LETTER CII.
SHOWING THE INGENIOUS FINANCIAL ENERGY OF A GREATLY-REDUCED POLITICIAN; AND DESCRIBING A COMBAT, ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE PHILOSOPHICAL CONTENTMENT OF THE WELL-KNOWN SOUTHERN CONFEDERACY UNDER ALL REVERSES.
Washington, D.C., Dec. 17th, 1864.
It is a sublime thing, my boy,—a high moral and exciting thing,—to note a wealthy nation's outburst of gratitude to Providence and our national military organization, for a succession of Mackerel triumphs without parallel either in history or her story. As I look abroad upon the exulting hosts of our distracted fellow-countrymen from an upper front window of Willard's,—having first wafted a fascinating salute to the pleasing young woman of much back hair at a window across the avenue,—as I look abroad, my boy, upon this whole remarkable people, I am deeply impressed with a sense of that beautiful, national characteristic which makes us all buoyant over Mackerel victories only as they bring us nearer to virtuous peace and universal brotherhood, and am convinced that our otherwise inexpressible thankfulness to Heaven may be divided into two equal parts:
I. An ardent desire to destroy combined Europe.
II. A disposition to set fire to combined Europe, bringing off the women and children in small boats.
Hah, hah! does combined Europe tremble? Does C. E. offer a certain sum to be let off?
"Shall I ever forget, my boy, the recent terrible remark of that grim old sea-dog, Rear Admiral Head, just after that late tremendous capture of Fort Piano, on Duck Lake, by the Mackerel Chalybeate squadron,—shall I ever forget it?
"Chip my turret!" says that venerable salt, in his iron-plated manner,—"Chip my turret if I couldn't take my flag-ship, the 'Aitch,' and crush Europe like a perishing insect,—unrivet my plates if I couldn't!"
But why should I dwell upon the dreadful suggestions of a theme like this? Europe—crowded Europe—millions of people—bright summer morning—everybody in the streets—Bang! whiz!—Great combinations of the Lieutenant General—Victoria and Louis N., do you surrender?—Wedo!
Solemnly do I say to you, my boy, let us mix plenty of this sort of thing in our devout gratitude to Providence for His mercies to us as a people, and henceforth we may confidently count upon the support of Providence—Rhode Island.
Fairly and benignantly shone the blessed sun over valley and hill on the morning of that recent memorable day when I scaled the architectural heights of my Gothic Pegasus, and turned his front-elevation toward the Mackerel camp before the much-banged City of Paris. Brightly gleamed the fluted roof of my ancient pile of a steed as he went blithely forward on three legs, keeping one in reserve in case of accident: joyous was the alacrity with which he waltzed an imitative earthquake and tossed his child's-coffin of a head. The exhilaration of the motion, the proud sense of being borne again, might ultimately have plunged me into a delicious dream of being divided into two parts, my boy, had I not suddenly discovered, on the road-side, some twenty yards ahead of me, the figure of a being seated upon a camp-stool. Hastily dismounting from my architectural animal, and tying him to an oak in such a manner that he presented somewhat the perspective of a modest country church with a tree before the door, I stole carefully upon the being in my front, and found it to be the Conservative Kentucky chap, engaged in the muscular game of "Bluff" with himself.
His venerable hat, my boy, sat far down over his ears, like some shabby bird of night just stooping to carry off two oysters; a curious antiquity in the shape of a black stock loomed gloomily under his chin, as a memorial sepulchre in which some departed collar was supposed to be sacredly entombed; his face was toward Kentucky, and in his hands he was vivaciously shuffling a number of cards.
"Hum, hem!" soliloquized the Conservative Kentucky chap, complacently—"ten of spades—king of diamonds—king of hearts—ace of clubs—ace of hearts—ace of"—
Here the Conservative Kentucky chap uttered an absolutely startling cough and, at the same instant, passed three of the aces up his left sleeve!
"Yes," said the Conservative Kentucky chap, still to himself, "the pasteboards are all right—hem!—it's your deal. Ah! ten is it?—I'll go twenty better—forty—sixty! Hem! Ace and two Kings is it? Look here—three aces! Good-night, gents."—and the Conservative Kentucky chap at once sang, with triumphant and great effect:
"Four years the war have looked upon,But haven't brought the end meant;Nor anything except the Constitutional Amendment;Oh, Kentucky! an't this a go, Kentucky?Oh, Kentucky! an awful blow, Kentucky!"
"Four years the war have looked upon,But haven't brought the end meant;Nor anything except the Constitutional Amendment;Oh, Kentucky! an't this a go, Kentucky?Oh, Kentucky! an awful blow, Kentucky!"
"Four years the war have looked upon,
But haven't brought the end meant;
Nor anything except the Constitutional Amendment;
Oh, Kentucky! an't this a go, Kentucky?
Oh, Kentucky! an awful blow, Kentucky!"
As the last note of exquisite melody died away upon the air, I slapped him on the shoulder, and says I:
"Well done, my son of Hoyle!"
The Conservative Kentucky chap sprang wildly to his feet, my boy, simultaneously "making a pass" of the cards into his pocket, and commenced dancing insanely before me with a view of hiding from my notice the four of clubs, which he had dropped to the ground and was anxious to conceal in the mud.
"Ha! ha!" observed the Conservative Kentucky chap, somewhat hysterically, in the midst of his dance; "of course you didn't see what I was doing?"
Then it was, my boy, that I folded my arms after the manner of Hamlet, threw forward my right knee, shook my head profoundly thrice, and murmured, with the poet:
"Were his old mother near him now, how would that mother grieve,To see two aces in his hand,—another up his sleeve."
"Were his old mother near him now, how would that mother grieve,To see two aces in his hand,—another up his sleeve."
"Were his old mother near him now, how would that mother grieve,
To see two aces in his hand,—another up his sleeve."
"My mother!" exclaimed the Conservative Kentucky chap, suddenly descending into Cimmerian gloom; "Kentucky is my mother, and from her maternal fount I drew the old rye of my existence. But now, Kentucky becomes a indigent pauper under the Constitutional Amendment and the failure of the Bankrupt Bill, and I find myself compelled to take to bluff and poker in the prime of life." Here the poor chap made a move toward tearing his hair, but thought better of it and only scratched a pimple on his chin.
Arm in arm we walked slowly forward together, each busied with his own thoughts, until, from a clump of trees by the road-side, there unexpectedly emerged before us that ornament of our national service known as Captain Bob Shorty, with his cap at a fierce cock, his hands in his pockets, and a supernaturally knowing air clothing him as with a garment.
"By all that's Federal!" said Captain Bob Shorty, starting at sight of me, "if I didn't take you at first for that ere Confederacy of the name of Munchausen, which has privately appointed to meet me here in single combat."
"Why then, really, you know," observed the Conservative Kentucky chap, suddenly coming forward and pleasantly rubbing his hands, "really it would be a good plan for me to go forward and meet him with a view to peace negotiations. Being a Confederacy, he is Kentucky's brother," warbled the Conservative chap, with soft enthusiasm, "and I might tell him that you would pay all his debts, black his boots, run errands for him, and send the President to tell him a little story, if he would give up this conflict. Should he refuse, and even proceed to the extremity of kicking me," said the Conservative Kentucky chap, with awful sternness, "why, then, I should be in favor of letting the matter proceed to the bitter end,—as it had already in my own case."
"I am not aweer," observed Captain Bob Shorty, "that you have any business in the matter at all, my old Trojan; but there's the road open to you."
It was beautiful, my boy,—touchingly beautiful, and withal unctuous, to observe with what a benignant smile the peaceful Conservative Kentucky Chap departed up the road. We saw him reach a turn in the path, around which the sound of stately approaching footsteps was already becoming audible. We saw him turn it; heard all the footsteps cease; heard a confused murmur,—a sharp scratching as of heels upon gravel; and Kentucky's favorite son was observed to be coming again to his place, with a slight limp in his walk.
