The Dover Road Part 12

The village of Murston, which at one time skirted the road at some distance from Sittingbourne, and was in receipt of the town's leavings, is now quite undistinguishable by a stranger from the town itself, so greatly has the population grown of late years. It is quite uninteresting, save for the memory of the affray by which the rector, the Reverend Richard Tray, was ejected from his living in 1641. A stone let into the Rectory wall preserves the record of the affair:--

_Si Natvra negat facit Indignatio Versvm._

The Barne which stood where this now Stands was bvrnt down by the Rebel's hands in December 1659 This Barne which stands where tother stood By Richard Tray is now made good, in July 1662 All things yov bvrn, Or overtvrn, Bvt bvild vp novght: pray tell Is this the Fire of Zeale or h.e.l.l?

Yet yov doe all By the Spirits call As yov pretend: bvt pray What Spirit is't? _A bad one_ I dare say.

XXIX

Five miles and a half down the road from Sittingbourne, the pilgrims who had prayed so devoutly at the shrine of Our Lady of the b.u.t.tress (and it is to be hoped had not forgotten the claims of Swanstree Hermitage) came to Ospringe, where they usually found a profuse hospitality waiting for them at the Maison Dieu. Not that there was any lack of religious houses on the way. Far from it, indeed. They had not proceeded much farther than a mile when they came in those times to the Hermitage of Bapchild, with the hermit standing on the doorstep, scratching himself with one hand, holding out a scollop sh.e.l.l for alms in the other, and conjuring them by the blessed Thomas and all the hierarchy of saints to spare something for his altar. The parish church of Bapchild, which was built in early Norman times, before any one dreamed of Canterbury becoming a place of pilgrimage, or the high-road crowded with a varied concourse of miserable sinners anxious to compound for their ill-deeds by visiting the scene of the martyrdom, is situated beside a lane at some distance from the road, and so was quite out of the track of that alms-giving crowd. It grieved the Vicar of Bapchild to see these free-handed folks going by, with never a mark or even a silver penny coming his way, and so he contrived to set up some sort of a cell and chapel with a few exceedingly dubious bones in it, supposed to be the reliques of saints; but probably grubbed up from his own churchyard. It did not matter much whose reliques they were called, for that was a credulous age, and so long as there were not two skulls of Saint Paulinus on view, or more than a gross of Saint Alphege's teeth to be seen at the numberless shrines between London and Canterbury, the pilgrims were not generally disposed to be critical. It was only when Saint Frideswyde appeared, from the osseous evidence of these shrines, to have as many arms as Vishnu, or when Saint Antholin appeared, from equally untrustworthy evidence, to have been in this life a Double-headed Nightingale or a kind of Siamese Twins, that men on pilgrimage became sceptical. But, after all, if saints could perform one kind of a miracle, why not another, and why should not Saint Alphege cause his teeth to be increased, until a peck of them could be gathered from the monasteries of Europe, or Saint Antholin not have his skulls miraculously multiplied if they had a mind to it; and if Saint Frideswyde could be proved to have been possessed of half a dozen arms, was it not for the good, if not of the church, at least of the clergy, that it should be so? And so, it is to be hoped that the Vicar and the Hermit, between them, did well; and also it is to be hoped that the Hermit took more advantage, for washing purposes, of the little stream which here also flowed across the roadway than his brethren were wont to do.

The road between Ospringe and Sittingbourne was in those days very lonely, and lonely it still remains, for the settlements of Bapchild, Radfield, and Greenstreet are but dull and dishevelled collections of tiny shops and cottages, with here and there a slumberous old inn or whitewashed farmhouse. The railway to Dover runs on the left hand, within sight of the highway, through the beautiful cherry-orchards and the hop-gardens, and the land slopes gently down to the levels of Teynham and the fertile though ague-stricken marshes of the Swale; that part of Kent where, according to the old local saying, there is "wealth without health"; significantly alluded to in the rhyme--

He that would not live long, Let him live at Murston, Teynham, or Tong.

