Artists are spreading "daubs" on canvas who should be whitewashing board fences.

Behind counters stand clerks who hate the yard-stick and neglect their work to dream of other occupations.

A good shoemaker writes a few verses for the village paper, his friends call him a poet, and the last, with which he is familiar, is abandoned for the pen, which he uses awkwardly.

Other shoemakers are cobbling in Congress, while statesmen are pounding shoe-lasts.

Laymen are murdering sermons while Beechers and Whitefields are failing as merchants, and people are wondering what can be the cause of empty pews.