It is situated not far from the South Foreland, in the extreme south‐east corner of Kent, on the narrowest part of the British Channel, and only some twenty miles from the opposite coast of France. Hence it is the port for steamers crossing to Calais on the Continental service, a trip usually made in about one hour and three‐quarters. If the reader should cross on the now‐famous _Calais‐Douvres_, the luxurious and easy‐riding twin vessel, he will hardly require the advice relative to the _mal de mer_ contained in a previous chapter. Dover, though comparatively little used as a watering‐place, possesses excellent accommodation for visitors—bathing‐machines, and all the usual paraphernalia of such places. Its grand hotel, “The Lord Warden,” is second to none in England, and has sheltered scores of crowned heads and coroneted aristocrats, as well as the less distinguished, though perhaps equally worthy, Jones, Brown, Smith, and Robinson. On the eastern side of the town stands that elevated and noble fortress the Castle, of which some description has already been given. A short distance from it the chalk cliff rises 370 feet above the sea, and hard by stands a beautiful piece of brass ordnance, 24 feet in length, which bears the name of “Queen Elizabeth’s Pocket Pistol,” and was presented to her Majesty by the States of Holland. It is said to carry a 12‐lb. ball to a distance of seven miles. It is curiously adorned with a variety of devices, typifying the blessings of peace and the horrors of war. On its breech is the following motto in Dutch, which, freely translated, signifies:— “O’er hill and dale I throw my ball, Breaker my name of mound and wall.” To the westward of the town rises the majestic headland named after our immortal bard. Shakespeare’s cliff rears its lofty head _at the present time_ to an altitude of 350 feet, but in the great dramatist’s day its summit was much higher, as indicated by the enormous boulders and heaps of _débris_ at its base, the result of frequent landslips and falls. Shakespeare well describes this grand precipice:— “Come on, sir; here’s the place: stand still. How fearful And dizzy ’tis, to cast one’s eyes so low! The crows and choughs that wing the midway air 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.” [Illustration: DOVER.]