Yonder is a fair street extending north and south.  The stately mansions are placed each on its carpet of verdant grass, and a long flight of steps descends from every door to the pavement.  Ornamental trees—­the broadleafed horse-chestnut, the elm so lofty and bending, the graceful but infrequent willow, and others whereof I know not the names—­grow thrivingly among brick and stone.  The oblique rays of the sun are intercepted by these green citizens and by the houses, so that one side of the street is a shaded and pleasant walk.  On its whole extent there is now but a single passenger, advancing from the upper end, and he, unless distance and the medium of a pocket spyglass do him more than justice, is a fine young man of twenty.  He saunters slowly forward, slapping his left hand with his folded gloves, bending his eyes upon the pavement, and sometimes raising them to throw a glance before him.  Certainly he has a pensive air.  Is he in doubt or in debt?  Is he—­if the question be allowable—­in love?  Does he strive to be melancholy and gentlemanlike, or is he merely overcome by the heat?  But I bid him farewell for the present.  The door of one of the houses—­an aristocratic edifice with curtains of purple and gold waving from the windows—­is now opened, and down the steps come two ladies swinging their parasols and lightly arrayed for a summer ramble.  Both are young, both are pretty; but methinks the left-hand lass is the fairer of the twain, and, though she be so serious at this moment, I could swear that there is a treasure of gentle fun within her.  They stand talking a little while upon the steps, and finally proceed up the street.  Meantime, as their faces are now turned from me, I may look elsewhere.

Upon that wharf and down the corresponding street is a busy contrast to the quiet scene which I have just noticed.  Business evidently has its centre there, and many a man is wasting the summer afternoon in labor and anxiety, in losing riches or in gaining them, when he would be wiser to flee away to some pleasant country village or shaded lake in the forest or wild and cool sea-beach.  I see vessels unlading at the wharf and precious merchandise strown upon the ground abundantly as at the bottom of the sea—­that market whence no goods return, and where there is no captain nor supercargo to render an account of sales.  Here the clerks are diligent with their paper and pencils and sailors ply the block and tackle that hang over the hold, accompanying their toil with cries long-drawn and roughly melodious till the bales and puncheons ascend to upper air.  At a little distance a group of gentlemen are assembled round the door of a warehouse.  Grave seniors be they, and I would wager—­if it were safe, in these times, to be responsible for any one—­that the least eminent among them might vie with old Vincentio, that incomparable trafficker of Pisa.  I can even select the wealthiest of the company.  It is the elderly personage in somewhat rusty black, with powdered hair the superfluous whiteness of which is visible upon the cape of his coat.  His twenty ships are wafted on some of their many courses by every breeze that blows, and his name, I will venture to say, though I know it not, is a familiar sound among the far-separated merchants of Europe and the Indies.