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World of Mockery

When John Hall walked on Ganymede, a thousand weird beings walked with him. He was one man on a sphere of mocking, mad creatures--one voice in a world of shrieking echoes.

John Hall wiped away blood that trickled from his mouth. Painstakingly he disengaged himself from the hopeless wreckage of the control room. He staggered free, his lungs pumping with terrific effort to draw enough oxygen from the thin, bitterly cold air of Ganymede--that had rushed in when his helmet had been shocked open.

Feeling unusually light he walked over to an enormous tear in the side of his space-cruiser. A bleak scene met his eyes. Short, grotesquely hewn hills and crags. Rocky pitted plains. And a bitter, wild wind blew constantly, streaming his long hair into disarray.

He cursed through tight lips. Fate! He had been on his way to Vesta, largest city of Jupiter, when his fuel had given out. He had forgotten to check it, and here he was.

Despondently he kicked a small rock in front of him. It rose unhindered by the feeble gravitation fully thirty feet in the air.

Suddenly there were a dozen scuffing sounds, and a dozen stones winged themselves painstakingly through the air and began to descend in slow motion.

Surprise struck, he gazed furtively about him. Momentarily his heart seemed caught in some terrible vise.

There was a sudden movement behind a close ridge. Momentarily John Hall was rendered paralyzed. Then he backed slowly toward the ship and safety behind a Johnson heat ray. The vague form abruptly materialized, etched in black against the twilight horizon of Ganymede. The effect was startling. The creature stood upright, on two legs, with two gnarled, lengthy arms dangling from its bony shoulders. Human? The question registered itself on his brain, and the thing in front of him gave unwitting reply, as it moved to a clearer position. No, not human. Maybe not even animal. Two great eyes bulged curiously from a drawn, shrunken, monkey-like face. The body was as warped and distorted as the bole of an old oak tree. With pipe-stem arms and legs, bulging at the joints. Its most natural position seemed to be a crouch, with the arms dragging on the ground. Somehow this travesty of human form struck him as being humorous. He chuckled throatily, and then stopped with a start as the same chuckle crudely vibrated back, echo-like. But it was no echo! No, that wasn't possible. John raised his hand to scratch his head through force of habit; forgetful that this was impossible through the thick glassite helmet he wore. The tall, gangling creature in front of him watched closely for a moment, then stretched one preposterously long limb up and scratched briskly on his leathery skull in imitation of John Hall.

The answer struck him instantly. Why hadn't he thought of it. This animal, this thing, whatever it was, was a natural mimic. Such a thing was not unknown on earth. Monkeys often imitated the gestures of humans. Parrots prattled back powerful expletives and phrases. He rather welcomed his new find now. It would be pretty dismal all alone on desolate Ganymede with no one to talk to but himself, and this strange animal would undoubtedly help to lighten the long, dreary hours, perhaps days, that stretched ahead of him until rescue came. Certainly there was nothing to fear from this creature; not at least by himself, born to resist the pull of a gravity force many times more powerful then that of Ganymede's.

He walked slowly toward the creature viewing its reactions carefully. It held its ground. Evidently fear was not an element in its makeup. Why should it be? Doubtlessly these things were the only animate life on the globe. Masters of all they surveyed. No other beings to contest their supremecy. No need then for fear or even for savageness. They were, undoubtedly, happy-go-lucky beasts who scavenged the bleak, rocky surface of the moon for hardy mosses or whatever they lived on. He heard a scuffing noise to his left. Another creature, similar almost in every detail to the first had popped into view. That seemed to be a signal for a dozen others to haphazardly appear from the most unexpected places and niches. One rose up within a few feet of Hall and blinked its great eyes at him in greeting.

"What the--", Hall spluttered to himself, "seems to be a family reunion of some sort." Suddenly, prompted by some impish quirk he shouted to his bizarre audience, "Hello there." A moment of silence and then a chorus of rasping sounds sent back "Ah-low-da." Probably the closest that their crude vocal apparatus could interpret his alien accents. Continuing his mock procedure, John stretched his hands aloft, and then in stiff, prim fashion bowed low. With solemn dignity the assembly emulated his action. John leaped twenty feet into the air with glee, and as he floated slowly to the ground he watched the pitiful attempts below to equal his feat.

For a moment everything was still and John good-naturedly surveyed the grotesque caricatures of human beings that surrounded him. "Well," John finally commented candidly, "at least we are in agreement over what line of action to follow, which is more than I could say for a lot of human friends of mine." A blurred attempt at imitation followed.

Then abruptly it was dark. Just like that. Perhaps you have seen darkness fall in the tropics? Just ten or fifteen minutes of twilight and then it's dark. The thin atmosphere of Ganymede did not maintain twilight very long. John cursed a little as he backed his erratic way back to the ship, revealed only by the gleam of the stars on its rounded hull. He groped about for the tear in the surface of the glimmering shell, found it and tumbled hastily in to escape the terrible cold that was forming in the absence of the sun's heat. The pilot room was rapidly assuming the aspect of an underground cavern with long, gleaming icicles hanging from the top. John grumbled a bit, and then opened the door to the small supply room. Closed it quickly behind him and sat down on a box of canned beans. Funny, he reflected, that they had never been able to produce synthetic foods in feasible form. Perhaps habit was harder to change than the scientists had thought. People still liked their meals--solid. He reached out and switched on the feeble storeroom light which operated from an independent source. Its yellow glow brought back a comforting nostalgia. He dined frugally on a can of beans and some biscuits; turned the heating units of his suit up to 70 degrees, and dozed into fitful slumber.

Some indeterminate period later he awoke. His mind still a little numbed by sleep he slipped the catch on his helmet and threw it back in order to take advantage of the bracing effect the sharp, thin air of Ganymede had displayed on the previous evening. He was totally unprepared for the furnace-like blast of heat that swept across his exposed features. He stood for a moment, stupefied, while the oven-heat dried the juices of his face and started to take on a blistering effect. Comprehension dawned magically and he snapped back the helmet and breathed with distinct relief the air supplied by his space suit which was scientifically kept at a pleasant temperature. The explanation was simplicity itself. The air cover of Ganymede was so thin, and its cloudless skies so clear, that the sun, though distant, beat down like old fury itself. He opened the door that led from the supply room into the pilot room. The long, pointed icicles which had formed the previous night were gone. The only clue to show that they had once existed was a rapidly rising cloud of steam from the steel floor. His glassite helmet misted swiftly as he walked through the room, then cleared slowly as he stepped out into the full glare of the sun. He could not help but admire the potency of this yellow star, even from a distance at which it appeared hardly larger than a standard sized base ball.

He cupped one heavily encased hand over the top of his helmet to protect his eyes from the sun, and searched the skies thoroughly for any sign of a rescue ship. Sighting nothing he dropped his hand despondently to his side and stumbled thoughtfully along the rough terrain. His mind worked desperately, attempting to devise some feasible means of signaling the rescue parties which must, at this very moment, be combing the space lanes--searching for him. Some huge flare might be useful, but a simple glance about him revealed that the largest form of plant life, which might serve as fuel, were small grey mosses that grew on the underside of occasional outcropping rock formations. They were useless for anything but a tiny smudge fire. His mind turned back to his ship. Possibly there was something highly combustible aboard that might be used for a flare. His mind flitted thoughtfully over every item in the ship's supplies and retired with the conclusion that the anti-fire campaigns which had been conducted for so long on the inhabited planets were going too far! His only hope lay in the possibility that one of the rescue ships might briefly scan the surface of Ganymede with one of their telescopic vision plates and notice the gleaming wreck of his auxiliary space ship. That gave him an idea. Something he had once used in an old book. About a castaway on a desert island arranging rocks to spell out giant words in the hope that some passing airplane might see the message and land to investigate. Slim chance, but still nothing could be overlooked if he hoped for eventual rescue.

Swiftly he set about gathering rocks. He planned to form the simple four letter word HELP, with an exclamation point added for emphasis. So engrossed was he in his work that he scarcely noted the unusual volume of noise about him, or if he did notice it attributed it to the small slides caused by his unearthing rocks from their natural formation. Hours passed while he painstakingly formed the shape of an enormous letter "H," a letter fully a tenth of a mile long. Exhausted by the unaccustomed manual labor he straightened up a moment and cast an approving eye across the extent of his handiwork. A gasp rose involuntarily from his throat as a strange sight crossed his line of vision. The land about him fairly swarmed with the peculiar, bony creatures he had encountered the evening before, and as far as his eyes could see there stretched an uninterrupted series of H's, all exactly similar in shape, size and peculiarities of the original! And at the edge of each of the letters sat a puffing group of emaciated, leathery skinned Ganymedians! Their great, watery eyes blinking patiently and soulfully in his direction!

He didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. It was impossible to proceed. In order to lay out another letter he would have to accomplish the tremendous task of removing all the other H's as well. He shuddered as he realized that he would have to repeat the process again and again until finally the one word help, with a string of exclamation points miles in length remained. Suddenly a thought struck him. Wasn't this seemingly endless row of huge H's sufficient to attract the attention of any searching party that happened to see it without going to the trouble, double trouble at that, of adding the rest of the letters that spelled out the word HELP? It seemed logical enough to him. With a distinct air of relief he turned away, his arduous task of the past few hours completed, thanks to these freakish creatures that inhabited this moon.

Still, somehow his mind could not shift from the ever-present danger. Possible exhaustion of his food supply; the energy heating units of his space suit--of water. Once again his thoughts turned to the humor provided by the strange inhabitants of Ganymede. He called out sharply to one of them: "How are you old chap?"

"This chap doesn't need enunciation lessons," John muttered softly to himself. And as if to prove it the lips of the creature moved erratically, as if talking to itself in the identical manner that John had just done.

"Nice weather we're having," John phrased ironically as small flakes of ice formed on the end of his nose.

"Like hell it is!" came back the surprise retort.

The Ganymedian in front of him took on a more surprising aspect with each passing moment. For some reason nature had bestowed upon this travesty of human form a telepathic mental pick-up. Similar, in results, to the ones in use on earth, except that this was not a mechanical device. It was, undoubtedly, a far more efficient receiver of flesh and blood, or whatever substance this thing was composed of, capable of picking up thought waves as simply as a radio receiver picks up radio waves.

"It can do anything but understand," John found himself saying. He could only wonder why some scientist had not discovered these creatures before and dissected them to find out just how their peculiar brains operated.

He ran. Miles he ran. His powerful, earthly muscles lending magic powers to his feet. Across broken, rock-hard plains--stumbling, falling, slipping, across stretches of mountain region and through dim valleys. And night descended upon him. Unfailing, relentless, it settled leaving everything pitch dark. And they followed him. Miles behind, but never giving up, never faltering. A mad man they followed who did not run, but leaped, fifty feet into the air, and screaming at his slow rate of descent barely touched the ground before he was off on another leap, even greater than the preceding one. A dozen times he was speared upon dangerous rocks--the tough substance of his suit the only thing between him and death. And as tiny leaks formed in his suit, the insidious cold crept in slowly, surely, numbing his body until each leap was a little shorter, a little less powerful than the other. Until lost in a maze of bleak mountains he collapsed.

Dawn bolted deer-like over the black hills of Ganymede, and as if it had never interrupted its work, the distant sun beat down upon the frozen landscape with renewed vigor. A lone earth figure rolled over and groaned. Shakily it got to its feet and took a few trembling steps. John Hall, exhausted physically and mentally was all right again. The madness of the preceding night had left him, almost as suddenly as it had come upon him. It was almost as if kind nature had blotted out the portion of his brain which preserved memory, and left his mind, dulled, numb. In a daze, his once proud figure tripped along the devious mountain passes. Too tired to leap--barely capable of moving, John Hall threaded his tortuous way through regions only half recalled. No thoughts, simply a guiding instinct that urged him, warned him, that he must go this way to return to the space ship, and food--maybe rescue.

And a hundred yards behind him, unnoticed, trailed multiple, black, ungainly creatures, who stumbled when he stumbled, fell when he fell.

With incredible strength he tore away the protecting mass of his space suit. The cold wind hit him, knifed him through and through. And he stepped forward. Walking, walking, and suddenly his great hands rose aloft in an agony of sorrow. His mighty voice bellowed above the elements of loneliness, of despair. And always, those grotesque, storm-swept, misshapen creatures fastened their wet, glistening eyes upon him and in the depths of them displayed rage as he displayed it; despair as he displayed it. And when he pounded his clenched fists in powerful blows upon his resounding chest, they pounded their gnarled limbs upon their shrunken chests in powerful mimicry.

When the crew of the rescue ship "Space-Spear" landed, they turned back in horror at a planet of mad-things that shrieked, wept, raged and despaired in a manner that was more than imitation--that was real! And they could not help but shudder inwardly at the terrible fate that had befallen John Hall, and his horrible, unknowing revenge!

