He is writing, and
his eyes are fixed on the paper, so that you have a moment to note the
dignity of frame and the vast development of brain. In a few minutes the
countenance raises, and you meet its expansive and penetrating glance.

"You face the king. He smiles in a pleasant and whole-souled manner, and
in a moment puts you at ease. No stiffness nor formality here. His
kingship is in himself, not in etiquette. He is ready for a pleasantry,
and will initiate one if it comes in the line of conversation. You note
those wonderful eyes, bright and piercing, and so large and rich that
one is fascinated, and does not know how to stop gazing into them. Such
is the appearance of the railway king, and you take your leave,
conscious that some men, as Shakespeare says, 'are born great.' Indeed,
we know a man who would rather give five dollars to sit and look at
Commodore Vanderbilt for an hour than to see any other sight in this
city. Next door to the office is a building of brown stone, with
spacious doors and a roadway. This is the Commodore's stable, where are
some of the finest horses in the country.

"Every afternoon he is wont to take an airing, and after tea a game of
whist affords an evening amusement. The Commodore is simple in his
manners and habits. He is a representative of a former age, when men
lived less artificially than at the present time, and when there was
more happiness and less show. As for business, it is his nature. He can
not help being king. He is but developing himself, and any other mode of
life would be painful. He has in the Central afforded a third wonder,
the Harlem and the Hudson River being the first and second, and if he
gets the Erie he will soon show the world another wonder. On Sundays the
Commodore attends Dr. Hutton's church on Washington Square, and here his
tall and dignified form may be seen, head and shoulders above the rest
of the congregation. He is a friend of the pastor, who takes a deep
interest in his welfare, and we hope will meet him in a better world. He
stood by the Commodore's side when his wife was laid in the tomb, and
cheered him in that dark and trying hour. Among his more recent works is
the completing of a tomb in the old Moravian burial-ground in Staten
Island. The subterranean chamber is about thirty feet square, and is
surmounted by a lofty shaft, and a statue of grief adds a peculiar
finish to the spot. The cemetery is on an eminence, from which one gets
a fine v