pike, to see the race-goers return. After waiting there an hour, a carriage-full of friends drew up close to where we were standing, its progress being interrupted by the ticket nuisance at the gate. There was a vacant seat in the rumble, and, upon the invitation of the owner we took possession of it, heartily glad to have some one to speak to. The party had all been winners, and were returning home, in high spirits, to a capital supper, at which they were good enough to request our company. But we steadfastly refused, and got down at Waterloo Bridge, feeling no inclination to join a party where all the conversation would necessarily turn upon an event which we knew nothing about. A comfortable repast in our own chambers did not put us in better humour, and we retired to bed at an early hour, after the dullest day we ever remember to have spent; inwardly resolving we would never again miss seeing the Derby run, if we were even compelled by circumstances to travel thither on the top of a ginger-beer cart.

THE BOOT.

Ar the base of the long and beautiful line of chalk hills which run from Dover to Folkstone, and thence towards Lyminge, not far removed from that dull and quiet sea-bathing place, Sandgate, lies the village of Cheriton. There are several roads and byeways to this rural spot; but the one which we shall now describe is that which conducts us from Folkstone to 'The Boot!' The road from Folkstone to Sandgate is interesting to the geologist, the lover of nature, and the admirer of sea-views and of hilly scenery. The old church of Folkstone rises on the rocks as a fine and glorious signal to the homeward-bound mariner. On the right, at a distance of about two miles, lie the splendid chain of hills we have already mentioned. There is the Sugar-loaf Hill, so symmetrical and pretty, with the sheep-walks, and the sheep too, by hundreds, feeding on its short grass. There is the Castle Hill, behind which Cæsar once had a magnificent and commanding camp, and about which hill it is said, by the lovers of old tales and legends, that the castle which once stood upon its summit was removed, stone by stone, by a fairy band, to its present site, in tranquil and monotonous Sandgate. Then there is the Cherry-orchard, situate in a hollow between two fine, bold, perpendicular hills, with its gushing stream at the foot of the mountain, and its cottage, where the traveller or the wanderer may obtain frugal refreshment and temporary repose. There are also the little woods and copses, where nutting and blackberrying amuse even more than the youthful population, and where, it is said, you may meet 'the Old Gentleman himself, on a certain day in October,' on which said day he is always to be found 'nutting.' Then there is the pretty hamlet of Foord, whose chalybeate spring deserves notice, and whose sylvan and rustic scenery and popu lation merit the attention of the sojourner or traveller in these interesting parts. Foord has no church, no lawyer, no doctor; but it has flowers, springs, streams, lanes, hills, shades, and a notable 'Red Cow,' whose milk, however, is 'Ash's Entire,' in the shape of good beer and excellent ale.

But we must leave all these to our right, and pursue the straight Macadamized high road from Folkstone to Sandgate; and an admirable road it is. The mighty sea, with its innumerable vessels ever and anon to be seen on the left; whilst to the right highsoaring hills bound the horizon. At about the distance of a mile from Folkstone the descent to Sandgate commences, and both sea and hills are lost for a short time between the high and grassy banks. On arriving half way down the hill, the scenery again opens; the fine bay, which extends from Dungeness to Folkstone, now presents itself to the view; and there lies, sleeping in the valley, the Castle of Sandgate, and its few surrounding houses. But at this moment a small country-road presents itself to the right, and a finger-post indicates that it conducts the gypsies, the higglers, the strollers, the tramps, and all

honest people as well, to 'CHERITON and Newington.' This country-road is a great favourite with the dwellers in tents; for the hedges are high, and protect them from that terrible south-west wind which renders Sandgate, during a great portion of the year, so unpleasant a resting-place; and besides which, in this country-lane, no 'Peelers' from Folkstone can interfere with the vagrant's life, or disturb their arrangements for visiting the fine houses in the neighbourhood. And oh! how pretty a lane it is! The sea behind, and in the distance; close, high, warm hedges, with the sloe, the blackberry, the elder, the thorn, and thousands of weeds, and herbs, and flowers around! And before, the broad high hills, with the fine seat of Beachborough; to the left, the pretty fir-trees overlooking the valley of Horn Street; to the right, the smoke of a lime-kiln gracefully creeping along the side of a hill; and Cheriton and Newington churches in the distance, reminding us of generations long since passed away, and of those rude forefathers' of hamlets, which have been unchanged by time, and unaltered by the foot either of civilisation or the schoolmaster.

When the sun shines warmly, and when the hedges are in their prime, and the wind is not south-west, this lane is one of the prettiest things we know in almost any part of Kent, and conducts to some farms and cottages called Coulinge. There, retired, the world shut out,' with flowers, banks, hills, and hedges, the moralist might moralise, and even the politician might muse; but as we leave Coulinge, and walk up the rising-ground, a stile, a large gate, and a newlypainted windmill will be seen to the left. We must open the gate, or cross the stile, according to taste, avoid the cottage, keep under the hedge, and proceed in the direction of the new windwill. The old barracks and the barrack-ground, where once twelve thousand troops were assembled, and where the Duke of York passed many of the happiest days of his life, at the time of the threatened descent of the French upon our sea-girt shore, now appear in sight, and now a sudden descent conducts us into a small and close valley, where hills and woods, sea and barracks, are all obscured from the view, and where 'green grow the rushes,' as a rippling brook runs over land as yet unturned by the plough. In this sort of long slip, or valley, lying between two high grounds, we will repose a few minutes; for here it is that professed mendicants of various degrees assemble, in small and large parties, when the weather is favourable, and their arrangements permit, to relate to each other their discoveries of the places which are to be avoided, as well as to send their kiddies to beg bread in Sandgate, Cheriton, and the environs, and to tell the folk their poor mudder 's bad at the lodging-house, and that their farder 's at home nursing mudder.'

