of reading and
writing by the aid of a broken slate and a short piece of slate pencil,
it is "pleasant and quiet" to watch the vessels standing out to sea with
their white sails spread, and the light struck aslant, afar off, upon a
cloud or sail or green hillside or silvery water line.

[Illustration: COOLING CHURCH]

To the west of Cooling Castle, beyond wide fields--turnips or
cabbages--of the colour of dark-green jade, the Church of Cliffe, with
its lichgate, standing out boldly from its ridge of chalk, overlooks a
straggling village of old and weather-boarded houses. It would be
into the road from Cliffe to Rochester, at a point about half a mile
from Cooling, that Uncle Pumblechook's chaise-cart would debouch when he
took Mrs. Joe to Rochester market "to assist him in buying such
household stuffs and goods as required a woman's judgment".

Between the scenery about Cooling and Cliffe and the scenery of the
valley of the Medway from Rochester to Maidstone there is all the
difference between a November fog and a brilliant summer's day. At the
foot of Rochester Castle, from which the long vista of the valley, lying
between two chalk ranges of hills that form the watershed of the Medway,
stretches far away to a distant horizon, the Esplanade extends along the
east side of the river, and there it was that Edwin Drood and Rosa met
for the last time and to speak of their separate plans. For a few miles
along the valley the natural beauty of the scene is spoilt by the cement
works of Borstal, Cuxton, and Wouldham, and the brickworks of Burham.
The piles of clay and chalk, the beehive furnaces, and the chimneys
vomiting smoke and flame, almost reproduce the characteristics of the
Black Country or of a northern manufacturing district. But, when Burham
has been left behind, the bright emerald pastures, the tender green of
springing corn or the gold of waving harvests, and the orchards, a
dazzling sight in May with the snowy clouds of pear and plum and cherry
blooms, and the delicate pink-and-white of the apple blossom, more than
justify the appellation claimed for Kent of the garden of England.
Opposite to Cuxton, on the western bank, the village of Snodland stands
at the junction of Snodland Brook with the Medway. It has been
conjectured that Snodland Weir, a mile or so up the brook, was in
Dickens's mind when he described Mr. Crisparkle's pilgrimages to
Cloisterham Weir in the cold rimy mornings, and his discovery, first