evertheless, as
slight differences are scarcely perceptible from a church-spire, one
might be tempted to ask, "Which are the boys?" or, rather, "Which the
men?" But, leaving these, let us turn to the third procession, which,
though sadder in outward show, may excite identical reflections in the
thoughtful mind. It is a funeral--a hearse drawn by a black and bony
steed and covered by a dusty pall, two or three coaches rumbling over
the stones, their drivers half asleep, a dozen couple of careless
mourners in their every-day attire. Such was not the fashion of our
fathers when they carried a friend to his grave. There is now no
doleful clang of the bell to proclaim sorrow to the town. Was the King
of Terrors more awful in those days than in our own, that wisdom and
philosophy have been able to produce this change? Not so. Here is a
proof that he retains his proper majesty. The military men and the
military boys are wheeling round the corner, and meet the funeral full
in the face. Immediately the drum is silent, all but the tap that
regulates each simultaneous footfall. The soldiers yield the path to
the dusty hearse and unpretending train, and the children quit their
ranks and cluster on the sidewalks with timorous and instinctive
curiosity. The mourners enter the churchyard at the base of the
steeple and pause by an open grave among the burial-stones; the
lightning glimmers on them as they lower down the coffin, and the
thunder rattles heavily while they throw the earth upon its lid.
Verily, the shower is near, and I tremble for the young man and the
girls, who have now disappeared from the long and shady street.

How various are the situations of the people covered by the roofs
beneath me, and how diversified are the events at this moment
befalling them! The new-born, the aged, the dying, the strong in life
and the recent dead are in the chambers of these many mansions. The
full of hope, the happy, the miserable and the desperate dwell
together within the circle of my glance. In some of the houses over
which my eyes roam so coldly guilt is entering into hearts that are
still tenanted by a debased and trodden virtue; guilt is on the very
edge of commission, and the impending deed might be averted; guilt is
done, and the criminal wonders if it be irrevocable. There are broad
thoughts struggling in my mind, and, were I able to give them
distinctness, they would make their way in eloquence. Lo! the
raindrops are descending