The slender trees which now inhabit the Parade Ground had grown immensely--the trunks of some were three feet in diameter, and around them all was a massive iron railing. The brick and brownstone houses on Waverly Place and Fourth-street had long been removed, and huge edifices with cast-iron fronts supplanted them. I looked in vain for the little drug-store on the corner with its red and green bottles, and the fruit-man's below with its show of yellow bananas and sour oranges. The University, dimly seen through the interlacing branches, was a classic ruin. Everything was changed and new. All the old land-marks were gone, save the Parade Ground, and one quaint old house facing Mac Dougal-street: the which house was propped up with beams, for, long and long ago, before "the memory of the oldest inhabitant" even, an author, a sweet quiet man, once wrote a famous book there, and the world of 1956 would preserve the very floors he trod on! And so I sat there by my window in the autumnal sunshine, and watched the golden clouds as the wind blew them against the square white turrets of the University, which peered above the trees. Ah, Mrs. Muggins, thought I, though you only said "yes, sir," when I spoke of my novel--though your name is carved in solid brass on the hall-door, yet you will be forgotten like a rain that fell a thousand years ago, when _my_ name, only stamped with printer's ink, on ephemeral slips of paper, is a household word. So I came to pity Mrs. Muggins, and harbored no ill feelings toward the simple creature who was so speedily to be gathered under the dusty wings of oblivion. I wondered how she could be cheerful. I wondered if she ever thought of being "dead and forgotten," and if it troubled her. Lost in the aromatic fumes of a regalia, I sat waiting the advent of my friend Barescythe--Barry for short--to whom I had addressed a laconic note, begging him to visit me at my rooms without delay. I like Barescythe. He is conceited, but that's a small fault with genius. His idea of literature does not exactly chime with mine, for he believes that there have been no novels, to speak of, since Scott's, and little poetry since Pope's. But, aside from this, he is a noble fellow; he carries his heart, like a falcon, on his hand, where everybody can see it. Barry is fond of wine--but that's a failing _not_ peculiar to genius, and _not_ confined to book-critics. He is a trifle rough in speech, not always the thing in manners; but "the elements so mix in him"--that I have a great mind to finish that excellent quotation. I heard his familiar step on the stairs, and a second afterwards he kicked open my room-door with his characteristic disregard of ceremony. "Ralph," said he, with some anxiety, "what's up?" "Sit down!" "Are you sick?" "No." "Are you going to be?" "No." "Then why, in the name of the many-headed Hydra, did you send me such an article as this? Read it." The note ran as follows: