An Evening Walk in the City [pp. 720-722]

720 JIn Evening Walk in the Cily. [NovM13ER,
household! may not a single cloud darken the clear sky of
your dreams this night.
But I must away. Beloved reader, I desire you to take
my arm, and in imagination accompany me in my walk.
By this means I shall be enabled to express to you my
thoughts in the most familiar way.
Well, then, here we are in the principal street of the
city. The lamps which line its sides extend farther than
the eye can reach, throwing upon the pavements a flood of
dazzling light. What an immense concourse of people are
passing to and fro, from all nations and kindred and tongues!
The first impression of a stranger at such a sight is, "where
are they from?-where are they going?" Alas! the an swers to those questions are to be found only in the Book
of Life. Thoughtless indeed may be the man who first
asked them, but that he did so proves him to be a philoso pher.
Do you see that old fruit-woman, seated in a kind of box
at the corner of yonder street'? Let me tell you a little of
her history-for she is a good woman, and one whom I num ber among my friends. Her name is Susan Gray, and her
age is threescore years and five. This ancient looking
dwelling on our right is the same where she was born, and
where she spent her girlhood, loving and beloved. That
whole block was once the property of her father, who was
a man of wealth; but owing to some misfortune he became
reduced, and this so affected his health that he died. In a
few months after this his wife was also called away, and
the daughter was left an orphan, though the consort of a
poor but industrious mechanic. In process of time it so
happened that he also died, leaving behind him his widow
and an only child. About twenty years ago the few ac quaintances that Susan had, went away in different parts,
and she was left poor and friendless in the world, with
nothing to cheer her pathway, save her religion and beauti ful daughter. It so chanced in one of her rambles, that she
determined to occupy this corner —for here the rent was
free-and, if possible, gain a livelihood by following the
humble employment of a fruit-woman. Success crowned
her efforts until she became comfortably situated in a small
secluded house. Think of it. Old Susan has been the oc cupant of that corner for twenty years! through the heat
and cold of summer and winter. She has been as constant
in her employment as the church-clock above her head,
which has not failed during that period to warn the city of
the fleetness of Time. How varied are the characters which
she has seen pass by!-many of whom are perhaps dwelli ng in the uttermost parts of the earth. In her we behold a
noble example of perseverance, which deserves universal
applause.
Eighteen years ago, at the close of a lovely summer's day,
a poor orphan boy was seen seated on a marble stoop, in
the very street where we now stand. Without a single
friend to advise and cheer his drooping spirits, he had come
to the metropolis to seek his fortune. The opulent merchant passed by him without even deigning to bestow a
smile: and this neglect almost made the heart of that pale
beautiful boy break with sorrow. That night no downy
pillow received his aching head; but in its stead the stony
threshold was his resting-place. On an evening following,
this boy stopped at the fiuit-stand of Susan Gray, and offered her his three last pennies for something to satisfy the
cravings of hunger. The tears that dimmed his' eye were
the introduction to many inquiries, which at length sesulted
in her asking him to come and make her house his home.
the dictates of duty, could he have felt the omnipotence and divinity of that
His ashes rep ose am i d the r u ins of the Eternal
City-fit resting for one whose daring hand would
help to pluck down the fair fabric of human society.
Peace be unto him. Let us utter a sad farewell,
in the melody of his own words over the grave of
his friend Keats, who slumbers beside him.
Ever since I came to the city to reside, it has been my
custom to devot e one evening of every week to the express
purpose of walk ing the streets. I g ener ally disguise myself in the habit of a mendicant, so that I can pass through
the crowd without being observed-for, as is well known,
poverty is a sure passport throughout the world. The incidents which I have witnessed, and the wisdom thus collected, would be sufficient to make an interesting book.
But the history of one of those evenings alone it is my present purpose to relate.
It is the middle month of Autumn. The twilight shadows
have fallen upon the city, and the moo n is just rising beyond the dist ant steeples. The hum of business has died
away. The wealthy merchant is returning home to spend
the evening in reviewing the profits of the day, or perhaps
the whole night in dissipation. The poor mechanic is also
returning to his home, after a day of toil. How different
will be his reception from that of the rich and worldly man!
I can almost fancy with what gladness little Mary runs to
her father's arms, telling him how good a girl she has been
to-day, and how far she has advanced in the spelling-book.
I behold the placid and contented smile of that fond mother,
as she leaves her sewing to prepare the evening meal. I
hear the loud talking of little Griswould, as he relates his
advancement in geography, or his exploits in playing inarbles or the ball, during the " recess." In an hour's time I
see that family upon their knees at prayer: an hour more
and they have all retired, and the house is still. Happy
720
-In Evenin- Walk in the City.
[NovEmBF,R,
11 Stern daughter of the voice of God."
In contemplating his genius, his errors and his
sorrows, we could even weep over him, and in the
silence of our own spirits hear the pathetic languao,e of truth, uttering-" how often would I have
gathered him under my wing, but he would not!"
We regret that his cold intellect had never been
warmed into a spirit-demandino- piety. That he
could not submit to that bondage, which is still
freedom-the holy control of duty-and exclaim
with Wordsworth,
Me, this uncharteredfreedom tires,
I feel the weight of chance desires.
My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose that ever is the same.
A grave among the eternal-come away!
Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day
Is yet, his fitting cliarnel-roof! while still
He 1'es, as if in dewey sleep he lay;
Awake him not! surely he takes his fill
Of deep and liquid rest, for,,,etful of all ill.
AN EVENING WALK IN THE CITY.
BY CHARLES LANMAN.
One, two, and three years were fled. It would be a pleasant task to dwell long and particularly on the enj'oyments
of that obscure fam'ily-and also on the simple scenes
enacted beneath that roof; but when I say that religion had
a part in all, the man who is familiar with the Christian