 Letter 12 of Orpheus C. Kerr Papers, by Robert Henry Newell, Letter 12 Giving an abstract of a great orator's flagging speech and recording a deathless exploit of the mackerel brigade. Washington, D.C. September 8, 1861. The weather in the neighborhood of Chain Bridge still continues to bear hard on fat men, my boy, and the man who carries a big stomach around with him will be a person in reduced circumstances before he gets to be a colonel. The brigadier general of the mackerel brigade observed the other day that he had been in hot water four weeks running and ordered me to work six hours in the trenches for not laughing at the joke. He said that old Abe had people expressly to laugh at his jokes, and had selected his cabinet officers because they all had large mouths and could laugh easily. He said that he was resolved to have his own jokes appreciated, and if he didn't he'd be perditionized. It's my impression, I say it's my impression, my boy, that the general got off his best joke when he promised the mackerel brigade to look after their interests as though they were his brothers. He may look after them, my boy, but it's after they're out of sight. I don't say that he takes advantage of us, but I know that just after a basket of champagne was sent to the camp directed to me yesterday I saw him sitting on an empty basket in his tent trying to wind up his watch with a corkscrew. I asked him what time it was, and he said the constortion must and shall be blockaded. I told him I thought so myself, and he immediately burst into tears and said he should never see his mother again. On Tuesday there was a rumor that the Southern Confederacy had attacked a regiment at Alexandria for the purpose of creating a confusion so that it might pick the colonel's pockets, and Regiment Five, mackerel brigade, was ordered to go instantly to the rescue. Just as we were ready to march a distinguished citizen of Washington presented a sword to the colonel from the ladies of the capital and made an eloquent speech. He spoke of the wonderful manner in which the world was called out of chaos at the creation and spoke feelingly of the Garden of Eden and of the fall of our first parents. He then went on to review the many changes the earth had experienced since it was first created and described the method of the ancients to cook bread before stoves were invented. He then spoke of the glories of Greece and Rome giving a full history of them from the beginning to the present time. He then went on to describe the origin of the Republican and Democratic parties reading both platforms and giving his ideas of Jackson's policy. He then gave an account of the War of the Roses in England and the Cholera in Persia attributing the latter to a sudden change in the atmosphere. He then went on to speak of the difficulties encountered by Columbus in discovering this country and gave a history of his subsequent career and death in Europe. He then read an extract from Washington's farewell address. In conclusion he said that the ladies of Washington had empowered him to present this here sword to that air gallant colonel in the presence of these here brave defenders of their country. At the conclusion of this speech starvation commenced to make great ravages in the regiment and the colonel was so weak for want of sleep that he had to be carried to his tent. A private remark to me that if we could only have one more such presentation speech as that the regiment would be competent to start a graveyard before it was finished. I believe him my boy. When the presentation was finished the colonel announced from his camp bedstead that the rumor of a fight at Alexandria was all a hum and ordered us back to our tents. We hadn't been to our tents for such a long time that some of us couldn't find them and one of our boys actually wandered around until he found himself at home in New York. The mackerel brigade, my boy, had a great engagement yesterday and came very near repulsing the enemy. We were ordered to march forward in three columns until we came within five miles of the enemy. Colonel Wobbles leading the first, Mr. Wobbles the second and Wobbles the third. In the advance our lines presented the shape of a clam shell, but as we neared the point of danger they gradually assumed more of the form of a cone, the rearguard being several times as thick as the advance guard, when within six miles of the secessures we planted our battery of four six-pounders and opened a horrible fire of shot and shell on the adjacent country. The secessures replied with a hail of canister and shrapnel, and for eight hours the battle raged fearfully but without hurting anybody as the hostile forces were too far apart to reach each other with shot. Finally Colonel Wobbles sent a messenger by railroad to ask the secessures what they wanted and they said they only wanted to be led alone. On receiving this reply Colonel Wobbles was much affected and ordered us to march back to camp, which we did. This affair was really a great victory for the Union, my boy, and I cannot refrain from giving short biographical sketches of the leaders concerned in it commencing with Colonel Wobbles. This gallant officer on whom the eyes of the whole world are now turned was born at an exceedingly early age in the place of his nativity. When but a mere boy he evinced a fondness for the law and his father, who was his mother's husband, placed him in the office of the late Daniel Webster. He practiced law for some years but failed to find any clients and finally started a grocery store under Jackson's administration. At this time Calhoun's peculiar views were agitating Christendom and Mr. Wobbles married a daughter of the late John Thomas by whom he had no children. When the war broke out in Mexico he left the grocery business and opened a liquor store on the estate of the late J. Smith and accumulated sufficient money to send his family into the country. Colonel Wobbles is now about eighty-five years old. Mr. Wobbles. This heroic young officer, now attracting so much attention, drew his first breath among the peaceful scenes of home, from which the capsious might have augured anything but a soldier's destiny for him. While yet very young he was remarkable for his proficiency in making dirt pies and went to school with the sons of the late Mr. Jones. In 1846 he did not graduate at West Point but when the war broke out between Mexico and the United States he married a niece of the late Daniel Webster. It was also at this period of his eventful career that he first became a husband and shortly after the birth of his eldest child it was rumored that he had also become a father. He entered the present war as a military man. He is now but forty years old. Wobbles. This noble patriot soldier whose name is now a household word all over the world was reared from infancy in the village of his birth and took a prominent part in the meals of his family. While yet a youth the Florida war broke out and he attended a high school of the late Mr. Brown. On arriving of age he was just twenty-one years old and was not a student at West Point. Shortly after this event he married a cousin of the late Daniel Webster and during the Mexican war he had one child who still bears his father's name. Wobbles is now sixty years old. You will observe, my boy, that these noble officers have merited the commissions of brigadier generals and if they don't get them they'll resign. Colonel Wobbles told me this morning that if he resigned the army would all go to pieces. I believe him, my boy, field pieces. Yours biographically, Orpheus C. Kerr. End of letter twelve. Letter thirteen 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 thirteen. Submitting various rumors concerning the condition of things at the south with a sketch of a light skeleton regiment and a note of William Brown's recruiting exploit. Washington, D.C. September twentieth, eighteen sixty-one. There is every indication that something is about to occur which, when it does transpire, my boy, will undoubtedly give rise to the rumor that a certain thing has happened. It was observed in military circles yesterday that General McClellan ordered a new pair of boots to be forwarded immediately from New York, and from this it is justly inferred that the chain bridge will be attacked by the rebels in force very shortly. A gentleman who has just arrived from the south to purchase some postage stamps states that the rebel army is in an awful condition and will starve to death as soon as Beauregard gives the order. At Richmond ice cream was selling for a hundred dollars a quart. Gum drops at sixty dollars an ounce. Brandrith's pills at forty-two dollars and a half a box. Spalding's prepared glue at twenty dollars a pint, and Mrs. Winslow's soothing syrup at four hundred dollars a bottle. In consequence of the sudden approach of fall and the renewed stringency of the blockade there are no strawberries to be had, and the first families are subsisting entirely upon persimmons. With the winter-proof cold the Southerners to a man will be compelled to wear much thicker clothing, and it is anticipated that many of them will take cold. De Lunatico in Quarendo has broken out among the rebel troops at Manassas Junction in consequence of insufficient accommodation, and the hospitals are so full of patience that numerous sufferers may be seen bulging out of the windows. The same gentleman thinks that Beauregard will be obliged to attack Washington at once or resign his commission and go to the dry tortugas with his whole army. They are called the dry tortugas, my boy, because not a cocktail was ever known to be raised there. A perfectly reliable but respectable person arrived here yesterday from Paris and brings highly important intelligence from North Carolina. He has been permitted to sleep with the gentleman formerly residing in that state and his report is credited by the administration. Nearly all the people of North Carolina are devoted union men at heart and would gladly rally around the old flag if it were not for the fact that nearly all the rest of the people of the state are secessionists and won't let them. In a town of 750 inhabitants, 748 and a half, one small boy, are determined unionists, but the remainder, who are brutal traders, have seized all the arms in the place and threaten all who oppose them with instant death. At Raleigh a mob consisting of three secessionists has seized the post office and all the letters of Mark found in it. Mark has fled from the state. Since the victory of Hatteras Inlet, the union men have taken courage and say that if the government will send 200,000 men to their assistance and 75 rifled cannon they can expel their oppressors in a few years. These true patriots must be instantly assisted or a decimated and infuriated people will demand the expulsion of the entire cabinet and an entirely new issue of contracts for shoddy. In the interior of North Carolina there has been a rising of slaves. In fact they rise every morning very early. From this morning the Tribune report of a Negro insurrection originated. I formed a new acquaintance the other day, my boy, in the shape of the Calcium Light Regiment, which is now ready to receive a few more recruits. The Calcium Light Regiment was born in Boston, near Bunker Hill Monument, and is now about sixty-five years old. He has become greatly demoralized from going without his rations for some days past and is what may be called a Skeleton He says that if he goes without them much longer he'll soon be as light as a twelve-inch comet and won't need much Calcium to blind the enemy to his presence. He's very light, my boy, and his features are so sharp that he might be used to spike a cannon with. The Calcium Light Regiment was recruited at great expense in New York and went into camp on Rikers Island until Secretary Cameron ordered his colonel to bring him