LETTER XCIX.
IN WHICH OUR CORRESPONDENT IS BETRAYED INTO ARGUMENT; BUT RECOVERS IN TIME TO GIVE US THE USUAL CHRISTMAS SONG AND STORY OF THE RENOWNED BRIGADE.
Washington, D.C., Dec. 27th, 1863.
Another Christmas finds our great stragetic country in the toils of war, my boy, and the chiming of the bells is lost in the roar of ingenious artillery. Where blazes the yule log that misses not at least one manly form from its genial ring of quivering Christmas light; and where hangs the mistletoe bough beneath which at least one gentle, womanly heart beats not the quicker with fond thoughts of the lad whose first kiss upon her half-reluctant lips was destined to burn in future there as her keepsake from a hero? Dear old Christmas! rich to memory in all the simple joys and fond, familiar sanctities of home, thou comest sadly upon me in my exile with the iron men of war, the waxen men of politics; and though I hail thee merry for thy cheery evergreens, God knows it is thy snow that presses nearest to my heart. But a truce to sentiment, my boy, when the most sentimental object I have seen for a week is the Conservative Kentucky Chap, whose imbibing method of celebrating the approach of Christmas invariably leads him into disquisitions upon the wrongs of the heroic White Man. On Tuesday, as we took Richmond together, with the least bit of sugar in the world, he leaned heavily upon me, and says he:
"The ancient State of Kentucky, of which I am a part, is growing sick at the stomach to see how the Black Man is continually being raised above the White Man; and Kentucky demands to be immediately informed whether or no this war is to be prosecuted in future for the White Man?"
"For the White Man," my boy, he said; "for the White Man!"
And was he not right? The noble being to whom he alluded is certainly richly justified in a very high pitch of pride over the gratifying fact, that his natural complexion is considerably whiter than anything at all darker. In the abstract, my boy, it is not a positive white, and its general hue, if characteristic of a napkin would hardly enable that napkin to pass muster at the feast of an Apicius or a Lamia; but, as compared with other complexions, it is properly colorless, and strikes the eye very pleasantly when regarded by a single person in a mirror. So highly, indeed, do many possessors of this complexion admire its prevailing whiteness, that they perform their ablutions with an artistic design to leave here and there certain picturesque streaks of delicate shading, thereby causing the whiteness of the intervening spots to appear all the more dazzling. Others, again, religiously refrain from water outwardly as well as inwardly, for the apparent purpose of incrusting the purity of their valuable complexion in a protecting coat; thus preserving it from any possible bad effect of the sun. Still others, my boy, continue to practise the thorough ablution of the ancients, but signally succeed in throwing out the whiteness of the level of their faces in excellent relief, by adopting measures to implant a contrasting red on the tips of their noses. And a fourth class, having an eye to beauties of a White background for the exhibition of chaste neutral tints, incur the frequent freckle and the graceful pimple with great judgment and taste.
Considering the character of the White face with due profundity of thought, my boy, I am led to regard it as a canvas, expressly intended by nature to receive quick and vivid paintings of all the virtues; and so nicely adapted to the least of humanity's desires, that the woman who has no virtues to limn themselves thereon, may yet paint it to suit herself.
This cannot be said of the Black skin, my boy. Upon that the beautiful virtue of Modesty cannot paint itself in a blush when its owner is detected in the act of taking a bribe; nor is it susceptible of that beautiful sunset-tint which the genial merit of being able to punish four bottles at a sitting delights to leave upon a face of Caucasian extraction. It is even incapable of receiving those exquisite sub-ocular shades which adorn a White face after an evening's innocent enjoyment at the Club, and it fails signally to absorb the delicate tint of yellow not unfrequently perceptible near the outer corners of the busy dental department of the tobacconizing White man's physiognomy.
Taking all these facts into calculation, my boy, it is plainly evident that the variously-ornamented White skin is an article much superior to the Black, and certainly designates its wearers as beings intended to move in nothing but the highest natural circles.
Such being the case, we cannot blame the White Man for entertaining a wholesome contempt and loathing for the Black Man; and the truly hearty manner in which many of our more pallid fellow-countrymen breathe ingenious execrations whenever the latter is mentioned, may be accepted as a beautiful and touching proof that they appreciate God's benignity in giving them a superiority of skin; even though He may have seen best, in His infinite wisdom, to leave them occasionally without brains.
Having been informed that the ancient and spectacled Mackerel Brigade had returned from its monthly walk toward the well-known and starving Southern Confederacy, I ascended to the roof of my architectural steed, the Gothic Pegasus, on Thursday morn, my boy, and galloped slowly to the stamping ground of the unconquerable veterans. Let me pass over the events of the day in camp, when the sedentary warriors, whom it is my glory to celebrate, were reviewed after the manner of Napoleon's Old Guard. Let me pass over this, and come directly to Christmas Eve, and the literary entertainment in the Mackerel Chaplain's tent. Captains Villiam Brown, Bob Shorty, Samyule Sa-mith, a young reporter from Olympus, the Chaplain, and myself, were the members of the party, and we sat round a camp-table with two lanterns swinging right over the bottles.
Rear Admiral Head shortly came in; and when the Olympian reporter was requested to open the intellectual festival with a song, he complimented the iron-plated branch of the service with
"THE BOATSWAIN'S CALL.I."The lights upon the river's brinkIn constellation bright,Are winking down upon the tideThat twinkles through the night;When in a gayly dancing skiffThe boatswain leaves his ship,And as his oars a moment ceaseWithin the flood to dip,He winds his call,The boatswain's cheery call.II."A maiden stands upon the shore,Where land and ocean meet,And breakers cast their pearly giftsIn homage at her feet;While through the causeway of the nightShe gazes o'er the sea,To where a stately frigate ridesIn lonely majesty,And waits the call,The gallant boatswain's call.III."'Oh! tarry not, my boatswain bold,'Her parted lips would say;But when the heart is vexed with doubt,The soul can only pray;And sorely doubtful is the maid,Till on her ear there fallsThe music of the merriest,The clearest, best of calls—A winding call,Her faithful boatswain's call.IV."A shining keel is on the sand,The oars are laid aside,And to the shore the sailor leapsTo greet his chosen bride;His arms about her waist are thrown,And through her rosy lipsHe breathes a dainty boatswain's call,Though not the call of ships;But Cupid's call,The boatswain Cupid's call.V."And when the moon has drawn a pathOf light upon the sea,A skiff is floating o'er the deep,To where a frigate freeIs nestled in the ocean's breast,With all her canvas furled;Though ere the morn makes Hesper blushUpon a waking world,'Make sail, men, all!'Will round the boatswain's call.VI."A shadow follows in her wake,And, through its depths is seenThe figure of a widowed wifeUpon the shore of green;And ever as the tempest moansAbove the mocking wave,A sound is wafted to her earsFrom out a moving grave,—A boatswain's call,A ghostly boatswain's call."
