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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