Cemetery, delivered the address here alluded to, and which is destined to live in the National archives. It was a day, (we quote from our Diary of that date.) calm and glorious. From the second story of our friend's house, we had a full view of the grand procession as it moved towards Cemetery Hill. After an imposing military array, appeared the Executive and Legislative branches of our National and State Governments with a grand military escort; then came various delegations and associations from the most remote, as well as nearer, portions of our great empire. But no part of this grand display was so touching as the sight of a band of invalid and maimed soldiers, remnants of different brigades of the army, clad in their blue overcoats, and slowly following the immense and brilliant cavalcade, to the plaintive air of "When this cruel war is over"-Ah! and what then, my suffering braves? to you, there remains but a life of decrepitude and suffering. May your country see to it that poverty too shall not be in your future lot! After the entire procession had passed, accompanied by Mr. B., we drove to the Cemetery. As carriages were not allowed to enter the enclosure, we walked in, directing our course towards the table-land in the centre, but the crowd was so dense as to forbid our progress, and we returned to our carriage, where, upon a commanding eminence, we had a panoramic view of the scene around us. A solemn stillness pervaded the immense assemblage, broken only by the sound of the speaker's voice, which was occasionally borne to our ears by a favoring breath of air. What a contrast to the roar and thunder of battle of July 2d, when the possession of Cemetery Hill was so hotly contested by the contending armies! From the sight of the thousands of living men who had come together to do honor to those who had so lately died for their country, the imagination turned to that Thursday (for this too was Thursday) when the dead and dying lay strewed around the hill sides, the valleys and the open fields, like leaves scattered by the autumn blast. These are events too momentous for language to express; the imagination fails before the awfully moral sublime,—and such we felt to be the scene before us, in its relation to the past, present and future of our country. EDITOR. SONG OF THE SOUTHERN LOYALISTS. Up with the Old Flag; fling out its folds: Not a Star vanished,—each one is there; Sad was the season when it was struck; Up with the Old Flag; long may it float, God bless the day for the Old Flag again! THE REBELLION. We have experienced a strange revolution in our habits, during the last three years. Before this time, there was not a nation on the face of the earth in which there was so little to remind one of military power. Our standing army consisted of some twelve or fifteen thousand men, scattered here and there on the outposts; in our navyyards, unfinished ships had been rotting on the ways for more than forty years; our military musters had become such a farce, that the militia were every where disbanded. War was regarded as a thing of the past; we read the histories of old time and wondered at the infatuation which led the men of those days to settle their disputes by arms; the farmer, plodding behind his plough, sometimes found in the sod a blackened musket-ball, and then he thanked God that the days of bloodshed were over forever; the artisan stood by the anvil, and with a song on his lips of the good time coming," beat the swords into plough-shares; the merchant sent his vessel off upon the seas, thankful that there were no more pirates or privateersmen to obstruct the highway of nations; ministers of the Gospel denounced all war as unchristian; Carlylean philosophers ridiculed the notion of settling points of equity with lead and saltpetre; political economists figured up the awful cost of war, and startled the world by their arithmetic; Peace Congresses held their sessions and scattered abundant rose-water as a sovereign disinfectant; Non-Resistants met in council and protested against the contest of arms with a horrible strife of tongues; West Point Cadets by scores entered the ranks of the Christian ministry-some of them have gone back to the old ranks now; and our poets sang jubilantly of the reign of universal amity and concord. They tune their harps to a wilder song to-day. For, what a change! The drum rattles in our ears from morning till midnight; ponderous cannon rumble in our streets; all around our cities, acres of tents whiten the sward; the nation has been decimated to furnish soldiers; the only news that we care to read is that which comes from the seat of war; every where our tool-shops are making rifles and our foundries casting cannon; the basement of our Capitol has been turned into a mammoth bakery;-better use, perhaps, than it was put to, when loyal and rebel Senators became fraternal there, over the cup which inebriates as well as cheers. How strange it is to walk over the beautiful Arlington Heights, and see the cultivated grounds cut up into streets, labelled by the New |