LETTER LXXXV.
HOLDING THE GOVERNMENT STRICTLY ACCOUNTABLE FOR THE OCCURRENCE OF A RECENT "MILITARY NECESSITY;" RECOUNTING THE AFFECTING EPISODE OF THE MACKEREL DRUMMER-BOY; AND DEPICTING THE NEW MACKEREL GENERAL'S FIRST GREAT BATTLE.
Washington, D.C., Feb. 9th, 1863.
I am no longer on speaking terms, my boy, with the Government of our distracted country, and beg leave most respectfully to inform it that the imbecile cold weather of the past few days may disgust, but can never discourage me. Being of respectable though Democratic parentage, I scorn to associate with an Executive and Cabinet so lost to all sense of national comfort, that it permits the weather to become a constant outrage on our Constitutions, frequently freezing loyal Democrats for no other offence than that of protecting defenceless lampposts after nightfall. I am very cold, my boy,—I am very cold, and my hatred of the present Cabinet is intense.
But what shall I say about the agency of this same Government in producing a Military Necessity at the late great battle of Paris? Let me put on my overcoat and express my cold in a passionate cough, as I remark that its agency in this matter forcibly reminds me of a chap I once knew in the sixth ward.
He was an aged chap of much red nose, my boy, and lived with his youngest broadcloth son in the same house with his Wayward Sister. The Wayward Sister being an old maid of severe countenance, occupied such portions of the residence as seemed most safe from the intrusion of that sex which seeks to make Woman its broken-hearted slave; and as long as the patient old chap answered the door-bell and didn't smoke in the house, she got along with him after the manner of a Methodist angel. Things went on pleasantly through the winter, the high-minded maiden using the coal of her aged kindred, and employing all his black tea without complaining; but in the spring she joined a Woman's Rights Convention, and commenced to hold indignation-meetings of virtuously-indignant females in the best room in the house. These meetings having decided, that,
"Whereas, Man is a ojus creature which is constantly preying upon that sex which it is his mother's, and denying to it those inalienable Rights without which Woman's sphere cannot exist. Therefore be it
"Resolved, That Woman is the Superior Sex.
"Resolved, That union with man is incompatible with the good of a sex which it is ourselves; and that we will immediately take that household furniture of which Woman is the only rightful owner, and only ask to be let alone."
The aged chap received a copy of these resolutions, my boy, and says the Wayward Sister: "I can no longer consent to live in the same house with an inferior being." The chap heard her in silence, and might have let her have her own way, under ordinary circumstances, but when he came home next night he found that she had packed up all the furniture in the house to carry off with her, and expected him to give her his watch and night-key. He scratched his head, and says he: "I cannot permit this sort of thing, because I really want some furniture for my own use." The Wayward Sister threw her thimble at him, and says she: "Our male parient bought this furniture only because he got married to one of the Superior Sex; and as it was Woman which solely occasioned its purchase, it clearly belongs to Woman."
But the chap could not see it in this light, my boy; and as soon as his son came home he told him all about it. The manly youth took a look up the stairs to where the maiden and four or five other spring bonnets were intrenched behind the furniture, and says he:
"It's an unnatural thing to have trouble with relations; but I'm just going up there to capture that big chair."
By this time some of the neighbors had come in, and commenced to urge the old chap to take vigorous measures. He looked at his son, and says he:
"Can you do it Tommy?"
The child of his bosom winked twice, and immediately prepared to perform the feat, only pausing long enough to look in the glass and see if his necktie sat well. Then, gaining the head of the stairs, he leaned across a bureau barring the way, and was about to grasp the big chair, when the Wayward Sister hit him over the head with a broom, and presently he found himself prostrate at the foot of the stairs, with a violent pain in his nose.
On witnessing this disaster, all the neighbors shrank with indignation from the aged father, and said it was all his doings. The poor old chap scratched his head, and says he:
"I don't see how it's my fault."
"Why," says a neighbor of much fatness, "you're always interfering,—that's what you are. Now, you'll never get back any of your furniture."
"Interfering?" says the paternal chap, innocently. "Why, howcouldI interfere with Tommy, when I only let him do, in his own way, what he gave me to understand he was able to?"
Here all the neighbors sighed grievously, and says one:
"Miserable old man, we believe you mean well enough; but the fact is, you are a species of old idiot. It was your business to have hadanother son, who would have been this one's brother; so that if one met with a heart-rending failure on the stairs, the other could simultaneously have entered that back window by a ladder, and taken the chair by the rear. But you are always interfering. Take our advice now, and either give up drinking altogether, or arrange it so that those who drink with you may be persons not distinguishable from ourselves."
And they all departed, shaking their heads, my boy—they all departed shaking their heads; leaving the unfortunate old chap to bind up his offspring's nose, and to reflect upon the great iniquity of interfering with one son's success, by not having another.
The Government of our distracted country, my boy, is so very much like this well-meaning but imbecile old chap, that the failure of any one of its generals is entirely due to its interference in not having another general; who, in case that general did not succeed, could take his place before he failed to do so.
The Military Necessity produced by this interference took place at Paris, very recently, and shortly after the new General of the Mackerel Brigade had so nearly won the battle by that revelation of manly Shape to which I referred in my last letter.
