An English Homestead.

293

and wearied mind lingers with loving fondness by its side.

Every visitor to Canterbury and the Isle of Thanet who loves English scenery, should not omit to spend an afternoon at Grove-Ferry. It can be reached either by rail or coach, as the visitor may desire. The accommodation and civility of the worthy host and hostess at the Ferry "Tea-Gardens," will, I am sure, be appreciated by those who are as fond of good cheer as of beautiful scenery.

On visiting this pretty place, not long since, I could not help repeating to myself, as I looked lingeringly once more at the winding river,

"Men may come, and men may go;

But Stour flows on for ever."

When quite a child, I remember to have been sent to stay with my aunt at Upstreet, for months together, so that almost every tree and blade of grass on my uncle's farm was familiar to me; and in after years, when I could leave London, and afford the time to take a holiday, no place had so many charms for me.

The old farm-house and its surroundings are very picturesque, and no one who loves English homesteads could pass down the road without admiring it. The house is of red-brick, and literally covered with grape-vine, jessamine, honeysuckle, and ivy. In front was a lawn, soft and yielding as Genoa velvet, and kept during my uncle's time in the most perfect order; to the left was a large orchard, where once grew some of the choicest apples that my native county could produce. The principal entrance to the house was through a Gothic porch, where roses, honeysuckle, and jessamine were blended with the best taste. A little to the left of the house was the dairy, a semi-detached building, so much resembling an ecclesiastical structure that we always called it "the Priory." This building is so embosomed in ivy that not a single brick is to be seen.

Such was the house where I spent many happy months

of my childhood; and as a boy I loved to ramble with my uncle through the green pastures and the waving cornfields, and to assist him at even-tide to take an account of the sheep and cattle.

I was particularly fond of fetching up the cows in the afternoon for milking, and used to sit and watch the dairymaid as she drew from them their rich and yielding treasures. The way from the marshes where the cows were pastured lay through a small wood, called Walmer's-hill. The pathway was at the bottom of a sandy slope, clothed with hawthorn bushes, the wild rose, and honeysuckle, and with a rich profusion of primroses in the Spring. The rabbits ran about as thick as blackberries, and one evening when I had driven the cows down from milking and was returning home alone, a full-grown fox came out into the pathway within a few yards of me, and stared me in the face. I was a little startled at Reynard's boldness, and we both gazed steadfastly at each other for some moments, when the little fellow looked so fierce and resolute that I put a cow's-horn that was slung at my back to my lips, and blew as loud a blast as I could. This was more than master Reynard expected, and he cantered off leisurely up the slope to his quarters. My uncle was much amused at this incident, and would have liked to have had the chance of putting a little shot into the gentleman, who had often made too free with my aunt's poultry.

My uncle was devotedly attached to farming; but while he was well up in Sir John Sinclair, and freely availed himself of all the practical knowledge of that eminent agriculturist, his library contained not a few choice volumes in general literature. He was "a fine old English gentleman, one of the olden time;" and though by no means wealthy, was known to all the neighbours round as a contributor to everything that would add to the comfort and happiness of those who tilled his farm and reaped his harvests.

My aunt was a very loveable woman, and always treated

A" Maid of Kent."

295

me as one of her own children. I have stood by her side and watched her many a time moulding the butter into pyramidal pounds and pretty little tempting pats, as she, with upturned sleeve, displayed an arm of finest shape, and a rounded dimpled elbow that would have gratified Peter Paul Rubens, and which charmed me even as a boy. She was married before she was eighteen, and must, when young, have been a lovely "maid of Kent."

There were seven cousins in that farm-house, and as most of them were about my own age, many were the pranks and gambols we indulged in.

I visited this old familiar place not very long since, and how changed is the scene! My uncle has been for some years gathered to his fathers, and has exchanged a life of toil and labour for a land where "the weary are at rest." My dear old aunt has long since left the farm, and resides at Canterbury, with a daughter who was some years since disappointed in love, and will, in all probability, "remain unmarried till her death."

The farm-house, once so snug and comfortable, is now little better than a ruin; the garden, once so carefully tended, has become almost a wilderness; and the farmyard, once so trim and neat, is now little cared for. There has come over the whole scene a melancholy change, and as I have gone round and round the old familiar place, endeared to me by a thousand hallowed recollections of early happy days, I have felt the cheek moistened, and the words swell up from my heart—

"It is not now as it hath been of yore; Turn wheresoe'er I may,

By night or day,

The things which I have seen, I now can see no more."

осса

Although my uncle is gone, and a stranger now owns the house that once received me as one of its own, I sionally visit this well-remembered spot. A septuagenarian cousin, who is a retired purser in the Royal Navy, resides not far from where my uncle lived, and many happy hours

have I spent of late in his jovial society. He is as full of health and vigour as a man of forty, and is a most genial companion, teeming with ready wit and quiet fun. An old schoolfellow lives within a mile of the place, around whose hospitable board I have met with many old and valued friends.

The walks about Upstreet are very picturesque. I well remember a ramble across the marshes to the little village of Reculver, by the sea, to look at the interesting ruins of the old church there. It is a favourite resort of the archæologist; but as my study has been man, rather than his surroundings, I leave the antiquities of the place to wiser heads, who find "sermons in stones, and good in everything." On the day referred to, I had a fair cousin for my companion; and after wandering about among the broken fragments of the old church, and looking out upon the deep blue sea, we sat down, musing upon the past, thinking of those who once worshipped within its sacred walls, and whose dust was beneath our feet. I recollect full well, though many years have passed since then, sending a boy for a flagon of Cobbs' Margate ale, from the " King Ethelbert," and while feasting upon meat patties, my fair cousin read to me some "lines from the bards sublime," which never seemed so sublime before, as the ale and patties were most grateful after the long and pleasant walk. The day was fine, and we were within hearing

"Of the grand majestic symphonies of ocean."

A pleasing melancholy pervaded our kindred minds, so that the couple of hours spent at Reculver will ever be a red-letter-day in my vacation rambles.

TUNBRIDGE WELLS AND ITS SURROUNDINGS.

UNBRIDGE WELLS was a place where I spent a part of several vacations, not only on account of its attractive scenery, its pure and bracing air, and its health-restoring waters, but that it also afforded me an opportunity of spending a few weeks with an old and valued friend whose society I much enjoyed.

Perhaps there are few places so near London where the scenery is so diversified and picturesque as at Tunbridge Wells. If you are fond of walking, you may ramble over open downs and through green lanes, where, at almost every turn of the road, you get glimpses of the beautiful country around; and if the reader is there in the autumn, and is fond of blackberries and nuts, he may be satisfied to his heart's content. "The common" at Tunbridge Wells is a fine open ground, almost always dry, as it is a sandy soil, and where have been placed many rustic seats, from any of which may be obtained a view of the surrounding country. Rusthall Common, and "the Happy Valley," will always have its admirers while English scenery has a charm for visitors; and those who want to see a pretty village must go to Southborough, only three miles from the town, where a man, weary of London and its endless work, may here surround himself with rural beauty such as can rarely be surpassed.

Bishop's Down, and Hurst Wood, are within an easy walk of the town. Bishop's Down overlooks a wide and fertile landscape, which, when you have enjoyed, you may turn your footsteps to a lane overshadowed with lofty trees to a beautifully secluded retreat called Hurst Wood, where one can be reminded of the poet's words :

"Reader, if thou hast learnt a truth which needs

No school of long experience, that the world