And when, at length, to Charleston of the other world he goes, He leaves his children mortgages, with all their other woes. As slowly fades the vital spark, he doubles up his fists, And softly murmurs through his teeth: "I die under a full conviction of my errors in life, and freely forgive all men; but still I only hope that somewhere on the other side of Jordan I may just come across some ab-o-li-tion-ists!!"-- This South Carolina gentleman, One of the present time. Yesterday afternoon, my boy, Colonel Wobert Wobinson, of the Western Centaurs, ordered Captain Samyule Sa-mith to make a reconnoissance toward Flint Hill with a company of skeleton cavalry, having learned that several bushels of oats were stored there. Samyule drew up his company in line against a fence, and then says he: "Comrades, we go upon a mission that is highly dangurious, and America expects every hoss to do his duty. If we meet the rebels," continued Samyule, impressively, "they will try hard to capture some of our hosses; for they're badly off for gridirons down there, and three or four of our spirited animals would supply them for the season. If any of you see them coming after the hardware, just put your gridirons on a gallop and fall back." At the conclusion of this speech, Private Peter Jenkins observed that he'd been falling back ever since he got his horse; for which he was sentenced to laugh at all the colonel's jokes for a week. Would that I possessed the fiery pen of bully Homer, to describe the gallant advance of that splendid _corps_, as it trotted fiercely on to victory or death. At its head was Captain Samyule Sa-mith, mounted on a horse of some degree of merit, his coat-tails flapping behind him like banners at half-mast, and his form bouncing about in the saddle like an inspired jumping-jack. There was Lieutenant Tummis Kagcht, recently of the German navy, riding an animal with prows as sharp as a yacht and that was broadside to the road at least half the time. There was private Peter Jenkins, seated directly over the tail of a yellow-enameled charger, that walked at right-angles with the fences, and never stopped to take breath until it had gone three yards. There was Sergeant O'Pake, late of Italy, who bestrode a sorrel, whose side was full of symmetrical gutters to carry the rain off, and who kept his octagon head directly under the right arm of the horseman ahead of him. There was private Nick O'Demus, with his sabre tucked neatly into the eyes of his neighbor, managing an anatomical curiosity that walked half of the time on his hind-legs, and creaked when it came to ruts in the road. Onward, right onward, went this glittering cavalcade, my boy, until they came to an outskirt of Flint Hill, where a solitary remnant of a First Family might have been seen sitting on a fence, eating a sandwich.