 CHAPTER XIII Margate Jetty was dull and deserted that night. I went there when darkness precluded farther rolling, but with the rest of the lounges was driven off by a steady fall of rain. The sky was overcast with dark clouds, and the patching rain formed a dismal accompaniment to the melancholy surging of the sea among the iron columns below. I sought my lodging, therefore, and strove to while away an hour in conversation with the old son of Crispin at whose domicile I had quartered myself. "'This must be a very dull place in the winter,' I remarked. "'Oh, no,' he rejoined. "'You don't see so many people, of course, and it is quieter always—no band, no niggers, and such like about—but, bless you, there is always something exciting going on, a ship coming ashore, or the lifeboat going off, or a disabled vessel being towed into the harbour.' "'Any smuggling done now?' I asked. "'Nothing, or next to nothing,' the old man replied. "'It don't pay now, like it did in the old times, when there was heavy duties on foreign wines and spirits and silks and lace. Fortunes used to be made in them days in what they called the free trade.' But recalling the story of Will Watch, embodied in more than one old ballad and modern romance with which I was acquainted in my boyhood, I could remember hearing much about smugglers and smuggling, which disposed me to be a willing listener to anything the old man might say upon that subject. I had heard my father speak of the smuggled merchandise brought into London in those days by strings of pack-horses, through byways and green lanes. And I knew a mansion in Surrey, within six miles of the Metropolitan Bridges, which was the suburban residence of a wealthy wholesale-mercer, whose father was said to have made a fortune by speculations in smuggled French silks, the said mansion being, when I was a boy, familiarly spoken of in the village, a smuggler's hall. I remembered, too, that being one day, many years ago, at one of the oldest houses in Norwood, then the property of one of my maternal aunts, the old lady who saw the ghost. My relative produced a bottle of Hollands, with the remark, This was smuggled by old Will Fox. It is the last bottle. There must have been some money flying, when the famous Bill Johnson escaped from horse-monger Lane jail. I observed, in response to the old man's last remark, Aye! he returned. It was a golden key that opened the prison doors for him, you may depend upon it. And a sight of money must have been spent to open the way to Beloyne for him. I have heard my father say that relays of post-horses were ready every ten miles of the road to Dover, and that all the turnpike gates were thrown open for him to dash through without a moment's hindrance. The smugglers on this part of the coast used to run their cargos ashore at the gaps, didn't they? Said I. Aye! Many's the cask and bail that's come up the gaps between here and the Forland, he replied. There was always men on the lookout when one of the luggers was expected. And then she dodged off and on until a favourable opportunity offered, such as a dark night, or the preventive men being led away on a false scent, and then a signal was given, such as a flare or a blue light, and the cargo was run and before daylight was carted away in land. Sometimes there was a fight, I suppose. Not so often as might be supposed, or the trade couldn't have been carried on. Still, the preventive men used to come down upon them sometimes, and then shots would be fired, and perhaps there would be some cutlass work. I remember hearing a story when I was a boy of a fray like that, in which a preventive officer was shot dead, and a young man who was said to have been helping to run the cargo disappeared, but whether he had been killed in the fray and secretly buried, or whether he had run away on account of being concerned in it, nobody could say. When several years had passed without anything being heard of him, his father, who was a farmer, and had accumulated some property, as farmers could in them days, died, and the second son stepped into everything, telling everybody that his brother had died in France. In less than a year, however, the elder brother came back, and claimed the property. The other one tried at first to make out that he was an imposter, but finding that wouldn't do, he gave information to the justices, and the young man was taken upon a warrant, and tried at Maidstone for the murder of the officer. "'Was he convicted?' I asked. No, there was not sufficient evidence found when it come to be tried, and so he was acquitted. The rain had by this time ceased, and I went out to look at the sea again, and to ponder the old man's story, the chief incidents of which I recast into the following form, as I leaned over the railing at the back of the houses on the north side of the high street, looking at the somber sea, and listening to the mournful sound made by the tide, as it alternately rolled up the shingle below, and then swept it back again. The King's Press Two hundred years ago no one would have predicted that Margate, or as it was then called Margate, would ever attain its present proportions. It was a village only, consisting of a straggling street of wooden houses occupied chiefly by fishermen with a sprinkling of necessary shops, and the old flint-built church dedicated to St. John the Baptist, which had been erected in the eleventh century sixteen years before William the Norman marched through Kent with his victorious army. Such