The Kernel ses he, "Majer, I know you are a patriot, and I feel bad to have you go. I wish now I had taken your advice. But," ses he, "Majer," an here he giv my hand a tight squeeze, "you know I've only been a boat in a current, an yet like the boat I'll be jest the one that will get the worst smashed to pieces when the precipice is reached." I couldn't help feelin' kinder sorry for the Kernel as I bid him good-bye, but I felt still more sorry for my country that it had ever made him President. I got hum all safe, an sense then I've been laid up four weeks with the rumatiz. I never had such a long pull afore. As for writin with it on me, why I can't any more do it than a shad can climb a bean-pole. I expect you've been wonderin why you didn't hear from me, but I think this letter will explain the resin. If the rumatiz don't come on agin, an I think I kin say anything that would of sarvice in this awful and solemn crysis of our country's fate, I will drop you a line. I feel as if the nashin was dyin, however, an that we all orter put on mournin an sack-cloth, but come what will, I'm for my country Till deth, MAJER JACK DOWNING. LETTER XXV. _The Major Feels Sorrowful over the Fate of His Country--The Story of the Black Heifer--The Man who Made a "Siss"--The Union--"Insine" Stebbins Again--His Reception at Downingville--"The Insensibles"--A Provoking Accident._ DOWNINGVILLE, March 28, 1863. _To the Eddyters of The Cawcashin:_ SURS:--You may wonder why you ain't heered from me afore; but the rale truth is, that I didn't feel like ritin in these times. I went to Washinton about a year ago, out of pure patriotism. I didn't want a contrack, nor a commission, nor enything. I went to give the Kernel good advice, jest as I did Ginneral Jackson; but it warn't no go. Somnure an Greeley, an Wendil Fillips, an sech stay-at-hum fiten ginnerals got the advantage of me, an Linkin does jest wat they want him to. To an old man like me, these are tryin times. I had almost said _cryin_ times; I can't bear to think of 'em. I dream o'nights of my country, wen it was all peace an happiness--wen ther warn't any sojers nor standin army to pay, nor no debt, nor no hospitals full of sick sojers, nor no sorrow or misery in the land; an wen I wake up an think how different it is now, I wish I could sleep all the time. The other day old Deacon Jenkens came over to see me. The Deacon, you know, was with me in Washinton a short time, wen I first went there, and his darter Jerusha Matilda went down to Port Royal to teach the contrybands their primmers. Wal, the Deacon ain't much wiser now than he was a year ago. He still thinks that by prayin an fightin the rebels will yet be whipped. He used to like the _Tribune_, but lately he ses he prefers the _Herald_, as it is more truthful. The old man, however, has been very blue for some time past, and now ses that prayin an fightin hain't accomplished much. "Wal," ses I, "Deacon, there hadn't orter been eny