Finding that the terrible bombardment of Paris, my boy, had routed the straggling Confederacies from that ancient city, the whole Mackerel Brigade marched safely across Duck Lake, leaving only the Orange County Howitzers on this side. Scarcely had the spectacled host occupied the city, when there appeared upon the main street the overwhelming Shape of the new General of the Mackerel Brigade, mounted upon a steed which was almost as sagacious as a human being; and holding his hat in one hand, after the manner of Washington entering Trenton. It was as though Frank Leslie's illustrated artist had just been commanded to draw a warlike picture, my boy, representing one of those equestrian heroes who all appear in precisely the same attitude, and seem to have lifted their hats for the particular purpose of showing with what mathematical precision their hair is parted.
Instantly there arose cheers so loud that they must have been heard by the cowardly Confederacies on the hills behind Paris, and several Mackerels became so enthusiastic to be led against the enemy, that they actually started on the war-path by themselves, and only turned back when they discovered that they happened to be going in the wrong direction.
Having received all the cheers, and immediately dispatched them to the reliable morning journals around the country, the General of the Mackerel Brigade ordered the Conic Section, under Captain Bob Shorty, and Company 3, Regiment 5, under Captain Villiam Brown, to march out of Paris, and form in line under the guns of the Southern Confederacy; at the same time directing Captain Samyule Sa-mith, to take Company 2, Regiment 1, and strike through a defile in the hills.
Samyule formed his veterans in the shape of a horse-shoe, and says he:
"Comrades, now is the time to repent of your sins, for you haven't got much time left. As for myself," says Samyule, seriously, "my sins are all those of commission, and those who gave me my commission are responsible for them. If any of you younger Mackerels have in your possession the last things your mothers gave you, now is your chance to look upon them for the last time."
As Samyule spoke thus, a small blue object, carrying a drum, toddled forth from the ranks, and saluted. It was a small Mackerel drummer, my boy, who had enlisted only ten days before, and his small eyes were wet with tears. The heroic child wiped his little nose on his sleeve, and says he:
"Mymother gave me something."
Samyule was greatly affected, and says he:
"Was it the Family Bible, sweet cherub?"
"No-o-o," sobbed the innocent, as though his little heart would break.
Samyule wiped his tear-dimmed spectacles, and says he:
"Perhaps it was her daguerreotype?"
The infant wept afresh, and says he:
"No-o-o."
"Then," says Samyule, in a broken voice, "it must have been her blessing."
"No! no-o-o," cried the small Mackerel drummer, with quivering lips.
"Then what in thunder was it that your mother gave you?" says Samyule, greatly bewildered.
"It was a spanking!" screamed the affectionate little creature, cramming both his little fists into his little eyes, and blubbering unrestrainedly.
Samyule gazed a moment at the child, and says he:
"Well may affection bid thee weep, thou tender little one! When a sweetheart blushingly places a rose upon her lover's breast, the scene is affecting; but my own memory of childhood tells me that a far deeper feeling is excited when the tender mother selects a different flower, and places upon the back of her child the modest lady's slipper."
Immediately after this affecting little incident, my boy, Samyule led his men to their duty, and they marched into one end of the defile as soldiers, to pass out of the other as spirits.
Along the front, "Forward!" was the word, and the Conic Section swept to the assault, like a sea of bayonets dashed against a shore of adamantine rock from the hollow of an Almighty hand. Were it possible, my boy, for bullets to ascend perpendicularly until they just reached the top of mountain breastworks, and then slant down at an acute angle to where the foe lay hidden, it is possible that the frequent volleys from the Conic Section might have produced some carnage; but as the face of the hill before our troops was straight up and down, with the noisy Confederacies on the extreme summit, the Mackerel musketry simply occasioned a rise in Federal lead, without a fall in Confederate leaders.
Some Confederacies in their lofty intrenchments just tipped over a few cannon, so that the balls might roll out upon the mackerels, and, says one of them:
"If you mudsills will stay there a little longer, we'll manage it so as to drop the shells on you from our hands, without using the guns at all."
Captain Bob Shorty heard this jeer, and as he tied his handkerchief over a wound on his forehead, a sickly smile illustrated his ghastly face, and says he:
"We might as well all die here together. The grave, after all, is a softer bed than many of these Mackerel beings have been accustomed to."
Sergeant O'Pake who always takes things literally, turned to Bob, and, says he:
"What makes it soft?"
"Because," says Captain Bob Shorty, looking vacantly at the sergeant, "it is a bed of down. Did you never hear the old song of 'Down among the Dead Men?'" But let me not linger over the scene, my boy.
That night, the remaining Mackerels silently recrossed Duck Lake, and the General penned the following
DESPATCH."I have withdrawn the Brigade across Duck Lake. The position of the Confederacies is impregnable. It was a Military Necessity to attack the enemy or retire. I have done both."Wobert Wobinson."
DESPATCH.
"I have withdrawn the Brigade across Duck Lake. The position of the Confederacies is impregnable. It was a Military Necessity to attack the enemy or retire. I have done both.
"Wobert Wobinson."
Just as the spectacled veterans gained this side of Duck Lake again, my boy, the Mackerel Chaplain was accosted by a Republican chap from Boston, and says he: "This really looks like action at last my friend. Our troops are evidently all enthusiasm to be led once more against the foe."
The Chaplain shaded his eyes with his hand, to look at the speaker, and says he:
"They are indeed enthusiastic, my friend. So enthusiastic, in fact, that at least half of them would not come back to this side at all."
"Ah!" says the Republican chap; "the noble fellows."
"Yes," says the Chaplain, as softly as though he were speaking in a sick-room; "they remain there sleeping upon their arms. And, oh, my friend, they will never come back again."
He spoke truly, my boy: and may a kind Heaven see naught in the blood welling from their loyal hearts but the blush of a soldier's honor; the glow of a patriot fire in which all their human errors went up to God as the smoke of a glorious sacrifice. They sleep their last sleep upon the arms of their Country; and whether those arms, with which she folds them into her heart, be white with the ermine of winter, or green with the drapery of summer, the clasp shall be none the less strong with all a Mother's immortality of love.
Yours, gravely,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER LXXXVI.
TOUCHING UPON A LATE OVATION TO A PARENT OF HIS COUNTRY; GIVING THE CONSERVATIVE KENTUCKY MAP OF ALL AMERICA; AND INTRODUCING A SECOND NEW GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL ORGANIZATION.
Washington, D.C., March 8th, 1863.
I have been very ill, my boy—I have been very ill; and even now, the hand which grasps the pen trembles with weakness, like the hand of the wind upon a slender rush. I have been reminded of my latter end, and of our Excellent National Democratic Organization, by an outrage upon my Constitution and the Arbitrary Arrest of my health,—proceedings which seem to prove that the well-known Southern Confederacy is entirely right in this war, and that the North is chiefly composed of Honest Old despots. (See proceedings of Democratic Organization, Resolution 290.)
As I lay sick in Strategy Hall the other day, so desolately lonely that I almost wished to die, and without energy enough to finish reading the greenback I had commenced that morning, there came to see me an affable Democratic chap who had just recovered from a severe bilious attack brought on by the Conscription Bill, and wished to consult me as to the propriety of nominating Dr. Brandreth for President of the United States in 1865.
"Why, my future Jefferson," says I, feebly, "what are you going to do with McClellan, then?"
"Really," says he, just stepping across the ward to spit on a copy of the Tribune, which served as a window-curtain, "really, I forgot all about that manly form. Oh!" says the pleasant Democratic chap, replacing the Constitution in his hat, from which it had just fallen,—"Oh! what heroism do we find embodied in that youthful shape! The voice of a assembled universe asks: 'Shall G. B. McClellan go unrewarded?' There is no echo at the time. It asks again: 'Who, then, shall be President of the United States in 1865?' And echo triumphantly answers, General George Barnum McClellan!"
Here the affable Democratic chap took off his spectacles, my boy, and beamed undisguisedly at a small black bottle on the table.
"But," says I, softly, "his name is not GeorgeBarnumMcClellan at all. His middle name is not Barnum."
"Hem!" says the Democratic chap, with a severe aspect, "I don't know that it is. Really," says the Democratic chap, hastily picking up his umbrella and moving away, "really, I don't know that it is."
Mistakes, my boy, will happen in the best-regulated organizations; and, if we construe them maliciously, we deserve, like a parcel of scandal-mongering old Bohea-mians, to be confined all our lives to smallcoupsof Phineas T.
It was during my illness that the adoring citizens of Mugville discovered that the Venerable Gammon had been defeated ten times in the election for County Clerk in his youth, and frantically instigated an overflowing ovation therefore to that venerable man. I know not, my boy, what this aged and shirt-collared picture of perpetual beneficence had done to be such an idol. I cannot conceive why repeated defeats in his youth should entitle him to the adoration of a fond populace at the present exciting period; but the leading citizens presented him with a silver butter-knife and a serenade, my boy; and he made a benignant speech to show that he and Providence desired only the applause of their own consciences.
"My children," says the Venerable Gammon, waving benefactions in his fat and heartfelt manner, "I accept this butter-knife,—not for my own merits, but because it symbolizes the only true means of restoring that Union of which I am a part. This knife," says the Venerable Gammon, eying the costly gift with oily and benignant satisfaction,—"this knife teaches us that only fiendish Abolitionism would think of using the Sword of Radicalism to conquer the erring Confederacy which is still our sister, when the Butter-knife of Conservatism was to be had."
Then all the leading citizens of Mugville observed joyfully to each other that the country was redeemed at last, and four-and-twenty reliable morning journals published six columns each about the triumphant progress of the Venerable Gammon in the affections of the people.
Among those present at this sublime ovation was an aged chap selling apples, who immediately burst into tears when the voice of the venerable man fell upon his ears. On being asked to explain his emotions, he cast his dim eyes upward toward an American flag which was being used by a merchant near by to advertise some patent pills, and says he, brokenly:
"When I hear that woice, and see that flag, all my manhood crumbles into scalding tears."
He was an apple-seller of fine feelings, and had once served as a deserter in the Army of the Potomac.
Pathetic little incidents like these, my boy, humble though they may be, are pregnant with a deep and touching meaning, of which I have not the remotest conception.
There is a new Mackerel Hotel recently erected on the borders of Duck Lake, near Strategy Hall, for the benefit of Brigadiers who have not been accustomed to doing without a bar; and it was in one of the rooms thereof that the Conservative Kentucky Chap recently fell a victim to the most remarkable optical illusion of this distracted century. He was sitting with his back to a window, my boy, his head drooped upon his breast beneath the weight of the Emancipation Proclamation, and, with arms folded and legs screwed awry on his chair, he was contemplating the opposite wall from under his Conservative hat.