it had been for centuries, and such it seemed likely to remain, and probably would have remained but for the inventions of Watt and Stevenson. One night at no later hour than the band now plays on the jetty, but at which few lights twinkled in cottage windows and shops were all closed in the days when economy in candle-ends prompted early hours. A band of seamen armed with cutlasses and pistols, and whose leader's uniform showed that he was an officer of a King's ship, came from the little harbour in which the fishermen moored their boats, and tramped along the street in the direction of the village ale-house, before which swung the sign of the six bells. There they paused and listened. Night shone through the faded red curtain at the window, and from within came the sound of merry voices, bursts of laughter, and snatches of song, mingled with the chinking of ale-mugs. "'There must be a dozen star-fellows in there,' whispered the officer to a boson, "'we shall have a rare hall.' Entering the house alone he looked into the room in which the topers were assembled, and saw that most of them were fishermen, with here and there a yeoman or farmer of the neighbourhood. "'What cheer, lads!' he exclaimed, assuming a jovial tone, how many of you will volunteer to serve the King!' The voices ceased, the merriment died away instantly, and mugs on their way to mouths were set down again. "'The press!' cried one, as the figures of the seaman were seen beyond the officer, and then they all sprang to their feet, some rushing to the window, others snatching up ash sticks and fire-ions to defend themselves. The officer and his men rushed into the room, and the former, seeing an athletic young fellow endeavouring to escape by the window, caught him by the arm, and tried to pull him back. A struggle ensued. A knife was snatched from a seaman's belt and plunged into the officer's breast. He staggered back with a gurgling cry which subsided into a groan as he fell upon the floor, and the homicide made his escape by the window. Similar struggles were going on at the same time between the latter's companions and the seaman, both sides using their weapons freely but without any more serious results than cuts and contusions on heads and arms. In the end half a dozen of the villagers were dragged away to serve the King, their companions having escaped by the window, and the corpse of the officer was left to await the coroner's inquest. The affray, resulting as it did in the slaying of a King's officer and the impressement of six fishermen, produced an unwonted excitement in the quiet little village. There was another man missing, the eldest son of a substantial yeoman of the neighbourhood, but as his description corresponded with that given by more than one of the seamen of the young man whom they had seen struggling with the officer, and the boson swore that he was not among the impressed men, it was supposed that he had fled to avoid the consequences of the fatal blow, and a warrant was issued for his apprehension. Ten years passed, and Paul Max did not return. If his relatives received any communication from him they did not make it public, but professed to know no more than their neighbours. His father died a few years after his disappearance, and his younger brother Stephen Max did took possession of the patrimonial estate. One day, as the young yeoman was calculating the probable value of his ungarned corn crop, for he was a man over much concerned with the care of adding guinea to guinea, a footstep on the garden path and a shadow on the porch drew his attention to a stalwart figure in the garb of a mariner, who, as he looked up, stepped forward and extended a large brown hand. "'What chair, Stephen!' said the mariner, with hearty joviality. Stephen Max did stared, changed colour, and neither moved nor spoke. His wife, who was rocking the cradle on the other side of the table at which he was sitting, looked up on hearing the stranger's voice and wondered who he was. "'Don't you know me?' said the mariner, as ten years' wandering so changed him that you don't know your own and only brother. "'My brother!' exclaimed the yeoman, with an air of surprise and incredulity. My brother went away ten years ago and has never been heard of since. Who you are I don't know. Then I must be more changed than I thought I was,' said the mariner, with an expression of disappointment on his sun-brown but not unhandsome countenance. He doffed his cap on perceiving Stephen's wife, and, without waiting to be invited, seated himself near the table and looked around the room. "'The old place is little changed,' he observed. "'And I should have known you, Stephen, if I had met you on the custom-house key at Rotterdam. That, lady, Mrs. Stephen Max, did I reckon, has changed more than you have, but I think I remember her when she was called Jenny Harnett.' "'I don't remember you,' said the young woman, averting her eyes from the mariner and occupying herself with her baby. "'And I don't believe your Paul Max did any more than I am the Duke of York,' said her husband. "'You don't?' exclaimed the mariner, with even more surprise and incredulity in his tone and look than had been manifested by the yeoman. There was a strong resemblance between the two men, not only in the colour of the hair and the eyes and the general cast of countenance, but even in every feature, their dissimilarity being confined to the expression of character and temperament, in respect of which the balance was in favour of the mariner. "'What will convince you?' the latter asked after a pause. "'It will take a good deal to convince me that your Paul Max did,' Stephen replied coldly. "'It would be uphill work to convince you against your will, Stephen,' said the mariner, with a thoughtful air. "'Have you got a bit of my writing anywhere?' "'Not a scrap,' replied Stephen, with a shrug. "'Not the letters I wrote from Rotterdam,' said the mariner. "'My brother never wrote,' rejoined the yeoman. "'We have for years believed him dead.' "'Try me with questions about the family and about the place,' said the other. "'Not I,' returned Stephen, "'you have got your story up well,' I daresay. "'This is not the sort of welcome I expected,' the mariner observed, as he rose and turned towards the door. "'But I daresay I shall find old mates in the village that will know me, and be glad to see me.' Stephen Max had changed colour again on hearing this remark, but he said, not a word, and the unwelcome visitor departed. "'He has gone towards Margate,' said the yeoman, gazing after him with an air of anxious thought. "'Is he Paul, think you?' inquired his wife. "'He can't be,' he replied. "'He is not a bit like Paul.' "'But what made you say Paul never wrote?' Jenny asked. "'What made me say that?' returned Stephen with a slight degree of confusion. "'Why, I wasn't going to give him a chance of producing a tolerable imitation of Paul's handwriting. Let him make out his claim the best way he can.' He made two or three turns across the room, corrugating his brows, and looking anxious and perplexed in spite of his strong expressions of disbelief of the mariner's claim. In truth, there was in his mind, no doubt whatever, that it was his brother from whom he had just parted so coldly after a separation of ten years, but he was unwilling to acknowledge the conviction to his wife, having long before determined that he would never willingly surrender to Paul the patrimony which circumstances had placed in his possession. "'This fellow must be looked after,' he observed, or he will make mischief. "'There is nothing very particular to be done today, so I think I'll ride over to Canterbury and see a lawyer about it.' So while the mariner walked towards Margate, gradually forgetting his disappointment under the influence of sunshine and his natural lightness of heart, Stephen Maxterd was riding towards the ancient city of Canterbury, pondering the possible means of ridding himself of this awkward claimant. "'Nothing easier, my good sir,' said the lawyer to whom he stated the case, rubbing his hands as he spoke, as if he thought the suggestion a good joke. If he is Paul Maxterd, there is a warrant out for him, and I would go bail he would be glad, if he saw it, in company with a constable staff, to prove that he is not Paul Maxterd, though after claiming to be your brother he might find that as difficult as proving that he is Paul Maxterd. Stephen Maxterd had thought of this while riding, and he was not sorry to have it suggested to him by a lawyer. It made it so much easier for him to satisfy his conscience as to the shortest way of dealing with the claimant. So he rode to the residence of the magistrate who, ten years before, had issued the warrant for his brother's apprehension, and gave information that a man claiming to be Paul Maxterd was in Margate. Mind, he was careful to say, I don't say that he is Paul Maxterd, I don't believe that he is, but he says he is, and if he isn't, why then your information is worth nothing, and if he is Paul Maxterd you will have hanged your brother, rejoined the magistrate, with a look of emphatic condemnation of the informer. But I don't believe he is Paul, said Stephen, colouring to the roots of his hair, and casting down his eyes. Then what have you come here for? the magistrate asked. I must do my duty, Master Stephen Maxterd, and that is to put a constable on the track of this man, but mark me, whether he is your brother or not, your name will stink in the nostrils of Kentish men as long as you live. Stephen Maxterd left the magistrate's presence, looking very red and very glum, and remounting his horse rode slowly home. He said nothing to his wife about his visit to the magistrate, limiting his communication of the result of his journey to Canterbury, to a statement that the lawyer's advice was that the mariner should be left to his own devices, as if he was not Paul Maxterd he was not likely to risk a halter for Paul Maxterd's crime. The mariner was, in the meantime, consoling himself for his reception by Stephen Maxterd, with a carouse at the six bells, with various old acquaintances of Paul Maxterd, who had flocked to the house on the rumour spreading through the village that the missing man had returned. Some had recognised him at sight, others, without doing so, shook his proffered hand heartily, and asked for no proof of his identity when assured by him that he was Paul Maxterd. But aren't it a bit risky, Paul? whispered Will Hogburn, the Wheelwright. What, after ten years? returned the mariner. I reckon that is pretty well blown over by this time, Will, and who is there that would inform against a neighbour for what he did in defence of his liberty. If there is one that would, Margate Manners must have changed while I have been across the herring pond. And so you have been sailing to the Indies with the Dutchman, said Sam Mockett, who kept a general store in the village, and had just run in to see whether it was really true that Paul Maxterd was at the six bells. I warrant you saw many things to be talked about in them outlandish parts. Is it true that the Emperor of Java has a palace covered with plates of gold? Before the mariner could answer the question, the village constable stepped into the room, staffed in hand, and approached the table at which he was sitting. I arrest you, Paul Maxterd, for the murder of Hugh Cleavering, said he. Here is the warrant, and I call upon all to aid and assist in the king's name. No one moved except the mariner, who cleared the table at a bound, overthrew the constable, and rushed for the door. There, stumbling at the threshold over a dog, he was detained by a wagoner, who did not know him, and who, thinking he looked like a foreigner, deemed that circumstance and his flight sufficient to warrant his detention. His endeavours to extricate himself caused the wagoner to hold him with a more determined grip, and the constable, having picked himself up, closed the handcuffs upon his wrists with a savage click. An hour afterwards, one of the fishermen of the village boarded a small Dutch vessel, which had come into harbour that morning, and asked to see the skipper's wife. A fair young woman, with a glory of golden hair waving about one of the loveliest faces the fisherman had ever seen, came from the cabin, and looked inquiringly upon his weather-beaten countenance. "'I wish somebody else had to tell it you,' said he, regarding her with an expression of compassion as he doffed his cap, but it had better be told you at once, and "'What is it? Has anything happened to my husband?' she asked, turning pale at the thought. "'He is well, my good lady,' returned the fisherman, but he has got into a bit of trouble along of a fray there was in the village ten years ago, when a king's officer was killed while pressing men for the navy, and it was sworn as to as Master Paul maxed his hand as struck the blow that killed him. "'Is he in prison?' the poor wife asked, pressing her hand upon her heart. "'Oh, take me to him!' "'Don't get stericky, there's a good lady,' said the fisherman. "'He has gone up to the justice's house to hear the charge, and it may be that they'll be able to make out nothing against him. But while we hope for the best, we must be prepared for the worst.' "'Where is he?' she asked, all the anguish of her mind finding expression in her lovely countenance. "'Take me to him, I must see him.'" Poor lass! murmured the fisherman, as she hurriedly attired herself for the shore, and came forth from the cabin, leading by the hand a beautiful girl of three or four years old. They had not advanced far along the village street when they were met by a brown-faced fisher-lad, who was hurrying towards the harbour with an expression upon his countenance that indicated the possession of news and a burning desire to impart it. "'What cheer, Master Kebel?' he cried, scarcely pausing, but turning round and walking backward, speaking as he went. "'Heard the news? Paul Max did his committed, and they say he'll be hung.'" "'Never, sure!' exclaimed Kebel, dilating his eyes widely. "'Harder, life! But there! Don't be cast down, my good lady. It may not be true, after all.' For a moment the mariner's lovely wife looked as if she would faint. But she leaned against a wall, and a mug of water brought by a fisherman's wife arrested the receding life. As she put back the golden tresses from her forehead her blue eyes discerned a well-known figure on the opposite side of the street. It was her husband, handcuffed, and in the custody of the Constable. In a moment she had bounded to his side and clasped him in her arms while the little girl clung weeping to her father's coat. At that moment the joyous clang of bells rang out from the old church tower, and the clatter of horses' feet upon the hard road, causing the Fisher children, who had gathered about the prisoner and his grief-stricken wife and child, to turn their gaze eastward. A cry was raised of, "'Here they come!' and the sorrowing group was immediately deserted for the new attraction. "'Huzzah!' shouted the villagers, running from their shops and their cottages and from the six bells, as a troupe of velvet-coated and sordid cavaliers trotted into the village. "'Huzzah!' for the king and the noble duke!' The king exclaimed the prisoner's wife, catching at the word as if it had been a reprieve from the scaffold. And then she rushed into the road, and throwing herself upon her knees in the dust, raised her clasped hands and tearful countenance, lovely even in grief, crying, "'Pardon, most gracious king, pardon!' "'For whom do you implore pardon, my good woman?' asked the king, who with his royal brother had just before landed at Bartholomew's gate, thenceforward to be known as the king's gate. "'For yonder good-looking rascal with the bracelets on his wrists, come hither, fellow!' "'Surely I have seen him before,' he added, as if speaking to himself, as the prisoner and the constable stepped into the road, the latter taking off both his own hat and the prisoner's. "'Of what is he accused?' "'He has just been committed, may it please your Majesty, on the charge of murdering Hugh Clavering, an officer of the fleet, ten years ago,' replied the constable. "'Ten years ago!' repeated the king, stroking his moustache with an air of thought, as he contemplated the sad yet bold face of the prisoner. "'What do you say to the charge, fellow?' "'It was a hasty blow, your Majesty, struck by