The Oath is very popular, my boy, and comes in bottles. I take it medicinally myself. The shirts made by the women of America are noble articles, as far down as the collar; but would not do to use as an only garment. Captain Mortimer de Montague, one of the skirmish squad, put one on when he went to the President's Reception, and the collar stood up so high, that he couldn't put his cap on, while the other departments didn't quite reach to his waist. His appearance at the White House was picturesque and interesting, and as he entered the drawing-room, General Scott remarked, very feelingly: "Ah! here comes one of our wounded heroes." "He's not wounded, general," remarked an officer, standing by. "Then, why is his head bandaged up so?" asked the venerable veteran. "Oh!" says the officer, "that's only one of the shirts made by the patriotic wimmen of America." In about five minutes after this conversation, I saw the venerable veteran, the wounded hero, and the officer taking the Oath together. The Seventy-ninth, Highlanders, came to town early last week, and are the finest body of Scotchmen that were ever half _kilt_ by uniform alone. My heart warmed to them when I first saw them; and, with arms outspread, I greeted the gallant fellow nearest to me. With a tear of gratified pride in his eye, he exclaimed: "Auld lang syne and Scots who ha'e; but gang awa' wi' Heeland laddie thegither o' John Anderson my Jo; and, moreover, we'll tak' a right gude willie wacht for muckle twa and braw chiel." I told him I thought so myself. I'm sorry to say, my boy, that some members of this splendid regiment are badly off for trowsers, and shock my modesty tremendously. They probably forgot them in their hurry to get to the war, and the Union Pretence Committee ought to send them out an assortment of peg-tops at once. "Not that I hobject to the hinnocent hamusements of the Highlanders, but that decency and propriety _must_ be preserved within the limits of the army"--as the British show-man observed. I took a trip down to Alexandria the other night, to see how the Fire Zouaves were getting along, and came pretty near getting into trouble with one of Five's screamers. He was on guard; and when he challenged me, the pass-word slipped my memory. "Drop that ere butt," says he, bringing his musket to a charge, "or I'll give yer a taste of the old masheen. Who--wha--what are yer coughin' at--sa-a-ay?" I was frightened, my boy, and had just commenced the appropriate prayer of "Now I lay me down to sleep," when suddenly an idea struck me, and I acted on it immediately. "Hello!" says I, "Johnny, didn't you hear the old Hall kettle strike for the Fourth District? Come along with me and help to get the old dog-cart on a jump, or Nine's roosters will get the rail-road track and have the old butt in Christie street before we can swing the old masheen over a pig's whisker."