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THE

Orpheus C. Kerr Papers

Are now comprised in three volumes, uniformly bound, price $1.50, each
sold separately, entitled:

    _FIRST SERIES_,
    _SECOND SERIES_,
    _THIRD SERIES_,

To say that these criticisms of Orpheus C. Kerr are universally known,
admired, and laughed at, would be superfluous. Their inimitable wit and
sarcasm have made the author famous, and since his letters have been
published in book form their circulation has been enormous Copies will
be sent by mail _free_, on receipt of price, $1.50

by

CARLETON, Publisher,
New York.




THE

ORPHEUS C. KERR PAPERS.

THIRD SERIES.

Even M. Louvois, the prime-minister, taxed Sulli with his impudence,
which, he said, by no means became a man who had no other recommendation
but that of making people laugh. "Why, what the d--l!" cried Sulli;
"you would do as much, if you were able!" ... and Sulli got the
appointment.

        MEMOIRS OF THE OPERA.



NEW YORK:
_Carleton, Publisher, 413 Broadway._
MDCCCLXV.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, by

GEO. W. CARLETON,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District
of New York.

Cambridge Press.
DAKIN AND METCALF.




CONTENTS.


                                                                 PAGE

LETTER LXXX.

Reporting our Uncle Abe's latest little Tale. Our Correspondent's
Historical Chaunt. The Boston Novel of "Mr. Smith". And a Funeral
Discourse by the devout Chaplain of the Mackerel Brigade.           7

LETTER LXXXI.

Showing how a Minion of Tyranny was terribly punished for
interfering with the conservative Women of America. And describing
the Kentucky Chap's remarkable Skirmish with his Thanksgiving
Dinner.                                                            25

LETTER LXXXII.

Noting the utter Destruction, by an inebriated Journalist, of the
Venerable Gammon's benignant Speech. Introducing the new General of
the Mackerel Brigade. And describing a curious Phenomenon on Duck
Lake.                                                              34

LETTER LXXXIII.

Referring to Washington City and the President's Message, and giving
the Southern Confederacy's very reasonable Peace Proposition.      43

LETTER LXXXIV.

Proving that Russia is indeed our Friend. Instancing the terrific
Bombardment of Paris. And telling how the new General of the
Mackerel Brigade delighted all with his surprising "Shape".        51

LETTER LXXXV.

Holding the Government strictly accountable for the Occurrence of a
recent "Military Necessity". Recounting the affecting Episode of the
Mackerel Drummer-Boy. And depicting the new Mackerel General's first
great Battle.                                                      57

LETTER LXXXVI.

Touching upon a late Ovation to a Parent of his Country. Giving the
Conservative Kentucky Map of all America. And introducing a second
new General of the Mackerel Organization.                          66

LETTER LXXXVII.

In which our Correspondent has a deadly Affair of Honor with a
Gentleman from Kentucky. Experiences "Contraband" Hospitality and
Melody. Attends a great Meeting in Accomac. And witnesses a
prodigious Naval Achievement.                                      73

LETTER LXXXVIII.

Concerning Intellectual Giants and Pins. With a few Words as to
certain Dramatic Street-Scenes supposed to be of daily Occurrence.
An affecting Western Poem. And a brief Glimpse of an ordinary
Cavalry Dash.                                                      88

LETTER LXXXIX.

Showing how the great City of Rome has been ruined by the War.
Citing a notable Instance of Contempt of Court. Describing Rear
Admiral Head's wonderful Improvement in Swivel Guns. And proving
that all is now Ready for the Reduction of Fort Piano.            101

LETTER XC.

Giving a deep Insight of Woman's Nature. Presenting a powerful Poem
of the Heart by one of the Intellectual Females of America. And
reporting the signal Discomfiture of Mr. P. Greene.               111

LETTER XCI.

Containing the Venerable Gammon's Report of the Manner in which the
War has conducted itself up to this Time. And the most Surprising
Epitaph of a Victim of Strategy.                                  119

LETTER XCII.

In which our enthusiastic Correspondent surpasses AEschylus in the
way of an Invocation. And describes Rear Admiral Head's great Naval
Demonstration against Fort Piano.                                 128

LETTER XCIII.

Teeming with Consummate Strategy, and relating an extraordinary
Geometrical Effort of Military Genius.                            135

LETTER XCIV.

Affording an Instance of Imperceptible Patriotism. Presenting the
profound Commentary of an eminent foreign Military Critic. And
Reporting the last Effusion of the General of the Mackerel
Brigade.                                                          143

LETTER XCV.

Noting the continued Anguish of the Conservative Kentucky Chap, and
the Death of Nemo. And describing an immense popular Demonstration
against the Outrages of Federal Oppression.                       150

LETTER XCVI.

Devoted principally to Social Matters, and the benignant Bearing of
V. Gammon at a Diplomatic Soiree.                                 158

LETTER XCVII.

Introducing the great Moral Exhibition of the "Effigynia". Glancing
at a fourth new Mackerel General. And showing how the President's
Draft on Accomac was protested at sight.                          164

LETTER XCVIII.

Recounting a chaste "Reconstruction" Anecdote of the Sixth Ward.
And divulging Captain Villiam Brown's ingenious Alphabetical
Experiment with Company Three.                                    172

LETTER XCIX.

In which our Correspondent is betrayed into Argument. But recovers
in time to give us the usual Christmas Song and Story of the
Renowned Brigade.                                                 181

LETTER C.

Giving divers Instances of strangely-mistaken Identity. And
revealing a wise Method of saving the Country from Bankruptcy.    194

LETTER CI.

Explaining the well-meant Duplicity of the Journals of the
Opposition. Affording another Glimpse of the Irrepressible
Conservative Sentiment. And showing how Thanksgiving-Day was kept by
the Mackerels.                                                    201

LETTER CII.

Showing the ingenious Financial Energy of a greatly reduced
Politician. And Describing a Combat illustrative of the
Philosophical Contentment of the well-known Southern Confederacy
under all Reverses.                                               213

LETTER CIII.

Being another and final Christmas Report. Including a Small Story
from our Uncle Abe. A Circular from the Secretary of State. A
Supernatural Carol from Sergeant O'Pake. And a tremendous
Ghost-Story from an unappreciated Genius.                         222

LETTER CIV.

Explaining, in a lucid and perfectly satisfactory Manner, the
powerful Inactivity of that portion of the venerated Mackerel
Brigade residing before the ancient City of Paris, and presenting
certain genial Details of a recent Festive Conglomeration.        243

LETTER CV.

Being our Correspondent's last Effort prior to the Commencement of a
new Mackerel Campaign. Introducing a metrical Picture of the most
remarkable Single Combat on Record. And showing how the Romance of
Woman's sensitive Soul can be crushed by the thing called Man.    254

LETTER CVI.

Wherein will be found certain profound Remarks upon the Variations
of Gold, etc., and a wholesome little Tale illustrative of that
famous Popular Abstraction, the Southern Treasury Note.           261

LETTER CVII.

Recording the latest Delphic Utterances of One whom we all honor
without knowing why. And recounting the truly marvellous Affair of
the Fort built according to Tacitus.                              267

LETTER CVIII.

Narrating the utterly unparalleled Conquest of Paris by the
venerable Mackerel Brigade, after Three Days' inconceivable
Strategy. In Fact, a Battle-Report after the Manner of all our
excited Morning Journals. Upon perusing which, each Reader is
expected to wrap himself up in the American Flag and shake his fist
at Combined Europe.                                               277

LETTER CIX.

Which endeth the Third Volume of this inexpressibly veracious
History of the War. And showeth how a Great Republic finally
overcame its surpassingly Mendacious Foes, and how it evinced its
unspeakable Gratitude to Providence for such a Victory.           289




THE

ORPHEUS C. KERR PAPERS.

THIRD SERIES.




LETTER LXXX.

    REPORTING OUR UNCLE ABE'S LATEST LITTLE TALE; OUR CORRESPONDENT'S
    HISTORICAL CHAUNT; THE BOSTON NOVEL OF "MR. SMITH;" AND A FUNERAL
    DISCOURSE BY THE DEVOUT CHAPLAIN OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.


WASHINGTON, D.C., Jan. 4th, 1863.

The more I see of our Honest Abe, my boy,--the more closely I analyze
the occasional acts by which he individualizes himself as a unit
distinct from the decimals of his cabinet,--the deeper grows my faith
in his sterling wisdom. Standing a head and shoulders above the other
men in power, he is the object at which the capricious lightnings of
the storm first strike; and were he a man of wax, instead of the grand
old rock he is, there would be nothing left of him but a shapeless and
inert mass of pliable material by this time. There are deep traces of
the storm upon his countenance, my boy; but they are the sculpture of
the tempest on a natural block of granite, graduating the features of
young simplicity into the sterner lineaments of the mature sublime, and
shaping one of those strong and earnest faces which God sets, as
indelible seals, upon the ages marked for immortality. Abused and
misrepresented by his political foes, alternately cajoled and
reproached by his other foes,--his political friends,--he still pursues
the honest tenor of the obvious Right, and smiles at calumny. His
good-nature, my boy, is a lamp that never goes out, but burns, with a
steady light, in the temples of his mortality through all the dark
hours of his time:

    "As some tall cliff that rears its awful form,
    Swells from the vale and midway leaves the storm;
    Though round its base the rolling clouds are spread,
    Eternal sunshine settles on its head."

They tell a story about the Honest Abe which this good pen of mine
cannot refrain from writing. A high moral, political chap from the
Sixth Ward, having learned that there was a pleasing clerical vacancy
in the Treasury Department, sought a hasty interview with the Honest
Abe, and says he:

"I am a member of our excellent National Democratic Organization, which
is at this moment eligible for office, on the score of far more true
loyalty to the Union of our forefathers than can be found in any other
organization of the present distracting period. I will admit," says the
genial chap, in a fine burst of honesty, "that our Organization has
done much for the sake of the South in times past; I will admit that we
have seemingly sided with the sunny South for the sake of our party. I
will admit," says this candid chap, with a slight cough, "that our
excellent Democratic Organization has at times seemed to sympathize
with our wayward sisters for the sake of itself _as_ an Organization.
But now," says the impressive chap majestically, "having heard the
recent news from Sumter, the excellent Organization of which I am a
part, stands ready to sacrifice everything for the sake of the Union,
and demands that it shall be admitted to all the privileges of
undisguised loyalty."

Here the excited chap blushed ingenuously, and says he:

"Any offices which you might have to dispose of would be acceptable to
the Organization of which I am a prominent part."

The Honest Abe was wiping the blade of his jack-knife with his thumb at
the time, and says he:

"What you say about the present willingness of the Organization to
sacrifice everything for the sake of the Union, neighbor, reminds me of
a small tale. When I was beating the prairies for clients in Illinois,"
says the Honest Abe, smiling at the back of the hand in which he held
the jack-knife,--"when I was stalking for clients, I knew an old 'un
named Job Podger, who lived at Peoria."

Here the honest Abe leaned away over the arm of his chair toward the
attentive political chap, and says he--

"Podger didn't know as much as would fill a four-inch spelling-book;
but he had enough money to make education quite dispensable, and his
wife knew enough for all the rest of the family. This wife was a very
good woman in her way," says the Honest Abe, kindly,--"she was a very
good woman in her way, and made my friend Podger so happy at home that
he never dared to go away from home without her permission. Her
temper," says the Honest Abe, putting one of his feet upon the sill of
the nearest window,--"her temper was of the useful nature to keep my
friend Podger and the children sufficiently warm all the year round,
and I don't think she ever called Job Podger an Old Fool except when
company was present. If she had one peculiarity more than another, it
was this: she was always doing something for Podger's sake."

Here the political chap was seized with a severe cough; but the Honest
Abe only smiled pleasantly at his jack-knife, and went on:

"She was always doing something for Podger's sake. Did she buy a new
dress, it was for Podger's sake; did she have a tea-party and a
quilting-bee, it was solely for the sake of Podger; did she refuse to
contribute for the fund of the heathen, it was solely on account of Mr.
Podger. But her strong point in this matter," says the Honest Abe,
leaning back in his chair against the wall, and scraping the sole of
his left boot with his knife, "her strong point was, that she endured a
great deal of suffering for Podger's sake. Did she sprain her ankle on
the cellar-stairs, she would say: 'Just see what I suffer for _your_
sake, Podger;' did she have a sick headache from drinking too much
Young Hyson, she would tie up her face in camphor, and say: 'Only see,
Podger, how much I bear for _your_ sake;' did she catch cold from
standing too long before a dry-goods shop window, she would go and sit
in a dark room with a flannel stocking round her neck, murmuring: 'I
was a goose ever to marry such a fool of a man as you be,--but I am
willing to suffer even this for _your_ sake.' In fact," says the Honest
Abe, commencing to cut his nails,--"in truth, that woman was always
suffering for Podger's sake, and Podger felt himself to be a guilty
man.

"One day, I remember, my friend Podger and his wife were going to
Chicago to buy a new set of furs for Podger's sake, and just as Podger
got comfortably nested in his seat in the car, the suffering woman ate
a lozenge, and says she: 'I shan't be fit to live, Podger, if you don't
go out to the baggage car again, and make certain sure that they'll get
all our baggage.'

"Now Podger had been out six times before to see about the same thing,"
says the Honest Abe, earnestly; "he'd been out six times before, and
began to feel wrathy. '_Our_ baggage!' says he, 'OUR baggage! Mrs.
Podger.' Here my friend Podger grew very red in the face, and says he:
'I rather like that, you know,--OUR baggage!--two brass-bound trunks
and covers, belonging to Mrs. Podger; three carpet-bags and one
reticule with steel lock, the property of Mrs. P.; two bandboxes and a
green silk umbrella, belonging to Mary Jane Podger; three shawls tied
up in a newspaper, and two baskets, owned by Mrs. M. J. Podger; one
clean collar and a razor, carried by Job Podger. OUR baggage!'

"Here my friend Podger attempted to laugh sardonically behind his
collar, and came near going straight into apoplexy. Would you believe
it," says the Honest Abe, poking the political chap in the ribs with
his jack-knife, "would you believe it? Mrs. Podger burst at once into
bitter tears, and says she: 'Oh, o-h! a-hoo-hoo-hoo! to think I should
have to suffer in this way for my husband's sake!' It wasn't long after
that," says the Honest Abe, lowering his tone, "it wasn't very long
after that, when Mrs. P. took a violent cold on her lungs, from
standing too long on the damp ground at a camp-meeting for Podger's
sake, and was soon a very sick woman.

"What particularly frightened my friend Podger was, that she didn't say
that this was for his sake for two whole days, and in his horror of
mind he went and brought a clergyman to see her. This clergyman," says
the Honest Abe, with reverence of manner, "this clergyman was not one
of those sombre, forlorn pastors, who would make you think that it is a
grievous thing to be a priest unto your benignant Creator; he rather
indicated by his ever-cheerful manner that the only perpetual happiness
is to be found in a life of pious ministrations. When he followed my
friend Podger to the bedside, he smiled encouragingly at the sick Mrs.
P., and rubbed his hands, and says he: 'How do we find ourselves now,
my dear madam? Are we about to die this pleasant morning?' She answered
him feebly," says the Honest Abe, feelingly, "she answered him feebly,
for she was very weak. She said that she feared she had not spent her
life as she should, but trusted that the prayers she had breathed
during her hours of pain would not be unanswered. 'Ah!' said she, 'I
feel that I could suffer still more than I have suffered, for my
Intercessor's sake!'

"The moment she uttered these last words," says the Honest Abe, "the
moment she uttered these words, my friend Podger, who had been standing
near the door, the very picture of misery, suddenly gave a start,
brightened up with a look of intense joy, beckoned the clergyman to
follow him into the kitchen, and fairly danced down stairs. In fact,
the good minister found him dancing about the kitchen like one
possessed, and says he:

"'Mr. Podger! Job Podger! I am shocked. What can you mean by such
conduct?'

"My friend Podger caught him around the neck, and says he:

"'She's going to get well--she's going to get well! I knew she wouldn't
go and leave her poor old silly Job in that way. Oh, an't I a happy old
fool, though!'

"The clergyman stepped back in alarm, and says he:

"'Are you mad, sir? How do you know your wife will get well?'

"Poor Podger looked upon the parson with a face that fairly beamed, and
says he: 'How do I _know_ it? Why, didn't you hear her yourself? _She's
commenced to call me names!_'"

Here the Honest Abe smiled abstractedly out of the window, and says he:

"She did get well, too, and lived to suffer often again for Podger's
sake: You see," says the Honest Abe, turning suddenly upon the
political chap, as though he had not seen him before,--"you see, Mrs.
Podger had been so much in the habit of suffering everything for my
friend Podger's sake, that when she spoke of suffering even for the
noblest cause, he naturally thought she was only calling names. And
that's the way," says the Honest Abe, cheerfully, "that's the way with
your Democratic Organization. It has been so long in the habit of
sacrificing everything for the sake of the sunny South and Party, that
when it talks of sacrificing both for the sake of the holy cause of
Union, it seems to me as though it is only calling names!"

Immediately upon the termination of this wholesome domestic tale, the
political chap sprang from his seat, smiled feebly at the ceiling for a
minute, crammed his hat down over his eyes, and fled greatly
demoralized.

The New Year, my boy, dawns blithely upon our distracted country as
accurately predicted by the Tribune Almanac; and having given much deep
thought to the matter, I am impressed with the conviction that the
first of January is indeed the commencement of the year. There is
something solemn in the idea; it is the period when our tailors send in
their little bills, and when fresh thoughts of the <DW64> race steal
upon our minds. How many New Years have arrived only to find the
unoffending American, of African descent, a hopeless bondman, toiling
in hopeless servitude, and wearing coarse underclothing! Occasionally,
my boy, he would wear a large seal ring, but it was always brass; and
now and then he would exhibit a large breastpin, but it was always
galvanized. When I see my fellow-men here wearing much jewelry, I think
of the unoffending <DW64>, and say to myself, "from the same shop, by
all that's bogus!"

'Twas on New-Year's Eve that I took prominent part in a great literary
entertainment at the tent of Captain Villiam Brown, near the shore of
Duck Lake; and responded to universal mackerel desire by sweetly
singing an historical Southern

    ROMAUNT.

    I.

    'Tis of a rich planter in Dixie I tell,
    Who had for his daughter a pretty dam-sel;
    Her name it was Linda De Pendleton Coates,
    And large was her fortune in treasury notes.

    CHORUS.--Concisely setting forth the exact value of those happy
    treasury notes:

    The treasury note of the Dixian knight
    Possesses a value that ne'er comes to light,--
    Except when the holder, too literal far,
    May bring it to light as he lights his segar.

    II.

    Miss Linda's boudoir was a sight to behold:
    A Northern man's breast-bone a shelf did uphold;
    Of dried Yankee ribs all her boxes were full;
    Her powder she kept in a Fire Zouave's skull.

    CHORUS.--Beautifully explaining Southern taste for Northern bones,
    and proving that an author's bones are sacred in the sight of
    Southern damsels:

    Your soft Southern maidens (like nations at large,
    Who take the dear bones of their authors in charge)
    Are so literary, they'd far rather scan
    A Norther's dead bones than the best living man.

    III.

    She played the piano; embroidered also,
    And worked worsted poodles and trees in a row;
    Made knitting-work slippers that no one could wear,
    And plastered pomatum all over her hair.

    CHORUS.--Satisfactorily revealing to the curious fair sex why she
    used pomatum when Bandoline was in fashion:

    Though Bandoline surely excels all pomade,
    The Southern supply couldn't run the blockade;
    At first it _did_ bring an exorbitant sum,
    And then contrabandoline straight did become.

    IV.

    As Linda was practising "Norma," one day,
    Her father came in in his usual way;
    And having first spat on the carpeted floor,
    Went on to address her as never before:

    CHORUS.--Showing conclusively why this tender parent had never done
    so before:

    On Southern plantations when money is flush
    Paternal affection comes out with a gush:
    But when, as in the war times, the cash is _non est_,
    The Father is lost in the planter distressed.

    V.

    "My daughter, my Linda," he tenderly said,
    "Your mother for several years has been dead;
    But not until now could I muster the strength
    To tell you what all must have found out at length."

    CHORUS.--Casually demonstrating how it must really have been found
    out at length:

    The Dixian feminines, true to their sex,
    To each other's precedents pay their respects;
    And if there's a secret in any girl's life,
    They're bound to disclose it before she's a wife.

    VI.

    "That you are my child, it were vain to deny;
    But who was your mother? There, darling, don't cry.
    The truth must be told, though it harrows me sore,
    Your ma was an Octoroon slave,--nothing more."

    CHORUS.--Analytical of morals in the sunny South, and touchingly
    illustrative of the Institution affected by the Emancipation
    Proclamation:

    Your slave is your property, therefore 'tis clear
    The child of your slave is your chattel fore'er;
    Though you the child's father may happen to be,
    That child is a slave,--otherwise, prop-er-ty.

    VII.

    "I've bred you, my darling, as ladies are bred,
    You've got more outside than inside of your head;
    But now, that your pa can no longer afford
    A daughter to keep, you must go by the board."

    CHORUS.--Concerning the manner of going by the board generally
    adopted in the land of Chivalry:

    The planter on finding his funds getting low,
    Right straight to an auctioneer's shambles doth go;
    And "Find me a ready-cash buyer," says he,
    "To take his own pick out of my fam-i-ly."

    VIII.

    Miss Linda sprang up with a look of dismay:
    "You surely don't mean, dear papa, what you say?"
    Then spake the stern parent, nowise looking blue,
    But smiling, in fact: "Well, I reckon I do."

    CHORUS.--Calculated to account for the complacency of the tender
    parent on this trying occasion:

    Now what, after all, is a sale to the chit?
    Some gallant may buy her and love her a bit;
    One half of the women in marriages sought
    Are simply and plainly and formally bought.

    IX.

    "Dear father," said Linda, "step out for a while,
    I'll think the thing over, and merit your smile;
    For if what I'd bring would relieve you the least,
    I'll bring it myself, though I'm sold like a beast."

    CHORUS.--Tending to deprecate any imputation on the maiden's
    refinement that might follow her use of that last expression:

    The culture of woman, as known in the South,
    Tends greatly to widen and quicken the mouth;
    And if a fair Southerner's language is coarse,
    'Tis because nothing finer her style would endorse.

    X.

    The parent went out, and he stayed for an hour,
    Having taken some punch and a Hennessey--sour;
    And when he came back, 'twas his daughter he found
    Slain by her own scissors, and dead on the ground.

    CHORUS.--Suggesting facts to the coroner's jury, and clearing up
    all mystery as to the lamentable suicide:

    Since scissors for ripping out stitches are made,
    A girl in extremity finds them an aid;
    She's only to open them fairly and wide,
    And give them a cut at the stitch in her side.

    XI.

    Beside the dead body a billet displayed,
    Said, "See, dearest father, the mischief you've made;
    I couldn't survive to be sold; for you know,
    I'd far rather die than a sell-ibate go."

    CHORUS.--Commenting genially on the idiosyncrasy of female
    character evidenced in this revelation:

    All over the world it is plain to espy
    That woman a husband has e'er in her eye;
    And if no fine fellow her husband can be,
    She'll even take up with a _felo de se_!

    XII.

    The neighbors came in. "What a pity!" said they,
    "To lose such a daughter, and in such a way."
    "My daughter be hanged!" said the parent sublime,--
    "_It's one thousand dollars I'm euchred this time!_"

    CHORUS.--Deducing a beautiful and useful moral from this burst of
    paternal agony:

    My dear fellow-citizens, lay it to heart:
    Who'd sell a young woman must work it up smart:
    Or else, like the planter, whose story I've told,
    He'll only go selling to find himself sold.

When I had finished singing, Captain Samyule Sa-mith exhibited a small
manuscript, and says he:

"The noise having ceased, I will proceed to read a small moral tale,
written by a young woman which lives in Boston, and is destined to
become an eddycator of mankind. The fiction is called

    "MR. SMITH.[1]

"The first of April. You know the day. A point of time, an unit of
twenty-four hours, with a night on each side of it, and the sun laid on
top to keep it in its place. You have undoubtedly passed the day in New
England at some period of your miserable life. You have felt your
coarse nature repulsed, too, when some weary and desolate little child
has dreamily pinned a bit of paper to the hinder-most verge of the
garment men call a coat, and then called the attention of passers-by to
your appearance. You have despised that little, weary, hollow-eyed
child for it. Beware how you strike that child; for I tell you that the
child is the germ of the thing they call man. The germ will develop; it
will grow broadly and largely into the full entity of Manhood. In
striking the present Child you strike the future Man. Ponder this
thought well. Let it fester in your bosom.

      [1] The idea that this moral and exciting tale appeared
      originally in the _Atlantic Monthly_, is scornfully repelled by
      the Editor of this work.

"John Smith sat at his table, in the lowest depths of a dreamy
coal-mine, and helped himself to some more pork and beans. I know not
what there was way down in the black recesses of the man's hidden soul
to make him want so much pork and beans. I look into my heart to find
an answer to the question, but no answer comes. Providence does not
reveal all things to us. Is it not well it should be so?

"He was a hard, iron-looking, adamantine man. His eyes were glowing
furnaces for the crucibles of thought. You felt that he saw you when he
looked at you. His nose was like a red gothic tower built amidst broken
angles of sullied snow, and his mouth was the cellar of that tower. His
hair was of the sort that resists a comb. You have seen the same sort
on the heads of men of great thought. It is the tangled bush in which
the goat of Thought loses itself.

"John Smith hiccupped, as he helped himself to some more pork and
beans. He did not notice that the foot which he had semi-consciously
placed on a pale, sickly child, was beginning to move. But it did move,
and there crawled from under it the shape of a diseased dwarf of
womanhood. This timid, pallid thing, uplifted itself to its bleeding
feet, and nestled to the side of John Smith.

"'Y'o hae been separated by unspeaking space from dis humble leetle
place for some hours longer that zis boosom could uncomplainingly
indure,--y'o have.'

"The child meant to say, in its coarse, brutal, unlettered way, that
the man had been absent too long.

"John Smith helped himself to some more pork and beans. He was a man,
you know, and could not answer without deep thought. He took his knife
and wiped it thoughtfully upon her head, and then sawed off a sickly
yellow curl. When he placed that curl on the same plate with the pork
and beans, its coils seemed like those of some golden snake.

"'Girletta,' he said, with the ring of iron in his tones, 'why is it
that the beasts never want to marry? God made them as He made us; yet
they never ask priests to make them slaves to each other.'

"The sickly little waif cringed closer to that inscrutable great heart
which underlaid a soul of eternal questioning. She shuddered like a
wounded hog, but could not answer. An inward fever was devouring her.

"The man took some more pork and beans. 'Girletta,' he said, almost
fiercely, 'the beasts teach me a lesson; but I will not, dare not,
SHALL not heed it. I want a home; my heart demands some one to work for
me; to support me. I am weary of labor, and want some one to labor and
toil and suffer for me, and do my washing. I love you. Have me.'

"The atom of womanhood contorted her diseased features into the pale
twist of agony, and her bosom heaved with stormy wavings, like the side
of a tortured and choking brute. Falling to the ground, she writhed,
and struggled, and kicked convulsively, as though seized with some
inward pang. Then she rose slowly to her shattered little feet, and
drew an old cupboard to the middle of the wretched cave and beat her
head against it.

"It was the child's first taste of that great mystery of perfect love
which woman is doomed to share with the thing called Man.

"'Yo'air indulging in secret cachinnation, at the expense of my sair
heart.'

"The child meant that he was laughing at her.

"John Smith helped himself to some more pork and beans, and sat back in
his stern, dark chair. What were his thoughts as he looked down on that
miniature fragment of womanly humanity? Perhaps he thought that there
might be angels way up in heaven just like her. Bright seraphs, with
ruby eyes, and silver wings, and golden harps, and just such pale,
haggard, gaunt, sunken, bleared little faces.

"'Girletta,' he said, 'I hereby make thee mine. Take some of these pork
and beans.'

"She fell upon his bosom.

"There let us leave them. Do you think they were any less happy,
because they were way down in a dreamy, rayless coal-mine, where men
work their souls away to give others warmth? If you think so, you have
never felt what true love is. Your degraded and starless nature has
never had one true soul to lean upon. When you lean upon a soul, you
see everything through that soul, which gives its own hue to
everything. Man's love is a pane in his bosom, and through that pane
the eyes of woman look forth to see the new world. The medium is the
ultimatum. God gives us love that we may live more cheaply and happily
together than if we were separate. A bread-pudding is richer where
there are two hearts, than plum-pudding is to one alone. The world will
learn this yet, and then the lion will lie down with the lamb, and even
you will be less depraved. The First of April found John Smith
unmarried, but it left him nearly wedded. Let us think of this when the
spring birds sing again. It will make us more human, more charitable,
and fitter to be blest."

As Samyule finished reading this excellent religious tale, my boy, I
stole from the tent to meditate in silence upon the terrible revelation
of human nature. Are there not dozens of Smiths in this world,--ay,
even John Smiths? I should think so, my boy,--I should think so.

On Friday morning, I went to Accomac, to attend the funeral of a young
chap who had finished with delirium tremens, and was deeply affected by
the funeral sermon of the Mackerel Chaplain, who had kindly volunteered
for the occasion.

Having shaken hands with the parents of deceased, the worthy man
commenced the service.

He said that man was born to die. He had known a number of men to die,
and believed that death was every man's lot. If our dear brother here
could speak, he would say that it was his lot. What was death, after
all, but an edict of liberty? Death was the event that set us free, and
freedom was a priceless blessing. Political demagogues pretended to
believe that certain men should be the slaves of other men, because
their skins were a little darker than the others. What a bright
argument was this! If dark skins disentitled men to freedom, he (the
speaker) could point out more than one Democrat who certainly ought to
be a slave. (Great laughter.) Freedom was plainly the condition
Providence intended for all men, without regard to color, no matter
what Tammany Hall might say to the contrary. It was because we had
permitted a violation of this condition in the cases of four millions
of fellow-beings, that this terrible war had come upon us. We could
only conquer by declaring the slaves, now and forever, FREE!
(Tumultuous and enthusiastic applause.) It was the duty of every loyal
man to see that this principle was carried out, even as they were about
to carry their departed brother out: though it must not be inferred
that he meant it should be carried out on _beer_. (Great laughter.)
When we had once settled this matter at home, we could afford to say to
John Bull and Louis Napoleon: "Interfere if you dare. We are ready for
you both." [Male parent of the deceased--"Why don't you go and fight
yourself?"] That gentleman who spoke then, is as bad as the patient who
said to the doctor who was recommending some wholesome medicine to him:
"Why don't you take it yourself, if it's good?" (Great laughter and
applause.) But he would detain them no longer, or the papers would say
that he had talked politics.

At the conclusion of this discourse, my boy, the male parent of the
deceased offered the following preamble and resolution:

WHEREAS, It has pleased an inscrutable and all-wise Providence to free
our departed brother from the bonds of life; and

WHEREAS, Freedom is the normal condition of all mankind: therefore, be
it

RESOLVED, That we will vote for no man who is not in favor of Universal
Liberty, without respect to color.

Passed, unanimously.

Politics, my boy, are, in themselves, a distinct system of life and
death; and when we say that a man is politically dead, we mean that
even his en-graving is forgotten; and that the brick which he carries
in his hat is a species of head-stone.

Yours, post obit,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER LXXXI.

    SHOWING HOW A MINION OF TYRANNY WAS TERRIBLY PUNISHED FOR
    INTERFERING WITH THE CONSERVATIVE WOMEN OF AMERICA; AND DESCRIBING
    THE KENTUCKY CHAP'S REMARKABLE SKIRMISH WITH HIS THANKSGIVING
    DINNER.


WASHINGTON, D.C., Jan. 7th, 1863.

As I make it a practice to pay all my honest debts, my boy, and have
never flagellated a person of African descent, I could not properly
come under the head of "Chivalry" in an American dictionary, though I
might possibly come under its feet in the "Union-as-it-Was;" yet I have
that in my nature which revolts at the thought of a war against women,
and am sufficiently chivalrous to defend any cause whose effects are
crinoline. The bell-shaped structure called Woman, my boy, was created
expressly to conquer unresisting adversaries; to win engagements
without receiving a blow, and to do pretty much as she pleases, by
pleasing pretty much as she does. She is a harmless creation of
herself, my boy; and to war directly against her because she may chance
to influence her male friends to war against us, is about as sensible
as it would be to execrate our hatter because a gust of wind blows our
new beaver into the mud. If the hatter had not made the hat, the wind
could not have blown it off, and if God had not made women, she could
not encourage the well-known Southern Confederacy against us; but shall
we turn enemy to the hatter, or to the woman, on this account? Not if
we know ourselves, my boy, and recognize the high moral spirit of
justice observable in the Constitution.

Being thus possessed of a reverence for that sex whose bonnets remind
me of cake-baskets, I cannot refrain from frowning indignantly upon
that horrible spirit of national tyranny which has inspired Sergeant
O'Pake, of the demoralized Mackerel Brigade, to issue the following

    "GENERAL ORDER."

    "For the purpose of simplifying national strategy to those
    conservative women of America who, while engaged in the pursuit of
    happiness as guaranteed by the Constitution, desire to visit the
    Southern Confederacy, it is ordered that they shall answer the
    following paternal questions before passing the lines of the
    Mackerel Brigade:

       "I. For how many years has your age been Just Twenty-two?

      "II. How many novels do you consume per week?

     "III. Were you ever complained of to the authorities for
    inordinate piano-forte playing?

      "IV. Do you work slippers for the heathen?

       "V. If so; for _what_ He, then?

      "VI. What newspaper's 'Marriages and Deaths' do you consider the
    best?

     "VII. In selecting a church to attend, what  prayer-book do
    you find most becoming to your complexion?

    "VIII. How much display of neck do you consider necessary to
    indicate a Modesty which shrinks from showing an ankle?

      "IX. Did you ever stoop to folly? or is it Folly alone that
    stoops to you?

       "X. Did you ever eat as much as you wanted at dinner, when
    members of the opposite sex were opposite?

    "It is also ordered that no female visitor to the celebrated
    Southern Confederacy shall carry more than eight large trunks and a
    bonnet-box for each month in the year; and that no female shall
    pass the line, whose dimensions in full dress exceed the ordinary
    space between two pickets, as the latter will, on no account be
    permitted to edge away from their stations at this trying crisis in
    the history of our distracted country.

    "O'PAKE,
    "Sergeant Mackerel Brigade."

This inhuman order had scarcely been issued when there came to the
Mackerel lines in front of Paris a virtuous young female, aged 23 with
the figures reversed, who was disgusted with the great vulgarity of the
North, and wished to visit the marriageable Southern Confederacy,
having heard that the Confederacy was carefully Husbanding its
resources. Being a poor girl, with "nothing to wear," she only had
seven Saratoga trunks, ten bandboxes, fourteen small carpet-bags, and a
lap-dog; yet the ill-bred O'Pake was suspicious enough to examine one
of her trunks.

He ruthlessly opened it in her presence, my boy, and quickly met with
the horrible fate which was at once immortalized by the Mackerel
Chaplain in the following awful presentment:

    "THE AVENGING SKELETON."

    "When tyrant purpose made the martial fool
      With brief authority profoundly drunk,
    Unto his minions issued forth a rule,
      To search each Southward-going woman's trunk.

    "There was a Sergeant of the Mack'rel ranks
      Made one attempt to carry out the law;
    But ah!--to Providence a thousand thanks!--
      He met a doom to fill the soul with awe.

    "Scarce had his impious hands the task begun;--
      Scarce had he ope'd the vast and mammoth thing,--
    When, from the trunk's interior Phlegethon,
      Came forth a horrid phantom, with a spring!

    "It was a dreadful monster, without flesh,
      Made up of ever-less'ning, perfect hoops;
    More terrible to vision than secesh,
      With all his ragged, whiskey-drinking troops.

    "The wretched Sergeant started back with fear,
      And would have 'scaped the penalty incurred;
    But, ah! the spectre caught him by an ear,
      And held him trembling like a prisoned bird.

    "Wrought up to frenzy by mishap so dire,
      He struck the phantom in his thoughtless rage;
    But 'twas like fanning to put out a fire,
      And straight his hand was tangled in a cage!

    "And then his other tyrant hand he tried
      To ease the springs that pressed him ev'rywhere;
    His futile blow the Skeleton defied,--
      His other hand was taken in a snare!

    "Then round his form the dread avenger coiled,
      Like snakes' backbones in unelastic curl;
    By prison-bars his wished retreat is foiled,
      And in a cage behold the trembling churl.

    "Still mad with terror at his grievous plight,
      He lifts a foot, as though to kick at last;
    When, lo! his leg goes through an op'ning slight,
      And there two wiry circles hold it fast.

    "He plunges, staggers, tries to tear the bands
      Which make that woman's Skeleton complete;
    Then reeleth blindly unto where she stands,
      And falls in helpless bondage at her feet!"

When the poor tool of tyranny was released from this terrific skeleton,
he looked as bewildered as one who had just returned from the outskirts
of civilization; but still his fiendish taste for trunk-inspection was
not conquered. He returned to the edge of the wardrobe abyss, drew
forth an immense white article, and says he:

"Do my spectacles relate a fiction, or is this indeed a Sibley tent for
the use of the Confederacy?"

At this moment the excellent young woman hastily snatched the article
away from him, and says she:

"You nasty thing, that's my"--here she blushed.

At times, my boy, woman's blush is the imperial banner of virgin
Modesty thrown out to catch the breeze that wafts the sound of coming
rescue, and means: "_God is my defence._" At other times, it is the
eloquent protest of a fine intelligence which deprecates the test that
would turn all its hidden beauties to the public eye, and means:
_Humility is born of Genius._ But in this case, it was the lurid flush
of anger, and meant--_a petticoat_.

Not wishing to further betray the reproachful fact that he was an
unmarried Mackerel, Sergeant O'Pake closed the trunk with emphasis, and
permitted the triumphant young woman of America to trip it lightly to
the South.

The Mackerel Brigade at present constitutes one of three parallel
lines, the other two being the celebrated City of Paris and the well
known Southern Confederacy. Paris is the central one, and may be called
the line of battle, over which the Orange County Howitzers are
continually hurling shot and shell at the glorious sun. During the day
it is much frequented by Southern Confederacies, who drink anything
that will pour into a tumbler; and in the evening it is visited by our
indomitable troops, who go to look at the empty bottles. You may ask,
my boy, why the Confederacies are not routed, and Paris occupied? I
answer, that the new General of the Mackerel Brigade will not attack an
inferior force, and is waiting until there shall be something worth
killing on the opposite side. Too often did the former General of the
Mackerel Brigade make the mistake this high-minded conduct is intended
to avoid; too often, after an interval of only a few months, did he
lead the majestic Mackerels ahead of him into the field, and then
hastily retire, upon finding that the Confederacies were too inferior
in numbers to make their conquest worth while. But we shall have no
more such mistakes, for the new General will not move against the foe
until the latter is strong enough to make carnage desirable. Besides,
the man who was to build a bridge across Duck Lake, could not come last
week, on account of the rain, and there are no ferryboats running.

On Thanksgiving Day, however, we had a skirmish of thrilling intensity.
The conservative Kentucky chap, my boy, has got command of Company 2,
Regiment 1, and having drilled them in swearing, to the sound of the
Emancipation Proclamation, for a whole fortnight, he has brought them
to a high state of discipline and profanity. On Thursday morning, just
after one of our scouts had cleaned his spectacles, he beheld a
Confederate turkey emerge from this side of Paris and proceed to insult
the United States of America by hideous gobblings. The alarm was at
once given, and after swearing at his men to give them confidence, the
conservative Kentucky chap led them forth to capture the obscene bird.
Onward pushed the spectacled veterans, with fixed bayonets, addressing
their eyes with pleasant oaths, and hoping that they might meet Horace
Greeley.

The Confederate turkey was eating a worm at the moment, and only paused
long enough to eye our troops with that species of disdain which comes
of Southern birth. He felt, as it were, that he was protected by the
Constitution of our forefathers.

The conservative Kentucky chap, being fond of turkey for dinner
himself, waved his glittering sword above his head, and says he:

"The South has brought this upon herself. Make ready.--"

He was about to add "Fire!" my boy! but he had just put on his
spectacles, and a sudden change came over his Kentucky countenance.
Says he:

"For Heaven's sake, don't fire! Vallandigham me," says he, staring
right over the turkey,--"Vallandigham me, if I didn't come near telling
them to shoot! And there's a <DW65> coming after the turkey as sure as
death. Ah! what an escape!"

A Mackerel chap, who had noticed his staring and great agitation,
approached respectfully, and says he:

"Does a obstacle to victory protrude?"

The conservative Kentucky chap spat at a copy of the "Tribune," which
he threw upon the ground for the purpose, and says he:

"Notwithstanding any Proclamations whatsoever, Kentucky is not waging
this war against the institution of slavery. In the dim distance I
behold a contraband apparently approaching the turkey, and there must
be no bombardment until he has returned to his rightful owner."

The Mackerel chap wiped his boots with the "Tribune," and says he:

"I do not see our brother Africa at all."

Here the Confederate turkey, who had finished his worm, turned heavily
from the scene, and presently disappeared on the other side of Paris.

The Kentucky chap still kept staring afar off, and says he:

"Why, I can see him, though he appears to be at a great distance."

Now it chanced, my boy, that while the conservative Kentucky chap was
saying this, the Mackerel chap gazed at him fixedly, and then says he,
in just astonishment:

"Methinks there is a object on one of the glasses of your spectacles,
Capting."

Frantically the Kentucky chap tore off his spectacles, and discovered
upon one of the glasses an object indeed. It was a small picture of a
<DW64> minstrel, my boy, cut from the show-bill of some country band,
and pasted upon the spectacles of Kentucky's rising son. It had been
secretly placed there the night before by a Democratic chap from the
Sixth Ward, to give a constitutional turn to the war.

The mind's eye of Conservatism, my boy, looks upon the war through
spectacles so seldom cleaned, that what most offends it, is more than
likely to be what exists only in its own looking-glasses.

Yours, spectacularly,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER LXXXII.

    NOTING THE UTTER DESTRUCTION, BY AN INEBRIATED JOURNALIST, OF THE
    VENERABLE GAMMON'S BENIGNANT SPEECH; INTRODUCING THE NEW GENERAL OF
    THE MACKEREL BRIGADE; AND DESCRIBING A CURIOUS PHENOMENON ON DUCK
    LAKE.


WASHINGTON, D.C., Jan. 15th, 1863.

The venerable Gammon, has melted sadly home to Mugville since the
removal of the late idolized General of the Mackerel Brigade, and a
worshipping peasantry are exasperated at his unnatural wrongs.

I cannot exactly, see, my boy, how this venerable man is so deeply
injured by the said removal; in fact, it does not appear to me that he
can have any interest in the change whatever; but his appearance of
deep affliction has called scalding tears to all beholding eyes, and
the attached populace crawl in the dust at the subduing aspect of his
inexpressible woe.

It was on the Tuesday evening of this revered and aged patriot's
arrival in adoring Mugville, that he was tumultuously serenaded by the
brass-band of the Young Men's Democratic Christian Association, which
is composed exclusively of constitutional chaps. He was frantically
besought to respond; and then it was that he fell a hapless and
venerable victim to the great, heart-rending mistake of an inebriated
reporter for a reliable morning journal. The beloved old being meant to
make only a few pithy, telling remarks to the enthusiastic band, and
this was, in fact, his veritable

    SPEECH.

    "Thank you for your compliment. (A voice: '_How are you, old
    boots?_' '_We're the boys to give the Rebels comfort!_' and
    cheers.) We are here to-night to stand by the Constitution. (A
    voice: '_What's old Abe about?_' '_Locking up good Democrats in
    Fort Lafayette!_' '_Well, it's our own fault, you know._' '_We
    deserve worse treatment!_' and hisses.) We abhor these Rebels as
    much as the Black Republicans (a voice: '_We can give the Rebels
    what they want!_' and applause), but we also hate home-tyranny. Why
    was the idolized General of the Mackerel Brigade removed? (A voice:
    '_To please the Rebels!_ '_We have licked the Black Republicans in
    New York!_' '_We've done the Rebels!_' '_Good!_') To spite us!
    That's so, boys! (A voice: '_And we'll make them love us yet?_'
    '_The New York election tickles them!_' and cheers.) Whose good was
    he removed for? (A voice: '_For Jeff Davis!_' '_Three cheers,
    boys!_' and great enthusiasm.) Let History show! (A voice: '_We'll
    make him President in 1864!_') Good night."

Here you have the true speech of the Venerable Gammon, my boy, with all
those patriotic interruptions which lend such a chaste rhetorical charm
to the extemporized oratory of our distracted country; but how shall I
express the pangs which tore the breasts of the fond populace, when the
reliable morning journal of Mugville came out next morning with six
pounds of heavy editorial to show that the Venerable Gammon had
ruthlessly betrayed the excellent national Democratic organization! How
shall I depict the public misery that ensued in Mugville when that
reliable morning journal, upon the authority of its inebriated
reporter, gave _this_ as a correct report of the revered patriarch's

    SPEECH.

    The speaker said: "How are you, old boots? (A voice: '_Thank you
    for your compliment._') We're the boys to give the Rebels comfort
    and cheers. (A voice: '_We are here to-night to stand by the
    Constitution!_') What's old Abe about? Locking up good Democrats in
    Fort Lafayette! Well; it's our own fault, you know; we deserve
    worse treatment and hisses. (A voice: '_We abhor these Rebels as
    much as the Black Republicans!_') We can give the Rebels what they
    want and applause. (A voice: '_But we also hate home tyranny!_'
    '_Why was the idolized General of the Mackerel Brigade removed?_')
    To please the Rebels we have licked the Black Republicans in New
    York; we've done the Rebels good. (A voice: '_To spite us, that's
    so, boys!_') And we'll make them love us yet! The New York election
    tickles them, and cheers. (A voice: '_Whose good was he removed
    for?_') For Jeff Davis three cheers, boys, and great enthusiasm. (A
    voice: '_Let history show!_') We'll make him President in 1864! (A
    voice: '_Good night!_')"

You see, my boy, this horrible twistification was the result of the
reporter's getting confused about who was the speaker--him on the hotel
balcony or the talkative chaps in the street. If our excellent national
Democratic Organization would have less talking during their public
speeches, my boy, there need be no such inhuman mistakes as that which
has calumniated and utterly prostrated the Venerable Gammon.

On Wednesday I took a trot on the war-path upon the architectural
street, Pegasus, and found the veteran Mackerel Brigade back at Paris
again. They had made a great march from the Blue Ridge, my boy, and
when I reached the front I found a scientific chap from Cincinnati
taking observations. He stuck a tall stick into the ground, and
scratched a long line on the damp sod, from the foot of this stick to
the extreme right of the spectacled Brigade, letting the toes of the
front rank of the Mackerels just touch it. Then he attached a powerful
magnifying-glass to about the centre of the upright stick, and
commenced looking through it very intently all along the line he had
drawn.

I observed him attentively, and says I: "What is the nature of your
contract with the Government, my serious friend?"

He rubbed the glass with his blue silk pocket-handkerchief, and says
he: "I have invented this useful arrangement to ascertain whether or
not the Army of Accomac is really advancing. I closely watch the line
to which the toes of the front rank of the army are already very near,
and could almost swear that the forward movement is still going on. The
average speed of this army," says the scientific chap, calculatingly,
"has hitherto been six miles in six weeks; but now that the war is
about to commence in earnest, I think that the troops are making better
time."

And so they were, my boy, so they were; for the heel of the first
rank's boots were almost on the line in less than an hour,--no
Confederacies being in sight.

Noticing a circle of Mackerel Officers a short distance in my rear, I
dismounted from Pegasus and walked thither for greater speed,
discovering that the brilliant staff were admiring the great equestrian
gambols of the new General of the Mackerel Brigade.

The new General is a dignified, middle-aged chap, my boy, with a face
which expresses many whiskers, and an eye to look you through and
through when your meaning is transparent. He is not quite two yards
high, has a head which looks like a lustrous apple-dumpling, dropped
into the middle of a window-brush, and graduates downward into his
boots without seeming to be either growing out of them, or running
through them.

And he is none of your military popinjays, my boy, all plastered with
buttons and gold lace, but an earnest, hardworking soldier. His dress
for the field is characterized by genuine republican simplicity, and
consists of hardworking corduroy breeches, sternly patched; an earnest
pea-jacket, resolutely out at the elbows; a pair of straightforward
slippers, unflinchingly ragged around the toes, and an untrifling silk
hat, determinedly mashed-in at various points. You feel as you look at
him, my boy, that he means hard work, and is indifferent to good
clothes as long as he can save his distracted country.

On the majestic brow of a true hero, a shocking bad hat is a far
nobler, more glittering crown, than the circle of filthy lucre which
surmounts the head of Europe's bloated despot. Grander, far grander is
the nightcap of a Washington, than any style of army cap I have yet
seen.

The new General was mounted upon a long-tailed cob, and his
horsemanship thrilled this manly bosom with rapture. Did he wish to
deliver an order to his aid, he but slightly tightened the reins of his
horse, and at once the noble animal arose to his hind legs and fired
off a pistol held for him by an orderly. Did he wish to go the rounds,
he but touched the left flank of his horse, and straightway the
sagacious charger struck into a graceful waltz, leaping over
five-barred gates as he went along, and dashing through hoops held
aloft by the troops. Did he desire to approach one of his Generals for
consultation, he had but to give a low whistle, and forthwith the
intelligent animal limped about on three feet, as though lame, and
drank a bottle of wine presented to him by an orderly. Did he have an
inclination to review his troops, he was compelled only to gently pinch
his horse's neck, and at once the graceful beast laid down upon his
side and pretended to die as naturally as any human being.

In short, my boy, it is argued from the earnest new General's bad
clothes, that he will speedily bring the war to a good close; and from
his being such a particular horseman, that he will never become any
party's footman.

But let me change my subject for a time, and relate the great triumph
of our new naval artillery on Duck Lake, which majestic sheet of water
has returned to earth with the late rains.

Rear Admiral Head has so improved the deadly swivel-gun of the Mackerel
iron-plated squadron, that it will send a ball some distance without
kicking the gunner overboard. The secret of this improvement is known
only to the Government, my boy, and will be used to advantage when our
gory conflict with combined Europe comes off.

It was on Thursday morning, my boy, when an enthusiastic military mob,
consisting of Captain Villiam Brown, Captain Bob Shorty, and myself,
stood once more upon the familiar shore of Duck Lake. The squadron,
which has been named the "Secretary Welles," having been launched upon
the treacherous element by Rear Admiral Head and one Mackerel, we took
out our pieces of smoked glass and prepared for the naval pageant.

We could plainly see the stern old Rear Admiral bustling about on the
gallant Grandmother of the Seas, as I may term the noble craft, and
hear him swearing in his iron-plated manner.

"Fracture my turret," says the old sea-dog, "if I don't think this gun
will surpass the Armstrong; blockade me, if I don't."

When it became the duty of the solitary Mackerel crew to load the awful
instrument of destruction, it was discovered that the ramrod had been
left behind at the Navy Yard Foundry. This nautical disaster might have
marred the experiments, had not the Rear Admiral chanced to have his
brown gingham umbrella along with him. This was used as a rammer, and
the experiment proceeded.

The first charge was twenty pounds of powder, not more than nineteen of
them running out of the touchhole. The ball slightly touched the water
and went down, the recoil of the squadron being only the width of Duck
Lake.

The second shot was made with only one pound of powder, as it was
feared that the rudder might be strained by too much concussion, and we
saw the ball drop into the ocean wave. At this shot, the "Secretary
Welles" only hopped out of the water a few inches. The third shot was
made with half a pound of powder, as it was not deemed advisable to do
too much damage to the surrounding country by the gunnery.

We were gazing intently at the merciless implement of death, through
our smoked glass, when this shot was fired, and suddenly beheld a
phenomenon which made us catch our breath.

Mixed up with the fire and smoke, there emerged from the mouth of the
swivel-gun, what appeared to be an immense brown bird of some kind,
spreading its huge wings as if came out, and skimming wearily to the
shore!

Captain Bob Shorty commenced to quake, and says he:

"It's a Confederate insect!"

"No," says Villiam, lowering his smoked glass, and speaking in a solemn
whisper, "It's the distracted bird of our country, floating spectrally
on the battle-smoke. Ah!" says Villiam, abstractedly uncorking my
canteen, "our distracted bird is no inseck."

Was it indeed a majestic Eagle, my boy, stooping from his clouded
heights to sanctify the terrible naval scene? I guess not, my boy,--I
guess not; for we presently ascertained that, when the careless
Mackerel crew rammed home that last charge, he heedlessly left
Rear-Admiral Head's brown gingham umbrella sticking in the gun, and it
was the flight of the umbrella we had witnessed.

An umbrella, my boy, and a horse, may be said to have some relations.
We put one up when it rains, and we rein the other up when we "put."

Yours, good-naturedly,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER LXXXIII.

    REFERRING TO WASHINGTON CITY AND THE PRESIDENT'S MESSAGE, AND
    GIVING THE SOUTHERN CONFEDERACY'S VERY REASONABLE PEACE
    PROPOSITION.


WASHINGTON, D.C., Jan. 28th, 1863.

The city of Washington, my boy, without her Congress, is like a maiden
without her plighted young man. She surveys herself in the mirror of
the Potomac, and says she: "Where's my Congress, without whom I am like
a gas bracket deserted by its old flame?" Alas! all flesh is gas, my
boy, and some of our congressmen are very fleshy. Their presence it is
that makes Washington a light for the world, and many of them who once
rode high horses have alighted. At the present moment our distracted
country is enveloped in darkest night, and the day seems so far off
that many Mackerels despair of ever seeing payday, even. At such a time
what a blessing is that Congress which burns to illumine us after the
manner of an elaborate chandelier! It passes away to leave everything
dark; it returns, and behold all is darkey.

I was in my room at my hotel, when Congress commenced to arrive,
conversing with Captain Bob Shorty; and, as a seedy-looking,
middle-aged chap passed by on the opposite side of the street, the
captain looked out of the window, and says he:

"That's one of the new legislators, my Pythias."

"How can you tell a new Solon from an old one?" says I, curiously.

"Why," says Captain Bob Shorty, profoundly, "an old congressman never
wears a tall hat. An old congressman," says Captain Bob Shorty, sagely,
"always wears a soft hat, so that it wont be injured by being knocked
over his eyes."

I pondered deeply over this idea, my boy, and it seemed to me that a
soft hat must be the real Cap of Liberty.

Passing over the organization of Senate and House, which suggested
thoughts of ancient Rome about the time she was saved by geese, I shall
proceed to notice the Message which our honest Abe fired into Congress
from his intellectual breastworks during the week.

You have undoubtedly read this Abe L. paper, my boy, in the reliable
morning journals, making due allowance for the typographical outrages
committed by printers of opposite politics; but there was one portion
of it gotten up for the honest Abe by the Chaplain of the Mackerel
Brigade, and this portion is so mutilated in the publishing, that I
cannot refrain from giving you the true version. Speaking of the cost
to the country of Emancipation with compensation, the Chaplain wrote:

"Certainly it is not so easy to pay something as it is to pay nothing;
but it is easier to pay a small sum than it is to pay a large sum; and
it is easier to pay any bill when we have the money, than it is to pay
a smaller bill when we have no money. Compensated Emancipation requires
no more money than would be necessary to the progress of Remunerated
Enfranchisement, which would not close before the end of five hundred
years. At that time, we shall undoubtedly have five hundred times as
many people as we have now, provided that no one dies in the mean time;
and supposing the premium on gold to increase in the same ratio as it
has increased since our last census was taken, the premium on the
specie belonging to five hundred times our present population will be
amply sufficient to pay for all persons of African descent.

"I do not state this inconsiderately. At the same ratio of increase as
we now realize, American gold will soon be worth more than all Europe.
We have ten millions nine hundred and sixty-three thousand miles, while
Europe has three millions eight hundred thousand, and yet the average
premium on specie, in some of the States, is already above that of
Europe. Taking the brokers in the aggregate, I find that if one gold
dollar is worth $1.30 in one year,

    It will be worth $2.60 in two years,
    "   "   "    "    3.90 "   3    "
    "   "   "    "    5.20 "   4    "
    "   "   "    "    6.50 "   5    "

"This shows a yearly increase. If a gold dollar is worth $6.50 in five
years, it will, of course, be worth $3,250 or five hundred times as
much in five hundred years. Thus, when our population is five hundred
times as great as at present, supposing each man to have a single gold
dollar, the premium of $3,250 on his gold dollar will enable such man
to purchase thirty-two and a half persons of African descent from the
loyal slaveholders of our border States at $100 a piece, though he
would be virtually expending but one dollar himself.

"This scheme of emancipation would certainly make the war shorter than
it now has a prospect of being. In a word, it shows that a dollar will
be much harder to pay for the war than will be a dollar for
emancipation on the proposed plan."

You will observe, my boy, that this same great mathematical idea is
advanced in the Message as it is printed; but our Honest Abe has chosen
to vary the terms somewhat. If you have a gold dollar, my boy, salt it
down for five hundred years, and some future generation of offspring
will call you blessed for leaving them $3,250 in postage-stamps.

On my last journey toward Paris, finding the Mackerel Brigade still
halting before that ancient city, I rode straight to the tent of
Captain Villiam Brown, whom I found making himself a fall overcoat from
some old newspapers, while the Chaplain sat near by, making himself a
pair of shoes from a remnant of calico.

"Well, paladin," says I to Villiam, "what is it that so long detains
our noble army on the path of conquest?"

Villiam sighed as he used a little more paste to fasten the sleeves of
the garment he was constructing, and says he:

"It's the overcoats."

"Why," says I, epigrammatically, "don't they go far enough forward in
front?"

"Ah!" says Villiam, thoughtfully, "they come far enough forward in
front, but then they leave the rear exposed. On Monday," says Villiam,
reflectively, "Company Three's overcoats arrived, and I requested the
warriors to attire themselves after the designs of frequent
fashion-plates. But scarce had their manly forms commenced to assume
the garments, when the garments tore frantically from their warlike
shapes."

"Hum!" says I, questioningly, "the overcoats were Rebels in disguise."

"No," says Villiam, gloomily, "but it took two Mackerels to hold an
overcoat together while another warrior put it on, and when it was
buttoned in front, the rear presented the aspeck of two separate
departments. I am now making myself a stronger coat of Democratic
newspapers," says Villiam, explainingly, "in order that my Constitution
may be protected from harm."

I glanced at him askant, my boy, and says I, innocently, "I see a still
better reason for your clothing yourself for battle in newspapers."

"Ah!" says Villiam, complacently, "you think that I adopt the
intellectual garment to show that my line of battle is ten cents a
line."

"No, my hero," says I, pleasantly, "I think you clothe yourself for
battle in printed matter, to make sure that 'he who runs may read.'"

I would not say positively that Villiam "saw" this agreeable remark, my
boy. I am not prepared to affirm that he took the hit; but as the
canteen left his hand, my ears recognized a hasty whiz, and the effect
upon the side of the tent, near my head, was perforating.

Turning from the spot, I next had my attention attracted by a tall
whiskered chap, in a paralyzed whirlpool of gray rags, who was closely
examining a stack of Mackerel muskets near at hand. Hearing me ask his
object, he remarked casually that I was a "mudsill," and says he:

"As the unconquerable Southern Confederacy has a great contempt for the
Yankee army, it has sent me here to see whether these muskets are worth
taking. If they proved to be worth taking, the war was to continue; if
not, I was to offer indirect proposals for peace, as the Sunny South
does not wish to protect a struggle that does not pay."

Instead of replying to him, I stepped aside to give place to the
Conservative Kentucky chap, who had just been denouncing the Message to
the Mackerel Chaplain in the tent, and was greatly outraged by the
Chaplain's response.

It seems that he had abruptly addressed the Chaplain, and says he: "If
that Message wants to make the <DW65> the equal of the conservative
element by implication, I hereby announce that Kentucky considers
herself much offended. I fight for that flag," says he, hotly, pointing
to the national standard,--"I fight for the stars on that flag, to aid
the cause of the white man alone; and with the black man Kentucky will
have nothing to do whatever."

The Chaplain looked dreamily at the flag, as it patched the sky above
him, and says he:

"For men of your way of thinking, my friend, that banner should bear a
sun, rather than the stars."

"Hem!" says the Kentucky chap. "How so?"

"Why," says the Chaplain, gravely, "beneath the stars alone, you cannot
tell a black man from a white man. The master and slave of the broad
noonday are equals under the stars; for if the sun shines upon the one
working that the other may be idle, the gentle planets of the night
make master and bondman of one hue and perfect equals in Nature's own
Republic,--starry Night. The banner for you, my friend, should bear the
sun, to show that it is but for a day."

The conservative Kentucky chap came away swearing, my boy; and hence,
it was in no very good humor that he now saluted the Confederate
raggedier.

"Hem!" says he, ungraciously, "where did all those rags come from, and
what is their name?"

The Confederacy hastily put on a pair of white cotton gloves, and says
he:

"Am I addressing the Democratic Organization?"

"You address the large Kentucky branch," says the Conservative chap,
pulling out his ruffles.

"Then," says the Confederacy, "I am prepared to make an indirect
proposition for peace. My name is Mr. Lamb, by which title the
Democratic Organization has always known the injured Confederacy, and I
propose the following terms: Hostilities shall at once cease, and the
two armies be consolidated under the title of the Confederate States
Forces. The war-debts of the North and South shall be so united that
the North may be able to pay them without confusion. An election for a
new President shall at once be held, everybody voting save those who
have shown animosity to the sunny South. France shall be driven out of
Mexico by the consolidated armies, the expense being so managed that
the North may pay it without further trouble. Upon these terms, the
Confederacy will become a peaceful fellow-man."

"Hem!" says the Kentucky chap, "What you ask is perfectly reasonable. I
will consider the matter after the manner of a dispassionate Democrat,
and return you my answer in a few days."

Here I hastily stepped up, and says I, "But are you not going to
consult the President at all about it, my Jupiter Tonans?"

"The President? the President?" says the Conservative Kentucky chap,
with a vague look. "Hem!" says he, "I really forgot all about the
President!"

The Democratic Organization, my boy, in its zeal to benefit its
distracted country, is occasionally like that eminent fire company in
the Sixth Ward, which nobly usurped with its hose the terrible business
of putting out a large conflagration, and never remembered, until its
beautiful machine was all in position, that another company of
fellow-firemen had exclusive possession of all the waterworks.

Yours, comparingly,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER LXXXIV.

    PROVING THAT RUSSIA IS INDEED OUR FRIEND; INSTANCING THE TERRIFIC
    BOMBARDMENT OF PARIS; AND TELLING HOW THE NEW GENERAL OF THE
    MACKEREL BRIGADE DELIGHTED ALL WITH HIS SURPRISING "SHAPE."


WASHINGTON, D.C., February 2d, 1863.

The sagacious Russian bear, my boy, is found to regard the Eagle of our
distracted country with more than his ordinary liking for fancy
poultry, and our shattered bird may feel proud of a friendship
proffered by such an excellent beast. Truth to tell, the present aspect
of our national chicken is not calculated to inspire an idolatrous
passion in the breast of European zoology. All his tail-feathers have
seceded, and are in rebellion against him; and he has got a black eye,
my boy, from strategic gambols with the playful Southern Confederacy.
Hence, we should accept the bear's affection as a marvel of
disinterested emotion; for I am almost sure, my boy, I am almost sure
that nothing handsomer than a bear could have much real love for such a
fractured fowl.

A relative of mine, named A. Merry Kerr,[2] went to Russia some time
ago, being secretly deputed by Government to expend the amount of his
passage-money in a judicious manner. He writes to me of his friendly
reception by Gorchakoff, and says he:

      [2] Excepting Mr. Bayard Taylor, no ordinary traveler ever
      excited so much wild affection in the breasts of foreign kings
      and noblemen as this gentleman.

"Mr. Gorchakoff ordered my trunks to be put away under the throne for
the time being, and then hastened me to his own private bedroom, whose
windows command a full view of all you can see through them. Having
brushed me off and kissed me, he ordered some fried candles for two,
and then says he:

"How comes on the Union cause, whose pregnant misery on Potomac's shore
has caused the heart of the Czar untold anguish? How often has his
majesty said to me: 'The North _must_ triumph, Prince; and mark me when
I say, that two more centuries will not roll by without witnessing the
fall of Richmond.'"

"Sir," says I,--

    "'The lightning-motion of the fish,
      Beneath the sea, will just compare
    With victory's impulse to our flag,--
      That striped bass of upper air.'

"The North must conquer, you see, Mr. G."

Upon hearing me speak thus, Mr. Gorchakoff laid my head upon his bosom
and smoothed my hair, and says he: "Oh, how I love your country! Russia
will never join any scheme of foreign intervention against your
beautiful fish."

He said this in such a tone of real fondness that tears sprang to my
eyes, and says I:

"Heaven bless you, my Muscovy duck!"

"With a look of the deepest tenderness, Mr. Gorchakoff now extended
himself at full length upon the top of a bureau near my chair, and
allowed his head to hang over in such a manner that he was enabled to
press his cheek against mine.

"Wilt thou do me one favor, noble youth?" says he, with much emotion.

I placed a hand upon my heart.

"Then," says he, "just ask Mr. Seward not to write so many letters to
me every week; because when my mail is so large, I don't have any time
to attend to my family."

I promised to do so, and then went out to get some oysters. The candles
had made me quite light-headed.

From this, my boy, you will perceive that Russia "may be counted upon
in an emergency;" as the man said of the bear-skin upon which he was
reckoning his small change.

On Thursday, bright and early, I mounted my gothic steed Pegasus, and
started for Duck Lake.

Upon reaching the Mackerel camp, I found all the spectacled warriors
under arms for a fray, the unaccommodating Confederacies on the other
side of Paris having urged some rifled objections to the construction
of a pontoon bridge across Duck Lake. The chap who was building the
bridge had only just untied his second paper of nails, when a potato
from some Confederate marksman, in the second-story of Paris, hit him
violently in the stomach. Simultaneously the cover of a dinner-pot
cracked his knuckles, and, as he fell back in good order, a brick-bat
tapped him on the head. Believing that hostilities had commenced, the
new General of the Mackerel Brigade hastily put on all his dirty
clothes, and ordered the Orange County Howitzers to commit incendiarism
with Paris, simultaneously directing Rear Admiral Head to moor the
"Secretary Welles" abreast of the nearest Confederacy and shell him
with great slaughter.

Under command of Captain Samyule Sa-mith, the Howitzers were opened
upon Paris, and commenced such a tornado of round shot and grape that
the surrounding landscape was very much defaced. There was much noise,
my boy,--there was much noise.

But the great sight of the hour was the manoeuvring of the iron-plated
Mackerel squadron on the tempestuous waters of Duck Lake. After hastily
making a fire in the stove on the quarter-deck, and placing a tumbler
where it could warm, the stern old Rear Admiral ordered the Mackerel
crew to report how much water there was in the hold. The crew repaired
to the stern-sheets and reported "One pitcherful and two lemons;"
whereupon the hardy old sea-dog swore in his iron-plated manner, and
ordered the swivel-gun amidships to be trained upon the basement
windows of Paris. Everything being in readiness, the word was given to
fire!

Bang! went the horrid instrument of carnage, and the hideous missile
went crashing through the back basement windows, cutting a bow from the
cap of a venerable Florence Nightingale, who was at that moment making
a sponge-cake for some sick Confederacies, and driving the stove-pipe
clear through the wall. The aged Nightingale thought that something had
happened, and says she: "Well, I never did!"

Rear Admiral Head smiled; but it was the horrid smile of naval
bloodthirstiness. "Revolve my turret!" says he, grimly, "I fight not
against women; but the other window must be broken."

The venerable Neptune leaned over his columbiad to make sure of this
shot, unconsciously pressing his stomach against the but-end of his
gun. There was a report, my boy; the swivel-gun kicked, and the Rear
Admiral fell upon the deck with a promiscuous violence.

Meanwhile, Company 3, Regiment 5, under Captain Villiam Brown, had
waded across Duck Lake in as many divisions as there were Mackerels,
and immediately commenced a tremendous fire of musketry at the upper
windows of Paris, wounding a Confederacy who kept a shoe-store up
there, and reducing two flower-pots to fragments.

Whilst I was witnessing this bombardment, my boy, and admiring the
courage with which Villiam was slashing around with his sword, I
noticed that the squadron had suddenly ceased firing.

It had ceased firing, because Rear Admiral Head had unexpectedly
discovered that his Mackerel crew was a Black Republican; and had
therefore engaged him in single combat, greatly to the detriment of the
regular engagement.

Scarcely had I turned to view this new phase of war, when the firing of
howitzers and musketry behind me instantly ceased, and I heard a low
murmur of wonder arising from the whole brigade.

Quickly turning about again, I was hastening to where Captain Bob
Shorty strode with the Conic Section, when I beheld General Wobert
Wobinson, the new General of the Mackerel Brigade, cantering along the
shore of Duck Lake on his trained charger, and exhibiting a form to
petrify the whole world with admiration.

"Ah! _there's_ shape!" was the low cry of the spectacled veterans, as
they gazed breathlessly at the picture.

Captain Bob Shorty cleaned his glasses to make sure that it was no
illusion, and says he: "By all that's Federal, it appears to me that I
never saw so much Shape!"

A Confederacy, who had just appeared on the roof of Paris with a
horse-pistol in his hand and slaughter in his thoughts, caught sight of
the equestrian vision, and instantly dropped his merciless weapon of
destruction as though paralyzed.

"Oh!" says he, panting, "what Shape!"

Rear Admiral Head heard the sound in the midst of his single combat,
and paused to ascertain what it was. His spectacles scanned the horizon
round and round, until they finally rested upon the figure of the new
General of the Mackerel Brigade.

"Fracture my armor!" says he, ecstatically, "did I ever survey so much
Shape!"

The battle was over for that day.

Shape, my boy, is a great thing in a General; for when Heaven's Great
Printer commenced to set human type in the "galley" of earth, He must
have needed considerable General matter to fully make up His "forms;"
and when a General has a form fully up to His make, we may consider him
well set up.

Yours, typographically,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER LXXXV.

    HOLDING THE GOVERNMENT STRICTLY ACCOUNTABLE FOR THE OCCURRENCE OF A
    RECENT "MILITARY NECESSITY;" RECOUNTING THE AFFECTING EPISODE OF
    THE MACKEREL DRUMMER-BOY; AND DEPICTING THE NEW MACKEREL GENERAL'S
    FIRST GREAT BATTLE.


WASHINGTON, D.C., Feb. 9th, 1863.

I am no longer on speaking terms, my boy, with the Government of our
distracted country, and beg leave most respectfully to inform it that
the imbecile cold weather of the past few days may disgust, but can
never discourage me. Being of respectable though Democratic parentage,
I scorn to associate with an Executive and Cabinet so lost to all sense
of national comfort, that it permits the weather to become a constant
outrage on our Constitutions, frequently freezing loyal Democrats for
no other offence than that of protecting defenceless lampposts after
nightfall. I am very cold, my boy,--I am very cold, and my hatred of
the present Cabinet is intense.

But what shall I say about the agency of this same Government in
producing a Military Necessity at the late great battle of Paris? Let
me put on my overcoat and express my cold in a passionate cough, as I
remark that its agency in this matter forcibly reminds me of a chap I
once knew in the sixth ward.

He was an aged chap of much red nose, my boy, and lived with his
youngest broadcloth son in the same house with his Wayward Sister. The
Wayward Sister being an old maid of severe countenance, occupied such
portions of the residence as seemed most safe from the intrusion of
that sex which seeks to make Woman its broken-hearted slave; and as
long as the patient old chap answered the door-bell and didn't smoke in
the house, she got along with him after the manner of a Methodist
angel. Things went on pleasantly through the winter, the high-minded
maiden using the coal of her aged kindred, and employing all his black
tea without complaining; but in the spring she joined a Woman's Rights
Convention, and commenced to hold indignation-meetings of
virtuously-indignant females in the best room in the house. These
meetings having decided, that,

"_Whereas_, Man is a ojus creature which is constantly preying upon
that sex which it is his mother's, and denying to it those inalienable
Rights without which Woman's sphere cannot exist. Therefore be it

"_Resolved_, That Woman is the Superior Sex.

"_Resolved_, That union with man is incompatible with the good of a sex
which it is ourselves; and that we will immediately take that household
furniture of which Woman is the only rightful owner, and only ask to be
let alone."

The aged chap received a copy of these resolutions, my boy, and says
the Wayward Sister: "I can no longer consent to live in the same house
with an inferior being." The chap heard her in silence, and might have
let her have her own way, under ordinary circumstances, but when he
came home next night he found that she had packed up all the furniture
in the house to carry off with her, and expected him to give her his
watch and night-key. He scratched his head, and says he: "I cannot
permit this sort of thing, because I really want some furniture for my
own use." The Wayward Sister threw her thimble at him, and says she:
"Our male parient bought this furniture only because he got married to
one of the Superior Sex; and as it was Woman which solely occasioned
its purchase, it clearly belongs to Woman."

But the chap could not see it in this light, my boy; and as soon as his
son came home he told him all about it. The manly youth took a look up
the stairs to where the maiden and four or five other spring bonnets
were intrenched behind the furniture, and says he:

"It's an unnatural thing to have trouble with relations; but I'm just
going up there to capture that big chair."

By this time some of the neighbors had come in, and commenced to urge
the old chap to take vigorous measures. He looked at his son, and says
he:

"Can you do it Tommy?"

The child of his bosom winked twice, and immediately prepared to
perform the feat, only pausing long enough to look in the glass and see
if his necktie sat well. Then, gaining the head of the stairs, he
leaned across a bureau barring the way, and was about to grasp the big
chair, when the Wayward Sister hit him over the head with a broom, and
presently he found himself prostrate at the foot of the stairs, with a
violent pain in his nose.

On witnessing this disaster, all the neighbors shrank with indignation
from the aged father, and said it was all his doings. The poor old chap
scratched his head, and says he:

"I don't see how it's my fault."

"Why," says a neighbor of much fatness, "you're always
interfering,--that's what you are. Now, you'll never get back any of
your furniture."

"Interfering?" says the paternal chap, innocently. "Why, how _could_ I
interfere with Tommy, when I only let him do, in his own way, what he
gave me to understand he was able to?"

Here all the neighbors sighed grievously, and says one:

"Miserable old man, we believe you mean well enough; but the fact is,
you are a species of old idiot. It was your business to have had
_another son_, who would have been this one's brother; so that if one
met with a heart-rending failure on the stairs, the other could
simultaneously have entered that back window by a ladder, and taken the
chair by the rear. But you are always interfering. Take our advice now,
and either give up drinking altogether, or arrange it so that those who
drink with you may be persons not distinguishable from ourselves."

And they all departed, shaking their heads, my boy--they all departed
shaking their heads; leaving the unfortunate old chap to bind up his
offspring's nose, and to reflect upon the great iniquity of interfering
with one son's success, by not having another.

The Government of our distracted country, my boy, is so very much like
this well-meaning but imbecile old chap, that the failure of any one of
its generals is entirely due to its interference in not having another
general; who, in case that general did not succeed, could take his
place before he failed to do so.

The Military Necessity produced by this interference took place at
Paris, very recently, and shortly after the new General of the Mackerel
Brigade had so nearly won the battle by that revelation of manly Shape
to which I referred in my last letter.

Finding that the terrible bombardment of Paris, my boy, had routed the
straggling Confederacies from that ancient city, the whole Mackerel
Brigade marched safely across Duck Lake, leaving only the Orange County
Howitzers on this side. Scarcely had the spectacled host occupied the
city, when there appeared upon the main street the overwhelming Shape
of the new General of the Mackerel Brigade, mounted upon a steed which
was almost as sagacious as a human being; and holding his hat in one
hand, after the manner of Washington entering Trenton. It was as though
Frank Leslie's illustrated artist had just been commanded to draw a
warlike picture, my boy, representing one of those equestrian heroes
who all appear in precisely the same attitude, and seem to have lifted
their hats for the particular purpose of showing with what mathematical
precision their hair is parted.

Instantly there arose cheers so loud that they must have been heard by
the cowardly Confederacies on the hills behind Paris, and several
Mackerels became so enthusiastic to be led against the enemy, that they
actually started on the war-path by themselves, and only turned back
when they discovered that they happened to be going in the wrong
direction.

Having received all the cheers, and immediately dispatched them to the
reliable morning journals around the country, the General of the
Mackerel Brigade ordered the Conic Section, under Captain Bob Shorty,
and Company 3, Regiment 5, under Captain Villiam Brown, to march out of
Paris, and form in line under the guns of the Southern Confederacy; at
the same time directing Captain Samyule Sa-mith, to take Company 2,
Regiment 1, and strike through a defile in the hills.

Samyule formed his veterans in the shape of a horse-shoe, and says he:

"Comrades, now is the time to repent of your sins, for you haven't got
much time left. As for myself," says Samyule, seriously, "my sins are
all those of commission, and those who gave me my commission are
responsible for them. If any of you younger Mackerels have in your
possession the last things your mothers gave you, now is your chance to
look upon them for the last time."

As Samyule spoke thus, a small blue object, carrying a drum, toddled
forth from the ranks, and saluted. It was a small Mackerel drummer, my
boy, who had enlisted only ten days before, and his small eyes were wet
with tears. The heroic child wiped his little nose on his sleeve, and
says he:

"_My_ mother gave me something."

Samyule was greatly affected, and says he:

"Was it the Family Bible, sweet cherub?"

"No-o-o," sobbed the innocent, as though his little heart would break.

Samyule wiped his tear-dimmed spectacles, and says he:

"Perhaps it was her daguerreotype?"

The infant wept afresh, and says he:

"No-o-o."

"Then," says Samyule, in a broken voice, "it must have been her
blessing."

"No! no-o-o," cried the small Mackerel drummer, with quivering lips.

"Then what in thunder was it that your mother gave you?" says Samyule,
greatly bewildered.

"It was a spanking!" screamed the affectionate little creature,
cramming both his little fists into his little eyes, and blubbering
unrestrainedly.

Samyule gazed a moment at the child, and says he:

"Well may affection bid thee weep, thou tender little one! When a
sweetheart blushingly places a rose upon her lover's breast, the scene
is affecting; but my own memory of childhood tells me that a far deeper
feeling is excited when the tender mother selects a different flower,
and places upon the back of her child the modest lady's slipper."

Immediately after this affecting little incident, my boy, Samyule led
his men to their duty, and they marched into one end of the defile as
soldiers, to pass out of the other as spirits.

Along the front, "Forward!" was the word, and the Conic Section swept
to the assault, like a sea of bayonets dashed against a shore of
adamantine rock from the hollow of an Almighty hand. Were it possible,
my boy, for bullets to ascend perpendicularly until they just reached
the top of mountain breastworks, and then slant down at an acute angle
to where the foe lay hidden, it is possible that the frequent volleys
from the Conic Section might have produced some carnage; but as the
face of the hill before our troops was straight up and down, with the
noisy Confederacies on the extreme summit, the Mackerel musketry simply
occasioned a rise in Federal lead, without a fall in Confederate
leaders.

Some Confederacies in their lofty intrenchments just tipped over a few
cannon, so that the balls might roll out upon the mackerels, and, says
one of them:

"If you mudsills will stay there a little longer, we'll manage it so as
to drop the shells on you from our hands, without using the guns at
all."

Captain Bob Shorty heard this jeer, and as he tied his handkerchief
over a wound on his forehead, a sickly smile illustrated his ghastly
face, and says he:

"We might as well all die here together. The grave, after all, is a
softer bed than many of these Mackerel beings have been accustomed to."

Sergeant O'Pake who always takes things literally, turned to Bob, and,
says he:

"What makes it soft?"

"Because," says Captain Bob Shorty, looking vacantly at the sergeant,
"it is a bed of down. Did you never hear the old song of 'Down among
the Dead Men?'" But let me not linger over the scene, my boy.

That night, the remaining Mackerels silently recrossed Duck Lake, and
the General penned the following

    DESPATCH.

    "I have withdrawn the Brigade across Duck Lake. The position of the
    Confederacies is impregnable. It was a Military Necessity to attack
    the enemy or retire. I have done both.

    "WOBERT WOBINSON."

Just as the spectacled veterans gained this side of Duck Lake again, my
boy, the Mackerel Chaplain was accosted by a Republican chap from
Boston, and says he: "This really looks like action at last my friend.
Our troops are evidently all enthusiasm to be led once more against the
foe."

The Chaplain shaded his eyes with his hand, to look at the speaker, and
says he:

"They are indeed enthusiastic, my friend. So enthusiastic, in fact,
that at least half of them would not come back to this side at all."

"Ah!" says the Republican chap; "the noble fellows."

"Yes," says the Chaplain, as softly as though he were speaking in a
sick-room; "they remain there sleeping upon their arms. And, oh, my
friend, they will never come back again."

He spoke truly, my boy: and may a kind Heaven see naught in the blood
welling from their loyal hearts but the blush of a soldier's honor; the
glow of a patriot fire in which all their human errors went up to God
as the smoke of a glorious sacrifice. They sleep their last sleep upon
the arms of their Country; and whether those arms, with which she folds
them into her heart, be white with the ermine of winter, or green with
the drapery of summer, the clasp shall be none the less strong with all
a Mother's immortality of love.

Yours, gravely,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER LXXXVI.

    TOUCHING UPON A LATE OVATION TO A PARENT OF HIS COUNTRY; GIVING THE
    CONSERVATIVE KENTUCKY MAP OF ALL AMERICA; AND INTRODUCING A SECOND
    NEW GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL ORGANIZATION.


WASHINGTON, D.C., March 8th, 1863.

I have been very ill, my boy--I have been very ill; and even now, the
hand which grasps the pen trembles with weakness, like the hand of the
wind upon a slender rush. I have been reminded of my latter end, and of
our Excellent National Democratic Organization, by an outrage upon my
Constitution and the Arbitrary Arrest of my health,--proceedings which
seem to prove that the well-known Southern Confederacy is entirely
right in this war, and that the North is chiefly composed of Honest Old
despots. (See proceedings of Democratic Organization, Resolution 290.)

As I lay sick in Strategy Hall the other day, so desolately lonely that
I almost wished to die, and without energy enough to finish reading the
greenback I had commenced that morning, there came to see me an affable
Democratic chap who had just recovered from a severe bilious attack
brought on by the Conscription Bill, and wished to consult me as to the
propriety of nominating Dr. Brandreth for President of the United
States in 1865.

"Why, my future Jefferson," says I, feebly, "what are you going to do
with McClellan, then?"

"Really," says he, just stepping across the ward to spit on a copy of
the Tribune, which served as a window-curtain, "really, I forgot all
about that manly form. Oh!" says the pleasant Democratic chap,
replacing the Constitution in his hat, from which it had just
fallen,--"Oh! what heroism do we find embodied in that youthful shape!
The voice of a assembled universe asks: 'Shall G. B. McClellan go
unrewarded?' There is no echo at the time. It asks again: 'Who, then,
shall be President of the United States in 1865?' And echo triumphantly
answers, General George Barnum McClellan!"

Here the affable Democratic chap took off his spectacles, my boy, and
beamed undisguisedly at a small black bottle on the table.

"But," says I, softly, "his name is not George _Barnum_ McClellan at
all. His middle name is not Barnum."

"Hem!" says the Democratic chap, with a severe aspect, "I don't know
that it is. Really," says the Democratic chap, hastily picking up his
umbrella and moving away, "really, I don't know that it is."

Mistakes, my boy, will happen in the best-regulated organizations; and,
if we construe them maliciously, we deserve, like a parcel of
scandal-mongering old Bohea-mians, to be confined all our lives to
small _coups_ of Phineas T.

It was during my illness that the adoring citizens of Mugville
discovered that the Venerable Gammon had been defeated ten times in the
election for County Clerk in his youth, and frantically instigated an
overflowing ovation therefore to that venerable man. I know not, my
boy, what this aged and shirt-collared picture of perpetual beneficence
had done to be such an idol. I cannot conceive why repeated defeats in
his youth should entitle him to the adoration of a fond populace at the
present exciting period; but the leading citizens presented him with a
silver butter-knife and a serenade, my boy; and he made a benignant
speech to show that he and Providence desired only the applause of
their own consciences.

"My children," says the Venerable Gammon, waving benefactions in his
fat and heartfelt manner, "I accept this butter-knife,--not for my own
merits, but because it symbolizes the only true means of restoring that
Union of which I am a part. This knife," says the Venerable Gammon,
eying the costly gift with oily and benignant satisfaction,--"this
knife teaches us that only fiendish Abolitionism would think of using
the Sword of Radicalism to conquer the erring Confederacy which is
still our sister, when the Butter-knife of Conservatism was to be had."

Then all the leading citizens of Mugville observed joyfully to each
other that the country was redeemed at last, and four-and-twenty
reliable morning journals published six columns each about the
triumphant progress of the Venerable Gammon in the affections of the
people.

Among those present at this sublime ovation was an aged chap selling
apples, who immediately burst into tears when the voice of the
venerable man fell upon his ears. On being asked to explain his
emotions, he cast his dim eyes upward toward an American flag which was
being used by a merchant near by to advertise some patent pills, and
says he, brokenly:

"When I hear that woice, and see that flag, all my manhood crumbles
into scalding tears."

He was an apple-seller of fine feelings, and had once served as a
deserter in the Army of the Potomac.

Pathetic little incidents like these, my boy, humble though they may
be, are pregnant with a deep and touching meaning, of which I have not
the remotest conception.

There is a new Mackerel Hotel recently erected on the borders of Duck
Lake, near Strategy Hall, for the benefit of Brigadiers who have not
been accustomed to doing without a bar; and it was in one of the rooms
thereof that the Conservative Kentucky Chap recently fell a victim to
the most remarkable optical illusion of this distracted century. He was
sitting with his back to a window, my boy, his head drooped upon his
breast beneath the weight of the Emancipation Proclamation, and, with
arms folded and legs screwed awry on his chair, he was contemplating
the opposite wall from under his Conservative hat.

"Hum," says he, with subdued ecstasy, "How sweet it is to look upon the
map of my native land, of which Kentucky is the guiding star! As I look
upon that simple map," says the conservative Chap, thoughtfully, "and
reflect upon the recent improvements in Kentucky, it becomes a question
in my mind whether Kentucky is the United States, or the United States
is Kentucky."

Following the direction of his eyes as he said this, I beheld upon the
wall opposite where he was sitting:

[Illustration: A CONSERVATIVE KENTUCKY MAP OF ALL AMERICA.]

"Look here, my absorbed Talleyrand," says I, in astonishment, "that's
not a map! It's only your own shadow on the wall."

He moved as I spoke, and then, for the first time, discovered his
illusion.

"Hum!" says he, "it is a map of the Union in the sense that the Union
is but a shadow of its former self."

The Conservative Kentucky Chap is actually so insufferably egotistical,
my boy, and so imbued with the idea that Kentucky is the whole country,
that it is almost impossible for him to sit on a chair without throwing
his body into almost the exact shape of the American Continent.

Having induced a small Mackerel drummer to bring me my chaste
architectual steed, the Gothic Pegasus, I mounted the roof of that
walking country church, and moved off in an organ-waltz to inspect the
national troops.

The Mackerel Brigade grows hoary with antiquity, and the capture of the
Southern Confederacy is still delayed for the want of pontoons. And
this reminds me that the Abolitionists of New England, who are entirely
responsible for this war, with its taxes upon members of the Democratic
Organization, have not yet sent any pontoons to the field. Whilst they
would abridge the rights of white men, they even ignore white men's
rights to a bridge. But let us not linger over such depravity, or we
shall be delayed in our preparations for the Presidential canvass in
1865.

The last new General of the Mackerel Brigade is an officer of great
age, named Cox,--known to the soldiery as the Grim Old Fighting
Cox,--and I am happy to say, my boy, that he is an officer of great
ability. Spurning all that vain pomp which too often makes our generals
as clean in appearance as the military minions of the despotic powers
of Europe, he makes it a practice to attire himself like the
unostentatious dustman of a true Republic; and when he rides abroad to
inspect the regiments, it is universally admitted that he is like a
father visiting his children, whose great numbers make such demands
upon his means that he can't afford to dress himself respectably.

Having assumed command of the Mackerel Brigade, the Grim Old Fighting
Cox immediately summoned all his officers to his presence, and, having
engaged each in single combat and defeated him, he proceeded to show
his great ability. He beckoned to Captain Villiam Brown, who was at
that moment taking the sun's altitude with his canteen, and, says he:
"Tell me how many men are in the guard-house for beastly intoxication?"

Villiam smiled affably, and says he: "I don't remember just how many
that Republican institution will hold."

"Release them ALL!" thundered the Grim Old Fighting Cox, violently
rattling his sword, and firing a pistol in the air.

"Ah!" says Villiam, "here's Ability."

The next officer called was Captain Bob Shorty, and says the General to
him: "How many slow-matches did my predecessor order for the Orange
County Howitzers?"

Captain Bob Shorty took three steps in a break-down, and says he: "We
have always ordered seventy-five."

"Make it seventy-six!" roared the Grim Old Fighting Cox, kicking over
the writing-table and discharging a revolver over his shoulder.

Captain Bob Shorty gave a leap into the air, and says he:

"By all that's Federal! did I ever hear of so much Ability?"

As the Grim Old Fighting Cox was leaving his quarters, he came upon a
Mackerel chap who was stooping down to tie his shoe, and gave him a
kick that kindled conflagration in his vision. The poor chap rubbingly
picked himself up, and, says he:

"It appears to me I never see so much Ability."

Ability, my boy, in its modern acceptation as applied to military men,
appears to mean a peculiar capacity for surprising and startling
everybody--except the enemy.

Yours, suspiciously.

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER LXXXVII.

    IN WHICH OUR CORRESPONDENT HAS A DEADLY AFFAIR OF HONOR WITH A
    GENTLEMAN FROM KENTUCKY; EXPERIENCES "CONTRABAND" HOSPITALITY AND
    MELODY; ATTENDS A GREAT MEETING IN ACCOMAC; AND WITNESSES A
    PRODIGIOUS NAVAL ACHIEVEMENT.


WASHINGTON, D.C., March 15th, 1863.

Kentucky, my boy, has considered herself a general boon to mankind ever
since she was discovered by Colonel Boone; but there are different
kinds of boons known to mankind, and if I should chance to mention the
baboon as amongst the noisiest and least respectable of the species, my
remark may not be regarded as entirely destitute of a personal bearing.
It was in the honeyed accents of admiring friendship that I conveyed
this chaste zoological idea to the Conservative Kentucky chap on Monday
last, as we took Richmond together at Willard's bar, and I regret to
say that he made it _casus belli_. Accidentally dropping his
bowie-knife on the floor, and hastily replacing his ruffles over the
handle of his pocket revolver, he polished the blade of his dirk with a
blood- silk handkerchief, and says he:

"Kentucky fought for Washington in the Revolution; she has, thus far,
prosecuted the present war without fear; nor will she shrink from even
shedding personal gore where the provocation is the offspring of Yankee
lowness."

He said this, with exceeding majesty, my boy, and I felt that I was
indeed involved in complications with the Border States.

"I understand you, my warrior," says I, calmly; "but if this affair is
to come off immediately, where are we to find our seconds?"

The Kentucky chap hastily called a small boy to him, and says he:

"Sonny, just run out into the street and ask any two gentlemen you meet
to step in here for a moment." "You see," says he, turning to me, "it's
better to have two brigadier-generals for seconds, as a battle might
take place while we are away, and there are no private soldiers to
spare at present."

"Yes," says I, thoughtfully, "that's very true."

The brigadiers were obtained, my boy, and, with murder in our hearts,
we started forth to seek a spot appropriate for carnage in private. It
was just the hour of mid-day, and we were wending our sanguinary way in
silence, when, upon turning a corner of one of the public buildings,
the sound of sweet music fell upon our ears, and we came suddenly upon
a brass band and a party of singers, who were discoursing witching
strains under one of the windows.

I listened for a moment, and then, says I: "What may be the occasion
for this noonday melody?"

The Conservative Kentucky chap motioned for us to pause, and says he,
feelingly: "It's a serenade to Secretary Welles of the Navy. Let us
heed the voice of the singer."

Here a young vocal chap, under the window, commenced singing the
following words, in a fine tenor manner:

    SERENADE.

    "O lady, in thy waking glance
      There lurked a wondrous spell,
    To hold young Cupid in thine eye
      As in a prison cell.

    "And now, the god of Slumber finds
      Thy drooping lids so fair,
    He makes of them his chosen couch
      And dwells forever there."

As the last note of the singer fainted into the eternity of lost
sounds, I looked at the Conservative Kentucky chap, my boy, and beheld
that his eyes were suffused with the tears of an exquisite sensibility.

"Yes," says he, softly, "--'and dwells forever there.'" Here the
Kentucky chap shed another tear to wash out the stain of the last one,
and says he, "Mr. Welles is indeed a lady who offers some attraction to
slumber. May he rest in peace!"

We were all too deeply affected to speak, but proceeded silently to a
vacant lot across the river, where accommodations for law-breaking were
ample. Everything about us here seemed fraught with the spirit of
peace; on each side, and as far as the eye could reach behind and
before, were the tents of the Army of the Potomac, growing in the spots
where they were planted years ago. We alone, of all the human beings
within sound of our weapons, were about to be breakers of the
established war--to shed human blood. It seemed like a sacrilege, and I
trembled with the cold.

At first, my boy, we had some trouble to keep the brigadier-generals
with us, as it suddenly struck them that they had not drawn their pay
for two whole hours, and were frantic to return; but when I suggested,
that if they should be missed from their posts, they would probably be
nominated for major-generalship, they consented to remain.

When the Conservative Kentucky chap took his position, I noticed that
his countenance was contorted into a horrible expression of severity,
and asked him why it was?

"Hem!" says he, "this is a solemn moment, young man. We are both about
to fly into the face of our Maker." Here he pointed his weapon at me;
and says he: "I think you are frightened."

"No," says I, making ready.

The Kentucky chap's face then assumed the most terrific expression I
ever saw, and says he:

"Are you not alarmed at your awful position?"

"No," says I.

The Conservative Kentucky chap lowered his pistol, and, motioning for
the brigadiers to come from behind their trees, advanced to my side.

"Hem!" says he, frowning majestically, "I think I understood you to
intimate that you were terrified."

"No," says I.

Here the Conservative Kentucky chap took me suddenly by the arm in a
very confidential manner, and, having led me a few paces back, says he,
in a horrible whisper: "You find yourself frightened, as it were."

