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is internal palace.

is fall was the signal of defeat and victory.— Swedes gave way-the Dutch pressed forward; former took to their heels, the latter hotly pur-some entered with them, pell-mell, through sally-port-others stormed the bastion, and ers scrambled over the curtain. Thus, in a little e, the impregnable fortress of Fort Christina, h like another Troy had stood a siege of full hours, was finally carried by assault, without the of a single man on either side. Victory, in likeness of a gigantic ox-fly, sat perched upon cocked hat of the gallant Stuyvesant; and it universally declared, by all the writers whom ired to write the history of his expedition, that his memorable day he gained a sufficient quanof glory to immortalize a dozen of the greatest es in Christendom!

RICHARD JEFFERIES

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RICHARD JEFFERIES, novelist and essayist, born windon, England, in 1848; died at Goring, Susse 1887. Following in the footsteps of many En sh writers he contributed early to "Frazer's Mag ne." Later his work was published in the Pa all Gazette," and "Longman's Magazine." H says are noted for their freshness and accura escriptions of nature. Among his best works ar The Scarlet Shawl," "Wild Life in a Souther ounty," "Life in the Fields," and " 'Amaryllis a e Fair."

ON BEACHY HEAD

(From "Nature Near London ")

HE waves coming round the promontory befor the west wind still give the idea of a flowing cream, as they did in Homer's days. Her eneath the cliff, standing where beach and sand eet, it is still; the wind passes six hundred feet verhead; but yonder, every larger wave rolling efore the breeze breaks over the rocks; a white ne of spray rushes along them, gleaming in the inshine; for a moment the dark rockwall disppears, till the spray sinks.

The sea seems higher than the spot where I and, its surface on a higher level,-raised like a reen mound,—as if it could burst it and occupy he space up to the foot of the cliff in a moment. t will not do so, I know: but there is an infinite ossibility about the sea; it may do what it is not ecorded to have done. It is not to be ordered; it ay overleap the bounds human observation has

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stery. Fo the white spray rushes along the low broken I of rocks, the sun gleams on the flying fragnts of the wave; again it sinks, and the rhyth: motion holds the mind, as an invisible force Is back the tide. A faith of expectancy, a sense t something may drift up from the unknown, arge belief in the unseen resources of the endless ce out yonder, soothes the mind with dreamy

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he little rules and little experiences-all the petty s of narrow life are shut off behind by the derous and impassable cliff; as if we had dwelt the dim light of a cave, but coming out at last look at the sun, a great stone had fallen and sed the entrance, so that there was no return to shadow. The impassable precipice shuts off former selves of yesterday, forcing us to look over the sea only, or up to the deeper heaven. 'hese breadths draw out the soul; we feel that have wider thoughts than we knew; the soul been living as it were in a nutshell, all unaware its own power, and now suddenly finds freedom the sun and the sky. Straight, as if sawn down m turf to beach, the cliff shuts off the human ld, for the sea knows no time and no era; you not tell what century it is from the face of the

A Roman trireme suddenly rounding the te edge-line of chalk, borne on wind and oar m the Isle of Wight towards the gray castle at ensey (already old in olden days), would not n strange. What wonder could surprise us ing from the wonderful sea?

'he little rills winding through the sand have le an islet of a detached rock by the beach;

udible. From the cliff, blocks of chalk have fal eaving hollows as when a knot drops from a be They lie crushed together at the base, and on oint of this jagged ridge a wheatear perches. There are ledges three hundred feet above; & rom these now and then a jackdaw glides out a eturns again to his place, where, when still a with folded wings, he is but a speck of black. pire of chalk still higher stands out from

all; but the rains have got behind it, and w ut the crevice deeper and deeper into its found jon. Water too has carried the soil from und he turf at the summit over the verge, formi -rown streaks.

Upon the beach lies a piece of timber, part of reck; the wood is torn and the fibers rent whe t was battered against the dull edge of the rock The heat of the sun burns, thrown back by th azzling chalk; the river of ocean flows ceaselessl asting the spray over the stones; the unchange ky is blue.

Let us go back and mount the steps at the Gap nd rest on the sward there. I feel that I want th presence of grass. The sky is a softer blue, and he sun genial; now the eye and the mind alike ar elieved-the one of the strain of too great soli ude (not the solitude of the woods), the other of oo brilliant and hard a contrast of colors. Touch ut the grass, and the harmony returns; it is reDose after exaltation.

A vessel comes round the promontory. It is not trireme of old Rome, nor the “fair and stately galley" Count Arnaldus hailed with its seamen inging the mystery of the sea; it is but a brig in allast, high out of the water, black of hull and

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ble. Up rises her stern as the billows come fast roll under; then her bow lifts, and immediately rolls, and loosely swaying with the sea, drives

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he slope of the billow now behind her is white h the bubbles of her passage, rising too from rudder. Steering athwart with a widening le from the land, she is laid to clear the distant nt of Dungeness. Next a steamer glides forth, een till she passed the cliff; and thus each sel that comes from the westward has the charm the unexpected. Eastward there is many a sail king slowly into the wind, and as they approach, ing in the language of flags with the watch on summit of the Head.

Ince now and then the great Orient pauses on

outward route to Australia, slowing her ines: the immense length of her hull contains ry adjunct of modern life; science, skill, and lization are there. She starts, and is lost sight round the cliff,—gone straight away for the y ends of the world. The incident is forgotten, en one morning as you turn over the newspaper, re is the Orient announced to start again. It ike a tale of enchantment: it seems but yester

that the Head hid her from view; you have rcely moved, attending to the daily routine of -, and scarce recognize that time has passed at

In so few hours has the earth been encomsed. The sea-gulls as they settle on the surface e high out of the water, like the medieval avels, with their sterns almost as tall as the sts. Their unconcerned flight, with crooked ngs unbent, as if it were no matter to them ether they flew or floated, in its peculiar jerking

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