ing the citizens, of the down-trodden State, who flocked, enthusiastically, to the Confederate standard, but the iron heel of despotism, had been planted upon her capital, and marts of trade, and the facilities of her enemies, for transportation, and concentration, by land and water, rendered the continued occupation of Missouri untenable, and Missouri was left to her fate, yet thousands of her true men, as individuals, and in companies, left their hearths and fire-sides, and joined the organizations of other States, there were also thousands, who were intercepted, while en route for the South, with arms in their hands, and confined in the many military prisons of the North, many of whom are with us in Johnson's island, whose description of the massacre, by the "bloody Dutch," of St. Louis, is heart-rending, which satisfies the writer, that in a free country, (so-called,) "the people will submit to anything.' The Missourians, in prison with us, have the reputation of being good soldiers, and have left their homes, with a burning zeal for independence, to follow the star of Missouri, (Sterling Price,) that now shines, undimmed, in the military horizon of the South, who, with his followers, have been driven from their State, by a spirit of fanaticism, stimulated by the "Devil," and the "Dutch."

William P. Clarkson, captain, Sixth Regiment, Missouri Volunteers, captured December 21st, 1861. Clarkson is a perfect specimen of human architecture, possessing the delicacy of the Corinthian, with the stength, and naturale, of the Doric, the quiet dignity of the Ionic, and the childlike manner of the Tuscan, reminding us of the times gone by, when simplicity of mien, was as much admired, as the antique Tuscan, in the present, forming a human temple, in the social world, that on can well nigh worship at.

"With leave to write a stranger's name,
A captive here-your father greeting,

It is my fate, but not my shame,

To give you this a prisoner's greeting.

WM. P. CLARKSON, Captain,

"Sixth Missouri Regiment, Company H., taken prisoner near Sedelia, Missouri, while on special duty for General Price."

Captain J. P. Colwell, Porter's Regiment, Greene's Division, captured, January 8th, 1862, at the battle of Silver Creek. Captain D. H. McIntyre, First Regiment, Missouri State Guards, captured at Fulton, Missouri, December 25th, 1861. Captain Jno. G. Provine, same regiment, captured same time. Captain F. A. Rogers, Company C, Second Regiment, Sixth Division, M. S. G., captured at Milford, Johnson county, Missouri, December 19th, 1861. James F. Wilhite, captured at same place, as were Captain Wm. E. Jamison, Adjutant J. Joplin, W. Singleton, Duncan, captured at Fulton, December 25th, 1861, Lieutenant P. F. Willard, Lieutenant Raines, Division M. S. G., captured at Kirksville, Missouri, December, 1862. Captain H. M. Salmon, one of the most thorough soldiers and gentlemen, from his State, captured at Versailles, Missouri, December 3d, 1861. Captains Weed, Hogane, and Fletcher, are mentioned in other "scraps."

The following lines are from Captain Simmons:

"To

"I address thee-from a colder clime,
Than your own dear Southern land;
To prison consigned, to remain a time,
For daring to rally 'round Liberty's stand.

"I write from a land where the pure holy fire,
In the lamp of Freedom grows dim;
To beg a kind thought, (as a friend of your sire,)
May be spared, from your thousand, for him.

"And-I'll pray in return, that the rays

Of our rising Southern sun,

The brightest and warmest, may meet thy gaze,
And cheer your path, in the years to come."

All natural convulsions are attended with more or less disastrous results, but the most terrible of all is—death— this is a convulsion that shocks the earth to its centre, affects all, levels all, and is a debt that all must pay, the interest of which is in the future, that to all is dark and impenetrable. Circumstances may modify the terrors of the grim monster's visitation, but the finale is the same,

whether or not the struggle is ended in the quiet chamber, surrounded by the loved ones of the family altar, (and there amid groans and tears the spirit takes its flight,) or the fitful fever is o'er in the prison, or in harness upon the bloody field, the last gasp is the end. Although the desire to die at home is paramount in the human heart, yet there is a terrible disturbance in that society, of which the victim may be a member, disease has placed its iron hand upon him, and the icy chill of death is rapidly creeping o'er the once robust frame, the wail of the orphan children, and the expressed bursting of the widow's heart, is incense offered at the altar of the King of Terrors, to appease his wrath, but he is unrelenting, and the sufferer dies; then follows the gloom of the household, the horrid paraphernalia of the funeral cortege, and the blank despair in that once happy home, the roll of wheels is harsh, the laugh of the light and thoughtless is discordant, and the clock of the world for that day stands still, and life is a blank. This is death at home, a horrible shock, although at home.

Death rides his pale horse on the battle-field. Here amid the whistle of bullets, the shriek of shell, the fierce roar of cannon, and the yells of men drunk with blood, strikes down his victim, and the spirit wings its way to that bar, where its destiny is in the hands of justice, and not tardy, not bought and sold, and whose balances would break with a hair of falsity. The most solemn of all deaths is that within the prison walls, far from home, a chain of future subjects snapped in twain, hopes obliterated, deferred schemes rent and scattered, home and its happy associations, severed from living memory, the absent wife is in the mind's eye, the mother's nursery rhymes, (for it matters not how old the body, the soul of the child and the man are the same, and hence the mental recurrence to the circumstances of childhood.) The green grass of the meadow looks brighter, the running brook seems clearer, the laugh of your children ring in merry peals through the garden; he sees the thousand pictures of home-life, they become fainter, they are seen through a mist, (the film that looms round the death bed,) it is

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dark, the spirit has left its tabernacle of clay. Such a deatli in prison, died General Murray, of Warren county, Tennessee, on the 28th of May, 1862. A political prisoner, arrested and confined by order of Andrew Johnson, military Governor of Tennessee. General Murray was not much above the prime of life, fitted by nature, if spared to accomplish much ere the expiration of time allowed by the Psalmist, of high standing at home, the centre of a large and devoted household, he was cut down like a flower; he died as he had lived, calm and resigned. He was consigned to the resting place, that was to bear all that remained of him to his family and friends. The prison gates are opened, and the coffin disappears. Why is all this? Man's inhumanity to man. Does it not seem that God's vengeance will shower coals of fire upon the heads of this wicked generation. Chorazin, Babylon and Nineveh, were destroyed for much, for much less.

Colonel John Dorr, is a connection of mine, and overflowing with generous impulses, and is the soul of hospitality itself, yet is afflicted with the Abolitionphobia, that seems to strike him like St. Vitus dance, and, from having been an editor in good standing, of that sterling Democratic journal, the "Kenebec Journal," has sank into the abyss, created by rabid Abolitionism.

While on a visit to the colonel, in Augusta, Maine, he wished me to call upon one of her most distingushed colored citizens, whose cognomen was "Uncle Isom." I went, and was ushered into a neat cottage, that is, as much so, as the American citizens of African descent, are capable of keeping in such condition; the building had been erected at the expense of the corporation, and the ground donated quite philanthropically, by my African-loving connection, (possibly there were suffering whites about). Uncle Isom was glad to see me, as he was agreeably disappointed, anticipating seeing a slave-owner, (I owned one,) with a pistol sticking out of each pocket, and a bowie knife in his coat collar, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a horse-whip in the other, a picture often presented to the gullible fanaties in the North. I was a modest looking youth then, and can appreciate his as

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tonishment. I was also surprised at him, expecting to see an ancient colored individual, with no capillary substance on the summit of his cranium," as from the donations made to him, made the presumption obvious, that he was superanuated, yet strange to say, he was a "big buck nigger," who had raised two trifling sons, that had ran off, much to the gratification of the citizens. He was perfectly able to work, but was taking advantage of the simplicity of his friends. Our interview ending, I requested a glass of water; 'twas handed me in a tin cup, and had that dedecided flavor, that I have enjoyed so often, on a Mississippi plantation, in drinking out of a gourd, of a warm day, it was decidedly "Nigger." I drank with much. gusto, and handed the cup to Dorr, who declined, remarking, as the door closed on us, "how did you manage to drink after that greasy old Negro ?" I replied, with us, we are secure in our social position, and do not fear the trespass of an inferior race, you having elevated the Negro to the position of an equal, politically, you now fear a social trespass; the Southern man is the true philanthropist, and the best friend of the black man, if not from affection, from policy's sake. Dorr is a type of the New England fanatic, there is none of them, that will drink out of the cup of a Negro, and yet, are flooding the country with blood, to place him in a false position.

The amusement of the sham fight on the Campus, is one of the most exciting of the many efforts, to while away the time, and break the monotony of our confinement. The fortification consists of a wood-pile, with a crest of sticks, interior and exterior slopes of chunks. The rat holes are within the buildings, affording a secure retreat for the temporary vanquished. The engagement generally opens not by knocking a chip off an antagonist's shoulder, but by throwing several chips at the enemy, who is admirably poised upon a billet of wood, awaiting the attack and the opening of the foe's batteries, which are masked. The attack is frequently violent, and the character of the missiles effective, and if the shot are not hot, the work is. At the invitation of Lieutenant Watts,