The “vagabonds” pilloried in this wrong-headed outburst were quite correct; the population had indeed greatly increased, but that of New Romney and Old Romney alike had, for the best of reasons, declined. Moreover, Cobbett did not know--nor do people generally stop to consider--that the numerous and roomy old churches throughout the country do not necessarily give the measure of the ancient population. As even now, the size or frequency of churches depended to a great extent upon the comparative piety and wealth of the neighbourhood. The great church of St. Nicholas, the surviving one of New Romney, is a fine specimen of the late Norman style, with tombs of the old Mayors and jurats. The floor-level is so much below the level of the ground outside that one descends several steps into the building. The town itself is scarce less quiet and undisturbed than the interior of the church itself. It is still technically a Cinque Port, and a Mayor is annually elected. Also there is something in the nature of a town gaol; but it is a curiosity rather than a necessity. I cull this interesting item from a newspaper of October 1913, to show something of the quiet that has now descended upon the place. “SINLESS CINQUE PORT.--During the last six months the fines and fees at the police court of New Romney, the ancient borough and Cinque Port, have amounted to 2_s._ In this time only one minor case was heard, although the borough, which includes Littlestone-on-Sea, has a Mayor and eight magistrates, as well as three policemen.” A very different New Romney from that of centuries ago, which was a place such as Longfellow wrote of, with-- “... The black wharves and the slips, And the sea-tides tossing free; And the Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea.” But the town, although reduced in size, experienced a gorgeous time centuries later; a time that ended only in the early years of the nineteenth century. The sea had gone out of sight, but the smuggling trade brought much wealth here. This was indeed an ideal district for the smugglers who infested the coasts of Kent and Sussex. Every dyke--or “dick,” as the country people pronounce the word--was a temporary storehouse for tubs of contraband spirits, placed there on hurried occasions, until leisure could be found to convey them into more private hiding; and those enterprising revenue officers who on fine days wandered the marshes with iron rods, probing at a venture among the reeds and bulrushes, not infrequently made lucky discoveries.