LETTER LVIII.

The regular Drama, my boy, cannot hope to succeed, while the war which now monopolizes all attention is believed by some critics to be a regular farce.

Yours, tragically,Orpheus C. Kerr.

SHOWING HOW THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE ISSUED AN AFFECTING GENERAL ORDER; EXEMPLIFYING THE BEAUTIES OF A SPADE-CAMPAIGN AS EXHIBITED IN STRATEGY HALL, AND CELEBRATING A NOTABLE CASE OF NAVAL STRATEGY.

Washington, D. C., July 26th, 1862.

The high-minded and chivalrous Confederacy having refused to consider itself worsted in our recent great strategic victory near Paris, my boy, it only remained for the General of the Mackerel Brigade to commence undermining the Confederacy, after the manner of a civil engineer; and when last I visited the lines, I found a select assortment of Mackerels engaged in the balmy summer pastime of digging holes, and dying natural deaths in them.

There was one chap with an illuminated nose, who attracted my particular attention by landing a spade-full of sacred soil very neatly in my bosom, and says I to him:

"Well, my gallant sexton, how do the obsequies progress?"

"Beautiful," says he, pausing long enough to take a powder which the surgeon had left with him. "We've just struck a large vein of typhoid fever, and them air Peninsula veterans, which, you see in them holes yonder,are already delirious with it. Really," says the chap, with an air of quiet enjoyment, as he climbed into the hospital litter, just sent after him—"really, there's a smart chance of pushing on our cemetery to Richmond before the roads become impassable again."

I was looking after him, as the bearers carried him off, my boy, when I saw Captain Villiam Brown ambling leisurely toward me on his geometrical steed, Euclid, alternately perusing a paper which he held in his right hand, and discussing a canteen in his left. The countenance of the warrior was thoughtful, and his shovel swung listlessly against the charger's flank.

"How now, my Jack of Spades?" says I, sportively.

"Ah!" says Villiam, slowly descending from the roof of his stallion, and suffering the latter to lean against a tree, "here is a new Proclamation for the moral refreshment of the United States of America. Read this impartial edick," says Villiam impressively, "and you will find it worthy of the Union Track Society."

I took the official parchment, my boy, and found inscribed upon it the following affecting

GENERAL ORDER.

Whereas, the United States of America now finds himself engaged in an unnatural struggle with the celebrated Southern Confederacy, for the Union which our forefathers planted; and it being our object to show the world that our intentions are honorable; it is hereby ordered, that the Mackerel Brigade do take possession of all guns, pistols, and howitzers previously fired at them by persons now in arms against this government,keeping strict account of said weapons, in order that their owners may be duly and amicably paid for them hereafter. It is further ordered that persons of Mackerel descent, occupying the cultivated grounds of the aforesaid Southern Confederacy, shall keep strict account of the time spent upon the same, in order that reasonable rent may be paid for the same as soon as the United States of America shall resume specie payment.

By order ofThe General of the Mackerel Brigade.Green Seal,Vintage of1776.

Having perused this document with much attention, I handed it back to Villiam, and says I:

"In purity of moral tone, my hero, that paper is worthy the descendant of 1776."

"1776!" says Villiam, reflectively. "Ah!" says Villiam, "it takes strategy to revive recollections of those days. We have at least seventeen hundred and seventy sick ones in our new hospital already. Come with me," says Villiam, genially, "and we will survey the interior aspeck of Strategy Hall."

Strategy Hall, my boy, is a fine airy hospital extemporized from a barn, on the estate of a prominent Southern Union man, now commanding a regiment of Confederacies. The house itself would have been taken, as it had somewhat more roof than the barn, and a little more shade; but when the General of the Mackerel Brigade learned that Washington had once thought of taking a second mortgage on it, he gaveorders that no Mackerel should go within half a mile of the front door.

On entering Strategy Hall, I beheld a scene calculated to elevate sickness into a virtue, and shed immortal lustre upon the kind-hearted women of America. Comfortably stretched upon rails taken from Confederate fences, and of which a strict account had been kept, with a view to future compensation, were a whole section of the Mackerel Brigade, in the full enjoyment of strategic health. Over each chap's head hung his shovel, and a shingle inscribed with his name and address. Thus, the shingle nearest me read: "Spoony Bill, Hose Company 123, New York Fire Department."

