various quarters at once. I have often observed that this corner is a
haunt and loitering-place for those winds which have no work to do
upon the deep, dashing ships against our iron-bound shores; nor in the
forest, tearing up the sylvan giants with half a rood of soil at their
vast roots. Here they amuse themselves with lesser freaks of
mischief. See, at this moment, how they assail yonder poor woman, who
is passing just within the verge of the lamplight! One blast
struggles for her umbrella, and turns it wrong side outward; another
whisks the cape of her cloak across her eyes; while a third takes most
unwarrantable liberties with the lower part of her attire. Happily,
the good dame is no gossamer, but a figure of rotundity and fleshly
substance; else would these aerial tormentors whirl her aloft, like a
witch upon a broomstick, and set her down, doubtless, in the filthiest
kennel hereabout.

From hence I tread upon firm pavements into the centre of the town.
Here there is almost as brilliant an illumination as when some great
victory has been won, either on the battle-field or at the polls. Two
rows of shops, with windows down nearly to the ground, cast a glow
from side to side, while the black night hangs overhead like a canopy,
and thus keeps the splendor from diffusing itself away. The wet
sidewalks gleam with a broad sheet of red light. The rain-drops
glitter, as if the sky were pouring down rubies. The spouts gush with
fire. Methinks the scene is an emblem of the deceptive glare, which
mortals throw around their footsteps in the moral world, thus
bedazzling themselves, till they forget the impenetrable obscurity
that hems them in, and that can be dispelled only by radiance from
above. And after all, it is a cheerless scene, and cheerless are the
wanderers in it. Here comes one who has so long been familiar with
tempestuous weather that he takes the bluster of the storm for a