WASHINGTON, November 3, 18 —.

We're travelling, and we're here! and what a town! I own, it picks me up and sets me down! I thought I had some idea of the place, And what its corporation lines embrace; I'd read the county papers every week, Which seldom failed "From Washington" to speak; I'd travelled through these streets by photograph, And, with Imagination for a staff, Had wandered round, in little trips disjointed, Even where the artist's brass gun has not pointed; And so I said, "Though I wouldn't like to miss it, 'Twill be a good deal like a second visit."

But 'tisn't an easy perpetrated scheme To prophesy how anything will seem. This city's new to me—I do not doubt it— As if I'd never heard a word about it! There's something in these white-clothed buildings' glare, And something even in the very air, And in the great variety of faces, Bearing the ear-marks of a thousand places, And in that monument that reaches high— The farthest stone has climbed into the sky, And in that dome, whose kingly size and height Contrive, where'er you are, to keep in sight— From these, and several hundred other things This nation's lead-horse city at you flings, You feel as if you'd stepped, through many a mile, Into another planet for a while!

But men too weary to hold up their heads Are apt to bless the man who first made beds; Then, having found one, and reclined within it, Forget about him in just half a minute. So I'll let Morpheus (who is at me winking) Do the remainder of this evening's thinking.

Or woman—let due praise to her be paid; A bed is never made until 'tis made.