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THE ORPHEUS C. KERR PAPERS.


NEW YORK:
BLAKEMAN & MASON,
21 MURRAY STREET.
1862.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by BLAKEMAN &
MASON, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United
States, for the Southern District of New York.

ELECTROTYPED BY SMITH & MCDOUGAL, 82 & 84 Beekman Street.

PRINTED BY C. S. WESTCOTT & CO., 79 John Street.




CONTENTS.



                                                                 PAGE

LETTER I.

SHOWING HOW OUR CORRESPONDENT CAME INTO THE WORLD: WITH SOME
PARTICULARS CONCERNING HIS EARLY CHILDHOOD                          9

LETTER II.

SHOWING HOW THE WRITER INCREASED IN YEARS AND INDISCRETION, AND
HOW HE WAS SAVED FROM MATRIMONY BY THE LAMENTABLE EXAMPLE OF
JED SMITH                                                          14

LETTER III.

OUR CORRESPONDENT BECOMES LITERARY, AND FATHOMS CERTAIN MYSTERIES
OF JOURNALISM. HE PRODUCES A DISTINCTIVE AMERICAN POEM, AND GAINS
THE USUAL REWARD OF YOUTHFUL GENIUS                                22

LETTER IV.

DESCRIBING THE SOUTH IN TWELVE LINES, DEFINING THE CITIZEN'S FIRST
DUTY, AND RECITING A PARODY                                        31

LETTER V.

CONCERNING THE GREAT CROWD AT THE CAPITAL, OWING TO THE VAST
INFLUX OF TROOPS, AND TOUCHING UPON FIRE-ZOUAVE PECULIARITIES
AND OTHER MATTERS                                                  37

LETTER VI.

INTRODUCING THE MACKEREL BRIGADE, DILATING ON HAVELOCKS AS FIRST
MADE BY THE WOMEN OF AMERICA, ILLUSTRATING THE STRENGTH OF HABIT
AND WEAKNESS OF "SHODDY," AND SHOWING HOW OUR CORRESPONDENT
INDULGED IN A HUGE CANARD, AFTER THE MANNER OF AN ENLIGHTENED
DAILY PRESS                                                        42

LETTER VII.

RECORDING THE FIRST SANGUINARY EXPLOIT OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE,
AND ITS VICTORIOUS ISSUE                                           50

LETTER VIII.

THE REJECTED "NATIONAL HYMNS"                                      54

LETTER IX.

IN WHICH OUR CORRESPONDENT TEMPORARILY DIGRESSES FROM WAR MATTERS
TO ROMANTIC LITERATURE, AND INTRODUCES A WOMAN'S NOVEL             68

LETTER X.

MAKING CONSERVATIVE MENTION OF THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN AND ITS
EVENTS. THE FIRE-ZOUAVE'S VERSION OF THE AFFAIR, AND SO ON         74

LETTER XI.

GIVING AN EFFECT OF THE NEW BUGLE DRILL IN THE MACKEREL BRIGADE,
AND MAKING SOME NOTE OF THE LATEST IMPROVEMENTS IN ARTILLERY,
ETC.                                                               82

LETTER XII.

GIVING AN ABSTRACT OF A GREAT ORATOR'S FLAGGING SPEECH, AND
RECORDING A DEATHLESS EXPLOIT OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE              88

LETTER XIII.

SUBMITTING VARIOUS RUMORS CONCERNING THE CONDITION OF THINGS AT
THE SOUTH, WITH A SKETCH OF A LIGHT SKELETON REGIMENT AND A NOTE
OF VILLIAM BROWN'S RECRUITING EXPLOIT                              94

LETTER XIV.

SHOWING HOW OUR CORRESPONDENT MADE A SPEECH OF VAGUE CONTINUITY,
AFTER THE MODEL OF THE LATEST APPROVED STUMP ORATORY               99

LETTER XV.

WHEREIN WILL BE FOUND THE PARTICULARS OF A VISIT TO A SUSPECTED
NEWSPAPER OFFICE, AND SO ON                                       105

LETTER XVI.

INTRODUCING THE GOTHIC STEED, PEGASUS, AND THE REMARKABLE GERMAN
CAVALRY FROM THE WEST                                             109

LETTER XVII.

NOTING A NEW VICTORY OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE IN VIRGINIA, AND
ILLUSTRATING THE PECULIAR THEOLOGY OF VILLIAM BROWN; WITH SOME
MENTION OF THE SHARPSHOOTERS                                      114

LETTER XVIII.

DESCRIBING THE TERRIBLE DEATH AND MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF A
CONFEDERATE PICKET, WITH A TRIBUTE TO HIS MEMORY                  120

LETTER XIX.

NOTICING THE ARRIVAL OF A SOLID BOSTON MAN WITH AN UNPRECEDENTED
LITERARY PRIZE, AND SHOWING HOW VILLIAM BROWN WAS TRIUMPHANTLY
PROMOTED                                                          124

LETTER XX.

CONCERNING A SIGNIFICANT BRITISH OUTRAGE, AND THE CAPTURE OF MASON
AND SLIDELL                                                       181

LETTER XXI.

DESCRIBING CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN'S GREAT EXPEDITION TO ACCOMAC,
AND ITS MARVELLOUS SUCCESS                                        186

LETTER XXII.

TREATING OF VILLIAM'S OCCUPATION OF ACCOMAC, AND HIS WISE DECISION
IN A CONTRABAND CASE                                              144

LETTER XXIII.

CONCERNING BRITISH NEUTRALITY AND ITS COSMOPOLITAN EFFECTS, WITH
SOME ACCOUNT OF HOW CAPTAIN BOB SHORTY LOST HIS COMPANY           149

LETTER XXIV.

NARRATING THE MACKEREL BRIGADE'S MANNER OF CELEBRATING CHRISTMAS,
AND NOTING A DEADLY AFFAIR OF HONOR BETWEEN TWO WELL-KNOWN
OFFICERS                                                          158

LETTER XXV.

PRESENTING THE CHAPLAIN'S NEW YEAR POEM, AND REPORTING THE
SINGULAR CONDUCT OF THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE ON
THE DAY HE CELEBRATED                                             164

LETTER XXVI.

GIVING THE PARTICULARS OF A FALSE ALARM, AND A BIOGRAPHICAL
SKETCH OF THE OFFICER COMMANDING                                  173

LETTER XXVII.

TOUCHING INCIDENTALLY UPON THE CHARACTER OF ARMY FOOD, AND
CELEBRATING THE GREAT DIPLOMATIC EXPLOIT OF CAPTAIN VILLIAM
BROWN AT ACCOMAC                                                  177

LETTER XXVIII.

CONCERNING THE CONTINUED INACTIVITY OF THE POTOMAC ARMY, AND
SHOWING HOW IT WAS POETICALLY CONSTRUED BY A THOUGHTFUL RADICAL   184

LETTER XXIX.

INTRODUCING A VERITABLE "MUDSILL," ILLUSTRATING YANKEE BUSINESS
TACT, NOTING THE DETENTION OF A NEWSPAPER CHARTOGRAPHIST,
AND SO ON                                                         190

LETTER XXX.

DESCRIPTION OF THE GORGEOUS FETE AT THE WHITE HOUSE, INCLUDING
THE OBSERVATIONS OF CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN: WITH SOME NOTES OF
THE TOILETTES, CONFECTIONS, AND PUNCH                             196

LETTER XXXI.

TREATING OF THE GREAT MILITARY ANACONDA, AND THE MODERN XANTIPPE  203

LETTER XXXII.

COMMENCING WITH A BURST OF EXULTATION OVER NATIONAL VICTORIES,
REFERRING TO A SENATORIAL MISTAKE, DEPICTING A WELL-KNOWN CHARACTER,
AND REPORTING THE RECONNOISSANCE OF THE WESTERN CENTAURS          209

LETTER XXXIII.

EXEMPLIFYING THE TERRIBLE DOMESTIC EFFECTS OF MILITARY INACTIVITY
ON THE POTOMAC, AND DESCRIBING THE METAPHYSICAL CAPTURE OF
FORT MUGGINS                                                      219

LETTER XXXIV.

BEGINNING WITH A LAMENTATION, BUT CHANGING MATERIALLY IN TONE AT
THE DICTUM OF JED SMITH                                           228

LETTER XXXV.

GIVING PRACTICAL ILLUSTRATION OF MODERN PATRIOTISM, AND CELEBRATING
THE ADVANCE OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE TO MANASSAS, ETC.             239

LETTER XXXVI.

CONCERNING THE WEAKNESSES OF GREAT MEN, THE CURIOUS MISTAKE OF A
FRATERNAL MACKEREL, AND THE REMARKABLE ALLITERATIVE PERFORMANCE
OF CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN                                          248

LETTER XXXVII.

DESCRIBING THE REMARKABLE STRATEGICAL MOVEMENT OF THE CONIC
SECTION, UNDER CAPTAIN BOB SHORTY                                 254

LETTER XXXVIII.

INTRODUCING THE VERITABLE "HYMN OF THE CONTRABANDS," WITH
EMANCIPATION MUSIC, AND DESCRIBING THE TERRIFIC COMBAT A LA
MAIN BETWEEN CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN, OF THE UNITED STATES OF
AMERICA, AND CAPTAIN MUNCHAUSEN, OF THE SOUTHERN CONFEDERACY      260

LETTER XXXIX.

SHOWING HOW A REBEL WAS REDUCED, AND CONVERTED TO "RECONSTRUCTION,"
BY THE VALOROUS ORANGE COUNTY HOWITZERS                           270

LETTER XL.

RENDERING TRIBUTE OF ADMIRATION TO THE WOMEN OF AMERICA, WITH A
REMINISCENCE OF HOBBS & DOBBS, ETC.                               276

LETTER XLI.

CITING A NOTABLE CASE OF VOLUNTEER SURGERY, AND GIVING AN OUTLINE
SKETCH OF "COTTON SEMINARY"                                       288

LETTER XLII.

REVEALING A NEW BLOCKADING IDEA, INTRODUCING A GEOMETRICAL STEED,
AND NARRATING THE WONDERFUL EXPLOITS OF THE MACKEREL SHARPSHOOTER
AT YORKTOWN                                                       289

LETTER XLIII.

CONCERNING MARTIAL LITERATURE; INTRODUCING A DIDACTIC POEM BY
THE "ARKANSAW TRACT SOCIETY," AND A BIOGRAPHY OF GARIBALDI
FOR THE SOLDIER                                                   294

LETTER XLIV.

SHOWING HOW THE GREAT BATTLE OF PARIS WAS FOUGHT AND WON BY THE
MACKEREL BRIGADE, AIDED AND ABETTED BY THE IRON-PLATED FLEET
OF COMMODORE HEAD                                                 306

LETTER XLV.

EXEMPLIFYING THE INCONSISTENCY OF THE CONSERVATIVE ELEMENT, AND
SETTING FORTH THE MEASURES ADOPTED BY CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN IN
HIS MILITARY GOVERNMENT OF PARIS                                  314

LETTER XLVI.

WHEREIN IS SHOWN HOW THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE
FOLLOWED AN ILLUSTRIOUS EXAMPLE, AND VETOED A PROCLAMATION.
ALSO RECORDING A MILITARY EXPERIMENT WITH RELIABLE CONTRABANDS    322

LETTER XLVII.

INTRODUCING A POEM BASED UPON AN IDEA THAT IS IN VIOLET--A POEM
FOR WHICH ONE OF THE WOMEN OF AMERICA IS SOLELY RESPONSIBLE       329

LETTER XLVIII.

TREATING CHIEFLY OF A TERRIBLE PANIC WHICH BROKE OUT IN PARIS,
BUT SUBSEQUENTLY PROVED TO BE ONLY A NATURAL EFFECT OF STRATEGY   333

LETTER XLIX.

NOTING THE ARCHITECTURAL EFFECTS OF THE GOTHIC STEED, PEGASUS,
AND DESCRIBING THE MACKEREL BRIGADE'S SANGUINARY ENGAGEMENT WITH
THE RICHMOND REBELS                                               340

LETTER L.

REMARKING UPON A PECULIARITY OF VIRGINIA, AND DESCRIBING COMMODORE
HEAD'S GREAT NAVAL EXPLOIT ON DUCK LAKE, ETC.                     351

LETTER LI.

GIVING DUE PROMINENCE ONCE MORE TO THE CONSERVATIVE ELEMENT, NOTING
A CAT-AND-DOG AFFAIR, AND REPORTING CAPTAIN BOB SHORTY'S FORAGING
EXPEDITION                                                        361

LETTER LII.

DESCRIBING AMONG OTHER THINGS, A SPECIALITY OF CONGRESS, A VENERABLE
POPULAR IDOL, AND THE DIFFICULTIES EXPERIENCED BY CAPTAIN SAMYULE
SA-MITH IN DYING                                                  374




LETTER I.

SHOWING HOW OUR CORRESPONDENT CAME INTO THE WORLD: WITH SOME
PARTICULARS CONCERNING HIS EARLY CHILDHOOD.


WASHINGTON, D.C., March 20th, 1861.

Judge not by appearances, my boy; for appearances are very deceptive,
as the old lady cholerically remarked when one, who was really a virgin
on to forty, blushingly informed her that she was "just twenty-five
this month."

Though you find me in Washington now, I was born of respectable
parents, and gave every indication, in my satchel and apron days, of
coming to something better than this,--much better, my boy.

Slightly northward of the Connecticut river, where a pleasant little
conservative village mediates between two opposition hills, you may
behold the landscape on which my infantile New England eyes first
traced the courses of future railroads.

Near the centre of this village in the valley, my boy, and a little
back from its principal road, stood the residence of my worthy
sire--and a very pretty residence it was. From the frequent addition of
a new upper-room here, a new dormer window there, and an innovating
skylight elsewhere, the roof of the mansion had gradually assumed an
Alpine variety of juts and peaks somewhat confusing to behold. Local
tradition related that, on a certain showery occasion, a streak of
lightning was seen to descend upon that roof, skip vaguely about from
one peak to another, and finally slink ignominiously down the
water-pipe, as though utterly disgusted with its own inability to
determine, where there are so many, which peak it should particularly
perforate.

Years afterwards, my boy, this strange tale was told me by a venerable
chap of the village, and I might have believed it, had he not outraged
the probability of the meteorological narrative with a sequel.

"And when that streak came down the pipe," says the aged chap,
thoughtfully, "it struck a man who was leaning against the house, ran
down to his feet, and went into the ground without hurting him a mite!"

With the natural ingenuousness of childhood I closed one eye, my boy,
and says I:

"Do you mean to tell me, old man, that he was struck by lightning, and
yet wasn't hurt?"

"Yes," says the venerable chap, abstractedly cutting a small log from
the door-frame of the grocery store with his jack-knife; "the streak
passed off from him, because he was a conductor."

"A conductor?" says I, picking up another stone to throw at the same
dog.

"Yes," says the chap confidentially, "he was a conductor--on a
railroad."

The human mind, my boy, when long affected by country air, tends
naturally to the marvellous, and affiliates with the German in normal
transcendentalism.

Such was the house in which I came to life a certain number of years
ago, entering the world, like a human exclamation point, between two of
the angriest sentences of a September storm, and adding materially to
the uproar prevailing at the time.

Next to my parents, of whom I shall say little at present, the person I
can best remember, as I look back, was our family physician. A very
obese man was he, my boy, with certain sweet-oiliness of manner, and
never out of patients. I think I can see him still, as he arose from
his chair after a profound study of the case before him, and wrote a
prescription so circumlocutory in its effect, that it sent a servant
half a mile to his friend, the druggist, for articles she might have
found in her own kitchen, _aqua pumpaginis_ and sugar being the sole
ingredients required.

The doctor had started business in our village as a veterinary surgeon,
my boy; but, as the entire extent of his practice for six months in
that line was a call to mend one of Colt's revolvers, he finally turned
his attention to the ailings of his fellows, and wrought many cures
with sugar and water Latinized.

At first, my father did not patronize the new doctor, having very
little faith in the efficacy of sugar and water without the addition of
a certain other composite often seen in bottles; but the doctor's neat
speech at a Sunday school festival won his heart at last. The festival
was held near a series of small waterfalls just out of the village, my
boy, and the doctor, who was an invited guest, was called upon for a
few appropriate remarks. In compliance with the demand he made a speech
of some compass, ending with a peroration that is still quoted in my
native place. He pointed impressively to the waterfalls, and says he:

"All the works of nature is somewhat beautiful, with a good moral. Even
them cataracts," says he, sagely, "have a moral, and seem eternally
whispering to the young, that 'Those what err falls'."

The effect of this happy illustration was very pleasing, my boy;
especially with those who prefer morality to grammar; and after that,
the physician had the run of all the pious families--our own included.

It was a handsome compliment this worthy man paid me when I was about
six months old.

Having just received from my father the amount of his last bill, he was
complacent to the last degree, and felt inclined to do the handsome
thing. He patted my head as I sat upon my mother's lap, and says he:

"How beautiful is babes! So small, and yet so much like human beings,
only not so large. This boy," says he, fatly, looking down at me, "will
make a noise in the world yet. He has a long head, a very long head."

"Do you think so?" says my father.

"Indeed I do," says the doctor. "The little fellow," says he, in a
sudden fit of abstraction, "has a long head, a very long head--and it's
as thick as it is long."

There was some coolness between the doctor and my father after that, my
boy: and, on the following Sunday, my mother refused to look at his
wife's new bonnet in church.

I might cover many pages with further account of childhood's sunny
hours; but enough has been given already to establish the
respectability of my birth, despite my present location; and there I
let the matter rest, my boy, for the time being.

Yours, retrospectively,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER II.

SHOWING HOW THE WRITER INCREASED IN YEARS AND INDISCRETION, AND HOW HE
WAS SAVED FROM MATRIMONY BY THE LAMENTABLE EXAMPLE OF JED SMITH.


WASHINGTON, D.C., March 25th, 1861.

To continue from where I left off, my boy: between the interesting ages
of ten and eighteen I went to school at the village academy, working
through the English branches and the Accidence, with a lively sense of
a preponderance of birch in the former, and occasional class-sickness
in the latter.

Those were my happiest days, my boy; and as I look back to them now,
for a moment all my flippancy leaves me, and I forget that I am an
American and a politician. Those dear old days! those short, unreal
days! Only long in being long past.

It was just after the eternal _"Bonus--Bona--Bonum"_ of the master had
ceased to ring in my ears, that I commenced to be a young man. I knew
that I was becoming a young man, my boy; for it was then that I began
to regard the unmarried women of America with sheepish bashfulness, and
stumbled awkwardly as I entered my father's pew in church. Then it was
that the sound of a young female giggle threw me into a cold
perspiration, and a looking-glass deluded me into gesticulating in
solitude before it, and extemporizing the speeches I was to make when
called upon to justify the report of fame by admiring populaces.

Do you remember the asinine time in your own life, my boy,--do you
remember it? I know that you do, my boy, for I can feel your blush on
my own cheeks.

Of the few women of America who looked upon me with favor, there was
one--Ellen--whom I really loved, I think; for of all the girls, the
mention of her name, alone, gave me that peculiar feeling in which
instinctive impulse blends undefinably and perpetually with a sense of
reverent respect; or, rather, with a sense of some unworthiness of
self. Ellen died before I had known her a year. I thought afterwards,
like any other youngster, that I loved half-a-dozen different girls;
but, even in maturer years, second love is a poor imitation. Say what
you will about second love, my boy, in the breast of him truly a man,
it is but an _imperium in imperio_--a flower on the grave of the first.

There was one young woman of America in our village, my boy, about whom
the chaps teased me not a little; and I might, perhaps, have been
teased into matrimony, like many another unfortunate, but for the
example of a Salsbury chap I met one night in one of the village
stores. He was a Yankee chap with much southwestern experience, my boy,
and when he heard the lads teasing me about a woman, he hoisted his
heels upon the counter, and says he:

"Anybody'd think that creation was born with a frock on, to hear the
way you younkers talk woman. Darn the she-critters!" says he, shutting
his jack-knife with a clash. "I'd rayther be as lonesome as a borryed
pup, than see a piece of caliker as big as a pancake. What's wimmen but
a tarnation bundle of gammon and petticoats. Powerful! Be you married
folks, stranger?"

"Not yet," says I.

"Don't never be then," says he. "My name's Smith--one of the Smithses
down to Salsbury, that's guaranteed to put away as much provender and
carry as big a turkey as ever set on critters down in that deestrict.
And whilst my name's Smith, there'll never be a younker to call me
'daddy,' ef a gal was to have Jerusalem tantrums after me. You'rn a
stranger, and ain't married folks; but I don't mind tellin' ye about a
golfired rumpus I got into down in Salsbury when I took to a gal that
stuck out all around like a hay-stack, an' was a screamer at
choir-meetin' and such like. Her name was Sal Green--one of the
Greenses down in Pegtown--and the first time I took a notion to her was
down to the old shingle meetin'-house, when Sam Spooner had a buryin'.
When the parson gets out a hymn, she straightened up like a rooster at
six o'clock of daybreak, and let out a string of screams that set all
the babies to yelping as though big pins was goin' clean through their
insides. Geewhillikins! how the critter did squawk and squeal, and turn
up her eyes like a sick duck in a shower. I was jest fool enough to
think it pooty; and when my old man says, says he, 'Jed, you're took
all of a heap with that pooty creeter,' I felt as ef chills an' fever
was givin' me partikiler agony. Says I, 'She's an armful fur the
printze of Wales, and ef that Bob Tompkins don't stop makin' eyes at
her over there, I'll give him sech a lacing that he won't comb his hair
for six weeks.'

"The old man put a chaw into his meat-safe, and shut one eye; and, sez
he: 'Jed, you're a fool ef you don't hook that gal's dress fur her
before next harvestin'. She's a mighty scrumptious creetur, and just
about ripe for the altar. Jest tell her there's more Smithses wanted
an' she'll leave the Greenses 'thout a snicker.' I rayther liked the
idee: but I told the old man that his punkin-pie was all squash;
because it wouldn't do to let on too soon. When the folks was startin'
from the church, I went up to Sal, and sez I, 'Miss, I s'pose you
wouldn't mind lettin' me see you tu hum.' She blushed like a biled
lobster, and sez she: 'I don't know your folks.' I felt sorter
streaked; but I gev my collar a hitch, and sez I: 'I'm Mister Smith:
one of the Smithses of this deestrict, an' always willin' for a female
in distress.' Then she made a curtesy, an' was goin' to say somethin',
when Bob Tompkins steps up, and sez he: 'There's a-goin' to be another
buryin' in this settlement, ef some folks don't mind their own chores,
an' quit foolin' with other folkses company!' This riled me rite up,
and sez I: 'There's a feller in this deestrict that hain't had a spell
of layin' on his back for some time: but he's in immediate danger of
ketchin' the disease bad.' Bob took a squint at the width of my chist,
and then he turned to Sal, who was shakin' like a cabbage leaf in a
summer gale, and sez he: 'Sal, let's marvel out of bad company before
it spiles our morials.' With that he crooked one of his smashin'
machines, and Sal was jest hookin' on, when I put the weight of about
one hundred pounds under his ear, an' sez I: 'Jest lay there, Bob
Tompkins, until your parients comes out to look fur your body.' He went
down as ef he'd been took with a suddint desire to examine the roots of
the grass, and Sal screamed out that I'd murdered the rantankerous
critter. Sez I: 'The tombstun that's fur his head ain't cut yet: but I
calkilate it'll be took out of the quarry ef he comes smellin' around
my heels ag'in.' Jest as I made this feelin' remark, the varmint began
to scratch earth as ef he had a mind to see how it would feel to be on
his pins ag'in, and I crooked my elbow to Sal and thought it was about
time to marvel. She layed up to me like a pig to a rough post, and we
peregrinated along for some distance until we were pretty nigh hum. I
was askin' her ef it hurt her much when she sung, an' she was sayin'
'not partikeler,' when all of a suddint somethin' knocked
Fourth-o'-July fireworks out of my eyes, and I went to grass with my
heels up. It was Bob Tompkins, and sez he: 'Lay there, Mr. Smith, and
let us here from you by the next mail.' For a minute, I thought I was
bound for glory, but pooty soon I come to my oats, and then I rolled
over and seen Bob a-squeezing Sal's hand. All right, my prooshian blue,
thinks I, there'll be a 'pothecary's bill for some family in this here
deestrict: but I won't say who's to pay it at present. I jest waited to
see the feller try to put his nose into Sal's face, and then I
stretched to my feet, and sez I: 'This here pasture wants a little
mashin' down to make it fruitful, and it's my impreshun that I can do
it.' Sal see that I was bound to make somebody smell agony, so she jist
ripped away from Bob, and marveled for the house, screaming 'fire,'
like a scrumptious fire-department. Bob looked after her for a minit,
and then he turned to me, and sez he: 'I hope your folks have got some
crape to hum; because there's goin' to be a job fur our wirtuous
sexton.' I kinder smiled outer one eye, and sez I: 'When Sal and I is
married, we'll drop a tear fur the early decease of an individual who
never would hev been born if it hadn't been for your parients.' This
riled Bob up awful, and he came right at me, like a mad bull at a red
shawl. I felt somethin' drop on the bridge of my nose, and see a hull
nest of sky rockets all at onct; but I only keeled for the shake of a
tail, and then I piled in like a mad buffalo with the cholic. It was
give and take for about five minutes; and, I tell you, Bob played away
on my nose like a Trojan. The blood flu some, and I was sorry I hadn't
said good-bye to the folks before I left them; but I gave Bob some
happy evidences of youthful Christianity around his goggles, and pooty
soon he looked as ef he'd been brought up to the charcoal business. We
was makin' pooty good time round the lot, when, all of a suddint, Sal
came running up with her father and mother; and, sez the old feller:
'Ef you two members of the church don't stop your religious exercises,
there'll be some preachin' from the book of John.'

"With that, Bob took his paw out of my hair, and sez he: 'Smithses son
hit me the first whack.' I jest promenaded up to the old man, and sez
I: 'If you'll jest show me a good buryin'-place, I'll take pleasure in
makin' a funeral for the Tompkinses.' The old man looked kinder
queerious at Sally, and she commenced to snicker; and sez she: 'What
are you two fellers rumpussin' about?' I looked lovin' at her, and sez
I: 'It's to see who shall hev the pootiest gal of all the Greenses.'
When I said this, the old man bust into a larf like a wild hyenner; and
the old woman, she put her hands across her stummik and begin to larf
like mad, and Sal she snickered right eout in my countenance, and sez
she: 'Why, I'm engaged to Sam Slocum!'

"Strannger, there's no use of talkin'. My hair riz right up like a
blackin'-brush, and Bob's eyes came out like peas out of a yaller pod.
There was speechless silence for two minits, and then says Bob:
'There's a couple of golfired fools somewheres in this country, and
it's a pity their dads ever seen their mothers.' I see he felt powerful
mean, so I walked up to him, and sez I: 'Suppose we go and look for the
New Jerusalem?' He jest hooked to my elbow, and without sayin' another
word, we marveled for hum.

"Sence that, I hain't held no communion with petticoats, and ef I ever
get married, you shall hev an invite to the funeral."

As I went home that night, my boy, after hearing the story of that
rude, unlettered man, I made up my mind to have nothing more to do with
the uncertain women of America, until my position should be such that
they would not dare to "fool" me. The women of America, my boy, are
equally apt at making a fool of a man in his own estimation, and a man
of a fool in _their_ own.

Yours, for celibacy,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER III.

OUR CORRESPONDENT BECOMES LITERARY, AND FATHOMS CERTAIN MYSTERIES OF
JOURNALISM. HE PRODUCES A DISTINCTIVE AMERICAN POEM, AND GAINS THE
USUAL REWARD OF YOUTHFUL GENIUS.


WASHINGTON, D.C., March 31st, 1861.

As far I can trace back, my boy, we never had a literary character in
our family, save a venerable aunt of mine, on my mother's side, who
commenced her writing career by refusing to contribute to the Sunday
papers, and subsequently won much fame as the authoress of a set of
copy-books. When this gifted relative found herself acquiring a
reputation, she came in state to visit us, and so disgusted my very
practical father by wearing slip-shod gaiters, inking her right hand
thumb nail every morning, calling all things by European names, and
insisting upon giving our oldest plough horse the romantic and literary
title of "Lord Byron," that my exasperated parent incurred a most
tremendous prejudice against authorship, my boy, and vowed, when she
went away, that he never would invite her presence again.

I was only twenty years old at that time, and the novelty of my aunt's
conduct had rather an infatuating effect upon me. With that perversity
often observable in youngsters before they have seen much of the world,
I became deeply interested in my literary relative as soon as my father
commenced to speak contemptuously of her pursuits, and it took very
little time to invest me with a longing and determination to be a
writer.

Thenceforth I wore negligent linen; frequently rested my head upon the
forefinger of my right hand, with a lofty and abstracted air; assumed
an expression of settled and mysterious gloom when at church, and
suffered my hair to grow long and uncombed.

Speaking of the masculine literary habit of wearing the hair in this
way, my boy, I find myself impressed with a profound metaphysical idea.
You have probably noticed that writers following this fashion will
frequently scratch their heads when inspiration plays the laggard. It
is also true that wearers of long and uncombed hair who are _not_
writers, will scratch their heads in the same way, occasionally. The
action being the same in both cases, can it be that physiological
inspection would develope an affinity between the natural causes
thereof?

I have often thought of this, my boy,--I've often thought of this.

My bearing during this period of infatuation could hardly fail to
attract considerable attention in our village, and there were two
opinions about me. One was that I had been jilted; the other, that I
was about to become a vagabond and an actor. My father inclined to the
former, and left me, as he thought, to get over my disappointment in
the natural way.

My peripatetic spell had lasted about six weeks, my boy, when I formed
the acquaintance of the editor of the _Lily of the Valley_, who
permitted me to mope in his office now and then, and soothed my
literary inflammation by permitting me to write "puffs" for the village
milliner.

Oh! the fierce and tremendous ecstasy of that moment when I first saw
my own words in print, with not more than six typographical errors in
each line:--"QUEBN VICTORIA, it is said, is comind to this coontry for
the xpress purpose of obtoining one of these beautiful spring bunnets
at Madame Smith's."

I noticed as I went home on the day of publication, that all whom I
passed paused to look after me. I was already famous. The discovery, on
reaching our house, that one of my temples was somewhat fingered with
printers' ink, did not shake me in this belief, my boy; I was too far
gone for that.

The editor of the _Lily_ treated me considerately, and even asked me at
times to accompany him to the place where he daily sipped inspiration,
gaining thereby a fresh flow of ideas and the qualified immortality of
certain additional chalk-marks on the back of a door. I refer to a
spirituous establishment.

Finding that the editorial treasury did not redeem its verbal
promissory notes, my boy, the proprietor of this establishment suddenly
put forth a new sign, conspicuously reading:--

    TIMOTHY TROT,

    LICENSED LIQUOR DEALER,
    AND
    ASSOCIATE EDITOR OF THE "LILY OF THE VALLEY."

The editor went to him, and says he:

"What do you mean by this impertinence, Timothy?"

The liquor chap stuck his hands into his pockets, my boy, and says he:

"If I furnish inspiration for nothing, I may as well have some literary
credit. The village swallows what you furnish," says the chap,
reasoningly, "and you swallow what I furnish, and so I'm the head
editor after all."

But he took down the sign, my boy, when the editor dissolved the
partnership by paying his score.

What are called Spirited Editorials in the New York papers, my boy,
very often involve two swallows as well as a spread-eagle.

While looking over some old magazines in the _Lily_ office one day, I
found in an ancient British periodical a raking article upon American
literature, wherein the critic affirmed that all our writers were but
weak imitators of English authors, and that such a thing even as a
Distinctively American Poem _sui generis_, had not yet been produced.

This radical sneer at the United States of America fired my Yankee
blood, my boy, and I vowed within myself to write a poem, not only
distinctively American, but of such a character that only America could
have produced it. In the solitude of my room, that night, I wooed the
aboriginal muse, and two days thereafter the _Lily of the Valley_
contained my distinctive American poem of

    THE AMERICAN TRAVELER.

    To Lake Aghmoogenegamook,
      All in the State of Maine,
    A man from Wittequergaugaum came
      One evening in the rain.

    "I am a traveler," said he,
      "Just started on a tour,
    And go to Nomjamskillicook
      To-morrow morn at four."

    He took a tavern bed that night,
      And with the morrow's sun,
    By way of Sekledobskus went,
      With carpet-bag and gun.

    A week passed on; and next we find
      Our native tourist come
    To that sequestered village called
      Genasagarnagum.

    From thence he went to Absequoit,
      And there--quite tired of Maine--
    He sought the mountains of Vermont,
      Upon a railroad train.

    Dog Hollow, in the Green Mount State,
      Was his first stopping-place,
    And then Skunk's Misery displayed
      Its sweetness and its grace.

    By easy stages then he went
      To visit Devil's Den;
    And Scrabble Hollow, by the way,
      Did come within his ken.

    Then, _via_ Nine Holes and Goose Green,
      He traveled through the State,
    And to Virginia, finally,
      Was guided by his fate.

    Within the Old Dominion's bounds,
      He wandered up and down,
    To-day, at Buzzard Roost ensconced,
      To-morrow, at Hell Town.

    At Pole Cat, too, he spent a week,
      Till friends from Bull Ring came,
    And made him spend a day with them
      In hunting forest game.

    Then, with his carpet-bag in hand,
      To Dog Town next he went;
    Though stopping at Free <DW64> Town,
      Where half a day he spent.

    From thence, into Negationburg
      His route of travel lay,
    Which having gained, he left the State
      And took a southward way.

    North Carolina's friendly soil
      He trod at fall of night,
    And, on a bed of softest down,
      He slept at Hell's Delight.

    Morn found him on the road again,
      To Lousy Level bound;
    At Bull's Tail, and Lick Lizzard, too,
      Good provender he found.

    The country all about Pinch Gut
      So beautiful did seem,
    That the beholder thought it like
      A picture in a dream.

    But the plantations near Burnt Coat
      Were even finer still,
    And made the wond'ring tourist feel
      A soft, delicious thrill.

    At Tear Shirt too, the scenery
      Most charming did appear,
    With Snatch It in the distance far,
      And Purgatory near.

    But spite of all these pleasant scenes,
      The tourist stoutly swore,
    That home is brightest, after all,
      And travel is a bore.

    So back he went to Maine, straightway,
      A little wife he took;
    And now is making nutmegs at
      Moosehicmagunticook.

In his note, introductory of this poem, my boy, the editor of the
_Lily_ affirmed (which is strictly true) that I had named none but
veritable localities; and ventured the belief that the composition
would remind his readers of Goldsmith. Upon which his scorpion
contemporary in the next village observed, that there was rather more
smith than gold about the poem. Genius, my boy, is never appreciated
until its possessor is dead; and even the useless praise it then
obtains is chiefly due to the pleasure that is experienced in burying
the poor wretch.

Up to the time when this poem appeared in print, I had succeeded in
concealing from my father the nature of my incidental occupation; but
now he must know all.

He did know all, my boy; and the result was, that he gave me ten
dollars, and sent me to New York to look out for myself.

"It's the only thing that will save him," says he to my mother, "and I
must either send him off, or expect to see him sink by degrees to
editorship, and commence to wear disgraceful clothes."

I went to New York; I became private secretary and speech-scribe to an
unscrupulous and, therefore, rising politician; and now--I am in
Washington.

Thus, my boy, have I answered your desire for an outline of my personal
history; and henceforth let me devote my attention to other and more
important inhabitants of our distracted country. I had a certain
postmastership in my eye when I first came hither; but war's alarms
indicate that I may do better as an amateur hero.

Yours inconoclastically,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER IV.

DESCRIBING THE SOUTH IN TWELVE LINES, DEFINING THE CITIZEN'S FIRST
DUTY, AND RECITING A PARODY.


WASHINGTON, D.C., April --, 1861.

The chivalrous South, my boy, has taken Fort Sumter, and only wants to
be "let alone." Some things of a Southern sort I like, my boy;
Southdown mutton is fit for the gods, and Southside particular is
liquid sunshine for the heart; but the whole country was growing tired
of new South wails before this, and my present comprehensive estimate
of all there is of Dixie may be summed up in twelve straight lines,
under the general heading of

    REPUDIATION.

    'Neath a ragged palmetto a Southerner sat,
    A-twisting the band of his Panama hat,
    And trying to lighten his mind of a load
    By humming the words of the following ode:
      "Oh! for a <DW65>, and oh! for a whip;
      Oh! for a cocktail, and oh! for a nip;
      Oh! for a shot at old Greeley and Beecher;
      Oh! for a crack at a Yankee school-teacher;
      Oh! for a captain, and oh! for a ship;
      Oh! for a cargo of <DW65>s each trip."
    And so he kept oh-ing for all he had not,
    Not contented with owing for all that he'd got.

In view of the impending conflict, it is the duty of every American
citizen, who has nothing else to do, to take up his abode in the
capital of this agonized Republic, and give the Cabinet the sanction of
his presence. Some base child of treason may intimate that Washington
is not quite large enough to hold every American citizen; but I'm
satisfied that, if all the democrats could have one good washing, they
would shrink so that you might put the whole blessed party into an
ordinary custom house. Some of the republicans are pretty large chaps
for their size, but Jeff Davis thinks they can be "taken in" easily
enough; and I know that the new tariff will be enough to make them
contract like sponges out of water. The city is full of Western chaps,
at present, who look as if they had just walked out of a
charity-hospital, and had not got beyond gruel diet yet. Every soul of
them knew old Abe when he was a child, and one old boy can even
remember going for a doctor when his mother was born. I met one of them
the other day (he is after the Moosehicmagunticook post-office), and
his anecdotes of the President's boyhood brought tears to my eyes, and
several tumblers to my lips. He says, that when Abe was an infant of
sixteen, he split so many rails that his whole county looked like a
wholesale lumber-yard for a week; and that when he took to
flat-boating, he was so tall and straight, that a fellow once took him
for a smoke-stack on a steamboat, and didn't find out his mistake until
he tried to kindle a fire under him. Once, while Abe was practising as
a lawyer, he defended a man for stealing a horse, and was so eloquent
in proving that his client was an honest victim of false suspicion,
that the deeply-affected victim made him a present of the horse as soon
as he was acquitted. I tell you what, my boy, if Abe pays a post-office
for every story of his childhood that's told, the mail department of
this glorious nation will be so large that a letter smaller than a
two-story house would get lost in it.

                 *       *       *       *       *

Of all the vile and damning deeds that ever rendered a city eternally
infamous, my boy--of all the infernal sins of dark-browed treachery
that ever made open-faced treason seem holy, the crime of Baltimore is
the blackest and worst. All that April day we were waiting with bated
breath and beating hearts for the devoted men who had pledged their
lives to their country at the first call of the President, and were
known to be marching to the defence of the nation's capital. That night
was one of terror: at any moment the hosts of the rebels might pour
upon the city from the mountains of guilty Virginia, and grasp the very
throat of the Republic. And with the first dim light of morning came
the news that our soldiers had been basely beset in the streets of
Baltimore, and ruthlessly shot down by a treacherous mob! Those whom
they had trusted as brothers, my boy--whose country they were marching
to defend with their lives--assassinating them in cold blood!

I was sitting in my room at Willard's, when a serious chap from New
Haven, who had just paused long enough at the door to send a waiter for
the same that he had yesterday, came rushing into the apartment with a
long, fluttering paper in his hand.

"Listen to this," says he, in wild agitation, and read:

    BALTIMORE.

    Midnight shadows, dark, appalling, round the Capitol were falling,
    And its dome and pillars glimmered spectral from Potomac's shore;
    All the great had gone to slumber, and of all the busy number
    That had moved the State by day within its walls, as erst before,
    None there were but dreamed of heroes thither sent ere day was o'er--
                  Thither sent through BALTIMORE.

    But within a chamber solemn, barred aloft with many a column,
    And with windows tow'rd Mount Vernon, windows tow'rd Potomac's shore,
    Sat a figure, stern and awful; Chief, but not the Chieftain lawful
    Of the land whose grateful millions Washington's great name adore--
    Sat the form--a shade majestic of a Chieftain gone before,
                  Thine to honor, BALTIMORE!

    There he sat in silence, gazing, by a single planet's blazing,
    At a map outspread before him wide upon the marble floor;
    And if 'twere for mortal proving that those reverend lips were moving,
    While the eyes were closely scanning one mapped city o'er and o'er--
    While he saw but one great city on that map upon the floor--
                  They were whispering--"BALTIMORE."

    Thus he sat, nor word did utter, till there came a sudden flutter,
    And the sound of beating wings was heard upon the carved door.
    In a trice the bolts were broken; by those lips no word was spoken,
    As an Eagle, torn and bloody, dim of eye, and wounded sore,
    Fluttered down upon the map, and trailed a wing all wet with gore
                  O'er the name of BALTIMORE!

    Then that noble form uprising, with a gesture of surprising,
    Bent with look of keenest sorrow tow'rd the bird that drooped before;
    "Emblem of my country!" said he, "are thy pinions stained already
    In a tide whose blending waters never ran so red before?
    Is it with the blood of kinsmen? Tell me quickly, I implore!"
                  Croaked the eagle--"BALTIMORE!"

    "Eagle," said the Shade, advancing, "tell me by what dread
        mischancing
    Thou, the symbol of my people, bear'st thy plumes erect no more?
    Why dost thou desert mine army, sent against the foes that harm me,
    Through my country, with a Treason worlds to come shall e'er
        deplore?"
    And the Eagle on the map, with bleeding wing, as just before,
                  Blurred the name of BALTIMORE!

    "Can it be?" the spectre muttered. "Can it be?" those pale lips
        uttered;
    "Is the blood Columbia treasures spilt upon its native shore?
    Is there in the land so cherished, land for whom the great have
        perished,
    Men to shed a brother's blood as tyrant's blood was shed before?
    Where are they who murder Peace before the breaking out of war?"
                  Croaked the Eagle--"BALTIMORE."

    At the word, of sound so mournful, came a frown, half sad, half
        scornful,
    O'er the grand, majestic face where frown had never been before;
    And the hands to Heaven uplifted, with an awful pow'r seemed gifted
    To plant curses on a head, and hold them there forevermore--
    To rain curses on a land, and bid them grow forevermore--
                  Woe art thou, O BALTIMORE!

    Then the sacred spirit, fading, left upon the floor a shading,
    As of one with arms uplifted, from a distance bending o'er;
    And the vail of night grew thicker, and the death-watch beat the
        quicker
    For a death within a death, and sadder than the death before!
    And a whispering of woe was heard upon Potomac's shore--
                  Hear it not, O BALTIMORE!

    And the Eagle, never dying, still is trying, still is trying,
    With its wings upon the map to hide a city with its gore;
    But the name is there forever, and it shall be hidden never,
    While the awful brand of murder points the Avenger to its shore;
    While the blood of peaceful brothers God's dread vengeance doth
        implore,
                  Thou art doomed, O BALTIMORE!

"There!" says the serious New Haven chap, as he finished reading,
stirring something softly with a spoon, "what do you suppose Poe would
think, if he were alive now and could read that?"

"I think," says I, striving to appear calm, "that he would be 'Raven'
mad about it."

"Oh--ah--yes," says the serious chap, vaguely, "what will _you_ take?"

Doubtless I shall become hardened to the horrors of war in time, my
boy; but at present these things unhinge me.

Yours, unforgivingly,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER V.

CONCERNING THE GREAT CROWD AT THE CAPITAL, OWING TO THE VAST INFLUX OF
TROOPS, AND TOUCHING UPON FIRE-ZOUAVE PECULIARITIES AND OTHER MATTERS.


WASHINGTON, D.C., May 24th, 1861.

I am living luxuriously, at present, on the top of a very respectable
fence, and fare sumptuously on three granite biscuit a day, and a glass
of water, weakened with brandy. A high private in the Twenty-second
Regiment has promised to let me have one of his spare pocket-handkerchiefs
for a sheet on the first rainy night, and I never go to bed on my
comfortable window-brush without thinking how many poor creatures there
are in this world who have to sleep on hair mattresses and feather-beds
all their lives. Before the great rush of the Fire Zouaves and the rest
of the menagerie commenced, I boarded exclusively on a front stoop on
Pennsylvania Avenue, and used to slumber, regardless of expense, in a
well-conducted ash-box; but the military monopolize all such
accommodation now, and I give way for the sake of my country.

I tell you, my boy, we're having high old times here just now, and if
they get any higher, I shan't be able to afford to stay. The city is in
"danger" every other hour, and as a veteran in the Fire Zouaves
remarked, there seems to be enough danger laying around loose on
Arlington Heights to make a very good blood-and-thunder fiction in
numerous pages. If the vigilant and well-educated sentinels happen to
see an old <DW65> on the other side of the Potomac, they sing out,
"Here they come!" and the whole blessed army is snapping caps in less
than a minute. Then all the cheap reporters telegraph to their papers
in New York and Philadelphia, that "Jeff. Davis is within two minutes'
walk of the Capital, with a few millions of men," and all the free
states send six more regiments a piece to crowd us a little more. I
sha'n't stand much more crowding, for my fence is full now, and there
were six applications yesterday to rent an improved knot-hole. My
landlord says that, if more than three chaps set up housekeeping on one
post, he'll be obliged to raise the rent.

Those Fire Zouaves are fellows of awful suction, I tell you. Just for
greens, I asked one of them, yesterday, what he came here for? "Hah!"
says he, shutting one eye, "we came here to strike for your altars and
your fires--especially your _fires_." General Scott says that if he
wanted to make these chaps break through the army of a foe, he'd have a
fire-bell rung for some district on the other side of the rebels. He
says that half a million of the traitors couldn't keep the Fire Zouaves
out of that district five minutes. I believe him, my boy!

The weather here is highly favorable to the free development of
perspiration and mint-juleps, and I have enjoyed the melancholy
satisfaction of losing ten pounds of flesh in three days. One of the
lieutenants of the Eighth has a gutter about half an inch deep worn
down the bridge of his nose by the stream of perspiration since
Wednesday; and a chap from Vermont melted so awfully the other day,
that they had to put him in a refrigerator to keep enough of him to
send home to his rich but pious family.

In fact, this weather makes the Northern boys fall away awfully; one of
the Fire Zouaves fell away tremendously yesterday; he fell away from
Washington to Annapolis, and then somebody had to put him in a
guard-house to keep him from perspiring all the way back to New York.
The chap that boards on the next front stoop to me now, was so fat when
he came here that his captain refused to use him as a sentinel, because
he could not see far enough over his stomach to detect any one
approaching him. Well, my boy, that chap has fallen away to such an
extent that it took me half an hour last night to find out what part of
his uniform he lived in. He blew down three or four times while we were
walking up Pennsylvania avenue; and while I was helping him up the last
time, a passer-by asked me "What I would take for that ere flag-staff?"

By-the-by, you ought to have heard Honest Old Abe's speech, on
Wednesday, when we raised the Star-spangled particular on the
Post-office. Says he: "On this present occasion, I feel that it will
not be out of place to make a few remarks which were not applicable at
a former period. Yesterday, the flag hung on the staff throughout the
Union, and in consequence of the scarcity of a breeze, there was not
much wind blowing at the time. On the present happy occasion, however,
the presence of numerous zephyrs causes the atmosphere to agitate for
our glorious Union, and this flag, which now unfolds itself to the
sight, is observed, upon closer inspection, to present a star-spangled
appearance."

Mr. Seward's speech, which was also received with frantic enthusiasm,
sounded equally well. He said: "I trust that this glorious spectacle
will make a deep impression upon all present, notwithstanding the fact
that I am still convinced that peace may yet put an end to this unhappy
conflict by means of a convention of all the States on the Fourth of
July, 2776, which I have always advocated. As the President has
remarked, the breeze which has just arisen in the bay of Naples, causes
the Star-Spangled Banner to arouse a far prouder feeling in every
American breast, than if a vessel should come in with a palmetto flag
at her peak, and upon being asked where it came from, should reply:
'Oh, from one of the petty republics of America.' I have nothing more
to say."

I know this report is correct, for I copied both the speeches from a
phonographic reporter's copy, and the phonographic reporter had only
taken six glasses of old peach and honey before he went to work.

Yours, hastily,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER VI.

INTRODUCING THE MACKEREL BRIGADE, DILATING ON HAVELOCKS AS FIRST MADE
BY THE WOMEN OF AMERICA, ILLUSTRATING THE STRENGTH OF HABIT AND
WEAKNESS OF "SHODDY," AND SHOWING HOW OUR CORRESPONDENT INDULGED IN A
HUGE CANARD, AFTER THE MANNER OF AN ENLIGHTENED DAILY PRESS.


WASHINGTON, D.C., June 15th, 1861.

The members of the Mackerel Brigade, now stationed on Arlington Heights
to watch the movements of the Potomac, which is expected to rise
shortly, desire me to thank the women of America for supplies of
Havelocks and other delicacies of the season just received. The
Havelocks, my boy, are rather roomy, and we took them for shirts at
first; and the shirts are so narrow-minded, that we took them for
Havelocks. If the women of America could manage to get a little less
linen in the collars of the latter article, and a little more into the
other departments of the graceful garment, there would be fewer colds
in this division of the Grand Army.

The Havelocks, as I have said before, are roomy--very roomy, my boy.
Villiam Brown, of Company 3, Regiment 5, put one on last night, when he
went on sentry-duty, and looked like a broomstick in a pillow-case, for
all the world. When the officer of the night came round and caught
sight of Villiam in his Havelock, he was struck dumb with admiration
for a moment. Then he ejaculated:

"What a splendid moonbeam!"

Villiam made a movement, and the sergeant came up.

"What's that white object?" says the officer to the sergeant.

"The young man which is Villiam Brown," says the sergeant.

"Thunder!" roars the officer, "tell him to go to his tent, and take off
that night-gown!"

"You're mistaken," says the sergeant. "The sentry is Villiam Brown, in
his Havelock, which was made by the wimmen of America."

The officer was so justly exasperated at his mistake, that he went
immediately to his head-quarters, and took the Oath three times
running, with a little sugar.

The Oath is very popular, my boy, and comes in bottles. I take it
medicinally myself.

The shirts made by the women of America are noble articles, as far down
as the collar; but would not do to use as an only garment. Captain
Mortimer de Montague, one of the skirmish squad, put one on when he
went to the President's Reception, and the collar stood up so high,
that he couldn't put his cap on, while the other departments didn't
quite reach to his waist. His appearance at the White House was
picturesque and interesting, and as he entered the drawing-room,
General Scott remarked, very feelingly:

"Ah! here comes one of our wounded heroes."

"He's not wounded, general," remarked an officer, standing by.

"Then, why is his head bandaged up so?" asked the venerable veteran.

"Oh!" says the officer, "that's only one of the shirts made by the
patriotic wimmen of America."

In about five minutes after this conversation, I saw the venerable
veteran, the wounded hero, and the officer taking the Oath together.

The Seventy-ninth, Highlanders, came to town early last week, and are
the finest body of Scotchmen that were ever half _kilt_ by uniform
alone. My heart warmed to them when I first saw them; and, with arms
outspread, I greeted the gallant fellow nearest to me. With a tear of
gratified pride in his eye, he exclaimed:

"Auld lang syne and Scots who ha'e; but gang awa' wi' Heeland laddie
thegither o' John Anderson my Jo; and, moreover, we'll tak' a right
gude willie wacht for muckle twa and braw chiel."

I told him I thought so myself.

I'm sorry to say, my boy, that some members of this splendid regiment
are badly off for trowsers, and shock my modesty tremendously. They
probably forgot them in their hurry to get to the war, and the Union
Pretence Committee ought to send them out an assortment of peg-tops at
once. "Not that I hobject to the hinnocent hamusements of the
Highlanders, but that decency and propriety _must_ be preserved within
the limits of the army"--as the British show-man observed.

I took a trip down to Alexandria the other night, to see how the Fire
Zouaves were getting along, and came pretty near getting into trouble
with one of Five's screamers. He was on guard; and when he challenged
me, the pass-word slipped my memory.

"Drop that ere butt," says he, bringing his musket to a charge, "or
I'll give yer a taste of the old masheen. Who--wha--what are yer
coughin' at--sa-a-ay?"

I was frightened, my boy, and had just commenced the appropriate prayer
of "Now I lay me down to sleep," when suddenly an idea struck me, and I
acted on it immediately.

"Hello!" says I, "Johnny, didn't you hear the old Hall kettle strike
for the Fourth District? Come along with me and help to get the old
dog-cart on a jump, or Nine's roosters will get the rail-road track and
have the old butt in Christie street before we can swing the old
masheen over a pig's whisker."

"Bully for you!" says he, dropping his musket, all in a quiver, and
commencing to roll up his pantaloons. "I've got a bet on that ere fire;
and ef I don't take the starch out of that ere Nine's feller what wears
good clothes and don't do nothing--you may just take my boots."

It was all the force of habit, you see; and if I hadn't stopped that
Zouave, I really believe he'd have run clean into the bosom of all the
first families, looking for the Fourth District and Nine's feller!

The Mackerel brigade have got their new uniforms, and they are not the
martial garments it would do to get fat in. High private Samivel Green
put his on, partially, yesterday; but, it's a positive fact, my boy,
that by the time he got his coat buttoned, his pantaloons were all worn
out. I managed to get on one of the uniforms myself, and the first time
I went into the open air all the buttons blew off.

                 *       *       *       *       *

I've just returned from visiting the most mournful sight that ever made
a man feel as though he'd been peeling onions all the week, and grating
horse-radish on Sunday. It was the first dying scene of one of the "Pet
Lammers," down at Alexandria, and, as one of Five's chaps remarks, it
was enough to make the eye of a darning-needle weep, and bring tears to
the cheek of the Greek slave. Jim was the only name of the sufferer,
and if he ever had any other, it had slipped his memory, though his
affectionate relatives sometimes called him "Shorty," by way of
endearment. He was out on picket-guard the night before, when the
Southern Confederacy attempted to pass him. He challenged the intruder,
and called to his comrades for help; but, before the latter could
arrive, the Southern Confederacy drew a masked battery from his pocket,
and fired six heavy balls through the head of the unfortunate Zouave,
nearly fracturing his skull, and breaking several panes of glass. The
cowardly miscreant then fled to an adjacent fence, closely followed by
Sherman's Artillery.

Upon discovering that he was wounded, Mr. Shorty examined the cap on
his musket, and stood it carefully against a tree, buttoned his jacket
to his neck, and asked a comrade for a chew of tobacco. Too full of
emotion to speak, the comrade handed a gentlemanly plug to the dying
man, who cut about half an ounce from it, placed it thoughtfully in his
mouth, and then stuffed his handkerchief carefully in the hole in his
forehead made by the balls.

"Is any of my brains hanging out?" he asked of another of his comrades.

"No, Shorty," answered the other, bursting into tears; "you never had
any to hang out."

After this response, the dying man paused for a moment to spit in the
eyes of a dog that was smelling around his heels, and then proceeded
with his comrades in the direction of the hospital, or the house used
for that purpose.

As they were passing the quarters of the officer with whom I was
spending the night, the expiring Zouave stopped to twist the tail of an
old darkey's cat, which made such a noise that the officer's attention
was attracted, and he called the whole party into his room. I at once
noticed that the top of Mr. Shorty's head was completely gone, and that
one of his eyes was half-way down the back of his neck. Upon entering
the room he took a pipe from the mantel and commenced to smoke it,
giving us, at the same time, a history of Nine's Engine and the first
"muss" he was ever engaged in. After finishing the pipe, and requesting
me to wrap him up in the American flag, he spit on one of my boots, and
then died. I append a short biographical sketch.

    THE LATE PRIVATE SHORTY.

    Mr. James Shorty, the gallant Zouave who was shot last night by the
    Southern Confederacy, was born some years ago in a place I am not
    aware of, and graduated with high honors in the New York Fire
    Department. He was universally beloved for his genial manner of
    taking the butt, and never hit a feller bigger than himself. In the
    year 1861, he entered the United States army as a private Zouave,
    and was in it when the fate of war deprived the country of his
    beloved presence. His remains will be taken to the first fire that
    occurs.

                 *       *       *       *       *

Poor Shorty! I knew him well, my boy, and shall never forget how ready
he always was to take a cigar from

Yours, mournfully,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

P.S.--Since writing the above, I have heard that no such occurrence
took place at Alexandria. The alarm was occasioned by the fall of a bag
of hay in one of the officers' quarters, the noise being mistaken for
the firing of a battery. Mr. Shorty, it seems, does not belong to the
Zouaves, at all, and is still in New York.

O. C. K.




LETTER VII.

RECORDING THE FIRST SANGUINARY EXPLOIT OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE, AND ITS
VICTORIOUS ISSUE.


WASHINGTON, D.C., June 20th, 1861.

I have just returned, my boy, with my fellow-mercenaries and several
mudsills from a carnival of gore. I am wounded--my sensibilities are
wounded, and my irrepressibles reek with the blood of the slain. These
hands, that once opened the oysters of peace and toyed with the
bivalves of tranquillity, are now sanguinary with the _red juice of
battle_ (gushing idea!), and linger in horrid ecstacy about the gloomy
neck of a bottle holding about a quart. Eagle of my country, proud bird
of the menagerie! thou art avenged!

At a late hour last evening, the Brigadier-General of the Mackerel
Brigade (formerly a practitioner in the Asylum for Idiots) received
intelligence from a messenger that a strong force of chickens were
intrenched near Fairfax Court-House under the command of a rabid
secessionist named Binks. The brigade was at once ordered over the
bridge at a double-quick, the general throwing a strong force of
skirmishers into the Potomac, and waving his sword repeatedly to show
that he was a stranger to fear. Shortly after touching Virginia soil,
the orderly sergeant reported an engagement, on the left flank, between
private Villiam Brown and the man that puts his hair in papers. A
consultation of officers was immediately called, and the order "About
face" was given. So excited was our general by the event, that when the
order to march was given he forgot all about the "About face" business,
and we didn't know that we were going the wrong way until we suddenly
found ourselves at the bridge again. A consultation of officers was
immediately called, and it was determined that, in consequence of the
well-known revolution of the world on its axis, the part with the
bridge on it had taken a turn while we were halting, and we were
ordered to counterbalance the singular phenomena by marching the other
way immediately. We had proceeded about one mile, when a scout reported
that a shower was coming up. A consultation of officers was immediately
called, and it was determined that a squad should search a neighboring
farmhouse for an umbrella for the Brigadier-General. The umbrella being
obtained without loss of life, we pushed on toward Fairfax, and soon
found ourselves before the works of the enemy. A consultation of
officers was immediately called, and it was decided that the
Brigadier-General should climb a tree, in order to be able to direct
the assault effectively, and prevent the appearance of a widow in his
family at home. The first regiment, Watch Guards, were ordered to
reconnoitre the works, and private Villiam Brown had almost succeeded
in surrounding a very fat pullet, when Colonel Binks put his head out
of the window of his fortress, and discharged a ten-inch boot-jack at
our centre.

The Man that puts his hair in papers was wounded severely on one of his
corns, and the Brigadier-General slid hastily down from the tree, and
retired to the rear of an adjacent barn. A consultation of officers was
immediately called, and it was determined to form our brigade into a
square, and receive the charge of the enemy, who speedily appeared
before the breastworks with a pair of tongs in his hands. Reaching
forward with the horrid weapon, he pulled the nose of our returned
Brigadier-General with it. A consultation of officers was immediately
called, and it was determined that death was preferable to defeat.
Accordingly, the brigade was ordered to advance cautiously upon the
enemy, while the orderly sergeant was sent to harass his rear, and turn
his flank, if possible. Our brigadier-general attempted to lead the
charge, but made a mistake about the direction again, and had galloped
half a mile toward where we came from before he could be convinced of
his mistake. Seeing us descending upon him, at last, like an avalanche,
the enemy deployed to the right, and poured in a volley of "cusses,"
throwing our right column into confusion, and wounding the delicacy of
our chaplain. A consultation of officers was immediately called, and it
was determined to make one more dash. We were formed into the shape of
a bunch of radishes, the brigadier-general retired a distance of two
miles to encourage us, and we poured down upon the foe with
irresistible force. His ranks were broken by the impetuosity of our
charge, and he scattered and fled in dismay.

The engagement then became general, and in a little while we were on
our victorious way to Washington again, with 150 rebel prisoners. Our
captives were chickens, in excellent condition for dressing, and their
appearance so delighted our brigadier-general--whom we found sharpening
his sword on the bottom of his boot, some miles away--that a
consultation of officers was immediately called, and it was determined
to cook and eat them immediately, lest the President should administer
the oath of allegiance to them, and discharge them in the morning.

Yours, victoriously,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER VIII.

THE REJECTED "NATIONAL HYMNS."


WASHINGTON, D.C., June 30th, 1861.

Immediately after mailing my last to you, I secured a short furlough,
and proceeded to New York, to examine into the affairs of that
venerable Committee which had offered a prize of $500 for the best
National Hymn.

Upon going into literary circles, my boy, no less than fifty
acknowledged poets confidentially informed me, that the idea of bribing
the muse to be solemnly patriotic was altogether too vulgar to be
tolerated for a moment by writers of reputation; and a whole swarm of
poets, never acknowledged by anybody, were human enough to say that
$500 was not a small sum in these times; but they hadn't "come to that
yet, you know."

One very poor Bohemian, my boy (whose scathing sarcasm at the expense
of those degraded creatures who prefer wealth to intellect, has often
delighted and improved the public mind), was so rash as to intimate
that the importunities of his laundress might drive him to the
desperate resource of competing for the prize; but he was quickly made
to blush for the unworthy thought, by the undisguised contempt for his
"dem'd lowness" displayed by a decayed young gentleman in a dirty
collar and very new neck-tie, who lives in a two-pair back in Wooster
street (fish balls and a roll twice a day), and writes graphic sketches
of fashionable life for the wholesale market.

And yet, notwithstanding all this high-mindedness, my boy, there is an
immense amount of some sort of genius insidiously pitted against the
contemptible $500. Astounding and distracting to relate, the committee
announces the reception of no less than eleven hundred and fifty
"anthems"!

The magnitude of eleven hundred and fifty "anthems" is almost more than
one human mind can grasp. Allowing that each "anthem" is a quarter of a
yard long, we have a grand total of two hundred and eighty-seven and a
half yards of "anthem"; allowing that each "anthem" weighs half a pound
(intellectually and materially), I find a gross weight of five hundred
and seventy-five pounds of "anthem"!

Let the reflective mind consider these figures for a moment, and it
will be stricken with a sense of the singular resemblance between
Genius and other marketable commodities. Eleven hundred and fifty
anthems are enough to prove that Genius has its private mercenary
weaknesses as well as Trade, my boy, and that brains can be bought by
the yard as well as calico. Genius may carry with it a seeming contempt
for the yellow dross of common humanity; but--it has to pay its
occasional washerwoman.

And all these "anthems" are rejected by the venerable committee! But
must they _all_, therefore, be lost to the world? I hope not, my
boy,--I hope not. Having some acquaintance with the discriminating
rag-merchant to whom they were turned over as rejected, I have procured
some of the best, from which to quote for your special edification.

Imprimis, my boy, observe this

    NATIONAL ANTHEM.

    BY H. W. L----, OF CAMBRIDGE.

    Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch
      Over the sea-ribbed land of the fleet-footed Norsemen,
    Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens--
      Ursa, the noblest of all the Vikings and horsemen.

    Musing, he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon,
      Where the Aurora lapt stars in a North-polar manner,
    Wildly he started--for there in the heavens before him
      Fluttered and flew the original Star-Spangled Banner.

The committee have two objections to this: in the first place, it is
not an "anthem" at all; secondly, it is a gross plagiarism from an old
Scandinavian war-song of the primeval ages.

Next, I present a

    NATIONAL ANTHEM.

    BY THE HON. EDWARD E----, OF BOSTON.

    Ponderous projectiles, hurled by heavy hands,
      Fell on our Liberty's poor infant head,
    Ere she a stadium had well advanced
      On the great path that to her greatness led;
    Her temple's propylon was shattered;
      Yet, thanks to saving Grace and Washington,
    Her incubus was from her bosom hurled;
      And, rising like a cloud-dispelling sun,
    She took the oil, with which her hair was curled,
    To grease the "Hub" round which revolves the world.

This fine production is rather heavy for an "anthem," and contains too
much of Boston to be considered strictly national. To set such an
"anthem" to music would require a Wagner; and even were it really
accommodated to a tune, it could only be whistled by the populace.

We now come to a

    NATIONAL ANTHEM.

    BY JOHN GREENLEAF W----.

    My native land, thy Puritanic stock
    Still finds its roots firm-bound in Plymouth Rock,
    And all thy sons unite in one grand wish--
    To keep the virtues of Preserv-ed Fish.

    Preserv-ed Fish, the Deacon stern and true,
    Told our New England what her sons should do,
    And should they swerve from loyalty and right,
    Then the whole land were lost indeed in night.

The sectional bias of this "anthem" renders it unsuitable for use in
that small margin of the world situated outside of New England. Hence
the above must be rejected.

Here we have a very curious

    NATIONAL ANTHEM.

    BY DR. OLIVER WENDELL H----.

    A diagnosis of our hist'ry proves
    Our native land a land its native loves;
    Its birth a deed obstetric without peer,
    Its growth a source of wonder far and near.

    To love it more behold how foreign shores
    Sink into nothingness beside its stores;
    Hyde Park at best--though counted ultra-grand--
    The "Boston Common" of Victoria's land--

The committee must not be blamed for rejecting the above, after reading
thus far; for such an "anthem" could only be sung by a college of
surgeons or a Beacon-street tea-party.

Turn we now to a

    NATIONAL ANTHEM.

    BY RALPH WALDO E----.

    Source immaterial of material naught,
      Focus of light infinitesimal,
    Sum of all things by sleepless Nature wrought,
      Of which abnormal man is decimal.

    Refract, in prism immortal, from thy stars
      To the stars blent incipient on our flag,
    The beam translucent, neutrifying death;
      And raise to immortality the rag.

This "anthem" was greatly praised by a celebrated German scholar; but
the committee felt obliged to reject it on account of its too childish
simplicity.

Here we have a

    NATIONAL ANTHEM

    BY WILLIAM CULLEN B----.

    The sun sinks softly to his evening post,
      The sun swells grandly to his morning crown;
    Yet not a star our flag of Heav'n has lost,
      And not a sunset stripe with him goes down.

    So thrones may fall; and from the dust of those,
      New thrones may rise, to totter like the last;
    But still our country's nobler planet glows
      While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.

Upon finding that this did not go well to the air of "Yankee Doodle,"
the committee felt justified in declining it; being furthermore
prejudiced against it by a suspicion that the poet has crowded an
advertisement of a paper which he edits into the first line.

Next we quote from a

    NATIONAL ANTHEM

    BY GEN. GEORGE P. M----.

    In the days that tried our fathers
      Many years ago,
    Our fair land achieved her freedom,
      Blood-bought, you know.
    Shall we not defend her ever
      As we'd defend
    That fair maiden, kind and tender,
      Calling us friend?

    Yes! Let all the echoes answer,
      From hill and vale;
    Yes! Let other nations, hearing,
      Joy in the tale.
    Our Columbia is a lady,
      High-born and fair;
    We have sworn allegiance to her--
      Touch her who dare.

The tone of this "anthem" not being devotional enough to suit the
committee, it should be printed on an edition of linen-cambric
handkerchiefs, for ladies especially.

Observe this

    NATIONAL ANTHEM

    BY N. P. W----.

    One hue of our flag is taken
      From the cheeks of my blushing Pet,
    And its stars beat time and sparkle
      Like the studs on her chemisette.

    Its blue is the ocean shadow
      That hides in her dreamy eyes,
    It conquers all men, like her,
      And still for a Union flies.

Several members of the committee being pious, it is not strange that
this "anthem" has too much of the Anacreon spice to suit them.

We next peruse a

    NATIONAL ANTHEM

    BY THOMAS BAILEY A----.

    The little brown squirrel hops in the corn,
      The cricket quaintly sings;
    The emerald pigeon nods his head,
      And the shad in the river springs,
    The dainty sunflower hangs its head
      On the shore of the summer sea;
    And better far that I were dead,
        If Maud did not love me.

    I love the squirrel that hops in the corn,
      And the cricket that quaintly sings;
    And the emerald pigeon that nods his head,
      And the shad that gayly springs.
    I love the dainty sunflower, too,
      And Maud with her snowy breast;
    I love them all;--but I love--I love--
      I love my country best.

This is certainly very beautiful, and sounds somewhat like Tennyson.
Though it was rejected by the Committee, it can never lose its value as
a piece of excellent reading for children. It is calculated to fill the
youthful mind with patriotism and natural history, besides touching the
youthful heart with an emotion palpitating for all.

Notice the following

    NATIONAL ANTHEM

    BY R. H. STOD----.

    Behold the flag! Is it not a flag?
      Deny it, man, if you dare;
    And midway spread, 'twixt earth and sky,
      It hangs like a written prayer.

    Would impious hand of foe disturb
      Its memories' holy spell,
    And blight it with a dew of blood?
      Ha, tr-r-aitor!! * * * It is well.

And this is the last of the rejected anthems I can quote from at
present, my boy, though several hundred pounds yet remain untouched.

Yours, questioningly,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER IX.

IN WHICH OUR CORRESPONDENT TEMPORARILY DIGRESSES FROM WAR MATTERS TO
ROMANTIC LITERATURE, AND INTRODUCES A WOMAN'S NOVEL.


WASHINGTON, D.C., July --, 1861.

While the Grand Army is making its preparations for an advance upon the
Southern Confederacy, my boy, and the celebrated fowl of our distracted
country is getting ready his spurs, let me distract your attention for
a moment to the subject of harrowing Romance as inflicted by the
intellectual women of America.

To soothe and instruct me in my leisure and more ebrious moments, one
of the ink-comparable women of America has sent me her new novel to
read; and before I allow _you_ to enjoy its green leaves, my boy, you
must permit me to make a few remarks concerning the generality of such
works.

Long and patient study of womanly works teaches me that woman's genius,
as displayed in gushing fiction, is a power of creating an unnatural
and unmitigated ruffian for a hero, my boy, at whose shrine all created
crinoline and immense delegations of inferior broadcloth are impelled
to bow. Such a one was that old humbug, Rochester, the beloved of "Jane
Eyre." The character has been done-over scores of times since poor
Charlotte Bronte gave her famous novel to the world, and is still "much
used in respectable families."

The great difficulty with the intellectual women of America is, that
they will persist in attempting to delineate a phase of manly character
which attracts them above all others, but which they do not comprehend.
Woman entertains a natural fondness for that which she can not
understand, and hence it is that we very seldom find her without a
wildly-vague admiration of Emerson.

There is in this world, my boy, a noble type of manhood which unites
dignified reserve with the most loyal integrity, relentless pride of
manner with the kindest humility of heart, rigid indifference to the
applause of the world with the finest regard for its honest respect,
and carelessness of woman's mere frivolous liking with the most
profound and chivalrous reverence for her virtues and her love.

This is the type which, without comprehending it, the intellectual
women of America are continually striving to depict in their novels;
and a pretty mess they make of it, my boy,--a pretty mess they make of
it.

Their "Rochester" hero is harder to understand than Hamlet, when he
falls into the hands of our school-girl authoresses. He looms rakishly
upon us, my boy, a horridly misanthropic wretch, despising the world
with all the dreadful malignity of chronic dyspepsia, and displaying a
degree of moral biliousness truly horrifying to members of the church.
His behavior to the poor little heroine is a perpetual outrage.
Alternately he caresses and snubs her. He never fails to make her read
to him when he traps her in the library; and when she says, "Good
night" to him he is too deep in a "fit of gloomy abstraction" to answer
her civilly. If he calls her a "little fool," her fondness for him
becomes ecstatic: and at the first hint of his having murdered a noble
brother and two beautiful sisters in early life, she is led to fear
that her adoration of him will exceed the love she owes to her Maker!

This unprincipled ruffian may be separated from the virtuous little
heroine for years, and be flirting consumedly with half a dozen
crinolines when next she sees him; yet is he loved dearly by the
virtuous little heroine all the time, and when last we hear of him, she
is resting peacefully upon his vest-pattern.

What makes the inconsistency of the whole story still more apparent, is
the intense and double-refined piety of the heroine, as contrasted with
an utter stagnation of all morality in the breast of the ruffian. How
the two can assimilate, I do not understand; and my misunderstanding is
wofully augmented by the heroine's frequent expressions of
churchliness, and the ruffian's equally frequent outbursts of waggish
infidelity.

And now, my boy, let me transcribe for you the new novel, sent to me
with such kind intent by one of the young and intellectual women of
America. You will find much lusciousness of sentiment, my boy, in


    HIGGINS.

    AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

    BY GUSHALINA CRUSHIT.




    PREFACE.


    In writing the ensuing pages, I have been guided by no motives
    other than those which lead the mind, in its leisure hours, to
    scatter the germs of the beautiful. It may be urged that the
    character of my hero is unnatural; but I am sure there are many of
    my sex who will discover in Mr. Higgins a counter-part of the ideal
    of days when life still knew the odors of its first spring, and the
    soul of man seemed to the eye of innocence an elysium of virtue
    into which no gangrene of mere worldliness intruded. I have done.




    CHAPTER I.


    It was on the eve of a day in the happy month of June, that my
    great grandfather's carriage, drawn by six hundred and twenty-two
    white horses, drew up under the tall palm trees before the gates of
    the venerable Higgins' Lodge, and I was lifted almost fainting from
    the wearied vehicle. As my grandfather supported my trembling steps
    into the spacious hall of the lodge, I noticed that another figure
    had been added to our party. It was that of a man six feet high,
    and broad in proportion, whose majestic and spacious brow betokened
    realms of elysian thought and excrescent ideality. His pallid
    tresses hung in curls down his back, and an American flag floated
    from his Herculean shoulders. Fixed by a fascination only to be
    realized by those who have felt so, I cast my piercing glance at
    him, and my inmost soul knew all his sublimity. It was as though an
    angel's wing had swept my temples, and left a glittering pinion
    there.

    "Mr. Higgins," said my grandfather, "here is your ward,
    Galushianna."

    For an instant silence prevailed.

    Then Mr. Higgins said, in tones of exquisitely modulated thunder:

    "What did you bring the d--d girl _here_ for, you old cuss you?"

    It was as when one sees a strain of music. I remembered the prayers
    of my dear departed mother when she sought to enlighten my
    speechless infancy with divine grace, and I felt that I loved this
    Higgins.

    Such is life. We wander through the bowers of love without a
    thought of the morrow, while the dread vulture of predestination
    eats into our souls, and cries, wo! wo! Truly, earthly happiness is
    a mockery.




    CHAPTER II.

    Scarcely had I taken my seat in the library after my grandfather
    had left us, when Mr. Higgins ordered me to black his boots. This I
    proceeded to do with a haughty air, scarcely daring to hope, but
    wishing that he would conquer his freezing reserve, and speak to me
    again. For I was but a child, and my young heart yearned for
    sympathy.

    Presently, Mr. Higgins turned his large gray eyes on me, and said:

    "Ha!"

    After this, he remained in a thoughtful reverie for two hours, and
    then turning to me, asked:

    "Galushiana, what do you think of me?"

    "I think," replied I, carefully putting the blacking-brush in its
    place, "that your nature is naturally a noble one, but has been
    warped and shadowed by a misconceived impression of the great
    arcana of the universe. You permit the genuflexions of human sin to
    bias your mind in its estimate of the true economy of creation;
    thus blighting, as it were, the fructifying evidences of your own
    abstract being--"

    I blushed, and feared I had gone too far.

    "Very true," responded Mr. Higgins, after a moment's pause;
    "Schiller says nearly the same thing. It was a sense of man's utter
    nothingness that led me to kill my grandmother, and poison the
    helpless offspring of my elder brother."

    Here Mr. Higgins held down his head and quivered with emotions, as
    the ocean quakes under the shrieking howl of the blast.

    I felt my whole being convulsed, and could not endure the
    spectacle. I stole softly to the door, and stammered through my
    tears, "Good-night, Mr. Higgins, I will pray for you."

    He did not turn his noble head, but said, in firm tones: "Poor
    little beast, good night."

    I went to my room, but could not sleep. Shortly after half-past two
    o'clock I crawled noiselessly down to the library-door and looked
    in. Mr. Higgins still sat before the fire in the same thoughtful
    position. "Poor little beast!" I heard him murmur softly to
    himself--"poor little beast!"




    CHAPTER III.

    Let the reader transport himself to a small stone cottage on the
    Hudson, and he will behold me as I was at the age of twenty-one. I
    had reached that acme of woman's career when common sense is to her
    as nothing, and the world with all its follies bursts upon her
    ravished ears with ten-fold succulence. My grandfather had been
    dead some fifty years, and I was even thinking of him, when the
    door opened, and Mr. Higgins entered. I felt my heart palpitate,
    and was about to quit the room, when he cast a searching glance at
    me, and said:

    "Well, girl--are you as big a fool as ever?"

    I hung my head, for the tell-tale blush _would_ bloom.

    "Come," said Mr. Higgins, "don't speak like a donkey. I'm no
    priestly confessor. Curse the priests! Curse the world! Curse
    everybody! Curse everything!" And he placed his feet upon the
    mantel-piece, and gazed meditatively into the fire.

    I could hear the beatings of my own heart, and all the warmth of my
    nature went forth to meet this sublime embodiment of human majesty;
    yet I dared not speak.

    After a short silence, Mr. Higgins took a chew of tobacco, and
    placing his hand on my shoulder, exclaimed:

    "Why should I deceive you, girl? Last night I poisoned my only
    remaining sister because she would have wed a circus-keeper, and
    scarcely an hour ago I lost two millions at faro. Your priests
    would say this was wrong--hey?"

    I stifled my sobs and said, as calmly as I could:

    "Our Church looks at the motive, not the deed. If a high sense of
    honor compelled you to poison all your relatives and play faro, the
    sin was rather the effect of vice in others than in your own noble
    heart, and I doubt not you may be called innocent."

    He glanced into the fire a few hours, and then said:

    "Go, Galushianna!--I would be alone! Go, innocent young scorpion."

    Oh, Higgins, Higgins, if I could have died for thee then, I don't
    know but I should have done it!




    CHAPTER IV.

    Seventy-five years have rolled by since last I met the reader, and
    I am still a thoughtless girl. But oh, how changed! The raven of
    despair has flapped his hideous brood over the halls of my
    ancestors, and taken from them all that once made them beautiful.
    When I look back I can see nothing before me, and when I look
    forward I can see nothing behind me. Thus it is with life. We fancy
    that each hour is a butterfly made to play with, and all is gall
    and bitterness.

    I was chastened by misfortune, and occupied a secluded cavern in
    the city of New Orleans, when my faithful old nurse entered my
    dressing-room, and burst into a fit of hysterical laughter.

    "Sassafrina!" I exclaimed, half angrily.

    "Please don't be angry, miss," responded the tired old creature;
    "but I knew it would come all right at last. I told you Sir Claude
    Higgins hadn't married his youngest sister, but you wouldn't
    believe me. Now he's down stairs in the parlor waiting for you."

    And the attached domestic fell dead at my feet.

    After hastily putting on a pair of clean stockings and reading a
    chapter in my mother's family Bible, I left the room, murmuring to
    myself, "Be still, my throbbing heart, be still."




    CHAPTER V.

    When I entered the parlor, Mr. Higgins sat gazing into the fire in
    an attitude of deep reflection, and did not note my entrance until
    I had touched him. His dishevelled hair hung from his massive
    temples in majestic discomposure, and an extinguished torch lay
    smouldering at his glorious feet.

    O my soul's idol! I can see thee now as I saw thee then, with the
    firelight glowing over thee, like a smile from the cerulean skies!

    As I touched him, he awoke.

    "Miserable girl!" he exclaimed, in those old familiar tones,
    drawing me towards him, while a delicious tremor shook my every
    nerve. "Wretched little serpent! And is it thus we meet? Poor
    idiot, you are but a woman, and I--alas! what am I? Two hours ago,
    I set fire to three churches, and crushed a sexton 'neath my iron
    heel. Do you not shrink? 'Tis well. Then hear me, viper, _I lovest
    thee_."

    Was it the music of a higher sphere that I smelt, or was I still in
    this world of folly and sin? And were all my toils, my cares, my
    heart-breathings, my hope-sobbings, my soul-writhings to end thus
    gloriously at last in the adoration of a being on whom I lavished
    all the spirit's purest gloatings?

    My bliss was more than I could endure. Tearing all the hair-pins
    from my hair and tying my pocket handkerchief about my heaving
    neck, I flung myself upon his steaming chest.

    "_My_ Higgins!"

    "YOUR Higgins!!"

    "OUR Higgins!!!"

    THE BLISSFUL FINIS.

The intellectual women of America draw it rather tempestuously when
they try to reproduce gorgeous manhood; but they mean well, my
boy,--they mean well.

Yours, in a brown study,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER X.

MAKING CONSERVATIVE MENTION OF THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN AND ITS EVENTS.
THE FIRE-ZOUAVE'S VERSION OF THE AFFAIR, AND SO ON.


WASHINGTON, D.C., July 28th, 1861.

We have met the enemy at last, my boy; but I don't see that he's ours.
We went after him with flying banners, and I noticed when we came back
that they were flying still! Honor to the brave who fell on that bloody
field! and may we kill enough secessionists to give each of them a
monument of Southern skulls!

I was present at the great battle, my boy, and appointed myself a
special guard of one of the baggage-wagons in the extreme rear. The
driver saw me coming, and says he:

"You can't cut behind this here wehicle, my fine little boy."

I looked at him for a moment, after the manner of the late great actor,
Mr. Kirby, and says I:

"Soldier, hast thou a wife?"

Says he:

"I reckon."

"And sixteen small children?"

Says he:

"There was only fifteen when last heard from."

"Soldier," says I, "were you to die before to-morrow, what would be
your last request?"

Here I shed two tears.

"It would be," says he, "that some kind friend would take the job of
walloping my offspring for a year on contract, and finding my beloved
wife in subjects to jaw about."

"Soldier," says I, "I'm your friend and brother. Let me occupy a seat
by your side."

And he didn't let me do it.

Just at this moment, something burst, and I found myself going up at
the rate of two steeples and a shot-tower a second. I met a Fire Zouave
on the way down, and says he:

"Towhead, if you see any of our boys up where you're goin' to, just
tell them to hurry down; fur there's goin' to be a row, and Nine's
fellers 'll take that ere four-gun hydrant from the seceshers in less
time than you can reel two yards of hose."

As I was _very_ tired I did not go all the way up; but turned back at
the first cloud, and returned hastily to the scene of strife. I
happened to light on a very fat secesher, who was doing a little
running for exercise. Down he went, with me on top of him. He was
dreadfully scared; but says he to me: "I've =seen you before, by the
gods!" I winked at him, and commenced to sharpen my sword on a stone.

"Tell me," says he, "had you a female mother?"

"I had," says I.

"And a masculine father?"

"He wore breeches."

"Then you _are_ my long lost grandfather!" says the secesher, endeavoring
to embrace me.

"It won't do," says I; "I've been to the Bowery Theatre myself;" and
with that I took off his neck-tie and wiped my nose with it. This
action was so repugnant to the feelings of a Southern gentleman, that
he immediately died on my hands; and there I left him.

It was my first personal victory in this unnatural war, my boy, and as
I walked away I thought sadly of the domestic circle in the Southern
Confederacy that might be waiting anxiously, tearfully, for the husband
and father----him whom I had morally assassinated. And there he
sprawled, denied even the simple privilege of extending a parting
blessing to his children. Under ordinary circumstances, my boy, there's
something deeply affecting in

    THE DYING SOUTHERNER'S FAREWELL TO HIS SON.

    My boy, my lion-hearted boy,
      Your father's end draws near;
    Already is your loss begun,
      And, curse it, there's a tear.

    I've sought to bring you up, my son,
      A credit to the South,
    And all your poker games have been
      An honor to us both.

    Though scarcely sixteen years of age,
      Your bowie's tickled more
    Than many Southerners I know
      At fifty and three score.

    You've whipped your <DW65> handsomely,
      And chewed your plug a day;
    And when I hear you swear, my son,
      What pride my eyes betray!

    And now, that I must leave the world,
      My dying words attend;
    But first, a chew of niggerhead,
      And cut it near the end.

    To you the old plantation goes,
      With mortgage, tax, and all,
    Though compound interest on that first,
      Will make the profit small.

    The <DW65>s to your mother go;
      And if she wants to sell,
    You might contrive to buy her out,
      Should all the crops grow well.

    I leave you all my debts, my son,
      To Yankees chiefly due;
    But--curse the black republicans!
      That needn't trouble you.

    A true-born Southern gentleman
      Disdains the vulgar thought
    Of paying, like a Yankee clerk,
      For what is sold and bought.

    Leave that to storekeepers and fools
      Who never banked a card;
    We pay our "debts of honor," boy,
      Though pressed however hard.

    Last summer at the North I bought,
      Some <DW65> hats and shoes,
    And gave my note for ninety days;
      Forget it if you choose.

    The Yankee mudsills would not have
      Such articles to sell,
    If Southern liberality
      Had fattened them less well.

    The Northern dun we hung last week
      Had twenty dollars clear,
    And that, my son, is all the cash
      I have to give you here.

    But that's enough to make a start,
      And, if you pick your boat,
    A Mississippi trip or two
      Will set you all afloat.

    You play a screaming hand, my son,
      And push an ugly cue;
    Oh! these are thoughts that make me feel
      As dying Christians do!

    Keep cool, my lion-hearted boy,
      Till second ace is played,
    And then call out for brandy sour
      As though your pile was made.

    The other chaps will think you've got
      The tiger by the tail;
    And when you see them looking glum,
      Just call for brandy pale!

    I never knew it fail to make
      Some green one go it blind;
    And when the first slip-up is made,
      It's all your own, you'll find.

    My breath comes hard--I'm euchred, boy--
      First Families must die;
    I leave you in your innocence,
      And here's a last good-bye.

Shortly after the event I have recorded, I was examining the back of a
house near the battle-field, to see if it corresponded with the front,
when another Fire Zouave came along, and says he:

"It's my opine that you're sticking rather too thick to the rear of
that house to be much punkins in a muss. Why don't you go to the front
like a man?"

"My boy," says I, "this is the house of a predominant rebel, and I'm
detailed to watch the back door."

With that the Zouave was taken with such a dreadful fit of coughing
that he had to move on to get his breath, and I was left alone once
more.

These Fire Zouaves, my boy, have a perversity about them not to be
repressed. They were neck-and-neck with the rest of us in our stampede
back to this city; and yet, my boy, they refuse to consider the United
States of America worsted. Here is the version of

    BULL RUN,

    BY A FIRE ZOUAVE.

    Oh, it's all very well for you fellers
      That don't know a fire from the sun,
    To curl your moustaches, and tell us
      Just how the thing _oughter_ be done;
    But when twenty wake up ninety thousand,
      There's nothin' can follow but rout;
    We didn't give in till we had to;
      And what are yer coughin' about?

    The crowd that was with them ere rebels
      Had ten to our every man;
    But a fireman's a fireman, me covey,
      And he'll put out a fire if he can:
    So we run the masheen at a gallop,
      As easy as open and shut,
    And as fast as one feller went under,
      Another kept takin' der butt.

    You oughter seen Farnham, that mornin'!
      In spite of the shot and the shell
    His orders kept ringing around us
      As clear as the City Hall bell.
    He said all he could to encourage
      And lighten the hearts of the men,
    Until he was bleeding and wounded,
      And nary dried up on it then.

    While two rifle regiments fought us,
      And batteries tumbled us down,
    Them cursed Black-Horse fellers charged us,
      Like all the Dead Rabbits in town.
    And that's just the way with them rebels,
      It's ten upon one, or no fair;
    But we emptied a few of their saddles--
      You may bet all your soap on that air!

    "Double up!" says our colonel, quite coolly,
      When he saw them come riding like mad,
    And we did double up in a hurry,
      And let them have all that we had.
    They came at us counting a hundred,
      And scarcely two dozen went back;
    So you see, if they bluffed us on aces,
      We made a big thing with the Jack.

    We fought till red shirts were as plenty
      As blackberries, strewing the grass,
    And then we fell back for a breathing,
      To let Sixty-nine's fellers pass.
    Perhaps Sixty-nine didn't peg them,
      And give them uncommon cheroots?
    Well--I've just got to say, if they didn't
      You fellers can smell of my boots!

    The Brooklyn Fourteenth was another,
      And those Minnesota chaps too;
    But the odds were too heavy against us,
      And but one thing was left us to do:
    We had to make tracks for our quarters,
      And finished it up pretty rough;
    But if any chap says that they licked us,
      I'd just like to polish him off!

With the remembrance of the many heroic souls who sacrificed themselves
for their country that day, I have not the heart, my boy, to continue
the subject. I was routed at about five o'clock in the afternoon, and
fell back on Washington, where I am now receiving my rations. I don't
take the oath with any spirit since then; and a skeleton with nothing
on but a havelock is all that is left of

Yours, emaciatedly,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XI.

GIVING AN EFFECT OF THE NEW BUGLE DRILL IN THE MACKEREL BRIGADE, AND
MAKING SOME NOTE OF THE LATEST IMPROVEMENTS IN ARTILLERY, ETC.


WASHINGTON, D.C., August --, 1861.

The Mackerel Brigade, of which I have the honor to be a member, was
about the worst demoralized of all the brigades that covered themselves
with glory and perspiration at the skrimmage of Bull Run. In the first
place, it never had much morals, and when it came to be demoralized, it
hadn't any; so that ever since the disaster, the peasantry in the
neighborhood of the camp have been in constant mourning for departed
pullets; and one venerable rustic complains that the Mackerel pickets
milk all his cows every night, and come to borrow his churn in the
morning. When one of the colonels heard the venerable rustic make this
accusation, he says to him:

"Would you like to be revenged on the men who milk your animiles?" The
venerable rustic took a chew of tobacco, and says he: "I wouldn't like
anything better." The colonel looked at him sadly for a moment, and
then remarked: "Aged stranger, you are already revenged. The men who
milked your animiles are all from New York, where they had been
accustomed to drink milk composed principally of Croton water. Upon
drinking the pure article furnished by your gentle beastesses, they
were all taken violently sick, and are now lying at the point of
illness, expecting every moment to be their first." The venerable
rustic was so affected by this intelligence, that he immediately went
home in tears.

The new bugle drill is a very good idea, my boy, and our lads will
probably become accustomed to it by the time they get used to it. The
colonel of Regiment Five likes it so much that he has substituted the
bugle for the drum, even. The other morning, when he tried it on for
the first time, I was just entering the tent of one of the captains, to
take the Oath with him, when the bugle sounded the order to turn out.

"Ah!" says the captain, when he heard it, "we're going to have fish for
breakfast at last. I hope its porgies," says he: "for I'm uncommon fond
of porgies."

"Why, what are you talking about?" says I.

"You innocent lamb," says he, "didn't you hear that ere fish-horn. It
said 'porgies,' as plain as could be."

"Why, that's the bugle," says I, "and it sounded the order to turn
out."

He took his disappointment very severely, my boy, for he was really
very fond of porgies.

By invitation of a well-known official, I visited the Navy-Yard
yesterday, and witnessed the trial of some newly-invented rifled
cannon. The trial was of short duration, and the jury brought in a
verdict of "innocent of any intent to kill."

The first gun tried was similar to those used in the Revolution, except
that it had a larger touch-hole, and the carriage was painted green,
instead of blue. This novel and ingenious weapon was pointed at a
target about sixty yards distant. It didn't hit it, and as nobody saw
any ball, there was much perplexity expressed. A midshipman did say
that he thought the ball must have run out of the touch-hole when they
loaded up--for which he was instantly expelled from the service. After
a long search without finding the ball, there was some thought of
summoning the Naval Retiring Board to decide on the matter, when
somebody happened to look into the mouth of the cannon, and discovered
that the ball hadn't gone out at all. The inventor said this would
happen sometimes, especially if you didn't put a brick over the
touch-hole when you fired the gun. The Government was so pleased with
this explanation, that it ordered forty of the guns on the spot, at two
hundred thousand dollars apiece. The guns to be furnished as soon as
the war is over.

The next weapon tried was Jink's double back-action revolving cannon
for ferry-boats. It consists of a heavy bronze tube, revolving on a
pivot, with both ends open, and a touch-hole in the middle. While one
gunner puts a load in at one end, another puts in a load at the other
end, and one touch-hole serves for both. Upon applying the match, the
gun is whirled swiftly round on a pivot, and both balls fly out in
circles, causing great slaughter on both sides. This terrible engine
was aimed at the target with great accuracy; but as the gunner has a
large family dependent on him for support, he refused to apply the
match. The Government was satisfied without firing, and ordered six of
the guns at a million of dollars apiece. The guns to be furnished in
time for our next war.

The last weapon subjected to trial was a mountain howitzer of a new
pattern. The inventor explained that its great advantage was, that it
required no powder. In battle it is placed on the top of a high
mountain, and a ball slipped loosely into it. As the enemy passes the
foot of the mountain, the gunner in charge tips over the howitzer, and
the ball rolls down the side of the mountain into the midst of the
doomed foe. The range of this terrible weapon depends greatly on the
height of the mountain and the distance to its base. The Government
ordered forty of these mountain howitzers at a hundred thousand dollars
apiece, to be planted on the first mountains discovered in the enemy's
country.

These are great times for gunsmiths, my boy; and if you find any old
cannon around the junk-shops, just send them along.

There is much sensation in nautical circles arising from the immoral
conduct of the rebel privateers; but public feeling has been somewhat
easier since the invention of a craft for capturing the pirates, by an
ingenious Connecticut chap. Yesterday he exhibited a small model of it
at a cabinet meeting, and explained it thus:

"You will perceive," says he to the President, "that the machine itself
will only be four times the size of the Great Eastern, and need not
cost over a few millions of dollars. I have only got to discover one
thing before I can make it perfect. You will observe that it has a
steam-engine on board. This engine works a pair of immense iron clamps,
which are let down into the water from the extreme end of a very
lengthy horizontal spar. Upon approaching the pirate, the captain
orders the engineer to put on steam. Instantly the clamps descend from
the end of the spar and clutch the privateer athwartships. Then the
engine is reversed, the privateer is lifted bodily out of the water,
the spar swings around over the deck, and the pirate ship is let down
into the hold by the run. Then shut your hatches, and you have ship and
pirates safe and sound."

The President's gothic features lighted up beautifully at the words of
the great inventor; but in a moment they assumed an expression of
doubt, and says he:

"But how are you going to manage, if the privateer fires upon you while
you are doing this?"

"My dear sir," says the inventor, "I told you I had only one thing to
discover before I could make the machine perfect, and that's it."

So you see, my boy, there's a prospect of our doing something on the
ocean next century, and there's only one thing in the way of our taking
in pirates by the cargo.

Last evening a new brigadier-general, aged ninety-four years, made a
speech to Regiment Five, Mackerel Brigade, and then furnished each man
with a lead-pencil. He said that, as the Government was disappointed
about receiving some provisions it had ordered for the troops, those
pencils were intended to enable them to draw their rations as usual. I
got a very big pencil, my boy, and have lived on a sheet of paper ever
since.

Yours, pensively,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XII.

GIVING AN ABSTRACT OF A GREAT ORATOR'S FLAGGING SPEECH, AND RECORDING A
DEATHLESS EXPLOIT OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.


WASHINGTON, D.C., September 8th, 1861.

The weather in the neighborhood of Chain Bridge still continues to bear
hard on fat men, my boy, and the man who carries a big stomach around
with him will be a person in reduced circumstances before he gets to be
a colonel. The Brigadier-General of the Mackerel Brigade observed, the
other day, that he had been in hot water four weeks running, and
ordered me to work six hours in the trenches for not laughing at the
joke; he said that old Abe had people expressly to laugh at his jokes,
and had selected his Cabinet officers because they all had large
mouths, and could laugh easily; he said that he was resolved to have
his own jokes appreciated, and if he didn't, he'd be perditionized.
It's my impression--I say it's my impression, my boy, that the general
got off his best joke when he promised the Mackerel Brigade to look
after their interests as though they were his brothers. He may look
after them, my boy, but it's after they're out of sight. I don't say
that he takes advantage of us: but I know that just after a basket of
champagne was sent to the camp, directed to me, yesterday, I saw him
sitting on an empty basket in his tent, trying to wind up his watch
with a corkscrew. I asked him what time it was, and he said the
Conzstorshun must and shall be blockade--dade--did. I told him I
thought so myself, and he immediately burst into tears, and said he
should never see his mother again.

On Tuesday, there was a rumor that the Southern Confederacy had
attacked at regiment at Alexandria, for the purpose of creating a
confusion, so that it might pick the colonel's pockets, and Regiment 5,
Mackerel Brigade, was ordered to go instantly to the rescue. Just as we
were ready to march, a distinguished citizen of Washington presented a
sword to the colonel from the ladies of the Capital, and made an
eloquent speech. He spoke of the wonderful manner in which the world
was called out of chaos at the creation, and spoke feelingly of the
Garden of Eden, and the fall of our first parents; he then went on to
review the many changes the earth had experienced since it was first
created, and described the method of the ancients to cook bread before
stoves were invented; he then spoke of the glories of Greece and Rome,
giving a full history of them from the beginning to the present time;
he then went on to describe the origin of the republican and democratic
parties, reading both platforms, and giving his ideas of Jackson's
policy; he then gave an account of the war of the Roses in England, and
the cholera in Persia, attributing the latter to a sudden change in the
atmosphere; he then went on to speak of the difficulties encountered by
Columbus in discovering this country, and gave a history of his
subsequent career and death in Europe; he then read an extract from
Washington's Farewell Address; in conclusion, he said that the ladies
of Washington had empowered him to present this here sword to that ere
gallant colonel, in the presence of these here brave defenders of their
country.

At the conclusion of this speech, starvation commenced to make great
ravages in the regiment, and the colonel was so weak, for want of
sleep, that he had to be carried to his tent. A private remarked to me,
that, if we could only have one more such presentation speech as that,
the regiment would be competent to start a grave-yard before it was
finished. I believe him, my boy!

When the presentation was finished, the colonel announced from his
camp-bedstead that the rumor of a fight at Alexandria was all a hum,
and ordered us back to our tents. We hadn't been to our tents for such
a long time, that some of us couldn't find them, and one of our boys
actually wandered around until he found himself at home in New York.

The Mackerel Brigade, my boy, had a great engagement yesterday, and
came very near repulsing the enemy. We were ordered to march forward in
three columns, until we came within five miles of the enemy, Colonel
Wobbles leading the first; Mr. Wobbles, the second; and Wobbles, the
third. In the advance our lines presented the shape of a clam-shell,
but as we neared the point of danger, they gradually assumed more of
the form of a cone, the rear-guard being several times as thick as the
advance guard. When within six miles of the seceshers, we planted our
battery of four six pounders, and opened a horrible fire of shot and
shell on the adjacent country. The seceshers replied with a hail of
canister and shrapnell, and for eight hours the battle raged fearfully,
but without hurting anybody, as the hostile forces were too far apart
to reach each other with shot. Finally, Colonel Wobbles sent a
messenger, by railroad, to ask the seceshers what they wanted, and they
said they only wanted to be let alone. On receiving this reply, Colonel
Wobbles was much affected, and ordered us to march back to camp, which
we did.

This affair was really a great victory for the Union, my boy, and I
cannot refrain from giving short biographical sketches of the leaders
concerned in it, commencing with

    COLONEL WOBBLES.

    This gallant officer, on whom the eyes of the whole world are now
    turned, was born at an exceedingly early age, in the place of his
    nativity. When but a mere boy, he evinced a fondness for the law,
    and his father, who was his mother's husband, placed him in the
    office of the late Daniel Webster. He practised law for some years,
    but failed to find any clients, and finally started a grocery store
    under Jackson's administration. At this time, Calhoun's peculiar
    views were agitating Christendom, and Mr. Wobbles married a
    daughter of the late John Thomas, by whom he had no children. When
    the war broke out in Mexico, he left the grocery business, and
    opened a liquor store on the estate of the late J. Smith, and
    accumulated sufficient money to send his family into the country.
    Colonel Wobbles is now about eighty-five years old.


    MR. WOBBLES.

    This heroic young officer, now attracting so much attention, drew
    his first breath among the peaceful scenes of home, from which the
    captious might have augured anything but a soldier's destiny for
    him. While yet very young, he was remarkable for his proficiency in
    making dirt-pies, and went to school with the sons of the late Mr.
    Jones. In 1846, he did not graduate at West Point; but when the war
    broke out between Mexico and the United States, he married a niece
    of the late Daniel Webster. It was also at this period of his
    eventful career that he first became a husband, and shortly after
    the birth of his eldest child, it was rumored that he had also
    become a father. He entered the present war as a military man. He
    is now but forty years old.


    WOBBLES.

    This noble patriot soldier, whose name is now a household word all
    over the world, was reared from infancy in the village of his
    birth, and took a prominent part in the meals of his family. While
    yet a youth, the Florida war broke out, and he attended the
    high-school of the late Mr. Brown. On arriving of age, he was just
    twenty-one years old, and was not a student at West Point. Shortly
    after this event, he married a cousin of the late Daniel Webster,
    and during the Mexican War he had one child, who still bears his
    father's name. Wobbles is now sixty years old.

You will observe, my boy, that these noble officers have merited the
commissions of brigadier-generals, and if they don't get them they'll
resign. Colonel Wobbles told me this morning, that if he resigned the
army would all go to pieces. I believe him, my boy!--field pieces.

Yours, biographically,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XIII.

SUBMITTING VARIOUS RUMORS CONCERNING THE CONDITION OF THINGS AT THE
SOUTH, WITH A SKETCH OF A LIGHT SKELETON REGIMENT AND A NOTE OF VILLIAM
BROWN'S RECRUITING EXPLOIT.


WASHINGTON, D.C., September 20th, 1861.

There is every indication that something is about to occur, which, when
it does transpire, my boy, will undoubtedly give rise to the rumor that
a certain thing has happened. It was observed in military circles
yesterday, that General McClellan ordered a new pair of boots to be
forwarded immediately from New York, and from this it is justly
inferred that the Chain Bridge will be attacked by the rebels in force
very shortly.

A gentleman who has just arrived from the South to purchase some
postage-stamps, states that the rebel army is in an awful condition,
and will starve to death as soon as Beauregard gives the order. At
Richmond, ice-cream was selling for a hundred dollars a quart,
gum-drops at sixty dollars an ounce, Brandreth's Pills at forty-two
dollars and a half a box, Spaulding's Prepared Glue at twenty dollars
a pint, and Mrs. Winslow's Soothing Syrup at four hundred dollars a
bottle. In consequence of the sudden approach of fall and the renewed
stringency of the blockade, there are no strawberries to be had, and
the First Families are subsisting entirely upon persimmons. Should
the winter prove cold, the Southerners to a man will be compelled to
wear much thicker clothing, and it is anticipated that many of them
will take cold. _De lunatico inquirendo_ has broken out among the
rebel troops at Manassas Junction, in consequence of insufficient
accommodation, and the hospitals are so full of patients that
numerous sufferers may be seen bulging out of the windows.

The same gentleman thinks that Beauregard will be obliged to attack
Washington at once, or resign his commission and go to the Dry Tortugas
with his whole army. They are called the _Dry_ Tortugas, my boy,
because not a cocktail was ever known to be raised there.

A perfectly reliable but respectable person arrived here yesterday from
Paris, and brings highly important intelligence from North Carolina. He
has been permitted to sleep with a gentleman formerly residing in that
State, and his report is credited by the Administration. Nearly all the
people of North Carolina are devoted Union men at heart, and would
gladly rally around the old flag, if it were not for the fact that
nearly all the rest of the people of the State are secessionists and
won't let them. In a town of 750 inhabitants, 748 and a half (one small
boy) are determined Unionists; but the remainder, who are brutal
traitors, have seized all the arms in the place, and threaten all who
oppose them with instant death. At Raleigh, a mob consisting of three
secessionists, has seized the post-office and all the letters of marque
found in it. Marque has fled from the State. Since the victory of
Hatteras Inlet, the Union men have taken courage, and say, that if the
Government will send two hundred thousand men to their assistance, and
seventy-five rifled cannon, they can expel their oppressors in a few
years. These true patriots must be instantly assisted, or a decimated
and infuriated people will demand the expulsion of the entire Cabinet,
and an entirely new issue of contracts for shoddy. In the interior of
North Carolina there has been a rising of slaves. In fact, they rise
every morning very early. From this the _Tribune_ report of a <DW64>
insurrection originated.

I formed a new acquaintance the other day, my boy, in the shape of the
Calcium Light Regiment, which is now ready to receive a few more
recruits. The Calcium Light Regiment was born in Boston, near Bunker
Hill Monument, and is now about sixty-five years old. He has become
greatly demoralized from going without his rations for some days past,
and is what may be called a skeleton regiment. He says that if he goes
without them much longer, he'll soon be as light as a 12-inch comet,
and won't need much calcium to blind the enemy to his presence. He's
_very_ light, my boy, and his features are so sharp that he might be
used to spike a cannon with. The Calcium Light Regiment was recruited
at great expense in New York, and went into camp on Riker's Island,
until Secretary Cameron ordered his colonel to bring him on immediately
for the defence of Washington. The regiment has three officers, and
will elect the others as soon as his voice is strong enough. He says
that he is a regiment of 1,000 men; he says that 1,000 is simply the
figure 1 and three ciphers, and that he represents the 1, and his three
officers the three ciphers.

I believe him, my boy!

Villiam Brown, of Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, asked his colonel last
week for leave to go to New York on recruiting service, and got it. He
came back to-day, and says the colonel to him:

"Where's your recruits?"

Villiam smiled sweetly, and remarked that he didn't see it.

"Why, you went to New York on recruiting service, didn't you?"
exclaimed the colonel.

"Yes," says Villiam, "I went to recruit my health."

The colonel immediately administered the Oath to him. The Oath, my boy,
tastes well with lemon in it.

The women of America, my boy, are noble creatures, and do not forget
the brave soldiers of the Union. They have just sent the Mackerel
Brigade a case of umbrellas, and we expect a gross of hair-pins by the
next train.

Yours, meditatively,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XIV.

SHOWING HOW OUR CORRESPONDENT MADE A SPEECH OF VAGUE CONTINUITY, AFTER
THE MODEL OF THE LATEST APPROVED STUMP ORATORY.


WASHINGTON, D.C., September 30th, 1861.

Another week has fled swiftly by, my boy, on those wings which poets
and other long-haired creatures suppose to be eternally flapping
through the imaginary atmosphere of time; yet the high old battle so
long expected has not got any further than "heavy firing near the Chain
Bridge," which takes place every afternoon punctually at three
o'clock--just in time for the evening papers. I have been thinking, my
boy, that if this heavy firing in the vicinity of Chain Bridge lasts a
few years longer, it will finally become a nuisance to the First
Families living in that vicinity. But sometimes what is thought to be
heavy firing is not that exactly; the other day, a series of loud
explosions were heard on Arlington Heights, and twenty-four reporters
immediately telegraphed to twenty-four papers that five hundred
thousand rebels had attacked our lines with two thousand rifled cannon,
and had been repulsed with a loss of fourteen thousand killed. Federal
loss--one killed, and two committed suicide. But when General McClellan
came to inquire into the cause of the explosions, this report was
somewhat modified:

"What was that firing for?" he asked an orderly, who had just come over
the river.

"If you please, sir," responded the sagacious animal, "there was no
firing at all. It was Villiam Brown, of Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade,
which has a horrible cold, and sneezes in that way."

Villiam has since been ordered to telegraph to the War Department
whenever he sneezes, so that no more of these harrowing mistakes may be
made.

Last night, my boy, an old rooster from Cattaraugus, who wants a
one-horse post-office, and thinks I've got some influence with Abe the
Venerable, brought six big Dutchmen to serenade me; and, as soon I
opened the window to damn them, he called unanimously for a speech. At
this time, my boy, an immense crowd, consisting of two policemen and a
hackman, were drawn to the spot, and greeted me with great applause.
Feeling that their intentions were honorable, I could not bear to
disappoint my fellow-citizens, and so I was constrained to make the
following

    SPEECH.

    _Men of America_:--It is with feelings akin to emotion that I
    regard this vast assemblage of Nature's noblemen, and reflect that
    it comes to do honor to me, who have only performed my duty.
    Gentlemen, my heart is full; as the poet says:

        "The night shall be filled with burglars,
          And the chaps that infest the day
        Shall pack up their duds like peddlers,
          And carry the spoons away."

    It seems scarcely five minutes ago that this vast and otherwise
    large country sprung from chaos at the call of Columbus, and
    immediately commenced to produce wooden nutmegs for a foreign
    shore. It seems but three seconds ago that all this beautiful scene
    was a savage wild, and echoed the axe-falls of the sanguinary
    pioneer, and the footfalls of the Last of the Mohicans. Now what do
    I see before me? A numerous assembly of respectable Dutchmen, and
    other Americans, all ready to prove to the world that

        "Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,
          The immortal ears of jack are hers;
        But Sarah languishes in pain
          And dyes, amid her worshipers."

    I am convinced, fellow-citizens, that the present outrageous war is
    no ordinary row, and that it cannot be brought to a successful
    termination without some action on the part of the Government. If
    to believe that a war cannot rage without being prosecuted, is
    abolitionism, then I am an abolitionist; if to believe that a good
    article of black ink can be made out of black men, is
    republicanism, then I am a republican; but we are all brothers now,
    except that fat Dutchman, who has gone to sleep on his drum, and I
    pronounce him an accursed secessionist:

        "How doth the little busy bee
          Improve each shining hour,
        And gathers beeswax all the day,
          From every opening flower."

    Men of America, shall these things longer be?--I address myself
    particularly to that artist with the accordeon, who don't
    understand a word of English--shall these things longer be? That's
    what I want to know. The majestic shade of Washington listens for
    an answer, and I intend to send it by mail as soon as I receive it.
    Fellow citizens, it can no longer be denied that there is treason
    at our very hearthstones. Treason--merciful Heavens!

        "Come rest in this bosom, my own little dear,
          The Honourable R. M. T. Hunter is here;
        I know not, I care not, if jilt's in that heart,
          I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art."

    And now the question arises, is Morrill's tariff really a benefit
    to the country? Gentlemen, it would be unbecoming in me to answer
    this question, and you would be incapable of understanding what I
    might say on the subject. The present is no time to think about
    tariffs: our glorious country is in danger, and there is a tax of
    three per cent on all incomes over eight hundred dollars. Let each
    man ask himself in Dutch: "Am I prepared to shoulder my musket if I
    am drafted, or to procure a reprobate to take my place?" In other
    words:

        "The minstrel returned from the war,
          With insects at large in his hair,
        And having a tuneful catarrh,
          He sung through his nose to his fair."

    Therefore, it is simply useless to talk reason to those traitors,
    who forget the words of Jackson--words, let me add, which I myself
    do not remember. Animated by an unholy lust for arsenals, rifled
    cannon, and mints, and driven to desperation by the thought that
    Everett is preparing a new Oration on Washington, and Morris a new
    song on a young woman living up the Hudson River, they are
    overturning the altars of their country and issuing treasury bonds,
    which cannot be justly called objects of interest. What words can
    express the horrors of such unnatural crime?

        "Oft in the chilly night,
          When slumber's chains have bound me,
        Soft Mary brings a light,
          And puts a shawl around me."

    Such, fellow-citizens, is the condition of our unhappy country at
    present, and as soon as it gets any better I will let you know. An
    Indian once asked a white man for a drink of whisky. "No!" said the
    man, "you red skins are just ignorant enough to ruin yourselves
    with liquor." The sachem looked calmly into the eyes of the
    insulter, as he retorted: "You say I am ignorant. How can that be
    when I am a well-red man?"

    And so it is, fellow-citizens, with this Union at present, though I
    am not able to show exactly where the parallel is. Therefore,

        "Let us then be up and wooing,
          With a heart for any mate,
        Still proposing, still pursuing,
          Learn to court her, and to wait."

At the conclusion of this unassuming speech, my boy, I was waited upon
by a young man, who asked me if I did not want to purchase some poetry;
he had several yards to sell, and warranted it to wash.

Yours, particularly,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XV.

WHEREIN WILL BE FOUND THE PARTICULARS OF A VISIT TO A SUSPECTED
NEWSPAPER OFFICE, AND SO ON.


WASHINGTON, D.C., October 2d, 1861.

This is a time, my boy, when it is the duty of every American citizen
to make himself into a committee of safety, for the good of the
republic, and make traitors smell the particular thunder of national
vengeance. The eagle, my boy, has spread his sanguinary wings for a
descent upon the bantams of secession; and if we permit his sublime
pinions to be burthened with the shackles of domestic sedition, we are
guilty of that which we do, and are otherwise liable to the charge of
committing that which we perform. These thoughts came to me yesterday,
after I had taken the Oath six times, and so overpowered me that I
again took the Oath, with a straw in it. Just then it struck me that
the _Daily Union_, published near Alexandria, ought to be suppressed
for its treason; and I immediately started for the office, with an
intention to offer personal violence to the editor. I found him
examining a cigar through the bottom of a tumbler, whilst on the desk
beside him lay the first "proof" of

    THE EDITOR'S WOOING.

    We love thee, Ann Maria Smith,
      And in thy condescension,
    We see a future full of joys
      Too numerous to mention.

    There's Cupid's arrow in thy glance,
      That by thy love's coercion
    Has reached our melting heart of hearts,
      And asked for one insertion.

    With joy we feel the blissful smart,
      And ere our passion ranges,
    We freely place thy love upon
      The list of our exchanges.

    There's music in thy lowest tone,
      And silver in thy laughter;
    And truth--but we will give the full
      Particulars hereafter.

    Oh! we could tell thee of our plans
      All obstacles to scatter;
    But we are full just now, and have
      A press of other matter.

    Then let us marry, Queen of Smiths,
      Without more hesitation;
    The very thought doth give our blood
      A larger circulation!

When the editor noticed my presence, he scowled so that his spectacles
dropped off.

"Ha, my fine little fellow," says he, hastily; "I don't want to buy any
poetry to-day."

"Don't fret yourself, my venerable cherub," says I; "I don't deal in
poetry at present. I just came here to tell you that if you don't stop
writing treason, I'll suppress you in the name of the United States."

"You're a mudsill mob," says he; "and I don't allow no violent mobs
around this office. I am an American citizen, and I won't stand no
mobs. What does the Constitution say about newspapers? Why, the
Constitution don't say anything about them; so you've got no
Constitutional authority for mobbing me."

"Then take the Oath," says I.

He looked at me for a moment, and then passed me a small black bottle.
I held it up over my eyes for some time, to see if it was perfectly
straight, and he remarked that if all Northerners took the Oath as
freely as I did, they must be a water-proof conglomeration of patriots.
I believe him, my boy!

The Mackerel Brigade has established a cookery department for itself,
and is using a stove recently patented by the colonel of Regiment 5.
This stove is a miraculous invention, and has already made fortunes for
six cooks and a scullion. You put a shilling's worth of wood into it,
which first cooks your meat and then turns into two shilling's worth of
charcoal; so you make a shilling every time you kindle a fire.

Yesterday, a gentleman, brought up to the oyster-trade, and who has
made several voyages on the Brooklyn ferry-boats, exhibited the model
of a new gun-boat to the Secretary of the Navy. He said its great
advantage was that it could easily be taken to pieces; and the
Secretary was just going to order seventy-five for use in Central Park,
when it leaked out that when once the gun-boat was taken to pieces
there was no way of putting it together again. Only for this, my boy,
we might have a gun-boat in every cistern.

Yours, nautically,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XVI.

INTRODUCING THE GOTHIC STEED, PEGASUS, AND THE REMARKABLE GERMAN
CAVALRY FROM THE WEST.


WASHINGTON, D.C., October 6th, 1861.

The horse, my boy, is an animal in which I have taken a deep interest
ever since the day on the Union Course, when I bet ten dollars that the
"Pride of the Canal" would beat "Lady Clamcart," and was compelled to
leave my watch with Mr. Simpson on the following morning. The horse, my
boy, is the swarthy Arab's bosom friend, the red Indian's solitary
companion, and the circus proprietor's salvation. One of these noble
animals was presented to me last week, by an old-maid relative whose
age I once guessed to be "about nineteen." The glorious gift was
accompanied by a touching letter, my boy; she honored my patriotism,
and the self-sacrificing spirit that had led me to join the gallant
Mackerel Brigade, and get a furlough as soon as a rebel picket
appeared; she loved me for my mother's sake, and as she happened to
have ten shillings about her, she thought she would buy a horse with it
for me. Mine, affectionately, Tabitha Turnips.

Ah, woman! glorious woman! what should we do without thee? All our
patriotism is but the inspiration of thy proud love, and all our money
is but the few shillings left after thou hast got through buying new
bonnets. Oh! woman--thoughtful woman! the soldier thanks thee for
sending him pies and cakes that turn sour before they leave New York;
but, for heaven's sake don't send any more havelocks, or there'll be a
crisis in the linen market. It's a common thing for a sentry to report
"eighty thousand more havelocks from the women of America;" and then
you ought to hear the Brigadier of the Mackerel Brigade cuss!
"Jerusalem!" says he, "if any more havelocks come this afternoon, tell
them that I've gone out and won't be back for three weeks. Thunder!"
says he, "there's enough havelocks in this here deadly tented field to
open a brisk trade with Europe, and if the women of America keep on
sending them, I'm d--d if I don't start a night-cap shop." The general
is a profane patriarch, my boy, and takes the Oath hot. The Oath, my
boy, is improved by nutmeg and a spoon.

But to return to the horse which woman's generosity has made me own--me
be-yuteous steed. The beast, my boy, is fourteen hands high, fourteen
hands long, and his sagacious head is shaped like an old-fashioned
pick-axe. Viewed from the rear, his style of architecture is gothic,
and he has a gable-end, to which his tail is attached. His eyes, my
boy, are two pearls, set in mahogany, and before he lost his sight,
they were said to be brilliant. I rode down to the Patent Office, the
other day, and left him leaning against a post, while I went inside to
transact some business. Pretty soon the Commissioner of Patents came
tearing in like mad, and says he:

"I'd like to know whether this is a public building belonging to the
United States, or a second-hand auction-shop."

"What mean you, sirrah?" I asked majestically.

"I mean," says he, "that some enemy to his country has gone and stood
an old mahogany umbrella-stand right in front of this office."

To the disgrace of his species be it said, my boy, he referred to the
spirited and fiery animal for which I am indebted to woman's
generosity. I admit that when seen at a distance, the steed somewhat
resembles an umbrella-stand; but a single look into his pearly eyes is
enough to prove his relations with the animal kingdom.

I have named him Pegasus, in honor of Tupper, and when I mount him,
Villiam Brown, of Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, says that I
remind him of Santa Claus sitting astride the roof of a small gothic
cottage, holding on by the chimney. Villiam is becoming rather too
familiar, my boy, and I hope he'll be shot at an early day.

Yesterday the army here was reenforced with a regiment of fat German
cavalry from the West, under the command of Colonel Wobert Wobinson,
who has had great experience in keeping a livery-stable. Their animals
are well calculated to turn the point of a sword, and are of the
high-backed fluted pattern, very glossy at the joints. I saw one of the
dragoons cracking nuts on the backbone of the Arabian he rode, and
asked him about how much such an animal was worth without the fur? He
considered for a moment and then remarked that nix fustay and
dampfnoodle, though many believed that swei glass und sweitzerkase; but
upon the whole, it was nix cumarouse and apple-dumplings,
notwithstanding the fact that yawpy, yawpy, betterish. Singular to
relate, my boy, I had arrived at the very same conclusion before I
asked him the question.

Colonel Wobert Wobinson reviewed the regiment near Chain Bridge this
morning, and each horse used about an acre to turn around in. Just
before the order to "charge" was given, the orderly sergeant kindled a
fire under each horse, and when the charge commenced, only about six of
the animals laid down. Colonel Wobinson remarked that these six horses
were in favor of peace, and refused to fight against their Southern
brethren. I told him I thought that the peace breed had longer ears;
and he said that that kind had been very scarce since the Government
commenced appointing its foreign consuls.

Yours, hoarsely,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XVII.

NOTING A NEW VICTORY OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE IN VIRGINIA, AND
ILLUSTRATING THE PECULIAR THEOLOGY OF VILLIAM BROWN; WITH SOME MENTION
OF THE SHARPSHOOTERS.


WASHINGTON, D.C., October 18th, 1861.

At an early hour yesterday morning, while yet the dew was on the grass,
and on everything else green enough to be out at that matinal hour, my
boy, I saddled my gothic steed Pegasus, and took a trot for the benefit
of my health. Having eaten a whole straw bed and a piece of an
Irishman's shoulder during the night, my architectural beast was in
great spirits, my boy, and as he snuffed the fresh air and unfurled the
remnants of his warlike tail to the breeze of heaven, I was reminded of
that celebrated Arabian steed which had such a contempt for the speed
of all other horses that he never would run with them--in fact, my boy,
he never would run at all.

Having struck a match on that rib of Pegasus which was most convenient
to my hand, I lit a cigar, and dropped the match, still burning, into
the right ear of my fiery charger. Something of this kind is always
necessary to make the sagacious animal start; but when once I get his
mettle up he never stops, unless he happens to hear some crows cawing
in the air just above his venerable head. I am frequently glad that
Pegasus has lost his eyesight, my boy; for could he see the expression
on the faces of some of these same crows, when they get near enough to
squint along his backbone, it would wound his sensibilities fearfully.

On this occasion he carried me, at a speed of 2.40 hours a mile, to a
point just this side of Alexandria, where the sound of heavy
cannonading and cursing made me pause. At first, my boy, I remembered
an engagement I had in Washington, and was about to hasten back; but
while I was pressing the lighted end of my cigar to the side of
Pegasus, to make him turn, Colonel Wobert Wobinson, of the Western
Cavalry, came walking toward me from a piece of woods on my right, and
informed me that ten of his men had just been attacked by fourteen
thousand rebels, with twenty columbiads. "The odds," says he, "is
rather heavy; but our cause is the noblest the world ever knew, and if
my brave boys do not vanquish the unnatural foe, an indignant and
decimated people will at once call upon the Cabinet to resign."

I told him that I thought I had read something like that in the
_Tribune_; but he didn't seem to hear me.

By this time the cannonading had commenced to subside, and as I trotted
alongside of Colonel Wobinson toward the field of battle, I asked him
what he had done with his horse. He replied, that while on his way to
the field, his sagacious beast had observed a hay-stack, and was so
entranced with the vision that he refused to go a step further; so he
had to leave him there.

Upon reaching the scene of strife, my boy, we discovered that the ten
Western Cavalry men had routed the rebels, killing four regiments,
which were all carried away by their comrades, and capturing six
columbiads, which were also carried away. On our side nobody was killed
nor wounded. In fact, two of our men, who went into the fight sick with
the measles, were entirely cured, and captured four good surgeons. I
must state, however, my boy, that although nobody was killed or wounded
on our side, there was one man missing. It seems that when he found the
balls flying pretty thickly about his ears, he formed himself into a
hollow-square, my boy, and retreated in good order into the neighboring
bushes. He formed himself into a hollow-square by bending gently
forward until his hands touched the ground, and made his retrograde
movement on all-fours. Colonel Wobinson remarked that this style of
forming a hollow-square was an intensely-immense thing on Hardee.

I believe him, my boy!

The women of America, my boy, are a credit to the America eagle, and a
great expense to their husbands and fathers, but they don't exactly
understand the most pressing wants of the soldier. For instance, a
young girl, about seventy-five years of age, has been sending ten
thousand pious tracts to the Mackerel Brigade, and the consequence is,
that the air around the camp has been full of spit-balls for a week.
These tracts, my boy, are very good for dying sinners and other
Southerners, but I'd rather have Bulwer's novels for general reading.
Villiam Brown, of Company 3, Regiment 5, got one of them the other day,
headed, "Who is your Father?" The noble youth read the question over
once or twice, and then dashed the publication to the ground, and took
some tobacco to check his emotions. (That brave youth's father, my boy,
is a disgrace to his species; he has been sinking deeper and deeper in
shame for some months past, until at last his name has got on the
Mozart Hall ticket.) I saw that Villiam didn't understand what the
tract really meant, and so I explained to him that it was intended to
signify that God was his Father. The gifted young soldier looked at me
dreamily for a moment, and then says he:

"God is my Father!" says he. "Well, now I am hanged if that ain't
funny; for, whenever mother spoke of dad, she always called him 'the
old devil!'"

Villiam never went to Sabbath-school, my boy, and his knowledge of
theology wouldn't start a country-church.

Wishing to find out if he knew anything about catechism, I asked him,
last Sunday afternoon, if he knew who Moses was.

"Yes," says he, "I know him very well; he sells old clothes in Chatham
street."

I went over to Virginia the other day to review Berdan's Sharpshooters,
and was much astonished, my boy, at their wonderful skill with the
rifle. The target is a little smaller than the side of a barn, with a
hole through the centre exactly the size of a bullet. They set this up,
my boy, just six hundred yards away, and fire at it in turn. After
sixty of them had fired, I went with them to the target, but couldn't
see that it had been hit by a single bullet. I remarked this to the
captain, whereupon he looked pityingly at me, and says he:

"Do you see that hole in the bull's eye, just the size of a bullet?"

I allowed that I did.

"Well," says he, "the bullets all went through that hole."

Now I don't mean to say that the captain lied, my boy; but it's my
opinion--my private opinion, my boy, that if he ever writes a work of
fiction, it will sell!

La Mountain has been up in his balloon, and went so high that he could
see all the way to the Gulf of Mexico, and observe what they had for
dinner at Fort Pickens. He made discoveries of an important character,
my boy, and says that the rebels have concentrated several troops at
Manassas. A reporter of the _Tribune_ asked him if he could see any
<DW64> insurrections, and he said that he _did_ see some black spots
moving around near South Carolina, but found out afterward that they
were some ants which had got into his telescope.

The Prince de Joinville's two sons, my boy, are admirable additions to
General McClellan's staff, and speak English so well that I can almost
understand what they say. Two Arabs are expected here tomorrow to take
command of Irish brigades, and General Blenker will probably have two
Aztecs to assist him in his German division.

Yours, musingly,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XVIII.

DESCRIBING THE TERRIBLE DEATH AND MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF A
CONFEDERATE PICKET, WITH A TRIBUTE TO HIS MEMORY.


WASHINGTON, D.C., October 28th, 1861.

My head swells with patriotic pride when I casually remark that the
Mackerel Brigade occupy the post of honor to the left of Bull Run,
which they also left on the day we celebrated. The banner which was
presented to us by the women of America, and which it took the orator
of the day six hours and forty minutes to describe to us, we are using
in the shape of blazing neck-ties; and when the hard-up sun of Virginia
shines upon the glorious red bands around the sagacious necks of our
veterans, they all look as though they had just cut their throats. The
effect is gory, my boy--extremely gory and respectable.

At the special request of Secretary Seward, who wrote six letters about
it to the Governors of all the States, I have been appointed a picket
of the army of the Upper Potomac. In your natural ignorance, my boy,
you may not know why a man is called a picket. He is called a picket,
my boy, because, if anybody drops a pocket-book or a watch anywhere,
his natural gifts would cause him to pick-it up. If he saw a pocket, he
would not pick-it--oh, no! But pick-it--picket.

The Picket, my boy, has been an institution ever since wars began, and
his perils are spoken of by some of the high old poets in these
beautiful lines:

    "The chap thy tactics doom to bleed to-day--
    Had he thy reasons, would he poker play?
    Pleased to the last, he does a deal of good,
    And licks the man just sent to shed his blood."

I am weeping, my boy.

While on my lonely beat, about an hour ago, a light tread attracted my
attention, and looking up, I beheld one of secesh's pickets standing
before me.

"Soldier," says he, "you remind me of my grandmother, who expired
before I was born; but this unnatural war has made us enemies, and I
must shoot you. Give me a chaw terbacker."

He was a young man, my boy, in the prime of life, and descended from
the First Families of Virginia.

I looked at him, and says I:

"Let's compromise, my brother."

"Never!" says he. "The South is fighting for her liberty, her
firesides, and the pursuit of happiness, and I desire most respectfully
to welcome you with bloody hands to a hospitable grave."

"Stand off ten paces," says I, "and let's see whose name shall come
before the coroner first."

He took his place, and we fired simultaneously. I heard a ball go
whistling by a barn about a quarter of a mile on my right; and, when
the smoke cleared away, I saw the secesh picket approaching me with an
awful expression of woe on his otherwise dirty countenance.

"Soldier," says he, "was there anything in my head before you fired?"

"Nothing," says I, "save a few harmless insects."

"I speak not of them," says he. "Was there anything _inside_ of my
head?"

"Nothing!" says I.

"Well," says he, "just listen now."

He shook his head mournfully, and I heard something rattle in it.

"What's that?" I exclaimed.

"That," says he, "is your bullet, which has penetrated my skull, and is
rolling about in my brain. I die happy, and with an empty stomach; but
there is one thing I should like to see before I perish for my country.
Have you a quarter about you?"

Too much affected to speak, I drew the coin from my pocket and handed
it to him.

The dying man clutched it convulsively, and stared at it feverishly.

"This," said he, "is the first quarter I've seen since the fall of
Sumter; and, had I wounded you, I should have been totally unable to
give you any quarter. Ah! how beautiful it is! how bright, how
exquisite, and good for four drinks! But I have not time to say all I
feel."

The expiring soldier then laid down his gun, hung his cap and overcoat
on a branch of a tree, and blew his nose.

He then died.

And there I stood, my boy, on that lonely beat, looking down on that
fallen type of manhood, and thinking how singular it was he had
forgotten to give me back my quarter.

As I looked upon him there, I could not help thinking to myself, "here
is another whose home shall know him no more."

The sight and the thought so affected me, that I was obliged to turn my
back on the corpse and walk a little way from it. When I returned to
the spot, the body was gone! Had it gone to Heaven? Perhaps so, my
boy--perhaps so; but I hav'n't seen my quarter since.

Your own picket,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XIX.

NOTICING THE ARRIVAL OF A SOLID BOSTON MAN WITH AN UNPRECEDENTED
LITERARY PRIZE, AND SHOWING HOW VILLIAM BROWN WAS TRIUMPHANTLY
PROMOTED.


WASHINGTON, D.C., November --, 1861.

Having just made a luscious breakfast, my boy, on some biscuit
discovered amid the ruins of Herculaneum, and purchased expressly for
the grand army by a contracting agent for the Government, I take a sip
of coffee from the very boot in which it was warmed, and hasten to pen
my dispatch.

On Wednesday morning, my boy, the army here was reenforced by a very
fat man from Boston, who said he'd been used to Beacon street all the
days of his life, and considered the State House somewhat superior to
St. Peter's at Rome. He was a very fat man, my boy: eight hands high,
six and a half hands thick, and his head looked like a full moon
sinking in the west at five o'clock in the morning. He said he joined
the army to fight for the Union, and cure his asthma, and Colonel
Wobert Wobinson thoughtfully remarked, that he thought he could grease
a pretty long bayonet without feeling uncomfortable. This fat man, my
boy, was leaning down to clean his boots just outside of a tent, when
the General of the Mackerel Brigade happened to come along, and got a
back view of him.

"Thunder!" says the general, stopping short; "who's been sending
artillery into camp?"

"There's no artillery here, my boy," says I.

"Well," says he, "then what's the gun-carriage doing here?"

I explained to him that what he took for a gun-carriage was a fat
patriot blacking his boots; and he said that he be dam.

Soon after the arrival of this solid Boston man, my boy, I noticed that
he always carried about with him, suspended by a strap under his right
arm, something carefully wrapped in oilskin. He was sitting with me in
my room at Willard's the other evening, and says I to him:

"What's that you hug so much, my Plymouth Rocker?"

He nervously clutched his treasure, and says he:

"It's an unpublished poem of the Honorable Edward, which I found in a
very old album in Beacon street. It's an immortal and unpublished
poem," says he, fondly taking a roll of manuscript from the oilskin
wrapper,--"by the greatest and most silent statesman of the age.
You'll recognize the style at once.--Listen--

    "ADVICE TO A MAID.

      "Perennial maiden, thou art no less fair
      Than those whose fairness barely equals thine;
      And like a cloud on Athos is thy hair,
      Touched with Promethean fire to make it shine
      Above the temple of a soul divine;
      And yet, methinks, it doth resemble, too,
      The strands Berenice 'mid the stars doth twine,
      As Mitchell's small Astronomy doth show;
    Procure the book, dear maid, when to the town you go.

      "Young as thou art, thou might'st be younger still,
      If divers years were taken from thy life:
      And who shall say, if marry man you will,
      You may not prove some man's own wedded wife?
      Such things do happen in this worldly strife,
      If they take place--that is, if they are done;
      For with warm love this earthly dream is rife--
      And where love shines there always is a sun--
    As I remark in my Oration upon Washington.

      "Supposing thou dost marry, thou wilt yearn
      For that which thou dost want; in fact, desire--
      The wisdom shaped for older heads to learn,
      And well designed to tame Youth's giddy fire:
      The wisdom, conflicts with the world inspire,
      Such as, perchance, I may myself possess,
      Though I am but a man, as was my sire,
      And own not wisdom such as gods may bless;
    For man is naught, and naught is nothingness.

      "Still, I may tell thee all that I do know,
      And telling that, tell all I comprehend;
      Since all man hath is all that he can show,
      And what he hath not, is not his to lend.
      Therefore, young maid, if you will but attend,
      You shall hear that which shall salute your ear;
      But if you list not, I my breath shall spend
      Upon the zephyrs wandering there and here,
    The far-off hearing less, perhaps, than those more near.

      "Remember this: thou art thy husband's wife,
      And he the mortal thou art married to;
      Else, thou fore'er hadst led a single life,
      And he had never come thy heart to woo.
      Rememb'ring this, do thou remember, too,
      He is thy bridegroom, thou his chosen bride;
      And if unto his side thou provest true,
      Then thou wilt be for ever at his side;
    As Tacitus observes, with some degree of pride.

      "See that his buttons to his shirts adhere,
      As Trojan Hector to the walls of Troy;
      And see that not, Achilles-like, appear
      Rents in his stocking-heels; but be your joy
      To have his wardrobe all your thoughts employ,
      Save such deep thought as may, in duty given,
      Suit to his tastes his dinners; nor annoy
      Digestion's tenor in its progress even;
    Then his the joy of Harvard, Boston, and high Heaven.

      "If a bread-pudding thou wouldst fondly make--
      A thing nutritious, but no costly meal--
      Of bread that's stale a due proportion take,
      And soak in water warm enough to feel;
      Then add a strip or two of lemon-peel,
      With curdled milk and raisins to your taste,
      And stir the whole with ordinary zeal,
      Until the mass becomes a luscious paste.
    Such pudding strengthens man, and doth involve no waste.

      "See thou thy husband's feet are never wet--
      For wet brings cold, and colds such direful aches
      As old Parrhasius never felt when set
      On cruel racks or slow impaling stakes.
      Make him abstain, if sick, from griddle-cakes--
      They, being rich, his stomach might derange--
      And if in thin-soled shoes a walk he takes,
      See that his stockings he doth quickly change.
    Thus should thy woman's love through woman's duties range.

      "And now, fair maiden, all the stars grow pale,
      And teeming Nature drinks the morning dews;
      And I must hasten to my Orient vale,
      And quick put on a pair of over-shoes.
      If from my words your woman's heart may choose
      To find a guidance for a future way,
      The Olympian impulse and the lyric muse
      In such approval shall accept their pay.
    And so, good-day, young girl--ah me! oh my! good-day.

    "EDWARD EVERDEVOURED."

As the solid Boston man finished reading this useful poem, he looked
impressively at me, and says he:

"There's domestic eloquence for you! The Honorable Edward is liberal in
his views," says he, enthusiastically, "and treats his subject with
some latitude."

"Yes," says I, thoughtfully, "but they call it Platitude, sometimes."

He didn't hear me, my boy.

It is with raptures, my boy, that I record the promotion of Villiam
Brown, Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, to the rank of Captain,
with the privilege of spending half his time in New York, and the rest
of it on Broadway. Villiam left the army of the Upper Potomac to pass
his examination here, and the Board of Examiners report that he
reminded them of Napoleon, and made them feel sorry for the Duke of
Wellington. One of the questions they asked him was:

"Suppose your company was suddenly surrounded by a regiment of the
enemy, and you had a precipice in your rear, and twenty-seven hostile
batteries in front--what would you do?"

Villiam thought a moment, and then says he:

"I'd resign my commission, and write to my mother that I was coming
home to die in the spring-time."

"Sensible patriot," says the Board. "Are you familiar with the history
of General Scott?"

"You can bet on it," says Villiam, smiling like a sagacious angel;
"General Scott was born in Virginia when he was quite young, and
discovered Scotland at an early age. He licked the British in 1812,
wrote the Waverly Novels, and his son Whahae bled with Wallace. Now,
old hoss, trot out your commission and let's liquor."

"Pause, fair youth," says the Board. "What makes you think that General
Scott had a son named 'Whahae'? We never heard that before."

"Ha!" says Villiam, agreeably, "that's because you don't know poickry.
Why," says Villiam, "if you'll just turn to Burns' works, you'll learn
that

    "'Scot's wha' ha'e wi' Wallace bled,'

"and if that ain't good authority, where's your Shakspeare?"

The Board was so pleased with Villiam's learning, my boy, that it gave
him his commission, presented him with two gun-boats and a cannon, and
recommended him for President of the New York Historical Society.

It was rumored in camp last night, that the army would go into
winter-quarters, and I asked Colonel Wobinson if he couldn't lend me a
few of the quarters in advance, as I felt like going in right away. He
explained to me that winter-quarters would only be taken in exchange
for Treasury Notes, and I withdrew my proposition for a popular loan.

Yours, speculatively,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XX.

CONCERNING A SIGNIFICANT BRITISH OUTRAGE, AND THE CAPTURE OF MASON AND
SLIDELL.


WASHINGTON, D.C., November 24th, 1861.

Mr. Seward, my boy, who takes the Oath with much sugar in it, and is
likewise Secretary of State, will probably write twenty-four letters to
all the Governors this week, in consequence of a recent outrage
committed by Great Britain. I may remark with great indignation, that
Great Britain is a member of one of the New York regiments, my boy, and
enlisted for the express purpose of stretching his legs. He is shaped
something like a barrel of ale, and has a chin that looks like an
apple-dumpling with a stitch in its side. As I rode slowly along near
Fort Corcoran, on my Gothic steed Pegasus, about an hour ago, admiring
the beauties of Nature, and smoking a pipe which was presented to me by
the Women of America, I espied Great Britain seated by the roadside,
contemplating an army biscuit. These biscuit, my boy, as I stated last
week, were discovered amid the ruins of Herculaneum, and were at first
taken for meteoric stones.

"Good morning, old Neutrality," says I, affably, "You appear to be lost
in religious meditation."

"Ah!" says he, sighing like the great behemoth of the Scriptures, "I
was thinking of the way of the transgressor. If the hinspired writers,"
says he, "thought the way of the transgressor was 'ard, I wonder what
they'd think about this 'ere biscuit."

"You're jealous of America," says I, "and it will be the painful duty
of the Union, the Constitution, and the Enforcement of the Law to
capture Canada, if you continue your abolition harangues against the
best, the most beneficent and powerful bread in the civilized world."

"Bread!" says he, with a groan in three syllables, "do you call this
ere biscuit bread? Why," says he, "this ere biscuit is Geology, and if
it were in old Hingland, it would be taken for one of the Elgin
marbles, and placed in the British Museum."

I need scarcely inform you, my boy, that after this ungenerous remark
of Great Britain, I left him contemptuously, and at once proceeded to
blockade a place where the Oath is furnished in every style. We have
borne with Great Britain a great while, my boy; but it is now time for
us to take Canada, and wipe every vestige of British tyranny from the
face of the Globe. The American eagle, my boy, flaps his dark wings
over the red-head of battle, and as his scarlet eyes rest for a moment
on the English Custom House, he softly whispers--he simply remarks--he
merely ejaculates--GORE!

Americans! fellow-citizens! foreigners! and people of Boston! Shall we
longer allow the bloated British aristocracy to blight us with base
abolition proclivities, while Mr. Seward is capable of holding a pen?

    "Hail, blood and thunder! welcome, gentle Gore!
    Let the loud hewgag shatter every shore!
    High to the zenith let our eagle fly,
    Ten thousand battles blazing in his eye!
    Nail our proud standard to the Northern Pole,
    Plant patent earthquakes in each foreign hole!
    Shout havoc, murder, victory, and spoils,
    Till all creation crouches in our toils!
    Then, when the world to our behest is bent,
    And takes the _Herald_ for its punishment,
    We'll pin our banner to a comet's tail,
    And shake the Heavens with a big 'ALL HAIL!'"

That's the spirit of America, my boy, taken with nutmeg on top, and a
hollow straw. Very good for invalids.

Next to the question concerning the capacity of gunboats for the
sweet-potato trade, my boy, the great topic of the day is the capture
of Slidell and Mason, whose arrest so pleased the colonel of the
Mackerel Brigade, that he got up at nine o'clock in the morning to tell
the President about it.

In the year 1776, my boy, this Slidell sold candles in New York, and
was born about two years after the marriage of the elder Slidell. While
he was yet a young man, he went much into female society, and at length
offered his hand to a lady. Her father being a male, gave his consent
to the match, and on the day of the wedding, there was a fire in the
Seventh Ward. Since that time, Slidell has been a married man, and was
much respected until he got into the Senate. I get these facts from a
friend of the family, who has a set of silver spoons engraved with the
name of Slidell.

The rebel Mason was born and bred in the United States, and has always
been a First Family. He says he was going to Europe on account of his
health.

The capture of these men, my boy, cannot fail to produce a great
sensation in diplomatic circles, and I am informed by a reliable
gentleman from Weehawken, that Mr. Seward is preparing a letter to Lord
Lyons on the subject. This letter, I learn, will contain some such
passages as this:

    "I have the honor to say to your lordship, that your lordship must
    be aware of your lordship's important duty as a Minister to the
    United States, and I trust that your lordship will pay a little
    attention to your lordship's grammar when next your lordship
    addresses your lordship's most obedient servant. Your lordship will
    permit me to say to your lordship, that your lordship is in no way
    capable of interpreting the Constitution to your lordship's
    American friends; and I trust your lordship will not be offended
    when I state to your lordship, that your lordship will find nothing
    in the Constitution to compel your lordship to demand your
    lordship's passport on account of the recent capture of State
    prisoners from one of your lordship's government's vessels, your
    lordship."

I read this extract to Colonel Wobert Wobinson, of the Western Cavalry,
my boy, and he said its only fault was, that it hadn't enough lordships
in it.

"Lordships," says he, "lend an easy grace to State documents, and are
as aristocratic as a rooster's tail at sunrise."

The colonel is a natural poet, my boy, and abounds in pleasing
comparisons.

The review of seventy thousand troops near Munson's Hill, on Thursday,
was one of those stirring events, my boy, which we have been upon the
eve of for the past year. A new cavalry company, for the Mackerel
Brigade, excited great attention as it went past, and I understand the
President said that, with the exception of the horses and the men, it
was one of the finest cavalry mobs he ever saw. The horses are a new
pattern; fluted sides, polished knobs on the haunches, and a hand-rail
all the way down the back. A rebel caught sight of one of these fine
animals, the other day, and immediately fainted. It was afterward
ascertained that he owned a field of oats in the neighborhood.

Yours, variously,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XXI.

DESCRIBING CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN'S GREAT EXPEDITION TO ACCOMAC, AND ITS
MARVELLOUS SUCCESS.


WASHINGTON, D.C., December 1st, 1861.

'Twas early morn, my boy. The sun rushed up the eastern sky in a state
of patriotic combustion, and as the dew fell upon the grassy
hill-sides, the mountains lifted up their heads and were rather green.
Far on the horizon six rainbows appeared, with an American Eagle at
roost on the top one, and as the translucent pearl of the dawn shone
between them, and a small pattern of blue sky with thirty-four stars
broke out at one end, I saw--I beheld--yes, it ees! it ees! our Banger
in the Skee yi!

The reason why the heavens took such an interest in the United States
of America was the fact, that Captain Villiam Brown, of Company 3,
Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, was to make a Great Expedition to Accomac
County on that morning. Twelve years was the period originally
assigned, my boy, for the preparation of this Expedition; but, when the
government heard that the Accomac rebels were making candles of all the
fat Boston men they took prisoners, it concluded to do something during
the present century. Villiam Brown was assigned to the command of the
Expedition, and when I asked the General of the Mackerel Brigade how
such selection happened to be made, he said that Villiam was assigned
because there were so many signs of an ass about him.

The General is much given to classical metaphors, my boy, and ought to
write for the new American Encyclopedia.

Previous to starting, Villiam Brown called a meeting of his staff, for
the purpose of selecting such officers only who had slept with Hardee,
and knew beans.

"Gentlemen," said Villiam, seating himself at a table, on which stood
the Oath and a clean tumbler; "I wish to know which of you is the
greatest shakes in a sacred skrimmage."

A respectable leftenant stepped forward with his hand upon his boozum.

"Being a native of Philadelphia," says he, "I am naturally modest; but
only yesterday, when two rebels pitched into me, I knocked them both
over, and am here to tell the tale."

Villiam Brown gave the speaker a piercing look, my boy, and says he:

"Impostor! beware how you insult the United States of America. I fathom
your falsehood," says he, "by my knowledge of Matthew Maticks. You say
that two chivalries pitched into you, and you knocked them both over.
Now Matthew Maticks distinctly says that two into one goes _no times_,
and _nothing_ over. Speaker of the House, remove this leftenant to the
donjon keep. He's Ananias Number 2."

The officer from Philadelphia being removed to the guard-house, where
there is weeping and wailing, and picking of teeth, another leftenant
stepped forward:

"I deal in technicalities," says he, "and can post you in law."

"Ha!" says Villiam, softly sipping the Oath, "then I will try you with
an abstract question, my beautiful Belvideary. Supposing Mason and
Slidell were your friends, how would you work it to get them out of
Fort Warren?"

"Why," said the leftenant, pleasantly, "I'd sue out a writ of Habeas
Jackass, and get the _New York Herald_ to advise the Government not to
let them out."

"Yes," says Villiam, meditatively, "that would be sure to do it. I'll
use you to help me get up my Proclamation."

"And now," says Villiam, dropping a lump of sugar into the Oath, and
stirring it with a comb, "who is that air melancholy chap with a tall
hat on, who looks like Hamlet with a panic?"

The melancholy chap came to the front, shook his long locks like
Banquo, and says he:

"I'm the Press. I'm the Palladium of our Liberties--

    "'Here shall the Press the People's rights maintain,
    Unawed by affluence and inspired by gain.'

"I'm the best advertising medium in the country, and have reptile
cotemporaries. I won't be suppressed. No, sir!--no, sir!--I refuse to
be suppressed."

"You're a giant intellek," says Villiam, looking at him through the
bottom of a tumbler; "but I can't stand the press. Speaker of the
House, remove him to the bath and send for a barber. Now, gentlemen, I
will say a few words to the troops, and then we will march according to
Hardee."

The section of the Mackerel Brigade being mustered in line against a
rail fence, my boy, Captain Villiam Brown shut one eye, balanced
himself on one foot, and thus addressed them.

    "FELLOW-SOLDATS! (which is French.) It was originally intended to
    present you with a stand of colors; but the fellow-citizen who was
    to present it has only got as far as the hundred and fifty-second
    page of the few remarks he intended to make on the occasion, and it
    is a military necessity not to wait for him. (See Scott's Tactics,
    Vol. III., pp. 24.) I have but few words to say, and these are
    them: Should any of you happen to be killed in the coming battle,
    let me implore you to _Die without a groan_. It sounds better in
    history, as well as in the great, heart-stirring romances of the
    weekly palladiums of freedom. How well it reads, that 'Private
    Muggins received a shot in the neck and _died without a groan_.'
    Soldats! bullets have been known to pass clean through the thickest
    trees, and so I may be shot myself. Should such a calamity befall
    our distracted country, I shall _die without a groan_, even though
    I am a grown person. Therefore, fear nothing. The eyes of the whole
    civilized world are upon you, and History and Domestic Romance
    expect to write that you _died without a groan_."

At the conclusion of this touching and appropriate speech, my boy, all
the men exclaimed: "We will!" except a young person from New York, who
said that he'd rather "Groan without a die;" for which he was sentenced
to read Seward's next letter.

The Army being formed into a Great Quadrilateral (See Raymond's
Tactics), moved forward at a double-quick, and reached Accomac just as
the impatient sun was rushing down. With the exception of a mule, the
only Virginian to be seen was a solitary Chivalry, who had strained
himself trying to raise some interest from a Confederate Treasury Note,
and couldn't get away.

