"No," says the Lieutenant, agitatedly: "but we miss two--" "Not baggage wagons?" says Villiam, giving such a start that Euclid nearly fell upon his knees; "don't tell me that two wagons are missing." "Why no," says the Lieutenant, with emotion, "it's not two wagons that we miss, but two Brigadiers." "Ah!" says Villiam, fanning himself with his cap. "How you alarmed me. I thought at first that it was two wagons. Let the procession go on, and I'll send for two more Brigs the next time I have a friend going to Washington." It would please me, my boy, to detail the further movements of the Mackerels, but the cause of strategy demands that I should say no more on that topic just at present. The beloved General of the Mackerel Brigade was at Washington when he heard of the advance which his enemies would pretend that he did not lead in person, and says he to the messenger: "Are my gallant children ready for a fight?" "Much so," says the messenger. "Is the weather clear, my child?" "Salubrious." "Thunder!" says the General, valorously. "Then I really believe that I must move my headquarters across the Potomac!" The Potomac, my boy--to speak with all due reverence for sacred things--in the numerous backs and forths it so constantly imposes upon the military, would seem calculated to turn this war into another Crusade, and make all our heroes literal soldiers of the "cross." Yours, metaphorically, OEPHEUS C. KERR. LETTER LXXVIII. IN WHICH THE STORY TOLD BY THE GERMAN MEMBER OF THE COSMOPOLITAN CLUB IS DULY REPORTED. WASHINGTON, D. C., November 12th, 1862. Herr Tuyfeldock, my boy, the high-Dutch cosmopolitan, supernaturalized the last meeting of the club with his old-fashioned story of HERMANN, THE DEMENTED. "At the base of a lofty mountain, and overshadowed by its beetling cliffs, stood a rude hut, built of heavy logs, and surmounted by a roof, the eaves of which descended in broad scollops over the windows of the tenement, and gave it the appearance of a small boy wearing his father's hat. In the surrounding scenery there was a wild grandeur and magnificence with which no work of art would have been in keeping. Immediately in the rear of the humble habitation, abruptly rose one of a range known as the Hartz Mountains, stretching far away toward the west in waves of bright and shadowy emerald, as the light fell upon them, and covered with gloomy forests, peopled with unblest spirits by the legends of olden times. In front and on both sides, spreading out its vast expanse of verdant soil, until it appeared to meet with the horizon, was a noble plain, bearing scattered clumps of trees, through which a few isolated huts were discernable. It was like Light and Shade meeting, with the hut under the cliff to mark their boundaries.