And woman—lovely woman! was there, administering hot drinks to the fevered head, bathing with ice-water the brow of those shivering with the cruel ague, pouring rich gruel over the chin and neck of the nervous sufferer, and reading good books to the raving and delirious. It was with a species of holy awe that I beheld one of those human angels stand a hot coffee-pot upon the upturned face of one invalid, while she hastily flew to fill the right ear of a more urgent sufferer with cologne-water. And then to see her softly place one of the portable furnaces upon a very sick Mackerel's stomach, while she warmed the water with which his beloved head was presently to be shaved; and to see her bending over to ask one of the more dangerously ill ones if he would not like a nice fat piece of fresh pork, while the other end of her crinoline was scraping the head of the Mackerel on the opposite rail.

"O woman! in our hours of ease,Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,And variable as the shadeBy the light, quivering aspen made;When pain and anguish wring the browA ministering angel thou."

I could have remained here all day, my boy; for I found the berries, ice-cream, and liquors, prepared for the patients, really excellent; but Villiam hinted to me that a splendid piece of naval strategy was just about to come off on Duck Lake, and I desired to witness our national triumph on the ocean wave.

Having quitted Strategy Hall, I repaired to the shore of Duck Lake, where numerous Mackerels were already watching Commodore Head's fleet as it lay waiting for an expected rebel ram on the treacherous element. It appeared that a lurking Confederacy in Paris had waited until the Mackerels were all in their holes one day, and then hastily constructed an iron-plated ram from an old dry-goods box and two cooking stoves. With this formidable monster, he designed offering irregular opposition to the Government in the way of killing a few vandal regiments, after which he proposed to repair to the Confederate side of Duck Lake, and send the particulars of his victory to Europe through some of the more vigilantly blockaded Southern ports. He had completed his ram, my boy, and hidden it under some hay on the Lake shore, ready to commence his carnage when the time came; but one of the Mackerels happened to see it when he went fishing, and Commodore Head wasat once ordered to have his iron-plated squadron in readiness to intercept and destroy the monster when she should appear.

"Riddle my turret!" says the Commodore, in his marine manner, as he sighted his swivel gun and placed his fishing-rod and box of bait near his stool on the quarter-deck, "I feel like grappling with half-a-dozen rams of chivalry—loosen my plates! if I don't."

And there we stood on that hot July afternoon, watching the noble craft as she sat like a duck on the water, the Mackerel crew sitting aft picking a marrow-bone, and the venerable Commodore tilted back on his stool upon the quarter-deck, fishing for bass.

Presently we could see the treacherous Confederacy stealing down to where his iron-plated monster lay hidden. Softly he removed the covering of hay, and cautiously did he place the ram in the water, carefully examining the priming of the old-fashioned blunderbuss he carried under his arm, as he stepped into this new Merrimac, and quietly raising his umbrella with one hand, while he paddled off with the other.

The distance between our fleet and the spectator being fully two yards, Villiam had thoughtfully provided bits of smoked glass for our party, and we now brought them to bear upon the scene of approaching slaughter. The Mackerel crew on board our squadron appeared to be wholly absorbed in the pleasing experiment of following, with a straw, the motions of a fly whose wings he had just pulled off, and Commodore Head had fallen into a refreshing slumber in the midstof his fishing. In fact, no means had been left unemployed to guard against a surprise.

Now, it happened that the nautical Confederacy did his paddling with his back to the bow of his iron-plated monster, and before he knew it, his ram went smack against the Mackerel fleet, with a sound like the smashing of many dinner-plates. So tremendous was the shock, that the stool upon which Commodore Head was tilted, gave way beneath his weight, and he came down upon the deck with a crash like muffled thunder. Simultaneously, the Confederacy discharged his blunderbuss two points to windward, and would have followed up his advantage by boarding at once; but by this time the Mackerel crew had recovered his presence of mind, and poured such a shower upon the intruder from a watering-pot which he found in the stern-sheets, that the latter retreated in great disorder.

Meanwhile, our gallant old naval hero had regained his feet, and having carefully put away his fishing tackle and box of bait, he made his appearance on the starboard, with his spy-glass under one arm, his speaking trumpet under the other, and his log-book between his teeth.

No sooner did the now thoroughly exasperated Confederacy behold his venerable figure, than he hastily shut up his umbrella and violently cracked him over the head with it, knocking off his spectacles, and greatly damaging his new white hat.

"Batter my armor!" thundered the commodore, picking up his spectacles and bending them straight again. "I don't want you to do that again."

