Newspaper Page Text
396
oi course, caused some of the more curious to
approach the house in the day-light, and re
connoitre. But there sat the solitary, appa
rently deeply occupied with his book, and
also the cog peering through the glass.
1 his satisfied them, and they departed.
“A week haielapsed, and the village was
alarmed by the appearance of Mawby’s dog
careering in a wild manner through the vil
lage. Upon being noticed, he sped back to
the croft. Many followed Him, and, upon
approaching the house, and looking up at
the window, they perceived the old man still
sitting unmoved, although the glass frame
had been broken by the dog's exit. After
repeated calls, which met with no attention,
they forced their way into the house.
‘‘Every thing: in the chamber was neat and
comfortable.’ There sat the poor old man in
his large aim-chair, dead and alone. Os
what value were those riches now, which had
closed his heStrt against all the pleasures of j
this beautiful world, against the possession
of wife, children, kindred, friends ? There
M as no will, for he suspected the moment he
made it in any one's favor, that would be his
last moment of security. It therefore spread
itself for more evil, and was split up into
forty law-suits, for the benefit of every one
but the rightful heirs.”
fjome (Hormponirenre.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
NEAV-YORK LETTERS.—NO. 50.
New York, April 18, 1849.
My Dear Sir —At my last writing, we
were getting bravely over our winter chills
but since then, we have had a fearful re
lapse: discarded overcoats have been dragged
from summer retirement, and neglected grates
have smiled again at the unexpected return
of their old friend, “Jack.” Renewed sun
shine, however, gives us good hope that it
was but a last struggle of the departing Grey- ,
beard, and that now all is over with the old
boy. Cold weather is a very particular bore i
just at this time, when, according to custom,
so many of our good people are making their j
annual change of lodgment, which leaves
them without fires, since they seldom fit up
stoves and grates in their new homes until
the following Autumn. May-day, you know,
is the great flitting season with us, but during ;
all the latter part of April, you will, at every
turning, come upon carts loaded down with
all the paraphernalia of domesticity, from ;
kitchen pots to boudoir mirrors. One must
keep a bright look-out as he moves along,
lest he bring up amidst the rounds of a huge
bouquet of perambulating chairs, or overturn
small boys hidden beneath clouds of carpets,
and stove pipes, bird cages and bed posts. — !
So many are changing their homes, thdt the
streets present a very grotesque spectacle ; ;
and in the odd appearance of the heteroge
neous piles of rubbish which are continually
passing, one finds much food for mirth. It
is the carnival of “ duds,” and a merry time,
to be sure, the old traps make of it. The
season, with its removals, and the incident
washings and scrubbings and refittings in.
general, is the horror of all quiet and tidy
housekeepers, but not more so than the pre
paratory labor of “house hunting.” This
terrible job commences in February, at which
time a printed notice of “To Let” may be
seen on the walls of nearly every other house.
The unhappy tenants, from the hour of the
posting of the bills, until their removal, are’
subject to the intrusions of the million at any
and every moment. Tom demands a squint
at the kitchen, at the very instant the cook
is “ dishing up ;” Dick looks coolly into the
dining-room, in the intervals of courses;
while Harry glances impertinently over cham
bers and boudoirs still in their morning disha
bille. Fancy the delights of such intrusions
to nervous old bachelors and querulous spin
sters, who look upon the most desirable and
most apropos visits as a bore scarcely endura
ble. Dining the past “house-hunting” cam
pain, a couple of waggish and idle friends of
mine thought they might kill a pleasant day
in this fascinating occupation, and according
ly sallied forth in quest of apartments —now
Jb a TFB IB A IS. ¥ ®&U &IT t s’ g *
for “single gentlemen,” and anon for “small
families”—objecting to the early dinner hour
here, and to the late one there —to second
floor backs in one house, and to attic fronts
in another; now finding a large and well
filled establishment absolutely indispensable
to their comfort, and next considering a “pri
vate family” a sine qua non. Everything
proved objectionable, as, very quickly, did
the strange sport itself; and before the morn
ing was half dead, they gave up in despair,
determined never again to make light of se
rious matters.
The approach of Summer always creates
here, a complete revolution in social life.—
The thousand and one reunions, cliques,
clubs and societies, begin to drag, and in a
few weeks will be disbanded and forgotten
until4he fire-sides of another winter again
unite them. Your phiz is no longer expect
ed at the Opera, or looked for in Broadway ;
you may forget your friends to your heart's
content, and revel in the luxury of days and
evenings disengaged. One of the last glim
mers of the gay season is, Mrs. Butlers sec
ond series of Shakspeare readings, commenc
ed this week and to be continued through the
two following. The interruption of these
entertainments has entirely broken their spell,
and, although still well attended, the fever
has passed, and people are no longer required
to secure their seats two or three hours in ad
vance of the time. Mrs. Butler, I believe,
purposes to embark for England on .the com
pletion of her present engagement. Perhaps
the arrival of Father Mathew, now daily
expected, may keep the town alive for a lit
tle while longer.
The first annual dinner of the American
j Dramatic Fund .Society, mentioned in my
! last, came off in fine style, last evening, at
the Astor House. It was well attended, and
reasonably productive of clever sayings.—
Speeches were made by Mr. President Col
den, Mr. Hamblin, Major Noah, Ex-Mayor
Brady, Mr. McKeon, John Van Buren, Esq.,
Mr. Philip Hone, Mr. Brougham, the “worthy
Secretary,” Messrs. Otis, Brooks, and others.
; During the evening, a subscription, amount
j ing to $502, was made to the funds of the
j Society.
Among the chief incidents of the week is
the death of the Rev. Dr. Power, of the Cath
olic Church. He was held in high esteem
! by all people, as a learned divine and as a
! good man.
A report, since contradicted, has been cur
-1 rent here lately, that Fitz Greene Halleck,
the poet, had become insane. He has suffer
-1 ed only the ordinary effects of a severe ill
ness, from which he is now, happily, con
valescent.
The friends and admirers of Charles Fenno
Hoffman entertain strong hopes of his speedy
j recovery from the indisposition under which
he now labors.
The intelligence, in your last communica
tion from Charleston, of the continued ill
; health of your gifted correspondent, Mary E.
! Lee, is very painful to her friends here.—
They join you in the earnest hope soon again
to hear her pleasant lyre. But I am falling
into a mournful strain, which cannot be too
soon ended. FLIT.
J&fcT 13 “ Delaware will never yield an inch,”
; said a patriotic Delawarian, when the Pea
I Patch case was being tried.
“If she did,” replied a bystander, “ she
; would lose half her territory.”
lawyer not over young nor handsome,
examining a young lady witness in court, de
termined to perplex her, and said. “Miss, up
on my word, you are very pretty!” The
young lady very promptly replied, “ I would
return the compliment, sir, if / U'ere not on
oath /”
£o7° Tin foil applied between the joints of
fine brass work, first wetted with a strong so
t lution of ammoniac makes an excellent joint,
care being taken not to use too much heat.
your means suit not with your
ends pursue those ends which suit your means.
California JFinbings.
From ttie Missouri Republican.
CALIFORN'IANISM IN THE WEST.
hi, ho, for California!
“I say. stranger, whither bound
“ To California.”
“Not with vour family.”
“ Yes.” “ ‘ .
“ Do you expect to get there with that old
i mare and colt, those poor weak oxen, and
that old rickety wagon ?•”
“ Why, I reckon so.”
“ Where did you come from 1”
“ Hiwassee district, Tennessee. I was
fotched up in Bunkum, North Carolina, but
when I grew up, moved to Hiwassee and
married, but never could get ahead there,
and when I heard tell of the California coun
try, and gold to be picked up there, I sold out
my improvements and took this wagon and
team in payment, packed up our duds} and
are on our way there. \ou know that For
tune’s blind ; there’s no telling the luck of a
lousy calf, so I thought it might be my good
fortune to get some of the gold as well as
any others.”
“ But, sir, your team cannot get there.
You will neither find grass, grain, nor food
for them or yourselves on the plains. It is a
long, dreary road; no houses, no wood ; and
it will be two months vet before there will he
J
grass enough to fill those oxen and beast on
the whole route; and, further, when the
grass is up near the settlements, it is a long
time after before any of account will be up
beyond, and the further you go the worse.”
“Well, I’ll stop awhile —turn in and work
till it grows.”
“ But ‘where will you work ? There is
nobody to hire, or work to and then ?
You are too far advanced to return —you
cannot go ahead, and you are in a dreary de
sert country, without M-ood, water, or any
thing to eat, M'ith a wife and children looking
up to you for relief and support; your team
exhausted and become food for wolves, and
before long yourself and family will follow
your team. Thus ends the mad career of a
Hiwassee pioneer and family.”
Next comes a company of young men from
some Eastern city, with fine appearance,
strength and talent, yet unacquainted with
the life of an old campaigner, unused to lie
on the ground, cooking, and a thousand oth
er little incidents attending a long, monoto
nous, dreary march. In a few nights, pain
seizes hold of you in eveiy bone, muscle,
and part, and you feel scarcely able to move;
yet the time has come to be up and moving
ahead, another day's journey. Hunt up your
oxen, yoke them, pack in your fixins, and
gee-wo-haw, Buck, Bright, get along, you
Brindle —what are you about, old Bawley 1
Zip, you dog, hie up —lend a hand here,
John, Jake, Josh, for these darned horned
horses can't budge an inch. While others
are rolling on in the distance, you are stalled
in the mud-hole—broke an axle, tongue—
something out of fix —away, you tug, sweat,
fret, and tear up the ground, but all to no ef
fect; your steers won't pull—one has a sore
neck, another lame : one gives out, and none
to put in his place, and you are in a bad fix.
Methinks I see, about the 20th of April,
1849, a thousand wagons spreading out from
Independence and St. Joseph, on the road to-
Avards Fort Lararnie, with some three or four
thousand emigrants—men, women and chil
dren—all wending their way to the gold re
gions of the Sacramento, straining every
nerve and urging on their teams to their
greatest speed, in order to be the first to ar
rive; the grass thinly scattered here and
there, and in spots and places few and far
between; the ground yet cold, the waters
high, and, still further ahead, the snows of
the past winter unthawed. In yonder creek,
some dozen wagons, horses, mules and oxen,
all tangled up in the harness: wagons bro
ken, laine and crippled animals—all in a per
fect jam—old men frisking about, children
squalling, men raving, roaring, cursing, and
swearing about their bad luck. A little
ahead appears a portentous black cloud, the
- lightning flashing, thunders roaring, peal af
; ter peal; the rain begins to descend, the wind
blows; thicker and faster falls the watery
element; the whole canopy of heaven be
i comes blackened and darker grows; the
creeks swell, the water rolls and pours down;
rivers run, where, a few hours before, all was
seemingly dry. Your goods are wet, your
j wagon covers shivered, tattered, and torn to
threads; your clothes all wet, and without
tent, house, or shelter, stand up and sleep,
and let it rain. Your cattle, horses, and
mules, discontented, snort and snuff the
breeze, fly the picquet. and away they go ;
horses and mules without a rider, oxen with
out a wagon, pell mell, over hill and dale
far away. au
The wolt, with his hideous growl, breaks
in upon your ears, and he sings you a night
ingale song, hoping to share the titbits you
will leave. The flavor arising from the fried
bacon sharpens his appetite, until his notes
become shrill and near. When darkness
hovers o cr, his snuffing and growling be
comes nearer. The guns being wet, priming
out, and no sentinel shot to be heard then
comes reflection. “0! what a fool wis Ito
leave home and suffer here—nothing to she]
ter me from the northwestern blast of ai ".
April’s shivering rain, sleet and hail, and'all
the imps ot the evil one come to sing psalm
tunes over my distress and misery. 1 wish
I had stayed at home, as dad and mamma
said--ploughed the old fields, learned a g oo d
trade, and been contented when I was well
off, instead of coming on this “wild goose
chase.’ However, a fellow may as well be
‘hung for an old sheep as a lamb ;’ ; my fist
is in,’ and this is only a beginning, and it is
said that ‘a bad, beginning makes a good
ending’—so here goes, through thick or thin.
thunder, lightning or rain. But stop
Nvhere, in the name of sense, have those in
fernal brutes run to in this storm I They’ve
got started back, and all creation can’t o-et
that thunder-storm out of themikintil they
reach the settlements; and just here, amon>-
these wild varmints—snakes, lizards, wolves!
and the Lord only knows what—these wo
men, children and wagons, must stay until
they are brought back. Gewhillikins, how
they run! Old Zurubabel couldn't catch
them.”
“ How are you, sti anger ? Whose compa
ny is this 1”
“Captain Pushafter's.”
“ I see you are in a bad fix, there—your
i wagons in that gully, halt buried in water!
Where’s your stock
“All run off} last night, in that storm, like
the devil was after them. 1 never see homed
horses run so before in my born days, and
the mules took after them, and it was raining
so awful hard we could not see. But such a
stampede and clattering of hoofs of four
legged animals; it fairly shook the yearth,
it did !”
“ Don’t you know what started them I”
“No! I thought it was the thunder and
lightnin’, or the cursed wolves, that kept up
such an infernal balking; it scared the chil
dren into fits.”
Fudge ! man. It’s no wolves, but some
roving bands of Li pans and Camanche In
dians, \vho are all over the plain; for our
boys saw them in the distance just before
the storm, and they have run off our best
horses and mules; but our cattle were so
tired they couldn’t run. We lost at least fif
ty horses and mules last night, and I’m out
in search for them, while others have gone
in different directions on the same errand.
Did you see any come this way, after
night ?”
“See ! I couldn’t see my shadow, it
was so dark.”
“How far ahead is your company 1”
“About ten miles, on a small branch.”
“ How many do you number V’
“Fifty.”
“ Who commands ?”
“Captain Knowsall. Good bye! I‘tn
o-p-h.” ~ ■
“ Hell’s afloat, and the river’s risin’!”
“Nancy! O, Nancy! tell your dad
here. This child is mighty powerful sick,
and I’m afeard it will die.”
“What's the matter, old woman ‘”
“Matter enough. This baby's gain’ to
die, 1 railly believe.”
“O, jest hush up! give it a drop o’ whis
key, and it'll git well.”
“ And there’s Molly, what picked up a liz
zard, thinking it was a bird, and it bit her hand
soorfulhard that it has swelled clean to the
shoulder. And Jim says there’s snakes all
round here, for he seen them crawlin’ under
the blanket jest a little bit ago. I'll tell yoih
old man, we'll all die here, or be eat up b>
the varmints. 1 wish we had stayed back,
and let this gold go to old scratch, liailn t
we better turn back before we all die ? ’
“Well, I believe I can do well enough an)
wherein ‘Elenoys’ or ‘Misery;’ but hows
a feller to git back ? Here we’re three hun
dred miles from St. Joseph, all the oxen gone,
wagon broke down, and no one to lend ns * l
team —and too poor to buy, if we could-
Old Woman. —l believe l can walk, i
you’ll only try to git back. We can P aC
all that’s worth takin’ on the old lame stoer,
and let the wolves have the rest: for to go
ahead, we can’t. . h
Old Man. —Agreed! by n^ u §
said. Hurra for the settlements ! 011 j 0
catch this child agin with your humbug.
EZEL.