a desperate man in defence of his liberty,' replied Paul Maxstead. "'Resisting the press, may it please your Majesty,' said the constable. "'Or to be hanged,' observed the Duke of York with a frown. "'How is the fleet to be manned?' "'The certificate, Paul,' cried the kneeling beauty, raising her blue eyes anxiously to her husband's countenance. "'Where is it?' "'In my breast pocket,' replied the prisoner, a ray of hope shining into his heart as he remembered it. In an instant she had sprung to his side, and took from his pocket a little leather case from which she drew a folded paper. "'Ah!' ejaculated the king, as he extended his hand for it. "'I thought I had seen him before.' The paper was in his own handwriting, and set forth that Paul Maxstead had on a certain day saved the life of Charles Stewart. "'The boon-new crave is granted, good woman,' said the king, returning the paper. "'By my faith a sweet face, James. "'The pardon shall be sent down as soon as I reach Whitehall.' "'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, your Majesty,' said Paul Maxstead. "'A bold fellow?' murmured Charles, glancing at him under his bushy brows, as ready with his tongue as with his cudgel. "'But I have a sad habit of forgetting things that I ought to remember, I must confess. "'Draw me up a pardon in as clerkly a form as you can,' he added, addressing one of his attendants, who instantly dismounted and disappeared within the doors of the six bells. "'Heaven, bless your Majesty,' cried the prisoner's wife, as with tearful eyes she leaned upon her husband's shoulder. "'You should have seen how the fellow laid about him,' said the king, turning to his royal brother. "'He saved my life, I verily believe, when I was sorely beset by the rufflers of Alsatia during a night frolic with Rochester and Sedley.' "'The pardon, being brought him for signature,' he scrawled Carolus Rex at the foot without leaving the saddle, gave it to Maxstead's wife, who availed herself of the opportunity to kiss his hand, and rode on amidst cries of, "'God bless your Majesty, as are for the king and the noble Duke.' The constable, being unable to read, would feign have taken his prisoner back to the residence of the magistrate by whom he had been committed. But the villagers insisted upon Maxstead's instant liberation, and he was awed by their vociferations and threats into unlocking the handcuffs and setting him free. They would then have carried him off to the six bells, but Paul, shaking hands with the nearest, hurried towards the harbour with his wife and child. Stephen Maxstead left the neighbourhood a few days afterwards, and took up his abode in an adjoining county under a change of name. Paul Maxstead abandoned his roving life on the ocean, renounced taverns and roistering companions, and lived quietly and happily during the remainder of his life on his patrimony, remitting to his brother on every quarter-day a sum of money sufficient for his support for the next three months, thus returning good for evil, though Stephen could never be brought to see the matter in that light. End of Chapter 13 Chapter 14 of In Kent with Charles Dickens This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ruth Golding In Kent with Charles Dickens by Thomas Frost Chapter 14 On the following morning, as soon as I had breakfasted, I started on a ramble westward, leaving the high road and following a footpath, or rather a track, worn by the feet of preceding ramblers, along the edge of the cliff. Arable land, across which the view was extremely limited, was on my left, and on the right, below the tall white cliff, stretched the sea, which, for a short time after I started, was shrouded in mist. Presently the fog lifted and quickly dispersed, the sun shone out upon land and sea, and beyond the broken masses of brown and green rock below me, over which the white-tipped waves were breaking, an illimitable expanse of water changed by imperceptible gradations from green to silver. Returning to the high road near the village of Birchington, I left it again by the lane which passes the railway station and terminates at a farmhouse at the western extremity of the village. From this point there is a footpath through the marshes between Cliff End and Reculver, and which extend inland as far as Starmouth. It is a narrow causeway between the green pastures, which stretch away on the left as far as the villages between Nicholas and Sarr, and the strip of waste which the seawall separates from the beach and protects from the encroachments of the waves. The yellow-flowering poppy of the coast and other plants which grow only in marshes bordering the sea may be found in this waste, in traversing which the rambler will probably meet only a brown-faced fisher-boy, and here only the bleating of sheep on the one hand and the horse murmur of the sea on the other. This part of the coast abounds with evidences of the physical changes which have been going on for ages and are still visibly in progress. The greater part of the parish of Reculver has been washed away. A yeoman whom I once met and conversed with while resting and refreshing myself with a glass of ale at the red lion at St. Peter's and whose patrimony is bounded northward by the edge of the cliff, assured me that his farm was several acres less in extent than when he inherited it. The church is a ruin perched on the edge of the clay cliff which extends from that point to Whitstable and has been saved from the fate which more than half