Not one beggar did I see in Philadelphia. After witnessing the squalor which contrasts so painfully with New York luxury and extravagance, this was an untold relief. Philadelphia, too, has what we so much need here--comfortable, cleanly, convenient, _small_ houses for mechanics; comprising the not-to-be-computed luxury of a bath-room, and gas, at the attainable rent of seventy-five or a hundred dollars a year. No house ever yet was built, broad enough, wide enough, and high enough, to contain two families. Wars will arise over the disputed territory of front and back stairs, which lawless childhood--bless its trustful nature--will persist in believing common ground. But apart from the cozy pleasure of having a little snuggery of one’s own--where one may cry, or laugh, or sneeze, without asking leave--this subject in its _moral_ aspect is well worth the attention of humane New York capitalists--and I trust we have such. IN THE DUMPS. What does ail me? I’m as blue as indigo. Last night I was as gay as a bob-o’-link--perhaps that is the reason. Good gracious, hear that wind howl! Now low--now high--till it fairly shrieks; it excites me like the pained cry of a human. There’s my pretty California flower--blue as a baby’s eyes; all shut up--no wonder--I wish my eyes were shut up, too. What _does_ ail me? I think it is that dose of a Boston paper I have just been reading (for want of something better to do), whose book critic calls “Jane Eyre” an “_immoral_ book.” Donkey! It is vain to hope that _his_ life has been as pure and self-sacrificing as that of “Charlotte Bronte.” There’s the breakfast-bell--and there’s Tom with that autumn-leaf colored vest on, that I so hate. Why don’t men wear pretty vests? why can’t they leave off those detestable stiff collars, stocks, and things, that make them all look like choked chickens, and which hide so many handsomely-turned throats, that a body never sees, unless a body is married, or unless a body happens to see a body’s brothers while they are shaving. Talk of women’s throats--you ought to see a whiskered throat I saw once----Gracious, how blue I am! Do you suppose it is the weather? I wish the sun would shine out and try me. See the inch-worms on that tree. That’s because it is a pet of mine. Every thing I like goes just that way. If I have a nice easy dress that I can sneeze in, it is sure to wear out and leave me to the crucifying alternative of squeezing myself into one that is not broke into my figure. I hate new gowns--I hate new shoes--I hate new bonnets--I hate any thing new except new--spapers, and I was born reading them.