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                                  THE

                        ORPHEUS C. KERR PAPERS.

                            SECOND SERIES.

                               NEW YORK:
                  _Carleton, Publisher, 413 Broadway._
                       (LATE RUDD & CARLETON.)
                             M DCCC LXIII.




  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862.

  BY GEO. W. CARLETON.

  In the Clerk's office of the District Court
  for the Southern District of New York.




                                CONTENTS.


                              LETTER LIII.

  NOTING THE LAMENTABLE INCONVENIENCES OF A "PRESS-CENSORSHIP," AND
      PARTIALLY REVEALING THE CIRCUMSTANCES ATTENDANT ON A MARVELLOUS
      STRATEGIC CHANGE OF BASE BY THE MACKEREL BRIGADE                9

                              LETTER LIV.

  ILLUSTRATING THE DISASTROUS EFFECTS OF STRATEGY UPON NATIONAL
      LITERATURE, AS EXEMPLIFIED IN THE ORIGINAL TALE READ BY OUR
      CORRESPONDENT BEFORE THE COSMOPOLITAN CLUB                     17

                              LETTER LV.

  SETTING FORTH A NEW VILLAINY OF THE BLACK REPUBLICANS, AND
      DESCRIBING THE THRILLING CONSTITUTIONAL BATTLE OF DUCK LAKE    60

                              LETTER LVI.

  WHEREIN ARE PRESENTED SOME FEMININE REFERENCES, AN ANECDOTE BY THE
      EXECUTIVE, AND CERTAIN NOTES OF A VISIT TO THE FESTIVE
      SHENANDOAH VALLEY                                              69

                              LETTER LVII.

  SUGGESTING MENTAL RELAXATION FOR A TIME, AND INTRODUCING A FAMILIAR
      SKETCH OF THE WAR-STRICKEN DRAMA IN THE RURAL DISTRICTS        80

                              LETTER LVIII.

  SHOWING HOW THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE ISSUED AN AFFECTING
      GENERAL ORDER, EXEMPLIFYING THE BEAUTIES OF A SPADE CAMPAIGN AS
      EXHIBITED IN STRATEGY HALL, AND CELEBRATING A NOTABLE CASE OF
      NAVAL STRATEGY                                                 88

                              LETTER LIX.

  INSTANCING THE BENEFICENT DEPORTMENT OF THE VENERABLE GAMMON, AND
      NOTING THE PERFORMANCE OF A REMARKABLE MORAL DRAMA BY CAPTAIN
      VILLIAM BROWN                                                  97

                              LETTER LX.

  REPORTING THE SECOND REGULAR MEETING OF THE COSMOPOLITAN CLUB, AND
      THE BRITISH MEMBER'S CITATION OF THE ENGLISH POETS            105

                              LETTER LXI.

  PORTRAYING A SOCIAL EFFECT OF THE POSTAGE-STAMP CURRENCY,
      DESCRIBING THE GREAT WAR MEETING IN ACCOMAC, RECORDING THE
      LATEST EXPLOIT OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE, AND INTRODUCING A
      DRAFTING ITEM                                                 118

                              LETTER LXII.

  CONTAINING FRESH TRIBUTES OF ADMIRATION TO THE DEVOTED WOMEN OF
      AMERICA, AND DEVELOPING THE GREAT COLONIZATION SCHEME OF THE
      GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE BLACK
      RACE                                                          128

                              LETTER LXIII.

  GIVING A FAMILIAR ZOOLOGICAL ILLUSTRATION OF THE "SITUATION," AND
      CELEBRATING THE BRILLIANT STRATEGICAL EVACUATION OF PARIS BY
      THE MACKEREL BRIGADE                                          136

                              LETTER LXIV.

  SHOWING HOW THE CO-MOPOLITANS MET AGAIN, TO BE INTRODUCED TO THE
      "NEUTRAL BRITISH GENTLEMAN," AND HEAR M. BONBON'S FRENCH
      STORY                                                         143

                              LETTER LXV.

  NOTING THE REMARKABLE RETROGRADE ADVANCE OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE
      UPON WASHINGTON, AND THE UNSEEMLY RAID OF THE RECKLESS
      CONFEDERACY                                                   166

                              LETTER LXVI.

  IN WHICH OUR CORRESPONDENT ASTONISHES US BY ENGAGING IN SINGLE
      COMBAT WITH M. MICHELET, AND DEMOLISHING "L'AMOUR" AND "LA
      FEMME"                                                        174

                              LETTER LXVII.

  GIVING ASSURANCE OF THE UNMITIGATED SAFETY OF THE CAPITAL,
      EXEMPLIFYING COLONEL WOBINSON'S DRAFTING EXPERIENCE, AND
      NARRATING A GREAT METAPHYSICAL VICTORY                        184

                              LETTER LXVIII.

  INTRODUCING ONCE MORE THE COSMOPOLITAN CLUB, WITH A CURIOUS
      "LAMENT," AND A STORY FROM THE SPANISH MEMBER                 196

                              LETTER LXIX.

  ILLUSTRATING THE IMPERTURBABLE CALMNESS OF THE NATIONAL CAPITAL,
      AND NOTING THE MEMORABLE INVASION OF ACCOMAC                  220

                              LETTER LXX.

  COMMENCING WITH HISTORICAL REFERENCE; RELATING THE EPISODE OF
      SPURIOSO GRIMALDI, AND DETAILING THE LAMENTABLE FAILURE OF
      CAPTAIN SAMYULE SA-MITH TO PERISH HEROICALLY                  228

                              LETTER LXXI.

  SHOWING HOW THE PRESIDENT AND THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE
      ISSUED GREAT EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATIONS, AND HOW THE CHAPLAIN
      WROTE A RADICAL POEM                                          238

                              LETTER LXXII.

