gave many In "Edwin

wick's visit. Dickens names to Rochester. Drood" it is "Cloisterham;" in "Great Expectations" we find it simply as "the market town." In one short story it is "Great Winglebury," in another sketch "Dullborough." The projecting clock at the Corn Exchange is a notable feature of the High Street, and is several times mentioned in the abovementioned works.

"The silent High Street of Rochester," he writes in "The Seven Poor Travellers" "is full of gables, with old beams and timbers carved into strange faces. It is oddly garnished with a queer old clock that projects over the pavement out of a grave red-brick building, as if Time carried on business there and hung out his sign."

Opposite the clock is the "Bull Inn," already referred to, and a little farther up the street towards Chatham is a white house of three gables, known as Watt's Charity, or, in Dickens's parlance, "The house of the seven poor travellers," as this charity, which provides accommodation for "six poor travellers not being rogues or proctors," formed the basis of one of Dickens's well-known Christmas stories. On the same side of the road is Eastgate House, lately restored, which as the Nuns' House figured as the school of Miss Twinkleton in "Edwin Drood." Opposite is a large gabled house-Mr. Sapsea's house; whilst near at hand is the Gate House, opening into the Cathedral Close. At this house Jasper lodged with the verger Tope, as all readers of "Edwin Drood" know full well.

Of no town, save London, did Dickens write so much; no town did he love more. Before we leave Dickens and Rochester behind us let us quote the last description he penned of the cathedral city; it was almost the last paragraph he ever wrote:

"A brilliant morning shines on the

old city. Its antiquities and ruins are surpassingly beautiful, with the lusty ivy gleaming in the sun and the rich trees waving in the balmy air. Changes of glorious light from moving boughs, songs of birds, scents from gardens, woods, and fields or rather from the one great garden of the whole cultivated island in its yielding time-penetrate into the cathedral, subdue its

earthy odor, and preach the Resurrection and the Life."

We have left Mr. Pickwick and his friends at the "Bull;" the coach has gone on without us, and we needs must follow on foot in the wake of David Copperfield.

We pass through Chatham. It would indeed be hard to locate the spot where David pawned his "little weskit" to the man who, with his frightful "Goroo! Goroo!" bid him "go for fourpence," and SO we walk straight through the town, up the long hill, to Sittingbourne and Canterbury.

There is not much left along the roadside to remind us of the days when countless pilgrims, weary and footsore, must have tramped this highway. For a greater part of the way the road is uninteresting, until we reach Ospringe and Faversham, and begin the ascent of Boughton Hill.

The village of Boughton-under-Blee must be familiar to readers of Chaucer's "Canterbury Tales," for it was here that the Canon and the Yeoman overtook the pilgrims in such mad haste:

When that tolde was the lif of seinte
Cecile

Er we had ridden fully five mile
At Boughton under Blee us gan atake
A man, that clothed was in clothes
blake,

And undernethe he wered a white surplis.

Boughton Hill is a long hill, and by the time we reach the top we, like

many of the pilgrims of old, must take a rest, and enjoy the delightful views spread out on either hand. As yet Canterbury, though not many miles distant, is not visible; but as we descend to Harbledown-Bob-up-anddown Chaucer called it, and a very "little town" it is!

Wist ye not where standeth a little town

Which that ycleped is Bob-up-anddown

Under the Blee in Caunterbury way?

-we obtain a fine view of the pinnacles of the Cathedral away in the distance. It was here that the pilgrims first caught sight of the "Angel Steeple" (replaced in 1495 by the present central tower) and fell on their knees, their pilgrimage being all but at an end.

...

We enter the city of Canterbury, not so tired as young David, we hope, into its "sunny street dozing as it were in the hot light; and with the sight of its old houses and gateways, and the stately gray cathedral, with the rooks sailing round the towers."

Mr. Wickfield lived somewhere in the High Street at "a very old house bulging out over the road-a house with long low lattice windows bulging out still farther, and beams with carved heads on the ends, bulging out too," but it would be idle to assign any special house as being the one occupied by Agnes's father.

The Chequers of Hope, where Chaucer's pilgrims stopped, was situated at the corner of Mercery Lane. Not much of the original building is left; indeed, the stone vaults beneath the present building are supposed to be all that remains of the "Chequers" of Chaucer's days.

