In the early part of the week I resolved to go down to Accomac, on a flying visit to Captain Villiam Brown and the Conic Section of the Mackerel Brigade. Accordingly, I went to the shoemaker's after my gothic steed Pegasus. The shoemaker, had said, my boy, that there was enough loose leather hanging about the architectural animal to make me a nice pair of slippers, and I gave him permission to cut them out. The operation only made the Morgan's back look a little more like the roof of a barn; but I like him all the better for that, because he sheds the rain easier. The General of the Mackerel Brigade at first intended to accompany me to Accomac; and says he to Samyule Sa-mith, the orderly, says he: "Samyule! just step down to the anatomical museum of the Western chaps, and buy me the best horse you can find in the collection. Here's a dollar and half--fifty cents for the horse and a dollar for your trouble." Samyule came back in about forty minutes, and says he: "Colonel Wobert Wobinson, of the Western Cavalry, says I must come again this afternoon, as he don't know whether there'll be any horses left or not." "Thunder!" says the General. "How left?" "Vy," says Samyule, "he can't tell whether any horses will be left until the boys have had their dinner, can he!" "Ah!" says the General, contemplatively, "I forgot the beef-soup recommended by the doctors. It will be a pleasant change for the boys," says he, "from the mutton that was so plenty just after them mules died." Speaking of dinner, my boy; let me tell you about a curious occurrence in our camp lately. Just after a load of rations had come in, a New York chap says to me, says he: "I'm glad they're going to put down the Russ pavement here pretty soon; for it's getting damp as thunder." "Id-jut!" said I, sarcastically, "where have you seen any Russ pavement?" He just took me softly by the arm, my boy, and led me a little way, and pointed, and says he: "If you'll just look there, you'll see some of the blocks." "Why," says I, "those are army biscuit for the men." "Biscuit!" says he, rubbing his stomach, and turning up his eyes like a cat with the apoplexy--"if them's biscuit, Bunker Hill Monument must be built of flour--that's all." And he went out and took the Oath. On arriving at Accomac, my boy, I asked a blue-and-gold picket where Villiam Brown was, and he said that he was in the library. The library was used by the former occupants of the residence as a hen-house, and contains two volumes--Hardee abridged, and "Every Man His Own Letter-Writer," Seward's edition. I found Captain Villiam Brown seated on what was formerly a Shanghai's nest, my boy, with his feet out of the window, and his head against a roost. He was studying the last-named book, and sipping Old Bourbon the Oath, in the intervals. The intervals were numerous. "Son of the Eagle," says I, "you remind me of Sir Walter Scott, at Abbotsford."