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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.