the mind of a spectator unaccustomed to witness such feats of hardihood. The scene of the following anecdotes connected with the adventurous pursuits of such men, is laid in the western islands of Scotland. A fowler had gone out to lay gins on the verge of the cliff; his foot catching in one of them, he fell head foremost over the edge of the cliff, and literally remained all night hanging by his great toe. To call for assistance at so late an hour would have been fruitless; to make any attempt at struggling upwards, equally so, besides further weakening the already frail fastening by which he was still held to the earth. The only resource was by desperate efforts to grasp such casual projections as might be presented by the perpendicular side of the precipice, and thus slightly relieve the foot from enduring the burthen of the whole body. In this position, looking downwards at the sea, the unfortunate man was rescued next morning in a half dying state. Less physically painful, but to appearance as desperate, was the predicament of another man, who in the solitary pursuit of sea bird's eggs, had lowered himself half way down an immense precipice by means of a rope, which he had fastened to a rock on its verge. Observing a cavity in the cliff, in which he felt quite sure of finding an abundant harvest, with the ingenuity common to men of his calling, he swung himself into it, and eagerly commenced pillaging the eggs with which the cave was richly stored. Now it should be remarked, that the summit of the cliff projected, its side slanting downwards to the sea, so that a rope let down vertically from the verge of it, came only within sixteen feet of the cavity which the fowler had contrived to reach. Forgetful of all but the immediate object before him, he ransacked the cave, and only then discovered that he had unluckily let go his rope, which after sundry oscillations, during which he made vain attempts to grasp it, hung at last motionless, at the distance of nine yards from the mouth of the the cavity. The trapper was fairly trapped. To wait for assistance was hopeless, it was an utterly unfrequented part of the coast. No means of safety were at hand; to remain in the cave was to abide a death of starvation. One fearful alternative, involving the probability of destruction, alone presented itself, and the fowler screwed up his courage for its adoption. Without being able to acquire any spring for the attempt (the cavity was barely high enough to admit of his standing upright in it) he took a desperate leap at the rope, grasped it, and was saved. What must have been the man's emotions when taking this fearful jump; a raging sea at an enormous depth beneath him! What must have been the undulations and gyrations of the rope suddenly put in motion by his weight;-how its strength must have been tested and hazarded by the convulsive grasp of a heavy falling body,—are reflections, which to pursue, become a kind of nightmare. A critical situation was that of a fowler, who having lowered himself half way down a huge cliff overhanging the sea, was attacked by an eagle which had made its nest in a crevice of the rock; hastily drawing his knife, he struck upwards at the bird with it, but in doing so, inflicted such a gash on the rope that it began untwisting, and seemed gradually narrowing to a size that would render it quite insufficient to support a man's weight. In breathless fear he watched the rope above him progressively uncoiling, awaiting what he supposed to be an inevitable fate, when to his inconceivable relief there proved to be still consistency enough of cord to support him, while clambering upwards to its sounder portion. Sometimes two or three persons at a time will descend by the same rope. On one such occasion, a party of three, an old man and two youths, were so suspended: the old man occupying the lowermost situation. At a certain depth, the uppermost man observed the rope chafing itself against the verge of the cliff, a sure sign of its not being sufficiently strong for the weight attached to it. Hastily communicating the fact to the youth immediately beneath him, he urged him to take out his knife and cut away the old man, but the one so addressed replied that he could not find it in his heart to do so. Upon this, perceiving the danger of the rope's breaking becoming more and more imminent, the uppermost man deliberately drew his knife and severed both his companions from him. To behold others in positions of apparent peril is more trying to the nerves, than to be placed in them ourselves. The Castle of Dunbeath, in the county of Caithness, stands on the very point of a precipitous neck of land, jutting forth into the everstormy Pentland Firth. A narrow causeway alone divides its walls from the very verge of the cliff, which is of immense altitude. It is related of a former proprietor of this fortalice, that he on one occasion surprised his only daughter, a child of eight years old, in the act of plucking some wild flowers that grew out of crevices a couple of feet below the ledge of the precipice. To accomplish her object, the body of the child was necessarily more than half suspended over the abyss. VOL. VI. 18 To startle her at such a moment would have probably caused the child to lose her frail equilibriun., and fall into the sea. In breathless silence, the agonized parent watched each motion of the little girl; he beheld her gradually raise herself from that fearfully perilous situation, ran to her as soon as he saw her fairly and safely standing on terra firma, and snatching her in his arms, bore her distractedly away. After all, custom reconciles men to the ready encounter of the most apparent peril. Among the mountains of Glencoe, there is a twelvefeet leap, which is taken every day by the shepherds with the utmost carelessness, and as the merest matter of course. The achievement of such a leap presents indeed no physical difficulty ;-to flinch or slip in its performance would, however, be somewhat fearful, for it consists of a fissure in the mountain, probably the result of some mighty convulsion of nature, and about two thousand feet in depth ! THE LIFE OF BERNARD OVERBERG. CHAPTER XIII. OVERBERG AS REGENT OF THE ECCLESIASTICAL SEMINARY. WHEN Overberg undertook the direction of the ecclesiastical seminary, in