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While worn and wounded thus he slept,
A vision o'er his senses crept.

He dreamed that once again he stood
Beside his native Highland wood;
With Scottish firs and murmuring pine
Stretched far and black in sombre line.
Ben Nevis' mountains lift their thrones
Majestic, in successive cones,
Crowned with the everlasting snow;
While far away and deep below,
Loch Katrine's surges ebb and flow,
Tossing their billows to the shore
With never-dying savage roar.

He sees the shieling, mossed and gray,
Where first he saw life's dawning day;
The sheep-flock and the cattle-group
Home winding in a lazy troop;

The wimpling brook that down the vale
Prattled its sweet unceasing tale;
While joyous from the open door,
He sees his kin and parents pour;
The agéd sire, the wrinkled dame,
With feeble steps and tottering frame,
Eager to fondle with delight,
The son returning from the fight.

But sweeter, dearer than them all,

What bright dream on his sense doth fall!
He sees, with open arms, and eyes
Swimming and radiant with surprise,
His bride, all beauty and in tears,
The treasure of his better years,
Rush forth in ecstasy to clasp
Her soldier in her tender grasp;
He sees-and, oh! the father's pride!
Two rosy cherubs at her side.

He starts-alas! 'tis all a dream!
O'er him the frosty night-stars gleam;
The ghostly moon her silver shield
Swings o'er the lonely battle-field;
While stiff, and stark, and deadly white,
A fearful and heart-rending sight,
The bleeding corses of the slain,
Cumber, O Waterloo! thy plain.

Gored, pierced, and trampled in the strife,
Far from his hut, his home, his wife,
The soldier gasps away his life.

EDITOR'S TABLE,

The Old Knickerbocker to his Readers.

THE OLD KNICKERBOCKER wishes a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all his friends. It is more than thirty years since he first had the pleasure of making the same kindly salutation to his many readers, but he is happy to say that he is still in the enjoyment of a vigorous existence, and that no symptoms of old age have yet made their appearance, for he is one of those favored mortals who never grow old, and he hopes the only 'sere and yellow leaf' he will ever put on will be that of his monthly cover. He flatters himself that his old flow of spirits has not diminished its volume, and that he is no less genial a companion now, both for young and old, than he was in the long ago—the days that are no more.

Contact with the bright intellects and keen wits of his time has left its polish round the name on his door-plate, and he can point to a tremendous antecedent which no other magazine in America, or perhaps the world, has equalled. But he is not content to shine by reflected light. His life is creative, and by his works alone, past, present, and future, does he ask to be judged.

As he did not receive a government contract on the outbreak of the rebellion, the war has hardly been favorable to his worldly fortunes, but he has the priceless blessing of a clear conscience to console him for the loss of the privilege to supply the army with shoddy, and he prefers a moderate income combined with an honorable calling to a large one coupled with dishonest purposes. All persons who sustain him in this view of the case, may testify their approbation of his course by forwarding a subscription to the Magazine for the ensuing year.

But he is sanguine, that, when the war is over and the hundreds of thou

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sands who are now fighting the battles of their country turn their swords into plough-shares, and the gates of the South are again open to peaceful commerce, that many of the friends who have gone will return once more and gather round this same old Table.

In view of the series of victories which have crowned the National arms, let us hope that the consummation so devoutly to be wished will have taken place ere another New Year overtakes us in our journey to the grave, and that the wise policy of negotiation may prevail over further appeals to force both North and South. But of this we have little expectation for a long time to come. The South is still resolute, and apparently determined not to surrender as long as there is a shot left in the locker.' But the superior resources of the North make its ultimate conquest inevitable. Conquest, however, is not what any but a few extremists desire. It is simply reünion that we want, and if the great object for which we are shedding the nation's blood and expending its treasure is kept steadily in view at the North, and every thing else made subordinate to that one end, and the South will consent to set aside passion, and appeal to reason, such negotiations may be commenced as will lead to the restoration of the Union without the alternative of fighting the war out to the bitter end; for it is highly probable that a large portion of the Southern people would prefer returning to the Union under certain conditions regarding slavery which we can very well afford to grant, to the alternative of continuing the struggle till their armies are exterminated, their government overthrown, and their property destroyed or confiscated.

Having delivered himself thus briefly upon matters of state, the old KNICK

ERBOCKER trusts the magnates at Washington and Richmond will be guided by his good advice, and that the counsels of wisdom will be heard in the halls of legislation.

But the war has lost its novelty; it is no longer a sensation, and the public mind runs upon trifles. People hardly give a second thought to a battle, but talk continuously about a new play. They care very little about the Message of either President Lincoln or President Davis. The late advance and retreat of the army of the Potomac neither raised enthusiasm nor caused disappointment. People gave themselves little or no concern about it. The sinking of a gunboat in Charleston harbor is a far less interesting topic of conversation than skating in the Central Park, and the capture of the Chesapeake by rebel pirates than the high price of diamonds, both black and Brazilian.

The progress of the war is most attentively watched by those who have a pecuniary interest at stake, particularly stock and gold speculators, whose motives are purely selfish, and who would sell their country for profit as readily as Esau sold his birthright for a mess of pottage. The highest object of the lives of many of these men appears to be to buy and sell 'Erie,' 'Fort Wayne,' Rock Island,' 'Mariposa,' 'Pittsburgh,' and the other shares on the list, and their greatest anxiety to watch the market, whether it be sick or buoyant. They think stocks and talk stocks all day in William-street, and adjourn to think stocks and talk stocks all the evening in a pestiferous cellar under the Fifth Avenue Hotel, for which latter privilege they each pay twenty-five cents nightly to the man at the door, who is doubtless making a small fortune by the operation. There they smoke, and drink, and gamble in the fortunes of their country till within an hour of midnight, when they probably go home and dream of stocks. That they ever think of any thing else worth mentioning is highly improbable.

The hundreds of thousands of brave men who lie in premature graves on the nation's battle-fields are all but forgotten, and the memory of the terrible past is as much as possible buried with them. National tragedies, unlike domestic griefs, come home to none of us. The incubus of a debt of a few hundred or thousand millions, more or less, is a matter which gives the public mind no trouble whatever.

Meanwhile we display our freedom from care by crowding theatres, concert-halls, opera-houses, and drawingrooms, and spending our money as freely as we make it easily. And the huge hotels have their carnival, for the country seems emptying itself into the large cities, and the cry is still they come.' House and hotel accommodation is quite inadequate to the demand in all the great centres, especially New-York and Washington, and the tendency at all points is towards centralization.

What will happen to us next, and how all this will end, the old KNICKERBOCKER, having due regard for his reputation as a seer, will not venture to prophesy. But while the sun shines, let those make hay who can. There is a dark cloud yonder.

OUR soldiers seem to be at no great loss in making themselves at home under difficulties, if we may accept what follows as a real experience. But we may rest assured that it is not every one who could keep such a Yankee hotel in Dixie as the tenant of the barn herein described succeeded in doing:

A Pankee Hotel in Dixie.

WHEN General BANKS's army moved on up the Shenandoah Valley from New-Market, Quartermaster-Sergeant REUBEN W. OLIVER, of COCHRAN's New-York Battery, had to be temporarily left in a barn on account of injuries he had received. Soon after our departure he made application at the lady's house adjoining for board, for which he offered to pay liberally, but he was informed in true Virginian style, 'That she did n't

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board Yankee barbarians.' 'Very well,' replied OLIVER, if you won't board me, I shall keep hotel in your barn, but shall probably draw upon you occasionally for supplies; and he hobbled back to the barn. OLIVER was every inch a soldier, and he went to work at once. Taking his revolver, he shot madam's finest young porker, which his assistant speedily dressed. His able assistant next went to the apiary and took up' a hive of bees, and transferred the honey to the barn; he then went to the lot and milked a pail of milk from her lady ship's cows; then going to her servant's house, he made a 'requisition' for a quantity of fresh corn-dodgers' that had been prepared for her supper. The addition of these articles to his ordinary rations placed him far beyond the point of starvation. True to his Yankee instincts, he invited the lady to take tea with him, at the new hotel across the way, at which she became spitefully indignant; but OLIVER was as happy as a lark, and for the time almost forgot his injuries. Soon he had several sick soldiers added to his list of boarders; and in due time a sheep, and another young porker, and a second hive of bees were gathered under the roof of his 'hotel;' and furthermore, not a cock remained to proclaim when the morning dawneth. By this time her ladyship thought she could see it,' and sent for OLIVER, who, as promptly as the na

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ture of his injuries would permit, reported

at her door.

'See here, young man,' said she, 'I perceive that it would be cheaper for me to board you in my house; and if you will accept it, you can have board and a room free.'

'Thank you, madam, thank you,' replied OLIVER, removing his cap and bowing politely; but I prefer boarding at a firstclass Yankee hotel to stopping at any secesh house in Virginia, at the same price. You will, therefore, be so kind as to excuse me for declining your generous offer, as it comes too late;' and back he hobbled to the barn, and actually remained there for about two weeks, taking in and boarding every sick and straggling soldier that came along, making frequent requisitions' upon her for supplies.

Her ladyship was mightily pleased when OLIVER'S Yankee hotel was discontinued;

but it learned her a valuable lesson, and no Yankee soldier ever thereafter applied to her in vain for food or shelter. They always got what they wanted, she evidently not relishing the Yankee hotel system.

A CORRESPONDENT out West tells a not improbable story of a justice of the peace in his neighborhood, illustrative of the glorious uncertainty of the law: '

FRIEND KNICK: 'Squire M--, who was for many years a justice of the peace in this neighborhood, was a wealthy though somewhat ignorant farmer.

One day, in the most pressing season of harvesting, he was summoned to attend at the trial of some petty dispute between his neighbors. The evidence was long and somewhat tedious, and the 'Squire had more than once exhibited symptoms of impatience. At length, when it was finished, and REUBEN WING, Esquire, the village lawyer, had risen and delivered a preliminary hem or two, he burst forth:

'I don't want none of your pleading about it. I know how it is now jest like a book; besides, it 's getting late, and I want to go home and do my chores. I can decide it now as well as I can any time.'

On being convinced that such a course would not be exactly according to the due form of law, he reluctantly yielded. The arguments evidently did not tend to edify him much upon the subject, for when they were finished he exclaimed:

'There, it is jest as I knew it would be! The thing was jest as clear as daylight before, and now you have gone and mixed the tarnal thing up so I will be darned if I know how to fix it!'

A YOUNG lady sends us a few sensible lines on an important subject-intellectual, æsthetical, and moral culture and neglect:

'DEAR KNICK: In a small gathering the other evening, I overheard a gentleman ask another why it is we soo seldom meet in society with what can be called sensible young ladies, and in the course of the conversation, he further stated that out of a considerable number of lady friends, there

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was not one with whom he could spend an evening, and after he had left, say that he felt edified. That this remark was made as a piece of affectation I do not believe, nor do I think the gentleman intended to be hypercritical; for many a man out of even a very large circle of lady friends will acknowledge there is not one of them he would marry. This is perhaps the reason why so many matrimonial advertisements find their way into our newspapers, a bad plan, no doubt, of making acquaintances, but still an exponent of a notorious fact. The gentleman did not mean to say there were no sensible young ladies, but that they were very few, and doubting as he was, he wanted some ocular proof of feminine good sense. It is a melancholy fact that out of a population as large as New-York, very few young ladies care to make themselves fit companions for the highest type of humani ty, a cultivated gentleman. I was almost startled by the thought suggested by the author of the 'Plurality of Worlds,' that every thing in nature tended to one grand conclusion the development of man. we in our daily walks fully recognize this fact? Does the boarding-school miss, whose ambition goos no higher than attending so many soireés, and receiving the usual amount of flattery? Does the merchant, when he chuckles with inward satisfaction at the result of some rather questionable bargain? Does the broker? Does the sharp practitioner in any profession? Alas! no. All of us need to keep this great cardinal fact in view, that we are not living altogether for ourselves, nor is it our mission to impose upon our fellows by affectation, show, and pride. An old country minister that I once knew used constantly to pray to be delivered from self. That prayer should be constantly repeated by us all, for were there less of selfishness, and more of high-toned morality, honor, and cultivation among us, there would be no complaints about the dreariness of society. What a misnomer now-a-days is a 'sociable'! An inhabitant of another planet would suppose that he had fallen in with a company of enthusiastic gymnasts, each striving to outdo his neighbor. Can it then be said that one who dances well is a fool? Far from it. Dancing, music, chessplaying, and the like are all aims towards accomplishing one grand result-sociability.

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There is another (I am afraid one of the lost arts) accomplishment - the art of expressing one's ideas beautifully and well. It is not a synonym with what is called 'small-talk,' than which nothing can be more dreary.

I could say more, but I am afraid to trespass further on your patience.

JENNY MILLER,'

THOSE who delight in the fantastic and the legendary will like the oddity of the following verses, entitled Fantasie.

BY H. A. BLOOD.

I HAD come from a distant land by sea
To the magical realm of Fantasie;
Brightest of kingdoms under the sun;
Fairer than empires of lilies and roses;
Wilder than half which the Dreams have
done

For the wonderful land where Sleep reposes:
The loveliest region of all that be
Is the magical realm of Fantasie.

All on the borders grow those flowers,
Those crazy and-oh! those crazy flowers
Most known to immemorial story,
While down from above in all their glory,
Down from above dear Fantasie,
With a white and silent masonry
Gloom and glimmer the moonshine towers,
And over those towers impalpable
The Whimsies flit, when the moon is full.

The slender Caprices dwell here together,
In the midst of a very uncertain weather,

Where it rains and it shines every hour of
And

the day;

some look so pensive and some look

so gay, And they smile or they frown, alway, al

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