The literary history of the Dover Road at Canterbury does not end with Chaucer and Dickens. The Rev. Richard Harris Barham, the author of the

village of Barham, and the farmhouse known as Tappington, a picturesque little old house nestling in the valley, a house which hardly comes up to the expectations we had of it after reading the preface of the Legends and looking at the engraving of the house accompanying it.

To the left we have the road running to Margate-a road that savors of Smuggler Bill and Exciseman Gill ("The Smuggler's Leap"), of "The Brothers of Birchington," "Misadventures at Margate," and other wellknown pieces.

But we have no time to search out Tappington Everard, to visit the Reculvers, to look down into the Chalk Pit, The Gentleman's Magazine.

or to visit "merry Margate;" our road is David Copperfield's road, and with him we eross "the bare wide downs" and come at last to Dover.

Where Miss Betsy Trotwood lived is not to be stated with exactitude, but from Dickens's description given of the little cottage on the heights it is said to be one of the houses now known as "Athol Terrace," overlooking the bay.

Dickens gave a reading of his works at Dover, and afterwards said that "the audience with the greatest sense of humor is Dover," and Dickens was not the least humorous of the writers of this great literary highway which ends at Dover.

Walter Dexter.

All day I had been riding round the ruins of Ephesus, and in the afternoon the rain fell heavily, so that I was glad to hurry back along the Via Sacra with its empty tombs to the shelter of the inn at Ayasoluk.

There Mr. Karpouza, the landlord, had prepared a capital dinner, and I found a good fire blazing up the chimney in the dining-room. And soon, as the dark February afternoon closed in, in thick cold mist, the lamp was lighted, and I sat down to do full justice to the fare.

Driven into the inn by stress of weather came a tobacco trader, who, with a low bow, took a chair opposite to me and ate his soup in silence.

We began to talk about travelling other than by rail in such inclement weather. The trader was bound for Scala Nuova, which would have necessitated a long drive through almost impassable country. Then the conversation turned upon the latest news of

Tchakegie, the brigand. Mr. Karpouza had agreed with us in our self-congratulations on being so well housed; but at the mention of Tchakegie he made frantic signs from behind my back to the trader to change the subject. At length he could keep silence no longer. "If you talk like this no more travellers will come this way."

"But," I said, "Tchakegie lives some distance from here."

"It

"Only the name of his place is unfortunately the same as this. It is called Ayasoluk," said the trader. Mr. Karpouza fairly groaned. means the place of St. John," he said apologetically, "but why the place of that ruffian should- ""

"He's no ruffian!" exclaimed the trader.

"It is my misfortune," bewailed Mr. Karpouza, "that just the home of that brigand, of all people, should be of the same name as my own!"

"But no one would take you for a

brigand, Mr. Karpouza," I said, "unless, of course, you are as like Tchakegie as the name of your place."

"Oh Lord!" exclaimed the trader. "Like Tchakegie, oh Lord!"

"Did you ever know Tchakegie?" I asked.

"Yes, very well indeed, in former days. He is no ruffian, but a gentleman."

"Now, Mr. Karpouza, you hear that!" I said, "and you must let us talk about him with a view to his capture, you understand."

"Yes," cried the trader, "that's just it. Whoever catches him will get a lot of money by it."

"What would be the best way?" I asked.

"Well, you see," said the trader, pushing away his pudding plate and lighting a cigarette, "Tchakegie is not like any other brigand. He is a gentleman the most perfect gentleman in all Asia. He will never harm a lady, nor a woman, nor a child. He will never harm a merchant either, though he may take from him a contributionnot too much, but something. He is good-oh, how good!-to the poor. But when it comes to cruel people and soldiers and their officers-ah! these are the ones he likes to catch; and the officials, yes-those too he will shoot. That is why the people have given him a name. He is The Justice of the Mountains,' for it is he that punishes."

"But he cannot make much of a living at that rate," I observed. "Don't you think he would be better off keeping an inn, for instance?"

"But, certainly, he is rich-very, very rich," answered the trader. "He knows who the people are who have been cruel, and have taken other people's money. Those are the ones he looks after, and he takes their money away and gives it to the poor and to those who have not enough, and some he keeps for himself. Ah! yes; he is

"Well, he is the most frank and generous-hearted man alive, and if I went to his place and said, ‘Here, Tchakegie, I want your photograph,' he would say, 'My photograph! What for?' and I would say, 'Oh, just to sell to the newspapers and make a little money, for, you see, I am only a poor fellow.' Tchakegie would say, 'All right; you shall have it.' Well, when I had got that I could make a lot of money by that."

"Quite so; and the price upon his head-this frank, generous-hearted friend of yours-you would get that, too."

"Ah! that's it. You see, he would go anywhere to help a friend. That would be the way to catch him; but few people know what he looks like, and he is so different-so very different -from what people expect that they might talk to him for a long while without knowing who he is."

"He has never caught you?" I asked. "Me! never. He would never hurt me. I knew him well years ago, before he turned brigand."

"What was he before he turned brigand?"

"Well, it was in this way. Many years ago now his father offended the officials-in the reign of the late Sultan that was-and in consequence he was obliged to take to the mountains and turn brigand. In these days perhaps he would have been exiled. A good many years passed, and the present Sultan came to the throne. Then an occasion offered, and he accepted the Sultan's pardon-that is, he surrendered and was given a billet somewhere in the army. A short time afterwards, an expedition started into the mountains and he was ordered to go too.

He took with him his son Tcha

kegie, who was then quite a boy. Tchakegie was riding in the rear, and as they rode up the mountain the road turned like a serpent, as you know it does sometimes, and Tchakegie saw an officer level his gun and take aim at his father, who was in front, and shoot him dead through the back.

"That made a great impression upon Tchakegie, and the impression had time to deepen, for the officer who shot his father accused the boy before the authorities of a crime which he had not committed, and he was put in prison for six years. Six years makes a difference in the life of a boy, and when Tchakegie came out of prison he was a young man with a settled purpose. He went to find the officer who shot his father, and having found him he shot him dead, and then he fled to the mountains and turned brigand. Yes! what else could he do? He is not old now, only twenty-eight or thirty. But he is not like other brigands. His life has not made him bloodthirsty, and he is not greedy. Other brigands will sometimes take the ransom and then kill the people. Yes! and they do worse things to women and children, and they cut off people's fingers and toes and send them to the people's friends and relations. They do that out of spite. Tchakegie is not like that; you might almost think that he is sorry to be a brigand at all, though he is so rich and has so much power. For every governor in this country is afraid of him since he is "The Justice of the Mountains.' They know what will happen to them if they go too far in their ways and Tchakegie gets to hear about it.

"I will tell you a story about him. There are many like it, for he is very good to the poor. Once there were some poor people who worked very hard on their farm. They had a daughter-only that daughter-and she was a very pretty girl. Well, there was a

brigand, and he wanted to have her. So he came with his men and took her away. Now, Tchakegie knew this old man, and as he chanced to ride that way, he stopped at the farm to rest himself; and he found the old man and his wife quite crazy. When he made out what it was that made them SO crazy, he said, 'Don't worry any more. You shall have your daughter to-morrow-all safe.' So he rode away. The brigands meantime had got to their house and set down the girl, and she sat in a corner and was very frightened. While they sat round a table drinking mastic, all of a sudden Tchakegie came in. And they said to him, 'Sit down,' and he said, 'I will not sit down. What is that girl doing there?' 'Oh!' they said, 'that is only a girl, never mind her sit down.' 'I will not sit down,' said Tchakegie, 'while that girl is there. She must go to her own place.' Then he blew his whistle, and before these brigands could move, Tchakegie's men were in the room. And Tchakegie shot the chief brigand dead himself, and some more of the others were shot too. That was to teach brigands not to do such things. Then he took the girl and brought her safely to her parents as he promised he would do. This he did to teach brigands not to do such things.

"You see now the thing which makes it difficult to catch Tchakegie. If we lost him, things would be very much worse. The peasants know that, and they like him much, much better than the officials. If we had not Tchakegie, it is difficult to know who would keep the officials in order. Then, if he meets a man who is poor and can't get along because he wants a little money loaned to him, Tchakegie gives him the money, and does not mind if he never gets paid. He helps them besides in many ways that the officials will not do. Just lately he has made a bridge and repaired a road, because every