SUNDAY, FEB. 14. The bones which bleach on the battle-field, and the groans which load the reluctant winds, are not the saddest memorials of war. They lie deeper; they are coffined in decayed virtue, and in the convulsions of outraged humanity. They convert the heart of a nation into a charnel-house, where the gloomy twilight only serves to betray the corruption which festers within. Flowers may bloom over it, and garlands be woven of their fragrant leaves, but within is death. We shudder at a recollection of the Deluge, and still gaze with wonder and fear at its ghastly memorials: _that_ catastrophe, however, swept the earth but once, and then departed; but war has for ages trampled over it in blood, followed by the shrieks of fatherless children, and the wail of ruined nations. Where’er the blood-stained monster trod Fell deep and wide the curse of God. MONDAY, FEB. 15. We have had the drama of Adam and Eve as a phase in the amusements, which have been crowded into the last days of the carnival. It was got up by one of our most respectable citizens, who for the purpose converted his ample saloon into a mimic opera-house. The actors were his own children, and those near akin. They sustained their parts well except the one who impersonated Satan; he was of too mild and frank a nature to represent such a daring, subtle character. It was as if the lark were to close his eyes to the touch of day, or the moon to invest herself with thunder. But Eve was beautiful, and full of nature as an unweaned child. She rose at once into full bloom, like the Aphrodite of Phidias from the sparkling wave. Every sound and sight struck on her wondering sense, as that of a being just waked to life. Her untaught motions melted into flowing lines, soft and graceful as those of a bird circling among flowers. “Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like twilight’s too her dusky hair: But all things else about her drawn, From May-time and the cheerful dawn.”