the year 1809, he was indeed only fifty-five years old, but indefatigable anxiety and labour, for the good of his fellow-creatures and for the spread of the Kingdom of God, had already weakened his bodily vigour (though not the vigour of his soul), and bent down his venerable figure. The thin locks which hung around the bald crown of his head had become white, and his exceedingly benevolent countenance had assumed a cast of seriousness, mingled with an expression of sympathising love. His literary fame was, at that time, established, and the exalted dignity of his personal character, as well as the singular claim which he had acquired on the gratitude of his country, principally by the improvement which he had made in education, was universally acknowledged. The reputation for learning and for moral excellence, which was so necessary for him in his new and important position, he brought with him to it; he had not still need to acquire it. The seminarists revered in him the calm and profound thinker, the practical philosopher, who knew how to avail himself most effectually of an exact knowledge of the human soul for its improvement and ennoblement; they honoured in him the eminent master of education, the solid theologian, the man who, with a clear understanding, a pure heart, and a tranquil mind, had laboured after lucid and convincing views of things, and had attained his object in a high degree, as well in the science of education as in theological knowledge. The seminarists attended their lectures in divinity not in the seminary, but in the academy. To the superiors of the seminary was reserved only their practical, ascetic, and liturgical instruction. To the Regent belonged particularly the ascetic part. Here Overberg was wholly in his element. His own labours for Christian perfection had furnished him with a rich store of experience in the interior life. From his observation of himself, he knew the most secret folds of the human heart; all his admonitions and instructions were precisely to the point. But he effected more by his example than by his word; for his words would not have penetrated with such power, they would not have worked with such irresistible influence on the minds of others, if they had not been accompanied by example, or to use a more correct phrase, if they had not been word and example at the same time. For in his words were always so evidently expressed his holy amiable simplicity, his humility, his zeal for the service of God, his indescribable charity, the earnest sincerity of his prayer and of his walk before God, but above all, his piety,-that people were obliged to esteem these virtues in him, and were drawn irresistibly to emulate him. The qualities of a pious priest, which Overberg possessed in so eminent a degree, appeared with particular brightness while following his employments in the seminary. For the rest, the history of his seventeen years' resi dence in that ecclesiastical community, is as simple and uniform, as is in general the history of men virtuous and contented in their union with God. The life of Overberg was the same one day as another; this order in his daily employments, this uniformity in his whole life, and in all that he did; his tranquillity of mind, his abstraction from the common traffic of the world, which yet he knew and observed, corresponded with peculiar felicity with the quiet, and the order, and the somewhat monastic regularity, which can alone make the ascetic life of a seminary satisfactory. No one was so careful as he to turn his time to account. Besides the affairs which the seminary imposed upon him, he laboured for a course of years, under the Government, as counsellor to the consistory, about the affairs of schools; he kept the normal school, he preached, he catechised, he heard confessions, he visited the sick, and, besides all this, he wrote an incredible number of letters to all who applied to him on all sorts of business. Independently of the regular correspondence, which he kept up with his friends, there is hardly one priest or one schoolmaster in Münsterland, who has not several letters from him in his possession. His letters all bear upon them more or less the impression of the peace of his soul, of his simplicity, and humility. In all of them he knew how to interweave, in a natural manner, some reference to religious subjects, or a word or two for edification and encouragement in good. One may also observe in all his letters, that he wrote them with real interior esteem and love towards those, to whom they were directed, and that the forms of expression with which he was accustomed to begin and finish them, with him were not bare forms. A collection of his letters would certainly contribute greatly to the knowledge and just estimation of this extraordinary man, and afford, in many respects, a rich fund of instruction. How he should, besides so many other affairs, have been able to write so much, can hardly be explained, when it is remembered that from morning till evening he never had a quarter of an hour to himself. He was interrupted at every moment. Seminarists, schoolmasters, candidates for schools, priests, schoolchildren, friends, penitents, people of all ranks, from the town and from the country, came to him just as they happened to want advice, consolation, or assistance. It has been already related what a host of poor people and beggars his benevolence drew together. There were incessant knocks at his door, and he allowed all to come in to him; he laid aside his book or his pen, and spoke with each in the kindest way; then, as soon as he was alone again, he took up his book or his pen again, he went on with his reading, his prayers, or his writing. It was the tranquillity of his spirit, which made this exterior want of tranquillity bearable to him, and enabled him at once to go on with his occupations, whenever an interval occurred. "I am no longer able to read much," said he, to a seminarist; "if I have a little time for it, what I like best to read is old Tauler.” He also read, every-day, some chapters from Thomas-à-Kempis, in an old Latin edition, printed at Münster. He remarked it as a peculiarity belonging to this work, that no one ever learns it by heart. The time, which as long as his feet were in a sound state, he devoted |