the trampling of horses, the footfall of passengers, and the hum of distant sounds, are mingling together in one perpetual din. A boat, with oars, is now going down the river; and here comes an empty steamer.

In the east, the sky is brightening, and now I might indulge in the description of a glorious sunrise, arraying the earth and the heavens with kindling azure, and with glowing gold; but were I to do this, it would be departing from the scene before me; it would be indulging my fancy at the expense of truth. There are in the east no glittering beams of living light, no floods of molten gold, and, therefore, I will not falsify the dull and monotonous appearance of the heavens.

A traveller is going out of town in his gig. He looks like a man equipped for business, and seems likely to see the Land's End before he returns. A soldier is passing by, carrying an umbrella; an article that, in his hand, seems a little out of character. Half-a-dozen men, with short pipes in their mouths, and a kind of wallet on their backs, are going one way, and a party of mulatto seamen, in blue check shirts, white trousers, and oilcase caps, are proceeding another. Here is a man with rabbits on a pole, half before and half behind him; and there is a fat gentleman, up to his knees in high-topped boots, carrying his great coat on his arm, striding along with the hope of being in time for the coach, while a weasel-faced

stripling, heavily laden with a trunk, is making the best of his way after him. There go the streetkeepers and the policemen off duty, right glad to hear the clock strike six.

How much might be said about the striking of a clock, and of its varied influence among mankind, according to the several positions and circumstances in which they are found. In the dark and silent season of night, it has an unusual solemnity. He who has heard a clock strike one, when in a country churchyard, with the stars over his head, will fully understand me.

I can now see clearly the objects around. The Custom-house is one of the most striking. The Tower is another, with Fishmongers'-hall; Nicholson's bonded warehouse; the shipping and steam packets in the river; the dark tower of St. Saviour's church yonder, and especially the cathedral of St. Paul. The tide is coming in.

The Thames is a noble river. It does not equal, it is true, in magnitude, the Amazons, the Mississippi, the Nile, the Burrampooter, the Ganges, the Gambia, the Danube, the St. Lawrence, the Rhine, and some others; but take it with its amount of shipping and merchandise, and it stands the first in the world.

A thousand ships are sometimes moored in the Pool, presenting a forest of masts to the spectator's eye. Under what different aspects may the river be contemplated! The Roman, the

Dane, the Saxon, and the Norman, at different times, have crossed it, or sailed up its goodly stream. Kings have sailed sumptuously on its flowing waters. Royal brides have been borne upon its gilt-prowed barges, gorgeous with flags, pennons, and silken streamers, to the royal residence in the Tower. Prisoners have been conveyed at midnight along the silent waters to Traitor's Gate, to return no more. Lord Mayors have vied with each other in covering the stream with magnificent pageants of yachts and barges, in their visit to and return from Westminster on the day of their installation to office; and, in winter, fairs have been held on its frozen surface.

But if the river has presented changes to the eye, so have its banks. How different was the view from this place three hundred years ago, when the old Gothic cathedral of St. Paul was standing; when the houses of the narrow streets were decorated with fanciful gables, ornamental vanes, and tall twisted chimneys. The banks of the river are not now adorned with goodly gardens and stately palaces. The sombre towers of Baynard's-castle, and the proud turrets of Durham-house, are gone. The old palace of Bridewell is no longer seen. The ancient bridge, gatewayed, towered, and drawbridged as it was, with its chapel, its mills, and houses, is a thing chronicled in records which are already moth

eaten.

The first bridge of which we read, as occupying this place, was built by the monks of St. Mary Overs, some eight or nine hundred years ago. Peter, of Colechurch, in 1126, began to build a stone bridge; and as the funds were supplied by a tax on wool, a saying has since risen-" London-bridge was built upon woolsacks." Peter was buried in a chapel constructed in the centre pier. Houses and shops overhung the bridge behind. It had gates, and towers, and a drawbridge in one of the arches, which was raised when vessels had to pass.

This bridge is associated with many occurrences of history. Here David, Earl of Crawford, of Scotland, successfully contended for three days in a grand joust against Lord Wells, of England. Here was the prior of Tiptree, in Essex, with nine other persons, crushed to death in the crowd, while witnessing the public entry of Richard 11. and his youthful queen. When Henry v. returned victorious from Agincourt, a grand pageant was given on the bridge. Here Sir Matthew Gough and the citizens of London had a conflict with Jack Cade, the rebel; and here was the entrance of Sir Thomas Wyat arrested during the insurrection against Queen Mary.

At the Southwark end of the bridge stood Traitor's Gate, on which, in the reign of the Tudors, thirty heads might have been counted of such as had been executed for high treason!

In the reign of Elizabeth, stately houses were erected on both sides of the bridge; for the old houses had been destroyed by fire, and the place resembled a little city. The great fire of 1666 again cleared away the houses, which were once more rebuilt. Hans Holbein, the celebrated painter, once lived on the bridge, and honest John Bunyan, author of "Pilgrim's Progress." Nonsuch-house also stood on the bridge. It was a wooden fabric, four stories high, constructed in Holland, and brought over to England. Not a single nail was required in setting it up, being entirely fastened together with wooden pegs. At each corner it had a wooden tower.

The first stone of the present London bridge was laid in the year 1825. The edifice is an admirable one. The simplicity of the architecture, the boldness of the arches, the massive solidity of the piers and parapets, and the noble and majestic appearance of the whole, challenge admiration. The stones used in the building are, the purple Aberdeen, the light grey Devonshire Haytor, and the red brown granite of Peterhead. How many joyous and exulting spirits, how many weary feet and aching hearts, will pass over it, before the shadows of evening prevail !

Southwark bridge, yonder, or, as it is often called, the Iron bridge, is an elegant erection. Three cast-iron arches, resting on massive stone piers, span the whole breadth of the river. The