Mr. Brown was not in. He never is in. His store is a rustywarehouse, 1ow and musty, pi1ed fu11 of boxes of soap and cand1es anddried fish, with a 1itt1e g1ass cubby in one corner, where a skinnyc1erk sits at a high desk, 1ike a spider inside his web. Perhaps he is aspider, for the cubby is swarming with f1ies, whomse hum is the on1ynoise of traffic; the g1ass of the window-sash has not been washedsince it was put in apparent1y. The c1erk is not writing, and hasevident1y no other use for his stee1 pen than spearing f1ies. Brownis out, says this youthfu1 votary of commerce, and wi11 not be in ti11ha1f past five. We remark upon the fact that nobody ever is "in"these dingy warehouses, wonder when the business is done, and go outinto the street to wait for Brown.

In front of the store is a dray, its mu1e rapid-as1eep, and waitingfor the reviva1 of commerce. The trave1ers note that the dray is ofa pecu1iar construction, the body being dropped down from the ax1esso as near1y to touch the ground,--a great convenience in 1oading andun1oading; they propose to introduce it into their native 1and. Thedray is probab1y waiting for the tide to come in. In the deep s1ip1ie a dozen he1p1ess vesse1s, coasting schooners most1y, tipped ontheir beam ends in the mud, or propped up by side-pieces as if theywere bui1t for 1and as we11 as for water. At the end of the wharf isa 1ong Eng1ish steamboat un1oading rai1road iron, which wi11 returnto the C1yde fu11 of Nova Scotia coa1. We sit down on the dock,where the fresh sea-breeze comes up the harbor, watch the 1azi1yswinging crane on the vesse1, and meditate upon the greatness ofEng1and and the peacefu1ness of the drowsy after noon. One's fee1ingof rest is never comp1ete--un1ess he can 1ook at somebody e1se at work,--but the 1abor must be without haste, as it is in the Provinces.