MISCELLAN ECU S.

From the New York Illustrated Magazine.
THE LAST HOUR OF A SUICIDE.
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Midnight! The brazen clang of the great
bell of St. Paul's tolled heavily out, and the
chimes from hundred steeples repeated
Midnight! The solemn, yet unbroken ST.
lence, which for brief period in the twen-
ty-four hours over London, was spreading
abroad. The noise and confusion of the
early night was passing away, and the rattle
of vehicles through empty streets came
upon the ear, not as forming drops of the
great tide of sound, but each distinct in its
isolation. The day population of London
had we'll nigh disappeared.


1t was cold, damp, clammy, cherries
night-the pavements were damp and slop-
py. Men hurried by, thinking of the warm
blaze which awaited them on their own
hearths; and beings who had no homes or
hearths to go to, shrunk up in sheltered
corners, huddling the limbs close for warmth
and praying for the end of the long shiver-
ing night.


On the water every thing is tenfold more
dismal still. The fog careered in long, heavy
wreaths along the stream-the wind howl
ed most drearily among masts and rigging,
and dashed the black, muddy water against
the piers of bridges and Shiny landing pla-
ces with chill monotonous splash. No
traffic was stirring on the river. 1t flowed
blackly and sullenly, roaring under anchor
ed barges, and hustling the rank grass upon
the fat mud banks 1t was a dreary sight
to look upon-calling up ipdistinct visions
of blue swollen corpses, and men battling
madly for life in the cold inky fluid.


Midnight! A woman is pacing the pave
ment of Waterloo bridge. She is young
she was once fair and gentle. And fair she
is still. No sorrow, no burst of furious
passion, can destroy the chiselling of those
features-the noble height of brow, and the
moulded oval of the cheeks. But passion
the passion of madness and despair, is
running riot in that face. The eye is wild
ly bloodshot and swollen-the teeth are
clenched and ground together-the hand
twisted with a colvulsive grasp in the long
dishevelled locks falling down on either
cheek. She staggered forward mechanic
ally. And now the paroxysm seems for a
moment past; the heart sickness comes on
her; she leans upon the balustrade; press
es her forehead upon the damp cold gra-
mite, and seems to WOO the embrace of the
chill night wind. She is dressed in gaudy
fnery, without warmth or comfort A
wreath of flowers encircles her head
CHASTITY mockery Of the wan, distorted fea-
lures which they frame. The handkerchie
carelessly placed over her shoulders has
been all but blown away, but she makes nc
effort to replace it.


Midnight! The clang of the bell wa.
loud upon the gust Of wind. She starts up
leaps upon the seat of the recesses of tn,
bridge, wipes hurridly away the clammy
sweat standing on her forehead, and gaze
calmly and long upon the river below
How black-how pitchy black A gurg
ling, eddying sound means upward from
the gulf. The thought, until then but hal
formed, rises in her breast She squeeze
her brow in her hands, and then think
again, and calml y-quite calmly.


q remember that once | thought suicid
thing almost impossible; could not re
alize it how people would willingly quit
snug, happy world, and 60 into darkness
rottenness Oh, said to myself, they ar
mad, poor creatures, quite mad none bu
mailman would do so; and as locke
upon black pools, and heard how peopI
had plunged in, turned away shivering
blessing God that had my reason, an
would not be a suicide. have my reaso
now, but | do not think as once did
many have died by their own hands-oh,
remember hundreds. in a moment it vii
be over-what matters it if one be added t.
the list? What should live for? hav
no hope, no friend, nobody who will mourl
me, or care whether tomorrow be walk