[From] Catches of Comfort.
Solemn times these, dear reader. We are in weeds together. One has more hope than another perhaps, but our hopes are all forlorn ones. We have been terribly beaten. Our backs are in stripes, and even the most healing applications "smart us" like fire. But we are not without glimpses of comfort,—our Uncle Tom has a Cassy at least to bring him a drink of water in his distress. It is not a sorry thought that if we were defeated, so was everybody else. Yes, everybody, except the resurgent Silver Grayism, which was buried for dead and so reported formally.
The Rummies—we know not definitely yet whether they have got their Governor, but if they have, it is so "as by fire" instead of the vast majority they looked for; the Rummies are anything but gratified with their luck. We fancy that Mr. SEYMOUR will never boast much of the character of his zealous supporters. Being a gentleman himself and a man of unstained character, we tender him our condolence that his best friends smell so strong of the beer-shop and rum-hole. . . .