Though we stopped in Dartford no longer than necessary for lunch and a
slight repair to the car, it is a place of considerable interest. Its
chief industry is a large paper-mill, a direct successor to the first
one established in England near the end of the Sixteenth Century, and
Foolscap paper, standard throughout the English-speaking world, takes
its name from the crest (a fool's cap) of the founder of the industry,
whose tomb may still be seen in Dartford Church.

A short run over a broad road bordered with beautiful rural scenery
brought us into Rochester, whose cathedral spire and castle with its
huge Norman tower loomed into view long before we came into the town
itself. A few miles out of the town our attention had been attracted by
a place of unusual beauty, a fine old house almost hidden by high hedges
and trees on one side of the road and just opposite a tangled bit of
wood and shrubbery, with several of the largest cedars we saw in
England. So picturesque was the spot that we stopped for a photograph of
the car and party, with the splendid trees for a background, but, as
often happens in critical cases, the kodak film only yielded a "fog"
when finally developed.

When we reached Rochester, a glance at the map showed us that we had
unwittingly passed Gad's Hill, the home where Charles Dickens spent the
last fifteen years of his life and where he died thirty-six years ago.
We speedily retraced the last four or five miles of our journey and
found ourselves again at the fine old place with the cedar trees where
we had been but a short time before. We stopped to inquire at a roadside
inn which, among the multitude of such places, we had hardly noticed
before, and which bore the legend, "The Sir John Falstaff," a
distinction earned by being the identical place where Shakespeare
located some of the pranks of his ridiculous hero. The inn-keeper was