plausibly that the train or the boat is no more than the horse-car,
and he proves conclusively that he can be at his office within half an
hour of his friend who lives in Fiftieth Street. But his friend
irritatingly replies that on pleasant mornings he prefers not to take
the car. He walks down in the bright air and through the busy street.
With twinkling and triumphant eyes he invites Rus to do the same.

Rus gayly replies that the sun is quite as bright upon green fields as
upon brick blocks or stone flagging, and the shifting panorama from
the car window is a lovely picture. Urbs assents, and adds that the
dust and cinders also give great zest to the enjoyment, and that
dragging through tunnels is full of delight and beauty.

But the real sorrow that Rus feels has not yet been touched. It is the
grief which Mr. Tibs has observed and confided to the Easy Chair. It
haunts his happy hours with sad foreboding. He cannot look from his
window but he sees it. He cannot celebrate the charms of country and
suburban life but it seems to mock him. It turns his joy to ashes. He
looks upon the wife of his bosom with anguish as he thinks of it. He
gazes ruefully into his children's eyes; pretty innocents, they know
naught of the impending blow. It is a Shadow, as Thackeray would have
solemnly said, with Bulwerian impressiveness, which Pursues Him at Mid
Day. It Awakens Him at Mid Night, and Says to Him, Sleep No More! What
is it, do you ask? inquires Mr. Tibs, in his most startling manner.
Brethren, 'tis the fell hand of improvement. That is it. It is that
which harrows the suburban soul and destroys suburban peace. No man
who lives in the neighborhood of the city, or in any little
settlement, community, hamlet, thorp, village, or town which is
occupied with people doing business in the city, but is exposed in his
rural retirement, in his suburban home, to the ravages of improvement.