IN KENT WITH MR PICKWICK.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1751, 27 September 1905, Page 15

IN KENT WITH MR PICKWICK.

(From Our Special Correspondent.) LONDON, August 11. I spent Bank Holiday in Dickensland. Armed with a pocket-map, I took train from Charing Cross to Gravesend, and set out thence to walk across country to the old Cathedral town of Rochester, some ten miles away. A winding country road carried me to the ancient; villiage of Cobham, which, you will remember, struck Mr Pickwick as “one of’ the prettiest and most desirable places of residence he had ever met with.” I lunched at that “clean and commodious village .ale-house” known as “The Leather Bottle,” to. which Mr Pickwick and Winkle came to visit the lovesick Tupman. There is no mistaking the inn’s association with the famous Pickwick, for that gentleman’s familiar likeness, painted on the old sign-hoard outside the door, proclaims it to the world. The quaint old inn has altered little with the passing years, save for the fine collection of Dickens relics which now adorns the long, low-roofed parlour. Cobham itself is a curious mixture of the old and the new, with the former still very much in evidence, thanks to the absence of a railway station. Across the village street is a Charity

House where, ever since the year 1362* aged pensioners have come to end! then? days in peace. The present building is called the “New College,” although ip is now three hundred years old; bun thab ia a little way they have- in England. From “THe r ILeafeher Bottle” my way run through Cobham Park, a noble stretch of woods between. Cobbam anal Sirood. Again I was following in Mrt Pickwick’s footsteps* Time moves but slowly in these quiet corners of Old! England, and the scene as Dickens pictures it holds good to-day:— “A delightful walk it. was: for it- was a pleasant afternoon, and the way lay through a deep and; shady wood, cooled by the light wind, which gently rustled the thick foliage, and enlivened by the songs of the birds that perched upon the boughs. The ivy and the moss crept in thick clusters over the old trees, and the soft green turf overspread the ground, like a silent mat. They (Pickwick and Winkle) emerged upon, an open; park, with an ancient hall (Gobhami Hall) displaying the quaint and picturesque achiteeturte of Elizabeth’s time. Long vistas of stately oaks and elib trees appeared oh every side; largo herds of deer were cropping the green grass ; and occasionally a. startled har« scoured along the ground, with ths speed of the shadows thrown by the ■ light clouds which swept across a sunny landscape like a passing breath of summer.” At length I emerged upon the pleaisant uplands that overlook the Medwayy and Rochester, with ito grand old castle, its modern factory chimneys, its redsailed! barges on. the peaceful stream, lay beneath me in the valley. Froxh now onward Dickens memories crowd thick and' fast upon the traveller. Now he is leaning over the parapet of the old bridge with Mr Pickwick, drinking in the beauty of the seen©. Now he S in the old High street, and can picture for himself Mr Winkle’s horse “drifting up the High street in the most mysterious manner, with his head to one side of the way and his tail towards tho other.” That quaint stone house with the three- gables is the unique legacy of an Elizabethan worthy, Richard Watts, which Dickens has made famous in his “Seven Poor Travellers.” vTo this day the conditions of the. legacy are faithfully observed, in the terms of the inscription on the outer wall; “Richard Watts, Esq., by his Will, dated Aug. 22, 1579, founded this Charity for Six Poor Travellers, who not being Rogues or Proctors may receive gratis for one night, Lodging, Entertainment and F'ourpenoe each.’*

Each night through all the centuries since good Richard Watts made his bequest six poor travellers have been received and “ourtuoslie treated.” Each night six hungry wayfarers are made happy with half-arpound of beef, a pint of coffee, and half a loaf of bread apiece—to say nothing of the fourpenoo in the morning. Further down the roaa is Eiastgate Ho-use —“the Nuns’ House” in “Edwin Drood,” and opposite to it the supp osed abode of Mr Sapsea, of the same story. Eastgate House, now used! as a museum, is a fine old Elizabethan dvelling in wonderful repair, with great open fireplaces, carved over-mantels and chests, dormer-windows and a general air of old-world comfort and dignity.: They built solidly in those days. From here I wandered up the High street again, past the House from which James U\ fled to the river to embark for France, past th© old Guildhall, built in 1687 and beautified at the expense of Admiral Oloudesley Shovel* and so to the Corn Exchange described in ‘ Fidwin Drood,” “with its queer old clock that projects over the pavement, out of a grave red brick building, as if Time carried on business there and hung out a sign.” And from there it was but a step over the way to that famous hostelry, “The Bull Inn,” sacred to the memory of the illustrious Pickwick and his boon companions. I reverently followed 1 his portly shade through the old courtyard into the little tap-room on the left, and pledged the great man in a foaming tankard, the contents of which are, as counsel would say, “immaterial to the narrative.” MEMORIES OF THE' PAST. And now Mr Jingle reminded me that it was high time to see the Castle and the Cathedral. “Ah! fine place, glorirfua pile,” he jerked out, and we rounded the corner by the bridge and walked l up the steps to the Castle gate. “Frowiir ing walls—tottering arches —dark nooka —crumbling staircases.” His somewhat incoherent eloquence hardly did justice to the “glorious pile” that dominates the ancient town. S’o far are the arches from tottering that an eighteenth century pavior who tried to demolish the grand old Norman keep found that the cost of pulling down would be more than the stone was worth. So strong had the walls been built that th© pavior had to abandon his job, and the impecunious owner of the castle had €6' leave it, willy-nilly, to posterity. A still more notorious personage once tried his hand at pulling down these massive walls. King John, it seems, besieged the Castle and undermined one angle of the keep, so that the wall at that corner fell outward ; but his son, Henry 111., rebuilt it stronger than ever. Rochester Castle was in a chronic state of siege in the stormy days of old. A!s an ancient chronicler puts it, “The Castle wae

