Lippincotts Magazine of Popular Literature and Science | Page 7

and where the one begins or the other ends is
not evident except to the parish authorities. The downs are what they
were in Pope's time, with the exception of what is now their most
striking feature--the suspension bridge across the chasm. As early as
1753, Mr. Vick, an alderman of Bristol, bequeathed one thousand
pounds, to be kept at interest until they should reach ten thousand,
when the amount was to be expended upon a stone bridge across the
Avon. Nearly eighty years after, in 1830, the fund had reached eight
thousand pounds, and it was determined to form a company to push
forward the project: a plan for a suspension bridge by Mr. Brunel was
accepted at an estimated cost of fifty-seven thousand pounds, and
subscriptions were vigorously solicited. On the 27th of August, 1836,
the foundation-stone was laid in the presence of the members of the
British Association for the Advancement of Science, then holding its
sixth annual meeting in Bristol. The work went on slowly for seven
years, at the end of which it was abandoned for want of funds,
forty-five thousand pounds having been expended, including the legacy
of eight thousand. For nearly twenty years the towers and abutments
stood, unsightly objects in a lovely scene, until in 1860 the Hungerford
suspension bridge in London was taken down, and it was found that its
chains might be made use of to carry out the uncompleted plan at
Clifton. A new company was formed with a capital of thirty-five
thousand pounds, in ten-pound shares, and at length, in December,
1864, the bridge was thrown open to the public. Its span is seven
hundred and two feet; height from low water, two hundred and
eighty-seven feet. An inscription on one of the piers thus epitomizes its

story: "Suspensa vix via fit."
There are many reflections which may be called up by a glance over the
brink of the chasm at Clifton. Down this muddy ditch dropped the little
Matthew, with the Cabots in command, bound for the discovery of
America; borne on the surface of this liquid mud, the Great Western
(built at Bristol) found its way to the sea and demonstrated the
practicability of steam traffic with America; and if you ask why Bristol
now has so little share in that traffic, although reasons as plenty as
blackberries will be showered upon you, perhaps you will find as
convincing a reason as any in the sight of this narrow and tortuous
channel. Now, at last, docks are being built at the mouth of the Avon,
and one adapted to the largest vessels was opened on the 24th of
February, 1877. The prospects of present success cannot be brilliant in
the prevalent depression of the Atlantic trade, yet, to have heard the
wild talk in February, one would have thought that the dock had only to
open its mouth (or gate) to have the great plums of trade at once fall
into it. The company is too wise to expect to catch birds simply by
hanging out a cage: every one waits to see what bait they will offer. It
is claimed that the passage from New York to Avonmouth may be
made in a day less than to the Mersey, and mails and passengers
forwarded thence to London in three hours. May we soon have the
pleasure of welcoming American friends on Avonmouth Dock!
ALFRED S. GIBBS.

AN ATELIER DES DAMES.
[Illustration: TABLEAU VIVANT.]
After years of patient endeavor, of hope deferred and heart oftentimes
made sick, Paletta found herself at last in Paris. Behind her were years
of anxious calculations and shabby economies, a chequered pathway of
brilliant ambitions and sombre discouragements. Before her was
another vista of several years of art-study in the great capital--a vista
arched, she could not but know, by as heavy clouds as had ever

darkened her path. Yet she felt, even although she could not see its end,
that the forward vista climbed ever upward toward glorious heights,
upon which the storms of despair never beat, and where she could more
nearly touch upon the divine ideals that ever elude the grasp of even the
loftiest of earth's climbers.
And thus she was content. Paletta was yet a little young, it must be said,
yet in that blessed youthfulness when the loins are girded with the
strength that reduces mountains to molehills and forces the Apollyon of
dismay to flee from out every dark valley.
Behold Paletta--twenty-three years of age, with a winy color upon her
lips, the faintest perceptible shadow of fading upon the roses of her
cheeks, a little anxious wrinkle between her earnest gray eyes, a slight
nasal twang in her New England voice, and a fresh flounce upon her
old black alpaca dress--the first morning of