The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers, Series 3
LETTER C.
GIVING DIVERS INSTANCES OF STRANGELY-MISTAKEN IDENTITY; AND REVEALING A WISE METHOD OF SAVING THE COUNTRY FROM BANKRUPTCY.
WASHINGTON, D.C., March 5th, 1864.
This gray-headed pen of mine, my boy,--which is mightier than thesword, inasmuch as it can, itself, "draw" the sword when it chooses,quite as accurately as any pencil-vanian,--has run the blockaderecently imposed upon it, and once more gambols nervously down thelines of contemporaneous military history. When first I heard thataphorism of the elegant and ghostly Bulwer, by which the sober sceptreof the scribe is magnified above the fancy-dress weapon of the hero, Itook it to be like any other high-sounding sentiment of the stage,whereby the poor but virtuous editor was nobly and improvinglyencouraged to believe himself rather more powerful in this universethan all its great captains put together. Being a child of the penmyself, I felt benignantly inflated by the venerable "Richelieu's"excellent remark, and looked with much generous pity upon a crushedyoung army officer in the box next to mine; but, at the same time, Iremember that it reminded me of the exceedingly moral popular delusionmaking starving virtue a much pleasanter and more admirable thing topossess than a king's crown; and I also remember how it thereupondawned upon me, that the pen was possibly mightier than the sword onlyin the far-removed sense of Might being Write. Since I have lived inWashington, however, I have learned, my boy, that the sentiment inquestion is capable of demonstration as a very plain fact; seeing, as Ido, that off-hand strokes of the pen can in a very few minutes promoteinto Major Generals and Brigadiers certain pleasing brass-buttonedchaps whose actual swords could never have done as much for them in alltheir lives. And yet, my boy, if all those powerful, unsordidcreatures, our country editors, had their youths to live over again, Iverily believe that two-thirds of them would sooner be put to the swordthan put to the pen. Such is man!
Nevertheless, mighty as the pen may be, it must fail equally with thewell-known Southern Confederacy to do justice to this Capital of ourdistracted country in its present social peculiarities. The cackling ofgeese once saved the Capitol of the Roman Empire, my boy; but it willtake more geese than those who have come hither with the expectation ofbeing respected for their virtues, to save Washington from permanentinvestment by all the speculative chaps on earth who have no othercapital to invest. The present social circle around the family hearthof this Capitalian and Congressional town, my boy, is somewhat moreremarkable than it was, even in the palmiest and most mutually abusivedays of our eloquent National Legislature, and fully equals thefrequent domestic symposium of Albany when the State Legislature meet_there_. Look into a Washington home, and you shall find the venerablegrandfather, who sits nearest the fire, talking and chuckling tohimself over his success that day in depreciating the national currencyby first frightening a country squire on the street almost into fits byprating learnedly about "repudiation," and then buying all his treasurynotes from him at fifty per cent. discount! Next sits the youngerhusband and father, cataloguing to his devoted wife, with theforefinger of his right hand upon all the fingers of his left, thesuccessive pecuniary advantages sure to accrue from a contract he hasjust obtained to supply our national troops with patent suspenders, andwhich will enable him to return to New York in the spring, purchase apalatial residence on Fifth Avenue, and sign urgent and influentialcalls for Peace Conventions. Thirdly, my boy, we have the interestingwife and mother who listens to her lord and master's revelation withbeaming satisfaction, glancing occasionally at her youthful son andheir, who, with two thimbles, is practising upon the rug at her feetthe curious and ingenious game of the "Little Joker," whereby he hopesto reap profit from his small associates on the morrow. The fourthfigure of this prayerful group around the home altar is the highlyelaborated daughter, reading over her lover's shoulder, from anewspaper held conveniently by him, a spicy, exciting, moral tale of adaring spirit who had sold a sloop-load of hay, just as it floated, tothe Government, and then--when he had got his pay--set fire to it andburnt the whole concern so effectually, that very few could presume tothink that at least two-thirds of it had been old straw.
It is a noble and beautiful thing to remember, or note, my boy, thatthe true and real Home,--the shrine of parental Love and Honor, and ofchildhood's Innocence and fearless trust,--is ever held sanctified byan unseen angel-circle, into which a few men can bring even so much ofthe scheming outer world as its cares; that its name, long, perhaps,after it has ceased to be, lives for our voices only in that plaintivemedium tone, which, like the master-string of an instrument respondingto a passionate touch, sums up, by its very cadence, all the noblestmusic of a life.
It is this state of things in Washington that greatly confuses thestranger, and causes him to make strange and horrible mistakes as topersonal identities. On Monday afternoon, as I stood musing in front ofWillard's, after a dispassionate conversation with the ConservativeKentucky Chap as to the probability of Kentucky's consenting to thesetting apart of the first of January as New-Year's day, I overheard aconversation between a middle-aged chap of much vest pattern from therural districts, and one of the Provost Marshal's disguised detectives.The rural chap chewed a wisp of straw which he had been using as atoothpick, and says he:
"That gentleman in a broad-brim hat, going along on the other side ofthe street, is a prominent New York politician,--is he not?"
The detective involuntarily rattled a pair of miniature handcuffs whichwere hanging from his watch-chain, and says he:
"Ha! ha! truly! That's a queer mistake. Why, that's Nandy Brick, theincendiary and negro-killer."
Not at all discouraged by this failure at guessing, my boy, the ruralchap glanced knowingly at another passer-by, and says he:
"Well, this here other one who just went by is the French Minister, Ibelieve?"
"Really!" says the detective, with a slight cough, "Really, you'rewrong again, for that's 'Policy Loo,' the notorious Mexican murdererand thief."
The rural chap bit his right thumb-nail irritatedly, and says he:
"At any rate, I know who yonder tall, gentlemanly person in the blackgloves is. It's a famous leader of fashions from Fifth Avenue."
The detective opened his eyes widely at this, and says he:
"Why, there you miss it again. I think I ought to know 'Slippery Jim,'who got that fat contract to supply the army with caps, and made halfof them of shoddy."
The chap from the rural districts seemed very much ashamed of himself,my boy, for doing such a wrong to our admirable and refined BestSociety; but he was bound to try it once more, and so says he, shortly:
"Perhaps you'll tell me that fleshy individual in a black silk vest,coming this way, an't the British Minister?"
"Wrong again, by thunder!" says the detective; "for all the world knowsthat respectable cove to be 'Neutral John,' the celebrated rebel-spyand blockade-runner."
Indeed, appearances go so entirely by contraries here, that I reallyfear, my boy,--I really fear, that many of our veritable greatpoliticians, diplomatists, and Missouri Delegates, are frequently takenfor unmitigated rogues by blundering amateurs in physiognomy.
It was on Wednesday that the Venerable Gammon being seized with a freshand powerful inspiration to confer a new benefaction on his favoriteinfant, his country, came post haste from his native Mugsville, and wasquickly blessing the idolatrous populace in front of the TreasuryBuildings with some knowledge of his benevolent scheme for paying thecost of the War.
"War?" says the Venerable Gammon, fatly,--pronouncing the word asthough he had just invented it for the everlasting benefit of some poorbut virtuous language,--"War costs money, and money costs gold. What wewant is gold, to pay for the money that pays for the war. And whereshall we get that gold?" says the Venerable Gammon, with a smile ofknowing beneficence.
"By reference to a California journal, I find that California andNevada contain about twenty columns of gold mines, and that each mineis worth so many millions that its directors are obliged to levy dailyassessments of
Five, Ten, and Twenty-five cents per share, or 'loot,'in order that the shareholders, in their immense wealth, may not forgetthat their distracted country has a decimal currency to be countenancedand supported. Now I propose," says the Venerable Gammon, magisteriallypulling out his ruffles with his fat thumb and forefinger, "I proposethat the War debt and the board of our Major Generals be paid by anespecial tax on these mines, thus"--
"Killing the goose which lays the golden egg," broke in an agedTreasury Clerk standing near, whose countenance possessed all theoppressive respectability that large spectacles and a pimple on thenose can possibly bestow.
The Venerable Gammon was hereupon seized with such a violent fit ofcoughing that farther argument was impracticable; and it is not decidedto this day whether it would be in keeping with the eternal fitness ofthings to tax the miners to pay the majors.
ORPHEUS C. KERR.