On Monday last, a fool-hardy fellow named MOORE, a slater by trade, undertook for the trifling wager of a gallon of porter, to ascend to the Ball on the Spire of St, Patrick's Steeple, Dublin, which a late storm had thrown from its perpendicular direction.  After passing to the upper scaffolding, which did not approach to within twelve feet of the terrific point of his destination, he clambered up by his hands and knees, and placed himself astride on the apex of the Spire that had been thrown into a horizontal position.  In this tremendous state of peril, he had continued but a few seconds, when to the horror of the astonished spectators, the whole gave way, and with the Ball, and about one ton of the fractured stone-work, the unfortunate man was precipitated in a moment from a height of 200 feet; his weight carried him thro' three stages, when his cloaths became entangled, and exhibited him suspended between heaven and earth.  Merciful Providence, however, and his own exertions, enabling him to seize some of the scaffolding, and he succeeded in regaining a safe footing.  He came down through the Church and was carried off by by [sic] the crowd, to enjoy the triumph of a Gallon of Porter, won at such a tremendous risque.  The Ball broke throu' to the fourth scaffold, and the stone work fell in St. Patrick's Close, without further injury than tearing up the pavement, into which it sunk upwards of 3 feet.