Observing that only one man was in sight, Captain Villiam Brown, who
had stopped to tie his shoe behind a large tree on the left, made a
flank movement on the Chivalry.

"Is these the borders of Accomac?" says he, pleasantly.

"Why!" says the Chivalry, giving a start, "you must be Lord Lyons."

"What makes you think that?" asked Villiam.

"Oh, nothing--only your grammar," says Chivalry.

This made Villiam very mad, my boy, and he ordered the bombardment to
be commenced immediately; but as all the powder had been placed on
board a vessel which could not arrive under two weeks, it was
determined to take possession without combustion. Finding himself
master of the situation, Captain Villiam Brown called the solitary
Chivalry to him, and issued the following

    PROCLAMATION.

    CITIZEN OF ACCOMAC! I come among you not as a incendiary and
    assassin, but to heal your wounds and be your long-lost father.
    Several of the happiest months in my life were not spent in
    Accomac, and your affecting hospitality will make me more than
    jealously-watchful of your liberties and the pursuit of happiness.
    (See the Constitution.)

    Citizen of Accomac! These brave men, of whom I am a spectator, are
    not your enemies; they are your brothers, and desire to embrace you
    in fraternal bonds. They wish to be considered your guests, and
    respectfully invite you to observe the banner of our common
    forefathers. In proof whereof I establish the following orders:

      I.--If any <DW65> come within the lines of the United States Army
    to give information, whatsomever, of the movements of the enemy,
    the aforesaid shall have his head knocked off, and be returned to
    his lawful owner, according to the groceries and provisions of the
    Fugitive Slave Ack. (See the Constitution.)

     II.--If any chicken or other defenceless object belonging to the
    South, be brought within the lines of the United States Army, by
    any <DW65>, his heirs, administrators, and assigns, the aforesaid
    shall have his tail cut off, and be sent back to his rightful owner
    at the expense of the Treasury Department.

    III.--Any soldier found guilty of shooting the Southern
    Confederacy, or bothering him in any manner whatsomever, the same
    shall be deemed guilty of disorderly conduct, and be pronounced an
    accursed abolitionist.

    VILLIAM BROWN, Eskevire,
    Captain Conic Section, Mackerel Brigade,
    Commanding Accomac.

The citizen of Accomac, my boy, received this proclamation favorably,
and said he wouldn't go hunting Union pickets until the weather was
warmer. Whereupon Villiam Brown fell upon his neck and wept copiously.

The Union Army, my boy, now holds undisputed possession of over six
inches of the sacred soil of Accomac, and this unnatural rebellion has
received a blow which shakes the rotten fabric to its shivering centre.
The strong arm of the Government has at last reached the stronghold of
treason, and in a few years this decisive movement on Accomac will be
followed by the advance of our army on the Potomac.

Yours, with expedition,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XXII.

TREATING OF VILLIAM'S OCCUPATION OF ACCOMAC, AND HIS WISE DECISION IN A
CONTRABAND CASE.


WASHINGTON, D.C., December 16th, 1861.

After sleeping with Congress for two days, my boy, and observing four
statesmen and a small page driven to the verge of apoplexy by the
exciting tale called the President's Message, I thought it was about
time to mingle with the world again, and sent my servant, Percy de
Mortimer, to bring me my gothic steed Pegasus. After a long search in
the fields after that chaste architectural animal, my boy, he met a
Missouri picket chap, and says he:

"Hev you seen a horse hereabout, my whisky-doodle?"

"Hoss!" says Missouri, spitting with exquisite precision on one of De
Mortimer's new boots. "No, I aint seen no hoss, my Fejee bruiser; but
there's an all-fired big crow-roost down in that corner, I reckon; and
it must be alive, for I heard the bones rattle when the wind blew."

My _valet_, Mr. De Mortimer, paid no heed to his satirical lowness, my
boy, but proceeded majestically to where my gothic beast was eating the
remains of a straw mattress. Brushing a few crows from the backbone of
the fond charger, upon which they were innocently roosting, he placed
the saddle amidships, and conducted the fiery stallion to my hotel.

Mounting in hot haste, I was about to start for Accomac, when the
General of the Mackerel Brigade came down the steps in hot haste, and
says he:

"Is the Army of the Potomac about to advance?"

"Why do you ask?" says I.

"Thunder!" says he, "I've been so long in one spot that I was going to
get out my naturalization papers as a citizen of Arlington Heights.
Ah!" says he, with a groan, "when the advance takes place I shall be
too old to enjoy it."

I asked him why he didn't make arrangements to have his grandson take
his place, if he should become superanuated before the advance took
place; and he said that he be dam.

On reaching Accomac, my boy, I found the Conic Section of the Mackerel
Brigade reconnoitering in force after a pullet they had seen the night
before. Which they couldn't catch it.

Captain Villiam Brown, my boy, has his head quarters in a house with
the attic and cellar on the same floor. I found two fat pickets playing
poker on the roof, six first class pickets doing up Old Sledge on the
rail-fence in front of the door, and eight consumptive pickets eating a
rooster belonging to the Southern Confederacy on the roof of a pig-pen.

As I entered the airy and commodious apartment of the commander-in
chief, I beheld a sight to make the muses stare like the behemoth of
the Scriptures, and cause genius to take another nip of old rye. There
was the cantankerous captain, my boy, seated on a keg of gunpowder,
with his head laid sideways on a table; one hand grasping a bottle half
full of the Oath, and the other writing something on a piece of paper
laid at right angles with his nose.

"Hallo, my interesting infant," says I, "are you drawing a map of
Pensacola for an enlightened press?"

"Ha!" says Villiam, starting up, and eyeing me closely through the
bottom of a bottle, "you behold me in the agonies of composition. Read
this poickry," says he, "and if it aint double X with the foam off,
where's your Milton?"

I took the paper, my boy, which resembled a specimen-card of dead
flies, and read this poem:

    "The God of Bottles be our aid,
      When rebels crack us;
    We'll bend the bottle-neck to him,
      And he will Bacchus.

    "By Capt. VILLIAM BROWN, Eskevire."

I told Villiam that everything but the words of his poem reminded me of
Longfellow, and says he:

"Don't mention my undoubted genius in public; because if Seward knew
that I wrote poickry, he'd think I wanted to be President in 1865, and
he'd get the Honest Old Abe to remove me. I think," says Villiam,
abstractedly, "that the Honest Old Abe is like a big bumble bee with
his tail cut off, when his Cabinet comes humming around him."

Villiam once stirred up the monkeys in a menagerie, my boy, and his
metaphors from Natural History are chaste.

At this moment a file of the Mackerel Brigade came in, bringing a son
of Africa, who looked like a bottle of black ink wrapt up in a dirty
towel, and a citizen of Accomac, who claimed him as his slave.

"Captain," says the citizen of Accomac, "this <DW65> belongs to me, and
I want him back. Besides, he stole a looking-glass from me, and has got
it hid somewheres."

Villiam smiled like a pleased clam, and says he: "You say he stole a
looking-glass?"

"I reckon," says Accomac.

"Prisonier!" says Villiam, to the Ethiop, "did you ever see the devil?"

"Nebber, sar, since missus died."

"Citizen of Accomac," says Villiam, sternly, "you have told a whopper;
and I shall keep this child of oppression to black the boots of the
United States of America. You say he stole a looking-glass. He says he
has never seen the devil. Observe now," says Villiam, argumentatively,
"how plain it is, that if he _had_ even _looked_ at your looking-glass,
he _must_ have seen the devil about the same time."

The citizen of Accomac saw that his falsehood was discovered, my boy,
and returned to the bosom of his family cursing like a rifled parson.
Villiam then adjourned the court for a week, and sent the contraband
out to enjoy the blessings of freedom, digging trenches.

It is pleasing, my boy, to see our commanders dispensing justice in
this manner; and I don't wonder at the President's wanting to abolish
the Supreme Court.

Yours, judicially,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XXIII.

CONCERNING BRITISH NEUTRALITY AND ITS COSMOPOLITAN EFFECTS, WITH SOME
ACCOUNT OF HOW CAPTAIN BOB SHORTY LOST HIS COMPANY.


WASHINGTON, D.C., December 20th, 1861.

When Britain first, at Napoleon's command, my boy, arose from out the
azure main, this was her charter, her charter of the land, that
Britains never, never, never shall be slaves as long as they have a
chance to treat everybody else like <DW65>s. Suffer me also to remark,
that, Britannia needs no bulwarks, no towers along the steep; her march
is o'er the mountain wave, her home is on the deep--where she keeps up
her neutrality by smuggling contraband Southern confederacies, and
swearing like a hard-shell chaplain when Uncle Sam's ocean pickets
overhaul her.

Albion's neutrality is waking up a savage spirit in the United States
of America, as you will understand from the following Irish Idle which
was written

    PRO PAT-RIA.

    Two Irishmen out of employ,
      And out at the elbows as aisily,
    Adrift in a grocery-store
      Were smoking and taking it lazily.
    The one was a broth of a boy,
      Whose cheek-bones turned out and turned in again,
    His name it was Paddy O'Toole--
      The other was Misther McFinnigan.

    "I think of enlistin'," says Pat,
      "Because do you see what o'clock it is;
    There's nothin' adoin' at all
      But drinkin' at Mrs. O'Docharty's.
    It's not until after the war
      That business times will begin again,
    And fightin's the duty of all"--
      "You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

    "Bad luck to the rebels, I say,
      For kickin' up all of this bobbery,
    They call themselves gintlemen, too,
      While practin' murder and robbery;
    Now if it's gintale for to steal,
      And take all your creditors in again,
    I'm glad I'm no gintleman born"--
      "You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

    "The spalpeens make bould to remark
      Their chivalry couldn't be ruled by us;
    And by the same token I think
      They're never too smart to be fooled by us.
    Now if it's the nagurs they mane
      Be chivalry, then it's a sin again
    To fight for a cause that is black"--
     "You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

    "A nagur's a man, ye may say,
      And aiqual to all other Southerners;
    But chivalry's made him a brute,
      And so he's a monkey to Northerners;
    Sure, look at the poor cratur's heels,
      And look at his singular shin again;
    It's not for such gintlemen fight"--
      "You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

    "The nagur States wanted a row,
      And now, be me sowl, but they've got in it!
    They've chosen a bed that is hard,
      However they shtrive for to cotton it.
    I'm thinkin', when winter comes on
      They'll all be inclined to come in again;
    But then we must bate them at first"--
      "You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

    "Och hone! but it's hard that a swate
      Good-lookin' young chap like myself indade,
    Should loose his ten shillins a day
      Because of the throuble the South has made:
    But that's just the raison, ye see,
      Why I should help Union to win again
    It's that will bring wages once more"--
      "You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

    "Joost mind what ould England's about,
      A sendin' her throops into Canaday;
    And all her ould ships on the coast
      Are ripe for some treachery any day.
    Now if she should mix in the war--
      Be jabers! it makes me head spin again!
    _Ould Ireland would have such a chance!_"--
      "You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

    "You talk about Irishmen, now,
      Enlistin' by thousands from loyalty;
    But _wait till the Phoenix Brigade
      Is called to put down British Royalty_!
    It's then with the Stars and the Stripes
      All Irishmen here would go in again,
    To strike for the Shamrock and Harp!"--
      "You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

    "Och, murther! me blood's in a blaze,
      To think of bould Corcoran leading us
    Right into the camp of the bastes
      Whose leeches so long have been bleeding us!
    The Stars and the Stripes here at home
      To Canada's walls we would pin again,
    And wouldn't we raise them in Cork?"--
      "You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

    "And down at the South, do ye mind,
      There's plinty of Irishmen mustering,
    Deluded to fight for the wrong
      By rebel mis-statements and blustering;
    But once let ould England, their foe,
      To fight with the Union begin again,
    And sure, they'd desert to a man!"--
      "You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

    "There's niver an Irishmen born,
      From Maine to the end of Secessiondom.
    But longs for a time and a chance
      To fight for this country in Hessian-dom;
    And so, if ould England should try
      With treacherous friendship to sin again,
    They'll all be on one side at once"--
      "You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

    "We've brothers in Canada, too--
      (And didn't the Prince have a taste of them?)--
    To say that to Ireland they're true
      Is certainly saying the laste of them.
    If, bearing our flag at our head,
      We rose Ireland's freedom to win again,
    They'd murther John Bull in the rear!"--
      "You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

    "Hurroo! for the Union, me boys,
      And divil take all who would bother it,
    Secession's a nagur so black
      The divil himself ought to father it;
    Hurroo! for the bould 69th,
      That's prisintly bound to go in again;
    It's Corcoran's rescue they're at"--
      "You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

    "I'm off right away to enlist,
      And sure won't the bounty be handy-O!
    To kape me respectably dressed
      And furnish me dudheens and brandy-O!
    I'm thinkin', me excellent friend,
      Ye're eyeing that bottle of gin again;
    You wouldn't mind thryin' a drop"--
      "You're _right_, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

British neutrality, my boy, reminds me of a chap I once knew in the
Sixth Ward. Two solid men, who didn't get drunk more than once a day,
were running for alderman, and they both made a dead set on this chap;
but they hadn't any money, and he couldn't see it.

"See here, old tops," says he, "I'll be a neutral this time; so go in
porgies!"

Well, my boy, the election came off, and neither of the old tops was
elected. No, sir! Now, who do you suppose _was_ elected?

The _Neutral Chap_, my boy!

Mad as hornets with the hydrophobia, the two old tops went to see him,
and says they:

"Confound your picture, didn't you promise to be neutral?"

The chap dipped his nose into a cocktail, and then says he, blandly:

"I _was_ neutral, old Persimmonses. I only went to fifty Democrats, and
got 'em to vote for me. Then to be neutral, I had to get fifty of the
other feller's Black Republicans to do the same thing. Then I voted
twelve times for myself, _and went in_."

It was a very beautiful case, my boy, and the old tops were only heard
to utter--they were only known to exclaim--they were barely able to
articulate--that neutrality didn't pay.

Early yesterday morning, my boy, Company B, Regiment 3, Mackerel
Brigade, went down toward Centreville on a reconnoissance in force
under Captain Bob Shorty. The Captain is a highly intellectual patriot,
and don't get his sword twisted between his legs when he carries it in
his hand. He led the company through the mud like a Christmas duck,
until they came to a thicket in which something was seen to move.

"Halt, you tarriers!" says Captain Bob Shorty, in a voice trembling
with bravery. "Form yourselves into a square according to Hardee, while
I stir up this here bush. There's something in that bush," says he,
"and it's either the Southern Confederacy, or some other cow."

The captain then leaned up to a tree to make him steady on his pins, my
boy, and rammed his sword into the bushes like a poker into a
fire--thus:

Nobody hurt on our side.

What followed, my boy, can be easily told. At an early hour on the
evening of the same day, a solitary horseman might have been seen
approaching Washington. It was Captain Bob Shorty, with his hat caved
in, and a rainbow spouting under his left eye. He went straight to the
head-quarters of the General of the Mackerel Brigade, and says he:

"General, I've reconnoitered in force, and found the enemy both
numerious and cantankerous."

"Beautiful!" says the general; "but where is your company?"

"Well, now," says Captain Bob Shorty, "you'd hardly believe it; but the
last I see of that ere company, it was engaged in the pursuit of
happiness at the rate of six miles an hour, with the rebels at the
wrong end of the track. Dang my rations!" says Captain Bob Shorty, "if
I don't think that ere bob-tailed company has got to Richmond by this
time."

"Thunder!" says the general, "didn't they kill any of the rebels?"

"Nary a Confederacy," says Captain Bob Shorty. "The bullets all rolled
out of them ere muskets of theirs before the powder got fairly on fire.
Them muskets," continued Captain Bob Shorty, "would be good for a
bombardment. You might possibly hit a city with them at two yards'
range; but in personal encounters they are inferior to the
putty-blowers of our innocent childhood."

As the captain made this observation, my boy, he stepped hurriedly to
the table, lifted a tumbler containing the Oath to his pallid lips,
took a seat in the coal-scuttle, and burst into a flood of tears.

Deeply affected by this touching display of a beautiful trait in our
common nature, the general placed a small piece of ice on the captain's
slanting brow, and hid his own emotions in a bottle holding about a
quart.

In reference to the beautiful battle-piece, accompanying this epistle,
my boy, allow me to observe that it was taken on the spot by the
_Chiar' oscuro_ artist, Patrick de la Roach, well-known in his native
Italy as "Roachy." He studied in Rome (New York), and has a style
peculiar for its width of tone and length of breath. The dark
complexion of the figures in this fine picture represents the effects
of the Virginia sun. Our troops are much tanned. The work was painted
in oil colors with a bit of charcoal, my boy, and a copy of it will
probably be ordered for the Capitol.

Yours, for high old art,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XXIV.

NARRATING THE MACKEREL BRIGADE'S MANNER OF CELEBRATING CHRISTMAS, AND
NOTING A DEADLY AFFAIR OF HONOR BETWEEN TWO WELL-KNOWN OFFICERS.


WASHINGTON, D.C., December 26th, 1861.

A Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, my boy, and the same to yourself.
The recurrence of these gay old annuals makes me feel as ancient as the
First Families of Virginia, and as grave as a church-yard. How well I
remember my first Christmas! Early in the morning, my dignified
paternal presented me with a beautiful spanking, and then my maternal
touched me up with her slipper to stop my crying. Sensible people are
the women of America, my boy; they slap a boy on his upper end, which
makes him howl, and then hit him on the other end to stop his noise.
There's good logic in the idea, my boy. That first Christmas of mine
was memorable from the fact that my present was a drum, on which I
executed a new opera of my own composition with such good effect, that
in the evening, a deputation of superannuated neighbors and old maids
waited on my father with a petition that he would send me to sea
immediately.

But to return to the present, suffer me to observe that last Wednesday
was celebrated by the Mackerel Brigade in a manner worthy of the
occasion. Two hundred turkeys belonging to the Southern Confederacy
were served up for dinner, and from what I tasted, I am satisfied that
they belonged to the First Families. They were very tough, my boy.

In the evening, there was a ball, to which a number of the women of
America were invited. Captain Villiam Brown came up from Accomac on
purpose to attend, and looked, as the General of the Mackerel Brigade
genteelly expressed it, like a bag of indigo that had been out without
an umbrella in a hard shower of brass buttons. The general has an acute
perception of the Beautiful, my boy.

Villiam took the Oath six times, and then took a survey of the festive
scene through the bottom of a tumbler. The first person he recognized
was the youngest Miss Muggins, waltzing like a deranged balloon with
Captain Bob Shorty. Captain Bob was spinning around like a dislocated
pair of tongs, and smirked like a happy fiend. Villiam gave one stare,
put the tumbler in his pocket, and then made a bee-line for the pair.

"Miss Muggins," says he, "you'll obleege me by dropping that air mass
of brass buttons and moustaches, and dancing with me."

"I beg your parding, sir," says Miss Muggins, with dignity, "but I
chooses my own company."

"Villiam," says Captain Bob Shorty, "if you don't take that big nose of
yours away, it will be my painful duty to set it a little further back
in your repulsive countenance."

Then Villiam _was_ mad. He hastily buttoned his coat up to the neck,
took a bite of tobacco, and says he:

"Captain Shorty, we have lived like br-r-others; I have borrowed many a
quarter of you; and you promised that when I died, you would wrap me up
in the American flag. But now you are mine enemy, and--ha! ha!--I am
yours. Wilt fight?"

'Twas enough!

"I wilt," responded Captain Bob Shorty. And in ten minutes' time these
desperate men stood face to face on the banks of the Potomac, the
ghastly moon looking solemnly down upon them through a rift of floating
shrouds; and one of the First Families of Virginia pickets squinting at
them from a neighboring bush. Villiam's second was Colonel Wobert
Wobinson of the Western Cavalry, Captain Bob Shorty's was Samyule
Sa-mith. The fifth of the party was a fat surgeon from St. Louis, who
stood with his sleeves rolled up and a big jack-knife in his hand. The
surgeon also had a stomach pump with him, my boy, and twelve boxes of
anti-bilious pills. The weapons were pistols, and the distance seventy
paces.

Captain Villiam Brown was observed to shiver, as he took his place, and
was so cold, that he took aim at the surgeon instead of his antagonist.
The surgeon called his attention to this little error; and he
immediately rectified his mistake by pointing his weapon point-blank at
Samyule Sa-mith.

"You blood-thirsty cuss!" shouted Samyule, with great emotion, "what
are you pointing at me for?"

"I was thinking of my poor grandmother," said Villiam, feelingly; and
immediately fired at the moon.

Simultaneously, Captain Bob Shorty sent his bullet skimming along the
ground, in the direction of Washington, and said that he wanted to go
home.

The surgeon decided that nobody was hurt; and the two infuriated
principals commenced to reload their pistols, with horrible calmness.

Now it came to pass, that while Captain Villiam Brown was stooping down
fixing his weapon, his hand became unsteady, and he pulled the trigger,
without meaning to. Bang! went the concern, and whiz! went the ball
right between the legs of Colonel Wobert Wobinson, causing that noble
officer to skip four times, and swear awfully.

"Treachery!" says Captain Bob Shorty, spinning around in great
excitement, and letting drive at Samyule Sa-mith who happened to be
nearest.

"Gaul darn ye!" screamed Samyule, turning purple in the face, "you've
gone and shot all the rim of my cap off."

"I couldn't help it," says Bob, looking into the barrel of his pistol
with great intensity of gaze.

At this moment, Villiam, who had loaded up again, tried to put the
hammer of his weapon down on the cap; but his hand slipped, and the
charge exploded, barking the shins of the fat surgeon, and sending a
bullet clean through his stomach-pump.

The surgeon just took a seat, my boy, rubbed his shins half a second,
took four boxes of pills, and then began to cuss! Marshal Rynders can
cuss _some_, my boy, but that fat surgeon could beat him and all the
Custom-House together.

But suddenly a strange sound reduced all else to silence. It came first
like the rumbling of a barrel of potatoes, and then grew into a
fiendish chuckle. It was found to proceed from a neighboring bush, and
on proceeding thither the party beheld a sight to make the pious weep.
Rolling about in the brush was one of the First Families of Virginia
pickets, kicking his heels in the air, and laughing himself right
straight into apoplexy.

"O Lord!" says he, going into a fresh convulsion, "take me prisoner and
hang me for a rebel, but I never _did_ see such a good one as that air
gay old duel. If you'd kept on," says the picket, turning purple in the
face, "I really reckon I should a busted myself."

Captain Villiam Brown was greatly scandalized at this unseemly mirth,
my boy, and requested the surgeon to cut the picket's head off; but
Colonel Wobert Wobinson interposed, and the laughing chap was only made
prisoner.

"And now, Villiam," says Captain Bob Shorty, "we've had the
satisfaction of gentlemen, and can be friends again. I spurns Miss
Muggins. The American flag is my only bride, and as for you!--well, I
think rather more of you than I do of my own father."

"Come to my arms!" exclaimed Villiam, falling upon his neck, and
improving the opportunity to take the Oath from his canteen.

It was an affecting sight, my boy; and as those two noble youths walked
amicably back to the camp together, the fat surgeon remarked to Samyule
Sa-mith that they reminded him of Damon and Pythias just returned from
the Syracuse Convention.

Yours, for the Code,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XXV.

PRESENTING THE CHAPLAIN'S NEW YEAR POEM, AND REPORTING THE SINGULAR
CONDUCT OF THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE ON THE DAY HE
CELEBRATED.


WASHINGTON, D.C., January 2d, 1862.

Another year, my boy, has dawned upon a struggle in which the hopes of
freedom and integrity all over the world are breathlessly involved; and
if the day-star of Liberty is destined to go down into the ocean wave,
what is to become of the unoffending <DW64>s? I extract this beautiful
passage, my boy, from the forthcoming speech of a fat Congressman, who
is a friend to the human race, and charges the Administration with
imbecility and with mileage. I conversed with him the other evening,
and, after discussing various topics, asked him what he thought of the
Washington statue as it stood? He winked three times, and then says he:

"The only Washington statue I know anything about, is _statu quo_."

The chaplain of the Mackerel Brigade joined seriously in our staff
festivities on New Year's eve, my boy; but as midnight approached he
grew very silent, and at a quarter of twelve he arose from his seat by
the fire and asked permission to read something which he had written.

"I would not <DW44> your inevitable inebriation," says he to us, as he
drew a manuscript from one of his pockets, "but it is only fitting that
we should pay some regard to

    "THE DYING YEAR.

          "Dying at last, Old Year!
    Another stroke of yonder clock, and thou
      Wilt pass the threshold of the world we see
    Into the world where Yesterday and Now
      Blend with the hours of the No More To Be.

          "I saw the moon last night
    Rise like a crown from the dim mountain's head,
      And to the Council of the Stars take way;
    For thou, the king, though kinsman of the dead,
      Swayed still the sceptre of Another Day.

          "I see the moon to-night,
    Sightless and misty as a mourner's eye,
      Behind a vail; or, like a coin to seal
    The lids of Time's last-born to majesty,
      Touched with the darkness of a hidden Leal.

          "Mark where yon shadow crawls
    By slow degrees beneath the window-sill,
      Timed by the death-watch, ticking slow and dull;
    The tide of night is rising, black and still--
      Old Year, thou diest when 'tis at its full!

          "Ay! moan and moan again,
    And shake all Nature in thine agony,
      And tear the ermine robes that mock thee now
    Like gilded fruit upon a blasted tree;
      To-morrow comes! To-morrow, where are Thou?

          "Wouldst thou be shrived, Old Year?
    Thou subtle sentence of delusive Time,
      Framed but to deepen all the mystery
    Of Life's great purpose! Come, confess the crime,
      And man's Divinity shall date from thee!

          "Speak to my soul, Old Year;
    Let but a star leave its bright eminence
      In thy death-struggle, if this deathless Soul
    Holds its own destiny and recompense
      In the grand mast'ry of a GOD'S control!

          "No sound, no sign from thee?
    And must I live, not knowing why I live,
      Whilst Thou and years to come pass by me here
    With faces hid, refusing still to give
      The one poor word that bids me cease to fear?

          "That word, I charge thee, speak!
    Quick! for the moments tremble on the verge
      Of the black chasm where lurks the midnight spell,
    And solemn winds already chant thy dirge--
      Give Earth its Heaven, or Hell a deeper Hell!

          "Speak! or I curse thee here!
    I'll call it YEA if but a withered twig,
      Tossed by the wind, falls rattling on the roof;
    I'll call it YEA, if e'en a shutter creak,
      Breathe but on me, and it shall stand for proof!

          "Too late! The midnight bell--
    The crawling shadow at its witching flood,
      With the deep gloom of the Beyond is wed,
    And I, unanswered, sit within and brood,
      And thou, Old Year, art silent--Thou art DEAD!"

When the chaplain finished his reading, my boy, I told him that he must
excuse the party for going to sleep, as they were really very tired.

On New Year's day, my boy, the General of the Mackerel Brigade desired
me to make a few calls with him; and appeared at my lodgings in a
confirmed state of kid gloves, which he bought for the express purpose
of making a joke.

"A happy New Year to you, my Duke of Wellington," says I. "You look as
frisky as a spring lamb."

Immediately a look of intense meaning came over his Corinthian face,
and he remarked, with awful solemnity:

"Thunder! you might better call me a goat, my Prushian blue, seeing
that I've got a couple of kids on hand just now."

The joke was a good article in the glove line, my boy, and I don't
think that the general had been studying over it more than four hours
before we met.

We made our first call at a house where the ladies were covered with
smiles as with a garment; and remarked that the day was fine. The
general smiled in return, until his profile reminded me of a cracked
tea-pot; and says he: "Ladies, allow me to tender the compliments of
the season. In this wine," says he, "which I hold in my hand, I behold
the roses of your cheeks when you blush, and the sparkle of your eyes
when you laugh. Let us hope that another New Year will find our unhappy
country free from her enemies, and the curse of African slavery blotted
out of the map."

I whispered to the general that slavery wasn't on the map at all; and
he confidentially informed me, that I be dam.

We then repaired to a house where the ladies had a very happy
expression of countenance, and told us that it was a pleasant day. The
general accidentally filled a wine glass with the deuce of the grape,
and says he: "Ladies, suffer me to articulate the compliments of the
season. This aromatic beverage," says he, "is but a liquid presentment
of your blushes and glances. Let us trust that within a year our
country will resume the blessings of peace, and the unhappy bondman
will be obliterated from the map."

One of the ladies said, "te-he."

Another said that she felt "he! he! he!"

"I believe her, my boy!"

As we returned to the street, I told the general that he'd better leave
out the map at the next place, and he said that he'd do it if he was'nt
afraid that Congress would'nt confirm his appointment, if he did.

We then visited a family where the ladies had faces beaming with
happiness, and observed that it was really a beautiful day. The general
happened to be placed near a cut-glass goblet, and says he: "Ladies, in
compliance with the day we celebrate, I offer the compliments of the
season. This mantling nectar," says he, "blushes like women and
glitters like her orbs. Let us pray that in the coming twelve months,
the stars and stripes will be re-established, and the <DW64> removed
from the map."

He also said hic, my boy; and one of the ladies wanted "to know what
that meant?"

I told her that _Hic_ was a Latin term from Cicero de Officiis, and
meant _Hic jacet_--hear lies.

"O!" says she, "te-he-he!"

On reaching the sidewalk this time, my boy, the general clasped my hand
warmly, and said he'd never forget me. He said I was his dear friend,
and must never leave him; and I said I wouldn't.

We then called at a house where the ladies all smiled upon us, and
remarked that we were having charming weather. The general raised a
glass, and says he:

"Ge-yurls, I am an old man; but you are the complimens of season. You
are blushing like the wine-glass, and also your sparkles. On another
New Year's day let our banner--certainly let us all do it. And the
<DW64> slavery blot out the map."

As he uttered these feeling words, my boy, he bowed to me and kissed my
hand. After which he looked severely at his pocket-handkerchief, and
tried to leave the room by way of the fire-place.

I asked him if he hadn't better take some soda; and he said, that if I
would come and live with him he would tell me how he came to get
married. He said he loved me.

Shortly after this we called at a residence where the ladies all looked
very happy and said that it was a fine day. The general threw all the
strength of his face into one eye, and says he:

"Ladles, we are compl'm'ns, and you are the <DW64>s on the map. This
year--pardon me, I should intro-interror-oduce my two friends who is
drunk--this year I say, our country may be hap--"

Here the general turned suddenly to me with tears in his eyes, and
asked me to promise that I would never, never leave him. He said that I
was a gen'l'm'n, and ought to give up drinking. I conducted him
tenderly to the hall, where he embraced me passionately, and invited me
to call and see him.

As soon as he had made a few remarks to a lamp-post, requesting it to
call at Willard's as it went home, and tell his wife that he was well,
I took his arm, and we moved on at right angles.

It is worthy of remark that at our next calling-place the ladies all
beamed with joy, and told us that it was a delightful day. The general
took a looking-glass for a window, and stood still before it, until I
tapped him on the shoulder.

"D'you zee that drunken fool standing there in the street?" says he,
pointing at the mirror. "It's Lord Lyons, s'drunk as a fool."

I told him that he saw only his own figure in the glass, and he said he
would see me safe home if I would go right away. Chancing at the moment
to catch sight of a wine-glass, my boy, he walked toward it in a
circle, and hastily filled the outside of it from an empty decanter.
Then balancing himself on one foot, and placing his disengaged hand on
a pyramid of _blanc mange_ to support himself, he said impressively:

"Ladles, and gentle-lemons, the army will move on the first of May,
and--"

Here the general went down under the table like a stately ship
foundering at sea, and was heard to ask the wine-cooler to tell his
family that he died for his country.

Owing to the very hilly nature of the street, my boy, I was obliged to
accompany the general home in a hack; and as we rolled along towards
the hotel, he disclosed to me an agitated history of his mother's
family.

When last I saw him he was trying to make out why the chambermaid had
put four pillows on his bed, and endeavoring to lift off the two extra
ones without disturbing the others.

Candidly speaking, my boy, this New-Year's-calls business is not a
sensible calling, and simply amounts to a caravan of monkeys attending
a menagerie of trained crinoline.

Yours, philosophically,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XXVI.

GIVING THE PARTICULARS OF A FALSE ALARM, AND A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF
THE OFFICER COMMANDING.


WASHINGTON, D.C., January 11th, 1862.

Scarce had the glorious sun shot up the dappled orient on Monday morn,
my boy, when the Commander-in-Chief of the Mackerel Brigade received a
telegraphic dispatch which reads as follows:

    "General Frost has appeared near Centreville, and is now covering
    the wood and road in our rear."

It bore no signature, my boy; but the general believed the danger to be
imminent, and ordered Captain Bob Shorty to take ten thousand men, and
make a reconnoissance towards Centreville.

"Bob, my cherub," says he, "if you can get behind the rebel Frost, and
take the whole Confederacy prisoners, don't administer the Oath until
the Eagle of America is avenged."

Bob smiled like a happy oyster, and says he:

"Domino!"

'Twas nigh upon the hour of noon when Captain Bob Shorty and his
veterans approached the beautiful village of Centreville. Cross-trees
had been placed under the horses of the cavalry to keep them from
falling down, and the infantry were arranging themselves so that the
bayonets of the front rank shouldn't stick into the rear rank's eyes
every time they turned a corner, when a solitary contraband might have
been seen eating hoe-cake by the solemn road-side.

"Confederate," said Captain Bob Shorty, approaching him with his sword
very much between his legs, "hast seen the rebel Frost and his
myrmidions? I come to give him battle, having heard that he was
hereabouts."

The Ethiopian took a pentagonal bite of hoe-cake, and says he:

"Tell Massa Lincon that the frost war werry thick last night, but hab
gone by this time."

Captain Bob Shorty took off his cap, my boy, looked carefully into it,
put it on again, and frowned awfully.

"Comrades," says he, addressing the troops, "you have all heard of
a big thing on Snyder. You now behold it before you. This here
reconnoissance," says he, "is what the French would call a _few-paw_.
We must turn it into a foraging expedition. Charge on yonder hay-stack,
and remember me in your prayers!"

'Twas early eve, my boy, when that splendid army returned to Potomac's
shore, with two hay-stacks for the horses, and ten Confederate chickens
for supper.

Nobody hurt on our side.

I inclose the following brief sketch of the gallant soldier who
commanded in this brilliant affair.

    CAPTAIN ROBERT SHORTY.

    This brave young officer was born in the Sixth Ward of New York,
    and was twenty-one years old upon arriving of age. When but a lad,
    he studied tobacco and the girls, and ran to fires for his health.
    When eligible to the right of franchise, he voted seven times in
    one day, and attracted so much attention from the authorities that
    his parents resolved to make a lawyer of him. On the breaking out
    of the war with Mexico, he offered his services to the Government
    as a major-general, but, for some reason, was not accepted. He will
    probably be sent to supersede General Halleck, in Missouri, as soon
    as any one of St. Louis writes to ask the President for another
    change.

                 *       *       *       *       *

The general was so pleased when he heard of this spirited action, my
boy, that he offered to review the Mackerel Brigade the next morning,
and privately informed me that he considered the Southern Confederacy
doomed to expire in less than three months. He said that it was already
tottering to its fall, which must take place in the Spring.

Perhaps so, my boy--perhaps so!

Yours, for the flag,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XXVII.

TOUCHING INCIDENTALLY UPON THE CHARACTER OF ARMY FOOD, AND CELEBRATING
THE GREAT DIPLOMATIC EXPLOIT OF CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN AT ACCOMAC.


WASHINGTON, D.C., January 19th, 1862.

In the early part of the week I resolved to go down to Accomac, on a
flying visit to Captain Villiam Brown and the Conic Section of the
Mackerel Brigade. Accordingly, I went to the shoemaker's after my
gothic steed Pegasus. The shoemaker, had said, my boy, that there was
enough loose leather hanging about the architectural animal to make me
a nice pair of slippers, and I gave him permission to cut them out. The
operation only made the Morgan's back look a little more like the roof
of a barn; but I like him all the better for that, because he sheds the
rain easier.

The General of the Mackerel Brigade at first intended to accompany me
to Accomac; and says he to Samyule Sa-mith, the orderly, says he:
"Samyule! just step down to the anatomical museum of the Western chaps,
and buy me the best horse you can find in the collection. Here's a
dollar and half--fifty cents for the horse and a dollar for your
trouble."

Samyule came back in about forty minutes, and says he:

"Colonel Wobert Wobinson, of the Western Cavalry, says I must come
again this afternoon, as he don't know whether there'll be any horses
left or not."

"Thunder!" says the General. "How left?"

"Vy," says Samyule, "he can't tell whether any horses will be left
until the boys have had their dinner, can he!"

"Ah!" says the General, contemplatively, "I forgot the beef-soup
recommended by the doctors. It will be a pleasant change for the boys,"
says he, "from the mutton that was so plenty just after them mules
died."

Speaking of dinner, my boy; let me tell you about a curious occurrence
in our camp lately. Just after a load of rations had come in, a New
York chap says to me, says he:

"I'm glad they're going to put down the Russ pavement here pretty soon;
for it's getting damp as thunder."

"Id-jut!" said I, sarcastically, "where have you seen any Russ
pavement?"

He just took me softly by the arm, my boy, and led me a little way, and
pointed, and says he:

"If you'll just look there, you'll see some of the blocks."

"Why," says I, "those are army biscuit for the men."

"Biscuit!" says he, rubbing his stomach, and turning up his eyes like a
cat with the apoplexy--"if them's biscuit, Bunker Hill Monument must be
built of flour--that's all."

And he went out and took the Oath.

On arriving at Accomac, my boy, I asked a blue-and-gold picket where
Villiam Brown was, and he said that he was in the library.

The library was used by the former occupants of the residence as a
hen-house, and contains two volumes--Hardee abridged, and "Every Man
His Own Letter-Writer," Seward's edition.

I found Captain Villiam Brown seated on what was formerly a Shanghai's
nest, my boy, with his feet out of the window, and his head against a
roost. He was studying the last-named book, and sipping Old Bourbon the
Oath, in the intervals. The intervals were numerous.

"Son of the Eagle," says I, "you remind me of Sir Walter Scott, at
Abbotsford."

Villiam looked abstractedly at me, at the same time moving the tumbler
a little further from my hand, and says he:

"I've been in the agonies of diplomacy, but feel much better." "Ha!"
says Villiam, beaming like a new comet, "I've preserved our foreign
relations peaceful, without humbling the United States of America."

I asked an explanation, and he informed me that on the evening before,
one of his men had boarded an Accomac scow in Goose Creek, and captured
two oppressed <DW64>s, named Johnson and Peyton, who were carrying news
to the enemy. "At first," says Villiam, sternly, "I thought of letting
them off with hanging, but I soon felt that they deserved something
worse, and so--" says Villiam, with a malignant scowl that made my
blood run cold--"and so, I sentenced them to read Sumner's speech on
the Trent affair."

On the following morning there came the following letter from the
righteously-exasperated citizens of Accomac, which Villiam labeled as

    DOCKYMENT I.

    SWEET VILLIAM--SIR:--I am instructed by the neutral Government of
    Accomac to assure the United States of America, that the feeling at
    present existing between the two Governments is of such a cordial
    nature, that love itself never inspired more heaving emotions in
    the buzzums of conglomerated youth.

    Therefore, the outrage committed by the United States of America on
    the flag of Accomac, in removing from its protection two gentlemen
    named Johnson and Peyton, is something for demons to rejoice over.
    The daughter of the latter gentleman has already slapped her mother
    in the face, and bared her buzzum to the breeze.

    I am instructed by the government of Accomac to demand the instant
    return of the two gentlemen, together with an ample apology for the
    base deed, and the amount of that little bill for forage.

    Again assuring you of the cordial feeling existing between the two
    countries, and the passionate affection I feel for yourself, I am,
    dear sir, most truly, dear sir, as ever, respected sir, your
    attached

    WILLIAM GOAT.

On receiving this communication from Mr. Goat, my boy, Captain Villiam
Brown removed Lieutenant Thomas Jenks from the command of the
artillery, and ordered six reviews of the troops without umbrellas. He
then had a small keg of the Oath rolled into the library, rumpled up
his hair, shut one eye, and replied to Mr. Goat with

    DOCKYMENT II.

    LORD GOAT--SIR:--I take much felicity in receiving your lordship's
    note, which shows that the neutral Government of Accomac and the
    United States of America still cherish the feelings that do credit
    to Anglo-Saxon hearts of the same parentage.

    The two black beings, at present stopping in the barn attached to
    the present head-quarters, were contraband of war; but were,
    nevertheless, engaged in the peaceful occupation of asking the
    protection of your lordship's government.

    Were I to decide this question in favor of the United States of
    America, I should forever forfeit the right of every American
    citizen to treat <DW65>s as sailable articles, since I would
    thereby deny their right to sail. The Congress of the United States
    of America has been fighting for this right for more than a quarter
    of a century, and I cannot find it in me heart to debar it of that
    divine privilege for the future.

    I might cite Wheaton, Story, Bulwer, Kent, Marryat, Sheridan, and
    Busteed, to sustain my position, were I familiar with those
    international righters.

    Therefore I am compelled to humble your lordship's government by
    returning the two black beings aforesaid, and beg leave to assure
    your lordship that I am your lordship's only darling,

    VILLIAM BROWN, Eskevire,
    Captain Conic Section, Mackerel Brigade.

After reading this able and brilliant document, my boy, I told Villiam
that I thought he had made a very good point about <DW64>s always being
"sailable articles," and he said that was diplomacy.

"Ah!" says he, sadly, "my father always said that if you could not get
over a rail fence by high-jump-acy, there was nothing like
dip-low-macy. My dad was a natural statesman. Ah!" says Villiam, in a
fine burst of filial emotion, "I wonder where the durned old fool is
now."

This idea plunged him into such a depth of reverie, that I left him
without another word, mounted Pegasus, and ambled reflectively back to
the Capitol.

Diplomacy brings out the intellect of a nation, my boy, and is a
splendid thing to use until we get our navy finished.

Yours, in memory of Metternich,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XXVIII.

CONCERNING THE CONTINUED INACTIVITY OF THE POTOMAC ARMY, AND SHOWING
HOW IT WAS POETICALLY CONSTRUED BY A THOUGHTFUL RADICAL.


WASHINGTON, D.C., January 30th, 1862.

Notwithstanding the hideous howlings of the Black Republicans, my boy,
and the death of six Confederate pickets from old age, the Army of the
Potomac will not commence the forward movement until the mud subsides
sufficiently to show where some of the camps are. The Mackerel Brigade
dug out a regiment yesterday, near Alexandria; but there's no use of
continuing the business without a dredging-machine.

I was talking to Captain Bob Shorty, on Tuesday, respecting the
inactivity of the army, and says he:

"It's all very well to talk about making an advance, my beauty; but
I've known one of the smartest men in the country to fail in it."

"What mean you, fellow?" says I.

"Why," says he, "you know Simpson, your uncle?"

"I believe you, my boy!" says I.

"Well!" says Captain Bob Shorty, "that air Simpson is one of the
smartest old cusses in the country--yet there ain't no 'On to Richmond'
about _him_. I asked him once, myself, to make an advance. I asked him
to make an advance on my repeater, and he said he couldn't."

This argument, my boy, exposes thoroughly the base disloyalty and
fiendish designs of the newspaper brigadiers who are constantly urging
McClellan to advance--advance! Let them all be sent to Fort Lafayette,
and the moral effect on this cursed rebellion will be such that it will
utterly collapse in two hours and forty-three minutes.

The serious New Haven chap, of whom I spoke to you some time ago, takes
a "radical" view of our long halt, and gives his ideas in

    THE MIDNIGHT WATCH.

    Soldier, soldier, wan and gray,
      Standing there so very still,
    On the outpost looking South,
      What is there to-night to kill?

    Through the mist that rises thick
      From the noisome marsh around,
    I can see thee like a shade
      Cast from something underground.

    And I know that thou art old,
      For thy features, sharp, and thin,
    Cut their lines upon the shroud
      Damply folding thee within.

    Fit art thou to watch and guard
      O'er the brake and o'er the bog;
    By the glitter of thine eyes
      Thou canst pierce a thicker fog.

    Tell me, soldier, grim and old,
      If thy tongue is free to say,
    What thou seest looking South,
      In that still and staring way?

    Yonderward the fires may glow
      Of a score of rebel camps;
    But thou canst not see their lights,
      Through the chilling dews and damps.

    Silent still, and motionless?
      Get thee to the tents behind,
    Where the flag for which we fight
      Plays a foot-ball to the wind.

    Get thee to the bankments high,
      Where a thousand cannon sleep,
    While the call that bids them wake
      Bids a score of millions weep.

    Thou shalt find an army there,
      Working out the statesman's plots,
    While a poison banes the land,
      And a noble nation rots.

    Thou shalt find a soldier-host
      Tied and rooted to its place,
    Like a woman cowed and dumb,
      Staring Treason in the face.

    Dost thou hear me? Speak, or move!
      And if thou wouldst pass the line,
    Give the password of the night--
      Halt! and give the countersign.

    God of Heaven! what is this
      Sounding through the frosty air,
    In a cadence stern and slow,
      From the figure looming there!

    "Sentry, thou hast spoken well"--
      Through the mist the answer came--
    "I am wrinkled, grim, and old,
      May'st thou live to be the same!

    "Thou art here to keep a watch
      Over prowlers coming nigh;
    I can show thee, looking South,
      What is hidden from thine eye.

    "Here, the loyal armies sleep;
      There, the foe awaits them all;
    Who can tell before the time
      Which shall triumph, which shall fall?

    "O, but war's a royal game,
      Here a move and there a pause;
    Little recks the dazzled world
      What may be the winner's cause.

    "In the roar of sweating guns,
      In the crash of sabres crossed,
    Wisdom dwindles to a fife,
      Justice in the smoke is lost.

    "But there is a mightier blow
      Than the rain of lead and steel,
    Falling from a heavier hand
      Than the one the vanquished feel.

    "Let the armies of the North
      Rest them thus for many a night;
    Not with them the issue lies,
      'Twixt the powers of Wrong and Right.

    "Through the fog that wraps us round
      I can see, as with a glass,
    Far beyond the rebel hosts
      Fires that cluster, pause, and pass.

    "From the wayside and the wood,
      From the cabin and the swamp,
    Crawl the harbingers of blood,
      Black as night, with torch and lamp.

    "Now they blend in one dense throng;
      Hark! they whisper, as in ire--
    Catch the word before it dies--
      Hear the horrid murmur--'Fire!'

    "Mothers, with your babes at rest,
      Maidens in your dreaming-land--
    Brothers, children--wake ye all!
      The Avenger is at hand.

    "Born by thousands in a flash,
      Angry flames bescourge the air,
    And the howlings of the blacks
      Fan them to a fiercer glare.

    "Crash the windows, burst the doors,
      Let the helpless call for aid;
    From the hell within they rush
      On the <DW64>'s reeking blade.

    "Through the flaming doorway arch,
      Half-dressed women frantic dart;
    Demon! spare that kneeling girl--
      God! the knife is in her heart.

    "By his hair so thin and gray
      Forth they drag the aged sire;
    First, a stab to stop his pray'r--
      Hurl him back into the fire.

    "What! a child, a mother's pride,
      Crying shrilly with affright!
    Dash the axe upon her skull,
      Show no mercy--she is white.

    "Louder, louder roars the flame,
      Blotting out the Southern home,
    Fainter grow the dying shrieks,
      Fiercer cries of vengeance come.

    "Turn, ye armies, where ye stand,
      Glaring in each others' eyes;
    While ye halt, a cause is won;
      While ye wait, a despot dies.

    "Greater victory has been gained
      Than the longest sword secures,
    And the Wrong has been washed out
      With a purer blood than yours."

    Soldier, by my mother's pray'r!
      Thou dost act a demon's part;
    Tell me, ere I strike thee dead,
      Whence thou comest, who thou art.

    Back! I will not let thee pass--
      Why, that dress is Putnam's own!
    Soldier, soldier, where art thou?
      Vanished--like a shadow gone!

The Southern Confederacy may come to that yet, my boy, if it don't take
warning in time from its patron Saint. I refer to Saint Domingo, my
boy,--I refer to Saint Domingo.

Yours, musingly,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XXIX.

INTRODUCING A VERITABLE "MUDSILL," ILLUSTRATING YANKEE BUSINESS TACT,
NOTING THE DETENTION OF A NEWSPAPER CHARTOGRAPHIST, AND SO ON.


WASHINGTON, D.C., February 2d, 1862.

I never really knew what the term "mudsill" meant, my boy, until I saw
Captain Bob Shorty on Tuesday. I was out in a field, just this side of
Fort Corcoran, trimming down the ears of my gothic steed Pegasus, that
he might look less like a Titanic rabbit, when I saw approaching me an
object resembling a brown-stone monument. As it came nearer, I
discovered an eruption of brass buttons at intervals in front, and
presently I observed the lineaments of a Federal face.

"Strange being!" says I, taking down a pistol from the natural rack on
the side of my steed, and at the same time motioning toward my sword,
which I had hung on one of his hip bones, "Art thou the shade of
Metamora, or the disembodied spirit of a sand-bank?"

"My ducky darling," responded the aeolian voice of Captain Bob Shorty,
"you behold a mudsill just emerged from a liquified portion of the
sacred soil. The mud at present inclosing the Mackerel Brigade is
unpleasant to the personal feelings of the corps, but the effect at a
distance is unique. As you survey that expanse of mud from Arlington
Heights," continued Captain Bob Shorty, "with the veterans of the
Mackerel Brigade wading about in it up to their chins, you are forcibly
reminded of a limitless plum-pudding, well stocked with animated
raisins."

"My friend," says I, "the comparison is apt, and reminds me of
Shakspeare's happier efforts. But tell me, my Pylades, has the dredging
for those missing regiments near Alexandria proved successful?"

Captain Bob Shorty shook the mire from his ears, and then, says he:

"Two brigades were excavated this morning, and are at present building
a raft to go down to Washington after some soap. Let us not utter
complaints against the mud," continued Captain Bob Shorty,
reflectively, "for it has served to develop the genius of New England.
We dug out a Yankee regiment from Boston first, and the moment those
wooden-nutmeg chaps got their breath, they went to work at the mud that
had almost suffocated them, mixed up some spoiled flour with it, and
are now making their eternal fortunes by peddling it out for patent
cement."

This remark of the captain's, my boy, shows that the spirit of New
England still retains its natural elasticity, and is capable of greater
efforts than lignum vitae hams and clocks made of barrel hoops and old
coffee-pots. I have heard my ancient grandfather relate an example of
this spirit during the war of 1812. He was with a select assortment of
Pequog chaps at Bladensburg, just before the attack on Washington, and
word came secretly to them that the Britishers down in the Chesapeake
were out of flour, and would pay something handsome for a supply. Now,
these Pequog chaps had no flour, my boy; but that didn't keep them out
of the speculation. They went into the nearest graveyard, dug up all
the tombstones, and put them into an old quartz-crushing machine,
pounded them to powder, sent the powder to the coast, _and sold it to
the Britishers for the very best flour, at twelve dollars and a half a
barrel_!

And can such a people as this be conquered by a horde of godless
rebels? Never! I repeat it, sir--never! Should the Jeff. Davis mob ever
get possession of Washington, the Yankees would build a wall around the
place, and invite the public to come and see the menagerie, at two
shillings a head.

On Wednesday, some of our dryest pickets caught a shabby, long-haired
chap loafing around the camps with a big block and sheet of paper under
his arm, and brought him before the general of the Mackerel Brigade.

"Well, Samyule," says the general to one of the pickets, "what is your
charge against the prisonier?"

"He is a young man which is a spy," replied Samyule, holding up the
sheet of paper; "and I take this here picture of his to be the Great
Seal of the Southern Confederacy."

"Why thinkest thou so, my cherub? and what does the work of art
represent?" inquired the general.

"The drawing is not of the best," responded Samyule, closing one eye,
and viewing the picture critically; "but I should say that it
represented a ham, with a fiddle laid across it, and beefsteaks in the
corners."

"Miserable vandal!" shouted the long-haired chap, excitedly, "you know
not what you say. I am a Federal artist; and that picture is a map of
the coast of North Carolina, for a New York daily paper."

"Thunder!" says the general--"if that's a map, a patent gridiron must
be a whole atlas."

I believe him, my boy!

As a person of erudition, it pleased me greatly, my boy, to observe
that our more moral New York regiments cultivate a taste for reading,
and are even so literary that they can't so much as light their pipes
without a leaf out of a hymn-book. I was talking to an angular-shaped
chap from Montgomery county the other day about this, and says he:

"Talk about reading! Why, there's fifty newspapers sent in a wrapper to
our officers alone, every day. There's ten each of the _Tribune_ and
_Times_, ten each of the _Boston Post_ and _Gazette_, ten of the
_Montgomery Democrat_, and one _New York Herald_."

"Look here! my second Washington," says I, "your story don't hang
together. You say you have fifty papers daily; but according to my
account that copy of the _Herald_ makes fifty-one."

"Did I not tell you that they came in a wrapper?" says the chap, with
great dignity.

"You did," says I.

"Well," says he, "the _Herald_ is the wrapper."

This morning, my boy, I went with Colonel Wobert Wobinson to look at
some new horses he had just imported from the Erie Canal stables for
the Western cavalry, and was much pleased with the display of
bone-work. One animal, in particular, interested me greatly; he was
born in 1776, had both of his hind-legs broken on the frontier, in one
of the battles of 1812, and lost both his eyes and his tail at the
taking of Mexico. The colonel stated that he had selected this splendid
animal for his own use in the field.

Another fine calico animal of the stud was attached to the suite of
Washington at the famous crossing of the Delaware, and is said to have
surprised the Hessians at Trenton as much as the army did. Previous to
losing his teeth he was sold to a Western dealer in hides for three
dollars; and the dealer, being an enthusiastic Union man, has let the
Government have the animal for one hundred and ten dollars.

A mousseline-de-laine mare also attracted my notice. She was sired by
the favorite racer of the Marquis de Lafayette, and has been damned by
everybody attempting to drive her. The pretty beast comes from the
celebrated Bone Mill belonging to the Erie Canal, and only cost the
Government two hundred dollars.

Believing that the public funds are being judiciously expended, my boy,
I remain,

Fondly thine own,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XXX.

DESCRIPTION OF THE GORGEOUS FETE AT THE WHITE HOUSE, INCLUDING THE
OBSERVATIONS OF CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN: WITH SOME NOTE OF THE TOILETTES,
CONFECTIONS, AND PUNCH.


WASHINGTON, D.C., February 7th, 1862.

Notwithstanding your general ignorance of Natural History, my boy, you
may be aware that when the eagle is wounded by the huntsman, instead of
seeking some thick-set tree or dismal swamp, there to die like a common
bird, he soars straight upward in the full eye of the sun, and bathes
in all the glories of noonday, while his eyes grow dull with agony, and
his talons are stiffening in death; nor does he fall from the dazzling
empyrean until the last stroke of fate hurls him downward like a
thunderbolt.

Our Union, my boy--our Land of the Eagle--is stricken sorely, and
perhaps to death; but like the proud bird of Jove, it disdains to grow
morbid in its agonies; and the occasional sighs of its patient
struggling millions, are lost in sounds of death-defying revelry at the
dauntless capital.

All the best-looking uniforms in the army were invited to Mrs.
Lincoln's ball at the White House on Wednesday, and of course I was
favored, together with the general of the Mackerel Brigade, and Captain
Villiam Brown, of Accomac. My ticket, my boy, was as aristocractic as a
rooster's tail at sunrise:

[Illustration:

(CUTLETS.)    _E pluri bust Union._    (OYSTERS.)

ORPHEUS C. KERR,

Pleasure of your Company at the White House,

(R.S.V.P.)       WEDNESDAY, Feb. 5th, 1862.

8 o'clock, P.M.

(HALF MOURNING FOR PRINCE ALBERT.)

NO SMOKING ALOUD.)]

At an early hour on the evening of the _fete_, the general of the
Mackerel Brigade came to my room in a perfect perspiration of brass
buttons and white kids, and I asked him what "no smoking aloud" meant.

"Why," says he, putting his wig straight and licking a stray drop of
brandy from one of his gloves, "it means that if you try to 'smoke' any
of the generals at the ball as to the plan of the campaign, you mustn't
do it 'aloud.' Thunder!" says the general, in a fine glow of
enthusiasm, "the only plan of the campaign that I know anything about,
is the rata-plan."

Satisfied with the general's explanation, I proceeded with my toilet,
and presently beamed upon him in such a resplendent conglomeration of
ruffles, brass buttons, epaulettes and Hungarian pomade, that he said I
reminded him of a comet just come out of a feather-bed, with its tail
done up in papers.

"My Magnus Apollo," says he, "the way you bear that white cravat shows
you to be of rich but genteel parentage. Any man," says he, "who can
wear a white cravat without looking like a coachman, may pass for a
gentleman-born. Two-thirds of the clergymen who wear it look like
footmen in their grave-clothes."

We then took a hack to the White House, my boy, and on arriving there
were delighted to find that the rooms were already filling with
statesmen, miss-statesmen, mrs-statesmen, and officers, who had so much
lace and epaulettes about them that they looked like walking
brass-founderies with the front-door open.

The first object that attracted my special attention, however, was a
thing that I took for a large and ornamental pair of tongs leaning
against a mantel, figured in blue enamel, with a life-like imitation of
a window-brush on top. I directed the general's attention to it, and
asked him if that was one of the unique gifts presented to the
Government by the late Japanese embassy?

"Thunder!" says the general, "that's no tongs. It's the young man which
is Captain Villiam Brown, of Accomac. Now that I look at him," says the
general, thoughtfully, "he reminds me of an old-fashioned
straddle-bug."

Stepping from one lady's dress to another, until I reached the side of
the Commander of the Accomac, I slapped him on the back, and says I:

"How are you, my blue-bird; and what do you think of this brilliant
assemblage?"

"Ha!" says Villiam, starting out of a brown study, and putting some
cloves in his mouth, to disguise the water he'd drank on his way from
Accomac--"I was just thinking what my poor old mother would say if she
could see me and the other snobs here to-night. When I look on the
women of America around me to-night," says Villiam, feelingly, "and see
how much they've cut off from the tops of their dresses, to make
bandages for our wounded soldiers, I can't help feeling that their
'neck-or-nothing' appearance--so far from being indelicate, is a very
delicate proof of their devoted love of Union."

"I agree with you, my azure humanitarian," says I. "There's precious
little _waist_ about such dresses."

Villiam closed one eye, turned his head one-side like a facetious
canary, and says he:

"Now lovely woman scants her dress, with bandages the sick to bless;
and stoops so far to war's alarms, her very frock is under arms!"

I believe him, my boy!

Returning to the General, we took a turn in the East Room, and enjoyed
the panorama of youth, beauty, and whiskers, that wound its variegated
length before us.

The charming Mrs. L----, of Illinois, was richly attired in a frock and
gloves, and wore a wreath of flowers from amaranthine bowers. She was
affable as an angel with a new pair of wings, and was universally
allowed to be the most beautiful woman present.

The enthralling Miss C----, from Ohio, was elegantly clad in a dress,
and wore number-four gaiters. So brilliant was her smile, that when she
laughed at one of Lord Lyons' witicisms, all one corner of the room was
wrapped in a glare of light, and several nervous dowagers cried "Fire!"
Her beauty was certainly the most beautiful present.

The fascinating Miss L----, of Pennsylvania, was superbly robed in an
attire of costly material, with expensive flounces. She wore two gloves
and a complete pair of ear-rings, and spoke so musically that the
leader of the Marine Band thought there was an aeolian harp in the
window. She was certainly the most beautiful woman present.

The bewitching Mrs. G----, from Missouri, was splendidly dressed in a
breastpin and lace flounces, and wore her hair brushed back from a
forehead like Mount Athos. Her eyes reminded one of diamond springs
sparkling in the shade of whispering willows. She was decidedly the
finest type of beauty present.

The President wore his coat and whiskers, and bowed to all salutations
like a graceful door-hinge.

There was a tall Western Senator present, who smiled so much above his
stomach, that I was reminded of the beautiful lines:

    "As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the
    vale, and midway leaves the storm; Though round its base a
    country's ruin spread, Eternal moonshine settles on its head."

Upon going into the supper-room, my boy, I beheld a paradise of
eatables that made me wish myself a knife and pork, with nothing but a
bottle of mustard to keep me company. There were oysters _a la fundum_;
turkeys _a la ruffles_; chickens _a la Methusaleh_; beef _a la Bull
Run_; fruit _a la stumikake_; jellies _a la Kallararmorbus_; and ices
_a la aguefitz_.

The ornamental confectionary was beautifully symbolical of the times.
At one end of the table, there was a large lump of white candy, with
six carpet-tacks lying upon it. This represented the "Tax on Sugar." At
the other end was a large platter, containing imitation mud, in which
two candy brigadiers were swimming towards each other, with their
swords between their teeth. This symbolized "War."

These being very hard times, my boy, and the Executive not being
inclined to be too expensive in its marketing, a most ingenious
expedient was adopted to make it appear that there was just twice as
much of certain costly delicacies on the table as there really was.
About the centre of the table lay a large mirror, and on this were
placed a few expensive dishes. Of course, the looking-glass gave them a
double effect. For instance, if there was a pound of beefsteak on the
plate, it produced another pound in the glass, and the effect was two
pounds.

When economy can be thus artistically blended with plentitude, my boy,
money ceases to be king, and butcher-bills dwindle. Hereafter, when I
receive for my rations a pint of transparent coffee and two granite
biscuit, I shall use a looking-glass for a plate.

It was the very which-ing hour of the night when the general and myself
left the glittering scene, and we had to ask several patrols "which"
way to go.

On parting with my comrade-in-arms, says I:

"General, the ball is a success."

He looked at me in three winks, and says he:

"It _was_ a success--particularly the bowl of punch!"

Yours, for soda-water,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XXXI.

TREATING OF THE GREAT MILITARY ANACONDA, AND THE MODERN XANTIPPE.


WASHINGTON, D.C., February 16th, 1862.

There is still much lingual gymnastics, my boy, concerning the recent
_fete_ sham-pate at the White House; but Colonel Wobert Wobinson, of
the Western Cavalry, has extinguished the grumblers by proving that the
entertainment was strictly Constitutional. He profoundly observes, my
boy, that it comes under the head of that clause of the Constitution
which secures to the people of America the "pursuit of happiness;" and,
as he justly remarks, if you stop the "pursuit of happiness," where's
the Instrument of our Liberties?

It pleases me greatly to announce, my boy, that the General of the
Mackerel Brigade believes in McClellan, and gorgeously defends him
against the attacks of that portion of the depraved press which has
friends dying of old age in the Army of the Potomac.

"Thunder!" says he to Captain Bob Shorty, stirring the Oath in his
tumbler with a tooth-brush--"the way Little Mac is devoting himself to
the military squelching of this here unnatural rebellion, is actually
outraging his physical nature. He reviews his staff twice a day, goes
over the river every five minutes, studies international law six hours
before dinner, takes soundings of the mud every time the dew falls, and
takes so little sleep, that there's two inches of dust on one of his
eye-balls. Would you believe it," says the General, placing the tumbler
over his nose to keep off a fly, "his devotion is such that his hair is
turning gray and will probably dye!"

Captain Bob Shorty whistled. I do not mean to say that he intended to
be musically satirical, my boy; but if I should hear such a canary-bird
remark after _I'd_ told a story, somebody would go home with his eyes
done up in rainbows.

"Permit _me_," says Captain Bob Shorty, hurling what remained of the
Oath into the aperture under his moustache. "You convince me that
Little Mac's devotion is extraordinary," continued Captain Bob Shorty,
dreamily; "but he don't come up to a chap I once knew, which was a
editor. Talk about devotion! and outraging nature!" says Captain Bob
Shorty, spitting with exquisite accuracy into the eyes of the
regimental cat, "why, that ere editor threw body, soul, and breeches
into his work; and so completely identified himself with a free and
enlightened press, that his first child was a _newsboy_."

The General of the Mackerel Brigade arose from his seat, my boy, wound
up his watch, brushed off his boots, threw the cat out of the window,
and then says he:

"Robert, name of Shorty, did you ever read in the Bible about Ananias,
who was struck dead for telling a telegraph?"

"I heard about him," says Captain Bob Shorty, "when I was but a
innocent lamb, and wore my mother's slipper on my back about as often
as she wore it on her foot."

"Well," says the general, with the air of a thoughtful parent, "it's my
opinion that if you'd been Ananias, the same streak of lightning would
have buried you and paid the sexton."

From this logical and vivid conversation, my boy, you will understand
that our leading military men have perfect faith in the genius of
McClellan, and believe that he is equal to fifty yards of the
Star-Spangled Banner. His great anaconda has gathered itself in a
circle around the doomed rabbit of rebellion, and if the rabbit swells
he's a goner.

This great anaconda, my boy, may remind hellish readers of the anaconda
once seen by a chap of my acquaintance living in the Sixth Ward. This
chap, my boy, came tearing into a place where they kept the Oath on
tap, and says he:

"I've just seen an anaconda down Broadway."

"Anna who?" says a red-nosed Alderman, dipping his finger into the
water on the stove to see if it was warm enough to melt some
brandy-refined sugar.

"I said Anaconda, you ignorant cuss," says the chap.

"Was it the real insect?" says the Alderman.

"It was a real, original, genuine Anaconda," says the chap.

"Ah!" says the Alderman, "somebody's been stuffin' you."

"No, sir!" says the chap, "but somebody's been stuffin' the Anaconda,
though."

He'd been to the Museum.

If there should be among your unfortunate readers, my boy, any persons
of such depraved minds as to perceive a likeness between this Anaconda
and that Anaconda, may they be sent to Fort Lafayette, and compelled to
read Tupper's poems until the rabbit of rebellion is reduced to his
last quarter!

Early this morning a couple of snuff- pickets brought a female
Southern Confederacy into camp, stating that she had called them nasty
things and spit all over their guns. She said that she wanted to see
the loathsome creature that commanded them, and her eyes flashed so
when they took her by the arm, that her vail took fire twice, and her
eyebrows smoked repeatedly.

The General of the Mackerel Brigade received her courteously, only
poking her in the ribs to see if she had any Armstrong guns concealed
about her. Says he:

"Have I the honor of addressing the wife of the Southern Confederacy?"

The female confederacy drew herself up as proudly as the First Family
of Virginia when the butcher's bill comes to be paid, and replied, in
soprano of great compass:--

"I am that injured woman, you ugly swine."

The General bowed until his lips touched a pewter mug on the table, and
then says he:

"My dear madam, your words touch a tender chord in my heart, and it
will give me pleasure to serve you. Your words, madam," continued the
general, with visible emotion, "are precisely those which my beloved
wife not unfrequently addresses to me. Ah! my wife! my wifey!" says the
general, hysterically, "how often have you patted me on my head, and
told me that my face looked like a chunk of beeswax with three cracks
in it."

The wife of the Southern Confederacy sneered audibly, and called for a
fan. There being no fan nearer than the office of Secretary Welles, she
used a small whisk-broom. Says she:

"Miserable hireling of a diabolical Lincoln, your wife is nothing to
me. She is a creature! I do not come here to hear her wrongs, but to
express the undying wish that you and all your horde may be welcomed
with muddy hands to hospitable graves. All I want is to be let alone."

"My dear Mrs. S. C.," says the general, with a touch of brass and
irony, "it is a matter of the utmost indifference to me whether you are
'to be let alone,' or with the next house and lot."

"I insist upon being let alone," screamed the female Confederacy,
spitting angrily.

"I am not touching you," says the general.

"All I want is to be let alone," shrieked the exasperated lady; "and I
_will_ be let alone!"

The General of the Mackerel Brigade hastily wiped his mouth with a
bottle, and then says he:

"Madam, if sandwiches are not plenty where you come from, it ain't for
the want of tongue."

On hearing this gastronomic remark, my boy, the injured wife of the
Southern Confederacy swept from the room like an insulted Minerva, and
departed for Secessia. It was observed that she frowned like a
thunder-cloud at every Federal she passed, excepting one picket. Him
she smiled on. She had detected him in the act of admiring her ankles
as she picked her way through the mud.

Woman, my boy, has really many sweet qualities; and if her head is
sometimes in the wrong, she has always a reserve of genuine goodness of
heart in the neighborhood of her gaiters.

Yours, for the Sex,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XXXII.

COMMENCING WITH A BURST OF EXULTATION OVER NATIONAL VICTORIES,
REFERRING TO A SENATORIAL MISTAKE, DEPICTING A WELL-KNOWN CHARACTER,
AND REPORTING THE RECONNOISSANCE OF THE WESTERN CENTAURS.


WASHINGTON, D.C., February 21st, 1862.

Now swells Columbia's bosom with a pride, that sets her eyes ablaze
with living fire; and, with her arms upreaching to the skies, she draws
in air new crowns with stars adorned, to ring the temples of her
conquering chiefs. Far in the West, she sees the livid sparks struck by
Achilles from the hostile sword, and in the South beholds how Ajax bold
defies the lightning of the rebel guns. Then clasping to her breast the
flag we love, and donning swift Minerva's gleaming helm, she stands
where Morn's first glories kiss the hills, and breathes the paean of a
fame redeemed!

Three cheers for the chaps who pocketed Fort Donelson & Co., my boy,
and may the rebels never have an easier boat to row than Roanoke. The
other day I was talking with a New England Senator about the taking of
the fort, and says I:

"It was a gay victory, my learned Theban; but it makes me mad when I
think how that slippery rascal, Floyd, found an egress down the river."

The Senator pulled up his collar, my boy, observed to the
tumbler-sergeant that he would take the same with a little more sugar
in it, and then says he:

"In that observation you sum up the whole cause of this unnatural
strife. It is, indeed, the <DW64>, whose wrongs are now being revenged
upon us by an inscrutable Whig Providence; and if the Government does
not speedily strike the fetters from the slave, that slave may yet be
used to fight horribly against us. I shall cite the significant fact
you mention in my next exciting speech."

I opened my eyes at this outburst until they looked like the bottoms of
two quart bottles beaming in the sunshine, and then says I:

"You talk as fluently as a Patent Office Report, my worthy Nestor; but
I don't exactly perceive what my remark has to do with the 
<DW64>."

"Why," says he, "didn't you say that the traitor Floyd found _a
negress_ down the river?"

For an instant, my boy, I felt very dizzy, and was obliged to lean my
head against a tumbler for a moment.

"Your ears, my friend," says I, "are certainly long enough to hear
correctly what is said to you; but this time you've made a slight
mistake. I said that Floyd had found _an egress_ down the river."

The Senator looked at me for a moment, and says he:

"Sold by a soldier! Good morning."

I wonder how those nice, pleasant, gentlemanly chaps down in South
Carolina enjoy Uncle Samuel's latest hit? I can fancy their damaging
effects, my boy, upon the constitution of

    THE SOUTH CAROLINA GENTLEMAN.

    Down in the small Palmetto State, the curious ones may find
    A ripping, tearing gentleman, of an uncommon kind--
    A staggering, swaggering sort of chap, who takes his whiskey
        straight,
    And frequently condemns his eyes to that ultimate vengeance which
        a clergyman of high standing has assured us must be the
        sinner's fate;
                   A South Carolina gentleman,
                   One of the present time.

    You trace his genealogy, and not far back you'll see
    A most undoubted octoroon, or mayhap a mustee;
    And if you note the shaggy locks that cluster on his brow,
    You'll find that every other hair is varied with a kink, that
        seldom denotes pure Caucasian blood; but, on the contrary,
        betrays an admixture with a race not particularly popular now--
                   This South Carolina gentleman,
                   One of the present time.

    He always wears a full-dress coat--pre-Adamite in cut--
    With waistcoat of the loudest style, through which his ruffles jut.
    Six breastpins deck his horrid front: and on his fingers shine
    Whole invoices of diamond rings, which would hardly pass muster
        with the Original Jacobs in Chatham street, for jewels
        gen-u-ine--
                   This South Carolina gentleman,
                   One of the present time.

    He chews tobacco by the pound, and spits upon the floor,
    If there is not a box of sand behind the nearest door;
    And when he takes his weekly spree, he clears a mighty track
    Of everything that bears the shape of whisky-skin, gin-and-sugar,
        brandy-sour, peach-and-honey, irrepressible cocktail,
        rum-and-gum, and luscious apple-jack--
                This South Carolina gentleman,
                One of the present time.

    He looks on grammar as a thing beneath the notice quite
    Of any Southern gentleman whose grandfather was white;
    And as for education--why, he'll plainly set it forth,
    That such d--d nonsense never troubles the heads of the Chivalry;
        though it may be sufficiently degrading to merit the personal
        attention of the poor wretches unfortunate enough to
        make their living at the North--
                This South Carolina gentleman,
                One of the present time.

    He licks his <DW65>s daily, like a true American;
    And "takes the devil out of them" by this sagacious plan.
    He tries his bowie knives upon the fattest he can find;
    And if the darkey winces, why--he is immediately arrested at the
        instance of the First Families in the neighborhood, on a charge
        of conversing with a fiendish abolitionist, and conspiring to
        poison all the wells in the State with strychnine, and arm the
        slaves of the adjoining plantations with knives and pistols;
        for all of which he is very properly sentenced to five hundred
        lashes--after which to prison he's consigned (by)
                This South Carolina gentleman,
                One of the present time.

    If for amusement he's inclined, he coolly looks about
    For a parson of the Methodists, or some poor peddler lout;
    And having found him, has him hung from some majestic tree--
    Then calls his numerous family to enjoy with him the instructive
        and entertaining spectacle of a "suspected abolitionist"
        receiving his just reward at the hands of an incensed
        com-mu-ni-ty--
                This South Carolina gentleman,
                One of the present time.

    He takes to euchre kindly, too, and plays an awful hand,
    Especially when those he tricks his style don't understand;
    And if he wins, why then he stoops to pocket all the stakes;
    But if he loses, then he says unto the unfortunate stranger, who
        has chanced to win: "It's my opinion that you are a cursed
        abolitionist; and if you don't leave South Carolina in one
        hour, you will be hung like a dog." But no offer to pay his
        loss he makes--
                This South Carolina gentleman,
                One of the present time.

    Of course he's all the time in debt to those who credit give--
    Yet manages upon the best the market yields to live;
    But if a Northern creditor asks him his bill to heed,
    This honorable gentleman instantly draws two bowie-knives and a
        pistol, dons a blue cockade, and declares, that in consequence
        of the repeated aggressions of the North, and its gross
        violations of the Constitution, he feels that it would utterly
        degrade him to pay any debt whatever; and that, in fact, he has
        at last determined to SECEDE!--
                This South Carolina gentleman,
                One of the present time.

    And when, at length, to Charleston of the other world he goes,
    He leaves his children mortgages, with all their other woes.
    As slowly fades the vital spark, he doubles up his fists,
    And softly murmurs through his teeth: "I die under a full conviction
        of my errors in life, and freely forgive all men; but still I
        only hope that somewhere on the other side of Jordan I may just
        come across some ab-o-li-tion-ists!!"--
                This South Carolina gentleman,
                One of the present time.

Yesterday afternoon, my boy, Colonel Wobert Wobinson, of the Western
Centaurs, ordered Captain Samyule Sa-mith to make a reconnoissance
toward Flint Hill with a company of skeleton cavalry, having learned
that several bushels of oats were stored there.

Samyule drew up his company in line against a fence, and then says he:

"Comrades, we go upon a mission that is highly dangurious, and America
expects every hoss to do his duty. If we meet the rebels," continued
Samyule, impressively, "they will try hard to capture some of our
hosses; for they're badly off for gridirons down there, and three or
four of our spirited animals would supply them for the season. If any
of you see them coming after the hardware, just put your gridirons on a
gallop and fall back."

At the conclusion of this speech, Private Peter Jenkins observed that
he'd been falling back ever since he got his horse; for which he was
sentenced to laugh at all the colonel's jokes for a week.

Would that I possessed the fiery pen of bully Homer, to describe the
gallant advance of that splendid _corps_, as it trotted fiercely on to
victory or death. At its head was Captain Samyule Sa-mith, mounted on a
horse of some degree of merit, his coat-tails flapping behind him like
banners at half-mast, and his form bouncing about in the saddle like an
inspired jumping-jack. There was Lieutenant Tummis Kagcht, recently of
the German navy, riding an animal with prows as sharp as a yacht and
that was broadside to the road at least half the time. There was
private Peter Jenkins, seated directly over the tail of a
yellow-enameled charger, that walked at right-angles with the fences,
and never stopped to take breath until it had gone three yards.

There was Sergeant O'Pake, late of Italy, who bestrode a sorrel, whose
side was full of symmetrical gutters to carry the rain off, and who
kept his octagon head directly under the right arm of the horseman
ahead of him. There was private Nick O'Demus, with his sabre tucked
neatly into the eyes of his neighbor, managing an anatomical curiosity
that walked half of the time on his hind-legs, and creaked when it came
to ruts in the road.

Onward, right onward, went this glittering cavalcade, my boy, until
they came to an outskirt of Flint Hill, where a solitary remnant of a
First Family might have been seen sitting on a fence, eating a
sandwich.

"Tr-r-aitor!" shouted Captain Samyule Sa-mith, in tones of milk-souring
thunder, "where is the rest of the Confederacy, and what do you think
of the news from Fort Donelson?"

The Confederacy hiccupped gloomily, my boy, as he took an impression of
its front teeth on the sandwich, and says he:

"The melancholy days are come--the saddest of the year."

"That's very true," said Samyule, pleasantly, "and proves you to be a
person of some eddication. But tell me, sweet hermit of the dale,"
pursued Samyule, "where are the oats we have heard about?"

The solitary Confederacy checked a rising cough with another bite at
his ration, and says he:

"You have the oats already; for they were eaten last night by six
Confederate chickens, and my slave, Mr. Johnson, sold them chickens to
a prospecting detachment of the Mackerel Brigade this morning. Don't
talk to me any more," continued the Confederacy, sadly, "for I am very
miserable, and haven't seen a quarter in six months."

Samyule seemed touched, and put his hand half-way into his pocket, but
remembered his probable children, and refrained from romantic
generosity.

"Let me see Mr. Johnson," says he, reflectively, "and I will question
him concerning the South."

The Confederacy indulged in a plaintive cat-call, whereupon there
emerged from an adjacent clump of bushes a beautiful black being,
richly attired in a heavy seal-ring and a red neck-tie. It was Mr.
Johnson.

"You have sent for me," says Mr. Johnson, with much dignity, "and I
have come. If you do not want me, I will return."

"You have seen the tragic Forrest?" said Samyule.

"The forest is my home," replied Mr. Johnson, "and in its equal shade
my humble hut stands sacredly embowered. As the gifted Whittier might
say:

    "There lofty trees uprear in pillared state,
    And crystal streams the thirsty deer elate;
    While through the halls that base the dome of leaves
    Fall sunshine-harvests spread in golden sheaves.

    "There toy the birds in sweet seclusion blest,
    To leap the branches or to build the nest,
    While from their throats the grateful song outpoured
    Wakes woodland orchestras to praise the Lord.

    "There walks the wolf, no longer driven wild
    By panting hounds and huntsman blood-defiled;
    But tamed to kindness, seeketh peacefully
    The soothing shelter of a hollow tree.

    "Who would be free, and tow'r above his race,
    In the full freedom spurning man and place,
    Deep in the forest let him rear his clan
    Where God himself stands face to face with man."

Just as the oppressed African finished this rhythmical statement of his
platform, my boy, a huge horse-fly, alighting on the nose of Captain
Samyule Sa-mith, awoke that hero from the refreshing slumber into which
he had fallen.

"Tell me, Johnson," says he, "how you got your eddication, for I
thought that persons from Afric's sunny mountain went to school about
as often as a cat goes to sea."

Mr. Johnson placed his hand upon his breast with much stateliness, and
says he: "I entered Yale College as a Spaniard, and having graduated
with all honors, returned to my master, and was at once employed in
cotton culture. I am contented and happy, and have never seen an
uncomfortable day since my wife was sold. Go, stranger, and tell your
people that the South may be overwhelmed, but she can never be
conquered while Johnson has a seal ring to his back."

On hearing this speech, my boy, Samyule said:

"About face! skeletons;" and the gridiron cavalry returned to camp in a
brown study.

The intelligence of the southern slaves is really wonderful, my boy,
and if it should ever come to a head, look out for a rise in wool.

Yours, contemplatively,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XXXIII.

EXEMPLIFYING THE TERRIBLE DOMESTIC EFFECTS OF MILITARY INACTIVITY ON
THE POTOMAC, AND DESCRIBING THE METAPHYSICAL CAPTURE OF FORT MUGGINS.


WASHINGTON, D.C., March 3d, 1862.

I know a man, my boy, who was driven to lunacy by reliable war news. He
was in the prime of life when the war broke out, and took such an
interest in the struggle that it soon became nearly equal to the
interest on his debts. With all the enthusiasm of vegetable youth he
subscribed for all the papers, and commenced to read the reliable war
news. In this way he learned that all was quiet on the Potomac, and
immediately went to congratulate his friends, and purchase six American
flags. On the following morning he wrapt himself in the banner of his
country and learned from all the papers that all was quiet on the
Potomac. His joy at once became intense; he hoisted a flag on the
lightning-rod of his domicil, purchased a national pocket-handkerchief,
bought six hand-organs that played the Star-Spangled Banner, and drank
nothing but gunpowder tea. In the next six months, however, there was a
great change in our military affairs; the backbone of the rebellion was
broken, the sound of the thunder came from all parts of the sky, and
fifty-three excellent family journals informed the enthusiast that all
was quiet on the Potomac. He now became fairly mad with bliss, and
volunteered to sit up with a young lady whose brother was a soldier. On
the following morning he commenced to read Bancroft's History of the
United States, with Hardee's Tactics appended, only pausing long enough
to learn from the daily papers that all was quiet on the Potomac. Thus,
in a fairy dream of delicious joy, passed the greater part of this
devoted patriot's life; and even as his hair turned gray, and his form
began to bend with old age, his eye flashed in eternal youth over the
still reliable war news. At length there came a great change in the
military career of the Republic; the rebellion received its
death-wound, and Washington's Birthday boomed upon the United States of
America. It was the morning of that glorious day, and the venerable
patriot was tottering about the room with his cane, when his
great-grandchild, a lad of twenty-five, came thundering into the room
with forty-three daily papers under his arm.

"Old man!" says he, in a transport, "there's great news."

"Boy, boy!" says the aged patriot, "do not trifle with me. Can it be
that--"

"Bet your life--"

"Is it then a fact that--"

"Yes--"

"Am I to believe that--"

"ALL IS QUIET ON THE POTOMAC!"

It was too much for the venerable Brutus; he clutched at the air, spun
once on his left heel, sang a stave of John Brown's body, and stood
transfixed with ecstacy.

"Thank Heving," says he, "for sparing me to see this day!"

After which he became hopelessly insane, my boy, and raved so awfully
about all our great generals turning into Mud-larks that his afflicted
family had to send him to the asylum.

This veracious and touching biography will show you how dangerous to
public health is reliable war news, and convince you that the
Secretary's order to the press is only a proper insanitary measure.

I am all the more resigned to it, my boy, because it affects me so
little that I am even able to give you a strictly reliable account of a
great movement that lately took place.

I went down to Accomac early in the week, my boy, having heard that
Captain Villiam Brown and the Conic Section of the Mackerel Brigade
were about to march upon Fort Muggins, where Jeff Davis, Beauregard,
Mason, Slidell, Yancey, and the whole rebel Congress were believed to
be intrenched. Mounted on my gothic steed Pegasus, who only blew down
once in the whole journey, I repaired to Villiam's department, and was
taking notes of the advance, upon a sheet of paper spread on the
ground, when the commander of Accomac approached me, and says he:

"What are you doing, my bantam?"

"I'm taking notes," says I, "for a journal which has such an immense
circulation among our gallant troops that when they begin to read it in
the camps, it looks, from a distance, as though there had just been a
heavy snow-storm."

"Ah!" says Villiam, thoughtfully, "newspapers and snow-storms are
somewhat alike; for both make black appear white. But," said Villiam
philosophically, "the snow is the more moral; for you can't lie in that
with safety, as you can in a newspaper. In the language of General
Grant at Donelson," says Villiam, sternly: "I propose to move upon your
works immediately."

And with that he planted one of his boots right in the middle of my
paper.

"Read that ere Napoleonic dockyment," says Villiam, handing me a
scroll. It was as follows:

    EDICK.

    Having noticed that the press of the United States of America is
    making a ass of itself, by giving information to the enemy
    concerning the best methods of carrying on the strategy of war, I
    do hereby assume control of all special correspondents, forbidding
    them to transact anything but private business; neither they, nor
    their wives, nor their children, to the third and fourth
    generation.

      I. It is ordered, that all advice from editors to the War
    Department, to the general commanding, or the generals commanding
    the armies in the field, be absolutely forbidden; as such advice is
    calculated to make the United States of America a idiot.

     II. Any newspaper publishing any news whatever, however obtained,
    shall be excluded from all railroads and steamboats, in order that
    country journals, which receive the same news during the following
    year, may not be injured in cirkylation.

    III. This control of special correspondents does not include the
    correspondent of the London Times, who wouldn't be believed if he
    published all the news of the next Christian era. By order of

    VILLIAM BROWN, Eskevire,
    Captain Conic Section, Mackerel Brigade.

I had remounted Pegasus while reading this able State paper, my boy,
and had just finished it, when a nervous member of the advance-guard
accidentally touched off a cannon, whose report was almost immediately
answered by one from the dense fog before us.

"Ha!" says Captain Villiam Brown, suddenly leaping from his steed, and
creeping under it--to examine if the saddle-girth was all right--"the
fort is right before us in the fog, and the rebels are awake. Let the
Orange County Company advance with their howitzers, and fire to the
north-east."

The Orange County Company, my boy, instantly wheeled their howitzers
into position, and sent some pounds of grape toward the meridian, the
roar of their weapons of death being instantaneously answered by a
thundering crash in the fog.

Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, now went forward six yards at
double-quick, and poured in a rattling volley of musketry, dodging
fearlessly when exactly the same kind of a volley was heard in the fog,
and wishing that they might have a few rebels for supper.

"Ha!" says Captain Villiam Brown, when he noticed that nobody seemed to
be killed yet; "Providence is on our side, and this here unnatural
rebellion is squelched. Let the Anatomical Cavalry charge into the fog,
and demand the surrender of Fort Muggins," continued Villiam,
compressing his lips with mad valor, "while I repair to that tree back
there, and see if there is not a fiendish secessionist lurking behind
it."

The Anatomical Cavalry immediately dismounted from their horses, which
were too old to be used in a charge, and gallantly entered the fog,
with their sabres between their teeth, and their hands in their
pockets--it being a part of their tactics to catch a rebel before
cutting his head off.

In the meantime, my boy, the Orange County howitzers and the Mackerel
muskets were hurling a continuous fire into the clouds, stirring up the
angels, and loosening the smaller planets. Sturdily answered the rebels
from the fog-begirt fort; but not one of our men had yet fallen.

Captain Villiam Brown was just coming down from the top of a very tall
tree, whither he had gone to search for masked batteries, when the fog
commenced lifting, and disclosed the Anatomical Cavalry returning at
double-quick.

Instantly our fire ceased, and so did that of the rebels.

"Does the fort surrender to the United States of America?" says
Villiam, to the captain of the Anatomicals.

The gallant dragoon, sighed, and says he:

"I used my magnifying glass, but could find no fort."

At this moment, my boy, a sharp sunbeam cleft the fog as a sword does a
vail, and the mist rolled away from the scene in two volumes,
disclosing to our view a fine cabbage-patch, with a dense wood beyond.

Villiam deliberately raised a bottle to his face, and gazed through it
upon the unexpected prospect.

"Ha!" says he sadly, "the garrison has cut its way through the fog and
escaped, but Fort Muggins is ours! Let the flag of our Union be planted
on the ramparts," says Villiam, with much perspiration, "and I will
immediately issue a proclamation to the people of the United States of
America."

Believing that Villiam was somewhat too hasty in his conclusions, my
boy, I ventured to insinuate that what he had taken for a fort in the
fog, was really nothing but a cabbage inclosure, and that the escaped
rebels were purely imaginary.

"Imaginary!" says Villiam, hastily placing his canteen in his pocket.
"Why, didn't you hear the roar of their artillery?"

"Do you see that thick wood yonder?" says I.

Says he, "It is visible to the undressed eye."

"Well," says I, "what you took for the sound of rebel firing, was only
the echo of your own firing in that wood."

Villiam pondered for a few moments, my boy, like one who was
considering the propriety of saying nothing in as few words as
possible, and then looked angularly at me, and says he:

"My proclamation to the press will cover all this, and the news of this
here engagement will keep until the war is over. Ah!" says Villiam, "I
wouldn't have the news of this affair published on any account; for if
the Government thought I was trying to cabbage in my Department, it
would make me Minister to Russia immediately."

As the Conic Section of the Mackerel Brigade returned slowly to
head-quarters, my boy, I thought to myself: How often does man, after
making something his particular forte, discover at last that it is only
a cabbage-patch, and hardly large enough at that for a big hog like
himself!

Yours, philanthropically,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XXXIV.

BEGINNING WITH A LAMENTATION, BUT CHANGING MATERIALLY IN TONE AT THE
DICTUM OF JED SMITH.


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

Two days ago, my boy, a letter from the West informed me that an old
friend of mine had fallen in battle at the very moment of victory. One
by one, my boy, I have lost many friends since the war began, and know
how to bear the stroke; but what will they say in that home to which
the young soldier wafted a nightly prayer? Thither, alas! he goes

    NO MORE.

    Hushed be the song and the love-notes of gladness
      That broke with the morn from the cottager's door--
    Muffle the tread in the soft stealth of sadness,
      For one who returneth, whose chamber-lamp burneth
                                    No more.

    Silent he lies on the broad path of glory,
      Where withers ungarnered the red crop of war.
    Grand is his couch, though the pillows are gory,
      'Mid forms that shall battle, 'mid guns that shall rattle
                                    No more.

    Soldier of Freedom, thy marches are ended--
      The dreams that were prophets of triumph are o'er--
    Death with the night of thy manhood is blended--
      The bugle shall call thee, the fight shall enthrall thee
                                    No more.

    Far to the Northward the banners are dimming,
      And faint comes the tap of the drummers before;
    Low in the tree-tops the swallow is skimming;
      Thy comrades shall cheer thee, the weakest shall fear thee
                                    No more.

    Far to the Westward the day is at vespers,
      And bows down its head, like a priest, to adore;
    Soldier, the twilight for thee has no whispers,
      The night shall forsake thee, the morn shall awake thee
                                    No more.

    Wide o'er the plain, where the white tents are gleaming,
      In spectral array, like the graves they're before--
    One there is empty, where once thou wert dreaming
      Of deeds that are boasted, of One that is toasted
                                    No more.

    When the Commander to-morrow proclaimeth
      A list of the brave for the nation to store,
    Thou shalt be known with the heroes he nameth,
      Who wake from their slumbers, who answer their numbers
                                    No more.

    Hushed be the song and the love-notes of gladness
      That broke with the morn from the cottager's door--
    Muffle the tread in the soft stealth of sadness,
      For one who returneth, whose chamber-lamp burneth
                                    No more.

To escape my own thoughts, I went over into a camp of New England
chaps, yesterday, my boy, and one of the first high-privates my eyes
rested on was Jed Smith, of Salsbury. He winked to the chaps lounging
near him, when he noted my doleful look, and says he:

"You're mopish, comrade. Hez caliker proved deceitful?"

"No," says I, indifferently. "Calico rather shuns me, as a general
thing, my Down-easter, on account of my plain speaking."

This startled him, my boy, as I expected it would, and says he:

"That's jest like the mock-modesty of the wimmin folks all the world
over, and a body might think they had the hull supply and nothin'
shorter; but I tell ye it's the heartiest sow that makes the least
noise, and half this here modesty is all sham. Onct in a while these
here awful modest critters git shook down a bit, I guess; and
gheewhillikins! ef it don't do me good to see it. I recollect I was
goin' down from Augusty some two years ago, in the old stage that Sammy
Tompkins druv, and we had one of the she-critters aboard--and she _was_
a scrouger, I tell ye! Bonnet red as a blaze, and stuck all over with
stiff geeranium blows, a hump like a Hottentot gal, and sich ankles!
but hold your horses, I'm gettin' ahead of time. We was awful crowded,
and no mistake--piled right on top of each other, like so many layers
of cabbage; and the way that gal squealed when we struck a rut, was a
caution to screech owls. And she was takin' up her sheer of the coach,
too, I guess; and kind of stretched her walkin' geer way under the seat
in front of her, and out t'other side, just to brace herself agin the
diffikilties of travel. It being pretty bad goin' down in them parts,
she had on a pair of her brother's butes, and they was what she
wouldn't have had seen if she'd knowed it. One of the fellers on the
middle seat was Zeb Green--gone to glory some time ago--and when he
spied them butes, he winked to me, and sung out:

"Gheewhillikins! who owns these ere big trotters?"

"Now, ye see, the she-critter was one of yer modest ones, and she
wouldn't have owned up for the world, after that. Says she:

"'I guess they ain't mine.'

"Zeb see her game in a twinklin', and he was a tall one for a lark; so
says he:

"'I rayther guess there's petticuts goes with them mud mashers.'

"The gal she flamed up at that, and says she:

"'I guess you're barkin' up the wrong saplin', Major, and yer must have
a most audacious turkey on, not to know yer own butes.'

"Sich lyin' tuk Zeb all aback for a minute; but he combed up his
bristles again, and tried her on another trail.

"'Now, you don't mean to come for to insinuate that them ere's _my_
butes, and I not know it?' says he:

"She was in for it then, and wouldn't back down; so says she:

"'In course I do, Major, and you'd better look out fur your own
leather.'

"Zeb took a chaw of his terbacky, and says he:

"'Well, if you says it's so, I'm bound to swaller the oyster; but I'll
be dod-rotted if my bute-maker won't hev to shave my last next winter.'

"I seen right off that Zeb was up to the biggest kind of a spree, and I
knew them butes was the gist of it; cause ye see the she-critter
couldn't hull 'em in nohow, after what she'd said.

"We went wrigglin' along for a while as still as cats in a milk-house,
and the butes stayed where they was. But pretty soon Zeb began to grow
uneasy like, and screwed up his ugly nose, like as if he was took with
the pangs, and the doctor gone a courtin'.

"'Gheewhillikins!' says he, at last, 'I shan't stand this here much
longer, if there _is_ company in the parlor!'

"We all looked at him, and says one feller:

"'I guess, Major, you're took putty bad.'

"Zeb gave his phizog another twist, an' says he:

"'You'd better believe it, squire. I've got corns on them ere feet of
mine that'd make a preacher swear, and them butes pinch like all
tarnation.'

"I see right off how the smoke was blowin', and says I:

"'Off with 'em, Zeb! We're all in the family, and won't mind you.'

"That was all the old he-one was waitin' fur; and as quick as I said
it, he had one of that modest gal's feet in his hand, and twisted off
the bute in a twinklin'!! We all see a perfect Wenus of a foot, and a
golfired ankle, and then it was jerked away quicker'n a flash, and the
critter screamed like a rantankerous tom-cat with his tail under a
cheese-knife!

"'Murder!--you nasty thing,' says she, 'give me my bute.'

"With that, me, and Zeb, and the hull bilin' of us roared right out;
and says Zeb, says he, as he handed her the bute with a killin'
bow--says he:

"'Young woman, I guess I've taken your modesty, as the wimmen call it,
down a peg. You sed them was _my_ butes, and in course I had a right to
shed 'em; but ef they're your'n now, why keep 'em to yourself, for
massy's sake!'

"That settled the gal down some, I tell ye; and it give her such a turn
that her putty face was like a rose when we stopt at the Red Tavern."

We were so much pleased with this story, my boy, that we entreated the
opponent of mock modesty to spin us another.

"Well, feller citizens," says he, "I don't mind if I do tell ye about

    "A JOFIRED WAGON-TRADE

    "I onct made down in Texas. You see I was doin' a right smart chance
    of trade down in that deestrict with clocks, fur caps, Ingin meal,
    and other necessaries of life; and onct in a while I went it blind
    on a spekullation, when there was a chance to get a bargain, and
    pay fifty per cent. on a stiff swindle. They was an old chap of a
    half breed they called Uncle Johnny, down there, and somehow he got
    wind of my pertikler cuteness, and he guessed he could run a pretty
    sharp saw on me, if he only got a sight.

    "I heerd he was after me, and thinks I 'you'll get a roastin', my
    boy, ef you pick up this hot-chestnut;' but I was consated beyond
    my powers then, and he was jist one huckleberry above my tallest
    persimmon. We cum together one night at Bill Crown's tavern, and
    the fust thing the old cuss said was:

    "'Jerewsalem crickets! I'm like a fellow jist out of a feather bed
    and no mistake. I tell ye that 'ere wagging uv mine rides jist
    about as slick as a railroad of grease, and if it warn't so
    allfired big, I wouldn't sell it for its weight in Orleans bank
    notes.'

    "I kinder thought I smelt a putty big bed-bug; but I glimpsed outer
    the door, and there stood the wagon under the shed, and lookin'
    orful temptin'. It war a big four wheel consarn, with a canvas top,
    and about as putty a consarn for family use as ever I sot my
    winkers on. Thinks I:

    "'You don't fetch me this time, hoss; for I'll be jist a neck ahead
    of you!'

    "So I stood a minit, and then says I:

    "'Without lookin' nor nuthin', Uncle Johnny, I'll jest give you $50
    for that 'ere hearse.'

    "He kinder blinked around, and says he:

    "'I'd rather sell my grandmother; but the consarn's yourn, cunnel.
    Show yer hand.'

    "He was too willin' to suit me; but the game was outer cover, and I
    wouldn't back down. So I give him the rags, and went out to look at
    my bargain. Would you 'bleave it, the old varmint had jist fetched
    that ere wagon down to the shed, and sot it up end on, so that I
    didn't see how the fore-wheels wasn't thar! Fact! They had
    marvelled, and the fore-axles was restin' on two hitchin' stakes:
    Jist as I got through cussin,' I heerd a jofired larfin, and thar
    was the robber and his friends standin' in the door, splittin'
    their sides at me. Thinks I, 'I went cheap, then, my beauty; but
    look out for a hail-storm when the wind's up next time.' I borreyed
    a horse, and took that ar bargain to my shanty; and then I sot down
    and went to thinkin'. Fur two days I war as melancholy as a chicken
    in gooseberry time, tryin' to hit some plan to get even with the
    cuss. All to onct somethin' struck me, and I felt better. Ye see
    there was great talk down thar jist then, about the doctor's gig
    what they heard tell on, but not a one was there in the hull
    deestrict. I'd seen one up in York, and thinks I, 'Ef I don't make
    a doctor's two-wheeler outer that ere wagon, then bleed me to death
    with a oyster-knife!' So I jist got a big saw, and went to work
    quiet like, and cut that ere wagon right in two in the
    middle--cover and all. Then I took the shafts and fastened them
    onto the hind part, and rigged up a dash-board. And then I took
    part of the cut-off piece for a seat, and painted the hull thing
    with black paint; and dod-rot me if ef I didn't hev a doctor's gig
    as rantankerous as you please! I knew it would fetch a thunderin'
    price fur its novelty to any one; but I was after Uncle Johnny, and
    nobody else. One night I druv down to the tavern at a tearin' rate,
    and the fust feller I see was hisself, a standin' in the door, and
    sippin' kill-me-quick. He was kinder took down when he see me
    comin' it so piert in my new two-wheeler, and some of his friends
    inside axed him what was the matter. He kept as still as a mouse in
    a pantry until I come up, and then says he:

    "'What's that ere concern of yourn, hoss?'

