LETTER CIV.
EXPLAINING, IN A LUCID AND PERFECTLY SATISFACTORY MANNER, THE POWERFUL INACTIVITY OF THAT PORTION OF THE VENERATED MACKEREL BRIGADE RESIDING BEFORE THE ANCIENT CITY OF PARIS, AND PRESENTING CERTAIN GENIAL DETAILS OF A RECENT FESTIVE CONGLOMERATION.
Washington, D.C., March 6th, 1865.
Methinks, my boy, that I see you sagely assuming a pair of massive ears, a pair of silver spectacles, and a blue cotton umbrella, for the purpose of accurately personating the celebrated Public Sentiment, and, in that gifted character, peremptorily requiring me to explain the present use of the venerable Mackerel Brigade!
Mastering for a moment the noble rage of the unimperilled patriot at a request so vulgarly practical, I sternly refer you to the latest able articles in all our exciting and learned morning journals; wherein you will be taught that such portion of the aged Mackerel organization as has of late years invested Paris is in reality the gorgeous Pivot around which revolve all the other brass buttons of ultimate national triumph. And is not each editor of these excellent and sanguine morning journals well qualified by his military genius to represent a General Ism, oh?
But perhaps, my boy, you fail to find ocular demonstration in that illumination. It is barely possible that you refuse to acknowledge optical conviction in a lucidity of that description. It may be that your cornea lacks ability to transmit a specific image in that polarization of prismatics. It strikes me as not improbable that you—can't see it in that light.
Then come with me to the Mackerel camp before Paris, and mark where the antique Brigade is sitting-up with the expiring Confederacy. Observe how each morning's sun is reflected from the gleaming spectacles of the venerable military organization; while occasional rains make those same innumerable glasses resemble fairy lakes with dead fish in them. Note with what a respectable air of a reliable family physician each patriarchal warrior exhumes, from somewhere down his leg, the massive gold watch which he has been induced to buy for $10 of one of those national benefactors in jewelry who advertise affectionately in our more parental weekly journals of romance—and remarks, oracularly:
"It being exactly three o'clock by this here nineteen-carat repeater, that air Confederacy has got just one hour less to live."
The fact, my boy, that this timely observation would apply with about equal accuracy to the whole human family, need not deter your insidious self from answering in the affirmative, when I ask you, calmly, if it does not seem that a military organization of such intellect,mustbe engaged in some unspeakably profound scheme of victory, even though to the uneducated eye it may present somewhat the aspect of a muddy old gentleman with his head against a stone-wall?
And this business of showing the possible identity of apparent dead-pause with actual velocity, reminds me of a chap I once knew in the Sixth Ward. He was a cast-iron chap, my boy, whose most powerful conception of enterprise in trade was vividly associated with the duty of being forever in his shirt-sleeves; and he kept a hardware shop at which the economical women of America could get such bargains in flat-irons and door-plates, as were a temptation to marry none but the most impoverished young men.
Many customers had this very practical hardware chap, and one of them was an aged file in a broad-brimmed hat, blue spectacles, and a silk umbrella, who had about him that air of Philadelphia which at once suggests an equal admixture of chronic slumber and profundity. Being a widower and a happy man, it was the daily custom of this aged file to spend several hours of intellectual refreshment in the hardware shop, smiling benignantly upon the ancient maidens who came thither to buy curling-tongs, and enlivening the soul of the cast-iron chap with fine, laborious treatises on the general idiocy of popular perception.
"I tell you, my child," this aged file would remark, polishing his spectacles with a red silk handkerchief,—"I tell you, the popular perception wants nicety; wants delicacy; wants capacity to distinguish between the noisy, bustling style of operation by which it loves to be deceived,—Populus vult decipi,—and the silent, almost imperceptible agencies through which all really great results are accomplished."
Having heard this chaste sentiment repeated daily for about three years, my boy, the very practical hardware chap began to find his nature growing embittered, and resolved to do something desperate. So, one morning, after listening quietly to the essay of the aged file, and refusing to tell a small boot-blacking child of six years old the lowest price for one of Jones's Patent steam-ploughs, this cast-iron chap suddenly removed his hands from around an object on the counter, which he had, apparently, been attempting to conceal, and revealed to view a boy's lignum-vitæ peg-top, which stood seemingly exactly balanced on its steel tip.
"Who would think now," said he, reflectively, "that it could be turning all the time?"
The aged file advanced his blue spectacles to the very verge of the top, and says he:
"Well, now, it's wonderful, an't it? Any one would think, to look at that simple toy, that it stood perfectly still; and yet its velocity of movement must be prodigious. Go into yonder street," exclaimed the aged file, dropping his umbrella in the excitement of the moment,—"go into yonder street and bring in any man you please, and that man could swear that this top is not spinning at all. And why? Simply because the velocity of this top, being several millions of revolutions per minute, is greater than his ignorant eye can comprehend. Upon my soul!" ejaculated the aged file, bending once more to the top, with great enthusiasm, "upon my soul! it's wonderful."
Over the counter came the hardware chap, with one bound, and says he:
"Why, you durned old fool,the top an't moving at all!"
And sure enough, the very practical cast-iron chap had just stuck the top up with his hand, in order to bring the popular perception theory of the aged file to grief.
Ordinary persons, my boy, observing the Mackerel Brigade any time these three years, might think it was not moving at all; but we know its General to be the Top of the heap, and we know that he is making revolutions—in the whole art of war.
Let, then, the venerable and strategical Mackerel Brigade strike off impressions of itself in the mud before Paris; while the conic section, under Colonel Wobert Wobinson, walks calmly through the depths of storied Accomac; while Captain Samyule Sa-mith and the Anatomical Cavalry prosecute Confederate railroad researches, and Rear Admiral Head's iron-plated squadron keeps watch and fishes for bass near the captured Fort Piano, on Duck Lake. For the present, be mine the pleasanter duty of imperfectly reporting that stately Ball at the Patent Office, which clinched the re-inauguration of our Honest Abe, and was attended by none of the old aristocracy of the capital, save those who had received invitations.
The old aristocracy of the capital, my boy, having been accustomed only to association with the ministers from combined Europe, and the chivalry who had, now and then, a nice wife or daughter to sell, could not be expected to countenance a plebeian carnival for which they had not received invitations. They could not be expected so soon to forget those elegant family entertainments of the olden time, when the hospitable board, with its green covering, groaned under the weight of gold and silver; when, instead of salads and pates in crockery platters, the plates were of delicately enamelled pasteboard, containing from one to ten diamonds each, or, perhaps, a king or queen served up cold with mint sauce.
The Old Aristocracy! lineal descendants of the British cavaliers! I should weep, my boy, over their possible extinction forever, were it not that the assiduity of the London Prisoners' Aid Society, in sending ticket-of-leave men to New York, promises to keep the species going.
Behold me, at the proper hour, suspended between the shoulders of three or four fat citizens of America in the entrance-hall, and being thus borne into the festive scene like a being too delicate to walk. This, too, at the expense of only the linen "duster" which I had donned to preserve my broadcloth from the dust in the dancing room, and which I had the satisfaction of seeing distributed in ribbons around the necks and bodies of a score of my neighbors, like so many charms to keep off enchantments. The crowd, the management, and the number of guests with umbrellas and top-boots, were all the subjects of ill-disguised sneers among the old aristocracy of the capital who had not received invitations.
And now I emerge into fountains of satin and mechlin cascades, with numerous citizens of America up to their waists in the surf, and looking about as comfortable as though bathing at Newport in full dress. Yonder stands our Honest Abe, in sombre costume, like a funeral procession standing on end to let something pass under it.
Leaning thoughtfully against the wall, my boy, I was gazing meditatively upon this scene, and thinking how many of these fair beings would be destroyed by railroad accidents on the way to their homes in other cities—I was thinking of this, my boy, when I heard a voice saying:
"How powerful is human instink! let a fire-bell ring, and at least half of these manly beings would make a bust for the street to join their native fire departmink. Let the hall-bell ring, and nearly all these fair petticoats would involuntarily rush to 'tend the door. Such is human instink."
Like one in a dream, I turned me where I stood and beheld the form of Captain Villiam Brown, his left hand upon his hip and his right caressing the neck of a small case-bottle in his bosom. I eyed him pleasantly a moment, and, said I:
"Well met, my Union Blucher!"
"Ah!" says Villiam, pensively, "how powerful is Human Instink!"
"Explain, my Blue and Gold."
"Human Instink," says Villiam, softly, "is an involuntary tendency to our normal condition."
"Ahem," said I, sagely, "that sounds like Seward."
"Come with me," says Villiam, gravely, "and I will show you the power of Human Instink."
He led me quietly, my boy, to a corner of the great room, where the guests were nearly all males, and suddenly roared out this extraordinary question:
"Say, Johnny-y-y, how's yer do-o-org?"
The magical sound caught them unprepared, my boy, and before there was time to remember where they were, they unanimously responded with:
"Bully!"
"Ah!" says Villiam, "that's Instink. They all were fellow-firemen last year, and remember the language of the Departmink."
Deeply impressed with a sense of that subtle sympathy with early usages which never leaves a man in life, I again let the hero of a hundred battles lead the way to another corner, where fifty fair ones stood apart in a cluster, waiting for their escorts. Then it was that Captain Villiam Brown suddenly assumed an air of unspeakable abstraction, and commenced humming the tune of the song:
"Bridget, tend the airy bell,Don't you hear it tinkle?Butcher's brought the bacon home,—Cook it in a twinkle."
"Bridget, tend the airy bell,Don't you hear it tinkle?Butcher's brought the bacon home,—Cook it in a twinkle."
"Bridget, tend the airy bell,
Don't you hear it tinkle?
Butcher's brought the bacon home,—
Cook it in a twinkle."
Without at all thinking or knowing why they were doing so, my boy, two-thirds of those fair ones took up the tune at the first note and hummed it through!
"The fair sect," says Villiam, cautiously, "once heard its mother sing that song, as she had learned it in her native palace; and has the Instink to remember it."
Thus, taking new and beautiful lessons in the ever-fresh volume of animate nature, we sauntered into the ballroom, where our Honest Abe and his lady were viewing the performances from a pair of handsome elevated chairs. Ay, sir: handsome (!) chairs; and that, too, when many an honest poor man in the land has not a single chair with a gilt back to rest upon. Thus are we drifting toward (start not!)—yes sir and madam, toward—Royalty!! Thus, too, are we incurring the highest scorn of the old aristocracy of the capital who had not received invitations.
There was dancing of the ordinary sort in plenty; many solid men of Boston of the oldest age going to the verge of apoplexy in their efforts at double-shuffle; but how can description do justice to the Honorable Gentleman from the Sixth Ward, who performed the celebrated Conflagration Hornpipe!
First, the Honorable Gentleman threw his whole weight upon his left leg, elevated one ear as though intently listening, and tapped distinctly upon the floor with his right heel the number of the district. Then came a confused scuffling, first upon one foot and then upon the other, to represent the hurry and excitement of getting the machine out of the house and whirling her to the scene of the conflagration. The next figure, performed alternately upon the toe, heel, and side of the shoe, was an imitation of the noble machine in motion; the whole winding up with the Honorable Gentleman's seizing his partner around the waist and plunging into a polka, symbolizing the gallant fireman's rescue of a consuming female from a sixth-story window.
This beautiful dance, my boy, was considered an unanswerable argument in favor of a Volunteer Fire Department; but its finishing effect was somewhat marred by a piercing note from the famous night-key bugle of the Mackerel Brass Band: who, in an enfeebled state of mind, was found wandering about the palace a trifle intoxicated, and received prompt direction to the apartments of Detective Baker.
After witnessing, also, the noted walk-around known as the Revenue Stamp, we joined the march for supper, and I sweetly expressed to Captain Villiam Brown my fear of being crowded from the eatables.
"Oh!" says Villiam, catching his case-bottle just in time to save it from sliding through his ruffles to the floor; "I shall work upon human Instink."
Here, this ornament of our National Mackerel organization inserted an elbow under the right ear of a fair being in blue just before us, and says she:
"I don't admire to see you men treating ladies in that manner. The ideor!"
"Ah, Mrs. Nubbins," says Villiam, pleasantly, "when your father, the milkman, used to serve our house, I"—
"Here—you can pass, sir," said the fair being in blue; and Captain Villiam Brown walked forward deliberately upon the trailing skirts of a beauteous object in pink.
"You're tearing my things—creature!"
"Ah!" says Villiam, abstractedly, to me, "you don't remember stand Number Twelve, Fulton Market, where Miss Poodlem's grandmother used to"—
"There's plenty of room here, sir," observed the beauteous object in pink, and Captain Villiam Brown accidentally brushed against a beatitude in white.
"Plebeian!"
"My fren," says Villiam, as though he and I were entirely alone together on a desert island, "when old Binks gave up the soap-boiling business last fall, and came to"—
"Did you wish to pass, sir?" said the beatitude in white; and we soon found ourselves beside the banquet board, where all went merry as a fire-bell.
Then did we gorge ourselves, my boy, like the very First Families under similar circumstances; revelling in such salads as were known to the ancients just before the breaking out of the Asiatic cholera, and paying general attention to a bill of fare which was heartily despised by the old aristocracy of the capital who had received no invitations.
It was past midnight when we retreated to a double-bedded room at Willard's, and as Captain Villiam Brown took his goblet of final soda, he gracefully tipped my glass, and says he:
"I propose a sentimink."
Villiam raised the Falernian nectar aloft, gazed solemnly at me, and says he:
"Human Instink!"
Let us believe, my boy, that the instincts of those who come to the higher social surface in this, our trying time of war, are, by their own purity from anything actually malignant, sure indications that the nation's heart is good to the very bottom. Let us believe that the pride of Ascent, vain-glorious as it may seem, is nobler in raising the public laugh than is the tyrannical pride of Descent, which too often forces the public tear. Let us believe that, in the course of time, when the soft white hand of Peace shall have thrown a wreath of flowers across the muzzles of our guns, these unaccustomed tradesmen-courtiers who now throng the halls of our upright First Citizen and Friend will prove the sound ancestral stock of a race of brave gentlemen and women fair, to defend and adorn our Republican Court.
Yours, blithely,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER CV.
BEING OUR CORRESPONDENT'S LAST EFFORT PRIOR TO THE COMMENCEMENT OF A NEW MACKEREL CAMPAIGN; INTRODUCING A METRICAL PICTURE OF THE MOST REMARKABLE SINGLE COMBAT ON RECORD; AND SHOWING HOW THE ROMANCE OF WOMAN'S SENSITIVE SOUL CAN BE CRUSHED BY THE THING CALLED MAN.
Washington, D.C., March 12th, 1865.
This sagacious business of writing national military history once a week, my boy, has at times presented itself to my mind as a public obligation nearly equal in steady mutual delight to the wholesome occupation of organ-grinding. Mark the Italian nobleman who discourses mercenary twangs beneath your window, and you shall find him a person of severe and gloomy visage,—a figure with an expression of being weighed down to the very earth by a something heavier than the mere mahogany box of shrieks out of which he grinds popular misery by the block. Not that he has a distaste for music, my boy; not that he was the less enthusiastic at that past period "when music, heavenly maid, was young" to him; but because the daily recurrence to his ears of precisely the same sounds for ten years, has a horribly depressing effect of unmitigated sameness; and music has become to him an ancient maiden of exasperating pertinacity. It quite affects me, my boy, when I see one of those melancholy sons of song carrying a regularly organized monkey around with him; for it is evident he finds in such companionship a certain relief from the anguish of monotony. Guided by the example, I sometimes get a Brigadier to keep me company also, and you can hardly imagine how often I am saved from gloom by the amusement I experience in seeing his shrewd imitation of a real soldier.
But even this resource may fail; for there are periods when such imitations are very bad indeed; and then the mind of the wearied scribe, like that of my departed friend, the Arkansaw Nightingale, may at any moment expire for want of food. Shall I ever forget the time, my boy, when the Nightingale came to Washington, as President of the Arkansaw Tract Society, for the express purpose of protesting against the war, and procuring a fresh glass of the same he had last time?
"This war," says he, waiting for it to grow cooler, and thoughtfully contemplating the reflection of himself in the bowl of a spoon,—"this war, if it goes on, wont never shet pan till the hair's rubbed off the hull country, and the 'Merican Eagle wont hev enough feathers in his tail to oil a watch-spring. Tell you! stranger, it'll be wuss than Tuscaloosa Sam's last tackle; and that wasn't slow."
"What was that?" says I.
"What!" says the Nightingale, stirring in a little sugar, "did you never hearn tell of Tuscaloosa's last? Then here's the screed done into music under my pen and seal; and as it an't quite as long's the hundred nineteenth psalm, you don't want a chair to hear it."
Whereupon the Arkansaw Nightingale whipt from some obscure rear pocket a remarkable handful of written paper, and proceeded to excite me with
"A GREAT FIT."There was a man in ArkansawAs let his passions rise,And not unfrequently picked outSome other varmint's eyes."His name was Tuscaloosa Sam,And often he would say,'There's not a cuss in ArkansawI can't whip any day.'"One morn, a stranger passin' by,Heard Sammy talkin' so,When down he scrambled from his hoss,And off his coat did go."He sorter kinder shut one eye,And spit into his hand,And put his ugly head one side,And twitched his trowsers' band."'My boy,' says he, 'it's my belief,Whomever you may be,That I kin make you screech, and smellPertikler agony.'"'I'm thar,' says Tuscaloosa Sam,And chucked his hat away;'I'm thar,' says he, and buttoned upAs far as buttons may."He thundered on the stranger's mug,The stranger pounded he;And oh! the way them critters fitWas beautiful to see."They clinched like two rampageous bears,And then went down a bit;They swore a stream of six-inch oathsAnd fit, and fit, and fit."When Sam would try to work away,And on his pegs to git,The stranger'd pull him back; and so,They fit, and fit, and fit!"Then like a pair of lobsters, bothUpon the ground were knit,And yet the varmints used their teeth,And fit, and fit, and fit!!"The sun of noon was high above,And hot enough to split,But only riled the fellers more,That fit, and fit, and fit!!!"The stranger snapped at Sammy's nose,And shortened it a bit;And then they both swore awful hard,And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!"The mud it flew, the sky grew dark,And all the litenins lit;But still them critters rolled about,And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!"First Sam on top, then t'other chap;When one would make a hit,The other'd smell the grass; and so,They fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!"The night came on, the stars shone outAs bright as wimmen's wit;And still them fellers swore and gouged,And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!"The neighbors heard the noise they made,And thought an earthquake lit;Yet all the while 'twas him and SamAs fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!!"For miles around the noise was heard;Folks couldn't sleep a bit,Because them two rantankerous chapsStill fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!!!"But jist at cock-crow, suddently,There came an awful pause,And I and my old man run outTo ascertain the cause."The sun was rising in the yeast,And lit the hull concern;But not a sign of either chapWas found at any turn."Yet, in the region where they fit,We found, to our surprise,One pint of buttons, two big knives,Some whiskers, and four eyes!"
"A GREAT FIT.
"A GREAT FIT.
"There was a man in ArkansawAs let his passions rise,And not unfrequently picked outSome other varmint's eyes.
"There was a man in Arkansaw
As let his passions rise,
And not unfrequently picked out
Some other varmint's eyes.
"His name was Tuscaloosa Sam,And often he would say,'There's not a cuss in ArkansawI can't whip any day.'
"His name was Tuscaloosa Sam,
And often he would say,
'There's not a cuss in Arkansaw
I can't whip any day.'
"One morn, a stranger passin' by,Heard Sammy talkin' so,When down he scrambled from his hoss,And off his coat did go.
"One morn, a stranger passin' by,
Heard Sammy talkin' so,
When down he scrambled from his hoss,
And off his coat did go.
"He sorter kinder shut one eye,And spit into his hand,And put his ugly head one side,And twitched his trowsers' band.
"He sorter kinder shut one eye,
And spit into his hand,
And put his ugly head one side,
And twitched his trowsers' band.
"'My boy,' says he, 'it's my belief,Whomever you may be,That I kin make you screech, and smellPertikler agony.'
"'My boy,' says he, 'it's my belief,
Whomever you may be,
That I kin make you screech, and smell
Pertikler agony.'
"'I'm thar,' says Tuscaloosa Sam,And chucked his hat away;'I'm thar,' says he, and buttoned upAs far as buttons may.
"'I'm thar,' says Tuscaloosa Sam,
And chucked his hat away;
'I'm thar,' says he, and buttoned up
As far as buttons may.
"He thundered on the stranger's mug,The stranger pounded he;And oh! the way them critters fitWas beautiful to see.
"He thundered on the stranger's mug,
The stranger pounded he;
And oh! the way them critters fit
Was beautiful to see.
"They clinched like two rampageous bears,And then went down a bit;They swore a stream of six-inch oathsAnd fit, and fit, and fit.
"They clinched like two rampageous bears,
And then went down a bit;
They swore a stream of six-inch oaths
And fit, and fit, and fit.
"When Sam would try to work away,And on his pegs to git,The stranger'd pull him back; and so,They fit, and fit, and fit!
"When Sam would try to work away,
And on his pegs to git,
The stranger'd pull him back; and so,
They fit, and fit, and fit!
"Then like a pair of lobsters, bothUpon the ground were knit,And yet the varmints used their teeth,And fit, and fit, and fit!!
"Then like a pair of lobsters, both
Upon the ground were knit,
And yet the varmints used their teeth,
And fit, and fit, and fit!!
"The sun of noon was high above,And hot enough to split,But only riled the fellers more,That fit, and fit, and fit!!!
"The sun of noon was high above,
And hot enough to split,
But only riled the fellers more,
That fit, and fit, and fit!!!
"The stranger snapped at Sammy's nose,And shortened it a bit;And then they both swore awful hard,And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!
"The stranger snapped at Sammy's nose,
And shortened it a bit;
And then they both swore awful hard,
And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!
"The mud it flew, the sky grew dark,And all the litenins lit;But still them critters rolled about,And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!
"The mud it flew, the sky grew dark,
And all the litenins lit;
But still them critters rolled about,
And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!
"First Sam on top, then t'other chap;When one would make a hit,The other'd smell the grass; and so,They fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!
"First Sam on top, then t'other chap;
When one would make a hit,
The other'd smell the grass; and so,
They fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!
"The night came on, the stars shone outAs bright as wimmen's wit;And still them fellers swore and gouged,And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!
"The night came on, the stars shone out
As bright as wimmen's wit;
And still them fellers swore and gouged,
And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!
"The neighbors heard the noise they made,And thought an earthquake lit;Yet all the while 'twas him and SamAs fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!!
"The neighbors heard the noise they made,
And thought an earthquake lit;
Yet all the while 'twas him and Sam
As fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!!
"For miles around the noise was heard;Folks couldn't sleep a bit,Because them two rantankerous chapsStill fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!!!
"For miles around the noise was heard;
Folks couldn't sleep a bit,
Because them two rantankerous chaps
Still fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!!!
"But jist at cock-crow, suddently,There came an awful pause,And I and my old man run outTo ascertain the cause.
"But jist at cock-crow, suddently,
There came an awful pause,
And I and my old man run out
To ascertain the cause.
"The sun was rising in the yeast,And lit the hull concern;But not a sign of either chapWas found at any turn.
"The sun was rising in the yeast,
And lit the hull concern;
But not a sign of either chap
Was found at any turn.
"Yet, in the region where they fit,We found, to our surprise,One pint of buttons, two big knives,Some whiskers, and four eyes!"
"Yet, in the region where they fit,
We found, to our surprise,
One pint of buttons, two big knives,
Some whiskers, and four eyes!"
There's dramatic genius for you, my boy, and you will join me in raining a pint or so of tears in memory of one who perished because his mind had nothing to feed upon, and who left his bottle very empty.
Deferring for the present all account of the Mackerel strategy now coming slowly to a head and on foot, let me relate a little incident illustrative of the delicious loyalty of the taper women of America, and the intolerable baseness of the repulsive object called man:
There is in this city an intensely common-place masculine from Pequog, who has, for a wife, a small, plump member of that imperishable sex whose eyes remind me of wild cherries and milk. There never was a nicer little woman, my boy, and she can knit scarlet dogs, play "Norma," make charlotte russe, and do other things equally well calculated to confer immeasurable happiness upon a husband of limited means. Ever since the well-known Southern Confederacy first respectfully requested to be let alone with Sumter, she has been eager to fulfil woman's part in the war, and does not wake up the Pequogian more than twice of a night to talk about it.
'Twas at one o'clock on the morning of Tuesday last that she roused up the partner of her joys and sorrows, and says she:
"Peter, I do wish you'd tell me what I can do, as a woman, for my country."
"Go to sleep," says Peter, fiendishly.
"No, but whatcanI do? Why wont you tell me what is really woman's part in the war?"
"Now, see here," says Peter, sternly. "I'm having so many nights, with the nap all worn off, over this business, that I can't stand it any longer. Just wait till tomorrow evening, and I'll think over the matter and tell you what reallyiswoman's part in the war."
So they both went to sleep, my boy, and all next day that little woman wondered, as she hummed pleasantly over her work, whether her lord would advise her to go out as a Florence Nightingale, or turn teacher of intelligent contrabands.
Night came, and the Pequogian returned from his grocery store, and silently took a seat before the fire in the dining-room. The little woman looked up at him from the ottoman on which she was cosily sitting, and says she:
"Well, dear?"
Slowly and solemnly did that Pequog husband draw off one boot. Deliberately did he take off a stocking and hold it aloft.
"Martha Jane!" says he, gravely, "'tis a sock your eyes behold, and there is a hole in the heel thereof. You are a wife; duty calls you to mend your husband's stockings; andthis—this—is Woman's Part in the Wore!"
Let us draw a veil, my boy, over the heart-rending scene that followed; only hinting that hartshorn and burnt feathers are believed to be useful on such occasions, and produce an odor at once wholesome and exasperating.
Yours, sympathetically,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER CVI.
WHEREIN WILL BE FOUND CERTAIN PROFOUND REMARKS UPON THE VARIATIONS OF GOLD, ETC., AND A WHOLESOME LITTLE TALE ILLUSTRATIVE OF THAT FAMOUS POPULAR ABSTRACTION, THE SOUTHERN TREASURY NOTE.
Washington, D.C., March 22, 1865.
The venerable Aaron, my boy, was the first gold speculator mentioned in history, and it exhausted all the statesmanship of Moses to break up the unseemly speculation, and bring Hebrew dry goods and provisions down to decent prices. Were Aaron alive now, how he would mourn to find his auriferous calf going down at the rate of ten per cent. a day, while the Moses of the White House reduced that animal more and more to the standard of very common mutton!
Alas, my boy, what madness is this which causes men to forget honor, country, ay, even dinner itself, for ungrateful gold! Like all writers whose object is the moral improvement of their kind, I have a wholesome contempt of gold. What is it? A vulgar-looking yellow metal, with a disagreeable smell. It is filthy lucre. It is dross. It is also 156.
Not many months ago I knew a high-toned chap of much neck and chin, who made five hundred thousand dollars by supplying our national troops with canned peaches, and was so inflated with his good luck in the cholera-morbus line, that he actually began to think that his canned peaches had something to do with the successes in the field of our excellent military organization. Being thus elevated, this finely-imaginative chap believed that his services deserved the mission to France; and, as that was refused him, it was but natural for him to become at once a Southern Confederacy in sentiment, and pronounce our Honest Abe a tyrant of defective education.
Just before the last election, I met him at the Baltimore railroad depot, and says he: "I have just invested a cool five hundred thousand in gold. It is positively sure," says he, glibly, "it is positively sure that the reëlection of our present despot will send gold straight up to five hundred. I tell you," says he, in a wild ecstasy, "it'll ruin the country, and I shall clear a half million."
He was a Jerseyman of fine feelings, and took a little hard cider for his often infirmity.
Yesterday I saw that man again, my boy, and I gave him a five-cent note in consideration of his great ability in sweeping a street-crossing. He deserted his canned peaches, and was cr-r-rushed.
But what is this manuscript upon my table, as I write? It is a veracious and wholesome little tale of
"THE SOUTH.—BY A NORTHER."'Twas night, deep night, in the beautiful city of Richmond; and the chivalrous Mr. Faro was slowly wending his way through Broad street to the bosom of his Confederate family, when, suddenly, he was confronted by a venerable figure in rags, soliciting alms."'Out of my path, wretch!' ejaculated the haughty Virginian, impatiently; and, tossing two thousand dollars ($2000) to the unfortunate mendicant, he attempted to pass on."The starving beggar was about to give way, and had drawn near the barrel which he carried on a wheelbarrow, for the purpose of adding to its contents the pittance just received, when the small amount of the latter seemed to attract his attention for the first time, and again he threw himself in the way of the miserly aristocrat."'Moses Faro,' he muttered, in tones of profound agitation, 'you have your sheds full ($000000000) of Southern Bonds, while one poor barrel full ($000) must supply me for a whole day; yet would I not exchange places with a man capable of insulting honest poverty as you have done this night.'"The proud Virginian felt the rebuke keenly; and as he stood, momentarily silent, in the presence of the hapless victim of penury, he could not help remembering that he had, on that very morning, willingly given his youngest son five thousand dollars ($5000) to purchase a kite and some marbles. Greatly stricken in conscience, and heartily ashamed of his recent meanness, he turned to the suppliant, and said, kindly:"'Give me your address, and to-morrow morning I will send you a cart full ($000) of means. I would give you more now, but I have only sixty thousand dollars ($60,000) about me, with which to pay for the pair of boots I now have on.'"'Moses Faro,' responded the deeply-affected pauper, 'your noble charity will enable me to pay the nine thousand dollars ($9000) I owe for a week's board; and now let me ask, how goes our sacred cause?'"'Never brighter,' answered the wealthy Confederate, with enthusiasm. 'We have succeeded to-day in forcing five more cities through the Yankee lines, and are dragging three whole Hessian armies to this city.'"'Then welcome poverty for a while longer,' cried the beggar, pathetically; and so great was his exuberance of spirit at the news, that he resolved to spend five hundred dollars ($500) for a cigar in honor thereof."Mr. Faro walked thoughtfully on toward his residence, pondering earnestly the words he had listened to, and astonished to find how easily a rich man could give happiness to a poor one. After all, thought he, there is more contentment in poverty than in riches. Show me the rich man who can boast the sturdy lightness of heart inspiring that hackneyed rhyme, the"'CAROL OF THE CONFEDERATE BEGGAR."'Though but fifty thousand dollarsBe the sum of all I own,Yet I'm merry with my begging,And I'm happy with my bone;Nor with any brother beggarDoes my heart refuse to share,Though a thousand dollars onlyBe the most I have to spare."'I am shabby in my sevenHundred dollar hat of straw,And my dinner's but elevenHundred dollars in the raw;Yet I hold my head the higher,That it owes the hatter least,And my scanty crumbs are sweeterThan the viands of a feast'."Humming to himself this simple lay of contented want, Mr. Faro reached his own residence, gave eighty dollars ($80) to a little boy on the sidewalk for blacking his boots, and entered the portals of the hospitable mansion. His wife met him in the hall, and, as they walked together into the parlor, he noticed that her expression was serious."'Have you heard the latest news, Moses?' she asked."'No,' returned the haughty Southerner."'Well,' said the lady, 'just before you came in, I gave Sambo a hundred and twelve dollars ($112) to get an evening paper, which says that the Confederate Government is about to seize all the money in the country, to pay the soldiers.'"A gorgeous smile lit up the features of the chivalric Virginian, and he said:"'Let them take both my shedsfull ($00000000); let them take it all! Sooner than submit, or consent to be Reconstructed, I would give my very life even, for the sake of the Confederacy!'Mrs. Faro still looked serious."'Moses,' she said, with quivering lips, 'have you not got, hidden away somewhere,a twenty-shilling gold-piece($2,500,000)?'"Ghastly pale turned the proud Confederate, and he could barely stammer,—"'Ye-ye-yes.'"'Well,' murmured the matron, 'it's the gold they intend to take, I reckon.'"That was enough. Frantically tore Mr. Faro into the street; desperately raced he to the city limits; madly flew he past the pickets and sentinels; swiftly scoured he down the Boynton Plank Road. A Yankee bayonet was at his bosom."'Reconstruction!' shouted he."They took him before the nearest post-commandant, and he only said,—"'Let me be Reconstructed.'"
"THE SOUTH.—BY A NORTHER.
"'Twas night, deep night, in the beautiful city of Richmond; and the chivalrous Mr. Faro was slowly wending his way through Broad street to the bosom of his Confederate family, when, suddenly, he was confronted by a venerable figure in rags, soliciting alms.
"'Out of my path, wretch!' ejaculated the haughty Virginian, impatiently; and, tossing two thousand dollars ($2000) to the unfortunate mendicant, he attempted to pass on.
"The starving beggar was about to give way, and had drawn near the barrel which he carried on a wheelbarrow, for the purpose of adding to its contents the pittance just received, when the small amount of the latter seemed to attract his attention for the first time, and again he threw himself in the way of the miserly aristocrat.
"'Moses Faro,' he muttered, in tones of profound agitation, 'you have your sheds full ($000000000) of Southern Bonds, while one poor barrel full ($000) must supply me for a whole day; yet would I not exchange places with a man capable of insulting honest poverty as you have done this night.'
"The proud Virginian felt the rebuke keenly; and as he stood, momentarily silent, in the presence of the hapless victim of penury, he could not help remembering that he had, on that very morning, willingly given his youngest son five thousand dollars ($5000) to purchase a kite and some marbles. Greatly stricken in conscience, and heartily ashamed of his recent meanness, he turned to the suppliant, and said, kindly:
"'Give me your address, and to-morrow morning I will send you a cart full ($000) of means. I would give you more now, but I have only sixty thousand dollars ($60,000) about me, with which to pay for the pair of boots I now have on.'
"'Moses Faro,' responded the deeply-affected pauper, 'your noble charity will enable me to pay the nine thousand dollars ($9000) I owe for a week's board; and now let me ask, how goes our sacred cause?'
"'Never brighter,' answered the wealthy Confederate, with enthusiasm. 'We have succeeded to-day in forcing five more cities through the Yankee lines, and are dragging three whole Hessian armies to this city.'
"'Then welcome poverty for a while longer,' cried the beggar, pathetically; and so great was his exuberance of spirit at the news, that he resolved to spend five hundred dollars ($500) for a cigar in honor thereof.
"Mr. Faro walked thoughtfully on toward his residence, pondering earnestly the words he had listened to, and astonished to find how easily a rich man could give happiness to a poor one. After all, thought he, there is more contentment in poverty than in riches. Show me the rich man who can boast the sturdy lightness of heart inspiring that hackneyed rhyme, the
"'CAROL OF THE CONFEDERATE BEGGAR."'Though but fifty thousand dollarsBe the sum of all I own,Yet I'm merry with my begging,And I'm happy with my bone;Nor with any brother beggarDoes my heart refuse to share,Though a thousand dollars onlyBe the most I have to spare."'I am shabby in my sevenHundred dollar hat of straw,And my dinner's but elevenHundred dollars in the raw;Yet I hold my head the higher,That it owes the hatter least,And my scanty crumbs are sweeterThan the viands of a feast'.
"'CAROL OF THE CONFEDERATE BEGGAR."'Though but fifty thousand dollarsBe the sum of all I own,Yet I'm merry with my begging,And I'm happy with my bone;Nor with any brother beggarDoes my heart refuse to share,Though a thousand dollars onlyBe the most I have to spare."'I am shabby in my sevenHundred dollar hat of straw,And my dinner's but elevenHundred dollars in the raw;Yet I hold my head the higher,That it owes the hatter least,And my scanty crumbs are sweeterThan the viands of a feast'.
"'CAROL OF THE CONFEDERATE BEGGAR.
"'CAROL OF THE CONFEDERATE BEGGAR.
"'Though but fifty thousand dollarsBe the sum of all I own,Yet I'm merry with my begging,And I'm happy with my bone;Nor with any brother beggarDoes my heart refuse to share,Though a thousand dollars onlyBe the most I have to spare.
"'Though but fifty thousand dollars
Be the sum of all I own,
Yet I'm merry with my begging,
And I'm happy with my bone;
Nor with any brother beggar
Does my heart refuse to share,
Though a thousand dollars only
Be the most I have to spare.
"'I am shabby in my sevenHundred dollar hat of straw,And my dinner's but elevenHundred dollars in the raw;Yet I hold my head the higher,That it owes the hatter least,And my scanty crumbs are sweeterThan the viands of a feast'.
"'I am shabby in my seven
Hundred dollar hat of straw,
And my dinner's but eleven
Hundred dollars in the raw;
Yet I hold my head the higher,
That it owes the hatter least,
And my scanty crumbs are sweeter
Than the viands of a feast'.
"Humming to himself this simple lay of contented want, Mr. Faro reached his own residence, gave eighty dollars ($80) to a little boy on the sidewalk for blacking his boots, and entered the portals of the hospitable mansion. His wife met him in the hall, and, as they walked together into the parlor, he noticed that her expression was serious.
"'Have you heard the latest news, Moses?' she asked.
"'No,' returned the haughty Southerner.
"'Well,' said the lady, 'just before you came in, I gave Sambo a hundred and twelve dollars ($112) to get an evening paper, which says that the Confederate Government is about to seize all the money in the country, to pay the soldiers.'
"A gorgeous smile lit up the features of the chivalric Virginian, and he said:
"'Let them take both my shedsfull ($00000000); let them take it all! Sooner than submit, or consent to be Reconstructed, I would give my very life even, for the sake of the Confederacy!'
Mrs. Faro still looked serious.
"'Moses,' she said, with quivering lips, 'have you not got, hidden away somewhere,a twenty-shilling gold-piece($2,500,000)?'
"Ghastly pale turned the proud Confederate, and he could barely stammer,—
"'Ye-ye-yes.'
"'Well,' murmured the matron, 'it's the gold they intend to take, I reckon.'
"That was enough. Frantically tore Mr. Faro into the street; desperately raced he to the city limits; madly flew he past the pickets and sentinels; swiftly scoured he down the Boynton Plank Road. A Yankee bayonet was at his bosom.
"'Reconstruction!' shouted he.
"They took him before the nearest post-commandant, and he only said,—
"'Let me be Reconstructed.'"
Need the reader be informed that he is now in New York, looking for a house, and in great need of some financial aid to help him pay the rent of such a residence as he has always been accustomed to and cannot live without? Yes, far from home, family, and friends, he is now one of those long-suffering, self-sacrificing Union refugees from the South, whom it is a pleasure to assist, and whose manly opposition to the military despotism of the Confederacy commends them to our utmost liberality. He will accept donations in money, and this fact should be sufficient to make all loyal men eager to extend such pecuniary encouragement as may suffice to keep him above any necessity for exertion until the presidency of some Bank can be procured for him by the Christian Commission.
I may add, my boy, that any monetary contribution intended for this excellent man, may be directed to
Yours, patronizingly,
Orpheus C. Kerr.
LETTER CVII.
RECORDING THE LATEST DELPHIC UTTERANCES OF ONE WHOM WE ALL HONOR WITHOUT KNOWING WHY; AND RECOUNTING THE TRULY MARVELLOUS AFFAIR OF THE FORT BUILT ACCORDING TO TACITUS.
Washington, D.C., March 29th, 1865.
It is a beautiful trait of our common American nature, my boy, that we should be stood-upon by fleshy Old Age, and find ourselves reduced to the mental condition of mangled infants thereby. It is an airy characteristic of our gentle national temperament, to let shirt-collared Old Age, of much alpaca pants, sit down on us and cough into our ears. It is a part of our social organization as a reverential people to be forever weighed-down in our spirits by the awful respectability of double-chinned Old Age, and the solemn satisfaction it displays at its elephantine meals.
Hence, my boy, when I tell you that the Venerable Gammon beamed hither from his residential Mugville last Saturday, with a view to benefiting that wayward infant, his country, you will be prepared to learn that the populace fell upon their unworthy stomachs before him, and respectfully begged him to walk over their necks.
"My children," said the Venerable Gammon, with a fleshy smile, signifying that he had made them all, and yet didn't wish to seem proud,—"My children, this war is progressing just as I originally planned it, and will end successfully as soon as it terminates triumphantly. Behold my old friend, Phœbus," says the Venerable Gammon, pointing an adipose forefinger at the sun, with a patriarchal air of having benignantly invented that luminary, though benevolently permitting Providence to have all the credit, "it is not more certain that my warm-hearted friend Phœbus will rise in the yeast to-morrow morning than that the Southern Confederacy will not be capable of fighting a single additional battle after it shall have lost the ability to take part in another engagement."
Then the entire populace requested immediate leave to black the boots of their aged benefactor and idol, and seven-and-thirty indefatigable reporters, with pencils behind their ears, telegraphed to seven-and-thirty powerful morning journals, that the end of the rebellion might be looked for in about a couple of hours.
I don't mind revealing to you, as a curious fact, my boy, that no mortal man is able to understand how the Venerable Gammon has done anything at all in this war. In fact, I can't exactly perceive what earthly deed he has actually performed to make him preferable to George Washington; but it is generally inferred, from the size of his watch-seals and the lambency of his spectacles, that he has in some way been more than a parent to the country; and the thousands now buying some beneficent Petroleum stock, which he has to sell, are firmly convinced that its sale is positively calculated to forever benefit the human race.
Oh! that I were Ovid, or Anacreon, to describe fittingly the recent little wedding entertainment, at which this excellently-aged teacher and preserver of his species was fatly present, diffusing permission for all mankind to be happy and not mind him. After beaming parentally upon the officiating Mackerel chaplain, with a benignity inseparable from the idea that all clergymen were the work of his hands, he took the dimpled chin of the bride between his thumb add forefinger, and says he:
"My children, I am an old, old man; but may ye be happy." Here he kissed the bride. "Yes, my children," says the venerable Gammon, with a blessing on the world in every tone of his buttery voice, "I am far down in the vale of years; but may ye be very happy." And he kissed the bride. "Still, my children," says the Venerable Gammon, with steaming spectacles, "I would be willing to be even older, if my country desired it; but may ye be forever happy." So he kissed the bride. "Oh!" says the Venerable Gammon, abstractedly placing a benefactor's arm around her waist, and looking benevolently about the room as though consenting to its possession of four walls,—"Oh!" says he, "it is a privilege to be old for such a cause as this; but may ye be supremely happy." At this juncture he kissed the bride. "I am old enough," says the venerable Gammon, "to be your brother." And he kissed every young woman there.
Whereupon it was the general impression that an apostle was present; and when the bridegroom subsequently hinted, in a disagreeable whisper, that two bottles of port were enough to confuse the mind of a Methuselah himself, there was a wonderful unanimity among the ladies as to the probable misery of the bride's future life.
But wherefore, O, Eros, dost thou detain me in such scenes as these, while the hoarse trumpet of bully Mars calls me to the field of strategic glory? Hire an imaginary horse, my boy, at a fabulous livery-stable, and, in fancy, trot beside me as I urge my architectural steed, the Gothic Pegasus, toward the Mackerel lines in front of Paris.
Believing that you are entirely familiar with the very fat works of C. Tacitus, and minutely remember Book II. of his Annals, let me draw your attention to that fort Aliso which he describes as being built upon the River Luppia by Drusus, father of Germanicus, and constituting the commencement of a chain of posts to the Rhine. Just such a work has been erected on the shores of Duck Lake by Mackerel genius, as the key to a long line of remarkable mud-works. It is modelled after Aliso, chiefly because that work was notorious for being near the Canal of Drusus; and the whole world knows that canal-digging is inseparable from all our national strategy.
Fort Bledandide is the name of the Mackerel institution destined to receive immortality in Mr. Tacitus Greeley's exciting History of this distracting war; but to me belongs the earlier privilege of enabling a moral weekly journal to confuse its readers with the first reliable report of the marvellous battle of Fort Bledandide.
It was at quite an early hour, my boy, on the morning of my arrival before Paris, that a faint sound, as of gentlemen firing guns, was heard to proceed from a point some six feet outside Fort Bledandide. Nobody was up at the time, save a few venerable Mackerels, who, in daily expectation of some carnage, had selected that hour at which to write their wills; and it was left for these antique beings to be the first of our troops disturbed by a shameless Confederacy who lifted his head slowly above our works, and deliberately aimed a deadly horse-pistol at Jacob Barker, the regimental dog. Hideous was the explosion ensuing, as the night-key with which the dread weapon was loaded went hurtling through the air some ten yards above its mark; and an aged Mackerel looked up from his penmanship.
"What!" says he, with some animation, "are my spectacles guilty of a falsehood, or have I indeed the pleasure of seeing Mr. Davis?"
The Confederacy reloaded his horse-pistol with a handful of carpet-tacks, and says he:
"I am that individdle."
Raising a bell that stood by his side, the venerable Mackerel rang a hasty peal, which had the effect to arouse two or three of the other scribes from their writing, and cause them to apply ear-trumpets to their ears. Simultaneously the first warrior roared, through a fire-trumpet:
"Comrades! We are surprised."
At the same instant the Confederacy burst into a tempest of unseemly chuckles, and fired his carpet-tacks into the soft hat of the nearest Mackerel, causing that hoary veteran to drop his will and scratch his head with an air of hopeless bewilderment.
"Have you any tea that you could give me?" says the Confederacy, scrambling into the Fort,—"any Hyson senior or junior? Have you any coffee? Oh,dogive me some coffee." Here the Confederacy winked profoundly, to indicate that his request was intended merely as a bit of surprising humor. Meantime, six other Confederacies with horse-pistols had walked in to look for breakfast, and the facetious business of relieving the slowly-awakened garrison of their loud-ticking and rather cheap gold watches was performed with neatness and dispatch. After which the aged Mackerels were dismissed to join the main body of the ancient Brigade some ten yards to the rear of the work, with the remark, that their vandal rulers would find it somewhat difficult to reconstruct the sunny South.
Thus, my boy, was accomplished another of those surprises which not unfrequently give the most villanous cause an appearance of temporary success; though at times they prove real blessings to the good cause by including the capture of three or four brass-buttoned brigadiers.
But, pause, my feeble pen, ere thou venturest upon the hopeless task of putting into language the holy rage of the General of the Mackerel Brigade, when he learned the capture of Fort Bledandide. Pause, miserable quill, ere thou plungest into an insane effort to picture the awful state of vengeance exciting Captain Villiam Brown on the same occasion. As is his invariable custom at such junctures, the General at once retired to his tent to practise on the accordion, leaving Villiam to form a few regiments of the Mackerel reserve in line of battle for the recapture of the position.
"Ah!" says Villiam, spiritedly, "here's a chance for a baynit charge after the manner of Napoleon's Old Guard; and I hereby notify Regiment 5, that the eyes of the whole world are upon them."
Captain Bob Shorty and I had got ready our bits of smoked glass, to preserve our eyes from the too-great glitter of the dazzling achievement about to come off, when we noticed that Villiam motioned with his famous sword, Escalibar, for the spectacled warriors to pause a moment.
"If any of you martial beings happen to have any small change about you at this exciting moment," says Villiam, paternally, "I will take charge of it, for safety."
This noble proposition, my boy, might have been accepted unanimously, had not the discharge, at that instant, of a horse-pistol from the ramparts of Fort Bledandide caused the entire regiment to partially disappear! That is to say, every man went down upon his stomach, according to the latest principles of regimental strategy.
"Ah!" says Villiam, "how are the mighty fallen!"
Loudly rang a tremendous horse-laugh from the Confederacies in the Fort, several of whom were seen making off toward Paris with Orange County howitzers under each arm. I could see, by the aid of my smoked glass, that the Chivalry on the ramparts was sitting on a chest, with his discharged horse-pistol across his knee, and a series of feeble winks chasing each other around his Confederate eyelids.
"By all that's Federal!" says Captain Bob Shorty, "the scorpion surrenders!"
At the word, up sprang Regiment 5, like the men of Roderick Dhu, and straightforward they swept into Fort Bledandide, as a wave of the angry sea will sometimes sweep into a doomed barrel on the beach. Such was the shock of this dare-devil charge, that the winking Confederacy on the ramparts incontinently rolled off his chest and was captured without much carnage.
"Do you surrender to the United States of America?" says Villiam, with much star-spangled banner in his manner.
The Confederacy raised himself up on an elbow and hiccup'd gloomily.
"By all that's Federal!" says Captain Bob Shorty, "he's been drinking some of that air Commissary whiskey of ours."
Then, my boy, did Captain Villiam Brown evidence that exquisite quality of our humanity, which bids us forget all wrongs and enmities at the eloquent appeal of death. No sooner had Captain Bob Shorty made the above remark, than his whole aspect changed to pity, and he feelingly knelt beside the miserable captive.
"Have you any last request to make, poor inseck?" asked Villiam, much affected.
The misguided Confederacy was speechless; but made an attempt to scratch his breast.
"Ah!" says Villiam, with deep emotion, "you mean that your conscience is a still small woice."
Here the Confederacy scratched his left leg feebly; and says Captain Bob Shorty:
"According to your rule, Villiam, his conscience must be quite large, extending to his legs."
Nervously arose Captain Villiam Brown to his feet, with such a shudder running through his manly frame as caused every brass button to jingle.
"I think," says Villiam, with a ghastly smile, "that some of his conscience is a-walking softly down my backbone, with a hop now and then."
Alas! my boy, we all have consciences, save green grocers and fashionable bootmakers; and who among us but has felt his conscience to be at times almost totally disregarded, until it has finally brought him to the scratch by turning to flee?
Scarcely was Fort Bledandide recovered by the valor of our arms when the General of the Mackerel Brigade let fly the following