  REPORTING THE LATEST SMALL STORY FROM "HONEST ABE," AND DESCRIBING
      THE MOST MERCENARY BAYONET CHARGE ON RECORD                   250

                              LETTER LXXIII.

  MAKING MENTION OF ANOTHER MEETING OF THE COSMOPOLITAN CLUB, AT
      WHICH THE TURKISH AND RUSSIAN MEMBERS READ THEIR STORIES      260

                              LETTER LXXIV.

  CONCERNING THE SERIOUS MISTAKE OF THE VENERABLE GAMMON, THE
      CHAPLAIN'S POETICAL DISCOVERY, THE PROMOTION OF COMMODORE HEAD,
      AND THE RECEPTION OF THE PRESIDENT'S PROCLAMATION BY THE
      SOUTHERN CONFEDERACY                                          299

                              LETTER LXXV.

  SETTING FORTH THE FALSE AND TRUE ASPECTS OF BEAMING OLD AGE
      RESPECTIVELY, AND SHOWING HOW THE UNBLUSHING CONFEDERACY MADE
      ANOTHER RAID                                                  310

                              LETTER LXXVI.

  REFERRING TO THE MOSQUITO AS A TEST OF HUMAN NATURE, EXPLAINING THE
      LONG HALT OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE, AND NOTING THE COURT OF
      INQUIRY ON CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN                              320

                              LETTER LXXVII.

  SHOWING WHAT EFFECT DEMOCRATIC TRIUMPHS HAVE UPON THE PRESIDENT,
      NOTING OUR CORRESPONDENT'S STRANGE MISTAKE ABOUT A BRITISH
      FLAG, AND INDICATING THE STRATEGIC ADVANCE OF THE MACKEREL
      BRIGADE                                                       328

                              LETTER LXXVIII.

  IN WHICH THE STORY TOLD BY THE GERMAN MEMBER OF THE COSMOPOLITAN
      CLUB IS DULY REPORTED                                         337

                              LETTER LXXIX.

  SHOWING HOW THE NATIONAL INSANITARY COMMITTEE MADE A STRANGE
      BLUNDER; HOW THE BELOVED GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE WAS
      REMOVED AND EXALTED; AND ENDING WITH AN INFALLIBLE RECIPE     358




                                  THE

                        ORPHEUS C. KERR PAPERS.

                             SECOND SERIES.




                              LETTER LIII.

  NOTING THE LAMENTABLE INCONVENIENCES OF A "PRESS-CENSORSHIP," AND
      PARTIALLY REVEALING THE CIRCUMSTANCES ATTENDANT ON A MARVELLOUS
      STRATEGIC CHANGE OF BASE BY THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.


                                      WASHINGTON, D. C., July 6, 1862.

When in the course of human events, my boy, it becomes necessary for a
chap of respectable parentage to write a full and graphic account of a
great battle, without exasperating the press-censor by naming the
locality of the conflict, nor giving the number of the troops engaged,
the officers commanding, the movements of the different regiments, the
nature of the ground, the time of day, or the result of the struggle;
when it becomes necessary for a chap of respectable parentage to do
this, my boy, that chap reminds me of a poor chap I once knew in the
Sixth Ward.

The poor chap took daguerreotype-likenesses in high style for low
prices, and one day, there came to his third-story Louvre a
good-looking young man, dressed in a high botanical vest-pattern and
six large-sized breast-pins, and says he to the picture chap,
confidentially:

"There's a young woman living in Henry-street, which I love, and who
admires to see my manly shape; but her paternal father refuses to
receive me into the family on account of my low celery. Now," says the
breastpin-chap, knowingly, "I will give you just twenty-five dollars if
you'll go to that house and take the portrait of that young lady for
me, pretending that you have heard of her unearthly charms, and want
her picture, to add to the collection shortly to be sent to the Prince
of Wales."

Having witnessed the worst passions of his landlord that morning, my
boy, and received a telegraphic dispatch of immediate importance from
his tailor, the artist chap heard about the twenty-five dollar job with
a species of deep rapture, and undertook to do the job. He went to the
Henry-street palatial mansion with his smallest camera under his arm,
and when he got into the parlor he sent for the young lady. But she
didn't see it in that light, my boy, and she wouldn't come down. For a
moment the poor chap was in a fix; but he was there to take her
portrait, or perish in the attempt, and as he saw an oil-painting of
the young girl over the mantelpiece, he took that, and skedaddled. The
next day the breastpin-chap called at his Louvre again, and says to him:

"Have you taken Sary's portrait?"

"Yes," says the artist chap, "I took it."

"Where is it?" says the breastpin-chap with emotion.

"There it is," says the artist-chap, pointing to the oil-painting, with
a pleasing expression of countenance.

As high art is not appreciated in this country, my boy, a policeman
called at the Louvre that afternoon and removed the artist-chap to a
place which is so musical that all the windows have bars, and each man
carries a stave.

As my taste for music is not uncontrollable at present, my boy, and I
can't write a full account of a battle, without referring in some
degree to the struggle, which we are forbidden to mention, I shall not
be particular as to details.

I am permitted to say that I went down to Paris with my gothic steed
Pegasus on Monday last, and found the Mackerel Brigade coming back
across Duck Lake with the frantic intention of changing its base of
operations. The Conic Section, my boy, had been ordered to advance and
force the Southern Confederacy to compel it to retreat, and the
rapidity with which this was accomplished was a brilliant vindication
of the consummate strategy of the general of the Mackerel Brigade. I
found the general a few miles back of the scene of action issuing
orders--for the same, with a little more sugar, and says I:

"Well, my indefatigable Napoleon, have you changed your base
successfully?"

The general smiled like a complacent porpoise, and says he:

"We've reached our second base, my friend, being compelled to do so by
the treble force of the enemy."

