THIS full stream of typical water following Israel, as also the manna, for the space of near forty years, through the wilderness, may be considered as one of the principal miracles of God, under the Old Testament; and a most lively representation of the river of salvation continually flowing from the smitten rock on Golgotha. Who can describe the aspect of the camp of Israel, when the people, ready to perish with thirst, were invited to approach a flinty rock to quench their thirst, instead of a fountain of water? What fallen countenances and murmurings of impatience were there, when they looked at Moses as he ascended the craggy cliff with a dry rod in his hand! They beheld him lifting up his rod-the rock is smitten. See! instantly the waters gush out, and roll down the cliffs in twelve pure crystal streams! Who can conceive the sudden change of thought, and feeling, and countenance, which took place on that occasion! What movements! What operations! It is a resurrection day, or the changing of the shadows of death for morning light. Bright signs of life are seen through all the camp. See how the maidens run, some with cups, and some with pitchers, which they quickly fill and drink, and haste away to their respective tents to quench the thirst of the sick, the aged, and the little ones, joyfully exclaiming, Oh, children! Plenty of water! Drink abundantly-there are rivers still behind! In a short time, we see thousands of oxen, and asses, and sheep, and goats, approaching in haste to take the drink of life. Neither were the feathered tribes inactive; the turtle doves, the pigeons, the swallows, the sparrows, the robinredbreast, and the little wren, scent the water, and with their little bills drink to satiety. Look back to the day of Pentecost, and see the waters of eternal life flowing through the twelve channels of the twelve apostles. What mighty and marvellous revolutions of thought, feeling, and conscience! and what change of countenances took place with thousands on that day! They had the faces and hearts of profane and wicked men in the morning; but they felt the power of the resurrection before night. They became thirsty, and found the vessels of faith and repentance to rain waters from the fountain of pardon. They experienced life from the dead! Oh what a glorious sight will be presented to the church, when the fulness of Jews and Gentiles, in the millennial age, shall come in, and shall drink of the well of salvation, according to the measure of their faith! The water followed the camp of Israel. It rose up with them every morning, and kept pace with them through the day: opening its way into the ground, it abode by them through the night. The little children, early rising, would run back into their tents, and say, "Mother, the river is with us to-day again. Manna is coming down to-day again, mother." In a word, the spiritual blessings of the death of Christ ever follow the church through the parched ground of affliction, and the shadows of death; and when she shall come up out of great tribulation, her garments will be found washed in the blood of the Lamb. And there the Lamb shall lead her to everlasting fountains of living water, and they shall thirst no more.- - Christmas Evans. THE PERAMBULATOR. THE RIVER THAMES, THE BRIDGES, AND THE THAMES TUNNEL. THE clock has struck three, the morning is dark and comfortless, and I am wending my way to London bridge, where I wish to arrive while the city is asleep, and where I purpose to remain till I see the sun rejoicing in the east. I hear a slow measured, heavy tread, on the opposite side of the road; but it is too dark to discern a passer by, at such a distance, unless he be near a gaslight. It is the tramp of the thick-soled ill-made boot of a policeman; I envy not the monotonous occupation of the guardians of the night. The first man I hear abroad is a policeman; and the first man I see is a coalheaver. Yonder is a covered wagon, with a double row of horses, about to start on its lumbering pilgrimage; the driver has, at this moment, an old-fashioned stable lantern in his hand. Perhaps you may wonder how, it being so dark, I can see to make my remarks, but I cannot see to make them. With my paper in one hand, and my pencil in another, I stop for a few moments, now and then, and score down my hieroglyphics in the dark, with the hope of being enabled to decipher them by daylight. There are more gaslights now, and I discern objects a little more plainly. "Half-past three !" That must be the cry of some private watchman. To hear the hour of the night, thus publicly announced, is now a novelty. The coffee stands by the wayside have, as yet, no customers: the early refreshment houses are preparing for their usual visitors; and the noses of the night-cab horses are dozingly exploring the remote recesses of their empty oat bags in quest of provender. Here a cat mews at a door, putting up her tail as I pass, and rubbing her side against the panel, to obtain favour with me; and there another darts suddenly forwards and disappears in an instant in a cellar hole. All is quiet at the railway station. A poor lad has just gone by me with a bundle in his hand. I should like to know his prospect for the coming day. Two or three of the outcasts that nightly wander the streets, stand together at a corner; and now and then I see one standing alone, or slowly pacing her thorny path of wretchedness and destitution. What a price does the poor prodigal pay for husks! "Truly the way of