The first draft for the army was a death-blow to the slow-poison democracy, and it has been frightened accordingly. Like a slug on whom salt has just begun to fall, the crawling mass is indeed manifesting symptoms of frightened activity--but it is the activity of death. For the North is awake in real earnest; it is out with banner and bayonet; there is to be no more playing at war or wasting of lives--the foe is to be rooted out--_delanda est Dixie_. And in the hour of triumph where will the pro-slavery traitors be then? Where? Where they always strive to be--on the _winning_ side. They will 'back water' as they have done on progressive measure which they once opposed, since the war begun; they will eat their words and fawn and wheedle those in power until the opportunity again occurs for building up on some sham principle a party of rum and faro-banks, low demagogue-ism, ignorance, reaction, and vulgarity. Then from his present toad-like swelling and whispering, we shall hear the full-expanded fiend roar out into a real life. It is the old story of history--the corrupt and venal arraigning itself against truth and terming the latter 'visionary' and 'fanatical.' * * * * * Those who visit the sick soldiers and do good in the hospitals occasionally get a gleam of fun among all the sad scenes--for any wag who has been to the wars seldom loses his humor, although he may have lost all else save that and honor. Witness a sketch from life: A LITTLE HEAVY. C----, good soul, after taking all the little comforts he could afford to give to the wounded soldiers, went into the hospital for the fortieth time the other day, with his mite, consisting of several papers of fine-cut chewing-tobacco, Solace for the wounded, as he called it. He came to one bed, where a poor fellow lay cheerfully humming a tune, and studying out faces on the papered wall. 'Got a fever?' asked C----. 'No,' answered the soldier. 'Got a cold?' 'Yes, cold--lead--like the d----l!' 'Where?' 'Well, to tell you the truth, it's pretty well scattered. First, there's a bullet in my right arm, they han't dug that out yet. Then there's one near my thigh--it's sticking in yet: one in my leg--hit the bone--_that_ fellow _hurts_! one through my left hand--that fell out. And I tell you what, friend, with all this lead in me, I feel, ginrally speaking, _a little heavy all over_!' C---- lightened his woes with a double quantity of Solace. * * * * * C---- was a good fellow, and the soldier deserved his 'Solace.' Many of them among us are poor indeed. 'Boys!' exclaimed a wounded volunteer to two comrades, as they paused the other day before a tobacconist's and examined with the eyes of connoisseurs the brier or bruyere-wood pipes in his window, 'Boys! I'd give fifty dollars, if I had it, for four shillins to buy one of them pipes with!' * * * * *