LETTER LXXXI.
SHOWING HOW A MINION OF TYRANNY WAS TERRIBLY PUNISHED FOR INTERFERING WITH THE CONSERVATIVE WOMEN OF AMERICA; AND DESCRIBING THE KENTUCKY CHAP'S REMARKABLE SKIRMISH WITH HIS THANKSGIVING DINNER.
Washington, D.C., Jan. 7th, 1863.
As I make it a practice to pay all my honest debts, my boy, and have never flagellated a person of African descent, I could not properly come under the head of "Chivalry" in an American dictionary, though I might possibly come under its feet in the "Union-as-it-Was;" yet I have that in my nature which revolts at the thought of a war against women, and am sufficiently chivalrous to defend any cause whose effects are crinoline. The bell-shaped structure called Woman, my boy, was created expressly to conquer unresisting adversaries; to win engagements without receiving a blow, and to do pretty much as she pleases, by pleasing pretty much as she does. She is a harmless creation of herself, my boy; and to war directly against her because she may chance to influence her male friends to war against us, is about as sensible as it would be to execrate our hatter because a gust of wind blows our new beaver into the mud. If the hatter had not made the hat, the wind could not have blown it off, and if God had not made women, she could not encourage the well-known Southern Confederacy against us; but shall we turn enemy to the hatter, or to the woman, on this account? Not if we know ourselves, my boy, and recognize the high moral spirit of justice observable in the Constitution.
Being thus possessed of a reverence for that sex whose bonnets remind me of cake-baskets, I cannot refrain from frowning indignantly upon that horrible spirit of national tyranny which has inspired Sergeant O'Pake, of the demoralized Mackerel Brigade, to issue the following
"GENERAL ORDER.""For the purpose of simplifying national strategy to those conservative women of America who, while engaged in the pursuit of happiness as guaranteed by the Constitution, desire to visit the Southern Confederacy, it is ordered that they shall answer the following paternal questions before passing the lines of the Mackerel Brigade:"I.For how many years has your age been Just Twenty-two?"II.How many novels do you consume per week?"III.Were you ever complained of to the authorities for inordinate piano-forte playing?"IV.Do you work slippers for the heathen?"V.If so; forwhatHe, then?"VI.What newspaper's 'Marriages and Deaths' do you consider the best?"VII.In selecting a church to attend, what colored prayer-book do you find most becoming to your complexion?"VIII.How much display of neck do you consider necessary to indicate a Modesty which shrinks from showing an ankle?"IX.Did you ever stoop to folly? or is it Folly alone that stoops to you?"X.Did you ever eat as much as you wanted at dinner, when members of the opposite sex were opposite?"It is also ordered that no female visitor to the celebrated Southern Confederacy shall carry more than eight large trunks and a bonnet-box for each month in the year; and that no female shall pass the line, whose dimensions in full dress exceed the ordinary space between two pickets, as the latter will, on no account be permitted to edge away from their stations at this trying crisis in the history of our distracted country."O'Pake,"Sergeant Mackerel Brigade."
"GENERAL ORDER."
"For the purpose of simplifying national strategy to those conservative women of America who, while engaged in the pursuit of happiness as guaranteed by the Constitution, desire to visit the Southern Confederacy, it is ordered that they shall answer the following paternal questions before passing the lines of the Mackerel Brigade:
"It is also ordered that no female visitor to the celebrated Southern Confederacy shall carry more than eight large trunks and a bonnet-box for each month in the year; and that no female shall pass the line, whose dimensions in full dress exceed the ordinary space between two pickets, as the latter will, on no account be permitted to edge away from their stations at this trying crisis in the history of our distracted country.
"O'Pake,
"Sergeant Mackerel Brigade."
This inhuman order had scarcely been issued when there came to the Mackerel lines in front of Paris a virtuous young female, aged 23 with the figures reversed, who was disgusted with the great vulgarity of the North, and wished to visit the marriageable Southern Confederacy, having heard that the Confederacy was carefully Husbanding its resources. Being a poor girl, with "nothing to wear," she only had seven Saratoga trunks, ten bandboxes, fourteen small carpet-bags, and a lap-dog; yet the ill-bred O'Pake was suspicious enough to examine one of her trunks.
He ruthlessly opened it in her presence, my boy, and quickly met with the horrible fate which was at once immortalized by the Mackerel Chaplain in the following awful presentment:
"THE AVENGING SKELETON.""When tyrant purpose made the martial foolWith brief authority profoundly drunk,Unto his minions issued forth a rule,To search each Southward-going woman's trunk."There was a Sergeant of the Mack'rel ranksMade one attempt to carry out the law;But ah!—to Providence a thousand thanks!—He met a doom to fill the soul with awe."Scarce had his impious hands the task begun;—Scarce had he ope'd the vast and mammoth thing,—When, from the trunk's interior Phlegethon,Came forth a horrid phantom, with a spring!"It was a dreadful monster, without flesh,Made up of ever-less'ning, perfect hoops;More terrible to vision than secesh,With all his ragged, whiskey-drinking troops."The wretched Sergeant started back with fear,And would have 'scaped the penalty incurred;But, ah! the spectre caught him by an ear,And held him trembling like a prisoned bird."Wrought up to frenzy by mishap so dire,He struck the phantom in his thoughtless rage;But 'twas like fanning to put out a fire,And straight his hand was tangled in a cage!"And then his other tyrant hand he triedTo ease the springs that pressed him ev'rywhere;His futile blow the Skeleton defied,—His other hand was taken in a snare!"Then round his form the dread avenger coiled,Like snakes' backbones in unelastic curl;By prison-bars his wished retreat is foiled,And in a cage behold the trembling churl."Still mad with terror at his grievous plight,He lifts a foot, as though to kick at last;When, lo! his leg goes through an op'ning slight,And there two wiry circles hold it fast."He plunges, staggers, tries to tear the bandsWhich make that woman's Skeleton complete;Then reeleth blindly unto where she stands,And falls in helpless bondage at her feet!"
