See， at this moment， how they assail yonder poor woman， whois passing just within the verge of the lamplight！ One blaststruggles for her umbrella， and turns it wrong side outward；another whisks the cape of her cloak across her eyes； while athird takes most unwarrantable liberties with the lower part ofher attire. Happily， the good dame is no gossamer， but a figureof rotundity and fleshly substance； else would these aerialtormentors whirl her aloft， like a witch upon a broomstick， andset her down， doubtless， in the filthiest kennel hereabout.
From hence I tread upon firm pavements into the centre ofthe town. Here there is almost as brilliant an illumination aswhen some great victory has been won， either on the battlefieldor at the polls. Two rows of shops， with windows downnearly to the ground， cast a glow from side to side， while theblack night hangs overhead like a canopy， and thus keepsthe splendor from diffusing itself away. The wet sidewalksgleam with a broad sheet of red light. The rain-drops glitter，as if the sky were pouring down rubies. The spouts gush withfire. Methinks the scene is an emblem of the deceptive glare，which mortals throw around their footsteps in the moral world，thus bedazzling themselves， till they forget the impenetrableobscurity that hems them in， and that can be dispelled only byradiance from above. And after all， it is a cheerless scene， andcheerless are the wanderers in it. Here comes one who has solong been familiar with tempestuous weather that he takes thebluster of the storm for a friendly greeting， as if it should say，“How fare ye， brother？” He is a retired sea-captain， wrappedin some nameless garment of the pea-jacket order， and isnow laying his course towards the Marine Insurance Office，there to spin yarns of gale and shipwreck， with a crew of oldseadogs like himself. The blast will put in its word among theirhoarse voices， and be understood by all of them. Next I meetan unhappy slipshod gentleman， with a cloak flung hastilyover his shoulders， running a race with boisterous winds， andstriving to glide between the drops of rain. Some domesticemergency or other has blown this miserable man from hiswarm fireside in quest of a doctor！ See that little vagabond，—how carelessly he has taken his stand right underneath a spout，while staring at some object of curiosity in a shop-window！
Surely the rain is his native element； he must have fallen withit from the clouds， as frogs are supposed to do.
Here is a picture， and a pretty one. A young man and a girl，both enveloped in cloaks， and huddled underneath the scantyprotection of a cotton umbrella. She wears rubber overshoes；but he is in his dancing-pumps； and they are on their way， nodoubt， to sonic cotillon-party， or subion-ball at a dollara head， refreshments included. Thus they struggle against thegloomy tempest， lured onward by a vision of festal splendor.