Sailing onwards from the Temple, we arrive at that magnificent structure which spans the bosom of the Thames at its widest breadth within metropolitan limits, and is named in honour of the great battle which last gave peace to Europe. Around its arches clings half the romance of modern London. It is the English "Bridge of Sighs," the "Pons Asinorum," the "Lover's Leap," the "Arch of Suicide." Well does it deserve all these appellations. Many a sad and too true tale might be told, the beginning and end of which would be "Waterloo Bridge." It is a favourite spot for love assignations; and a still more favourite spot for the worn and the weary, who long to cast off the load of existence, and cannot wait, through sorrow, until the Almighty Giver takes away his gift. Its comparative loneliness renders it convenient for both purposes. The penny toll keeps off the inquisitive and unmannerly crowd; and the foolish can love or the mad can die with less observation from the passers than they could find anywhere else so close to the heart of London. To many a poor girl the assignation over one arch of Waterloo Bridge is but the prelude to the fatal leap from another. Here they begin, and here they end, after a long course of intermediate crime and sorrow, the unhappy story of their loves. Here, also, wary and practised courtezans lie in wait for the Asini, so abundant in London, and justify its cognomen of the Pons Asinorum. Here fools become entrapped, and wise men too sometimes, the one losing his money, and the other his money and self-respect. But, with all its vice, Waterloo Bridge is pre-eminently the Bridge of Sorrow." There is less of the ludicrous to be seen from its smooth highway than from almost any other in the metropolis. The people of London continually hear of unhappy men and women who throw themselves from its arches, and as often of the finding of bodies in the water, which may have lain there for weeks, no one knowing how or when they came there,-no one being able to distinguish their lineaments. But, often as these things are heard of, few are aware of the real number of victims that choose this spot to close an unhappy career, few know that, taking one year with another, the average number of suicides committed from this place is about thirty.

Notwithstanding these gloomy associations, Waterloo Bridge is a pleasant spot. Any one who wishes to enjoy a panoramic view unequalled of its kind in Europe, has only to proceed thither, just at the first faint peep of dawn, and he will be gratified. A more lovely prospect of a city it is impossible to imagine than that which will burst upon him as he draws near to the middle arch. Scores of tall spires, unseen during the day, are distinctly seen at that hour, each of which seems to mount upwards to double its usual height, standing out in bold relief against the clear blue sky. Even the windows of distant houses, no longer, as in the noon-tide view, blended together in one undistinguishable mass, seem larger and nearer, and more clearly defined; every chimney-pot stands alone, tracing against the smokeless sky a perfect outline. Eastward, the view embraces the whole of ancient London, from "the towers of Julius" to its junction with Westminster at Temple Bar. Directly opposite stands Somerset House, by far the most prominent, and, were it not for the egg-shell on the top of it, the most elegant building, St. Paul's excepted, in all the panorama; while to the west rise the hoary towers of Westminster Abbey, with, far in the

distance, glimpses of the hills of Surrey crowned with verdure. The Thames, which flows in a crescent-shaped course, adds that peculiar charm to the view which water always affords to a landscape. If the visiter has time, and has besides the eye of a painter and the heart of a poet, he will do well to linger for a few hours on the spot till all the fires are lighted, and the haze of noon approaches. He will gradually see many objects disappear from the view. First of all, the hills of Surrey will be undistinguishable in the distance; steeples far away in the north and east of London will vanish as if by magic; houses half a mile off, in which you might at first have been able to count the panes of glass in the windows, will agglomerate into shapeless masses of brick. After a time, the manufactories and gasworks, belching out volumes of smoke, will darken all the atmosphere; steam-boats plying continually to and fro will add their quota to the general impurity of the air; while all these mingling together will form that dense cloud which habitually hangs over London, and excludes its inhabitants from the fair share of sunshine to which all men are entitled.

While thus gossipping with thee, O reader, we have passed under the arch, shot like an arrow by Hungerford Market, and arrived at another green spot, amid surrounding houses. It is a fair lawn, neatly trimmed, and divided into compartments by little walls. In the rear rises a row of goodly modern houses, the abodes of ministers, and ex-ministers, and "lords of high degree." But it is not so much for what it exhibits, as for what it hides, that this spot is remarkable. The row of houses screens Whitehall and its historical purlieus from the view. Just behind the house with the bow-windows, inhabited by Sir Robert Peel, is the spot where the head of Charles the First rolled on the scaffold. In a nook close by, as if purposely hidden from the view of the world, there is a very good statue of a very bad king. Unknown to the thousands of London, James the Second rears his brazen head in a corner, ashamed, apparently even in his effigies, to affront the eyes of the nation he misgoverned.

