LETTER XCV.
NOTING THE CONTINUED ANGUISH OF THE CONSERVATIVE KENTUCKY CHAP, AND THE DEATH OF NEMO; AND DESCRIBING AN IMMENSE POPULAR DEMONSTRATION AGAINST THE OUTRAGES OF FEDERAL OPPRESSION.
Washington, D.C., May 24th, 1863.
The beautiful Spring, my boy, is out in the sunshine once more,—bowing her pretty face over her lap, as though to breathe the odor of the fresh violets lying scattered upon her coquettish green apron, but really to hide the blush mantling the cheeks on which the hot breath of enamored young Summer is tempting the roses to premature birth. What a fine old world this is, after all, if we have plenty of money in our pockets, plenty of health in our systems, and no poor relations! As you stand on the Arlington side of the Potomac, on any one of these fair May days, and look around you in any direction, there is a beauty even about the tracks of war which enables you to comprehend why so many of our brass-buttoned generals are fond of staying in one spot so long. Behind you rise Arlington Heights, which are disliked by our excellent National Democratic Organization, only because they wear a covering of Lincoln green in summer; before you, and across the Potomac is the Capitol of our distracted country, looking like an ambitious marble-yard on its way out of town; and close beside you is one of our national troops extracting certain wonders of the insect kingdom from a Government biscuit. On Tuesday, I was standing with the Conservative Kentucky chap near Long Bridge, surveying this scene, and says I,—
"Behold, my Nestor, how the scars left upon Nature's face by the chariot wheels of War are turning into dimples, and all the twinkling curves of a placid smile."
"Yes," says he, hastily picking up the Jack of Diamonds which he had accidentally drawn from his pocket with his handkerchief,—"the scene is somewhat pleasant; but not equal to Kentucky, where there is more rye."
Here the Kentucky chap became so deeply affected that he was compelled to smell a cork which he took from his vest pocket, and says he,—
"Kentucky raised a great deal of rye before the breaking out of this here fatal war with the Southern Confederacy, with whom Kentucky is connected by marriage; she raised it by the bottle; in which form it becomes, as it were, the crowning glory of agriculture. Ah!" says the Conservative Kentucky chap, stirring an invisible beverage with an imaginary spoon, "how softly on my senses steals Kentucky's national anthem,—
"'If a body meet a body,Comin' through the rye.'
"'If a body meet a body,Comin' through the rye.'
"'If a body meet a body,
Comin' through the rye.'
"And the Old Rye of Kentucky is famous for its body." The Kentucky chap hiccupped at the bare recollection of the thing, and says he: "But we can no longer say that the bloom is on the rye; for this unnatural war has killed the agriculture of Kentucky and broken many of her bottles. O Kentucky! Kentucky! how thirsty I am!"
After this speech, I could no longer profane the glory of God's beautiful picture by talking about it to a chap who could see nothing in a landscape but rye fields. And yet it is but natural for any Conservative chap to talk thus, after all; for I have found it to be a peculiarity of nearly all our fellow-beings, that Old Rye is forever running in their heads.
On Wednesday, while I was on my usual weekly visit to the Mackerel camp near Duck Lake, I was called to look upon the body of a poor soldier who had been shot during the night by a prowling Confederacy. He was a very young chap, my boy, with light, wavy hair, and might have been taken for a mere lad, had there not been more years in the deep lines on his brow than on his beardless chin. There he lay upon his gun, with one hand clenched in the sand, and the other upon the damp red spot on his breast. He looked like a child who had fallen asleep after unkind words from his mother. The Chaplain and a private Mackerel in rags were bending over him, and says I,—
"Who was he?"
"He went by the name of Nemo," says the Chaplain, sadly; "but no one knows what his real name was. He enlisted only two days ago, and kept himself apart from the other men. I think hewasa gentleman."
Here the private Mackerel in rags broke in, and says he: "Yes, hewasa gentleman. I an't no gentleman, but I knowhewas, and I can lick any man that says he wasn't! I spoke to him last night when he was relieving guard, and asked him what fire-company he belonged to; and he said, none. I see he looked sick, and wasn't fit to do duty, and I offered to go out on picket in his place. It wasn't much to offer; but he squeezed my hand very hard, and said that my life was worth more than his; and that he would go. I asked him what he wanted to come to the war and get killed for; and he said he'd tried to do his best in the world, but everybody was against him, and he'd been disgraced for trying to do an honorable thing, and couldn't stay and face people any more, because all turned away from him. I told him I would lick the man who hurt his feelings, and he only said: 'They all do that,' and went away." Here the poor Mackerel in rags shed tears, and says he: "I know hewasa gentleman."
"I see how it is," says the Chaplain, shaking his head; "he was one of those unfortunates whose sensitive natures are a legacy of unhappiness, or madness, to be cancelled only by death. And yet his kindness of heart with this rude soldier proved how much goodness there was in him that the world had not turned to bitterness."
Alas! my boy, what a pity it is that these finer natures are forever coming under the heels of everybody, and getting themselves crushed! They are like fine Sèvres vases among stout earthen pipkins, equally ready to split with the cold, or be pulverized by a tilt from their next door neighbors. It is a misfortune for such fragile natures as these to be in this common-place world at all, my boy, and they cannot do the more useful portion of humanity a greater service than by getting themselves out of it as soon as possible. I have known human porcelain vases of this kind so fragile, that they were half-cracked before anything touched them.
On Thursday, my boy, the report that a friend of the well-known Southern Confederacy had been arrested and court-martialled, in Ohio, for simply advising the intelligent masses to set fire to a few Union hospitals and go hunting after American eagles by the light thereof,—this report, I say, excited amongst the loyal but seditious patriots of storied Accomac an indignation that was anything but speechless. Shades of our Revolutionary sires! was it possible that a citizen of the Republic could no longer speak pieces without being arrested for speaking peace! Ashes of the great! could it be, indeed, true that, even where there were no police, a man's personal liberty was no longer safe! The people of Accomac, my boy, were alarmed for their own liberties, and at once held a public meeting, at which I happened to be present.
As all the citizens who were worth $300 each sent notes to say that they had imperative engagements to prepare for the approaching Conscription, and could not come, the meeting was composed entirely of the other citizens, many of whom engaged in single combat on their way thither, for the purpose of making the distance seem shorter. Punctually at seven o'clock,p.m., a gentleman of much muscle touched off a small field-piece with such admirable precision as to break all the windows for two blocks around, and then dexterously discharged a two-pound sky-rocket into the third-story bedroom of a venerable maiden lady living across the road. The demonstration was received with joyous acclamations by the populace, nearly twelve of whom had already arrived; and a victim of Federal oppression, with a very large stomach, mounted the platform erected for the speakers, and said that he would commence proceedings on this occasion, by reading a short portion of Washington's Farewell Address from the volume of Bancroft which he held in his hand. (Great applause.) The honorable gentleman then proceeded to read something; but was interrupted by a reporter, who remarked that the speaker must be mistaken about that being Washington's Address, as he had certainly read it in the Bible. The honorable gentleman then turned his book over so that he could read the title, and said that he had, indeed, made a slight mistake about the volume. He would defer reading the Address for the present, and begged leave to introduce Mr. John Smith, the Hon. Ferdinand De Percy having failed to be present.
Mr. Smith said that it was the proudest moment of his life, and he felt it an honor to be there. They had met together to denounce and spit upon an astounding Administration, under whose tyrannical sway no man was allowed to say one word against it. A fellow-citizen had been arrested in Ohio upon the miserable charge of advocating peace, when he was really disturbing the peace all he could. How long were such outrages to be endured? He advised his hearers to strictly honor the laws; but he would also have them go home, organize into regiments, purchase artillery, procure iron-clads, and destroy every man who dared to speak in favor of an Administration under which the boldest man dared not express his sentiments. He would have them do all this peaceably; but he would have them do it. (Great enthusiasm, and cries of "Keep off my corns, durn ye!")
As Chesterfield Mortimer, the celebrated Accomac patriot, was not able to be present on this occasion, Mr. Jones was introduced, and made a few sensible remarks. He said that he had always been a law-abiding man, and would always advocate the strictest observance of the laws. The peaceful people, he trusted, would all procure reliable muskets and....
At this moment, my boy, the speaker suddenly stopped short; stared at a white object which had just appeared fluttering down the street; and then, dashing wildly from the platform, tore furiously in the direction of said object, which appeared to be moving, followed spontaneously and with frantic speed by his fellow-speakers and the entire meeting. I was astounded; I was overwhelmed; for such a sudden breaking-up and precipitate flight of a great indignation meeting was never witnessed before. Quickly mounting the vacant rostrum, I drew my field-glass from my pocket, and proceeded to scan the wonderful white object which had produced such an electrical effect. It was moving on, as I fixed my glass upon it, and I found it to be a new banner, born by a fat young man in a white apron, and bearing the inscription:
BROOKSESNEW BAR-ROOM,JUST OPEN.Free Lunch now Ready.
BROOKSES
NEW BAR-ROOM,
JUST OPEN.
Free Lunch now Ready.
This it was, my boy, which had broken up one of the most significant meetings of the age, by artfully working upon the idea of its supposed inn-significance.
Upon reaching Washington, on my return, I heard that a serious-minded chap, of Republican officiousness, had just waited upon the Honest Abe to ask if he did not intend to cause the arrest of Smith and Jones for their treason.
Our Uncle Abe smiled feebly, and scratched his head, and says he:
"What Smith and Jones, neighbor?"
"Why," says the serious-minded chap, earnestly, "the Smith and Jones of Accomac."
"Well, really," says the Honest Abe, pleasantly, "it's curious, now; but I never heard of them before."
Drawing an inference from this little circumstance of Executive conversation, my boy, it strikes me that it would add considerably to the importance of some of our large-sized local revolutionists, if they could overturn the present ignorant Administration, and establish in its place a —— Directory.
Yours, double-entendrely,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER XCVI.
DEVOTED PRINCIPALLY TO SOCIAL MATTERS, AND THE BENIGNANT BEARING OF V. GAMMON AT A DIPLOMATIC SOIREE.
Washington, D.C., July 3d, 1863.
Social life at our National Capital, my boy, as far as the native element is concerned, has not been refined by the war; and even at the White House it is scarcely possible to collect an assemblage of persons sufficiently genteel by education to speak familiarly of European noblemen of their acquaintance. At the last dinner given by the Secretary of State, there were actually three Western persons of much cheek-bones, who dissented from the very proper idea that Earl Russel's Carlton-house sherry is superior to anything we have in this country; and my disgust intensified to hopeless scorn, when an Eastern chap in a nankeen vest was brazen enough to confess that he could not tell how many pieces the Emperor of the French had in the wash on the last week of Lent. At other social gatherings in Washington I have noticed the same evidences of growing vulgarity; and I greatly fear, my boy,—I greatly fear that a knowledge of Europe will yet be more prevalent amongst Europeans than Americans. O my country, my native land! has it indeed come to this at last? In thy loftiest social circles shall we no more behold that beautiful flesh-colored being in lavender gloves and dress-coat whose etherealized individuality broke rapturously forth in the thrilling words, "When I was in Paris last summer"? Are we no more to palpitate with ecstasy at the tones of that voice which was wont to trill forth in liquid music from a curl-crested fountain of white shoulders, saying: "Don't you remember, Mr. Thompsion, how the Guke of Leeds larfed that day, at the Reception, when I told him that we American ladies thought it was vulgar to say 'garters' out loud?" Alas! my boy, our aristocracy is fading away like an abused exotic, and it is not oftener than once in a season that the frequenter of our Republican Court witnesses one incident to make him recognize the polished people he once knew. About two months ago, at an evening party given by Mrs. Senator ——, I did witness a social incident, showing that there is still hope for the Republic. An interesting young mother, of not more than sixty-two summers, attired in a babywaist and graduated flounces, was standing near one of the doors of the music-room conversing with me upon the moral character of her dearest female friend, when her gushing daughter, a nymph not more than six pianos old, came pressing to her side, and whispered behind her fan,—
"Mammacheri, may I donse with young Waddle?"
The maternal girl smiled grimly at the fragile suppliant, and asked:
"How much is his celery,ma petite?"
"Nine hundred, mamma, in the Third Auditor's."
"Then tell him,mon ange, that you are engaged for the next set, and wait until the thousand-dollar clerks come in. You know,ma petite, what the Count Pistachio said to you at Avignon about giving encouragement to anything less than four figures."
I could not avoid overhearing this conversation, my boy, for it was not held in whispers, and I thought to myself, as I eyed the fashionable pair, "The Republic still lives."
It is, however, with the foreign embassies at Washington, that the genuine aristocratic spirit still holds its normal own; and when I lately received an invitation from a certain convivial diplomatist of the Set to be one of a select party of distinguished gentlemen at his residence on a certain evening, I felt that there was still an available balm in Gilead. Arriving in the rooms shortly before ten o'clock, I found seven middle-aged gentlemen in cambric ruffles and scratch-wigs assembled around the wine-table, all pledging the health of the Venerable Gammon, who had come up from Mugville expressly to be present. There was the French Marquis Non Puebla, on a visit to this country to search for traces of one of the lost gravies of Apicius; Milord Gurgle, who had been deputed to convey to New York a pair of Southdown sheep, presented by the Zoölogical Gardens to Central Park; the Honorable Peter Pidger, who had once been to Europe to negotiate the sale of some railroad stock; the Ambassador in person; and three other respectable persons with no names, whose sole duty it was to indorse the Ambassador whenever he said anything about "dat signeeficant commencement of dees war at Bool Run." But the greatest of them all, my boy, was the Venerable Gammon, who smiled fatly as they drank his health, and emptied his own crystal with a soft benignity which seemed to consecrate that brand of liquor forever.
"My friends," says the Venerable Gammon, waving an unctuous hand around the board in a manner to confer blessings on the very nutcrackers,—"my friends, I accept the honor for my country, and not for myself. Your countries bask in the sunshine of a powerful peace, while mine grows weak in despotic war. But do not spit upon us, my friends; do not crush us. We will do whatever you want us to do. War," says the Venerable Gammon, beaming thoughtfully at the nearest wine-cooler,—"war may be called the temporary weakness of a young country like ours; and if we learn not to value peace more than war as we grow older, it will only be because we do not learn to value war less than peace as we advance to riper years."
Then all the respectable middle-aged gentlemen nudged each other to noticethat; and the Honorable Peter Pidger observed, in an undertone, to Milord Gurgle, that if the Government was only guided by such wisdom as that, the country might yet hope for favor from Europe.
"Ah!" says the Ambassador, reflectively, "I cannot help to recollect dat signeeficant commencement of dees war at Bool Run."
Whereupon the three middle-aged gentlemen with no names nodded meaningly to each other, and murmured, in pitying chorus:
"Ah, yes indeed."
As I rode home to my hotel that night, my boy, and reflected upon the polished observations I had listened to, it seemed to me that Europe must indeed be superior to a weak young country like ours, and that Secretary Seward was but showing a proper respect for the dignity of monarchies in yielding gracefully to them whatever they asked, and establishing in American history its first creation of knighthood, under the title of Sir Render. The Sword of '76 would have refused the accolade; but that of '63 is of a milder temper.
On Wednesday, as I strolled lazily along the shore of Awlkuyet River, listlessly tossing pebbles into the placid stream, and paying no attention to any visible object save the severed branches of trees and broken fragments of artillery-wheels which occasionally barred my progress, a Mackerel picket suddenly touched me on the shoulder, and says he, in a whisper,—
"You mustn't be chucking stones into that air water, or you'll wake up the Captain which is asleep."
I glanced askance at him from under my vizor, and says I, "What Captain, my trooper?"
"Why," says he, "the Captain of the Blockade, over yonder."
I looked in the direction indicated by his finger, my boy, and beheld the sloop-of-war Morpheus at anchor near a small inlet leading to the river from the up-country.
"Why, my Union champion," says I, wonderingly, "I should like to know at what time the Captain makes it a practice to retire?"
"Ah!" says the Mackerel picket, leaning upon his musket, and looking dreamily over the water, "he's all the time retiring—he's been put upon the 'Retired' list."
Here was a man, my boy, an American, like you or me, brought up in a country where education is free to all, and yet he had no clearer idea of the functions of our Naval Retiring Board than such as happened to be suggested to his instinct by what he could see of the national blockade service!
Yours, amazedly,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER XCVII.
INTRODUCING THE GREAT MORAL EXHIBITION OF THE "EFFIGYNIA," GLANCING AT A FOURTH NEW MACKEREL GENERAL, AND SHOWING HOW THE PRESIDENT'S DRAFT ON ACCOMAC WAS PROTESTED AT SIGHT.
Washington, D.C., July 10th, 1863.
As I wax numerous in exciting years, my boy, and observe more and more of the long-headed and strategic manner in which our wealthy but distracted country prosecutes the Restoration of the Union, the stronger grows my belief that, inasmuch as the way of the transgressor is hard, the way of the well-doer is inexpressibly "soft." Each day of the present national crisis brings fresh evidence of the exceedingly soft character of the policy by which our upright government would turn to nought the wrathful devices of its enemies, and further demonstrates the vast difference existing between everything upright and anything downright. We discomfit the well-known Southern Confederacy, at every turn, my boy,—we discomfit it at every turn; but, the trouble is, we keep turning all the time, like a Thomas cat after his tail, constantly believing that we are approaching the end, but never quite reaching it.
Fearing lest I should become metaphysical if I pursued this train of thought any farther,—thereby encroaching upon the bottomless province of the Awful and Unfathomable German mind, which rejoices gloomily in the solemn investigation of all that verges upon muddled abstraction;—fearing lest I should become thus erudite, profound, and snuffily unintelligible, my boy, I repress my morbid inclination to take a funereal canter into abstruse speculation on the elephants of thought, and digress from theory to fact.
This city, which is destined to become in time another Waterloo in the sense of offering everything drinkable in lieu of water, presents but very little except bar-rooms in the way of entertainment just now. Hence, my boy, we can properly appreciate the "Effigynia," as it is classically called, which a thoughtful yellow-vested chap of much breastpin, from Pequog, has just opened on Pennsylvania Avenue. According to advertisement, "this chaste and plastic exhibition consists of wax effigies of the five successive Generals of the Mackerel Brigade, with the peculiar personalities of each one, and the superiority of each over the other, unmistakably stamped on the forms and features of each!" Being a moral man, my boy, and much addicted to entertainments which differ from the prevailing drama of the day in obviating the necessity for steadily blushing, I repaired to the Effigynia the other evening and was much edified by the spectacle presented. Five mirrors standing at different angles with a wax figure of the first General of the Mackerel Brigade, were made each to reflect said figure; and I could not help feeling, my boy, that the likenesses were correct. I saw before me the counterfeit presentments of the five soldiers who had successively arisen to the highest Mackerel Command, and I found myself wondering how many more mirrors the exhibition would need before the war came to a head—containing brains.
It was on Tuesday morning that I ascended majestically to the slanting roof of my Gothic steed, the sagacious Pegasus, and moved perceptibly across Long Bridge once more, toward the camp of the Mackerel Brigade. It is worthy of note, my boy, that the architectural animal in question has greatly improved of late upon a diet of condemned straw hats, and now trots an hour in sixty minutes with the greatest ease of manner. An occasional cough but adds to the melancholy interest of his funereal cast of countenance; and as his head grows more and more vivid in its resemblance to an infant's coffin, his whole effect deepens in its churchliness and sepulchral solemnity.
As I neared the national head-quarters, the Mackerel Surgeon-General saluted me, and I observed that he kept his glance dreamily fixed upon the Gothic Pegasus.
"As I gaze upon that bony fabric," says he, biting a piece of calamus in soft professional abstraction,—"as I gaze upon that fleet skeleton you bestride, I cannot help thinking that Rule Britannia is frequently right in speaking of a horse as an 'oss; though she may use a superfluous 's' in the word. You see," says the surgeon, pausing to take a gray powder, and to try his lancet on his left thumb-nail,—"you see, the classical term 'os' signifies bone; and as bone is the prevailing aspect of your present charger, he might be termed an ''os' without violence to the lingual proprieties."
I have always suspected this surgeon, my boy, of being an accursed secessionist in disguise, and now I feel confident that he would not hesitate, if opportunity offered, to carry his fiendish affection for the well-known Southern Confederacy to the extent of actually differing with me upon some point in conversation. In such times as these, my boy, there can be no middle ground for a man; he must either be heart and soul with his country's murderous foes, or ready to agree entirely with me in anything I may say or think. God save the Republic!
Upon arriving at a locality, which I refrain from naming, lest I should thereby betray my beloved country or make a mistake in spelling, I found the venerable and spectacled veterans of the thrice-valorous Mackerel Brigade just returned from a spirited pursuit of certain regiments of disreputable Confederacies who were stealing farms on the outskirts of Paris. These Confederacies had even penetrated into storied Accomac, and removed everything they found upon the farms there except the mortgages. Hence the demand upon the aged and unconquerable Mackerel Brigade for an immediate walk in that direction, and there they had gone by the most circuitous and profoundly strategical route afforded by the county maps. General John Smith, the latest edition of Mackerel Commander, gave leadership of his advance guard to Captain Villiam Brown, and immediately five-and-twenty inflamed reporters frantically telegraphed to as many excellent and reliable morning journals, that all the thieving Confederacies were about to be bagged, and that all the revolting details would be given in our next issue. It was toward evening, my boy, when Captain Villiam Brown, mounted upon his geometrical steed, Euclid, came riding up to the advanced head-quarters of the new general to report results.
"Well, young man," says the General, with Spartan equanimity, "have we bagged the enemies of human freedom?"
Villiam looked up from the demijohn under the table, upon which he had been earnestly gazing, and says he, "No, sire; but the very next thing to bagging them has occurred."
"Relate the tale," says the General, with dignity.
"Why," says Villiam, "instead of our bagging them, they have been sacking us."
It is a remarkable and beautiful peculiarity of our flexible language, my boy, that its semi-syno-nymical effects permit the transmission of trying intelligence in terms of soothing similarity to those which might have been employed had the news been more felicitous. Thus are we let down easily from pride to humiliation, and spared much intervening agony of soul.
So the Mackerel Brigade turned their gleaming old spectacles once more in the direction of our National Capital, and are again a characteristic of the landscape enclosing Washington. Further consummate strategy is postponed for a time on account of the weather, which has become villanously hot through the fanatical machinations of the insidious Black Republicans. Thus are Greeley, Beecher, Wendell Phillips, and their deluded followers weakening the military arm of the government and endeavoring to obtain fat contracts for worthless fans!
Methinks I hear you ask, "Has the new general of the Mackerel Brigade made a failure, after all the credit the public have given him for superiority over his predecessors?"
Far be it from me to judge hastily, but I may be permitted to say, my boy,—I may be permitted to say, that men in the military line have this point in common with men in a mercantile business; by obtaining too much on credit at the start, they are very apt to make bad failures, leaving nothing but their lie-abilities for the consolation of those who trusted them.
Upon reaching the Mackerel camp, and exchanging festive salutations with Captain Bob Shorty, who was trying to purchase the dressed skin of a handsome copperhead snake from Corporal Veller, of the California Reserve, to use as a sword-belt,—after exchanging salutations, I repaired to the tent of the chaplain, to witness the marriage of one of the younger Mackerels to a pretty Shenandoah belle. As the happy pair stood before the drum to be made wife andman, I noticed that the bride's rosy cheeks paled like a sunset under the twilight, until the languishing stars of her eyes shone only upon snow.
And now, my boy, let me say a few words respecting the recent attempted draft of Abe L. bodied men in thrice-famous Accomac, and the freedom-loving spirit in which it was met by the Sovereign People. With a prescient view to being amply prepared for an overwhelming assault upon combined Europe, which is shortly to be made by Secretary Seward and the muscular United States of America, our Uncle Abe ordered a draft of Accomackians to be made at once. Hereupon the Accomac "Morning Dog," an excellent daily journal, indulged in a high-minded editorial on the fiendish proclivities of the Governor of Accomac, and the general wildness of all the Accomackians to be drafted if he would let them. With great promptness, that admirable palladium of human freedom, the "Evening Cat," avowed that it spit upon the gubernatorial scurrility of its growling contemporary; that it deprecated mob violence and trusted that no mob would resist the draft; but could not help believing that the Sovereign People might possibly arise in their majesty and occasion a speedy funeral in the family of the editor-in-chief of the venomous and intolerable "Morning Dog."
It was at 10 o'clocka.m., my boy, when the drafting commenced in Accomac, and in half an hour thereafter the Sovereign People, consisting of several gentlemen from Ireland, were asserting the dignity of a free community in a manner worthy of the sacred cause of Emigration. It is a touching fact, my boy,—a touching and æsthetical fact, that the American people are ever so able to find foreign champions to protect their freedom from governmental infringement that they seldom have occasion to do any fighting for it themselves.
The Sovereign People of Accomac, being fully aroused and slightly inebriated, proceeded to vindicate the majesty of our excellent national Democratic Organization by relieving a bloated aristocracy of their watches and loose change, ransacking sundry private residences on account of the great draft of their chimneys, and performing other awe-inspiring acts of rude majesty, equally well calculated to evince a freeborn people's distaste for despotism. Furthermore, the Sovereign People fearlessly attacked a large and aristocratic Hospital, beating many of the patients to death; for, by some corrupt chicanery, these patients were barefacedly exempted from the Conscription which bore so heavily upon the down-trodden and healthy poor man. The "Evening Cat," in a special edition, was genial enough to express a hope that "the outraged people now muttering ominously in the air," would not burst upon the office and editor of the "Morning Dog" withtoomuch just fury; whereupon the incensed Sovereign People said that, be jabers, they'd come mighty near forgetting that entirely; and forthwith proceeded to stone the office of the "Dog" until the hasty discharge of an ink-stand from one of the upper windows thereof induced them to make a hasty change of base.
Without indulging in farther details, suffice it to say that the Sovereign People finally desisted from their struggle for liberty upon being satisfied that no more watches, purses, nor sick despots were to be got at conveniently, and the "Evening Cat" came out in a spirited article in favor of an immediate war with France.
How grateful should it be to our national pride, my boy, that even the stranger that is within our gates feels inspired by the very atmosphere with a jealous, a fighting love for perfect freedom,—especially if said gates be those of a State prison.
Yours, exuberantly,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER XCVIII.
RECOUNTING A CHASTE "RECONSTRUCTION" ANECDOTE OF THE SIXTH WARD, AND DIVULGING CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN'S INGENIOUS ALPHABETICAL EXPERIMENT WITH COMPANY THREE.
Washington, D.C., Sept. 25th, 1863.
It is a high-moral idea of poets, congressmen, and the writers for our improving weekly journals of exciting romance, my boy, that it is a noble and majestic thing to feel warmly for one's country; but when the thermometer stands at 90 in the shade, and we join with our fellow-beings in shedding tears from the tops of our foreheads, I find my disinterested patriotism fully equal to the self-abnegation of the remark, that I had rather be cool than be President. Our brethren are already in the field; why stand we here idle? Is ice so dear, or peace so sweet as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty Dollars! I know not what other gentlemen would have; but as for me, give me liberty, or give me a fan. Thus, my boy, after the manner of the departed Patrick Henry, did I expose myself to the conservative Kentucky chap, as we stood panting together in the vestibule of the Treasury Buildings the other day; and says he:
"The loyal State of Kentucky, of which I am a part, has no objections to warm weather in the summer-time; provided it is not indorsed by the fanatical Black Republicans. Warm weather," says the conservative Kentucky chap, thoughtfully, "is of much service to the old rye crop of Kentucky; but Kentucky would forego even her old rye, rather than see retarded the movements of that army whose constitutional duty it is to restore the Union—not reconstruct it."
The regular list of dead idiots for this year being not quite full yet, my boy, there are still persons living who can perceive no very immense difference between Restoring the Union and Reconstructing the Union; which reminds me of a chaste little incident that once occurred in the Sixth Ward.
A highly-respectable liquor-selling chap, of enlarged stomach and overwhelming shirt-collar, having just been elected Alderman, through the influence of his excellent moral character, and about two thousand dollars judiciously invested in Irishmen, gave a fashionable party to celebrate this triumph of the purity of elections, and invited about two-thirds of the Fire Department to bring their wives and sweethearts. Promptly at nine o'clock, two Hose Companies, of unblemished reputations for noise, four Engine Associations noted for saving one pine table from the devouring element to every two Brussels carpets they ruined with water, three Hook-and-Ladder Societies greatly distinguished for climbing into the third-story windows of the building two doors from the burning domicil, and an equivalent number of the cotton-hearted women of America, were on hand in the aldermanic drawing-rooms. The new public dignitary received them all with that exquisite blandness of demeanor which is so becoming to great men who have just made a rush from obscurity: and says he,—
"Make yourselves at home now, boys, only don't spit on the carpet. If there's a fire while the swarry is goin' on, I'll let the old woman listen for the district and announce it from the airy. We'll keep the winders up, and when the hall-bell rings, you fellers as has to leave, can just slip down onto the front stoop without breaking up the entire swarry."
Here the large-hearted aldermanic chap was called hastily downstairs to attend the bar, several army officers having just arrived in the ward, and the "swarry" commenced as merrily as a fire in a carpenter's shop. It set in for a heavy dance at about eleven o'clock, and then were seen as many elaborate verses in the poetry of motion, as any pair of eyes could wish to enjoy. "Fifty's" foreman, who danced with a very pretty dotted muslin, produced a very striking and picturesque effect by rolling his inexpressibles up over his boots, and giving a life-like imitation of the working of an engine with his heels and toes; whereupon the assistant foreman of "Thirty's Truck" suddenly threw off his dress-coat and appeared in full red shirt, simultaneously striking into a fine, artistic shuffle, intended to imitate the hauling-in and reeling-up of the wet hose after a conflagration. These and other graceful novelties were greatly admired by the ladies, each of whom said so many spicy and spiteful things about the other's bare arms and forward manners, that a stranger might have taken them all for the very cream of Fifth Avenue or any other Best Society.
It was about midnight when "Fifty's" foreman, growing reckless with the passionate splendors of excitement, scuffled away with his flushed dotted muslin to a luxurious chintz sofa near one of the windows, and intemperately whispered in her ear, "Miss Perkins, it were madness for me longer to conceal my insanity, and to remain silent would but render me speechless. Here let me lay my heart and trumpet at your feet, and"—
She had fainted! Ay, sir, swooned!
Instantly the whole brilliant saloon was in confusion; the dancing ceased, the dust commenced to settle, and the assistant foreman of "Thirty's Truck" was seen to put on his coat.
"Bring your hose here, quick, and play on her face!" shouted "Fifty's" foreman, half-crazed by what he had done. But the dotted muslin's mother now clutched her in her arms, and says she, "Let's get her into the dressing-chamber, and somebody bring a little sally wolatile."
Here another dowager seized an arm of the fainting girl, and the two bore her tenderly into the retiring-room, followed by some two or three sympathizing young ladies. And now, my boy, it becomes my delicate duty to hastily sketch a scene which the masculine pen cannot too carefully touch upon. It being one of the principles of woman's nature that some relaxations must be admitted in her toilet before she can revive from syncope, the second dowager commenced to relieve the fainting fair one of such articles of fashionable addenda as might retard her recovery. She took off her side-curls and back-hair and laid them upon a table; with great care she removed her upper teeth and placed them upon a chair; softly wetting a corner of her handkerchief in her mouth she effectually wiped away the eyebrows and a part of the cheek of the young sufferer; and she was proceeding to make other dissections which I shall dismiss with the remark that they are merely matters of form, when the patient gave a gentle sigh as she rested in her mother's arms, and says the mother to the dowager:—
"There, Mrs. Jobbins, I guess you needn't do any more." Mrs. Jobbins gave a sagacious look at the patient, and says she:
"Very true, mem; she is getting better. It wont take us many minutes to reconstruct her."
"I beg your parding, Mrs. Jobbins," says the maternal, shaking her cap,—"I beg your parding Mrs. Jobbins; but your language is ineddicated, highly; you should say 'restore' her."
Mrs. Jobbins straightened herself up, with a glare, and says she: "Perhaps, mem, you can teachmeeddication, and my own daughter a teacher these two years in the public schools! The ideor! I repeat it—to reconstruct her—put her together again."
"Restore," says the maternal, savagely.
"Reconstruct!" screamed Mrs. Jobbins.
"You're a artful, ignorant old copperhead!" howled the maternal, dropping her daughter's head upon the floor.
"And you're a spiteful, stuck-up, toothless old—ab'litionist!!" yelled the dowager, stamping until her snuff-box hopped out of her pocket.
Drawn to the room by the noise, a hard old nut, a retired foreman of old "Sixty," stuck his head in at the door, and says he: "What are you old fools scrimmaging about? You're keeping the swarry back."
Both the old ladies made at him at once to know which, in his opinion, was the right word,—'Reconstruct,' or 'Restore?'
The old nut took a thoughtful bite of tobacco, and says he: "Let the girl herself tell you when sherevives."
Revive was the word, my boy; and while the old women were quarrelling over the two terms aforesaid, poor nature got tired of waiting, and realized the right one in action for herself. The girl revived without being either restored, or reconstructed.
And thus, my boy, I sometimes think, that, whilst noisy old political grannies are quarrelling as to whether the Union shall be Restored, or Reconstructed, the fainting young Union will suddenly revive of itself. At any rate, it bids fair to have plenty of time to do so.
In a recent letter I noted the return of the main body of the invincible and time-honored Mackerel Brigade to what may be termed the place of its military birth; but I did not, nor can I, describe justly the many touching incidents of the retrogression. Once more, my boy, does this standard national martial organization find itself on the right side of Awlkuyet River, and many a sensitive Mackerel, as he gazes through his tear-dimmed spectacles upon the surrounding scenery of his youth, fancies himself a boy again, and newly experiences in all his muscles that tingling sensation which, in the full-blooded lad, equally follows a public compliment and a private flogging. As the gory and venerable Brigade wound slowly back into the well-known fields rendered historically famous for making Washington safe, one very ancient Mackerel grounded his musket by the roadside, took off his spectacles, looked with deep emotion upon the scenes of his early years, and says he to another Mackerel:—
"Thank Heaven! we have at last reached the end of the war."
The other Mackerel paused in his work of cracking an army biscuit between two rocks, and says he: "Which end do you mean, Sammy?"
"Why," says Sammy, "the end we commenced at."
Could it be possible, my boy, that there was a serious and profound truth in that unconsidered Mackerel remark? If so, we are indeed approaching the beginning of the war, and there is rather less of Mars than of Grand-Ma's in the management of the Virginia campaign.
But why should my pen linger upon this monotonous theme, when the grim Fort Piano on Duck Lake, and the ancient city of Paris on the nether shore thereof, are being besieged on all sides by the Mackerel iron-plated patent squadron under the hoary Rear Admiral Head, and the Mackerel contingent and Orange County Howitzers under Captains Samyule Sa-mith and Villiam Brown. Several times, my boy, has Fort Piano been entirely destroyed and taken by all our excellent and reliable morning journals, the columns of American newspapers being led on to victory—or leaded on to victory—with rather more ease than a dozen times as many columns of any troops in the world; but, inasmuch as the unseemly but well-known Southern Confederacy still keeps store there, it has been deemed proper to make another iron-clad experiment in that salubrious vicinity. This time, however, the army takes part in the effort, as well as the navy, and Captain Samyule Sa-mith, with the Orange County Howitzers, bombards the atmosphere from the banks of the Lake, whilst the aged Rear Admiral Head, with his iron-plated squadron, performs fiery antics upon the briny element.
The sailing of the squadron inside the bar was a beautiful sight, and was witnessed by a couple of English and French consuls who had come down to the banks of Duck Lake to see if they could recognize the Confederacy at that distance. First advanced Rear Admiral Head's flagship monitor, the "Shockingbadhat;" followed in close order by the "Aitch," the "Yew," the "Em," the "Bee," the "You" and the "Gee."
And now, my boy, you may probably imagine that I am about to relate, with Homeric fervor and the graphic eloquence of Tacitus, how the Mackerel Squadron poured whole foundries of shot and shell into Fort Piano; and how the Orange County Howitzers rained Greek Fire (Irish whiskey) into all the basement windows of Paris; but I have various reasons for doing nothing of the kind, inasmuch as the War Department does not desire that the enemy should be prematurely informed of the capture of the Fort and City. Suffice it to say, that everything is progressing favorably, though recent heavy rains have greatly incommoded such of the land forces as are not supplied with umbrellas.
I think, however, my boy, that I may venture to describe Captain Villiam Brown's alphabetical experiment with Company 3, Regiment 5, which constitutes the present Mackerel reserve on the edge of the Lake. Villiam having heard of Jeff. Davis's experiment with his regiment in Mexico, when he formed it into a V shape to receive a cavalry charge, resolved to give his regiment that shape for the purpose of a roundabout sally upon Fort Piano from the rear, or land side.
"Comrades," says Villiam, impressively, "V stands for Victory, Vengeance and Vashington, and I desire you to take its shape."
The Mackerels formed themselves into a V, my boy; but when Villiam gallantly retired behind a tree to be out of the way, and gave the order "Forward—double-quick,—march!" Sergeant O'Pake modestly stood out of the ranks, and says he:
"Of courseyouwill go ahead of us, Captain?"
"Ha!" says Villiam, haughtily, "why?"
"Oh!" says the sergeant, "V., you know, always follows U."
Villiam was lost in thought for a moment, my boy, and then says he: "That's true, Sergeant; and as U never comes until after T, we'll defer that ere charge for the present."
Incidents of this kind are but common in this war between brethren, which is so abhorrent to Democrats and the high-moral members of the church.
Hoping, my boy, that, by relating the success of Rear Admiral Head and Captain Samyule Sa-mith in my next, I may add two more illustrious names to the list of candidates for the Presidency in 1865, I remain,
Yours, electorally,
Orpheus C. Kerr.