HORACE GREELEY AT NEW ORLEANS.

Buttermilk with His Soup.

By GENERAL SHERIDAN.

WAS stationed at New Orleans when Mr. Greeley came there on his tour when a candidate for the Presidency. The old Creole residents gave him a dinner, and to make it as fine an affair as possible, each of the many hosts was laid under contribution for some of the rarest wines in his cellar. When dinner was announced, and the half-shell oysters had disappeared, the waiter appeared at Mr. Greeley's seat with a plate of beautiful shrimps. "You can take them away," he said to the waiter, and then he added apologetically to the horrified old Creole gentleman who presided: "I never eat insects of any kind." Later on a soup was served, and at the same time a glass of delicious white wine was placed at Mr. Greeley's right hand. He pushed it aside quietly, but not unobserved by the chief host. "Do you not drink wine?" he asked. "No," answered Mr. Greeley, "I never drink any liquors." "Is there anything you would live to drink with your soup?" the host asked, a little disappointed. "If you've got it," answered Mr. Greeley, “and it isn't any trouble, I'd like to have a glass of fresh buttermilk." "Mon Dieu!" said the host afterwards in his broken English, "ze idea of electing to ze Presidency a man vot drink buttermilk vis his soup!"

DON'T JUDGE HASTILY.

GEN. J. L. CHAMBERLAIN OF ME.

NE of the saddest things I know of is that epitaph which the Virginia father, gathering up the remnant left him after the ravages of war, and settling himself as best he could into the new situation, placed upon a stone he raised as a memorial of his old home. On one face of it he inscribed these words: "To the sacred memory of my eldest boy, who fell fighting for the stars and stripes." On the opposite side he wrote, "To the sacred memory of my youngest boy, who fell fighting for the lost cause." And between them on the third face, "God only knows which was right!" I pity that man's sorrow and dark perplexity. But there is a double question there as to the "right,” of which he dared not judge. The motive in the young men's minds was one thing, and the justice of the cause was another. God alone knows the heart, and he alone can judge men's motives. It is one of the strange facts of life that the best of feelings are sometimes enlisted in the worst of causes, and the worst of feelings in the best of causes. You cannot always judge the moral value of an act merely from its surface, nor can you judge it merely from its motive. But men are responsible for their motives which they have allowed to control them, and for their use of the light they might have had if they would open their eyes to it.

HILE Generals Grant and Lee were in conference, arranging the conditions of the latter's surrender, Ward's battery from Mississippi occupied such an advanced position in the Confederate line as not to know what was going on at army headquarters, and having received no orders to cease firing, consequently its guns were opened upon the Federals, whenever they were in sight or range, notwithstanding the latter called to them to cease firing, and also waved handkerchiefs at them. The officers of the battery thought it quite strange that firing had ceased everywhere else, and, after a consultation, dispatched a lieutenant to Major Pogue, who commanded the battalion of artillery, for orders. As the lieutenant rode along he noticed an unusual number of blue coats within the lines, and saw groups of Confederate and Federal officers in conversation, and said the thought took possession of him that the Confederates had won the day and captured a terrible big lot of prisoners. Finally, he reached Major Pogue's tent, and after saluting him, announced that his battery had cleaned out the enemy in its front, and that the captain was waiting instructions to move further to the front, and had sent him for orders. "Orders!" exclaimed the major, "why, the jig's up!"

"It is?" said the lieutenant. "Yes! the surrender occurred more than an hour ago," continued the major, but before he could finish the lieutenant wheeled his horse, and, giving a big hurrah, stuck his spurs to him and went dashing back to his

comrades. As he reached them he whooped and yelled louder than ever. "Hurrah! boys, the jig's up. We've scooped them in. Old Grant's surrendered to Marse Bob, and his fellows and our fellows are all up the road there, a shaking hands, and a swapping greenbacks and Confederate money for war relics. I swear it's a fact. I saw it with my own eyes, and Major Pogue told me so.”

At that time the major came galloping up and the lieutenant exclaimed:

"There he comes now. He'll tell you all about it." Before the major could speak the lieutenant asked, "Hasn't the surrender taken place, major?"

"Yes," said he, and again the lieutenant whooped and yelled.

"I told you so. Hurrah for our side!" and the officers and men joined in and yelled till their throats were sore.

All this time the major, who was still in his saddle, was trying to get in a word or two, but all in vain. Great tears were coursing down his cheeks, and when the lieutenant noticed this he called out :

By granny, boys, the news is so good, see, the major is actually crying.” At last there was a lull, when the captain remarked :

"Tell me all the particulars, major." The major, with some effort, and in a husky voice, complied; but when he told them General Lee had surrendered to General Grant, his eyes were not the only ones that were filled with tears.

The lieutenant look confounded, then bursting into tears, said:

"Well, boys, I don't believe it was ever intended for us to win."

And some were as brown as the tawny South,

And some like the dawn were fair And here was the lad with his girlish mouth,

And there was the beard of care. But whether from farm or fold they drew,

And now 'tis the flash, and the crash, and the roar,

As the battle creeps on apace.

O, God! it is hard when a comrade falls, With his head at your very feet, While "Forward!" the voice of your captain calls,

And the enemy beats retreat.

And O, for the mother or wife who must see,

When the news of the battle is known,

Killed, Private C., of Company G," While she sits in her grief like a stone.

Here, the pitiless siege, and the hunger that mocks;

There, the hell of Resaca waits; And the crash of the shells on the Georgia rocks,

As you beat on Atlanta's gates. There are dreams of a peace that is slow to dawn,

Of the furloughs that never come;

seat, Each shouldered his musket and donned

the blue,

And the time with his brogans beat. And the mother put motherly fears to flight,

And the wife hid her tears away; For men must fight while their cause is right,

While the women in patience pray.

And now 'tis the discipline hard and

sore,

Of the camp, and the march, and the

chase,

drawn,

And the silence of lips grown dumb.

The words of your messmate you write from the crag

Where he breathed his life away : "Oh say to my darling I died for the flag She blessed when we marched that

day."

There are chevroned sleeves for some who may go,

And a captain's straps for a few, And the scars of the hero that some may show,

When is sounded the last tattoo;