The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers, Series 1
by R. H. Newell · English · Gutenberg #35906 · 476,790 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers, Series 1
Author: R. H. Newell
Release date: April 19, 2011 [eBook #35906]
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ORPHEUS C. KERR PAPERS, SERIES 1 ***
Produced by Chris Curnow and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
THE ORPHEUS C. KERR PAPERS.
NEW YORK:
BLAKEMAN & MASON,
21 MURRAY STREET.
1862.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by BLAKEMAN &
MASON, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United
States, for the Southern District of New York.
ELECTROTYPED BY SMITH & MCDOUGAL, 82 & 84 Beekman Street.
PRINTED BY C. S. WESTCOTT & CO., 79 John Street.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
LETTER I.
SHOWING HOW OUR CORRESPONDENT CAME INTO THE WORLD: WITH SOME
PARTICULARS CONCERNING HIS EARLY CHILDHOOD 9
LETTER II.
SHOWING HOW THE WRITER INCREASED IN YEARS AND INDISCRETION, AND
HOW HE WAS SAVED FROM MATRIMONY BY THE LAMENTABLE EXAMPLE OF
JED SMITH 14
LETTER III.
OUR CORRESPONDENT BECOMES LITERARY, AND FATHOMS CERTAIN MYSTERIES
OF JOURNALISM. HE PRODUCES A DISTINCTIVE AMERICAN POEM, AND GAINS
THE USUAL REWARD OF YOUTHFUL GENIUS 22
LETTER IV.
DESCRIBING THE SOUTH IN TWELVE LINES, DEFINING THE CITIZEN'S FIRST
DUTY, AND RECITING A PARODY 31
LETTER V.
CONCERNING THE GREAT CROWD AT THE CAPITAL, OWING TO THE VAST
INFLUX OF TROOPS, AND TOUCHING UPON FIRE-ZOUAVE PECULIARITIES
AND OTHER MATTERS 37
LETTER VI.
INTRODUCING THE MACKEREL BRIGADE, DILATING ON HAVELOCKS AS FIRST
MADE BY THE WOMEN OF AMERICA, ILLUSTRATING THE STRENGTH OF HABIT
AND WEAKNESS OF "SHODDY," AND SHOWING HOW OUR CORRESPONDENT
INDULGED IN A HUGE CANARD, AFTER THE MANNER OF AN ENLIGHTENED
DAILY PRESS 42
LETTER VII.
RECORDING THE FIRST SANGUINARY EXPLOIT OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE,
AND ITS VICTORIOUS ISSUE 50
LETTER VIII.
THE REJECTED "NATIONAL HYMNS" 54
LETTER IX.
IN WHICH OUR CORRESPONDENT TEMPORARILY DIGRESSES FROM WAR MATTERS
TO ROMANTIC LITERATURE, AND INTRODUCES A WOMAN'S NOVEL 68
LETTER X.
MAKING CONSERVATIVE MENTION OF THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN AND ITS
EVENTS. THE FIRE-ZOUAVE'S VERSION OF THE AFFAIR, AND SO ON 74
LETTER XI.
GIVING AN EFFECT OF THE NEW BUGLE DRILL IN THE MACKEREL BRIGADE,
AND MAKING SOME NOTE OF THE LATEST IMPROVEMENTS IN ARTILLERY,
ETC. 82
LETTER XII.
GIVING AN ABSTRACT OF A GREAT ORATOR'S FLAGGING SPEECH, AND
RECORDING A DEATHLESS EXPLOIT OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE 88
LETTER XIII.
SUBMITTING VARIOUS RUMORS CONCERNING THE CONDITION OF THINGS AT
THE SOUTH, WITH A SKETCH OF A LIGHT SKELETON REGIMENT AND A NOTE
OF VILLIAM BROWN'S RECRUITING EXPLOIT 94
LETTER XIV.
SHOWING HOW OUR CORRESPONDENT MADE A SPEECH OF VAGUE CONTINUITY,
AFTER THE MODEL OF THE LATEST APPROVED STUMP ORATORY 99
LETTER XV.
WHEREIN WILL BE FOUND THE PARTICULARS OF A VISIT TO A SUSPECTED
NEWSPAPER OFFICE, AND SO ON 105
LETTER XVI.
INTRODUCING THE GOTHIC STEED, PEGASUS, AND THE REMARKABLE GERMAN
CAVALRY FROM THE WEST 109
LETTER XVII.
NOTING A NEW VICTORY OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE IN VIRGINIA, AND
ILLUSTRATING THE PECULIAR THEOLOGY OF VILLIAM BROWN; WITH SOME
MENTION OF THE SHARPSHOOTERS 114
LETTER XVIII.
DESCRIBING THE TERRIBLE DEATH AND MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF A
CONFEDERATE PICKET, WITH A TRIBUTE TO HIS MEMORY 120
LETTER XIX.
NOTICING THE ARRIVAL OF A SOLID BOSTON MAN WITH AN UNPRECEDENTED
LITERARY PRIZE, AND SHOWING HOW VILLIAM BROWN WAS TRIUMPHANTLY
PROMOTED 124
LETTER XX.
CONCERNING A SIGNIFICANT BRITISH OUTRAGE, AND THE CAPTURE OF MASON
AND SLIDELL 181
LETTER XXI.
DESCRIBING CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN'S GREAT EXPEDITION TO ACCOMAC,
AND ITS MARVELLOUS SUCCESS 186
LETTER XXII.
TREATING OF VILLIAM'S OCCUPATION OF ACCOMAC, AND HIS WISE DECISION
IN A CONTRABAND CASE 144
LETTER XXIII.
CONCERNING BRITISH NEUTRALITY AND ITS COSMOPOLITAN EFFECTS, WITH
SOME ACCOUNT OF HOW CAPTAIN BOB SHORTY LOST HIS COMPANY 149
LETTER XXIV.
NARRATING THE MACKEREL BRIGADE'S MANNER OF CELEBRATING CHRISTMAS,
AND NOTING A DEADLY AFFAIR OF HONOR BETWEEN TWO WELL-KNOWN
OFFICERS 158
LETTER XXV.
PRESENTING THE CHAPLAIN'S NEW YEAR POEM, AND REPORTING THE
SINGULAR CONDUCT OF THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE ON
THE DAY HE CELEBRATED 164
LETTER XXVI.
GIVING THE PARTICULARS OF A FALSE ALARM, AND A BIOGRAPHICAL
SKETCH OF THE OFFICER COMMANDING 173
LETTER XXVII.
TOUCHING INCIDENTALLY UPON THE CHARACTER OF ARMY FOOD, AND
CELEBRATING THE GREAT DIPLOMATIC EXPLOIT OF CAPTAIN VILLIAM
BROWN AT ACCOMAC 177
LETTER XXVIII.
CONCERNING THE CONTINUED INACTIVITY OF THE POTOMAC ARMY, AND
SHOWING HOW IT WAS POETICALLY CONSTRUED BY A THOUGHTFUL RADICAL 184
LETTER XXIX.
INTRODUCING A VERITABLE "MUDSILL," ILLUSTRATING YANKEE BUSINESS
TACT, NOTING THE DETENTION OF A NEWSPAPER CHARTOGRAPHIST,
AND SO ON 190
LETTER XXX.
DESCRIPTION OF THE GORGEOUS FETE AT THE WHITE HOUSE, INCLUDING
THE OBSERVATIONS OF CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN: WITH SOME NOTES OF
THE TOILETTES, CONFECTIONS, AND PUNCH 196
LETTER XXXI.
TREATING OF THE GREAT MILITARY ANACONDA, AND THE MODERN XANTIPPE 203
LETTER XXXII.
COMMENCING WITH A BURST OF EXULTATION OVER NATIONAL VICTORIES,
REFERRING TO A SENATORIAL MISTAKE, DEPICTING A WELL-KNOWN CHARACTER,
AND REPORTING THE RECONNOISSANCE OF THE WESTERN CENTAURS 209
LETTER XXXIII.
EXEMPLIFYING THE TERRIBLE DOMESTIC EFFECTS OF MILITARY INACTIVITY
ON THE POTOMAC, AND DESCRIBING THE METAPHYSICAL CAPTURE OF
FORT MUGGINS 219
LETTER XXXIV.
BEGINNING WITH A LAMENTATION, BUT CHANGING MATERIALLY IN TONE AT
THE DICTUM OF JED SMITH 228
LETTER XXXV.
GIVING PRACTICAL ILLUSTRATION OF MODERN PATRIOTISM, AND CELEBRATING
THE ADVANCE OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE TO MANASSAS, ETC. 239
LETTER XXXVI.
CONCERNING THE WEAKNESSES OF GREAT MEN, THE CURIOUS MISTAKE OF A
FRATERNAL MACKEREL, AND THE REMARKABLE ALLITERATIVE PERFORMANCE
OF CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN 248
LETTER XXXVII.
DESCRIBING THE REMARKABLE STRATEGICAL MOVEMENT OF THE CONIC
SECTION, UNDER CAPTAIN BOB SHORTY 254
LETTER XXXVIII.
INTRODUCING THE VERITABLE "HYMN OF THE CONTRABANDS," WITH
EMANCIPATION MUSIC, AND DESCRIBING THE TERRIFIC COMBAT A LA
MAIN BETWEEN CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN, OF THE UNITED STATES OF
AMERICA, AND CAPTAIN MUNCHAUSEN, OF THE SOUTHERN CONFEDERACY 260
LETTER XXXIX.
SHOWING HOW A REBEL WAS REDUCED, AND CONVERTED TO "RECONSTRUCTION,"
BY THE VALOROUS ORANGE COUNTY HOWITZERS 270
LETTER XL.
RENDERING TRIBUTE OF ADMIRATION TO THE WOMEN OF AMERICA, WITH A
REMINISCENCE OF HOBBS & DOBBS, ETC. 276
LETTER XLI.
CITING A NOTABLE CASE OF VOLUNTEER SURGERY, AND GIVING AN OUTLINE
SKETCH OF "COTTON SEMINARY" 288
LETTER XLII.
REVEALING A NEW BLOCKADING IDEA, INTRODUCING A GEOMETRICAL STEED,
AND NARRATING THE WONDERFUL EXPLOITS OF THE MACKEREL SHARPSHOOTER
AT YORKTOWN 289
LETTER XLIII.
CONCERNING MARTIAL LITERATURE; INTRODUCING A DIDACTIC POEM BY
THE "ARKANSAW TRACT SOCIETY," AND A BIOGRAPHY OF GARIBALDI
FOR THE SOLDIER 294
LETTER XLIV.
SHOWING HOW THE GREAT BATTLE OF PARIS WAS FOUGHT AND WON BY THE
MACKEREL BRIGADE, AIDED AND ABETTED BY THE IRON-PLATED FLEET
OF COMMODORE HEAD 306
LETTER XLV.
EXEMPLIFYING THE INCONSISTENCY OF THE CONSERVATIVE ELEMENT, AND
SETTING FORTH THE MEASURES ADOPTED BY CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN IN
HIS MILITARY GOVERNMENT OF PARIS 314
LETTER XLVI.
WHEREIN IS SHOWN HOW THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE
FOLLOWED AN ILLUSTRIOUS EXAMPLE, AND VETOED A PROCLAMATION.
ALSO RECORDING A MILITARY EXPERIMENT WITH RELIABLE CONTRABANDS 322
LETTER XLVII.
INTRODUCING A POEM BASED UPON AN IDEA THAT IS IN VIOLET--A POEM
FOR WHICH ONE OF THE WOMEN OF AMERICA IS SOLELY RESPONSIBLE 329
LETTER XLVIII.
TREATING CHIEFLY OF A TERRIBLE PANIC WHICH BROKE OUT IN PARIS,
BUT SUBSEQUENTLY PROVED TO BE ONLY A NATURAL EFFECT OF STRATEGY 333
LETTER XLIX.
NOTING THE ARCHITECTURAL EFFECTS OF THE GOTHIC STEED, PEGASUS,
AND DESCRIBING THE MACKEREL BRIGADE'S SANGUINARY ENGAGEMENT WITH
THE RICHMOND REBELS 340
LETTER L.
REMARKING UPON A PECULIARITY OF VIRGINIA, AND DESCRIBING COMMODORE
HEAD'S GREAT NAVAL EXPLOIT ON DUCK LAKE, ETC. 351
LETTER LI.
GIVING DUE PROMINENCE ONCE MORE TO THE CONSERVATIVE ELEMENT, NOTING
A CAT-AND-DOG AFFAIR, AND REPORTING CAPTAIN BOB SHORTY'S FORAGING
EXPEDITION 361
LETTER LII.
DESCRIBING AMONG OTHER THINGS, A SPECIALITY OF CONGRESS, A VENERABLE
POPULAR IDOL, AND THE DIFFICULTIES EXPERIENCED BY CAPTAIN SAMYULE
SA-MITH IN DYING 374
LETTER I.
SHOWING HOW OUR CORRESPONDENT CAME INTO THE WORLD: WITH SOME
PARTICULARS CONCERNING HIS EARLY CHILDHOOD.
WASHINGTON, D.C., March 20th, 1861.
Judge not by appearances, my boy; for appearances are very deceptive,
as the old lady cholerically remarked when one, who was really a virgin
on to forty, blushingly informed her that she was "just twenty-five
this month."
Though you find me in Washington now, I was born of respectable
parents, and gave every indication, in my satchel and apron days, of
coming to something better than this,--much better, my boy.
Slightly northward of the Connecticut river, where a pleasant little
conservative village mediates between two opposition hills, you may
behold the landscape on which my infantile New England eyes first
traced the courses of future railroads.
Near the centre of this village in the valley, my boy, and a little
back from its principal road, stood the residence of my worthy
sire--and a very pretty residence it was. From the frequent addition of
a new upper-room here, a new dormer window there, and an innovating
skylight elsewhere, the roof of the mansion had gradually assumed an
Alpine variety of juts and peaks somewhat confusing to behold. Local
tradition related that, on a certain showery occasion, a streak of
lightning was seen to descend upon that roof, skip vaguely about from
one peak to another, and finally slink ignominiously down the
water-pipe, as though utterly disgusted with its own inability to
determine, where there are so many, which peak it should particularly
perforate.
Years afterwards, my boy, this strange tale was told me by a venerable
chap of the village, and I might have believed it, had he not outraged
the probability of the meteorological narrative with a sequel.
"And when that streak came down the pipe," says the aged chap,
thoughtfully, "it struck a man who was leaning against the house, ran
down to his feet, and went into the ground without hurting him a mite!"
With the natural ingenuousness of childhood I closed one eye, my boy,
and says I:
"Do you mean to tell me, old man, that he was struck by lightning, and
yet wasn't hurt?"
"Yes," says the venerable chap, abstractedly cutting a small log from
the door-frame of the grocery store with his jack-knife; "the streak
passed off from him, because he was a conductor."
"A conductor?" says I, picking up another stone to throw at the same
dog.
"Yes," says the chap confidentially, "he was a conductor--on a
railroad."
The human mind, my boy, when long affected by country air, tends
naturally to the marvellous, and affiliates with the German in normal
transcendentalism.
Such was the house in which I came to life a certain number of years
ago, entering the world, like a human exclamation point, between two of
the angriest sentences of a September storm, and adding materially to
the uproar prevailing at the time.
Next to my parents, of whom I shall say little at present, the person I
can best remember, as I look back, was our family physician. A very
obese man was he, my boy, with certain sweet-oiliness of manner, and
never out of patients. I think I can see him still, as he arose from
his chair after a profound study of the case before him, and wrote a
prescription so circumlocutory in its effect, that it sent a servant
half a mile to his friend, the druggist, for articles she might have
found in her own kitchen, _aqua pumpaginis_ and sugar being the sole
ingredients required.
The doctor had started business in our village as a veterinary surgeon,
my boy; but, as the entire extent of his practice for six months in
that line was a call to mend one of Colt's revolvers, he finally turned
his attention to the ailings of his fellows, and wrought many cures
with sugar and water Latinized.
At first, my father did not patronize the new doctor, having very
little faith in the efficacy of sugar and water without the addition of
a certain other composite often seen in bottles; but the doctor's neat
speech at a Sunday school festival won his heart at last. The festival
was held near a series of small waterfalls just out of the village, my
boy, and the doctor, who was an invited guest, was called upon for a
few appropriate remarks. In compliance with the demand he made a speech
of some compass, ending with a peroration that is still quoted in my
native place. He pointed impressively to the waterfalls, and says he:
"All the works of nature is somewhat beautiful, with a good moral. Even
them cataracts," says he, sagely, "have a moral, and seem eternally
whispering to the young, that 'Those what err falls'."
The effect of this happy illustration was very pleasing, my boy;
especially with those who prefer morality to grammar; and after that,
the physician had the run of all the pious families--our own included.
It was a handsome compliment this worthy man paid me when I was about
six months old.
Having just received from my father the amount of his last bill, he was
complacent to the last degree, and felt inclined to do the handsome
thing. He patted my head as I sat upon my mother's lap, and says he:
"How beautiful is babes! So small, and yet so much like human beings,
only not so large. This boy," says he, fatly, looking down at me, "will
make a noise in the world yet. He has a long head, a very long head."
"Do you think so?" says my father.
"Indeed I do," says the doctor. "The little fellow," says he, in a
sudden fit of abstraction, "has a long head, a very long head--and it's
as thick as it is long."
There was some coolness between the doctor and my father after that, my
boy: and, on the following Sunday, my mother refused to look at his
wife's new bonnet in church.
I might cover many pages with further account of childhood's sunny
hours; but enough has been given already to establish the
respectability of my birth, despite my present location; and there I
let the matter rest, my boy, for the time being.
Yours, retrospectively,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER II.
SHOWING HOW THE WRITER INCREASED IN YEARS AND INDISCRETION, AND HOW HE
WAS SAVED FROM MATRIMONY BY THE LAMENTABLE EXAMPLE OF JED SMITH.
WASHINGTON, D.C., March 25th, 1861.
To continue from where I left off, my boy: between the interesting ages
of ten and eighteen I went to school at the village academy, working
through the English branches and the Accidence, with a lively sense of
a preponderance of birch in the former, and occasional class-sickness
in the latter.
Those were my happiest days, my boy; and as I look back to them now,
for a moment all my flippancy leaves me, and I forget that I am an
American and a politician. Those dear old days! those short, unreal
days! Only long in being long past.
It was just after the eternal _"Bonus--Bona--Bonum"_ of the master had
ceased to ring in my ears, that I commenced to be a young man. I knew
that I was becoming a young man, my boy; for it was then that I began
to regard the unmarried women of America with sheepish bashfulness, and
stumbled awkwardly as I entered my father's pew in church. Then it was
that the sound of a young female giggle threw me into a cold
perspiration, and a looking-glass deluded me into gesticulating in
solitude before it, and extemporizing the speeches I was to make when
called upon to justify the report of fame by admiring populaces.
Do you remember the asinine time in your own life, my boy,--do you
remember it? I know that you do, my boy, for I can feel your blush on
my own cheeks.
Of the few women of America who looked upon me with favor, there was
one--Ellen--whom I really loved, I think; for of all the girls, the
mention of her name, alone, gave me that peculiar feeling in which
instinctive impulse blends undefinably and perpetually with a sense of
reverent respect; or, rather, with a sense of some unworthiness of
self. Ellen died before I had known her a year. I thought afterwards,
like any other youngster, that I loved half-a-dozen different girls;
but, even in maturer years, second love is a poor imitation. Say what
you will about second love, my boy, in the breast of him truly a man,
it is but an _imperium in imperio_--a flower on the grave of the first.
There was one young woman of America in our village, my boy, about whom
the chaps teased me not a little; and I might, perhaps, have been
teased into matrimony, like many another unfortunate, but for the
example of a Salsbury chap I met one night in one of the village
stores. He was a Yankee chap with much southwestern experience, my boy,
and when he heard the lads teasing me about a woman, he hoisted his
heels upon the counter, and says he:
"Anybody'd think that creation was born with a frock on, to hear the
way you younkers talk woman. Darn the she-critters!" says he, shutting
his jack-knife with a clash. "I'd rayther be as lonesome as a borryed
pup, than see a piece of caliker as big as a pancake. What's wimmen but
a tarnation bundle of gammon and petticoats. Powerful! Be you married
folks, stranger?"
"Not yet," says I.
"Don't never be then," says he. "My name's Smith--one of the Smithses
down to Salsbury, that's guaranteed to put away as much provender and
carry as big a turkey as ever set on critters down in that deestrict.
And whilst my name's Smith, there'll never be a younker to call me
'daddy,' ef a gal was to have Jerusalem tantrums after me. You'rn a
stranger, and ain't married folks; but I don't mind tellin' ye about a
golfired rumpus I got into down in Salsbury when I took to a gal that
stuck out all around like a hay-stack, an' was a screamer at
choir-meetin' and such like. Her name was Sal Green--one of the
Greenses down in Pegtown--and the first time I took a notion to her was
down to the old shingle meetin'-house, when Sam Spooner had a buryin'.
When the parson gets out a hymn, she straightened up like a rooster at
six o'clock of daybreak, and let out a string of screams that set all
the babies to yelping as though big pins was goin' clean through their
insides. Geewhillikins! how the critter did squawk and squeal, and turn
up her eyes like a sick duck in a shower. I was jest fool enough to
think it pooty; and when my old man says, says he, 'Jed, you're took
all of a heap with that pooty creeter,' I felt as ef chills an' fever
was givin' me partikiler agony. Says I, 'She's an armful fur the
printze of Wales, and ef that Bob Tompkins don't stop makin' eyes at
her over there, I'll give him sech a lacing that he won't comb his hair
for six weeks.'
