Justice was one, in aspect calm and cold,
   With a severe, yet not oppressive mien;
Another, Truth, with brow sublimely bold,
   And onward looks, all radiant and serene;
The last was Mercy, whose consoling eyes
Caught the reflection of celestial skies,
With a benignant and beseeching face,
And wedded hands upraised with supplicating grace.

"Let us make man, for lo! yon lovely sphere,
   Which in its amplitude of orbit rolls,
Shall be ye bright Intelligences, hear!—
   Place of probation for immortal souls;
There shall he dwell, there shall he rule and reign,
Yet not exempt from sinfulness and pain,
But destined, 'mid his struggles and his storms,
To people boundless heaven with countless angel-forms."

"Oh, make him not!" cried Justice; "I foresee
   That he will trample on Thy sacred laws—
Doubt, question, violate, Thy great decree,
   Feel his own being, yet deny its Cause."
"Oh, make him not!" cried Truth, "for he will toil
'Gainst Thee and me, and ruthlessly despoil
Thy sanctuaries; grow corrupt and vain,
Worship himself, and scorn Thy everlasting fane."

"Create this unseen being, gracious Lord!"
   Said gentle Mercy, with imploring look
"And I will guide him by thy precious Word,
   The precepts of Thy yet unwritten Book;
My voice shall move him with mysterious power,
My wings shall shield him in the perilous hour;
I'll check, subdue, inspire, as best I can,
The soul which Thou wilt breathe into the form of Man."

"Even so be it!" And Man straightway was born,
   Richly endued, and full of joy and trust;
Serene, pure, happy, was his early morn,
   Till the dread Tempter bowed him to the dust;
Then, shame and sorrow, and recurrent sin,
Shook his best nature, soiled the shrine within;
But Mercy pleaded, and God sent him light
To cheer his darkling soul, and lead his steps aright.

Then, take the Angel to thine home and heart,
   And with her walk along the paths of life;
List to her teachings; learn the exalted art
   Which conquers hatred, prejudice, and strife.
Not Truth, not Justice, must we put away,
But lean towards Mercy whensoe'er we may;
Forgive our brother, be ourselves forgiven,
And thus, by gentle deeds, draw down the smile
       of Heaven.

FATHER THAMES.

It was a dusky evening in the latter end of
autumn, with a mizzling rain, when I passed
up the Strand, and turned into the gloomy
archway-entrance of old smoke-dried Somerset
House. I was in a meditative mood.
Having nothing to do, which is a circumstance
that constitutes (though I do not by
any means recommend it as a general rule),
one of the best Aids to Reflection, I began very
slowly—over-coat buttoned close up—arms
folded eyes bent upon the moist flag-stones
with heavy, pausing paces, to perambulate
the quadrangle. How long I continued doing
this, or what was the main subject of my
thoughts, it is not necessary to relate; suffice
it to say that, almost unconsciously, I stopped
beside the parapet wall beneath the great
stone figure of Father Thames, who is pointing
down into the dark depths of the semi-
circular vault, pit, or basement, beneath.
With closed hands, and elbows lodged against
the edge of the parapet, I leaned my head
upon my hands, quietly crushing in the
front of my hat, until I had attained the
thinking attitude I meditated. This being
accomplished, and no policeman chancing to
pass near, who might have thought himself
justified in taking charge of me as a gentleman
in an "abnormal" state of mind, my
meditation progressed at a great rate.

The duration of this is immaterial to my
story; all I know is, that I was aroused by a
sound—soft and trickling at first, and then
bubbling and pouring, and falling with a
quick succession of splashes. A warm vapour
at the same time began to steal underneath
my hat, and bedew my cheek-bones. I raised
my head. The great smoke-black recumbent
figure of Father Thames was evidently looking
at me with a grim, gaunt smile, while out of
the mouth of his huge, bent-down urn, a
thick hot stream of no definite colour was
now rapidly pouring forth, and falling with a
loud noise to the bottom of the deep and
dark semi-circular area below.

To this his great fore-finger pointed with
more than usual significance. The clock of
St. Mary-le-Strand now tolled six, and while
the echo in the court below was still vibrating,
a great voice, very like the distant sound of a
captain on deck calling out through his
speaking trumpet to somebody on shore—
exclaimed "Good evening, Mr. Beverage! will
you take a cup of tea with Old Thames!"

I sank backward a pace at this address.
I am a great tea-drinker, it is true, but I
could not feel otherwise than overcome, at the
moment, by the tremendous cordiality of this
invitation. I looked upward at the shadowy
countenance of the giant. The grotesque
features had relaxed into a good-humoured
though still a very grim smile; and, while
his inverted urn still continued to vomit forth
the stream, a strong odour of various kinds,
in which that of tea might be detected—or, at
any rate, imagined—rose in clouds of vapour
from the deep semicircular abyss to which his
forefinger so significantly pointed. If, indeed,
I did not take a draught, I certainly found it
impossible to avoid inhaling a considerable
portion of the infusion. It was by no means
to my liking.

Again, the great, distant-sounding speaking-
trumpet voice echoed over the quadrangle—
"Mr. Beverage, will you take a jolly good
cup of tea?"

The stupendous familiarity of this renewed
invitation did not place me, by any means, so
much at my ease as was intended; I,
however, summoned sufficient boldness to reply,—
"Oh, Father of Rivers! I am, indeed, a very