LETTER LXIX.

At the conclusion of this exemplary Spanish tale, my boy, we "adjourned" our slumbers to Willard's.

Yours, drowsily,Orpheus C. Kerr.

ILLUSTRATING THE IMPERTURBABLE CALMNESS OF THE NATIONAL CAPITOL, AND NOTING THE MEMORABLE INVASION OF ACCOMAC.

Washington, D. C., September 12th, 1862.

As I sit looking out of my window, my boy, on the street below, and notice how tranquilly all things are going on here, despite the excitement of the time, a deep sense of satisfaction steals over me, and the American Eagle of patriotic pride flaps his breezy pinions on the oak tree of my heart. Though I have just been laughing myself almost sick at the ludicrous manner in which my friend, the Confederacy, has walked right straight into the cunning trap prepared for his destruction by our own noble and profound generals, actually hastening his own annihilation by rushing blindly through our lines, and capturing the twenty or thirty artful villages, towns, and garrisons left there for the express purpose of tempting him to his dreadful doom—though I have just been splitting my sides over this roaring case of ridiculous suicide, my boy, the city of Washington still maintains its calmness! Ever conscious that conquer we must, for our cause it is just, this city remains as placid as a summer dream; nearly all the liquor-shops doing agood business through the day, and the evening finding a majority of our army officers at their posts.

Lamp-posts, my boy.

There is something touchingly grand in the calmness of Washington under such circumstances, and it reminds me of a pleasing little incident in the Sixth Ward.

There was a female millinery establishment on the third floor of a building composed principally of stairs, fed with frequent small rooms, and the expatriated French comtesse, who realized fashionable bonnets there, used one of her windows to display her wares. At this window, my boy, she always kept a young woman of much bloom and symmetry, with the latest Style on her head, and an expression of unutterable smile on her face. A young chap carrying a trumpet in the Fire Department happened to notice that this angel of fashion was always at the window when he went by; and as the thought that she particularly admired his personal charms crept over him, he at once adopted the plan of passing by every day, attired in the garments best calculated to render fire-going manhood most beautiful to the eye. He donned a vest representing in detail the Sydenham flower-show on a yellow ground, wore inexpressibles representing innumerable black serpents ascending white columns, assumed a neck-tie concentrating all the highest glories of the Aurora Borealis, mounted two breast-pins and three studs torn from some glass-house, and wore a hat that slanted on his head in an engaging and intelligent manner. Day after day he passed before the millinery establishment, my boy, still beholdingthe beloved object at the window, and occasionally placing his hand upon his heart in such a way as to show a large and gorgeous seal-ring containing the hair of a fellow-fireman who had caught such a cold at a great fire that he died some years after. "How cam she is!" says he to himself, "and she's as pretty as ninety's new hose-carriage. It seems to me," says the young chap to himself, stooping down to roll up the other leg of his pants—"it seems to me that I never see anything so cam. She observes my daily agoing and yet she don't so much as send somebody down to see if there's any overcoats in the front entry."

One day, my boy, a venerable Irish gentleman, keeping a boarding-house and ice-cream saloon in the basement of the establishment, happened to go to sleep on the stairs with a lighted camphene lamp in his hand, and pretty soon the bells were ringing for a conflagration in that district. Immediately our gallant firemen were on their way to the spot; and having first gone through forty-two streets on the other side of the city to wake the people up there and apprise them of their great danger, reached the dreadful scene, and instantly began to extinguish the flames by bringing all the furniture out of a house not more than three blocks below. In the midst of these self-sacrificing efforts, a form was seen to dart into the burning building like a spectre. It was the enamored young chap who carried a trumpet in the department. He had seen the beloved object sitting at the window, as usual, and was bent upon saving her, even though he missed the exciting fight around the corner. Reachingthe millinery-room door, he could see the object standing there in the midst of a sea of fire. "How cam she is," says he. "Miss Milliner," says he, "don't you see you're all in a blaze?" But still she stood at the window in all her calmness. The devoted young chap turned to a fellow-fireman who was just then selecting two spring bonnets and some ribbon for his wife, in order to save them from the flames, and says he: "Jakey, what shall I do?" But Jakey was at that time picking out some artificial flowers for his youngest daughter, my boy, and made no answer. Unable to reach the devoted maid, and rendered desperate by the thought that she must be asleep in the midst of her danger, the frantic young chap madly hurled his trumpet at her. It struck her, and actuallyknocked her head off! Horrified at what he had done, the excited chap called himself a miserable wretch, and was led out by the collar. It was Jakey who did this deed of kindness, and says he: "What's the matter with you, my covey?" The poor young chap wrung his hands, and says he: "I've killed her, Jakey, I've killed her—and she so cam." Jakey took some tobacco, and then says he: "Why, that was only a pasteboard gal, you poor devil." And so it was, my boy—so it was; but the affair had such an effect upon the young chap that he at once took to drinking, and when delirium tremens marked him for its own, his last words were: "I've killed her, Jakey, I've killed her—and she so cam."