transgressors is hard." Yonder is the Monument: a straight dark line drawn against the sky. The atmosphere is somewhat misty and comfortless, as though the air was charged with watery particles. My skin is cold and clammy; and a chilly, faint, breakfastless feeling is creeping over me. Well! here is London bridge. As I walked over it last night, I paused to gaze on the steam boats as they came up the river, or shot across it, or turned round to the pier, with a single light at the prow. At a distance the light alone could be seen: a solitary pilgrim gliding along the pathway of the waters. This is a noble bridge, massive and substantial; and its dark, bronze-like lamp supporters are quite in keeping with the solid parapet on which they stand. The deep shadows, the dark, black | blotches on the river, are vessels lying there, whose form cannot be discerned, It is low water, and the colliers and coal barges are resting on the deep mud by the side of the now motionless stream. The lights from Southwark bridge are reflected in long spiral streaks of fire far down in the dark waters. Hark! the clock of St. Paul's is striking four. Like the clang of a huge gong, it startles the ear with its tremulous and brassy sound! The dome of St. Paul's, the customhouse, the tower, and the top of the monument, are not yet visible from this place, the darkness and the misty air alike hide them from the view. London is asleep, and tens of thousands, whose bread for the day is not yet won, are bound in unconscious slumber. How weak are words in setting forth what we owe to our great Creator, for the inestimable blessing of repose! Yes! London is asleep! Industry has nearly ended, revelry has begun his slumber; science is at rest; Mammon himself is drowsy; and even crime, a dear lover of darkness, scared at the approach of coming morn, is slinking into his shadowy den, lest the light of heaven should fall upon his face. As I stand musing by the centre lamps, the policeman passes me with his oilskin cape upon his shoulders; and the streetkeeper in his blue great coat, with gilt buttons, and red collar, wondering, no doubt, what a man can have to do with pencil and paper at this untimely hour. Now and then distant sounds reach my ears; but the big heart of London is still at rest. These rumbling sounds, not those of busy wakeful life, are, as it were, the neesing of the yawning giant as he tosses and turns himself in his slumber. What a mysterious thing is sleep! The prostrator of strength, the paralyzer of intellect, the arrester of enterprise, and yet the promoter and invigorator of them all! At this moment, the machinery of society, in the principle of its power and the mightiness of its operations, is apparently standing still. The houses of Lords and Commons are empty. Downing Street is tranquil. The halls of Westminster are silent, The Bank is closed. The place where merchants meet, is lonely as a desert, and the marts of traffic and the public streets are forsaken. In a few short hours, what a world of energy will be aroused! The bright eye, the nimble foot, the ready hand, the quick intellect, will all be set in motion; and man, forgetful for the most part of eternity, will pursue, with all the faculties of his body, soul, and spirit, the perishable possessions which if obtained, he can only enjoy for a few years, and perhaps not for a single hour. The heavens to the eastward are growing a little lighter, and things before invisible are faintly seen. Southwark Bridge and its reflection in the water, are both of an equal strength in depth of shadow. I can now see the huge shoulders of St. Paul's cathedral, for the building holds up its head above the surrounding churches, as Saul did when standing among his brethren. The monument, and the church spire on this side of it, appear of the same height | from the bridge. Objects are now visible, yet not defined; they have no outline. There is a dimness, a dusky shadowy blending of one thing with another, that leaves me in doubt whether they really are what I take them to be. "An image is before my eyes, it stands still, but I cannot discern the form thereof." The Tower is now discernible, and more vessels are seen on the river. How gradually does the dawn dissipate the darkness, bringing order out of chaos, and beauty out of shadowy indistinctness! The captive, long confined in his prison house, amuses, or rather occupies himself with its individualities; he counts the iron bars of his window, and the knobs of iron on the door of his dungeon; he measures the height, the length, and breadth of his cell; every crack in the walls, and every crevice in the floor is regarded till it becomes familiar. And I, in pacing this bridge backwards and forwards, have unconsciously employed myself in a similar manner; the length and breadth of the broad granite stones; the height of the parapet; the number of the recesses and stone benches, and other matters of little importance, have occupied my attention. The gaslights of the bridge are double, but those in the centre of the building are treble. man is now extinguishing the lights, he does it in a leisurely manner, and moves not with the accustomed merry run of the lamplighter. I will walk towards Guy's Hospital. A The placards on the walls, mingling together their varied colours of red, blue, yellow, and white, have, by gaslight, an odd, yet not inharmonious effect on the eye at a given distance. I must approach them nearer. The Flower Show -The Panorama of Damascus-Three Sermons at the Episcopal ChapelZoological Gardens and FireworksSteam packet to Havre-Cowan's Canton Strop-and the Eastern Counties Railway are among the most conspicuous. Had I any desire for a morning dram, it might easily be gratified, for here is a gin shop already open. It grows a little lighter. I have passed by St. Thomas's, and yonder is Guy's Hospital, where many a weary, yet wakeful eye drinks in greedily the first appearance of the dawn. There many an afflicted invalid, notwithstanding all that skill and kindness can do for him, is weary with his groaning, all the night long making his bed to swim, watering his couch with his tears. Was I now to cry aloud, "Watchman! what of the night? Watchman! what of the night ?" what an answer might be given me, could the aching head, the throbbing pulse, the fevered lip, and the agonizing limb, make their reply. Surely I should not pass the walls of an hospital, without prayer for the afflicted, and praise for the blessing of health. The clocks are striking five. Here comes a stage coach with passengers, in their caps, great coats, and handkerchiefs; the guard in his white hat, and the coachman with a green comforter round his neck, are quite in character; but not so the lamps of the coach, they are still lighted, and look strange in the grey of the morning. Yonder, under a gateway, stands a young woman with her box and bundle, waiting for the van; a cart is passing by laden with calves that low in a melancholy manner; and a bill poster is entering on his morning occupation. I have paused opposite St. Saviour's church, turned towards the station of the Greenwich and Croydon railway, and am looking over into the burying ground where some three score gravestones are visible. Though strong to run his heavenly course, So man, exulting, thoughtless man! I see something stirring inside the iron rails that surround a monument. Now it stands upright; it is a goat with a long beard; he has passed the night, like a solitary hermit, among the tombs. Not a sound is heard on the railway, though an increased rumble reaches the ear from the streets. I will once more walk upon the bridge. The wind is in the south, and the sooty breath of the foul-mouthed chimneys, on the banks of the river, is spreading itself over the city; clouds of thick black smoke are rolling their burden on the breeze. St. Paul's is so surrounded with smoke, that imagination might suppose it about to burst into a flame. The water is covered with dimples unusually small; not glittering as when lit up by the sun or moon, but faintly visible, just giving back the light of dawn. I can now see the casks, the crates, the sacks, the cases, the bales and packages on the wharfs and in the vessels: not a boat is yet moving on the river. Sounds have greatly increased, and the bridge has gradually been peopled with passengers, market gardeners with carts of fruit or vegetables; butchers with their supplies of meat; men and women with their bundles, a dozen together in a throng, leaving London, and early workmen going to their labour. Coal wagons are passing, and now and then a brewer's dray, the driver's whip ferruled with brass from top to bottom. Girls with their milk cans, and postmen with their letter bags in their hands, and a gilt band round their hats, are hastening onwards. Ginger beer carts are pushed along by their several owners; bakers with bread, and boys with buns before them accost each other; and at this moment a flock of sheep has nearly covered the entrance of the bridge. London is now awaking! cabs begin to move; coaches, carts, and wagons, increase, and the rumble of wheels, the jingling of chains and traces, the trampling of horses, the footfall of passengers, and the hum of distant sounds, are mingling together in one perpetual din. A boat, with oars, is now going down the river; and here comes an empty steamer. In the east, the sky is brightening, and now I might indulge the description of a glorious sunrise, arraying the earth and the heavens with kindling azure, and with glowing gold; but were I to do this, it would be departing from the scene before me; it would be indulging my fancy at the expense of truth. There are in the east no glittering beams of living light, no floods of molten gold, and therefore I will not falsify the dull and monotonous appearance of the heavens. A traveller is going out of town in his gig. He looks like a man equipped for business, and seems likely to see the Land's End before he returns. A soldier is passing by carrying an umbrella, an article that, in his hand, seems a little out of character. Half a dozen men, with short pipes in their mouths, and a kind of wallet on their backs, are going one way, and a party of mulatto seamen, in blue check shirts, white trowsers, and oilcase caps, are proceeding another. Here is a man with rabbits on a pole, half before and half behind him; and there is a fat gentleman, up to his knees in high-topped boots, carrying his great coat on his arm, striding along with the hope of being in time for the coach, while a weasel-faced stripling, heavily laden with a trunk, is making the best of his way after him. There go the streetkeepers and the policemen off duty, right glad to hear the clock strike six. How much might be said about the striking of a clock, and of its varied influence among mankind, according to the several positions and circumstances in which they are found. In the dark and silent season of night, it has an unusual