But what can excuse that General who, after leading the whole country to expect that he would take Richmond in time for me to conclude this picture of Southern life, as I originally planned to do, now changes his base of operation in a strategic manner, and introduces a fizzle into romantic literature---- * * * * * Here Smith-Brown, who happened to be awake, coughed intrusively, my boy, and says he: "The fault is not the General's, my friend. The Secretary of War is alone to blame for it. He has killed literature." How true was that speech, my boy. The Secretary is indeed responsible for this literary disaster, as well for everything else; and if he ever undertakes to stand on his own responsibility, he will find plenty of room to move about. Yours, droopingly, ORPHEUS C. KERR. LETTER LV. SETTING FORTH A NEW VILLAINY OF THE INSIDIOUS BLACK REPUBLICANS, AND DESCRIBING THE THRILLING CONSTITUTIONAL BATTLE OF DUCK LAKE. WASHINGTON, D. C., July 12th, 1862. Owing to the persistent stupidity of Congress and the hideously-treasonable machinations of the unscrupulous black republicans, my boy, the weather still continues very hot; and unless the thermometer falls very soon, an exhausted populace will demand an immediate change in the Cabinet. I am very warm, my boy--I am very warm; and when I reflect upon the agency of the abolitionists, who have brought this sort of thing about for the express purpose of injuring my Constitution, I am impelled to ask myself: Did our revolutionary forefathers indeed expire in vain? O my country! my country! it is very warm. Such weather, my boy, is particularly trying to Sergeant O'Pake's friend, THE IRISH PICKET. I'm shtanding in the mud, Biddy, With not a spalpeen near, And silence, spaichless as the grave, Is all the sound I hear. Me gun is at a showlder arms, I'm wetted to the bone, And whin I'm afther shpakin' out, I find meself alone. This Southern climate's quare, Biddy, A quare and bastely thing, Wid Winter absint all the year, And Summer in the Spring. Ye mind the hot place down below? And may ye niver fear I'd dhraw comparisons--but then It's awful warrum here. The only moon I see, Biddy, Is one shmall star, asthore, And that's fornint the very cloud It was behind before; The watchfires glame along the hill That's swellin' to the south, And whin the sentry passes them I see his oogly mouth. It's dead for shlape I am, Biddy, And dramein shwate I'd be, If them ould rebels over there Would only lave me free; But when I lane against a shtump And shtrive to get repose, A musket ball he's comin' shtraight To hit me spacious nose.