the lamed Soldier hops painfully along, begging alms:  a thousand carriages, and wains, cars, come tumbling in with Food, with young Rusticity, and other Raw Produce, inanimate or animate, and go tumbling out again with produce manufactured.  That living flood, pouring through these streets, of all qualities and ages, knowest thou whence it is coming, whither it is going? Aus der Ewigkeit, zu der Ewigkeit hin:  From Eternity, onwards to Eternity!  These are Apparitions:  what else?  Are they not Souls rendered visible:  in Bodies, that took shape and will lose it, melting into air?  Their solid Pavement is a Picture of the Sense; they walk on the bosom of Nothing, blank Time is behind them and before them.  Or fanciest thou, the red and yellow Clothes-screen yonder, with spurs on its heels and feather in its crown, is but of To-day, without a Yesterday or a To-morrow; and had not rather its Ancestor alive when Hengst and Horsa overran thy Island?  Friend, thou seest here a living link in that Tissue of History, which inweaves all Being:  watch well, or it will be past thee, and seen no more.”

“Ach, mein Lieber!” said he once, at midnight, when we had returned from the Coffee-house in rather earnest talk, “it is a true sublimity to dwell here.  These fringes of lamplight, struggling up through smoke and thousand-fold exhalation, some fathoms into the ancient reign of Night, what thinks Bootes of them, as he leads his Hunting-Dogs over the Zenith in their leash of sidereal fire?  That stifled hum of Midnight, when Traffic has lain down to rest; and the chariot-wheels of Vanity, still rolling here and there through distant streets, are bearing her to Halls roofed in, and lighted to the due pitch for her; and only Vice and Misery, to prowl or to moan like nightbirds, are abroad:  that hum, I say, like the stertorous, unquiet slumber of sick Life, is heard in Heaven!  Oh, under that hideous coverlet of vapors, and putrefactions, and unimaginable gases, what a Fermenting-vat lies simmering and hid!  The joyful and the sorrowful are there; men are dying there, men are being born; men are praying,—­on the other side of a brick partition, men are cursing; and around them all is the vast, void Night.  The proud Grandee still lingers in his perfumed saloons, or reposes within damask curtains; Wretchedness cowers into buckle-beds, or shivers hunger-stricken into its lair of straw:  in obscure cellars, Rouge-et-Noir languidly emits its voice-of-destiny to haggard hungry Villains; while Councillors of State sit plotting, and playing their high chess-game, whereof the pawns are Men.  The Lover whispers his mistress that the coach is ready; and she, full of hope and fear, glides down, to fly with him over the borders:  the Thief, still more silently, sets to his picklocks and crowbars, or lurks in wait till the watchmen first snore in their boxes.  Gay mansions, with supper-rooms and dancing-rooms, are full of light and music and