marks the fact.
What a wonderful march is that of summer! Those
precious hours in the early morning, say from soon after
six to 9.30 — how enjoyable they have been to some of us

i87

who are engaged thereafter in strenuous daily business.
We watched the birth of spring — looked on with joy at
the opening bud, the first snowdrop or crocus. We have
.seen also the American currant put on its blossom before
the leaf; watched the apparently dead wood cover itself
with its marvellous foliage. Each morning has revealed
a new wonder. As the days grew the very air, filled
with fragrance from the young grass shoots, appeared to
grow sweeter. Painted in the marvellous colours of
Nature, the gardens are now a blaze of glory. But the
procession is moving on. Let us take the neighbourhood
of Radnor Park and Julian Road. Here, morning after
morning, I have revelled in the sight and scent of the
red, white, and cream hawthorn, and the glories of the
numerous red chestnut blossoms. In time the roads in
this particular neighbourhood, because of these chest-
nut trees, will, for a short time, provide one of
the sights of the town. No wonder, then, the inhabitants
of this district are very pleased with themselves
because of this. But summer is marching on.

FOLKESTONE BEFORE THE COMING OF THE
RAILWAY.

THE "EARL RADNOR" BARGE.

Some years ago I enjoyed a "fireside yarn" with the
late Mr. Samuel Pilcher, and in chatting over "old Folke-
stone" he presented me with a couple of ancient prints.
One of these was a picture of the Folkestone hoy, or sail-
ing barge, which sailed between this town and London,
known as the "Earl Radnor," the other a portrait of Miss
Ann Cook, "a native," who died in Folkestone on July
7th, 1857, aged 102 years and 10 months.

In regard to "The Earl Radnor" barge, Mr. Pilcher
said : —

"I remember going on board and getting into a dog
Icennel, and the dog, which was a Newfoundland, was very
fond of me, and we grew lovingly attached, so much so
that no one dare approach or interfere with us. I think I
must have been about seven or eight years old at this
time, but I could scale the ship's rattlings witn the dex-
terity of a monkey. I should probably have been a
Bailor, but as my father was unfortunately lost at sea,
a kind mother and God willed it otherwise. There was
no gas in those days, and we used to go about with
horn lanterns, and resort to the old Scnider box to ignite
the large lucifers, which were coated at the ends with
brimstone, and those who could afford it had tallow

i88

candles, whilst others used rush lights." The following^
is a copy of one of the posters which gave particulars or
the sailing of the hoy barge "Earl Radnor," sailing
between London and Folkestone and vice versa: —

"GRIFFIN'S WHARF, MORGAN'S LANE, TOOLEY STREET.
"Spicer's vessels have been the only constant Traders to>

FOLKESTONE, HYTHE, AND DIMCHURCH,

"for upwards of 100 years past

Now loading, will leave

"Griffin's Wharf on Monday next (date) and Folke-
stone Harbour on Monday, the (date) instant, and takes
in goods for the following places : — Appledore, Allington,.
Brensett, Cheriton, Dimchurch, Folkestone, Hythe, Horton,
Lyminge, Lydd, New Romney, Newington, Postling, Sand-
gate Castle, Sellinge, Stanford, and all places adjacent.
Corn is. 6d. per quarter. Sacks supplied. Heavy
goods, IDS. per ton. Harbour dues included."

This poster must have been printed 6q or 70 years
ago. The printer, E. Creed, had a printing office
near the site of the "Herald" Works. When the railway
came the hoy trading generally collapsed, but they were
fast sailing vessels, cutter-rigged, and the subject of the
above sketch was more than once hotly pursued and chased
by the Revenue cutters, and on one occasion the cutter,
failing to overtake her, fired a shot across her bows to
bring her to, and here our late friend smilingly remarked,
these were "the good old times."

In regard to Miss Ann Cook, a native of Folke-
stone, who, when she died, had arrived at the marvellous
age of 102 years and 10 months, Mr. Pilcher said: "She
was my aunt, and one of the good old sort. I used to go-
to dinner with her twice a month, and she would recount
many interesting incidents connected with smuggling, until
I was so interested that I felt I should some day become
a bold smuggler myself. In her young days she was
engaged to be married -to a young farmer of somewhat gay
propensities, but her aunt being averse to the match, it
was broken off, although the wedding dress and trousseaux
were actually ready. She was, however, left enough money
and a house to live in for life, and resided in a cottage
at the back part of East-street called Froghole," and here
our old friend actually produced, for my inspection, the
wedding dress referred to. And then I asked a
question as to another portrait, and Mr. Pilcher replied :
"That is my mother. Of course, you know a boy's best
friend is his mother, and I am proud to confess that she

i8g

was no exception. A most careful and kind mother, and
sincere friend, loved by all who knew her, and they were
not a few. When I lost her I lost my best friend on
earth. I would that every boy had as good. It's not that
every boy has the opportunity of seeing his mother for 50
years, but that was my happy privilege nearly every day
of that time."

"FOLKESTONE PUDDING-PIES."

This town would appear to be famous, not only for
its beautiful surroundings and exhilarating air, but also
for the above luxury. Anyway, I was glancing through
an old cookery book a few days ago, and, of course, the
word Folkestone, associated with pudding-pies, attracted
my attention. In view of the approach of Christmas,
when natives of the town will be re-visiting the haunts of
their childhood days, out of pure patriotism I give the
recipe in full. It will probably vary the plum pudding and
mince pies. Here we are, then : —

"Folkestone pudding pies. — Ingredients— I pint milk,
3ozs. ground rice, 3ozs. butter, £lb. sugar, flavour-
ing of lemon peel or bay leaf, 6 ozs. puif-paste, cur-
rants. Mode — Infuse two laurel or bay .leaves, or !the
rind of \ lemon, in the milk, and when it is well flavoured
strain it, and add the rice ; boil these for quarter hour,
stirring all the time ; then take them off the fire, stir in
the butter, sugar, and eggs,the latter to be well beaten ;
when nearly cold line some patty-pans with puff-paste, fill
with the custard, strew over each a few currants, and bake
from 20 to 25 minutes in a moderate oven. Time, 20 to
25 minutes. Average cost, is. 6d. Sufficient to fill a dozen
patty-pans."

HOW "TOBY" FOUND A FRIEND.

It was in the early days of the "Folkestone Herald."
During the season a showman was allowed to stand with
a "Punch and Judy" show at the eastern end of the Leas.
(We are too respectable nowadays for this kind of thing.)
With children I often looked on with delight at the famous
drama. In fact, at the present time I would walk a mile
to witness a repetition of the performance. But in con-
nection with this particular "Punch and Judy" show I
was much interested in "Toby." He was one of the most
intelligent of his kind. This canine actor, so far as my
experience allows me to say, was a model "Toby." He
appeared to fairly revel in his part. The season was

IQO

over; some weeks had elapsed. One afternoon I was
walking up Fenchurch-street when a cottager remarked
(pointing to a dog) : "Isn't .it a shame ? He has been left
by his master. We — the neighbours — give him a scrap
of food now and again, but the dog has no home." Inter-
ested, I enquired further. My informant then added,
"Why, that's Toby,' the 'Punch and Judy' dog." Well, I
rubbed my eyes, for the poor animal appeared but a
shadow of his former self — thin and unkempt. Then
your contributor and the dog appeared held an imaginary
conversation,

"TOBY'S" APPEAL AND THE ANSWER.

"Bow wow. I am Toby! You remember how the
visitors brought up their children to see me act my part—
.how they petted and made a fuss of me after the perfor-
mance. Bow-wow! Well, you would hardly believe it.
After the season was over, and having carried out my
duties faithfully, my master has left me. These people up
Fenchurch-street are very kind, but I have no home — no
place where I can lay down my weary body. Bow ! wow !
wow! Just write a word for me in 'The Herald.' You
will never regret it Bow! wow! wow!" Well, I gave
"Toby" a pat on the head, and promised faithfully I
would do as requested. To cut the matter short,! penned
<L few words something after the style of the above, with
the result that a lady must interested in the "Band of
Mercy" movement of the time acquired the dog, and
<fToby" thereafter Jound a splendid home on the lady's
estate at Romsey, near Southampton. Subsequently the
new owner of the dog, interpreting, no doubt, the gratitude
of this faithful four-footed actor, sent me a beautiful
volume of dog stories, with the inscription: 'To 'Felix,'
from the dog Toby*." After a lapse of some years I
may mention that the lady was the Hon. Mrs. Sucklnig,
the esteemed wife of the captain of the local coastguard.
If ever the dumb creation had a friend, it was this lady,
who devoted much of her time to giving lectures on the
kindness to animals. Many of the children who listened
to her eloquent remarks are now grown men and women,
but the lessons Mrs. Suckling then taught have never been
forgotten*

THE NAME OF FOLKESTONE.

The following letter was sent me by Mr. H. Froggatt,
M.A, 2, St. John's Church Road, Folkestone:—

"Dear Mr. 'Felix,' — As one who has for many years
been deeply interested in your weekly remarks, 'About the

neighbourhood,' may I be permitted to make one or two
remarks about the origin of the name 'Folkestone/ which
may perhaps help some of your readers who care to
follow up the subject

"The following books — all to be had at our excellent
Public Library — contain information on the subject: —

"i. 'Words and Places,' by Isaac Taylor. This
book, which has become an English classic, should be in
the hands of every student. In it he will find, e.g., the
origin of 'Durlocks,' which is probably a puzzle to many
pedestrians on their way to the Warren.

"2. 'Names and their Histories,' by the same
author. I find in it the following : 'Folkestone is Folcan-
stan in an early charter and Folcestan or Folestane in
the 'Saxon Chronicle.' It seems, like Brighton, to contain
a personal name, meaning the stone or stone house of
(Folca genitive Folcan), but is usually explained as the
stone or the people.'

'% Saxon Chronicle.' The passage, which I trans-
late from the Anglo-Saxon, is found in Vol I, p. 319
(Folkestone Public Library). It describes the march of
Godwin towards London, to stand his trial before the
Witan. 'He collected all the ships that were at Romney,
Hythe, and Fplcestane, and he went then to Dover.' This
shows the antiquity of the name, which must at least date
back in almost its present form to A.D. 1055-60, before
the Norman 'Fulc' could possibly have obtained influence
in England.

"4. 'Domesday Book.' A.D. 1080. Here there are
several references to Folkestone. They are quoted by
Hasted at p. 369, and may be referred to by the student.

"5. 'The Cinque Ports,' by Montague Burrows. I
find from this book that the annual contribution of our
town in 1299 was one ship called a cog, and that as late
as the 1 5th century its contribution exceeded that of any
other member except Faversham.

"It will thus be seen that there is much doubt, even
among the highest authorities, as to the derivation of the
name."

THE "DEAR" OLD DAYS.

Through the courtesy of fhe Editor of "The Kent
Herald" I am enabled to give my readers a glimpse into
"the good old days" when the purchasing power of a
sovereign was nothing like what it is at the present time.
The following is taken from the files of the paper alluded
to, and is dated a hundred years ago, viz., August 27th,
1812. The figures, I fancy, will be interesting to both

Tariff Reformers and Free Traders. However, as I do
not understand either of these questions, I prefer to let
facts speak for themselves. Here, then, is the extract : —

"Corn Exchange, Mark-lane, August 26th, 1812.—
Little business doing; prices may be considered about
normal. Wheat 945. to 1503. per quarter.

Trice ojf flour at Abbot's Mill.— Fine, ii6s. per
quarter; seconds, ins.; thirds, io6s. rough meal, 1485.

"Price of coali at Whitjstable. — Newcastle, 465. per
ton; Sunderland, 423.; Carriage to Canterbury, 133. per
ton.

"Price of coals at Fordwkh. — Wallsend, 573. ; New-
castle, 543. ; Welsh, 945. per ton. Carriage to Canterbury,
5s. per ton.

"Price of coals at Seaton Wharf. — Newcastle and
Sunderland, 45s.; WaHsend, 505. Carriage to Canter-
bury, i os. per toru

"Assize of bread in Canterbury. — Penny loaf to
weigh 3023. lodrms. ; twopenny loaf to weigh /ozs. 4drms. ;
peck loaft o weigh i/lbs. 6ozs., price 6s. 5d. ; half -peck loaf
to weigh 81bs. I lozs. 4drms., price 33. 2^d. ; half-quartern
to weigh 2lbs. 2ozs. 12 drms., price 9fd."

FOLKESTONE "BEEF."

Skimming through the pleasant pages of Walter
Jerrold's "Highways and Byways of Kent," I came
across the following: — "Folkestone has given its name
— in some parts of our country — to heavy rain clouds
which are known variously as 'Folkestone Girls,' 'Folke-
stone Lasses,' and 'Folkestone Washerwomen.' ' Why
the womenfolk of the place should have come to be
specially identified with the rain-clouds driven in from
the sea is not recorded. The way in which the phrase
is used would make plain to the reader what was meant,
but "Folkestone Beef" might puzzle many people. It
is dried dog-fish (rigg). These congeners of the shark
— minus their sinister heads and betraying tails — are
sometimes sold under plausible aliases to inland house-
wives. The dog-fish is a good food fish, though preju-
dice is against its general use honestly under its own
name. Frank Buckland wrote: — "Most of the fisher-
men's houses in Folkestone Harbour are adorned with
festoons of fish hung out to dry; some of these look like
gigantic whiting. There was no head, tail, or fin to
them, and I could not make out their nature without
close examination. The rough skin on their reverse
side told me at once that they were a species of dog-
fish. I asked what they were? 'Folkestone-beef,' was

l/J

A Motor dash over the Slope Road.