See p. 112.

The oratory that was constructed in 1327, and other attempted arrangements, did not settle the differences between the monks and the parishioners of St. Nicholas. These were only finally ended by the erection of a new church, for the use of the latter, in the cemetery called the Green Church Haw, on the north side of the cathedral. The people were still allowed to pass within the north side of the cathedral in their processions, and the Perpendicular doorway which exists, walled up, towards the west end of the north aisle wall, was inserted for their passage. The right that the mayor and corporation of the city still retain of entering the cathedral in their robes and with their maces, etc., borne before them, by the great west door, seems to be a relic of the old parochial use of the nave.

Later in the fifteenth century the clerestory and vaulting of the north choir aisle were finished, and Perpendicular windows were inserted in the nave aisles. Then, about 1470, the great west window was inserted, and the nave clerestory, together with the northern pinnacle of the west gable, rebuilt. It was in 1490, or thereabouts, apparently, that the Perpendicular builders carried out their last important work: the erection of the so-called Lady Chapel, in the corner between the south transept and the nave. This seems to be really an extension of the Lady Chapel in the south transept , to be a nave to this rather than a chapel itself.

The 20th of March, 1540, is the date of the commission to the Archbishop of Canterbury, George Lord Cobham, and others to accept the surrender of the house and its possessions to the king. On the 8th of April following the seal of the convent was affixed to the instrument of resignation, a document which seems to us very ironical in its wording. It was sent in, we read by them "with their unanimous assent and consent, deliberately and of their own certain knowledge and mere motion, from certain just and reasonable causes, especially moving their minds and consciences, of their own free will." Some pensions were granted on the day of surrender, the total number given among the dispersed monks being thirteen. These seem very few, but possibly vacancies had been left unfilled for some years in dread of such an event, and perhaps one or two of the monks embraced the opportunity of release from their vows. Others, we know, were given new appointments. Even the above small number soon dwindled. In Cardinal Pole's list of 1556 we find only one former member of this priory recorded as in receipt of an annuity, and five as in receipt of pensions. The annuity was possibly a payment to which the house was already liable at the time of the suppression, while the pensions would be the "convenient charity" of the Crown.

The original dedication was to St. Andrew.

In 1541 panelled book-desks were provided for the new canons and singing men. Some of the panels belonging to them still remain, and are incorporated in the present choir stalls.

For some years little of interest occurred directly concerning the cathedral itself, though much happened of importance in the history of the see and its bishops. In 1558, however, the body of Cardinal Pole lay here for a night in state, and we are able to give an eye-witness's account, written by Francis Thynne, afterwards Lancaster Herald, and published in Holinshed's Chronicles in 1587. "Cardinal Poole died the same daie wherein the Queene" "died, the third hour of the night.... His bodie was first conveyed from Lambeth to Rochester, where it rested one night, being brought into the Church of Rochester at the West doore, not opened manie yeres before. At what time myselfe, then a yoong scholer" , "beheld the funeral pompe thereof, which trulie was great and answerable both to his birth and calling, with store of burning torches and mourning weedes. At what time, his coffin, being brought into the church, was covered with a cloth of blacke velvet, with a great crosse of white satten over all the length and bredth of the same, in the middest of which crosse his Cardinal's hat was placed. From Rochester he was conveied to Canterbury, where the same bodie was, after three daies spent in his commendations set foorth in Latine and English, committed to the earth in the Chapell of Thomas Becket."

In 1568 we have a curious story, said to be taken originally from records in the Rochester Diocesan Registry of the discovery and apprehension, at Rochester, of a Jesuit in disguise. A certain Thomas Heth, purporting to be a poor minister, came and asked the dean to recommend him for some preferment. The dean said that he would consider his case after he had heard him preach before him in the cathedral. No fault seems to have been found with the sermon, but in the pulpit afterwards, the sexton, Richard Fisher, picked up a letter that had been dropped, and carried it to the bishop, Dr. Gest. This was directed to Th. Finne from Samuel Malta, a noted Jesuit at Madrid. Heth was brought up and examined before the bishop; he acknowledged that he had preached for six years in England, but said that he had left the hated order. He was then remanded until the case had been reported to the queen and her council. Incriminating papers were in the meantime found among his belongings, and, at a later second examination, he confessed. He was pilloried, branded, and mutilated after the cruel manner of those days, beside the High Cross at Rochester, and was condemned to be imprisoned for life. From this imprisonment he was released by an early death.