So

Still sailing up the stream, we next pass under the arches of Westminster Bridge. This edifice was commenced in 1738, and finished in 1750. The Corporation of London had a notion that it would injure the trade of the city; and while the bill relating to it underwent discussion in the legislature, they opposed it by every means in their power. For many years afterwards, London aldermen thought it pollution to go over it, and passed by it as saucily and with as much contempt as a dog would by a stinking brock." highly was the bridge esteemed by its projectors, that they procured the admission of a clause into the act of Parliament, by which the punishment of death without benefit of clergy was declared against any one who should wilfully deface or injure it. Dogs also were kept off it with as much rigour as they are now excluded from Kensington Gardens. It does not appear, however, that dog or man was ever hanged either for defiling or defacing the precious structure.

"O happy age! O good old times gone by!

Even dogs might howl, and pipe their sorrowing eye,
Were ye restored to us, and our posterity!"

And now we are clear of the bridge, the river opens out before us

in a longer sweep. To the right are the ruins of the houses of Lords and Commons, with hundreds of workmen busily employed in laying the foundations of a new and more splendid edifice, worthy to be the seat of the British Legislature. On the left, a little higher up, is the grey and venerable palace of Lambeth, the residence of the Archbishops of Canterbury ever since the Norman Conquest. How many recollections are excited by the mention of this spot! It was here that the Archbishop Simon Sudbury was cruelly murdered by the rebels under Wat Tyler; it was here that the unfortunate Earl of Essex was imprisoned by Queen Elizabeth before his final commitment to the Tower; here also Archbishop Laud was attacked by the riotous London 'prentices, a very short time before his execution. Upon this place also, the bigots under Lord George Gordon vented a portion of their fury in 1780. Close by the same spot, under the walls of Lambeth Church, the unfortunate Mary D'Este remained hidden with her infant son, in the midst of the bitter storm of the 6th of December 1688, for a whole hour, awaiting a coach to convey her, a fugitive and an outcast from the land where she had reigned as a queen.

HUMAN LIFE.

SAY, what does human life appear
Unto the young and gay ?
A stream, that rapidly and clear
Flows on in sparkling play;
A poem, bright and eloquent

With deeds of fame and love;
A dial, o'er which joy has bent
The golden hands to move.

Say, what does human life appear
Unto the sad and old?

A desert, motionless and drear;
A grave, with fest'ring mould,
Though flowers may on the surface lie,
All full of bones beneath;
A sphinx, whose fearful mystery
Must be revealed by death.

Say, what does human life appear
To my own secret heart?

Like autumn, when the mournful year
Sees all its flowers depart;

Like twilight, when a saddened tone
Steals o'er the glowing skies,
And tells us that the storms are gone
But that the sunshine dies.

And, what does human life appear
Unto the good and wise?

A noble and befitting sphere
For their high energies ;

A battle field, where faith and love
Must vanquish pain and sin;

A race, whose umpire is above,
And heaven the prize to win.

M. T. H.

A BALL AT THE TUILERIES.

66
BY THE AUTHOR OF A PARISIAN SABBATH."

"THIS is something of a bore, this business of presentation," said I to myself as, fagged out, I sunk into my arm-chair, and tried to undo the tightly buttoned coat-collar, which for two hours had half strangled me. The ceremony, however, is over. 'Twas no great things, after all; and to enjoy it here at the palace of the Citizen King, requires nothing in you extremely recherché. On the evening of the 23d of January 1837, at eight o'clock, in company with about thirty-eight fellow-countrymen, I ascended the grand staircase of the Tuileries into the Hall of the Marshals.

Ranged all in a row, you see moving towards you a pear-faced man, in the anomaly of wig intensely black, and of whiskers intensely white. Pray, do you feel any misgiving now that a figure is approaching you wherein reside the destinies of France,-nay more, as some say, the destinies of all Europe? You have seen three kings, one emperor, one archduke, forty-seven dukes and earls, and counts and barons without number, and moreover the pope. Louis Philippe speaks the best English in the world, and with simplicity he asks the gentleman next you, "Pray, how long is it since your family moved from France to New Orleans?" For yourself, you may ask of royalty no questions.

But here comes the Queen. Two daughters are near her. One you pronounce lovely, and both of them are mirrors wherein all the noble daughters of France might make their toilette. They each completely embody your image of the princess, whether derived in your early reading from the Arabian fancy, or calmly dreamed out in moments of reverie and idealizing. "Did you have a pleasant passage across the Atlantic?"-" Is Faris as gay as you expected to find it?"-"Are not the Americans great travellers?" These are the little queries you hear or answer, as these portions of royal blood stream gently by you. And now many are the graceful and many are the manly bearings and expressions momently arresting your eye. But of all grace and of all manhood, what more perfect embodiment can there be than in yonder tall form? It is the Duke of Orleans. What clear and intelligent beauty in his countenance ! How completely finished is his manner! With what lofty ease does he receive and return courtesies!—and as each instant he takes the elegant position to make the graceful bend, you hear his approximated spurs click, sweetly as the minute tick of your repeater. Young Seigneur, thou art not only heir to the highest destinies in Europe, thou art likewise the handsomest and most graceful gentleman therein. Shall I go on describing the scene, the representatives of every civilised nation, in appropriate habiliments?

But here is the invitation, for securing which a presentation is of value. It comes in an inclosure five inches square, and is thus worded:

"Palais des Tuileries, le 20 Janvier, 1837. "L'Aide-de-Camp de service prês du Roi et Mme. la Mise de Dolomieu, Dame d'honneur de la REINE, ont l'honneur de prévenir Monsieur

qu'il

est invité au Bal qui aura lieu au Palais des Tuileries le Mercredi 25 Janvier, à 8 heures.

Les hommes seront en uniforme,

ou en habit habillé."

Thursday morning, 4 o'clock. Just from the ball. There can be no objection to the style of this fête. "Never was there more magnificence even under the empire," declared a grey-headed general in buckskins. "Superbe, magnifique!" said a member of the Chamber of Deputies, himself one of the only three in black pantaloons and coat. "Really this is capital, very nice," murmured an English duchess, from whose forehead stood out a huge pearl. "Bella, bellissima," and the words were from the lips of an Italian beauty. "Schön, schön," guttered forth a German baron, in broad chest and forehead; and I doubt not that many Russians ejaculated their admiration in terminations of "off," and many Poles in quadrasyllables ending with "t-s-k-i.” I heard a fellow-countryman say, that it was to be sure very fine; but that the enormous expenditure it implied did not altogether correspond with his ideas of political economy. To me does it all seem confused, and glorious, and indescribable as forty midsummer dreams, each confounded with the other. How shall I find words to describe it? Where shall I begin? What shall be my principle of classification? Shall I first take the plumes, and then the eyes?-or going by nations, shall I first characterise the Russians, then the Spaniards, Turks, and so on? Really here is a comprehensive and most unmanageable theme. I now recall nothing distinctly: the elements are somewhat in my memory. There are diamonds, and silks, and costliest furs, and stars, and orders; elegant men in glorious moustaches, and beautiful women half fainting in the waltz; sweet music, Turks in turbans, dukes, mirrors, countesses, and blazing chandeliers, red-coated servants, ministers of all cabinets, golden scarfs, and plumes, and magnificent bouquets; earls and marquises, and barons and barons' wives, and marshals and marshals' portraits; in short, confusedly do I recall the spectacle of four thousand men and women, noblemen and noblewomen, in their most polished manners and most gorgeous dress, assembled for five hours at the palace of the most magnificent court in Europe.

There were some persons and scenes which I shall not soon altogether forget. There was Scotch Lord Gordon in costume,-cap made piquant by an eagle's feather,-on his right side a richly enamelled powder-horn, the gift of James II. to an ancestor, and on his left a bold claymore, while his plaid was clasped upon the shoulder by a cairngorm, big as a giant's fist. But the crowning glory of Lord Gordon was his legs,-legs intensely Scotch, thoroughly developed in their minutest fibres, and naked, ay, naked up-up-I may not say how far. Those legs were the most extraordinary specimens of aristocratical sansculottism I had lately seen; and they were the wonder of hundreds in that great company. Tough German baronesses paused to quiz them up and down, through their little goldmounted eye-glasses. Not a duchess, not a countess, not a marchioness, not even a lady in the rooms, but had stared at, admired, and sighed over those handsome, hard, those oaken-knotted prongs from the Grampians. There was one damsel whose deportment with respect to them I carefully noticed. She was the very youthful daughter of a Polish general who had fallen in the field. I noticed her once and twice, for the marvellous whiteness of her skin, and even a third time, for the marvellous blackness of her hair and eyes. Looking here and there, she happened to see this Scotch nobleman's