View of Hythe Canal.

193

the reply 'What sort of fish is this?' That's a rigg.'
'And this?' 'That's a huss." And this other?" That's
a bull huss.' 'This bit of fin?' 'That's a fiddler.' 'And
this bone?' 'That's the jaw of uncle owl* (skate),etc., etc
I must here bear testimony to the excessive civility and
really gentleman-like conduct of the Folkestone fisher-
men. At first they were shy of me, and tried to cram
me with impossible stories, but we soon became the best
of friends." That is what Buckland wrote many years
ago, and the words "fit 'the case" as well as ever they
did. Our tanfrock boys are a credit to the town.

HUMOROUS OLD FOLKESTONE.

I extract the following from a Stock's guide (long since
out of print) dated 1848. There are few places in the
kingdom of which such extraordinarily droll things are
related as of Folkestone, and which have been ingeniously
attributed, in the first place, to the malicious invention of
some wag unknown, upon his making the discovery that
the name of the town, omitting one of the "e's," is an
anagram for "Kent Fools" (This is referred to in
another paragraph). However that may be, one thing
is certain, that the many estimable qualities of the
Folkestoners can allow them to smile at witticisms which
are not only inoxious in themselves, but are deprived of
any intended malice by the good humour they are re-
ceived with. Still, they are so exquisitely humorous in
their way that we need not apologise for introducing a
few of them here. Take the following for an example.
A little poem called "The Folkestone Fiery Serpent"
was published many years since giving an account of
how a fiery serpent in former times made its appearance
and frightened the inhabitants, but was ultimately
caught in a cask and killed. The Dover Mayor, who
had been called in to assist, was invited to peep into* the
cask by the Mayor of Folkestone, and the discovery of
the "serpent" is thus described:

Much did they wrangle who khe first

Should through the bung-hole look;
At last the Dover Mayor advanc'd.

Though like a leaf he shook.
When starting back amazed, he cried,

The 'serpent,' I declare,
Is nothing but a large peacock,

As sure as I'm a Mayor.

It is also related that 'once upon a time' a Mayor of
Folkestone sent a remarkably large sturgeon to the

194

Lord Mayor of London, who, in acknowledging the pre-
sent, assured his worshipful brother that he would take
an early opportunity to 'send him an equivalent," which
the latter translated into 'elephant,' and accordingly
erected a large building for its reception, before he dis-
covered his mistake!" The equivalent duly arrived, but
it took the form of 25lbs. of green tea. Amongst other
things reported of the inhabitants in the 'olden times,"
all of which are evidently too good to be true, are the
following: Receiving a note from the Admiralty to have
the interior of the church 'white' washed, to serve as a
landmark for sailors, and writing to their lordships to
know what colour it was to be done — putting their fish-
ing nets round the town to catch the smallpox, which
was then raging in the neighbourhood, and drown it in
the sea! — planting beef steaks to grow young bullocks!
— filing the bills of their ducks to put them on, an eat-
ing equality with other poultry! — throwing live sparrows
from the cliffs to break their necks! — chaining up a
wheelbarrow that had been bitten by a mad dog! etc.,
etc. On one occasion it was thought, from a slight
sinking of the cliff, the tower of the church was rather
out of the perpendicular, ancl a band of resolute fellows
determined to set it upright. They accordingly pro-
ceeded to the. churchyard, and divesting themselves of
part of their clothing, deposited them on the north side
of the church, whilst they 'went to- the south side to push
it upright. After exerting themselves for some time,
they fancied they had accomplished their task, and one
of the party was sent round to the north side to report
how it looked. He returned almost immediately, and
looking qufte aghast, shouted out 'Hang me, if we
haven't shoved the church on our clothes. There isn't
a single jacket to be seenF Whilst they were at work
some knave had found his way into the churchyard and
ran away with their wearing apparel!

Some time after the present Guildhall (before the
Town Hall was erected) was built, a stranger wished to
see the interior, but as" if was not open on that occasion,
he enquired of a lad who was standing near the door
if there was anything to be seen inside ? 'No.' 'Is there
any carved work? 'Yes, there's a glass chandelier.'
Are there any paintings?' 'Yes/ 'Do you know the
subjects?' 'Yes, one's a lion and t'other's a unicorn
painted on the walls!' ' ,

From the same authority I quote some of the
epitaphs, which were said to have been seen in the
Parish churchyard. The writer, however, is careful to

195

state that they "have been destroyed by the ravages of
sea or of time." The four following have, however,
been preservd by one of the oldest inhabitants: —

"Here lies the bodie of Jackson Brown,
Lost at sea, but never founde."

"Here lies poor Old Ned,
If it hadn't been for Capt. G —
He'd been dead."

"Here lies two lovely babies dear,
One in Cheriton churchyard, and t'other here."

Upon another stone was this inscription —

"Reader, prepare to follow me!"
Under which a wit'ty schoolboy carved —
" To follow you I am not bent,
Unless you tell me the way you went."

In 1573 Queen Elizabeth visited Folkestone, and
was met by the Mayor, Robert HoUiday. On Her
Majesty's arrival in the town, his Worship was placed
on a stool to address her, when he said —
" Most gracious Queene,
Welcome to ;Folksteene."
To which the Queen is said to have replied:
" Most gracious Foole,
Get off that Stoole."

It is also stated that Mayor Holliday was carrying
a tray, or salver, on which were a couple of nice-sized
lobsters. These he intended to present to Queen
Bess, but after Her Majesty's reply, this part of the
ceremony was considered "off."

On one occasion two members of the Town Council
met several times on one particular morning in the
streets. The twain were not particularly friendly one
towards the other. On the same morning they were
destined to meet again in the Council Chamber. The
more educated of the two remarked to his colleague, on

entering the room, "Why, Mr. , you are quite

ubiquitous this morning." In reply the Councillor thus
addressed remarked to the Chairman of the meeting:
"Mr. Mayor, I must enter a protest against being called
such names (ubiquitous). It is not the first time Mr. —
has used improper language towards me!" Oil was
however, thrown on the troubled waters, and thereafter
was peace.

I was told this over the hills. A Folkestone and
Dover fisherman met. The latter asked, "What is the

196

population of Folkestone.' Our native scratched his
head and replied, "Population! population! Why we're
all blues (Liberals), and Tom Colder is Mayor."

Here is a toast I heard in lieu of a sang at a harvest
home supper at Newington —

" Here's mountains of beef,
And rivers of beer,
A good temper 'd wife,
And a thousand a year."

Dogfish were at one time looked upon by Folkestone
fishermen as the scavengers of the sea. There was not
as now any sale for them, and farmers purchased this
class of fish for manure. Hence the toast at the old
sing-songs, or "friendly leads":

" Here's to more vi tings (whitings)
And less dogs."

Another glimpse into the Folkestone mind of
the pre-railway period! The late Mr. F. G. Francis, who
died at the ripe "age of eighty-seven, was a remarkably in-
telligent man — wise and cultured. He possessed a splen-
did memory, and often at his house in St. Michael's Street
I enjoyed a yarn with him. In days of old, when the
"hotels" were to be found in Fancy Street (Fenchurch
Street) and Radnor and North Streets, Mr. Francis, as
was his wont, enjoyed a rubber of whist in the evenings
with the then "big wigs" of the town, or rather village.
The little party would, week in and week out, give each
of the houses a "regular turn." Of course, between their
"hands" and the puffing probably of "churchwardens," the
whist players would discuss "the burning topics" of the
hour. Connected with one such occasion Mr. Francis
related to me the following. The coming of the railway
was the topic of converse. "And what are we
going to do about this new thing — the railway?"
asked one of the company. Came the reply: "What are
we going to do? Why build a wall round the town to
keep the thing out!" And the speaker meant it, too.

The late Alderman Banks is my authority for the
following, and, by the way, it is endorsed by his worthy
son, Mr.'Loftus Banks. On the last occasion when the
late Baron Meyer de Rothschild was a candidate for the
Parliamentary Borough of Hythe, he met one day in High
Street that well-known travelling tinker, Gilderoy Scamp.
This self-same Gilderoy was a local "character," and his
familiar and plaintive cry "Scissors to grind" now rings in
the ears of some of us. Well, the Baron was introduced

197

to Gilderoy as a propective voter. "Well, Mr. Scamp," re-
marked the candidate, "I suppose you will give me your
vote?" The swarthy old tinker, with his deep-lined face
and forehead, who possessed a sense of humour, replied;
"Yes, Baron, I will give you my vote if you will give me
something." Of course, this good representative of the
house of Rothschild pricked up his ears. "Well, what is it
you might be wanting?" Gilderoy replied: "If you will
exchange hats with me, then I'll plump for ye." The
Baron, who was wearing a white top hat, laughed, and
made the bargain. And for many years "Scissors to
grind," even up to the time of his disappearance from
mortal scene, was crowned with the Baron's chapeau.
What our late Member did with Gilderoy's head covering
I am unable to say. If the late Baron Meyer de Roths-
child had lived in these better ( ?) days he would probably
have laid himself open for a prosecution even over so
simple a thing as giving away a white top hat for a vote.

OLD ALE OR SERMON— WHDCH ?

In the»old days the parishes of Hawkinge and Folke-
stone were combined for ecclesiastical purposes. The
late Rev. Thomas Pearce (locally known as Parson
Pearce) was thus the vicar of this town and the village
over the 'hill Parson Pearce, the late Canon Woodward's
predecessor, was a "character," and humour was at a strong
point in his sunny nature. There are some still living who
can recall the good old parson, who (as a veteran remarked
to me) was very good to the poor. There are many tales
extant of the late cleric, but at present I can only devote
a small space to one of them, which time may or may
not have altered. It was one Sunday morning, when
Folkestone was but yet a village. The snow was on the
ground. Parson Pearce trudged up the hillside to Haw-
kinge Church, which stands on a slope at the entrance of
the Alkham Valley. The morning was bitterly cold, and
only six farm hands formed the congregation. There
was no heating apparatus in the little fane. All were blue
with cold. Parson Pearce, as I have before stated, pos-
sessed a kindly heart. With the knowledge that the six
farm hands were thirsting for the sermon ne had in his
pocket, the rev. gentleman is said to have addressed the
half-dozen of his flock as follows: — "Well, my men, this
is a cold morning indeed. You all look perished, and I
feel somewhat in the same condition. Now I have pre-
pared a nice sermon, but the thought has occurred to me
as to whether listening to that or drinking a pint of old
ale would do you the most good. What do you think?"

There was a pause. The farm hands were a little nervous
at first. However, one of the number, probably inter-
preting his companions feelings, declared that "a drop of
old ale would not do them any harm." And Parson Pearce,
the story goes, said : "And old ale it shall be." The rev.
gentleman then doled out the necessary cash, locked the
Church door, and tramped back to Folkestone. At the
same time the farm hands made tracks across the meadows
to The White Horse," thinking the while of Parson
Pearce's kindness and the warmth to be enjoyed by the
old ale. Yes, I have heard many an amusing yarn anent
the bluff and humorous old Parson, who was as good and
as true a Christian that ever breathed this world's breath.

A NOTE ON SANDGATE.

My friend, Lieut-Colonel Fynmore, J.P., sends me
the following : — "Wilberforce, writing from Sandgate
about 1812, said, 'It is grievous to see this place; hot and
cold baths, library, billiard table, ponies, donkies, every-
thing but a church or chapel, or anything of the kind,
though it is a sort of preserve of the Archbishops.' In
1822 John, fourth Earl of Darnley (grandfather to Lady
Chichester), caused a building (hereafter to be appro-
priated and used as a chapel) to be erected on a piece of
freehold land belonging to him, in the village of Sand-
gate, with a view to promote the interests of religion of
the Church of England.' The patronage was vested in
the said Earl of Darndey, the Countess of Darnley, his
wife, the Hon. Edward Bligh, Lord Clifton, and the Hon.
J. D. Bligh, father of the late Countess of Chichester. The
last presentation by the family was that of the Rev. F.
Innes Jones, in May 1869, since then the patronage has
been in the gift of the Vicar of Folkestone. Note, on a
tablet on the east wall of Enbrook is the following : —
'With Thy blessing let the House of Thy servant be
blessed for ever." (2 Sam., 7, 29.)

EXTRACT FROM A SANDGATE GUIDE, 1836.

"Among the principal erections in Sandgate is the
beautiful marine villa of the late Earl of Darnley, situated
very near the chapel. It is built on a considerable ele-
vation, overlooking the village and the sea, and is sur-
rounded by gardens containing many curious and rare
flowers, and By a luxurious plantation. On the under
cliff, towards .Folkestone, delightfully situated, and taste-
fully embellished with shrubs, is the residence of Captain

199

Gill, R.N., named Cuma Place (now Cliff House), con-
tiguous to which is Radnor Cottage, built by Mr. Hodges
(now Sir Squire and Lady Bancroft's) and also elegantly
planted with trees and shrubs, which, although so near the
sea, flourish most luxuriously. At the western extremity
of the village, on an eminence opposite the sea, stands a
handsome villa called Encombe, erected by Henry
Dawkins, Esq., which, at a considerable expense, has been

embellished by plantations laid out with great taste.
(From a "New Guide to Sandgate, Folkestone, Hythe,
etc., etc." Published by T. Purday, Sandgate, about

1836-38). It must be remembered also that the Rev.
Rawdon Greene promoted the erection of the houses at
the Underclifre, about 1846, and planted the common
grounds there."

THE POPULATON OF FOLKESTONE THEN AND

NOW.

When Hasted published his "History of Kent'*
0799)> there were 450 houses and 2,000 inhabitants,
and when the census was taken in 1821, there was 793
houses, and the inhabitants were: males 1,862, females
2,127, making a total of 3,989. At the last census
taken in 1911, the population for the Urban District of
Folkestone was 33,035.

DEDICATED TO MR. H. B. HAMPTON, THE
THEATRE MANAGER.

Some of us have had all too many experiences of
late comers at the Theatre and other pubhc places of
entertainments, and therefore I find a place in my
weekly contribution for the following appropriate lines
which appear to "hit off" the situation to a nicety:

"Well-dressed," and well-fed, and well-meaning ('God

knows-)

They arrive when the play is half ended;
As they pass to their stalls, through the tightly-packed

rows,

They beruffle your hair, and they tread on your toes,
Quite unconscious of having offended!

Then they argue a bit as to how they shall sit,

And uncloak in a leisurely fashion,
While they act as a blind to the people behind,

200

Who grew perfectly purple with passion;
Till at last, by the time they are seated and settled,
Their neighbours all round them are thoroughly
nettled!

A programme, of course, they've forgotten to buy

(This in audible accents they mention),
And whenever some distant attendant they spy,
They halloo or give vent to remarks such as "Hi!"
In attempts to attract her attention.

After this (which is worse) they will loudly converse,

And enjoy a good gossip together

On the clothes they have bought and the colds they have
caught,

On the state of the crops and the weather,
Till they leave, in the midst of some tense "situation,"
That's spoilt by their flow of inane conversation.

O managers, pray, am I asking too much

If I beg that these "persons of leisure"
Be confined in a sound-proof and separate hutch
If their nightly theatrical manners are such

As to spoil other playgoers' pleasure?

The rhymsters might have mentioned, too, the woes of
those who possess "favourite corns" and the like who
have often used language more forcible than polite
owing to the ways of these late comers. It was ever
thus, and so I suppose it will continue to the end of
time.

THE MAN WHO PLANTED THE AMERICAN
GARDENS.

The following is the account of an interview I had
on a June evening in 1904 with Mr. William Acomb, who
first laid out the widely-famed gardens at Saltwood.

Now that this beautiful resort is in the full tide of
its glory of blossom and foliage, and will doubtless
prove, for some time to come, one of the "lions" of the
neighbourhood, I had no hesitation in obeying the re-
quest of the Editor of the "Herald" that I should find
out all that was interesting in regard to the American
Gardens. It was most fortunate that in my search after
reliable information I should have found out the very
man for my purpose. He is an old gentleman now,
bowed down with the weight of four score years, but
happily for my readers his mind is quite clear, and his
faculties perfect. It was in a humble abode in Guild-

201

hall-street that I found Mr. William Acomb, the well-
known florist, who for over forty years had charge of
these noted erardens. Introducing myself, and the
nature of my quest, the old gentleman gave me a
hearty welcome, and readily placed his knowledge at my
disposal.

"I understand, Mr. Acomb, you had a great deal to
do with the planting of the American Gardens. For the
benefit of the residents and visitors of Folkestone and its
neighbourhood, will you inform me 'how your connection
with Saltwood commenced. "With pleasure," said the
genial old gentleman, "Sit you down there in that chair
and make yourself at home. If anybody in England
knows anything about these gardens it's myself."

"Capital," I interposed. "Yes," he returned,

" I AM SO GLAD YOU HAVE CALLED,

as no correct version of the origin of the place has so
far gone before the public."

"You had better commence with the beginning,
Mr. Acomb. I want the narrative as complete as pos-
sible. It may be handy for future use."

"Well, Mr. 'Felix,' I was brought up under the
great Quaker nurserymen of York, Messrs. T. and
James Backhouse, and therefore," added Mr. Acomb,
"I had an opportunity of acquainting myself with the
names of a great many trees and shrubs and their re-
quirements."

"But when did you take up your duties at Salt-
wood?" I enquired.

"Why, it was in the spring of 1854 that I engaged
myself as gardener to the late Archdeacon Croft, of
Canterbury. I then found the American Garden in its
infancy. However, in a short time the Archdeacon
found that I had made arboriculture my special study.
Consequently he gave me permission to extend the gar-
den, and to plant the trees and shrubs that I considered
adapted to the boggy nature of the soil."

"But were the trees and shrubs you mention added
year by year?"

"Quite so. It was a gradual process. Year after
year we enlarged and planted until the Archadeacon's
death, which occurred 20 years ago."

"I take for granted that the Archdeacon was a great
lover of Nature," said I.

"Yes, undoubtedly. If he had lived a year or two
longer we should have reclaimed more of the bog and
added to the area of the garden" (and I thought there
was a slight tremour in the old man's voice as he added):

202

The Archdeacon was a true lover of his garden, but he
was not a selfish man. Nothing gave him greater plea-
sue than that others should enjoy what he loved so
dearly himself. He thoroughly enjoyed all that was
most beautiful in Nature."

"I am very pleased to hear you speak so highly of
your old master, Mr. Acomb. Have the gardens been
since maintained in the same good order?" I queried.

"Well," returned my host, "the Archdeacon was
succeeded by a Rector who was a truly Christian
man in every sense of the word, but he was not
wealthy, and the garden was somewhat neglected.
However, in course of time he was followed by
the Rev. Canon Hodgson, a man of great kindness,
who endeared himself to all his people, both rich and
poor. He was a true gardener, and planted a great
many new specimens of rhododendron and azaleas,
amongst them being one named after Mr. Gladstone."
With a sparkle of humour in his eye he added: "Yes,
there in that garden the G.O.M. blooms in peace, which
has not always been the case at St. Stephen's. Poor
old man! He may have made mistakes. All I can say
is, let us profit by them."

I did not suggest to my friend that 'this was some-
what digressing, as he appeared to be thoroughly en-
thusiastic over his subject, but I here took an oppor-
tunity to enquire if the site of these gardens was

AT ONE TIME NOTHING BUT A "HOWLING WILDERNESS."

"Well, in a measure you are correct," replied Mr.
Mr. Acomb, and he added, "I have heard the late Dr.
Fagg, of Hythe, say, when a boy, he used to go into Salt-
wood Alders (as the bog was called in those days) after
wild flowers, and that he had to jump from alder stump
to alder stump to prevent himself from sinking into the
morass. This only proves that a wilderness, as you
have termed it, may with taste and a love for God's
work be turned into a smiling garden, which has proved
a pleasure to thousands. I have always found the cul-
tivation of flowers a pleasure, and now in my old age the
love seems to have become more intense." And with a
tinge of sorrow in his voice, this clear-headed veteran
added: "Ah! how many places there are in this England
of ours 'that might be turned into beautiful gardens for
the pleasure and instruction of working men and
women!"

Would you be kind enough, Mr. Acomb, to give me
a few of the names of the trees and plants that are to be
found in the collection at Saltwood?"

203

"Yes, with pleasure. The first shrubs planted con-
sisted of Rhododendron Pontica and its varieties from
America. Subsequently the Archdeacon purchased
beautiful selections of rhododendrons from the Hima-
layas, including many hybrids, from a pale pink to an
intense crimson. In addition to these you will find
planted in various parts of the ground many flowering
shrubs, and principal among which may be mentioned
Abias noblier (China), Cunninhamia Tininsis (China),
Cupressus Lawsoniana (California), Cuptomaria
(Japan), Sequoia Gigantea (California), Thuya Macro-
carpa, Wellingtonia Gigantea, Capressus Macrocarpa
(California), and many other valuable specimens too
numerous to mention."

Then Mr. Acomb indulged in several reminiscences,
and reverting again to the Gardens, expressed a hope
that they would be preserved long after he had passed
away. Ah ! how delighted — if he had survived — would
the old gardener have been if he could have known how
well Mr. Alfred C. Leney has preserved this floral sanc-
tuary, and improved it on those lines which I feel cer-
tain would have been approved by my old friend — the
late Mr. Acomb.

"THE MEDICINE OF LAUGHTER."

Reading through a well-written article the other
day, my eye fell upon this phrase, "The Medicine of
Laughter," and on one of the recent wet evenings, when
everybody, residents and visitors appeared, as it were,
"to be down on their luck," I thought of the "medicine"
alluded to above. The rain was coming down heavily,
and people were standing in doorways, porches — in fact,
there had been quite a stampede from the Leas. It was
just the evening for a "cheer up," and, in redemption
of a long-standing promise, I paid a visit to that unique
place of entertainment — the Leas Pavilion.

It is all my own fault. Yes, I own up. It is not
because kind invitations have not come my way, but up
to this cold wet night I had never shed the light of my
countenance upon The Gipsies at the Leas Pavilion. In
terms almost of reproach old friends had addressed me:
"What! not heard the Gipsies? You're all behind."
True. Probably I had been on my "rambles" or other-
wise "knocking around," and that is the reason I had
seemingly neglected our Romanies at the pretty Pavilion
on our famous promenade. Entering the portals of the
building, I happened to meet Mr. D'Arcy Clayton, the
Manager, and who, moreover, "runs" the Gipsies.

204
THE GIPSIES.

He shook my hand heartily, and uttered one word, and
that with a genuine ring about it — "Welcome." The
floor and galleries were packed with an expectant audi-
ence, but a seat was found for me amongst "the re-
serves." A word as to this seat. I don't know where
these comfortable arm. chairs (not the tip-up
variety) were discovered, but they are "dreams."
There is as much comfort to be derived from a chair
as, say, from a perfectly fitting boot or shoe. These
chairs, then at the Pavilion must have been designed
by an artist who had studied the curves of the human
anatomy. One sinks into them, and one's back fits
exactly into the frame. In fact, the chairs are
thoroughly restful — a great factor in the enjoyment of a
a two-hours' entertainment. Rest and be thankful
chairs — that is my description.

"THE MEDICINE."

Rigjht on time the curtain lifted, and revealed the
Gipsies in an appropriate woodland setting. There was
the camp fire, over which hung the regulation kettle.
Some poor rabbit, hare, or pheasant had probably paid
the penalty, as no doubt the depths of that kettle could
reveal. On my many tramps through the country I have
!become acquainted with at last some of the Gipsies little
ways. But now for the performance. Mr. Leonard
'Neville plays the part of "Jester" with consummate
skill; his wit and natural mannerisms proclaim him a
humorist of the first order. He is no copyist, but original.
In fact, as there was only one Artemus Ward, there is
only one Leonard Neville, whether in singing, patter, or
asides, he is delightful. The "medicine" has already
taken effect. The "blues" "pip," "hump," have all
disappeared as mist before the rising sun. Laughter
has conquered. Look round at the seething mass of
happy smiling faces. Their owners appear to have for-
gotten the existence of Lloyd George, the Insurance
Act, or the Arctic August weather. One and all are
now living in another world — the world of laughter, wit,
and humour. Ye^, Mr. Leonard Neville is great. His
mind is very active, and his speech follows with a very
torrent of originalities. All the performers deserve a high
meed of praise. Yes, "The Gipsies" are indeed a splendid
combination.

Yes, it is a case at the Leas Pavilion entertain-
ments."

205

"Begone, dull care!

I prithe begone from me,

Begone, dull care!

You and I will never agree."

But pause! I must here remark what a splendid "turn"
is that of Mr. Edgar Berte, our fellow townsman. I "dis-
covered" him years ago, and rejoice to know that for once
he has disproved the truth of the saying "A prophet hath no
honour in his own country." Mr. Edgar Berte I proclaim
is a prince amongst the real humourists of the county.
And my humble opinion does not stand alone.

FOLKESTONE'S PRIMITIVE COMMUNICATION
WITH CANTERBURY AND DEAL.

In these days of cheap fares and motors, the fol-
lowing which has to do before the age of rail-
ways, will be read with some interest: —
"John Bailey goes from Folkestone to and from Canter-
bury with a machine (a covered waggon) on Saturday
during the summer; in winter he sets out on Friday and
returns on Saturday. He goes weekly with the same
machine to Dover and Deal. The post days are Mon-
days, Thursdays, and Saturdays. One hoy (barge)
goes to London and returns from thence every three
weeks. Mr. James Bateman, at the White Hart Inn,
has good accommodations with a neat post-chaise."
(From an old Guide Book).

THE CHURCH PORCH AT LYMINGE.

To celebrate the inauguration of the restored porch
of the ancient church of Lyminge, the late and vener-
able rector (the Rev. Canon Jenkins) composed the fol-
lowing lines, and which appeared some years since in the
Parish Magazine: —

" Restore the Porch" — make wide its gate,

That all may enter in,
The rich, the poor — whate'er their state —
The grace of prayer to win.

"Restore the Porch" — the opening life

Guide to the house of prayer,
And those who have survived the strife,
For endless life prepare.

2O6

Teach them to earn the blest estate,

Of souls redeemend from sin,
Lift in their hearts the heavenly gate,

That Christ may enter in.

That gate, but dimly seen of old, (i)

To us for ever clear,
Still guides the sheep, and guards the fold, (ii)

And proves the Shepherd near.

R.CJ.

(i) Gen. xxviii. 17. (ii) John x. 7.

"GOD KNOWS."

The above two words form the inscription on a
tombstone erected in Lydd churchyard. This is the his-
tory. A wreck had taken place on the inhospitable
shore of Romney Marsh, and a little two-year-old (pre-
sumed) infant was cast ashore on the sand. Nameless,
torn perchance from its mother's grasp by the breakers,
there this little waif lay. A fisherman touched by the
sight, took home the little one to his cottage. It was
buried decently, and the stone with its inscription tells
as touching a story as could be imagined.

LATE COMERS TO CHURCH UP AT ELHAM.

It is not every day that one can witness thirty agri-
cultural labourers clamouring to hear the gospel
preached. Yet such a scene took place outside the
gates of Elham Church on a certain Monday some years
ago. It was the anniversary of the local club. This is
considered a big day in the village and neighbourhood,
and Hodge and his friends leave their ordinary pursuits
and give themselves up to pleasure. It is considered
good form to attend the parish church to join in a thanks-
giving service. At the appointed hour the Club mem-
bers are marshalled, and headed by a band proceed to
the sacred building, there to sing, pray, and listen to a
sermon. In previous years there had been on the part
of some of the members a want of punctuality, and
others had behaved themselves in a loose manner walk-
ing in and out during the progress of the service. To
such a pass did things come that it was considered
advisable to frame a special set of rules, one of which
provided that if a member was late at church he should
be refused admittance, and fined one shilling, whilst the
other stipulated that if anyone left the church before
the conclusion of the service he would be mulcted in a
similar amount, and be considered not to have been pre-

207

sent. That there was some necessity for such rules was
evidenced by Mr. Bowes' speech at the Club feast.
For what purpose Hodge walked out of the church on
former occasions is not known. It is suggested that the
aroma of the Club dinner in process of cooking at an ad-
joining hostelry was too much for him, and that he must
needs go and ask at what hour the repast would be
ready, whilst others are unkind enough to suggest that
his mission was to sample a "gin and bitters,' a popu-
lar receipe for sharpening the sluggish appetite. But
all this has been put a stop to now, and Hodge must
either sit the sermon out or pay a shilling fine. If such
an imposition were enforced in some of our Folkestone
churches, what a revenue there would be, to be sure.

But as one of the orators remarked at the club
feast up at Elham, "For a poor man to walk five miles
to hear the gospel preached, and find the church door
locked was hard lines." Well, it does seem "a bit
stiff," I must admit, but when we are told that no less
than thirty "found the door locked," there appears to
have some justification for the rule. Mr. May, of Swing-
field, seems to have been upset by the spectacle of
* 'thirty sober men (himself included) standing outside
the church," all wanting to "hear the gospel preached."
Mr. May told his hearers in a pathetic voice that he had
not "tasted a drop that morning, and to find the doors
of the dear old church bolted against him was too much
of a joke." But one of the "thirty sober men" upset
the equilibrium of Mr. May, of Swingfield. This lusty
son of the soil, of the name of Baldwin, asserted that he
was late and would pay the fine cheerfully. Mr. May
knew as well as he did that the service was "perpen-
dicularly" (he meant particularly) advertised for eleven.
Mr. May collapsed. It is said that the shilling fine and
not the loss of the "gospel" is at the bottom of all this
crying out. Rumour has it in Elham that these "thirty
sober men clamouring to hear the gospel preached," did
not stay long outside the bolted doors of the church, but
adjourned to drown their sorrows in a beverage which
is guaranteed to be manufactured from the "best malt
and hops," and it is further stated that these "thirty
sober men" resolved amongst themselves never again
to be late for the club service.

WRECK OF THE GROSSER KURFURST.

On October 3ist, 1878, a terrible naval disaster oc-
curred about five miles off Sandgate. It was a lovely
morning. A clear bluv. >ky, with scarcely a breath of

208

wind from the south-west. Many years have passed
away since that day, and for the information of those
who have taken up their residence in our midst, or
grown from early youth into manhood, I will briefly re-
peat the story. Three German ironclads, the "l£onig
Wilhelm" (the flagship), the "Grosser Kurfurst," and the
"Preussen," left Wilhelmshafen on May 29th for Ply-
mouth, en route to the Mediterranean. They passed
Folkestone Harbour all well, but when about two miles
to the west one of them was seen to suddenly heel over,
and almost immediately to disappear. The air was
clear, and the hundreds watching the vessel were horri-
fied at the .spectacle. The occurrence having taken place
in the middle of the Folkestone fishing ground, a number
of luggers at once proceeded to the spot, which was
black with the forms of the drowning men, the shrieks of
whom were terrifying. Boats also put off from the
shore. The catastrophe was caused by the "Konig
Wilhelm" colliding with the "Grosser Kurfurst." With
such force was the blow delivered that the bowsprit and
jibboom of the former vessel were carried away, and the
doomed vessel was cut down to the water's edge, and
her top-mast and top-gallant mast fell overboard with a
crash. Immediately the vessel signalled that she was
in a sinking condition. Some of the poor sailors got up
to the rigging and began cutting away the yards. But
all in vain. The ship immediately rolled over to port
with her head to the N.E. In less than seven minutes
she foundered in 18 fathoms. When the water reached
the boilers an immense volume of steam immediately
arose, and for some time noThing could be seen. With
all the endeavours made only 218 lives were saved out
of a crew of 487 hands. Considerably over 100 bodies
were recovered. They were buried in batches with full
naval and military honours in Folkestone cemetery.
Although the obsequies were carried out with much
grandeur, yet the constant succession of funeral proces-
sions through the streets had a most sad and depressing
effect at the time. On the body of one of the marines,
Corporal Falke by name, a diary was found. This entry
in it, made before the disaster, has a strange signific-
ance: "Who knows that before long we may all be
drowned, and that I mav find a grave at the bottom of
the sea." Poor fellow, little did he think how soon his
words were to be fulfilled almost to the letter.

20Q

A TRAGIC DUEL AT BRABOURNE IN 1810.

A kind and a valued correspondent recently sent me
the following, which, as he says, he "has not yet found
in any newspaper report." I therefore give the account
in full. My correspondent tells the tale as follows: —

**! came across a tragedy in connection with Bra-
bourne recently. During the Peninsula War, when there
were barracks at Brabourne, two officers of the 85th
Regiment, then stationed there, fought a duel, one of
whom, Captain Thomas Hoggins, was killed. According
to the verdict at the inquest, the survivor, John Hilton,
gentleman, was considered to have wilfully murdered his
opponent. I have not yet found any newspaper report
of the sad event. The death is thus recorded in the
Brabourne Parish Register: —

"1810, January II. — Burial. — Thomas Hoggins, Esq.,

of the 85th Regiment,'
and against the entry oine of the former vicar's has written :

" 'Brother of Sarah, wife of Henry, ist Marquess
'of Exeter, shot in a duel with John Hilton, gentleman,
against whom a verdict of wilful murder was returned
at the Coroner's Inquest. — J.B/

"As the above record proves, Captain Hoggins was
the brother-in-law of 'The Lord of Burleigh,' who, accord-
ing to Tennyson, 'He is but a landscape painter, and a
village maiden she.' As such they were married, but as
the poem informs us, on arrival at her husband's mansion,

"While he treads with footstep firmer,

Leading on from hall to hall;
And, while now she wonders blindly,

Nor the meaning can divine,
Proudly turns he found and kindly,

"All of this is mine and thine.'

Probably the Marquis helped forward his wife's relations,
as two of her brofners had commissions in the army, and
another became Vicar of Elham in 1834.

"I am told that only a board (now gone) marked the
grave of Captain Hoggins, which was situated near the
north porch.

"In a recent history of the Regiment is an illustration
of an engraved oval name-plate, with this inscription: —
'Captain Hoggins, 85th Regiment.' It was purchased,
attached to a portion of a hair trunk, amongst the effects
of an aged woman who died aboul 1880, and was pre-
sented to Colonel Capper, of the 85th, by Miss Perry
Ayscough, the Vicar's daughter. The barracks, which
occupied about sixty acres, were sold in August, 1916, on
the termination of the War."

210

CHARLES DICKENS ON THE CHARMS OF
FOLKESTONE.

Some years back Mr. Alderman Spurgen kindly
lent me a volume of "Household Words," containing an
article from the pen of the above famous novelist on
Folkestone. I reprinted it at the time in "The Herald,"
and I am glad to know it has since then been copied into
several other publications. Such a tribute to our town's
natural charms should have world-wide publicity, and the
Town Council would do well to find a way to have it
nicely printed and posted in a prominent position in every
railway stations, etc., in the British Isles. Who knows
that some well-to-do people, lovers of Dickens, would
not as a result become residents of this town? Here,
then, is an extract from the article which saw the light
in the forties: —

"The situation (of Folkestone) is delightful, the air
is delicious, and the breezy hills and downs, carpeted with
wild thyme and decorated with millions of wild flowers,
are, on the faith of a pedestrian, perfect. You can sit at
your open window on the cliff overhanging the sea beach,
and have the sky and ocean, as it were, framed before you
like a beautiful picture; but with such movements in it,
such changes of light upon the sails of ships and in the
wake of steamboats, such dazzling gleams of silver far
out at sea, such fresh touches on the crisp wave tops as
they break and roll towards you ; a picture with such music
in the billowy rush upon the shingle, such charms of
sight and sound, as all the galleries on earth can but poorly
suggest. If, therefore, you want to come put of town
and live a life of perfect repose, or see it lived, or to
breathe sweet air which will send you to sleep at a
moment's notice at any period of the day or night, or to
disport yourself upon or in the sea, or to scamper about
this part of Kent, or to come out of town for the enjoy-
ment of all or any of these pleasures, then come to Folke-
stone."

SANDGATE'S FAMOUS ORATOR— THE LATE
J. B. GOUGH.

"MAN THE LIFEBOAT" AND A MORAL.

Fresh from gazing upon some wreckage of the sea,
I wondered whether, in the far-off days of his boy-
hood, when the wintry waves thundered on the shores
of little Sandgate, the orator had here received his inspir-
ation for his wonderful description of a shipwreck and

211

the rescue. Although somewhat lengthy, it shall have a
place here. Imagine the pose, the noble presence and
graceful gesture of Gough, as with all the fire of his
nature, he delivered these thrilling words: "One by one
the noble fellows take their place. Out they dash in the
teeth of the gale. 'Oars out, my men. Steady! Oars
out!' They are knee deep in water. The waves beat
upon them ; they are drenched, and all but drowned. Yet
how cheerfully they bend their backs to the ashen oars
that threaten to snap asunder with the fury of the gale!
'Hold on, every man of you!' Every man holds on, whilst
an immense wave rolls over, burying them fathoms deep.
They rise and shake their locks. But where is the wreck ?
The atmosphere is so thick they cannot see it. Only part
of the sinking vessel is seen. Are there any men in that
tangled rigging? Yes, see! the rigging is full of them.
'Now steady men, steady! Keep clear of the wreck.
Steady! Ah, we have them now!' She lays alongside;
and one by one the poor, half-drowned, half-frozen
wretches drop into the boat, and out she drifts into the
boiling sea. Amid the peril of the return, hear them sing —

'Aye, cheerily, men,

Aye, cheerily, men,'

and the song mingles with the roar of the storm. And
now the lookers-out on the beach hail them as the boat
nears the shore, 'Lifeboat, ahoy! Are they all safe?'
'Ay, ay, every man safe.' How they do cheer ! And the
cheer is louder and more hearty than that which greets
the champion boat in a race. And why? Because these
men have saved human life. Are there no wrecks —
wrecks of men's intellect, wrecks of men's genius, wrecks
of all that makes men noble ? Man the lifeboat — man the
lifeboat, and board them. See how they are drifting.
Helm gone, compass dashed by the fierce waves upon the
strand, wrecked and ruined ! Man the lifeboat — and board
them! And if so be you help some poor struggling soul
from the drifting Sodom of this world's wickedness into
the haven of peace and rest, cheer after cheer from human
voices may never salute you ; but the shining, white-robed
angels shall greet you, and the souls you have saved shall
be as stars for ever in the crown of your rejoicing, and
God's approval shall crown your noble endeavour."
Many a noble statue has been raised to men whose only
title to distinction is that they have taken the trouble
to be born into a title. No record of good done can be
placed to their names, but here is one who, through the
means of a marvellous gift, allied to intense conviction,
was the humble instrument of bringing untold blessing-
to thousands of degraded men and women, converting-

212

many a hell ,of a home into a heaven below. Rightly
Sandgate is proud of its Gough, whose influence will never
die.

