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Orphans C. Kerr's last.[from the N. Y. Sunday Mercury.] Editor T. T.:--Early this morning, my boy, I sauntered across the Long Bridge and took my seat on the topmost rail of a fence enclosing a trampled meadow. There I sat, like Marius, my boy, contemplating the architectural ruin embodied in my gothic steed, Pegasus, and ever and anon whistling abstractedly to my frescoed dog, Bologna. By the gods! I really love these dumb friends of mine. The speculative eye of the world sees in poor Pegasus nothing more than an architectural dream — the church architecture of the future — and I must confess, my boy, that the gothic charger does look something like a skeleton chapel at a distance; it sees in Bologna only a mongrel cur, whose taste for the calves of human legs is an epicurean outrage on walking society. But for me, my boy, there is a human pathos in the patient fidelity of these zoological curiosities which appeals to my best manhood. I have had a hard and thankless li