"THE AVENGING SKELETON."
"THE AVENGING SKELETON."
"When tyrant purpose made the martial foolWith brief authority profoundly drunk,Unto his minions issued forth a rule,To search each Southward-going woman's trunk.
"When tyrant purpose made the martial fool
With brief authority profoundly drunk,
Unto his minions issued forth a rule,
To search each Southward-going woman's trunk.
"There was a Sergeant of the Mack'rel ranksMade one attempt to carry out the law;But ah!—to Providence a thousand thanks!—He met a doom to fill the soul with awe.
"There was a Sergeant of the Mack'rel ranks
Made one attempt to carry out the law;
But ah!—to Providence a thousand thanks!—
He met a doom to fill the soul with awe.
"Scarce had his impious hands the task begun;—Scarce had he ope'd the vast and mammoth thing,—When, from the trunk's interior Phlegethon,Came forth a horrid phantom, with a spring!
"Scarce had his impious hands the task begun;—
Scarce had he ope'd the vast and mammoth thing,—
When, from the trunk's interior Phlegethon,
Came forth a horrid phantom, with a spring!
"It was a dreadful monster, without flesh,Made up of ever-less'ning, perfect hoops;More terrible to vision than secesh,With all his ragged, whiskey-drinking troops.
"It was a dreadful monster, without flesh,
Made up of ever-less'ning, perfect hoops;
More terrible to vision than secesh,
With all his ragged, whiskey-drinking troops.
"The wretched Sergeant started back with fear,And would have 'scaped the penalty incurred;But, ah! the spectre caught him by an ear,And held him trembling like a prisoned bird.
"The wretched Sergeant started back with fear,
And would have 'scaped the penalty incurred;
But, ah! the spectre caught him by an ear,
And held him trembling like a prisoned bird.
"Wrought up to frenzy by mishap so dire,He struck the phantom in his thoughtless rage;But 'twas like fanning to put out a fire,And straight his hand was tangled in a cage!
"Wrought up to frenzy by mishap so dire,
He struck the phantom in his thoughtless rage;
But 'twas like fanning to put out a fire,
And straight his hand was tangled in a cage!
"And then his other tyrant hand he triedTo ease the springs that pressed him ev'rywhere;His futile blow the Skeleton defied,—His other hand was taken in a snare!
"And then his other tyrant hand he tried
To ease the springs that pressed him ev'rywhere;
His futile blow the Skeleton defied,—
His other hand was taken in a snare!
"Then round his form the dread avenger coiled,Like snakes' backbones in unelastic curl;By prison-bars his wished retreat is foiled,And in a cage behold the trembling churl.
"Then round his form the dread avenger coiled,
Like snakes' backbones in unelastic curl;
By prison-bars his wished retreat is foiled,
And in a cage behold the trembling churl.
"Still mad with terror at his grievous plight,He lifts a foot, as though to kick at last;When, lo! his leg goes through an op'ning slight,And there two wiry circles hold it fast.
"Still mad with terror at his grievous plight,
He lifts a foot, as though to kick at last;
When, lo! his leg goes through an op'ning slight,
And there two wiry circles hold it fast.
"He plunges, staggers, tries to tear the bandsWhich make that woman's Skeleton complete;Then reeleth blindly unto where she stands,And falls in helpless bondage at her feet!"
"He plunges, staggers, tries to tear the bands
Which make that woman's Skeleton complete;
Then reeleth blindly unto where she stands,
And falls in helpless bondage at her feet!"
When the poor tool of tyranny was released from this terrific skeleton, he looked as bewildered as one who had just returned from the outskirts of civilization; but still his fiendish taste for trunk-inspection was not conquered. He returned to the edge of the wardrobe abyss, drew forth an immense white article, and says he:
"Do my spectacles relate a fiction, or is this indeed a Sibley tent for the use of the Confederacy?"
At this moment the excellent young woman hastily snatched the article away from him, and says she:
"You nasty thing, that's my"—here she blushed.
At times, my boy, woman's blush is the imperial banner of virgin Modesty thrown out to catch the breeze that wafts the sound of coming rescue, and means: "God is my defence." At other times, it is the eloquent protest of a fine intelligence which deprecates the test that would turn all its hidden beauties to the public eye, and means:Humility is born of Genius.But in this case, it was the lurid flush of anger, and meant—a petticoat.
Not wishing to further betray the reproachful fact that he was an unmarried Mackerel, Sergeant O'Pake closed the trunk with emphasis, and permitted the triumphant young woman of America to trip it lightly to the South.
The Mackerel Brigade at present constitutes one of three parallel lines, the other two being the celebrated City of Paris and the well known Southern Confederacy. Paris is the central one, and may be called the line of battle, over which the Orange County Howitzers are continually hurling shot and shell at the glorious sun. During the day it is much frequented by Southern Confederacies, who drink anything that will pour into a tumbler; and in the evening it is visited by our indomitable troops, who go to look at the empty bottles. You may ask, my boy, why the Confederacies are not routed, and Paris occupied? I answer, that the new General of the Mackerel Brigade will not attack an inferior force, and is waiting until there shall be something worth killing on the opposite side. Too often did the former General of the Mackerel Brigade make the mistake this high-minded conduct is intended to avoid; too often, after an interval of only a few months, did he lead the majestic Mackerels ahead of him into the field, and then hastily retire, upon finding that the Confederacies were too inferior in numbers to make their conquest worth while. But we shall have no more such mistakes, for the new General will not move against the foe until the latter is strong enough to make carnage desirable. Besides, the man who was to build a bridge across Duck Lake, could not come last week, on account of the rain, and there are no ferryboats running.