[Sidenote: TONG]

Tong Castle, where Rowena "drank hael" to King Vortigern and captivated that very susceptible but unpatriotic monarch; the scene also of the treacherous murder by Hengist and his men of three hundred British n.o.bles, is represented now only by a gra.s.sy mound. Here we are in the centre of the hop-growing districts, and the road begins to be bordered with hop-gardens, bare in autumn and winter, except for the great stacks of poles; but beautiful in spring and summer with the climbing bine, planted in long alleys in which women and children work in the long summer days, weeding and tying up the hops, and hanging up the wind-screens called "lews." For the hop-vine is a delicate plant that requires as much cossetting and constant attention as an invalid, and if it is not carefully tended and trained up in the way it should go, it presently droops and dies or becomes too weak to climb up the long twelve- and fifteen-feet poles which it is expected to surmount. And so it is jealously shielded from all draughts and boisterous breezes by long pieces of canvas or string netting, stretched from pole to pole at that side of the gardens whence come the prevailing winds; while every hop-pole is tied so scrupulously and elaborately to its fellow that a June hop-garden is a very maze of string.

To these gardens come in August and September hundreds of men, women, and children from London slums; some by train, many more by road. Whole families of them, with their clothing, their pots and pans and sooty kettles, slung over their shoulders, come tramping down the weary miles, and fill the air with ribaldry, strange oaths, and horrible blasphemy. The villagers keep them at arm's length, if not, indeed, at a greater distance than that, and keep their children at home; going round their gardens and orchards at night, to see that gates are locked; and, bolting doors and latching windows securely, go to bed and dream dreams in which evil-looking hoppers are stealing their fruit and making away with the occupants of their hen-roosts. Sometimes they wake up and find the crashing of branches, the screaming and clucking of c.o.c.ks and hens, which have formed the subjects of their dreams, to have foundation in fact, and hurriedly dashing out of bed, arrive, barefooted and armed only with a poker, in their gardens just in time to see mysterious figures vanish over the wall and to hear the protests of their stolen fowls grow small by degrees and beautifully less in the distance. Next day the bereaved villager is heard to execute fruitless variations of "Tell me, shepherds, have you seen my Flora pa.s.s this way?" and some enterprising emigrants from Whitechapel feast royally on poultry.

[Sidenote: OSPRINGE]

Just where the hilltop rises and looks down in the direction of Ospringe, the wisdom of the Faversham authorities has planted a Hospital for infectious diseases. It fronts the road, and has a very large door with "Isolation Hospital" painted on it in very small letters. Tramps and beggars pa.s.sing by see a large house where possibly something may be begged or stolen. They go up to the door, and, after reading the legend painted there, may be seen to proceed hurriedly on their way. Without standing on the order of their going, they go at once. _Omne ignotum pro magnifico_: they don't know what "isolation" means, but they hurry off, lest they should catch isolation and die of it. And so they come, stricken with a mortal fear, into Ospringe, down a dusty hill. A Maison Dieu that stood here in olden times would perhaps have received them then, but to-day the few fragments of it that remain are part of the "Red Lion" inn, and tramps find no encouragement there.

The Knights Templar and the Brethren of the Holy Ghost held this Hospital for travellers for many years, from the time of Henry the Second, and they exercised a lavish hospitality, extended to all, from the King downwards.

King John had a room here--a _camera regis_--and other monarchs frequently made this a halting-place on their way to or from Dover. Very few records are left of the feastings and jollifications that took place in this semi-religious, semi-secular retreat, and Ospringe has no longer any Royal visitors. The village consists of a long street beside the highway at the foot of Judd's Hill, and of a shorter street, called Water Lane, that runs off at right angles where the remains of the Maison Dieu stand beside the stream to which Ospringe owes its rather pretty name. At one time this stream flowed openly across the roadway, but it is bridged now, and Water Lane, which had a raised footpath on either side, while the lane itself was occupied by the stream, through which horses and carts splashed, has now been drained dry.

The "Anchor Hotel" was once a posting-house and a stopping-place on the route of local coaches between Chatham and Herne Bay, but this traffic has of course been long discontinued. The modern pilgrim should not fail, before leaving Ospringe, to explore Water Lane and the country road for half a mile beyond. The place abounds in old cottages, picturesque windmills, and old timbered houses of some pretensions. Of these, Queen Hall is probably the most interesting. Beyond it is the parish church, a very large building with a tower of grand design and unusual type. The edifice has been thoroughly and unusually well restored, with an exquisite taste unfortunately too rare in country districts, and may be instanced as an example of what "restoration" should be. The approach to the church by the road is past hop-gardens which group beautifully, and form an excellent motive for a sketch.

x.x.x

Faversham town, lying a mile distant, between Faversham Creek and the turnpike road, will doubtless in the course of a few years adjoin Ospringe, and convert the village into a mere suburb. Preston, the old suburb of Faversham, is distant something over a mile, but in between there have lately been built very many new streets of cottages and villas, evidences of Faversham's prosperity, doubtless, but not pleasing to the tourist. That prosperity is due to its situation upon a navigable creek, along which are pursued the trades of brick and tile making, and the manufacture of gunpowder; and the oyster fishery, which adds such a great proportion of wealth to this flourishing county of Kent, is largely centred here.

