"Not one. There are many of the name of Sa-mith," says the general, screening his eye from the sun with a bottle, "and the Smythes are numerous; but the Smiths all died as soon as the Prince of Wales came to this country." This is an age of great aristocracy, my boy, and the name of Smith is confined to tombstones. I once knew a chap named Hobbs, who made knobs, and had a partner named Dobbs; and he never could get married until he changed his title; for what sensitive and delicately-nerved female would marry a man whose business-card read, "Try Hobbs & Dobbs' Knobs?" Finally, he called himself De Hobbs, and wedded a Miss Podger--pronounced Po-gshay. After that, he cut his partner, ordered his friends to cease calling him Jack, and in compliance with the wishes of his wife's family, got out a business-card like this: JACQUES DE HOBBS, TRY HIS DOOR-PERSUADERS. But, to return to the women of America, there was one of them came out to our camp not long ago, my boy, with six Saratoga trunks full of moral reading for our troops. She was distributing the cheerful works among the veterans, when she happened to come across Private Jinks, who had just got his rations, and was swearing audibly at the collection of wild beasts he had found in one of his biscuits. "Young man," says she, in a vinegar manner, "do you want to be damned?" Private Jinks reflected a moment, and says he: "Really, mem, I don't know enough about horses to say." The literary agent was greatly shocked, but recovered in time to hand the warrior a small book, and told him to read it and be saved. It was a small and enlivening volume, my boy, written by a missionary lately served up for breakfast by the Emperor of Glorygoolia, and entitled "The Fire that Never is Quenched." Jinks looked at the book, and says he: "What district is that fire in?" The daughter of the Republic bit off a small piece of cough candy, and says she: "It's down below, young man, where you bid fair to go." "And will it never be put out?" says Private Jinks. The deeply-affected crinoline shook her head until all her combs rattled, and says she: "No, young man; it will burn, and burn, young man." "Then I'm safe enough!" says Private Jinks, slapping his knee; "for I'm a member of Forty Hose, and if that air fire is to keep burning, they'll have to have a paid Fire Department down there, and shut us fellows out." The daughter of the Republic instantly left him, my boy; and when next I saw her, she was arguing with one of the chaplains, who pretended to believe that firemen sometimes went to Heaven. Woman, my boy, is an angel in disguise; and if she had wings what a rise there would be in bonnets! Yours, for the next Philharmonic, ORPHEUS C. KERR. LETTER XLI. CITING A NOTABLE CASE OF VOLUNTEER SURGERY, AND GIVING AN OUTLINE SKETCH OF "COTTON SEMINARY." WASHINGTON, D.C., April 25th, 1862.