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From camp Page.
[special Correspondence of the Dispatch.]

Camp Page, near Williamsburg, Aug. 24, 1861
A few words only to the Dispatch this morning before the mail closes. I see it stated in Northern quarters that the Federal vessels are sinking hulks at the months of our rivers, for the purpose of preventing ingress or egress. I do not believe one word of it, as far as relates to the mouths of the York and the James. It is intended, doubtless, as a blind to the operatives on the Peninsula.--But they might as well expect to climb to Heaven on a rope ladder as to attempt to fool General Magruder. When the time comes, Wool will get a good wooling, and Old Point will point a moral, and adorn sundry tales (?) that will be turned for protection to that quarter.

I see that Henry Wilson is to command a battalion of flying artillery. It is a good appointment by the Federal Government, for he will be au fait as a courier from the field of battle, as Manassas will testify. We are seemingly quiet in this quarter, but wide awake.

I see from the Examiner that the Northern prints profess to give detailed accounts of the movements of the Southern army — their officers, locations, and munitions. Now, it is certain, not withstanding the errors of the Northern papers on the subject, that there is ‘"something rotten in Denmark,"’ In other words, that there are spies not only in the capital, but there are traitors in the secrets of some of the Departments. I say, find them out and convict them if possible, and hang them as high as Haman, even on the Capitol Square, in sight of all men.

Have you read Miss Susan Archer Talley's "Battle of Manassas," in the Enquirer of the 234 inst. It is worthy of a lasting place beside Macanlay's "Lays of Ancient Rome," the "Henry of Navarre," or Tennyson's or Hope's "Charge of Balaklava." I trust that Southern literature will soon receive its proper meed, now that we have stultified the "Mutual Admiration Society" of Boston, and the smaller fry cliques of New York and Philadelphia. Willis' next poem will be perhaps addressed to Mrs. Lincoln's poodle, or to Abraham's bosom, over which the flunky and the snob saw that immaculate shirt descend. Oats.

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