wind listeth, still the necessities of the case were so urgent, that it was resolved to try them, and it is now matter of history how, by this means, more than one celebrated character has left the beleaguered city, and several thousands of letters and newspapers have reached expectant friends. But these balloons, if captured by the Germans, would prove valuable prizes, as giving them information of matters which the French would be very desirous they should not know; and therefore, in order to escape the observation and the shots of the sentinels, it was found desirable to despatch them in the quietness and secrecy of the midnight hours.

On the night of Thursday, November 24th, 1870, the usual preparations were making for the despatch of a "Balloon Post." Several balloons have left Paris, but, so far as we know, none have ever returned there, and so it was necessary to manufacture a new balloon and find fresh aëronauts for each occasion. There was none of the gaiety and display which in times of peace usually accompany an ascent, but the process of inflation and final arrangements were nevertheless watched by a large and excited crowd, who, as the unwieldy machine swayed to and fro in the cool night air, indulged in speculations as to its course and probable destination. A few bags of letters and papers were deposited in the car, beside the ballast already there; six carrier pigeons, in cages, were added to the cargo (the intention being that these should be sent back to Paris, the welcome bearers of tidings from the outer world); and then two young men stepped lightly in, carefully examined once more the several appurtenances upon which their safety so much depended, and, giving the word of command, at a quarter to twelve o'clock, amidst many hearty exclamations of "Bon voyage! bon voyage!" the balloon rose swiftly into the deep, dark sky, and in a minute or two was lost to sight.

Paul Rolier and P. L. Deschamps, the occupants of the car, were both Knights of the Legion of Honour, and one of them a captain of artillerytherefore presumably brave and valiant men; but it would be idle to pretend that the novelty of their position, and the uncertainty of their destination, did not cause them some little anxiety. They had neither of them been in a balloon before, and were, therefore, quite inexperienced in its management, and unused to this mode of locomotion. However, for a time all went well. They very speedily attained an altitude of 6,000 feet, and so were quite beyond the reach of any unfriendly shot, passing safely over the Prussian lines, and now and then, as they hurried swiftly along, could see far below them the twinkling lights of towns and villages in the north of France.

How still and quiet it was up there! the only sound that broke the profound silence being the moaning of the wind as it rushed through the cordage by which the car was suspended-and yet, hark! there is another sound, swelling yet louder and louder. They strain every nerve into the one faculty of listening, and soon distinguish the beating of waves upon the shore. Yes, they are going out to sea! To descend in the dark is impracticable, and, indeed, too late if practicable, for in another minute

they are scudding rapidly over the ocean, and as the streaks of morning light break in the eastern sky, they can see nothing far and wide but the vast expanse of waters.

For some time they became enveloped in a fog, from which at length emerging, they saw, not far away, a ship. Friend or foe was now the allimportant question. If the former, they would hail her; if the latter, keep far away. Discovering that she carried the French flag, they hailed her, and made signals, with the desperate intention of dropping into the sea, in the hope of being picked up. But their signals were not observed, and they soon left her far behind.

Soon another ship, this time a German sloop, and a shot came whizzing by, but happily wide of the mark.

Once more a thick fog hid all things from their view, and their position became one of extreme peril and danger.

Whither were they driving? So far as they knew, yet farther and farther out on the trackless ocean, without food, without the possibility of succour; if a storm should arise, liable to certain destruction. Can we wonder that they gave themselves up for lost? In this persuasion they wrote a brief note, detailing their position, and bidding farewell to their friends. This they attached to one of the pigeons, and let it fly, in the hope that thus their sad fate would become known to their anxious relatives. (To be continued.)

LINES,

Addressed to the Choristers who sing,

"O paradise, O paradise, who doth not crave for rest ?"

WHEN once this earth in mortal guise

The blessed Saviour trod,

It was His meat and drink to do

The holy will of God.

From break of day, for human good

He toiled till evening dim,

And when the stars came out, they brought
No hour of rest for Him!

Forward, upon His Father's work,
With burning zeal He prest;
And never sighed, "O paradise!
Who doth not crave for rest ?"

Young men! with downcast gaze and sad,
Who pace the solemn aisle,
Den ure, as if the God of joy

Forbade the lips to smile.

Go, learn of Him who ne'er repined
To wage our fearful fight;
Who wore our heavy yoke, that we
Might bear His burden light.
Thus learning, ye will cease to crave
So sadly yet for rest,
As if it were such toil to work
In Christ's sweet service blest.

As well the reapers in their fields
Might to their lords complain,
"How weary are we of the task
Of gathering in the grain!

"Tis hard the golden sheaves to bind,
O would the hour were come
That we might lay our sickles down,
And all cry, 'Harvest Home!'"
But think not heaven to be a place
Of blest inaction quite,
For cherubim and seraphim

"They rest not day nor night."
Besides, the cross upon your breasts
Is very light to wear,
And nothing like the heavy one
That some are called to bear.