I went on to the second base, which I reached just in time to see
Captain Villiam Brown, on his geometrical steed Euclid, arresting the
flight of Company 3, Regiment 5, under Captain Samyule Sa-mith.

"Samyule! Samyule!" says Villiam, feeling behind him to make sure that
his canteen was all right, "is this the way you treat the United States
of America at such a critical period in her distracted history?"

"I scorn your insinivation," says Samyule, "and repel your observation.
I am executing a rapid flank movement according to Hardee."

"Ah!" says Villiam, "excuse my flighty remarks. I do not mean to say
that you can be frightened," says Villiam, soothingly; "but it's my
opinion that your mother was very much annoyed by a large-sized _fly_
just before you were added to the census of the United States of
America."

Villiam's idea of the connection between cause and effect, my boy, is
as clear as a brandy-punch when the sugar settles.

The battle now raged in a manner which I am not permitted to describe,
with results I am not allowed to communicate. Villiam appeared wherever
the fray was the thickest, waving his celebrated sword Escalibar
(Anglo-Saxon of crowbar), and encouraging all the faint-hearted ones to
get between himself and the blazing Confederacy. Borne a considerable
distance backward by the force of circumstances, he had reached a
comparatively clear spot in the rear, when he suddenly found himself
confronted by Captain Munchausen, of the Southern Confederacy.

Captain Munchausen was mounted upon the thinnest excuse for four legs
that I ever saw, my boy; and what tempted nature to form such an excuse
when the same amount of bone-work would have brought more money, it was
not for mortal man to know.

"Ha!" says Villiam, hastily reining-up Euclid, and touching his sword
Escalibar, ominously, "we meet once more to discuss the great national
question of personal carnage."

"Sir," says Captain Munchausen, superciliously waving his keen edged
poker and drawing his fiery steed up from his knees, "it is my private
intention to produce some slaughter in a private family of the name of
Brown."

Fire flashed from Villiam's eyes, he replaced a small flask in his
bosom, and says he:

"Come on, and let the fight come off."

Then, my boy, commenced a series of equestrian manoeuvres calculated to
exemplify all the latest improvements in cavalry tactics and patent
circusses.--Round and round each other rode the fierce foemen, bobbing
convulsively in their saddles like exasperated jumping-jacks, and
cutting the atmosphere into minute slices with their deadly blades. Now
did the determined Villiam amble sideways toward the rebel, thrusting
fiercely at him when only a few yards intervened between them; and anon
did the foaming Munchausen wriggle fiercely backward against the
haunches of the steed Euclid, slashing right and left with tumultuous
perspiration.

It was when this thrilling combat was at the hottest that the steed
Euclid, being exasperated by a large blue-bottle fly, arose airily to
his hind legs, and carried the Union champion right on top of his
enemy. Down came the glittering Escalibar on the shoddy helmet of the
astonished Munchausen; but the deadly blade was not sharp enough for
its purpose, and only caused the foeman to make hasty profane remarks.

"Ah!" says Villiam, bitterly, eyeing his sword as Euclid waltzed
backward, "I forgot to sharpen my brand after cutting that last plate
of smoke-beef."

"Surrender!" shouted the unmanly Munchausen, noticing that Villiam was
sheathing his blade, and bearing gracefully down upon him in an
elaborate equestrian polka.

"Never!" says Villiam, drawing his revolver, and firing madly into the
setting sun.

Swiftly as the lightning flashes did the Confederate champion follow
suit with his pistol, sending a bullet horribly whizzing into the
nearest tree.

"Die!" shouted Villiam, prancing excitedly in all directions, and
delivering another shot. Then he gazed upon his revolver with an
expression of inexpressible woe. The weapon had deceived him!

"Perish!" roared Munchausen, discharging another barrel as he went
hopping about. After which, he ground his teeth, and gazed upon his
pistol with speechless fury. The weapon had played him false!

I was gazing with breathless interest on this desperate encounter, my
boy, expecting to see more slaughter, when Captain Munchausen suddenly
turned his spirited stallion, and fled frantically from the scene; for
he had heard the shouts of the approaching Mackerels, and did not care
to be taken just then.

"Ha!" says Villiam, gazing severely at Company 3, Regiment 5, as it
came pouring forward, "has the Southern Confederacy concluded to submit
to the United States of America?"

What the answer was, my boy, I am not allowed to say; but you may rest
satisfied that a thing has been done which I am not permitted to
divulge; and should this lead, as I hope it will, to a movement I am
not suffered to make public, it cannot fail to result in a consummation
which I am forbidden to make known. But if, on the other hand, the
strategic movement which I am not at liberty to describe should be
followed by a stroke I am restrained from explaining, you will find
that the effect it would not be judicious in me to set forth, will
produce a consequence which the War Department denies me the privilege
of developing.

I was speaking to a New England Congress chap, this morning, concerning
the recent events which I am compelled to remain silent about, and,
says he: "The proper way to save the Union is to bewilder the rebels by
issuing calls for fresh troops at breakfast-time, and countermanding
the calls as soon as the coffee comes in. Strategy," says the grave
legislative chap, thoughtfully, "is not confined to the tented field;
it may be used with good effect by Cabinet ministers; and our recent
proposal to reduce the army 150,000 men was a piece of consummate
legislative strategy."

Legislative strategy is a very good thing to bewilder the rebels, my
boy; and if it also bewilders everybody else, the moral effect of the
adjournment of Congress will prove rather beneficial than otherwise to
our distracted country.

                                   Yours, under suppression,
                                                        ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                               LETTER LIV.

  ILLUSTRATING THE DISASTROUS EFFECTS OF STRATEGY UPON NATIONAL
      LITERATURE, AS EXEMPLIFIED IN THE ORIGINAL TALE READ BY OUR
      CORRESPONDENT BEFORE THE COSMOPOLITAN CLUB.


                                      WASHINGTON, D. C., July 9th, 1862.