[Ill.u.s.tration: OSPRINGE: A JUNE HOP-GARDEN.]

The surrounding country, too, is probably the very richest and most suitable district for the growing of cherries, gooseberries, currants, and strawberries; and the frequency and perfection of the market-gardens, orchards, and hop-gardens strike the pedestrian with admiration and amazement. A visit in early spring, when the orchards are in blossom, and others in the cherry- and hop-picking seasons, convince the sceptical that Kent is, in sober truth, the "garden of England." The stranger needs but to spend a week between this and Canterbury; to tramp the high-road and the bye-lanes in the direction of Herne Hill and Whitstable, and he will see abundant evidences of how important is the fruit-growing industry, not only in the fields and gardens, where he may see the fruit growing, but also in the great barns and outhouses bursting with many thousands of bushel-baskets only awaiting the ripening of the cherries and currants to be filled and put upon the rails at Faversham Junction, whence numerous special trains are daily run during the season to London and the Borough Market. Somewhat earlier in the year--generally in mid-June--other evidences of the magnitude of the fruit interest are seen in the auctioneers' sale bills posted on every available board and fence, announcing that the growing crops are presently to be sold by auction.

[Sidenote: DISCONTENTED FARMERS]

But, in spite of the fertility of Kentish orchards, the countryman will not forego his privilege of grumbling. Singularly enough, he never thinks of eating any of the fruit he grows, and the more plentiful the crops, the less pleased he professes himself to be. Not that, should you come upon him at a season when plenty is less marked, he will be any the more gratified. Hold the peasant proprietor of an orchard in conversation during the fruit season, and you will think him one of the most miserable and unfortunate men in the country.

"Good day to you," you say.

(Hodge nods his head, and mumbles, "Mor'n'n.")

"Splendid crops you have down here. I should think things must be going pretty well in these parts?"

"Ay, goin' to the Devil fast enow, I'se warrand."

"Oh! how d'you make that out?"

"Make it out, is it? Why, look a-here at them there turmuts; d'you iver see sich poor things; ay, an' _all_ the root crops is bad's can be."

"Yes; but _you_'re all right with your fruit; cherries and apples."

"M'yes, there's a dale o' fruit this year: darned sight too much ter please me."

"But you can't very well have too much of a good thing, can you?"

"Can't you just, though; look at the price; down ter nothing, as you might say. Get it for the asking."

"But _I_ didn't get cherries for the asking; _I_ had to pay eightpence a pound for some I bought at Chatham."

"Oh! I dessay. Wish _I_ c'd git a penny a pound. But that's jist like them 'ere starv'em, rob'em, and cheat'em folks. Wouldn't give 'ee so much's the parings o' their finger-nails if they c'd help it."

"Then why don't you make preserves of some of your fruit?"

"Preserves? what's that, mister?"

"Why, jam, you know. Besides, surely you eat some of your own fruit, don't you?"

"Fruit's to sell, not to heat!"

"Well, then, if you can't sell it, don't preserve it, and won't eat any of it, _what_ do you do with it?"

"Give it ter the pigs, in coorse!"

"Yes, but why not eat some of it yourself?"

"Heat it! D'yer take me for a bloomin' Nebuchadnezzar? Besides, it's that there ondergestuble----!"

"But Nebuchadnezzar didn't eat fruit. He hadn't got the chance, poor fellow. He could only find gra.s.s to eat."

"Gra.s.s 'ood'n't be so ondergestuble as fruit, I reckon. Blame me if you town folks don't think a man can live on nothink. Now, a pound or two o'

steak, a few rashers o' fat bacon, an' a few heggs for bre'kfuss--that's more my line. Hexpeck a Christian man to heat fruit----!"

"But you expect people to buy yours, don't you?"