p study. His dress is plain, and might be
taken for that of either a working man, or a somewhat faded inspector of
customs. Heedless of those passing to and fro, he sits until night
fairly sets in, then rises, and faces towards the East. Through the
trunks of trees he sees, and seems contemplating the gray walls of the
University, and the bold, sombre front of the very aristocratic church
of the Reformed Dutch.

"Well!" he mutters to himself, resuming his seat, and again facing to
the west, "this ere business of ourn is a great book of life--'tis that!
Finds us in queer places; now and then mixed up curiously." He rises a
second time, advances to a gas-light, draws a letter from his pocket,
and scans, with an air of evident satisfaction, over the contents.
"Umph!" he resumes, and shrugs his shoulders, "I was right on the
address--ought to have known it without looking." Having resumed his
seat, he returns the letter to his pocket, sits with his elbow upon his
knee, and his head rested thoughtfully in his right hand. The picture
before him, so calm and soft, has no attractions for him. The dusky hues
of night, for slowly the scene darkens, seem lending a softness and
calmness to the foliage. The weeping branches of the willow,
interspersed here and there, as if to invest the picture with a touching
melancholy, sway gently to and fro; the leaves of the silvery poplar
tremble and reflect their shadows on the fresh waters; and the flitting
gas-lights mingle their gleams, play and sport over the rippled surface,
coquet with the tripping star-beams, then throw fantastic lights over
the swaying foliage; and from beneath the massive branches of trees,
there shines out, in bold relief, the marble porticoes and lintels of
stately-looking mansions. Such is the calm grandeur of the scene, that
one could imagine some Thalia investing it with a poetic charm the gods
might muse over.

"It is not quite time yet," says the man, starting suddenly to his feet.
He again approaches a gas-light, looks attentively at his watch, then
saunters to the corner of Fourth and Thompson streets. An old,
dilapidated wooden building, which some friend has whitewashed into
respectability, and looking as if it had a strong inclination to tumble
either upon the sidewalk, or against the great trunk of a hoary-headed
tree at the corner, arrests his attention. "Well," he says, having
paused before it, and scanned its crooked front, "this surely is the
house