that it shows as clearly as if quite still.  We are surprised to see, in one figure, how long the stride is,—­in another, how much the knee is bent,—­in a third, how curiously the heel strikes the ground before the rest of the foot,—­in all, how singularly the body is accommodated to the action of walking.  The facts which the brothers Weber, laborious German experimenters and observers, had carefully worked out on the bony frame, are illustrated by the various individuals comprising this moving throng.  But what a wonder it is, this snatch at the central life of a mighty city as it rushed by in all its multitudinous complexity of movement!  Hundreds of objects in this picture could be identified in a court of law by their owners.  There stands Car No. 33 of the Astor House and Twenty-Seventh Street Fourth Avenue line.  The old woman would miss an apple from that pile which you see glistening on her stand.  The young man whose back is to us could swear to the pattern of his shawl.  The gentleman between two others will no doubt remember that he had a headache the next morning, after this walk he is taking.  Notice the caution with which the man driving the dapple-gray horse in a cart loaded with barrels holds his reins,—­wide apart, one in each hand.  See the shop-boys with their bundles, the young fellow with a lighted cigar in his hand, as you see by the way he keeps it off from his body, the gamin stooping to pick up something in the midst of the moving omnibuses, the stout philosophical carman sitting on his cart-tail, Newman Noggs by the lamp-post at the corner.  Nay, look into Car No. 33 and you may see the passengers;—­is that a young woman’s face turned toward you looking out of the window?  See how the faithful sun-print advertises the rival establishment of “Meade Brothers, Ambrotypes and Photographs.”  What a fearfully suggestive picture!  It is a leaf torn from the book of God’s recording angel.  What if the sky is one great concave mirror, which reflects the picture of all our doings, and photographs every act on which it looks upon dead and living surfaces, so that to celestial eyes the stones on which we tread are written with our deeds, and the leaves of the forest are but undeveloped negatives where our summers stand self-recorded for transfer into the imperishable record?  And what a metaphysical puzzle have we here in this simple-looking paradox!  Is motion but a succession of rests?  All is still in this picture of universal movement.  Take ten thousand instantaneous photographs of the great thoroughfare in a day; every one of them will be as still as the tableau in the “Enchanted Beauty.”  Yet the hurried day’s life of Broadway will have been made up of just such stillnesses.  Motion is as rigid as marble, if you only take a wink’s worth of it at a time.

We are all ready to embark now.  Here is the harbor; and there lies the Great Eastern at anchor,—­the biggest island that ever got adrift.  Stay one moment,—­they will ask us about secession and the revolted States,—­it may be as well to take a look at Charleston, for an instant, before we go.