On Thanksgiving Day, however, we had a skirmish of thrilling intensity. The conservative Kentucky chap, my boy, has got command of Company 2, Regiment 1, and having drilled them in swearing, to the sound of the Emancipation Proclamation, for a whole fortnight, he has brought them to a high state of discipline and profanity. On Thursday morning, just after one of our scouts had cleaned his spectacles, he beheld a Confederate turkey emerge from this side of Paris and proceed to insult the United States of America by hideous gobblings. The alarm was at once given, and after swearing at his men to give them confidence, the conservative Kentucky chap led them forth to capture the obscene bird. Onward pushed the spectacled veterans, with fixed bayonets, addressing their eyes with pleasant oaths, and hoping that they might meet Horace Greeley.
The Confederate turkey was eating a worm at the moment, and only paused long enough to eye our troops with that species of disdain which comes of Southern birth. He felt, as it were, that he was protected by the Constitution of our forefathers.
The conservative Kentucky chap, being fond of turkey for dinner himself, waved his glittering sword above his head, and says he:
"The South has brought this upon herself. Make ready.—"
He was about to add "Fire!" my boy! but he had just put on his spectacles, and a sudden change came over his Kentucky countenance. Says he:
"For Heaven's sake, don't fire! Vallandigham me," says he, staring right over the turkey,—"Vallandigham me, if I didn't come near telling them to shoot! And there's a nigger coming after the turkey as sure as death. Ah! what an escape!"
A Mackerel chap, who had noticed his staring and great agitation, approached respectfully, and says he:
"Does a obstacle to victory protrude?"
The conservative Kentucky chap spat at a copy of the "Tribune," which he threw upon the ground for the purpose, and says he:
"Notwithstanding any Proclamations whatsoever, Kentucky is not waging this war against the institution of slavery. In the dim distance I behold a contraband apparently approaching the turkey, and there must be no bombardment until he has returned to his rightful owner."
The Mackerel chap wiped his boots with the "Tribune," and says he:
"I do not see our brother Africa at all."
Here the Confederate turkey, who had finished his worm, turned heavily from the scene, and presently disappeared on the other side of Paris.
The Kentucky chap still kept staring afar off, and says he:
"Why, I can see him, though he appears to be at a great distance."
Now it chanced, my boy, that while the conservative Kentucky chap was saying this, the Mackerel chap gazed at him fixedly, and then says he, in just astonishment:
"Methinks there is a object on one of the glasses of your spectacles, Capting."
Frantically the Kentucky chap tore off his spectacles, and discovered upon one of the glasses an object indeed. It was a small picture of a negro minstrel, my boy, cut from the show-bill of some country band, and pasted upon the spectacles of Kentucky's rising son. It had been secretly placed there the night before by a Democratic chap from the Sixth Ward, to give a constitutional turn to the war.
The mind's eye of Conservatism, my boy, looks upon the war through spectacles so seldom cleaned, that what most offends it, is more than likely to be what exists only in its own looking-glasses.
Yours, spectacularly,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER LXXXII.
NOTING THE UTTER DESTRUCTION, BY AN INEBRIATED JOURNALIST, OF THE VENERABLE GAMMON'S BENIGNANT SPEECH; INTRODUCING THE NEW GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE; AND DESCRIBING A CURIOUS PHENOMENON ON DUCK LAKE.
Washington, D.C., Jan. 15th, 1863.
The venerable Gammon, has melted sadly home to Mugville since the removal of the late idolized General of the Mackerel Brigade, and a worshipping peasantry are exasperated at his unnatural wrongs.
I cannot exactly, see, my boy, how this venerable man is so deeply injured by the said removal; in fact, it does not appear to me that he can have any interest in the change whatever; but his appearance of deep affliction has called scalding tears to all beholding eyes, and the attached populace crawl in the dust at the subduing aspect of his inexpressible woe.
It was on the Tuesday evening of this revered and aged patriot's arrival in adoring Mugville, that he was tumultuously serenaded by the brass-band of the Young Men's Democratic Christian Association, which is composed exclusively of constitutional chaps. He was frantically besought to respond; and then it was that he fell a hapless and venerable victim to the great, heart-rending mistake of an inebriated reporter for a reliable morning journal. The beloved old being meant to make only a few pithy, telling remarks to the enthusiastic band, and this was, in fact, his veritable
SPEECH."Thank you for your compliment. (A voice: 'How are you, old boots?' 'We're the boys to give the Rebels comfort!' and cheers.) We are here to-night to stand by the Constitution. (A voice: 'What's old Abe about?' 'Locking up good Democrats in Fort Lafayette!' 'Well, it's our own fault, you know.' 'We deserve worse treatment!' and hisses.) We abhor these Rebels as much as the Black Republicans (a voice: 'We can give the Rebels what they want!' and applause), but we also hate home-tyranny. Why was the idolized General of the Mackerel Brigade removed? (A voice: 'To please the Rebels!'We have licked the Black Republicans in New York!' 'We've done the Rebels!' 'Good!') To spite us! That's so, boys! (A voice: 'And we'll make them love us yet?' 'The New York election tickles them!' and cheers.) Whose good was he removed for? (A voice: 'For Jeff Davis!' 'Three cheers, boys!' and great enthusiasm.) Let History show! (A voice: 'We'll make him President in 1864!') Good night."
SPEECH.
"Thank you for your compliment. (A voice: 'How are you, old boots?' 'We're the boys to give the Rebels comfort!' and cheers.) We are here to-night to stand by the Constitution. (A voice: 'What's old Abe about?' 'Locking up good Democrats in Fort Lafayette!' 'Well, it's our own fault, you know.' 'We deserve worse treatment!' and hisses.) We abhor these Rebels as much as the Black Republicans (a voice: 'We can give the Rebels what they want!' and applause), but we also hate home-tyranny. Why was the idolized General of the Mackerel Brigade removed? (A voice: 'To please the Rebels!'We have licked the Black Republicans in New York!' 'We've done the Rebels!' 'Good!') To spite us! That's so, boys! (A voice: 'And we'll make them love us yet?' 'The New York election tickles them!' and cheers.) Whose good was he removed for? (A voice: 'For Jeff Davis!' 'Three cheers, boys!' and great enthusiasm.) Let History show! (A voice: 'We'll make him President in 1864!') Good night."
Here you have the true speech of the Venerable Gammon, my boy, with all those patriotic interruptions which lend such a chaste rhetorical charm to the extemporized oratory of our distracted country; but how shall I express the pangs which tore the breasts of the fond populace, when the reliable morning journal of Mugville came out next morning with six pounds of heavy editorial to show that the Venerable Gammon had ruthlessly betrayed the excellent national Democratic organization! How shall I depict the public misery that ensued in Mugville when that reliable morning journal, upon the authority of its inebriated reporter, gavethisas a correct report of the revered patriarch's
SPEECH.The speaker said: "How are you, old boots? (A voice: 'Thank you for your compliment.') We're the boys to give the Rebels comfort and cheers. (A voice: 'We are here to-night to stand by the Constitution!') What's old Abe about? Locking up good Democrats in Fort Lafayette! Well; it's our own fault, you know; we deserve worse treatment and hisses. (A voice: 'We abhor these Rebels as much as the Black Republicans!') We can give the Rebels what they want and applause. (A voice: 'But we also hate home tyranny!' 'Why was the idolized General of the Mackerel Brigade removed?') To please the Rebels we have licked the Black Republicans in New York; we've done the Rebels good. (A voice: 'To spite us, that's so, boys!') And we'll make them love us yet! The New York election tickles them, and cheers. (A voice: 'Whose good was he removed for?') For Jeff Davis three cheers, boys, and great enthusiasm. (A voice: 'Let history show!') We'll make him President in 1864! (A voice: 'Good night!')"
SPEECH.
The speaker said: "How are you, old boots? (A voice: 'Thank you for your compliment.') We're the boys to give the Rebels comfort and cheers. (A voice: 'We are here to-night to stand by the Constitution!') What's old Abe about? Locking up good Democrats in Fort Lafayette! Well; it's our own fault, you know; we deserve worse treatment and hisses. (A voice: 'We abhor these Rebels as much as the Black Republicans!') We can give the Rebels what they want and applause. (A voice: 'But we also hate home tyranny!' 'Why was the idolized General of the Mackerel Brigade removed?') To please the Rebels we have licked the Black Republicans in New York; we've done the Rebels good. (A voice: 'To spite us, that's so, boys!') And we'll make them love us yet! The New York election tickles them, and cheers. (A voice: 'Whose good was he removed for?') For Jeff Davis three cheers, boys, and great enthusiasm. (A voice: 'Let history show!') We'll make him President in 1864! (A voice: 'Good night!')"
You see, my boy, this horrible twistification was the result of the reporter's getting confused about who was the speaker—him on the hotel balcony or the talkative chaps in the street. If our excellent national Democratic Organization would have less talking during their public speeches, my boy, there need be no such inhuman mistakes as that which has calumniated and utterly prostrated the Venerable Gammon.
On Wednesday I took a trot on the war-path upon the architectural street, Pegasus, and found the veteran Mackerel Brigade back at Paris again. They had made a great march from the Blue Ridge, my boy, and when I reached the front I found a scientific chap from Cincinnati taking observations. He stuck a tall stick into the ground, and scratched a long line on the damp sod, from the foot of this stick to the extreme right of the spectacled Brigade, letting the toes of the front rank of the Mackerels just touch it. Then he attached a powerful magnifying-glass to about the centre of the upright stick, and commenced looking through it very intently all along the line he had drawn.
I observed him attentively, and says I: "What is the nature of your contract with the Government, my serious friend?"
He rubbed the glass with his blue silk pocket-handkerchief, and says he: "I have invented this useful arrangement to ascertain whether or not the Army of Accomac is really advancing. I closely watch the line to which the toes of the front rank of the army are already very near, and could almost swear that the forward movement is still going on. The average speed of this army," says the scientific chap, calculatingly, "has hitherto been six miles in six weeks; but now that the war is about to commence in earnest, I think that the troops are making better time."
And so they were, my boy, so they were; for the heel of the first rank's boots were almost on the line in less than an hour,—no Confederacies being in sight.
Noticing a circle of Mackerel Officers a short distance in my rear, I dismounted from Pegasus and walked thither for greater speed, discovering that the brilliant staff were admiring the great equestrian gambols of the new General of the Mackerel Brigade.
The new General is a dignified, middle-aged chap, my boy, with a face which expresses many whiskers, and an eye to look you through and through when your meaning is transparent. He is not quite two yards high, has a head which looks like a lustrous apple-dumpling, dropped into the middle of a window-brush, and graduates downward into his boots without seeming to be either growing out of them, or running through them.
And he is none of your military popinjays, my boy, all plastered with buttons and gold lace, but an earnest, hardworking soldier. His dress for the field is characterized by genuine republican simplicity, and consists of hardworking corduroy breeches, sternly patched; an earnest pea-jacket, resolutely out at the elbows; a pair of straightforward slippers, unflinchingly ragged around the toes, and an untrifling silk hat, determinedly mashed-in at various points. You feel as you look at him, my boy, that he means hard work, and is indifferent to good clothes as long as he can save his distracted country.
On the majestic brow of a true hero, a shocking bad hat is a far nobler, more glittering crown, than the circle of filthy lucre which surmounts the head of Europe's bloated despot. Grander, far grander is the nightcap of a Washington, than any style of army cap I have yet seen.
The new General was mounted upon a long-tailed cob, and his horsemanship thrilled this manly bosom with rapture. Did he wish to deliver an order to his aid, he but slightly tightened the reins of his horse, and at once the noble animal arose to his hind legs and fired off a pistol held for him by an orderly. Did he wish to go the rounds, he but touched the left flank of his horse, and straightway the sagacious charger struck into a graceful waltz, leaping over five-barred gates as he went along, and dashing through hoops held aloft by the troops. Did he desire to approach one of his Generals for consultation, he had but to give a low whistle, and forthwith the intelligent animal limped about on three feet, as though lame, and drank a bottle of wine presented to him by an orderly. Did he have an inclination to review his troops, he was compelled only to gently pinch his horse's neck, and at once the graceful beast laid down upon his side and pretended to die as naturally as any human being.
In short, my boy, it is argued from the earnest new General's bad clothes, that he will speedily bring the war to a good close; and from his being such a particular horseman, that he will never become any party's footman.
But let me change my subject for a time, and relate the great triumph of our new naval artillery on Duck Lake, which majestic sheet of water has returned to earth with the late rains.
Rear Admiral Head has so improved the deadly swivel-gun of the Mackerel iron-plated squadron, that it will send a ball some distance without kicking the gunner overboard. The secret of this improvement is known only to the Government, my boy, and will be used to advantage when our gory conflict with combined Europe comes off.
It was on Thursday morning, my boy, when an enthusiastic military mob, consisting of Captain Villiam Brown, Captain Bob Shorty, and myself, stood once more upon the familiar shore of Duck Lake. The squadron, which has been named the "Secretary Welles," having been launched upon the treacherous element by Rear Admiral Head and one Mackerel, we took out our pieces of smoked glass and prepared for the naval pageant.
We could plainly see the stern old Rear Admiral bustling about on the gallant Grandmother of the Seas, as I may term the noble craft, and hear him swearing in his iron-plated manner.
"Fracture my turret," says the old sea-dog, "if I don't think this gun will surpass the Armstrong; blockade me, if I don't."
When it became the duty of the solitary Mackerel crew to load the awful instrument of destruction, it was discovered that the ramrod had been left behind at the Navy Yard Foundry. This nautical disaster might have marred the experiments, had not the Rear Admiral chanced to have his brown gingham umbrella along with him. This was used as a rammer, and the experiment proceeded.
The first charge was twenty pounds of powder, not more than nineteen of them running out of the touchhole. The ball slightly touched the water and went down, the recoil of the squadron being only the width of Duck Lake.
The second shot was made with only one pound of powder, as it was feared that the rudder might be strained by too much concussion, and we saw the ball drop into the ocean wave. At this shot, the "Secretary Welles" only hopped out of the water a few inches. The third shot was made with half a pound of powder, as it was not deemed advisable to do too much damage to the surrounding country by the gunnery.
We were gazing intently at the merciless implement of death, through our smoked glass, when this shot was fired, and suddenly beheld a phenomenon which made us catch our breath.
Mixed up with the fire and smoke, there emerged from the mouth of the swivel-gun, what appeared to be an immense brown bird of some kind, spreading its huge wings as if came out, and skimming wearily to the shore!
Captain Bob Shorty commenced to quake, and says he:
"It's a Confederate insect!"
"No," says Villiam, lowering his smoked glass, and speaking in a solemn whisper, "It's the distracted bird of our country, floating spectrally on the battle-smoke. Ah!" says Villiam, abstractedly uncorking my canteen, "our distracted bird is no inseck."
Was it indeed a majestic Eagle, my boy, stooping from his clouded heights to sanctify the terrible naval scene? I guess not, my boy,—I guess not; for we presently ascertained that, when the careless Mackerel crew rammed home that last charge, he heedlessly left Rear-Admiral Head's brown gingham umbrella sticking in the gun, and it was the flight of the umbrella we had witnessed.
An umbrella, my boy, and a horse, may be said to have some relations. We put one up when it rains, and we rein the other up when we "put."
Yours, good-naturedly,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER LXXXIII.
REFERRING TO WASHINGTON CITY AND THE PRESIDENT'S MESSAGE, AND GIVING THE SOUTHERN CONFEDERACY'S VERY REASONABLE PEACE PROPOSITION.
Washington, D.C., Jan. 28th, 1863.
The city of Washington, my boy, without her Congress, is like a maiden without her plighted young man. She surveys herself in the mirror of the Potomac, and says she: "Where's my Congress, without whom I am like a gas bracket deserted by its old flame?" Alas! all flesh is gas, my boy, and some of our congressmen are very fleshy. Their presence it is that makes Washington a light for the world, and many of them who once rode high horses have alighted. At the present moment our distracted country is enveloped in darkest night, and the day seems so far off that many Mackerels despair of ever seeing payday, even. At such a time what a blessing is that Congress which burns to illumine us after the manner of an elaborate chandelier! It passes away to leave everything dark; it returns, and behold all is darkey.
I was in my room at my hotel, when Congress commenced to arrive, conversing with Captain Bob Shorty; and, as a seedy-looking, middle-aged chap passed by on the opposite side of the street, the captain looked out of the window, and says he:
"That's one of the new legislators, my Pythias."
"How can you tell a new Solon from an old one?" says I, curiously.
"Why," says Captain Bob Shorty, profoundly, "an old congressman never wears a tall hat. An old congressman," says Captain Bob Shorty, sagely, "always wears a soft hat, so that it wont be injured by being knocked over his eyes."
I pondered deeply over this idea, my boy, and it seemed to me that a soft hat must be the real Cap of Liberty.
Passing over the organization of Senate and House, which suggested thoughts of ancient Rome about the time she was saved by geese, I shall proceed to notice the Message which our honest Abe fired into Congress from his intellectual breastworks during the week.
You have undoubtedly read this Abe L. paper, my boy, in the reliable morning journals, making due allowance for the typographical outrages committed by printers of opposite politics; but there was one portion of it gotten up for the honest Abe by the Chaplain of the Mackerel Brigade, and this portion is so mutilated in the publishing, that I cannot refrain from giving you the true version. Speaking of the cost to the country of Emancipation with compensation, the Chaplain wrote:
"Certainly it is not so easy to pay something as it is to pay nothing; but it is easier to pay a small sum than it is to pay a large sum; and it is easier to pay any bill when we have the money, than it is to pay a smaller bill when we have no money. Compensated Emancipation requires no more money than would be necessary to the progress of Remunerated Enfranchisement, which would not close before the end of five hundred years. At that time, we shall undoubtedly have five hundred times as many people as we have now, provided that no one dies in the mean time; and supposing the premium on gold to increase in the same ratio as it has increased since our last census was taken, the premium on the specie belonging to five hundred times our present population will be amply sufficient to pay for all persons of African descent.
"I do not state this inconsiderately. At the same ratio of increase as we now realize, American gold will soon be worth more than all Europe. We have ten millions nine hundred and sixty-three thousand miles, while Europe has three millions eight hundred thousand, and yet the average premium on specie, in some of the States, is already above that of Europe. Taking the brokers in the aggregate, I find that if one gold dollar is worth $1.30 in one year,
"This shows a yearly increase. If a gold dollar is worth $6.50 in five years, it will, of course, be worth $3,250 or five hundred times as much in five hundred years. Thus, when our population is five hundred times as great as at present, supposing each man to have a single gold dollar, the premium of $3,250 on his gold dollar will enable such man to purchase thirty-two and a half persons of African descent from the loyal slaveholders of our border States at $100 a piece, though he would be virtually expending but one dollar himself.
"This scheme of emancipation would certainly make the war shorter than it now has a prospect of being. In a word, it shows that a dollar will be much harder to pay for the war than will be a dollar for emancipation on the proposed plan."
You will observe, my boy, that this same great mathematical idea is advanced in the Message as it is printed; but our Honest Abe has chosen to vary the terms somewhat. If you have a gold dollar, my boy, salt it down for five hundred years, and some future generation of offspring will call you blessed for leaving them $3,250 in postage-stamps.
On my last journey toward Paris, finding the Mackerel Brigade still halting before that ancient city, I rode straight to the tent of Captain Villiam Brown, whom I found making himself a fall overcoat from some old newspapers, while the Chaplain sat near by, making himself a pair of shoes from a remnant of calico.
"Well, paladin," says I to Villiam, "what is it that so long detains our noble army on the path of conquest?"
Villiam sighed as he used a little more paste to fasten the sleeves of the garment he was constructing, and says he:
"It's the overcoats."
"Why," says I, epigrammatically, "don't they go far enough forward in front?"
"Ah!" says Villiam, thoughtfully, "they come far enough forward in front, but then they leave the rear exposed. On Monday," says Villiam, reflectively, "Company Three's overcoats arrived, and I requested the warriors to attire themselves after the designs of frequent fashion-plates. But scarce had their manly forms commenced to assume the garments, when the garments tore frantically from their warlike shapes."
"Hum!" says I, questioningly, "the overcoats were Rebels in disguise."
"No," says Villiam, gloomily, "but it took two Mackerels to hold an overcoat together while another warrior put it on, and when it was buttoned in front, the rear presented the aspeck of two separate departments. I am now making myself a stronger coat of Democratic newspapers," says Villiam, explainingly, "in order that my Constitution may be protected from harm."
I glanced at him askant, my boy, and says I, innocently, "I see a still better reason for your clothing yourself for battle in newspapers."
"Ah!" says Villiam, complacently, "you think that I adopt the intellectual garment to show that my line of battle is ten cents a line."
"No, my hero," says I, pleasantly, "I think you clothe yourself for battle in printed matter, to make sure that 'he who runs may read.'"
I would not say positively that Villiam "saw" this agreeable remark, my boy. I am not prepared to affirm that he took the hit; but as the canteen left his hand, my ears recognized a hasty whiz, and the effect upon the side of the tent, near my head, was perforating.
Turning from the spot, I next had my attention attracted by a tall whiskered chap, in a paralyzed whirlpool of gray rags, who was closely examining a stack of Mackerel muskets near at hand. Hearing me ask his object, he remarked casually that I was a "mudsill," and says he:
"As the unconquerable Southern Confederacy has a great contempt for the Yankee army, it has sent me here to see whether these muskets are worth taking. If they proved to be worth taking, the war was to continue; if not, I was to offer indirect proposals for peace, as the Sunny South does not wish to protect a struggle that does not pay."
Instead of replying to him, I stepped aside to give place to the Conservative Kentucky chap, who had just been denouncing the Message to the Mackerel Chaplain in the tent, and was greatly outraged by the Chaplain's response.
It seems that he had abruptly addressed the Chaplain, and says he: "If that Message wants to make the nigger the equal of the conservative element by implication, I hereby announce that Kentucky considers herself much offended. I fight for that flag," says he, hotly, pointing to the national standard,—"I fight for the stars on that flag, to aid the cause of the white man alone; and with the black man Kentucky will have nothing to do whatever."
The Chaplain looked dreamily at the flag, as it patched the sky above him, and says he:
"For men of your way of thinking, my friend, that banner should bear a sun, rather than the stars."
"Hem!" says the Kentucky chap. "How so?"
"Why," says the Chaplain, gravely, "beneath the stars alone, you cannot tell a black man from a white man. The master and slave of the broad noonday are equals under the stars; for if the sun shines upon the one working that the other may be idle, the gentle planets of the night make master and bondman of one hue and perfect equals in Nature's own Republic,—starry Night. The banner for you, my friend, should bear the sun, to show that it is but for a day."
The conservative Kentucky chap came away swearing, my boy; and hence, it was in no very good humor that he now saluted the Confederate raggedier.
"Hem!" says he, ungraciously, "where did all those rags come from, and what is their name?"
The Confederacy hastily put on a pair of white cotton gloves, and says he:
"Am I addressing the Democratic Organization?"
"You address the large Kentucky branch," says the Conservative chap, pulling out his ruffles.
"Then," says the Confederacy, "I am prepared to make an indirect proposition for peace. My name is Mr. Lamb, by which title the Democratic Organization has always known the injured Confederacy, and I propose the following terms: Hostilities shall at once cease, and the two armies be consolidated under the title of the Confederate States Forces. The war-debts of the North and South shall be so united that the North may be able to pay them without confusion. An election for a new President shall at once be held, everybody voting save those who have shown animosity to the sunny South. France shall be driven out of Mexico by the consolidated armies, the expense being so managed that the North may pay it without further trouble. Upon these terms, the Confederacy will become a peaceful fellow-man."
"Hem!" says the Kentucky chap, "What you ask is perfectly reasonable. I will consider the matter after the manner of a dispassionate Democrat, and return you my answer in a few days."
Here I hastily stepped up, and says I, "But are you not going to consult the President at all about it, my Jupiter Tonans?"
"The President? the President?" says the Conservative Kentucky chap, with a vague look. "Hem!" says he, "I really forgot all about the President!"
The Democratic Organization, my boy, in its zeal to benefit its distracted country, is occasionally like that eminent fire company in the Sixth Ward, which nobly usurped with its hose the terrible business of putting out a large conflagration, and never remembered, until its beautiful machine was all in position, that another company of fellow-firemen had exclusive possession of all the waterworks.
Yours, comparingly,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER LXXXIV.
PROVING THAT RUSSIA IS INDEED OUR FRIEND; INSTANCING THE TERRIFIC BOMBARDMENT OF PARIS; AND TELLING HOW THE NEW GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE DELIGHTED ALL WITH HIS SURPRISING "SHAPE."
Washington, D.C., February 2d, 1863.
The sagacious Russian bear, my boy, is found to regard the Eagle of our distracted country with more than his ordinary liking for fancy poultry, and our shattered bird may feel proud of a friendship proffered by such an excellent beast. Truth to tell, the present aspect of our national chicken is not calculated to inspire an idolatrous passion in the breast of European zoölogy. All his tail-feathers have seceded, and are in rebellion against him; and he has got a black eye, my boy, from strategic gambols with the playful Southern Confederacy. Hence, we should accept the bear's affection as a marvel of disinterested emotion; for I am almost sure, my boy, I am almost sure that nothing handsomer than a bear could have much real love for such a fractured fowl.
A relative of mine, named A. Merry Kerr,2went to Russia some time ago, being secretly deputed by Government to expend the amount of his passage-money in a judicious manner. He writes to me of his friendly reception by Gorchakoff, and says he:
"Mr. Gorchakoff ordered my trunks to be put away under the throne for the time being, and then hastened me to his own private bedroom, whose windows command a full view of all you can see through them. Having brushed me off and kissed me, he ordered some fried candles for two, and then says he:
"How comes on the Union cause, whose pregnant misery on Potomac's shore has caused the heart of the Czar untold anguish? How often has his majesty said to me: 'The Northmusttriumph, Prince; and mark me when I say, that two more centuries will not roll by without witnessing the fall of Richmond.'"
"Sir," says I,—
"'The lightning-motion of the fish,Beneath the sea, will just compareWith victory's impulse to our flag,—That stripéd bass of upper air.'
"'The lightning-motion of the fish,Beneath the sea, will just compareWith victory's impulse to our flag,—That stripéd bass of upper air.'
"'The lightning-motion of the fish,
Beneath the sea, will just compare
With victory's impulse to our flag,—
That stripéd bass of upper air.'
"The North must conquer, you see, Mr. G."
Upon hearing me speak thus, Mr. Gorchakoff laid my head upon his bosom and smoothed my hair, and says he: "Oh, how I love your country! Russia will never join any scheme of foreign intervention against your beautiful fish."
He said this in such a tone of real fondness that tears sprang to my eyes, and says I:
"Heaven bless you, my Muscovy duck!"
"With a look of the deepest tenderness, Mr. Gorchakoff now extended himself at full length upon the top of a bureau near my chair, and allowed his head to hang over in such a manner that he was enabled to press his cheek against mine.
"Wilt thou do me one favor, noble youth?" says he, with much emotion.
I placed a hand upon my heart.
"Then," says he, "just ask Mr. Seward not to write so many letters to me every week; because when my mail is so large, I don't have any time to attend to my family."
I promised to do so, and then went out to get some oysters. The candles had made me quite light-headed.
From this, my boy, you will perceive that Russia "may be counted upon in an emergency;" as the man said of the bear-skin upon which he was reckoning his small change.
On Thursday, bright and early, I mounted my gothic steed Pegasus, and started for Duck Lake.
Upon reaching the Mackerel camp, I found all the spectacled warriors under arms for a fray, the unaccommodating Confederacies on the other side of Paris having urged some rifled objections to the construction of a pontoon bridge across Duck Lake. The chap who was building the bridge had only just untied his second paper of nails, when a potato from some Confederate marksman, in the second-story of Paris, hit him violently in the stomach. Simultaneously the cover of a dinner-pot cracked his knuckles, and, as he fell back in good order, a brick-bat tapped him on the head. Believing that hostilities had commenced, the new General of the Mackerel Brigade hastily put on all his dirty clothes, and ordered the Orange County Howitzers to commit incendiarism with Paris, simultaneously directing Rear Admiral Head to moor the "Secretary Welles" abreast of the nearest Confederacy and shell him with great slaughter.
Under command of Captain Samyule Sa-mith, the Howitzers were opened upon Paris, and commenced such a tornado of round shot and grape that the surrounding landscape was very much defaced. There was much noise, my boy,—there was much noise.
But the great sight of the hour was the manœuvring of the iron-plated Mackerel squadron on the tempestuous waters of Duck Lake. After hastily making a fire in the stove on the quarter-deck, and placing a tumbler where it could warm, the stern old Rear Admiral ordered the Mackerel crew to report how much water there was in the hold. The crew repaired to the stern-sheets and reported "One pitcherful and two lemons;" whereupon the hardy old sea-dog swore in his iron-plated manner, and ordered the swivel-gun amidships to be trained upon the basement windows of Paris. Everything being in readiness, the word was given to fire!
Bang! went the horrid instrument of carnage, and the hideous missile went crashing through the back basement windows, cutting a bow from the cap of a venerable Florence Nightingale, who was at that moment making a sponge-cake for some sick Confederacies, and driving the stove-pipe clear through the wall. The aged Nightingale thought that something had happened, and says she: "Well, I never did!"
Rear Admiral Head smiled; but it was the horrid smile of naval bloodthirstiness. "Revolve my turret!" says he, grimly, "I fight not against women; but the other window must be broken."
The venerable Neptune leaned over his columbiad to make sure of this shot, unconsciously pressing his stomach against the but-end of his gun. There was a report, my boy; the swivel-gun kicked, and the Rear Admiral fell upon the deck with a promiscuous violence.
Meanwhile, Company 3, Regiment 5, under Captain Villiam Brown, had waded across Duck Lake in as many divisions as there were Mackerels, and immediately commenced a tremendous fire of musketry at the upper windows of Paris, wounding a Confederacy who kept a shoe-store up there, and reducing two flower-pots to fragments.
Whilst I was witnessing this bombardment, my boy, and admiring the courage with which Villiam was slashing around with his sword, I noticed that the squadron had suddenly ceased firing.
It had ceased firing, because Rear Admiral Head had unexpectedly discovered that his Mackerel crew was a Black Republican; and had therefore engaged him in single combat, greatly to the detriment of the regular engagement.
Scarcely had I turned to view this new phase of war, when the firing of howitzers and musketry behind me instantly ceased, and I heard a low murmur of wonder arising from the whole brigade.
Quickly turning about again, I was hastening to where Captain Bob Shorty strode with the Conic Section, when I beheld General Wobert Wobinson, the new General of the Mackerel Brigade, cantering along the shore of Duck Lake on his trained charger, and exhibiting a form to petrify the whole world with admiration.
"Ah!there'sshape!" was the low cry of the spectacled veterans, as they gazed breathlessly at the picture.
Captain Bob Shorty cleaned his glasses to make sure that it was no illusion, and says he: "By all that's Federal, it appears to me that I never saw so much Shape!"
A Confederacy, who had just appeared on the roof of Paris with a horse-pistol in his hand and slaughter in his thoughts, caught sight of the equestrian vision, and instantly dropped his merciless weapon of destruction as though paralyzed.
"Oh!" says he, panting, "what Shape!"
Rear Admiral Head heard the sound in the midst of his single combat, and paused to ascertain what it was. His spectacles scanned the horizon round and round, until they finally rested upon the figure of the new General of the Mackerel Brigade.
"Fracture my armor!" says he, ecstatically, "did I ever survey so much Shape!"
The battle was over for that day.
Shape, my boy, is a great thing in a General; for when Heaven's Great Printer commenced to set human type in the "galley" of earth, He must have needed considerable General matter to fully make up His "forms;" and when a General has a form fully up to His make, we may consider him well set up.
Yours, typographically,
Orpheus C. Kerr.