CAPTAIN ROBERT SHORTY.This brave young officer was born in the Sixth Ward of New York, and was twenty-one years old upon arriving of age. When but a lad, he studied tobacco and the girls, and ran to fires for his health. When eligible to the right of franchise, he voted seven times in one day, and attracted so much attention from the authorities that his parents resolved to make a lawyer of him. On the breaking out of the war with Mexico, he offered his services to the Government as a major-general, but, for some reason, was not accepted. He will probably be sent to supersede General Halleck, in Missouri, as soon as any one of St. Louis writes to ask the President for another change.
CAPTAIN ROBERT SHORTY.
This brave young officer was born in the Sixth Ward of New York, and was twenty-one years old upon arriving of age. When but a lad, he studied tobacco and the girls, and ran to fires for his health. When eligible to the right of franchise, he voted seven times in one day, and attracted so much attention from the authorities that his parents resolved to make a lawyer of him. On the breaking out of the war with Mexico, he offered his services to the Government as a major-general, but, for some reason, was not accepted. He will probably be sent to supersede General Halleck, in Missouri, as soon as any one of St. Louis writes to ask the President for another change.
The general was so pleased when he heard of this spirited action, my boy, that he offered to review the Mackerel Brigade the next morning, and privately informed me that he considered the Southern Confederacy doomed to expire in less than three months. He said that it was already tottering to its fall, which must take place in the Spring.
Perhaps so, my boy—perhaps so!
Yours, for the flag,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER XXVII.
TOUCHING INCIDENTALLY UPON THE CHARACTER OF ARMY FOOD, AND CELEBRATING THE GREAT DIPLOMATIC EXPLOIT OF CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN AT ACCOMAC.
Washington, D.C., January 19th, 1862.
In the early part of the week I resolved to go down to Accomac, on a flying visit to Captain Villiam Brown and the Conic Section of the Mackerel Brigade. Accordingly, I went to the shoemaker's after my gothic steed Pegasus. The shoemaker, had said, my boy, that there was enough loose leather hanging about the architectural animal to make me a nice pair of slippers, and I gave him permission to cut them out. The operation only made the Morgan's back look a little more like the roof of a barn; but I like him all the better for that, because he sheds the rain easier.
The General of the Mackerel Brigade at first intended to accompany me to Accomac; and says he to Samyule Sa-mith, the orderly, says he: "Samyule! just step down to the anatomical museum of the Western chaps, and buy me the best horse you can find in the collection. Here's a dollar and half—fifty cents for the horse and a dollar for your trouble."
Samyule came back in about forty minutes, and says he:
"Colonel Wobert Wobinson, of the Western Cavalry, says I must come again this afternoon, as he don't know whether there'll be any horses left or not."
"Thunder!" says the General. "How left?"
"Vy," says Samyule, "he can't tell whether any horses will be left until the boys have had their dinner, can he!"
"Ah!" says the General, contemplatively, "I forgot the beef-soup recommended by the doctors. It will be a pleasant change for the boys," says he, "from the mutton that was so plenty just after them mules died."
Speaking of dinner, my boy; let me tell you about a curious occurrence in our camp lately. Just after a load of rations had come in, a New York chap says to me, says he:
"I'm glad they're going to put down the Russ pavement here pretty soon; for it's getting damp as thunder."
"Id-jut!" said I, sarcastically, "where have you seen any Russ pavement?"
He just took me softly by the arm, my boy, and led me a little way, and pointed, and says he:
"If you'll just look there, you'll see some of the blocks."
"Why," says I, "those are army biscuit for the men."
"Biscuit!" says he, rubbing his stomach, and turning up his eyes like a cat with the apoplexy—"if them's biscuit, Bunker Hill Monument must be built of flour—that's all."
And he went out and took the Oath.
On arriving at Accomac, my boy, I asked a blue-and-gold picket where Villiam Brown was, and he said that he was in the library.
The library was used by the former occupants of the residence as a hen-house, and contains two volumes—Hardee abridged, and "Every Man His Own Letter-Writer," Seward's edition.
I found Captain Villiam Brown seated on what was formerly a Shanghai's nest, my boy, with his feet out of the window, and his head against a roost. He was studying the last-named book, and sipping Old Bourbon the Oath, in the intervals. The intervals were numerous.
"Son of the Eagle," says I, "you remind me of Sir Walter Scott, at Abbotsford."
Villiam looked abstractedly at me, at the same time moving the tumbler a little further from my hand, and says he:
"I've been in the agonies of diplomacy, but feel much better." "Ha!" says Villiam, beaming like a new comet, "I've preserved our foreign relations peaceful, without humbling the United States of America."
I asked an explanation, and he informed me that on the evening before, one of his men had boarded an Accomac scow in Goose Creek, and captured two oppressed negroes, named Johnson and Peyton, who were carrying news to the enemy. "At first," says Villiam, sternly, "I thought of letting them off with hanging, but I soon felt that they deserved something worse, and so—" says Villiam, with a malignant scowl that made my blood run cold—"and so, I sentenced them to read Sumner's speech on the Trent affair."
On the following morning there came the following letter from the righteously-exasperated citizens of Accomac, which Villiam labeled as
DOCKYMENT I.Sweet Villiam—Sir:—I am instructed by the neutral Government of Accomac to assure the United States of America, that the feeling at present existing between the two Governments is of such a cordial nature, that love itself never inspired more heaving emotions in the buzzums of conglomerated youth.Therefore, the outrage committed by the United States of America on the flag of Accomac, in removing from its protection two gentlemen named Johnson and Peyton, is something for demons to rejoice over. The daughter of the latter gentleman has already slapped her mother in the face, and bared her buzzum to the breeze.I am instructed by the government of Accomac to demand the instant return of the two gentlemen, together with an ample apology for the base deed, and the amount of that little bill for forage.Again assuring you of the cordial feeling existing between the two countries, and the passionate affection I feel for yourself, I am, dear sir, most truly, dear sir, as ever, respected sir, your attachedWilliam Goat.
DOCKYMENT I.
Sweet Villiam—Sir:—I am instructed by the neutral Government of Accomac to assure the United States of America, that the feeling at present existing between the two Governments is of such a cordial nature, that love itself never inspired more heaving emotions in the buzzums of conglomerated youth.
Therefore, the outrage committed by the United States of America on the flag of Accomac, in removing from its protection two gentlemen named Johnson and Peyton, is something for demons to rejoice over. The daughter of the latter gentleman has already slapped her mother in the face, and bared her buzzum to the breeze.
I am instructed by the government of Accomac to demand the instant return of the two gentlemen, together with an ample apology for the base deed, and the amount of that little bill for forage.
Again assuring you of the cordial feeling existing between the two countries, and the passionate affection I feel for yourself, I am, dear sir, most truly, dear sir, as ever, respected sir, your attached
William Goat.
On receiving this communication from Mr. Goat, my boy, Captain Villiam Brown removed Lieutenant Thomas Jenks from the command of the artillery, and ordered six reviews of the troops without umbrellas. He then had a small keg of the Oath rolled into the library, rumpled up his hair, shut one eye, and replied to Mr. Goat with
DOCKYMENT II.Lord Goat—Sir:—I take much felicity in receiving your lordship's note, which shows that the neutral Government of Accomac and the United States of America still cherish the feelings that do credit to Anglo-Saxon hearts of the same parentage.The two black beings, at present stopping in the barn attached to the present head-quarters, were contraband of war; but were, nevertheless, engaged in the peaceful occupation of asking the protection of your lordship's government.Were I to decide this question in favor of the United States of America, I should forever forfeit the right of every American citizen to treat niggers as sailable articles, since I would thereby deny their right to sail. The Congress of the United States of America has been fighting for this right for more than a quarter of a century, and I cannot find it in me heart to debar it of that divine privilege for the future.I might cite Wheaton, Story, Bulwer, Kent, Marryat, Sheridan, and Busteed, to sustain my position, were I familiar with those international righters.Therefore I am compelled to humble your lordship's government by returning the two black beings aforesaid, and beg leave to assure your lordship that I am your lordship's only darling,Villiam Brown, Eskevire,Captain Conic Section, Mackerel Brigade.
DOCKYMENT II.
Lord Goat—Sir:—I take much felicity in receiving your lordship's note, which shows that the neutral Government of Accomac and the United States of America still cherish the feelings that do credit to Anglo-Saxon hearts of the same parentage.
The two black beings, at present stopping in the barn attached to the present head-quarters, were contraband of war; but were, nevertheless, engaged in the peaceful occupation of asking the protection of your lordship's government.
Were I to decide this question in favor of the United States of America, I should forever forfeit the right of every American citizen to treat niggers as sailable articles, since I would thereby deny their right to sail. The Congress of the United States of America has been fighting for this right for more than a quarter of a century, and I cannot find it in me heart to debar it of that divine privilege for the future.
I might cite Wheaton, Story, Bulwer, Kent, Marryat, Sheridan, and Busteed, to sustain my position, were I familiar with those international righters.
Therefore I am compelled to humble your lordship's government by returning the two black beings aforesaid, and beg leave to assure your lordship that I am your lordship's only darling,
Villiam Brown, Eskevire,Captain Conic Section, Mackerel Brigade.
After reading this able and brilliant document, my boy, I told Villiam that I thought he had made a very good point about negroes always being "sailable articles," and he said that was diplomacy.
"Ah!" says he, sadly, "my father always said that if you could not get over a rail fence by high-jump-acy, there was nothing like dip-low-macy. My dad was a natural statesman. Ah!" says Villiam, in a fine burst of filial emotion, "I wonder where the durned old fool is now."
This idea plunged him into such a depth of reverie, that I left him without another word, mounted Pegasus, and ambled reflectively back to the Capitol.
Diplomacy brings out the intellect of a nation, my boy, and is a splendid thing to use until we get our navy finished.
Yours, in memory of Metternich,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER XXVIII.
CONCERNING THE CONTINUED INACTIVITY OF THE POTOMAC ARMY, AND SHOWING HOW IT WAS POETICALLY CONSTRUED BY A THOUGHTFUL RADICAL.
Washington, D.C., January 30th, 1862.
Notwithstanding the hideous howlings of the Black Republicans, my boy, and the death of six Confederate pickets from old age, the Army of the Potomac will not commence the forward movement until the mud subsides sufficiently to show where some of the camps are. The Mackerel Brigade dug out a regiment yesterday, near Alexandria; but there's no use of continuing the business without a dredging-machine.
I was talking to Captain Bob Shorty, on Tuesday, respecting the inactivity of the army, and says he:
"It's all very well to talk about making an advance, my beauty; but I've known one of the smartest men in the country to fail in it."
"What mean you, fellow?" says I.
"Why," says he, "you know Simpson, your uncle?"
"I believe you, my boy!" says I.
"Well!" says Captain Bob Shorty, "that air Simpson is one of the smartest old cusses in the country—yet there ain't no 'On to Richmond' abouthim. I asked him once, myself, to make an advance. I asked him to make an advance on my repeater, and he said he couldn't."
This argument, my boy, exposes thoroughly the base disloyalty and fiendish designs of the newspaper brigadiers who are constantly urging McClellan to advance—advance! Let them all be sent to Fort Lafayette, and the moral effect on this cursed rebellion will be such that it will utterly collapse in two hours and forty-three minutes.
The serious New Haven chap, of whom I spoke to you some time ago, takes a "radical" view of our long halt, and gives his ideas in
THE MIDNIGHT WATCH.Soldier, soldier, wan and gray,Standing there so very still,On the outpost looking South,What is there to-night to kill?Through the mist that rises thickFrom the noisome marsh around,I can see thee like a shadeCast from something underground.And I know that thou art old,For thy features, sharp, and thin,Cut their lines upon the shroudDamply folding thee within.Fit art thou to watch and guardO'er the brake and o'er the bog;By the glitter of thine eyesThou canst pierce a thicker fog.Tell me, soldier, grim and old,If thy tongue is free to say,What thou seest looking South,In that still and staring way?Yonderward the fires may glowOf a score of rebel camps;But thou canst not see their lights,Through the chilling dews and damps.Silent still, and motionless?Get thee to the tents behind,Where the flag for which we fightPlays a foot-ball to the wind.Get thee to the bankments high,Where a thousand cannon sleep,While the call that bids them wakeBids a score of millions weep.Thou shalt find an army there,Working out the statesman's plots,While a poison banes the land,And a noble nation rots.Thou shalt find a soldier-hostTied and rooted to its place,Like a woman cowed and dumb,Staring Treason in the face.Dost thou hear me? Speak, or move!And if thou wouldst pass the line,Give the password of the night—Halt! and give the countersign.God of Heaven! what is thisSounding through the frosty air,In a cadence stern and slow,From the figure looming there!"Sentry, thou hast spoken well"—Through the mist the answer came—"I am wrinkled, grim, and old,May'st thou live to be the same!"Thou art here to keep a watchOver prowlers coming nigh;I can show thee, looking South,What is hidden from thine eye."Here, the loyal armies sleep;There, the foe awaits them all;Who can tell before the timeWhich shall triumph, which shall fall?"O, but war's a royal game,Here a move and there a pause;Little recks the dazzled worldWhat may be the winner's cause."In the roar of sweating guns,In the crash of sabres crossed,Wisdom dwindles to a fife,Justice in the smoke is lost."But there is a mightier blowThan the rain of lead and steel,Falling from a heavier handThan the one the vanquished feel."Let the armies of the NorthRest them thus for many a night;Not with them the issue lies,'Twixt the powers of Wrong and Right."Through the fog that wraps us roundI can see, as with a glass,Far beyond the rebel hostsFires that cluster, pause, and pass."From the wayside and the wood,From the cabin and the swamp,Crawl the harbingers of blood,Black as night, with torch and lamp."Now they blend in one dense throng;Hark! they whisper, as in ire—Catch the word before it dies—Hear the horrid murmur—'Fire!'"Mothers, with your babes at rest,Maidens in your dreaming-land—Brothers, children—wake ye all!The Avenger is at hand."Born by thousands in a flash,Angry flames bescourge the air,And the howlings of the blacksFan them to a fiercer glare."Crash the windows, burst the doors,Let the helpless call for aid;From the hell within they rushOn the negro's reeking blade."Through the flaming doorway arch,Half-dressed women frantic dart;Demon! spare that kneeling girl—God! the knife is in her heart."By his hair so thin and grayForth they drag the aged sire;First, a stab to stop his pray'r—Hurl him back into the fire."What! a child, a mother's pride,Crying shrilly with affright!Dash the axe upon her skull,Show no mercy—she is white."Louder, louder roars the flame,Blotting out the Southern home,Fainter grow the dying shrieks,Fiercer cries of vengeance come."Turn, ye armies, where ye stand,Glaring in each others' eyes;While ye halt, a cause is won;While ye wait, a despot dies."Greater victory has been gainedThan the longest sword secures,And the Wrong has been washed outWith a purer blood than yours."Soldier, by my mother's pray'r!Thou dost act a demon's part;Tell me, ere I strike thee dead,Whence thou comest, who thou art.Back! I will not let thee pass—Why, that dress is Putnam's own!Soldier, soldier, where art thou?Vanished—like a shadow gone!
THE MIDNIGHT WATCH.
THE MIDNIGHT WATCH.
Soldier, soldier, wan and gray,Standing there so very still,On the outpost looking South,What is there to-night to kill?
Soldier, soldier, wan and gray,
Standing there so very still,
On the outpost looking South,
What is there to-night to kill?
Through the mist that rises thickFrom the noisome marsh around,I can see thee like a shadeCast from something underground.
Through the mist that rises thick
From the noisome marsh around,
I can see thee like a shade
Cast from something underground.
And I know that thou art old,For thy features, sharp, and thin,Cut their lines upon the shroudDamply folding thee within.
And I know that thou art old,
For thy features, sharp, and thin,
Cut their lines upon the shroud
Damply folding thee within.
Fit art thou to watch and guardO'er the brake and o'er the bog;By the glitter of thine eyesThou canst pierce a thicker fog.
Fit art thou to watch and guard
O'er the brake and o'er the bog;
By the glitter of thine eyes
Thou canst pierce a thicker fog.
Tell me, soldier, grim and old,If thy tongue is free to say,What thou seest looking South,In that still and staring way?
Tell me, soldier, grim and old,
If thy tongue is free to say,
What thou seest looking South,
In that still and staring way?
Yonderward the fires may glowOf a score of rebel camps;But thou canst not see their lights,Through the chilling dews and damps.
Yonderward the fires may glow
Of a score of rebel camps;
But thou canst not see their lights,
Through the chilling dews and damps.
Silent still, and motionless?Get thee to the tents behind,Where the flag for which we fightPlays a foot-ball to the wind.
Silent still, and motionless?
Get thee to the tents behind,
Where the flag for which we fight
Plays a foot-ball to the wind.
Get thee to the bankments high,Where a thousand cannon sleep,While the call that bids them wakeBids a score of millions weep.
Get thee to the bankments high,
Where a thousand cannon sleep,
While the call that bids them wake
Bids a score of millions weep.
Thou shalt find an army there,Working out the statesman's plots,While a poison banes the land,And a noble nation rots.
Thou shalt find an army there,
Working out the statesman's plots,
While a poison banes the land,
And a noble nation rots.
Thou shalt find a soldier-hostTied and rooted to its place,Like a woman cowed and dumb,Staring Treason in the face.
Thou shalt find a soldier-host
Tied and rooted to its place,
Like a woman cowed and dumb,
Staring Treason in the face.
Dost thou hear me? Speak, or move!And if thou wouldst pass the line,Give the password of the night—Halt! and give the countersign.
Dost thou hear me? Speak, or move!
And if thou wouldst pass the line,
Give the password of the night—
Halt! and give the countersign.
God of Heaven! what is thisSounding through the frosty air,In a cadence stern and slow,From the figure looming there!
God of Heaven! what is this
Sounding through the frosty air,
In a cadence stern and slow,
From the figure looming there!
"Sentry, thou hast spoken well"—Through the mist the answer came—"I am wrinkled, grim, and old,May'st thou live to be the same!
"Sentry, thou hast spoken well"—
Through the mist the answer came—
"I am wrinkled, grim, and old,
May'st thou live to be the same!
"Thou art here to keep a watchOver prowlers coming nigh;I can show thee, looking South,What is hidden from thine eye.
"Thou art here to keep a watch
Over prowlers coming nigh;
I can show thee, looking South,
What is hidden from thine eye.
"Here, the loyal armies sleep;There, the foe awaits them all;Who can tell before the timeWhich shall triumph, which shall fall?
"Here, the loyal armies sleep;
There, the foe awaits them all;
Who can tell before the time
Which shall triumph, which shall fall?
"O, but war's a royal game,Here a move and there a pause;Little recks the dazzled worldWhat may be the winner's cause.
"O, but war's a royal game,
Here a move and there a pause;
Little recks the dazzled world
What may be the winner's cause.
"In the roar of sweating guns,In the crash of sabres crossed,Wisdom dwindles to a fife,Justice in the smoke is lost.
"In the roar of sweating guns,
In the crash of sabres crossed,
Wisdom dwindles to a fife,
Justice in the smoke is lost.
"But there is a mightier blowThan the rain of lead and steel,Falling from a heavier handThan the one the vanquished feel.
"But there is a mightier blow
Than the rain of lead and steel,
Falling from a heavier hand
Than the one the vanquished feel.
"Let the armies of the NorthRest them thus for many a night;Not with them the issue lies,'Twixt the powers of Wrong and Right.
"Let the armies of the North
Rest them thus for many a night;
Not with them the issue lies,
'Twixt the powers of Wrong and Right.
"Through the fog that wraps us roundI can see, as with a glass,Far beyond the rebel hostsFires that cluster, pause, and pass.
"Through the fog that wraps us round
I can see, as with a glass,
Far beyond the rebel hosts
Fires that cluster, pause, and pass.
"From the wayside and the wood,From the cabin and the swamp,Crawl the harbingers of blood,Black as night, with torch and lamp.
"From the wayside and the wood,
From the cabin and the swamp,
Crawl the harbingers of blood,
Black as night, with torch and lamp.
"Now they blend in one dense throng;Hark! they whisper, as in ire—Catch the word before it dies—Hear the horrid murmur—'Fire!'
"Now they blend in one dense throng;
Hark! they whisper, as in ire—
Catch the word before it dies—
Hear the horrid murmur—'Fire!'
"Mothers, with your babes at rest,Maidens in your dreaming-land—Brothers, children—wake ye all!The Avenger is at hand.
"Mothers, with your babes at rest,
Maidens in your dreaming-land—
Brothers, children—wake ye all!
The Avenger is at hand.
"Born by thousands in a flash,Angry flames bescourge the air,And the howlings of the blacksFan them to a fiercer glare.
"Born by thousands in a flash,
Angry flames bescourge the air,
And the howlings of the blacks
Fan them to a fiercer glare.
"Crash the windows, burst the doors,Let the helpless call for aid;From the hell within they rushOn the negro's reeking blade.
"Crash the windows, burst the doors,
Let the helpless call for aid;
From the hell within they rush
On the negro's reeking blade.
"Through the flaming doorway arch,Half-dressed women frantic dart;Demon! spare that kneeling girl—God! the knife is in her heart.
"Through the flaming doorway arch,
Half-dressed women frantic dart;
Demon! spare that kneeling girl—
God! the knife is in her heart.
"By his hair so thin and grayForth they drag the aged sire;First, a stab to stop his pray'r—Hurl him back into the fire.
"By his hair so thin and gray
Forth they drag the aged sire;
First, a stab to stop his pray'r—
Hurl him back into the fire.
"What! a child, a mother's pride,Crying shrilly with affright!Dash the axe upon her skull,Show no mercy—she is white.
"What! a child, a mother's pride,
Crying shrilly with affright!
Dash the axe upon her skull,
Show no mercy—she is white.
"Louder, louder roars the flame,Blotting out the Southern home,Fainter grow the dying shrieks,Fiercer cries of vengeance come.
"Louder, louder roars the flame,
Blotting out the Southern home,
Fainter grow the dying shrieks,
Fiercer cries of vengeance come.
"Turn, ye armies, where ye stand,Glaring in each others' eyes;While ye halt, a cause is won;While ye wait, a despot dies.
"Turn, ye armies, where ye stand,
Glaring in each others' eyes;
While ye halt, a cause is won;
While ye wait, a despot dies.
"Greater victory has been gainedThan the longest sword secures,And the Wrong has been washed outWith a purer blood than yours."
"Greater victory has been gained
Than the longest sword secures,
And the Wrong has been washed out
With a purer blood than yours."
Soldier, by my mother's pray'r!Thou dost act a demon's part;Tell me, ere I strike thee dead,Whence thou comest, who thou art.
Soldier, by my mother's pray'r!
Thou dost act a demon's part;
Tell me, ere I strike thee dead,
Whence thou comest, who thou art.
Back! I will not let thee pass—Why, that dress is Putnam's own!Soldier, soldier, where art thou?Vanished—like a shadow gone!
Back! I will not let thee pass—
Why, that dress is Putnam's own!
Soldier, soldier, where art thou?
Vanished—like a shadow gone!
The Southern Confederacy may come to that yet, my boy, if it don't take warning in time from its patron Saint. I refer to Saint Domingo, my boy,—I refer to Saint Domingo.
Yours, musingly,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER XXIX.
INTRODUCING A VERITABLE "MUDSILL," ILLUSTRATING YANKEE BUSINESS TACT, NOTING THE DETENTION OF A NEWSPAPER CHARTOGRAPHIST, AND SO ON.
Washington, D.C., February 2d, 1862.
I never really knew what the term "mudsill" meant, my boy, until I saw Captain Bob Shorty on Tuesday. I was out in a field, just this side of Fort Corcoran, trimming down the ears of my gothic steed Pegasus, that he might look less like a Titanic rabbit, when I saw approaching me an object resembling a brown-stone monument. As it came nearer, I discovered an eruption of brass buttons at intervals in front, and presently I observed the lineaments of a Federal face.
"Strange being!" says I, taking down a pistol from the natural rack on the side of my steed, and at the same time motioning toward my sword, which I had hung on one of his hip bones, "Art thou the shade of Metamora, or the disembodied spirit of a sand-bank?"
"My ducky darling," responded the æolian voice of Captain Bob Shorty, "you behold a mudsill just emerged from a liquified portion of the sacred soil. The mud at present inclosing the Mackerel Brigade is unpleasant to the personal feelings of the corps, but the effect at a distance is unique. As you survey that expanse of mud from Arlington Heights," continued Captain Bob Shorty, "with the veterans of the Mackerel Brigade wading about in it up to their chins, you are forcibly reminded of a limitless plum-pudding, well stocked with animated raisins."
"My friend," says I, "the comparison is apt, and reminds me of Shakspeare's happier efforts. But tell me, my Pylades, has the dredging for those missing regiments near Alexandria proved successful?"
Captain Bob Shorty shook the mire from his ears, and then, says he:
"Two brigades were excavated this morning, and are at present building a raft to go down to Washington after some soap. Let us not utter complaints against the mud," continued Captain Bob Shorty, reflectively, "for it has served to develop the genius of New England. We dug out a Yankee regiment from Boston first, and the moment those wooden-nutmeg chaps got their breath, they went to work at the mud that had almost suffocated them, mixed up some spoiled flour with it, and are now making their eternal fortunes by peddling it out for patent cement."
This remark of the captain's, my boy, shows that the spirit of New England still retains its natural elasticity, and is capable of greater efforts than lignum vitæ hams and clocks made of barrel hoops and old coffee-pots. I have heard my ancient grandfather relate an example of this spirit during the war of 1812. He was with a select assortment of Pequog chaps at Bladensburg, just before the attack on Washington, and word came secretly to them that the Britishers down in the Chesapeake were out of flour, and would pay something handsome for a supply. Now, these Pequog chaps had no flour, my boy; but that didn't keep them out of the speculation. They went into the nearest graveyard, dug up all the tombstones, and put them into an old quartz-crushing machine, pounded them to powder, sent the powder to the coast,and sold it to the Britishers for the very best flour, at twelve dollars and a half a barrel!
And can such a people as this be conquered by a horde of godless rebels? Never! I repeat it, sir—never! Should the Jeff. Davis mob ever get possession of Washington, the Yankees would build a wall around the place, and invite the public to come and see the menagerie, at two shillings a head.
On Wednesday, some of our dryest pickets caught a shabby, long-haired chap loafing around the camps with a big block and sheet of paper under his arm, and brought him before the general of the Mackerel Brigade.
"Well, Samyule," says the general to one of the pickets, "what is your charge against the prisonier?"
"He is a young man which is a spy," replied Samyule, holding up the sheet of paper; "and I take this here picture of his to be the Great Seal of the Southern Confederacy."
"Why thinkest thou so, my cherub? and what does the work of art represent?" inquired the general.
"The drawing is not of the best," responded Samyule, closing one eye, and viewing the picture critically; "but I should say that it represented a ham, with a fiddle laid across it, and beefsteaks in the corners."
"Miserable vandal!" shouted the long-haired chap, excitedly, "you know not what you say. I am a Federal artist; and that picture is a map of the coast of North Carolina, for a New York daily paper."
"Thunder!" says the general—"if that's a map, a patent gridiron must be a whole atlas."
I believe him, my boy!
As a person of erudition, it pleased me greatly, my boy, to observe that our more moral New York regiments cultivate a taste for reading, and are even so literary that they can't so much as light their pipes without a leaf out of a hymn-book. I was talking to an angular-shaped chap from Montgomery county the other day about this, and says he:
"Talk about reading! Why, there's fifty newspapers sent in a wrapper to our officers alone, every day. There's ten each of theTribuneandTimes, ten each of theBoston PostandGazette, ten of theMontgomery Democrat, and oneNew York Herald."
"Look here! my second Washington," says I, "your story don't hang together. You say you have fifty papers daily; but according to my account that copy of theHeraldmakes fifty-one."
"Did I not tell you that they came in a wrapper?" says the chap, with great dignity.
"You did," says I.
"Well," says he, "theHeraldis the wrapper."
This morning, my boy, I went with Colonel Wobert Wobinson to look at some new horses he had just imported from the Erie Canal stables for the Western cavalry, and was much pleased with the display of bone-work. One animal, in particular, interested me greatly; he was born in 1776, had both of his hind-legs broken on the frontier, in one of the battles of 1812, and lost both his eyes and his tail at the taking of Mexico. The colonel stated that he had selected this splendid animal for his own use in the field.
Another fine calico animal of the stud was attached to the suite of Washington at the famous crossing of the Delaware, and is said to have surprised the Hessians at Trenton as much as the army did. Previous to losing his teeth he was sold to a Western dealer in hides for three dollars; and the dealer, being an enthusiastic Union man, has let the Government have the animal for one hundred and ten dollars.
A mousseline-de-laine mare also attracted my notice. She was sired by the favorite racer of the Marquis de Lafayette, and has been damned by everybody attempting to drive her. The pretty beast comes from the celebrated Bone Mill belonging to the Erie Canal, and only cost the Government two hundred dollars.
Believing that the public funds are being judiciously expended, my boy, I remain,
Fondly thine own,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER XXX.
DESCRIPTION OF THE GORGEOUS FÊTE AT THE WHITE HOUSE, INCLUDING THE OBSERVATIONS OF CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN: WITH SOME NOTE OF THE TOILETTES, CONFECTIONS, AND PUNCH.
Washington, D.C., February 7th, 1862.
Notwithstanding your general ignorance of Natural History, my boy, you may be aware that when the eagle is wounded by the huntsman, instead of seeking some thick-set tree or dismal swamp, there to die like a common bird, he soars straight upward in the full eye of the sun, and bathes in all the glories of noonday, while his eyes grow dull with agony, and his talons are stiffening in death; nor does he fall from the dazzling empyrean until the last stroke of fate hurls him downward like a thunderbolt.
Our Union, my boy—our Land of the Eagle—is stricken sorely, and perhaps to death; but like the proud bird of Jove, it disdains to grow morbid in its agonies; and the occasional sighs of its patient struggling millions, are lost in sounds of death-defying revelry at the dauntless capital.
All the best-looking uniforms in the army were invited to Mrs. Lincoln's ball at the White House on Wednesday, and of course I was favored, together with the general of the Mackerel Brigade, and Captain Villiam Brown, of Accomac. My ticket, my boy, was as aristocractic as a rooster's tail at sunrise:
(CUTLETS.), E pluri bust Union., (OYSTERS.) ORPHEUS C. KERR, Pleasure of your Company at the White House, (R.S.V.P.) WEDNESDAY, Feb. 5th, 1862. 8 o'clock, P.M. (HALF MOURNING FOR PRINCE ALBERT.) NO SMOKING ALOUD.)
At an early hour on the evening of thefête, the general of the Mackerel Brigade came to my room in a perfect perspiration of brass buttons and white kids, and I asked him what "no smoking aloud" meant.
"Why," says he, putting his wig straight and licking a stray drop of brandy from one of his gloves, "it means that if you try to 'smoke' any of the generals at the ball as to the plan of the campaign, you mustn't do it 'aloud.' Thunder!" says the general, in a fine glow of enthusiasm, "the only plan of the campaign that I know anything about, is the rata-plan."
Satisfied with the general's explanation, I proceeded with my toilet, and presently beamed upon him in such a resplendent conglomeration of ruffles, brass buttons, epaulettes and Hungarian pomade, that he said I reminded him of a comet just come out of a feather-bed, with its tail done up in papers.
"My Magnus Apollo," says he, "the way you bear that white cravat shows you to be of rich but genteel parentage. Any man," says he, "who can wear a white cravat without looking like a coachman, may pass for a gentleman-born. Two-thirds of the clergymen who wear it look like footmen in their grave-clothes."
We then took a hack to the White House, my boy, and on arriving there were delighted to find that the rooms were already filling with statesmen, miss-statesmen, mrs-statesmen, and officers, who had so much lace and epaulettes about them that they looked like walking brass-founderies with the front-door open.
The first object that attracted my special attention, however, was a thing that I took for a large and ornamental pair of tongs leaning against a mantel, figured in blue enamel, with a life-like imitation of a window-brush on top. I directed the general's attention to it, and asked him if that was one of the unique gifts presented to the Government by the late Japanese embassy?
"Thunder!" says the general, "that's no tongs. It's the young man which is Captain Villiam Brown, of Accomac. Now that I look at him," says the general, thoughtfully, "he reminds me of an old-fashioned straddle-bug."
Stepping from one lady's dress to another, until I reached the side of the Commander of the Accomac, I slapped him on the back, and says I:
"How are you, my blue-bird; and what do you think of this brilliant assemblage?"
"Ha!" says Villiam, starting out of a brown study, and putting some cloves in his mouth, to disguise the water he'd drank on his way from Accomac—"I was just thinking what my poor old mother would say if she could see me and the other snobs here to-night. When I look on the women of America around me to-night," says Villiam, feelingly, "and see how much they've cut off from the tops of their dresses, to make bandages for our wounded soldiers, I can't help feeling that their 'neck-or-nothing' appearance—so far from being indelicate, is a very delicate proof of their devoted love of Union."
"I agree with you, my azure humanitarian," says I. "There's precious littlewaistabout such dresses."
Villiam closed one eye, turned his head one-side like a facetious canary, and says he:
"Now lovely woman scants her dress, with bandages the sick to bless; and stoops so far to war's alarms, her very frock is under arms!"
I believe him, my boy!
Returning to the General, we took a turn in the East Room, and enjoyed the panorama of youth, beauty, and whiskers, that wound its variegated length before us.
The charming Mrs. L——, of Illinois, was richly attired in a frock and gloves, and wore a wreath of flowers from amaranthine bowers. She was affable as an angel with a new pair of wings, and was universally allowed to be the most beautiful woman present.
The enthralling Miss C——, from Ohio, was elegantly clad in a dress, and wore number-four gaiters. So brilliant was her smile, that when she laughed at one of Lord Lyons' witicisms, all one corner of the room was wrapped in a glare of light, and several nervous dowagers cried "Fire!" Her beauty was certainly the most beautiful present.
The fascinating Miss L——, of Pennsylvania, was superbly robed in an attire of costly material, with expensive flounces. She wore two gloves and a complete pair of ear-rings, and spoke so musically that the leader of the Marine Band thought there was an æolian harp in the window. She was certainly the most beautiful woman present.
The bewitching Mrs. G——, from Missouri, was splendidly dressed in a breastpin and lace flounces, and wore her hair brushed back from a forehead like Mount Athos. Her eyes reminded one of diamond springs sparkling in the shade of whispering willows. She was decidedly the finest type of beauty present.
The President wore his coat and whiskers, and bowed to all salutations like a graceful door-hinge.
There was a tall Western Senator present, who smiled so much above his stomach, that I was reminded of the beautiful lines:
"As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm;Though round its base a country's ruin spread,Eternal moonshine settles on its head."
"As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm;Though round its base a country's ruin spread,Eternal moonshine settles on its head."
"As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm;
Though round its base a country's ruin spread,
Eternal moonshine settles on its head."
Upon going into the supper-room, my boy, I beheld a paradise of eatables that made me wish myself a knife and pork, with nothing but a bottle of mustard to keep me company. There were oystersà la fundum; turkeysà la ruffles; chickensà la Methusaleh; beefà la Bull Run; fruità la stumikake; jelliesà la Kallararmorbus; and icesà la aguefitz.
The ornamental confectionary was beautifully symbolical of the times. At one end of the table, there was a large lump of white candy, with six carpet-tacks lying upon it. This represented the "Tax on Sugar." At the other end was a large platter, containing imitation mud, in which two candy brigadiers were swimming towards each other, with their swords between their teeth. This symbolized "War."
These being very hard times, my boy, and the Executive not being inclined to be too expensive in its marketing, a most ingenious expedient was adopted to make it appear that there was just twice as much of certain costly delicacies on the table as there really was. About the centre of the table lay a large mirror, and on this were placed a few expensive dishes. Of course, the looking-glass gave them a double effect. For instance, if there was a pound of beefsteak on the plate, it produced another pound in the glass, and the effect was two pounds.
When economy can be thus artistically blended with plentitude, my boy, money ceases to be king, and butcher-bills dwindle. Hereafter, when I receive for my rations a pint of transparent coffee and two granite biscuit, I shall use a looking-glass for a plate.
It was the very which-ing hour of the night when the general and myself left the glittering scene, and we had to ask several patrols "which" way to go.
On parting with my comrade-in-arms, says I:
"General, the ball is a success."
He looked at me in three winks, and says he:
"Itwasa success—particularly the bowl of punch!"
Yours, for soda-water,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER XXXI.
TREATING OF THE GREAT MILITARY ANACONDA, AND THE MODERN XANTIPPE.
Washington, D.C., February 16th, 1862.
There is still much lingual gymnastics, my boy, concerning the recentfêtesham-pate at the White House; but Colonel Wobert Wobinson, of the Western Cavalry, has extinguished the grumblers by proving that the entertainment was strictly Constitutional. He profoundly observes, my boy, that it comes under the head of that clause of the Constitution which secures to the people of America the "pursuit of happiness;" and, as he justly remarks, if you stop the "pursuit of happiness," where's the Instrument of our Liberties?
It pleases me greatly to announce, my boy, that the General of the Mackerel Brigade believes in McClellan, and gorgeously defends him against the attacks of that portion of the depraved press which has friends dying of old age in the Army of the Potomac.
"Thunder!" says he to Captain Bob Shorty, stirring the Oath in his tumbler with a tooth-brush—"the way Little Mac is devoting himself to the military squelching of this here unnatural rebellion, is actually outraging his physical nature. He reviews his staff twice a day, goes over the river every five minutes, studies international law six hours before dinner, takes soundings of the mud every time the dew falls, and takes so little sleep, that there's two inches of dust on one of his eye-balls. Would you believe it," says the General, placing the tumbler over his nose to keep off a fly, "his devotion is such that his hair is turning gray and will probably dye!"
Captain Bob Shorty whistled. I do not mean to say that he intended to be musically satirical, my boy; but if I should hear such a canary-bird remark afterI'dtold a story, somebody would go home with his eyes done up in rainbows.
"Permitme," says Captain Bob Shorty, hurling what remained of the Oath into the aperture under his moustache. "You convince me that Little Mac's devotion is extraordinary," continued Captain Bob Shorty, dreamily; "but he don't come up to a chap I once knew, which was a editor. Talk about devotion! and outraging nature!" says Captain Bob Shorty, spitting with exquisite accuracy into the eyes of the regimental cat, "why, that ere editor threw body, soul, and breeches into his work; and so completely identified himself with a free and enlightened press, that his first child was anewsboy."
The General of the Mackerel Brigade arose from his seat, my boy, wound up his watch, brushed off his boots, threw the cat out of the window, and then says he:
"Robert, name of Shorty, did you ever read in the Bible about Ananias, who was struck dead for telling a telegraph?"
"I heard about him," says Captain Bob Shorty, "when I was but a innocent lamb, and wore my mother's slipper on my back about as often as she wore it on her foot."
"Well," says the general, with the air of a thoughtful parent, "it's my opinion that if you'd been Ananias, the same streak of lightning would have buried you and paid the sexton."
From this logical and vivid conversation, my boy, you will understand that our leading military men have perfect faith in the genius of McClellan, and believe that he is equal to fifty yards of the Star-Spangled Banner. His great anaconda has gathered itself in a circle around the doomed rabbit of rebellion, and if the rabbit swells he's a goner.
This great anaconda, my boy, may remind hellish readers of the anaconda once seen by a chap of my acquaintance living in the Sixth Ward. This chap, my boy, came tearing into a place where they kept the Oath on tap, and says he:
"I've just seen an anaconda down Broadway."
"Anna who?" says a red-nosed Alderman, dipping his finger into the water on the stove to see if it was warm enough to melt some brandy-refined sugar.
"I said Anaconda, you ignorant cuss," says the chap.
"Was it the real insect?" says the Alderman.
"It was a real, original, genuine Anaconda," says the chap.
"Ah!" says the Alderman, "somebody's been stuffin' you."
"No, sir!" says the chap, "but somebody's been stuffin' the Anaconda, though."
He'd been to the Museum.
If there should be among your unfortunate readers, my boy, any persons of such depraved minds as to perceive a likeness between this Anaconda and that Anaconda, may they be sent to Fort Lafayette, and compelled to read Tupper's poems until the rabbit of rebellion is reduced to his last quarter!
Early this morning a couple of snuff-colored pickets brought a female Southern Confederacy into camp, stating that she had called them nasty things and spit all over their guns. She said that she wanted to see the loathsome creature that commanded them, and her eyes flashed so when they took her by the arm, that her vail took fire twice, and her eyebrows smoked repeatedly.
The General of the Mackerel Brigade received her courteously, only poking her in the ribs to see if she had any Armstrong guns concealed about her. Says he:
"Have I the honor of addressing the wife of the Southern Confederacy?"
The female confederacy drew herself up as proudly as the First Family of Virginia when the butcher's bill comes to be paid, and replied, in soprano of great compass:—
"I am that injured woman, you ugly swine."
The General bowed until his lips touched a pewter mug on the table, and then says he:
"My dear madam, your words touch a tender chord in my heart, and it will give me pleasure to serve you. Your words, madam," continued the general, with visible emotion, "are precisely those which my beloved wife not unfrequently addresses to me. Ah! my wife! my wifey!" says the general, hysterically, "how often have you patted me on my head, and told me that my face looked like a chunk of beeswax with three cracks in it."
The wife of the Southern Confederacy sneered audibly, and called for a fan. There being no fan nearer than the office of Secretary Welles, she used a small whisk-broom. Says she:
"Miserable hireling of a diabolical Lincoln, your wife is nothing to me. She is a creature! I do not come here to hear her wrongs, but to express the undying wish that you and all your horde may be welcomed with muddy hands to hospitable graves. All I want is to be let alone."
"My dear Mrs. S. C.," says the general, with a touch of brass and irony, "it is a matter of the utmost indifference to me whether you are 'to be let alone,' or with the next house and lot."
"I insist upon being let alone," screamed the female Confederacy, spitting angrily.
"I am not touching you," says the general.
"All I want is to be let alone," shrieked the exasperated lady; "and Iwillbe let alone!"
The General of the Mackerel Brigade hastily wiped his mouth with a bottle, and then says he:
"Madam, if sandwiches are not plenty where you come from, it ain't for the want of tongue."
On hearing this gastronomic remark, my boy, the injured wife of the Southern Confederacy swept from the room like an insulted Minerva, and departed for Secessia. It was observed that she frowned like a thunder-cloud at every Federal she passed, excepting one picket. Him she smiled on. She had detected him in the act of admiring her ankles as she picked her way through the mud.
Woman, my boy, has really many sweet qualities; and if her head is sometimes in the wrong, she has always a reserve of genuine goodness of heart in the neighborhood of her gaiters.
Yours, for the Sex,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER XXXII.
COMMENCING WITH A BURST OF EXULTATION OVER NATIONAL VICTORIES, REFERRING TO A SENATORIAL MISTAKE, DEPICTING A WELL-KNOWN CHARACTER, AND REPORTING THE RECONNOISSANCE OF THE WESTERN CENTAURS.
Washington, D.C., February 21st, 1862.
Now swells Columbia's bosom with a pride, that sets her eyes ablaze with living fire; and, with her arms upreaching to the skies, she draws in air new crowns with stars adorned, to ring the temples of her conquering chiefs. Far in the West, she sees the livid sparks struck by Achilles from the hostile sword, and in the South beholds how Ajax bold defies the lightning of the rebel guns. Then clasping to her breast the flag we love, and donning swift Minerva's gleaming helm, she stands where Morn's first glories kiss the hills, and breathes the pæan of a fame redeemed!
Three cheers for the chaps who pocketed Fort Donelson & Co., my boy, and may the rebels never have an easier boat to row than Roanoke. The other day I was talking with a New England Senator about the taking of the fort, and says I:
"It was a gay victory, my learned Theban; but it makes me mad when I think how that slippery rascal, Floyd, found an egress down the river."
The Senator pulled up his collar, my boy, observed to the tumbler-sergeant that he would take the same with a little more sugar in it, and then says he:
"In that observation you sum up the whole cause of this unnatural strife. It is, indeed, the negro, whose wrongs are now being revenged upon us by an inscrutable Whig Providence; and if the Government does not speedily strike the fetters from the slave, that slave may yet be used to fight horribly against us. I shall cite the significant fact you mention in my next exciting speech."
I opened my eyes at this outburst until they looked like the bottoms of two quart bottles beaming in the sunshine, and then says I:
"You talk as fluently as a Patent Office Report, my worthy Nestor; but I don't exactly perceive what my remark has to do with the colored negro."
"Why," says he, "didn't you say that the traitor Floyd founda negressdown the river?"
For an instant, my boy, I felt very dizzy, and was obliged to lean my head against a tumbler for a moment.
"Your ears, my friend," says I, "are certainly long enough to hear correctly what is said to you; but this time you've made a slight mistake. I said that Floyd had foundan egressdown the river."
The Senator looked at me for a moment, and says he:
"Sold by a soldier! Good morning."
I wonder how those nice, pleasant, gentlemanly chaps down in South Carolina enjoy Uncle Samuel's latest hit? I can fancy their damaging effects, my boy, upon the constitution of