The appearance of Canterbury, from whatever part approached, is exquisitely beautiful, and as we enter, symbols of its antiquity stare us in the face everywhere.
The traveller, on entering this place, beholds himself in a sort of Kentish Herculaneum, a town of the martial dead. He gazes around him, and looks upon the streets and edifices of a bye-gone age. He stares up at the beetling stories of the old pent-up buildings as he walks, and peers curiously through latticed windows into the vast low-roofed, heavy-beamed, oak-panelled rooms of days he has read of in old plays.
Sandwich is a town of very remote antiquity, rich in ancient, hospitals, chantries, hermitages, and venerable churches, many of which, with their towers and buttresses, will take the imagination of the gazer back to the old monkish times, when Sandwich was the theatre of more stirring and important historical events than perhaps any town or port of our island.
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This town stands close to the sea shore, which is a bold and open beach, being defended from the violence of the waves by an extensive wall of stones and pebbles which the sea has thrown up.
This much frequented point of continental embarkation has of late years occupied a prominent position among the watering-places of our island.