Chapter 4

LETTER XV.

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

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

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

THE EDITOR'S WOOING.We love thee, Ann Maria Smith,And in thy condescension,We see a future full of joysToo numerous to mention.There's Cupid's arrow in thy glance,That by thy love's coercionHas reached our melting heart of hearts,And asked for one insertion.With joy we feel the blissful smart,And ere our passion ranges,We freely place thy love uponThe list of our exchanges.There's music in thy lowest tone,And silver in thy laughter;And truth—but we will give the fullParticulars hereafter.Oh! we could tell thee of our plansAll obstacles to scatter;But we are full just now, and haveA press of other matter.Then let us marry, Queen of Smiths,Without more hesitation;The very thought doth give our bloodA larger circulation!

THE EDITOR'S WOOING.

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

We love thee, Ann Maria Smith,

And in thy condescension,

We see a future full of joys

Too numerous to mention.

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

There's Cupid's arrow in thy glance,

That by thy love's coercion

Has reached our melting heart of hearts,

And asked for one insertion.

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

With joy we feel the blissful smart,

And ere our passion ranges,

We freely place thy love upon

The list of our exchanges.

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

There's music in thy lowest tone,

And silver in thy laughter;

And truth—but we will give the full

Particulars hereafter.

Oh! we could tell thee of our plansAll obstacles to scatter;But we are full just now, and haveA press of other matter.

Oh! we could tell thee of our plans

All obstacles to scatter;

But we are full just now, and have

A press of other matter.

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

Then let us marry, Queen of Smiths,

Without more hesitation;

The very thought doth give our blood

A larger circulation!

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

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

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

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

"Then take the Oath," says I.

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

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

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

Yours, nautically,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER XVI.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours, hoarsely,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER XVII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I believe him, my boy!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I allowed that I did.

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

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

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

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

Yours, musingly,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER XVIII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The chap thy tactics doom to bleed to-day—

Had he thy reasons, would he poker play?

Pleased to the last, he does a deal of good,

And licks the man just sent to shed his blood."

I am weeping, my boy.

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

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

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

I looked at him, and says I:

"Let's compromise, my brother."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nothing!" says I.

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

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

"What's that?" I exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

He then died.

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

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

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

Your own picket,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER XIX.

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

Washington, D.C., November —, 1861.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nervously clutched his treasure, and says he:

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

"ADVICE TO A MAID."Perennial maiden, thou art no less fairThan those whose fairness barely equals thine;And like a cloud on Athos is thy hair,Touched with Promethean fire to make it shineAbove the temple of a soul divine;And yet, methinks, it doth resemble, too,The strands Berenice 'mid the stars doth twine,As Mitchell's small Astronomy doth show;Procure the book, dear maid, when to the town you go."Young as thou art, thou might'st be younger still,If divers years were taken from thy life:And who shall say, if marry man you will,You may not prove some man's own wedded wife?Such things do happen in this worldly strife,If they take place—that is, if they are done;For with warm love this earthly dream is rife—And where love shines there always is a sun—As I remark in my Oration upon Washington."Supposing thou dost marry, thou wilt yearnFor that which thou dost want; in fact, desire—The wisdom shaped for older heads to learn,And well designed to tame Youth's giddy fire:The wisdom, conflicts with the world inspire,Such as, perchance, I may myself possess,Though I am but a man, as was my sire,And own not wisdom such as gods may bless;For man is naught, and naught is nothingness."Still, I may tell thee all that I do know,And telling that, tell all I comprehend;Since all man hath is all that he can show,And what he hath not, is not his to lend.Therefore, young maid, if you will but attend,You shall hear that which shall salute your ear;But if you list not, I my breath shall spendUpon the zephyrs wandering there and here,The far-off hearing less, perhaps, than those more near."Remember this: thou art thy husband's wife,And he the mortal thou art married to;Else, thou fore'er hadst led a single life,And he had never come thy heart to woo.Rememb'ring this, do thou remember, too,He is thy bridegroom, thou his chosen bride;And if unto his side thou provest true,Then thou wilt be for ever at his side;As Tacitus observes, with some degree of pride."See that his buttons to his shirts adhere,As Trojan Hector to the walls of Troy;And see that not, Achilles-like, appearRents in his stocking-heels; but be your joyTo have his wardrobe all your thoughts employ,Save such deep thought as may, in duty given,Suit to his tastes his dinners; nor annoyDigestion's tenor in its progress even;Then his the joy of Harvard, Boston, and high Heaven."If a bread-pudding thou wouldst fondly make—A thing nutritious, but no costly meal—Of bread that's stale a due proportion take,And soak in water warm enough to feel;Then add a strip or two of lemon-peel,With curdled milk and raisins to your taste,And stir the whole with ordinary zeal,Until the mass becomes a luscious paste.Such pudding strengthens man, and doth involve no waste."See thou thy husband's feet are never wet—For wet brings cold, and colds such direful achesAs old Parrhasius never felt when setOn cruel racks or slow impaling stakes.Make him abstain, if sick, from griddle-cakes—They, being rich, his stomach might derange—And if in thin-soled shoes a walk he takes,See that his stockings he doth quickly change.Thus should thy woman's love through woman's duties range."And now, fair maiden, all the stars grow pale,And teeming Nature drinks the morning dews;And I must hasten to my Orient vale,And quick put on a pair of over-shoes.If from my words your woman's heart may chooseTo find a guidance for a future way,The Olympian impulse and the lyric museIn such approval shall accept their pay.And so, good-day, young girl—ah me! oh my! good-day."Edward Everdevoured."

"ADVICE TO A MAID.

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

"Perennial maiden, thou art no less fair

Than those whose fairness barely equals thine;

And like a cloud on Athos is thy hair,

Touched with Promethean fire to make it shine

Above the temple of a soul divine;

And yet, methinks, it doth resemble, too,

The strands Berenice 'mid the stars doth twine,

As Mitchell's small Astronomy doth show;

Procure the book, dear maid, when to the town you go.

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

"Young as thou art, thou might'st be younger still,

If divers years were taken from thy life:

And who shall say, if marry man you will,

You may not prove some man's own wedded wife?

Such things do happen in this worldly strife,

If they take place—that is, if they are done;

For with warm love this earthly dream is rife—

And where love shines there always is a sun—

As I remark in my Oration upon Washington.

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

"Supposing thou dost marry, thou wilt yearn

For that which thou dost want; in fact, desire—

The wisdom shaped for older heads to learn,

And well designed to tame Youth's giddy fire:

The wisdom, conflicts with the world inspire,

Such as, perchance, I may myself possess,

Though I am but a man, as was my sire,

And own not wisdom such as gods may bless;

For man is naught, and naught is nothingness.

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

"Still, I may tell thee all that I do know,

And telling that, tell all I comprehend;

Since all man hath is all that he can show,

And what he hath not, is not his to lend.

Therefore, young maid, if you will but attend,

You shall hear that which shall salute your ear;

But if you list not, I my breath shall spend

Upon the zephyrs wandering there and here,

The far-off hearing less, perhaps, than those more near.

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

"Remember this: thou art thy husband's wife,

And he the mortal thou art married to;

Else, thou fore'er hadst led a single life,

And he had never come thy heart to woo.

Rememb'ring this, do thou remember, too,

He is thy bridegroom, thou his chosen bride;

And if unto his side thou provest true,

Then thou wilt be for ever at his side;

As Tacitus observes, with some degree of pride.

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

"See that his buttons to his shirts adhere,

As Trojan Hector to the walls of Troy;

And see that not, Achilles-like, appear

Rents in his stocking-heels; but be your joy

To have his wardrobe all your thoughts employ,

Save such deep thought as may, in duty given,

Suit to his tastes his dinners; nor annoy

Digestion's tenor in its progress even;

Then his the joy of Harvard, Boston, and high Heaven.

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

"If a bread-pudding thou wouldst fondly make—

A thing nutritious, but no costly meal—

Of bread that's stale a due proportion take,

And soak in water warm enough to feel;

Then add a strip or two of lemon-peel,

With curdled milk and raisins to your taste,

And stir the whole with ordinary zeal,

Until the mass becomes a luscious paste.

Such pudding strengthens man, and doth involve no waste.

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

"See thou thy husband's feet are never wet—

For wet brings cold, and colds such direful aches

As old Parrhasius never felt when set

On cruel racks or slow impaling stakes.

Make him abstain, if sick, from griddle-cakes—

They, being rich, his stomach might derange—

And if in thin-soled shoes a walk he takes,

See that his stockings he doth quickly change.

Thus should thy woman's love through woman's duties range.

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

"And now, fair maiden, all the stars grow pale,

And teeming Nature drinks the morning dews;

And I must hasten to my Orient vale,

And quick put on a pair of over-shoes.

If from my words your woman's heart may choose

To find a guidance for a future way,

The Olympian impulse and the lyric muse

In such approval shall accept their pay.

And so, good-day, young girl—ah me! oh my! good-day.

"Edward Everdevoured."

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

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

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

He didn't hear me, my boy.

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

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

Villiam thought a moment, and then says he:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours, speculatively,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER XX.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hail, blood and thunder! welcome, gentle Gore!

Let the loud hewgag shatter every shore!

High to the zenith let our eagle fly,

Ten thousand battles blazing in his eye!

Nail our proud standard to the Northern Pole,

Plant patent earthquakes in each foreign hole!

Shout havoc, murder, victory, and spoils,

Till all creation crouches in our toils!

Then, when the world to our behest is bent,

And takes theHeraldfor its punishment,

We'll pin our banner to a comet's tail,

And shake the Heavens with a big 'All Hail!'"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours, variously,

Orpheus C. Kerr.

LETTER XXI.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'Here shall the Press the People's rights maintain,

Unawed by affluence and inspired by gain.'

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

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

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

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