ing orders to furl sail or feeling disposed to among the members of an alms-house. This cry out in mellow accents, " Yo-Heave-oh." sad result has been brought about by IntemA similar exemplification of genius could be perance. To that fell tyrant may be attrifound in the exact model of the entire Alms-buted the prostration of two-thirds of the house, which was executed about two years ago by another inmate. With the plain and unpretending materials of glass, paste-board, &c., he constructed a fac-similie of the whole establishment. It was a complete specimen of native ingenuity, for the trade of the man who thus evinced a taste so correct, was that of a house-painter. It is not to be presumed that the large amount of artistic endowment existing in the White house should be laid aside as unavailable. Neither reason, nor prudence would dictate the rejection of so effective and potent a corps of laborers. And hence the estimable board of managers have turned into a productive channel the agencies which are furnished all around them. Not far from the Wash-house the visitor detects a low range of buildings, constituting a little emporium of Art. You enter one of them over whose door the words "Tailors' department" gleams out in old-fashioned capitals, and you see an extensive shop-board constituting an area, "not to be sneezed at," as Jack Downing has it, upon which twenty or thirty knights of the needle are exhibiting their skill in basting, sewing, ironing, &c., while the major-domo stands at the huge counter with a roll of coarse blue ware before him, which he is expeditiously manipulating with the shears. Here are made up the clothes for the inhabitants of the building. You step into another room and witness the operations of the tinsmiths. You pass thence into the region of the carpenters, and find yourself at once surrounded by a pile of plain pine coffins of all possible dimensions. Emerging from this quarter which may be supposed to be the least congenial to your feelings, you come among the sons of St. Crispin, whose musical instruments are the awl, the last, and the wax-end; puisant media for imparting physical strenth to leather and buckskin. Adjoining this you espy the painters and glaziers. Contigious to them are the Weavers. Thus in a small space are concentrated all the sons of mechanic skill. When the horn blows for labor, they all repair to their appropriate departments, with alacrity the most commendable, and with spirits as buoyant as the air. At a given signal in the evening, labor suspends its operations, and all hands "knock off" to the tune of Coming through the Rye," Hail Columbia," or the "Bay of Biscay, oh." It is indeed a jovial adjourn ment to a cup of tea. How lamentable the reflection that men who might each be carrying on an independant business, or occupying an honorable subordinate capacity, should thus be enrolled entire population. True it is, that adverse fortune or improvident management, has reduced to this pitiable level not a few who in this spot pass their entire life. But in the great majority of instances, it is the Bowl of the Enchantress which has eclipsed the prospects of some of the brightest minds. As we have watched the army of workmen filing off at the sound of the dinner horn, and noticed the muscles and athletic power of nearly all of them, we have thought of the force of that moral obliquity which not even self-interest could rectify or neutralize. Poor, helpless man, driven o'er the billows of passion, and wrecked upon the shoals of carnal inclination! We can but sympathize with thine unenviable fate, while we take warning from thy demolition to restrain our impulses of wrong, and cultivate the heaven-descended virtues of prudence, temperance and fortitude. Next in importance to the Workshops stands that redoubtable citadel, the Washhouse. In this province feminine skill is laid under requisition to renovate the garments of the multiude by the process of the laundry. On the capacious green which skirts the environs of the spot, you may on a pleasant sunshiny-day, descry, without the aid of a telescope, a thousand articles spread out to catch the solar ray, and attest the value of its drying attributes. Scores of busy women are hurrying to and fro; some rinsing, others belaboring at the washing-board with soapsuds spouting up into their faces like billows of the deep; a group at one point sending the flat-iron with its capacious disk, across the continent of an ample blue shirt, while a host of talkative old grannies with sleeves rolled up, are espied retailing the newest dish of Almshouse gossip, which monopolizes all their fancy. Draw near and listen. See the vivacity of that antiquated dame, as she whispers in the ear of her co-patriot an unmentionable item of intelligence, and catch the response from the other, as with eyes half closed and elevated hands she says, "Well now, you don't say that indeed!" or some other stereotyped expression which belongs as naturally to the old granny vocabulary, as nitric acid or hydrogen enter into the nomenclature of the practical chemist. If there is anything