From hence I tread upon firm pavements into the centre of the town.  Here there is almost as brilliant an illumination as when some great victory has been won either on the battlefield or at the polls.  Two rows of shops with windows down nearly to the ground cast a glow from side to side, while the black night hangs overhead like a canopy, and thus keeps the splendor from diffusing itself away.  The wet sidewalks gleam with a broad sheet of red light.  The raindrops glitter as if the sky were pouring down rubies.  The spouts gush with fire.  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 impenetrable obscurity that hems them in, and that can be dispelled only by radiance from above.

And, after all, it is a cheerless scene, and cheerless are the wanderers in it.  Here comes one who has so long been familiar with tempestuous weather that he takes the bluster of the storm for a friendly greeting, as if it should say, “How fare ye, brother?” He is a retired sea-captain wrapped in some nameless garment of the pea-jacket order, and is now laying his course toward the marine-insurance office, there to spin yarns of gale and shipwreck with a crew of old seadogs like himself.  The blast will put in its word among their hoarse voices, and be understood by all of them.  Next I meet an unhappy slipshod gentleman with a cloak flung hastily over his shoulders, running a race with boisterous winds and striving to glide between the drops of rain.  Some domestic emergency or other has blown this miserable man from his warm 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 with it 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 beneath the scanty protection of a cotton umbrella.  She wears rubber overshoes, but he is in his dancing-pumps, and they are on their way no doubt, to some cotillon-party or subscription-ball at a dollar a head, refreshments included.  Thus they struggle against the gloomy tempest, lured onward by a vision of festal splendor.  But ah! a most lamentable disaster!  Bewildered by the red, blue and yellow meteors in an apothecary’s window, they have stepped upon a slippery remnant of ice, and are precipitated into a confluence of swollen floods at the corner of two streets.  Luckless lovers!  Were it my nature to be other than a looker-on in life, I would attempt your rescue.  Since that may not be, I vow, should you be drowned, to weave such a pathetic story of your fate as shall call forth tears enough to drown you both anew.  Do ye touch bottom, my young friends?  Yes; they emerge like a water-nymph and a river-deity, and paddle hand in hand out of the depths of the dark pool.  They hurry homeward, dripping, disconsolate, abashed, but with love too warm to be chilled by the cold water.  They have stood a test which proves too strong for many.  Faithful though over head and ears in trouble!