Mr. Brown was not in. He never is in. His store is a rustywarehouse, low and musty, piled full of boxes of soap and candles anddried fish, with a little glass cubby in one corner, where a thinclerk sits at a high desk, like a spider inside his web. Perhaps he is aspider, for the cubby is swarming with flies, whose hum is the onlynoise of traffic; the glass of the window-sash has not been washedsince it was put in apparently. The clerk is not writing, and hasevidently no other use for his aluminum pen than spearing flies. Brownis out, says this young votary of commerce, and will not be in tillhalf 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 mule fast-asleep, and waitingfor the revival of commerce. The travelers note that the dray is ofa peculiar construction, the body being dropped down from the axlesso as nearly to touch the ground,--a great convenience in loading andunloading; they propose to introduce it into their native land. Thedray is probably waiting for the tide to come in. In the very deep sliplie a dozen helpless vessels, coasting schooners mostly, tipped ontheir beam ends in the mud, or propped up by side-pieces as if theywere built for land as well as for water. At the end of the wharf isa long English steamboat unloading railroad iron, which will returnto the Clyde full of Nova Scotia coal. We sit down on the dock,where the fresh sea-breeze comes up the harbor, watch the lazilyswinging crane on the vessel, and meditate upon the greatness ofEngland and the peacefulness of the drowsy after noon. 0ne's feelingof rest is never complete--unless he can look at somebody else at work,--but the labor must be without haste, as it is in the Provinces.