Right behind him came a remarkable being attired in fragments of gray cloth and a prodigious thicket of whiskers, through the latter of which his eyes glared yellowly, like the bottles in an apothecary's shop down the street. As he approached nearer, he hastily put on a pair of partially-dissected white cotton gloves, and casually rearranged the strip of carpet-binding which served him as a full-dress cravat.
"Yours, truly," said Captain Bob Shorty.
"Vandal!" hissed Captain Munchausen, removing from his brow an unexampled conglomeration of rags in the last stages of cap, and handing it to a faithful contraband who attended him.
"Why, then," said Captain Bob Shorty, doffing his own cap, and tucking up his sleeves, "in the name of the United States of America, I propose to move upon your works immediately."
And now, my boy, do I particularly lament my lack of those unspeakable intellectual gifts, which enable the more refined reporters of all our excellent moral daily journals to describe the fistic achievements of the noted Arkansas Mule and celebrated Jersey Bantam in a manner that delights every well-conducted breakfast-table in the land, and furnishes exquisite reading for private families.
Forward hopped Captain Bob Shorty, as though on springs,—his elbows neatly squared, his fists held up like a couple of apples on sticks, and his head poised as though it had just started to look round a corner. With fists to match, and eyes shining like the bottoms of glass bottles, the wary Munchausen scuffles cautiously back from him in a half circle. Now they make skips toward each other; and now they skip back. Anon an arm is raised, and is parried; and then they balance to partners; and then they hop back.
I was gazing at all this, my boy, in speechless admiration, when suddenly I saw the dexter hand of Captain Bob Shorty pierce the enemy's lines, and explode with tremendous force on Munchausen's nose. For a moment there was a sound as of Confederate blasphemy, but in a moment the chivalric Munchausen was himself again.
"Ah!" said Captain Bob Shorty, agreeably, "did you see the star-spangled banner that time?"
"Sir," said Munchausen, with tears in his eyes, "I am thankful that my noseisbroken. It is a blessing; for I had nothing to smell with it, and only wasted my strength in its special defence."
Here Captain Bob Shorty looked jovially at me, my boy, and says he, "By all that's Federal! an't he jolly?"
"Come on to thy ruin," roared Munchausen from behind his rapidly increasing nose; and again the battle raged.
Now did Captain Bob Shorty sidle to the left, with a view to flanking; but two columns of the enemy met him there. Next the agile Munchausen attempts, by a quick turn, to take him in the rear of his position, but finds a strong body of five divisions hurled upon his headquarters with an impetuosity that knocks out half his teeth.
"Art satisfied, Horatio?" said Captain Bob Shorty, with more or less Bowery Theatre in his manner.
An awful smile appeared upon what were left of the features of Captain Munchausen. It was so full of scorn, you know.
"Sir," said he, with much chivalry of bearing, and some difficulty of utterance, "my jaw may be broken, but I thank fate for it. It's a long time since I had anything to eat with my mouth, and to defend it at all was useless."
"Ha! ha! ha!" roared Captain Bob Shorty; "I really never did see anything so jolly."
"Madman!" yelled Munchausen, "your destruction is decided!"
Then were all the skips and hops repeated, my boy; with such ornamental bits of occasional fine art as the refined reporters of our excellent moral daily journals love to dwell fondly upon. Were I but such a reporter, I would describe the scene in a way to make you take it home to your children. But let me not waste time in lamentation; for, just then, a something heavy fell upon the right eye of Captain Munchausen, and effectually closed it for a week.
"Ah!" said Captain Bob Shorty, pleasantly, "did you count the stars upon our Flag that time, my grayback?"
"Sir," retorted Munchausen, staggering about, and wildly pulling handfuls of imperceptible hair out of invisible heads in the air,—"I consider the loss of that eye a blessing in disguise; for I can now concentrate mywholestrength on the other."
"Well, now, really," said Captain Bob Shorty,—"really, you know, I never see anything half so jolly."
"Extermination is now your doom," howled the Confederacy, reeling deliberately forward upon the first fist he met, and falling heavily to the ground with his other eye emphatically darkened.
Instantly was Captain Bob Shorty at his side, exclaiming, "I'm sorry for this, old chap. I wish you'd only consented to stop before—eh?" ejaculated Captain Bob Shorty,—"what's that you say?"
As true as I live and breathe, my boy,—as true as I live and breathe,—when Captain Bob Shorty put his ear to the mouth of the fallen Confederacy, he heard, slowly spoken, these remarkable words:
"I'm—glad—this—has—happened—because—I—can—now—develop—my—real—resources—of——strength!!!"
Yours, speechlessly,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER CIII.
BEING ANOTHER AND FINAL CHRISTMAS REPORT; INCLUDING A SMALL STORY FROM OUR UNCLE ABE; A CIRCULAR FROM THE SECRETARY OF STATE; A SUPERNATURAL CAROL FROM SERGEANT O'PAKE; AND A TREMENDOUS GHOST STORY FROM AN UNAPPRECIATED GENIUS.
Washington, D.C., Dec. 27th, 1864
Upon these holy anniversary-days of "Peace on Earth, good-will toward men," the American human mind is naturally prone to regret that the well-known Southern Confederacy still survives, in a degree, all its inexpressible spankings, and still compels the noblest of us to pour out our substitutes like water. You, my boy, have poured out your substitute; other great and good men have poured outtheirsubstitutes, and your devoted pockets bleed at every pour.
O war! thirsty and strategical war! how dost thou pierce the souls of all our excellent Democratic journals, against whom the increased war-tax on whiskey is an outrage not to be mentioned without swearing.
On Christmas-day, my boy, there came to this city a profound Democratic chap of much stomach, who wore a seal-ring about as large as a breakfast-plate, and existed in a chronic condition of having the bosom of his shirt unbuttoned to such a degree as to display picturesquely the red flannel underneath. He ran for Sheriff of Squankum last month, my boy; and having been defeated with great slaughter, concluded that all was gall and bitterness, and that he couldn't do better than come to Washington and improve the President's mind.
At the time of the interview, our Honest Abe was sitting before the fire, peeling an apple with a jack-knife; and the fact that part of his coat-collar was turned inside, did not lessen in him that certain generous dignity which hale good-nature ever wears, as morning wears the sun.
"Mr. President," says the profound Democratic chap, spitting with dazzling accuracy into a coal-hod on the opposite side of the room; "I call upon you to-day, sir, not as a politician, but as a friend. And as a friend, sir"—here the Democratic chap wore a high-moral look, and his shirt-bosom yawned as though eager to take all the world into the red-hot depths of his affectionate flannel heart,—"as a friend, sir, I feel bound to tell you, that your whole administrative policy is wrong; and as for your Emancipation Proclamation, it has had no effect at all, as I can see."
Here the profound Democratic chap stuck a cheap bone eyeglass into his right eye, and seemed to think that he rather had him there.
The Honest Abe peeled his apple, and says he:
"Neighbor, the sane men of all parties think differently from you in that matter."
"That proves, I suppose," says the Democratic chap, wrathfully, "that I'm a lunatic."
The Honest Abe ate a piece of apple, and says he:
"Not at all, neighbor; not all; nothing so serious as that. But talking about what a difference of opinion 'proves,'" says the Honest Abe, balancing one boot upon the toe of the other, and smiling peacefully at his jack-knife; "talking about what it 'proves,' reminds me of a small tale:
"When I was a law-student out in Illinois, and wore spectacles to appear middle-aged and respectable, we had in our district-court the case of a venerable Sucker, who was prosecuting another man for spreading a report that he was insane, and greatly damaging his business thereby. The defendant made reply, that he had honestly supposed the plaintiff to be insane on one point, at least, and that was the motion of the world around the sun. This motion was deniedin totoby the plaintiff, who had frequently, of late, greatly astonished everybody and shocked the schoolmaster, by persisting in the assertion that the world did not spin round at all, inasmuch ashehad never seen it spin round.
"Various witnesses were called for both sides," says the Honest Abe, pleasantly scratching his chin; "various ones were called, to testify as to whether such difference of opinion from all the rest of mankind would seem to prove the insanity of the venerable Sucker; but nothing decisive was arrived at until old Doctor Dobbles was examined. Old Dobbles," says the Honest Abe, winking softly to himself, "was not quite such a teetotaler as may be told about in the 'Lives of the Saints,' and when he took the stand we expected something.
"Says the Court to old Dobbles:
"'In your opinion, doctor, does a man's denial that the world turns round, inasmuch as he has never seen it go round, prove his insanity?'
"'No,' says Dobbles.
"'Ah!' says the Court, 'what then?'
"'Why,' says old Dobbles, deliberately, 'if a man denies that the world goes round, and has neverseenit go round, it simply proves that he—never was drunk.'
"As it happened," says the Honest Abe, balancing his jack-knife on the tips of all his fingers; "as it happened that the Court himself had frequently seen the world go round, the justice of the idea flashed upon him at once, and the defendant was found guilty of six dollars' damages, and ordered to treat the Court.
"Now," says the Honest Abe, with a winning smile, "I am far from inferring, neighbor, that you have never been intoxicated; but it seems to me, that when you say the Proclamation has had no effect at all, it proves you can't be speaking soberly."
The profound Democratic chap came away, my boy, with a singing in his head, and has been so tremendously confused ever since, that he asked me this morning at Willard's, if I thought, that what we of war see is anything like what Thaddeus of Warsaw.
On Monday, while I was on my way to the Mackerel camp, before Paris, to be present at the usual Christmas song-singing and story-telling in the tent of Captain Villiam Brown, I met an affable young chap, driving a wagon, in which were some thousands of what appeared to be newly-printed circulars. I knew that the young chap came from a large printing-office in the lower part of the city, and says I:
"Tell me, my young Phæton, what have we here?"
The affable young chap closed one eye waggishly at a handy young woman who was cleaning the upper windows of a house near by, and says he:
"These here, are five thousand copies of a blank form, just printed down at our place for the State Department. And I should think," says the affable young chap, taking a dash at a small boy who had just "cut behind" his cart—"I should think that pile ought to last a month, at least, though the last one didn't."
I made bold to examine a copy of the blank form in question, my boy, and found it to read as follows:
"City of Washington, U.S.A.,}Department of State.}"Dear Sir:"Permit me to beg you will inform the Government of ——, so admirably represented by you, that the Government of the United States entirely disapproves the action of the Commander of the ——, in the matter of —— ——, and will make whatever reparation may be deemed adequate therefor by the Government of ——."With the profoundest respect, I am your Excellency's most obedient humble servant, —— ——."His Excellency—— ——.Minister from——."
"City of Washington, U.S.A.,}Department of State.}
"Dear Sir:
"Permit me to beg you will inform the Government of ——, so admirably represented by you, that the Government of the United States entirely disapproves the action of the Commander of the ——, in the matter of —— ——, and will make whatever reparation may be deemed adequate therefor by the Government of ——.
"With the profoundest respect, I am your Excellency's most obedient humble servant, —— ——.
"His Excellency—— ——.
Minister from——."
As I read this document, I thought to myself: Verily my distracted country's Secretary of State wishes to save as much writing as possible; and who knows but that he is like one of our own frontier riflemen, who kneels only that he may take the more deliberate aim at the heart of the wolf?
And now, as I push on again for my destination, let me say to you, my boy, that few who read my wonderfully lifelike picture of Mackerel strategy and carnage, have any idea of the awful perils constantly assailing a reliable war-correspondent of the present day.
Thus: during a great battle which I attended in Accomac, a piece of shell tore off my head,—that is to say, the head of my cane.
At the second battle of Paris, while I was in the act of taking notes of the prevailing strategy, a cannon-ball took my legs off,—that is to say, the legs of my camp-stool.
In the summer of '62, as I was sitting in the doorway of my tent, on the shores of Duck Lake, a case-shot, of immense size, entered my chest,—that is to say, the chest in which I carry my linen.
Cherish me, my boy, make much of me; for there is no telling how soon some gory discharge of artillery may send me to join the angel-choir.
But here we are in the tent of Captain Villiam Brown; and the manner in which the Mackerel officers are clustered about the round table in the centre, reminds me of flies around a lump of sugar—supposing a lump of sugar to be shaped exactly like a portly black bottle.
Sergeant O'Pake rises with a manuscript in his band, and says he:
"Comrades,—let me read to you a weird legend, of which I am the sole author and proprietor, and to which I would draw your most political attention."
And the sergeant forthwith delivered this remarkable poetical report of
"THE IRISHMAN'S CHRISTMAS."Hic!"—Terence."Ould Mother Earth makes Irishmen her universal pride,You'll find them all about the world, and ev'rywhere beside;And good Saint Peter up above is often feeling tired,Because of sainted Irishmen applying to be hired."Thus, being good and plentiful, 'tis proper we should findA spacious house stuck full of them where'er we have a mind,And unto such an edifice our present tale will reach,With sixty nice, convaynient rooms—a family in each."No matter where it stands at all; but this we'll let you know,It constitutes itself alone a fashionable row;And when a bill of "Rooms to let" salutes you passing by,You see recorded under it, "No Naygurs need apply.""Now, Mr. Mike O'Mulligan and servant boarded here,—At least, his wife at service spent a portion of the year,—And when, attired in pipe and hod, he left his parlor-door,You felt the country had a vote it didn't have before."Not much was M. O'Mulligan to festive ways inclined;For chiefly on affairs of State he bent his giant mind;But just for relaxation's sake he'd venture now and then,To lead a jig, or break a head, like other Irishmen."Says Mrs. Mike O'Mulligan, when Christmas came, said she:'Suppose we give a little ball this evening after tea;The entry-way is broad enough to dance a dozen pairs,And thim that doesn't wish to dance can sit upon the stairs.'"'And sure,' said M. O'Mulligan, "'I don't object to that;But mind ye ask the girls entire, and ev'ry mother's Pat;I'd wish them all, both girls and boys, to look at me and see,That, though I'm School Commissioner, I'm noways proud,' says he."The matter being settled thus, the guests were notified,And none to the O'Mulligans their presences denied;But all throughout the spacious house the colleens went to fix,And left the men to clane themselves and twirl their bits of sticks."'Twas great to see O'Mulligan, when came the proper hour,Stand smiling in the entry-way, as blooming as a flower,And hear him to each lady say, 'Well now, upon me sowl!Ye look more like an angel than like any other fowl.'"And first came Teddy Finnigan, in collar tall and wide,With Norah B. O'Flannigan demurely by his side;And Alderman O'Grocery, and Councilman Maginn,And both the Miss Mulrooneys, and the widowed Mrs. Flynn."The Rileys, and the Shaunesseys, and Murphys all were there,Both male and female creatures of the manly and the fair;And crowded was the entry-way to such a great degreeThey had to take their collars off to get their breathing free."O'Grady with his fiddle was the orchestra engaged,He tuned it on the banisters, and then the music raged;'Now face your partners ev'ry man, and keep your eyes on me,And don't be turning in your toes indacently,' says he."And when the dance began to warm, the house began to shake,The windows, too, like loosen'd teeth, began to snap and break;The stove-pipes took the ague fit, and clattered to the floors,And all the knobs and keys and locks were shaken from the doors."The very shingles on the roof commenced to rattle out:The chimney-stacks, like drunken men, insanely reeled about;A Thomas cat upon the eaves was shaken from his feet,And right and left the shutters fell into the startled street."It chanced as M. O'Mulligan was fixing something hot,The spoon was shaken from his hand, as likewise was the pot;The plaster from the ceiling, too, came raining on his head,And like a railway-carriage danced the table, chairs, and bed."He tore into the entry-way, and 'Stop the jig!' says he:'Its shakin' down the house ye are, as any one can see;'But not a soul in all the swarm to dance at all forbore,And thumping down their brogans came, like hammers on the floor."And then the house commenced to sway and strain and groan and crack,And all the stairs about the place fell crashing, front and back;The very air was full of dust, and in the walls the ratsForgot, in newer perils found, all terror of the cats."Then swifter flew O'Grady's bow, and 'Mike, me lad,' he roared,'They'll dance until they haven't left your floor a single board;It's sperits that they are,' says he, 'and I'm a sperit, too;And sperit, Mike O'Mulligan, is what we'll make of you!'"'And sure,' said M. O'Mulligan, though turning rather pale,'Its quite a handsome ghost ye are, and fit for any jail:But tell me what I've done to you offinsive in the laste;And if I don't atone for it, I'm nothing but a baste.'"'It's faithless to Saint Tammany ye are,' O'Grady cried,—And wilder, madder, grew the jig as he the fiddle plied,—'It's faithless to Saint Tammany, who bids the IrishmanAttain the highest office in this country that he can.'"'Och hone!' says poor O'Mulligan, 'it's pretty well I've done,To be a School-Commissioner before I'm thirty-one;'Tis barely just a year to-day since I set out from Cork,And now, be jabers! don't I hold an office in New York?'"'Why, true for you, O'Mulligan,' O'Grady roared again;'But what's a School-Commissioner to what ye should have been?It's County Clerk, the very laste, an Irishman should be,And, since you're not, receive the curse of Good Saint Tammany!'"Then wilder danced the spirit crew, the fiddler gave a scowl;And scarce could fated Michael raise a good old Irish howl,When all the timbers in the house went tumbling with a crash,Reducing M. O'Mulligan to bits as small as hash!"Take warning now, all Irishmen, of what may be your fate,If you come home on Christmas-night an hour or so too late;For sleeping on the garret stairs, and rolling down, may beTo you, as unto Mike, a dream of good Saint Tammany!"
"THE IRISHMAN'S CHRISTMAS.
"THE IRISHMAN'S CHRISTMAS.
"Hic!"—Terence.
"Hic!"—Terence.
"Ould Mother Earth makes Irishmen her universal pride,You'll find them all about the world, and ev'rywhere beside;And good Saint Peter up above is often feeling tired,Because of sainted Irishmen applying to be hired.
"Ould Mother Earth makes Irishmen her universal pride,
You'll find them all about the world, and ev'rywhere beside;
And good Saint Peter up above is often feeling tired,
Because of sainted Irishmen applying to be hired.
"Thus, being good and plentiful, 'tis proper we should findA spacious house stuck full of them where'er we have a mind,And unto such an edifice our present tale will reach,With sixty nice, convaynient rooms—a family in each.
"Thus, being good and plentiful, 'tis proper we should find
A spacious house stuck full of them where'er we have a mind,
And unto such an edifice our present tale will reach,
With sixty nice, convaynient rooms—a family in each.
"No matter where it stands at all; but this we'll let you know,It constitutes itself alone a fashionable row;And when a bill of "Rooms to let" salutes you passing by,You see recorded under it, "No Naygurs need apply."
"No matter where it stands at all; but this we'll let you know,
It constitutes itself alone a fashionable row;
And when a bill of "Rooms to let" salutes you passing by,
You see recorded under it, "No Naygurs need apply."
"Now, Mr. Mike O'Mulligan and servant boarded here,—At least, his wife at service spent a portion of the year,—And when, attired in pipe and hod, he left his parlor-door,You felt the country had a vote it didn't have before.
"Now, Mr. Mike O'Mulligan and servant boarded here,—
At least, his wife at service spent a portion of the year,—
And when, attired in pipe and hod, he left his parlor-door,
You felt the country had a vote it didn't have before.
"Not much was M. O'Mulligan to festive ways inclined;For chiefly on affairs of State he bent his giant mind;But just for relaxation's sake he'd venture now and then,To lead a jig, or break a head, like other Irishmen.
"Not much was M. O'Mulligan to festive ways inclined;
For chiefly on affairs of State he bent his giant mind;
But just for relaxation's sake he'd venture now and then,
To lead a jig, or break a head, like other Irishmen.
"Says Mrs. Mike O'Mulligan, when Christmas came, said she:'Suppose we give a little ball this evening after tea;The entry-way is broad enough to dance a dozen pairs,And thim that doesn't wish to dance can sit upon the stairs.'
"Says Mrs. Mike O'Mulligan, when Christmas came, said she:
'Suppose we give a little ball this evening after tea;
The entry-way is broad enough to dance a dozen pairs,
And thim that doesn't wish to dance can sit upon the stairs.'
"'And sure,' said M. O'Mulligan, "'I don't object to that;But mind ye ask the girls entire, and ev'ry mother's Pat;I'd wish them all, both girls and boys, to look at me and see,That, though I'm School Commissioner, I'm noways proud,' says he.
"'And sure,' said M. O'Mulligan, "'I don't object to that;
But mind ye ask the girls entire, and ev'ry mother's Pat;
I'd wish them all, both girls and boys, to look at me and see,
That, though I'm School Commissioner, I'm noways proud,' says he.
"The matter being settled thus, the guests were notified,And none to the O'Mulligans their presences denied;But all throughout the spacious house the colleens went to fix,And left the men to clane themselves and twirl their bits of sticks.
"The matter being settled thus, the guests were notified,
And none to the O'Mulligans their presences denied;
But all throughout the spacious house the colleens went to fix,
And left the men to clane themselves and twirl their bits of sticks.
"'Twas great to see O'Mulligan, when came the proper hour,Stand smiling in the entry-way, as blooming as a flower,And hear him to each lady say, 'Well now, upon me sowl!Ye look more like an angel than like any other fowl.'
"'Twas great to see O'Mulligan, when came the proper hour,
Stand smiling in the entry-way, as blooming as a flower,
And hear him to each lady say, 'Well now, upon me sowl!
Ye look more like an angel than like any other fowl.'
"And first came Teddy Finnigan, in collar tall and wide,With Norah B. O'Flannigan demurely by his side;And Alderman O'Grocery, and Councilman Maginn,And both the Miss Mulrooneys, and the widowed Mrs. Flynn.
"And first came Teddy Finnigan, in collar tall and wide,
With Norah B. O'Flannigan demurely by his side;
And Alderman O'Grocery, and Councilman Maginn,
And both the Miss Mulrooneys, and the widowed Mrs. Flynn.
"The Rileys, and the Shaunesseys, and Murphys all were there,Both male and female creatures of the manly and the fair;And crowded was the entry-way to such a great degreeThey had to take their collars off to get their breathing free.
"The Rileys, and the Shaunesseys, and Murphys all were there,
Both male and female creatures of the manly and the fair;
And crowded was the entry-way to such a great degree
They had to take their collars off to get their breathing free.
"O'Grady with his fiddle was the orchestra engaged,He tuned it on the banisters, and then the music raged;'Now face your partners ev'ry man, and keep your eyes on me,And don't be turning in your toes indacently,' says he.
"O'Grady with his fiddle was the orchestra engaged,
He tuned it on the banisters, and then the music raged;
'Now face your partners ev'ry man, and keep your eyes on me,
And don't be turning in your toes indacently,' says he.
"And when the dance began to warm, the house began to shake,The windows, too, like loosen'd teeth, began to snap and break;The stove-pipes took the ague fit, and clattered to the floors,And all the knobs and keys and locks were shaken from the doors.
"And when the dance began to warm, the house began to shake,
The windows, too, like loosen'd teeth, began to snap and break;
The stove-pipes took the ague fit, and clattered to the floors,
And all the knobs and keys and locks were shaken from the doors.
