by R. H. Newell
I told him I thought so myself.
I'm sorry to say, my boy, that some members of this splendid regimentare badly off for trowsers, and shock my modesty tremendously. Theyprobably forgot them in their hurry to get to the war, and the UnionPretence Committee ought to send them out an assortment of peg-tops atonce. "Not that I hobject to the hinnocent hamusements of theHighlanders, but that decency and propriety _must_ be preserved withinthe limits of the army"--as the British show-man observed.
I took a trip down to Alexandria the other night, to see how the FireZouaves were getting along, and came pretty near getting into troublewith one of Five's screamers. He was on guard; and when he challengedme, the pass-word slipped my memory.
"Drop that ere butt," says he, bringing his musket to a charge, "orI'll give yer a taste of the old masheen. Who--wha--what are yercoughin' at--sa-a-ay?"
I was frightened, my boy, and had just commenced the appropriate prayerof "Now I lay me down to sleep," when suddenly an idea struck me, and Iacted on it immediately.
"Hello!" says I, "Johnny, didn't you hear the old Hall kettle strikefor the Fourth District? Come along with me and help to get the olddog-cart on a jump, or Nine's roosters will get the rail-road track andhave the old butt in Christie street before we can swing the oldmasheen over a pig's whisker."
"Bully for you!" says he, dropping his musket, all in a quiver, andcommencing to roll up his pantaloons. "I've got a bet on that ere fire;and ef I don't take the starch out of that ere Nine's feller what wearsgood clothes and don't do nothing--you may just take my boots."
It was all the force of habit, you see; and if I hadn't stopped thatZouave, I really believe he'd have run clean into the bosom of all thefirst families, looking for the Fourth District and Nine's feller!
The Mackerel brigade have got their new uniforms, and they are not themartial garments it would do to get fat in. High private Samivel Greenput his on, partially, yesterday; but, it's a positive fact, my boy,that by the time he got his coat buttoned, his pantaloons were all wornout. I managed to get on one of the uniforms myself, and the first timeI went into the open air all the buttons blew off.
* * * * *
I've just returned from visiting the most mournful sight that ever madea man feel as though he'd been peeling onions all the week, and gratinghorse-radish on Sunday. It was the first dying scene of one of the "PetLammers," down at Alexandria, and, as one of Five's chaps remarks, itwas enough to make the eye of a darning-needle weep, and bring tears tothe cheek of the Greek slave. Jim was the only name of the sufferer,and if he ever had any other, it had slipped his memory, though hisaffectionate relatives sometimes called him "Shorty," by way ofendearment. He was out on picket-guard the night before, when theSouthern Confederacy attempted to pass him. He challenged the intruder,and called to his comrades for help; but, before the latter couldarrive, the Southern Confederacy drew a masked battery from his pocket,and fired six heavy balls through the head of the unfortunate Zouave,nearly fracturing his skull, and breaking several panes of glass. Thecowardly miscreant then fled to an adjacent fence, closely followed bySherman's Artillery.
Upon discovering that he was wounded, Mr. Shorty examined the cap onhis musket, and stood it carefully against a tree, buttoned his jacketto his neck, and asked a comrade for a chew of tobacco. Too full ofemotion to speak, the comrade handed a gentlemanly plug to the dyingman, who cut about half an ounce from it, placed it thoughtfully in hismouth, and then stuffed his handkerchief carefully in the hole in hisforehead made by the balls.
"Is any of my brains hanging out?" he asked of another of his comrades.
"No, Shorty," answered the other, bursting into tears; "you never hadany to hang out."
After this response, the dying man paused for a moment to spit in theeyes of a dog that was smelling around his heels, and then proceededwith his comrades in the direction of the hospital, or the house usedfor that purpose.
As they were passing the quarters of the officer with whom I wasspending the night, the expiring Zouave stopped to twist the tail of anold darkey's cat, which made such a noise that the officer's attentionwas attracted, and he called the whole party into his room. I at oncenoticed that the top of Mr. Shorty's head was completely gone, and thatone of his eyes was half-way down the back of his neck. Upon enteringthe room he took a pipe from the mantel and commenced to smoke it,giving us, at the same time, a history of Nine's Engine and the first"muss" he was ever engaged in. After finishing the pipe, and requestingme to wrap him up in the American flag, he spit on one of my boots, andthen died. I append a short biographical sketch.
THE LATE PRIVATE SHORTY.
Mr. James Shorty, the gallant Zouave who was shot last night by the Southern Confederacy, was born some years ago in a place I am not aware of, and graduated with high honors in the New York Fire Department. He was universally beloved for his genial manner of taking the butt, and never hit a feller bigger than himself. In the year 1861, he entered the United States army as a private Zouave, and was in it when the fate of war deprived the country of his beloved presence. His remains will be taken to the first fire that occurs.
* * * * *
Poor Shorty! I knew him well, my boy, and shall never forget how readyhe always was to take a cigar from
Yours, mournfully,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
P.S.--Since writing the above, I have heard that no such occurrencetook place at Alexandria. The alarm was occasioned by the fall of a bagof hay in one of the officers' quarters, the noise being mistaken forthe firing of a battery. Mr. Shorty, it seems, does not belong to theZouaves, at all, and is still in New York.
O. C. K.
LETTER VII.
RECORDING THE FIRST SANGUINARY EXPLOIT OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE, AND ITSVICTORIOUS ISSUE.
WASHINGTON, D.C., June 20th, 1861.
I have just returned, my boy, with my fellow-mercenaries and severalmudsills from a carnival of gore. I am wounded--my sensibilities arewounded, and my irrepressibles reek with the blood of the slain. Thesehands, that once opened the oysters of peace and toyed with thebivalves of tranquillity, are now sanguinary with the _red juice ofbattle_ (gushing idea!), and linger in horrid ecstacy about the gloomyneck of a bottle holding about a quart. Eagle of my country, proud birdof the menagerie! thou art avenged!
At a late hour last evening, the Brigadier-General of the MackerelBrigade (formerly a practitioner in the Asylum for Idiots) receivedintelligence from a messenger that a strong force of chickens wereintrenched near Fairfax Court-House under the command of a rabidsecessionist named Binks. The brigade was at once ordered over thebridge at a double-quick, the general throwing a strong force ofskirmishers into the Potomac, and waving his sword repeatedly to showthat he was a stranger to fear. Shortly after touching Virginia soil,the orderly sergeant reported an engagement, on the left flank, betweenprivate Villiam Brown and the man that puts his hair in papers. Aconsultation of officers was immediately called, and the order "Aboutface" was given. So excited was our general by the event, that when theorder to march was given he forgot all about the "About face" business,and we didn't know that we were going the wrong way until we suddenlyfound ourselves at the bridge again. A consultation of officers wasimmediately called, and it was determined that, in consequence of thewell-known revolution of the world on its axis, the part with thebridge on it had taken a turn while we were halting, and we wereordered to counterbalance the singular phenomena by marching the otherway immediately. We had proceeded about one mile, when a scout reportedthat a shower was coming up. A consultation of officers was immediatelycalled, and it was determined that a squad should search a neighboringfarmhouse for an umbrella for the Brigadier-General. The umbrella beingobtained without loss of life, we pushed on toward Fairfax, and soonfound ourselves before the works of the enemy. A consultation ofofficers was immediately called, and it was decided that theBrigadier-General should
climb a tree, in order to be able to directthe assault effectively, and prevent the appearance of a widow in hisfamily at home. The first regiment, Watch Guards, were ordered toreconnoitre the works, and private Villiam Brown had almost succeededin surrounding a very fat pullet, when Colonel Binks put his head outof the window of his fortress, and discharged a ten-inch boot-jack atour centre.
The Man that puts his hair in papers was wounded severely on one of hiscorns, and the Brigadier-General slid hastily down from the tree, andretired to the rear of an adjacent barn. A consultation of officers wasimmediately called, and it was determined to form our brigade into asquare, and receive the charge of the enemy, who speedily appearedbefore the breastworks with a pair of tongs in his hands. Reachingforward with the horrid weapon, he pulled the nose of our returnedBrigadier-General with it. A consultation of officers was immediatelycalled, and it was determined that death was preferable to defeat.Accordingly, the brigade was ordered to advance cautiously upon theenemy, while the orderly sergeant was sent to harass his rear, and turnhis flank, if possible. Our brigadier-general attempted to lead thecharge, but made a mistake about the direction again, and had gallopedhalf a mile toward where we came from before he could be convinced ofhis mistake. Seeing us descending upon him, at last, like an avalanche,the enemy deployed to the right, and poured in a volley of "cusses,"throwing our right column into confusion, and wounding the delicacy ofour chaplain. A consultation of officers was immediately called, and itwas determined to make one more dash. We were formed into the shape ofa bunch of radishes, the brigadier-general retired a distance of twomiles to encourage us, and we poured down upon the foe withirresistible force. His ranks were broken by the impetuosity of ourcharge, and he scattered and fled in dismay.
The engagement then became general, and in a little while we were onour victorious way to Washington again, with 150 rebel prisoners. Ourcaptives were chickens, in excellent condition for dressing, and theirappearance so delighted our brigadier-general--whom we found sharpeninghis sword on the bottom of his boot, some miles away--that aconsultation of officers was immediately called, and it was determinedto cook and eat them immediately, lest the President should administerthe oath of allegiance to them, and discharge them in the morning.
Yours, victoriously,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER VIII.
THE REJECTED "NATIONAL HYMNS."
WASHINGTON, D.C., June 30th, 1861.
Immediately after mailing my last to you, I secured a short furlough,and proceeded to New York, to examine into the affairs of thatvenerable Committee which had offered a prize of $500 for the bestNational Hymn.
Upon going into literary circles, my boy, no less than fiftyacknowledged poets confidentially informed me, that the idea of bribingthe muse to be solemnly patriotic was altogether too vulgar to betolerated for a moment by writers of reputation; and a whole swarm ofpoets, never acknowledged by anybody, were human enough to say that$500 was not a small sum in these times; but they hadn't "come to thatyet, you know."
One very poor Bohemian, my boy (whose scathing sarcasm at the expenseof those degraded creatures who prefer wealth to intellect, has oftendelighted and improved the public mind), was so rash as to intimatethat the importunities of his laundress might drive him to thedesperate resource of competing for the prize; but he was quickly madeto blush for the unworthy thought, by the undisguised contempt for his"dem'd lowness" displayed by a decayed young gentleman in a dirtycollar and very new neck-tie, who lives in a two-pair back in Woosterstreet (fish balls and a roll twice a day), and writes graphic sketchesof fashionable life for the wholesale market.
And yet, notwithstanding all this high-mindedness, my boy, there is animmense amount of some sort of genius insidiously pitted against thecontemptible $500. Astounding and distracting to relate, the committeeannounces the reception of no less than eleven hundred and fifty"anthems"!
The magnitude of eleven hundred and fifty "anthems" is almost more thanone human mind can grasp. Allowing that each "anthem" is a quarter of ayard long, we have a grand total of two hundred and eighty-seven and ahalf yards of "anthem"; allowing that each "anthem" weighs half a pound(intellectually and materially), I find a gross weight of five hundredand seventy-five pounds of "anthem"!
Let the reflective mind consider these figures for a moment, and itwill be stricken with a sense of the singular resemblance betweenGenius and other marketable commodities. Eleven hundred and fiftyanthems are enough to prove that Genius has its private mercenaryweaknesses as well as Trade, my boy, and that brains can be bought bythe yard as well as calico. Genius may carry with it a seeming contemptfor the yellow dross of common humanity; but--it has to pay itsoccasional washerwoman.
And all these "anthems" are rejected by the venerable committee! Butmust they _all_, therefore, be lost to the world? I hope not, myboy,--I hope not. Having some acquaintance with the discriminatingrag-merchant to whom they were turned over as rejected, I have procuredsome of the best, from which to quote for your special edification.
Imprimis, my boy, observe this
NATIONAL ANTHEM.
BY H. W. L----, OF CAMBRIDGE.
Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch Over the sea-ribbed land of the fleet-footed Norsemen, Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens-- Ursa, the noblest of all the Vikings and horsemen.
Musing, he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon, Where the Aurora lapt stars in a North-polar manner, Wildly he started--for there in the heavens before him Fluttered and flew the original Star-Spangled Banner.
The committee have two objections to this: in the first place, it isnot an "anthem" at all; secondly, it is a gross plagiarism from an oldScandinavian war-song of the primeval ages.
Next, I present a
NATIONAL ANTHEM.
BY THE HON. EDWARD E----, OF BOSTON.
Ponderous projectiles, hurled by heavy hands, Fell on our Liberty's poor infant head, Ere she a stadium had well advanced On the great path that to her greatness led; Her temple's propylon was shattered; Yet, thanks to saving Grace and Washington, Her incubus was from her bosom hurled; And, rising like a cloud-dispelling sun, She took the oil, with which her hair was curled, To grease the "Hub" round which revolves the world.
This fine production is rather heavy for an "anthem," and contains toomuch of Boston to be considered strictly national. To set such an"anthem" to music would require a Wagner; and even were it reallyaccommodated to a tune, it could only be whistled by the populace.
We now come to a
NATIONAL ANTHEM.
BY JOHN GREENLEAF W----.
My native land, thy Puritanic stock Still finds its roots firm-bound in Plymouth Rock, And all thy sons unite in one grand wish-- To keep the virtues of Preserv-ed Fish.
Preserv-ed Fish, the Deacon stern and true, Told our New England what her sons should do, And should they swerve from loyalty and right, Then the whole land were lost indeed in night.
The sectional bias of this "anthem" renders it unsuitable for use inthat small margin of the world situated outside of New England. Hencethe above must be rejected.
Here we have a very curious
NATIONAL ANTHEM.
BY DR. OLIVER WENDELL H----.
A diagnosis of our hist'ry proves Our native land a land its native loves; Its birth a deed obstetric without peer, Its growth a source of wonder far and near.
To love it more behold how foreign shores Sink into nothingness beside its stores; Hyde Park at best--though counted ultra-grand-- The "Boston Common" of Victoria's land--
The committee must not be blamed for rejecting the above, after readingthus far; for such an "anthem" could only be sung by a college ofsurgeons or a Beacon-street tea-party.
Turn we now to a
NATIONAL ANTHEM.
BY RALPH WALDO E----.
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Source immaterial of material naught, Focus of light infinitesimal, Sum of all things by sleepless Nature wrought, Of which abnormal man is decimal.
Refract, in prism immortal, from thy stars To the stars blent incipient on our flag, The beam translucent, neutrifying death; And raise to immortality the rag.
This "anthem" was greatly praised by a celebrated German scholar; butthe committee felt obliged to reject it on account of its too childishsimplicity.
Here we have a
NATIONAL ANTHEM
BY WILLIAM CULLEN B----.
The sun sinks softly to his evening post, The sun swells grandly to his morning crown; Yet not a star our flag of Heav'n has lost, And not a sunset stripe with him goes down.
So thrones may fall; and from the dust of those, New thrones may rise, to totter like the last; But still our country's nobler planet glows While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.
Upon finding that this did not go well to the air of "Yankee Doodle,"the committee felt justified in declining it; being furthermoreprejudiced against it by a suspicion that the poet has crowded anadvertisement of a paper which he edits into the first line.
Next we quote from a
NATIONAL ANTHEM
BY GEN. GEORGE P. M----.
In the days that tried our fathers Many years ago, Our fair land achieved her freedom, Blood-bought, you know. Shall we not defend her ever As we'd defend That fair maiden, kind and tender, Calling us friend?