broken off, with now and then a whisper of good-natured scandal;
sometimes, too, he condescends to criticise a sermon, or a lyceum
lecture, or performance of the glee-club; and, to be brief, catch the
volatile essence of present talk and transitory opinions, and you will
have Time's gossip, word for word. I may as well add, that he expresses
great approbation of Mr. Russell's vocal abilities, and means to be
present from beginning to end of his next concert. It is not every
singer that could keep Time with his voice and instrument, for a whole
evening. Perhaps you will inquire, "What are Time's literary tastes?"
And here again there is a general mistake. It is conceived by many,
that Time spends his leisure hours at the Athenaeum, turning over the
musty leaves of those large worm-eaten folios, which nobody else has
disturbed since the death of the venerable Dr. Oliver. So far from this
being the case, Time's profoundest studies are the new novels from
Messrs. Ives and Jewett's Circulating Library. He skims over the
lighter articles in the periodicals of the day, glances at the
newspapers, and then throws them aside forever, all except "The Salem
Gazette," of which he preserves a file, for his amusement a century or
two hence.

We will now consider Time as a man of business. In this capacity, our
citizens are in the habit of complaining, not wholly without reason,
that Time is sluggish and dull. You may see him occasionally at the end
of Derby Wharf, leaning against a post, or sitting on the breech of an
iron cannon, staring listlessly at an unrigged East Indiaman. Or, if
you look through the windows of the Union Marine Insurance Office, you
may get a glimpse of him there, nodding over a newspaper, among the old
weather-beaten sea-captains who recollect when Time was quite a
different sort of fellow. If you enter any of the dry-goods stores
along Essex Street, you will be likely to find him with his elbows on