"The old man put a chaw into his meat-safe, and shut one eye; and, sez
he: 'Jed, you're a fool ef you don't hook that gal's dress fur her
before next harvestin'. She's a mighty scrumptious creetur, and just
about ripe for the altar. Jest tell her there's more Smithses wanted
an' she'll leave the Greenses 'thout a snicker.' I rayther liked the
idee: but I told the old man that his punkin-pie was all squash;
because it wouldn't do to let on too soon. When the folks was startin'
from the church, I went up to Sal, and sez I, 'Miss, I s'pose you
wouldn't mind lettin' me see you tu hum.' She blushed like a biled
lobster, and sez she: 'I don't know your folks.' I felt sorter
streaked; but I gev my collar a hitch, and sez I: 'I'm Mister Smith:
one of the Smithses of this deestrict, an' always willin' for a female
in distress.' Then she made a curtesy, an' was goin' to say somethin',
when Bob Tompkins steps up, and sez he: 'There's a-goin' to be another
buryin' in this settlement, ef some folks don't mind their own chores,
an' quit foolin' with other folkses company!' This riled me rite up,
and sez I: 'There's a feller in this deestrict that hain't had a spell
of layin' on his back for some time: but he's in immediate danger of
ketchin' the disease bad.' Bob took a squint at the width of my chist,
and then he turned to Sal, who was shakin' like a cabbage leaf in a
summer gale, and sez he: 'Sal, let's marvel out of bad company before
it spiles our morials.' With that he crooked one of his smashin'
machines, and Sal was jest hookin' on, when I put the weight of about
one hundred pounds under his ear, an' sez I: 'Jest lay there, Bob
Tompkins, until your parients comes out to look fur your body.' He went
down as ef he'd been took with a suddint desire to examine the roots of
the grass, and Sal screamed out that I'd murdered the rantankerous
critter. Sez I: 'The tombstun that's fur his head ain't cut yet: but I
calkilate it'll be took out of the quarry ef he comes smellin' around
my heels ag'in.' Jest as I made this feelin' remark, the varmint began
to scratch earth as ef he had a mind to see how it would feel to be on
his pins ag'in, and I crooked my elbow to Sal and thought it was about
time to marvel. She layed up to me like a pig to a rough post, and we
peregrinated along for some distance until we were pretty nigh hum. I
was askin' her ef it hurt her much when she sung, an' she was sayin'
'not partikeler,' when all of a suddint somethin' knocked
Fourth-o'-July fireworks out of my eyes, and I went to grass with my
heels up. It was Bob Tompkins, and sez he: 'Lay there, Mr. Smith, and
let us here from you by the next mail.' For a minute, I thought I was
bound for glory, but pooty soon I come to my oats, and then I rolled
over and seen Bob a-squeezing Sal's hand. All right, my prooshian blue,
thinks I, there'll be a 'pothecary's bill for some family in this here
deestrict: but I won't say who's to pay it at present. I jest waited to
see the feller try to put his nose into Sal's face, and then I
stretched to my feet, and sez I: 'This here pasture wants a little
mashin' down to make it fruitful, and it's my impreshun that I can do
it.' Sal see that I was bound to make somebody smell agony, so she jist
ripped away from Bob, and marveled for the house, screaming 'fire,'
like a scrumptious fire-department. Bob looked after her for a minit,
and then he turned to me, and sez he: 'I hope your folks have got some
crape to hum; because there's goin' to be a job fur our wirtuous
sexton.' I kinder smiled outer one eye, and sez I: 'When Sal and I is
married, we'll drop a tear fur the early decease of an individual who
never would hev been born if it hadn't been for your parients.' This
riled Bob up awful, and he came right at me, like a mad bull at a red
shawl. I felt somethin' drop on the bridge of my nose, and see a hull
nest of sky rockets all at onct; but I only keeled for the shake of a
tail, and then I piled in like a mad buffalo with the cholic. It was
give and take for about five minutes; and, I tell you, Bob played away
on my nose like a Trojan. The blood flu some, and I was sorry I hadn't
said good-bye to the folks before I left them; but I gave Bob some
happy evidences of youthful Christianity around his goggles, and pooty
soon he looked as ef he'd been brought up to the charcoal business. We
was makin' pooty good time round the lot, when, all of a suddint, Sal
came running up with her father and mother; and, sez the old feller:
'Ef you two members of the church don't stop your religious exercises,
there'll be some preachin' from the book of John.'
"With that, Bob took his paw out of my hair, and sez he: 'Smithses son
hit me the first whack.' I jest promenaded up to the old man, and sez
I: 'If you'll jest show me a good buryin'-place, I'll take pleasure in
makin' a funeral for the Tompkinses.' The old man looked kinder
queerious at Sally, and she commenced to snicker; and sez she: 'What
are you two fellers rumpussin' about?' I looked lovin' at her, and sez
I: 'It's to see who shall hev the pootiest gal of all the Greenses.'
When I said this, the old man bust into a larf like a wild hyenner; and
the old woman, she put her hands across her stummik and begin to larf
like mad, and Sal she snickered right eout in my countenance, and sez
she: 'Why, I'm engaged to Sam Slocum!'
"Strannger, there's no use of talkin'. My hair riz right up like a
blackin'-brush, and Bob's eyes came out like peas out of a yaller pod.
There was speechless silence for two minits, and then says Bob:
'There's a couple of golfired fools somewheres in this country, and
it's a pity their dads ever seen their mothers.' I see he felt powerful
mean, so I walked up to him, and sez I: 'Suppose we go and look for the
New Jerusalem?' He jest hooked to my elbow, and without sayin' another
word, we marveled for hum.
"Sence that, I hain't held no communion with petticoats, and ef I ever
get married, you shall hev an invite to the funeral."
As I went home that night, my boy, after hearing the story of that
rude, unlettered man, I made up my mind to have nothing more to do with
the uncertain women of America, until my position should be such that
they would not dare to "fool" me. The women of America, my boy, are
equally apt at making a fool of a man in his own estimation, and a man
of a fool in _their_ own.
Yours, for celibacy,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER III.
OUR CORRESPONDENT BECOMES LITERARY, AND FATHOMS CERTAIN MYSTERIES OF
JOURNALISM. HE PRODUCES A DISTINCTIVE AMERICAN POEM, AND GAINS THE
USUAL REWARD OF YOUTHFUL GENIUS.
WASHINGTON, D.C., March 31st, 1861.
As far I can trace back, my boy, we never had a literary character in
our family, save a venerable aunt of mine, on my mother's side, who
commenced her writing career by refusing to contribute to the Sunday
papers, and subsequently won much fame as the authoress of a set of
copy-books. When this gifted relative found herself acquiring a
reputation, she came in state to visit us, and so disgusted my very
practical father by wearing slip-shod gaiters, inking her right hand
thumb nail every morning, calling all things by European names, and
insisting upon giving our oldest plough horse the romantic and literary
title of "Lord Byron," that my exasperated parent incurred a most
tremendous prejudice against authorship, my boy, and vowed, when she
went away, that he never would invite her presence again.
I was only twenty years old at that time, and the novelty of my aunt's
conduct had rather an infatuating effect upon me. With that perversity
often observable in youngsters before they have seen much of the world,
I became deeply interested in my literary relative as soon as my father
commenced to speak contemptuously of her pursuits, and it took very
little time to invest me with a longing and determination to be a
writer.
Thenceforth I wore negligent linen; frequently rested my head upon the
forefinger of my right hand, with a lofty and abstracted air; assumed
an expression of settled and mysterious gloom when at church, and
suffered my hair to grow long and uncombed.
Speaking of the masculine literary habit of wearing the hair in this
way, my boy, I find myself impressed with a profound metaphysical idea.
You have probably noticed that writers following this fashion will
frequently scratch their heads when inspiration plays the laggard. It
is also true that wearers of long and uncombed hair who are _not_
writers, will scratch their heads in the same way, occasionally. The
action being the same in both cases, can it be that physiological
inspection would develope an affinity between the natural causes
thereof?
I have often thought of this, my boy,--I've often thought of this.
My bearing during this period of infatuation could hardly fail to
attract considerable attention in our village, and there were two
opinions about me. One was that I had been jilted; the other, that I
was about to become a vagabond and an actor. My father inclined to the
former, and left me, as he thought, to get over my disappointment in
the natural way.
My peripatetic spell had lasted about six weeks, my boy, when I formed
the acquaintance of the editor of the _Lily of the Valley_, who
permitted me to mope in his office now and then, and soothed my
literary inflammation by permitting me to write "puffs" for the village
milliner.
Oh! the fierce and tremendous ecstasy of that moment when I first saw
my own words in print, with not more than six typographical errors in
each line:--"QUEBN VICTORIA, it is said, is comind to this coontry for
the xpress purpose of obtoining one of these beautiful spring bunnets
at Madame Smith's."
I noticed as I went home on the day of publication, that all whom I
passed paused to look after me. I was already famous. The discovery, on
reaching our house, that one of my temples was somewhat fingered with
printers' ink, did not shake me in this belief, my boy; I was too far
gone for that.
The editor of the _Lily_ treated me considerately, and even asked me at
times to accompany him to the place where he daily sipped inspiration,
gaining thereby a fresh flow of ideas and the qualified immortality of
certain additional chalk-marks on the back of a door. I refer to a
spirituous establishment.
Finding that the editorial treasury did not redeem its verbal
promissory notes, my boy, the proprietor of this establishment suddenly
put forth a new sign, conspicuously reading:--
TIMOTHY TROT,
LICENSED LIQUOR DEALER,
AND
ASSOCIATE EDITOR OF THE "LILY OF THE VALLEY."
The editor went to him, and says he:
"What do you mean by this impertinence, Timothy?"
The liquor chap stuck his hands into his pockets, my boy, and says he:
"If I furnish inspiration for nothing, I may as well have some literary
credit. The village swallows what you furnish," says the chap,
reasoningly, "and you swallow what I furnish, and so I'm the head
editor after all."
But he took down the sign, my boy, when the editor dissolved the
partnership by paying his score.
What are called Spirited Editorials in the New York papers, my boy,
very often involve two swallows as well as a spread-eagle.
While looking over some old magazines in the _Lily_ office one day, I
found in an ancient British periodical a raking article upon American
literature, wherein the critic affirmed that all our writers were but
weak imitators of English authors, and that such a thing even as a
Distinctively American Poem _sui generis_, had not yet been produced.
This radical sneer at the United States of America fired my Yankee
blood, my boy, and I vowed within myself to write a poem, not only
distinctively American, but of such a character that only America could
have produced it. In the solitude of my room, that night, I wooed the
aboriginal muse, and two days thereafter the _Lily of the Valley_
contained my distinctive American poem of
THE AMERICAN TRAVELER.
To Lake Aghmoogenegamook,
All in the State of Maine,
A man from Wittequergaugaum came
One evening in the rain.
"I am a traveler," said he,
"Just started on a tour,
And go to Nomjamskillicook
To-morrow morn at four."
He took a tavern bed that night,
And with the morrow's sun,
By way of Sekledobskus went,
With carpet-bag and gun.
A week passed on; and next we find
Our native tourist come
To that sequestered village called
Genasagarnagum.
From thence he went to Absequoit,
And there--quite tired of Maine--
He sought the mountains of Vermont,
Upon a railroad train.
Dog Hollow, in the Green Mount State,
Was his first stopping-place,
And then Skunk's Misery displayed
Its sweetness and its grace.
By easy stages then he went
To visit Devil's Den;
And Scrabble Hollow, by the way,
Did come within his ken.
Then, _via_ Nine Holes and Goose Green,
He traveled through the State,
And to Virginia, finally,
Was guided by his fate.
Within the Old Dominion's bounds,
He wandered up and down,
To-day, at Buzzard Roost ensconced,
To-morrow, at Hell Town.
At Pole Cat, too, he spent a week,
Till friends from Bull Ring came,
And made him spend a day with them
In hunting forest game.
Then, with his carpet-bag in hand,
To Dog Town next he went;
Though stopping at Free Negro Town,
Where half a day he spent.
From thence, into Negationburg
His route of travel lay,
Which having gained, he left the State
And took a southward way.
North Carolina's friendly soil
He trod at fall of night,
And, on a bed of softest down,
He slept at Hell's Delight.
Morn found him on the road again,
To Lousy Level bound;
At Bull's Tail, and Lick Lizzard, too,
Good provender he found.
The country all about Pinch Gut
So beautiful did seem,
That the beholder thought it like
A picture in a dream.
But the plantations near Burnt Coat
Were even finer still,
And made the wond'ring tourist feel
A soft, delicious thrill.
At Tear Shirt too, the scenery
Most charming did appear,
With Snatch It in the distance far,
And Purgatory near.
But spite of all these pleasant scenes,
The tourist stoutly swore,
That home is brightest, after all,
And travel is a bore.
So back he went to Maine, straightway,
A little wife he took;
And now is making nutmegs at
Moosehicmagunticook.
In his note, introductory of this poem, my boy, the editor of the
_Lily_ affirmed (which is strictly true) that I had named none but
veritable localities; and ventured the belief that the composition
would remind his readers of Goldsmith. Upon which his scorpion
contemporary in the next village observed, that there was rather more
smith than gold about the poem. Genius, my boy, is never appreciated
until its possessor is dead; and even the useless praise it then
obtains is chiefly due to the pleasure that is experienced in burying
the poor wretch.
Up to the time when this poem appeared in print, I had succeeded in
concealing from my father the nature of my incidental occupation; but
now he must know all.
He did know all, my boy; and the result was, that he gave me ten
dollars, and sent me to New York to look out for myself.
"It's the only thing that will save him," says he to my mother, "and I
must either send him off, or expect to see him sink by degrees to
editorship, and commence to wear disgraceful clothes."
I went to New York; I became private secretary and speech-scribe to an
unscrupulous and, therefore, rising politician; and now--I am in
Washington.
Thus, my boy, have I answered your desire for an outline of my personal
history; and henceforth let me devote my attention to other and more
important inhabitants of our distracted country. I had a certain
postmastership in my eye when I first came hither; but war's alarms
indicate that I may do better as an amateur hero.
Yours inconoclastically,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER IV.
DESCRIBING THE SOUTH IN TWELVE LINES, DEFINING THE CITIZEN'S FIRST
DUTY, AND RECITING A PARODY.
WASHINGTON, D.C., April --, 1861.
The chivalrous South, my boy, has taken Fort Sumter, and only wants to
be "let alone." Some things of a Southern sort I like, my boy;
Southdown mutton is fit for the gods, and Southside particular is
liquid sunshine for the heart; but the whole country was growing tired
of new South wails before this, and my present comprehensive estimate
of all there is of Dixie may be summed up in twelve straight lines,
under the general heading of
REPUDIATION.
'Neath a ragged palmetto a Southerner sat,
A-twisting the band of his Panama hat,
And trying to lighten his mind of a load
By humming the words of the following ode:
"Oh! for a nigger, and oh! for a whip;
Oh! for a cocktail, and oh! for a nip;
Oh! for a shot at old Greeley and Beecher;
Oh! for a crack at a Yankee school-teacher;
Oh! for a captain, and oh! for a ship;
Oh! for a cargo of niggers each trip."
And so he kept oh-ing for all he had not,
Not contented with owing for all that he'd got.
In view of the impending conflict, it is the duty of every American
citizen, who has nothing else to do, to take up his abode in the
capital of this agonized Republic, and give the Cabinet the sanction of
his presence. Some base child of treason may intimate that Washington
is not quite large enough to hold every American citizen; but I'm
satisfied that, if all the democrats could have one good washing, they
would shrink so that you might put the whole blessed party into an
ordinary custom house. Some of the republicans are pretty large chaps
for their size, but Jeff Davis thinks they can be "taken in" easily
enough; and I know that the new tariff will be enough to make them
contract like sponges out of water. The city is full of Western chaps,
at present, who look as if they had just walked out of a
charity-hospital, and had not got beyond gruel diet yet. Every soul of
them knew old Abe when he was a child, and one old boy can even
remember going for a doctor when his mother was born. I met one of them
the other day (he is after the Moosehicmagunticook post-office), and
his anecdotes of the President's boyhood brought tears to my eyes, and
several tumblers to my lips. He says, that when Abe was an infant of
sixteen, he split so many rails that his whole county looked like a
wholesale lumber-yard for a week; and that when he took to
flat-boating, he was so tall and straight, that a fellow once took him
for a smoke-stack on a steamboat, and didn't find out his mistake until
he tried to kindle a fire under him. Once, while Abe was practising as
a lawyer, he defended a man for stealing a horse, and was so eloquent
in proving that his client was an honest victim of false suspicion,
that the deeply-affected victim made him a present of the horse as soon
as he was acquitted. I tell you what, my boy, if Abe pays a post-office
for every story of his childhood that's told, the mail department of
this glorious nation will be so large that a letter smaller than a
two-story house would get lost in it.
* * * * *
Of all the vile and damning deeds that ever rendered a city eternally
infamous, my boy--of all the infernal sins of dark-browed treachery
that ever made open-faced treason seem holy, the crime of Baltimore is
the blackest and worst. All that April day we were waiting with bated
breath and beating hearts for the devoted men who had pledged their
lives to their country at the first call of the President, and were
known to be marching to the defence of the nation's capital. That night
was one of terror: at any moment the hosts of the rebels might pour
upon the city from the mountains of guilty Virginia, and grasp the very
throat of the Republic. And with the first dim light of morning came
the news that our soldiers had been basely beset in the streets of
Baltimore, and ruthlessly shot down by a treacherous mob! Those whom
they had trusted as brothers, my boy--whose country they were marching
to defend with their lives--assassinating them in cold blood!
I was sitting in my room at Willard's, when a serious chap from New
Haven, who had just paused long enough at the door to send a waiter for
the same that he had yesterday, came rushing into the apartment with a
long, fluttering paper in his hand.
"Listen to this," says he, in wild agitation, and read:
BALTIMORE.
Midnight shadows, dark, appalling, round the Capitol were falling,
And its dome and pillars glimmered spectral from Potomac's shore;
All the great had gone to slumber, and of all the busy number
That had moved the State by day within its walls, as erst before,
None there were but dreamed of heroes thither sent ere day was o'er--
Thither sent through BALTIMORE.
But within a chamber solemn, barred aloft with many a column,
And with windows tow'rd Mount Vernon, windows tow'rd Potomac's shore,
Sat a figure, stern and awful; Chief, but not the Chieftain lawful
Of the land whose grateful millions Washington's great name adore--
Sat the form--a shade majestic of a Chieftain gone before,
Thine to honor, BALTIMORE!
There he sat in silence, gazing, by a single planet's blazing,
At a map outspread before him wide upon the marble floor;
And if 'twere for mortal proving that those reverend lips were moving,
While the eyes were closely scanning one mapped city o'er and o'er--
While he saw but one great city on that map upon the floor--
They were whispering--"BALTIMORE."
Thus he sat, nor word did utter, till there came a sudden flutter,
And the sound of beating wings was heard upon the carved door.
In a trice the bolts were broken; by those lips no word was spoken,
As an Eagle, torn and bloody, dim of eye, and wounded sore,
Fluttered down upon the map, and trailed a wing all wet with gore
O'er the name of BALTIMORE!
Then that noble form uprising, with a gesture of surprising,
Bent with look of keenest sorrow tow'rd the bird that drooped before;
"Emblem of my country!" said he, "are thy pinions stained already
In a tide whose blending waters never ran so red before?
Is it with the blood of kinsmen? Tell me quickly, I implore!"
Croaked the eagle--"BALTIMORE!"
"Eagle," said the Shade, advancing, "tell me by what dread
mischancing
Thou, the symbol of my people, bear'st thy plumes erect no more?
Why dost thou desert mine army, sent against the foes that harm me,
Through my country, with a Treason worlds to come shall e'er
deplore?"
And the Eagle on the map, with bleeding wing, as just before,
Blurred the name of BALTIMORE!
"Can it be?" the spectre muttered. "Can it be?" those pale lips
uttered;
"Is the blood Columbia treasures spilt upon its native shore?
Is there in the land so cherished, land for whom the great have
perished,
Men to shed a brother's blood as tyrant's blood was shed before?
Where are they who murder Peace before the breaking out of war?"
Croaked the Eagle--"BALTIMORE."
At the word, of sound so mournful, came a frown, half sad, half
scornful,
O'er the grand, majestic face where frown had never been before;
And the hands to Heaven uplifted, with an awful pow'r seemed gifted
To plant curses on a head, and hold them there forevermore--
To rain curses on a land, and bid them grow forevermore--
Woe art thou, O BALTIMORE!
Then the sacred spirit, fading, left upon the floor a shading,
As of one with arms uplifted, from a distance bending o'er;
And the vail of night grew thicker, and the death-watch beat the
quicker
For a death within a death, and sadder than the death before!
And a whispering of woe was heard upon Potomac's shore--
Hear it not, O BALTIMORE!
And the Eagle, never dying, still is trying, still is trying,
With its wings upon the map to hide a city with its gore;
But the name is there forever, and it shall be hidden never,
While the awful brand of murder points the Avenger to its shore;
While the blood of peaceful brothers God's dread vengeance doth
implore,
Thou art doomed, O BALTIMORE!
"There!" says the serious New Haven chap, as he finished reading,
stirring something softly with a spoon, "what do you suppose Poe would
think, if he were alive now and could read that?"
"I think," says I, striving to appear calm, "that he would be 'Raven'
mad about it."
"Oh--ah--yes," says the serious chap, vaguely, "what will _you_ take?"
Doubtless I shall become hardened to the horrors of war in time, my
boy; but at present these things unhinge me.
Yours, unforgivingly,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER V.
