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Shakspeare; for I wandered along it, to verify that the

mur

muring surge on the unnumbered idle pebbles beats." And as the surge rolls up its tribute of water and thunder, and recedes, the tiny multitudinous pebbles rattle away most distinctly and musically. It could not "be heard so high" as old Gloster stood.

We went upon the cliff, between Dover Castle and Shakspeare's cliff, by a tunnel and stairway. There are three stairways leading up to the fort on this hill, which could empty a goodly number of men in case of invasion. Indeed, Dover is perfectly prepared for that event. The Castle is the highest

point, and within the bosom of that cliff, are trap-doors, stairways, and divers other arrangements to decoy an enemy in, then topple it over, or stifle it with poison. The face of this cliff looks like a great prison; its huge towers rising in the upper air, and its iron-bound windows in harsh contrast with the white beauty of the surface, which white beauty, is not unadorned with yellow and white flowers, as well as with green foliage. Little houses hang upon its sides like nests; and talking of nests reminds me of the birds. If there were no other feature in the scenery of England than these feathered carollers, it would entitle her to the appellation of "merry England." Where do they not sing? In the green lanes towards Epsom, in the depots of the Liverpool railway, in old Cathedral towers, in the Crystal Palace; all

"O'er royal London, in luxuriant May,
With lamps yet twinkling,"

they sing their matin; and here at our departing point, high aloof upon the Castle cliff, ring their merry twitterings, without the fear of big fort-cannon and gruff soldiers before their eyes.

The top of the cliff is a green plot finely laid out; but the fortifications lie higher. We ascended only to meet the challenge of a soldier to "stand," which we laughingly did. "You must obtain a pass." "But, my good sir, we are strangers."

"Must obey orders, sir." "Is your gun loaded?” "No, sir." "Then I think we may say what we please and scale the ramparts." He turned out to be a good-natured fellow, and obeyed orders like a machine, as all good soldiers are. We therefore lost the best view. After gazing off towards the home of Fenelon, Rousseau and Chauteaubriand, and trying to conjure up Shakspeare amidst the old cliffs, albeit inhabited by unpoetical locomotives, we departed.

Dover is a point, in travel, to hang many a wild wonder upon. But, most, it is the point upon which hinges the greatest tragedy of the greatest Dramatist. Here the foulest ingrates that ever fleshed their teeth in the heart of paternal kindness, received an embodiment; and here, Cordelia, the brightest spirit that ever shone in upon the dark depths of Despair, received a local habitation and a name. Thank England's muse for linking such lessons with such localities!

You may be sure, that the enjoyment of travelling has begun, when we can take to our feet, and ramble amidst these grassy mounds covered with May flowers, and look out into the straits, and even catch in the sun's glancing, the white coast of France; when we can feel the fresh air blowing high and aloof from the city's dust and smoke; when we can find in the localities around, something which speaks of literary association and the olden time.

The ride down was of a piece with all of the other travelling into the English country-a rural prospect of rare beauty from Surrey to Dover. Tunbridge furnished a fine old ivied tower. Another loomed up near Dover-strange old milestones down the road of time.

The hour is rung, and our little boat made "the fire fly" in phosphorescent sparkles out of the straits. From certain recollections of salt water, I kept very mouse-like, until our vessel was moored between the long line of piles at Calais.

VIII.

France.---An Entry and an Exit.

"Rattle her chains

More musically now than when the hand
Of Brissot forged her fetters, or the crew
Of Herbert thundered out their blasphemies,
Or Danton talked of virtue?”

Coleridge.

TT T was a moonlit midnight of the latter part of May, that found us landing at the pile-driven harbor of Calais. We walked into the Custom House of France, between cloaked and curly grey-whiskered and mustachioed old soldiers, and amidst cries from baggage-men, of "prénez garde, Monsieur !" Well, the officer having examined my passports, and hastily inquired after my family (very kind of him), most of whom (to wit, my wife) were named in the passport, he signified, by some outlandish gibberish, that I was free to roam in the new Republic.

We took the cars instanter. As soon as it became light, we found ourselves in foreign parts indeed. The houses looked small and old; the ground was divided into little patches, and there was wanting the neat air of English rural life. There were few hedges. The "lay" of the country resembled our prairies very much. The fruit trees were in bloom. The dress of the peasants was generally blue short coats. They looked quite picturesque in the early dawn. We observed many large peat beds, and quantities of that essential to caloric piled about. Wood seems to be a scarce article. The tall, straight, Lombardy poplars begin to appear thick and fast. And now we see soldiers, and priests, too. Next, windmills not a few. All these

impressed us strangely. The houses, with their earthenware roofs and old walls, had an antique look, and these, with the jabber of talk among the French, told us that we were pilgrims indeed.

Not so when we reached Paris. Not having our tongue in as yet, to the little French we knew so imperfectly, we were compelled to address ourselves to the railroad agents, who spoke English. There we first began to realize the fact, and not the form only, of French courtesy. As soon as we let the officers know that we were Republicans from America, and not English, how they hopped about to show us our baggage, and even accompanied us to our hotel. Let American travellers in France not forget, to dispossess the minds of those who have charge of them or theirs, of the idea that they are British. You ought to see a Paris cabman take off a gruff John Bull, with his churlish crossness, and his shrug of discontent.

Not expecting to remain in Paris longer than was necessary to prepare our passports for Italy, we took but small and imperfect glimpses of the capital. But such as we took rewarded us well. How proud the French are of their capital! and they have reason to be. Not of their long and dirty streets, with little or no pavements, of which a great part of the city consists; but of their Boulevards, the Luxembourg, the Champs Elysées, the gardens of the Tuileries, and other spots which we visited.

We needed no guide. Our company being inside, I mounted the cab, and with a modicum of bad French began the duty of guide and interpreter, as well as of learner and teacher.The shrewd cabman could readily understand me. He drove us to the famous Arch of Triumph, from which we took a view of the city. The arch itself is worth a visit to Paris. It is erected to honor Napoleon, his soldiers, and his victories. It is replete with carving, representing every variety of prowess by arms, and every mode of its consequent glory. From such a point I could not dwell upon detail.

Buy a medal, or give the old lady at the entrance a gratui

tous franc, and you may ascend the Arch. What a glorious prospect is here on every side! You will, with the aid of Gallignani's map, or with the aid of some Parisian, perceive the principal points of interest in the throbbing life of gayety and glory below. In front are the Champs Elysées, with their fine walks, seats and shades; and throughout, are scattered stalls, booths, and circuses, together with thousands of human beings. Indeed it is no uncommon thing, of Sundays, to see at least two hundred thousand assembled in these retreats. That place of foun

tains before us, is the Place de la Concorde. You will rcognize one of the fountains as the original of one in the French department of the Great Exhibition. Still in front are the gardens of the Tuileries the Place du Carousal, with its fine arch, and the Louvre.

But we have not time even here for particulars. Let us walk about the arch, to find how Paris looks generally, with its roads leading back to Versailles and St. Germaine, its chateaux and its forts.

Then again for the cab and a minute inspection of the Luxembourg. There we confess that even Hyde Park is beaten. Its long rows of statues, its elegant flower-plots, its terraces, its splendid fountains, its urns, its delicious umbrageousness, its glorious palace, and above all, its thrilling associations with the great names of France, render it, thus far, the prominent object. in our travels.

We

But what shall we say of Nôtre Dame, whose superb architecture calls for the best and loftiest sweep of the vision? drive round to wonder at the work of man in rearing such a pile, and at the work of Time in touching its stone with decay. We enter. Hushed is the air! "Peace, be still!" the spirit of the place seemeth to say. One or two figures are in prayer at the other end of the Cathedral; all else seems a SPIRITUAL PRESENCE ! How high, how deep-deep, is the air above! Move slowly and solemnly along, and gaze upon the master works of sacred painting to your right and left, until you stand before the altar! Then look upward. What a Tabernacle, Great God! is this for THEE?

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