It is not deemed desirable here to treat of Patterson's other faults, such as his indulgent treatment of rebel spies, his failure to confiscate rebel property, and his distinguishing between the property of rebels and loyalists, by placing strong guards over the former, and neglecting to take equal care of the latter. Such acts only prove him to be either more nice than wise, or less nice than foolish; unless we argue him to be, as many do, a secret secessionist. But we leave it to others to draw inferences as to his loyalty or disloyalty. Our task is accomplished if we have shown that whether loyal or false, whether a patriot or a traitor, his three months' campaign in Virginia proves him unfit to be a commander, by revealing three great faults, each injuring the cause he professed to aid, all combining to render his campaign a failure, and two of the three assisting directly in our disaster at Bull Run, and deepening that dark stain upon our national escutcheon. His neglect to occupy Harper's Ferry in June, his failure to push on against Johnston when there was an opportunity to injure him, and his cool betrayal of the Unionists of Northern Virginia into the clutches of the rebel Thugs, will place the name of Patterson by the side of the names of Lee, Hull, Winder, and Buchanan, who, though not the open enemies of their country, were its false and inefficient friends. * * * * * THE GAME OF FATE. Ever above this earthly ball, There sit two forms, unseen by all, Playing, with fearful earnestness, Through life and death, a game of chess. Feather of pride and wolfish eye, Judas-bearded, glancing sly; Many a pawn you have gathered in, Through circling ages of shame and sin! Fair as an angel, tender and true, Is he who measures his might with you; Oft he has lost, in times long gone, But ever the terrible game goes on. But where are the chessmen to be found?-- Where the picket paces his dangerous round; Where the general sits, with chart and map; Where the scout is scrawling his hurried scrap. Where the Cabinet weigh the chances dread; Where the soldier sleeps with the stars o'erhead; Where rifles are ringing the peal of death, And the dying hero yields his breath. Where the mother and sister in silence sit, And far into midnight sew and knit, And pray for the soldier-brother or son,-- God's blessing on all that the four have done! Where the traitors plot, in foul debate, To war with God and strive with fate; Digging pitfalls to catch them slaves,-- Pitfalls, to serve for their own deep graves. Where the Bishop-General proves that the rod Which lashes women is blest of God. There's a rod to come, ere the red leaves fall, Which will swallow your rattlesnake, scales and all. Where the wretched Northern renegade On a Southern journal plies his trade, Swearing and writing, with scowl or smile, That all that is Yankee is low and vile.