LETTER CVII.
RECORDING THE LATEST DELPHIC UTTERANCES OF ONE WHOM WE ALL HONOR WITHOUT KNOWING WHY; AND RECOUNTING THE TRULY MARVELLOUS AFFAIR OF THE FORT BUILT ACCORDING TO TACITUS.
WASHINGTON, D.C., March 29th, 1865.
It is a beautiful trait of our common American nature, my boy, that weshould be stood-upon by fleshy Old Age, and find ourselves reduced tothe mental condition of mangled infants thereby. It is an airycharacteristic of our gentle national temperament, to letshirt-collared Old Age, of much alpaca pants, sit down on us and coughinto our ears. It is a part of our social organization as a reverentialpeople to be forever weighed-down in our spirits by the awfulrespectability of double-chinned Old Age, and the solemn satisfactionit displays at its elephantine meals.
Hence, my boy, when I tell you that the Venerable Gammon beamed hitherfrom his residential Mugville last Saturday, with a view to benefitingthat wayward infant, his country, you will be prepared to learn thatthe populace fell upon their unworthy stomachs before him, andrespectfully begged him to walk over their necks.
"My children," said the Venerable Gammon, with a fleshy smile,signifying that he had made them all, and yet didn't wish to seemproud,--"My children, this war is progressing just as I originallyplanned it, and will end successfully as soon as it terminatestriumphantly. Behold my old friend, Phoebus," says the VenerableGammon, pointing an adipose forefinger at the sun, with a patriarchalair of having benignantly invented that luminary, though benevolentlypermitting Providence to have all the credit, "it is not more certainthat my warm-hearted friend Phoebus will rise in the yeast to-morrowmorning than that the Southern Confederacy will not be capable offighting a single additional battle after it shall have lost theability to take part in another engagement."
Then the entire populace requested immediate leave to black the bootsof their aged benefactor and idol, and seven-and-thirty indefatigablereporters, with pencils behind their ears, telegraphed toseven-and-thirty powerful morning journals, that the end of therebellion might be looked for in about a couple of hours.
I don't mind revealing to you, as a curious fact, my boy, that nomortal man is able to understand how the Venerable Gammon has doneanything at all in this war. In fact, I can't exactly perceive whatearthly deed he has actually performed to make him preferable to GeorgeWashington; but it is generally inferred, from the size of hiswatch-seals and the lambency of his spectacles, that he has in some waybeen more than a parent to the country; and the thousands now buyingsome beneficent Petroleum stock, which he has to sell, are firmlyconvinced that its sale is positively calculated to forever benefit thehuman race.
Oh! that I were Ovid, or Anacreon, to describe fittingly the recentlittle wedding entertainment, at which this excellently-aged teacherand preserver of his species was fatly present, diffusing permissionfor all mankind to be happy and not mind him. After beaming parentallyupon the officiating Mackerel chaplain, with a benignity inseparablefrom the idea that all clergymen were the work of his hands, he tookthe dimpled chin of the bride between his thumb add forefinger, andsays he:
"My children, I am an old, old man; but may ye be happy." Here hekissed the bride. "Yes, my children," says the venerable Gammon, with ablessing on the world in every tone of his buttery voice, "I am fardown in the vale of years; but may ye be very happy." And he kissed thebride. "Still, my children," says the Venerable Gammon, with steamingspectacles, "I would be willing to be even older, if my country desiredit; but may ye be forever happy." So he kissed the bride. "Oh!" saysthe Venerable Gammon, abstractedly placing a benefactor's arm aroundher waist, and looking benevolently about the room as though consentingto its possession of four walls,--"Oh!" says he, "it is a privilege tobe old for such a cause as this; but may ye be supremely happy." Atthis juncture he kissed the bride. "I am old enough," says thevenerable Gammon, "to be your brother." And he kissed every young womanthere.
Whereupon it was the general impression that an apostle was present;and when the bridegroom subsequently hinted, in a disagreeable whisper,that two bottles of port were enough to confuse the mind of aMethuselah himself, there was a wonderful unanimity among the ladies asto the probable misery of the bride's future life.
But wherefore, O, Eros, dost thou detain me in such scenes as these,while the hoarse trumpet of bully Mars calls me to the field ofstrategic glory? Hire an imaginary horse, my boy, at a fabulouslivery-stable, and, in fancy, trot beside me as I urge my architecturalsteed, the Gothic Pegasus, toward the Mackerel lines in front of Paris.
Believing that you are entirely familiar with the very fat works of C.Tacitus, and minutely remember Book II. of his Annals, let me draw yourattention to that fort Aliso which he describes as being built upon theRiver Luppia by Drusus, father of Germanicus, and constituting thecommencement of a chain of posts to the Rhine. Just such a work hasbeen erected on the shores of Duck Lake by Mackerel genius, as the keyto a long line of remarkable mud-works. It is modelled after Aliso,chiefly because that work was notorious for being near the Canal ofDrusus; and the whole world knows that canal-digging is inseparablefrom all our national strategy.
Fort Bledandide is the name of the Mackerel institution destined toreceive immortality in Mr. Tacitus Greeley's exciting History of thisdistracting war; but to me belongs the earlier privilege of enabling amoral weekly journal to confuse its readers with the first reliablereport of the marvellous battle of Fort Bledandide.
It was at quite an early hour, my boy, on the morning of my arrivalbefore Paris, that a faint sound, as of gentlemen firing guns, washeard to proceed from a point some six feet outside Fort Bledandide.Nobody was up at the time, save a few venerable Mackerels, who, indaily expectation of some carnage, had selected that hour at which towrite their wills; and it was left for these antique beings to be thefirst of our troops disturbed by a shameless Confederacy who lifted hishead slowly above our works, and deliberately aimed a deadlyhorse-pistol at Jacob Barker, the regimental dog. Hideous was theexplosion ensuing, as the night-key with which the dread weapon wasloaded went hurtling through the air some ten yards above its mark; andan aged Mackerel looked up from his penmanship.
"What!" says he, with some animation, "are my spectacles guilty of afalsehood, or have I indeed the pleasure of seeing Mr. Davis?"
The Confederacy reloaded his horse-pistol with a handful ofcarpet-tacks, and says he:
"I am that individdle."
Raising a bell that stood by his side, the venerable Mackerel rang ahasty peal, which had the effect to arouse two or three of the otherscribes from their writing, and cause them to apply ear-trumpets totheir ears. Simultaneously the first warrior roared, through afire-trumpet:
"Comrades! We are surprised."
At the same instant the Confederacy burst into a tempest of unseemlychuckles, and fired his carpet-tacks into the soft hat of the nearestMackerel, causing that hoary veteran to drop his will and scratch hishead with an air of hopeless bewilderment.
"Have you any tea that you could give me?" says the Confederacy,scrambling into the Fort,--"any Hyson senior or junior? Have you anycoffee? Oh, _do_ give me some coffee." Here the Confederacy winkedprofoundly, to indicate that his request was intended merely as a bitof surprising humor. Meantime, six other Confederacies withhorse-pistols had walked in to look for breakfast, and the facetiousbusiness of relieving the slowly-awakened garrison of theirloud-ticking and rather cheap gold watches was performed with neatnessand dispatch. After which the aged Mackerels were dismissed to join themain body of the ancient Brigade some ten yards to the rear of thework, with the remark, that their vandal rulers would find it somewhatdifficult to reconstruct the sunny South.
Thus, my boy, was accomplished another of those surprises which notunfrequently give the most villanous cause an appearance of temporarysuccess; though at times they prove real blessings to the good cause byincluding the capture of three or four brass-buttoned brigadiers.
But, pause, my feeble pen, ere thou venturest upon the hopeless task ofputting i
nto language the holy rage of the General of the MackerelBrigade, when he learned the capture of Fort Bledandide. Pause,miserable quill, ere thou plungest into an insane effort to picture theawful state of vengeance exciting Captain Villiam Brown on the sameoccasion. As is his invariable custom at such junctures, the General atonce retired to his tent to practise on the accordion, leaving Villiamto form a few regiments of the Mackerel reserve in line of battle forthe recapture of the position.
"Ah!" says Villiam, spiritedly, "here's a chance for a baynit chargeafter the manner of Napoleon's Old Guard; and I hereby notify Regiment5, that the eyes of the whole world are upon them."
Captain Bob Shorty and I had got ready our bits of smoked glass, topreserve our eyes from the too-great glitter of the dazzlingachievement about to come off, when we noticed that Villiam motionedwith his famous sword, Escalibar, for the spectacled warriors to pausea moment.
"If any of you martial beings happen to have any small change about youat this exciting moment," says Villiam, paternally, "I will take chargeof it, for safety."
This noble proposition, my boy, might have been accepted unanimously,had not the discharge, at that instant, of a horse-pistol from theramparts of Fort Bledandide caused the entire regiment to partiallydisappear! That is to say, every man went down upon his stomach,according to the latest principles of regimental strategy.
"Ah!" says Villiam, "how are the mighty fallen!"
Loudly rang a tremendous horse-laugh from the Confederacies in theFort, several of whom were seen making off toward Paris with OrangeCounty howitzers under each arm. I could see, by the aid of my smokedglass, that the Chivalry on the ramparts was sitting on a chest, withhis discharged horse-pistol across his knee, and a series of feeblewinks chasing each other around his Confederate eyelids.
"By all that's Federal!" says Captain Bob Shorty, "the scorpionsurrenders!"
At the word, up sprang Regiment 5, like the men of Roderick Dhu, andstraightforward they swept into Fort Bledandide, as a wave of the angrysea will sometimes sweep into a doomed barrel on the beach. Such wasthe shock of this dare-devil charge, that the winking Confederacy onthe ramparts incontinently rolled off his chest and was capturedwithout much carnage.
"Do you surrender to the United States of America?" says Villiam, withmuch star-spangled banner in his manner.
The Confederacy raised himself up on an elbow and hiccup'd gloomily.
"By all that's Federal!" says Captain Bob Shorty, "he's been drinkingsome of that air Commissary whiskey of ours."
Then, my boy, did Captain Villiam Brown evidence that exquisite qualityof our humanity, which bids us forget all wrongs and enmities at theeloquent appeal of death. No sooner had Captain Bob Shorty made theabove remark, than his whole aspect changed to pity, and he feelinglyknelt beside the miserable captive.
"Have you any last request to make, poor inseck?" asked Villiam, muchaffected.
The misguided Confederacy was speechless; but made an attempt toscratch his breast.
"Ah!" says Villiam, with deep emotion, "you mean that your conscienceis a still small woice."
Here the Confederacy scratched his left leg feebly; and says CaptainBob Shorty:
"According to your rule, Villiam, his conscience must be quite large,extending to his legs."
Nervously arose Captain Villiam Brown to his feet, with such a shudderrunning through his manly frame as caused every brass button to jingle.
"I think," says Villiam, with a ghastly smile, "that some of hisconscience is a-walking softly down my backbone, with a hop now andthen."
Alas! my boy, we all have consciences, save green grocers andfashionable bootmakers; and who among us but has felt his conscience tobe at times almost totally disregarded, until it has finally broughthim to the scratch by turning to flee?
Scarcely was Fort Bledandide recovered by the valor of our arms whenthe General of the Mackerel Brigade let fly the following
"GENERAL ORDER.
"The General Commanding announces to the Mackerels that the Southern Confederacy has taken place. Also, that the unconquerable Mackerel Brigade has taken place back again.
"Yesterday morning the Confederacy massed himself and succeeded, through the unabated slumbers of the persons hired to sit up with him, in obtaining Fort Bledandide.
"Prompt measures were taken by Captain Villiam Brown, Eskevire; and, although an entire regiment fell in the assault, the work was retaken.
"Two lessons can be learned from these operations: First, that the notorious Southern Confederacy is now reduced to a mere shell; and, secondly, that said shell has a very short fuse.
"THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.
("GREEN SEAL.")
I was still reading this pointed document, when there arrived, fromParis, a Confederate being, in carpet slippers and white cotton gloves,whose name was Lamb, and who bore peace-propositions.
"I have come," says he, affably, "to say, that the army of the Northcan now be admitted into the army of the Confederacy for a conjointattack on combined Europe, after which the sunny South will forgive allher creditors, and see what can be done for the Northern masses."
Let this frank speech prove, my boy, what all our excellentdemocratic[6] morning journals of limited circulation have so longmaintained,--that it rests entirely with the President to secure animmediate cessation of hostilities with the Southerners, by forgettingall the wrongs of the past, while they are for getting all the rightsof the future.
Yours, pacifically,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
[6] This letter was originally addressed to the editor of an excellent little democratic weekly journal, who went carefully over it and substituted the word "patriotic" for "democratic," whenever the latter occurred:--thereby achieving the most perfect and astounding perversion of meaning on record!