pleasantly scratching his chin; "various ones were called, to testify
as to whether such difference of opinion from all the rest of mankind
would seem to prove the insanity of the venerable Sucker; but nothing
decisive was arrived at until old Doctor Dobbles was examined. Old
Dobbles," says the Honest Abe, winking softly to himself, "was not
quite such a teetotaler as may be told about in the 'Lives of the
Saints,' and when he took the stand we expected something.
"Says the Court to old Dobbles:
"'In your opinion, doctor, does a man's denial that the world turns
round, inasmuch as he has never seen it go round, prove his insanity?'
"'No,' says Dobbles.
"'Ah!' says the Court, 'what then?'
"'Why,' says old Dobbles, deliberately, 'if a man denies that the world
goes round, and has never _seen_ it go round, it simply proves that
he--_never was drunk_.'
"As it happened," says the Honest Abe, balancing his jack-knife on the
tips of all his fingers; "as it happened that the Court himself had
frequently seen the world go round, the justice of the idea flashed
upon him at once, and the defendant was found guilty of six dollars'
damages, and ordered to treat the Court.
"Now," says the Honest Abe, with a winning smile, "I am far from
inferring, neighbor, that you have never been intoxicated; but it seems
to me, that when you say the Proclamation has had no effect at all, it
proves you can't be speaking soberly."
The profound Democratic chap came away, my boy, with a singing in his
head, and has been so tremendously confused ever since, that he asked
me this morning at Willard's, if I thought, that what we of war see is
anything like what Thaddeus of Warsaw.
On Monday, while I was on my way to the Mackerel camp, before Paris, to
be present at the usual Christmas song-singing and story-telling in the
tent of Captain Villiam Brown, I met an affable young chap, driving a
wagon, in which were some thousands of what appeared to be
newly-printed circulars. I knew that the young chap came from a large
printing-office in the lower part of the city, and says I:
"Tell me, my young Phaeton, what have we here?"
The affable young chap closed one eye waggishly at a handy young woman
who was cleaning the upper windows of a house near by, and says he:
"These here, are five thousand copies of a blank form, just printed
down at our place for the State Department. And I should think," says
the affable young chap, taking a dash at a small boy who had just "cut
behind" his cart--"I should think that pile ought to last a month, at
least, though the last one didn't."
I made bold to examine a copy of the blank form in question, my boy,
and found it to read as follows:
"CITY OF WASHINGTON, U.S.A., }
DEPARTMENT OF STATE. }
"_Dear Sir_:
"_Permit me to beg you will inform the Government of ----, so
admirably represented by you, that the Government of the United
States entirely disapproves the action of the Commander of the
----, in the matter of ---- ----, and will make whatever reparation
may be deemed adequate therefor by the Government of ----._
"_With the profoundest respect, I am your Excellency's most
obedient humble servant_, ---- ----.
"HIS EXCELLENCY ---- ----.
MINISTER FROM ----."
As I read this document, I thought to myself: Verily my distracted
country's Secretary of State wishes to save as much writing as
possible; and who knows but that he is like one of our own frontier
riflemen, who kneels only that he may take the more deliberate aim at
the heart of the wolf?
And now, as I push on again for my destination, let me say to you, my
boy, that few who read my wonderfully lifelike picture of Mackerel
strategy and carnage, have any idea of the awful perils constantly
assailing a reliable war-correspondent of the present day.
Thus: during a great battle which I attended in Accomac, a piece of
shell tore off my head,--that is to say, the head of my cane.
At the second battle of Paris, while I was in the act of taking notes
of the prevailing strategy, a cannon-ball took my legs off,--that is to
say, the legs of my camp-stool.
In the summer of '62, as I was sitting in the doorway of my tent, on
the shores of Duck Lake, a case-shot, of immense size, entered my
chest,--that is to say, the chest in which I carry my linen.
Cherish me, my boy, make much of me; for there is no telling how soon
some gory discharge of artillery may send me to join the angel-choir.
But here we are in the tent of Captain Villiam Brown; and the manner in
which the Mackerel officers are clustered about the round table in the
centre, reminds me of flies around a lump of sugar--supposing a lump of
sugar to be shaped exactly like a portly black bottle.
Sergeant O'Pake rises with a manuscript in his band, and says he:
"Comrades,--let me read to you a weird legend, of which I am the sole
author and proprietor, and to which I would draw your most political
attention."
And the sergeant forthwith delivered this remarkable poetical report of
"THE IRISHMAN'S CHRISTMAS.
"Hic!"--TERENCE.
"Ould Mother Earth makes Irishmen her universal pride,
You'll find them all about the world, and ev'rywhere beside;
And good Saint Peter up above is often feeling tired,
Because of sainted Irishmen applying to be hired.
"Thus, being good and plentiful, 'tis proper we should find
A spacious house stuck full of them where'er we have a mind,
And unto such an edifice our present tale will reach,
With sixty nice, convaynient rooms--a family in each.
"No matter where it stands at all; but this we'll let you know,
It constitutes itself alone a fashionable row;
And when a bill of "Rooms to let" salutes you passing by,
You see recorded under it, "No Naygurs need apply."
"Now, Mr. Mike O'Mulligan and servant boarded here,--
At least, his wife at service spent a portion of the year,--
And when, attired in pipe and hod, he left his parlor-door,
You felt the country had a vote it didn't have before.
"Not much was M. O'Mulligan to festive ways inclined;
For chiefly on affairs of State he bent his giant mind;
But just for relaxation's sake he'd venture now and then,
To lead a jig, or break a head, like other Irishmen.
"Says Mrs. Mike O'Mulligan, when Christmas came, said she:
'Suppose we give a little ball this evening after tea;
The entry-way is broad enough to dance a dozen pairs,
And thim that doesn't wish to dance can sit upon the stairs.'
"'And sure,' said M. O'Mulligan, "'I don't object to that;
But mind ye ask the girls entire, and ev'ry mother's Pat;
I'd wish them all, both girls and boys, to look at me and see,
That, though I'm School Commissioner, I'm noways proud,' says he.
"The matter being settled thus, the guests were notified,
And none to the O'Mulligans their presences denied;
But all throughout the spacious house the colleens went to fix,
And left the men to clane themselves and twirl their bits of sticks.
"'Twas great to see O'Mulligan, when came the proper hour,
Stand smiling in the entry-way, as blooming as a flower,
And hear him to each lady say, 'Well now, upon me sowl!
Ye look more like an angel than like any other fowl.'
"And first came Teddy Finnigan, in collar tall and wide,
With Norah B. O'Flannigan demurely by his side;
And Alderman O'Grocery, and Councilman Maginn,
And both the Miss Mulrooneys, and the widowed Mrs. Flynn.
"The Rileys, and the Shaunesseys, and Murphys all were there,
Both male and female creatures of the manly and the fair;
And crowded was the entry-way to such a great degree
They had to take their collars off to get their breathing free.
"O'Grady with his fiddle was the orchestra engaged,
He tuned it on the banisters, and then the music raged;
'Now face your partners ev'ry man, and keep your eyes on me,
And don't be turning in your toes indacently,' says he.
"And when the dance began to warm, the house began to shake,
The windows, too, like loosen'd teeth, began to snap and break;
The stove-pipes took the ague fit, and clattered to the floors,
And all the knobs and keys and locks were shaken from the doors.
"The very shingles on the roof commenced to rattle out:
The chimney-stacks, like drunken men, insanely reeled about;
A Thomas cat upon the eaves was shaken from his feet,
And right and left the shutters fell into the startled street.
"It chanced as M. O'Mulligan was fixing something hot,
The spoon was shaken from his hand, as likewise was the pot;
The plaster from the ceiling, too, came raining on his head,
And like a railway-carriage danced the table, chairs, and bed.
