A ROAD MOST TYPICAL OF ALL THAT ROADS HAVE BEEN FOR US,

THESE PITS WHICH UNCOVER THE CHALK BARE FOR US,

GLIMPSES OF THE ITCHEN AWAY BEHIND US,

THE CHURCH OF SHERE,

THE HEAD-WATERS WHICH FORM THE ITCHEN, THE ALRE AND OTHER STREAMS,

ROUGH, AND MARKED ONLY BY RUTS IN THE WINTER SOIL, AND BY ITS RANK OF SECULAR TREES,

THAT CURIOUS PLATFORM WHICH SUPPORTS IN SUCH AN IMMENSE ANTIQUITY OF CONSECRATION THE RUINS OF ST. CATHERINE'S CHAPEL,

A PLACE OF CLOSE DARK AND VARIOUS TREES, FULL OF A DAMP AIR, AND GLOOMY WITH STANDING WATER-RUTS,

THAT SPLENDID AVENUE OF LIMES,

IT STOOD OUT LIKE A CAPE ALONG OUR COASTING JOURNEY, OUR NAVIGATION OF THE LINE OF THE DOWNS,

AND BEYOND THE WHOLE OF THE WEALD,

THE MOST IMPORTANT OF THE RIVERS IT MEETS UPON ITS COURSE, THE MEDWAY,

ROCHESTER,

THE SHEEP IN THE NARROW LANES, OR THE LEANING CONES OF THE HOP-KILNS AGAINST THE SKY,

THE PLOUGHLANDS UNDER ORCHARDS: ALL THE KENTISH WEALD,

SUCH A MAGIC OF GREAT HEIGHT AND DARKNESS,

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