This brief and imperfect sketch is gathered from glances from the outside. The interior of the dome from the floor to the rotunda requires the pen of a genius to do justice to the so-called works of art found scattered in all directions. It is a long mathematical calculation to find out how many square inches of canvas have been ruined. A plaster caricature of our beloved Lincoln occupies the center of the floor, made by the tender hands of a youth of 17 summers. The fruit of genius, in all stages of the ripening process, its maturity forever arrested, lies gently decaying. It is enough to make the cheek of an American blush, if the spectacle were not so pitiful. A few gems gleam out of the rubbish. Exclusive of art, the dome of the Capitol cost the nation $1,000,000. OLIVIA. A SOLDIER’S BURIAL. LAST SCENE OF ALL PATHETICALLY DEPICTED. WASHINGTON, _January 31, 1866_. A close observer in Washington is greatly surprised at the easy transition from a state of war to that of peace. An intelligent person might say there is no true peace. We will leave this discussion to the politicians, and say we are no longer awakened in the small hours of the night by the rumbling of the Government ambulances bringing the wounded and dying from the battlefields to the hospitals. We never shall forget that peculiar sound, unlike that produced by any other vehicle. Perhaps it was the zigzag course the driver often took to avoid any little obstruction in the street, which might jar and aggravate the wounded occupant, that made it seem so long in coming. But the movements were always slower than a funeral march. But sad as this procession seemed, painful almost beyond expression, there was still a sadder sight. It was the same fashioned ambulance, with “U. S. Hearse” marked in large letters on the side of it. Our ears could never distinguish the movements of this from any grocer’s wagon. Sometimes we have been crossing a street, this solitary equipage would dash past, and if we were quick enough to catch a glance at the open end of it, we might see a stained coffin, perhaps two of them, with nothing to distinguish them but their manly proportions. No carriages, no mourners, no comrades, even, with reversed arms, all alone, save detailed soldiers enough to perform the act of burial; even the “chaplain” often absent.