from their long night trance. Watch it for
an hour—this other London nuisance; this
domestic offering which every morning is
sent winding up to heaven—and see the
forms of unutterable beauty that it takes.
Look at it, flowing up to, and wreathing
round, yonder church of Saint Dunstan like a
band of supplicating angels with long waving
wings.

A small circle of steel-coloured sky above
my head gradually widens, bringing more
light; the mist forms a dense black wall
round the city—this time from south to east,
and east to north; and the moon, which
started brilliantly from Whitechapel, is now,
with diminished lustre, hovering over
Blackfriars; helping to develope the sharp, clear
form of the upper part of Saint Paul's Cathedral;
still nothing more than the half of an
inverted balloon. The dark grey churches
and houses spring into existence, one by one.
The streets come up out of the land, and the
bridges come up out of the water. The bustle
of commerce, and the roar of the great human
ocean—which has never been altogether
silent—revive. The distant turrets of the
Tower, and the long line of shipping on the
river become visible. Clear smoke still flows
over the housetops; softening their outlines,
and turning them into a forest of frosted
trees.

Above all this, is a long black mountain-
ridge of cloud, tipped with glittering gold;
beyond, float deep orange and light yellow
ridges bathed in a faint purple sea. Through
the black ridge struggles a full, rich purple
sun, the lower half of his disc tinted with
grey. Gradually, like blood-red wine running
into a round bottle, the purple overcomes
the grey; and, at the same time, the black
cloud divides the face of the sun into two
sections like the visor of a harlequin.

The marked change between night and
morning, all takes place within thirty
minutes—from half-past seven to eight
o'clock.

At the latter hour the new year is fairly
launched. The first new day of work
commences. New life is infused into the now
restless but long silent city. The veil of night
is removed from all the joy, and crime, and
sorrow that it has covered; giving place to
the mists of day in which the churches,
streets, and houses come and go. The crowds
of hurrying atoms, who have awakened to a
new day and a new year, reluctantly leave
the distant suburbs for the dark thoroughfares
that now lead from home, and plunge
once more into the whirling vortex of work,
of speculation, and of trade. Unequal and
vastly different they may be to each other,
with all their outer and their inner trappings
—their wealth and their poverty; their
meekness and their severity; their wisdom
and their ignorance; their weakness and
their strength; their theories, their dogmatism,
their palaces, their jewels, their pictures,
and their cherished books—but, to me, they
appear only as a set of amusing puppets
acting a play, in which the sick man cannot
walk so fast as the strong man. The wise man
is one who does not get run over by
something larger than himself, and the rich man
is one who strides across another something
in the road, instead of walking on the
pavement. God help them all! They have
struggled on for many weary years, and will
struggle for many more, when I, and the
structure that has supported me so long,
shall be numbered with the things that were.

WANDERINGS IN INDIA.

I HAVE already spoken of a German Baron
and a French gentleman whom I met at Agra*,
and I have said that they, like myself, were
travelling in search of the picturesque, and
with a view to become acquainted with
oriental character from personal observation.
(*See page 155)

While staying with my friend at Barnapore,
I received a letter from the former,
proposing that we should meet on a certain day
at Mussoorie, in the Himalaya mountains,
and travel into the interior together. I
agreed with all my heart; and my friend, the
assistant magistrate, was tempted to apply
for six weeks' leave, in order that he might
accompany us.

Let me describe these foreign gentlemen.
They were respectively about my own age
—thirty-two—had seen a great deal of the
world, and of the society at every court and
capital in Europe. They were both possessed
of considerable abilities, and of the most
enviable dispositions; always good-natured
and good-tempered; patient and cheerful
under those innumerable little difficulties
that almost invariably beset a wanderer ia
the East, or, in fact, a wanderer in any part
of the world. They had, moreover, a keen
sense of humour; and, each in his own
peculiar way, could relate a story, or an incident
in his life, in such a manner as to make
it wonderfully mirth-provoking. They were
men of refined understanding and of very
refined manners: take them all in all, they
were the most charming companions I ever
encountered. They were utterly devoid of
vulgar nationalities—of any enthusiastic
admiration of their own father-lands—and
would just as soon ridicule the foibles
peculiar to their own countries respectively,
as the foibles of a man of any other country.
My friend the assistant magistrate was also-
a desirable companion. He, too, was a good-
tempered, good-humoured being, with a
keen sense of humour, and some wit. He
had read a great deal of late years, in that
out-of-the-way station to which he had been
appointed, and he had profited by his reading.

It was beginning to be very hot in the
plains, and my friend and myself were not a
little glad when we found ourselves on the