mil oh in the eye of such, as were the authors of troubles within the realm©, so that from time to time it had a part in almost every tragedie.” But its Norman builders had done their work solid' ly and well, and the worst th© Castle ever received was at the.hands ot sacrilegious masons and paviors in later ages. Rochester Castle had been a magnificent ruin for the last two or three hundred years. Its woodwork was sold in 1738 to “one Oummet” who used the timber to build a on the common 1 But the vandal who* tried to sell the castle piecemeal failed in his purpose, and its mighty walls, twelve feet in thickness, still rear their frowning battlements a hundred and twenty feet above the Castle grounds. It is one of the finest specimens of Norman military achiteoture to be found in the country, and, says the guidebook, its quaint little stone chimneys are the earliest known in England. I climbed up Mr Jingle’s “crumbling staircases,” and found them as strong and solid as the day they were built. But. roofs and ceilings, portcullis, drawbridge and moat have long since vanished as completely as the warriors who manned the battlements in the fighting days of old. The dungeon cell where- the Queen of Robert the Bruce once lay a prisoner is now open to the winds of heaven ; from the ancient store-rooms in tb© basement you look up between roofless walls to the blue sky overhead. Only the shadow of its former greatness is this grand old Casitle. And the men and women who lived within these old grey walls and trod these self-same flag-stones —shadows all! Mr Jingle also' told me what to expect in the cathedral on the other side of the ruined Oastle wall. “Old Cathedral —earthy smell' —pilgrims’ feet wore away the old steps—little Saxon doors — Popes and LorcT Treasurers and all sorts of fellows, with great red faces and broken noses, turning up every day—buff jerkins too —matchlocks —sarcophagus—fine place.” Yes, they were all there, earthy smell, buff jerkins, Lord Treasurers and all. I stopped at the entrance to admire the old Norman doorway, built 750 years ago, and as beautiful and solid as ever to this day. The doors were standing open, and even from without one felt the antiquity of iNorman arches and rounded pillars. As Mr Gnewgious remarked in “Edwin Drocd,” it was like looking down the throat of Old Time. Once inside the portals, and I was back in the thirteenth century, surrounded by the tombs of warrior-bishops and other mighty men of valour once famous, now forgotten. A solemn stillness reigned in this haunt of ancient peace, blending the living with the dead. Time 'Seemed to have stayed its flight, or rather to have lost its significance; what was a century or two in the silent, age-long vigil kept within these venerable walls ?

The clattering footsteps of the verger broke the silence. Hb bore me off. to eee the treasures of the famous building •—the wonderful carved doorway of the Chapter-house; the ancient ctypt, one of the finest in existence; the little penitential cell, into which the unhappy penitent had to slide through a narrow tunnel in the wall above; the stainedglass window placed in the Cathedral in memory of General Gordon ; the effigy of worthy Master Rich and Watts, “standing out like a ship’s figure-head,” aa Dickens expressed it. The buff jerkins alluded to by Mr Jingle proved to be a couple of the old leather uniforms, faced with green, which were worn by Croon well’s soldiers in the Civil War. Powerful men they must have been to wear these same jerkins, for the weight of them is astonishing. Other relics of the Civil War in the shape of old match-locks and cavalry-swords are amongst the historical treasures of Rochester Cathedral. In the south transept is a brass plate to the memory of Charles Dickens. The great novelist was to have been buried here, and the grave was actually dug rfhen there came a telegram stating that Westminster Abbey would be bis burial-place. Dickens conjured his friends on no account to make him the subject of any monument or memorial, and that is why Rochester Cathedral contains merely a plain brass plate, soberly inscribed as follows: “Charles Dickens. Born at Portsmouth, 7th of February, 1812. “Died at Gadshill PLaoe, by Rochester, &th of June, 1870. “Buried in Westminster Abbey. To connect his memory with the scenes in which his earliest and latest years Were passed, and with the associations of Rochester Cathedral and its neighbourhood, which extended 1 over all his life, this tablet, with the sanction of the Dean and Chapter, is placed by bi© Executors.” That is all. “I rest my claims to the remembrance of my country,” said Dickens, “upon my published works.” And may we not say of the English novelist, as of the Roman poet, that he has raised for himself a monument more lasting than brass?