Seated upon the lounge where _he_ so often had rested, with her elbows
resting upon the table on which _his_ arms had so frequently reposed,
sat the afflicted LIBBY. She had heard her paternal leave the house an
hour before, and she had just heard the sound of his boots in the hall
below as he returned; but she felt no desire to learn the reason
thereof. Like her mother, she had seen the account of MR. PETERS'
arrest in the morning paper, and her bewilderment at the statement
respecting the device used to entrap that persecuted youth by a
Daughter of the South, was only equalled by her grief at the
unfortunate present predicament of her lover. So absorbed was she in
her sorrows that she heard not the opening of the parlor door below
her, nor the sound of footsteps on the stairs:--
"Miss ORDETH!"
Was it a dream? The beautiful mourner turned quickly in the direction
of the sound, and beheld the bodily presentment of Mr. BOB PETERS, who
stood near the door with his shocking bad hat between his hands and an
expression of stern reproach upon his countenance.
"BOB!--you here?" exclaimed the maiden, starting from her seat with a
little shriek.
"Mr. PETERS, if you please, Madame," said the late captive, with much
dignity. "Owing to a great spread of Union sentiment in the bosom of
your paternal relative, and his consequent representation in my behalf,
I _am_ here, to blast you with the sight of the innocence you have
betrayed! I slipped up here to confront you, Madame," observed Mr.
PETERS, with some ease of manner, "while the old ones were packing the
silver-plated spoons preparatory to a combined movement on the peaceful
hamlet of Danville."
"What do you mean, you ridiculous thing?" asked LIBBY, scarcely
believing her own ears.
"That we must part," returned Mr. PETERS, calmly straightening an angle
in the rim of his hat. "You named an hour for my nocturnal
escape--quarter-past Twelve. I fled the Residence at that unseemly
hour, though another maiden had previously invited me to liberty and
the pursuit of happiness. I went, and walked straight into the arms of
the unsleeping Southern Confederacy, who was inebriated at the time,
and conducted me to the penal pork-packing establishment. Enough! we
part. I go to Danville with you, but only as an ordinary acquaintance
of chilling reserve."
"Why BOB, what can you mean?" ejaculated _Libby_, to whom this
remarkable speech was not particularly lucid; "it was not my fault that
you were taken. If you had gone at quarter-past Twelve, as I told you,
all would have been well. Oh, BOB, when JOCKO told me next morning that
he had waited for you a whole hour in the hall in vain, and when ma and
I found that you had really gone at the wrong time, I sat right down
and cried my eyes out."
"The wrong time!" exclaimed Mr. PETERS, striding suddenly toward the
mirror. "Impossible! Observe this repeater of mine, which is a reliable
time-piece. On the night in question, this repeater was plainly before
me, hanging on this gas bracket, before this looking-glass." Here Mr.
PETERS illustrated his assertion by suspending his watch from the
bracket, under which it spun feebly for a moment. "At the very instant
of my waking from a temporary slumber, I caught sight of this same
repeater in the glass, and--why! what's this?"
In a moment every vestige of resentment had faded from the features of
Mr. BOB PETERS, and he stood staring at the reflection of his watch in
the glass with the look of a man in the last stage of wonder.
LIBBY timidly drew near and placed a hand on his arm.
"What's the matter, dear?"
"What time is it now by the repeater?" asked Mr. PETERS, excitedly, but
without moving his eyes.
"Why, it's ten minutes past Ten," replied LIBBY, glancing at the face
of the watch as it appeared in the mirror, and wondering what would
come next.
"Look again!!" thundered Mr. PETERS.
"Why," repeated LIBBY, half-frightened, "it's ten minutes past Ten."
Mr. BOB PETERS deliberately took down his watch and pointed
convulsively at its face with one finger. The time was ten minutes _of_
Ten!
Mr. PETERS' first act was to clasp the maiden to his bosom and kiss her
unceremoniously. Then releasing her, he took two steps in a popular
break-down and burst into a stentorian peal of laughter.
"I shall have to call Pa," said poor LIBBY.
"Not a bit of it!" shouted BOB, ceasing his Terpsichoreanism for a
moment; "don't you see the joke? It's all in the looking-glass, my pet.
When I thought it was a quarter past Twelve and fled the residence, it
was really a quarter _of_ Twelve--don't you see? The looking-glass
_reversed the hands on the watch_!"
And so it was, _mon ami_. Hold your own time-piece with its face to a
mirror, and you will "see the point."
But what can excuse that General who, after leading the whole country
to expect that he would take Richmond in time for me to conclude this
picture of Southern life, as I originally planned to do, now changes
his base of operation in a strategic manner, and introduces a fizzle
into romantic literature----
* * * * *
Here Smith-Brown, who happened to be awake, coughed intrusively, my
boy, and says he:
"The fault is not the General's, my friend. The Secretary of War is
alone to blame for it. He has killed literature."
How true was that speech, my boy. The Secretary is indeed responsible
for this literary disaster, as well for everything else; and if he ever
undertakes to stand on his own responsibility, he will find plenty of
room to move about.
Yours, droopingly,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER LV.
SETTING FORTH A NEW VILLAINY OF THE INSIDIOUS BLACK REPUBLICANS,
AND DESCRIBING THE THRILLING CONSTITUTIONAL BATTLE OF DUCK LAKE.
WASHINGTON, D. C., July 12th, 1862.
Owing to the persistent stupidity of Congress and the
hideously-treasonable machinations of the unscrupulous black
republicans, my boy, the weather still continues very hot; and unless
the thermometer falls very soon, an exhausted populace will demand an
immediate change in the Cabinet. I am very warm, my boy--I am very
warm; and when I reflect upon the agency of the abolitionists, who have
brought this sort of thing about for the express purpose of injuring my
Constitution, I am impelled to ask myself: Did our revolutionary
forefathers indeed expire in vain? O my country! my country! it is very
warm.
Such weather, my boy, is particularly trying to Sergeant O'Pake's
friend,
THE IRISH PICKET.
I'm shtanding in the mud, Biddy,
With not a spalpeen near,
And silence, spaichless as the grave,
Is all the sound I hear.
Me gun is at a showlder arms,
I'm wetted to the bone,
And whin I'm afther shpakin' out,
I find meself alone.
This Southern climate's quare, Biddy,
A quare and bastely thing,
Wid Winter absint all the year,
And Summer in the Spring.
Ye mind the hot place down below?
And may ye niver fear
I'd dhraw comparisons--but then
It's awful warrum here.
The only moon I see, Biddy,
Is one shmall star, asthore,
And that's fornint the very cloud
It was behind before;
The watchfires glame along the hill
That's swellin' to the south,
And whin the sentry passes them
I see his oogly mouth.
It's dead for shlape I am, Biddy,
And dramein shwate I'd be,
If them ould rebels over there
Would only lave me free;
But when I lane against a shtump
And shtrive to get repose,
A musket ball he's comin' shtraight
To hit me spacious nose.
It's ye I'd like to see, Biddy,
A shparkin' here wid me
And then, avourneen, hear ye say,
"Acushla--Pat--machree!"
"Och, Biddy darlint," then says I,
Says you, "get out of that;"
Says I, "me arrum mates your waist,"
Says you, "be daycent, Pat."
And how's the pigs and ducks, Biddy?
It's them I think of, shure,
That looked so innocent and shwate
Upon the parlor flure;
I'm shure ye're aisy with the pig
That's fat as he can be,
And fade him wid the best, because
I'm towld he looks like me.
Whin I come home again, Biddy,
A sargent tried and thrue,
It's joost a daycent house I'll build
And rint it chape to you.
We'll have a parlor, bedroom, hall,
A duck-pond nately done,
With kitchen, pig-pen, praty-patch,
And garret--all in one
But, murther! there's a baste, Biddy,
That's crapin' round a tree,
And well I know the crature's there
To have a shot at me.
Now, Misther Rebel, say yere prayers,
And howld yer dirthy paw,
Here goes!--be jabers, Biddy dear,
I've broke his oogly jaw!
I was talking some moments ago with a Regimental Surgeon, who has more
patients on a monument than Shakspere ever dreamed about, and says he:
"In consequence of the great number of troops now about this city, all
the oxygen in the atmosphere is exhausted, and we are very warm. Had
all these troops been sent to McClellan two weeks ago," says he, using
his lancet to pick a dead fly out of his tumbler, "we might be able to
keep cool now. There is a terrible responsibility on somebody's
shoulders."
That's very true, my boy, and it's very warm.
There was a panic this morning in financial circles, owing to the
frantic conduct of a gambling chap from the Senate, who has been saving
up money to bet on the fall of Richmond, and was trying to put it out
at interest. "I'll take seven per cent. for it the first year," says
he, anxiously, "and leave it standing until national strategy comes to
a head."
A broker took it for five years, my boy, with the privilege of
extending the time after each fresh victory.
Speaking of victories, my boy, I was present at the recent series of
triumphs by the Mackerel Brigade, on the left shore of Duck Lake, and
witnessed a succession of feats calculated to culminate either in the
fall of Richmond or the fall of the year.
From the head-quarters in the city of Paris to the brink of Duck Lake,
the Mackerels were drawn up in gorgeous line of battle, their bayonets
resembling somewhat an uncombed head of steel hair, and their noses
looking like a wavy strip of summer sunset. By their last great
stragetical manoeuvre, they had lured the Southern Confederacy to court
its own destruction by flanking them at both ends of the line, and they
were only waiting for the master-mind to give them the signal.
Samyule Sa-mith advanced from this place in the staff as I rode up, and
says he:
"Comrades, the General depends on you to precede him to glory. We had
hoped," says Samyule, feelingly, "to have the company of two French
counts in this day's slaughter; but those two noble Gauls had not time
to wait, as they desired to visit the Great Exhibition in London."
These remarks were well received, my boy; and when the order was given
for Company 3, Regiment 5, to detour to the left, it would have been
promptly obeyed but for an unforeseen incident. Just as Captain Villiam
Brown was about to break line for the purpose, an aged chap came
dashing down from a First Family country-seat near by, and says he to
the General of the Mackerel Brigade:
"I demand a guard for my premises immediately. My wife," says he, with
dignity, "has just been making a custard-pie for the sick Confederacies
in the hospital, and as she has just set it out to cool near where my
little boy shot one of your vandals this morning, she is afraid it
might be taken by your thieving mudsills when they came after the body.
I, therefore, demand a guard for my premises, in the name of the
Constitution of our forefathers."
Here Captain Bob Shorty stepped forward, and says he:
"What does the Constitution say about custard pie, Mr. Davis?"
The aged chap spat at him, and says he:
"I claim protection under that clause which refers to the pursuit of
happiness. Custard pies," says he, reasoningly, "are included in the
pursuit of happiness."
"That's very true," says the General, looking kindly over his fan at
the venerable petitioner. "Let a guard be detailed to protect this good
old man's premises. We are fighting _for_ the Constitution, not against
it."
A guard was detailed, my boy, with orders to make no resistance if they
were fired upon occasionally from the windows of the house; and then
Captain Villiam Brown pushed forward with what was left of Company 3,
to engage the Confederacy on the edge of Duck Lake, supported by the
Orange County Howitzers. Headed by the band, who played patriotic airs
as soon as he could shake the crumbs out of his key-bugle, the
cavalcade advanced to the edge of the lake and opened a heavy salute of
round shot and musketry on the atmosphere, whilst Commodore Head kept
up a hot fire at the horizon with his iron-plated fleet and swivel gun.
Only waiting to finish a game of base ball, in which they had been
engaged, four regiments of Confederacies, at whom this deadly assault
was directed, threw aside their bats and ball dresses, put on their
uniforms, loaded their muskets and batteries, and sent an iron shower
in all directions. Greatly demoralized by this unseemly occurrence, a
file of Mackerels under Sergeant O'Pake immediately threw down their
muskets and knapsacks, emptied their pockets upon the ground, piled
their neckties in a heap, and were making a rapid retrograde movement,
when Villiam suddenly threw himself in their path, and says he:
"Where are you going to, my fearless eaglets?"
"Hem!" says the sergeant, with much French in his manner, "we thought
of visiting the Great Exhibition in London."
"Ah!" says Villiam, understandingly, "you have acquired French in one
easy lesson, and--"
Here an orderly rode up with an order for the Mackerels to fall back
from the edge of the Lake immediately, leaving their artillery,
bayonets, havelocks, and baggage behind them; and Villiam was obliged
to conduct the movement, which was a part of the strategical scheme of
the General of the Mackerel Brigade. As we retreated back into Paris,
my boy, we were joined by the Conic Section, and shortly after by the
Anatomical Cavalry, both of which had succeeded in leaving all their
accoutrements on the field.
As we all rushed together before head-quarters in perfect order, and
while the Confederacy was eating some provisions, which we had
refrained from bringing off the late scene of conflict, the General of
the Mackerel Brigade came from under a tree, where he had been tanning
himself, and says he:
"My children, we have whipped them at all points, and the day is ours."
"Ah!" says Villiam, abstractedly, "the day is hours."
"My children," says the General, in continuation, "we have pushed the
enemy to the wall without fracturing the Constitution, and have only
put the war back six months. We can say with pride, my children, that
we belong to the Army of Duck Lake, and shall have no more Bull Runs.
My children, I love you. Accept my blessing."
We were reflecting upon this soul-stirring speech, my boy, and silently
admiring the strategy which had brought us all together again so soon,
when the sound of drum and fife called our attention to a club of
political chaps who had just arrived by steamer from the Sixth Ward,
and were filing past us to a platform recently erected in the very
centre of Paris.
"I do believe," says Captain Bob Shorty, whisperingly, "I do believe
we're going to have a mass meeting."
Onward went the political chaps to the platform.
A delegation mounted the steps, advanced to the front rails, and
commenced unfurling a vast linen banner. The sun was just setting, my
boy, and as his parting beams fell upon the uplifted faces of the
political chaps, a soft breeze unrolled the standard, and the Mackerels
read upon its folds--
REGULAR CONSERVATIVE NOMINATION
FOR
PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES
IN 1865.
THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.
Shall it be said, after this, that republics are ungrateful? I think
not, my boy--I think not. We have won a great and glorious victory, and
the only question remaining to be answered is, Who is responsible for
it, my boy--who is responsible for it?
Yours, in bewilderment,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER LVI.
WHEREIN ARE PRESENTED SOME FEMININE REFERENCES, AN ANECDOTE BY THE
EXECUTIVE, AND CERTAIN NOTES OF A VISIT TO THE FESTIVE
SHENANDOAH VALLEY.
WASHINGTON, D. C., July 19th, 1862.
Permit me to return thanks through your mail, my boy, for a large
feather fan recently consigned to my address by one of the admiring
Women of America. It looks like a tail freshly plucked from a
large-sized American eagle, and is decorated with a French-plate mirror
in the centre and other French plates around the edges. The
kind-hearted woman of America (who writes from Boston) says in her
presentation note--"I admire to see a fan in the hands of the sterner
sex; for it shows that the same hero-fist that grasps the sword has
enough inherent gentleness to wave the cooling bauble. Such is life.
The hand which falls like a hundred pounds of granite on the flinty eye
of his ke-yuntery's foes has the softness of a blessing when it
caresses the golden head of plastic childhood.
Yours, gushingly, Zephyrina Percy."
I find the "cooling bauble" very useful to brush the flies from my
gothic steed Pegasus, my boy, and am a fanatic "to this extent, no
more."
And here is what another young woman of America says to me in a note:
"My ma requests me to tell you that you ought to be ashamed of
yourself, you hateful thing, for encouraging the vulgar people to be in
favor of this nasty war, that is causing their superiors so much
trouble, and has driven away the opera, and made enemies of those nice
Southerners, with their beautiful big eyes and elegant swearing. Why
don't you advocate a compromise, or a Habeas Corpus, or some other
paper with names to it, and get Mr. Lincoln to stop the Constitution
and order the war to be ended before there's any more assassinations
and things? My pa was once a leather banker, and sold shoes for
plantation servants, and made a great deal of money by it; but now he's
a captain, or a surveyor, or some ridiculous thing, of the Home Guard,
and may be massacred in cold blood the first time there's a battle in
our neighborhood. My pa has to go to drill every night, and when he
comes home in the morning he's so worn out with exhaustion that I've
known him to lay right down in the hall and shed tears. My ma often
says, that if Beauregard, or Palmerston, or any other foes should
attack our house while pa is in that state, it would kill her dead. And
I know it would make me so nervous that I should be a perfect fright
for a week. My brother, Adolphus, has likewise joined the Home Guard,
and has already had a bloody engagement with a Southerner named Tailor,
who used to sell him clothes when the two sections were at peace.
Adolphus says if it hadn't been for his double-quick, or some
ridiculous military thing or other, he would have been made a prisoner.
It makes me sick to see how much lowness there is about Adolphus since
he joined the ridiculous army; he calls his dinner 'rations,' and
addresses me as 'Corporal Lollypop,' (the absurd thing!) and calls ma's
crinoline a 'counter-scarp.'
"My pa says that he shall have to sell the carriage and the beautiful
dog-cart if this hateful war don't end by the first of next month; and
when I asked him yesterday if we couldn't have the gothic villa next to
the Jones's at Newport this summer, he actually swore! The Joneses, you
know, are very pleasant, sociable, vulgar sort of people, with a little
money; and it would kill me to see them putting on airs over us because
we didn't happen to take a cottage with bow-windows like them. My pa
says that old Jones has got a contract to make clothes for the
soldiers, and has made a great deal of money by manufacturing coats and
other ridiculous things out of blue paper instead of cloth. Augustus
Jones says if he don't meet me at Newport this summer he will enlist as
soon as he comes back; and it would be just like the absurd creature to
do it. I don't see why pa can't get out an indictment or something
against the blockade, and call on the postmaster or some other
ridiculous thing to send his new stock of plantation shoes to Alabama
under a guard, and bring back the money. I don't see the use of living
in a republic if one can't do that much. My ma says that you newspaper
people could stop the dreadful war if you would only advocate
compromises and things, and not be so ridiculous. Why can't you leave
out some of those absurd advertisements, and publish an article telling
Mr. Lincoln that the war is ruining society? If it continues much
longer, I shall have to wear my last year's bonnet a whole month, and
I'd rather die. Do say something absurd, you ridiculous thing."
Have the war stopped right away, my boy,--have the war stopped right
away.
Matters and things here are still in a strategic condition, and naught
has disturbed our monotony, for a week, save a story they tell about
the Honest Old Abe. It seems that two of the conservative Border State
chaps, who are here for the express purpose of protesting against
everything whatever, had a discussion about the Honest Abe, and one
chap bet the other chap five dollars that he couldn't, by any possible
means, speak to the President without hearing a small anecdote.
"Done!" says the other chap, gleefully, "I'll take the bet."
That very same night, at about twelve o'clock, he tore frantically up
to the White House, and commenced thundering at the door like King
Richard at the gates of Ascalon. The Honest Abe stuck his night-capped
head out of the window, and says he:
"Is that you, Mr. Seward?"
"No, sir," says the Border State chap, glaring up through the darkness.
"I'm a messenger from the army. Another great strategic movement has
taken place, and our whole army have been taken prisoners by the
Southern Confederacy. In fact," says the conservative chap,
frantically, "the backbone of the rebellion is broken AGAIN."
"Hem!" says the Honest Abe, shaking a musquito from his nightcap, "this
strategy reminds me of a little story. There was a man, out in Iowa,
sat down to play a game of checkers with another man, inducing his
friends around him to lend him the change necessary for stakes. He
played and he played, and he lost the first game. Then he played much
more cautiously, and lost the next game. His friends commenced to
grumble; but, says he: 'Don't you worry yourselves, boys, and I'll show
you a cute move pretty soon.' So he played, and he played, and he lost
the third game. 'Don't be impatient, boys,' says he; 'you'll see that
great move pretty soon, I tell you.' Then he played with great care,
taking a long time to consider every move, and, by way of change, lost
the fourth game. Close attention to what he was about, and much minute
calculation, also enabled him to lose the fifth game. By this time his
friends had lent him all their change, and began to think it was time
for that great move of his to come off. 'Have you any more change?'
says he. 'Why, no,' says they. 'Then,' says he, with great spirit, 'the
time for that move I was telling you about has come at last.' As he
commenced to rise from his chair, instead of continuing to play, his
cleaned-out friends bethought themselves to ask him what that famous
move was? 'Why,' says he, pleasantly, 'it's to move off for a little
more change.'"
At the conclusion of this quaint tale, my boy, the Border State chap
fled groaning to his quarters at Willard's, stuck a five-dollar
Treasury Note under the pillow of the other Border State chap, and
immediately took the evening train for the West.
Such is the story they tell, my boy; but I'm inclined to accept it
merely as a work of fiction, with a truthful moral. Certain it is, that
as strategy increases, small change grows scarcer, and it is the
general opinion that no small change is needed in military matters.
In company with a patriotic democratic chap, who had come up from New
York, for the express purpose of seeing that the negroes of the
Southern Confederacy were not permitted to inform our forces of the
movements of the enemy in contravention of the Constitution, I made a
reconnoissance in force, on Monday, to the festive Shenandoah Valley.
On our way thither, the democratic chap was greatly bitten by
musquitos, for which he justly blamed the black republicans, who are
trying to break up this Government, and on our arrival near Winchester,
we stumbled upon a phlegmatic fellow-man in a swallow-tailed coat and
green spectacles, who was seated on a stone by the roadside, reading
the "Impending Crisis." The democratic chap passed on, swearing, to the
nearest camp; but I paused before this interesting student.
"Well, old swallow-tails," says I, affably, "what are you doing in this
section?"
He looked up at me with great severity of countenance, and says he: "I
have come here, young man, to agitate the Negro Question; to open
African schools; and, peradventure, to start a water cure
establishment."
"What for?" says I.
"For the love of my species," says he, eagerly, "and for any little
contract in the way of red breeches and spelling books that may be
required for the reclaimed contrabands?"
Was this a case of purely disinterested philanthropy? Perhaps so, my
boy, perhaps so; but the old swallow-tails reminded of a chap I once
knew in the Sixth Ward. He was a high toned moral chap of much
shirt-collar, with a voice that sounded like a mosquito in the bottom
of a fish-horn, and a chin like a creased apple-dumpling. Years before
he had married a Southern crinoline and talked about the glories of
slavery in a polished and high-moral way; but as there happened just
then to be a chance for him to run for alderman on the abolition
ticket, he experienced a change of heart, and addressed a meeting on
the evils of human bondage: "My friends," says he, patting his stomach
in a heartfelt manner, "I once lived at the South and owned slaves; but
never could I feel that it was right. My pastor would say to me: 'These
men-slaves are black, you say; but have they not the same feelings with
you, the same features--only handsomer?' I felt this to be so, my
friends; I commenced to appreciate the enormity of holding human souls
in bondage."
Here a susceptible venerable maiden in the audience became so
overpowered by her emotions, that she placed her head in the lap of a
respectable single gentleman, and fainted away.
"My friends," continued the high-toned moral chap, "I could not bear
the stings of conscience; my nights were sleepless, but I slept during
the day. There was I, pretending to be a Christian, yet holding men and
women as chattels! Heavens himself was outraged by it, and I resolved
to make a sacrifice for the sake of principle--to cease to be a
slaveholder! I called my slaves together: I addressed them paternally
and piously, and then I--(here the great, scalding tears rolled down
the cheeks of the orator, and the audience sobbed horribly)--I bade
them be good boys and girls, and then I--SOLD EVERY ONE OF THEM!"
* * * * *
There was a movement of the audience toward the door. Men and women
went out silently from the place, exchanging covert glances of
smothered agitation with each other. Only one person remained with the
orator. It was an old file with a blue umbrella, who had occupied a
back seat and paid breathless attention to all the performances. After
the others had left the hall, he walked deliberately from his seat to
where the high-toned moral chap was still standing, and gazed into the
face of the latter with an expression of unmitigated wonder. He then
walked twice around him; having done which he confronted him again,
thumped the ferule of his umbrella on the floor, and says he: "Well!"
The old file paused an instant, and then says he: "well, I'll be dam,"
and waddled precipitately from the place.
I've often thought of it since then, my boy; and I've always wondered
why it was that the solitary old file with the blue umbrella should say
that he be dam.
To return to Western Virginia; I found, upon my arrival in one of the
camps near Winchester, that the patriotic democratic chap was making
arrangements to divide the army there into Wards, instead of regiments,
in order, as he said, that the returns might come in systematically.
"For instance," says he, "suppose that in the skirmish with the
Confederacy which is going on just ahead of us, we should lose--say
seventy-five votes; how much easier it would be to say; the 'Fourth
Ward shows a decrease since last year of seventy-five Republicans',
than to say that such a regiment, of such a brigade, of such a
division, has lost so and so?"
I was reflecting upon this novel and admirable way of putting it, my
boy, when an orderly came tearing in, with a report of the skirmishing
going on.
"Ha!" says the patriotic chap to him; "how does the canvas proceed?"
"Well," says the orderly, breathlessly, "Banks' outpost has lost twenty
votes in the Tenth Ward by desertions, and has thirty double-votes
wounded; but I think Banks can still keep neck-and-neck with McDowell."
"You do, hey?" says the patriotic chap, in great excitement. "Then
McDowell must not lend Banks a single vote. Tell him to keep his Ward
Committees under cover until Banks gets through with his canvas; for if
he takes part in that, and the election results in a victory over the
Confederacy, Banks will get all the credit of it, and win the card in
the next Nominating Convention."
So McDowell's votes didn't re-enforce Banks in the skirmish, my boy,
and Banks lost much popularity by being worsted, by the Confederacy.
As soon as the firing had ceased, I went out to meet some of the
returning Wards, and came plump upon the swallow-tail chap, who was
agitating the negro question in a corner of the late battle-field,
surrounded by fugitive contrabands.
"Friend of the human race," says I, "how now?"
"Young man," says he, hastily tying a red silk pocket-handkerchief
about his head, "I am teaching these oppressed beings to spell, having
extemporized a college on the very scene of their recent emancipation."
"How far have the collegians progressed?" says I.
"They have got," says he, "to their a-b, abs. Thus; a-b, ab; o-abo; l-i
li, aboli; t-i-o-n shun--abolition."
Shameful to relate, my boy, the swallow-tailed chap had no sooner said
this, than a cavalry ward came charging helter-skelter, right through
the college, tumbling the faculty into the mud, and bruising several
sophomore graduates. Simultaneously, the patriotic democratic chap
appeared on the scene, and insisted upon it that the contrabands should
be immediately returned to the Southern Confederacy, as this is a white
man's war. "Otherwise," says he, cholerically, "future reconciliation
and reconstruction will be impossible."
Fearful that I should become confused a little if I remained there any
longer, my boy, I at once retired from the place, in company with two
sick votes, who were going home on furlough, and reached this city
again in good order.
Almost the first fellow-being I met on my return was a seedy and
earnest chap from New York, who was worth about a quarter in ready
money, and had come to Washington post-haste to pledge the Empire
State's last dollar, and last drop of blood for the vigorous
prosecution of the war.
"See here, my self-denying Brutus," says I, as we took Richmond
together at the bar, "who commissioned you to pledge so much as all
that?"
"To tell the truth," says the seedy chap, confidentially, "it's all
I've got left to pledge. I pledged my pinchbeck chronometer for three
dollars," says he, sadly, "just before I left New York; and I'm trying
this pledge on speculation."
I have sometimes feared, my boy, that our Uncle Samuel's concern is
turning into a pawnbroking establishment on a large scale, where they
make advances on everything tangible and intangible, except Richmond,
my boy--except Richmond.
Yours, with a presentiment,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER LVII.
SUGGESTING MENTAL RELAXATION FOR A TIME, AND INTRODUCING A FAMILIAR
SKETCH OF THE WAR-STRICKEN DRAMA IN THE RURAL DISTRICTS.
WASHINGTON, D. C., July 23d, 1862.
Yesterday morning, my boy, I refreshed myself by a lounge across Long
Bridge to the fields about Arlington Heights, where blooming Nature
still has verdant spots untrampled by the iron heel of strategic war.
How pleasant is it, my boy, to escape occasionally from the society of
Congressmen and brigadiers, and take a lazy sprawl in the fragrant
fields. It is the philosopher's way of enjoying Summer's
DOLCE FAR NIENTE.
I.
Still as a fly in amber, hangs the world
In a transparent sphere of golden hours,
With not enough of life in all the air
To stir the shadows or to move the flowers;
And in the halo broods the angel Sleep,
Wooed from the bosom of the midnight deep
By her sweet sister Silence, wed to Noon.
II.
Held in a soft suspense of summer light,
The generous fields with all their bloom of wealth
Bask in a dream of Plenty for the years,
And breathe the languor of untroubled Health.
Without a ripple stands the yellow wheat,
Like the Broad Seal of God upon the sheet
Where Labor's signature appeareth soon.
III.
As printed staves of thankful Nature's hymn,
The fence of rails a soothing grace devotes,
With clinging vines for bass and treble cleffs
And wrens and robins here and there for notes;
Spread out in bars, at equal distance met,
As though the whole bright summer scene were set
To the unuttered melody of Rest!
IV.
Along the hill in light voluptuous wrapt
The daisy droops amid the staring grass,
And on the plain the rose and lily wait
For Flora's whispers, that no longer pass;
While in the shade the violet of blue
Finds in the stillness reigning nature through,
That which her gentle modesty loves best.
V.
The mill-wheel motionless o'ershades the pool,
In whose frail crystal cups its circle dips;
The stream, slow curling, wanders in the sun
And drains his kisses with its silver lips;
The birch canoe upon its shadow lies,
The pike's last bubble on the water dies,
The water lily sleeps upon her glass.
VI.
Here let me linger, in that waking sleep
Whose dreams are all untinged with haunting dread
Of Morning's finger on the eyelids pressed,
To rouse the soul and leave the vision dead.
And while deep sunk in this soft ecstasy
I count the pulse of Heaven dreamily,
Let all life's bitterness behind me pass!
VII.
How still each leaf of my oak canopy,
That holds a forest syllable at heart,
Yet cannot stir enough in all its veins
To give the murmured woodland sentence start!
So still--so still all nature far and near,
As though the world had checked its breath to hear
An angel's message from the distant skies!
VIII.
This one last glance at earth--one, only one--
To see, as through a vail, the gentle face
Bent o'er me softly, with the timid love
That half distrusts the sleep which gives it grace.
The thought that bids mine eyelids half unclose
Fades to a dream, and out from Summer goes,
In the brown Autumn of her drooping eyes.
Thus irregular in rhythm and vagrant in measure, my boy, are the
half-sleeping thoughts of a summer noon in Virginia; and it was fully
an hour before I could summon enough strength of mind to peruse a
letter recently consigned to me by a rustic chap in my native village.
This chap describes to me what he calls the "Downfall of the Dramy,"
and says he:
The Dramy is a article for which I have great taste, and which I prefer
to prayer-meeting as a regular thing. Since the time I wore breeches
intended to facilitate frequent spankings, I have looked upon
theatrical artiks with a speeshees of excitement not to be egspressed.
I was once paying teller to a barber artik who shaved a great
theatrical artik, and although the theatrical artik never could pay for
his shaving until he drew his celery, he always frowned so splendidly
when he turned down his collar, and said: "What ho! there Figaro," that
my infant mind yearned to ask him for a few tickets to the show.
This great respek for the dramy has grown with my hair, and since this
high old war has desolated the dramy, my buzzom has been nothing else
but a wilderness of pangs. The other evening, my fren--which is
courting a six story house with a woman in the title deed--called at my
shattoe, and proposed that we should wander amid the ruins of the
dramy. "It's rejooced to a skellington," says he, quite mournful, "and
its _E pluribus Onion_ is gone down into the hocean wave." As my friend
used this strong egspression, he tried to wink at me, but didn't get
farther than a hik-cup. Arm in-arm, like two Siamese-twins in rejooced
circumstances, we walked in speechless silence to what was formerly the
entrance half of a theatre in the pallermy days of the dramy. It was
like the entrance to the great desert of Sary, and as we groped our way
through the grass to the ticket office, I observed six wild geese and a
raccoon in a jungle that was a umberella stand in the pallermy days.
The treasurer was entirely covered with cobwebs, which had been
accumulating since the day he last saw speshee, and when he at last
tore himself out, the sight of the quarter which I handed in sent him
into immediate convulsions.
"Excuse me," says he, "if I weep over this preshus coin; but the force
of old associations is too much for this affectionate heart."
He then sent a fly-blown little boy for a tumbler of brandy, and was
weeping into it copious when we emerged from his presence. Upon
entering the shattered temple of the dramy, we found a vetrun of 1812,
which the manager had hired to keep company with the man what lit the
gas, that artik having declared that if he was kept in solitude any
longer he should shoot himself from sheer melancholy. It was the
vetrun's business to keep moving from seat to seat until the
performance was over, so that the artful cuss of a manager could say
"every seat was okipied" in the next morning's newspaper. When the
manager, who was representing the orkestra with a comb wrapt in paper,
saw me and my fren, he paused in the middle of his overture, and said
we should have a private box, but that the families of his principal
artiks were keepin' house in the private boxes, and was rayther crowded
for room. Seeing me put my hand in my pocket, he said, tearful:
"Tellum me, I conjure ye, are there any such things as quarters in the
round world? It is now six months since I last mingled with the world,
and I really forget how many make a dollar."
Touched to the quick by his plaintiff tone, I drew forth a quarter, and
held it before his anguished vision. Never shall I forget how his eyes
was sot on that ravishing coin.
"Can it indeed be real?" says he, "or is it but a quarter of the mind?"
I was afeard he might come the "let me clutch thee" dodge if I inflamed
his imagination any longer; so I put it back into my pocket, and
axidently revealed the handle of my revolver.
When my fren had cut the damp grass away from one of the orchestra
seats with his jack-knife, we sat down and put up an umbrella to keep
off the dew. Being a little nervous, I asked the manager if there was
any snakes about; and he said he see a couple in the parroquet last
night, but didn't think they had got down to the orkestra yet. The
vetrun, which was the audience, stoppd chasing a bull-frog in the
vestibule when the manager struck up "Days of Abstinence" on his comb,
and immediately took his seat on chair No. 1, with which he always
commenced. The curting was then unpinned, and disclosed a scene in a
lumber-yard, with a heavy mortgage on it. The Count de Mahoginy is
discovered in the ak of leaving his young wife, who is seated on a pile
of shavings, for the purpose of obtaining immediate relief from the
Union Defence Committee. The vetrun received him with great applause,
and moved from seat to seat as though he was in a hurry to reach the
gallery. When the artik spoke, there was so much empty stomik in his
tones, that my fren said he seemed like a bean from another world. My
fren is a spiritualist. The artik then went off at the left entrance,
and immediately returned in the character of his own uncle, which had
come home from California with two millions of dollars, and wished to
give it to his affectionate nephew and niece. He found his niece in the
lumber-yard, and having heard her sad story, divulged his intention to
her and she immediately danced a Spanish _par_ (which is French), and
sung four songs in honor of the sixty-ninth regiment. Then the uncle
danced a hornpipe, which he learned on the hocean; and so they kept
agoin till about nine o'clock, when the countess said she heard her
husband coming. The uncle was so taken aback by this, that he
immediately made himself into a tableau representing the last charge of
the Fire Zouaves at Bull Run: and as the comb struck up "I'm a loan,
all a loan," the curtain was pinned up again. Just as the performance
ended, the manager explained that he could only aford to keep two
artiks--a male and female, and _they_ only stayed because he had a
mortgage on their wardrobes for over-drawed celery. "I'll light you to
the door," says he, taking up one of the foot-lights, which was a
turnip with a candle in it; "and I hope you'll come again when we
projooce our new play. It's called 'The gas man's last charge,' and
introjoces a real gas-meter and the sheriff."
My fren and I made no reply, but walked sadly from the ruins with tears
in our eyes.
The regular Drama, my boy, cannot hope to succeed, while the war which
now monopolizes all attention is believed by some critics to be a
regular farce.
Yours, tragically,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER LVIII.
SHOWING HOW THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE ISSUED AN AFFECTING
GENERAL ORDER; EXEMPLIFYING THE BEAUTIES OF A SPADE-CAMPAIGN AS
EXHIBITED IN STRATEGY HALL, AND CELEBRATING A NOTABLE CASE OF
NAVAL STRATEGY.
WASHINGTON, D. C., July 26th, 1862.
The high-minded and chivalrous Confederacy having refused to consider
itself worsted in our recent great strategic victory near Paris, my
boy, it only remained for the General of the Mackerel Brigade to
commence undermining the Confederacy, after the manner of a civil
engineer; and when last I visited the lines, I found a select
assortment of Mackerels engaged in the balmy summer pastime of digging
holes, and dying natural deaths in them.
There was one chap with an illuminated nose, who attracted my
particular attention by landing a spade-full of sacred soil very neatly
in my bosom, and says I to him:
"Well, my gallant sexton, how do the obsequies progress?"
"Beautiful," says he, pausing long enough to take a powder which the
surgeon had left with him. "We've just struck a large vein of typhoid
fever, and them air Peninsula veterans, which, you see in them holes
yonder, are already delirious with it. Really," says the chap, with an
air of quiet enjoyment, as he climbed into the hospital litter, just
sent after him--"really, there's a smart chance of pushing on our
cemetery to Richmond before the roads become impassable again."
I was looking after him, as the bearers carried him off, my boy, when I
saw Captain Villiam Brown ambling leisurely toward me on his
geometrical steed, Euclid, alternately perusing a paper which he held
in his right hand, and discussing a canteen in his left. The
countenance of the warrior was thoughtful, and his shovel swung
listlessly against the charger's flank.
"How now, my Jack of Spades?" says I, sportively.
"Ah!" says Villiam, slowly descending from the roof of his stallion,
and suffering the latter to lean against a tree, "here is a new
Proclamation for the moral refreshment of the United States of America.
Read this impartial edick," says Villiam impressively, "and you will
find it worthy of the Union Track Society."
I took the official parchment, my boy, and found inscribed upon it the
following affecting
GENERAL ORDER.
Whereas, the United States of America now finds himself engaged in an
unnatural struggle with the celebrated Southern Confederacy, for the
Union which our forefathers planted; and it being our object to show
the world that our intentions are honorable; it is hereby ordered, that
the Mackerel Brigade do take possession of all guns, pistols, and
howitzers previously fired at them by persons now in arms against this
government, keeping strict account of said weapons, in order that their
owners may be duly and amicably paid for them hereafter. It is further
ordered that persons of Mackerel descent, occupying the cultivated
grounds of the aforesaid Southern Confederacy, shall keep strict
account of the time spent upon the same, in order that reasonable rent
may be paid for the same as soon as the United States of America shall
resume specie payment.
By order of
THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.
GREEN SEAL, }
VINTAGE OF 1776.}
Having perused this document with much attention, I handed it back to
Villiam, and says I:
"In purity of moral tone, my hero, that paper is worthy the descendant
of 1776."
"1776!" says Villiam, reflectively. "Ah!" says Villiam, "it takes
strategy to revive recollections of those days. We have at least
seventeen hundred and seventy sick ones in our new hospital already.
Come with me," says Villiam, genially, "and we will survey the interior
aspeck of Strategy Hall."
Strategy Hall, my boy, is a fine airy hospital extemporized from a
barn, on the estate of a prominent Southern Union man, now commanding a
regiment of Confederacies. The house itself would have been taken, as
it had somewhat more roof than the barn, and a little more shade; but
when the General of the Mackerel Brigade learned that Washington had
once thought of taking a second mortgage on it, he gave orders that no
Mackerel should go within half a mile of the front door.
On entering Strategy Hall, I beheld a scene calculated to elevate
sickness into a virtue, and shed immortal lustre upon the kind-hearted
women of America. Comfortably stretched upon rails taken from
Confederate fences, and of which a strict account had been kept, with a
view to future compensation, were a whole section of the Mackerel
Brigade, in the full enjoyment of strategic health. Over each chap's
head hung his shovel, and a shingle inscribed with his name and
address. Thus, the shingle nearest me read: "Spoony Bill, Hose Company
123, New York Fire Department."
And woman--lovely woman! was there, administering hot drinks to the
fevered head, bathing with ice-water the brow of those shivering with
the cruel ague, pouring rich gruel over the chin and neck of the
nervous sufferer, and reading good books to the raving and delirious.
It was with a species of holy awe that I beheld one of those human
angels stand a hot coffee-pot upon the upturned face of one invalid,
while she hastily flew to fill the right ear of a more urgent sufferer
with cologne-water. And then to see her softly place one of the
portable furnaces upon a very sick Mackerel's stomach, while she warmed
the water with which his beloved head was presently to be shaved; and
to see her bending over to ask one of the more dangerously ill ones if
he would not like a nice fat piece of fresh pork, while the other end
of her crinoline was scraping the head of the Mackerel on the opposite
rail.
"O woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
By the light, quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish wring the brow
A ministering angel thou."
I could have remained here all day, my boy; for I found the berries,
ice-cream, and liquors, prepared for the patients, really excellent;
but Villiam hinted to me that a splendid piece of naval strategy was
just about to come off on Duck Lake, and I desired to witness our
national triumph on the ocean wave.
Having quitted Strategy Hall, I repaired to the shore of Duck Lake,
where numerous Mackerels were already watching Commodore Head's fleet
as it lay waiting for an expected rebel ram on the treacherous element.
It appeared that a lurking Confederacy in Paris had waited until the
Mackerels were all in their holes one day, and then hastily constructed
an iron-plated ram from an old dry-goods box and two cooking stoves.
With this formidable monster, he designed offering irregular opposition
to the Government in the way of killing a few vandal regiments, after
which he proposed to repair to the Confederate side of Duck Lake, and
send the particulars of his victory to Europe through some of the more
vigilantly blockaded Southern ports. He had completed his ram, my boy,
and hidden it under some hay on the Lake shore, ready to commence his
carnage when the time came; but one of the Mackerels happened to see it
when he went fishing, and Commodore Head was at once ordered to have
his iron-plated squadron in readiness to intercept and destroy the
monster when she should appear.
"Riddle my turret!" says the Commodore, in his marine manner, as he
sighted his swivel gun and placed his fishing-rod and box of bait near
his stool on the quarter-deck, "I feel like grappling with half-a-dozen
rams of chivalry--loosen my plates! if I don't."
And there we stood on that hot July afternoon, watching the noble craft
as she sat like a duck on the water, the Mackerel crew sitting aft
picking a marrow-bone, and the venerable Commodore tilted back on his
stool upon the quarter-deck, fishing for bass.
Presently we could see the treacherous Confederacy stealing down to
where his iron-plated monster lay hidden. Softly he removed the
covering of hay, and cautiously did he place the ram in the water,
carefully examining the priming of the old-fashioned blunderbuss he
carried under his arm, as he stepped into this new Merrimac, and
quietly raising his umbrella with one hand, while he paddled off with
the other.
The distance between our fleet and the spectator being fully two yards,
Villiam had thoughtfully provided bits of smoked glass for our party,
and we now brought them to bear upon the scene of approaching
slaughter. The Mackerel crew on board our squadron appeared to be
wholly absorbed in the pleasing experiment of following, with a straw,
the motions of a fly whose wings he had just pulled off, and Commodore
Head had fallen into a refreshing slumber in the midst of his fishing.
In fact, no means had been left unemployed to guard against a surprise.
Now, it happened that the nautical Confederacy did his paddling with
his back to the bow of his iron-plated monster, and before he knew it,
his ram went smack against the Mackerel fleet, with a sound like the
smashing of many dinner-plates. So tremendous was the shock, that the
stool upon which Commodore Head was tilted, gave way beneath his
weight, and he came down upon the deck with a crash like muffled
thunder. Simultaneously, the Confederacy discharged his blunderbuss two
points to windward, and would have followed up his advantage by
boarding at once; but by this time the Mackerel crew had recovered his
presence of mind, and poured such a shower upon the intruder from a
watering-pot which he found in the stern-sheets, that the latter
retreated in great disorder.
Meanwhile, our gallant old naval hero had regained his feet, and having
carefully put away his fishing tackle and box of bait, he made his
appearance on the starboard, with his spy-glass under one arm, his
speaking trumpet under the other, and his log-book between his teeth.
No sooner did the now thoroughly exasperated Confederacy behold his
venerable figure, than he hastily shut up his umbrella and violently
cracked him over the head with it, knocking off his spectacles, and
greatly damaging his new white hat.
"Batter my armor!" thundered the commodore, picking up his spectacles
and bending them straight again. "I don't want you to do that again."
"Scorpion!" roared the Confederacy, dropping his umbrella, and dancing
up and down in his ram, with his arms in a boxing attitude. "Come on,
base old being!"
"Then take thy doom," shrieked the maddened commodore, quickly striking
a match on the bottom of one of his boots, and touching off the swivel
gun. With a report like the explosion of a deadly pistol, the trusty
weapon hurled its contents about two inches above the head of the
Mackerel crew, wildly tearing off the cap of the latter, and shaking
the staunch craft from stem to stern.
Somewhat alarmed by this demonstration, the Confederacy commenced
shoving off with his ram, using his blunderbuss and umbrella as oars,
and singing the Southern Marseillaise.
"Out with the sculls and give chase!" ejaculated Commodore Head, in a
great perspiration. It was found, upon examination, that the sculls had
been left on shore, and it was further discovered that the Mackerel
fleet was aground; otherwise our victory would have been more complete.
With eyes strained to the utmost we were gazing upon all this from the
beach, when Villiam suddenly placed a hand upon my arm, and says he:
"Hark!"
We listened. There was a sound as of a faint human cry. It approached
nearer. We could distinguish words. Nearer and nearer. The words now
came clear and distinct to our quickened ears.
"Extry a-Her-rr-rr-ald, capture of Vicksburg and sinking of the rebel
ram by Commore Head!"
Since newspapers have become so plentiful in this once distracted
country, my boy, that even the babe shews them upon its mother's lap,
the poorest man is enabled to see instantaneously, through a glass as
it were, the most distant events--a glass, my boy, which makes things
appear much larger at a distance than they seem to those close by.
Yours, admiringly,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER LIX.
INSTANCING THE BENEFICENT DEPORTMENT OF THE VENERABLE GAMMON, AND
NOTING THE PERFORMANCE OF A REMARKABLE MORAL DRAMA BY CAPTAIN
VILLIAM BROWN.
WASHINGTON, D. C., August 2d, 1862.