CONCERNING THE GREAT CROWD AT THE CAPITAL, OWING TO THE VAST INFLUX OF
TROOPS, AND TOUCHING UPON FIRE-ZOUAVE PECULIARITIES AND OTHER MATTERS.
WASHINGTON, D.C., May 24th, 1861.
I am living luxuriously, at present, on the top of a very respectable
fence, and fare sumptuously on three granite biscuit a day, and a glass
of water, weakened with brandy. A high private in the Twenty-second
Regiment has promised to let me have one of his spare pocket-handkerchiefs
for a sheet on the first rainy night, and I never go to bed on my
comfortable window-brush without thinking how many poor creatures there
are in this world who have to sleep on hair mattresses and feather-beds
all their lives. Before the great rush of the Fire Zouaves and the rest
of the menagerie commenced, I boarded exclusively on a front stoop on
Pennsylvania Avenue, and used to slumber, regardless of expense, in a
well-conducted ash-box; but the military monopolize all such
accommodation now, and I give way for the sake of my country.
I tell you, my boy, we're having high old times here just now, and if
they get any higher, I shan't be able to afford to stay. The city is in
"danger" every other hour, and as a veteran in the Fire Zouaves
remarked, there seems to be enough danger laying around loose on
Arlington Heights to make a very good blood-and-thunder fiction in
numerous pages. If the vigilant and well-educated sentinels happen to
see an old nigger on the other side of the Potomac, they sing out,
"Here they come!" and the whole blessed army is snapping caps in less
than a minute. Then all the cheap reporters telegraph to their papers
in New York and Philadelphia, that "Jeff. Davis is within two minutes'
walk of the Capital, with a few millions of men," and all the free
states send six more regiments a piece to crowd us a little more. I
sha'n't stand much more crowding, for my fence is full now, and there
were six applications yesterday to rent an improved knot-hole. My
landlord says that, if more than three chaps set up housekeeping on one
post, he'll be obliged to raise the rent.
Those Fire Zouaves are fellows of awful suction, I tell you. Just for
greens, I asked one of them, yesterday, what he came here for? "Hah!"
says he, shutting one eye, "we came here to strike for your altars and
your fires--especially your _fires_." General Scott says that if he
wanted to make these chaps break through the army of a foe, he'd have a
fire-bell rung for some district on the other side of the rebels. He
says that half a million of the traitors couldn't keep the Fire Zouaves
out of that district five minutes. I believe him, my boy!
The weather here is highly favorable to the free development of
perspiration and mint-juleps, and I have enjoyed the melancholy
satisfaction of losing ten pounds of flesh in three days. One of the
lieutenants of the Eighth has a gutter about half an inch deep worn
down the bridge of his nose by the stream of perspiration since
Wednesday; and a chap from Vermont melted so awfully the other day,
that they had to put him in a refrigerator to keep enough of him to
send home to his rich but pious family.
In fact, this weather makes the Northern boys fall away awfully; one of
the Fire Zouaves fell away tremendously yesterday; he fell away from
Washington to Annapolis, and then somebody had to put him in a
guard-house to keep him from perspiring all the way back to New York.
The chap that boards on the next front stoop to me now, was so fat when
he came here that his captain refused to use him as a sentinel, because
he could not see far enough over his stomach to detect any one
approaching him. Well, my boy, that chap has fallen away to such an
extent that it took me half an hour last night to find out what part of
his uniform he lived in. He blew down three or four times while we were
walking up Pennsylvania avenue; and while I was helping him up the last
time, a passer-by asked me "What I would take for that ere flag-staff?"
By-the-by, you ought to have heard Honest Old Abe's speech, on
Wednesday, when we raised the Star-spangled particular on the
Post-office. Says he: "On this present occasion, I feel that it will
not be out of place to make a few remarks which were not applicable at
a former period. Yesterday, the flag hung on the staff throughout the
Union, and in consequence of the scarcity of a breeze, there was not
much wind blowing at the time. On the present happy occasion, however,
the presence of numerous zephyrs causes the atmosphere to agitate for
our glorious Union, and this flag, which now unfolds itself to the
sight, is observed, upon closer inspection, to present a star-spangled
appearance."
Mr. Seward's speech, which was also received with frantic enthusiasm,
sounded equally well. He said: "I trust that this glorious spectacle
will make a deep impression upon all present, notwithstanding the fact
that I am still convinced that peace may yet put an end to this unhappy
conflict by means of a convention of all the States on the Fourth of
July, 2776, which I have always advocated. As the President has
remarked, the breeze which has just arisen in the bay of Naples, causes
the Star-Spangled Banner to arouse a far prouder feeling in every
American breast, than if a vessel should come in with a palmetto flag
at her peak, and upon being asked where it came from, should reply:
'Oh, from one of the petty republics of America.' I have nothing more
to say."
I know this report is correct, for I copied both the speeches from a
phonographic reporter's copy, and the phonographic reporter had only
taken six glasses of old peach and honey before he went to work.
Yours, hastily,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER VI.
INTRODUCING THE MACKEREL BRIGADE, DILATING ON HAVELOCKS AS FIRST MADE
BY THE WOMEN OF AMERICA, ILLUSTRATING THE STRENGTH OF HABIT AND
WEAKNESS OF "SHODDY," AND SHOWING HOW OUR CORRESPONDENT INDULGED IN A
HUGE CANARD, AFTER THE MANNER OF AN ENLIGHTENED DAILY PRESS.
WASHINGTON, D.C., June 15th, 1861.
The members of the Mackerel Brigade, now stationed on Arlington Heights
to watch the movements of the Potomac, which is expected to rise
shortly, desire me to thank the women of America for supplies of
Havelocks and other delicacies of the season just received. The
Havelocks, my boy, are rather roomy, and we took them for shirts at
first; and the shirts are so narrow-minded, that we took them for
Havelocks. If the women of America could manage to get a little less
linen in the collars of the latter article, and a little more into the
other departments of the graceful garment, there would be fewer colds
in this division of the Grand Army.
The Havelocks, as I have said before, are roomy--very roomy, my boy.
Villiam Brown, of Company 3, Regiment 5, put one on last night, when he
went on sentry-duty, and looked like a broomstick in a pillow-case, for
all the world. When the officer of the night came round and caught
sight of Villiam in his Havelock, he was struck dumb with admiration
for a moment. Then he ejaculated:
"What a splendid moonbeam!"
Villiam made a movement, and the sergeant came up.
"What's that white object?" says the officer to the sergeant.
"The young man which is Villiam Brown," says the sergeant.
"Thunder!" roars the officer, "tell him to go to his tent, and take off
that night-gown!"
"You're mistaken," says the sergeant. "The sentry is Villiam Brown, in
his Havelock, which was made by the wimmen of America."
The officer was so justly exasperated at his mistake, that he went
immediately to his head-quarters, and took the Oath three times
running, with a little sugar.
The Oath is very popular, my boy, and comes in bottles. I take it
medicinally myself.
The shirts made by the women of America are noble articles, as far down
as the collar; but would not do to use as an only garment. Captain
Mortimer de Montague, one of the skirmish squad, put one on when he
went to the President's Reception, and the collar stood up so high,
that he couldn't put his cap on, while the other departments didn't
quite reach to his waist. His appearance at the White House was
picturesque and interesting, and as he entered the drawing-room,
General Scott remarked, very feelingly:
"Ah! here comes one of our wounded heroes."
"He's not wounded, general," remarked an officer, standing by.
"Then, why is his head bandaged up so?" asked the venerable veteran.
"Oh!" says the officer, "that's only one of the shirts made by the
patriotic wimmen of America."
In about five minutes after this conversation, I saw the venerable
veteran, the wounded hero, and the officer taking the Oath together.
The Seventy-ninth, Highlanders, came to town early last week, and are
the finest body of Scotchmen that were ever half _kilt_ by uniform
alone. My heart warmed to them when I first saw them; and, with arms
outspread, I greeted the gallant fellow nearest to me. With a tear of
gratified pride in his eye, he exclaimed:
"Auld lang syne and Scots who ha'e; but gang awa' wi' Heeland laddie
thegither o' John Anderson my Jo; and, moreover, we'll tak' a right
gude willie wacht for muckle twa and braw chiel."
I told him I thought so myself.
I'm sorry to say, my boy, that some members of this splendid regiment
are badly off for trowsers, and shock my modesty tremendously. They
probably forgot them in their hurry to get to the war, and the Union
Pretence Committee ought to send them out an assortment of peg-tops at
once. "Not that I hobject to the hinnocent hamusements of the
Highlanders, but that decency and propriety _must_ be preserved within
the limits of the army"--as the British show-man observed.
I took a trip down to Alexandria the other night, to see how the Fire
Zouaves were getting along, and came pretty near getting into trouble
with one of Five's screamers. He was on guard; and when he challenged
me, the pass-word slipped my memory.
"Drop that ere butt," says he, bringing his musket to a charge, "or
I'll give yer a taste of the old masheen. Who--wha--what are yer
coughin' at--sa-a-ay?"
I was frightened, my boy, and had just commenced the appropriate prayer
of "Now I lay me down to sleep," when suddenly an idea struck me, and I
acted on it immediately.
"Hello!" says I, "Johnny, didn't you hear the old Hall kettle strike
for the Fourth District? Come along with me and help to get the old
dog-cart on a jump, or Nine's roosters will get the rail-road track and
have the old butt in Christie street before we can swing the old
masheen over a pig's whisker."
"Bully for you!" says he, dropping his musket, all in a quiver, and
commencing to roll up his pantaloons. "I've got a bet on that ere fire;
and ef I don't take the starch out of that ere Nine's feller what wears
good clothes and don't do nothing--you may just take my boots."
It was all the force of habit, you see; and if I hadn't stopped that
Zouave, I really believe he'd have run clean into the bosom of all the
first families, looking for the Fourth District and Nine's feller!
The Mackerel brigade have got their new uniforms, and they are not the
martial garments it would do to get fat in. High private Samivel Green
put his on, partially, yesterday; but, it's a positive fact, my boy,
that by the time he got his coat buttoned, his pantaloons were all worn
out. I managed to get on one of the uniforms myself, and the first time
I went into the open air all the buttons blew off.
* * * * *
I've just returned from visiting the most mournful sight that ever made
a man feel as though he'd been peeling onions all the week, and grating
horse-radish on Sunday. It was the first dying scene of one of the "Pet
Lammers," down at Alexandria, and, as one of Five's chaps remarks, it
was enough to make the eye of a darning-needle weep, and bring tears to
the cheek of the Greek slave. Jim was the only name of the sufferer,
and if he ever had any other, it had slipped his memory, though his
affectionate relatives sometimes called him "Shorty," by way of
endearment. He was out on picket-guard the night before, when the
Southern Confederacy attempted to pass him. He challenged the intruder,
and called to his comrades for help; but, before the latter could
arrive, the Southern Confederacy drew a masked battery from his pocket,
and fired six heavy balls through the head of the unfortunate Zouave,
nearly fracturing his skull, and breaking several panes of glass. The
cowardly miscreant then fled to an adjacent fence, closely followed by
Sherman's Artillery.
Upon discovering that he was wounded, Mr. Shorty examined the cap on
his musket, and stood it carefully against a tree, buttoned his jacket
to his neck, and asked a comrade for a chew of tobacco. Too full of
emotion to speak, the comrade handed a gentlemanly plug to the dying
man, who cut about half an ounce from it, placed it thoughtfully in his
mouth, and then stuffed his handkerchief carefully in the hole in his
forehead made by the balls.
"Is any of my brains hanging out?" he asked of another of his comrades.
"No, Shorty," answered the other, bursting into tears; "you never had
any to hang out."
After this response, the dying man paused for a moment to spit in the
eyes of a dog that was smelling around his heels, and then proceeded
with his comrades in the direction of the hospital, or the house used
for that purpose.
As they were passing the quarters of the officer with whom I was
spending the night, the expiring Zouave stopped to twist the tail of an
old darkey's cat, which made such a noise that the officer's attention
was attracted, and he called the whole party into his room. I at once
noticed that the top of Mr. Shorty's head was completely gone, and that
one of his eyes was half-way down the back of his neck. Upon entering
the room he took a pipe from the mantel and commenced to smoke it,
giving us, at the same time, a history of Nine's Engine and the first
"muss" he was ever engaged in. After finishing the pipe, and requesting
me to wrap him up in the American flag, he spit on one of my boots, and
then died. I append a short biographical sketch.
THE LATE PRIVATE SHORTY.
Mr. James Shorty, the gallant Zouave who was shot last night by the
Southern Confederacy, was born some years ago in a place I am not
aware of, and graduated with high honors in the New York Fire
Department. He was universally beloved for his genial manner of
taking the butt, and never hit a feller bigger than himself. In the
year 1861, he entered the United States army as a private Zouave,
and was in it when the fate of war deprived the country of his
beloved presence. His remains will be taken to the first fire that
occurs.
* * * * *
Poor Shorty! I knew him well, my boy, and shall never forget how ready
he always was to take a cigar from
Yours, mournfully,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
P.S.--Since writing the above, I have heard that no such occurrence
took place at Alexandria. The alarm was occasioned by the fall of a bag
of hay in one of the officers' quarters, the noise being mistaken for
the firing of a battery. Mr. Shorty, it seems, does not belong to the
Zouaves, at all, and is still in New York.
O. C. K.
LETTER VII.
RECORDING THE FIRST SANGUINARY EXPLOIT OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE, AND ITS
VICTORIOUS ISSUE.
WASHINGTON, D.C., June 20th, 1861.
I have just returned, my boy, with my fellow-mercenaries and several
mudsills from a carnival of gore. I am wounded--my sensibilities are
wounded, and my irrepressibles reek with the blood of the slain. These
hands, that once opened the oysters of peace and toyed with the
bivalves of tranquillity, are now sanguinary with the _red juice of
battle_ (gushing idea!), and linger in horrid ecstacy about the gloomy
neck of a bottle holding about a quart. Eagle of my country, proud bird
of the menagerie! thou art avenged!
At a late hour last evening, the Brigadier-General of the Mackerel
Brigade (formerly a practitioner in the Asylum for Idiots) received
intelligence from a messenger that a strong force of chickens were
intrenched near Fairfax Court-House under the command of a rabid
secessionist named Binks. The brigade was at once ordered over the
bridge at a double-quick, the general throwing a strong force of
skirmishers into the Potomac, and waving his sword repeatedly to show
that he was a stranger to fear. Shortly after touching Virginia soil,
the orderly sergeant reported an engagement, on the left flank, between
private Villiam Brown and the man that puts his hair in papers. A
consultation of officers was immediately called, and the order "About
face" was given. So excited was our general by the event, that when the
order to march was given he forgot all about the "About face" business,
and we didn't know that we were going the wrong way until we suddenly
found ourselves at the bridge again. A consultation of officers was
immediately called, and it was determined that, in consequence of the
well-known revolution of the world on its axis, the part with the
bridge on it had taken a turn while we were halting, and we were
ordered to counterbalance the singular phenomena by marching the other
way immediately. We had proceeded about one mile, when a scout reported
that a shower was coming up. A consultation of officers was immediately
called, and it was determined that a squad should search a neighboring
farmhouse for an umbrella for the Brigadier-General. The umbrella being
obtained without loss of life, we pushed on toward Fairfax, and soon
found ourselves before the works of the enemy. A consultation of
officers was immediately called, and it was decided that the
Brigadier-General should climb a tree, in order to be able to direct
the assault effectively, and prevent the appearance of a widow in his
family at home. The first regiment, Watch Guards, were ordered to
reconnoitre the works, and private Villiam Brown had almost succeeded
in surrounding a very fat pullet, when Colonel Binks put his head out
of the window of his fortress, and discharged a ten-inch boot-jack at
our centre.
The Man that puts his hair in papers was wounded severely on one of his
corns, and the Brigadier-General slid hastily down from the tree, and
retired to the rear of an adjacent barn. A consultation of officers was
immediately called, and it was determined to form our brigade into a
square, and receive the charge of the enemy, who speedily appeared
before the breastworks with a pair of tongs in his hands. Reaching
forward with the horrid weapon, he pulled the nose of our returned
Brigadier-General with it. A consultation of officers was immediately
called, and it was determined that death was preferable to defeat.
Accordingly, the brigade was ordered to advance cautiously upon the
enemy, while the orderly sergeant was sent to harass his rear, and turn
his flank, if possible. Our brigadier-general attempted to lead the
charge, but made a mistake about the direction again, and had galloped
half a mile toward where we came from before he could be convinced of
his mistake. Seeing us descending upon him, at last, like an avalanche,
the enemy deployed to the right, and poured in a volley of "cusses,"
throwing our right column into confusion, and wounding the delicacy of
our chaplain. A consultation of officers was immediately called, and it
was determined to make one more dash. We were formed into the shape of
a bunch of radishes, the brigadier-general retired a distance of two
miles to encourage us, and we poured down upon the foe with
irresistible force. His ranks were broken by the impetuosity of our
charge, and he scattered and fled in dismay.
The engagement then became general, and in a little while we were on
our victorious way to Washington again, with 150 rebel prisoners. Our
captives were chickens, in excellent condition for dressing, and their
appearance so delighted our brigadier-general--whom we found sharpening
his sword on the bottom of his boot, some miles away--that a
consultation of officers was immediately called, and it was determined
to cook and eat them immediately, lest the President should administer
the oath of allegiance to them, and discharge them in the morning.
Yours, victoriously,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER VIII.
THE REJECTED "NATIONAL HYMNS."
WASHINGTON, D.C., June 30th, 1861.
Immediately after mailing my last to you, I secured a short furlough,
and proceeded to New York, to examine into the affairs of that
venerable Committee which had offered a prize of $500 for the best
National Hymn.
Upon going into literary circles, my boy, no less than fifty
acknowledged poets confidentially informed me, that the idea of bribing
the muse to be solemnly patriotic was altogether too vulgar to be
tolerated for a moment by writers of reputation; and a whole swarm of
poets, never acknowledged by anybody, were human enough to say that
$500 was not a small sum in these times; but they hadn't "come to that
yet, you know."
One very poor Bohemian, my boy (whose scathing sarcasm at the expense
of those degraded creatures who prefer wealth to intellect, has often
delighted and improved the public mind), was so rash as to intimate
that the importunities of his laundress might drive him to the
desperate resource of competing for the prize; but he was quickly made
to blush for the unworthy thought, by the undisguised contempt for his
"dem'd lowness" displayed by a decayed young gentleman in a dirty
collar and very new neck-tie, who lives in a two-pair back in Wooster
street (fish balls and a roll twice a day), and writes graphic sketches
of fashionable life for the wholesale market.
And yet, notwithstanding all this high-mindedness, my boy, there is an
immense amount of some sort of genius insidiously pitted against the
contemptible $500. Astounding and distracting to relate, the committee
announces the reception of no less than eleven hundred and fifty
"anthems"!
The magnitude of eleven hundred and fifty "anthems" is almost more than
one human mind can grasp. Allowing that each "anthem" is a quarter of a
yard long, we have a grand total of two hundred and eighty-seven and a
half yards of "anthem"; allowing that each "anthem" weighs half a pound
(intellectually and materially), I find a gross weight of five hundred
and seventy-five pounds of "anthem"!
Let the reflective mind consider these figures for a moment, and it
will be stricken with a sense of the singular resemblance between
Genius and other marketable commodities. Eleven hundred and fifty
anthems are enough to prove that Genius has its private mercenary
weaknesses as well as Trade, my boy, and that brains can be bought by
the yard as well as calico. Genius may carry with it a seeming contempt
for the yellow dross of common humanity; but--it has to pay its
occasional washerwoman.
And all these "anthems" are rejected by the venerable committee! But
must they _all_, therefore, be lost to the world? I hope not, my
boy,--I hope not. Having some acquaintance with the discriminating
rag-merchant to whom they were turned over as rejected, I have procured
some of the best, from which to quote for your special edification.
Imprimis, my boy, observe this
NATIONAL ANTHEM.
BY H. W. L----, OF CAMBRIDGE.
Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch
Over the sea-ribbed land of the fleet-footed Norsemen,
Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens--
Ursa, the noblest of all the Vikings and horsemen.
Musing, he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon,
Where the Aurora lapt stars in a North-polar manner,
Wildly he started--for there in the heavens before him
Fluttered and flew the original Star-Spangled Banner.
The committee have two objections to this: in the first place, it is
not an "anthem" at all; secondly, it is a gross plagiarism from an old
Scandinavian war-song of the primeval ages.
Next, I present a
NATIONAL ANTHEM.
BY THE HON. EDWARD E----, OF BOSTON.
Ponderous projectiles, hurled by heavy hands,
Fell on our Liberty's poor infant head,
Ere she a stadium had well advanced
On the great path that to her greatness led;
Her temple's propylon was shattered;
Yet, thanks to saving Grace and Washington,
Her incubus was from her bosom hurled;
And, rising like a cloud-dispelling sun,
She took the oil, with which her hair was curled,
To grease the "Hub" round which revolves the world.
This fine production is rather heavy for an "anthem," and contains too
much of Boston to be considered strictly national. To set such an
"anthem" to music would require a Wagner; and even were it really
accommodated to a tune, it could only be whistled by the populace.
We now come to a
NATIONAL ANTHEM.
BY JOHN GREENLEAF W----.
My native land, thy Puritanic stock
Still finds its roots firm-bound in Plymouth Rock,
And all thy sons unite in one grand wish--
To keep the virtues of Preserv-ed Fish.
Preserv-ed Fish, the Deacon stern and true,
Told our New England what her sons should do,
And should they swerve from loyalty and right,
Then the whole land were lost indeed in night.
The sectional bias of this "anthem" renders it unsuitable for use in
that small margin of the world situated outside of New England. Hence
the above must be rejected.
Here we have a very curious
NATIONAL ANTHEM.
