There was Sergeant O'Pake, late of Italy, who bestrode a sorrel, whoseside was full of symmetrical gutters to carry the rain off, and whokept his octagon head directly under the right arm of the horsemanahead of him. There was private Nick O'Demus, with his sabre tuckedneatly into the eyes of his neighbor, managing an anatomical curiositythat walked half of the time on his hind-legs, and creaked when it cameto ruts in the road.
Onward, right onward, went this glittering cavalcade, my boy, untilthey came to an outskirt of Flint Hill, where a solitary remnant of aFirst Family might have been seen sitting on a fence, eating asandwich.
"Tr-r-aitor!" shouted Captain Samyule Sa-mith, in tones of milk-souringthunder, "where is the rest of the Confederacy, and what do you thinkof the news from Fort Donelson?"
The Confederacy hiccupped gloomily, my boy, as he took an impression ofits front teeth on the sandwich, and says he:
"The melancholy days are come--the saddest of the year."
"That's very true," said Samyule, pleasantly, "and proves you to be aperson of some eddication. But tell me, sweet hermit of the dale,"pursued Samyule, "where are the oats we have heard about?"
The solitary Confederacy checked a rising cough with another bite athis ration, and says he:
"You have the oats already; for they were eaten last night by sixConfederate chickens, and my slave, Mr. Johnson, sold them chickens toa prospecting detachment of the Mackerel Brigade this morning. Don'ttalk to me any more," continued the Confederacy, sadly, "for I am verymiserable, and haven't seen a quarter in six months."
Samyule seemed touched, and put his hand half-way into his pocket, butremembered his probable children, and refrained from romanticgenerosity.
"Let me see Mr. Johnson," says he, reflectively, "and I will questionhim concerning the South."
The Confederacy indulged in a plaintive cat-call, whereupon thereemerged from an adjacent clump of bushes a beautiful black being,richly attired in a heavy seal-ring and a red neck-tie. It was Mr.Johnson.
"You have sent for me," says Mr. Johnson, with much dignity, "and Ihave come. If you do not want me, I will return."
"You have seen the tragic Forrest?" said Samyule.
"The forest is my home," replied Mr. Johnson, "and in its equal shademy humble hut stands sacredly embowered. As the gifted Whittier mightsay:
"There lofty trees uprear in pillared state, And crystal streams the thirsty deer elate; While through the halls that base the dome of leaves Fall sunshine-harvests spread in golden sheaves.
"There toy the birds in sweet seclusion blest, To leap the branches or to build the nest, While from their throats the grateful song outpoured Wakes woodland orchestras to praise the Lord.
"There walks the wolf, no longer driven wild By panting hounds and huntsman blood-defiled; But tamed to kindness, seeketh peacefully The soothing shelter of a hollow tree.
"Who would be free, and tow'r above his race, In the full freedom spurning man and place, Deep in the forest let him rear his clan Where God himself stands face to face with man."
Just as the oppressed African finished this rhythmical statement of hisplatform, my boy, a huge horse-fly, alighting on the nose of CaptainSamyule Sa-mith, awoke that hero from the refreshing slumber into whichhe had fallen.
"Tell me, Johnson," says he, "how you got your eddication, for Ithought that persons from Afric's sunny mountain went to school aboutas often as a cat goes to sea."
Mr. Johnson placed his hand upon his breast with much stateliness, andsays he: "I entered Yale College as a Spaniard, and having graduatedwith all honors, returned to my master, and was at once employed incotton culture. I am contented and happy, and have never seen anuncomfortable day since my wife was sold. Go, stranger, and tell yourpeople that the South may be overwhelmed, but she can never beconquered while Johnson has a seal ring to his back."
On hearing this speech, my boy, Samyule said:
"About face! skeletons;" and the gridiron cavalry returned to camp in abrown study.
The intelligence of the southern slaves is really wonderful, my boy,and if it should ever come to a head, look out for a rise in wool.
Yours, contemplatively,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER XXXIII.
EXEMPLIFYING THE TERRIBLE DOMESTIC EFFECTS OF MILITARY INACTIVITY ONTHE POTOMAC, AND DESCRIBING THE METAPHYSICAL CAPTURE OF FORT MUGGINS.
WASHINGTON, D.C., March 3d, 1862.
I know a man, my boy, who was driven to lunacy by reliable war news. Hewas in the prime of life when the war broke out, and took such aninterest in the struggle that it soon became nearly equal to theinterest on his debts. With all the enthusiasm of vegetable youth hesubscribed for all the papers, and commenced to read the reliable warnews. In this way he learned that all was quiet on the Potomac, andimmediately went to congratulate his friends, and purchase six Americanflags. On the following morning he wrapt himself in the banner of hiscountry and learned from all the papers that all was quiet on thePotomac. His joy at once became intense; he hoisted a flag on thelightning-rod of his domicil, purchased a national pocket-handkerchief,bought six hand-organs that played the Star-Spangled Banner, and dranknothing but gunpowder tea. In the next six months, however, there was agreat change in our military affairs; the backbone of the rebellion wasbroken, the sound of the thunder came from all parts of the sky, andfifty-three excellent family journals informed the enthusiast that allwas quiet on the Potomac. He now became fairly mad with bliss, andvolunteered to sit up with a young lady whose brother was a soldier. Onthe following morning he commenced to read Bancroft's History of theUnited States, with Hardee's Tactics appended, only pausing long enoughto learn from the daily papers that all was quiet on the Potomac. Thus,in a fairy dream of delicious joy, passed the greater part of thisdevoted patriot's life; and even as his hair turned gray, and his formbegan to bend with old age, his eye flashed in eternal youth over thestill reliable war news. At length there came a great change in themilitary career of the Republic; the rebellion received itsdeath-wound, and Washington's Birthday boomed upon the United States ofAmerica. It was the morning of that glorious day, and the venerablepatriot was tottering about the room with his cane, when hisgreat-grandchild, a lad of twenty-five, came thundering into the roomwith forty-three daily papers under his arm.
"Old man!" says he, in a transport, "there's great news."
"Boy, boy!" says the aged patriot, "do not trifle with me. Can it bethat--"
"Bet your life--"
"Is it then a fact that--"
"Yes--"
"Am I to believe that--"
"ALL IS QUIET ON THE POTOMAC!"
It was too much for the venerable Brutus; he clutched at the air, spunonce on his left heel, sang a stave of John Brown's body, and stoodtransfixed with ecstacy.
"Thank Heving," says he, "for sparing me to see this day!"
After which he became hopelessly insane, my boy, and raved so awfullyabout all our great generals turning into Mud-larks that his afflictedfamily had to send him to the asylum.
This veracious and touching biography will show you how dangerous topublic health is reliable war news, and convince you that theSecretary's order to the press is only a proper insanitary measure.
I am all the more resigned to it, my boy, because it affects me solittle that I am even able to give you a strictly reliable account of agreat movement that lately took place.
I went down to Accomac early in the week, my boy, having heard thatCaptain Villiam Brown and the Conic Section of the Mackerel Brigadewere about to march upon Fort Muggins, where Jeff Davis, Beauregard,Mason, Slidell, Yancey, and the whole rebel Congress were believed tobe intrenched. Mounted on my gothic steed Pegasus, who only blew downonce in the whole journey, I repaired to Villiam's department, and wastaking notes of the advance, upon a sheet of paper spread on theground, when the commander of Accomac approached me, and says he:
"What are you doing, my bantam?"
&nb
sp; "I'm taking notes," says I, "for a journal which has such an immensecirculation among our gallant troops that when they begin to read it inthe camps, it looks, from a distance, as though there had just been aheavy snow-storm."
"Ah!" says Villiam, thoughtfully, "newspapers and snow-storms aresomewhat alike; for both make black appear white. But," said Villiamphilosophically, "the snow is the more moral; for you can't lie in thatwith safety, as you can in a newspaper. In the language of GeneralGrant at Donelson," says Villiam, sternly: "I propose to move upon yourworks immediately."
And with that he planted one of his boots right in the middle of mypaper.
"Read that ere Napoleonic dockyment," says Villiam, handing me ascroll. It was as follows:
EDICK.
Having noticed that the press of the United States of America is making a ass of itself, by giving information to the enemy concerning the best methods of carrying on the strategy of war, I do hereby assume control of all special correspondents, forbidding them to transact anything but private business; neither they, nor their wives, nor their children, to the third and fourth generation.
I. It is ordered, that all advice from editors to the War Department, to the general commanding, or the generals commanding the armies in the field, be absolutely forbidden; as such advice is calculated to make the United States of America a idiot.
II. Any newspaper publishing any news whatever, however obtained, shall be excluded from all railroads and steamboats, in order that country journals, which receive the same news during the following year, may not be injured in cirkylation.
III. This control of special correspondents does not include the correspondent of the London Times, who wouldn't be believed if he published all the news of the next Christian era. By order of
VILLIAM BROWN, Eskevire, Captain Conic Section, Mackerel Brigade.
I had remounted Pegasus while reading this able State paper, my boy,and had just finished it, when a nervous member of the advance-guardaccidentally touched off a cannon, whose report was almost immediatelyanswered by one from the dense fog before us.
"Ha!" says Captain Villiam Brown, suddenly leaping from his steed, andcreeping under it--to examine if the saddle-girth was all right--"thefort is right before us in the fog, and the rebels are awake. Let theOrange County Company advance with their howitzers, and fire to thenorth-east."
The Orange County Company, my boy, instantly wheeled their howitzersinto position, and sent some pounds of grape toward the meridian, theroar of their weapons of death being instantaneously answered by athundering crash in the fog.
Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, now went forward six yards atdouble-quick, and poured in a rattling volley of musketry, dodgingfearlessly when exactly the same kind of a volley was heard in the fog,and wishing that they might have a few rebels for supper.
"Ha!" says Captain Villiam Brown, when he noticed that nobody seemed tobe killed yet; "Providence is on our side, and this here unnaturalrebellion is squelched. Let the Anatomical Cavalry charge into the fog,and demand the surrender of Fort Muggins," continued Villiam,compressing his lips with mad valor, "while I repair to that tree backthere, and see if there is not a fiendish secessionist lurking behindit."
The Anatomical Cavalry immediately dismounted from their horses, whichwere too old to be used in a charge, and gallantly entered the fog,with their sabres between their teeth, and their hands in theirpockets--it being a part of their tactics to catch a rebel beforecutting his head off.
In the meantime, my boy, the Orange County howitzers and the Mackerelmuskets were hurling a continuous fire into the clouds, stirring up theangels, and loosening the smaller planets. Sturdily answered the rebelsfrom the fog-begirt fort; but not one of our men had yet fallen.
Captain Villiam Brown was just coming down from the top of a very talltree, whither he had gone to search for masked batteries, when the fogcommenced lifting, and disclosed the Anatomical Cavalry returning atdouble-quick.
Instantly our fire ceased, and so did that of the rebels.
"Does the fort surrender to the United States of America?" saysVilliam, to the captain of the Anatomicals.
The gallant dragoon, sighed, and says he:
"I used my magnifying glass, but could find no fort."
At this moment, my boy, a sharp sunbeam cleft the fog as a sword does avail, and the mist rolled away from the scene in two volumes,disclosing to our view a fine cabbage-patch, with a dense wood beyond.
Villiam deliberately raised a bottle to his face, and gazed through itupon the unexpected prospect.
"Ha!" says he sadly, "the garrison has cut its way through the fog andescaped, but Fort Muggins is ours! Let the flag of our Union be plantedon the ramparts," says Villiam, with much perspiration, "and I willimmediately issue a proclamation to the people of the United States ofAmerica."
Believing that Villiam was somewhat too hasty in his conclusions, myboy, I ventured to insinuate that what he had taken for a fort in thefog, was really nothing but a cabbage inclosure, and that the escapedrebels were purely imaginary.
"Imaginary!" says Villiam, hastily placing his canteen in his pocket."Why, didn't you hear the roar of their artillery?"
"Do you see that thick wood yonder?" says I.
Says he, "It is visible to the undressed eye."
"Well," says I, "what you took for the sound of rebel firing, was onlythe echo of your own firing in that wood."
Villiam pondered for a few moments, my boy, like one who wasconsidering the propriety of saying nothing in as few words aspossible, and then looked angularly at me, and says he:
"My proclamation to the press will cover all this, and the news of thishere engagement will keep until the war is over. Ah!" says Villiam, "Iwouldn't have the news of this affair published on any account; for ifthe Government thought I was trying to cabbage in my Department, itwould make me Minister to Russia immediately."
As the Conic Section of the Mackerel Brigade returned slowly tohead-quarters, my boy, I thought to myself: How often does man, aftermaking something his particular forte, discover at last that it is onlya cabbage-patch, and hardly large enough at that for a big hog likehimself!
Yours, philanthropically,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER XXXIV.
BEGINNING WITH A LAMENTATION, BUT CHANGING MATERIALLY IN TONE AT THEDICTUM OF JED SMITH.
WASHINGTON, D.C., March 8th, 1862.
Two days ago, my boy, a letter from the West informed me that an oldfriend of mine had fallen in battle at the very moment of victory. Oneby one, my boy, I have lost many friends since the war began, and knowhow to bear the stroke; but what will they say in that home to whichthe young soldier wafted a nightly prayer? Thither, alas! he goes
NO MORE.
Hushed be the song and the love-notes of gladness That broke with the morn from the cottager's door-- Muffle the tread in the soft stealth of sadness, For one who returneth, whose chamber-lamp burneth No more.
Silent he lies on the broad path of glory, Where withers ungarnered the red crop of war. Grand is his couch, though the pillows are gory, 'Mid forms that shall battle, 'mid guns that shall rattle No more.
Soldier of Freedom, thy marches are ended-- The dreams that were prophets of triumph are o'er-- Death with the night of thy manhood is blended-- The bugle shall call thee, the fight shall enthrall thee No more.
Far to the Northward the banners are dimming, And faint comes the tap of the drummers before; Low in the tree-tops the swallow is skimming; Thy comrades shall cheer thee, the weakest shall fear thee No more.
Far to the Westward the day is at vespers, And bows down its head, like a priest, to adore; Soldier, the twilight for thee has no whispers, The night shall forsa
ke thee, the morn shall awake thee No more.
Wide o'er the plain, where the white tents are gleaming, In spectral array, like the graves they're before-- One there is empty, where once thou wert dreaming Of deeds that are boasted, of One that is toasted No more.
When the Commander to-morrow proclaimeth A list of the brave for the nation to store, Thou shalt be known with the heroes he nameth, Who wake from their slumbers, who answer their numbers No more.
Hushed be the song and the love-notes of gladness That broke with the morn from the cottager's door-- Muffle the tread in the soft stealth of sadness, For one who returneth, whose chamber-lamp burneth No more.
To escape my own thoughts, I went over into a camp of New Englandchaps, yesterday, my boy, and one of the first high-privates my eyesrested on was Jed Smith, of Salsbury. He winked to the chaps loungingnear him, when he noted my doleful look, and says he:
"You're mopish, comrade. Hez caliker proved deceitful?"
"No," says I, indifferently. "Calico rather shuns me, as a generalthing, my Down-easter, on account of my plain speaking."
This startled him, my boy, as I expected it would, and says he:
"That's jest like the mock-modesty of the wimmin folks all the worldover, and a body might think they had the hull supply and nothin'shorter; but I tell ye it's the heartiest sow that makes the leastnoise, and half this here modesty is all sham. Onct in a while thesehere awful modest critters git shook down a bit, I guess; andgheewhillikins! ef it don't do me good to see it. I recollect I wasgoin' down from Augusty some two years ago, in the old stage that SammyTompkins druv, and we had one of the she-critters aboard--and she _was_a scrouger, I tell ye! Bonnet red as a blaze, and stuck all over withstiff geeranium blows, a hump like a Hottentot gal, and sich ankles!but hold your horses, I'm gettin' ahead of time. We was awful crowded,and no mistake--piled right on top of each other, like so many layersof cabbage; and the way that gal squealed when we struck a rut, was acaution to screech owls. And she was takin' up her sheer of the coach,too, I guess; and kind of stretched her walkin' geer way under the seatin front of her, and out t'other side, just to brace herself agin thediffikilties of travel. It being pretty bad goin' down in them parts,she had on a pair of her brother's butes, and they was what shewouldn't have had seen if she'd knowed it. One of the fellers on themiddle seat was Zeb Green--gone to glory some time ago--and when hespied them butes, he winked to me, and sung out: