CHAPTER VI.

OUR HERO IN SICILY.

As we look abroad upon the vast nations of the earth, and remember

that if they were all destroyed, not one of them would be left, the

mind involuntarily conceives an idea, and becomes conscious of the

pregnant fact, that "what is to be will be, as what has been, was."

So when we look upon families, the thought forces itself upon us

that if there were no births there would be no children: without

fathers there could be no mothers; and if the entire household

should be swept away by disease, they would cease to live. So it is

also, when we look upon an individual. Our intellect tells us that

if he dies in infancy he will not live to be a man; and if he never

does anything, he will surely do nothing.

This metaphysical line of thought is particularly natural in the

case of Garibaldi. Look at him as he now stands, with one foot on

Sicily and the other in a boot. Had he not been educated, he would

have been uneducated; had he not gone to sea he would never have

been a sailor; had he not fought for Rome, he would have laid down

arms in her cause; were he not now fighting for Italian

independence, he would be otherwise engaged!

Thus the aspect presented by Garibaldi throughout his career, leads

our thoughts into all the deep meanderings of the German mind, and

teaches us to perceive that "whatever is, is right," as whatever is

not, is wrong.

Enraged at the impotent conclusion of the French-and-Austrian war,

Garibaldi determined to prosecute hostilities on his own individual

curve. In consequence of the high price of ferriage on the Mincio,

he moved down toward Palermo, and there called to his standard all

Italians favorable to the immediate emancipation of Sicily and the

removal of all duties on Maccaroni. Immediately the wildest

enthusiasm raged among the friends of freedom. Six patriots

attacked the fortress of Messalina, and were immediately placed in

prison, with chains around their necks, and Tupper's poems in their

pockets.

By degrees, Garibaldi made ready to capture Palermo; he laid in a

stock of cannon and woolen stockings, he harangued his warriors,

and told them the day was theirs if they won it; he invited all the

reporters to a banquet. Then he went and took Palermo.

How did he take it?

I know not; there are more things in heaven and earth than are

dreamed of in ordinary philosophy: all I know is, that he took

Palermo.

* * * * *

Having brought my history down to this point, I deem it proper to pause

in my task until the future shall have revealed what takes place

hereafter; and the past shall have ceased to interfere so outrageously

with the present, that its limits can only be distinguished through the

bottom of a tumbler. Liberty is the normal condition of the Italian,

and while Garibaldi leads, the cry will be: "Liberty or death, with a

preference for the former." Already the day-star of freedom gilds the

horizon of beautiful Naples, and if it should not happen to be proved a

comet by some evil-minded astronomer, Italy may yet be as free as New

York itself, and pay a war-tax of not more than some millions a year.

This finely-written life of the great Italian patriot had such an

effect upon the Mackerels, my boy, that they all wished to _live_ like

Garibaldi--hence, they are in no hurry to die for their country.

Lives of great men all remind us, my boy, that we may make our lives

sublime; but I never read one yet, that gave instructions for making

our deaths sublime--to ourselves.

Yours, for continued respiration,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

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.

WASHINGTON, D.C., May 10th, 1862.

I have just returned, my boy, from witnessing one of the most

tremendous battles of modern times, and shall see star-spangled banners

in every sunset for six months to come.

Hearing that the Southern Confederacy had evacuated Yorktown, for the

reason that the Last Ditch had moved on the first of May to a place

where there would be less rent from our cannon, I started early in the

week for the quarters of the valorous and sanguinary Mackerel Brigade,

expecting that it had gone toward Richmond for life, liberty, and the

pursuit of happiness.

On reaching the Peninsula, however, I learned that the Mackerel "corpse

dammee" had been left behind to capture the city of Paris in

co-operation with a squadron.

Reaching the stamping-ground, my boy, I beheld a scene at once unique

and impressive. Each individual Mackerel was seated on the ground, with

a sheet of paper across his knees and an ink-bottle beside him, writing

like an inspired poet.

I approached Captain Villiam Brown, who was covering some bare spots on

his geometrical steed Euclid, with pieces scissored out of an old

hair-trunk, and says I:

"Tell me, my noble Hector, what means this literary scene which mine

eyes behold?"

"Ah!" says Villiam, setting down his glue-pot, "we are about to engage

in a skrimmage from which not one may come out alive. These heroic

beings," says Villiam, "are ready to die for their country at sight,

and you now behold them making their wills. We shall march upon Paris,"

says Villiam, "as soon as I hear from Sergeant O'Pake, who has been

sent to destroy a mill-dam belonging to the Southern Confederacy. Come

with me, my nice little boy, and look at the squadron to take part in

the attack."

This squadron, my boy, consisted of one twenty-eight-inch row-boat,

mounting a twelve-inch swivel, and commanded by Commodore Head, late of

the Canal-boat Service. It is iron-plated after a peculiar manner. When

the ingenious chap who was to iron-plate it commenced his work,

Commodore Head ordered him to put the plates on the _inside_ of the

boat, instead of outside, as in the case of the Monitor and Galena.

"What do you mean?" says the contractor.

"Why," says the commodore, "ain't them iron plates intended to protect

the crew?"

"Yes," says the contractor.

"Well, then, you poor ignorant cuss," says the commodore, in a great

passion, "what do you want to put the plates on the outside for? The

crew won't be on the outside--will it? The crew will be on the

inside--won't it? And how are you going to protect the crew on the

inside by putting iron plates on the outside?"

Such reasoning, my boy, was convincing, and the Mackerel Squadron is

plated inside.

While I was contemplating this new triumph of American naval

architecture, and wondering what they would say about it in Europe, an

orderly rode up and handed a scrap of paper to Villiam.

"Ha!" says Villiam, perusing the message, and then passing it to me,

"the veteran O'Pake has not deceived the United States of America."

The message was directed to the General of the Mackerel Brigade, my

boy, and read as follows:

"GENERAL:--_In accordance with your orders, I have destroyed the

mill d--n._

"O'PAKE."

"And now," says Villiam, returning his canteen to his bosom and pulling

out his ruffles, "the United States of America will proceed to capture

Paris with great slaughter. Let the Brigade form in marching order,

while the fleet proceeds around by water, after the manner of Lord

Nelson."

The Mackerel Brigade was quickly on the march, headed by the band, who

played an entirely new version of "Hail Columbia" on his key bugle.

Tramp, tramp, tramp! and we found ourselves in position before Paris.

[Illustration: MAP OF THE WORLD, SHOWING THE POSITION OF THE MACKEREL

BRIGADE AT THE GREAT BATTLE OF PARIS.]

Paris, my boy, was a city of two houses previous to the recent great

fire, which destroyed half of it, and we found it fortified with a

strong picket-fence and counterscarp earthworks, from the top of which

frowned numerous guns of great compass.

The Mackerel Brigade was at once formed in line-of-battle-order--the

line being not quite as straight as an ordinary Pennsylvania

railroad--while the fleet menaced the water-front of the city from Duck

Lake.

You may not be able to find Duck Lake on the maps, my boy, as it is

only visible after a heavy rain.

Previous to the attack, a balloon, containing a Mackerel chap, and a

telescope shaped like a bottle, was sent up to reconnoitre.

"Well," says Villiam to the chap when he came down, "what is the force

of the Confederacy?"

The chap coughed respectfully, and says he:

"I could only see one Confederacy, which is an old woman!"

"Scorpion!" says Villiam, his eyes flashing like the bottoms of two

reversed tumblers, "I believe you to be an accursed abolitionist. Go

instantly to the rear," says Villiam, fiercely, "and read the Report of

the Van Wyck Investigating Committee."

It was a terrible punishment, my boy, but the example was needed for

the good of the service.

The Orange County Howitzers now advanced to the front, and poured a

terrible fire in the direction of a point about half way between the

nearest steeple and the meridian, working horrible carnage in a flock

of pigeons that happened to be passing at the time.

"Splendid, my glorious Prooshians!" says Villiam, just escaping a fall

from his saddle by the convulsive start of Euclid, that noble war-horse

having been suddenly roused from a pleasant doze by the

firing--"Splendid, my artillery darlings. Only," says Villiam,

thoughtfully, "as the sun is a friendly power, don't aim at him so

accurately next time."

Meantime, Company 3, Regiment 5, had advanced from the right, and were

just about to make a splendid bayonet-charge, by the oblique, over the

picket-fence and earthwork, when the concealed Confederacy suddenly

opened a deadly fire of old shoes, throwing the Mackerels into great

confusion.

Almost simultaneously, a large potato struck the fleet on Duck Lake on

the nose, so intensely exciting him that he incontinently touched off

his swivel, to the great detriment of the surrounding country.

This was a critical moment, my boy; the least trifle on either side

would have turned the scale, and given the victory to either party.

Villiam Brown had just assumed the attitude in which he desired Frank

Leslie's Illustrated Artist to draw him, when a familiar domestic

utensil came hissing through the lurid air from the rebel works, and

exploded in two pieces at his feet.

"Ha!" says Villiam, eyeing the fragments with great pallor, "they have

commenced to throw shell."

In another moment that incomparable officer was at the head of a

storming party; and as the fleet opened fire on the cabbage-patch in

the rear of the enemy's position, an impetuous charge was precipitated

in front.

Though met by a perfect hail of turnips, stove-covers, and

kindling-wood, the Mackerels went over the fence like a fourth-proof

avalanche, and hemmed in the rebel garrison with walls of bayonets.

"Surrender to the Union Anaconda and the United States of America,"

thundered Villiam.

"You're a nasty, dirty creetur," responded the garrison, who was an old

lady of venerable aspect.

"Surrender, or you're a dead man, my F. F. Venus," says Villiam,

majestically.

The old lady replied with a look of scorn, my boy, walked deliberately

toward the road, and when last seen was proceeding in the direction of

Richmond under a green silk umbrella and a heavy press of snuff.

Now it happened, just after we had formally taken possession of the

city, while the band was playing martial airs, and the fleet winding up

his chronometer, that the General of the Mackerel Brigade made his

appearance on the field, and was received with loud cheers by those who

believed that he brought their pay back with him.

"My children," says the general, with a paternal smile, "don't praise

me for an achievement in which all have won such imperishable laurels.

I have only done my jooty."

This speech, my boy, made a great impression upon me on account of its

touching modesty. War, my boy, is calculated to promote an amount of

bashful modesty never equaled except in Congress, and I have known

brigadiers so self-deprecatory that they lived in a state of perpetual

blush--especially at the ends of their noses.

