MONDAY, JAN. 11. I never expected, when threading the streets of Constantinople, where dogs inherit the rights of citizenship, to encounter such multitudes of them in any other part of the world. But California is more than a match for the Ottoman capital. Here you will find in every little village a thousand dogs, who never had a master: every farm-house has some sixty or eighty; and every Indian drives his cart with thirty or forty on its trail. They had become so troublesome, that an order was given a few days since to thin their ranks. The marines, with their muskets, were to be the executioners. The order, of course, very naturally runs into dog-erels. The dogs, the dogs! my gallant lads— Let each one seize his gun, And lead the battle’s fiery van, Though Mars himself should run. Remember Lodi’s blazing bridge, Marengo’s shaking plain, And Borodino’s thunder-clouds, Where Cossacks fell like rain. Now hurl their howling squadrons down To Lethe’s silent shore; They bark so loud, we scarce can hear Our sleeping sentries snore. Lay low the watch-dog first of all; For he’s a saucy loon, That bays all night the modest man Who figures in the moon. Then down the pointer: he it is That threads the leaves and grass— To train the sportman’s ready fire At some poor luckless ass. Then wing the lap-dog, that pert imp Befondled by the fair, And catching all the tender looks Old bachelors should share. O’er him, who falls in this dread strife, The thunder-clouds shall roll, Through shaking cliffs and caverned hills, A requiem to his soul. And dewy stars shall softly bend From their celestial bowers, To greet the meek-eyed spring, that comes To strew his grave with flowers. TUESDAY, JAN. 12. After three weeks, in which we had a cloudless sky and balmy air, the wind has hauled into the southeast, and a gentle rain has commenced falling. Its having crept upon us so softly, is a symptom that it will continue with us some time. The first break of sunshine may be a week hence.