We are next able to mention a visit by Good Queen Bess. She came to Rochester during her summer progress in Kent in 1573, and lodged, during her first four days in the city, at the Crown Inn. On the last day of her stay she was entertained by Mr. Richard Watts at his house, on Boley Hill, which then, it is said, obtained its name of "Satis," she having answered with this word his apologies for the poor accommodation that he had been able to offer to so great a queen. On Sunday, the 19th of September, she attended divine service, and heard a sermon at the cathedral.

In 1591 there is recorded the destruction of a great part of the chancel by fire, but the fabric itself does not seem to have been much damaged. At any rate, in 1607 the dean and chapter were able to certify to Archbishop Abbot, who was making a metropolitical visitation, that the church, though requiring weekly repair from its antiquity, was, as a whole, in reasonable condition. This statement was probably accurate, as the return was not followed by any injunctions from the visitor.

These answers are published in the Fourth Report of the Historical Manuscripts Commission.

In "A perfect diurnall of the severall passages in our late Journey into Kent, from Aug. 19 to Sept. 3, 1642, by the appointment of both Houses of Parliament" we have an official account of the doings of the Parliamentary soldiers in this cathedral as elsewhere in the county. Of the last day of their stay in the town on their outward journey, we read: "On Wednesday, being Bartholomew Day, before we marched forth, some of our souldiers went to the Cathedrall about 9 or 10 of the clock, in the midst of their superstitious worship, with their singing men and boys; they marched up to the place where the altar stood, and staying awhile, thinking they would have eased their worship, and demanded a reason of their posture, but seeing they did not, the souldiers could not forbeare any longer to wait upon their pleasure, but went about the worke they came for. First they removed the Table to its place appointed, and then tooke the seate which it stood upon, being made of deale board, having 2 or 3 steps to go up to the altar, and brake that all to pieces; it seemed the altar was so holy that the ground was not holy enough to stand upon. This being done they pluckt down the rails and left them for the poore to kindle their fires; and so left the organs to be pluckt down when we came back again, but it appeared before we came back they tooke them downe themselves. When this work was finished we then advanced towards Maidstone." At Canterbury it was far worse. There, "on Saterday morning before we departed some of our souldiers visited the great Cathedrall, and made havock of all their Popish reliques.... When they had done their pleasure we all marched to Dover." Their pleasure meant terrible injuries to this grand church.

The name of one despoiler is on record. In the answer by the dean and chapter to an enquiry by Bishop Warner, a certain John Wyld, a shoemaker of Rochester, is mentioned as having taken down and sold iron and brass work from some of the tombs. The Rev. S. Denne gives the following additional information,--on the testimony of "Mr. William Head, senior alderman of the city, a very antient worthy man, who died March 5, 1732,"--that the church was used as a stable by Fairfax's troops, who turned their horses' heads into the stalls in the choir.

Great efforts were made directly after the Restoration to bring the building into a decent state once more. On the 10th of April, 1661, Samuel Pepys, then on a visit of inspection to Chatham as Secretary to the Admiralty, tells, in his diary, how he went on to Rochester and "there saw the Cathedrall, which is now fitting for use, and the organ then a-tuning." The church must have been in a very bad state, for the dean and chapter reported to the bishop, in 1662, that the repairs that they had already executed had cost them ?8,000, and that the defects still remaining in the fabric would need a further expenditure of not less than ?5,000 to make them good. They said that they were unable to raise this sum themselves, but they remitted a quarter of the arrears due to them towards it. The under steward, Sir Henry Selby, gave up his salary for as long as should be thought fit; and several donations are recorded in the minute books, with the donors' names.

At this time Mr. Peter Stowell paved with freestone a great part of the body of the church, from the west door to the choir steps, at a cost of ?100. This had been rendered necessary, probably, by the saw-pits mentioned above. He also recovered at his own expense the iron frame for the pulpit hour glass, and got back many books, records, etc., belonging to the church that were in the custody of Mr. Duke, of Aylesford. Under the Commonwealth, Stowell had for his loyalty suffered fine and imprisonment. He was joint registrar to the bishops from 1629 until his death in 1671, and was buried in the cathedral.

In 1664 the south aisle of the nave was re-cased, and in 1670 an agreement was made with Robert Cable, to take down a length of 40 feet of the north aisle wall and re-erect it from the ground.

A longer account of the funeral was published in the Gazette at the time. Its date is given as the 6th May in the Cathedral Registers, but this must be wrong.

A sum of ?160 was, in 1688, spent on the repairing of the old organ and on a new chair organ, a name often wrongly altered to 'choir organ.' In 1705 the nave was newly leaded, the names of Henry Turner, carpenter, Thomas Barker, plumber, and John Gamball, bricklayer, being inscribed with those of the bishop, dean, prebendaries, and verger on one of the sheets. The altar-piece of Norway oak, "plain and neat," which retained its place throughout the century, was probably constructed in 1707. A sketch of its history, with notices of the various adornments that it had at different times, will be given when the furniture of the choir is described. In 1724 a return was made to Bishop Bradford that three-quarters of the whole roof had been re-leaded within the previous twenty years, and that the rest was believed to be in good order. There was then no defect in the walls reported; the windows were said to be in good repair and the pavement also. Until 1730 the bells were rung from a loft or gallery over the steps to the choir, the approach being from Gundulf's tower. This gallery was then removed, and the vaulting of the crossing finished to match that of the south transept, which had been repaired and decorated not long before according to a plan by Mr. James. At the same time the order was given for the part of the organ screen towards the nave to be wainscoted.

Very considerable repairs and alterations were made in the choir during the years 1742-43, under the direction of Mr. Sloane. While they were in progress, for the space of a year and a quarter, the dean and chapter attended service at St. Nicholas Church. New stalls and pews were erected and the partition walls wainscoted; a pavement was laid "with Bremen and Portland stone beautifully disposed;" and an episcopal throne was presented by Bishop Wilcocks and placed opposite the pulpit, where the present throne now stands. Much white-washing was done at this time, even the numerous Purbeck marble shafts being covered with it. In 1788, however, they are mentioned as polished once more and restored to their original beauty. From shortly after the Restoration until about the time of these alterations, the inclosure of the bishop's consistory court had been situated near the west end of the south aisle of the nave. It was now removed to the Lady Chapel, where it remained until well on in the present century.

The steeple had, at last, to be rebuilt in 1749. Mr. Sloane's model of its woodwork was for many years preserved in St. William's Chapel, and has since been kept in the crypt, where it still remains, but in a very dilapidated condition. In 1763 the northern of the towers flanking the west front was considered to be in a dangerous state, and was taken down, together with the upper part of the north aisle end beside it. It was rebuilt soon afterwards. A bequest of ?100, in 1765, by Dr. John Newcome, dean of the cathedral and master of St. John's College, Cambridge, towards the repair of the fabric, was probably intended to help this work. The new tower was professedly a careful reproduction of the old, but its incongruities have formed one of the reasons for the recent thorough renovation, instead of mere repairing, of the west front. It was only carried up to about half its former height, and was there, with the aisle end, finished off with battlements. This was all done before 1772, as an engraved view of the west front in that year shows. The southern tower is in this view still unlowered, but it was cut down, to match its fellow in height, soon afterwards.

For a long time previously the outer walls of the south choir aisle and south choir transept had occasioned great anxiety. They were not buttressed originally, like the similarly situated walls on the other side of the church, probably because they had the cloister and other conventual buildings to support and shelter them. Several attempts were made, in particular, to render the transept secure. A first was by the fixing of wooden ties, with large iron bolts, in the main timbers of the roof; a second, in 1751, in pursuance of advice by Mr. Sloane, by the raising of two great brick buttresses; and a third, about twenty years later, by lightening the roof. These were useful for a time, but, as the wall was still evidently declining, Mr. Mylne was consulted and, by his direction, piles of bricks were erected in the undercroft, and other methods were used to discharge the weight of the upper works. These schemes were brutal and inartistic. Though they answered their purpose for some years, they were afterwards found to be doing harm rather than good.

In his "History of Kent" Hasted gives expression to some very gloomy views as to the state of the fabric. We there read: "The whole bears venerable marks of its antiquity, but time has so far impaired the strength of the materials with which it is built, that, in all likelihood, the care and attention of the present chapter, towards the support of it, will not be sufficient to prevent the fall of great part of it, even in their time." Dr. Denne, however, thought the case, though bad, not quite so hopeless as this, and his more sanguine opinion has proved to be correct. Constant care, however, has had to be bestowed on the place.

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