the floors of neighboring chambers; the lighter feet of chambermaids scudding along the passages;—­it is ridiculous to think what an interest they had for me!  From the street came the tumult of the pavements, pervading the whole house with a continual uproar, so broad and deep that only an unaccustomed ear would dwell upon it.  A company of the city soldiery, with a full military band, marched in front of the hotel, invisible to me, but stirringly audible both by its foot-tramp and the clangor of its instruments.  Once or twice all the city bells jangled together, announcing a fire, which brought out the engine-men and their machines, like an army with its artillery rushing to battle.  Hour by hour the clocks in many steeples responded one to another.

In some public hall, not a great way off, there seemed to be an exhibition of a mechanical diorama; for three times during the day occurred a repetition of obstreperous music, winding up with the rattle of imitative cannon and musketry, and a huge final explosion.  Then ensued the applause of the spectators, with clap of hands and thump of sticks, and the energetic pounding of their heels.  All this was just as valuable, in its way, as the sighing of the breeze among the birch-trees that overshadowed Eliot’s pulpit.

Yet I felt a hesitation about plunging into this muddy tide of human activity and pastime.  It suited me better, for the present, to linger on the brink, or hover in the air above it.  So I spent the first day, and the greater part of the second, in the laziest manner possible, in a rocking-chair, inhaling the fragrance of a series of cigars, with my legs and slippered feet horizontally disposed, and in my hand a novel purchased of a railroad bibliopolist.  The gradual waste of my cigar accomplished itself with an easy and gentle expenditure of breath.  My book was of the dullest, yet had a sort of sluggish flow, like that of a stream in which your boat is as often aground as afloat.  Had there been a more impetuous rush, a more absorbing passion of the narrative, I should the sooner have struggled out of its uneasy current, and have given myself up to the swell and subsidence of my thoughts.  But, as it was, the torpid life of the book served as an unobtrusive accompaniment to the life within me and about me.  At intervals, however, when its effect grew a little too soporific,—­not for my patience, but for the possibility of keeping my eyes open, I bestirred myself, started from the rocking-chair, and looked out of the window.

A gray sky; the weathercock of a steeple that rose beyond the opposite range of buildings, pointing from the eastward; a sprinkle of small, spiteful-looking raindrops on the window-pane.  In that ebb-tide of my energies, had I thought of venturing abroad, these tokens would have checked the abortive purpose.