A Days Tour | Page 3

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 I had
already seen in a shop window, a blue ribbon reposing in _dégagé_
fashion across it. If a tumbler of the precious metal could be called a
magnificent goblet--it was scarcely bigger--it deserved the title. The
poor operator was declaiming as I entered, in unmistakable Scotch, the
history of 'Little Breeches,' and giving it with due pathos. I am bound to
say that a sort of balcony which hung out at the end was well filled by
the unwashed takers, or at least donees, of sixpenny tickets. There was
a purpose in this, as will be seen. After being taken through 'The
Raven,' and 'The Dying Burglar,' the competition began. This was
certainly the most diverting portion of the entertainment, from its
genuineness, the eagerness of the competitors, and their ill-disguised
jealousy. There were four candidates. A doctor-looking man with a

beard, and who had the air either of reading familiar prayers to his
household with good parsonic effect, or of having tried the stage,
uttered his lines with a very superior air, as though the thing were not
in doubt. Better than he, however, was one, probably a draper's
assistant, who competed with a wild and panting fashion, tossing his
arms, now raising, now dropping his voice, and every h, too. But a
shabby man, who looked as if he had once practised tailoring, next
stepped on the platform, and at once revealed himself as the local poet.
Encouraged by the generous applause, he announced that he would
recite some lines 'he 'ad wrote on the great storm which committed such
'avoc on hour pier.' There were local descriptions, and local names,
which always touched the true chord. Notably an allusion to a virtuous
magnate then, I believe, at rest:
'Amongst the var'ous noble works, It should be widely known, 'Twas
WILLIAM BROWN' _(applause)_ 'that gave this town The Dover's
Sailors' 'OME!' _(applause)_.
Need I say that when the votes came to be taken, this poet received the
cup? His joy and mantling smiles I shall not forget, though the donor
gave it to him with unconcealed disgust; it showed what universal
suffrage led to. The doctor and the other defeated candidates, who had
been asked to retire to a private room during the process of decision,
were now obliged to emerge in mortified procession, there being no
other mode of egress. The doctor's face was a study. The second part
was to follow. But it was now growing late, and time and mail-packets
wait for no man.

III.
_THE PACKET._
As I come forth from the Elocution Contest, I find that night has closed
in. Not a ripple is on the far-stretching blue waste. From the high cliffs
that overhang the town and its amphitheatre can be seen the faintly
outlined harbour, where the white-chimneyed packet snoozes as it were,

the smoke curling upwards, almost straight. The sea-air blows fresh and
welcome, though it does not beat on a 'fevered brow.' There is a busy
hum and clatter in the streets, filled with soldiers and sailors and
chattering sojourners. Now do the lamps begin to twinkle lazily.