A iimi am iWKI 1M im t c e r
VOL. 48.
AMERICAN _VOLtJNTEER.
PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY MORNINft BY
JOHN B. BBATXOM.
teems. ;
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and Two Dollars and Fifty Cents, if not
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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<l woman, went on,
“when my heart and Hand wore full of
thoughts and work for John aril the children
—of how I can mnriago ; to save here, and gei
airing without this, anil mike that last beyond
all reason—l- don’t have much time loft to
think about these politics, or anything be
yond this room we live in. But I used to
liave thoughts outside of ,this, about the coun
tries away ' over the sea,” and,the womans
eyes had a far-off, mournfal look in them.—
“In geography, I remember how l liked to
.learn about’em, and-then I thought. may bo
'l’d see all those beautiful things some day ;
you know girls havo trier,- fancies. ' But I vo
given all that up. ’ Tisn’t easy to go ‘woq,d
gathoring’ when I see buri’.s toes coming out
of his stockings, arid John’s mittens needing
a patch! I’m afraid you men don’t , make
hardly allowance enough for us,. always.—
Wo’rc not so strong as you, and .then our work
is different. You are r.ill in the. fresh-air apd
!iii;isliuiJ'.. Imt Khvy.'. / l.wiw> 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 <s of Ely and
Gountoss Desart, witnessed ihe cerem.ony,
from one of the galleries. The mostremarka
ble features of tho proceedings were their ex
treme simplicity and tho entire absence of
pomp or display within tlmchapel.
With scarcely an exception, the mourners
were dressed in black and white cravats*
The procession, was picturesque. Only two
or throe hundred privileged persons were ad
mitted within the Castle walls, while scarcely
one thousand’persons assembled outside.
Prince Arthur was dressed in Highland
costume, and his. tears, and sobs excited the
greatest sympathy., •
.’When,all was over, and the last of tie long,,
lingering train of mourners had departed, the
attendants descended the entrance to tho.
grave with lights, and moved-the.bier i.~u
coffin along tho narrow passage which ic d;
1 to the entrance to tho royal vault. At the mtr
1 tom,of the, grayedown,..which the pier wiw*
J lowered is a stone passage, six loot
broad and shine eight or nine feet high. On
; the right, in a little- niche, stands tho very
' simple machinery used for lowering the- biers,
and a little beyond this, in another niche, a
! row of very tall, black, guunt-looking, two
nrnied wooden candelabra, employed for torch
es when the royal vault itself is opened, lor
some . twelve or fifteen feet beyond this tho
passage'continues, descend’ig, and turning a
little to the loft, till further ingress is cut 'oft
■by two plain, rusty,- wide-harrcd iron gates.
Tliis is tho entrance to the royal vault. It is
difficult without strong lights.to. pierce the
intense gloom which always envelopes this
last resting place of royalty, and even when
its sOmbro contents are.revealed, thorp is, af
ter all, but little to.be see ’. It hi a very
plain, wide, lofty stone vault, with a groined
roof springing from stone colhmns. On cith
er side, supported by these columns, are four
tiers of marble shelves the centre are
throe very wide and mass'ive slabs of marble
raised some.two'feet from the ' gro ind. Ihc
side shelves are destined for tho members of
the royal family—the centre marble biers for,
the coffins of. monarchs only. # . »
As tho light slowl} 7 penetrates this dismal
chamber, two purple” coffins, looking almost
black in the gloom, can bo distinctly seen, at
the farthest end, brightly reflecting-back the
rays of light as the beams fall upon their rich
ly-gilded ornaments, which shine as though
affixed but yesterday. Those* are the coffins
of George HI. and Queen Charlotte. Above
their,heads, but out shining warmly with a
bright crimson glow, are the coffins of three
of their children, who died young. .At their
feet, hut somedistanco apart, and qnitoalono,
lies tho gorgeous coffin of George IV. On
the centre slab, and nearest to the gates, the.
coffins of William IV and Queen Adelaide
rest side hy side, the Queen being on the left.
The light distinctly shows these coffins, and
the velvet is as soft and rich,- and the gilded
plates and handles as bright, as on the day
when they wore first laid there, many years
ago. . Not even dust seems to have soiled their
funeral grandeur; and, except a few stray
bits of gravel on and around the centre plates,
where tho earth was-thrown-at-that solemn
passage which commits tho body to the
ground, and tells how wo are all alike before
tho sight of God, there is nothing to show
that all the remains.had not been carefully
watched and tended since tho day of their
interment,
There arc no coffins on tho right side of the
vault, but on tho left are those of tho Duke of
York, the Duke of Gloucester, the Duke of
Kent, and the Duke of Cambridge. Strange
ly enough, the coffin nearest to the gate is
that of tho Princess of lt is a crimson |
coffin, * close in view, and, like the rest, as,
bright as that which, alas ! has been so lately
laid there, Along tho passage wo have des
cribed, tho bier of tho late Prince was wheel
ed till the foot of tho coffin was at the gates
of tho royal vault. There it remains, though
it was not loft to tho gloom of its dark and
narrow home till, some dear memorials of
love and fond regret from the borcaycd Queen i
and children, whom lie has so untimely left,
wore deposited hy kindred-hands upon too
coffin. Oh Monday, a Queen’s messenger
brought from Osborne to Windsor three MUle
wreaths and a boquet. Ihe . wr “ tl '“ V
simple chaplets of moss and v,ol °^’"‘'V'
white oamelii in the centra, was sent by the
widowodQueon. Betweenthohernldic insignia
these last tributes from hla widow and orphan
daughters were laid upon the coffin, and tho
royal vault was then closed.
Wnir a Western Editor Wants.—-Want
ed at this office, a bulldog, of any color ex
cept pumpkin and milk ; of respectable si ? e.
enub nose, cropped cars, abbreviated contin
uation, and bad disposition—who can come
when called with u raw beefsteak, and will
bite the man who spits tobacco-juice on the
stove, and steals the exchanges.
o*My dear lady, your daughther is lover
ly—a perfect, little pearl.” “And pray, sir,
what am I?" “Oh, you aro the mother o£
pearl 1”
Corrcspoiulonco of tho Volunteer.
ARM! CORRESPONDENCE,
Camp PiERroNT,~YA., Fob. 10,1862. >
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.