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!

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 hi