LETTER CIII.
BEING ANOTHER AND FINAL CHRISTMAS REPORT; INCLUDING A SMALL STORY FROM OUR UNCLE ABE; A CIRCULAR FROM THE SECRETARY OF STATE; A SUPERNATURAL CAROL FROM SERGEANT O'PAKE; AND A TREMENDOUS GHOST STORY FROM AN UNAPPRECIATED GENIUS.
WASHINGTON, D.C., Dec. 27th, 1864
Upon these holy anniversary-days of "Peace on Earth, good-will towardmen," the American human mind is naturally prone to regret that thewell-known Southern Confederacy still survives, in a degree, all itsinexpressible spankings, and still compels the noblest of us to pourout our substitutes like water. You, my boy, have poured out yoursubstitute; other great and good men have poured out _their_substitutes, and your devoted pockets bleed at every pour.
O war! thirsty and strategical war! how dost thou pierce the souls ofall our excellent Democratic journals, against whom the increasedwar-tax on whiskey is an outrage not to be mentioned without swearing.
On Christmas-day, my boy, there came to this city a profound Democraticchap of much stomach, who wore a seal-ring about as large as abreakfast-plate, and existed in a chronic condition of having the bosomof his shirt unbuttoned to such a degree as to display picturesquelythe red flannel underneath. He ran for Sheriff of Squankum last month,my boy; and having been defeated with great slaughter, concluded thatall was gall and bitterness, and that he couldn't do better than cometo Washington and improve the President's mind.
At the time of the interview, our Honest Abe was sitting before thefire, peeling an apple with a jack-knife; and the fact that part of hiscoat-collar was turned inside, did not lessen in him that certaingenerous dignity which hale good-nature ever wears, as morning wearsthe sun.
"Mr. President," says the profound Democratic chap, spitting withdazzling accuracy into a coal-hod on the opposite side of the room; "Icall upon you to-day, sir, not as a politician, but as a friend. And asa friend, sir"--here the Democratic chap wore a high-moral look, andhis shirt-bosom yawned as though eager to take all the world into thered-hot depths of his affectionate flannel heart,--"as a friend, sir, Ifeel bound to tell you, that your whole administrative policy is wrong;and as for your Emancipation Proclamation, it has had no effect at all,as I can see."
Here the profound Democratic chap stuck a cheap bone eyeglass into hisright eye, and seemed to think that he rather had him there.
The Honest Abe peeled his apple, and says he:
"Neighbor, the sane men of all parties think differently from you inthat matter."
"That proves, I suppose," says the Democratic chap, wrathfully, "thatI'm a lunatic."
The Honest Abe ate a piece of apple, and says he:
"Not at all, neighbor; not all; nothing so serious as that. But talkingabout what a difference of opinion 'proves,'" says the Honest Abe,balancing one boot upon the toe of the other, and smiling peacefully athis jack-knife; "talking about what it 'proves,' reminds me of a smalltale:
"When I was a law-student out in Illinois, and wore spectacles toappear middle-aged and respectable, we had in our district-court thecase of a venerable Sucker, who was prosecuting another man forspreading a report that he was insane, and greatly damaging hisbusiness thereby. The defendant made reply, that he had honestlysupposed the plaintiff to be insane on one point, at least, and thatwas the motion of the world around the sun. This motion was denied _intoto_ by the plaintiff, who had frequently, of late, greatly astonishedeverybody and shocked the schoolmaster, by persisting in the assertionthat the world did not spin round at all, inasmuch as _he_ had neverseen it spin round.
"Various witnesses were called for both sides," says the Honest Abe,pleasantly scratching his chin; "various ones were called, to testifyas to whether such difference of opinion from all the rest of mankindwould seem to prove the insanity of the venerable Sucker; but nothingdecisive was arrived at until old Doctor Dobbles was examined. OldDobbles," says the Honest Abe, winking softly to himself, "was notquite such a teetotaler as may be told about in the 'Lives of theSaints,' and when he took the stand we expected something.
"Says the Court to old Dobbles:
"'In your opinion, doctor, does a man's denial that the world turnsround, inasmuch as he has never seen it go round, prove his insanity?'
"'No,' says Dobbles.
"'Ah!' says the Court, 'what then?'
"'Why,' says old Dobbles, deliberately, 'if a man denies that the worldgoes round, and has never _seen_ it go round, it simply proves thathe--_never was drunk_.'
"As it happened," says the Honest Abe, balancing his jack-knife on thetips of all his fingers; "as it happened that the Court himself hadfrequently seen the world go round, the justice of the idea flashedupon him at once, and the defendant was found guilty of six dollars'damages, and ordered to treat the Court.
"Now," says the Honest Abe, with a winning smile, "I am far frominferring, neighbor, that you have never been intoxicated; but it seemsto me, that when you say the Proclamation has had no effect at all, itproves you can't be speaking soberly."
The profound Democratic chap came away, my boy, with a singing in hishead, and has been so tremendously confused ever since, that he askedme this morning at Willard's, if I thought, that what we of war see isanything like what Thaddeus of Warsaw.
On Monday, while I was on my way to the Mackerel camp, before Paris, tobe present at the usual Christmas song-singing and story-telling in thetent of Captain Villiam Brown, I met an affable young chap, driving awagon, in which were some thousands of what appeared to benewly-printed circulars. I knew that the young chap came from a largeprinting-office in the lower part of the city, and says I:
"Tell me, my young Phaeton, what have we here?"
The affable young chap closed one eye waggishly at a handy young womanwho was cleaning the upper windows of a house near by, and says he:
"These here, are five thousand copies of a blank form, just printeddown at our place for the State Department. And I should think," saysthe affable young chap, taking a dash at a small boy who had just "cutbehind" his cart--"I should think that pile ought to last a month, atleast, though the last one didn't."
I made bold to examine a copy of the blank form in question, my boy,and found it to read as follows:
"CITY OF WASHINGTON, U.S.A., } DEPARTMENT OF STATE. }
"_Dear Sir_:
"_Permit me to beg you will inform the Government of ----, so admirably represented by you, that the Government of the United States entirely disapproves the action of the Commander of the ----, in the matter of ---- ----, and will make whatever reparation may be deemed adequate therefor by the Government of ----._
"_With the profoundest respect, I am your Excellency's most obedient humble servant_, ---- ----.
"HIS EXCELLENCY ---- ----.
MINISTER FROM ----."
As I read this document, I thought to myself: Verily my distractedcountry's Secretary of State wishes to save as much writing aspossible; and who knows but that he is like one of our own frontierriflemen, who kneels only that he may take the more deliberate aim atthe heart of the wolf?
And now, as I push on again for my destination, let me say to you, myboy, that few who read my wonderfully lifelike picture of Mackerelstrategy and carnage, have any idea of the awful perils constantlyassailing a reliable war-correspondent of the present day.
Thus: during a great battle which I attended in Accomac, a piece ofshell tore off my head,--that is to say, the head of my cane.
At the second battle of Paris, while I was in the act of taking notesof the prevailing strategy, a cannon-ball took my legs off,--that is tosay, the legs of my camp-stool.
In the summer of '62, as I was sitting in the doorway of my tent, onthe shores of Duck Lake, a case-shot, of immense size, entered mychest,--that is to say, the chest in which I carry my linen.
Cherish me, my boy, make much of me; for there is no telling how soonsome gory discharge of artillery may send me to join the angel-choir.
But here we are in th
e tent of Captain Villiam Brown; and the manner inwhich the Mackerel officers are clustered about the round table in thecentre, reminds me of flies around a lump of sugar--supposing a lump ofsugar to be shaped exactly like a portly black bottle.
Sergeant O'Pake rises with a manuscript in his band, and says he:
"Comrades,--let me read to you a weird legend, of which I am the soleauthor and proprietor, and to which I would draw your most politicalattention."
And the sergeant forthwith delivered this remarkable poetical report of
"THE IRISHMAN'S CHRISTMAS.
"Hic!"--TERENCE.
"Ould Mother Earth makes Irishmen her universal pride, You'll find them all about the world, and ev'rywhere beside; And good Saint Peter up above is often feeling tired, Because of sainted Irishmen applying to be hired.
"Thus, being good and plentiful, 'tis proper we should find A spacious house stuck full of them where'er we have a mind, And unto such an edifice our present tale will reach, With sixty nice, convaynient rooms--a family in each.
"No matter where it stands at all; but this we'll let you know, It constitutes itself alone a fashionable row; And when a bill of "Rooms to let" salutes you passing by, You see recorded under it, "No Naygurs need apply."
"Now, Mr. Mike O'Mulligan and servant boarded here,-- At least, his wife at service spent a portion of the year,-- And when, attired in pipe and hod, he left his parlor-door, You felt the country had a vote it didn't have before.
"Not much was M. O'Mulligan to festive ways inclined; For chiefly on affairs of State he bent his giant mind; But just for relaxation's sake he'd venture now and then, To lead a jig, or break a head, like other Irishmen.
"Says Mrs. Mike O'Mulligan, when Christmas came, said she: 'Suppose we give a little ball this evening after tea; The entry-way is broad enough to dance a dozen pairs, And thim that doesn't wish to dance can sit upon the stairs.'
"'And sure,' said M. O'Mulligan, "'I don't object to that; But mind ye ask the girls entire, and ev'ry mother's Pat; I'd wish them all, both girls and boys, to look at me and see, That, though I'm School Commissioner, I'm noways proud,' says he.
"The matter being settled thus, the guests were notified, And none to the O'Mulligans their presences denied; But all throughout the spacious house the colleens went to fix, And left the men to clane themselves and twirl their bits of sticks.
"'Twas great to see O'Mulligan, when came the proper hour, Stand smiling in the entry-way, as blooming as a flower, And hear him to each lady say, 'Well now, upon me sowl! Ye look more like an angel than like any other fowl.'
"And first came Teddy Finnigan, in collar tall and wide, With Norah B. O'Flannigan demurely by his side; And Alderman O'Grocery, and Councilman Maginn, And both the Miss Mulrooneys, and the widowed Mrs. Flynn.
"The Rileys, and the Shaunesseys, and Murphys all were there, Both male and female creatures of the manly and the fair; And crowded was the entry-way to such a great degree They had to take their collars off to get their breathing free.
"O'Grady with his fiddle was the orchestra engaged, He tuned it on the banisters, and then the music raged; 'Now face your partners ev'ry man, and keep your eyes on me, And don't be turning in your toes indacently,' says he.
"And when the dance began to warm, the house began to shake, The windows, too, like loosen'd teeth, began to snap and break; The stove-pipes took the ague fit, and clattered to the floors, And all the knobs and keys and locks were shaken from the doors.
"The very shingles on the roof commenced to rattle out: The chimney-stacks, like drunken men, insanely reeled about; A Thomas cat upon the eaves was shaken from his feet, And right and left the shutters fell into the startled street.
"It chanced as M. O'Mulligan was fixing something hot, The spoon was shaken from his hand, as likewise was the pot; The plaster from the ceiling, too, came raining on his head, And like a railway-carriage danced the table, chairs, and bed.
"He tore into the entry-way, and 'Stop the jig!' says he: 'Its shakin' down the house ye are, as any one can see;' But not a soul in all the swarm to dance at all forbore, And thumping down their brogans came, like hammers on the floor.
"And then the house commenced to sway and strain and groan and crack, And all the stairs about the place fell crashing, front and back; The very air was full of dust, and in the walls the rats Forgot, in newer perils found, all terror of the cats.
"Then swifter flew O'Grady's bow, and 'Mike, me lad,' he roared, 'They'll dance until they haven't left your floor a single board; It's sperits that they are,' says he, 'and I'm a sperit, too; And sperit, Mike O'Mulligan, is what we'll make of you!'
"'And sure,' said M. O'Mulligan, though turning rather pale, 'Its quite a handsome ghost ye are, and fit for any jail: But tell me what I've done to you offinsive in the laste; And if I don't atone for it, I'm nothing but a baste.'
"'It's faithless to Saint Tammany ye are,' O'Grady cried,-- And wilder, madder, grew the jig as he the fiddle plied,-- 'It's faithless to Saint Tammany, who bids the Irishman Attain the highest office in this country that he can.'
"'Och hone!' says poor O'Mulligan, 'it's pretty well I've done, To be a School-Commissioner before I'm thirty-one; 'Tis barely just a year to-day since I set out from Cork, And now, be jabers! don't I hold an office in New York?'
"'Why, true for you, O'Mulligan,' O'Grady roared again; 'But what's a School-Commissioner to what ye should have been? It's County Clerk, the very laste, an Irishman should be, And, since you're not, receive the curse of Good Saint Tammany!'
"Then wilder danced the spirit crew, the fiddler gave a scowl; And scarce could fated Michael raise a good old Irish howl, When all the timbers in the house went tumbling with a crash, Reducing M. O'Mulligan to bits as small as hash!
"Take warning now, all Irishmen, of what may be your fate, If you come home on Christmas-night an hour or so too late; For sleeping on the garret stairs, and rolling down, may be To you, as unto Mike, a dream of good Saint Tammany!"
The deep, terror-stricken silence following this ghastly legend wassuddenly broken, my boy, by a frenzied shriek from my frescoed dog,Bologna, who had followed me down from Washington, and whose stirringtail had been accidentally trodden upon by the absorbed MackerelChaplain. The picturesque animal, with a faint whine not unlike thesqueaking of a distant saw, walked toward Captain Bob Shorty and gazedinquisitively for an instant into his face; then took earnest nasalcognizance of the boots of Captain Samyule Sa-mith; then sat for aninstant on his haunches, with his tongue on special exhibition; and,finally, went out of the tent.
"Ah!" exclaimed Captain Villiam Brown, who sat nearest the bottle, andhad, for the past hour, been unaccountably shedding tears,--"how muchis that dorg like human life, feller-siz'ns! Like him, we make a yellat our firz 'pearance. Like him, we make our firz advances to somebrother-puppy. Like him, we smell the boots of our su-su-superiors.Like him, we put out our tongues to see warz marrer with us; and, atlast, like him, we--(hic)--we go out."
At the culmination of this sublime burst, Villiam again melted intotears, smiled around at us like a summer-sunset through a shower, andgracefully sank below the horizon of the table, like an over-ripeplanet.
"By all that's Federal!" said Captain Bob Shorty, "that was dyingyoung, for Villiam; but who can tell whose turn it may be next? Toguard against possibilities, my blue-and-gold Napoleons, I will at onceproceed to read you a Christmas-story, written expressly for theMackerel Brigade by my gifted friend, Chickens, who should be in everyAmerican library, and would like to be there himself. The genius of myfriend, Chickens," says Captain Bob Shorty, enthusiastically, "cannotbe bought for gold; but, in a spirit of patriotic self-sacrifice, hewould take 'greenbacks,' if the sord
id persons having control of thepress should conclude to give him that encouragement which, I amindignant to say, they have hitherto, with singular unanimity ofsentiment, entirely denied him. Indeed, my friend Chickens has, attimes, been placed in charge of the police by certain editors with whomhe has warmly argued the value of his talents, and I trust that thefour shillings we have appropriated for our Christmas-story may begiven him for the following tale." And Captain Bob Shorty proceeded toread:--
"THE GHOST'S ULTIMATUM.
"England, merry England! Land of our forefathers! Having seen several attractive stereoscopic pictures of thee,--not to mention various engravings,--I love thee! Yes, I am of passionate temperament; I am thy fond American child; and I love thee. Ay, me lud, we all love thee; and the best of us cannot pay the shortest visit to thy shores without bringing back such a wholesome contempt for everything at home, as none but affectionate American hearts can feel. Having inherited the money realized by our deceased paternal from his celebrated patent Fish-scales we put our aged mother comfortably into the Old Ladies' Home, and fly to thee, dear, dear motherland, by the most expensive steamer to be had. Then we associate with the footmen of thy nobility, and go to see thy dukes' houses while the dukes are absent, and ask the dukes' housekeeper how much such a house costs, and come away stupefied with the atmosphere of greatness. We return to America with mutton-chop whiskers and our hands in our pockets, while our wife wears a charity-boys' cap on her head, and carries a saddle-whip forever in her left hand. We haven't seen the fashion-plates in the London shop-windows for nothing. We find New York rather small. There's no Tower, ye know, nor Abbey, nor Pell Mell, my dear boy. What's Pell Mell? Oh, I suppose _you'd_ call it Pall Mall; ha, ha, ha! quite provincial, to be sure. Really, this new Fifth-avenue house of ours is not quite equal to the Earl of P.'s town-house; but we can add a private theatre and a chapel, and make it do for a while, eh? Day-day, Tomkins, my good fellow, how-de-do? How are your poor feet? Ha, ha, ha, quite the joke in London society, Tomkins. What's new? Yanks had another Bull Run? Every nobleman I met in England is with the South, my dear boy, and so am I.
"O England! If I could but visit thee just once,--just a little tiny bit of a once; but no matter, I haven't the money; never mind. Honest poverty in this country will yet--but it's of no consequence.
"Persons with money may have noticed, that as you turn from Cheapside into Whitefriars, and go on past St. Paul's and the Horse Guards into Pell Mell, keeping straight to the right to avoid Waterloo Bridge and the Nelson Monument, you come to an English house.
"At the particular period of which I write, the night of the 24th of December was Christmas-eve in this house, and Mr. R. Fennarf had just devoured a devilled kidney, some whitebait, a plate of Newcastle pickled-salmon, and some warm wine and toast, as it is believed customary for all English gentlemen of the better class to do before going to bed. Having thus prepared commodious stabling for a thoroughbred nightmare, he looked at his hands, looked at his watch, looked at the fire-irons, looked at his slippers in perspective, and at once fell into an English revery,--which differs materially from an American one, as everybody knows, being much superior.
"'Can it be,' said Mr. R. Fennarf to himself, 'that my pride was really sinful, when I drove my daughter Alexandra from my house, because she would have wed a potboy? It must be so; for I have not seen a happy hour since then. Here is Christmas-eve, and here am I a lone, lone man. Oh that by the endurance of some penalty, however great, I might bring back my girl, and ask her forgiveness, and be my old self again.'
"'Thy wish shall be granted!!!'
"This last terrible remark came from a being in white, with a red silk handkerchief tied about the place where he was murdered.
"'Ah!' exclaimed Mr. R. Fennarf, 'have I the pleasure of seeing a Ghost?'
"'You have,' said the being.
"'Wont you take a seat, Mr. G.?'
"'No,' sighed the spectre, 'I haven't time. I just dropped in to let you know through what penance you might be enabled to atone for your unjustifiable arrogance with your daughter, and recall her to your side. Your sin was pride; your atonement must be humiliation. You must get yourself Kicked!'
"'Kicked!' ejaculated R. Fennarf, in a great state of excitement; 'why, really, Mr. G., I would bear anything to gain my desire; but that's rather a severe thing; and, beside, I don't know that I have an enemy in the world to do the kicking for me--except it is the potboy, and his legs are too short.'
"'Nothing but a kick will do,' said the Ghost, decidedly; 'and I will help you to the extent of handing you this rod, by aid of which you can transport yourself in any, or every, direction, until the kick is obtained.'
"As the Ghost spoke, he laid a small black rod upon the table, and--was gone.
"Mr. R. Fennarf fell into a revery: where could he go to make sure of a kick? He might go out into the street and tweak the nose of the first brother-Englishman he saw; but would that Englishman kick him for it? No! He would only sue him next day for damages. No Frenchman would kick a Britisher; because it is the policy of France just now to appear immensely fond of all that's British. Nor German. Nor Spaniard. 'Ah!' exclaimed Mr. R. Fennarf, joyously, 'I have it! The very place for me is "the formerly-united Republic of North America." They hate the very name of Englishman there. Read the articles in their papers; hear the speeches at their meetings: Oh, how they hate us! So here's a wave of the magic rod, and wishing I may be transported to the presence of some good England-hating Yankees. Hey, presto!'
"In an instant he found himself being announced, by a servant in livery, to the company in the drawing-room of Mr. Putnon Ayres, of Beacon Street, Boston, who is quite celebrated for having said some thousands of times that England is the natural enemy of this country, sir; the natural enemy, sir; and if war were declared against England to-morrow, I, for one, sir, would close my store and shoulder a gun myself, sir.
"'Now,' thought Mr. R. Fennarf, 'I shall be kicked, sure enough, and have it over.'
"He couldn't help shrinking when he saw Mr. Putnon Ayres approaching him; but the Bostonian foe of Britain whispered hurriedly to Mrs. Putnon Ayres: 'It's the English gentleman, my dear; a _real_ one, and cousin to a Lord! Tell everybody to drop their aitches, and not to say anything in favor of the war. Oh, ah! delighted to see you, my dear sir, in my 'umble 'ouse.'
"Mr. R. Fennarf was astonished. He must actually say something insulting, or that kick wouldn't come even here.
"'Thankee, my old muff,' said he, in a voice like a cab-man's; 'but it's a dewcied bore, you know, to answer all the compliments paid one in this blawsted country. I'm fond of wimmin, though, by George!'--
"Before he could finish his sentence, twenty managerial mothers, each dragging a marriageable daughter by the hand, made a desperate rush for him; but Mrs. Putnon Ayres reached him first, and placed the right hand of a pretty young lady in his own.
"'Take my 'arriet, sir,' she exclaimed, enthusiastically, 'and be assured that she will make you a good wife. It 'as always been my 'ope to 'ave such a son-in-law.'
"Mr. R. Fennarf felt that his case was becoming desperate; his chance of regaining his daughter farther off than ever. Fairly crazy to be kicked, he familiarly chucked Miss Harriet under the chin, and, assuming a perfectly diabolical expression of countenance, deliberately tickled her!
"'Haw! haw! haw!' roared Mr. Putnon Ayres, holding his sides with delight, 'that's the real English frankness, my dear son,--for such I must already call you,--and no American girl could be less than 'appy to perceive it.'
"In utter despair, Mr. R. Fennarf involuntarily placed a hand upon the magic r
od in his bosom, and wished himself elsewhere. Quick as thought he was elsewhere, and entering the sumptuous private office of the gifted St. Albans, editor of the New York 'Daily Fife,' whose 'leaders' on the propriety of an immediate slaughter of all Britons within reach, have excited much terror in the bosom of Victoria.
"'My dear sir,' screamed the sturdy St. Albans, springing to meet his visitor, 'I am delighted to welcome you to the United States!'
"Mr. R. Fennarf's heart sank down to his very boots.
"'You mean what there is left of your United States,' he yelled, like a very ruffian. 'You Yankees never did know how to speak the English language.' And he actually spat upon a file of the 'Daily Fife' hanging near him, and sneered pointedly at a lithograph of the editor over the fireplace.
"St. Albans grasped his hand convulsively.
"'Spoken like Carlyle, sir; spoken like Carlyle. Your English honesty is worthy your English heart of oak, my dear friend.'
"'Sir!' roared R. Fennarf, frantic to be kicked, and backing temptingly toward the gifted St. Albans all the time he talked; 'you and your paper be demn'd! What do _you_ know about Carlyle, bless my soul! _Who_ are you smiling at? WHAT d'ye mean?'
"Here he knocked St. Albans down.
"'You shall hear from me--step into that next room--will write to you instantly,' panted the editor.
Half-crazed with his continued failures, the unhappy R. Fennarf walked abstractedly into the next room, half hoping his antagonist wanted an opportunity to put on a pair of extra-heavy boots.
In two minutes a boy put a note into his hand.
"'MY DEAR SIR: Name your own terms for contributing a daily article to the Fife. Select your own subjects.
ST. ALBANS.'
"The miserable Briton involuntarily groaned, shook his head hopelessly, and once more touched the Ghost's rod. He heard the roll of drums, the scattering cracks of muskets, and found himself seated in the tent of that same Major General Steward who has so nobly said, on innumerable appropriate occasions, that he was ready to fulfil his whole duty in defeating the Southern rebels; but could not help wishing, as a man, that the enemy were Englishmen rather than our own brothers. _Then_ he would show you!
"'I want to take a look at your military shopkeepers,' observed Mr. R. Fennarf, with great brutality, 'and see how you Bull Runners make your sandbanks--fortifications, as you absurdly call them. You're "Brute Steward," I suppose.'
"'Ha! ha!' laughed the able General, cheerily, 'that's what you English gents call me, I believe. We're going to have a battle, to-day, and you must stop and see it.'
"'A battle!' growled R. Fennarf. 'What do you mean by that? I've got a permit from your vulgar blunderers at Washington to go through your so-called lines to Richmond, as that's the only place where one can find anything like gentlemen in this blawsted country. I intend to go to-day, too; so you must put off your so-called battle.'
"He'll certainly kick me after that, thought R. Fennarf, beginning to feel quite hopeful.
"'Put off the battle?' said the great commander, cordially. 'I'll do it with pleasure, sir.'
"The Englishman stared at him in utter despair, and, for the last time, clasped his mystical rod, murmuring: 'Back to England, back to my own street. I give up all hope!'
"No sooner said than done. In a second he was at the corner of his own street, and, with the rod in his hand, started upon a distracted run for his own lonely house. Not looking where he ran, he went helter-skelter against a fine, fleshy old English gentleman with a plum nose and a gouty great-toe, who had hobbled out for a mouthful of night-air. Bang against this fine, fleshy old English gentleman went he, and down came one of his heels on the gouty great-toe.
"There was a tremendous roar, as from the great Bull of Bashan; the countenance of the fine, fleshy old English gentleman became livid, and, in the deep anguish of his soul, he saluted the disturber of his peace with a tremendous--KICK!
"The black rod vanished in a moment from the hand of Mr. R. Fennarf, and his very soul jumped for joy.
"'Merry Christmas!' he shouted, violently shaking the hand of the now bewildered old gentleman with the plum nose.
"Then, on he darted toward his house. It was lighted up in every window. There was music in the house, too, and dancing. In he flew, with a delightful presentiment of what was going on. Sure enough, his daughter Alexandra had come home, with her husband the potboy, and a score of friends, and all hands were hard at a cotillon.
"'Father, forgive us!' screamed Alexandra.
"'Your pariental blessing,' suggested the potboy with much feeling.
"'Support them for life,' murmured the friends.
"'My children,' said Mr. R. Fennarf, rubbing his back, 'you must forgive _me_. Henceforth we live together, and celebrate every coming Christmas-eve by meeting all our friends again, as now. I am a new man from this time forth; for on this very night I have learned a great and useful lesson.'
"Then all was jollity again, and the potboy, notwithstanding the shortness of his legs, danced like a veritable Christy minstrel.
"Meantime, a certain retired hackney-coachman in the company, who had attentively noted the reconciliation of father and daughter, called the former into a corner of the room, and said very gravely to him:
"'You said you had learned a lesson to-night?'
"'Yes.'
"'What is it?' asked the hackney-coachman.
"'It is,' said Mr. R. Fennarf, with solemnity, 'that no man need go out of his own country to be kicked!'"
As Captain Bob Shorty finished reading, he looked about him for thefirst time, and lo! all the Mackerel chieftains were slumbering, withtheir chins upon their breasts.
And now, my boy, as the New Year rolls in, let me tender you thecompliments of the season, and sign myself,
Yours for festivity,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.