on immediately for the defense of Washington. The regiment has three officers and will elect the others as soon as his voice is strong enough. He says that he is a regiment of a thousand men. He says that a thousand is simply the figure one and three ciphers, and that he represents the one and is three officers the three ciphers. I believe him, my boy. William Brown of Regiment Five, Mackerel Brigade, asked his colonel last week for leave to go to New York on Recruiting Service and got it. He came back today and says the colonel to him, Where's your recruits? William smiled sweetly and remarked that he didn't see it. Why, you went to New York on Recruiting Service, didn't you? exclaimed the colonel. Yes, says William. I went to recruit my health. The colonel immediately administered the oath to him. The oath, my boy, tastes well with lemon in it. The women of America, my boy, are noble creatures and do not forget the brave soldiers of the Union. They have just sent the Mackerel Brigade a case of umbrellas and we expect a gross of hairpins by the next train. Yours, meditatively, Orpheus C. Kerr. Chapter 14 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 14. Showing how our correspondent made a speech of vague continuity after the model of the latest approved stump oratory. Washington, D.C. September 30, 1861. Another week has fled swiftly by, my boy, on those wings which poets and other long-haired creatures supposed to be eternally flapping through the imaginary atmosphere of time. Yet the high old battle so long expected has not got any further than heavy firing near the chain bridge, which takes place every afternoon punctually at three o'clock, just in time for the evening papers. I have been thinking, my boy, that if this heavy firing in the vicinity of chain bridge lasts a few years longer it will finally become a nuisance to the first families living in that vicinity. But sometimes what is thought to be heavy firing is not that exactly. The other day a series of loud explosions were heard on Arlington Heights and twenty-four reporters immediately telegraphed to twenty-four papers that five hundred thousand rebels had attacked our lines with two thousand rifled cannon and had been repulsed with a loss of fourteen thousand killed. Federal loss, one killed and two committed suicide. But when General McClellan came to inquire into the cause of the explosions this report was somewhat modified. What was that firing for, he asked an orderly who had just come over the river? If you please, sir, responded the sagacious animal, there was no firing at all. It was William Brown of Regiment V, Mackerel Brigade, which has a horrible cold, and sneezes in that way. William has since been ordered to telegraph to the War Department whenever he sneezes, so that no more of these harrowing mistakes may be made. Last night my boy, an old rooster from Caterragas, who wants a one-horse post-office and thinks I've got some influence with Abed the Venerable, brought six big Dutchmen to serenade me, and as soon as I opened the window to dam them, he called unanimously for a speech. At this time my boy, an immense crowd consisting of two policemen and a hackman, were drawn to the spot and greeted me with great applause. Feeling that their intentions were honourable, I could not bear to disappoint my fellow-citizens, and so I was constrained to make the following speech. Men of America, it is with feelings akin to a motion that I regard this vast assemblage of nature's noblemen and reflect that it comes to do honour to me who have only performed my duty. Gentlemen, my heart is full. As the poet says, the night shall be filled with burglars, and the chaps that infest the day shall pack up their duds like peddlers and carry the spoons away. It seems scarcely five minutes ago that this vast and otherwise large country sprung from chaos at the call of Columbus and immediately commenced to produce wooden nutmegs for a foreign shore. It seems but three seconds ago that all this beautiful scene was a savage wild and echoed the axe-falls of the sanguinary pioneer and the foot-falls of the last of the Mohicans. Now, what do I see before me? A numerous assembly of respectable Dutchmen and other Americans all ready to prove to the world that, truth crushed to earth shall rise again, the immortal ears of Jack R. Hers, but Sarah languishes in pain and dies amid her worshipers. I am convinced, fellow-citizens, that the present outrageous war is no ordinary, Rao, and that it cannot be brought to a successful termination without some action on the part of the government. If to believe that a war cannot rage without being prosecuted is abolitionism, then I am an abolitionist. If to believe that a good article of black ink can be made out of black men is republicanism, then I am a republican. But we are all brothers now, except that fat Dutchman who has gone to sleep on his drum and I pronounce him an accursed secessionist. How doth the little busy bee improve each shining hour and gathers beeswax all the day from every opening flower? Men of America, shall these things longer be? I address myself particularly to that artist with the accordion who don't understand a word of English. Shall these things longer be? That's what I want to know. The majestic shade of Washington listens for an answer, and I intend to send it by mail as soon as I receive it. Fellow-citizens, it can no longer be denied that there is treason at our very hearth stones. Treason, merciful heavens! Come rest in this bosom, my own little dear, the honorable RMT Hunter is here. I know not, I care not, if jilt's in that heart, but I know that I love thee, whatever thou art. And now the question arises, is Merrill's tariff really a benefit to the country? Gentlemen, it would be unbecoming in me to answer this question, and you would be incapable of understanding what I might say on the subject. The present is no time to think about tariffs. Our glorious country is in danger, and there is a tax of three percent on all incomes over eight hundred dollars. Let each man ask himself in Dutch, am I prepared to shoulder my musket if I am drafted, or to procure a reprobate to take my place? In other words, the minstrel returned from the war with insects at large in his hair, and having a tuneful guitar he sung through his nose to his fair. Therefore it is simply useless to talk reason to those traitors who forget the words of Jackson, words let me add, which I myself do not remember, animated by an unholy lust for arsenals, rifled cannon, and mints, and driven to desperation by the thought that Everett is preparing a new oration on Washington, and Morris a new song on a young woman living up the Hudson River. They are overturning the altars of their country and issuing treasury bonds, which cannot be justly called objects of interest. What words can express the horrors of such unnatural crime? Oft in the chilly night, when slumbers chains have bound me, soft merry brings a light, and puts a shawl around me. Such fellow-citizens is the condition of our unhappy country at present, and as soon as it gets any better I will let you know. An Indian once asked a white man for a drink of whiskey. No, said the man. You redskins are just ignorant enough to ruin yourselves with liquor. The sachem looked calmly into the eyes of the insultor as he retorted. You say I am ignorant. How can that be when I am a well red man? And so it is, fellow-citizens, with this union at present, though I am not able to show exactly where the parallel is. Therefore, let us then be up and wooing, with a heart for any mate, still proposing, still pursuing, learn to court her, and to wait. At the conclusion of this unassuming speech, my boy, I was waited upon by a young man who asked me if I did not want to purchase some poetry. He had several yards to sell, and warranted it to wash. Yours particularly, Orpheus C. Kerr. Letter 15 of Orpheus C. Kerr papers. Orpheus C. Kerr papers by Robert Henry Newell, Letter 15. Wherein will be found the particulars of a visit to a suspected newspaper office, and so on. Washington, D.C. October 2, 1861. This is a time, my boy, when it is the duty of every American citizen to make himself into a committee of safety, for the good of the republic and make traders smell the particular thunder of national vengeance. The eagle, my boy, has spread his sanguinary wings for a descent upon the bantams of secession, and if we permit his sublime pinions to be burdened with the shackles of domestic sedition, we are guilty of that which we do, and are otherwise liable to the charge of committing that which we perform. These thoughts came to me yesterday, after I had taken the oath six times, and so overpowered me that I again took the oath with a straw in it. Just then it struck me that the Daily Union, published near Alexandria, ought to be suppressed for its treason, and I immediately started for the office with an intention to offer personal violence to the editor. I found him examining a cigar through the bottom of a tumbler, whilst on the desk beside him lay the first proof of the editor's wooing. We love thee, Ann Maria Smith, and in thy condescension we see a future full of joys too numerous to mention. There's cupid's arrow in thy glance that, by love's coercion, has reached our melting heart of hearts and asked for one insertion. With joy we feel the blissful smart, and ere our passion ranges, we freely place thy love upon the list of our exchanges. There's music in thy lowest tone, and silver in thy laughter, and truth but we will give the full particulars hereafter. Oh, could we tell thee of our plans all obstacles to scatter, but we are full just now and have a press of other Then let us marry Queen of Smiths without more hesitation. The very thought doth give our blood a larger circulation. When the editor noticed my presence, he scowled so that his spectacles dropped off. Ha! my fine little fellow, says he hastily! I don't want to buy any poetry to-day! Don't fret yourself, my venerable cherub, says I. I don't deal in poetry at present. I just came here to tell you that if you don't stop writing treason, I'll suppress you in the name of the United States. You're a mud-sill mob, says he, and I don't allow no violent mobs around this office. I am an American citizen, and I won't stand no mobs. What does the Constitution say about newspapers? Why, the Constitution don't say anything about them, so you've got no constitutional authority for mobbing me. Then take the oath, says I. He looked at me for a moment, and then passed me a small black bottle. I held it up over my eyes for some time to see if it was perfectly straight, and he remarked that if all northerners took the oath as freely as I did, they must be a waterproof conglomeration of patriots. I believe them, my boy. The mackerel brigade has established a cookery department for itself and is using a stove recently patented by the Colonel of Regiment Five. This stove is a miraculous invention, and has already made fortunes for six cooks and a scullion. You put a shillings worth of wood into it, which first cooks your meat, and then turns into two shillings worth of charcoal, so you make a shilling every time you kindle a fire. Yesterday a gentleman brought up to the oyster trade and who has made several voyages on the Brooklyn ferry boats exhibited the model of a new gunboat to the Secretary of the Navy. He said its great advantage was that it could easily be taken to pieces, and the Secretary was just going to order seventy-five for use in Central Park, when it leaked out that when once the gunboat was taken to pieces there was no way of putting it together again. Only for this, my boy, we might have a gunboat in every cistern. Yours, nautically, Orpheus C. Kerr. Letters sixteen of Orpheus C. Kerr papers. This is the 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 