Onward I go, deriving a sympathetic joy or sorrow from the varied aspect of mortal affairs even as my figure catches a gleam from the lighted windows or is blackened by an interval of darkness.  Not that mine is altogether a chameleon spirit with no hue of its own.  Now I pass into a more retired street where the dwellings of wealth and poverty are intermingled, presenting a range of strongly-contrasted pictures.  Here, too, may be found the golden mean.  Through yonder 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 the window-panes!  Ye cannot damp the enjoyment of that fireside.—­Surely my fate is hard that I should be wandering homeless here, taking to my bosom night and storm and solitude instead of wife and children.  Peace, murmurer!  Doubt not that darker guests are sitting round the hearth, though the warm blaze hides all but blissful images.

Well, here is still a brighter scene—­a stately mansion illuminated for a ball, with cut-glass chandeliers and alabaster lamps in every room, and sunny landscapes hanging round the walls.  See! a coach has stopped, whence emerges a slender beauty who, canopied by two umbrellas, glides within the portal and vanishes amid lightsome thrills of music.  Will she ever feel the night-wind and the rain?  Perhaps—­perhaps!  And will Death and Sorrow ever enter that proud mansion?  As surely as the dancers will be gay within its halls to-night.  Such thoughts sadden yet satisfy my heart, for they teach me that the poor man in this mean, weatherbeaten hovel, without a fire to cheer him, may call the rich his brother—­brethren by Sorrow, who must be an inmate of both their households; brethren by Death, who will lead them both to other homes.

Onward, still onward, I plunge into the night.  Now have I reached the utmost limits of the town, where the last lamp struggles feebly with the darkness like the farthest star that stands sentinel on the borders of uncreated space.  It is strange what sensations of sublimity may spring from a very humble source.  Such are suggested by this hollow roar of a subterranean cataract where the mighty stream of a kennel precipitates itself beneath an iron grate and is seen no more on earth.  Listen a while to its voice of mystery, and Fancy will magnify it till you start and smile at the illusion.  And now another sound—­the rumbling of wheels as the mail-coach, outward bound, rolls heavily off the pavements and splashes through the mud and water of the road.  All night long the poor passengers will be tossed to and fro between drowsy watch and troubled sleep, and will dream of their own quiet beds and awake to find themselves still jolting onward.  Happier my lot, who will straightway hie me to my familiar room and toast myself comfortably 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 comes hitherward with a tin lantern which throws the circular pattern of its punched holes on the ground about him.  He passes fearlessly into the unknown gloom, whither I will not follow him.