"Hum," says he, with subdued ecstasy, "How sweet it is to look upon the map of my native land, of which Kentucky is the guiding star! As I look upon that simple map," says the conservative Chap, thoughtfully, "and reflect upon the recent improvements in Kentucky, it becomes a question in my mind whether Kentucky is the United States, or the United States is Kentucky."
Following the direction of his eyes as he said this, I beheld upon the wall opposite where he was sitting:
A man sleeping in a chair that is in front of a window. His shadow on the opposite wall is of an odd shape.A CONSERVATIVE KENTUCKY MAP OF ALL AMERICA.
"Look here, my absorbed Talleyrand," says I, in astonishment, "that's not a map! It's only your own shadow on the wall."
He moved as I spoke, and then, for the first time, discovered his illusion.
"Hum!" says he, "it is a map of the Union in the sense that the Union is but a shadow of its former self."
The Conservative Kentucky Chap is actually so insufferably egotistical, my boy, and so imbued with the idea that Kentucky is the whole country, that it is almost impossible for him to sit on a chair without throwing his body into almost the exact shape of the American Continent.
Having induced a small Mackerel drummer to bring me my chaste architectual steed, the Gothic Pegasus, I mounted the roof of that walking country church, and moved off in an organ-waltz to inspect the national troops.
The Mackerel Brigade grows hoary with antiquity, and the capture of the Southern Confederacy is still delayed for the want of pontoons. And this reminds me that the Abolitionists of New England, who are entirely responsible for this war, with its taxes upon members of the Democratic Organization, have not yet sent any pontoons to the field. Whilst they would abridge the rights of white men, they even ignore white men's rights to a bridge. But let us not linger over such depravity, or we shall be delayed in our preparations for the Presidential canvass in 1865.
The last new General of the Mackerel Brigade is an officer of great age, named Cox,—known to the soldiery as the Grim Old Fighting Cox,—and I am happy to say, my boy, that he is an officer of great ability. Spurning all that vain pomp which too often makes our generals as clean in appearance as the military minions of the despotic powers of Europe, he makes it a practice to attire himself like the unostentatious dustman of a true Republic; and when he rides abroad to inspect the regiments, it is universally admitted that he is like a father visiting his children, whose great numbers make such demands upon his means that he can't afford to dress himself respectably.
Having assumed command of the Mackerel Brigade, the Grim Old Fighting Cox immediately summoned all his officers to his presence, and, having engaged each in single combat and defeated him, he proceeded to show his great ability. He beckoned to Captain Villiam Brown, who was at that moment taking the sun's altitude with his canteen, and, says he: "Tell me how many men are in the guard-house for beastly intoxication?"
Villiam smiled affably, and says he: "I don't remember just how many that Republican institution will hold."
"Release themall!" thundered the Grim Old Fighting Cox, violently rattling his sword, and firing a pistol in the air.
"Ah!" says Villiam, "here's Ability."
The next officer called was Captain Bob Shorty, and says the General to him: "How many slow-matches did my predecessor order for the Orange County Howitzers?"
Captain Bob Shorty took three steps in a break-down, and says he: "We have always ordered seventy-five."
"Make it seventy-six!" roared the Grim Old Fighting Cox, kicking over the writing-table and discharging a revolver over his shoulder.
Captain Bob Shorty gave a leap into the air, and says he:
"By all that's Federal! did I ever hear of so much Ability?"
As the Grim Old Fighting Cox was leaving his quarters, he came upon a Mackerel chap who was stooping down to tie his shoe, and gave him a kick that kindled conflagration in his vision. The poor chap rubbingly picked himself up, and, says he:
"It appears to me I never see so much Ability."
Ability, my boy, in its modern acceptation as applied to military men, appears to mean a peculiar capacity for surprising and startling everybody—except the enemy.
Yours, suspiciously.
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER LXXXVII.
IN WHICH OUR CORRESPONDENT HAS A DEADLY AFFAIR OF HONOR WITH A GENTLEMAN FROM KENTUCKY; EXPERIENCES "CONTRABAND" HOSPITALITY AND MELODY; ATTENDS A GREAT MEETING IN ACCOMAC; AND WITNESSES A PRODIGIOUS NAVAL ACHIEVEMENT.
Washington, D.C., March 15th, 1863.
Kentucky, my boy, has considered herself a general boon to mankind ever since she was discovered by Colonel Boone; but there are different kinds of boons known to mankind, and if I should chance to mention the baboon as amongst the noisiest and least respectable of the species, my remark may not be regarded as entirely destitute of a personal bearing. It was in the honeyed accents of admiring friendship that I conveyed this chaste zoölogical idea to the Conservative Kentucky chap on Monday last, as we took Richmond together at Willard's bar, and I regret to say that he made itcasus belli. Accidentally dropping his bowie-knife on the floor, and hastily replacing his ruffles over the handle of his pocket revolver, he polished the blade of his dirk with a blood-colored silk handkerchief, and says he:
"Kentucky fought for Washington in the Revolution; she has, thus far, prosecuted the present war without fear; nor will she shrink from even shedding personal gore where the provocation is the offspring of Yankee lowness."
He said this, with exceeding majesty, my boy, and I felt that I was indeed involved in complications with the Border States.
"I understand you, my warrior," says I, calmly; "but if this affair is to come off immediately, where are we to find our seconds?"
The Kentucky chap hastily called a small boy to him, and says he:
"Sonny, just run out into the street and ask any two gentlemen you meet to step in here for a moment." "You see," says he, turning to me, "it's better to have two brigadier-generals for seconds, as a battle might take place while we are away, and there are no private soldiers to spare at present."
"Yes," says I, thoughtfully, "that's very true."
The brigadiers were obtained, my boy, and, with murder in our hearts, we started forth to seek a spot appropriate for carnage in private. It was just the hour of mid-day, and we were wending our sanguinary way in silence, when, upon turning a corner of one of the public buildings, the sound of sweet music fell upon our ears, and we came suddenly upon a brass band and a party of singers, who were discoursing witching strains under one of the windows.
I listened for a moment, and then, says I: "What may be the occasion for this noonday melody?"
The Conservative Kentucky chap motioned for us to pause, and says he, feelingly: "It's a serenade to Secretary Welles of the Navy. Let us heed the voice of the singer."
Here a young vocal chap, under the window, commenced singing the following words, in a fine tenor manner:
SERENADE."O lady, in thy waking glanceThere lurked a wondrous spell,To hold young Cupid in thine eyeAs in a prison cell."And now, the god of Slumber findsThy drooping lids so fair,He makes of them his chosen couchAnd dwells forever there."
SERENADE.
SERENADE.
"O lady, in thy waking glanceThere lurked a wondrous spell,To hold young Cupid in thine eyeAs in a prison cell.
"O lady, in thy waking glance
There lurked a wondrous spell,
To hold young Cupid in thine eye
As in a prison cell.
"And now, the god of Slumber findsThy drooping lids so fair,He makes of them his chosen couchAnd dwells forever there."
"And now, the god of Slumber finds
Thy drooping lids so fair,
He makes of them his chosen couch
And dwells forever there."
As the last note of the singer fainted into the eternity of lost sounds, I looked at the Conservative Kentucky chap, my boy, and beheld that his eyes were suffused with the tears of an exquisite sensibility.
"Yes," says he, softly, "—'and dwells forever there.'" Here the Kentucky chap shed another tear to wash out the stain of the last one, and says he, "Mr. Welles is indeed a lady who offers some attraction to slumber. May he rest in peace!"
We were all too deeply affected to speak, but proceeded silently to a vacant lot across the river, where accommodations for law-breaking were ample. Everything about us here seemed fraught with the spirit of peace; on each side, and as far as the eye could reach behind and before, were the tents of the Army of the Potomac, growing in the spots where they were planted years ago. We alone, of all the human beings within sound of our weapons, were about to be breakers of the established war—to shed human blood. It seemed like a sacrilege, and I trembled with the cold.
At first, my boy, we had some trouble to keep the brigadier-generals with us, as it suddenly struck them that they had not drawn their pay for two whole hours, and were frantic to return; but when I suggested, that if they should be missed from their posts, they would probably be nominated for major-generalship, they consented to remain.
When the Conservative Kentucky chap took his position, I noticed that his countenance was contorted into a horrible expression of severity, and asked him why it was?
"Hem!" says he, "this is a solemn moment, young man. We are both about to fly into the face of our Maker." Here he pointed his weapon at me; and says he: "I think you are frightened."
"No," says I, making ready.
The Kentucky chap's face then assumed the most terrific expression I ever saw, and says he:
"Are you not alarmed at your awful position?"
"No," says I.
The Conservative Kentucky chap lowered his pistol, and, motioning for the brigadiers to come from behind their trees, advanced to my side.
"Hem!" says he, frowning majestically, "I think I understood you to intimate that you were terrified."
"No," says I.
Here the Conservative Kentucky chap took me suddenly by the arm in a very confidential manner, and, having led me a few paces back, says he, in a horrible whisper: "You find yourself frightened, as it were."
"Why, no," says I.
"Well," says the Conservative Kentucky chap, "I AM."
And we all went home together.
Since then, my boy, I have weighed and contrasted my own feelings and those of the Conservative Kentucky chap on that occasion, when I won an everlasting reputation for bravery; and I am satisfied that the bravery of a man in an affair of honor is a superior capacity for concealing terror.
It was toward the middle of the week that I went down to Accomac to attend a great Union meeting there, and it's my private opinion, my boy, my private opinion, that the human tongue is not without its province in this war. But before the meeting commenced, and whilst I was reflecting upon the fact that it was the day on which the Prince of Wales was to be married, a redeemed contraband saluted me, and says he:
"Mars'r, I hab been made a free man by Mars'r Lincoln, and hab opened a Refreshment Saloon on de European plan. If you want to dine, sar, here's my card. My name is Mister Negg."
I looked at the card as he left me, and found it to read thus:—
HAMAN NEGG'SRESTAURANT.ICH DIEN OYSTERS IN EVERY STYLE.
HAMAN NEGG'S
RESTAURANT.
ICH DIEN OYSTERS IN EVERY STYLE.
There was one thing about this inscription that I did not understand, and says I to a chap near me:
"See here, my patriotic friend, what does this mean? What kind of things are Ich Dien Oysters?"
"Oh," says he, obligingly, "you do not understand the Hanoverian tongue. 'Ich Dien' is the Prince of Wales' motto, and means 'I serve.' The phrase 'Ich Dien Oysters in Every Style' means, 'I serve oysters in every style.'"
Then it was, my boy, that I saw in Mr. Negg's device the despised African's testimonial of gratitude to Great Britain for the recent reaction of anti-slavery sentiment there. A more delicate compliment, my boy, was never offered to the mother country, who has given us all at least 2903reasons for loving her.
And speaking of redeemed contrabands, reminds me of the new African hymn, which the more pious colored Americans of South Carolina might denominate
DE GREAT HALLELUGERUM."My mars'r's gwine away to fightWith Mars'r Linkum's horde,An' now dis chile's at libatyTo dance an' bress de Lord.Dar's no more swearin' round de houseWhen missus cut up bad;Dar's no more kickin' niggers' shins,And, darfor', I is glad."When mars'r take his horse to go,He kindly say to me:'I hab such confidence in you,I leab you all, you see;Of all de niggers round de place,I trust to you alone.'By golly! dat's what mars'r sayTo eb'ry nig he own!"'Now if dem BobumlitionistsShould kill me dead,' says he,'I hab instruct your missus kindTo set you niggers free.'But mars'r say dat bery sameWheneber he get sick,And bresséd Jesus wrastle himTo make him holy quick."'Dem Yankees, dam um all,' says he,'Am comin' down to stealYou niggers, and to sell you thenFor Cuba cochineal.De Suvern chiverly,' says he,'Am fightin' jist fo' you.'Now mars'r swearum when he lie,And, darfor', dat wont do!"Den mars'r trot away to warWith 'Dolphus by his side,—A poor cream-colored, common darkDat isn't worf his hide.He leab me and de other nigsTo clar the place alone,With nuffin' but to play and shakeDe fiddle and de bone."I hab a talk with Uncle Pete,De old plantation hand,And though he am intelligumsDis chile can understand.He say de HallelugerumFor cullud folks hab cum,And dat he bresséd Lord hab heardAnd beat his thunder-drum."He say dat Northern buckra manHab sent his gun an' shipTo make de rebel chiverlyGive up his nigger whip,He say dat now's de darkey's timeTo break de bonds of sin,And take his chil'en an' his wifeTo whar de tide comes in."He say dat in de Norf, up dar,Whar Mars'r Greeley dwell,De white folks make de brack folks work,But treat them bery well;He says dey pay them for de workDey's smart enuff to do,And nebber sells them furder SoufWhen sheriff put um screw."I hab a wife an chil'en dear,And mars'r say to meHe nebber sell them while he live,—He'd rather set them free;But dar's de mortgage on de house,If dat should hab to fall,Ole Uncle Pete hab told me datHe'd hab to sell us all."I lub de ole plantation well,And missus she is kind;But den dis chile's inclined to tryAnother home to find.Now mars'r gwine away to war,And give me such a chance,I'll bress de Lord for libaty.And hab a Juba dance."De Hallelugerum am cumWith glory in his eye,And all de niggers in de SoufAm fit to mount de sky.My wife an' chil'en hab de spoonsDat's owned by—(here a cough)—I hab de sugar-tongs myself,And, darfor,' I is off."
DE GREAT HALLELUGERUM.
DE GREAT HALLELUGERUM.
"My mars'r's gwine away to fightWith Mars'r Linkum's horde,An' now dis chile's at libatyTo dance an' bress de Lord.Dar's no more swearin' round de houseWhen missus cut up bad;Dar's no more kickin' niggers' shins,And, darfor', I is glad.
"My mars'r's gwine away to fight
With Mars'r Linkum's horde,
An' now dis chile's at libaty
To dance an' bress de Lord.
Dar's no more swearin' round de house
When missus cut up bad;
Dar's no more kickin' niggers' shins,
And, darfor', I is glad.
"When mars'r take his horse to go,He kindly say to me:'I hab such confidence in you,I leab you all, you see;Of all de niggers round de place,I trust to you alone.'By golly! dat's what mars'r sayTo eb'ry nig he own!
"When mars'r take his horse to go,
He kindly say to me:
'I hab such confidence in you,
I leab you all, you see;
Of all de niggers round de place,
I trust to you alone.'
By golly! dat's what mars'r say
To eb'ry nig he own!
"'Now if dem BobumlitionistsShould kill me dead,' says he,'I hab instruct your missus kindTo set you niggers free.'But mars'r say dat bery sameWheneber he get sick,And bresséd Jesus wrastle himTo make him holy quick.
"'Now if dem Bobumlitionists
Should kill me dead,' says he,
'I hab instruct your missus kind
To set you niggers free.'
But mars'r say dat bery same
Wheneber he get sick,
And bresséd Jesus wrastle him
To make him holy quick.
"'Dem Yankees, dam um all,' says he,'Am comin' down to stealYou niggers, and to sell you thenFor Cuba cochineal.De Suvern chiverly,' says he,'Am fightin' jist fo' you.'Now mars'r swearum when he lie,And, darfor', dat wont do!
"'Dem Yankees, dam um all,' says he,
'Am comin' down to steal
You niggers, and to sell you then
For Cuba cochineal.
De Suvern chiverly,' says he,
'Am fightin' jist fo' you.'
Now mars'r swearum when he lie,
And, darfor', dat wont do!
"Den mars'r trot away to warWith 'Dolphus by his side,—A poor cream-colored, common darkDat isn't worf his hide.He leab me and de other nigsTo clar the place alone,With nuffin' but to play and shakeDe fiddle and de bone.
"Den mars'r trot away to war
With 'Dolphus by his side,—
A poor cream-colored, common dark
Dat isn't worf his hide.
He leab me and de other nigs
To clar the place alone,
With nuffin' but to play and shake
De fiddle and de bone.
"I hab a talk with Uncle Pete,De old plantation hand,And though he am intelligumsDis chile can understand.He say de HallelugerumFor cullud folks hab cum,And dat he bresséd Lord hab heardAnd beat his thunder-drum.
"I hab a talk with Uncle Pete,
De old plantation hand,
And though he am intelligums
Dis chile can understand.
He say de Hallelugerum
For cullud folks hab cum,
And dat he bresséd Lord hab heard
And beat his thunder-drum.
"He say dat Northern buckra manHab sent his gun an' shipTo make de rebel chiverlyGive up his nigger whip,He say dat now's de darkey's timeTo break de bonds of sin,And take his chil'en an' his wifeTo whar de tide comes in.
"He say dat Northern buckra man
Hab sent his gun an' ship
To make de rebel chiverly
Give up his nigger whip,
He say dat now's de darkey's time
To break de bonds of sin,
And take his chil'en an' his wife
To whar de tide comes in.
"He say dat in de Norf, up dar,Whar Mars'r Greeley dwell,De white folks make de brack folks work,But treat them bery well;He says dey pay them for de workDey's smart enuff to do,And nebber sells them furder SoufWhen sheriff put um screw.
"He say dat in de Norf, up dar,
Whar Mars'r Greeley dwell,
De white folks make de brack folks work,
But treat them bery well;
He says dey pay them for de work
Dey's smart enuff to do,
And nebber sells them furder Souf
When sheriff put um screw.
"I hab a wife an chil'en dear,And mars'r say to meHe nebber sell them while he live,—He'd rather set them free;But dar's de mortgage on de house,If dat should hab to fall,Ole Uncle Pete hab told me datHe'd hab to sell us all.
"I hab a wife an chil'en dear,
And mars'r say to me
He nebber sell them while he live,—
He'd rather set them free;
But dar's de mortgage on de house,
If dat should hab to fall,
Ole Uncle Pete hab told me dat
He'd hab to sell us all.
"I lub de ole plantation well,And missus she is kind;But den dis chile's inclined to tryAnother home to find.Now mars'r gwine away to war,And give me such a chance,I'll bress de Lord for libaty.And hab a Juba dance.
"I lub de ole plantation well,
And missus she is kind;
But den dis chile's inclined to try
Another home to find.
Now mars'r gwine away to war,
And give me such a chance,
I'll bress de Lord for libaty.
And hab a Juba dance.
"De Hallelugerum am cumWith glory in his eye,And all de niggers in de SoufAm fit to mount de sky.My wife an' chil'en hab de spoonsDat's owned by—(here a cough)—I hab de sugar-tongs myself,And, darfor,' I is off."
"De Hallelugerum am cum
With glory in his eye,
And all de niggers in de Souf
Am fit to mount de sky.
My wife an' chil'en hab de spoons
Dat's owned by—(here a cough)—
I hab de sugar-tongs myself,
And, darfor,' I is off."
Among the distinguished speakers invited to be present at the great meeting in Accomac, were: the Emperor of Russia, the Emperor of France, the Sultan of Turkey, Queen Victoria, the King of Sweden, the President of the United States, and Theodore Tilton; but, as the walking was very bad, they did not all come. The celebrated American patriot, Mr. Phelim O'Shaughnessy, took the chair in the absence of the President, and said, that as the Emperor of France was unavoidably absent, he would beg leave to introduce Mr. Terence Mulligan, whose ancestors were once Irishmen themselves.
Mr. Mulligan was received with prolonged applause, and said, that although he bore an Irish name, he had never been ashamed to associate with Americans. His father, while yet on his way from Ireland, had been elected a Justice of the Peace in New York, and his son should be the last one to neglect the Union in its hour of need. What we wanted now, was, that the example of our Irish citizens should be imitated by the others, and that the war should be prosecuted with vigor. (Continued cheering.) Irishmen need never despair of this glorious Union, which had often been a House of Refuge for them, and could not fall without carrying Ireland with it,—so closely were the two great nations knit together. The Irish would never despair:
"For Freedom's struggle once begun,Bequeathed from bleeding sire to son,Though baffled oft, is ever won."
"For Freedom's struggle once begun,Bequeathed from bleeding sire to son,Though baffled oft, is ever won."
"For Freedom's struggle once begun,
Bequeathed from bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled oft, is ever won."
When the enthusiasm had subsided, the chairman expressed his regret that the Emperor of Russia had not arrived yet; but felt confident that his place could not be better supplied than by Mr. Mickey Flanigan, whose forefathers were themselves the fellow-countrymen of Daniel O'Connell. (Great applause.)
Mr. Flanigan arose amidst great cheering, and said that it was a time when every Irishman should feel as though the eyes of the whole world were upon him. He had found the natives of this country intelligent, kind, and hospitable; and though they had not taken his advice as to the management of this war, he firmly believed that no Irishman would disagree with him when he said, that Irish arms and Irish hearts would finally conquer:
"For Freedom's battle once begun.Bequeathed by loyal sire to son,Though baffled oft is ever won."
"For Freedom's battle once begun.Bequeathed by loyal sire to son,Though baffled oft is ever won."
"For Freedom's battle once begun.
Bequeathed by loyal sire to son,
Though baffled oft is ever won."
As soon as the demonstrations of approval had sufficiently subsided, the chairman stated, that, for some unknown reason, Queen Victoria was behind time; yet he could not, for his part, feel sorry for an event which gave him an opportunity to introduce Mr. Figsey Korigan, who represented that element of the world's hidden, free spirit which had thundered in an Emmett and an O'Brien. (Great enthusiasm.)
Mr. Korigan acknowledged the glorious welcome he had received, and declared that this was a proud day for Ireland. Her sons were ever foremost in the ranks of human freedom, shedding their votes for the oppressed of all lands, and fighting all the time. He would say to that Irishman who despaired of this Union, that he was unworthy of any office, and should blush to call himself an American. The speaker's own family had always been Irish, though he himself was born in Cork, and he would be ashamed to stand on that platform if he did not believe that the freeborn Irish soul would eventually triumph:
"For Freedom's contest once begun,By bleeding sire bequeathed to son,Though baffled oft is ever won."
"For Freedom's contest once begun,By bleeding sire bequeathed to son,Though baffled oft is ever won."
"For Freedom's contest once begun,
By bleeding sire bequeathed to son,
Though baffled oft is ever won."
The chairman now arose, amid frantic applause, and said that the meeting was now at an end; but proposed that all the persons present should enroll themselves as members of a Union League for the Prevention of Distress among our Irish Soldiers in the Field. This was responded to with a thundering "Ay." He also proposed that each person present should contribute one dollar as a basis of a fund for the purpose. A gentleman here moved that the chairman's last suggestion should be amended by omitting the words "dollar" and "fund." Carried unanimously.
Then all the Accomackians went pleasantly home, my boy, except one seedy chap who had stood patiently before the platform during all the proceedings; and there he still stood, with his arms folded, when all the rest had gone. He was a somewhat loaferish chap, with some appearance of the philosopher.
The chairman looked at him, and says he:
"What are you waiting for, my friend?"
The chap gave an extra chew to his tobacco, and says he:
"I'm waiting for that ere Great Union meeting to come off."
"Why," says the chairman, "the meeting is all over."
"Yes, I know—thatmeeting," says the chap, explainingly; "but I mean the GreatUnionmeeting."
It is astonishing, my boy, how much ignorance there is in this world. Here was a sane human being who had attentively stood all through a meeting in aid of our sacred national cause, and yet did not know that it was a Union meeting.
Thursday was the day when I reached the head-quarters of the Mackerel Brigade, at the ancient city of Paris, arriving just in time to witness one of those strategic naval exploits which will yet cause the American name to be respected wherever there is nothing particular against it.
It appears, that after his last successful experiment with his patent swivel gun, that stanch old sea-dog, Rear Admiral Head, devoted much of his time on Duck Lake fishing for bass, believing that noble expanse of waters to be free from all obstructions and open to the commerce of the world. The commerce did not come, my boy; but several insidious Confederacies did; and as our glorious old son of Neptune always sat with his back to their side of the lake when fishing, they constructed a pier which extended from the shore to the main deck of the iron-plated Mackerel Squadron, the "Secretary Welles," and had planted seven villanous horse-pistols to command the Admiral's fish-basket and umbrella before our hoary old salt discovered that the war was still going on.
"Riddle my turret!" says the grim old Triton, in his iron-plated manner, "I believe a blockade is established; dent my plates if I don't."
Heartily did that pride of our Navy call up the culpably inattentive Mackerel crew, who were eating clams in the stern-sheets, and quickly was the gallant "Secretary Welles" withdrawn out of the range of the Confederacies' murderous fire; her swivel gun raking the atmosphere fore and aft, whilst the fearless old sea-dog sat down upon a reversed pail amidships, and addressed a letter breathing future vengeance to the unseemly Copperheads of the North. "Sink my Monitor!" says he hotly; "let them beware of the time when the Navy returns to its peaceful home!"
But it was on Thursday, my boy, that the Rear Admiral was to run the blockade of the Confederacies' pier, and Captain Villiam Brown, Captain Bob Shorty, and myself, stood upon the edge of Duck Lake, with our pieces of smoked glass in our hands, to behold this triumph of consummate naval strategy.
At the hour appointed, we beheld Rear Admiral Head and his Mackerel crew slipping over the stern of the Mackerel squadron into the water, and immediately the "Secretary Welles" commenced to float past the Confederacies' batteries with the tide. Onward she went, despite the plunging fire from the horse-pistols, and, presently, we could see her go safely ashore. Never shall I forget the beautiful glow of triumph that overspread the noble countenance of Rear Admiral Head, as he and his crew waded through the water to the place where we stood.
"Unrivet my armor!" says he, in his stern, iron-plated manner; "I call that running a blockade in good style."
"Yes," says I, sceptically; "but how are you going to get the squadron back again?"
"Eh?" says he, "what was that question, young man?"
"Why," says I, anxiously, "now that the squadron has run the blockade, how are you going to get her back again?"
"By all that's iron-clad," says the grim old sea-dog, violently, "I forgot all about that."
"Ah!" says Captain Villiam Brown, pleasantly, "can't you dig a canal?"
At this moment there was a tremendous explosion; something was seen flying through the air, and then the swivel gun of the "Secretary Welles," with the Admiral's fish-basket and umbrella attached, fell beside us on the sand. In their haste to take possession of our squadron, the Confederacies had dropped some sparks from their pipes into the powder-magazine, blowing our entire armament back to us!
Providence, my boy, is evidently on our side in this war; which accounts for the fact that human naval genius has not yet entirely ruined us.
Yours, devoutly,
Orpheus C. Kerr.