We have toiled up the heights, and, making the best of a bad day, have roamed from point to point, looking down on the angry ocean.

As there is a little abatement in the descending shower, I must gather some of the flowery grass growing on the brow of the cliff, to present to my friends, not only as a proof of remembrance, but, also, as a meet emblem of the mutability of earthly things. "All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field," Isa. xl. 6. Neither the beauty of vegetation, nor the strength of the "everlasting hills" is to be relied Their Almighty Maker is alone worthy of our confidence, for he is "the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever."

on.

And while this giant cliff, a hopeless trust,
Decays with age, and crumbles into dust;
His never-failing promise standeth sure,
And his Almighty word for ever shall endure.

To mention "Shakspeare's Cliff," and not quote the lines of the great poet of

nature, which gave it its popularity, would be adopting so eccentric a course as to lay myself open to a charge of wilfully omitting what almost all other describers of Dover have considered to be an imperative duty. Though these lines have been quoted by a hundred other persons, yet I cannot stand on the verge of the cliff, without repeating them :

"How fearful

And dizzy 'tis to cast one's eye so low!

the ocean is coloured by the chalk washed away by the billows dashing against its base. I have pressed my hat tightly on my head, lest the fitful blast should whirl it afar into the heaving ocean, while I note down my passing thoughts.

This cliff is said to be three hundred and fifty feet above the level of the sea; and though this height is trifling to that of many of our mountains, yet I question if a spectator on a mountain three thousand feet high is half so much impressed with a sense of altitude and danger as he who stands on the ridge of a perpendicular cliff of three hundred. In the case of the sloping mountain, the fall is broken by the intervening earth; but on the precipitous ridge, an awful and appalling depth is at once presented to the eye.

Yonder lie the Goodwin Sands: the ruin of many a noble ship! the grave of many a daring seaman! Were all the

vessels that have been wrecked there,

more to be seen, a goodly navy

would ride the ocean waves. Headlands,

and rocks, and sands above water, are fraught with danger; but when beneath the waves, they are doubly dangerous. As it is at sea, so it is on land; unseen

danger is perilous in the extreme. But the rain is again increasing, and here we can get no shelter; on we must go.

At the distance of a short mile from Shakspeare's Cliff, is the south end of

Show scarce so gross as beetles. Half way down
Hangs one that gathers samphire: dreadful trade!
Methinks he seems no bigger than his head;
The fishermen, that walk upon the beach,
Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark
Diminished to her cock her cock a buoy
Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge
That on the unnumbered idle pebbles chafes
Cannot be heard so high. I'll look no more,
Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight
Topple down headlong."

Now, true it is, certainly, that this poetic sketch in point of fact is so much overdrawn, that many have censured its inflated exaggerations. Such censurers, however, have not sufficiently considered the circumstances under which the great poet has introduced his sketch; it was never presented by him to his readers as a correct and natural description of the place, but rather as a highly-drawn and exaggerated scene, to impress and excite the mind of the old man whom he represents as about to leap from the cliff. Though it be not what Shakspeare affects to describe it, yet is this giant crag

between the top of the cliff and the tunnel at its base, is carried on by means of a rude stepway cut in the face of the cliffs; and this chalky stepway, worn by the workmen, for whose use it has been hewn, presents, in many places, only a precipitous inclined plane. To pass down this worn and slippery stepway in a drenching rain, and in the face of a high and gusty wind, is a very formidable affair. Having just performed this achievement, I spe speak feelingly.

In passing from Shakspeare's Cliff to the stepway, we had to traverse a long, newly ploughed field, wet and sloping down inland from the cliffs. By the time we had reached the middle of it, we were in a shocking state, our feet being so clogged by the wet and slippery clay that we could hardly move. To add to our troubles, the rain came down faster than ever.

Arrived at the brink of the cliff, and

at the head of the stepway, my young companion and I held the opposite ends of a closed umbrella, that, in case one should slip the other might support him. Alas! alas! the first slip that took place snapped the stick of the umbrella. We had no foothold; the face of the cliff presented no points to seize; and it seemed as though a sudden blast might, at any moment, blow us from our narrow pathway, and send us three score fathoms through the yielding air into the angry ocean raging below. But we have descended, not unthankfully, this perilous pathway in safety. We have walked through the tunnel, examined the works, conversed with the workmen, and are now returning from our venturous expedition along the sands.

I have had a glance at the hotels and inns, the market, the gaol, the town-hall, the custom-house, the libraries, the museum, and the baths. The priory gateway, the Maison Dieu, St. Mary's, and St. James's have been visited. Now I am just returned from Buckland church: the old yew tree in the churchyard is a curiosity. I wandered among the tombs, and mused over such of the green hillocks as had no stone to tell the names of those who slept beneath them; but the old yew tree, after all, was the great object of interest.

Many an age must that olden tree have stood sentinel among the graves; sometimes enriched with berries, always adorned with leaves. At the least, I should say, that five hundred summers' suns and winters' snows have passed over it. Grey-haired and bald-headed men, on the sabbath, have stood beneath it in the time of "barley harvest," talking of the wheatlands and the crops, before they entered the house of God, to render thanks for the great benefits "received at his hands, to set forth his most worthy praise, to hear his most holy word, and to ask those things which are requisite and necessary, as well for the body as the soul." Old women, too, have assembled there in their russet gowns; and lighthearted children, on a week day, have indulged there in their pastimes thinking nothing of their forefathers mouldering beneath their feet. The tree is hollow, and time and the elements have writhed it into fantastic shapes, grotesque and hideous. I could see, or fancied that I saw, fawns and satyrs, in its convolved trunk, and snakes and dragons in its twisted branches.