    "Says I:

    "'It's one of them doctor's flyers as I'd rather ride in it than in
    Queen Victory's bang-up, A, No. 1, stage-coach. It's a scrouger.'

    "He kinder stuck a minute, and then says he:

    "'What'll ye take for it, hoss?'

    "I made out as though I didn't keer, and says I:

    "'It was sent to me by a cousin up in York, and I don't keer to
    sell; but yer may take it for $250.'

    "He turned green about the gills at that, and says he:

    "'Say $100, and I'll take it with my eyes shut.'

    "'It's yourn,' says I. 'Give us the rags.'

    "He smelt a bug that time; but it was too late; so he forked out
    the rale stuff, and then went to look at the two-wheeler.

    "'Thunder!' says he, blinkin' at the seat. 'I've seen that afore,
    or my name isn't what my father's wus!'

    "'Better 'blieve it,' says I; 'that's your four-wheeler shaved down
    to the very latest York-fashion.'

    "Then he _did_ cuss; but twarn't no use. The trade was a trade, and
    all the boys larfed till their tongues hung out. I treated all
    round, and as I left 'em, says I:

    "'Uncle Johnny, when ye want to trade agin, jist pick out a
    grindstun that isn't too hard for yer blade.'"

At the conclusion of this tale of real life I returned to the city, my
boy; impressed with the conviction that the purpose of the sun's rising
in the East is to give the New Englanders the first chance to
monopolize the supply, should daylight ever be a sailable article.

Yours, admiringly,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XXXV.

GIVING PRACTICAL ILLUSTRATION OF MODERN PATRIOTISM, AND CELEBRATING THE
ADVANCE OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE TO MANASSAS, ETC.


WASHINGTON, D.C., March 14th, 1862.

Patriotism, my boy, is a very beautiful thing. The surgeon of a Western
regiment has analyzed a very nice case of it, and says that it is
peculiar to this hemisphere. He says that it first breaks out in the
mouth, and from thence extends to the heart causing the latter to
swell. He says that it goes on raging until it reaches the pocket, when
it suddenly disappears, leaving the patient very Constitutional and
conservative. "Bless me!" says the surgeon, intently regarding a spoon
with a tumbler round it, "if a genuine American ever dies of patriotism
it will be because the Tax Bill hasn't been applied soon enough."

I believe him, my boy!

On Monday morning, just as the sun was rising, like a big gold watch
"put up" at some celestial Simpson's, the sentinels of Fort Corcoran
were seized with horrible tremblings at a sight calculated to make
perpendicular hair fashionable. As far as the eye could reach on every
side of the Capital, the ground was black with an approaching
multitude, each man of which wore large spectacles, and carried a
serious carpet-bag and a bottle-green umbrella.

"Be jabers!" says one of the sentinels, whose imperfect English
frequently causes him to be taken for the Duc de Chartres, "it's the
whole Southern Confederacy coming to boord with us."

"Aisey, me boy," says the other sentinel, straightening the barrel of
his musket and holding it very straight to keep the fatal ball from
rolling out, "it's the sperits of all our pravious descindants coming
to ax us, was our grandmother the Saycretary of the Navy."

Right onward came the multitude, their spectacles glistening in the sun
like so many exasperated young planets, and their umbrellas and
carpet-bags swinging like the pendulums of so many infuriated clocks.

Pretty soon the advance guard, who was a chap in a white neck-tie and a
hat resembling a stove-pipe in reduced circumstances, poked a sentinel
in the ribs with his umbrella, and says he:

"Where's Congress?"

"Is it Congress ye want?" says the sentinel.

"Yessir!" says the chap. "Yessir. These are friends of mine--ten
thousand six hundred and forty-two free American citizens. We must see
Congress. Yessir!--dammit. How about that tax-bill? We come to protest
against certain features _in_ that bill."

"Murther an turf!" says the sentinel, "is it the taxes all of them ould
chaps is afther blaming?"

"Yessir!" says the chap, hysterically jamming his hat down over his
forehead and stabbing himself madly under the arm with his umbrella.
"Taxes is a outrage. Not _all_ taxes," says the chap with sudden
benignity, "but the taxes which fall upon us. Why don't they tax them
as is able to pay, without oppressing us ministers, editors, merchants,
lawyers, grocers, peddlers, and professors of religion?" Here the chap
turned very purple in the face, his eyes bulged greenly out, and says
he: "Congress is a ass."

"That's thrue for you," says the sentinel: "they ought to eximpt the
whole naytion and tax the rest of it."

The multitude then swarmed into Washington, my boy, and if they don't
smother the Tax Bill, it will be because Congress is case-hardened.

The remainder of the Mackerel Brigade being ordered to join the Conic
Section at Accomac for an irresistible advance on Manassas, I mounted
my gothic steed Pegasus on Tuesday morning.

Pegasus, my boy, has greatly improved since I rubbed him down with
Snobb's Patent Hair Invigorator, and his tail looks much less like a
whisk-broom than it did at first. It is now fully able to maintain
itself against all flies whatsoever. The general of the Mackerel
Brigade rode beside me on a spirited black frame, and says he:

"That funereal beast of yours is a monument of the home affections.
Thunder!" says the general, shedding a small tear of the color of
Scheidam Schnapps, "I never look at that air horse without thinking of
the time I buried my first baby; its head is shaped so much like a
small coffin."

On reaching Accomac, my boy, we found Captain Villiam Brown at the head
of the Conic Section of the Mackerel Brigade, dressed principally in a
large sword and brass buttons, and taking the altitude of the sun with
a glass instrument operated by means of a bottle.

"Ah!" says Villiam, "You are just in time to hear my speech to the sons
of Mars, previous to the capture of Manassas by the United States of
America."

Hereupon Villiam mounted a demijohn laid length-wise, and says he:

    "FELLOW-ANACONDAS:--Having been informed by a gentleman who has
    spent two weeks at Manassas, that the Southern Confederacy has gone
    South for its health, I have concluded that it is time to be
    offensive. The great Anaconda, having eluded Barnum, is about to
    move on the enemy's rear:

        "'Rear aloft your peaks, ye mountings,
            Rear aloft your waves, O sea!
        Rear your sparkling crests, ye fountings,
            For my love's come back to me.'

    "The day of inaction is past, and now the United States of America
    is about to swoop down like a exasperated Eagle, on the chickens
    left by the hawk. Are you ready, my sagacious reptiles, to spill a
    drop or so for your soaking country? Are you ready to rose up as
    one man--

        "'The rose is red,
            The wi'lets blue,
          Sugar is sweet, and
            Bully for you.'

    "Ages to come will look down on this day and say: 'They died
    young.' The Present will reply: 'I don't see it;' but the present
    is just the last thing for us to think about. Richmond is before
    us, and there let it remain. We shall take it in a few years:

        "'It may be for years and it may be for ever,
        Then why art thou silent, O pride of me heart.'

    "which is poickry. I hereby divide this here splendid army into one
    _corpse dammee_, and take command of it."

At the conclusion of this thrilling oration, my boy, the _corpse
dammee_ formed itself into a hollow square, in the centre of which
appeared a mail-clad ambulance.

I looked at this carefully, and then says I to Villiam:

"Tell me, my gay Achilles, what you carry in that?"

"Ha!" says Villiam, balancing himself on one leg, "them's my Repeaters.
This morning," says Villiam, sagaciously, "I discovered six Repeaters
among my men. Each of them voted six times last election day, and I've
put them where they can't be killed. Ah!" says Villiam, softly, "the
Democratic party can't afford to lose them Repeaters."

Here a rather rusty-looking chap stepped out of the ranks, and says he:

"Captain, I'm a Repeater too. I voted four times last election."

"It takes six to make a reliable Repeater," says Villiam.

"Yes," says the chap: "but I voted for different coves--twice for the
Republican candidate and twice for the Democrat."

"Ha!" says Villiam, "you're a man of intelleck. Here, sargent," says
Villiam, imperiously, "put this cherubim into the ambulance."

"And, sargent," says Villiam, thoughtfully, "give him the front seat."

And now, my boy, the march for Manassas commenced, being timed by the
soft music of the band. This band, my boy, is _sui generis_. Its chief
artist is an ardent admirer of Rossini, who performs with great
accuracy upon a night-key pressed closely against the lower lip, the
strains being much like those emitted by a cart-wheel in want of
grease. Then comes a gifted musican from Germany, whose instrument is a
fine-tooth comb wrapped in paper, and blown upon through its vibratory
covering. The remainder of the band is composed chiefly of drums,
though the second-base achieves some fine effects with a superannuated
accordeon.

Onward moved the magnificent pageant toward the plains of Manassas, the
Anatomical Cavalry being in advance, and the Mackerel Brigade following
closely after.

Arriving on the noted battle-field, we found nothing but a scene of
desolation; the rebels gone; the masked batteries gone; and nothing
left but a solitary daughter of the sunny South, who cursed us for
invading the peaceful homes of Virginia, and then tried to sell us
stale milk at six shillings a quart.

When Captain Villiam Brown, surveyed this spectacle, my boy, his brows
knit with portentous anger, and says he:

"So much for wasting so much time. Ah!" says Villiam, clutching
convulsively at his canteen, "we have met the enemy, and they are
hours--ahead of us."

The only thing noticeable we found, my boy, upon searching the late
stamping ground of the Southern Confederacy, was a beautiful "romaunt,"
evidently written by an oppressed Southern Union man, who had gone from
bad to verse, and descriptive of

    THE SOUTHERN VOLUNTEER'S FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE.

    Fresh from snuff-dipping to his arms she went,
      And he, a quid removing from his mouth,
    Pressed her in anguish to his manly breast
      And spat twice, longingly, toward the South.

    "Zara," he said, and hiccup'd as he spoke,
      "Indeed I find it most (hic) 'stremely hard
    To leave my wife, my <DW65>s, and my debts,
      And march to glory with the 'Davis Guard;'

    "But all to arms the South has called her sons,
      And while there's something Southern hands can steal,
    You can't (hic) 'spect me to stay here at home
      With heartless duns for ever at my heel.

    "To-night a hen-coop falls; and in a week
      We'll take the Yankee capital, I think;
    But should it prove (hic) 'pedient not to do't,
      Why, then, we'll take--in short, we'll take a drink.

    "I reckon I may perish in the strife--
      Some bullet in the back might lay me low--
    And as my business needs attendin' to,
      I'll give you some directions ere I go.

    "That cotton-gin I haven't paid for yet--
      The Yankee trusted for it, dear, you know,
    And it's a most (hic) 'stremely doubtful thing,
      Whether it's ever used again, or no.

    "If Yankee's agent calls while I am gone,
      It's my (hic) 'spress command and wish, that you
    Denounce him for an abolition spy,
      And have him hung before his note is due.

    "That octoroon--who made you jealous, love--
      Who sews so well and is so pale a thing;
    She keeps her husband, <DW71>, from his work--
      You'd better sell her--well, for what she'll bring.

    "In case your purse runs low while I'm away--
      There's Dinah's children--two (hic) 'spensive whelps;
    They won't bring much the way the markets are,
      But then you know how every little helps.

    "And there's that Yankee schoolmistress, you know,
      Who taught our darlings how to read and spell;
    Now don't (hic) 'spend a cent to pay _her_ bill;
      If she aren't tarred and feathered, she'll do well!

    "And now, my dear, I go where booty calls,
      I leave my whisky, cotton-crop, and thee;
    Pray, that in battle I may not (hic) 'spire,
      And when you lick the <DW65>s think of me.

    "If on some mournful summer afternoon
      They should bring home to you your warrior dead,
    Inter me with a toothpick in my hand,
      And write a last (hic) _jacet_ o'er my head."

We found this in the shed lately used by the chivalric Constarveracy as
a guard-house, my boy, and read it with deep emotion.

Yours, Manassastonished,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XXXVI.

CONCERNING THE WEAKNESSES OF GREAT MEN, THE CURIOUS MISTAKE OF A
FRATERNAL MACKEREL, AND THE REMARKABLE ALLITERATIVE PERFORMANCE OF
CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN.


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

When a wise, benign, but not altogether Rhode-Island Providence saw fit
to deal out a few mountains to Eastern Tennessee and Western Virginia,
my boy, it is barely possible that Providence had an eye to the present
crisis of our subtracted country, and intended to furnish the coming
Abe with a fit place for the lofty accommodation of such great men as
were not in immediate demand among the politicians. I am not
topographical by nature, my boy; I never went up to the top of the
White Mountains to see the sun rise, and didn't see; nor did I ever
scale Mount Blanc for the purpose of allowing a fog to settle on my
lungs; but it's my private opinion, my boy, my private opinion, that,
were it not for the perpendicular elevations of the earth's surface in
the States named, it would be necessary for the honest Old Abe either
to turn General Fremont into a reduced Consul, and commission him to
furnish proofs of the nation's reverence for the name of Lafayette, or
coop him up somewhere in solitary grandeur, like a rabbit in a Warren.

"Great men," says the General of the Mackerel Brigade, as he and I were
looking at some sugar together, the other night, through concave
glasses--"great men," says he, "are like the ears of black-and-tan
terriers; they are good for ornaments, but you must cut off some of
them when you would give them rats. Thunder!" says the general, taking
a perpendicular view of the sugar--"if we didn't cut off great men
occasionally, there'd be more presidential nominations to ratify next
election than ever before struck terrier to the heart of an old-line
whig."

But you have yet to learn, my boy, what was _the_ great reason for
sending Fremont to the everlasting hills. On Tuesday I asked a knowing
veteran at Willard's what it really was. He looked at me for a moment
in immovable silence; then he softly placed his spoon-gymnasium on a
table, looked cautiously in all directions, crept up to my ear on
tiptoe, and says he:

"_Kerridges!_"

"Son of a bottle!" says I, "your information is about as intelligible
as the ordinary remarks of Ralph Waldo Emerson."

The knowing veteran suffered his nose to take a steam-bath for a
moment, and then says he:

"Kerridges! Kerridges with six horses and the American flag flying
out of the back window. Fremont's great mistake at the West was
kerridges--_and_ six horses. Did he wish to buy some shoe-strings for
his babes--'Captain Poneyowiski,' says he to his chamberlain, 'order
the second steward to tell the scarlet-and-grey groom to send the
kerridge and six horses round to the door, with a full band on the
box.' Did he wish to make a call on the next block and obtain some Bath
note-paper--'General Nockmynoseoff,' says he to his first esquire in
waiting, 'issue a proclamation to my Master in Chancery to instantly
command the Master of the Horse to get ready the kerridge with six
horses, and send the Life-Guard to clear the way.' In fact," says the
knowing veteran, frowning mysteriously, "it is rumored that when he
came home from Debar's theatre one night, and found the front door of
his head-quarters accidentally locked, he instantly ordered up the
kerridge _and_ six horses, to take him round to the back entrance.
Now," says the knowing veteran, suddenly striking the table a glass
blow that splashed, and assuming an air of embittered argument--"they've
sent him to the mountains to suppress his kerridge."

This explanation, my boy, may be all a fiction, but certain it is that
General Fremont has not the carriage he had six months ago.

On Wednesday the gothic steed Pegasus bore me once more to Manassas,
where I found the Mackerel Brigade vowing vengeance for the recent
rebel atrocities, of which I found many outrageous evidences.

Just as I arrived on the ground, my boy, a Mackerel chap came running
out of a deserted rebel tent with a round object in his hand, and
immediately commenced to tear his hair and speak the language of the
Sixth Ward.

"My brother! my brother!" says he, eyeing his horrible trophy with
tearful emotion. "O! that I should live to see your beloved skull
turned into a cheese-box by rebels! You was a Boston alderman, a moral
man, and a candidate for the Legislature, before you came to this here
horrid war to be killed by rebels, and have your skull aggravated into
a secession utensil."

Here the General of the Mackerel Brigade glanced at the heart-sickening
trophy, and says he to the Mackerel chap:

"Why, you poor ignorant cuss! that there is nothing but a
cocoanut-shell hollowed out."

"Is it?" says the inferior Mackerel, brightening up, "is it? Well,"
says he, feelingly, "I took it for the skull of my brother, the Boston
Alderman--it's so hard and thick."

These beautiful displays of fraternal emotion are quite frequent, my
boy, and are calculated to shed a lustre of sanctity over the
discoveries of our troops.

The capture of Richmond being deferred until the younger drummers of
the brigade are old enough to vote in that city, I found Captain
Villiam Brown and Captain Bob Shorty seated at a table in a tent--the
former being engaged with a pen and a decanter, while the latter drew a
map of the campaign with a piece of lemon-peel dipped in something
fragrant.

It was beautiful to look at these two slashing heroes, as they sat
there in the genial glare of canvas-strained noon-day, with a quart
vessel between them.

"Comrade," says Captain Bob Shorty to me, cordially, "this here is what
we call intellectual relaxation, with a few liquid vowels to make it
consonant with our tastes."

"Yes!" says Captain Villiam Brown, with a fascinating and elaborate
wink at the decanter, "the physical man having taken Manassas, the
human intelleck is now in airy play. Ah!" says Villiam, majestically
passing me the disentangled curl-paper on which he had been writing,
"read what I have penned for the perusal of the United States of
America."

I grasped the document, my boy, and found on it inscribed the following
efficacious effusion:

    FLOYD.

    Felonious Floyd, far-famed for falsifying,
    Forever first from Federal forces flying,
    From fabrications fanning Fortune's flame,
    Finds foul Fugacity factitious Fame.

    Fool! facile Fabler! Fugitive flagitious!
    Fear for Futurity, Filcher fictitious!
    Fame forced from Folly, finding fawners fled,
    Feeds final Failure--failure fungus-fed.

    By CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN, Eskevire.

"Well, my juvenile Union-blue," says Villiam, smiling like a successful
cherubim, "what do you think of that piece of American intelleck?"

"I think," says I, "that it is worthy of an F. F. V."

What followed, my boy, is none of your business, though a sentry near
by subsequently observed that he heard the sound of soft, mellifluous
gurgles come from the interior of the tent.

Poetry, my boy, is man's best gift; and that, I suppose, is the reason
why it is so popular in young women's boarding-schools.

Yours, in particular metre,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XXXVII.

DESCRIBING THE REMARKABLE STRATEGICAL MOVEMENT OF THE CONIC SECTION,
UNDER CAPTAIN BOB SHORTY.


WASHINGTON, D.C., March 28th, 1862.

The most interesting natural curiosity here, next to Secretary Welles'
beard, is the office of the Secretary of the Interior. Covered with
spider-webs, and clothed in the dust of ages, my boy, sit the Secretary
and his clerks, like so many respectable mummies in a neglected
pyramid. The Department of the Interior, my boy, is in a humorous
condition; the sales of public lands for the past year amount to about
ten shillings, the only buyer being a conservative Dutchman from New
Jersey, who hasn't heard about the war yet.

These things weigh upon my spirit, and I was glad to order up my Gothic
stallion, Pegasus, the other day, and rattle down to Manassas once
more.

Upon reaching that celebrated field of Mars, my boy, I found the
General of the Mackerel Brigade in his tent, surrounded by telegraphic
instruments and railroad maps, while the Conic Section was drawn up in
line outside.

"You appear to be much absorbed, my venerable Spartan," says I to the
General, as I handled the diaphanous vessel he was using as an act-drop
in the theatre of war.

The General frowned like an obdurate parent refusing to let his only
daughter marry a coal-heaver, and says he:

"I'm absorbed in strategy. Eighteen months ago, I was informed by a
contraband that sixty thousand unnatural rebels were intrenched
somewhere near here, and having returned the contraband to his master,
to be immediately shot, I resolved to overwhelm the rebels by strategy.
Thunder!" says the General, perspiring like a pitcher of ice-water in
June, "if there's anything equal to diplomacy it's strategy. And now,"
says the General, sternly, "it's my duty to order you to write nothing
about this to the papers. You write about my movements; the papers
publish it, and are sent here; my adjutant takes the papers to the
rebels; and so, you see, my plans are all known. I have no choice but
to suppress you."

"But," says I, "you might more surely keep the news from the rebels by
arresting the adjutant."

"Thunder!" says the general, "I never thought of that before."

Great men, my boy, are never so great but that they can profit
occasionally by a suggestion from the humblest of the species. I once
knew a very great man who went home one night in a shower, and was
horrified at discovering that he could not get his umbrella through the
front door. He was a very great man, understood Sanscrit, made speeches
that nobody could comprehend, and had relatives in Beacon-street,
Boston. There he stood in the rain, my boy, pushing his umbrella this
way and that way, turning it endways and sideways, holding it at acute
angles and obtuse angles; but still it wouldn't go through the door,
nor anything like it. By-and-by there came along a chap of humble
attainments, who sung out:

"What's the matter, old three-and-sixpence?"

The great man turned pantingly round, and says he:

"Ah, my friend, I cannot get my umbrella into the house. I've been
trying for half an hour to wedge it through the door, but I can't get
it through and know not how to act."

The humble chap stood under a gas-light, my boy, and by the gleams
thereof his mouth was observed to pucker loaferishly.

"Hev you tried the experiment of _shutting up_ that air umbrella?" says
he.

The great man gave a start, and says he:

"Per Jovem! I didn't think to do that."

And he shut his umbrella and went in peacefully.

The Conic Section was to make its great strategic movement, my boy,
under Captain Bob Shorty; and, led by that fearless warrior, it set out
at twilight. Onward tramped the heroes according to Hardee, for about
an hour, and then they reached a queer-looking little house with a
great deal of piazza and a very little ground-floor. With his cap
cocked very much over one eye, Captain Bob Shorty knocked at the door,
and was answered by a young maiden of about forty-two.

"Hast seen any troops pass here of late?" asked Captain Bob Shorty,
with much dignity.

The Southern maiden, who was a First Family, sniffed indignantly, and
says she:

"I reckon not, poor hireling Hessian."

"Forward--double-quick--march!" says Captain Bob Shorty, with much
vehemence; "that ere young woman has been eating onions."

Onward, right onward through the darkness, went the Conic Section of
the Mackerel Brigade, eager to engage the rebel foe and work out the
genius of strategy. Half an hour, and another house was reached. In
response to the captain's knock a son of chivalry stuck his head out of
a window, and says he:

"There's nobody at home."

"Peace, ignoramius!" says Captain Bob Shorty, majestically; "the United
States of America wishes to know if you have seen any troops go by
to-night."

"Yes," says the chivalry, "my sister saw a company go by just now, I
reckon."

"Forward--double-quick--march!" says Captain Bob Shorty, "we can catch
the Confederacy alive if we're quick enough."

And now, my boy, the march was resumed with new vigor, for it was
certain that the enemy was right in front, and might be strategically
annihilated. A long time passed, however, without the discovery of a
soul, and it was after midnight when the next house was gained.

A small black contraband came to the door, and says he:

"By gorry, mars'r sogerum, what you hab?"

"Tell me, young Christy's minstrel," says Captain Bob Shorty, "have any
troops passed here to-night?"

The contraband turned a summerset, and says he:

"Mars' and misses hab seen two companies dis berry night, so helpum
God."

"Forward--double-quick--march!" says Captain Bob Shorty. "Two companies
is rather heavy for this here band of Spartans, but it is sweet to die
for one's country."

The march went on, my boy, until we got to the next house, where the
inmates refused to appear, but shouted that they had seen _three_
companies go past. At this Captain Bob Shorty was heard to scratch his
head in the darkness, and says he:

"This here strategy is a good thing at decent odds: but when it's three
to one, it's more respectable to have all quiet on the Potomac. Halt,
fellow wictims, and let us wait here until the daily sun is issued by
the divine editor."

The orb of light was calmly stealing up the east, my boy, when Captain
Bob Shorty sprang from his blanket and observed the house, before which
the Conic Section was encamped, with protruding eyes.

"By all that's blue!" says Captain Bob Shorty, "if that ain't the werry
identical house where we saw the vinegar maiden last night!"

And so it was, my boy! The Conic Section of the Mackerel Brigade had
been going round and round on a private race-course all night, stopping
four times at the same judge's stand, and going after their own tails,
like so many humorous cats.

Strategy, my boy, is a profound science, and don't cost more than two
millions a day, while the money lasts.

Yours, in deep cogitation,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XXXVIII.

INTRODUCING THE VERITABLE "HYMN OF THE CONTRABANDS," WITH EMANCIPATION
MUSIC, AND DESCRIBING THE TERRIFIC COMBAT A LA MAIN BETWEEN CAPTAIN
VILLIAM BROWN, OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, AND CAPTAIN MUNCHAUSEN,
OF THE SOUTHERN CONFEDERACY.


WASHINGTON, D.C., April 4th, 1862.

Knowing you to be a connoisseur in horse-flesh, my boy, it is but
proper I should tell you that I have leased my steed, the gothic
Pegasus, for a few days to an army carpenter, that gentleman having
expressed a wish to use my architectural animal as a model for some new
barracks. Pegasus, my boy, when viewed lengthwise, presents a
perspective not unlike a Hoboken cottage, and eminent builders tell me
that his back is the very beau ideal of a combination roof. I sent a
side-view photograph of the fiery stallion to a venerable grandmother
not long since, and she wrote back that she was glad to see I had my
quarters elevated on piles to avoid dampness, but should think the hut
would smoke with such a crooked chimney! The old lady is rather hard of
hearing, my boy, and makes trifling mistakes without her spectacles.

In the absence of my war-horse I hired a respectable hack to take me to
Manassas, the driver saying that he would not charge me more than ten
dollars an hour, as he had seen better days himself. What his seeing
better days had to do with me I didn't exactly see, my boy; but I hired
the chariot, and we went down the river at a pace sometimes achieved by
that carriage in a funeral which contains the parents of the deceased.

Wet towels, soda-water, and a few wholesome kicks in the rear having
rendered Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, sufficiently certain
of their legs to march a polka in the space of an ordinary corn field,
Captain Villiam Brown placed himself at their head, and, flanked by a
canteen and an adjutant, the combined pageant was just about to move on
a reconnoitering expedition as I came up.

"Ha!" said Villiam, hastily placing his shirt-frill over the neck of a
bottle that accidentally peeped from his bosom--"I am about to lead
these noble beings on the path of glory, and you shall participate in
the beams."

Without a word, I turned his left wing; and as the band, which
consisted of a fat Dutchman and a night-key bugle, struck up "Drops of
Brandy," we moved onward, like the celestial vision of childhood's
dream.

Like the radiance of a higher heaven streaming through the
golden-tinted windows of some grand old cathedral, fell the softened
light of that April afternoon, on budding Nature, as we halted before a
piece of woods just this side of Strasburg. On the new leaves of the
trees in front of us the sunshine coined a thousand phantom cataracts
of specie, and in the vale below us a delicate purple shadow wrestled
with the hill-reflected fire of the sun. Deep silence fell on Company
3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade; the band put his instrument on the
ring with the key of his trunk, and Villiam softly reconnoitred through
a spy-glass furnished with a cork. Suddenly the tones of a rich, manly
voice swelled up from the bosom of the valley.

"Hush!" says Villiam, sternly eyeing the band, who had just
hiccupped--"'tis the song of the Contrabands."

[Illustration]

We all listened, and could distinctly hear the following words of the
singer:

    "They're holding camp-meeting in Hickory Swamp,
              O, let my people go;
    De preacher's so dark dat he carry um lamp,
              O, let my people go.
    De brudders am singing dis jubilee tune,
              O, let my people go;
    Two dollars a year for de Weekly Tribune,
              O, let my people go!"

As the strain died away in the distance, the adjutant slapped his left
leg.

"Why," said he, dreamily, "that must be Greeley down there."

"No!" says Villiam, solemnly, "it is one of the wronged children of
tyranny warbling the suppressed hymn of his injured people. It is a
sign," says Villiam, trembling with bravery, "that the Southern
Confederacy is somewhere around; for when you hear the squeak of the
agonized rat," said Villiam, philosophically, "you may be sure that the
sanguinary terrier is on the war-path."

Scarcely had he spoken, my boy, when there emerged from the edge of the
wood before us a rebel company, headed by an officer of hairy
countenance and much shirt collar. This officer's face was a whisker
plantation, through which his eyes peeped forth like two snakes coiled
up in a window-brush. His dress was shoddy, his air was toddy, and a
yard of valuable stair-carpet enveloped his manly shoulders.

"Halt!" said he to his file of reptiles, whose general effect was that
of a congress of rag-merchants just come in from a happy speculation in
George-Law muskets.

"Sir," said the officer, bowing in a graceful semicircle, "I am
somewhat in the First Family way, own a plantation, drink but little
water at home, and have the honor to be Captain Munchausen, of the
Southern Confederacy."

"Dost fence?" says Villiam, grimly drawing his sword.

"Fence!" says Captain Munchausen, also drawing his disguised crowbar.
"Didst ever hear, boy, or read, of that great fencer of the olden time,
the Chevalier St. George?"

"Often," says Villiam, in a tone that was as plainly the echo of a lie
as is that of the delicate female eater of slate-pencils, when she says
that she never could bear pork and beans.

"Well," says Captain Munchausen, haughtily, "the chevalier was so
extremely jealous of my superior skill, that he actually went and died
nearly a hundred years before I was born."

"Soap," says Villiam, like one talking in his sleep, "is sometimes made
with powerful lie."

"By Chivalry!" says Captain Munchausen, cholerically; "I swear, I never
told a single lie in all my life."

"A _single_ lie!" says Villiam, abstractedly; "ah, no! for the lies of
the Southern Confederacy are all married, and have large families."

This domestic speech, my boy, was too much for Munchausen. Asking one
of the rag merchants to hold his three-ply overcoat, and carefully
removing his fragmentary cap, that none of the cold potatoes should
spill out of it, he planted the remains of his right boot slightly in
advance of the skeleton of his left, and thundered:

"'Sblood!"

Quick as the lightning leaps along the cloud did Captain Villiam Brown
send the great toe of his dexter foot to meet that of his foe; his
Damascus blade lay across the opposing brand, and he whispered:

"'Sdeath!"

It was a beautiful sight--by Minerva it was!

"Stop!" says Villiam, suddenly hauling in his weapon again; "it shall
never be said that I took advantage of a foeman."

As he uttered these memorable words, my boy, this ornament of the
service plucked an infant demijohn from his fearless bosom and
magnanimously passed it to his antagonist.

A soft commotion was visible in the whiskers of Captain Munchausen--the
suburb of a smile as it were; a cavern opened in their midst, the
vessel ascended curvilinearly thereto, and the sound was as the
trickling of water down a mountain gulch.

The adjutant took his seat on the sleeping body of the band, and with
pencil and paper prepared to record the combat. The opposing champions
faced each other, and as Villiam once more raised his blade he smiled
horribly.

Then, my boy, was witnessed a scene to make old Charlemagne's paladins
dance High-jinks in their graves, and call all the Arturian knights to
life again. _Carte et tierce!_ but it was a spectacle for Hector and
Achilles. With swords pointed straight at each other's noses did the
valorous heroes skip wildly back, and then as wildly forward. Slam!
bang! crack! smack! right and left! over and under! parry, feint, and
_premiere force_! Now did they hop fierily along on opposite sides of
the road, eyeing each other like demoniac Thomas Cats upon the moonlit
fence. Ever and anon did they dart furiously to the centre, cutting the
blessed atmosphere to invisible splinters, and slaying imaginary
legions.

But a crisis was at hand! In one of his terrible chops, the cool and
collected Villiam brought his deadly weapon down full upon the knuckles
of the enemy. But for the fact that Villiam's sword was not quite as
sharp as the side of an ordinary three-story house, Munchausen's hand
would never more have wielded trenchant blade. As it was, he hastily
dashed his brand to the ground, crammed his knuckles into his mouth,
struck up an impassioned dance, and mumbled, in extreme agitation:

"Golfire your cursed abolition soul!"

It was beautiful, my boy, to see how the calm Villiam leaned upon his
sword and smiled.

"Ah!" says Villiam, "so perish the foes of the Union, the Constitution,
and the Enforcement of the Laws. I have bruised the Confederacy.--Adjutant!"
says Villiam, in a sudden burst of pardonable exultation, "score one
for the United States of America!"

Now it happened, my boy, that, as Villiam said this, he turned to where
the adjutant was sitting, and bent down to give particular directions.
His body was thus made to assume somewhat of the shape of the letter U,
the curve being sharply toward the enemy. In an instant Captain
Munchausen regained his sword, grasped it after the manner of a flail,
and, with a prodigious spank, applied it to the unguarded portion of my
hero's anatomy.

High sprang the almost assassinated Villiam into the air, with sparks
pouring from his eyes, and Union oaths hissing from his working jaws.

"Adjutant!" roared Captain Munchausen, "score one for the Southern
Confederacy!"

No sooner had Villiam reached the ground and picked up the cork that
had fallen from his bosom as he ascended, than he plunged rampagiously
at his adversary, and aimed a blow at his head that must have taken it
off had Captain Munchausen been about a yard taller. As it was, the
stroke mercilessly split the air, and caused my hero to spin like a
mighty top.

In vain did the shameless Confederate swordsman endeavor to get in a
hit as Villiam went round; the sword of the Union met him at every
turn, and right quickly was the avenging blade humming around his head
again. Inspired with the strength of Hercules, the endurance of
Prometheus, and the fire of Pluto, the gorgeous Villiam Brown went at
his work once more, like a feller of great trees, and in another moment
his awful blade twanged upon the foeman's head.

Down went Captain Munchausen singing inverted psalms, with a whole nest
of rockets exploding in his brain. Pale turned his rag merchants at the
sight, and one of them immediately deserted to our side and swore that
he had always been a Union man.

Villiam leaned upon his blade, and kindly remarked:

"His head is broken; I heard it crack."

"'Tis false!" says Captain Munchausen, gloomily; "that is an old
crack--I've had it ever since I was a boy."

"Ah!" says Villiam, airily, "I'm afraid my blow has caused more than
one funeral in the inseck kingdom, for the cut went right through the
hair. Have a comb?" says Villiam, pleasantly.

Captain Munchausen made no reply, my boy, but motioned for his men to
bear him from the field. It was noticed however, that, as he was being
carried into the wood, he asked a gentleman in remarkable tatters, to
take him to the last ditch.

As the Southern Confederacy disappeared, Captain Villiam Brown hammered
his sword straight with a bit of stone, forced it into its scabbard,
and turned majestically to Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade,
several members of which were engaged in the athletic game of
pitch-penny.

"Let the band be awakened," says Villiam.

A Mackerel at once proceeded to break the slumbers of the orchestra, by
shaking a bottle near his ear--that experiment having never been known
to fail in the case of a pronounced musical character.

"Ha!" says Villiam, with much spirit, "we will march to the national
airs of our distracted country!"

After sounding several cat-calls on his night-key bugle, in the manner
of all great instrumentalists who wish to know about their instruments
being in tune, the band struck up "Ale to the Chief," and we marched to
quarters like so many heroes of ancient Rum.

Shall treason triumph in our land, my boy, while there's a sword to
wave? I think not, my boy, I think not. Though Columbia did not rule
the wave, her champions would see to it that she never waived the rule.

Yours, for the Star-Spangled,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XXXIX.

SHOWING HOW A REBEL WAS REDUCED, AND CONVERTED TO "RECONSTRUCTION," BY
THE VALOROUS ORANGE COUNTY HOWITZERS.


WASHINGTON, D.C., April 13th, 1862.

The stirring times are come again, the maddest of the year, and I am
beginning to believe, my boy, that what is to be will be as what has
been has. Though still without my Gothic charger, Pegasus, that
symmetrical racer having been borrowed for a writing-desk by a
Secretary of the Fronterior, I am enabled to keep up communications
with the Mackerel _corpse dammee_ down the river, and ten thousand
star-spangled banners flash through my veins as I relate the recent
great artillery expedition of the Orange County Howitzers.

It seems, my boy, that an intellectual member of the Mackerel Brigade
got tired of investing Yorktown, and wandered away in pursuit of
adventure. As he peregrinated in the neighborhood of a rebel domicil,
he beheld what he took for the bird of our country, stalking out of the
barnyard, and was taking measures to confiscate it, when the proprietor
made his appearance, and says he:

"Hessian, spare that goose!"

The Mackerel chap gave a tragic start, and says he:

"'Tis the Eagle I would rescue, Horatio; the bird celebrated by my
brother, the Congressman, in all his speeches."

"Well," says the foul traitor, "it is undoubtedly what the Congressman
takes for an Eagle, as I am aware that Congressmen generally treat the
American Eagle as if he were a goose; but as that gander happens to
belong to one of the very First Families of Virginia, and cost me four
shillings, it becomes my painful duty to resist your habeas corpus
act." And with that he drove the beautiful bird into the barnyard, and
locked the gate.

Fired to fury by this insult from one of those whom our army had come
to protect, the Mackerel chap went immediately back to quarters, and
appealed to his comrades for vengeance.

That gifted officer Samyule Sa-mith, heard his burning words, and says
he:

"The cannon of the Union shall speak in this matter. Let the Orange
County Howitzers get ready for action, and I will lead them against the
Philistine."

Instantly arose the notes of dreadful preparation; the guns were
mobilized, six English gentlemen in the hosiery business were invited
to view the coming battle, and just as the moon rose above the trees,
the artillery started for the rebel stronghold.

Arriving before the offending house, the howitzers were placed in line,
and all got ready for the bombardment. It was just possible, my boy,
that two men might have marched into that house, and captured the
misguided Confederacy without slaughter. You may be unable to see what
use there was in bringing artillery and forming in line of battle; but
you are very ignorant, my boy; you know nothing about strategy and war.

"Soldiers," says Samyule, "remember that the eyes of the whole world
are upon you at this moment, and endeavor to hit the house as often as
possible. We will fire one round without ball," says Samyule, "to see
if the powder is first-class."

Now it chanced that while the loading-up was going on, the gallant
Lieutenant Lemons got his legs wonderfully entangled in the lanyard of
his piece, and kept turning the howitzer around in a manner strongly
expressive of nervous agitation. Suddenly he stepped across to where
Samyule was standing, and whispered in his ear.

"O, I see," says Samyule, kindly, "you were educated at West Point, and
want to know which end of the cannon ought to be pointed at the enemy.
Well," says Samyule, instructively, "you'd better point the end with a
hole in it."

Everything being in readiness, my boy, the combined battery launched
its thunders on the air, creating a great sensation in the neigboring
hen-roosts, and causing a large rooster to fall from a branch in the
midst of his refreshing slumbers.

"Now, that the powder has sustained its reputation," says Samyule,
impressively, "let the two-inch balls be hurled at the enemy's works."

As the house was full ten yards off, this second discharge failed to
hit it; but it brought the Southern Confederacy to the window in his
night-cap, and says he:

"There's no use of my trying to sleep, if you chaps keep making such a
noise down there."

"Unhappy man," says Samyule, solemnly, "we come here to reduce you, and
will listen to nothing but unconditional surrender."

The Confederacy gaped, and says he:

"I'm very sleepy, and can't talk to you now; but I'll call over in the
morning."

And he shut the window, and went back to bed. A frown was observed to
steal over the face of Samyule. He has a peculiar countenance, my boy,
and a frown affects it strangely. Take his mouth and moustache
together, and they remind you of a mouse sunning himself on the edge of
his hole; and when the frown comes on, the mouse acts as though he had
a stomach-ache.

"Comrades," says Samyule, "the enemy requires another round, and we
must do it on the square. Fire!"

Like four-and-twenty thunder-storms the howitzers roared together, and
had not the Orange County veterans forgotten to put in any balls, there
is reason to believe that some windows would have been broken. Another
discharge, however, was more successful, as it knocked the top off the
chimney.

The Southern Confederacy appeared at the window again, and says he:

"If you fellows don't quit that racket down there, you'll irritate me
pretty soon."

This significant remark caused a sudden cessation of the bombardment,
and Samyule hastily called a council of war.

"Gentlemen," says Samyule, "a new issue has arisen. If we irritate the
Southern Confederacy, all hopes of future Union and reconstruction may
be destroyed."

A chap who was a conservative democrat suddenly flamed up at this, and
says he:

"The abolitionists caused this terrible war, and it is our business, as
no-party men, to finish it Constitutionally. If we irritate this man,
no power on earth will ever make him submit to reconstruction. Ask
him."

Here the democratic chap took a large taste of tobacco, and sighed for
his country.

"Mr. Davis," says Samyule to the Confederacy at the window, "if we do
not irritate you, will you consent to be reconstructed?"

"Reconstructed!" says the Confederacy, thoughtfully; "reconstructed!
Ah!" says he, "you mean, will I consent to be born again?"

"Yes," says Samyule, metaphysically; "will you consent to be borne
again, as we have borne with you heretofore?"

The Confederacy thought awhile, and then says he:

"Consider me reconstructed."

As that was all the Constitution asked, of course there was no more to
be done, and the Orange County Howitzers returned to their original
position in the mire, the English gentlemen remarking that the
appearance and discipline of our troops were satisfactory to Albion.

Fighting according to the Constitution, my boy, is such an admirable
way of preventing carnage, that some doctor ought to take out a patent
for it as a cheap medicine.

Yours to come, and

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XL.

RENDERING TRIBUTE OF ADMIRATION TO THE WOMEN OF AMERICA, WITH A
REMINISCENCE OF HOBBS & DOBBS, ETC.


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

Having a leisure hour at my disposal, my boy, and being reminded of
infatuating crinoline by the reception of certain bird-like notes in
chirography strongly resembling the exquisite edging on delicious
pantalettes, I turn my attention to that beautiful creation which is
fearfully and wonderfully maid, and wears distracting gaiters.

Woman, my boy, at her worst, is a source of real happiness to the
sterner sex. There's a chap in the Mackerel Brigade who got very
melancholy one day after receiving a letter from home, wherein he was
affectionately called "a unnatural and wicious creetur" for not sending
his better-half a new dress and some hair-pins. Seeing his affliction,
and divining its cause, another Mackerel stepped up to him, and says
he:

"Is it the old woman which is on a tare?"

The married chap groaned, and says he:

"She's mad as a hornet. I do believe," says the married chap, turning
very pale, "that she'll take away my night-key, and teach my babes to
call me the Old File."

"Well," says the comforting Mackerel, "then why did you get married?
Why didn't you stay a single bachelor like me, and enjoy the pursuit of
happiness in the Fire Department?"

"Happiness!" says the married chap, "why it was expressly to enjoy
happiness that I wedded. Step this way," says the married chap, with a
horrible smile, leading his consoler aside, "ain't the women of America
mortal?"

"Yes," says the Mackerel thoughtfully.

"And don't they die?"

"Yes," says the Mackerel. "That is to say," added the Mackerel,
contemplatively, "they sometimes die when there's new and expensive
tombstones in fashion."

"Peter Perkins!" says the married chap, with a smile of wild bliss, "I
wouldn't miss the happiness I shall feel when my angel returns to her
native hevings, for the sake of being twenty bachelors. No!" says the
married chap, clutching his bosom, "I've lived on the thought of that
air bliss ever since the morning my female pardner threw my box of
long-sixes out of the window, and called in the police because I
brought a waluable terrier home with me." Here the married chap
uncorked his canteen and eyed it with speechless fury.

Tears came to the eyes of the unwomantic Mackerel; he extended his
hand, and says he:

"Say no more, Bobby--say no more. If you ain't got the correck idea of
Heaven there's no such place on the map."

I give you this touching conversation between two of nature's noblemen,
my boy, that you may appreciate that beautiful dispensation of
Providence which endows woman with the slighter failings of humanity,
yet gives her the power to brighten the mind of inferior man with
glorious visions of joy beyond the grave.

My arm has been strengthened in this war, my boy, by the inspiration of
woman's courage, and aided by her almost miraculous foresight. Only
yesterday, a fair girl of forty-three summers, thoughtfully sent me a
box, containing two gross of assorted fish-hooks, three cook-books, one
dozen of Tubbses best spool-cotton, three door-plates, a package of
patent geranium-roots, two yards of Brussels carpet, Rumford's
illustrated work on Perpetual Intoxication, ten bottles of
furniture-polish, and some wall-paper. Accompanying these articles, so
valuable to a soldier on the march, was a note, in which the
kind-hearted girl said that the things were intended for our sick and
wounded troops, and were the voluntary tributes of a loyal and
dreamy-souled woman. I tried a dose of the furniture-polish, my boy, on
a chap that had the measles, and he has felt so much like a sofa ever
since, that a coroner's jury will sit on him to-morrow.

The remainder of this susceptible young creature's note, my boy, was
calculated to move a heart of stone. She asked if it hurt much to be
killed, and said she should think the President might sue Jeff Davis,
or commit habeas corpus or some other ridiculous thing, to stop this
dreadful, spirit-agonizing war. She said that her deepest heart-throbs
and dream-yearnings were for the crimson-consecrated Union, and that
she had lavished her most harrowing hope-sobs for its heaven-triumph.
She said that she had a friend, named Smith, in the army, and wished I
could find him out, and tell him that the human heart, though repining
at the absence of the beloved object, may be coldly proud as a scornful
statute to the stranger's eye, but pines like a soul-murdered
water-lily on the lovely stream of its twilight-brooding
contemplations.

Anxious to oblige her, my boy, I asked the General of the Mackerel
Brigade if he knew a soldier "of the name of Smith?"

The General thought awhile, and says he:

"Not one. There are many of the name of Sa-mith," says the general,
screening his eye from the sun with a bottle, "and the Smythes are
numerous; but the Smiths all died as soon as the Prince of Wales came
to this country."

This is an age of great aristocracy, my boy, and the name of Smith is
confined to tombstones. I once knew a chap named Hobbs, who made knobs,
and had a partner named Dobbs; and he never could get married until he
changed his title; for what sensitive and delicately-nerved female
would marry a man whose business-card read, "Try Hobbs & Dobbs' Knobs?"
Finally, he called himself De Hobbs, and wedded a Miss Podger--pronounced
Po-gshay. After that, he cut his partner, ordered his friends to cease
calling him Jack, and in compliance with the wishes of his wife's
family, got out a business-card like this:

    JACQUES DE HOBBS,
    TRY HIS
    DOOR-PERSUADERS.

But, to return to the women of America, there was one of them came out
to our camp not long ago, my boy, with six Saratoga trunks full of
moral reading for our troops. She was distributing the cheerful works
among the veterans, when she happened to come across Private Jinks, who
had just got his rations, and was swearing audibly at the collection of
wild beasts he had found in one of his biscuits.

"Young man," says she, in a vinegar manner, "do you want to be damned?"

Private Jinks reflected a moment, and says he:

"Really, mem, I don't know enough about horses to say."

The literary agent was greatly shocked, but recovered in time to hand
the warrior a small book, and told him to read it and be saved.

It was a small and enlivening volume, my boy, written by a missionary
lately served up for breakfast by the Emperor of Glorygoolia, and
entitled "The Fire that Never is Quenched."

Jinks looked at the book, and says he:

"What district is that fire in?"

The daughter of the Republic bit off a small piece of cough candy, and
says she:

"It's down below, young man, where you bid fair to go."

"And will it never be put out?" says Private Jinks.

The deeply-affected crinoline shook her head until all her combs
rattled, and says she:

"No, young man; it will burn, and burn, young man."

"Then I'm safe enough!" says Private Jinks, slapping his knee; "for I'm
a member of Forty Hose, and if that air fire is to keep burning,
they'll have to have a paid Fire Department down there, and shut us
fellows out."

The daughter of the Republic instantly left him, my boy; and when next
I saw her, she was arguing with one of the chaplains, who pretended to
believe that firemen sometimes went to Heaven.

Woman, my boy, is an angel in disguise; and if she had wings what a
rise there would be in bonnets!

Yours, for the next Philharmonic,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XLI.

CITING A NOTABLE CASE OF VOLUNTEER SURGERY, AND GIVING AN OUTLINE
SKETCH OF "COTTON SEMINARY."


WASHINGTON, D.C., April 25th, 1862.

There is a certain something about a sick-room, my boy, that makes me
think seriously of my latter end, and recognize physicians as true
heroes of the bottle-field. The subdued swearing of the sufferer on his
bed, the muffled tread of the venerable nurse, as she comes into the
room to make sure that the brandy recommended by the doctor is not too
mild for the patient, the sepulchral shout of the regimental cat as she
recognizes the tread of Jacob Barker, the sergeant's bull-terrier,
outside; all these are things to make the spectator remember that we
are but dust, and that to return to dust is our dustiny.

Early in the week, my boy, a noble member of the Pennsylvania Mud-larks
was made sick in a strange manner. A draft of picked men from certain
regiments was ordered for a perilous expedition down the river. You may
be aware, my boy, that a draft is always dangerous to delicate
constitutions; and, as the Mud-lark happened to burst into a profuse
perspiration about the time he found himself standing in this draft,
he, of course, took such a violent cold that he had to be put to bed
directly. I went to see him, my boy; and whilst he was relating to me
some affecting anecdotes of the time when he used to keep a bar, a
member of the Medical Staff of the United States of America came in to
see the patient.

This venerable surgeon first deposited a large saw, a hatchet, and two
pick-axes on the table, and then says he:

"How do you find yourself, boy?"

The Mud-lark took a small chew of tobacco with a melancholy air, and
says he:

"I think I've got the guitar in my head, Mr. Saw-bones, and am about to
join the angel choir."

"I see how it is," says the surgeon, thoughtfully; "you think you've
got the guitar, when it's only the drum of your ear that is affected.
Well," says the surgeon, with sudden pleasantness, as he reached after
his saw and one of the pick-axes, "I must amputate your left leg at
once."

The Mud-lark curled himself up in bed like a wounded anaconda, and says
he:

"I don't see it in that light."

