An chronicled in that mighty wall. While his companions are regarding him with concern and admiration, he cuts his name in wide capitals, large and deep, in that flinty album. His knife is still in his hand, and strength in his sinews, and a new-created aspiration in his heart. Again he cuts another niche, and again he carves his name in larger capitals. This is not enough. Heedless of the entreaties of his companions, he cuts and climbs again. The gradations of his ascending scale grow wider apart. He measures his length at every gain he cuts. The voices of his friends wax weaker and weaker, till their words are finally lost on his ear. He now for the first time casts a look beneath him. Had that glance lasted a moment, that moment would have been his last. He clings with a convulsive shudder to his little niche in the rock. awful abyss awaits his almost certain fall. He is faint with severe exertion, and trembling from the sudden view of the destruction to which he is exposed. His knife is worn half-way to the haft. He can hear the voices, but not the words of his terror-stricken companions below. What a moment! What a meagre chance to escape destruction! There is no retracing his steps. It is impossible to put his hands into the same niche with his feet, and retain his slender hold for a moment. companions instantly perceive this new and fearful dilemma, and await his fall with emotions that "freeze their young blood." He is too high to ask for his father and mother, his brother and sisters, to come and witness or avert his destruction. But one of his companions anticipates his desire swift as the wind he bounds down the channel, and the situation of the fated boy is told on his father's hearthstone. His Minutes of almost eternal length roll on, and there are hundreds standing in that rocky channel, and hundreds on the bridge above, all holding their breath, and awaiting the fearful catastrophe. The poor boy hears the hum of new and numerous voices both above and below. He can just distinguish the tones of his father, who is shouting, with all the energy of despair, "William! William! Don't look down! Your mother, and Henry, and Harriet, are all here praying for you! Don't look down! Keep your eyes towards the top! The boy didn't look down. His eye is fixed like a flint towards heaven, and his young ور heart on Him who reigns there. He grasps again his knife; he cuts another niche, and another foot is added to the hundreds that remove him from the reach of human help from below. How carefully he uses his wasting blade! How anxiously he selects the softest places in that vast pier! How he avoids every flinty grain! How he economises his physical powers, resting a moment at each gain he cuts. How every motion is watched from below! There stand his father, mother, brother, and sister, on the very spot where, if he falls, he will not fall alone. The sun is half-way down in the west. The lad has made fifty additional niches in that mighty wall, and now finds himself directly under the middle of that vast arch of rock, earth, and trees. He must cut his way in a new direction to get from this overhanging mountain. The inspiration of hope is in his bosom ; its vital heat is fed by the increasing shout of hundreds perched upon cliffs and trees, and others who stand with ropes in their hands upon the bridge above, or with ladders below. Fifty more gains must be cut before the longest rope can reach him. His wasting blade strikes again into the limestone. The boy is emerging painfully, foot by foot, under that lofty arch. Spliced ropes are in the hands of those who are leaning over the outer edge of the bridge. Two minutes more, and all will be over. That blade is worn to the last half-inch. The boy's head reels; his eyes are starting from their sockets. His last hope is dying in his heart; his life must hang upon the next gain he cuts. That niche is his last. At the last flint-gash he makes his knife-his faithful knife-falls from his little nerveless hand, and, ringing along the precipice, falls at his mother's feet. An involuntary groan of despair runs like a death-knell through the channel below, and all is still as the grave. At the height of nearly three hundred feet the devoted boy lifts his devoted heart and closing eyes to commend his soul to God. 'Tis but a moment-there! one foot swings off! he is reeling-trembling-toppling over into eternity! Hark! a shout falls on his ears from above! The man who is lying with half his length over the bridge has caught a glimpse of the boy's head and shoulders. Quick as thought the noosed rope is within reach of the sinking youth. No one breathes. With a faint convulsive effort the swooning boy drops his arm into the noose. Darkness comes over him, and, with the words "God !" and Mother!" whispered on his lips just loud enough to be heard in heaven, the tightening rope lifts him out of his last shallow niche. Not a lip moves while he is dangling over that fearful abyss; but, when a sturdy Virginian reaches down and draws up the lad, and holds him up in his arms before the tearful, breathless multitude, such shouting, and such leaping and weeping for joy never greeted a human being so recovered from the yawning gulf of eternity. Elihu Burritt. CLERICAL WIT. A PARSON, who a missionary had been, Where noontide glory scarcely ever smiled; Where wolves in hours of midnight darkness howl'd; At such a tale they all were much amazed; The foolish falsehoods from his lips that fell. 66 Why, sir," said one, "think what a monstrous weight, Were they as large as you were pleased to state ! You said they'd weigh a pound! It can't be true. We'll not believe it, though 'tis told by you!" "Ah, but it is!" the parson quick replied, "In what I stated you may well confide : Many, I said, sir; and the story's goodIndeed, I think that many of them would!" The deacon saw at once that he was caught, Yet deem'd himself relieved, on second thought. “But then the barking-think of that, good man! Such monstrous lies! Explain it if you can!" "Why that, my friend, I can explain with easeThey climbed the bark, sir, when they climbed the trces !” Anon. THE BELLS. HEAR the sledges with the bells- What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinabulation that so musically wells Bells, bells, bells From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells, Golden bells ! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ; What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats Oh, from out the sounding cells, How it dwells On the Future! how it tells To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! Hear the loud alarum bells Brazen beils! What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells ! How they scream out their affright! They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavour, Now-now to sit or never By the side of the pale-faced moon. What a tale their terror tells How they clang, and clash, and roar ! On the bosom of the palpitating air. Yet the ear it fully knows, |