A few weeks ago, my boy, when national strategy seemed rapidly coming
to a distinct understanding with the American Eagle, and the fall of
Richmond had resolved itself into a mere question of time--as slightly
distinguished from Eternity,--I became a member of the Cosmopolitan
Club.

This club, my boy, is a select draft from the host of clumsy but
respectable foreigners now assembled here to criticize the military
performances of our distracted country, and I have the honor to
represent my native land, _solus_, in it. Its members are, a civilized
Russian chap named Vitchisvitch, a Turk named N. E. Ottoman, an
Englishman named Smith-Brown, a Frenchman named Bonbon, a German named
Tuyfeldock, a Spaniard and myself.

The object of this small international organization, which meets once
every three weeks, is to advance the cause of free and easy literature
in the lulls of national strife, and preserve coherent ideality and
tolerable grammar from falling into disuse. The foreign chaps, my boy,
all speak much better English than a majority of our brigadiers; and in
order to give a system to our proceedings, it has been resolved, that
each of us, in turn, shall relate an old-fashioned story relating to
his own particular country; and that all shall take pains to contribute
miscellaneous items for the general delectation of the club.

The privilege of producing the first story was voted to me, my boy, and
at the meeting of the Cosmopolitan last evening, I produced from my
pocket a manuscript already secured from me by a wealthy journal
(VANITY FAIR.--ED.) for a fabulous sum, and proceeded to regale
assembled Europe with


                           A QUARTER OF TWELVE.


                     CHAPTER I.--F. F. VICISSITUDES.

The forces of the Southern Confederacy--so called because a majority of
them were forced into the service--had just won another glorious
victory over their disinclination to retreat, and were rapidly
following it up, propelled by the National Army. The richest and best
blood of the South was profusely running for the cause to which it was
devoted, accompanied by those notable possessors in whose cases it
poured in vein.

Seated at his breakfast-table in the city of Richmond, with his wife
for a _vis-a-vis_ at a board that might well have groaned for more
things than one, and his daughter at his right hand, was Mr. ORDETH, a
scion of one of those Virginia Families very properly designated as
"First" for the reason that no other Families on earth have ever felt
inclined to second them in anything.

Mr. ORDETH was a personage of fiery and chivalrous visage, from the
lower circumference of which depended iron-grey whiskers, so similar in
shape to the caudal appendage of a mule, that one might suppose nature
to have intended the construction of an _asinus domesticus_ when first
she commenced to mould the mortal material, but, having inadvertently
planted the tail at the wrong end, was satisfied to finish him off as a
man. His hair was too much of a brush in its own character to agree
well with an artificial brush in the objective case; he wore a _robe de
chambre_ richly illustrated with impossible flowers growing on
improbable soil--let us say on holey ground; his nether continuations
were spotted here and there with diminutive banners of broadcloth
secession, and it was noticeable as he stretched his feet under the
table that his slippers had once done duty as crochet watch-cases.

The table spread for the morning meal was peculiarly Virginiatic, being
very rich in plate and poor in provender; for hoe-cake and fried
Carolina potatoes were the only eatables visible, whilst the usual
places of coffee-pot, bread-plate and salt-cellar were supplied with
cards inscribed: "Coffee $20 per lb., in consequence of
Blockade."--"Flour $24 per bbl."--"Salt $25 per lb." If any member of
the Family felt inclined to wish for any of these last articles, he, or
she, had but to glance at the card substitutes to lose instantaneously
all appetite for said articles. There was philosophy in this idea, _mon
ami_.

"LIBBY," said Mr. ORDETH, addressing his daughter, whose auburn curls
and pretty face were none the less attractive because they crowned what
seemed to be a troubled fountain of extremely loud calico with a dash
of moonlight on top--"LIBBY," said he, "pass me the morning journal."

The morning journal, which had recently augmented its value as a family
and commercial sheet by coming out on superior wrapping paper, was
passed to her father by LIBBY, she having first satisfied herself, with
a sigh of disappointment, that the list of deaths did not contain the
name of a single one of her friends.

Woman, _mon ami_, does not regard death as you and I do. To her it is a
sleep in which the slumberer himself becomes a dream for the rest of
the world; and its announcement is to her the mere evening breeze that
softly lifts another leaf in the sacred Volume of Memory, and lets the
starlight, falling through a shower of tears, rest on a name henceforth
to live immortal in the heart. I was told this by a young lady who
wears spectacles and writes for the Boston press.

As Mr. ORDETH perused the latest news from the seat of war, his bosom
heaved to such an extent that one or two of the pins confining the
front of his dressing-gown to his throat gave out. "HONORIA," said he,
addressing his quiet little wife, who was spasmodically eating and
repairing a rent in her dress simultaneously,--"we have again defeated
the hordes of LINCOLN, and I think, my dear, that we had better get
ready to leave Richmond. The _Enquirer_ says: 'Yesterday a half a
hundred of our troops were attacked near Fredericksburg by nearly forty
thousand Yankees, whom they compelled to retreat after them toward this
city. We took four hundred prisoners who will be demanded of the enemy
immediately, and all of our men, save the messenger bringing the news,
are now briskly pushing forward in the direction of Fort Lafayette.'
You see, my dear, we always whip them inland. The Yankees gain all
their victories on water."

Which is very true; for it is as much a fact that the national troops
win their triumphs on water, as it is that the rebels do _their_ best
on whiskey.

Mrs. ORDETH made no verbal reply to her husband's exultations, but
assumed that simpering expression of countenance by which ladies are
accustomed to denote their amiable willingness to swallow without
question whatever the speaker may say.

