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" H E R A l_ D" 
THE BAYLE, :: :: 





ZTbe CberisbeD flDemorg 

ZTbe late nDr* ^ fRre. f * 3. parsona, 


Cumberland IDOUSC, Castings. 


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


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- 



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. 


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

with other 

By " FELIX/' 

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


6, Russell Road, Folkestone. 


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 





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 


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. 



"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 

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


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. 


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. 



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. 


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. 


"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." 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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. 



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. 



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. 


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 


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. 


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." 


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. 



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. 


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. 


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." 


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. 


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 


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. 


"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. 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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 

"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. 


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. 


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. 



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 

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, 

2 9 

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. 


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 
o1 most 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. 


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 


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. 




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 ah 1 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. 



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 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 

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 

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. 



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 

4 8 

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. 




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- 

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 



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. The 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- 




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 

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. 



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 

6 3 

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." 


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" 

6 4 

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. 


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 







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- 


"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. 


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. 


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." 


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." 


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 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. 


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. 



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"). 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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. 



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. 


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." 



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. 


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. 



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. 


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 

further on the railway tubular bridge arrests attention. 


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. 


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 


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. 


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. 






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 


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. 


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 was z 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 


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 


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, 


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 


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. 



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 


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." 



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 


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 


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- 

8 9 

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. 


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 


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 : 

Cotelettes d'Agneau Pannes. 

Volaille Braisee au Riz. 

Cailles au Feuilles de Vigne. 

Pommes Nouvellesi Pois Nouveaux. 


Asperges en Branche. 
Sauce Hollandaise. 

Roast Beef. Chicken, Tongue. 

Patisserie Assortie. Milk Puddings. 

Pommes Curtes. 


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 


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. 


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.: 


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 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. 



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. 


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). 


$-.viu-rciiiii-...''.\i.vj if h'u- 

:,',,> .)' HI <!'.,,,,. > 

ru) Jc Iuit 'vv^kcu to ciu* 

isit opyoiir ^vllc 

to pnDD)ob.^>vie -fed it is paitidilarly ai>|>ropn'- 
ate _&, pleasing HKit the llqT 
fbc ^reafc FrcDch liatiop sjwtild Icy tl)e Finclsta 

lxrtcst route Ixh tlxj eapitals op 
iir CvCo CdicneslE KxM^\yoUrEjyiAilci)C} r F 

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





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 : 


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 


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 



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, 


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 


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 



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 


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. 


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 : 



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 


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


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 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 


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 f with 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 f is 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 ! 


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. 




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 


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 


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 


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 




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." 


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 


"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 

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 


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. 




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 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. 


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." 


"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." 


"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! 


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 


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. 



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." 


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 



"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. 


" 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. 


"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 


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. 



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." 


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? 



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


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." 




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." 


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) 


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 


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." 


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- 


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


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. 


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. 



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 


"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 


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." 




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. 


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. 




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?" 


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. 


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. 


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 


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 


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 



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. 



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 


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." 


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- 


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.) 


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. 



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. 


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. 


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 


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. 


" 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! 


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" 


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. 


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. 


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 


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. 


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. 


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 


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. 


"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. 


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. 


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. 


"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- 



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- 


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. 


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- 


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 


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. 



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


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. 


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. 


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 


"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. 


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. 


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 


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. 

"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." 


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." 



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 


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. 


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 


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. 


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. 


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 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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. 



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. 



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 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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 


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, 

" 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 

And all 'ands on boord found a vatery grave." 


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." 


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 


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." 


"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 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 


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. 


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. 


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 


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. 


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. 


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. 


"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. 



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 






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 


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. 


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. 


"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. 


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." 


(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." 


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 


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. 


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. 


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^ f ernS) anc j 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. 


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. 


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 

1 67 


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. 



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. 


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 


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- 


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." 


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 


it means peace and quiet. If there was no great 
cheering crowd, Nature itself bade the n S,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. 


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." 


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 


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. 


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. 


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 


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 


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? 


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. 


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. 


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," 


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." 


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." 


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. 


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


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. 


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. 


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 

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


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." 


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. 



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. 


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. 


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. 


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 

1 82 

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 


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! 


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. 


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- 


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. 


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 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." 


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. 


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 

i8 7 

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. 



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 


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: 

"Spicer's vessels have been the only constant Traders to> 


"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 


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." 


