gh it;
it is a continual spur for rousing the imagination, a first step of the
ladder always set up before us in a vision. When we see them, how many
voyages do we take in imagination, what adventures do we dream of, what
pictures do we sketch! I never look at that shop near the Chinese baths,
with its tapestry hangings of Florida jessamine, and filled with
magnolias, without seeing the forest glades of the New World, described
by the author of Atala, opening themselves out before me.

Then, when this study of things and this discourse of reason begin to
tire you, look around you! What contrasts of figures and faces you see in
the crowd! What a vast field for the exercise of meditation! A half-seen
glance, or a few words caught as the speaker passes by, open a thousand
vistas to your imagination. You wish to comprehend what these imperfect
disclosures mean, and, as the antiquary endeavors to decipher the
mutilated inscription on some old monument, you build up a history on a
gesture or on a word! These are the stirring sports of the mind, which
finds in fiction a relief from the wearisome dullness of the actual.

Alas! as I was just now passing by the carriage-entrance of a great
house, I noticed a sad subject for one of these histories. A man was
sitting in the darkest corner, with his head bare, and holding out his
hat for the charity of those who passed. His threadbare coat had that
look of neatness which marks that destitution has been met by a long
struggle. He had carefully buttoned it up to hide the want of a shirt.
His face was half hid under his gray hair, and his eyes were closed, as
if he wished to escape the sight of his own humiliation, and he remained
mute and motionless. Those who passed him took no notice of the beggar,
who sat in silence and darkness! They had been so lucky as to escape
complaints and importunities, and were glad to turn away their eyes too.

Suddenly the great gate turned on its hinges; and a very low carriage,
lighted with silver lamps and drawn by two black horses, came slowly out,
and took the road toward the Faubourg St. Germain. I could just
distinguish, within, the sparkling diamonds and the flowers of a
ball-dress; the glare of the lamps passed like a bloody streak over the
pale face of the beggar, and showed his look as his eyes opened and
followed the rich man's equipage until it disappeared in the night.

I dropped a small piece of money into the hat he was holding out, and