this long stick. The old one will be sure to fly out. Never mind the gate. I'll come and help you to carry the ladder if you can't do it yourself." "Well, as I'm a living sinner, if somebody haven't been and left the rick-yard gate open, and all the pigs be got out, and they 're at Micheldean by this time, I'll lay a guinea! Jack! Jack! there's Jem a-been and left the rick-yard gate open, and all the pigs be got out! Do 'ee run down the road and see if you can see anything on 'em. Od rot 'un! if I could catch 'un I'd thump 'un well !" I never saw her but this once, and as she then appeared, so does my recollection follow her through life, even to the last scene in that damp, hot, steaming house at Cape Coast, from whose mysteries the veil will never be lifted. Castle End is now to be let, as I see by a small modest announcement upon the palings. It appears sadly shrunk and gone down in the world from what it used to be, as all old places do when we revisit them. But excepting that the garden and the evergreens look a little rougher than formerly, for want of a tenant to look after them, there is very little difference in the place. The house, to be sure, will never again witness such jolly doings with my lords and my ladies, but the garden, in reality, may contain about the same quantity of cabbage and carrots as it did in Miss C.'s time, and the old fir tree seems to have about as large a head for the wind to wheeze and moan through, as it had when the cajolery failed upon the climbing boys. Landlord! spare that tree; for with it you would cut down some pleasant associations, not unmixed with serious and sad thoughts. Our reveries must, in the nature of things, partake of this piebald character; and yet, notwithstanding, I should be sorry to pack up mine in a box, like Mrs. Jenkins's maid of The Close. A RAMBLE ALONG THE OLD KENTISH ROAD FROM CANTERBURY TO LONDON: ITS CURIOSITIES AND ANTIQUITIES. BY HENRY CURLING. "Kent, in the Commentaries Cæsar writ, Is termed the civil'st place of all this isle:— Sweet is the country, because full of riches.”—Henry VI. In the present time, and under the present system, when all men rush through the country by rail-road, a perambulation or a quiet ride along the old beaten highway, is almost as rare a circumstance as an excursion through the centre of Africa. The old road from Canterbury to London was, in former days, a well-known route, and so full of interest, from its various associations, that every stage was classic ground. A man could no more pass through the woodland scenery on the London side of Rochester, without thinking of Gadshill and his minions of the moon lurking about in the gloaming, and listening for the tread of travellers, than he could stop at one of the Chaucer-like hostels at Canterbury without being reminded of pilgrims, fat-paunched abbots, lusty bachelors, and merry-eyed wives of Bath. In such scenes, divested as they are of the pestiferous vapour and the squalor of the mining and manufacturing districts, the spectator, as he gazes over the undulating woodland, with here and there some old square flint tower of a village church peeping out, and the road seen winding over each wooded ascent,-might almost imagine himself looking upon England when tuck of drum startled the hamlets around, and the York and Lancastrian factions beat up for men to feed their ranks. Nay, the old English landscape becomes peopled with the peasantry of those Shaksperian days, clad in one sort of rural costume-the broad high-crowned castor, the leathern doublet, or the loose smock gathered in with the broad belt at the waist. As I lay one fine morning in an old, rickety, square-topped, redcurtained bed, in a venerable room of one of the antique hostels at Canterbury, whilst the morning sun streamed through the casement upon the uneven flooring, and shone brightly upon the oak panels of the wainscot, it struck me that, instead being whisked up to London by train, I should like to box the road, and observe its varieties, and look up its points of interest en route. After breakfast, therefore, I hired a rough and ready pony, and, with the bridle under my arm, commenced my pilgrimage along the once well-known and well-frequented high road towards Sittingbourne. The first place I made a short halt at, after clearing the suburbs and ascending the hill without the city, was the ancient village of Harbledown. In this small place, and in the hospital built by Lanfranc in the year 1084, a precious relic was formerly deposited, which was kept there as a sort of preparatory initiation to the worshipful, on their pilgrimage to the shrine of Thomas à Becket,the relic being neither more nor less than Thomas's old slipper, which "all pilgrims, poor devils, and wayfarers were enjoined and expected to kiss, previous to their visit to the veritable tomb of the saint himself."* From this point the traveller continues to ascend through a beautifully wooded country, till he reaches Boughton Hill. This hill and the track of ground just traversed, for about four miles, was in ancient days a thick and almost impenetrable forest, in which the boar, the grisly bear, and many other animals of the chase, were to be found. And here the knightly and the noble, with their attendant trains, were wont to pursue their sport, with hound and horn and spear, in a somewhat more rude and dangerous fashion than the hunt is at present conducted. After passing the long street of Boughton, on the rising ground somewhat to the right of the road, and standing in a fine green paddock or park, an antiquated-looking mansion or manor-house may be observed. The appearance of this house, and its magnificent stabling and offices,-its dilapidated look, and its desolate and deserted state, had often, in former years, interested me. Passing on, I now saw Faversham on my right, and stopped for a moment to glance at the chapel of Davington, formerly a Benedictine priory, consisting of twenty-six nuns and their superior,-called, from the poverty of their revenue, "the poor nuns of Davington.” A short walk further, and the pleasant village of Ospringe was gained, a stream of clear water running across it. On the north side are yet to be seen the remains of the once famous Maison Dieu founded by Lucas de Viennes for the Templars; whilst on the opposite side was the hospital for lepers, part of which may also be observed. arms. A mile or two further on, and we come to another long village, of one street, called Green Street. Here formerly the famous knight, Apuldorf, kept his state, amongst his numerous vassals and men-atHe was the friend and bon camarado of Richard Cœur-deLion. They were fratres jurati,-and the very name of Apuldorf, like that of his royal companion, was terrible to the ears of the Saracen. Castle Grove, as it is still called, has even yet some green mounds, to point out the site of the stronghold where he kept wassail. The armour of this Kentish champion formerly hung in Leynham Church. Passing Green Street, the eye now traverses a charming country, -woodland and meadow on the left, and to the right the Thames and Medway are seen emptying themselves into the main of waters. A short walk further brought me to Tong. Here I found the remains of a very ancient fortress, built (saith tradition) by Hengist and Horsa in 450. A large moat would seem to have surrounded the stronghold; but a mill has choked up a portion of it for upwards of two hundred years. The miller, I was informed, whilst digging within the castle, discovered a brass helmet, and a number of small urns. As I prepared to mount my pony in order to pursue my way, it struck me that he looked hungry. Perhaps some slight feeling of the sort which I began to experience myself might have been father to the thought. I therefore resolved to look up a quaint hostel in the *It was this slipper which Erasmus the learned squinted upon with contempt and derision, on occasion of his visit, describing it as neither more nor less than the upper leather of an old shoe, garnished with one or two crystals set in copper. first town or village I came to, and make a halt there for the important purpose of dining. A mile further, and Sittingbourne appeared before me. Sittingbourne, like all the stages on this road, a few years back, and before railoads monopolized all travel, was a lively village. How well do we remember it in the palmy days of posting. Its innyards all live, and merry as the painting which describes the stableyard of the hostel in the days of Chaucer. What queer-looking hangers on, knowing postboys, pimple-faced hostlers, and rapscallion helpers lounged about the livelong day, in waiting for the numerous first-turns and stages that came tiring on. What shoutings for first-turn boys up, and first and second turns down we used to hear! What crackings of whips and startings of teams, and what knowing four-in-hand coaches we used to see in those days. Then, what brilliant equipages, trunked and imperialed, and radiant with female loveliness, came whirling up to the inn doors every hour of the day. What sprightly waiters flew about, napkin in hand, in attendance upon the various dinners, and what blooming chambermaids hurried hither and thither, their rooms filled with guests for the night, and hardly knowing where to accommodate fresh arrivals continually coming up. Alas for Sittingbourne! Like all the old towns on this and every other road, thy glory hath departed from thee, thy hostlers are "trade fallen," thy inns shut up,-thy landlords have slunk away, and peaked and pined for lack of guests. The very helpers and jolly dogs, who used to hang on, and take their life and being from the reflected grandeur of the portly coachman who drove the teams they tended, are no more. The hostlers have wandered away no one knows where, to die of grief and chagrin no one knows how. The stalls of the numerous stables have long been tenantless. The signs before the inn-doors no longer promise good entertainment for man or beast, and the railroad and the station have superseded Sittingbourne. About a mile from Milton church, which is the next place the traveller comes to, is a good-sized field called Campsley Down. This is the spot on which the Danes encamped under Hastings. The remains of a moat point out the place where these robbers erected a stronghold. King Alfred had a palace at Milton, which caused it to be called "The royal town of Milton." A short walk further, and we come to a slight ascent called CaicolHill. On this spot the Kentish Britons were encountered by Caius Trebonius, who had been detached by Cæsar with three legions and all his cavalry for forage, on which occasion the Britons were beaten. Passing over Standard Hill, we come to the ancient town of Newington. Here are the very slight remains of the nunnery of Newington. By whom it was founded no record remains. Tradition, however, gives its Gothic walls and cloistered seclusion an evil repute. The nuns of Newington strangled their prioress in her bed, and, to hide the deed, cast her body into a deep pit. The crime was, however discovered, and Henry the Third delivered the unscrupulous sisterhood who were guilty over to the secular power, to be dealt with according to their deserts. After this he filled their cloister with seven secular canons. This fraternity, however, seem to have VOL. XXIII. I been as bad a lot as the sisterhood they succeeded, for four of the shavelings, very soon after their admission, murdered one of their own brother canons, and they were ousted and executed in turn. So much for the nunnery of Newington. We now left this neighbourhood of monkish misdeed, and, girding up our loins, proceeded through the village of Rainham, passed over the old Roman road, the famous Watling Street, and stood upon Chatham Hill. Here we reined up for a time; and, as we paused to regard the magnificent specimen of castellated grandeur which is here first seen towering over the neighbouring town, we reflected, for a moment, upon the fierce contentions of the Norman period, during which this old road must have been the constant witness of battle and slaughter, flight and pursuit. Descending the chalky hill, we come to Chatham, a town well known to the united services. Here the traveller quickly forgets the "o'ertaken past" in the bustle and stir of objects of present interest. In the crowded streets of Chatham we fall in, at every step, with the soldiers of the latest fields in which the British flag has been unfurled. Every fourth man one meets in Chatham wears the uniform of the unwearied, indefatigable infantry of the line. As we passed into Rochester, a regiment just disembarked was marching into the town. Their medals told of the last-fought fields in India, and they came on in all the delight of again reaching home, absolutely dancing and singing through the streets. THE WATER-LILY. "She that purifies the light, The virgin Lily, faithful to her white, THE earth lay dreaming in a golden light, And trembles in her love and loveliness,― HOOD. As though some mystic love to them was given : Univ. Coll. Durham, CUTHBERT BEDE. * Nymphœa (vvμon “a bride") alba is its botanical name. |