THE SOUTHERN VOLUNTEER'S FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE.Fresh from snuff-dipping to his arms she went,And he, a quid removing from his mouth,Pressed her in anguish to his manly breastAnd spat twice, longingly, toward the South."Zara," he said, and hiccup'd as he spoke,"Indeed I find it most (hic) 'stremely hardTo leave my wife, my niggers, and my debts,And march to glory with the 'Davis Guard;'"But all to arms the South has called her sons,And while there's something Southern hands can steal,You can't (hic) 'spect me to stay here at homeWith heartless duns for ever at my heel."To-night a hen-coop falls; and in a weekWe'll take the Yankee capital, I think;But should it prove (hic) 'pedient not to do't,Why, then, we'll take—in short, we'll take a drink."I reckon I may perish in the strife—Some bullet in the back might lay me low—And as my business needs attendin' to,I'll give you some directions ere I go."That cotton-gin I haven't paid for yet—The Yankee trusted for it, dear, you know,And it's a most (hic) 'stremely doubtful thing,Whether it's ever used again, or no."If Yankee's agent calls while I am gone,It's my (hic) 'spress command and wish, that youDenounce him for an abolition spy,And have him hung before his note is due."That octoroon—who made you jealous, love—Who sews so well and is so pale a thing;She keeps her husband, Sambo, from his work—You'd better sell her—well, for what she'll bring."In case your purse runs low while I'm away—There's Dinah's children—two (hic) 'spensive whelps;They won't bring much the way the markets are,But then you know how every little helps."And there's that Yankee schoolmistress, you know,Who taught our darlings how to read and spell;Now don't (hic) 'spend a cent to payherbill;If she aren't tarred and feathered, she'll do well!"And now, my dear, I go where booty calls,I leave my whisky, cotton-crop, and thee;Pray, that in battle I may not (hic) 'spire,And when you lick the niggers think of me."If on some mournful summer afternoonThey should bring home to you your warrior dead,Inter me with a toothpick in my hand,And write a last (hic)jaceto'er my head."
THE SOUTHERN VOLUNTEER'S FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE.
THE SOUTHERN VOLUNTEER'S FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE.
Fresh from snuff-dipping to his arms she went,And he, a quid removing from his mouth,Pressed her in anguish to his manly breastAnd spat twice, longingly, toward the South.
Fresh from snuff-dipping to his arms she went,
And he, a quid removing from his mouth,
Pressed her in anguish to his manly breast
And spat twice, longingly, toward the South.
"Zara," he said, and hiccup'd as he spoke,"Indeed I find it most (hic) 'stremely hardTo leave my wife, my niggers, and my debts,And march to glory with the 'Davis Guard;'
"Zara," he said, and hiccup'd as he spoke,
"Indeed I find it most (hic) 'stremely hard
To leave my wife, my niggers, and my debts,
And march to glory with the 'Davis Guard;'
"But all to arms the South has called her sons,And while there's something Southern hands can steal,You can't (hic) 'spect me to stay here at homeWith heartless duns for ever at my heel.
"But all to arms the South has called her sons,
And while there's something Southern hands can steal,
You can't (hic) 'spect me to stay here at home
With heartless duns for ever at my heel.
"To-night a hen-coop falls; and in a weekWe'll take the Yankee capital, I think;But should it prove (hic) 'pedient not to do't,Why, then, we'll take—in short, we'll take a drink.
"To-night a hen-coop falls; and in a week
We'll take the Yankee capital, I think;
But should it prove (hic) 'pedient not to do't,
Why, then, we'll take—in short, we'll take a drink.
"I reckon I may perish in the strife—Some bullet in the back might lay me low—And as my business needs attendin' to,I'll give you some directions ere I go.
"I reckon I may perish in the strife—
Some bullet in the back might lay me low—
And as my business needs attendin' to,
I'll give you some directions ere I go.
"That cotton-gin I haven't paid for yet—The Yankee trusted for it, dear, you know,And it's a most (hic) 'stremely doubtful thing,Whether it's ever used again, or no.
"That cotton-gin I haven't paid for yet—
The Yankee trusted for it, dear, you know,
And it's a most (hic) 'stremely doubtful thing,
Whether it's ever used again, or no.
"If Yankee's agent calls while I am gone,It's my (hic) 'spress command and wish, that youDenounce him for an abolition spy,And have him hung before his note is due.
"If Yankee's agent calls while I am gone,
It's my (hic) 'spress command and wish, that you
Denounce him for an abolition spy,
And have him hung before his note is due.
"That octoroon—who made you jealous, love—Who sews so well and is so pale a thing;She keeps her husband, Sambo, from his work—You'd better sell her—well, for what she'll bring.
"That octoroon—who made you jealous, love—
Who sews so well and is so pale a thing;
She keeps her husband, Sambo, from his work—
You'd better sell her—well, for what she'll bring.
"In case your purse runs low while I'm away—There's Dinah's children—two (hic) 'spensive whelps;They won't bring much the way the markets are,But then you know how every little helps.
"In case your purse runs low while I'm away—
There's Dinah's children—two (hic) 'spensive whelps;
They won't bring much the way the markets are,
But then you know how every little helps.
"And there's that Yankee schoolmistress, you know,Who taught our darlings how to read and spell;Now don't (hic) 'spend a cent to payherbill;If she aren't tarred and feathered, she'll do well!
"And there's that Yankee schoolmistress, you know,
Who taught our darlings how to read and spell;
Now don't (hic) 'spend a cent to payherbill;
If she aren't tarred and feathered, she'll do well!
"And now, my dear, I go where booty calls,I leave my whisky, cotton-crop, and thee;Pray, that in battle I may not (hic) 'spire,And when you lick the niggers think of me.
"And now, my dear, I go where booty calls,
I leave my whisky, cotton-crop, and thee;
Pray, that in battle I may not (hic) 'spire,
And when you lick the niggers think of me.
"If on some mournful summer afternoonThey should bring home to you your warrior dead,Inter me with a toothpick in my hand,And write a last (hic)jaceto'er my head."
"If on some mournful summer afternoon
They should bring home to you your warrior dead,
Inter me with a toothpick in my hand,
And write a last (hic)jaceto'er my head."
We found this in the shed lately used by the chivalric Constarveracy as a guard-house, my boy, and read it with deep emotion.
Yours, Manassastonished,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER XXXVI.
CONCERNING THE WEAKNESSES OF GREAT MEN, THE CURIOUS MISTAKE OF A FRATERNAL MACKEREL, AND THE REMARKABLE ALLITERATIVE PERFORMANCE OF CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN.
Washington, D.C., March 20th, 1862.
When a wise, benign, but not altogether Rhode-Island Providence saw fit to deal out a few mountains to Eastern Tennessee and Western Virginia, my boy, it is barely possible that Providence had an eye to the present crisis of our subtracted country, and intended to furnish the coming Abe with a fit place for the lofty accommodation of such great men as were not in immediate demand among the politicians. I am not topographical by nature, my boy; I never went up to the top of the White Mountains to see the sun rise, and didn't see; nor did I ever scale Mount Blanc for the purpose of allowing a fog to settle on my lungs; but it's my private opinion, my boy, my private opinion, that, were it not for the perpendicular elevations of the earth's surface in the States named, it would be necessary for the honest Old Abe either to turn General Fremont into a reduced Consul, and commission him to furnish proofs of the nation's reverence for the name of Lafayette, or coop him up somewhere in solitary grandeur, like a rabbit in a Warren.
"Great men," says the General of the Mackerel Brigade, as he and I were looking at some sugar together, the other night, through concave glasses—"great men," says he, "are like the ears of black-and-tan terriers; they are good for ornaments, but you must cut off some of them when you would give them rats. Thunder!" says the general, taking a perpendicular view of the sugar—"if we didn't cut off great men occasionally, there'd be more presidential nominations to ratify next election than ever before struck terrier to the heart of an old-line whig."
But you have yet to learn, my boy, what wasthegreat reason for sending Fremont to the everlasting hills. On Tuesday I asked a knowing veteran at Willard's what it really was. He looked at me for a moment in immovable silence; then he softly placed his spoon-gymnasium on a table, looked cautiously in all directions, crept up to my ear on tiptoe, and says he:
"Kerridges!"
"Son of a bottle!" says I, "your information is about as intelligible as the ordinary remarks of Ralph Waldo Emerson."
The knowing veteran suffered his nose to take a steam-bath for a moment, and then says he:
"Kerridges! Kerridges with six horses and the American flag flying out of the back window. Fremont's great mistake at the West was kerridges—andsix horses. Did he wish to buy some shoe-strings for his babes—'Captain Poneyowiski,' says he to his chamberlain, 'order the second steward to tell the scarlet-and-grey groom to send the kerridge and six horses round to the door, with a full band on the box.' Did he wish to make a call on the next block and obtain some Bath note-paper—'General Nockmynoseoff,' says he to his first esquire in waiting, 'issue a proclamation to my Master in Chancery to instantly command the Master of the Horse to get ready the kerridge with six horses, and send the Life-Guard to clear the way.' In fact," says the knowing veteran, frowning mysteriously, "it is rumored that when he came home from Debar's theatre one night, and found the front door of his head-quarters accidentally locked, he instantly ordered up the kerridgeandsix horses, to take him round to the back entrance. Now," says the knowing veteran, suddenly striking the table a glass blow that splashed, and assuming an air of embittered argument—"they've sent him to the mountains to suppress his kerridge."
This explanation, my boy, may be all a fiction, but certain it is that General Fremont has not the carriage he had six months ago.
On Wednesday the gothic steed Pegasus bore me once more to Manassas, where I found the Mackerel Brigade vowing vengeance for the recent rebel atrocities, of which I found many outrageous evidences.
Just as I arrived on the ground, my boy, a Mackerel chap came running out of a deserted rebel tent with a round object in his hand, and immediately commenced to tear his hair and speak the language of the Sixth Ward.
"My brother! my brother!" says he, eyeing his horrible trophy with tearful emotion. "O! that I should live to see your beloved skull turned into a cheese-box by rebels! You was a Boston alderman, a moral man, and a candidate for the Legislature, before you came to this here horrid war to be killed by rebels, and have your skull aggravated into a secession utensil."
Here the General of the Mackerel Brigade glanced at the heart-sickening trophy, and says he to the Mackerel chap:
"Why, you poor ignorant cuss! that there is nothing but a cocoanut-shell hollowed out."
"Is it?" says the inferior Mackerel, brightening up, "is it? Well," says he, feelingly, "I took it for the skull of my brother, the Boston Alderman—it's so hard and thick."
These beautiful displays of fraternal emotion are quite frequent, my boy, and are calculated to shed a lustre of sanctity over the discoveries of our troops.
The capture of Richmond being deferred until the younger drummers of the brigade are old enough to vote in that city, I found Captain Villiam Brown and Captain Bob Shorty seated at a table in a tent—the former being engaged with a pen and a decanter, while the latter drew a map of the campaign with a piece of lemon-peel dipped in something fragrant.
It was beautiful to look at these two slashing heroes, as they sat there in the genial glare of canvas-strained noon-day, with a quart vessel between them.
"Comrade," says Captain Bob Shorty to me, cordially, "this here is what we call intellectual relaxation, with a few liquid vowels to make it consonant with our tastes."
"Yes!" says Captain Villiam Brown, with a fascinating and elaborate wink at the decanter, "the physical man having taken Manassas, the human intelleck is now in airy play. Ah!" says Villiam, majestically passing me the disentangled curl-paper on which he had been writing, "read what I have penned for the perusal of the United States of America."
I grasped the document, my boy, and found on it inscribed the following efficacious effusion:
FLOYD.Felonious Floyd, far-famed for falsifying,Forever first from Federal forces flying,From fabrications fanning Fortune's flame,Finds foul Fugacity factitious Fame.Fool! facile Fabler! Fugitive flagitious!Fear for Futurity, Filcher fictitious!Fame forced from Folly, finding fawners fled,Feeds final Failure—failure fungus-fed.ByCaptain Villiam Brown, Eskevire.
FLOYD.
FLOYD.
Felonious Floyd, far-famed for falsifying,Forever first from Federal forces flying,From fabrications fanning Fortune's flame,Finds foul Fugacity factitious Fame.
Felonious Floyd, far-famed for falsifying,
Forever first from Federal forces flying,
From fabrications fanning Fortune's flame,
Finds foul Fugacity factitious Fame.
Fool! facile Fabler! Fugitive flagitious!Fear for Futurity, Filcher fictitious!Fame forced from Folly, finding fawners fled,Feeds final Failure—failure fungus-fed.
Fool! facile Fabler! Fugitive flagitious!
Fear for Futurity, Filcher fictitious!
Fame forced from Folly, finding fawners fled,
Feeds final Failure—failure fungus-fed.
ByCaptain Villiam Brown, Eskevire.
ByCaptain Villiam Brown, Eskevire.
"Well, my juvenile Union-blue," says Villiam, smiling like a successful cherubim, "what do you think of that piece of American intelleck?"
"I think," says I, "that it is worthy of an F. F. V."
What followed, my boy, is none of your business, though a sentry near by subsequently observed that he heard the sound of soft, mellifluous gurgles come from the interior of the tent.
Poetry, my boy, is man's best gift; and that, I suppose, is the reason why it is so popular in young women's boarding-schools.
Yours, in particular metre,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER XXXVII.
DESCRIBING THE REMARKABLE STRATEGICAL MOVEMENT OF THE CONIC SECTION, UNDER CAPTAIN BOB SHORTY.
Washington, D.C., March 28th, 1862.
The most interesting natural curiosity here, next to Secretary Welles' beard, is the office of the Secretary of the Interior. Covered with spider-webs, and clothed in the dust of ages, my boy, sit the Secretary and his clerks, like so many respectable mummies in a neglected pyramid. The Department of the Interior, my boy, is in a humorous condition; the sales of public lands for the past year amount to about ten shillings, the only buyer being a conservative Dutchman from New Jersey, who hasn't heard about the war yet.
These things weigh upon my spirit, and I was glad to order up my Gothic stallion, Pegasus, the other day, and rattle down to Manassas once more.
Upon reaching that celebrated field of Mars, my boy, I found the General of the Mackerel Brigade in his tent, surrounded by telegraphic instruments and railroad maps, while the Conic Section was drawn up in line outside.
"You appear to be much absorbed, my venerable Spartan," says I to the General, as I handled the diaphanous vessel he was using as an act-drop in the theatre of war.
The General frowned like an obdurate parent refusing to let his only daughter marry a coal-heaver, and says he:
"I'm absorbed in strategy. Eighteen months ago, I was informed by a contraband that sixty thousand unnatural rebels were intrenched somewhere near here, and having returned the contraband to his master, to be immediately shot, I resolved to overwhelm the rebels by strategy. Thunder!" says the General, perspiring like a pitcher of ice-water in June, "if there's anything equal to diplomacy it's strategy. And now," says the General, sternly, "it's my duty to order you to write nothing about this to the papers. You write about my movements; the papers publish it, and are sent here; my adjutant takes the papers to the rebels; and so, you see, my plans are all known. I have no choice but to suppress you."
"But," says I, "you might more surely keep the news from the rebels by arresting the adjutant."
"Thunder!" says the general, "I never thought of that before."
Great men, my boy, are never so great but that they can profit occasionally by a suggestion from the humblest of the species. I once knew a very great man who went home one night in a shower, and was horrified at discovering that he could not get his umbrella through the front door. He was a very great man, understood Sanscrit, made speeches that nobody could comprehend, and had relatives in Beacon-street, Boston. There he stood in the rain, my boy, pushing his umbrella this way and that way, turning it endways and sideways, holding it at acute angles and obtuse angles; but still it wouldn't go through the door, nor anything like it. By-and-by there came along a chap of humble attainments, who sung out:
"What's the matter, old three-and-sixpence?"
The great man turned pantingly round, and says he:
"Ah, my friend, I cannot get my umbrella into the house. I've been trying for half an hour to wedge it through the door, but I can't get it through and know not how to act."
The humble chap stood under a gas-light, my boy, and by the gleams thereof his mouth was observed to pucker loaferishly.
"Hev you tried the experiment ofshutting upthat air umbrella?" says he.
The great man gave a start, and says he:
"Per Jovem! I didn't think to do that."
And he shut his umbrella and went in peacefully.
The Conic Section was to make its great strategic movement, my boy, under Captain Bob Shorty; and, led by that fearless warrior, it set out at twilight. Onward tramped the heroes according to Hardee, for about an hour, and then they reached a queer-looking little house with a great deal of piazza and a very little ground-floor. With his cap cocked very much over one eye, Captain Bob Shorty knocked at the door, and was answered by a young maiden of about forty-two.
"Hast seen any troops pass here of late?" asked Captain Bob Shorty, with much dignity.
The Southern maiden, who was a First Family, sniffed indignantly, and says she:
"I reckon not, poor hireling Hessian."
"Forward—double-quick—march!" says Captain Bob Shorty, with much vehemence; "that ere young woman has been eating onions."
Onward, right onward through the darkness, went the Conic Section of the Mackerel Brigade, eager to engage the rebel foe and work out the genius of strategy. Half an hour, and another house was reached. In response to the captain's knock a son of chivalry stuck his head out of a window, and says he:
"There's nobody at home."
"Peace, ignoramius!" says Captain Bob Shorty, majestically; "the United States of America wishes to know if you have seen any troops go by to-night."
"Yes," says the chivalry, "my sister saw a company go by just now, I reckon."
"Forward—double-quick—march!" says Captain Bob Shorty, "we can catch the Confederacy alive if we're quick enough."
And now, my boy, the march was resumed with new vigor, for it was certain that the enemy was right in front, and might be strategically annihilated. A long time passed, however, without the discovery of a soul, and it was after midnight when the next house was gained.
A small black contraband came to the door, and says he:
"By gorry, mars'r sogerum, what you hab?"
"Tell me, young Christy's minstrel," says Captain Bob Shorty, "have any troops passed here to-night?"
The contraband turned a summerset, and says he:
"Mars' and misses hab seen two companies dis berry night, so helpum God."
"Forward—double-quick—march!" says Captain Bob Shorty. "Two companies is rather heavy for this here band of Spartans, but it is sweet to die for one's country."
The march went on, my boy, until we got to the next house, where the inmates refused to appear, but shouted that they had seenthreecompanies go past. At this Captain Bob Shorty was heard to scratch his head in the darkness, and says he:
"This here strategy is a good thing at decent odds: but when it's three to one, it's more respectable to have all quiet on the Potomac. Halt, fellow wictims, and let us wait here until the daily sun is issued by the divine editor."
The orb of light was calmly stealing up the east, my boy, when Captain Bob Shorty sprang from his blanket and observed the house, before which the Conic Section was encamped, with protruding eyes.
"By all that's blue!" says Captain Bob Shorty, "if that ain't the werry identical house where we saw the vinegar maiden last night!"
And so it was, my boy! The Conic Section of the Mackerel Brigade had been going round and round on a private race-course all night, stopping four times at the same judge's stand, and going after their own tails, like so many humorous cats.
Strategy, my boy, is a profound science, and don't cost more than two millions a day, while the money lasts.
Yours, in deep cogitation,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER XXXVIII.
INTRODUCING THE VERITABLE "HYMN OF THE CONTRABANDS," WITH EMANCIPATION MUSIC, AND DESCRIBING THE TERRIFIC COMBAT A LA MAIN BETWEEN CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN, OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, AND CAPTAIN MUNCHAUSEN, OF THE SOUTHERN CONFEDERACY.
Washington, D.C., April 4th, 1862.
Knowing you to be a connoisseur in horse-flesh, my boy, it is but proper I should tell you that I have leased my steed, the gothic Pegasus, for a few days to an army carpenter, that gentleman having expressed a wish to use my architectural animal as a model for some new barracks. Pegasus, my boy, when viewed lengthwise, presents a perspective not unlike a Hoboken cottage, and eminent builders tell me that his back is the very beau ideal of a combination roof. I sent a side-view photograph of the fiery stallion to a venerable grandmother not long since, and she wrote back that she was glad to see I had my quarters elevated on piles to avoid dampness, but should think the hut would smoke with such a crooked chimney! The old lady is rather hard of hearing, my boy, and makes trifling mistakes without her spectacles.
In the absence of my war-horse I hired a respectable hack to take me to Manassas, the driver saying that he would not charge me more than ten dollars an hour, as he had seen better days himself. What his seeing better days had to do with me I didn't exactly see, my boy; but I hired the chariot, and we went down the river at a pace sometimes achieved by that carriage in a funeral which contains the parents of the deceased.
Wet towels, soda-water, and a few wholesome kicks in the rear having rendered Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, sufficiently certain of their legs to march a polka in the space of an ordinary corn field, Captain Villiam Brown placed himself at their head, and, flanked by a canteen and an adjutant, the combined pageant was just about to move on a reconnoitering expedition as I came up.
"Ha!" said Villiam, hastily placing his shirt-frill over the neck of a bottle that accidentally peeped from his bosom—"I am about to lead these noble beings on the path of glory, and you shall participate in the beams."
Without a word, I turned his left wing; and as the band, which consisted of a fat Dutchman and a night-key bugle, struck up "Drops of Brandy," we moved onward, like the celestial vision of childhood's dream.
Like the radiance of a higher heaven streaming through the golden-tinted windows of some grand old cathedral, fell the softened light of that April afternoon, on budding Nature, as we halted before a piece of woods just this side of Strasburg. On the new leaves of the trees in front of us the sunshine coined a thousand phantom cataracts of specie, and in the vale below us a delicate purple shadow wrestled with the hill-reflected fire of the sun. Deep silence fell on Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade; the band put his instrument on the ring with the key of his trunk, and Villiam softly reconnoitred through a spy-glass furnished with a cork. Suddenly the tones of a rich, manly voice swelled up from the bosom of the valley.
"Hush!" says Villiam, sternly eyeing the band, who had just hiccupped—"'tis the song of the Contrabands."
We all listened, and could distinctly hear the following words of the singer:
A bar of musical score
"They're holding camp-meeting in Hickory Swamp,"O, let my people go;"De preacher's so dark dat he carry um lamp,"O, let my people go."De brudders am singing dis jubilee tune,"O, let my people go;"Two dollars a year for de Weekly Tribune,"O, let my people go!"
"They're holding camp-meeting in Hickory Swamp,"O, let my people go;"De preacher's so dark dat he carry um lamp,"O, let my people go."De brudders am singing dis jubilee tune,"O, let my people go;"Two dollars a year for de Weekly Tribune,"O, let my people go!"
"They're holding camp-meeting in Hickory Swamp,"
O, let my people go;"
De preacher's so dark dat he carry um lamp,"
O, let my people go."
De brudders am singing dis jubilee tune,"
O, let my people go;"
Two dollars a year for de Weekly Tribune,"
O, let my people go!"
As the strain died away in the distance, the adjutant slapped his left leg.
"Why," said he, dreamily, "that must be Greeley down there."
"No!" says Villiam, solemnly, "it is one of the wronged children of tyranny warbling the suppressed hymn of his injured people. It is a sign," says Villiam, trembling with bravery, "that the Southern Confederacy is somewhere around; for when you hear the squeak of the agonized rat," said Villiam, philosophically, "you may be sure that the sanguinary terrier is on the war-path."
Scarcely had he spoken, my boy, when there emerged from the edge of the wood before us a rebel company, headed by an officer of hairy countenance and much shirt collar. This officer's face was a whisker plantation, through which his eyes peeped forth like two snakes coiled up in a window-brush. His dress was shoddy, his air was toddy, and a yard of valuable stair-carpet enveloped his manly shoulders.
"Halt!" said he to his file of reptiles, whose general effect was that of a congress of rag-merchants just come in from a happy speculation in George-Law muskets.
"Sir," said the officer, bowing in a graceful semicircle, "I am somewhat in the First Family way, own a plantation, drink but little water at home, and have the honor to be Captain Munchausen, of the Southern Confederacy."
"Dost fence?" says Villiam, grimly drawing his sword.
"Fence!" says Captain Munchausen, also drawing his disguised crowbar. "Didst ever hear, boy, or read, of that great fencer of the olden time, the Chevalier St. George?"
"Often," says Villiam, in a tone that was as plainly the echo of a lie as is that of the delicate female eater of slate-pencils, when she says that she never could bear pork and beans.
"Well," says Captain Munchausen, haughtily, "the chevalier was so extremely jealous of my superior skill, that he actually went and died nearly a hundred years before I was born."
"Soap," says Villiam, like one talking in his sleep, "is sometimes made with powerful lie."
"By Chivalry!" says Captain Munchausen, cholerically; "I swear, I never told a single lie in all my life."
"Asinglelie!" says Villiam, abstractedly; "ah, no! for the lies of the Southern Confederacy are all married, and have large families."
This domestic speech, my boy, was too much for Munchausen. Asking one of the rag merchants to hold his three-ply overcoat, and carefully removing his fragmentary cap, that none of the cold potatoes should spill out of it, he planted the remains of his right boot slightly in advance of the skeleton of his left, and thundered:
"'Sblood!"
Quick as the lightning leaps along the cloud did Captain Villiam Brown send the great toe of his dexter foot to meet that of his foe; his Damascus blade lay across the opposing brand, and he whispered:
"'Sdeath!"
It was a beautiful sight—by Minerva it was!
"Stop!" says Villiam, suddenly hauling in his weapon again; "it shall never be said that I took advantage of a foeman."
As he uttered these memorable words, my boy, this ornament of the service plucked an infant demijohn from his fearless bosom and magnanimously passed it to his antagonist.
A soft commotion was visible in the whiskers of Captain Munchausen—the suburb of a smile as it were; a cavern opened in their midst, the vessel ascended curvilinearly thereto, and the sound was as the trickling of water down a mountain gulch.
The adjutant took his seat on the sleeping body of the band, and with pencil and paper prepared to record the combat. The opposing champions faced each other, and as Villiam once more raised his blade he smiled horribly.
Then, my boy, was witnessed a scene to make old Charlemagne's paladins dance High-jinks in their graves, and call all the Arturian knights to life again.Carte et tierce!but it was a spectacle for Hector and Achilles. With swords pointed straight at each other's noses did the valorous heroes skip wildly back, and then as wildly forward. Slam! bang! crack! smack! right and left! over and under! parry, feint, andpremière force! Now did they hop fierily along on opposite sides of the road, eyeing each other like demoniac Thomas Cats upon the moonlit fence. Ever and anon did they dart furiously to the centre, cutting the blessed atmosphere to invisible splinters, and slaying imaginary legions.
But a crisis was at hand! In one of his terrible chops, the cool and collected Villiam brought his deadly weapon down full upon the knuckles of the enemy. But for the fact that Villiam's sword was not quite as sharp as the side of an ordinary three-story house, Munchausen's hand would never more have wielded trenchant blade. As it was, he hastily dashed his brand to the ground, crammed his knuckles into his mouth, struck up an impassioned dance, and mumbled, in extreme agitation:
"Golfire your cursed abolition soul!"
It was beautiful, my boy, to see how the calm Villiam leaned upon his sword and smiled.
"Ah!" says Villiam, "so perish the foes of the Union, the Constitution, and the Enforcement of the Laws. I have bruised the Confederacy.—Adjutant!" says Villiam, in a sudden burst of pardonable exultation, "score one for the United States of America!"
Now it happened, my boy, that, as Villiam said this, he turned to where the adjutant was sitting, and bent down to give particular directions. His body was thus made to assume somewhat of the shape of the letter U, the curve being sharply toward the enemy. In an instant Captain Munchausen regained his sword, grasped it after the manner of a flail, and, with a prodigious spank, applied it to the unguarded portion of my hero's anatomy.
High sprang the almost assassinated Villiam into the air, with sparks pouring from his eyes, and Union oaths hissing from his working jaws.
"Adjutant!" roared Captain Munchausen, "score one for the Southern Confederacy!"
No sooner had Villiam reached the ground and picked up the cork that had fallen from his bosom as he ascended, than he plunged rampagiously at his adversary, and aimed a blow at his head that must have taken it off had Captain Munchausen been about a yard taller. As it was, the stroke mercilessly split the air, and caused my hero to spin like a mighty top.
In vain did the shameless Confederate swordsman endeavor to get in a hit as Villiam went round; the sword of the Union met him at every turn, and right quickly was the avenging blade humming around his head again. Inspired with the strength of Hercules, the endurance of Prometheus, and the fire of Pluto, the gorgeous Villiam Brown went at his work once more, like a feller of great trees, and in another moment his awful blade twanged upon the foeman's head.
Down went Captain Munchausen singing inverted psalms, with a whole nest of rockets exploding in his brain. Pale turned his rag merchants at the sight, and one of them immediately deserted to our side and swore that he had always been a Union man.
Villiam leaned upon his blade, and kindly remarked:
"His head is broken; I heard it crack."
"'Tis false!" says Captain Munchausen, gloomily; "that is an old crack—I've had it ever since I was a boy."
"Ah!" says Villiam, airily, "I'm afraid my blow has caused more than one funeral in the inseck kingdom, for the cut went right through the hair. Have a comb?" says Villiam, pleasantly.
Captain Munchausen made no reply, my boy, but motioned for his men to bear him from the field. It was noticed however, that, as he was being carried into the wood, he asked a gentleman in remarkable tatters, to take him to the last ditch.
As the Southern Confederacy disappeared, Captain Villiam Brown hammered his sword straight with a bit of stone, forced it into its scabbard, and turned majestically to Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, several members of which were engaged in the athletic game of pitch-penny.
"Let the band be awakened," says Villiam.
A Mackerel at once proceeded to break the slumbers of the orchestra, by shaking a bottle near his ear—that experiment having never been known to fail in the case of a pronounced musical character.
"Ha!" says Villiam, with much spirit, "we will march to the national airs of our distracted country!"
After sounding several cat-calls on his night-key bugle, in the manner of all great instrumentalists who wish to know about their instruments being in tune, the band struck up "Ale to the Chief," and we marched to quarters like so many heroes of ancient Rum.
Shall treason triumph in our land, my boy, while there's a sword to wave? I think not, my boy, I think not. Though Columbia did not rule the wave, her champions would see to it that she never waived the rule.
Yours, for the Star-Spangled,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER XXXIX.
SHOWING HOW A REBEL WAS REDUCED, AND CONVERTED TO "RECONSTRUCTION," BY THE VALOROUS ORANGE COUNTY HOWITZERS.
Washington, D.C., April 13th, 1862.
The stirring times are come again, the maddest of the year, and I am beginning to believe, my boy, that what is to be will be as what has been has. Though still without my Gothic charger, Pegasus, that symmetrical racer having been borrowed for a writing-desk by a Secretary of the Fronterior, I am enabled to keep up communications with the Mackerelcorpse dammeedown the river, and ten thousand star-spangled banners flash through my veins as I relate the recent great artillery expedition of the Orange County Howitzers.
It seems, my boy, that an intellectual member of the Mackerel Brigade got tired of investing Yorktown, and wandered away in pursuit of adventure. As he peregrinated in the neighborhood of a rebel domicil, he beheld what he took for the bird of our country, stalking out of the barnyard, and was taking measures to confiscate it, when the proprietor made his appearance, and says he:
"Hessian, spare that goose!"
The Mackerel chap gave a tragic start, and says he:
"'Tis the Eagle I would rescue, Horatio; the bird celebrated by my brother, the Congressman, in all his speeches."
"Well," says the foul traitor, "it is undoubtedly what the Congressman takes for an Eagle, as I am aware that Congressmen generally treat the American Eagle as if he were a goose; but as that gander happens to belong to one of the very First Families of Virginia, and cost me four shillings, it becomes my painful duty to resist your habeas corpus act." And with that he drove the beautiful bird into the barnyard, and locked the gate.
Fired to fury by this insult from one of those whom our army had come to protect, the Mackerel chap went immediately back to quarters, and appealed to his comrades for vengeance.
That gifted officer Samyule Sa-mith, heard his burning words, and says he:
"The cannon of the Union shall speak in this matter. Let the Orange County Howitzers get ready for action, and I will lead them against the Philistine."
Instantly arose the notes of dreadful preparation; the guns were mobilized, six English gentlemen in the hosiery business were invited to view the coming battle, and just as the moon rose above the trees, the artillery started for the rebel stronghold.
Arriving before the offending house, the howitzers were placed in line, and all got ready for the bombardment. It was just possible, my boy, that two men might have marched into that house, and captured the misguided Confederacy without slaughter. You may be unable to see what use there was in bringing artillery and forming in line of battle; but you are very ignorant, my boy; you know nothing about strategy and war.
"Soldiers," says Samyule, "remember that the eyes of the whole world are upon you at this moment, and endeavor to hit the house as often as possible. We will fire one round without ball," says Samyule, "to see if the powder is first-class."
Now it chanced that while the loading-up was going on, the gallant Lieutenant Lemons got his legs wonderfully entangled in the lanyard of his piece, and kept turning the howitzer around in a manner strongly expressive of nervous agitation. Suddenly he stepped across to where Samyule was standing, and whispered in his ear.
"O, I see," says Samyule, kindly, "you were educated at West Point, and want to know which end of the cannon ought to be pointed at the enemy. Well," says Samyule, instructively, "you'd better point the end with a hole in it."
Everything being in readiness, my boy, the combined battery launched its thunders on the air, creating a great sensation in the neigboring hen-roosts, and causing a large rooster to fall from a branch in the midst of his refreshing slumbers.
"Now, that the powder has sustained its reputation," says Samyule, impressively, "let the two-inch balls be hurled at the enemy's works."
As the house was full ten yards off, this second discharge failed to hit it; but it brought the Southern Confederacy to the window in his night-cap, and says he:
"There's no use of my trying to sleep, if you chaps keep making such a noise down there."
"Unhappy man," says Samyule, solemnly, "we come here to reduce you, and will listen to nothing but unconditional surrender."
The Confederacy gaped, and says he:
"I'm very sleepy, and can't talk to you now; but I'll call over in the morning."
And he shut the window, and went back to bed. A frown was observed to steal over the face of Samyule. He has a peculiar countenance, my boy, and a frown affects it strangely. Take his mouth and moustache together, and they remind you of a mouse sunning himself on the edge of his hole; and when the frown comes on, the mouse acts as though he had a stomach-ache.
"Comrades," says Samyule, "the enemy requires another round, and we must do it on the square. Fire!"
Like four-and-twenty thunder-storms the howitzers roared together, and had not the Orange County veterans forgotten to put in any balls, there is reason to believe that some windows would have been broken. Another discharge, however, was more successful, as it knocked the top off the chimney.
The Southern Confederacy appeared at the window again, and says he:
"If you fellows don't quit that racket down there, you'll irritate me pretty soon."
This significant remark caused a sudden cessation of the bombardment, and Samyule hastily called a council of war.
"Gentlemen," says Samyule, "a new issue has arisen. If we irritate the Southern Confederacy, all hopes of future Union and reconstruction may be destroyed."
A chap who was a conservative democrat suddenly flamed up at this, and says he:
"The abolitionists caused this terrible war, and it is our business, as no-party men, to finish it Constitutionally. If we irritate this man, no power on earth will ever make him submit to reconstruction. Ask him."
Here the democratic chap took a large taste of tobacco, and sighed for his country.
"Mr. Davis," says Samyule to the Confederacy at the window, "if we do not irritate you, will you consent to be reconstructed?"
"Reconstructed!" says the Confederacy, thoughtfully; "reconstructed! Ah!" says he, "you mean, will I consent to be born again?"
"Yes," says Samyule, metaphysically; "will you consent to be borne again, as we have borne with you heretofore?"
The Confederacy thought awhile, and then says he:
"Consider me reconstructed."
As that was all the Constitution asked, of course there was no more to be done, and the Orange County Howitzers returned to their original position in the mire, the English gentlemen remarking that the appearance and discipline of our troops were satisfactory to Albion.
Fighting according to the Constitution, my boy, is such an admirable way of preventing carnage, that some doctor ought to take out a patent for it as a cheap medicine.
Yours to come, and
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER XL.
RENDERING TRIBUTE OF ADMIRATION TO THE WOMEN OF AMERICA, WITH A REMINISCENCE OF HOBBS & DOBBS, ETC.
Washington, D.C., April 18th, 1862.
Having a leisure hour at my disposal, my boy, and being reminded of infatuating crinoline by the reception of certain bird-like notes in chirography strongly resembling the exquisite edging on delicious pantalettes, I turn my attention to that beautiful creation which is fearfully and wonderfully maid, and wears distracting gaiters.
Woman, my boy, at her worst, is a source of real happiness to the sterner sex. There's a chap in the Mackerel Brigade who got very melancholy one day after receiving a letter from home, wherein he was affectionately called "a unnatural and wicious creetur" for not sending his better-half a new dress and some hair-pins. Seeing his affliction, and divining its cause, another Mackerel stepped up to him, and says he:
"Is it the old woman which is on a tare?"
The married chap groaned, and says he:
"She's mad as a hornet. I do believe," says the married chap, turning very pale, "that she'll take away my night-key, and teach my babes to call me the Old File."
"Well," says the comforting Mackerel, "then why did you get married? Why didn't you stay a single bachelor like me, and enjoy the pursuit of happiness in the Fire Department?"
"Happiness!" says the married chap, "why it was expressly to enjoy happiness that I wedded. Step this way," says the married chap, with a horrible smile, leading his consoler aside, "ain't the women of America mortal?"
"Yes," says the Mackerel thoughtfully.
"And don't they die?"
"Yes," says the Mackerel. "That is to say," added the Mackerel, contemplatively, "they sometimes die when there's new and expensive tombstones in fashion."
"Peter Perkins!" says the married chap, with a smile of wild bliss, "I wouldn't miss the happiness I shall feel when my angel returns to her native hevings, for the sake of being twenty bachelors. No!" says the married chap, clutching his bosom, "I've lived on the thought of that air bliss ever since the morning my female pardner threw my box of long-sixes out of the window, and called in the police because I brought a waluable terrier home with me." Here the married chap uncorked his canteen and eyed it with speechless fury.
Tears came to the eyes of the unwomantic Mackerel; he extended his hand, and says he:
"Say no more, Bobby—say no more. If you ain't got the correck idea of Heaven there's no such place on the map."
I give you this touching conversation between two of nature's noblemen, my boy, that you may appreciate that beautiful dispensation of Providence which endows woman with the slighter failings of humanity, yet gives her the power to brighten the mind of inferior man with glorious visions of joy beyond the grave.
My arm has been strengthened in this war, my boy, by the inspiration of woman's courage, and aided by her almost miraculous foresight. Only yesterday, a fair girl of forty-three summers, thoughtfully sent me a box, containing two gross of assorted fish-hooks, three cook-books, one dozen of Tubbses best spool-cotton, three door-plates, a package of patent geranium-roots, two yards of Brussels carpet, Rumford's illustrated work on Perpetual Intoxication, ten bottles of furniture-polish, and some wall-paper. Accompanying these articles, so valuable to a soldier on the march, was a note, in which the kind-hearted girl said that the things were intended for our sick and wounded troops, and were the voluntary tributes of a loyal and dreamy-souled woman. I tried a dose of the furniture-polish, my boy, on a chap that had the measles, and he has felt so much like a sofa ever since, that a coroner's jury will sit on him to-morrow.
The remainder of this susceptible young creature's note, my boy, was calculated to move a heart of stone. She asked if it hurt much to be killed, and said she should think the President might sue Jeff Davis, or commit habeas corpus or some other ridiculous thing, to stop this dreadful, spirit-agonizing war. She said that her deepest heart-throbs and dream-yearnings were for the crimson-consecrated Union, and that she had lavished her most harrowing hope-sobs for its heaven-triumph. She said that she had a friend, named Smith, in the army, and wished I could find him out, and tell him that the human heart, though repining at the absence of the beloved object, may be coldly proud as a scornful statute to the stranger's eye, but pines like a soul-murdered water-lily on the lovely stream of its twilight-brooding contemplations.
Anxious to oblige her, my boy, I asked the General of the Mackerel Brigade if he knew a soldier "of the name of Smith?"
The General thought awhile, and says he:
"Not one. There are many of the name of Sa-mith," says the general, screening his eye from the sun with a bottle, "and the Smythes are numerous; but the Smiths all died as soon as the Prince of Wales came to this country."
This is an age of great aristocracy, my boy, and the name of Smith is confined to tombstones. I once knew a chap named Hobbs, who made knobs, and had a partner named Dobbs; and he never could get married until he changed his title; for what sensitive and delicately-nerved female would marry a man whose business-card read, "Try Hobbs & Dobbs' Knobs?" Finally, he called himself De Hobbs, and wedded a Miss Podger—pronounced Po-gshay. After that, he cut his partner, ordered his friends to cease calling him Jack, and in compliance with the wishes of his wife's family, got out a business-card like this: