impse of azure vanished, and I could see nothing
but the frowning sides of the precipice as I went down, my pace
accelerating every moment. I believed I could gain a hold or footing
on the shelving rock where I had found Helen, but it gave way as I
touched it and slid suddenly down the ravine. I was dizzy and bruised,
but was wondering if Helen would give the alarm--if Georgy would be
sorry. I thought with pity of my mother, who would surely weep for
me. Then I heard Beppo barking joyfully, and I knew that I was at the
bottom of the abyss. I suffered a few seconds of such terrible pain
that I was glad when a sickening sort of quietude settled over me, and
I felt that I must be dying.

ELLEN W. OLNEY.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

A SEA-SOUND.

Hush! hush!
'Tis the voice of the sea to the land,
As it breaks on the desolate strand,
With a chime to the strenuous wave of life
That throbs in the quivering sand.

Hush! hush!
Each requiem tone as it dies,
With a soul that is parting, sighs;
For the tide rolls back from the pulseless clay
As the foam in the tempest flies.

Hush! hush!
O throb of the restless sea!
All hearts are attuned to thee--
All pulses beat with thine ebb and flow
To the rhyme of Eternity!

JOHN B. TABB.

THE BRITISH SOLDIER.

I allude to the British soldier, more especially, as I lately
observed and admired him at Aldershot, where, just now, he appears
to particular advantage; but at any time during the past
twelvemonth--since England and Russia have stood glaring at each other
across the prostrate body of the expiring yet reviving Turk--this
actually ornamental and potentially useful personage has been
picturesquely, agreeably conspicuous. I say "agreeably," speaking from
my own humble point of view, because I confess to a lively admiration
of the military class. I exclaim, cordially, with Offenbach's Grand
Duchess, "Ah, oui, j'aime les militaires!" Mr. Ruskin has said
somewhere, very naturally, that he could never resign himself to
living in a country in which, as in the United States, there should be
no old castles. Putting aside the old castles, I should say, like Mr.
Ruskin, that life loses a certain indispensable charm in a country
destitute of an apparent standing army. Certainly, the army may be too
apparent, too importunate, too terrible a burden to the state and to
the conscience of the philosophic observer. This is the cas