 3. Introducing the veritable hymn of the contrabands with emancipation music, and describing the terrific combat allamain between Captain William Brown of the United States of America and Captain Munchhausen of the Southern Confederacy, Washington, D.C. April 4, 1862. Knowing you to be a connoisseur and horse-flesh, my boy, it is but proper I should tell you that I have leased my steed, the Gothic Pegasus, for a few days to an army carpenter, that gentleman having expressed a wish to use my architectural animal as a model for some new barracks. Pegasus, my boy, when viewed lengthwise, presents a perspective not unlike a hoboken cottage, and eminent builders tell me that his back is the very bow ideal of a combination roof. I sent a side-view photograph of the fiery stallion to a venerable grandmother not long since, and she wrote back that she was glad to see I had my quarters elevated on piles to avoid dampness, but should think the hut would smoke with such a crooked chimney. The old lady is rather hard of hearing, my boy, and makes trifling mistakes without her spectacles. In the absence of my war-horse I hired a respectable hack to take me to Manassas, the driver saying that he would not charge me more than ten dollars an hour as he had seen better days himself. What his seen better days had to do with me I didn't exactly see, my boy, but I hired the chariot, and we went down the river at a pace sometimes achieved by that carriage in a funeral which contains the parents of the deceased. Wet towels, soda water, and a few wholesome kicks in the rear having rendered Company 3, Regiment 5, Macro Brigade, sufficiently certain of their legs, to march a polka in the space of an ordinary cornfield, Captain William Brown placed himself at their head, and flanked by a canteen and an adjutant, the combined pageant was just about to move on a reconnoitering expedition as I came up. Ha! said William, hastily placing his shirt-frill over the neck of a bottle that accidentally peeped from his bosom. I am about to lead these noble beings on the path of glory, and you shall participate in the beams. Without a word I turned his left wing, and as the band, which consisted of a fat Dutchman and a night-key bugle, struck up drops of brandy, we moved onward like the celestial vision of childhood stream. Like the radiance of a higher heaven streaming through the golden tinted windows of some grand old cathedral fell the softened light of that April afternoon on budding nature, as we halted before a piece of woods just this side of Strasbourg. On the new leaves of the trees in front of us the sunshine coined a thousand phantom cataracts of specie, and in the veil below us a delicate purple shadow wrestled with the hill-reflected fire of the sun. Deep silence fell on Company 3, Regiment 5, Macro Brigade. The band put his instrument on the ring with the key of his trunk, and William softly reconnoitred through a spy-glass furnished with a cork. Suddenly the tones of a rich, manly voice swelled up from the bosom of the valley. Hush, says William, sternly eyeing the band who had just hiccupped, tis the song of the contra-bands. We all listened and could distinctly hear the following words of the singer. They're holding camp, meeting in hickory swamp. Oh, let my people go. The preacher's so dark, Daddy, carry him lamp. Oh, let my people go. The brothers am singing this jubilee tune. Oh, let my people go. Two dollars a year for the weekly tribune. Oh, let my people go. As the strain died away in the distance, the adjutant slapped his left leg. Why, he said dreamly, that must be Greeley down there. No, says William solemnly. It is one of the wronged children of tyranny warbling the suppressed hymn of his injured people. It is a sign, says William, trembling with bravery, that the southern confederacy is somewhere around, for when you hear the squeak of the agonized rat, said William philosophically, you may be sure that the sanguinary terrier is on the war-path. Scarcely had he spoken, my boy, when there emerged from the edge of the wood before us a rebel company headed by an officer of hairy countenance and much shirt-collar. This officer's face was a whisker plantation through which his eyes peeped forth like two snakes coiled up in a window-brush. His dress was shoddy, his air was toddy, and a yard of valuable stair-carpet enveloped his manly shoulders. Halt, said he to his file of reptiles, whose general effect was that of a Congress of rag-merchants just come in from a happy speculation in George Law muskets. Sir, said the officer, bowing in a graceful semicircle, I am somewhat in the first family way, own a plantation, drink but little water at home, and have the honor to be Captain Moonchausen of the Southern Confederacy. First Fence, says William, grimly drawing his sword. Fence, says Captain Moonchausen, also drawing his disguised crow-bar. Didst ever hear, boy, or read of that great Fence of the Olden Time, the Chevalier Saint George? Often, says William, in a tone that was as plainly the echo of a lie, as is that of the delicate female eater of slate-pencils, when she says that she never could bear pork and beans. Well, says Captain Moonchausen, huddley, the Chevalier was so extremely jealous of my superior skill that he actually went and died nearly a hundred years before I was born. Soap, says William, like one talking in his sleep, is sometimes made with powerful lie. By chivalry, says Captain Moonchausen, calorically, I swear I never told a single lie in all my life. A single lie, says William, abstractedly. Ah, no, for the lies of the Southern Confederacy are all married and have large families. This domestic speech, my boy, was too much for Moonchausen. Asking one of the rag merchants to hold his three-ply overcoat, and carefully removing his fragmentary cap, that none of the cold potatoes should spill out of it, he planted the remains of his right boot slightly in advance of the skeleton of his left, and thundered, SBLOOD! Quick as the lightning leaps along the cloud, did Captain William Brown send the great toe of his dexter foot to meet that of his foe. His Damascus blade lay across the opposing brand, and he whispered, SDEATH! It was a beautiful sight. By Minerva it was. Stop! says William, suddenly hauling in his weapon again. It shall never be said that I took advantage of a foe-man. As he uttered these memorable words, my boy, this ornament of the service plucked an infant demi-john from his fearless bosom, and magnanimously passed it to his antagonist. A soft commotion was visible in the whiskers of Captain Moonchausen, the suburb of a smile, as it were. A cavern opened in their midst, the vessel ascended curvy linearly thereto, and the sound was as the trickling of water down a mountain gulch. The adjutant took his seat on the sleeping body of the band, and with pencil and paper prepared to record the combat. The opposing champions faced each other, and as William once more raised his blade, he smiled horribly. Then my boy was witness a scene to make old Charlemagne's paladins dance hijinks in their graves, and call all the Arturian knights to life again. Cart etirse. But it was a spectacle for Hector and Achilles. With swords pointed straight at each other's noses, did the valorous heroes skip wildly back, and then as wildly forward, slam, bang, crack, smack, right and left, over and under, parry, faint, and premier force. How did they hop fireily along on opposite sides of the road, eyeing each other like demoniac Thomas Katz upon the moonlit fence? Ever and anon did they dart furiously to the center, cutting the blessed atmosphere to invisible splinters, and slaying imaginary legions. But a crisis was at hand. In one of his terrible chops, the cool and collected William brought his deadly weapon down full upon the knuckles of the enemy. But for the fact that William's sword was not quite as sharp as the side of an ordinary three-story house, Munchhausen's hand would never more have wielded trenchant blade. As it was, he hastily dashed his brand to the ground, crammed his knuckles into his mouth, struck up in impassioned dance, and mumbled in extreme agitation, Gull, fire your cursed abolition, soul! It was beautiful, my boy, to see how the calm William leaned upon his sword and smiled. Ah, says William, so perish the foes of the Union, the Constitution, and the enforcement of the laws. I have bruised the Confederacy. Adjutants, as William, in a sudden burst of pardonable exultation, score one for the United States of America. Now it happened, my boy, that, as William said this, he turned to where the adjutant was sitting and bent down to give particular directions. His body was thus made to assume somewhat of the shape of the letter U, the curve being sharply toward the enemy. In an instant, Captain Munchausen regained his sword, grasped it after the manner of a flail, and with a prodigious spank applied it to the unguarded portion of my hero's anatomy. High sprang the almost assassinated William into the air, with sparks pouring from his eyes, and Union oaths hissing from his working jaws. Adjutant, roared Captain Munchausen, score one for the Southern Confederacy. No sooner had William reached the ground and picked up the cork that had fallen from his bosom as he ascended, then he plunged rampageously at his adversary, and aimed a blow at his head that must have taken it off had Captain Munchausen been about a yard taller. As it was, the stroke mercilessly split the air and caused my hero to spin like a mighty top. In vain did the shameless Confederate swordsmen endeavor to get in a hit as William went around. The sword of the Union met him at every turn, and right quickly was the avenging blade humming around his head again. Inspired with the strength of Hercules, the endurance of Prometheus and the fire of Pluto, the gorgeous William Brown went out of his work once more like a feller of great trees, and in another moment his awful blade twanged upon the foeman's head. William went, Captain Munchausen, singing inverted psalms, with a whole nest of rockets exploding in his brain. Pale turned his rag merchants at the site, and one of them immediately deserted to our side and swore that he had always been a Union man. William leaned upon his blade and kindly remarked. His head is broken. I heard it crack. "'Tis false,' says Captain Munchausen gloomily. "'That is an old crack. I've had it ever since I was a boy.' "'Ah,' says William, airily, I'm afraid my blow has caused more than one funeral in the insect kingdom, for the cut went right through the hair. Have a comb,' says William pleasantly. Captain Munchausen made no reply, my boy, but motioned for his men to bear him from the field. It was noticed, however, that as he was being carried into the wood he asked a gentleman in remarkable tatters to take him to the last ditch. As the southern confederacy disappeared, Captain William Brown hammered his sword straight with a bit of stone, forced it into its scabbard and turned majestically to Company III, Regiment V, Macro Brigade, several members of which were engaged in the athletic game of pitch-penny. "'Let the band be awakened,' says William. A mackerel at once proceeded to break the slumbers of the orchestra by shaking a bottle near his ear, that experiment having never been known to fail in the case of a pronounced musical character. "'Ha!' says William, with much spirit. We will march to the national heirs of our distracted country. After sounding several cat-calls on his night-key bugle in the manner of all great instrumentalists who wish to know about their instruments being in tune, the band struck up, ale to the chief, and we marched to quarters like so many heroes of ancient rum. "'Shall treason triumph in our land, my boy, while there's a sword to wave? I think not, my boy. I think not. Though Columbia did not rule the wave, her champions would see to it that she never waved the rule. Yours for the star-spangled Orpheus C. Kerr." Showing how a rebel was reduced and converted to reconstruction by the valorous Orange County Howitzers. Washington, D.C. April 18, 1862. The stirring times are come again, the maddest of the year, and I am beginning to believe, my boy, that what is to be will be as what has been has. Though still without my gothic charger Pegasus, that symmetrical racer having been borrowed for a riding-desk by a secretary of the Frontier, I am enabled to keep up communications with the mackerel Corpse d'Amé down the river, and ten thousand star-spangled banners flashed through my veins as I relate the recent great artillery expedition of the Orange County Howitzers. It seems, my boy, that an intellectual member of the macro- brigade got tired of investing Yorktown and wandered away in pursuit of adventure. As he peregrinated in the neighborhood of a rebel domicile, he beheld what he took for the bird of our country, stalking out of the barnyard, and was taking measures to confiscate it when the proprietor made his appearance, and says he, Heschon, spare that goose! The mackerel chap gave a tragic start, and says he, tis the eagle I would rescue Horatio, the bird celebrated by my brother the congressman in all his speeches. Well, says the foul traitor, it is undoubtedly what the congressman takes for an eagle, as I am aware that congressmen generally treat the American eagle as if he were a goose, but as that gander happens to belong to one of the very first families of Virginia and cost me four shillings, it becomes my painful duty to resist your habeas corpus act. And with that he drove the beautiful bird into the barnyard and locked the gate. Fired to fury by this insult from one of those whom our army had come to protect, the mackerel chap went immediately back to quarters and appealed to his comrades for vengeance. That gifted officer, Samuel Smith, heard his burning words and says he, the cannon of the Union shall speak in this matter, let the Orange County howitzers get ready for action, and I will lead them against the Philistine. Instantly arose the notes of dreadful preparation. The guns were mobilized, six English gentlemen in the hosiery business were invited to view the coming battle, and just as the moon rose above the trees, the artillery started for the rebel stronghold. Arriving before the offending house, the howitzers were placed in line and all got ready for the bombardment. It was just possible, my boy, that two men might have marched into that house and captured the misguided Confederacy without slaughter. You may be unable to see what use there was in bringing artillery and forming in line of battle, but you are very ignorant, my boy, you know nothing about strategy and war. Soldiers, says Samuel, remember that the eyes of the whole world are upon you at this moment, and endeavor to hit the house as often as possible. We will fire one round without ball, says Samuel, to see if the powder is first class. Now it chanced that while the loading-up was going on, the gallant Lieutenant Lemons got his legs wonderfully entangled in the lanyard of his peace and kept turning the howitzer around in a manner strongly expressive of nervous agitation. Suddenly he stepped across to where Samuel was standing and whispered in his ear. Oh, I see, says Samuel, kindly. You were educated at West Point and want to know which end of the cannon ought to be pointed at the enemy. Well, says Samuel, instructively, you'd better point the end with a hole in it. Everything being in readiness, my boy, the combined battery launched its thunders on the air, creating a great sensation in the neighboring hen-roosts, and causing a large rooster to fall from a branch in the midst of his refreshing slumbers. Now that the powder has sustained its reputation, says Samuel impressively, let the two-inch balls be hurled at the enemy's works. As the house was full ten yards off, this second discharge failed to hit it, but it brought the southern confederacy to the window in his night-cap and says he, There's no use of me trying to sleep if you chaps keep making such a noise down there. Unhappy man, says Samuel solemnly, we come here to reduce you and we'll listen to nothing but unconditional surrender. The confederacy gaped and says he I'm very sleepy and can't talk to you now, but I'll call over in the morning. And he shut the window and went back to bed. A frown was observed to steal over the face of Samuel. He has a peculiar countenance, my boy, and a frown affects it strangely. Take his mouth and mustache together, and they remind you of a mouse sunning himself on the edge of his hole, and when the frown comes on the mouse acts as though he had a stomach ache. Comrades, says Samuel, the enemy requires another round, and we must do it on the square. Fire! Like four and twenty thunderstorms the howitzers roared together, and had not the orange county veterans forgotten to put in any balls, there is reason to believe that some windows would have been broken. Another discharge, however, was more successful, as it knocked the top off the chimney. The southern confederacy appeared at the window again and says he if you fellows don't quit that racket down there you'll irritate me pretty soon. This significant remark caused a sudden cessation of the bombardment and Samuel hastily called a council of war. Gentlemen, says Samuel, a new issue has arisen. If we irritate the southern confederacy all hopes of future union and reconstruction may be destroyed. A chap who was a conservative Democrat suddenly flamed up at this and says he the abolitionists caused this terrible war and it is our business as no party men to finish it constitutionally. If we irritate this man no power on earth will ever make him submit to reconstruction. Ask him. There the Democratic chap took a large taste of tobacco and sighed for his country. Mr. Davis says Samuel to the confederacy at the window. If we do not irritate you will you consent to be reconstructed? Reconstructed, says the confederacy thoughtfully. Reconstructed. Ah, says he, you mean will I consent to be born again? Yes, says Samuel metaphysically. Will you consent to be born again as we have born with you heretofore? The confederacy thought a while and then says he. Consider me reconstructed. As that was all the constitution asked, of course there was no more to be done, and the Orange County Howitzers returned to their original position in the mire, the English gentlemen remarking that the appearance and discipline of our troops were satisfactory to Albion. Fighting according to the constitution my boy is such an admirable way of preventing carnage that some doctor ought to take out a patent for it as a cheap medicine. Yours to come and Orpheus C. Kerr. And of letter 39. Letter 40 of Orpheus C. Kerr papers. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Orpheus C. Kerr papers by Robert Henry Newell, letter 40. Considering tribute of admiration to the women of America with a reminiscence of Hobbes and Dobbs, et cetera. Washington, D.C. April 18, 1862. Having a leisure hour at my disposal my boy and being reminded of infatuating crinoline by the reception of certain bird-like notes in choreography strongly resembling the exquisite edging on delicious pantalettes I turn my attention to that beautiful creation which is fearfully and wonderfully made and wears distracting gaiters. Woman, my boy, at her worst, is a source of real happiness to the sterner sex. There's a chap in the mackerel brigade who got very melancholy one day after receiving a letter from home wherein he was affectionately called a unnatural and wishes-creator for not sending his better half a new dress and some hairpins. Seeing his affliction and divining its cause, another mackerel stepped up to him and says he, Is it the old woman which is on a tear? The married chap groaned and says he, She's mad as a hornet. I do believe, says the married chap, turning very pale, that she'll take away my night-key and teach my babes to call me the old phile. Well, says the comforting mackerel, then why did you get married? Why didn't you stay a single bachelor like me and enjoy the pursuit of happiness in the fire-department? Happiness, says the married chap, why it was expressly to enjoy happiness that I wedded. Step this way, says the married chap, with a horrible smile, leading his consular aside. Ain't the women of America mortal? Yes, says the mackerel thoughtfully. And don't they die? Yes, says the mackerel. That is to say, added the mackerel contemplatively. They sometimes die when there's new and expensive tombstones in fashion. Peter Perkins, says the married chap, with a smile of wild bliss. I wouldn't miss the happiness I shall feel when my angel returns to her native heavings, for the sake of being twenty bachelors. No, says the married chap, clutching his bosom. I've lived on the thought of that air-bliss ever since the morning my female partner threw my box of long sixes out of the window, and called in the police because I brought a valuable terrier home with me. Here the married chap uncorked his canteen, and eyed it with speechless fury. Tears came to the eyes of the unwomantic mackerel. He extended his hand, and says he, Say no more, Bobby. Say no more. If you ain't got the correct idea of heaven, then there's no such place on the map. I give you this touching conversation between two of nature's noblemen, my boy, that you may appreciate that beautiful dispensation of providence which endows woman with the slider failings of humanity, yet gives her the power to brighten the mind of inferior man with glorious visions of joy beyond the grave. My arm has been strengthened in this war, my boy, by the inspiration of woman's courage, and aided by her almost miraculous foresight. Only yesterday a fair girl of forty-three summers thoughtfully sent me a box containing two gross of assorted fish hooks, three cookbooks, one dozen Tubbs's best spool-cotton, three door plates, a package of patent geranium roots, two yards of Brussels carpet, Rumford's illustrated work on perpetual intoxication, and bottles of furniture polish and some wallpaper. Accompanying these articles so valuable to a soldier on the march was a note in which the kind-hearted girl said that the things were intended for our sick and wounded troops and were the voluntary tributes of a loyal and dreamy-sold woman. I tried a dose of the furniture polish, my boy, on a chap that had the measles, and he has felt so much like a sofa ever since that a coroner's jury will sit on him tomorrow. The remainder of this susceptible young creature's note, my boy, was calculated to move a heart of stone. She asked if it hurt much to be killed, and said she should think the President might sue Jeff Davis or commit habeas corpus, or some other ridiculous thing, to stop this dreadful spirit-agonizing war. She said that her deepest heart-throbs and dream yearnings were for the crimson, consecrated union, and that she had lavished her most harrowing hopesabs for its heaven triumph. She said that she had a friend named Smith in the army and wished I could find him out and tell him that the human heart, though repining at the absence of the beloved object, may be coldly proud as a scornful statute to the stranger's eye, but pines like a soul-murdered water-lily on the lovely stream of its twilight-brewting contemplations. Anxious to oblige her, my boy, I asked the General of the Mackerel Brigade if he knew a soldier of the name of Smith. The General thought a while and says he, not one. There are many of the name of some Smith, says the General, screening his eye from the sun with a bottle, and the smiths are numerous. But the smiths all died as soon as the Prince of Wales came to this country. This is an age of great aristocracy, my boy, and the name of Smith is confined to tombstones. I once knew a chap named Hobbs, who made knobs, and had a partner named Dobbs, and he never could get married until he changed his title. For what sensitive and delicately-nerved female would marry a man whose business card read, Try Hobbs and Dobbs Knobbs? Finally he called himself Duhobbs, and wedded a Miss Pogger, pronounced Pah J. After that he cut his partner, ordered his friends to cease calling him Jack, and, in compliance with the wishes of his wife's family, got out a business card like this. Jacques Duhobbs, try his door-persuaders. But to return to the women of America, there was one of them came out to our camp not long ago, my boy, with six Saratoga trunks full of moral reading for our troops. She was distributing the cheerful works among the veterans, when she happened to come across private jinx, who had just got his rations, and was swearing audibly at the collection of wild beasts he had found in one of his biscuits. Young man, says she, in a vinegar manner, do you want to be damned? Private jinx reflected a moment, and says he, Really, ma'am, I don't know enough about horses to say. The literary agent was greatly shocked, but recovered in time to hand the warrior a small book, and told him to read it and be saved. It was a small and enlivening volume, my boy, written by a missionary lately served up for breakfast by the Emperor of Gloria Glorigulia, and entitled, The Fire That Is Never Quenched. Jinx looked at the book and says he, What district is that fire in? The daughter of the Republic bit off a small piece of cough-candy and says she, It's down below, young man, where you bid fair to go. And will it never be put out? says Private Jinx. The deeply affected crinoline shook her head until all her combs rattled, and says she, No, young man, it will burn and burn, young man. Then I'm safe enough, says Private Jinx, slapping his knee, for I'm a member of forty hoes, and if that air fires to keep burning they'll have to have a paid fire department down there and shut us fellows out. The daughter of the Republic instantly left him, my boy, and when next I saw her she was arguing with one of the chaplains who pretended to believe that firemen sometimes went to heaven. Woman, my boy, is an angel in disguise, and if she had wings, what a rise there would be in bonnets. Yours for the next Philharmonic, Orpheus Seeker. End of Letter 40. Letter 41 of Orpheus Seeker Papers. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Orpheus Seeker Papers by Robert Henry Newell, Letter 41. Citing a notable case of volunteer surgery and giving an outline sketch of Cotton Seminary, Washington, D.C., April 25, 1862. There is a certain something about a sick room, my boy, that makes me think seriously of my latter end, and recognize physicians as true heroes of the bottle-field. The subdued swearing of the sufferer on his bed, the muffled tread of the venerable nurse as she comes into the room to make sure that the brandy recommended by the doctor is not too mild for the patient. The sepulchral shout of the regimental cat as she recognizes the tread of Jacob Barker, the sergeant's bull terrier outside. All these are things to make the spectator remember that we are but dust, and that to return to dust is our destiny. Early in the week, my boy, a noble member of the Pennsylvania mudlarks was made sick in a strange manner. A draft of picked men from certain regiments was ordered for a perilous expedition down the river. You may be aware, my boy, that a draft is always dangerous to delicate constitutions, and as the mudlark happened to burst into a profuse perspiration about the time he found himself standing in this draft, he, of course, took such a violent cold that he had to be put to bed directly. I went to see him, my boy, and whilst he was relating to me some affecting anecdotes of the time when he used to keep a bar a member of the medical staff of the United States of America came in to see the patient. This venerable surgeon first deposited a large saw, a hatchet, and two pickaxes on the table, and then says he, How do you find yourself, boy? The mudlark took a small chew of tobacco with a melancholy air and says he, I think I've got the guitar in my head, Mr. Saw-bones, and I'm about to join the angel choir. I see how it is, says the surgeon thoughtfully. You think you've got the guitar when it's only the drum of your ear that is affected. Well, says the surgeon with sudden pleasantness as he reached after his saw and one of the pickaxes, I must amputate your left leg at once. The mudlark curled himself up in bed like a wounded anaconda and says he, I don't see it in that light. Well, says the surgeon in a sprightly manner, then suppose I put a fly blister on your stomach and only amputate your right arm. The surgeon was formerly a blacksmith, my boy, and got his diploma by inventing some pills with iron in them. He proved that the blood of six healthy men contained enough iron to make six horseshoes and then invented the pills to cure hoarseness. The sick chap reflected on what his medical advisor had said and then says he, Your words convince me that my situation must be dangerous. I must see some relative before I permit myself to be dissected. Whom would you wish me to send for, says the surgeon. My grandmother, my dear old grandmother, said the mudlark with much feeling. The surgeon took me cautiously aside and says he, My poor patient has a cold in his head, and his life depends, perhaps, on the gratification of his wishes. You have heard him ask for his grandmother, says the surgeon softly, and as his grandmother lives too far away to be sent for, we must practice a little harmless deception. We must send for secretary Wells of the Navy Department and introduce him as the grandmother. My patient will never know the difference. I took the hint, my boy, and went after the secretary, but the latter was so busy examining a model of Noah's Ark that he could not be seen. Happily, however, the patient recovered while the surgeon was getting his saw filed and was well enough last night to reconnoiter and force. The macro brigade being still in quarters before Yorktown, I am at leisure to stroll about the Southern Confederacy, my boy, and on Thursday I pay to visit to Cotton Seminary, just beyond Alexandria, where the Southern intellect is taught to fructify and expand. This celebrated institution of learning is all on one floor, with a large chimney and heavy mortgage upon it, and a number of windows supplied with ground glass, or, rather, supplied with a certain openness as regards the ground. Upon entering this majestic edifice, the master, Prex Peyton, descended at once from the barrel on which he was seated and gave me a true Virginian welcome. Though you may be a Lincoln horde, says he, in a menorial manner, the Republic of Intellect recognizes you only as a man. The Southern mind knows how to recognize a soul apart from its outer circumstances, for what say the logicians? Deus est anima brutorum. Take a seat on yonder-barrel, friend Hessian, and you shall hear the wisdom of the youthful minds. First class in computation, stand up. As I took a seat, my boy, the first class in computation came to the front, and it is my private impression, my boy, my private impression, that each child's father was the owner of a rag plantation at some period of his life. Boys, says the master, how is the table of Confederate money divided? Into pounds, shillings, and pants. Right. Now, Master Mason, repeat the table. Master Mason, who was a germ of a first family, took his fingers out of his mouth and says he, twenty pounds of Confederate bonds make one shilling, twenty shillings make one penny, six pennies, one drink. That's right, my pretty little cherubs, says the master. Now go and take your seats and study your bow-knife exercises. Class in geography, stand up. The class in geography consisted of one small confederacy, my boy, with a taste for tobacco. Master Wise, says the master confidently, can you tell us where Africa is? Master Wise sniffed intelligently and says he, Africa is situated at the corner of Spruce and Nassau streets, and is bounded on the north by Greeley, on the south by Slavery, on the east by Sumner, and on the west by Lovejoy. Very true, my bright little fellow, says the master. Now go back to your chan. You see, friend Hessian, says the master, turning to me. How much superior Southerners are, even as children, to the depraved Yankees. In my teaching experience I have known scholars only six years old to play polka like old members of the church, and a pupil of mine that you could me once in ten minutes. I thanked him for his courtesy, and was proceeding to the door, when I observed four boys in one corner, with their mouths so distorted that they seemed to have subsisted upon a diet of persimmons all their lives. Venerable Pundit, says I in astonishment, how came the faces of those offspring so deformed? Oh! says the master complacently. That class has been studying Carlisle's works. I retired from cotton seminary, my boy, with a firm conviction of the utility of popular education, and a hope that the day might come when a professorship of old sledge would be created in the New York University. Yours for a higher civilization, Orpheus C. Kerr. And of letter forty-one. Letter forty-two of Orpheus C. Kerr papers. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Orpheus C. Kerr papers by Robert Henry Newell. Letter forty-two. Revealing a new blockading idea, introducing a geometrical steed, and narrating the wonderful exploits of the mackerel sharpshooter at Yorktown. Washington, D.C., May 2, 1862. Speaking of the patriarch of the Navy Department, my boy, they say that the respected ancient has, under consideration, a new and admirable plan for making the blockade efficient. The idea is to furnish all the naval captains with spectacles made of looking glass so that when they are asleep on the quarter-deck their glasses will reflect the figure of any rubble craft that may be trying to slip by. These spectacles could all be ready in twenty years. And when the secretary told a congressman of the plan, the latter thought carefully over the suggestion, as dripping with coolness it rose from the wells, and says he, My dear madam, the idea lacks but one thing. The looking-glass spectacles ought to be supplied with a comb and brush, so that the captain could fix himself up after capturing the pirate. Ah, madam, says the congressman, hastily picking up the jack-of-clubs, which he had accidentally pulled out with his pocket-hankerchief. You will rank next to Mary the mother of Washington in the affections of future generations. The mother of Washington, my boy, the mother of Washington? Why the secretary is already celebrated as the grandmother of Washington City. On the occasion of my last visit to Yorktown, my boy, I found the macro-brigades so well up in animal spirits that each chap was equal to a pony of brandy and capable of capturing any amount of glass artillery. At the present time, my boy, the brigade is formed in the shape of a clamshell, with the right resting on a beer wagon, and the left on a traveling free lunch saloon. I was examining the new battery of the Orange County Howitzers, whose guns have such large touch-holes that the chaps keep their crackers and cheese in them when not in action, and was also overhearing the remarks of a melancholy mackerel concerning what he wished to be done with his effects in case he should perish with old age before the battle commenced. When I beheld Captain William Brown approaching me on the most geometrical beast I ever saw, an animal even richer in sharp corners, my boy, than my own gothic steed Pegasus. Ha! says William, hastily swallowing something that brought tears to his eyes and taking a bit of lemon-peel to clear his voice. You are admiring my Arabian coarser, and wondering whether it is one of the three presented to Secretary Seward by the Emperor of Egypt. You speak truly, my Bayard, says I. That superb piece of horse-flesh looks like the original plan of the city of Boston. There's so many bisecting angles about him. Ah! says William, with an agreeable smile. In the words of the anthem of childhood, the angles told me so. William's idea of angels, my boy, constitutes a theory of theology in itself. What call you the charger, says I. Euclid, says William, pausing for a moment to catch the gurgle of a canteen, just reversed. Ah! says William, recovering his presence of mind. This here marvel of natural history is a guaranteed two-point forty. No, says I. Yes, says William, calculatingly. This superb animal is a sure two-point forty. He cost me just two dollars and