Some enthusiasm was excited here in the early part of the week, my boy,
by the return of the Venerable Gammon from a visit to his aged family
at Mugville, whither he goes regularly once a month for the benefit of
the sagacious chaps of the press. A great blessing is the Venerable
Gammon to the palladium of our liberties, my boy; for no sooner does
our army cease to change its base of operations, and do other things
calculated to make the war interesting and lengthy, than he pulls out
his ruffles, sighs frequently, and melts away to Mugville. Then all the
sagacious press chaps rush to the telegraph office and flash feverish
paragraphs to the intelligent morning journals: "Highly
important--Sudden departure of the Venerable Gammon for Mugville to
attend the death-bed of a relative--Believed in military circles that
this indicates a change in the Cabinet--Border States delegation has
again waited on the President--More vigorous policy needed."
Whereupon the editors of all the intelligent morning journals
ecstatically print the paragraphs, affixing to them: "_Note by the
Editor._--Washington is a town in the so called District of
Columbia--situated on the Potomac. We infer from our correspondent's
dispatch that it has not yet been taken by the rebels."
American journalism, my boy, in presenting a vast amount of matter
daily, is eminently calculated to impress the youthful brain with a
keen sense of what a wide distinction there is between Mind and Matter.
Immediately on the return of the Venerable Gammon, he commenced saying
things, which made all the rest of mankind seem like withered children
in comparison with him. He was beaming genially on the throng at
Willard's, and says I to him:
"It would appear, my beloved _Pater Patria_, that military matters are
not quite as interesting as a woman with a headache just now."
The Venerable Gammon pitied my youth, and waved his hand fatly by way
of a silent blessing to all the world. "Military affairs," says he,
effulgently, "are like metaphysics. Military affairs," says the
Venerable Gammon, benignantly, "are like that which we do not
understand--they defy our comprehension and comprehend our defiance."
Then all the Congressmen looked at each other, as much as to say the
Union was saved at last; and I felt like a babe in the presence of the
great Behemoth of the Scriptures.
How the Venerable Gammon has anything at all to do with this war, I
can't find out, my boy, but when the affectionate populace learned that
the Venerable Gammon had returned from Mugville, they swarmed around
his carriage, and entreated him either to spit upon them, or save them
from slow decay by a speech. It was then the Venerable man raised his
hand in soothing benediction, and says he:
"My friends, you are young yet, and have much to learn concerning war.
I can only say to you, my friends, that all goes well with McClellan;
and, if you will only hasten to fill up old regiments, raise a few
thousand new ones, and go yourselves, the advance upon Richmond may
commence at any time."
The most enthusiastic cheering followed this comforting speech of the
Venerable Gammon, and six ecstatic chaps immediately offered to
volunteer as major-generals.
Shall we presume to talk of drafting, my boy, when there is such
readiness on the part of the people to lead the troops? I think not, my
boy, I think not. Let the draft be protested.
On Wednesday I again took a trip to Paris, accompanied by my frescoed
dog, Bologna, and found upon reaching that city that the Mackerel
Brigade had built itself a theatre, after the manner of Drury Lane, and
was about to partake of the rich intellectual drama. This chaste temple
might possibly be taken for a cowshed, my boy, by those who are not
conversant with architecture in one story. It occupies a spot which has
been rising ground ever since the Mackerels commenced to dig trenches
around it, and the front door is so spacious that you have to go all
around the building to find where it stops opening. The seats are
similar to those which are supposed to have been so popular with the
Count de Grasse and the stage is exquisitely extemporized from several
flour-barrels, with a curtain created from the flannel petticoats
recently belonging to the wife of the Southern Confederacy.
Passing over all intervening events, my boy, let me direct your special
attention to the night we celebrated, when I found myself occupying a
box (previously used for crackers) in the temple of the Muses,
surrounded by uniforms and dazzled by the glitter of the shovels worn
by the military celebrities present. In a box (marked "Sperm
Candles--First quality") on my right, I noticed a number of
distinguished persons whom I did not know, and to the left were grouped
several celebrated visitors with whom I was not acquainted. The stage
itself realized numerous brilliant footlights in the way of bottles
containing gorgeous tallow-dips; and when the orchestra brought out his
key-bugle and struck up the martial strain of "I want to be an Angel,"
there _was_ a dry eye in the house.
(Make a note of this last unparalleled fact, my boy; for you, nor any
other mortal man, ever heard of its occurrence before.)
The curtain having been taken down by a gentleman who had forgotten to
wash himself when the washstand went round last time, the play
commenced; and I found it to be
THE UNION AS IT WAS.
A HIGH MORAL DRAMA, IN ONE ACK.
BY CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN, ESKEVIRE.
The plot of this admirable work is very simple, my boy, and appeals to
those sentiments of the human heart which affect the liver. The scene
is laid in Washington, where it has been frequently seen, and the drama
opens with a fine
CONSERVATIVE CHORUS.
Abram, spare the South,
Touch not a single slave:
Nor e'en by word of mouth,
Disturb the thing we crave.
'Twas our forefather's hand
That Slavery begot;
There, Abram, let it stand
Thine Acts shall harm it not.
At the conclusion of this spirited National Anthem, the Border States
chaps who have been singing it are invited to have another interview
with the President, who has only seen them twice the same morning. As
they pass out, the celebrated Miss Columbia appears, wrapt in deep
thought and the American flag, and reading the twenty-third
proclamation for the current month. She asks her heart if she is indeed
divorced--if her once happy Union is indeed broken; and as her heart
refuses to answer any such common question, a doubt is allowed to
remain in the bosom of the spectator. In deep agony she kneels at the
monument of Washington and softly sings "Hail Columbia," while the
Southern Confederacy, who has just arrived, proceeds to plant batteries
all round her, assisted in the work by reliable contrabands. After some
moments spent in prayer for the repose of Secretary Welles, Columbia
discovered her surroundings, and is about to make a faint, when the
spirit of Napoleon appears, and tells her she has nothing to fear, as
he is about to change his base of operations, and take Richmond. He
tells her he would have taken it long before but for the Tribune. This
is a very fine scene--very fine. The spirit of Napoleon then proceeds
to pick up everything he can find and throw it over to the Southern
Confederacy, at the same time swinging himself around so that his left
fist may be presented to the enemy instead of his right, only pausing
long enough to drive back a reliable contraband who has started to
desert to him. Matters are progressing admirably, and the Confederacy
has only planted 24 more batteries around Columbia, when the
Conservative Chorus comes tearing back to the scene, with the news that
the President has determined to pay for all runaway slaves in
postage-stamps! This splendid stroke of policy so completely staggers
the Confederacy, that he only erects thirty-two more batteries, and
acknowledges that his back-bone is broken: Strange to say, Columbia
still labors under the delusion that she is in danger; but is finally
re-assured by the spirit of Napoleon, who convinces her that all is
going well, and at once draws his shovel and commences to dig a hole.
Columbia asks: "Wherefore this digging?" To which the response is:
"Our Union in its broken state
Is discord to the soul:
And therefore are we digging here
To make the Union hole."
The digging proceeds until the spirit of Napoleon is sunk deep into the
earth, when the Southern Confederacy deliberately steps over the hole
and captures Washington, at the same time ordering Columbia to black
his boots. Columbia would be utterly bereft of hope at this turn in
affairs but for the cheerful conduct of the Conservative Chorus, who
bid her rejoice that the good old times have come again. Columbia then
remembers that she did indeed black the boots of the Confederacy in the
good old times, and it suddenly flashes upon her that the Union is, in
truth, restored--AS IT WAS. A brilliant blue light is thrown upon the
scene, and as the curtain falls the Conservative Chorus are seen in the
act of taking all the credit to themselves and indignantly refusing to
pay their war taxes.
This affecting drama of real life was played entirely by gifted
Mackerels, my boy, the one who acted Columbia being possessed of a
voice as musical as that which sometimes comes from between the teeth
of a new saw.
When the last round of applause had subsided, and I was leaving the
theatre, I came upon the dramatist, Captain Villiam Brown, who appeared
to be waiting to hear what I had to say about his work. Says I to him:
"Well, my versatile Euripides, your play resembles the better dramas of
AEschylus, inasmuch as it is all Greek to me."
"Ah!" says Villiam, hastily assuming the attitude in which Shakspere
generally appears in his pictures. "Did I remind you forcibly of the
bard of Avon?"
"Yes," says I, kindly; "you might easily be taken for Shakspere--after
dark."
As I turned to leave him, my boy, I could not help thinking how often
the world will call a man a "Second" So-and-so, long before he has
anything like commenced to be first, even.
Yours, doubtingly,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER LX.
REPORTING THE SECOND REGULAR MEETING OF THE COSMOPOLITAN CLUB, AND
THE BRITISH MEMBER'S CITATION OF THE ENGLISH POETS.
WASHINGTON, D. C., August 5th, 1862.
This is a dull day, my boy; and when there is no longer any sunshine to
make steel bayonets and brass buttons glimmer to the eye, war is stript
of half its pomp, and the American mind takes a plain, practical view
of the strife.
Truth to tell, this secession is a very shabby, unromantic thing to
fight about. There is really no poetry at all about it, my boy, and
when one would rhyme about it, the mantle of poesy refuses to fall upon
him, though a bogus sort of Hood may possibly keep him in countenance.
The cause of this war is simply this--
PER SE.
Sepoys--sea-thieves--
C. Bonds--see slaves--
See seizures made in every kind of way;
See debts sequestrated--
Sea-island frustrated;
Segars--seditionists--and C. S. A.,
Seduced from honor bright--
Secluded from serenest Wisdom's light--
Sea-pent by ships of war--
Selected planters for the world no more;
Severely snubbed by all--
Secure to fall;
Sedately left alone by all who see
Seed poisonous sown in sectional retrogression;
See-saw diplomacy, sedition foui _per se_;
Sequel--that serio-comic scene--
SECESSION!
Speaking of poetry; I attended the meeting of the Cosmopolitan Club on
Monday night, and was much electrified by the treasures of British
literature unfolded by Smith-Brown. That double-chinned chap brought to
view a roll of manuscript, and says he:
"Instead of reading a story for your entertainment, gentlemen, I
propose to make you acquainted with the war-sentiments of a few of
Albion's poet's, as expressed in certain unpublished verses of theirs
which have privately come into my possession.
"First, let me commend to your attention some amiable rhymes by a bard
who knows more about this blarsted country than it knows about hitself":
A MISTAKE BY HEAVEN!
_By Dr. Charles Mack--y._
In Heaven's Chancery the Records stand
Of men and deeds in each and ev'ry land,
And as new rulers rise, or empires fall,
Appointed angels make a note of all.
To mark the changes in this world of late
There came a Spirit from the Throne of Fate,
Instructed closely, to be sure and see
Who earth's chief rulers for _this_ year might be.
His task accomplished, back the Spirit flew
To Heaven's Chancery, as bade to do,
And from his vestments took the mystic scroll
That named each potentate, from Pole to Pole.
Recording Angels glanced it sharply o'er,
To note each change from what the Records bore;
But found no nations changing potentates
Until they came to the United States.
"Another President!" the angels sighed,
"Another President!" the Fates replied;
And straight a pen the Chief Recorder took
To write the ruler's name within his book.
He wrote--(alas! 'twill hardly be believed
The very angels could be so deceived)--
He wrote the name that all his sprites might read--
Not Abr'am Lincoln; no! but--THURLOW WEED.
!! # # # !! # # # !!
If foreign nations fail to judge your cause
In strict accordance with set Christian laws,
It is no proof of their intending crimes,
Since angels, even, make mistakes at times!
We were all silent after that, my boy, and says the old British chap:
"The next manuscript expresses the conservative sentiment of Britain's
Isle, the measure being peculiar and the manner inquiring. Hattention!--
THE WAR.
BY SIDNEY DOBELL.
I.
Oh, the war, the war,
_Oh_, the war, the war,
OH, the war--
With pools of gory, dripping grime,
And ghastly, beastly, horrible rime,
The soldier bloody, stiff and stark--
The cannon thunders, hark! hark!
Columbia, how's the war?
II.
