not tear my eyes from the inscriptions around. We stood near the poets' corner. I turned about, and the first name I saw was GARRICK. There he stood, the English ROSCIUS-parting the marble tapestry, revealing the bust of Shakspeare; while below him are female figures, one of Comedy, fitting on the sock; the other of Tragedy, with dishevelled hair. It was a fine piece of sculpture; but it could not detain the eye long. Next I saw the name of CAMDEN; then Sir Geoffrey KnellER; then the monument of MAJOR ANDRE; then that erected by Massachusetts Colony to GENERAL HOWE. From my position, I could not see much of the poets' corner, although standing near. But whose monuments are those, heavy with dust, their images in repose, apart from the ordinary tombs of knights and abbots? These are the royal line of England.

Service over, which was performed by a large, hearty minister, who apparently enjoyed a fat living, and who preached about making self-sacrifices and cross-bearing-we leave. We are permitted to pass out along the damp, cold tombs, beneath and around us. Here lie abbots buried in the tenth and eleventh centuries. The statue of Charles James Fox reposing, with certain forms about him, is conspicuous. These forms are intended to be emblematic of his services in the cause of negro emancipation. They represent negroes, with all the appurtenances of curly hair, flat nose, large lips and low brows; but they are in white marble! They kneel at the feet of Fox, raising the whites of their eyes (done to the life) in thankfulness to their benefactor. The taste, thus developed, is questionable. Indeed, it almost confirmed an idea long pondered, that the province of the chisel lies exclusively in the Ideal realm. The pure forms of the stainless marble seem to require a spirituality, such as speaks from the lip, and in the mien of the Apollo Belvidere, or such as dwells in the gentle melancholy of the Greek Slave.

The panting heart left the immense repertory of the glorious dead, thrilled to its minutest fibre. The long corridors open

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before the eye, displaying monuments that defy the tooth of Time, but in vain. Every where you see its crumbling, corroding power. The very birds, as if in mockery of man, have built nests in the streaked and dark walls, and sing amid decay.

When we return to England, Westminster shall be again visited and fully described. Our route is now directly for Paris, by way of Dover. Let the traveller remember to arrange his time of leaving London, so as to come down to Dover by day, and remain some hours before the boat departs for Calais, if he would fix in everlasting freshness the incidents of "Lear," of which the white, tall cliffs of Dover formed so prominent a part of the tempestuous scene.

Before we were ready for it, our cars dashed into the bowels of Shakspeare's Cliff, and, after rumbling awhile, darted out again into the sweet May-shine. Behold! the sea speckled with vessels, and the dim whiteness of the French coast in the distance. Again we turn; and now that we are shut out from that fine view, let us look upward. There indeed is the glory of Kent, the place where good old Gloster is alleged to have stood. Although we cannot stop our swift rushing car to say, "Here's the place, stand still!" yet we can truly realize Shakspeare's description of the fearful, dizzy height; so high that the crows showed scarce so gross as beetles, and the sapphire-gatherer seemed no bigger than his head. We saw persons on the cliff's fearful edge (how fearful to poor, blind Gloster!) whose Lilliputian size brought back the poet's description most vividly.

Under the direction of our host of the "Gun," we traversed the ground where poor Tom was "a-cold," and where Cordelia redeemed the woman-nature of the olden British time.

Dover lies under the frown of the blanched cliffs in a semicircular form; her bay surrounded with boats, and the beach lined with bathing wagons. The town is not large, but looks neat. Long paved walks, made of a composition of coal, tar and sand, (quite an idea!) are in front of the beach, along which seats are ranged. The shore is yet faithful to the description of

Shakspeare; for I wandered along it, to verify that the "murmuring 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 Shak speare'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. 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.


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?"



T was a moonlit midnight of the latter part of May, that found us landing at the pile-driven harbor of Calais. 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

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