a century ago overtook the greater part of the burial-ground only by the construction of the seawall by the corporation of the Trinity House, by whom also the two towers of the church on account of their utility to passing vessels as landmarks. Before the cliff was faced with stone human bones were frequently picked up on the beach and the broken ends of coffins might be seen protruding from the crumbling face of the cliff. The name of this place is derived from the military station called Regulbium which the Roman governors of the island established to guard the channel which in those days divided the Isle of Thanet from the mainland, but of which the only existing traces are two or three ditches through the marshes. The site was near the Coast Guard Station in which direction there appears to have been a considerable town, many vaults, cisterns and foundations of buildings having been discovered at various times by the falling of the cliff, together with large numbers of Roman and British coins, utensils and articles of pottery. Some of the old chroniclers state that a palace was built here by Ethelbut I, King of Kent, and this may have been the castle mentioned by later writers within the walls of which the church formerly stood and some shattered portions of which still remain on the eastern and southern sides overgrown with ivy and briny and half concealed in some part by elder trees. These fragments show the walls were twelve feet thick and built of flints, pebbles and septaria unmingled as at Richborough with Roman bricks. There are no traces of towers. Of the monastery which existed here in the Anglo-Saxon period and in the church of which the Kentish kings Ethelbut I and Ethelbut II are said to have been buried, the latter in 760, not a stone remains. To look for Roman remains here at the present day would be useless the sight of Regulbium having long been under water. Batterley, writing towards the end of the seventeenth century, says he remembered that, quote, when part of the cliff being undermined by the waves fell down some years ago, some brick foundations of great bulk were discovered, in which were some small vaults arched over. And while I was examining them with my hand I saw some fragments of a tessellated pavement and of other Roman works. But I only saw them for very soon after, either broken by the waves or swallowed by the sand, even these ruins were destroyed. End quote. Hastid says that, quote, from the present shore, as far as a place called the Black Rock seen at Low Watermark, have been found great quantities of tiles, bricks, fragments of walls, tessellated pavements and other marks of a ruinated town. And remains of household furniture, dress and equipage of the horses belonging to the inhabitants are continually met with among the sands, for after the fall of the cliffs the earthen part of them being washed away, these metaline substances remained behind. End quote. In the old church nothing now remains but the two towers, known for ages as the two sisters, and a portion of the walls. The former vicarage house, very near these remains, has been converted into a public house and is much frequented during the summer by visitors from Margate and Herne Bay. The present village and church are about a mile and a half distant in a south-westerly direction. The towers of the ancient church, which are conspicuous objects at a great distance, whether on land or sea, are often pointed out to each other by cockney voyagers as the reculvers, which is as absurd as it would be to designate the towers of Westminster Abbey as the Westminster's. The spot is even marked by this ridiculous appellation on Bacon's map of Kent. Their traditional name originated in the circumstances of their reparation by an abyss of the Benedictine convent at Davington near Favisham, as related by a Dominican friar of Canterbury who quitted England at the time of the Reformation and died at Louverne, bequeathing his manuscripts to the university of that city. According to this narrative, the abyss, France's St Clair, during a dangerous illness, vowed that in the event of her recovery she would visit the shrine of the Holy Virgin at Bradstow, as Broadstairs was then called, and their offer a costly present as a grateful acknowledgement of the saint's intercession in her behalf. Having recovered, she, in fulfilment of her vow, embarked aboard a small vessel, accompanied by her sister Isabel, to whom she was devotedly attached. But they had been scarcely two hours at sea when a storm arose which drove the vessel on a sand-bank near a culvert. The abyss, with some of the passengers and crew, succeeded in reaching the shore in a boat, and Isabel, who remained on board the disabled vessel for some hours after her sister, was, with the remainder of those on board, rescued from it by a boat sent off to their relief, but died on the following day from the effects of cold and exhaustion. In pious remembrance of the peril from which she had been delivered, and to perpetuate the memory of her sister, as well as to warn mariners from the dangerous proximity of the shoal, she caused the towers of the church, which had fallen into decay, to be repaired and raised higher, directing that they should thereafter be called the two sisters. Leaving the ancient churchyard, in which many moss-grown gravestones of considerable antiquity may be found, many of them so deeply sunk into the earth as to be overtopped by the tall nettles, I dined and rested at the neighbouring public house, called, if I remember rightly, the King Ethelbutt, which is probably unique among signs. I was the only guest that day. On a former visit, when I walked from Herne Bay on a Sunday afternoon in summer, the parlor was crowded with visitors and filled it with a blue haze of tobacco smoke. All bona fide travellers, as defined by the statute, for they had all come from London by rail or steamboat and walked from Herne Bay or Margate. The following day, being the last of my pilgrimage, I devoted to an inland stroll through the most pleasant spots of which Thanet can boast. Having followed the high road westward as far as Birchington, I there turned into a secluded lane on the left, which leads at a little distance to a footpath across the fields to the Hamlet of Acle, and thence to Mount Pleasant, the highest spot in the island, and in the midst of scenes made interesting by their historical and legendary associations. From the summit of this hill I looked over the most extensive prospect which the eye can command anywhere between the star and the sea. To the right, looking across the green pastures between St. Nicholas and Reculver, was the sea, its emerald waves glittering in the sunlight as if tipped with silver, and the towers of the ruined church of Reculver distinctly defined against the clear blue sky in the distance. Westward the delighted eye wanders over a wide tract of intermingled pasture, arable and woodland, pleasantly undulating, with the towers and spires of village churches rising among the distant woods, the white spire which surmounts the tower of Ash Church and serves as a landmark being especially conspicuous towards the south, and the venerable towers of Canterbury Cathedral backed by Harboldon and the woods beyond closing the view up the valley of the star. On the left is Pegwell Bay with the star meandering through the once-submerged flats and guiding the eye onward to where the towers of the sandwich churches rise against the bright blue sky and thence to the downs. The early history of our island seems to unfold itself before the mind's eye as we stand on this hill and look around. It was here, according to tradition, that the Kentish king Ethelbut I met the Roman monk Augustine and held the first conference on the prospect of converting to Christianity our pagan ancestors. Away to the right where the towers of the ancient church of Reculver cut the sky stood the palace or castle which was built by Ethelbut and the monastery to which he is said to have retired after his conversion. Close at hand are the low green ridge which marks the course taken by Dom Nifers-Dier and the chasm which engulfed the base assassin, Thunnell. To the left is sandwich where the galleys of Imperial Rome have anchored and whence fleets have so often sailed to prosecute the interminable Anglo-French wars of the Middle Ages. And then what memories crowd upon us as we look towards Canterbury or gaze southward upon the shipping in the Danes? The remarkable events embodied in the legend of Dom Nifers-Dier and Thunnell's Leap are said by Thorn, a native of Thanet and a monk of the monastery of St. Augustine at Canterbury to have occurred in the latter part of the seventh century. The manor of Thanet was held at that time by Egbert, king of Kent whose nephews, Ethelred and Ethelbright were left to his guardianship under a solemn promise that they should succeed him in the sovereignty. Thunnell, a base and sycophantic minister, advised Egbert to have these princes murdered lest they should disturb him in the possession of the throne which execrable deed he undertook to perform and actually perpetrate it. On the crime being discovered Egbert was advised by the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Abbot of St. Augustine's to make such atonement for it as would satisfy Dom Nifers-Dier the sister of the murdered princes who was a nun. The princess demanded of the king that he should give her as much land of his manor of Thanet as would build and endow a convent wherein she and her nuns might continually pray for his absolution in the repose of her brother's souls. Egbert granted her prayer and asked how much land she required when she replied as much as a deer could run over in one course. The king agreeing to this singular stipulation a stag was taken to Westgate and liberated on the beach in presence of all the court and a large concourse of people. Among the spectators was the assassin Thunnell who ridiculing the monarch for his lavish gift and the mode of determining the extent of land to be given sought every means of obstructing the course of the deer by crossing its path and encountering it until, says the monkish chronicler, quote, heaven in wrath at his impiety while Thunnell was in the height of his career caused the earth to open and engulf him, end quote. The deer, after making a small curve eastward, directed its course south-westward nearly in a straight line running over forty-eight plowed lands comprising about ten thousand acres of the best land in Kent. Egbert thereupon surrendered to his niece the tract which the animal had traversed and granted her a charter which concluded with a singular curse upon anyone who should infringe its provisions. With this land Domnevere endowed the abbey which she erected at Minster according to some accounts upon the spot where the church now stands though others represent the ancient and handsome mansion now known as the abbey as occupying the site of Domnevere's