Grace Church to the Battery, is fringed on both sides with a procession of bright-colored fellow-creatures moving with less than their usual languor, in the hope of not being too late at church.
The steps of the crowd, I observe, for the first time, are audible; for, no profane vehicle, no omnibus, cart, hack, or wagon, drowns all other noises in their ceaseless thunder.
Only a private carriage rolls along occasionally, laden with a family of the uppermost thousand, bound for Trinity or St. George's, or the Brick Chapel, where Dr. Spring discourses of First Things to First Things.
It is possible now, and safe, for the admiring stranger, your affectionate brother, to stand in the middle of the street, and to discover that it is perfectly straight, from the rising ground above the Park to where the tall, white spire of Grace Church, so strikingly terminates the beautiful promenade—a feat which no man hath been able to accomplish on a week-day these thirty years. The sun upon this clo