It is two miles from this side of Harty Ferry to Faversham, through Oare and Davington. Hard by the landing-place the sinuous and muddy Faversham Creek joins the Swale, and ugly sheds stand here and there on the ill-favoured banks, exhibiting minatory notices for the observance of would-be trespassers. I don’t think any ordinarily sane person fully informed of what those sheds contain would in the least desire to trespass, for they are, in fact, stored with dynamite, the making of which, together with brewing and the manufacture of paper and bricks, forms an industry actively followed in the neighbourhood of Faversham.

The creeks hereabouts—“cricks” they are called locally—and the marshes, or “meshes” in the speech of Kent, are not scenically beautiful nor in any way spectacular, but the brick-barges, gliding by, do at least give, with their great rusty-red sails, a quaint touch. Scarce a duller spot could be found for the scene of an historic incident, but the incident of James the Second being brought here, a prisoner, was itself drab and unheroic. The fishermen who had seized the fugitive King on the long low spit of Shellness did not at first know how important was their capture, that cold December day. The humble hoy was a strange vessel for the conveyance of such gentlefolk as these appeared to be, and the fact, in itself, was suspicious in those troubled times; but the fisherfolk’s thoughts did not rise to the contemplation of a monarch leaving his kingdom in that evasive way. Probably, if the truth of it were known, their idea of a king was that of a personage splendid in appearance and wearing a crown; certainly it was not this tall, thin-faced man, of mingled careworn and severe expression of countenance, and habited in unrelieved black, who was masquerading as chaplain to Sir Edward Hales, the gentleman who appeared to be the chief among the party they had detained. The fishermen, indeed, took them for escaping Jesuits, and thought the King to be that most notorious of them all, Father Petre. “I know him by his lean jaws,” exclaimed one, and another advocated searching “the hatchet-faced old Jesuit,” a suggestion acted upon in earnest. They snatched his money and watch—those they could understand and appraise; but his Coronation Ring and a number of little trinkets he carried they left untouched, together with the diamond buckles of his shoes, which they took to be glass. What indignities to offer the Lord’s Anointed! Then some person recognised him. It was a great moment, and I wonder no painter has ever made that tableau the subject of a picture. Perhaps it would have been done had the King presented a better front. Monarchs are by courtesy “gracious,” and they are supposed, in addition, to be dignified and courageous; but this poor James became, under these circumstances, a distressingly mean figure. Why should he at this juncture have proved a coward: he who, when Duke of York and Lord High Admiral, had shown notable courage: he who, three years before, had been contemptuous of the pitiful appeals for mercy made by Monmouth?

He seems to have made no effort to save himself from these indignities, and was really in abject terror, not perhaps of the fishermen, but of the fate which he supposed awaited him when delivered up to his son-in-law, William the Third. Bloodthirsty and merciless himself, he imagined others in his own likeness. These apprehensions are evident enough in the incoherent words he used to those ignorant fishermen and oyster-dredgers, and later, at Faversham, in his frantic appeals to be let go. The exulting mob brought him to that town and lodged him at first in the “Queen’s Arms” inn, now the “Ship” hotel. News then spreading of these strange things, and of the personal danger in which the King appeared to be placed, the Earl of Winchilsea, a Protestant nobleman, but no revolutionary, hurried over with others from Canterbury to protect him, and removed him to the Mayor’s house. There he was kept a prisoner for two days, by rejoicing crowds, who jeered at his terrified appeals: “The Prince of Orange is hunting for my life. If you do not let me fly now,” he exclaimed, “it will be too late. My blood will be upon your heads if I fall a martyr.”

A troop of Life-guards was sent to bring him back to Rochester, whence he was soon after allowed to escape to France. “There is nothing so much to be wished,” William the Third had declared, when the possibility of James fleeing the kingdom had been put before him. Thus, in a truly contemptuous way, he was allowed to depart, and so ended the rule of the House of Stuart. No one in authority had the least desire for his blood; although it is quite certain that his execution would have been extremely popular. The waterside village of Oare, on the way to Faversham, beside the creek, is one of several places so named, with slightly differing spellings, throughout the country. The name means simply “shore.”

The strangely beautiful stone spire of Faversham parish church, a church oddly dedicated to “St. Mary of Charity,” piques the curiosity of the stranger from afar. It greatly dignifies distant views of the town, and is especially effective against a stormy or overcast sky, when it shows whitely and boldly. It was built in 1797, and was intended for Gothic architecture, as Gothic was then understood. It is, of course, easy enough to criticise its details, but, taken as a whole, it is an exceedingly fine and effective work, and gives Faversham an individuality that would not be obtained by the ordinary type of tower or spire. There are very few such spires as this, supported on flying ribs of stone, in the country. The others are at King’s College, Aberdeen, St. Giles Cathedral, Edinburgh, St. Nicholas, Newcastle, and St. Dunstan-in-the-East, London.

The reality of Faversham is perhaps something of a shock on coming to close quarters, following the invitation of that beckoning spire. There are picturesque and stately corners in this ancient, but still thriving, port, but the corners and purlieus that are by no means pleasant are found along the waterside. There are situated vast heaps of rubbish from London dustbins, brought to these quays by barges, for use in the brickmaking that is one of Faversham’s principal means of livelihood. The great heaps and the barges lying by the quays look picturesque enough in an illustration with the church spire for a background, but the cinders and the dust are distressing when a high wind is blowing.

The interior of Faversham church should be seen to be believed. It is a curious example of the eighteenth-century way with ancient Gothic architecture, and discloses an attempt to convert a Gothic nave into an Ionic interior. The effort was a half-hearted one, for while the columns are in the Ionic style, the Perpendicular clerestory windows remain; with, however, a fillet of classic ornament around them. The fine large Early English transepts have not been interfered with. On a pillar of the north transept is a twelfth-century fresco representing the Nativity, and in the chancel remains the brass to one William Thornbury, rector and anchorite, 1481.

In the churchyard will be seen this curious epitaph:

William Lepine
of facetious Memory,
Ob. the 11th of March 1778
Æt. 30 Years
Alas

This is, of course, a quotation from Hamlet. Lepine, who ended so untimely, was a dissolute and convivial lawyer of Faversham.