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 


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 


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 


"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 
<f Toby" 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 


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 


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 

"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." 


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 


A Motor dash over the Slope Road. 

View of Hythe Canal. 


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. 


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 


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 


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 


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 


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. 


In theold 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. 


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.) 


"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 


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." 



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. 


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 


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


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, 


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

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 

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 


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- 


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 

"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, 


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- 

"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): 


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 


"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 

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?" 


"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. 


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. 


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. 


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 

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


"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. 


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). 


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. 


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. 


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


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. 


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- 


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." W e ll, 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. 


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 


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 "lonig 
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. 



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." 



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- 



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 


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- 


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


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." 


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 


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 


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. 



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." 


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 


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." 


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." 


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." 


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 


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


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 


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 aar 2 "* 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 


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 


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 


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 


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. 



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 


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 


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. 


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 


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 


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 


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. 



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. 


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 


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. 


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 


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 


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 


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 


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 



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 


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- 


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 


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." 


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 

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. 



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 

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


Jan. i st. Execution of Steddyhole murderer. 

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


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



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

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 

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

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


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. 


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

July I4th First volunteer artillery shell practice from 

the Martello Towers. 


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. 


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. 


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


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

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 

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. 


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- 

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

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

July 1 8th. Church Rate controversy. 

Aug. ist. Grand Cricket Week. 


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. 


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 


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. 


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'* 


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 

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 



Feb. 1 7th. Heavy gale. 

March 3rd. Strike in the local building trade. 


April 2 1 st. First Easter Volunteer Review. 

June 22nd. The late Rev. C. H. Spurgeon at the Town 


July 27th. First promenade bands organised. 
August 2oth. Folkestone and Dover Corporation play 
Cricket Match on Sandgate Plain. Folkestone won 

September nth. Folkestone, Shorncliffe, Hythe, and 
Sandgate Military and Open Flat and Hurdle 
races near Shorncliffe Station. 


January 23rd. Production of grand Amateur Panto- 
mime at Town Hall (Mr. F. Till). Great success. 

February 8th. Turnpike Irust (Dover and Sandgate) 

March 2ist. Enlargement of Christ Church. 

April nth. Stormy vestry meeting (poll demanded). 

May 22nd. Proposed new station for West End of 

June 2Oth. Appointment of Mr. R. B. Home as Surveyor. 

June 1 4th. Holy Trinity Church opened, without cere- 

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 

Sept. 8th. Fonudation stone laid of Bathing Establish- 

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 

Nov. 9th. Mayor's dinner. Stormy proceedings through 
introduction of politics. 

Nov. 1 8th. Baron Rothschild re-elected for the Borough. 


March 29th. Easter Monday Review. Great gale and 
snowstorm. Loss of H.M. Ferret alongside 
Admiralty Pier. 28,000 volunteers take part in 

April /th. Resignation of Mr. Ralph Thomas Brockman, 
Town Clerk. 


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 



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- 

Dec. 27th. Big fire in High Street. 


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- 

March 22nd. Demolition Martello tower at Dym- 

May 6th. Census returns. Population of Folkestone, 

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- 

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. 



April 3rd. Foundation stone laid of St. Peter's Schools. 
April nth. Cutting of first sod of Hythe branch rail- 

May 8th. Death of Sir John Bligh at Sandgate. 
June 2Oth. Opening of Folkestone Cement Works. 
Dec. 2th. Death of ex-Superintendent Martin. 

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. 


Jan. 26th. Resignation of Baron Meyer de Rothschild, 

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. 


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- 


July ^th. Great jewel robbery at Harbour Station, 
Capture of thieves by Supt. Wilshere at Apple- 

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. 


Jan. nth. Death of Mr. Frederick Brockman, Master 

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- 

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 


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 

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. 



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- 

Dec. 28th. Visit of "Elijah the Prophet" arrayed in 
sheepskins. A religious enthusiast. 


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 

Dec. i /th. Special meeting of the Town Council to 
consider proposed winter gardens in Lower 
Sandgate Road. 


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- 


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 

Dec. 4th. First shaft driven of Channel tunnel. 



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 



Sole Agents for this District for 
- - Rover and Wolseley Cars. - - 

All Tyres and Accessories in Stock. 

Martin Winser & Co., 

and at Tunbridge, Wells. 

TELEPHONE 444 (two lines). 


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