The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers, Series 3

  LETTER CIV.

  EXPLAINING, IN A LUCID AND PERFECTLY SATISFACTORY MANNER, THE POWERFUL INACTIVITY OF THAT PORTION OF THE VENERATED MACKEREL BRIGADE RESIDING BEFORE THE ANCIENT CITY OF PARIS, AND PRESENTING CERTAIN GENIAL DETAILS OF A RECENT FESTIVE CONGLOMERATION.

  WASHINGTON, D.C., March 6th, 1865.

  Methinks, my boy, that I see you sagely assuming a pair of massiveears, a pair of silver spectacles, and a blue cotton umbrella, for thepurpose of accurately personating the celebrated Public Sentiment, and,in that gifted character, peremptorily requiring me to explain thepresent use of the venerable Mackerel Brigade!

  Mastering for a moment the noble rage of the unimperilled patriot at arequest so vulgarly practical, I sternly refer you to the latest ablearticles in all our exciting and learned morning journals; wherein youwill be taught that such portion of the aged Mackerel organization ashas of late years invested Paris is in reality the gorgeous Pivotaround which revolve all the other brass buttons of ultimate nationaltriumph. And is not each editor of these excellent and sanguine morningjournals well qualified by his military genius to represent a GeneralIsm, oh?

  But perhaps, my boy, you fail to find ocular demonstration in thatillumination. It is barely possible that you refuse to acknowledgeoptical conviction in a lucidity of that description. It may be thatyour cornea lacks ability to transmit a specific image in thatpolarization of prismatics. It strikes me as not improbable thatyou--can't see it in that light.

  Then come with me to the Mackerel camp before Paris, and mark where theantique Brigade is sitting-up with the expiring Confederacy. Observehow each morning's sun is reflected from the gleaming spectacles of thevenerable military organization; while occasional rains make those sameinnumerable glasses resemble fairy lakes with dead fish in them. Notewith what a respectable air of a reliable family physician eachpatriarchal warrior exhumes, from somewhere down his leg, the massivegold watch which he has been induced to buy for $10 of one of thosenational benefactors in jewelry who advertise affectionately in ourmore parental weekly journals of romance--and remarks, oracularly:

  "It being exactly three o'clock by this here nineteen-carat repeater,that air Confederacy has got just one hour less to live."

  The fact, my boy, that this timely observation would apply with aboutequal accuracy to the whole human family, need not deter your insidiousself from answering in the affirmative, when I ask you, calmly, if itdoes not seem that a military organization of such intellect, _must_ beengaged in some unspeakably profound scheme of victory, even though tothe uneducated eye it may present somewhat the aspect of a muddy oldgentleman with his head against a stone-wall?

  And this business of showing the possible identity of apparentdead-pause with actual velocity, reminds me of a chap I once knew inthe Sixth Ward. He was a cast-iron chap, my boy, whose most powerfulconception of enterprise in trade was vividly associated with the dutyof being forever in his shirt-sleeves; and he kept a hardware shop atwhich the economical women of America could get such bargains inflat-irons and door-plates, as were a temptation to marry none but themost impoverished young men.

  Many customers had this very practical hardware chap, and one of themwas an aged file in a broad-brimmed hat, blue spectacles, and a silkumbrella, who had about him that air of Philadelphia which at oncesuggests an equal admixture of chronic slumber and profundity. Being awidower and a happy man, it was the daily custom of this aged file tospend several hours of intellectual refreshment in the hardware shop,smiling benignantly upon the ancient maidens who came thither to buycurling-tongs, and enlivening the soul of the cast-iron chap with fine,laborious treatises on the general idiocy of popular perception.

  "I tell you, my child," this aged file would remark, polishing hisspectacles with a red silk handkerchief,--"I tell you, the popularperception wants nicety; wants delicacy; wants capacity to distinguishbetween the noisy, bustling style of operation by which it loves to bedeceived,--_Populus vult decipi_,--and the silent, almost imperceptibleagencies through which all really great results are accomplished."

  Having heard this chaste sentiment repeated daily for about threeyears, my boy, the very practical hardware chap began to find hisnature growing embittered, and resolved to do something desperate. So,one morning, after listening quietly to the essay of the aged file, andrefusing to tell a small boot-blacking child of six years old thelowest price for one of Jones's Patent steam-ploughs, this cast-ironchap suddenly removed his hands from around an object on the counter,which he had, apparently, been attempting to conceal, and revealed toview a boy's lignum-vitae peg-top, which stood seemingly exactlybalanced on its steel tip.

  "Who would think now," said he, reflectively, "that it could be turningall the time?"

  The aged file advanced his blue spectacles to the very verge of thetop, and says he:

  "Well, now, it's wonderful, an't it? Any one would think, to look atthat simple toy, that it stood perfectly still; and yet its velocity ofmovement must be prodigious. Go into yonder street," exclaimed the agedfile, dropping his umbrella in the excitement of the moment,--"go intoyonder street and bring in any man you please, and that man could swearthat this top is not spinning at all. And why? Simply because thevelocity of this top, being several millions of revolutions per minute,is greater than his ignorant eye can comprehend. Upon my soul!"ejaculated the aged file, bending once more to the top, with greatenthusiasm, "upon my soul! it's wonderful."

  Over the counter came the hardware chap, with one bound, and says he:

  "Why, you durned old fool, _the top an't moving at all_!"

  And sure enough, the very practical cast-iron chap had just stuck thetop up with his hand, in order to bring the popular perception theoryof the aged file to grief.

  Ordinary persons, my boy, observing the Mackerel Brigade any time thesethree years, might think it was not moving at all; but we know itsGeneral to be the Top of the heap, and we know that he is makingrevolutions--in the whole art of war.

  Let, then, the venerable and strategical Mackerel Brigade strike offimpressions of itself in the mud before Paris; while the conic section,under Colonel Wobert Wobinson, walks calmly through the depths ofstoried Accomac; while Captain Samyule Sa-mith and the AnatomicalCavalry prosecute Confederate railroad researches, and Rear AdmiralHead's iron-plated squadron keeps watch and fishes for bass near thecaptured Fort Piano, on Duck Lake. For the present, be mine thepleasanter duty of imperfectly reporting that stately Ball at thePatent Office, which clinched the re-inauguration of our Honest Abe,and was attended by none of the old aristocracy of the capital, savethose who had received invitations.

  The old aristocracy of the capital, my boy, having been accustomed onlyto association with the ministers from combined Europe, and thechivalry who had, now and then, a nice wife or daughter to sell, couldnot be expected to countenance a plebeian carnival for which they hadnot received invitations. They could not be expected so soon to forgetthose elegant family entertainments of the olden time, when thehospitable board, with its green covering, groaned under the weight ofgold and silver; when, instead of salads and pates in crockeryplatters, the plates were of delicately enamelled pasteboard,containing from one to ten diamonds each, or, perhaps, a king or queenserved up cold with mint sauce.

  The Old Aristocracy! lineal descendants of the British cavaliers! Ishould weep, my boy, over their possible extinction forever, were itnot that the assiduity of the London Prisoners' Aid Society, in sendingticket-of-leave men to New York, promises to keep the species going.

  Behold me, at the proper hour, suspended between the shoulders of threeor four fat citizens of America in the entrance-hall, and being thusborne into the festive scene like a being too delicate to walk. This,too, at the expense of only the linen "duster" which I had donned topreserve my broadcloth from the dust in the dancing room, and which Ihad the satisfaction of seeing distributed in ribbons around the necksand bodies of a score of my neighbors, like so many charms to keep offenchantments. The crowd, the manag
ement, and the number of guests withumbrellas and top-boots, were all the subjects of ill-disguised sneersamong the old aristocracy of the capital who had not receivedinvitations.

  And now I emerge into fountains of satin and mechlin cascades, withnumerous citizens of America up to their waists in the surf, andlooking about as comfortable as though bathing at Newport in fulldress. Yonder stands our Honest Abe, in sombre costume, like a funeralprocession standing on end to let something pass under it.

  Leaning thoughtfully against the wall, my boy, I was gazingmeditatively upon this scene, and thinking how many of these fairbeings would be destroyed by railroad accidents on the way to theirhomes in other cities--I was thinking of this, my boy, when I heard avoice saying:

  "How powerful is human instink! let a fire-bell ring, and at least halfof these manly beings would make a bust for the street to join theirnative fire departmink. Let the hall-bell ring, and nearly all thesefair petticoats would involuntarily rush to 'tend the door. Such ishuman instink."

  Like one in a dream, I turned me where I stood and beheld the form ofCaptain Villiam Brown, his left hand upon his hip and his rightcaressing the neck of a small case-bottle in his bosom. I eyed himpleasantly a moment, and, said I:

  "Well met, my Union Blucher!"

  "Ah!" says Villiam, pensively, "how powerful is Human Instink!"

  "Explain, my Blue and Gold."

  "Human Instink," says Villiam, softly, "is an involuntary tendency toour normal condition."

  "Ahem," said I, sagely, "that sounds like Seward."

  "Come with me," says Villiam, gravely, "and I will show you the powerof Human Instink."

  He led me quietly, my boy, to a corner of the great room, where theguests were nearly all males, and suddenly roared out thisextraordinary question:

  "Say, Johnny-y-y, how's yer do-o-org?"

  The magical sound caught them unprepared, my boy, and before there wastime to remember where they were, they unanimously responded with:

  "Bully!"

  "Ah!" says Villiam, "that's Instink. They all were fellow-firemen lastyear, and remember the language of the Departmink."

  Deeply impressed with a sense of that subtle sympathy with early usageswhich never leaves a man in life, I again let the hero of a hundredbattles lead the way to another corner, where fifty fair ones stoodapart in a cluster, waiting for their escorts. Then it was that CaptainVilliam Brown suddenly assumed an air of unspeakable abstraction, andcommenced humming the tune of the song:

  "Bridget, tend the airy bell, Don't you hear it tinkle? Butcher's brought the bacon home,-- Cook it in a twinkle."

  Without at all thinking or knowing why they were doing so, my boy,two-thirds of those fair ones took up the tune at the first note andhummed it through!

  "The fair sect," says Villiam, cautiously, "once heard its mother singthat song, as she had learned it in her native palace; and has theInstink to remember it."

  Thus, taking new and beautiful lessons in the ever-fresh volume ofanimate nature, we sauntered into the ballroom, where our Honest Abeand his lady were viewing the performances from a pair of handsomeelevated chairs. Ay, sir: handsome (!) chairs; and that, too, when manyan honest poor man in the land has not a single chair with a gilt backto rest upon. Thus are we drifting toward (start not!)--yes sir andmadam, toward--Royalty!! Thus, too, are we incurring the highest scornof the old aristocracy of the capital who had not received invitations.

  There was dancing of the ordinary sort in plenty; many solid men ofBoston of the oldest age going to the verge of apoplexy in theirefforts at double-shuffle; but how can description do justice to theHonorable Gentleman from the Sixth Ward, who performed the celebratedConflagration Hornpipe!

  First, the Honorable Gentleman threw his whole weight upon his leftleg, elevated one ear as though intently listening, and tappeddistinctly upon the floor with his right heel the number of thedistrict. Then came a confused scuffling, first upon one foot and thenupon the other, to represent the hurry and excitement of getting themachine out of the house and whirling her to the scene of theconflagration. The next figure, performed alternately upon the toe,heel, and side of the shoe, was an imitation of the noble machine inmotion; the whole winding up with the Honorable Gentleman's seizing hispartner around the waist and plunging into a polka, symbolizing thegallant fireman's rescue of a consuming female from a sixth-storywindow.

  This beautiful dance, my boy, was considered an unanswerable argumentin favor of a Volunteer Fire Department; but its finishing effect wassomewhat marred by a piercing note from the famous night-key bugle ofthe Mackerel Brass Band: who, in an enfeebled state of mind, was foundwandering about the palace a trifle intoxicated, and received promptdirection to the apartments of Detective Baker.

  After witnessing, also, the noted walk-around known as the RevenueStamp, we joined the march for supper, and I sweetly expressed toCaptain Villiam Brown my fear of being crowded from the eatables.

  "Oh!" says Villiam, catching his case-bottle just in time to save itfrom sliding through his ruffles to the floor; "I shall work upon humanInstink."

  Here, this ornament of our National Mackerel organization inserted anelbow under the right ear of a fair being in blue just before us, andsays she:

  "I don't admire to see you men treating ladies in that manner. Theideor!"

  "Ah, Mrs. Nubbins," says Villiam, pleasantly, "when your father, themilkman, used to serve our house, I"--

  "Here--you can pass, sir," said the fair being in blue; and CaptainVilliam Brown walked forward deliberately upon the trailing skirts of abeauteous object in pink.

  "You're tearing my things--creature!"

  "Ah!" says Villiam, abstractedly, to me, "you don't remember standNumber Twelve, Fulton Market, where Miss Poodlem's grandmother usedto"--

  "There's plenty of room here, sir," observed the beauteous object inpink, and Captain Villiam Brown accidentally brushed against abeatitude in white.

  "Plebeian!"

  "My fren," says Villiam, as though he and I were entirely alonetogether on a desert island, "when old Binks gave up the soap-boilingbusiness last fall, and came to"--

  "Did you wish to pass, sir?" said the beatitude in white; and we soonfound ourselves beside the banquet board, where all went merry as afire-bell.

  Then did we gorge ourselves, my boy, like the very First Families undersimilar circumstances; revelling in such salads as were known to theancients just before the breaking out of the Asiatic cholera, andpaying general attention to a bill of fare which was heartily despisedby the old aristocracy of the capital who had received no invitations.

  It was past midnight when we retreated to a double-bedded room atWillard's, and as Captain Villiam Brown took his goblet of final soda,he gracefully tipped my glass, and says he:

  "I propose a sentimink."

  Villiam raised the Falernian nectar aloft, gazed solemnly at me, andsays he:

  "Human Instink!"

  Let us believe, my boy, that the instincts of those who come to thehigher social surface in this, our trying time of war, are, by theirown purity from anything actually malignant, sure indications that thenation's heart is good to the very bottom. Let us believe that thepride of Ascent, vain-glorious as it may seem, is nobler in raising thepublic laugh than is the tyrannical pride of Descent, which too oftenforces the public tear. Let us believe that, in the course of time,when the soft white hand of Peace shall have thrown a wreath of flowersacross the muzzles of our guns, these unaccustomed tradesmen-courtierswho now throng the halls of our upright First Citizen and Friend willprove the sound ancestral stock of a race of brave gentlemen and womenfair, to defend and adorn our Republican Court.

  Yours, blithely,

  ORPHEUS C. KERR.