which exhibits strength and life it is the clandestine colloquies of a bevy of old ladies on a washing-day. A Representative Assembly possesses not to a quarter degree the elements of force and grace and energy. Women are always eloquent. But as they grow older their stump-speeches have a pith and whim about them which often carry off the palm from Demosthenes himself. The antiquated form becomes erect, the lustreless eye beams out like a star in its brightness, and the withered arm waves in the air with a gyration which is absolutely terrific. And the more deeply spiced with scandal is the topic under immediate review, the greater is the quota of eloquence employed in its enforcement. The love of the marvellous increases as women increase in age. Perhaps we should not be too severe on the other sex; but to tell the truth, their instinctive curiosity goes on from strength to strength, till they have no news to communicate, and no physical power to give utterance to their burning thoughts. At least, it is so with the Almshouse women. dents could be gathered from some of the veterans of the barber shop. Many interesting facts connected with the late War with Great Britian, and the recent Mexican campaign, as well as numerous Indian adventures, could be garnered here if a faithful chronicler could be found who would cheerfully undertake the task. Often has the writer seen the old man cloquent, as he shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won. Yes, that badged pauper felt all the American stirring in his soul, as he descanted on the tale of English domination, and portrayed the contest which was nobly carried on beneath the broad folds of the glorious banner, whose stars and stripes looked out like angels visitants in the dust and din of war. As the merits of an American General are discussed, and his chivalric bearing and affable intercourse are dwelt upon, how the bosom has heaved with emotion, and the eye filled with tears of genuine devotion. The tie between a subaltern and a gentlemanly superior in the battle field, is enduring and tender. Common dangers and privations blend their hearts in one. The camp-fire and the bivouac, the hard-earned victory and the meed of glory, fuse together and assimilate the polished and the unlettered, and identify their interests and their hopes. And till the latest hour of his probation, the old soldier will cherish the memory of him who spoke to him kindly in the day of battle, and cheered him forward in the noble cause of freedom by words and looks of genuine sympathy. Such is the fellowship which is engendered between the lowly and the chivalrous. Suppose we step across to the Barber Shop. As you enter the door which opens into the capacious ward where a thousand beards are mutilated, and a thousand heads denuded of their superfluous herbage, you are struck with a number of fancy pictures which are pasted up against the wall without any particular reference to gracefulness of position. Look at this one which attracts your gaze at the very entrance. It is a comical delineation of a thin and cadaverous fellow in the act of being shaved. The barber is represented as a fine, fat, burly inquisitor in his shirt sleeves, who uses his impliment, the razor, as though he was mowing down grass in summer time. A little further on you perceive the likeness of the Prince of the establishment. He is depicted as a grave old Frenchman with his head encased in a nightcap, and an eye as sleepy as that of a lobster. The rotundity of his paunch evidences the fact that he knows how to make good use of Reader, we have advanced to the Lock-up. his grinders, and can speak from experience The Lock-up? say you. What! have you a of the juicy beef which gives his squp a fla-jail within the precincts of the white house? vor. The worthy old fellow whom the picture represents, is quite a character. He is boss" of the lodge, and no mistake. Vivacious, fidgetty and always on an edge, he is at all points of the compass with his hone and scissors. The shop whose interest he studies, is the head-quarters for the men. There assemble the old inhabitants, who have no hard manual labor to perform, and who love to talk about political questions whose merits they no more comprehend than they do the climate of Hershell. Yonder old man who is hard of hearing, and whose words reverberate like the gong of a hotel, fought under Zabulon Montgomery Pike. That other thin specimen of humanity, stood side by side with Scott in his campaigns. He who is asleep before the fire like a self-complacent descendant of Grimalkin, was once a respectable merchant in the oyster line. A worthy company indeed! But each has his own deeply marked page of personal history, which is calculated to interest and please the philosophic mind. We believe that a number of Revolutionary inci 66 Yes, friend; but it is a very comfortable affair we assure you. It is nothing but a darkened room, plainly fitted up, and a padlock on the door, to keep delinquents in close custody. There are no manacles whatever, no irons to enter into the soul, no little packages of straw to answer the purpose of both bed and chair. No appliances of the room indicate a desire to torture the poor rascal who has been caught in some act which militates against the salutary regulations of the Establishment. The culprit is simply confined a brief period, and comes down to a low diet of bread and water, and is further deprived of the invigorating light of the sun. Four and twenty hours may terminate his incarceration, and then he will come out like a butterfly, cheerful and renovated. If he has sore eyes, the absence of light has had a sanative influence; if laboring under an attack of dyspepsia, the low diet has materially assisted his digestive functions; if he is naturally possessed of an indolent temperament, he has had a glorious respite from the toils of office; and if, finally, he inclines to an ascetic course, and loves Quaker contemplation, he has had a fine chance to chew the cud of reflection, and revolve afresh his learned speculations. Now, is not the Lock-up a glorious spot, when you take into consideration the bland results which it may produce? Of course it does not always produce these results. Many an irascible biped, comes out of the black hole of Calcutta, vowing vengeance against the powers that be, and threatening to crack the scull of the redoubtable Spencer who has the power of the keys, and is Sergeant-at-Arms with an emphasis the most appalling. Spencer does his duty, however, with the most unshrinking fidelity. You could not deter him from prosecuting the straight line of duty, though he knew he were to be burned in effigy, or have his ears cropped in the pillory. Honest old fellow with his little dog at his heels, ready to second his commands by a consecutive series of barks and sundry snaps at the nether limbs of the delinquent who is being marched off to the receptacle of the villainous and the irregular, Guardian of order, I truly respect thee! Thou bindest over the ruffian crew to keep the peace with majesterial gravity. Thou enforcest the blue laws with an emphasis. And when thou art gone to the Lock-up of the grave, we will cut thy image out of granite, and represent thee as turning the key of the padlock upon some of the motley crew who came beneath thy legal jurisdiction. Thus, so far as the record of thy goverenment is concerned-Esto perpetua! SPIRITUAL DIALOGUES. DIALOGUE XIII. BEN JONSON.-SAM JOHNSON. W. the Elder. Well, well, doctor, notwithstanding this long dissertation of yours, I don't see why the word pattern is just as good, in this connexion, as the word model. John. Just as you please, old gentleman. It is not very civil, however, after invoking a learned shade, and extracting a couple of guineas' worth of valuable information out of him, to turn round and dismiss his remarks in this off-hand style. If these are your American manners, all I can say is, I don't like 'em. W. the Elder, (aside.) The same domineering, oracular old fellow as ever! John. What are you muttering about? Speak out. W. the Elder. Well, if I must say it, I don't think your own breeding is of the highest order of excellence. Besides, the authorities are against you. Crabb says John. Hang Crabb! What do I care for Crabb? W. the Elder. Webster, too John. Bah! How dare you speak of Webster before me? That rascally little, dried-up New Englander; not satisfied with stealing my thunder, he must needs walk off with my laurels, too. He be hanged, and his newfangled spelling with him! W. the Elder. Jealousy, Doctor, sheer jealousy. John. Jealous? The idea of my being jealous of such a creature; ay, or of any Yankee varlet of you all! A vile crew of rebels; why an't you all colonists this very hour? W. the Elder. Fie, fie, Doctor! Hasn't death cured you of your tory prejudices yet? John. Don't talk to me. Out upon you all, I say again, for a miserable pack of democrats! Ye whittlers! Ye tobacco-chewers! Ye flint-skinners! Ye surgar-sanders! Ye rum-waterers! Ye wooden-nutmegmakers! Ye manufacturers of worthless clocks and suspicious sausages! Ye turners of shoe-pegs into oats! Ye venders of basswood cucumber seeds! Ye W. the Elder. Doctor, doctor, doctor, what are you about? Piling up abusive epithets here, faster and higher than old Jack Falstaff himself ever did! You must have been having a talk with Mother Trollope lately. John. Don't speak disrespectfully of that worthy old soul, if you please. W. the Elder. Worthy old soul? lying old hussy! The thermometer must be pretty high, I should say, where she is. John. You'll find it higher, when your turn comes, you-you-you— W. the Elder. Why, what an infernal temper you are showing, to be sure! But I'll find a sedative for these irritable nerves of yours. Let me see-ah! yes, yes; just the thing. (Goes to the library and gets down the volume of the Doctor's works that has the tragedy of Irene in it.) There, my old boy, there's an A, number one, soothing syrup for you. If a scene or two of that don't tranquillize you, I don't know what on earth will. John. Why, you impertinent old jackanapes, to insult a ghost of my standing in this way! Under your own roof, too. (Throws the book at his head.) W. the Elder, (dodging the same.) Well, I declare! That I should have lived to see the author of the Rambler making such a disgraceful exhibition of himself! Dear, dear, dear! John, (after a pause.) I ask ten thousand pardons, my old friend, for this most unbecoming display of temper. W. the Elder. Don't mention it, Doctor, don't mention it. John. To think that I should have given way to my feelings in this abominable style! But if you knew, old gentleman, what a sufferer I have been: yes, yes, both sides of the grave. Oh! Lord, what with pneumonia, strangury, dyspepsia, and every now and then a touch of my old trouble, the St. Vitus, I have a pretty exciting time of it, I tell you. Do you wonder, my friend, that I growl somewhat? W. the Elder. Why, under heaven, didn't you tell me so, before? To think that I, too, should have been so disrespectful to a ghost for whose genius and goodness I have so profound an admiration! But, Doctor, you certainly did throw about the old Saxon words, for a moment or two, in a style hardly to have been expected from one who makes so little use of them in his writings. John. Well, don't say any more about it. We are a poor set, the best of us, ghosts as well as bodies; a poor set, a poor set. W. the Elder. One thing however, that you said just now Doctor, supprizes and annoys me beyond measure. I certainly did have a foolish kind of a notion that when the body died, these same disorders took a lasting farewell with it. John. A most terrible blunder indeed! But mortal, these themes are strictly tabooed to us spirits, as you ought to know by this time, so change the subject instantly if you please. W. the Elder. Most cheerfully. I wonder where your name sake is, though, all this time? John. What name sake? W. the Elder. Ah, speak of Beelzebub, and-(enter Ben Jonson.) And so you have come at last my dear ghost, have you? Jon. So it seems my old boy, so it seems; after a world of blunders and inquiries though. Why! God bless me, Doctor, is that you? How are you, how are you? John. Benjamin my boy, I am delighted to see you. Jon. But what brings you to earth, Samuel? What's the best word, anyhow? John. The best word, say you? Sure enough, what is it? That's the very point that our old host here and I have been squabbling about for the last half hour. Best word indeed! Jon. You talk in riddles, Doctor. Pray what is the meaning of all this grinning and winking? Take me with you lads. Propound, Rasselas, propound. W. the Elder. Oh, no matter, Doctor, no matter. John. I beg you pardon; a thing that is worth sending for me about, half a cross the Universe too at that, is surely worth telling Brother Ben. Jon. What is it, what is it? John. Well, you must know that our friend here, (old enough, certainly, to know better,) 4 has been investing no small portion of the evening of his days, in the composition of a tragedy, which he has just completed, and about the fate of which, he is evidently very anxious. Indeed, he says in his note to me on the subject that he has strong hopes of astonishing not only all America and Europe but Asia and Africa likewise, in certain passages of it. Some few little matters of verbal criticism bothering him somewhat, he thought best to secure my assistance, as being of course, the great authority of the system, on those points. We had not been very long employed on our task when you entered. But what brings you here Ben? Is it the mere feeling of auld lang syne, or an idle curiosity to see the improvements these Yankees are making in the Western Hemisphere of the planet? Or is it that old Inter-Planetary Copy Right business again? Are you as copious and eloquent as ever on that theme, eh, Ben? Jon. Nothing of the sort. I am here simply in compliance with the electric invitation of this old gentlemen and like yourself, as it seems on dramatic business. In his dispatch he requests me to come and look over the plot of a forth coming tragedy of his, and to make such suggestions as might present themselves: the identical work no doubt on which he has seen fit to consult you also. John. Why, bless me, my old host, why didn't you mention this before? We might have waited then for brother Benjamin, and have had the benefit of his criticisms. He is a better Latinist than I am you know, and out of sight of me as a Hellenist. Jon. But why is it old gentleman that you can't bring out a play without disturbing all Ghoastdom on the occasion? I never had any such supernatural aid when I composed my master pieces, nor had brother Samuel here either. By the way, Sam, it is but yesterday, that I heard Will himself, blowing you up in good round terms for what he was pleased to call your most pompous and shallow criticisms on some of his performances. John. Rather strong language for him; all the more unbecoming too, seeing that I have more than once acknowledged their worthlessness, and apologized to him about them in person. W. the Elder. You haven't happened to hear what he thinks about brother Coleridge's notes, have you? Jon. Oh yes, yes. He was perfectly chamed with them; he found them a little too idolatrous to besure, in certain passages, not to wound his modesty; and here and there a slight propensity to mysticism; but on the whole, (I give you his own words,) he considered them the most subtle, searching, delicious specimens of criticisms that ever came from earth. The exposition of Hamlet especially delight ed him; far, far ahead of Schlegel, he said, and worth ten thousand garrets full of such lumber as Richardson and Company. Has he seen sister Jamie 1 W. the Elder. Jon. To besure he has. W. the Elder. He liked them I hope. Jon. Could he help liking them my old boy? I've cried over them, myself, I know, more than once. W. the Elder. Indeed! You don't look much like a crying ghost. Jon. A trifle too ruddy and rotund for sentiment, you think, eh? I would'nt give much, though, for the eyes, that her sketch of Ophelia would'nt bring the pearls to. Ah, dear, when she comes to spirit-land, Will has got a glorious reception in preparation for her. But I forgot; that was confidential. W. the Elder. By the way, my dear ghost, before you take your flight, I've got a little work here, that I should dearly love to have you present to the bard with my reverential regards. Jon. And what may it be? W. the Elder. Sister Clarke's Concordance. I can't help thinking that he'll be more tickled with it, after all, than with even brother Coleridge's Notes. Here it is on the table. Just cast your learned eye over it a moment. Jon. Why, what a labor of love, to be sure. This makes up for a whole ship-load of impudent commentators. No offence meant, Sam. John. She'd much better have been searching the Scriptures, all this while. Jon. Oh, don't be crusty now. Ain't there a hundred Concordances, more or less, to the Scriptures, already? And do you begrudge poor Will his little one? Will, the great lay-preacher of humanity? For shame! I shall be delighted, my old host, to be the bearer of your gift. But where on earth is my Concordance? I might as well take that with me, too, and make one job of it. W. the Elder. I know of no such work, I am sorry to say, either in esse, or in contemplation. Jon. I suppose not. W. the Elder. You deserve one, undoubtedly, glorious old poet that you are. But I don't think the world has fairly waked up yet to a sense of your genius. Your day will come, though, don't doubt it, and the Concordance with it. Some future Malone. Jon. Malone be John. Ben, Ben, Ben, don't be profane. Malone was a pretty decent sort of a fellow, after all. W. the Elder. An infernal old humbug, Doctor, begging your pardon. The idea of his whitewashing that dear old bust! He ought to have had a coat of tar and feathers, himself, for his pains. Both Jonsons. Tar and Feathers? What do you mean by that? W. the Elder. Ah! I see; the custom has sprung up since your day. Jon. What is it, what is it? A summer or a winter garment? W. the Elder. It is a playful manifestation of popular regard, and worn in all weathers; but never mind it now. One remark, my dear dramatist, you must allow me to make, while I think of it, and that is to express my delight, not altogether unmixed, I confess, with surprise, at the hearty way in which you have spoken of our big brother, Shakspeare. There have been unpleasant rumors current on earth, Ben, that you were very envious and jealous of him, and that you were always glad of an opportunity of underrating, nay, back-biting him. Jon. I know there are, I know there are. And let we tell you, once for all, my old friend, that more arrant and preposterous lies were never hatched in John. Oh, dont't get so excited. John. It is indeed. Ben has been most foully and abominably belied in the premises. Jon. The idea of my slandering my constant friend and benefartor; the man who brought out my first play; nay, who condescended to take a subordinate part in it, busy as he was at the time, and having a severe attack of Influenza, into the bargain; the man in whose mahogany I have seen my old phiz, a thousand times; nay, whose pall I helped bear, when they laid him in the earth; the idea, I say, of my slandering his memory isn't it too absurd? W. the Elder. I was never willing to believe it, I assure you; especially, too, when I thought of those elaborate and stately verses of yours, in his honor. Jon. I have been called a bully, too, and an habitual sot. W. the Elder. That is too ridiculous, that last charge. The ghost who can point to ten such massive volumes as those on yonder shelf, all filled with tip-top reading, needn't trouble himself much about such an absurd fib as that. Still, to be candid, you don't look like an habitual tectotaler, even now. John. No, indeed, Ben. Jon. Don't you talk, Doctor. You yourself, if I am not mistaken, have been accused of punishing the port pretty extensively while here below. John. Too true, too true. Yes, I am ashamed to confess it, I was quite too much in the habit while in the body, of running away from my troubles and pains, and taking refuge in the bottle, instead of standing up and facing them like a Christian. W. the Elder. (Impulsively.) You are a glorious old fellow, doctor, and deserve the |