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