A iimi am iWKI 1M im t c e r VOL. 48. AMERICAN _VOLtJNTEER. PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY MORNINft BY JOHN B. BBATXOM. teems. ; Stii)3Ciui’TioM— Ono Dollar and Fifty Cents, paid '"•in advance; Two Dollars if paid within the year ■, and Two Dollars and Fifty Cents, if not the year, These terms will bo rigidly adhered to in every instance. No subscription diaoo ' of tho all arrearages aro paid unless at tlxo p ADVBUTI9EHENTS—Aooompanio^^^ not exceeding ono square, will bo msoj times for Ono Dollar, and twenty- Ibnctli in additional insertion. Those of a greater length in proportion. . _ - .... * . Jon-PniNTiNG-Such as Hand-bills, Posting-bills, Pamphlets, Blanks, Labels, Ac. *o., executed wi accuracy and at the shortest notice. ftortical. wroiEfr Has a neighbor injured you 7 ■ Don't frot— You will yet come off tho best; Ho's tho most to answer for; • Never mind it, lcfc.it rest, Don’t fret. ‘ Has a horrid lie been told ? 7 Don’t, fret—. It will run itself to death. If you will lot it quite alone, It will diofor want of breath ; Don’t fret. . Are' your enemies at work ? . , , .Don’t frot— They can’t injure you a whit; If they find you hoed them net, They will soon bo glad to quit; Don’t frot Is adversity your lot ? Don’t fret—. Fortune’s wheels keep turning rouhd .Every spoke will reach the’ top, • "Which like you is going down,- Don’t fret , . . . THE VOLUNTEER’S BURIAL. BY PAnfC BENJAMIN. >Tis ovo ; one brightly beaming star Shines from the eastern heaven afar, To light the footsteps of the bravo, Slow marching to a comrade’s grave. The northern winds have sunk to sleep; The sweet South breathes, as low and deep. The martial clang is heard, the tread Of those who hear the silent dead. And whoso the form, all stark and cold, Thus ready for flwpbrosencd mould, And stretched upon so rude a bier 7 Thine, soldier, thine ! the Volunteer, , Poor Volunteer! the shot, the blow, ' Of swift disease hath laid him low ; And few his early loss deplore— His battle fobsht, his journey o or. Alas I-no fond wife’s arms oarrossod, His chock no tender mother pressed, No pitying soul 1 was by-his side, 1 As lonely in his timtho died,;;'- Ho died —the Volunteer—at noon; At evening camo tho small platoon That soon will leave him to his rest, With sods upon his manly breast. Hark to thoir flro! his only knoll— More solemn than tho passing bell; Per, ah ! it tells ». spirit, flown, TJnshrivon, to tie dark unknown. ■ His deeds and fate shall fade away. Forgotten ’since his dying day, And never on tho roll of Fame filial! bo inscribed his humble name. AlnsTlike him, how man*- more. - Ido cold upon, Potomac’s sh< 31 How many green unnoted graves Are bordered by those placid waves! Sleep, soldier, sloop ! rom .so.rrow free And sin and strife.- ’Tis well with thee, ’Tis well; though not a single tear laments tho buried Volunteer! ffiwellanfous.' GONE. Edgar Allan Poo thought tho most touch ing of all words, Nevermore; which, in Ameri ca fashion, ho' made one word, America writers do the like with Forever, I tliink with bad effect. Ellesmere, in that most beautiful story of “Gretchen," tells of a sermon he hoard in Germany, in which -“that pathetic word Verloren (lost) occurred many times." Everyone knows what Dr. Johnson wrote about The Last. It is, of course, a question of individual associations, and how it may strike different minds ; but I stand up for the unrivalled reach and pathos of the short word ' There is not very much: difference, yon see, between the three words. All are on the suburbs of the same idea. All convey the idea of a state of matters -which existed for a time, and which is now over. All suggest that tho inmost longing of most human hearts is less for a future, untried ’ happiness, than for a return, a resurrection, beautified and unalloyed with care, of what has already been. Somehow, wo are ready to feel as if wo were safest and surest with that. It is curious, that the saddest and most touching of human thoughts, when wo run it up to its simplest form, is of so homely a thing as a material object existing in a cer tain space, and then removing from that apace to another. That is the essential idea of Gone. . Yet, in the commonest way, there is some thing touching in that; something touching in the sight of vacant space, once filled by almost anything. You feel a blankness in tho landscape when a tree is gone that you have known all your life. You of a vague sense of something lacking when even a post is pulled up that you remember always in the centre of a certain field. You feel this yet more when some familiar piece of furniture is taken away from a room which you know well. Here that clumsy ensy-ohair used to stand: and it is gone. You feel your self an interloper, standing in the space where it stood so long. It -touches you still more to look at the empty chair whioh you remember so often filled by one who will nev er fill it more. You stand in d large railway station; you have come to see a train depart. There is a great bustle on the platform, and there is a groat quantity of human life, and of tho interests and cares of human life; in those twelve or fourteen carriages, and filling that little space between the rails. You stand by and watch the warm interiors of tho carriages, looking so large, and full, and ns if they had so much in them. There are peo ple of every kind of aspect, children and old folks, multitudes of railway rugs,: of carpet lags, of portmanteaus, of parcel,'of newspa pers, of books, of magazines. At length you Lear tho last boll; thou comes that silent, steady pull, which is always striking, though Jo^Totf blank To' are’tho You “an hardly think that there was so much of Ufo, and of the interests of life, in so little room You feel the power upon the average human being of the simple, commonplace fact, that something has been hero, and is Then I go away, in thought* to ascertain pier ; a pier of wooden piles, running two hundred yards into the sea, at a quiet spot on a lovely coast, whore various steam vessels call oh a summer day. You stand at the seaward end of the pier, where it broadens into a considerable platform ; and you look down on the deck of a steamer lying along side. What a bustle ! what a hive of human beings, and their children, and their baggage, their hopes, fears and schemes, fills that space upon the water of a hundred and fifty feet long and twenty, five wide 1 Apd a aeatemng. noise, ioO, or escaping tiUiam him the air 1 Men with baggage dash up against you ; woman vociferate above the roar of the steam ; it is a fragment of the vitality and hurry, of the great city carried for a-little to the quiet country place. ‘But • the last rope is thrown off; the paddles turn ; the steamer is gohe. There is the blank wa ter, churned now into.foam, but in a few'min utes transparent green, showing the wooden piles, encrusted with shells, and with weeds that wave about below the surface. There you stand, and look vaguly and think vaguly., it is a curious feeling.' It is a feeling you do not understand except bjr experience. And to n thoughtful, person a .thing does not be come commonplace it is repeated hundreds of thousands of times. Inhere is something strange and something touch ing about eyetii a ■ steamboat going away from a pier at which a dozen call every day. But you-sit upon the pier, you saunter op en the'beach, you read the newspapers; you enjoy the sense of rest. ' ‘ The day wears away, and in the evening the steamboat comes back again. It has travelled scores of miles, and carried many persons through ninny scones, while you were resting and idling through these hours; and the’feeling you had when it was gone is effaced by its return. The go ing away is neutralized by the coming back. And to understand the full force of Gone .in' such a case, you must see a ship go, and see its vacant space when it. is gone, when it goes away for a long time, and takes some with it who go for .ever. Perhaps 'you know by_ ex perience what a clicking sensation there is in looking at an emigrant vessel clearing out, even though you have no personal interest in any one on board. I have seen ,such a ship depart on her long voyage. I remember the confjjsion and hurry that attended* her de parture ; the crowded deck, thronged with old and’young; gray-beaded men .bidding farewell to their native land.; hud little chil dren-who would carry but dim renienibrahoes of Britain to the distant 'Australian shore.— And who that has witnessed such a. scene can forgot how, when the canvas was;spread at length, and the. last rope castoff, {lie out burst of sobs and weeping that arose as the great ship solemnly passed away ? You could see that many who parted there, had not un derstood what parting moans till they, were in the act of going.' You could-see that the old parents-who were willing, they thought, to part from their boy, because they thought his chances in life were so much better in . the new country, had not quite tclt.what part ing from hini was, till ho was gone. Have you,ever been onoofalargo gay par ty who have made an excursion to some beau tiful scone, and had. a picnic festival? Mot that such festivals are much to be approved ; at least to spots oF.vcry noble scenery. Teh no ble scenery is vulgarized by them. There is an inconsistency in seekingoutaspotwhioh ought to awe-strike, merely to make it a theatre for eat ing and drinking, for stupid .joking, and laugh ter. No ; let Smalltalk be manufactured somewhere else. And the influence of the lonely place is lost, its spirit is nnfolt, unless yoii go alone, or go with very few, and those not boisterously merry. But lot us accept the picnic as a’ fact. It has been, and the partv has been very large and very, lively.— But go back to the place after the party is gone ; go back a minute after for something forgotten ; go back a month nr a year after What a little spot it is that you occupied, and how blank it looks ! The place remains, but the people are gone ; and wo so lean to our kind, that the place alone occupies but a very little part in our recollection of any pas sage in our history in which there were both scenery and human life. Or go back after several years to the house where you and your brothers and sisters were children to gether, and you will wonder to find how small and how blank it will look; It, will touch you, and perhaps deeply; but'still you will discern that not places, but persons, are the true objects of human affection ; and you wilt think what a small space of material ground may be the scene of what are to you great hu man events and interests. It is so with mat ters on a grander scale. How little a space was ancient Greece —how little a space the Holy Land! Strip those of their history and their associations, and they are insignificant. And history and associations are invisible ; and, at the first glimpse of the place without them the place looks poor. Let the little child die that was the light and a hope of a great dwelling, and you will understand the truth of the poet’s reflection on the loss of his : ’Twas strango that such a little thing Should leave a blank so largo 1 There is no place perhaps where you have such a feeling of blankness when life has gone from it as in a church. It is less so, if the church be a very grand one, which com pels you to attend to itself a good deal, oven while tho congregation is assembled. But if the church bo simple one, and tho congre gation a very largo one, crowding the simple church, you hardly know it again when the congregation is gone. You could not believe that such a vast number of human beings could have been gathered in it. The place is unchanged yet it is quite different. It is a curious feeling to look at the empty pulpit where a very groat preacher once was. accustom ed, to poach. Itis especially so if it be thirty years since he used to preach there ; more so, if it bo many centuries. I have often looked at the pulpit whence Chalmers proaehed in the zenith of his frame;-you can no more bring up again tho excited throng that sur rounded it, and the rush of the great orator’s eloquence, than when standing under a groat oak in December you can call up plainly what it looked in June. And far less, stand ing under the dome of St. Sophia,.could one recall as a present reality, or as anything but a dreamy fancy, tho aspect and the olo .queues of Chrysostom, ages since gone. Tho feeling of blankness, whioh is the es sential thing contained in the idea suggested by tho word Gone, is ono that 'touches us very nearly. It seems to get closer tons than even positive evil or suffering present with ils. That fixes out attention ;it arouses lis; and unless we be very weak indeed, awakens ] something of resistance. But in the other i ease, the mind is not stimulated ; itis rescep- i tivonot, active; and we muse and feel;vacantly, ■ in the thought of something gone. You aro, i let us suppose, a country parson; you take i yonr wife and children over to your railway i station, and you sbothem away to theseasido, i whither you,are not to fellow for a fortnight; i then you come back from the raihvaystation, i and youireach home. The house is quite ] changed. How startingly quiet it is! You i go to the nursery, usually a noisy place; you i feel the silence. There are the pictures on the walla ; there the little chairs ; there i is some flowers,still quite fresh lying upon a ta- i hie, laid down by little hands. Gono 1. There i something sad in it, even with the certainty ; of soon meeting again—that is, so far as there is certainty in this world. -You can imagine, distantly, what it would bo if the little things woro.'gone, hot to return. - That is the consumate. AH who have heard it know the . Highland emigrant leaving his hills. You would not laugh at the bagpipes, if you heard their wild, walling tones, blending with broken voices joining in that “ Maerim mon’s Lament,” whose perpetual refrain is just. the statement of that consumate Gono. 'I shall not write, the Gaelic words, because you could not pronounce them ; but the re frain is' this; “Wo return, we return no more!” Yds; Gone for ever 1 And all to make room for deerl There was a man whoso lit-. tlo boy died. The father boro up wonderful ly., But on the funeral day, after the little child was laid downtq-jua long rest, the fath er went out to walk in the'garden. There, in a corner, was the small wheelbarrow with its wooden spade; and the footprints in the earth left by the little feet that were gone! You do hot think the less of the strong man that at the sight he wept aloud; wept, as Some One Else had wept before him. loti nay remember, that little poem of Longfel low’s, in which ho tells of a man, still young, who once had a wife and child ; but wife and child were dead; There is no pathos like that of homely fact, which may witness every day. They were gone; and after those years in their company, he was left alone. He walked about the world, with no one to care for huh now, as they had cared. The life with thdm would seciu.like a dream, even if it had last ed-for years. And all tho sader that so much of life might yet have to conic. _ I do not mind, about an old.bachelor,.in his solitary room. I think of the kind-hearted man sit ting in the eveoing in his chair by the fire side ; once, when he sat down there, little pattering feet were about him, and their lit tle owners climbed upon his knee, Now, ho may sit, long enough, and no one will inter rupt him. Ho may read his newspaper un-i disturbed. He may write his sermon, and no sly knock come to the door ; no little dog walk in, with much barking quite unlike that of common bogs, and ask for. a. ; ,,penny. [ 1301161 I remember,Long ago, reading a poem , called the “ Scottish'Widow's Lament,” writ ten by some nameless poct.‘ 3ho widow hud 1 a . husband and two little children, but one . bleak winter they all went together: I cttlc while? to spiir, ,• But wee, wee putterin’ feefc, Como nmnin’ out and in,' And then E just, maun greet 1 ken it’s fancy a’/. And faster 'flow's tho tear, That my a’ divined a.wa’, • -Sin the’ fa’ o’ the year. You have said good-bye to n dear friend wlib has stayed a few days with you,, and whom you will not see again for long; and you have, for a while, felt tho house very blank without him. Did you ever think how the 'house ■ would, seem, without yourself? Have you fancied yourself gono; -and the place, blank of that figure you know? When I am gone ; lot us not say these words, un less seriously; they express what is, to each of us, the- most serious of all facts., The !‘ May Queen” lias few lines which touch me more than these ;. For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effio dear; * I saw you sitting in tho house, aud I no longer here Lord Macaulay, a.few years before ho died, had something presented to him at a groat public meeting in Scotland; something which pleased him milch. “ I shall treasure it,” ho said, “ as long as I live ; and after I am gone—" There the great man’s voice falto.- ed*, and the sentence remained unfinished. Yet the thought at which Macaulay broke down may touch many a lesser man mure, Eor when wo are gone, ray friends, we may leave behind us those who cannot well spare us. It is not for one’s own sake, that tlie Gone, so linked with one’s own name touches so much.. Wo have had enough of this world before very long ; and (as Uncle Tom ex pressed it) “ Ilpavon is better than Kcutuek.” But we can think of some, for whose sake wo may wish to put off our going as long as may ■bo. “Our minister,” said a Scotch rustic. “ aye preaches abopt goiii’ to heaven ; but he’ll never go to heaven as lung as ho cun got stoppin’ at Drumsleokio.” No doubt, that, fit of toothache may be gone ; or that unwelcome guest who stayed with you three weeks whether you would or not; as well as .the thing or the friend you most value. And there is the auctioneer’s Going, Going, as well as this July sun going down in glory. But I defy you to vulgarize the word, 'f he water whioh makes the At lantic will always be- a sublime sight, though you may have a little of it in a dirty puddle. And though tho stupid boro who comes when you are busy, and wastes your time, may tell you when you happily get rid of him, that he will often come back again to see you, igno rant. that you instantly direct your servant never to admit him more, oven that cannot detract from the beauty of Mr. Tennyson a linos, in which tho dying girl, ns she is going, tolls her mother that after she is gone, she will (if it may be) often come back ; If I can I’ll oouio again, mother, from out my rest ting-nluco. , , n . , Though you'll not soo roo, mother, I shall look undn your face \ ' Though spoak a word, 1 shall hearken what you say, ' Ami bo often, often with you, when you think I m •far away. A llabp Fever and a Tough Storv.— An emphatic friond of ours in describing an at tack of fever, said: The cold stage was so violent as to shako off the plastering of the room ■ tha hot stage so intense that the laths took fire, and he should certainly have perish ed in the flames, bad not tho profuse perspi ration which followed extinguished tho fire, and saved himself aud tho house from entire destruction. j®*Lndlos'who hove a disposition to pun ish their husbands should recollect that a lit tle warm sunshine will molt an icicle much sooner than a regular north-easter. rNXRY—MAY IT ALWAYS BE BIG! CARLISLE, PA., THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 13, 1862. TBE HOME LIFE OF A WOMAN, "A woman's work is flever done,” said Mrs, Brown, ns sho brought a chair from the rank file against the wall, And offered it to her neighbor, Mr. Jones. Hi performing this hos pitable notion, Mrs. Br6wn called the ghost of a smile to her face, and in the care-worn features could be seen signs of beauty and ■sweetness that time and trouble were stealing from her. She resumed-her seat, and while rocking the cradle, wearily proceeded to pare, quarter and core the apples in the pan beside her, while sho discoursed! in this wise to the strong, hearty looking farmer who sal oppo site. ■ v.-.. ■ . . “No,'Jfthn isn’t in, Mr. Jones. He’s gone to the village to hear about secession—some thing or other. .1 oan’-tJteop track of it, I’m so hurried and tired. ‘ Tugged with fortune and wearied with disaster,’ as my mother used to say.” . . “You mean to say you Ain’t any patriotism; don’t care what.those rascally tire-eaters do, anyhow, I suppose; little.odds to you wheth er Major Anderson holds or nob” Mr. way, ■ v “Now, look here, neighbor,” and into Sirs. Brown’s pale cheek a faint crimson crept and wavered uncertainly, then' stationed itself in the accustomed place. .“.Look here, neighbor, you know that hen of ourk—that speckled one, that’s so famous for 'raising chickens ?—you know how she worries about’em, and cluks arid scratches, and wdtehos for ’em, and gets poor and fretted like, so.she’s nothing at lust but a bundle of holies and feathers—but the chickens coino/.through all right—fat, and plump, and bright-eyed. /.You know old Fuss —that’s the name John gave her—never minds wliat she cats, or liow'hoavy the rain pelts down upon her, and; isn’t afraid of any thingfor the chickens’ sake. Well, somehow, I think I am like the poor bid hen.” Mrs. Brown, dropped the knife and bent over the cradle a moment, It armor Jones didn’t notice the tears that fell upon the baby’s cheek. “You - ee -neighbor,” - J,h r-c-l-ri"’- w have* much change, ri v. -go to market, pad | haul wood and straw, and -.meet your neigh bors and,have a pleasant word with them, but wo see the same thing day after day,, and got lonesome sometimes, and wonder why we were put into such kind of lives ns these.” “Then'it’s trying to a woman’s nerves— ' the kind of wort she has to do. ’Tisu’t like plowing, and sowing, arid driving horses.; that’s heavy, work, to be sure, but then you’re strong to do’u. But we have particular, care-, ful work. Now, there-is bread making—you don’t know how much worry there is about it. You must'take so much into the account, tlio kind of flour, the kind, of wood you have to make your fire, the yeast: all these lire chang ing, and you must - make allowances for this. You must lot the bread rise just so fix tlio dampers just right, arid handle it so careful, V.'riy, Hr. 1) —i —told mo that it’s like managing chemicals; anil ho s.iid men that had to work -with chemicals were trio must pervious kind, because they were al ways so. full of thoughts -and care. Then -there's preserves, and pickles, and citkes and coffee.. You don’t know anything about the care and trouble it i-i to got them up so nice, when you sit dmvn to eat the light,, crisp pas try and drink the coffee, creamed to the color that suits you. You don’t Know how tiresome it is to feel so much care always pn you, nor how much patience and watching it takes, before a turkey to roast is ‘done to a turn.’” Mr. Jones looked steadily at his neighbor while she talked. She paused a moment to replenish trickfiro.. He sat in n kind of iriaite, without offering her any assistance. Finding he did not speak, she continued: “And so you see, with all these tilings, I don’t think much about what’s goins on out side, that you and.Johri talk about, though I often wish I.could. And I think, somehow, I’m like our old hen, T spoke of. for I don’t mind much about myself. I see, that I’m get ting to stoop more every year, and there lire gray hairs en my temples, though I’m not thirty yet. Tho.wrinkles are so plain, ton, on my forehead. I’m sorry; John thought I was pretty years ago. I remember how straight and slim I used to he, ar.il had nice brown hair and red .checks. Dear me ! there hasn't been a hit of aider in them for years, John is always good and kind, but ho don’t know how worried I get, most every day, and when I apeak short and fretful sometimes, he Ipoks surprised and says, ‘What! Mary, is it you speaking in such a voice as that?”’ Mr, Jones looked up in a wondering sort of way. “Why, I never thought ofthis before,” lie said. “I thought womans work wasn’t much any way. Butl see you’re right, Ac cording to your strength, you have the hard est time. We work hard thou, as you say, we’re stronger, and have more variety ; then at evening wo rest. I’m glad you spoke so, Mrs. Brown. I’ll 1)3 more considerate toward the woman. I’d advise you to keep a hired girl, only they’re such cross, vexing things.” “No, I don’t think so," Mrs. Brown replied. “Hired girls are abused, too. They have the same troubles that I havo, almost. No won der they complain sometimes, who have cause always; We ought to bo sorry for them, and remember their troubles. And then, John can’t afford to keep a girl; I wouldn’t let him. No, there’s no way for me but to keep working and worrying till I can’t do any more, and then they'll lay me away whore it is quiet, and I shall rest. But” and her eyes grew bright, “my children gill grow up tall and strong, and if life goes to nourish theirs, I suppose it's all the same. And yet 1 sometimes wish my life had been a bright er one.” 1 A rough hand foil on the woman s head, but its touch was gentle as her mother s might have been ; a firm manly voice said: “Your life shall he a bright one, Mary. God help mo make it so." > She turned quickly, exclaiming m her sad, sweet voice— I “John, John!” assy In whatever shape evil comes, wo are „ptto«staim with Hamlet “ take any ehapo jjut that!" -BDT, RIGHT OR WRONi BURIAL AND BURIAL PLACE OF PRINCE AL- BERT. Wo take the following interesting details from late English papers, relating to the bu rial of Prince Albert’s remains in St. George’s Chapel, Windsor: “ The opening sentences of the burial ser vice having been sung by the choir, and Mar tin Luther’s hymn having also been sung with great effect, the corpse was lowered into the royal vault, and the Very Rev. the Dean, read the remainder of the service. . Garter King of Arms having proclaimed the stylo of his late. Royal Highness, the procession moved out of the chapel, Dr. Elvy, who presided at the or gan, playing ‘1 The Dead March,” in “ Saul.” The Globe a.iys:, “Theservice was verygrand and impressive. Lord Palmerston and the Duke of Cambridge were not present. The Prince® of Wales boro the ceremony with great fortitude, whilst Prince Arthur cried and sobbed bitterly. The Prince of Prussia was also much moved.” ; t At five minutes to one the coffin was lower ed, into the vault amid the deep and silent of "all {ireseht. Minute guHr*wcrjr fired during the whole of the ceremony, which concluded at ten minutes after one. | . The following is from the Express : “ The chief mourner,, the Prince of Wales and Prince Arthur, the sons, the Prince of Prus sia, the, son-in-law of the deceased Prince, were the objects of sympathy to all.. Thoy went through thq'trying sceno with as muca composure and resolution as was possible un- j der the circumstances ;"but neither rank nor pomp gives any exemption from the sorrows that attend upon the bursting asunder of the sweetest and tenderost of human ties, and this fooling was quite manifest as the remains of the late Prince were lowered into the royal The Duke of Saxe-.Cohurg has left for Os borne. His feelings of grief during the cere mony were most intense, and tho Prince of Hesse wasmlao deeply affected. The Prince of Whies remains at Windsor. The* Duchesses of Sutherland, Bnccleuch and Wellington, tho Marchiorc Company H. Ist Beo; P. B-. V, Corps. ) Friend Bratton: Being at leisure, I thought I would pen a few lines for your paper, which I receive once a-wqok. I assure you it is an ever welcome visitor. I propose to give you a brief sketch of the duties and life of a sol dier in this so-called “ sacred soil ”, of Vir ginia. I, for my part, think it not worthy tho title of “ saered soil,” ns it is tho most God forsaken country over mortal man cast an eye upon. AVo have nothing but rain; snow and mud ; tho roads have become almost Impassi ble, and no prospect of .a change soon. Wo have not been able to drill any for some time on account of tho mud, but guard and picket duties must be performed, without regard to weather. It became our lot to go on picket on tho 30th ult., and it was almost an impos filiiilitv to mt.init.to .Qur picket.lino:!, as tho mud was fVom ten tp twenty inches docp; and still raining. So .there is .no telling what depth it may attain. Our men aro all Well and in the best of spirits, and only waiting for the order to advance. We all place the utmost confidence in Con. McClellan. If the few rampant Abolition-, ists in Congress were sunk to the bottom of ■the Potomac, I think it would be a God-sond to bur country, as thoir whole theme appears to be the “ everlasting negro.” Wo did not volunteer to fight for or against slavery, but for the Constitution! tho Stars and Stripes. We had quite an exciting time, ft. few days since. It osras caused by ft sword presenta tion to our worthy Col., B. Bipble. by the non-commissioned officers nnd privates of our regiment. Col. Bobeuts gave us quite a treat by the way of a speech, Which ho is always able and willing to do, and is highly esteemed by bis regiment. Yours, &c, Human Life.—" Men seldom think of the’ great .event of death' until the s.hadbws fiill across thoir own path, hiding forever from their eyes the-traces of loved ones whoso, hv insmiles "were the sunlight qf thoir exist, •ence. Death is the great antagonist of life, and the cold thought of tho tomb is the skel eton of all feasts. We do not want to go through the dark valley, although its passage may lead to paradise; and with Charles Lamb, we do not Want to lie down in tho niuddy -grave, even with kings and prlnoes for our bod-folloWs. Bat tho fit of nature Is inexor able. There is no appeal from tho great law Which dooms us to dust, .Wb flourish and we fade as the loaves of tho.foreat; aud the flow ers that bloom ami wither in a day have not a frailer hope upon life than the mightiest mon arch that ever shook the earth with his foot steps. Generations of men appear and ish us the grass, and the countless multitude ' which'fills'the world to-day, will, to-morrow disappear os tho 'footstops on tho shore,” Not Lost. —A gentleman, whose house was repairing, wont one day to see bow the Job was getting on, and observing a number of nails lying about, said to this carpenter oriiployed on the work : “Wliy don’t you take care of,these nails ? they’ll Certainly ho lost.” “No,” replied the carpenter, “you’ll find them in tho bill.” , jgy “ I don’t miss my church as much ns you may suppose,” said a lady to her minister, who called on her during her illness ; “ for I make Betsy sit at the window as soon .ns the bells begin to chime, nnd she tells mo who are going to cbureli and whether they have got anything new on.” . . • o*An odd sort of a genius, having step ped into a mill, was looking with apparent astonishment at the movement of tho iqaehlnc, when the miller, thinking to quiz him, asked if he bad board the news. “ Not’s I know on, what is it?” “Why.” replied the miller, ■' they say the devil is dead.” “By jinks.” says Jonathan, is ho? Who tends tho mill ?” OCT’A pair of stockings sent by the ladies’ committee for tho use of some gallant volun teer, was accompanied by the following verso: Bravo sonhy, on your lonely licat, May those blue stackings warm your frot; Ami when from war iiml caiups you part, May some fair knitter warm your heart. (JT’As I was going, said an Irishman, “over the bridge'tho other day, I met Pat Hewings ; says I, ‘ How aro you ?’ ‘ Pretty well, I thank you, Dolly, says ho; says 1, ‘ that’s not my name,’ * Faith, no moro is mine Hewings,’ says ho f So wo looked’at each other, and faith it turned out to bo neith er of us 1 " ESylt is related of the great artist Foussiq, that being shown a picture by a person of rank, ho remarked, “ You only want a little poverty, sir, to make you a good painter.” 07“ A pleasant, cheerful wife is a rainbow set in the sky, when her husband’s ipind is tossed witli storms and tempests. D 3" The old adage, “ that you should not count your chickens before they are hatched, has boon rendered by a professor of etiquette: "The producers of poultry should postpone the census of their juvenile fowl, until the period of incubation is fully .accomplished. IlSyTlio Spaniards do not pay hyperboli cal compliments; hut one of their .ulh,.red writers, speaking of a lady s black eyes says “ they wore in mourning for tlm murders they had committed," n-~r- Those only deserve a monument, whose virtues and noble deeds have been so imper isbably engraved upon the memories of their fellow men, ns not to require one, clergyman consoling a young widow on the death of her husband, remarked that she could not find his equal. “ I’ll bet I will!’’ remarked the sobbing fair one. (£7”An Irishman at work on a stone wall, caught a small spotted animal which ho look to be some neighbor's kitten; but dropping her almost instantly, lie .clapped' both his bauds to his nose, and exclaimed, ‘ llowly mother 1 what has she been ailing ?” Top and Bottom. —“ Is tboro much water in tho cistern, Biddy?” inquired a gentle man of his servant-girl, as sbo eamo up from the kitchen. “It is full on the bottom, sir, but tboro’s none at all on the top,” was tho reply. [From Uio N.'T, Post.] . ■ ' Gifts to the Government from Siam add Ja-. Washington, January 26*1852,' Upon the occasion of the ratification of the ■ late treaty with the King of Siam, his Majes ty forwarded to the government of the United States the following, presents, which arrived last vreek 5 A genuine Damascus bladod sword, mount-, ed in solid gold, and exquisUively wrought with the order of the Tower and the Elephant (the Siamese coat of arms). The scabbard la also of gold.as are thebuoklos and fastenings, rarely and curiously chased. Two enormous elephant-tusks. Two letters upon guilt paper enclosed in sandal-wood boxes, enveloped in goldon brocade bugs ex pressing royal good will is truly oriental stylo to the President and people of the United States. With the foregoing present came a shabby daguerreotype of Siam, seated. 'With all the trappings of barbaric royalty in the way of gold and jewels, and holding his m fftnf’son and heir-apparent in his lap. The Prince wears‘a look of sulky am* : iyerfa"upon crown, the. emblem, of his future power, Taken all in all, the picture is a most interest ing specimen of the slow progress of art in the East, and ought to engraved, to proi ■ serve its unique characteristics.; . ’ JAPANESE, PRESENTS, pivo wagons loads of Japanese presents reached the White House a few days before the gifts trom Siam. Ainong the collcctiqn is a punch bowl, three inches thick, of fine enamelled blue porcelain, covered with white storks in relief, and also ornamented with branches of snowy almond flqwqrs, : TM following gifts wore also sent i ' •. Two gigantic hluc-Rnd-whito vases for hold ing. orange trees ; four oblong vases of the same color and enormous proportions, for flowering plants; tvfo great candlesticks of light-blue porcelain, some five feet high, .with . golden sockets, delicately arcbesqued in flow ing figures ; two pagoda open-worked vases of porcelain, surmounted by caps uf lacquer, amt porcelain most curiously wrought, .for perfume and flowers J one lacquer howl of great size, .adorned With peacocks in gut; a complete dinner set of porcelain, covered with figures and scrolls, upon.wliioharo writ, ton the proverbs of the wise spiritual emper ors of Japan w'l|Q have reigned in centuries past j two delicate antique bowls of porcelain with lacquer stands, covered with a coat of arms of reigning princes. bronze vases, {sculptured with the tortoise and the dragon in hold relief, and gorgeously gilded, togeth, or with blocks of the finest crystal from tha sacred mountain, Pusiyanima. A complete suit of armor worthy a knight of.the days of Richard Goeur de Lion, with scores of pieces 1 of brocade. silk, and drapery of every variety of texture and pattorn, make up this truly 1 imperial present from the Tycoon. A letter sent in a yellow silk bag contains a list of the articles, and assurances of the continued re, ’ gard of that exalted official.' It is Imped that' the people will soon have . an opportunity of viewing these splendid ar . tides at .the Patent Office, whore the valuable i -Washington relics lately discovered at Arlingi ton House liavo keen admirably arranged by Caleb Lyon, and daily attracts hundreds of visitors. If wo except the autographic me morials of Washington, those household trea, sores from the most complete and ipipressiva collection extant. They are very properly exposed in a separate case, placed iii u .proii|ir nortt position near to the panp and sword of Washington. Macs, IC7” If. you purchase .friends by gifts, you will lose them when you cease to giye. BT7” Dr. Franklin used to say that rich widows ore the only piece of second-hand goods that soil at prime cost. DC?’Wordsworth cautions a studisous friend against “growing double,” but tKe.girls think it is the best thing a nice young man can do. Bgy* The first of all virtue is innocence ; the second is modesty; and neither without being quickly followed by the other; O” There arc groat men enough to incite, us to aim at true greatness, but not enough to make us fancy that God could not execute his purposes without them Bgy Married life often begins with lOßl wood aud ends with pine. Think of that, my dear, before you furnish, your parlors. - HSrGoil's mercies are like a largo chain, every link leads to another, present mercies assure you of future ones.. B®“What is the difference between John Ilecnan and a man with a cold in his head ? Because the one blows his nose, and the other knows his blows. When some people moke a great deal of you —you may be sure they moan to make a deal out of you. [C?* Vf ii at proof have wo that Noah navi gated an American river ? Because he was,on the Ark-aaJrsaw (Arkansas.) BSJylf all our faults, or little tricks, our pretty cozonings, our bn poop moods with truth anil justice, could ho sent upon us in the blankets, all embodied in fleas, how many of us with liliy skins would got up spotted scurlct. DCr - Nothing is nobler than tho aristocracy instituted by God; few things are poorer than that set up by men. K7* The monument of the greatest should hs hutalmstand annum. Iftho name isjnsuffir cieut to illustrate the bust, lot both perish. A Kind Hearted Wife once waited on a physician to request him to proscribe for her iuisbniids’s eyes, which wove sore, “ Lot him wash them every morning with brandy,” said tho doctor. A few weeks after the doctor chanced to moot tho wife. “Well, has your husband followed my advice?” “He has done everything in bis power to do it, doctor, but ho never could got tho brandy higher than his mouth.” A Mr. Ilenn has started a now paper in lowa, lie says ho hopes, by hard scratch* ing, to make a living for himsolf and his lit tle chickens. Bgy ‘‘Mother, the end of the world is com ing?” “What makes you think so, child?" ‘‘Cos them trowsors what you said ud never wear out has a farin’ big bole in ’em." jjgy-A man may suffer without sinning; but a man cannot sin without suffering. jjgy There is more evil in a drop of coyrup • ipn than there is in a sea of affliction,- NO. 36.