foundation. An embankment was raised across the island to mark the boundary of the land surrendered by the king and some traces of it are still discernible in a ridge near the prospect inn on the summit of Mount Pleasant. The spot where Thunnell is said to have been swallowed by the earth and which was long known as Thunnell's Leap is not far from the prospect and has very much the appearance of a long-abandoned chalk-pit. Its depth is considerable and the brink overhung with brambles. It is now called the Smuggler's Leap from a tradition that a famous free trader endeavouring to evade the pursuit of an active officer of the preventive service was precipitated with his horse into the hollow which is said to have been haunted ever since by the ghost of the pursuer who met with the fate which might have been anticipated but which the Smuggler seems to have escaped. The remarkable incidents of this story sensational enough for an Adelphi drama of the Flying Dutchman and Three-Fingered Jack period are said to have occurred in the early part of the last century. Antony Gill, an active and intrepid officer of the preventive service, had long been endeavouring to compass the apprehension of a Smuggler as bold and as active as himself but whose name has not been preserved. One night, when a cargo of spirits landed under the lee of the Reculver Cliffs and was on its way into the interior the convoy was intercepted by Gill and his men at the turn of the road leading to Hearn. The Smugglers fled in all directions but Gill, who had recognised by the moonlight the man whom he was so anxious to secure singled him out for pursuit resolving to continue the chase until he had run him down. Both were well mounted outside the chapter of accidents success was likely to attend the man who rode the best horse unless indeed the Smuggler could find a refuge to which he could not be tracked. Such a place there was at that time a cave near the hamlet of Manston about a mile northward from the road from Sandwich to Ramsgate and to gain this retreat the Smuggler directed all his endeavours galloping down Chislet Lane then turning off sharp to the left thundering over Sar Bridge and rousing the sleepers of Moncton and Minster. Too closely pressed by Gill to reach the cave he turned his horse's head northward and urged the reeking and panting animal towards Acle with what purpose can never be known probably he had no other than to out-ride his pertinacious pursuer. The closing incidents of that ride for life can only be surmised. Gill and his horse, both dead, were found next morning at the bottom of the old chalk pit near Acle. Beneath them was the crushed and lifeless form of the Smuggler's horse but the desperate rider was never seen afterwards. The manner of his escape must have been a terribly perplexing mystery unless, as seems very probable, the Thanate folks solved it by ascribing it to the agency of the devil. From Mount Pleasant I strolled on to the straggling village of Moncton pleasantly situated on the southern slope of the island. The little church which looks ancient but is in good substantial condition is built of flints and bricks some of the latter having the appearance of Roman. A very agreeable exception to the want of shade which characterises most of the roads in Thanate I believe the only other is a portion of the road between St. Lawrence and Pegwell and that is shaded on one side only is presented by the road from Moncton to Minster and thence to the junction with the road from Ramsgate to Sandwich near the Sportsman Inn where the cliffs subside into the shell-strewn flats which stretch away to the star. The latter portion of the road is shaded by trees on both sides and the road being narrow there branches meet overhead forming an arch of verdure very refreshing to the eye after a long walk in the glare of the sun. From the church at Moncton to the village of Minster is about two miles. The church at the latter place is ancient but the mixture of styles in the architecture seems to indicate partial reconstruction at different periods. The carved oak seats are undoubtedly antique and with the handsome roof give a good appearance to the interior. After refreshing myself with a glass of ale at the bell I strolled down the shaded road before mentioned and looked once more upon the shining waters of Pegwell Bay from the pleasant garden of the Bellevue Hotel. There I dined that day and there on that bright September afternoon I saw the shallow waters of the bay dotted with shrimpers with their hand nets and baskets pursuing the staple industry of the village. Pegwell is the chief seat of the potted shrimps trade many men and boys being employed in the capture of the tiny crustaceans and a considerable number of hands chiefly women and girls in preparing and potting them. Early in the evening I strolled back to Minster and in a few minutes was seated in the train which was to bear me back to London. In concluding this record of a delightful ramble I have only to recommend those in quest of a week's recreation to go over the same ground in the same manner and the admirers of the works of Charles Dickens in particular to at least visit Cobham and Strewd and Rochester and Canterbury with the most portable addition of those works of the great novelist which have associated those places with his genius. May they enjoy the ramble as much as I did. End of Chapter 14 and end of In Kent with Charles Dickens by Thomas Frost Recording by Ruth Golding