ON NOTHING.

This is what newspaper men are justified in term-
ing a "make-up" week (Christmas week). ''Mother"
probably has been busy in other directions, and not able
to provide what may be termed a full dinner of joint,
vegetables, etc., yet she contrives somehow, with
ingenuity on one hand and the aid of a few "uncon-
sidered trifles" on the other, to satisfy her lord and
master, together with other members of the family,
thus staving off for a while the pangs of hunger. This
well illustrates my case, and thousands of others simi-
larly employed. Holidays or no holidays, the "Folke-
stone Herald" has got to come out on Saturday, and
thus if our hands are not actually at the plough, we
must think; yes, even when the scene of jolHty and
mirth surround us we must give a thought to those
empty columns that have to be filled — think, too, of the
insatiable maw of the linotypes, that are waiting to swal-
low up the written word in order to reproduce them in type
form. Well, again I say, that for newspaper people this
is an upside down, topsy-turvy kind of week. Oh, yes,
there are heaps of subjects I could write about,
but to what purpose? People will be too much
occupied in other ways than to read newspapers. The
great London journals recognised this on Christmas
Day, by not publishing on Wednesday morning.
And this spirit appears to have affected your con-
tributor, who for once in a while intends in a few lines
to deal with "Nothing."

STILL "NOTHING."

When we come to think about it, "Nothing" is more
often than not a very misused word. To illustrate.
One fine Saturclay morning some few years ago an old
friend, on meeting me, had the impertinence to declare
that there was "nothing" in the particular issue of the
"Folkestone Herald" he held in his hand. I stood the
rebuke as meekly as I could, and switched off to a short
conversation in another direction. Before leaving my
friend, however, I remarked: "You have just saicl there
was 'nothing' in The Herald' of to-day. He replied
"Quite true." Your contributor quietly turned to the

213

back page, and pointed to a certain announcement un-
der the heading of "Births." To explain: For some
reason or other my companion had broken off a three
years' engagement with a young lady of his choice.
She was caught up by another admirer, who married
her after a couple of years courtship. And the an-
nouncement I refer to told the world how his "old
flame" had presented her husband with twins (boy
and girl). I cannot tell what was in the mind of
my friend, but he uttered very rapidly and several times
"By Jove!" And then he was forced to admit there
was, after all, something in the "nothing" he had
uttered so airily a few moments ago. At once he went
off to purchase two or three copies of the Folkestone
"Herald" with "nothing" in it to send to interested
friends.

"THERE'S 'NOTHING' IN HIM."

Here is another aspect of "nothing." It was once
my duty to attend a local place of worship for the pur-
pose of reporting the first sermon of a new curate. He
read his discourse from notes, which to my limited
vision gave evidence of careful preparation. The rev.
gentleman's pulpit style was not what might be termed
attractive. He could not be called an orator. Lacking
voice and gesture, his words did not tickle the ear, but
his sermon told of truths that are eternal. Well, on
leaving the church, I could not help overhearing several
remarks on the preacher's first local effort. To quote
These observations passed between two worshippers.
"There's nothing in him," said one. "Absolutely
nothing" agreed the other. They had passed judgment
on the spoken word, never giving a thought to what the
preacher's actions might be out of the pulpit. Well,
in 'the course of time this curate was much beloved,
especially amongst the very poor. After many years, I
see him now. Not in robust health, yet if ever a
man fulfilled what might have been expected of him,
this curate did. He did not covet the limelight, but
simply laboured on. Never mind the hour, never mind
if he was jaded and tired, he was ever ready at duty's
call — ready to cheer the sick or comfort the dying. He
was, I repeat, no orator, but one of the finest, most un-
assuming Christian workers ,that ever crossed my path.
And I have often thought since of those fair critics who
would have it "There was nothing in him," and won-
dered whether, when he left this town, they did not
admit there was something in their "nothing" after all.

214

"NOTHING" IN CHRISTMAS.

Yes, I met one of the old Scrooge type a few days
before the) Great Festival. With a deep sigh he delivered
himself thusly: "Well, after all, what is there in this
Christmastide. Yes, what is there? It means nothing
more or less than reminding one of happier days; it
means reviving memories of the days that can be no
more; it means digging one's hands deeper into one's
pockets in order to purchase presents, the appreciation
of which vanishes almost with the passing hour!" What
could I remark but: "Nothing in Christmas? Come and
see. Gaze in that home for incurables, where most of
the patients are aware of impending doom; "Father
Christmas is there. He for a time at least has taken
them into realm of laughter. The ragged and hungry,
too; the poor outcast of society; the old and infirm; the
poor in spirit; and all the rest. Yes, if for a brief hour
or two happiness instead of despair has reigned here, is it
for nothing that Christmas has come. Is it nothing that
families should meet; nothing that peace and good-
will should prevail where once estrangement cast
its shadow; it is nothing that Christmas should be re-
sponsible for the old saying, "Well, this earth is not
such a bad place after all ?' " Well, my friend of the
Scrooge type — and not such a bad sort after all — was
forced to admit there was "something" in what I had
urged. My final remark to him was this. "Take a
fiver or 'a couple out with you next winter, or even this,
and try the experiment of endeavouring to make other
people happy." And I should not be surprised, after
what I have heard, if this particular "Nothing" in re-
gard to Christmas has been converted into "Something."

"NOTHING" ON.

I thjnk this is about the most absurd "nothing"' of the
lot It was in the early autumn. I felt a bit tired,
and rested my weary form for a few moments on the Leas.
Now, I thought, there is a few spare moments for my-
self. Not so, however. In a moment or two a well-
known local gentleman sat down on the same seat A
deep sigh prefaced the remark "Well, I don't know.
Things are awfully slow. There's nothing on. It's a job
to kill time." This, too, from a man well blessed with
this world's goods. Nothing on ! It was in full season,
with attraction following attraction. Let that slide.
With all the beauties that earth affords — earth, .air, and
sky — and yet nothing on, and that, too, to a man in the
prime of life ! Once again I pointed out there were many

215

organisations devoted to the uplifting of his fellow crea-
tures, which would be glad to prove that there was "some-
thing on" rather than "nothing."

SOME MINOR "NOTHINGS."

Coming down to very ordinary matters, two young
fellows were discussing why dustbins or receptacles should
disfigure the Sandgate-road late at night. One of the twain
remarked "It's perfectly disgraceful that this kind of thing
should be allowed in the principal thoroughfare of a
fashionable town such as Folkestone." His companion
replied: "Oh, that's nothing!" However, a few evenings
after that .the latter was travelling up the road on a motor
cycle. It was dark, and past the midnight hour. Some
larrildns, it appeared, had upset one of these dustbins
right across the road track, and the cyclist ran into the
obstruction. He sustained a very bad shake up, and a
bad attack of the gravel rash into the bargain. This
young man has now altered his opinion that there is "a
something" in his "nothing."

IN CONCLUSION: "NOTHING."

This article, I take it, will not be read, as there is
"Nothing in it." Quite so, and its holiday time in the
bargain. We require light reading, and "Nothing" could
be better. The word "Nothing," however, as I have
already shown, is often misapplied. It ought to be more
carefully used. All this, then, goes to prove that many
of our old sayings survive the attacks of Time. Yes,
there is "something" in everything, even, it appears, under
circumstances, in "nothing."

SOME HOLIDAY NOTES ON YORK, DARLING-
TON, AND NEWCASTLE.

It was in the autumn of 1902 that I took a short holi-
day for the first time in the North, the city of York be-
ing my first place of sojourn. It was on Saturday
night when I arrived, and the sight of the brilliantly
lighted and splendid station, with its many platforms
and constant succession of trains, is a wonderful sight.
Many railways use the station for through services, and
thus the traffic radiates to and from all parts of England.
Stand on the bridge which spans part of the vast station,
and one may be pardoned for asking oneself "And is
England really decadent?" Bustle without confusion,
smartness and clock-work precision, and remarkable
punctuality, alike answer the question. One of the sights

2l6

of the country is York Station at the busiest periods of
the day or night

YORK MINSTER.

A snatch of sleep after a long but quick journey on
the Great Northern Railway, I rose early in the morning^
and soon found myself strolling around the massive and
historic city walls. Quiet, indeed, is York on the Day of
Rest, and there is scarcely anything save the Minster and
other church bells to disturb the quietude. Up to mid-
night on Saturday you may hear the yelling of the news-
boy and the costermonger, but not so after the midnight
hour. For a brief period there is peace. Wonderfully
grand (heard from a distance) is the sound of the famous
peal of bells proceeding from one of the towers of York
Minster. The time arrived when I entered this building.
The interior of this House of God is really overpowering
in its majestic beauty. Vastness, exquisite detail, won-
derful design — these all in turn should not fail to impress
the most ordinary mind. Stand at the extreme west
and gaze steadily ,at the east window nearly 500 feet away.
That view of the window it has been truly said is never
forgotten. At the end of the dim solemnity of arch and
pillar, beyond rood screen and choir, it shines out rich yet
subdued, leading the eye irresistibly beyond the majestic
and enchanting gloom. Nearly eighty feet high and
almost half as broad, it stretches up far above the altar
of retro-choir, with its exquisite perpendicularly tracery
and its two hundred figures taken from the Gospels and
the Apocalypse. This window was begun in 1406 by John
Thornton, of Coventry, who finished it in three years,
receiving for his pains in designing and painting the sum
of four shillings, with an annual refresher of five pounds,
and a final payment of ten pounds. An old and enthus-
iastic writer described the window as "the wonder of the
world both for masonry and glass." At the time of my
visit the .window was fast perishing, and the glass in some
instances was as thin as tissue paper. An effort, how-
ever, was being made to preserve the gem, and I truly
hope that effort was successful. Just a brief word as to
the service. The Choir itself was crowded with all the
fashionable of York and its surroundings. There is

NO CHANCE FOR LATE COMERS

here, for after a certain time, the iron gates separating the
nave from this part of the sacred edifice are closed.
Thus one can enjoy the service absolutely. In fact, it is
too beautiful to be disturbed. Just gaze around ! Note
the traceries of roof and column, the rich wood carvings

on the canopied stalls. th« white robed clergy and choir,
.and then once aar2"*1 you think of those long passed away,
who built this magnificent fane, not only on sure material
foundations, but the foundations of a Faith which shines,
and will continue to shine, until the end of all things. A
beautiful object, too, is the reredrps. The figures in
marble depict (so far as I could discern from where I
sat) the Crucifixion. On this dull morning the Minster
was in almost semi-darkness — almost suggestive of even-
tide. Over the reredros, however, was thrown

A SOFT JET OF ELECTRIC LIGHT,

and the effect amidst the gloom may be better imagined
than described. There are some musical people who will
have it that the choral service as rendered at the Minster
is the finest in the world. Of course, in this respect, other
great cathedral chulrches have their schools of admirers.
Some give the palm to St. Paul's, Westminster Abbey, or
Durham, but whatever the case in this respect, the music
at York stands out wonderfully beautiful.

"Sweet and dim the lights and shade across the
Minster stealing,

I heard the grand old organ play, its echoes sweetly

pealing."

And with the grand harmonies of the concluding volun-
tary ringing in my well-attuned ear. I left this vast
building — this glory of the Anglican Church. No need to
wonder that people possessing not only wealth, but
cultured taste, visit York Minster if only to listen to its
music, which, heard under such circumstances, is not far
off sublime. A pkasant afternoon and evening, which
included a brief tour of inspection of the interesting city
and a moonlight trip in an electric launch down the River
Ouse, I retired to rest only to find myself on the follow-
ing morning in the Scotch Express newspaper train,
travelling in the direction of Darlington. The railway
from York to the Quaker town has been described as

"ONE OF THE FINEST <5TRETCHES OF LINE IN THE KINGDOM."

Perfectly level, well-laid, and a straight as a two-foot
rule, this portion of the North Eastern Railway system
is indeed a pleasant experience to travel over. One of
those famous green-painted engines with the dwarf funnel
pulls the heavy train along at a great speed, but there
is no rocking, jerking, or snaking — you feel, as it were,
to be gliding through space, so smooth is the running.
We have passed Northallerton Junction, and soon in the
distance notice the River Tees, and crossing this we are
in Durham county. Here we are now just running into
famous Darlington. What a fine station is this! There

218

are many platforms, all of which are prominently num-
bered Walk from one end of the building to the other,
and you will have covered just a (quarter of a. mile Tn
this great building, too, crowned as it is with a fine clock
tower, opportunity is given for the traveller to indulge
in contrasts between the new and old so far as it affects
railway travelling. Darlington, as all the world knows,
is for ever to be associated with the birth of the loco-
motive. Here on one of the platforms are two ancient
engines, one of which was used at the opening of the
Stockton and Darlington Railway on September 27th,
1825. Ft is a curious-looking object, with cranks and
pdston rods almost covering the outer surface of the boiler.

