with a bundle in his hand. I should like to know his prospect for the coming day. Two or three of the outcasts that nightly wander the streets, stand together at a corner; and now and then I see one standing alone, or slowly pacing her thorny path of wretchedness and destitution. What a price does the poor prodigal pay for husks! "Truly the way of the transgressors is hard." Yonder is the Monument: a strait dark line drawn against the sky. The atmosphere is somewhat misty and comfortless, as though the air was charged with watery particles. My skin is cold and clammy; and a chilly, faint, breakfastless feeling is creeping over me. Well! here is London bridge. As I walked over it last night, I paused to gaze on the steam boats as they came up the river, or shot across it, or turned round to the pier, with a single light at the prow. At a distance, the light alone could be seen; a solitary pilgrim gliding along the pathway of the waters. This is a noble bridge, massive and substantial; and its dark, bronze-like lamp-supporters are quite in keeping with the solid parapet on which they stand. The deep shadows, the dark black blotches on the river, are vessels lying there, whose form cannot be discerned. It is low water, and the colliers and coal barges are resting on the deep mud by the side of the now motionless stream. The lights from Southwark bridge are reflected in long spiral streaks of fire far down in the dark waters! Hark! the clock of St. Paul's is striking four. Like the clang of a huge gong, it startles the ear with its tremulous and brassy sound! The dome of St. Paul's, the Custom-house, the Tower, and the top of the Monument, are not yet visible from this place; the darkness and the misty air alike hide them from the view. London is asleep, and tens of thousands, whose bread for the day is not yet won, are bound in unconscious slumber. How weak are words in setting forth what we owe to our great Creator, for the inestimable blessing of repose! Yes! London is asleep! Industry has nearly ended, revelry has begun his slumber; science is at rest; Mammon himself is drowsy; and even crime, a dear lover of darkness, scared at the approach of coming morn, is slinking into his shadowy den, lest the light of heaven should fall upon his face. As I stand musing by the centre lamps, the policeman passes me with his oil-skin cape upon his shoulders; and the street keeper, in his blue great coat, with gilt buttons, and red collar, wondering, no doubt, what a man can have to do with pencil and paper at this untimely hour. Now and then distant sounds reach my ears; but the big heart of London is still at rest. These rumbling sounds, not those of busy, wakeful life, are as it were, the breathing of the yawning giant as he tosses and turns himself in his slumber. What a mysterious thing is sleep? The prostrator of strength, the paralyzer of intellect, the arrester of enterprize, and yet the promoter and invigorator of them all. At this moment, the machinery of society, in the principle of its power and the mightiness of its operations, is apparently standing still. The houses of lords and commons are empty. Downing-street is tranquil, The halls of Westminster are silent. The Bank is closed. The place where merchants meet is lonely as a desert, and the marts of traffic and the public streets are forsaken. In a few short hours, what a world of energy will be aroused! The bright eye, the nimble foot, the ready hand, the quick intellect, will all be set in motion; and man, forgetful for the most part of eternity, will pursue, with all the faculties of his body, soul, and spirit, the perishable possessions which, if obtained, he can only enjoy for a few years, and perhaps not for a single hour. The heavens to the eastward are growing a little lighter, and things before invisible are faintly seen. Southwark bridge and its reflection in the water are both of an equal strength in depth of shadow. I can now see the huge shoulders of St. Paul's cathedral, for the building holds up its head above the surrounding churches, as Saul did when standing among his brethren. The Monument, and the church spire on this side of it, appear of the same height from the bridge. Objects are now visible, yet not defined; they have no outline. There is a dimness, a dusky shadowy blending of one thing with another, that leaves me in doubt whether they really are what I take them to be. "An image is before my eyes, it stands still, but I cannot discern the form thereof." The Tower is now discernible, and more vessels are seen on the river. How gradually does the dawn dissipate the darkness, bringing order out of chaos, and beauty out of shadowy indistinctness! The captive, long confined in his prison house, amuses, or rather occupies himself with its individualities; he counts the iron bars of his window, and the knobs of iron on the door of his dungeon; he mea sures the height, the length, and breadth of his cell; every crack in the walls, ever crevice in the floor is regarded till it becomes familiar. And I, in pacing this bridge backwards and forwards, have unconsciously employed myself in a similar manner; the length and breadth of the broad granite stones; the height of the parapet; the number of the recesses and stone benches, and other matters of little importance, have occupied my attention. The gas-lights of the bridge are double, but those in the centre of the building are treble. A man is now extinguishing the lights; he does it in a leisurely manner, and moves not with the accustomed merry run of the lamplighter. I will walk towards Guy's Hospital. The placards on the walls, mingling together their varied colours of red, blue, yellow, and white, have, by gaslight, an odd, yet not inharmonious effect on the eye at a given distance. I must approach them nearer. The Flower Show-The Panorama of DamascusThree Sermons at the Episcopal Chapel-Zoological Gardens and Fireworks-Steam packet to HavreCowan's Canton Strop-and the Eastern Counties Railway-are among the most conspicuous. Had I any desire for a morning dram, it might easily be gratified, for here is a gin shop already open. It grows a little lighter. I have passed by St. Thomas's, and yonder is Guy's Hospital, where many a weary, yet wakeful eye drinks in greedily the first appearance of the dawn. There many an afflicted invalid, notwithstanding all that skill and kindness can do for him, is weary with his groaning, all the night long making his bed to swim, watering his couch with his tears. Was I now to cry aloud, "Watchman! what of the night? Watchman! what of the night?" What an answer might be given me, could the aching head, the throbbing pulse, the fevered lip, and the agonizing limb make their reply. Surely I should not pass the walls of an hospital without prayer for the afflicted, and praise for the blessing of health. The clocks are striking five. Here comes a stage coach with passengers, in their caps, great coats, and handkerchiefs; the guard in his white hat, and the coachman with a green comforter round his neck are quite in character; but not so the lamps of the coach, they are still lighted, and look strange in the grey of the morning. Yonder, under a gateway, stands a young woman with her box and bundle, waiting for the van; a cart is passing by laden with calves that low in a melancholy manner; and a bill poster is entering on his morning occupation. I have passed opposite St. Saviour's church, turned towards the station of the Greenwich and Croydon railway, and am looking over into the burying-ground, where some threescore grave-stones are visible. Though strong to run his heavenly course, The sun in glory rise; How soon, alas! his parting beam Forsakes the western skies. So man, exulting, thoughtless man! Breaks through the glare and gloom Then drops into the tomb. I see something stirring inside the iron rails that surround a monument. Now it stands upright; it is a goat with a long beard; he has passed the night, like a solitary hermit, among the tombs. Not a sound is heard on the railway, though an increased rumble reaches the |