LETTER CV.
BEING OUR CORRESPONDENT'S LAST EFFORT PRIOR TO THE COMMENCEMENT OF A NEW MACKEREL CAMPAIGN; INTRODUCING A METRICAL PICTURE OF THE MOST REMARKABLE SINGLE COMBAT ON RECORD; AND SHOWING HOW THE ROMANCE OF WOMAN'S SENSITIVE SOUL CAN BE CRUSHED BY THE THING CALLED MAN.
WASHINGTON, D.C., March 12th, 1865.
This sagacious business of writing national military history once aweek, my boy, has at times presented itself to my mind as a publicobligation nearly equal in steady mutual delight to the wholesomeoccupation of organ-grinding. Mark the Italian nobleman who discoursesmercenary twangs beneath your window, and you shall find him a personof severe and gloomy visage,--a figure with an expression of beingweighed down to the very earth by a something heavier than the meremahogany box of shrieks out of which he grinds popular misery by theblock. Not that he has a distaste for music, my boy; not that he wasthe less enthusiastic at that past period "when music, heavenly maid,was young" to him; but because the daily recurrence to his ears ofprecisely the same sounds for ten years, has a horribly depressingeffect of unmitigated sameness; and music has become to him an ancientmaiden of exasperating pertinacity. It quite affects me, my boy, when Isee one of those melancholy sons of song carrying a regularly organizedmonkey around with him; for it is evident he finds in suchcompanionship a certain relief from the anguish of monotony. Guided bythe example, I sometimes get a Brigadier to keep me company also, andyou can hardly imagine how often I am saved from gloom by the amusementI experience in seeing his shrewd imitation of a real soldier.
But even this resource may fail; for there are periods when suchimitations are very bad indeed; and then the mind of the weariedscribe, like that of my departed friend, the Arkansaw Nightingale, mayat any moment expire for want of food. Shall I ever forget the time, myboy, when the Nightingale came to Washington, as President of theArkansaw Tract Society, for the express purpose of protesting againstthe war, and procuring a fresh glass of the same he had last time?
"This war," says he, waiting for it to grow cooler, and thoughtfullycontemplating the reflection of himself in the bowl of a spoon,--"thiswar, if it goes on, wont never shet pan till the hair's rubbed off thehull country, and the 'Merican Eagle wont hev enough feathers in histail to oil a watch-spring. Tell you! stranger, it'll be wuss thanTuscaloosa Sam's last tackle; and that wasn't slow."
"What was that?" says I.
"What!" says the Nightingale, stirring in a little sugar, "did younever hearn tell of Tuscaloosa's last? Then here's the screed done intomusic under my pen and seal; and as it an't quite as long's the hundrednineteenth psalm, you don't want a chair to hear it."
Whereupon the Arkansaw Nightingale whipt from some obscure rear pocketa remarkable handful of written paper, and proceeded to excite me with
"A GREAT FIT.
"There was a man in Arkansaw As let his passions rise, And not unfrequently picked out Some other varmint's eyes.
"His name was Tuscaloosa Sam, And often he would say, 'There's not a cuss in Arkansaw I can't whip any day.'
"One morn, a stranger passin' by, Heard Sammy talkin' so, When down he scrambled from his hoss, And off his coat did go.
"He sorter kinder shut one eye, And spit into his hand, And put his ugly head one side, And twitched his trowsers' band.
"'My boy,' says he, 'it's my belief, Whomever you may be, That I kin make you screech, and smell Pertikler agony.'
"'I'm thar,' says Tuscaloosa Sam, And chucked his hat away; 'I'm thar,' says he, and buttoned up As far as buttons may.
"He thundered on the stranger's mug, The stranger pounded he; And oh! the way them critters fit Was beautiful to see.
"They clinched like two rampageous bears, And then went down a bit; They swore a stream of six-inch oaths And fit, and fit, and fit.
"When Sam would try to work away, And on his pegs to git, The stranger'd pull him back; and so, They fit, and fit, and fit!
"Then like a pair of lobsters, both Upon the ground were knit, And yet the varmints used their teeth, And fit, and fit, and fit!!
"The sun of noon was high above, And hot enough to split, But only riled the fellers more, That fit, and fit, and fit!!!
"The stranger snapped at Sammy's nose, And shortened it a bit; And then they both swore awful hard, And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!
"The mud it flew, the sky grew dark, And all the litenins lit; But still them critters rolled about, And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!
"First Sam on top, then t'other chap; When one would make a hit, The other'd smell the grass; and so, They fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!
"The night came on, the stars shone out As bright as wimmen's wit; And still them fellers swore and gouged, And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!
"The neighbors heard the noise they made, And thought an earthquake lit; Yet all the while 'twas him and Sam As fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!!
"For miles around the noise was heard; Folks couldn't sleep a bit, Because them two rantankerous chaps Still fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!!!
"But jist at cock-crow, suddently, There came an awful pause, And I and my old man run out To ascertain the cause.
"The sun was rising in the yeast, And lit the hull concern; But not a sign of either chap Was found at any turn.
"Yet, in the region where they fit, We found, to our surprise, One pint of buttons, two big knives, Some whiskers, and four eyes!"
There's dramatic genius for you, my boy, and you will join me inraining a pint or so of tears in memory of one who perished because hismind had nothing to feed upon, and who left his bottle very empty.
Deferring for the present all account of the Mackerel strategy nowcoming slowly to a head and on foot, let me relate a little incidentillustrative of the delicious loyalty of the taper women of America,and the intolerable baseness of the repulsive object called man:
There is in this city an intensely common-place masculine from Pequog,who has, for a wife, a small, plump member of that imperishable sexwhose eyes remind me of wild cherries and milk. There never was a nicerlittle woman, my boy, and she can knit scarlet dogs, play "Norma," makecharlotte russe, and do other things equally well calculated to conferimmeasurable happiness upon a husband of limited means. Ever since thewell-known Southern Confederacy first respectfully requested to be letalone with Sumter, she has been eager to fulfil woman's part in thewar, and does not wake up the Pequogian more than twice of a night totalk about it.
'Twas at one o'clock on the morning of Tuesday last that she roused upthe partner of her joys and sorrows, and says she:
"Peter, I do wish you'd tell me what I can do, as a woman, for mycountry."
"Go to sleep," says Peter, fiendishly.
"No, but what _can_ I do? Why wont you tell me what is really woman'spart in the war?"
"Now, see here," says Peter, sternly. "I'm having so many nights, withthe nap all worn off, over this business, that I can't stand it anylonger. Just wait till tomorrow evening, and I'll think over the matterand tell you what really _is_ woman's part in the war."
So they both went to sleep, my boy, and all next day that little womanwondered, as she hummed pleasantly over her work, whether her lordwould advise her to go out as a Florence Nightingale, or turn teacherof intelligent contrabands.
Night came, and the Pequogian returned from his grocery store, andsilently took a seat before the fire in the dining-room. The littlewoman looked up at him from the ottoman on which she was cosilysitting, and says she:
"Well, dear?"
Slowly and solemnly did that Pequog husband draw off one boot.Deliberately did he take off a stocking and hold it aloft.
"Martha Jane!" says he, gravely, "'tis a sock your eyes behold, andth
ere is a hole in the heel thereof. You are a wife; duty calls you tomend your husband's stockings; and _this_--THIS--is Woman's Part in theWore!"
Let us draw a veil, my boy, over the heart-rending scene that followed;only hinting that hartshorn and burnt feathers are believed to beuseful on such occasions, and produce an odor at once wholesome andexasperating.
Yours, sympathetically,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.