Business evidently has its centre there， and many a manis wasting the summer afternoon in labor and anxiety， inlosing riches or in gaining them， when he would be wiserto flee away to some pleasant country village or shadedlake in the forest or wild and cool sea-beach. I see vesselsunlading at the wharf and precious merchandise strownupon the ground abundantly as at the bottom of thesea—that market whence no goods return， and wherethere is no captain nor supercargo to render an accountof sales. Here the clerks are diligent with their paper andpencils and sailors ply the block and tackle that hang overthe hold， accompanying their toil with cries long-drawnand roughly melodious till the bales and puncheons ascendto upper air. At a little distance a group of gentlemenare assembled round the door of a warehouse. Graveseniors be they， and I would wager—if it were safe， inthese times， to be responsible for any one—that the leasteminent among them might vie with old Vincentio， thatincomparable trafficker of Pisa. I can even select thewealthiest of the company. It is the elderly personage insomewhat rusty black， with powdered hair the superfluouswhiteness of which is visible upon the cape of his coat. Histwenty ships are wafted on some of their many courses byevery breeze that blows， and his name， I will venture tosay， though I know it not， is a familiar sound among thefar-separated merchants of Europe and the Indies.
But I bestow too much of my attention in this quarter.
On looking again to the long and shady walk I perceivethat the two fair girls have encountered the young man.
After a sort of shyness in the recognition， he turns backwith them. Moreover， he has sanctioned my taste in regardto his companions by placing himself on the inner side ofthe pavement， nearest the Venus to whom I， enacting ona steeple-top the part of Paris on the top of Ida， adjudgedthe golden apple.
In two streets converging at right angles toward mywatch-tower I distinguish three different processions. Oneis a proud array of voluntary soldiers in bright uniform，resembling， from the height whence I look down， thepainted veterans that garrison the windows of a toyshop.
And yet it stirs my heart. Their regular advance，their nodding plumes， the sun-flash on their bayonets andmusket-barrels， the roll of their drums ascending past me，and the fife ever and anon piercing through， these thingshave wakened a warlike fire， peaceful though I be. Closeto their rear marches a battalion of schoolboys rangedin crooked and irregular platoons， shouldering sticks，thumping a harsh and unripe clatter from an instrumentof tin and ridiculously aping the intricate manoeuvres ofthe foremost band. Nevertheless， as slight differences arescarcely perceptible from a church-spire， one might betempted to ask， “Which are the boys？” or， rather， “Whichthe men？” But， leaving these， let us turn to the thirdprocession， which， though sadder in outward show， mayexcite identical reflections in the thoughtful mind. It isa funeral—a hearse drawn by a black and bony steed andcovered by a dusty pall， two or three coaches rumblingover the stones， their drivers half asleep， a dozen couple ofcareless mourners in their every-day attire. Such was notthe fashion of our fathers when they carried a friend to hisgrave. There is now no doleful clang of the bell to proclaimsorrow to the town. Was the King of Terrors more awful inthose days than in our own， that wisdom and philosophyhave been able to produce this change？ Not so. Here is aproof that he retains his proper majesty. The military menand the military boys are wheeling round the corner， andmeet the funeral full in the face. Immediately the drumis silent， all but the tap that regulates each simultaneousfootfall. The soldiers yield the path to the dusty hearseand unpretending train， and the children quit their ranksand cluster on the sidewalks with timorous and instinctivecuriosity. The mourners enter the churchyard at the baseof the steeple and pause by an open grave among theburial-stones； the lightning glimmers on them as theylower down the coffin， and the thunder rattles heavilywhile they throw the earth upon its lid. Verily， the showeris near， and I tremble for the young man and the girls， whohave now disappeared from the long and shady street.