"Why, no," says I.

"Well," says the Conservative Kentucky chap, "I AM."

And we all went home together.

Since then, my boy, I have weighed and contrasted my own feelings and
those of the Conservative Kentucky chap on that occasion, when I won an
everlasting reputation for bravery; and I am satisfied that the bravery
of a man in an affair of honor is a superior capacity for concealing
terror.

It was toward the middle of the week that I went down to Accomac to
attend a great Union meeting there, and it's my private opinion, my
boy, my private opinion, that the human tongue is not without its
province in this war. But before the meeting commenced, and whilst I
was reflecting upon the fact that it was the day on which the Prince of
Wales was to be married, a redeemed contraband saluted me, and says he:

"Mars'r, I hab been made a free man by Mars'r Lincoln, and hab opened a
Refreshment Saloon on de European plan. If you want to dine, sar,
here's my card. My name is Mister Negg."

I looked at the card as he left me, and found it to read thus:--

    HAMAN NEGG'S

    RESTAURANT.

    ICH DIEN OYSTERS IN EVERY STYLE.

There was one thing about this inscription that I did not understand,
and says I to a chap near me:

"See here, my patriotic friend, what does this mean? What kind of
things are Ich Dien Oysters?"

"Oh," says he, obligingly, "you do not understand the Hanoverian
tongue. '_Ich Dien_' is the Prince of Wales' motto, and means '_I
serve_.' The phrase 'Ich Dien Oysters in Every Style' means, 'I serve
oysters in every style.'"

Then it was, my boy, that I saw in Mr. Negg's device the despised
African's testimonial of gratitude to Great Britain for the recent
reaction of anti-slavery sentiment there. A more delicate compliment,
my boy, was never offered to the mother country, who has given us all
at least 290[3] reasons for loving her.

      [3] Persons who despise Europe may remember, that, "The 290,"
      (supposed to mean, from 290 British Merchants) was the original
      name of the rebel pirate "Alabama."

And speaking of redeemed contrabands, reminds me of the new African
hymn, which the more pious  Americans of South Carolina might
denominate

    DE GREAT HALLELUGERUM.

    "My mars'r's gwine away to fight
      With Mars'r Linkum's horde,
    An' now dis chile's at libaty
      To dance an' bress de Lord.
    Dar's no more swearin' round de house
      When missus cut up bad;
    Dar's no more kickin' <DW65>s' shins,
      And, darfor', I is glad.

    "When mars'r take his horse to go,
      He kindly say to me:
    'I hab such confidence in you,
      I leab you all, you see;
    Of all de <DW65>s round de place,
      I trust to you alone.'
    By golly! dat's what mars'r say
      To eb'ry nig he own!

    "'Now if dem Bobumlitionists
      Should kill me dead,' says he,
    'I hab instruct your missus kind
      To set you <DW65>s free.'
    But mars'r say dat bery same
      Wheneber he get sick,
    And bressed Jesus wrastle him
      To make him holy quick.

    "'Dem Yankees, dam um all,' says he,
      'Am comin' down to steal
    You <DW65>s, and to sell you then
      For Cuba cochineal.
    De Suvern chiverly,' says he,
      'Am fightin' jist fo' you.'
    Now mars'r swearum when he lie,
      And, darfor', dat wont do!

    "Den mars'r trot away to war
      With 'Dolphus by his side,--
    A poor cream-, common dark
      Dat isn't worf his hide.
    He leab me and de other nigs
      To clar the place alone,
    With nuffin' but to play and shake
      De fiddle and de bone.

    "I hab a talk with Uncle Pete,
      De old plantation hand,
    And though he am intelligums
      Dis chile can understand.
    He say de Hallelugerum
      For cullud folks hab cum,
    And dat he bressed Lord hab heard
      And beat his thunder-drum.

    "He say dat Northern buckra man
      Hab sent his gun an' ship
    To make de rebel chiverly
      Give up his <DW65> whip,
    He say dat now's de darkey's time
      To break de bonds of sin,
    And take his chil'en an' his wife
      To whar de tide comes in.

    "He say dat in de Norf, up dar,
      Whar Mars'r Greeley dwell,
    De white folks make de brack folks work,
      But treat them bery well;
    He says dey pay them for de work
      Dey's smart enuff to do,
    And nebber sells them furder Souf
      When sheriff put um screw.

    "I hab a wife an chil'en dear,
      And mars'r say to me
    He nebber sell them while he live,--
      He'd rather set them free;
    But dar's de mortgage on de house,
      If dat should hab to fall,
    Ole Uncle Pete hab told me dat
      He'd hab to sell us all.

    "I lub de ole plantation well,
      And missus she is kind;
    But den dis chile's inclined to try
      Another home to find.
    Now mars'r gwine away to war,
      And give me such a chance,
    I'll bress de Lord for libaty.
      And hab a Juba dance.

    "De Hallelugerum am cum
      With glory in his eye,
    And all de <DW65>s in de Souf
      Am fit to mount de sky.
    My wife an' chil'en hab de spoons
      Dat's owned by--(here a cough)--
    I hab de sugar-tongs myself,
      And, darfor,' I is off."

Among the distinguished speakers invited to be present at the great
meeting in Accomac, were: the Emperor of Russia, the Emperor of France,
the Sultan of Turkey, Queen Victoria, the King of Sweden, the President
of the United States, and Theodore Tilton; but, as the walking was very
bad, they did not all come. The celebrated American patriot, Mr. Phelim
O'Shaughnessy, took the chair in the absence of the President, and
said, that as the Emperor of France was unavoidably absent, he would
beg leave to introduce Mr. Terence Mulligan, whose ancestors were once
Irishmen themselves.

Mr. Mulligan was received with prolonged applause, and said, that
although he bore an Irish name, he had never been ashamed to associate
with Americans. His father, while yet on his way from Ireland, had been
elected a Justice of the Peace in New York, and his son should be the
last one to neglect the Union in its hour of need. What we wanted now,
was, that the example of our Irish citizens should be imitated by the
others, and that the war should be prosecuted with vigor. (Continued
cheering.) Irishmen need never despair of this glorious Union, which
had often been a House of Refuge for them, and could not fall without
carrying Ireland with it,--so closely were the two great nations knit
together. The Irish would never despair:

    "For Freedom's struggle once begun,
    Bequeathed from bleeding sire to son,
    Though baffled oft, is ever won."

When the enthusiasm had subsided, the chairman expressed his regret
that the Emperor of Russia had not arrived yet; but felt confident that
his place could not be better supplied than by Mr. Mickey Flanigan,
whose forefathers were themselves the fellow-countrymen of Daniel
O'Connell. (Great applause.)

Mr. Flanigan arose amidst great cheering, and said that it was a time
when every Irishman should feel as though the eyes of the whole world
were upon him. He had found the natives of this country intelligent,
kind, and hospitable; and though they had not taken his advice as to
the management of this war, he firmly believed that no Irishman would
disagree with him when he said, that Irish arms and Irish hearts would
finally conquer:

    "For Freedom's battle once begun.
    Bequeathed by loyal sire to son,
    Though baffled oft is ever won."

As soon as the demonstrations of approval had sufficiently subsided,
the chairman stated, that, for some unknown reason, Queen Victoria was
behind time; yet he could not, for his part, feel sorry for an event
which gave him an opportunity to introduce Mr. Figsey Korigan, who
represented that element of the world's hidden, free spirit which had
thundered in an Emmett and an O'Brien. (Great enthusiasm.)

Mr. Korigan acknowledged the glorious welcome he had received, and
declared that this was a proud day for Ireland. Her sons were ever
foremost in the ranks of human freedom, shedding their votes for the
oppressed of all lands, and fighting all the time. He would say to that
Irishman who despaired of this Union, that he was unworthy of any
office, and should blush to call himself an American. The speaker's own
family had always been Irish, though he himself was born in Cork, and
he would be ashamed to stand on that platform if he did not believe
that the freeborn Irish soul would eventually triumph:

    "For Freedom's contest once begun,
    By bleeding sire bequeathed to son,
    Though baffled oft is ever won."

The chairman now arose, amid frantic applause, and said that the
meeting was now at an end; but proposed that all the persons present
should enroll themselves as members of a Union League for the
Prevention of Distress among our Irish Soldiers in the Field. This was
responded to with a thundering "Ay." He also proposed that each person
present should contribute one dollar as a basis of a fund for the
purpose. A gentleman here moved that the chairman's last suggestion
should be amended by omitting the words "dollar" and "fund." Carried
unanimously.

Then all the Accomackians went pleasantly home, my boy, except one
seedy chap who had stood patiently before the platform during all the
proceedings; and there he still stood, with his arms folded, when all
the rest had gone. He was a somewhat loaferish chap, with some
appearance of the philosopher.

The chairman looked at him, and says he:

"What are you waiting for, my friend?"

The chap gave an extra chew to his tobacco, and says he:

"I'm waiting for that ere Great Union meeting to come off."

"Why," says the chairman, "the meeting is all over."

"Yes, I know--_that_ meeting," says the chap, explainingly; "but I mean
the Great _Union_ meeting."

It is astonishing, my boy, how much ignorance there is in this world.
Here was a sane human being who had attentively stood all through a
meeting in aid of our sacred national cause, and yet did not know that
it was a Union meeting.

Thursday was the day when I reached the head-quarters of the Mackerel
Brigade, at the ancient city of Paris, arriving just in time to witness
one of those strategic naval exploits which will yet cause the American
name to be respected wherever there is nothing particular against it.

It appears, that after his last successful experiment with his patent
swivel gun, that stanch old sea-dog, Rear Admiral Head, devoted much of
his time on Duck Lake fishing for bass, believing that noble expanse of
waters to be free from all obstructions and open to the commerce of the
world. The commerce did not come, my boy; but several insidious
Confederacies did; and as our glorious old son of Neptune always sat
with his back to their side of the lake when fishing, they constructed
a pier which extended from the shore to the main deck of the
iron-plated Mackerel Squadron, the "Secretary Welles," and had planted
seven villanous horse-pistols to command the Admiral's fish-basket and
umbrella before our hoary old salt discovered that the war was still
going on.

"Riddle my turret!" says the grim old Triton, in his iron-plated
manner, "I believe a blockade is established; dent my plates if I
don't."

Heartily did that pride of our Navy call up the culpably inattentive
Mackerel crew, who were eating clams in the stern-sheets, and quickly
was the gallant "Secretary Welles" withdrawn out of the range of the
Confederacies' murderous fire; her swivel gun raking the atmosphere
fore and aft, whilst the fearless old sea-dog sat down upon a reversed
pail amidships, and addressed a letter breathing future vengeance to
the unseemly Copperheads of the North. "Sink my Monitor!" says he
hotly; "let them beware of the time when the Navy returns to its
peaceful home!"

But it was on Thursday, my boy, that the Rear Admiral was to run the
blockade of the Confederacies' pier, and Captain Villiam Brown, Captain
Bob Shorty, and myself, stood upon the edge of Duck Lake, with our
pieces of smoked glass in our hands, to behold this triumph of
consummate naval strategy.

At the hour appointed, we beheld Rear Admiral Head and his Mackerel
crew slipping over the stern of the Mackerel squadron into the water,
and immediately the "Secretary Welles" commenced to float past the
Confederacies' batteries with the tide. Onward she went, despite the
plunging fire from the horse-pistols, and, presently, we could see her
go safely ashore. Never shall I forget the beautiful glow of triumph
that overspread the noble countenance of Rear Admiral Head, as he and
his crew waded through the water to the place where we stood.

"Unrivet my armor!" says he, in his stern, iron-plated manner; "I call
that running a blockade in good style."

"Yes," says I, sceptically; "but how are you going to get the squadron
back again?"

"Eh?" says he, "what was that question, young man?"

"Why," says I, anxiously, "now that the squadron has run the blockade,
how are you going to get her back again?"

"By all that's iron-clad," says the grim old sea-dog, violently, "I
forgot all about that."

"Ah!" says Captain Villiam Brown, pleasantly, "can't you dig a canal?"

At this moment there was a tremendous explosion; something was seen
flying through the air, and then the swivel gun of the "Secretary
Welles," with the Admiral's fish-basket and umbrella attached, fell
beside us on the sand. In their haste to take possession of our
squadron, the Confederacies had dropped some sparks from their pipes
into the powder-magazine, blowing our entire armament back to us!

Providence, my boy, is evidently on our side in this war; which
accounts for the fact that human naval genius has not yet entirely
ruined us.

Yours, devoutly,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER LXXXVIII.

    CONCERNING INTELLECTUAL GIANTS AND PINS; WITH A FEW WORDS AS TO
    CERTAIN DRAMATIC STREET-SCENES SUPPOSED TO BE OF DAILY OCCURRENCE;
    AN AFFECTING WESTERN POEM; AND A BRIEF GLIMPSE OF AN ORDINARY
    CAVALRY DASH.


WASHINGTON, D.C., March 22d, 1863.

Greatness of mind, my boy, like greatness of body, consists no less in
a capacity for making good use of small things than in an ability to
master vast ones; and the intellect sublime enough to grasp the whole
system of the universe, may not disdain to draw a useful lesson in
human nature even from so minute an object as the Secretary of the
Interior. The elephant, in the full amplitude of his physical
greatness, has been briefly and comprehensively characterized as an
animal able to knock down a giant and pick up a pin; and how shall the
glorious human mind boast its superiority over matter, if it be not
also endowed with the power of stooping as well as soaring? I believe,
my boy, in the mind that picks up pins intellectual; especially in
these days, when there are so few intellectual giants to knock down.
Indeed, so important to the general system of intellect is the system
of taking no less note of small things than of great ones, that a
multitude of writers who deal only in the smallest kind of matters all
their lives may themselves be denominated intellectual pins. I hold
Mr. Tupper to be an intellectual pin, and Mr. Willis has also become
somewhat of a pin in these his later years.

To the youthful soul, still steeped in those romantic dreams, of which
a supper of pig's feet is the best artificial provocative I know, this
war is a vast phantasmagoria of almighty giants struggling together in
the clouds. There was a time when I, too, was able to see it to that
extent; but time, and some experience in Virginia, have reduced my
giants in the clouds to brigadiers in the mud; and from seeing our
national banner in the character of a rainbow dipped in stars, I have
come to regard it as an ambitious attempt to represent sunrise in
muslin, the unexpected scantiness of the material compelling the
ingenious artist to use a section of midnight to fill up.

Down in Accomac, the other day, I overheard a sentimental Mackerel
chap, to whom I had imparted this flagging idea, inflicting it upon
another Mackerel as original; but he was anxious to improve upon the
comparison, and says he:

"Our National Standard is so much like a beautiful sunrise, that I
could almost wish the full idea of an eternal morning could be further
expressed in it by something to represent the dew."

The inferior Mackerel scratched his head, and says he:

"Why, my pay has been due for some time, and I myself am eternally
mourning for it."

If we cast pearls before swine, my boy, we must not be surprised to
find them taken for the seeds of cabbage-heads. I once told a
Wall-street broker that I considered the break of day one of Nature's
most glorious sights; and he said that he didn't mind it himself, if he
didn't happen to have any of Day's notes on hand at the time.

But, to return to the giants and the pins; the absence of all giants in
the way of events for the past week has induced me to take note of the
pins; and close observation of a few of the latter induces me to
believe that a strong Union feeling is beginning to be developed
amongst the loyal masses of the North. For instance: one of the
passengers in one of the street-cars of Paris, the other day, was a
venerable man of ninety-three years and seven months, who sat quietly
between two lady-passengers, eating roast chestnuts, and permitting the
shells to fall upon their laps. Upon his hoary locks rested a white
hat, well worn and mashed-in with time; his once light overcoat
buttoned close to his throat, represented a drawn battle between grease
spots and torn places; his venerable lower members were encased in blue
overalls, somewhat shaded about the knees; and the large feet, resting
easily upon the cushions of the opposite seat of the car, wore one
slipper and one disabled boot. With the exception of a scarcely heard
hiccup between every two chestnuts that he ate, not a sound was emitted
by this venerable and striking figure as he sat there thus
unobtrusively in a public car, like any ordinary passenger.

Presently, a young and boisterous lieutenant, vain of his new regimentals,
and full of the airs of a new Jack-in-office, entered the car, and
egotistically attempted to make his way to a seat. A faint hiccup
saluted his ear, and, looking down, he found his way barred by the aged
legs of the venerable stranger, whose feet were upon the opposite
cushions.

"Let me pass, old man?" says the vain youngster, with the smart air of
one who wishes to get to his seat.

The venerable stranger hardly raised his stern old eyes at the flippant
remark, but ate another chestnut, as though no one had spoken.

"Come, my friend," says the conceited stripling, with fresh arrogance,
"Be kind enough to move for a moment. I am Colonel P----."

In an instant, the aged frame sprang to his feet, opened all the
windows, turned the conductor out of the car, locked the doors, mashed
his hat down over his eyes, and frantically tearing open his
dilapidated overcoat, displayed _the star of a major-general_!

In an instant, the newly-fledged colonel lost all his knowing
braggadocio, and cowered before the glorious old veteran, like a cowed
cur (female of a bull-dog).

"Wr-r-r-etch!" exclaimed the hoary commander, in tones of thunder,
relieved with the vivid lightning of a hiccup, "Do you know _me_!"

The abashed young boaster could only bow his head in shame, and took
the first opportunity to dash himself from the vehicle wherein he had
been taught such a lesson. And this should teach us all, my boy, that
bad clothes are not always a sure sign of the wearer being only a
reporter for the _Tribune_; nor do the ordinary symptoms of
intoxication always indicate that the possessor lacks high rank in our
national army.

Some hours later, on this same car, there transpired a somewhat
different scene, but one equally calculated to prove that there is
indeed a North. Twenty-three wealthy secessionists were in the swift
vehicle, the only other passenger being a handsome lad of about
sixteen, in the uniform of a brigadier. Rendered confident by their
numbers, the enemies of our beneficent form of government entered into
a venomous discussion of the siege of Vicksburg, asserting that the
Yazoo Expedition had not yet captured forty-two steamboats of
Confederacies, and that the announcement of the capture of the
Mississippi River was premature.

The young soldier of the Republic went on with some candy he was
eating, an apparently indifferent spectator of this symposium of
treason; but the close spectator could not have failed to observe that
his whole form was invisibly convulsed with a patriotic indignation.
Presently, however, when one of the more hideous conspirators
heartlessly remarked that we had not heard much of our army in Virginia
lately, endurance ceased to be a virtue, and the young hero could no
longer restrain himself.

In a moment his whole aspect changed; his eyes burst into a devouring
blaze, and his cheeks were in flames before aught could be done to
check the conflagration. Animated by the strength of a giant, in a
cause which he believed to be a noble one, he shot the traitors one by
one with his revolver, and buried them in an obscure swamp near the
track; he paid the driver and conductor their wages, and induced them
to enlist for three years; then, after selling both the horses at
auction, he broke the car into kindling-wood for the use of the poor.

And this mere boy, who could make himself equal to an emergency,--what
of him? I can fancy him a fond mothers pride, a venerable father's
hope,--ay, even a tender sister's favorite snub. When this record of
his glory reaches them, will they remember, in the midst of their proud
exultation, the poor scribe whose humble pen relates to them the
glories of their house? Will they drop one burning tear to the memory
of him who at this moment does not know what on earth to write about
next, and heartily wishes that he had been content to earn a
respectable living as a reputable wood-sawyer, instead of turning
writer? Will they sometimes give one idle thought to the unpretending
_literateur_ who has found the glorious reward of literary merit to be
an assumption by one-horse country newspapers of the right to talk
about him by his family name without troubling themselves to put in the
civilized courtesy of "Mr."? Will they mention in their less urgent
prayer, occasionally, the modest child of the quill, who would exceed
all the horrors of the Inquisition with the foes of his country, by
actually forcing them to write a column for a newspaper when they felt
mentally incapable of penning a single coherent paragraph? Will they?

Ah! this is no country to appreciate genius; as they wrote upon the
tomb of my early friend, the sweet-singing Arkansaw Nightingale, whose
last sad manuscript to me described

    "A BIG DOG FIT.

    "Lige Simmons is as cute a chap
      As ever you did see,
    And when the feller says a thing,
      It's sure as it can be.

    "He owns a dog--and sich a brute
      For smellin' round a chap,
    I never see in all my life,
      You'd better bet your cap.

    "Now Lige is proud of this here dog,
      And says the critter'll whip
    As many wild-cats in an hour
      As go to load a ship.

    "'But, law,' says Lige, 'that animile
      Is awful in a row,
    And other pups 'longside of him
      An't no account, nohow.'

    "In fact, one day, I saw the same
      Contemporaneous pup
    Pitch into a Newfounlander
      And chaw him slightly up.

    "He's such a plaguy little cuss,
      You'd laugh to see him come;
    But when there's chawin' up to do,
      I tell you, boss, he's some!

    "One day, a pedler came to town
      With ginger-beer and things,
    And patent clocks, and pious books,
      And fancy finger-rings.

    "And underneath his cart was tied
      A bull-dog of the kind
    That tears your musn't-mention-'ems,
      In angry frame of mind.

    "Now, Lige's dog was smellin' round,
      And when he see this here,
    He cocked his eye in agony,
      And acted awful queer.

    "The bull-dog gin a rousin' shout,
      As Lige's dog went by,
    And gev him such a sassy nip
      That fur began to fly.

    "Then Lige's dog unfurled his tail
      And gev the wound a lick,
    And then pitched into that ere dog
      A way that _wasn't_ sick.

    "The critters had it nip and tuck,
      And made such awful noise,
    That Lige himself came up to see,
      With all the other boys.

    "The pedler see him, and says he,
      Like one to fits inured:
    'I'm sorry, strannger; but I hope
      Your yaller dog's insured.'

    "I tell you, boys, 'twas fun to see
      The grin that Lige put on,
    As in his cheek he put a chaw
      And winked his eye at one.

    "'Oh, let the varmints fit,' says Lige,
      'My pup is awful thin,
    And this here row will make him look
      Jist like himself ag'in.'

    "And all this while the fit went on,
      With such a mess of dust
    We couldn't tell the upper dog,
      If all our eyes should bust.

    "'Twas yell and yowl, and shout and growl,
      And stompin' awful hard,
    And sometimes they'd a tail stick out
      From where the dust was bar'd.

    "Byme-by the noise began to die,
      And as it fainter grew,
    The dust began to settle down,
      And you could just see through.

    "At last it cleared away entire,
      But all that we could see
    Was Lige's dog a squattin' down
      Beneath the axletree.

    "'Law!' says the pedler, lookin' blue,
      'What's happened to _my_ pup?'
    Says Lige: 'It's my opinion, boss,
      My pup has eat him up.'

    "'But where's the chain I tied him with?'
      The pedler loud did call.
    And would you b'lieve me--Lige's dog
      Had swallowed chain and all!

    "One end was hangin' from his mouth
      And gev him such a cough,
    We had to fetch a chisel out
      And cut some inches off.

    "Then that ere brute, to show the joy
      That's nat'ral to dum brutes,
    Insulted that sad pedler there,
      By smellin' round his boots.

    "The pedler dropped a tear, and then
      Says he to Lige, says he:
    'I'd like to buy that yaller pup
      And take him home with me.'

    "But 'no,' says Lige, with proud disdain
      And sot down on a log,
    'That pup is plural now, you know--
      A dog within a dog.'

    "'He's twice as strong to fit,' says Lige;
      'For if he's killed outside,
    I'll turn the critter inside out,
      And let _your_ critter slide.'

    "'Well,' says the pedler, with a sigh,
      'The pup's a trump, I think;
    But let us change the subject now;
      Say, strannger!--do you drink?'"

But let me not indulge in sentiment, my boy, while it is still before
me to describe the recent successful reconnoissance of the Anatomical
Cavalry, whose horses remind me of the celebrated war-horse described
by Job, inasmuch as it is believed that the far-famed patience of that
scriptural patriarch would have stood a very poor chance with them.

The Grim Old Fighting Cox, the new General of the Mackerel Brigade,
having learned from the New York daily papers, of the week previous,
that a few hundred thousand freshly-drafted Confederacies were massing
themselves on his right, resolved to order a triumphant reconnoissance
by the Anatomical Cavalry and the Orange County Howitzers, for the
purpose of discovering whether the war was actually going on yet. As
the steeds of the cavalry were widely dispersed through the various
gravel meadows around the Mackerel camp, my boy, and had grown somewhat
wild from long disuse, I was somewhat puzzled to know how they could
all be caught quickly enough, and says I to Captain Villiam Brown, who
was to command the combined expedition:

"Tell me, my Pylades, how will you manage to organize the equestrian
bone-works without losing too many hours?"

"Ah!" says Villiam, briskly replacing the cork in his canteen, and
startling his geometrical steed, Euclid, from a soft doze, "we must
make use of our knowledge of natural history, which is the animal
kingdom. Observe the device used in such cases by the scientific United
States of America."

I looked, my boy, and beheld a select company of joyous Mackerels
hoisting a huge board to the top of a lofty pole, which must have been
visible for a mile distant. The board simply bore, in large letters,
the simple words:

    "THE OATS HAVE COME."

and scarcely had it reached the top of the pole, when the anatomical
steeds came pouring into the camp with frantic speed, and from every
direction.

"Ah!" says Villiam, thoughtfully, "how powerful is instink, even in a
dumb animal. I once had a dog," says Villiam, reflectively, "whose
instink was so powerful, that to stop his vocal barking it was only
necessary to show him a good-sized piece of bark. He felt," says
Villiam, explainingly, "that it was a larger bark than his, and it made
him silent."

Truly, my boy, there is often a marvellous similarity between instinct
and reason, the former serving as the foundation of the latter, and not
unfrequently being entirely destitute of a superstructure in military
men.

The Cavalry and Howitzers having been arranged in such order that each
supported the other, and a prospect of some carnage supported them
both, the word was given to advance, and the warlike pageant swept
onward very much as we read in the reliable morning journals. I was
proceeding at the head of the cavalcade, with Villiam, pleasantly
discussing with him the propriety of digging a canal to Richmond, and
using the Cavalry on the tow-path, when there rode forth from the cover
of a wood near at hand a horseman, whose stately bearing and
dishevelled hat announced Captain Munchausen, of the celebrated
Southern Confederacy. He waved his sword courteously to Villiam, and
says he:

"You bring your hordes to measure sabres with us, I presume?"

Villiam rattled his good sword Escalibar[4] in its scabbard, and says
he, grimly, "We are met together for that purpose."

      [4] It is hardly necessary to state that this sword,
      "Escalibar," is probably identical with the invincible blade,
      of the same name, presented to King Arthur by the Lady of the
      Lake.

Captain Munchausen smiled superciliously, and says he, "Is this
intended by your vandals to be what you call a brilliant cavalry dash?"

Villiam waved his hand majestically, and says he:

"That is the exciting phrase."

"Then," says Munchausen, with unseemly levity of tone, "I can tell you,
before you go any farther, that you are out of ammunition."

Here Captain Samyule Sa-mith, of the Howitzers, who had come up while
the talking was going on, suddenly slapped his knee, and says he:

"That's so. I knew I had forgotten something in this here expedition,
and it's the ammunition."

So we all went back to camp, Captain Munchausen being too much
demoralized by the bad example to pursue us.

Our latest cavalry dashes, my boy, being reduced to their simplest
meaning, signify devised charges of cavalry, which are based upon
charges of artillery, which have forgotten to bring any charges with
them.

Yours, retreatingly,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER LXXXIX.

    SHOWING HOW THE GREAT CITY OF ROME HAS BEEN RUINED BY THE WAR;
    CITING A NOTABLE INSTANCE OF CONTEMPT OF COURT; DESCRIBING REAR
    ADMIRAL HEAD'S WONDERFUL IMPROVEMENT IN SWIVEL GUNS; AND PROVING
    THAT ALL IS NOW READY FOR THE REDUCTION OF FORT PIANO.


WASHINGTON, D.C., March 29th, 1863.

After due consideration of the different points of the Compass, and a
fair estimate of the claims of each to superiority, I am inclined to
give the preference to the Great North-west. It is to the Great
North-west that we are indebted for our best facilities of sunset; some
of the greatest hogs of the day come from Cincinnati; the principal
smells of the age belong to Chicago, and the whiskey of Louisville has
almost entirely superseded the pump of our forefathers. Hence, my boy,
it was with a feeling akin to reverence that I witnessed the arrival in
Accomac of a delegation of high moral Democratic chaps from the Great
North-west, the other day; their mission being, to protest against all
further continuation of a war which was degenerated into a mere
bloodshed for the sake of New England; and to suggest that a convention
of all the States be at once held in Kentucky, to arrange a peace that
shall be acceptable to the Great North-west. I was asking the
thoughtful chairman of the delegation what were his particular
grievances, and says he:

"This war is ruining much valuable Real Estate in the Great North-west,
of which I and my fellow-beings are proprietors; and cannot continue
without proving the entire destruction of some of our largest cities.
Just before this war broke out," says the thoughtful chap,
impressively, "I gave a three-years' note of seven hundred and sixteen
dollars and fifteen cents for the city of Rome, situated on the future
line of the Atlantic and Pacific Canal, and divided into four hundred
water-lots of five fathoms each. As soon as the Atlantic and Pacific
Canal was built, the water would have been drawn off by means of
eighteen large hydraulic pumps supported by Eastern capital, leaving
the lots all ready for building purposes. The main street would then
have been graded, and paved with the new patent Connecticut
sub-drainage pavement, and would have extended two miles in a perfectly
straight line, with a horse-railroad through the centre. The various
intersecting streets I should have named numerically, commencing with
'First Street,' which faces upon the Atlantic and Pacific Canal, and so
going on to 'One Hundred and Seventy-sixth street,' and so on. These
streets would have been occupied exclusively by brown-stone-front
residences, with a flag-staff bearing our national banner on the roof
of each one, and rented to small private families without children. The
full lots on the main street would have been used for the City Hall,
the Lunatic Asylum, the Custom House, the Home for Deranged Persons,
the Merchants' Exchange, the Corn Exchange, the Refuge for the Insane,
the Grain Elevator, the Institution for Friendless Maniacs, the
Principal Pork-Packing Establishment, the Hall of Records, the Office
of the Superintendent of Central Parks, the Madman's Snug Harbor, and
the Municipal Bar-Room. The sixty-eight principal banks would have
discounted bills of exchange at sight, for the benefit of the numerous
foreign vessels constantly arriving at the principal pier by way of the
Atlantic and Pacific Canal, and the Fire Department would have been
limited to twenty-three hundred hose-carriages and engines, with an
educated Chief Engineer." Here the thoughtful Democratic chap gnashed
his teeth, and says he:

"But the City of Rome has been entirely retarded by this here Black
Republican New England war upon the sunny South, with which the great
North-west has no earthly quarrel whatsoever."

I was pondering a reply to this very reasonable speech, my boy, when
word was suddenly brought that one of the Mackerel pickets had just
assassinated a young Confederacy, who had only fired twice upon his
inhuman murderer. No sooner did the thoughtful Proprietor of the City
of Rome hear this sickening news than he at once formed the other
Democratic chaps into a coroner's jury, and hastily proceeded to hold a
high moral inquest upon the body of the lamented deceased.

There being no witnesses to examine, and nothing in the pocket-book
found upon the body, the proprietor of Rome removed two tears with his
red silk handkerchief, and briefly summoned up the case. Kneeling
desolately beside the cold remains, and taking one of the lifeless
hands within his own, he sniffed feelingly, and says he:

"The young man which is here before us is another of them noble souls
that have fallen gory sacrifices to the Mulock of War."

"You mean 'Moloch of War,'" says a juryman.

Whereupon he was committed to custody for contempt of court.

"This young man," continued the Proprietor of Rome, "may have had good
cause to hate and despise the radical abolition offsprings of New
England; but he had no quarrel with the glorious Democratic party of
the Great North-west, which is now blindly fighting for his
wooden-nutmeg foes. I will venture to say," says the thoughtful Roman,
with great emotion, "that he even loved the Great North-west in his
heart. Behold how freely he permits me to clasp his left hand to my
friendly buzzom, even though he is dead."

Just then there was a sudden silence, my boy, for the right hand of the
deceased young Confederacy was observed to be slowly rising in the air!
Overcome with awe, the jury gazed upon the strange spectacle, like men
under a wizard's spell. Slowly, slowly, the hand arose, until nearly
above the face of the slain Confederacy; then it descended until it
reached the half-averted countenance of the dead, and convulsively
seized the nose between the thumb and fore-finger.

The Proprietor of the City of Rome changed color, and says he:
"Well--ahem!--it can't be that--" Here he looked more closely at the
body, and says he:

"I am at a loss to explain this remarkable phenomena."

A venerable juryman, of much shirt-collar, coughed to attract
attention, and says he: "I should take the present attitude of our
departed Confederate brother to be that of a man who smells something
obnoxious."

Here the Proprietor of Rome suddenly dropped the left hand of the
deceased Confederacy, and says he:

"Why, he must mean to insult the Great North-west."

"Yes," says the venerable juryman, "there can be but one construction
of the present offensive attitude of this dead young being."

The thoughtful Proprietor of the City of Rome deliberately took off his
spectacles, blew his nose, buttoned his coat up to his chin, and says
he: "I have always advocated a vigorous prosecution of the war, and
believe that full nine-tenths of our gallant troops are Democrats.
What's the werdict?"

The shirt-collared juryman waved his hand impressively, and says he:
"We find the deceased guilty of contempt of court in the Last Degree."

Then the Democratic chaps from the Great North-west held an
enthusiastic mass meeting on the spot, and unanimously resolved that
neither Kentucky nor Indiana would resist the Conscription Bill, should
it be found unsafe to do so.

Believe me, my boy, when I say that the great Democratic party is
stanchly loyal at heart, however strangely its head may seem to err at
times; and never will it take a side with the enemies of the country,
even whilst those enemies make offers to it not only aside but affront.

Upon going down to Paris on Friday, I found the well-disciplined and
spectacled Mackerel Brigade greatly excited and demoralized by the
insidious report that their famous new General, the Grim Old Fighting
Cox, had actually washed himself. This injurious rumor, my boy,
suggested such humiliating national recollections of those days of
consummate strategy, when a certain egotistical commander indulged in
the vanities of soap and hair-oil, that the Brigade were naturally
terrified. Finally, however, the absurd story received a decisive
quietus, when the Grim Old Fighting Cox was seen riding slowly on his
unostentatious steed, the "Pride of the Canal," dressed in the
unassuming republican habiliments of a stern and inflexible
coal-heaver. It is needless to say that he had not washed himself. This
war is at length beginning in earnest.

It is beautiful to see how the Grim Old Fighting Cox is improving the
morals of the venerable Mackerels, and winning their affection,
confidence, and respect. Coming, unexpectedly, upon a Mackerel, who had
just laid aside his umbrella, and removed his spectacles, in order that
he might weep the more freely, he fired a pistol over his head, and
says he:

"What is the matter, my dear sir?"

"Oh!" says the poor Mackerel, sobbing, "I am in sore need of the pay
which is due me for two years' faithful strategy to the Union, and know
not where to get it."

The Grim Old Fighting Cox was much affected, and says he, softly: "You
must humbly kneel, and beseech Providence for it."

The afflicted chap toyed with his spectacles, and says he: "But suppose
Providence should refuse?"

"Then come to ME!" thundered the Grim Old Fighting Cox, with the air of
a stern national parent.

I could relate hundreds of such significant anecdotes as this, my boy;
though when the Grim Old Fighting Cox tells them himself to all the
reporters of the reliable morning journals, he invariably desires that
they shall go no further; but other great events demand my immediate
attention.

It was very shortly after the victorious but disastrous blowing up of
the Mackerel iron-plated squadron, the "Secretary Welles," on Duck
Lake, by the infatuated Confederacies of Pier No. 1,--it was shortly
after this event, which I duly recounted at the time, that our
unconquerable old sea-dog, Rear Admiral Head, invented an entirely new
iron-clad after the model of a Quaker hat, the turret being of solid
iron all through, and so arranged that it could be used to cover the
gangway amidships. In fact, my boy, the turret was a movable block of
iron, with the swivel-gun mounted on top; so that if the turret
happened to be hit, the artillery would not be disabled, and if the
artillery was disabled, the turret would still be as good as ever.
(Patent applied for.) There was some discussion as to what name should
be given to this formidable monster, nearly the whole six-barrelled
Indian language having been almost exhausted by our national navy; but
finally it was resolved to call her the "Shockingbadhat,"--an old
Choctaw title of much simplicity, signifying originally "The Head what
errs," but now understood as meaning "The Head waters."

There has also been a great improvement in the swivel-gun, my boy,
which has been so reconstructed as to remedy the evil of immediate
bursting so common to our heavier ordnance. A select committee of
Mackerels having been appointed to examine our national ordnance
system, and discover the cause of its inefficiency, stated in their
able report that the causes of the frequent bursting of our larger guns
are,--

_First._ The powder used in propelling the appropriate missile against
the enemy.

_Second._ The addition of an incendiary spark to said powder.

It was further stated in the report, that, although the barrel of a gun
was frequently fractured when it exploded, there was no record of the
touch-hole ever having burst; and the committee believed that this
curious fact should serve as a valuable suggestion to the manufacturers
of future heavy ordnance.

Acting upon this truly valuable suggestion, our stern old Son of
Neptune caused his swivel-gun to be reconstructed upon a novel
principle; the touch-hole was extended to the usual size of a barrel,
and the barrel was reduced to the usual size of a touch-hole; so that,
although the terrible weapon looked precisely the same as ever, it was,
in reality, _completely reversed_!

But while the "Shockingbadhat" was being built, and receiving her
terrific new armament, the shameless Confederacies on their Pier in
Duck Lake had been industriously building Fort Piano and mounting it
with their villanous horse-pistols; so that when the new Mackerel
iron-plated squadron was ready for carnage and fishing, there was a
hostile projection in the way.

"Chip my turret!" says Rear Admiral Head, in his iron-plated manner, "I
think I shall have to blow a few more Rebels into eternity--smash my
casemate! if I don't."

I stood upon the shore of Duck Lake, with a bit of smoked glass to my
eye as usual, when our new monster of the deep came abreast of Fort
Piano, and Rear Admiral Head commenced to reconnoitre through his
pocket-microscope. The venerable commander gazed steadfastly through it
for a moment, and then, says he:

"Crack my plates! if I don't perceive an insect on the wall of the
hostile work."

There was indeed a solitary Confederacy seated upon the front wall of
Fort Piano, dining sumptuously upon some fresh hoe-cake, and says he:

"You can't pass here without a New Jersey ferry-ticket."

(New Jersey, my boy, is now a Southern Confederacy, or a Peace of one.)

I could hear the glorious old naval hero say, in a suppressed voice, to
the intelligent Mackerel crew on top of the turret:

"Depress your weapon four points to windward, grease the ball, and fire
at his stomach."

In another instant, the whole landscape shook with a tremendous
explosion, jarring the Admiral so greatly that his spectacles fell off,
and causing his blue cotton umbrella to tremble like a leaf. The ball
ascended to the zenith in a parabolical curve, and was lost amongst the
other planets. I do not think, my boy, that the Confederacy would have
been offended at this, had not the sudden noise caused him to jump in
such a manner that he dropped his hoe-cake into the dirt. Upon this
occurrence, however, he sprang to his legs on the wall, drew up a long
pole from behind him, disrespectfully cracked our glorious old Rear
Admiral over the head with it, and then commenced shoving at the turret
of the "Shockingbadhat."

Perceiving the great danger of the squadron, and unmindful of his own
wound, the venerable sea-dog hastily grasped at the pole, and says he:
"Ah, now, what do you want to do that for, Mr. Davis? What's the use of
pushing my turret overboard?"

He said this so mildly that the Confederacy burst into a prodigious
horse-laugh, and drew in his pole again.

"As no possible good could be attained by taking Fort Piano, the
indomitable old Rear Admiral at once returned with the squadron to his
original anchorage; having gained all that was required, and proved his
iron-clad monster to be fully qualified for actual service. Everything
is now ready for the anticipated conquest of Duck Lake."

I give you the above in quotation marks, my boy, because it is the
official report as it appears in all the reliable morning journals, and
clearly and satisfactorily explains everything. The first of April is
close at hand.

Yours, fortuitously,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XC.

    GIVING A DEEP INSIGHT OF WOMAN'S NATURE; PRESENTING A POWERFUL POEM
    OF THE HEART BY ONE OF THE INTELLECTUAL FEMALES OF AMERICA; AND
    REPORTING THE SIGNAL DISCOMFITURE OF MR. P. GREENE.


WASHINGTON, D.C., April 5th, 1863.

Woman's heart, my boy, in its days of youthful immaturity and vegetable
development, may be felicitously likened unto a delicate cabbage, with
an invisible worm feeding upon its sensitive petals. To the eye of the
ordinary and unfeeling observer, the cabbage is in perfect health, and
its intense greenness is thoughtlessly accepted as a sure indication of
an unravaged system. Man, proud man, with all his boasted human wisdom,
would smile incredulously, if told that the tender vegetable--the
magnified and nervous white rose, as it were--had beneath all its
seeming verdancy, an insatiable and remorseless worm gnawing at its
hidden core. Man, I say, would thus wallow in his miserable ignorance,
and persist in his disgusting blindness. But mark that dainty little
figure coming up the garden-walk, my boy. It does not walk erect, like
boastful Man, does not spit tobacco-juice like haughty Man; and as it
approaches nearer, we perceive that it is a hot-house Pig. Ay, my lord:
I say to you, in all your glory of human understanding and trifling
degree of snobbishness, it is a Pig. Yes, madam: I remark to you, in
your jewels, and laces, and absurd new bonnet,--it is only a Pig.
_very_ a Pig! O-O-ONLY a Pig! And why should we say "only" a Pig; as
though a Pig were so _very_ inferior to proud Man? We all accord to the
awful and unfathomable German Mind a preternatural gift of philosophy,
so far above the contemptibly-limited thing we call human understanding
that no man can ever understand a word of it; and how does that German
Mind express itself when it desires to describe the Vast, the
Extensive, and the Somewhat Large? Why, it simply observes "Das is von
'PIG' thing." And is not this unaffected remark sufficient, my boy, to
raise the wrongfully despised Pig to the dignity of an adjective, at
least? But look once more at the hot-house Pig in question, as he
stoops thoughtfully to the cabbage which derisive Man has esteemed
perfectly sound. He pushes it once with his nose; he raises his eyes,
blinking in the glorious sunshine; his tail vibrates a moment; a solemn
wink,--a grunt of deep reflection,--and he _turns to another cabbage_!

Yes! this despised little roasting-pig, this unconsidered Flower, as it
were, has surpassed all the vaunted wisdom of stuck-up Man, and
discovered the worm at the core of the sensitive cabbage!

Woman's heart, my boy, in its days of youthful immaturity and vegetable
development, is a metaphorical Cabbage with a figurative worm at its
palpitating core. That worm is a passionate yearning for TRUE SYMPATHY.
Heartless but wealthy Man comes along, and says: "This Cabbage is in
perfect health, and I will Husband it." He _does_ Husband it my boy,
and what is the consequence? Not knowing anything about the existence
of the worm, he cannot, of course, furnish that TRUE SYMPATHY which is
necessary to end its horrible gnawings; and so the worm keeps feeding
until the Cabbage Heart becomes a mere shell, when the least zephyr
will break it. How different the result had that Heart been--or, that
is to say, how changed would the case have been had she--or, in other
words, what an opposite spectacle might we--or, rather she--if he--if
she--

Really, my boy, I am all in a cold perspiration; for I find that I must
have made some dreadful mistake in my argument. Hem! There really
_must_ be some strange mistake in it, my boy; for I cannot follow it
out without making it scandalously appear, that a man, to really
understand a Woman's Heart, must be something of a Pig. This conclusion
would be very insulting to the women of America, and there certainly
must be some mistake about it.

What led me into this philosophical vein of analytical thought was a
touching poem of the home affections, which was sent to me for perusal
on Monday by one of the intellectual Young Women of America. It is one
of those revelations of Woman's inner-self which move us to tearful
compassion for a sex doomed to be the victim of man's selfishness and
its own too-great sensibilities. The terrible picture of woe is called

    "WOMAN'S HEART.[5]

    "BY SAIRA NEVERMAIR.

    "We went to the world-loved Ball last night,--
      Claude and I, in our robes of gold;
    He in a coat as black as jet,
      And I in the jewels I wore of old.

    "Diamonds covered my head in pounds,
      Seventy large ones lit my neck,--
    Over my skirts they burned in quarts,
      Counting in all a goodly peck.

    "Hopped the canary 'neath the wires,--
      Spoke the canary not a word;
    When to my heart the chill has struck,
      How can I sing?--can ary bird?

    "We were together, Claude and I,
      Bonded together as man and wife;
    Little I thought, as I uttered my vows,
      What was the real Ideal of life.

    "He is my Husband to love and obey,--
      Those were the words of the priest, I think,--
    He is to purchase the clothes I wear,
      Order my victuals and order my drink!

    "Well, it is well if it must be so:
      Woman the slave and man the lord;
    She the scissors to cut the threads
      After the darning, and he the sword.

    "Was it for this I played my cards,
      Tuned the piano's tender din,
    Cherished a delicate health, and ate
      Pickles and pencils to make me thin?

    "Better it were to be born a serf,
      Holding a soul by a master's lease;
    Better than learning Society's law,
      Gaining a Husband and forfeiting peace.

    "Mortimer sighs as he sees me dance,
      Percy is sad as he passes by,
    Herbert turns pallid beneath my glance;
      All of them married--and so am I.

    "Well, if the world must have it so,
      Woman can only stand and endure;
    Ever the grossness of all that is gross
      Rises the tyrant of all that is pure.

    "Marriage, they say, is a sacred thing;
      So is the fetter that yields a smart.
    Give _one_ crumb to the starving wretch,
      And give _one_ Object to Woman's Heart.

    "Claude, they tell me, should own my love;
      Well, I have loved him nearly a week;
    Looking at one man longer than that
      Grows to be tiresome--so to speak.

    "What if he calls me Angel wife;
      Angels are not for the One to win;
    Yet is my passionate love like theirs,--
      Theirs is a love taking all men in.

    "Hops the canary 'neath the wires,
      Speaks the canary not a word;
    When to my heart the chill has struck,
      How can I sing?--can ary bird?"

      [5] The measure of this striking poem is Owenmeredithyrambic.

Let us mingle our tears, my boy, in a gruel of compassion, as we
conjointly reflect upon this affecting revelation of Woman's Heart.

On Thursday last, my architectural steed, the gothic Pegasus, conveyed
me once more, by easy stages, to the outskirts of Paris, where I found
the aged and respectable Mackerel Brigade cleaning their spectacles and
writing their epitaphs preparatory to that celebrated advance upon the
well-known Southern Confederacy which is frequently mentioned in
ancient history. The Grim Old Fighting Cox, my boy, has rashly
determined, that the unfavorable weather shall not detain our national
troops another single year, and there is at last a prospect that our
grandchildren may read a full and authentic report of the capture of
Richmond in the reliable morning journals of their time. And here let
me say to the grandchild Orpheus: "Be sure, my boy, that you do not
permit your pardonable exultation at the triumph of your country's
arms, to make you too severe upon the conquered foes of the Republic."
I put in this little piece of advice to posterity, my boy, because I
desire to have posterity magnanimous.

