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his head, and the sheep-skin, with the wool
side out, thrown across his back to serve the
place of a saddle, and fastened on with the
rope substituted for a girth. Thus capari
soned, the steed was mounted by his rider,
w ho was now in a quandary whether to go
by the house, or proceed, by another path, to
the road leading to town. Says he, “Isl go
by the house, daddy will be a plaguin’ o’ me,
and if I go Mother way, the childun won’t see
how well I look on the boss. But, Dobbin,
it makes no odds how I go, I’ll pay you, arter
I git away from the house, for the way you
sarved me this arternoon; you hear, ole
boss ?”
Finally, the idea of being seen and admired
by the children outweighed the fear of being
teazed by his father, and he resolved to go
by the house. All the family, parents and
children, were sitting out in the yard under an
oak tree, as Tim rode up, doing his best to
look, for all the world, like Marshal Murat,
just ready to charge a troup of Cossacks.
“Thar’s Tim, now,” said the old lady.
The old man, spying Tim’s grape-vine
straps, bawled out,
“ A fust rate idee, Tim ; it’s well you tied
them ant-stompers o’ yourn up to your
breeches-legs, or they’d a broke Dobbin down
to tote ’em, they are so heavy.”
After saying this, a peal of laughter made
the woods ring, and Tommy joined his father
ia the merriment. Tim kicked Dobbin in the
side, and struck a lope to get out of the reach
of his father’s voice.
“Ha, ha!” Tim’s gwine to see the gals,
this evening, and I’ll bet my old hat on it,”
said the old man.
The old lady didn’t think so. She thus
discoursed about it:
“Now, old man, be ashamed to plague the
poor child so. Here he’s been out all day a
fastin’, an’ prayin’, an’ lamin’ what to say
to-night in the prar meetin’ at brother Next
door’s, and when he gits up on Dobbin to go
over thar, you are plaguin’ him to death.
Come, Susy, let’s git supper early, and go
over to hear your brother exercise—come,
child.”
By means of magic, we must transport our
selves instanter to Hustledown; for Tim
travels so fast, we can’t keep up with him by
ordinary means. We’ll get there before him,
and see his grande entree.
It is about sun-down. Squire Takemall
and Col. Whistlecraft, men of different par
ties, but particular personal friends, are sit
ting at the corner of Sprawls’ Tavern. Nei
ther of them took any interest in the pending
election, and, therefore, they were not active
in electioneering or “picking up.” About
this time Tim made his advent. Dobbin’s
tail was sticking out at an angle of ninety
degrees, on a horizontal line with his back
bone. His head was erect, and his neck
was bowed in such a way as to form an an
gle, (rather than a curve,) whose apex sa
vored more of acuteness than obtuseness.
Really, there seemed some danger that the
said neck would break in two ;. but a closer
examination would have told the observer
that there was too much tough skin and gris
tle there for that. His weathers were sever
al inches taller than the neck* where it left
the body, which seemed to issue out of the
shoulders as that of a terrapin does from his
shell. He was what jockeys call ewe-neck
ed, and had been rendered more so by hard
work, and by having had a fistula when a
olt. His back-bone, which more resembled
a cross-cut saw covered with horse-skin than
any thing else, grew lower and lower to
wards the haunches, so that some folks would
have called him droop-rumped. The knees
of his fore legs turned in, and his hocks turn
ed out, indicating a real digging pacer, which
would excavate a hole large enough at each
*tep to bury himself. He was said by Tim
T o be ‘“as good a piece of hoss flesh as was
ever wropped up in the same amount of
hide.”
MiiriSlßl&lfl IL aITUS AM ®A 8 BIT TPS*
Dobbin came into town, down an extended
slope, in a long pace.—a pace, however,
which bounced Tim up and down as much
as the hardest kind of a trot could have done.
A light breeze compelled the horseman, for
the safety of his hat, to hold it in one hand,
instead of keeping it on his head. He had
to lean forward to keep from falling off, and,
as his body went towards the horse’s neck,
his feet receded towards Dobbin’s flanks, and
his legs were drawn up. Every now and
then, a spur-end of the grape-vine straps
would approximate the old horse’s flanks,
when, like the Irishman’s “critter,” he would
“rear up behind,” and then proceed faster
than before. Going down hill, old Dobbin’s
pace became every moment accelerated, as
much from acquired velocity as from animal
exertion. From a long pace he got into a
gallop, which became every moment swifter
and swifter, until there was a prospect that
his speed would equal that of a few hours
before, when Tim was trying to bridle dim.
It now became a serious question with the
rider, how he should ever stop his steed. He
pulled the bridle with all his might, but this
only balanced Dobbin and assisted him in the
race. He was for some time too proud or too
dignified to open his mouth; but, about the
time he got opposite the gentlemen whom I
have just mentioned, he concluded there must
be a halt at all hazards. So he bawled out
at the top of his voice, “Wo, Dobbin!”
Dobbin took him at his word, and, planting
his fore-feet in such a way as to form the
broadest possible base, ploughed up the ground
for some distance, and stopped stock still,
while Tim chose to keep on, and was landed
over the horse’s head some fifteen feet in
front.
“ Pick him up, Squire Takemall,” shouted
someone across the town.
Poor Tim was taken up and placed upon
his horse full of dirt, and groaning under a
multiplicity of pains and bruises. After he
had gone a little way towards home, in a ve
ry slow gate, he is reported to have said:
“ Darn all such picking up /”
Old Mr. Littlejohn heard of this adventure,
and poor Tim came as near being ‘plagued
to death’ as ever any mortal did.
It was a long time before the old lady
could forgive ‘the child’ for not going to
brother Nextdoor’s to preach that Sunday
night.
fjomc (Jlomspcmlrencc.
For the Southern Literary Gaze'te.
NEW-YORK LETTERS-NO. 26.
Rath bun Hotel, New York , )
Oct. 25, 1848. j
My dear Sir :—The rainy weather which
we have endured for a day or two past, has
reminded me of a purpose to say something
of the little people who at such muddy times
earn a miserable pittance by sweeping the
crossings. Those who never visit the great
haunts of men, know very little of the thou
sand and one wretched resorts of the poor to
keep their unhappy bodies and souls together ;
and they might imagine many, without dream
ing of the strange occupation to which I re
fer. When the wind is bitter and the storm
pitiless, you will find at the crossings of our
most crowded thoroughfares, numerous chil
dren industriously engaged, broom in hand,
in sweeping off the mud as fast as the never
halting travel casts it back. And these chil
dren are chiefly girls of the tenderest age. of
tentimes numbering less than six winters —
the only season in their wretched lives.—
Half-dressed in rags more filthy than the
street itself, there they stand, bare-footed and
ankle-deep in mud, from morning until night,
busy in their self-appointed office, and de
pendent for reward upon the bounty of the
passers-by.. Each one has her particular
post, which all others, are expected to re
spect. It is a regular and valuable business-
stand, upon which none are allowed to en
croach with impunity, and her interest in
which, the proprietress sometimes disposes of,
or “sells out” for a considerable sum. Un
like the labor of the street-musician, and his
drudge of the dance-the-monkey, of which I
spoke last week, this profession contributes
but little to the public pleasure and wins but
a sad sympathy from the beneficiaries. You
know that if the one is a lazy vagabond, he
is content in his careless life, and you bestow
your coppers gaily; while in the other case,
it is naked poverty, in its most tearful form,
which begs your alms; and such sights bring
no sunshine to the heart. It is no great
pleasure to find the crossing before you clean
ly swept, when you have become perfectly
prepared for the worst, having just before
sounded the mud to a fearful extent, and be
ing at the same time nerved for a second
slough of despond, a little further on. Nev
ertheless, it is not easy to resist the piteous
supplication of the little nymphs of the broom,
couched in the humble words, “Please sir
give me a penny!” or in the mute expression
of the extended hand, chilled with the rain
and cold. I would not take from these poor
things their little means of support, but they
are neither ornamental noruseful, and if they
must be maintained by the public, the city
fathers should see it done in some other way.
Were all the crossings kept in order, it would
certainly be very agreeable, and provided,
too, it were done by men who are equal to
the toil.
The Fair of the American Institute closed
a very successful season on Friday last. It
is said that one hundred thousand persons
have visited it, and the receipts for tickets of
admission are estimated at fifteen thousand
dollars. Among the premiums which have
been already awarded to exhibitors, are fifty
gold medals, two hundred and fifty silver
medals, three hundred and seventy diplomas,
fifty-four silver cups, one hundred and thirty
nine volumes of books, and one hundred and
fifty dollars in money, to apprentices and mi
nors. The closing address was delivered by
General Tallmadge.
Fanny Kemble Butler’s suit for divorce
from her husband, Mr. Pierce Butler, came
before the Court of Common Pleas in Phila
delphia last week, and the 20th of November
next has been fixed for the trial of the bill.—
Mr. Rufus Choate, of Boston, is one of the
counsel for the lady, and Mr. G. M. Dallas
for Mr. Butler. The prosecution of this suit
is one of the chief objects of Mrs. Butler’s
visit, at this time, to the United States, and it
is ex pee ted that she will await its decision
before appearing on the stage.