"The very shingles on the roof commenced to rattle out:The chimney-stacks, like drunken men, insanely reeled about;A Thomas cat upon the eaves was shaken from his feet,And right and left the shutters fell into the startled street.
"The very shingles on the roof commenced to rattle out:
The chimney-stacks, like drunken men, insanely reeled about;
A Thomas cat upon the eaves was shaken from his feet,
And right and left the shutters fell into the startled street.
"It chanced as M. O'Mulligan was fixing something hot,The spoon was shaken from his hand, as likewise was the pot;The plaster from the ceiling, too, came raining on his head,And like a railway-carriage danced the table, chairs, and bed.
"It chanced as M. O'Mulligan was fixing something hot,
The spoon was shaken from his hand, as likewise was the pot;
The plaster from the ceiling, too, came raining on his head,
And like a railway-carriage danced the table, chairs, and bed.
"He tore into the entry-way, and 'Stop the jig!' says he:'Its shakin' down the house ye are, as any one can see;'But not a soul in all the swarm to dance at all forbore,And thumping down their brogans came, like hammers on the floor.
"He tore into the entry-way, and 'Stop the jig!' says he:
'Its shakin' down the house ye are, as any one can see;'
But not a soul in all the swarm to dance at all forbore,
And thumping down their brogans came, like hammers on the floor.
"And then the house commenced to sway and strain and groan and crack,And all the stairs about the place fell crashing, front and back;The very air was full of dust, and in the walls the ratsForgot, in newer perils found, all terror of the cats.
"And then the house commenced to sway and strain and groan and crack,
And all the stairs about the place fell crashing, front and back;
The very air was full of dust, and in the walls the rats
Forgot, in newer perils found, all terror of the cats.
"Then swifter flew O'Grady's bow, and 'Mike, me lad,' he roared,'They'll dance until they haven't left your floor a single board;It's sperits that they are,' says he, 'and I'm a sperit, too;And sperit, Mike O'Mulligan, is what we'll make of you!'
"Then swifter flew O'Grady's bow, and 'Mike, me lad,' he roared,
'They'll dance until they haven't left your floor a single board;
It's sperits that they are,' says he, 'and I'm a sperit, too;
And sperit, Mike O'Mulligan, is what we'll make of you!'
"'And sure,' said M. O'Mulligan, though turning rather pale,'Its quite a handsome ghost ye are, and fit for any jail:But tell me what I've done to you offinsive in the laste;And if I don't atone for it, I'm nothing but a baste.'
"'And sure,' said M. O'Mulligan, though turning rather pale,
'Its quite a handsome ghost ye are, and fit for any jail:
But tell me what I've done to you offinsive in the laste;
And if I don't atone for it, I'm nothing but a baste.'
"'It's faithless to Saint Tammany ye are,' O'Grady cried,—And wilder, madder, grew the jig as he the fiddle plied,—'It's faithless to Saint Tammany, who bids the IrishmanAttain the highest office in this country that he can.'
"'It's faithless to Saint Tammany ye are,' O'Grady cried,—
And wilder, madder, grew the jig as he the fiddle plied,—
'It's faithless to Saint Tammany, who bids the Irishman
Attain the highest office in this country that he can.'
"'Och hone!' says poor O'Mulligan, 'it's pretty well I've done,To be a School-Commissioner before I'm thirty-one;'Tis barely just a year to-day since I set out from Cork,And now, be jabers! don't I hold an office in New York?'
"'Och hone!' says poor O'Mulligan, 'it's pretty well I've done,
To be a School-Commissioner before I'm thirty-one;
'Tis barely just a year to-day since I set out from Cork,
And now, be jabers! don't I hold an office in New York?'
"'Why, true for you, O'Mulligan,' O'Grady roared again;'But what's a School-Commissioner to what ye should have been?It's County Clerk, the very laste, an Irishman should be,And, since you're not, receive the curse of Good Saint Tammany!'
"'Why, true for you, O'Mulligan,' O'Grady roared again;
'But what's a School-Commissioner to what ye should have been?
It's County Clerk, the very laste, an Irishman should be,
And, since you're not, receive the curse of Good Saint Tammany!'
"Then wilder danced the spirit crew, the fiddler gave a scowl;And scarce could fated Michael raise a good old Irish howl,When all the timbers in the house went tumbling with a crash,Reducing M. O'Mulligan to bits as small as hash!
"Then wilder danced the spirit crew, the fiddler gave a scowl;
And scarce could fated Michael raise a good old Irish howl,
When all the timbers in the house went tumbling with a crash,
Reducing M. O'Mulligan to bits as small as hash!
"Take warning now, all Irishmen, of what may be your fate,If you come home on Christmas-night an hour or so too late;For sleeping on the garret stairs, and rolling down, may beTo you, as unto Mike, a dream of good Saint Tammany!"
"Take warning now, all Irishmen, of what may be your fate,
If you come home on Christmas-night an hour or so too late;
For sleeping on the garret stairs, and rolling down, may be
To you, as unto Mike, a dream of good Saint Tammany!"
The deep, terror-stricken silence following this ghastly legend was suddenly broken, my boy, by a frenzied shriek from my frescoed dog, Bologna, who had followed me down from Washington, and whose stirring tail had been accidentally trodden upon by the absorbed Mackerel Chaplain. The picturesque animal, with a faint whine not unlike the squeaking of a distant saw, walked toward Captain Bob Shorty and gazed inquisitively for an instant into his face; then took earnest nasal cognizance of the boots of Captain Samyule Sa-mith; then sat for an instant on his haunches, with his tongue on special exhibition; and, finally, went out of the tent.
"Ah!" exclaimed Captain Villiam Brown, who sat nearest the bottle, and had, for the past hour, been unaccountably shedding tears,—"how much is that dorg like human life, feller-siz'ns! Like him, we make a yell at our firz 'pearance. Like him, we make our firz advances to some brother-puppy. Like him, we smell the boots of our su-su-superiors. Like him, we put out our tongues to see warz marrer with us; and, at last, like him, we—(hic)—we go out."
At the culmination of this sublime burst, Villiam again melted into tears, smiled around at us like a summer-sunset through a shower, and gracefully sank below the horizon of the table, like an over-ripe planet.
"By all that's Federal!" said Captain Bob Shorty, "that was dying young, for Villiam; but who can tell whose turn it may be next? To guard against possibilities, my blue-and-gold Napoleons, I will at once proceed to read you a Christmas-story, written expressly for the Mackerel Brigade by my gifted friend, Chickens, who should be in every American library, and would like to be there himself. The genius of my friend, Chickens," says Captain Bob Shorty, enthusiastically, "cannot be bought for gold; but, in a spirit of patriotic self-sacrifice, he would take 'greenbacks,' if the sordid persons having control of the press should conclude to give him that encouragement which, I am indignant to say, they have hitherto, with singular unanimity of sentiment, entirely denied him. Indeed, my friend Chickens has, at times, been placed in charge of the police by certain editors with whom he has warmly argued the value of his talents, and I trust that the four shillings we have appropriated for our Christmas-story may be given him for the following tale." And Captain Bob Shorty proceeded to read:—
"THE GHOST'S ULTIMATUM."England, merry England! Land of our forefathers! Having seen several attractive stereoscopic pictures of thee,—not to mention various engravings,—I love thee! Yes, I am of passionate temperament; I am thy fond American child; and I love thee. Ay, me lud, we all love thee; and the best of us cannot pay the shortest visit to thy shores without bringing back such a wholesome contempt for everything at home, as none but affectionate American hearts can feel. Having inherited the money realized by our deceased paternal from his celebrated patent Fish-scales we put our aged mother comfortably into the Old Ladies' Home, and fly to thee, dear, dear motherland, by the most expensive steamer to be had. Then we associate with the footmen of thy nobility, and go to see thy dukes' houses while the dukes are absent, and ask the dukes' housekeeper how much such a house costs, and come away stupefied with the atmosphere of greatness. We return to America with mutton-chop whiskers and our hands in our pockets, while our wife wears a charity-boys' cap on her head, and carries a saddle-whip forever in her left hand. We haven't seen the fashion-plates in the London shop-windows for nothing. We find New York rather small. There's no Tower, ye know, nor Abbey, nor Pell Mell, my dear boy. What's Pell Mell? Oh, I supposeyou'dcall it Pall Mall; ha, ha, ha! quite provincial, to be sure. Really, this new Fifth-avenue house of ours is not quite equal to the Earl of P.'s town-house; but we can add a private theatre and a chapel, and make it do for a while, eh? Day-day, Tomkins, my good fellow, how-de-do? How are your poor feet? Ha, ha, ha, quite the joke in London society, Tomkins. What's new? Yanks had another Bull Run? Every nobleman I met in England is with the South, my dear boy, and so am I."O England! If I could but visit thee just once,—just a little tiny bit of a once; but no matter, I haven't the money; never mind. Honest poverty in this country will yet—but it's of no consequence."Persons with money may have noticed, that as you turn from Cheapside into Whitefriars, and go on past St. Paul's and the Horse Guards into Pell Mell, keeping straight to the right to avoid Waterloo Bridge and the Nelson Monument, you come to an English house."At the particular period of which I write, the night of the 24th of December was Christmas-eve in this house, and Mr. R. Fennarf had just devoured a devilled kidney, some whitebait, a plate of Newcastle pickled-salmon, and some warm wine and toast, as it is believed customary for all English gentlemen of the better class to do before going to bed. Having thus prepared commodious stabling for a thoroughbred nightmare, he looked at his hands, looked at his watch, looked at the fire-irons, looked at his slippers in perspective, and at once fell into an English revery,—which differs materially from an American one, as everybody knows, being much superior."'Can it be,' said Mr. R. Fennarf to himself, 'that my pride was really sinful, when I drove my daughter Alexandra from my house, because she would have wed a potboy? It must be so; for I have not seen a happy hour since then. Here is Christmas-eve, and here am I a lone, lone man. Oh that by the endurance of some penalty, however great, I might bring back my girl, and ask her forgiveness, and be my old self again.'"'Thy wish shall be granted!!!'"This last terrible remark came from a being in white, with a red silk handkerchief tied about the place where he was murdered."'Ah!' exclaimed Mr. R. Fennarf, 'have I the pleasure of seeing a Ghost?'"'You have,' said the being."'Wont you take a seat, Mr. G.?'"'No,' sighed the spectre, 'I haven't time. I just dropped in to let you know through what penance you might be enabled to atone for your unjustifiable arrogance with your daughter, and recall her to your side. Your sin was pride; your atonement must be humiliation. You must get yourself Kicked!'"'Kicked!' ejaculated R. Fennarf, in a great state of excitement; 'why, really, Mr. G., I would bear anything to gain my desire; but that's rather a severe thing; and, beside, I don't know that I have an enemy in the world to do the kicking for me—except it is the potboy, and his legs are too short.'"'Nothing but a kick will do,' said the Ghost, decidedly; 'and I will help you to the extent of handing you this rod, by aid of which you can transport yourself in any, or every, direction, until the kick is obtained.'"As the Ghost spoke, he laid a small black rod upon the table, and—was gone."Mr. R. Fennarf fell into a revery: where could he go to make sure of a kick? He might go out into the street and tweak the nose of the first brother-Englishman he saw; but would that Englishman kick him for it? No! He would only sue him next day for damages. No Frenchman would kick a Britisher; because it is the policy of France just now to appear immensely fond of all that's British. Nor German. Nor Spaniard. 'Ah!' exclaimed Mr. R. Fennarf, joyously, 'I have it! The very place for me is "the formerly-united Republic of North America." They hate the very name of Englishman there. Read the articles in their papers; hear the speeches at their meetings: Oh, how they hate us! So here's a wave of the magic rod, and wishing I may be transported to the presence of some good England-hating Yankees. Hey, presto!'"In an instant he found himself being announced, by a servant in livery, to the company in the drawing-room of Mr. Putnon Ayres, of Beacon Street, Boston, who is quite celebrated for having said some thousands of times that England is the natural enemy of this country, sir; the natural enemy, sir; and if war were declared against England to-morrow, I, for one, sir, would close my store and shoulder a gun myself, sir."'Now,' thought Mr. R. Fennarf, 'I shall be kicked, sure enough, and have it over.'"He couldn't help shrinking when he saw Mr. Putnon Ayres approaching him; but the Bostonian foe of Britain whispered hurriedly to Mrs. Putnon Ayres: 'It's the English gentleman, my dear; arealone, and cousin to a Lord! Tell everybody to drop their aitches, and not to say anything in favor of the war. Oh, ah! delighted to see you, my dear sir, in my 'umble 'ouse.'"Mr. R. Fennarf was astonished. He must actually say something insulting, or that kick wouldn't come even here."'Thankee, my old muff,' said he, in a voice like a cab-man's; 'but it's a dewcied bore, you know, to answer all the compliments paid one in this blawsted country. I'm fond of wimmin, though, by George!'—"Before he could finish his sentence, twenty managerial mothers, each dragging a marriageable daughter by the hand, made a desperate rush for him; but Mrs. Putnon Ayres reached him first, and placed the right hand of a pretty young lady in his own."'Take my 'arriet, sir,' she exclaimed, enthusiastically, 'and be assured that she will make you a good wife. It 'as always been my 'ope to 'ave such a son-in-law.'"Mr. R. Fennarf felt that his case was becoming desperate; his chance of regaining his daughter farther off than ever. Fairly crazy to be kicked, he familiarly chucked Miss Harriet under the chin, and, assuming a perfectly diabolical expression of countenance, deliberately tickled her!"'Haw! haw! haw!' roared Mr. Putnon Ayres, holding his sides with delight, 'that's the real English frankness, my dear son,—for such I must already call you,—and no American girl could be less than 'appy to perceive it.'"In utter despair, Mr. R. Fennarf involuntarily placed a hand upon the magic rod in his bosom, and wished himself elsewhere. Quick as thought he was elsewhere, and entering the sumptuous private office of the gifted St. Albans, editor of the New York 'Daily Fife,' whose 'leaders' on the propriety of an immediate slaughter of all Britons within reach, have excited much terror in the bosom of Victoria."'My dear sir,' screamed the sturdy St. Albans, springing to meet his visitor, 'I am delighted to welcome you to the United States!'"Mr. R. Fennarf's heart sank down to his very boots."'You mean what there is left of your United States,' he yelled, like a very ruffian. 'You Yankees never did know how to speak the English language.' And he actually spat upon a file of the 'Daily Fife' hanging near him, and sneered pointedly at a lithograph of the editor over the fireplace."St. Albans grasped his hand convulsively."'Spoken like Carlyle, sir; spoken like Carlyle. Your English honesty is worthy your English heart of oak, my dear friend.'"'Sir!' roared R. Fennarf, frantic to be kicked, and backing temptingly toward the gifted St. Albans all the time he talked; 'you and your paper be demn'd! What doyouknow about Carlyle, bless my soul!Whoare you smiling at?Whatd'ye mean?'"Here he knocked St. Albans down."'You shall hear from me—step into that next room—will write to you instantly,' panted the editor.Half-crazed with his continued failures, the unhappy R. Fennarf walked abstractedly into the next room, half hoping his antagonist wanted an opportunity to put on a pair of extra-heavy boots.In two minutes a boy put a note into his hand."'My dear Sir: Name your own terms for contributing a daily article to the Fife. Select your own subjects.St. Albans.'"The miserable Briton involuntarily groaned, shook his head hopelessly, and once more touched the Ghost's rod. He heard the roll of drums, the scattering cracks of muskets, and found himself seated in the tent of that same Major General Steward who has so nobly said, on innumerable appropriate occasions, that he was ready to fulfil his whole duty in defeating the Southern rebels; but could not help wishing, as a man, that the enemy were Englishmen rather than our own brothers.Thenhe would show you!"'I want to take a look at your military shopkeepers,' observed Mr. R. Fennarf, with great brutality, 'and see how you Bull Runners make your sandbanks—fortifications, as you absurdly call them. You're "Brute Steward," I suppose.'"'Ha! ha!' laughed the able General, cheerily, 'that's what you English gents call me, I believe. We're going to have a battle, to-day, and you must stop and see it.'"'A battle!' growled R. Fennarf. 'What do you mean by that? I've got a permit from your vulgar blunderers at Washington to go through your so-called lines to Richmond, as that's the only place where one can find anything like gentlemen in this blawsted country. I intend to go to-day, too; so you must put off your so-called battle.'"He'll certainly kick me after that, thought R. Fennarf, beginning to feel quite hopeful."'Put off the battle?' said the great commander, cordially. 'I'll do it with pleasure, sir.'"The Englishman stared at him in utter despair, and, for the last time, clasped his mystical rod, murmuring: 'Back to England, back to my own street. I give up all hope!'"No sooner said than done. In a second he was at the corner of his own street, and, with the rod in his hand, started upon a distracted run for his own lonely house. Not looking where he ran, he went helter-skelter against a fine, fleshy old English gentleman with a plum nose and a gouty great-toe, who had hobbled out for a mouthful of night-air. Bang against this fine, fleshy old English gentleman went he, and down came one of his heels on the gouty great-toe."There was a tremendous roar, as from the great Bull of Bashan; the countenance of the fine, fleshy old English gentleman became livid, and, in the deep anguish of his soul, he saluted the disturber of his peace with a tremendous—KICK!"The black rod vanished in a moment from the hand of Mr. R. Fennarf, and his very soul jumped for joy."'Merry Christmas!' he shouted, violently shaking the hand of the now bewildered old gentleman with the plum nose."Then, on he darted toward his house. It was lighted up in every window. There was music in the house, too, and dancing. In he flew, with a delightful presentiment of what was going on. Sure enough, his daughter Alexandra had come home, with her husband the potboy, and a score of friends, and all hands were hard at a cotillon."'Father, forgive us!' screamed Alexandra."'Your pariental blessing,' suggested the potboy with much feeling."'Support them for life,' murmured the friends."'My children,' said Mr. R. Fennarf, rubbing his back, 'you must forgiveme. Henceforth we live together, and celebrate every coming Christmas-eve by meeting all our friends again, as now. I am a new man from this time forth; for on this very night I have learned a great and useful lesson.'"Then all was jollity again, and the potboy, notwithstanding the shortness of his legs, danced like a veritable Christy minstrel."Meantime, a certain retired hackney-coachman in the company, who had attentively noted the reconciliation of father and daughter, called the former into a corner of the room, and said very gravely to him:"'You said you had learned a lesson to-night?'"'Yes.'"'What is it?' asked the hackney-coachman."'It is,' said Mr. R. Fennarf, with solemnity, 'that no man need go out of his own country to be kicked!'"
"THE GHOST'S ULTIMATUM.
"England, merry England! Land of our forefathers! Having seen several attractive stereoscopic pictures of thee,—not to mention various engravings,—I love thee! Yes, I am of passionate temperament; I am thy fond American child; and I love thee. Ay, me lud, we all love thee; and the best of us cannot pay the shortest visit to thy shores without bringing back such a wholesome contempt for everything at home, as none but affectionate American hearts can feel. Having inherited the money realized by our deceased paternal from his celebrated patent Fish-scales we put our aged mother comfortably into the Old Ladies' Home, and fly to thee, dear, dear motherland, by the most expensive steamer to be had. Then we associate with the footmen of thy nobility, and go to see thy dukes' houses while the dukes are absent, and ask the dukes' housekeeper how much such a house costs, and come away stupefied with the atmosphere of greatness. We return to America with mutton-chop whiskers and our hands in our pockets, while our wife wears a charity-boys' cap on her head, and carries a saddle-whip forever in her left hand. We haven't seen the fashion-plates in the London shop-windows for nothing. We find New York rather small. There's no Tower, ye know, nor Abbey, nor Pell Mell, my dear boy. What's Pell Mell? Oh, I supposeyou'dcall it Pall Mall; ha, ha, ha! quite provincial, to be sure. Really, this new Fifth-avenue house of ours is not quite equal to the Earl of P.'s town-house; but we can add a private theatre and a chapel, and make it do for a while, eh? Day-day, Tomkins, my good fellow, how-de-do? How are your poor feet? Ha, ha, ha, quite the joke in London society, Tomkins. What's new? Yanks had another Bull Run? Every nobleman I met in England is with the South, my dear boy, and so am I.
"O England! If I could but visit thee just once,—just a little tiny bit of a once; but no matter, I haven't the money; never mind. Honest poverty in this country will yet—but it's of no consequence.
"Persons with money may have noticed, that as you turn from Cheapside into Whitefriars, and go on past St. Paul's and the Horse Guards into Pell Mell, keeping straight to the right to avoid Waterloo Bridge and the Nelson Monument, you come to an English house.
"At the particular period of which I write, the night of the 24th of December was Christmas-eve in this house, and Mr. R. Fennarf had just devoured a devilled kidney, some whitebait, a plate of Newcastle pickled-salmon, and some warm wine and toast, as it is believed customary for all English gentlemen of the better class to do before going to bed. Having thus prepared commodious stabling for a thoroughbred nightmare, he looked at his hands, looked at his watch, looked at the fire-irons, looked at his slippers in perspective, and at once fell into an English revery,—which differs materially from an American one, as everybody knows, being much superior.
"'Can it be,' said Mr. R. Fennarf to himself, 'that my pride was really sinful, when I drove my daughter Alexandra from my house, because she would have wed a potboy? It must be so; for I have not seen a happy hour since then. Here is Christmas-eve, and here am I a lone, lone man. Oh that by the endurance of some penalty, however great, I might bring back my girl, and ask her forgiveness, and be my old self again.'
"'Thy wish shall be granted!!!'
"This last terrible remark came from a being in white, with a red silk handkerchief tied about the place where he was murdered.
"'Ah!' exclaimed Mr. R. Fennarf, 'have I the pleasure of seeing a Ghost?'
"'You have,' said the being.
"'Wont you take a seat, Mr. G.?'
"'No,' sighed the spectre, 'I haven't time. I just dropped in to let you know through what penance you might be enabled to atone for your unjustifiable arrogance with your daughter, and recall her to your side. Your sin was pride; your atonement must be humiliation. You must get yourself Kicked!'
"'Kicked!' ejaculated R. Fennarf, in a great state of excitement; 'why, really, Mr. G., I would bear anything to gain my desire; but that's rather a severe thing; and, beside, I don't know that I have an enemy in the world to do the kicking for me—except it is the potboy, and his legs are too short.'
"'Nothing but a kick will do,' said the Ghost, decidedly; 'and I will help you to the extent of handing you this rod, by aid of which you can transport yourself in any, or every, direction, until the kick is obtained.'
"As the Ghost spoke, he laid a small black rod upon the table, and—was gone.
"Mr. R. Fennarf fell into a revery: where could he go to make sure of a kick? He might go out into the street and tweak the nose of the first brother-Englishman he saw; but would that Englishman kick him for it? No! He would only sue him next day for damages. No Frenchman would kick a Britisher; because it is the policy of France just now to appear immensely fond of all that's British. Nor German. Nor Spaniard. 'Ah!' exclaimed Mr. R. Fennarf, joyously, 'I have it! The very place for me is "the formerly-united Republic of North America." They hate the very name of Englishman there. Read the articles in their papers; hear the speeches at their meetings: Oh, how they hate us! So here's a wave of the magic rod, and wishing I may be transported to the presence of some good England-hating Yankees. Hey, presto!'
"In an instant he found himself being announced, by a servant in livery, to the company in the drawing-room of Mr. Putnon Ayres, of Beacon Street, Boston, who is quite celebrated for having said some thousands of times that England is the natural enemy of this country, sir; the natural enemy, sir; and if war were declared against England to-morrow, I, for one, sir, would close my store and shoulder a gun myself, sir.
"'Now,' thought Mr. R. Fennarf, 'I shall be kicked, sure enough, and have it over.'
"He couldn't help shrinking when he saw Mr. Putnon Ayres approaching him; but the Bostonian foe of Britain whispered hurriedly to Mrs. Putnon Ayres: 'It's the English gentleman, my dear; arealone, and cousin to a Lord! Tell everybody to drop their aitches, and not to say anything in favor of the war. Oh, ah! delighted to see you, my dear sir, in my 'umble 'ouse.'
"Mr. R. Fennarf was astonished. He must actually say something insulting, or that kick wouldn't come even here.
"'Thankee, my old muff,' said he, in a voice like a cab-man's; 'but it's a dewcied bore, you know, to answer all the compliments paid one in this blawsted country. I'm fond of wimmin, though, by George!'—
"Before he could finish his sentence, twenty managerial mothers, each dragging a marriageable daughter by the hand, made a desperate rush for him; but Mrs. Putnon Ayres reached him first, and placed the right hand of a pretty young lady in his own.
"'Take my 'arriet, sir,' she exclaimed, enthusiastically, 'and be assured that she will make you a good wife. It 'as always been my 'ope to 'ave such a son-in-law.'
"Mr. R. Fennarf felt that his case was becoming desperate; his chance of regaining his daughter farther off than ever. Fairly crazy to be kicked, he familiarly chucked Miss Harriet under the chin, and, assuming a perfectly diabolical expression of countenance, deliberately tickled her!
"'Haw! haw! haw!' roared Mr. Putnon Ayres, holding his sides with delight, 'that's the real English frankness, my dear son,—for such I must already call you,—and no American girl could be less than 'appy to perceive it.'
"In utter despair, Mr. R. Fennarf involuntarily placed a hand upon the magic rod in his bosom, and wished himself elsewhere. Quick as thought he was elsewhere, and entering the sumptuous private office of the gifted St. Albans, editor of the New York 'Daily Fife,' whose 'leaders' on the propriety of an immediate slaughter of all Britons within reach, have excited much terror in the bosom of Victoria.
"'My dear sir,' screamed the sturdy St. Albans, springing to meet his visitor, 'I am delighted to welcome you to the United States!'
"Mr. R. Fennarf's heart sank down to his very boots.
"'You mean what there is left of your United States,' he yelled, like a very ruffian. 'You Yankees never did know how to speak the English language.' And he actually spat upon a file of the 'Daily Fife' hanging near him, and sneered pointedly at a lithograph of the editor over the fireplace.
"St. Albans grasped his hand convulsively.
"'Spoken like Carlyle, sir; spoken like Carlyle. Your English honesty is worthy your English heart of oak, my dear friend.'
"'Sir!' roared R. Fennarf, frantic to be kicked, and backing temptingly toward the gifted St. Albans all the time he talked; 'you and your paper be demn'd! What doyouknow about Carlyle, bless my soul!Whoare you smiling at?Whatd'ye mean?'
"Here he knocked St. Albans down.
"'You shall hear from me—step into that next room—will write to you instantly,' panted the editor.
Half-crazed with his continued failures, the unhappy R. Fennarf walked abstractedly into the next room, half hoping his antagonist wanted an opportunity to put on a pair of extra-heavy boots.
In two minutes a boy put a note into his hand.
"'My dear Sir: Name your own terms for contributing a daily article to the Fife. Select your own subjects.St. Albans.'
"'My dear Sir: Name your own terms for contributing a daily article to the Fife. Select your own subjects.
St. Albans.'
"The miserable Briton involuntarily groaned, shook his head hopelessly, and once more touched the Ghost's rod. He heard the roll of drums, the scattering cracks of muskets, and found himself seated in the tent of that same Major General Steward who has so nobly said, on innumerable appropriate occasions, that he was ready to fulfil his whole duty in defeating the Southern rebels; but could not help wishing, as a man, that the enemy were Englishmen rather than our own brothers.Thenhe would show you!
"'I want to take a look at your military shopkeepers,' observed Mr. R. Fennarf, with great brutality, 'and see how you Bull Runners make your sandbanks—fortifications, as you absurdly call them. You're "Brute Steward," I suppose.'
"'Ha! ha!' laughed the able General, cheerily, 'that's what you English gents call me, I believe. We're going to have a battle, to-day, and you must stop and see it.'
"'A battle!' growled R. Fennarf. 'What do you mean by that? I've got a permit from your vulgar blunderers at Washington to go through your so-called lines to Richmond, as that's the only place where one can find anything like gentlemen in this blawsted country. I intend to go to-day, too; so you must put off your so-called battle.'
"He'll certainly kick me after that, thought R. Fennarf, beginning to feel quite hopeful.
"'Put off the battle?' said the great commander, cordially. 'I'll do it with pleasure, sir.'
"The Englishman stared at him in utter despair, and, for the last time, clasped his mystical rod, murmuring: 'Back to England, back to my own street. I give up all hope!'
"No sooner said than done. In a second he was at the corner of his own street, and, with the rod in his hand, started upon a distracted run for his own lonely house. Not looking where he ran, he went helter-skelter against a fine, fleshy old English gentleman with a plum nose and a gouty great-toe, who had hobbled out for a mouthful of night-air. Bang against this fine, fleshy old English gentleman went he, and down came one of his heels on the gouty great-toe.
"There was a tremendous roar, as from the great Bull of Bashan; the countenance of the fine, fleshy old English gentleman became livid, and, in the deep anguish of his soul, he saluted the disturber of his peace with a tremendous—KICK!
"The black rod vanished in a moment from the hand of Mr. R. Fennarf, and his very soul jumped for joy.
"'Merry Christmas!' he shouted, violently shaking the hand of the now bewildered old gentleman with the plum nose.
"Then, on he darted toward his house. It was lighted up in every window. There was music in the house, too, and dancing. In he flew, with a delightful presentiment of what was going on. Sure enough, his daughter Alexandra had come home, with her husband the potboy, and a score of friends, and all hands were hard at a cotillon.
"'Father, forgive us!' screamed Alexandra.
"'Your pariental blessing,' suggested the potboy with much feeling.
"'Support them for life,' murmured the friends.
"'My children,' said Mr. R. Fennarf, rubbing his back, 'you must forgiveme. Henceforth we live together, and celebrate every coming Christmas-eve by meeting all our friends again, as now. I am a new man from this time forth; for on this very night I have learned a great and useful lesson.'
"Then all was jollity again, and the potboy, notwithstanding the shortness of his legs, danced like a veritable Christy minstrel.
"Meantime, a certain retired hackney-coachman in the company, who had attentively noted the reconciliation of father and daughter, called the former into a corner of the room, and said very gravely to him:
"'You said you had learned a lesson to-night?'
"'Yes.'
"'What is it?' asked the hackney-coachman.
"'It is,' said Mr. R. Fennarf, with solemnity, 'that no man need go out of his own country to be kicked!'"
As Captain Bob Shorty finished reading, he looked about him for the first time, and lo! all the Mackerel chieftains were slumbering, with their chins upon their breasts.
And now, my boy, as the New Year rolls in, let me tender you the compliments of the season, and sign myself,
Yours for festivity,
Orpheus C. Kerr.