And yet it seems to weigh you down,
As still, with downcast eyes,
Ye pace the solemn aisle and
For rest in "paradise."
Young men, let sentimental folks
Your studied gloom admire;
God loves the praise that lights the soul,
And sets the eye on fire.

ELIZABETH SURr.

A FEW WORDS ABOUT

B

ELLS of small size are of very ancient date. Small gold bells intermixed with pomegranates are mentioned as ornaments worn upon the hem of the high priest's robe in Exod. xxviii. 31-36, and Calmet says that the kings of Persia wore them in the same way. Among the Greeks, handbells were used in camps and garrisons. The old writer Plutarch mentions the use of the bell in the Grecian fish market. The hour of bathing among the Romans was announced by a bell; they also used them as an ornament and an emblem upon triumphant cars.

The large bells now used in churches are said to have been invented by Paulinus about the year 400, and it is supposed they were introduced into England very soon after their invention. They are first mentioned by Bede about the end of the seventh century.

Every boy and girl knows something of the ancient "Couvrefeu," or Curfew bell, associated with the time of the "Conqueror." The custom prevailed on the Continent long before he ordered its use in England. It was intended as a precaution against fires, which were then very frequent and destructive, so many houses being built of wood. It is often set down as a tyrannical custom, but we find it really was an approved regulation, and the custom of ringing the bell long continued, and in certain parishes of London and in some parts of the country is kept up now. At Barking, in Essex, the tower of the fire-bell or curfew still stands and bears the name, though no longer used.

The Passing-bell was so named as being tolled when any one was passing from life. It was sometimes called the Soul-bell, and was rung that those who heard it might pray for the person dying.

The great bell of St. Paul's Cathedral is never used except for striking the hours and tolling at the death or funeral of any of the Royal Family, the Bishop of London, the Dean of the Cathedral, and the Lord Mayor.

It was the Westminster Great Tom which the sentinel on duty at Windsor Castle during the reign of William III. declared to have struck thirteen instead of twelve times at midnight, and thus cleared himself of the accusation of sleeping at his post.

Societies of bellringers in London are of very early date. In the time of Edward the Confessor there was in Westminster a Guild of Ringers. They were reorganized by Henry III., and were to receive annually out of the

The

Exchequer 100 shillings, fifty at Easter and fifty at Michaelmas. In 1700 a society was formed called the London Scholars; in 1746 the name was changed to Cumberland Scholars, in consequence of the great victory under the Duke of Cumberland at the battle of Culloden in that year. London Scholars rang the bells of Shoreditch church as the victorious Duke passed by on his return from the battle, for which a silver medal was presented to the society, and is still worn by the master at general meetings.

Bow bells are of ancient celebrity, and it was from the extreme fondness of the citizens for them in old times that a genuine cockney has been supposed to be born within the sound of Bow bells. In 1469, by an order of Common Council, Bow bell was to be rung nightly at nine o'clock, and lights were to be exhibited in the steeple to direct the traveller.

The only church chimes that we have in London are those of St. Clement Danes in the Strand; St. Giles's, Cripplegate; St. Dionis, Fenchurch Street; and St. Bride's, Fleet Street. The Cripplegate chimes are the finest in London; they were constructed by a poor working man.

The chimes of the old Exchange were "God save the Queen," "Life let us cherish," "The Old Hundredth Psalm (on Sundays), and "There's nae luck about the house." It may be remembered that while the fire was raging, the bells played merrily the last-named air. In the present building we have chimes-a psalm tune, "God save the Queen," and "Rule Britannia.'

Who does not love the merry sound of bells? As Christmas draws nigh we listen for them, and as they ring their joyous peals we often make them say just what we wish, like Whittington, who was a man of a spirited and enterprising nature, and who was bent on deserving fame and winning it. The bells have a mirthful sound, which is cheerful and hopeful. It is mostly our own fault if we misinterpret what they say.

I was walking hurriedly along Cheapside very late on Christmas Eve three years ago, the street was tolerably quiet, the bells were ringing very merrily, and my mind was full of pleasant thoughts of the next day and meeting dear old friends. Just as I was passing Bow Lane I heard a pleasant voice softly singing to the tune of the bells, "Ding dong, Tom Tom, money will come." I answered, "How will it come?" to the same tune. At that two little faces peeped out at me from under a big coat, which was closely wrapped round their half-clothed figures. When I repeated my question Tom answered, "Bill and I will sweep the crossin' to the church there, and with the money we shall get some puddin', and sleep in a bed to-morrow night. Please don't tell the Bobby we're here, or he'll send us off, and we want to be in time to get the crossin'."

Poor little creatures! Here is a condition to be in, and yet you seem to be happy and hopeful, and trusting to the coming pence of to-morrow for your "happy day!"

May the bells have happy messages for all of us this year, and may we still dwell in a peaceful land. M. E. W.