ABSTRACT
I AWAKE to the music of the rising bell, on which an Ethiopian minstrel, naturally corked, is ringing cheerful changes in the halls; and my first conscious sensation is a pleasant one as, turning over for a fresh thrill, and applauding my pillow with a sensuous pat, I cast a complacent glance and thought around my room. Not bad for an “Inebriate Asylum,” — for a refuge and a rest to the wretch which hath seven devils, each more thirsty than the other, — for a hiding and safe thinking place to him who hath called, in his distraction and dismay, on the mountains to fall on him, and the rocks to cover him up!