"Providence is evidently favorable to the South," continued the head of
the Family, impressively, "and has thus far treated us in a gentlemanly
manner; but should it happen, HONORIA, that the Hessian vandals of
LINCOLN _should_ reach this city, I myself will be the first to fire
all I hold dear, rather than let it fall into the hands of the invader.
Yes!" exclaimed Mr. ORDETH with enthusiasm, rising from his chair and
moving excitedly toward the door of the apartment,--"with my own hands
would I apply the torch to you and to my child."

"O VICTOR," said Mrs. ORDETH, with tears springing to her eyes, "I
reckon you would."

"Aside from the wrongs of the South," continued the inspired ORDETH,
pushing his bowie-knife a little further round behind his back, that it
might not hurt his hip,--"we have Family losses to avenge. Only
yesterday, my uncle was struck at Yorktown with a shell that completely
tore his head from his body."

"How perfectly absurd!" ejaculated the hitherto silent LIBBY.

"Why it's actually ridiculous," said Mrs. ORDETH.

And so it was. The sex have a keen perception of the ludicrous.

"How I wish that our vigilants had caught that low-minded Abolition
whelp, PETERS," continued the Virginian, grinding his teeth; "but he
disappeared so suddenly that day, that I was entirely bewildered. To
think that the hound--my cousin's son as he is--should dare to demand
payment of a bill from a Southern gentleman! He will find congenial
souls among LINCOLN'S hordes, I reckon."

The speaker evidently recognized the fact that a man with a bill to
collect would derive very little benefit from Southern hoards, at any
rate.

A close observer might have noticed that Miss LIBBY'S cheeks betrayed
the faintest tint of virgin wine at this last speech of her father's;
but as it is not my business to inquire the wine wherefore of
everything, I shall say no more about that at present.

While speaking, the paternal ORDETH had placed his hand unconsciously
as it were on the knob of the door; and now, with a sudden movement, he
opened the door. Or rather, he simply turned the knob; for the door
fairly forced itself open against him, and there unexpectedly tumbled
half way into the room a somewhat venerable person from Afric's sunny
fountains. From the manner in which this colored person fell across the
sill, it was evident that he had been upon his knees the instant before.

The ladies uttered little shrieks and then went on with their hoe-cake;
but Mr. ORDETH viewed the intruder with a glance of suspicion.

"JOCKO, you black reskel!" said he, in a suppressed manner, "what are
you doing here?"

The oppressed African, who, like most slaves was pious, rose to his
feet with touching humility, and said he:

"Ise watchin', Mars'r, for de Angel of de Lor'."

"Oh," returned the haughty Virginian, scorning to show how deeply he
was affected, "you're watchin' for that, are you?"

"Yes, Mars'r," said the attached slave; "and I hab pray dat my good
Mars'r may gib up drinkin' and be one of the good angels too. Oh,
Mars'r ORDETH, I hab wrastle much for you in prayer."

I know not how that slaveholder's heart was affected by this beautiful
instance of his humble bondman's devotion; but I do know, _mon ami_,
that he reached forth his right hand, seized the chattel by the collar,
and was heard to carry on a blasphemous conversation with him for the
space of fifteen minutes thereafter, in the hall.


              CHAPTER II.--"ROBERT, ROBERT TOI QUE J'AIME."

In a room directly over the one last mentioned--a room whose only
furniture was a rude bedstead, a looking-glass with a writing-table
under it and a gas-bracket extending half way across it, and a lounge
extemporized from three tea-boxes and a quilt--stood Mr. BOB PETERS,
aged twenty-three, a bachelor and a fellow man. The time was just
twenty-four hours after the scene depicted in my first chapter, and as
the rays of the sunny Southern sun poured through a window upon the
figure of Mr. BOB PETERS, they revealed an individual who was evidently
unable, just then, to make a raise himself.

ROBERT was a tall, smooth-faced, good-natured-looking youth, wearing a
coat that buttoned up to his very chin and was painfully shiney at its
various angles, corners, and button-holes; a pair of inexpressibles
very roomy and equally glossy about the knees; a brace of carpet
slippers, and (although indoors) a hat in a "Marie Stuart" condition.
That is to say, the style of hat worn thus inappropriately by Mr. BOB
PETERS, corresponded to a fashion in vogue with the ladies not long
ago, when the latter imagined that a bonnet very much mashed down in
front caused each and all of them to present a touching and life-like
resemblance to the unfortunate Queen of Scots. In fact, this bonnet did
really give them just about such a frightened look as they might be
supposed to wear should some modern ELIZABETH TUDOR order them all to
instant execution.

Adding to the consideration of Mr. BOB PETERS' severely straitened
costume the fact that he was smoking an incredibly cheap segar, it is
reasonable to infer that he was rather hard-up when awake and not much
troubled with soft down when asleep.

Viewing Mr. BOB PETERS financially and judging him by a golden rule,
one could see about him considerable that was due unto others, as each
of the others was likely to be dun unto him.

"Bless my soul!" soliloquized Mr. BOB PETERS, hastily turning from a
long and profound contemplation of himself in the mirror and commencing
to pace noiselessly up and down the room,--"here's misery! Shut up in
the garret of one of the First Families, with a chap thirsting for my
blood at the head of the domestic circle down stairs, and the whole
Confederacy ready to bolt me without salt--which is very dear here just
now. Here's a situation for an unmarried man!" exclaimed Mr. BOB
PETERS, insanely tearing his "Marie Stuart" from his head and bitterly
crunching it in his hand--"confined here as a prisoner by the young
woman of my affections to save my life from her own father's sanguinary
designs. Upon my soul!" groaned Mr. BOB PETERS, drearily slapping his
left leg, "it's enough to make me take to drinking, and I--"

"Dear BOB!"

Were you ever awakened from a horrid nightmare dream of capital
punishment and sudden death, _mon ami_, by the soft, persuasive voice
of woman calling you to a breakfast of etherial rolls and new-born
eggs? If so, you can understand the feelings of Mr. PETERS when these
fond words roused him from his terrible reverie.

He spun blithely round on his dexter heel, absorbed the faithful LIBBY
to his manly breast, and incontinently kissed for his lips a coating of
lustrous bandoline from the head of the fashionable maiden.

"Oh bliss!" ejaculated Mr. BOB PETERS, standing on one foot by way of
intensifying the sensation, "my angel visits me in my dungeon, as
angels visited other good men in the Scriptures."

"Oh BOB, how you do smell of smoke," said the devoted LIBBY.

"And thanks to your thoughtfulness for the regalias which have so
lightened my lonely hours, since the day when you brought me up to this
room and then told a virtuous and unsuspecting police that I had fled
in the direction of the _aurora borealis_. By the way LIBBY," said Mr.
BOB PETERS, thoughtfully, "my segar-lighters are all out, and if you
_could_ make me a few more out of the rest of those Confederate
Treasury Notes--"

"I will, I will," responded Miss ORDETH, lifting first one white
shoulder and then the other, as though she would thereby work down her
waist more firmly into the belt formed by Mr. BOB PETERS' right arm;
"but now, dear BOB, we must think of how you are to be got safely away
from this house and out of the city. If my pa should find out that you
have been here all this time, when he thought you were running for dear
life, he would--I really believe"--said Miss LIBBY ORDETH, with
increasing eyes, "that he would actually apply the torch to me without
waiting for the Yankees!"

Mr. BOB PETERS shuddered and turned pale, barely saving himself from
fainting by clasping his companion more tightly and leaning heavily
against her lips.

The infatuated girl did not see the face peering in through the half
open door behind her, as she continued:--

"_Quarter-past twelve is the hour_, BOB, though I can't say on what
night it shall be, yet. You must be already to start on any night, and
in the meantime our meetings are, if possible, to be continued."

"You say that quarter-past twelve is the hour?" observed Mr. PETERS,
reflectively, patting the head against his shoulder in a somewhat
paternal manner.

"Yes, dear BOB; and I wish I could be sure of pa's going to bed earlier
than that; for I know it will be hard for you to go out into the street
at that time of night. You are not accustomed to such late hours at
home."

And, indeed, he was not; for Mr. BOB PETERS' "hours" at home were apt
to be considerably later, especially when he went into morning for some
dear friend.

"Sweet innocence!" exclaimed the young man, much affected by this
evidence of thoughtfulness in his behalf, "your kindness almost makes
me forget the treatment I have experienced at the hands of your being's
author."

"I think you can get off next Sunday night," continued LIBBY, "if
brother is sergeant of the guard; for he promised to see that you got
across the bridge and past the patrol. JOCKO will open the street door
for you when you start: and I want you to send me word, if you can,
after you get to New-York, what kind of bonnets they're going to wear
this summer."

"Dear girl!" murmured BOB, fondly, "I'll find out the style and mention
it to one of our Generals, who will let you know by note, as soon as he
arrives here."

"Dear BOB!--but I must go now. Is there anything I can send you to make
you more comfortable?"

As they stood there facing each other, Mr. BOB PETERS closed his right
eye for an instant, and suffered the muscles of his month to relax,
thereby expressing some want too deep for words.

"You shall have it," said the young girl, turning to leave the room. At
the door she was met by JOCKO, who entered as she passed out, for the
ostensible purpose of removing the remains of the captive's recent
surreptitious breakfast.

The sound of the maiden's light footsteps soon died away in the
passage, like the vibrations of a high-strung instrument in a passage
of music, and the two men stood alone together.

There they were--the White and the Black; the one a freeman in all save
being deprived of his liberty; the other a slave in all save being
unrestricted of his freedom. Who could tell what was working in the
mind of each? Who should draw the line between those men, when all was
dark for the white and a luckless wight was the black? Who should say
that the white man was anything better than the black man, that the
latter should bear the bonds of slavery--bonds as hard to bear even as
Confederate bonds? Look at inanimate nature. Is it not the _White_ of
an egg that bears the yolk? Then why should the white man turn the yoke
altogether over to the black man? But I must refuse to follow out this
great metaphysical question any further. The weather is too warm. I
will leave it to the Awful and Unfathomable German Mind, which delights
to toy heavily with the elephants of Thought.

"Mars'r," said JOCKO, handing a folded paper to the fugitive prisoner,
"dis was gub to me for you by my chile EFRUM, dat b'longs to Missus
ADAMS; and I hope, Mas'r, dat you will read um with fear an' trem'lin,
for the Lor' is very good to let you lib in your great sins, Mars'r."

How beautiful, _mon ami_, is that strong spirit of piety we often find
developed in the uncultivated, like the rich oyster found on the barren
sea-shore. Taken in connection with the children of HAM, it is as
mustard to a sandwich, for moving us to occasional tears.

Mr. BOB PETERS waved the faithful black from his presence, and read the
note, which ran thus:

"MR. PETERS,--SIR:--Though, as a daughter of the Sonny South, I cannot
but regard you as a traitor to our country, the memory of past hours in
my soul-life induces me to act toward you as a heart-friend. I have
heard, through those faithful beings of which your friends would rob
and murder us, that you are a prisoner, and will save you. Contrive to
get out of the house in some way on Sunday (to-morrow) evening, at _a
quarter of twelve_, and you will find those waiting for you who will
deliver you for a time from our vengeance. It is the impulsive
heart-throb of a weak woman that bids me do this--not the
spirit-aspiration of the Southern daughter.

                                                          "EVE ADAMS."

Mr. BOB PETERS lowered the hand holding the note until it rested
heavily on his right knee, and gazed before him, as he sat on his
couch, with a puzzled expression of countenance. He had been sitting in
this way, perfectly motionless, for five minutes perhaps, when the door
was gently pushed open a few inches, a dainty white hand came through
the aperture, deposited a mysterious black bottle on the floor very
softly, and disappeared as it came. In an instant, Mr. PETERS sprang to
his feet, dashed the note to the ground, seized the bottle, and
immediately applied it to his lips with great enthusiasm.

His Mistress had understood that last subtle glance he gave her. With
the wonderful insight of man's deeper nature peculiar to girls about
eighteen years old, she had divined the one thing required to make the
captive comfortable.

Oh, woman, woman! In the language of a revised poet--

  "Without the smile from partial beauty won,
  Ah, what were man!--a world without a son!"


                    CHAPTER III.--THE WIDOW'S MITE.

The ADAMSES resided in one of the aristocratic by ways crossing Main
Street, and were directly descended from those distinguished and
chivalric _anciens pauvres_ of the Old Dominion, who boasted the blood
of the English cavaliers, and were a terror to their foes and
creditors. ADAMS, the husband and father, was a fine specimen of the
Southern gentleman in his day, possessing an estate in Louisa County,
so completely covered with mortgages that no heir could get to it, and
having won great fame by inventing an entirely new and singularly
humorous oath for the benefit of a Yankee governess, when that despised
hireling presumed to ask for a portion of her last year's salary. He
might have lived to a green old age, but for the extraordinary joy he
experienced at having negotiated a second mortgage on some property not
worth quite half the first, which filled this worthy man with such
exceeding great joy, that he drank rather more at a sitting than would
start an ordinary hotel-bar, and died soon after of _delirium tremens_,
as such noble and chivalric souls are very apt to do. The family left
by the lamented ADAMS, consisting of a wife and one child--a daughter,
at once assumed the most becoming style of mourning, moved in a funeral
procession through society for six months, and then resigned themselves
to the will of Providence with that beautiful cheerfulness which may
either denote a high order of Christianity, or a low order of memory,
as the case may be.

At the period of which the present veracious history treats, the
bereaved mother and daughter were living in subdued style in the
locality designated above. Among their most intimate associates were
the ORDETHS, between whose family and theirs there existed that
pleasing and kindly familiarity which permits the most open recognition
of mutual virtues in society and the most searching criticism of
individual weaknesses at home. The ADAMSES and ORDETHS met at each
other's houses with gushes of endearment that edified all beholders;
and if Miss EVE said to her mother on their way home from church that
LIBBY ORDETH looked like a perfect fright in that ridiculous new bonnet
of hers, it was only because her affectionate heart felt a pang at
seeing her bosom-friend appear to less advantage than her own
self-sacrificing self.

It is a touching peculiarity of this modern friendship, _mon ami_, that
a majority of the errors its fairest votaries detect in each other, are
those of the head--not of the heart. EVE ADAMS, whose diminutive size
had given occasion to the _mot_ by which she was denominated the
"Widow's Mite," was calling at the ORDETHS when Mr. BOB PETERS first
came in under a flag of truce from Fortress Monroe, and was witness to
the chivalric reception accorded to that gentleman by his relatives,
before his pecuniary mission was known. In the exuberance of his
nature, Mr. PETERS had kissed her with the rest of the family, and from
the moment of receiving that chaste salutation, EVE had selected the
Northern stranger as her hero in that ideal novel of spiritual
yellow-covers in which all maidens live, and move and have their beings
until stern reality bursts upon them in the shape of a husband or a
snub.

From thenceforth she was a frequent visitor at the ORDETHS, and laid
close siege to the gay ROBERT'S heart with all the languishment deemed
necessary in such cases, and a tremendous flirtation was going on
before the maiden discovered that the affections of the youth were
already given to another. Then came a revulsion of feeling, opening the
eyes of the Widow's Mite to the fact that Mr. BOB PETERS was a thieving
abolitionist, unworthy the toleration of any true daughter of the
South. After this overpowering revelation, it was the first thought of
EVE ADAMS to at once inform the festive PETERS of the utter detestation
in which she held him, and a favorable opportunity soon offered. At a
social gathering at the ORDETH'S, she had withdrawn for a moment to an
ante-room, for the purpose of drawing from her bosom an elegant silver
snuff-box, dipping therein a small brush, and subsequently applying the
same to her pearly teeth, when Mr. BOB PETERS entered unannounced, and
agreeably demanded a "pinch." The situation was favorable to an avowal
of enmity, and a suitable expression was rising to the lips of the
maiden, when the thought of a still keener revenge kept her silent, and
she contented herself with a temporary sneer and a majestic exit from
the apartment.

It was soon after this incident that Mr. BOB PETERS' presentation to
Mr. ORDETH of the bill for furniture which he had been empowered to
collect by a New York house, reminded the latter that it was his duty,
as a patriot, to sacrifice even his cousin's son for the good of the
Confederacy. With the stern self-devotion of an ancient Roman, Mr.
ORDETH not only accused his hapless relative of flagrant Abolitionism,
but at once made arrangements with the military authorities for that
relative's immediate incarceration as an enemy to the Commonwealth. An
enemy to the Commonwealth of Virginia must be indeed an unnatural
wretch; for no such wealth is known to be in existence just now, and
enmity to the dead is a thing inexcusable. It was a crime of which Mr.
BOB PETERS was incapable; yet would he have suffered for it, had not
the devoted LIBBY concealed him in the hour of danger.

Of this concealment, Miss EVE had learned from EFRUM, the son of JOCKO,
though she knew not how long it was to be continued.


              CHAPTER IV.--"TWO HEARTS THAT BEAT AS ONE."

