beautiful in the bud,—all lay heaped together, as if Summer had been conquered, and here were gathered its spoils.
While Charles loitered to and fro, he was forcibly reminded that he was in the way; every train of thought was broken in upon by some hurried passer-by; and yet how orderly, how quiet, was all this bustle! How many of the stalls hung out fragile glass globes, filled with gold and silver fish! But they were in the ordinary run of business—he was not. A long and dreary day was yet before him; how was it to be passed? If he returned to his lodgings, he must invent some plausible plea for his reappearance, after having taken his farewell as for a long journey. Impossible! his spirits were too heavy for invention. Spend the day at a coffee-house? he had now only five pence in the world. Call on some friend, and be expected to sympathise in their sorrow, or share in their mirth, while his own thoughts were numbering the hours, each of which brought him nearer to the grave? No; he would wander about the city, and watch those processes of humanity in which he had no longer a share.
At that moment, a human want was uppermost in his mind—he was hungry. Seated on a little wooden stool, his boiler supported by a three-legged trivet, over a small pan of burning charcoal, on one side, and a basket covered with a white cloth on the other, an old man was selling rolls and coffee to the