sixteen. Introducing the Gothic Steed Pegasus and the remarkable German cavalry from the west. Washington D.C. October 6, 1861. The horse, my boy, is an animal in which I have taken a deep interest ever since the day on the Union course when I bet ten dollars that the pride of the canal would beat Lady Clamkart and was compelled to leave my watch with Mr. Simpson on the following morning. The horse, my boy, is the swarthy Arab's bosom friend and the red Indian's solitary companion and the circus proprietor's salvation. One of these noble animals was presented to me last week by an old maid relative whose age I once guessed to be about nineteen. The glorious gift was accompanied by a touching letter, my boy. She honored my patriotism and the self-sacrificing spirit that had led me to join the gallant mackerel brigade and get a furlough as soon as a rebel picket appeared. She loved me for my mother's sake and as she happened to have ten shillings about her she thought she would buy a horse with it for me. Mine, affectionately, Tabitha Turnips. Ah, woman, glorious woman, what should we do without thee? All our patriotism is but the inspiration of thy proud love and all our money is but the few shillings left after thou hast got through buying new bonnets. Oh, woman, thoughtful woman, the soldier thanks thee for sending him pies and cakes that turn sour before they leave New York, but for heaven's sake don't send any more havelocks or there'll be a crisis in the linen market. It's a common thing for a century to report eighty thousand more havelocks from the women of America and then you ought to hear the brigadier of the mackerel brigade cuss. Jerusalem says he, if any more havelocks come this afternoon tell them that I've gone out and won't be back for three weeks. Thunder, says he, there's enough havelocks in this here deadly-tented field to open up a brisk trade with Europe and if the women of America keep on sending them I'm damned if I don't start a nightcap shop. The general is a profane patriarch, my boy, and takes the oath hot. The oath, my boy, is improved by nutmeg and a spoon. But to return to the horse which woman's generosity has made me own, me beuteous steed. The beast, my boy, is fourteen hands high, fourteen hands long, and his sagacious head is shaped like an old-fashioned pickaxe. Viewed from the rear, his style of architecture is gothic and he has a gable end to which his tail is attached. His eyes, my boy, are two pearls set in mahogany and before he lost his sight they were said to be brilliant. I rode down to the patent office the other day and left him leaning against a post while I went inside to transact some business. Pretty soon the commissioner of patents came tearing in like mad and says he, I'd like to know whether this is a public building belonging to the United States or a second-hand auction shop. What mean you, Sira? I ask majestically. I mean, says he, that some enemy to his country has gone and stood an old mahogany umbrella stand right in front of this office. To the disgrace of his species be it said, my boy, he referred to the spirited and fiery animal for which I am indebted to woman's generosity. I admit that when seen at a distance the steed somewhat resembles an umbrella stand but a single look into his pearly eyes is enough to prove his relations with the animal kingdom. I have named him Pegasus in honor of Tupper and when I mount him William Brown of Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade says that I remind him of Santa Claus sitting astride the roof of a small Gothic cottage holding on by the chimney. William is becoming rather too familiar, my boy, and I hope he'll be shot at an early day. Yesterday the army here was reinforced with a regiment of fat German cavalry from the west under the command of Colonel Wabbert Wabbinson, who has had great experience in keeping a livery stable. Their animals are well calculated to turn the point of a sword and are of the high-backed fluted pattern, very glossy at the joints. I saw one of the dragoons cracking nuts on the backbone of the Arabian he rode and asked him how much such an animal was worth without the fur. He considered for a moment and then remarked that nix for stay and dump noodle, though many believed that zwei Gles und Schweizer Käse, but upon the whole it was nix Kumeros und Appledumplings, notwithstanding the fact that yappie yappie beterisch. Singular to relate, my boy, I arrived at the very same conclusion before I asked him the question. Colonel Wabbert Wabbinson reviewed the regiment near Chainbridge this morning, and each horse used about an acre to turn around in. Just before the order to charge was given, the orderly sergeant kindled a fire under each horse, and when the charge commenced, only about six animals laid down. Colonel Wabbinson remarked that these six horses were in favor of peace and refused to fight against their southern brethren. I told him I thought that the peace-breed had longer ears, and he said that that kind had been very scarce since the government commenced appointing its foreign consuls. Yours, Horsley, Orpheus C. Kerr. END OF LETTER XVI At an early hour yesterday morning, while yet the dew was on the grass and on everything else green enough to be out at that matinal hour, my boy, I saddled my Gothic steed Pegasus and took a trot for the benefit of my health. Having eaten a whole straw bed and a piece of an Irishman's shoulder during the night, my architectural beast was in great spirits, my boy, and as he snuffed the fresh air and unfurled the remnants of his warlike tail to the breeze of heaven, I was reminded of that celebrated Arabian steed which had such a contempt for the speed of all other horses that he never would run with them, in fact, my boy, he never would run at all. Having struck a match on that rib of Pegasus, which was most convenient to my hand, I lit a cigar and dropped the match still burning into the right ear of my fiery charger. Something of this kind is always necessary to make the sagacious animal start, but when once I get his metal up he never stops, unless he happens to hear some crows cawing in the air just above his venerable head. I am frequently glad that Pegasus has lost his eyesight, my boy, for could he see the expression on the faces of some of these same crows when they get near enough to squint along his backbone it would wound his sensibilities fearfully. On this occasion he carried me, at a speed of two point four hours a mile, to a point just this side of Alexandria where the sound of heavy cannonading and cursing made me pause. At first, my boy, I remembered an engagement I had in Washington and was about to hasten back, but while I was pressing the lighted end of my cigar into the side of Pegasus to make him turn, Colonel Robert Robinson of the Western Cavalry came walking toward me from a piece of woods on my right and informed me that ten of his men had just been attacked by fourteen thousand rebels with twenty columbiads. The odds, says he, is rather heavy, but our cause is the noblest the world ever knew, and if my brave boys do not vanquish the unnatural foe and indignant and decimated people will at once call upon the cabinet to resign. I told him that I thought I had read something like that in the Tribune, but he didn't seem to hear me. By this time the cannonading had commenced to subside, and as I trotted alongside of Colonel Robinson toward the field of battle I asked him what he had done with his horse. He replied that while on his way to the field his sagacious beast had observed a haystack and was so entranced with the vision that he refused to go a step further, so he had to leave him there. Upon reaching the scene of strife, my boy, we discovered that the ten Western Cavalry men had routed the rebels, killing four regiments which were all carried away by their comrades, and capturing six columbiads which were also carried away. On our side nobody was killed or wounded, in fact two of our men, who went into the fight sick with the measles, were entirely cured and captured for good surgeons. I must state, however, my boy, that although nobody was killed or wounded on our side there was one man missing. It seems that when he found the balls flying pretty thickly about his ears he formed himself into a hollow square, my boy, and retreated in good order to the neighboring bushes. He formed himself into a hollow square by bending gently forward until his hands touched the ground and made his retrograde movement on all fours. Colonel Robinson remarked that this style of forming a hollow square was an intensely immense thing on Hardy. I believe him, my boy. The women of America, my boy, are a credit to the America eagle and a great expense to their husbands and fathers, but they don't exactly understand the most pressing wants of the soldier. For instance, a young girl, about seventy-five years of age, has been sending ten thousand pious tracts to the mackerel brigade, and the consequence is that the air around the camp has been full of spitballs for a week. These tracts, my boy, are very good for dying sinners and other southerners, but I'd rather have bulwars novels for general reading. William Brown of Company Three, Regiment Five, got one of them the other day, headed, Who is your father? The noble youth read the question over once or twice and then dashed the publication to the ground and took some tobacco to check his emotions. That brave youth's father, my boy, is a disgrace to his species. He has been sinking deeper and deeper in shame for some months past until at last his name has got on the Mozart Hall ticket. I saw that William didn't understand what the tract really meant, and so I explained to him that it was intended to signify that God was his father. The gifted young soldier looked at me dreamily for a moment and then he says, God is my father, says he. Well, now I am hanged if that ain't funny, for whenever mother spoke of dad she always called him the old devil. William never went to Sabbath school, my boy, and his knowledge of theology wouldn't start a country church. Wishing to know if he knew anything about catechism I asked him last Sunday afternoon if he knew who Moses was. Yes, says he, I know him very well, he sells old clothes in Chatham Street. I went over to Virginia the other day to review Burton's sharpshooters and was much astonished, my boy, at their wonderful skill with a rifle. The target is a little smaller than the side of a barn with a hole through the center exactly the size of a bullet. They set this up my boy just six hundred yards away and fire added in turn. After sixty of them had fired I went with them to the target but couldn't see that it had been hit by a single bullet. I remarked this to the captain whereupon he looked pittingly at me and says he, do you see that hole in the bull's eye just the size of a bullet? I allowed that I did. Well, says he, the bullets all went through that hole. Now I don't mean to say that the captain lied, my boy, but it's my opinion, my private opinion, my boy, that if he ever writes a work of fiction it will sell. La Montagne has been up in his balloon and went so high that he could see all the way to the Gulf of Mexico and observe what they had for dinner at Fort Pickens. He made discoveries of an important character, my boy, and says that the rebels have concentrated several troops at Manassas. A reporter of the Tribune asked him if he could see any Negro insurrections, and he said that he did see some black spots moving around near South Carolina but found out afterward that there were some ants which had gotten to his telescope. The Prince de Joimville's two sons, my boy, are admirable additions to General McClellan's staff and speak English so well that I can almost understand what they say. Two Arabs are expected here tomorrow to take command of Irish brigades and General Blanker will probably have two Aztecs to assist him in his German division. Yours musingly, Orpheus C. Kerr. and of Letter 17. My head swells with patriotic pride when I casually remark that the mackerel brigade occupy the post of honor to the left of Bull Run, which they also left on the day we celebrated. The banner which was presented to us by the women of America and which it took the orator of the day six hours and forty minutes to describe to us we are using in the shape of blazing neck ties, and when the hard-up son of Virginia shines upon the glorious red bands around the sagacious necks of our veterans they all look as though they had just cut their throats. The effect is gory, my boy, extremely gory and respectable. At the special request of Secretary Seward, who wrote six letters about it to the governors of all the states, I have been appointed a picket of the army of the Upper Potomac. In your natural ignorance, my boy, you may not know why a man is called a picket. He is called a picket, my boy, because if anybody drops a pocket-book or a watch anywhere his natural gifts would cause him to pick it up. If he saw a pocket he would not pick it, oh no, but pick it, pick it. The picket, my boy, has been an institution ever since wars began and his perils are spoken of by some of the high old poets in these beautiful lines. The chap thy tactics doomed to bleed today, had he thy reasons, would he poker play? Pleased to the last he does a deal of good and licks the man just sent to shed his blood. I am weeping, my boy. While on my lonely beat about an hour ago a light tread attracted my attention and, looking up, I beheld one of Saseche's pickets standing before me. Soldier, says he, you remind me of my grandmother, who expired before I was born, but this unnatural war has made us enemies and I must shoot you. Give me a cha to back her. He was a young man, my boy, in the prime of life and descended from the first families of Virginia. I looked at him and says I, let's compromise my brother. Never, says he, the South is fighting for her liberty, her firesides, and the pursuit of happiness and I desire most respectfully to welcome you with bloody hands to a hospitable grave. Stand off ten paces, says I, and let's see whose name shall come before the coroner first. He took his place and we fired simultaneously. I heard a ball go whistling by a barn about a quarter of a mile on my right and when the smoke cleared away I saw the Saseche picket approaching me with an awful expression of woe on his otherwise dirty countenance. Soldier, says he, was there anything in my head before you fired? Nothing, says I, save a few harmless insects. I speak not of them, says he. Was there anything inside of my head? Nothing, says I. Well, says he, just listen now. He shook his head mournfully and I heard something rattle in it. What's that? I exclaimed. That, says he, is your bullet, which has penetrated my skull and is rolling about in my brain. I die happy and with an empty stomach. But there's one thing I should like to see before I perish from my country. Have you a quarter about you? Too much affected to speak. I drew the coin from my pocket and handed it to him. The dying man clutched it convulsively and stared at it feverishly. This, said he, is the first quarter I've seen since the fall of Sumter. And had I wounded you I should have been totally unable to give you any quarter. Ah, how beautiful it is! How bright! How exquisite! How good for four drinks! But I have not time to say all I feel. The expiring soldier then laid down his gun, hung his cap and overcoat on a branch of a tree, and blew his nose. He then died. And there I stood, my boy, on that lonely beat, looking down on that fallen type of manhood and thinking how singular it was he had forgotten to give me back my quarter. As I looked upon him there I could not help thinking to myself, here is another whose home shall know him no more. The sight and the thought so affected me that I was obliged to turn my back on the corpse and walk a little away from it. When I returned to the spot the body was gone. Had it gone to heaven? Perhaps so, my boy, perhaps so, but I haven't seen my quarter since. Your own picket, Orpheus C. Kerr. 19. Washington, D.C. November 1860. Having just made a luscious breakfast, my boy, on some biscuit discovered amid the ruins of Herculaneum and purchased expressly for the Grand Army by a contracting agent for the Government, I take a sip of coffee from the very boot in which it was warmed and hasten to pen my dispatch. On Wednesday morning, my boy, the Army here was reinforced by a very fat man from Boston who said he'd been used to Beacon Street all the days of his life and considered the State House somewhat superior to St. Peter's at Rome. He was a very fat man, my boy, eight hands high, six and a half hands thick, and his head looked like a full moon sinking in the west at five o'clock in the morning. He said he'd joined the Army to fight for the Union and cure his asthma, and Colonel Wabbert Wabanson thoughtfully remarked that he thought he could grease a pretty long bayonet without feeling uncomfortable. This fat man, my boy, was leaning down to clean his boots just outside of a tent when the General of the Mackerel Brigade happened to come along and got a back view of him. Thunder, says the General, stopping short. Who's been sending artillery into camp? There's no artillery here, my boy, says I. Well, says he. Then what's the gun carriage doing here? I explained to him that what he took for a gun carriage was a fat patriot blacking his boots, and he said that he be damned. Soon after the arrival of this solid Boston man, my boy, I noticed that he always carried about with him, suspended by a strap under his right arm, something carefully wrapped in oil skin. He was sitting with me in my room at Willards the other evening, and I says to him, What's that you hug so much, my Plymouth rocker? He nervously clutched his treasure, and says he. It's an unpublished poem of the Honorable Edward, which I found in a very old album in Beacon Street. It's an immortal and unpublished poem, says he, fondly taking a roll of manuscript from the oil skin wrapper, by the greatest and most silent statesmen of the age who recognize a style at once. Listen. Advice to a Maid. Real maiden, thou art no less fair than those whose fairness barely equals thine, and like a cloud on Athos is thy hair, touched with Promethean fire to make it shine, above the temple of a soul divine. And yet methinks that doth resemble to the strands baronese mid the stars doth twine, as Mitchell's small astronomy doth show, You're the book, dear Maid, when to town you go. Young as thou art, thou mightst be younger still, if diverse years were taken from thy life, and who shall say, if merry man you will, you may not prove some man's own wedded wife. Such things do happen in this worldly strife, if they take place, that is, if they are done, but with warm love this earthly dream is rife, and where love shines there always is a sun, as I remark on my oration upon Washington. Supposing thou dost marry, thou wilt yearn, for that which thou dost want in fact desire, the wisdom shaped for older heads to loin, and well designed to tame youth's giddy fire, the wisdom conflicts with the world inspire, such as perchance I may myself possess, though I am but a man, as was my sire, and own not wisdom such as God's may bless, for man is not, and not is nothingness. Still I may tell thee all that I do know, and telling that tell all I comprehend, since all man hath is all that he can show, and what he hath not is not his to lend. Therefore, young maid, if you will but attend, you shall hear that which shall salute your ear. But if you list not, I my breath shall spend, upon the zeffers wandering there and here, the far off hearing less perhaps than those more near. For this thou art thy husband's wife, and he the mortal thou art married to. Else thou for ever had sled a single life, and he had never come thy heart to woo. Remembering this, do thou remember too, he is thy bright groom, thou his chosen bride, and if unto his side thou prove is true, then thou wilt be for ever at his side, as Tacitus observes with some degree of pride. See that his buttons to his shirts adhere as Trojan Hector to the walls of Troy, and see that not Achilles like a pier rents in his stocking heels, but be your joy to have his wardrobe all your thoughts employ. Save such deep thought as may in duty given, suit to his tastes his dinners, nor annoy, digestion's tenor, and its progress even, then his the joy of Harvard, Boston, and High Heaven. If a bread pudding thou wouldst fondly make, a thing nutritious but no costly meal, of bread that stale a due proportion take, and soak in water warm enough to feel, then add a strip or two of lemon peel, with curdled milk and raisins to your taste, and stir the whole with ordinary zeal, until the mass becomes a luscious paste. Such pudding strengthens man, and doth involve no waste. See thou, thy husband's feet are never wet, for wet brings cold, and colds such direful aches, as old pahacius never felt when set, on cruel racks or slow and paling cakes. Make him abstain if sick from griddle cakes, they, being rich, his stomach might derange, and if in thin sold shoes a walk he takes, see that his stockings he doth quickly change. Thus should thy woman's love through woman's duty range, and now, fair maiden, all the stars grow pale, and teaming nature drinks the morning dues, and I must hasten to my orient veil, and quick put on a pair of overshoes. If from my words your woman's heart may choose to find a guidance for a future way, the Olympian impulse and the lyric muse in such approval shall accept their pay. And so good day, young girl, am I, oh my, good day. Ever devoured. As the solid Boston man finished reading this useful poem, he looked impressively at me and says he, they ask domestic eloquence for you. The honourable Edward is liberal in his views, says he enthusiastically, and treats his subject with some latitude. Yes, says I thoughtfully, but they call it platitude sometimes. He didn't hear me, my boy. It is with raptures, my boy, that I record the promotion of William Brown, Company 3, Regiment 5, McRill Brigade, to the rank of Captain, with the privilege of spending half his time in New York, and the rest of it on Broadway. William left the army of the Upper Potomac to pass his examination here, and the Board of Examiners' report that he reminded them of Napoleon, and made them feel sorry for the Duke of Wellington. One of the questions they asked him was, suppose your company was suddenly surrounded by a regiment of the enemy, and you had a precipice in your rear, and twenty-seven hostile batteries in front, what would you do? William thought a moment, and then says he, I'd resign my commission and write to my mother that I was coming home to die in the spring time. Sensible Patriots, says the Board. Are you familiar with the history of General Scott? You can bet on it, says William, smiling like a sagacious angel. General Scott was born in Virginia when he was quite young, and discovered Scotland at an early age. He licked the British in 1812, wrote the Waverly novels, and his son, Wahay, bled with wallace. Now old Haas trot out your commission and let's liquor. Pause, fair youth, says the Board. What makes you think that General Scott had a son named Wahay? We never heard that before. Haas, says William agreeably. That's because you don't know poetry. Why, says William, if you'll just turn to Bern's works, you'll learn that Scott's Wahay will wallace bled, and if that ain't good authority, where's your Shakespeare? The Board was so pleased with William's learning, my boy, that it gave him his commission, presented him with two gun-boats and a cannon, and recommended him for president of the New York Historical Society. It was rumored in camp last night that the army would go into winter quarters, and I asked Colonel Wabinson if he couldn't lend me a few of the quarters in advance, as I felt like going in right away. He explained to me that winter quarters would only be taken in exchange for treasury notes, and I withdrew my proposition for a popular loan. Yours, speculatively, Orpheus C. Kerr. End of Letter 19. Letter 20 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 20. Concerning a significant British outrage, and the capture of Mason and Slidell. Washington, D.C. November 24, 1861. Mr. Seward, my boy, who takes the oath with much sugar in it, and is likewise Secretary of State, will probably write twenty-four letters to all of the governors this week, in consequence of a recent outrage committed by Great Britain. I may remark with great indignation that Great Britain is a member of one of the New York Regiments, my boy, and enlisted for the express purpose of stretching his legs. He is shaped something like a barrel of ale, and has a chin that looks like an ample dumpling with a stitch in its side. As I rode slowly along near Fort Cochran, on my gothic steed Pegasus about an hour ago, admiring the beauties of nature, and smoking a pipe which was presented to me by the women of America, I aspired Great Britain seated by the roadside contemplating an army biscuit. These biscuit, my boy, as I stated last week, were discovered amid the ruins of Herculaneum, and were at first taken for meteoric stones. Good morning, old neutrality, says I affably. You appear to be lost in religious meditation. Ah, says he, sighing like the great behemoth of the scriptures. I was thinking of the way of the transgressor. If the inspired raiz, says he, thought the way of the transgressor was odd, I wonder what they'd think about this year biscuit. Your jealous of America, says I, and it will be the painful duty of the Union, the Constitution, and the enforcement of the law to capture Canada if you continue your abolition harangues against the best, the most beneficent and powerful bread in the civilized world. Bread, says he, with a groan in three syllables. Do you call this year biscuit bread? Why, says he, this year biscuit is geology, and if it were in Old England it would be taken for one of the Elgin marbles and placed in the British Museum. I need scarcely inform you, my boy, that after this ungenerous remark of Great Britain, I left him contemptuously, and it once proceeded to blockade a place where the oath is furnished in every style. We have borne with Great Britain a great while, my boy, but it is now time for us to take Canada and wipe every vestige of British tyranny from the face of the globe. The American eagle, my boy, flaps his dark wings over the red head of battle, and as his scarlet eyes rest for a moment on the English custom house, he softly whispers, he simply remarks, he merely ejaculates, gore. Americans, fellow citizens, foreigners, and people of Boston, shall we longer allow the bloated British aristocracy to blight us with base abolition proclivities while Mr. Seward is capable of holding a pen? Hail, blood and thunder, welcome, gentle gore, let the loud hughag shatter every shore. High to the zenith, let our eagle fly, ten thousand battles blazing in his eye. Nail our proud standard to the northern pole. Plant patent earthquakes in each foreign hole. Shout havoc, murder, victory, and spoils, till all creation crouches in our toils. Then, when the world to our behest is bent and takes the herald for its punishment, we'll pin our banner to a comet's tail and shake the heavens with a big, all hail. That's the spirit of America, my boy, taken with nutmeg on top and a hollow straw. Very good for invalids. Next to the question concerning the capacity of gun-boats for the sweet potato trade, my boy, the great topic of the day is the capture of Slydell and Mason, whose arrest so pleased the colonel of the Mackerel Brigade that he got up at nine o'clock in the morning to tell the President about it. In the year 1776, my boy, this Slydell sold candles in New York and was born about two years after the marriage of the elder Slydell. While he was yet a young man, he went much into female society and at length offered his hand to a lady. Her father, being a male, gave his consent to the match, and on the day of the wedding there was a fire in the seventh ward. Since that time, Slydell has been a married man and was much respected until he got into the Senate. I get these facts from a friend of the family who has a set of silver spoons engraved with the name of Slydell. The rebel Mason was born and bred in the United States and has always been a first family. He says he was going to Europe on account of his health. The capture of these men, my boy, cannot fail to produce a great sensation in diplomatic circles, and I am informed by a reliable gentleman from Weehawken that Mr. Seward is preparing a letter to Lord Lyons on the subject. This letter I learn will contain some such passages as this. I have the honor to say to your lordship that your lordship must be aware of your lordship's important duty as a minister to the United States, and I trust that your lordship will pay a little attention to your lordship's grammar when next your lordship addresses your lordship's most obedient servant. Your lordship will permit me to say to your lordship that your lordship is in no way capable of interpreting the Constitution to your lordship's American friends, and I trust your lordship will not be offended when I state to your lordship that your lordship will find nothing in the Constitution to compel your lordship, to demand your lordship's passport on account of the recent capture of the state prisoners from one of your lordship's governments vessels your lordship. I read this extract to Colonel Wabbert Wabbinson of the Western Cavalry, my boy, and he said its only fault was that it hadn't enough lordships in it. Lordships, says he, lend an easy grace to state documents and are as aristocratic as a rooster's tail at sunrise. The Colonel is a natural poet, my boy, and abounds in pleasing comparisons. The review of seventy thousand troops near Munson's Hill on Thursday was one of those stirring events, my boy, which we have been upon the eve of for the past year. A new cavalry company for the mackerel brigade excited great attention as it went past, and I understand the President said that, with the exception of the horses and the men, it was one of the finest cavalry mobs he ever saw. The horses are a new pattern, fluted sides, polished knobs on the haunches, and a handrail all the way down the back. A rebel caught sight of one of these fine animals the other day and immediately fainted. It was afterward ascertained that he owned a field of oats in the neighborhood. Yours, variously, Orpheus C. Kerr. Letter twenty-one 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 twenty-one. Describing Captain William Brown's great expedition to Acomac and its marvelous success. Washington, D.C., December 1861. Twas early more in my boy, the sun rushed up the eastern sky in a state of patriotic combustion, and as the dew fell upon the grassy hillsides, the mountains lifted up their heads and were rather green. Far on the horizon six rainbows appeared, with an American eagle at roost on the top one, and as the translucent pearl of the dawn shone between them, and a small pattern of blue sky, with thirty-four stars broke out at one end, I saw, I beheld, Yes, it ease, it ease, our banger in the ski-eye. The reason why the heavens took such an interest in the United States of America was the fact that Captain William Brown of Company Three, Regiment Five, McRill Brigade, was to make a great expedition to Acomac County on that morning. Twelve years was the period originally assigned, my boy, for the preparation of this expedition, but when the government heard that the Acomac rebels were making candles of all the fat Boston men they took prisoners, it concluded to do something during the present century. William Brown was assigned to the command of the expedition, and when I asked the general of the McRill Brigade how such selection happened to be made, he said that William was assigned, because there were so many signs of an ass about him. The general is much given to classical metaphors, my boy, and ought to write for the new American encyclopedia. Previous to starting, William Brown called the meeting of his staff for the purpose of selecting such officers only who had slept with Hardy and new beings. Gentlemen, said William, seating himself at a table on which stood the oaths in a clean tumbler, I wish to know which of you is the greatest shakes in a sacred scrimmage. A respectable left tenant stepped forward with his hand upon his bosom. Being a native of Philadelphia, says he, I am naturally modest, but only yesterday, when two rebels pitched into me, I knocked them both over, and am here to tell the tale. William Brown gave the speaker a piercing look, my boy, and says he, impostor, beware how you insult the United States of America. I fathom your falsehood, says he, by my knowledge of mathematics. You say that two chivalries pitched into you, and you knocked them both over. Now mathematics distinctly says that two into one goes no times, and nothing over. Speaker of the house removed this left tenant to the dungeon keep. He's Ananias number two. The officer from Philadelphia being removed to the guard house, where there is weeping and wailing and picking of teeth. Another left tenant stepped forward. I deal on technicalities, says he, and can post you in law. Ha! says William, softly sipping the oath. Then I will try you with an abstract question, my beautiful Belvedere. Suppose Mason and Slidel were your friends. How would you work it to get them out of Fort Warren? Why, says the left tenant pleasantly, I'd sue out a rid of habeas jackass and get the New York Herald to advise the government not to let them out. Yes, says William meditatively. That would be sure to do it. I'll use you to help me get up my proclamation. And now, says William, dropping a lump of sugar into the oath and stirring it with a comb. Who is that air melancholy chap with a tall hat on, who looks like Hamlet with a panic? The melancholy chap came to the front, shook his long locks like Banquo, and says he, I'm the press. I'm the palladium of our liberties. Here shall the press the people's rights maintain, unawed by affluence and inspired by gain. I'm the best advertising medium in the country and have reptile contemporaries. I won't be suppressed. No, sir, no, sir, I refuse to be suppressed. You're a giant intellect, says William, looking at him through the bottom of a tumbler. But I can't stand the press. Speaker of the house, remove him to the bath and send for a barber. Now, gentlemen, I will say a few words to the troops, and then we will march according to Hardy. The section of the mackerel brigade being mustered in line against a rail fence, my boy. Captain William Brown shut one eye, balanced himself on one foot, and thus addressed them. Fellow soldats, which is French, it was originally intended to present you with a stand of colors, but the fellow citizen who was to present it has only got as far as the 152nd page of the few remarks he intended to make on the occasion, and it is a military necessity not to wait for him. See Scott's Tactics, Volume 3, page 24. I have but a few words to say, and these are them. Should any of you happen to be killed in the coming battle, let me implore you to die without a groan. It sounds better in history, as well as in the great, heart-stirring romances of the weekly palladiums of freedom. How well it reads that private muggins received a shot in the neck, and died without a groan. Soldats, bullets have been known to pass clean through the thickest trees, and so I may be shot myself. Should such a calamity befall our distracted country, I shall die without a groan, even though I am a groan person. Therefore fear nothing, the eyes of the whole civilized world are upon you, and history and domestic romance expect to write that you died without a groan. At the conclusion of this touching and appropriate speech, my boy, all the men exclaimed, We will, except a young person from New York who said that he'd rather groan without a die, for which he was sentenced to read Seward's next letter. The army, being formed into a great quadrilateral, see Raymond's tactics, moved forward at a double-quick and reached Acomac just as the impatient sun was rushing down. With the exception of a mule the only Virginian to be seen was a solitary chivalry who had strained himself trying to raise some interest from a Confederate treasury note and couldn't get away. Observing that only one man was in sight, Captain William Brown, who had stopped to tie his shoe behind a large tree on the left, made a flank movement on the chivalry. Is these the borders of Acomac, says he pleasantly? Why, says the chivalry giving a start, you must be Lord Lyons. What makes you think that, asked William? Oh, nothing, only your grandma, says chivalry. This made William very mad, my boy, and he ordered the bombardment to be commenced immediately. But as all the powder had been placed on board a vessel, which could not arrive under two weeks, it was determined to take possession without combustion. Finding himself master of the situation, Captain William Brown called the solitary chivalry to him and issued the following proclamation. Citizen of Acomac, I come among you not as an incendiary and assassin, but to heal your wounds and be your long-lost father. Several of the happiest months in my life were not spent in Acomac, and your affecting hospitality will make me more than jealously watchful of your liberties and the pursuit of happiness. See the Constitution. Citizen of Acomac, these brave men of whom I am a spectator are not your enemies, they are your brothers, and desire to embrace you in fraternal bonds. They wish to be considered your guests, and respectfully invite you to observe the banner of our common forefathers. In proof whereof I established the following orders. One. If any nigger come within the lines of the United States Army to give information whatsoever of the movements of the enemy, the aforesaid shall have his head knocked off and be returned to his lawful owner, according to the groceries and provisions of the fugitive slave-ac. See the Constitution. Two. If any chicken or other defenseless object belonging to the South be brought within the lines of the United States Army by any nigger, his heirs, administrators, and assigns, the aforesaid shall have his tail cut off and be sent back to his rightful owner at the expense of the Treasury Department. Three. Any soldier found guilty of shooting the Southern Confederacy, or bothering him in any manner whatsoever, the same shall be deemed guilty of disorderly conduct and be pronounced an accursed abolitionist. William Brown, Esquire, Captain, Connick Section, Mackerel Brigade, Commanding Acomac. The citizen of Acomac, my boy, received this proclamation favorably, and said he wouldn't go hunting Union pickets until the weather was warmer, whereupon William Brown fell upon his neck and wept copiously. The Union Army, my boy, now holds undisputed possession of over six inches of the sacred soil of Acomac, and this unnatural rebellion has received a blow which shakes the rotten fabric to its shivering center. The strong arm of the government has at last reached the stronghold of treason, and in a few years this decisive movement on Acomac will be followed by the advance of our army on the Potomac. Yours with Expedition, Orpheus C. Kerr. End of Letter XXI. Letter XXII 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 XXII. Treating of William's occupation of Acomac and his wise decision in a contraband case. Washington, D.C. December 16, 1861. After sleeping with Congress for two days, my boy, and observing four statesmen and a small page driven to the verge of apoplexy by the exciting tale called The President's Message, I thought it was about time to mingle with the world again, and sent my servant, Percy DeMortimer, to bring me my gothic steed Pegasus. After a long search in the fields after that chaste architectural animal, my boy, he met a Missouri picket chap and says he— Have you seen a horse here about my whiskey doodle? Haas, says Missouri, spitting with exquisite precision on one of DeMortimer's new boots. No, I ain't seen no haas, my Fiji bruiser. But there's an all-fired big crow-roost down in that corner, I reckon, and it must be alive for I heard the bones rattle when the wind blew. My valet, Mr. DeMortimer, paid no heed to his satirical lowness, my boy, but proceeded majestically to where my gothic beast was eating the remains of a straw mattress. Brushing a few crows from the backbone of the fond charger, upon which they were innocently roosting, he placed the saddle amid ships and conducted the fiery stallion to my hotel. Mounting in hot haste, I was about to start for Akimak when the general of the macro-brigade came down the steps in hot haste and says he— Is the army of the Potomac about to advance? Why do you ask, says I? Thunder, says he. I've been so long in one spot that I was going to get out my naturalization papers as a citizen of Arlington Heights. Ah, says he with a groan. When the advance takes place, I shall be too old to enjoy it. I asked him why he didn't make arrangements to have his grandson take his place, if he should become superannuated before the advance took place, and he said that he be damned. Upon reaching Akimak, my boy, I found the conic section of the macro-brigade reconnoitering in force after a pullet they had seen the night before, which they couldn't catch it. Captain William Brown, my boy, has his headquarters in a house with the attic and cellar on the same floor. I found two fat pickets playing poker on the roof, six first-class pickets doing up old sledge on the rail fence in front of the door, and eight consumptive pickets eating a rooster belonging to the Southern Confederacy on the roof of a pigpen. As I entered the airy and commodious apartment of the Commander-in-Chief, I beheld the sight to make the muses stare like the behemoth of the scriptures and cause genius to take another nip of old rye. There was the cantankerous Captain, my boy, seated on a keg of gunpowder with his head laid sideways on a table, one hand grasping a bottle half full of the oath, and the other writing something on a piece of paper laid at right angles with his nose. Hello, my interesting infant, says I. Are you drawing a map of Pensacola for an enlightened press? Ha! says William, starting up, and eyeing me closely through the bottom of a bottle. You behold me in the agonies of composition. Read this porkry, says he, and if it ain't double X with the foam off, where's your melton? I took the paper, my boy, which resembled a specimen card of dead flies, and read this poem. The god of bottles be our aid when rebels crack us, we'll bend the bottle neck to him, and he will back us. By Captain William Brown, Esquire. I told William that everything but the words of his poem reminded me of Longfellow, and says he, Don't mention my undoubted genius in public, because if Seward knew that I wrote poetry, he'd think I wanted to be president in 1865, and he'd get the old honest Abe to remove me. I think, says William abstractedly, that the honest old Abe is like a big bumblebee with his tail cut off when his cabinet comes humming around him. William once stirred up the monkeys in a menagerie, my boy, and his metaphors from natural history are chaste. At this moment a file of the macro-brigade came in, bringing a son of Africa, who looked like a bottle of black ink wrapped up in a dirty towel, and a citizen of Akamak, who claimed him as his slave. Captain, says the citizen of Akamak, this nigger belongs to me and I want him back. Besides, he stole a looking-glass from me and has got it hid somewheres. William smiled like a pleased clam, and says he, you say he stole a looking-glass? I reckon, says Akamak. Prisonier, says William to the Ethiope. Did you ever see the devil? Never saw, since Mrs. died. Citizen of Akamak, says William sternly, you have told a whopper, and I shall keep this child of oppression to black the boots of the United States of America. You say he stole a looking-glass. He says he has never seen the devil. Observe now, says William argumentatively, how plain it is that if he had even looked at your looking-glass he must have seen the devil about the same time. The citizen of Akamak saw that his falsehood was discovered, my boy, and returned to the bosom of his family, cursing like a rifled parson. William then adjourned the court for a week, and sent the contraband out to enjoy the blessings of freedom digging trenches. It is pleasing, my boy, to see our commanders dispensing justice in this manner, and I don't wonder at the presidents wanting to abolish the Supreme Court. First Juditially, Orpheus C. Kerr. Concerning British neutrality and its cosmopolitan effects, with some account of how Captain Bob Shorty lost his company. Washington D.C. December 29, 1861 When Britain first, at Napoleon's command, my boy, arose from out of the Azure Main, this was her charter, her charter of the land that Britain's never, never, never shall be slaves, as long as they have a chance to treat everybody else like niggers. Suffer me also to remark that Britannia needs no bulwarks, no towers along the steep, her marches o'er the mountain-wave, her home is on the deep, where she keeps up her neutrality by smuggling contraband southern confederacies and swearing like a hard-shell chaplain when Uncle Sam's ocean pickets overhaul her. Albion's neutrality is waking up a savage spirit in the United States of America, as you will understand from the following Irish idol which was written, Pro Patria. To Irishmen out of employ, and out at the elbows as Azalee, a drift in a grocery store, were smoking and taking it lazily. One was the broth of a boy, whose cheekbones turned out and turned in again, his name was Paddy O'Toole, the other was Mr. McFinnigan. I think of enlistances, Pat. Because do you see what a clock it is? There's nothing a-doin' at all, but drinkin' at Mrs. O'Doree's. It's not until after the war, that business times will begin again, and fighting's the duty of all. You're right, sirs, as Mr. McFinnigan. Bad luck to the rebels, I say, for kickin' up all of this bobbery. They call themselves gentlemen, too, while practin' murderin' robbery. Now if it's gentail for to steal, and take all your creditors in again, I'm glad I'm no gentleman born. You're right, sirs, as Mr. McFinnigan. The spalpeens make bold to remark, their chivalry couldn't be ruled by us, and by the same token, I think, they're never too smart to be fooled by us. Now if it's the nagers they maine, be chivalry, then it's a sin again, to fight for a cause that is black. Your right, sirs, as Mr. McFinnigan. A nager's a man, ye may say, and equal to all other southerners, but chivalry's made him a brute, and so he's a monkey to northerners. Never look at the poor critter's heels, and look at his singular shin again. It's not for such gentleman fight. Your right, sirs, as Mr. McFinnigan. The nager's states wanted a row, and now be me soul they've got in it. They've chosen a bed that is hard, however they strive for to cotton it. I'm thinkin' when winter comes on, they'll all be inclined to come in again. But then we must bait them at first. Your right, sirs, as Mr. McFinnigan. A hone, but it's hard that a sweet, good-lookin' young chap like myself, indeed, should lose his ten shillens a day, because of the trouble the south has made. But that's just the raisin, ye see, why I should help Union to win again. It's what will bring wages once more. Your right, sirs, as Mr. McFinnigan. Just mind what old England's about, ascendin' her troops into Canada, and all her old ships on the coast are ripe for some treachery any day. Now, if she should mix in the war, be jabers, it makes me head spin again. Old Ireland would have such a chance. Your right, sirs, as Mr. McFinnigan. You talk about Irishmen now, enlisted by thousands from loyalty, but wait till the Phoenix Brigade is called to put down British royalty. It's then with the stars and the stripes, all Irishmen here would go in again, to strike for the shamrock and harp. Your right, sirs, as Mr. McFinnigan. Bloods in a blaze. To think of bold Cochrane leading us, right into the camp of the bastes, whose leeches so long have been bleeding us. The stars and the stripes were at home. To Canada's walls we would pin again. And wouldn't we raise them in cork? Your right, sirs, as Mr. McFinnigan. And down at the south, do ye mind? There's plenty of Irishmen mustering, deluded to fight for the wrong, by rebel misstatements and blustering. But once let old England their foe, to fight with a union begin again, and sure, they desert to a man. Your right, sirs, as Mr. McFinnigan. There's never an Irishman born, from Maine to the end of Secession Dome, but longs for a time and a chance to fight for his country in Hessendom. And so, if old England should try, with treacherous friendship to sin again, they'll all be on one side at once. Your right, sirs, as Mr. McFinnigan. We've brothers in Canada, too. And didn't the Prince have a taste of them? To say that to Ireland their true, is certainly saying the laced of them. If bearing our flag at our head, we rose Ireland's freedom to win again. They'd murder John Bull in the rear. Your right, sirs, as Mr. McFinnigan. Who rue for the union, me boys? And div'll take all who would bother it. Secession's a nager so black, that div'll himself ought to father it. Who rue for the bold 69th, that's presently bound to go in again? It's Cochrane's rescue there at. Your right, sirs, as Mr. McFinnigan. I'm off right away to enlist, and sure won't the bounty be handio, to cape me respectably dressed, and furnish me duddings and brandio. I'm thinkin' me excellent friend, your eye and that bottle of gin again. You wouldn't mind tryin' a drop? Your right, sirs, as Mr. McFinnigan. British neutrality, my boy, reminds me of a chap I once knew in the Sixth Ward. Two solid men, who didn't get drunk more than once a day, were running for alderman, and they both made a dead set on this chap, but they hadn't any money and he couldn't see it. See here, old tops, says he. I'll be a neutral this time, so go in poor geese. Well, my boy, the election came off, and neither of the old tops was elected. No, sir. Now, who do you suppose was elected? The neutral chap, my boy. Mad as hornets with the hydrophobia, the two old tops went to see him and says they. Cun found your picture, didn't you promise to be neutral? The chap dipped his nose into a cocktail, and then says he blandly. I was neutral old persimmonses. I only went to fifty Democrats and got them to vote for me. Then, to be neutral, I had to get fifty of the other fellow's black Republicans to do the same thing. Then I voted twelve times for myself and went in. It was a very beautiful case, my boy, and the old tops were only heard to utter. They were only known to exclaim. They were barely able to articulate that neutrality didn't pay. The yesterday morning, my boy, Company B, Regiment 3, Macrile Brigade, went down toward Centerville on a reconnaissance in force under Captain Bob Shorty. The Captain is a highly intellectual patriot, and don't get his sword twisted between his legs when he carries it in his hand. He led the Company through the mud like a Christmas duck until they came to a thicket in which something was seen to move. Halt, you terriers, says Captain Bob Shorty, in a voice trembling with bravery. Form yourselves into a square according to Hardy while I stir up this here bush. There's something in that bush, says he, and it's either the Southern Confederacy or some other cow. The Captain then leaned up to a tree to make him steady on his pins, my boy, and rammed his sword into the bushes like a poker into the fire, thus. Nobody hurt on our side. What followed, my boy, can be easily told. At an early hour on the evening of the same day, a solitary horseman might have been seen approaching Washington. It was Captain Bob Shorty, with his hat caved in and a rainbow spouting under his left eye. He went straight to the headquarters of the General of the Macrile Brigade and says he, General, I've reconnoitred in force and found the enemy both numerous and cantankerous. Beautiful, says the General, but where's your company? Well, now, says Captain Bob Shorty, you'd hardly believe it, but the last I see of that ear company it was engaged in the pursuit of happiness at the rate of six miles an hour with the rebels at the wrong end of the track. Dang my rations, says Captain Bob Shorty, if I don't think that that ear Bob-tailed Company has got to Richmond by this time. Thunder, says the General, didn't they kill any of the rebels? Narya Confederacy, says Captain Bob Shorty. The bullets all rolled out of them ear muskets of theirs before the powder got fairly on fire. Them muskets, continued Captain Bob Shorty, would be good for a bombardment. You might possibly hit a city with them at two yards range, but in personal encounters they are inferior to the putty blowers of our innocent childhood. As the Captain made this observation, my boy, he stepped hurriedly to the table, lifted a tumbler containing the oath to his pallid lips, took a seat in the coal-scuttle, and burst into a flood of tears. Deeply affected by this touching display of a beautiful trait in our common nature, the General placed a small piece of ice on the Captain's slanting brow, and hid his own emotions in a bottle holding about a quart. In reference to the beautiful battle-piece accompanying this epistle, my boy, allow me to observe that it was taken on the spot by the chiaroscuro artist Patrick Dela Roche, well known in his native Italy as Roche. He studied in Rome, New York, and has a style peculiar for its width of tone and length of breath. The dark complexion of the figures in this fine picture represents the effects of the Virginia sun. Our troops are much tanned. The work was painted in oil colors with a bit of charcoal, my boy, and a copy of it will probably be ordered for the capital. Yours for high old art, Orpheus C. Kerr. End of Letter XXIII. Letter XXIV 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 XXIV. Narrating the Mackerel Brigade's manner of celebrating Christmas and noting a deadly affair of honor between two well-known officers, Washington, D.C., December 26, 1861. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, my boy, and the same to yourself. The recurrence of these gay old annuals makes me feel as ancient as the first families of Virginia and as grave as a churchyard. How well I remember my first Christmas. Early in the morning my dignified paternal presented me with a beautiful spanking, and then my maternal touched me up with her slipper to stop my crying. Sensible people are the women of America, my boy. They slap a boy on his upper end which makes him howl, and then hit him on the other end to stop his noise. There's good logic in the idea, my boy. That first Christmas of mine was memorable from the fact that my present was a drum, on which I executed a new opera of my own composition with such good effect that in the evening a deputation of superannuated neighbors and old maids waited on my father with a petition that he would send me to see immediately. But to return to the present suffer me to observe that last Wednesday was celebrated by the mackerel brigade in a manner worthy of the occasion. Two hundred turkeys belonging to the Southern Confederacy were served up for dinner, and from what I tasted I am satisfied that they belonged to the first families. They were very tough, my boy. In the evening there was a ball to which a number of the women of America were invited. Captain William Brown came up from Acomac on purpose to attend, and looked as the general of the mackerel brigade gently expressed it like a bag of indigo that had been out without an umbrella in a hard shower of brass buttons. The general has an acute perception of the beautiful my boy. William took the oath six times, and then took a survey of the festive scene through the bottom of a tumbler. The first person he recognized was the youngest Miss Muggins, waltzing like a deranged balloon with Captain Bob Shorty. Captain Bob was spinning around like a dislocated pair of tongs and smirked like a happy fiend. William gave one stare, put the tumbler in his pocket, and then made a beeline for the pair. Miss Muggins says he, you'll oblige me by dropping that air mass of brass buttons and mustaches and dancing with me. I beg your parting, sir, says Miss Muggins with dignity, but I choose as my own company. William, says Captain Bob Shorty, if you don't take that big nose of yours away it will be my painful duty to set it a little further back in your repulsive countenance. Then William was mad. He hastily buttoned his coat up to the neck, took a bite of tobacco, and says he, Captain Shorty, we have lived like brothers. I have borrowed many a quarter of you, and you promised that when I died you would wrap me up in the American flag. But now you are my enemy, and ha, ha, I am yours. Will't fight? Twas enough. I wilt, responded Captain Bob Shorty, and in ten minutes' time these desperate men stood face to face on the banks of the Potomac, the ghastly moon looking solemnly down upon them through a rift of floating shrouds and one of the first families of Virginia pickets squinting at them from a neighboring bush. William's second was Colonel Robert Robinson of the Western Cavalry, and Captain Bob Shorty's was Samuel Smith. The fifth of the party was a fat surgeon from St. Louis who stood with his sleeves rolled up and a big jackknife in his hand. The surgeon also had a stomach pump with him, my boy, and twelve boxes of anti-billious pills. The weapons were pistols, and the distance seventy paces. Captain William Brown was observed to shiver as he took his place, and was so cold that he took aim at the surgeon instead of his antagonist. The surgeon called his attention to this little error, and he immediately rectified his mistake by pointing his weapon point blank at Samuel Smith. "'You bloodthirsty cuss,' shouted Samuel, with great emotion, "'what are you pointin' at me for?' "'I was thinking of my poor grandmother,' said William feelingly, and immediately fired at the moon. Simultaneously Captain Bob Shorty sent his bullets skimming along the ground in the direction of Washington and said that he wanted to go home. The surgeon decided that nobody was hurt, and the two infuriated principles commenced to reload their pistols with horrible calmness. Now it came to pass that while Captain William Brown was stooping down fixing his weapon, his hand became unsteady and he pulled the trigger without meaning to. "'Bang!' went the concern, and "'Wiz!' went the ball, right between the legs of Colonel Wabbert Wabanson, causing that noble officer to skip four times and swear awfully. "'Treachery,' says Captain Bob Shorty, spinning around in great excitement and letting drive at Samuel Smith who happened to be nearest. "'Gawd, darn he!' screamed Samuel, turning purple in the face. "'You've gone and shot all the rim of my cap off!' "'I couldn't help it,' says Bob, looking into the barrel of his pistol with great intensity of gaze. At this moment, William, who had loaded up again, tried to put the hammer of his weapon down on the cap, but his hand slipped, and the charge exploded, barking the shins of the fat surgeon and sending a bullet clean through his stomach-pump. The surgeon just took a seat, my boy, rubbed his shins half a second, took four boxes of pills, and then began to cuss. Martial renders can cuss some, my boy, but that fat surgeon could beat him and all the custom-house together. But suddenly a strange sound reduced all else to silence. It came first like the rumbling of a barrel of potatoes and then grew into a fiendish chuckle. It was found to proceed from a neighboring bush, and on proceeding thither the party beheld a sight to make the pious weep. Rolling about in the brush was one of the first families of Virginia pickets, kicking his heels in the air and laughing himself right straight into apoplexy. "'Oh, Lord!' says he, going into a fresh convulsion. "'Take me, prisoner, and hang me for a rebel. But I never did see such a good one as that of a gay old duel. If you'd kept on,' says the picket, turning purple in the face, I really reckon I should have busted myself.' Captain William Brown was greatly scandalized at this unseemly mirth, my boy, and requested the surgeon to cut the picket's head off, but Colonel Wobbert Wobbinson interposed, and the laughing chap was only made prisoner. "'And now, William,' says Captain Bob Shorty, we've had the satisfaction of gentlemen and can be friends again. I spurns, Miss Muggins. The American flag is my only bride, and as for you? Well, I think rather more of you than I do of my own father.' "'Come to my arms,' exclaimed William, falling upon his neck and improving the opportunity to take the oath from his canteen. It was an affecting sight, my boy, and as those two noble youths walked amicably back to the camp together, the fat surgeon remarked to Samuel Smith that they reminded him of Damon and Pythias just returned from the Syracuse Convention. Yours for the code, Orpheus C. Kerr." End of LETTER XXIV LETTER XXV Presenting the Chaplin's New Year poem and reporting the singular conduct of the general of the macro brigade on the day he celebrated, Washington, D.C. January 2, 1862. Another year, my boy, has dawned upon a struggle in which the hopes of freedom and integrity all over the world are breathlessly involved. And if the day star of liberty is destined to go down into the ocean wave, what is to become of the unoffending negroes? I extract this beautiful passage, my boy, from the forthcoming speech of a fat congressman, who is a friend to the human race, and charges the administration with imbecility and with mileage. I conversed with him the other evening, and, after discussing various topics, asked him what he thought of the Washington statue as it stood. He winked three times, and then says he— The only Washington statue I know anything about is Starrouquot. The Chaplin of the macro brigade joined seriously in our staff festivities on New Year's Eve, my boy, but as midnight approached he grew very silent, and at a quarter of twelve he arose from his seat by the fire, and asked permission to read something which he had written. I would not retard your inevitable inebriation, says he to us, as he drew a manuscript from one of his pockets, but it is only fitting that we should pay some regard to the dying year. Being at last, old year, another stroke of yonder-clock and thou, will pass the threshold of the world we see, into the world where yesterday and now, blend with the hours of the no more to be. I saw the moon last night rise like a crown from the dim mountain's head, and to the council of stars take way, for thou, the king, though kinsmen of the dead, swayed still the scepter of another day. I see the moon tonight, sightless and misty as a mourner's eye, behind a veil, or like a coin to seal, the lids of time's last born to majesty, touched with the darkness of a hidden leal. Mark where yon shadow crawls by slow degrees beneath the window-sill, timed by the death-watch ticking slow and dull, the tide of night is rising, black and still, old year, thou dyest when tis at its full. I, moan and moan again, and shake all nature in thine agony, and tear the ermine robes that mock thee now, like gilded fruit upon a blasted tree. Tomorrow comes, tomorrow where art thou? Wouldst thou be shrived, old year, thou subtle sentence of delusive time, framed but to deepen all the mystery, of life's great purpose come confess the crime, and man's divinity shall date from thee? Speak to my soul, old year, but let a star leave its bright eminence, in thy death-struggle, if this deathless soul holds its own destiny and recompense, in the grand mastery of a god's control. No sound, no sign from thee? And I must live, not knowing why I live, whilst thou and years to come past by me here, with faces hid, refusing still to give, the one poor word that bids me cease to fear? That word I charge thee speak, quick for the moments tremble on the verge of the black chasm where lurks the midnight spell, and solemn winds already chant thy dirge, give earth its heaven, or hell a deeper hell. Speak or I curse thee here, I'll call it yea, if but a withered twig, tossed by the wind falls rattling on the roof, I'll call it yea, if even a shutter-creak, breathe but on me, and it shall stand for proof. Too late, the midnight bell, the crawling shadow at its witching flood, with the deep gloom of the beyond is wed, and I unanswered sit within and brood, and thou, old year, art silent, thou art dead. When the chaplain finished his reading, my boy, I told him that he must excuse the party for going to sleep, as they were really very tired. On New Year's Day, my boy, the general of the macro-brigade desired me to make a few calls with him, and appeared at my lodgings in a confirmed state of kid-gloves, which he bought for the express purpose of making a joke. A happy New Year to you, my Duke of Wellington, says I, you look as frisky as a spring lamb. Immediately a look of intense meaning came over his Corinthian face, and he remarked with awful solemnity, Thunder, you might better call me a goat, my Prussian blue, seeing that I've got a couple of kids on hand just now. The joke was a good article in the glove-line, my boy, and I don't think that the general had been studying over it more than four hours before we met. We made our first call at a house where the ladies were covered with smiles as with a garment, and remarked that the day was fine. The general smiled in return until his profile reminded me of a cracked teapot, and says he, Ladies, allow me to tender the compliments of the season. In this wine, says he, which I hold in my hand, I behold the roses of your cheeks when you blush, and the sparkle of your eyes when you laugh. Let us hope that another New Year will find our unhappy country free from her enemies, and the curse of African slavery blotted out of the map. I whispered to the general that slavery wasn't on the map at all, and he confidentially informed me that I be damned. We then repaired to a house where the ladies had a very happy expression of countenance, and told us that it was a pleasant day. The general accidentally filled a wine-glass with the deuce of the grape, and says he, Ladies, suffer me to articulate the compliments of the season. This aromatic beverage, says he, is but a liquid presentment of your blushes and glances. Let us trust that within a year our country will resume the blessings of peace, and the unhappy bondmen will be obliterated from the map. One of the ladies said, Tee-hee! Another said that she felt, Hee-hee-hee! I believe her, my boy. As we returned to the street I told the general that he'd better leave out the map at the next place, and he said that he'd do it if he wasn't afraid that Congress wouldn't confirm his appointment if he did. We then visited a family where the ladies had faces beaming with happiness, and observed that it was really a beautiful day. The general happened to be placed near a cut-glass goblet, and says he, Ladies, in compliance with the day we celebrate, I offer the compliments of the season. This mantling nectar, says he, blushes like women and glitters like her orbs. Let us pray that in the coming twelve months the stars and stripes will be re-established, and the negro removed from the map. He also said, ick, my boy, and one of the ladies wanted to know what that meant. I told her that ick was a Latin term from Cicero de Oficias, and meant, ick jacket. Here lies. Oh, says she, Tee-hee! On reaching the sidewalk this time, my boy, the general clasped my hand warmly and said he'd never forget me. He said I was his dear friend, and must never leave him. And I said I wouldn't. We then called at a house where the ladies all smiled upon us and remarked that we were having charming weather. The general raised a glass and says he, Girls, I am an old man, but you are the compliments of season. You are blushing like the wine-glass and also your sparkles. On another New Year's Day let our banner certainly let us all do it, and the negro's slavery blot out the map. As he uttered these feeling words, my boy, he bowed to me and kissed my hand, after which he looked severely at his pocket handkerchief and tried to leave the room by way of the fireplace. I asked him if he hadn't better take some soda, and he said that if I would come and live with him he would tell me how he came to get married. He said he loved me. Shortly after this we called at a residence where the ladies all looked very happy and said that it was a fine day. The general threw all the strength of his face into one eye and says he, Ladles, we are compliments, and you are the negro's on the map. This year, pardon me, I should introduce my two friends who's drunk. This year, I say, our country may be ha—' Here the general turned suddenly to me with tears in his eyes and asked me to promise that I would never, never leave him. He said that I was a gentleman, and ought to give up drinking. I conducted him tenderly to the hall, where he embraced me passionately, and invited me to call and see him. As soon as he had made a few remarks to a lamppost, requesting it to call at Willards as it went home, and tell his wife that he was well, I took his arm, and we moved on at right angles. It is worthy of remark that our next calling place, the ladies all beamed with joy and told us that it was a delightful day. The general took a looking glass for a window and stood still before it until I tapped him on the shoulder. Do you see that drunken fool standing there in the streets as he, pointing at the mirror, it's Lord Lyons, drunk as a fool! I told him that he only saw his own figure in the glass, and he said he would see me safe home if I would go right away, chancing at the moment to catch a sight of a wine-glass, my boy. He walked toward it in a circle, and hastily filled the outside of it from an empty decanter. Then balancing himself on one foot, and placing his disengaged hand on a pyramid of blanc-mange to support himself, he said impressively, Ladles and gentle-emmons, the army will move on the first of May, and— Here the general went down under the table like a stately ship foundering at sea, and was heard to ask the wine-cooler to tell his family that he died for his country. Owing to the very hilly nature of the street, my boy, I was obliged to accompany the general home in a hack, and as we rolled along towards the hotel he disclosed to me an agitated history of his mother's family. When last I saw him he was trying to make out why the chambermaid had put four pillows on his bed, and endeavoring to lift off the two extra ones without disturbing the others. Candidly speaking, my boy, this New Year's calls business is not a sensible calling, but simply amounts to a caravan of monkeys attending a menagerie of trained crinoline. Yours philosophically, Orpheus C. Kerr. End of letter twenty-five.