fast sloops or fishing-boats; of landings at Dover, and taking post for London in war-time; how kings have embarked, princesses disembarked—­all in that awkward, yet snug harbour.  A most curious element in this feeling is the faint French flavour reaching across—­by day the white hills yonder, by night the glimmering lights on the opposite coast.  The inns, too, have a nautical, seaport air, running along the beach, as they should do, and some of the older ones having a bulging stern-post look about their lower windows.  Even the frowning, fortress-like coloured pile, the Lord Warden, thrusts its shoulders forward on the right, and advances well out into the sea, as if to be the first to attract the arrivals.  There is a quaint relish, too, in the dingy, old-fashioned marine terrace of dirty tawny brick, its green verandas and jalousies, which lend quite a tropical air.  Behind them, in shelter, are little dark squares, of a darker stone, with glimpses of the sea and packets just at the corners.  Indeed, at every point wherever there is a slit or crevice, a mast or some cordage is sure to show itself, reminding us how much we are of the packet, packety.  Ports of this kind, with all their people and incidents, seem to be devised for travellers; with their flaring lights, up-all-night hotels, the railway winding through the narrow streets, the piers, the stormy waters, the packets lying by all the piers and filling every convenient space.  The old Dover of Turner’s well-known picture, or indeed of twenty years ago, with its ‘dumpy’ steamers, its little harbour, and rude appliances for travel, was a very different Dover from what it is now.  There was then no rolling down in luxurious trains to an Admiralty Pier.  The stoutest heart might shrink, or at least feel dismally uncomfortable, as he found himself discharged from the station near midnight of a blowy, tempestuous night, and saw his effects shouldered by a porter, whom he was invited to follow down to the pier, where the funnel of the ‘Horsetend’ or Calais boat is moaning dismally.  Few lights were twinkling in the winding old-fashioned streets; but the near vicinity of ocean was felt uncomfortably in harsh blasts and whistling sounds.  The little old harbour, like that of some fishing-place, offered scarcely any room.  The much-buffeted steamer lay bobbing and springing at its moorings, while a dingy oil-lamp marked the gangway.  A comforting welcome awaited us from some old salt, who uttered the cheering announcement that it was ‘agoin’ to be a roughish night.’

On this night there was an entertainment announced at the ‘Rooms,’ and to pass away the time I looked in.  It was an elocutionist one, entitled ‘Merry-Making Moments, or, Spanker’s Wallet of Varieties,’ with a portrait of Spanker on the bills opening the wallet with an expression of delight or surprise.  This was his ’Grand Competition Night,’ when a ‘magnificent goblet’ was competed for by all comers, which