nine o'clock
We have all heard the anecdote of the young man addicted to the sin of swearing , whose conversation , during dinner , was taken down in short-hand , and , when read afterwards , shocked the individual himself . Could the thoughts and words of Mr. Taylor , during a single day , have been as fairly registered , perhaps he himself would have been astonished to find how very large a portion of them were given to gain and speculation , in some shape or other . At social meetings , whether dinners or evening parties , he seldom talked long on any other subject : he has been known to utter the word ` stocks , ' just as he entered a church , on Sunday ; while a question about certain lots was the first sentence which passed his lips , as he crossed the threshold on his way out . Eating his meals under his own roof ; walking down Broadway to Wall-Street , every morning , at nine o'clock , and back again every afternoon at three ; still the echo of Mr. Taylor 's thoughts and words was ` dollars , ' ` stocks , ' and ` lots ' -- ' lots , ' ` stocks , ' and ` dollars . ' He had a value for everything in dollars -- his jokes turned upon stocks -- and his dreams were filled with lots . Let it not be supposed , however , that Mr. Pompey Taylor was born with the phrenological organ of the love of money more strongly developed than other human beings . By no means .