On the shore of the English Channel, half hidden by its shady grove of trees, stands Walmer Castle, the sweet red roses trailing up the ramparts and clustering in lovely bouquets round its cannon, emblematic of the peaceful end of him—illustrious Wellington—whose last breath ceased within those grey stone walls.

From this lonely beach, against whose front the “wild waves ceaseless play,” creating their own barrier in the great banks of shingle which ceaselessly they raise, we look out upon the fleet of vessels in the Downs, and far beyond the long white line of surf—the shroud of many a noble heart—that marks the Goodwin Sands, is seen the distant coast of France.

From Walmer,the “white cliffs of Albion,” so conspicuous here for their numerous and regular bands of flints, gradually rise towards Dover, whose far-famed castle stands on a mountain mass of microscopic shells, overlooking the red-roofed tenements of that ancient port, winding along the deep valley which at this point cuts abruptly through the strata.

The opposite hill is furrowed in its entire extent with the trenches of the citadel, and at the foot of its steep cliff is the long and narrow street which formerly, when the town was walled, led to the Snaregate.