Oh, the blood, the blood,
_Oh_, the blood, the blood,
OH, the blood--
Curdling, welling, staining the ground,
Bubbling from wounds with sick'ning sound;
The life gone out in a wind of swords,--
Murderers leagued in hordes! hordes!
Columbia, how's the blood?
III.
Oh, the roar, the roar,
_Oh_, the roar, the roar,
OH, the roar--
Thousands grappling, tearing to death,
Fever, madness and hell in a breath;
Rage, despair, oath and scream--
Rivers crimson stream! stream!
Columbia, how's the roar?
IV.
Oh, the blaze, the blaze,
_Oh_, the blaze, the blaze.
OH, the blaze,
Homes in flames, lighting the storm,
Torches for death in a brother's form;
Ruin, ravage, ashes and smoke,--
Hopes and heart-strings broke! broke!
Columbia, how's the blaze?
V.
Oh, the groan, the groan,
_Oh_, the groan, the groan,
OH, the groan--
Mothers sonless, homeless and old,
Sisters brotherless, lone and cold,
Children starving, wailing for bread,--
Fathers and brothers dead! dead!
Columbia, how's the groan?
VI.
Oh, the woe, the woe,
_Oh_, the woe, the woe,
OH, the woe,
Cities famishing, villages still,
Blood in the valley and fire on the hill;
Horror, havoc, curses and tears,--
Dark desolation for years! years!
Columbia, how's the woe?
VII.
Oh, the end, the end,
_Oh_, the end, the end,
OH, the end,
Griefs and graves at every hearth,
Heaven offended, outraged Earth:
Prayers for vengeance from ev'ry tomb--
Borne to the living a doom! doom!
Columbia, how's the end?
Here Bonbon, the French chap, struck in, and says he: "Oh, the ass, the
ass, _Oh_, the ass, the ass, OH, the ass----"
"Silence, Napoleon!" says the British chap, "and r-r-remember Waterloo!
The next metrical gem," says he, "illustrates the deeper profundity of
British thought, and conveys a moral lesson of the deepest significance
to babes and sucklings. Hem!"--
COLUMBIA'S AGONY.
BY MARTIN FARQUHAR TUP----R.
I hold it good--as who shall hold it bad?
To lave Columbia in the boiling tears
I shed for Freedom when my soul is sad,
And having shed proceed to shed again:
For _human sadness sad to all appears_,
And tears men sometimes shed are shed by men.
The normal nation lives until it dies,
As men may die when they have ceased to live;
But when abnormal, by a foe's surprise,
It may not reach its first-appointed goal;
For _what we have not is not ours to give_,
And if we miss it all we miss the whole.
Columbia, young, a giant baby born,
Aimed at a manhood ere the child had been,
And slipping downward in a strut forlorn,
Learns, to its sorrow, what 'tis good to know,
That _babes who walk too soon, too soon begin
To walk_ in this dark vale of life below.
When first the State of Charleston did secede,
And Morrill's tariff was declared repealed,
The soul of Freedom everywhere did bleed
For that which, having seen, it sadly saw;
So true it is, _death-wounds are never healed_,
And law defied is not unquestioned law.
The mother-poet, England, sadly viewed
The strife unnatural across the wave,
And with maternal tenderness renewed
Her sweet assurances of neutral love;
_A mother's love may not its offspring save;
But mother's love is still a mother's love._
Learn thou, Columbia, in thine agony,
That England loves thee, with a love as deep
As my "Proverbial Philosophy"
Has won for me from her approving breast;
_The love that never slumbers cannot sleep_,
And all for highest good is for the best.
Thy Freedom fattens on the work of slaves,
Her Grace of Sutherland informeth me;
And all thy South Amboy is full of graves,
Where tortured bondmen snatch a dread repose;
Learn, then, the _race enslaved is never free_,
And in thy woes incurred, behold thy woes.
Thy pride is humbled, humbled is thy pride,
And now misfortunes come upon thee, thick
With dark reproaches for the right defied,
And cloud thy banner in a dim eclipse;
_Sic transit gloria gloria transic sic_,
The mouth that speaketh useth its own lips.
Thus speeds the world, and thus our planet speeds;
What is, must be; and what can't be, is not;
Our acts unwise are not our wisest deeds,
And what we do is what ourselves have done;
_Mistakes remembered are not faults forgot_,
And we must wait for day to see the sun.
I looked up at Smith-Brown, my boy, and says I:
"What does he mean by the 'State of Charleston,' my fat friend?"
"Why," says he, "that's a poetic license, or American geography diluted
by the Atlantic. And here we have something by the gifted hauthor of
'Locksley Hall,' which it is somewhat in that vein:
AMERICA.
BY ALFRED TEN----N.
Westward, westward flies the eagle, westward with the setting sun,
To an eyrie growing golden in a morning just begun;
Where the world is new in promise of a virgin nation's love.
And the grand results of ages germs of nobler ages prove;
Where a prophecy of greatness runs through all the soul of youth,
And the miracle of Freedom blesses in a living truth;
Where the centuries unnumbered narrow to a single night,
And their trophies are but planets wheeling round a central light.
Where the headlands breast the Ocean sweeping round creation's East,
And the prairies roll in blossoms to the Ocean of the West;
Where the voices of the seas are blended o'er a nation's birth,
In the harmony of Nature's hymn to Liberty on earth.
Land of Promise! Revelation of a loyalty that springs
From a grander depth of purple than the heritage of kings--
From the inner purple cherished at the thrones of lives sublime,
Cast in glorious consecration 'neath the plough of Father Time--
Home of Freedom, hope of millions born and slain and yet to be,
Shall the spirit of the bondless, caught from heaven, fail in thee?
Shall the watching world behold thee falling from thy starry height?
Like a meteor, in thine ending leaving only darker night?
Oh! my kinsmen, Oh! my brothers--fellow-heirs of Saxon hearts,
Lo the Eagle quits his eyrie swifter than a swallow darts,
And the lurid flame of battle burns within his angry eye,
Glowing like a living ember cast in vengeance from the sky.
At thy hearth a foe has risen, fiercer yet to burn and kill,
That he was thy chosen brother--friend no more, but brother still;
For the bitter tide of hatred deeper runs and fiercer grows,
As the pleading voice of Nature addeth self-reproach to blows.
Strike! and in the ghastly horrors of a fratricidal war,
Learn the folly of your wanderings from the guiding Northern Star;
What were all your gains and glories, to creation's fatal loss
When ye crucified your Freedom on the cruel Southern Cross?
Oh! my brothers narrow-sighted--Oh! my brothers slow to hear
What the phantoms of the fallen ever whisper in the ear;
God is just, and from the ruins of the temple rent in twain
Rises up the invocation of a warning breathed in vain.
All thy pillars reel around thee from the fury of the blow,
And the fires upon thine altars fade and flicker to and fro;
Call the vigor of thy manhood into arms from head to foot,
Strike! and in thy strife with error let the blow be at the root.
So thy war shall wear the glory of a purpose to refine
From the dross of early folly all the honor that is thine;
So thine arms shall gather friendship to the standard of a cause
Blending in its grand approval British hearts and British laws.
Form thy heroes into armies from the mart and from the field,
And their ranks shall stretch around thee in a bristling, living shield;
Take the loyal beggar's offer; for the war whose cause is just
Breathes the soul of noblest daring into forms of meanest dust.
Let thy daughters wreathe their chaplets for the foreheads of the brave,
Let thy daughters trace their lineage from the patriot's honored grave;
Woman's love is built the strongest when it rests on woman's pride,
Better be a soldier's widow than a meek civilian's bride.
Onward let thine Eagles lead thee, where the livid Southern sun
Courts the incense for the heavens of a righteous battle won;
And the bright Potomac, winding through the fields unto the sea
Shall no longer mark the libel--what is bond and what is free.
Rising from the fierce ordeal washed in blood and purified,
See the future stretch before thee, limitless on every side;
And in all the deep'ning envy of the nations wed to sloth,
Mark the record of thy progress, see the mirror of thy growth.
Rising from thy purifying, like a giant from his rest,
Thou shalt find thy praise an echo from the East unto the West;
Thou shalt find thy love a message from the South unto the North,
Each its past mistake of duty finding out and casting forth.
And thy States in new communion, by the blood they all have shed,
Shall be wedded to each other in the pardon of the dead;
Each, a scale of steel to cover vital part from foreign wrong,
All, a coat of armor guarding that to which they All belong.
Thou shalt measure seas with navies, span the earth with iron rails,
Catch the dawn upon thy banner and the sunset on thy sails;
Northern halls of ice shall echo to thy sailor's merry note,
And the standard of thy soldier on the Southern isle shall float.
Turning to thy mother, England, thou shalt find her making boast
Of the Great Republic westward, born of strength that she has lost;
And thy Saxon blood shall join ye, never to be torn apart,
Moving onward to the future, hand in hand and heart to heart.
At the conclusion of this last reading, my boy, we separated. When we
are "heart to heart" with England, my boy, the heart that is underneath
may possibly have ceased to beat.
Yours, to beat, or not to beat,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER LXI.
PORTRAYING A SOCIAL EFFECT OF THE POSTAGE-STAMP CURRENCY,
DESCRIBING THE GREAT WAR MEETING IN ACCOMAC, RECORDING THE
LATEST EXPLOIT OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE, AND INTRODUCING A
DRAFTING ITEM.
WASHINGTON, D. C., August 9th, 1862.
If tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep, should ever take it into
her head to invade our distracted country, she would meet with less
resistance in Washington than it is possible for the able-bodied mind
to comprehend. Notwithstanding the fact that President Lincoln is an
honest man, my boy, the genius of Slumber has opened a large wholesale
establishment here, and the tendency to repose is so general that the
authorities are just able to wink at secession sympathizers. It takes
so long to get the news of the war from New York, that our citizens
grow languid in the intervals. On Monday, indeed, an enterprising chap
from Nantucket opened a Museum on the outskirts of the town, by way of
varying the monotony, and quite a numerous crowd assembled to witness
the performance. This Museum comprises a real two shilling piece,
inclosed in a strong glass case, to preserve it from the violence of
the mob, and even respectable old married men go to see it, for the
sake of past associations. On the occasion of my visit to this unique
establishment I arrived shortly before the exhibition began, and found
a brilliant array of beauty and fashion for an audience. It was quite
interesting, my boy, to hear the conversation going on. There was a
fine young chap just in front of me who has recently been appointed to
the staff of the Commander-in-Chief in consequence of his great
experience in the coal business, and says he to another Lubin's
Extracts chap:
"Fwedwick, who is that wavishing creatchah ovah they-ar, with the
Peach-Orchard eyes and Lehigh hair?"
"Aw, dimmy," says Lubin's Extracts, "that's the great heiress. She's
worth eighty thousand postage-stamps."
"The wed kind?" says the young staff-chap, eagerly--"is it the sticky
wed kind, Fwed?"
"No," says Lubin's Extracts, scornfully; "it's the green ten cent kind."
"Intwojoose me," says the staff-chap, excitedly--"intwojoose me, Fwed;
I must know her--upon my soul I must."
Upon his soul, my boy--he said upon his _soul_! When it is possible for
an introduction to take place upon such a soul as that, my boy, it will
be comparatively able to manoeuvre an elephant brigade on the extreme
point of an infant needle.
When the manager of the Museum came out to lecture upon his great
natural curiosity, there was immediate silence; and when the case was
uncovered, revealing the quarter to full view, several very old
gentlemen fainted! Alas! they remembered the time when--but no matter
now--no matter now.
"Ladies and gentlemen," says the manager, pointing solemnly to his
treasure, "the rare and beautiful coin which you now behold was well
known to our forefathers, who stamped the figure of Liberty upon it, in
order to show the world that this is the only country where man is at
Liberty to deal in slaves by way of financial speculation. This rare
coin disappeared as soon as the Liberty I speak of seemed to be
endangered, nor will it reappear in this country again while there are
so many brokers ahead."
On quitting this admirable exhibition, my boy, I did not return to this
city, but went immediately down to Accomac, to attend the great Union
meeting. Accomac, my boy, has at length determined that this war shall
be vigorously carried on, even if it takes several public speakers to
say so; and the conduct of Accomac, in calling a meeting for such a
purpose, reminds me of a chap in the Sixth Ward.
He was a respectable family chap, who had formed a partnership with all
his neighbors for the express purpose of taking entire and exclusive
charge of their business for them, and evinced such a deep interest in
the most private affairs of his friends, that absence did not conquer
their love for him. One Sunday there was a city missionary at the
church he attended, who implored the aid and prayers of the
congregation in behalf of a poor but pious family, who were starving to
death around the corner. "Hev any tracts been left with our suffering
frens?" says the respectable chap, rising in his pew and pinching his
benevolent chin thoughtfully. "Yes," says the missionary, sadly, "we
sent them some tracts on the immortality of the soul; but, horrible to
relate, they gained no flesh by them." The respectable chap, who was a
baker by profession, was much moved by this revelation of human
depravity, and says he to a bald-headed chap in the next pew: "Brother
Jones, you must attend to this sad case in the morning. We must
remember our fellow-beings in affliction, Brother Jones. Early to-morrow
you must take some bread to this suffering family. If you have no bread
of your own, Brother Jones," says the respectable chap, feelingly,
"come to my shop and I--I will sell you some for this charitable
purpose." But Brother Jones proved to be a grievous backslider, my boy,
and said he had an engagement to go to Hoboken on the morning in
question. "Very well," says the respectable chap, when he heard this,
"then I will arrange it in another way. Tell our starving brothers and
sisters to have faith," says he to the missionary, in a heartfelt
manner, "and they shall be fed, even as the ravings fed my old friend
Elijah." So, the next day he called a meeting of brethren to pray that
food might be sent to the suffering ones, and they used up the entire
English language in prayer to such an extent, that when the respectable
chap topped off with a benediction, he had to introduce some Latin
quotations. They had just finished this noble work of Christian
benevolence, when the missionary came tearing in, and says he: "It's
all over; they're all dead; the last child starved to death half an
hour ago." The respectable chap stared at him aghast, and says he: "Did
you tell them to have faith?" The missionary cracked a peanut, and says
he: "Verily, I did; but they said they couldn't have faith on empty
stomachs." The respectable chap pondered a while, and says he: "If they
didn't have faith, my frens, the whole matter is explained. We, at
least, have done our duty. We have prayed for them, frens--we have
prayed for them." And the brethren went home to their dinners.
Public mass meetings, my boy, to help a struggling country, are like
prayer-meetings to aid the starving poor; the intention is good, but
the practical benefit resulting therefrom is not visible to the naked
eye.
There was a large meeting at Accomac, several new liquor-shops having
been opened there recently, and the speakers were as eloquent as it is
possible for men to be when advising other men to do what they don't
care to do themselves. A chap of large abdominal developments was
specially fervid. Says he: "Let us show to them as is tyrants and
reveling in the agonies of down-trodden Europe, that this Republic is
able to put down all enemies whatsomever, without interfering with any
of the inalienable rights of those who, though our enemies, are still
our long-lost brothers. (Frantic applause.) Shall it be said that
twenty-two millions of people cannot put down eight millions without
injuring those eight millions? (Shrieks of approbation, and cries of
"That's so!") No! a thousand times no! We fight, not to injure the
South; not to interfere with them, which is our own flesh and blood,
but to sustain the Constitution rendered sacred by Revolutionary gore!
(Overwhelming enthusiasm.) The creatures which is trying to break up
this here beneficent Government, ask us what we are fighting for, then?
Gracious hevings! what a question is this! Do they not know what we are
fighting for--that in this unhappy struggle we--that our purpose, I
would say, in prosecuting hostilities is to--is to--DO IT? Of course it
is."
This speech, short, terse, and to the purpose, was gloriously received
by everybody, except a friendless chap, who said he didn't understand
the last clause; and he was immediately sent to jail for daring to be
so traitorously obtuse.
Though the General of the Mackerel Brigade was seated upon the highest
barrel on the platform, my boy, and blew his nose louder than any one
else, he did not wish to be seen, nor did he intend that the assemblage
should call upon him for the speech sticking out of his side-pocket;
but when the throng accidentally found him to be the most prominent
figure in sight, they thoughtlessly called upon him to say something.
The General laid aside his fan with some embarrassment, and says he:
"My children, I love you. My children," says the General, motioning to
his aid to fill the tumbler again, "I daresay you expect me to say
something, and though I am unprepared to speak, there is one thing I
will say. If anything goes wrong in this war, nobody is to blame, as I
alone am responsible. Bless you, my children."
As the idol of the populace finished these touching remarks, and
resumed his tumbler and fan, there was but one sentiment in the whole
of that vast assemblage, and a democratic chap immediately went and
telegraphed to Syracuse that the prospect for a Democratic President in
1865, was beautiful.
The meeting might have lasted another week, my boy, thereby rendering
the Union cause utterly invincible, but for the imprudence of an insane
chap who proposed that some of the young men present should enlist.
This malapropos and singularly inconsistent suggestion broke up the
assemblage at once, in great disorder--volunteering being just the last
thing that any one thought of doing. Greatly edified and encouraged by
what I had heard, my boy, I made all haste for Paris, where I found the
Mackerel Brigade and Commodore Head's fleet in great excitement over
the case of an Irish gentleman who believed this to be a white man's
war, and had started for Paris, just fourteen minutes after landing in
this country, for the express purpose of protesting against any labor
being performed by negroes, while there were white men to do it.
Colonel Wobert Wobinson, of the Anatomical Cavalry, quieted him by
saying that, although a number of negroes were then engaged in digging
trenches, a new line of holes in a far more unhealthy place would be
commenced in the morning, and that none but Irishmen should be
permitted to dig them.
On the night previous to my arrival, my boy, while all the Mackerels
were watching the stars with a view to prevent any surprise from that
quarter, the Southern Confederacy on the other side of Duck Lake
trained four large fowling-pieces upon their peaceful camp from behind
a wood-pile, and commenced a ferocious and ear-splitting bombardment.
It was some hours before our men could be got into position to return
the fire, as Captain Bob Shorty had forgotten where they had put the
Orange County Howitzers when last using them. The fleet, too, was
somewhat delayed in getting into action, as Commodore Head experienced
some difficulty in unlocking the box into which he always puts his
spectacles and slow-match before retiring at night.
Finally, however, the howitzers were discovered behind some boards, and
the spectacles and slow-match were forthcoming, and our troops were
pouring a hot fire across Duck Lake before the Confederacy had got
two-thirds of the way back to Richmond. Next morning, my boy, the Conic
Section crossed the Lake, and cleared away everything on the opposite
shore except the before-mentioned wood-pile. The latter contains the
same kind of wood that was burned in the time of Washington, my boy,
and twenty men were appointed to guard it from the profanation of our
troops. We must protect such property at all hazards, my boy, or the
Constitution becomes a nullity.
Having crossed the treacherous element to view the immediate scene of
these proceedings, and learned from Captain Villiam Brown that our
pickets were within ten miles of the Confederacy's capital, I was about
to make some short remark, when a messenger came riding forward in a
great perspiration, and says he;
"Our pickets have been driven in."
"Ha!" says Villiam, "is the Confederacy again advancing upon the United
States of America?"
"Our pickets," says the messenger, impressively "have been driven in;
they have been driven into Richmond."
"Ah!" says Villiam, pleasantly, "then send out some more pickets."
I strolled away from the pair, my boy, reflecting upon the possibility
of enough Mackerel pickets reaching Richmond in this way to make the
Union sentiment there stronger than ever, and was looking listlessly to
my footing, when I chanced to espy a paper on the ground. Picking it
up, I found it to be a note from the wife of the Southern Confederacy
to her cousin, dropped, probably by one of the Confederacies of the
wood-pile. It bore the date of April the First, and read as follows:
"DEAR JULEYER:--I have just space of time to write you these few lines,
hoping that these few lines will find you the same, and in the
enjoyment of the same blessing. O my unhappy country! how art thou
suffering at this present writing! I have not had a single new bonnet
for two weeks, my beloved Juleyer, and my Solferino gloves are already
discolored by the perspiration I have shed when thinking of my poor,
dear South. My husband, the distinguished Southern Confederacy, is so
reduced by trials, that he is a mere skeleton skirt. Oh, my Juleyer,
how long is this to continue? Ere another century shall have passed
away, the Yankees will have approached nearer Charleston and Savannah,
and the blockade become almost effective. Since the Mackerel Brigade
has changed its base of operations, even Richmond seems doomed to fall
in less than fifty years. Everything looks dark. Tell me the price of
dotted muslin, for undersleeves, when you write again, and believe me,
Your respected cousin,
"MRS. S. C."
* * * * *
There's only one thing about this letter bothers me, and that's the
date, my boy--the date.
When very near this city, on my return home, I met a chap, weighing
about two hundred and twenty-five pounds, who was on his way to a
lawyer's to get his exemption from the draft duly filed.
"See here, my patriotic invalid," says I, skeptically, "how do you come
to be exempt?"
"I am exempt," says he, in a proudly melancholy manner, "because I am
suffering from a broken heart."
"Hem," says I.
"It's true," says he, sniffling dismally. "I asked the female of my
heart to have me. She said I hadn't enough postage-stamps to suit her
ideas of personal revenue, and she didn't care to do my washing. That
was enough: my heart is broken, and I am not an able-bodied man."
Drafting, my boy, is of a nature to develop the seeds of disease in the
hitherto healthy human system--seeds which, if suffered to fructify,
will be likely to ultimate in what gentlemen of burglarious
accomplishments would chastely and botanically denominate a very
large-sized "plant."
Yours, seriously,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER LXII.
CONTAINING FRESH TRIBUTES OF ADMIRATION TO THE DEVOTED WOMEN OF
AMERICA, AND DEVELOPING THE GREAT COLONIZATION SCHEME OF THE
GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE BLACK
RACE.
WASHINGTON, D. C., August 15th, 1862.
Once more, my boy, this affectionate heart would render tribute of
gushing admiration to the large souled women of America, who are again
commencing to luxuriate and comfort our majestic troops with gifts
almost as useful to a soldier as a fishing-pole would be to the
hilarious Arab of Sahara. As I ambled airily near Fort Corcoran on
Monday, my boy, mounted on my gothic steed Pegasus, and followed by the
frescoed dog Bologna, after the manner of the British nobility, I
chanced upon a veteran of the Mackerel Brigade, who had come up from
Paris on one of those leaves of absence which grow from the tree styled
Sycamore. He was seated under a wayside oak, examining some articles
that had recently come to him in a package; now and then addressing his
eyes in the more earnest language of the Sixth Ward.
Having reined-in my spirited architectural animal, and merely pausing
to administer a crumb of cracker from my pocket to a hapless
blue-bottle fly which had rashly alighted from the backbone of the
charger, and was there starving to death, I saluted the Mackerel
veteran, and, says I:
"Comrade, wherefore do you select this solitary place to use language
only fitting a brigadier when he is speaking to an inferior officer, or
a high-toned conservative when referring to negroes, Wendell Phillips,
and the republican party?"
The veteran Mackerel sighed deeply, as he spread open the package to
full view, my boy, and says he, respectfully:
"Are you a married man, my cove?"
"No," says I, with a feeling of mingled insignificance and financial
complacency, "I never paid a milliner's bill in my life."
"Neither did I," said the veteran, with a gleam of satisfaction,
"neither did I; I always has them charged to me; but still I am the
wedded pardner of one which is a woman. I have loved her," says the
veteran passionately, "I have loved her better than I loved number
Three's masheen, with which I was brought up, and that seemed to me
like my own brother. I have stayed home from a fire more than once to
go to church with her; and the last words I said to her when I come
here was: 'Old woman! if Six's foreman comes here after that wrench,
while I'm away, tell him I'll break that nose of his when I come back!'