"Scorpion!" roared the Confederacy, dropping hisumbrella, and dancing up and down in his ram, with his arms in a boxing attitude. "Come on, base old being!"

"Then take thy doom," shrieked the maddened commodore, quickly striking a match on the bottom of one of his boots, and touching off the swivel gun. With a report like the explosion of a deadly pistol, the trusty weapon hurled its contents about two inches above the head of the Mackerel crew, wildly tearing off the cap of the latter, and shaking the staunch craft from stem to stern.

Somewhat alarmed by this demonstration, the Confederacy commenced shoving off with his ram, using his blunderbuss and umbrella as oars, and singing the Southern Marseillaise.

"Out with the sculls and give chase!" ejaculated Commodore Head, in a great perspiration. It was found, upon examination, that the sculls had been left on shore, and it was further discovered that the Mackerel fleet was aground; otherwise our victory would have been more complete.

With eyes strained to the utmost we were gazing upon all this from the beach, when Villiam suddenly placed a hand upon my arm, and says he: "Hark!"

We listened. There was a sound as of a faint human cry. It approached nearer. We could distinguish words. Nearer and nearer. The words now came clear and distinct to our quickened ears.

"Extry a-Her-rr-rr-ald, capture of Vicksburg and sinking of the rebel ram by Commore Head!"

Since newspapers have become so plentiful in this once distracted country, my boy, that even the babeshews them upon its mother's lap, the poorest man is enabled to see instantaneously, through a glass as it were, the most distant events—a glass, my boy, which makes things appear much larger at a distance than they seem to those close by.

Yours, admiringly,Orpheus C. Kerr.

INSTANCING THE BENEFICENT DEPORTMENT OF THE VENERABLE GAMMON, AND NOTING THE PERFORMANCE OF A REMARKABLE MORAL DRAMA BY CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN.

Washington, D. C., August 2d, 1862.

Some enthusiasm was excited here in the early part of the week, my boy, by the return of the Venerable Gammon from a visit to his aged family at Mugville, whither he goes regularly once a month for the benefit of the sagacious chaps of the press. A great blessing is the Venerable Gammon to the palladium of our liberties, my boy; for no sooner does our army cease to change its base of operations, and do other things calculated to make the war interesting and lengthy, than he pulls out his ruffles, sighs frequently, and melts away to Mugville. Then all the sagacious press chaps rush to the telegraph office and flash feverish paragraphs to the intelligent morning journals: "Highly important—Sudden departure of the Venerable Gammon for Mugville to attend the death-bed of a relative—Believed in military circles that this indicates a change in the Cabinet—Border States delegation has again waited on the President—More vigorous policy needed."

Whereupon the editors of all the intelligent morningjournals ecstatically print the paragraphs, affixing to them: "Note by the Editor.—Washington is a town in the so called District of Columbia—situated on the Potomac. We infer from our correspondent's dispatch that it has not yet been taken by the rebels."

American journalism, my boy, in presenting a vast amount of matter daily, is eminently calculated to impress the youthful brain with a keen sense of what a wide distinction there is between Mind and Matter.

Immediately on the return of the Venerable Gammon, he commenced saying things, which made all the rest of mankind seem like withered children in comparison with him. He was beaming genially on the throng at Willard's, and says I to him:

"It would appear, my belovedPater Patria, that military matters are not quite as interesting as a woman with a headache just now."

The Venerable Gammon pitied my youth, and waved his hand fatly by way of a silent blessing to all the world. "Military affairs," says he, effulgently, "are like metaphysics. Military affairs," says the Venerable Gammon, benignantly, "are like that which we do not understand—they defy our comprehension and comprehend our defiance."

Then all the Congressmen looked at each other, as much as to say the Union was saved at last; and I felt like a babe in the presence of the great Behemoth of the Scriptures.

How the Venerable Gammon has anything at all to do with this war, I can't find out, my boy, but when the affectionate populace learned that the Venerable Gammon had returned from Mugville, theyswarmed around his carriage, and entreated him either to spit upon them, or save them from slow decay by a speech. It was then the Venerable man raised his hand in soothing benediction, and says he:

"My friends, you are young yet, and have much to learn concerning war. I can only say to you, my friends, that all goes well with McClellan; and, if you will only hasten to fill up old regiments, raise a few thousand new ones, and go yourselves, the advance upon Richmond may commence at any time."

The most enthusiastic cheering followed this comforting speech of the Venerable Gammon, and six ecstatic chaps immediately offered to volunteer as major-generals.

Shall we presume to talk of drafting, my boy, when there is such readiness on the part of the people to lead the troops? I think not, my boy, I think not. Let the draft be protested.

On Wednesday I again took a trip to Paris, accompanied by my frescoed dog, Bologna, and found upon reaching that city that the Mackerel Brigade had built itself a theatre, after the manner of Drury Lane, and was about to partake of the rich intellectual drama. This chaste temple might possibly be taken for a cowshed, my boy, by those who are not conversant with architecture in one story. It occupies a spot which has been rising ground ever since the Mackerels commenced to dig trenches around it, and the front door is so spacious that you have to go all around the building to find where it stops opening. The seats are similar to those which are supposed to have been so popular with the Count de Grasse and the stage is exquisitelyextemporized from several flour-barrels, with a curtain created from the flannel petticoats recently belonging to the wife of the Southern Confederacy.

Passing over all intervening events, my boy, let me direct your special attention to the night we celebrated, when I found myself occupying a box (previously used for crackers) in the temple of the Muses, surrounded by uniforms and dazzled by the glitter of the shovels worn by the military celebrities present. In a box (marked "Sperm Candles—First quality") on my right, I noticed a number of distinguished persons whom I did not know, and to the left were grouped several celebrated visitors with whom I was not acquainted. The stage itself realized numerous brilliant footlights in the way of bottles containing gorgeous tallow-dips; and when the orchestra brought out his key-bugle and struck up the martial strain of "I want to be an Angel," therewasa dry eye in the house.

(Make a note of this last unparalleled fact, my boy; for you, nor any other mortal man, ever heard of its occurrence before.)

The curtain having been taken down by a gentleman who had forgotten to wash himself when the washstand went round last time, the play commenced; and I found it to be

THE UNION AS IT WAS.A HIGH MORAL DRAMA, IN ONE ACK.BY CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN, ESKEVIRE.

The plot of this admirable work is very simple, my boy, and appeals to those sentiments of the humanheart which affect the liver. The scene is laid in Washington, where it has been frequently seen, and the drama opens with a fine

CONSERVATIVE CHORUS.

Abram, spare the South,Touch not a single slave:Nor e'en by word of mouth,Disturb the thing we crave.'Twas our forefather's handThat Slavery begot;There, Abram, let it standThine Acts shall harm it not.

At the conclusion of this spirited National Anthem, the Border States chaps who have been singing it are invited to have another interview with the President, who has only seen them twice the same morning. As they pass out, the celebrated Miss Columbia appears, wrapt in deep thought and the American flag, and reading the twenty-third proclamation for the current month. She asks her heart if she is indeed divorced—if her once happy Union is indeed broken; and as her heart refuses to answer any such common question, a doubt is allowed to remain in the bosom of the spectator. In deep agony she kneels at the monument of Washington and softly sings "Hail Columbia," while the Southern Confederacy, who has just arrived, proceeds to plant batteries all round her, assisted in the work by reliable contrabands. After some moments spent in prayer for the repose of SecretaryWelles, Columbia discovered her surroundings, and is about to make a faint, when the spirit of Napoleon appears, and tells her she has nothing to fear, as he is about to change his base of operations, and take Richmond. He tells her he would have taken it long before but for the Tribune. This is a very fine scene—very fine. The spirit of Napoleon then proceeds to pick up everything he can find and throw it over to the Southern Confederacy, at the same time swinging himself around so that his left fist may be presented to the enemy instead of his right, only pausing long enough to drive back a reliable contraband who has started to desert to him. Matters are progressing admirably, and the Confederacy has only planted 24 more batteries around Columbia, when the Conservative Chorus comes tearing back to the scene, with the news that the President has determined to pay for all runaway slaves in postage-stamps! This splendid stroke of policy so completely staggers the Confederacy, that he only erects thirty-two more batteries, and acknowledges that his back-bone is broken: Strange to say, Columbia still labors under the delusion that she is in danger; but is finally re-assured by the spirit of Napoleon, who convinces her that all is going well, and at once draws his shovel and commences to dig a hole. Columbia asks: "Wherefore this digging?" To which the response is:

"Our Union in its broken stateIs discord to the soul:And therefore are we digging hereTo make the Union hole."

The digging proceeds until the spirit of Napoleon is sunk deep into the earth, when the Southern Confederacy deliberately steps over the hole and captures Washington, at the same time ordering Columbia to black his boots. Columbia would be utterly bereft of hope at this turn in affairs but for the cheerful conduct of the Conservative Chorus, who bid her rejoice that the good old times have come again. Columbia then remembers that she did indeed black the boots of the Confederacy in the good old times, and it suddenly flashes upon her that the Union is, in truth, restored—AS IT WAS. A brilliant blue light is thrown upon the scene, and as the curtain falls the Conservative Chorus are seen in the act of taking all the credit to themselves and indignantly refusing to pay their war taxes.

This affecting drama of real life was played entirely by gifted Mackerels, my boy, the one who acted Columbia being possessed of a voice as musical as that which sometimes comes from between the teeth of a new saw.

When the last round of applause had subsided, and I was leaving the theatre, I came upon the dramatist, Captain Villiam Brown, who appeared to be waiting to hear what I had to say about his work. Says I to him:

"Well, my versatile Euripides, your play resembles the better dramas of Æschylus, inasmuch as it is all Greek to me."

"Ah!" says Villiam, hastily assuming the attitude in which Shakspere generally appears in his pictures. "Did I remind you forcibly of the bard of Avon?"

"Yes," says I, kindly; "you might easily be taken for Shakspere—after dark."

As I turned to leave him, my boy, I could not help thinking how often the world will call a man a "Second" So-and-so, long before he has anything like commenced to be first, even.

Yours, doubtingly,Orpheus C. Kerr.

REPORTING THE SECOND REGULAR MEETING OF THE COSMOPOLITAN CLUB, AND THE BRITISH MEMBER'S CITATION OF THE ENGLISH POETS.

Washington, D. C., August 5th, 1862.

This is a dull day, my boy; and when there is no longer any sunshine to make steel bayonets and brass buttons glimmer to the eye, war is stript of half its pomp, and the American mind takes a plain, practical view of the strife.

Truth to tell, this secession is a very shabby, unromantic thing to fight about. There is really no poetry at all about it, my boy, and when one would rhyme about it, the mantle of poesy refuses to fall upon him, though a bogus sort of Hood may possibly keep him in countenance. The cause of this war is simply this—

PER SE.

Sepoys—sea-thieves—C. Bonds—see slaves—See seizures made in every kind of way;See debts sequestrated—Sea-island frustrated;Segars—seditionists—and C. S. A.,

Seduced from honor bright—Secluded from serenest Wisdom's light—Sea-pent by ships of war—Selected planters for the world no more;Severely snubbed by all—Secure to fall;Sedately left alone by all who seeSeed poisonous sown in sectional retrogression;See-saw diplomacy, sedition fouiper se;Sequel—that serio-comic scene—Secession!

Speaking of poetry; I attended the meeting of the Cosmopolitan Club on Monday night, and was much electrified by the treasures of British literature unfolded by Smith-Brown. That double-chinned chap brought to view a roll of manuscript, and says he:

"Instead of reading a story for your entertainment, gentlemen, I propose to make you acquainted with the war-sentiments of a few of Albion's poet's, as expressed in certain unpublished verses of theirs which have privately come into my possession.

"First, let me commend to your attention some amiable rhymes by a bard who knows more about this blarsted country than it knows about hitself":

A MISTAKE BY HEAVEN!

BY DR. CHARLES MACK—Y.

In Heaven's Chancery the Records standOf men and deeds in each and ev'ry land,And as new rulers rise, or empires fall,Appointed angels make a note of all.

To mark the changes in this world of lateThere came a Spirit from the Throne of Fate,Instructed closely, to be sure and seeWho earth's chief rulers forthisyear might be.His task accomplished, back the Spirit flewTo Heaven's Chancery, as bade to do,And from his vestments took the mystic scrollThat named each potentate, from Pole to Pole.Recording Angels glanced it sharply o'er,To note each change from what the Records bore;But found no nations changing potentatesUntil they came to the United States."Another President!" the angels sighed,"Another President!" the Fates replied;And straight a pen the Chief Recorder tookTo write the ruler's name within his book.He wrote—(alas! 'twill hardly be believedThe very angels could be so deceived)—He wrote the name that all his sprites might read—Not Abr'am Lincoln; no! but—Thurlow Weed.!! * * * !! * * * !!If foreign nations fail to judge your causeIn strict accordance with set Christian laws,It is no proof of their intending crimes,Since angels, even, make mistakes at times!

To mark the changes in this world of lateThere came a Spirit from the Throne of Fate,Instructed closely, to be sure and seeWho earth's chief rulers forthisyear might be.

His task accomplished, back the Spirit flewTo Heaven's Chancery, as bade to do,And from his vestments took the mystic scrollThat named each potentate, from Pole to Pole.

Recording Angels glanced it sharply o'er,To note each change from what the Records bore;But found no nations changing potentatesUntil they came to the United States.

"Another President!" the angels sighed,"Another President!" the Fates replied;And straight a pen the Chief Recorder tookTo write the ruler's name within his book.

He wrote—(alas! 'twill hardly be believedThe very angels could be so deceived)—He wrote the name that all his sprites might read—Not Abr'am Lincoln; no! but—Thurlow Weed.!! * * * !! * * * !!If foreign nations fail to judge your causeIn strict accordance with set Christian laws,It is no proof of their intending crimes,Since angels, even, make mistakes at times!

!! * * * !! * * * !!

We were all silent after that, my boy, and says the old British chap:

"The next manuscript expresses the conservative sentiment of Britain's Isle, the measure being peculiar and the manner inquiring. Hattention!—

THE WAR.

BY SIDNEY DOBELL.

Oh, the war, the war,Oh, the war, the war,Oh, the war—With pools of gory, dripping grime,And ghastly, beastly, horrible rime,The soldier bloody, stiff and stark—The cannon thunders, hark! hark!Columbia, how's the war?

II.

Oh, the blood, the blood,Oh, the blood, the blood,Oh, the blood—Curdling, welling, staining the ground,Bubbling from wounds with sick'ning sound;The life gone out in a wind of swords,—Murderers leagued in hordes! hordes!Columbia, how's the blood?

III.

Oh, the roar, the roar,Oh, the roar, the roar,Oh, the roar—Thousands grappling, tearing to death,Fever, madness and hell in a breath;Rage, despair, oath and scream—Rivers crimson stream! stream!Columbia, how's the roar?

IV.

Oh, the blaze, the blaze,Oh, the blaze, the blaze.Oh, the blaze,Homes in flames, lighting the storm,Torches for death in a brother's form;Ruin, ravage, ashes and smoke,—Hopes and heart-strings broke! broke!Columbia, how's the blaze?

Oh, the groan, the groan,Oh, the groan, the groan,Oh, the groan—Mothers sonless, homeless and old,Sisters brotherless, lone and cold,Children starving, wailing for bread,—Fathers and brothers dead! dead!Columbia, how's the groan?

VI.

Oh, the woe, the woe,Oh, the woe, the woe,Oh, the woe,Cities famishing, villages still,Blood in the valley and fire on the hill;Horror, havoc, curses and tears,—Dark desolation for years! years!Columbia, how's the woe?

VII.

Oh, the end, the end,Oh, the end, the end,Oh, the end,Griefs and graves at every hearth,Heaven offended, outraged Earth:Prayers for vengeance from ev'ry tomb—Borne to the living a doom! doom!Columbia, how's the end?

Here Bonbon, the French chap, struck in, and says he: "Oh, the ass, the ass,Oh, the ass, the ass,Oh, the ass——"

"Silence, Napoleon!" says the British chap, "and r-r-remember Waterloo! The next metrical gem," says he, "illustrates the deeper profundity of British thought, and conveys a moral lesson of the deepest significance to babes and sucklings. Hem!"—

COLUMBIA'S AGONY.

BY MARTIN FARQUHAR TUP——R.

I hold it good—as who shall hold it bad?To lave Columbia in the boiling tearsI shed for Freedom when my soul is sad,And having shed proceed to shed again:Forhuman sadness sad to all appears,And tears men sometimes shed are shed by men.

The normal nation lives until it dies,As men may die when they have ceased to live;But when abnormal, by a foe's surprise,It may not reach its first-appointed goal;Forwhat we have not is not ours to give,And if we miss it all we miss the whole.Columbia, young, a giant baby born,Aimed at a manhood ere the child had been,And slipping downward in a strut forlorn,Learns, to its sorrow, what 'tis good to know,Thatbabes who walk too soon, too soon beginTo walkin this dark vale of life below.When first the State of Charleston did secede,And Morrill's tariff was declared repealed,The soul of Freedom everywhere did bleedFor that which, having seen, it sadly saw;So true it is,death-wounds are never healed,And law defied is not unquestioned law.The mother-poet, England, sadly viewedThe strife unnatural across the wave,And with maternal tenderness renewedHer sweet assurances of neutral love;A mother's love may not its offspring save;But mother's love is still a mother's love.Learn thou, Columbia, in thine agony,That England loves thee, with a love as deepAs my "Proverbial Philosophy"Has won for me from her approving breast;The love that never slumbers cannot sleep,And all for highest good is for the best.