Yours, inadequately,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

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.

WASHINGTON, D.C., May 18th, 1862.

Suffer me, my boy, to direct your attention to the Congress of our once

distracted country, which is now shedding a beautiful lustre over the

whole nation, and exciting that fond emotion of admiration which

inclines the human foot to perform a stern duty. "Congress," says

Captain Samyule Sa-mith, nodding to the bar-keeper, and designating a

particular bottle with his finger--"Congress," says he, "is a honor and

a ornament to our bleeding land. The fortunes of war may fluctuate, the

rose may fade; but Congress is ever stable. Yes," says Samyule, in a

beautiful burst of enthusiasm, softly stirring the Oath in his tumbler

with a toothpick, "Congress is stable--in short, a stable full of

mules."

The Conservatives from the Border States, my boy, look upon the

Southern Confederacy as a brother, whom it is our duty to protect

against the accursed designs of the fiendish Abolitionists, who would

make this war one of bloodshed. They ignore all party feeling, support

the Constitution as it was, in contra-distinction to what it is, and

object to any Confiscation measure calculated to irritate our misguided

brothers and sisters in that beautiful land where

The suitor he goes to the planter so grand,

And "Give me your daughter," says he,

"For each unto other we've plighted our loves--

I love her and so she loves me,"

Says he,

"And married we're wishing to be."

The planter was deeply affected indeed,

Such touching devotion to see;

"The giving I couldn't afford; but I'll sell

Her for six hundred dollars to thee,"

Says he,

"Her mother was worth that to me."

Which I quote from a sweet ballad I recently found among some rebel

leave-ings at Yorktown.

These conservative patriots, my boy, remind me of a chap I once knew in

the Sixth Ward. A high moral chap, my boy, and full of venerable

dignity. One night the virtuous cuss doing business next door to him,

having just got a big insurance on his stock, and thinking himself safe

for a flaming speculation, set fire to his own premises and then called

"Murder" on the next corner. Out came the whole Fire Department, only

stopping to have two fights and a scrimmage on the way, and pretty soon

the water was pouring all over every house in the street except the one

on fire. The high moral chap stuck his head out of the window, and says

he:

"This here fire ain't in my house, and I don't want no noise around

this here residence."

Upon this, some of our gallant firemen, who had just been into a

fashionable drinking-shop not more than two blocks off, to see if any

of the sparks had got in there, called to the chap to let them into his

house, so that they might get at the conflagration more easily.

"Never!" said the chap, shaking his nightcap convulsively; "I didn't

set fire to Joneses, and I can't have no Fire Department running around

my entries."

"See here, old blue-pills," says one of the firemen, pleasantly, "if

you don't let us in, your own crib will go to blazes in ten minutes."

But the dignified chap only shut down the window and went to bed again,

saying his prayers backwards. I would not accuse a noble Department of

violence, my boy, but in about three minutes there was a double

back-action machine standing in that chap's front entry, with

three-inch streams out of all the back windows. The fire was put out

with only half a hose company killed and wounded, and next day there

was a meeting to see what should be done with the incendiary when he

was caught. The high moral chap was at that meeting very early, and

says he:

"Let me advise moderation in this here unhappy matter. I feel deeply

interested," says the chap, with tears; "for I assisted to put out the

conflagration by permitting the use of my house by the firemen. I

almost feel," says the genial chap, "like a fellow fireman myself."

At this crisis, a chap who was assistant engineer, and also Secretary

to the Board of Education, arose, and says he:

"What are yer coughin' about, old peg-top? Didn't me and the fellers

have to cave in your door with a night-key wrench--sa-a-ay? What

are yer gassin' about, then? _You_ did a muchness--_you_ did!

Yes--slightually--_in_ a horn. Now," says the gallant fireman,

with an agreeable smile, "if you don't jest coil in yer hose and take

the sidewalk very sudden, it'll be my duty, as a member of the

Department, to bust yer eye."

I commend this chaste and rhetorical remark, my boy, to the attention

of Border State Conswervatives.

Since the occupation of Paris by the Mackerel Brigade, affairs there

have been administered with great intellectual ability by Captain

Villiam Brown, who has been appointed Provisional Governor, to govern

the sale of provisions.

The city of Paris, my boy, as I told you lately, is laid out in one

house at present; and since the discovery, that what were at first

supposed to be Dahlgren guns by our forces were really a number of old

hats with their rims cut off, laid in a row on top of the earthworks,

the democracy have stopped talking about the General of the Mackerel

Brigade for next President.

The one house, however, was a boarding-house; and though all the

boarders left at the approach of our troops, it was subsequently

discovered that all of them save one, were good Union men, and were

brutally forced to fly by that one Confederate miscreant. When Villiam

heard of the fate of these noble and oppressed patriots, my boy, he

suffered a tear to drop into the tumbler he had just found, and says

he:

"Just Hevings! can this be so? Ah!" says Villiam, lifting a bottle near

by to see that no rebel was concealed under it, "I will issue a

proclamation calculated to conciliate the noble Union men of the sunny

South, and bring them back to those protecting folds in which our

inedycated forefathers folded theirselves."

Nobody believed it could be done, my boy--nobody believed it could be

done; but Villiam understood his species, and issued the following

PROCLAMATION.

The Union men of the South are hereby informed that the United

States of America has reasserted hisself, and will shortly open a

bar-room in Paris. Also, cigars and other necessaries of life. By

order of

CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN, Eskevire.

"There," says Villiam, "the human intelleck may do what violence might

fail to accomplish. Ah!" says Villiam, "moral suasion is more majestik

than an army with banners."

In just half an hour after the above Proclamation was issued, my boy,

the hum of countless approaching voices called us to the ramparts. A

vast multitude was approaching. It was the Union men of the South, my

boy, who had read the manifesto of a beneficent Government, and were

coming back to take the Oath--with a trifle of sugar in it.

How necessary it is, my boy, that men intrusted with important

commands--generals and governors responsible for the pacification and

welfare of misguided provinces--should understand just how and when to

touch that sensitive chord in our common nature which vibrates

responsively when man is invited to take something by his fellow-man.

Scarcely had Villiam assumed his office and suppressed two reporters,

when there were brought before him a fugitive contraband of the color

of old meerschaum, and a planter from the adjacent county, who claimed

the slave.

"It's me--that's Misther Murphy--would be afther axing your riverence

to return the black crayture at once," says the planter; "for its

meself that owns him, and he runn'd away right under me nose and eyes

as soon as me back was turned."

"Ah!" says Villiam, balancing a tumbler in his right hand. "Are you a

Southerner, Mr. Murphy?"

"Yaysir," says Mr. Murphy, "it's that I am, intirely. Be the same

token, I was raised and born in the swate South--the South of Ireland."

"Are you Chivalry?" says Villiam, thoughtfully.

"Is it Chivalry!--ah, but it's that I am, and me father before me, and

me childers that's afther me. If Chivalry was praties I could furnish a

dinner to all the wur-ruld, and have enough left to fade the pigs."

"Murphy is a French name," says Villiam, drawing a copy of Vattel on

International Law from his pocket and glancing at it, "but I will not

dispute what you say. You must do without your contraband, however; for

slavery and martial law don't agree together in the United States of

America."

"Mr. Black," says Villiam, gravely, turning to the emancipated African,

"you have come to the right shop for freedom. You are from henceforth a

freeman and a brother-in-law. You are now your own master," says

Villiam, encouragingly, "and no man has a right to order you about. You

are in the full enjoyment of Heving's best gift--Freedom! Go and black

my boots."

The moral grandeur of this speech, my boy, so affected the Southern

planter that he at once became a Union man, took the Oath with the

least bit of water in it, and asked permission to have his own boots

blacked.

I have been deeply touched of late, my boy, by the reception of a

present from the ladies of Alexandria. It is a beautiful little dog,

named Bologna (the women of America think that Bologna is the goddess

of war, my boy), shaped like a door-mat rolled up, and elegantly

frescoed down the sides in white and yellow. The note accompanying the

gift was all womanly.

"Accept," it said, "this slight tribute, as an index of the feelings

with which the American women regards the noble volunteer. Wear this

gift next your heart when the fierce battle rages; but, in the

meantime, give him a bone."

Bologna is a pointer, my boy--a Five-Pointer.

As a dead poet expresses it, Woman is "Heaven's noblest, best, and last

good gift to man;" and I assure, you, my boy, that she is just the last

gift he cares about.

Yours, in bachelordliness,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

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.

WASHINGTON, D.C., May 20th, 1862.

Rejoice with me, my boy, that I have got back my gothic steed, Pegasus,

from the Government chap who borrowed him for a desk. The splendid

architectural animal has just enough slant from his back-bone to his

hips to make a capital desk, my boy; and then his tail is so handy to

wipe pens on. In a moment of thirst he swallowed a bottle of ink, and

some fears were entertained for his life; but a gross of steel pens and

a ream of blotting paper, immediately administered, caused him to come

out all write. In a gothic sense, my boy, the charger continues to

produce architectural illusions. He was standing on a hill-side the

other day, with his rear-elevation toward the spectators, his head up

and ears touching at the top, when a chap, who has been made pious by

frequent conversation with the contrabands, noticed him afar off, and

says he to a soldier, "What church is that I behold in the distance, my

fellow-worm of the dust?" The military veteran looked, and says he, "It

does look like a church; but it's only a animated hay-rack belonging to

the cavalry."

"I see," says the pious chap, moving on; "the beast looks like a

church, because he's been accustomed to steeple-chases."

I have also much satisfaction in the society of my dog, Bologna, my

boy, who has already become so attached to me that I believe he would

defend me against any amount of meat. Like the Old Guard of France,

he's always around the bony parts thrown; and, like a _bon vivant_, is

much given to whining after his dinner.

The last time I was at Paris, my boy, this interesting animal made a

good breakfast off the calves of the General of the Mackerel Brigade's

legs, causing that great strategetical commander to issue enough oaths

for the whole Southern Confederacy.

"Thunder!" says the General, at the conclusion of his cursory remarks,

"I shall have the hydrophobia and bite somebody. It's my opinion," says

the General, hastily licking a few grains of sugar from the spoon he

was holding at the time, "it's my opinion that I shall go rabid as soon

as I see water."

"Then you're perfectly safe, my conquering hero," says I; "for when

_you_ see water, the Atlantic Ocean will be principally composed of

brandy pale."

Speaking of Paris, it pains me, my boy, to say, that Captain Villiam

Brown's Proclamation for the conciliation of southern Union men has

been repudiated by the General of the Mackerel Brigade.

"Thunder!" says the General, taking a cork from his pocket in mistake

for a watch-key, "it's against the Constitution to open a bar so far

away from where Congress sits."

And he at once issued the following

"PROCLAMATION.

"Whereas, There appears in the public prints what presumptuously

pretends to be a proclamation of Captain Villiam Brown, Eskevire,

in the words following, to wit:

'PROCLAMATION.

'The Union men of the South are hereby informed that the United

States of America has reasserted hisself, and will shortly open a

bar-room in Paris. Also, cigars and other necessaries of life.

'By order of

'CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN, Eskevire.'

"And whereas, the same is producing much excitement among those

members from the Border States who would prefer that said bar-room

should be nearer Washington, in case of sickness. Therefore, I,

General of the Mackerel Brigade, do proclaim and declare that the

Mackerel Brigade cannot stand this sort of thing, and that neither

Captain Villiam Brown nor any other commander has been authorized

to declare free lunch, either by implication or otherwise, in any

State: much less in a state of intoxication, of which there are

several.

"To persons in this State, now, I earnestly appeal. I do not argue:

I beseech you to mix your own liquors. You cannot, if you would, be

blind to the signs of the times, when such opportunity is offered

to see double. I beg of you a calm and immense consideration of

them (signs), ranging, it may be, above personal liquor

establishments. The change you will receive after purchasing your

materials will come gently as the dues from heaven--not rending nor

wrecking anything. Will you not embrace me? May the extensive

future not have to lament that you have neglected to do so.

"Yours, respectfully, the

"GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE."

[Green seal.]

When Villiam read this conservative proclamation, my boy, he looked

thoughtfully into a recently-occupied tumbler for a few moments, and

then says he:

"There's some intelleck in that. The general covers the whole ground.

Ah!" says Villiam, preparing, in a dreamy manner, to wash out the

tumbler with something from a decanter, "the general so completely

covers the whole ground sometimes, that the police departmink is

required to clear it."

I believe him, my boy.

The intelligent and reliable contrabands, my boy, who have come into

Paris from time to time, with valuable news concerning all recent

movements not taking place in the Confederacy, were formed lately by

Villiam, into a military company, called the Sambory Guard, Captain Bob

Shorty being deputed to drill them in the colored-manual of arms. They

were dressed in flaming red breeches and black coats, my boy, and each

chaotic chap looked like a section of stove-pipe walking about on two

radishes.

I attended the first drill, my boy, and found the oppressed Africans

standing in a line about as regular as so many trees in a maple swamp.

Captain Bob Shorty whipped out his sleepless sword, straightened it on

a log, stepped to the front, and was just about to give the first

order, when, suddenly, he started, threw up his nose, and stood

paralyzed.

"What's the matter, my blue and gilt?" says I.

He stood like one in a dream, and says he:

"'Pears to me I smell something."

"Yes," says I; "'tis the scent of the roses that hangs round it still."

"True," says Captain Bob Shorty, recovering, "it does smell like a

cent; and I haven't seen a cent of my pay for such a long time, that

the novelty of the odor knocked me. Attention, company!"

Only five of the troops were enough startled by this sudden order, my

boy, to drop their guns, and only four stooped down to tie their shoes.

One very reliable contraband left the ranks, and says he:

"Mars'r, hadn't Brudder Rhett better gub out the hymn before the

service commence?"

"Order in the ranks!" says Captain Bob Shorty, with some asperity,

"Attention, Company!--Order Arms!"

The troops did this very well, my boy, the muskets coming down at

intervals of three minutes, bringing each man's cap with them, and

pointing so regularly toward all points of the compass, that no foe

could possibly approach from any direction without running on a

bayonet.

"Excellent!" says Captain Bob Shorty, with enthusiasm. "Only, Mr.

Rhett, you needn't hold your gun quite so much like a hoe. Carry arms!"

Here Mr. Dana stepped out from the ranks, and says he:

"Carrie who, mars'r?"

"Go to the rear," says Captain Bob Shorty, indignantly. "Present Arms!"

If Present Arms means to stick your bayonet into the next man's side,

my boy, the troops did it very well.

"Splendid!" says Captain Bob Shorty. "Shoulder Arms--Eyes

Right--Double-quick, March! On to Richmond!"

The troops obeyed the order, my boy, and haven't been seen since.

Perhaps they're going yet, my boy.

Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, started for an advance on

Richmond yesterday, and by a forced march got within three miles of it.

Another march brought them within five miles of the place; and the last

despatch stated that they had but ten miles to go before reaching the

rebel capital.

Military travel, my boy, is like the railroad at the West, where they

had to make chalk marks on the track to see which way the train was

going.

Yours, on time,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

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.

WASHINGTON, D.C., May 24th, 1862.

One of the Northern women of America, my boy, has sent me a note, for

the express purpose of expressing her hatred of the Southern

Confederacy. She says, my boy, that the Confederacy is a miserable man,

only fit for pecuniary dishonesty; and that even the gentle William

Shakspeare couldn't help revealing the peculiar failing of the

Floydulent section when he spoke so feelingly of

"The sweet South,

That breathes upon a bank of Violets,

_Stealing_ and giving odor."

A fair hit, my boy--a fair hit; and sorry should I be to let the sweet

South breathe upon any kind of a bank in which I had a deposit.

Speaking of violets; the woman of America sent one of those pretty

flowers in her note; and, as I looked upon it, I thought how fit it was

to be

THE SOLDIER'S EPITAPH.

The woodlands caught the airy fire upon their vernal plumes,

And echoed back the waterfall's exultant, trilling laugh,

And through the branches fell the light in slender golden blooms

To write upon the sylvan stream the Naiad's epitaph.

On either side the sleeping vale the mountains swelled away,

Like em'ralds in the mourning ring that circles round the world

And through the flow'r-enamel'd plain the river went astray,

Like scarf of lady silver'd o'er around a standard furled.

The turtle wooed his gentle mate, where thickest hung the boughs,

While round them fell the blossoms plucked by robins' wanton bills;

And on its wings the zephyr caught the music of his vows,

To waft a strain responsive to the chorus of the hills.

'Twas in a nook beside the stream where grapes in clusters fell,

And twixt the trees the swaying vines were lost in leafy showers,

That fauns and satyrs, tamed to rest beneath the noonday spell,

Gave silent ear and witness to the meeting of the flowers.

The glories of the fields were there in summer's bright array,

The virgins of the temple vast where Noon to Ev'ning nods,

To crown as queen of all the rest whose bosom should display

The signet of a mission blest, the cipher of the gods.

The royal Lily's sceptred cup besought an airy lip,

The Rose's stooping coyness told the bee was at her heart,

While all the other sisters round, with many a dainty dip,

Sought jewels hidden in the grass, and waved its spears apart.

"We seek a queen," the Lily said, "and she shall wear the crown

Who to the Mission of the Blest the fairest right shall prove;

For unto her, whoe'er she be, has come in sunlight down

The badge of Nature's Royalty, from angel hands above.

"I go to deck the wreath that binds a fair, imperial brow,

Whose whiteness shall not be the less that mine is purer still;

For though a band of sparkling gems is set upon it now,

'Twill be the fairer that the Church in me beholds her will."

"I claim a loyal suitor's touch," the Rose ingenuous said,

"And he will choose me when he seeks the bow'r of lady fair,

To match me, with a smile, against her cheek's betraying red,

And place me, with a kiss, within the shadows of her hair."

And next the proud Camellia spoke: "Where festal music swells,

And solemn priest, with gown and book, a knot eternal ties,

I go to hold the vail of her who hears her marriage-bells,

And pledges all her life unto the Love that never dies."

The Laurels raised their glowing heads, and into language broke:

"'Tis ours to honor gallant deeds that awe a crouching world;

We rest upon the warrior's helm when fades the battle's smoke,

And bloom perennial on the shield that back the foeman

hurled."

And other sisters of the field, the woodland, and the vale,

Each told the story of her work, and glorified her quest;

But none of all the noble ones had yet revealed the tale

That taught them from the gods she wore the signet in her

breast.

At length the zephyr raised a leaf, the lowliest of the low,

And there, behold a Violet the Spring let careless slip;

Beyond its season blooming there where newer beauties grow,

Enshrined like an immortal thought that lives beyond the lip.

"We greet thy presence, little one," the graceful Lily said,

And quivered with a silent laugh behind her snowy screen,

"Upraise unto the open sun thy modest little head;

For here, perchance, in thee at last the Flow'rs have found

their queen."

A tremor shook the timid flower, and soft her answer came:

"'Tis but a simple duty left to one so small as I;

And yet I would not yield it up for all the higher fame

Of nodding on a hero's helm, or catching beauty's eye.

"I go to where an humble mound uprises in a field,

To mark the place of one whose life was lost a land to save;

Where bannered pomp no birth attests, nor marbled sword nor

shield;

I go to deck," the Violet said, "a simple soldier's grave."

There fell a hush on all the flowers; but from a distant grove

Burst forth the anthem of the birds in one grand peal of praise;

As though the stern old Forest's heart had found its early love,

And all of earth's sublimity was melted in its lays!

Then, as the modest flower upturned her blue eyes to the sun,

There fell a dewdrop on her breast as shaken from a tree;

The lowliest of the sisterhood the godlike Crown had won;

For hers it was to consecrate Truth's Immortality.

The woodlands caught the airy fire upon their vernal plumes,

And echoed back the waterfall's exultant, trilling laugh;

And through the branches fell the light in slender golden blooms,

To sanctify the Violet, the Soldier's Epitaph.

I asked the General of the Mackerel Brigade, the other day, what kind

of a flower he thought would spring above my head when I rested in a

soldier's sepulchre? and he said "A cabbage!" my boy--he said "A

cabbage!"

Yours, inversely,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

LETTER XLVIII.

TREATING CHIEFLY OF A TERRIBLE PANIC WHICH BROKE OUT IN PARIS, BUT

SUBSEQUENTLY PROVED TO BE ONLY A NATURAL EFFECT OF STRATEGY.

WASHINGTON, D.C., June 1st, 1862.

It is my belief--my solemn and affecting belief, my boy, that our once

distracted country is destined to be such a great military power

hereafter, that an American citizen will be distinguishable in any part

of the world by his commission as a brigadier. Even Congressmen will

answer to the command of "Charge--mileage!" and it is stated that sons

of guns in every variety are already being born at the West--sons of

"Pop" guns, my boy.

The last time the General of the Mackerel Brigade was here, he was so

much pleased with the high state of strategy developed at the War

Office, that he visited all the bar-rooms in Washington, and ordered

the tumblers to be at once illuminated.

"Thunder!" says the general to Colonel Wobert Wobinson, of the Western

Cavalry, as they were taking measures to prevent any possible mistake

by seeing the enemy double, "this war is making great tacticians of the

whole nation, and if I wanted my sons to become Napoleons, I'd put them

into the War Office for a week. My sons! my sons!" says the general

hysterically, motioning for a little more hot water, "why are you not

here with me in glory, instead of remaining home there, like ripe plums

on the parent tree."

"Plums! plums!" says Colonel Wobinson, thoughtfully. "Ah! I see," says

the colonel, pleasantly, "your sons are damsons."

The general eyed the speaker with much severity of countenance, my boy,

and says he:

"If _you_ have any sons, my friend, they are probably fast young men,

and take after their father--at the approach of the enemy."

The general is rather proud of his sons, my boy, one of whom wrote the

following, which he keeps pinned against the wall of his room:--

POOR PUSSY.

We count mankind and keep our census still,

We count the stars that populate the night;

But who, with all his computation, can

Con catty nations right?

In all the lands, in zones of all degrees,

No spot im-puss-able is known to be;

And sure, the ocean can't ignore the Cat,

Whose capital is C.

Despise her not; for Nature, in the work

Of making her, remembered human laws,

And gave to Puss strange gifts of human sort;

Before she made her paws:

First, Puss is like a soldier, if you please;

Or, like a soldier's officer, in truth;

For every night brings ample proof she is

A fencer from her youth.

A model cosmopolitan is she,

Indifferent to change of place or time;

And, like the hardy sailor of the seas,

Inured to every climb.

Then, like a poet of the noble sort,

Who spurns the ways of ordinary crews,

She courts the upper-storied attic salt,

And hath her private mews.

In mathematics she eclipses quite

Our best professors of the science hard,

When, by her quadrupedal mode, she shows

Her four feet in a yard.

To try the martial simile once more:

She apes the military drummer-man,

When, at appropriate hours of day and night,

She makes her ratty plan.

She is a lawyer to the hapless rat,

Who strives in vain to fly her fee-line paws,

Evading once, but to be caught again

In her redeeming claws.

Then turn not from poor Pussy in disdain,

Whose pride of ancestry may equal thine;

For is she not a blood-descendant of

The ancient Catty line?

Speaking of strategy, my boy, you will remember that Company 3,

Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, started for an advance on Richmond last

week, and were within ten miles of that city. Subsequently they made

another forced march of five miles, leaving only fifteen miles to go;

and on Tuesday, a messenger came in from them to Captain Villiam Brown,

with the intelligence that the advance was already within twenty-five

miles of the rebel head-quarters.

"Ha!" says Villiam, "the Confederacy is doomed; but I must curb the

advancing impetuosity of these devoted beings, or they'll be in Canada

in a week. I think," says Villiam, calculatingly, "that a retreat would

bring us to the summer residence of the Southern Confederacy in less

time."

Here another messenger came in from the Richmond storming party, and,

says he:

"The advance on Richmond has failed in consequence of the shoes

furnished by the United States of America."

"Ah!" says Villiam, hastily setting down a goblet.

"Yes," says the chap, mournfully, "them air shoes has demoralized

Company 3, which is advancing back to Paris at double-quick. Them

shoes," says the chap, "which was furnished by the sons of

Revolutionary forefathers by a contractor, at only twenty-five dollars

a pair for the sake of the Union, has caused a fatal mistake. They got

so ragged with being exposed to the wind, that when Company 3 hastily

put them on for an advance on Richmond, they got the heels in front and

have been going in the wrong direction ever since."

"Where did you leave your comrades?" says Villiam.

"At Joneses Court House," says the chap.

"Ah!" says Villiam, "is that a healthy place?"

"No," says the chap, "it's very unhealthy--I was drunk all the time I

was there."

"I see," says Villiam, with great agitation, "my brave comrades are in

a tight place. Let all the newspaper correspondents be ordered to leave

Paris at once," says Villiam to his adjutants, "and we'll take measures

for a second uprising of the North."

When it became generally known, my boy, that Company 3, Regiment 5,

Mackerel Brigade, were falling back across Duck Lake, there was great

agitation in Government circles, and the general of the Mackerel

Brigade prepared to call out all persons capable of bearing arms.

"The Constitution is again in danger," says the general, impulsively,

"and we must appeal to the populace."

"Ah!" says Villiam, "it would also aid our holy cause to call out the

women of America. For the women of America," says Villiam, advisedly,

"are capable of baring arms to any extent."

"No!" says the general. "Woman's place in this war is beside the couch

of the sick soldier. Thunder!" says the general, genially, "it's enough

to make us fonder of our common nature to see the devotion of women to

the invalid volunteer. As I was passing through the hospital just now,"

says the general, feelingly, "I saw a tender, delicate woman acting the

part of a ministering angel to a hero in a hard ague. She was fanning

him, my friend--she was fanning him."

"Heaven bless her!" says Villiam, with streaming eyes; "and may she

never be without a stove when she has a fever. I really believe," says

Villiam, glowingly, "that if woman found her worst enemy, even, burning

to death, she would heap coals of fire upon his head."

Villiam's idea of heaping coals of fire, my boy, is as literal as was

the translation of Enoch.

On learning of the repulse from Richmond, all the Southern Union men of

Paris commenced to remember that the rebels are our brethren, and that

this war was wholly brought about by the fiendish abolitionists.

"Yes!" says a patriotic chap from Accomac, sipping the oath loyally,

"the Abolitionists brought this here war about, and I have determined

not to support it. Our slaves read the _Tribune_, and have learned so

much from military articles in that paper that the very life of the

South depended upon separation."

In fact, my boy, notwithstanding the efforts of Captain Villiam Brown

to tranquillize public feeling by seizing the telegraph office and

railroad depot, telegraphing to everybody he knew for reenforcements,

the excitement was steadily increasing, until word came from Company 3,

Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, that no enemy had been in sight at all.

When the intelligence was brought to the General of the Mackerel

Brigade, and as soon as the band had finished serenading him, he called

for a fresh tumbler, and says he:

"I may as well tell you at once, my children, that this whole matter is

simply a part of my plan for bringing this unnatural war to a speedy

termination. Company 3 retired by my design, and--and--in fact, my

children," says the general, confidingly, "it's something you can't

understand--it's strategy."

Perhaps it was, my boy--perhaps it was; for there is more than one

reason to believe that strategy means military shoes with the heels in

front.

Yours, cautiously,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

LETTER XLIX.

NOTING THE ARCHITECTURAL EFFECTS OF THE GOTHIC STEED, PEGASUS, AND

DESCRIBING THE MACKEREL BRIGADE'S SANGUINARY ENGAGEMENT WITH THE

RICHMOND REBELS.

WASHINGTON, D.C., June 8th, 1862.

Once more, my boy, the summer sun has evoked long fields of bristling

bayonets from the seed sown in spring tents, and the thunder of the

shower is echoed by the roar of the scowling cannon. Onward, right

onward, sweeps the Sunset Standard of the Republic, to plant its Roses

and its Lilies on the soil where Treason has so long been the masked

reaper; to epitaph with its eternal Violet the honored battle-graves of

the heroic fallen, and to set its sleepless Stars above the Southern

Cross in a new Heaven of Peace.

In my voyage down the river, to witness the great battle for Richmond,

I took my frescoed dog, Bologna, and my gothic steed, Pegasus. The

latter architectural animal, my boy, has again occasioned an optical

mistake. Being of a melancholy turn, and partaking somewhat of the

tastes of the horrible and sepulchral German Mind, the gothic charger

has peregrinated much in a churchyard near Washington, frequently

standing for hours in that last resting-place, lost in profound

mortuary contemplation, to the great admiration of certain vagrant

crows in the atmosphere. On such occasions, my boy, his casual pace is,

if possible, rather more _requiescat in_ "_pace_" than on ordinary

marches. I was going after him in company with a religious chap from

Boston, who is going down South to see about the contrabands being born

again, when we caught sight of Pegasus, in the distance. The sagacious

architectural stallion had just ascended the steps leading into the

graveyard, my boy, and presented a gothic and pious appearance. The

religious chap clutched my arm, and says he:

"How beautiful it is, my fellow-sinner, to see that simple village

church, resting like the spirit of Peace in the midst of this scene of

war's desolation."

"Why, my dear Saint Paul," says I, "that's my gothic steed, Pegasus."

"Ahem!" says he. "You must be mistaken, my poor worm; for I can see

half way down the aisle."

"The perspective," says I, "is simply the perspective between the hind

legs of the noble creature, and his rear elevation deceives you."

"Well," says the religious chap, grievously, "if you ever want to do

anything for the missionary cause, my poor lost lamb, just skin that

horse and let me have his frame for a numble chapel, wherein to convert

contrabands."

[Illustration: REQUIESCAT IN "PACE."

ARCHITECTURAL VIEW OF THE GOTHIC STEED, PEGASUS--REAR ELEVATION.]

On my way down the Potomac to Paris, my boy, with Pegasus and the

intelligent dog Bologna, I met Commodore Head, of the new iron-plated

Mackerel fleet, who was taking his swivel Columbiad to a blacksmith, to

have the touch-hole repaired. The Commodore met with a great

disappointment at Washington, my boy. He ordered the great military

painter, Patrick de la Roach, to paint him a portrait of Secretary

Welles, Cabinet size. When the picture came home, my boy, it was no

larger than a twenty-five-cent piece, frame and all; and the portrait

was hardly perceptible to the naked eye.

"Wedge my turret!" says the Commodore, in his iron-plated manner, "I

wouldn't give a Galena for such a picture as that. What did you make it

so small for, you daubing cuss?"

"Didn't you want it Cabinet size?" says the artist.

"Batter my plates! of course I did," says the Commodore.

"Well," says the artist, earnestly, "if you ever attended a Cabinet

meeting, you'd know that that is exactly the Cabinet size of the

Secretary of the Navy."

The Commodore related this to me, my boy, in the interval of naval

criticisms on the gothic Pegasus, whom he pronounced as incapable of

being hit at right angles by a shell as the Monitor. "Explode my

hundred-pounder!" says the Commodore, admiringly, "I don't see any flat

surface about that oat-crushing machine. Perforate my armor, if I do!"

A great battle was going on upon the borders of Duck Lake when we

reached Paris, my boy, and on ambling to the battle-field with my steed

and my dog, I found the Mackerel Brigade blazing away at the foe in a

thunder-storm and vivid-lightning manner.

Captain Villiam Brown, mounted on the geometrical steed Euclid, to whom

he had administered a pinch of Macaboy to make him frisky--was just

receiving the answer of an orderly, whom he had sent to demand the

surrender of a rebel mud-work in front.

"Did you order the rebel to surrender his incendiary establishment to

the United States of America?" says Villiam, majestically returning his

canteen to his bosom.

"I did, sire," says the Orderly, gloomily.

"What said the unnatural scorpion?" says Villiam.

"Well," says the Orderly, "his reply was almost sarcastic."

"Ha!" says Villiam, "what was't?"

"Why," says the Orderly, sadly, "he said that if I didn't want to see a

dam fool, I'd better not go into a store where they sold

looking-glasses."

"Ah!" says Villiam, nervously licking a cork, "that _was_ sarcastic.

Let the Orange County Howitzers push to the front," says Villiam,

excitedly, "and we'll shatter the Southern Confederacy. Hello!" says

Villiam, indignantly, "Who owns that owdacious dog there?"

I looked, my boy, and behold it was my frescoed canine, Bologna, who

was innocently discussing a bone right in the track of the advancing

artillery. I whistled to him, my boy, and he loafed dreamily toward me.

The Orange County Howitzers thundered forward, and then hurled an

infernal tempest of shell and canister into the horizon, taking the

roofs off of two barns, and making twenty-six Confederate old maids

deaf for life. At the same instant, Ajack, the Mackerel sharpshooter,

put a ball from his unerring rifle through a chicken-house about half a

mile distant, causing a variety of fowl proceedings.

"Ah!" says Villiam, critically, "the angels will have to get a new sky,

if the artillery practice of the United States of America keeps on much

longer."

Meantime Company 2, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, was engaging the

enemy some distance to the right, under Captain Bob Shorty; and now

there came a dispatch from that gallant officer to Villiam, thus:

"_The Enemy's Multiplication is too much for my Division. Send me

some more Democrats._

"CAPTAIN BOB SHORTY."

"Ah!" says Villiam, "the Anatomical Cavalry and the Western Centaurs

are already going to the rescue. Blue blazes!" says Villiam,

cholerically, "Why don't that blessed dog get out of the way?"

I looked, my boy, and, behold! it was my frescoed canine, Bologna,

calmly reasoning with a piece of army beef, in the very middle of the

field. I whistled, my boy, and the intelligent animal floated toward me

with subdued tail.

The obstruction being removed, the Anatomicals and the Centaurs charged

gloriously under Colonel Wobert Wobinson, and would have swept the

Southern Confederacy from the face of the earth, had not the fiendish

rebels put a load of hay right in the middle of the road. To get the

horses past this object was impossible, for they hadn't seen so much

forage before in a year.

"Ah!" says Villiam, contemplatively, "I'm afraid cavalry's a failure in

this here unnatural contest. Ha!" says Villiam, replacing the stopper

of his canteen, and quickly looking behind him, "What means this

spectacle which mine eyes observe?"

A cloud of dust opened near us, and we saw Captain Samyule Sa-mith

rushing right into headquarters, followed by Company 6, having an aged

and very reliable contraband in charge.

"Samyule, Samyule," says Villiam, fiercely, "expound why you leave the

field with your force, at this critical period in the history of the

United States of America?"

"I'm supporting the Constitution," says Samyule, breathlessly, "I'm a

conservative, and--." Here Samyule tumbled over something and fell flat

on his stomach.

"By all that's blue!" says Villiam, frantically, "why the thunder don't

somebody shoot that unnatural dog!"

I looked, my boy, and beheld it was my frescoed canine, Bologna, who

had run between the legs of the fallen warrior, with the remains of a

captured Confederate chicken. I whistled, my boy, and the faithful

creature angled towards me with mitigated ears.

"I'm supporting the Constitution," repeated Samyule, rising to his feet

and examining a small, black bottle to see if anything had spilt, "I'm

a conservative, and have left the field to restore this here misguided

contraband to his owner, which is a inoffensive rebel. War," says

Samyule, convincingly, "does not affect the Constitution."

"Ah!" says Villiam, "that's very true. Take the African chasseur to his

proper master, and tell him that the United States does not war against

the rights of man."

Now it happened, my boy, that the withdrawal of this force to carry out

the Constitution, so weakened the Advance Guard, that the Southern

Confederacy commenced to gain ground, and Villiam was obliged to form

Company 3, Regiment 5, in line immediately, for a charge to the rescue.

He got the splendid _corps_ to leave the distillery where they were

quartered, for a few minutes, and says he:

"There's beings for you, my nice little boy! Here's veteran centurions

for you."

"Yes," says I, admiringly. "I never saw so many red noses together

before, in all my life."

"Ah!" says Villiam, dreamily, "there's nary red about them, except

their noses. And now," says Villiam, "you will see me lead a charge

destined to cover six pages in the future history of our distracted

country."

"Soldiers of the Potomac!" says Villiam, drawing his sword, and hastily

sharpening it on the left profile of his geometrical steed, "your

comrades are engaging nine hundred and fifty thousand demoralized and

routed rebels, and you are called upon to charge bayonets. Follow me."

Not a man moved, my boy. Many of them had families, and more were

engaged to be married to the women of America. They were brave but not

rash.

Villiam drew his breath, and says he: "The United States of America,

born on the Fourth of July, 1776, calls upon you to charge bayonets,

Come on, my brave flowers of manhood!"

Here a fearless chap stepped out of the ranks, and says he: "In

consequence of the heavy dew which fell this morning, the roads is

impassable."

Villiam remained silent, my boy, and drooped his proud head. Could

nothing induce those devoted patriots to strike for the forlorn hope?

Suddenly, a glow of inspiration came over his face, he rose in his

saddle like a flash, waved his sword toward the foe, and shouted--

"I know you now, my veterans! The day is hot, yonder lies our road,

and--my peerless Napoleons," said Villiam, frenziedly:

"COME AND TAKE A DRINK!"

In an instant I was blinded with a cloud of dust, through which came

the wild tramp and fierce hurrahs of Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel

Brigade. The appeal to their finer feelings had carried them by storm,

and they charged like the double-extract of a compound avalanche. I was

listening to their cheers as they drove the demoralized foe before

them, when a political chap came riding post-haste from Paris, and says

he:

"How many voters have fallen?"

Before I could answer him, my boy, the triumphant Mackerels came

pouring in, just in time to meet the General of the Mackerel Brigade,

who had just rode up from a village in the rear, with an umbrella over

his head to keep off the sun.

"My children," says the general, kindly, as their shouts fell upon his

ears, "you have sustained me nobly this day, and we will enjoy the

thanks of our grateful country together. I thank you, my children."

Here the political chap threw up his hat, and says he: "Hurroar for the

Union! My fellow-beings," says the political chap, glowingly, "I

announce the idolized General of the Mackerel Brigade for President of

the United States in 1865."

"Ah!" says Villiam--he would have said more, but at that moment his

horse's legs became entangled in something, and both horse and rider

went to grass. I looked, my boy, and behold, it was my frescoed dog

Bologna, who had run against the geometrical steed of the warrior in

pursuit of an army biscuit. I whistled, my boy, and the docile

quadruped shrunk toward me with criminal aspect.

And so, the unblest cause of treason has received a decisive blow. The

end approaches; but I can't say which end, my boy--I can't say which

end.

Yours, martially,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

LETTER L.

REMARKING UPON A PECULIARITY OF VIRGINIA, AND DESCRIBING COMMODORE

HEAD'S GREAT NAVAL EXPLOIT ON DUCK LAKE, ETC.

WASHINGTON, D.C., June 15th, 1862.

Early in the week I trotted to the other side of the river on my gothic

steed Pegasus, and having lent that architectural pride of the stud to

a thoughtful individual, who wished to make a sketch of his facade, I

took a branch railroad for a circuitous passage to Paris, intending to

make one stoppage on the way. The locomotive was about two-saucepan

power, my boy, and wheezed like a New York Alderman at a free lunch.

First we stopped at a town composed of one house, and that was a depot.

"What place is this?" says I to my fellow passenger, who was the

conductor, and was reading the _Tribune_, and was swearing to himself.

"It's Mulligan's Court-House, the Capital of Sally Ann County," says

he, and again took out the bill I had paid my fare with to see if it

was good.

I took another branch road here, and we snailed along to another town,

composed of a wood-pile. "What place is this?" says I to my

fellow-traveller, the brakeman. "It's Abednego Junction, the capital of

Laura Matilda County," says he, sounding my quarter on his seal ring to

make sure that it was genuine. Now, as London, the city I was going to,

happened to be the capital of Anna Maria County, my boy, I made up my

mind that the sacred soil had as many metropolises as railways.

"Virginia," says a modern Southern giant of intellect, "is one grand

embodied poem."

I believe him, my boy; for, like a poem, Virginia appears to have a

capital at the commencement of every line.

Reaching London, and brushing past a crowd of our true friends the

contrabands, whose cries of anguish upon hearing that I had brought

them no plum-pudding, were truly harrowing, I pushed forward to the new

Union paper, the London Times, with whose editor I had business.

Just as I entered the office, my boy, there rushed out in great rage an

exasperated southern Union man. Having no gun about the house to pick

off our pickets as they came into town, he borrowed a barber's pole and

stuck it out of the window, proclaimed himself an oppressed Unionist,

had a meeting of his family to elect him to the United States Congress

from Anna Maria County, and made a thrilling Union address to two

contrabands from his back-stoop. He wound up this great speech, my boy,

by saying:

"Young men, it is your duty to fight for the Union, which has caused us

all so many tears. If any young man's wife would fain dissuade him, let

him say to her, in the language of the poet,

"'I could not love thee, dear, so much,

Loved I not Honor more!'"

