Who that has passed along the anti-aristocratic streets of Gotham, but has observed the fierce, and often merciless attacks made by grocers' dogs, and butchers' dogs, and low-life dogs, about town in general, upon the poor rag and bone-pickers, while every body else is permitted to pass unmolested. Just after witnessing one of these fierce encounters, between an apparently old Dutch bone-picker and a snarling little whiffit, and endeavoring to pick out the philosophy of it, Spectator's last, on Ethiop, together with comments, Editorial, &c., came to hand; and between my former train of thought, and these little bilocose [sic] demonstrations, I began to be a little puzzled. Happily at this juncture, a grocer's clerk came to my relief, by
explaining, in a word, what seemed to me sufficiently philosophical for at least a week's study. "Do you know," said he, "why that firce [sic] demonstration on the part of our little dog, Joco?" "No," said I. "Because," said he, "the old Dutchman digs up and takes away all his BONES." If, in my puzzle, anything like a comparison was about to enter my mind, I instantly dismissed it.—Far from anything like a similarity be there between Spectator and Joco.

Another week later, and another budget of the same dear Aliened came, fragrant from the western wood, and blooming with flowers, not unaccompanied with thorns, thistles and brier-switches, plucked as usual by delicate lady fingers. I have said these bouquets were not without a pretty fair inter-spersion of thorns, thistles and switches—aye, and, my dear sir, don't these same delicate fingers know how to use them, too, when they think it necessary? I confesss I have been able to deeply sympathie with poor Job, after any one of Madam Caudle's curtain lectures, as I think you must; I can, too, look back far enough to remember, in my diminutive boyhood, very distinctly the thrashing once given me by my mother, (good woman!) for what she deemed some slight indiscretion or blunder; indeed, my brothers and sisters—my whole family regarded these (mishaps, blunder and errors) as my sole inheritance, and cut me off with very little else; but oh! my dear sir, you can not feel sufficiently for poor Ethiop, after the whaling he has just received, over his defenceless head and shoulders, through this same dear Aliened, with one of these switches, by the hand of Fanny Homewood. My only solace is—and, my dear Douglass, tell Fanny so—that I hope she will yet repent of not mine, but her own error. I never said that Fanny was a man. I never once intimated, that because the delicate fingers were colored that indited those sharp, epistles, over the signature of Fanny Homewood, they were men's fingers—no, never! I only stated what suspicion, with its wicked tongue, whispered hereabouts; and, if nothing more, I am happy (though blunderingly done) to have given so fine an opportunity, as she has availed herself of, to blow foul suspicion to the wrathful winds of heaven, and to say to the world that she has so nobly proven herself a woman. I bow to the beautiful response thus given profoundly.—Shame and confusion, truly, be upon Ethiop, when he so far forgets himself as to doubt a lady. "Come to Pittsburgh," you say. Nothing would give me more pleasure; and be assured, dear madam, that when a wave or so more of life's bustle and tempest is o'er, I shall endeavor to come, and to sip with you