"THE BOATSWAIN'S CALL.
"THE BOATSWAIN'S CALL.
I.
I.
"The lights upon the river's brinkIn constellation bright,Are winking down upon the tideThat twinkles through the night;When in a gayly dancing skiffThe boatswain leaves his ship,And as his oars a moment ceaseWithin the flood to dip,He winds his call,The boatswain's cheery call.
"The lights upon the river's brink
In constellation bright,
Are winking down upon the tide
That twinkles through the night;
When in a gayly dancing skiff
The boatswain leaves his ship,
And as his oars a moment cease
Within the flood to dip,
He winds his call,
The boatswain's cheery call.
II.
II.
"A maiden stands upon the shore,Where land and ocean meet,And breakers cast their pearly giftsIn homage at her feet;While through the causeway of the nightShe gazes o'er the sea,To where a stately frigate ridesIn lonely majesty,And waits the call,The gallant boatswain's call.
"A maiden stands upon the shore,
Where land and ocean meet,
And breakers cast their pearly gifts
In homage at her feet;
While through the causeway of the night
She gazes o'er the sea,
To where a stately frigate rides
In lonely majesty,
And waits the call,
The gallant boatswain's call.
III.
III.
"'Oh! tarry not, my boatswain bold,'Her parted lips would say;But when the heart is vexed with doubt,The soul can only pray;And sorely doubtful is the maid,Till on her ear there fallsThe music of the merriest,The clearest, best of calls—A winding call,Her faithful boatswain's call.
"'Oh! tarry not, my boatswain bold,'
Her parted lips would say;
But when the heart is vexed with doubt,
The soul can only pray;
And sorely doubtful is the maid,
Till on her ear there falls
The music of the merriest,
The clearest, best of calls—
A winding call,
Her faithful boatswain's call.
IV.
IV.
"A shining keel is on the sand,The oars are laid aside,And to the shore the sailor leapsTo greet his chosen bride;His arms about her waist are thrown,And through her rosy lipsHe breathes a dainty boatswain's call,Though not the call of ships;But Cupid's call,The boatswain Cupid's call.
"A shining keel is on the sand,
The oars are laid aside,
And to the shore the sailor leaps
To greet his chosen bride;
His arms about her waist are thrown,
And through her rosy lips
He breathes a dainty boatswain's call,
Though not the call of ships;
But Cupid's call,
The boatswain Cupid's call.
V.
V.
"And when the moon has drawn a pathOf light upon the sea,A skiff is floating o'er the deep,To where a frigate freeIs nestled in the ocean's breast,With all her canvas furled;Though ere the morn makes Hesper blushUpon a waking world,'Make sail, men, all!'Will round the boatswain's call.
"And when the moon has drawn a path
Of light upon the sea,
A skiff is floating o'er the deep,
To where a frigate free
Is nestled in the ocean's breast,
With all her canvas furled;
Though ere the morn makes Hesper blush
Upon a waking world,
'Make sail, men, all!'
Will round the boatswain's call.
VI.
VI.
"A shadow follows in her wake,And, through its depths is seenThe figure of a widowed wifeUpon the shore of green;And ever as the tempest moansAbove the mocking wave,A sound is wafted to her earsFrom out a moving grave,—A boatswain's call,A ghostly boatswain's call."
"A shadow follows in her wake,
And, through its depths is seen
The figure of a widowed wife
Upon the shore of green;
And ever as the tempest moans
Above the mocking wave,
A sound is wafted to her ears
From out a moving grave,—
A boatswain's call,
A ghostly boatswain's call."
At the termination of the last stave, Captain Villiam Brown cleared his throat, and says he,—
"As our friend has commenced the services with melody, I will proceed to keep the feeble intellecks of this assemblage excited with a terrifying moral ghost tale which the Dickens himself might grow pale under. It was sent to me," says Villiam, majestically, "by a former writer for the Track Society, and reflects much credit upon the literary resources of the United States of America."
Whereupon, Villiam took some sheets of paper from his breast-pocket, my boy, and introduced
"MR. PEPPER'S GHOST."In the heart of a great city, whose corruption and wickedness in continually growing larger and richer, were evident to every smaller, and, consequently, more pious, town on the globe, dwelt a shamefully rich banker, named Pursimmons, who, notwithstanding his vile and enormous wealth, had refused to give it all to the virtuous poor. That it was utterly impossible for such a man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven need not be told; since we all know that honest poverty, alone, can hope for such entrance; and as poverty covers at least three-fourths of the human race, and is invariably honest, according to its own touching account, there is likely to be enough of it to fill up all the standing room in Paradise, leaving no space for even the repentant wretch of a millionaire. Hence, it naturally follows, that old Pursimmons was miserable, with all his wealth. In fact, a slim, black-dressed gentleman of much spectacles and severe countenance, who had vainly solicited him to subscribe for ten thousand extra-gilt copies of his new work on 'The Relation of Sunday Schools with the Moral Organism of Normal Creation,' to be sent to the starving heathen of the Choctaw Nation, was heard to remark, emphatically, that he would rather be 'a ignorant but religious slave in the desert of Sahara, my brethren, than that godless man with all his filthy lucre.' Therefore, old Pursimmonsmusthave been a continual prey to the most horrible twinges of guilty conscience that any one man, in the abundant excess of his own spiritual serenity, ever attributed to another of different views. All the year did this unhappy but fleshy old man sin against everything that is poor and pious by accepting all—ay, all!—the profits his business was iniquitous enough to produce; and even rode in a carriage; though hundreds of noble-hearted Irishmen in the honest brick and mortar business had to walk,—ay, walk!—becoming so terribly exhausted thereby as to be invariably compelled to pause for rest, on their way home, at some humble liquor establishment. When Christmas Eve came round, it found this enemy of his race meanly retiring to bed, instead of scouring the highways and byways in search of reduced private families who might at that very moment be despairingly praying to have his last cent at their disposal. A man so thoroughly bad could not fail to be a pitiable coward, and it is not at all surprising that he was somewhat startled to suddenly perceive, between himself and his scandalously-comfortable bed, Mr. Pepper's Ghost!—the very same ghost once in full blow at all our moral temples of the drama. 'Unreal Novelty!' exclaimed old Pursimmons, chewing the strings of his night-cap, 'hie thee away to thy native footlights; or, if thou must keep somebody awake all night, betake thee to some great tragedian when Shakspeare's murder lies heavy on his soul.' Mr. Pepper's Ghost winked with great archness as it replied: 'Ghosts have no terrors for the sons of Thespis, who are even merry with a ghost—of a chance to get their salaries. My mission is to you, to whom I must a wholesome lesson teach. Behold!'"The spirit waved its hand, and lo! one whole side of the vile banker's chamber fell magically away, disclosing to view a room entirely destitute of velvet carpet and pictures by the Old Masters. On a sofa reclined a middle-aged young girl, whose poor dress of braidless merino was so inclemently low in the neck as to suggest for its down-trodden wearer a purse too scanty to procure a sufficiency of material. The daughter of penury had just reached the hundred and fifty-second exciting page of the cheap but excellent work of fiction she was reading, when a door opened and her crushed husband entered, smoking his meerschaum."'Old boy,' said the Ghost, 'do you remember that man?'"'Yes,' responded the banker, sadly; 'he came to me yesterday for some money to keep him from starvation; and as he would not take 'greenbacks,' I did not help him.'"'Listen,' said the Ghost."The crushed husband threw himself into a chair which was not covered with Solferino satin, and ate a peanut."'Well, what luck?' asked the daughter of penury."'Old Pursimmons has refused, and I'—"'And you!!'—"'Must'—"'Must?'—"'Support myself!!!'"It was too much. The daughter of penury fainted, the crushed husband sniffed aloud, and the landlady knocked at the door for the week's board."As this agonizing picture of human misery faded away, old Pursimmons turned with an inaudible groan to Mr. Pepper's Ghost:"'And I,' said he,—'and I am the cause of this woe?'"The spectre silently and solemnly nodded an awful affirmative, and waved its hand for another scene."This time, the presentment was the interior of a shop, around which were shelves full of boxes containing all sorts of delicious little gaiters, ties, slippers, bootees and kid pumps, whilst the same kind of articles hung suspended from various hooks and pegs on the wall. On a bench in one corner of this shop, busily working upon a dainty pink satin gaiter-boot, was a narrow young man of pensive countenance, weak eyes, pink nose and an intellectual head of hair, in a workman's paper cap manufactured from an admirable weekly journal of romance."As the deeply-affected banker gazed upon this figure, he sorrowfully murmured: 'Ah! that is the deep-voiced youth who last week desired of me five hundred dollars to insure the publication of his new novel of Fashionable Life, which was destined to instantly sweep Dickens, Victor Hugo, Thackeray, and other demoralizing writers from the field of literature.'"'Yes!' said Mr. Pepper's Ghost, severely; 'and your miserly refusal to aid struggling genius with your miserable wealth has driven a giant intellect into the ladies' shoemaking business. In which,' added the spectre, 'I am bound to say, that he is doing tolerably well.'"The guilty old banker buried his face in his trembling hands; and when he looked up again, the vision had changed, and he saw before him the inside of a soldier's tent on the banks of the Rapidan, with two gentle Zouaves arraying themselves in their new uniforms, which had just arrived. Owing to some trifling mental aberration, accompanied by hiccups, which often attacks the members of an army confined to damp localities, these two troops had somehow mistaken their jackets for their pants, and were struggling with Herculean strength to thrust their dainty nether limbs into the sleeves of the first-named garments. After an animated struggle of about a quarter of an hour, something was heard to tear; whereupon, one of the Zouaves tore his fractured jacket from his limbs, and dashed it furiously to the ground, hurling imprecations upon all hard-hearted wretches who coined money by making clothing out of rotten rags for the glorious defenders of their homes and firesides."'Old boy,' thundered Mr. Pepper's Ghost, reproachfully, 'did you not have an interest with your brother, the —— street tailor, in that Government contract for uniforms?'"'I did,' replied the mournful banker."'Then behold,' said the spirit, 'how you have earned the eternal hate of your country's gallant volunteers, and will be handed down to future scorn and infamy as a member of the 'Shoddy Aristocracy.' 'And now, continued Mr. Pepper's Ghost, 'that I have shown you these illustrations of your wickedness as a rich man, how do you feel?'"'Well,' responded old Pursimmons, 'to tell the truth, I feel greatly bored and very sleepy.'"'And you wont bestow all your wealth upon the next poor widow with six small children?'"'Not exactly.'"'Nor at least one half of it upon the Mission for the Regeneration of the starving Choctaw Nation?'"'I'd rather be excused.'"'Well, then,' exclaimed Mr. Pepper's Ghost, plaintively, 'wont you—wontyou, obligemewith—a loan of five dollars?'"'Yes—if you will take greenbacks.'"At the word, Mr. Pepper's Ghost uttered a scream of despair, smote its breast frantically, and gave the chair upon which old Pursimmons had just seated himself such a vicious kick that the flinty-hearted banker suddenly awoke, found it all a dream, and,—went outrageously to sleep again; thereby giving convincing proof of that utter callousness of soul which all worthy poor men know to be the sure accompaniment of riches!"
"MR. PEPPER'S GHOST.
"In the heart of a great city, whose corruption and wickedness in continually growing larger and richer, were evident to every smaller, and, consequently, more pious, town on the globe, dwelt a shamefully rich banker, named Pursimmons, who, notwithstanding his vile and enormous wealth, had refused to give it all to the virtuous poor. That it was utterly impossible for such a man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven need not be told; since we all know that honest poverty, alone, can hope for such entrance; and as poverty covers at least three-fourths of the human race, and is invariably honest, according to its own touching account, there is likely to be enough of it to fill up all the standing room in Paradise, leaving no space for even the repentant wretch of a millionaire. Hence, it naturally follows, that old Pursimmons was miserable, with all his wealth. In fact, a slim, black-dressed gentleman of much spectacles and severe countenance, who had vainly solicited him to subscribe for ten thousand extra-gilt copies of his new work on 'The Relation of Sunday Schools with the Moral Organism of Normal Creation,' to be sent to the starving heathen of the Choctaw Nation, was heard to remark, emphatically, that he would rather be 'a ignorant but religious slave in the desert of Sahara, my brethren, than that godless man with all his filthy lucre.' Therefore, old Pursimmonsmusthave been a continual prey to the most horrible twinges of guilty conscience that any one man, in the abundant excess of his own spiritual serenity, ever attributed to another of different views. All the year did this unhappy but fleshy old man sin against everything that is poor and pious by accepting all—ay, all!—the profits his business was iniquitous enough to produce; and even rode in a carriage; though hundreds of noble-hearted Irishmen in the honest brick and mortar business had to walk,—ay, walk!—becoming so terribly exhausted thereby as to be invariably compelled to pause for rest, on their way home, at some humble liquor establishment. When Christmas Eve came round, it found this enemy of his race meanly retiring to bed, instead of scouring the highways and byways in search of reduced private families who might at that very moment be despairingly praying to have his last cent at their disposal. A man so thoroughly bad could not fail to be a pitiable coward, and it is not at all surprising that he was somewhat startled to suddenly perceive, between himself and his scandalously-comfortable bed, Mr. Pepper's Ghost!—the very same ghost once in full blow at all our moral temples of the drama. 'Unreal Novelty!' exclaimed old Pursimmons, chewing the strings of his night-cap, 'hie thee away to thy native footlights; or, if thou must keep somebody awake all night, betake thee to some great tragedian when Shakspeare's murder lies heavy on his soul.' Mr. Pepper's Ghost winked with great archness as it replied: 'Ghosts have no terrors for the sons of Thespis, who are even merry with a ghost—of a chance to get their salaries. My mission is to you, to whom I must a wholesome lesson teach. Behold!'
"The spirit waved its hand, and lo! one whole side of the vile banker's chamber fell magically away, disclosing to view a room entirely destitute of velvet carpet and pictures by the Old Masters. On a sofa reclined a middle-aged young girl, whose poor dress of braidless merino was so inclemently low in the neck as to suggest for its down-trodden wearer a purse too scanty to procure a sufficiency of material. The daughter of penury had just reached the hundred and fifty-second exciting page of the cheap but excellent work of fiction she was reading, when a door opened and her crushed husband entered, smoking his meerschaum.
"'Old boy,' said the Ghost, 'do you remember that man?'
"'Yes,' responded the banker, sadly; 'he came to me yesterday for some money to keep him from starvation; and as he would not take 'greenbacks,' I did not help him.'
"'Listen,' said the Ghost.
"The crushed husband threw himself into a chair which was not covered with Solferino satin, and ate a peanut.
"'Well, what luck?' asked the daughter of penury.
"'Old Pursimmons has refused, and I'—
"'And you!!'—
"'Must'—
"'Must?'—
"'Support myself!!!'
"It was too much. The daughter of penury fainted, the crushed husband sniffed aloud, and the landlady knocked at the door for the week's board.
"As this agonizing picture of human misery faded away, old Pursimmons turned with an inaudible groan to Mr. Pepper's Ghost:
"'And I,' said he,—'and I am the cause of this woe?'
"The spectre silently and solemnly nodded an awful affirmative, and waved its hand for another scene.
"This time, the presentment was the interior of a shop, around which were shelves full of boxes containing all sorts of delicious little gaiters, ties, slippers, bootees and kid pumps, whilst the same kind of articles hung suspended from various hooks and pegs on the wall. On a bench in one corner of this shop, busily working upon a dainty pink satin gaiter-boot, was a narrow young man of pensive countenance, weak eyes, pink nose and an intellectual head of hair, in a workman's paper cap manufactured from an admirable weekly journal of romance.
"As the deeply-affected banker gazed upon this figure, he sorrowfully murmured: 'Ah! that is the deep-voiced youth who last week desired of me five hundred dollars to insure the publication of his new novel of Fashionable Life, which was destined to instantly sweep Dickens, Victor Hugo, Thackeray, and other demoralizing writers from the field of literature.'
"'Yes!' said Mr. Pepper's Ghost, severely; 'and your miserly refusal to aid struggling genius with your miserable wealth has driven a giant intellect into the ladies' shoemaking business. In which,' added the spectre, 'I am bound to say, that he is doing tolerably well.'
"The guilty old banker buried his face in his trembling hands; and when he looked up again, the vision had changed, and he saw before him the inside of a soldier's tent on the banks of the Rapidan, with two gentle Zouaves arraying themselves in their new uniforms, which had just arrived. Owing to some trifling mental aberration, accompanied by hiccups, which often attacks the members of an army confined to damp localities, these two troops had somehow mistaken their jackets for their pants, and were struggling with Herculean strength to thrust their dainty nether limbs into the sleeves of the first-named garments. After an animated struggle of about a quarter of an hour, something was heard to tear; whereupon, one of the Zouaves tore his fractured jacket from his limbs, and dashed it furiously to the ground, hurling imprecations upon all hard-hearted wretches who coined money by making clothing out of rotten rags for the glorious defenders of their homes and firesides.
"'Old boy,' thundered Mr. Pepper's Ghost, reproachfully, 'did you not have an interest with your brother, the —— street tailor, in that Government contract for uniforms?'
"'I did,' replied the mournful banker.
"'Then behold,' said the spirit, 'how you have earned the eternal hate of your country's gallant volunteers, and will be handed down to future scorn and infamy as a member of the 'Shoddy Aristocracy.' 'And now, continued Mr. Pepper's Ghost, 'that I have shown you these illustrations of your wickedness as a rich man, how do you feel?'
"'Well,' responded old Pursimmons, 'to tell the truth, I feel greatly bored and very sleepy.'
"'And you wont bestow all your wealth upon the next poor widow with six small children?'
"'Not exactly.'
"'Nor at least one half of it upon the Mission for the Regeneration of the starving Choctaw Nation?'
"'I'd rather be excused.'
"'Well, then,' exclaimed Mr. Pepper's Ghost, plaintively, 'wont you—wontyou, obligemewith—a loan of five dollars?'
"'Yes—if you will take greenbacks.'
"At the word, Mr. Pepper's Ghost uttered a scream of despair, smote its breast frantically, and gave the chair upon which old Pursimmons had just seated himself such a vicious kick that the flinty-hearted banker suddenly awoke, found it all a dream, and,—went outrageously to sleep again; thereby giving convincing proof of that utter callousness of soul which all worthy poor men know to be the sure accompaniment of riches!"
As Villiam ceased reading, we all retired silently from the tent, greatly improved by what we had heard. And now, my boy, let me conclude with a little story of my own:
Some months ago, a certain western General gave an order to an Eastern contractor for a couple of peculiarly made gunboats for his service; but, happening to pass the White House, shortly after, saw what he took to be the models of two just such gunboats protruding out of one of the windows. Thinking that the President had concluded to attend to the matter himself, he immediately telegraphed to the contractor not to go on with the job.
Quite recently, the contractor came here again, and says he to the General,—
"I'd like to see the model of those White-House gunboats."
The General conducted him toward the White House, my boy, and the two stood admiring the models, which protruded from the window as usual.
Pretty soon a Western Congressman came along, and says the contractor to him:
"Can you tell me, sir, whether those models of gunboats up there are on exhibition?"
"Gunboats!" says the Western chap, looking. "Do you take those things for gunboats?"
"Of course," says the contractor.
"Why, you fool!" says the Congressman, "those are the Secretary's boots. The Secretary always sits with his feet out of the window when he is at home, and those are the ends of his boots!"
Without another word, my boy, the General and the contractor turned gloomily from the spot, convinced that they had witnessed the most terrific feet of the campaign.
Yours, merrily,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER C.
GIVING DIVERS INSTANCES OF STRANGELY-MISTAKEN IDENTITY; AND REVEALING A WISE METHOD OF SAVING THE COUNTRY FROM BANKRUPTCY.
Washington, D.C., March 5th, 1864.
This gray-headed pen of mine, my boy,—which is mightier than the sword, inasmuch as it can, itself, "draw" the sword when it chooses, quite as accurately as any pencil-vanian,—has run the blockade recently imposed upon it, and once more gambols nervously down the lines of contemporaneous military history. When first I heard that aphorism of the elegant and ghostly Bulwer, by which the sober sceptre of the scribe is magnified above the fancy-dress weapon of the hero, I took it to be like any other high-sounding sentiment of the stage, whereby the poor but virtuous editor was nobly and improvingly encouraged to believe himself rather more powerful in this universe than all its great captains put together. Being a child of the pen myself, I felt benignantly inflated by the venerable "Richelieu's" excellent remark, and looked with much generous pity upon a crushed young army officer in the box next to mine; but, at the same time, I remember that it reminded me of the exceedingly moral popular delusion making starving virtue a much pleasanter and more admirable thing to possess than a king's crown; and I also remember how it thereupon dawned upon me, that the pen was possibly mightier than the sword only in the far-removed sense of Might being Write. Since I have lived in Washington, however, I have learned, my boy, that the sentiment in question is capable of demonstration as a very plain fact; seeing, as I do, that off-hand strokes of the pen can in a very few minutes promote into Major Generals and Brigadiers certain pleasing brass-buttoned chaps whose actual swords could never have done as much for them in all their lives. And yet, my boy, if all those powerful, unsordid creatures, our country editors, had their youths to live over again, I verily believe that two-thirds of them would sooner be put to the sword than put to the pen. Such is man!
Nevertheless, mighty as the pen may be, it must fail equally with the well-known Southern Confederacy to do justice to this Capital of our distracted country in its present social peculiarities. The cackling of geese once saved the Capitol of the Roman Empire, my boy; but it will take more geese than those who have come hither with the expectation of being respected for their virtues, to save Washington from permanent investment by all the speculative chaps on earth who have no other capital to invest. The present social circle around the family hearth of this Capitalian and Congressional town, my boy, is somewhat more remarkable than it was, even in the palmiest and most mutually abusive days of our eloquent National Legislature, and fully equals the frequent domestic symposium of Albany when the State Legislature meetthere. Look into a Washington home, and you shall find the venerable grandfather, who sits nearest the fire, talking and chuckling to himself over his success that day in depreciating the national currency by first frightening a country squire on the street almost into fits by prating learnedly about "repudiation," and then buying all his treasury notes from him at fifty per cent. discount! Next sits the younger husband and father, cataloguing to his devoted wife, with the forefinger of his right hand upon all the fingers of his left, the successive pecuniary advantages sure to accrue from a contract he has just obtained to supply our national troops with patent suspenders, and which will enable him to return to New York in the spring, purchase a palatial residence on Fifth Avenue, and sign urgent and influential calls for Peace Conventions. Thirdly, my boy, we have the interesting wife and mother who listens to her lord and master's revelation with beaming satisfaction, glancing occasionally at her youthful son and heir, who, with two thimbles, is practising upon the rug at her feet the curious and ingenious game of the "Little Joker," whereby he hopes to reap profit from his small associates on the morrow. The fourth figure of this prayerful group around the home altar is the highly elaborated daughter, reading over her lover's shoulder, from a newspaper held conveniently by him, a spicy, exciting, moral tale of a daring spirit who had sold a sloop-load of hay, just as it floated, to the Government, and then—when he had got his pay—set fire to it and burnt the whole concern so effectually, that very few could presume to think that at least two-thirds of it had been old straw.
It is a noble and beautiful thing to remember, or note, my boy, that the true and real Home,—the shrine of parental Love and Honor, and of childhood's Innocence and fearless trust,—is ever held sanctified by an unseen angel-circle, into which a few men can bring even so much of the scheming outer world as its cares; that its name, long, perhaps, after it has ceased to be, lives for our voices only in that plaintive medium tone, which, like the master-string of an instrument responding to a passionate touch, sums up, by its very cadence, all the noblest music of a life.
It is this state of things in Washington that greatly confuses the stranger, and causes him to make strange and horrible mistakes as to personal identities. On Monday afternoon, as I stood musing in front of Willard's, after a dispassionate conversation with the Conservative Kentucky Chap as to the probability of Kentucky's consenting to the setting apart of the first of January as New-Year's day, I overheard a conversation between a middle-aged chap of much vest pattern from the rural districts, and one of the Provost Marshal's disguised detectives. The rural chap chewed a wisp of straw which he had been using as a toothpick, and says he:
"That gentleman in a broad-brim hat, going along on the other side of the street, is a prominent New York politician,—is he not?"
The detective involuntarily rattled a pair of miniature handcuffs which were hanging from his watch-chain, and says he:
"Ha! ha! truly! That's a queer mistake. Why, that's Nandy Brick, the incendiary and negro-killer."
Not at all discouraged by this failure at guessing, my boy, the rural chap glanced knowingly at another passer-by, and says he:
"Well, this here other one who just went by is the French Minister, I believe?"
"Really!" says the detective, with a slight cough, "Really, you're wrong again, for that's 'Policy Loo,' the notorious Mexican murderer and thief."
The rural chap bit his right thumb-nail irritatedly, and says he:
"At any rate, I know who yonder tall, gentlemanly person in the black gloves is. It's a famous leader of fashions from Fifth Avenue."
The detective opened his eyes widely at this, and says he:
"Why, there you miss it again. I think I ought to know 'Slippery Jim,' who got that fat contract to supply the army with caps, and made half of them of shoddy."
The chap from the rural districts seemed very much ashamed of himself, my boy, for doing such a wrong to our admirable and refined Best Society; but he was bound to try it once more, and so says he, shortly:
"Perhaps you'll tell me that fleshy individual in a black silk vest, coming this way, an't the British Minister?"
"Wrong again, by thunder!" says the detective; "for all the world knows that respectable cove to be 'Neutral John,' the celebrated rebel-spy and blockade-runner."
Indeed, appearances go so entirely by contraries here, that I really fear, my boy,—I really fear, that many of our veritable great politicians, diplomatists, and Missouri Delegates, are frequently taken for unmitigated rogues by blundering amateurs in physiognomy.
It was on Wednesday that the Venerable Gammon being seized with a fresh and powerful inspiration to confer a new benefaction on his favorite infant, his country, came post haste from his native Mugsville, and was quickly blessing the idolatrous populace in front of the Treasury Buildings with some knowledge of his benevolent scheme for paying the cost of the War.
"War?" says the Venerable Gammon, fatly,—pronouncing the word as though he had just invented it for the everlasting benefit of some poor but virtuous language,—"War costs money, and money costs gold. What we want is gold, to pay for the money that pays for the war. And where shall we get that gold?" says the Venerable Gammon, with a smile of knowing beneficence.
"By reference to a California journal, I find that California and Nevada contain about twenty columns of gold mines, and that each mine is worth so many millions that its directors are obliged to levy daily assessments of Five, Ten, and Twenty-five cents per share, or 'loot,' in order that the shareholders, in their immense wealth, may not forget that their distracted country has a decimal currency to be countenanced and supported. Now I propose," says the Venerable Gammon, magisterially pulling out his ruffles with his fat thumb and forefinger, "I propose that the War debt and the board of our Major Generals be paid by an especial tax on these mines, thus"—
"Killing the goose which lays the golden egg," broke in an aged Treasury Clerk standing near, whose countenance possessed all the oppressive respectability that large spectacles and a pimple on the nose can possibly bestow.
The Venerable Gammon was hereupon seized with such a violent fit of coughing that farther argument was impracticable; and it is not decided to this day whether it would be in keeping with the eternal fitness of things to tax the miners to pay the majors.
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER CI.
EXPLAINING THE WELL-MEANT DUPLICITY OF THE JOURNALS OF THE OPPOSITION; AFFORDING ANOTHER GLIMPSE OF THE IRREPRESSIBLE CONSERVATIVE SENTIMENT; AND SHOWING HOW THANKSGIVING DAY WAS KEPT BY THE MACKERELS.
Washington, D.C., Dec. 10th, 1864.
Thanksgiving Day, my boy, is an able-bodied national festival which has dwelt unctuously in all my less spiritual annual reminiscences, since that poetical and beautiful time of life when the touching innocence of childhood tempted me to surreptitiously pick a chicken-leg while my good grandfather was asking a blessing; and to receive therefor that wholesome box of the ears, which not unfrequently imparts a temporary and excessive warmth to the brain of virtuous boyhood. 'Tis sweet to remember that old-fashioned Thanksgiving Eve, my boy, when the venerable and widowed Mrs. McShane, our cook, would renew her annual custom of inveigling us children into the kitchen on pretence of admiring our new shoes; and then proceed, by divers artful and melancholy phrases, to darken our little souls with a heart-sickening conviction of her utter failure to procure, in her recent trip to market, that long-anticipated Turkey! 'Tis pleasant to recollect how entirely we were cast down thereat, and how rigidly we refrained from so much as a single glance toward the old "Dresser," whereon stood the well-known market-basket of Mrs. McShane, with the plump legs of the choicest of gobblers protruding very obviously therefrom! 'Tis joyous to recall how we stared mercilessly at every possible thing in the kitchen except that "Dresser;" and how desolately we received certain sadly-philosophical remarks from Mrs. McShane, as to the unspeakable admiration assuredly merited by those "rale good childers," who could, for one Thanksgiving Day, endure starvation without tears.
The little deception was most tenderly and kindly meant, my boy; it was the artless roguery of a dear old heart—the gentlest of cheats—the fondest of frauds; and the very remembrance of it, at this remote moment, not only fills my manly bosom with the softest charity, but endows me with a nicer mental perception of actual good in seeming wickedness, than any yet disclosed by my more obtuse fellow-countrymen.
Thus, my boy, when I note how some of our excellent Democratic daily journals attempt to prove, with great sadness of manner and profound sincerity of reluctant reasoning, that all the celebrated advances, conquests, and flankings of our remarkable national armies are really so many heart-breaking defeats in deep disguise; and that the well-known Southern Confederacy is actually quite intoxicated with its continued remorseless successes over us; when I note this, my boy, I am moved to pleasant tears over that inherent and ineradicable goodness of human nature, which instinctively inspires the nobler of our species to first delude their fellow-beings to despondency with the most innocent of falsehoods, only that their consummate bliss may be the greater when the glorious truth can no longer be thus fondly concealed. Join with me, my boy, in a noble tribute of affection to the humble but tender Editors of these excellent Democratic daily journals, who would lovingly make us, children of the nation, believe, that the Turkey of Victory is not to be had at any price, though none of us need look very far to see the plump legs of that very same turkey sticking out of the family-basket. Thanks to thee, thou dear old Mrs. McShane, with thy perpetual atmosphere of roast-beef gravy, and eternal rims of crusted flour about thy finger-nails—thanks be to thee for that humanizing remembrance of thy loving fraud, which thus enables me to rescue our excellent Democratic daily journals from the unseemly imputations of degenerate Black Republicans.
My long absence with our somewhat tedious national troops, my boy,—troops now constituting a flaming about the throat of this exciting Rebellion;—my long absence, I say, has given this Capital City of our distracted country an opportunity to thrive apace in the development of those public and private virtues, which so thoroughly unpopularize Vice in this chaste locality, that even the Vice President is never heard of. True it is, that one misses those pleasant and gorgeous chaps of much watch-chain and an observable extent of diamond breastpin, who were wont, in the days of genial Southern preponderance, to lend lustre to the hall-ways of the more majestic hotels, and occasionally induce the inebriated son of Chivalry to join them at Faro his table. We miss these light and airy chaps, each of whom is now an unblushing Confederacy without hope of Reconstruction; we miss the high and lofty Carolina chap of much hat-brim, whose playful moments after the bottle were now and then illustrated with a lively shot from a revolver at a waiter, or cheerful pass with a bowie-knife at his opponent in conversation. And oh! we miss those languishing magnolia belles, whose eyes always reminded me of fresh drops of ink on tinted paper, and whose beautiful belief in the utter vulgarity of all Northern ladies it was really quite delightful to hear. Yes, my boy, all, all are gone; but we have in their places such representatives of genuine republican simplicity as you shall not see again in a circuit of the globe. Our hotel-halls are brightened by youthful forms in the self-sacrificing uniform of our national army; and these youthful forms, being mostly from the country, confine their innocent gaming, almost exclusively, to the athletic game of "checkers." The prominent walking-gentlemen of Willard's wear black velvet vests all the year round, and, so far from shooting waiters, are always on the most familiar terms with that oppressed race; joking freely with them and recognizing them as intimate equals, as all genuine citizens of a true Republic should do. And as for our present Washington ladies,—wearing Lisle-thread gloves at the dinner-table and putting almonds and raisins into their pockets before leaving it, God bless 'em!—why they know no more of anything vulgar, than a maniac does of insanity.
Reflecting upon these things, on Monday last, my boy, I strolled abstractedly into an establishment where they sell army stores, such as lemons by the slice, sugar by the half-ounce, etc. I strolled dreamily in, when who should I see at the crockery-counter but the Conservative Kentucky chap, whose hat was very far down over his eyes, like one who has just come through a severe election. He appeared to be taking Richmond at the moment, my boy, with a spoon in it; and as quickly as I entered, he let the hand grasping it fall suddenly down on his obverse side, and gave his entire and most unremitting attention to the picture of a flesh-colored young lady on the farthest wall. I slapped him on the shoulder, and says I:
"Well, my ancient Talleyrand, how are we?"
The Conservative Kentucky chap gloomily placed his tumbler upon the stomach of a gentleman in checked pants, who was calmly sleeping on three chairs near the stove, and says he: "Kentucky can no longer blind herself to the fact that we are on the brink of a monikky. Yes!" exclaimed the Conservative chap,—wildly tearing off his hat, and then putting it on again so that it entirely covered his left eye,—"Yes, sir, a monikky with a Yankee for its Austrian tyrant!"
Here the Conservative Kentucky chap deliberately buttoned his coat to the very neck, turned up his collar, and gazed sternly at a bowl of cloves near by. I called his attention to the Ten of Spades, which was edging itself down between his hat and his right ear, and says I,—
"Hast proof of this, Horatio?"
"Proof?" says the Conservative Kentucky chap, with such a start that the gentleman in the checked pants vibrated as though sleeping on springs,—"Proof? You know Smith,—John Smith,—that little apothecary from Connecticut? Well, sir, he voted in this here last election for the Austrian usurper, and now he's knighted! Yes, sir, by A. Lincoln's recommendation he's nowSir John Smith!! I've heard him called so myself. And this—this—is Kentucky's reward!"
At this crisis the Conservative Kentucky chap shut the stove-door with great violence, and seemed for a moment to meditate personal outrage on the young assistant oysterer, who had just arrived with the coal-skuttle.
Before I could make rejoinder, my boy, there approached us a middle-aged gentleman in a shocking bad hat and an overcoat very shiny about the seams, who had cordially invited himself to take a little something that morning, and had accepted the invitation with pleasure. Straightening himself suddenly, with a violent start, to restrain an unruly hiccup, or make me believe that he made the noise with his feet, he eyed the Conservative chap with a benignant smile, and says he:
"You're mistaken there, sir,—muchly, sir, hem! Mr. Smith is my friend, sir; my bosom friend, till time shall end.—Beautiful idea, that.—My friend, I say; and he's only been appointed to the medical department by recommendation of the President.—Let nature do her best, and then your doctors are of use to men.—Byron.—Yes, sir, Mr. Smith is now a military doctor; and that's how you've made the mistake. You thought it was 'Sir John' Smith they said, when it was 'Sur-geon' Smith!"
As he said this, the middle-aged gentleman became aware that one of his toes was sticking very much through his boot, and retired to confidentially ask the assistant oysterer if any one had yet found that valuable diamond scarf-pin which he (the middle-aged gentleman) had recently lost.
I looked at the Conservative Kentucky chap, my boy, and his chin had sunk down upon his breast. He felt that his mistake was also the mistake of Kentucky, and his heart was too full for further conversation.
'Twas on Thursday morn,—Thanksgiving Day,—that I blithely scaled the heights of my faithful Gothic steed, the architectural Pegasus, and softly urged that ruined temple of a horse to trot me a lively reminiscence of his youth. Forward we went with a unique, chopping motion, with now and then a stumble to keep the blood in circulation, interpersed with occasional plunges at stumps and shyings at fluttering withered leaves. When you have mounted a beloved horse, on a fine, bracing autumnal morning, my boy, did you ever feel like a kind of new and superior being; as though you and your steed were one consummate individual, inspired by one bounding, uncontrollable impulse, and impatiently regarding the line of the horizon as a tyrannical limit to a ride that should else tear gallantly and recklessly forth into illimitable space? Did you ever feel thus, my boy?...
Because, if you did, your feelings were not at all like mine.
Onward we go, like a wrecked centaur before the wind, and soon these eager eyes behold once more the camp of the aged and thrice-valiant Mackerel Brigade. Far and near, the spectacles of the decrepit veterans are flashing in the sun; whilst before them is the much-besieged City of Paris, and behind them (in consequence of recent rains) the storied waters of Duck Lake. The veterans are clustered around Paris, my boy, like so many exceedingly thirsty chaps around the tall and well-spiked fence inclosing a cherished pump, and if ever they get at it, they will at least drink it dry. Scarcely had I reined-in, near the edge of Duck Lake, where certain members of Rear Admiral Head's iron-plated mackerel squadron were discharging cases and barrels by the score,—scarcely had I dismounted from the Gothic Pegasus and hitched him to the body of a slumbering Mackerel chap, who had already overdone his Thanksgiving, when I beheld Captain Villiam Brown approaching, on his geometrical steed, the angular Euclid. Following him, but on foot, was Captain Bob Shorty in command of the famous Conic Section of the Mackerel Brigade.
"Ha!" says Villiam, leaping down to meet me in dreadful entanglement with his sword, and hastily plunging into his bosom a small black bottle of regulation cough-drops, "have you flown hither like an narrer from a bow, to view the sublime spectacle of the troops at their feed? Ah!" says Villiam, quickly clasping his hands to save the bottle from slipping out of his breast-pocket, "the beautiful pageant of a nation feasting these martial beings on turkey, is something for besotted Europe to tremble at. Next to serving up ice-cream to the sailors in a gale of wind at sea, this"—
Here a venerable Mackerel tottered from the ranks, and says he: "Is them the birds in them ere cases and barrels, Capting?"
Villiam attempted to rattle his sword threateningly at this interruption; but observing that the hilt of his weapon had got around to his spine, he rattled the keys in his pockets instead, and says he:
"How now, Sarah!"
(He meant to say "sirrah," my boy,—he meant to say "sirrah;" having recently learned, from the perusal of a moral tale in one of our excellent weekly journals of exciting romance, that said aristocratic term is of frequent occurrence in all the conversations of the great.)
"Why," says the aged Mackerel, coughing into his hand, "if them's the turkeys the people have sent us for Thanksgiving, we're ready for 'em."
"You're right, Sarah," says Villiam, magnanimously, "and we'll open this first case at once. The trade-mark of this case," says Villiam, learnedly, "is '50 Turkeys with Care.'"
They were prying the lid off, my boy, with bayonets, and the eyes of the surrounding Mackerels had commenced to glisten fierily through their spectacles, when I saw Villiam and Captain Bob Shorty exchange looks of deep meaning, and shake their heads like a couple of melancholy mandarins.
"Robert S.," says Villiam, with a look of deep perplexity, "this is indeed a strange oversight."
Captain Bob Shorty shook his head sadly.
"And yet," says Villiam, sternly, "we must tell these beings about it."
"There's no avoiding it, by all that's Federal!" murmured Captain Bob Shorty.
Captain Villiam Brown sighed deeply, and says he:
"Soldiers, the people of the United States of America meant well in sending such beautiful birds for our Thanksgiving bankwick; but they've made a strange mistake. Really," says Villiam, toying with the cork of the bottle of cough-drops, as it protruded from his ruffles,—"really, I find, thatnot one of these Turkeys is stamped!"
At this juncture the same old Mackerel again stepped forward, and asked if the turkeys came by mail?
"No," says Villiam, with much sympathy of manner. "I don't mean postage-stamps, but the Internal Revenue. Turkeys," says Villiam, reasoningly, "come under the head of 'Unnecessary Luxuries,' and are not legal unless stamped. But," says Villiam, with sudden benignity, "your officers possess the necessary stamps, and will sell them to you at twenty-five cents apiece."
It was a beautiful proof of the untiring vigilance and energy of our national regimental officers, my boy, that they happened to have the stamps on hand just as they did; though, if there happened to be stamps required on geese, I am afraid that every Mackerel who paid his twenty-five cents would come in for one of those chaste little pictures on himself.
And now, the stamps being purchased and the New England eagles distributed, there commenced such a scene of martial revelry and good-nature as the world never saw before. In every direction—at the openings of tents—around open-air fires—everywhere, the jolly festival went on.
Strolling to the outer picket-line, I saw a Mackerel chap lay aside his gun, seat himself upon the ground, and commence handling a nice little turkey which had just been brought to him by a comrade. He smacked his lips audibly, my boy, and was just in the act of tearing off a "drumstick" when I saw him suddenly look up to a point ahead of him, and instantly cease all motion. Curious to know what had thus fascinated him, as it were, and so abruptly checked his feast, I also looked in that direction.
Right across the little field in front of us, seated on the last remaining post of a ruined fence, was a ragged Confederacy, in a perfect whirlpool of tatters, who had rested his musket upon the ground, and was alternately gnawing an army biscuit and casting longing looks toward his happier enemy. He was a dreadfully thin, hollow-eyed chap, my boy, and shivered in the cold. The Mackerel stared at him without motion for some minutes, and then commenced to handle his turkey again. Then he stared again, dropped his turkey, picked it up, and finally rose to his feet impatiently—looked toward his nearest comrade—and then seated himself with his back toward the Confederacy. Still the latter gnawed and looked longingly. The Mackerel said, "damme!" quite distinctly and stoutly, and vigorously grasped at a "drumstick" again. He gave it a twist, paused, wavered, andlooked over his shoulder.
In another instant, my boy, that Mackerel sprang to his feet, faced about, shouted:
"I'll do it, by G—d! if I swing for it"—dashed across the field like a stark madman, and, before the astonished Confederacy could budge an inch, had hurled the turkey into his arms and was tearing back to his own post.
There is a chivalry, my boy, that makes a man a hero with the sword of a patriot, or bears him triumphantly through perils and obstacles to the arms of the bride he has won. There is a chivalry that inspires a man to spurn with contempt the fortune not fraught with all honor, and gives him the graces of a gentleman through all the glooms and burdens of honest poverty. But in that grander Chivalry native to the soul, which raises the tenderness of our best humanity far above the highest point all enmity can reach, and lets it fall, like God's own dew, upon the other side, none, none more fairly ever won a knighthood, than that poor Mackerel picket-guard on last Thanksgiving Day.
Yours, gently,
Orpheus C. Kerr.