Washington, my boy, is "cam" in the midst of a conflagration. That is to say, the Government is"cam," they say; and it may be doubted whether it would be otherwise, even with its head knocked off.

The other day, I paid another visit to the Mackerel camp across the river, and was present at a meeting of officers called to debate upon the propriety of presenting a sword to the beloved general, for his heroism in the late great battle. Captain Samyule Sa-mith was in favor of the presentation, and says he: "Our inimitable leader, which is the admiration of everybody, richly deserves the blade in question. In the thickest of that deadly fray, his coat-tails were torn entirely off by a parrot shell."

Captain Villiam Brown placed the bottle on the table again, and says he:

"At which joint were the tails amputated, Samyule?"

Samyule took a little more sugar with his, and says he:

"Close to the buttons."

"Ah!" says Villiam, "which way was the conqueror's face turned at the time?"

"I can't say," says Samyule; "but I don't see what that has to do with it."

"That's because you have a feeble intelleck, Samyule," says Villiam, mildly. "The human form," says Villiam, reasoningly, "has such variations of surface, that a projectile hurled at it in a straight line, cannot simply graze it to any extent without making a wound in some place. The coat-tails of the human form," says Villiam, lucidly, "could not without injury to that form be severed at the buttons by a ball, unless they weresticking straight outat the instant; and itis important that the United States of America should know whether the face of the wearer was turned toward the Southern Confederacy, or in an opposite direction, at the exact moment of the disaster."

The electrifying wisdom of this thoughtful speech, my boy, had the effect to produce an immediate adjournment of the general's friends; for when the test of anatomy is applied to a man's bravery, that bravery becomes a mere matter of form.

The general, my boy, is the idol of his Mackerel children, and as our armies slowly advance to deal the death-blow to this impious rebellion, it will be proved that he was not responsible for a single one of the mistakes he has made, and could have taken Richmond long ago, but for his inability to do so. Heaven forgive these Jacobin black-republicans who object to his being President in 1865! This is the prayer of twenty millions of free white men under the Constitution, as was very justly observed to me by a political chap from New Haven last week. On Tuesday, the Mackerel Brigade was on the outskirts of Accomac—Company 3, Regiment 1, being sent ahead, under Colonel Wobert Wobinson, to watch the movements of some regiments of Confederacies, who were believed to be either there or in South Carolina. The advance-guard stayed there two days, my boy, and then an orderly came riding in to the general, with the request that he would immediately send re-enforcements and provisions, as Company 3, Regiment 1, was in danger of starvation and defeat, at short notice.

The general ceased fanning himself for a moment, and says he to the perspiring orderly:

"I have heard your request, my child; but before I comply with it, I wish to know what is the present political complexion of Colonel Wobinson."

The half-starved orderly clasped his thin hands together, and says he:

"I don't know; but for God's sake, general, send us something to eat, and some help, or not one of us can be saved."

The general waved his hand magisterially, and says he:

"That's very true. But I must first know what are the sentiments of Colonel Wobinson on the negro question."

The orderly might have responded, my boy, had he not fainted just then from weakness. In pity for his comrades, orders were at once given for the transportation of provisions, and re-enforcements to Company 3 before the end of the month; and had the before mentioned Confederacies delayed marching into Accomac until that time, I should not be obliged now to chronicle another of those disasters to our arms, which the traitorous harangues of Wendell Philips have so outrageously produced.

If this war is to be prosecuted with vigor, my boy, we must repose unlimited confidence in the ability of the Administration and of our generals, resolutely frowning down all Jacobin demonstrations at home, and suffering our leaders to be interfered with by no one but each other. If we permit civilians to manage matters, the country will be undone; but if, on the contrary, we trust everything to our generals, the country will be "done"—brown.

Luckily for us all, the occupation of Accomac by the celebrated Southern Confederacy, is a part of the great plan of the General of the Mackerel Brigade to end this rebellion in one crushing blow, and as soon as the entire Confederacy shall have entered Accomac in safety, the Mackerel Brigade will proceed to bag it.

You don't see exactly how this is to be done, eh?

There you go again, my boy! always meddling with what you don't understand, and presuming, in your civilian imbecility, to doubt the practicability—not to say the utility—of a covert invincibility, rendering it a futility on the part of Southern agility to take for weak debility what is really strategic facility, and bound, in its great fertility of warlike inventibility and utter reliability, to turn all the foe's agility to a final accountability, that shall cause him, in future humility, to treat us, at least, with civility.

Such, my boy, is the Mackerel plan, to a T.

This strategy's like some plan for grain depending so much on a fall of rain, that, in less than a week, should the drought remain, 'twould ruin it altogether. It pondereth blindly whether or no the opposite hosts will do so-and-so: and how it will end at last, you know, dependeth upon the "whether".

