and fish-barrows, and it represents William the
Third on horseback; William and the horse
being both gilt all over. The golden man and
horse have a curious effect prancing among the
trucks and booths. And here, for the first time
in Yorkshire, I was gratified by hearing somebody
say "dom'd." I asked a native why Hull
had erected a statue to William the Third; and
he said he was "dom'd if he knew." I believe
William did Hull the honour of landing on its
shores, when he was obliging enough to come
over from Holland to govern England. It was
there that first he showed his lampblack face.

Hull is maritime, and has docks, and ships,
and sailors, and is all the more lively in
consequence. It has two theatres, a circus, and
several music-halls. One of the theatres (the
Royal) is an example of what may be done,
even in the provinces, by enterprise and liberal
management. It is a handsome roomy building,
elegantly decorated and luxuriously furnished,
and the pieces are dressed and mounted in first
rate style. The result is, that the better classes
go to the stalls and boxes, and that the local
shareholders find their account in a well-filled
treasury. Hull, too, has a pretty park, with
pleasant walks, and flower-beds, and ornamental
waters; and the roads leading to the country are
studded with bright little villas, where you may
hold house comfortably and elegantly for thirty
pounds a year. So never believe any one who
says that there is only the difference of a letter
between Hull and the infernal regions.

LOOK UPWARD.

They build too low, who build beneath the stars.

THOU didst help me across the brooklet
     And over the marshy fen,
All through the tangled thicket,
     And up the rocky glen;

But when we came to the torrent
     That dash'd and foam'd along,
A stouter heart I needed,
     A grasp more firm and strong.

Thou didst lead me through the twilight,
     'Mid shadows gaunt and drear,
And with thine arm around me
     I felt no doubt nor fear.

But when the grim deep darkness
     Set in on every side,
My faint heart sank within me,
     I craved a safer guide.

Thou didst comfort me in seasons
     Of sadness, toil, and pain,
But when death stood between us
     I look'd to thee in vain.

In rain, and wind, and tempest,
     How constant was thy hold!
But when earth quaked beneath us,
     I felt thy touch grow cold.

O, strength so dearly trusted,
     O, clasp of human love,
Frail reed we fondly lean on,
     How feeble dost thou prove!

O, silence dead, unbroken
     By friendship's tenderest tone,
Dark ways that must be trodden,
     Dark waters stemmed alone!

A surer faith, unshaken,
     The failing heart demands,
A voice from higher regions,
     A grasp from unseen hands.

LAZARUS, LOTUS-EATING.

NINE o'clock on Saturday evening, the place
Cornhill, and the want a policeman. Wonderfully
quiet and still is the Exchange yonder, for
the bears have left their accustomed pit for
the night, and the bulls are lowing over club
mangers, or the family cribs at home. Curiously
quiet, too, is the vast thoroughfare we are in.
Shops and warehouses, banks and offices, are
closed; and though here and there a blaze of light
tells you how to telegraph to India, or glimmers
out of one of the upper windows of the closely
shuttered houses you pass, the great street is
wonderfully free from the feverish traffic of the
day. Lazarus starts up out of the shadows
which fantastically combine together on the
pavement under the illuminated clock to the
left, and having yielded to his prayer for pence,
you and I look out anxiously for a policeman to
aid us in tracing him home. Perhaps we carry
with us a mysterious talisman which will at once
enlist the sympathies and ensure the co-operation
of the force; perhaps we rely on our powers
of personal persuasion; perhaps we have justice
on our side, and claim its officers as allies;
perhaps we wish to test the truthfulness of the pitiful
story he has told us; or perhaps we are merely
animated by a holy hatred of beggars, and a wish
to prosecute Lazarus to the death. Let us look
at him again. Shabby canvas trousers, a loose
and ragged blue jacket, high cheek-bones, small
sunken eyes, a bare shaven face, and an untidy
pigtail—such is Lazarus. He is one of the poor
wretched Chinamen who shiver and cower and
whine at our street-corners, and are mean and
dirty, squalid and contemptible, even beyond
beggars generally. See how he slinks and shambles
along; and note the astonishment of the policeman
we meet at last, when we tell him we wish
to trace the abject wretch home. We have been
through Cornhill and Leadenhall-street, past the
corner where a waterman is pottering about with
a lantern, a modern Diogenes, who, in the
absence of the bulls and bears, is looking in vain for
an honest man, and are close by Aldgate pump,
and in the full glare of the huge clothing
establishment at the Minories' corner, before we
come upon our policeman. New-court, Palmer's
Folly, Bluegate-fields, that is where the Chinese
opium-smoking house is, and that is where
Lazarus is bound for.

"I know them Chinamen well," adds Mr.
Policeman, sententiously; "they'll beg, and
duff, and dodge about the West-end—we won't
have 'em here—and never spend nothin' of what
they makes, till night. They don't care for no