"Well," says the surgeon, in a sprightly manner, "then suppose I put a
fly-blister on your stomick, and only amputate your right arm?"

The surgeon was formerly a blacksmith, my boy, and got his diploma by
inventing some pills with iron in them. He proved that the blood of six
healthy men contained enough iron to make six horse-shoes, and then
invented the pills to cure hoarseness.

The sick chap reflected on what his medical adviser had said, and then
says he:

"Your words convince me that my situation must be dangerous. I must see
some relative before I permit myself to be dissected."

"Whom would you wish me to send for?" says the surgeon.

"My grandmother, my dear old grandmother," said the Mud-lark, with much
feeling.

The surgeon took me cautiously aside, and says he:

"My poor patient has a cold in his head, and his life depends, perhaps,
on the gratification of his wishes. You have heard him ask for his
grandmother," says the surgeon, softly, "and as his grandmother lives
too far away to be sent for, we must practice a little harmless
deception. We must send for Secretary Welles of the Navy Department,
and introduce him as the grandmother. My patient will never know the
difference."

I took the hint, my boy, and went after the Secretary; but the latter
was so busy examining a model of Noah's Ark that he could not be seen.
Happily, however, the patient recovered while the surgeon was getting
his saw filed, and was well enough last night to reconnoitre in force.

The Mackerel Brigade being still in quarters before Yorktown, I am at
leisure to stroll about the Southern Confederacy, my boy; and on
Thursday I paid a visit to Cotton Seminary, just beyond Alexandria,
where the Southern intellect is taught to fructify and expand. This
celebrated institution of learning is all on one floor, with a large
chimney and heavy mortgage upon it, and a number of windows supplied
with ground glass--or, rather, supplied with a certain openness as
regards the ground.

Upon entering this majestic edifice, the master, Prex Peyton, descended
at once from the barrel on which he was seated, and gave me a true
Virginian welcome:

"Though you may be a Lincoln horde," says he, in a manorial manner,
"the republic of intellect recognizes you only as a man. The Southern
mind knows how to recognize a soul apart from its outer circumstances;
for what say the logicians? _Deus est anima brutorem!_ Take a seat on
yonder barrel, friend Hessian, and you shall hear the wisdom of the
youthful minds. First class in computation stand up."

As I took a seat, my boy, the first class in computation came to the
front; and it is my private impression, my boy--my private
impression--that each child's father was the owner of a rag plantation
at some period of his life.

"Boys," says the master, "how is the table of Confederate money
divided?"

"Into pounds, shillings, and pence."

"Right. Now, Master Mason, repeat the table."

Master Mason, who was a germ of a first family, took his fingers out of
his mouth, and says he:

"Twenty pounds of Confederate bonds make one shilling, twenty shillings
make one penny, six pennies one drink."

"That's right, my pretty little cherubs," says the master. "Now go and
take your seats, and study your bowie-knife exercises. Class in
Geography, stand up."

The class in geography consisted of one small Southern Confederacy, my
boy, with a taste for tobacco.

"Master Wise," says the master, confidently, "can you tell us where
Africa is?"

Master Wise sniffed intelligently, and says he:

"Africa is situated at the corner of Spruce and Nassau streets, and is
bounded on the north by Greeley, on the south by Slavery, on the east
by Sumner, and on the west by Lovejoy."

"Very true, my bright little fellow," says the master; "now go back to
your chawing."

"You see, friend Hessian," says the master, turning to me, "how much
superior Southerners are, even as children, to the depraved Yankees. In
my teaching experience, I have known scholars only six years old to
play poker like old members of the church, and a pupil of mine euchred
me once in ten minutes."

I thanked him for his courtesy, and was proceeding to the door, when I
observed four boys in one corner, with their mouths so distorted that
they seemed to have subsisted upon a diet of persimmons all their
lives.

"Venerable pundit," says I, in astonishment, "how came the faces of
those offspring so deformed?"

"O!" says the master, complacently, "that class has been studying
Carlyle's works."

I retired from Cotton Seminary, my boy, with a firm conviction of the
utility of popular education, and a hope that the day might come when a
Professorship of Old Sledge would be created in the New York
University.

Yours, for a higher civilization,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XLII.

REVEALING A NEW BLOCKADING IDEA, INTRODUCING A GEOMETRICAL STEED, AND
NARRATING THE WONDERFUL EXPLOITS OF THE MACKEREL SHARPSHOOTER AT
YORKTOWN.


WASHINGTON, D.C., May 2d, 1862.

Speaking of the patriarch of the Navy Department, my boy, they say that
the respected Ancient has under consideration a new and admirable plan
for making the blockade efficient. The idea is, to furnish all the
naval captains with spectacles made of looking-glass, so that when they
are asleep, on the quarterdeck, their glasses will reflect the figure
of any rebel craft that may be trying to slip by. These spectacles
could all be ready in twenty years; and when the Secretary told a
Congressman of the plan, the latter thought carefully over the
suggestion, "as dripping with coolness it rose from the Welles," and
says he:

"My dear madam, the idea lacks but one thing--the looking-glass
spectacles ought to be supplied with a comb and brush, so that the
captain could fix himself up after capturing the pirate. Ah, madam,"
says the Congressman, hastily picking up the Jack of Clubs, which he
had accidentally pulled out with his pocket-handkerchief, "you will
rank next to Mary, the mother of Washington, in the affections of
future generations."

The _mother_ of Washington, my boy!--the MOTHER of Washington!--why, the
Secretary is already celebrated as the grandmother of Washington--city.

On the occasion of my last visit to Yorktown, my boy, I found the
Mackerel Brigade so well up in animal spirits that each chap was equal
to a pony of brandy, and capable of capturing any amount of glass
artillery. At the present time, my boy, the brigade is formed in the
shape of a clam-shell, with the right resting on a beer wagon, and the
left on a traveling free-lunch saloon. I was examining the new battery
of the Orange County Howitzers--whose guns have such large touch-holes
that the chaps keep their crackers and cheese in them when not in
action--and was also overhearing the remarks of a melancholy Mackerel
concerning what he wished to be done with his effects in case he should
perish with old age before the battle commenced--when I beheld Captain
Villiam Brown, approaching me on the most geometrical beast I ever
saw--an animal even richer in sharp corners, my boy, than my own gothic
steed, Pegasus.

"Ha!" says Villiam, hastily swallowing something that brought tears to
his eyes, and taking a bit of lemon-peel to clear his voice, "you are
admiring my Arabian courser, and wondering whether it is one of the
three presented to Secretary Seward by the Emperor of Egypt."

"You speak truly, my Bayard," says I; "that superb piece of horseflesh
looks like the original plan of the city of Boston--there's so many
bisecting angles about him."

"Ah!" says Villiam, with an agreeable smile, "in the words of the
anthem of childhood--

    "'The angles told me so.'"

Villiam's idea of angels, my boy, constitutes a theory of theology in
itself.

"What call you the charger?" says I.

"Euclid," says Villiam, pausing for a moment, to catch the gurgle of a
canteen just reversed. "Ah!" says Villiam, recovering his presence of
mind, "this here marvel of natural history is a guaranteed 2.40."

"No!" says I.

"Yes," says Villiam, calculatingly, "this superb animal is a sure
2.40--he cost me just Two dollars and Forty cents. But come with me,"
said Villiam, proudly, "and see the sharpshooter contingent I have just
organized to aid in the suppression of this here unnatural rebellion."

I followed the splendidly-mounted warrior, my boy, to a spot not far
from the nearest point of the enemy's lines, where I found a lengthy
Western chap polishing a rifle with a powerful telescope on the end of
it. He had just been organized, and was preparing to make some carnage.

"Now then, Ajack," said Villiam, classically, "let us see you pick off
that Confederacy over there, which looks like a mere fly at this
distance."

The sinewy sharpshooter sprang to his feet, called a drummer-boy to
hold his chew of tobacco, looked at the rebel gunner through his
telescope, shut up the telescope, took aim with both eyes shut, turned
away his head, and _fired_!

I must say, my boy, that I at first thought the Confederacy was not hit
at all, inasmuch as he only scratched one of his legs and squinted
along his gun; but Villiam soon showed me how exquisitely accurate the
sharpshooter's aim had been.

"The bullet struck him," says Villiam, confidently, "and would have
reached his heart, but for the Bible given him by his mother when he
left home, which arrested its fatal progress. Let us hope," says
Villiam, seriously, "that he will henceforth search the Scriptures, and
be a dutiful son."

I felt the tears spring to my eyes, for I once had a mother myself. I
couldn't help it, my boy--I couldn't help it.

The second shot of the unerring rifleman was aimed at a hapless
contraband, who had been sent out to the end of a gun by the enemy, to
see that the ball did not roll out before the gunner had time to pull
the trigger. Crack! went the deadly weapon of the sharpshooter, and
down went the unhappy African--to his dinner.

"Ah!" says Villiam, skeptically, "do you think you hit him, Ajack?"

"Truelie, stranger," responded the unmoved marksman, sententiously. "He
will die at twenty minutes past three this afternoon."

Sick of this dreadful slaughter, my boy, I turned from the spot with
Villiam, and presently overtook the general of the Mackerel Brigade,
who was seated on a fence by the roadside, trying to knock the cork out
of a bottle with a piece of rock. We saluted, and went on to the camp.

Sharpshooters, my boy, are a source of much pain to hostile gunners,
and if one of them should happen to put a bullet through the head of
navigation, it would certainly cause the tide to fall.

Yours, take-aimiably,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XLIII.

CONCERNING MARTIAL LITERATURE: INTRODUCING A DIDACTIC POEM BY THE
"ARKANSAW TRACT SOCIETY," AND A BIOGRAPHY OF GARIBALDI FOR THE SOLDIER.


WASHINGTON, D.C., May 7th, 1862.

Southern religious literature, my boy, is admirably calculated to
improve the morals of race-courses, and render dog-fights the
instruments of wholesome spiritual culture.

On the person of a high-minded Southern Confederacy captured the other
day by the Mackerel pickets, I found a moral work which had been issued
by the Arkansaw Tract Society for the diffusion of religious thoughts
in the camp, and was much improved by reading it. The pure-minded
Arkansaw chap who got it up, my boy, remarked in pallid print, that
every man "should extract a wholesome moral from everything
whatsomedever," and then went on to say that there was an excellent
moral in the beautiful Arkansaw nursery tale of

    THE BEWITCHED TARRIER.

    Sam Johnson was a cullud man,
      Who lived down in Judee;
    He owned a rat tan tarrier
      That stood 'bout one foot three;
    And the way that critter chawed up rats
      Was gorjus for to see.

    One day this dorg was slumberin'
      Behind the kitchen stove,
    When suddenly a wicked flea--
      An ugly little cove--
    Commenced upon his faithful back
      With many jumps to rove.

    Then up arose that tarrier,
      With frenzy in his eye,
    And waitin' only long enough
      To make a touchin' cry,
    Commenced to twist his head around,
      Most wonderfully spry.

    But all in vain; his shape was sich,
      So awful short and fat--
    And though he doubled up hisself,
      And strained hisself at that,
    His mouth was half an inch away
      From where the varmint sat.

    The dorg sat up an awful yowl
      And twisted like an eel,
    Emitting cries of misery
      At ev'ry nip he'd feel,
    And tumblin' down and jumpin' up,
      And turnin' like a wheel.

    But still that most owdacious flea
      Kept up a constant chaw
    Just where he couldn't be scratched out
      By any reach of paw.
    But always half an inch beyond
      His wictim's snappin' jaw.

    Sam Johnson heard the noise, and came
      To save his animile;
    But when he see the crittur spin--
      A barkin' all the while--
    He dreaded hiderfobia,
      And then began to rile.

    "The pup is mad enough," says he,
      And luggin' in his axe,
    He gev the wretched tarrier
      A pair of awful cracks,
    That stretched him out upon the floor,
      As dead as carpet-tacks.

    MORAL.

    Take warnin' by this tarrier,
      Now turned to sassidge meat;
    And when misfortin's flea shall come
      Upon your back to eat,
    Beware, or you may die because
      You can't make both ends meet.

The Arkansaw Tract Society put a note at the bottom of this moral
lyric, my boy, stating that the "wicked flea here mentioned is the same
varmint which is mentioned in Scripture as being so bold; 'the wicked
flea, when no man pursueth but the righteous, is as bold as a lion.'"

Speaking of literature, my boy, I am happy to say that the members of
the Mackerel Brigade have been inspired to emulate great examples by
the biographies of great soldiers which have been sent to the camp for
their reading by the thoughtful women of America. For instance, here we
have the


    LIFE OF GENERAL GARIBALDI.

    BY THE NOBLEST RUM 'UN OF THE MALL.




    CHAPTER I.

    HIS BIRTH.


    At that period of the world's history when the Past immediately
    preceded the Present, and the Future was yet to come, there existed
    in a small town of which the houses formed a part, a rich but
    respectable couple. Owing to a combination of circumstances, their
    first son was a boy of the male gender, who inherited the name of
    his parents from the moment of his birth, and who is the subject of
    our story. When he was about five hours old, his male parent said
    to him:

    "My boy, do you know me?"

    In an instant the eyes of the child flashed Jersey lightning, he
    ceased sucking his little fistesses, his hair would have stood on
    end if there had been any on his head, and he exclaimed in tones of
    thunder-r-r:

    "_Viva Liberte et Maccaroni!_"

    Mr. Garibaldi instantly clasped the little cherubim to his stomach,
    while Mrs. Garibaldi waved the tri- flag above them both,
    and requested the chambermaid to bring her a little more of that
    same burning-fluid, with plenty of sugar in it.

    Thus was Garibaldi ushered into the world; and the burning fluid is
    for sale by all respectable druggists and grocers throughout the
    country, with S. O. P. on the wrapper.




    CHAPTER II.

    HIS EDUCATION.


    On arriving at years of indiscretion, our hero began to display a
    tendency to "seven-up," Old Sledge, and other card-inal virtues,
    calculated to fit him for playing his cards right in future years.
    Just about this time, too, his parents resolved to send him to
    school, and it is as the young scholar we must now regard him.

    Behold him, then, at his tasks, in a red shirt amputated at the
    neck, and two yellow patches (the badge of Sardinia) flaming from
    the background of his seat of learning. He readily mastered the
    Greek verbs and roots, comprehended liquorice root, studied
    geography, etymology, sycorax, and mahogany; could decline to
    conjugate the verb toby, and quickly knew enough about algebra to
    prove that X plus Y, _not_ being equal to Z, is _minus_ any dinner
    at noon, and _plus_ one of the tightest applications of birch that
    ever produced the illusion of a red-hot stove in immediate contact
    with the human body.




    CHAPTER III.

    GARIBALDI GOES TO SEA.


    Just before the breaking-out of the rebellion at Rome, the trade in
    garlic and domestic fleas took a sudden start, and the Po was
    crowded with vessels of all nations--especially the
    halluci-nations. One day, young Garibaldi was in the act of
    stabbing a barrel of molasses to the heart with a quill, on Pier 4,
    P. R. (Po River), when he was descried by the captain of a
    fishing-smack, detailed by Government to watch the motions of the
    English fleet.

    "Boy, ahoy!" says the Captain.

    The future liberator of Italy dropped his murderous quill, wiped
    his nose with a pine shaving, and answered, in trumpet-tones:

    "You're another!"

    So delighted was the captain with this noble reply, that he
    flogged the whole starboard watch at the gunwales, ordered a
    preventer backstay on the kedge-anchor, leaped ashore to where
    Garibaldi was standing, and offered to make him familiar with the
    seas, and a second Caesar. Garibaldi replied that he had already
    been half-seas over, but would not object to another cruise. He
    said he had traveled half-seas over, "on his face," and would now
    travel the other half on a vessel. He went. The vessel proved to
    be a vessel of wrath, and Garibaldi became so familiar with the
    cat-o-nine-tails, that he soon _mused_ upon a plan for deserting
    the ship.




    CHAPTER IV.

    HE FIGHTS FOR ROME.


    All seas are liable to commotions, hence it is not strange that the
    Holy See encountered a storm about the time that it occurred. For
    some weeks, certain pure spirits had been fomenting the small beer
    of civil war, and in spite of vaticanation, it broke out at last,
    and was a rash proceeding. Garibaldi was sent for by the Goddess of
    Liberty to lead the insurrectionary forces, while the liberty of
    the goddess was endangered by the leadership of the commander of
    the French troops aiding the Pope. Our hero had but a handful of
    patriots on hand and on foot to fight with him; but he determined
    to struggle to the last and perish in the attempt, even though he
    should lose his life by it. The Frenchman had an immense array of
    tried soldiers on the _qui vive_ and on horseback; but Garibaldi
    was not dismayed, and kept his courage up to the "sticking" point
    by hoping for aid. Alas! the only aid they received was lemonade
    and cannonade--but not a brigade. They fought with the French, and
    were whipped like blazes. _Hinc illa slacryma!_




    CHAPTER V.

    GARIBALDI IN AMERICA.


    After wandering about Italy as an exile for some months, the bold
    patriot came to America and opened a cigar shop. The writer
    remembers entering his shop one day to purchase a genuine
    meerschaum, and discovering, afterwards, that it was made of
    plaster of Paris, and smelt--when heated--like ancient sour-krout
    flavored with lamp-oil. Garibaldi also sold the finest Habana
    cigars ever made on Staten Island, one brand of which was so strong
    in its integrity that it once defeated dishonesty, thus:

    One night, while Garibaldi was praying for his beloved Italy, at
    the house of a friend, a burglar broke into his store, with the
    intention of robbing it. The scoundrel broke open the till, took
    out all the city money (he refused to take anything but current
    funds), and then broke open a box of the cigars strong in their
    integrity, intending to have a quiet smoke before he left. Alas!
    for him.

    When Garibaldi opened the store in the morning, he found the
    burglar laying on his back, with a cigar in his mouth, and _too
    weak to move_! In the attempt to smoke the cigar, he had drawn his
    back bone clear through until it caught on his breast bone, and the
    back of his head was just breaking through the roof of his mouth,
    when the patriot found him. He was taken to the police-office, and
    discharged by the first alderman that came along. Such is life!

    When the Emperor of France commenced his war with Austria,
    Garibaldi suddenly appeared at one of the elbows of the Mincio, and
    having passed around the Great Quadrilateral, headed a select body
    of Alpine shepherds, and charged the Austrians more than they could
    pay. All the world knows how that war ended. The emperors of France
    and Austria signed a treaty by which each was compelled to go back
    to his own country, tell his subjects that it was "all right," and
    set all the wise men of the nation to discover what he had been
    fighting about. Sardinia was not asked to give an opinion. About
    this time Garibaldi was left out in the cold.




    CHAPTER VI.

    OUR HERO IN SICILY.


    As we look abroad upon the vast nations of the earth, and remember
    that if they were all destroyed, not one of them would be left, the
    mind involuntarily conceives an idea, and becomes conscious of the
    pregnant fact, that "what is to be will be, as what has been, was."
    So when we look upon families, the thought forces itself upon us
    that if there were no births there would be no children: without
    fathers there could be no mothers; and if the entire household
    should be swept away by disease, they would cease to live. So it is
    also, when we look upon an individual. Our intellect tells us that
    if he dies in infancy he will not live to be a man; and if he never
    does anything, he will surely do nothing.

    This metaphysical line of thought is particularly natural in the
    case of Garibaldi. Look at him as he now stands, with one foot on
    Sicily and the other in a boot. Had he not been educated, he would
    have been uneducated; had he not gone to sea he would never have
    been a sailor; had he not fought for Rome, he would have laid down
    arms in her cause; were he not now fighting for Italian
    independence, he would be otherwise engaged!

    Thus the aspect presented by Garibaldi throughout his career, leads
    our thoughts into all the deep meanderings of the German mind, and
    teaches us to perceive that "whatever is, is right," as whatever is
    not, is wrong.

    Enraged at the impotent conclusion of the French-and-Austrian war,
    Garibaldi determined to prosecute hostilities on his own individual
    curve. In consequence of the high price of ferriage on the Mincio,
    he moved down toward Palermo, and there called to his standard all
    Italians favorable to the immediate emancipation of Sicily and the
    removal of all duties on Maccaroni. Immediately the wildest
    enthusiasm raged among the friends of freedom. Six patriots
    attacked the fortress of Messalina, and were immediately placed in
    prison, with chains around their necks, and Tupper's poems in their
    pockets.

    By degrees, Garibaldi made ready to capture Palermo; he laid in a
    stock of cannon and woolen stockings, he harangued his warriors,
    and told them the day was theirs if they won it; he invited all the
    reporters to a banquet. Then he went and took Palermo.

    How did he take it?

    I know not; there are more things in heaven and earth than are
    dreamed of in ordinary philosophy: all I know is, that he took
    Palermo.

                 *       *       *       *       *

Having brought my history down to this point, I deem it proper to pause
in my task until the future shall have revealed what takes place
hereafter; and the past shall have ceased to interfere so outrageously
with the present, that its limits can only be distinguished through the
bottom of a tumbler. Liberty is the normal condition of the Italian,
and while Garibaldi leads, the cry will be: "Liberty or death, with a
preference for the former." Already the day-star of freedom gilds the
horizon of beautiful Naples, and if it should not happen to be proved a
comet by some evil-minded astronomer, Italy may yet be as free as New
York itself, and pay a war-tax of not more than some millions a year.

This finely-written life of the great Italian patriot had such an
effect upon the Mackerels, my boy, that they all wished to _live_ like
Garibaldi--hence, they are in no hurry to die for their country.

Lives of great men all remind us, my boy, that we may make our lives
sublime; but I never read one yet, that gave instructions for making
our deaths sublime--to ourselves.

Yours, for continued respiration,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XLIV.

SHOWING HOW THE GREAT BATTLE OF PARIS WAS FOUGHT AND WON BY THE
MACKEREL BRIGADE, AIDED AND ABETTED BY THE IRON-PLATED FLEET OF
COMMODORE HEAD.


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

I have just returned, my boy, from witnessing one of the most
tremendous battles of modern times, and shall see star-spangled banners
in every sunset for six months to come.

Hearing that the Southern Confederacy had evacuated Yorktown, for the
reason that the Last Ditch had moved on the first of May to a place
where there would be less rent from our cannon, I started early in the
week for the quarters of the valorous and sanguinary Mackerel Brigade,
expecting that it had gone toward Richmond for life, liberty, and the
pursuit of happiness.

On reaching the Peninsula, however, I learned that the Mackerel "corpse
dammee" had been left behind to capture the city of Paris in
co-operation with a squadron.

Reaching the stamping-ground, my boy, I beheld a scene at once unique
and impressive. Each individual Mackerel was seated on the ground, with
a sheet of paper across his knees and an ink-bottle beside him, writing
like an inspired poet.

I approached Captain Villiam Brown, who was covering some bare spots on
his geometrical steed Euclid, with pieces scissored out of an old
hair-trunk, and says I:

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

"Ah!" says Villiam, setting down his glue-pot, "we are about to engage
in a skrimmage from which not one may come out alive. These heroic
beings," says Villiam, "are ready to die for their country at sight,
and you now behold them making their wills. We shall march upon Paris,"
says Villiam, "as soon as I hear from Sergeant O'Pake, who has been
sent to destroy a mill-dam belonging to the Southern Confederacy. Come
with me, my nice little boy, and look at the squadron to take part in
the attack."

This squadron, my boy, consisted of one twenty-eight-inch row-boat,
mounting a twelve-inch swivel, and commanded by Commodore Head, late of
the Canal-boat Service. It is iron-plated after a peculiar manner. When
the ingenious chap who was to iron-plate it commenced his work,
Commodore Head ordered him to put the plates on the _inside_ of the
boat, instead of outside, as in the case of the Monitor and Galena.

"What do you mean?" says the contractor.

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

"Yes," says the contractor.

"Well, then, you poor ignorant cuss," says the commodore, in a great
passion, "what do you want to put the plates on the outside for? The
crew won't be on the outside--will it? The crew will be on the
inside--won't it? And how are you going to protect the crew on the
inside by putting iron plates on the outside?"

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

While I was contemplating this new triumph of American naval
architecture, and wondering what they would say about it in Europe, an
orderly rode up and handed a scrap of paper to Villiam.

"Ha!" says Villiam, perusing the message, and then passing it to me,
"the veteran O'Pake has not deceived the United States of America."

The message was directed to the General of the Mackerel Brigade, my
boy, and read as follows:

    "GENERAL:--_In accordance with your orders, I have destroyed the
    mill d--n._

    "O'PAKE."

"And now," says Villiam, returning his canteen to his bosom and pulling
out his ruffles, "the United States of America will proceed to capture
Paris with great slaughter. Let the Brigade form in marching order,
while the fleet proceeds around by water, after the manner of Lord
Nelson."

The Mackerel Brigade was quickly on the march, headed by the band, who
played an entirely new version of "Hail Columbia" on his key bugle.
Tramp, tramp, tramp! and we found ourselves in position before Paris.

[Illustration: MAP OF THE WORLD, SHOWING THE POSITION OF THE MACKEREL
BRIGADE AT THE GREAT BATTLE OF PARIS.]

Paris, my boy, was a city of two houses previous to the recent great
fire, which destroyed half of it, and we found it fortified with a
strong picket-fence and counterscarp earthworks, from the top of which
frowned numerous guns of great compass.

The Mackerel Brigade was at once formed in line-of-battle-order--the
line being not quite as straight as an ordinary Pennsylvania
railroad--while the fleet menaced the water-front of the city from Duck
Lake.

You may not be able to find Duck Lake on the maps, my boy, as it is
only visible after a heavy rain.

Previous to the attack, a balloon, containing a Mackerel chap, and a
telescope shaped like a bottle, was sent up to reconnoitre.

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

The chap coughed respectfully, and says he:

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

"Scorpion!" says Villiam, his eyes flashing like the bottoms of two
reversed tumblers, "I believe you to be an accursed abolitionist. Go
instantly to the rear," says Villiam, fiercely, "and read the Report of
the Van Wyck Investigating Committee."

It was a terrible punishment, my boy, but the example was needed for
the good of the service.

The Orange County Howitzers now advanced to the front, and poured a
terrible fire in the direction of a point about half way between the
nearest steeple and the meridian, working horrible carnage in a flock
of pigeons that happened to be passing at the time.

"Splendid, my glorious Prooshians!" says Villiam, just escaping a fall
from his saddle by the convulsive start of Euclid, that noble war-horse
having been suddenly roused from a pleasant doze by the
firing--"Splendid, my artillery darlings. Only," says Villiam,
thoughtfully, "as the sun is a friendly power, don't aim at him so
accurately next time."

Meantime, Company 3, Regiment 5, had advanced from the right, and were
just about to make a splendid bayonet-charge, by the oblique, over the
picket-fence and earthwork, when the concealed Confederacy suddenly
opened a deadly fire of old shoes, throwing the Mackerels into great
confusion.

Almost simultaneously, a large potato struck the fleet on Duck Lake on
the nose, so intensely exciting him that he incontinently touched off
his swivel, to the great detriment of the surrounding country.

This was a critical moment, my boy; the least trifle on either side
would have turned the scale, and given the victory to either party.
Villiam Brown had just assumed the attitude in which he desired Frank
Leslie's Illustrated Artist to draw him, when a familiar domestic
utensil came hissing through the lurid air from the rebel works, and
exploded in two pieces at his feet.

"Ha!" says Villiam, eyeing the fragments with great pallor, "they have
commenced to throw shell."

In another moment that incomparable officer was at the head of a
storming party; and as the fleet opened fire on the cabbage-patch in
the rear of the enemy's position, an impetuous charge was precipitated
in front.

Though met by a perfect hail of turnips, stove-covers, and
kindling-wood, the Mackerels went over the fence like a fourth-proof
avalanche, and hemmed in the rebel garrison with walls of bayonets.

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

"You're a nasty, dirty creetur," responded the garrison, who was an old
lady of venerable aspect.

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

The old lady replied with a look of scorn, my boy, walked deliberately
toward the road, and when last seen was proceeding in the direction of
Richmond under a green silk umbrella and a heavy press of snuff.

Now it happened, just after we had formally taken possession of the
city, while the band was playing martial airs, and the fleet winding up
his chronometer, that the General of the Mackerel Brigade made his
appearance on the field, and was received with loud cheers by those who
believed that he brought their pay back with him.

"My children," says the general, with a paternal smile, "don't praise
me for an achievement in which all have won such imperishable laurels.
I have only done my jooty."

This speech, my boy, made a great impression upon me on account of its
touching modesty. War, my boy, is calculated to promote an amount of
bashful modesty never equaled except in Congress, and I have known
brigadiers so self-deprecatory that they lived in a state of perpetual
blush--especially at the ends of their noses.

Yours, inadequately,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XLV.

EXEMPLIFYING THE INCONSISTENCY OF THE CONSERVATIVE ELEMENT, AND SETTING
FORTH THE MEASURES ADOPTED BY CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN IN HIS MILITARY
GOVERNMENT OF PARIS.


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

Suffer me, my boy, to direct your attention to the Congress of our once
distracted country, which is now shedding a beautiful lustre over the
whole nation, and exciting that fond emotion of admiration which
inclines the human foot to perform a stern duty. "Congress," says
Captain Samyule Sa-mith, nodding to the bar-keeper, and designating a
particular bottle with his finger--"Congress," says he, "is a honor and
a ornament to our bleeding land. The fortunes of war may fluctuate, the
rose may fade; but Congress is ever stable. Yes," says Samyule, in a
beautiful burst of enthusiasm, softly stirring the Oath in his tumbler
with a toothpick, "Congress is stable--in short, a stable full of
mules."

The Conservatives from the Border States, my boy, look upon the
Southern Confederacy as a brother, whom it is our duty to protect
against the accursed designs of the fiendish Abolitionists, who would
make this war one of bloodshed. They ignore all party feeling, support
the Constitution as it was, in contra-distinction to what it is, and
object to any Confiscation measure calculated to irritate our misguided
brothers and sisters in that beautiful land where

    The suitor he goes to the planter so grand,
      And "Give me your daughter," says he,
    "For each unto other we've plighted our loves--
      I love her and so she loves me,"
                    Says he,
      "And married we're wishing to be."

    The planter was deeply affected indeed,
      Such touching devotion to see;
    "The giving I couldn't afford; but I'll sell
      Her for six hundred dollars to thee,"
                    Says he,
      "Her mother was worth that to me."

Which I quote from a sweet ballad I recently found among some rebel
leave-ings at Yorktown.

These conservative patriots, my boy, remind me of a chap I once knew in
the Sixth Ward. A high moral chap, my boy, and full of venerable
dignity. One night the virtuous cuss doing business next door to him,
having just got a big insurance on his stock, and thinking himself safe
for a flaming speculation, set fire to his own premises and then called
"Murder" on the next corner. Out came the whole Fire Department, only
stopping to have two fights and a scrimmage on the way, and pretty soon
the water was pouring all over every house in the street except the one
on fire. The high moral chap stuck his head out of the window, and says
he:

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

Upon this, some of our gallant firemen, who had just been into a
fashionable drinking-shop not more than two blocks off, to see if any
of the sparks had got in there, called to the chap to let them into his
house, so that they might get at the conflagration more easily.

"Never!" said the chap, shaking his nightcap convulsively; "I didn't
set fire to Joneses, and I can't have no Fire Department running around
my entries."

"See here, old blue-pills," says one of the firemen, pleasantly, "if
you don't let us in, your own crib will go to blazes in ten minutes."

But the dignified chap only shut down the window and went to bed again,
saying his prayers backwards. I would not accuse a noble Department of
violence, my boy, but in about three minutes there was a double
back-action machine standing in that chap's front entry, with
three-inch streams out of all the back windows. The fire was put out
with only half a hose company killed and wounded, and next day there
was a meeting to see what should be done with the incendiary when he
was caught. The high moral chap was at that meeting very early, and
says he:

"Let me advise moderation in this here unhappy matter. I feel deeply
interested," says the chap, with tears; "for I assisted to put out the
conflagration by permitting the use of my house by the firemen. I
almost feel," says the genial chap, "like a fellow fireman myself."

At this crisis, a chap who was assistant engineer, and also Secretary
to the Board of Education, arose, and says he:

"What are yer coughin' about, old peg-top? Didn't me and the fellers
have to cave in your door with a night-key wrench--sa-a-ay? What
are yer gassin' about, then? _You_ did a muchness--_you_ did!
Yes--slightually--_in_ a horn. Now," says the gallant fireman,
with an agreeable smile, "if you don't jest coil in yer hose and take
the sidewalk very sudden, it'll be my duty, as a member of the
Department, to bust yer eye."

I commend this chaste and rhetorical remark, my boy, to the attention
of Border State Conswervatives.

Since the occupation of Paris by the Mackerel Brigade, affairs there
have been administered with great intellectual ability by Captain
Villiam Brown, who has been appointed Provisional Governor, to govern
the sale of provisions.

The city of Paris, my boy, as I told you lately, is laid out in one
house at present; and since the discovery, that what were at first
supposed to be Dahlgren guns by our forces were really a number of old
hats with their rims cut off, laid in a row on top of the earthworks,
the democracy have stopped talking about the General of the Mackerel
Brigade for next President.

The one house, however, was a boarding-house; and though all the
boarders left at the approach of our troops, it was subsequently
discovered that all of them save one, were good Union men, and were
brutally forced to fly by that one Confederate miscreant. When Villiam
heard of the fate of these noble and oppressed patriots, my boy, he
suffered a tear to drop into the tumbler he had just found, and says
he:

"Just Hevings! can this be so? Ah!" says Villiam, lifting a bottle near
by to see that no rebel was concealed under it, "I will issue a
proclamation calculated to conciliate the noble Union men of the sunny
South, and bring them back to those protecting folds in which our
inedycated forefathers folded theirselves."

Nobody believed it could be done, my boy--nobody believed it could be
done; but Villiam understood his species, and issued the following

    PROCLAMATION.

    The Union men of the South are hereby informed that the United
    States of America has reasserted hisself, and will shortly open a
    bar-room in Paris. Also, cigars and other necessaries of life. By
    order of

    CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN, Eskevire.

"There," says Villiam, "the human intelleck may do what violence might
fail to accomplish. Ah!" says Villiam, "moral suasion is more majestik
than an army with banners."

In just half an hour after the above Proclamation was issued, my boy,
the hum of countless approaching voices called us to the ramparts. A
vast multitude was approaching. It was the Union men of the South, my
boy, who had read the manifesto of a beneficent Government, and were
coming back to take the Oath--with a trifle of sugar in it.

How necessary it is, my boy, that men intrusted with important
commands--generals and governors responsible for the pacification and
welfare of misguided provinces--should understand just how and when to
touch that sensitive chord in our common nature which vibrates
responsively when man is invited to take something by his fellow-man.

Scarcely had Villiam assumed his office and suppressed two reporters,
when there were brought before him a fugitive contraband of the color
of old meerschaum, and a planter from the adjacent county, who claimed
the slave.

"It's me--that's Misther Murphy--would be afther axing your riverence
to return the black crayture at once," says the planter; "for its
meself that owns him, and he runn'd away right under me nose and eyes
as soon as me back was turned."

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

"Yaysir," says Mr. Murphy, "it's that I am, intirely. Be the same
token, I was raised and born in the swate South--the South of Ireland."

"Are you Chivalry?" says Villiam, thoughtfully.

"Is it Chivalry!--ah, but it's that I am, and me father before me, and
me childers that's afther me. If Chivalry was praties I could furnish a
dinner to all the wur-ruld, and have enough left to fade the pigs."

"Murphy is a French name," says Villiam, drawing a copy of Vattel on
International Law from his pocket and glancing at it, "but I will not
dispute what you say. You must do without your contraband, however; for
slavery and martial law don't agree together in the United States of
America."

"Mr. Black," says Villiam, gravely, turning to the emancipated African,
"you have come to the right shop for freedom. You are from henceforth a
freeman and a brother-in-law. You are now your own master," says
Villiam, encouragingly, "and no man has a right to order you about. You
are in the full enjoyment of Heving's best gift--Freedom! Go and black
my boots."

The moral grandeur of this speech, my boy, so affected the Southern
planter that he at once became a Union man, took the Oath with the
least bit of water in it, and asked permission to have his own boots
blacked.

I have been deeply touched of late, my boy, by the reception of a
present from the ladies of Alexandria. It is a beautiful little dog,
named Bologna (the women of America think that Bologna is the goddess
of war, my boy), shaped like a door-mat rolled up, and elegantly
frescoed down the sides in white and yellow. The note accompanying the
gift was all womanly.

"Accept," it said, "this slight tribute, as an index of the feelings
with which the American women regards the noble volunteer. Wear this
gift next your heart when the fierce battle rages; but, in the
meantime, give him a bone."

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

As a dead poet expresses it, Woman is "Heaven's noblest, best, and last
good gift to man;" and I assure, you, my boy, that she is just the last
gift he cares about.

Yours, in bachelordliness,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XLVI.

WHEREIN IS SHOWN HOW THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE FOLLOWED AN
ILLUSTRIOUS EXAMPLE, AND VETOED A PROCLAMATION. ALSO RECORDING A
MILITARY EXPERIMENT WITH RELIABLE CONTRABANDS.


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

Rejoice with me, my boy, that I have got back my gothic steed, Pegasus,
from the Government chap who borrowed him for a desk. The splendid
architectural animal has just enough slant from his back-bone to his
hips to make a capital desk, my boy; and then his tail is so handy to
wipe pens on. In a moment of thirst he swallowed a bottle of ink, and
some fears were entertained for his life; but a gross of steel pens and
a ream of blotting paper, immediately administered, caused him to come
out all write. In a gothic sense, my boy, the charger continues to
produce architectural illusions. He was standing on a hill-side the
other day, with his rear-elevation toward the spectators, his head up
and ears touching at the top, when a chap, who has been made pious by
frequent conversation with the contrabands, noticed him afar off, and
says he to a soldier, "What church is that I behold in the distance, my
fellow-worm of the dust?" The military veteran looked, and says he, "It
does look like a church; but it's only a animated hay-rack belonging to
the cavalry."

"I see," says the pious chap, moving on; "the beast looks like a
church, because he's been accustomed to steeple-chases."

I have also much satisfaction in the society of my dog, Bologna, my
boy, who has already become so attached to me that I believe he would
defend me against any amount of meat. Like the Old Guard of France,
he's always around the bony parts thrown; and, like a _bon vivant_, is
much given to whining after his dinner.

The last time I was at Paris, my boy, this interesting animal made a
good breakfast off the calves of the General of the Mackerel Brigade's
legs, causing that great strategetical commander to issue enough oaths
for the whole Southern Confederacy.

"Thunder!" says the General, at the conclusion of his cursory remarks,
"I shall have the hydrophobia and bite somebody. It's my opinion," says
the General, hastily licking a few grains of sugar from the spoon he
was holding at the time, "it's my opinion that I shall go rabid as soon
as I see water."

"Then you're perfectly safe, my conquering hero," says I; "for when
_you_ see water, the Atlantic Ocean will be principally composed of
brandy pale."

Speaking of Paris, it pains me, my boy, to say, that Captain Villiam
Brown's Proclamation for the conciliation of southern Union men has
been repudiated by the General of the Mackerel Brigade.

"Thunder!" says the General, taking a cork from his pocket in mistake
for a watch-key, "it's against the Constitution to open a bar so far
away from where Congress sits."

And he at once issued the following

    "PROCLAMATION.

    "Whereas, There appears in the public prints what presumptuously
    pretends to be a proclamation of Captain Villiam Brown, Eskevire,
    in the words following, to wit:

    'PROCLAMATION.

    'The Union men of the South are hereby informed that the United
    States of America has reasserted hisself, and will shortly open a
    bar-room in Paris. Also, cigars and other necessaries of life.

    'By order of

    'CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN, Eskevire.'

    "And whereas, the same is producing much excitement among those
    members from the Border States who would prefer that said bar-room
    should be nearer Washington, in case of sickness. Therefore, I,
    General of the Mackerel Brigade, do proclaim and declare that the
    Mackerel Brigade cannot stand this sort of thing, and that neither
    Captain Villiam Brown nor any other commander has been authorized
    to declare free lunch, either by implication or otherwise, in any
    State: much less in a state of intoxication, of which there are
    several.

    "To persons in this State, now, I earnestly appeal. I do not argue:
    I beseech you to mix your own liquors. You cannot, if you would, be
    blind to the signs of the times, when such opportunity is offered
    to see double. I beg of you a calm and immense consideration of
    them (signs), ranging, it may be, above personal liquor
    establishments. The change you will receive after purchasing your
    materials will come gently as the dues from heaven--not rending nor
    wrecking anything. Will you not embrace me? May the extensive
    future not have to lament that you have neglected to do so.

    "Yours, respectfully, the

    "GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE."

    [Green seal.]

When Villiam read this conservative proclamation, my boy, he looked
thoughtfully into a recently-occupied tumbler for a few moments, and
then says he:

"There's some intelleck in that. The general covers the whole ground.
Ah!" says Villiam, preparing, in a dreamy manner, to wash out the
tumbler with something from a decanter, "the general so completely
covers the whole ground sometimes, that the police departmink is
required to clear it."

I believe him, my boy.

The intelligent and reliable contrabands, my boy, who have come into
Paris from time to time, with valuable news concerning all recent
movements not taking place in the Confederacy, were formed lately by
Villiam, into a military company, called the Sambory Guard, Captain Bob
Shorty being deputed to drill them in the -manual of arms. They
were dressed in flaming red breeches and black coats, my boy, and each
chaotic chap looked like a section of stove-pipe walking about on two
radishes.

I attended the first drill, my boy, and found the oppressed Africans
standing in a line about as regular as so many trees in a maple swamp.

Captain Bob Shorty whipped out his sleepless sword, straightened it on
a log, stepped to the front, and was just about to give the first
order, when, suddenly, he started, threw up his nose, and stood
paralyzed.

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

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

"'Pears to me I smell something."

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

"True," says Captain Bob Shorty, recovering, "it does smell like a
cent; and I haven't seen a cent of my pay for such a long time, that
the novelty of the odor knocked me. Attention, company!"

Only five of the troops were enough startled by this sudden order, my
boy, to drop their guns, and only four stooped down to tie their shoes.
One very reliable contraband left the ranks, and says he:

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

"Order in the ranks!" says Captain Bob Shorty, with some asperity,
"Attention, Company!--Order Arms!"

The troops did this very well, my boy, the muskets coming down at
intervals of three minutes, bringing each man's cap with them, and
pointing so regularly toward all points of the compass, that no foe
could possibly approach from any direction without running on a
bayonet.

"Excellent!" says Captain Bob Shorty, with enthusiasm. "Only, Mr.
Rhett, you needn't hold your gun quite so much like a hoe. Carry arms!"

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

"Carrie who, mars'r?"

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

If Present Arms means to stick your bayonet into the next man's side,
my boy, the troops did it very well.

"Splendid!" says Captain Bob Shorty. "Shoulder Arms--Eyes
Right--Double-quick, March! On to Richmond!"

The troops obeyed the order, my boy, and haven't been seen since.
Perhaps they're going yet, my boy.

Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, started for an advance on
Richmond yesterday, and by a forced march got within three miles of it.
Another march brought them within five miles of the place; and the last
despatch stated that they had but ten miles to go before reaching the
rebel capital.

Military travel, my boy, is like the railroad at the West, where they
had to make chalk marks on the track to see which way the train was
going.

Yours, on time,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XLVII.

INTRODUCING A POEM BASED UPON AN IDEA THAT IS IN VIOLET--A POEM FOR
WHICH ONE OF THE WOMEN OF AMERICA IS SOLELY RESPONSIBLE.


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

One of the Northern women of America, my boy, has sent me a note, for
the express purpose of expressing her hatred of the Southern
Confederacy. She says, my boy, that the Confederacy is a miserable man,
only fit for pecuniary dishonesty; and that even the gentle William
Shakspeare couldn't help revealing the peculiar failing of the
Floydulent section when he spoke so feelingly of

                   "The sweet South,
    That breathes upon a bank of Violets,
    _Stealing_ and giving odor."

A fair hit, my boy--a fair hit; and sorry should I be to let the sweet
South breathe upon any kind of a bank in which I had a deposit.

Speaking of violets; the woman of America sent one of those pretty
flowers in her note; and, as I looked upon it, I thought how fit it was
to be

    THE SOLDIER'S EPITAPH.

    The woodlands caught the airy fire upon their vernal plumes,
      And echoed back the waterfall's exultant, trilling laugh,
    And through the branches fell the light in slender golden blooms
      To write upon the sylvan stream the Naiad's epitaph.

    On either side the sleeping vale the mountains swelled away,
      Like em'ralds in the mourning ring that circles round the world
    And through the flow'r-enamel'd plain the river went astray,
      Like scarf of lady silver'd o'er around a standard furled.

    The turtle wooed his gentle mate, where thickest hung the boughs,
      While round them fell the blossoms plucked by robins' wanton bills;
    And on its wings the zephyr caught the music of his vows,
      To waft a strain responsive to the chorus of the hills.

    'Twas in a nook beside the stream where grapes in clusters fell,
      And twixt the trees the swaying vines were lost in leafy showers,
    That fauns and satyrs, tamed to rest beneath the noonday spell,
      Gave silent ear and witness to the meeting of the flowers.

    The glories of the fields were there in summer's bright array,
      The virgins of the temple vast where Noon to Ev'ning nods,
    To crown as queen of all the rest whose bosom should display
      The signet of a mission blest, the cipher of the gods.

    The royal Lily's sceptred cup besought an airy lip,
      The Rose's stooping coyness told the bee was at her heart,
    While all the other sisters round, with many a dainty dip,
      Sought jewels hidden in the grass, and waved its spears apart.

    "We seek a queen," the Lily said, "and she shall wear the crown
      Who to the Mission of the Blest the fairest right shall prove;
    For unto her, whoe'er she be, has come in sunlight down
      The badge of Nature's Royalty, from angel hands above.

    "I go to deck the wreath that binds a fair, imperial brow,
      Whose whiteness shall not be the less that mine is purer still;
    For though a band of sparkling gems is set upon it now,
      'Twill be the fairer that the Church in me beholds her will."

    "I claim a loyal suitor's touch," the Rose ingenuous said,
      "And he will choose me when he seeks the bow'r of lady fair,
    To match me, with a smile, against her cheek's betraying red,
      And place me, with a kiss, within the shadows of her hair."

    And next the proud Camellia spoke: "Where festal music swells,
      And solemn priest, with gown and book, a knot eternal ties,
    I go to hold the vail of her who hears her marriage-bells,
      And pledges all her life unto the Love that never dies."

    The Laurels raised their glowing heads, and into language broke:
      "'Tis ours to honor gallant deeds that awe a crouching world;
    We rest upon the warrior's helm when fades the battle's smoke,
      And bloom perennial on the shield that back the foeman
        hurled."

    And other sisters of the field, the woodland, and the vale,
      Each told the story of her work, and glorified her quest;
    But none of all the noble ones had yet revealed the tale
      That taught them from the gods she wore the signet in her
        breast.

    At length the zephyr raised a leaf, the lowliest of the low,
      And there, behold a Violet the Spring let careless slip;
    Beyond its season blooming there where newer beauties grow,
      Enshrined like an immortal thought that lives beyond the lip.

    "We greet thy presence, little one," the graceful Lily said,
      And quivered with a silent laugh behind her snowy screen,
    "Upraise unto the open sun thy modest little head;
      For here, perchance, in thee at last the Flow'rs have found
        their queen."

    A tremor shook the timid flower, and soft her answer came:
      "'Tis but a simple duty left to one so small as I;
    And yet I would not yield it up for all the higher fame
      Of nodding on a hero's helm, or catching beauty's eye.

    "I go to where an humble mound uprises in a field,
      To mark the place of one whose life was lost a land to save;
    Where bannered pomp no birth attests, nor marbled sword nor
        shield;
      I go to deck," the Violet said, "a simple soldier's grave."

    There fell a hush on all the flowers; but from a distant grove
      Burst forth the anthem of the birds in one grand peal of praise;
    As though the stern old Forest's heart had found its early love,
      And all of earth's sublimity was melted in its lays!

    Then, as the modest flower upturned her blue eyes to the sun,
      There fell a dewdrop on her breast as shaken from a tree;
    The lowliest of the sisterhood the godlike Crown had won;
      For hers it was to consecrate Truth's Immortality.

    The woodlands caught the airy fire upon their vernal plumes,
      And echoed back the waterfall's exultant, trilling laugh;
    And through the branches fell the light in slender golden blooms,
      To sanctify the Violet, the Soldier's Epitaph.

I asked the General of the Mackerel Brigade, the other day, what kind
of a flower he thought would spring above my head when I rested in a
soldier's sepulchre? and he said "A cabbage!" my boy--he said "A
cabbage!"

Yours, inversely,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XLVIII.

TREATING CHIEFLY OF A TERRIBLE PANIC WHICH BROKE OUT IN PARIS, BUT
SUBSEQUENTLY PROVED TO BE ONLY A NATURAL EFFECT OF STRATEGY.


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

It is my belief--my solemn and affecting belief, my boy, that our once
distracted country is destined to be such a great military power
hereafter, that an American citizen will be distinguishable in any part
of the world by his commission as a brigadier. Even Congressmen will
answer to the command of "Charge--mileage!" and it is stated that sons
of guns in every variety are already being born at the West--sons of
"Pop" guns, my boy.

The last time the General of the Mackerel Brigade was here, he was so
much pleased with the high state of strategy developed at the War
Office, that he visited all the bar-rooms in Washington, and ordered
the tumblers to be at once illuminated.

"Thunder!" says the general to Colonel Wobert Wobinson, of the Western
Cavalry, as they were taking measures to prevent any possible mistake
by seeing the enemy double, "this war is making great tacticians of the
whole nation, and if I wanted my sons to become Napoleons, I'd put them
into the War Office for a week. My sons! my sons!" says the general
hysterically, motioning for a little more hot water, "why are you not
here with me in glory, instead of remaining home there, like ripe plums
on the parent tree."

"Plums! plums!" says Colonel Wobinson, thoughtfully. "Ah! I see," says
the colonel, pleasantly, "your sons are damsons."

The general eyed the speaker with much severity of countenance, my boy,
and says he:

"If _you_ have any sons, my friend, they are probably fast young men,
and take after their father--at the approach of the enemy."

The general is rather proud of his sons, my boy, one of whom wrote the
following, which he keeps pinned against the wall of his room:--

    POOR PUSSY.

    We count mankind and keep our census still,
      We count the stars that populate the night;
    But who, with all his computation, can
      Con catty nations right?

    In all the lands, in zones of all degrees,
      No spot im-puss-able is known to be;
    And sure, the ocean can't ignore the Cat,
      Whose capital is C.

    Despise her not; for Nature, in the work
      Of making her, remembered human laws,
    And gave to Puss strange gifts of human sort;
      Before she made her paws:

    First, Puss is like a soldier, if you please;
      Or, like a soldier's officer, in truth;
    For every night brings ample proof she is
      A fencer from her youth.

    A model cosmopolitan is she,
      Indifferent to change of place or time;
    And, like the hardy sailor of the seas,
      Inured to every climb.

    Then, like a poet of the noble sort,
      Who spurns the ways of ordinary crews,
    She courts the upper-storied attic salt,
      And hath her private mews.

    In mathematics she eclipses quite
      Our best professors of the science hard,
    When, by her quadrupedal mode, she shows
      Her four feet in a yard.

    To try the martial simile once more:
      She apes the military drummer-man,
    When, at appropriate hours of day and night,
      She makes her ratty plan.

    She is a lawyer to the hapless rat,
      Who strives in vain to fly her fee-line paws,
    Evading once, but to be caught again
      In her redeeming claws.

    Then turn not from poor Pussy in disdain,
      Whose pride of ancestry may equal thine;
    For is she not a blood-descendant of
      The ancient Catty line?

Speaking of strategy, my boy, you will remember that Company 3,
Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, started for an advance on Richmond last
week, and were within ten miles of that city. Subsequently they made
another forced march of five miles, leaving only fifteen miles to go;
and on Tuesday, a messenger came in from them to Captain Villiam Brown,
with the intelligence that the advance was already within twenty-five
miles of the rebel head-quarters.

"Ha!" says Villiam, "the Confederacy is doomed; but I must curb the
advancing impetuosity of these devoted beings, or they'll be in Canada
in a week. I think," says Villiam, calculatingly, "that a retreat would
bring us to the summer residence of the Southern Confederacy in less
time."

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

"The advance on Richmond has failed in consequence of the shoes
furnished by the United States of America."

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

"Yes," says the chap, mournfully, "them air shoes has demoralized
Company 3, which is advancing back to Paris at double-quick. Them
shoes," says the chap, "which was furnished by the sons of
Revolutionary forefathers by a contractor, at only twenty-five dollars
a pair for the sake of the Union, has caused a fatal mistake. They got
so ragged with being exposed to the wind, that when Company 3 hastily
put them on for an advance on Richmond, they got the heels in front and
have been going in the wrong direction ever since."

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

"At Joneses Court House," says the chap.

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

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

"I see," says Villiam, with great agitation, "my brave comrades are in
a tight place. Let all the newspaper correspondents be ordered to leave
Paris at once," says Villiam to his adjutants, "and we'll take measures
for a second uprising of the North."

When it became generally known, my boy, that Company 3, Regiment 5,
Mackerel Brigade, were falling back across Duck Lake, there was great
agitation in Government circles, and the general of the Mackerel
Brigade prepared to call out all persons capable of bearing arms.

"The Constitution is again in danger," says the general, impulsively,
"and we must appeal to the populace."

"Ah!" says Villiam, "it would also aid our holy cause to call out the
women of America. For the women of America," says Villiam, advisedly,
"are capable of baring arms to any extent."

"No!" says the general. "Woman's place in this war is beside the couch
of the sick soldier. Thunder!" says the general, genially, "it's enough
to make us fonder of our common nature to see the devotion of women to
the invalid volunteer. As I was passing through the hospital just now,"
says the general, feelingly, "I saw a tender, delicate woman acting the
part of a ministering angel to a hero in a hard ague. She was fanning
him, my friend--she was fanning him."

"Heaven bless her!" says Villiam, with streaming eyes; "and may she
never be without a stove when she has a fever. I really believe," says
Villiam, glowingly, "that if woman found her worst enemy, even, burning
to death, she would heap coals of fire upon his head."

Villiam's idea of heaping coals of fire, my boy, is as literal as was
the translation of Enoch.

On learning of the repulse from Richmond, all the Southern Union men of
Paris commenced to remember that the rebels are our brethren, and that
this war was wholly brought about by the fiendish abolitionists.

"Yes!" says a patriotic chap from Accomac, sipping the oath loyally,
"the Abolitionists brought this here war about, and I have determined
not to support it. Our slaves read the _Tribune_, and have learned so
much from military articles in that paper that the very life of the
South depended upon separation."

In fact, my boy, notwithstanding the efforts of Captain Villiam Brown
to tranquillize public feeling by seizing the telegraph office and
railroad depot, telegraphing to everybody he knew for reenforcements,
the excitement was steadily increasing, until word came from Company 3,
Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, that no enemy had been in sight at all.

When the intelligence was brought to the General of the Mackerel
Brigade, and as soon as the band had finished serenading him, he called
for a fresh tumbler, and says he:

"I may as well tell you at once, my children, that this whole matter is
simply a part of my plan for bringing this unnatural war to a speedy
termination. Company 3 retired by my design, and--and--in fact, my
children," says the general, confidingly, "it's something you can't
understand--it's strategy."

Perhaps it was, my boy--perhaps it was; for there is more than one
reason to believe that strategy means military shoes with the heels in
front.

Yours, cautiously,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XLIX.

NOTING THE ARCHITECTURAL EFFECTS OF THE GOTHIC STEED, PEGASUS, AND
DESCRIBING THE MACKEREL BRIGADE'S SANGUINARY ENGAGEMENT WITH THE
RICHMOND REBELS.


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

Once more, my boy, the summer sun has evoked long fields of bristling
bayonets from the seed sown in spring tents, and the thunder of the
shower is echoed by the roar of the scowling cannon. Onward, right
onward, sweeps the Sunset Standard of the Republic, to plant its Roses
and its Lilies on the soil where Treason has so long been the masked
reaper; to epitaph with its eternal Violet the honored battle-graves of
the heroic fallen, and to set its sleepless Stars above the Southern
Cross in a new Heaven of Peace.

In my voyage down the river, to witness the great battle for Richmond,
I took my frescoed dog, Bologna, and my gothic steed, Pegasus. The
latter architectural animal, my boy, has again occasioned an optical
mistake. Being of a melancholy turn, and partaking somewhat of the
tastes of the horrible and sepulchral German Mind, the gothic charger
has peregrinated much in a churchyard near Washington, frequently
standing for hours in that last resting-place, lost in profound
mortuary contemplation, to the great admiration of certain vagrant
crows in the atmosphere. On such occasions, my boy, his casual pace is,
if possible, rather more _requiescat in_ "_pace_" than on ordinary
marches. I was going after him in company with a religious chap from
Boston, who is going down South to see about the contrabands being born
again, when we caught sight of Pegasus, in the distance. The sagacious
architectural stallion had just ascended the steps leading into the
graveyard, my boy, and presented a gothic and pious appearance. The
religious chap clutched my arm, and says he:

"How beautiful it is, my fellow-sinner, to see that simple village
church, resting like the spirit of Peace in the midst of this scene of
war's desolation."

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

"Ahem!" says he. "You must be mistaken, my poor worm; for I can see
half way down the aisle."

"The perspective," says I, "is simply the perspective between the hind
legs of the noble creature, and his rear elevation deceives you."

"Well," says the religious chap, grievously, "if you ever want to do
anything for the missionary cause, my poor lost lamb, just skin that
horse and let me have his frame for a numble chapel, wherein to convert
contrabands."

[Illustration: REQUIESCAT IN "PACE."

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

On my way down the Potomac to Paris, my boy, with Pegasus and the
intelligent dog Bologna, I met Commodore Head, of the new iron-plated
Mackerel fleet, who was taking his swivel Columbiad to a blacksmith, to
have the touch-hole repaired. The Commodore met with a great
disappointment at Washington, my boy. He ordered the great military
painter, Patrick de la Roach, to paint him a portrait of Secretary
Welles, Cabinet size. When the picture came home, my boy, it was no
larger than a twenty-five-cent piece, frame and all; and the portrait
was hardly perceptible to the naked eye.

"Wedge my turret!" says the Commodore, in his iron-plated manner, "I
wouldn't give a Galena for such a picture as that. What did you make it
so small for, you daubing cuss?"

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

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

"Well," says the artist, earnestly, "if you ever attended a Cabinet
meeting, you'd know that that is exactly the Cabinet size of the
Secretary of the Navy."

The Commodore related this to me, my boy, in the interval of naval
criticisms on the gothic Pegasus, whom he pronounced as incapable of
being hit at right angles by a shell as the Monitor. "Explode my
hundred-pounder!" says the Commodore, admiringly, "I don't see any flat
surface about that oat-crushing machine. Perforate my armor, if I do!"

A great battle was going on upon the borders of Duck Lake when we
reached Paris, my boy, and on ambling to the battle-field with my steed
and my dog, I found the Mackerel Brigade blazing away at the foe in a
thunder-storm and vivid-lightning manner.

Captain Villiam Brown, mounted on the geometrical steed Euclid, to whom
he had administered a pinch of Macaboy to make him frisky--was just
receiving the answer of an orderly, whom he had sent to demand the
surrender of a rebel mud-work in front.

"Did you order the rebel to surrender his incendiary establishment to
the United States of America?" says Villiam, majestically returning his
canteen to his bosom.

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

"What said the unnatural scorpion?" says Villiam.

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

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

"Why," says the Orderly, sadly, "he said that if I didn't want to see a
dam fool, I'd better not go into a store where they sold
looking-glasses."

"Ah!" says Villiam, nervously licking a cork, "that _was_ sarcastic.
Let the Orange County Howitzers push to the front," says Villiam,
excitedly, "and we'll shatter the Southern Confederacy. Hello!" says
Villiam, indignantly, "Who owns that owdacious dog there?"

I looked, my boy, and behold it was my frescoed canine, Bologna, who
was innocently discussing a bone right in the track of the advancing
artillery. I whistled to him, my boy, and he loafed dreamily toward me.

The Orange County Howitzers thundered forward, and then hurled an
infernal tempest of shell and canister into the horizon, taking the
roofs off of two barns, and making twenty-six Confederate old maids
deaf for life. At the same instant, Ajack, the Mackerel sharpshooter,
put a ball from his unerring rifle through a chicken-house about half a
mile distant, causing a variety of fowl proceedings.

"Ah!" says Villiam, critically, "the angels will have to get a new sky,
if the artillery practice of the United States of America keeps on much
longer."

Meantime Company 2, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, was engaging the
enemy some distance to the right, under Captain Bob Shorty; and now
there came a dispatch from that gallant officer to Villiam, thus:

    "_The Enemy's Multiplication is too much for my Division. Send me
    some more Democrats._

    "CAPTAIN BOB SHORTY."

"Ah!" says Villiam, "the Anatomical Cavalry and the Western Centaurs
are already going to the rescue. Blue blazes!" says Villiam,
cholerically, "Why don't that blessed dog get out of the way?"

I looked, my boy, and, behold! it was my frescoed canine, Bologna,
calmly reasoning with a piece of army beef, in the very middle of the
field. I whistled, my boy, and the intelligent animal floated toward me
with subdued tail.

The obstruction being removed, the Anatomicals and the Centaurs charged
gloriously under Colonel Wobert Wobinson, and would have swept the
Southern Confederacy from the face of the earth, had not the fiendish
rebels put a load of hay right in the middle of the road. To get the
horses past this object was impossible, for they hadn't seen so much
forage before in a year.

"Ah!" says Villiam, contemplatively, "I'm afraid cavalry's a failure in
this here unnatural contest. Ha!" says Villiam, replacing the stopper
of his canteen, and quickly looking behind him, "What means this
spectacle which mine eyes observe?"

A cloud of dust opened near us, and we saw Captain Samyule Sa-mith
rushing right into headquarters, followed by Company 6, having an aged
and very reliable contraband in charge.

"Samyule, Samyule," says Villiam, fiercely, "expound why you leave the
field with your force, at this critical period in the history of the
United States of America?"

"I'm supporting the Constitution," says Samyule, breathlessly, "I'm a
conservative, and--." Here Samyule tumbled over something and fell flat
on his stomach.

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

I looked, my boy, and beheld it was my frescoed canine, Bologna, who
had run between the legs of the fallen warrior, with the remains of a
captured Confederate chicken. I whistled, my boy, and the faithful
creature angled towards me with mitigated ears.

"I'm supporting the Constitution," repeated Samyule, rising to his feet
and examining a small, black bottle to see if anything had spilt, "I'm
a conservative, and have left the field to restore this here misguided
contraband to his owner, which is a inoffensive rebel. War," says
Samyule, convincingly, "does not affect the Constitution."

"Ah!" says Villiam, "that's very true. Take the African chasseur to his
proper master, and tell him that the United States does not war against
the rights of man."

Now it happened, my boy, that the withdrawal of this force to carry out
the Constitution, so weakened the Advance Guard, that the Southern
Confederacy commenced to gain ground, and Villiam was obliged to form
Company 3, Regiment 5, in line immediately, for a charge to the rescue.
He got the splendid _corps_ to leave the distillery where they were
quartered, for a few minutes, and says he:

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

"Yes," says I, admiringly. "I never saw so many red noses together
before, in all my life."

"Ah!" says Villiam, dreamily, "there's nary red about them, except
their noses. And now," says Villiam, "you will see me lead a charge
destined to cover six pages in the future history of our distracted
country."

"Soldiers of the Potomac!" says Villiam, drawing his sword, and hastily
sharpening it on the left profile of his geometrical steed, "your
comrades are engaging nine hundred and fifty thousand demoralized and
routed rebels, and you are called upon to charge bayonets. Follow me."

Not a man moved, my boy. Many of them had families, and more were
engaged to be married to the women of America. They were brave but not
rash.

Villiam drew his breath, and says he: "The United States of America,
born on the Fourth of July, 1776, calls upon you to charge bayonets,
Come on, my brave flowers of manhood!"

Here a fearless chap stepped out of the ranks, and says he: "In
consequence of the heavy dew which fell this morning, the roads is
impassable."

Villiam remained silent, my boy, and drooped his proud head. Could
nothing induce those devoted patriots to strike for the forlorn hope?
Suddenly, a glow of inspiration came over his face, he rose in his
saddle like a flash, waved his sword toward the foe, and shouted--

"I know you now, my veterans! The day is hot, yonder lies our road,
and--my peerless Napoleons," said Villiam, frenziedly:

"COME AND TAKE A DRINK!"

In an instant I was blinded with a cloud of dust, through which came
the wild tramp and fierce hurrahs of Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel
Brigade. The appeal to their finer feelings had carried them by storm,
and they charged like the double-extract of a compound avalanche. I was
listening to their cheers as they drove the demoralized foe before
them, when a political chap came riding post-haste from Paris, and says
he:

"How many voters have fallen?"

Before I could answer him, my boy, the triumphant Mackerels came
pouring in, just in time to meet the General of the Mackerel Brigade,
who had just rode up from a village in the rear, with an umbrella over
his head to keep off the sun.

"My children," says the general, kindly, as their shouts fell upon his
ears, "you have sustained me nobly this day, and we will enjoy the
thanks of our grateful country together. I thank you, my children."

Here the political chap threw up his hat, and says he: "Hurroar for the
Union! My fellow-beings," says the political chap, glowingly, "I
announce the idolized General of the Mackerel Brigade for President of
the United States in 1865."

"Ah!" says Villiam--he would have said more, but at that moment his
horse's legs became entangled in something, and both horse and rider
went to grass. I looked, my boy, and behold, it was my frescoed dog
Bologna, who had run against the geometrical steed of the warrior in
pursuit of an army biscuit. I whistled, my boy, and the docile
quadruped shrunk toward me with criminal aspect.

And so, the unblest cause of treason has received a decisive blow. The
end approaches; but I can't say which end, my boy--I can't say which
end.

Yours, martially,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER L.

REMARKING UPON A PECULIARITY OF VIRGINIA, AND DESCRIBING COMMODORE
HEAD'S GREAT NAVAL EXPLOIT ON DUCK LAKE, ETC.


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

Early in the week I trotted to the other side of the river on my gothic
steed Pegasus, and having lent that architectural pride of the stud to
a thoughtful individual, who wished to make a sketch of his facade, I
took a branch railroad for a circuitous passage to Paris, intending to
make one stoppage on the way. The locomotive was about two-saucepan
power, my boy, and wheezed like a New York Alderman at a free lunch.
First we stopped at a town composed of one house, and that was a depot.

"What place is this?" says I to my fellow passenger, who was the
conductor, and was reading the _Tribune_, and was swearing to himself.
"It's Mulligan's Court-House, the Capital of Sally Ann County," says
he, and again took out the bill I had paid my fare with to see if it
was good.

I took another branch road here, and we snailed along to another town,
composed of a wood-pile. "What place is this?" says I to my
fellow-traveller, the brakeman. "It's Abednego Junction, the capital of
Laura Matilda County," says he, sounding my quarter on his seal ring to
make sure that it was genuine. Now, as London, the city I was going to,
happened to be the capital of Anna Maria County, my boy, I made up my
mind that the sacred soil had as many metropolises as railways.

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

I believe him, my boy; for, like a poem, Virginia appears to have a
capital at the commencement of every line.

Reaching London, and brushing past a crowd of our true friends the
contrabands, whose cries of anguish upon hearing that I had brought
them no plum-pudding, were truly harrowing, I pushed forward to the new
Union paper, the London Times, with whose editor I had business.

Just as I entered the office, my boy, there rushed out in great rage an
exasperated southern Union man. Having no gun about the house to pick
off our pickets as they came into town, he borrowed a barber's pole and
stuck it out of the window, proclaimed himself an oppressed Unionist,
had a meeting of his family to elect him to the United States Congress
from Anna Maria County, and made a thrilling Union address to two
contrabands from his back-stoop. He wound up this great speech, my boy,
by saying:

"Young men, it is your duty to fight for the Union, which has caused us
all so many tears. If any young man's wife would fain dissuade him, let
him say to her, in the language of the poet,

    "'I could not love thee, dear, so much,
    Loved I not Honor more!'"

This touching peroration was sent in manuscript to the London Times,
and this is the way it appeared in that intellectual American journal:

"Young hen, it is your duty to fight for the Onion, which has caused us
all so many tears. If any young man's wife would fain dissuade him, let
him say to her, in the language of the poet:

    "'I could not love thee, dear, so much,
    Loved I not Hannah More.'"

When the southern Union man read this twistification, he put his paper
where his wife couldn't see it (she being a very jealous woman), and
went out to cowhide the editor. He cowhided him, by frantically placing
the cowhide in the editor's hands, and then running his back repeatedly
against the weapon. Typographical errors have a unique effect in
reports of killed and wounded, my boy; but they knock the Promethean
blaze out of eloquence.

Having transacted my business with the editor, and read a dispatch,
just received from a Gentleman of Eminence, stating that Beauregard,
who was at Okolonna, had a force of 120,000 men; but that Halleck would
probably succeed in putting the entire 80,000 to flight before
Beauregard could return from Richmond; though it was currently reported
that the rebels were sixty thousand strong, and General Pope must be
expeditious if he wanted to capture the whole 10,000 before General
Beauregard got back from the Shenandoah valley; I turned to the editor,
and says I:

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

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

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

"What's that?" says I.

"The Paris _Pays_," says he.

I left him immediately, my boy. Ordinary depravity don't affect me, for
I have known several Congressmen in my time; but I can't stand abnormal
iniquity.

Arriving at Paris I found that a recent shower had made Duck Lake
navigable, and Commodore Head was preparing his fleet to attack a
secession squadron, which some covert rebel had built during the night
for the purpose of annoying the Mackerels in Paris.

"Batter my plates!" says the commodore, cholerically, "I could capture
that poor cuss easily, if I only had a proper pilot."

As Duck Lake is only about four yards wide at a freshet, my boy, your
ignorance may suggest no sufficient reason for a pilot in such a case;
but you are no martial mariner, my boy.

Luckily the man for the place was at hand. On Wednesday, a glossy
contraband, in a three-story shirt-collar, and looking like a fountain
of black ink with a strong wind blowing against it, came into Paris,
and surrendered to Captain Villiam Brown.

"Ha!" says Villiam, replacing the newspaper that had just blown off
from two lemons and a wicker flask on the table, "what says our cousin
Africa?"

"Mars'r Vandal," says the faithful black, earnestly, "I hab important
news to combobicate. I knows all de secrets of de rebel Scratchetary of
the Navy. True as you lib, Mars'r Vandal, so help me gad, I'se de
coachman of de pirate Sumter."

"Ah!" says Villiam, cautiously, "tell me, blessed shade, what has a
coachman got to drive on board a vessel?"

The true-hearted contraband modestly eyed a wonder of the insect
kingdom which he had just removed from his hair, and says he:

"I drove de ingine, mars'r."

That was enough, my boy. Having learned from this intelligent creature
what the rebel Secretary was going to have for dinner next Sunday, and
what the Secretary's wife said in her letter to her mother, Villiam
ordered him to act as pilot on the Mackerel Fleet.

And now let me draw a long breath before I attempt to describe that
terrific and sanguinary naval engagement, which proved conclusively
what Europe may expect, if Europe bother us with any more bigodd
nonsense.

Having ballasted with mortar, my boy, to seem more naval, the
unblushing commodore mounted his swivel-gun at the bow of the Mackerel
Fleet, and selected for his gunner and crew a middle-aged Mackerel
chap, whose great fondness for fresh fish made him invaluable for ocean
service.

"Crack my turret!" says the commodore, as the Fleet pushed off amid the
cheers of Company 4, Regiment 1, Mackerel Brigade; "I'll take that
craft by compound fracture. Belay the starboard ram there, you
salamander, and take a reef in the grating. Up with the signal--two
strips of pig iron rampant, with a sheet of tin in the middle."

All this was splendidly performed by the crew, my boy, who trimmed the
rudder, did the rowing, and tended the gun--all at once. The craft
fairly flew through the water in the direction of the rebel craft,
whose horse-pistol amidship still remained silent.

It was an awfully terrific and sublime sight, my boy. I shall never
forget it, my boy, if I live till I perish.

The faithful  pilot sat in the stern of the Fleet, examining
some silver spoons which he had found somewhere in the Southern
Confederacy, and we could see the noble old commodore mixing something
that steamed in the fore-sheets.

Two seconds had now passed since our flotilla had started, and the
hostile squadrons were rubbing against each other. We were expecting to
see our navy go through some intricate manoeuvre before boarding,
when the Mackerel crew accidentally dropped a spark from his pipe on
the touch-hole of the swivel; and bang! went that horrid engine of
destruction, sending some pounds of old nails right square into the
city of Paris.

Simultaneously, four-and-twenty foreign Consuls residing near Paris got
up a memorial to Commodore Head, protesting against any more firing
while any foreigners remained in the country, and declaring that the
use of gunpowder was an outrage on civilized warfare and the rights of
man. They tied a stone to this significant document and threw it to
Commodore Head, who instantly put the Mackerel crew on half rations and
forbid smoking abaft the big gun.

Meanwhile the enemy had wounded our brave pilot on the shins with his
oar, and exploded his horse-pistol in an undecided direction, with such
dreadful concussion that every glass in Commodore Head's spectacles was
broken.

It was at this dreadful crisis of the fight that the gay Mackerel crew
leaned over the side of our fleet, placed one hand on the inside of the
enemy's squadron, and with the other, regardless of the shower of
old-bottles and fish-bones flying about him, deliberately bored a small
hole, with a gimlet, through the bottom of the adversary. At about the
same moment the commodore touched off the swivel-gun at the enemy's
rudder, and threw one of his boots against the rear stomach of the
rebel captain.

This sickening carnage might have lasted five minutes longer, had not
the Confederate squadron sunk in consequence of the gimlet-hole. Down
went the doomed craft of unblest treason, and in another moment the
officer and crew of her were in the water, which reached nearly to
their knees, imploring our fleet not to let them drown.

Oh, that sight! the thrilling yet terrifying and agonizing grandeur of
that dreadful moment! shall I ever forget it--ever cease to hear those
cries ringing in mine ears? I'm afraid not, my boy--I'm afraid not.

The Commodore rescued the sufferers from a watery grave; and having
been privately informed by them that the South might be conquered, but
never overcome, brought them ashore by the collars.

Need I describe how our noble old nautical sea-dog was received by the
Mackerel Brigade? need I tell how the band whipped out his key-bugle
and played all the triumphant airs of our distracted country, and
several original cavatinas?

But, alas! my boy, this iron-plate business is taking all the romance
out of the navy. How different is the modern from

    THE ANCIENT CAPTAIN.

    The smiles of an evening were shed on the sea,
      And its wave-lips laughed through their beardings of foam;
    And the eyes of an evening were mirrored beneath
      The shroud of the ship and her home.

    And as Time knows an end, so that sea knew a shore,
      Afar in a beautiful, tropical clime,
    Where Love with the Life of each being is blent,
      In a soft, psychological Rhyme.

    Oh, grand was the shore, when deserted and still
      It breasted the silver-mailed hosts of the Deep!
    And like the last bulwark of Nature it seemed,
      'Twixt Death and an Innocent's sleep.

    But grander it was to the eyes of a knight,
      When clad in his armor he stood on the sands,
    And held to his bosom its essence of Life--
      An heiress of titles and lands.

    Ah, fondly he gazed on the face of the maid!
      And blush-spoken fondness replied to his look;
    While heart answered heart with a feverish beat,
      And hand pressed the hand that it took.

    "Fair lady of mine," said the knight, stooping low,
      "Before I depart for the banquet of Death,
    I crave a new draught from the fountain of Life,
      Whose waters are all in thy breath.

    "The breast that is filled with thine image alone,
      May safely defy the dread tempest of steel;
    For while all its thoughts are of love and of thee,
      What peril of Self can it feel?"

    He paused; and the silence that followed his words,
      Was spread like a Hope, 'twixt a Dream and a Truth;
    And in it, his fancy created a world
      Wrought out of the dreams of his youth.

    Then shadows crept over the beautiful face
      Turned up to the sky in the pale streaming light,
    As shadows sweep over the orient pearl,
      Far down in the river at night.

    "You're going," she said, "where the fleets are in leash,
      Where plumed is a knight for each wave of the sea;
    Yet all the wide Ocean shall have but One wave,
      One ship and One sailor for me!"

    He left her, as leaveth the god of a dream
      The portals that close with a heavier sleep;
    And then, as he sprang to the shallop in wait,
      The rowers pushed off in the Deep.

When a captain leaves his lady-fair nowadays, my boy, he's not an
economical man if he don't destroy his life-insurance policy, and defer
making his will.

Yours, navally,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER LI.

GIVING DUE PROMINENCE ONCE MORE TO THE CONSERVATIVE ELEMENT, NOTING A
CAT-AND-DOG AFFAIR, AND REPORTING CAPTAIN BOB SHORTY'S FORAGING
EXPEDITION.


WASHINGTON, D.C., June 23d, 1862.

Not wishing to expire prematurely of inanity, my boy, I started again
last Sunday for Paris, where I took up my quarters with a dignified
conservative chap from the Border States, who came on for the express
purpose of informing the Executive that Kentucky is determined this war
shall be carried on without detriment to the material interests of the
South, otherwise Kentucky will not be answerable for herself. Kentucky
has married into the South, and has relations there which she refuses
to sacrifice. What does the Constitution say about Kentucky? Why, it
don't say anything about her. "Which is clear proof," says the
conservative chap, violently, "that Kentucky is expected to take care
of herself. Kentucky," says he, buttoning his vest over the handle of
his bowie-knife. "Kentucky will stand no nonsense whatsomever."

I have much respect for Kentucky, my boy; they play a good hand of Old
Sledge there, and train up a child in the way he should go fifty
better; but Kentucky reminds me of a chap I once knew in the Sixth
Ward. This chap hired a room with another chap, and the two were
engaged in the dollar-jewelry business. Their stock in trade was more
numerous than valuable, my boy, and a man couldn't steal it without
suffering a most painful swindle; but the two dilapidaries were all the
time afraid of thieves; and at last, when a gentleman of suspicious
aspect moved into the lower part of the house, and flavored his
familiar conversation with such terms as "swag," "kinchin," and
"coppers," the second chap insisted upon buying a watch-dog. The first
chap said he didn't like dogs, but if his partner thought they'd better
have one, he would not object to his buying it. The second chap bought
a sausagacious animal in white and yellow, my boy--an animal covered
with bark that pealed off in large pieces all night long. The first
chap found he couldn't sleep much, and says he:

"If you don't kill that ere stentorian beast we'll have to dissolve
pardnership."

His partner took a thoughtful chew of tobacco, and says he:

"That intelligent dorg is a defending of your property as well as mine,
and if we put up with his strains a little while longer, the chap down
stairs will understand the hint and make friends."

With that the first chap flamed up, and says he:

"I sold a breast-pin to the chap down stairs the other day, and found
out that he considers the dollar-jewelry business the same by nature as
his own. I'm beginning to think we misjudged him, and I can't have no
dog kept here to worry him. Our lease of these here premises don't say
anything about keeping a dog," says the chap, reflectively, "nor our
articles of pardnership, and I refuse to sanction the dog any longer."

So the dog was sent to the pound, my boy, and that same night the
burglarious gentleman downstairs walked off with the dollar-jewelry, in
company with the first chap, leaving the poor second chap to make
himself uselessly disagreeable at the police-office, and set up an
apple-stand for support.

Far be it from me, my boy, to say that certain Border States are like
the first chap; but if Uncle Sam should happen to be the second chap
let him hold on to the watch-dog.

Speaking of dogs, I must tell you about a felis-itous canine incident
that occurred while I was at Paris. Early one morning, the Kentucky
chap and I were awakened by a great noise in the hall outside our door.
Presently an aged and reliable contraband stuck his head into the room,
and says he:

"I golly, mars'r, dar's a big fight goin' on in dis yar place."

At the word, my boy, we both sprang up and went to the door, from
whence we beheld one of those occurrences but too common in this
dreadful war of brother against brother.

Face to face in the hall stood my frescoed dog, Bologna, and the
regimental cat Lord Mortimer, eyeing each other with looks of deadly
hatred and embittered animosity. High in air curved the back of the
enraged Mortimer, and his whiskers worked with intense wrath; whilst
the eloquent tail of the infuriated Bologna shot into the atmosphere
like a living flag-staff.

"Oh-h-h! How-now?" ejaculated Bologna, throwing out his nose to
reconnoitre the enemy's first line.

"'Sdeath!--'Sdeath!" hastily retorted Mortimer, skirmishing along in
his first parallel with spasmodic clawing.

And now, my boy, commenced a series of scientific manoeuvres that only
Russell, of the _London Times_, could describe properly. Lord Mortimer
advanced circularly to the attack in four columns, affrighting the air
with horrid yells of defiance; and I noticed, with a feeling of
mysterious awe, that his eyes had turned a dreadful and livid green,
whilst an expression of inexpressible bitterness overspread his
countenance.

Fathoming the enemy's plan at a glance, Bologna presented his front and
rear divisions alternately, to distract the fire of the foe; and then,
by a rapid and skillful flank movement, cut off a portion of Lord
Mortimer's tail from the main body.

This reminded me of General Mitchell's tactics, my boy.

Here the conservative Kentucky chap wanted to stop the fight. Says he:

"Mortimer will be forever alienated if he loses any more of his tail. I
protest against the dog's teeth," says he; "for they'll render future
reconciliation between the two impossible. Let him use his paws alone,"
says the conservative chap, reasoningly, "and he won't injure
Mortimer's constitution so much."

"You're too late with your talk about conciliation, my noble Cicero,"
says I. "It's the cat's nature to show affection for his young ones,
even, by licking them, and Mortimer will never be convinced that
Bologna cares for him until he has been soundly licked by him."

"Ah--well," says the Kentucky chap, vaguely, "let hostilities proceed."

Finding that the enemy had cut off a portion of his train in the rear,
Mortimer quickly massed his four columns and precipitated them upon the
head of Bologna's two front divisions, succeeding in destroying a bark
half launched, and driving him back four feet.

"Hurroar for Mortimer!" says the Kentucky chap; and then he burst into
the Conservative Virginia National Anthem:

    "John Smith's body lies a-mouldering in the grave,
    'Twas him that Pocahontas risked her father's wrath to save;
    And unto old Virginia certain Chivalry she gave,
          That still go scalping on!"

"Calm your exultation, my impulsive Catiline," says I, "and behold the
triumph of Bologna."

Undaunted by the last claws of the foe's argument, my boy, the frescoed
dog hurled back the torrent of invasion, and, with a howl of triumph,
charged headlong upon Mortimer's works, routing the foe, who retreated
under cover of a cloud of fur.

I looked at the conservative Kentucky chap, my boy, and I could see by
his expression that it would be useless for me to ask of him a
contribution toward rewarding Bologna with a star-spangled kennel. He
still felt neutral, my boy.

I had intended to remain in Paris all the week; but on receiving a
telegraphic dispatch from the General of the Mackerel Brigade to attend
a Strawberry Festival he was about to give in this city, I hastened
hither. For I am very fond of the gay and festive strawberry, my boy,
on account of its resemblance to one of the hues in our distracted
banner.

The Strawberry Festival was given in an upper room at Willard's, and
the arrangement of the fruit would have provoked an appetite in a
marble statue. At short intervals around the table were strawberries in
fours, supported by pedestals of broken ice, which was kept in position
by a fluid of pleasing color, and walled in by a circular edging of
thin glass. Strips of lemon and oranges garnished the rich fruit, and
from their midst sprang up a dainty mint plant, and a graceful hollow
straw.

When the festival was in full operation, my boy, the General of the
Mackerel Brigade arose to his feet, and waved his straw for silence.
Says he:

"My children, though this strawberry festival is ostensibly for the
purpose of encouraging fruit culture by the United States of America,
it has yet a deeper purpose. The democratic party," says the general,
paternally, "is about to be born again, and it is time to make
preparation for the next Presidential election in 1865. I must go to
Albany and Syracuse, and see the State Conventions; after which I must
attend to the re-organization of the party in New York city. Then I go
to Pennsylvania to do stump duty for a year; and from thence, to--"

Here a serious chap, who had taken rather too much Strawberry Festival,
looked up, and says he:

"But how about the war all that time?"

"The war!--the war!" says the general, thoughtfully. "Thunder!" says
the general, with such a start that he spilt some of his Festival, "I'd
really forgotten all about the war!"

"Hum!" says the serious chap, gloomily, "you're worth millions to a
suffering country--_you_ are."

"Flatterer!" says the general blandly.

"Yes," says the chap, "you're worth millions--with a hundred per cent
off for cash."

_In vino veritas_ is a sage old saying, my boy, and I take it to be a
free translation of the Scripture phrase, "In spirit and in truth."

Our brigadiers are so frequently absent-minded themselves, my boy, that
they are not particularly absent-minded by the rest of the army.

Upon quitting the Strawberry Festival I returned post-haste again to
Paris, where I arrived just in time to start with Captain Bob Shorty
and a company from the Conic Section of the Mackerel Brigade on a
foraging expedition. We went to look up a few straw-beds for the
feeding of the Anatomical Cavalry horses, my boy, and the conservative
Kentucky chap went along to see that we did not violate the
Constitution nor the rights of man.

"It's my opinion, comrade," says Captain Bob Shorty, as we started
out--"it's my opinion, my Union ranger, that this here unnatural war is
getting worked down to a very fine point, when we can't go out for an
armful of forage without taking the Constitution along on an ass. I
think," says Captain Bob Shorty, "that the Constitution is as much out
of place here as a set of fancy harness would be in a drove of wild
buffaloes."

Can such be the case, my boy--can such be the case? Then did our
Revolutionary forefathers live in vain.

Having moved along in gorgeous cavalcade until about noon, we stopped
at the house of a First Family of Virginia who were just going to
dinner. Captain Bob Shorty ordered the Mackerels to stack arms and draw
canteens in the front-door yard, and then we entered the domicil and
saluted the domestic mass-meeting in the dining-room.

"We come, sir," says Bob, addressing the venerable and high-minded
Chivalry at the head of the table, "to ask you if you have any old
straw-beds that you don't want, that could be used for the cavalry of
the United States of America."

The Chivalry only paused long enough to throw a couple of pie-plates at
us, and then says he:

"Are you accursed abolitionists?"

The conservative Kentucky chap stepped hastily forward, and says he:

"No, my dear sir, we are the conservative element."

The Chivalry's venerable wife, who was a female Southern Confederacy,
leaned back a little in her chair, so that her little son could see to
throw a teacup at me, and says she:

"You ain't Tribune reporters--be you?"

"We were all noes and no ayes." Quite a feature in social intercourse,
my boy.

The aged Chivalry caused three fresh chairs to be placed at the table,
and having failed to discharge the fowling-piece which he had pointed
at Captain Bob Shorty, by reason of dampness in the cap, he waved us to
seats, and says he:

"Sit down, poor hirelings of a gorilla despot, and learn what it is to
taste the hospitality of a Southern gentleman. You are Lincoln hordes,"
says the Chivalry, shaking his white locks, "and have come to butcher
the Southern Confederacy; but the Southern gentleman knows how to be
courteous, even to a vandal foe."

Here the Chivalry switched out a cane which he had concealed behind
him, and made a blow at Captain Bob Shorty.

"See here," says Bob, indignantly, "I'll be--"

"Hush!" says the conservative Kentucky chap, agitatedly, "don't
irritate the old patriarch, or future amicable reconstruction of the
Union will be out of the question. He is naturally a little provoked
just now," says the Kentucky chap, soothingly, "but we must show him
that we are his friends."

We all sat down in peace at the hospital board, my boy, only a few
sweet potatoes and corn-cobs being thrown by the children, and found
the fare to be in keeping with the situation of our distracted
country--I may say, war-fare.

"In consequence of the blockade of the Washington Ape," says the
Chivalry, pleasantly, "we only have one course, you see; but even these
last-year's sweet potatoes must be luxuries to mercenary mud-sills
accustomed to husks."

I had just reached out my plate, to be helped, my boy, when there came
a great noise from the Mackerels in the front door-yard.

"What's that?" says Captain Bob Shorty.

"O, nothing," says the female Confederacy, taking another bite of
hoe-cake, "I've only told one of the servants to throw some hot water
on your reptile hirelings."

As Captain Bob Shorty turned to thank her for her explanation, and
while his plate was extended, to be helped, the aged Chivalry fired a
pistol at him across the table, the ball just grazing his head and
entering the wall behind him.

"By all that's blue," says Captain Bob Shorty, excitedly, "now I'll
be--"

"Be calm--now, be calm," says the conservative Kentucky chap, hastily,
"don't I tell you that it's only natural for the good old soul to be a
little provoked? If you go to irritate him, we can never live together
as brethren again."

Matters being thus rendered pleasant, my boy, we quickly finished the
simple meal; and as Captain Bob Shorty warded off the carving-knife
just thrown at him by the Chivalry's little son, he turned to the
female Confederacy, and says he:

"Many thanks for your kind hospitality; and now about that straw bed?"

The Virginia matron threw the vinegar-cruet at him, and says she:

"My servants have already given one to your scorpions, you nasty
Yankee."

"Of course," says the venerable Chivalry, just missing a blow at me
with a bowie-knife, "of course, your despicable Government will pay me
for my property!"

"Pay _you_!" says Captain Bob Shorty, hotly, "now I'll be--"

"Certainly it will, my friend," broke in the conservative Kentucky
chap, eagerly, "the Union troops come here as your friends; for they
make war on none but traitors."

As we left the domicil, my boy, brushing from our coats the slops that
had just been thrown upon us from an upper window, I saw the Chivalry's
children training a fowling-piece from the roof, and hoisting the flag
of the Southern Confederacy on one of the chimneys.

And will it be possible to regain the love of these noble people again,
my boy, if we treat them constitutionally? We shall see, my boy, we
shall see.

Yours, for further national abasement,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER LII.

DESCRIBING, AMONG OTHER THINGS, A SPECIALITY OF CONGRESS, A VENERABLE
POPULAR IDOL, AND THE DIFFICULTIES EXPERIENCED BY CAPTAIN SAMYULE
SA-MITH IN DYING.


WASHINGTON, D.C., June 25th, 1862.

How beautiful is Old Age, my boy, when it neither drinks nor swears.
There is an oily and beneficent dignity about fat Old Age which
overwhelms us with a sense of our crime in being guilty of youth. I
have at last been introduced to the Venerable Gammon, who is all the
time saying things; and he is a luscious example of overpowering Old
Age. He is fat and gliding, my boy, with a face that looks like a full
moon coming out of a sheepskin, and a dress indicating that he may be
anything from a Revolutionary Forefather to the patriarch of all the
Grace Church sextons. I can't find out that he ever did anything, my
boy, and no one can tell why it is that he should treat everybody in
office and out of it in such a fatherly and fatly condescending manner;
but the people fairly idolize him, my boy, and he is all the time
saying things.

When I was introduced to the Venerable Gammon he was beaming
benignantly on a throng of adoring statesmen in the lobby of Congress,
and I soon discovered that he was saying things.

"Men tell us that this war has only just commenced," says the Venerable
Gammon with fat profundity, "but they are wrong. _War is like a stick,
which has two ends--the end nearest you being the_ BEGINNING."

Then each statesman wanted the Venerable Gammon to use _his_
pocket-handkerchief; and five-and-twenty desperate reporters tore
passionately away to the telegraph office to flash far and wide the
comforting remarks of the Venerable Gammon.

Are we a race of unsuspecting innocents, my boy, and are we easily
imposed upon by shirt-ruffles and oily magnitude of manner? I believe
so, my boy--I believe so.

Speaking of Congress; I attended one of its sittings the other day, my
boy, and was deeply edified to observe its manner of legislating for
our happy but distracted country.

The "Honorable Speaker" (_ne_ Grow) occupied the Chair.

Mr. PODGERS (republican, Mass.) desired to know if the tax upon Young
Hyson is not to be moderated? Speaking for his constituents he would
say that the present rate was entirely too high to suit any grocer--

Mr. STAGGERS (conservative, Border State) wished to know whether this
body intended to legislate for white men or <DW65>s? His friend, the
pusillanimous scoundrel from Massachusetts, chose to oppose the tax on
Young Hyson because--to use his own words--it would not "suit a <DW64>,
sir--"

Mr. PODGERS thought his friend from the Border State was too hasty. The
phrase he used was "_any grocer_."

Mr. STAGGERS withdrew his previous remark. We were fighting this war to
secure the Constitution and the pursuit of happiness to the misguided
South, and he accepted his friend's apology.

Mr. FIGGINS (democrat, New Jersey) said that he could not but notice
that everything all the Honorable gentlemen had said during this
session was a fatal heresy, destructive of all Government, degrading to
the species, and an insult to the common sense of his (Figgins')
constituents. His constituents demanded that Congress should set the
country at rights before Europe. It would appear that at the least
imperious sign from Europe, the American knee grows--

Mr. JUGGLES (con., Border State) desired to inquire of the House
whether the great struggle in which we are now engaged is for the
benefit of the Caucasian race or the debased African? His friend, the
puling idiot from New Jersey, had seen fit to remark that the American
<DW64>s--

Mr. FIGGINS denied that he had spoken at all of <DW64>s. He was about
to say, that at the slightest behest of Europe "the _American knee
grows flexible to bend_."

Mr. JUGGLES wished it to be understood that he was satisfied with his
Honorable friend's explanation. He would take something with the
Honorable Gentleman immediately after adjournment.

Mr. CHUNKY (rep., New Hampshire) was anxious to inquire whether it was
true, as stated in the daily papers, that General McDowell had been
ordered to imprison all the Union men within his lines on suspicion of
their being Secessionists, and place a guard over the property of the
Secessionists, on suspicion of their being Union men? If so, he would
warn the Administration that it was cherishing a viper which would
sting it:

    "The rose you deftly cull-ed, man,
    May wound you with its thorn,
    And--"

Mr. WADDLES (Union, Border State) protested against the decency of a
Constitutional body like Congress being insulted with the infamous and
seditious abolition doggerel just quoted by his friend, the despicable
incendiary from New Hampshire. We were waging this war solely to put
down treason, and not to hear a rose, the fairest of flowers, mentioned
in the same breath with the filthy <DW52> man--

Mr. CHUNKY was sorry to observe that his Honorable friend had
misunderstood his language. The line he had used was simply this:

    "The rose you deftly _cull-ed, man_."

Mr. WADDLES was glad that his valued friend from New Hampshire had
apologized. He had only taken exception to what he considered a fatal
heresy.

That was enough for me, my boy, and I left the hall of legislation; for
I sometimes become a little wearied when I hear too much of one thing,
my boy.

I mentioned my impression to the Venerable Gammon, and says he:

"Congress is the soul of the nation. Congress," says the Venerable
Gammon, with fat benignity, "_is something like a wheel, whose spokes
tend to tire_."

He said this remarkable thing in an overtowering way, my boy, and I
felt myself to be a crushed infant before him.

Early in the week, I took my usual trip to Paris, and found Company 3,
Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, making an advance from the further shore
of Duck Lake, for sanitary reasons. It was believed to be detrimental
to the health of the gay Mackerels to be so near a body of pure water,
my boy, for they were not accustomed to the element.

"Thunder!" says the general, brushing off a small bit of ice that had
adhered to his nose, "they'll be drinking it next."

Captain Samyule Sa-mith was ordered to command the advance; but when he
heard that the Southern Confederacy had two swivels over there, he was
suddenly taken very sick, and cultivated his bed-clothes.

When the news of the serious illness of this valiant officer got
abroad, my boy, there was an immediate rush of free and enterprising
civilian chaps to his bedside.

One chap, who was an uncombed reporter for a discriminating and
affectionate daily press, took me aside, and says he:

"Our paper has the largest circulation, and is the best advertising
mejum in the United States. As soon as our brother-in-arms expires,"
says the useful chap, feelingly, "just fill up this printed form and
send it to me, and I will mention you in our paper as a promising young
man."

I took the printed form, my boy, which I was to fill up, and found it
to read thus:

    "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE LATE ----.

    "This noble and famous officer, recently slain at the head of his
    ---- (I put the word 'bed' in this blank, my boy), was born at ----
    on the ---- day of ----, 1776, and entered West Point in his ----
    year. He won immortal fame by his conduct in the Mexican campaign,
    and was created brigadier-general on the -- of ----, 1862."

These printed forms suit the case of any soldier, my boy; but I didn't
entirely fill this one up.

Samyule was conversing with the chaplain about his Federal soul, when a
tall, shabby chap made a dash for the bedside, and says he to Samyule:

"I'm agent for the great American publishing house of Rushem & Jinks,
and desire to know if you have anything that could be issued in
book-form after your lamented departure. We could make a handsome 12mo
book," says the shabby chap, persuadingly, "of your literary remains.
Works of a Union Martyr--Eloquent Writings of a Hero--Should be in
every American Library--Take it home to your wife--Twenty editions
ordered in advance of publication--Half-calf, $1.--Send in your
orders."

Samyule looked thoughtfully at the publishing chap, and says he:

"I never wrote anything in my life."

"Oh!" says the shabby chap, pleasantly, "anything will do--your early
poems in the weekly journals--anything."

"But," says Samyule, regretfully, "I never wrote a line to a newspaper
in all my life."

"What!" says the publishing chap, almost in a shriek--"never wrote a
line to a newspaper? Gentleman," says the chap, looking toward us,
suspiciously, "this man can't be an American." And he departed hastily.

Believing, my boy, that there would be no more interruptions, Samyule
went on dying; but I was called from his bedside by a long-haired chap
from New York. Says the chap to me:

"My name is Brown--Brown's Patent Hair-Dye, 25 cents a bottle. Of
course," says the hirsute chap, affably, "a monument will be erected to
the memory of our departed hero. An Italian marble shaft, standing on a
pedestal of four panels. Now," says the hairy chap, insinuatingly, "I
will give ten thousand dollars to have my advertisement put on the
panel next to the name of the lamented deceased. We can get up
something neat and appropriate, thus:

[Illustration:

WE MUST ALL DIE;

BUT

BROWN'S DYE IS THE BEST]

"There!" says the enterprising chap, smilingly, "that would be very
neat and moral, besides doing much good to an American fellow-being."

I made no reply, my boy; but I told Samyule about it, and it excited
him so that he regained his health.

"If I can't die," says the lamented Samyule, "without some advertising
cuss's making money by it, I'll defer my visit to glory until next
season."

And he got well, my boy--he got well.

I was talking to the chaplain about Samyule's illness, and says the
chaplain:

"I am happy to say, my fellow-sinner, that when our beloved Samyule was
at the most dangerous crisis, he gave the most convincing proof of
realizing his critical condition."

"How?" says I, skeptically.

"Why," says the chaplain, with a Christian look, "when I told our
beloved Samyule that there could be little hope of his recovery, and
asked him if his spiritual adviser could do anything to make his
passage easier, he pressed my hand fervently, and besought me to see
that he was buried _with a fan in his hand_."

Can it be, my boy, that the soul of a Mackerel will need a fan in
another world? Let us meditate upon this, my boy--let us meditate upon
this!

Yours, seriously,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers. Series 1, by
Robert H. Newell

*** 