THIS ENGINE WORKED UP A SPEED OF TWELVE MILES

AN HOUR,

and there is a picture in the possession of the famous
Pease family, where a man is depicted riding horseback
in front of this engine — a kind of outrider, whose duty it
was to give warning of the approach of this "rushing"
monster. The other engine dates 1841, and with its tender
turns the scale at eight tons. Twenty-five pounds to the
square inch was the maximum amount of steam pressure.
Whilst gazing with something akin to wonderment on
these interesting relics you hear a roar and the shriek of a
Whistle. What does it all mean? Here comes one of the
fastest trains in the world — "the flying Scotchman." This
does not pause in its wild career, not even at Darlington,
and as it thunders along through the station at a computed
speed of a mile a minute, you again fix the gaze on
those old engines and contrast between then and now.
And as we stand, as it were, on the threshold of the age
of electricity, ,we endeavour to lift the veil of the future,
and .faintly discern the time when those marvellous modern
engines shall, in their turn, have given place to the motor
and ,the mysterious .power of the electric current. Here
then, in this far off town can be found an object lesson
well calculated to make the average man feel proud of his
race and to find a new meaning in the words —
"Tis a glorious charter, deny it who can,
That's to be found in the words Tm an Englishman.' "
Well, now, a few words as to Darlington.
There are great industries in this town, and principal
amongst these may be noted the famous "Pease" mills,
the railway and iron worki. These are mostly confined to
one quarter. Thus smoke and grime are not universal.
Many parts of this go-ahead place are quite attractive.
I have said it is go-ahead, and in proof of this J may
point to the fact ,that Darlington (40,000 inhabitants) has

2IQ

two flourishing daily newspapers. One evening, in com-
pany with some friends, I strolled through the really
charming park. Here thousands can enjoy themselves.
In one corner is an , attractive and sheltered tropical
garden. India rubber plants, eucalyptus, bananas, tree
ferns, palms — all, at the time of my visit, were apparently
thriving in the open air. Unique, indeed, is this! Pro-
vision is made here, not only for tennis, football, and
cricket, but also for bowls — that game for ever to be asso-
ciated with ,the name of the famous Sir Francis Drake.
Why not introduce this in Radnor Park, Folkestone,
thought I ? (The foregoing ^question needs no asking
now.) Quite the prettiest park-keeper's lodge I .have
seen is here. It has,a turreted clock tower, and the flowers
.growing all around are a picture. Cyclists living in Dar-
lington should rejoice, for good and almost level roads
"radiate in many directions. Early one fine morning I
had an enjoyable twenty-mile spin to the village of Great
Smeaton and back. Although the scenery cannot be des-
cribed as pretty, yet the grand range of the wooded and
distant Cleveland Hills, with the intervening country,
provided an attractive picture. On this road is a village
Spa. To keep within the fashion I tasted the sulphur
water. Visions of ancient eggs come before me as I
think of that early morning draught. I will say no more,
but it was far from palatable. And mentioning water I
am reminded that the ordinary drinking water in Dar-
lington (although tasteless) is discoloured. Its appearance
suggests weak sherry and water, and this, 1 was informed,
is owing to the water percolating through the peat on the
moors. There's a half -day trip to Newcastle this (Wed-
nesday) afternoon," remarked a friend. "Let us go," I
agreed, and found a crowd bound for the same destination.
We travelled by a rather roundabout route, via Bishop's
Auckland^ The double journey was something over
eighty miles ; the fare one and sixpence. On the way to
Newcastle I noted, amongst many other things, Durham
Cathedral, with the river flowing almost at its base, the
pinnacled palace of the Bishop, a Grecian temple built
on the top of a high hill to the memory of the first Earl
of Durham. Over yonder to .the right is a little village
where the famous novelist, George Eliot, first saw the
light of day. The country hereabouts is thickly studded
with collieries. We note the mining villages, the cottages
of which are built in uniform lines. Dull and cheerless
must many of these places be. Coke ovens, iron, and
other works, are belching out jet smoke, and this blots
out the beauty of the landscape. A dense black cloud
liangs over a big stretch of country in the distance. That

220

means we are Approaching the great coal metropolis.
Crawling along, we reach Qateshead, and then pass over
the high level bridge — considered in its day a marvel of
engineering. You look down far below and note the
busy scene on the River Tyne. Steamers of all sizes are
arriving and departing. At this dizzy height a train
ptasses by us, and we feel a tremor, and .perhaps shudder.
Far below us is the foot passengers' bridge, and the people
on it are dwarfed. Under the high-level ships, with tall
masts may pass, but not so with the footbridge. We
are now in Newcastle, popularly termed "the pride of the
North." If you want to see ,go-aheadness and progress,
you must come here. For full three miles do the Elswick
Works front the river, giving employment to thousands
of men. This is only one factory out of many. Then think
of the shipping, the ship-building, the coal exchange,
tiote the magnificent streets and buildings, and then it
is you ,will understand in some way how this great city
is the Northerners' "pride." lust stand at the bottom of
Grey Street, with its noble Nelson-like monument, and
note the busy scene. Look at the seemingly endless pro-
cession of light and airy tramcars, each carrying their
eighty passengers. There is no confusion. Perhaps there
are half a dozen of these following each other closely.
You wonder why this should be so, but if you watch when
they arrive at a given point they will glide off this way
and that way.

THE ELECTRIC TRAMWAY SYSTEM AT NEWCASTLE,

with the exception of Glasgow, is much -the best I have
as yet seen. In my humble opinion Newcastle-on-Tyne
can give London many, many points. I have dwelt a
little — only a little — on the industrial side of Newcastle,
but now jump on one of the cars and ride with me to
Jesmond Dene, about two miles distant. This is the great
glory of Newcastle. The late Sir William Armstrong
made a huge fortune out of his Elswick Works. He was
much attached to Newcastle and its neople. Many are
the evidences of this. As is pretty well known, the great
inventor, although married, was never blessed with
children. And so it came about that he left to his beloved
Newcastle this Jesmond Dene. This is indeed va princely
gift, and generations yet unborn, as they gaze upon its
many and varied natural beauties, will assuredly bless the
name of William Armstrong. How shall I describe it?
Where shall I begin ? This "dene," as the word suggests,
denotes "a place in a valley or near a wood." Conceive
then, this sharply-defined valley with a river running
through it, ana extending an immense distance. On

221

either .side of the great shelving banks are lordly trees,
ferns, and bracken luxuriating in the cool shade. Ever
and anon you hear the running water, and this is explained
when you gaze on the rivulet tumbling in confusion over
the rocks in the crevices of which hang graceful ferns and
creepers of many varieties. Wonderful, indeed, are

THE SERIES OF PICTURES

to be seen here, but perhaps the climax is reached, when,
after many windings and turnings, you arrive in front of
a rustic bridge, at the back of which is a pretty ivy-covered
cottage and a disused water-mill. Down the water rushes
and roars through terra-cotta coloured rocks, tumbling at
length over the fall. Cross the bridge and gaze well on
this picture, and I am sure the memory of it will live for
many a long day. Jesmond Dene is not a park. There is
nothing artificial about it. Rather is it a glorious stretch of
Nature, not "improved" by the hand of man. True, there
are flowers planted here and there, but the grand scheme
is not interfered with in any shape or form. You could
spend two or three days here, and then not exhaust the
beauties of the place. Just think of the thoughtfulness of
this good man, William Armstrong. He conceived that
Jesmond Dene would be a great resort for pleasure par-
ties, and so it came about that Sir William caused a
palatial banquetting hall to be erected in one of the most
beautiful parts of the Dene. This great building, with its
statuary and decorations, is indeed magnificent. Excur-
sionists and others have the use of it on certain conditions,
and pleasant it is to record the fact that the hospitality
has never been abused. As I walked out of this glorious
place, the rays of the setting sun playing through the tree
branches, I could quite understand the reverence in which
the name of William Armstrong is held in Newcastle.
It is now night, and the great town is ablaze with electric
light. Still the loaded tram cars are flitting hither and
thither, their several destinations clearly indicated with
a transparency. Here we are again in Newcastle Station.
This, too, is one of the sights of the North. Great crowds
of people were in waiting for their various trains. No
confusion; no rush. Five minutes previous to a train
starting an indicator is fixed in full view of the crowd.
Thus, for example: "Darlington and Bishop's Auckland.
No. 12 platform." He who runs may read, and only the
very dull-witted will seek occasion to worry the over-
worked porter. Soon we are leaving Newcastle behind.
We crawfout of the station, and the signals being against
us our train pulls up on the centre of the high level
bridge. Again we look below. The winding river on

222

either side is lined with jets of light Iron works shoot
out tongues of red flame, and many arc lamps shine with
their well-known blueish hue. A remarkable sight is
Newcastle by night, especially as viewed from this height.
Now we are free, and the train is plunging along in the
darkness, ever and anon illuminated with lurid flames from
the various works and coke ovens. We dash by some
brilliantly lighted colliery, the momentary sight of which
causes us to think of the thousands seeking for coal down
in the depths of the earth. Ah! think of the miner as
well as the brave sailor. They face death day by day in
many forms, often working under conditions not far re-
moved from slavery.

A WEEK-END ON WHEELS.

TRIP THROUGH THE WEALD AND HOME THROUGH
ROMNEY MARSH.

Before I took up with tramping I did a deal of
cycling, and wrote at that period some twenty articles
in the "Herald" descriptive of my experiences. Here is
one dated August, 1896: —

A nice run from Folkestone is to Cranbrook, via
Tenterden. There is a choice of two routes. One by
the Ashford Road, through Great Chart, Bethersden, and
High Halden; the other through Newington, Newingreen,
Bonnington, and Ham Street. The roads are good,
without many hills; the country for the most part is pic-
turesque, although for variety and extent the scenery by
the latter route is infinitely grander, more varied, and
extensive. Circumstances, however, ruled my choice
on Saturday, and with the assistance of a remarkably
easy-going "Swift," I made for Ashford — the first stage
of the journey — some sixteen miles away. This I
covered in eighty minutes. It is difficult to realise when
one has used "Shank's pony" from boyhood that a
score or so of miles can be annihilated with a minimum
of exertion — that one feels rather exhilarated than dis-
tressed. Yet such is the effect of the cycle, and there
is little need for wonder that ithe disciples of the
pastime are still increasing by leaps and bounds. Soon
in a wheelman's haunt, I sit me down to a refreshing
cup of tea. It was here I was joirfed by a fellow cyclist.
He proved most entertaining company. "Blessed is the
man who has a hobby," says the old saw.

223
THIS YOUNG FELLOW HAD A HOBBY.

It took a very pleasant form — sketching. As time pro-
gressed we got on more familiar terms, and he produced
from his wallet two sketching books, in which were pen-
cilled some exquisite little snatches of scenery, or archi-
tecture. This was my fellow cyclist's work, generally
accomplished on Saturday afternoons. Before we
parted, my newly-made acquaintance informed me he
was articled to an architect. Each week, taking a fresh
route, he adds to his collection, which is really a beauti-
ful one. To be able to take a "snapshot," and develop
afterwards, is in a sense a mechanical accomplishment,
but to sketch well entails the use of the artistic faculty
to a high degree. At any rate I envied this young fellow,
who is able in his spare time to career about his native
Kent, and thus obtain permanent records of the scenes
in which he spends if truth be told, the pleasantest
hours of his life. By this time we parted on our different
ways. I have travelled over several hundred miles of
public highways since the commencement of this sea-
son, but think the very ibest of road my cycle has run
along is that between Ashford and Tenterden — a length
of 12 miles. It is perfectly level, and in good order.
"God bless the County Council" is doubtless the involun-
tary remark of many a wheelman as he trundles along,
for there is no fear of punctures or any dodging of stray
flints required. The country round here does not call
for much attention. It is not thickly wooded, but hop
gardens abound. Great Chart, a village a little way out
from Ashford, is interesting on account of its pretty cot-
tages. Bethersden, at one time

CELEBRATED FOR ITS MARBLE,

is a lovely spot, and I felt I must dismount here to
admire its beauties. Further on the road is High Hal-
den. It boasts a Parish Council, and the general trim-
ness of the place on this account is very creditable. The
dilapidated church is interesting if only on account of its
curious weather-beaten wooden porch. In the church-
yard are some curious looking graves. They are not
turfed, but heaped up with rough clods of clay. Very
primitive they appear. Surely grass seed is cheap
enough if turf is unattainable. (Perhaps this has been
altered since this article was written). From the
spacious village green an all-embracing view can be
seen, and on a clear day the distant sea comes within
view. Of course the village inn is in evidence. Here a
party of beanfeasters had just arrived in a waggonette.

224

Music from a brazen cornet and melodious (?) accordion
filled the air. In front of the trap flew the Union
Jack. The hat of each separate beanfeaster was twined
with hops. Appropriately enough they sat on the green
and sang the praises of beer, of which they imbibed re-
spectable quantities. They were out for the day, full
of animal spirits, and not bad fellows. On mounting the
cycle again I was joined by a little party that had run
down from the Cathedral city, and in their company I
ran over the remainder of the road, and soon found my-
self in Tenterden, which is (as I have stated before in
these columns) one of the quaintest of old English
towns, in the centre of the hop country, nine miles from
the main line of railway. After putting up my steed I
proceeded to 'do' Tenterden, and requiring the services
of the village barber, I proceeded to his establishment
for that luxury known as "an easy shave." It was a
curious establishment — low pitched and lighted with oil
lamps. "Take a seat, sir," said a dapper young fellow.
I complied with this request, and had hardly made my-
self comfortable in the chair when a buxom lady ap-
peared on the scene, and after wishing me good even-
ing, etc., commenced the process known as lather-
ing, and then proceeded to rub the

CONCENTRATED SOAP-SUDS

into my chin. This finished a man of a very enquiring
state of mind deftly used the "hollow ground," and the
finishing touch with towels, powder, etc., was given by
yet another assistant. After all this attention I was
surprised to hear that one penny per operation was the
fixed charge at this establishment. When I turned to
leave this humble roof, the lady aforementioned was
proceeding to "rub in" the lather on the week's hairy
stubble of an agricultural labourer. After all this I felt
quite refreshed, and ran down to a place called Small-
hythe, about two miles along a good road from Tenter-
den. There is a curious old church here, built in the
time of Henry VIII. The chancel is quite ornate, and
there are some beautiful stained-glass windows to be
seen. These were placed here through the kindness
of Mr. and Mrs. Wilkin, whose beautiful estate is not
far off. If there is one thing in this building that ap-
pears out of place it is the pews. These are of the
horse-box order, about ten feet square, and five feet in
height, h;he seats of which are arranged to all points of
the compass. But doubtless the parish is a poor one.
It was Saturday evening. Close at hand, and leaning
against the gate of a cottage, was an old man. I got

22£

into conversation with him, and learned he was a sex-
ton, and had held that office close on 40 years. I could
not help recalling almost instinctively, as looking upon
this silver-haired man, the words of Henry Russell's
famous song, "The Old Sexton,"

"A relic of bygone days was he,
And his locks were as white as the foamy sea,
And these words came from his lips so thin:
'I gather them in, I gather them in.' '

But it would appear from subsequent conversation he
had not gathered in any of the villagers for two years,
— that his office is

A MERE SINECURE

in this respedt. "Only very old people and very young
children die in this parish, Sir," remarked the ancient one.
Smallhythe boasts a very notable distinction. The
parishioners have the rare privilege of selecting their own
Vicar. The voting takes place in the church. Each of
the candidates is invited to read and preach, and the one
that excels in either or both these accomplishments is
selected, of course, with the approval of the Archbishop,
I think I am right in stating that Smallhythe is almost
the only parish in the kingdom that rdtains this privilege.
And the principle might be generally adopted with benefit
in the Church of England. That is my humble opinion ;
a clerical friend of mine, however, holds the reverse view.
However, I do not propose to discuss the question now. It
is worth a visit is this Smallhythe. In the middle ages the
sea, now some miles off, reached here. A good night's
rest, and I renewed my journey to Cranbrook — a delight-
ful ride of seven miles. The roads are good and moder-
ately level; the scenery is very diversified. For the greater
part of the journey the way runs through some finely
wooded country. For a distance of at least four miles

TALL PINE TREES STAND SENTRY

by the road side; larch, beech, and oak also abound.
Now, the picture is varied by festoons of hops and the
curious oast houses. The sun shone brilliantly on all this
scene of beauty ; birds sang their sweetest ; the bells of
the village churches, perhaps hidden from view, were
calling early worshippers to do homage to the Giver of all
Good; fragrant odours from the pines or flowers also
delight the senses. This was my experience on this peace-
ful Sabbath morning — away from the streets, and alone
with Nature. Let me advise those who have the means,
who are apt to run off to "do" the Continent o» every
occasaon, and turn their backs on their native land, to

226

explore these out-of-the-way places in Kent. Their's wil
be a rich reward. At length Cranbrook was reached.
This is an old-fashioned town, containing a population of
about 4,000. Many years ago it was the centre of the
cloth weaving industry, and several of the existing houses
bear evidence of having been at one time factories.
After a stroll round the place I put up my cycle and
attended the parish church, a spacious sand stone struc-
ture standing in an immense grave yard. Cranbrook
should be proud of its church, and doubtless it is. The
interior of the Sacred edifice has been restored. It consists
of a nave and two aisles, supported on either side by six
noble columns and arches. The roof is of oak, and that
in the transept reveals some good carving. The choir
stalls, pulpit, and lectern are all 'of oak, and the pews
throughout the church are to match. Near the entrance
to the chancel is a great square pew. It stands above the
ordinary level. To a stranger the structure appears to be
an elaborated sheep pen. A gentleman sat in this pew
with his back to the altar, and surveyed the whole of the
congregation. Two little children also sat here. Whether
this worshipper was churchwarden or a prince of the royal
blood I could not discover. The morning was warm, and
the bell-ringers, on a platform in a balcony, within full
view of the congregation, pulled on to the ropes, in shirt
sleeves, and with bared arms — a curious sight. The ser-
vice proceeded, and very nicely rendered it was. I could
write a separate article on this very interesting place, but
space forbids. Before renewing my journey I naturally
sought refreshment Acting on recommendation, I sought
the shade of the George Hotel. This is truly

A REMARKABLE HOSTELRY,

and there it has stood for upwards of 400 years. The
entrance is not pretentious — rather the reverse. But the in-
terior, with its grand old staircase, its pictures, and other
evidences of ancient worth, is a sight to be remembered.
But there is a drag on my elbow, or I would tell my readers
many a little story in connection with this fine old place
—truly a grand relic of the days gone by. A few whiffs
at my pipe, and on we travel again — my cycle and I^o
Hawkhurst, and thence on to Udiam, passing Cnpps
Corner, through Sellescombe, and on to Kent Street, where
I called on an invalid woman Merritt, and informed her
of my having obtained for her a bath chair. (I have
already told my readers how she received the news;.
Then through a series of lovely stretches of country until
I reached Ore. Here the azure blue of the sea burst upon
my view— a complete change after so many miles of pas-

227

toral scenery. The full extent of Hastings also came
within the picture. Over the Fairlight Downs, with its
church and windmill as prominent objects, the silent wheels
ran merrily along a good road, through many a peaceful
hamlet to Guestling and Winchelsea. The magnificence
of the series of views along this part of the country from
Ore to Winchelsea is not to be exaggerated. As the sun,
like a lurid red ball sank behind those tree-covered hills
to the north-west, I found myself uttering "Sublime,
sublime." In sweet little Winchelsea I rested a few
moments. The worshippers were just leaving that grand
old church with its ivied ruins, and there in her little
garden far away from the footlights was "Miss" Ellen
Terry with her children. Down the hill we run on to the
flat land of the Marsh, and I speedily make for Rye, and
thence on through the darkness and loneliness (and it
was weird and lonely) to Romney, which I reached at
half-past nine. Here

I RESTED FOR THE NIGHT,

and rising at seven was soon trundling along in the
direction of Dymch'urch, where a hearty welcome awaited
me from my old friend Mr. Binskin, the then proprietor
of the Ship Inn. The family were just sitting down to
breakfast, and I could not resist the invitation. "Do come
in and have a cup of tea. It will refresh you." After a
little comparing of notes as to old friends in Folkestone,
I left Mr. Binskin in his glory, and ran along by the Dym-
church Wall, on through Hythe and Sandgate, reaching
Folkestone as the clock struck ten on Monday morning,
after having enjoyed a nearly ninety-mile spin. I would
say to all my friends if they have a taste for the beautiful
and interesting, "Go thou and do likewise."

SOME NOTABLE DATES.

Compiled from the files K>f the old "Folkestone Chroni-
cle" and other sources.

Aug. Qth. — Visit of Her Majesty Queen Victoria and

Prince Consort to inspect Foreign Legion at

Shorncliffe.
Sept. 1 2th. — Death of the Rev. Thomas Pearce (Parson

Pearce), Vicar of Folkestone.
Nov. roth. — Price of gas in Folkestone, 6s. 8d. per

i ,000 feet.

228

1856.

Feb. 4th. — Collision off Folkestone, with great loss of
life, between emigrant ship "Josephine Willis"
and the "Magerton." Inquest at Guildhall (be-
fore present Town Hall was erected.)

August 3rd. — Double murder at Steddyhole, near Folke-
stone, by a Swiss soldier.

Sept. gth. — Banquet to Crimean soldiers on the Royal
Pavilion Lawn.

Sept. 26th. — Grand Crimean Ball at the Royal Pavilion
Hotel.

Dec. 2 /th. — Great bullion robbery on the South Eastern
Railway.

1857.

Jan. i st. — Execution of Steddyhole murderer.

Feb. 2 1 st. — Opening of new Post Office in Tontine

Street

July 26th. — The Bayle Fair abolished.
Nov. 1 4th. — Fight between Dover pilots and Folkestone

fishermen.

1858.

April 3rd. — First Post Office pillar box put up in Folke-
stone.

May 22nd. — Reduction of .price of gas to 5s. 6d. per
1,000 feet.

Aug. i st. — Boat wrecked off Sandgate with loss of six
lives.

Nov. 2Oth. — Town Hall proposed to be built.

Nov. 20th. — Death of Mr. John Bateman, M.D.

i«59-

Jan. loth. — Visit of Prince of Wales to present colours
to the lopth Canadian Regiment at Shorncliffe.

March 2ist. — Military Steeplechases at Broadmead.

May 1 7th. — Foundation Stone of new Town Hall laid.

May igth. — Rifle Volunteer Corps formed.

Sept. 22nd. — Formation of Artillery Volunteer Corps.

Dec. loth. — Extensive landslip in the Warren.

Dec. 24th. — Baron Meyer de Rothschild institutes a two-
shilling gift to the poor.

1860.

Feb. 1 8th. — Erection of drinking fountain in Harbour

Street.
July I4th — First volunteer artillery shell practice from

the Martello Towers.

229

Aug. 9th. — Baron Meyer de Rothschild presents Town

Hall clock.

Oct. 6th. — New lightship placed on Varne shoal.
Dec. 1 2th. — Embarkation Empress of French. Address

by Corporation.

1861.

Jan. ist. — Town Clerk's salary fixed at ^150 per annum.
May 1 5th. — Town Hall opened.

June 22nd. — First of Harbour steam cranes erected.
Oct. 1 2th. — Post Office Savings' Bank opened.
Dec. I4th. — Removal of Police Station.

fi862.

Feb. 8th. — Resignation of Dr. S. Eastes, Borough

Coroner.

Feb. 8th. — Building of Bouverie Square commenced.
Feb. I5th. — Mr. John Minter appointed Borough

Coroner.
Feb. 22nd. — Controversy over introduction of " Hymns

Ancient and Modern" at Parish Church.
March I5th. — Withdrawal from use of " Hymns Ancient

and Modern " at Parish Church.
April 1 5th. — Closing of Christ Church churchyard.
April 26th. — Introduction of improved S.E. cross-channel

steamers.
May 3rd. — Bells of Elham Church rung after a lapse of

50 years.

July roth. — Famous Indian Chief "Deerfoot" (pedes-
trian) ran races on Sandgate Plain.
July 3 1 st. — County Cricket Match, Kent v. Sussex,

Sandgate Plain. Sussex won with two wickets to

go down.

Aug. 2nd. — New Fishmarket opened.
Sept. 9th.— Opening of St. Peter's Church.
Dec. 6th.— Death of Mr. W. Deedes, M.P. for East Kent.

1863.

Jan. 24th. — Erection of Royal Terrace commenced.

Feb. 2 1 st. — Petition against proposed loop line. Rejec-
tion of Bill.

March loth. — Great celebration Prince of Wales' mar-
riage.

May 3Oth. — Holmsdale Terrace, Sandgate Road, com-
menced.

July 4th. — Opening S.E. Pier as promenade.

July 1 8th. — Church Rate controversy.

Aug. ist. — Grand Cricket Week.

230

Sept. igth. — Dispute between the Vicar of Parish Church

and organist. Resignation of Choir.
Oct. 3rd. — Controversy in regard to the above.
Nov. Qth. — Election of Mr. C. Doridant as Mayor.

1864.

Jan. 2nd. — Meeting of Corporation to consider Water

Company's Bill.

April i ;th. — Death of Colonel G. Brockman.
July gth. — Sites given for St. Michael's and Holy Trinity

Churches.

Aug. 2Oth. — Sundial in Parish Church restored.
Oct. 8th. — Disastrous fire on the Narrows.
Dec. loth. — Fatal accident on S.E.R.. Two girls killed

in the Warren.

1865.

Jan. 26th. — Death of Mrs. Jacob Golder, of Fancy Street

(Fenchurch Street), aged 82.
Jan. 27th. — Death of Mr. Joseph Jacob Golder, of Fancy

(Fenchurch Street), aged 84.
Jan. 28th. — Mr. W. Montagu produces pantomime at

the Harveian Institute (present site of "Herald'*

Office).

Feb. iith. — Extensive landslip in the Warren. Destruc-
tion of "The White House."
Feb. 25th. — Formation of the Folkestone Gas Consumer

Co. (Limited).
June 9th. — Fatal accident to Folkestone tidal train at

Staplehurst. Charles Dickens — a passenger — es-
caped unhurt.
July nth. — Re-election of Baron Meyer de Rothschild

for the Borough.

July i ith. — Opening of St. Michael's Temporary Church.
July 22nd. — Cessation of Church Rates.
Oct. 28th.— Loss of the collier "Three Brothers" and all

hands.
Oct. 2Qth. — Gas at Parish Church cut off in consequence

of no funds.
Nov. 5th. — Alleged plot to burn down the temporary

wooden Church of St. Michael's. Military held in

readiness at Shorncliffe.

Dec. 1 6th. — Collision between Dover-Calais mail boat
"Samphire" and the "Fanny Bede." Eight lires

lost.

1866-67.

Feb. 1 7th. — Heavy gale.

March 3rd. — Strike in the local building trade.

231

April 2 1 st. — First Easter Volunteer Review.

June 22nd. — The late Rev. C. H. Spurgeon at the Town

Hall.

July 27th. — First promenade bands organised.
August 2oth. — Folkestone and Dover Corporation play
Cricket Match on Sandgate Plain. Folkestone won
easily.

September nth. — Folkestone, Shorncliffe, Hythe, and
Sandgate Military and Open Flat and Hurdle
races near Shorncliffe Station.

1868.

January 23rd. — Production of grand Amateur Panto-
mime at Town Hall (Mr. F. Till). Great success.

February 8th. — Turnpike Irust (Dover and Sandgate)
abolished.

March 2ist. — Enlargement of Christ Church.

April nth. — Stormy vestry meeting (poll demanded).

May 22nd. — Proposed new station for West End of
Folkestone.

June 2Oth. — Appointment of Mr. R. B. Home as Surveyor.

June 1 4th. — Holy Trinity Church opened, without cere-
mony.

July i ith. — Meeting called to organize promenade bands.

July i ith. — Prosecution and sentence of five years penal
servitude for forgery at Quarter Sessions on E.
B. Callow, Secretary Elham Valley Railway Co.

July 29th. — Consecration of Holy Trinity and St. Peter's
Churches.

Sept. 8th. — Fonudation stone laid of Bathing Establish-
ment.

Oct 3rd. — Candidature of Baron Meyer de Rothschild,
Captain Merryweather and Mr. A. Nugent.

Sept. 1 7th.— Election contests for borough and county.

Nov. 2nd. — Rev. W. Sampson appointed to the Baptist
Church.

Nov. 9th. — Mayor's dinner. Stormy proceedings through
introduction of politics.

Nov. 1 8th. — Baron Rothschild re-elected for the Borough.

1869.

March 29th. — Easter Monday Review. Great gale and
snowstorm. Loss of H.M. Ferret alongside
Admiralty Pier. 28,000 volunteers take part in
review.

April /th. — Resignation of Mr. Ralph Thomas Brockman,
Town Clerk.

232

April loth. — Death of Earl Radnor at age of ninety.
June 5th. — Appointment of Mr. W. G. S. Harrison as

Town Clerk.

June 23rd. — Indignation meeting on excessive rating.
July 2Oth. — Opening of Bathing Establishment.
Oct. 1 6th. — Opening of Village Hall, Cheriton.
Nov. 27th. — Wreck of the China clipper "Spendrift" at

Dungeness.

1870.

Jan. 5th. — Foundation of Folkestone Museum.

March 29th. — Visit of Greek Archbishop Present at ser-
vice at Parish Church.

April 23rd. — Leas Lift first advocated.

April 23rd. — Treasure trove of coins, etc., discovered
at Foord.

Aug. 5th. — Cricket Match — United South of England v.
twenty two of Folkestone. Victory of former by
over an innings.

Oct. ist. — Resignation of Rev. E. Cornwall, Congrega-
tional Minister. Appointment of Rev. A. J. Pal-
mer.

Dec. 27th. — Big fire in High Street.

1871.

Jan. 7th. — Public meeting to take into consideration the
great distress prevailing.

Feb. nth. — S.E. steamers convey food for re-victualling
Paris after siege.

Feb. 1 8th. — Town Council decides on erection of sana-
torium.

March 22nd. — Demolition Martello tower at Dym-
church.

May 6th. — Census returns. Population of Folkestone,
12,894.

May 27th. — Baron Meyer de Rothschild's "Favonius"
and "Hannah" win the Derby and Oaks. Bella
of Parish Church rung in honour of event.

June 3rd. — Presentation service of plate to Mr. Frede-
rick Brockman, Master E.K. Foxhounds.

Aug. 5th. — Presentation colours to 34th Regt. at Shorn-
cliffe

Aug. 22nd. — Grand bazaar on Pavilion Lawn in aid of
distressed peasants of France.

Oct. 2 1 st. — Wesleyan day schools established.

Nov. 25th. — Early closing movement advocated.

233

1872.

April 3rd. — Foundation stone laid of St. Peter's Schools.
April nth. — Cutting of first sod of Hythe branch rail-
way.

May 8th.— Death of Sir John Bligh at Sandgate.
June 2Oth. — Opening of Folkestone Cement Works.
Dec. 2§th. — Death of ex-Superintendent Martin.

1873-
Jan. 22nd. — Loss of the "Northfleet" (emigrant ship),

with loss of over 300 lives at Shorncliffe.
April 2nd.— Stranding of S.E. steamer "Queen of the

Belgians" on Romney Marsh.
June 2 1 st. — Presentation of a picture of Folkestone to

Baron Meyer de Rothschild.

July 1 5th. — Death of Mr. Jessie Pilcher, of Cheriton.
Dec. 3rd. — Resolution of Town Council to plant trees in

the thoroughfares. Three voted against.

1874.

Jan. 26th. — Resignation of Baron Meyer de Rothschild,
M.P.

Jan. 28th. — Adoption of Sir Edward Watkin as Parlia-
mentary Candidate.

Jan. 31. — Great fire Cavalry Barracks, Shorncliffe.
Fourteen horses destroyed.

Feb. 4th. — Sir E. Watkin returned. Majority over Capt.
Merryweather, 1,047.

Feb. i st. — Death of Baron de Meyer Rothschild.

May 1 5th. — Formation of Rowing Club for Folkestone.

May 3Oth. — Opening of Radnor Club.

July 29th. — Death of ex Mayor, Capt. Gilbert Kennicott,
R.N. (Trafalgar hero), ager 87.

Aug. 22nd. — Visit of their Royal Highnesses Duke and
Duchess of Edinburgh. Estimated crowd of
20,000 spectators.

Oct. Qth. — Opening Hythe and Sandgate railway.

1875.

Jan. 6th. — Decision of Town Council to oppose Prome-
nade Pier Company.

Jan. 1 4th. — Death of Mr. John Kingsnorth.

Feb. 25th. — Alarming fire at Town Hall.

Feb. 25th. — Meeting in favour of Sunday closing of
licensed premises.

March 7th. — Murder of soldier (82nd Regt.), at Shorn-
cliffe.

234

July ^th. — Great jewel robbery at Harbour Station,
Capture of thieves by Supt. Wilshere at Apple-
dore.

Aug. 25th. — Capt. Matthew Webb swims the Channel.

Sept. 1 8th. — Commencement of proceedings against the
Rev. C. J. Ridsdale for Ritualism at instance of
"three aggrieved parishioners."

Oct. 2nd. — Wonderful catch of mackerel — twenty to
twenty-five lasts (a last is 10,000).

Oct. 23rd. — Fracas between officers on the Leas.

Nov. 26th. — Severe gale.

Oct. nth. — Heavy fall of snow. Roads blocked.

Dec. 27th. — Champagne luncheon given by the Direc-
tors of the Gas Company to Shareholders in the
interior of the new gasometer.

1876.

Jan. nth. — Death of Mr. Frederick Brockman, Master
E.K.F.H.

March 4th. — Opening of Harbour Station Extension
Banquet at Royal Pavilion.

March 4th. — Arrival of Don Carlos as a political refu-
gee. Hostile reception at Harbour.

April 2Oth. — Presentation by Miss Hannah de Roths-
child of a new lifeboat for Seabrook.

May 2 1 st. — Visit of Friendly Societies to Boulogne.

June 5'th. — Return visit of French Societies to Folke-
stone.

1877.
Jan. i st. — Great storm and destruction. Immense

damage to Dover Pier.
Jan. 5th. — Great landslip in Warren. Portion of Mar-

tello tunnel destroyed. Two men killed. Line

closed.

Feb. 3rd. — Nine hundred men at work in Warren clear-
ing effects of landslip.
March gth. — Resumption of railway traffic (between

Folkestone and Dover.
March 23rd. — Death of Mr. Ralph Thomas Brockman

(late Town Clerk).
March 28th. — Death of Mr. James Tolputt, aged 83

years.
April 27th. — Death of Dr. William Taylor Tyson, aged

65 years.

April 3Oth. — Arrival of Municipal Council of Paris.
July 5th. — Departure of General Grant (U.S.A.) from

Harbour. Address presented by Corporation.

235

i8;8.

March 2Oth. — Marriage of Earl Rosebery and Miss
Hannah de Rothschild.

March 23rd. — Proposal made to search for coal in Kent.

May 1 5th. — Meeting of ratepayers to consider estab-
lishing a public library.

May 3 1 st. — Loss of the Grosser Kurfurst (German
man-of-war) with 350 lives.

Sept. 29th. — Foundation stone of new Vicarage laid by
the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Dec. 26th. — Opening of Bradstone Hall for public en-
tertainments.

Dec. 28th.— Visit of "Elijah the Prophet" arrayed in
sheepskins. A religious enthusiast.

1879.

Jan. 2nd. — Opening of Public Library on Bayle (Pre-
sent site of the "Herald" Office.

Feb. 3rd. — Consecration of St. John's Church, Foord.

March 8th. — Trial of new Parish Church bells.

March I3th. — Dover pilot cutter "Edinburgh" run down
off Dungeness. Loss of 10 lives.

April 5th. — Death of Countess of Radnor at Longford
Castle, aged 50 years.

Oct. 4th. — Resignation of "Tom Cockett," the Town
Crier.

Dec. i /th. — Special meeting of the Town Council to
consider proposed winter gardens in Lower
Sandgate Road.

1880.

Jan. 3rd. — Reduction of railway fares. Third class to

all trains.

Jan. 5th. — Tramway scheme considered.
Jan. 7th. — Resignation of the Surveyor (Mr. Springall).
April 23rd. — Sir Edward Watkin created a baronet.
June 5th.— Death of "Tim Gittens," an old Folke-

stonian.

June 5th. — Visit of Corporation to Boulogne.
July 1 8th.— Death of Supt. Wilshere.
July 22nd. — Opening of Seabrook Hotel (the Imperial).
Aug. 2 1 st. — Rev. Canon Baynes appointed Vicar of

Holy Trinity Church.
Oct. 3Oth. — Captain J. Boxer, R.N., appointed Harbour

Master.
Dec. 4th. — First shaft driven of Channel tunnel.

237

THANKS AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

are due to Lieut. Col. R. J. Fynmore, J.P.,
Sandgate, and Mr. H. Waddell, 48, Marshall
Street, for valuable information ; also for use of
photos, to Mr. Sidney Weston, Messrs. Lambert,
Weston & Son, Folkestone and London, to
Messrs. Clark & Co., Bouverie Road East,
to Mr. W. H. Jacobs, Sandgate, Mr. Alfred
Leney, Saltwood, Miss Holden, " Aston Lea,"
1 8, Clifton Crescent, Mr. C. S. Harris, London
Road, Dover, and to Messrs. F. J. Parsons,
Ltd. for both Photographs and Process Blocks.

TELEPHONE (iwo lines) _444

MARTIN WINSER

AND CO., LTD.
WEST CLIFF GARAGE,
FOLKESTONE-
TAX1CABS & LANDAULETTES FOR HIRE.

ANY DISTANCE.
Sole Agents for this District for
- - Rover and Wolseley Cars. - -

LARGEST GARAGE IN FOLKESTONE.
All Tyres and Accessories in Stock.

Martin Winser & Co.,

WEST CLIFF GARAGE, FOLKESTONE
and at Tunbridge, Wells.

TELEPHONE 444 (two lines).

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY

Los Angeles
This book is DUE on the last date stamped below.

Form L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444

"Felix" -

690 Rambles around
F5SF33 Folkestone.

A 001 024411 9

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