pOLLAFt PER ANNUM INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE. TOWANDA: Tborsday Morning, November 27,1862. Jklectel) jpoetrn. j UNDER THE SUN. There are little birds in Hie *ycam >re trees, Toiling ml singing the whole day long I Working with gladness while daylight lasts ; Cheering their labor with merry song. There arc green fields waving in v ind and rain. Telling 't labor yet to be d me. When the grain shall be ripened and gathered in— A golden harvest—under the sun. Under its banks, to the restless sea Floweth the river all clear and bright; Kissing the flowers which grow in its path ; Dancing along through the pleasant light; Rocking the boats on its bosom broad, As iuto the harbor they gladly run ; Gleaming and sparkling as to the sea It floweth forever down, under the sun. There are great hearts sighing tor honor and fame, Chasing a phantom, which seems to staud Ever before them in mockery fair, Holding a crown in its outstretched hand. There are prisons, with windows and doors all barred Making dark shadows that all men sh in, While the prisoners, chained in their dreary cells, Drea 11 of the freedom out under t'ue sun. Under the sun there are lovers, still Dreaming the dream that cau never grow old ; Treasuring tresscsj of wavy hair, Brighter and dearer than wealth untold ; Seeing forever but one dear face — Hearing lorever no voice save one. So dream the lovers, that same old dream, Making a heaven down under the sun. Little feet wearied before the time : Little hauds folded upon the breast ; Bright eyes closed ere the sad tears came, So go the little ones unto their rest. Old men laying their strong staff down, Close their eyes on the race all ruu. Death is an angel, that leads the way Oat of the shadow under the sun. Grave-yards spread over hill and dale, Graves far down in the deep blue sea. Tell where our hopes and our joys lie hid, Safe in the depths ot eternity. Bat whether the flowers bloom over their graves, Or the waves sing over the treasures won, Their angels look out from the heavens above, And watch those who love them down uuder the sun There are pain and labor, and sin and woe, Like dark clouds hovering over the way, With hope and happinssshining through all, The sunshine making the pleasaut day. But a time will come when the cares shall cease, When we weep no more—but with work all done, Fuld gladly our hands o'er our quiet hearts. And re*i from all murmuring under the sun. IPisttllaittoHs. ONLY AN EPISODE. FROM the time that John Emerson first cam -to the Valley Home, I noticed that a gradual change came over me. I grew more thoughtful. My life seemed to be opening to a more earnest beauty. There was a regret fulntss fur that which was past, a restless..e*s in the present, and a longing for a sweeter fulfilment of tne future. Why this was so. I could not tell. Mr Emerson was nothing to me. 1 did not love biui ; 1 ilo not know that I even admired biro. Teere was little ufluity between us.— He was cairn, stern, res< rved, and at times, when he provoked me iiy In* words or actions, proud, arrogant, and prestmilive. lie was too deep for me ; too deep in leorn iasr, and too de. pin observation. In contrast with myself, these traits and qualities were I especially prominent. I was wild, giddy, thoughtb-s. ; eonpbd with these indolence, and a dt*hke to study, and the every day act utilities of nfe, and you can make a fair esti Elate of my character. 1 knew that I was beautiful ; tint f am nappy to say that, with this consciousness there was i.o vanity. My beauty was of a peeuliai style ; fresh, piquant, consisting of combination, or at lea*t a beauty not to be subjected to individiiaiistD. Mr. E tnerson, on the contrary, was not handsome. True, he was well formed, and graceful in hi movements, but his face had nothing attractive about it. 11 is lips bespoke too much determination for mr, and there si-eineii to he something so patronizing about his smile, thai I hked him less when he smiled His nose was large, yet corresponding with 811 'ton mouth like his will, while his eyes were cold and stern, rarely softening. They would look inio your faee as though it were 8 page of some antiquated volume, only deep etiiug in tneir color when a true or beautiful f.ntinieiit. was