"'I could not love thee, dear, so much,Loved I not Honor more!'"
"'I could not love thee, dear, so much,Loved I not Honor more!'"
"'I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not Honor more!'"
This touching peroration was sent in manuscript to the London Times, and this is the way it appeared in that intellectual American journal:
"Young hen, it is your duty to fight for the Onion, which has caused us all so many tears. If any young man's wife would fain dissuade him, let him say to her, in the language of the poet:
"'I could not love thee, dear, so much,Loved I not Hannah More.'"
"'I could not love thee, dear, so much,Loved I not Hannah More.'"
"'I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not Hannah More.'"
When the southern Union man read this twistification, he put his paper where his wife couldn't see it (she being a very jealous woman), and went out to cowhide the editor. He cowhided him, by frantically placing the cowhide in the editor's hands, and then running his back repeatedly against the weapon. Typographical errors have a unique effect in reports of killed and wounded, my boy; but they knock the Promethean blaze out of eloquence.
Having transacted my business with the editor, and read a dispatch, just received from a Gentleman of Eminence, stating that Beauregard, who was at Okolonna, had a force of 120,000 men; but that Halleck would probably succeed in putting the entire 80,000 to flight before Beauregard could return from Richmond; though it was currently reported that the rebels were sixty thousand strong, and General Pope must be expeditious if he wanted to capture the whole 10,000 before General Beauregard got back from the Shenandoah valley; I turned to the editor, and says I:
"How does newspaper business pay now, my gifted Censor?"
He sighed, as he shoved a demijohn further under his desk, and says he:
"There's only one newspaper in the world that pays now, sonny:
"What's that?" says I.
"The ParisPays," says he.
I left him immediately, my boy. Ordinary depravity don't affect me, for I have known several Congressmen in my time; but I can't stand abnormal iniquity.
Arriving at Paris I found that a recent shower had made Duck Lake navigable, and Commodore Head was preparing his fleet to attack a secession squadron, which some covert rebel had built during the night for the purpose of annoying the Mackerels in Paris.
"Batter my plates!" says the commodore, cholerically, "I could capture that poor cuss easily, if I only had a proper pilot."
As Duck Lake is only about four yards wide at a freshet, my boy, your ignorance may suggest no sufficient reason for a pilot in such a case; but you are no martial mariner, my boy.
Luckily the man for the place was at hand. On Wednesday, a glossy contraband, in a three-story shirt-collar, and looking like a fountain of black ink with a strong wind blowing against it, came into Paris, and surrendered to Captain Villiam Brown.
"Ha!" says Villiam, replacing the newspaper that had just blown off from two lemons and a wicker flask on the table, "what says our cousin Africa?"
"Mars'r Vandal," says the faithful black, earnestly, "I hab important news to combobicate. I knows all de secrets of de rebel Scratchetary of the Navy. True as you lib, Mars'r Vandal, so help me gad, I'se de coachman of de pirate Sumter."
"Ah!" says Villiam, cautiously, "tell me, blessed shade, what has a coachman got to drive on board a vessel?"
The true-hearted contraband modestly eyed a wonder of the insect kingdom which he had just removed from his hair, and says he:
"I drove de ingine, mars'r."
That was enough, my boy. Having learned from this intelligent creature what the rebel Secretary was going to have for dinner next Sunday, and what the Secretary's wife said in her letter to her mother, Villiam ordered him to act as pilot on the Mackerel Fleet.
And now let me draw a long breath before I attempt to describe that terrific and sanguinary naval engagement, which proved conclusively what Europe may expect, if Europe bother us with any more bigodd nonsense.
Having ballasted with mortar, my boy, to seem more naval, the unblushing commodore mounted his swivel-gun at the bow of the Mackerel Fleet, and selected for his gunner and crew a middle-aged Mackerel chap, whose great fondness for fresh fish made him invaluable for ocean service.
"Crack my turret!" says the commodore, as the Fleet pushed off amid the cheers of Company 4, Regiment 1, Mackerel Brigade; "I'll take that craft by compound fracture. Belay the starboard ram there, you salamander, and take a reef in the grating. Up with the signal—two strips of pig iron rampant, with a sheet of tin in the middle."
All this was splendidly performed by the crew, my boy, who trimmed the rudder, did the rowing, and tended the gun—all at once. The craft fairly flew through the water in the direction of the rebel craft, whose horse-pistol amidship still remained silent.
It was an awfully terrific and sublime sight, my boy. I shall never forget it, my boy, if I live till I perish.
The faithful colored pilot sat in the stern of the Fleet, examining some silver spoons which he had found somewhere in the Southern Confederacy, and we could see the noble old commodore mixing something that steamed in the fore-sheets.
Two seconds had now passed since our flotilla had started, and the hostile squadrons were rubbing against each other. We were expecting to see our navy go through some intricate manœuvre before boarding, when the Mackerel crew accidentally dropped a spark from his pipe on the touch-hole of the swivel; and bang! went that horrid engine of destruction, sending some pounds of old nails right square into the city of Paris.
Simultaneously, four-and-twenty foreign Consuls residing near Paris got up a memorial to Commodore Head, protesting against any more firing while any foreigners remained in the country, and declaring that the use of gunpowder was an outrage on civilized warfare and the rights of man. They tied a stone to this significant document and threw it to Commodore Head, who instantly put the Mackerel crew on half rations and forbid smoking abaft the big gun.
Meanwhile the enemy had wounded our brave pilot on the shins with his oar, and exploded his horse-pistol in an undecided direction, with such dreadful concussion that every glass in Commodore Head's spectacles was broken.
It was at this dreadful crisis of the fight that the gay Mackerel crew leaned over the side of our fleet, placed one hand on the inside of the enemy's squadron, and with the other, regardless of the shower of old-bottles and fish-bones flying about him, deliberately bored a small hole, with a gimlet, through the bottom of the adversary. At about the same moment the commodore touched off the swivel-gun at the enemy's rudder, and threw one of his boots against the rear stomach of the rebel captain.
This sickening carnage might have lasted five minutes longer, had not the Confederate squadron sunk in consequence of the gimlet-hole. Down went the doomed craft of unblest treason, and in another moment the officer and crew of her were in the water, which reached nearly to their knees, imploring our fleet not to let them drown.
Oh, that sight! the thrilling yet terrifying and agonizing grandeur of that dreadful moment! shall I ever forget it—ever cease to hear those cries ringing in mine ears? I'm afraid not, my boy—I'm afraid not.
The Commodore rescued the sufferers from a watery grave; and having been privately informed by them that the South might be conquered, but never overcome, brought them ashore by the collars.
Need I describe how our noble old nautical sea-dog was received by the Mackerel Brigade? need I tell how the band whipped out his key-bugle and played all the triumphant airs of our distracted country, and several original cavatinas?
But, alas! my boy, this iron-plate business is taking all the romance out of the navy. How different is the modern from
THE ANCIENT CAPTAIN.The smiles of an evening were shed on the sea,And its wave-lips laughed through their beardings of foam;And the eyes of an evening were mirrored beneathThe shroud of the ship and her home.And as Time knows an end, so that sea knew a shore,Afar in a beautiful, tropical clime,Where Love with the Life of each being is blent,In a soft, psychological Rhyme.Oh, grand was the shore, when deserted and stillIt breasted the silver-mailed hosts of the Deep!And like the last bulwark of Nature it seemed,'Twixt Death and an Innocent's sleep.But grander it was to the eyes of a knight,When clad in his armor he stood on the sands,And held to his bosom its essence of Life—An heiress of titles and lands.Ah, fondly he gazed on the face of the maid!And blush-spoken fondness replied to his look;While heart answered heart with a feverish beat,And hand pressed the hand that it took."Fair lady of mine," said the knight, stooping low,"Before I depart for the banquet of Death,I crave a new draught from the fountain of Life,Whose waters are all in thy breath."The breast that is filled with thine image alone,May safely defy the dread tempest of steel;For while all its thoughts are of love and of thee,What peril of Self can it feel?"He paused; and the silence that followed his words,Was spread like a Hope, 'twixt a Dream and a Truth;And in it, his fancy created a worldWrought out of the dreams of his youth.Then shadows crept over the beautiful faceTurned up to the sky in the pale streaming light,As shadows sweep over the orient pearl,Far down in the river at night."You're going," she said, "where the fleets are in leash,Where plumed is a knight for each wave of the sea;Yet all the wide Ocean shall have but One wave,One ship and One sailor for me!"He left her, as leaveth the god of a dreamThe portals that close with a heavier sleep;And then, as he sprang to the shallop in wait,The rowers pushed off in the Deep.
THE ANCIENT CAPTAIN.
THE ANCIENT CAPTAIN.
The smiles of an evening were shed on the sea,And its wave-lips laughed through their beardings of foam;And the eyes of an evening were mirrored beneathThe shroud of the ship and her home.
The smiles of an evening were shed on the sea,
And its wave-lips laughed through their beardings of foam;
And the eyes of an evening were mirrored beneath
The shroud of the ship and her home.
And as Time knows an end, so that sea knew a shore,Afar in a beautiful, tropical clime,Where Love with the Life of each being is blent,In a soft, psychological Rhyme.
And as Time knows an end, so that sea knew a shore,
Afar in a beautiful, tropical clime,
Where Love with the Life of each being is blent,
In a soft, psychological Rhyme.
Oh, grand was the shore, when deserted and stillIt breasted the silver-mailed hosts of the Deep!And like the last bulwark of Nature it seemed,'Twixt Death and an Innocent's sleep.
Oh, grand was the shore, when deserted and still
It breasted the silver-mailed hosts of the Deep!
And like the last bulwark of Nature it seemed,
'Twixt Death and an Innocent's sleep.
But grander it was to the eyes of a knight,When clad in his armor he stood on the sands,And held to his bosom its essence of Life—An heiress of titles and lands.
But grander it was to the eyes of a knight,
When clad in his armor he stood on the sands,
And held to his bosom its essence of Life—
An heiress of titles and lands.
Ah, fondly he gazed on the face of the maid!And blush-spoken fondness replied to his look;While heart answered heart with a feverish beat,And hand pressed the hand that it took.
Ah, fondly he gazed on the face of the maid!
And blush-spoken fondness replied to his look;
While heart answered heart with a feverish beat,
And hand pressed the hand that it took.
"Fair lady of mine," said the knight, stooping low,"Before I depart for the banquet of Death,I crave a new draught from the fountain of Life,Whose waters are all in thy breath.
"Fair lady of mine," said the knight, stooping low,
"Before I depart for the banquet of Death,
I crave a new draught from the fountain of Life,
Whose waters are all in thy breath.
"The breast that is filled with thine image alone,May safely defy the dread tempest of steel;For while all its thoughts are of love and of thee,What peril of Self can it feel?"
"The breast that is filled with thine image alone,
May safely defy the dread tempest of steel;
For while all its thoughts are of love and of thee,
What peril of Self can it feel?"
He paused; and the silence that followed his words,Was spread like a Hope, 'twixt a Dream and a Truth;And in it, his fancy created a worldWrought out of the dreams of his youth.
He paused; and the silence that followed his words,
Was spread like a Hope, 'twixt a Dream and a Truth;
And in it, his fancy created a world
Wrought out of the dreams of his youth.
Then shadows crept over the beautiful faceTurned up to the sky in the pale streaming light,As shadows sweep over the orient pearl,Far down in the river at night.
Then shadows crept over the beautiful face
Turned up to the sky in the pale streaming light,
As shadows sweep over the orient pearl,
Far down in the river at night.
"You're going," she said, "where the fleets are in leash,Where plumed is a knight for each wave of the sea;Yet all the wide Ocean shall have but One wave,One ship and One sailor for me!"
"You're going," she said, "where the fleets are in leash,
Where plumed is a knight for each wave of the sea;
Yet all the wide Ocean shall have but One wave,
One ship and One sailor for me!"
He left her, as leaveth the god of a dreamThe portals that close with a heavier sleep;And then, as he sprang to the shallop in wait,The rowers pushed off in the Deep.
He left her, as leaveth the god of a dream
The portals that close with a heavier sleep;
And then, as he sprang to the shallop in wait,
The rowers pushed off in the Deep.
When a captain leaves his lady-fair nowadays, my boy, he's not an economical man if he don't destroy his life-insurance policy, and defer making his will.
Yours, navally,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER LI.
GIVING DUE PROMINENCE ONCE MORE TO THE CONSERVATIVE ELEMENT, NOTING A CAT-AND-DOG AFFAIR, AND REPORTING CAPTAIN BOB SHORTY'S FORAGING EXPEDITION.
Washington, D.C., June 23d, 1862.
Not wishing to expire prematurely of inanity, my boy, I started again last Sunday for Paris, where I took up my quarters with a dignified conservative chap from the Border States, who came on for the express purpose of informing the Executive that Kentucky is determined this war shall be carried on without detriment to the material interests of the South, otherwise Kentucky will not be answerable for herself. Kentucky has married into the South, and has relations there which she refuses to sacrifice. What does the Constitution say about Kentucky? Why, it don't say anything about her. "Which is clear proof," says the conservative chap, violently, "that Kentucky is expected to take care of herself. Kentucky," says he, buttoning his vest over the handle of his bowie-knife. "Kentucky will stand no nonsense whatsomever."
I have much respect for Kentucky, my boy; they play a good hand of Old Sledge there, and train up a child in the way he should go fifty better; but Kentucky reminds me of a chap I once knew in the Sixth Ward. This chap hired a room with another chap, and the two were engaged in the dollar-jewelry business. Their stock in trade was more numerous than valuable, my boy, and a man couldn't steal it without suffering a most painful swindle; but the two dilapidaries were all the time afraid of thieves; and at last, when a gentleman of suspicious aspect moved into the lower part of the house, and flavored his familiar conversation with such terms as "swag," "kinchin," and "coppers," the second chap insisted upon buying a watch-dog. The first chap said he didn't like dogs, but if his partner thought they'd better have one, he would not object to his buying it. The second chap bought a sausagacious animal in white and yellow, my boy—an animal covered with bark that pealed off in large pieces all night long. The first chap found he couldn't sleep much, and says he:
"If you don't kill that ere stentorian beast we'll have to dissolve pardnership."
His partner took a thoughtful chew of tobacco, and says he:
"That intelligent dorg is a defending of your property as well as mine, and if we put up with his strains a little while longer, the chap down stairs will understand the hint and make friends."
With that the first chap flamed up, and says he:
"I sold a breast-pin to the chap down stairs the other day, and found out that he considers the dollar-jewelry business the same by nature as his own. I'm beginning to think we misjudged him, and I can't have no dog kept here to worry him. Our lease of these here premises don't say anything about keeping a dog," says the chap, reflectively, "nor our articles of pardnership, and I refuse to sanction the dog any longer."
So the dog was sent to the pound, my boy, and that same night the burglarious gentleman downstairs walked off with the dollar-jewelry, in company with the first chap, leaving the poor second chap to make himself uselessly disagreeable at the police-office, and set up an apple-stand for support.
Far be it from me, my boy, to say that certain Border States are like the first chap; but if Uncle Sam should happen to be the second chap let him hold on to the watch-dog.
Speaking of dogs, I must tell you about a felis-itous canine incident that occurred while I was at Paris. Early one morning, the Kentucky chap and I were awakened by a great noise in the hall outside our door. Presently an aged and reliable contraband stuck his head into the room, and says he:
"I golly, mars'r, dar's a big fight goin' on in dis yar place."
At the word, my boy, we both sprang up and went to the door, from whence we beheld one of those occurrences but too common in this dreadful war of brother against brother.
Face to face in the hall stood my frescoed dog, Bologna, and the regimental cat Lord Mortimer, eyeing each other with looks of deadly hatred and embittered animosity. High in air curved the back of the enraged Mortimer, and his whiskers worked with intense wrath; whilst the eloquent tail of the infuriated Bologna shot into the atmosphere like a living flag-staff.
"Oh-h-h! How-now?" ejaculated Bologna, throwing out his nose to reconnoitre the enemy's first line.
"'Sdeath!—'Sdeath!" hastily retorted Mortimer, skirmishing along in his first parallel with spasmodic clawing.
And now, my boy, commenced a series of scientific manœuvres that only Russell, of theLondon Times, could describe properly. Lord Mortimer advanced circularly to the attack in four columns, affrighting the air with horrid yells of defiance; and I noticed, with a feeling of mysterious awe, that his eyes had turned a dreadful and livid green, whilst an expression of inexpressible bitterness overspread his countenance.
Fathoming the enemy's plan at a glance, Bologna presented his front and rear divisions alternately, to distract the fire of the foe; and then, by a rapid and skillful flank movement, cut off a portion of Lord Mortimer's tail from the main body.
This reminded me of General Mitchell's tactics, my boy.
Here the conservative Kentucky chap wanted to stop the fight. Says he:
"Mortimer will be forever alienated if he loses any more of his tail. I protest against the dog's teeth," says he; "for they'll render future reconciliation between the two impossible. Let him use his paws alone," says the conservative chap, reasoningly, "and he won't injure Mortimer's constitution so much."
"You're too late with your talk about conciliation, my noble Cicero," says I. "It's the cat's nature to show affection for his young ones, even, by licking them, and Mortimer will never be convinced that Bologna cares for him until he has been soundly licked by him."
"Ah—well," says the Kentucky chap, vaguely, "let hostilities proceed."
Finding that the enemy had cut off a portion of his train in the rear, Mortimer quickly massed his four columns and precipitated them upon the head of Bologna's two front divisions, succeeding in destroying a bark half launched, and driving him back four feet.
"Hurroar for Mortimer!" says the Kentucky chap; and then he burst into the Conservative Virginia National Anthem:
"John Smith's body lies a-mouldering in the grave,'Twas him that Pocahontas risked her father's wrath to save;And unto old Virginia certain Chivalry she gave,That still go scalping on!"
"John Smith's body lies a-mouldering in the grave,'Twas him that Pocahontas risked her father's wrath to save;And unto old Virginia certain Chivalry she gave,That still go scalping on!"
"John Smith's body lies a-mouldering in the grave,
'Twas him that Pocahontas risked her father's wrath to save;
And unto old Virginia certain Chivalry she gave,
That still go scalping on!"
"Calm your exultation, my impulsive Catiline," says I, "and behold the triumph of Bologna."
Undaunted by the last claws of the foe's argument, my boy, the frescoed dog hurled back the torrent of invasion, and, with a howl of triumph, charged headlong upon Mortimer's works, routing the foe, who retreated under cover of a cloud of fur.
I looked at the conservative Kentucky chap, my boy, and I could see by his expression that it would be useless for me to ask of him a contribution toward rewarding Bologna with a star-spangled kennel. He still felt neutral, my boy.
I had intended to remain in Paris all the week; but on receiving a telegraphic dispatch from the General of the Mackerel Brigade to attend a Strawberry Festival he was about to give in this city, I hastened hither. For I am very fond of the gay and festive strawberry, my boy, on account of its resemblance to one of the hues in our distracted banner.
The Strawberry Festival was given in an upper room at Willard's, and the arrangement of the fruit would have provoked an appetite in a marble statue. At short intervals around the table were strawberries in fours, supported by pedestals of broken ice, which was kept in position by a fluid of pleasing color, and walled in by a circular edging of thin glass. Strips of lemon and oranges garnished the rich fruit, and from their midst sprang up a dainty mint plant, and a graceful hollow straw.
When the festival was in full operation, my boy, the General of the Mackerel Brigade arose to his feet, and waved his straw for silence. Says he:
"My children, though this strawberry festival is ostensibly for the purpose of encouraging fruit culture by the United States of America, it has yet a deeper purpose. The democratic party," says the general, paternally, "is about to be born again, and it is time to make preparation for the next Presidential election in 1865. I must go to Albany and Syracuse, and see the State Conventions; after which I must attend to the re-organization of the party in New York city. Then I go to Pennsylvania to do stump duty for a year; and from thence, to—"
Here a serious chap, who had taken rather too much Strawberry Festival, looked up, and says he:
"But how about the war all that time?"
"The war!—the war!" says the general, thoughtfully. "Thunder!" says the general, with such a start that he spilt some of his Festival, "I'd really forgotten all about the war!"
"Hum!" says the serious chap, gloomily, "you're worth millions to a suffering country—youare."
"Flatterer!" says the general blandly.
"Yes," says the chap, "you're worth millions—with a hundred per cent off for cash."
In vino veritasis a sage old saying, my boy, and I take it to be a free translation of the Scripture phrase, "In spirit and in truth."
Our brigadiers are so frequently absent-minded themselves, my boy, that they are not particularly absent-minded by the rest of the army.
Upon quitting the Strawberry Festival I returned post-haste again to Paris, where I arrived just in time to start with Captain Bob Shorty and a company from the Conic Section of the Mackerel Brigade on a foraging expedition. We went to look up a few straw-beds for the feeding of the Anatomical Cavalry horses, my boy, and the conservative Kentucky chap went along to see that we did not violate the Constitution nor the rights of man.
"It's my opinion, comrade," says Captain Bob Shorty, as we started out—"it's my opinion, my Union ranger, that this here unnatural war is getting worked down to a very fine point, when we can't go out for an armful of forage without taking the Constitution along on an ass. I think," says Captain Bob Shorty, "that the Constitution is as much out of place here as a set of fancy harness would be in a drove of wild buffaloes."
Can such be the case, my boy—can such be the case? Then did our Revolutionary forefathers live in vain.
Having moved along in gorgeous cavalcade until about noon, we stopped at the house of a First Family of Virginia who were just going to dinner. Captain Bob Shorty ordered the Mackerels to stack arms and draw canteens in the front-door yard, and then we entered the domicil and saluted the domestic mass-meeting in the dining-room.
"We come, sir," says Bob, addressing the venerable and high-minded Chivalry at the head of the table, "to ask you if you have any old straw-beds that you don't want, that could be used for the cavalry of the United States of America."
The Chivalry only paused long enough to throw a couple of pie-plates at us, and then says he:
"Are you accursed abolitionists?"
The conservative Kentucky chap stepped hastily forward, and says he:
"No, my dear sir, we are the conservative element."
The Chivalry's venerable wife, who was a female Southern Confederacy, leaned back a little in her chair, so that her little son could see to throw a teacup at me, and says she:
"You ain't Tribune reporters—be you?"
"We were all noes and no ayes." Quite a feature in social intercourse, my boy.
The aged Chivalry caused three fresh chairs to be placed at the table, and having failed to discharge the fowling-piece which he had pointed at Captain Bob Shorty, by reason of dampness in the cap, he waved us to seats, and says he:
"Sit down, poor hirelings of a gorilla despot, and learn what it is to taste the hospitality of a Southern gentleman. You are Lincoln hordes," says the Chivalry, shaking his white locks, "and have come to butcher the Southern Confederacy; but the Southern gentleman knows how to be courteous, even to a vandal foe."
Here the Chivalry switched out a cane which he had concealed behind him, and made a blow at Captain Bob Shorty.
"See here," says Bob, indignantly, "I'll be—"
"Hush!" says the conservative Kentucky chap, agitatedly, "don't irritate the old patriarch, or future amicable reconstruction of the Union will be out of the question. He is naturally a little provoked just now," says the Kentucky chap, soothingly, "but we must show him that we are his friends."
We all sat down in peace at the hospital board, my boy, only a few sweet potatoes and corn-cobs being thrown by the children, and found the fare to be in keeping with the situation of our distracted country—I may say, war-fare.
"In consequence of the blockade of the Washington Ape," says the Chivalry, pleasantly, "we only have one course, you see; but even these last-year's sweet potatoes must be luxuries to mercenary mud-sills accustomed to husks."
I had just reached out my plate, to be helped, my boy, when there came a great noise from the Mackerels in the front door-yard.
"What's that?" says Captain Bob Shorty.
"O, nothing," says the female Confederacy, taking another bite of hoe-cake, "I've only told one of the servants to throw some hot water on your reptile hirelings."
As Captain Bob Shorty turned to thank her for her explanation, and while his plate was extended, to be helped, the aged Chivalry fired a pistol at him across the table, the ball just grazing his head and entering the wall behind him.
"By all that's blue," says Captain Bob Shorty, excitedly, "now I'll be—"
"Be calm—now, be calm," says the conservative Kentucky chap, hastily, "don't I tell you that it's only natural for the good old soul to be a little provoked? If you go to irritate him, we can never live together as brethren again."
Matters being thus rendered pleasant, my boy, we quickly finished the simple meal; and as Captain Bob Shorty warded off the carving-knife just thrown at him by the Chivalry's little son, he turned to the female Confederacy, and says he:
"Many thanks for your kind hospitality; and now about that straw bed?"
The Virginia matron threw the vinegar-cruet at him, and says she:
"My servants have already given one to your scorpions, you nasty Yankee."
"Of course," says the venerable Chivalry, just missing a blow at me with a bowie-knife, "of course, your despicable Government will pay me for my property!"
"Payyou!" says Captain Bob Shorty, hotly, "now I'll be—"
"Certainly it will, my friend," broke in the conservative Kentucky chap, eagerly, "the Union troops come here as your friends; for they make war on none but traitors."
As we left the domicil, my boy, brushing from our coats the slops that had just been thrown upon us from an upper window, I saw the Chivalry's children training a fowling-piece from the roof, and hoisting the flag of the Southern Confederacy on one of the chimneys.
And will it be possible to regain the love of these noble people again, my boy, if we treat them constitutionally? We shall see, my boy, we shall see.
Yours, for further national abasement,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER LII.
DESCRIBING, AMONG OTHER THINGS, A SPECIALITY OF CONGRESS, A VENERABLE POPULAR IDOL, AND THE DIFFICULTIES EXPERIENCED BY CAPTAIN SAMYULE SA-MITH IN DYING.
Washington, D.C., June 25th, 1862.
How beautiful is Old Age, my boy, when it neither drinks nor swears. There is an oily and beneficent dignity about fat Old Age which overwhelms us with a sense of our crime in being guilty of youth. I have at last been introduced to the Venerable Gammon, who is all the time saying things; and he is a luscious example of overpowering Old Age. He is fat and gliding, my boy, with a face that looks like a full moon coming out of a sheepskin, and a dress indicating that he may be anything from a Revolutionary Forefather to the patriarch of all the Grace Church sextons. I can't find out that he ever did anything, my boy, and no one can tell why it is that he should treat everybody in office and out of it in such a fatherly and fatly condescending manner; but the people fairly idolize him, my boy, and he is all the time saying things.
When I was introduced to the Venerable Gammon he was beaming benignantly on a throng of adoring statesmen in the lobby of Congress, and I soon discovered that he was saying things.
"Men tell us that this war has only just commenced," says the Venerable Gammon with fat profundity, "but they are wrong.War is like a stick, which has two ends—the end nearest you being thebeginning."
Then each statesman wanted the Venerable Gammon to usehispocket-handkerchief; and five-and-twenty desperate reporters tore passionately away to the telegraph office to flash far and wide the comforting remarks of the Venerable Gammon.
Are we a race of unsuspecting innocents, my boy, and are we easily imposed upon by shirt-ruffles and oily magnitude of manner? I believe so, my boy—I believe so.
Speaking of Congress; I attended one of its sittings the other day, my boy, and was deeply edified to observe its manner of legislating for our happy but distracted country.
The "Honorable Speaker" (néGrow) occupied the Chair.
Mr.Podgers(republican, Mass.) desired to know if the tax upon Young Hyson is not to be moderated? Speaking for his constituents he would say that the present rate was entirely too high to suit any grocer—
Mr.Staggers(conservative, Border State) wished to know whether this body intended to legislate for white men or niggers? His friend, the pusillanimous scoundrel from Massachusetts, chose to oppose the tax on Young Hyson because—to use his own words—it would not "suit a negro, sir—"
Mr.Podgersthought his friend from the Border State was too hasty. The phrase he used was "any grocer."
Mr.Staggerswithdrew his previous remark. We were fighting this war to secure the Constitution and the pursuit of happiness to the misguided South, and he accepted his friend's apology.
Mr.Figgins(democrat, New Jersey) said that he could not but notice that everything all the Honorable gentlemen had said during this session was a fatal heresy, destructive of all Government, degrading to the species, and an insult to the common sense of his (Figgins') constituents. His constituents demanded that Congress should set the country at rights before Europe. It would appear that at the least imperious sign from Europe, the American knee grows—
Mr.Juggles(con., Border State) desired to inquire of the House whether the great struggle in which we are now engaged is for the benefit of the Caucasian race or the debased African? His friend, the puling idiot from New Jersey, had seen fit to remark that the American negroes—
Mr.Figginsdenied that he had spoken at all of negroes. He was about to say, that at the slightest behest of Europe "theAmerican knee grows flexible to bend."
Mr.Juggleswished it to be understood that he was satisfied with his Honorable friend's explanation. He would take something with the Honorable Gentleman immediately after adjournment.
Mr.Chunky(rep., New Hampshire) was anxious to inquire whether it was true, as stated in the daily papers, that General McDowell had been ordered to imprison all the Union men within his lines on suspicion of their being Secessionists, and place a guard over the property of the Secessionists, on suspicion of their being Union men? If so, he would warn the Administration that it was cherishing a viper which would sting it:
"The rose you deftly cull-ed, man,May wound you with its thorn,And—"
"The rose you deftly cull-ed, man,May wound you with its thorn,And—"
"The rose you deftly cull-ed, man,
May wound you with its thorn,
And—"
Mr.Waddles(Union, Border State) protested against the decency of a Constitutional body like Congress being insulted with the infamous and seditious abolition doggerel just quoted by his friend, the despicable incendiary from New Hampshire. We were waging this war solely to put down treason, and not to hear a rose, the fairest of flowers, mentioned in the same breath with the filthy colored man—
Mr.Chunkywas sorry to observe that his Honorable friend had misunderstood his language. The line he had used was simply this:
"The rose you deftlycull-ed, man."
Mr.Waddleswas glad that his valued friend from New Hampshire had apologized. He had only taken exception to what he considered a fatal heresy.
That was enough for me, my boy, and I left the hall of legislation; for I sometimes become a little wearied when I hear too much of one thing, my boy.
I mentioned my impression to the Venerable Gammon, and says he:
"Congress is the soul of the nation. Congress," says the Venerable Gammon, with fat benignity, "is something like a wheel, whose spokes tend to tire."
He said this remarkable thing in an overtowering way, my boy, and I felt myself to be a crushed infant before him.
Early in the week, I took my usual trip to Paris, and found Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, making an advance from the further shore of Duck Lake, for sanitary reasons. It was believed to be detrimental to the health of the gay Mackerels to be so near a body of pure water, my boy, for they were not accustomed to the element.
"Thunder!" says the general, brushing off a small bit of ice that had adhered to his nose, "they'll be drinking it next."
Captain Samyule Sa-mith was ordered to command the advance; but when he heard that the Southern Confederacy had two swivels over there, he was suddenly taken very sick, and cultivated his bed-clothes.
When the news of the serious illness of this valiant officer got abroad, my boy, there was an immediate rush of free and enterprising civilian chaps to his bedside.
One chap, who was an uncombed reporter for a discriminating and affectionate daily press, took me aside, and says he:
"Our paper has the largest circulation, and is the best advertising mejum in the United States. As soon as our brother-in-arms expires," says the useful chap, feelingly, "just fill up this printed form and send it to me, and I will mention you in our paper as a promising young man."
I took the printed form, my boy, which I was to fill up, and found it to read thus:
"biographical sketch of the late ——."This noble and famous officer, recently slain at the head of his —— (I put the word 'bed' in this blank, my boy), was born at —— on the —— day of ——, 1776, and entered West Point in his —— year. He won immortal fame by his conduct in the Mexican campaign, and was created brigadier-general on the — of ——, 1862."
"biographical sketch of the late ——.
"This noble and famous officer, recently slain at the head of his —— (I put the word 'bed' in this blank, my boy), was born at —— on the —— day of ——, 1776, and entered West Point in his —— year. He won immortal fame by his conduct in the Mexican campaign, and was created brigadier-general on the — of ——, 1862."
These printed forms suit the case of any soldier, my boy; but I didn't entirely fill this one up.
Samyule was conversing with the chaplain about his Federal soul, when a tall, shabby chap made a dash for the bedside, and says he to Samyule:
"I'm agent for the great American publishing house of Rushem & Jinks, and desire to know if you have anything that could be issued in book-form after your lamented departure. We could make a handsome 12mo book," says the shabby chap, persuadingly, "of your literary remains. Works of a Union Martyr—Eloquent Writings of a Hero—Should be in every American Library—Take it home to your wife—Twenty editions ordered in advance of publication—Half-calf, $1.—Send in your orders."
Samyule looked thoughtfully at the publishing chap, and says he:
"I never wrote anything in my life."
"Oh!" says the shabby chap, pleasantly, "anything will do—your early poems in the weekly journals—anything."
"But," says Samyule, regretfully, "I never wrote a line to a newspaper in all my life."
"What!" says the publishing chap, almost in a shriek—"never wrote a line to a newspaper? Gentleman," says the chap, looking toward us, suspiciously, "this man can't be an American." And he departed hastily.
Believing, my boy, that there would be no more interruptions, Samyule went on dying; but I was called from his bedside by a long-haired chap from New York. Says the chap to me:
"My name is Brown—Brown's Patent Hair-Dye, 25 cents a bottle. Of course," says the hirsute chap, affably, "a monument will be erected to the memory of our departed hero. An Italian marble shaft, standing on a pedestal of four panels. Now," says the hairy chap, insinuatingly, "I will give ten thousand dollars to have my advertisement put on the panel next to the name of the lamented deceased. We can get up something neat and appropriate, thus:
WE MUST ALL DIE; BUT BROWN'S DYE IS THE BEST
"There!" says the enterprising chap, smilingly, "that would be very neat and moral, besides doing much good to an American fellow-being."
I made no reply, my boy; but I told Samyule about it, and it excited him so that he regained his health.
"If I can't die," says the lamented Samyule, "without some advertising cuss's making money by it, I'll defer my visit to glory until next season."
And he got well, my boy—he got well.
I was talking to the chaplain about Samyule's illness, and says the chaplain:
"I am happy to say, my fellow-sinner, that when our beloved Samyule was at the most dangerous crisis, he gave the most convincing proof of realizing his critical condition."
"How?" says I, skeptically.
"Why," says the chaplain, with a Christian look, "when I told our beloved Samyule that there could be little hope of his recovery, and asked him if his spiritual adviser could do anything to make his passage easier, he pressed my hand fervently, and besought me to see that he was buriedwith a fan in his hand."
Can it be, my boy, that the soul of a Mackerel will need a fan in another world? Let us meditate upon this, my boy—let us meditate upon this!
Yours, seriously,
Orpheus C. Kerr.