I have been keeping these anecdotes for you for some time, and should have sent them earlier; now--it seems almost cruel to laugh since the dark days in Virginia, or to write frivolous nonsense. Yet, I cannot work; and before these lines reach your readers (if they ever do) the sky will, I hope, be clear again, and the regrets I am tempted to utter would be as out of tune as the exultant predictions of a week ago seem now. Far away to the horizon stretch the golden fields of ripened grain; the abundant harvest is at hand: yet a little while ago we heard dismal laments of blighting rains and hostile insects; and many faithless ones ploughed up their verdant wheatfields in despair. May the harvest of a nation's victory come thus, teaching the incredulous faith in the right--but, ah! the lengthened struggle is what I dread, not the end--that cannot fail us. I wrote you a special, all-to-yourself letter, not long since, which I hope you will have answered before this comes to you. With a thousand kindly wishes, Ever your's--A. W. C. Yet one page more. Am I not irrepressible? I send you a rhymed fancy. If it has any significance you will, I know, give it place; if not, not. I will be sincerely acquiescent. A BRIDAL. I ride along the lonely sands, Where once we rode with clasping hands. The wild waves sob upon the beach, As mournful as love's parting speech. Those cruel waves, close-clasped they hold My lost love, with his locks of gold. Here, while the wind blew from the south, He kissed me with his tender mouth. Oh, sun of hope, in dark eclipse! Oh, aching heart, and unkissed lips! On, on I ride, faster, in vain, I cannot hush the cry of pain In my sick soul. But, hark! how clear That voice of voices fills my ear! 'Why waitest thou beside the sea? Canst thou not die, and come to me?' Soul-king, I come! Alas! my need Was great. Press on, my faithful steed. Deep, deep into the sea I ride: There my love's hero waits his bride. The longing billows of the sea With happy welcome smile to me. They touch my foot, they reach my knee: Darling! they draw me thus to thee. They kiss thy picture on my heart; Love of my life! no more we part. The rushing waters still my breath: Oh! have we dared to fear thee, Death? EBENEZER STIBBS died, near Lewisburg, O., a martyr to his country's cause, October 14th, 1862, in the seventy-first year of his age. His death was a violent one, though he fell not upon the field of strife; for many of the soldiers of our country have never been enrolled, never promoted, never praised for their gallantry, but, far away from the tented field, in their lonely homes, are going down to their graves without sound of drum or salute of musket, unnoticed and unknown.