 26 Washington, D.C., January 11, 1862. First had the glorious sun shot up the dappled Orient on Monday morn, my boy, when the Commander-in-Chief of the Mackerel Brigade received a telegraphic dispatch which reads as follows. General Frost has appeared near Centerville and is now covering the wood and root in our rear. It bore no signature, my boy, but the general believed the danger to be imminent and ordered Captain Bob Shorty to take ten thousand men and make a reconnaissance toward Centerville. Bob, my cherub, says he, if you can get behind the rebel Frost and take the whole Confederacy prisoners, don't administer the oath until the Eagle of America is avenged. Bob smiled like a happy oyster and says he, Domino! Twasni upon the hour of noon, when Captain Bob Shorty and his veterans approached the beautiful village of Centerville, cross-trees had been placed under the horses of the cavalry to keep them from falling down, and the infantry were arranging themselves so that the bayonets of the front rank shouldn't stick into the rear rank's eyes every time they turn to corner, when a solitary contraband might have been seen eating hoe-cake by the solemn roadside. Confederate, said Captain Bob Shorty, approaching him with his sword very much between his legs, has seen the rebel Frost and his myrmidians, I come to give him battle having heard that he was hereabouts. The Ethiopian took a pentagonal bite of hoe-cake and says he, tell Massa Lincoln that the Frost will wear a thick last night, but have gone by this time. Captain Bob Shorty took off his cap, my boy, looked carefully into it, put it on again, and frowned awfully. Comrades, says he, addressing the troops, you have all heard of a big thing on Snyder. You now behold it before you. This here reconnaissance, says he, is what the French would call a few paw. We must turn it into a foraging expedition. Charge on yonder haystack and remember me in your prayers. Twas early eve, my boy, when that splendid army returned to Potomac's shore with two haystacks for the horses and ten Confederate chickens for supper. Nobody hurt on our side. I enclose the following brief sketch of the gallant soldier who commanded in this brilliant affair. Captain Robert Shorty. This brave young officer was born in the sixth ward of New York and was twenty-one years old upon arriving of age. When but a lad he studied tobacco and the girls and ran to fires for his health. When eligible to the right of franchise he voted seven times in one day and attracted so much attention from the authorities that his parents resolved to make a lawyer of him. On the breaking out of the war with Mexico he offered his services to the government as a major general, but for some reason was not accepted. He will probably be sent to supersede General Halleck in Missouri as soon as anyone of St. Louis writes to ask the President for another change. The general was so pleased when he heard of this spirited action, my boy, that he offered to review the macro-brigade the next morning and privately informed me that he considered the Southern Confederacy doomed to expire in less than three months. He said that it was already tottering to its fall which must take place in the spring. Perhaps so, my boy, perhaps so. Yours for the flag, Orpheus C. Kerr. Point of Letter XXVI. Touching incidentally upon the character of Army food and celebrating the great diplomatic exploit of Captain William Brown at Acomac. Washington, D.C. January 19, 1862. In the early part of the week I resolved to go down to Acomac on a flying visit to Captain William Brown and the conic section of the macro-brigade. Accordingly I went to the shoemakers after my gothic steed Pegasus. The shoemaker had said, my boy, that there was enough loose leather hanging about the architectural animal to make me a nice pair of slippers, and I gave him permission to cut them out. The operation only made the Morgans back look a little more like the roof of a barn, but I like him all the better for that because he sheds the rain easier. The general of the macro-brigade at first intended to accompany me to Acomac, and says he to Samuel Smith the orderly says he, Samuel, just step down to the anatomical museum of the western chaps, and buy me the best horse you can find in the collection. Here's a dollar and a half, fifty cents for the horse, and a dollar for your trouble. Samuel came back in about forty minutes and says he, Colonel Robert Robinson of the western cavalry says I must come again this afternoon as he don't know whether there will be any horses left or not. Thunder, says the general, how left? Vi, says Samuel, he can't tell whether any of the horses will be left until the boys have had their dinner, can he? Ah, says the general contemplatively, I forgot the beef soup recommended by the doctors. It will be a pleasant change for the boys, says he, from the mutton that was so plenty just after the mules died. Speaking of dinner, my boy, let me tell you about a curious occurrence in our camp lately. Just after a load of rations had come in, a New York chap says to me, says he, I'm glad they're going to put down the rust pavement here pretty soon, for it's getting as damp as thunder. Ijit, said I sarcastically, where have you seen any rust pavement? He just took me softly by the arm, my boy, and led me a little way and pointed and says he, if you'll just look there you'll see some of the blocks. Why, says I, those are army biscuit for the men. Biscuit, says he, rubbing his stomach and turning up his eyes like a cat with the apoplexy. If them's biscuit, Bunker Hill Monument must be built a flower, that's all. And he went out and took the oath. On arriving at Accomack, my boy, I asked a blue and gold picket where William Brown was, and he said that he was in the library. The library was used by the former occupants of the residence as a hen-house and contains two volumes, Hardy abridged and every man his own letter-writer, Seward's Edition. I found Captain William Brown seated on what was formerly a Shanghai's nest, my boy, with his feet out of the window and his head against a roost. He was studying the last named book and sipping old bourbon the oath in the intervals. The intervals were numerous. One of the eagles says I, you remind me of Sir Walter Scott at Abbotsford. William looked abstractedly at me, at the same time moving the tumbler a little further from my hand, and says he, I've been in the agonies of diplomacy, but feel much better. Ha! says William, beaming like a new comet, I've preserved our foreign relations peaceful without humbling the United States of America. I asked an explanation, and he informed me that on the evening before, one of his men had boarded an Acomac Scow in Goose Creek and captured two oppressed Negroes named Johnson and Peyton, who were carrying news to the enemy. At first, says William sternly, I thought of letting them off with hanging, but I soon felt that they deserved something worse, and so, says William, with a malignant scowl that made my blood run cold. And so I sentenced them to read Sumner's speech on the Trent Affair. On the following morning there came the following letter from the righteously exasperated citizens of Acomac, which William labelled as Document One. Sweet William, sir, I am instructed by the neutral government of Acomac to assure the United States of America that the feeling at present existing between the two governments is of such a cordial nature that love itself never inspired more heaving emotions and the bosoms of conglomerated youth. Therefore, the outrage committed by the United States of America on the flag of Acomac in removing from its protection two gentlemen named Johnson and Peyton is something for demons to rejoice over. The daughter of the latter gentleman has already slapped her mother in the face and bared her bosom to the breeze. I am instructed by the government of Acomac to demand the instant return of the two gentlemen, together with an ample apology for the base deed and the amount of that little bill for forage. Again assuring you of the cordial feeling existing between the two countries and the passionate affection I feel for yourself. I am, dear sir, most truly, dear sir, as ever, respected sir, your attached William Goat. On receiving this communication from Mr. Goat, my boy, Captain William Brown removed Lieutenant Thomas Jenks from the command of the artillery and ordered six reviews of the troops without umbrellas. He then had a small keg of the oath rolled into the library, sampled up his hair, shut one eye, and replied to Mr. Goat with, Document II Lord Goat, sir, I take much felicity in receiving your Lordship's note, which shows that the neutral government of Acomac and the United States of America still cherish the feelings that do credit to Anglo-Saxon hearts of the same parentage. The two black beings at present stopping in the barn attached to the present headquarters were contraband of war, but were, nevertheless, engaged in the peaceful occupation of asking the protection of your Lordship's government. Were I to decide this question in favor of the United States of America, I should forever forfeit the right of every American citizen to treat niggers as saleable articles, since I would thereby deny their right to sale. The Congress of the United States of America has been fighting for this right for more than a quarter of a century, and I cannot find it in me heart to debar it of that divine privilege for the future. I might cite Wheaton, Storie, Bulwer, Kent, Marriott, Sheridan, and Bustede to sustain my position were I familiar with those international writers. Therefore I am compelled to humble your Lordship's government by returning the two black beings aforesaid, and beg leave to assure your Lordship that I am your Lordship's only darling, William Brown Esquire, Captain Connick-Sixon, Mackerel Brigade. After reading this able and brilliant document, my boy, I told William that I thought he had made a very good point about negroes always being saleable articles, and he said that was diplomacy. Ah, says he, sadly, my father always said that if you could not get over a rail fence by high jumpacy there was nothing like diplomacy. My dad was a natural statesman. Ah, says William, in a fine burst of filial emotion I wonder where the dirndold fool is now. This idea plunged him into such a depth of reverie that I left him without another word, mounted Pegasus, and ambled reflectively back to the capital. Diplomacy brings out the intellect of a nation, my boy, and is a splendid thing to use until we get our navy finished. Yours in memory of Metanish, Orpheus C. Kerr. And of Letter Twenty-Seven. Letter Twenty-Eight of Orpheus C. Kerr Papers. This is a LibriVox recording. While 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-Eight. Concerning the continued inactivity of the Potomac Army, and showing how it was poetically construed by a thoughtful radical, Washington, D.C., January 30th, 1862. Notwithstanding the hideous howlings of the black republicans, my boy, and the death of six Confederate pickets from old age, the army of the Potomac will not commence the forward movement until the mud subsides sufficiently to show where some of the camps are. The mackerel brigade dug out a regiment yesterday near Alexandria, but there's no use of continuing the business without a dredging machine. I was talking to Captain Bob Shorty on Tuesday respecting the inactivity of the army, and says he, It's all very well to talk about making and advance my beauty, but I've known one of the smartest men in the country fail in it. What mean