We—Thrall and I,—have just arrived, per horse railroad—(free passage, too—though why they should compliment us in this way surpasses my com— (d—n such a pen,) prehension,)—horse railroad, I believe I said—(and most infernal cars they do have on their street railroads here; with three compartments in them, respectively for gentlemen, ladies, and servants; and a bench running fore-and-aft on the hurricane deck for other people—and we we occupied that bench,) and—per horse railroad, you know, from St. Mary street, No. 350,—on the gate—(but you don’t find the house by the number, Beaman—ah, no—look for the benches over the gutter—Stephenson’s house is abreast the bench which isn’t painted—and mind, if it’s in the night, Stanard, Beware of the Dog. —not a poodle dog; nor a spaniel, nor a “Tarrier;” nor any other species of the docile, undecided sort of dog—but a most astonishingly developed, and wonderfully matter-of-fact brute of the Newfoundland persuasion, who don’t care a * * for anybody’s arguments after dark c—and this reminds me of those beautiful lines of Gray’s—(you’ll find them in his “Elegy in a—well, really, now, I am not right sure—though it runs in my head that it was,—in a Brick-yard,”)—never mind that, though—n’importe—read the poetry:

“Homeward the plowman plods his weary way, And wastes his sweetness on the dayesert air.”

Capital, ain’t they? But they don’t sound—that is to say, ex—but, no matter how they sound, you know—Dogs is the question—and while I am on the subject I may as well mention that “Secession”—that’s the oldest pup—(and the pride of the family—so I was informed by Miss Lizzie Stephenson,) is—dead—melancholy, but true. Blast the dog, he would eat indigestible food, and so the “dangrey”* got him. The other two pups, named respectively ——
*“Break-bone” fever.” “Venus” and “Pilot,” and aged about the same as their deceased brother, are doing well—remarkably well.—so Miss P–i–d–g–e—pidge—(right, I believe)—told me—and she told me also to— Now what in the world did that lovely damsel tell me—unless—it was might have been something concerning a bet that Stanard made about Miss Pidgeon’s marryiage, and “which” that delightful young bird imagines he is sorry he ever made it; (and she isn’t married yet—but she ought to be, for she is a good girl,—and pretty.) But not nearly so pretty as Babe, though.—(indeed—and I only whisper it—in the subscriber’s opinion—that Infant is a Stunner). Yes, she is—Stunner’s the word. She is very pretty—but I’ll swear I used tho think the other the handsomest—d – n the italics—they make ◊ slip in without my knowledge sometimes.

Glancing back over my letter, there seems to be too much information, and not enough comment—which is bad—and reminds me of the ship captain who gave his steward fifteen dollars to buy provisions with, for a long voyage—and told him that, as times were hard, and the amount small, he must lay it itⒶemendation out judiciously. Afterwards, this conversation took place: Captain—“What’d ye get?” Steward—“Fourteen dollars’ worth of rum, and a dollars’ worth of bread.” C.—(Rasping his words out with indignation almost too deep for utterance)—“John!—What—in the—hell—are—you—goin’ to do—with—all that bread!” boy?” ◊◊◊◊◊◊g!”

But no matter—Miss Babe gave me—and so did Miss Pidge—various messages for you and Stanard—with discretionary power to alter, amend, add to, take from or invent—as, in the plenitude of my wisdom I should deem advisable.—. Of them—of course—we w◊ shall speak at greater length when I get to St. Louis.

But seriously—I blush—and I not only blush, but I feel alarmed—deeply concerned—about the news in your letter ab referring to Dan & H. B—wherein you state that Dan & H.ollie both “had a child” at the same time.” Horrible! (I hope D. died in child-bed—and serve him right.)

P. S.—I feel relieved. I have discovered that they only had “chills.”