BY DR. OLIVER WENDELL H----.
A diagnosis of our hist'ry proves
Our native land a land its native loves;
Its birth a deed obstetric without peer,
Its growth a source of wonder far and near.
To love it more behold how foreign shores
Sink into nothingness beside its stores;
Hyde Park at best--though counted ultra-grand--
The "Boston Common" of Victoria's land--
The committee must not be blamed for rejecting the above, after reading
thus far; for such an "anthem" could only be sung by a college of
surgeons or a Beacon-street tea-party.
Turn we now to a
NATIONAL ANTHEM.
BY RALPH WALDO E----.
Source immaterial of material naught,
Focus of light infinitesimal,
Sum of all things by sleepless Nature wrought,
Of which abnormal man is decimal.
Refract, in prism immortal, from thy stars
To the stars blent incipient on our flag,
The beam translucent, neutrifying death;
And raise to immortality the rag.
This "anthem" was greatly praised by a celebrated German scholar; but
the committee felt obliged to reject it on account of its too childish
simplicity.
Here we have a
NATIONAL ANTHEM
BY WILLIAM CULLEN B----.
The sun sinks softly to his evening post,
The sun swells grandly to his morning crown;
Yet not a star our flag of Heav'n has lost,
And not a sunset stripe with him goes down.
So thrones may fall; and from the dust of those,
New thrones may rise, to totter like the last;
But still our country's nobler planet glows
While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.
Upon finding that this did not go well to the air of "Yankee Doodle,"
the committee felt justified in declining it; being furthermore
prejudiced against it by a suspicion that the poet has crowded an
advertisement of a paper which he edits into the first line.
Next we quote from a
NATIONAL ANTHEM
BY GEN. GEORGE P. M----.
In the days that tried our fathers
Many years ago,
Our fair land achieved her freedom,
Blood-bought, you know.
Shall we not defend her ever
As we'd defend
That fair maiden, kind and tender,
Calling us friend?
Yes! Let all the echoes answer,
From hill and vale;
Yes! Let other nations, hearing,
Joy in the tale.
Our Columbia is a lady,
High-born and fair;
We have sworn allegiance to her--
Touch her who dare.
The tone of this "anthem" not being devotional enough to suit the
committee, it should be printed on an edition of linen-cambric
handkerchiefs, for ladies especially.
Observe this
NATIONAL ANTHEM
BY N. P. W----.
One hue of our flag is taken
From the cheeks of my blushing Pet,
And its stars beat time and sparkle
Like the studs on her chemisette.
Its blue is the ocean shadow
That hides in her dreamy eyes,
It conquers all men, like her,
And still for a Union flies.
Several members of the committee being pious, it is not strange that
this "anthem" has too much of the Anacreon spice to suit them.
We next peruse a
NATIONAL ANTHEM
BY THOMAS BAILEY A----.
The little brown squirrel hops in the corn,
The cricket quaintly sings;
The emerald pigeon nods his head,
And the shad in the river springs,
The dainty sunflower hangs its head
On the shore of the summer sea;
And better far that I were dead,
If Maud did not love me.
I love the squirrel that hops in the corn,
And the cricket that quaintly sings;
And the emerald pigeon that nods his head,
And the shad that gayly springs.
I love the dainty sunflower, too,
And Maud with her snowy breast;
I love them all;--but I love--I love--
I love my country best.
This is certainly very beautiful, and sounds somewhat like Tennyson.
Though it was rejected by the Committee, it can never lose its value as
a piece of excellent reading for children. It is calculated to fill the
youthful mind with patriotism and natural history, besides touching the
youthful heart with an emotion palpitating for all.
Notice the following
NATIONAL ANTHEM
BY R. H. STOD----.
Behold the flag! Is it not a flag?
Deny it, man, if you dare;
And midway spread, 'twixt earth and sky,
It hangs like a written prayer.
Would impious hand of foe disturb
Its memories' holy spell,
And blight it with a dew of blood?
Ha, tr-r-aitor!! * * * It is well.
And this is the last of the rejected anthems I can quote from at
present, my boy, though several hundred pounds yet remain untouched.
Yours, questioningly,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER IX.
IN WHICH OUR CORRESPONDENT TEMPORARILY DIGRESSES FROM WAR MATTERS TO
ROMANTIC LITERATURE, AND INTRODUCES A WOMAN'S NOVEL.
WASHINGTON, D.C., July --, 1861.
While the Grand Army is making its preparations for an advance upon the
Southern Confederacy, my boy, and the celebrated fowl of our distracted
country is getting ready his spurs, let me distract your attention for
a moment to the subject of harrowing Romance as inflicted by the
intellectual women of America.
To soothe and instruct me in my leisure and more ebrious moments, one
of the ink-comparable women of America has sent me her new novel to
read; and before I allow _you_ to enjoy its green leaves, my boy, you
must permit me to make a few remarks concerning the generality of such
works.
Long and patient study of womanly works teaches me that woman's genius,
as displayed in gushing fiction, is a power of creating an unnatural
and unmitigated ruffian for a hero, my boy, at whose shrine all created
crinoline and immense delegations of inferior broadcloth are impelled
to bow. Such a one was that old humbug, Rochester, the beloved of "Jane
Eyre." The character has been done-over scores of times since poor
Charlotte Bronte gave her famous novel to the world, and is still "much
used in respectable families."
The great difficulty with the intellectual women of America is, that
they will persist in attempting to delineate a phase of manly character
which attracts them above all others, but which they do not comprehend.
Woman entertains a natural fondness for that which she can not
understand, and hence it is that we very seldom find her without a
wildly-vague admiration of Emerson.
There is in this world, my boy, a noble type of manhood which unites
dignified reserve with the most loyal integrity, relentless pride of
manner with the kindest humility of heart, rigid indifference to the
applause of the world with the finest regard for its honest respect,
and carelessness of woman's mere frivolous liking with the most
profound and chivalrous reverence for her virtues and her love.
This is the type which, without comprehending it, the intellectual
women of America are continually striving to depict in their novels;
and a pretty mess they make of it, my boy,--a pretty mess they make of
it.
Their "Rochester" hero is harder to understand than Hamlet, when he
falls into the hands of our school-girl authoresses. He looms rakishly
upon us, my boy, a horridly misanthropic wretch, despising the world
with all the dreadful malignity of chronic dyspepsia, and displaying a
degree of moral biliousness truly horrifying to members of the church.
His behavior to the poor little heroine is a perpetual outrage.
Alternately he caresses and snubs her. He never fails to make her read
to him when he traps her in the library; and when she says, "Good
night" to him he is too deep in a "fit of gloomy abstraction" to answer
her civilly. If he calls her a "little fool," her fondness for him
becomes ecstatic: and at the first hint of his having murdered a noble
brother and two beautiful sisters in early life, she is led to fear
that her adoration of him will exceed the love she owes to her Maker!
This unprincipled ruffian may be separated from the virtuous little
heroine for years, and be flirting consumedly with half a dozen
crinolines when next she sees him; yet is he loved dearly by the
virtuous little heroine all the time, and when last we hear of him, she
is resting peacefully upon his vest-pattern.
What makes the inconsistency of the whole story still more apparent, is
the intense and double-refined piety of the heroine, as contrasted with
an utter stagnation of all morality in the breast of the ruffian. How
the two can assimilate, I do not understand; and my misunderstanding is
wofully augmented by the heroine's frequent expressions of
churchliness, and the ruffian's equally frequent outbursts of waggish
infidelity.
And now, my boy, let me transcribe for you the new novel, sent to me
with such kind intent by one of the young and intellectual women of
America. You will find much lusciousness of sentiment, my boy, in
HIGGINS.
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
BY GUSHALINA CRUSHIT.
PREFACE.
In writing the ensuing pages, I have been guided by no motives
other than those which lead the mind, in its leisure hours, to
scatter the germs of the beautiful. It may be urged that the
character of my hero is unnatural; but I am sure there are many of
my sex who will discover in Mr. Higgins a counter-part of the ideal
of days when life still knew the odors of its first spring, and the
soul of man seemed to the eye of innocence an elysium of virtue
into which no gangrene of mere worldliness intruded. I have done.
CHAPTER I.
It was on the eve of a day in the happy month of June, that my
great grandfather's carriage, drawn by six hundred and twenty-two
white horses, drew up under the tall palm trees before the gates of
the venerable Higgins' Lodge, and I was lifted almost fainting from
the wearied vehicle. As my grandfather supported my trembling steps
into the spacious hall of the lodge, I noticed that another figure
had been added to our party. It was that of a man six feet high,
and broad in proportion, whose majestic and spacious brow betokened
realms of elysian thought and excrescent ideality. His pallid
tresses hung in curls down his back, and an American flag floated
from his Herculean shoulders. Fixed by a fascination only to be
realized by those who have felt so, I cast my piercing glance at
him, and my inmost soul knew all his sublimity. It was as though an
angel's wing had swept my temples, and left a glittering pinion
there.
"Mr. Higgins," said my grandfather, "here is your ward,
Galushianna."
For an instant silence prevailed.
Then Mr. Higgins said, in tones of exquisitely modulated thunder:
"What did you bring the d--d girl _here_ for, you old cuss you?"
It was as when one sees a strain of music. I remembered the prayers
of my dear departed mother when she sought to enlighten my
speechless infancy with divine grace, and I felt that I loved this
Higgins.
Such is life. We wander through the bowers of love without a
thought of the morrow, while the dread vulture of predestination
eats into our souls, and cries, wo! wo! Truly, earthly happiness is
a mockery.
CHAPTER II.
Scarcely had I taken my seat in the library after my grandfather
had left us, when Mr. Higgins ordered me to black his boots. This I
proceeded to do with a haughty air, scarcely daring to hope, but
wishing that he would conquer his freezing reserve, and speak to me
again. For I was but a child, and my young heart yearned for
sympathy.
Presently, Mr. Higgins turned his large gray eyes on me, and said:
"Ha!"
After this, he remained in a thoughtful reverie for two hours, and
then turning to me, asked:
"Galushiana, what do you think of me?"
"I think," replied I, carefully putting the blacking-brush in its
place, "that your nature is naturally a noble one, but has been
warped and shadowed by a misconceived impression of the great
arcana of the universe. You permit the genuflexions of human sin to
bias your mind in its estimate of the true economy of creation;
thus blighting, as it were, the fructifying evidences of your own
abstract being--"
I blushed, and feared I had gone too far.
"Very true," responded Mr. Higgins, after a moment's pause;
"Schiller says nearly the same thing. It was a sense of man's utter
nothingness that led me to kill my grandmother, and poison the
helpless offspring of my elder brother."
Here Mr. Higgins held down his head and quivered with emotions, as
the ocean quakes under the shrieking howl of the blast.
I felt my whole being convulsed, and could not endure the
spectacle. I stole softly to the door, and stammered through my
tears, "Good-night, Mr. Higgins, I will pray for you."
He did not turn his noble head, but said, in firm tones: "Poor
little beast, good night."
I went to my room, but could not sleep. Shortly after half-past two
o'clock I crawled noiselessly down to the library-door and looked
in. Mr. Higgins still sat before the fire in the same thoughtful
position. "Poor little beast!" I heard him murmur softly to
himself--"poor little beast!"
CHAPTER III.
Let the reader transport himself to a small stone cottage on the
Hudson, and he will behold me as I was at the age of twenty-one. I
had reached that acme of woman's career when common sense is to her
as nothing, and the world with all its follies bursts upon her
ravished ears with ten-fold succulence. My grandfather had been
dead some fifty years, and I was even thinking of him, when the
door opened, and Mr. Higgins entered. I felt my heart palpitate,
and was about to quit the room, when he cast a searching glance at
me, and said:
"Well, girl--are you as big a fool as ever?"
I hung my head, for the tell-tale blush _would_ bloom.
"Come," said Mr. Higgins, "don't speak like a donkey. I'm no
priestly confessor. Curse the priests! Curse the world! Curse
everybody! Curse everything!" And he placed his feet upon the
mantel-piece, and gazed meditatively into the fire.
I could hear the beatings of my own heart, and all the warmth of my
nature went forth to meet this sublime embodiment of human majesty;
yet I dared not speak.
After a short silence, Mr. Higgins took a chew of tobacco, and
placing his hand on my shoulder, exclaimed:
"Why should I deceive you, girl? Last night I poisoned my only
remaining sister because she would have wed a circus-keeper, and
scarcely an hour ago I lost two millions at faro. Your priests
would say this was wrong--hey?"
I stifled my sobs and said, as calmly as I could:
"Our Church looks at the motive, not the deed. If a high sense of
honor compelled you to poison all your relatives and play faro, the
sin was rather the effect of vice in others than in your own noble
heart, and I doubt not you may be called innocent."
He glanced into the fire a few hours, and then said:
"Go, Galushianna!--I would be alone! Go, innocent young scorpion."
Oh, Higgins, Higgins, if I could have died for thee then, I don't
know but I should have done it!
CHAPTER IV.
Seventy-five years have rolled by since last I met the reader, and
I am still a thoughtless girl. But oh, how changed! The raven of
despair has flapped his hideous brood over the halls of my
ancestors, and taken from them all that once made them beautiful.
When I look back I can see nothing before me, and when I look
forward I can see nothing behind me. Thus it is with life. We fancy
that each hour is a butterfly made to play with, and all is gall
and bitterness.
I was chastened by misfortune, and occupied a secluded cavern in
the city of New Orleans, when my faithful old nurse entered my
dressing-room, and burst into a fit of hysterical laughter.
"Sassafrina!" I exclaimed, half angrily.
"Please don't be angry, miss," responded the tired old creature;
"but I knew it would come all right at last. I told you Sir Claude
Higgins hadn't married his youngest sister, but you wouldn't
believe me. Now he's down stairs in the parlor waiting for you."
And the attached domestic fell dead at my feet.
After hastily putting on a pair of clean stockings and reading a
chapter in my mother's family Bible, I left the room, murmuring to
myself, "Be still, my throbbing heart, be still."
CHAPTER V.
When I entered the parlor, Mr. Higgins sat gazing into the fire in
an attitude of deep reflection, and did not note my entrance until
I had touched him. His dishevelled hair hung from his massive
temples in majestic discomposure, and an extinguished torch lay
smouldering at his glorious feet.
O my soul's idol! I can see thee now as I saw thee then, with the
firelight glowing over thee, like a smile from the cerulean skies!
As I touched him, he awoke.
"Miserable girl!" he exclaimed, in those old familiar tones,
drawing me towards him, while a delicious tremor shook my every
nerve. "Wretched little serpent! And is it thus we meet? Poor
idiot, you are but a woman, and I--alas! what am I? Two hours ago,
I set fire to three churches, and crushed a sexton 'neath my iron
heel. Do you not shrink? 'Tis well. Then hear me, viper, _I lovest
thee_."
Was it the music of a higher sphere that I smelt, or was I still in
this world of folly and sin? And were all my toils, my cares, my
heart-breathings, my hope-sobbings, my soul-writhings to end thus
gloriously at last in the adoration of a being on whom I lavished
all the spirit's purest gloatings?
My bliss was more than I could endure. Tearing all the hair-pins
from my hair and tying my pocket handkerchief about my heaving
neck, I flung myself upon his steaming chest.
"_My_ Higgins!"
"YOUR Higgins!!"
"OUR Higgins!!!"
THE BLISSFUL FINIS.
The intellectual women of America draw it rather tempestuously when
they try to reproduce gorgeous manhood; but they mean well, my
boy,--they mean well.
Yours, in a brown study,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER X.
MAKING CONSERVATIVE MENTION OF THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN AND ITS EVENTS.
THE FIRE-ZOUAVE'S VERSION OF THE AFFAIR, AND SO ON.
WASHINGTON, D.C., July 28th, 1861.
We have met the enemy at last, my boy; but I don't see that he's ours.
We went after him with flying banners, and I noticed when we came back
that they were flying still! Honor to the brave who fell on that bloody
field! and may we kill enough secessionists to give each of them a
monument of Southern skulls!
I was present at the great battle, my boy, and appointed myself a
special guard of one of the baggage-wagons in the extreme rear. The
driver saw me coming, and says he:
"You can't cut behind this here wehicle, my fine little boy."
I looked at him for a moment, after the manner of the late great actor,
Mr. Kirby, and says I:
"Soldier, hast thou a wife?"
Says he:
"I reckon."
"And sixteen small children?"
Says he:
"There was only fifteen when last heard from."
"Soldier," says I, "were you to die before to-morrow, what would be
your last request?"
Here I shed two tears.
"It would be," says he, "that some kind friend would take the job of
walloping my offspring for a year on contract, and finding my beloved
wife in subjects to jaw about."
"Soldier," says I, "I'm your friend and brother. Let me occupy a seat
by your side."
And he didn't let me do it.
Just at this moment, something burst, and I found myself going up at
the rate of two steeples and a shot-tower a second. I met a Fire Zouave
on the way down, and says he:
"Towhead, if you see any of our boys up where you're goin' to, just
tell them to hurry down; fur there's goin' to be a row, and Nine's
fellers 'll take that ere four-gun hydrant from the seceshers in less
time than you can reel two yards of hose."
As I was _very_ tired I did not go all the way up; but turned back at
the first cloud, and returned hastily to the scene of strife. I
happened to light on a very fat secesher, who was doing a little
running for exercise. Down he went, with me on top of him. He was
dreadfully scared; but says he to me: "I've =seen you before, by the
gods!" I winked at him, and commenced to sharpen my sword on a stone.
"Tell me," says he, "had you a female mother?"
"I had," says I.
"And a masculine father?"
"He wore breeches."
"Then you _are_ my long lost grandfather!" says the secesher, endeavoring
to embrace me.
"It won't do," says I; "I've been to the Bowery Theatre myself;" and
with that I took off his neck-tie and wiped my nose with it. This
action was so repugnant to the feelings of a Southern gentleman, that
he immediately died on my hands; and there I left him.
It was my first personal victory in this unnatural war, my boy, and as
I walked away I thought sadly of the domestic circle in the Southern
Confederacy that might be waiting anxiously, tearfully, for the husband
and father----him whom I had morally assassinated. And there he
sprawled, denied even the simple privilege of extending a parting
blessing to his children. Under ordinary circumstances, my boy, there's
something deeply affecting in
THE DYING SOUTHERNER'S FAREWELL TO HIS SON.
My boy, my lion-hearted boy,
Your father's end draws near;
Already is your loss begun,
And, curse it, there's a tear.
I've sought to bring you up, my son,
A credit to the South,
And all your poker games have been
An honor to us both.
Though scarcely sixteen years of age,
Your bowie's tickled more
Than many Southerners I know
At fifty and three score.
You've whipped your nigger handsomely,
And chewed your plug a day;
And when I hear you swear, my son,
What pride my eyes betray!
And now, that I must leave the world,
My dying words attend;
But first, a chew of niggerhead,
And cut it near the end.
To you the old plantation goes,
With mortgage, tax, and all,
Though compound interest on that first,
Will make the profit small.
The niggers to your mother go;
And if she wants to sell,
You might contrive to buy her out,
Should all the crops grow well.
I leave you all my debts, my son,
To Yankees chiefly due;
But--curse the black republicans!
That needn't trouble you.
A true-born Southern gentleman
Disdains the vulgar thought
Of paying, like a Yankee clerk,
For what is sold and bought.
Leave that to storekeepers and fools
Who never banked a card;
We pay our "debts of honor," boy,
Though pressed however hard.
Last summer at the North I bought,
Some nigger hats and shoes,
And gave my note for ninety days;
Forget it if you choose.
The Yankee mudsills would not have
Such articles to sell,
If Southern liberality
Had fattened them less well.
The Northern dun we hung last week
Had twenty dollars clear,
And that, my son, is all the cash
I have to give you here.
But that's enough to make a start,
And, if you pick your boat,
A Mississippi trip or two
Will set you all afloat.
You play a screaming hand, my son,
And push an ugly cue;
Oh! these are thoughts that make me feel
As dying Christians do!
Keep cool, my lion-hearted boy,
Till second ace is played,
And then call out for brandy sour
As though your pile was made.
The other chaps will think you've got
The tiger by the tail;
And when you see them looking glum,
Just call for brandy pale!
I never knew it fail to make
Some green one go it blind;
And when the first slip-up is made,
It's all your own, you'll find.
My breath comes hard--I'm euchred, boy--
First Families must die;
I leave you in your innocence,
And here's a last good-bye.
Shortly after the event I have recorded, I was examining the back of a
house near the battle-field, to see if it corresponded with the front,
when another Fire Zouave came along, and says he:
"It's my opine that you're sticking rather too thick to the rear of
that house to be much punkins in a muss. Why don't you go to the front
like a man?"
"My boy," says I, "this is the house of a predominant rebel, and I'm
detailed to watch the back door."
With that the Zouave was taken with such a dreadful fit of coughing
that he had to move on to get his breath, and I was left alone once
more.
These Fire Zouaves, my boy, have a perversity about them not to be
repressed. They were neck-and-neck with the rest of us in our stampede
back to this city; and yet, my boy, they refuse to consider the United
States of America worsted. Here is the version of
BULL RUN,
BY A FIRE ZOUAVE.
Oh, it's all very well for you fellers
That don't know a fire from the sun,
To curl your moustaches, and tell us
Just how the thing _oughter_ be done;
But when twenty wake up ninety thousand,
There's nothin' can follow but rout;
We didn't give in till we had to;
And what are yer coughin' about?
The crowd that was with them ere rebels
Had ten to our every man;
But a fireman's a fireman, me covey,
And he'll put out a fire if he can:
So we run the masheen at a gallop,
As easy as open and shut,
And as fast as one feller went under,
Another kept takin' der butt.
You oughter seen Farnham, that mornin'!
In spite of the shot and the shell
His orders kept ringing around us
As clear as the City Hall bell.
He said all he could to encourage
And lighten the hearts of the men,
Until he was bleeding and wounded,
And nary dried up on it then.
While two rifle regiments fought us,
And batteries tumbled us down,
Them cursed Black-Horse fellers charged us,
Like all the Dead Rabbits in town.
And that's just the way with them rebels,
It's ten upon one, or no fair;
But we emptied a few of their saddles--
You may bet all your soap on that air!
"Double up!" says our colonel, quite coolly,
When he saw them come riding like mad,
And we did double up in a hurry,
And let them have all that we had.
They came at us counting a hundred,
And scarcely two dozen went back;
So you see, if they bluffed us on aces,
We made a big thing with the Jack.
We fought till red shirts were as plenty
As blackberries, strewing the grass,
And then we fell back for a breathing,
To let Sixty-nine's fellers pass.
Perhaps Sixty-nine didn't peg them,
And give them uncommon cheroots?
Well--I've just got to say, if they didn't
You fellers can smell of my boots!
The Brooklyn Fourteenth was another,
And those Minnesota chaps too;
But the odds were too heavy against us,
And but one thing was left us to do:
We had to make tracks for our quarters,
And finished it up pretty rough;
But if any chap says that they licked us,
I'd just like to polish him off!
With the remembrance of the many heroic souls who sacrificed themselves
for their country that day, I have not the heart, my boy, to continue
the subject. I was routed at about five o'clock in the afternoon, and
fell back on Washington, where I am now receiving my rations. I don't
take the oath with any spirit since then; and a skeleton with nothing
on but a havelock is all that is left of
Yours, emaciatedly,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER XI.
GIVING AN EFFECT OF THE NEW BUGLE DRILL IN THE MACKEREL BRIGADE, AND
MAKING SOME NOTE OF THE LATEST IMPROVEMENTS IN ARTILLERY, ETC.
WASHINGTON, D.C., August --, 1861.
The Mackerel Brigade, of which I have the honor to be a member, was
about the worst demoralized of all the brigades that covered themselves
with glory and perspiration at the skrimmage of Bull Run. In the first
place, it never had much morals, and when it came to be demoralized, it
hadn't any; so that ever since the disaster, the peasantry in the
neighborhood of the camp have been in constant mourning for departed
pullets; and one venerable rustic complains that the Mackerel pickets
milk all his cows every night, and come to borrow his churn in the
morning. When one of the colonels heard the venerable rustic make this
accusation, he says to him:
"Would you like to be revenged on the men who milk your animiles?" The
venerable rustic took a chew of tobacco, and says he: "I wouldn't like
anything better." The colonel looked at him sadly for a moment, and
then remarked: "Aged stranger, you are already revenged. The men who
milked your animiles are all from New York, where they had been
accustomed to drink milk composed principally of Croton water. Upon
drinking the pure article furnished by your gentle beastesses, they
were all taken violently sick, and are now lying at the point of
illness, expecting every moment to be their first." The venerable
rustic was so affected by this intelligence, that he immediately went
home in tears.
The new bugle drill is a very good idea, my boy, and our lads will
probably become accustomed to it by the time they get used to it. The
colonel of Regiment Five likes it so much that he has substituted the
bugle for the drum, even. The other morning, when he tried it on for
the first time, I was just entering the tent of one of the captains, to
take the Oath with him, when the bugle sounded the order to turn out.
"Ah!" says the captain, when he heard it, "we're going to have fish for
breakfast at last. I hope its porgies," says he: "for I'm uncommon fond
of porgies."
"Why, what are you talking about?" says I.
"You innocent lamb," says he, "didn't you hear that ere fish-horn. It
said 'porgies,' as plain as could be."
"Why, that's the bugle," says I, "and it sounded the order to turn
out."
He took his disappointment very severely, my boy, for he was really
very fond of porgies.
By invitation of a well-known official, I visited the Navy-Yard
yesterday, and witnessed the trial of some newly-invented rifled
cannon. The trial was of short duration, and the jury brought in a
verdict of "innocent of any intent to kill."
The first gun tried was similar to those used in the Revolution, except
that it had a larger touch-hole, and the carriage was painted green,
instead of blue. This novel and ingenious weapon was pointed at a
target about sixty yards distant. It didn't hit it, and as nobody saw
any ball, there was much perplexity expressed. A midshipman did say
that he thought the ball must have run out of the touch-hole when they
loaded up--for which he was instantly expelled from the service. After
a long search without finding the ball, there was some thought of
summoning the Naval Retiring Board to decide on the matter, when
somebody happened to look into the mouth of the cannon, and discovered
that the ball hadn't gone out at all. The inventor said this would
happen sometimes, especially if you didn't put a brick over the
touch-hole when you fired the gun. The Government was so pleased with
this explanation, that it ordered forty of the guns on the spot, at two
hundred thousand dollars apiece. The guns to be furnished as soon as
the war is over.
The next weapon tried was Jink's double back-action revolving cannon
for ferry-boats. It consists of a heavy bronze tube, revolving on a
pivot, with both ends open, and a touch-hole in the middle. While one
gunner puts a load in at one end, another puts in a load at the other
end, and one touch-hole serves for both. Upon applying the match, the
gun is whirled swiftly round on a pivot, and both balls fly out in
circles, causing great slaughter on both sides. This terrible engine
was aimed at the target with great accuracy; but as the gunner has a
large family dependent on him for support, he refused to apply the
match. The Government was satisfied without firing, and ordered six of
the guns at a million of dollars apiece. The guns to be furnished in
time for our next war.
The last weapon subjected to trial was a mountain howitzer of a new
pattern. The inventor explained that its great advantage was, that it
required no powder. In battle it is placed on the top of a high
mountain, and a ball slipped loosely into it. As the enemy passes the
foot of the mountain, the gunner in charge tips over the howitzer, and
the ball rolls down the side of the mountain into the midst of the
doomed foe. The range of this terrible weapon depends greatly on the
height of the mountain and the distance to its base. The Government
ordered forty of these mountain howitzers at a hundred thousand dollars
apiece, to be planted on the first mountains discovered in the enemy's
country.
These are great times for gunsmiths, my boy; and if you find any old
cannon around the junk-shops, just send them along.
There is much sensation in nautical circles arising from the immoral
conduct of the rebel privateers; but public feeling has been somewhat
easier since the invention of a craft for capturing the pirates, by an
ingenious Connecticut chap. Yesterday he exhibited a small model of it
at a cabinet meeting, and explained it thus:
"You will perceive," says he to the President, "that the machine itself
will only be four times the size of the Great Eastern, and need not
cost over a few millions of dollars. I have only got to discover one
thing before I can make it perfect. You will observe that it has a
steam-engine on board. This engine works a pair of immense iron clamps,
which are let down into the water from the extreme end of a very
lengthy horizontal spar. Upon approaching the pirate, the captain
orders the engineer to put on steam. Instantly the clamps descend from
the end of the spar and clutch the privateer athwartships. Then the
engine is reversed, the privateer is lifted bodily out of the water,
the spar swings around over the deck, and the pirate ship is let down
into the hold by the run. Then shut your hatches, and you have ship and
pirates safe and sound."
The President's gothic features lighted up beautifully at the words of
the great inventor; but in a moment they assumed an expression of
doubt, and says he:
"But how are you going to manage, if the privateer fires upon you while
you are doing this?"
"My dear sir," says the inventor, "I told you I had only one thing to
discover before I could make the machine perfect, and that's it."
So you see, my boy, there's a prospect of our doing something on the
ocean next century, and there's only one thing in the way of our taking
in pirates by the cargo.
Last evening a new brigadier-general, aged ninety-four years, made a
speech to Regiment Five, Mackerel Brigade, and then furnished each man
with a lead-pencil. He said that, as the Government was disappointed
about receiving some provisions it had ordered for the troops, those
pencils were intended to enable them to draw their rations as usual. I
got a very big pencil, my boy, and have lived on a sheet of paper ever
since.
Yours, pensively,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER XII.
GIVING AN ABSTRACT OF A GREAT ORATOR'S FLAGGING SPEECH, AND RECORDING A
DEATHLESS EXPLOIT OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.
WASHINGTON, D.C., September 8th, 1861.
The weather in the neighborhood of Chain Bridge still continues to bear
hard on fat men, my boy, and the man who carries a big stomach around
with him will be a person in reduced circumstances before he gets to be
a colonel. The Brigadier-General of the Mackerel Brigade observed, the
other day, that he had been in hot water four weeks running, and
ordered me to work six hours in the trenches for not laughing at the
joke; he said that old Abe had people expressly to laugh at his jokes,
and had selected his Cabinet officers because they all had large
mouths, and could laugh easily; he said that he was resolved to have
his own jokes appreciated, and if he didn't, he'd be perditionized.
It's my impression--I say it's my impression, my boy, that the general
got off his best joke when he promised the Mackerel Brigade to look
after their interests as though they were his brothers. He may look
after them, my boy, but it's after they're out of sight. I don't say
that he takes advantage of us: but I know that just after a basket of
champagne was sent to the camp, directed to me, yesterday, I saw him
sitting on an empty basket in his tent, trying to wind up his watch
with a corkscrew. I asked him what time it was, and he said the
Conzstorshun must and shall be blockade--dade--did. I told him I
thought so myself, and he immediately burst into tears, and said he
should never see his mother again.
On Tuesday, there was a rumor that the Southern Confederacy had
attacked at regiment at Alexandria, for the purpose of creating a
confusion, so that it might pick the colonel's pockets, and Regiment 5,
Mackerel Brigade, was ordered to go instantly to the rescue. Just as we
were ready to march, a distinguished citizen of Washington presented a
sword to the colonel from the ladies of the Capital, and made an
eloquent speech. He spoke of the wonderful manner in which the world
was called out of chaos at the creation, and spoke feelingly of the
Garden of Eden, and the fall of our first parents; he then went on to
review the many changes the earth had experienced since it was first
created, and described the method of the ancients to cook bread before
stoves were invented; he then spoke of the glories of Greece and Rome,
giving a full history of them from the beginning to the present time;
he then went on to describe the origin of the republican and democratic
parties, reading both platforms, and giving his ideas of Jackson's
policy; he then gave an account of the war of the Roses in England, and
the cholera in Persia, attributing the latter to a sudden change in the
atmosphere; he then went on to speak of the difficulties encountered by
Columbus in discovering this country, and gave a history of his
subsequent career and death in Europe; he then read an extract from
Washington's Farewell Address; in conclusion, he said that the ladies
of Washington had empowered him to present this here sword to that ere
gallant colonel, in the presence of these here brave defenders of their
country.
At the conclusion of this speech, starvation commenced to make great
ravages in the regiment, and the colonel was so weak, for want of
sleep, that he had to be carried to his tent. A private remarked to me,
that, if we could only have one more such presentation speech as that,
the regiment would be competent to start a grave-yard before it was
finished. I believe him, my boy!
When the presentation was finished, the colonel announced from his
camp-bedstead that the rumor of a fight at Alexandria was all a hum,
and ordered us back to our tents. We hadn't been to our tents for such
a long time, that some of us couldn't find them, and one of our boys
actually wandered around until he found himself at home in New York.
The Mackerel Brigade, my boy, had a great engagement yesterday, and
came very near repulsing the enemy. We were ordered to march forward in
three columns, until we came within five miles of the enemy, Colonel
Wobbles leading the first; Mr. Wobbles, the second; and Wobbles, the
third. In the advance our lines presented the shape of a clam-shell,
but as we neared the point of danger, they gradually assumed more of
the form of a cone, the rear-guard being several times as thick as the
advance guard. When within six miles of the seceshers, we planted our
battery of four six pounders, and opened a horrible fire of shot and
shell on the adjacent country. The seceshers replied with a hail of
canister and shrapnell, and for eight hours the battle raged fearfully,
but without hurting anybody, as the hostile forces were too far apart
to reach each other with shot. Finally, Colonel Wobbles sent a
messenger, by railroad, to ask the seceshers what they wanted, and they
said they only wanted to be let alone. On receiving this reply, Colonel
Wobbles was much affected, and ordered us to march back to camp, which
we did.
This affair was really a great victory for the Union, my boy, and I
cannot refrain from giving short biographical sketches of the leaders
concerned in it, commencing with
COLONEL WOBBLES.
This gallant officer, on whom the eyes of the whole world are now
turned, was born at an exceedingly early age, in the place of his
nativity. When but a mere boy, he evinced a fondness for the law,
and his father, who was his mother's husband, placed him in the
office of the late Daniel Webster. He practised law for some years,
but failed to find any clients, and finally started a grocery store
under Jackson's administration. At this time, Calhoun's peculiar
views were agitating Christendom, and Mr. Wobbles married a
daughter of the late John Thomas, by whom he had no children. When
the war broke out in Mexico, he left the grocery business, and
opened a liquor store on the estate of the late J. Smith, and
accumulated sufficient money to send his family into the country.
Colonel Wobbles is now about eighty-five years old.
MR. WOBBLES.
This heroic young officer, now attracting so much attention, drew
his first breath among the peaceful scenes of home, from which the
captious might have augured anything but a soldier's destiny for
him. While yet very young, he was remarkable for his proficiency in
making dirt-pies, and went to school with the sons of the late Mr.
Jones. In 1846, he did not graduate at West Point; but when the war
broke out between Mexico and the United States, he married a niece
of the late Daniel Webster. It was also at this period of his
eventful career that he first became a husband, and shortly after
the birth of his eldest child, it was rumored that he had also
become a father. He entered the present war as a military man. He
is now but forty years old.
WOBBLES.
This noble patriot soldier, whose name is now a household word all
over the world, was reared from infancy in the village of his
birth, and took a prominent part in the meals of his family. While
yet a youth, the Florida war broke out, and he attended the
high-school of the late Mr. Brown. On arriving of age, he was just
twenty-one years old, and was not a student at West Point. Shortly
after this event, he married a cousin of the late Daniel Webster,
and during the Mexican War he had one child, who still bears his
father's name. Wobbles is now sixty years old.
You will observe, my boy, that these noble officers have merited the
commissions of brigadier-generals, and if they don't get them they'll
resign. Colonel Wobbles told me this morning, that if he resigned the
army would all go to pieces. I believe him, my boy!--field pieces.
Yours, biographically,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER XIII.
SUBMITTING VARIOUS RUMORS CONCERNING THE CONDITION OF THINGS AT THE
SOUTH, WITH A SKETCH OF A LIGHT SKELETON REGIMENT AND A NOTE OF VILLIAM
BROWN'S RECRUITING EXPLOIT.
WASHINGTON, D.C., September 20th, 1861.
There is every indication that something is about to occur, which, when
it does transpire, my boy, will undoubtedly give rise to the rumor that
a certain thing has happened. It was observed in military circles
yesterday, that General McClellan ordered a new pair of boots to be
forwarded immediately from New York, and from this it is justly
inferred that the Chain Bridge will be attacked by the rebels in force
very shortly.
A gentleman who has just arrived from the South to purchase some
postage-stamps, states that the rebel army is in an awful condition,
and will starve to death as soon as Beauregard gives the order. At
Richmond, ice-cream was selling for a hundred dollars a quart,
gum-drops at sixty dollars an ounce, Brandreth's Pills at forty-two
dollars and a half a box, Spaulding's Prepared Glue at twenty dollars
a pint, and Mrs. Winslow's Soothing Syrup at four hundred dollars a
bottle. In consequence of the sudden approach of fall and the renewed
stringency of the blockade, there are no strawberries to be had, and
the First Families are subsisting entirely upon persimmons. Should
the winter prove cold, the Southerners to a man will be compelled to
wear much thicker clothing, and it is anticipated that many of them
will take cold. _De lunatico inquirendo_ has broken out among the
rebel troops at Manassas Junction, in consequence of insufficient
accommodation, and the hospitals are so full of patients that
numerous sufferers may be seen bulging out of the windows.
The same gentleman thinks that Beauregard will be obliged to attack
Washington at once, or resign his commission and go to the Dry Tortugas
with his whole army. They are called the _Dry_ Tortugas, my boy,
because not a cocktail was ever known to be raised there.
A perfectly reliable but respectable person arrived here yesterday from
Paris, and brings highly important intelligence from North Carolina. He
has been permitted to sleep with a gentleman formerly residing in that
State, and his report is credited by the Administration. Nearly all the
people of North Carolina are devoted Union men at heart, and would
gladly rally around the old flag, if it were not for the fact that
nearly all the rest of the people of the State are secessionists and
won't let them. In a town of 750 inhabitants, 748 and a half (one small
boy) are determined Unionists; but the remainder, who are brutal
traitors, have seized all the arms in the place, and threaten all who
oppose them with instant death. At Raleigh, a mob consisting of three
secessionists, has seized the post-office and all the letters of marque
found in it. Marque has fled from the State. Since the victory of
Hatteras Inlet, the Union men have taken courage, and say, that if the
Government will send two hundred thousand men to their assistance, and
seventy-five rifled cannon, they can expel their oppressors in a few
years. These true patriots must be instantly assisted, or a decimated
and infuriated people will demand the expulsion of the entire Cabinet,
and an entirely new issue of contracts for shoddy. In the interior of
North Carolina there has been a rising of slaves. In fact, they rise
every morning very early. From this the _Tribune_ report of a negro
insurrection originated.
I formed a new acquaintance the other day, my boy, in the shape of the
Calcium Light Regiment, which is now ready to receive a few more
recruits. The Calcium Light Regiment was born in Boston, near Bunker
Hill Monument, and is now about sixty-five years old. He has become
greatly demoralized from going without his rations for some days past,
and is what may be called a skeleton regiment. He says that if he goes
without them much longer, he'll soon be as light as a 12-inch comet,
and won't need much calcium to blind the enemy to his presence. He's
_very_ light, my boy, and his features are so sharp that he might be
used to spike a cannon with. The Calcium Light Regiment was recruited
at great expense in New York, and went into camp on Riker's Island,
until Secretary Cameron ordered his colonel to bring him on immediately
for the defence of Washington. The regiment has three officers, and
will elect the others as soon as his voice is strong enough. He says
that he is a regiment of 1,000 men; he says that 1,000 is simply the
figure 1 and three ciphers, and that he represents the 1, and his three
officers the three ciphers.
I believe him, my boy!
Villiam Brown, of Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, asked his colonel last
week for leave to go to New York on recruiting service, and got it. He
came back to-day, and says the colonel to him:
"Where's your recruits?"
Villiam smiled sweetly, and remarked that he didn't see it.
"Why, you went to New York on recruiting service, didn't you?"
exclaimed the colonel.
"Yes," says Villiam, "I went to recruit my health."
The colonel immediately administered the Oath to him. The Oath, my boy,
tastes well with lemon in it.
The women of America, my boy, are noble creatures, and do not forget
the brave soldiers of the Union. They have just sent the Mackerel
Brigade a case of umbrellas, and we expect a gross of hair-pins by the
next train.
Yours, meditatively,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER XIV.
SHOWING HOW OUR CORRESPONDENT MADE A SPEECH OF VAGUE CONTINUITY, AFTER
THE MODEL OF THE LATEST APPROVED STUMP ORATORY.
WASHINGTON, D.C., September 30th, 1861.
Another week has fled swiftly by, my boy, on those wings which poets
and other long-haired creatures suppose to be eternally flapping
through the imaginary atmosphere of time; yet the high old battle so
long expected has not got any further than "heavy firing near the Chain
Bridge," which takes place every afternoon punctually at three
o'clock--just in time for the evening papers. I have been thinking, my
boy, that if this heavy firing in the vicinity of Chain Bridge lasts a
few years longer, it will finally become a nuisance to the First
Families living in that vicinity. But sometimes what is thought to be
heavy firing is not that exactly; the other day, a series of loud
explosions were heard on Arlington Heights, and twenty-four reporters
immediately telegraphed to twenty-four papers that five hundred
thousand rebels had attacked our lines with two thousand rifled cannon,
and had been repulsed with a loss of fourteen thousand killed. Federal
loss--one killed, and two committed suicide. But when General McClellan
came to inquire into the cause of the explosions, this report was
somewhat modified:
"What was that firing for?" he asked an orderly, who had just come over
the river.
"If you please, sir," responded the sagacious animal, "there was no
firing at all. It was Villiam Brown, of Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade,
which has a horrible cold, and sneezes in that way."
Villiam has since been ordered to telegraph to the War Department
whenever he sneezes, so that no more of these harrowing mistakes may be
made.
Last night, my boy, an old rooster from Cattaraugus, who wants a
one-horse post-office, and thinks I've got some influence with Abe the
Venerable, brought six big Dutchmen to serenade me; and, as soon I
opened the window to damn them, he called unanimously for a speech. At
this time, my boy, an immense crowd, consisting of two policemen and a
hackman, were drawn to the spot, and greeted me with great applause.
Feeling that their intentions were honorable, I could not bear to
disappoint my fellow-citizens, and so I was constrained to make the
following
SPEECH.
_Men of America_:--It is with feelings akin to emotion that I
regard this vast assemblage of Nature's noblemen, and reflect that
it comes to do honor to me, who have only performed my duty.
Gentlemen, my heart is full; as the poet says:
"The night shall be filled with burglars,
And the chaps that infest the day
Shall pack up their duds like peddlers,
And carry the spoons away."
It seems scarcely five minutes ago that this vast and otherwise
large country sprung from chaos at the call of Columbus, and
immediately commenced to produce wooden nutmegs for a foreign
shore. It seems but three seconds ago that all this beautiful scene
was a savage wild, and echoed the axe-falls of the sanguinary
pioneer, and the footfalls of the Last of the Mohicans. Now what do
I see before me? A numerous assembly of respectable Dutchmen, and
other Americans, all ready to prove to the world that
"Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,
The immortal ears of jack are hers;
But Sarah languishes in pain
And dyes, amid her worshipers."