We was all confidence together," says the veteran, smiting his chest,
madly; "and I never threw a brick that I didn't tell her of it, and now
she's gone and sent me a copy of the Temperance Pledge, a pair of
skates, two bottles of toothache drops, and six sheets of patent
fly-paper. I really believe," says the veteran, bitterly--"I really
believe that she thinks I ain't got nothing to do here but to keep
house and take care of an aged grandmother."
At the conclusion of this unnatural speech, my boy, I hastily trotted
away upon my architectural steed; for I had not patience enough to talk
longer with one whose whole nature seemed so utterly incapable of
appreciating those beautiful little attentions which woman's tender
heart induces her to bestow upon the beloved object. Since the last
time I was sick, my boy, I have entertained a positive veneration for
the wonderful foresight of that blessed sex, whose eyes remind me of
pearl buttons. At that period, when the doctors had given me up, and
nothing but their absence seemed capable of saving my life, one of the
prevalent women of America heard of my critical condition, and, by her
deep knowledge of human nature, was enabled to rescue me. She sent me a
bottle of stuff, my boy, saying, in a note of venerable tone, that it
had cured her of chapped hands several times, and she hoped it might
break my fever. With a thankful, confident heart, I threw the bottle
out of the window, my boy, and got well in less than three months.
The other day, I went down to Accomac again, to see the General of the
Mackerel Brigade, who had invited me to be present while he made an
offer of bliss to a delegation from that oppressed race which has been
the sole cause of this unnatural war, and is, therefore, exempted from
all concern in it.
The General, my boy, was seated in his temporary room of audience when
I arrived, examining a map of the Border States through a powerful
magnifying-glass, and occasionally looking into a tumbler, as though he
expected to find something there.
"Well, old Honesty," says I, affably, "what is our next scheme for the
benefit of the human race?"
He smiled paternally upon me, and says he:
"It is my purpose to settle the Negro Question in accordance with the
principles laid down in the Book of Exodus. Thunder!" says the General,
with magisterial emphasis, "if we do not secure the pursuit of
happiness to the slave, even, we violate the Constitution and become
obnoxious to the Border communities."
I was reflecting upon this remark, my boy, and wondering what the
Constitution had to do with the Book of Exodus, when the delegation
made its appearance, and caused the room to darken perceptibly. Not to
lose time, the General waved his hand for the visitors to be seated,
and, says he:
"You and we are different races, and for this reason it must be evident
to you, as well as to myself, that it is better you should be
voluntarily compelled to colonize some distant but salubrious shore.
There is a wide difference between our races; much wider, perhaps, than
that which exists between any other two races. Your race suffers very
greatly, and our race suffers in suffering your race to suffer. In a
word, we both suffer, which establishes a reason why our race should
not suffer your race to remain here any longer. You who are here are
all present, I suppose."
A voice--"Yes, sah."
"Perhaps you have not been here all your lives. Your race is suffering
the greatest wrong that ever was; but when you cease to suffer, your
sufferings are still far from an equality with our sufferings. Our
white men are now changing their base of operations daily, and often
taking Malvern Hills. This is on your account. You are the cause of it.
How you have caused it I will not attempt to explain, for I do not
know; but it is better for us both to be separated, and it is vilely
selfish in you (I do not speak unkindly) to wish to remain here in
preference to going to Nova Zembla. The fact that we have always
oppressed you renders you still more blameable, especially when we
reflect upon the fact that you have never shown resistance. A trip on
your part to Nova Zembla will benefit both races. I cannot promise you
much bliss right away. You may starve at first, or die on the passage;
but in the Revolutionary War General Washington lived exclusively on
the future. He was benefitting his race; and though I do not see much
similarity between his case and yours, you had better go to Nova
Zembla. You may think that you could live in Washington, perhaps more
so than you could on a foreign shore. This is a mistake. None but white
army contractors and brigadiers on furlough can live here.
"The festive isle of Nova Zembla has been in existence for some time,
and is larger than any smaller place I know of. Many of the original
settlers have died, and their offspring would still be living had they
lived long enough to become accustomed to the climate. You may object
to go on account of your affection for our race, but it does not strike
me that there is any cogent reasons for such affection. So you had
better go to Nova Zembla. The particular place I have in view for your
colonization is the great highway between the North Pole and Sir John
Franklin's supposed grave. It is a popular route of travel, being much
frequented by the facetious penguin and the flowing seal. It has great
resources for ice-water, and you will be able to have ice cream every
day, provided you supply yourselves with the essence of lemon and
patent freezers. As to other food, I can promise you nothing. There are
fine harbors on all sides of this place, and though you may see no
ships there, it will be still some satisfaction to know that you have
such admirable harbors. Again, there is evidence of very rich
bear-hunting. When you take your wives and families to a place where
there is no food, nor any ground to be cultivated, nor any place to
live in, then the human mind would as naturally turn to bear-hunting as
to anything else. But if you should die of starvation at the outset,
even bear-hunting may dwindle into insignificance. Why I attach so much
importance to bear-hunting is, it will afford you an opportunity to die
more easily than by famine and exposure. Bear-hunting is the best thing
I know of under such circumstances.
"You are intelligent, and know that human life depends as much upon
those who possess it as upon anybody else. And much will depend upon
yourselves if you go to Nova Zembla. As to the bear-hunting, I think I
see the means available for engaging you in that very soon without
injury to ourselves. I wish to spend a little money to get you there,
and may possibly lose it all; but we cannot expect to succeed in
anything if we are not successful in it.
"The political affairs of Nova Zembla are not in quite such a condition
as I could wish, the bears having occasional fights there, over the
body of the last Esquimaux governor; but these bears are more generous
than we are. They have no objection to dining upon the colored race.
"Besides, I would endeavor to have you made equals, and have the best
assurance that you should be equals of the best. The practical thing I
want to ascertain is, whether I can get a certain number of able-bodied
men to send to a place offering such encouragement and attractions.
Could I get a hundred tolerably intelligent men, with their wives and
children, to partake of all this bliss? Can I have fifty? If I had
twenty-five able-bodied men, properly seasoned with women and children,
I could make a commencement.
"These are subjects of very great importance, and worthy of a month's
study of the paternal offer I have made you. If you have no
consideration for yourselves, at least consider the bears, and endeavor
to reconcile yourselves to the beautiful and pleasing little hymn of
childhood, commencing:
"I would not live always;
I ask not to stay."
At the termination of this flattering and paternal address, my boy, the
delegation took their hats and commenced to leave in very deep silence;
thereby proving that persons of African descent are utterly insensible
of kindness and much inferior to the race at present practising
strategy on this continent.
Colonization, my boy, involves a scheme of human happiness so entirely
beyond the human power of conception, that the conception of it will
almost pass for something inhuman.
Yours, utopianically,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER LXIII.
GIVING A FAMILIAR ZOOLOGICAL ILLUSTRATION OF THE "SITUATION," AND
CELEBRATING THE BRILLIANT STRATEGICAL EVECUATION OF PARIS BY
THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.
WASHINGTON, D. C., August 22, 1862.
On Monday morn, my boy, whilst I was pulling on a pair of new boots that
have some music in their soles, there arose near my room door a sound as
of one in dire agony, closely followed by a variously-undulated moan, as
of some deserted woman in distress. Hastily discontinuing my toilet, and
darting to the threshold, I beheld one of those scenes of civil war
which impress the sensitive soul with horror and meet the just
reprobation of feeling Albion.
Rampant between two marrow-bones, my boy, was my frescoed dog, Bologna,
eyeing, with horrid fury, Sergeant O'Pake's canine friend, known as
Jacob Barker, and ever and anon uttering sentences of supernatural
wrath. To these the excited Barker responded in deep bass of great
compass, his nose curling with undisguised disdain, and his eyes
assimilating to that insidious and fiery squint which betokens
inexpressible malignity. There was something not of earth, my boy, in
the frescoed Bologna's distortion of countenance as he attempted to
keep an eye on each bone, and at the same time look full in the face of
his foe; and there was that in the sounds of his strain which betokened
Sirius indecision.
As I gazed upon these two infuriated wonders of natural history, my
boy, and recognized the fact that the existence of two bones in
contention prevented an actual battle, because neither combatant was
willing to lose sight of either of them; whilst the presence of but one
bone would have simplified the matter, and precipitated a decisive
conflict, I could not but think that I saw symbolized before me the
situation of our distracted country.
The United States of America, my boy, and the well-known Southern
Confederacy, are like two irascible terriers practising defiant
strategy between two bones, the one being the festive negro-question,
and the other the Union. Now it seems to me, my boy--it seems to me,
that if the gay animal with U. S. on his collar would only dispose of
the bone nearest him without further vocalism, there would be a better
chance for him to secure the other bone in the combat sure to come.
Dogs, my boy, and men, are very much alike, in their hostile meetings,
neither seeming to know just exactly which is truly their _magnum
bonum_.
Ascending the roof of my architectural steed, Pegasus, on Tuesday, I
induced the gothic animal to adopt a pace sometimes affected by the
fleet tortoise, and went down to Accomac in pursuit of knowledge
respecting recruiting. Just before reaching that Arcadian locality, my
boy, I met Colonel Wobert Wobinson, of the Western Cavalry, who had
been down there to induce volunteering and infuse fresh confidence into
the masses. He offered a bounty of two hundred dollars; three dollars
to be paid immediately, and the rest as soon as the war commences in
earnest; and promised to each man a horse physically incapacitated from
running away from anything.
"Well, my bold dragoon," says I, cordially, noticing that Pegasus had
already fallen into a peaceful doze, "how go enlistments?"
The colonel waved away an abstracted crow that was hovering in deep
reverie over my charger's brow, and says he: "I have enlisted all the
people of Accomac."
"I want to know," says I, Bostonianly.
"Yes," says he, "I called a meeting, and succeeded in enlisting
all--their sympathies."
As I gazed upon the equestrian warrior, my boy, methought I saw the
youngest offspring of a wink trembling in a corner of his right eye,
and I felt that the world renowned Snyder was at that moment laboring
under a heavy incubus. Such is life.
The state of health in Accomac indicates that the demon of disease is
abroad in the land, looking chiefly for his victims among those between
the tender ages of eighteen and forty-five. Instead of having a sling
in his hand, like the young warrior David, each young man I met had his
hand in a sling, whilst the dexter leg of more than one able-bodied
patriot suggested the juvenile prayer of "Now I lame me, down to slip."
And there were the women of America fairly crying in terror of the
draft, instead of bearing themselves like the Spartan ribs of old.
Alas! my boy, why cannot our people realize, that a nation, like a
cooking-stove, cannot keep up a steady fire without a good draft. We
need men for the crisis, and we only find cry sisses for the men.
I could not stay here, so I hastened on to Paris, where a great
strategic movement was about to supply all the world with fresh
recollections of the late Napoleon. I say _late_ Napoleon, my boy,
because our Napoleon is apt to be behind time.
As far back as I can remember, I have been fully aware that this
movement was about to take place, but would not, like too many other
correspondents, betray the confidence reposed in me. This bosom, my
boy, this manly and truthful bosom, is about the right shop for
confidence. Nor is it like the bosoms of those who can truthfully say
that they never _give_ important information to the enemy, though every
body knows that they sell it.
On arriving in Paris, I saw at once that preparations for outgeneraling
the deceived Confederacy had already commenced; for the down-trodden
General of the Mackerel Brigade had assembled the reliable contrabands
whom he had used for some weeks past, and was taking leave of them in a
heart-felt manner.
Mounted on a small keg, from the bung hole of which came the aroma of
pleasant rye fields, the General softly wiped his lips, and says he: