coming slowly to a head and on foot, let me relate a little incident
illustrative of the delicious loyalty of the taper women of America,
and the intolerable baseness of the repulsive object called man:
There is in this city an intensely common-place masculine from Pequog,
who has, for a wife, a small, plump member of that imperishable sex
whose eyes remind me of wild cherries and milk. There never was a nicer
little woman, my boy, and she can knit scarlet dogs, play "Norma," make
charlotte russe, and do other things equally well calculated to confer
immeasurable happiness upon a husband of limited means. Ever since the
well-known Southern Confederacy first respectfully requested to be let
alone with Sumter, she has been eager to fulfil woman's part in the
war, and does not wake up the Pequogian more than twice of a night to
talk about it.
'Twas at one o'clock on the morning of Tuesday last that she roused up
the partner of her joys and sorrows, and says she:
"Peter, I do wish you'd tell me what I can do, as a woman, for my
country."
"Go to sleep," says Peter, fiendishly.
"No, but what _can_ I do? Why wont you tell me what is really woman's
part in the war?"
"Now, see here," says Peter, sternly. "I'm having so many nights, with
the nap all worn off, over this business, that I can't stand it any
longer. Just wait till tomorrow evening, and I'll think over the matter
and tell you what really _is_ woman's part in the war."
So they both went to sleep, my boy, and all next day that little woman
wondered, as she hummed pleasantly over her work, whether her lord
would advise her to go out as a Florence Nightingale, or turn teacher
of intelligent contrabands.
Night came, and the Pequogian returned from his grocery store, and
silently took a seat before the fire in the dining-room. The little
woman looked up at him from the ottoman on which she was cosily
sitting, and says she:
"Well, dear?"
Slowly and solemnly did that Pequog husband draw off one boot.
Deliberately did he take off a stocking and hold it aloft.
"Martha Jane!" says he, gravely, "'tis a sock your eyes behold, and
there is a hole in the heel thereof. You are a wife; duty calls you to
mend your husband's stockings; and _this_--THIS--is Woman's Part in the
Wore!"
Let us draw a veil, my boy, over the heart-rending scene that followed;
only hinting that hartshorn and burnt feathers are believed to be
useful on such occasions, and produce an odor at once wholesome and
exasperating.
Yours, sympathetically,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER CVI.
WHEREIN WILL BE FOUND CERTAIN PROFOUND REMARKS UPON THE VARIATIONS
OF GOLD, ETC., AND A WHOLESOME LITTLE TALE ILLUSTRATIVE OF THAT
FAMOUS POPULAR ABSTRACTION, THE SOUTHERN TREASURY NOTE.
WASHINGTON, D.C., March 22, 1865.
The venerable Aaron, my boy, was the first gold speculator mentioned in
history, and it exhausted all the statesmanship of Moses to break up
the unseemly speculation, and bring Hebrew dry goods and provisions
down to decent prices. Were Aaron alive now, how he would mourn to find
his auriferous calf going down at the rate of ten per cent. a day,
while the Moses of the White House reduced that animal more and more to
the standard of very common mutton!
Alas, my boy, what madness is this which causes men to forget honor,
country, ay, even dinner itself, for ungrateful gold! Like all writers
whose object is the moral improvement of their kind, I have a wholesome
contempt of gold. What is it? A vulgar-looking yellow metal, with a
disagreeable smell. It is filthy lucre. It is dross. It is also 156.
Not many months ago I knew a high-toned chap of much neck and chin, who
made five hundred thousand dollars by supplying our national troops
with canned peaches, and was so inflated with his good luck in the
cholera-morbus line, that he actually began to think that his canned
peaches had something to do with the successes in the field of our
excellent military organization. Being thus elevated, this
finely-imaginative chap believed that his services deserved the mission
to France; and, as that was refused him, it was but natural for him to
become at once a Southern Confederacy in sentiment, and pronounce our
Honest Abe a tyrant of defective education.
Just before the last election, I met him at the Baltimore railroad
depot, and says he: "I have just invested a cool five hundred thousand
in gold. It is positively sure," says he, glibly, "it is positively
sure that the reelection of our present despot will send gold straight
up to five hundred. I tell you," says he, in a wild ecstasy, "it'll
ruin the country, and I shall clear a half million."
He was a Jerseyman of fine feelings, and took a little hard cider for
his often infirmity.
Yesterday I saw that man again, my boy, and I gave him a five-cent note
in consideration of his great ability in sweeping a street-crossing. He
deserted his canned peaches, and was cr-r-rushed.
But what is this manuscript upon my table, as I write? It is a
veracious and wholesome little tale of
"THE SOUTH.--BY A NORTHER.
"'Twas night, deep night, in the beautiful city of Richmond; and
the chivalrous Mr. Faro was slowly wending his way through Broad
street to the bosom of his Confederate family, when, suddenly, he
was confronted by a venerable figure in rags, soliciting alms.
"'Out of my path, wretch!' ejaculated the haughty Virginian,
impatiently; and, tossing two thousand dollars ($2000) to the
unfortunate mendicant, he attempted to pass on.
"The starving beggar was about to give way, and had drawn near the
barrel which he carried on a wheelbarrow, for the purpose of adding
to its contents the pittance just received, when the small amount
of the latter seemed to attract his attention for the first time,
and again he threw himself in the way of the miserly aristocrat.
"'Moses Faro,' he muttered, in tones of profound agitation, 'you
have your sheds full ($000000000) of Southern Bonds, while one poor
barrel full ($000) must supply me for a whole day; yet would I not
exchange places with a man capable of insulting honest poverty as
you have done this night.'
"The proud Virginian felt the rebuke keenly; and as he stood,
momentarily silent, in the presence of the hapless victim of
penury, he could not help remembering that he had, on that very
morning, willingly given his youngest son five thousand dollars
($5000) to purchase a kite and some marbles. Greatly stricken in
conscience, and heartily ashamed of his recent meanness, he turned
to the suppliant, and said, kindly:
"'Give me your address, and to-morrow morning I will send you a
cart full ($000) of means. I would give you more now, but I have
only sixty thousand dollars ($60,000) about me, with which to pay
for the pair of boots I now have on.'
"'Moses Faro,' responded the deeply-affected pauper, 'your noble
charity will enable me to pay the nine thousand dollars ($9000) I
owe for a week's board; and now let me ask, how goes our sacred
cause?'
"'Never brighter,' answered the wealthy Confederate, with
enthusiasm. 'We have succeeded to-day in forcing five more cities
through the Yankee lines, and are dragging three whole Hessian
armies to this city.'
"'Then welcome poverty for a while longer,' cried the beggar,
pathetically; and so great was his exuberance of spirit at the
news, that he resolved to spend five hundred dollars ($500) for a
cigar in honor thereof.
"Mr. Faro walked thoughtfully on toward his residence, pondering
earnestly the words he had listened to, and astonished to find how
easily a rich man could give happiness to a poor one. After all,
thought he, there is more contentment in poverty than in riches.
Show me the rich man who can boast the sturdy lightness of heart
inspiring that hackneyed rhyme, the
"'CAROL OF THE CONFEDERATE BEGGAR.
"'Though but fifty thousand dollars
Be the sum of all I own,
Yet I'm merry with my begging,
And I'm happy with my bone;
Nor with any brother beggar
Does my heart refuse to share,
Though a thousand dollars only
Be the most I have to spare.
"'I am shabby in my seven
Hundred dollar hat of straw,
And my dinner's but eleven
Hundred dollars in the raw;
Yet I hold my head the higher,
That it owes the hatter least,
And my scanty crumbs are sweeter
Than the viands of a feast'.
"Humming to himself this simple lay of contented want, Mr. Faro
reached his own residence, gave eighty dollars ($80) to a little
boy on the sidewalk for blacking his boots, and entered the portals
of the hospitable mansion. His wife met him in the hall, and, as
they walked together into the parlor, he noticed that her
expression was serious.
"'Have you heard the latest news, Moses?' she asked.
"'No,' returned the haughty Southerner.
"'Well,' said the lady, 'just before you came in, I gave Sambo a
hundred and twelve dollars ($112) to get an evening paper, which
says that the Confederate Government is about to seize all the
money in the country, to pay the soldiers.'
"A gorgeous smile lit up the features of the chivalric Virginian,
and he said:
"'Let them take both my shedsfull ($00000000); let them take it
all! Sooner than submit, or consent to be Reconstructed, I would
give my very life even, for the sake of the Confederacy!'
Mrs. Faro still looked serious.
"'Moses,' she said, with quivering lips, 'have you not got, hidden
away somewhere, _a twenty-shilling gold-piece_ ($2,500,000)?'
"Ghastly pale turned the proud Confederate, and he could barely
stammer,--
"'Ye-ye-yes.'
"'Well,' murmured the matron, 'it's the gold they intend to take, I
reckon.'
"That was enough. Frantically tore Mr. Faro into the street;
desperately raced he to the city limits; madly flew he past the
pickets and sentinels; swiftly scoured he down the Boynton Plank
Road. A Yankee bayonet was at his bosom.
"'Reconstruction!' shouted he.
"They took him before the nearest post-commandant, and he only
said,--
"'Let me be Reconstructed.'"
Need the reader be informed that he is now in New York, looking for a
house, and in great need of some financial aid to help him pay the rent
of such a residence as he has always been accustomed to and cannot live
without? Yes, far from home, family, and friends, he is now one of
those long-suffering, self-sacrificing Union refugees from the South,
whom it is a pleasure to assist, and whose manly opposition to the
military despotism of the Confederacy commends them to our utmost
liberality. He will accept donations in money, and this fact should be
sufficient to make all loyal men eager to extend such pecuniary
encouragement as may suffice to keep him above any necessity for
exertion until the presidency of some Bank can be procured for him by
the Christian Commission.
I may add, my boy, that any monetary contribution intended for this
excellent man, may be directed to
Yours, patronizingly,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER CVII.
RECORDING THE LATEST DELPHIC UTTERANCES OF ONE WHOM WE ALL HONOR
WITHOUT KNOWING WHY; AND RECOUNTING THE TRULY MARVELLOUS AFFAIR OF
THE FORT BUILT ACCORDING TO TACITUS.
WASHINGTON, D.C., March 29th, 1865.
It is a beautiful trait of our common American nature, my boy, that we
should be stood-upon by fleshy Old Age, and find ourselves reduced to
the mental condition of mangled infants thereby. It is an airy
characteristic of our gentle national temperament, to let
shirt-collared Old Age, of much alpaca pants, sit down on us and cough
into our ears. It is a part of our social organization as a reverential
people to be forever weighed-down in our spirits by the awful
respectability of double-chinned Old Age, and the solemn satisfaction
it displays at its elephantine meals.
Hence, my boy, when I tell you that the Venerable Gammon beamed hither
from his residential Mugville last Saturday, with a view to benefiting
that wayward infant, his country, you will be prepared to learn that
the populace fell upon their unworthy stomachs before him, and
respectfully begged him to walk over their necks.
"My children," said the Venerable Gammon, with a fleshy smile,
signifying that he had made them all, and yet didn't wish to seem
proud,--"My children, this war is progressing just as I originally
planned it, and will end successfully as soon as it terminates
triumphantly. Behold my old friend, Phoebus," says the Venerable
Gammon, pointing an adipose forefinger at the sun, with a patriarchal
air of having benignantly invented that luminary, though benevolently
permitting Providence to have all the credit, "it is not more certain
that my warm-hearted friend Phoebus will rise in the yeast to-morrow
morning than that the Southern Confederacy will not be capable of
fighting a single additional battle after it shall have lost the
ability to take part in another engagement."
Then the entire populace requested immediate leave to black the boots
of their aged benefactor and idol, and seven-and-thirty indefatigable
reporters, with pencils behind their ears, telegraphed to
seven-and-thirty powerful morning journals, that the end of the
rebellion might be looked for in about a couple of hours.
I don't mind revealing to you, as a curious fact, my boy, that no
mortal man is able to understand how the Venerable Gammon has done
anything at all in this war. In fact, I can't exactly perceive what
earthly deed he has actually performed to make him preferable to George
Washington; but it is generally inferred, from the size of his
watch-seals and the lambency of his spectacles, that he has in some way
been more than a parent to the country; and the thousands now buying
some beneficent Petroleum stock, which he has to sell, are firmly
convinced that its sale is positively calculated to forever benefit the
human race.
Oh! that I were Ovid, or Anacreon, to describe fittingly the recent
little wedding entertainment, at which this excellently-aged teacher
and preserver of his species was fatly present, diffusing permission
for all mankind to be happy and not mind him. After beaming parentally
upon the officiating Mackerel chaplain, with a benignity inseparable
from the idea that all clergymen were the work of his hands, he took
the dimpled chin of the bride between his thumb add forefinger, and
says he:
"My children, I am an old, old man; but may ye be happy." Here he
kissed the bride. "Yes, my children," says the venerable Gammon, with a
blessing on the world in every tone of his buttery voice, "I am far
down in the vale of years; but may ye be very happy." And he kissed the
bride. "Still, my children," says the Venerable Gammon, with steaming
spectacles, "I would be willing to be even older, if my country desired
it; but may ye be forever happy." So he kissed the bride. "Oh!" says
the Venerable Gammon, abstractedly placing a benefactor's arm around
her waist, and looking benevolently about the room as though consenting
to its possession of four walls,--"Oh!" says he, "it is a privilege to
be old for such a cause as this; but may ye be supremely happy." At
this juncture he kissed the bride. "I am old enough," says the
venerable Gammon, "to be your brother." And he kissed every young woman
there.
Whereupon it was the general impression that an apostle was present;
and when the bridegroom subsequently hinted, in a disagreeable whisper,
that two bottles of port were enough to confuse the mind of a
Methuselah himself, there was a wonderful unanimity among the ladies as
to the probable misery of the bride's future life.
But wherefore, O, Eros, dost thou detain me in such scenes as these,
while the hoarse trumpet of bully Mars calls me to the field of
strategic glory? Hire an imaginary horse, my boy, at a fabulous
livery-stable, and, in fancy, trot beside me as I urge my architectural
steed, the Gothic Pegasus, toward the Mackerel lines in front of Paris.
Believing that you are entirely familiar with the very fat works of C.
Tacitus, and minutely remember Book II. of his Annals, let me draw your
attention to that fort Aliso which he describes as being built upon the
River Luppia by Drusus, father of Germanicus, and constituting the
commencement of a chain of posts to the Rhine. Just such a work has
been erected on the shores of Duck Lake by Mackerel genius, as the key
to a long line of remarkable mud-works. It is modelled after Aliso,
chiefly because that work was notorious for being near the Canal of
Drusus; and the whole world knows that canal-digging is inseparable
from all our national strategy.
Fort Bledandide is the name of the Mackerel institution destined to
receive immortality in Mr. Tacitus Greeley's exciting History of this
distracting war; but to me belongs the earlier privilege of enabling a
moral weekly journal to confuse its readers with the first reliable
report of the marvellous battle of Fort Bledandide.
It was at quite an early hour, my boy, on the morning of my arrival
before Paris, that a faint sound, as of gentlemen firing guns, was
heard to proceed from a point some six feet outside Fort Bledandide.
Nobody was up at the time, save a few venerable Mackerels, who, in
daily expectation of some carnage, had selected that hour at which to
write their wills; and it was left for these antique beings to be the
first of our troops disturbed by a shameless Confederacy who lifted his
head slowly above our works, and deliberately aimed a deadly
horse-pistol at Jacob Barker, the regimental dog. Hideous was the
explosion ensuing, as the night-key with which the dread weapon was
loaded went hurtling through the air some ten yards above its mark; and
an aged Mackerel looked up from his penmanship.
"What!" says he, with some animation, "are my spectacles guilty of a
falsehood, or have I indeed the pleasure of seeing Mr. Davis?"
The Confederacy reloaded his horse-pistol with a handful of
carpet-tacks, and says he:
"I am that individdle."
Raising a bell that stood by his side, the venerable Mackerel rang a
hasty peal, which had the effect to arouse two or three of the other
scribes from their writing, and cause them to apply ear-trumpets to
their ears. Simultaneously the first warrior roared, through a
fire-trumpet:
"Comrades! We are surprised."
At the same instant the Confederacy burst into a tempest of unseemly
chuckles, and fired his carpet-tacks into the soft hat of the nearest
Mackerel, causing that hoary veteran to drop his will and scratch his
head with an air of hopeless bewilderment.
"Have you any tea that you could give me?" says the Confederacy,
scrambling into the Fort,--"any Hyson senior or junior? Have you any
coffee? Oh, _do_ give me some coffee." Here the Confederacy winked
profoundly, to indicate that his request was intended merely as a bit
of surprising humor. Meantime, six other Confederacies with
horse-pistols had walked in to look for breakfast, and the facetious
business of relieving the slowly-awakened garrison of their
loud-ticking and rather cheap gold watches was performed with neatness
and dispatch. After which the aged Mackerels were dismissed to join the
main body of the ancient Brigade some ten yards to the rear of the
work, with the remark, that their vandal rulers would find it somewhat
difficult to reconstruct the sunny South.