Columbia, young, a giant baby born,Aimed at a manhood ere the child had been,And slipping downward in a strut forlorn,Learns, to its sorrow, what 'tis good to know,Thatbabes who walk too soon, too soon beginTo walkin this dark vale of life below.

When first the State of Charleston did secede,And Morrill's tariff was declared repealed,The soul of Freedom everywhere did bleedFor that which, having seen, it sadly saw;So true it is,death-wounds are never healed,And law defied is not unquestioned law.

The mother-poet, England, sadly viewedThe strife unnatural across the wave,And with maternal tenderness renewedHer sweet assurances of neutral love;A mother's love may not its offspring save;But mother's love is still a mother's love.

Learn thou, Columbia, in thine agony,That England loves thee, with a love as deepAs my "Proverbial Philosophy"Has won for me from her approving breast;The love that never slumbers cannot sleep,And all for highest good is for the best.

Thy Freedom fattens on the work of slaves,Her Grace of Sutherland informeth me;And all thy South Amboy is full of graves,Where tortured bondmen snatch a dread repose;Learn, then, therace enslaved is never free,And in thy woes incurred, behold thy woes.Thy pride is humbled, humbled is thy pride,And now misfortunes come upon thee, thickWith dark reproaches for the right defied,And cloud thy banner in a dim eclipse;Sic transit gloria gloria transic sic,The mouth that speaketh useth its own lips.Thus speeds the world, and thus our planet speeds;What is, must be; and what can't be, is not;Our acts unwise are not our wisest deeds,And what we do is what ourselves have done;Mistakes remembered are not faults forgot,And we must wait for day to see the sun.

Thy pride is humbled, humbled is thy pride,And now misfortunes come upon thee, thickWith dark reproaches for the right defied,And cloud thy banner in a dim eclipse;Sic transit gloria gloria transic sic,The mouth that speaketh useth its own lips.

Thus speeds the world, and thus our planet speeds;What is, must be; and what can't be, is not;Our acts unwise are not our wisest deeds,And what we do is what ourselves have done;Mistakes remembered are not faults forgot,And we must wait for day to see the sun.

I looked up at Smith-Brown, my boy, and says I:

"What does he mean by the 'State of Charleston,' my fat friend?"

"Why," says he, "that's a poetic license, or American geography diluted by the Atlantic. And here we have something by the gifted hauthor of 'Locksley Hall,' which it is somewhat in that vein:

AMERICA.

BY ALFRED TEN——N.

Westward, westward flies the eagle, westward with the setting sun,To an eyrie growing golden in a morning just begun;Where the world is new in promise of a virgin nation's love.And the grand results of ages germs of nobler ages prove;Where a prophecy of greatness runs through all the soul of youth,And the miracle of Freedom blesses in a living truth;Where the centuries unnumbered narrow to a single night,And their trophies are but planets wheeling round a central light.Where the headlands breast the Ocean sweeping round creation's East,And the prairies roll in blossoms to the Ocean of the West;Where the voices of the seas are blended o'er a nation's birth,In the harmony of Nature's hymn to Liberty on earth.Land of Promise! Revelation of a loyalty that springsFrom a grander depth of purple than the heritage of kings—From the inner purple cherished at the thrones of lives sublime,Cast in glorious consecration 'neath the plough of Father Time—Home of Freedom, hope of millions born and slain and yet to be,Shall the spirit of the bondless, caught from heaven, fail in thee?Shall the watching world behold thee falling from thy starry height?Like a meteor, in thine ending leaving only darker night?Oh! my kinsmen, Oh! my brothers—fellow-heirs of Saxon hearts,Lo the Eagle quits his eyrie swifter than a swallow darts,And the lurid flame of battle burns within his angry eye,Glowing like a living ember cast in vengeance from the sky.At thy hearth a foe has risen, fiercer yet to burn and kill,That he was thy chosen brother—friend no more, but brother still;For the bitter tide of hatred deeper runs and fiercer grows,As the pleading voice of Nature addeth self-reproach to blows.Strike! and in the ghastly horrors of a fratricidal war,Learn the folly of your wanderings from the guiding Northern Star;What were all your gains and glories, to creation's fatal lossWhen ye crucified your Freedom on the cruel Southern Cross?Oh! my brothers narrow-sighted—Oh! my brothers slow to hearWhat the phantoms of the fallen ever whisper in the ear;God is just, and from the ruins of the temple rent in twainRises up the invocation of a warning breathed in vain.All thy pillars reel around thee from the fury of the blow,And the fires upon thine altars fade and flicker to and fro;Call the vigor of thy manhood into arms from head to foot,Strike! and in thy strife with error let the blow be at the root.So thy war shall wear the glory of a purpose to refineFrom the dross of early folly all the honor that is thine;So thine arms shall gather friendship to the standard of a causeBlending in its grand approval British hearts and British laws.Form thy heroes into armies from the mart and from the field,And their ranks shall stretch around thee in a bristling, living shield;Take the loyal beggar's offer; for the war whose cause is justBreathes the soul of noblest daring into forms of meanest dust.Let thy daughters wreathe their chaplets for the foreheads of the brave,Let thy daughters trace their lineage from the patriot's honored grave;Woman's love is built the strongest when it rests on woman's pride,Better be a soldier's widow than a meek civilian's bride.Onward let thine Eagles lead thee, where the livid Southern sunCourts the incense for the heavens of a righteous battle won;And the bright Potomac, winding through the fields unto the seaShall no longer mark the libel—what is bond and what is free.

