Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir être seul. --- La Bruyère.
IT was well said of a certain German book that "er lasst sich nicht lesen" --- it does not
permit itself to be read. There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told.
Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, and looking them
piteously in the eyes --- die with despair of heart and convulsion of throat, on account of
the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed. Now and
then, alas, the conscience of man takes up a burthen so heavy in horror that it can be
thrown down only into the grave. And thus the essence of all crime is undivulged.
Not long ago, about the closing in of an evening in autumn, I sat at the large bow
window of the D------ Coffee-House in London. For some months I had been ill in health,
but was now convalescent, and, with returning strength, found myself in one of those
happy moods which are so precisely the converse of ennui --- moods of the keenest
appetency, when the film from the mental vision departs --- the αχλυζ η πριν επηεν --
- and the intellect, electrified, surpasses as greatly its every-day condition, as does the
vivid yet candid reason of Leibnitz, the mad and flimsy rhetoric of Gorgias. Merely to
breathe was enjoyment; and I derived positive pleasure even from many of the legitimate
sources of pain. I felt a calm but inquisitive interest in every thing. With a cigar in my
mouth and a newspaper in my lap, I had been amusing myself for the greater part of the
afternoon, now in poring over advertisements, now in observing the promiscuous
company in the room, and now in peering through the smoky panes into the street.
This latter is one of the principal thoroughfares of the city, and had been very much
crowded during the whole day. But, as the darkness came on, the throng momently
increased; and, by the time the lamps were well lighted, two dense and continuous tides
of population were rushing past the door. At this particular period of the evening I had
never before been in a similar situation, and the tumultuous sea of human heads filled me,
therefore, with a delicious novelty of emotion. I gave up, at length, all care of things
within the hotel, and became absorbed in contemplation of the scene without.
At first my observations took an abstract and generalizing turn. I looked at the
passengers in masses, and thought of them in their aggregate relations. Soon, however, I
descended to details, and regarded with minute interest the innumerable varieties of
figure, dress, air, gait, visage, and expression of countenance.
By far the greater number of those who went by had a satisfied business-like
demeanor, and seemed to be thinking only of making their way through the press. Their
brows were knit, and their eyes rolled quickly; when pushed against by fellow-wayfarers
they evinced no symptom of impatience, but adjusted their clothes and hurried on.
Others, still a numerous class, were restless in their movements, had flushed faces, and
talked and gesticulated to themselves, as if feeling in solitude on account of the very
denseness of the company around. When impeded in their progress, these people
suddenly ceased muttering, but re-doubled their gesticulations, and awaited, with an
