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fixed upon him once more; voices long since hushed in death sounded in his ears like the music of village-bells. But it was only for an instant. The rain beat heavily upon him; and cold and hunger were gnawing at his heart again.

"He rose, and dragged his feeble limbs a few paces farther. The street was silent and empty ; the few passengers who passed by at that late hour hurried quickly on, and his tremulous voice was lost in the violence of the storm. Again that heavy chill struck through his frame; and his blood seemed to stagnate beneath it. He coiled himself up in a projecting doorway, and tried to sleep.

"But sleep had fled from his dull and glazed eyes. His mind wandered strangely, but he was awake and conscious. The well-known shout of drunken mirth sounded in his ear, the glass was at nis lips, the board was covered with choice, rich food. They were before him: he could see them all; he had but to reach out his hand, and take them; and, though the illusion was reality itself, he knew that he was sitting alone in the deserted street, watching the rain-drops as they pattered on the stones; that death was coming upon him by inches; and that there were none to care for or help him.

"Suddenly he started up, in the extremity of terror. He had heard his own voice shouting in the night air, he knew not what, or why. Hark! A groan 1 Another! His senses were leaving him: half-formed and incoherent words burst from his lips, and his hands sought to tear and lacerate his flesh. He was going mad, and he shrieked for help till his voice failed him.

"He raised his head, and looked up the long, dismal street. He recollected that outcasts like himself, condemned to wander day and night in those dre_adful streets; had sometimes gone distracted with their own loneliness. He remembered to have heard, many years before, that a homeless wretch had once been found in a solitary corner, sharpening a rusty knife to plunge into his own heart, preferring death to that endless, weary wandering to and fro. In an instant, his resolve was taken. His limbs received new life: he ran quickly from the spot, and paused not for breath until he reached the river-side.

"He crept softly down the steep stone stairs that lead from the commencement of Waterloo Bridge down to the water's level. He crouched into a corner, and held his breath, as the patrol passed. Never did prisoner's heart throb with the hope of liberty and life half so eagerly as did that of the wretched man at the prospect of death. The watch passed close to him, but he remained unobserved; and, after waiting till the sound of footsteps had died away in the distance, he cautiously descended, and stood beneath the gloomy arch that forms the landing-place from the river.

"The tide was in, and the water flowed at his feet. The rain had ceased, the wind was lulled, and all was, for the moment, still and quiet, — so quiet that the slightest sound on the opposite bank, even the rippling of the water against the barges that were moored there, was distinctly audible to his ear. The stream stole languidly and sluggishly on. Strange and fantastic forms rose to the surface, and beckoned him to approach; dark, gleaming eyes peered from the water, and seemed to mock his hesitation, while hollow murmurs from behind urged him onwards. He retreated a few paces, took a short run, a desperate leap, and plunged into the river.

"Not five seconds had passed when he rose to the water's surface; but what a change had taken place, in that short time, in all his thoughts and feelings! Life, life, in any form, — poverty, misery, starvation, any thing but death. He fought and struggled with the water that closed over his head, and screamed in agonies of terror. The curse of his own son rang in his ears. The shore, but one foot of dry ground, — he could almost touch the step. One hand's-breadth nearer, and he was saved; but the tide bore him onward, under the dark arches of the bridge, and he sank to the bottom.

"Again he rose, and struggled for life. For one instant, — for one brief instant, — the buildings on the river's banks, the lights on the bridge through which the current had borne him, the black water, and the fast flying clouds, were distinctly visible. Once more he sunk, and once again he rose. Bright flames of fire shot up from earth to heaven, and reeled before his eyes, while the water thundered in his ears, and stunned him with its furious roar.

"A week afterwards, the body was-washed ashore, some miles down the river, a swollen and disfigured mass. Unrecognized and unpitied, it was borne to the grave; and there it has long since mouldered away."



Willis's Description of Dickens. —His Inimitable Hnmor. — Emerson's Criticism. —
Hugh Miller's Opinion. — London Review.—Pickwick Papers. — Sam Weller'g
Valentine. — The Ivy Green. — Death in the Prison.

"O spirits gay, and kindly heart I
Precious the blessings ye impart I"

Joanna Baiu,ie. "A merry heart doeth good like a medicine." — Pfiov. xvii. 22.

pLIGENCE gains its reward. Charles Dickens was not weary in effort, and he believed in climbing the ladder round by round. So he was faithful as a reporter till he found himself able to fill a different, and, as far as regards fame and pecuniary reward, an advanced position. Of those reportorial days, our own N. P. Willis wrote once, and described his first meeting with Charles Dickens. He states that he was invited by the publisher, Macrone, to visit Newgate; and proceeds to say: —

"I willingly agreed, never having seen this famous prison; and, after I was seated in the cab, he said that

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