report obtained credence, that this piece of ordnance has upon it the distich, "Sponge me well, and keep me clean, though there is not a word of truth in the story. This "pocket pistol" is a singular piece of brass ordnance, twenty-four feet long, presented by the States of Holland. It bears a Dutch inscription, with the following meaning: "O'er hill and dale I throw my ball; Breaker, my name, of mound and wall." It is rather believed, that, from an imperfection supposed to have arisen in the casting, this piece, so far from ever having thrown a ball across the channel, has never been fired off at all. It is a twelve-pounder. We have now groped our way through the dark passages, ascending and descending, as the case required, the ladders and stone steps, leading along the subterranean excavations from one part of the castle to another. It has been explained to us by our guide, how an enemy attacking the place might be annoyed, even after gaining great advantages. A ponderous portcullis hung suspended, ready to crush, in its descent, the miserable beings who might be un der it. Here a deceitful and murderous trapdoor was prepared to give way beneath the feet of the besiegers, throwing them down into a hole, upon the iron spikes placed below for them to fall on, and then again springing up to its former position. There were strong doors, which could be closed from within upon an assaulting enemy, shutting him up in the passage with no means of escape; and yonder was a horrid aperture, down which could be poured burning sulphur, to suffocate the wretched beings thus caught in the passages. And these things were the inventions of human beings! Never does man approach so near the character of a fiend, as when engaged in the hot contentions and cruel stratagems of unholy war! We have gazed on the church and the pharos, the old entrance, the Colton Gate, the keep, and the house of the governor. We have examined the cannon, seen the troops perform their evolutions, and visited the ruins of a beautiful chapel, rich with elaborate sculpture, on whose walls are numberless inscriptions, written or graven there by French prisoners; and we have hung over the well, whose awful depth is so great, that a stone dropped into it occupies eight or nine seconds in reaching the water, which looks like a sixpence at the bottom. Once more are we walking around the castle cliff, gazing on the fair prospect that greets us. The wind is high; and hark! the redoubt guns are firing a salute. The French ambassador, then, is no doubt arrived. Nineteen times have the hills resounded with the roar. We must now descend from this commanding height. Dover castle is said to comprise every kind of fortification, which the art of war has contrived to render a place impregnable. The invention of artillery has rendered many of these useless; but new works, in accordance with the altered tactics and military spirit of the times, have been added. Oh that mankind would ever dwell in affection! What a mass of trouble, expense, sorrow, and sin, has war brought upon our world! The house of defence may be strong, and the watch tower erected high, but "except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it: except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain," Psa. cxxvii. 1. Now for another stroll on the pier; one more ramble on the beach; with a walk to what remains of St. Radigund's Abbey; and then, farewell to Dover. BURNHAM BEECHES. IF you are fond of society, go to the Burnham Beeches, that the contrasting solitude may send you back again, with a more fraternal spirit and a keener appetite for communion with your fellow men. If you are fond of solitude, go to the Burnham Beeches, that you may drink deep of peaceful retirement, and quaff to satiety the cool, the balmy, the soft and soothing influence of forest scenery. Oh, how I love to gaze on the bulky stems and spreading branches of ancient trees, standing like warriors, bearing high their plumed heads, as if daring the raging winds to do their worst; or, like friendly bowers erected in the wilderness, to give shelter in the storm, and shade in the noon-tide beam, to the lower creatures of creation! There they stand, stately and graceful, adorning the goodly scene, rejoicing in the balmy brecze, and with their waving, sun-lit leaves, inviting the feathered race to hold a joyous jubilee amid their branches! And what has brought me here? It was by accident that my eye fell on the following paragraph in a periodical. It may be that you have read it as well as myself. "Within five and twenty miles of St. Paul's, the Great Western Railway will place us in an hour, having an additional walk of two miles, in the heart of one of the most secluded districts in England. We know nothing of forest scenery equal to Burnham Beeches. There are no spots approaching to it in wild grandeur to be found in Windsor Forest; Sherwood, we have been told, has trees as ancient, but few so entirely untouched in modern times." This was enough, for never was there a dearer lover of nature in her retired scenes than I. The Great Western Railway has hurried me along from great London city, I have walked onward from the Maidenhead station, and am now gazing on Burnham Beeches. Perhaps you may have been at Exeter Hall, at a public meeting, when it has been crammed to suffocation; when the hot breath of the assembled multitude has tainted the atmosphere, and the clapping of a thousand hands has responded to the happy thought and word of some eloquent speaker on the platform. You may also have been present in London on the night of an illumination, |