Again am I on the beach; it is early in the morning. I have been admiring the noble buildings looking toward the ocean. The sea is rough, too rough for the packets to sail from the harbour. One is lying a short half-mile from the shore, and an embarkation of troops is taking place. The boats are drawn alternately on the sand. The soldiers on their way for Gibraltar, with their baggage and a few women, fill the boats as fast as they are ready. Officers are attending the embarkation; and a few hundred spectators, their cloaks, great coats, and shawls rudely blown about by the winds, are gazing on the scene: two boats are already mounting up and down, now seen and now apparently swallowed up by the waves; another is just being pushed off the beach; the band strikes up an encouraging tune; the soldiers in the boats and on the shore are waving their caps, and uttering a hearty hurrah! A sudden shower is descending, and the assembled throng are flying in all directions to secure a temporary shelter.

Again the beach is peopled, and the steam boat passengers are embarking. The boats are full, and a young man, hasty, determined, and impetuous, is vainly attempting to get on board; he runs from boat to boat, and throws into one of them his portmanteau, which is again jerked out upon the sands; he storms and threatens, to the great diversion of the laughing spectators; the boats push off without him. There he is, raging and tearing in all the impotency of useless anger; the boats are tossing on the billows; the fitful blast is blowing; another sudden squall of wind and rain, and once more the motley multitude fly in all directions in wild disorder.

*

A fine day! Oh, how is the goodliness of a sunny day increased by preceding days of clouds and rain! The blue of the sky is seemingly clearer, and the beams of the sun are manifestly brighter. There is neither useless shadow in God's creation, nor useless affliction in God's providence. All may be pronounced "good," for our heavenly Father is as wise and as merciful when he withholds as when he bestows; when he afflicts as when he comforts. Well may our language be, "What shall I render unto the Lord for all his benefits toward me?" Psa. cxvi. 12.

The day, being so fine, must be turned to good account. There is much of Dover yet unseen, and I must be diligent. With health of body, peace of mind, and the means of enjoyment within our reach, we should, indeed, be grateful.

Understanding that strangers were not usually admitted to the underground works of the citadel, I addressed a note, half an hour ago, to the commandant, requesting him so far to extend his courtesy to a stranger, as to allow him to inspect the fortifications at the citadel; a request which was immediately granted. I am now on the heights with my young friend, looking around me before I cross the ditch and enter the gate of the fortifications.

On ascending the heights, my attention was drawn to a spider, that had woven his web at the mouth of a cavern in the face of the cliff. What a different position had he chosen for his frail tenement to that of his fellow-weavers, who had spun their webs in the dark nooks of the town below. Here were the fresh air and the sun, with the blue sky above, the town of Dover below, and a prospect of the heaving ocean. These attractions, however, were useless to the insect; and the web he had woven told us that he was as dependent a creature as were his less ambitious fellow-spiders. It is thus with the most ambitious man! Give him all that wealth can procure, or the world bestow, he is still a poor dependent creature; as dependent as his poorer fellow-men on the daily bounty of his Almighty Maker: his possessions hang on a thread, and his life is a gift from Him "in whose hand is the soul of every living thing, and the breath of all mankind," Job xii. 10.

As I look towards the ocean, many a ship is ploughing her way through the waves. I see the coast of France in the distance. The castle crowns the hill on the left, the barracks and Drop Redoubt are somewhat nearer, and Dover lies below, with its piers, jetty, harbour, and ships. A little to the right, are the Ordnance Office and Soldiers' Hospital, while yet more southward Shakspeare's Cliff arrests the eye of the spectator.

With old James Grey and a corporal of the artillery for our guides, we have explored the prodigious fortifications of the citadel, said to be the strongest in citade the world, if those of Gibraltar and Malta are excepted. The trenches are fortyfive feet deep, and may be swept at every angle by three thirty-two pounders or other pieces, beside the casements on

each side, through which musketry may pour its unceasing fire. The subterraneous excavations and galleries are on a large scale, with fire-places for the soldiers, and platforms for the men to stand on to fire. It is said that a garrison of three thousand men might here maintain themselves for ten years, well supplied with water, if outward succours were cut off. The stupendous trenches astonish the spectator; millions and millions of bricks must have been used in their formation. On expressing my surprise that such strong garrisons could ever be taken, the corporal, with a significant smile, remarked, that there were ways adopted in such cases more effectual than storming, seeming to imply that bribery was oftentimes employed instead of force.

The corporal has taken us round the outer trenches, explaining the use of the traversing platforms for the pieces of artillery, and the protecting mounds of earth, narrating to us, in our tour, anecdotes of military warfare. Many of his remarks betoken him to be a man of some mind; and the hasty ardour of the soldier is, evidently, fast giving way to the calmer reflection of the man.

We have been to the redoubt and the barracks, and descended the military shaft, and are now ascending the flight of steps to Dover's famed castle, which occupies a most commanding station. On turning round, we now see Dover in a new attitude. The place is, as the guide-book tells us, one of the cinque ports, a borough, a market town, and an eminent sea port. It was called Dubris by the Romans, Dofra and Dofris by the Saxons, and in Dooms-day book it is written Dovere. At the present day, it is called Dover, though in all records, deeds, and law proceedings, it is written Dovor. At one time, the place was walled round, and had ten gates.

Respecting the origin of the castle, there are many traditions. One says, that the Britons had a strong hold there before the time of Julius Cesar; another, that the foundation was laid by Julius Cesar himself. It is, however, generally agreed that the Romans must have fortified the place, as the pharos, or watch tower, still remaining, is evidently of Roman construction. How uncertain and vague is traditional information! With regard to ancient, unrecorded events, it may, indeed, be said, "We are but of yesterday, and know nothing, because our days upon earth are a shadow," Job viii, 9,