"DORCHESTER HEIGHTS, Jan. 5, 1856. "MY DEAR CORYDON AND MARY: I want to pencil a few lines to you from this enchanting spot on the sea-shore, six miles from Boston, and when I return, perhaps I will ink it in a letter to you. I am spending the night here with a classmate of mine, one of the dearest friends I have in college. I am in an old house--every timber of oak--built more than one hundred years ago. To one who has seen cities rise from the wild forest in the space of a dozen years, and has hardly ever seen a building older than himself, you may be assured that many reflections are awakened by the look of antiquity that everything has around me. The quaint old beams and panelled walls, the heavy double windows that look out oceanward, in short, the whole air of the building speaks of the days of the olden time. To think that these walls have echoed to the shouts of loyalty to George the King---have heard all the voices of the spirit-stirring Revolution, the patriotic resolve, the tramp of the soldier's foot, the voice of the beloved Washington, (for within a few rods of here he made his first Revolutionary encampment,) the cannon of Bunker Hill, the lamentations of defeat and shouts of victory--all these cannot but awaken peculiar reflections. To how many that are now sleepers in the quiet church-yard, or wanderers in the wide, cold world, has this been the dear ancestral hall where all the joys of childhood were clustered. Within this oaken-ceiled chamber how many bright hopes have been cherished and high resolves formed; how many hours of serene joy, and how many heart-throbs of bitter anguish! If these walls had a voice I would ask them to tell me the mingled scenes of joy and sorrow they have witnessed. But even their silence has a voice, and I love to listen. But without there is no silence, for the tempest is howling and snows are drifting. The voice of the great waves, as they come rolling up against the wintry shore, speak of Him 'whose voice is as the sound of many waters.' Only a few miles from here is the spot where-- 'The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed; And the heavy night hung dark, The hills and waters o'er, When a band of pilgrims moored their bark On the wild New-England shore.' "But the coal has sunk to the lowest bar in the grate beside me--'tis far past the noon of night, and I must close.... As ever, your own affectionate JAMES." The following letter, written to Mr. Fuller while Gen. Garfield was chief-of-staff to Gen. Rosecrans, will be of special historical value,-- "HEADQUARTERS DEPT, OF THE CUMBERLAND, "MURFREESBORO, Tenn., May 4, 1863.