expressed I often thought that I hated Emerson. — He was a sort of shadow resting on niy buoy Eiiev. The cold, positive mesmerism of his chmacter was driving me to the wall Jt. re pelled, and it attracted me by turns, and ut i could ).ot tell whetiier 1 loved or hated jm very much. He made no advances of love mward me ; he did not even seem to wish to strengthen our friendship. There was noth '•t.g about me for him to love, except my beau ty- And what was beauty to John Emerson? A wivathe -of smoke, a mist of vapor ; he re cognized no beauty beyond the beauty oFthe soul. i was sitting listlessly on the verandah one j had never felt so dissatisfied with in my life, as I did just then • and, as * consequence, I was dissatisfied with every thing around me. I felt peevish and fretful "~" ll i a mood to quarrel with any one, but es pecially with Emerson. He was sitting a short distance from me, *'th his chair leaning back against the rail- With him this was a favorite way of * ,l !'ng. He had been reading, but as the flight deepened, he closed the book, and ,J oked over to where I sat. A minute after he drew his chair uear to me, and said 10 his quiet way : What'g the matter, Kate ? Yoa seem THE BRADFORD REPORTER. sad ; nay, what is worse, discontented. ! You ! an in no mood to appreciate yonder beauli-' ; ful sunset. Look ! Let some of its gorgeous ne.-s drop into your love and—" " I would prefer, sir, to have you drop the | conversation," I interrupted ciustily. j Emerson srnihd one of those abominable | patronizing smiles I "J do not choose to drop it, ma belle," he said quietly. " Thank Heaven, I have an alternative i j then. Good evening, sir." 1 arose, und gathered up my dress to de-! j part. " You are not going, Kate ! Don't spoil your pretty fuce with that look QI scoru. — You must s.t down and hear me out." " Must ! Did I hear right ?" '* Yes, must I said it Very plaiuly." I guzed at him with passion ; and yet his calm, brown eves seemed to draw ttie tire out of my own. Before 1 was aware of it, I was silting down again. I could hardly account j for ttie fact, and so bit my lip* in vexation. I " That's right, Kate 1 knew you would f not go Yo; anticipate a lecture, eh ?" " I do not recognize your right to lecture ! me. You are nothing to me. I am getting to ha'e you tuo-e and more every day." " Oil, no ; you don't hate me one hit, ' Kate. Besides, I wouldn't care if you did.— i (The presumptive fellow!) Your love of j your hatred is nothing to me. (Worse still !) As you anticipated a lecture, you sliull not be disappointed. I have some UDpleasaut truths j to tell you " " Unpleasant to you, or to me ?" " Unpleasant to both of us, Kate. Do you know that you are not living up to the gran dure o: tour estate ; to the fulfilment of your destiny ! Some of your most glorious powers are rusting, absolutely rusting lor the want of exercise. This inactivity is warping your soul. You are growing dissatisfied with your | own indolence. Why don't you shake this I off ? Why don't you try to be somebody to j benefit yourself and the work! around you ?! Positively, such a drone as you-are should! blush for shame." 44 You, in turn, Mr. Emerson, should blush for your impudence. Your conduct is out- | rugcous." " I am not done yet, Kate. Your indolence has become the subject of remark. You 101 l around, employing ueitheryoor head or hands j You do not even seem to be capable of any noble emotions—and above all, you nre ex treuiely selfish Why, compared with the j plow-boy now coming whistling down the ! lane, you sink iuto the most abject picture of imbecility.', 1 sprang to ray feet. I was very angry. " Mr. Emerson," I said, " you can lay no claim to the title of a gentleman. To such j nsiiits 1 will not submit. I shall never allow a repetition of them ; and I wish you hereaf- [ ter, to address no reiuuiks to uie whatever. 1 hate you." I swept past him—down the steps and on • to the verandah. Glancing furtively hack, 1 saw that he was leaning against one of the ; pillars, shading his face with hi* hands. At the garden gate I met a little boy. lie j was the only child of a widow lady who lived j a short distance up the road. " Miss Crawford," said he, " can I have some flowers for ma !'' " Certainly, child. I will help you to gath er them Is your mother sick ?" " Yes, ma'am ; she is very lonesome.