This touching peroration was sent in manuscript to the London Times,

and this is the way it appeared in that intellectual American journal:

"Young hen, it is your duty to fight for the Onion, which has caused us

all so many tears. If any young man's wife would fain dissuade him, let

him say to her, in the language of the poet:

"'I could not love thee, dear, so much,

Loved I not Hannah More.'"

When the southern Union man read this twistification, he put his paper

where his wife couldn't see it (she being a very jealous woman), and

went out to cowhide the editor. He cowhided him, by frantically placing

the cowhide in the editor's hands, and then running his back repeatedly

against the weapon. Typographical errors have a unique effect in

reports of killed and wounded, my boy; but they knock the Promethean

blaze out of eloquence.

Having transacted my business with the editor, and read a dispatch,

just received from a Gentleman of Eminence, stating that Beauregard,

who was at Okolonna, had a force of 120,000 men; but that Halleck would

probably succeed in putting the entire 80,000 to flight before

Beauregard could return from Richmond; though it was currently reported

that the rebels were sixty thousand strong, and General Pope must be

expeditious if he wanted to capture the whole 10,000 before General

Beauregard got back from the Shenandoah valley; I turned to the editor,

and says I:

"How does newspaper business pay now, my gifted Censor?"

He sighed, as he shoved a demijohn further under his desk, and says he:

"There's only one newspaper in the world that pays now, sonny:

"What's that?" says I.

"The Paris _Pays_," says he.

I left him immediately, my boy. Ordinary depravity don't affect me, for

I have known several Congressmen in my time; but I can't stand abnormal

iniquity.

Arriving at Paris I found that a recent shower had made Duck Lake

navigable, and Commodore Head was preparing his fleet to attack a

secession squadron, which some covert rebel had built during the night

for the purpose of annoying the Mackerels in Paris.

"Batter my plates!" says the commodore, cholerically, "I could capture

that poor cuss easily, if I only had a proper pilot."

As Duck Lake is only about four yards wide at a freshet, my boy, your

ignorance may suggest no sufficient reason for a pilot in such a case;

but you are no martial mariner, my boy.

Luckily the man for the place was at hand. On Wednesday, a glossy

contraband, in a three-story shirt-collar, and looking like a fountain

of black ink with a strong wind blowing against it, came into Paris,

and surrendered to Captain Villiam Brown.

"Ha!" says Villiam, replacing the newspaper that had just blown off

from two lemons and a wicker flask on the table, "what says our cousin

Africa?"

"Mars'r Vandal," says the faithful black, earnestly, "I hab important

news to combobicate. I knows all de secrets of de rebel Scratchetary of

the Navy. True as you lib, Mars'r Vandal, so help me gad, I'se de

coachman of de pirate Sumter."

"Ah!" says Villiam, cautiously, "tell me, blessed shade, what has a

coachman got to drive on board a vessel?"

The true-hearted contraband modestly eyed a wonder of the insect

kingdom which he had just removed from his hair, and says he:

"I drove de ingine, mars'r."

That was enough, my boy. Having learned from this intelligent creature

what the rebel Secretary was going to have for dinner next Sunday, and

what the Secretary's wife said in her letter to her mother, Villiam

ordered him to act as pilot on the Mackerel Fleet.

And now let me draw a long breath before I attempt to describe that

terrific and sanguinary naval engagement, which proved conclusively

what Europe may expect, if Europe bother us with any more bigodd

nonsense.

Having ballasted with mortar, my boy, to seem more naval, the

unblushing commodore mounted his swivel-gun at the bow of the Mackerel

Fleet, and selected for his gunner and crew a middle-aged Mackerel

chap, whose great fondness for fresh fish made him invaluable for ocean

service.

"Crack my turret!" says the commodore, as the Fleet pushed off amid the

cheers of Company 4, Regiment 1, Mackerel Brigade; "I'll take that

craft by compound fracture. Belay the starboard ram there, you

salamander, and take a reef in the grating. Up with the signal--two

strips of pig iron rampant, with a sheet of tin in the middle."

All this was splendidly performed by the crew, my boy, who trimmed the

rudder, did the rowing, and tended the gun--all at once. The craft

fairly flew through the water in the direction of the rebel craft,

whose horse-pistol amidship still remained silent.

It was an awfully terrific and sublime sight, my boy. I shall never

forget it, my boy, if I live till I perish.

The faithful colored pilot sat in the stern of the Fleet, examining

some silver spoons which he had found somewhere in the Southern

Confederacy, and we could see the noble old commodore mixing something

that steamed in the fore-sheets.

Two seconds had now passed since our flotilla had started, and the

hostile squadrons were rubbing against each other. We were expecting to

see our navy go through some intricate manoeuvre before boarding,

when the Mackerel crew accidentally dropped a spark from his pipe on

the touch-hole of the swivel; and bang! went that horrid engine of

destruction, sending some pounds of old nails right square into the

city of Paris.

Simultaneously, four-and-twenty foreign Consuls residing near Paris got

up a memorial to Commodore Head, protesting against any more firing

while any foreigners remained in the country, and declaring that the

use of gunpowder was an outrage on civilized warfare and the rights of

man. They tied a stone to this significant document and threw it to

Commodore Head, who instantly put the Mackerel crew on half rations and

forbid smoking abaft the big gun.

Meanwhile the enemy had wounded our brave pilot on the shins with his

oar, and exploded his horse-pistol in an undecided direction, with such

dreadful concussion that every glass in Commodore Head's spectacles was

broken.

It was at this dreadful crisis of the fight that the gay Mackerel crew

leaned over the side of our fleet, placed one hand on the inside of the

enemy's squadron, and with the other, regardless of the shower of

old-bottles and fish-bones flying about him, deliberately bored a small

hole, with a gimlet, through the bottom of the adversary. At about the

same moment the commodore touched off the swivel-gun at the enemy's

rudder, and threw one of his boots against the rear stomach of the

rebel captain.

This sickening carnage might have lasted five minutes longer, had not

the Confederate squadron sunk in consequence of the gimlet-hole. Down

went the doomed craft of unblest treason, and in another moment the

officer and crew of her were in the water, which reached nearly to

their knees, imploring our fleet not to let them drown.

Oh, that sight! the thrilling yet terrifying and agonizing grandeur of

that dreadful moment! shall I ever forget it--ever cease to hear those

cries ringing in mine ears? I'm afraid not, my boy--I'm afraid not.

The Commodore rescued the sufferers from a watery grave; and having

been privately informed by them that the South might be conquered, but

never overcome, brought them ashore by the collars.

Need I describe how our noble old nautical sea-dog was received by the

Mackerel Brigade? need I tell how the band whipped out his key-bugle

and played all the triumphant airs of our distracted country, and

several original cavatinas?

But, alas! my boy, this iron-plate business is taking all the romance

out of the navy. How different is the modern from

THE ANCIENT CAPTAIN.

The smiles of an evening were shed on the sea,

And its wave-lips laughed through their beardings of foam;

And the eyes of an evening were mirrored beneath

The shroud of the ship and her home.

And as Time knows an end, so that sea knew a shore,

Afar in a beautiful, tropical clime,

Where Love with the Life of each being is blent,

In a soft, psychological Rhyme.

Oh, grand was the shore, when deserted and still

It breasted the silver-mailed hosts of the Deep!

And like the last bulwark of Nature it seemed,

'Twixt Death and an Innocent's sleep.

But grander it was to the eyes of a knight,

When clad in his armor he stood on the sands,

And held to his bosom its essence of Life--

An heiress of titles and lands.

Ah, fondly he gazed on the face of the maid!

And blush-spoken fondness replied to his look;

While heart answered heart with a feverish beat,

And hand pressed the hand that it took.

"Fair lady of mine," said the knight, stooping low,

"Before I depart for the banquet of Death,

I crave a new draught from the fountain of Life,

Whose waters are all in thy breath.

"The breast that is filled with thine image alone,

May safely defy the dread tempest of steel;

For while all its thoughts are of love and of thee,

What peril of Self can it feel?"

He paused; and the silence that followed his words,

Was spread like a Hope, 'twixt a Dream and a Truth;

And in it, his fancy created a world

Wrought out of the dreams of his youth.

Then shadows crept over the beautiful face

Turned up to the sky in the pale streaming light,

As shadows sweep over the orient pearl,

Far down in the river at night.

"You're going," she said, "where the fleets are in leash,

Where plumed is a knight for each wave of the sea;

Yet all the wide Ocean shall have but One wave,

One ship and One sailor for me!"

He left her, as leaveth the god of a dream

The portals that close with a heavier sleep;

And then, as he sprang to the shallop in wait,

The rowers pushed off in the Deep.

When a captain leaves his lady-fair nowadays, my boy, he's not an

economical man if he don't destroy his life-insurance policy, and defer

making his will.

Yours, navally,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

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.

WASHINGTON, D.C., June 23d, 1862.

Not wishing to expire prematurely of inanity, my boy, I started again

last Sunday for Paris, where I took up my quarters with a dignified

conservative chap from the Border States, who came on for the express

purpose of informing the Executive that Kentucky is determined this war

shall be carried on without detriment to the material interests of the

South, otherwise Kentucky will not be answerable for herself. Kentucky

has married into the South, and has relations there which she refuses

to sacrifice. What does the Constitution say about Kentucky? Why, it

don't say anything about her. "Which is clear proof," says the

conservative chap, violently, "that Kentucky is expected to take care

of herself. Kentucky," says he, buttoning his vest over the handle of

his bowie-knife. "Kentucky will stand no nonsense whatsomever."

I have much respect for Kentucky, my boy; they play a good hand of Old

Sledge there, and train up a child in the way he should go fifty

better; but Kentucky reminds me of a chap I once knew in the Sixth

Ward. This chap hired a room with another chap, and the two were

engaged in the dollar-jewelry business. Their stock in trade was more

numerous than valuable, my boy, and a man couldn't steal it without

suffering a most painful swindle; but the two dilapidaries were all the

time afraid of thieves; and at last, when a gentleman of suspicious

aspect moved into the lower part of the house, and flavored his

familiar conversation with such terms as "swag," "kinchin," and

"coppers," the second chap insisted upon buying a watch-dog. The first

chap said he didn't like dogs, but if his partner thought they'd better

have one, he would not object to his buying it. The second chap bought

a sausagacious animal in white and yellow, my boy--an animal covered

with bark that pealed off in large pieces all night long. The first

chap found he couldn't sleep much, and says he:

"If you don't kill that ere stentorian beast we'll have to dissolve

pardnership."

His partner took a thoughtful chew of tobacco, and says he:

"That intelligent dorg is a defending of your property as well as mine,

and if we put up with his strains a little while longer, the chap down

stairs will understand the hint and make friends."

With that the first chap flamed up, and says he:

"I sold a breast-pin to the chap down stairs the other day, and found

out that he considers the dollar-jewelry business the same by nature as

his own. I'm beginning to think we misjudged him, and I can't have no

dog kept here to worry him. Our lease of these here premises don't say

anything about keeping a dog," says the chap, reflectively, "nor our

articles of pardnership, and I refuse to sanction the dog any longer."

So the dog was sent to the pound, my boy, and that same night the

burglarious gentleman downstairs walked off with the dollar-jewelry, in

company with the first chap, leaving the poor second chap to make

himself uselessly disagreeable at the police-office, and set up an

apple-stand for support.

Far be it from me, my boy, to say that certain Border States are like

the first chap; but if Uncle Sam should happen to be the second chap

let him hold on to the watch-dog.

Speaking of dogs, I must tell you about a felis-itous canine incident

that occurred while I was at Paris. Early one morning, the Kentucky

chap and I were awakened by a great noise in the hall outside our door.

Presently an aged and reliable contraband stuck his head into the room,

and says he:

"I golly, mars'r, dar's a big fight goin' on in dis yar place."

At the word, my boy, we both sprang up and went to the door, from

whence we beheld one of those occurrences but too common in this

dreadful war of brother against brother.

Face to face in the hall stood my frescoed dog, Bologna, and the

regimental cat Lord Mortimer, eyeing each other with looks of deadly

hatred and embittered animosity. High in air curved the back of the

enraged Mortimer, and his whiskers worked with intense wrath; whilst

the eloquent tail of the infuriated Bologna shot into the atmosphere

like a living flag-staff.

"Oh-h-h! How-now?" ejaculated Bologna, throwing out his nose to

reconnoitre the enemy's first line.

"'Sdeath!--'Sdeath!" hastily retorted Mortimer, skirmishing along in

his first parallel with spasmodic clawing.

And now, my boy, commenced a series of scientific manoeuvres that only

Russell, of the _London Times_, could describe properly. Lord Mortimer

advanced circularly to the attack in four columns, affrighting the air

with horrid yells of defiance; and I noticed, with a feeling of

mysterious awe, that his eyes had turned a dreadful and livid green,

whilst an expression of inexpressible bitterness overspread his

countenance.

Fathoming the enemy's plan at a glance, Bologna presented his front and

rear divisions alternately, to distract the fire of the foe; and then,

by a rapid and skillful flank movement, cut off a portion of Lord

Mortimer's tail from the main body.

This reminded me of General Mitchell's tactics, my boy.

Here the conservative Kentucky chap wanted to stop the fight. Says he:

"Mortimer will be forever alienated if he loses any more of his tail. I

protest against the dog's teeth," says he; "for they'll render future

reconciliation between the two impossible. Let him use his paws alone,"

says the conservative chap, reasoningly, "and he won't injure

Mortimer's constitution so much."

"You're too late with your talk about conciliation, my noble Cicero,"

says I. "It's the cat's nature to show affection for his young ones,

even, by licking them, and Mortimer will never be convinced that

Bologna cares for him until he has been soundly licked by him."

"Ah--well," says the Kentucky chap, vaguely, "let hostilities proceed."

Finding that the enemy had cut off a portion of his train in the rear,

Mortimer quickly massed his four columns and precipitated them upon the

head of Bologna's two front divisions, succeeding in destroying a bark

half launched, and driving him back four feet.

"Hurroar for Mortimer!" says the Kentucky chap; and then he burst into

the Conservative Virginia National Anthem:

"John Smith's body lies a-mouldering in the grave,

'Twas him that Pocahontas risked her father's wrath to save;

And unto old Virginia certain Chivalry she gave,

That still go scalping on!"

"Calm your exultation, my impulsive Catiline," says I, "and behold the

triumph of Bologna."

Undaunted by the last claws of the foe's argument, my boy, the frescoed

dog hurled back the torrent of invasion, and, with a howl of triumph,

charged headlong upon Mortimer's works, routing the foe, who retreated

under cover of a cloud of fur.

I looked at the conservative Kentucky chap, my boy, and I could see by

his expression that it would be useless for me to ask of him a

contribution toward rewarding Bologna with a star-spangled kennel. He

still felt neutral, my boy.

I had intended to remain in Paris all the week; but on receiving a

telegraphic dispatch from the General of the Mackerel Brigade to attend

a Strawberry Festival he was about to give in this city, I hastened

hither. For I am very fond of the gay and festive strawberry, my boy,

on account of its resemblance to one of the hues in our distracted

banner.

The Strawberry Festival was given in an upper room at Willard's, and

the arrangement of the fruit would have provoked an appetite in a

marble statue. At short intervals around the table were strawberries in

fours, supported by pedestals of broken ice, which was kept in position

by a fluid of pleasing color, and walled in by a circular edging of

thin glass. Strips of lemon and oranges garnished the rich fruit, and

from their midst sprang up a dainty mint plant, and a graceful hollow

straw.

When the festival was in full operation, my boy, the General of the

Mackerel Brigade arose to his feet, and waved his straw for silence.

Says he:

"My children, though this strawberry festival is ostensibly for the

purpose of encouraging fruit culture by the United States of America,

it has yet a deeper purpose. The democratic party," says the general,

paternally, "is about to be born again, and it is time to make

preparation for the next Presidential election in 1865. I must go to

Albany and Syracuse, and see the State Conventions; after which I must

attend to the re-organization of the party in New York city. Then I go

to Pennsylvania to do stump duty for a year; and from thence, to--"

Here a serious chap, who had taken rather too much Strawberry Festival,

looked up, and says he:

"But how about the war all that time?"

"The war!--the war!" says the general, thoughtfully. "Thunder!" says

the general, with such a start that he spilt some of his Festival, "I'd

really forgotten all about the war!"

"Hum!" says the serious chap, gloomily, "you're worth millions to a

suffering country--_you_ are."

"Flatterer!" says the general blandly.

"Yes," says the chap, "you're worth millions--with a hundred per cent

off for cash."

_In vino veritas_ is a sage old saying, my boy, and I take it to be a

free translation of the Scripture phrase, "In spirit and in truth."

Our brigadiers are so frequently absent-minded themselves, my boy, that

they are not particularly absent-minded by the rest of the army.

Upon quitting the Strawberry Festival I returned post-haste again to

Paris, where I arrived just in time to start with Captain Bob Shorty

and a company from the Conic Section of the Mackerel Brigade on a

foraging expedition. We went to look up a few straw-beds for the

feeding of the Anatomical Cavalry horses, my boy, and the conservative

Kentucky chap went along to see that we did not violate the

Constitution nor the rights of man.

"It's my opinion, comrade," says Captain Bob Shorty, as we started

out--"it's my opinion, my Union ranger, that this here unnatural war is

getting worked down to a very fine point, when we can't go out for an

armful of forage without taking the Constitution along on an ass. I

think," says Captain Bob Shorty, "that the Constitution is as much out

of place here as a set of fancy harness would be in a drove of wild

buffaloes."

Can such be the case, my boy--can such be the case? Then did our

Revolutionary forefathers live in vain.

Having moved along in gorgeous cavalcade until about noon, we stopped

at the house of a First Family of Virginia who were just going to

dinner. Captain Bob Shorty ordered the Mackerels to stack arms and draw

canteens in the front-door yard, and then we entered the domicil and

saluted the domestic mass-meeting in the dining-room.

"We come, sir," says Bob, addressing the venerable and high-minded

Chivalry at the head of the table, "to ask you if you have any old

straw-beds that you don't want, that could be used for the cavalry of

the United States of America."

The Chivalry only paused long enough to throw a couple of pie-plates at

us, and then says he:

"Are you accursed abolitionists?"

The conservative Kentucky chap stepped hastily forward, and says he:

"No, my dear sir, we are the conservative element."

The Chivalry's venerable wife, who was a female Southern Confederacy,

leaned back a little in her chair, so that her little son could see to

throw a teacup at me, and says she:

"You ain't Tribune reporters--be you?"

"We were all noes and no ayes." Quite a feature in social intercourse,

my boy.

The aged Chivalry caused three fresh chairs to be placed at the table,

and having failed to discharge the fowling-piece which he had pointed

at Captain Bob Shorty, by reason of dampness in the cap, he waved us to

seats, and says he:

"Sit down, poor hirelings of a gorilla despot, and learn what it is to

taste the hospitality of a Southern gentleman. You are Lincoln hordes,"

says the Chivalry, shaking his white locks, "and have come to butcher

the Southern Confederacy; but the Southern gentleman knows how to be

courteous, even to a vandal foe."

Here the Chivalry switched out a cane which he had concealed behind

him, and made a blow at Captain Bob Shorty.

"See here," says Bob, indignantly, "I'll be--"

"Hush!" says the conservative Kentucky chap, agitatedly, "don't

irritate the old patriarch, or future amicable reconstruction of the

Union will be out of the question. He is naturally a little provoked

just now," says the Kentucky chap, soothingly, "but we must show him

that we are his friends."

We all sat down in peace at the hospital board, my boy, only a few

sweet potatoes and corn-cobs being thrown by the children, and found

the fare to be in keeping with the situation of our distracted

country--I may say, war-fare.

"In consequence of the blockade of the Washington Ape," says the

Chivalry, pleasantly, "we only have one course, you see; but even these

last-year's sweet potatoes must be luxuries to mercenary mud-sills

accustomed to husks."

I had just reached out my plate, to be helped, my boy, when there came

a great noise from the Mackerels in the front door-yard.

"What's that?" says Captain Bob Shorty.

"O, nothing," says the female Confederacy, taking another bite of

hoe-cake, "I've only told one of the servants to throw some hot water

on your reptile hirelings."

As Captain Bob Shorty turned to thank her for her explanation, and

while his plate was extended, to be helped, the aged Chivalry fired a

pistol at him across the table, the ball just grazing his head and

entering the wall behind him.

"By all that's blue," says Captain Bob Shorty, excitedly, "now I'll

be--"

"Be calm--now, be calm," says the conservative Kentucky chap, hastily,

"don't I tell you that it's only natural for the good old soul to be a

little provoked? If you go to irritate him, we can never live together

as brethren again."

Matters being thus rendered pleasant, my boy, we quickly finished the

simple meal; and as Captain Bob Shorty warded off the carving-knife

just thrown at him by the Chivalry's little son, he turned to the

female Confederacy, and says he:

"Many thanks for your kind hospitality; and now about that straw bed?"

The Virginia matron threw the vinegar-cruet at him, and says she:

"My servants have already given one to your scorpions, you nasty

Yankee."

"Of course," says the venerable Chivalry, just missing a blow at me

with a bowie-knife, "of course, your despicable Government will pay me

for my property!"

"Pay _you_!" says Captain Bob Shorty, hotly, "now I'll be--"

"Certainly it will, my friend," broke in the conservative Kentucky

chap, eagerly, "the Union troops come here as your friends; for they

make war on none but traitors."

As we left the domicil, my boy, brushing from our coats the slops that

had just been thrown upon us from an upper window, I saw the Chivalry's

children training a fowling-piece from the roof, and hoisting the flag

of the Southern Confederacy on one of the chimneys.

And will it be possible to regain the love of these noble people again,

my boy, if we treat them constitutionally? We shall see, my boy, we

shall see.

Yours, for further national abasement,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

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.

WASHINGTON, D.C., June 25th, 1862.

How beautiful is Old Age, my boy, when it neither drinks nor swears.

There is an oily and beneficent dignity about fat Old Age which

overwhelms us with a sense of our crime in being guilty of youth. I

have at last been introduced to the Venerable Gammon, who is all the

time saying things; and he is a luscious example of overpowering Old

Age. He is fat and gliding, my boy, with a face that looks like a full

moon coming out of a sheepskin, and a dress indicating that he may be

anything from a Revolutionary Forefather to the patriarch of all the

Grace Church sextons. I can't find out that he ever did anything, my

boy, and no one can tell why it is that he should treat everybody in

office and out of it in such a fatherly and fatly condescending manner;

but the people fairly idolize him, my boy, and he is all the time

saying things.

When I was introduced to the Venerable Gammon he was beaming

benignantly on a throng of adoring statesmen in the lobby of Congress,

and I soon discovered that he was saying things.

"Men tell us that this war has only just commenced," says the Venerable

Gammon with fat profundity, "but they are wrong. _War is like a stick,

which has two ends--the end nearest you being the_ BEGINNING."

Then each statesman wanted the Venerable Gammon to use _his_

pocket-handkerchief; and five-and-twenty desperate reporters tore

passionately away to the telegraph office to flash far and wide the

comforting remarks of the Venerable Gammon.

Are we a race of unsuspecting innocents, my boy, and are we easily

imposed upon by shirt-ruffles and oily magnitude of manner? I believe

so, my boy--I believe so.

Speaking of Congress; I attended one of its sittings the other day, my

boy, and was deeply edified to observe its manner of legislating for

our happy but distracted country.

The "Honorable Speaker" (_ne_ Grow) occupied the Chair.

Mr. PODGERS (republican, Mass.) desired to know if the tax upon Young

Hyson is not to be moderated? Speaking for his constituents he would

say that the present rate was entirely too high to suit any grocer--

Mr. STAGGERS (conservative, Border State) wished to know whether this

body intended to legislate for white men or niggers? His friend, the

pusillanimous scoundrel from Massachusetts, chose to oppose the tax on

Young Hyson because--to use his own words--it would not "suit a negro,

sir--"

Mr. PODGERS thought his friend from the Border State was too hasty. The

phrase he used was "_any grocer_."

Mr. STAGGERS withdrew his previous remark. We were fighting this war to

secure the Constitution and the pursuit of happiness to the misguided

South, and he accepted his friend's apology.

Mr. FIGGINS (democrat, New Jersey) said that he could not but notice

that everything all the Honorable gentlemen had said during this

session was a fatal heresy, destructive of all Government, degrading to

the species, and an insult to the common sense of his (Figgins')

constituents. His constituents demanded that Congress should set the

country at rights before Europe. It would appear that at the least

imperious sign from Europe, the American knee grows--

Mr. JUGGLES (con., Border State) desired to inquire of the House

whether the great struggle in which we are now engaged is for the

benefit of the Caucasian race or the debased African? His friend, the

puling idiot from New Jersey, had seen fit to remark that the American

negroes--

Mr. FIGGINS denied that he had spoken at all of negroes. He was about

to say, that at the slightest behest of Europe "the _American knee

grows flexible to bend_."

Mr. JUGGLES wished it to be understood that he was satisfied with his

Honorable friend's explanation. He would take something with the

Honorable Gentleman immediately after adjournment.

Mr. CHUNKY (rep., New Hampshire) was anxious to inquire whether it was

true, as stated in the daily papers, that General McDowell had been

ordered to imprison all the Union men within his lines on suspicion of

their being Secessionists, and place a guard over the property of the

Secessionists, on suspicion of their being Union men? If so, he would

warn the Administration that it was cherishing a viper which would

sting it:

"The rose you deftly cull-ed, man,

May wound you with its thorn,

And--"

Mr. WADDLES (Union, Border State) protested against the decency of a

Constitutional body like Congress being insulted with the infamous and

seditious abolition doggerel just quoted by his friend, the despicable

incendiary from New Hampshire. We were waging this war solely to put

down treason, and not to hear a rose, the fairest of flowers, mentioned

in the same breath with the filthy colored man--

Mr. CHUNKY was sorry to observe that his Honorable friend had

misunderstood his language. The line he had used was simply this:

"The rose you deftly _cull-ed, man_."

Mr. WADDLES was glad that his valued friend from New Hampshire had

apologized. He had only taken exception to what he considered a fatal

heresy.

That was enough for me, my boy, and I left the hall of legislation; for

I sometimes become a little wearied when I hear too much of one thing,

my boy.

I mentioned my impression to the Venerable Gammon, and says he:

"Congress is the soul of the nation. Congress," says the Venerable

Gammon, with fat benignity, "_is something like a wheel, whose spokes

tend to tire_."

He said this remarkable thing in an overtowering way, my boy, and I

felt myself to be a crushed infant before him.

Early in the week, I took my usual trip to Paris, and found Company 3,

Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, making an advance from the further shore

of Duck Lake, for sanitary reasons. It was believed to be detrimental

to the health of the gay Mackerels to be so near a body of pure water,

my boy, for they were not accustomed to the element.

"Thunder!" says the general, brushing off a small bit of ice that had

adhered to his nose, "they'll be drinking it next."

Captain Samyule Sa-mith was ordered to command the advance; but when he

heard that the Southern Confederacy had two swivels over there, he was

suddenly taken very sick, and cultivated his bed-clothes.

When the news of the serious illness of this valiant officer got

abroad, my boy, there was an immediate rush of free and enterprising

civilian chaps to his bedside.

One chap, who was an uncombed reporter for a discriminating and

affectionate daily press, took me aside, and says he:

"Our paper has the largest circulation, and is the best advertising

mejum in the United States. As soon as our brother-in-arms expires,"

says the useful chap, feelingly, "just fill up this printed form and

send it to me, and I will mention you in our paper as a promising young

man."

I took the printed form, my boy, which I was to fill up, and found it

to read thus:

"BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE LATE ----.

"This noble and famous officer, recently slain at the head of his

---- (I put the word 'bed' in this blank, my boy), was born at ----

on the ---- day of ----, 1776, and entered West Point in his ----

year. He won immortal fame by his conduct in the Mexican campaign,

and was created brigadier-general on the -- of ----, 1862."

These printed forms suit the case of any soldier, my boy; but I didn't

entirely fill this one up.

Samyule was conversing with the chaplain about his Federal soul, when a

tall, shabby chap made a dash for the bedside, and says he to Samyule:

"I'm agent for the great American publishing house of Rushem & Jinks,

and desire to know if you have anything that could be issued in

book-form after your lamented departure. We could make a handsome 12mo

book," says the shabby chap, persuadingly, "of your literary remains.

Works of a Union Martyr--Eloquent Writings of a Hero--Should be in

every American Library--Take it home to your wife--Twenty editions

ordered in advance of publication--Half-calf, $1.--Send in your

orders."

Samyule looked thoughtfully at the publishing chap, and says he:

"I never wrote anything in my life."

"Oh!" says the shabby chap, pleasantly, "anything will do--your early

poems in the weekly journals--anything."

"But," says Samyule, regretfully, "I never wrote a line to a newspaper

in all my life."

"What!" says the publishing chap, almost in a shriek--"never wrote a

line to a newspaper? Gentleman," says the chap, looking toward us,

suspiciously, "this man can't be an American." And he departed hastily.

Believing, my boy, that there would be no more interruptions, Samyule

went on dying; but I was called from his bedside by a long-haired chap

from New York. Says the chap to me:

"My name is Brown--Brown's Patent Hair-Dye, 25 cents a bottle. Of

course," says the hirsute chap, affably, "a monument will be erected to

the memory of our departed hero. An Italian marble shaft, standing on a

pedestal of four panels. Now," says the hairy chap, insinuatingly, "I

will give ten thousand dollars to have my advertisement put on the

panel next to the name of the lamented deceased. We can get up

something neat and appropriate, thus:

[Illustration:

WE MUST ALL DIE;

BUT

BROWN'S DYE IS THE BEST]

"There!" says the enterprising chap, smilingly, "that would be very

neat and moral, besides doing much good to an American fellow-being."

I made no reply, my boy; but I told Samyule about it, and it excited

him so that he regained his health.

"If I can't die," says the lamented Samyule, "without some advertising

cuss's making money by it, I'll defer my visit to glory until next

season."

And he got well, my boy--he got well.

I was talking to the chaplain about Samyule's illness, and says the

chaplain:

"I am happy to say, my fellow-sinner, that when our beloved Samyule was

at the most dangerous crisis, he gave the most convincing proof of

realizing his critical condition."

"How?" says I, skeptically.

"Why," says the chaplain, with a Christian look, "when I told our

beloved Samyule that there could be little hope of his recovery, and

asked him if his spiritual adviser could do anything to make his

passage easier, he pressed my hand fervently, and besought me to see

that he was buried _with a fan in his hand_."

Can it be, my boy, that the soul of a Mackerel will need a fan in

another world? Let us meditate upon this, my boy--let us meditate upon

this!

Yours, seriously,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.