we passed each other,
with an interchange of salutations, at about the same spot. This was on
the outskirts of the village of Chalk, where a picturesque lane branched
off towards Shorne and Cobham. Here the brisk walk of Charles Dickens
was always slackened, and he never failed to glance meditatively for a
few moments at the windows of a corner house on the southern side of the
road, advantageously situated for commanding views of the river and the
far-stretching landscape beyond. It was in that house he had lived
immediately after his marriage, and there many of the earlier chapters
of _Pickwick_ were written."

It is a long walk from Cobham to Chalk church,--the church, by the bye,
being about a mile from the village, as is usual in many places in
Kent,--and as the shades of evening are coming upon us, and as we are
desirous of having a sketch of the curious stone-carved figure over the
entrance porch, we hurry on, and succeed in effecting our object, though
under the difficulty of approaching darkness.

[Illustration: Curious Old Figure over the Porch, Chalk Church.]

This figure represents an old priest in a stooping position, with an
upturned vessel (probably a jug), about which we were informed there is
probably a legend. Dickens used to be a great admirer of this quaint
carving, and it is said that whenever he passed it, he always took off
his hat to it, or gave it a friendly nod, as to an old acquaintance. [We
regretfully record the fact that since our visit, both porch and figure
have been demolished.]

Amid the many strange sounds peculiar to summer night in the country, a
very weird and startling effect is produced in this lonely spot, in the
dusk of the evening, by the shrill whistle of the common redshank
(_Totanus calidris_), so called from the colour of its legs, which are
of a crimson-red. This bird, as monotonous in its call-note as the
corn-crake, to which it is closely allied, doubtless has its home in the
marshes hereabout, in which, and in fen countries, it greatly delights.
The peculiar whistle is almost ventriloquial in its ubiquity, and must
be heard to be properly appreciated.

We retrace our steps to the Dover road, and by the light of a match
applied to our pipes, see that our pedometer marks upwards of fifteen
miles for this tramp--"a rather busy afternoon," as Mr. Datchery once
said.

Since these lines were written, the third volume of the _Autobiography
and Reminiscences_ of W. P. F