The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers, Series 3

  LETTER CI.

  EXPLAINING THE WELL-MEANT DUPLICITY OF THE JOURNALS OF THE OPPOSITION; AFFORDING ANOTHER GLIMPSE OF THE IRREPRESSIBLE CONSERVATIVE SENTIMENT; AND SHOWING HOW THANKSGIVING DAY WAS KEPT BY THE MACKERELS.

  WASHINGTON, D.C., Dec. 10th, 1864.

  Thanksgiving Day, my boy, is an able-bodied national festival which hasdwelt unctuously in all my less spiritual annual reminiscences, sincethat poetical and beautiful time of life when the touching innocence ofchildhood tempted me to surreptitiously pick a chicken-leg while mygood grandfather was asking a blessing; and to receive therefor thatwholesome box of the ears, which not unfrequently imparts a temporaryand excessive warmth to the brain of virtuous boyhood. 'Tis sweet toremember that old-fashioned Thanksgiving Eve, my boy, when thevenerable and widowed Mrs. McShane, our cook, would renew her annualcustom of inveigling us children into the kitchen on pretence ofadmiring our new shoes; and then proceed, by divers artful andmelancholy phrases, to darken our little souls with a heart-sickeningconviction of her utter failure to procure, in her recent trip tomarket, that long-anticipated Turkey! 'Tis pleasant to recollect howentirely we were cast down thereat, and how rigidly we refrained fromso much as a single glance toward the old "Dresser," whereon stood thewell-known market-basket of Mrs. McShane, with the plump legs of thechoicest of gobblers protruding very obviously therefrom! 'Tis joyousto recall how we stared mercilessly at every possible thing in thekitchen except that "Dresser;" and how desolately we received certainsadly-philosophical remarks from Mrs. McShane, as to the unspeakableadmiration assuredly merited by those "rale good childers," who could,for one Thanksgiving Day, endure starvation without tears.

  The little deception was most tenderly and kindly meant, my boy; it wasthe artless roguery of a dear old heart--the gentlest of cheats--thefondest of frauds; and the very remembrance of it, at this remotemoment, not only fills my manly bosom with the softest charity, butendows me with a nicer mental perception of actual good in seemingwickedness, than any yet disclosed by my more obtuse fellow-countrymen.

  Thus, my boy, when I note how some of our excellent Democratic dailyjournals attempt to prove, with great sadness of manner and profoundsincerity of reluctant reasoning, that all the celebrated advances,conquests, and flankings of our remarkable national armies are reallyso many heart-breaking defeats in deep disguise; and that thewell-known Southern Confederacy is actually quite intoxicated with itscontinued remorseless successes over us; when I note this, my boy, I ammoved to pleasant tears over that inherent and ineradicable goodness ofhuman nature, which instinctively inspires the nobler of our species tofirst delude their fellow-beings to despondency with the most innocentof falsehoods, only that their consummate bliss may be the greater whenthe glorious truth can no longer be thus fondly concealed. Join withme, my boy, in a noble tribute of affection to the humble but tenderEditors of these excellent Democratic daily journals, who wouldlovingly make us, children of the nation, believe, that the Turkey ofVictory is not to be had at any price, though none of us need look veryfar to see the plump legs of that very same turkey sticking out of thefamily-basket. Thanks to thee, thou dear old Mrs. McShane, with thyperpetual atmosphere of roast-beef gravy, and eternal rims of crustedflour about thy finger-nails--thanks be to thee for that humanizingremembrance of thy loving fraud, which thus enables me to rescue ourexcellent Democratic daily journals from the unseemly imputations ofdegenerate Black Republicans.

  My long absence with our somewhat tedious national troops, myboy,--troops now constituting a flaming about the throat of thisexciting Rebellion;--my long absence, I say, has given this CapitalCity of our distracted country an opportunity to thrive apace in thedevelopment of those public and private virtues, which so thoroughlyunpopularize Vice in this chaste locality, that even the Vice Presidentis never heard of. True it is, that one misses those pleasant andgorgeous chaps of much watch-chain and an observable extent of diamondbreastpin, who were wont, in the days of genial Southern preponderance,to lend lustre to the hall-ways of the more majestic hotels, andoccasionally induce the inebriated son of Chivalry to join them at Farohis table. We miss these light and airy chaps, each of whom is now anunblushing Confederacy without hope of Reconstruction; we miss the highand lofty Carolina chap of much hat-brim, whose playful moments afterthe bottle were now and then illustrated with a lively shot from arevolver at a waiter, or cheerful pass with a bowie-knife at hisopponent in conversation. And oh! we miss those languishing magnoliabelles, whose eyes always reminded me of fresh drops of ink on tintedpaper, and whose beautiful belief in the utter vulgarity of allNorthern ladies it was really quite delightful to hear. Yes, my boy,all, all are gone; but we have in their places such representatives ofgenuine republican simplicity as you shall not see again in a circuitof the globe. Our hotel-halls are brightened by youthful forms in theself-sacrificing uniform of our national army; and these youthfulforms, being mostly from the country, confine their innocent gaming,almost exclusively, to the athletic game of "checkers." The prominentwalking-gentlemen of Willard's wear black velvet vests all the yearround, and, so far from shooting waiters, are always on the mostfamiliar terms with that oppressed race; joking freely with them andrecognizing them as intimate equals, as all genuine citizens of a trueRepublic should do. And as for our present Washington ladies,--wearingLisle-thread gloves at the dinner-table and putting almonds and raisinsinto their pockets before leaving it, God bless 'em!--why they know nomore of anything vulgar, than a maniac does of insanity.

  Reflecting upon these things, on Monday last, my boy, I strolledabstractedly into an establishment where they sell army stores, such aslemons by the slice, sugar by the half-ounce, etc. I strolled dreamilyin, when who should I see at the crockery-counter but the ConservativeKentucky chap, whose hat was very far down over his eyes, like one whohas just come through a severe election. He appeared to be takingRichmond at the moment, my boy, with a spoon in it; and as quickly as Ientered, he let the hand grasping it fall suddenly down on his obverseside, and gave his entire and most unremitting attention to the pictureof a flesh-colored young lady on the farthest wall. I slapped him onthe shoulder, and says I:

  "Well, my ancient Talleyrand, how are we?"

  The Conservative Kentucky chap gloomily placed his tumbler upon thestomach of a gentleman in checked pants, who was calmly sleeping onthree chairs near the stove, and says he: "Kentucky can no longer blindherself to the fact that we are on the brink of a monikky. Yes!"exclaimed the Conservative chap,--wildly tearing off his hat, and thenputting it on again so that it entirely covered his left eye,--"Yes,sir, a monikky with a Yankee for its Austrian tyrant!"

  Here the Conservative Kentucky chap deliberately buttoned his coat tothe very neck, turned up his collar, and gazed sternly at a bowl ofcloves near by. I called his attention to the Ten of Spades, which wasedging itself down between his hat and his right ear, and says I,--

  "Hast proof of this, Horatio?"

  "Proof?" says the Conservative Kentucky chap, with such a start thatthe gentleman in the checked pants vibrated as though sleeping onsprings,--"Proof? You know Smith,--John Smith,--that little apothecaryfrom Connecticut? Well, sir, he voted in this here last election forthe Austrian usurper, and now he's knighted! Yes, sir, by A. Lincoln'srecommendation he's now SIR JOHN SMITH!! I've heard him called somyself. And this--this--is Kentucky's reward!"

  At this crisis the Conservative Kentucky chap shut the stove-door withgreat violence, and seemed for a moment to meditate personal outrage onthe young assistant oysterer, who had just arrived with thecoal-skuttle.

  Before I could make rejoinder, my boy, there approached us amiddle-aged gentleman in a shocking bad hat and an overcoat very shinyabout the seams, who had cordially invited himself to take a littlesomething that morning, and had accepted the invitation with pleasure.Straightening himself suddenly, with a violent start, to restrain anunruly hiccup, or make me believe that he made the noise with his feet,he eyed the Conservative chap with a benignant smile, and says he: br />
  "You're mistaken there, sir,--muchly, sir, hem! Mr. Smith is my friend,sir; my bosom friend, till time shall end.--Beautiful idea, that.--Myfriend, I say; and he's only been appointed to the medical departmentby recommendation of the President.--Let nature do her best, and thenyour doctors are of use to men.--Byron.--Yes, sir, Mr. Smith is now amilitary doctor; and that's how you've made the mistake. You thought itwas 'Sir John' Smith they said, when it was '_Sur-geon_' Smith!"

  As he said this, the middle-aged gentleman became aware that one of histoes was sticking very much through his boot, and retired toconfidentially ask the assistant oysterer if any one had yet foundthat valuable diamond scarf-pin which he (the middle-aged gentleman)had recently lost.

  I looked at the Conservative Kentucky chap, my boy, and his chin hadsunk down upon his breast. He felt that his mistake was also themistake of Kentucky, and his heart was too full for furtherconversation.

  'Twas on Thursday morn,--Thanksgiving Day,--that I blithely scaled theheights of my faithful Gothic steed, the architectural Pegasus, andsoftly urged that ruined temple of a horse to trot me a livelyreminiscence of his youth. Forward we went with a unique, choppingmotion, with now and then a stumble to keep the blood in circulation,interpersed with occasional plunges at stumps and shyings at flutteringwithered leaves. When you have mounted a beloved horse, on a fine,bracing autumnal morning, my boy, did you ever feel like a kind of newand superior being; as though you and your steed were one consummateindividual, inspired by one bounding, uncontrollable impulse, andimpatiently regarding the line of the horizon as a tyrannical limit toa ride that should else tear gallantly and recklessly forth intoillimitable space? Did you ever feel thus, my boy?...

  Because, if you did, your feelings were not at all like mine.

  * * * * *

  Onward we go, like a wrecked centaur before the wind, and soon theseeager eyes behold once more the camp of the aged and thrice-valiantMackerel Brigade. Far and near, the spectacles of the decrepit veteransare flashing in the sun; whilst before them is the much-besieged Cityof Paris, and behind them (in consequence of recent rains) the storiedwaters of Duck Lake. The veterans are clustered around Paris, my boy,like so many exceedingly thirsty chaps around the tall and well-spikedfence inclosing a cherished pump, and if ever they get at it, they willat least drink it dry. Scarcely had I reined-in, near the edge of DuckLake, where certain members of Rear Admiral Head's iron-plated mackerelsquadron were discharging cases and barrels by the score,--scarcely hadI dismounted from the Gothic Pegasus and hitched him to the body of aslumbering Mackerel chap, who had already overdone his Thanksgiving,when I beheld Captain Villiam Brown approaching, on his geometricalsteed, the angular Euclid. Following him, but on foot, was Captain BobShorty in command of the famous Conic Section of the Mackerel Brigade.

  "Ha!" says Villiam, leaping down to meet me in dreadful entanglementwith his sword, and hastily plunging into his bosom a small blackbottle of regulation cough-drops, "have you flown hither like an narrerfrom a bow, to view the sublime spectacle of the troops at their feed?Ah!" says Villiam, quickly clasping his hands to save the bottle fromslipping out of his breast-pocket, "the beautiful pageant of a nationfeasting these martial beings on turkey, is something for besottedEurope to tremble at. Next to serving up ice-cream to the sailors in agale of wind at sea, this"--

  Here a venerable Mackerel tottered from the ranks, and says he: "Isthem the birds in them ere cases and barrels, Capting?"

  Villiam attempted to rattle his sword threateningly at thisinterruption; but observing that the hilt of his weapon had got aroundto his spine, he rattled the keys in his pockets instead, and says he:

  "How now, Sarah!"

  (He meant to say "sirrah," my boy,--he meant to say "sirrah;" havingrecently learned, from the perusal of a moral tale in one of ourexcellent weekly journals of exciting romance, that said aristocraticterm is of frequent occurrence in all the conversations of the great.)

  "Why," says the aged Mackerel, coughing into his hand, "if them's theturkeys the people have sent us for Thanksgiving, we're ready for 'em."

  "You're right, Sarah," says Villiam, magnanimously, "and we'll openthis first case at once. The trade-mark of this case," says Villiam,learnedly, "is '50 Turkeys with Care.'"

  They were prying the lid off, my boy, with bayonets, and the eyes ofthe surrounding Mackerels had commenced to glisten fierily throughtheir spectacles, when I saw Villiam and Captain Bob Shorty exchangelooks of deep meaning, and shake their heads like a couple ofmelancholy mandarins.

  "Robert S.," says Villiam, with a look of deep perplexity, "this isindeed a strange oversight."

  Captain Bob Shorty shook his head sadly.

  "And yet," says Villiam, sternly, "we must tell these beings about it."

  "There's no avoiding it, by all that's Federal!" murmured Captain BobShorty.

  Captain Villiam Brown sighed deeply, and says he:

  "Soldiers, the people of the United States of America meant well insending such beautiful birds for our Thanksgiving bankwick; but they'vemade a strange mistake. Really," says Villiam, toying with the cork ofthe bottle of cough-drops, as it protruded from his ruffles,--"really,I find, that _not one of these Turkeys is stamped_!"

  At this juncture the same old Mackerel again stepped forward, and askedif the turkeys came by mail?

  "No," says Villiam, with much sympathy of manner. "I don't meanpostage-stamps, but the Internal Revenue. Turkeys," says Villiam,reasoningly, "come under the head of 'Unnecessary Luxuries,' and arenot legal unless stamped. But," says Villiam, with sudden benignity,"your officers possess the necessary stamps, and will sell them to youat twenty-five cents apiece."

  It was a beautiful proof of the untiring vigilance and energy of ournational regimental officers, my boy, that they happened to have thestamps on hand just as they did; though, if there happened to be stampsrequired on geese, I am afraid that every Mackerel who paid histwenty-five cents would come in for one of those chaste little pictureson himself.

  And now, the stamps being purchased and the New England eaglesdistributed, there commenced such a scene of martial revelry andgood-nature as the world never saw before. In every direction--at theopenings of tents--around open-air fires--everywhere, the jollyfestival went on.

  Strolling to the outer picket-line, I saw a Mackerel chap lay aside hisgun, seat himself upon the ground, and commence handling a nice littleturkey which had just been brought to him by a comrade. He smacked hislips audibly, my boy, and was just in the act of tearing off a"drumstick" when I saw him suddenly look up to a point ahead of him,and instantly cease all motion. Curious to know what had thusfascinated him, as it were, and so abruptly checked his feast, I alsolooked in that direction.

  Right across the little field in front of us, seated on the lastremaining post of a ruined fence, was a ragged Confederacy, in aperfect whirlpool of tatters, who had rested his musket upon theground, and was alternately gnawing an army biscuit and casting longinglooks toward his happier enemy. He was a dreadfully thin, hollow-eyedchap, my boy, and shivered in the cold. The Mackerel stared at himwithout motion for some minutes, and then commenced to handle histurkey again. Then he stared again, dropped his turkey, picked it up,and finally rose to his feet impatiently--looked toward his nearestcomrade--and then seated himself with his back toward the Confederacy.Still the latter gnawed and looked longingly. The Mackerel said,"damme!" quite distinctly and stoutly, and vigorously grasped at a"drumstick" again. He gave it a twist, paused, wavered, and _lookedover his shoulder_.

  In another instant, my boy, that Mackerel sprang to his feet, facedabout, shouted:

  "I'll do it, by G--d! if I swing for it"--dashed across the field likea stark madman, and, before the astonished Confederacy could budge aninch, had hurled the turkey into his arms and was tearing back to hisown post.

  There is a chivalry, my boy, that makes a man a hero with the sword ofa patriot, or bears him triumphantly through perils and obstacles
tothe arms of the bride he has won. There is a chivalry that inspires aman to spurn with contempt the fortune not fraught with all honor, andgives him the graces of a gentleman through all the glooms and burdensof honest poverty. But in that grander Chivalry native to the soul,which raises the tenderness of our best humanity far above the highestpoint all enmity can reach, and lets it fall, like God's own dew, uponthe other side, none, none more fairly ever won a knighthood, than thatpoor Mackerel picket-guard on last Thanksgiving Day.

  Yours, gently,

  ORPHEUS C. KERR.