solemnity. He who has heard a clock strike one, when in a country churchyard, with the stars over his head, will fully understand me. I can now see clearly the objects around. The Customhouse is one of the most striking. The Tower is another, with Fishmongers' hall; Nicholson's bonded warehouse; the shipping and steam packets in the river; the dark tower of St. Saviour's church yonder, and especially the Cathedral of St. Paul's. The tide is coming in. The Thames is a noble river. It does not equal, it is true, in magnitude, the Amazon, the Mississippi, the Nile, the Burrampooter, the Ganges, the Gambia, the Danube, the St. Lawrence, the Rhine, and some others; but take it with its amount of shipping and merchandize, and it stands the first in the world. Rising in Gloucestershire, and being joined in its course by the Lech, the Cherwell, and the Thame, the Kennet, the Coln, and other rivers, it rolls onwards, dividing Buckinghamshire from Berkshire, Middlesex from Surrey, and Essex from Kent; after which, meeting with the Medway at Sheerness, it mingles its flood with the waters of the German Ocean. A thousand ships are sometimes moored in the Pool, presenting a forest of masts to the spectator's eye. Under what different aspects may the river be contemplated! The Roman, the Dane, the Saxon, and the Norman, at different times, have crossed it, or sailed up its goodly stream. Kings have sailed sumptuously on its flowing waters. Royal brides have been borne upon it in giltprowed barges, gorgeous with flags, pennons, and silken streamers, to the royal residence in the Tower. Prisoners have been conveyed at midnight along the silent waters to Traitor's gate, to return no more. Lord mayors have vied with each other in covering the stream with magnificent pageants of yachts and barges in their visit to, and return from Westminster on the day of their installation to office; and, in winter, fairs have been held on its frozen surface. But if the river has presented changes to the eye, so have its banks. How different was the view from this place three hundred years ago, when the old Gothic cathedral of St. Paul's was standing; when the houses of the narrow streets were decorated with fanciful gables, ornamental vanes, and tall twisted chimneys. The banks of the river are not now adorned with goodly gardens and stately palaces. The sombre towers of Baynard's Castle, and the proud turrets of Durham House, are gone. The old palace of Bridewell is no longer seen. The ancient bridge, gatewayed, towered, and drawbridged as it was, with its chapel, its mills, and houses, is a thing chronicled in records which are already moth eaten. The first bridge of which we read, as occupying this place, was built by the monks of St. Mary Overs, some eight or nine hundred years ago. Peter of Colechurch, in 1176, began to build a stone bridge, and as the funds were supplied by a tax on wool, a saying has since risen, "London Bridge was built upon woolsacks." Peter was buried in a chapel constructed in the centre pier. Houses and shops overhung the bridge behind, and in front were connected by large timber arches crossing the street; so that the whole was uncouth and cumbrous in appearance. It had gates, and towers, and a drawbridge in one of the arches, which was raised when vessels had to pass. This bridge is associated with many occurrences of history. Here David, earl Crawford of Scotland, successfully contended for three days in a grand joust against lord Wells of England. Here was the prior of Tiptree, in Essex, with nine other persons, crushed to death in the crowd, while witnessing the public entry of Richard 11. and his youthful queen. When Henry v. returned victorious from Agincourt, a grand pageant was given on the bridge. Here sir Matthew Gough and the citizens of London had a conflict with Jack Cade, the rebel; and here was the entrance of sir Thomas Wyat, arrested during the insurrection against queen Mary. At the Southwark end of the bridge, stood Traitor's Gate, on which, in the reign of the Tudors, thirty heads might have been counted of such as had been executed for high treason! In the reign of Elizabeth, stately houses were erected on both sides of the bridge, for the old houses had been destroyed by fire, and the place resembled a little city. The great fire of 1666 again cleared away the houses, which were once more rebuilt. Hans Holbein, the celebrated painter, once lived on the bridge, and honest John Bunyan, author of Pilgrim's Progress.” Nonsuch House was one of the erections on the bridge. It was a wooden fabric, four stories high, constructed in Holland, and brought over to England. Not a single nail was required in setting it up, being entirely fastened together with wooden pegs. At each corner it had a wooden tower. The first stone of the present London Bridge was laid in the year 1825. The edifice is an admirable one. The simplicity of the architecture, the boldness of the arches, the massive solidity of the piers and parapets, and the noble and majestic appearance of the whole challenge admiration. The stones used in the building are of three kinds,the purple Aberdeen, the light grey Devonshire Haytor, and the red brown granite of Peterhead. How many joyous and exulting spirits, how many weary feet and aching hearts will pass over it, before the shadows of evening prevail! Southwark Bridge yonder, or, as it is often called, the Iron Bridge, is an elegant erection. Three cast-iron arches, resting on massive stone piers, span the |