You go down to the harbour past the Droit Office and through the old archway called “York Gate,” built, according to the inscription upon it, by George Culmer in 1540, and repaired by Sir George Henniker in 1795. This gateway, it is rather surprising to learn, was built as a defence against the foreign foe. It may, when fitted with its wooden door, “slammed, barred, and bolted,” have detained an enemy for a brief space, but it can never have been a formidable obstacle. The suggestion may be ventured that it was designed to detain the fierce foeman only until the feeble folk of Broadstairs of old could snatch up a few belongings and hurry away. The flimsy old stone and black-flint archway is liberally cobbled with brick, and valerian and grasses grow on its mouldering walls. Down along the jetty Broadstairs looks its best. Here is the “Tartar Frigate” inn, flint-faced, and here, too, the lifeboat-house, with the _Mary Barton_ lifeboat, presented in 1897, whose chief exploit was the saving of ninety-three lives on July 14th, 1911. So, you see, Broadstairs knows something else beside holiday sunshine and calm days. The old figurehead of a Highlander here, built on to the side of a sail-loft, hints as much. From what far-away shipwreck it derived is forgotten; and the Highlander, although still looking out with mien so dauntless, is now a much-scarred and battered veteran. He once, you notice, drew a sword, but his right hand and sword are gone. Broadstairs is extraordinarily self-contained, tightly packed, cheerful, and bustling, but there are quiet nooks in it; appropriately named, too. “Serene Place” is one of them. The electric tramways which now quarter so much of Thanet do not trouble the little town, but pass by some distance at the back, up along the wilderness tableland of “Dumpton Park Drive,” and a kind of God-forsaken No Man’s Land, horribly dreary and depressing, which stretches between Broadstairs and Ramsgate. [Illustration: BROADSTAIRS.] St. Peter’s, the village where the mother-church of Broadstairs is situated, is a mile and a quarter in the hinterland, with tramcars whirling all round it. “In the pretty rural churchyard of St. Peter’s,” I read, “is a headstone to mark the last resting-place of Richard Joy, the ‘Kentish Samson.’” Now the churchyard of St. Peter’s, pretty though it may be, is so little rural that houses numerously and intimately look upon it; and the pathway through the very forest of tombstones it contains is asphalted and strictly railed in. Fortunately, however, for those interested in this mortuary way, Richard Joy’s tombstone adjoins the path, and his epitaph, surmounted by representations of thoughtful-looking cherubs and a couple of trumpets, is distinctly to be read from it. Thus you may read: In Memory of MR. RICHARD JOY (call’d the Kentish Samson) who Died May 18th 1742, Aged 67