I was conversing affably with a few official Mackerels about several
mutual friends of ours, who had been born, were married, and had
expired of decrepitude during the celebrated national sieges of
Vicksburg and Charleston, when a civilian chap named Mr. P. Greene came
into camp from New York, with the intention of proceeding immediately
to the ruins of Richmond. He was a chap of much spreading dignity, my
boy, with a carpet-bag, an umbrella, and a walking-cane.

"Having read," says he, "in all the excellent morning journals, that
Richmond is being hastily evacuated by the starving Confederacy, I have
determined to precede the military in that direction. Possibly," says
he, impressively, "I may be able to find a suitable place in the
deserted city for the residence of my family during the summer."

Captain Villiam Brown listened attentively, and says he:

"Is your intelligence official, or founded on fact?"

The civilian chap drew himself up with much dignity, and says he:

"I find it in all the morning journals."

Certainly this was conclusive, my boy; and yet our supine military men
were willing to let this unadorned civilian chap be the first to enter
the evacuated capital of the stricken Confederacy. Facing toward that
ill-fated place, he moved off, his carpet-bag in his left hand, his
umbrella In his right, and his cane under one arm, a perfect
impersonation of the spirit of American Progress. By slow and dignified
degrees he grew smaller in the distance, until finally he was out of
sight.

It was some six hours after this, my boy, that we were conversing as
before, when there suddenly appeared, coming toward us from the
direction of the capital of the Confederacy, the figure of a man
running. Rapidly it drew nearer, when I discovered it to be Mr. P.
Greene, in a horrible condition of dishevelment, his umbrella, cane,
and carpet-bag gone, his hair standing on end, his coat-tails
projective in the breeze, and his lower limbs making the best time on
record. Onward he came, like the wind, and before we could stop him, he
had gone by us, dashed frantically through the camp, and was tearing
along like mad toward Washington.

"Ah!" says Villiam, philosophically, "he derived his information from
the daily prints of the United States of America, and has seen the
elephant. The moral," says Villiam, placidly, "is very obvious,--put
not your trust in print, sirs."

If it be indeed true, that there is "more pleasure in anticipation than
in reality," the war-news we find in our excellent morning journals
should give us more pleasure than one poor pen can express.

Yours, credulously,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XCI.

    CONTAINING THE VENERABLE GAMMON'S REPORT OF THE MANNER IN WHICH THE
    WAR HAS CONDUCTED ITSELF UP TO THIS TIME; AND THE MOST SURPRISING
    EPITAPH OF A VICTIM OF STRATEGY.


WASHINGTON, D.C., April 12th, 1863.

Depressed, my boy, by that low-spirited sense of reverence for
shirt-collared Old Age, which is a part of my credulous nature, I
proceed to record that the Venerable Gammon has once more torn himself
from idolatrous Mugville to beam venerably upon all the capital the
nation has left; and as I mark how fatly he waves continual benediction
to the attached populace, I am impressed anew with the conviction of
the serious mental magnitude of large-sized Old Age. It was on Monday
that a delegation of anxious civilian chaps grovelled around this aged
idol of a mournful nation; and as soon as the awe-stricken spokesman of
the party had crawled within speaking distance of the Venerable Gammon,
he sniffed deferentially, and says he:

"Sire, we desire to know how soon we may expect an honorable peace to
end the present war, which it is perpetual bloodshed."

The Venerable Gammon placidly placed his beneficent right hand between
his patriarchal ruffles, and says he:

"My friends, this war is like a great struggle between two hostile
armies; it will continue until it has ceased, and it will cease when it
is no longer continued. Peace," says the Venerable Gammon,--waving
indulgent permission for the sun to go on shining,--"peace is the end
of the War, as war is the end of Peace; therefore, if we had no war,
peace would be without end, and if we had no peace, war would be
endless."

Then all the fond civilian chaps grovelled ecstatically at the
time-honored feet of the benignant parent of his country, and
four-and-twenty reliable morning journals immediately published a
report that Richmond had been taken--for another year.

But what has particularly endeared the Venerable Gammon to the hearts
of his distracted fellow-countrymen is, his able report of the manner
in which the war has conducted itself since the First of April, 1862. I
cannot exactly understand my boy, how this benignant benefactor of his
species comes to know anything at all about military matters; nor am I
prepared to state that he had any call whatever to report upon national
strategy; but he has issued a startling statement, and I give the whole

    REPORT.

    "On the first of April, 1862, on the day immediately succeeding the
    31st of May in the same year, a solitary horseman might have been
    seen approaching the camp of the Mackerel Brigade from Washington.
    He was a youth in the prime of life, and carried a carpet-bag
    containing the daily morning journals of that date. Upon reaching
    the tent of the General of the Mackerel Brigade, he sought an
    immediate interview with the latter, and at once revealed to him
    that it was reported in all the morning journals, that the
    celebrated Southern Confederacy had evacuated Manassas just two
    weeks previously, thereby rendering an advance upon that stronghold
    by our national troops a subject demanding immediate attention.

    "Upon discovering that this news was indeed contained in the
    morning journals, the General of the Mackerel Brigade at once
    ordered a report of our national victory to be conveyed to the
    Mackerels who had gained it; and having made several promotions for
    bravery, and telegraphed to the excellent Democratic Organization
    in New York that he had rather capture Manassas than be President
    of the United States in 1865, he ordered an immediate advance upon
    Manassas. The advance took place without confusion or dismay, and
    on the following morning Captain Villiam Brown electrified the
    whole nation with the magical words:

    "'We have met the enemy, and they are hours--ahead of us.'

    "The backbone of the Rebellion being thus broken, the General of
    the Mackerel Brigade wrote to the Honest Abe at Washington, as
    follows:

        "'DEAR SIR,--I have at length successfully surprised the
        stronghold of Manassas, and consider myself strong enough to
        continue the war, if you can send me a few more troops. If you
        can spare 60,000 under Sergeant O'Pake, and 50,000 under
        Colonel Wobert Wobinson, from the defence of Washington, I can
        wait for the other hundred thousand until I push forward again.

        "'THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.'

    "This was on the fourth of April. Owing to the continual storms,
    and the difficulty encountered in procuring umbrellas for the
    troops, the Mackerel Brigade was enabled to advance but
    thirty-three and a half feet during the ensuing four months, during
    which time several State elections took place. On the Fourth of
    July, the Honest Abe addressed the following: note to the General
    of the Mackerel Brigade:

        "'GENERAL,--By your plan of drawing troops away from Washington,
        the capital would be left with fewer soldiers than it now
        possesses; and if the capital is weakened, it follows very
        clearly, that it will not be strengthened. My plan is directly
        the reverse of your plan, so that your plan is immediately
        opposite to my plan. Allow me to ask you the following
        questions:

          "'I. If your plan is different from my plan, how can my plan be
        the same as your plan?

         "'II. If my plan does not agree with your plan, wherein does
        your plan assimilate with my plan?

        "'III. If your plan and my plan are not the same plan, how can
        my plan and your plan be one plan?

         "'IV. If my plan, by opposing your plan, shows that my plan is
        not at all like your plan, how can your plan, by differing from
        my plan, save Washington according to my plan, which is not
        your plan?

        H. ABE.'

    "Both plans were adopted, and in the course of the succeeding two
    months the Mackerel Brigade shot a couple of Confederacies. Shortly
    after this, it was decided that an advance should be made upon the
    city of Paris by way of Duck Lake, the iron-plated squadron of Rear
    Admirable Head being detailed from the blockade to take the
    Mackerels across, as soon as a heavy rain should make the lake too
    deep for navigation by personal wading. The troops were at the
    landing at the appointed time, and were about to embark in good
    order, when it was discovered by the <DW64> servant of one of the
    officers, that they had forgotten to bring any ammunition with
    them, and that the iron-plated squadron had not arrived. This
    unfortunate discovery made it necessary for the Mackerel Brigade to
    fall back thirty-three and a half feet, and the General thus wrote
    to the Honest Abe at Washington:

        "'DEAR SIR,--The safety of this Army depends entirely upon its
        immediate reenforcement by all the troops at Washington, as my
        plan is entirely different from your plan, and your plan
        differs somewhat from my plan. The importance of saving
        Washington by your plan, is as nothing when compared with the
        opposite tenor of my plan; which might, after all, be the
        saving of Washington by my plan, though my plan does not agree
        with your plan. I will stay with this army, and die with it, if
        need be, by my plan.

        "'THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.'

    "Both plans were put in force, and during the period elapsing
    between this date and the middle of November, the troops were
    busily occupied in fortifying themselves--against the inclemency of
    the weather. Arrangements being made and completed for the decent
    interment of such troops as should die of old age before the next
    great movement took place, the General of the Mackerel Brigade had
    just opened a correspondence with his family on the subject of the
    Presidency of the United States in 1865, when he received the
    appended note:

        "'GENERAL,--You will feel immediately relieved upon receiving
        this, and will report immediately to your wife at Hoboken.
        Colonel Wobert Wobinson is hereby ordered to take command of
        the Mackerel Brigade.

        "'ADJUTANT.'

    "Upon the assumption of command by General Wobinson, it was
    immediately observed that he possessed a great deal of Shape. He
    crossed Duck Lake on his Shape, and in pursuance of the plan of his
    predecessor, opened an instant attack upon Paris. Shortly after the
    attack, the whole Brigade was back across Duck Lake again, and the
    new General sent his resignation to Washington. It was refused, as
    unnecessary; and the General then devised a plan for startling the
    whole country, by organizing the Anatomical Cavalry upon an
    equestrian basis, and making a raid upon some Confederate oats
    known to be somewhere in the daily journals. The secret of this
    movement was confided to but three parties,--the Honest Abe, the
    Southern Confederacy, and the public; but before the move could
    take place it was divulged and frustrated. The General then sent in
    his resignation, which was refused as unnecessary. It was
    subsequent to this that a third great movement was arranged, when a
    shower came up suddenly, and it had to be abandoned. It was upon
    this occasion that the General sent in his resignation, when it was
    refused as unnecessary. Simultaneously, as it were, the officer
    popularly known as the Grim Old Fighting Cox, was appointed to the
    command, and here our exciting tale ends for the present.

    "If the above record of a year of the war presents some
    discouraging features, it also offers many seeds of hope for the
    future, inasmuch as it would appear utterly impossible for the
    future to be less fruitful of national triumphs than the past has
    been. The greatness of our nation is sufficiently evidenced by the
    fact that we are spending two millions of dollars per day; and as
    soon as the present rebellion shall have been crushed, the final
    defeat of the celebrated Southern Confederacy will become a mere
    question of time, and we shall be prepared to commit immediate
    assault upon combined Europe.

    "V. GAMMON."

Alas! my boy, what can we say to such a revelation of national
strategy? I was thinking over its developments as I wandered listlessly
amongst the deserted Mackerel fortifications this side of Manassas on
Thursday,--I was thinking about it, I say, when my attention was
attracted by a soldier's grave located in the very midst of the
dismantled earthworks. It bore a rude monument of pine-board, on which
the companions of the strategic deceased had written the following
inscription with chalk.

As I read this simple inscription, I could not help thinking how many
Mackerels, like this poor fifer, had rushed from their homes to the
war, panting for victory or honorable death, only to be slowly consumed
by national strategy, and die of inglorious fortification and
indigestion.

                  MUGGY JIM,

              A MACKEREL FIFER,

    LATE OF THE NEW YORK FIRE DEPARTMENT;
                 TAKEN SICK
               OF INDIGESTION,
               HE COMMENCED TO
           THROW UP FORTIFICATIONS,
             AND DIED OF STRATEGY.

                 ..........

                _Hic Jacet._
                   1..5-4.

           0....4....1....2....8,

           0....4....1....2....0;

           0....2...80....8,

           0....2...45....4.

It needs no Champollion's hieroglyphical skill to read the beautiful
little verse of the fifer's epitaph, though that verse had to be
inscribed figuratively, in order to get it all upon the narrow
monument. In all its praise of that quiet sleep in which there are no
anticipations to be disappointed, no gluttony to make sick, and no
Confederacies to guard against,--the verse will be plain to all as
reading:

    "HERE LIES

    ONE FIFER:

    Nought for one to wait,
        Nought for one to sigh-for;
    Nought too weighty ate,
        Nought to fortify-for."

The Mackerel poet who wrote those lines, my boy, may have been no
rhetorician; but his theme was an inspiration giving him more than
ordinary mastery of the figures of speech.

Yours, gravely,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XCII.

    IN WHICH OUR ENTHUSIASTIC CORRESPONDENT SURPASSES AESCHYLUS IN THE
    WAY OF AN INVOCATION; AND DESCRIBES REAR ADMIRAL HEAD'S GREAT NAVAL
    DEMONSTRATION AGAINST FORT PIANO.


WASHINGTON, D.C., April 20th, 1863.

Stand aside, my boy, and realize your own civilian insignificance,
while I invoke all the gods of Old Olympus to aid me with their
inspiration, in the tale of naval grandeur it is my duty to unfold.

Fired with the soul to hail my country great, and write her honors
endless to the world, full to the sun I wave the eager pen, invoking
all the lightning of the gods. Descend on me, Olympian dews, descend!
that this tired brain, where oft the new-born thought hath died
unblossomed in the fainting soil, may catch fresh vigor from the
grateful balm, and teem thrice glorious in a nobler youth. By all the
fire that glows in Homer's song, to make all ages flame anew with Troy;
by all the music stirred in Virgil's lay, to make AEneas ever march the
world; by all the heav'nly fury of the theme, AEschylus-taken, picturing
gods to men; by all the Art o'er nature raised sublime, and unto
Xenophon revealed by night, to make Ten Thousand nobler in Retreat than
thrice ten thousand by a Caesar led; by All that unto All hath been
their All, I charge thee, oh, thou impulse of the gods! grand as the
storm and chainless as the wind, descend on me! as lightning from the
cloud descends to beacon what the storm makes dark. That I may write,
in words of thunder born, such deeds as strengthen while they shake the
world; that I may write, in lines to trumpets tuned, such acts as make
men brothers to the gods; that I may write, in notes to mock the lute,
such feats of cunning as lull Fate to sleep; that I may dip th'
immortalizing pen in bright Pactolus' ever golden stream, and write, in
language sweeter to the ear than Hymet's honey to soft Dion's lips,
glories of arms to first make Nature crouch--then leap to something
higher than herself!

(If any man objects to that sort of thing, my boy, may he be whipped to
death by the aged maidens of the Confederacy, and utterly perish _per
flagellationem extremam_.)

And now I feel the Homeric inspiration in all my veins as I dip the
impatient quill into the Black Republican ink, and hasten to record the
deathless honors recently reaped by the Mackerel Iron-plated Squadron
in a deathless attack upon Fort Piano.

You may remember, my boy, that the construction of a pier on Duck Lake
by some shameless Confederacies, and the erection on the end thereof of
Fort Piano, was first made known to our noble old sea-dog, Rear Admiral
Head, whilst he sat on the quarter deck of his original iron-plated
squadron fishing for bass, by the accidental knocking of the squadron
against the end of the pier. His back being turned at the time, he had
not noticed the building of the terrible fortification; and when the
horrible jar of the collision caused him to look that way, he found six
villanous horse-pistols so planted by the disrespectful Confederacies
as to exactly command his fish-basket and box of bait. You may also
remember my boy, how our glorious old Neptune subsequently caused the
stanch "Secretary Welles" to run the blockade of the fort, to
thoroughly test the invulnerability of the iron-clad principle; and how
the result of that test satisfactorily proved the iron-clad principle
to be entirely testaceous.

Since then, you have heard about the building of the new Mackerel
iron-plated squadron, the "Shockingbadhat," with Rear Admiral Head's
newly improved turret and reversed swivel-gun; but you have not yet
heard, my boy, anything at all about the unique manufacture of six
additional iron-plated squadrons, to participate with the
"Shockingbadhat" in the recent severe attack on Fort Piano. You have
not heard of these six new monsters before, my boy, and respect for the
really decent families of the inventors forbids that I should tell you
anything descriptive about them now, save their names.

It was intended that the name of the first should be something full of
significance to perfidious England, and, at the same time, something
never used in England. Hence, she was christened the "Aitch."

The second was to bear a name signifying the power of bending without
breaking; and so she was called after that elastic tree, the "Yew."

In the name of the third, the Government wished to pay a complimentary
tribute to Rear Admiral Head; and, in honor of his daughter, Emma, the
squadron was named the "Em."

The fourth iron-plated invulnerable Mackerel monster it was deemed
proper to decorate with a name expressive of industry coupled with a
power to sting; and so she was called the "Bee."

There was some discussion about the proper title for the fifth patent
iron-clad, each member of the generous Mackerel Naval Committee saying
to the other: "Why can't she be named after you?" So, it was at length
decided, to happily compromise the matter by calling her the "You."

By common consent the sixth invincible iron monster was adjudged to be
known by the first of General George B. McClellan's initials, and was
entitled the "Gee."

Add these new national champions of the deep, my boy, to the
"Shockingbadhat," and you will have some idea of the glorious naval
pageant prepared to administer wholesome correction to the irreverent
Confederacies of Fort Piano, and teach the world that worn-out
cooking-stoves can be sold to the sagacious Government of the United
States of America for something better than old iron.

The "Shockingbadhat" was the flag-ship; and, on the morning of the
attack, the hoary Rear Admiral Head repaired to the top of her turret
with his umbrella, fishing-rod, and pocket-microscope, taking with him
the Mackerel crew to work the improved swivel-gun, which was also up
there; and giving orders to another unconquerable Mackerel to locate
himself amidships with a quart measure, for the purpose of measuring
the number of bushels of shots striking the turret during the first two
seconds of the approaching sea-fight.

Ranged along the right shore of Duck Lake, my boy, to witness the
battle and lend lustre to the landscape, was a land-force of virtuous
Mackerels, under command of the venerable grandmother of Rear Admiral
Head; and she was the one whose appearance gave rise to that rumor
amongst the Confederacies in the Fort, that Secretary Welles was
reviewing the troops in person.

On the opposite shore of the Lake was a delegation of European chaps,
come to behold the engagement; including Fatti O'Murphy, candidate for
the vacant throne of Greece; the Hon. Mr. New Troloppe, of England; and
le Marquis Non Puebla, French Minister to Mexico.

At the head of the Lake, my boy, I stood myself, with my bit of smoked
glass in my hand; and around me were the reporters of all the reliable
and excellent morning journals, spitting on their hands, preparatory to
writing their exciting descriptions of personal danger.

Precisely at noon the Mackerels of the land force raised their
umbrellas, the Mackerel crews got aboard their respective squadrons,
and exercises were commenced by the singing of--

    "My country, 'tis of thee."

As the last strain died away, we could hear that grim old sea-dog, Rear
Admiral Head, swearing in his iron-plated manner, and then the whole
naval pageant swept magnificently to the front of Fort Piano; the
"Shockingbadhat" leading, closely followed by the "Aitch," the "Yew,"
the "Em," the "Bee," the "You," and the "Gee." It was a glorious sight,
my boy,--a glorious sight, and moved me like the First of May.

For the purpose of testing the range and drawing the fire of the
unseemly Confederacies' Artillery, Rear Admiral Head carefully let down
his old white hat into the waves, and suffered it to drift slowly past
the north-east face of Fort Piano. We held our breath as we saw the
artful decoy whirl for a moment in an eddy caused by a land-crab, and
then drift against the pier, where it stuck. Immediately a hand was
seen reaching down after it, the hat was drawn up, and a prodigious
horse-laugh arose from the uncomely Confederacies in the Fort. They
supposed the hat to be Mr. Greely's.

"Sink my Keokuk!" roared Rear Admiral Head, in his iron-plated
manner,--"I really believe the treasonable insects have been and stolen
my beaver,--obstruct my Ironsides, if I don't!"

Scarcely had the words passed his lips, my boy, when a Confederacy _en
barbette_ discharged a double-barrelled fowling-piece at the "Aitch"
knocking off two of her front covers, breaking several bars of her
grates, and piercing her oven in numerous places. Instantly the cry
arose of "One of the cooking-stoves is sinking!" which so bewildered
Rear-Admiral Head that he discharged his swivel-gun one point too far
to the windward, and immediately found his flagship entangled on
several strings with which the Confederacies had obstructed the
passage.

"Disable my Patapsco!" exclaimed the indomitable old Neptune, in his
iron-plated manner, "the insects have tied us fast,--bend my turrets if
they haven't."

At this time, my boy, the concentrated fire of the Fort was terrific,
six horse-pistols being in full play at once, and the Mackerel with the
quart measure amidships reporting that the turret of the
"Shockingbadhat" had been hit three quarts of times in thirty seconds.

Such being the case, and the European delegation having gone home with
a view to shaking off their inclination to fall asleep, the stern old
commander ordered a wet blanket to be thrown over his swivel-gun, and
such of the iron-plated squadron as had not sunk were immediately run
ashore. The affair had been merely a reconnoissance.

Shortly after the conclusion of this terrible artillery duel, and a few
minutes subsequent to a touching exchange of congratulations between
the unconquerable Rear-Admiral and his venerable grandmother, there
hastily arrived from Paris an obese middle-aged chap, in black cotton
gloves and a scratch wig, and says he to the Admiral:

"Allow me to bless you, Sir,--My name is Hunter, Sir,--for your
excellent iron-clad conduct. We should all be grateful, sir, that you
have passed safely through 'a concentric fire that has never heretofore
had a parallel in the history of warfare.'"

Never heretofore had a parallel! What could he have meant, my boy? How
could a _concentric_ fire have a _parallel_ at any time?

Yours, questioningly,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XCIII.

    TEEMING WITH CONSUMMATE STRATEGY, AND RELATING AN EXTRAORDINARY
    GEOMETRICAL EFFORT OF MILITARY GENIUS.


WASHINGTON, D.C., May 10th, 1863.

As it was feared on Sunday last, my boy, that the venerable Mackerel
Brigade was about to commit a breach of the peace by strategically
assaulting the Confederacies established in the mud between the
Mackerel camp and the ancient City of Paris, I mounted my architectural
steed, the Gothic Pegasus, at an early hour in the morning, and
perceptibly moved toward the scene of approaching tautology. The
emaciated aspect of my architectural steed of the desert was so
inviting to the fowls of the air, my boy, that divers disreputable
crows circled suddenly around my hat, as my animal progressed with me
by miscellaneously scattering his legs around beneath himself, and at
each particular "caw" of the winged ministers of famine, a perceptible
shudder passed through the entire framework of the deeply agitated
Pegasus. Abstractedly waving my umbrella, to inspire the sable birds
for loftier flights, I pondered deeply upon the lesson taught me by the
evident emotions of my aged architectural servant; to ride upon whose
fluted back may be likened to sitting astride the peaked roof of a
small country chapel in the midst of a hard earthquake, and holding on
by the steeple. If this Gothic creation, which is but a horse, thought
I, is so agonized by the mere breakfast notes of a few demoralized
crows in the atmosphere, how much more terrible must be the anguish of
the fellow-beings known as Southern Confederacies, who must ever have a
dreadful presentiment of being summarily expunged from the human race
by any one of our brass-buttoned generals, who happens to board in
their neighborhood for a few years. If I pity this architectural
servant of mine, thought I, for his anguish at the proximity of crows
in the abstract, how much more tender should be my feeling for Southern
fellow-beings, who are continually endangered by the much louder crows
emanating from adjacent hostile Major-General roosters. As I pondered
thus, my boy, a crow of much plumage and large-sized mien, suddenly
alighted upon the pommel of my saddle, as though impatient to breakfast
upon some pounds of horseflesh. For an instant Pegasus trembled
throughout his works; he paused suddenly in his peregrination, laid
back his ears as though in deep thought, twisted his head suddenly
about, and bit off the tail of the crow in the abstract!

Simple as was the act, it at once relieved me, in my own mind, of all
obligations to have a more tender feeling for my Southern fellow-beings
than is consistent with a proper emotion of hatred against the enemies
of my country. After all, we can learn much more from brutes than from
men; and as Balaam's ass saw the angel before his master did, so the
Angel of Victory is likely to be distinctly obvious to any poor ass in
the country, before he becomes visible to the sight of our strategic
great men.

(I turn a pretty sharp corner in that last sentence, my boy; but that
is only safe strategy when you find your argument getting ahead of
you.)

It was high noon when I reached the Mackerel camp, and I found the
spectacled veterans hastily preparing to cross Duck Lake after the
manner of aquatic warriors. By some strange fatality, all the pontoons
were at hand in time, greatly to the distress of our more venerable
troops, who seemed to fear that such unheard-of punctuality must be an
evil omen. As there were a great many pontoons, and it was not deemed
best to waste any of them, two bridges were built instead of one,--it
being considered that, inasmuch as it was purposed to surprise the
unseemly Confederacies on the other side, two bridges would be just
twice as surprising to them as one would be. There was logic in this
idea, my boy--much logic and consummate strategy.

Gazing across the expanse of waters, I beheld a couple of regiments of
Confederacies playing poker on the bank, and says I to Villiam Brown,
who was at that moment returning a small black bottle to his holster:

"Tell me, my fearless blue-back, how this can possibly be a surprise,
when yonder gray-backs are looking on all the time?"

"Ah!" says Villiam, with much loftiness of demeanor; "you are but an
ignorant civilian inseck, and know nothing about war. The movement,"
says Villiam, placidly, "is intended as a surprise to the enemy, upon
the principle that any movement whatever of this Army must surprise
everybody."

I was reflecting seriously upon this unanswerable explanation of
profound strategy, my boy, when Captain Bob Shorty came rattling up
with a paper in his hand, and says he: "Attention, Company! while I
read a document calculated to restrain the licentiousness of a corrupt
and vicious press:

    "GENERAL ORDER.

    "For the purpose of preventing the transmission of all news not
    previously published in the morning journals of the so-called
    Southern Confederacy, it has been determined by the General
    Commanding to require all correspondents of the press to affix
    their full names, ages, and addresses to whatever matter they
    transmit for publication, thus giving to the journals of our time
    the double character of newspaper and business-directory. Reporters
    having vulgar names, like Jones, Smith, or Stiggins, will be at
    liberty to assume the names borne by the most popular characters in
    the exciting tales furnished by our weekly journals of
    romance,--such as Lord Mortimer, Claude de Percy, Lester
    Heartsease.

    "Correspondents who do not comply with this requirement will not be
    permitted to assist in surprising the so-called Southern
    Confederacy.

    "THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE."

    (Blue Seal.)

After we had all duly digested this useful and sagacious General Order,
my boy, Captain Samyule Sa-mith was ordered to make a detour of Duck
Lake with the Anatomical Cavalry, and dig a canal in the rear of the
well-known Confederacy; and the Mackerel Brigade, under the personal
supervision of the Grim Old Fighting Cox, commenced to cross the
pontoon-bridges in two divisions. The bridge that I was upon, my boy,
was at once attacked at the other end by a surprised Confederacy with a
large pair of scissors, who malignantly cut that end loose. There was
an aged civilian chap, from Albany, of much stomach and a broad-brimmed
hat, standing near me; and when he found the bridge beginning to move,
he smote his breast, and says he:

"Where are we drifting to?"

"Be not alarmed, Mr. Weed," says I, pleasantly; "we shall soon repair
the damage."

"Hem!" says he, "I wish I'd gone over on the other platform at first."

He was quite an old man, my boy, slowly sinking into the rising waves
of his own fat; and for that reason appeared to have a chronic fear of
some unexpected submersion.

The Mackerel Brigade, in two parts, having reached the opposite shore
of Duck Lake in safety, the Grim Old Fighting Cox ordered Captain
Villiam Brown and Captain Bob Shorty to take each a regiment of
spectacled veterans and cautiously feel the Confederacies' lines, while
he led the remainder of the national troops to a small village at hand,
which had particularly requested to be immediately destroyed. It was
his great strategical plan, my boy, to form his lines in the shape of a
triangle, thus inclosing the unmannerly Confederacies between three
fires, and winning a great geometrical victory. The Confederacies being
duly surrounded, and the village being set on fire at the apex of the
triangle, the Grim Old Fighting Cox withdrew to a tent, spread a map of
the world upon a camp-stool before him, and proceeded to take
topographical observations. Drawing from his saddle-bags an instrument
of opaque glass, of tubular character, quite large in circumference
about half-way up, and then tapering into a neck, or smaller tube, of
nearly the same length, he raised it in a semi-horizontal position to a
point about one and a half inches above the lower circumference of his
chin, until he could look through it at an angle bisecting its greater
circumference upon the map below. The light, striking through the body
of this instrument, cast a wavy, fluctuating sort of yellowish glare
upon that part of the map representing the well-known Southern
Confederacy, accompanied by a species of soft, trickling sound. After
an interval of some ten minutes, the operator saw, by this contrivance,
just double the number of Confederacies he had to contend with. It only
remained, then, for him to divide the number thus ascertained by two,
and he knew exactly the number of his foes!

You will observe, my boy, that this singularly ingenious device at once
revealed to the new General of the Mackerel Brigade the true strength
of his greatest enemy, and inspired him with a strong spirit.

It was immediately after this, that the Grim Old Fighting Cox issued
the following

    "GENERAL ORDER.

    "The manner in which the crossing of Duck Lake has been
    accomplished proves that this is the finest Army ever seen on the
    plan-it, and is likely to prove equally fine on the do-it. I have
    now got the well-known Southern Confederacy where I wished to have
    her, and she must either ignominiously retreat, or come out of her
    works, and be annihilated by me on my own ground, which is
    ground-arms!

    "(Blue Seal.)

    "THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE."

Having let fly this General Order, my boy, the Grim Old Fighting Cox
proceeded to complete his surprise of the enemy by leading a bayonet
charge from his side of the triangle, and immediately telegraphed to
the base of the triangle that the enemies of human freedom were
retreating before him. This was truly the case; for the unseemly
Confederacies not only retreated before him, but retreated with such
impetus of flight upon Captain Villiam Brown at the base of the
triangle, that they actually drove him clear out of his place, and
proceeded to occupy the base themselves. Thus matters stood at the
conclusion of the first day.

Early on the second day, the Grim Old Fighting Cox charged again upon
some fresh regiments of Confederacies, who retreated with such violence
that they completely pressed Captain Bob Shorty from the right line of
the triangle, and remained in that line themselves. This was the
second day's battle.

On the following morning, it was discovered that fresh Confederacies
had come up from Paris. These were attacked irresistibly by the whole
Mackerel Brigade, and only succeeded in making a stand when they
formed, as it were, the left line of the triangle.

You will perceive, my boy, that a great piece of geometrical strategy
had been thus achieved; but it now turned out that the General of the
Mackerel Brigade had made a mistake, and a most serious one. While
taking his observations with his ingenious glass instrument, he had
seen just double the number of triangles (2) that might be formed by
certain great strategical evolutions, as he had seen just double the
number of the Confederacies; but, in his haste, he had neglected to
divide the ascertained number of triangles by two, as he should have
done; and now he discovered that only one triangle was formed, and that
by the unseemly and chuckling Confederacies. Such a nice thing is
strategy, and so easily is it deranged!

Owing to this error, of course nothing more could be done, and on
Tuesday evening the Mackerel Brigade returned, full of enthusiasm, to
their original side of Duck Lake. The affair had been merely a
reconnoissance.

Last evening, at dusk, I was talking to the Mackerel Chaplain about
this singular strategical affair, and says he:

"God help us! The skeleton regiments we have left standing are scarcely
more than the skeleton regiments we have left sleeping; and only the
sleeping ones can look upward."

Let gentle charity, my boy, silence our tongues to the dread mistake
that is past; for he who made it lost by it the glorious immortality
his meanest soldier slain has won.

Yours, gently,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XCIV.

    AFFORDING AN INSTANCE OF IMPERCEPTIBLE PATRIOTISM; PRESENTING THE
    PROFOUND COMMENTARY OF AN EMINENT FOREIGN MILITARY CRITIC; AND
    REPORTING THE LAST EFFUSION OF THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.


WASHINGTON, D.C., May 17th, 1863.

When great interests are at stake, my boy, and strong passions are
excited, and when it becomes necessary that a whole nation shall be
unanimous for its own preservation from destruction, we occasionally
meet with chaps of severe countenance and much shirt-ruffles, whose
patriotism is purely that of descent, and not at all of assent. Since
this great strategic war commenced, I have encountered divers
iron-faced and brass-mounted conservative fellow-beings, whose
sentiments in action have seemed to establish as an inevitable
postulate in logic, that a man sired by a hero of '76, must naturally
be damn'd by the heroes of '63; and that a man with Revolutionary blood
in his veins is entirely exempted from all legitimacy to a propensity
for spilling the least drop of that sacred liquid in behalf of a cause
not Revolutionary. It was on Tuesday, my boy, that I met the Honorable
Fernando Fuel, the member-elect from the Sixth Ward, who had come
hither for the express purpose of getting up for himself an entirely
new coat of arms, according to New York Heraldry, and of procuring from
some scholar a recondite couplet that should at once serve, in motto
form, to denote his Revolutionary descent, and express his high moral
patriotism as apart from any partisan desire to see injuries inflicted
upon the Wayward Sisters of his distracted country. He came to me, and
says he:

"Learning, sir, that you are qualified to cull from your extensive
poetical readings some unique couplet appropriate for my approaching
coat-of-arms, I desire you to furnish me with the same, and present
your bill to our Excellent Democratic Organization, of which I am Chief
Indian near--In short, a Sachem local. My patriotism," says he, shading
a slight cough with a black cotton-glove,--"My patriotism is doubted by
none but those imbecile despots who defeated our Excellent Democratic
Organization in the last Presidential election, and are now waging a
bloody and unnatural war for the sake of the Demon of Africa. But my
patriotism hurls back the epithet of 'traitor,' and is clearly
established by the fact that I had an ancestor in the Revolution. It is
my wish," says this plausibly-spoken chap, nodding to a Faro-banker as
he happened to pass at that moment,--"it is my wish that the couplet
should express, neatly and figuratively as it were, the exact degree of
my present patriotism, and its derivation from my Revolutionary
ancestor. Let it represent me clothed in patriotism, as it were."

I thought upon his words for a while, my boy, and then says I:

"For such unspeakable patriotism as yours, good Fuel, there can be no
finer couplet than this:

    "'_A painted vest Prince Vortiger had on,_
    _That from a naked Pict his grandsire won._'"

The Honorable Fuel turned very crimson in the face with intense
gratification, and says he: "Ha! ha!--ahem! Yes, that's not bad. Ha!
ha! very good--you infernal Black Republican you!"

He left me, as a cloud might leave the sun with which it had vainly
attempted to cut up shines, and I felt for a moment, like one lost in
the Wood. With the best intentions in the world, I had only succeeded
in adding Fuel to the flames of treason.

It pleases me to say that Herr Suvchork, one of those eminent foreign
strategists of war who have visited our distracted country for the
truly benignant purpose of teaching us how we may win battles only
recently lost, has honored me with a great metaphysical criticism upon
the recent reconnoissance and triangular proceeding of the New General
of the Mackerel Brigade against the well-known Southern Confederacies
on the other side of Duck Lake. We may all learn a valuable lesson, my
boy, from this able _critique_, which reads thus:

    "SOMEDINGS ABOUT ODDERDINGS.

    "I have notice in der bapers that der Genral Fighting Cok cross
    Dook Lake in two parts, the odder day, when he assaulted the Rebel
    Army von Lee, which was strongly post in entrenchment built
    especial for dees purpose. Das was vare wrong, and oppose to all
    the princeeples von der Great Napoleon. Das vas der great troubles
    with Fritz Magnus von Prussia, at Kunersdorf, where he had dirty
    dousand pick troops, and lost seventeen dousand, in sooch way.
    Genral Fighting Cok was adopting der princeeple of der Duke von
    Cumberland at Fontenoy, when he should adopt sooch plan as that of
    Marechal Saxe, und keep his troops all togedder, und not cross Dook
    Lake in two parts. To attack sooch Rebel Army in entrenchment built
    especial for dees purpose, it was necessaire as he should do
    everydings togedder; keep his troops altogedder, und fight them
    altogedder.

    "I have not known Genral Fighting Cok in Germany, and I knows not
    as he is as good Genral as Sigel; so I cannot say as he is sooch
    goot Genral as Sigel und me. But _merk auf_!--_merk auf_--he has
    not so large militaire mind as

    A. P. SUVCHORK."

While you will join with me, my boy, in acknowledging the soundness of
this criticism from our able German critic, I am sure that we must both
perceive something like cruelty to animals in the very common practice
of giving the exact directions for gaining a victory so soon after the
battle has terminated in defeat. It is like telling a patient who has
just taken a dose of salts, how he might have cured himself by a course
of _pates de foie gras_.

And now let me direct your most intense attention to the Mackerel Camp
on this side of Duck Lake, where the spectacled veterans are all
repairing their umbrellas for another reconnoissance toward the first
point of the compass that seems most vulnerable. They are all full of
enthusiasm, my boy, over the loss of some of their comrades and arms in
the recent triangular geometrical proceedings against the unseemly
Confederacy, and unanimously demand to be led against the enemies of
human freedom that presume to show the freedom of human enemies.

You may remember that, just previous to the recent crossing of Duck
Lake, Captain Samyule Sa-mith was despatched with the Anatomical
Cavalry to dig a canal in the immediate rear of the Southern
Confederacy, in order that the legions of the enemies of human freedom
about to be captured by surprise, might be at once set to hard labor on
the tow-path. It was not more than four days after all the fighting was
over that Samyule came back with his equestrian warriors, and says the
General to him:

"Well, boy, is the canal finished?"

Samyule scratched his head, and says he: "Not quite, sire; but we have
torn up a Confederate railroad."

It was this circumstance, my boy, that gave rise to the recent reports
of the capture of Richmond, as considerable of the Rebel capital is
known to be invested in railroad iron.

Shortly after Samyule's return, the Grim Old Fighting Cox took off his
coat, rolled up his sleeves, ordered a couple of spies to be executed,
and discharged the following

    "CONGRATULATORY ORDER.

    "HEAD QUARTERS MACKEREL BRIGADE.

    "The General commanding tenders to the aged Mackerels his
    congratulations on their achievements of the last seven days, which
    were week.

    "If they have not accomplished all that was expected, the reason
    is, that more was expected than has been accomplished.

    "It is sufficient to say that they were of a character not to be
    foreseen without foresight, nor prevented without human sagacity
    and attainable resources.

    "In withdrawing from the other side of Duck Lake without delivering
    a general battle to our adversaries, the Mackerels have proved
    their renewed diffidence in themselves, and their fidelity to a
    high standard of retiring modesty.

    "In fighting at a disadvantage, instead of at the enemy, we would
    have been recreant to our trust in our pontoons.

    "Profoundly loyal, and conscious of its strength, the Mackerel
    Brigade will give or decline battle whenever it considers the
    weather sufficiently pleasant and the newspapers sufficiently
    snubbed.

    "It will also be the dictator of its own history and the vindicator
    of its own legs.

    "By our celerity and secrecy of movement, both in crossing and
    re-crossing Duck Lake, we neither pursued, nor were pursued by, a
    Rebel.

    "The events of the last week may swell with pride the feet of every
    officer and soldier in this Brigade.

    "We have made long marches and countermarches, crossed and
    re-crossed lakes, surprised the enemy by our advance, brought back
    seven pieces of our artillery, and given heavier blows than the
    wind.

    "We have nothing to regret, save the loss of our brave companions,
    and in this we may be consoled by the conviction that they fell in
    the holiest cause ever left so exclusively to the care of
    Providence, that very little human intelligence was deemed
    necessary to direct its arbitrament in battle.

    "(Blue Seal.)

    "THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE."

As we consider the vast world of animated nature, my boy, and mark what
apparent simplicity there is in the structure of beast, bird, and
reptile, does it not seem exceedingly strange, that all of man's
vaunted ingenuity has thus far succeeded in making imitative
approximation only to the insect kingdom,--the apparently least
difficult of all,--and to _that_ only by such a spurious kind of a bug
as Humbug?

Yours, wonderingly,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XCV.

    NOTING THE CONTINUED ANGUISH OF THE CONSERVATIVE KENTUCKY CHAP, AND
    THE DEATH OF NEMO; AND DESCRIBING AN IMMENSE POPULAR DEMONSTRATION
    AGAINST THE OUTRAGES OF FEDERAL OPPRESSION.


WASHINGTON, D.C., May 24th, 1863.

The beautiful Spring, my boy, is out in the sunshine once more,--bowing
her pretty face over her lap, as though to breathe the odor of the
fresh violets lying scattered upon her coquettish green apron, but
really to hide the blush mantling the cheeks on which the hot breath of
enamored young Summer is tempting the roses to premature birth. What a
fine old world this is, after all, if we have plenty of money in our
pockets, plenty of health in our systems, and no poor relations! As you
stand on the Arlington side of the Potomac, on any one of these fair
May days, and look around you in any direction, there is a beauty even
about the tracks of war which enables you to comprehend why so many of
our brass-buttoned generals are fond of staying in one spot so long.
Behind you rise Arlington Heights, which are disliked by our excellent
National Democratic Organization, only because they wear a covering of
Lincoln green in summer; before you, and across the Potomac is the
Capitol of our distracted country, looking like an ambitious
marble-yard on its way out of town; and close beside you is one of our
national troops extracting certain wonders of the insect kingdom from a
Government biscuit. On Tuesday, I was standing with the Conservative
Kentucky chap near Long Bridge, surveying this scene, and says I,--

"Behold, my Nestor, how the scars left upon Nature's face by the
chariot wheels of War are turning into dimples, and all the twinkling
curves of a placid smile."

"Yes," says he, hastily picking up the Jack of Diamonds which he had
accidentally drawn from his pocket with his handkerchief,--"the scene
is somewhat pleasant; but not equal to Kentucky, where there is more
rye."

Here the Kentucky chap became so deeply affected that he was compelled
to smell a cork which he took from his vest pocket, and says he,--

"Kentucky raised a great deal of rye before the breaking out of this
here fatal war with the Southern Confederacy, with whom Kentucky is
connected by marriage; she raised it by the bottle; in which form it
becomes, as it were, the crowning glory of agriculture. Ah!" says the
Conservative Kentucky chap, stirring an invisible beverage with an
imaginary spoon, "how softly on my senses steals Kentucky's national
anthem,--

    "'If a body meet a body,
    Comin' through the rye.'

"And the Old Rye of Kentucky is famous for its body." The Kentucky chap
hiccupped at the bare recollection of the thing, and says he: "But we
can no longer say that the bloom is on the rye; for this unnatural war
has killed the agriculture of Kentucky and broken many of her bottles.
O Kentucky! Kentucky! how thirsty I am!"

After this speech, I could no longer profane the glory of God's
beautiful picture by talking about it to a chap who could see nothing
in a landscape but rye fields. And yet it is but natural for any
Conservative chap to talk thus, after all; for I have found it to be a
peculiarity of nearly all our fellow-beings, that Old Rye is forever
running in their heads.

On Wednesday, while I was on my usual weekly visit to the Mackerel camp
near Duck Lake, I was called to look upon the body of a poor soldier
who had been shot during the night by a prowling Confederacy. He was a
very young chap, my boy, with light, wavy hair, and might have been
taken for a mere lad, had there not been more years in the deep lines
on his brow than on his beardless chin. There he lay upon his gun, with
one hand clenched in the sand, and the other upon the damp red spot on
his breast. He looked like a child who had fallen asleep after unkind
words from his mother. The Chaplain and a private Mackerel in rags were
bending over him, and says I,--

"Who was he?"

"He went by the name of Nemo," says the Chaplain, sadly; "but no one
knows what his real name was. He enlisted only two days ago, and kept
himself apart from the other men. I think he _was_ a gentleman."

Here the private Mackerel in rags broke in, and says he: "Yes, he _was_
a gentleman. I an't no gentleman, but I know _he_ was, and I can lick
any man that says he wasn't! I spoke to him last night when he was
relieving guard, and asked him what fire-company he belonged to; and he
said, none. I see he looked sick, and wasn't fit to do duty, and I
offered to go out on picket in his place. It wasn't much to offer; but
he squeezed my hand very hard, and said that my life was worth more
than his; and that he would go. I asked him what he wanted to come to
the war and get killed for; and he said he'd tried to do his best in
the world, but everybody was against him, and he'd been disgraced for
trying to do an honorable thing, and couldn't stay and face people any
more, because all turned away from him. I told him I would lick the man
who hurt his feelings, and he only said: 'They all do that,' and went
away." Here the poor Mackerel in rags shed tears, and says he: "I know
he WAS a gentleman."

"I see how it is," says the Chaplain, shaking his head; "he was one of
those unfortunates whose sensitive natures are a legacy of unhappiness,
or madness, to be cancelled only by death. And yet his kindness of
heart with this rude soldier proved how much goodness there was in him
that the world had not turned to bitterness."

Alas! my boy, what a pity it is that these finer natures are forever
coming under the heels of everybody, and getting themselves crushed!
They are like fine Sevres vases among stout earthen pipkins, equally
ready to split with the cold, or be pulverized by a tilt from their
next door neighbors. It is a misfortune for such fragile natures as
these to be in this common-place world at all, my boy, and they cannot
do the more useful portion of humanity a greater service than by
getting themselves out of it as soon as possible. I have known human
porcelain vases of this kind so fragile, that they were half-cracked
before anything touched them.

On Thursday, my boy, the report that a friend of the well-known
Southern Confederacy had been arrested and court-martialled, in Ohio,
for simply advising the intelligent masses to set fire to a few Union
hospitals and go hunting after American eagles by the light
thereof,--this report, I say, excited amongst the loyal but seditious
patriots of storied Accomac an indignation that was anything but
speechless. Shades of our Revolutionary sires! was it possible that a
citizen of the Republic could no longer speak pieces without being
arrested for speaking peace! Ashes of the great! could it be, indeed,
true that, even where there were no police, a man's personal liberty
was no longer safe! The people of Accomac, my boy, were alarmed for
their own liberties, and at once held a public meeting, at which I
happened to be present.

As all the citizens who were worth $300 each sent notes to say that
they had imperative engagements to prepare for the approaching
Conscription, and could not come, the meeting was composed entirely of
the other citizens, many of whom engaged in single combat on their way
thither, for the purpose of making the distance seem shorter.
Punctually at seven o'clock, P.M., a gentleman of much muscle touched
off a small field-piece with such admirable precision as to break all
the windows for two blocks around, and then dexterously discharged a
two-pound sky-rocket into the third-story bedroom of a venerable maiden
lady living across the road. The demonstration was received with joyous
acclamations by the populace, nearly twelve of whom had already
arrived; and a victim of Federal oppression, with a very large stomach,
mounted the platform erected for the speakers, and said that he would
commence proceedings on this occasion, by reading a short portion of
Washington's Farewell Address from the volume of Bancroft which he held
in his hand. (Great applause.) The honorable gentleman then proceeded
to read something; but was interrupted by a reporter, who remarked that
the speaker must be mistaken about that being Washington's Address, as
he had certainly read it in the Bible. The honorable gentleman then
turned his book over so that he could read the title, and said that he
had, indeed, made a slight mistake about the volume. He would defer
reading the Address for the present, and begged leave to introduce Mr.
John Smith, the Hon. Ferdinand De Percy having failed to be present.

Mr. Smith said that it was the proudest moment of his life, and he felt
it an honor to be there. They had met together to denounce and spit
upon an astounding Administration, under whose tyrannical sway no man
was allowed to say one word against it. A fellow-citizen had been
arrested in Ohio upon the miserable charge of advocating peace, when he
was really disturbing the peace all he could. How long were such
outrages to be endured? He advised his hearers to strictly honor the
laws; but he would also have them go home, organize into regiments,
purchase artillery, procure iron-clads, and destroy every man who dared
to speak in favor of an Administration under which the boldest man
dared not express his sentiments. He would have them do all this
peaceably; but he would have them do it. (Great enthusiasm, and cries
of "Keep off my corns, durn ye!")

As Chesterfield Mortimer, the celebrated Accomac patriot, was not able
to be present on this occasion, Mr. Jones was introduced, and made a
few sensible remarks. He said that he had always been a law-abiding
man, and would always advocate the strictest observance of the laws.
The peaceful people, he trusted, would all procure reliable muskets
and....

At this moment, my boy, the speaker suddenly stopped short; stared at a
white object which had just appeared fluttering down the street; and
then, dashing wildly from the platform, tore furiously in the direction
of said object, which appeared to be moving, followed spontaneously and
with frantic speed by his fellow-speakers and the entire meeting. I was
astounded; I was overwhelmed; for such a sudden breaking-up and
precipitate flight of a great indignation meeting was never witnessed
before. Quickly mounting the vacant rostrum, I drew my field-glass from
my pocket, and proceeded to scan the wonderful white object which had
produced such an electrical effect. It was moving on, as I fixed my
glass upon it, and I found it to be a new banner, born by a fat young
man in a white apron, and bearing the inscription:

    BROOKSES

    NEW BAR-ROOM,

    _JUST OPEN_.

    FREE LUNCH NOW READY.

This it was, my boy, which had broken up one of the most significant
meetings of the age, by artfully working upon the idea of its supposed
inn-significance.

Upon reaching Washington, on my return, I heard that a serious-minded
chap, of Republican officiousness, had just waited upon the Honest Abe
to ask if he did not intend to cause the arrest of Smith and Jones for
their treason.

Our Uncle Abe smiled feebly, and scratched his head, and says he:

"What Smith and Jones, neighbor?"

"Why," says the serious-minded chap, earnestly, "the Smith and Jones of
Accomac."

"Well, really," says the Honest Abe, pleasantly, "it's curious, now;
but I never heard of them before."

Drawing an inference from this little circumstance of Executive
conversation, my boy, it strikes me that it would add considerably to
the importance of some of our large-sized local revolutionists, if they
could overturn the present ignorant Administration, and establish in
its place a ---- Directory.

Yours, double-entendrely,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XCVI.

    DEVOTED PRINCIPALLY TO SOCIAL MATTERS, AND THE BENIGNANT BEARING OF
    V. GAMMON AT A DIPLOMATIC SOIREE.


WASHINGTON, D.C., July 3d, 1863.

Social life at our National Capital, my boy, as far as the native
element is concerned, has not been refined by the war; and even at the
White House it is scarcely possible to collect an assemblage of persons
sufficiently genteel by education to speak familiarly of European
noblemen of their acquaintance. At the last dinner given by the
Secretary of State, there were actually three Western persons of much
cheek-bones, who dissented from the very proper idea that Earl Russel's
Carlton-house sherry is superior to anything we have in this country;
and my disgust intensified to hopeless scorn, when an Eastern chap in a
nankeen vest was brazen enough to confess that he could not tell how
many pieces the Emperor of the French had in the wash on the last week
of Lent. At other social gatherings in Washington I have noticed the
same evidences of growing vulgarity; and I greatly fear, my boy,--I
greatly fear that a knowledge of Europe will yet be more prevalent
amongst Europeans than Americans. O my country, my native land! has it
indeed come to this at last? In thy loftiest social circles shall we no
more behold that beautiful flesh- being in lavender gloves and
dress-coat whose etherealized individuality broke rapturously forth in
the thrilling words, "When I was in Paris last summer"? Are we no more
to palpitate with ecstasy at the tones of that voice which was wont to
trill forth in liquid music from a curl-crested fountain of white
shoulders, saying: "Don't you remember, Mr. Thompsion, how the Guke of
Leeds larfed that day, at the Reception, when I told him that we
American ladies thought it was vulgar to say 'garters' out loud?" Alas!
my boy, our aristocracy is fading away like an abused exotic, and it is
not oftener than once in a season that the frequenter of our Republican
Court witnesses one incident to make him recognize the polished people
he once knew. About two months ago, at an evening party given by Mrs.
Senator ----, I did witness a social incident, showing that there is
still hope for the Republic. An interesting young mother, of not more
than sixty-two summers, attired in a babywaist and graduated flounces,
was standing near one of the doors of the music-room conversing with me
upon the moral character of her dearest female friend, when her gushing
daughter, a nymph not more than six pianos old, came pressing to her
side, and whispered behind her fan,--

"Mamma _cheri_, may I donse with young Waddle?"

The maternal girl smiled grimly at the fragile suppliant, and asked:

"How much is his celery, _ma petite_?"

"Nine hundred, mamma, in the Third Auditor's."

"Then tell him, _mon ange_, that you are engaged for the next set, and
wait until the thousand-dollar clerks come in. You know, _ma petite_,
what the Count Pistachio said to you at Avignon about giving
encouragement to anything less than four figures."

I could not avoid overhearing this conversation, my boy, for it was not
held in whispers, and I thought to myself, as I eyed the fashionable
pair, "The Republic still lives."

It is, however, with the foreign embassies at Washington, that the
genuine aristocratic spirit still holds its normal own; and when I
lately received an invitation from a certain convivial diplomatist of
the Set to be one of a select party of distinguished gentlemen at his
residence on a certain evening, I felt that there was still an
available balm in Gilead. Arriving in the rooms shortly before ten
o'clock, I found seven middle-aged gentlemen in cambric ruffles and
scratch-wigs assembled around the wine-table, all pledging the health
of the Venerable Gammon, who had come up from Mugville expressly to be
present. There was the French Marquis Non Puebla, on a visit to this
country to search for traces of one of the lost gravies of Apicius;
Milord Gurgle, who had been deputed to convey to New York a pair of
Southdown sheep, presented by the Zoological Gardens to Central Park;
the Honorable Peter Pidger, who had once been to Europe to negotiate
the sale of some railroad stock; the Ambassador in person; and three
other respectable persons with no names, whose sole duty it was to
indorse the Ambassador whenever he said anything about "dat
signeeficant commencement of dees war at Bool Run." But the greatest of
them all, my boy, was the Venerable Gammon, who smiled fatly as they
drank his health, and emptied his own crystal with a soft benignity
which seemed to consecrate that brand of liquor forever.

"My friends," says the Venerable Gammon, waving an unctuous hand around
the board in a manner to confer blessings on the very nutcrackers,--"my
friends, I accept the honor for my country, and not for myself. Your
countries bask in the sunshine of a powerful peace, while mine grows
weak in despotic war. But do not spit upon us, my friends; do not crush
us. We will do whatever you want us to do. War," says the Venerable
Gammon, beaming thoughtfully at the nearest wine-cooler,--"war may be
called the temporary weakness of a young country like ours; and if we
learn not to value peace more than war as we grow older, it will only
be because we do not learn to value war less than peace as we advance
to riper years."

Then all the respectable middle-aged gentlemen nudged each other to
notice _that_; and the Honorable Peter Pidger observed, in an
undertone, to Milord Gurgle, that if the Government was only guided by
such wisdom as that, the country might yet hope for favor from Europe.

"Ah!" says the Ambassador, reflectively, "I cannot help to recollect
dat signeeficant commencement of dees war at Bool Run."

Whereupon the three middle-aged gentlemen with no names nodded
meaningly to each other, and murmured, in pitying chorus:

"Ah, yes indeed."

As I rode home to my hotel that night, my boy, and reflected upon the
polished observations I had listened to, it seemed to me that Europe
must indeed be superior to a weak young country like ours, and that
Secretary Seward was but showing a proper respect for the dignity of
monarchies in yielding gracefully to them whatever they asked, and
establishing in American history its first creation of knighthood,
under the title of Sir Render. The Sword of '76 would have refused the
accolade; but that of '63 is of a milder temper.

On Wednesday, as I strolled lazily along the shore of Awlkuyet River,
listlessly tossing pebbles into the placid stream, and paying no
attention to any visible object save the severed branches of trees and
broken fragments of artillery-wheels which occasionally barred my
progress, a Mackerel picket suddenly touched me on the shoulder, and
says he, in a whisper,--

"You mustn't be chucking stones into that air water, or you'll wake up
the Captain which is asleep."

I glanced askance at him from under my vizor, and says I, "What
Captain, my trooper?"

"Why," says he, "the Captain of the Blockade, over yonder."

I looked in the direction indicated by his finger, my boy, and beheld
the sloop-of-war Morpheus at anchor near a small inlet leading to the
river from the up-country.

"Why, my Union champion," says I, wonderingly, "I should like to know
at what time the Captain makes it a practice to retire?"

"Ah!" says the Mackerel picket, leaning upon his musket, and looking
dreamily over the water, "he's all the time retiring--he's been put
upon the 'Retired' list."

Here was a man, my boy, an American, like you or me, brought up in a
country where education is free to all, and yet he had no clearer idea
of the functions of our Naval Retiring Board than such as happened to
be suggested to his instinct by what he could see of the national
blockade service!

Yours, amazedly,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XCVII.

    INTRODUCING THE GREAT MORAL EXHIBITION OF THE "EFFIGYNIA," GLANCING
    AT A FOURTH NEW MACKEREL GENERAL, AND SHOWING HOW THE PRESIDENT'S
    DRAFT ON ACCOMAC WAS PROTESTED AT SIGHT.


WASHINGTON, D.C., July 10th, 1863.

As I wax numerous in exciting years, my boy, and observe more and more
of the long-headed and strategic manner in which our wealthy but
distracted country prosecutes the Restoration of the Union, the
stronger grows my belief that, inasmuch as the way of the transgressor
is hard, the way of the well-doer is inexpressibly "soft." Each day of
the present national crisis brings fresh evidence of the exceedingly
soft character of the policy by which our upright government would turn
to nought the wrathful devices of its enemies, and further demonstrates
the vast difference existing between everything upright and anything
downright. We discomfit the well-known Southern Confederacy, at every
turn, my boy,--we discomfit it at every turn; but, the trouble is, we
keep turning all the time, like a Thomas cat after his tail, constantly
believing that we are approaching the end, but never quite reaching it.

Fearing lest I should become metaphysical if I pursued this train of
thought any farther,--thereby encroaching upon the bottomless province
of the Awful and Unfathomable German mind, which rejoices gloomily in
the solemn investigation of all that verges upon muddled
abstraction;--fearing lest I should become thus erudite, profound, and
snuffily unintelligible, my boy, I repress my morbid inclination to
take a funereal canter into abstruse speculation on the elephants of
thought, and digress from theory to fact.

This city, which is destined to become in time another Waterloo in the
sense of offering everything drinkable in lieu of water, presents but
very little except bar-rooms in the way of entertainment just now.
Hence, my boy, we can properly appreciate the "Effigynia," as it is
classically called, which a thoughtful yellow-vested chap of much
breastpin, from Pequog, has just opened on Pennsylvania Avenue.
According to advertisement, "this chaste and plastic exhibition
consists of wax effigies of the five successive Generals of the
Mackerel Brigade, with the peculiar personalities of each one, and the
superiority of each over the other, unmistakably stamped on the forms
and features of each!" Being a moral man, my boy, and much addicted to
entertainments which differ from the prevailing drama of the day in
obviating the necessity for steadily blushing, I repaired to the
Effigynia the other evening and was much edified by the spectacle
presented. Five mirrors standing at different angles with a wax figure
of the first General of the Mackerel Brigade, were made each to reflect
said figure; and I could not help feeling, my boy, that the likenesses
were correct. I saw before me the counterfeit presentments of the five
soldiers who had successively arisen to the highest Mackerel Command,
and I found myself wondering how many more mirrors the exhibition would
need before the war came to a head--containing brains.

It was on Tuesday morning that I ascended majestically to the slanting
roof of my Gothic steed, the sagacious Pegasus, and moved perceptibly
across Long Bridge once more, toward the camp of the Mackerel Brigade.
It is worthy of note, my boy, that the architectural animal in question
has greatly improved of late upon a diet of condemned straw hats, and
now trots an hour in sixty minutes with the greatest ease of manner. An
occasional cough but adds to the melancholy interest of his funereal
cast of countenance; and as his head grows more and more vivid in its
resemblance to an infant's coffin, his whole effect deepens in its
churchliness and sepulchral solemnity.

As I neared the national head-quarters, the Mackerel Surgeon-General
saluted me, and I observed that he kept his glance dreamily fixed upon
the Gothic Pegasus.

"As I gaze upon that bony fabric," says he, biting a piece of calamus
in soft professional abstraction,--"as I gaze upon that fleet skeleton
you bestride, I cannot help thinking that Rule Britannia is frequently
right in speaking of a horse as an 'oss; though she may use a
superfluous 's' in the word. You see," says the surgeon, pausing to
take a gray powder, and to try his lancet on his left thumb-nail,--"you
see, the classical term '_os_' signifies bone; and as bone is the
prevailing aspect of your present charger, he might be termed an
'_'os_' without violence to the lingual proprieties."

I have always suspected this surgeon, my boy, of being an accursed
secessionist in disguise, and now I feel confident that he would not
hesitate, if opportunity offered, to carry his fiendish affection for
the well-known Southern Confederacy to the extent of actually differing
with me upon some point in conversation. In such times as these, my
boy, there can be no middle ground for a man; he must either be heart
and soul with his country's murderous foes, or ready to agree entirely
with me in anything I may say or think. God save the Republic!

Upon arriving at a locality, which I refrain from naming, lest I should
thereby betray my beloved country or make a mistake in spelling, I
found the venerable and spectacled veterans of the thrice-valorous
Mackerel Brigade just returned from a spirited pursuit of certain
regiments of disreputable Confederacies who were stealing farms on the
outskirts of Paris. These Confederacies had even penetrated into
storied Accomac, and removed everything they found upon the farms there
except the mortgages. Hence the demand upon the aged and unconquerable
Mackerel Brigade for an immediate walk in that direction, and there
they had gone by the most circuitous and profoundly strategical route
afforded by the county maps. General John Smith, the latest edition of
Mackerel Commander, gave leadership of his advance guard to Captain
Villiam Brown, and immediately five-and-twenty inflamed reporters
frantically telegraphed to as many excellent and reliable morning
journals, that all the thieving Confederacies were about to be bagged,
and that all the revolting details would be given in our next issue. It
was toward evening, my boy, when Captain Villiam Brown, mounted upon
his geometrical steed, Euclid, came riding up to the advanced
head-quarters of the new general to report results.

"Well, young man," says the General, with Spartan equanimity, "have we
bagged the enemies of human freedom?"

Villiam looked up from the demijohn under the table, upon which he had
been earnestly gazing, and says he, "No, sire; but the very next thing
to bagging them has occurred."

"Relate the tale," says the General, with dignity.

"Why," says Villiam, "instead of our bagging them, they have been
sacking us."

It is a remarkable and beautiful peculiarity of our flexible language,
my boy, that its semi-syno-nymical effects permit the transmission of
trying intelligence in terms of soothing similarity to those which
might have been employed had the news been more felicitous. Thus are we
let down easily from pride to humiliation, and spared much intervening
agony of soul.

So the Mackerel Brigade turned their gleaming old spectacles once more
in the direction of our National Capital, and are again a
characteristic of the landscape enclosing Washington. Further
consummate strategy is postponed for a time on account of the weather,
which has become villanously hot through the fanatical machinations of
the insidious Black Republicans. Thus are Greeley, Beecher, Wendell
Phillips, and their deluded followers weakening the military arm of the
government and endeavoring to obtain fat contracts for worthless fans!

Methinks I hear you ask, "Has the new general of the Mackerel Brigade
made a failure, after all the credit the public have given him for
superiority over his predecessors?"

Far be it from me to judge hastily, but I may be permitted to say, my
boy,--I may be permitted to say, that men in the military line have
this point in common with men in a mercantile business; by obtaining
too much on credit at the start, they are very apt to make bad
failures, leaving nothing but their lie-abilities for the consolation
of those who trusted them.

Upon reaching the Mackerel camp, and exchanging festive salutations
with Captain Bob Shorty, who was trying to purchase the dressed skin of
a handsome copperhead snake from Corporal Veller, of the California
Reserve, to use as a sword-belt,--after exchanging salutations, I
repaired to the tent of the chaplain, to witness the marriage of one of
the younger Mackerels to a pretty Shenandoah belle. As the happy pair
stood before the drum to be made wife and man, I noticed that the
bride's rosy cheeks paled like a sunset under the twilight, until the
languishing stars of her eyes shone only upon snow.

And now, my boy, let me say a few words respecting the recent attempted
draft of Abe L. bodied men in thrice-famous Accomac, and the
freedom-loving spirit in which it was met by the Sovereign People. With
a prescient view to being amply prepared for an overwhelming assault
upon combined Europe, which is shortly to be made by Secretary Seward
and the muscular United States of America, our Uncle Abe ordered a
draft of Accomackians to be made at once. Hereupon the Accomac "Morning
Dog," an excellent daily journal, indulged in a high-minded editorial
on the fiendish proclivities of the Governor of Accomac, and the
general wildness of all the Accomackians to be drafted if he would let
them. With great promptness, that admirable palladium of human freedom,
the "Evening Cat," avowed that it spit upon the gubernatorial
scurrility of its growling contemporary; that it deprecated mob
violence and trusted that no mob would resist the draft; but could not
help believing that the Sovereign People might possibly arise in their
majesty and occasion a speedy funeral in the family of the
editor-in-chief of the venomous and intolerable "Morning Dog."

It was at 10 o'clock A.M., my boy, when the drafting commenced in
Accomac, and in half an hour thereafter the Sovereign People,
consisting of several gentlemen from Ireland, were asserting the
dignity of a free community in a manner worthy of the sacred cause of
Emigration. It is a touching fact, my boy,--a touching and aesthetical
fact, that the American people are ever so able to find foreign
champions to protect their freedom from governmental infringement that
they seldom have occasion to do any fighting for it themselves.

The Sovereign People of Accomac, being fully aroused and slightly
inebriated, proceeded to vindicate the majesty of our excellent
national Democratic Organization by relieving a bloated aristocracy of
their watches and loose change, ransacking sundry private residences on
account of the great draft of their chimneys, and performing other
awe-inspiring acts of rude majesty, equally well calculated to evince a
freeborn people's distaste for despotism. Furthermore, the Sovereign
People fearlessly attacked a large and aristocratic Hospital, beating
many of the patients to death; for, by some corrupt chicanery, these
patients were barefacedly exempted from the Conscription which bore so
heavily upon the down-trodden and healthy poor man. The "Evening Cat,"
in a special edition, was genial enough to express a hope that "the
outraged people now muttering ominously in the air," would not burst
upon the office and editor of the "Morning Dog" with _too_ much just
fury; whereupon the incensed Sovereign People said that, be jabers,
they'd come mighty near forgetting that entirely; and forthwith
proceeded to stone the office of the "Dog" until the hasty discharge of
an ink-stand from one of the upper windows thereof induced them to make
a hasty change of base.

Without indulging in farther details, suffice it to say that the
Sovereign People finally desisted from their struggle for liberty upon
being satisfied that no more watches, purses, nor sick despots were to
be got at conveniently, and the "Evening Cat" came out in a spirited
article in favor of an immediate war with France.

How grateful should it be to our national pride, my boy, that even the
stranger that is within our gates feels inspired by the very atmosphere
with a jealous, a fighting love for perfect freedom,--especially if
said gates be those of a State prison.

Yours, exuberantly,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XCVIII.

    RECOUNTING A CHASTE "RECONSTRUCTION" ANECDOTE OF THE SIXTH WARD,
    AND DIVULGING CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN'S INGENIOUS ALPHABETICAL
    EXPERIMENT WITH COMPANY THREE.


WASHINGTON, D.C., Sept. 25th, 1863.

It is a high-moral idea of poets, congressmen, and the writers for our
improving weekly journals of exciting romance, my boy, that it is a
noble and majestic thing to feel warmly for one's country; but when the
thermometer stands at 90 in the shade, and we join with our
fellow-beings in shedding tears from the tops of our foreheads, I find
my disinterested patriotism fully equal to the self-abnegation of the
remark, that I had rather be cool than be President. Our brethren are
already in the field; why stand we here idle? Is ice so dear, or peace
so sweet as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid
it, Almighty Dollars! I know not what other gentlemen would have; but
as for me, give me liberty, or give me a fan. Thus, my boy, after the
manner of the departed Patrick Henry, did I expose myself to the
conservative Kentucky chap, as we stood panting together in the
vestibule of the Treasury Buildings the other day; and says he:

"The loyal State of Kentucky, of which I am a part, has no objections
to warm weather in the summer-time; provided it is not indorsed by the
fanatical Black Republicans. Warm weather," says the conservative
Kentucky chap, thoughtfully, "is of much service to the old rye crop of
Kentucky; but Kentucky would forego even her old rye, rather than see
retarded the movements of that army whose constitutional duty it is to
restore the Union--not reconstruct it."

The regular list of dead idiots for this year being not quite full yet,
my boy, there are still persons living who can perceive no very immense
difference between Restoring the Union and Reconstructing the Union;
which reminds me of a chaste little incident that once occurred in the
Sixth Ward.

A highly-respectable liquor-selling chap, of enlarged stomach and
overwhelming shirt-collar, having just been elected Alderman, through
the influence of his excellent moral character, and about two thousand
dollars judiciously invested in Irishmen, gave a fashionable party to
celebrate this triumph of the purity of elections, and invited about
two-thirds of the Fire Department to bring their wives and sweethearts.
Promptly at nine o'clock, two Hose Companies, of unblemished
reputations for noise, four Engine Associations noted for saving one
pine table from the devouring element to every two Brussels carpets
they ruined with water, three Hook-and-Ladder Societies greatly
distinguished for climbing into the third-story windows of the building
two doors from the burning domicil, and an equivalent number of the
cotton-hearted women of America, were on hand in the aldermanic
drawing-rooms. The new public dignitary received them all with that
exquisite blandness of demeanor which is so becoming to great men who
have just made a rush from obscurity: and says he,--

"Make yourselves at home now, boys, only don't spit on the carpet. If
there's a fire while the swarry is goin' on, I'll let the old woman
listen for the district and announce it from the airy. We'll keep the
winders up, and when the hall-bell rings, you fellers as has to leave,
can just slip down onto the front stoop without breaking up the entire
swarry."

Here the large-hearted aldermanic chap was called hastily downstairs to
attend the bar, several army officers having just arrived in the ward,
and the "swarry" commenced as merrily as a fire in a carpenter's shop.
It set in for a heavy dance at about eleven o'clock, and then were seen
as many elaborate verses in the poetry of motion, as any pair of eyes
could wish to enjoy. "Fifty's" foreman, who danced with a very pretty
dotted muslin, produced a very striking and picturesque effect by
rolling his inexpressibles up over his boots, and giving a life-like
imitation of the working of an engine with his heels and toes;
whereupon the assistant foreman of "Thirty's Truck" suddenly threw off
his dress-coat and appeared in full red shirt, simultaneously striking
into a fine, artistic shuffle, intended to imitate the hauling-in and
reeling-up of the wet hose after a conflagration. These and other
graceful novelties were greatly admired by the ladies, each of whom
said so many spicy and spiteful things about the other's bare arms and
forward manners, that a stranger might have taken them all for the very
cream of Fifth Avenue or any other Best Society.

It was about midnight when "Fifty's" foreman, growing reckless with the
passionate splendors of excitement, scuffled away with his flushed
dotted muslin to a luxurious chintz sofa near one of the windows, and
intemperately whispered in her ear, "Miss Perkins, it were madness for
me longer to conceal my insanity, and to remain silent would but render
me speechless. Here let me lay my heart and trumpet at your feet,
and"--

She had fainted! Ay, sir, swooned!

Instantly the whole brilliant saloon was in confusion; the dancing
ceased, the dust commenced to settle, and the assistant foreman of
"Thirty's Truck" was seen to put on his coat.

"Bring your hose here, quick, and play on her face!" shouted "Fifty's"
foreman, half-crazed by what he had done. But the dotted muslin's
mother now clutched her in her arms, and says she, "Let's get her into
the dressing-chamber, and somebody bring a little sally wolatile."

Here another dowager seized an arm of the fainting girl, and the two
bore her tenderly into the retiring-room, followed by some two or three
sympathizing young ladies. And now, my boy, it becomes my delicate duty
to hastily sketch a scene which the masculine pen cannot too carefully
touch upon. It being one of the principles of woman's nature that some
relaxations must be admitted in her toilet before she can revive from
syncope, the second dowager commenced to relieve the fainting fair one
of such articles of fashionable addenda as might <DW44> her recovery.
She took off her side-curls and back-hair and laid them upon a table;
with great care she removed her upper teeth and placed them upon a
chair; softly wetting a corner of her handkerchief in her mouth she
effectually wiped away the eyebrows and a part of the cheek of the
young sufferer; and she was proceeding to make other dissections which
I shall dismiss with the remark that they are merely matters of form,
when the patient gave a gentle sigh as she rested in her mother's arms,
and says the mother to the dowager:--

"There, Mrs. Jobbins, I guess you needn't do any more." Mrs. Jobbins
gave a sagacious look at the patient, and says she:

"Very true, mem; she is getting better. It wont take us many minutes to
reconstruct her."

"I beg your parding, Mrs. Jobbins," says the maternal, shaking her
cap,--"I beg your parding Mrs. Jobbins; but your language is
ineddicated, highly; you should say 'restore' her."

Mrs. Jobbins straightened herself up, with a glare, and says she:
"Perhaps, mem, you can teach _me_ eddication, and my own daughter a
teacher these two years in the public schools! The ideor! I repeat
it--to reconstruct her--put her together again."

"Restore," says the maternal, savagely.

"Reconstruct!" screamed Mrs. Jobbins.

"You're a artful, ignorant old copperhead!" howled the maternal,
dropping her daughter's head upon the floor.

"And you're a spiteful, stuck-up, toothless old--ab'litionist!!" yelled
the dowager, stamping until her snuff-box hopped out of her pocket.

Drawn to the room by the noise, a hard old nut, a retired foreman of
old "Sixty," stuck his head in at the door, and says he: "What are you
old fools scrimmaging about? You're keeping the swarry back."

Both the old ladies made at him at once to know which, in his opinion,
was the right word,--'Reconstruct,' or 'Restore?'

The old nut took a thoughtful bite of tobacco, and says he: "Let the
girl herself tell you when she _revives_."

Revive was the word, my boy; and while the old women were quarrelling
over the two terms aforesaid, poor nature got tired of waiting, and
realized the right one in action for herself. The girl revived without
being either restored, or reconstructed.

And thus, my boy, I sometimes think, that, whilst noisy old political
grannies are quarrelling as to whether the Union shall be Restored, or
Reconstructed, the fainting young Union will suddenly revive of itself.
At any rate, it bids fair to have plenty of time to do so.

In a recent letter I noted the return of the main body of the
invincible and time-honored Mackerel Brigade to what may be termed the
place of its military birth; but I did not, nor can I, describe justly
the many touching incidents of the retrogression. Once more, my boy,
does this standard national martial organization find itself on the
right side of Awlkuyet River, and many a sensitive Mackerel, as he
gazes through his tear-dimmed spectacles upon the surrounding scenery
of his youth, fancies himself a boy again, and newly experiences in all
his muscles that tingling sensation which, in the full-blooded lad,
equally follows a public compliment and a private flogging. As the gory
and venerable Brigade wound slowly back into the well-known fields
rendered historically famous for making Washington safe, one very
ancient Mackerel grounded his musket by the roadside, took off his
spectacles, looked with deep emotion upon the scenes of his early
years, and says he to another Mackerel:--

"Thank Heaven! we have at last reached the end of the war."

The other Mackerel paused in his work of cracking an army biscuit
between two rocks, and says he: "Which end do you mean, Sammy?"

"Why," says Sammy, "the end we commenced at."

Could it be possible, my boy, that there was a serious and profound
truth in that unconsidered Mackerel remark? If so, we are indeed
approaching the beginning of the war, and there is rather less of Mars
than of Grand-Ma's in the management of the Virginia campaign.

But why should my pen linger upon this monotonous theme, when the grim
Fort Piano on Duck Lake, and the ancient city of Paris on the nether
shore thereof, are being besieged on all sides by the Mackerel
iron-plated patent squadron under the hoary Rear Admiral Head, and the
Mackerel contingent and Orange County Howitzers under Captains Samyule
Sa-mith and Villiam Brown. Several times, my boy, has Fort Piano been
entirely destroyed and taken by all our excellent and reliable morning
journals, the columns of American newspapers being led on to
victory--or leaded on to victory--with rather more ease than a dozen
times as many columns of any troops in the world; but, inasmuch as the
unseemly but well-known Southern Confederacy still keeps store there,
it has been deemed proper to make another iron-clad experiment in that
salubrious vicinity. This time, however, the army takes part in the
effort, as well as the navy, and Captain Samyule Sa-mith, with the
Orange County Howitzers, bombards the atmosphere from the banks of the
Lake, whilst the aged Rear Admiral Head, with his iron-plated squadron,
performs fiery antics upon the briny element.

The sailing of the squadron inside the bar was a beautiful sight, and
was witnessed by a couple of English and French consuls who had come
down to the banks of Duck Lake to see if they could recognize the
Confederacy at that distance. First advanced Rear Admiral Head's
flagship monitor, the "Shockingbadhat;" followed in close order by the
"Aitch," the "Yew," the "Em," the "Bee," the "You" and the "Gee."

And now, my boy, you may probably imagine that I am about to relate,
with Homeric fervor and the graphic eloquence of Tacitus, how the
Mackerel Squadron poured whole foundries of shot and shell into Fort
Piano; and how the Orange County Howitzers rained Greek Fire (Irish
whiskey) into all the basement windows of Paris; but I have various
reasons for doing nothing of the kind, inasmuch as the War Department
does not desire that the enemy should be prematurely informed of the
capture of the Fort and City. Suffice it to say, that everything is
progressing favorably, though recent heavy rains have greatly
incommoded such of the land forces as are not supplied with umbrellas.

I think, however, my boy, that I may venture to describe Captain
Villiam Brown's alphabetical experiment with Company 3, Regiment 5,
which constitutes the present Mackerel reserve on the edge of the Lake.
Villiam having heard of Jeff. Davis's experiment with his regiment in
Mexico, when he formed it into a V shape to receive a cavalry charge,
resolved to give his regiment that shape for the purpose of a
roundabout sally upon Fort Piano from the rear, or land side.

"Comrades," says Villiam, impressively, "V stands for Victory,
Vengeance and Vashington, and I desire you to take its shape."

The Mackerels formed themselves into a V, my boy; but when Villiam
gallantly retired behind a tree to be out of the way, and gave the
order "Forward--double-quick,--march!" Sergeant O'Pake modestly stood
out of the ranks, and says he:

"Of course _you_ will go ahead of us, Captain?"

"Ha!" says Villiam, haughtily, "why?"

"Oh!" says the sergeant, "V., you know, always follows U."

Villiam was lost in thought for a moment, my boy, and then says he:
"That's true, Sergeant; and as U never comes until after T, we'll defer
that ere charge for the present."

Incidents of this kind are but common in this war between brethren,
which is so abhorrent to Democrats and the high-moral members of the
church.

Hoping, my boy, that, by relating the success of Rear Admiral Head and
Captain Samyule Sa-mith in my next, I may add two more illustrious
names to the list of candidates for the Presidency in 1865, I remain,

Yours, electorally,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER XCIX.

    IN WHICH OUR CORRESPONDENT IS BETRAYED INTO ARGUMENT; BUT RECOVERS
    IN TIME TO GIVE US THE USUAL CHRISTMAS SONG AND STORY OF THE
    RENOWNED BRIGADE.


WASHINGTON, D.C., Dec. 27th, 1863.

Another Christmas finds our great stragetic country in the toils of
war, my boy, and the chiming of the bells is lost in the roar of
ingenious artillery. Where blazes the yule log that misses not at least
one manly form from its genial ring of quivering Christmas light; and
where hangs the mistletoe bough beneath which at least one gentle,
womanly heart beats not the quicker with fond thoughts of the lad whose
first kiss upon her half-reluctant lips was destined to burn in future
there as her keepsake from a hero? Dear old Christmas! rich to memory
in all the simple joys and fond, familiar sanctities of home, thou
comest sadly upon me in my exile with the iron men of war, the waxen
men of politics; and though I hail thee merry for thy cheery
evergreens, God knows it is thy snow that presses nearest to my heart.
But a truce to sentiment, my boy, when the most sentimental object I
have seen for a week is the Conservative Kentucky Chap, whose imbibing
method of celebrating the approach of Christmas invariably leads him
into disquisitions upon the wrongs of the heroic White Man. On Tuesday,
as we took Richmond together, with the least bit of sugar in the world,
he leaned heavily upon me, and says he:

"The ancient State of Kentucky, of which I am a part, is growing sick
at the stomach to see how the Black Man is continually being raised
above the White Man; and Kentucky demands to be immediately informed
whether or no this war is to be prosecuted in future for the White
Man?"

"For the White Man," my boy, he said; "for the White Man!"

And was he not right? The noble being to whom he alluded is certainly
richly justified in a very high pitch of pride over the gratifying
fact, that his natural complexion is considerably whiter than anything
at all darker. In the abstract, my boy, it is not a positive white, and
its general hue, if characteristic of a napkin would hardly enable that
napkin to pass muster at the feast of an Apicius or a Lamia; but, as
compared with other complexions, it is properly colorless, and strikes
the eye very pleasantly when regarded by a single person in a mirror.
So highly, indeed, do many possessors of this complexion admire its
prevailing whiteness, that they perform their ablutions with an
artistic design to leave here and there certain picturesque streaks of
delicate shading, thereby causing the whiteness of the intervening
spots to appear all the more dazzling. Others, again, religiously
refrain from water outwardly as well as inwardly, for the apparent
purpose of incrusting the purity of their valuable complexion in a
protecting coat; thus preserving it from any possible bad effect of the
sun. Still others, my boy, continue to practise the thorough ablution
of the ancients, but signally succeed in throwing out the whiteness of
the level of their faces in excellent relief, by adopting measures to
implant a contrasting red on the tips of their noses. And a fourth
class, having an eye to beauties of a White background for the
exhibition of chaste neutral tints, incur the frequent freckle and the
graceful pimple with great judgment and taste.

Considering the character of the White face with due profundity of
thought, my boy, I am led to regard it as a canvas, expressly intended
by nature to receive quick and vivid paintings of all the virtues; and
so nicely adapted to the least of humanity's desires, that the woman
who has no virtues to limn themselves thereon, may yet paint it to suit
herself.

This cannot be said of the Black skin, my boy. Upon that the beautiful
virtue of Modesty cannot paint itself in a blush when its owner is
detected in the act of taking a bribe; nor is it susceptible of that
beautiful sunset-tint which the genial merit of being able to punish
four bottles at a sitting delights to leave upon a face of Caucasian
extraction. It is even incapable of receiving those exquisite
sub-ocular shades which adorn a White face after an evening's innocent
enjoyment at the Club, and it fails signally to absorb the delicate
tint of yellow not unfrequently perceptible near the outer corners of
the busy dental department of the tobacconizing White man's
physiognomy.

Taking all these facts into calculation, my boy, it is plainly evident
that the variously-ornamented White skin is an article much superior to
the Black, and certainly designates its wearers as beings intended to
move in nothing but the highest natural circles.

Such being the case, we cannot blame the White Man for entertaining a
wholesome contempt and loathing for the Black Man; and the truly hearty
manner in which many of our more pallid fellow-countrymen breathe
ingenious execrations whenever the latter is mentioned, may be accepted
as a beautiful and touching proof that they appreciate God's benignity
in giving them a superiority of skin; even though He may have seen
best, in His infinite wisdom, to leave them occasionally without
brains.

Having been informed that the ancient and spectacled Mackerel Brigade
had returned from its monthly walk toward the well-known and starving
Southern Confederacy, I ascended to the roof of my architectural steed,
the Gothic Pegasus, on Thursday morn, my boy, and galloped slowly to
the stamping ground of the unconquerable veterans. Let me pass over the
events of the day in camp, when the sedentary warriors, whom it is my
glory to celebrate, were reviewed after the manner of Napoleon's Old
Guard. Let me pass over this, and come directly to Christmas Eve, and
the literary entertainment in the Mackerel Chaplain's tent. Captains
Villiam Brown, Bob Shorty, Samyule Sa-mith, a young reporter from
Olympus, the Chaplain, and myself, were the members of the party, and
we sat round a camp-table with two lanterns swinging right over the
bottles.

Rear Admiral Head shortly came in; and when the Olympian reporter was
requested to open the intellectual festival with a song, he
complimented the iron-plated branch of the service with

    "THE BOATSWAIN'S CALL.

    I.

    "The lights upon the river's brink
      In constellation bright,
    Are winking down upon the tide
      That twinkles through the night;
    When in a gayly dancing skiff
      The boatswain leaves his ship,
    And as his oars a moment cease
      Within the flood to dip,
                He winds his call,
                The boatswain's cheery call.

    II.

    "A maiden stands upon the shore,
      Where land and ocean meet,
    And breakers cast their pearly gifts
      In homage at her feet;
    While through the causeway of the night
      She gazes o'er the sea,
    To where a stately frigate rides
      In lonely majesty,
                And waits the call,
                The gallant boatswain's call.

    III.

    "'Oh! tarry not, my boatswain bold,'
      Her parted lips would say;
    But when the heart is vexed with doubt,
      The soul can only pray;
    And sorely doubtful is the maid,
      Till on her ear there falls
    The music of the merriest,
      The clearest, best of calls--
                A winding call,
                Her faithful boatswain's call.

    IV.

    "A shining keel is on the sand,
      The oars are laid aside,
    And to the shore the sailor leaps
      To greet his chosen bride;
    His arms about her waist are thrown,
      And through her rosy lips
    He breathes a dainty boatswain's call,
      Though not the call of ships;
                But Cupid's call,
                The boatswain Cupid's call.

    V.

    "And when the moon has drawn a path
      Of light upon the sea,
    A skiff is floating o'er the deep,
      To where a frigate free
    Is nestled in the ocean's breast,
      With all her canvas furled;
    Though ere the morn makes Hesper blush
      Upon a waking world,
                'Make sail, men, all!'
                Will round the boatswain's call.

    VI.

    "A shadow follows in her wake,
      And, through its depths is seen
    The figure of a widowed wife
      Upon the shore of green;
    And ever as the tempest moans
      Above the mocking wave,
    A sound is wafted to her ears
      From out a moving grave,--
                A boatswain's call,
                A ghostly boatswain's call."

At the termination of the last stave, Captain Villiam
Brown cleared his throat, and says he,--

"As our friend has commenced the services with melody,
I will proceed to keep the feeble intellecks of this
assemblage excited with a terrifying moral ghost tale
which the Dickens himself might grow pale under. It
was sent to me," says Villiam, majestically, "by a former
writer for the Track Society, and reflects much credit
upon the literary resources of the United States of
America."

Whereupon, Villiam took some sheets of paper from his
breast-pocket, my boy, and introduced

    "MR. PEPPER'S GHOST.

    "In the heart of a great city, whose corruption and wickedness in
    continually growing larger and richer, were evident to every
    smaller, and, consequently, more pious, town on the globe, dwelt a
    shamefully rich banker, named Pursimmons, who, notwithstanding his
    vile and enormous wealth, had refused to give it all to the
    virtuous poor. That it was utterly impossible for such a man to
    enter the Kingdom of Heaven need not be told; since we all know
    that honest poverty, alone, can hope for such entrance; and as
    poverty covers at least three-fourths of the human race, and is
    invariably honest, according to its own touching account, there is
    likely to be enough of it to fill up all the standing room in
    Paradise, leaving no space for even the repentant wretch of a
    millionaire. Hence, it naturally follows, that old Pursimmons was
    miserable, with all his wealth. In fact, a slim, black-dressed
    gentleman of much spectacles and severe countenance, who had vainly
    solicited him to subscribe for ten thousand extra-gilt copies of
    his new work on 'The Relation of Sunday Schools with the Moral
    Organism of Normal Creation,' to be sent to the starving heathen of
    the Choctaw Nation, was heard to remark, emphatically, that he
    would rather be 'a ignorant but religious slave in the desert of
    Sahara, my brethren, than that godless man with all his filthy
    lucre.' Therefore, old Pursimmons _must_ have been a continual prey
    to the most horrible twinges of guilty conscience that any one man,
    in the abundant excess of his own spiritual serenity, ever
    attributed to another of different views. All the year did this
    unhappy but fleshy old man sin against everything that is poor and
    pious by accepting all--ay, all!--the profits his business was
    iniquitous enough to produce; and even rode in a carriage; though
    hundreds of noble-hearted Irishmen in the honest brick and mortar
    business had to walk,--ay, walk!--becoming so terribly exhausted
    thereby as to be invariably compelled to pause for rest, on their
    way home, at some humble liquor establishment. When Christmas Eve
    came round, it found this enemy of his race meanly retiring to bed,
    instead of scouring the highways and byways in search of reduced
    private families who might at that very moment be despairingly
    praying to have his last cent at their disposal. A man so
    thoroughly bad could not fail to be a pitiable coward, and it is
    not at all surprising that he was somewhat startled to suddenly
    perceive, between himself and his scandalously-comfortable bed, Mr.
    Pepper's Ghost!--the very same ghost once in full blow at all our
    moral temples of the drama. 'Unreal Novelty!' exclaimed old
    Pursimmons, chewing the strings of his night-cap, 'hie thee away to
    thy native footlights; or, if thou must keep somebody awake all
    night, betake thee to some great tragedian when Shakspeare's murder
    lies heavy on his soul.' Mr. Pepper's Ghost winked with great
    archness as it replied: 'Ghosts have no terrors for the sons of
    Thespis, who are even merry with a ghost--of a chance to get their
    salaries. My mission is to you, to whom I must a wholesome lesson
    teach. Behold!'

    "The spirit waved its hand, and lo! one whole side of the vile
    banker's chamber fell magically away, disclosing to view a room
    entirely destitute of velvet carpet and pictures by the Old
    Masters. On a sofa reclined a middle-aged young girl, whose poor
    dress of braidless merino was so inclemently low in the neck as to
    suggest for its down-trodden wearer a purse too scanty to procure a
    sufficiency of material. The daughter of penury had just reached
    the hundred and fifty-second exciting page of the cheap but
    excellent work of fiction she was reading, when a door opened and
    her crushed husband entered, smoking his meerschaum.

    "'Old boy,' said the Ghost, 'do you remember that man?'

    "'Yes,' responded the banker, sadly; 'he came to me yesterday for
    some money to keep him from starvation; and as he would not take
    'greenbacks,' I did not help him.'

    "'Listen,' said the Ghost.

    "The crushed husband threw himself into a chair which was not
    covered with Solferino satin, and ate a peanut.

    "'Well, what luck?' asked the daughter of penury.

    "'Old Pursimmons has refused, and I'--

    "'And you!!'--

    "'Must'--

    "'Must?'--

    "'_Support myself!!!_'

    "It was too much. The daughter of penury fainted, the crushed
    husband sniffed aloud, and the landlady knocked at the door for the
    week's board.

    "As this agonizing picture of human misery faded away, old
    Pursimmons turned with an inaudible groan to Mr. Pepper's Ghost:

    "'And I,' said he,--'and I am the cause of this woe?'

    "The spectre silently and solemnly nodded an awful affirmative, and
    waved its hand for another scene.

    "This time, the presentment was the interior of a shop, around
    which were shelves full of boxes containing all sorts of delicious
    little gaiters, ties, slippers, bootees and kid pumps, whilst the
    same kind of articles hung suspended from various hooks and pegs on
    the wall. On a bench in one corner of this shop, busily working
    upon a dainty pink satin gaiter-boot, was a narrow young man of
    pensive countenance, weak eyes, pink nose and an intellectual head
    of hair, in a workman's paper cap manufactured from an admirable
    weekly journal of romance.

    "As the deeply-affected banker gazed upon this figure, he
    sorrowfully murmured: 'Ah! that is the deep-voiced youth who last
    week desired of me five hundred dollars to insure the publication
    of his new novel of Fashionable Life, which was destined to
    instantly sweep Dickens, Victor Hugo, Thackeray, and other
    demoralizing writers from the field of literature.'

    "'Yes!' said Mr. Pepper's Ghost, severely; 'and your miserly
    refusal to aid struggling genius with your miserable wealth has
    driven a giant intellect into the ladies' shoemaking business. In
    which,' added the spectre, 'I am bound to say, that he is doing
    tolerably well.'

    "The guilty old banker buried his face in his trembling hands; and
    when he looked up again, the vision had changed, and he saw before
    him the inside of a soldier's tent on the banks of the Rapidan,
    with two gentle Zouaves arraying themselves in their new uniforms,
    which had just arrived. Owing to some trifling mental aberration,
    accompanied by hiccups, which often attacks the members of an army
    confined to damp localities, these two troops had somehow mistaken
    their jackets for their pants, and were struggling with Herculean
    strength to thrust their dainty nether limbs into the sleeves of
    the first-named garments. After an animated struggle of about a
    quarter of an hour, something was heard to tear; whereupon, one of
    the Zouaves tore his fractured jacket from his limbs, and dashed it
    furiously to the ground, hurling imprecations upon all hard-hearted
    wretches who coined money by making clothing out of rotten rags for
    the glorious defenders of their homes and firesides.

    "'Old boy,' thundered Mr. Pepper's Ghost, reproachfully, 'did you
    not have an interest with your brother, the ---- street tailor, in
    that Government contract for uniforms?'

    "'I did,' replied the mournful banker.

    "'Then behold,' said the spirit, 'how you have earned the eternal
    hate of your country's gallant volunteers, and will be handed down
    to future scorn and infamy as a member of the 'Shoddy Aristocracy.'
     'And now, continued Mr. Pepper's Ghost, 'that I have shown you
    these illustrations of your wickedness as a rich man, how do you
    feel?'

    "'Well,' responded old Pursimmons, 'to tell the truth, I feel
    greatly bored and very sleepy.'

    "'And you wont bestow all your wealth upon the next poor widow with
    six small children?'

    "'Not exactly.'

    "'Nor at least one half of it upon the Mission for the Regeneration
    of the starving Choctaw Nation?'

    "'I'd rather be excused.'

    "'Well, then,' exclaimed Mr. Pepper's Ghost, plaintively, 'wont
    you--_wont_ you, oblige _me_ with--a loan of five dollars?'

    "'Yes--if you will take greenbacks.'

    "At the word, Mr. Pepper's Ghost uttered a scream of despair, smote
    its breast frantically, and gave the chair upon which old
    Pursimmons had just seated himself such a vicious kick that the
    flinty-hearted banker suddenly awoke, found it all a dream,
    and,--went outrageously to sleep again; thereby giving convincing
    proof of that utter callousness of soul which all worthy poor men
    know to be the sure accompaniment of riches!"

As Villiam ceased reading, we all retired silently from the tent,
greatly improved by what we had heard. And now, my boy, let me conclude
with a little story of my own:

Some months ago, a certain western General gave an order to an Eastern
contractor for a couple of peculiarly made gunboats for his service;
but, happening to pass the White House, shortly after, saw what he took
to be the models of two just such gunboats protruding out of one of the
windows. Thinking that the President had concluded to attend to the
matter himself, he immediately telegraphed to the contractor not to go
on with the job.

Quite recently, the contractor came here again, and says he to the
General,--

"I'd like to see the model of those White-House gunboats."

The General conducted him toward the White House, my boy, and the two
stood admiring the models, which protruded from the window as usual.

Pretty soon a Western Congressman came along, and says the contractor
to him:

"Can you tell me, sir, whether those models of gunboats up there are on
exhibition?"

"Gunboats!" says the Western chap, looking. "Do you take those things
for gunboats?"

"Of course," says the contractor.

"Why, you fool!" says the Congressman, "those are the Secretary's
boots. The Secretary always sits with his feet out of the window when
he is at home, and those are the ends of his boots!"

Without another word, my boy, the General and the contractor turned
gloomily from the spot, convinced that they had witnessed the most
terrific feet of the campaign.

Yours, merrily,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER C.

    GIVING DIVERS INSTANCES OF STRANGELY-MISTAKEN IDENTITY; AND
    REVEALING A WISE METHOD OF SAVING THE COUNTRY FROM BANKRUPTCY.


WASHINGTON, D.C., March 5th, 1864.

This gray-headed pen of mine, my boy,--which is mightier than the
sword, inasmuch as it can, itself, "draw" the sword when it chooses,
quite as accurately as any pencil-vanian,--has run the blockade
recently imposed upon it, and once more gambols nervously down the
lines of contemporaneous military history. When first I heard that
aphorism of the elegant and ghostly Bulwer, by which the sober sceptre
of the scribe is magnified above the fancy-dress weapon of the hero, I
took it to be like any other high-sounding sentiment of the stage,
whereby the poor but virtuous editor was nobly and improvingly
encouraged to believe himself rather more powerful in this universe
than all its great captains put together. Being a child of the pen
myself, I felt benignantly inflated by the venerable "Richelieu's"
excellent remark, and looked with much generous pity upon a crushed
young army officer in the box next to mine; but, at the same time, I
remember that it reminded me of the exceedingly moral popular delusion
making starving virtue a much pleasanter and more admirable thing to
possess than a king's crown; and I also remember how it thereupon
dawned upon me, that the pen was possibly mightier than the sword only
in the far-removed sense of Might being Write. Since I have lived in
Washington, however, I have learned, my boy, that the sentiment in
question is capable of demonstration as a very plain fact; seeing, as I
do, that off-hand strokes of the pen can in a very few minutes promote
into Major Generals and Brigadiers certain pleasing brass-buttoned
chaps whose actual swords could never have done as much for them in all
their lives. And yet, my boy, if all those powerful, unsordid
creatures, our country editors, had their youths to live over again, I
verily believe that two-thirds of them would sooner be put to the sword
than put to the pen. Such is man!

Nevertheless, mighty as the pen may be, it must fail equally with the
well-known Southern Confederacy to do justice to this Capital of our
distracted country in its present social peculiarities. The cackling of
geese once saved the Capitol of the Roman Empire, my boy; but it will
take more geese than those who have come hither with the expectation of
being respected for their virtues, to save Washington from permanent
investment by all the speculative chaps on earth who have no other
capital to invest. The present social circle around the family hearth
of this Capitalian and Congressional town, my boy, is somewhat more
remarkable than it was, even in the palmiest and most mutually abusive
days of our eloquent National Legislature, and fully equals the
frequent domestic symposium of Albany when the State Legislature meet
_there_. Look into a Washington home, and you shall find the venerable
grandfather, who sits nearest the fire, talking and chuckling to
himself over his success that day in depreciating the national currency
by first frightening a country squire on the street almost into fits by
prating learnedly about "repudiation," and then buying all his treasury
notes from him at fifty per cent. discount! Next sits the younger
husband and father, cataloguing to his devoted wife, with the
forefinger of his right hand upon all the fingers of his left, the
successive pecuniary advantages sure to accrue from a contract he has
just obtained to supply our national troops with patent suspenders, and
which will enable him to return to New York in the spring, purchase a
palatial residence on Fifth Avenue, and sign urgent and influential
calls for Peace Conventions. Thirdly, my boy, we have the interesting
wife and mother who listens to her lord and master's revelation with
beaming satisfaction, glancing occasionally at her youthful son and
heir, who, with two thimbles, is practising upon the rug at her feet
the curious and ingenious game of the "Little Joker," whereby he hopes
to reap profit from his small associates on the morrow. The fourth
figure of this prayerful group around the home altar is the highly
elaborated daughter, reading over her lover's shoulder, from a
newspaper held conveniently by him, a spicy, exciting, moral tale of a
daring spirit who had sold a sloop-load of hay, just as it floated, to
the Government, and then--when he had got his pay--set fire to it and
burnt the whole concern so effectually, that very few could presume to
think that at least two-thirds of it had been old straw.

It is a noble and beautiful thing to remember, or note, my boy, that
the true and real Home,--the shrine of parental Love and Honor, and of
childhood's Innocence and fearless trust,--is ever held sanctified by
an unseen angel-circle, into which a few men can bring even so much of
the scheming outer world as its cares; that its name, long, perhaps,
after it has ceased to be, lives for our voices only in that plaintive
medium tone, which, like the master-string of an instrument responding
to a passionate touch, sums up, by its very cadence, all the noblest
music of a life.

It is this state of things in Washington that greatly confuses the
stranger, and causes him to make strange and horrible mistakes as to
personal identities. On Monday afternoon, as I stood musing in front of
Willard's, after a dispassionate conversation with the Conservative
Kentucky Chap as to the probability of Kentucky's consenting to the
setting apart of the first of January as New-Year's day, I overheard a
conversation between a middle-aged chap of much vest pattern from the
rural districts, and one of the Provost Marshal's disguised detectives.
The rural chap chewed a wisp of straw which he had been using as a
toothpick, and says he:

"That gentleman in a broad-brim hat, going along on the other side of
the street, is a prominent New York politician,--is he not?"

The detective involuntarily rattled a pair of miniature handcuffs which
were hanging from his watch-chain, and says he:

"Ha! ha! truly! That's a queer mistake. Why, that's Nandy Brick, the
incendiary and <DW64>-killer."

Not at all discouraged by this failure at guessing, my boy, the rural
chap glanced knowingly at another passer-by, and says he:

"Well, this here other one who just went by is the French Minister, I
believe?"

"Really!" says the detective, with a slight cough, "Really, you're
wrong again, for that's 'Policy Loo,' the notorious Mexican murderer
and thief."

The rural chap bit his right thumb-nail irritatedly, and says he:

"At any rate, I know who yonder tall, gentlemanly person in the black
gloves is. It's a famous leader of fashions from Fifth Avenue."

The detective opened his eyes widely at this, and says he:

"Why, there you miss it again. I think I ought to know 'Slippery Jim,'
who got that fat contract to supply the army with caps, and made half
of them of shoddy."

The chap from the rural districts seemed very much ashamed of himself,
my boy, for doing such a wrong to our admirable and refined Best
Society; but he was bound to try it once more, and so says he, shortly:

"Perhaps you'll tell me that fleshy individual in a black silk vest,
coming this way, an't the British Minister?"

"Wrong again, by thunder!" says the detective; "for all the world knows
that respectable cove to be 'Neutral John,' the celebrated rebel-spy
and blockade-runner."

Indeed, appearances go so entirely by contraries here, that I really
fear, my boy,--I really fear, that many of our veritable great
politicians, diplomatists, and Missouri Delegates, are frequently taken
for unmitigated rogues by blundering amateurs in physiognomy.

It was on Wednesday that the Venerable Gammon being seized with a fresh
and powerful inspiration to confer a new benefaction on his favorite
infant, his country, came post haste from his native Mugsville, and was
quickly blessing the idolatrous populace in front of the Treasury
Buildings with some knowledge of his benevolent scheme for paying the
cost of the War.

"War?" says the Venerable Gammon, fatly,--pronouncing the word as
though he had just invented it for the everlasting benefit of some poor
but virtuous language,--"War costs money, and money costs gold. What we
want is gold, to pay for the money that pays for the war. And where
shall we get that gold?" says the Venerable Gammon, with a smile of
knowing beneficence.

"By reference to a California journal, I find that California and
Nevada contain about twenty columns of gold mines, and that each mine
is worth so many millions that its directors are obliged to levy daily
assessments of Five, Ten, and Twenty-five cents per share, or 'loot,'
in order that the shareholders, in their immense wealth, may not forget
that their distracted country has a decimal currency to be countenanced
and supported. Now I propose," says the Venerable Gammon, magisterially
pulling out his ruffles with his fat thumb and forefinger, "I propose
that the War debt and the board of our Major Generals be paid by an
especial tax on these mines, thus"--

"Killing the goose which lays the golden egg," broke in an aged
Treasury Clerk standing near, whose countenance possessed all the
oppressive respectability that large spectacles and a pimple on the
nose can possibly bestow.

The Venerable Gammon was hereupon seized with such a violent fit of
coughing that farther argument was impracticable; and it is not decided
to this day whether it would be in keeping with the eternal fitness of
things to tax the miners to pay the majors.

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER CI.

    EXPLAINING THE WELL-MEANT DUPLICITY OF THE JOURNALS OF THE
    OPPOSITION; AFFORDING ANOTHER GLIMPSE OF THE IRREPRESSIBLE
    CONSERVATIVE SENTIMENT; AND SHOWING HOW THANKSGIVING DAY WAS KEPT
    BY THE MACKERELS.


WASHINGTON, D.C., Dec. 10th, 1864.

Thanksgiving Day, my boy, is an able-bodied national festival which has
dwelt unctuously in all my less spiritual annual reminiscences, since
that poetical and beautiful time of life when the touching innocence of
childhood tempted me to surreptitiously pick a chicken-leg while my
good grandfather was asking a blessing; and to receive therefor that
wholesome box of the ears, which not unfrequently imparts a temporary
and excessive warmth to the brain of virtuous boyhood. 'Tis sweet to
remember that old-fashioned Thanksgiving Eve, my boy, when the
venerable and widowed Mrs. McShane, our cook, would renew her annual
custom of inveigling us children into the kitchen on pretence of
admiring our new shoes; and then proceed, by divers artful and
melancholy phrases, to darken our little souls with a heart-sickening
conviction of her utter failure to procure, in her recent trip to
market, that long-anticipated Turkey! 'Tis pleasant to recollect how
entirely we were cast down thereat, and how rigidly we refrained from
so much as a single glance toward the old "Dresser," whereon stood the
well-known market-basket of Mrs. McShane, with the plump legs of the
choicest of gobblers protruding very obviously therefrom! 'Tis joyous
to recall how we stared mercilessly at every possible thing in the
kitchen except that "Dresser;" and how desolately we received certain
sadly-philosophical remarks from Mrs. McShane, as to the unspeakable
admiration assuredly merited by those "rale good childers," who could,
for one Thanksgiving Day, endure starvation without tears.

The little deception was most tenderly and kindly meant, my boy; it was
the artless roguery of a dear old heart--the gentlest of cheats--the
fondest of frauds; and the very remembrance of it, at this remote
moment, not only fills my manly bosom with the softest charity, but
endows me with a nicer mental perception of actual good in seeming
wickedness, than any yet disclosed by my more obtuse fellow-countrymen.

Thus, my boy, when I note how some of our excellent Democratic daily
journals attempt to prove, with great sadness of manner and profound
sincerity of reluctant reasoning, that all the celebrated advances,
conquests, and flankings of our remarkable national armies are really
so many heart-breaking defeats in deep disguise; and that the
well-known Southern Confederacy is actually quite intoxicated with its
continued remorseless successes over us; when I note this, my boy, I am
moved to pleasant tears over that inherent and ineradicable goodness of
human nature, which instinctively inspires the nobler of our species to
first delude their fellow-beings to despondency with the most innocent
of falsehoods, only that their consummate bliss may be the greater when
the glorious truth can no longer be thus fondly concealed. Join with
me, my boy, in a noble tribute of affection to the humble but tender
Editors of these excellent Democratic daily journals, who would
lovingly make us, children of the nation, believe, that the Turkey of
Victory is not to be had at any price, though none of us need look very
far to see the plump legs of that very same turkey sticking out of the
family-basket. Thanks to thee, thou dear old Mrs. McShane, with thy
perpetual atmosphere of roast-beef gravy, and eternal rims of crusted
flour about thy finger-nails--thanks be to thee for that humanizing
remembrance of thy loving fraud, which thus enables me to rescue our
excellent Democratic daily journals from the unseemly imputations of
degenerate Black Republicans.

My long absence with our somewhat tedious national troops, my
boy,--troops now constituting a flaming about the throat of this
exciting Rebellion;--my long absence, I say, has given this Capital
City of our distracted country an opportunity to thrive apace in the
development of those public and private virtues, which so thoroughly
unpopularize Vice in this chaste locality, that even the Vice President
is never heard of. True it is, that one misses those pleasant and
gorgeous chaps of much watch-chain and an observable extent of diamond
breastpin, who were wont, in the days of genial Southern preponderance,
to lend lustre to the hall-ways of the more majestic hotels, and
occasionally induce the inebriated son of Chivalry to join them at Faro
his table. We miss these light and airy chaps, each of whom is now an
unblushing Confederacy without hope of Reconstruction; we miss the high
and lofty Carolina chap of much hat-brim, whose playful moments after
the bottle were now and then illustrated with a lively shot from a
revolver at a waiter, or cheerful pass with a bowie-knife at his
opponent in conversation. And oh! we miss those languishing magnolia
belles, whose eyes always reminded me of fresh drops of ink on tinted
paper, and whose beautiful belief in the utter vulgarity of all
Northern ladies it was really quite delightful to hear. Yes, my boy,
all, all are gone; but we have in their places such representatives of
genuine republican simplicity as you shall not see again in a circuit
of the globe. Our hotel-halls are brightened by youthful forms in the
self-sacrificing uniform of our national army; and these youthful
forms, being mostly from the country, confine their innocent gaming,
almost exclusively, to the athletic game of "checkers." The prominent
walking-gentlemen of Willard's wear black velvet vests all the year
round, and, so far from shooting waiters, are always on the most
familiar terms with that oppressed race; joking freely with them and
recognizing them as intimate equals, as all genuine citizens of a true
Republic should do. And as for our present Washington ladies,--wearing
Lisle-thread gloves at the dinner-table and putting almonds and raisins
into their pockets before leaving it, God bless 'em!--why they know no
more of anything vulgar, than a maniac does of insanity.

Reflecting upon these things, on Monday last, my boy, I strolled
abstractedly into an establishment where they sell army stores, such as
lemons by the slice, sugar by the half-ounce, etc. I strolled dreamily
in, when who should I see at the crockery-counter but the Conservative
Kentucky chap, whose hat was very far down over his eyes, like one who
has just come through a severe election. He appeared to be taking
Richmond at the moment, my boy, with a spoon in it; and as quickly as I
entered, he let the hand grasping it fall suddenly down on his obverse
side, and gave his entire and most unremitting attention to the picture
of a flesh- young lady on the farthest wall. I slapped him on
the shoulder, and says I:

"Well, my ancient Talleyrand, how are we?"

The Conservative Kentucky chap gloomily placed his tumbler upon the
stomach of a gentleman in checked pants, who was calmly sleeping on
three chairs near the stove, and says he: "Kentucky can no longer blind
herself to the fact that we are on the brink of a monikky. Yes!"
exclaimed the Conservative chap,--wildly tearing off his hat, and then
putting it on again so that it entirely covered his left eye,--"Yes,
sir, a monikky with a Yankee for its Austrian tyrant!"

Here the Conservative Kentucky chap deliberately buttoned his coat to
the very neck, turned up his collar, and gazed sternly at a bowl of
cloves near by. I called his attention to the Ten of Spades, which was
edging itself down between his hat and his right ear, and says I,--

"Hast proof of this, Horatio?"

"Proof?" says the Conservative Kentucky chap, with such a start that
the gentleman in the checked pants vibrated as though sleeping on
springs,--"Proof? You know Smith,--John Smith,--that little apothecary
from Connecticut? Well, sir, he voted in this here last election for
the Austrian usurper, and now he's knighted! Yes, sir, by A. Lincoln's
recommendation he's now SIR JOHN SMITH!! I've heard him called so
myself. And this--this--is Kentucky's reward!"

At this crisis the Conservative Kentucky chap shut the stove-door with
great violence, and seemed for a moment to meditate personal outrage on
the young assistant oysterer, who had just arrived with the
coal-skuttle.

Before I could make rejoinder, my boy, there approached us a
middle-aged gentleman in a shocking bad hat and an overcoat very shiny
about the seams, who had cordially invited himself to take a little
something that morning, and had accepted the invitation with pleasure.
Straightening himself suddenly, with a violent start, to restrain an
unruly hiccup, or make me believe that he made the noise with his feet,
he eyed the Conservative chap with a benignant smile, and says he:

"You're mistaken there, sir,--muchly, sir, hem! Mr. Smith is my friend,
sir; my bosom friend, till time shall end.--Beautiful idea, that.--My
friend, I say; and he's only been appointed to the medical department
by recommendation of the President.--Let nature do her best, and then
your doctors are of use to men.--Byron.--Yes, sir, Mr. Smith is now a
military doctor; and that's how you've made the mistake. You thought it
was 'Sir John' Smith they said, when it was '_Sur-geon_' Smith!"

As he said this, the middle-aged gentleman became aware that one of his
toes was sticking very much through his boot, and retired to
confidentially ask the assistant oysterer if any one had yet found
that valuable diamond scarf-pin which he (the middle-aged gentleman)
had recently lost.

I looked at the Conservative Kentucky chap, my boy, and his chin had
sunk down upon his breast. He felt that his mistake was also the
mistake of Kentucky, and his heart was too full for further
conversation.

'Twas on Thursday morn,--Thanksgiving Day,--that I blithely scaled the
heights of my faithful Gothic steed, the architectural Pegasus, and
softly urged that ruined temple of a horse to trot me a lively
reminiscence of his youth. Forward we went with a unique, chopping
motion, with now and then a stumble to keep the blood in circulation,
interpersed with occasional plunges at stumps and shyings at fluttering
withered leaves. When you have mounted a beloved horse, on a fine,
bracing autumnal morning, my boy, did you ever feel like a kind of new
and superior being; as though you and your steed were one consummate
individual, inspired by one bounding, uncontrollable impulse, and
impatiently regarding the line of the horizon as a tyrannical limit to
a ride that should else tear gallantly and recklessly forth into
illimitable space? Did you ever feel thus, my boy?...

Because, if you did, your feelings were not at all like mine.

                     *      *      *      *      *

Onward we go, like a wrecked centaur before the wind, and soon these
eager eyes behold once more the camp of the aged and thrice-valiant
Mackerel Brigade. Far and near, the spectacles of the decrepit veterans
are flashing in the sun; whilst before them is the much-besieged City
of Paris, and behind them (in consequence of recent rains) the storied
waters of Duck Lake. The veterans are clustered around Paris, my boy,
like so many exceedingly thirsty chaps around the tall and well-spiked
fence inclosing a cherished pump, and if ever they get at it, they will
at least drink it dry. Scarcely had I reined-in, near the edge of Duck
Lake, where certain members of Rear Admiral Head's iron-plated mackerel
squadron were discharging cases and barrels by the score,--scarcely had
I dismounted from the Gothic Pegasus and hitched him to the body of a
slumbering Mackerel chap, who had already overdone his Thanksgiving,
when I beheld Captain Villiam Brown approaching, on his geometrical
steed, the angular Euclid. Following him, but on foot, was Captain Bob
Shorty in command of the famous Conic Section of the Mackerel Brigade.

"Ha!" says Villiam, leaping down to meet me in dreadful entanglement
with his sword, and hastily plunging into his bosom a small black
bottle of regulation cough-drops, "have you flown hither like an narrer
from a bow, to view the sublime spectacle of the troops at their feed?
Ah!" says Villiam, quickly clasping his hands to save the bottle from
slipping out of his breast-pocket, "the beautiful pageant of a nation
feasting these martial beings on turkey, is something for besotted
Europe to tremble at. Next to serving up ice-cream to the sailors in a
gale of wind at sea, this"--

Here a venerable Mackerel tottered from the ranks, and says he: "Is
them the birds in them ere cases and barrels, Capting?"

Villiam attempted to rattle his sword threateningly at this
interruption; but observing that the hilt of his weapon had got around
to his spine, he rattled the keys in his pockets instead, and says he:

"How now, Sarah!"

(He meant to say "sirrah," my boy,--he meant to say "sirrah;" having
recently learned, from the perusal of a moral tale in one of our
excellent weekly journals of exciting romance, that said aristocratic
term is of frequent occurrence in all the conversations of the great.)

"Why," says the aged Mackerel, coughing into his hand, "if them's the
turkeys the people have sent us for Thanksgiving, we're ready for 'em."

"You're right, Sarah," says Villiam, magnanimously, "and we'll open
this first case at once. The trade-mark of this case," says Villiam,
learnedly, "is '50 Turkeys with Care.'"

They were prying the lid off, my boy, with bayonets, and the eyes of
the surrounding Mackerels had commenced to glisten fierily through
their spectacles, when I saw Villiam and Captain Bob Shorty exchange
looks of deep meaning, and shake their heads like a couple of
melancholy mandarins.

"Robert S.," says Villiam, with a look of deep perplexity, "this is
indeed a strange oversight."

Captain Bob Shorty shook his head sadly.

"And yet," says Villiam, sternly, "we must tell these beings about it."

"There's no avoiding it, by all that's Federal!" murmured Captain Bob
Shorty.

Captain Villiam Brown sighed deeply, and says he:

"Soldiers, the people of the United States of America meant well in
sending such beautiful birds for our Thanksgiving bankwick; but they've
made a strange mistake. Really," says Villiam, toying with the cork of
the bottle of cough-drops, as it protruded from his ruffles,--"really,
I find, that _not one of these Turkeys is stamped_!"

At this juncture the same old Mackerel again stepped forward, and asked
if the turkeys came by mail?

"No," says Villiam, with much sympathy of manner. "I don't mean
postage-stamps, but the Internal Revenue. Turkeys," says Villiam,
reasoningly, "come under the head of 'Unnecessary Luxuries,' and are
not legal unless stamped. But," says Villiam, with sudden benignity,
"your officers possess the necessary stamps, and will sell them to you
at twenty-five cents apiece."

It was a beautiful proof of the untiring vigilance and energy of our
national regimental officers, my boy, that they happened to have the
stamps on hand just as they did; though, if there happened to be stamps
required on geese, I am afraid that every Mackerel who paid his
twenty-five cents would come in for one of those chaste little pictures
on himself.

And now, the stamps being purchased and the New England eagles
distributed, there commenced such a scene of martial revelry and
good-nature as the world never saw before. In every direction--at the
openings of tents--around open-air fires--everywhere, the jolly
festival went on.

Strolling to the outer picket-line, I saw a Mackerel chap lay aside his
gun, seat himself upon the ground, and commence handling a nice little
turkey which had just been brought to him by a comrade. He smacked his
lips audibly, my boy, and was just in the act of tearing off a
"drumstick" when I saw him suddenly look up to a point ahead of him,
and instantly cease all motion. Curious to know what had thus
fascinated him, as it were, and so abruptly checked his feast, I also
looked in that direction.

Right across the little field in front of us, seated on the last
remaining post of a ruined fence, was a ragged Confederacy, in a
perfect whirlpool of tatters, who had rested his musket upon the
ground, and was alternately gnawing an army biscuit and casting longing
looks toward his happier enemy. He was a dreadfully thin, hollow-eyed
chap, my boy, and shivered in the cold. The Mackerel stared at him
without motion for some minutes, and then commenced to handle his
turkey again. Then he stared again, dropped his turkey, picked it up,
and finally rose to his feet impatiently--looked toward his nearest
comrade--and then seated himself with his back toward the Confederacy.
Still the latter gnawed and looked longingly. The Mackerel said,
"damme!" quite distinctly and stoutly, and vigorously grasped at a
"drumstick" again. He gave it a twist, paused, wavered, and _looked
over his shoulder_.

In another instant, my boy, that Mackerel sprang to his feet, faced
about, shouted:

"I'll do it, by G--d! if I swing for it"--dashed across the field like
a stark madman, and, before the astonished Confederacy could budge an
inch, had hurled the turkey into his arms and was tearing back to his
own post.

There is a chivalry, my boy, that makes a man a hero with the sword of
a patriot, or bears him triumphantly through perils and obstacles to
the arms of the bride he has won. There is a chivalry that inspires a
man to spurn with contempt the fortune not fraught with all honor, and
gives him the graces of a gentleman through all the glooms and burdens
of honest poverty. But in that grander Chivalry native to the soul,
which raises the tenderness of our best humanity far above the highest
point all enmity can reach, and lets it fall, like God's own dew, upon
the other side, none, none more fairly ever won a knighthood, than that
poor Mackerel picket-guard on last Thanksgiving Day.

Yours, gently,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER CII.

    SHOWING THE INGENIOUS FINANCIAL ENERGY OF A GREATLY-REDUCED
    POLITICIAN; AND DESCRIBING A COMBAT, ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE
    PHILOSOPHICAL CONTENTMENT OF THE WELL-KNOWN SOUTHERN CONFEDERACY
    UNDER ALL REVERSES.


WASHINGTON, D.C., Dec. 17th, 1864.

It is a sublime thing, my boy,--a high moral and exciting thing,--to
note a wealthy nation's outburst of gratitude to Providence and our
national military organization, for a succession of Mackerel triumphs
without parallel either in history or her story. As I look abroad upon
the exulting hosts of our distracted fellow-countrymen from an upper
front window of Willard's,--having first wafted a fascinating salute to
the pleasing young woman of much back hair at a window across the
avenue,--as I look abroad, my boy, upon this whole remarkable people, I
am deeply impressed with a sense of that beautiful, national
characteristic which makes us all buoyant over Mackerel victories only
as they bring us nearer to virtuous peace and universal brotherhood,
and am convinced that our otherwise inexpressible thankfulness to
Heaven may be divided into two equal parts:

 I. An ardent desire to destroy combined Europe.

II. A disposition to set fire to combined Europe, bringing off the
women and children in small boats.

Hah, hah! does combined Europe tremble? Does C. E. offer a certain sum
to be let off?

"Shall I ever forget, my boy, the recent terrible remark of that grim
old sea-dog, Rear Admiral Head, just after that late tremendous capture
of Fort Piano, on Duck Lake, by the Mackerel Chalybeate
squadron,--shall I ever forget it?

"Chip my turret!" says that venerable salt, in his iron-plated
manner,--"Chip my turret if I couldn't take my flag-ship, the
'_Aitch_,' and crush Europe like a perishing insect,--unrivet my plates
if I couldn't!"

But why should I dwell upon the dreadful suggestions of a theme like
this? Europe--crowded Europe--millions of people--bright summer
morning--everybody in the streets--Bang! whiz!--Great combinations of
the Lieutenant General--Victoria and Louis N., do you surrender?--We
DO!

Solemnly do I say to you, my boy, let us mix plenty of this sort of
thing in our devout gratitude to Providence for His mercies to us as a
people, and henceforth we may confidently count upon the support of
Providence--Rhode Island.

Fairly and benignantly shone the blessed sun over valley and hill on
the morning of that recent memorable day when I scaled the
architectural heights of my Gothic Pegasus, and turned his
front-elevation toward the Mackerel camp before the much-banged City of
Paris. Brightly gleamed the fluted roof of my ancient pile of a steed
as he went blithely forward on three legs, keeping one in reserve in
case of accident: joyous was the alacrity with which he waltzed an
imitative earthquake and tossed his child's-coffin of a head. The
exhilaration of the motion, the proud sense of being borne again, might
ultimately have plunged me into a delicious dream of being divided into
two parts, my boy, had I not suddenly discovered, on the road-side,
some twenty yards ahead of me, the figure of a being seated upon a
camp-stool. Hastily dismounting from my architectural animal, and tying
him to an oak in such a manner that he presented somewhat the
perspective of a modest country church with a tree before the door, I
stole carefully upon the being in my front, and found it to be the
Conservative Kentucky chap, engaged in the muscular game of "Bluff"
with himself.

His venerable hat, my boy, sat far down over his ears, like some shabby
bird of night just stooping to carry off two oysters; a curious
antiquity in the shape of a black stock loomed gloomily under his chin,
as a memorial sepulchre in which some departed collar was supposed to
be sacredly entombed; his face was toward Kentucky, and in his hands he
was vivaciously shuffling a number of cards.

"Hum, hem!" soliloquized the Conservative Kentucky chap,
complacently--"ten of spades--king of diamonds--king of hearts--ace of
clubs--ace of hearts--ace of"--

Here the Conservative Kentucky chap uttered an absolutely startling
cough and, at the same instant, passed three of the aces up his left
sleeve!

"Yes," said the Conservative Kentucky chap, still to himself, "the
pasteboards are all right--hem!--it's your deal. Ah! ten is it?--I'll
go twenty better--forty--sixty! Hem! Ace and two Kings is it? Look
here--three aces! Good-night, gents."--and the Conservative Kentucky
chap at once sang, with triumphant and great effect:

    "Four years the war have looked upon,
      But haven't brought the end meant;
    Nor anything except the Constitutional Amendment;
        Oh, Kentucky! an't this a go, Kentucky?
        Oh, Kentucky! an awful blow, Kentucky!"

As the last note of exquisite melody died away upon the air, I slapped
him on the shoulder, and says I:

"Well done, my son of Hoyle!"

The Conservative Kentucky chap sprang wildly to his feet, my boy,
simultaneously "making a pass" of the cards into his pocket, and
commenced dancing insanely before me with a view of hiding from my
notice the four of clubs, which he had dropped to the ground and was
anxious to conceal in the mud.

"Ha! ha!" observed the Conservative Kentucky chap, somewhat
hysterically, in the midst of his dance; "of course you didn't see what
I was doing?"

Then it was, my boy, that I folded my arms after the manner of Hamlet,
threw forward my right knee, shook my head profoundly thrice, and
murmured, with the poet:

    "Were his old mother near him now, how would that mother grieve,
    To see two aces in his hand,--another up his sleeve."

"My mother!" exclaimed the Conservative Kentucky chap, suddenly
descending into Cimmerian gloom; "Kentucky is my mother, and from her
maternal fount I drew the old rye of my existence. But now, Kentucky
becomes a indigent pauper under the Constitutional Amendment and the
failure of the Bankrupt Bill, and I find myself compelled to take to
bluff and poker in the prime of life." Here the poor chap made a move
toward tearing his hair, but thought better of it and only scratched a
pimple on his chin.

Arm in arm we walked slowly forward together, each busied with his own
thoughts, until, from a clump of trees by the road-side, there
unexpectedly emerged before us that ornament of our national service
known as Captain Bob Shorty, with his cap at a fierce cock, his hands
in his pockets, and a supernaturally knowing air clothing him as with a
garment.

"By all that's Federal!" said Captain Bob Shorty, starting at sight of
me, "if I didn't take you at first for that ere Confederacy of the name
of Munchausen, which has privately appointed to meet me here in single
combat."

"Why then, really, you know," observed the Conservative Kentucky chap,
suddenly coming forward and pleasantly rubbing his hands, "really it
would be a good plan for me to go forward and meet him with a view to
peace negotiations. Being a Confederacy, he is Kentucky's brother,"
warbled the Conservative chap, with soft enthusiasm, "and I might tell
him that you would pay all his debts, black his boots, run errands for
him, and send the President to tell him a little story, if he would
give up this conflict. Should he refuse, and even proceed to the
extremity of kicking me," said the Conservative Kentucky chap, with
awful sternness, "why, then, I should be in favor of letting the matter
proceed to the bitter end,--as it had already in my own case."

"I am not aweer," observed Captain Bob Shorty, "that you have any
business in the matter at all, my old Trojan; but there's the road open
to you."

It was beautiful, my boy,--touchingly beautiful, and withal unctuous,
to observe with what a benignant smile the peaceful Conservative
Kentucky Chap departed up the road. We saw him reach a turn in the
path, around which the sound of stately approaching footsteps was
already becoming audible. We saw him turn it; heard all the footsteps
cease; heard a confused murmur,--a sharp scratching as of heels upon
gravel; and Kentucky's favorite son was observed to be coming again to
his place, with a slight limp in his walk.

Right behind him came a remarkable being attired in fragments of gray
cloth and a prodigious thicket of whiskers, through the latter of which
his eyes glared yellowly, like the bottles in an apothecary's shop down
the street. As he approached nearer, he hastily put on a pair of
partially-dissected white cotton gloves, and casually rearranged the
strip of carpet-binding which served him as a full-dress cravat.

"Yours, truly," said Captain Bob Shorty.

"Vandal!" hissed Captain Munchausen, removing from his brow an
unexampled conglomeration of rags in the last stages of cap, and
handing it to a faithful contraband who attended him.

"Why, then," said Captain Bob Shorty, doffing his own cap, and tucking
up his sleeves, "in the name of the United States of America, I propose
to move upon your works immediately."

And now, my boy, do I particularly lament my lack of those unspeakable
intellectual gifts, which enable the more refined reporters of all our
excellent moral daily journals to describe the fistic achievements of
the noted Arkansas Mule and celebrated Jersey Bantam in a manner that
delights every well-conducted breakfast-table in the land, and
furnishes exquisite reading for private families.

Forward hopped Captain Bob Shorty, as though on springs,--his elbows
neatly squared, his fists held up like a couple of apples on sticks,
and his head poised as though it had just started to look round a
corner. With fists to match, and eyes shining like the bottoms of glass
bottles, the wary Munchausen scuffles cautiously back from him in a
half circle. Now they make skips toward each other; and now they skip
back. Anon an arm is raised, and is parried; and then they balance to
partners; and then they hop back.

I was gazing at all this, my boy, in speechless admiration, when
suddenly I saw the dexter hand of Captain Bob Shorty pierce the enemy's
lines, and explode with tremendous force on Munchausen's nose. For a
moment there was a sound as of Confederate blasphemy, but in a moment
the chivalric Munchausen was himself again.

"Ah!" said Captain Bob Shorty, agreeably, "did you see the
star-spangled banner that time?"

"Sir," said Munchausen, with tears in his eyes, "I am thankful that my
nose _is_ broken. It is a blessing; for I had nothing to smell with it,
and only wasted my strength in its special defence."

Here Captain Bob Shorty looked jovially at me, my boy, and says he, "By
all that's Federal! an't he jolly?"

"Come on to thy ruin," roared Munchausen from behind his rapidly
increasing nose; and again the battle raged.

Now did Captain Bob Shorty sidle to the left, with a view to flanking;
but two columns of the enemy met him there. Next the agile Munchausen
attempts, by a quick turn, to take him in the rear of his position, but
finds a strong body of five divisions hurled upon his headquarters with
an impetuosity that knocks out half his teeth.

"Art satisfied, Horatio?" said Captain Bob Shorty, with more or less
Bowery Theatre in his manner.

An awful smile appeared upon what were left of the features of Captain
Munchausen. It was so full of scorn, you know.

"Sir," said he, with much chivalry of bearing, and some difficulty of
utterance, "my jaw may be broken, but I thank fate for it. It's a long
time since I had anything to eat with my mouth, and to defend it at all
was useless."

"Ha! ha! ha!" roared Captain Bob Shorty; "I really never did see
anything so jolly."

"Madman!" yelled Munchausen, "your destruction is decided!"

Then were all the skips and hops repeated, my boy; with such ornamental
bits of occasional fine art as the refined reporters of our excellent
moral daily journals love to dwell fondly upon. Were I but such a
reporter, I would describe the scene in a way to make you take it home
to your children. But let me not waste time in lamentation; for, just
then, a something heavy fell upon the right eye of Captain Munchausen,
and effectually closed it for a week.

"Ah!" said Captain Bob Shorty, pleasantly, "did you count the stars
upon our Flag that time, my grayback?"

"Sir," retorted Munchausen, staggering about, and wildly pulling
handfuls of imperceptible hair out of invisible heads in the air,--"I
consider the loss of that eye a blessing in disguise; for I can now
concentrate my WHOLE strength on the other."

"Well, now, really," said Captain Bob Shorty,--"really, you know, I
never see anything half so jolly."

"Extermination is now your doom," howled the Confederacy, reeling
deliberately forward upon the first fist he met, and falling heavily to
the ground with his other eye emphatically darkened.

Instantly was Captain Bob Shorty at his side, exclaiming, "I'm sorry
for this, old chap. I wish you'd only consented to stop before--EH?"
ejaculated Captain Bob Shorty,--"what's that you say?"

As true as I live and breathe, my boy,--as true as I live and
breathe,--when Captain Bob Shorty put his ear to the mouth of the
fallen Confederacy, he heard, slowly spoken, these remarkable words:

"I'm--glad--this--has--happened--because--I--can--now--develop--my--
REAL--resources--of----strength!!!"

Yours, speechlessly,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER CIII.

    BEING ANOTHER AND FINAL CHRISTMAS REPORT; INCLUDING A SMALL STORY
    FROM OUR UNCLE ABE; A CIRCULAR FROM THE SECRETARY OF STATE; A
    SUPERNATURAL CAROL FROM SERGEANT O'PAKE; AND A TREMENDOUS GHOST
    STORY FROM AN UNAPPRECIATED GENIUS.


WASHINGTON, D.C., Dec. 27th, 1864

Upon these holy anniversary-days of "Peace on Earth, good-will toward
men," the American human mind is naturally prone to regret that the
well-known Southern Confederacy still survives, in a degree, all its
inexpressible spankings, and still compels the noblest of us to pour
out our substitutes like water. You, my boy, have poured out your
substitute; other great and good men have poured out _their_
substitutes, and your devoted pockets bleed at every pour.

O war! thirsty and strategical war! how dost thou pierce the souls of
all our excellent Democratic journals, against whom the increased
war-tax on whiskey is an outrage not to be mentioned without swearing.

On Christmas-day, my boy, there came to this city a profound Democratic
chap of much stomach, who wore a seal-ring about as large as a
breakfast-plate, and existed in a chronic condition of having the bosom
of his shirt unbuttoned to such a degree as to display picturesquely
the red flannel underneath. He ran for Sheriff of Squankum last month,
my boy; and having been defeated with great slaughter, concluded that
all was gall and bitterness, and that he couldn't do better than come
to Washington and improve the President's mind.

At the time of the interview, our Honest Abe was sitting before the
fire, peeling an apple with a jack-knife; and the fact that part of his
coat-collar was turned inside, did not lessen in him that certain
generous dignity which hale good-nature ever wears, as morning wears
the sun.

"Mr. President," says the profound Democratic chap, spitting with
dazzling accuracy into a coal-hod on the opposite side of the room; "I
call upon you to-day, sir, not as a politician, but as a friend. And as
a friend, sir"--here the Democratic chap wore a high-moral look, and
his shirt-bosom yawned as though eager to take all the world into the
red-hot depths of his affectionate flannel heart,--"as a friend, sir, I
feel bound to tell you, that your whole administrative policy is wrong;
and as for your Emancipation Proclamation, it has had no effect at all,
as I can see."

Here the profound Democratic chap stuck a cheap bone eyeglass into his
right eye, and seemed to think that he rather had him there.

The Honest Abe peeled his apple, and says he:

"Neighbor, the sane men of all parties think differently from you in
that matter."

"That proves, I suppose," says the Democratic chap, wrathfully, "that
I'm a lunatic."

The Honest Abe ate a piece of apple, and says he:

"Not at all, neighbor; not all; nothing so serious as that. But talking
about what a difference of opinion 'proves,'" says the Honest Abe,
balancing one boot upon the toe of the other, and smiling peacefully at
his jack-knife; "talking about what it 'proves,' reminds me of a small
tale:

"When I was a law-student out in Illinois, and wore spectacles to
appear middle-aged and respectable, we had in our district-court the
case of a venerable Sucker, who was prosecuting another man for
spreading a report that he was insane, and greatly damaging his
business thereby. The defendant made reply, that he had honestly
supposed the plaintiff to be insane on one point, at least, and that
was the motion of the world around the sun. This motion was denied _in
toto_ by the plaintiff, who had frequently, of late, greatly astonished
everybody and shocked the schoolmaster, by persisting in the assertion
that the world did not spin round at all, inasmuch as _he_ had never
seen it spin round.

"Various witnesses were called for both sides," says the Honest Abe,
pleasantly scratching his chin; "various ones were called, to testify
as to whether such difference of opinion from all the rest of mankind
would seem to prove the insanity of the venerable Sucker; but nothing
decisive was arrived at until old Doctor Dobbles was examined. Old
Dobbles," says the Honest Abe, winking softly to himself, "was not
quite such a teetotaler as may be told about in the 'Lives of the
Saints,' and when he took the stand we expected something.

"Says the Court to old Dobbles:

"'In your opinion, doctor, does a man's denial that the world turns
round, inasmuch as he has never seen it go round, prove his insanity?'

"'No,' says Dobbles.

"'Ah!' says the Court, 'what then?'

"'Why,' says old Dobbles, deliberately, 'if a man denies that the world
goes round, and has never _seen_ it go round, it simply proves that
he--_never was drunk_.'

"As it happened," says the Honest Abe, balancing his jack-knife on the
tips of all his fingers; "as it happened that the Court himself had
frequently seen the world go round, the justice of the idea flashed
upon him at once, and the defendant was found guilty of six dollars'
damages, and ordered to treat the Court.

"Now," says the Honest Abe, with a winning smile, "I am far from
inferring, neighbor, that you have never been intoxicated; but it seems
to me, that when you say the Proclamation has had no effect at all, it
proves you can't be speaking soberly."

The profound Democratic chap came away, my boy, with a singing in his
head, and has been so tremendously confused ever since, that he asked
me this morning at Willard's, if I thought, that what we of war see is
anything like what Thaddeus of Warsaw.

On Monday, while I was on my way to the Mackerel camp, before Paris, to
be present at the usual Christmas song-singing and story-telling in the
tent of Captain Villiam Brown, I met an affable young chap, driving a
wagon, in which were some thousands of what appeared to be
newly-printed circulars. I knew that the young chap came from a large
printing-office in the lower part of the city, and says I:

"Tell me, my young Phaeton, what have we here?"

The affable young chap closed one eye waggishly at a handy young woman
who was cleaning the upper windows of a house near by, and says he:

"These here, are five thousand copies of a blank form, just printed
down at our place for the State Department. And I should think," says
the affable young chap, taking a dash at a small boy who had just "cut
behind" his cart--"I should think that pile ought to last a month, at
least, though the last one didn't."

I made bold to examine a copy of the blank form in question, my boy,
and found it to read as follows:

    "CITY OF WASHINGTON, U.S.A., }
    DEPARTMENT OF STATE.         }

    "_Dear Sir_:

    "_Permit me to beg you will inform the Government of ----, so
    admirably represented by you, that the Government of the United
    States entirely disapproves the action of the Commander of the
    ----, in the matter of ---- ----, and will make whatever reparation
    may be deemed adequate therefor by the Government of ----._

    "_With the profoundest respect, I am your Excellency's most
    obedient humble servant_,      ---- ----.

    "HIS EXCELLENCY ---- ----.

    MINISTER FROM ----."

As I read this document, I thought to myself: Verily my distracted
country's Secretary of State wishes to save as much writing as
possible; and who knows but that he is like one of our own frontier
riflemen, who kneels only that he may take the more deliberate aim at
the heart of the wolf?

And now, as I push on again for my destination, let me say to you, my
boy, that few who read my wonderfully lifelike picture of Mackerel
strategy and carnage, have any idea of the awful perils constantly
assailing a reliable war-correspondent of the present day.

Thus: during a great battle which I attended in Accomac, a piece of
shell tore off my head,--that is to say, the head of my cane.

At the second battle of Paris, while I was in the act of taking notes
of the prevailing strategy, a cannon-ball took my legs off,--that is to
say, the legs of my camp-stool.

In the summer of '62, as I was sitting in the doorway of my tent, on
the shores of Duck Lake, a case-shot, of immense size, entered my
chest,--that is to say, the chest in which I carry my linen.

Cherish me, my boy, make much of me; for there is no telling how soon
some gory discharge of artillery may send me to join the angel-choir.

But here we are in the tent of Captain Villiam Brown; and the manner in
which the Mackerel officers are clustered about the round table in the
centre, reminds me of flies around a lump of sugar--supposing a lump of
sugar to be shaped exactly like a portly black bottle.

Sergeant O'Pake rises with a manuscript in his band, and says he:

"Comrades,--let me read to you a weird legend, of which I am the sole
author and proprietor, and to which I would draw your most political
attention."

And the sergeant forthwith delivered this remarkable poetical report of

    "THE IRISHMAN'S CHRISTMAS.

    "Hic!"--TERENCE.

    "Ould Mother Earth makes Irishmen her universal pride,
    You'll find them all about the world, and ev'rywhere beside;
    And good Saint Peter up above is often feeling tired,
    Because of sainted Irishmen applying to be hired.

    "Thus, being good and plentiful, 'tis proper we should find
    A spacious house stuck full of them where'er we have a mind,
    And unto such an edifice our present tale will reach,
    With sixty nice, convaynient rooms--a family in each.

    "No matter where it stands at all; but this we'll let you know,
    It constitutes itself alone a fashionable row;
    And when a bill of "Rooms to let" salutes you passing by,
    You see recorded under it, "No Naygurs need apply."

    "Now, Mr. Mike O'Mulligan and servant boarded here,--
    At least, his wife at service spent a portion of the year,--
    And when, attired in pipe and hod, he left his parlor-door,
    You felt the country had a vote it didn't have before.

    "Not much was M. O'Mulligan to festive ways inclined;
    For chiefly on affairs of State he bent his giant mind;
    But just for relaxation's sake he'd venture now and then,
    To lead a jig, or break a head, like other Irishmen.

    "Says Mrs. Mike O'Mulligan, when Christmas came, said she:
    'Suppose we give a little ball this evening after tea;
    The entry-way is broad enough to dance a dozen pairs,
    And thim that doesn't wish to dance can sit upon the stairs.'

    "'And sure,' said M. O'Mulligan, "'I don't object to that;
    But mind ye ask the girls entire, and ev'ry mother's Pat;
    I'd wish them all, both girls and boys, to look at me and see,
    That, though I'm School Commissioner, I'm noways proud,' says he.

    "The matter being settled thus, the guests were notified,
    And none to the O'Mulligans their presences denied;
    But all throughout the spacious house the colleens went to fix,
    And left the men to clane themselves and twirl their bits of sticks.

    "'Twas great to see O'Mulligan, when came the proper hour,
    Stand smiling in the entry-way, as blooming as a flower,
    And hear him to each lady say, 'Well now, upon me sowl!
    Ye look more like an angel than like any other fowl.'

    "And first came Teddy Finnigan, in collar tall and wide,
    With Norah B. O'Flannigan demurely by his side;
    And Alderman O'Grocery, and Councilman Maginn,
    And both the Miss Mulrooneys, and the widowed Mrs. Flynn.

    "The Rileys, and the Shaunesseys, and Murphys all were there,
    Both male and female creatures of the manly and the fair;
    And crowded was the entry-way to such a great degree
    They had to take their collars off to get their breathing free.

    "O'Grady with his fiddle was the orchestra engaged,
    He tuned it on the banisters, and then the music raged;
    'Now face your partners ev'ry man, and keep your eyes on me,
    And don't be turning in your toes indacently,' says he.

    "And when the dance began to warm, the house began to shake,
    The windows, too, like loosen'd teeth, began to snap and break;
    The stove-pipes took the ague fit, and clattered to the floors,
    And all the knobs and keys and locks were shaken from the doors.

    "The very shingles on the roof commenced to rattle out:
    The chimney-stacks, like drunken men, insanely reeled about;
    A Thomas cat upon the eaves was shaken from his feet,
    And right and left the shutters fell into the startled street.

    "It chanced as M. O'Mulligan was fixing something hot,
    The spoon was shaken from his hand, as likewise was the pot;
    The plaster from the ceiling, too, came raining on his head,
    And like a railway-carriage danced the table, chairs, and bed.

    "He tore into the entry-way, and 'Stop the jig!' says he:
    'Its shakin' down the house ye are, as any one can see;'
    But not a soul in all the swarm to dance at all forbore,
    And thumping down their brogans came, like hammers on the floor.

    "And then the house commenced to sway and strain and groan and crack,
    And all the stairs about the place fell crashing, front and back;
    The very air was full of dust, and in the walls the rats
    Forgot, in newer perils found, all terror of the cats.

    "Then swifter flew O'Grady's bow, and 'Mike, me lad,' he roared,
    'They'll dance until they haven't left your floor a single board;
    It's sperits that they are,' says he, 'and I'm a sperit, too;
    And sperit, Mike O'Mulligan, is what we'll make of you!'

    "'And sure,' said M. O'Mulligan, though turning rather pale,
    'Its quite a handsome ghost ye are, and fit for any jail:
    But tell me what I've done to you offinsive in the laste;
    And if I don't atone for it, I'm nothing but a baste.'

    "'It's faithless to Saint Tammany ye are,' O'Grady cried,--
    And wilder, madder, grew the jig as he the fiddle plied,--
    'It's faithless to Saint Tammany, who bids the Irishman
    Attain the highest office in this country that he can.'

    "'Och hone!' says poor O'Mulligan, 'it's pretty well I've done,
    To be a School-Commissioner before I'm thirty-one;
    'Tis barely just a year to-day since I set out from Cork,
    And now, be jabers! don't I hold an office in New York?'

    "'Why, true for you, O'Mulligan,' O'Grady roared again;
    'But what's a School-Commissioner to what ye should have been?
    It's County Clerk, the very laste, an Irishman should be,
    And, since you're not, receive the curse of Good Saint Tammany!'

    "Then wilder danced the spirit crew, the fiddler gave a scowl;
    And scarce could fated Michael raise a good old Irish howl,
    When all the timbers in the house went tumbling with a crash,
    Reducing M. O'Mulligan to bits as small as hash!

    "Take warning now, all Irishmen, of what may be your fate,
    If you come home on Christmas-night an hour or so too late;
    For sleeping on the garret stairs, and rolling down, may be
    To you, as unto Mike, a dream of good Saint Tammany!"

The deep, terror-stricken silence following this ghastly legend was
suddenly broken, my boy, by a frenzied shriek from my frescoed dog,
Bologna, who had followed me down from Washington, and whose stirring
tail had been accidentally trodden upon by the absorbed Mackerel
Chaplain. The picturesque animal, with a faint whine not unlike the
squeaking of a distant saw, walked toward Captain Bob Shorty and gazed
inquisitively for an instant into his face; then took earnest nasal
cognizance of the boots of Captain Samyule Sa-mith; then sat for an
instant on his haunches, with his tongue on special exhibition; and,
finally, went out of the tent.

"Ah!" exclaimed Captain Villiam Brown, who sat nearest the bottle, and
had, for the past hour, been unaccountably shedding tears,--"how much
is that dorg like human life, feller-siz'ns! Like him, we make a yell
at our firz 'pearance. Like him, we make our firz advances to some
brother-puppy. Like him, we smell the boots of our su-su-superiors.
Like him, we put out our tongues to see warz marrer with us; and, at
last, like him, we--(hic)--we go out."

At the culmination of this sublime burst, Villiam again melted into
tears, smiled around at us like a summer-sunset through a shower, and
gracefully sank below the horizon of the table, like an over-ripe
planet.

"By all that's Federal!" said Captain Bob Shorty, "that was dying
young, for Villiam; but who can tell whose turn it may be next? To
guard against possibilities, my blue-and-gold Napoleons, I will at once
proceed to read you a Christmas-story, written expressly for the
Mackerel Brigade by my gifted friend, Chickens, who should be in every
American library, and would like to be there himself. The genius of my
friend, Chickens," says Captain Bob Shorty, enthusiastically, "cannot
be bought for gold; but, in a spirit of patriotic self-sacrifice, he
would take 'greenbacks,' if the sordid persons having control of the
press should conclude to give him that encouragement which, I am
indignant to say, they have hitherto, with singular unanimity of
sentiment, entirely denied him. Indeed, my friend Chickens has, at
times, been placed in charge of the police by certain editors with whom
he has warmly argued the value of his talents, and I trust that the
four shillings we have appropriated for our Christmas-story may be
given him for the following tale." And Captain Bob Shorty proceeded to
read:--

    "THE GHOST'S ULTIMATUM.

    "England, merry England! Land of our forefathers! Having seen
    several attractive stereoscopic pictures of thee,--not to mention
    various engravings,--I love thee! Yes, I am of passionate
    temperament; I am thy fond American child; and I love thee. Ay, me
    lud, we all love thee; and the best of us cannot pay the shortest
    visit to thy shores without bringing back such a wholesome contempt
    for everything at home, as none but affectionate American hearts
    can feel. Having inherited the money realized by our deceased
    paternal from his celebrated patent Fish-scales we put our aged
    mother comfortably into the Old Ladies' Home, and fly to thee,
    dear, dear motherland, by the most expensive steamer to be had.
    Then we associate with the footmen of thy nobility, and go to see
    thy dukes' houses while the dukes are absent, and ask the dukes'
    housekeeper how much such a house costs, and come away stupefied
    with the atmosphere of greatness. We return to America with
    mutton-chop whiskers and our hands in our pockets, while our wife
    wears a charity-boys' cap on her head, and carries a saddle-whip
    forever in her left hand. We haven't seen the fashion-plates in the
    London shop-windows for nothing. We find New York rather small.
    There's no Tower, ye know, nor Abbey, nor Pell Mell, my dear boy.
    What's Pell Mell? Oh, I suppose _you'd_ call it Pall Mall; ha, ha,
    ha! quite provincial, to be sure. Really, this new Fifth-avenue
    house of ours is not quite equal to the Earl of P.'s town-house;
    but we can add a private theatre and a chapel, and make it do for a
    while, eh? Day-day, Tomkins, my good fellow, how-de-do? How are
    your poor feet? Ha, ha, ha, quite the joke in London society,
    Tomkins. What's new? Yanks had another Bull Run? Every nobleman I
    met in England is with the South, my dear boy, and so am I.

    "O England! If I could but visit thee just once,--just a little
    tiny bit of a once; but no matter, I haven't the money; never mind.
    Honest poverty in this country will yet--but it's of no
    consequence.

    "Persons with money may have noticed, that as you turn from
    Cheapside into Whitefriars, and go on past St. Paul's and the Horse
    Guards into Pell Mell, keeping straight to the right to avoid
    Waterloo Bridge and the Nelson Monument, you come to an English
    house.

    "At the particular period of which I write, the night of the 24th
    of December was Christmas-eve in this house, and Mr. R. Fennarf had
    just devoured a devilled kidney, some whitebait, a plate of
    Newcastle pickled-salmon, and some warm wine and toast, as it is
    believed customary for all English gentlemen of the better class to
    do before going to bed. Having thus prepared commodious stabling
    for a thoroughbred nightmare, he looked at his hands, looked at his
    watch, looked at the fire-irons, looked at his slippers in
    perspective, and at once fell into an English revery,--which
    differs materially from an American one, as everybody knows, being
    much superior.

    "'Can it be,' said Mr. R. Fennarf to himself, 'that my pride was
    really sinful, when I drove my daughter Alexandra from my house,
    because she would have wed a potboy? It must be so; for I have not
    seen a happy hour since then. Here is Christmas-eve, and here am I
    a lone, lone man. Oh that by the endurance of some penalty, however
    great, I might bring back my girl, and ask her forgiveness, and be
    my old self again.'

    "'Thy wish shall be granted!!!'

    "This last terrible remark came from a being in white, with a red
    silk handkerchief tied about the place where he was murdered.

    "'Ah!' exclaimed Mr. R. Fennarf, 'have I the pleasure of seeing a
    Ghost?'

    "'You have,' said the being.

    "'Wont you take a seat, Mr. G.?'

    "'No,' sighed the spectre, 'I haven't time. I just dropped in to
    let you know through what penance you might be enabled to atone for
    your unjustifiable arrogance with your daughter, and recall her to
    your side. Your sin was pride; your atonement must be humiliation.
    You must get yourself Kicked!'

    "'Kicked!' ejaculated R. Fennarf, in a great state of excitement;
    'why, really, Mr. G., I would bear anything to gain my desire; but
    that's rather a severe thing; and, beside, I don't know that I have
    an enemy in the world to do the kicking for me--except it is the
    potboy, and his legs are too short.'

    "'Nothing but a kick will do,' said the Ghost, decidedly; 'and I
    will help you to the extent of handing you this rod, by aid of
    which you can transport yourself in any, or every, direction, until
    the kick is obtained.'

    "As the Ghost spoke, he laid a small black rod upon the table,
    and--was gone.

    "Mr. R. Fennarf fell into a revery: where could he go to make sure
    of a kick? He might go out into the street and tweak the nose of
    the first brother-Englishman he saw; but would that Englishman kick
    him for it? No! He would only sue him next day for damages. No
    Frenchman would kick a Britisher; because it is the policy of
    France just now to appear immensely fond of all that's British. Nor
    German. Nor Spaniard. 'Ah!' exclaimed Mr. R. Fennarf, joyously, 'I
    have it! The very place for me is "the formerly-united Republic of
    North America." They hate the very name of Englishman there. Read
    the articles in their papers; hear the speeches at their meetings:
    Oh, how they hate us! So here's a wave of the magic rod, and
    wishing I may be transported to the presence of some good
    England-hating Yankees. Hey, presto!'

    "In an instant he found himself being announced, by a servant in
    livery, to the company in the drawing-room of Mr. Putnon Ayres, of
    Beacon Street, Boston, who is quite celebrated for having said some
    thousands of times that England is the natural enemy of this
    country, sir; the natural enemy, sir; and if war were declared
    against England to-morrow, I, for one, sir, would close my store
    and shoulder a gun myself, sir.

    "'Now,' thought Mr. R. Fennarf, 'I shall be kicked, sure enough,
    and have it over.'

    "He couldn't help shrinking when he saw Mr. Putnon Ayres
    approaching him; but the Bostonian foe of Britain whispered
    hurriedly to Mrs. Putnon Ayres: 'It's the English gentleman, my
    dear; a _real_ one, and cousin to a Lord! Tell everybody to drop
    their aitches, and not to say anything in favor of the war. Oh, ah!
    delighted to see you, my dear sir, in my 'umble 'ouse.'

    "Mr. R. Fennarf was astonished. He must actually say something
    insulting, or that kick wouldn't come even here.

    "'Thankee, my old muff,' said he, in a voice like a cab-man's; 'but
    it's a dewcied bore, you know, to answer all the compliments paid
    one in this blawsted country. I'm fond of wimmin, though, by
    George!'--

    "Before he could finish his sentence, twenty managerial mothers,
    each dragging a marriageable daughter by the hand, made a desperate
    rush for him; but Mrs. Putnon Ayres reached him first, and placed
    the right hand of a pretty young lady in his own.

    "'Take my 'arriet, sir,' she exclaimed, enthusiastically, 'and be
    assured that she will make you a good wife. It 'as always been my
    'ope to 'ave such a son-in-law.'

    "Mr. R. Fennarf felt that his case was becoming desperate; his
    chance of regaining his daughter farther off than ever. Fairly
    crazy to be kicked, he familiarly chucked Miss Harriet under the
    chin, and, assuming a perfectly diabolical expression of
    countenance, deliberately tickled her!

    "'Haw! haw! haw!' roared Mr. Putnon Ayres, holding his sides with
    delight, 'that's the real English frankness, my dear son,--for such
    I must already call you,--and no American girl could be less than
    'appy to perceive it.'

    "In utter despair, Mr. R. Fennarf involuntarily placed a hand upon
    the magic rod in his bosom, and wished himself elsewhere. Quick as
    thought he was elsewhere, and entering the sumptuous private office
    of the gifted St. Albans, editor of the New York 'Daily Fife,'
    whose 'leaders' on the propriety of an immediate slaughter of all
    Britons within reach, have excited much terror in the bosom of
    Victoria.

    "'My dear sir,' screamed the sturdy St. Albans, springing to meet
    his visitor, 'I am delighted to welcome you to the United States!'

    "Mr. R. Fennarf's heart sank down to his very boots.

    "'You mean what there is left of your United States,' he yelled,
    like a very ruffian. 'You Yankees never did know how to speak the
    English language.' And he actually spat upon a file of the 'Daily
    Fife' hanging near him, and sneered pointedly at a lithograph of
    the editor over the fireplace.

    "St. Albans grasped his hand convulsively.

    "'Spoken like Carlyle, sir; spoken like Carlyle. Your English
    honesty is worthy your English heart of oak, my dear friend.'

    "'Sir!' roared R. Fennarf, frantic to be kicked, and backing
    temptingly toward the gifted St. Albans all the time he talked;
    'you and your paper be demn'd! What do _you_ know about Carlyle,
    bless my soul! _Who_ are you smiling at? WHAT d'ye mean?'

    "Here he knocked St. Albans down.

    "'You shall hear from me--step into that next room--will write to
    you instantly,' panted the editor.

    Half-crazed with his continued failures, the unhappy R. Fennarf
    walked abstractedly into the next room, half hoping his antagonist
    wanted an opportunity to put on a pair of extra-heavy boots.

    In two minutes a boy put a note into his hand.

        "'MY DEAR SIR: Name your own terms for contributing a daily
        article to the Fife. Select your own subjects.

        ST. ALBANS.'

    "The miserable Briton involuntarily groaned, shook his head
    hopelessly, and once more touched the Ghost's rod. He heard the
    roll of drums, the scattering cracks of muskets, and found himself
    seated in the tent of that same Major General Steward who has so
    nobly said, on innumerable appropriate occasions, that he was ready
    to fulfil his whole duty in defeating the Southern rebels; but
    could not help wishing, as a man, that the enemy were Englishmen
    rather than our own brothers. _Then_ he would show you!

    "'I want to take a look at your military shopkeepers,' observed Mr.
    R. Fennarf, with great brutality, 'and see how you Bull Runners
    make your sandbanks--fortifications, as you absurdly call them.
    You're "Brute Steward," I suppose.'

    "'Ha! ha!' laughed the able General, cheerily, 'that's what you
    English gents call me, I believe. We're going to have a battle,
    to-day, and you must stop and see it.'

    "'A battle!' growled R. Fennarf. 'What do you mean by that? I've
    got a permit from your vulgar blunderers at Washington to go
    through your so-called lines to Richmond, as that's the only place
    where one can find anything like gentlemen in this blawsted
    country. I intend to go to-day, too; so you must put off your
    so-called battle.'

    "He'll certainly kick me after that, thought R. Fennarf, beginning
    to feel quite hopeful.

    "'Put off the battle?' said the great commander, cordially. 'I'll
    do it with pleasure, sir.'

    "The Englishman stared at him in utter despair, and, for the last
    time, clasped his mystical rod, murmuring: 'Back to England, back
    to my own street. I give up all hope!'

    "No sooner said than done. In a second he was at the corner of his
    own street, and, with the rod in his hand, started upon a
    distracted run for his own lonely house. Not looking where he ran,
    he went helter-skelter against a fine, fleshy old English gentleman
    with a plum nose and a gouty great-toe, who had hobbled out for a
    mouthful of night-air. Bang against this fine, fleshy old English
    gentleman went he, and down came one of his heels on the gouty
    great-toe.

    "There was a tremendous roar, as from the great Bull of Bashan; the
    countenance of the fine, fleshy old English gentleman became livid,
    and, in the deep anguish of his soul, he saluted the disturber of
    his peace with a tremendous--KICK!

    "The black rod vanished in a moment from the hand of Mr. R.
    Fennarf, and his very soul jumped for joy.

    "'Merry Christmas!' he shouted, violently shaking the hand of the
    now bewildered old gentleman with the plum nose.

    "Then, on he darted toward his house. It was lighted up in every
    window. There was music in the house, too, and dancing. In he flew,
    with a delightful presentiment of what was going on. Sure enough,
    his daughter Alexandra had come home, with her husband the potboy,
    and a score of friends, and all hands were hard at a cotillon.

    "'Father, forgive us!' screamed Alexandra.

    "'Your pariental blessing,' suggested the potboy with much feeling.

    "'Support them for life,' murmured the friends.

    "'My children,' said Mr. R. Fennarf, rubbing his back, 'you must
    forgive _me_. Henceforth we live together, and celebrate every
    coming Christmas-eve by meeting all our friends again, as now. I am
    a new man from this time forth; for on this very night I have
    learned a great and useful lesson.'

    "Then all was jollity again, and the potboy, notwithstanding the
    shortness of his legs, danced like a veritable Christy minstrel.

    "Meantime, a certain retired hackney-coachman in the company, who
    had attentively noted the reconciliation of father and daughter,
    called the former into a corner of the room, and said very gravely
    to him:

    "'You said you had learned a lesson to-night?'

    "'Yes.'

    "'What is it?' asked the hackney-coachman.

    "'It is,' said Mr. R. Fennarf, with solemnity, 'that no man need go
    out of his own country to be kicked!'"

As Captain Bob Shorty finished reading, he looked about him for the
first time, and lo! all the Mackerel chieftains were slumbering, with
their chins upon their breasts.

And now, my boy, as the New Year rolls in, let me tender you the
compliments of the season, and sign myself,

Yours for festivity,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER CIV.

    EXPLAINING, IN A LUCID AND PERFECTLY SATISFACTORY MANNER, THE
    POWERFUL INACTIVITY OF THAT PORTION OF THE VENERATED MACKEREL
    BRIGADE RESIDING BEFORE THE ANCIENT CITY OF PARIS, AND PRESENTING
    CERTAIN GENIAL DETAILS OF A RECENT FESTIVE CONGLOMERATION.


WASHINGTON, D.C., March 6th, 1865.

Methinks, my boy, that I see you sagely assuming a pair of massive
ears, a pair of silver spectacles, and a blue cotton umbrella, for the
purpose of accurately personating the celebrated Public Sentiment, and,
in that gifted character, peremptorily requiring me to explain the
present use of the venerable Mackerel Brigade!

Mastering for a moment the noble rage of the unimperilled patriot at a
request so vulgarly practical, I sternly refer you to the latest able
articles in all our exciting and learned morning journals; wherein you
will be taught that such portion of the aged Mackerel organization as
has of late years invested Paris is in reality the gorgeous Pivot
around which revolve all the other brass buttons of ultimate national
triumph. And is not each editor of these excellent and sanguine morning
journals well qualified by his military genius to represent a General
Ism, oh?

But perhaps, my boy, you fail to find ocular demonstration in that
illumination. It is barely possible that you refuse to acknowledge
optical conviction in a lucidity of that description. It may be that
your cornea lacks ability to transmit a specific image in that
polarization of prismatics. It strikes me as not improbable that
you--can't see it in that light.

Then come with me to the Mackerel camp before Paris, and mark where the
antique Brigade is sitting-up with the expiring Confederacy. Observe
how each morning's sun is reflected from the gleaming spectacles of the
venerable military organization; while occasional rains make those same
innumerable glasses resemble fairy lakes with dead fish in them. Note
with what a respectable air of a reliable family physician each
patriarchal warrior exhumes, from somewhere down his leg, the massive
gold watch which he has been induced to buy for $10 of one of those
national benefactors in jewelry who advertise affectionately in our
more parental weekly journals of romance--and remarks, oracularly:

"It being exactly three o'clock by this here nineteen-carat repeater,
that air Confederacy has got just one hour less to live."

The fact, my boy, that this timely observation would apply with about
equal accuracy to the whole human family, need not deter your insidious
self from answering in the affirmative, when I ask you, calmly, if it
does not seem that a military organization of such intellect, _must_ be
engaged in some unspeakably profound scheme of victory, even though to
the uneducated eye it may present somewhat the aspect of a muddy old
gentleman with his head against a stone-wall?

And this business of showing the possible identity of apparent
dead-pause with actual velocity, reminds me of a chap I once knew in
the Sixth Ward. He was a cast-iron chap, my boy, whose most powerful
conception of enterprise in trade was vividly associated with the duty
of being forever in his shirt-sleeves; and he kept a hardware shop at
which the economical women of America could get such bargains in
flat-irons and door-plates, as were a temptation to marry none but the
most impoverished young men.

Many customers had this very practical hardware chap, and one of them
was an aged file in a broad-brimmed hat, blue spectacles, and a silk
umbrella, who had about him that air of Philadelphia which at once
suggests an equal admixture of chronic slumber and profundity. Being a
widower and a happy man, it was the daily custom of this aged file to
spend several hours of intellectual refreshment in the hardware shop,
smiling benignantly upon the ancient maidens who came thither to buy
curling-tongs, and enlivening the soul of the cast-iron chap with fine,
laborious treatises on the general idiocy of popular perception.

"I tell you, my child," this aged file would remark, polishing his
spectacles with a red silk handkerchief,--"I tell you, the popular
perception wants nicety; wants delicacy; wants capacity to distinguish
between the noisy, bustling style of operation by which it loves to be
deceived,--_Populus vult decipi_,--and the silent, almost imperceptible
agencies through which all really great results are accomplished."

Having heard this chaste sentiment repeated daily for about three
years, my boy, the very practical hardware chap began to find his
nature growing embittered, and resolved to do something desperate. So,
one morning, after listening quietly to the essay of the aged file, and
refusing to tell a small boot-blacking child of six years old the
lowest price for one of Jones's Patent steam-ploughs, this cast-iron
chap suddenly removed his hands from around an object on the counter,
which he had, apparently, been attempting to conceal, and revealed to
view a boy's lignum-vitae peg-top, which stood seemingly exactly
balanced on its steel tip.

"Who would think now," said he, reflectively, "that it could be turning
all the time?"

The aged file advanced his blue spectacles to the very verge of the
top, and says he:

"Well, now, it's wonderful, an't it? Any one would think, to look at
that simple toy, that it stood perfectly still; and yet its velocity of
movement must be prodigious. Go into yonder street," exclaimed the aged
file, dropping his umbrella in the excitement of the moment,--"go into
yonder street and bring in any man you please, and that man could swear
that this top is not spinning at all. And why? Simply because the
velocity of this top, being several millions of revolutions per minute,
is greater than his ignorant eye can comprehend. Upon my soul!"
ejaculated the aged file, bending once more to the top, with great
enthusiasm, "upon my soul! it's wonderful."

Over the counter came the hardware chap, with one bound, and says he:

"Why, you durned old fool, _the top an't moving at all_!"

And sure enough, the very practical cast-iron chap had just stuck the
top up with his hand, in order to bring the popular perception theory
of the aged file to grief.

Ordinary persons, my boy, observing the Mackerel Brigade any time these
three years, might think it was not moving at all; but we know its
General to be the Top of the heap, and we know that he is making
revolutions--in the whole art of war.

Let, then, the venerable and strategical Mackerel Brigade strike off
impressions of itself in the mud before Paris; while the conic section,
under Colonel Wobert Wobinson, walks calmly through the depths of
storied Accomac; while Captain Samyule Sa-mith and the Anatomical
Cavalry prosecute Confederate railroad researches, and Rear Admiral
Head's iron-plated squadron keeps watch and fishes for bass near the
captured Fort Piano, on Duck Lake. For the present, be mine the
pleasanter duty of imperfectly reporting that stately Ball at the
Patent Office, which clinched the re-inauguration of our Honest Abe,
and was attended by none of the old aristocracy of the capital, save
those who had received invitations.

The old aristocracy of the capital, my boy, having been accustomed only
to association with the ministers from combined Europe, and the
chivalry who had, now and then, a nice wife or daughter to sell, could
not be expected to countenance a plebeian carnival for which they had
not received invitations. They could not be expected so soon to forget
those elegant family entertainments of the olden time, when the
hospitable board, with its green covering, groaned under the weight of
gold and silver; when, instead of salads and pates in crockery
platters, the plates were of delicately enamelled pasteboard,
containing from one to ten diamonds each, or, perhaps, a king or queen
served up cold with mint sauce.

The Old Aristocracy! lineal descendants of the British cavaliers! I
should weep, my boy, over their possible extinction forever, were it
not that the assiduity of the London Prisoners' Aid Society, in sending
ticket-of-leave men to New York, promises to keep the species going.

Behold me, at the proper hour, suspended between the shoulders of three
or four fat citizens of America in the entrance-hall, and being thus
borne into the festive scene like a being too delicate to walk. This,
too, at the expense of only the linen "duster" which I had donned to
preserve my broadcloth from the dust in the dancing room, and which I
had the satisfaction of seeing distributed in ribbons around the necks
and bodies of a score of my neighbors, like so many charms to keep off
enchantments. The crowd, the management, and the number of guests with
umbrellas and top-boots, were all the subjects of ill-disguised sneers
among the old aristocracy of the capital who had not received
invitations.

And now I emerge into fountains of satin and mechlin cascades, with
numerous citizens of America up to their waists in the surf, and
looking about as comfortable as though bathing at Newport in full
dress. Yonder stands our Honest Abe, in sombre costume, like a funeral
procession standing on end to let something pass under it.

Leaning thoughtfully against the wall, my boy, I was gazing
meditatively upon this scene, and thinking how many of these fair
beings would be destroyed by railroad accidents on the way to their
homes in other cities--I was thinking of this, my boy, when I heard a
voice saying:

"How powerful is human instink! let a fire-bell ring, and at least half
of these manly beings would make a bust for the street to join their
native fire departmink. Let the hall-bell ring, and nearly all these
fair petticoats would involuntarily rush to 'tend the door. Such is
human instink."

Like one in a dream, I turned me where I stood and beheld the form of
Captain Villiam Brown, his left hand upon his hip and his right
caressing the neck of a small case-bottle in his bosom. I eyed him
pleasantly a moment, and, said I:

"Well met, my Union Blucher!"

"Ah!" says Villiam, pensively, "how powerful is Human Instink!"

"Explain, my Blue and Gold."

"Human Instink," says Villiam, softly, "is an involuntary tendency to
our normal condition."

"Ahem," said I, sagely, "that sounds like Seward."

"Come with me," says Villiam, gravely, "and I will show you the power
of Human Instink."

He led me quietly, my boy, to a corner of the great room, where the
guests were nearly all males, and suddenly roared out this
extraordinary question:

"Say, Johnny-y-y, how's yer do-o-org?"

The magical sound caught them unprepared, my boy, and before there was
time to remember where they were, they unanimously responded with:

"Bully!"

"Ah!" says Villiam, "that's Instink. They all were fellow-firemen last
year, and remember the language of the Departmink."

Deeply impressed with a sense of that subtle sympathy with early usages
which never leaves a man in life, I again let the hero of a hundred
battles lead the way to another corner, where fifty fair ones stood
apart in a cluster, waiting for their escorts. Then it was that Captain
Villiam Brown suddenly assumed an air of unspeakable abstraction, and
commenced humming the tune of the song:

    "Bridget, tend the airy bell,
      Don't you hear it tinkle?
    Butcher's brought the bacon home,--
      Cook it in a twinkle."

Without at all thinking or knowing why they were doing so, my boy,
two-thirds of those fair ones took up the tune at the first note and
hummed it through!

"The fair sect," says Villiam, cautiously, "once heard its mother sing
that song, as she had learned it in her native palace; and has the
Instink to remember it."

Thus, taking new and beautiful lessons in the ever-fresh volume of
animate nature, we sauntered into the ballroom, where our Honest Abe
and his lady were viewing the performances from a pair of handsome
elevated chairs. Ay, sir: handsome (!) chairs; and that, too, when many
an honest poor man in the land has not a single chair with a gilt back
to rest upon. Thus are we drifting toward (start not!)--yes sir and
madam, toward--Royalty!! Thus, too, are we incurring the highest scorn
of the old aristocracy of the capital who had not received invitations.

There was dancing of the ordinary sort in plenty; many solid men of
Boston of the oldest age going to the verge of apoplexy in their
efforts at double-shuffle; but how can description do justice to the
Honorable Gentleman from the Sixth Ward, who performed the celebrated
Conflagration Hornpipe!

First, the Honorable Gentleman threw his whole weight upon his left
leg, elevated one ear as though intently listening, and tapped
distinctly upon the floor with his right heel the number of the
district. Then came a confused scuffling, first upon one foot and then
upon the other, to represent the hurry and excitement of getting the
machine out of the house and whirling her to the scene of the
conflagration. The next figure, performed alternately upon the toe,
heel, and side of the shoe, was an imitation of the noble machine in
motion; the whole winding up with the Honorable Gentleman's seizing his
partner around the waist and plunging into a polka, symbolizing the
gallant fireman's rescue of a consuming female from a sixth-story
window.

This beautiful dance, my boy, was considered an unanswerable argument
in favor of a Volunteer Fire Department; but its finishing effect was
somewhat marred by a piercing note from the famous night-key bugle of
the Mackerel Brass Band: who, in an enfeebled state of mind, was found
wandering about the palace a trifle intoxicated, and received prompt
direction to the apartments of Detective Baker.

After witnessing, also, the noted walk-around known as the Revenue
Stamp, we joined the march for supper, and I sweetly expressed to
Captain Villiam Brown my fear of being crowded from the eatables.

"Oh!" says Villiam, catching his case-bottle just in time to save it
from sliding through his ruffles to the floor; "I shall work upon human
Instink."

Here, this ornament of our National Mackerel organization inserted an
elbow under the right ear of a fair being in blue just before us, and
says she:

"I don't admire to see you men treating ladies in that manner. The
ideor!"

"Ah, Mrs. Nubbins," says Villiam, pleasantly, "when your father, the
milkman, used to serve our house, I"--

"Here--you can pass, sir," said the fair being in blue; and Captain
Villiam Brown walked forward deliberately upon the trailing skirts of a
beauteous object in pink.

"You're tearing my things--creature!"

"Ah!" says Villiam, abstractedly, to me, "you don't remember stand
Number Twelve, Fulton Market, where Miss Poodlem's grandmother used
to"--

"There's plenty of room here, sir," observed the beauteous object in
pink, and Captain Villiam Brown accidentally brushed against a
beatitude in white.

"Plebeian!"

"My fren," says Villiam, as though he and I were entirely alone
together on a desert island, "when old Binks gave up the soap-boiling
business last fall, and came to"--

"Did you wish to pass, sir?" said the beatitude in white; and we soon
found ourselves beside the banquet board, where all went merry as a
fire-bell.

Then did we gorge ourselves, my boy, like the very First Families under
similar circumstances; revelling in such salads as were known to the
ancients just before the breaking out of the Asiatic cholera, and
paying general attention to a bill of fare which was heartily despised
by the old aristocracy of the capital who had received no invitations.

It was past midnight when we retreated to a double-bedded room at
Willard's, and as Captain Villiam Brown took his goblet of final soda,
he gracefully tipped my glass, and says he:

"I propose a sentimink."

Villiam raised the Falernian nectar aloft, gazed solemnly at me, and
says he:

"Human Instink!"

Let us believe, my boy, that the instincts of those who come to the
higher social surface in this, our trying time of war, are, by their
own purity from anything actually malignant, sure indications that the
nation's heart is good to the very bottom. Let us believe that the
pride of Ascent, vain-glorious as it may seem, is nobler in raising the
public laugh than is the tyrannical pride of Descent, which too often
forces the public tear. Let us believe that, in the course of time,
when the soft white hand of Peace shall have thrown a wreath of flowers
across the muzzles of our guns, these unaccustomed tradesmen-courtiers
who now throng the halls of our upright First Citizen and Friend will
prove the sound ancestral stock of a race of brave gentlemen and women
fair, to defend and adorn our Republican Court.

Yours, blithely,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER CV.

    BEING OUR CORRESPONDENT'S LAST EFFORT PRIOR TO THE COMMENCEMENT OF
    A NEW MACKEREL CAMPAIGN; INTRODUCING A METRICAL PICTURE OF THE MOST
    REMARKABLE SINGLE COMBAT ON RECORD; AND SHOWING HOW THE ROMANCE OF
    WOMAN'S SENSITIVE SOUL CAN BE CRUSHED BY THE THING CALLED MAN.


WASHINGTON, D.C., March 12th, 1865.

This sagacious business of writing national military history once a
week, my boy, has at times presented itself to my mind as a public
obligation nearly equal in steady mutual delight to the wholesome
occupation of organ-grinding. Mark the Italian nobleman who discourses
mercenary twangs beneath your window, and you shall find him a person
of severe and gloomy visage,--a figure with an expression of being
weighed down to the very earth by a something heavier than the mere
mahogany box of shrieks out of which he grinds popular misery by the
block. Not that he has a distaste for music, my boy; not that he was
the less enthusiastic at that past period "when music, heavenly maid,
was young" to him; but because the daily recurrence to his ears of
precisely the same sounds for ten years, has a horribly depressing
effect of unmitigated sameness; and music has become to him an ancient
maiden of exasperating pertinacity. It quite affects me, my boy, when I
see one of those melancholy sons of song carrying a regularly organized
monkey around with him; for it is evident he finds in such
companionship a certain relief from the anguish of monotony. Guided by
the example, I sometimes get a Brigadier to keep me company also, and
you can hardly imagine how often I am saved from gloom by the amusement
I experience in seeing his shrewd imitation of a real soldier.

But even this resource may fail; for there are periods when such
imitations are very bad indeed; and then the mind of the wearied
scribe, like that of my departed friend, the Arkansaw Nightingale, may
at any moment expire for want of food. Shall I ever forget the time, my
boy, when the Nightingale came to Washington, as President of the
Arkansaw Tract Society, for the express purpose of protesting against
the war, and procuring a fresh glass of the same he had last time?

"This war," says he, waiting for it to grow cooler, and thoughtfully
contemplating the reflection of himself in the bowl of a spoon,--"this
war, if it goes on, wont never shet pan till the hair's rubbed off the
hull country, and the 'Merican Eagle wont hev enough feathers in his
tail to oil a watch-spring. Tell you! stranger, it'll be wuss than
Tuscaloosa Sam's last tackle; and that wasn't slow."

"What was that?" says I.

"What!" says the Nightingale, stirring in a little sugar, "did you
never hearn tell of Tuscaloosa's last? Then here's the screed done into
music under my pen and seal; and as it an't quite as long's the hundred
nineteenth psalm, you don't want a chair to hear it."

Whereupon the Arkansaw Nightingale whipt from some obscure rear pocket
a remarkable handful of written paper, and proceeded to excite me with

    "A GREAT FIT.

    "There was a man in Arkansaw
      As let his passions rise,
    And not unfrequently picked out
      Some other varmint's eyes.

    "His name was Tuscaloosa Sam,
      And often he would say,
    'There's not a cuss in Arkansaw
      I can't whip any day.'

    "One morn, a stranger passin' by,
      Heard Sammy talkin' so,
    When down he scrambled from his hoss,
      And off his coat did go.

    "He sorter kinder shut one eye,
      And spit into his hand,
    And put his ugly head one side,
      And twitched his trowsers' band.

    "'My boy,' says he, 'it's my belief,
      Whomever you may be,
    That I kin make you screech, and smell
      Pertikler agony.'

    "'I'm thar,' says Tuscaloosa Sam,
      And chucked his hat away;
    'I'm thar,' says he, and buttoned up
      As far as buttons may.

    "He thundered on the stranger's mug,
      The stranger pounded he;
    And oh! the way them critters fit
      Was beautiful to see.

    "They clinched like two rampageous bears,
      And then went down a bit;
    They swore a stream of six-inch oaths
      And fit, and fit, and fit.

    "When Sam would try to work away,
      And on his pegs to git,
    The stranger'd pull him back; and so,
      They fit, and fit, and fit!

    "Then like a pair of lobsters, both
      Upon the ground were knit,
    And yet the varmints used their teeth,
      And fit, and fit, and fit!!

    "The sun of noon was high above,
      And hot enough to split,
    But only riled the fellers more,
      That fit, and fit, and fit!!!

    "The stranger snapped at Sammy's nose,
      And shortened it a bit;
    And then they both swore awful hard,
      And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!

    "The mud it flew, the sky grew dark,
      And all the litenins lit;
    But still them critters rolled about,
      And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!

    "First Sam on top, then t'other chap;
      When one would make a hit,
    The other'd smell the grass; and so,
      They fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!

    "The night came on, the stars shone out
      As bright as wimmen's wit;
    And still them fellers swore and gouged,
      And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!

    "The neighbors heard the noise they made,
      And thought an earthquake lit;
    Yet all the while 'twas him and Sam
      As fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!!

    "For miles around the noise was heard;
      Folks couldn't sleep a bit,
    Because them two rantankerous chaps
      Still fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!!!

    "But jist at cock-crow, suddently,
      There came an awful pause,
    And I and my old man run out
      To ascertain the cause.

    "The sun was rising in the yeast,
      And lit the hull concern;
    But not a sign of either chap
      Was found at any turn.

    "Yet, in the region where they fit,
      We found, to our surprise,
    One pint of buttons, two big knives,
      Some whiskers, and four eyes!"

There's dramatic genius for you, my boy, and you will join me in
raining a pint or so of tears in memory of one who perished because his
mind had nothing to feed upon, and who left his bottle very empty.

Deferring for the present all account of the Mackerel strategy now
coming slowly to a head and on foot, let me relate a little incident
illustrative of the delicious loyalty of the taper women of America,
and the intolerable baseness of the repulsive object called man:

There is in this city an intensely common-place masculine from Pequog,
who has, for a wife, a small, plump member of that imperishable sex
whose eyes remind me of wild cherries and milk. There never was a nicer
little woman, my boy, and she can knit scarlet dogs, play "Norma," make
charlotte russe, and do other things equally well calculated to confer
immeasurable happiness upon a husband of limited means. Ever since the
well-known Southern Confederacy first respectfully requested to be let
alone with Sumter, she has been eager to fulfil woman's part in the
war, and does not wake up the Pequogian more than twice of a night to
talk about it.

'Twas at one o'clock on the morning of Tuesday last that she roused up
the partner of her joys and sorrows, and says she:

"Peter, I do wish you'd tell me what I can do, as a woman, for my
country."

"Go to sleep," says Peter, fiendishly.

"No, but what _can_ I do? Why wont you tell me what is really woman's
part in the war?"

"Now, see here," says Peter, sternly. "I'm having so many nights, with
the nap all worn off, over this business, that I can't stand it any
longer. Just wait till tomorrow evening, and I'll think over the matter
and tell you what really _is_ woman's part in the war."

So they both went to sleep, my boy, and all next day that little woman
wondered, as she hummed pleasantly over her work, whether her lord
would advise her to go out as a Florence Nightingale, or turn teacher
of intelligent contrabands.

Night came, and the Pequogian returned from his grocery store, and
silently took a seat before the fire in the dining-room. The little
woman looked up at him from the ottoman on which she was cosily
sitting, and says she:

"Well, dear?"

Slowly and solemnly did that Pequog husband draw off one boot.
Deliberately did he take off a stocking and hold it aloft.

"Martha Jane!" says he, gravely, "'tis a sock your eyes behold, and
there is a hole in the heel thereof. You are a wife; duty calls you to
mend your husband's stockings; and _this_--THIS--is Woman's Part in the
Wore!"

Let us draw a veil, my boy, over the heart-rending scene that followed;
only hinting that hartshorn and burnt feathers are believed to be
useful on such occasions, and produce an odor at once wholesome and
exasperating.

Yours, sympathetically,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER CVI.

    WHEREIN WILL BE FOUND CERTAIN PROFOUND REMARKS UPON THE VARIATIONS
    OF GOLD, ETC., AND A WHOLESOME LITTLE TALE ILLUSTRATIVE OF THAT
    FAMOUS POPULAR ABSTRACTION, THE SOUTHERN TREASURY NOTE.


WASHINGTON, D.C., March 22, 1865.

The venerable Aaron, my boy, was the first gold speculator mentioned in
history, and it exhausted all the statesmanship of Moses to break up
the unseemly speculation, and bring Hebrew dry goods and provisions
down to decent prices. Were Aaron alive now, how he would mourn to find
his auriferous calf going down at the rate of ten per cent. a day,
while the Moses of the White House reduced that animal more and more to
the standard of very common mutton!

Alas, my boy, what madness is this which causes men to forget honor,
country, ay, even dinner itself, for ungrateful gold! Like all writers
whose object is the moral improvement of their kind, I have a wholesome
contempt of gold. What is it? A vulgar-looking yellow metal, with a
disagreeable smell. It is filthy lucre. It is dross. It is also 156.

Not many months ago I knew a high-toned chap of much neck and chin, who
made five hundred thousand dollars by supplying our national troops
with canned peaches, and was so inflated with his good luck in the
cholera-morbus line, that he actually began to think that his canned
peaches had something to do with the successes in the field of our
excellent military organization. Being thus elevated, this
finely-imaginative chap believed that his services deserved the mission
to France; and, as that was refused him, it was but natural for him to
become at once a Southern Confederacy in sentiment, and pronounce our
Honest Abe a tyrant of defective education.

Just before the last election, I met him at the Baltimore railroad
depot, and says he: "I have just invested a cool five hundred thousand
in gold. It is positively sure," says he, glibly, "it is positively
sure that the reelection of our present despot will send gold straight
up to five hundred. I tell you," says he, in a wild ecstasy, "it'll
ruin the country, and I shall clear a half million."

He was a Jerseyman of fine feelings, and took a little hard cider for
his often infirmity.

Yesterday I saw that man again, my boy, and I gave him a five-cent note
in consideration of his great ability in sweeping a street-crossing. He
deserted his canned peaches, and was cr-r-rushed.

But what is this manuscript upon my table, as I write? It is a
veracious and wholesome little tale of

    "THE SOUTH.--BY A NORTHER.

    "'Twas night, deep night, in the beautiful city of Richmond; and
    the chivalrous Mr. Faro was slowly wending his way through Broad
    street to the bosom of his Confederate family, when, suddenly, he
    was confronted by a venerable figure in rags, soliciting alms.

    "'Out of my path, wretch!' ejaculated the haughty Virginian,
    impatiently; and, tossing two thousand dollars ($2000) to the
    unfortunate mendicant, he attempted to pass on.

    "The starving beggar was about to give way, and had drawn near the
    barrel which he carried on a wheelbarrow, for the purpose of adding
    to its contents the pittance just received, when the small amount
    of the latter seemed to attract his attention for the first time,
    and again he threw himself in the way of the miserly aristocrat.

    "'Moses Faro,' he muttered, in tones of profound agitation, 'you
    have your sheds full ($000000000) of Southern Bonds, while one poor
    barrel full ($000) must supply me for a whole day; yet would I not
    exchange places with a man capable of insulting honest poverty as
    you have done this night.'

    "The proud Virginian felt the rebuke keenly; and as he stood,
    momentarily silent, in the presence of the hapless victim of
    penury, he could not help remembering that he had, on that very
    morning, willingly given his youngest son five thousand dollars
    ($5000) to purchase a kite and some marbles. Greatly stricken in
    conscience, and heartily ashamed of his recent meanness, he turned
    to the suppliant, and said, kindly:

    "'Give me your address, and to-morrow morning I will send you a
    cart full ($000) of means. I would give you more now, but I have
    only sixty thousand dollars ($60,000) about me, with which to pay
    for the pair of boots I now have on.'

    "'Moses Faro,' responded the deeply-affected pauper, 'your noble
    charity will enable me to pay the nine thousand dollars ($9000) I
    owe for a week's board; and now let me ask, how goes our sacred
    cause?'

    "'Never brighter,' answered the wealthy Confederate, with
    enthusiasm. 'We have succeeded to-day in forcing five more cities
    through the Yankee lines, and are dragging three whole Hessian
    armies to this city.'

    "'Then welcome poverty for a while longer,' cried the beggar,
    pathetically; and so great was his exuberance of spirit at the
    news, that he resolved to spend five hundred dollars ($500) for a
    cigar in honor thereof.

    "Mr. Faro walked thoughtfully on toward his residence, pondering
    earnestly the words he had listened to, and astonished to find how
    easily a rich man could give happiness to a poor one. After all,
    thought he, there is more contentment in poverty than in riches.
    Show me the rich man who can boast the sturdy lightness of heart
    inspiring that hackneyed rhyme, the

        "'CAROL OF THE CONFEDERATE BEGGAR.

        "'Though but fifty thousand dollars
          Be the sum of all I own,
        Yet I'm merry with my begging,
          And I'm happy with my bone;
        Nor with any brother beggar
          Does my heart refuse to share,
        Though a thousand dollars only
          Be the most I have to spare.

        "'I am shabby in my seven
          Hundred dollar hat of straw,
        And my dinner's but eleven
          Hundred dollars in the raw;
        Yet I hold my head the higher,
          That it owes the hatter least,
        And my scanty crumbs are sweeter
          Than the viands of a feast'.

    "Humming to himself this simple lay of contented want, Mr. Faro
    reached his own residence, gave eighty dollars ($80) to a little
    boy on the sidewalk for blacking his boots, and entered the portals
    of the hospitable mansion. His wife met him in the hall, and, as
    they walked together into the parlor, he noticed that her
    expression was serious.

    "'Have you heard the latest news, Moses?' she asked.

    "'No,' returned the haughty Southerner.

    "'Well,' said the lady, 'just before you came in, I gave <DW71> a
    hundred and twelve dollars ($112) to get an evening paper, which
    says that the Confederate Government is about to seize all the
    money in the country, to pay the soldiers.'

    "A gorgeous smile lit up the features of the chivalric Virginian,
    and he said:

    "'Let them take both my shedsfull ($00000000); let them take it
    all! Sooner than submit, or consent to be Reconstructed, I would
    give my very life even, for the sake of the Confederacy!'

    Mrs. Faro still looked serious.

    "'Moses,' she said, with quivering lips, 'have you not got, hidden
    away somewhere, _a twenty-shilling gold-piece_ ($2,500,000)?'

    "Ghastly pale turned the proud Confederate, and he could barely
    stammer,--

    "'Ye-ye-yes.'

    "'Well,' murmured the matron, 'it's the gold they intend to take, I
    reckon.'

    "That was enough. Frantically tore Mr. Faro into the street;
    desperately raced he to the city limits; madly flew he past the
    pickets and sentinels; swiftly scoured he down the Boynton Plank
    Road. A Yankee bayonet was at his bosom.

    "'Reconstruction!' shouted he.

    "They took him before the nearest post-commandant, and he only
    said,--

    "'Let me be Reconstructed.'"

Need the reader be informed that he is now in New York, looking for a
house, and in great need of some financial aid to help him pay the rent
of such a residence as he has always been accustomed to and cannot live
without? Yes, far from home, family, and friends, he is now one of
those long-suffering, self-sacrificing Union refugees from the South,
whom it is a pleasure to assist, and whose manly opposition to the
military despotism of the Confederacy commends them to our utmost
liberality. He will accept donations in money, and this fact should be
sufficient to make all loyal men eager to extend such pecuniary
encouragement as may suffice to keep him above any necessity for
exertion until the presidency of some Bank can be procured for him by
the Christian Commission.

I may add, my boy, that any monetary contribution intended for this
excellent man, may be directed to

Yours, patronizingly,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER CVII.

    RECORDING THE LATEST DELPHIC UTTERANCES OF ONE WHOM WE ALL HONOR
    WITHOUT KNOWING WHY; AND RECOUNTING THE TRULY MARVELLOUS AFFAIR OF
    THE FORT BUILT ACCORDING TO TACITUS.


WASHINGTON, D.C., March 29th, 1865.

It is a beautiful trait of our common American nature, my boy, that we
should be stood-upon by fleshy Old Age, and find ourselves reduced to
the mental condition of mangled infants thereby. It is an airy
characteristic of our gentle national temperament, to let
shirt-collared Old Age, of much alpaca pants, sit down on us and cough
into our ears. It is a part of our social organization as a reverential
people to be forever weighed-down in our spirits by the awful
respectability of double-chinned Old Age, and the solemn satisfaction
it displays at its elephantine meals.

Hence, my boy, when I tell you that the Venerable Gammon beamed hither
from his residential Mugville last Saturday, with a view to benefiting
that wayward infant, his country, you will be prepared to learn that
the populace fell upon their unworthy stomachs before him, and
respectfully begged him to walk over their necks.

"My children," said the Venerable Gammon, with a fleshy smile,
signifying that he had made them all, and yet didn't wish to seem
proud,--"My children, this war is progressing just as I originally
planned it, and will end successfully as soon as it terminates
triumphantly. Behold my old friend, Phoebus," says the Venerable
Gammon, pointing an adipose forefinger at the sun, with a patriarchal
air of having benignantly invented that luminary, though benevolently
permitting Providence to have all the credit, "it is not more certain
that my warm-hearted friend Phoebus will rise in the yeast to-morrow
morning than that the Southern Confederacy will not be capable of
fighting a single additional battle after it shall have lost the
ability to take part in another engagement."

Then the entire populace requested immediate leave to black the boots
of their aged benefactor and idol, and seven-and-thirty indefatigable
reporters, with pencils behind their ears, telegraphed to
seven-and-thirty powerful morning journals, that the end of the
rebellion might be looked for in about a couple of hours.

I don't mind revealing to you, as a curious fact, my boy, that no
mortal man is able to understand how the Venerable Gammon has done
anything at all in this war. In fact, I can't exactly perceive what
earthly deed he has actually performed to make him preferable to George
Washington; but it is generally inferred, from the size of his
watch-seals and the lambency of his spectacles, that he has in some way
been more than a parent to the country; and the thousands now buying
some beneficent Petroleum stock, which he has to sell, are firmly
convinced that its sale is positively calculated to forever benefit the
human race.

Oh! that I were Ovid, or Anacreon, to describe fittingly the recent
little wedding entertainment, at which this excellently-aged teacher
and preserver of his species was fatly present, diffusing permission
for all mankind to be happy and not mind him. After beaming parentally
upon the officiating Mackerel chaplain, with a benignity inseparable
from the idea that all clergymen were the work of his hands, he took
the dimpled chin of the bride between his thumb add forefinger, and
says he:

"My children, I am an old, old man; but may ye be happy." Here he
kissed the bride. "Yes, my children," says the venerable Gammon, with a
blessing on the world in every tone of his buttery voice, "I am far
down in the vale of years; but may ye be very happy." And he kissed the
bride. "Still, my children," says the Venerable Gammon, with steaming
spectacles, "I would be willing to be even older, if my country desired
it; but may ye be forever happy." So he kissed the bride. "Oh!" says
the Venerable Gammon, abstractedly placing a benefactor's arm around
her waist, and looking benevolently about the room as though consenting
to its possession of four walls,--"Oh!" says he, "it is a privilege to
be old for such a cause as this; but may ye be supremely happy." At
this juncture he kissed the bride. "I am old enough," says the
venerable Gammon, "to be your brother." And he kissed every young woman
there.

Whereupon it was the general impression that an apostle was present;
and when the bridegroom subsequently hinted, in a disagreeable whisper,
that two bottles of port were enough to confuse the mind of a
Methuselah himself, there was a wonderful unanimity among the ladies as
to the probable misery of the bride's future life.

But wherefore, O, Eros, dost thou detain me in such scenes as these,
while the hoarse trumpet of bully Mars calls me to the field of
strategic glory? Hire an imaginary horse, my boy, at a fabulous
livery-stable, and, in fancy, trot beside me as I urge my architectural
steed, the Gothic Pegasus, toward the Mackerel lines in front of Paris.

Believing that you are entirely familiar with the very fat works of C.
Tacitus, and minutely remember Book II. of his Annals, let me draw your
attention to that fort Aliso which he describes as being built upon the
River Luppia by Drusus, father of Germanicus, and constituting the
commencement of a chain of posts to the Rhine. Just such a work has
been erected on the shores of Duck Lake by Mackerel genius, as the key
to a long line of remarkable mud-works. It is modelled after Aliso,
chiefly because that work was notorious for being near the Canal of
Drusus; and the whole world knows that canal-digging is inseparable
from all our national strategy.

Fort Bledandide is the name of the Mackerel institution destined to
receive immortality in Mr. Tacitus Greeley's exciting History of this
distracting war; but to me belongs the earlier privilege of enabling a
moral weekly journal to confuse its readers with the first reliable
report of the marvellous battle of Fort Bledandide.

It was at quite an early hour, my boy, on the morning of my arrival
before Paris, that a faint sound, as of gentlemen firing guns, was
heard to proceed from a point some six feet outside Fort Bledandide.
Nobody was up at the time, save a few venerable Mackerels, who, in
daily expectation of some carnage, had selected that hour at which to
write their wills; and it was left for these antique beings to be the
first of our troops disturbed by a shameless Confederacy who lifted his
head slowly above our works, and deliberately aimed a deadly
horse-pistol at Jacob Barker, the regimental dog. Hideous was the
explosion ensuing, as the night-key with which the dread weapon was
loaded went hurtling through the air some ten yards above its mark; and
an aged Mackerel looked up from his penmanship.

"What!" says he, with some animation, "are my spectacles guilty of a
falsehood, or have I indeed the pleasure of seeing Mr. Davis?"

The Confederacy reloaded his horse-pistol with a handful of
carpet-tacks, and says he:

"I am that individdle."

Raising a bell that stood by his side, the venerable Mackerel rang a
hasty peal, which had the effect to arouse two or three of the other
scribes from their writing, and cause them to apply ear-trumpets to
their ears. Simultaneously the first warrior roared, through a
fire-trumpet:

"Comrades! We are surprised."

At the same instant the Confederacy burst into a tempest of unseemly
chuckles, and fired his carpet-tacks into the soft hat of the nearest
Mackerel, causing that hoary veteran to drop his will and scratch his
head with an air of hopeless bewilderment.

"Have you any tea that you could give me?" says the Confederacy,
scrambling into the Fort,--"any Hyson senior or junior? Have you any
coffee? Oh, _do_ give me some coffee." Here the Confederacy winked
profoundly, to indicate that his request was intended merely as a bit
of surprising humor. Meantime, six other Confederacies with
horse-pistols had walked in to look for breakfast, and the facetious
business of relieving the slowly-awakened garrison of their
loud-ticking and rather cheap gold watches was performed with neatness
and dispatch. After which the aged Mackerels were dismissed to join the
main body of the ancient Brigade some ten yards to the rear of the
work, with the remark, that their vandal rulers would find it somewhat
difficult to reconstruct the sunny South.

Thus, my boy, was accomplished another of those surprises which not
unfrequently give the most villanous cause an appearance of temporary
success; though at times they prove real blessings to the good cause by
including the capture of three or four brass-buttoned brigadiers.

But, pause, my feeble pen, ere thou venturest upon the hopeless task of
putting into language the holy rage of the General of the Mackerel
Brigade, when he learned the capture of Fort Bledandide. Pause,
miserable quill, ere thou plungest into an insane effort to picture the
awful state of vengeance exciting Captain Villiam Brown on the same
occasion. As is his invariable custom at such junctures, the General at
once retired to his tent to practise on the accordion, leaving Villiam
to form a few regiments of the Mackerel reserve in line of battle for
the recapture of the position.

"Ah!" says Villiam, spiritedly, "here's a chance for a baynit charge
after the manner of Napoleon's Old Guard; and I hereby notify Regiment
5, that the eyes of the whole world are upon them."

Captain Bob Shorty and I had got ready our bits of smoked glass, to
preserve our eyes from the too-great glitter of the dazzling
achievement about to come off, when we noticed that Villiam motioned
with his famous sword, Escalibar, for the spectacled warriors to pause
a moment.

"If any of you martial beings happen to have any small change about you
at this exciting moment," says Villiam, paternally, "I will take charge
of it, for safety."

This noble proposition, my boy, might have been accepted unanimously,
had not the discharge, at that instant, of a horse-pistol from the
ramparts of Fort Bledandide caused the entire regiment to partially
disappear! That is to say, every man went down upon his stomach,
according to the latest principles of regimental strategy.

"Ah!" says Villiam, "how are the mighty fallen!"

Loudly rang a tremendous horse-laugh from the Confederacies in the
Fort, several of whom were seen making off toward Paris with Orange
County howitzers under each arm. I could see, by the aid of my smoked
glass, that the Chivalry on the ramparts was sitting on a chest, with
his discharged horse-pistol across his knee, and a series of feeble
winks chasing each other around his Confederate eyelids.

"By all that's Federal!" says Captain Bob Shorty, "the scorpion
surrenders!"

At the word, up sprang Regiment 5, like the men of Roderick Dhu, and
straightforward they swept into Fort Bledandide, as a wave of the angry
sea will sometimes sweep into a doomed barrel on the beach. Such was
the shock of this dare-devil charge, that the winking Confederacy on
the ramparts incontinently rolled off his chest and was captured
without much carnage.

"Do you surrender to the United States of America?" says Villiam, with
much star-spangled banner in his manner.

The Confederacy raised himself up on an elbow and hiccup'd gloomily.

"By all that's Federal!" says Captain Bob Shorty, "he's been drinking
some of that air Commissary whiskey of ours."

Then, my boy, did Captain Villiam Brown evidence that exquisite quality
of our humanity, which bids us forget all wrongs and enmities at the
eloquent appeal of death. No sooner had Captain Bob Shorty made the
above remark, than his whole aspect changed to pity, and he feelingly
knelt beside the miserable captive.

"Have you any last request to make, poor inseck?" asked Villiam, much
affected.

The misguided Confederacy was speechless; but made an attempt to
scratch his breast.

"Ah!" says Villiam, with deep emotion, "you mean that your conscience
is a still small woice."

Here the Confederacy scratched his left leg feebly; and says Captain
Bob Shorty:

"According to your rule, Villiam, his conscience must be quite large,
extending to his legs."

Nervously arose Captain Villiam Brown to his feet, with such a shudder
running through his manly frame as caused every brass button to jingle.

"I think," says Villiam, with a ghastly smile, "that some of his
conscience is a-walking softly down my backbone, with a hop now and
then."

Alas! my boy, we all have consciences, save green grocers and
fashionable bootmakers; and who among us but has felt his conscience to
be at times almost totally disregarded, until it has finally brought
him to the scratch by turning to flee?

Scarcely was Fort Bledandide recovered by the valor of our arms when
the General of the Mackerel Brigade let fly the following

    "GENERAL ORDER.

    "The General Commanding announces to the Mackerels that the
    Southern Confederacy has taken place. Also, that the unconquerable
    Mackerel Brigade has taken place back again.

    "Yesterday morning the Confederacy massed himself and succeeded,
    through the unabated slumbers of the persons hired to sit up with
    him, in obtaining Fort Bledandide.

    "Prompt measures were taken by Captain Villiam Brown, Eskevire;
    and, although an entire regiment fell in the assault, the work was
    retaken.

    "Two lessons can be learned from these operations: First, that the
    notorious Southern Confederacy is now reduced to a mere shell; and,
    secondly, that said shell has a very short fuse.

    "THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.

    ("GREEN SEAL.")

I was still reading this pointed document, when there arrived, from
Paris, a Confederate being, in carpet slippers and white cotton gloves,
whose name was Lamb, and who bore peace-propositions.

"I have come," says he, affably, "to say, that the army of the North
can now be admitted into the army of the Confederacy for a conjoint
attack on combined Europe, after which the sunny South will forgive all
her creditors, and see what can be done for the Northern masses."

Let this frank speech prove, my boy, what all our excellent
democratic[6] morning journals of limited circulation have so long
maintained,--that it rests entirely with the President to secure an
immediate cessation of hostilities with the Southerners, by forgetting
all the wrongs of the past, while they are for getting all the rights
of the future.

Yours, pacifically,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

      [6] This letter was originally addressed to the editor of an
      excellent little democratic weekly journal, who went carefully
      over it and substituted the word "patriotic" for "democratic,"
      whenever the latter occurred:--thereby achieving the most
      perfect and astounding perversion of meaning on record!




LETTER CVIII.

    NARRATING THE UTTERLY UNPARALLELED CONQUEST OF PARIS BY THE
    VENERABLE MACKEREL BRIGADE, AFTER THREE DAYS' INCONCEIVABLE
    STRATEGY; IN FACT, A BATTLE-REPORT AFTER THE MANNER OF ALL OUR
    EXCITED MORNING JOURNALS; UPON PERUSING WHICH, EACH READER IS
    EXPECTED TO WRAP HIMSELF UP IN THE AMERICAN FLAG AND SHAKE HIS FIST
    AT COMBINED EUROPE.


WASHINGTON, D.C., April 4th, 1865.

To loud huzzas our flag ascends, as climbs a flame the dizzy mast,
while all its burning glory bends from where the planets seal it fast;
and, pliant to the chainless winds, a blazing sheet, a lurid scroll,
the Compact of the Stars it binds in fire that warms a nation's soul!

All of which, my boy, is the poetry of that banner whose union of a
starry section of evening with the hues of dawn and sunset makes it a
very good marriage-certificate of the wedding of old Mr. Day and the
Widow Night. (Let us hope that Mr. Day will never be without a sun.)

And do you ask me wherefore I thus burst into red-hot song?--wherefore
I inflict further verses upon a flag already washed almost to pieces in
a freshet of poet's tears?--wherefore I jingle rhymes of Bostonian
severity at the commencement of an epistle whose readers may not all be
Emersons?

Know, then, my boy, that the chant is to celebrate the conquest of the
ancient City of Paris, which, for many years past, has actually waxed
prosperous against Mackerel strategy, but now rests a prize beneath
that glorious bunting which we all like to see our poor relations die
for: beneath that ensign of freedom for which every man of us would
willingly sacrifice his life, did he not feel that his first great duty
was to his helpless family, who like to have him stay at home and take
them to the opera.

O my country!--sublime in thy wounds, chivalrous in thy triumph, more
than royal in the kingless magnificence of thine undaunted
power;--forget not the patriots who have stayed at home on account of
their families; for surely such a disinterested and general
demonstration of domestic virtue seems to indicate that our police
force is uselessly large.

Let me not, however, waste time in national boasting, while the
crowning result of consummate Mackerel strategy demands of me that
narrating exercise of the pen without which even brigadiers might fail
to receive public credit for deeds after the manner of Napoleon.

Retrace, my boy, to the happy days of your youth, and you may remember
that I once described the ancient city of Paris as a house founded upon
a bar-room and surrounded by warlike settlements of Confederacies. Here
were collected all the lemons, glassware, sugar, spoons, and cloves of
the sunny South; and--though all else were lost--while these remained
to them, the Confederacies were still unbroken in spirits and only
spoke of Columbia to observe: "She may attack our chivalrous banner of
Stars and Bars, and capture all the stars if she pleases; but while our
Bars remain, we shall still be able to liquor." Therefore it is, that
the aged and aristocratic city of Paris has stubbornly brought to grief
so many of our admirable brass-buttoned generals, several of whom are
now enjoying that unblemished obscurity which ungrateful republics are
apt to bestow upon unappreciated greatness.

On the day succeeding the sanguinary affair of Fort Bledandide, my boy,
while notes of busy preparation were rising from all parts of the
Mackerel camp, one of our pickets was awakened by the sound of many
equestrians riding over his body, and immediately put on his spectacles
to discern whether they were friends or foes. The inspection lasted
until one skeleton charger had stepped upon his canteen; whereupon the
Mackerel picket discovered that the new-comers were the Anatomical
cavalry, under Captain Samyule Sa-mith, just returned from operations
in Confederate railway stock, which they had raised so far above par as
to give it a very decided mar.

Proudly rode Samyule at the head of his triumphant bone-works, and the
jingle of their spurs and sabres was like unto the collision of many
tin pans. Gayly rode they to headquarters, and, says Samyule, "Sire, we
have interrupted the railway travel of the Southern Confederacy for the
season; and obliterated the tracks of treason, that it may no longer
rail against us. Further depot-nent saith not."

The General of the Mackerel Brigade laid aside his accordion, and says
he:

"My sons, I would that every earthly foe to our distracted banner could
at this moment be placed on board a railway train in any part of this
country. Because, says the General, thoughtfully, "a ride on an
American railway train of cars is foreordained car-nage."

After this speech, my boy, it was generally allowed that the Mackerel
commander was even with Samyule; and as the Anatomical Cavalry swept
off to the left to flank the unseemly Confederacies defending Paris,
the main body of the venerable brigade, under Captain Villiam Brown and
Captain Bob Shorty, commenced strategical designs on that city.

Thus early in the engagement a bloodthirsty Confederacy had succeeded
in training a fowling-piece from behind a chimney on the roof of Paris,
greatly worrying our troops with dried beans, and the Orange County
Howitzers were already concentrated upon him with a view to cutting off
his legs; when there suddenly appeared within our lines a maiden,
stricken in years, with a white plush bonnet, a green silk umbrella,
and the ninety-ninth number of the History of this War under one arm.
She waved a hand toward the Mackerels nearest her, and says she:

"On, to Paris! On, to Paris! or a decimated and indignant country,
acting on the predictions in the ninety-ninth number of the most
accurate History of the War now sold to subscribers only, will
indignantly demand that EVERYBODY be at once removed!"

Here the General of the Mackerel Brigade made his appearance from the
rear, and says he:

"What do you desire, Miss P. Hen?"

"On, to Paris!" shrieked the maiden. "On, to the capital of the
brutalized dealers in human flesh and blood, and drag them to the
scaffold!" Here Miss P. Hen drew a long breath, and says she, "Let's
have no vacillating."

"All right, Mamsell," says the General.

"And the country'd have more confidence in _you_," says Miss P. Hen,
vigorously, "if you'd stop chewing that nasty tobacco, which is only
fit for brutes and dealers in human flesh and blood. On, to Paris!
or"--

At this juncture, my boy, the aged Miriam caught sight of the
Conservative Kentucky Chap, haranguing against her down the Accomac
road, and toddled furiously away to chastise him with her umbrella.

Meanwhile, the Orange County Howitzers had sent some pounds of shrapnel
in the direction of the hostile Confederacy on the roof; and as the
bricks began to fly from the chimney, and the dried beans came at
longer intervals, Regiment 5 of the Mackerel Brigade moved nearer to
the beleaguered capital, and opened an effective fire of musketry upon
the azure zenith. Captain Villiam Brown was about to order an assault,
when certain windows in the upper stories of Paris were thrown up, and
there rained therefrom such a hurtling tempest of stew-pans,
hearth-brushes, shaving-cups, and boxes of blacking, that hundreds of
Mackerel spectacles were broken. Simultaneously the sanguinary
Confederacy on the roof put a double charge of dried beans through the
coat-tails of Captain Bob Shorty, and our troops--"the object of the
reconnoissance being fully accomplished"--withdrew in good order to
their former position.

Quickly, thereupon, appeared a canvas banner from the garret windows of
Paris, inscribed: "Chalk up the First Round for the Southern
Confederacy!" and the first day's fight was over.

All that night, my boy, did the venerable Mackerel Brigade lay upon
their arms, finding all their hands asleep, in consequence, when
morning broke; and as often as a venturesome Confederacy skulked near
Fort Bledandide to steal a cannon, just so often did one Mackerel
picket nudge another Mackerel picket and ask him if he didn't think he
heard something.

At last there came a gradual hush over everything, as though the whole
world were an antechamber to a room in which rested some dear sick
child. Then the sharp edges of this terrestrial bowl in which we hang
over the sun at night began to define themselves all around, as though
an early candle had just been brought underneath to light the fire. And
at last a slowly-deepening lurid glow appeared around the sides of the
bowl, as though the fire was just getting a start. It was morning.

Fearful that if I go on in that strain any longer, some sentimental
Philadelphian may carry me off by main force to write for the "Lady's
Book," let me call your notice to the extreme left of the Mackerel
line, where Captain Samyule Sa-mith and the Anatomical Cavalry,
supported by Sergeant O'Pake and Regiment 3, were formed in line of
battle, facing certain rickety Confederacies under Captain Munchausen.

"Comrades," says Samyule, vainly attempting to keep the hind-legs of
his anatomical steed from trying to surround the two
fore-legs--"comrades, one blow, and Syracuse is free! For-r-ward!"

But what is this, starting up, as from the ground, right in the path of
what else had been the most exorbitant cavalry charge on record? It is
the aged Miss P. Hen, with her white plush bonnet much mashed from a
recent severe single combat with the Conservative Kentucky Chap, and
the ninety-ninth number of the History of the War still unsold. She ate
a Graham biscuit, and says she:

"Just once--I only want to say just once, that everybody is a-howling
at me like wolves, and abusing me, because I said 'On to Paris.' So I
want to say, just once, that I never, never will say one word about the
war again, no matter how much you want me to. Now there's no use of
your asking me, because I never, never will!"

And she hoisted her green silk umbrella and stalked grimly from the
field, like the horrid, apparition of a nervous widower's dream.

"Really," says Samyule, irritably, "I don't think there's any other
country where old women would be allowed on the field of battle without
epaulets on their shoulders. But let us proceed with the war," says
Samyule, earnestly, "or we shall not get through in time for our coming
conflict with combined Europe."

Loud ring the bugles, my boy, on either side, as when two chivalrous
cocks crow defiance to each other from neighboring roosts; and
presently two rival circus-companies met in tremendous collision with
two-up and two-down, two over and two under:
guard--parry--feint--thrust! Twick, thwack, slam, bang; click-click,
click-click, click-click; chip, chop, higgledy-piggledy, crush, crowd,
and helter-skelter.

"Let me get at you, foul Hessian!" roared the hairy Munchausen, with
his horse hopping sideways in every direction.

"Die in thy sins!" shouted the excited Samyule, taking a slide toward
his charger's ears, as that spirited animal ecstatically waved his
hinder feet in the air.

"Coward, thou would'st fly me!" ejaculated Munchausen, just as his
Arabian got a-straddle of a caisson.

"You are my prisoner!" thundered Samyule, endeavoring to restrain his
blooded courser from climbing a tree near by.

"Beg for your life!" howled Munchausen, frantically clasping his arms
about the neck of his Hambletonian colt as they went skipping against
an ambulance together.

"Say thy last prayer!" yelled Samyule, backing frenziedly into the
middle of the Christian Commission.

"This to thy heart!" screamed Munchausen, disappearing in a ditch.

"Victory!" ejaculated Samyule, rolling down a hill.

And the second day's fighting was ended.

Night again upon the battle-field. The wearied soldier, as he seeks a
few hours of repose upon the damp and dreary ground, wonders what the
people of the great patriotic cities will think of the battle of the
day; whether they are indeed unspeakably proud and fond of the men
perilling and losing their lives that the nation may live? Oh, believe
it, thou most innocent of heroes; for is it not so written in all our
excellent morning journals? Put no trust in the Satyrs who tell thee
that thy countrymen at home, in the exultation of victory, hold thee
only as an unconsidered part of the dumb and blind machine which hoists
thy captain to eminence. Yet would I have thee turn thy fairest hope,
thy perfect faith, to that one spot of all the world where kneels
to-night some fond, familiar form; where loving hands are humbly
uplifted for an absent one, and quivering lips implore, Almighty
Father, guard him still!

Now tremble, earth, and shake, ye friendly spheres, for the Mackerel
Brigade, glittering with spectacles and gorgeous with red neckties and
gold watches, advances for a third round with the unblushing
Confederacies of Paris, several of whom are on the roof with duck-guns
in their hands and slaughter in their hearts. As I gaze upon the
wonderful scene through my bit of smoked glass, the Orange County
Howitzers burst into a roar, not unlike a Dutch chorus, and the sun is
in momentary danger of being hit.

To speak once more in a past tense:--Forward rolled the Mackerel tide
of battle the whole length of the line, with skirmishers thrown out to
catch Confederate chickens, and the deadly peal of treason's duck-gun
mingled hoarsely with the angry bang of loyalty's random musket.
Heading Regiment 5, and mounted on his geometrical steed, Euclid,
Captain Villiam Brown essayed a daring charge at the front door of
Paris; while Captain Bob Shorty, with a portion of the Conic Section
just arrived from Accomac, thundered toward the window of the first
floor; but here a female Confederacy opened a heavy fire of pokers and
gridirons from the basement, and there was too much danger to the
spectacles of the ancient Brigade to warrant persistence in the bold
attempt.

Far to the left, with his eyes blazing like the ends of two cigars, and
his nose glowing like a transparent strawberry, Captain Samyule Sa-mith
got himself and his celebrated horse-marines so ingeniously entangled
and mixed up with Captain Munchausen's and everybody else's command,
that the Schleswig-Holstein question was a very ordinary conundrum in
comparison, and the fight in that part of the field bade fair to last
for a few years without much definite carnage.

Then, again, on the calm waters of Duck Lake (now too deep for wading
in consequence of recent rains), that hoary old salt, Rear Admiral
Head, unhooked his famous flagship, the "Shockingbadhat," and set out
with his improved swivel-gun and agile Mackerel crew to take a hand in
the carnival of conquest.

"Loosen my plates!" swore the aged son of Neptune in his iron-clad
manner, as he adjusted his spectacles and extracted a slow-match from
one corner of his snuff-box,--"Loosen my plates! but the navy must kill
a few Confederate insects,--bark my turret, if it mustn't."

It was really beautiful, my boy, to see an iron-clad tar of such great
age light the slow-match with his own meerschaum, and aim the improved
artillery directly at the rear-elevation of a Confederacy tying his
shoe in one of the side windows of Paris.

Ker-bang! went the triumph of naval ingenuity, causing the flag-ship to
hop only a few inches into the air; and a Confederacy with amputated
coat-tails was instantly seen to spin wildly around and rub himself
like one in a bath.

Not to sicken you, my boy, with too much of such heart-rending
slaughter, let me say that a dense cloud of sulphurous smoke soon
entirely veiled the doomed City of Paris, into which the strategical
Mackerels continued for hours to pour such torrents of lead as no
number of windows could stand. Finally, as night approached, a person
of black extraction, with wool on the brain, emerged from the cloud
quite close to Villiam, and says he:

"De place hab surrender, sah."

"Ah!" says Villiam, pulling out his ruffles, "is the conflick too much
for the scorpions?"

The faithful black arranged a silver cake-basket more firmly under his
coat, and says he:

"Dey's all gone over Jordan."

Wild were the cheers that rent the air at this intelligence, and right
quickly were our national troops marching into the bar-room of captured
Paris, to the inspiring strains of "Drops of Brandy," from the
night-key bugle of the Mackerel band. Our distracted banner, too, was
just being raised triumphantly upon the roof, when there suddenly
emerged, from the shadow of the rear-guard, Miss P. Hen, leaning
trustfully upon the arm of the Conservative Kentucky Chap!

"Now," says she, vivaciously, "is the very moment for the President to
save our bleeding and bankrupt people, by paying four hundred millions
of dollars to the sunny South for her losses in this war, and offering
her such terms as may induce her to make that peace which is absolutely
necessary to close the most accurate History of the War now sold to
subscribers only."

Pause, my boy, ere you execrate the venerable Miss P. Hen; for there is
more than one fidgety old lady tendering advice to the Government at
this crisis; and the sisterhood is not without members who wear your
own style of costume.

Yours, carefully,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




LETTER CIX.

    WHICH ENDETH THE THIRD VOLUME OF THIS INEXPRESSIBLY VERACIOUS
    HISTORY OF THE WAR; AND SHOWETH HOW A GREAT REPUBLIC FINALLY
    OVERCAME ITS SURPASSINGLY MENDACIOUS FOES, AND HOW IT EVINCES ITS
    UNSPEAKABLE GRATITUDE TO PROVIDENCE FOR SUCH A VICTORY.


WASHINGTON, D.C., April 11th, 1865.

Look, my boy, upon the east wall of my luxurious presence-chamber, and
mark how I have maliciously pasted thereon a map of besotted Europe;
with all its capitals, rivers, mountains, and inland puddles laid down
with an accuracy and multitudinosity to forever enlighten and utterly
confound every sniffing little schoolboy-geographer in the land. What a
shapeless chunk of inferior dirt is Europe! How like a minute and
feeble skiptail does it appear, when compared with our own gigantic
straddlebug of a country! Yet has the skiptail ventured to interfere
offensively in the private affairs of the straddlebug; and the
interference, and the private affairs, and the possible upshot of the
whole matter, remind me forcibly of a spirited little event which once
occurred in the Sixth Ward.

The male and female Michael O'Korrigan, my boy, occupied a spacious
apartment on the fine, airy, eighth floor of the sumptuous Maison
Mulligan in that celebrated Ward, and for several years the course of
their true love ran so smoothly that it became hopelessly insipid and
exasperating to all the old maids for blocks around. Nothing was ever
equal to the peaceful unity of the male and female O'Korrigan; and did
Michael find it necessary, in the course of some friendly discussion
with a neighbor on the stairs, to call for a hatchet till he broke the
ugly nose of the spalpeen, it was the wife of his bosom that handed him
his own bit of a stick, and joined in the argument herself with a poker
for a referee. But nothing's perfect in this world except the wisdom of
owls and Congressmen, and Mrs. O'Korrigan's military virtues and
wholesome command of her husband had the slight drawback of a
constitutional taste for poteen. Michael expostulated with her by the
hair, and remonstrated with her by the shoulders, and plead with her
over the head; but all to no purpose; and he was greatly assisted and
comforted by a bit of a preacher named Father O'Tod, who took care of
everybody's virtue except his own. It was Father O'Tod that sat down
beside her quite pious and comfortable, and

"Ailey," says he, "it's clane disgusted I am at heart," says he, "to
see a wake crature of the hen sex," says he, "a-cackling over a baste
of a black bottle as if it was a fresh egg," says he. "And Ailey," says
he, "if your husband was anything but a wake-minded bouchal of a man,"
says he, "it's with a bit of crab-thorn that he'd be persuadin' ye to
give it up for good," says he.

"Oh, sorra the day," says she, "that I'm not behoolden to yer
riverence," says she, "for such illigant advice," says she; "but it's
meself that's accountable to somebody else than yerself and Michael
O'Korrigan," says she, "for what I do," says she. "Do ye mind that,
Father O'Tod?" says she. "And when I'm afther takin' a drop for the
good of me health," says she, "I don't bother any one," says she; "but
stay shut up in my own room," says she, "and only ask to be let alone,"
says she.

Now it chanced that Mr. O'Korrigan, being invited by Father O'Tod, and
especially aggrieved by having one of his best Sunday shoes coolly
appropriated as a sort of fanciful leathern case for the aforesaid
black bottle, finally resolved to at least recapture his property, and,
mayhap, spill the poteen. So he placed the hair of his head in Mrs.
O'Korrigan's left hand, and scraped his nose against the nails of her
right, and was enjoying himself very much, when Father O'Tod came in,
and

"Michael agrah," says he, "it's spaichless with horrors I am," says he,
"to see ye brawling with yer own wife," says he, "and she a woman,"
says he.

"The marcy of Heaven on me!" says Mike, says he; "but isn't it yer own
self," says he, "that's been advisin' me by the year," says he, "to
stop her poteen?" says he.

"It's not the desthruction of the poteen yer after at all," says Father
O'Tod, says he; "but only to wrinch from her," says he, "an owld
brogan," says he, "that ye'd be as well without," says he.

Just at this moment Mr. O'Korrigan managed to get possession of the
brogan referred to, and was commencing to use it most potently as an
instrument of wholesome matrimonial correction, when the scuffle
displaced the unfortunate black bottle from the pocket of Mrs.
O'Korrigan, and it fell to the floor and--broke into fifty pieces.

"It's accident that did that," says Father O'Tod, says he, "and not
yerself at all, Michael O'Korrigan," says he; "and it's not myself,"
says he, "that'll give aither of ye pardon," says he. "But I'm l'anin'
to Ailey," says he, "and it's masses I'll say for her," says he, "if
she's bate to death," says he.

"Ailey, avourneen," says Mike, says he, "the bottle's broke," says he,
"and I've got me brogan," says he, "and ye may keep the rest," says he,
"if ye'll make up," says he.

"Michael, darlint," says she, "ye can place yer big mout' in the middle
of me faychures," says she; "but as for Father O'Tod," says she, "it's
achin' I am to comb his hypocritical hair," says she, "with a poker,"
says she.

"Ailey, me angel," says Mike, says he, "it'll be showin' our gratitude
to Saint Payter," says he, "that we an't both kilt intirely," says he,
"lavin' aich other orphans," says he, "if we just slather the owld
humbug together," says he.

So they both fell upon Father O'Tod with a heartiness not to be
described, and that excellent and neutral old gentleman was much mussed
in his linen.

Far be it from me, my boy, to say that combined Europe, and especially
the step-mother country, is at all like Father O'Tod, or that Slavery
in the remotest degree resembles a small black bottle; but interference
in the quarrels of married folks is apt to excite the liveliest enmity
of both parties, and two-against-one has been known to result quite
spiritedly therefrom.

Therefore, let the skiptail of Europe beware! for even I, an humble
historian and no warrior, am filled with that spirit of defiance to
everything across the Atlantic which might serve to inspire a
brigadier, the editor of an able morning journal, a fierce turkey-cock,
or any other type of matchless valor. One week ago, this American
breast of mine was wild for the immediate redemption of lovely Ireland,
by reason of the marvellous and triumphant capture of Paris by the
thrice-valiant Mackerel Brigade; and to-day such an accession of
national triumph stares all through the columns of our more stentorian
morning journals, that I demand the immediate disenthrallment from
foreign tyrants of Hungary, Poland, Venetia, Mexico, Canada, Jersey
City, and the Guano Islands.

Munchausen, my boy, has surrendered! That mirror of chivalry and
hollow-eyed wanderer in a forest of whiskers has yielded to his noble
desire for a piece--of something to eat, and gracefully permitted
himself and his command to be wooed from their guiding
star,--starvation.

Immediately after the unprecedented battle for Paris, and while yet the
agitated Miss P. Hen and divers enterprising political chaps who had
followed our troops were organizing a Republican caucus in the bar-room
of the captured capital, the unconquerable Mackerel Brigade pushed on
after the unseemly Confederacies, with a view to further carnage. Not a
stump of a tree was seen but it was at once taken for Mr. Davis
himself, and had the direful Orange County Howitzers concentrated upon
it; yet such dangers did not deter our venerable Mackerel boys from
their assigned pursuit, and ere long their glittering spectacles
surrounded a goodly swamp, wherein were perceptible the caitiff
Confederacies up to their chins in the sacred soil. With only their
heads above the mud, these sons of chivalry looked not unlike a vast
cabbage-patch romantically viewed by twilight; while far up the
vegetable vista glowed the eyes of Captain Munchausen, like those of an
irascible Thomas cat who sees a dog down the lane.

Pitching his tent in a spot where no vagrant stone could reach it, the
General of the Mackerel Brigade took off his coat and vest, rolled up
the legs of his inexpressibles, and commenced the following

    CORRESPONDENCE.

    MUNCHAUSEN, _Southern Confederacy_:

    "SIR,--The result of the last strategical combat between us must
    convince you of the hopelessness of further military confusion in
    this country. I feel that it is so, and consider it my duty to
    shift from myself the responsibility of further carnage by asking
    of you the surrender of that portion of the sunny South known as
    the Southern Confederacy.

    "THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.

    ("Green Seal.")

You may observe, my boy, that the remark: "I feel that it is so," does
not make the strongest kind of connection with the preceding sentence;
but great warriors are apt to be shaky in their rhetoric; and the
Confederacy responded thus:

    "GEN. MACK. BRIG.:

    "SIRRAH,--Though repelling with scorn the vandal insinuation that
    further military confusion on my part is hopeless, I agree with you
    as to the stoppage of further carnage, and desire to know upon what
    terms you will haul the celebrated Southern Confederacy out of this
    swamp.

    "MUNCHAUSEN X his mark."

(This chivalrous manner of signing a name with a Cross is a knightly
expression of profound piety, descended from the ancient crusaders to
the Southern chivalry of the present day.)

To the above epistle the General thus replied:

    "MUNCHAUSEN, _Southern Confederacy_:

    "SIR,--I propose to receive the surrender of the well-known
    Southern Confederacy on the following terms:

    "Fresh rolls for all the officers and men to be made at once, and
    the boots of the Southern Confederacy to be blacked by officers
    duly appointed by the United States of America. All the officers to
    give their individual pay rolls, that they may be cashed by the
    United States. Such public and private property as has been stolen
    by the well-known Southern Confederacy to be turned over to the
    police-officers appointed to take charge of it.

    "Each officer will be permitted to retain both of his arms, and,
    together with the men, is expected to return calmly to his family,
    and not commit assault upon the United States of America without
    due provocation.

    "THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.

    ("Green Seal.")

It is related in tradition, that when the knightly Munchausen received
this epistle, he laughed horribly for the space of at least half an
hour, as though greatly rejoiced at a bit of unparalleled waggishness.
After which he delivered himself of four sinister winks at nothing,
simultaneously exclaiming:

"By Chivalry! here's magnanimity."

After which he wrote thus:

    "GEN. MACK. BRIG.:

    "SIRRAH,--I have received your scrawl of this date, containing what
    may be denominated terms of first-class board for the celebrated
    Southern Confederacy. Inasmuch as said terms give me rather more
    advantage than half a dozen strategical victories over your vandals
    could possibly have procured for us, I hereby permit you to capture
    us at once, in order to avoid further carnage in your ranks.

    "MUNCHAUSEN X his mark."

Other letters incidental to this business passed between the two
paladins, my boy; but as the letters of all great men are proverbial
for their great dignity and heaviness, and are immensely calculated to
incline readers to untimely repose, I have spared you the infliction.
Suffice it to say, that when Captain Villiam Brown read the Mackerel
terms of surrender, he spasmodically applied his lips to a canteen,
with the air of one who takes poison because the butcher's daughter has
refused to be won by his manly shape.

"Ah!" says Villiam, "such magnanimity!"

Captain Bob Shorty was playing Old Sledge with three members of the
Sanitary Commission when the document arrived.

"By all that's Federal!" says Captain Bob Shorty, "it appears to me--it
really appears to me, Villiam, that I never see so much magnanimity!"

They took it to Captain Samyule Sa-mith as he sat by the roadside,
straightening his highly-tempered sabre with a stone.

"I cannot always agree entirely with my brother officers on all
points," says Samyule, reflectively, "for some of them are ineddicated:
but I find in this document great magnanimity!"

Magnanimity, my boy, is the revenge of generous minds; as the venerable
male parent feelingly observed when he made over his whole property to
the interesting son who had just tried to poison him by putting arsenic
into his coffee, and expressed an intention to burn him to death in his
bed that night.

The glorious news of the surrender had no sooner reached the city of
Paris than the aged and gifted Miss P. Hen organized an enthusiastic
mass meeting of the decrepit Union element, and a speaker's stand was
quickly erected, over which floated a banner inscribed

    REGULAR MAGNANIMOUS NOMINATION

    FOR

    PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

    IN 1869,

    _COLORADO JEWETT_.

The meeting being called to order, Miss P. Hen came to the front with
her umbrella, and addressed the populace. She stated that this meeting
was designed for no political purpose, but only to show Providence that
a great nation knows how to be grateful for victory. Now was the time
to heed the heart-sobs and gushing soul-pangs of the misguided
Confederacies, and receive back all the Rebel leaders with kisses on
their penitent noses. As for our present President, he meant well;
but--

The speaker was suddenly interrupted by a burst of fifes and drums
coming up the Accomac road, and right quickly there appeared a
procession of political chaps with immense stomachs, from Chicago, who
carried a fine banner inscribed:

    REPUBLICAN NOMINATION

    FOR

    PRESIDENT IN 1869,

    THE

    _GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE_.

At this apparition Miss P. Hen ate a Graham biscuit with great
accerbity of bearing, and was about to go on with her _Te Deum_, when a
fleshy Chicago chap lightly jumped upon the platform and pushed the
venerable maiden aside. He said that no scheme of politics brought them
together this time: but a humble, heartfelt wish to thank a benignant
Heaven for the downfall of a mighty people's enemies. As for the chief
of those enemies, the Rebel leaders, they must every one of them be
hanged without mercy, or justice might as well be ignored forever. The
present President was too--

At this moment the hum of an approaching multitude drowned all other
sounds, and there advanced from the rear of Paris a great band of
high-moral citizens, with a banner announcing

    UNION NOMINATION

    FOR

    PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

    IN 1869.

    _OUR UNCLE ABE_.[7]

Forward surged this new audience toward the platform, and both Miss P.
Hen and the Chicago chap had recommenced their hymns of gratitude, when
an athletic citizen from Baltimore made a dash for the front railing
and eloquently addressed the meeting. He was proud to see such a
glorious concourse assembled, for no wrangling party object, but solely
to unite in thankfulness to a greater than all earthly powers for the
blessing of returning peace. To make that peace permanent and solid,--

      [7] Four days after the date of this letter, ABRAHAM LINCOLN--the
      wise, the just, the merciful--fell beneath the dastard blow of an
      ignoble assassin! All that is beautiful and good in the world
      must mourn his irreparable loss; and I need not say how consoling
      it is to me in this dark hour to feel, that, in all my
      extravagances of nonsense, I have never penned one word
      concerning the Martyr-President that was not inspired by a
      sentiment of actual affection for his genial and guileless
      character. Thank God! his eternally-infamous murderer came of a
      line not native to my country!

      O. C. K.

Here Miss P. Hen got to the front and brought down her umbrella with
awful violence upon the bare head of the speaker, and says she: "I'm
the Republican party myself!"

"I beg your pardon, miss," says the Baltimore citizen, hotly, "but
_I'm_ the Republican party!"

"You're both impostors!" roared the Chicago chap, scientifically
squaring-off; "for I'M the Republican party!"

Crash goes the platform; down tumble the banners. Fists are plunging
wildly in all directions, while such howls and screams arise from the
tempest as though pandemonium were let loose to run a gamut of
diabolical sounds.

Seated upon a barrel a short distance off, I was taking a deep
interest, through my bit of smoked glass, in this scene of exciting
National Thanksgiving, when a strange ringing noise, or lively bellow,
and a sharp crash very unexpectedly sounded above the din, and, on
looking up, I beheld the Conservative Kentucky chap joyously dancing
upon the roof of Paris, with a huge dinner-bell in his right hand, and
a smoking three-pounder beside him.

"Hooray!" shouted the Conservative Kentucky chap, blissfully standing
on one leg. "Go in! That's the style! Sic 'em! Sic 'em! Hit 'em again,
boys. Hem!" says the Conservative chap, with delirious enthusiasm;
"this here sort of thing in the enemy's camp is just the ticket for our
National Democratic Organization, of which I am the large Kentucky
branch!"

Turn away your eyes, my boy, from such scenes as these, and look with
me along that hill-side yonder, where the gentle sun casts his
tenderest beams upon the new spring grass. You see there are irregular
mounds scattered all the way up the <DW72>,--hundreds,--hundreds!
Beneath them sleep the brave, the beautiful, the wept of the patriot
home. Their loyal blood, poured in a fervid river to the twilight ocean
of Eternity, has washed a pollution from our Flag, a blot from our
escutcheon; and, oh! that it had also borne hence upon its purifying
current that unholy, shifting beacon of political discord, which ever
lures our Ship of State toward the breakers.

Yours, reverently,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.




_JUST PUBLISHED_,

A VOLUME OF POEMS BY ORPHEUS C. KERR,

ENTITLED,

THE PALACE BEAUTIFUL, AND OTHER POEMS.

12MO, CLOTH BOUND, WITH PORTRAIT PRICE $1.50.


The _Boston Transcript_, in speaking of this book, says: "Energy of
feeling, sweetness of sentiment, and grace and delicacy of fancy, are
common characteristics of the volume. A number of the poems relate to
the incidents, ideas, and passions of the war, and rank among the most
striking lyrics called forth by the events of the time." Copies will be
sent by mail, _free_, on receipt of price, $1.50,

by

CARLETON, Publisher,

New York.





[Illustration:

BOOKS
Published by
CARLETON
413 Broad-Way
New-York
1865.]




"_There is a kind of physiognomy in the titles of books no less than in
the faces of men, by which a skilful observer will know as well what to
expect from the one as the other._"--BUTLER.




NEW BOOKS

And New Editions Recently Issued by

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NEW YORK.
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SCHOOL FOR THE SOLDIER.--By Capt. Van Ness.            do.    50 cts.

THE YACHTMAN'S PRIMER.--By T. R. Warren.               do.    50 cts.

EDGAR POE AND HIS CRITICS.--By Mrs. Whitman.           do.      $1.00

ERIC; OR, LITTLE BY LITTLE.--By F. W. Farrar           do.      $1.50

SAINT WINIFRED'S.--By the author of "Eric."            do.      $1.50

A WOMAN'S THOUGHTS ABOUT WOMEN.--                      do.      $1.50

THE SEA.--By Michelet, author of "Love."               do.      $1.50

MARRIED OFF.--Illustrated satirical poem.              do.    50 cts.

SCHOOL-DAYS OF EMINENT MEN.--By Timbs.                 do.      $1.50

ROMANCE OF A POOR YOUNG MAN.--                         do.      $1.50

THE FLYING DUTCHMAN.--J. G. Saxe, illustrated.         do.    75 cts.

ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT.--Life and travels.             do.      $1.50

LIFE OF HUGH MILLER.--The celebrated geologist.        do.      $1.50

LYRICS OF A DAY.--or, newspaper poetry.                do.      $1.00

THE U.S. TAX LAW.--"Government Edition."               do.      $1.00

TACTICS; or, Cupid in Shoulder-Straps.                 do.      $1.50

DEBT AND GRACE.--By Rev. C. F. Hudson.                 do.      $1.75

THE RUSSIAN BALL.--Illustrated satirical poem.         do.    50 cts.

THE SNOBLACE BALL.--  do.     do.     do.              do.    50 cts.

THE CHURCH IN THE ARMY.--By Dr. Scott.                 do.      $1.75

TEACH US TO PRAY.--By Dr. Cumming.                     do.      $1.50

AN ANSWER TO HUGH MILLER.--By T. A. Davies.            do.      $1.50

COSMOGONY.--By Thomas A. Davies.                    8vo. cloth, $2.00

TWENTY YEARS around the World. J. Guy Vassar.          do.      $3.75

THE SLAVE POWER.--By J. E. Cairnes.                    do.      $2.00

RURAL ARCHITECTURE.--By M. Field, illustrated.         do.      $2.00






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers. Series 3, by
Robert H. Newell

*** 