Thus, my boy, was accomplished another of those surprises which not
unfrequently give the most villanous cause an appearance of temporary
success; though at times they prove real blessings to the good cause by
including the capture of three or four brass-buttoned brigadiers.
But, pause, my feeble pen, ere thou venturest upon the hopeless task of
putting into language the holy rage of the General of the Mackerel
Brigade, when he learned the capture of Fort Bledandide. Pause,
miserable quill, ere thou plungest into an insane effort to picture the
awful state of vengeance exciting Captain Villiam Brown on the same
occasion. As is his invariable custom at such junctures, the General at
once retired to his tent to practise on the accordion, leaving Villiam
to form a few regiments of the Mackerel reserve in line of battle for
the recapture of the position.
"Ah!" says Villiam, spiritedly, "here's a chance for a baynit charge
after the manner of Napoleon's Old Guard; and I hereby notify Regiment
5, that the eyes of the whole world are upon them."
Captain Bob Shorty and I had got ready our bits of smoked glass, to
preserve our eyes from the too-great glitter of the dazzling
achievement about to come off, when we noticed that Villiam motioned
with his famous sword, Escalibar, for the spectacled warriors to pause
a moment.
"If any of you martial beings happen to have any small change about you
at this exciting moment," says Villiam, paternally, "I will take charge
of it, for safety."
This noble proposition, my boy, might have been accepted unanimously,
had not the discharge, at that instant, of a horse-pistol from the
ramparts of Fort Bledandide caused the entire regiment to partially
disappear! That is to say, every man went down upon his stomach,
according to the latest principles of regimental strategy.
"Ah!" says Villiam, "how are the mighty fallen!"
Loudly rang a tremendous horse-laugh from the Confederacies in the
Fort, several of whom were seen making off toward Paris with Orange
County howitzers under each arm. I could see, by the aid of my smoked
glass, that the Chivalry on the ramparts was sitting on a chest, with
his discharged horse-pistol across his knee, and a series of feeble
winks chasing each other around his Confederate eyelids.
"By all that's Federal!" says Captain Bob Shorty, "the scorpion
surrenders!"
At the word, up sprang Regiment 5, like the men of Roderick Dhu, and
straightforward they swept into Fort Bledandide, as a wave of the angry
sea will sometimes sweep into a doomed barrel on the beach. Such was
the shock of this dare-devil charge, that the winking Confederacy on
the ramparts incontinently rolled off his chest and was captured
without much carnage.
"Do you surrender to the United States of America?" says Villiam, with
much star-spangled banner in his manner.
The Confederacy raised himself up on an elbow and hiccup'd gloomily.
"By all that's Federal!" says Captain Bob Shorty, "he's been drinking
some of that air Commissary whiskey of ours."
Then, my boy, did Captain Villiam Brown evidence that exquisite quality
of our humanity, which bids us forget all wrongs and enmities at the
eloquent appeal of death. No sooner had Captain Bob Shorty made the
above remark, than his whole aspect changed to pity, and he feelingly
knelt beside the miserable captive.
"Have you any last request to make, poor inseck?" asked Villiam, much
affected.
The misguided Confederacy was speechless; but made an attempt to
scratch his breast.
"Ah!" says Villiam, with deep emotion, "you mean that your conscience
is a still small woice."
Here the Confederacy scratched his left leg feebly; and says Captain
Bob Shorty:
"According to your rule, Villiam, his conscience must be quite large,
extending to his legs."
Nervously arose Captain Villiam Brown to his feet, with such a shudder
running through his manly frame as caused every brass button to jingle.
"I think," says Villiam, with a ghastly smile, "that some of his
conscience is a-walking softly down my backbone, with a hop now and
then."
Alas! my boy, we all have consciences, save green grocers and
fashionable bootmakers; and who among us but has felt his conscience to
be at times almost totally disregarded, until it has finally brought
him to the scratch by turning to flee?
Scarcely was Fort Bledandide recovered by the valor of our arms when
the General of the Mackerel Brigade let fly the following
"GENERAL ORDER.
"The General Commanding announces to the Mackerels that the
Southern Confederacy has taken place. Also, that the unconquerable
Mackerel Brigade has taken place back again.
"Yesterday morning the Confederacy massed himself and succeeded,
through the unabated slumbers of the persons hired to sit up with
him, in obtaining Fort Bledandide.
"Prompt measures were taken by Captain Villiam Brown, Eskevire;
and, although an entire regiment fell in the assault, the work was
retaken.