"He tore into the entry-way, and 'Stop the jig!' says he:
'Its shakin' down the house ye are, as any one can see;'
But not a soul in all the swarm to dance at all forbore,
And thumping down their brogans came, like hammers on the floor.
"And then the house commenced to sway and strain and groan and crack,
And all the stairs about the place fell crashing, front and back;
The very air was full of dust, and in the walls the rats
Forgot, in newer perils found, all terror of the cats.
"Then swifter flew O'Grady's bow, and 'Mike, me lad,' he roared,
'They'll dance until they haven't left your floor a single board;
It's sperits that they are,' says he, 'and I'm a sperit, too;
And sperit, Mike O'Mulligan, is what we'll make of you!'
"'And sure,' said M. O'Mulligan, though turning rather pale,
'Its quite a handsome ghost ye are, and fit for any jail:
But tell me what I've done to you offinsive in the laste;
And if I don't atone for it, I'm nothing but a baste.'
"'It's faithless to Saint Tammany ye are,' O'Grady cried,--
And wilder, madder, grew the jig as he the fiddle plied,--
'It's faithless to Saint Tammany, who bids the Irishman
Attain the highest office in this country that he can.'
"'Och hone!' says poor O'Mulligan, 'it's pretty well I've done,
To be a School-Commissioner before I'm thirty-one;
'Tis barely just a year to-day since I set out from Cork,
And now, be jabers! don't I hold an office in New York?'
"'Why, true for you, O'Mulligan,' O'Grady roared again;
'But what's a School-Commissioner to what ye should have been?
It's County Clerk, the very laste, an Irishman should be,
And, since you're not, receive the curse of Good Saint Tammany!'
"Then wilder danced the spirit crew, the fiddler gave a scowl;
And scarce could fated Michael raise a good old Irish howl,
When all the timbers in the house went tumbling with a crash,
Reducing M. O'Mulligan to bits as small as hash!
"Take warning now, all Irishmen, of what may be your fate,
If you come home on Christmas-night an hour or so too late;
For sleeping on the garret stairs, and rolling down, may be
To you, as unto Mike, a dream of good Saint Tammany!"
The deep, terror-stricken silence following this ghastly legend was
suddenly broken, my boy, by a frenzied shriek from my frescoed dog,
Bologna, who had followed me down from Washington, and whose stirring
tail had been accidentally trodden upon by the absorbed Mackerel
Chaplain. The picturesque animal, with a faint whine not unlike the
squeaking of a distant saw, walked toward Captain Bob Shorty and gazed
inquisitively for an instant into his face; then took earnest nasal
cognizance of the boots of Captain Samyule Sa-mith; then sat for an
instant on his haunches, with his tongue on special exhibition; and,
finally, went out of the tent.
"Ah!" exclaimed Captain Villiam Brown, who sat nearest the bottle, and
had, for the past hour, been unaccountably shedding tears,--"how much
is that dorg like human life, feller-siz'ns! Like him, we make a yell
at our firz 'pearance. Like him, we make our firz advances to some
brother-puppy. Like him, we smell the boots of our su-su-superiors.
Like him, we put out our tongues to see warz marrer with us; and, at
last, like him, we--(hic)--we go out."
At the culmination of this sublime burst, Villiam again melted into
tears, smiled around at us like a summer-sunset through a shower, and
gracefully sank below the horizon of the table, like an over-ripe
planet.
"By all that's Federal!" said Captain Bob Shorty, "that was dying
young, for Villiam; but who can tell whose turn it may be next? To
guard against possibilities, my blue-and-gold Napoleons, I will at once
proceed to read you a Christmas-story, written expressly for the
Mackerel Brigade by my gifted friend, Chickens, who should be in every
American library, and would like to be there himself. The genius of my
friend, Chickens," says Captain Bob Shorty, enthusiastically, "cannot
be bought for gold; but, in a spirit of patriotic self-sacrifice, he
would take 'greenbacks,' if the sordid persons having control of the
press should conclude to give him that encouragement which, I am
indignant to say, they have hitherto, with singular unanimity of
sentiment, entirely denied him. Indeed, my friend Chickens has, at
times, been placed in charge of the police by certain editors with whom
he has warmly argued the value of his talents, and I trust that the
four shillings we have appropriated for our Christmas-story may be
given him for the following tale." And Captain Bob Shorty proceeded to
read:--
"THE GHOST'S ULTIMATUM.
"England, merry England! Land of our forefathers! Having seen
several attractive stereoscopic pictures of thee,--not to mention
various engravings,--I love thee! Yes, I am of passionate
temperament; I am thy fond American child; and I love thee. Ay, me
lud, we all love thee; and the best of us cannot pay the shortest
visit to thy shores without bringing back such a wholesome contempt
for everything at home, as none but affectionate American hearts
can feel. Having inherited the money realized by our deceased
paternal from his celebrated patent Fish-scales we put our aged
mother comfortably into the Old Ladies' Home, and fly to thee,
dear, dear motherland, by the most expensive steamer to be had.
Then we associate with the footmen of thy nobility, and go to see
thy dukes' houses while the dukes are absent, and ask the dukes'
housekeeper how much such a house costs, and come away stupefied
with the atmosphere of greatness. We return to America with
mutton-chop whiskers and our hands in our pockets, while our wife
wears a charity-boys' cap on her head, and carries a saddle-whip
forever in her left hand. We haven't seen the fashion-plates in the
London shop-windows for nothing. We find New York rather small.
There's no Tower, ye know, nor Abbey, nor Pell Mell, my dear boy.
What's Pell Mell? Oh, I suppose _you'd_ call it Pall Mall; ha, ha,
ha! quite provincial, to be sure. Really, this new Fifth-avenue
house of ours is not quite equal to the Earl of P.'s town-house;
but we can add a private theatre and a chapel, and make it do for a
while, eh? Day-day, Tomkins, my good fellow, how-de-do? How are
your poor feet? Ha, ha, ha, quite the joke in London society,
Tomkins. What's new? Yanks had another Bull Run? Every nobleman I
met in England is with the South, my dear boy, and so am I.
"O England! If I could but visit thee just once,--just a little
tiny bit of a once; but no matter, I haven't the money; never mind.
Honest poverty in this country will yet--but it's of no
consequence.
"Persons with money may have noticed, that as you turn from
Cheapside into Whitefriars, and go on past St. Paul's and the Horse
Guards into Pell Mell, keeping straight to the right to avoid
Waterloo Bridge and the Nelson Monument, you come to an English
house.
"At the particular period of which I write, the night of the 24th
of December was Christmas-eve in this house, and Mr. R. Fennarf had
just devoured a devilled kidney, some whitebait, a plate of
Newcastle pickled-salmon, and some warm wine and toast, as it is
believed customary for all English gentlemen of the better class to
do before going to bed. Having thus prepared commodious stabling
for a thoroughbred nightmare, he looked at his hands, looked at his
watch, looked at the fire-irons, looked at his slippers in
perspective, and at once fell into an English revery,--which
differs materially from an American one, as everybody knows, being
much superior.
"'Can it be,' said Mr. R. Fennarf to himself, 'that my pride was
really sinful, when I drove my daughter Alexandra from my house,
because she would have wed a potboy? It must be so; for I have not
seen a happy hour since then. Here is Christmas-eve, and here am I
a lone, lone man. Oh that by the endurance of some penalty, however
great, I might bring back my girl, and ask her forgiveness, and be
my old self again.'
"'Thy wish shall be granted!!!'
"This last terrible remark came from a being in white, with a red
silk handkerchief tied about the place where he was murdered.