Yours, calmly,Orpheus C. Kerr.

COMMENCING WITH HISTORICAL REFERENCE; RELATING THE EPISODE OF SPURIOSO GRIMALDI, AND DETAILING THE LAMENTABLE FAILURE OF CAPTAIN SAMYULE SA-MITH TO PERISH HEROICALLY.

Washington, D. C., September 20, 1862.

I am in a star-spangled state of mind, my boy, in consequence of our recent great victories, and would most respectfully request the Governors of all the States to push forward re enforcements immediately. Having rashly ventured into Accomac after forage and the pursuit of happiness, the well-known Southern Confederacy is now hemmed-in with much carnage, and finds itself hem'd and haw'd. The South, the South, we love her still, no love than ours profounder; and, having cornered her at last, we've thrown our arms around her.

Let us rejoice together, my boy, over the victory that has brought new lustre to our flag, and proceed to extract from history a few parallels calculated to indicate that the United States of America are somewhat superior to the ancients in the art of war.

At the battle of Thermopylæ the heroic Greeks engaged in the conflict with their foes to the number of some thousands, and as their foes also prosecuted hostilitiessimultaneously, the result was a struggle terminating in the discomfiture of the defeated party.Omnium vincit omnia.At the siege of Troy, the Trojans became involved in active warfare with the Greeks, the latter being the adversaries of their opponents, and though either side used their weapons against the other side, victory finally perched upon the banners of the conqueror, and produced the general effect ofsic transit gloria mundi. The TroyTribunesuppressed all mention of McClellan in its account of this spirited affair. The dreadful struggle of Argentium was commenced by the attack of one host upon its antagonists, and raged bitterly, until a cessation of hostilities found the victors holding an advantage over the defeated. Burnside's division was not engaged. In the awful affair of Roncesvalles, the myrmidons of Charlemagne and the hirelings of Spain committed a breach of the peace by prosecuting a mutual affray, resulting in the overthrow of the legions which were principally overcome, and an advantage for the brigades chiefly entitled to the victory.Nihil est nullus.

It will be perceived, my boy, that the army of the Potomac was engaged in none of those celebrated contests, as they did not all take place in the same week. We make much better time, my boy, than the ancients.

I told you in my last, that the celebrated Southern Confederacy had courted inevitable destruction by marching madly into Accomac at the very moment when the victorious Mackerel Brigade was marching out—and before I proceed further with the tale of invasion,I must pause to relate the strange episode of Spurioso Grimaldi.

Spurioso Grimaldi, my boy, superintended the emigration from Italy to this country of a hand-organ that was banished for playing revolutionary tunes some time ago, and on arriving upon our shores proceeded immediately to don a red shirt, and plan revolutions for the coming fall and winter seasons. Upon the breaking out of the war he enlisted three volunteers under his banner from the chorus of the Academy of Music; but it was not until the recent occupation of Accomac that he attempted to put his first revolutionary scheme into operation. Then, indeed, he armed his three divisions with three George Law muskets, and having gained the borders of suffering Accomac, he issued the following:

PROCLAMATION.

Accomackians! How are you to day? This is, indeed, a pleasant morning, and the crops look well. Accomackians, arise! For years you have been the terror of all strangers stopping at your hotels. The accommodations you offer, taken into consideration with the prices you charge, are sufficient to appal the world! Arise! Remember Waterloo, and Wagram, and Bull Run, and other battles in which you took no active part. Now! Right away! Hey?

Grimaldi.

As the Union element still lives in Accomac, my boy, and wishes nothing done to disturb the neighborhood, he could not but deem Mr. Grimaldi's movement ill advised, and issued the following responsive

PROCLAMATION.

S. Grimaldi, at the head of an army of three equipped and disciplined troops, calls the Accomackians to arms. This is scarcely the time for such a call, and the army of liberation is scarcely adequate to the enterprise proposed. Some disaster might occur should an army of three equipped and disciplined troops attack a force of twenty thousand, under Stonewall Jackson, at this present crisis. Therefore, let Accomac rest in peace, and continue to keep a hotel.

Union L. Lament.

These proceedings caused great excitement down at Paris and London, my boy, and the excellent and independent journals of those places proceeded at once to publish several yards of profound editorial on the probable convulsion of the earth's surface, in consequence of S. Grimaldi's revolutionary proceedings.

"The entire habitable universe," said the ParisPitcher, "appears on the verge of terrible upheavings, and the army of S. Grimaldi seems destined to work an entire change in the economy of the creation, and oblige the North and South Poles to change places permanently."

Not to be outdone, the LondonTumblerissued an extra, composed entirely of auction advertisements and an excited editorial: "The black cloud so long brooding over the shrinking countenance of upturned nature seems at length prepared to vomit its horrid flames over the entire surface of animated humanity. S. Grimaldi, who is now marching on Accomac, is not unlikely to prove the instrument of this earth-rending explosion. The unholy American rebellion dwindles to insignificant nothingness in comparison with this terrible affair."

So Grimaldi marshaled his three divisions, my boy, and having marched upon Accomac, was promptly arrested by the police and incarcerated to await an examination. So much for the episode of Spurioso Grimaldi.

Turning from events which have a deeper interest for Europe than for our own victorious but distracted country, let me cheer and improve your mind, my boy, with some account of the recent glorious victories around Accomac, wherein the fearless and unwounded Mackerel Brigade acquired another coat of glory, making the third this season.

It was Tuesday morn, when Captain Samyule Sa-mith of the advance guard, having satisfied himself that the Brigade was about to achieve its crowning victory, concluded that the time for expiring after the manner of General Wolfe at Quebec had arrived at last. The battle had already commenced, my boy, and a squad of evil-minded Confederacies were in full retreat after the Mackerel pickets, when Samyule hastily fell upon his back, and beckoned for the artistof Frank Leslie's Illustrated paper, motioned for the nearest reporter to take out his note-book, drew a lock of red hair from his bosom and kissed it, waved his left hand feebly toward his country's standard, and, says he: "Téte d'Armée!I die for the old fla—"

"Stop!" shrieked a Mackerel, dashing frantically to his side at this instant. "The Anatomical Cavalry, which is ordered to charge the foe, wishes to know if it shall take its horses along."

Up sprang Samyule, and says he:

"Tell the horsemen to take everything but their trunks with them, and not to stay more than a week. I really believe," says Samyule in a great passion—"I really believe the artillery will be wanting to know next if they'd better load before firing."

Just at this time, my boy, the Conic Section of the Mackerel Brigade, under Captain Villiam Brown, came charging toward the spot with fixed bayonets, their gallant leader waving his sword, Escalibar, over his head, and calling on his troops to lead on to victory. Forward they went like mad, rushing past us in swift fury, and composing the heaviest visitation of red noses ever yet launched upon a foe. To be sure, no foe was visible in the immediate line of their charge; but as they happened to be going down a pretty steep hill at the time, it was quite possible that they might meet some adversaries before they could stop themselves.

Fired by the sight, Captain Samyule Sa-mith flew to take command of a company of Mackerels, who were busily firing their muskets at some Confederacies not more than two miles distant; and having placedhimself at the head thereof, was about to proceed in pursuit of warlike adventures, when he caught sight of a body of men, followed by another body of men, moving along in the valley below him.

"Hem!" says Samyule, ponderingly, "what is this sight mine eyes behold?"

"Oh," says a sergeant beside him, "that's the No. 3 army of the Confederacy, escorting some prisoners which they have just taken at Harper's Ferry."

Samyule regarded the spectacle attentively for a moment, and says he: "Well, there's only one thing more I want to know about it. I want to know," says Samyule thoughtfully, "which of them two bodies of infantry is the army, and which is the prisoners?"

Was there the tiniest, wee-ist, smallest fragment of sarcasm in his speech? Find out for yourself, my boy—find out for yourself.

It was shortly after this remark, and while the Orange County Howitzers were raining a tempest of shot and shell at everything but the enemy, that a small bit of shrapnell fell near Samyule's feet, and again reminded him of his latter end. Noting that he was observed by those around him, my boy, and that the surroundings of the scene were picturesque, he uttered a hollow groan and fell prone to the earth. Then picking up the bit of shrapnell, and laying it upon his heart, he kicked once, and says he:

"Is it almost morning, mother? Hurra for the old fla—"

"Forward with Company 2, immediately," thundered a messenger who at this moment came tearingto the spot. "The Confederacy has flanked the Conic Section, and is trying to escape."

Preferring to defer death itself rather than see his beloved country outwitted by the rebels, Captain Samyule Sa-mith darted swiftly to his feet at the word, and instantaneously led Company 2 down the hill at double-quick. I followed him half-way, my boy, and then turned off into a cross road, where I found Captain Villiam Brown striving to get a portion of the devoted Conic Section into a straight line by ranging it against a fence. Villiam ceased his labors when he saw me approaching, and says he:

"Here's conquering beings for you. Ah!" says Villiam, proudly, "I sent these invincible beings on a bayonet charge just now, and they have all come back without their muskets."

"What did they do with them?" says I.

"Left them sticking in the foe," says Villiam, exultingly.

"Are you sure of that, my Alcibiades?" says I, skeptically.

"Why," says Villiam, confidentially, "they didn't bring a single one back with them, and of course they must have left them sticking into the paralyzed Confederacies."

If Villiam could draw a checque as easily as he can draw an inference, my boy, he might paper the outside of the universe with ten dollar bills and have enough fifties left to make a very deep border.

Leaving the decimatedcorpsto reorganize, I hastened down the hill again, and arrived at the bottom only to find a group of reporters and Mackerelssurrounding a manly prostrate form. Company 2 had just succeeded in routing some Confederacies from a melon-patch, and Captain Samyule Sa-mith was improving the opportunity to expire once more in an affecting manner.

Lifting his feeble head when he saw me, and pulling a small flag a little further out of a side-pocket in his coat, the perishing warrior smiled half way down his chin, and says he:

"I still live! All hail to the old fla—"

"One moment, if you please!" shouted Colonel Wobert Wobinson, breaking through the group.—"Could you make it convenient to pay me that dollar you owe me, Samyule?"

Samyule arose deliberately to his feet again, my boy, wearing upon his countenance the most awful expression I ever saw upon a human face.

"Well," says Samyule, furiously, "I've tried to die for my country three times to-day, and never got further than the old fla—! There is such vulgarity in them which incessantly surrounds me," says Samyule, bitterly, "that they won't even let me die in peace."

Here a Mackerel chap sniffed differentially, and says he: "But you was trying to die in war, capting."

There was something so inhuman in the idea of a man making a joke on such a serious occasion, as that, my boy, that the entire party was struck dumb with horror; and one of the spectators retired precipitately behind a tree, where I immediately heard him laughing wildly with joy over the thought that it was nothimself who had been guilty of such a hideous enormity.

It would be useless for me to spend more time in showing how the battle raged to a victorious conclusion, leaving the Mackerel Brigade in triumphant possession of the ground it occupied at the outset, and the Confederacy rooted to the spot it held from the commencement.

Scarcely had the strife been finished half an hour, when the popular General of the Mackerel Brigade arrived to direct all the movements in person, and to gain some knowledge of the victories he had just won. Accompanying him was the political chap from New Haven, who at once proceeded to congratulate the troops and address them on the subject of the next election.

"My brothers in arms," says he, with fond familiarity, "having done our duty as patriots, let us proceed to ballot for President of the United States in 1865. Need I say that our victorious general is the man?"

Truly, my boy, we shall have little difficulty in selecting a chief magistrate next term, when there is such a General longing for the nomination.

Yours, politically,Orpheus C. Kerr.

SHOWING HOW THE PRESIDENT AND THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE ISSUED GREAT EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATIONS, AND HOW THE CHAPLAIN WROTE A RADICAL POEM.

Washington, D. C., September 27th, 1862.

"John Brown's body," which has been "marching on" for some time past, my boy, being thus considerably in advance of our strictly Constitutional Army, has at length made a great strategic movement, and evoked the following promissory note from our Honest Old Abe:

Colorless Domicil, Sept. 22d, 1862.

"Ninety days after date I promise to pay the Southern Confederacy, or order, the full amount of its deserts.

"$Emancipation.

H. O. Abe.

The morning after this little settlement was made, my boy, I met the conservative Kentucky chap on Pennsylvania avenue, and was greatly edified by his high-minded remarks on the subject. "Having recently disposed of any attached contrabands to goodadvantage," says he, sagely, "I am now deeply convinced that my brother-in-law, the Southern Confederacy, has brought this dispensation upon himself. I have said all along that it would be so at last," says the genial Kentucky chap, casting another glance at the score of a recent game of Euchre which he held in his hand. "I have said all along that it would be so at last, and I am still disposed to sustain the Administration and crush the Black Republicans."

When I remembered the sentiments held by this accommodating chap only about a week ago, my boy, I could not but feel that he had made a remarkably sudden revolution on the axes he had to grind; and as there was a pleasing spice of human audacity in his easy way of suiting his style to the political demands of the moment, I was strongly reminded of a chap I once knew in the Sixth Ward.

He was a young chap of gorgeous vest-pattern, and one Sunday afternoon he went out riding with another sprightly young chap, who was accompanied by his plighted pink bonnet. They were riding joyously along in their hired vehicle, my boy, pleasantly discussing the merits of Eighty's new foreman, and other subjects equally well calculated to entertain and improve the fond female mind, when, as they turned a sharp corner, there loomed up, at some distance ahead, a house bearing a sign reading:

FEED STOREOATS FOR SALE HERE.

No sooner did the spirited livery-horse observe this dangerous sign, my boy, than he dashed toward it in a manner worthy of my own gothic steed, the architectural Pegasus; and as there happened to be a few stones in the way, the two chaps and the pink bonnet were presently shot into the surrounding atmosphere without regard to the character of the day. While the excited quadruped went on with the two fore-wheels of the vehicle for the purpose of reading the sign nearer by, the chap of the gorgeous vest-pattern announced his safe arrival in a sand-bank by the appropriate and cheery cry of "Fire! fire! fire!" and the other chap and the pink bonnet warbled hasty thanksgivings in the bosom of a romantic ditch. How they finally caught the spirited livery horse, and induced him to come back to the city again by making a copy of the sign on a bit of paper, and placing it in his mouth, and how they ultimately reached home, you must imagine. But in about a week after, the unnatural livery-stable keeper brought suit against the smitten chap for the two hind-wheels of his wagon; and when the young chap of gorgeous vest-pattern was put upon the stand to prove that the catastrophe was not the driver's fault, he winked agreeably at the people, and says he: "My friend and assoshate exerted hisself visibly to subdue the fiery old oat-mill. As it was, his brains was nearly dashed out, his neck-tie was sprained, and hefound his watch wound up."

