Another very interesting effigy is that of one Jordanus de Scapeia, found in 1833 in the churchyard, buried five feet deep. The clasped mailed hands hold a little mystic oval at the tips of the fingers, bearing a tiny effigy intended to typify the soul. Out in Minster churchyard on sunny days of wandering breezes the guns of the distant forts and battleships that guard the coast are heard to roar and mutter and rumble, according to their distance, and above the peaked roof of the church tower twirls the odd horse-head weather-vane which gives the local name, the “Horse Church.” Here are many stones to the memory of Sheerness dockyard men; among them one with quaint and weatherworn sculpture and curious verses to one Henry Worth, a gunner, who died in 1770, aged fifty-seven: [Illustration] “Pallida Mors æquo pede pauperum Tabernas Regumque Turres. Who e’er thou art, if here by Wisdom led To view the silent mansions of the Dead And search for truth from life’s last mournful page Where Malice lives not, nor where Slanders rage, Read on. No Bombast swells these friendly lines; Here truth unhonour’d & unvarnish’d shines. Where o’er yon sod an envious nettle creeps, From care escap’d an honest Gunner sleeps. As on he travell’d to life’s sorrowing end, Distress for ever claim’d him as a friend; Orphan & Widow were alike his care; He gave with pleasure all he had to spare. His match now burnt, expended all his priming, He left the world, and us, without e’er whining, Deep in the earth his Carcase is entomb’d, Which Love & Grog for him had honeycomb’d. Jesting apart, Retir’d from winds & Weather, Virtue & WORTH are laid asleep together.” Leaving this memorial to the charitable and love-worn Worth and his grog-blossoms, we trace the road towards Eastchurch. Along to the left, folded between the hills and sheltered from the winds, are vales where elms and beeches thrive luxuriantly. Such a spot is the ravine of Scrapsgate, very like the “chines” of the Isle of Wight, a charming spot in spring, where one may always be sure of finding violets, primroses, and bluebells in their season. Scrapsgate was the scene of a mysterious tragedy many years ago. It has long since been forgotten, and the only reminder of it now to be found is a weather-worn tombstone in the obscure churchyard of the workhouse at Minster, with the following inscription: