to be one myself, includes in it no small variety of incident, perhaps of woe. Poor boy, with your little guitar-your little music- your little English-and your very little money-where will you lodge to-night, and to-morrow, and next day! who will feed you, and by whom will you be clothed! I commended him to the Friend he was most in need of, the Shield of the stranger, and wishing him an interest in the covenant of grace, gave him my blessing in return for his own.

As these thoughts were passing through my mind, I strolled up and down my apartment, and occasionally looked into the fire, or out to the street. As I stood for a few moments stationary at the window, I began to speculate on the infinite variety of objects which at first distracted, and afterwards fixed my attention.

There was the heaven above my head with its masses of rolling clouds, red and lowering, fringing the pure blue, where the sky was visible. That is the work of God, thought I: magnificence is always stamped upon his creations. Then looking down, there were piles of building; that is the work of man I thought, puny at best, and irregular; masses of red brick and white mortar. There was opposite to me a seminary for the instruction of youth, where the young eléves were doubt less plodding over syntax and prosody-There was next to it a handsome house elegantly fitted up, with white muslin curtains, and pink draperies; some ladies were sitting at work at the window; then there was a noble mansion, which by the bills and dust with which it was covered, seemed to have been long untenanted, either not good enough to be taken, or none having wealth enough to take it-Then there was the vista of an open street, closed in with a temple dedicated to the worship of God, its aspiring steeple crowned with a triple cross. Stepping out upon my balcony, for a moment, my eye took in the long view of the N Road, with its beautiful, undulating perspective-the spires of Mary-le-bone and Trinity-and fancy filled up what was wanting in vision—the Circus, the Crescent, York Gate, and the other beautiful entrances to the new Park. Directly under my eye was the garden plot, with plants and shrubs in the first stage of vegetation-lilac trees, with their buds all ready to burst into life, and beauty, and fragrance; VOL. II. 3d SERIES.

U

almond trees, with their red and pink clusters of flowers; a few evergreens which had stood the brunt of wintry winds and snows; and one superb magnolia without a single leaf, but laden with a hundred rich white blossoms. The weather was nevertheless cold, true to a clime so rude,

"Whose spring is but the child of churlish winter,
Discov'ring much the temper of her sire;

For oft, as if in her the stream of mild
Maternal nature had reversed its course,

She brings her infants forth with many a smile,
But, once delivered, kills them with a frown."

Looking out again, busy man next attracted my attention. There were pedestrians innumerable. There were riders on horses-and riders on coaches, inside and out--drivers of waggons, carts, and chaises-every description of vehicle, the heavy and the light-the shabby and the splendid―the gay, the elegant, the useful-producing a scene of constant interest, and never-ceasing change-a succession of objects without number, pause, or termination.

I felt as I contemplated this tide of life-this stream of animated and rational being-this sea of human existence, flowing through the streets of the city-the force and beauty of that passage in the prophet, which the divines of my own country often turn into a prayer, "let judgment run down our streets as water, and righteousness as a mighty stream." I also entered into all the pensiveness of that sentiment of the royal Persian, who, when contemplating the superb array of Asia, the thousands of his invading army wept at the thought, that not one of them would be alive a hundred years hence, and my imagination going out with this idea, over the mighty population of

"The fairest Capital of all the world,"

I said to myself, O London! thou great city! in respect of those who now inhabit thee-from the babe of an hour's age to the veteran of a century-if thy power and thy riches, thy commerce and thy pleasures, thy arts and thy learning, depended on the existence of those now alive within thy precincts, how silent and how solitary would be thy scene a hundred years hence! The merchants of the earth might then weep