passionate splendors of excitement, scuffled away with his flushed
dotted muslin to a luxurious chintz sofa near one of the windows, and
intemperately whispered in her ear, "Miss Perkins, it were madness for
me longer to conceal my insanity, and to remain silent would but render
me speechless. Here let me lay my heart and trumpet at your feet,
and"--
She had fainted! Ay, sir, swooned!
Instantly the whole brilliant saloon was in confusion; the dancing
ceased, the dust commenced to settle, and the assistant foreman of
"Thirty's Truck" was seen to put on his coat.
"Bring your hose here, quick, and play on her face!" shouted "Fifty's"
foreman, half-crazed by what he had done. But the dotted muslin's
mother now clutched her in her arms, and says she, "Let's get her into
the dressing-chamber, and somebody bring a little sally wolatile."
Here another dowager seized an arm of the fainting girl, and the two
bore her tenderly into the retiring-room, followed by some two or three
sympathizing young ladies. And now, my boy, it becomes my delicate duty
to hastily sketch a scene which the masculine pen cannot too carefully
touch upon. It being one of the principles of woman's nature that some
relaxations must be admitted in her toilet before she can revive from
syncope, the second dowager commenced to relieve the fainting fair one
of such articles of fashionable addenda as might retard her recovery.
She took off her side-curls and back-hair and laid them upon a table;
with great care she removed her upper teeth and placed them upon a
chair; softly wetting a corner of her handkerchief in her mouth she
effectually wiped away the eyebrows and a part of the cheek of the
young sufferer; and she was proceeding to make other dissections which
I shall dismiss with the remark that they are merely matters of form,
when the patient gave a gentle sigh as she rested in her mother's arms,
and says the mother to the dowager:--
"There, Mrs. Jobbins, I guess you needn't do any more." Mrs. Jobbins
gave a sagacious look at the patient, and says she:
"Very true, mem; she is getting better. It wont take us many minutes to
reconstruct her."
"I beg your parding, Mrs. Jobbins," says the maternal, shaking her
cap,--"I beg your parding Mrs. Jobbins; but your language is
ineddicated, highly; you should say 'restore' her."
Mrs. Jobbins straightened herself up, with a glare, and says she:
"Perhaps, mem, you can teach _me_ eddication, and my own daughter a
teacher these two years in the public schools! The ideor! I repeat
it--to reconstruct her--put her together again."
"Restore," says the maternal, savagely.
"Reconstruct!" screamed Mrs. Jobbins.
"You're a artful, ignorant old copperhead!" howled the maternal,
dropping her daughter's head upon the floor.
"And you're a spiteful, stuck-up, toothless old--ab'litionist!!" yelled
the dowager, stamping until her snuff-box hopped out of her pocket.
Drawn to the room by the noise, a hard old nut, a retired foreman of
old "Sixty," stuck his head in at the door, and says he: "What are you
old fools scrimmaging about? You're keeping the swarry back."
Both the old ladies made at him at once to know which, in his opinion,
was the right word,--'Reconstruct,' or 'Restore?'
The old nut took a thoughtful bite of tobacco, and says he: "Let the
girl herself tell you when she _revives_."
Revive was the word, my boy; and while the old women were quarrelling
over the two terms aforesaid, poor nature got tired of waiting, and
realized the right one in action for herself. The girl revived without
being either restored, or reconstructed.
And thus, my boy, I sometimes think, that, whilst noisy old political
grannies are quarrelling as to whether the Union shall be Restored, or
Reconstructed, the fainting young Union will suddenly revive of itself.
At any rate, it bids fair to have plenty of time to do so.
In a recent letter I noted the return of the main body of the
invincible and time-honored Mackerel Brigade to what may be termed the
place of its military birth; but I did not, nor can I, describe justly
the many touching incidents of the retrogression. Once more, my boy,
does this standard national martial organization find itself on the
right side of Awlkuyet River, and many a sensitive Mackerel, as he
gazes through his tear-dimmed spectacles upon the surrounding scenery
of his youth, fancies himself a boy again, and newly experiences in all
his muscles that tingling sensation which, in the full-blooded lad,
equally follows a public compliment and a private flogging. As the gory
and venerable Brigade wound slowly back into the well-known fields
rendered historically famous for making Washington safe, one very
ancient Mackerel grounded his musket by the roadside, took off his
spectacles, looked with deep emotion upon the scenes of his early
years, and says he to another Mackerel:--
"Thank Heaven! we have at last reached the end of the war."
The other Mackerel paused in his work of cracking an army biscuit
between two rocks, and says he: "Which end do you mean, Sammy?"
"Why," says Sammy, "the end we commenced at."
Could it be possible, my boy, that there was a serious and profound
truth in that unconsidered Mackerel remark? If so, we are indeed
approaching the beginning of the war, and there is rather less of Mars
than of Grand-Ma's in the management of the Virginia campaign.
But why should my pen linger upon this monotonous theme, when the grim
Fort Piano on Duck Lake, and the ancient city of Paris on the nether
shore thereof, are being besieged on all sides by the Mackerel
iron-plated patent squadron under the hoary Rear Admiral Head, and the
Mackerel contingent and Orange County Howitzers under Captains Samyule
Sa-mith and Villiam Brown. Several times, my boy, has Fort Piano been
entirely destroyed and taken by all our excellent and reliable morning
journals, the columns of American newspapers being led on to
victory--or leaded on to victory--with rather more ease than a dozen
times as many columns of any troops in the world; but, inasmuch as the
unseemly but well-known Southern Confederacy still keeps store there,
it has been deemed proper to make another iron-clad experiment in that
salubrious vicinity. This time, however, the army takes part in the
effort, as well as the navy, and Captain Samyule Sa-mith, with the
Orange County Howitzers, bombards the atmosphere from the banks of the
Lake, whilst the aged Rear Admiral Head, with his iron-plated squadron,
performs fiery antics upon the briny element.
The sailing of the squadron inside the bar was a beautiful sight, and
was witnessed by a couple of English and French consuls who had come
down to the banks of Duck Lake to see if they could recognize the
Confederacy at that distance. First advanced Rear Admiral Head's
flagship monitor, the "Shockingbadhat;" followed in close order by the
"Aitch," the "Yew," the "Em," the "Bee," the "You" and the "Gee."
And now, my boy, you may probably imagine that I am about to relate,
with Homeric fervor and the graphic eloquence of Tacitus, how the
Mackerel Squadron poured whole foundries of shot and shell into Fort
Piano; and how the Orange County Howitzers rained Greek Fire (Irish
whiskey) into all the basement windows of Paris; but I have various
reasons for doing nothing of the kind, inasmuch as the War Department
does not desire that the enemy should be prematurely informed of the
capture of the Fort and City. Suffice it to say, that everything is
progressing favorably, though recent heavy rains have greatly
incommoded such of the land forces as are not supplied with umbrellas.
I think, however, my boy, that I may venture to describe Captain
Villiam Brown's alphabetical experiment with Company 3, Regiment 5,
which constitutes the present Mackerel reserve on the edge of the Lake.
Villiam having heard of Jeff. Davis's experiment with his regiment in
Mexico, when he formed it into a V shape to receive a cavalry charge,
resolved to give his regiment that shape for the purpose of a
roundabout sally upon Fort Piano from the rear, or land side.
"Comrades," says Villiam, impressively, "V stands for Victory,
Vengeance and Vashington, and I desire you to take its shape."
The Mackerels formed themselves into a V, my boy; but when Villiam
gallantly retired behind a tree to be out of the way, and gave the
order "Forward--double-quick,--march!" Sergeant O'Pake modestly stood
out of the ranks, and says he:
"Of course _you_ will go ahead of us, Captain?"
"Ha!" says Villiam, haughtily, "why?"
"Oh!" says the sergeant, "V., you know, always follows U."
Villiam was lost in thought for a moment, my boy, and then says he:
"That's true, Sergeant; and as U never comes until after T, we'll defer
that ere charge for the present."
Incidents of this kind are but common in this war between brethren,
which is so abhorrent to Democrats and the high-moral members of the
church.
Hoping, my boy, that, by relating the success of Rear Admiral Head and
Captain Samyule Sa-mith in my next, I may add two more illustrious
names to the list of candidates for the Presidency in 1865, I remain,
Yours, electorally,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER XCIX.
IN WHICH OUR CORRESPONDENT IS BETRAYED INTO ARGUMENT; BUT RECOVERS
IN TIME TO GIVE US THE USUAL CHRISTMAS SONG AND STORY OF THE
RENOWNED BRIGADE.
WASHINGTON, D.C., Dec. 27th, 1863.
Another Christmas finds our great stragetic country in the toils of
war, my boy, and the chiming of the bells is lost in the roar of
ingenious artillery. Where blazes the yule log that misses not at least
one manly form from its genial ring of quivering Christmas light; and
where hangs the mistletoe bough beneath which at least one gentle,
womanly heart beats not the quicker with fond thoughts of the lad whose
first kiss upon her half-reluctant lips was destined to burn in future
there as her keepsake from a hero? Dear old Christmas! rich to memory
in all the simple joys and fond, familiar sanctities of home, thou
comest sadly upon me in my exile with the iron men of war, the waxen
men of politics; and though I hail thee merry for thy cheery
evergreens, God knows it is thy snow that presses nearest to my heart.
But a truce to sentiment, my boy, when the most sentimental object I
have seen for a week is the Conservative Kentucky Chap, whose imbibing
method of celebrating the approach of Christmas invariably leads him
into disquisitions upon the wrongs of the heroic White Man. On Tuesday,
as we took Richmond together, with the least bit of sugar in the world,
he leaned heavily upon me, and says he:
"The ancient State of Kentucky, of which I am a part, is growing sick
at the stomach to see how the Black Man is continually being raised
above the White Man; and Kentucky demands to be immediately informed
whether or no this war is to be prosecuted in future for the White
Man?"
"For the White Man," my boy, he said; "for the White Man!"
And was he not right? The noble being to whom he alluded is certainly
richly justified in a very high pitch of pride over the gratifying
fact, that his natural complexion is considerably whiter than anything
at all darker. In the abstract, my boy, it is not a positive white, and
its general hue, if characteristic of a napkin would hardly enable that
napkin to pass muster at the feast of an Apicius or a Lamia; but, as
compared with other complexions, it is properly colorless, and strikes
the eye very pleasantly when regarded by a single person in a mirror.
So highly, indeed, do many possessors of this complexion admire its
prevailing whiteness, that they perform their ablutions with an
artistic design to leave here and there certain picturesque streaks of
delicate shading, thereby causing the whiteness of the intervening
spots to appear all the more dazzling. Others, again, religiously
refrain from water outwardly as well as inwardly, for the apparent
purpose of incrusting the purity of their valuable complexion in a
protecting coat; thus preserving it from any possible bad effect of the
sun. Still others, my boy, continue to practise the thorough ablution
of the ancients, but signally succeed in throwing out the whiteness of
the level of their faces in excellent relief, by adopting measures to
implant a contrasting red on the tips of their noses. And a fourth
class, having an eye to beauties of a White background for the
exhibition of chaste neutral tints, incur the frequent freckle and the
graceful pimple with great judgment and taste.
Considering the character of the White face with due profundity of
thought, my boy, I am led to regard it as a canvas, expressly intended
by nature to receive quick and vivid paintings of all the virtues; and
so nicely adapted to the least of humanity's desires, that the woman
who has no virtues to limn themselves thereon, may yet paint it to suit
herself.
This cannot be said of the Black skin, my boy. Upon that the beautiful
virtue of Modesty cannot paint itself in a blush when its owner is
detected in the act of taking a bribe; nor is it susceptible of that
beautiful sunset-tint which the genial merit of being able to punish
four bottles at a sitting delights to leave upon a face of Caucasian
extraction. It is even incapable of receiving those exquisite
sub-ocular shades which adorn a White face after an evening's innocent
enjoyment at the Club, and it fails signally to absorb the delicate
tint of yellow not unfrequently perceptible near the outer corners of
the busy dental department of the tobacconizing White man's
physiognomy.
Taking all these facts into calculation, my boy, it is plainly evident
that the variously-ornamented White skin is an article much superior to
the Black, and certainly designates its wearers as beings intended to
move in nothing but the highest natural circles.
Such being the case, we cannot blame the White Man for entertaining a
wholesome contempt and loathing for the Black Man; and the truly hearty
manner in which many of our more pallid fellow-countrymen breathe
ingenious execrations whenever the latter is mentioned, may be accepted
as a beautiful and touching proof that they appreciate God's benignity
in giving them a superiority of skin; even though He may have seen
best, in His infinite wisdom, to leave them occasionally without
brains.
Having been informed that the ancient and spectacled Mackerel Brigade
had returned from its monthly walk toward the well-known and starving
Southern Confederacy, I ascended to the roof of my architectural steed,
the Gothic Pegasus, on Thursday morn, my boy, and galloped slowly to
the stamping ground of the unconquerable veterans. Let me pass over the
events of the day in camp, when the sedentary warriors, whom it is my
glory to celebrate, were reviewed after the manner of Napoleon's Old
Guard. Let me pass over this, and come directly to Christmas Eve, and
the literary entertainment in the Mackerel Chaplain's tent. Captains
Villiam Brown, Bob Shorty, Samyule Sa-mith, a young reporter from
Olympus, the Chaplain, and myself, were the members of the party, and
we sat round a camp-table with two lanterns swinging right over the
bottles.
Rear Admiral Head shortly came in; and when the Olympian reporter was
requested to open the intellectual festival with a song, he
complimented the iron-plated branch of the service with
"THE BOATSWAIN'S CALL.
I.
"The lights upon the river's brink
In constellation bright,
Are winking down upon the tide
That twinkles through the night;
When in a gayly dancing skiff
The boatswain leaves his ship,
And as his oars a moment cease
Within the flood to dip,
He winds his call,
The boatswain's cheery call.
II.
"A maiden stands upon the shore,
Where land and ocean meet,
And breakers cast their pearly gifts
In homage at her feet;
While through the causeway of the night
She gazes o'er the sea,
To where a stately frigate rides
In lonely majesty,
And waits the call,
The gallant boatswain's call.
III.
"'Oh! tarry not, my boatswain bold,'
Her parted lips would say;
But when the heart is vexed with doubt,
The soul can only pray;
And sorely doubtful is the maid,
Till on her ear there falls
The music of the merriest,
The clearest, best of calls--
A winding call,
Her faithful boatswain's call.
IV.
"A shining keel is on the sand,
The oars are laid aside,
And to the shore the sailor leaps
To greet his chosen bride;
His arms about her waist are thrown,
And through her rosy lips
He breathes a dainty boatswain's call,
Though not the call of ships;
But Cupid's call,
The boatswain Cupid's call.
V.
"And when the moon has drawn a path
Of light upon the sea,
A skiff is floating o'er the deep,
To where a frigate free
Is nestled in the ocean's breast,
With all her canvas furled;
Though ere the morn makes Hesper blush
Upon a waking world,
'Make sail, men, all!'
Will round the boatswain's call.
VI.
"A shadow follows in her wake,
And, through its depths is seen
The figure of a widowed wife
Upon the shore of green;
And ever as the tempest moans
Above the mocking wave,
A sound is wafted to her ears
From out a moving grave,--
A boatswain's call,
A ghostly boatswain's call."
At the termination of the last stave, Captain Villiam
Brown cleared his throat, and says he,--
"As our friend has commenced the services with melody,
I will proceed to keep the feeble intellecks of this
assemblage excited with a terrifying moral ghost tale
which the Dickens himself might grow pale under. It
was sent to me," says Villiam, majestically, "by a former
writer for the Track Society, and reflects much credit
upon the literary resources of the United States of
America."
Whereupon, Villiam took some sheets of paper from his
breast-pocket, my boy, and introduced
"MR. PEPPER'S GHOST.
"In the heart of a great city, whose corruption and wickedness in
continually growing larger and richer, were evident to every
smaller, and, consequently, more pious, town on the globe, dwelt a
shamefully rich banker, named Pursimmons, who, notwithstanding his
vile and enormous wealth, had refused to give it all to the
virtuous poor. That it was utterly impossible for such a man to
enter the Kingdom of Heaven need not be told; since we all know
that honest poverty, alone, can hope for such entrance; and as
poverty covers at least three-fourths of the human race, and is
invariably honest, according to its own touching account, there is
likely to be enough of it to fill up all the standing room in
Paradise, leaving no space for even the repentant wretch of a
millionaire. Hence, it naturally follows, that old Pursimmons was
miserable, with all his wealth. In fact, a slim, black-dressed
gentleman of much spectacles and severe countenance, who had vainly
solicited him to subscribe for ten thousand extra-gilt copies of
his new work on 'The Relation of Sunday Schools with the Moral
Organism of Normal Creation,' to be sent to the starving heathen of
the Choctaw Nation, was heard to remark, emphatically, that he
would rather be 'a ignorant but religious slave in the desert of
Sahara, my brethren, than that godless man with all his filthy
lucre.' Therefore, old Pursimmons _must_ have been a continual prey
to the most horrible twinges of guilty conscience that any one man,
in the abundant excess of his own spiritual serenity, ever
attributed to another of different views. All the year did this
unhappy but fleshy old man sin against everything that is poor and
pious by accepting all--ay, all!--the profits his business was
iniquitous enough to produce; and even rode in a carriage; though
hundreds of noble-hearted Irishmen in the honest brick and mortar
business had to walk,--ay, walk!--becoming so terribly exhausted
thereby as to be invariably compelled to pause for rest, on their
way home, at some humble liquor establishment. When Christmas Eve
came round, it found this enemy of his race meanly retiring to bed,
instead of scouring the highways and byways in search of reduced
private families who might at that very moment be despairingly
praying to have his last cent at their disposal. A man so
thoroughly bad could not fail to be a pitiable coward, and it is
not at all surprising that he was somewhat startled to suddenly
perceive, between himself and his scandalously-comfortable bed, Mr.
Pepper's Ghost!--the very same ghost once in full blow at all our
moral temples of the drama. 'Unreal Novelty!' exclaimed old
Pursimmons, chewing the strings of his night-cap, 'hie thee away to
thy native footlights; or, if thou must keep somebody awake all
night, betake thee to some great tragedian when Shakspeare's murder
lies heavy on his soul.' Mr. Pepper's Ghost winked with great
archness as it replied: 'Ghosts have no terrors for the sons of
Thespis, who are even merry with a ghost--of a chance to get their
salaries. My mission is to you, to whom I must a wholesome lesson
teach. Behold!'
"The spirit waved its hand, and lo! one whole side of the vile
banker's chamber fell magically away, disclosing to view a room
entirely destitute of velvet carpet and pictures by the Old
Masters. On a sofa reclined a middle-aged young girl, whose poor
dress of braidless merino was so inclemently low in the neck as to
suggest for its down-trodden wearer a purse too scanty to procure a
sufficiency of material. The daughter of penury had just reached
the hundred and fifty-second exciting page of the cheap but
excellent work of fiction she was reading, when a door opened and
her crushed husband entered, smoking his meerschaum.
"'Old boy,' said the Ghost, 'do you remember that man?'
"'Yes,' responded the banker, sadly; 'he came to me yesterday for
some money to keep him from starvation; and as he would not take
'greenbacks,' I did not help him.'
"'Listen,' said the Ghost.
"The crushed husband threw himself into a chair which was not
covered with Solferino satin, and ate a peanut.
"'Well, what luck?' asked the daughter of penury.
"'Old Pursimmons has refused, and I'--
"'And you!!'--
"'Must'--
"'Must?'--
"'_Support myself!!!_'
"It was too much. The daughter of penury fainted, the crushed
husband sniffed aloud, and the landlady knocked at the door for the
week's board.
"As this agonizing picture of human misery faded away, old
Pursimmons turned with an inaudible groan to Mr. Pepper's Ghost:
"'And I,' said he,--'and I am the cause of this woe?'
"The spectre silently and solemnly nodded an awful affirmative, and
waved its hand for another scene.
"This time, the presentment was the interior of a shop, around
which were shelves full of boxes containing all sorts of delicious
little gaiters, ties, slippers, bootees and kid pumps, whilst the
same kind of articles hung suspended from various hooks and pegs on
the wall. On a bench in one corner of this shop, busily working
upon a dainty pink satin gaiter-boot, was a narrow young man of
pensive countenance, weak eyes, pink nose and an intellectual head
of hair, in a workman's paper cap manufactured from an admirable
weekly journal of romance.
"As the deeply-affected banker gazed upon this figure, he
sorrowfully murmured: 'Ah! that is the deep-voiced youth who last
week desired of me five hundred dollars to insure the publication
of his new novel of Fashionable Life, which was destined to
instantly sweep Dickens, Victor Hugo, Thackeray, and other
demoralizing writers from the field of literature.'
"'Yes!' said Mr. Pepper's Ghost, severely; 'and your miserly
refusal to aid struggling genius with your miserable wealth has
driven a giant intellect into the ladies' shoemaking business. In
which,' added the spectre, 'I am bound to say, that he is doing
tolerably well.'