Here is a picture， and a pretty one. A young man anda girl， both enveloped in cloaks， and huddled beneaththe scanty protection of a cotton umbrella. She wearsrubber overshoes； but he is in his dancing-pumps； andthey are on their way， no doubt， to sonic cotillon- party，or subscription-ball at a dollar a head， refreshmentsincluded. Thus they struggle against the gloomy tempest，lured onward by a vision of festal splendor. But， ah！ amost lamentable disaster. Bewildered by the red， blue，and yellow meteors， in an apothecary’s window， theyhave stepped upon a slippery remnant of ice， and areprecipitated into a confluence of swollen floods， at thecorner of two streets. Luckless lovers！ Were it my natureto be other than a looker-on in life， I would attemptyour rescue. Since that may not be， I vow， should you bedrowned， to weave such a pathetic story of your fate， asshall call forth tears enough to drown you both anew. Doye touch bottom， my young friends？ Yes； they emerge likea water- nymph and a river deity， and paddle hand in handout of the depths of the dark pool. They hurry homeward，dripping， disconsolate， abashed， but with love too warm tobe chilled by the cold water. They have stood a test whichproves too strong for many. Faithful， though over head andears in trouble！
Onward I go， deriving a sympathetic joy or sorrow fromthe varied aspect of mortal affairs， even as my figure catchesa gleam from the lighted windows， or is blackened by aninterval of darkness. Not that mine is altogether a chameleonspirit， with no hue of its own. Now I pass into a moreretired street， where the dwellings of wealth and povertyare intermingled， presenting a range of strongly contrastedpictures. Here， too， may be found the golden mean. Throughyonder casement I discern a family circle， —the grandmother，the parents， and the children， —all flickering， shadow-like，in the glow of a wood-fire. Bluster， fierce blast， and beat，thou wintry rain， against thewindow-panes！ Ye cannotdamp the enjoyment of that fireside. Surely my fate ishard， that I should be wandering homeless here， taking tomy bosom night， and storm， and solitude， instead of wifeand children. Peace， murmurer！ Doubt not that darkerguests are sitting round the hearth， though the warm blazehides all but blissful images. Well； here is still a brighterscene. A stately mansion， illuminated for a ball， with cutglasschandeliers and alabaster lamps in every room， andsunny landscapes hanging round the walls. See！ a coachhas stopped， whence emerges a slender beauty， who，canopied by two umbrellas， glides within the portal， andvanishes amid lightsome thrills of music. Will she everfeel the nightwind and the rain？ Perhaps， —perhaps！ Andwill Death and Sorrow ever enter that proud mansion？ Assurely as the dancers will be gay within its halls to-night.
Such thoughts sadden， yet satisfy my heart； for they teachme that the poor man， in his mean， weather-beaten hovel，without a fire to cheer him， may call the rich his brother，brethren by Sorrow， who must be an inmate of both theirhouseholds， brethren by Death， who will lead them， bothto other homes.
Onward， still onward， I plunge into the night. Now haveI reached the utmost limits of the town， where the lastlamp struggles feebly with the darkness， like the fartheststar that stands sentinel on the borders of uncreated space.
It is strange what sensations of sublimity may spring froma very humble source. Such are suggested by this hollowroar of a subterranean cataract， where the mighty streamof a kennel precipitates itself beneath an iron grate， andis seen no more on earth. Listen awhile to its voice ofmystery； and fancy will magnify it， till you start and smileat the illusion. And now another sound， the rumbling ofwheels， as the mail-coach， outward bound， rolls heavily offthe pavements， and splashes through the mud and water ofthe road. All night long， the poor passengers will be tossedto and fro between drowsy watch and troubled sleep， andwill dream of their own quiet beds， and awake to findthemselves still jolting onward. Happier my lot， who willstraightway hie me to my familiar room， and toast myselfcomfortably before the fire， musing， and fitfully dozing，and fancying a strangeness in such sights as all may see.
But first let me gaze at this solitary figure， who comeshitherward with a tin lantern， which throws the circularpattern of its punched holes on the ground about him. Hepasses fearlessly into the unknown gloom， whither I willnot follow him.
This figure shall supply me with a moral， wherewith， forlack of a more appropriate one， I may wind up my sketch.
He fears not to tread the dreary path before him， becausehis lantern， which was kindled at the fireside of his home，will light him back to that same fireside again. And thuswe， night-wanderers through a stormy and dismal world，if we bear the lamp of Faith， enkindled at a celestial fire，it will surely lead us home to that Heaven whence itsradiance was borrowed.