"Fellow-Soldats!(which is French.) It was originally intended to present you with a stand of colors; but the fellow-citizen who was to present it has only got as far as the hundred and fifty-second page of the few remarks he intended to make on the occasion, and it is a military necessity not to wait for him. (See Scott's Tactics, Vol. III., pp. 24.) I have but few words to say, and these are them: Should any of you happen to be killed in the coming battle, let me implore you toDie without a groan. It sounds better in history, as well as in the great, heart-stirring romances of the weekly palladiums of freedom. How well it reads, that 'Private Muggins received a shot in the neck anddied without a groan.' Soldats! bullets have been known to pass clean through the thickest trees, and so I may be shot myself. Should such a calamity befall our distracted country, I shalldie without a groan, even though I am a grown person. Therefore, fear nothing. The eyes of the whole civilized world are upon you, and History and Domestic Romance expect to write that youdied without a groan."
"Fellow-Soldats!(which is French.) It was originally intended to present you with a stand of colors; but the fellow-citizen who was to present it has only got as far as the hundred and fifty-second page of the few remarks he intended to make on the occasion, and it is a military necessity not to wait for him. (See Scott's Tactics, Vol. III., pp. 24.) I have but few words to say, and these are them: Should any of you happen to be killed in the coming battle, let me implore you toDie without a groan. It sounds better in history, as well as in the great, heart-stirring romances of the weekly palladiums of freedom. How well it reads, that 'Private Muggins received a shot in the neck anddied without a groan.' Soldats! bullets have been known to pass clean through the thickest trees, and so I may be shot myself. Should such a calamity befall our distracted country, I shalldie without a groan, even though I am a grown person. Therefore, fear nothing. The eyes of the whole civilized world are upon you, and History and Domestic Romance expect to write that youdied without a groan."
At the conclusion of this touching and appropriate speech, my boy, all the men exclaimed: "We will!" except a young person from New York, who said that he'd rather "Groan without a die;" for which he was sentenced to read Seward's next letter.
The Army being formed into a Great Quadrilateral (See Raymond's Tactics), moved forward at a double-quick, and reached Accomac just as the impatient sun was rushing down. With the exception of a mule, the only Virginian to be seen was a solitary Chivalry, who had strained himself trying to raise some interest from a Confederate Treasury Note, and couldn't get away.
Observing that only one man was in sight, Captain Villiam Brown, who had stopped to tie his shoe behind a large tree on the left, made a flank movement on the Chivalry.
"Is these the borders of Accomac?" says he, pleasantly.
"Why!" says the Chivalry, giving a start, "you must be Lord Lyons."
"What makes you think that?" asked Villiam.
"Oh, nothing—only your grammar," says Chivalry.
This made Villiam very mad, my boy, and he ordered the bombardment to be commenced immediately; but as all the powder had been placed on board a vessel which could not arrive under two weeks, it was determined to take possession without combustion. Finding himself master of the situation, Captain Villiam Brown called the solitary Chivalry to him, and issued the following
PROCLAMATION.Citizen of Accomac!I come among you not as a incendiary and assassin, but to heal your wounds and be your long-lost father. Several of the happiest months in my life were not spent in Accomac, and your affecting hospitality will make me more than jealously-watchful of your liberties and the pursuit of happiness. (See the Constitution.)Citizen of Accomac! These brave men, of whom I am a spectator, are not your enemies; they are your brothers, and desire to embrace you in fraternal bonds. They wish to be considered your guests, and respectfully invite you to observe the banner of our common forefathers. In proof whereof I establish the following orders:I.—If any nigger come within the lines of the United States Army to give information, whatsomever, of the movements of the enemy, the aforesaid shall have his head knocked off, and be returned to his lawful owner, according to the groceries and provisions of the Fugitive Slave Ack. (See the Constitution.)II.—If any chicken or other defenceless object belonging to the South, be brought within the lines of the United States Army, by any nigger, his heirs, administrators, and assigns, the aforesaid shall have his tail cut off, and be sent back to his rightful owner at the expense of the Treasury Department.III.—Any soldier found guilty of shooting the Southern Confederacy, or bothering him in any manner whatsomever, the same shall be deemed guilty of disorderly conduct, and be pronounced an accursed abolitionist.Villiam Brown, Eskevire,Captain Conic Section, Mackerel Brigade,Commanding Accomac.
PROCLAMATION.
Citizen of Accomac!I come among you not as a incendiary and assassin, but to heal your wounds and be your long-lost father. Several of the happiest months in my life were not spent in Accomac, and your affecting hospitality will make me more than jealously-watchful of your liberties and the pursuit of happiness. (See the Constitution.)
Citizen of Accomac! These brave men, of whom I am a spectator, are not your enemies; they are your brothers, and desire to embrace you in fraternal bonds. They wish to be considered your guests, and respectfully invite you to observe the banner of our common forefathers. In proof whereof I establish the following orders:
I.—If any nigger come within the lines of the United States Army to give information, whatsomever, of the movements of the enemy, the aforesaid shall have his head knocked off, and be returned to his lawful owner, according to the groceries and provisions of the Fugitive Slave Ack. (See the Constitution.)
II.—If any chicken or other defenceless object belonging to the South, be brought within the lines of the United States Army, by any nigger, his heirs, administrators, and assigns, the aforesaid shall have his tail cut off, and be sent back to his rightful owner at the expense of the Treasury Department.
III.—Any soldier found guilty of shooting the Southern Confederacy, or bothering him in any manner whatsomever, the same shall be deemed guilty of disorderly conduct, and be pronounced an accursed abolitionist.
Villiam Brown, Eskevire,Captain Conic Section, Mackerel Brigade,Commanding Accomac.
The citizen of Accomac, my boy, received this proclamation favorably, and said he wouldn't go hunting Union pickets until the weather was warmer. Whereupon Villiam Brown fell upon his neck and wept copiously.
The Union Army, my boy, now holds undisputed possession of over six inches of the sacred soil of Accomac, and this unnatural rebellion has received a blow which shakes the rotten fabric to its shivering centre. The strong arm of the Government has at last reached the stronghold of treason, and in a few years this decisive movement on Accomac will be followed by the advance of our army on the Potomac.
Yours, with expedition,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER XXII.
TREATING OF VILLIAM'S OCCUPATION OF ACCOMAC, AND HIS WISE DECISION IN A CONTRABAND CASE.
Washington, D.C., December 16th, 1861.
After sleeping with Congress for two days, my boy, and observing four statesmen and a small page driven to the verge of apoplexy by the exciting tale called the President's Message, I thought it was about time to mingle with the world again, and sent my servant, Percy de Mortimer, to bring me my gothic steed Pegasus. After a long search in the fields after that chaste architectural animal, my boy, he met a Missouri picket chap, and says he:
"Hev you seen a horse hereabout, my whisky-doodle?"
"Hoss!" says Missouri, spitting with exquisite precision on one of De Mortimer's new boots. "No, I aint seen no hoss, my Fejee bruiser; but there's an all-fired big crow-roost down in that corner, I reckon; and it must be alive, for I heard the bones rattle when the wind blew."
Myvalet, Mr. De Mortimer, paid no heed to his satirical lowness, my boy, but proceeded majestically to where my gothic beast was eating the remains of a straw mattress. Brushing a few crows from the backbone of the fond charger, upon which they were innocently roosting, he placed the saddle amidships, and conducted the fiery stallion to my hotel.
Mounting in hot haste, I was about to start for Accomac, when the General of the Mackerel Brigade came down the steps in hot haste, and says he:
"Is the Army of the Potomac about to advance?"
"Why do you ask?" says I.
"Thunder!" says he, "I've been so long in one spot that I was going to get out my naturalization papers as a citizen of Arlington Heights. Ah!" says he, with a groan, "when the advance takes place I shall be too old to enjoy it."
I asked him why he didn't make arrangements to have his grandson take his place, if he should become superanuated before the advance took place; and he said that he be dam.
On reaching Accomac, my boy, I found the Conic Section of the Mackerel Brigade reconnoitering in force after a pullet they had seen the night before. Which they couldn't catch it.
Captain Villiam Brown, my boy, has his head quarters in a house with the attic and cellar on the same floor. I found two fat pickets playing poker on the roof, six first class pickets doing up Old Sledge on the rail-fence in front of the door, and eight consumptive pickets eating a rooster belonging to the Southern Confederacy on the roof of a pig-pen.
As I entered the airy and commodious apartment of the commander-in chief, I beheld a sight to make the muses stare like the behemoth of the Scriptures, and cause genius to take another nip of old rye. There was the cantankerous captain, my boy, seated on a keg of gunpowder, with his head laid sideways on a table; one hand grasping a bottle half full of the Oath, and the other writing something on a piece of paper laid at right angles with his nose.
"Hallo, my interesting infant," says I, "are you drawing a map of Pensacola for an enlightened press?"
"Ha!" says Villiam, starting up, and eyeing me closely through the bottom of a bottle, "you behold me in the agonies of composition. Read this poickry," says he, "and if it aint double X with the foam off, where's your Milton?"
I took the paper, my boy, which resembled a specimen-card of dead flies, and read this poem:
"The God of Bottles be our aid,When rebels crack us;We'll bend the bottle-neck to him,And he will Bacchus."By Capt.Villiam Brown, Eskevire."
"The God of Bottles be our aid,When rebels crack us;We'll bend the bottle-neck to him,And he will Bacchus.
"The God of Bottles be our aid,
When rebels crack us;
We'll bend the bottle-neck to him,
And he will Bacchus.
"By Capt.Villiam Brown, Eskevire."
"By Capt.Villiam Brown, Eskevire."
I told Villiam that everything but the words of his poem reminded me of Longfellow, and says he:
"Don't mention my undoubted genius in public; because if Seward knew that I wrote poickry, he'd think I wanted to be President in 1865, and he'd get the Honest Old Abe to remove me. I think," says Villiam, abstractedly, "that the Honest Old Abe is like a big bumble bee with his tail cut off, when his Cabinet comes humming around him."
Villiam once stirred up the monkeys in a menagerie, my boy, and his metaphors from Natural History are chaste.
At this moment a file of the Mackerel Brigade came in, bringing a son of Africa, who looked like a bottle of black ink wrapt up in a dirty towel, and a citizen of Accomac, who claimed him as his slave.
"Captain," says the citizen of Accomac, "this nigger belongs to me, and I want him back. Besides, he stole a looking-glass from me, and has got it hid somewheres."
Villiam smiled like a pleased clam, and says he: "You say he stole a looking-glass?"
"I reckon," says Accomac.
"Prisonier!" says Villiam, to the Ethiop, "did you ever see the devil?"
"Nebber, sar, since missus died."
"Citizen of Accomac," says Villiam, sternly, "you have told a whopper; and I shall keep this child of oppression to black the boots of the United States of America. You say he stole a looking-glass. He says he has never seen the devil. Observe now," says Villiam, argumentatively, "how plain it is, that if hehadevenlookedat your looking-glass, hemusthave seen the devil about the same time."
The citizen of Accomac saw that his falsehood was discovered, my boy, and returned to the bosom of his family cursing like a rifled parson. Villiam then adjourned the court for a week, and sent the contraband out to enjoy the blessings of freedom, digging trenches.
It is pleasing, my boy, to see our commanders dispensing justice in this manner; and I don't wonder at the President's wanting to abolish the Supreme Court.
Yours, judicially,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER XXIII.
CONCERNING BRITISH NEUTRALITY AND ITS COSMOPOLITAN EFFECTS, WITH SOME ACCOUNT OF HOW CAPTAIN BOB SHORTY LOST HIS COMPANY.
Washington, D.C., December 20th, 1861.
When Britain first, at Napoleon's command, my boy, arose from out the azure main, this was her charter, her charter of the land, that Britains never, never, never shall be slaves as long as they have a chance to treat everybody else like niggers. Suffer me also to remark, that, Britannia needs no bulwarks, no towers along the steep; her march is o'er the mountain wave, her home is on the deep—where she keeps up her neutrality by smuggling contraband Southern confederacies, and swearing like a hard-shell chaplain when Uncle Sam's ocean pickets overhaul her.
Albion's neutrality is waking up a savage spirit in the United States of America, as you will understand from the following Irish Idle which was written
PRO PAT-RIA.Two Irishmen out of employ,And out at the elbows as aisily,Adrift in a grocery-storeWere smoking and taking it lazily.The one was a broth of a boy,Whose cheek-bones turned out and turned in again,His name it was Paddy O'Toole—The other was Misther McFinnigan."I think of enlistin'," says Pat,"Because do you see what o'clock it is;There's nothin' adoin' at allBut drinkin' at Mrs. O'Docharty's.It's not until after the warThat business times will begin again,And fightin's the duty of all"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan."Bad luck to the rebels, I say,For kickin' up all of this bobbery,They call themselves gintlemen, too,While practin' murder and robbery;Now if it's gintale for to steal,And take all your creditors in again,I'm glad I'm no gintleman born"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan."The spalpeens make bould to remarkTheir chivalry couldn't be ruled by us;And by the same token I thinkThey're never too smart to be fooled by us.Now if it's the nagurs they maneBe chivalry, then it's a sin againTo fight for a cause that is black"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan."A nagur's a man, ye may say,And aiqual to all other Southerners;But chivalry's made him a brute,And so he's a monkey to Northerners;Sure, look at the poor cratur's heels,And look at his singular shin again;It's not for such gintlemen fight"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan."The nagur States wanted a row,And now, be me sowl, but they've got in it!They've chosen a bed that is hard,However they shtrive for to cotton it.I'm thinkin', when winter comes onThey'll all be inclined to come in again;But then we must bate them at first"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan."Och hone! but it's hard that a swateGood-lookin' young chap like myself indade,Should loose his ten shillins a dayBecause of the throuble the South has made:But that's just the raison, ye see,Why I should help Union to win againIt's that will bring wages once more"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan."Joost mind what ould England's about,A sendin' her throops into Canaday;And all her ould ships on the coastAre ripe for some treachery any day.Now if she should mix in the war—Be jabers! it makes me head spin again!Ould Ireland would have such a chance!"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan."You talk about Irishmen, now,Enlistin' by thousands from loyalty;Butwait till the Phœnix BrigadeIs called to put down British Royalty!It's then with the Stars and the StripesAll Irishmen here would go in again,To strike for the Shamrock and Harp!"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan."Och, murther! me blood's in a blaze,To think of bould Corcoran leading usRight into the camp of the bastesWhose leeches so long have been bleeding us!The Stars and the Stripes here at homeTo Canada's walls we would pin again,And wouldn't we raise them in Cork?"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan."And down at the South, do ye mind,There's plinty of Irishmen mustering,Deluded to fight for the wrongBy rebel mis-statements and blustering;But once let ould England, their foe,To fight with the Union begin again,And sure, they'd desert to a man!"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan."There's niver an Irishmen born,From Maine to the end of Secessiondom.But longs for a time and a chanceTo fight for this country in Hessian-dom;And so, if ould England should tryWith treacherous friendship to sin again,They'll all be on one side at once"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan."We've brothers in Canada, too—(And didn't the Prince have a taste of them?)—To say that to Ireland they're trueIs certainly saying the laste of them.If, bearing our flag at our head,We rose Ireland's freedom to win again,They'd murther John Bull in the rear!"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan."Hurroo! for the Union, me boys,And divil take all who would bother it,Secession's a nagur so blackThe divil himself ought to father it;Hurroo! for the bould 69th,That's prisintly bound to go in again;It's Corcoran's rescue they're at"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan."I'm off right away to enlist,And sure won't the bounty be handy-O!To kape me respectably dressedAnd furnish me dudheens and brandy-O!I'm thinkin', me excellent friend,Ye're eyeing that bottle of gin again;You wouldn't mind thryin' a drop"—"You'reright, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
PRO PAT-RIA.
PRO PAT-RIA.
Two Irishmen out of employ,And out at the elbows as aisily,Adrift in a grocery-storeWere smoking and taking it lazily.The one was a broth of a boy,Whose cheek-bones turned out and turned in again,His name it was Paddy O'Toole—The other was Misther McFinnigan.
Two Irishmen out of employ,
And out at the elbows as aisily,
Adrift in a grocery-store
Were smoking and taking it lazily.
The one was a broth of a boy,
Whose cheek-bones turned out and turned in again,
His name it was Paddy O'Toole—
The other was Misther McFinnigan.
"I think of enlistin'," says Pat,"Because do you see what o'clock it is;There's nothin' adoin' at allBut drinkin' at Mrs. O'Docharty's.It's not until after the warThat business times will begin again,And fightin's the duty of all"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"I think of enlistin'," says Pat,
"Because do you see what o'clock it is;
There's nothin' adoin' at all
But drinkin' at Mrs. O'Docharty's.
It's not until after the war
That business times will begin again,
And fightin's the duty of all"—
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"Bad luck to the rebels, I say,For kickin' up all of this bobbery,They call themselves gintlemen, too,While practin' murder and robbery;Now if it's gintale for to steal,And take all your creditors in again,I'm glad I'm no gintleman born"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"Bad luck to the rebels, I say,
For kickin' up all of this bobbery,
They call themselves gintlemen, too,
While practin' murder and robbery;
Now if it's gintale for to steal,
And take all your creditors in again,
I'm glad I'm no gintleman born"—
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"The spalpeens make bould to remarkTheir chivalry couldn't be ruled by us;And by the same token I thinkThey're never too smart to be fooled by us.Now if it's the nagurs they maneBe chivalry, then it's a sin againTo fight for a cause that is black"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"The spalpeens make bould to remark
Their chivalry couldn't be ruled by us;
And by the same token I think
They're never too smart to be fooled by us.
Now if it's the nagurs they mane
Be chivalry, then it's a sin again
To fight for a cause that is black"—
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"A nagur's a man, ye may say,And aiqual to all other Southerners;But chivalry's made him a brute,And so he's a monkey to Northerners;Sure, look at the poor cratur's heels,And look at his singular shin again;It's not for such gintlemen fight"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"A nagur's a man, ye may say,
And aiqual to all other Southerners;
But chivalry's made him a brute,
And so he's a monkey to Northerners;
Sure, look at the poor cratur's heels,
And look at his singular shin again;
It's not for such gintlemen fight"—
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"The nagur States wanted a row,And now, be me sowl, but they've got in it!They've chosen a bed that is hard,However they shtrive for to cotton it.I'm thinkin', when winter comes onThey'll all be inclined to come in again;But then we must bate them at first"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"The nagur States wanted a row,
And now, be me sowl, but they've got in it!
They've chosen a bed that is hard,
However they shtrive for to cotton it.
I'm thinkin', when winter comes on
They'll all be inclined to come in again;
But then we must bate them at first"—
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"Och hone! but it's hard that a swateGood-lookin' young chap like myself indade,Should loose his ten shillins a dayBecause of the throuble the South has made:But that's just the raison, ye see,Why I should help Union to win againIt's that will bring wages once more"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"Och hone! but it's hard that a swate
Good-lookin' young chap like myself indade,
Should loose his ten shillins a day
Because of the throuble the South has made:
But that's just the raison, ye see,
Why I should help Union to win again
It's that will bring wages once more"—
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"Joost mind what ould England's about,A sendin' her throops into Canaday;And all her ould ships on the coastAre ripe for some treachery any day.Now if she should mix in the war—Be jabers! it makes me head spin again!Ould Ireland would have such a chance!"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"Joost mind what ould England's about,
A sendin' her throops into Canaday;
And all her ould ships on the coast
Are ripe for some treachery any day.
Now if she should mix in the war—
Be jabers! it makes me head spin again!
Ould Ireland would have such a chance!"—
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"You talk about Irishmen, now,Enlistin' by thousands from loyalty;Butwait till the Phœnix BrigadeIs called to put down British Royalty!It's then with the Stars and the StripesAll Irishmen here would go in again,To strike for the Shamrock and Harp!"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"You talk about Irishmen, now,
Enlistin' by thousands from loyalty;
Butwait till the Phœnix Brigade
Is called to put down British Royalty!
It's then with the Stars and the Stripes
All Irishmen here would go in again,
To strike for the Shamrock and Harp!"—
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"Och, murther! me blood's in a blaze,To think of bould Corcoran leading usRight into the camp of the bastesWhose leeches so long have been bleeding us!The Stars and the Stripes here at homeTo Canada's walls we would pin again,And wouldn't we raise them in Cork?"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"Och, murther! me blood's in a blaze,
To think of bould Corcoran leading us
Right into the camp of the bastes
Whose leeches so long have been bleeding us!
The Stars and the Stripes here at home
To Canada's walls we would pin again,
And wouldn't we raise them in Cork?"—
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"And down at the South, do ye mind,There's plinty of Irishmen mustering,Deluded to fight for the wrongBy rebel mis-statements and blustering;But once let ould England, their foe,To fight with the Union begin again,And sure, they'd desert to a man!"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"And down at the South, do ye mind,
There's plinty of Irishmen mustering,
Deluded to fight for the wrong
By rebel mis-statements and blustering;
But once let ould England, their foe,
To fight with the Union begin again,
And sure, they'd desert to a man!"—
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"There's niver an Irishmen born,From Maine to the end of Secessiondom.But longs for a time and a chanceTo fight for this country in Hessian-dom;And so, if ould England should tryWith treacherous friendship to sin again,They'll all be on one side at once"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"There's niver an Irishmen born,
From Maine to the end of Secessiondom.
But longs for a time and a chance
To fight for this country in Hessian-dom;
And so, if ould England should try
With treacherous friendship to sin again,
They'll all be on one side at once"—
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"We've brothers in Canada, too—(And didn't the Prince have a taste of them?)—To say that to Ireland they're trueIs certainly saying the laste of them.If, bearing our flag at our head,We rose Ireland's freedom to win again,They'd murther John Bull in the rear!"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"We've brothers in Canada, too—
(And didn't the Prince have a taste of them?)—
To say that to Ireland they're true
Is certainly saying the laste of them.
If, bearing our flag at our head,
We rose Ireland's freedom to win again,
They'd murther John Bull in the rear!"—
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"Hurroo! for the Union, me boys,And divil take all who would bother it,Secession's a nagur so blackThe divil himself ought to father it;Hurroo! for the bould 69th,That's prisintly bound to go in again;It's Corcoran's rescue they're at"—"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"Hurroo! for the Union, me boys,
And divil take all who would bother it,
Secession's a nagur so black
The divil himself ought to father it;
Hurroo! for the bould 69th,
That's prisintly bound to go in again;
It's Corcoran's rescue they're at"—
"You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"I'm off right away to enlist,And sure won't the bounty be handy-O!To kape me respectably dressedAnd furnish me dudheens and brandy-O!I'm thinkin', me excellent friend,Ye're eyeing that bottle of gin again;You wouldn't mind thryin' a drop"—"You'reright, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
"I'm off right away to enlist,
And sure won't the bounty be handy-O!
To kape me respectably dressed
And furnish me dudheens and brandy-O!
I'm thinkin', me excellent friend,
Ye're eyeing that bottle of gin again;
You wouldn't mind thryin' a drop"—
"You'reright, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.
British neutrality, my boy, reminds me of a chap I once knew in the Sixth Ward. Two solid men, who didn't get drunk more than once a day, were running for alderman, and they both made a dead set on this chap; but they hadn't any money, and he couldn't see it.
"See here, old tops," says he, "I'll be a neutral this time; so go in porgies!"
Well, my boy, the election came off, and neither of the old tops was elected. No, sir! Now, who do you supposewaselected?
TheNeutral Chap, my boy!
Mad as hornets with the hydrophobia, the two old tops went to see him, and says they:
"Confound your picture, didn't you promise to be neutral?"
The chap dipped his nose into a cocktail, and then says he, blandly:
"Iwasneutral, old Persimmonses. I only went to fifty Democrats, and got 'em to vote for me. Then to be neutral, I had to get fifty of the other feller's Black Republicans to do the same thing. Then I voted twelve times for myself,and went in."
It was a very beautiful case, my boy, and the old tops were only heard to utter—they were only known to exclaim—they were barely able to articulate—that neutrality didn't pay.
Early yesterday morning, my boy, Company B, Regiment 3, Mackerel Brigade, went down toward Centreville on a reconnoissance in force under Captain Bob Shorty. The Captain is a highly intellectual patriot, and don't get his sword twisted between his legs when he carries it in his hand. He led the company through the mud like a Christmas duck, until they came to a thicket in which something was seen to move.
"Halt, you tarriers!" says Captain Bob Shorty, in a voice trembling with bravery. "Form yourselves into a square according to Hardee, while I stir up this here bush. There's something in that bush," says he, "and it's either the Southern Confederacy, or some other cow."
The captain then leaned up to a tree to make him steady on his pins, my boy, and rammed his sword into the bushes like a poker into a fire—thus:
Drawing of figures in a fight
Nobody hurt on our side.
What followed, my boy, can be easily told. At an early hour on the evening of the same day, a solitary horseman might have been seen approaching Washington. It was Captain Bob Shorty, with his hat caved in, and a rainbow spouting under his left eye. He went straight to the head-quarters of the General of the Mackerel Brigade, and says he:
"General, I've reconnoitered in force, and found the enemy both numerious and cantankerous."
"Beautiful!" says the general; "but where is your company?"
"Well, now," says Captain Bob Shorty, "you'd hardly believe it; but the last I see of that ere company, it was engaged in the pursuit of happiness at the rate of six miles an hour, with the rebels at the wrong end of the track. Dang my rations!" says Captain Bob Shorty, "if I don't think that ere bob-tailed company has got to Richmond by this time."
"Thunder!" says the general, "didn't they kill any of the rebels?"
"Nary a Confederacy," says Captain Bob Shorty. "The bullets all rolled out of them ere muskets of theirs before the powder got fairly on fire. Them muskets," continued Captain Bob Shorty, "would be good for a bombardment. You might possibly hit a city with them at two yards' range; but in personal encounters they are inferior to the putty-blowers of our innocent childhood."
As the captain made this observation, my boy, he stepped hurriedly to the table, lifted a tumbler containing the Oath to his pallid lips, took a seat in the coal-scuttle, and burst into a flood of tears.
Deeply affected by this touching display of a beautiful trait in our common nature, the general placed a small piece of ice on the captain's slanting brow, and hid his own emotions in a bottle holding about a quart.
In reference to the beautiful battle-piece, accompanying this epistle, my boy, allow me to observe that it was taken on the spot by theChiar' oscuroartist, Patrick de la Roach, well-known in his native Italy as "Roachy." He studied in Rome (New York), and has a style peculiar for its width of tone and length of breath. The dark complexion of the figures in this fine picture represents the effects of the Virginia sun. Our troops are much tanned. The work was painted in oil colors with a bit of charcoal, my boy, and a copy of it will probably be ordered for the Capitol.
Yours, for high old art,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER XXIV.
NARRATING THE MACKEREL BRIGADE'S MANNER OF CELEBRATING CHRISTMAS, AND NOTING A DEADLY AFFAIR OF HONOR BETWEEN TWO WELL-KNOWN OFFICERS.
Washington, D.C., December 26th, 1861.
A Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, my boy, and the same to yourself. The recurrence of these gay old annuals makes me feel as ancient as the First Families of Virginia, and as grave as a church-yard. How well I remember my first Christmas! Early in the morning, my dignified paternal presented me with a beautiful spanking, and then my maternal touched me up with her slipper to stop my crying. Sensible people are the women of America, my boy; they slap a boy on his upper end, which makes him howl, and then hit him on the other end to stop his noise. There's good logic in the idea, my boy. That first Christmas of mine was memorable from the fact that my present was a drum, on which I executed a new opera of my own composition with such good effect, that in the evening, a deputation of superannuated neighbors and old maids waited on my father with a petition that he would send me to sea immediately.
But to return to the present, suffer me to observe that last Wednesday was celebrated by the Mackerel Brigade in a manner worthy of the occasion. Two hundred turkeys belonging to the Southern Confederacy were served up for dinner, and from what I tasted, I am satisfied that they belonged to the First Families. They were very tough, my boy.
In the evening, there was a ball, to which a number of the women of America were invited. Captain Villiam Brown came up from Accomac on purpose to attend, and looked, as the General of the Mackerel Brigade genteelly expressed it, like a bag of indigo that had been out without an umbrella in a hard shower of brass buttons. The general has an acute perception of the Beautiful, my boy.
Villiam took the Oath six times, and then took a survey of the festive scene through the bottom of a tumbler. The first person he recognized was the youngest Miss Muggins, waltzing like a deranged balloon with Captain Bob Shorty. Captain Bob was spinning around like a dislocated pair of tongs, and smirked like a happy fiend. Villiam gave one stare, put the tumbler in his pocket, and then made a bee-line for the pair.
"Miss Muggins," says he, "you'll obleege me by dropping that air mass of brass buttons and moustaches, and dancing with me."
"I beg your parding, sir," says Miss Muggins, with dignity, "but I chooses my own company."
"Villiam," says Captain Bob Shorty, "if you don't take that big nose of yours away, it will be my painful duty to set it a little further back in your repulsive countenance."
Then Villiamwasmad. He hastily buttoned his coat up to the neck, took a bite of tobacco, and says he:
"Captain Shorty, we have lived like br-r-others; I have borrowed many a quarter of you; and you promised that when I died, you would wrap me up in the American flag. But now you are mine enemy, and—ha! ha!—I am yours. Wilt fight?"
'Twas enough!
"I wilt," responded Captain Bob Shorty. And in ten minutes' time these desperate men stood face to face on the banks of the Potomac, the ghastly moon looking solemnly down upon them through a rift of floating shrouds; and one of the First Families of Virginia pickets squinting at them from a neighboring bush. Villiam's second was Colonel Wobert Wobinson of the Western Cavalry, Captain Bob Shorty's was Samyule Sa-mith. The fifth of the party was a fat surgeon from St. Louis, who stood with his sleeves rolled up and a big jack-knife in his hand. The surgeon also had a stomach pump with him, my boy, and twelve boxes of anti-bilious pills. The weapons were pistols, and the distance seventy paces.
Captain Villiam Brown was observed to shiver, as he took his place, and was so cold, that he took aim at the surgeon instead of his antagonist. The surgeon called his attention to this little error; and he immediately rectified his mistake by pointing his weapon point-blank at Samyule Sa-mith.
"You blood-thirsty cuss!" shouted Samyule, with great emotion, "what are you pointing at me for?"
"I was thinking of my poor grandmother," said Villiam, feelingly; and immediately fired at the moon.
Simultaneously, Captain Bob Shorty sent his bullet skimming along the ground, in the direction of Washington, and said that he wanted to go home.
The surgeon decided that nobody was hurt; and the two infuriated principals commenced to reload their pistols, with horrible calmness.
Now it came to pass, that while Captain Villiam Brown was stooping down fixing his weapon, his hand became unsteady, and he pulled the trigger, without meaning to. Bang! went the concern, and whiz! went the ball right between the legs of Colonel Wobert Wobinson, causing that noble officer to skip four times, and swear awfully.
"Treachery!" says Captain Bob Shorty, spinning around in great excitement, and letting drive at Samyule Sa-mith who happened to be nearest.
"Gaul darn ye!" screamed Samyule, turning purple in the face, "you've gone and shot all the rim of my cap off."
"I couldn't help it," says Bob, looking into the barrel of his pistol with great intensity of gaze.
At this moment, Villiam, who had loaded up again, tried to put the hammer of his weapon down on the cap; but his hand slipped, and the charge exploded, barking the shins of the fat surgeon, and sending a bullet clean through his stomach-pump.
The surgeon just took a seat, my boy, rubbed his shins half a second, took four boxes of pills, and then began to cuss! Marshal Rynders can cusssome, my boy, but that fat surgeon could beat him and all the Custom-House together.
But suddenly a strange sound reduced all else to silence. It came first like the rumbling of a barrel of potatoes, and then grew into a fiendish chuckle. It was found to proceed from a neighboring bush, and on proceeding thither the party beheld a sight to make the pious weep. Rolling about in the brush was one of the First Families of Virginia pickets, kicking his heels in the air, and laughing himself right straight into apoplexy.
"O Lord!" says he, going into a fresh convulsion, "take me prisoner and hang me for a rebel, but I neverdidsee such a good one as that air gay old duel. If you'd kept on," says the picket, turning purple in the face, "I really reckon I should a busted myself."
Captain Villiam Brown was greatly scandalized at this unseemly mirth, my boy, and requested the surgeon to cut the picket's head off; but Colonel Wobert Wobinson interposed, and the laughing chap was only made prisoner.
"And now, Villiam," says Captain Bob Shorty, "we've had the satisfaction of gentlemen, and can be friends again. I spurns Miss Muggins. The American flag is my only bride, and as for you!—well, I think rather more of you than I do of my own father."
"Come to my arms!" exclaimed Villiam, falling upon his neck, and improving the opportunity to take the Oath from his canteen.
It was an affecting sight, my boy; and as those two noble youths walked amicably back to the camp together, the fat surgeon remarked to Samyule Sa-mith that they reminded him of Damon and Pythias just returned from the Syracuse Convention.
Yours, for the Code,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER XXV.
PRESENTING THE CHAPLAIN'S NEW YEAR POEM, AND REPORTING THE SINGULAR CONDUCT OF THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE ON THE DAY HE CELEBRATED.
Washington, D.C., January 2d, 1862.
Another year, my boy, has dawned upon a struggle in which the hopes of freedom and integrity all over the world are breathlessly involved; and if the day-star of Liberty is destined to go down into the ocean wave, what is to become of the unoffending negroes? I extract this beautiful passage, my boy, from the forthcoming speech of a fat Congressman, who is a friend to the human race, and charges the Administration with imbecility and with mileage. I conversed with him the other evening, and, after discussing various topics, asked him what he thought of the Washington statue as it stood? He winked three times, and then says he:
"The only Washington statue I know anything about, isstatu quo."
The chaplain of the Mackerel Brigade joined seriously in our staff festivities on New Year's eve, my boy; but as midnight approached he grew very silent, and at a quarter of twelve he arose from his seat by the fire and asked permission to read something which he had written.
"I would not retard your inevitable inebriation," says he to us, as he drew a manuscript from one of his pockets, "but it is only fitting that we should pay some regard to
"THE DYING YEAR."Dying at last, Old Year!Another stroke of yonder clock, and thouWilt pass the threshold of the world we seeInto the world where Yesterday and NowBlend with the hours of the No More To Be."I saw the moon last nightRise like a crown from the dim mountain's head,And to the Council of the Stars take way;For thou, the king, though kinsman of the dead,Swayed still the sceptre of Another Day."I see the moon to-night,Sightless and misty as a mourner's eye,Behind a vail; or, like a coin to sealThe lids of Time's last-born to majesty,Touched with the darkness of a hidden Leal."Mark where yon shadow crawlsBy slow degrees beneath the window-sill,Timed by the death-watch, ticking slow and dull;The tide of night is rising, black and still—Old Year, thou diest when 'tis at its full!"Ay! moan and moan again,And shake all Nature in thine agony,And tear the ermine robes that mock thee nowLike gilded fruit upon a blasted tree;To-morrow comes! To-morrow, where are Thou?"Wouldst thou be shrived, Old Year?Thou subtle sentence of delusive Time,Framed but to deepen all the mysteryOf Life's great purpose! Come, confess the crime,And man's Divinity shall date from thee!"Speak to my soul, Old Year;Let but a star leave its bright eminenceIn thy death-struggle, if this deathless SoulHolds its own destiny and recompenseIn the grand mast'ry of aGod'scontrol!"No sound, no sign from thee?And must I live, not knowing why I live,Whilst Thou and years to come pass by me hereWith faces hid, refusing still to giveThe one poor word that bids me cease to fear?"That word, I charge thee, speak!Quick! for the moments tremble on the vergeOf the black chasm where lurks the midnight spell,And solemn winds already chant thy dirge—Give Earth its Heaven, or Hell a deeper Hell!"Speak! or I curse thee here!I'll call ityeaif but a withered twig,Tossed by the wind, falls rattling on the roof;I'll call ityea, if e'en a shutter creak,Breathe but on me, and it shall stand for proof!"Too late! The midnight bell—The crawling shadow at its witching flood,With the deep gloom of the Beyond is wed,And I, unanswered, sit within and brood,And thou, Old Year, art silent—Thou artdead!"
"THE DYING YEAR.
"THE DYING YEAR.
"Dying at last, Old Year!Another stroke of yonder clock, and thouWilt pass the threshold of the world we seeInto the world where Yesterday and NowBlend with the hours of the No More To Be.
"Dying at last, Old Year!
Another stroke of yonder clock, and thou
Wilt pass the threshold of the world we see
Into the world where Yesterday and Now
Blend with the hours of the No More To Be.
"I saw the moon last nightRise like a crown from the dim mountain's head,And to the Council of the Stars take way;For thou, the king, though kinsman of the dead,Swayed still the sceptre of Another Day.
"I saw the moon last night
Rise like a crown from the dim mountain's head,
And to the Council of the Stars take way;
For thou, the king, though kinsman of the dead,
Swayed still the sceptre of Another Day.
"I see the moon to-night,Sightless and misty as a mourner's eye,Behind a vail; or, like a coin to sealThe lids of Time's last-born to majesty,Touched with the darkness of a hidden Leal.
"I see the moon to-night,
Sightless and misty as a mourner's eye,
Behind a vail; or, like a coin to seal
The lids of Time's last-born to majesty,
Touched with the darkness of a hidden Leal.
"Mark where yon shadow crawlsBy slow degrees beneath the window-sill,Timed by the death-watch, ticking slow and dull;The tide of night is rising, black and still—Old Year, thou diest when 'tis at its full!
"Mark where yon shadow crawls
By slow degrees beneath the window-sill,
Timed by the death-watch, ticking slow and dull;
The tide of night is rising, black and still—
Old Year, thou diest when 'tis at its full!
"Ay! moan and moan again,And shake all Nature in thine agony,And tear the ermine robes that mock thee nowLike gilded fruit upon a blasted tree;To-morrow comes! To-morrow, where are Thou?
"Ay! moan and moan again,
And shake all Nature in thine agony,
And tear the ermine robes that mock thee now
Like gilded fruit upon a blasted tree;
To-morrow comes! To-morrow, where are Thou?
"Wouldst thou be shrived, Old Year?Thou subtle sentence of delusive Time,Framed but to deepen all the mysteryOf Life's great purpose! Come, confess the crime,And man's Divinity shall date from thee!
"Wouldst thou be shrived, Old Year?
Thou subtle sentence of delusive Time,
Framed but to deepen all the mystery
Of Life's great purpose! Come, confess the crime,
And man's Divinity shall date from thee!
"Speak to my soul, Old Year;Let but a star leave its bright eminenceIn thy death-struggle, if this deathless SoulHolds its own destiny and recompenseIn the grand mast'ry of aGod'scontrol!
"Speak to my soul, Old Year;
Let but a star leave its bright eminence
In thy death-struggle, if this deathless Soul
Holds its own destiny and recompense
In the grand mast'ry of aGod'scontrol!
"No sound, no sign from thee?And must I live, not knowing why I live,Whilst Thou and years to come pass by me hereWith faces hid, refusing still to giveThe one poor word that bids me cease to fear?
"No sound, no sign from thee?
And must I live, not knowing why I live,
Whilst Thou and years to come pass by me here
With faces hid, refusing still to give
The one poor word that bids me cease to fear?
"That word, I charge thee, speak!Quick! for the moments tremble on the vergeOf the black chasm where lurks the midnight spell,And solemn winds already chant thy dirge—Give Earth its Heaven, or Hell a deeper Hell!
"That word, I charge thee, speak!
Quick! for the moments tremble on the verge
Of the black chasm where lurks the midnight spell,
And solemn winds already chant thy dirge—
Give Earth its Heaven, or Hell a deeper Hell!
"Speak! or I curse thee here!I'll call ityeaif but a withered twig,Tossed by the wind, falls rattling on the roof;I'll call ityea, if e'en a shutter creak,Breathe but on me, and it shall stand for proof!
"Speak! or I curse thee here!
I'll call ityeaif but a withered twig,
Tossed by the wind, falls rattling on the roof;
I'll call ityea, if e'en a shutter creak,
Breathe but on me, and it shall stand for proof!
"Too late! The midnight bell—The crawling shadow at its witching flood,With the deep gloom of the Beyond is wed,And I, unanswered, sit within and brood,And thou, Old Year, art silent—Thou artdead!"
"Too late! The midnight bell—
The crawling shadow at its witching flood,
With the deep gloom of the Beyond is wed,
And I, unanswered, sit within and brood,
And thou, Old Year, art silent—Thou artdead!"
When the chaplain finished his reading, my boy, I told him that he must excuse the party for going to sleep, as they were really very tired.
On New Year's day, my boy, the General of the Mackerel Brigade desired me to make a few calls with him; and appeared at my lodgings in a confirmed state of kid gloves, which he bought for the express purpose of making a joke.
"A happy New Year to you, my Duke of Wellington," says I. "You look as frisky as a spring lamb."
Immediately a look of intense meaning came over his Corinthian face, and he remarked, with awful solemnity:
"Thunder! you might better call me a goat, my Prushian blue, seeing that I've got a couple of kids on hand just now."
The joke was a good article in the glove line, my boy, and I don't think that the general had been studying over it more than four hours before we met.
We made our first call at a house where the ladies were covered with smiles as with a garment; and remarked that the day was fine. The general smiled in return, until his profile reminded me of a cracked tea-pot; and says he: "Ladies, allow me to tender the compliments of the season. In this wine," says he, "which I hold in my hand, I behold the roses of your cheeks when you blush, and the sparkle of your eyes when you laugh. Let us hope that another New Year will find our unhappy country free from her enemies, and the curse of African slavery blotted out of the map."
I whispered to the general that slavery wasn't on the map at all; and he confidentially informed me, that I be dam.
We then repaired to a house where the ladies had a very happy expression of countenance, and told us that it was a pleasant day. The general accidentally filled a wine glass with the deuce of the grape, and says he: "Ladies, suffer me to articulate the compliments of the season. This aromatic beverage," says he, "is but a liquid presentment of your blushes and glances. Let us trust that within a year our country will resume the blessings of peace, and the unhappy bondman will be obliterated from the map."
One of the ladies said, "te-he."
Another said that she felt "he! he! he!"
"I believe her, my boy!"
As we returned to the street, I told the general that he'd better leave out the map at the next place, and he said that he'd do it if he was'nt afraid that Congress would'nt confirm his appointment, if he did.
We then visited a family where the ladies had faces beaming with happiness, and observed that it was really a beautiful day. The general happened to be placed near a cut-glass goblet, and says he: "Ladies, in compliance with the day we celebrate, I offer the compliments of the season. This mantling nectar," says he, "blushes like women and glitters like her orbs. Let us pray that in the coming twelve months, the stars and stripes will be re-established, and the negro removed from the map."
He also said hic, my boy; and one of the ladies wanted "to know what that meant?"
I told her thatHicwas a Latin term from Cicero de Officiis, and meantHic jacet—hear lies.
"O!" says she, "te-he-he!"
On reaching the sidewalk this time, my boy, the general clasped my hand warmly, and said he'd never forget me. He said I was his dear friend, and must never leave him; and I said I wouldn't.
We then called at a house where the ladies all smiled upon us, and remarked that we were having charming weather. The general raised a glass, and says he:
"Ge-yurls, I am an old man; but you are the complimens of season. You are blushing like the wine-glass, and also your sparkles. On another New Year's day let our banner—certainly let us all do it. And the negro slavery blot out the map."
As he uttered these feeling words, my boy, he bowed to me and kissed my hand. After which he looked severely at his pocket-handkerchief, and tried to leave the room by way of the fire-place.
I asked him if he hadn't better take some soda; and he said, that if I would come and live with him he would tell me how he came to get married. He said he loved me.
Shortly after this we called at a residence where the ladies all looked very happy and said that it was a fine day. The general threw all the strength of his face into one eye, and says he:
"Ladles, we are compl'm'ns, and you are the negroes on the map. This year—pardon me, I should intro-interror-oduce my two friends who is drunk—this year I say, our country may be hap—"
Here the general turned suddenly to me with tears in his eyes, and asked me to promise that I would never, never leave him. He said that I was a gen'l'm'n, and ought to give up drinking. I conducted him tenderly to the hall, where he embraced me passionately, and invited me to call and see him.
As soon as he had made a few remarks to a lamp-post, requesting it to call at Willard's as it went home, and tell his wife that he was well, I took his arm, and we moved on at right angles.
It is worthy of remark that at our next calling-place the ladies all beamed with joy, and told us that it was a delightful day. The general took a looking-glass for a window, and stood still before it, until I tapped him on the shoulder.
"D'you zee that drunken fool standing there in the street?" says he, pointing at the mirror. "It's Lord Lyons, s'drunk as a fool."
I told him that he saw only his own figure in the glass, and he said he would see me safe home if I would go right away. Chancing at the moment to catch sight of a wine-glass, my boy, he walked toward it in a circle, and hastily filled the outside of it from an empty decanter. Then balancing himself on one foot, and placing his disengaged hand on a pyramid ofblanc mangeto support himself, he said impressively:
"Ladles, and gentle-lemons, the army will move on the first of May, and—"
Here the general went down under the table like a stately ship foundering at sea, and was heard to ask the wine-cooler to tell his family that he died for his country.
Owing to the very hilly nature of the street, my boy, I was obliged to accompany the general home in a hack; and as we rolled along towards the hotel, he disclosed to me an agitated history of his mother's family.
When last I saw him he was trying to make out why the chambermaid had put four pillows on his bed, and endeavoring to lift off the two extra ones without disturbing the others.
Candidly speaking, my boy, this New-Year's-calls business is not a sensible calling, and simply amounts to a caravan of monkeys attending a menagerie of trained crinoline.
Yours, philosophically,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER XXVI.
GIVING THE PARTICULARS OF A FALSE ALARM, AND A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE OFFICER COMMANDING.
Washington, D.C., January 11th, 1862.
Scarce had the glorious sun shot up the dappled orient on Monday morn, my boy, when the Commander-in-Chief of the Mackerel Brigade received a telegraphic dispatch which reads as follows:
"General Frost has appeared near Centreville, and is now covering the wood and road in our rear."
"General Frost has appeared near Centreville, and is now covering the wood and road in our rear."
It bore no signature, my boy; but the general believed the danger to be imminent, and ordered Captain Bob Shorty to take ten thousand men, and make a reconnoissance towards Centreville.
"Bob, my cherub," says he, "if you can get behind the rebel Frost, and take the whole Confederacy prisoners, don't administer the Oath until the Eagle of America is avenged."
Bob smiled like a happy oyster, and says he:
"Domino!"
'Twas nigh upon the hour of noon when Captain Bob Shorty and his veterans approached the beautiful village of Centreville. Cross-trees had been placed under the horses of the cavalry to keep them from falling down, and the infantry were arranging themselves so that the bayonets of the front rank shouldn't stick into the rear rank's eyes every time they turned a corner, when a solitary contraband might have been seen eating hoe-cake by the solemn road-side.
"Confederate," said Captain Bob Shorty, approaching him with his sword very much between his legs, "hast seen the rebel Frost and his myrmidions? I come to give him battle, having heard that he was hereabouts."
The Ethiopian took a pentagonal bite of hoe-cake, and says he:
"Tell Massa Lincon that the frost war werry thick last night, but hab gone by this time."
Captain Bob Shorty took off his cap, my boy, looked carefully into it, put it on again, and frowned awfully.
"Comrades," says he, addressing the troops, "you have all heard of a big thing on Snyder. You now behold it before you. This here reconnoissance," says he, "is what the French would call afew-paw. We must turn it into a foraging expedition. Charge on yonder hay-stack, and remember me in your prayers!"
'Twas early eve, my boy, when that splendid army returned to Potomac's shore, with two hay-stacks for the horses, and ten Confederate chickens for supper.
Nobody hurt on our side.
I inclose the following brief sketch of the gallant soldier who commanded in this brilliant affair.