by R. H. Newell
Here a serious chap, who had taken rather too much Strawberry Festival,looked up, and says he:
"But how about the war all that time?"
"The war!--the war!" says the general, thoughtfully. "Thunder!" saysthe general, with such a start that he spilt some of his Festival, "I'dreally forgotten all about the war!"
"Hum!" says the serious chap, gloomily, "you're worth millions to asuffering country--_you_ are."
"Flatterer!" says the general blandly.
"Yes," says the chap, "you're worth millions--with a hundred per centoff for cash."
_In vino veritas_ is a sage old saying, my boy, and I take it to be afree translation of the Scripture phrase, "In spirit and in truth."
Our brigadiers are so frequently absent-minded themselves, my boy, thatthey are not particularly absent-minded by the rest of the army.
Upon quitting the Strawberry Festival I returned post-haste again toParis, where I arrived just in time to start with Captain Bob Shortyand a company from the Conic Section of the Mackerel Brigade on aforaging expedition. We went to look up a few straw-beds for thefeeding of the Anatomical Cavalry horses, my boy, and the conservativeKentucky chap went along to see that we did not violate theConstitution nor the rights of man.
"It's my opinion, comrade," says Captain Bob Shorty, as we startedout--"it's my opinion, my Union ranger, that this here unnatural war isgetting worked down to a very fine point, when we can't go out for anarmful of forage without taking the Constitution along on an ass. Ithink," says Captain Bob Shorty, "that the Constitution is as much outof place here as a set of fancy harness would be in a drove of wildbuffaloes."
Can such be the case, my boy--can such be the case? Then did ourRevolutionary forefathers live in vain.
Having moved along in gorgeous cavalcade until about noon, we stoppedat the house of a First Family of Virginia who were just going todinner. Captain Bob Shorty ordered the Mackerels to stack arms and drawcanteens in the front-door yard, and then we entered the domicil andsaluted the domestic mass-meeting in the dining-room.
"We come, sir," says Bob, addressing the venerable and high-mindedChivalry at the head of the table, "to ask you if you have any oldstraw-beds that you don't want, that could be used for the cavalry ofthe United States of America."
The Chivalry only paused long enough to throw a couple of pie-plates atus, and then says he:
"Are you accursed abolitionists?"
The conservative Kentucky chap stepped hastily forward, and says he:
"No, my dear sir, we are the conservative element."
The Chivalry's venerable wife, who was a female Southern Confederacy,leaned back a little in her chair, so that her little son could see tothrow a teacup at me, and says she:
"You ain't Tribune reporters--be you?"
"We were all noes and no ayes." Quite a feature in social intercourse,my boy.
The aged Chivalry caused three fresh chairs to be placed at the table,and having failed to discharge the fowling-piece which he had pointedat Captain Bob Shorty, by reason of dampness in the cap, he waved us toseats, and says he:
"Sit down, poor hirelings of a gorilla despot, and learn what it is totaste the hospitality of a Southern gentleman. You are Lincoln hordes,"says the Chivalry, shaking his white locks, "and have come to butcherthe Southern Confederacy; but the Southern gentleman knows how to becourteous, even to a vandal foe."
Here the Chivalry switched out a cane which he had concealed behindhim, and made a blow at Captain Bob Shorty.
"See here," says Bob, indignantly, "I'll be--"
"Hush!" says the conservative Kentucky chap, agitatedly, "don'tirritate the old patriarch, or future amicable reconstruction of theUnion will be out of the question. He is naturally a little provokedjust now," says the Kentucky chap, soothingly, "but we must show himthat we are his friends."
We all sat down in peace at the hospital board, my boy, only a fewsweet potatoes and corn-cobs being thrown by the children, and foundthe fare to be in keeping with the situation of our distractedcountry--I may say, war-fare.
"In consequence of the blockade of the Washington Ape," says theChivalry, pleasantly, "we only have one course, you see; but even theselast-year's sweet potatoes must be luxuries to mercenary mud-sillsaccustomed to husks."
I had just reached out my plate, to be helped, my boy, when there camea great noise from the Mackerels in the front door-yard.
"What's that?" says Captain Bob Shorty.
"O, nothing," says the female Confederacy, taking another bite ofhoe-cake, "I've only told one of the servants to throw some hot wateron your reptile hirelings."
As Captain Bob Shorty turned to thank her for her explanation, andwhile his plate was extended, to be helped, the aged Chivalry fired apistol at him across the table, the ball just grazing his head andentering the wall behind him.
"By all that's blue," says Captain Bob Shorty, excitedly, "now I'llbe--"
"Be calm--now, be calm," says the conservative Kentucky chap, hastily,"don't I tell you that it's only natural for the good old soul to be alittle provoked? If you go to irritate him, we can never live togetheras brethren again."
Matters being thus rendered pleasant, my boy, we quickly finished thesimple meal; and as Captain Bob Shorty warded off the carving-knifejust thrown at him by the Chivalry's little son, he turned to thefemale Confederacy, and says he:
"Many thanks for your kind hospitality; and now about that straw bed?"
The Virginia matron threw the vinegar-cruet at him, and says she:
"My servants have already given one to your scorpions, you nastyYankee."
"Of course," says the venerable Chivalry, just missing a blow at mewith a bowie-knife, "of course, your despicable Government will pay mefor my property!"
"Pay _you_!" says Captain Bob Shorty, hotly, "now I'll be--"
"Certainly it will, my friend," broke in the conservative Kentuckychap, eagerly, "the Union troops come here as your friends; for theymake war on none but traitors."
As we left the domicil, my boy, brushing from our coats the slops thathad just been thrown upon us from an upper window, I saw the Chivalry'schildren training a fowling-piece from the roof, and hoisting the flagof the Southern Confederacy on one of the chimneys.
And will it be possible to regain the love of these noble people again,my boy, if we treat them constitutionally? We shall see, my boy, weshall see.
Yours, for further national abasement,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER LII.
DESCRIBING, AMONG OTHER THINGS, A SPECIALITY OF CONGRESS, A VENERABLEPOPULAR IDOL, AND THE DIFFICULTIES EXPERIENCED BY CAPTAIN SAMYULESA-MITH IN DYING.
WASHINGTON, D.C., June 25th, 1862.
How beautiful is Old Age, my boy, when it neither drinks nor swears.There is an oily and beneficent dignity about fat Old Age whichoverwhelms us with a sense of our crime in being guilty of youth. Ihave at last been introduced to the Venerable Gammon, who is all thetime saying things; and he is a luscious example of overpowering OldAge. He is fat and gliding, my boy, with a face that looks like a fullmoon coming out of a sheepskin, and a dress indicating that he may beanything from a Revolutionary Forefather to the patriarch of all theGrace Church sextons. I can't find out that he ever did anything, myboy, and no one can tell why it is that he should treat everybody inoffice and out of it in such a fatherly and fatly condescending manner;but the people fairly idolize him, my boy, and he is all the timesaying things.
When I was introduced to the Venerable Gammon he was beamingbenignantly on a throng of adoring statesmen in the lobby of Congress,and I soon discovered that he was saying things.
"Men tell us that this war has only just commenced," says the VenerableGammon with fat profundity, "but they are wrong. _War is like a stick,which has two ends--the end nearest you being the_ BEGINNING."
Then each statesman wanted the Venerable Gammon to use _his_pocket-handkerchief; and five-and-twenty desperate reporters torepassionately away to the telegraph of
fice to flash far and wide thecomforting remarks of the Venerable Gammon.
Are we a race of unsuspecting innocents, my boy, and are we easilyimposed upon by shirt-ruffles and oily magnitude of manner? I believeso, my boy--I believe so.
Speaking of Congress; I attended one of its sittings the other day, myboy, and was deeply edified to observe its manner of legislating forour happy but distracted country.
The "Honorable Speaker" (_ne_ Grow) occupied the Chair.
Mr. PODGERS (republican, Mass.) desired to know if the tax upon YoungHyson is not to be moderated? Speaking for his constituents he wouldsay that the present rate was entirely too high to suit any grocer--
Mr. STAGGERS (conservative, Border State) wished to know whether thisbody intended to legislate for white men or niggers? His friend, thepusillanimous scoundrel from Massachusetts, chose to oppose the tax onYoung Hyson because--to use his own words--it would not "suit a negro,sir--"
Mr. PODGERS thought his friend from the Border State was too hasty. Thephrase he used was "_any grocer_."
Mr. STAGGERS withdrew his previous remark. We were fighting this war tosecure the Constitution and the pursuit of happiness to the misguidedSouth, and he accepted his friend's apology.
Mr. FIGGINS (democrat, New Jersey) said that he could not but noticethat everything all the Honorable gentlemen had said during thissession was a fatal heresy, destructive of all Government, degrading tothe species, and an insult to the common sense of his (Figgins')constituents. His constituents demanded that Congress should set thecountry at rights before Europe. It would appear that at the leastimperious sign from Europe, the American knee grows--
Mr. JUGGLES (con., Border State) desired to inquire of the Housewhether the great struggle in which we are now engaged is for thebenefit of the Caucasian race or the debased African? His friend, thepuling idiot from New Jersey, had seen fit to remark that the Americannegroes--
Mr. FIGGINS denied that he had spoken at all of negroes. He was aboutto say, that at the slightest behest of Europe "the _American kneegrows flexible to bend_."
Mr. JUGGLES wished it to be understood that he was satisfied with hisHonorable friend's explanation. He would take something with theHonorable Gentleman immediately after adjournment.
Mr. CHUNKY (rep., New Hampshire) was anxious to inquire whether it wastrue, as stated in the daily papers, that General McDowell had beenordered to imprison all the Union men within his lines on suspicion oftheir being Secessionists, and place a guard over the property of theSecessionists, on suspicion of their being Union men? If so, he wouldwarn the Administration that it was cherishing a viper which wouldsting it:
"The rose you deftly cull-ed, man, May wound you with its thorn, And--"
Mr. WADDLES (Union, Border State) protested against the decency of aConstitutional body like Congress being insulted with the infamous andseditious abolition doggerel just quoted by his friend, the despicableincendiary from New Hampshire. We were waging this war solely to putdown treason, and not to hear a rose, the fairest of flowers, mentionedin the same breath with the filthy colored man--
Mr. CHUNKY was sorry to observe that his Honorable friend hadmisunderstood his language. The line he had used was simply this:
"The rose you deftly _cull-ed, man_."
Mr. WADDLES was glad that his valued friend from New Hampshire hadapologized. He had only taken exception to what he considered a fatalheresy.
That was enough for me, my boy, and I left the hall of legislation; forI sometimes become a little wearied when I hear too much of one thing,my boy.
I mentioned my impression to the Venerable Gammon, and says he:
"Congress is the soul of the nation. Congress," says the VenerableGammon, with fat benignity, "_is something like a wheel, whose spokestend to tire_."
He said this remarkable thing in an overtowering way, my boy, and Ifelt myself to be a crushed infant before him.
Early in the week, I took my usual trip to Paris, and found Company 3,Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, making an advance from the further shoreof Duck Lake, for sanitary reasons. It was believed to be detrimentalto the health of the gay Mackerels to be so near a body of pure water,my boy, for they were not accustomed to the element.
"Thunder!" says the general, brushing off a small bit of ice that hadadhered to his nose, "they'll be drinking it next."
Captain Samyule Sa-mith was ordered to command the advance; but when heheard that the Southern Confederacy had two swivels over there, he wassuddenly taken very sick, and cultivated his bed-clothes.
When the news of the serious illness of this valiant officer gotabroad, my boy, there was an immediate rush of free and enterprisingcivilian chaps to his bedside.
One chap, who was an uncombed reporter for a discriminating andaffectionate daily press, took me aside, and says he:
"Our paper has the largest circulation, and is the best advertisingmejum in the United States. As soon as our brother-in-arms expires,"says the useful chap, feelingly, "just fill up this printed form andsend it to me, and I will mention you in our paper as a promising youngman."
I took the printed form, my boy, which I was to fill up, and found itto read thus:
"BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE LATE ----.
"This noble and famous officer, recently slain at the head of his ---- (I put the word 'bed' in this blank, my boy), was born at ---- on the ---- day of ----, 1776, and entered West Point in his ---- year. He won immortal fame by his conduct in the Mexican campaign, and was created brigadier-general on the -- of ----, 1862."
These printed forms suit the case of any soldier, my boy; but I didn'tentirely fill this one up.
Samyule was conversing with the chaplain about his Federal soul, when atall, shabby chap made a dash for the bedside, and says he to Samyule:
"I'm agent for the great American publishing house of Rushem & Jinks,and desire to know if you have anything that could be issued inbook-form after your lamented departure. We could make a handsome 12mobook," says the shabby chap, persuadingly, "of your literary remains.Works of a Union Martyr--Eloquent Writings of a Hero--Should be inevery American Library--Take it home to your wife--Twenty editionsordered in advance of publication--Half-calf, $1.--Send in yourorders."
Samyule looked thoughtfully at the publishing chap, and says he:
"I never wrote anything in my life."
"Oh!" says the shabby chap, pleasantly, "anything will do--your earlypoems in the weekly journals--anything."
"But," says Samyule, regretfully, "I never wrote a line to a newspaperin all my life."
"What!" says the publishing chap, almost in a shriek--"never wrote aline to a newspaper? Gentleman," says the chap, looking toward us,suspiciously, "this man can't be an American." And he departed hastily.
Believing, my boy, that there would be no more interruptions, Samyulewent on dying; but I was called from his bedside by a long-haired chapfrom New York. Says the chap to me:
"My name is Brown--Brown's Patent Hair-Dye, 25 cents a bottle. Ofcourse," says the hirsute chap, affably, "a monument will be erected tothe memory of our departed hero. An Italian marble shaft, standing on apedestal of four panels. Now," says the hairy chap, insinuatingly, "Iwill give ten thousand dollars to have my advertisement put on thepanel next to the name of the lamented deceased. We can get upsomething neat and appropriate, thus:
WE MUST ALL DIE;
BUT
BROWN'S DYE IS THE BEST]
"There!" says the enterprising chap, smilingly, "that would be veryneat and moral, besides doing much good to an American fellow-being."
I made no reply, my boy; but I told Samyule about it, and it excitedhim so that he regained his health.
"If I can't die," says the lamented Samyule, "without some advertisingcuss's making money by it, I'll defer my visit to glory until nextseason."
And he got well, my boy--he got well.
I was talking to the chaplain about Samyule's illness, and says thechaplain:
&
nbsp; "I am happy to say, my fellow-sinner, that when our beloved Samyule wasat the most dangerous crisis, he gave the most convincing proof ofrealizing his critical condition."
"How?" says I, skeptically.
"Why," says the chaplain, with a Christian look, "when I told ourbeloved Samyule that there could be little hope of his recovery, andasked him if his spiritual adviser could do anything to make hispassage easier, he pressed my hand fervently, and besought me to seethat he was buried _with a fan in his hand_."
Can it be, my boy, that the soul of a Mackerel will need a fan inanother world? Let us meditate upon this, my boy--let us meditate uponthis!
Yours, seriously,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.