I am convinced, fellow-citizens, that the present outrageous war is
no ordinary row, and that it cannot be brought to a successful
termination without some action on the part of the Government. If
to believe that a war cannot rage without being prosecuted, is
abolitionism, then I am an abolitionist; if to believe that a good
article of black ink can be made out of black men, is
republicanism, then I am a republican; but we are all brothers now,
except that fat Dutchman, who has gone to sleep on his drum, and I
pronounce him an accursed secessionist:
"How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gathers beeswax all the day,
From every opening flower."
Men of America, shall these things longer be?--I address myself
particularly to that artist with the accordeon, who don't
understand a word of English--shall these things longer be? That's
what I want to know. The majestic shade of Washington listens for
an answer, and I intend to send it by mail as soon as I receive it.
Fellow citizens, it can no longer be denied that there is treason
at our very hearthstones. Treason--merciful Heavens!
"Come rest in this bosom, my own little dear,
The Honourable R. M. T. Hunter is here;
I know not, I care not, if jilt's in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art."
And now the question arises, is Morrill's tariff really a benefit
to the country? Gentlemen, it would be unbecoming in me to answer
this question, and you would be incapable of understanding what I
might say on the subject. The present is no time to think about
tariffs: our glorious country is in danger, and there is a tax of
three per cent on all incomes over eight hundred dollars. Let each
man ask himself in Dutch: "Am I prepared to shoulder my musket if I
am drafted, or to procure a reprobate to take my place?" In other
words:
"The minstrel returned from the war,
With insects at large in his hair,
And having a tuneful catarrh,
He sung through his nose to his fair."
Therefore, it is simply useless to talk reason to those traitors,
who forget the words of Jackson--words, let me add, which I myself
do not remember. Animated by an unholy lust for arsenals, rifled
cannon, and mints, and driven to desperation by the thought that
Everett is preparing a new Oration on Washington, and Morris a new
song on a young woman living up the Hudson River, they are
overturning the altars of their country and issuing treasury bonds,
which cannot be justly called objects of interest. What words can
express the horrors of such unnatural crime?
"Oft in the chilly night,
When slumber's chains have bound me,
Soft Mary brings a light,
And puts a shawl around me."
Such, fellow-citizens, is the condition of our unhappy country at
present, and as soon as it gets any better I will let you know. An
Indian once asked a white man for a drink of whisky. "No!" said the
man, "you red skins are just ignorant enough to ruin yourselves
with liquor." The sachem looked calmly into the eyes of the
insulter, as he retorted: "You say I am ignorant. How can that be
when I am a well-red man?"
And so it is, fellow-citizens, with this Union at present, though I
am not able to show exactly where the parallel is. Therefore,
"Let us then be up and wooing,
With a heart for any mate,
Still proposing, still pursuing,
Learn to court her, and to wait."
At the conclusion of this unassuming speech, my boy, I was waited upon
by a young man, who asked me if I did not want to purchase some poetry;
he had several yards to sell, and warranted it to wash.
Yours, particularly,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER XV.
WHEREIN WILL BE FOUND THE PARTICULARS OF A VISIT TO A SUSPECTED
NEWSPAPER OFFICE, AND SO ON.
WASHINGTON, D.C., October 2d, 1861.
This is a time, my boy, when it is the duty of every American citizen
to make himself into a committee of safety, for the good of the
republic, and make traitors smell the particular thunder of national
vengeance. The eagle, my boy, has spread his sanguinary wings for a
descent upon the bantams of secession; and if we permit his sublime
pinions to be burthened with the shackles of domestic sedition, we are
guilty of that which we do, and are otherwise liable to the charge of
committing that which we perform. These thoughts came to me yesterday,
after I had taken the Oath six times, and so overpowered me that I
again took the Oath, with a straw in it. Just then it struck me that
the _Daily Union_, published near Alexandria, ought to be suppressed
for its treason; and I immediately started for the office, with an
intention to offer personal violence to the editor. I found him
examining a cigar through the bottom of a tumbler, whilst on the desk
beside him lay the first "proof" of
THE EDITOR'S WOOING.
We love thee, Ann Maria Smith,
And in thy condescension,
We see a future full of joys
Too numerous to mention.
There's Cupid's arrow in thy glance,
That by thy love's coercion
Has reached our melting heart of hearts,
And asked for one insertion.
With joy we feel the blissful smart,
And ere our passion ranges,
We freely place thy love upon
The list of our exchanges.
There's music in thy lowest tone,
And silver in thy laughter;
And truth--but we will give the full
Particulars hereafter.
Oh! we could tell thee of our plans
All obstacles to scatter;
But we are full just now, and have
A press of other matter.
Then let us marry, Queen of Smiths,
Without more hesitation;
The very thought doth give our blood
A larger circulation!
When the editor noticed my presence, he scowled so that his spectacles
dropped off.
"Ha, my fine little fellow," says he, hastily; "I don't want to buy any
poetry to-day."
"Don't fret yourself, my venerable cherub," says I; "I don't deal in
poetry at present. I just came here to tell you that if you don't stop
writing treason, I'll suppress you in the name of the United States."
"You're a mudsill mob," says he; "and I don't allow no violent mobs
around this office. I am an American citizen, and I won't stand no
mobs. What does the Constitution say about newspapers? Why, the
Constitution don't say anything about them; so you've got no
Constitutional authority for mobbing me."
"Then take the Oath," says I.
He looked at me for a moment, and then passed me a small black bottle.
I held it up over my eyes for some time, to see if it was perfectly
straight, and he remarked that if all Northerners took the Oath as
freely as I did, they must be a water-proof conglomeration of patriots.
I believe him, my boy!
The Mackerel Brigade has established a cookery department for itself,
and is using a stove recently patented by the colonel of Regiment 5.
This stove is a miraculous invention, and has already made fortunes for
six cooks and a scullion. You put a shilling's worth of wood into it,
which first cooks your meat and then turns into two shilling's worth of
charcoal; so you make a shilling every time you kindle a fire.
Yesterday, a gentleman, brought up to the oyster-trade, and who has
made several voyages on the Brooklyn ferry-boats, exhibited the model
of a new gun-boat to the Secretary of the Navy. He said its great
advantage was that it could easily be taken to pieces; and the
Secretary was just going to order seventy-five for use in Central Park,
when it leaked out that when once the gun-boat was taken to pieces
there was no way of putting it together again. Only for this, my boy,
we might have a gun-boat in every cistern.
Yours, nautically,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER XVI.
INTRODUCING THE GOTHIC STEED, PEGASUS, AND THE REMARKABLE GERMAN
CAVALRY FROM THE WEST.
WASHINGTON, D.C., October 6th, 1861.
The horse, my boy, is an animal in which I have taken a deep interest
ever since the day on the Union Course, when I bet ten dollars that the
"Pride of the Canal" would beat "Lady Clamcart," and was compelled to
leave my watch with Mr. Simpson on the following morning. The horse, my
boy, is the swarthy Arab's bosom friend, the red Indian's solitary
companion, and the circus proprietor's salvation. One of these noble
animals was presented to me last week, by an old-maid relative whose
age I once guessed to be "about nineteen." The glorious gift was
accompanied by a touching letter, my boy; she honored my patriotism,
and the self-sacrificing spirit that had led me to join the gallant
Mackerel Brigade, and get a furlough as soon as a rebel picket
appeared; she loved me for my mother's sake, and as she happened to
have ten shillings about her, she thought she would buy a horse with it
for me. Mine, affectionately, Tabitha Turnips.
Ah, woman! glorious woman! what should we do without thee? All our
patriotism is but the inspiration of thy proud love, and all our money
is but the few shillings left after thou hast got through buying new
bonnets. Oh! woman--thoughtful woman! the soldier thanks thee for
sending him pies and cakes that turn sour before they leave New York;
but, for heaven's sake don't send any more havelocks, or there'll be a
crisis in the linen market. It's a common thing for a sentry to report
"eighty thousand more havelocks from the women of America;" and then
you ought to hear the Brigadier of the Mackerel Brigade cuss!
"Jerusalem!" says he, "if any more havelocks come this afternoon, tell
them that I've gone out and won't be back for three weeks. Thunder!"
says he, "there's enough havelocks in this here deadly tented field to
open a brisk trade with Europe, and if the women of America keep on
sending them, I'm d--d if I don't start a night-cap shop." The general
is a profane patriarch, my boy, and takes the Oath hot. The Oath, my
boy, is improved by nutmeg and a spoon.
But to return to the horse which woman's generosity has made me own--me
be-yuteous steed. The beast, my boy, is fourteen hands high, fourteen
hands long, and his sagacious head is shaped like an old-fashioned
pick-axe. Viewed from the rear, his style of architecture is gothic,
and he has a gable-end, to which his tail is attached. His eyes, my
boy, are two pearls, set in mahogany, and before he lost his sight,
they were said to be brilliant. I rode down to the Patent Office, the
other day, and left him leaning against a post, while I went inside to
transact some business. Pretty soon the Commissioner of Patents came
tearing in like mad, and says he:
"I'd like to know whether this is a public building belonging to the
United States, or a second-hand auction-shop."
"What mean you, sirrah?" I asked majestically.
"I mean," says he, "that some enemy to his country has gone and stood
an old mahogany umbrella-stand right in front of this office."
To the disgrace of his species be it said, my boy, he referred to the
spirited and fiery animal for which I am indebted to woman's
generosity. I admit that when seen at a distance, the steed somewhat
resembles an umbrella-stand; but a single look into his pearly eyes is
enough to prove his relations with the animal kingdom.
I have named him Pegasus, in honor of Tupper, and when I mount him,
Villiam Brown, of Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, says that I
remind him of Santa Claus sitting astride the roof of a small gothic
cottage, holding on by the chimney. Villiam is becoming rather too
familiar, my boy, and I hope he'll be shot at an early day.
Yesterday the army here was reenforced with a regiment of fat German
cavalry from the West, under the command of Colonel Wobert Wobinson,
who has had great experience in keeping a livery-stable. Their animals
are well calculated to turn the point of a sword, and are of the
high-backed fluted pattern, very glossy at the joints. I saw one of the
dragoons cracking nuts on the backbone of the Arabian he rode, and
asked him about how much such an animal was worth without the fur? He
considered for a moment and then remarked that nix fustay and
dampfnoodle, though many believed that swei glass und sweitzerkase; but
upon the whole, it was nix cumarouse and apple-dumplings,
notwithstanding the fact that yawpy, yawpy, betterish. Singular to
relate, my boy, I had arrived at the very same conclusion before I
asked him the question.
Colonel Wobert Wobinson reviewed the regiment near Chain Bridge this
morning, and each horse used about an acre to turn around in. Just
before the order to "charge" was given, the orderly sergeant kindled a
fire under each horse, and when the charge commenced, only about six of
the animals laid down. Colonel Wobinson remarked that these six horses
were in favor of peace, and refused to fight against their Southern
brethren. I told him I thought that the peace breed had longer ears;
and he said that that kind had been very scarce since the Government
commenced appointing its foreign consuls.
Yours, hoarsely,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER XVII.
NOTING A NEW VICTORY OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE IN VIRGINIA, AND
ILLUSTRATING THE PECULIAR THEOLOGY OF VILLIAM BROWN; WITH SOME MENTION
OF THE SHARPSHOOTERS.
WASHINGTON, D.C., October 18th, 1861.
At an early hour yesterday morning, while yet the dew was on the grass,
and on everything else green enough to be out at that matinal hour, my
boy, I saddled my gothic steed Pegasus, and took a trot for the benefit
of my health. Having eaten a whole straw bed and a piece of an
Irishman's shoulder during the night, my architectural beast was in
great spirits, my boy, and as he snuffed the fresh air and unfurled the
remnants of his warlike tail to the breeze of heaven, I was reminded of
that celebrated Arabian steed which had such a contempt for the speed
of all other horses that he never would run with them--in fact, my boy,
he never would run at all.
Having struck a match on that rib of Pegasus which was most convenient
to my hand, I lit a cigar, and dropped the match, still burning, into
the right ear of my fiery charger. Something of this kind is always
necessary to make the sagacious animal start; but when once I get his
mettle up he never stops, unless he happens to hear some crows cawing
in the air just above his venerable head. I am frequently glad that
Pegasus has lost his eyesight, my boy; for could he see the expression
on the faces of some of these same crows, when they get near enough to
squint along his backbone, it would wound his sensibilities fearfully.
On this occasion he carried me, at a speed of 2.40 hours a mile, to a
point just this side of Alexandria, where the sound of heavy
cannonading and cursing made me pause. At first, my boy, I remembered
an engagement I had in Washington, and was about to hasten back; but
while I was pressing the lighted end of my cigar to the side of
Pegasus, to make him turn, Colonel Wobert Wobinson, of the Western
Cavalry, came walking toward me from a piece of woods on my right, and
informed me that ten of his men had just been attacked by fourteen
thousand rebels, with twenty columbiads. "The odds," says he, "is
rather heavy; but our cause is the noblest the world ever knew, and if
my brave boys do not vanquish the unnatural foe, an indignant and
decimated people will at once call upon the Cabinet to resign."
I told him that I thought I had read something like that in the
_Tribune_; but he didn't seem to hear me.
By this time the cannonading had commenced to subside, and as I trotted
alongside of Colonel Wobinson toward the field of battle, I asked him
what he had done with his horse. He replied, that while on his way to
the field, his sagacious beast had observed a hay-stack, and was so
entranced with the vision that he refused to go a step further; so he
had to leave him there.
Upon reaching the scene of strife, my boy, we discovered that the ten
Western Cavalry men had routed the rebels, killing four regiments,
which were all carried away by their comrades, and capturing six
columbiads, which were also carried away. On our side nobody was killed
nor wounded. In fact, two of our men, who went into the fight sick with
the measles, were entirely cured, and captured four good surgeons. I
must state, however, my boy, that although nobody was killed or wounded
on our side, there was one man missing. It seems that when he found the
balls flying pretty thickly about his ears, he formed himself into a
hollow-square, my boy, and retreated in good order into the neighboring
bushes. He formed himself into a hollow-square by bending gently
forward until his hands touched the ground, and made his retrograde
movement on all-fours. Colonel Wobinson remarked that this style of
forming a hollow-square was an intensely-immense thing on Hardee.
I believe him, my boy!
The women of America, my boy, are a credit to the America eagle, and a
great expense to their husbands and fathers, but they don't exactly
understand the most pressing wants of the soldier. For instance, a
young girl, about seventy-five years of age, has been sending ten
thousand pious tracts to the Mackerel Brigade, and the consequence is,
that the air around the camp has been full of spit-balls for a week.
These tracts, my boy, are very good for dying sinners and other
Southerners, but I'd rather have Bulwer's novels for general reading.
Villiam Brown, of Company 3, Regiment 5, got one of them the other day,
headed, "Who is your Father?" The noble youth read the question over
once or twice, and then dashed the publication to the ground, and took
some tobacco to check his emotions. (That brave youth's father, my boy,
is a disgrace to his species; he has been sinking deeper and deeper in
shame for some months past, until at last his name has got on the
Mozart Hall ticket.) I saw that Villiam didn't understand what the
tract really meant, and so I explained to him that it was intended to
signify that God was his Father. The gifted young soldier looked at me
dreamily for a moment, and then says he:
"God is my Father!" says he. "Well, now I am hanged if that ain't
funny; for, whenever mother spoke of dad, she always called him 'the
old devil!'"
Villiam never went to Sabbath-school, my boy, and his knowledge of
theology wouldn't start a country-church.
Wishing to find out if he knew anything about catechism, I asked him,
last Sunday afternoon, if he knew who Moses was.
"Yes," says he, "I know him very well; he sells old clothes in Chatham
street."
I went over to Virginia the other day to review Berdan's Sharpshooters,
and was much astonished, my boy, at their wonderful skill with the
rifle. The target is a little smaller than the side of a barn, with a
hole through the centre exactly the size of a bullet. They set this up,
my boy, just six hundred yards away, and fire at it in turn. After
sixty of them had fired, I went with them to the target, but couldn't
see that it had been hit by a single bullet. I remarked this to the
captain, whereupon he looked pityingly at me, and says he:
"Do you see that hole in the bull's eye, just the size of a bullet?"
I allowed that I did.
"Well," says he, "the bullets all went through that hole."
Now I don't mean to say that the captain lied, my boy; but it's my
opinion--my private opinion, my boy, that if he ever writes a work of
fiction, it will sell!
La Mountain has been up in his balloon, and went so high that he could
see all the way to the Gulf of Mexico, and observe what they had for
dinner at Fort Pickens. He made discoveries of an important character,
my boy, and says that the rebels have concentrated several troops at
Manassas. A reporter of the _Tribune_ asked him if he could see any
negro insurrections, and he said that he _did_ see some black spots
moving around near South Carolina, but found out afterward that they
were some ants which had got into his telescope.
The Prince de Joinville's two sons, my boy, are admirable additions to
General McClellan's staff, and speak English so well that I can almost
understand what they say. Two Arabs are expected here tomorrow to take
command of Irish brigades, and General Blenker will probably have two
Aztecs to assist him in his German division.
Yours, musingly,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER XVIII.
DESCRIBING THE TERRIBLE DEATH AND MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF A
CONFEDERATE PICKET, WITH A TRIBUTE TO HIS MEMORY.
WASHINGTON, D.C., October 28th, 1861.
My head swells with patriotic pride when I casually remark that the
Mackerel Brigade occupy the post of honor to the left of Bull Run,
which they also left on the day we celebrated. The banner which was
presented to us by the women of America, and which it took the orator
of the day six hours and forty minutes to describe to us, we are using
in the shape of blazing neck-ties; and when the hard-up sun of Virginia
shines upon the glorious red bands around the sagacious necks of our
veterans, they all look as though they had just cut their throats. The
effect is gory, my boy--extremely gory and respectable.
At the special request of Secretary Seward, who wrote six letters about
it to the Governors of all the States, I have been appointed a picket
of the army of the Upper Potomac. In your natural ignorance, my boy,
you may not know why a man is called a picket. He is called a picket,
my boy, because, if anybody drops a pocket-book or a watch anywhere,
his natural gifts would cause him to pick-it up. If he saw a pocket, he
would not pick-it--oh, no! But pick-it--picket.
The Picket, my boy, has been an institution ever since wars began, and
his perils are spoken of by some of the high old poets in these
beautiful lines:
"The chap thy tactics doom to bleed to-day--
Had he thy reasons, would he poker play?
Pleased to the last, he does a deal of good,
And licks the man just sent to shed his blood."
I am weeping, my boy.
While on my lonely beat, about an hour ago, a light tread attracted my
attention, and looking up, I beheld one of secesh's pickets standing
before me.
"Soldier," says he, "you remind me of my grandmother, who expired
before I was born; but this unnatural war has made us enemies, and I
must shoot you. Give me a chaw terbacker."
He was a young man, my boy, in the prime of life, and descended from
the First Families of Virginia.
I looked at him, and says I:
"Let's compromise, my brother."
"Never!" says he. "The South is fighting for her liberty, her
firesides, and the pursuit of happiness, and I desire most respectfully
to welcome you with bloody hands to a hospitable grave."
"Stand off ten paces," says I, "and let's see whose name shall come
before the coroner first."
He took his place, and we fired simultaneously. I heard a ball go
whistling by a barn about a quarter of a mile on my right; and, when
the smoke cleared away, I saw the secesh picket approaching me with an
awful expression of woe on his otherwise dirty countenance.
"Soldier," says he, "was there anything in my head before you fired?"
"Nothing," says I, "save a few harmless insects."
"I speak not of them," says he. "Was there anything _inside_ of my
head?"
"Nothing!" says I.
"Well," says he, "just listen now."
He shook his head mournfully, and I heard something rattle in it.
"What's that?" I exclaimed.
"That," says he, "is your bullet, which has penetrated my skull, and is
rolling about in my brain. I die happy, and with an empty stomach; but
there is one thing I should like to see before I perish for my country.
Have you a quarter about you?"
Too much affected to speak, I drew the coin from my pocket and handed
it to him.
The dying man clutched it convulsively, and stared at it feverishly.
"This," said he, "is the first quarter I've seen since the fall of
Sumter; and, had I wounded you, I should have been totally unable to
give you any quarter. Ah! how beautiful it is! how bright, how
exquisite, and good for four drinks! But I have not time to say all I
feel."
The expiring soldier then laid down his gun, hung his cap and overcoat
on a branch of a tree, and blew his nose.
He then died.
And there I stood, my boy, on that lonely beat, looking down on that
fallen type of manhood, and thinking how singular it was he had
forgotten to give me back my quarter.
As I looked upon him there, I could not help thinking to myself, "here
is another whose home shall know him no more."
The sight and the thought so affected me, that I was obliged to turn my
back on the corpse and walk a little way from it. When I returned to
the spot, the body was gone! Had it gone to Heaven? Perhaps so, my
boy--perhaps so; but I hav'n't seen my quarter since.
Your own picket,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER XIX.
NOTICING THE ARRIVAL OF A SOLID BOSTON MAN WITH AN UNPRECEDENTED
LITERARY PRIZE, AND SHOWING HOW VILLIAM BROWN WAS TRIUMPHANTLY
PROMOTED.
WASHINGTON, D.C., November --, 1861.
Having just made a luscious breakfast, my boy, on some biscuit
discovered amid the ruins of Herculaneum, and purchased expressly for
the grand army by a contracting agent for the Government, I take a sip
of coffee from the very boot in which it was warmed, and hasten to pen
my dispatch.