Where a prophecy of greatness runs through all the soul of youth,And the miracle of Freedom blesses in a living truth;Where the centuries unnumbered narrow to a single night,And their trophies are but planets wheeling round a central light.

Where the headlands breast the Ocean sweeping round creation's East,And the prairies roll in blossoms to the Ocean of the West;Where the voices of the seas are blended o'er a nation's birth,In the harmony of Nature's hymn to Liberty on earth.

Land of Promise! Revelation of a loyalty that springsFrom a grander depth of purple than the heritage of kings—From the inner purple cherished at the thrones of lives sublime,Cast in glorious consecration 'neath the plough of Father Time—

Home of Freedom, hope of millions born and slain and yet to be,Shall the spirit of the bondless, caught from heaven, fail in thee?Shall the watching world behold thee falling from thy starry height?Like a meteor, in thine ending leaving only darker night?

Oh! my kinsmen, Oh! my brothers—fellow-heirs of Saxon hearts,Lo the Eagle quits his eyrie swifter than a swallow darts,And the lurid flame of battle burns within his angry eye,Glowing like a living ember cast in vengeance from the sky.

At thy hearth a foe has risen, fiercer yet to burn and kill,That he was thy chosen brother—friend no more, but brother still;For the bitter tide of hatred deeper runs and fiercer grows,As the pleading voice of Nature addeth self-reproach to blows.

Strike! and in the ghastly horrors of a fratricidal war,Learn the folly of your wanderings from the guiding Northern Star;What were all your gains and glories, to creation's fatal lossWhen ye crucified your Freedom on the cruel Southern Cross?

Oh! my brothers narrow-sighted—Oh! my brothers slow to hearWhat the phantoms of the fallen ever whisper in the ear;God is just, and from the ruins of the temple rent in twainRises up the invocation of a warning breathed in vain.

All thy pillars reel around thee from the fury of the blow,And the fires upon thine altars fade and flicker to and fro;Call the vigor of thy manhood into arms from head to foot,Strike! and in thy strife with error let the blow be at the root.

So thy war shall wear the glory of a purpose to refineFrom the dross of early folly all the honor that is thine;So thine arms shall gather friendship to the standard of a causeBlending in its grand approval British hearts and British laws.

Form thy heroes into armies from the mart and from the field,And their ranks shall stretch around thee in a bristling, living shield;Take the loyal beggar's offer; for the war whose cause is justBreathes the soul of noblest daring into forms of meanest dust.

Let thy daughters wreathe their chaplets for the foreheads of the brave,Let thy daughters trace their lineage from the patriot's honored grave;Woman's love is built the strongest when it rests on woman's pride,Better be a soldier's widow than a meek civilian's bride.

Onward let thine Eagles lead thee, where the livid Southern sunCourts the incense for the heavens of a righteous battle won;And the bright Potomac, winding through the fields unto the seaShall no longer mark the libel—what is bond and what is free.

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