HIGGINS.AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.BY GUSHALINA CRUSHIT.PREFACE.In writing the ensuing pages, I have been guided by no motives other than those which lead the mind, in its leisure hours, to scatter the germs of the beautiful. It may be urged that the character of my hero is unnatural; but I am sure there are many of my sex who will discover in Mr. Higgins a counter-part of the ideal of days when life still knew the odors of its first spring, and the soul of man seemed to the eye of innocence an elysium of virtue into which no gangrene of mere worldliness intruded. I have done.CHAPTER I.It was on the eve of a day in the happy month of June, that my great grandfather's carriage, drawn by six hundred and twenty-two white horses, drew up under the tall palm trees before the gates of the venerable Higgins' Lodge, and I was lifted almost fainting from the wearied vehicle. As my grandfather supported my trembling steps into the spacious hall of the lodge, I noticed that another figure had been added to our party. It was that of a man six feet high, and broad in proportion, whose majestic and spacious brow betokened realms of elysian thought and excrescent ideality. His pallid tresses hung in curls down his back, and an American flag floated from his Herculean shoulders. Fixed by a fascination only to be realized by those who have felt so, I cast my piercing glance at him, and my inmost soul knew all his sublimity. It was as though an angel's wing had swept my temples, and left a glittering pinion there."Mr. Higgins," said my grandfather, "here is your ward, Galushianna."For an instant silence prevailed.Then Mr. Higgins said, in tones of exquisitely modulated thunder:"What did you bring the d—d girlherefor, you old cuss you?"It was as when one sees a strain of music. I remembered the prayers of my dear departed mother when she sought to enlighten my speechless infancy with divine grace, and I felt that I loved this Higgins.Such is life. We wander through the bowers of love without a thought of the morrow, while the dread vulture of predestination eats into our souls, and cries, wo! wo! Truly, earthly happiness is a mockery.CHAPTER II.Scarcely had I taken my seat in the library after my grandfather had left us, when Mr. Higgins ordered me to black his boots. This I proceeded to do with a haughty air, scarcely daring to hope, but wishing that he would conquer his freezing reserve, and speak to me again. For I was but a child, and my young heart yearned for sympathy.Presently, Mr. Higgins turned his large gray eyes on me, and said:"Ha!"After this, he remained in a thoughtful reverie for two hours, and then turning to me, asked:"Galushiana, what do you think of me?""I think," replied I, carefully putting the blacking-brush in its place, "that your nature is naturally a noble one, but has been warped and shadowed by a misconceived impression of the great arcana of the universe. You permit the genuflexions of human sin to bias your mind in its estimate of the true economy of creation; thus blighting, as it were, the fructifying evidences of your own abstract being—"I blushed, and feared I had gone too far."Very true," responded Mr. Higgins, after a moment's pause; "Schiller says nearly the same thing. It was a sense of man's utter nothingness that led me to kill my grandmother, and poison the helpless offspring of my elder brother."Here Mr. Higgins held down his head and quivered with emotions, as the ocean quakes under the shrieking howl of the blast.I felt my whole being convulsed, and could not endure the spectacle. I stole softly to the door, and stammered through my tears, "Good-night, Mr. Higgins, I will pray for you."He did not turn his noble head, but said, in firm tones: "Poor little beast, good night."I went to my room, but could not sleep. Shortly after half-past two o'clock I crawled noiselessly down to the library-door and looked in. Mr. Higgins still sat before the fire in the same thoughtful position. "Poor little beast!" I heard him murmur softly to himself—"poor little beast!"CHAPTER III.Let the reader transport himself to a small stone cottage on the Hudson, and he will behold me as I was at the age of twenty-one. I had reached that acme of woman's career when common sense is to her as nothing, and the world with all its follies bursts upon her ravished ears with ten-fold succulence. My grandfather had been dead some fifty years, and I was even thinking of him, when the door opened, and Mr. Higgins entered. I felt my heart palpitate, and was about to quit the room, when he cast a searching glance at me, and said:"Well, girl—are you as big a fool as ever?"I hung my head, for the tell-tale blushwouldbloom."Come," said Mr. Higgins, "don't speak like a donkey. I'm no priestly confessor. Curse the priests! Curse the world! Curse everybody! Curse everything!" And he placed his feet upon the mantel-piece, and gazed meditatively into the fire.I could hear the beatings of my own heart, and all the warmth of my nature went forth to meet this sublime embodiment of human majesty; yet I dared not speak.After a short silence, Mr. Higgins took a chew of tobacco, and placing his hand on my shoulder, exclaimed:"Why should I deceive you, girl? Last night I poisoned my only remaining sister because she would have wed a circus-keeper, and scarcely an hour ago I lost two millions at faro. Your priests would say this was wrong—hey?"I stifled my sobs and said, as calmly as I could:"Our Church looks at the motive, not the deed. If a high sense of honor compelled you to poison all your relatives and play faro, the sin was rather the effect of vice in others than in your own noble heart, and I doubt not you may be called innocent."He glanced into the fire a few hours, and then said:"Go, Galushianna!—I would be alone! Go, innocent young scorpion."Oh, Higgins, Higgins, if I could have died for thee then, I don't know but I should have done it!CHAPTER IV.Seventy-five years have rolled by since last I met the reader, and I am still a thoughtless girl. But oh, how changed! The raven of despair has flapped his hideous brood over the halls of my ancestors, and taken from them all that once made them beautiful. When I look back I can see nothing before me, and when I look forward I can see nothing behind me. Thus it is with life. We fancy that each hour is a butterfly made to play with, and all is gall and bitterness.I was chastened by misfortune, and occupied a secluded cavern in the city of New Orleans, when my faithful old nurse entered my dressing-room, and burst into a fit of hysterical laughter."Sassafrina!" I exclaimed, half angrily."Please don't be angry, miss," responded the tired old creature; "but I knew it would come all right at last. I told you Sir Claude Higgins hadn't married his youngest sister, but you wouldn't believe me. Now he's down stairs in the parlor waiting for you."And the attached domestic fell dead at my feet.After hastily putting on a pair of clean stockings and reading a chapter in my mother's family Bible, I left the room, murmuring to myself, "Be still, my throbbing heart, be still."CHAPTER V.When I entered the parlor, Mr. Higgins sat gazing into the fire in an attitude of deep reflection, and did not note my entrance until I had touched him. His dishevelled hair hung from his massive temples in majestic discomposure, and an extinguished torch lay smouldering at his glorious feet.O my soul's idol! I can see thee now as I saw thee then, with the firelight glowing over thee, like a smile from the cerulean skies!As I touched him, he awoke."Miserable girl!" he exclaimed, in those old familiar tones, drawing me towards him, while a delicious tremor shook my every nerve. "Wretched little serpent! And is it thus we meet? Poor idiot, you are but a woman, and I—alas! what am I? Two hours ago, I set fire to three churches, and crushed a sexton 'neath my iron heel. Do you not shrink? 'Tis well. Then hear me, viper,I lovest thee."Was it the music of a higher sphere that I smelt, or was I still in this world of folly and sin? And were all my toils, my cares, my heart-breathings, my hope-sobbings, my soul-writhings to end thus gloriously at last in the adoration of a being on whom I lavished all the spirit's purest gloatings?My bliss was more than I could endure. Tearing all the hair-pins from my hair and tying my pocket handkerchief about my heaving neck, I flung myself upon his steaming chest."MyHiggins!""YourHiggins!!""OUR Higgins!!!"The Blissful Finis.
HIGGINS.
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
BY GUSHALINA CRUSHIT.
PREFACE.
In writing the ensuing pages, I have been guided by no motives other than those which lead the mind, in its leisure hours, to scatter the germs of the beautiful. It may be urged that the character of my hero is unnatural; but I am sure there are many of my sex who will discover in Mr. Higgins a counter-part of the ideal of days when life still knew the odors of its first spring, and the soul of man seemed to the eye of innocence an elysium of virtue into which no gangrene of mere worldliness intruded. I have done.
CHAPTER I.
It was on the eve of a day in the happy month of June, that my great grandfather's carriage, drawn by six hundred and twenty-two white horses, drew up under the tall palm trees before the gates of the venerable Higgins' Lodge, and I was lifted almost fainting from the wearied vehicle. As my grandfather supported my trembling steps into the spacious hall of the lodge, I noticed that another figure had been added to our party. It was that of a man six feet high, and broad in proportion, whose majestic and spacious brow betokened realms of elysian thought and excrescent ideality. His pallid tresses hung in curls down his back, and an American flag floated from his Herculean shoulders. Fixed by a fascination only to be realized by those who have felt so, I cast my piercing glance at him, and my inmost soul knew all his sublimity. It was as though an angel's wing had swept my temples, and left a glittering pinion there.
"Mr. Higgins," said my grandfather, "here is your ward, Galushianna."
For an instant silence prevailed.
Then Mr. Higgins said, in tones of exquisitely modulated thunder:
"What did you bring the d—d girlherefor, you old cuss you?"
It was as when one sees a strain of music. I remembered the prayers of my dear departed mother when she sought to enlighten my speechless infancy with divine grace, and I felt that I loved this Higgins.
Such is life. We wander through the bowers of love without a thought of the morrow, while the dread vulture of predestination eats into our souls, and cries, wo! wo! Truly, earthly happiness is a mockery.
CHAPTER II.
Scarcely had I taken my seat in the library after my grandfather had left us, when Mr. Higgins ordered me to black his boots. This I proceeded to do with a haughty air, scarcely daring to hope, but wishing that he would conquer his freezing reserve, and speak to me again. For I was but a child, and my young heart yearned for sympathy.
Presently, Mr. Higgins turned his large gray eyes on me, and said:
"Ha!"
After this, he remained in a thoughtful reverie for two hours, and then turning to me, asked:
"Galushiana, what do you think of me?"
"I think," replied I, carefully putting the blacking-brush in its place, "that your nature is naturally a noble one, but has been warped and shadowed by a misconceived impression of the great arcana of the universe. You permit the genuflexions of human sin to bias your mind in its estimate of the true economy of creation; thus blighting, as it were, the fructifying evidences of your own abstract being—"
I blushed, and feared I had gone too far.
"Very true," responded Mr. Higgins, after a moment's pause; "Schiller says nearly the same thing. It was a sense of man's utter nothingness that led me to kill my grandmother, and poison the helpless offspring of my elder brother."
Here Mr. Higgins held down his head and quivered with emotions, as the ocean quakes under the shrieking howl of the blast.
I felt my whole being convulsed, and could not endure the spectacle. I stole softly to the door, and stammered through my tears, "Good-night, Mr. Higgins, I will pray for you."
He did not turn his noble head, but said, in firm tones: "Poor little beast, good night."
I went to my room, but could not sleep. Shortly after half-past two o'clock I crawled noiselessly down to the library-door and looked in. Mr. Higgins still sat before the fire in the same thoughtful position. "Poor little beast!" I heard him murmur softly to himself—"poor little beast!"
CHAPTER III.
Let the reader transport himself to a small stone cottage on the Hudson, and he will behold me as I was at the age of twenty-one. I had reached that acme of woman's career when common sense is to her as nothing, and the world with all its follies bursts upon her ravished ears with ten-fold succulence. My grandfather had been dead some fifty years, and I was even thinking of him, when the door opened, and Mr. Higgins entered. I felt my heart palpitate, and was about to quit the room, when he cast a searching glance at me, and said:
"Well, girl—are you as big a fool as ever?"
I hung my head, for the tell-tale blushwouldbloom.
"Come," said Mr. Higgins, "don't speak like a donkey. I'm no priestly confessor. Curse the priests! Curse the world! Curse everybody! Curse everything!" And he placed his feet upon the mantel-piece, and gazed meditatively into the fire.
I could hear the beatings of my own heart, and all the warmth of my nature went forth to meet this sublime embodiment of human majesty; yet I dared not speak.
After a short silence, Mr. Higgins took a chew of tobacco, and placing his hand on my shoulder, exclaimed:
"Why should I deceive you, girl? Last night I poisoned my only remaining sister because she would have wed a circus-keeper, and scarcely an hour ago I lost two millions at faro. Your priests would say this was wrong—hey?"
I stifled my sobs and said, as calmly as I could:
"Our Church looks at the motive, not the deed. If a high sense of honor compelled you to poison all your relatives and play faro, the sin was rather the effect of vice in others than in your own noble heart, and I doubt not you may be called innocent."
He glanced into the fire a few hours, and then said:
"Go, Galushianna!—I would be alone! Go, innocent young scorpion."
Oh, Higgins, Higgins, if I could have died for thee then, I don't know but I should have done it!
CHAPTER IV.
Seventy-five years have rolled by since last I met the reader, and I am still a thoughtless girl. But oh, how changed! The raven of despair has flapped his hideous brood over the halls of my ancestors, and taken from them all that once made them beautiful. When I look back I can see nothing before me, and when I look forward I can see nothing behind me. Thus it is with life. We fancy that each hour is a butterfly made to play with, and all is gall and bitterness.
I was chastened by misfortune, and occupied a secluded cavern in the city of New Orleans, when my faithful old nurse entered my dressing-room, and burst into a fit of hysterical laughter.
"Sassafrina!" I exclaimed, half angrily.
"Please don't be angry, miss," responded the tired old creature; "but I knew it would come all right at last. I told you Sir Claude Higgins hadn't married his youngest sister, but you wouldn't believe me. Now he's down stairs in the parlor waiting for you."
And the attached domestic fell dead at my feet.
After hastily putting on a pair of clean stockings and reading a chapter in my mother's family Bible, I left the room, murmuring to myself, "Be still, my throbbing heart, be still."
CHAPTER V.
When I entered the parlor, Mr. Higgins sat gazing into the fire in an attitude of deep reflection, and did not note my entrance until I had touched him. His dishevelled hair hung from his massive temples in majestic discomposure, and an extinguished torch lay smouldering at his glorious feet.
O my soul's idol! I can see thee now as I saw thee then, with the firelight glowing over thee, like a smile from the cerulean skies!
As I touched him, he awoke.
"Miserable girl!" he exclaimed, in those old familiar tones, drawing me towards him, while a delicious tremor shook my every nerve. "Wretched little serpent! And is it thus we meet? Poor idiot, you are but a woman, and I—alas! what am I? Two hours ago, I set fire to three churches, and crushed a sexton 'neath my iron heel. Do you not shrink? 'Tis well. Then hear me, viper,I lovest thee."
Was it the music of a higher sphere that I smelt, or was I still in this world of folly and sin? And were all my toils, my cares, my heart-breathings, my hope-sobbings, my soul-writhings to end thus gloriously at last in the adoration of a being on whom I lavished all the spirit's purest gloatings?
My bliss was more than I could endure. Tearing all the hair-pins from my hair and tying my pocket handkerchief about my heaving neck, I flung myself upon his steaming chest.
"MyHiggins!"
"YourHiggins!!"
"OUR Higgins!!!"
The Blissful Finis.
The intellectual women of America draw it rather tempestuously when they try to reproduce gorgeous manhood; but they mean well, my boy,—they mean well.
Yours, in a brown study,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER X.
MAKING CONSERVATIVE MENTION OF THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN AND ITS EVENTS. THE FIRE-ZOUAVE'S VERSION OF THE AFFAIR, AND SO ON.
Washington, D.C., July 28th, 1861.
We have met the enemy at last, my boy; but I don't see that he's ours. We went after him with flying banners, and I noticed when we came back that they were flying still! Honor to the brave who fell on that bloody field! and may we kill enough secessionists to give each of them a monument of Southern skulls!
I was present at the great battle, my boy, and appointed myself a special guard of one of the baggage-wagons in the extreme rear. The driver saw me coming, and says he:
"You can't cut behind this here wehicle, my fine little boy."
I looked at him for a moment, after the manner of the late great actor, Mr. Kirby, and says I:
"Soldier, hast thou a wife?"
Says he:
"I reckon."
"And sixteen small children?"
Says he:
"There was only fifteen when last heard from."
"Soldier," says I, "were you to die before to-morrow, what would be your last request?"
Here I shed two tears.
"It would be," says he, "that some kind friend would take the job of walloping my offspring for a year on contract, and finding my beloved wife in subjects to jaw about."
"Soldier," says I, "I'm your friend and brother. Let me occupy a seat by your side."
And he didn't let me do it.
Just at this moment, something burst, and I found myself going up at the rate of two steeples and a shot-tower a second. I met a Fire Zouave on the way down, and says he:
"Towhead, if you see any of our boys up where you're goin' to, just tell them to hurry down; fur there's goin' to be a row, and Nine's fellers 'll take that ere four-gun hydrant from the seceshers in less time than you can reel two yards of hose."
As I wasverytired I did not go all the way up; but turned back at the first cloud, and returned hastily to the scene of strife. I happened to light on a very fat secesher, who was doing a little running for exercise. Down he went, with me on top of him. He was dreadfully scared; but says he to me: "I've =seen you before, by the gods!" I winked at him, and commenced to sharpen my sword on a stone.
"Tell me," says he, "had you a female mother?"
"I had," says I.
"And a masculine father?"
"He wore breeches."
"Then youaremy long lost grandfather!" says the secesher, endeavoring to embrace me.
"It won't do," says I; "I've been to the Bowery Theatre myself;" and with that I took off his neck-tie and wiped my nose with it. This action was so repugnant to the feelings of a Southern gentleman, that he immediately died on my hands; and there I left him.
It was my first personal victory in this unnatural war, my boy, and as I walked away I thought sadly of the domestic circle in the Southern Confederacy that might be waiting anxiously, tearfully, for the husband and father——him whom I had morally assassinated. And there he sprawled, denied even the simple privilege of extending a parting blessing to his children. Under ordinary circumstances, my boy, there's something deeply affecting in
THE DYING SOUTHERNER'S FAREWELL TO HIS SON.My boy, my lion-hearted boy,Your father's end draws near;Already is your loss begun,And, curse it, there's a tear.I've sought to bring you up, my son,A credit to the South,And all your poker games have beenAn honor to us both.Though scarcely sixteen years of age,Your bowie's tickled moreThan many Southerners I knowAt fifty and three score.You've whipped your nigger handsomely,And chewed your plug a day;And when I hear you swear, my son,What pride my eyes betray!And now, that I must leave the world,My dying words attend;But first, a chew of niggerhead,And cut it near the end.To you the old plantation goes,With mortgage, tax, and all,Though compound interest on that first,Will make the profit small.The niggers to your mother go;And if she wants to sell,You might contrive to buy her out,Should all the crops grow well.I leave you all my debts, my son,To Yankees chiefly due;But—curse the black republicans!That needn't trouble you.A true-born Southern gentlemanDisdains the vulgar thoughtOf paying, like a Yankee clerk,For what is sold and bought.Leave that to storekeepers and foolsWho never banked a card;We pay our "debts of honor," boy,Though pressed however hard.Last summer at the North I bought,Some nigger hats and shoes,And gave my note for ninety days;Forget it if you choose.The Yankee mudsills would not haveSuch articles to sell,If Southern liberalityHad fattened them less well.The Northern dun we hung last weekHad twenty dollars clear,And that, my son, is all the cashI have to give you here.But that's enough to make a start,And, if you pick your boat,A Mississippi trip or twoWill set you all afloat.You play a screaming hand, my son,And push an ugly cue;Oh! these are thoughts that make me feelAs dying Christians do!Keep cool, my lion-hearted boy,Till second ace is played,And then call out for brandy sourAs though your pile was made.The other chaps will think you've gotThe tiger by the tail;And when you see them looking glum,Just call for brandy pale!I never knew it fail to makeSome green one go it blind;And when the first slip-up is made,It's all your own, you'll find.My breath comes hard—I'm euchred, boy—First Families must die;I leave you in your innocence,And here's a last good-bye.
THE DYING SOUTHERNER'S FAREWELL TO HIS SON.
THE DYING SOUTHERNER'S FAREWELL TO HIS SON.
My boy, my lion-hearted boy,Your father's end draws near;Already is your loss begun,And, curse it, there's a tear.
My boy, my lion-hearted boy,
Your father's end draws near;
Already is your loss begun,
And, curse it, there's a tear.
I've sought to bring you up, my son,A credit to the South,And all your poker games have beenAn honor to us both.
I've sought to bring you up, my son,
A credit to the South,
And all your poker games have been
An honor to us both.
Though scarcely sixteen years of age,Your bowie's tickled moreThan many Southerners I knowAt fifty and three score.
Though scarcely sixteen years of age,
Your bowie's tickled more
Than many Southerners I know
At fifty and three score.
You've whipped your nigger handsomely,And chewed your plug a day;And when I hear you swear, my son,What pride my eyes betray!
You've whipped your nigger handsomely,
And chewed your plug a day;
And when I hear you swear, my son,
What pride my eyes betray!
And now, that I must leave the world,My dying words attend;But first, a chew of niggerhead,And cut it near the end.
And now, that I must leave the world,
My dying words attend;
But first, a chew of niggerhead,
And cut it near the end.
To you the old plantation goes,With mortgage, tax, and all,Though compound interest on that first,Will make the profit small.
To you the old plantation goes,
With mortgage, tax, and all,
Though compound interest on that first,
Will make the profit small.
The niggers to your mother go;And if she wants to sell,You might contrive to buy her out,Should all the crops grow well.
The niggers to your mother go;
And if she wants to sell,
You might contrive to buy her out,
Should all the crops grow well.
I leave you all my debts, my son,To Yankees chiefly due;But—curse the black republicans!That needn't trouble you.
I leave you all my debts, my son,
To Yankees chiefly due;
But—curse the black republicans!
That needn't trouble you.
A true-born Southern gentlemanDisdains the vulgar thoughtOf paying, like a Yankee clerk,For what is sold and bought.
A true-born Southern gentleman
Disdains the vulgar thought
Of paying, like a Yankee clerk,
For what is sold and bought.
Leave that to storekeepers and foolsWho never banked a card;We pay our "debts of honor," boy,Though pressed however hard.
Leave that to storekeepers and fools
Who never banked a card;
We pay our "debts of honor," boy,
Though pressed however hard.
Last summer at the North I bought,Some nigger hats and shoes,And gave my note for ninety days;Forget it if you choose.
Last summer at the North I bought,
Some nigger hats and shoes,
And gave my note for ninety days;
Forget it if you choose.
The Yankee mudsills would not haveSuch articles to sell,If Southern liberalityHad fattened them less well.
The Yankee mudsills would not have
Such articles to sell,
If Southern liberality
Had fattened them less well.
The Northern dun we hung last weekHad twenty dollars clear,And that, my son, is all the cashI have to give you here.
The Northern dun we hung last week
Had twenty dollars clear,
And that, my son, is all the cash
I have to give you here.
But that's enough to make a start,And, if you pick your boat,A Mississippi trip or twoWill set you all afloat.
But that's enough to make a start,
And, if you pick your boat,
A Mississippi trip or two
Will set you all afloat.
You play a screaming hand, my son,And push an ugly cue;Oh! these are thoughts that make me feelAs dying Christians do!
You play a screaming hand, my son,
And push an ugly cue;
Oh! these are thoughts that make me feel
As dying Christians do!
Keep cool, my lion-hearted boy,Till second ace is played,And then call out for brandy sourAs though your pile was made.
Keep cool, my lion-hearted boy,
Till second ace is played,
And then call out for brandy sour
As though your pile was made.
The other chaps will think you've gotThe tiger by the tail;And when you see them looking glum,Just call for brandy pale!
The other chaps will think you've got
The tiger by the tail;
And when you see them looking glum,
Just call for brandy pale!
I never knew it fail to makeSome green one go it blind;And when the first slip-up is made,It's all your own, you'll find.
I never knew it fail to make
Some green one go it blind;
And when the first slip-up is made,
It's all your own, you'll find.
My breath comes hard—I'm euchred, boy—First Families must die;I leave you in your innocence,And here's a last good-bye.
My breath comes hard—I'm euchred, boy—
First Families must die;
I leave you in your innocence,
And here's a last good-bye.
Shortly after the event I have recorded, I was examining the back of a house near the battle-field, to see if it corresponded with the front, when another Fire Zouave came along, and says he:
"It's my opine that you're sticking rather too thick to the rear of that house to be much punkins in a muss. Why don't you go to the front like a man?"
"My boy," says I, "this is the house of a predominant rebel, and I'm detailed to watch the back door."
With that the Zouave was taken with such a dreadful fit of coughing that he had to move on to get his breath, and I was left alone once more.
These Fire Zouaves, my boy, have a perversity about them not to be repressed. They were neck-and-neck with the rest of us in our stampede back to this city; and yet, my boy, they refuse to consider the United States of America worsted. Here is the version of
BULL RUN,BY A FIRE ZOUAVE.Oh, it's all very well for you fellersThat don't know a fire from the sun,To curl your moustaches, and tell usJust how the thingoughterbe done;But when twenty wake up ninety thousand,There's nothin' can follow but rout;We didn't give in till we had to;And what are yer coughin' about?The crowd that was with them ere rebelsHad ten to our every man;But a fireman's a fireman, me covey,And he'll put out a fire if he can:So we run the masheen at a gallop,As easy as open and shut,And as fast as one feller went under,Another kept takin' der butt.You oughter seen Farnham, that mornin'!In spite of the shot and the shellHis orders kept ringing around usAs clear as the City Hall bell.He said all he could to encourageAnd lighten the hearts of the men,Until he was bleeding and wounded,And nary dried up on it then.While two rifle regiments fought us,And batteries tumbled us down,Them cursed Black-Horse fellers charged us,Like all the Dead Rabbits in town.And that's just the way with them rebels,It's ten upon one, or no fair;But we emptied a few of their saddles—You may bet all your soap on that air!"Double up!" says our colonel, quite coolly,When he saw them come riding like mad,And we did double up in a hurry,And let them have all that we had.They came at us counting a hundred,And scarcely two dozen went back;So you see, if they bluffed us on aces,We made a big thing with the Jack.We fought till red shirts were as plentyAs blackberries, strewing the grass,And then we fell back for a breathing,To let Sixty-nine's fellers pass.Perhaps Sixty-nine didn't peg them,And give them uncommon cheroots?Well—I've just got to say, if they didn'tYou fellers can smell of my boots!The Brooklyn Fourteenth was another,And those Minnesota chaps too;But the odds were too heavy against us,And but one thing was left us to do:We had to make tracks for our quarters,And finished it up pretty rough;But if any chap says that they licked us,I'd just like to polish him off!
BULL RUN,
BULL RUN,
BY A FIRE ZOUAVE.
BY A FIRE ZOUAVE.
Oh, it's all very well for you fellersThat don't know a fire from the sun,To curl your moustaches, and tell usJust how the thingoughterbe done;But when twenty wake up ninety thousand,There's nothin' can follow but rout;We didn't give in till we had to;And what are yer coughin' about?
Oh, it's all very well for you fellers
That don't know a fire from the sun,
To curl your moustaches, and tell us
Just how the thingoughterbe done;
But when twenty wake up ninety thousand,
There's nothin' can follow but rout;
We didn't give in till we had to;
And what are yer coughin' about?
The crowd that was with them ere rebelsHad ten to our every man;But a fireman's a fireman, me covey,And he'll put out a fire if he can:So we run the masheen at a gallop,As easy as open and shut,And as fast as one feller went under,Another kept takin' der butt.
The crowd that was with them ere rebels
Had ten to our every man;
But a fireman's a fireman, me covey,
And he'll put out a fire if he can:
So we run the masheen at a gallop,
As easy as open and shut,
And as fast as one feller went under,
Another kept takin' der butt.
You oughter seen Farnham, that mornin'!In spite of the shot and the shellHis orders kept ringing around usAs clear as the City Hall bell.He said all he could to encourageAnd lighten the hearts of the men,Until he was bleeding and wounded,And nary dried up on it then.
You oughter seen Farnham, that mornin'!
In spite of the shot and the shell
His orders kept ringing around us
As clear as the City Hall bell.
He said all he could to encourage
And lighten the hearts of the men,
Until he was bleeding and wounded,
And nary dried up on it then.
While two rifle regiments fought us,And batteries tumbled us down,Them cursed Black-Horse fellers charged us,Like all the Dead Rabbits in town.And that's just the way with them rebels,It's ten upon one, or no fair;But we emptied a few of their saddles—You may bet all your soap on that air!
While two rifle regiments fought us,
And batteries tumbled us down,
Them cursed Black-Horse fellers charged us,
Like all the Dead Rabbits in town.
And that's just the way with them rebels,
It's ten upon one, or no fair;
But we emptied a few of their saddles—
You may bet all your soap on that air!
"Double up!" says our colonel, quite coolly,When he saw them come riding like mad,And we did double up in a hurry,And let them have all that we had.They came at us counting a hundred,And scarcely two dozen went back;So you see, if they bluffed us on aces,We made a big thing with the Jack.
"Double up!" says our colonel, quite coolly,
When he saw them come riding like mad,
And we did double up in a hurry,
And let them have all that we had.
They came at us counting a hundred,
And scarcely two dozen went back;
So you see, if they bluffed us on aces,
We made a big thing with the Jack.
We fought till red shirts were as plentyAs blackberries, strewing the grass,And then we fell back for a breathing,To let Sixty-nine's fellers pass.Perhaps Sixty-nine didn't peg them,And give them uncommon cheroots?Well—I've just got to say, if they didn'tYou fellers can smell of my boots!
We fought till red shirts were as plenty
As blackberries, strewing the grass,
And then we fell back for a breathing,
To let Sixty-nine's fellers pass.
Perhaps Sixty-nine didn't peg them,
And give them uncommon cheroots?
Well—I've just got to say, if they didn't
You fellers can smell of my boots!
The Brooklyn Fourteenth was another,And those Minnesota chaps too;But the odds were too heavy against us,And but one thing was left us to do:We had to make tracks for our quarters,And finished it up pretty rough;But if any chap says that they licked us,I'd just like to polish him off!
The Brooklyn Fourteenth was another,
And those Minnesota chaps too;
But the odds were too heavy against us,
And but one thing was left us to do:
We had to make tracks for our quarters,
And finished it up pretty rough;
But if any chap says that they licked us,
I'd just like to polish him off!
With the remembrance of the many heroic souls who sacrificed themselves for their country that day, I have not the heart, my boy, to continue the subject. I was routed at about five o'clock in the afternoon, and fell back on Washington, where I am now receiving my rations. I don't take the oath with any spirit since then; and a skeleton with nothing on but a havelock is all that is left of
Yours, emaciatedly,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER XI.
GIVING AN EFFECT OF THE NEW BUGLE DRILL IN THE MACKEREL BRIGADE, AND MAKING SOME NOTE OF THE LATEST IMPROVEMENTS IN ARTILLERY, ETC.
Washington, D.C., August —, 1861.
The Mackerel Brigade, of which I have the honor to be a member, was about the worst demoralized of all the brigades that covered themselves with glory and perspiration at the skrimmage of Bull Run. In the first place, it never had much morals, and when it came to be demoralized, it hadn't any; so that ever since the disaster, the peasantry in the neighborhood of the camp have been in constant mourning for departed pullets; and one venerable rustic complains that the Mackerel pickets milk all his cows every night, and come to borrow his churn in the morning. When one of the colonels heard the venerable rustic make this accusation, he says to him:
"Would you like to be revenged on the men who milk your animiles?" The venerable rustic took a chew of tobacco, and says he: "I wouldn't like anything better." The colonel looked at him sadly for a moment, and then remarked: "Aged stranger, you are already revenged. The men who milked your animiles are all from New York, where they had been accustomed to drink milk composed principally of Croton water. Upon drinking the pure article furnished by your gentle beastesses, they were all taken violently sick, and are now lying at the point of illness, expecting every moment to be their first." The venerable rustic was so affected by this intelligence, that he immediately went home in tears.
The new bugle drill is a very good idea, my boy, and our lads will probably become accustomed to it by the time they get used to it. The colonel of Regiment Five likes it so much that he has substituted the bugle for the drum, even. The other morning, when he tried it on for the first time, I was just entering the tent of one of the captains, to take the Oath with him, when the bugle sounded the order to turn out.
"Ah!" says the captain, when he heard it, "we're going to have fish for breakfast at last. I hope its porgies," says he: "for I'm uncommon fond of porgies."
"Why, what are you talking about?" says I.
"You innocent lamb," says he, "didn't you hear that ere fish-horn. It said 'porgies,' as plain as could be."
"Why, that's the bugle," says I, "and it sounded the order to turn out."
He took his disappointment very severely, my boy, for he was really very fond of porgies.
By invitation of a well-known official, I visited the Navy-Yard yesterday, and witnessed the trial of some newly-invented rifled cannon. The trial was of short duration, and the jury brought in a verdict of "innocent of any intent to kill."
The first gun tried was similar to those used in the Revolution, except that it had a larger touch-hole, and the carriage was painted green, instead of blue. This novel and ingenious weapon was pointed at a target about sixty yards distant. It didn't hit it, and as nobody saw any ball, there was much perplexity expressed. A midshipman did say that he thought the ball must have run out of the touch-hole when they loaded up—for which he was instantly expelled from the service. After a long search without finding the ball, there was some thought of summoning the Naval Retiring Board to decide on the matter, when somebody happened to look into the mouth of the cannon, and discovered that the ball hadn't gone out at all. The inventor said this would happen sometimes, especially if you didn't put a brick over the touch-hole when you fired the gun. The Government was so pleased with this explanation, that it ordered forty of the guns on the spot, at two hundred thousand dollars apiece. The guns to be furnished as soon as the war is over.
The next weapon tried was Jink's double back-action revolving cannon for ferry-boats. It consists of a heavy bronze tube, revolving on a pivot, with both ends open, and a touch-hole in the middle. While one gunner puts a load in at one end, another puts in a load at the other end, and one touch-hole serves for both. Upon applying the match, the gun is whirled swiftly round on a pivot, and both balls fly out in circles, causing great slaughter on both sides. This terrible engine was aimed at the target with great accuracy; but as the gunner has a large family dependent on him for support, he refused to apply the match. The Government was satisfied without firing, and ordered six of the guns at a million of dollars apiece. The guns to be furnished in time for our next war.
The last weapon subjected to trial was a mountain howitzer of a new pattern. The inventor explained that its great advantage was, that it required no powder. In battle it is placed on the top of a high mountain, and a ball slipped loosely into it. As the enemy passes the foot of the mountain, the gunner in charge tips over the howitzer, and the ball rolls down the side of the mountain into the midst of the doomed foe. The range of this terrible weapon depends greatly on the height of the mountain and the distance to its base. The Government ordered forty of these mountain howitzers at a hundred thousand dollars apiece, to be planted on the first mountains discovered in the enemy's country.
These are great times for gunsmiths, my boy; and if you find any old cannon around the junk-shops, just send them along.
There is much sensation in nautical circles arising from the immoral conduct of the rebel privateers; but public feeling has been somewhat easier since the invention of a craft for capturing the pirates, by an ingenious Connecticut chap. Yesterday he exhibited a small model of it at a cabinet meeting, and explained it thus:
"You will perceive," says he to the President, "that the machine itself will only be four times the size of the Great Eastern, and need not cost over a few millions of dollars. I have only got to discover one thing before I can make it perfect. You will observe that it has a steam-engine on board. This engine works a pair of immense iron clamps, which are let down into the water from the extreme end of a very lengthy horizontal spar. Upon approaching the pirate, the captain orders the engineer to put on steam. Instantly the clamps descend from the end of the spar and clutch the privateer athwartships. Then the engine is reversed, the privateer is lifted bodily out of the water, the spar swings around over the deck, and the pirate ship is let down into the hold by the run. Then shut your hatches, and you have ship and pirates safe and sound."
The President's gothic features lighted up beautifully at the words of the great inventor; but in a moment they assumed an expression of doubt, and says he:
"But how are you going to manage, if the privateer fires upon you while you are doing this?"
"My dear sir," says the inventor, "I told you I had only one thing to discover before I could make the machine perfect, and that's it."
So you see, my boy, there's a prospect of our doing something on the ocean next century, and there's only one thing in the way of our taking in pirates by the cargo.
Last evening a new brigadier-general, aged ninety-four years, made a speech to Regiment Five, Mackerel Brigade, and then furnished each man with a lead-pencil. He said that, as the Government was disappointed about receiving some provisions it had ordered for the troops, those pencils were intended to enable them to draw their rations as usual. I got a very big pencil, my boy, and have lived on a sheet of paper ever since.
Yours, pensively,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER XII.
GIVING AN ABSTRACT OF A GREAT ORATOR'S FLAGGING SPEECH, AND RECORDING A DEATHLESS EXPLOIT OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.
Washington, D.C., September 8th, 1861.
The weather in the neighborhood of Chain Bridge still continues to bear hard on fat men, my boy, and the man who carries a big stomach around with him will be a person in reduced circumstances before he gets to be a colonel. The Brigadier-General of the Mackerel Brigade observed, the other day, that he had been in hot water four weeks running, and ordered me to work six hours in the trenches for not laughing at the joke; he said that old Abe had people expressly to laugh at his jokes, and had selected his Cabinet officers because they all had large mouths, and could laugh easily; he said that he was resolved to have his own jokes appreciated, and if he didn't, he'd be perditionized. It's my impression—I say it's my impression, my boy, that the general got off his best joke when he promised the Mackerel Brigade to look after their interests as though they were his brothers. He may look after them, my boy, but it's after they're out of sight. I don't say that he takes advantage of us: but I know that just after a basket of champagne was sent to the camp, directed to me, yesterday, I saw him sitting on an empty basket in his tent, trying to wind up his watch with a corkscrew. I asked him what time it was, and he said the Conzstorshun must and shall be blockade—dade—did. I told him I thought so myself, and he immediately burst into tears, and said he should never see his mother again.
On Tuesday, there was a rumor that the Southern Confederacy had attacked at regiment at Alexandria, for the purpose of creating a confusion, so that it might pick the colonel's pockets, and Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, was ordered to go instantly to the rescue. Just as we were ready to march, a distinguished citizen of Washington presented a sword to the colonel from the ladies of the Capital, and made an eloquent speech. He spoke of the wonderful manner in which the world was called out of chaos at the creation, and spoke feelingly of the Garden of Eden, and the fall of our first parents; he then went on to review the many changes the earth had experienced since it was first created, and described the method of the ancients to cook bread before stoves were invented; he then spoke of the glories of Greece and Rome, giving a full history of them from the beginning to the present time; he then went on to describe the origin of the republican and democratic parties, reading both platforms, and giving his ideas of Jackson's policy; he then gave an account of the war of the Roses in England, and the cholera in Persia, attributing the latter to a sudden change in the atmosphere; he then went on to speak of the difficulties encountered by Columbus in discovering this country, and gave a history of his subsequent career and death in Europe; he then read an extract from Washington's Farewell Address; in conclusion, he said that the ladies of Washington had empowered him to present this here sword to that ere gallant colonel, in the presence of these here brave defenders of their country.
At the conclusion of this speech, starvation commenced to make great ravages in the regiment, and the colonel was so weak, for want of sleep, that he had to be carried to his tent. A private remarked to me, that, if we could only have one more such presentation speech as that, the regiment would be competent to start a grave-yard before it was finished. I believe him, my boy!
When the presentation was finished, the colonel announced from his camp-bedstead that the rumor of a fight at Alexandria was all a hum, and ordered us back to our tents. We hadn't been to our tents for such a long time, that some of us couldn't find them, and one of our boys actually wandered around until he found himself at home in New York.
The Mackerel Brigade, my boy, had a great engagement yesterday, and came very near repulsing the enemy. We were ordered to march forward in three columns, until we came within five miles of the enemy, Colonel Wobbles leading the first; Mr. Wobbles, the second; and Wobbles, the third. In the advance our lines presented the shape of a clam-shell, but as we neared the point of danger, they gradually assumed more of the form of a cone, the rear-guard being several times as thick as the advance guard. When within six miles of the seceshers, we planted our battery of four six pounders, and opened a horrible fire of shot and shell on the adjacent country. The seceshers replied with a hail of canister and shrapnell, and for eight hours the battle raged fearfully, but without hurting anybody, as the hostile forces were too far apart to reach each other with shot. Finally, Colonel Wobbles sent a messenger, by railroad, to ask the seceshers what they wanted, and they said they only wanted to be let alone. On receiving this reply, Colonel Wobbles was much affected, and ordered us to march back to camp, which we did.
This affair was really a great victory for the Union, my boy, and I cannot refrain from giving short biographical sketches of the leaders concerned in it, commencing with
COLONEL WOBBLES.This gallant officer, on whom the eyes of the whole world are now turned, was born at an exceedingly early age, in the place of his nativity. When but a mere boy, he evinced a fondness for the law, and his father, who was his mother's husband, placed him in the office of the late Daniel Webster. He practised law for some years, but failed to find any clients, and finally started a grocery store under Jackson's administration. At this time, Calhoun's peculiar views were agitating Christendom, and Mr. Wobbles married a daughter of the late John Thomas, by whom he had no children. When the war broke out in Mexico, he left the grocery business, and opened a liquor store on the estate of the late J. Smith, and accumulated sufficient money to send his family into the country. Colonel Wobbles is now about eighty-five years old.MR. WOBBLES.This heroic young officer, now attracting so much attention, drew his first breath among the peaceful scenes of home, from which the captious might have augured anything but a soldier's destiny for him. While yet very young, he was remarkable for his proficiency in making dirt-pies, and went to school with the sons of the late Mr. Jones. In 1846, he did not graduate at West Point; but when the war broke out between Mexico and the United States, he married a niece of the late Daniel Webster. It was also at this period of his eventful career that he first became a husband, and shortly after the birth of his eldest child, it was rumored that he had also become a father. He entered the present war as a military man. He is now but forty years old.WOBBLES.This noble patriot soldier, whose name is now a household word all over the world, was reared from infancy in the village of his birth, and took a prominent part in the meals of his family. While yet a youth, the Florida war broke out, and he attended the high-school of the late Mr. Brown. On arriving of age, he was just twenty-one years old, and was not a student at West Point. Shortly after this event, he married a cousin of the late Daniel Webster, and during the Mexican War he had one child, who still bears his father's name. Wobbles is now sixty years old.
COLONEL WOBBLES.
This gallant officer, on whom the eyes of the whole world are now turned, was born at an exceedingly early age, in the place of his nativity. When but a mere boy, he evinced a fondness for the law, and his father, who was his mother's husband, placed him in the office of the late Daniel Webster. He practised law for some years, but failed to find any clients, and finally started a grocery store under Jackson's administration. At this time, Calhoun's peculiar views were agitating Christendom, and Mr. Wobbles married a daughter of the late John Thomas, by whom he had no children. When the war broke out in Mexico, he left the grocery business, and opened a liquor store on the estate of the late J. Smith, and accumulated sufficient money to send his family into the country. Colonel Wobbles is now about eighty-five years old.
MR. WOBBLES.
This heroic young officer, now attracting so much attention, drew his first breath among the peaceful scenes of home, from which the captious might have augured anything but a soldier's destiny for him. While yet very young, he was remarkable for his proficiency in making dirt-pies, and went to school with the sons of the late Mr. Jones. In 1846, he did not graduate at West Point; but when the war broke out between Mexico and the United States, he married a niece of the late Daniel Webster. It was also at this period of his eventful career that he first became a husband, and shortly after the birth of his eldest child, it was rumored that he had also become a father. He entered the present war as a military man. He is now but forty years old.
WOBBLES.
This noble patriot soldier, whose name is now a household word all over the world, was reared from infancy in the village of his birth, and took a prominent part in the meals of his family. While yet a youth, the Florida war broke out, and he attended the high-school of the late Mr. Brown. On arriving of age, he was just twenty-one years old, and was not a student at West Point. Shortly after this event, he married a cousin of the late Daniel Webster, and during the Mexican War he had one child, who still bears his father's name. Wobbles is now sixty years old.
You will observe, my boy, that these noble officers have merited the commissions of brigadier-generals, and if they don't get them they'll resign. Colonel Wobbles told me this morning, that if he resigned the army would all go to pieces. I believe him, my boy!—field pieces.
Yours, biographically,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER XIII.
SUBMITTING VARIOUS RUMORS CONCERNING THE CONDITION OF THINGS AT THE SOUTH, WITH A SKETCH OF A LIGHT SKELETON REGIMENT AND A NOTE OF VILLIAM BROWN'S RECRUITING EXPLOIT.
Washington, D.C., September 20th, 1861.
There is every indication that something is about to occur, which, when it does transpire, my boy, will undoubtedly give rise to the rumor that a certain thing has happened. It was observed in military circles yesterday, that General McClellan ordered a new pair of boots to be forwarded immediately from New York, and from this it is justly inferred that the Chain Bridge will be attacked by the rebels in force very shortly.
A gentleman who has just arrived from the South to purchase some postage-stamps, states that the rebel army is in an awful condition, and will starve to death as soon as Beauregard gives the order. At Richmond, ice-cream was selling for a hundred dollars a quart, gum-drops at sixty dollars an ounce, Brandreth's Pills at forty-two dollars and a half a box, Spaulding's Prepared Glue at twenty dollars a pint, and Mrs. Winslow's Soothing Syrup at four hundred dollars a bottle. In consequence of the sudden approach of fall and the renewed stringency of the blockade, there are no strawberries to be had, and the First Families are subsisting entirely upon persimmons. Should the winter prove cold, the Southerners to a man will be compelled to wear much thicker clothing, and it is anticipated that many of them will take cold.De lunatico inquirendohas broken out among the rebel troops at Manassas Junction, in consequence of insufficient accommodation, and the hospitals are so full of patients that numerous sufferers may be seen bulging out of the windows.
The same gentleman thinks that Beauregard will be obliged to attack Washington at once, or resign his commission and go to the Dry Tortugas with his whole army. They are called theDryTortugas, my boy, because not a cocktail was ever known to be raised there.
A perfectly reliable but respectable person arrived here yesterday from Paris, and brings highly important intelligence from North Carolina. He has been permitted to sleep with a gentleman formerly residing in that State, and his report is credited by the Administration. Nearly all the people of North Carolina are devoted Union men at heart, and would gladly rally around the old flag, if it were not for the fact that nearly all the rest of the people of the State are secessionists and won't let them. In a town of 750 inhabitants, 748 and a half (one small boy) are determined Unionists; but the remainder, who are brutal traitors, have seized all the arms in the place, and threaten all who oppose them with instant death. At Raleigh, a mob consisting of three secessionists, has seized the post-office and all the letters of marque found in it. Marque has fled from the State. Since the victory of Hatteras Inlet, the Union men have taken courage, and say, that if the Government will send two hundred thousand men to their assistance, and seventy-five rifled cannon, they can expel their oppressors in a few years. These true patriots must be instantly assisted, or a decimated and infuriated people will demand the expulsion of the entire Cabinet, and an entirely new issue of contracts for shoddy. In the interior of North Carolina there has been a rising of slaves. In fact, they rise every morning very early. From this theTribunereport of a negro insurrection originated.
I formed a new acquaintance the other day, my boy, in the shape of the Calcium Light Regiment, which is now ready to receive a few more recruits. The Calcium Light Regiment was born in Boston, near Bunker Hill Monument, and is now about sixty-five years old. He has become greatly demoralized from going without his rations for some days past, and is what may be called a skeleton regiment. He says that if he goes without them much longer, he'll soon be as light as a 12-inch comet, and won't need much calcium to blind the enemy to his presence. He'sverylight, my boy, and his features are so sharp that he might be used to spike a cannon with. The Calcium Light Regiment was recruited at great expense in New York, and went into camp on Riker's Island, until Secretary Cameron ordered his colonel to bring him on immediately for the defence of Washington. The regiment has three officers, and will elect the others as soon as his voice is strong enough. He says that he is a regiment of 1,000 men; he says that 1,000 is simply the figure 1 and three ciphers, and that he represents the 1, and his three officers the three ciphers.
I believe him, my boy!
Villiam Brown, of Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, asked his colonel last week for leave to go to New York on recruiting service, and got it. He came back to-day, and says the colonel to him:
"Where's your recruits?"
Villiam smiled sweetly, and remarked that he didn't see it.
"Why, you went to New York on recruiting service, didn't you?" exclaimed the colonel.
"Yes," says Villiam, "I went to recruit my health."
The colonel immediately administered the Oath to him. The Oath, my boy, tastes well with lemon in it.
The women of America, my boy, are noble creatures, and do not forget the brave soldiers of the Union. They have just sent the Mackerel Brigade a case of umbrellas, and we expect a gross of hair-pins by the next train.
Yours, meditatively,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER XIV.
SHOWING HOW OUR CORRESPONDENT MADE A SPEECH OF VAGUE CONTINUITY, AFTER THE MODEL OF THE LATEST APPROVED STUMP ORATORY.
Washington, D.C., September 30th, 1861.
Another week has fled swiftly by, my boy, on those wings which poets and other long-haired creatures suppose to be eternally flapping through the imaginary atmosphere of time; yet the high old battle so long expected has not got any further than "heavy firing near the Chain Bridge," which takes place every afternoon punctually at three o'clock—just in time for the evening papers. I have been thinking, my boy, that if this heavy firing in the vicinity of Chain Bridge lasts a few years longer, it will finally become a nuisance to the First Families living in that vicinity. But sometimes what is thought to be heavy firing is not that exactly; the other day, a series of loud explosions were heard on Arlington Heights, and twenty-four reporters immediately telegraphed to twenty-four papers that five hundred thousand rebels had attacked our lines with two thousand rifled cannon, and had been repulsed with a loss of fourteen thousand killed. Federal loss—one killed, and two committed suicide. But when General McClellan came to inquire into the cause of the explosions, this report was somewhat modified:
"What was that firing for?" he asked an orderly, who had just come over the river.
"If you please, sir," responded the sagacious animal, "there was no firing at all. It was Villiam Brown, of Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, which has a horrible cold, and sneezes in that way."
Villiam has since been ordered to telegraph to the War Department whenever he sneezes, so that no more of these harrowing mistakes may be made.
Last night, my boy, an old rooster from Cattaraugus, who wants a one-horse post-office, and thinks I've got some influence with Abe the Venerable, brought six big Dutchmen to serenade me; and, as soon I opened the window to damn them, he called unanimously for a speech. At this time, my boy, an immense crowd, consisting of two policemen and a hackman, were drawn to the spot, and greeted me with great applause. Feeling that their intentions were honorable, I could not bear to disappoint my fellow-citizens, and so I was constrained to make the following
SPEECH.Men of America:—It is with feelings akin to emotion that I regard this vast assemblage of Nature's noblemen, and reflect that it comes to do honor to me, who have only performed my duty. Gentlemen, my heart is full; as the poet says:"The night shall be filled with burglars,And the chaps that infest the dayShall pack up their duds like peddlers,And carry the spoons away."It seems scarcely five minutes ago that this vast and otherwise large country sprung from chaos at the call of Columbus, and immediately commenced to produce wooden nutmegs for a foreign shore. It seems but three seconds ago that all this beautiful scene was a savage wild, and echoed the axe-falls of the sanguinary pioneer, and the footfalls of the Last of the Mohicans. Now what do I see before me? A numerous assembly of respectable Dutchmen, and other Americans, all ready to prove to the world that"Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,The immortal ears of jack are hers;But Sarah languishes in painAnd dyes, amid her worshipers."I am convinced, fellow-citizens, that the present outrageous war is no ordinary row, and that it cannot be brought to a successful termination without some action on the part of the Government. If to believe that a war cannot rage without being prosecuted, is abolitionism, then I am an abolitionist; if to believe that a good article of black ink can be made out of black men, is republicanism, then I am a republican; but we are all brothers now, except that fat Dutchman, who has gone to sleep on his drum, and I pronounce him an accursed secessionist:"How doth the little busy beeImprove each shining hour,And gathers beeswax all the day,From every opening flower."Men of America, shall these things longer be?—I address myself particularly to that artist with the accordeon, who don't understand a word of English—shall these things longer be? That's what I want to know. The majestic shade of Washington listens for an answer, and I intend to send it by mail as soon as I receive it. Fellow citizens, it can no longer be denied that there is treason at our very hearthstones. Treason—merciful Heavens!"Come rest in this bosom, my own little dear,The Honourable R. M. T. Hunter is here;I know not, I care not, if jilt's in that heart,I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art."And now the question arises, is Morrill's tariff really a benefit to the country? Gentlemen, it would be unbecoming in me to answer this question, and you would be incapable of understanding what I might say on the subject. The present is no time to think about tariffs: our glorious country is in danger, and there is a tax of three per cent on all incomes over eight hundred dollars. Let each man ask himself in Dutch: "Am I prepared to shoulder my musket if I am drafted, or to procure a reprobate to take my place?" In other words:"The minstrel returned from the war,With insects at large in his hair,And having a tuneful catarrh,He sung through his nose to his fair."Therefore, it is simply useless to talk reason to those traitors, who forget the words of Jackson—words, let me add, which I myself do not remember. Animated by an unholy lust for arsenals, rifled cannon, and mints, and driven to desperation by the thought that Everett is preparing a new Oration on Washington, and Morris a new song on a young woman living up the Hudson River, they are overturning the altars of their country and issuing treasury bonds, which cannot be justly called objects of interest. What words can express the horrors of such unnatural crime?"Oft in the chilly night,When slumber's chains have bound me,Soft Mary brings a light,And puts a shawl around me."Such, fellow-citizens, is the condition of our unhappy country at present, and as soon as it gets any better I will let you know. An Indian once asked a white man for a drink of whisky. "No!" said the man, "you red skins are just ignorant enough to ruin yourselves with liquor." The sachem looked calmly into the eyes of the insulter, as he retorted: "You say I am ignorant. How can that be when I am a well-red man?"And so it is, fellow-citizens, with this Union at present, though I am not able to show exactly where the parallel is. Therefore,"Let us then be up and wooing,With a heart for any mate,Still proposing, still pursuing,Learn to court her, and to wait."
SPEECH.
Men of America:—It is with feelings akin to emotion that I regard this vast assemblage of Nature's noblemen, and reflect that it comes to do honor to me, who have only performed my duty. Gentlemen, my heart is full; as the poet says:
"The night shall be filled with burglars,And the chaps that infest the dayShall pack up their duds like peddlers,And carry the spoons away."
"The night shall be filled with burglars,And the chaps that infest the dayShall pack up their duds like peddlers,And carry the spoons away."
"The night shall be filled with burglars,
And the chaps that infest the day
Shall pack up their duds like peddlers,
And carry the spoons away."
It seems scarcely five minutes ago that this vast and otherwise large country sprung from chaos at the call of Columbus, and immediately commenced to produce wooden nutmegs for a foreign shore. It seems but three seconds ago that all this beautiful scene was a savage wild, and echoed the axe-falls of the sanguinary pioneer, and the footfalls of the Last of the Mohicans. Now what do I see before me? A numerous assembly of respectable Dutchmen, and other Americans, all ready to prove to the world that
"Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,The immortal ears of jack are hers;But Sarah languishes in painAnd dyes, amid her worshipers."
"Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,The immortal ears of jack are hers;But Sarah languishes in painAnd dyes, amid her worshipers."
"Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,
The immortal ears of jack are hers;
But Sarah languishes in pain
And dyes, amid her worshipers."
I am convinced, fellow-citizens, that the present outrageous war is no ordinary row, and that it cannot be brought to a successful termination without some action on the part of the Government. If to believe that a war cannot rage without being prosecuted, is abolitionism, then I am an abolitionist; if to believe that a good article of black ink can be made out of black men, is republicanism, then I am a republican; but we are all brothers now, except that fat Dutchman, who has gone to sleep on his drum, and I pronounce him an accursed secessionist:
"How doth the little busy beeImprove each shining hour,And gathers beeswax all the day,From every opening flower."
"How doth the little busy beeImprove each shining hour,And gathers beeswax all the day,From every opening flower."
"How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gathers beeswax all the day,
From every opening flower."
Men of America, shall these things longer be?—I address myself particularly to that artist with the accordeon, who don't understand a word of English—shall these things longer be? That's what I want to know. The majestic shade of Washington listens for an answer, and I intend to send it by mail as soon as I receive it. Fellow citizens, it can no longer be denied that there is treason at our very hearthstones. Treason—merciful Heavens!
"Come rest in this bosom, my own little dear,The Honourable R. M. T. Hunter is here;I know not, I care not, if jilt's in that heart,I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art."
"Come rest in this bosom, my own little dear,The Honourable R. M. T. Hunter is here;I know not, I care not, if jilt's in that heart,I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art."
"Come rest in this bosom, my own little dear,
The Honourable R. M. T. Hunter is here;
I know not, I care not, if jilt's in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art."
And now the question arises, is Morrill's tariff really a benefit to the country? Gentlemen, it would be unbecoming in me to answer this question, and you would be incapable of understanding what I might say on the subject. The present is no time to think about tariffs: our glorious country is in danger, and there is a tax of three per cent on all incomes over eight hundred dollars. Let each man ask himself in Dutch: "Am I prepared to shoulder my musket if I am drafted, or to procure a reprobate to take my place?" In other words:
"The minstrel returned from the war,With insects at large in his hair,And having a tuneful catarrh,He sung through his nose to his fair."
"The minstrel returned from the war,With insects at large in his hair,And having a tuneful catarrh,He sung through his nose to his fair."
"The minstrel returned from the war,
With insects at large in his hair,
And having a tuneful catarrh,
He sung through his nose to his fair."
Therefore, it is simply useless to talk reason to those traitors, who forget the words of Jackson—words, let me add, which I myself do not remember. Animated by an unholy lust for arsenals, rifled cannon, and mints, and driven to desperation by the thought that Everett is preparing a new Oration on Washington, and Morris a new song on a young woman living up the Hudson River, they are overturning the altars of their country and issuing treasury bonds, which cannot be justly called objects of interest. What words can express the horrors of such unnatural crime?
"Oft in the chilly night,When slumber's chains have bound me,Soft Mary brings a light,And puts a shawl around me."
"Oft in the chilly night,When slumber's chains have bound me,Soft Mary brings a light,And puts a shawl around me."
"Oft in the chilly night,
When slumber's chains have bound me,
Soft Mary brings a light,
And puts a shawl around me."
Such, fellow-citizens, is the condition of our unhappy country at present, and as soon as it gets any better I will let you know. An Indian once asked a white man for a drink of whisky. "No!" said the man, "you red skins are just ignorant enough to ruin yourselves with liquor." The sachem looked calmly into the eyes of the insulter, as he retorted: "You say I am ignorant. How can that be when I am a well-red man?"
And so it is, fellow-citizens, with this Union at present, though I am not able to show exactly where the parallel is. Therefore,
"Let us then be up and wooing,With a heart for any mate,Still proposing, still pursuing,Learn to court her, and to wait."
"Let us then be up and wooing,With a heart for any mate,Still proposing, still pursuing,Learn to court her, and to wait."
"Let us then be up and wooing,
With a heart for any mate,
Still proposing, still pursuing,
Learn to court her, and to wait."
At the conclusion of this unassuming speech, my boy, I was waited upon by a young man, who asked me if I did not want to purchase some poetry; he had several yards to sell, and warranted it to wash.
Yours, particularly,
Orpheus C. Kerr.