you, fellow? Says I. Why? Says he. You know Simpson, your uncle. I believe you, my boy? Says I. Well, says Captain Bob Shorty, that heir Simpson is one of the smartest old cusses in the country, yet there ain't no on to Richmond about him. I asked him once myself to make an advance. I asked him to make an advance on my repeater, and he said he couldn't. This argument, my boy, exposes thoroughly the base disloyalty and fiendish designs of the newspaper brigadiers who are constantly urging McClellan to advance, advance. Let them all be sent to Fort Lafayette, and the moral effect on this cursed rebellion will be such that it will utterly collapse in two hours and forty-three minutes. The serious New Haven chap, of whom I spoke to you some time ago, takes a radical view of our long halt, and gives his ideas in the midnight watch. Soldier, soldier, wane and gray, standing there so very still, on the outpost looking south, what is there to-night to kill? Through the mist that rises thick, from the noisome marsh around, I can see thee like a shade cast from something underground. And I know that thou art old, for thy features sharp and thin, cut their lines upon the shroud, damply folding thee within. Fit art thou to watch and guard, or the break and or the bog, by the glitter of thine eyes, thou canst pierce a thicker fog. Tell me, soldier, grim and old, if thy tongue is free to say, what thou ceased looking south, in that still and staring way? Yonderward the fires may glow of a score of rebel camps, but thou canst not see their lights through the chilling do's and damp's. Silent still and motionless? Get thee to the tents behind, where the flag for which we fight plays a football to the wind. Get thee to the bankments high, where a thousand cannons sleep, while the call that bids them wake bids a score of millions weep. Thou shalt find an army there, working out the statement's plots, while a poison banes the land, and a noble nation rots. Thou shalt find a soldier host, tied and rooted to its place, like a woman, cowed and dumb, staring treason in the face. Dost thou hear me, speak or move, and if thou wouldst pass the line, give the password of the night, halt and give the counter-sign. God of heaven, what is this, sounding through the frosty air, in a cadence stern and slow, from the figure looming there? Every thou hast spoken well, through the mist the answer came. I am wrinkled, grim and old, maced thou live to be the same. Thou art here to keep a watch, over prowlers coming nigh. I can show thee, looking south, what is hidden from thine eye. Here the loyal armies sleep, there the foe awaits them all. Thou can tell before the time, which shall triumph, which shall fall. Oh, but war's a royal game, hear a move, and there a pause. Little wrecks the dazzled world, what may be the winner's cause. In the roar of sweating guns, in the crash of sabers crossed, wisdom dwindles to a fife, justice in the smoke is lost. But there is a mightier blow, than the rain of lead and steel, falling from a heavier hand, than the one the vanquished feel. Let the armies of the north, rest them thus for many a night. Not with them the issue lies, twist the powers of wrong and right. Through the fog that wraps us round, I can see, as with a glass, far beyond the rebel hosts, fires that cluster, pause, and pass. From the wayside and the wood, from the cabin and the swamp, crawl the harbingers of blood, black as night, with torch and lamp. Now they blend in one dense throng, hark, they whisper, as in ire. Catch the word before it dies, hear the horrid murmur, fire. Mothers with your babes at rest, maidens in your dreaming land, brothers, children, wake ye all, the avenger is at hand. Born by thousands in a flash, angry flames bescourge the air, and the howlings of the blacks fan them to a fiercer glare. Crash the windows, burst the doors, let the helpless call for aid. From the hell within they rush, on the negro's reeking blade. Through the flaming doorway arch, half-dressed women frantic dart, demons spare that kneeling girl, God, the knife is in her heart. By his hair so thin and gray, forth they drag the aged sire, first a stab to stop his prayer, hurl him back into the fire. What, a child, a mother's pride, crying shrilly with a fright, dash the axe upon her skull, show no mercy, she is white. Louder, louder roars the flame, blotting out the southern home, fainter grow the dying shrieks, fiercer cries of vengeance come. Turn ye armies where ye stand, glaring in each other's eyes, while ye halt, a cause is won, while ye wait, a despot dies. Greater victory has been gained than the longest sword secures, and the wrong has been washed out with a purer blood than yours. Soldier, by my mother's prayer, thou dost act a demon's part, tell me ere I strike thee dead, whenst thou comest, who thou art? Back I will not let thee pass, why that dress is Putman's own. Soldier, soldier, where art thou? Vanished like a shadow gone. The southern confederacy may come to that yet, my boy, if it don't take warning and time from its patron saint. I refer to Saint Domingo, my boy. I refer to Saint Domingo. Yours musingly. Orpheus C. Kerr. End of letter twenty-eight. Letter twenty-nine of Orpheus C. Kerr papers. This is 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-nine. Introducing a veritable mudsill, illustrating Yankee business tact, noting the detention of a newspaper cartographist, and so on. Washington, D.C. February 2, 1862. I never really knew what the term mudsill meant, my boy, until I saw Captain Bob Shorty on Tuesday. I was out in a field, just this side of Fort Cochrane, trimming down the ears of my gothic steed Pegasus, that he might look less like a titanic rabbit, when I saw approaching me an object resembling a brownstone monument. As it came nearer, I discovered an eruption of brass buttons at intervals in front, and presently observed the lineaments of a federal face. Strange being, says I, taking down a pistol from the natural rack on the side of my steed, and at the same time motioning toward my sword, which I had hung on one of his hip bones, art thou the shade of metamora, or the disembodied spirit of a sand-bank? My Ducky Darling, responded the eolian voice of Captain Bob Shorty. You behold a mudsill just emerged from a liquefied portion of the sacred soil. The mud at present enclosing the macro-brigade is unpleasant to the personal feelings of the core, but the effect at a distance is unique. As you survey that expanse of mud from Arlington Heights, continued Captain Bob Shorty, with the veterans of the macro-brigade waiting about in it up to their chins, you are forcibly reminded of a limitless plum pudding, well stocked with animated raisins. My friends, as I, the comparison is apt and reminds me of Shakespeare's happier efforts, but tell me, my Pilates, has the dredging for those missing regiments near Alexandria proved successful? Captain Bob Shorty shook the mire from his ears, and then says he, Two brigades were excavated this morning, and are at present building a raft to go to Washington after some soap. Let us not utter complaints against the mud, continued Captain Bob Shorty reflectively, for it has served to develop the genius of New England. We dug out a Yankee regiment from Boston first, and the moment those wooden nutmeg chaps got their breath, they went to work at the mud that had almost suffocated them, mixed up some spoiled flour with it, and are now making their eternal fortunes by peddling it out for patent cement. This remark of the captains, my boy, shows that the spirit of New England still retains its natural elasticity, and is capable of greater efforts than lignum vitae hands, and clocks made of barrel hoops and old coffee-pots. I have heard my ancient grandfather relayed an example of this spirit during the War of 1812. He was with a select assortment of Pequog chaps at Bladensburg just before the attack on Washington, and word came secretly to them that the Britishers down in the Chesapeake were out of flour and would pay something handsome for a supply. Now these Pequog chaps had no flour, my boy, but that didn't keep them out of the speculation. They went to the nearest graveyard, dug up all the tombstones and put them into an old quartz crushing machine, pounded them to powder, and sent the powder to the coast, and sold it to the Britishers for the very best flour at twelve dollars and a half a barrel. And can such a people as this be conquered by a horde of godless rebels? Never. I repeat it, sir, never. Should the Jeff Davis mob ever get possession of Washington, the Yankees would build a wall around the place and invite the public to come and see the menagerie at two shillings ahead. On Wednesday some of our driest pickets caught a shabby long-haired chap loafing around the camps with a big block and a sheet of paper under his arm, and brought him before the general of the mackerel brigade. Well, Samuel, says the general to one of the pickets, what is your charge against the prisonier? He is a young man which is a spy, replied Samuel, holding up the sheet of paper, and I take this here picture of his to be the great seal of the Southern Confederacy. Why, thinkest thou so, my cherub, and what does the work of art represent? inquired the general. The drawing is not of the best, responded Samuel, closing one eye, and viewing the picture critically, but I should say that it represented a ham with a fiddle laid across it and beef steaks in the corners. Miserable vandal shouted the long-haired chap excitedly, You know not what you say, I am a federal artist, and that picture is a map of the coast of North Carolina for a New York Daily paper. Thunder, says the general, if that's a map, a patent gridiron must be a whole atlas. I believe him, my boy. As a person of erudition it pleased me greatly, my boy, to observe that our more moral New York regiments cultivate a taste for reading and are even so literary that they can't so much as light their pipes without a leaf out of a hymn-book. I was talking to an angular-shaped chap from Montgomery County the other day about this, and says he, Talk about reading, why there's fifty newspapers sent in a wrapper to our officers alone every day, there's ten each of the Tribune and Times, ten each of the Boston Post and Gazette, ten of the Montgomery Democrat and one New York Herald. Look here, my second Washington, says I, your story don't hang together. You say you have fifty papers daily, but according to my present account that copy of the Herald makes fifty-one. Did I not tell you that they came in a wrapper, says the chap, with great dignity? You did, says I. Well, says he, the Herald is the wrapper. This morning, my boy, I went with Colonel Wabbert Wabbinson to look at some new horses he had just imported from the Erie Canal stables for the western cavalry and was much pleased with the display of bonework. One animal in particular interested me greatly. He was born in 1776, had both of his hind legs broken on the frontier in one of the battles of 1812 and lost both his eyes and his tail at the taking of Mexico. The Colonel stated that he had selected this splendid animal for his own use in the field. Another fine calico animal of the stud was attached to the suite of Washington at the famous crossing of the Delaware and is said to have surprised the Hessians at Trenton as much as the army did. Previous to losing his teeth, he was sold to a Western dealer in hides for three dollars and the dealer, being an enthusiastic Union man, has let the government have the animal for one hundred and ten dollars. A Mousseline Delaine mare also attracted my notice. She was sired by the favorite racer of the Marquis de Lafayette and has been damned by everybody attempting to drive her. The pretty beast comes from the celebrated bone mill belonging to the Erie Canal and only costs the government two hundred dollars. Believing that the public funds are being judiciously expended, my boy, I remain fondly thine own Orpheus C. Kerr. End of Letter 29 Letter 30 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 30 Description of the gorgeous fate at the White House, including the observations of Captain William Brown with some note of the toilettes, confections, and punch. Washington, D.C. February 7th, 1862 Notwithstanding your general ignorance of natural history, my boy, you may be aware that when the eagle is wounded by the huntsman, instead of seeking some thick-set tree or dismal swamp there to die like a common bird, he soars straight upward in the full eye of the sun and bathes in all the glories of noonday while his eyes grow dull with agony and his talons are stiffening in death. Nor does he fall from the dazzling Empyrean until the last stroke of fate hurls him downward like a thunderbolt. Our union, my boy, our land of the eagle, is stricken sorely and perhaps to death, but like the proud bird of Jove it disdains to grow morbid in its agonies and the occasional size of its patient struggling millions are lost in sounds of death-defying revelry at the dauntless capital. All the best-looking uniforms in the army were invited to Mrs. Lincoln's ball at the White House on Wednesday, and, of course, I was favored, together with the general of the Mackerel Brigade and Captain William Brown of Acomac. My ticket, my boy, was as aristocratic as a rooster's tail at sunrise. A pluribust union, orpheus seeker, pleasure of your company at the White House, RSVP, Wednesday, February 5, 1862, eight o'clock p.m., cutlets, oysters, half-morning for Prince Albert, no smoking allowed. At an early hour on the evening of the fate the general of the Mackerel Brigade came to my room in a perfect perspiration of brass buttons and white kids, and I asked him what no smoking allowed meant. Why, says he, putting his wig straight and licking a stray drop of brandy from one of his gloves, it means that if you try to smoke any of the generals at the ball as to the plan of the campaign, you mustn't do it aloud. Thunder, says the general, in a fine glow of enthusiasm. The only plan of the campaign that I know anything about is the Rata Plan. Satisfied with the general's explanation, I proceeded with my toilet and presently beamed upon him in such a resplendent conglomeration of ruffles, brass buttons, epaulets, and hungarian pomade that he said I reminded him of a comet just come out of a feather-bed with its tail done up in papers. My Magnus Apollo, says he, the way you bear that white cravat shows you to be of a rich but genteel parentage. Any man, says he, who can wear a white cravat without looking like a coachman, may pass for a gentleman born. Two-thirds of the clergymen who wear it look like footmen in their grave-clothes. We then took a hack to the White House, my boy, and on arriving there were delighted to find that the rooms were already filling with statesmen, Miss Statesman, Mrs. Statesman, and officers who had so much lace and epaulets about them that they looked like walking brass foundries with the front door open. The first object that attracted my special attention, however, was the thing that I took for a large and ornamental pair of tongs, leaning against a mantle, figured in blue enamel with a life-like imitation of a window-brush on top. I directed the general's attention to it and asked him if that was one of the unique gifts presented to the government by the late Japanese Embassy. Thunder, says the general, that's no tongs, it's the young man which is Captain William Brown of Akamak. Now that I look at him, says the general thoughtfully, he reminds me of an old-fashioned straddle-bug. Stepping from one lady's dress to another, until I reached the side of the commander of the Akamak, I slapped him on the back and says, I—how are you, my bluebird, and what do you think of this brilliant assemblage? Ha! says William, staring out of a brown study, and putting some clothes in his mouth to disguise the water he drank on his way from Akamak. I was just thinking what my poor old mother would say if she could see me in the other snobs here tonight. When I look on the women of America around me tonight, says William feelingly, and see how much they've cut off from the tops of their dresses to make bandages for our wounded soldiers, I can't help feeling that their neck or nothing appearance, so far from being indelicate, is a very delicate proof of their devoted love of union. I agree with you, my azure humanitarian, says I, there's precious little waste about such dresses. William closed one eye, turned his head one side like a facetious canary, and says he, now lovely woman scants her dress with bandages the sick to bless, and stoop so far to war's alarms her very frock is under arms. I believe in my boy. Returning to the general, we took a turn in the East Room, and enjoyed the panorama of youth, beauty, and whiskers that wound its variegated length before us. The charming Mrs. L. of Illinois was richly attired in a frock and gloves, and wore a wreath of flowers from Amaranthin Bowers. She was affable as an angel with a new pair of wings, and was universally allowed to be the most beautiful woman present. The enthralling Miss C. from Ohio was elegantly clad in a dress, and wore number four gators. So brilliant was her smile that when she laughed at one of Lord Lyon's witticisms, all one corner of the room was wrapped in a glare of light, and several nervous dowagers cried, Her beauty was certainly the most beautiful present. The fascinating Miss L. of Pennsylvania was superbly robed in an attire of costly material with expensive flounces. She wore two gloves and a complete pair of earrings, and spoke so musically that the leader of the marine band thought there was an Eolian harp in the window. She was certainly the most beautiful woman present. The bewitching Mrs. G. from Missouri was splendidly dressed in a breastpin and lace flounces, and wore her hair brushed back from a forehead like Mount Athos. Her eyes reminded one of Diamond Springs sparkling in the shade of whispering willows. She was decidedly the finest type of beauty present. The president wore his coat and whiskers and bowed to all salutations like a graceful door hinge. There was a tall western senator present who smiled so much above his stomach that I was reminded of the beautiful lines as some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, swells from the veil and midway leaves the storm, though round its base a country's ruin spread, eternal moonshine settles on its head. Upon going into the supper-room, my boy, I beheld a paradise of eatables that made me wish myself a knife and pork with nothing but a bottle of mustard to keep me company. There were oysters, a la fondue, turkeys, a la ruffles, chickens, a la methusola, beef, a la bull run, fruit, a la stomach ache, jellies, a la cholera morbus, and ices, a la ague fits. The ornamental confectionery was beautifully symbolical of the times. At one end of the table there was a large lump of white candy with six carpet tacks lying upon it. This represented the tacks on sugar. At the other end was a large platter containing imitation mud in which two candy brigadiers were swimming towards each other with their swords between their teeth. This symbolized war. These being very hard times, my boy, and the executive not being inclined to be too expensive in its marketing, a most ingenious expedient was adopted to make it appear that there was just twice as much of certain costly delicacies on the table as there really was. About the center of the table lay a large mirror, and on this were placed a few expensive dishes. Of course, the looking glass gave them a double effect. For instance, if there was a pound of beefsteak on the plate, it produced another pound in the glass, and the effect was two pounds. When economy can be thus artistically blended with plentitude, my boy, money ceases to be king, and butcher bills dwindle. Hereafter, when I received from my rations a pint of transparent coffee and two granite biscuit, I shall use a looking glass for a plate. It was the very witching hour of the night when the general and myself left the glittering scene, and we had to ask several patrols which way to go. On parting with my comrade-in-arms says I, General, the ball is a success. He looked at me in three winks and says he, It was a success, particularly the bowl of punch. Yours for soda water, Orpheus C. Kerr. And of Letter 30. Letter 31 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 31. Treating of the great military anaconda and the modern zantipa. Washington, D.C. February 16, 1862. There is still much lingual gymnastics, my boy, concerning the recent fate, champagne, at the White House. But Colonel Wabbert Wabbinson of the Western Cavalry has extinguished the grumblers by proving that the entertainment was strictly constitutional. He profoundly observes, my boy, that it comes under the head of that clause of the Constitution which secures to the people of America the pursuit of happiness. And, as he justly remarks, if you stop the pursuit of happiness, where's the instrument of our liberties? It pleases me greatly to announce, my boy, that the general of the Mackerel Brigade believes in McClellan and gorgeously defends him against the attacks of that portion of the depraved press which has friends dying of old age in the Army of the Potomac. Thunder, says he to Captain Bob Shorty, stirring the oath in his tumbler with the toothbrush. The way little Mack is devoting himself to the military squelching of this here unnatural rebellion is actually outraging his physical nature. He reviews his staff twice a day, goes over to the river every five minutes, studies international law six hours before dinner, takes soundings of the mud every time the dew falls, and takes so little sleep that there's two inches of dust on one of his eyeballs. Would you believe it? says the general, placing the tumbler over his nose to keep off a fly. His devotion is such that his hair is turning grey and will probably die. Captain Bob Shorty whistled. I do not mean to say that he intended to be musically satirical, my boy, but if I should hear such a canary bird remark after I'd told a story, somebody would go home with his eyes done up in rainbows. Permit me, says Captain Bob Shorty, hurling what remained of the oath into the aperture under his mustache. You convinced me that the little Mack's devotion is extraordinary, continued Captain Bob Shorty dreamily, but he don't come up to a chap I once knew which was an editor. Talk about devotion, and outraging nature, says Captain Bob Shorty, spitting with exquisite accuracy into the eyes of the regimental cat. Why, that ere editor threw body, soul, and britches into his work, and so completely identified himself with a free and enlightened press that his first child was a news-boy. The general of the macro brigade arose from his seat, my boy, wound up his watch, brushed off his boots, threw the cat out of the window, and then says he, Robert, name of Shorty, did you ever read in the Bible about Ananias, who was struck dead for telling a telegraph? I heard about him, says Captain Bob Shorty, when I was but an innocent lamb, and wore my mother's slipper on my back about as often as she wore it on her foot. Well, says the general, with the air of a thoughtful parent, it's my opinion that if you'd been Ananias the same streak of lightning would have buried you and paid the sexton. From this logical and vivid conversation, my boy, you will understand that our leading military men have perfect faith in the genius of McClellan and believe that he is equal to fifty yards of the star-spangled banner. His great Anaconda has gathered itself in a circle around the doomed rabbit of rebellion, and if the rabbit swells, he's a goner. This great Anaconda, my boy, may remind hellish readers of the Anaconda once seen by a chap of my acquaintance living in the Sixth Ward. This chap, my boy, came tearing into a place where they kept the oath on tap, and says he, I've just seen an Anaconda down Broadway. Anna, who, says a red-nosed alderman, dipping his finger into the water on the stove, to see if it was warm enough to melt some brandy-refined sugar. I said, Anaconda, you ignorant cuss, says the chap. Was it the real insect, says the alderman. It was a real, original, genuine Anaconda, says the chap. Ah, says the alderman. Somebody's been stuffing you. No, sir, says the chap. But somebody's been stuffing the Anaconda, though. He'd been to the museum. If there should be among your unfortunate readers, my boy, any persons of such depraved minds as to perceive a likeness between this Anaconda and that Anaconda, may they be sent to Fort Lafayette and compelled to read Tupper's poems until the rabbit of rebellion is reduced to his last quarter. Early this morning a couple of snuff-colored pickets brought a female Southern Confederacy into camp, stating that she had called them nasty things and spit all over their guns. She said that she wanted to see the loathsome creature that commanded them, and her eyes flashed so when they took her by the arm that her veil took fire twice and her eyebrows smoked repeatedly. The general of the macro-brigade received her courteously, only poking her in the ribs to see if she had any arm-strong guns concealed about her. Says he, have I the honour of addressing the wife of the Southern Confederacy? The female Confederacy drew herself up as proudly as the first family of Virginia when the butcher's bill comes to be paid, and replied, in soprano of great compass, I am that injured woman you ugly swine. The general bowed until his lips touched a pewter mug on the table, and then says he, My dear madam, your words touch a tender cord in my heart, and it will give me pleasure to serve you. Your words, madam, continued the general with visible emotion, are precisely those which my beloved wife not unfrequently addresses me. Ah, my wife, my wifey, says the general hysterically, how often you have padded me on my head, and told me that my face looked like a chunk of beeswax with three cracks in it. The wife of the Southern Confederacy sneered audibly and called for a fan. There being no fan nearer than the office of secretary Wells, she used a small whisk-broom. She says she, miserable hireling of a diabolical Lincoln. Your wife is nothing to me. She is a creature. I do not come here to hear her wrongs, but to express the undying wish that you and all your horde may be welcomed with muddy hands to hospitable graves. All I want is to be let alone. My dear Mrs. S. C., says the general, with a touch of brass and irony, it is a matter of the utmost indifference to me whether you are to be let alone or with the next house and lot. I insist on being let alone, screamed the female Confederacy, spitting angrily. I am not touching you, says the general. All I want is to be let alone, shrieked the exasperated lady, and I will be let alone. The general of the mackerel brigade hastily wiped his mouth with a bottle, and then says he, Madam, if sandwiches are not plenty where you come from, it ain't for the want of tongue. On hearing this gastronomic remark, my boy, the injured wife of the Southern Confederacy swept from the room like an insulted Minerva and departed for Secesia. It was observed that she frowned like a thunder-cloud at every federal she passed, accepting one picket, him she smiled on. She had detected him the act of admiring her ankles as she picked her way through the mud. Woman, my boy, has really many sweet qualities, and if her head is sometimes in the wrong, she has always a reserve of genuine goodness of heart in the neighborhood of her gaiters. Yours for the sex, Orpheus C. Kerr. End of Letter Thirty-One. Letter Thirty-Two of Orpheus C. Kerr Papers. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Orpheus C. Kerr Papers by Robert Henry Newell, Letter Thirty-Two. Commencing with a burst of exaltation over national victories, referring to a senatorial mistake, depicting a well-known character, and reporting the reconnaissance of the western centaurs. Washington D.C. February 21st, 1862. Now swells Columbia's bosom with a pride that sets her eyes ablaze with living fire, and with her arms upreaching to the skies, she draws in air new crowns with stars adorned to ring the temples of her conquering chiefs. Far in the west she sees the livid sparks struck by Achilles from the hostile sword, and in the south beholds how Ajax bold defies the lightning of the rebel guns. Then, clasping to her breast the flag we love, and dawning swift Minerva's gleaming helm, she stands where Morn's first glories kiss the hills and breathes the peon of a fame redeemed. Three cheers for the chaps who pocketed Fort Donaldson and company, my boy, and may the rebels never have an easier boat to row than Roanoke. The other day I was talking with a New England senator about the taking of the fort, and says I, it was a gay victory, my learned Theban, but it makes me mad when I think how that slippery rascal Floyd found an egress down the river. The senator pulled up his collar, my boy, observed to the tumbler sergeant that he would take the same with a little more sugar in it, and then says he, in that observation you sum up the whole cause of this unnatural strife. It is indeed the negro whose wrongs are now being revenged upon us by an inscrutable wig providence, and if the government does not speedily strike the fetters from the slave, that slave may yet be used to fight horribly against us. I shall cite the significant fact you mention in my next exciting speech. I opened my eyes at this outburst until they looked like the bottoms of two quart bottles beaming in the sunshine, and then says I, you talk as fluently as a patent office report, my worthy nester, but I don't exactly perceive what my remark has to do with the colored negro. Why, says he, didn't you say that the traitor Floyd found an egress down the river? For an instant my boy I felt very dizzy and was obliged to lean my head against a tumbler for a moment. Your ears, my friend, says I, are certainly long enough to hear correctly what is said to you, but this time you've made a slight mistake. I said that Floyd had found an egress down the river. The senator looked at me for a moment and says he, sold by a soldier. Good morning. I wonder how those nice pleasant gentlemanly chaps down in South Carolina enjoy Uncle Samuel's latest hit. I can fancy their damaging effects, my boy, upon the constitution of the South Carolina gentlemen. Down in the small palmetto state the curious ones may find a ripping, tearing gentleman of an uncommon kind, a staggering, swaggering sort of chap who takes his whiskey straight, and frequently condemns his eyes to that ultimate vengeance which a clergyman of high standing has assured us must be the sinner's fate, a South Carolina gentleman, one of the present time. You trace his genealogy, and not far back you'll see, a most undoubted octaroon or mayhem a musty, and if you note the shaggy locks that cluster on his brow, you'll find that every other hair is varied with a kink, that seldom denotes pure Caucasian blood, but on the contrary betrays an admixture with a race not particularly popular now, this South Carolina gentleman, one of the present time. He always wears a full-dress coat, pre-atomite in cut, with waistcoat of the loudest style through which his ruffles jut, six breastpins deck his horrid front and on his fingers shine, whole invoices of diamond rings which would hardly pass muster with the original Jacobs and Chatham Street for jewels genuine, this South Carolina gentleman, one of the present time. He choose tobacco by the pound and spits upon the floor, if there is not a box of sand behind the nearest door, and when he takes his weekly spree he clears a mighty track of everything that bears the shape of whiskey skin, gin and sugar, brandy sour, peach and honey, irrepressible cocktail, rum and gum, and luscious applejack, this South Carolina gentleman, one of the present time. He looks on grammar as a thing beneath the notice-quite of any southern gentleman whose grandfather was white, and as for education, why he'll plainly set it forth that such damned nonsense never troubles the head of the chivalry, though it may be sufficiently degrading to merit the personal attention of the poor wretches unfortunate enough to make their living at the north, this South Carolina gentleman, one of the present time. He licks his niggers daily like a true American, and takes the devil out of them by this sagacious plan. He tries his bowie-knives upon the fattest he can find, and if the darky winces why he is immediately arrested at the instance of the first families in the neighborhood, on a charge of conversing with a fiendish abolitionist and conspiring to poison all the wells in the state with strict nine, and arm the slaves of the adjoining plantation with knives and pistols, for all of which he is very properly sentenced to five hundred lashes after which to prison he's consigned by this South Carolina gentleman, one of the present time. If for amusement he's inclined he coolly looks about, for a parson of the Methodists or some poor peddler lout, and having found him has him hung from some majestic tree, then calls his numerous family to enjoy with him the instructive and entertaining spectacle of a suspected abolitionist receiving his just reward at the hands of an incensed community, this South Carolina gentleman, one of the present time. He takes to Yooker kindly too, and plays an awful hand, especially when those he tricks his style don't understand, and if he wins why then he stoopes to pocket all the stakes, but if he loses then he says unto the unfortunate stranger who has chance to win. It's my opinion that you are a cursed abolitionist, and if you don't leave South Carolina in one hour you will be hung like a dog, but no offer to pay his loss he makes, this South Carolina gentleman, one of the present time. Of course he's all the time in debt to those who credit give, yet manages upon the best the market yields to live, but if a northern creditor asks him his bill to heed, this honorable gentleman instantly draws two bowing knives and a pistol, dons a blue cockade and declares that in consequence of the repeated aggressions of the north and its gross violations of the constitution, he feels that it would utterly degrade him to pay any debt whatever, and that in fact he has at last determined to secede this South Carolina gentleman, one of the present time. And when at length to Charleston of the other world he goes he leaves his children mortgages with all their other woes, as slowly fades the vital spark he doubles up his fists and softly murmurs through his teeth, I die under a full conviction of my errors in life and freely forgive all men, but still I only hope that somewhere on the other side of Jordan I may just come across some abolitionists. This South Carolina gentleman, one of the present time. Yesterday afternoon my boy Colonel Wabbert Wabanson of the Western Centaurs ordered Captain Samuel Smith to make a reconnaissance toward Flint Hill with a company of skeleton cavalry having learned that several bushels of oats were stored there. Samuel drew up his company in line against a fence and then says he, Comrades we go upon a mission that is highly danjurious and America expects every Haas to do his duty. If we meet the rebels, continued Samuel impressively, they will try hard to capture some of our Haas's for their badly off for grid irons down there and three or four of our spirited animals would supply them for the season. If any of you see them coming after the hardware just put your grid irons on a gallop and fall back. At the conclusion of this speech Private Peter Jenkins observed that he'd been falling back ever since he got his horse for which he was sentenced to laugh at all the Colonel's jokes for a week. Would that I possessed the fiery pen of bully Homer to describe the gallant advance of that splendid core as it trotted fierce Leon to victory or death. At its head was Captain Samuel Smith mounted on a horse of some degree of merit, his coattails flapping behind him like banners at half-mast, and his form bouncing about in the saddle like an inspired jumping jack. There was Lieutenant Thomas Cockt, recently of the German Navy, riding an animal with prowls as sharp as a yacht and that was broadside to the road at least half the time. There was Private Peter Jenkins seated directly over the tail of a yellow enameled charger that walked at right angles with the fences and never stopped to take breath until it had gone three yards. There was Sergeant Opaque, late of Italy, who bestowed a sorrel, whose side was full of symmetrical gutters to carry the rain off and who kept his octagon head directly under the right arm of the horseman ahead of him. There was Private Nick Odemus with his saber tucked neatly into the eyes of his neighbor, managing an anatomical curiosity that walked half the time on his hind legs and creaked when it came to ruts in the road. Onward, right onward went this glittering cavalcade, my boy, until they came to an outskirt of Flint Hill where a solitary remnant of a first family might have been seen sitting on a fence eating a sandwich. Traitor! shouted Captain Samuel Smith in tones of milk-souring thunder. Where is the rest of the Confederacy and what do you think of the news from Fort Donaldson? The Confederacy hiccupped gloomily, my boy, as he took an impression of its front teeth on the sandwich and says he, The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year. That's very true, said Samuel pleasantly, and proves you to be a person of some education. But tell me, sweet Hermit of the Dale, pursued Samuel, where are the oats we have heard about? The solitary Confederacy checked a rising cough with another bite at his ration and says he, You have the oats all ready, for they were eaten last night by six Confederate chickens and my slave, Mr. Johnson, sold them chickens to a prospecting detachment of the mackerel brigade this morning. Don't talk to me any more, continued the Confederacy sadly, for I am very miserable and haven't seen a quarter in six months. Samuel seemed touched and put his hand halfway into his pocket, but remembered his probable children and refrained from romantic generosity. Let me see Mr. Johnson, says he reflectively, and I will question him concerning the South. The Confederacy indulged in a plain of cat-call, whereupon there emerged from an adjacent clump of bushes a beautiful black being, richly attired in a heavy seal-ring and a red neck-tie. It was Mr. Johnson. You have sent for me, says Mr. Johnson, with much dignity, and I have come. If you do not want me, I will return. You have seen the tragic forest, said Samuel. The forest is my home, replied Mr. Johnson, and in its equal shade my humble hut stands sacredly empowered. As the gifted widdier might say, their lofty trees uprear in pillared state and crystal streams the thirsty dear elate, while through the halls that base the dome of leaves fall sunshine harvests spread in golden sheaves, their toy the birds in sweet seclusion blessed to leap the branches o'er to build the nest, while from their throats the grateful song outpoured wakes woodland orchestras to praise the Lord. There walks the wolf no longer driven wild by panting hounds and huntsmen blood defiled, but tamed to kindness seeketh peacefully the soothing shelter of a hollow tree. Who would be free and tower above his race, in the full freedoms spurning man in place, deep in the forest let him rear his clan, where God himself stands face to face with man. Just as the oppressed African finished this rhythmical statement of his platform, my boy, a huge horse-fly alighting on the nose of Captain Samuel Smith, who spoke that hero from the refreshing slumber into which he had fallen. Tell me, Johnson, says he, how you got your education, for I thought that persons from Afriq's sunny mountain went to school about as often as a cat goes to sea. Mr. Johnson placed his hand upon his breast with much stateliness and says he, I entered Yale College as a Spaniard, and having graduated with all honors returned to my master and was at once employed in cotton culture. I am contented and happy, and have never seen an uncomfortable day since my wife was sold. Go, stranger, and tell your people that the South may be overwhelmed, but she can never be conquered while Johnson has a seal ring to his back. On hearing this speech, my boy, Samuel said, About faced skeletons, and the grid-iron cavalry returned to camp in a brown study. The intelligence of the southern slaves is really wonderful, my boy, and if it should ever come to a head, look out for a rise in wool. Yours contemplatively, Orpheus C. Kerr. End of Letter 32 Letter 33 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 33. Exemplifying the terrible domestic effects of military inactivity on the Potomac, and describing the metaphysical capture of Fort Muggins. Washington, D.C., March 3, 1862. I know a man, my boy, who was driven to lunacy by reliable war news. He was in the prime of life when the war broke out and took such an interest in the struggle that it soon became nearly equal to the interest on his debts. With all the enthusiasm of vegetable youth, he subscribed for all the papers and commenced to read the reliable war news. In this way he learned that all was quiet on the Potomac and immediately went to congratulate his friends and purchase six American flags. On the following morning he wrapped himself in the banner of his country and learned from all the papers that all was quiet on the Potomac. His joy at once became intense. He hoisted a flag on the lightning rod of his domicile, purchased a national pocket handkerchief, bought six hand organs that played the star-spangled banner, and drank nothing but gunpowder tea. In the next six months, however, there was a great change in military affairs. The backbone of the rebellion was broken, the sound of thunder came from all parts of the sky, and fifty-three excellent family journals informed the enthusiast that all was quiet on the Potomac. He now became fairly mad with bliss and volunteered to sit up with a young lady whose brother was a soldier. On the following morning he commenced to read Bancroft's history of the United States with Hardee's tactics appended, only pausing long enough to learn from the daily papers that all was quiet on the Potomac. Thus in a fairy dream of delicious joy passed the greater part of this devoted patriot's life, and even as his hair turned gray and his form began to bend with old age, his eye flashed in eternal youth over the still reliable war news. At length there came a great change in the military career of the Republic, the rebellion received its death wound, and Washington's birthday boomed upon the United States of America. It was the morning of that glorious day, and the venerable patriot was tottering about the room with his cane when his great-grandchild, a lad of twenty-five, came thundering into the room with forty-three daily papers under his arm. Old man, says he in a transport, there's great news. Boy, boy, says the aged patriot, do not trifle with me. Can it be that that's your life? Is it then a fact that yes, am I to believe that all is quiet on the Potomac? It was too much for the venerable Brutus. He clutched at the air, spun once on his left heel, sang a stave of John Brown's body, and stood transfixed with ecstasy. Thank heaving, says he, for sparing me to see this day! After which he became hopelessly insane, my boy, and raved so awfully about all our great generals turning into mud-larks that his afflicted family had to send him to the asylum. This voracious and touching biography will show you how dangerous to public health is reliable war-news, and convince you that the secretary's order to the press is only a proper insanitary measure. I am all the more resigned to it, my boy, because it affects me so little that I am even able to give you a strictly reliable account of a great movement that lately took place. I went down to Acomac early in the week, my boy, and having heard that Captain William Brown and the conic section of the Mackerel Brigade were about to march upon Fort Muggins, where Jeff Davis, Beauregard, Mason, Slidell, Yancey, and the whole Rebel Congress were believed to be entrenched. Mounted upon my gothic steed Pegasus, who only blew down once in the whole journey, I repaired to Williams' department and was taking notes of the advance upon a sheet of paper spread on the ground. Letter 34 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 34 Beginning with a lamentation but changing materially in tone at the dictum of Jed Smith. Washington, D.C. March 8, 1862 Two days ago my boy, a letter from the West, informed me that an old friend of mine had fallen in battle at the very moment of victory. One by one, my boy, I have lost many friends since the war began and know how to bear the stroke. But what will they say in that home to which the young soldier wafted a nightly prayer? Thither alas, he goes, no more. Hushed be the song and the love-notes of gladness that broke with the mourn from the cottager's door, muffled the tread in the soft stealth of sadness for one who returneth whose chamber lamp burneth no more. Silent he lies on the broad path of glory where withers ungarnered the red crop of war. Grand is his couch, though the pillows are gory, mid-forms that shall battle, mid-guns that shall rattle no more. Soldier of freedom, thy marches are ended, the dreams that were prophets of triumph or o'er. Death, with the night of thy manhood, is blended. The bugle shall call thee, the fight shall enthrall thee no more. Far to the northward the banners are dimming and faint comes the tap of the drummers before. Low in the treetops the swallow is skimming, thy comrades shall cheer thee, the weakest shall fear thee no more. Far to the westward the day is at Vespers and bows down its head like a priest to adore. Soldier, the twilight for thee has no whispers, the night shall forsake thee, the mourn shall awake thee no more. Wide o'er the plain where the white tents are gleaming in spectral array like the graves there before, one there is empty where once thou wert dreaming of deeds that are boasted, of one that is toasted no more. When the commander to-morrow proclaimeth a list of the brave for the nation to store, thou shalt be known with the heroes he nameth, who wake from their slumbers, who answer their numbers no more. Hushed be the song and the love-notes of gladness that broke with the mourn from the cottager's door, muffle the tread in the soft stealth of sadness, for one who returneth, whose chamberlamp burneth no more. To escape my own thoughts I went over into a camp of New England chaps yesterday, my boy, and one of the first high-privates my eyes rested on was Jed Smith of Salisbury. He winked to the chaps lounging near him when he noted my doleful look and says he, Your mope-ish comrade, has Calico proved deceitful? No, says I indifferently. Calico rather shuns me as a general thing, my down-easter, on account of my plain speaking. This startled him, my boy, as I expected it would, and says he, That's just like the mock modesty of the women folks all over the world, and a body might think they had the whole supply and nothing shorter. But I'll tell ye, it's the hardiest sound that makes the least noise, and half this here modesty is all sham. Once in a while these here awful modest critters get shook down a bit, I guess, and gee, willikens, if it don't do me good to see it. I recollect I was going down from Auguste some two years ago in the stage that Sammy Tomkins drove, and we had one of the she-critters aboard, and she was a scrouger, I tell ya. Bonnet read as a blaze and stuck all over with stiff geranium blows, a hump like a hot-and-tot gal, and sitch ankles. But hold your horses, I'm gettin' ahead of time. We was awful crowded, and no mistake piled right on top of each other like so many layers of cabbage, and the way that gal squealed when we struck a rut was a caution to screech owls. And she was takin' up her sheer of the coach, too, I guess, and kinda stretched her walking gear way under the seat in front of her and out to other side just to brace herself again the difficulties of travel. It'd been pretty bad goin' down in them parts. She had on a pair of her brother's boots, and they was what she wouldn't have had seen if she'd known it. One of the fellers on the middle seat was Zeb Green, gone to glory some time ago. And when he spied them boots he winked to me and sung out, Gee willikens, who owns these ere big trotters? Now, you see, the she-critter was one of your modest ones, and she wouldn't have owned up for the world after that. Says she. I guess they ain't mine. Zeb see her game in a twinklin', and he was a tall one for a lark, so says he. I'd rather guess there's petty cuts goes with them mudmashers. The gal she flamed up at that and says she. I guess you're barkin' up the wrong sapling, major, and you must have a most audacious turkey on not to know your own boots. Sitch Lyon tucked Zeb all a back for a minute, but he combed up his bristles again and tried her on another trail. Now, you don't mean to come forward to insinuate that them ere's my boots and I not know it, says he. She was in for it then and wouldn't back down, so says she. In course I do, major, and you'd better look out for your own leather. Zeb took a chav his turbaki and says he. Well, if you say it so, I'm bound to swallow the oyster, but I'll be dod-rodded if my bootmaker won't have to shave my last next winter. I seen right off that Zeb was up to the biggest kind of a spree, and I knew them boots was the gist of it, because, you see, the she-critter couldn't haul him in know-how after what she'd said. We went wriggling along for a while as still as cats in a milk-house, and the boots stayed where they was, but pretty soon Zeb began to grow uneasy like, and screwed up his ugly nose like as if he was took with the pangs and the doctor gone a-cortin. Gee, Willikon, says he at last. I shan't stand this here much longer if there is company in the parlor. We all looked at him and says one feller. I guess, major, your took pretty bad. Zeb gave his facade another twist and says he. You'd better believe it, squire. I've got corns on them their feet of mine that make a preacher swear, and them boots pinched like all Tarnation. I see right off how the smoke is blowing and says I. Off with him, Zeb, we're all in the family and won't mind you. That was all the old he-one was waiting for, and as quick as I said it he had one of that modest gals feet in his hand twisted off the boot in a twinklin. We all see a perfect weenus of a foot and a gall-fired ankle, and then it was jerked away quicker in the flash and the critter screamed like a rantankerous tomcat with his tail under a cheese-knife. Murder, you nasty thing, says she, give me my boot. With that me and Zeb and the whole bylin of us roared right out and says Zeb says he as he handed her the boot with a killin' bow, says he. Young woman, I guess I've taken your modesty as the women call it, down a peg. You said them was my boots, and in course I had a right to shed them, but if they're your now, why keep them to yourself for massy's sake? That settled the gal down some, I tell ye, and to give her such a turn that her putty face was like a rose when we stopped at the red tavern. We were so much pleased with this story, my boy, that we entreated the opponent of mock modesty to spin us another. Well, fellow citizens, says he, I don't mind if I do tell you about a Joe-fired wagon trade. I once made down in Texas. You see, I was doing a right smart chance of trade down in that district with clocks, fur caps, engine meal, and other necessaries of life, and once in a while I went it blind on a speculation when there was a chance to get a bargain and pay fifty percent on a stiff swindle. There was an old chap of a half-breed they called Uncle Johnny down there, and somehow he got wind of my particular cuteness, and he guessed he could run a pretty sharp saw on me if only he got a sight. I heard he was after me, and thinks I, you'll get a roast in my boy if you pick up this hot chestnut. But I was consated beyond my powers then, and he was just one huckleberry above my tallest persimmon. We come together one night at Bill Crown's tavern, and the first thing the old cuss said was, Jerusalem crickets, I'm like a fellow just out of a feather-bed and no mistake. I tell you that ear wagon of mine rides just about as slick as a railroad of grease, and if it weren't so all-fired big I wouldn't sell it for its weight in Orlean's bank-notes. I kind of thought I smelled a putty big bed-bug, but I glimpsed out of the door and there stood the wagon under the shed and looked an awful tempting. It was a big four-wheel consarn with a canvas top, and about as putty a consarn for family use as I ever sought my winkers on. Thinks I, you don't fetch me this time, Hoss, for I'll be just a neck ahead of you. So I stood a minute and then says I. Without looking or nothing, Uncle Johnny, I'll just give you fifty dollars for that ear-hears. He kinder blinked around and says he. I'd rather sell my grandmother, but the consarn's you're an colonel, show your hand. He was too willing to suit me, but the game was out of cover and I wouldn't back down. So I give him the rags and went out to look at my bargain. Would you believe it? The old varment had just fetched that ear wagon down to the shed and sawed it up and down so that I didn't see how the four wheels wasn't Thar. Fact! They had marvelled and the four axles was resting on two hitch-and-stakes. Just as I got through Cusson I heard a joe-fired laughin' and Thar was the robber and his friends standin' in the door splittin' their sides at me. Thinks I. I went cheap then, my beauty, but look out for a hailstorm when the wind's up next time. I borrowed a horse and took that hour bargain to my shanty, and then I sought down and went to thinkin'. For two days I was as melancholy as a chicken-and-goose berry-time, tryin' to hit some plan to get even with the Cuss. All to once something struck me and I felt better. You see, there was great talk down there just then about the doctor's gig, what they hear tell on, but not a one was there in the whole district. I'd seen one up in York and thinks I, if I don't make a doctor's two-wheeler out of that ear-wagon, then bleed me to death with a noister-knife. So I just got a big saw and I went to work quiet like, and cut that ear-wagon right in two in the middle, coverin' all. Then I took the shafts and fastened them onto the hind part and rigged up a dashboard. Then I took part of the cutoff piece for a seat and painted the whole thing with black paint, and Dodd wrought me if I didn't have a doctor's gig as round tankerous as you please. I knew it would fetch a thunder and price for its novelty to any one, but I was after Uncle Johnny and nobody else. One night I drove it down to the tavern at a taran rate and the fuss-feller I see was his self astanin' in the door and sippin' kill me quick. He was kinder took down when he see me comin' it so peartin' my new two-wheeler and some of his friends inside axed in what was the matter. He kept his still as a mouse in a pantry until I come up and then says he, What's that, or a concern to your and Haas? Says I, It's one of them doctor's flyers as I'd rather ride in it than in Queen Victoria's bang-up A number one stage-coach. It's a scrowger. He kinder stuck a minute and then says he, What'll you take for it, Haas? I made out as though I didn't care and says I, It was sent to me by a cousin up in York and I don't care to sell, but you may take it for two hundred and fifty dollars. He turned green about the gills at that and says he, Say a hundred and I'll take it with my eyes shut. It's yarn, says I, give us the rags. He smelt a bug at that time, but it was too late, so he forked out the rail stuff and then went to look at the two-wheeler. Thunder, says he, blinking at the seat. I've seen that a four of my name isn't what my father's was. Better believe it, says I. That's your four-wheeler shaved down to the very latest York fashion. Then he did cuss, but warn't no use. The trade was a trade and all the boys larfed till their tongues hung out. I treated all round and as I left them, says I, Uncle Johnny, when you want to trade again, just pick out a grindstone that isn't too hard for your blade. At the conclusion of this tale of real life, I returned to the city, my boy, impressed with the conviction that the purpose of the suns rising in the east is to give the New Englanders the first chance to monopolize the supply should daylight ever be a saleable article. Yours, admiringly, Orpheus C. Kerr. Letter 35 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 35. Giving practical illustration of modern patriotism and celebrating the advance of the mackerel brigade to Manassas, etc. Washington, D.C. March 14, 1862. Patriotism, my boy, is a very beautiful thing. The surgeon of a western regiment has analyzed a very nice case of it and says that it is peculiar to this hemisphere. He says that it first breaks out in the mouth and from thence extends to the heart causing the latter to swell. He says that it goes on raging until it reaches the pocket and it suddenly disappears leaving the patient very constitutional and conservative. Bless me, says the surgeon, intently regarding a spoon with a tumbler around it, if a genuine American ever dies of patriotism it will be because the tax bill hasn't been applied soon enough. I believe him, my boy. On Monday morning, just as the sun was rising like a big gold watch put up at some celestial simpsons the sentinels of Fort Cochrane were seized with horrible tremblings at a site calculated to make perpendicular hair fashionable. As far as the eye could reach on every side of the capital the ground was black with an approaching multitude each man of which wore large spectacles and carried a serious carpet bag and a bottle-green umbrella. B. E. J. Burrs says one of the sentinels whose imperfect English frequently causes him to be taken for the Duke de Chartres it's the whole southern confederacy coming to board with us. A. E. Z., my boy, says the other sentinels, straightening the barrel of his musket and holding it very straight to keep the fatal ball from rolling out it's the spirits of all our previous descendants come into access was our grandmother the sacred area of the navy. Right onward came the multitude their spectacles glistening in the sun like so many exasperated young planets and their umbrellas and carpet bags swinging like the pendulums of so many infuriated clocks. Pretty soon the advance guard, who was a chap in a white necktie and a hat resembling a stove-pipe in reduced circumstances poked a sentinel in the ribs with his umbrella and says he cares Congress. Is it Congress you want? says the sentinel. Yes, sir, says the chap. Yes, sir, these are friends of mine. Ten thousand six hundred and forty-two free American citizens. We must see Congress. Yes, sir, damn it. How about that tax bill? We come to protest against certain features in that bill. Murder a turf, says the sentinel. Is it the taxes all of them old chaps is after Blayman? Yes, sir, says the chap, hysterically jamming his hat down over his forehead and stabbing himself madly under the arm with his umbrella. Taxes is outrage. Not all taxes, says the chap with sudden benignity. But the taxes which fall upon us, why don't they tax them as is able to pay without oppressing us ministers, editors, merchants, lawyers, professors, peddlers, and professors of religion? Here the chap turned very purple in the face, his eyes bulged greenly out and says he, Congress is a ass. That's true for you, says the sentinel. They ought to exempt the whole nation and tax the rest of it. The multitude then swarmed into Washington, my boy, and if they don't smother the tax bill it will be because Congress is case-hardened. The remainder of the macro-brigade being ordered to join the conic section at Acomac for an irresistible advance on Manassas, I mounted my gothic steed Pegasus on Tuesday morning. Pegasus, my boy, has greatly improved since I rubbed him down with snob's patent hair invigorator and his tail looks much less like a whisk-broom than it did at first. It is now fully able to maintain itself against all flies whatsoever. The general of the macro-brigade rode beside me on a spirited black frame and says he, That funereal beast of yours is a monument of home affections. Thunder, says the general, shedding a small tear, the color of a shydom schnops. I never look at that air-horse without thinking of the time I buried my first baby. Its head is shaped so much like a small coffin. On reaching Acomac, my boy, we found Captain William Brown at the head of the conic section of the macro-brigade dressed principally in a large sword and brass buttons and taking the altitude of the sun with a glass instrument operated by means of a bottle. Ah, says William, it are just in time to hear my speech to the Sons of Mars, and bevious to the capture of Manassas by the United States of America. Hereupon, William mounted a demi-john laid lengthwise and says he, Fellow Anacondas, having been informed by a gentleman who has spent two weeks at Manassas that the Southern Confederacy has gone south for its health, I have concluded that it is time to be offensive. The great Anaconda, having eluded Barnum, is about to move on the enemy's rear. Rear aloft your peaks, ye mountings, rear aloft your waves, oh sea, rear your sparkling crests, ye fountains, for my loves come back to me. The day of inaction is past, and now the United States of America is about to swoop down like an exasperated eagle on the chickens left by the hawk. Are you ready, my sagacious reptiles, to spill a drop or so for your soaking country? Are you ready to rose up as one man? The rose is red, the violets blue, sugar is sweet, and bully for you. Ages to come will look down on this day and say they died young. The present will reply, I don't see it, but the present is just the last thing for us to think about. Richmond is before us, and there let it remain. We shall take it in a few years. It may be for years, and it may be for ever, when why art thou silent, oh pride of me heart? Which is Poetry. I hereby divide this here splendid army into one corpse dame, and take command of it. At the conclusion of this thrilling oration, my boy, the corpse dame formed itself into a hollow square in the center of which appeared a male-clad ambulance. I looked at this carefully, and then I says to William, tell me, my gay Achilles, what you carry in that? Ha! says William, balancing himself on one leg. Them's my repeaters. This morning, says William, sagaciously, I discovered six repeaters among my men. Each of them voted six times last election day, and I've put them where they can't be killed. Ah, says William softly. The Democratic Party can't afford to lose them repeaters. Here a rather rusty-looking chap stepped out of the ranks and says he, Captain, I'm a repeater too. I voted four times last election. It takes six to make a reliable repeater, says William. Yes, says the chap, but I voted for different coves, twice for the Republican candidate and twice for the Democrat. Ah, says William, you're a man of intellect. Here, Sergeant, says William imperiously, put this cherubim into the ambulance. And Sergeant, says William thoughtfully, give him the front seat. And now, my boy, the march for Manassas commenced, being timed by the soft music of the band. This band, my boy, is Suey Generous. Its chief artist is an ardent admirer of Rossini, who performs with great accuracy upon a night-key pressed closely against the lower lip, the strains being much like those emitted by a cartwheel in want of Greece. Then comes a gifted musician from Germany, whose instrument is a fine tooth comb wrapped in paper and blown upon through its vibratory covering. The remainder of the band is composed chiefly of drums, though the second bass achieves some fine effects with the superannuated accordion. Onward moved the magnificent pageant toward the plains of Manassas, the anatomical cavalry being in advance, and the mackerel brigade following closely after. Arriving on the noted battlefield, we found nothing but a scene of desolation, the rebels gone, the masked batteries gone, and nothing left but a solitary daughter of the sunny south, who cursed us for invading the peaceful homes of Virginia, and then tried to sell a stale milk at six shillings a quart. When Captain William Brown surveyed this spectacle, my boy, his brows knit with portentous anger, and says he, so much for wasting so much time. Ah, says William clutching convulsively at his canteen, we have met the enemy, and they are ours ahead of us. The only thing noticeable we found, my boy, upon searching the late stamping ground of the southern Confederacy was a beautiful romant evidently written by an oppressed southern Union man who had gone from bad to verse, and descriptive of the southern volunteers farewell to his wife. Fresh from snuff dipping to his arms she went, and he, a quid removing from his mouth, pressed her in anguish to his manly breast, and spat twice longingly toward the south. Zara, he said, and hiccuped as he spoke. Indeed I find it most hick-streamly hard to leave my wife, my niggers, and my debts, and march to glory with the Davis Guard. But to all arms the south has called her sons, and while there's something southern hands can steal, you can't hick-speck me to stay here at home with heartless duns forever at my heel. Tonight a hen-coop falls, and in a week will take the Yankee capital, I think, but should it prove hick-pediant not to do it, while then will take, and short will take a drink. I reckon I may perish in the strife, some bullet in the back might lay me low, and as my business needs attendant to, I'll give you some directions ere I go. That cotton-gen I haven't paid for yet, the Yankee trusted for it, dear, you know, and it's a most hick-streamly doubtful thing, whether it's ever used again or no. If Yankee's agent calls while I'm gone, it's my hick-spress command and wish that you denounce him for an abolition spy and have him hung before his notice due. That octaroon who made you jealous love, who sews so well and is so pale a thing, she keeps her husband Sambo from his work, you'd better sell her well for what she'll bring. In case your purse runs low while I'm away, there's Dinah's children, too, hick-spensive whelps. They won't bring much the way the markets are, but then you know how every little helps. And then there's that Yankee schoolmistress, you know, who taught our darlings how to read and spell. Now don't hick-spend a cent to pay her bill if she aren't tarred in feather she'll do well. And now, my dear, I go where booty calls and leave my whiskey, cotton, crop, and thee. Pray that in battle I may not hick-spire and when you lick the niggers, think of me. If on some mournful summer afternoon they should bring home to you your warrior dead, intern me with a toothpick in my hand and ride a last hick-jasset over my head. We found this in the shed, lately used by the chivalric constarvoracy as a guardhouse, my boy, and read it with deep emotion. Yours, menace astonished, Orpheus C. Kerr. Concerning the weaknesses of great men, the curious mistake of a fraternal mackerel, and the remarkable alliterative performance of Captain William Brown, Washington, D.C. March 20, 1862. When a wise, benign, but not altogether road-island providence saw fit to deal out a few mountains to eastern Tennessee and western Virginia, my boy, it is barely possible that providence had an eye to the present crisis of our subtracted country and intended to furnish the coming Abe with a fit place for the lofty accommodation of such great men as were not in immediate demand among the politicians. I am not topographical by nature, my boy. I never went up to the top of the white mountains to see the sunrise and didn't see, nor did I ever scale Mount Blanc for the purpose of allowing a fog to settle on my lungs. But it's my private opinion, my boy, my private opinion that were it not for the perpendicular elevations of the Earth's surface in the States named, it would be necessary for the honest old Abe either to turn General Fremont into a reduced consul and commission him to furnish proofs of the nation's reverence for the name of Lafayette, or coop him up somewhere in solitary grandeur like a rabbit in a warren. Great men, says the general of the mackerel brigade as he and I were looking at some sugar together the other night through concave glasses. Great men, says he, are like the ears of black and tan terriers. They are good for ornaments, but you must cut off some of them when you would give them rats. Thunder, says the general, taking a perpendicular view of sugar. If we didn't cut off great men occasionally there'd be more presidential nominations to ratify next election than ever before struck terrier into the heart of an old-line wig. But you have yet to learn, my boy, what was THE great reason for sending Fremont to the everlasting hills. On Tuesday I asked a knowing veteran at Willards what it really was. He looked at me for a moment in immovable silence. Then he softly placed his spoon gymnasium on a table, looked cautiously in all directions, crept up to my ear on tiptoe, and says he, Carriages. Son of a bottle, says I, your information is about as intelligible as the ordinary remarks of Ralph Waldo Emerson. The knowing veteran suffered his nose to take a steam bath for a moment, and then says he, Carriages. Carriages with six horses and the American flag flying out of the back window. Fremont's great mistake at the west was carriages and six horses. Did he wish to buy some shoestrings for his babes? Captain Ponia Whiskey, says he to his chamberlain, ordered the second steward to tell the scarlet and gray groom to send the carriage and six horses round to the door with the full band on the box. Did he wish to make a call on the next block and obtain some bath-note-paper? General knock my nose off, says he to his first esquire and waiting, issue a proclamation to my master and chancery to instantly command the master of the horse to get ready the carriage with six horses and send the lifeguard to clear the way. In fact, says the knowing veteran frowning mysteriously, it is rumored that when he came home from De Bars Theatre one night and found the front door of his headquarters accidentally locked, he instantly ordered up the carriage and six horses to take him round to the back entrance. Now, says the knowing veteran, suddenly striking the table a glass blow that splashed and assuming an air of embittered argument, they've sent him to the mountains to suppress his carriage. This explanation, my boy, may be all a fiction, but certain it is that General Fremont has not the carriage he had six months ago. On Wednesday the gothic steed Pegasus bore me once more to Manassas, where I found the macro brigade vowing vengeance for the recent rebel atrocities of which I found many outrageous evidences. Just as I arrived on the ground, my boy, a mackerel chap came running out of a deserted rebel tent with a round object in his hand and immediately commenced to tear his hair and speak the language of the Sixth Ward. My brother, my brother, says he, eyeing his horrible trophy with tearful emotion. Oh, that I should live to see your beloved skull turned into a cheese-box by rebels. You was a Boston alderman, a moral man, and a candidate for the legislature, before you came to this here horrid war to be killed by rebels and to have your skull aggravated into a secession utensil. Here the general of the mackerel brigade glanced at the heart-sickening trophy and says he to the mackerel chap. Why, you poor ignorant cuss, that there is nothing but a coconut shell hollowed out. Is it, says the inferior mackerel, brightening up? Is it? Well, says he feelingly. I took it for the skull of my brother, the Boston alderman. It's so hard and thick. These beautiful displays of fraternal emotion are quite frequent, my boy, and are calculated to shed a luster of sanctity over the discoveries of our troops. The capture of Richmond being deferred until the younger drummers of the brigade are old enough to vote in that city. I found Captain William Brown and Captain Bob Shorty seated at a table in a tent, the former being engaged with a pen and a decanter, while the latter drew a map of the campaign with a piece of lemon peel dipped in something fragrant. It was beautiful to look at these two slashing heroes as they sat there in the genial glare of canvas-strained noon-day with a quart vessel between them. Comrades, says Captain Bob Shorty to me, cordially, this here is what we call intellectual relaxation with a few liquid vowels to make it consonant with our tastes. Yes, says Captain William Brown, with a fascinating and elaborate wink at the decanter, the physical man having taken Manassas, the human intellect is now in airy play. Ah, says William, majestically passing me the disentangled curl-paper on which he had been writing, read what I have penned for the perusal of the United States of America. I grasped the document, my boy, and found on it inscribed the following efficacious effusion. Floyd. Phelonius Floyd, far famed for falsifying, forever first from federal forces flying, from fabrications fanning Fortune's flame, finds foul fugacity, fictitious fame, fool, facile, fabler, fugitive, flagitious, fear for futurity, filter fictitious, fame forced from folly, finding Fauner's fled, feeds final failure, failure fungus fed, by Captain William Brown Esquire. Well, my juvenile Union Blue, says William, smiling like a successful cherubim, what do you think of that piece of American intellect? I think, says I, that it is worthy of an FFV. What followed, my boy, is none of your business, though a century nearby subsequently observed that he heard the sound of soft, mellifluous gurgles come from the interior of the tent. Poetry, my boy, is man's best gift, and that, I suppose, is the reason why it is so popular in young women's sporting schools. Yours, in particular meter, Orpheus C. Kerr. End of Letter 36. Letter 37 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 37. Describing the remarkable, strategical movement of the conic section under Captain Bob Shorty. Washington, D.C., March 28, 1862. The most interesting natural curiosity here, next to Secretary Wells Beard, is the office of the Secretary of the Interior. Covered with spiderwebs and clothed in the dust of ages, my boy, sit the Secretary and his clerks like so many respectable mummies in a neglected pyramid. The Department of the Interior, my boy, is in a humorous condition. The sales of public lands for the past year amount to about ten shillings, the only buyer being a conservative Dutchman from New Jersey who hasn't heard about the war yet. These things weigh upon my spirit, and I was glad to order up my Gothic stallion Pegasus the other day and rattle down to Manassas once more. Upon reaching that celebrated field of Mars, my boy, I found the general of the macro brigade in his tent surrounded by telegraphic instruments and railroad maps while the conic section was drawn up in line outside. You appear to be much absorbed, my venerable Spartan, says I to the general, as I handled the diaphanous vessel he was using as an act drop in the theatre of war. The general frowned like an obdurate parent refusing to let his only daughter, Maria Cole Heaver, and says he, I'm absorbed in strategy. Eighteen months ago I was informed by a contraband that sixty thousand unnatural rebels were entrenched somewhere near here, and having returned the contraband to his master to be immediately shot, I resolved to overwhelm the rebels by strategy. Thunder, says the general, perspiring like a pitcher of ice-water in June. If there's anything equal to diplomacy, it's strategy. And now, says the general sternly, it's my duty to order you to write nothing about this to the papers. You write about my movements, the papers publish it, and are sent here. My adjutant takes the papers to the rebels, and so you see my plans are all known. I have no choice but to suppress you. But, says I, you might more surely keep the news from the rebels by arresting the adjutant. Thunder, says the general, I never thought of that before. Great men, my boy, are never so great, but that they can profit occasionally by a suggestion from the humblest of the species. I once knew a very great man who went home one night in a shower, and was horrified at discovering that he could not get his umbrella through the front door. He was a very great man, understood Sanskrit, made speeches that nobody could comprehend, and had relatives in Beacon Street, Boston. There he stood in the rain, my boy, pushing his umbrella this way and that way, turning it endways and sideways, holding it at acute angles and obtuse angles, but still it wouldn't go through the door nor anything like it. By and by there came along a chap of humble attainments who sung out, What's the matter, old three and sixpence? The great man turned pantingly around and says he, Oh, my friend, I cannot get my umbrella into the house. I've been trying for half an hour to wedge it through the door, but I can't get it through and know not how to act. The humble chap stood under a gas-light, my boy, and by the gleams thereof his mouth was observed to pucker low-freshly. Have you tried the experiment of shutting up that air umbrella, says he? The great man gave a start and says he, Per jov'em, I didn't think to do that. And he shut his umbrella and went in peacefully. The conic section was to make its great strategic movement, my boy, under Captain Bob Shorty and, led by that fearless warrior, it set out at twilight. Onward tramp the heroes according to Hardy for about an hour, and then they reached a queer-looking little house with a great deal of piazza and a very little ground floor. With his cap cocked very much over one eye, Captain Bob Shorty knocked at the door and was answered by a young maiden of about forty-two. Has't seen any troops pass here of late? asked Captain Bob Shorty with much dignity. The southern maiden, who was a first family, sniffed indignantly and says she, I reckon not poor hireling Hessian. Forward, double quick march, says Captain Bob Shorty with much vehemence. That ere young woman has been eating onions. Onward, right onward through the darkness went the conic section of the macro brigade, eager to engage the rebel foe and work out the genius of strategy. Half an hour and another house was reached. In response to the Captain's knock, a son of chivalry stuck his head out of a window and says he, there's nobody at home. Peace, ignoramious, says Captain Bob Shorty majestically. The United States of America wishes to know if you have seen any troops go by tonight. Yes, says the chivalry, my sister saw a company go by just now, I reckon. Forward, double quick march, says Captain Bob Shorty. We can catch the Confederacy alive if we're quick enough. And now, my boy, the march was resumed with new vigor, for it was certain that the enemy was right in front and might be strategically annihilated. A long time passed, however, without the discovery of a soul, and it was after midnight when the next house was gained. A small black contraband came to the door and says he, bagare, Marsa Sogoram, what you have? Tell me, young Christie's minstrel, says Captain Bob Shorty, have any troops passed here tonight? The contraband turned to Somerset and says he, Mars and Mrs. have seen two companies just very night, so help them God. Forward, double quick march, says Captain Bob Shorty. Two companies is rather heavy for this here band of Spartans, but it is sweet to die for one's country. The march went on, my boy, until we got to the next house, where the inmates refused to appear, but shouted that they had seen three companies go past. At this Captain Bob Shorty was heard to scratch his head in the darkness and says he, this here strategy is a good thing at decent odds, but when it's three to one it's more respectable to have all quiet on the Potomac. Halt, fellow victims, and let us wait here till the Daily Sun is issued by the Divine Editor. The orb of light was calmly stealing up the east, my boy, when Captain Bob Shorty sprang from his blanket and observed the house before which the conic section was encamped with protruding eyes. By all that's blue, says Captain Bob Shorty, if that ain't the wary identical house where we saw the vinegar made in last night. And so it was, my boy. The conic section of the macro brigade had been going round and round on a private race-course all night, stopping four times at the same judge's stand and going after their own tales like so many humorous cats. Strategy, my boy, is a profound science and don't cost more than two millions a day while the money lasts. Yours in deep cogitation, Orpheus C. Kerr. End of Letter 37.