forty cents. But come with me, said William, proudly, and see the sharpshooter contingent I have just organized to aid in the suppression of this here unnatural rebellion. I followed the splendidly mounted warrior, my boy, to a spot not far from the nearest point of the enemy's lines, where I found a lengthy western chap polishing a rifle with a powerful telescope on the end of it. He had just been organized and was preparing to make some carnage. Now then, A. Jack, said William classically, let us see you pick off that confederacy over there, which looks like a mirror fly at this distance. The sinewy sharpshooter sprang to his feet, called a drummer boy to hold his chew of tobacco, looked at the rebel gunner through his telescope, shut up the telescope, took aim with both eyes shut, turned away his head, and fired. I must say, my boy, that I at first thought the confederacy was not hit at all, inasmuch as he only scratched one of his legs and squinted along his gun. But William soon showed me how exquisitely accurate the sharpshooter's aim had been. The bullet struck him, says William, confidently, and would have reached his heart, but for the Bible given him by his mother when he left home which arrested its fatal progress. Let us hope, says William seriously, that he will henceforth search the scriptures and be a dutiful son. I felt the tears spring to my eyes, for I once had a mother myself. I couldn't help it, my boy. I couldn't help it. The second shot of the unerring rifleman was aimed at a hapless contraband who had been sent out to the end of a gun by the enemy to see that the ball did not roll out before the gunner had time to pull the trigger. Crack went the deadly weapon of the sharpshooter, and down went the unhappy African to his dinner. Ah! said William skeptically. Do you think you hit a mage-ack? Truly stranger, responded the unmoved marksman sententiously. He will die at twenty minutes past three this afternoon. Sick of this dreadful slaughter, my boy, I turned from the spot with William and presently overtook the general of the mackerel brigade, who was seated on a fence by the roadside, trying to knock the cork out of a bottle with a piece of rock. We saluted and went on to the camp. Sharpshooters, my boy, are a source of much pain to hostile gunners, and if one of them should happen to put a bullet through the head of navigation it would certainly cause the tide to fall. Letters take amiably Orpheus C. Kerr, and of letter forty-two. Letter forty-three of Orpheus C. Kerr papers. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Orpheus C. Kerr papers by Robert Henry Newell, letter forty-three. Concerning martial literature, introducing a didactic poem by the Arkansas Tract Society and a biography of Garibaldi for the soldier, Washington, DC, May 7, 1862. Southern religious literature, my boy, is admirably calculated to improve the morals of race courses and render dogfights the instruments of wholesome spiritual culture. On the person of a high-minded southern confederacy captured the other day by the mackerel pickets I found a moral work which had been issued by the Arkansas Tract Society for the diffusion of religious thoughts in the camp and was much improved by reading it. The pure-minded Arkansas chap who got it up, my boy, remarked in pallid print that every man should extract a wholesome moral from everything whatsoever, and then went on to say that there was an excellent moral in the beautiful Arkansas nursery tale of the bewitched terrier. Sam Johnson was a colored man who lived down in Judea. He owned a rat-tan terrier that stood about one foot three, and the way that critter shot up rats was gorgeous for to see. One day the stard was slumbering behind the kitchen stove when suddenly a wicked flea, an ugly little cove, commenced upon his faithful back with many jumps to rove. Then up arose that terrier with frenzy in his eye, and waiting only long enough to make the touch and cry, commenced to twist his head around most wonderfully spry. But all in vain his shape was sitch so awful short and fat, and though he doubled up his self and strained his self at that, his mouth was half an inch away from where the varmint sat. The dog sat up an awful yowl and twisted like an eel, emitting cries of misery at every nip he'd feel, and tumbling down and jumping up and turning like a wheel. But still that most audacious flea kept up a constant char, just where he couldn't be scratched out by any reach of paw, but always half an inch beyond his victims' snapping-jaw. Adam Johnson heard the noise and came to save his animal, but when he see the critter spin and bark in all the while, he dreaded hydrophobia and then began to rile. The pup is mad enough, says he, and lugging in his axe, he gave the wretched terrier a pair of awful cracks that stretched him out upon the floor as dead as carpet tacks. Take warning by this terrier, now turn to sausage-meat, and when misfortune's flea shall come upon your back to eat, beware or you may die because you can't make both ends meet. The Arkansas Tract Society put a note at the bottom of this moral lyric, my boy, stating that the wicked flea here mentioned is the same varmint which is mentioned in scripture as being so bold, the wicked flea when no man pursues but the righteous is as bold as a lion. Speaking of literature, my boy, I am happy to say that the members of the Mackerel Brigade have been inspired to emulate great examples by the biographies of great soldiers which have been sent to the camp for their reading by the thoughtful women of America. For instance, here we have the Life of General Garibaldi, by the noblest Roman of them all. CHAPTER I. His Birth At that period of the world's history, when the past immediately preceded the present and the future was yet to come, there existed in a small town of which the houses formed a part, a rich but respectable couple. Owing to a combination of circumstances, their first son was a boy of the male gender who inherited the name of his parents from the moment of his birth and who is the subject of our story. When he was about five hours old, his male parent said to him, My boy, do you know me? In an instant the eyes of the child flashed jersey lightning. He ceased sucking his little fistices. His hair would have stood on end if there had been any on his head, and he exclaimed in tones of thunder, Viva liberté et Mr. Garibaldi instantly clasped the little cherubim to his stomach while Mrs. Garibaldi waved the tri-colored flag above them and requested the chambermaid to bring her a little more of that same burning fluid with plenty of sugar in it. Thus was Garibaldi ushered into the world, and the burning fluid is for sale by all respectable drugists and grocers throughout the country, with S. O. P. on the wrapper. CHAPTER II His Education On arriving at years of indiscretion our hero began to display a tendency to seven up, old sledge, and other card in old virtues, calculated to fit him for playing his cards right in future years. Just about this time too his parents resolved to send him to school, and it is as the young scholar we must now regard him. Behold him then at his tasks, in a red shirt amputated at the neck and two yellow patches, the badge of Sardinia, flaming from the background of his seed of learning. He readily mastered the Greek verbs and roots, comprehended licorice root, studied geography, etymology, sycorax, and mahogany, could decline to conjugate the verb tobey, and quickly knew enough about algebra to prove that X plus Y, not being equal to Z, is minus any dinner at noon, and plus one of the tightest applications of birch that ever produced the illusion of a red-hot stove in immediate contact with the human body. CHAPTER III Garibaldi goes to sea. Just before the breaking out of the rebellion at Rome the trade in garlic and domestic fleas took a sudden start, and the Poe was crowded with vessels of all nations, especially the hallucinations. One day young Garibaldi was in the act of stabbing a barrel of molasses to the heart with a quill on Pier IV, P.R., Poe River, when he was described by the captain of a fishing-smack detailed by government to watch the motions of the English fleet. Boy ahoy, says the captain. The future liberator of Italy dropped his murderous quill, wiped his nose with a pine-shaving, and answered in trumpet tones, You're another! So delighted was the captain with this noble reply that he flogged the whole starboard watch at the gunnels, ordered to prevent her back-stay on the Kedge anchor, steeped ashore to where Garibaldi was standing and offered to make him familiar with the seas and a second Caesar. Garibaldi replied that he had already been half seas over, but would not object to another cruise. He said he had travelled half seas over on his face, and would now travel the other half on a vessel. He went. The vessel proved to be a vessel of wrath, and Garibaldi became so familiar with the catanine tails that he soon mused upon a plan for deserting the ship. Chapter 4 He Fights for Rome All seas are liable to commotions, hence it is not strange that the Holy See encountered a storm about the time that it occurred. For some weeks certain pure spirits had been fomenting the small beer of civil war, and in spite of Vaticanation it broke out at last and was a rash proceeding. Garibaldi was sent for by the Goddess of Liberty to lead the insurrectionary forces, while the liberty of the Goddess was endangered by the leadership of the commander of the French troops aiding the Pope. Our hero had but a handful of patriots on hand and on foot to fight with him, but he determined to struggle to the last and perish in the attempt, even though he should lose his life by it. The Frenchman had an immense array of tried soldiers on the quivive and on horseback, but Garibaldi was not dismayed and kept his courage up to the sticking point by hoping for aid. Alas, the only aid they received was lemonade and cannonade, but not a brigade. They fought with the French and were whipped like blazes. Hink illa slakgrima. Chapter 5 Garibaldi in America After wandering about Italy as an exile for some months, the bold patriot came to America and opened a cigar shop. The writer remembers entering his shop one day to purchase a genuine marescham and discovering afterwards that it was made of plaster of Paris and smelt when heated like ancient sauerkraut flavored with lamp oil. Garibaldi also sold the finest Hibana cigars ever made on Staten Island, one brand of which was so strong in its integrity that it once defeated dishonesty thus. One night while Garibaldi was praying for his beloved Italy at the house of a friend, a burglar broke into his store with the intention of robbing it. The scoundrel broke open the till, took out all the city money, he refused to take anything but current funds, and then broke open a box of the cigars strong in their integrity intending to have a quiet smoke before he left. Alas for him. When Garibaldi opened the store in the morning he found the burglar laying upon his back with a cigar in his mouth and too weak to move. In the attempt to smoke the cigar he had drawn his backbone clear through until it caught on his breastbone and the back of his head was just breaking through the roof of his mouth when the patriot found him. He was taken to the police office and discharged by the first alderman that came along. Such is life. When the Emperor of France commenced his war with Austria Garibaldi suddenly appeared at one of the elbows of the Mincio and having passed around the great quadrilateral headed a select body of alpine shepherds and charged the Austrians more than they could pay. All the world knows how that war ended. The emperors of France and Austria signed a treaty by which each was compelled to go back to his own country, tell his subjects that it was all right and set all the wise men of the nation to discover what he had been fighting about. Sardinia was not asked to give an opinion. About this time Garibaldi was left out in the cold. CHAPTER VI Our Hero in Sicily As we look abroad upon the vast nations of the earth and remember that if they were all destroyed not one of them would be left, the mind involuntarily conceives an idea and becomes conscious of the pregnant fact that what is to be will be and what has been was. So when we look upon families the thought forces itself upon us that if there were no births there would be no children. Without fathers there could be no mothers. And if the entire household should be swept away by disease they would cease to live. So it is also when we look upon an individual our intellect tells us that if he dies in infancy he will not live to be a man and if he never does anything he will surely do nothing. This metaphysical line of thought is particularly natural in the case of Garibaldi. Look at him as he now stands, with one foot on Sicily and the other in a boot. Had he not been educated he would have been uneducated. Had he not gone to sea he would never have been a sailor. Had he not fought for Rome he would have laid down arms in her cause. Were he not now fighting for Italian independence he would be otherwise engaged. Thus the aspect presented by Garibaldi throughout his career leads our thoughts into all the deep meanderings of the German mind and teaches us to perceive that whatever is is right as whatever is not is wrong. Enraged at the impotent conclusion of the French and Letter 44 of Orpheus C. Kerr Papers. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information order volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Orpheus C. Kerr Papers by Robert Henry Newell. Letter 44. Showing how the great battle of Paris was fought and won by the macro brigade aided and abetted by the iron plated fleet of Commodore Head. Washington D.C. May 10th, 1862. I have just returned my boy from witnessing one of the most tremendous battles of modern times and shall see star-spangled banners in every sunset for six months to come. Hearing that the southern Confederacy had evacuated Yorktown for the reason that the last ditch had moved on the 1st of May to a place where there would be less rent from our cannon I started early in the week for the quarters of the valorous and sanguinary macro brigade expecting that it had gone toward Richmond for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. On reaching the peninsula, however, I learned that the macro corp stamais had been left behind to capture the city of Paris in cooperation with a squadron. Reaching the stamping ground, my boy, I beheld the scene at once unique and impressive. Each individual mackerel was seated on the ground with a sheet of paper across his knees and an ink bottle beside him, writing like an inspired poet. I approached Captain William Brown, who was covering some bare spots on his geometrical steed Euclid, with pieces scissored out of an old hair-trunk, and says, I, tell me, my noble Hector, what means this literary scene which mine eyes behold? Ah, says William, setting down his glupot, we are about to engage in a scrimmage from which not one may come out alive. These heroic beings, says William, are ready to die for their country at sight, and you now behold them making their wills. We shall march upon Paris, says William, as soon as I hear from Sergeant Opaque, who has been sent to destroy a mill-dam belonging to the Southern Confederacy. Come with me, my nice little boy, and look at the squadron to take part in the attack. This squadron, my boy, consisted of one twenty-eight inch rowboat, mounting a twelve-inch swivel, and commanded by Commodore Head late of the canal-boat service. It is iron-plated after a peculiar manner. When the ingenious chap who was to iron-plated commenced his work, Commodore Head ordered him to put the plates on the inside of the boat instead of the outside, as in the case of the monitor in Galena. What do you mean, says the contractor? Why, says the Commodore, ain't them iron plates intended to protect the crew? Yes, says the contractor. Well, then, you poor ignorant cuss, says the Commodore in a great passion. What do you want to put the plates on the outside for? The crew won't be on the outside, will it? The crew will be on the inside, won't it? And how are you going to protect the crew on the inside by putting iron plates on the outside? Such reasoning, my boy, was convincing, and the mackerel squadron is plated inside. While I was contemplating this new triumph of American naval architecture, and wondering what they would say about it in Europe, an orderly wrote up and handed a scrap of paper to William. Ha! says William, perusing the message, and then passing it to me. The veteran opaque has not deceived the United States of America. The message was directed to the general of the mackerel brigade, my boy, and read as follows. General, in accordance with your orders, I have destroyed the mill damn opaque. And now, says William, returning his canteen to his bosom and pulling out his ruffles, the United States of America will proceed to capture Paris with great slaughter. Let the brigade form and marching order, while the fleet proceeds around by water after the manner of Lord Nelson. The mackerel brigade was quickly on the march, headed by the band who played an entirely new version of Hail Columbia on his key bugle. Tramp, tramp, tramp, and we found ourselves in position before Paris. Paris, my boy, was a city of two houses previous to the recent great fire which destroyed half of it, and we found it fortified with a strong picket fence and counterscarp earthworks from the top of which frowned numerous guns of great compass. The mackerel brigade was at once formed in line of battle order, the line being not quite as straight as an ordinary Pennsylvania railroad, while the fleet menaced the waterfront of the city from Duck Lake. You may not be able to find Duck Lake on the maps, my boy, as it is only visible after a heavy rain. Previous to the attack, a balloon containing a mackerel chap and a telescope shaped like a bottle was sent up to Reconnoiter. Well, says William to the chap when he came down, what is the force of the Confederacy? The chap coughed respectfully and says he, I could only see one Confederacy which is an old woman. William says, William, his eyes flashing like the bottoms of two reversed tumblers. I believe you to be an accursed abolitionist. Go instantly to the rear, says William fiercely, and read the report of the Van Wick Investigating Committee. It was a terrible punishment, my boy, but the example was needed for the good of the service. The Orange County Howitzers now advanced to the front and poured a terrible fire in the direction of a point about halfway between the nearest steeple and the meridian, working horrible carnage in a flock of pigeons that happened to be passing at the time. Splendid, my glorious Prussians, says William, just escaping a fall from his saddle by the convulsive start of Euclid, that noble war horse having been suddenly roused from a pleasant dose by the firing. Splendid, my artillery, darlings, only, says William thoughtfully, as the sun is a friendly power, don't aim at him so accurately next time. Meantime, Company 3, Regiment 5, had advanced from the right, and were just about to make a splendid bayonet charge by the oblique over the picket fence and earthwork when the concealed Confederacy suddenly opened a deadly fire of old shoes throwing the mackerels into great confusion. Just simultaneously a large potato struck the fleet on Duck Lake on the nose, so intensely exciting him that he incontinently touched off his swivel to the great detriment of the surrounding country. This was a critical moment, my boy. The least trifle on either side would have turned the scale and given the victory to either party. William Brown had just assumed the attitude in which he desired Frank Leslie's illustrated artist to draw him when a familiar domestic utensil came hissing through the lurid air from the rebel works and exploded into two pieces at his feet. Ha! says William, eyeing the fragments with great pallor, they have commenced to throw shell. In another moment that incomparable officer was at the head of a storming party, and as the fleet opened fire on the cabbage patch in the rear of the enemy's position an impetuous charge was precipitated in front. Though met by a perfect hail of turnips, stove-covers, and kindling wood, the mackerels went over the fence like a fourth-proof avalanche and hemmed in the rebel garrison with walls of bayonets. Surrender to the Union Anaconda and the United States of America, You're a nasty dirty crater, responded the garrison, who was an old lady of venerable aspect. Surrender, or you're a dead man, my FF Venus, says William majestically. The old lady replied with a look of scorn, my boy, walked deliberately toward the road, and when last seen was proceeding in the direction of Richmond under a green silk umbrella and a heavy press of snuff. Now it happened, just after we had formally taken possession of the city, while the band was playing martial airs, and the fleet winding up his chronometer, that the general of the macro-brigade made his appearance on the field, and was received with loud cheers by those who believed that he brought their pay back with him. My children, says the general, with a paternal smile, don't praise me for an achievement in which all have won such imperishable laurels, I have only done my duty. This speech, my boy, made a great impression upon me on account of its touching modesty. War, my boy, is calculated to promote an amount of bashful modesty never equaled except in Congress, and I have known Brigadiers so self-deprecatory that they lived in a state of perpetual blush, especially at the ends of their noses. Yours, inadequately, Orpheus C. Kerr. End of Letter 44. William Brown in his military government of Paris. Washington, D.C. May 18, 1862. Suffer me, my boy, to direct your attention to the Congress of our once-distracted country, which is now shedding a beautiful luster over the whole nation, and exciting that fond emotion of admiration which inclines the human foot to perform a stern duty. Congress, says Captain Samuel Smith, nodding to the barkeeper, and designating a particular bottle with his finger. Congress, says he, is an honour and an ornament to our bleeding land. The fortunes of war may fluctuate, the rose may fade, but Congress is ever stable. Yes, says Samuel, in a beautiful burst of enthusiasm, softly stirring the oath in his tumbler with a toothpick. Congress is stable, in short, a stable full of mules. The Conservatives from the border states, my boy, look upon the Southern Confederacy as a brother, whom it is our duty to protect against the accursed designs of the fiendish abolitionists who would make this war one of bloodshed. They ignore all party feeling, support the Constitution as it was, in contra- distinction to what it is, and object to any confiscation measure calculated to irritate our misguided brothers and sisters in that beautiful land where, the suitor he goes to the planter so grand, and give me your daughter, says he. For each and to other we've plighted our loves, I love her and so she loves me, says he, and married we're wishing to be. The planter was deeply affected indeed, such touching devotion to see. The giving I couldn't afford, but I'll sell her for six hundred dollars to thee, says he, her mother was worth that to me. Which I quote from a sweet ballad I recently found among some rebel leavings at Yorktown. These, conservative patriots, my boy, remind me of a chap I once knew in the Sixth Ward. A high moral chap, my boy, and full of venerable dignity. One night the virtuous cuss doing business next door to him, having just got a big insurance on his stock, and thinking himself safe for a flaming speculation, set fire to his own premises, and then called murder on the next corner. Out came the whole fire department, only stopping to have two fights and a scrimmage on the way, and pretty soon the water was pouring all over every house in the street except the one on fire. The high moral chap stuck his head out of the window and says he, This here fire ain't in my house and I don't want no noise around this here residence. Upon this, some of our gallant firemen, who