But what is that little barn, and what are those thatched roofs, not fifty yards from where we are sitting? There are two extremes to this corner in the world, to this 'Toad-in-the-hole' sort of place, the one by the route we have followed,—the paths and byeways across the fields; the other by Cheriton Street, and a thorough gypsy-looking lane which turns out of it, and conducts to Taylor's farm. This Toadin-the-hole-this 'World's end,'-this place, which looks like 'nothing more beyond it,' with its beggars' barn, where tramps and poor travellers, gypsies and higglers, match-sellers and wandering mer

chants, each seek in their turns shelter and straw, is no less a place of note and importance than

THE BOOT.

Why it is called The Boot' we have not been able to ascertain; and what boots it to our readers? since it has long since been decided that an onion will smell as strong with any other name.' So here we are at THE BOOT.'

'Where are you going to now?' I asked a little girl, who had entreated me in the most pitiful terms to give her alms, and had made up a capital story.

'I am going to "The Boot," replied Hannah Bray, who had the tone and manner of a woman of forty, but on whose young

head only twelve summers had rolled.

'And what are you going to "The Boot" for?"

To enjoy ourselves.

'What with, and how?' was my inquiry.

and guilty

'Oh! we have made a good day of it, and we are going to have a fire under the hedge outside in the lane, and be very comfortable.' 'And who are you going to meet at "The Boot ?" "

'I don't know, I'm sure. There's a good lot o' them, I believe. There 's muddy, fardy, and three kiddies, besides myself; and they say Bob Johnstone will be there to-night, he was at Dover yesterday, -and a good many others.'

And who is Bob Johnstone?' we inquired, with some curiosity, as the child spoke of him with evident enthusiasm.

Oh! he's the great matchman,' replied Hannah Bray. 'Don't you know Bob Johnstone? Have you never heard of him? I thought everybody knew Bob Johnstone.'

.

It was quite clear to us that not to know Bob Johnstone was, according to this young vagrant, to 'argue ourselves unknown,'-and so we replied, at mere random,

"Ah! the fashionable matchmaker,-the genteel matchmaker?'

"Yes,' replied Hannah; I see you know him. He shaves every day, washes his own cravat, brushes his hat, and puts on a clean handkerchief every morning. He made nine shillings and fourpence by matches last Monday as ever was at Dover, and seven shillings and fivepence on Tuesday. Oh! if fardy could but be as lucky as Bob, he wouldn't sleep at "The Boot" to-night, but go to "The Three Mackerel."

'And where are "The Three Mackerel ?" I asked Hannah Bray: "Why, at Folkstone, to be sure, and that's the house to go to; but not for such as us.'

We had won the heart of Hannah by a silver fourpenny-piece. It was not often,' she said, that she touched anything but "browns."'

'And where do you live when you are at home?'

At home?' replied the girl, with a good deal of sly wit about her. And pray, say what do you call my home, since I have had no home for five years?'

'Why, when your father was in business, and earned his bread by hard work.'

'Oh! that's what you mean. Why, then, he's in business now, and earns his bread by harder work than ever he did before.'

'Why, what is his trade?'

'He asks charity of ladies and gentlemen who pass along the high

road.'

Where were you born?'.

-'At Walton, in Hertfordshire.' 'Why didn't you stop at Walton?'

'Because fardy and muddy wouldn't leave their eldest kiddy behind

them.'

'What was your father's business ?'- -'A shoemaker.'

'Why did he give up his trade?'

'Cause his trade gave up him.* It gave him no more work and no more money!'

'How long was this ago ?'- - Five years.'

'And have you been travelling about ever since?'

'Yes, ever since.'

And then turning round on her heels with great rapidity, she set up a sort of dance, and a low shrill note, to the words,

'Pity me, pity me now, sir, I pray

I shall starve to-morrow, though I dance to-day.'

Where have you been during the last six months?'

'Oh! I'm sure I don't know-all the country over, and then over again.'

And again she turned round and round with her perpetual twirl, and her oft repeated lines of Pity me, pity me,' &c.

'Well, where have you been lately?"

'At Woolwich: that is a nasty place. At Greenwich, where I starred the glaze of a Peeler's house,t for trying to catch me and lock me up: I paid him off famously. At Rochester; a dangerous place for us beggars. At Canterbury, where we did get a lot of browns, to be sure. At Margate, where the Peelers sent us all out of the town, but not till we'd gone to some fine kens. At Ramsgate, where we stopped four days. But Dover's the best place of all, except a place down in Lincolnshire, right down in the mud. Oh! how we did eat and drink there!-fowls every day!'

'How long do you generally stop in a place?'

'Not above two nights. People begin to know us then, and to laugh at us. When we tell them our stories about wanting bread and clothes, they won't believe us; but we soon should want if we did not go to begging.'

Which do you like best-the big towns or the country? 'Oh! sometimes one, and sometimes the other.

These were her precise words.

When the Peelers

Broke the window of a policeman's house.