into that flinty album.' His knife is still in his hand, and strength in his sinews, and a new-created aspiration3 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. 7. 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. An awful abyss3 awaits his almost certain fall. He is faint with severe exertion, and trembling from the sudden view of the dreadful 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. 5 8. What a moment! What a meager 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 a moment. His companions instantly perceive this new and fearful dilemma, and await his fall with emotions that "freeze their young blood." He is too high, too faint, to ask for his father and mother, his brothers 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 upon his father's hearth-stone. 9. 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 1 Al' bum, a book of blank leaves; a white spot.2 As pi rà' tion, a breathing after; an ardent wish.- A byss', a very deep and dark place; a bottomless pit.--* Håft, handle. Di lèm' ma, a difficult position; a doubtful choice.-- A vårt', prevent.-- An tic' i pate, to take beforehand; foresee.- Heårth-stone.—o Ca tås' tro phe, a final end; misfortune. 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! Keep your eye toward the top!" The boy didn't look down. 10. His eye is fixed like a flint toward heaven, and his young 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 economizes' 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 věry spot where, if he falls, he will not fall alone. 11. The sun is now half-way down 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 rocks, earth, and trees. He must cut his way in a new direction, to get from under this overhanging mountain. The inspiration of hope is dying in his bosom; its vital heat is fed by the increasing shouts of hundreds, perched upon cliffs and trees, and others who stand with ropes in their hands, on the bridge above, or with ladders below. Fifty gains more must be cut before the longest rope can reach him. 12. His wasting blade strikes again into the limestone. The boy is emerging painfully, foot by foot, from under that lofty arch. Spliced ropes are ready, in the hands of those who are leaning over the outer edge of the bridge. Two minutes more, and all will be over. The 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 faint 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. 13. An involuntary groan of despair runs like a death-knell 1 Econ' o mizes, uses savingly.-2 In spi rå'tion, act of breathing in; a highly exciting influence. E mêrg' ing, coming out. through the channel below, and all is as still as the grave. At the height of nearly three hundred feet, the devoted boy lifts his hopeless heart, and closes his eyes to commend his soul to God. 'Tis but a moment-there! one foot swings off! he is reeling— trembling-toppling-over into eternity! 14. Hark! a shout falls on his ear 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 arms 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 this last shallow niche. 15. 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-such leaping and weeping for joy -never greeted the ear of a human being so recovered from the yawning gulf of eternity. ELIHU BURRITT. THE 61. THE SAILOR'S SONG. 1. HE sea! the sea! the open sea! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions round; 2. I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea! I am where I would ever be; With the blue above, and the blue below, If a storm should come and awake the deep, 1 Noosed, having a loop. 3. I love, oh, how I love to ride every mad wave drowns the moon, 4. I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more, 5. The waves were white, and red the morn, 6. I've lived since then, in calm and strife, With wealth to spend and a power to rānge, PROCTER. 1. 62. THE LANDSMAN'S SONG. H, who would be bound to the barren sea, Where his step is ever bōth firm and free, Forever and ever on solid land! 2. I've sail'd on the riotous, roaring sea, Yet my village home more pleaseth me, On land, on land! Forever and ever on solid land! 3. Some say they could die on the salt, salt sea! (But have they been loved on land?) Some rave of the ocean in drunken glee— Of the music born on a gusty morn, When the tempest is waking, and billows are breaking, Such things may give joy to a dreaming boy- On land, on land! Forever and ever on solid land! PROCTER. I 63. GOLDEN RULES OF DAVID COPPERFIELD. FEEL as if it were not for me to record, even though this manuscript' is intended for no eyes but mine, how hard I worked at that tremendous short-hand, and all improvement appertaining to it, in my sense of responsibility to Dora and her aunt. I will only add, to what I have already written of my perseverance at this time of my life, and of a patient and continuous energy which then began to be matured within me, and which I know to be the strong part of my character, if it 'Mån' u script, any thing written with the hand.-2 Tre men' dous, terrible; dreadful.-3 Ap per tåin' ing, belonging.-- Re spon si bil' i ty, the state of being answerable; obligation to provide for, or pay.--' Contin' u ous, closely joined; not interrupted. |