Speaking of the theatre—Mr. Macready
has but to take a benefit before his departure
for Philadelphia and thence southward. The
season at Niblo’s will close directly after, and
the house will be reopened with Italian Ope
ra. The attractions at the other theatres re
main as per my last advices. Mr. Forrest is
drawing enthusiastic audiences in Boston.
M. and Mme. Leati, lately arrived here
from Italy, have commenced a series of con
certs, which are favorably received.
M. Strakosch, the pianist, is soon to re
peat his grand musical festival at the Taber
nacle. He has just published a popular
piece for the piano-forte, called the Postillion
i Polka.
Anew historical play of great dramatic in
j terest and of a very unique character, from
the pen of the poetess, Mrs. Seba Smith, it
is expected will be produced this season at
one of our leading theatres.
I meant to have referred this week to tho
progress of the Art-Union , but I see that you
have anticipated me in your last week’s is
sue, which reached me on Tuesday morning
j —the day, by the way, on which the Gazette
always promptly arrives here. Subscriptions
are pouring in upon the committee as they
never have before. The Gallery is thronged
with pictures and with visitors, in so much
that ••eibow-ruoiu” in a great desideratum.—
I hope that it will soon be found desirable
and necessary to erect a large building for
the Association, which will properly accom
modate both the artists and the public, and
be at the same time, as such an edifice should
be, a fitting architectural ornament to the
city. Among the greatest attractions at the
Art-Union at this moment, is a wonderful ma
rine picture by Achenbach, a German artist,
residing in Dusseldorf. It excites universal
attention and admiration.
All our painters, I believe, have returned
from summer ramblings, and are busily pre
paring for the winter campaign. I have not
yet found time to look in upon many of them.
The following items of intelligence I cut from
the Evening Post of Monday last:
Return of Artists. —Mr. Durand has re
turned from the Adirondack and Catskill
mountains, with abundant materials for fu
ture labors.
Mr. Talbot has returned from a much
longer and more profitable summer tour than
usual,, to make this city his home.
Mr. Richards has spent a long season
amidst the beautiful scenery in the northern
parts of the State, on lakes George and Cham
plain, Schroon lake, the Catskill, &c.
Mr. Kensett and Mr, Casilear have been
with Mr. Durand.
Mr. lnnis has been sketching in the neigh
borhood of Peekskill.
Mr Church has been at work in the Green
mountains of Vermont.
In addition to the above, from the Mirror
we learn that Mr. Doughty, author of the
“Moonlight Scene” in the Art Union , has
recently returned from a long summer tour.
To this l will add, that Mr. Huntington
has just finished an exquisite marine view,
the first picture of the kind we have ever
seen from his versatile pencil. He is busy
also upon a large picture of “ Mary at the
Sepulchre.” Mi. E. H. May has nearly fin
ished a painting of the same subject, which
is in every way one of his finest works. Mr.
Stearns is engaged upon the “Death of Poca
hontas,” and also the “Marriage of Wash
ington.” A letter which I have just received
from Mr. W. S: Mount, speaks him busy at
his easel at Stoney Brook, L. I. Os course
he is doing something nice. Mr. Elliott, the
favorite portrait painter, was then paying him
a visit. However, it is yet hardly time to
speak of the doings of the artists, since they
have scarcely commenced their labors for the
season.
A series of tableaux vivants was to have
commenced the other evening at the drawing
rooms of the poetess, Miss Anna C. Lynch,
but was postponed “on account of the wea
ther.” When these much talked-of amuse
ments come off, I will remember to give you
a report.
Among the novelties of the times is the dis
covery of a successful process for making
ice. The announcement of this invention,
says the Express , “is by many persons re
garded as a joke. But it is sober earnest.—
The experiments which led to the grand re
sult, have been continued for many months
in this city; all the machinery has been made
here; and lastly, the ice itself has been pro
duced, in quantities which show that the
thing is neither a humbug nor a chimera.—
Jack Frost’s ‘occupation’s gone,’ most indu
bitably.”
While I am quoting, let me give you a
copy of ao exquisite obituary notice I cut
lately from a newspaper:
“Died, on the 23d inst., Joseph R., infant
son of , aged three weeks and five
days.
farewell, dear babe, a short farewell,
From father and mother;
You have gone with angeL to dwell.
When there you will -ee your grandmother t”
It is quite useless after this, for Longfellow
to do any more hexameters 1
The author of “All About” wishes me to
say to you that he is terribly busy, and that
writing is a bore, hut since you have an
nounced him for next month, he will resume
his pen, if possible, in season for your next
number. So also will your friend and cor-
I respondent, FLIT.
203