172 THE NATURAL BRIDGE. heart on Him who reigns there. He grasps again his knife; he cuts another niche, and another foot is added to th 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 CLERICAL WIT. 173 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. Why that, my friend, I can explain with easeThey climbed the bark, sir, when they climbed the trees!” Anon. THE BELLS. HEAR the sledges with the bells- What a world of merriment their melody foretells! In the icy air of night! Keeping time, time, time, 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, 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 bells! What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells! How they scream out their affright! They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, 175 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, By the twanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells; Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, In the clamour and the clangour of the bells. Hear the tolling of the bells- What a world of solemn thought their monody compels How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! From the rust within their throats And the people-ah, the people- And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, On the human heart a stone-- And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A pæan from the bells! |