George Mullholland, having neither visible means of gaining a livelihood nor a settled home, may be seen in a solitary box at Baker’s, (a coffee-house at the corner of Meeting and Market streets,) eating an humble breakfast.  About him there is a forlornness that the quick eye never fails to discover in the manners of the homeless man.  “Cleverly done,” he says, laying down the Mercury newspaper, in which it is set forth that “the St. Cecilia, in consequence of an affliction in the family of one of its principal members, postponed its assembly last night.  The theatre, in consequence of a misunderstanding between the manager and his people, was also closed.  The lecture on comparative anatomy, by Professor Bones, which was to have been delivered at Hibernian Hall, is, in consequence of the indisposition of the learned Professor, put off to Tuesday evening next, when he will have, as he deserves, an overflowing house.  Tickets, as before, may be had at all the music and bookstores.”  The said facetious journal was silent on the superior attractions at the house of the old hostess; nor did it deem it prudent to let drop a word on the misunderstanding between the patrons of the drama and the said theatrical manager, inasmuch as it was one of those that are sure to give rise to a very serious misunderstanding between that functionary and his poor people.

In another column the short but potent line met his eye:  “An overflowing and exceedingly fashionable house greeted the Negro Minstrels last night.  First-rate talent never goes begging in our city.”  George sips his coffee and smiles.  Wonderfully clever these editors are, he thinks.  They have nice apologies for public taste always on hand; set the country by the ears now and then; and amuse themselves with carrying on the most prudent description of wars.

His own isolated condition, however, is uppermost in his mind.  Poverty and wretchedness stare him in the face on one side; chivalry, on the other, has no bows for him while daylight lasts.  Instinct whispers in his ear-where one exists the other is sure to be.

To the end that this young man will perform a somewhat important part in the by-ways of this history, some further description of him may be necessary.  George Mullholland stands some five feet nine, is wiry-limbed, and slender and erect of person.  Of light complexion, his features are sharp and irregular, his face narrow and freckled, his forehead small and retreating, his hair sandy and short-cropped.  Add to these two small, dull, gray eyes, and you have features not easily described.  Nevertheless, there are moments when his countenance wears an expression of mildness-one in which the quick eye may read a character more inoffensive than intrusive.  A swallow-tail blue coat, of ample skirts, and brass buttons; a bright-colored waistcoat, opening an avalanche of shirt-bosom, blossoming with cheap jewelry; a broad, rolling shirt-collar, tied carelessly with a blue