Here the livery lawyer thought he had the friendly chap in a tight place, and says he:

"You say that by being thrown from the wagon so violently, the defendant's watch was wound up. Perhapsyou will inform the court how such a strange phenomenoncouldoccur?"

The young chap merely paused long enough to make another desperate attempt to reconcile the bottom-edge of his waistcoat to the top-edge of his inexpressibles, and says he, with a fine smile:

"Why, it was easy enough for his watch to be wound up by it, my covey; becausehe turned three times in the air before he lit."

Accommodating conservative chaps, my boy, though momentarily thrown out of their reckoning, by reason of sudden proceedings caused by the latest signs of the times, have a happy aptitude for turning-about as often as may seem necessary, before alighting on a fixed principle.

The Mackerel chaplain, who came up from Harper's Ferry on Monday afternoon, was delighted with H. O. Abe's promissory note, and considers that old John Brown is at last

AVENGED.

God's scales of Justice hang betweenThe deed Unjust and the end Unseen,And the sparrow's fall in the one is weighedBy the Lord's own Hand in the other laid.In the prairie path to our Sun-set gate,In the flow'ring heart of a new-born State,Are the hopes of an old man's waning years,'Neath headstones worn by an old man's tears.

God's scales of Justice hang betweenThe deed Unjust and the end Unseen,And the sparrow's fall in the one is weighedBy the Lord's own Hand in the other laid.

In the prairie path to our Sun-set gate,In the flow'ring heart of a new-born State,Are the hopes of an old man's waning years,'Neath headstones worn by an old man's tears.

When the bright sun sinks in the rose-lipped West,His last red ray is the headstone's crest;And the mounds he laves in a crimson floodAre a Soldier's wealth baptized in blood!Do ye ask who reared those headstones there,And crowned with thorns a sire's gray hair?And by whom the Land's great debt was paidTo the Soldier old, in the graves they made?Shrink, Pity! shrink, at the question dire;And, Honor, burn in a blush of fire!Turn, Angel, turn from the page thine eyes,Or the Sin, once written, never dies!They were men of the Land he had fought to saveFrom a foreign foe that had crossed the wave,When his sun-lit youth was a martial song,And shook a throne as it swelled along.They were sons of the clime whose soft, warm breathIs the soul of earth, and a life in death;Where the Summer dreams on the couch of Spring,And the songs of birds through the whole year ring;Where the falling leaf is the cup that grewTo catch the gems of the new leaf's dew,And the winds that through the vine-leaves creepAre the sighs of Time in a pleasant sleep.

When the bright sun sinks in the rose-lipped West,His last red ray is the headstone's crest;And the mounds he laves in a crimson floodAre a Soldier's wealth baptized in blood!

Do ye ask who reared those headstones there,And crowned with thorns a sire's gray hair?And by whom the Land's great debt was paidTo the Soldier old, in the graves they made?

Shrink, Pity! shrink, at the question dire;And, Honor, burn in a blush of fire!Turn, Angel, turn from the page thine eyes,Or the Sin, once written, never dies!

They were men of the Land he had fought to saveFrom a foreign foe that had crossed the wave,When his sun-lit youth was a martial song,And shook a throne as it swelled along.

They were sons of the clime whose soft, warm breathIs the soul of earth, and a life in death;Where the Summer dreams on the couch of Spring,And the songs of birds through the whole year ring;

Where the falling leaf is the cup that grewTo catch the gems of the new leaf's dew,And the winds that through the vine-leaves creepAre the sighs of Time in a pleasant sleep.

But there lurked a taint in the clime so blest,Like a serpent coiled in a ring-dove's nest,And the human sounds to the ear it gaveWere the clank of chains on a low-browed Slave!The Soldier old at his sentry-post,Where the sun's last trail of light is lost,Beheld the shame of the Land he loved,And the old, old love in his bosom moved.He cried to the land, Beware! BewareOf the symboled Curse in the Bondman there!And a prophet's soul in fire came downTo live in the voice of old John Brown.He cried; and the ingrate answer cameIn words of steel from a tongue of flame;They dyed his hearth in the blood of kin,And his dear ones fell for the Nation's Sin!O, matchless deed! that a fiend might scorn,O, deed of shame! for a world to mourn;A Soldier's pay in his blood most dear,And a land to mock at a Father's tear!Is't strange that the tranquil soul of ageWas turned to strife in a madman's rage?Is't strange that the cry of blood did seemLike the roll of drums in a martial dream?

But there lurked a taint in the clime so blest,Like a serpent coiled in a ring-dove's nest,And the human sounds to the ear it gaveWere the clank of chains on a low-browed Slave!

The Soldier old at his sentry-post,Where the sun's last trail of light is lost,Beheld the shame of the Land he loved,And the old, old love in his bosom moved.

He cried to the land, Beware! BewareOf the symboled Curse in the Bondman there!And a prophet's soul in fire came downTo live in the voice of old John Brown.

He cried; and the ingrate answer cameIn words of steel from a tongue of flame;They dyed his hearth in the blood of kin,And his dear ones fell for the Nation's Sin!

O, matchless deed! that a fiend might scorn,O, deed of shame! for a world to mourn;A Soldier's pay in his blood most dear,And a land to mock at a Father's tear!

Is't strange that the tranquil soul of ageWas turned to strife in a madman's rage?Is't strange that the cry of blood did seemLike the roll of drums in a martial dream?

Is't strange the clank of the Helot's chainShould drive the Wrong to the old man's brain,To fire his heart with a santon's zeal,And mate his arm to the Soldier's steel?The bane of Wrong to its depth had gone,And the sword of Right from its sheath was drawn;But the cabined Slave heard not his cry,And the old man armed him but to die.Ye may call him Mad, that he did not quailWhen his stout blade broke on the unblest mail;Ye may call him Mad, that he struck alone,And made the land's dark Curse his own;But the Eye of God looked down and sawA just life lost by an unjust law;And black was the day with God's own frownWhen the Southern Cross was a martyr's Crown!Apostate clime! the blood then shed,Fell thick with vengeance on thy head,To weigh it down 'neath the coming rodWhen thy red right hand should be stretched to God.Behold the price of the life ye took;At the death ye gave 'twas a world that shook;And the despot deed that one heart broke,From their slavish sleep a Million woke!

Is't strange the clank of the Helot's chainShould drive the Wrong to the old man's brain,To fire his heart with a santon's zeal,And mate his arm to the Soldier's steel?

The bane of Wrong to its depth had gone,And the sword of Right from its sheath was drawn;But the cabined Slave heard not his cry,And the old man armed him but to die.

Ye may call him Mad, that he did not quailWhen his stout blade broke on the unblest mail;Ye may call him Mad, that he struck alone,And made the land's dark Curse his own;

But the Eye of God looked down and sawA just life lost by an unjust law;And black was the day with God's own frownWhen the Southern Cross was a martyr's Crown!

Apostate clime! the blood then shed,Fell thick with vengeance on thy head,To weigh it down 'neath the coming rodWhen thy red right hand should be stretched to God.

Behold the price of the life ye took;At the death ye gave 'twas a world that shook;And the despot deed that one heart broke,From their slavish sleep a Million woke!

Not all alone did the victim fall,Whose wrongs first brought him to your thrall;The old man played a Nation's part,And ye struck your blow at a Nation's heart!The freemen-host is at your door,And a Voice goes forth with a stern "No More!"To the deadly Curse, whose swift redeemWas the visioned thought of John Brown's dream.To the Country's Wrong, and the Country's stain,It shall prove as the scythe to the yielding grain;And the dauntless pow'r to spread it forth,Is the free-born soul of the chainless North.From the East, and West, and North they come,To the bugle's call and the roll of drum;And a form walks viewless by their side—A form that was born when the Old Man died!The Soldier old in his grave may rest,Afar with his dead in the prairie West;But a red ray falls on the headstone there,Like a God's reply to a Soldier's pray'r.He may sleep in peace 'neath the greenwood pall,For the land's great heart hath heard his call;And a people's Will and a people's Might,Shall right the Wrong and proclaim the Right.

Not all alone did the victim fall,Whose wrongs first brought him to your thrall;The old man played a Nation's part,And ye struck your blow at a Nation's heart!

The freemen-host is at your door,And a Voice goes forth with a stern "No More!"To the deadly Curse, whose swift redeemWas the visioned thought of John Brown's dream.

To the Country's Wrong, and the Country's stain,It shall prove as the scythe to the yielding grain;And the dauntless pow'r to spread it forth,Is the free-born soul of the chainless North.

From the East, and West, and North they come,To the bugle's call and the roll of drum;And a form walks viewless by their side—A form that was born when the Old Man died!

The Soldier old in his grave may rest,Afar with his dead in the prairie West;But a red ray falls on the headstone there,Like a God's reply to a Soldier's pray'r.

He may sleep in peace 'neath the greenwood pall,For the land's great heart hath heard his call;And a people's Will and a people's Might,Shall right the Wrong and proclaim the Right.

The foe may howl at the fiat just,And gnash his fangs in the trodden dust;But the battle leaves his bark a wreck,And the Freeman's heel is on his neck.Not all in vain is the lesson taught,That a great soul's Dream is the world's New Thought;And the Scaffold marked with a death sublimeIs the Throne ordained for the coming time.

The foe may howl at the fiat just,And gnash his fangs in the trodden dust;But the battle leaves his bark a wreck,And the Freeman's heel is on his neck.

Not all in vain is the lesson taught,That a great soul's Dream is the world's New Thought;And the Scaffold marked with a death sublimeIs the Throne ordained for the coming time.

The chaplain runs as naturally to poetry, my boy, as a water-melon does to seed, and his muse is apt to be—alas! what a melancholy one!

In my last epistle, I was somewhat hyperbolical when I meant to be metaphorical, as some of the older writers were allegorical when they meant to be categorical. I told you, my boy, that we had cornered the prudish Confederacy in Accomac, and "thrown our arms around her." Your natural ignorance will demand an explanation; and I deem it fit to say, that by the phrase "thrown our arms around her," I meant to say that certain Mackerel regiments, in furtherance of the profound strategy of the General of the Mackerel Brigade, had thrown their arms away, on every side of the entrapped Confederacy. It was believed that the Confederacy was perfectly safe for immediate capture, my boy; but upon the discovery that the fords of Allkwyet River, in the rear of Accomac, where the Confederacy could cross, were adjoining each other, and extended from the source of the riverto its mouth, it was deemed proper to let the Confederacy court further ruination by retiring in that direction. Hence, whilst the watchful Conic section took a brief nap, the Anatomical Cavalry was sent rapidly in front of the disgracefully retreating Confederacy to clear the road for it to the river, and then telegraph the news of the great victory to all the excellent morning journals.

It was another splendid stroke of profound strategy, my boy, and would have crowned the idolized General of the Mackerel Brigade with new laurels, had he not been too bashfully modest to understand it himself.

Finding, however, that it seemed to be better than something worse, he told his staff a small story to clear his throat, and then unfurled the following

PROCLAMATION.

I, the General of the Mackerel Brigade, next President of the United States of America, and Commander-in-Chief of the Mackerel Army and superior improved iron-plated squadron, do hereby swear, that on this occasion, as in a previous instance, the war will be prosecuted for the object of practically maintaining the Constitution forever destroyed, and restoring friendly relations between the sections and States inexorably alienated; that it is my practical purpose to suggest, at the next orderly meeting of the Mackerel Brigade, a practical offer of pecuniary compensation for the slaves of the so-called Border States which have refrained, through patriotic fear, from wagingunnatural hostilities with the United States of America and my practical self. Gradual Emancipation having thus set in, as far as those States are concerned, either voluntarily, or by virtue of a superior discretion, persons of African descent will again be privileged, or voluntarily compelled to colonize in Nova Zembla, where bear hunting is still in full bloom; that on the first day of April, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-three, all persons held as slaves by what is then known as the ruins of the Southern Confederacy, shall be then, thence, thenceforward and forever free, if they choose to consider themselves so, and are able to achieve their independence; that on the aforesaid first of April, the General of the Mackerel Brigade will designate the States, or parts of States, which have rendered this proclamation nugatory, by returning involuntarily, and by force of our arms, to their allegiance, inviting them to elect members of Congress, boarders at Willard's and Senators as usual, the same as though their somewhat-prolonged rebellion against the United States of America had been a rather meritorious arrangement, entitling them to more than ordinary consideration.

And I do hereby respectfully request all officers to refrain in future from paying the traveling expenses of persons of African descent sent by them to their revolted masters after a term of trench service, as there don't appear to be any common-sense in such expenditure.

And the General of the Mackerel Brigade will further recommend, that all citizens of the United Statesremaining loyal now, or who may become loyal, voluntarily or otherwise, at any period of the world's history, be fully compensated for all losses sustained by the United States, including the loss of memory or eye sight.

In witness whereof, behold the signature and seal of the

General of the Mackerel Brigade.(Green Seal.)

While I am compelled to admit, my boy, that I do not exactly understand by what authority the General of the Mackerel Brigade is empowered to issue this Proclamation; and that some of its clauses—particularly the last—strike me as being somewhat muddled, I yet regard it as at least a faint evidence that the tremendous farce in which we have so long been playing such bloody parts is at last coming to an end.

And since the farce seems drawing to a close, perhaps your farcical Orpheus C. Kerr could select no fitter time than this to withdraw with grace from the field.

As this thought occurs to me, my boy, I look up, and behold a couple of our brigadiers a few paces off, with only two tumblers between them. Their faces are expressionless. I have seen apple-dumplings with more expression, especially when dressed with sauce. It is impossible, my boy, that any wise thing should enter into the heads of our brass-buttoned generals under any possible circumstances; and with heavy heart, I acknowledge the conviction that I must still rush the quill.

Yours, enduringly,Orpheus C. Kerr.

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