"'Ah!' exclaimed Mr. R. Fennarf, 'have I the pleasure of seeing a
Ghost?'
"'You have,' said the being.
"'Wont you take a seat, Mr. G.?'
"'No,' sighed the spectre, 'I haven't time. I just dropped in to
let you know through what penance you might be enabled to atone for
your unjustifiable arrogance with your daughter, and recall her to
your side. Your sin was pride; your atonement must be humiliation.
You must get yourself Kicked!'
"'Kicked!' ejaculated R. Fennarf, in a great state of excitement;
'why, really, Mr. G., I would bear anything to gain my desire; but
that's rather a severe thing; and, beside, I don't know that I have
an enemy in the world to do the kicking for me--except it is the
potboy, and his legs are too short.'
"'Nothing but a kick will do,' said the Ghost, decidedly; 'and I
will help you to the extent of handing you this rod, by aid of
which you can transport yourself in any, or every, direction, until
the kick is obtained.'
"As the Ghost spoke, he laid a small black rod upon the table,
and--was gone.
"Mr. R. Fennarf fell into a revery: where could he go to make sure
of a kick? He might go out into the street and tweak the nose of
the first brother-Englishman he saw; but would that Englishman kick
him for it? No! He would only sue him next day for damages. No
Frenchman would kick a Britisher; because it is the policy of
France just now to appear immensely fond of all that's British. Nor
German. Nor Spaniard. 'Ah!' exclaimed Mr. R. Fennarf, joyously, 'I
have it! The very place for me is "the formerly-united Republic of
North America." They hate the very name of Englishman there. Read
the articles in their papers; hear the speeches at their meetings:
Oh, how they hate us! So here's a wave of the magic rod, and
wishing I may be transported to the presence of some good
England-hating Yankees. Hey, presto!'
"In an instant he found himself being announced, by a servant in
livery, to the company in the drawing-room of Mr. Putnon Ayres, of
Beacon Street, Boston, who is quite celebrated for having said some
thousands of times that England is the natural enemy of this
country, sir; the natural enemy, sir; and if war were declared
against England to-morrow, I, for one, sir, would close my store
and shoulder a gun myself, sir.
"'Now,' thought Mr. R. Fennarf, 'I shall be kicked, sure enough,
and have it over.'
"He couldn't help shrinking when he saw Mr. Putnon Ayres
approaching him; but the Bostonian foe of Britain whispered
hurriedly to Mrs. Putnon Ayres: 'It's the English gentleman, my
dear; a _real_ one, and cousin to a Lord! Tell everybody to drop
their aitches, and not to say anything in favor of the war. Oh, ah!
delighted to see you, my dear sir, in my 'umble 'ouse.'
"Mr. R. Fennarf was astonished. He must actually say something
insulting, or that kick wouldn't come even here.
"'Thankee, my old muff,' said he, in a voice like a cab-man's; 'but
it's a dewcied bore, you know, to answer all the compliments paid
one in this blawsted country. I'm fond of wimmin, though, by
George!'--
"Before he could finish his sentence, twenty managerial mothers,
each dragging a marriageable daughter by the hand, made a desperate
rush for him; but Mrs. Putnon Ayres reached him first, and placed
the right hand of a pretty young lady in his own.
"'Take my 'arriet, sir,' she exclaimed, enthusiastically, 'and be
assured that she will make you a good wife. It 'as always been my
'ope to 'ave such a son-in-law.'
"Mr. R. Fennarf felt that his case was becoming desperate; his
chance of regaining his daughter farther off than ever. Fairly
crazy to be kicked, he familiarly chucked Miss Harriet under the
chin, and, assuming a perfectly diabolical expression of
countenance, deliberately tickled her!
"'Haw! haw! haw!' roared Mr. Putnon Ayres, holding his sides with
delight, 'that's the real English frankness, my dear son,--for such
I must already call you,--and no American girl could be less than
'appy to perceive it.'
"In utter despair, Mr. R. Fennarf involuntarily placed a hand upon
the magic rod in his bosom, and wished himself elsewhere. Quick as
thought he was elsewhere, and entering the sumptuous private office
of the gifted St. Albans, editor of the New York 'Daily Fife,'
whose 'leaders' on the propriety of an immediate slaughter of all
Britons within reach, have excited much terror in the bosom of
Victoria.
"'My dear sir,' screamed the sturdy St. Albans, springing to meet
his visitor, 'I am delighted to welcome you to the United States!'
"Mr. R. Fennarf's heart sank down to his very boots.
"'You mean what there is left of your United States,' he yelled,
like a very ruffian. 'You Yankees never did know how to speak the
English language.' And he actually spat upon a file of the 'Daily
Fife' hanging near him, and sneered pointedly at a lithograph of
the editor over the fireplace.
"St. Albans grasped his hand convulsively.
"'Spoken like Carlyle, sir; spoken like Carlyle. Your English
honesty is worthy your English heart of oak, my dear friend.'
"'Sir!' roared R. Fennarf, frantic to be kicked, and backing
temptingly toward the gifted St. Albans all the time he talked;
'you and your paper be demn'd! What do _you_ know about Carlyle,
bless my soul! _Who_ are you smiling at? WHAT d'ye mean?'
"Here he knocked St. Albans down.
"'You shall hear from me--step into that next room--will write to
you instantly,' panted the editor.
Half-crazed with his continued failures, the unhappy R. Fennarf
walked abstractedly into the next room, half hoping his antagonist
wanted an opportunity to put on a pair of extra-heavy boots.
In two minutes a boy put a note into his hand.
"'MY DEAR SIR: Name your own terms for contributing a daily
article to the Fife. Select your own subjects.
ST. ALBANS.'
"The miserable Briton involuntarily groaned, shook his head
hopelessly, and once more touched the Ghost's rod. He heard the
roll of drums, the scattering cracks of muskets, and found himself
seated in the tent of that same Major General Steward who has so
nobly said, on innumerable appropriate occasions, that he was ready
to fulfil his whole duty in defeating the Southern rebels; but
could not help wishing, as a man, that the enemy were Englishmen
rather than our own brothers. _Then_ he would show you!
"'I want to take a look at your military shopkeepers,' observed Mr.
R. Fennarf, with great brutality, 'and see how you Bull Runners
make your sandbanks--fortifications, as you absurdly call them.
You're "Brute Steward," I suppose.'
"'Ha! ha!' laughed the able General, cheerily, 'that's what you
English gents call me, I believe. We're going to have a battle,
to-day, and you must stop and see it.'
"'A battle!' growled R. Fennarf. 'What do you mean by that? I've
got a permit from your vulgar blunderers at Washington to go
through your so-called lines to Richmond, as that's the only place
where one can find anything like gentlemen in this blawsted
country. I intend to go to-day, too; so you must put off your
so-called battle.'
"He'll certainly kick me after that, thought R. Fennarf, beginning
to feel quite hopeful.
"'Put off the battle?' said the great commander, cordially. 'I'll
do it with pleasure, sir.'
"The Englishman stared at him in utter despair, and, for the last
time, clasped his mystical rod, murmuring: 'Back to England, back
to my own street. I give up all hope!'
"No sooner said than done. In a second he was at the corner of his
own street, and, with the rod in his hand, started upon a
distracted run for his own lonely house. Not looking where he ran,
he went helter-skelter against a fine, fleshy old English gentleman
with a plum nose and a gouty great-toe, who had hobbled out for a
mouthful of night-air. Bang against this fine, fleshy old English
gentleman went he, and down came one of his heels on the gouty
great-toe.
"There was a tremendous roar, as from the great Bull of Bashan; the
countenance of the fine, fleshy old English gentleman became livid,
and, in the deep anguish of his soul, he saluted the disturber of
his peace with a tremendous--KICK!