had just been into a fashionable drinking shop not more than two blocks off, to see if any of the sparks had got in there, called to the chap to let them into his house so that they might get at the conflagration more easily. Never said the chap, shaking his nightcap convulsively. I didn't set fire to the Joneses, and I can't have no fire department running around my entries. See here, old blue pills, says one of the firemen pleasantly. If you don't let us in, your own crib will go to blazes in ten minutes. But the dignified chap only shut down the window and went to bed again, saying his prayers backwards. I would not accuse a noble department of violence, my boy, but in about three minutes there was a double-back action machine standing in that chap's front entry, with three-inch streams out of all the back windows. The fire was put out with only half a hose company killed and wounded, and next day there was a meeting to see what should be done with the incendiary when he was caught. The high moral chap was at that meeting very early, and says he, Let me advise moderation in this here unhappy matter. I feel deeply interested, says the chap, with tears, for I assisted to put out the conflagration by permitting the use of my house by the firemen. I almost feel, says the genial chap, like a fellow fireman myself. At this crisis, a chap who was assistant engineer and also secretary to the Board of Education arose and says he, What are your coffin about, old pig-top? Didn't me and the fellers have to cave in your door with a night-key wrench? Say, What are your gassing about, then? You did a muchness. You did. Yes, slightually, in a horn. Now, says the gallant fireman, with an agreeable smile, if you don't just coil in your hose and take the sidewalk very sudden, it will be my duty as a member of the department to bust your eye. I commend this chaste and rhetorical remark, my boy, to the attention of border-state conservatives. Since the occupation of Paris by the macro-brigade, affairs there have been administered with great intellectual ability by Captain William Brown, who has been appointed provisional governor to govern the sale of provisions. The city of Paris, my boy, as I told you lately, is laid out in one house at present, and since the discovery that what were at first supposed to be Dalgren guns by our forces were really a number of old hats with their rims cut off, laid in a row on top of the earthworks, the democracy have stopped talking about the general of the macro-brigade for next president. The one house, however, was a boarding-house, and though all the borders left at the approach of our troops, it was subsequently discovered that all of them save one were good union men, and were brutally forced to fly by that one confederate miscreant. When William heard of the fate of these noble and oppressed patriots, my boy, he suffered a tear to drop into the tumbler he had just found, and says he, just heavens, can this be so? Ah, says William, lifting a bottle nearby to see that no rebel was concealed under it. I will issue a proclamation calculated to conciliate the noble union men of the sunny south and bring them back to those protecting folds in which our inedicated forefathers folded their selves. Nobody believed it could be done, my boy, nobody believed it could be done, but William understood his species and issued the following proclamation. The union men of the south are hereby informed that the United States of America has reasserted his self and will shortly open a bar room in Paris, also cigars and other necessaries of life, by order of Captain William Brown, Esquire. There, says William, the human intellect may do what violence may fail to accomplish. Ah, says William, moral suasion is more majestic than an army with banners. In just half an hour after the above proclamation was issued, my boy, the hum of countless approaching voices called us to the ramparts. A vast multitude was approaching. It was the union men of the south, my boy, who had read the manifesto of a beneficent government and were coming back to take the oath with a trifle of sugar in it. How necessary it is, my boy, that men entrusted with important commands, generals and governors responsible for the pacification and welfare of misguided provinces should understand just how and when to touch that sensitive cord in our common nature which vibrates responsively when man is invited to take something by his fellow man. Scarcely had William assumed his office and suppressed two reporters when there were brought before him a fugitive contraband of the color of old Mersham and a planter from the adjacent county who claimed the slave. It's me that Mr. Murphy would be after act senior reverence to return the Black Crater at once, says the planter, for it's me self that owns him, and he runned away right under me nose and eyes as soon as me back was turned. Ah, says William, balancing a tumbler in his right hand. Are you a Southerner, Mr. Murphy? Yes, sir, says Mr. Murphy. It's that I am entirely. Be the same token I was raised and born in the sweet south, the south of Ireland. Are you chivalry, says William thoughtfully. Is it chivalry? Ah, but it's that I am, and me father before me, and me children sits after me. If chivalry was Pratis I could furnish a dinner to all the world and have enough left to fade the pigs. Murphy, as a French name, says William, drawing a copy of Vitelle on international law from his pocket and glancing at it. But I will not dispute what you say. You must do without your contraband, however, for slavery and martial law don't agree together in the United States of America. Mr. Black, says William gravely, turning to the emancipated African. You have come to the right shop for freedom. You are, from henceforth, a freeman and a brother-in-law. You are now your own master, says William, encouragingly. And no man has a right to order you about. You are in the full enjoyment of heaving's best gift. Freedom! Go and black my boots. The moral grandeur of this speech, my boy, so affected the southern planter, that he at once became a union man, took the oath with the least bit of water in it, and asked permission to have his own boots blacked. I have been deeply touched of late, my boy, by the reception of a present from the ladies of Alexandria. It is a beautiful little dog named Bologna. The women of America think that Bologna is the goddess of war, my boy. Shaped like a door mat rolled up, and elegantly frescoed down the sides in white and yellow. The note accompanying the gift was all womanly. Except, it said, this slight tribute as an index of the feelings with which the American women regards the noble volunteer. Wear this gift next to your heart when the fierce battle rages, but in the meantime give him a bone. Bologna is a pointer, my boy, a five pointer. As a dead poet expresses it, woman is heaven's noblest, best and last good gift to man. And I assure you, my boy, that she is just the last gift he cares about. Yours in bachelor lordliness, Orpheus C. Kerr, and of Letter forty-five. Letter forty-six of Orpheus C. Kerr papers. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Orpheus C. Kerr papers by Robert Henry Newell, Letter forty-six. Wherein is shown how the general of the macro brigade followed an illustrious example and vetoed a proclamation. Also recording a military experiment with reliable contra bands. Washington, D.C. May twenty-eighteen-sixty-two. Rejoice with me, my boy, that I have got back my gothic steed pegasus from the government chap who borrowed him for a desk. The splendid architectural animal has just enough slant from his backbone to his hips to make a capital desk, my boy, and then his tail is so handy to wipe pens on. In a moment of thirst he swallowed a bottle of ink and some fears were entertained for his life, but a gross of steel pens and a ream of blotting paper immediately administered caused him to come out all right. In a gothic sense, my boy, the charger continues to produce architectural illusions. He was standing on a hillside the other day with his rear elevation toward the spectators, his head up and ears touching at the top, when a chap who has been made pious by frequent conversation with the contra bands noticed him far off and says he to a soldier, what church is that I behold in the distance my fellow worm of the dust? The military veteran looked and says he, it does look like a church, but it's only an animated hay-rack belonging to the cavalry. I see, says the pious chap moving on, the beast looks like a church because he's been accustomed to steeple-chases. I have also much satisfaction in the society of my dog, Bologna, my boy, who has already become so attached to me that I believe he would defend me against any amount of meat. Like the old guard of France he is always around the bony parts thrown and, like a bon vivant, is much given to whining after his dinner. The last time I was at Paris, my boy, this interesting animal made a good breakfast off the calves of the general of the macro-brigade's legs, causing that great strategical commander to issue enough oaths for the whole Southern Confederacy. Thunder, says the general, at the conclusion of his cursory remarks, I shall have the hydrophobia and bite somebody. It's my opinion, says the general, hastily licking a few grains of sugar from the spoon he was holding at the time. It's my opinion that I shall go rabid as soon as I see water. Then you're perfectly safe, my conquering hero, says I, for when you see water the Atlantic Ocean will be principally composed of brandy pale. Speaking of Paris it pains me, my boy, to say that Captain William Brown's proclamation for the conciliation of Southern Union men has been repudiated by the general of the macro-brigade. Thunder, says the general, taking a cork from his pocket in mistake for a watch-key. It's against the Constitution to open a bar so far away from where Congress sits. And he, at once, issued the following proclamation. Whereas there appears in the public prints what presumptuously pretends to be a proclamation of Captain William Brown's Esquire, in the words following to wit proclamation, the Union men of the South are hereby informed that the United States of America has reasserted his self and will shortly open a bar room in Paris, also cigars and other necessaries of life, by order of Captain William Brown Esquire, and whereas the same is producing much excitement among those members from the border states who would prefer that said bar room should be nearer Washington in case of sickness. Therefore I, general of the macro-brigade, do proclaim and declare that the macro-brigade cannot stand this sort of thing, and that neither Captain William Brown nor any other commander has been authorized to declare free lunch, either by implication or otherwise in any state, much less in a state of intoxication of which there are several. To persons in this state, now, I earnestly appeal. I do not argue. I beseech you to mix your own liquors. You cannot, if you would, be blind to the signs of the times when such opportunity is offered to see double. I beg of you a calm and immense consideration of them signs, ranging, as it may be, above personal liquor establishments. The change you will receive after purchasing your materials will come gently as the dues from heaven, not rending nor wrecking anything. Will you not embrace me? May the extensive future not have to lament that you have neglected to do so. Yours respectfully, the general of the macro-brigade. Green seal. When William read this conservative proclamation, my boy, he looked thoughtfully into a recently occupied tumbler for a few moments and then says he, there some intellect in that, the general covers the whole ground. Ah, says William, preparing in a dreamy manner to wash out the tumbler with something from a decanter. The general so completely covers the whole ground sometimes that the police department is required to clear it. I believe him, my boy. The intelligent and reliable contraband, my boy, who have come into Paris from time to time, with valuable news concerning all recent movements not taking place in the Confederacy, were formed lately by William into a military company called the Sambori Guard, Captain Bob Shorty being deputed to drill them in the color manual of arms. They were dressed in flaming red britches and black coats, my boy, and each chaotic chap looked like a section of stove-pipe walking about on two radishes. I attended the first drill, my boy, and found the oppressed Africans standing in a line about as regular as so many trees in a maple swamp. Captain Bob Shorty whipped out his sleepless sword, straightened it on a log, stepped to the front, and was just about to give the first order when, suddenly, he started, threw up his nose and stood paralyzed. What's the matter, my blue and gilt, says I? He stood like one in a dream and says he— Piers to me, I smell something. Yes, says I, tis the scent of the roses that hangs round it still. True, says Captain Bob Shorty, recovering, it does smell like a scent, and I haven't seen a scent of my pay for such a long time that the novelty of the odor knocked me. ATTENTION COMPANY! Only five of the troops were enough startled by the sudden order, my boy, to drop their guns, and only four stooped down to tie their shoes. One very reliable contraband left the ranks and says he— MARSER, HADN'T BROUGHT A KIT, BETTER GO ABOUT THE HIM BEFORE THE SERVICE COMMENTS? ORDER IN THE RANKS! says Captain Bob Shorty, with some asperity. ATTENTION COMPANY! ORDER ARMS! The troops did this very well, my boy, the muskets coming down at intervals of three minutes, bringing each man's cap with them, and pointing so regularly toward all points of the compass that NOFO could possibly approach from any direction without running on a bayonet. Excellent, says Captain Bob Shorty, with enthusiasm. Only, Mr. Kett, you needn't hold your gun quite so much like a hoe. Carry arms! Here Mr. Dana stepped out from the ranks and says he— MARSER, GO TO THE REAR, says Captain Bob Shorty, indignantly. PRESENT ARMS! If present arms means to stick your bayonet into the next man's side, my boy, the troops did it very well. SPLENDED, says Captain Bob Shorty, shoulder arms, eyes eight, double quick, march! On to Richmond! The troops obeyed the order, my boy, and haven't been seen since. Perhaps they're going yet, my boy. Company III, Regiment V, macro brigade, started for an advance on Richmond yesterday, and by a forced march got within three miles of it. Another march brought them within five miles of the place, and the last dispatch stated that they had but ten miles to go before reaching the rubble capital. Military travel, my boy, is like the railroad at the west, where they had to make chalk marks on the track to see which way the train was going. Yours on time, Orpheus C. Kerr. And of Letter 46. Letter 47 of Orpheus C. Kerr Papers. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Orpheus C. Kerr Papers by Robert Henry Newell. Letter 47. A poem based upon an idea that is inviolate, a poem for which one of the women of America is solely responsible. Washington, D.C. May 24th, 1862. One of the northern women of America, my boy, has sent me a note for the express purpose of expressing her hatred of the Southern Confederacy. She says, my boy, that the Confederacy is a miserable man, only fit for pecuniary dishonesty, and that even the gentle William Shakespeare couldn't help revealing the peculiar failing of the Floyd Jolent section when he spoke so feelingly of the sweet South that breathes upon a bank of violets, stealing and giving odor. A fair hit, my boy, a fair hit, and sorry I should be to let the sweet South breathe upon any kind of a bank in which I had a deposit. Speaking of violets, the woman of America sent me one of those pretty flowers in her note, and as I looked upon it, I thought how fit it was to be the soldier's epitaph. The woodlands caught the airy fire upon their vernal plumes and echoed back the waterfalls exultant, trilling laugh, and through the branches fell the light in slender golden blooms to ride upon the silvan stream, the niads' epitaph. On either side the sleeping veil the mountains swelled away, like emeralds in the morning ring that circles round the world, and through the flower-enameled plain the river went astray, like scarf of lady silvered ore around a standard furrowed. The turtle wooed his gentle mate, where thick as tongue the bows, while round them fell the blossoms plucked by Robin's wanton bills, and on its wings the Zephyr caught the music of his vows to waft a strain responsive to the chorus of the hills. Twas in a nook beside the stream where grapes and clusters fell, and twixed the trees the swaying vines were lost in leafy showers, that fawns and saders tamed to rest beneath the noonday spell, gave silent ear and witnessed to the meeting of the flowers. The glories of the fields were there in summer's bright array, the virgins of the temple vast were noon to evening nods, to crown as queen of all the rest whose bosom should display, the signet of a mission blessed, the cypher of the gods. The royal lilies septored cup besought an airy lip, the roses stooping coinus told the bee was at her heart, while all the other sisters round with many a dainty dip, sought jewels hidden in the grass and waved its spears apart. We seek a queen, the lily said, and she shall wear the crown, who to the mission of the blessed the fairest right shall prove, for unto her, whoever she be, has come in sunlight down, the badge of nature's royalty from angel hands above. I go to deck the wreath that binds a fair imperial brow, whose whiteness shall not be the less that mine is pureer still, for though a band of sparkling gems is set upon it now, it will be the fairer that the church in me beholds her will. I claim a loyal suitor's touch, the rose in genuous said, and he will choose me when he seeks the bower of Lady Fair, to match me with a smile against her cheeks betraying red, and place me with a kiss within the shadows of her hair. And next the proud Chamelea spoke, where festal music swells, and solemn priest with gown and book a not eternal ties. I go to hold the veil of her who hears her marriage bells, and pledges all her life unto the love that never dies. The laurels raised their glowing heads and into language broke, tis ours to honour gallant deeds that awe a crouching world. We rest upon the warrior's helm when fades the battle's smoke, and bloom perennial on the shield that back the foeman hurled. And other sisters of the field, the woodland and the veil, each told the story of her work and glorified her quest, but none of all the noble ones that had revealed the tale that taught them from the gods she wore the signet in her breast. At length the Zephyr raised a leaf, the lowliest of the low, and there behold a violet the spring let careless slip, beyond its seasoned looming there where newer beauties grow, enshrined like an immortal thought that lives beyond the lip. We greet thy presence, little one, the graceful lily said, and quivered with a silent laugh behind her snowy screen. Upraise unto the open sun thy modest little head, for here per chance in thee at last the flowers have found their queen. A tremor shook the timid flower, and soft her answer came, tis but a simple duty left to one so small as I, and yet I would not yield it up for all the higher fame of nodding on a hero's helm or catching beauty's eye. I go to where an humble mound uprises in a field to mark the place of one whose life was lost a land to save, where bannered pomp no birth attests, no marbled sword nor shield. I go to deck, the violet said, a simple soldier's grave. There fell a hush on all the flowers, but from a distant grove burst forth the anthem of the birds in one grand peel of praise, as though the stern old forest's heart had found its early love, and all of earth's sublimity was melted in its laze. Then as the modest flower upturned her blue eyes to the sun, there fell a dew-drop on her breast as shaken from a tree. The lowliest of the sisterhood, the godlike crown, had won. For hers it was to consecrate truth's immortality. The woodlands caught the airy fire upon their vernal plumes, and echoed back the water-fall's exultant, trilling laugh, and through the branches fell the light in slender golden blooms to sanctify the violet, the soldier's epitaph. I asked the general of the macro-brigade the other day what kind of a flower he thought would spring above my head when I rested in a soldier's sepulcher. And he said, a cabbage, my boy, he said, a cabbage. Yours, inversely, Orpheus C. Kerr. It is my belief, my solemn and affecting belief, my boy, that our once-distracted country is destined to be such a great military power hereafter, that an American citizen will be distinguishable in any part of the world by his commission as a brigadier. Even congressmen will answer to the command of charge, mileage, and it is stated that sons of guns in every variety are already being born at the west—sons of pop-guns, my boy. The last time the general of the macro-brigade was here he was so much pleased with the high state of strategy developed at the war-office that he visited all the bar-rooms in Washington and ordered the tumblers to be at once illuminated. Thunder, says the general, took Colonel Wobbert Wobbinson of the Western cavalry as they were taking measures to prevent any possible mistake by seeing the enemy double. This war is making great tacticians of the whole nation, and if I wanted my sons to become Napoleons, I'd put them into the war-office for a week. My sons—my sons, says the general hysterically, motioning for a little more hot water. Why are you not here with me in glory, instead of remaining home there, like ripe plums on the parent tree? Plums—plums, says Colonel Wobbinson thoughtfully. Ah, I see, says the Colonel pleasantly. Your sons are damsons. The general eyed the speaker with much severity of countenance, my boy, and says he, if you have any sons, my friend, they are probably fast young men, and take after their father, at the approach of the enemy. The general is rather proud of his sons, my boy, one of whom wrote the following, which he keeps pinned against the wall of his room. Poor pussy. We count mankind and keep our senses still. We count the stars that populate the night, but who, with all his computation can, con caddy nations, write. In all the lands and zones of all degrees, no spot impossible is known to be, and sure the ocean can't ignore the cat, whose capital is sea. Despise her not for nature the work of making her remembered human flaws, and gave to Puss strange gifts of human sort, before she made her paws. First Puss is like a soldier, if you please, or like a soldier's officer in truth, for every night brings ample proof she is a fencer from her youth. A model cosmopolitan is she, indifferent to change of place or time, and like the hardy sailor of the seas, inured to every climb. Then, like a poet of the noble sort, who spurns the ways of ordinary crews, she courts the upper storied attic salt and hath her private muse. In mathematics she eclipses quite our best professors of the science hard, when by her quadrupedal mode she shows her four feet in a yard. To try the martial simile once more, she apes the military drummer man, when at appropriate hours of day and night she makes her ratty plan. She is a lawyer to the hapless rat, who strives in vain to fly her feline paws, evading once but to be caught again in her redeeming claws. Then turn not from poor Pussie in disdain, whose pride of ancestry may equal thine, for is she not a blood descendant of the ancient caddy line? Speaking of strategy, my boy, you will remember that Company Three, Regiment Five, Mackerel Brigade, started for an advance on Richmond last week, and were within ten miles of that city. Subsequently, they made another forced march of five miles, leaving only fifteen miles to go, and on Tuesday a messenger came in from them to Captain William Brown, with the intelligence that the advance was already within twenty-five miles of the rebel headquarters. Ha! says William, the Confederacy is doomed, but I must curb the advancing impetuosity of these devoted beings, or they'll be in Canada in a week. I think, says William, calculatingly, that a retreat would bring us to the summer residence of the Southern Confederacy in less time. Here another messenger came in from the Richmond Storming Party, and says he, The advance on Richmond has failed in consequence of the shoes furnished by the United States of America. Ah! says William, hastily setting down a goblet. Yes, says the chap mournfully, them ere shoes has demoralized Company Three, which is advancing back to Paris at double quick. Them shoes, says the chap, which was furnished by the sons of revolutionary forefathers by a contractor at only twenty-five dollars a pair for the sake of the Union, has caused a fatal mistake. They got so ragged with being exposed to the wind that when Company Three hastily put them on for an advance on Richmond they got the heels in front and have been going the wrong direction ever since. Where did you leave your comrades, says William. At Jones's courthouse, says the chap. Ah! says William, is that a healthy place? No, says the chap. It's very unhealthy. I was drunk all the time I was there. I see, says William, with great agitation. My brave comrades are in a tight place. Let all the newspaper correspondence be ordered to leave Paris at once, says William to his agitance, and will take measures for a second uprising of the North. When it became generally known, my boy, that Company Three, Regiment Five, Macro Brigade, were falling back across Duck Lake, there was great agitation in government circles, and the general of the Macro Brigade prepared to call out all persons capable of bearing arms. The Constitution is again in danger, says the general impulsively, and we must appeal to the populace. Ah! says William. It would also aid our holy cause to call out the women of America. For the women of America, says William, advisedly, are capable of bearing arms to any extent. No, says the general. Woman's place in this war is beside the couch of the sick soldier. Thunder, says the general genially, it's enough to make us fonder of our common nature to see the devotion of women to the invalid volunteer. As I was passing through the hospital just now, says the general feelingly, I saw a tender, delicate woman acting the part of a ministering angel to a hero in a hard ague. She was fanning him, my friend. She was fanning him. Heaven bless her, says William, with streaming eyes, and may she never be without a stove when she has a fever. I really believe, says William, glowingly, that if woman found her worst enemy even burning to death she would heap coals of fire upon his head. William's idea of heaping coals of fire, my boy, is as literal as was the translation of Enoch. On learning of the repulse from Richmond all the Southern Union men of Paris commenced to remember that the rebels are our brethren and that this war was wholly brought about by the fiendish abolitionists. Yes, says a patriotic chap from Acomac sipping the oath loyally, the abolitionists brought this here war about, and I have determined not to support it. Our slaves read the Tribune and have learned so much from military articles in that paper that the very life of the South depended upon separation. In fact, my boy, notwithstanding the efforts of Captain William Brown to tranquilize public feeling by seizing the telegraph office and railroad depot, telegraphing to everybody he knew for reinforcements, the excitement was steadily increasing until word came from Company 3, Regiment 5, Macro Brigade, that no enemy had been inside at all. When the intelligence was brought to the general of the Macro Brigade, and as soon as the band had finished serenading him, he called for a fresh tumbler and says he, I may as well tell you at once, my children, that this whole matter is simply a part of my plan for bringing this unnatural war to a speedy termination. Company 3 retired by my design, and, in fact, my children, says the general confidingly, it's something you can't understand, it's strategy. Perhaps it was, my boy, perhaps it was, for there is more than one reason to believe that strategy means military shoes with the heels in front. Yours cautiously, Orpheus C. Kerr. End of Letter 48. Letter 49 of Orpheus C. Kerr papers. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Orpheus C. Kerr papers by Robert Henry Newell, Letter 49. Noting the architectural effects of the Gothic steed Pegasus, and describing the macro brigade's sanguinary engagement with the Richmond rebels. Washington, D.C., June 8, 1862. Once more, my boy, the summer sun has evoked long fields of bristling bayonets from the seed sown in spring tents, and the thunder of the shower is echoed by the roar of the scowling cannon. Onward, right onward, sweeps the sunset standard of the Republic to plant its roses and its lilies on the soil where treason has so long been the masked reaper, to epitaph with its eternal violet the honored battle-graves of the heroic fallen, and to set its sleepless stars above the southern cross in a new heaven of peace. In my voyage down the river to witness the great battle for Richmond I took my frescoed dog Bologna and my Gothic steed Pegasus. The latter architectural animal, my boy, has again occasioned an optical mistake. Being of a melancholy turn, and partaking somewhat of the tastes of the horrible and sepulchral German mind, the Gothic charger has peregrinated much in a churchyard near Washington, frequently standing for hours in that last resting place lost in profound mortuary contemplation to the great admiration of certain vagrant crows in the atmosphere. On such occasions, my boy, his casual pace is, if possible, rather more resquiet in pace than on ordinary marches. I was going after him in company with a religious chap from Boston who is going down south to see about the contra-bands being born again when we caught sight of Pegasus in the distance. The sagacious architectural stallion had just ascended the steps leading into the graveyard, my boy, and presented a Gothic and pious appearance. The religious chap clutched my arm and says he, How beautiful it is, my fellow-center, to see that simple village church resting like the spirit of peace in the midst of this scene of war's desolation. Why, my dear St. Paul, says I, that's my Gothic steed Pegasus. Ahem! says he, you must be mistaken, my poor worm, for I can see halfway down the aisle. The perspective, says I, is simply the perspective between the hind legs of the noble creature and his rear elevation deceives you. Well, says the religious chap grievously, if you ever want to do anything for the missionary cause, my poor lost lamb, just skin that horse and let me have his frame for a numble chapel wherein to convert contra-bands. On my way down the Potomac to Paris, my boy, with Pegasus and the intelligent dog Bologna, I met Commodore Head of the new iron-plated mackerel fleet who is taking his swivel columbiad to a blacksmith to have the touch-hole repaired. The Commodore met with a great disappointment at Washington, my boy. He ordered the great military painter Patrick de la Roche to paint him a portrait of Secretary Wells, cabinet-size. When the picture came home, my boy, it was no larger than a twenty-five-cent piece frame and all, and the portrait was hardly perceptible to the naked eye. Wedge my turret, says the Commodore in his iron-plated manner. I wouldn't give a galina for such a picture as that. What did you make it so small for, you dobbin' cuss? Didn't you want it cabinet-size, says the artist. Battered my plates, of course I did, says the Commodore. Well, says the artist earnestly, if you ever attended a cabinet meeting, you'd know that that is exactly the cabinet-size of the Secretary of the Navy. The Commodore related this to me, my boy, in the interval of naval criticisms on the Gothic Pegasus, whom he pronounced as incapable of being hit at right angles by a shell as the monitor. Explode my hundred-pounder, says the Commodore admiringly. I don't see any flat surface about that oat-crushing machine. Perforate my armor if I do. A great battle was going on upon the borders of Duck Lake when we reached Paris, my boy, and on ambling to the battlefield with my steed and my dog. I found the macro-brigade blazing away at the foe in a thunderstorm and vivid lightning manner. Captain William Brown, mounted on the geometrical steed Euclid, to whom he had administered a pinch of macaboy to make him frisky, was just receiving an answer of an orderly, whom he had sent to demand the surrender of a rebel mudwork in front. Did you order the rebel to surrender his incendiary establishment to the United States of America, says William, majestically returning his canteen to his bosom? I did, sire, says the orderly, gloomily. What said the unnatural scorpion, says William? Well, says the orderly, his reply was almost sarcastic. Ha! says William. What was it? Why? says the orderly, sadly. He said that if I didn't want to see a damn fool, I'd better not go into a store where they sold looking-glasses. Ah! says William, nervously licking a cork. That was sarcastic. Let the Orange County howitzers push to the front, says William excitedly, and we'll shatter the southern confederacy. Hello! says William indignantly. Who owns that audacious dog there? I looked, my boy, and behold it was my frescoed canine baloney, who was innocently discussing a bone right in the track of the advancing artillery. I whistled to him, my boy, and he loathed dreamily toward me. The Orange County howitzers thundered forward, and then hurled an infernal tempest of shell and canister into the horizon, taking the roofs off two barns and making twenty-six confederate old maids deaf for life. At the same instant Ajak, the mackerel sharpshooter, put a ball from his unerring rifle through a chicken-house about half a mile distant, causing a variety of foul proceedings. Ah! says William critically. The angels will have to get a new sky if the artillery practice of the United States of America keeps on much longer. Meantime Company 2, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, was engaging the enemy some distance to the right under Captain Bob Shorty, and now there came a dispatch from that gallant officer to William, thus. The enemy's multiplication is too much for my division. Send me some more Democrats. Captain Bob Shorty. Ah! says William. The anatomical cavalry and the western centaurs are already going to the rescue. Blue blazes, says William, hilarically. Why don't that blessed dog get out of the way? I looked, my boy, and, behold, it was my frescoed canine baloney, calmly reasoning with a piece of army-beef in the very middle of the field. I whistled, my boy, and the intelligent animal floated toward me with subdued tail. The obstruction being removed, the anatomicals and the centaurs charged gloriously under Colonel Wabbert Wabbinson and would have swept the southern confederacy from the face of the earth had not the fiendish rebels put a load of hay right in the middle of the road. To get the horses past this object was impossible, for they hadn't seen so much forage before in a year. Ah! says William contemplatively. I'm afraid Cavalry's a failure in this here unnatural contest. Ha! says William, replacing the stopper of his canine and quickly looking behind him. What means this spectacle which mine eyes observe? A cloud of dust opened near us, and we saw Captain Samuel Smith rushing right into headquarters, followed by Company Six, having an aged and very reliable contraband in charge. Samuel! Samuel, says William fiercely, expound why you leave the field with your force at this critical period in the history of the United States of America. I'm supporting the Constitution, says Samuel, breathlessly. I'm a conservative, and here Samuel tumbled over something and fell flat on his stomach. By all its blues, says William frantically, why the thunder don't somebody shoot that unnatural dog? I looked, my boy, and beheld it was my frescoed canine baloney who had run between the legs of the fallen warrior with the remains of a captured confederate chicken. I whistled, my boy, and the faithful creature angled