_Note to the Resurrectionists._—GHOST IN THE GRAVE YARD.—In New-England, most of the burying-grounds as they are called, are at some distance from the villages, and generally neglected and rude in their appearance, frequently overgrown with wild, dank weeds, and surrounded by rough stone walls.—Dr. W., a physician, whose extensive practice gave him a large circuit of country to ride over, relates that returning late one night from visiting a patient who was dangerously ill, his attention was attracted by a human figure clad in white, perched upon the top of the stone wall of one of these rustic cemeteries.—The moon was shining cold and clear, and he drew up his horse for a moment, and gazed steadily at the object, supposing that he was labouring under an optical illusion, but it remained immoveable and he was convinced, however singular the position and the hour, that his eyesight had not deceived him. Being a man of strong nerves, he determined to examine it, whether human or supernatural, more closely, and leaping his horse up the bank of the road he proceeded along the side of the fence towards the object. It remained perfectly motionless until he came opposite and within a few feet, when it vanished from the fence, and in another instant, with a piercing shriek, was clinging round his neck upon the horse.—This was too much, for even the Doctor’s philosophy, and relieving himself with a violent exertion from the grasp, he flung the figure from him, and putting spurs to his horse galloped into the village at full speed, a torrent of ghostly lore and diablerie pouring through his mind as he dashed along. Arousing the occupants of the nearest house, they returned to the scene of the adventure, where they found the object of his terror,—a poor female maniac who had escaped from confinement in a neighbouring alms-house, wandering among the tombs. * * * * * _Note to Old Kennedy, No. I._—CAPT. SOMERS.[3]—The name of Somers, the twin brother in arms of Decatur, shines brightly on the History of American Naval Warfare; and the last desperate action which terminated his short and brilliant career with his life, is stamped in colours so indelible, that nothing but the destroying finger of Time can efface it from its pages. After severe and continued fighting before Tripoli, the Turkish flotilla withdrew within the mole, and could not be induced to venture themselves beyond the guns of the Tripolitan Battery. The ketch Intrepid was fitted out as a fire-ship, filled to the decks with barrels of gunpowder, shells, pitch, and other combustible materials; and Capt. Somers, with a volunteer crew, undertook the hazardous, almost desperate, task, of navigating her, in the darkness of night, into the middle of the Turkish flotilla, when the train was to be fired, and they were to make their escape, as they best could in her boats.