that the poor man, in his mean, weather-beaten hovel, without a fire
to cheer him, may call the rich his brother, brethren by Sorrow, who
must be an inmate of both their households,--brethren by Death, who
will lead them, both to other homes.

Onward, still onward, I plunge into the night. Now have I reached the
utmost limits of the town, where the last lamp struggles feebly with
the darkness, like the farthest star that stands sentinel on the
borders of uncreated space. It is strange what sensations of
sublimity may spring from a very humble source. Such are suggested by
this hollow roar of a subterranean cataract, where the mighty stream
of a kennel precipitates itself beneath an iron grate, and is seen no
more on earth. Listen awhile to its voice of mystery; and fancy will
magnify it, till you start and smile at the illusion. And now another
sound,--the rumbling of wheels,--as the mail-coach, outward bound,
rolls heavily off the pavements, and splashes through the mud and
water of the road. All night long, the poor passengers will be tossed
to and fro between drowsy watch and troubled sleep, and will dream of
their own quiet beds, and awake to find themselves still jolting
onward. Happier my lot, who will straightway hie me to my familiar
room, and toast myself comfortably before the fire, musing, and
fitfully dozing, and fancying a strangeness in such sights as all may
see. But first let me gaze at this solitary figure, who comes
hitherward with a tin lantern, which throws the circular pattern of
its punched holes on the ground about him. He passes fearlessly into
the unknown gloom, whither I will not follow him.

This figure shall supply me with a moral, wherewith, for lack of a
more appropriate one, I may wind up my sketch. He fears not to tread
the dreary path before him, because his lantern, which was kindled at