Lay no stifling tombstone there;
The flowers will spring up thick and fair;
The violets love
The early dead.

ASSAULT AND BATTERY.

"HA! ha!" said he, with a sardonic laugh.

"What do you mean?" I asked, indignantly.

"Ha, ha!" repeated he, more sardonically
than before; "it's a hoax;" and then he roared
with delight. "He" was the booking-clerk at
the Faversham railway station, "I" was a
passenger just alighted and inquiring whether there
would be any special return trains to London, and
"it" was a paragraph about a night attack by
volunteers, which had appeared in the newspapers.

Now, though a hoax in itself is a most delightful
thing, requiring great subtlety of wit to
invent, and great delicacy of humour to carry
through, still, when after travelling more than
fifty miles, at great trouble and inconvenience, for
a special object, you find you have mistaken an
asinine bray for the genuine bugle-call, you are apt
to be annoyed. So I was beginning to wax very
wroth, and to feel anything but pleasantly disposed
towards Faversham, its volunteers, local population,
railway, and belongings in general, when I
was accosted by the station-master, from whom
I learned that, though the numbers engaged
would not be so large as had been stated in the
newspaper paragraph, the night attack would
certainly be made, that from the condition and
drill of the men the operation would probably be
very creditably carried out, and that, though
there were no special return trains to London
—indeed, I seemed to be the only stranger in the
place—there was a capital hotel where I should
be taken excellent care of.

I found the hotel, forming one side of the queer
little market square, and immediately confronting
the lopsided little town-hall, with its big-faced
clock and its supporting pillars forming a little
arcade, in which, probably, the merchants of
Faversham most do congregate. I found the
landlord astonished at the idea of a stranger
coming so far to see so little, but, undoubtedly,
delighted at the chance of driving me in an
open trap to the scene of action, and of
beholding the military display. I ordered my
dinner, and I set out to do Faversham. Easily
done! Such quaint, old-fashioned, gable-ended
houses, with all their woodwork newly grained,
with plate-glass substituted for the old diamond
panes, with the date of erection, in many cases,
neatly picked out as something to be proud of;
and with a perpetual current of business pouring
into them, bespeaking trade and prosperity;
such clean broad trimly-kept streets, stretching
here away into a pleasant country, there away to
new red-brick buildings, suggestive of benevolent
townsfolk and heavy legacies; such a charming
old church, with a singular spire springing from
a curious arch; such a picturesque schoolhouse
close by, with such a ringing, fresh, girlish voice
within, heard through the open window singing
—oh so sweetly!—the Evening Hymn; such a
capital range of red-brick houses, with stone
mullions and copings judiciously introduced,
with bay-windows thrown out here, and twisted
chimneys put on there, and with, in the middle,
a large handsome evidently public building, with
big doors and those fine old mediæval hinges,
which make such a show, but which are not
particularly useful. Of a passing rustic, or,
rather, semi-rustic, an agricultural labourer with
a maritime flavour, I asked what that (pointing
to it) was. The person looked at me, for a
moment, seriously, then grinned, and said "Faversham."
"Of course, I know; but that" pointing
again. A longer stare, then "Houses," was the
reply. "Of course, but that" with an
unmistakable forefinger. "A-ah!"—long drawn out
sigh of relief—"Institoot." The Albert Institute,
well endowed, well supported, well attended,
well conducted. Faversham's tribute to
the memory of the Prince Consort, and a very
sensible tribute too.

Dinner despatched, I found the landlord awaiting
me in an open phaeton, and away we sped
to the scene of the operations, some four miles
distant. Our passage through the streets was
impeded by the streams of people all pouring out
in the one direction, old and young, women and
children, all full of spirits. Sitting on the box by
the landlord, I had been wondering at the
perpetual shouts of laughter we occasioned, at the
never-failing roar of delight with which our
appearance—like that of some popular actor—was
greeted, and I was about to ask my companion
for an explanation, when, turning round for an
instant, I saw a shock-headed ragged man
solemnly trotting by the side of our trap, to
which he was holding with one hand. "Who's
your friend?" I asked the landlord. "Oh!" said
he, without turning, "'tis only Buzzy Billy!"
Being to my shame ignorant of this celebrity, I
was compelled to press the question further, and
then learned that Buzzy Billy was the "softy,"
the omadhaun, in plain English the idiot, of the
town, who, like most idiots, had a certain amount
of nous which fitted him for work which no one
else cared to do, and that he was attached as
our retainer to hold the horse and look after
the trap while we were further afield, with
the certainty that no amount of excitement
could beguile him from his duty. Which result,
on such an occasion, could not have been
predicated of any other male in Faversham. As
running footman Buzzy Billy discharged his
duties well, distributing slaps of the head
among the boys with great impartiality, with a
hand about the size and colour of a shoulder
of mutton, invariably meeting all suggestions
of a "lift" with the sarcastic remark, "Get
'long wi' 'ee. They wouldn't let me ride, much
less such as you!"

As we rode along, I learned from the landlord
that the night's proceedings had been originated
by a gentleman, the proprietor of extensive