On Wednesday morning, my boy, the army here was reenforced by a very
fat man from Boston, who said he'd been used to Beacon street all the
days of his life, and considered the State House somewhat superior to
St. Peter's at Rome. He was a very fat man, my boy: eight hands high,
six and a half hands thick, and his head looked like a full moon
sinking in the west at five o'clock in the morning. He said he joined
the army to fight for the Union, and cure his asthma, and Colonel
Wobert Wobinson thoughtfully remarked, that he thought he could grease
a pretty long bayonet without feeling uncomfortable. This fat man, my
boy, was leaning down to clean his boots just outside of a tent, when
the General of the Mackerel Brigade happened to come along, and got a
back view of him.
"Thunder!" says the general, stopping short; "who's been sending
artillery into camp?"
"There's no artillery here, my boy," says I.
"Well," says he, "then what's the gun-carriage doing here?"
I explained to him that what he took for a gun-carriage was a fat
patriot blacking his boots; and he said that he be dam.
Soon after the arrival of this solid Boston man, my boy, I noticed that
he always carried about with him, suspended by a strap under his right
arm, something carefully wrapped in oilskin. He was sitting with me in
my room at Willard's the other evening, and says I to him:
"What's that you hug so much, my Plymouth Rocker?"
He nervously clutched his treasure, and says he:
"It's an unpublished poem of the Honorable Edward, which I found in a
very old album in Beacon street. It's an immortal and unpublished
poem," says he, fondly taking a roll of manuscript from the oilskin
wrapper,--"by the greatest and most silent statesman of the age.
You'll recognize the style at once.--Listen--
"ADVICE TO A MAID.
"Perennial maiden, thou art no less fair
Than those whose fairness barely equals thine;
And like a cloud on Athos is thy hair,
Touched with Promethean fire to make it shine
Above the temple of a soul divine;
And yet, methinks, it doth resemble, too,
The strands Berenice 'mid the stars doth twine,
As Mitchell's small Astronomy doth show;
Procure the book, dear maid, when to the town you go.
"Young as thou art, thou might'st be younger still,
If divers years were taken from thy life:
And who shall say, if marry man you will,
You may not prove some man's own wedded wife?
Such things do happen in this worldly strife,
If they take place--that is, if they are done;
For with warm love this earthly dream is rife--
And where love shines there always is a sun--
As I remark in my Oration upon Washington.
"Supposing thou dost marry, thou wilt yearn
For that which thou dost want; in fact, desire--
The wisdom shaped for older heads to learn,
And well designed to tame Youth's giddy fire:
The wisdom, conflicts with the world inspire,
Such as, perchance, I may myself possess,
Though I am but a man, as was my sire,
And own not wisdom such as gods may bless;
For man is naught, and naught is nothingness.
"Still, I may tell thee all that I do know,
And telling that, tell all I comprehend;
Since all man hath is all that he can show,
And what he hath not, is not his to lend.
Therefore, young maid, if you will but attend,
You shall hear that which shall salute your ear;
But if you list not, I my breath shall spend
Upon the zephyrs wandering there and here,
The far-off hearing less, perhaps, than those more near.
"Remember this: thou art thy husband's wife,
And he the mortal thou art married to;
Else, thou fore'er hadst led a single life,
And he had never come thy heart to woo.
Rememb'ring this, do thou remember, too,
He is thy bridegroom, thou his chosen bride;
And if unto his side thou provest true,
Then thou wilt be for ever at his side;
As Tacitus observes, with some degree of pride.
"See that his buttons to his shirts adhere,
As Trojan Hector to the walls of Troy;
And see that not, Achilles-like, appear
Rents in his stocking-heels; but be your joy
To have his wardrobe all your thoughts employ,
Save such deep thought as may, in duty given,
Suit to his tastes his dinners; nor annoy
Digestion's tenor in its progress even;
Then his the joy of Harvard, Boston, and high Heaven.
"If a bread-pudding thou wouldst fondly make--
A thing nutritious, but no costly meal--
Of bread that's stale a due proportion take,
And soak in water warm enough to feel;
Then add a strip or two of lemon-peel,
With curdled milk and raisins to your taste,
And stir the whole with ordinary zeal,
Until the mass becomes a luscious paste.
Such pudding strengthens man, and doth involve no waste.
"See thou thy husband's feet are never wet--
For wet brings cold, and colds such direful aches
As old Parrhasius never felt when set
On cruel racks or slow impaling stakes.
Make him abstain, if sick, from griddle-cakes--
They, being rich, his stomach might derange--
And if in thin-soled shoes a walk he takes,
See that his stockings he doth quickly change.
Thus should thy woman's love through woman's duties range.
"And now, fair maiden, all the stars grow pale,
And teeming Nature drinks the morning dews;
And I must hasten to my Orient vale,
And quick put on a pair of over-shoes.
If from my words your woman's heart may choose
To find a guidance for a future way,
The Olympian impulse and the lyric muse
In such approval shall accept their pay.
And so, good-day, young girl--ah me! oh my! good-day.
"EDWARD EVERDEVOURED."
As the solid Boston man finished reading this useful poem, he looked
impressively at me, and says he:
"There's domestic eloquence for you! The Honorable Edward is liberal in
his views," says he, enthusiastically, "and treats his subject with
some latitude."
"Yes," says I, thoughtfully, "but they call it Platitude, sometimes."
He didn't hear me, my boy.
It is with raptures, my boy, that I record the promotion of Villiam
Brown, Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, to the rank of Captain,
with the privilege of spending half his time in New York, and the rest
of it on Broadway. Villiam left the army of the Upper Potomac to pass
his examination here, and the Board of Examiners report that he
reminded them of Napoleon, and made them feel sorry for the Duke of
Wellington. One of the questions they asked him was:
"Suppose your company was suddenly surrounded by a regiment of the
enemy, and you had a precipice in your rear, and twenty-seven hostile
batteries in front--what would you do?"
Villiam thought a moment, and then says he:
"I'd resign my commission, and write to my mother that I was coming
home to die in the spring-time."
"Sensible patriot," says the Board. "Are you familiar with the history
of General Scott?"
"You can bet on it," says Villiam, smiling like a sagacious angel;
"General Scott was born in Virginia when he was quite young, and
discovered Scotland at an early age. He licked the British in 1812,
wrote the Waverly Novels, and his son Whahae bled with Wallace. Now,
old hoss, trot out your commission and let's liquor."
"Pause, fair youth," says the Board. "What makes you think that General
Scott had a son named 'Whahae'? We never heard that before."
"Ha!" says Villiam, agreeably, "that's because you don't know poickry.
Why," says Villiam, "if you'll just turn to Burns' works, you'll learn
that
"'Scot's wha' ha'e wi' Wallace bled,'
"and if that ain't good authority, where's your Shakspeare?"
The Board was so pleased with Villiam's learning, my boy, that it gave
him his commission, presented him with two gun-boats and a cannon, and
recommended him for President of the New York Historical Society.
It was rumored in camp last night, that the army would go into
winter-quarters, and I asked Colonel Wobinson if he couldn't lend me a
few of the quarters in advance, as I felt like going in right away. He
explained to me that winter-quarters would only be taken in exchange
for Treasury Notes, and I withdrew my proposition for a popular loan.
Yours, speculatively,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER XX.
CONCERNING A SIGNIFICANT BRITISH OUTRAGE, AND THE CAPTURE OF MASON AND
SLIDELL.
WASHINGTON, D.C., November 24th, 1861.
Mr. Seward, my boy, who takes the Oath with much sugar in it, and is
likewise Secretary of State, will probably write twenty-four letters to
all the Governors this week, in consequence of a recent outrage
committed by Great Britain. I may remark with great indignation, that
Great Britain is a member of one of the New York regiments, my boy, and
enlisted for the express purpose of stretching his legs. He is shaped
something like a barrel of ale, and has a chin that looks like an
apple-dumpling with a stitch in its side. As I rode slowly along near
Fort Corcoran, on my Gothic steed Pegasus, about an hour ago, admiring
the beauties of Nature, and smoking a pipe which was presented to me by
the Women of America, I espied Great Britain seated by the roadside,
contemplating an army biscuit. These biscuit, my boy, as I stated last
week, were discovered amid the ruins of Herculaneum, and were at first
taken for meteoric stones.
"Good morning, old Neutrality," says I, affably, "You appear to be lost
in religious meditation."
"Ah!" says he, sighing like the great behemoth of the Scriptures, "I
was thinking of the way of the transgressor. If the hinspired writers,"
says he, "thought the way of the transgressor was 'ard, I wonder what
they'd think about this 'ere biscuit."
"You're jealous of America," says I, "and it will be the painful duty
of the Union, the Constitution, and the Enforcement of the Law to
capture Canada, if you continue your abolition harangues against the
best, the most beneficent and powerful bread in the civilized world."
"Bread!" says he, with a groan in three syllables, "do you call this
ere biscuit bread? Why," says he, "this ere biscuit is Geology, and if
it were in old Hingland, it would be taken for one of the Elgin
marbles, and placed in the British Museum."
I need scarcely inform you, my boy, that after this ungenerous remark
of Great Britain, I left him contemptuously, and at once proceeded to
blockade a place where the Oath is furnished in every style. We have
borne with Great Britain a great while, my boy; but it is now time for
us to take Canada, and wipe every vestige of British tyranny from the
face of the Globe. The American eagle, my boy, flaps his dark wings
over the red-head of battle, and as his scarlet eyes rest for a moment
on the English Custom House, he softly whispers--he simply remarks--he
merely ejaculates--GORE!
Americans! fellow-citizens! foreigners! and people of Boston! Shall we
longer allow the bloated British aristocracy to blight us with base
abolition proclivities, while Mr. Seward is capable of holding a pen?
"Hail, blood and thunder! welcome, gentle Gore!
Let the loud hewgag shatter every shore!
High to the zenith let our eagle fly,
Ten thousand battles blazing in his eye!
Nail our proud standard to the Northern Pole,
Plant patent earthquakes in each foreign hole!
Shout havoc, murder, victory, and spoils,
Till all creation crouches in our toils!
Then, when the world to our behest is bent,
And takes the _Herald_ for its punishment,
We'll pin our banner to a comet's tail,
And shake the Heavens with a big 'ALL HAIL!'"
That's the spirit of America, my boy, taken with nutmeg on top, and a
hollow straw. Very good for invalids.
Next to the question concerning the capacity of gunboats for the
sweet-potato trade, my boy, the great topic of the day is the capture
of Slidell and Mason, whose arrest so pleased the colonel of the
Mackerel Brigade, that he got up at nine o'clock in the morning to tell
the President about it.
In the year 1776, my boy, this Slidell sold candles in New York, and
was born about two years after the marriage of the elder Slidell. While
he was yet a young man, he went much into female society, and at length
offered his hand to a lady. Her father being a male, gave his consent
to the match, and on the day of the wedding, there was a fire in the
Seventh Ward. Since that time, Slidell has been a married man, and was
much respected until he got into the Senate. I get these facts from a
friend of the family, who has a set of silver spoons engraved with the
name of Slidell.
The rebel Mason was born and bred in the United States, and has always
been a First Family. He says he was going to Europe on account of his
health.
The capture of these men, my boy, cannot fail to produce a great
sensation in diplomatic circles, and I am informed by a reliable
gentleman from Weehawken, that Mr. Seward is preparing a letter to Lord
Lyons on the subject. This letter, I learn, will contain some such
passages as this:
"I have the honor to say to your lordship, that your lordship must
be aware of your lordship's important duty as a Minister to the
United States, and I trust that your lordship will pay a little
attention to your lordship's grammar when next your lordship
addresses your lordship's most obedient servant. Your lordship will
permit me to say to your lordship, that your lordship is in no way
capable of interpreting the Constitution to your lordship's
American friends; and I trust your lordship will not be offended
when I state to your lordship, that your lordship will find nothing
in the Constitution to compel your lordship to demand your
lordship's passport on account of the recent capture of State
prisoners from one of your lordship's government's vessels, your
lordship."
I read this extract to Colonel Wobert Wobinson, of the Western Cavalry,
my boy, and he said its only fault was, that it hadn't enough lordships
in it.
"Lordships," says he, "lend an easy grace to State documents, and are
as aristocratic as a rooster's tail at sunrise."
The colonel is a natural poet, my boy, and abounds in pleasing
comparisons.
The review of seventy thousand troops near Munson's Hill, on Thursday,
was one of those stirring events, my boy, which we have been upon the
eve of for the past year. A new cavalry company, for the Mackerel
Brigade, excited great attention as it went past, and I understand the
President said that, with the exception of the horses and the men, it
was one of the finest cavalry mobs he ever saw. The horses are a new
pattern; fluted sides, polished knobs on the haunches, and a hand-rail
all the way down the back. A rebel caught sight of one of these fine
animals, the other day, and immediately fainted. It was afterward
ascertained that he owned a field of oats in the neighborhood.
Yours, variously,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER XXI.
DESCRIBING CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN'S GREAT EXPEDITION TO ACCOMAC, AND ITS
MARVELLOUS SUCCESS.
WASHINGTON, D.C., December 1st, 1861.
'Twas early morn, my boy. The sun rushed up the eastern sky in a state
of patriotic combustion, and as the dew fell upon the grassy
hill-sides, the mountains lifted up their heads and were rather green.
Far on the horizon six rainbows appeared, with an American Eagle at
roost on the top one, and as the translucent pearl of the dawn shone
between them, and a small pattern of blue sky with thirty-four stars
broke out at one end, I saw--I beheld--yes, it ees! it ees! our Banger
in the Skee yi!
The reason why the heavens took such an interest in the United States
of America was the fact, that Captain Villiam Brown, of Company 3,
Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, was to make a Great Expedition to Accomac
County on that morning. Twelve years was the period originally
assigned, my boy, for the preparation of this Expedition; but, when the
government heard that the Accomac rebels were making candles of all the
fat Boston men they took prisoners, it concluded to do something during
the present century. Villiam Brown was assigned to the command of the
Expedition, and when I asked the General of the Mackerel Brigade how
such selection happened to be made, he said that Villiam was assigned
because there were so many signs of an ass about him.
The General is much given to classical metaphors, my boy, and ought to
write for the new American Encyclopedia.
Previous to starting, Villiam Brown called a meeting of his staff, for
the purpose of selecting such officers only who had slept with Hardee,
and knew beans.
"Gentlemen," said Villiam, seating himself at a table, on which stood
the Oath and a clean tumbler; "I wish to know which of you is the
greatest shakes in a sacred skrimmage."
A respectable leftenant stepped forward with his hand upon his boozum.
"Being a native of Philadelphia," says he, "I am naturally modest; but
only yesterday, when two rebels pitched into me, I knocked them both
over, and am here to tell the tale."
Villiam Brown gave the speaker a piercing look, my boy, and says he:
"Impostor! beware how you insult the United States of America. I fathom
your falsehood," says he, "by my knowledge of Matthew Maticks. You say
that two chivalries pitched into you, and you knocked them both over.
Now Matthew Maticks distinctly says that two into one goes _no times_,
and _nothing_ over. Speaker of the House, remove this leftenant to the
donjon keep. He's Ananias Number 2."
The officer from Philadelphia being removed to the guard-house, where
there is weeping and wailing, and picking of teeth, another leftenant
stepped forward:
"I deal in technicalities," says he, "and can post you in law."
"Ha!" says Villiam, softly sipping the Oath, "then I will try you with
an abstract question, my beautiful Belvideary. Supposing Mason and
Slidell were your friends, how would you work it to get them out of
Fort Warren?"
"Why," said the leftenant, pleasantly, "I'd sue out a writ of Habeas
Jackass, and get the _New York Herald_ to advise the Government not to
let them out."
"Yes," says Villiam, meditatively, "that would be sure to do it. I'll
use you to help me get up my Proclamation."
"And now," says Villiam, dropping a lump of sugar into the Oath, and
stirring it with a comb, "who is that air melancholy chap with a tall
hat on, who looks like Hamlet with a panic?"
The melancholy chap came to the front, shook his long locks like
Banquo, and says he:
"I'm the Press. I'm the Palladium of our Liberties--
"'Here shall the Press the People's rights maintain,
Unawed by affluence and inspired by gain.'
"I'm the best advertising medium in the country, and have reptile
cotemporaries. I won't be suppressed. No, sir!--no, sir!--I refuse to
be suppressed."
"You're a giant intellek," says Villiam, looking at him through the
bottom of a tumbler; "but I can't stand the press. Speaker of the
House, remove him to the bath and send for a barber. Now, gentlemen, I
will say a few words to the troops, and then we will march according to
Hardee."
The section of the Mackerel Brigade being mustered in line against a
rail fence, my boy, Captain Villiam Brown shut one eye, balanced
himself on one foot, and thus addressed them.
"FELLOW-SOLDATS! (which is French.) It was originally intended to
present you with a stand of colors; but the fellow-citizen who was
to present it has only got as far as the hundred and fifty-second
page of the few remarks he intended to make on the occasion, and it
is a military necessity not to wait for him. (See Scott's Tactics,
Vol. III., pp. 24.) I have but few words to say, and these are
them: Should any of you happen to be killed in the coming battle,
let me implore you to _Die without a groan_. It sounds better in
history, as well as in the great, heart-stirring romances of the
weekly palladiums of freedom. How well it reads, that 'Private
Muggins received a shot in the neck and _died without a groan_.'
Soldats! bullets have been known to pass clean through the thickest
trees, and so I may be shot myself. Should such a calamity befall
our distracted country, I shall _die without a groan_, even though
I am a grown person. Therefore, fear nothing. The eyes of the whole
civilized world are upon you, and History and Domestic Romance
expect to write that you _died without a groan_."
At the conclusion of this touching and appropriate speech, my boy, all
the men exclaimed: "We will!" except a young person from New York, who
said that he'd rather "Groan without a die;" for which he was sentenced
to read Seward's next letter.
The Army being formed into a Great Quadrilateral (See Raymond's
Tactics), moved forward at a double-quick, and reached Accomac just as
the impatient sun was rushing down. With the exception of a mule, the
only Virginian to be seen was a solitary Chivalry, who had strained
himself trying to raise some interest from a Confederate Treasury Note,
and couldn't get away.
Observing that only one man was in sight, Captain Villiam Brown, who
had stopped to tie his shoe behind a large tree on the left, made a
flank movement on the Chivalry.
"Is these the borders of Accomac?" says he, pleasantly.
"Why!" says the Chivalry, giving a start, "you must be Lord Lyons."
"What makes you think that?" asked Villiam.
"Oh, nothing--only your grammar," says Chivalry.
This made Villiam very mad, my boy, and he ordered the bombardment to
be commenced immediately; but as all the powder had been placed on
board a vessel which could not arrive under two weeks, it was
determined to take possession without combustion. Finding himself
master of the situation, Captain Villiam Brown called the solitary
Chivalry to him, and issued the following
PROCLAMATION.
CITIZEN OF ACCOMAC! I come among you not as a incendiary and
assassin, but to heal your wounds and be your long-lost father.
Several of the happiest months in my life were not spent in
Accomac, and your affecting hospitality will make me more than
jealously-watchful of your liberties and the pursuit of happiness.
(See the Constitution.)
Citizen of Accomac! These brave men, of whom I am a spectator, are
not your enemies; they are your brothers, and desire to embrace you
in fraternal bonds. They wish to be considered your guests, and
respectfully invite you to observe the banner of our common
forefathers. In proof whereof I establish the following orders:
I.--If any nigger come within the lines of the United States Army
to give information, whatsomever, of the movements of the enemy,
the aforesaid shall have his head knocked off, and be returned to
his lawful owner, according to the groceries and provisions of the
Fugitive Slave Ack. (See the Constitution.)
II.--If any chicken or other defenceless object belonging to the
South, be brought within the lines of the United States Army, by
any nigger, his heirs, administrators, and assigns, the aforesaid
shall have his tail cut off, and be sent back to his rightful owner
at the expense of the Treasury Department.
III.--Any soldier found guilty of shooting the Southern
Confederacy, or bothering him in any manner whatsomever, the same
shall be deemed guilty of disorderly conduct, and be pronounced an
accursed abolitionist.
VILLIAM BROWN, Eskevire,
Captain Conic Section, Mackerel Brigade,
Commanding Accomac.
The citizen of Accomac, my boy, received this proclamation favorably,
and said he wouldn't go hunting Union pickets until the weather was
warmer. Whereupon Villiam Brown fell upon his neck and wept copiously.
The Union Army, my boy, now holds undisputed possession of over six
inches of the sacred soil of Accomac, and this unnatural rebellion has
received a blow which shakes the rotten fabric to its shivering centre.
The strong arm of the Government has at last reached the stronghold of
treason, and in a few years this decisive movement on Accomac will be
followed by the advance of our army on the Potomac.
Yours, with expedition,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER XXII.
TREATING OF VILLIAM'S OCCUPATION OF ACCOMAC, AND HIS WISE DECISION IN A
CONTRABAND CASE.
WASHINGTON, D.C., December 16th, 1861.
After sleeping with Congress for two days, my boy, and observing four
statesmen and a small page driven to the verge of apoplexy by the
exciting tale called the President's Message, I thought it was about
time to mingle with the world again, and sent my servant, Percy de
Mortimer, to bring me my gothic steed Pegasus. After a long search in
the fields after that chaste architectural animal, my boy, he met a
Missouri picket chap, and says he:
"Hev you seen a horse hereabout, my whisky-doodle?"
"Hoss!" says Missouri, spitting with exquisite precision on one of De
Mortimer's new boots. "No, I aint seen no hoss, my Fejee bruiser; but
there's an all-fired big crow-roost down in that corner, I reckon; and
it must be alive, for I heard the bones rattle when the wind blew."
My _valet_, Mr. De Mortimer, paid no heed to his satirical lowness, my
boy, but proceeded majestically to where my gothic beast was eating the
remains of a straw mattress. Brushing a few crows from the backbone of
the fond charger, upon which they were innocently roosting, he placed
the saddle amidships, and conducted the fiery stallion to my hotel.
Mounting in hot haste, I was about to start for Accomac, when the
General of the Mackerel Brigade came down the steps in hot haste, and
says he:
"Is the Army of the Potomac about to advance?"
"Why do you ask?" says I.
"Thunder!" says he, "I've been so long in one spot that I was going to
get out my naturalization papers as a citizen of Arlington Heights.
Ah!" says he, with a groan, "when the advance takes place I shall be
too old to enjoy it."
I asked him why he didn't make arrangements to have his grandson take
his place, if he should become superanuated before the advance took
place; and he said that he be dam.
On reaching Accomac, my boy, I found the Conic Section of the Mackerel
Brigade reconnoitering in force after a pullet they had seen the night
before. Which they couldn't catch it.
Captain Villiam Brown, my boy, has his head quarters in a house with
the attic and cellar on the same floor. I found two fat pickets playing
poker on the roof, six first class pickets doing up Old Sledge on the
rail-fence in front of the door, and eight consumptive pickets eating a
rooster belonging to the Southern Confederacy on the roof of a pig-pen.
As I entered the airy and commodious apartment of the commander-in
chief, I beheld a sight to make the muses stare like the behemoth of
the Scriptures, and cause genius to take another nip of old rye. There
was the cantankerous captain, my boy, seated on a keg of gunpowder,
with his head laid sideways on a table; one hand grasping a bottle half
full of the Oath, and the other writing something on a piece of paper
laid at right angles with his nose.
"Hallo, my interesting infant," says I, "are you drawing a map of
Pensacola for an enlightened press?"
"Ha!" says Villiam, starting up, and eyeing me closely through the
bottom of a bottle, "you behold me in the agonies of composition. Read
this poickry," says he, "and if it aint double X with the foam off,
where's your Milton?"
I took the paper, my boy, which resembled a specimen-card of dead
flies, and read this poem:
"The God of Bottles be our aid,
When rebels crack us;
We'll bend the bottle-neck to him,
And he will Bacchus.
"By Capt. VILLIAM BROWN, Eskevire."
I told Villiam that everything but the words of his poem reminded me of
Longfellow, and says he:
"Don't mention my undoubted genius in public; because if Seward knew
that I wrote poickry, he'd think I wanted to be President in 1865, and
he'd get the Honest Old Abe to remove me. I think," says Villiam,
abstractedly, "that the Honest Old Abe is like a big bumble bee with
his tail cut off, when his Cabinet comes humming around him."
Villiam once stirred up the monkeys in a menagerie, my boy, and his
metaphors from Natural History are chaste.
At this moment a file of the Mackerel Brigade came in, bringing a son
of Africa, who looked like a bottle of black ink wrapt up in a dirty
towel, and a citizen of Accomac, who claimed him as his slave.
"Captain," says the citizen of Accomac, "this nigger belongs to me, and
I want him back. Besides, he stole a looking-glass from me, and has got
it hid somewheres."
Villiam smiled like a pleased clam, and says he: "You say he stole a
looking-glass?"
"I reckon," says Accomac.
"Prisonier!" says Villiam, to the Ethiop, "did you ever see the devil?"
"Nebber, sar, since missus died."
"Citizen of Accomac," says Villiam, sternly, "you have told a whopper;
and I shall keep this child of oppression to black the boots of the
United States of America. You say he stole a looking-glass. He says he
has never seen the devil. Observe now," says Villiam, argumentatively,
"how plain it is, that if he _had_ even _looked_ at your looking-glass,
he _must_ have seen the devil about the same time."
The citizen of Accomac saw that his falsehood was discovered, my boy,
and returned to the bosom of his family cursing like a rifled parson.
Villiam then adjourned the court for a week, and sent the contraband
out to enjoy the blessings of freedom, digging trenches.
It is pleasing, my boy, to see our commanders dispensing justice in
this manner; and I don't wonder at the President's wanting to abolish
the Supreme Court.
Yours, judicially,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER XXIII.
CONCERNING BRITISH NEUTRALITY AND ITS COSMOPOLITAN EFFECTS, WITH SOME
ACCOUNT OF HOW CAPTAIN BOB SHORTY LOST HIS COMPANY.
WASHINGTON, D.C., December 20th, 1861.
When Britain first, at Napoleon's command, my boy, arose from out the
azure main, this was her charter, her charter of the land, that
Britains never, never, never shall be slaves as long as they have a
chance to treat everybody else like niggers. Suffer me also to remark,
that, Britannia needs no bulwarks, no towers along the steep; her march
is o'er the mountain wave, her home is on the deep--where she keeps up
her neutrality by smuggling contraband Southern confederacies, and
swearing like a hard-shell chaplain when Uncle Sam's ocean pickets
overhaul her.
Albion's neutrality is waking up a savage spirit in the United States
of America, as you will understand from the following Irish Idle which
was written
PRO PAT-RIA.
Two Irishmen out of employ,
And out at the elbows as aisily,
Adrift in a grocery-store
Were smoking and taking it lazily.
The one was a broth of a boy,
Whose cheek-bones turned out and turned in again,
His name it was Paddy O'Toole--
The other was Misther McFinnigan.
"I think of enlistin'," says Pat,
"Because do you see what o'clock it is;
There's nothin' adoin' at all
But drinkin' at Mrs. O'Docharty's.
It's not until after the war
That business times will begin again,
And fightin's the duty of all"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"Bad luck to the rebels, I say,
For kickin' up all of this bobbery,
They call themselves gintlemen, too,
While practin' murder and robbery;
Now if it's gintale for to steal,
And take all your creditors in again,
I'm glad I'm no gintleman born"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"The spalpeens make bould to remark
Their chivalry couldn't be ruled by us;
And by the same token I think
They're never too smart to be fooled by us.
Now if it's the nagurs they mane
Be chivalry, then it's a sin again
To fight for a cause that is black"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"A nagur's a man, ye may say,
And aiqual to all other Southerners;
But chivalry's made him a brute,
And so he's a monkey to Northerners;
Sure, look at the poor cratur's heels,
And look at his singular shin again;
It's not for such gintlemen fight"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"The nagur States wanted a row,
And now, be me sowl, but they've got in it!
They've chosen a bed that is hard,
However they shtrive for to cotton it.
I'm thinkin', when winter comes on
They'll all be inclined to come in again;
But then we must bate them at first"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"Och hone! but it's hard that a swate
Good-lookin' young chap like myself indade,
Should loose his ten shillins a day
Because of the throuble the South has made:
But that's just the raison, ye see,
Why I should help Union to win again
It's that will bring wages once more"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"Joost mind what ould England's about,
A sendin' her throops into Canaday;
And all her ould ships on the coast
Are ripe for some treachery any day.
Now if she should mix in the war--
Be jabers! it makes me head spin again!
_Ould Ireland would have such a chance!_"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"You talk about Irishmen, now,
Enlistin' by thousands from loyalty;
But _wait till the Phoenix Brigade
Is called to put down British Royalty_!
It's then with the Stars and the Stripes
All Irishmen here would go in again,
To strike for the Shamrock and Harp!"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"Och, murther! me blood's in a blaze,
To think of bould Corcoran leading us
Right into the camp of the bastes
Whose leeches so long have been bleeding us!
The Stars and the Stripes here at home
To Canada's walls we would pin again,
And wouldn't we raise them in Cork?"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"And down at the South, do ye mind,
There's plinty of Irishmen mustering,
Deluded to fight for the wrong
By rebel mis-statements and blustering;
But once let ould England, their foe,
To fight with the Union begin again,
And sure, they'd desert to a man!"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"There's niver an Irishmen born,
From Maine to the end of Secessiondom.
But longs for a time and a chance
To fight for this country in Hessian-dom;
And so, if ould England should try
With treacherous friendship to sin again,
They'll all be on one side at once"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"We've brothers in Canada, too--
(And didn't the Prince have a taste of them?)--
To say that to Ireland they're true
Is certainly saying the laste of them.
If, bearing our flag at our head,
We rose Ireland's freedom to win again,
They'd murther John Bull in the rear!"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"Hurroo! for the Union, me boys,
And divil take all who would bother it,
Secession's a nagur so black
The divil himself ought to father it;
Hurroo! for the bould 69th,
That's prisintly bound to go in again;
It's Corcoran's rescue they're at"--
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"I'm off right away to enlist,
And sure won't the bounty be handy-O!
To kape me respectably dressed
And furnish me dudheens and brandy-O!
I'm thinkin', me excellent friend,
Ye're eyeing that bottle of gin again;
You wouldn't mind thryin' a drop"--
"You're _right_, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
British neutrality, my boy, reminds me of a chap I once knew in the
Sixth Ward. Two solid men, who didn't get drunk more than once a day,
were running for alderman, and they both made a dead set on this chap;
but they hadn't any money, and he couldn't see it.
"See here, old tops," says he, "I'll be a neutral this time; so go in
porgies!"
Well, my boy, the election came off, and neither of the old tops was
elected. No, sir! Now, who do you suppose _was_ elected?
The _Neutral Chap_, my boy!
Mad as hornets with the hydrophobia, the two old tops went to see him,
and says they:
"Confound your picture, didn't you promise to be neutral?"
The chap dipped his nose into a cocktail, and then says he, blandly:
"I _was_ neutral, old Persimmonses. I only went to fifty Democrats, and
got 'em to vote for me. Then to be neutral, I had to get fifty of the
other feller's Black Republicans to do the same thing. Then I voted
twelve times for myself, _and went in_."
It was a very beautiful case, my boy, and the old tops were only heard
to utter--they were only known to exclaim--they were barely able to
articulate--that neutrality didn't pay.
Early yesterday morning, my boy, Company B, Regiment 3, Mackerel
Brigade, went down toward Centreville on a reconnoissance in force
under Captain Bob Shorty. The Captain is a highly intellectual patriot,
and don't get his sword twisted between his legs when he carries it in
his hand. He led the company through the mud like a Christmas duck,
until they came to a thicket in which something was seen to move.
"Halt, you tarriers!" says Captain Bob Shorty, in a voice trembling
with bravery. "Form yourselves into a square according to Hardee, while
I stir up this here bush. There's something in that bush," says he,
"and it's either the Southern Confederacy, or some other cow."
The captain then leaned up to a tree to make him steady on his pins, my
boy, and rammed his sword into the bushes like a poker into a
fire--thus:
Nobody hurt on our side.
What followed, my boy, can be easily told. At an early hour on the
evening of the same day, a solitary horseman might have been seen
approaching Washington. It was Captain Bob Shorty, with his hat caved
in, and a rainbow spouting under his left eye. He went straight to the
head-quarters of the General of the Mackerel Brigade, and says he:
"General, I've reconnoitered in force, and found the enemy both
numerious and cantankerous."
"Beautiful!" says the general; "but where is your company?"
"Well, now," says Captain Bob Shorty, "you'd hardly believe it; but the
last I see of that ere company, it was engaged in the pursuit of
happiness at the rate of six miles an hour, with the rebels at the
wrong end of the track. Dang my rations!" says Captain Bob Shorty, "if
I don't think that ere bob-tailed company has got to Richmond by this
time."
"Thunder!" says the general, "didn't they kill any of the rebels?"
"Nary a Confederacy," says Captain Bob Shorty. "The bullets all rolled
out of them ere muskets of theirs before the powder got fairly on fire.
Them muskets," continued Captain Bob Shorty, "would be good for a
bombardment. You might possibly hit a city with them at two yards'
range; but in personal encounters they are inferior to the
putty-blowers of our innocent childhood."
As the captain made this observation, my boy, he stepped hurriedly to
the table, lifted a tumbler containing the Oath to his pallid lips,
took a seat in the coal-scuttle, and burst into a flood of tears.
Deeply affected by this touching display of a beautiful trait in our
common nature, the general placed a small piece of ice on the captain's
slanting brow, and hid his own emotions in a bottle holding about a
quart.
In reference to the beautiful battle-piece, accompanying this epistle,
my boy, allow me to observe that it was taken on the spot by the
_Chiar' oscuro_ artist, Patrick de la Roach, well-known in his native
Italy as "Roachy." He studied in Rome (New York), and has a style
peculiar for its width of tone and length of breath. The dark
complexion of the figures in this fine picture represents the effects
of the Virginia sun. Our troops are much tanned. The work was painted
in oil colors with a bit of charcoal, my boy, and a copy of it will
probably be ordered for the Capitol.
Yours, for high old art,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER XXIV.
NARRATING THE MACKEREL BRIGADE'S MANNER OF CELEBRATING CHRISTMAS, AND
NOTING A DEADLY AFFAIR OF HONOR BETWEEN TWO WELL-KNOWN OFFICERS.
WASHINGTON, D.C., December 26th, 1861.
A Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, my boy, and the same to yourself.
The recurrence of these gay old annuals makes me feel as ancient as the
First Families of Virginia, and as grave as a church-yard. How well I
remember my first Christmas! Early in the morning, my dignified
paternal presented me with a beautiful spanking, and then my maternal
touched me up with her slipper to stop my crying. Sensible people are
the women of America, my boy; they slap a boy on his upper end, which
makes him howl, and then hit him on the other end to stop his noise.
There's good logic in the idea, my boy. That first Christmas of mine
was memorable from the fact that my present was a drum, on which I
executed a new opera of my own composition with such good effect, that
in the evening, a deputation of superannuated neighbors and old maids
waited on my father with a petition that he would send me to sea
immediately.
But to return to the present, suffer me to observe that last Wednesday
was celebrated by the Mackerel Brigade in a manner worthy of the
occasion. Two hundred turkeys belonging to the Southern Confederacy
were served up for dinner, and from what I tasted, I am satisfied that
they belonged to the First Families. They were very tough, my boy.
In the evening, there was a ball, to which a number of the women of
America were invited. Captain Villiam Brown came up from Accomac on
purpose to attend, and looked, as the General of the Mackerel Brigade
genteelly expressed it, like a bag of indigo that had been out without
an umbrella in a hard shower of brass buttons. The general has an acute
perception of the Beautiful, my boy.
Villiam took the Oath six times, and then took a survey of the festive
scene through the bottom of a tumbler. The first person he recognized
was the youngest Miss Muggins, waltzing like a deranged balloon with
Captain Bob Shorty. Captain Bob was spinning around like a dislocated
pair of tongs, and smirked like a happy fiend. Villiam gave one stare,
put the tumbler in his pocket, and then made a bee-line for the pair.
"Miss Muggins," says he, "you'll obleege me by dropping that air mass
of brass buttons and moustaches, and dancing with me."
"I beg your parding, sir," says Miss Muggins, with dignity, "but I
chooses my own company."
"Villiam," says Captain Bob Shorty, "if you don't take that big nose of
yours away, it will be my painful duty to set it a little further back
in your repulsive countenance."
Then Villiam _was_ mad. He hastily buttoned his coat up to the neck,
took a bite of tobacco, and says he:
"Captain Shorty, we have lived like br-r-others; I have borrowed many a
quarter of you; and you promised that when I died, you would wrap me up
in the American flag. But now you are mine enemy, and--ha! ha!--I am
yours. Wilt fight?"
'Twas enough!
"I wilt," responded Captain Bob Shorty. And in ten minutes' time these
desperate men stood face to face on the banks of the Potomac, the
ghastly moon looking solemnly down upon them through a rift of floating
shrouds; and one of the First Families of Virginia pickets squinting at
them from a neighboring bush. Villiam's second was Colonel Wobert
Wobinson of the Western Cavalry, Captain Bob Shorty's was Samyule
Sa-mith. The fifth of the party was a fat surgeon from St. Louis, who
stood with his sleeves rolled up and a big jack-knife in his hand. The
surgeon also had a stomach pump with him, my boy, and twelve boxes of
anti-bilious pills. The weapons were pistols, and the distance seventy
paces.
Captain Villiam Brown was observed to shiver, as he took his place, and
was so cold, that he took aim at the surgeon instead of his antagonist.
The surgeon called his attention to this little error; and he
immediately rectified his mistake by pointing his weapon point-blank at
Samyule Sa-mith.
"You blood-thirsty cuss!" shouted Samyule, with great emotion, "what
are you pointing at me for?"
"I was thinking of my poor grandmother," said Villiam, feelingly; and
immediately fired at the moon.
Simultaneously, Captain Bob Shorty sent his bullet skimming along the
ground, in the direction of Washington, and said that he wanted to go
home.
The surgeon decided that nobody was hurt; and the two infuriated
principals commenced to reload their pistols, with horrible calmness.
Now it came to pass, that while Captain Villiam Brown was stooping down
fixing his weapon, his hand became unsteady, and he pulled the trigger,
without meaning to. Bang! went the concern, and whiz! went the ball
right between the legs of Colonel Wobert Wobinson, causing that noble
officer to skip four times, and swear awfully.
"Treachery!" says Captain Bob Shorty, spinning around in great
excitement, and letting drive at Samyule Sa-mith who happened to be
nearest.
"Gaul darn ye!" screamed Samyule, turning purple in the face, "you've
gone and shot all the rim of my cap off."
"I couldn't help it," says Bob, looking into the barrel of his pistol
with great intensity of gaze.
At this moment, Villiam, who had loaded up again, tried to put the
hammer of his weapon down on the cap; but his hand slipped, and the
charge exploded, barking the shins of the fat surgeon, and sending a
bullet clean through his stomach-pump.
The surgeon just took a seat, my boy, rubbed his shins half a second,
took four boxes of pills, and then began to cuss! Marshal Rynders can
cuss _some_, my boy, but that fat surgeon could beat him and all the
Custom-House together.
But suddenly a strange sound reduced all else to silence. It came first
like the rumbling of a barrel of potatoes, and then grew into a
fiendish chuckle. It was found to proceed from a neighboring bush, and
on proceeding thither the party beheld a sight to make the pious weep.
Rolling about in the brush was one of the First Families of Virginia
pickets, kicking his heels in the air, and laughing himself right
straight into apoplexy.
"O Lord!" says he, going into a fresh convulsion, "take me prisoner and
hang me for a rebel, but I never _did_ see such a good one as that air
gay old duel. If you'd kept on," says the picket, turning purple in the
face, "I really reckon I should a busted myself."
Captain Villiam Brown was greatly scandalized at this unseemly mirth,
my boy, and requested the surgeon to cut the picket's head off; but
Colonel Wobert Wobinson interposed, and the laughing chap was only made
prisoner.
"And now, Villiam," says Captain Bob Shorty, "we've had the
satisfaction of gentlemen, and can be friends again. I spurns Miss
Muggins. The American flag is my only bride, and as for you!--well, I
think rather more of you than I do of my own father."
"Come to my arms!" exclaimed Villiam, falling upon his neck, and
improving the opportunity to take the Oath from his canteen.
It was an affecting sight, my boy; and as those two noble youths walked
amicably back to the camp together, the fat surgeon remarked to Samyule
Sa-mith that they reminded him of Damon and Pythias just returned from
the Syracuse Convention.
Yours, for the Code,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER XXV.
PRESENTING THE CHAPLAIN'S NEW YEAR POEM, AND REPORTING THE SINGULAR
CONDUCT OF THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE ON THE DAY HE
CELEBRATED.
WASHINGTON, D.C., January 2d, 1862.
Another year, my boy, has dawned upon a struggle in which the hopes of
freedom and integrity all over the world are breathlessly involved; and
if the day-star of Liberty is destined to go down into the ocean wave,
what is to become of the unoffending negroes? I extract this beautiful
passage, my boy, from the forthcoming speech of a fat Congressman, who
is a friend to the human race, and charges the Administration with
imbecility and with mileage. I conversed with him the other evening,
and, after discussing various topics, asked him what he thought of the
Washington statue as it stood? He winked three times, and then says he:
"The only Washington statue I know anything about, is _statu quo_."
The chaplain of the Mackerel Brigade joined seriously in our staff
festivities on New Year's eve, my boy; but as midnight approached he
grew very silent, and at a quarter of twelve he arose from his seat by
the fire and asked permission to read something which he had written.
"I would not retard your inevitable inebriation," says he to us, as he
drew a manuscript from one of his pockets, "but it is only fitting that
we should pay some regard to
"THE DYING YEAR.
"Dying at last, Old Year!
Another stroke of yonder clock, and thou
Wilt pass the threshold of the world we see
Into the world where Yesterday and Now
Blend with the hours of the No More To Be.
"I saw the moon last night
Rise like a crown from the dim mountain's head,
And to the Council of the Stars take way;
For thou, the king, though kinsman of the dead,
Swayed still the sceptre of Another Day.
"I see the moon to-night,
Sightless and misty as a mourner's eye,
Behind a vail; or, like a coin to seal
The lids of Time's last-born to majesty,
Touched with the darkness of a hidden Leal.
"Mark where yon shadow crawls
By slow degrees beneath the window-sill,
Timed by the death-watch, ticking slow and dull;
The tide of night is rising, black and still--
Old Year, thou diest when 'tis at its full!
"Ay! moan and moan again,
And shake all Nature in thine agony,
And tear the ermine robes that mock thee now
Like gilded fruit upon a blasted tree;
To-morrow comes! To-morrow, where are Thou?
"Wouldst thou be shrived, Old Year?
Thou subtle sentence of delusive Time,
Framed but to deepen all the mystery
Of Life's great purpose! Come, confess the crime,
And man's Divinity shall date from thee!
"Speak to my soul, Old Year;
Let but a star leave its bright eminence
In thy death-struggle, if this deathless Soul
Holds its own destiny and recomp
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