— Won't you come up and see her ?'' " Yes, I will, Eddy. I shall go with you right away." The little fellow caught my hand, and a joyous light shone in his eyes. For two hours I sat. by the bedside of Mrs Ot'incs. The liitti rne.-s had all gone out of ID v heart. 1 almost ngretted having sp'ken to Mr. E mrrson as I did. During her loi.g illness 1 was a constant v sitor, and when '1 ny laid iter in the quiet grve, much of her pa tience, and her strong christian faith had pass ed over me as an inheritance for my watch ' "'h r - I took the little orphan home vvtTh me. I became deeply interested in him, und in en deavoting to beautify his life, I beautified my own. 1 surrounded myself with every day ac tualities ; I stored my mind : 1 schooled my 1 temper ; I labored with my hand* ; and the I quietness in my soul was tny bountiful reward. ■ Months passed on. Mr. Emerson noticed ' the change in me. lie did not speak to me at all ; but whenever I met him, there was a kindlier glow in his eyes. One day I came i up to bun, and laying my hand on his shouider ' said, f "John, yon may speak to me again. You ' may say anything you p.ease to me." Mr. Emerson caught my hand, and as I 1 looked up into his face, I, for the first time in my life, thought him handsome. Did I do right ? Did I sacrifice any pride ? We daily grew more and more intimate. — s He seemed to be silently moulding mvcharac - ter. He directed my studies. He opened to t my view new sources of profit and beauty. I 1 sat within his spiritual radiance, and he was e gradually becoming deurer to me than life it o self. It was something grand to lean on one i- ' so stern, so just, so positive, and yet so kind i- j withal. ? s- " Kate, will you be my wife ?" e This was said so abruptly, that I started. I felt my cheeks tingle, and I dared not look e up into his face. It had come at lust ; and h 1 just in the blunt manner in which nobody but s be could have said it. He was in every sense '• : a practical man. il | "Did you tell me, Mr. Emerson," asked I, t- i " that IDV love or my hatred was nothing to i you ?" I had not forgotten that. I wouldn't have I- ! been a woman if I had. 44 1 did, Kate. That was long ago. Your love is very much to rae uow." 44 1 am very sorry for this, John." 44 Why," he asked in astonishment. 44 Because I do not love you." 44 You do love mo, Kate, warmly, passion ately." PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., BY E. 0. GOODRICH. There it was ! The same posiliveness, the same assurance. " You loved me long ago, Kate —and you know it." " It is as much as I can do to pardon such presumption." " It is no presumption, Kate. You do love me, and will he my wife." Titis was the first tiur; he had ever spoken to me either passionately or vehemently. " Oli, dear 1" I sighed. " Such a man as you are ! I have no will of my owu any more." I tossed with my foot among the fallen leaves for a few minutes, and then looking straight into his eye*, said. " Well, John, 1 will be your wife." And this is the episode. Bulger Mourneth the Loss of his Dog, AND PITCHETH INTO SKEESICKS AFTER THK MAN NER OF MARK ANTONY. BY POPKINS. My Shaksperean friend Bulger has had the misfortune to lose (iiy poison) a favorite cur, whose sheep stealing proclivities have long been suspected in this locality, and who met his tragic end by the means referred to, ad ministered by one " Skeesicks," a gentle shep herd " with a hook," and an eye over which the wool could not be pulled. Whether the fatal " button " was ortiiodox or not, [ can not say ; but certain it is, it did its work ef fectually. Bulger very naturally taketh the part of the deceased " dorg," and in his usua l highfalutiu style thus discourseth to the gaping crowd : "Friends, Rumuns and soldier fellers ! lend me your ears. 1 come now to plant poor Pon to, not to praise hitu. The evils that dorgs do they are inevitably punished for ; the good, alas ! is rewarded with naught but tones! So was it with my noble Ponto. The bum mer Skeesicks hath told you that Ponto did kill sheep ! if it were so, it was agcr revious lauit, uud ger-rtviously hath Ponto answered it. " Here, under leave of Skeesicks, and the the rest, (for Skeesicks is an houoruble tnan, so are they all honorable men,) come I to speak iu Ponto's favor, lie was my dorg, faithful and just to me, keeping strict watch over all my plait. But Skeesicks says that he killed sheep ; and Skeesicks is an honorable man ! " When flocks have browsed in meadows green, not lar removed from uiy domain, I tried the cur iu this respect, and sportively did urge him on to seize the throat of an er rant lamb who had perchance strayed from the fold, i nnotieed by the careless shepherd. But turning back with downcast look, and i caudle 'pendage firmly pressed betwixt his ' graceful legs, he whined, and would not do my bidding. Did this in Ponto show a love for i mutton? When but the rams have baa a-ed, Ponto hath affrighted run into his daik, se ; eluded kennel !' Sheep-killers should be made i of sterner stuff ; yet iSkeesicks vows that he | killed sheep ; and Skeesicks is an honorable 1 mart ! j " You all did see that in the market place. ! I thrice presented him a rare and tender chop, which he did thrice refuse. Was this ram'n i tion ? Yet Skeesicks also says lie was rcmbi ! tious. And, sure, he is an honorable man ! I speak not to disprove w hat Skeesicks spoke, but here I am to speak what 1 do know. Bui yesternight the melodious bark of Ponto did no doubt strike terror to the soul of many a j midnight burglar. Now lies he there, and i none so poor to do him reverence. Oh, fel lers ! if 1 were disposed to stir your be I lood ! and muscle to the striking point, I should do Skeesicks wrong and Snifter wrong, who you I all do know, are honorable men. " Bui if you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this muzzle. 1 I remember the hist time e'er Ponto had it on. ! 'Twas on a summer's evening, at his kennel | door. That day he overcome, anu in less than ; forty minutes annihilated four score of ram | pant rats. Look ! 'twixt this wire did Skee | sicks pass the subtle poison through ! See wluit u dent the envious shepherd made ! At ; that short and well cropped ear the beloved | MiiftcT kicked. And as he drew his horse hide boot away, maik how the blood of Ponto ' followed it, as rushing out ol doors to be re solved if Snifter so unkindly kicked or no : i for Snifter, us you know, was Ponto's angel, ! having many a time and oft on hitu bestowed I a fresh and " rosy tinted " pluck that surrep j titiously he d tukeu from a sleeping butcher's i shamble. " Judge, then, 0 ye gods ! how dearly Pon to loved him ! This was the most uukiudest blew of all. For as the noble Ponto saw him i kick, then burst his poisoued liver, and, in his j muzzle muffling up his nose, great Ponto fell ! . Oli, what a fall was there, old boys ! My i grief's too great for utterance ! 800-hoo-hoo ! Bear with me for a while, I prithee ! And trow, Pou*o, farewell ! a long farewell ! Yet i ere I go Pll pluck from out thine elongated ; narrative a single hair, as a melancholy souve nir of thy departed greatness ! Come, come, ray friends ! let's suddenly away from this sad scene, and in yon inviting hostelrie we'll e'en indulge in stoups of mellow wine, to deaden the sharp edge of this poignant woe." —(Lxe- i unt otunes, smiling.) BOy* There are two ways of living so as to be missed. A man may be a scatterer of fire brands, arrows and death. He will be missed | when he is taken away. On the other hand ' he may be so active in his works of benevol ! ence, he may cause the hearts of so many to j rejoice, he may be the support and stay of so ! many, that when he dies, he is missed—his ioss jis sorely felt. Would we be missed if we were suddenly removed from the earth ? What hearts would be made sad—-what good cause would suffer. ftgy* Kindness is stowed away in the heart ■ , like ro<e leaves in a drawer, to sweeten ever) I object around them. " RESARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER." A SAVAGE COMBAT. A FIGHT BETWEEN A CALIFORNIA BULL AND A GRIZZLY BEAR. A fine young bull had descended to the hed of the creek in search of a water hole. While pushing his way through the bushes he was suddenly attacked by a grizzly bear. The struggle was terrific. I could see the tops of the flushes sway violently to and fro, and hear the heavy crash of driftwood as