But as I lean over its balustrade to-night—­a night rare in its kindness and beauty—­and watch the fiery ashes of my cigar drop into the abysmal darkness below, I am inclined to take back the whole of that preceding paragraph, although it cost me some labor to elaborate its polite malevolence.  I can even recognize some melody in the music which comes irregularly and fitfully from the balcony of the Museum on Market Street, although it may be broadly stated that, as a general thing, the music of all museums, menageries, and circuses becomes greatly demoralized,—­possibly through associations with the beasts.  So soft and courteous is this atmosphere that I have detected the flutter of one or two light dresses on the adjacent balconies and piazzas, and the front parlor windows of a certain aristocratic mansion in the vicinity, which have always maintained a studious reserve in regard to the interior, to-night are suddenly thrown into the attitude of familiar disclosure.  A few young people are strolling up the street with a lounging step which is quite a relief to that usual brisk, business-like pace which the chilly nights impose upon even the most sentimental lovers.  The genial influences of the air are not restricted to the opening of shutters and front doors; other and more gentle disclosures are made, no doubt, beneath this moonlight.  The bonnet and hat which passed beneath my balcony a few moments ago were suspiciously close together.  I argued from this that my friend the editor will probably receive any quantity of verses for his next issue, containing allusions to “Luna,” in which the original epithet of “silver” will be applied to this planet, and that a “boon” will be asked for the evident purpose of rhyming with “moon,” and for no other.  Should neither of the parties be equal to this expression, the pent-up feelings of the heart will probably find vent later in the evening over the piano, in “I Wandered by the Brookside,” or “When the Moon on the Lake is Beaming.”  But it has been permitted me to hear the fulfilment of my prophecy even as it was uttered.  From the window of number Twelve Hundred and Seven gushes upon the slumberous misty air the maddening ballad, “Ever of Thee,” while at Twelve Hundred and Eleven the “Star of the Evening” rises with a chorus.  I am inclined to think that there is something in the utter vacuity of the refrain in this song which especially commends itself to the young.  The simple statement, “Star of the evening,” is again and again repeated with an imbecile relish; while the adjective “beautiful” recurs with a steady persistency, too exasperating to dwell upon here.  At occasional intervals, a base voice enunciates “Star-r!  Star-r!” as a solitary and independent effort.  Sitting here in my balcony, I picture the possessor of that voice as a small, stout young man, standing a little apart from the other singers, with his hands behind him, under his coat-tail, and a severe expression of countenance.  He sometimes leans forward, with