Chapter 2

LETTER IV.

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

Washington, D.C., April —, 1861.

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

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

REPUDIATION.

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

'Neath a ragged palmetto a Southerner sat,

A-twisting the band of his Panama hat,

And trying to lighten his mind of a load

By humming the words of the following ode:

"Oh! for a nigger, and oh! for a whip;

Oh! for a cocktail, and oh! for a nip;

Oh! for a shot at old Greeley and Beecher;

Oh! for a crack at a Yankee school-teacher;

Oh! for a captain, and oh! for a ship;

Oh! for a cargo of niggers each trip."

And so he kept oh-ing for all he had not,

Not contented with owing for all that he'd got.

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

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

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

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

BALTIMORE.Midnight shadows, dark, appalling, round the Capitol were falling,And its dome and pillars glimmered spectral from Potomac's shore;All the great had gone to slumber, and of all the busy numberThat had moved the State by day within its walls, as erst before,None there were but dreamed of heroes thither sent ere day was o'er—Thither sent throughBaltimore.But within a chamber solemn, barred aloft with many a column,And with windows tow'rd Mount Vernon, windows tow'rd Potomac's shore,Sat a figure, stern and awful; Chief, but not the Chieftain lawfulOf the land whose grateful millions Washington's great name adore—Sat the form—a shade majestic of a Chieftain gone before,Thine to honor,Baltimore!There he sat in silence, gazing, by a single planet's blazing,At a map outspread before him wide upon the marble floor;And if 'twere for mortal proving that those reverend lips were moving,While the eyes were closely scanning one mapped city o'er and o'er—While he saw but one great city on that map upon the floor—They were whispering—"Baltimore."Thus he sat, nor word did utter, till there came a sudden flutter,And the sound of beating wings was heard upon the carvéd door.In a trice the bolts were broken; by those lips no word was spoken,As an Eagle, torn and bloody, dim of eye, and wounded sore,Fluttered down upon the map, and trailed a wing all wet with goreO'er the name ofBaltimore!Then that noble form uprising, with a gesture of surprising,Bent with look of keenest sorrow tow'rd the bird that drooped before;"Emblem of my country!" said he, "are thy pinions stained alreadyIn a tide whose blending waters never ran so red before?Is it with the blood of kinsmen? Tell me quickly, I implore!"Croaked the eagle—"Baltimore!""Eagle," said the Shade, advancing, "tell me by what dread mischancingThou, the symbol of my people, bear'st thy plumes erect no more?Why dost thou desert mine army, sent against the foes that harm me,Through my country, with a Treason worlds to come shall e'er deplore?"And the Eagle on the map, with bleeding wing, as just before,Blurred the name ofBaltimore!"Can it be?" the spectre muttered. "Can it be?" those pale lips uttered;"Is the blood Columbia treasures spilt upon its native shore?Is there in the land so cherished, land for whom the great have perished,Men to shed a brother's blood as tyrant's blood was shed before?Where are they who murder Peace before the breaking out of war?"Croaked the Eagle—"Baltimore."At the word, of sound so mournful, came a frown, half sad, half scornful,O'er the grand, majestic face where frown had never been before;And the hands to Heaven uplifted, with an awful pow'r seemed giftedTo plant curses on a head, and hold them there forevermore—To rain curses on a land, and bid them grow forevermore—Woe art thou, OBaltimore!Then the sacred spirit, fading, left upon the floor a shading,As of one with arms uplifted, from a distance bending o'er;And the vail of night grew thicker, and the death-watch beat the quickerFor a death within a death, and sadder than the death before!And a whispering of woe was heard upon Potomac's shore—Hear it not, OBaltimore!And the Eagle, never dying, still is trying, still is trying,With its wings upon the map to hide a city with its gore;But the name is there forever, and it shall be hidden never,While the awful brand of murder points the Avenger to its shore;While the blood of peaceful brothers God's dread vengeance doth implore,Thou art doomed, OBaltimore!

BALTIMORE.

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

Midnight shadows, dark, appalling, round the Capitol were falling,

And its dome and pillars glimmered spectral from Potomac's shore;

All the great had gone to slumber, and of all the busy number

That had moved the State by day within its walls, as erst before,

None there were but dreamed of heroes thither sent ere day was o'er—

Thither sent throughBaltimore.

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

But within a chamber solemn, barred aloft with many a column,

And with windows tow'rd Mount Vernon, windows tow'rd Potomac's shore,

Sat a figure, stern and awful; Chief, but not the Chieftain lawful

Of the land whose grateful millions Washington's great name adore—

Sat the form—a shade majestic of a Chieftain gone before,

Thine to honor,Baltimore!

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

There he sat in silence, gazing, by a single planet's blazing,

At a map outspread before him wide upon the marble floor;

And if 'twere for mortal proving that those reverend lips were moving,

While the eyes were closely scanning one mapped city o'er and o'er—

While he saw but one great city on that map upon the floor—

They were whispering—"Baltimore."

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

Thus he sat, nor word did utter, till there came a sudden flutter,

And the sound of beating wings was heard upon the carvéd door.

In a trice the bolts were broken; by those lips no word was spoken,

As an Eagle, torn and bloody, dim of eye, and wounded sore,

Fluttered down upon the map, and trailed a wing all wet with gore

O'er the name ofBaltimore!

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

Then that noble form uprising, with a gesture of surprising,

Bent with look of keenest sorrow tow'rd the bird that drooped before;

"Emblem of my country!" said he, "are thy pinions stained already

In a tide whose blending waters never ran so red before?

Is it with the blood of kinsmen? Tell me quickly, I implore!"

Croaked the eagle—"Baltimore!"

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

"Eagle," said the Shade, advancing, "tell me by what dread mischancing

Thou, the symbol of my people, bear'st thy plumes erect no more?

Why dost thou desert mine army, sent against the foes that harm me,

Through my country, with a Treason worlds to come shall e'er deplore?"

And the Eagle on the map, with bleeding wing, as just before,

Blurred the name ofBaltimore!

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

"Can it be?" the spectre muttered. "Can it be?" those pale lips uttered;

"Is the blood Columbia treasures spilt upon its native shore?

Is there in the land so cherished, land for whom the great have perished,

Men to shed a brother's blood as tyrant's blood was shed before?

Where are they who murder Peace before the breaking out of war?"

Croaked the Eagle—"Baltimore."

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

At the word, of sound so mournful, came a frown, half sad, half scornful,

O'er the grand, majestic face where frown had never been before;

And the hands to Heaven uplifted, with an awful pow'r seemed gifted

To plant curses on a head, and hold them there forevermore—

To rain curses on a land, and bid them grow forevermore—

Woe art thou, OBaltimore!

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

Then the sacred spirit, fading, left upon the floor a shading,

As of one with arms uplifted, from a distance bending o'er;

And the vail of night grew thicker, and the death-watch beat the quicker

For a death within a death, and sadder than the death before!

And a whispering of woe was heard upon Potomac's shore—

Hear it not, OBaltimore!

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

And the Eagle, never dying, still is trying, still is trying,

With its wings upon the map to hide a city with its gore;

But the name is there forever, and it shall be hidden never,

While the awful brand of murder points the Avenger to its shore;

While the blood of peaceful brothers God's dread vengeance doth implore,

Thou art doomed, OBaltimore!

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

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

"Oh—ah—yes," says the serious chap, vaguely, "what willyoutake?"

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

Yours, unforgivingly,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER V.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours, hastily,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER VI.

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

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

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

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

"What a splendid moonbeam!"

Villiam made a movement, and the sergeant came up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I told him I thought so myself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE LATE PRIVATE SHORTY.

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

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

Yours, mournfully,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

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

O. C. K.

LETTER VII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours, victoriously,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER VIII.

THE REJECTED "NATIONAL HYMNS."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Imprimis, my boy, observe this

NATIONAL ANTHEM.BY H. W. L——, OF CAMBRIDGE.Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarchOver the sea-ribbed land of the fleet-footed Norsemen,Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens—Ursa, the noblest of all the Vikings and horsemen.Musing, he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon,Where the Aurora lapt stars in a North-polar manner,Wildly he started—for there in the heavens before himFluttered and flew the original Star-Spangled Banner.

NATIONAL ANTHEM.

BY H. W. L——, OF CAMBRIDGE.

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

Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch

Over the sea-ribbed land of the fleet-footed Norsemen,

Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens—

Ursa, the noblest of all the Vikings and horsemen.

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

Musing, he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon,

Where the Aurora lapt stars in a North-polar manner,

Wildly he started—for there in the heavens before him

Fluttered and flew the original Star-Spangled Banner.

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

Next, I present a

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

NATIONAL ANTHEM.

BY THE HON. EDWARD E——, OF BOSTON.

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

Ponderous projectiles, hurled by heavy hands,

Fell on our Liberty's poor infant head,

Ere she a stadium had well advanced

On the great path that to her greatness led;

Her temple's propylon was shattered;

Yet, thanks to saving Grace and Washington,

Her incubus was from her bosom hurled;

And, rising like a cloud-dispelling sun,

She took the oil, with which her hair was curled,

To grease the "Hub" round which revolves the world.

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

We now come to a

NATIONAL ANTHEM.BY JOHN GREENLEAF W——.My native land, thy Puritanic stockStill finds its roots firm-bound in Plymouth Rock,And all thy sons unite in one grand wish—To keep the virtues of Preserv-éd Fish.Preserv-éd Fish, the Deacon stern and true,Told our New England what her sons should do,And should they swerve from loyalty and right,Then the whole land were lost indeed in night.

NATIONAL ANTHEM.

BY JOHN GREENLEAF W——.

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

My native land, thy Puritanic stock

Still finds its roots firm-bound in Plymouth Rock,

And all thy sons unite in one grand wish—

To keep the virtues of Preserv-éd Fish.

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

Preserv-éd Fish, the Deacon stern and true,

Told our New England what her sons should do,

And should they swerve from loyalty and right,

Then the whole land were lost indeed in night.

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

Here we have a very curious

NATIONAL ANTHEM.BY DR. OLIVER WENDELL H——.A diagnosis of our hist'ry provesOur native land a land its native loves;Its birth a deed obstetric without peer,Its growth a source of wonder far and near.To love it more behold how foreign shoresSink into nothingness beside its stores;Hyde Park at best—though counted ultra-grand—The "Boston Common" of Victoria's land—

NATIONAL ANTHEM.

BY DR. OLIVER WENDELL H——.

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

A diagnosis of our hist'ry proves

Our native land a land its native loves;

Its birth a deed obstetric without peer,

Its growth a source of wonder far and near.

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

To love it more behold how foreign shores

Sink into nothingness beside its stores;

Hyde Park at best—though counted ultra-grand—

The "Boston Common" of Victoria's land—

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

Turn we now to a

NATIONAL ANTHEM.BY RALPH WALDO E——.Source immaterial of material naught,Focus of light infinitesimal,Sum of all things by sleepless Nature wrought,Of which abnormal man is decimal.Refract, in prism immortal, from thy starsTo the stars blent incipient on our flag,The beam translucent, neutrifying death;And raise to immortality the rag.

NATIONAL ANTHEM.

BY RALPH WALDO E——.

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

Source immaterial of material naught,

Focus of light infinitesimal,

Sum of all things by sleepless Nature wrought,

Of which abnormal man is decimal.

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

Refract, in prism immortal, from thy stars

To the stars blent incipient on our flag,

The beam translucent, neutrifying death;

And raise to immortality the rag.

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

Here we have a

NATIONAL ANTHEMBY WILLIAM CULLEN B——.The sun sinks softly to his evening post,The sun swells grandly to his morning crown;Yet not a star our flag of Heav'n has lost,And not a sunset stripe with him goes down.So thrones may fall; and from the dust of those,New thrones may rise, to totter like the last;But still our country's nobler planet glowsWhile the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.

NATIONAL ANTHEM

BY WILLIAM CULLEN B——.

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

The sun sinks softly to his evening post,

The sun swells grandly to his morning crown;

Yet not a star our flag of Heav'n has lost,

And not a sunset stripe with him goes down.

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

So thrones may fall; and from the dust of those,

New thrones may rise, to totter like the last;

But still our country's nobler planet glows

While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.

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

Next we quote from a

NATIONAL ANTHEMBY GEN. GEORGE P. M——.In the days that tried our fathersMany years ago,Our fair land achieved her freedom,Blood-bought, you know.Shall we not defend her everAs we'd defendThat fair maiden, kind and tender,Calling us friend?Yes! Let all the echoes answer,From hill and vale;Yes! Let other nations, hearing,Joy in the tale.Our Columbia is a lady,High-born and fair;We have sworn allegiance to her—Touch her who dare.

NATIONAL ANTHEM

BY GEN. GEORGE P. M——.

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

In the days that tried our fathers

Many years ago,

Our fair land achieved her freedom,

Blood-bought, you know.

Shall we not defend her ever

As we'd defend

That fair maiden, kind and tender,

Calling us friend?

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

Yes! Let all the echoes answer,

From hill and vale;

Yes! Let other nations, hearing,

Joy in the tale.

Our Columbia is a lady,

High-born and fair;

We have sworn allegiance to her—

Touch her who dare.

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

Observe this

NATIONAL ANTHEMBY N. P. W——.One hue of our flag is takenFrom the cheeks of my blushing Pet,And its stars beat time and sparkleLike the studs on her chemisette.Its blue is the ocean shadowThat hides in her dreamy eyes,It conquers all men, like her,And still for a Union flies.

NATIONAL ANTHEM

BY N. P. W——.

One hue of our flag is takenFrom the cheeks of my blushing Pet,And its stars beat time and sparkleLike the studs on her chemisette.

One hue of our flag is taken

From the cheeks of my blushing Pet,

And its stars beat time and sparkle

Like the studs on her chemisette.

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

Its blue is the ocean shadow

That hides in her dreamy eyes,

It conquers all men, like her,

And still for a Union flies.

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

We next peruse a

NATIONAL ANTHEMBY THOMAS BAILEY A——.The little brown squirrel hops in the corn,The cricket quaintly sings;The emerald pigeon nods his head,And the shad in the river springs,The dainty sunflower hangs its headOn the shore of the summer sea;And better far that I were dead,If Maud did not love me.I love the squirrel that hops in the corn,And the cricket that quaintly sings;And the emerald pigeon that nods his head,And the shad that gayly springs.I love the dainty sunflower, too,And Maud with her snowy breast;I love them all;—but I love—I love—I love my country best.

NATIONAL ANTHEM

BY THOMAS BAILEY A——.

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

The little brown squirrel hops in the corn,

The cricket quaintly sings;

The emerald pigeon nods his head,

And the shad in the river springs,

The dainty sunflower hangs its head

On the shore of the summer sea;

And better far that I were dead,

If Maud did not love me.

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

I love the squirrel that hops in the corn,

And the cricket that quaintly sings;

And the emerald pigeon that nods his head,

And the shad that gayly springs.

I love the dainty sunflower, too,

And Maud with her snowy breast;

I love them all;—but I love—I love—

I love my country best.

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

Notice the following

NATIONAL ANTHEMBY R. H. STOD——.Behold the flag! Is it not a flag?Deny it, man, if you dare;And midway spread, 'twixt earth and sky,It hangs like a written prayer.Would impious hand of foe disturb.Its memories' holy spell,And blight it with a dew of blood?Ha, tr-r-aitor!!* * *It is well.

NATIONAL ANTHEM

BY R. H. STOD——.

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

Behold the flag! Is it not a flag?

Deny it, man, if you dare;

And midway spread, 'twixt earth and sky,

It hangs like a written prayer.

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

Would impious hand of foe disturb.

Its memories' holy spell,

And blight it with a dew of blood?

Ha, tr-r-aitor!!* * *It is well.

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

Yours, questioningly,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER IX.

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

Washington, D.C., July —, 1861.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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