the two ani mals writhed in the fierce embrace. A cloud ot dust rose from the spot It was not distant over a hundred yards from the tree in which I had taken refuge. Scarcely two minutes elapsed before the bull broke tk'ough the bushes. His bead was covered with blood, and great flakes of flesh hung from his fore shoulders. But instead of showing any signs of defeat, lie seemed literally to gh w with de fiant rage. Instinct had prompted him to seek an open space. A more splendid specimen of an animal I never saw—lithe and Wiry, yet wonderfully massive about the shoulders, com bining the rarest qualities of strength and symmetry. For amo rent, he stood glaring at the bushes, nosirils distended, and his whole form fixed and rigid. But scarcely had I time to glance at him when a huge bear, the largest and most formidable I ever saw in a wild state, broke through the opening. A trial of brute force that baffles descrip tion now ensued. Badly as I bad been treet ed by the cattle, my sympathies were in favor of the bull, which seemed to me to be much the nobler animal of the two. He did not wait to meet the charge, but, lowering Lis head, boldly rushed upon his savage adversary. The grizzly was active and wary. No sooner had he got within reach of the bull's horns, lhan fie seized them in his powerful grasp, keeping his head to the ground by strength and the weight of his body, while he bit at the nose with his teeth, and raked strips of flesh from his shoulders with his paws. The animals must have been of nearly equal weight. On the one side there was the advantage of superior agility and two weapons—the teeth and claws ; but on the other, greater power of endurance and more inflexible courage.— The position thus assumed was maintained for some time—the bull struggling desperately to free bis head, while the blood streamed I torn his nostrils—the bear straining every muscle to draw him to the ground. No ad vantage seemed to be gained on either side. The result of the battle evidently depended on the merest accident. As if by mutual consent, each gradually ceased struggling to reguin his breath, and as much as five minutes must have elapsed while they were locked in this motionless hut terri ble embrace. Suddenly the bull, by one des perate effort, wrenched hi head from ihegrasp of his adversary, and retreated a few steps. — The hear stood up to receive him. I now watched with breathltss interest, for it was evident that each animal had staked his life upon the conflict. The cattle upon the sur rounding plain had crowded in, and stood moaning and bellowing around the combatants, but, as if withheld by terror, i one seemed to interfere. Rendered furious by his wounds, the bull now gathered up all his energies, and charged with such impetuous lorce and feroci ty that the bear, despite the most terrific blows with his paws, rolled over in the dust, vainly struggling to defend himself. The lunges and thrusts of the former were perfectly fu rious. At length by a sudden and well di rected blow of the head, he got one of his horns uuder the bear's belly, and gave it a rip that brought out a clotted mass ol entrails. It was apparent that the buttle mu*t soon end. Both wete grievously wounded, and nei ther could hold out much longer. The ground was torn up and covered with blood for some distance around, and the panting of the strug glmg animals became each moment heavier uiid quicker. Maimed and gory, they fought with the certainty of death—the bear rolling over and over, vainly trying to avoid the fa tal horns of his adversary—the null ripping, thrusting auo tearing with irresistible ferocity. At last, as if deleimined to end the con flict, the bull drew back, lowering his iiead, and made one tremendous charge ; but blind ed by the blood thut trickled down bis fore head, lie missed his mark and rolled headlong ou the ground. In an instant the hear whirl ed and was upon him, thoroughly invigorated by the prospect of speedy victory ; lie tore the flesh in huge masses from the ribs of bis pros trate foe The two rolled over and over in the terrible I death struggle ; nothing was now to be seen ! save a heaving, gory mass, dimly perceptible through the dust. A lew minutes would have terminated the bloody strife so far as my fa vorite was concerned, when to my astonish ment I saw the bear relax bis efforts, roll over from the body of bis prostrate foe, and drag himself a few yards from the spot. Ilis en trails burst entirely through the wound in his belly. The next moment the bull was up, erect, and fierce as ever. Shaking the blood from his eyes, he looked around, aud seeing the reeking mass before him, lowered his head for the final and most desperate struggle that ensued, both animals seeming animated by su pernatural strength The grizzly struck out wi'dly, but with such destructive energy that the bull, upon draw ing his head, presented a horrible and ghastly spectacle ; his tongue a mangled mass of shreds, hanging from his mouth, his eyes torn completely from their sockets, and his face stripped to the bone. On the other hand, the I bear was ripped completely opeu, nd writhing lin his last agonies. Here it was that indorui • table courage prevailed j for, blinded and maimed as he was, the bull, after a momentary pause to regain his wiud, dashed wildly at his adversary again, determined to be victorious even in death. A terrific roar escaped from the djing grizzly. With a last frantic effort he sought to make his escape, scrambling over and over in the dust ; but his strength was gone. A few more thrusts from the savage victor, and he lay stretched upon the sand, bis muscles quivering convulsively, bis huge ■ body a resistless mass. A clutching motioa of his claws, a groon, a gurgle in the throat, and lie was dead. The bull now raised his bloody crest, utter ed a deep bellowing sound, shook his horns triumphantly, and slowly walked off—not, however, without turning every few steps to renew the battle if necessary. But his last battle was lought. As his blood streamed from his wounds, a death chill came over hiui lie stood for some time, unyielding to the last, bracing himself, his legs apart, his head Gradually drooping; then dropptd on his knees aud expired. General Burnside. the New Commander of the Army of the Potcmac The long-expected and often rumored change has at last been made. General Burnside commands the Army of the Potomac, the Grand Army of the war of 1801, and Gen. MeClelluri is ordered to report at Trenton— some say Trenton, New Jersey, for the pur pose of convoking with Lieutenant General Scott. Major General Ambrose Everitt Burn side, of the United States volunteer service, is in the very prime of life, having been born at Liberty, a small town in Union county, In diana, ou the 23d of May, 1824. After be ing well grounded in the usual rudiments of a liberal education, he was nominated to the West Point Military Academy, aud his name was enrolled as a cadet in 1842. lie gradua ted in 1847, eighteenth in a class of th'rty eight members, and was immediately attached to the Second Artillery with the brevet rank of Second Lieutenant. It is a fact worthy of note that none of the graduates of 1847 were appointed either to the Engineers, Corps of Topographical Engineers, or the Ordnance De partmcnt. Usually the first ten or twelve graduates arc assigned to these corps, but in 1547 twenty-three were appointed to artillery and the rest to infantry regiments. The re quirements of the service consequent upon the war with Mexico, theu raging, were no doubt the cause of this In September, 1847, Lieut. Burnside was promoted to a full second lieutenancy in Com pany C, Third Artillery, since rendered famous as " Bragg's Battery," Bragg himself being then captain of it. With tliis battery, Lieut. Burnside marched, in Gen. Patterson's Divi sion, to the City of Mexico, and remained there until the close of the Mexican war. Af ter this he served with his command in New Mexico, where he was distinguished in eticoun ters with the Apache Indians, being compli mented in general orders. Ou the 12: h of December, 1851, be was promoted to a first lieutenancy, in the room of an officer who was cashiered. When the present Lieut.-Colonel James I). Graham,of the Corps of Topographi cal Engineers, was appointed United States Astronomer in the joint commission to eettk tite frontier lines of the United States and M exico, Lieut. Burnside was chosen to fill the I office of Quartermaster, and in this; capacity he conveyed dispatches from Col Graham to President Fillmore, traveling twelve hundred miles across the plains in seventeen days, with an escort of only three men. After serving a short time at Fort Adams, Newport Hur bor, Lieut. Burnside resigned in 1853. After his resignation, lie turned his atten tion to the manufacture of a breach loading rifle of his own invention, known as the " Burn side Rifle," a project which resulted in con siderable pecuniary loss, owing, it is said, to the double-dealing of tlie traitorous Secretary of War Floyd, who, ufter having promised Burnside that his rifle should be used by the Government, gave the contract to another inventor, with whom he shared the spoils.— General Burnside then sold his establishment to his brother-in law, who has supplied quite a number of the Burnside rifles to tiie present administration. Subsequently to this, lie was, with General McClellnii, whom he lias just | superseded, comiceUd with the Illinois Con tral Railroad, holding the position of Presi dent of the Land Office Department. While residing at Bristol, Rhode Island, he married Miss Bishop, an estimable ladv of Providence, j and removed with her to Chicago, upon being I appointed to the Illinois Central. He was also elected Major General of the Rhode Island Militia during his sojourn ut j Bristol. Shortly after removing to Clncagj | he was elected Treasurer ol the Central Rail ; road, and thereupon removed to litis ci'y, from ! which he was summoned on the outbreak of s the Revolution, by Governor Sprague, to us- j same the Colonelcy of the First Rhode Island ! Volunteers, which it may be mentioned, en. passant, was armed with the " Burnside Ri fles." This regiment, as is well known, did good service in the first battle of Ball Run, its Colonel acting as Brigadier General of the Second Brigade, the Second Division. After this lie was appointed Brigadier General of Volunteers, his commission being dated G\h August, 1801. Of the celebrated 44 Burnside Expedition " to North Carolina, nothing need be said. Its results are well known, and were even seen here, in the hundreds of Rebel pri soners kept in captivity on Governor's Island for many months, until sent to Columbus, Ohio, to be exchanged. At the battle ot An tictam, in September last, Geueral Burnsidt's corps d'armee performed a highly important part. It took the main road to Sharpsburg, on the left, and encountered the most deter mined opposition in successfully executing its j part of the general plan of the battle. General Burnside had to cross Die bridge j over the Antietatn Creek, and dislodge the enemy, who were in strong force and position on the opposite side. Twice his army made an attempt to cross, and twice was it repulsed, with heavy loss, but the third attack, led by the General, in person, was successful, and the position was won, though at a great sac rifice of life. This was one of the most im portant acts in the great Antietam tragedy. ID October last General Burnside was assign ed to the general charge of the defences of Harper's Ferry, just recovered from the Reb els, after having been surrendered by Colonel Miles The Second aud Twelfth Army Corps were at the same time placed uuder his com mand. On October 25, when the Army of VOL. XXIII. —NO. Q6. the Potomac began to move after its long In action, Genera! Bnrnside, with bis Second Army Corps, crossed the Potomac in light marching order immediately after Pleasanton'i cavalry, and is now in the advance, but its brave leader is called to other and more mo mentous duties. General Burnside is a man of vety One personal appearance a rigid dis ciplinarian and a thorough gentleman His present rank is that of Major General of Vol unteers. He is the ninth on the list, and h J virtus of his commission alorm, which is dated March IG, 18G2. ranks nil Volunteer Major- Generals, except Generals Banks, Dir. Bat ler, David Hunter, Edwin D. Morgan. Hitch cock, Grant and McDowell.— Phil Inquirer. THE AGE OF OUR EARTH. —Among the as tounding discoveries of modem science Is that of the immense periods that have passed in the gradual formation of the earth. So vast were the cycles of the time preceding even the ap pearance of man on the surfaie of our globe, that cur own period seems as yesterday when compared with the epochs that have gone be fore it. Ilad we only the evidence of the de posits of rocks heaped above each other in re gular strata by the slow accumulation of ma terials, they alone would convince us of the long and slow maturiug of GOD'S work on earth —but when we add to these the successive populations of whose life this world has been the theatre, and whose remains are biddeu in the rocks into which the mud of sand or soil for whatever kind on which they lived and hardened in the course of time—or the enor mous chains of mountains whose upheaval di vided these periods of quiet accumulation by great accumulations—or the chauges of a dif ferent nature in the configuration of our globe, as the sinking of lands beueath the ocean, or the gradual rising of continents and islauda above ; or the slow growth of the coral reefs, those wonderful sea walks, raised by the little ocean oehiiects w hose own bodies furnish both the building stones and cement that biuds tliern together, and who have worked so busi ly during the long centuries, that there are ex tensive countries, mountains, chains, islands, and long lines of coa-t,consisting solely of their remains—or the countless forests that have grown up, flourished, died and decayed to fill the storehouses of coal that feed the fires of the human race—if we consider all these re cords of the past, the intellect fails to grasp a chronology of which our experience furni6hea no data, and time that lies behind us seems as much an eternity to our conception as the fu ture that stretches before us— Agassiz. SHORT ANSWER. —One of the enroling: Mar shals, the other day, received a strong hiut from ado n town it-male. Stopping: at the lady's home in- foot id tier before the door en deavoritig to i ff ct with a vegetable huckster a twenty per cent, abatement iu the price of a peek of potatoes. " Have you any men here, ma'am?" Tiie reply was gruff and cute--" No." " Have you no husband, tuadatae ?" " No." " Nor brothers ?" " No." " Perhaps yon have a eon, ma'am ?" " Well, what of it ?" " I should like to know where he is." " Well, be isn't here." ' So I see ma'am. Prav where is he?" "In the Union army, t zktrt youovght to btV The Marshal hastened round the corner.— He didn't further interrogate the lady. We heard from a Sunday-school teach er lately an illustration of one kind of Chris tian forgiveness Improving upon the day's lesson, the teacher asked a boy whether, iu view of what lie had been studying and repeat ing, lie could forgive those who wronged him. " Could you,'' said tlie teacher, " forgive a boy, for example, who had intuited or struck you " V e-s, sir," replied the lad, very >lowly, " I guess—l—could but he added, in a much more rapid manner, " I could if ha was bigger than 1 am I" 4S3T* An honest Dutchman, training tip his sou in the wnv lie should go, frequently exer cised him in Bible lessons. On one occasion he nski d him : " Who vos dat vot vould not shleep mi* Botiphtr's vife ?" " l'osepb." " Duts a good hoy. Veil, vot vas de rea son he would not snleep mit her ?" " Don't kuow ; spose he vosnt very shlee py" Vf&r. An old woman next door to ns sets the whole neighborhood sneezing by shaking her handkerchief out of the window. Is she not the one alluded to by Shakspeare, when he says M Snuffs the morniog air V' An advertising chandler at Liverpool modestly says, that " without intending any disparagement to the sun, he may confidently assert that bis octagonal spermaceti are tbo best lights ever invented " BSS" An offl cted husband was returning from the funeral of his wife, when a friend asked how he was. " Well," he said, patheti ! cally, " I think I feel the better for that little ! walk." Xow, my child, I hope yon will be good ! so that I shall not have to whip you again." j " If you must whip any one, you'd better whip j one of your size." Last winter, it is said, a cow floated down the Mississippi on a piece of ice, and became so cold that she has milked nothing but ice creams ever since. " When things get to the worst tbgy generally take a turn for the better." Thlf proverb applies more particularly to % iady 1 # ' silk dress—wbeo she cannot geta gf * OJW
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers