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of the evening prevented my completely identifying, but who, I religiously believe to have been the Collector, appeared, and amid the most profound silence, made the following beautiful and touching address: “Gentlemen-I wish to God you would all go to bed; you have worried and annoyed me beyond endurance. I am not to be caught by you as was General Scott, for I actually have no time to remove any portion of my clothing. I do not love brogue; I beseech you, therefore, to retire and allow me a little repose.” The address here concluded with some allusion to the Deity and a reference to the eyes of the crowd, which being pronounced indistinctly, your reporter was not able entirely to comprehend, and with a sudden slam the window closed.

The scene without now beggared description : roars, yells, frantic cries for "ladders !" "ladders !" rent the air. . Within the hotel all was alarm and confusion-the ladies screamed, children cried, the alarmed proprietor spoke of sending for the Mary Ann Rifles, when the scene suddenly changed. Upon the piazza of the house appeared a gentleman, walking slowly with his hands in the pockets of a shawl dressing-gown; he wore a brown wig, and an enormous pair of false whiskers framed his well-rouged cheeks. In a word, he was dressed in the character of Sir Harcourt Courtly. Turning slowly towards the crowd, he withdrew one hand from the pocket of the shawl dressing-gown, and slowly and awkwardly extending it, said :-" Cool!” It was sufficient. For an instant, a shudder ran through the mob_then, with ories of " It's him! it's Greene ! " they broke and dispersed

in every direction—up Bush and down Battery, through Stockton street and over the sand-hills, they fled like frightened deer. The earth seemed to have opened and swallowed them up, so sudden and complete was the dispersion. In one - moment, where stood a mob of fifteen thousand, remained but two individuals. Above, with a sidelong bow and melancholy smile, slowly retired Sir Harcourt, and on the earth below, with open mouth and distended eyes, his admiring gaze fixed upon that extraordinary man with reverential awe, stood



P. S. “ Truthful James" has just rushed up in a frantic state to inform me that the Collector did not arrive last night after all. When I made my report, I did not know whether he had or not, but I am inclined now to think he might have done so. I don't know that it makes any differ

If he did arrive, my report is all true now--if he did not, why, when he does arrive, it will be all true then; and those who read it this morning, and find it false, will have the pleasure of reading it again, when it becomes the history of an actual occurrence. Of course you won't publish this.





SAN DIEGO, Aug. 10, 1853.

It was about 71 A. M., on the first day of this present month of August, that I awaked from a very pleasant dream in the great city of San Francisco, to the very unpleasant conviction that it was a damp and disagreeable morning, and that my presence was particularly required in the small city of San Diego. So, having shaken hands with Frink, taken an affectionate leave of the chaimbermaid, and, lastly, devoured a beefsteak at the Branch of Alden, which viand, in perfect keeping with the weather, was both cold and raw, I shouldered my cane with a carpet bag suspended at each end, " a la Chinois," and left the Tehama House without “one lingering hope or fond regret.” When a man is going down, every body lends him a kick, an aphorism which I came very near realizing in my own proper person, for as I went on my way down Long Wharf, I accidentally grazed a mule, who being in an evil frame of mind and harnessed to a dray might be considered as passionately attached to that conveyance. This interesting animal, fancying from my appearance that I was "going down,” “lent me a kick," which, had his legs been two inches longer, would have put a stop to my correspondence for ever. As it was I escaped, and hurried on down the wharf, thinking with a shudder on the mysterious prophecy of my friend little Miss B., who had told me I was

sure to be kicked” before I left San Francisco, and wondering if she was really " among the prophets." The Northerner, like the steamboat runners, was lying at the end of the wharf, blowing off steam, and as usual when a steamer is about to leave for Panama, a great crowd surrounded her. What made them all get up so early? Out of the three or four hundred people on the end of that wharf I don't believe fifty had friends that were about to sail. No ! they love to look upon a steamer leaving. It brings to their minds recollections of the dear ones at home to whom she is speeding with fond tidings, and they love to gaze and wish to Heaven they were going in her. The usual mob of noisy fruit venders encompassed the gangway plank; green pears they sold to greener purchasers; apples, also, whereof, every thing but the shape of an apple had long since departed, and oranges, the recollection of one of which, doth to this day abide by me and set my teeth on edge; but high above their din, the roar of the steamer and the murmuring of the crowd, rang the shrill cry of the newsboy in his unknown tongue, Here's the Alteruldniguntimes Heup! I stepped across the plank and found myself in the presence of three fine bullocks. How fat and sleek they looked; uneasy though, as if they smelled mischief in the wind.

A tall gaunt specimen of Pike County humanity stood regarding them approvingly, his head thrown slightly back, to get their points to better advantage. It was the tomb gazing on its victim. As I paused for a moment to look on the picture, Pike yawned fearfully, his head opening like the top of an old-fashioned fall-back chaise. The nearest bullock, turning, caught his eye. I thought the unhappy animal shuddered and nudged his companion, as who should say, “Ye liv

. ing, come and view the grave where you shall shortly lie.” It was quite a touching little scene. On deck all was bustle and excitement. The sailors, apparently in the last extremity of physical suffering, judging by their agonized cries, were heaving away at mysterious ropes. The mate, Mr. Dall, was engaged in busy, not tender dalliance with the breast lines, while Burns the Purser exhibited an activity and good nature only to be accounted for by the supposition that he had eaten two boxes of Russia salve (which is good for Burns see your advertising columns) for his breakfast:

As the last line fell from the dock, and our noble stéamer with a mighty throb and deep sigh, at bidding adieu to San Francisco, swung slowly round, the passengers crowded to the side to exchange a farewell salutation with their friends and acquaintances. “Good bye, Jones,” “Good bye, Brown,"

God bless you old fellow, take care of yourself!” they shouted. Not seeing any one that I knew, and fearing the

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