Several of the Richmond churches were opened that Sunday night, and
thither repaired many of the Cottonocracy, devotional children of Bale,
to implore Providence in behalf of an army whose heroes have generally
appeared, in the eyes of the Federal troops, to be wholly Leave-ites.
The recent intelligence of "another confederate victory," at
Williamsburg, had added a finishing touch to the panic created by
reports of the triumphal retreat from Yorktown previously received, and
the fervor of Richmond's piety on that evening was eminently worthy of
a city liable at any moment to be cannonized. The reverend clergy of
the rebel capital selected their texts from Exodus by instinct, as it
were, and proved so conclusively that the Yankee invader was no man,
that the listening congregations were impressed with an instructive and
repentant sense of their own wickedness, (for they are the wicked who
invariably flee when "no man" pursueth,) and several members evinced
their new-born disgust at this sinful world by resolutely closing their
eyes upon it at once.

In his pew sat Mr. VICTOR E. ORDETH, with his wife and son, the latter
a member of the Richmond Home Guard. Stiff and erect he sat, like a
solemn note of admiration in a printer's case, ready to be used at the
end of any sounding passages, suffering an expression of weighty
approval to cross his countenance when the preacher hoped the same
planets might not thereafter be destined to shine on the North and the
South.

And well he might; for there had been something in the late capture of
New Orleans and other ports by the Union fleets to impress the Southern
mind with no small dread of the North's tar.

LIBBY remained at home under plea of sick-headache; but no sooner were
her parents fairly out of the house, than said plea proved to be
entirely invalid. At least, the young lady darted to her own private
room in a very sprightly manner, brought out from thence a small
package, and finally repaired to the apartment wherein Mr. BOB PETERS
kept solitary vigils and a bright lookout. Before passing in, however,
she paused to have a few words with the faithful JOCKO, whom she
discovered on his knees before the door of the captive's cell, with his
right eye slightly to the left of the knob.

"JOCKO!" she exclaimed, reproachfully, "what are you doing here, you
ridiculous thing?"

"Miss LIBBY," said the humble servitor, looming dimly in the shadow of
the hall as he slowly arose from his feet, "Ise ben prayin' dat you
might become a christian, and one ob these days, when de great
Hallelugerum come, hab wings and a harp."

Scarcely were these affecting words uttered, when Mr. PETERS tore open
the door rather disrespectfully, so greatly discomposing the devoted
black that the latter incontinently fled.

"My dear girl," said BOB, leading his fair visitor into the room, "I'm
delighted to see you. The shutters are up, the gas is lit, and I'm
prepared to do the sentimental. Oh-um-m--Lubin's Extracts!" ejaculated
Mr. BOB PETERS. For he had kissed her.

"There, dear ROBERT, don't be so absurd. You know you are going to
leave us to-night, and I have brought you--" here LIBBY blushed with
that exquisitely ingenuous emotion which is excited by the
consciousness of benefiting one we love--"I have brought you some
things that may be of use on your journey. You won't be angry with me
for it, will you, dear BOB? There's a smoking cap, and a pair of
crochet slippers, and some drawing pencils, and a volume of TUPPER."

"My darling LIBBY!" remarked the deeply affected ROBERT, alighting on
those tempting lips once more. "But did you think, love--did you think
to put a quart of ice-cream and a few hair-pins in the package?"

"Why, no."

"Ah, well," said Mr. BOB PETERS, abstractedly, "I suppose I can buy
them on the road."

Silence, disturbed only by the beating of those two hearts, reigned for
a few seconds, then--

"BOB," said LIBBY, looking shyly up to him, "we shall be very happy
when we are married and live North?"

"Yes, indeed," said BOB.

"We'll live in such a beautiful house on Fifth Avenue, dear, and have
such nice things. Because, you know, you can make so much money by your
writings."

"Millions! my love," said Mr. BOB PETERS, with sudden and wonderful
quietude of tone. "When I left New York prose was bringing two dollars
for seven pounds in the heavy dailies, and philosophical poetry quoted
at six shillings a yard, and no hexameters allowed except for EMERSON
and HOMER. Ah!" said Mr. PETERS, his melancholy deepening rapidly to
bitterness, "my last poem sickened me. It was called 'Dirge: addressed
to a lady after witnessing the Drama of the "Toodles,"' and commenced
in this way:

  'Not all the artist's pow'r can limn,
  Nor poet's grander verse disclose,
  The plaintive charm that ev'ning dim,
  Imparts unto the dying rose.'"

"How pretty!" said LIBBY.

"Yes, my dear," responded Mr. PETERS, somewhat gloomily; "but because I
used 'dim' to rhyme with 'limn,' all the papers credited it to GENERAL
MORRIS."

Recollections of this flagrant piece of injustice so affected Mr. BOB
PETERS, that he smote his breast and called himself a miserable man. "I
really don't know but I'd better stay here and be hung like a
respectable patriot," murmured the desolated young man.

"How absurd!" exclaimed the young lady, "you will be glad enough to get
away to-night. Remember, now, you are to start down stairs at
quarter-past Twelve, precisely, and JOCKO will open the front door for
you. Then go straight to the bridge, where you will find my brother,
who will get you by the guard."

"That reminds me," observed Mr. PETERS, "what time is it? I must set my
repeater."

LIBBY consulted her watch and answered that it was half-past eight,
whereupon Mr. BOB PETERS fished from his fob a vast silver
conglomeration, and having wound it up with a noise like that of a
distant coffee mill, and set it correctly, proceeded to hang it, for
convenient reference, upon the gas-branch across the mirror.

"Dear BOB, good bye."

"Fare thee well, and if for ever, still remember me," responded Mr.
PETERS, with some vagueness.

"We shall meet again?" said LIBBY, lingering.

"If I did not believe it," replied Mr. BOB PETERS, with vehemence, "I
should at once proceed to kill myself at your feet, covering the walls
and furniture of the apartment with my gore."

"God bless you, BOB."

They parted wiping their mouths. Miss ORDETH went down stairs in tears,
had a fit of hysterics on the sofa, and fell asleep with her head in
the card basket.


                     CHAPTER V.--BETRAYED INNOCENCE.

There he slumbered on that rude lounge, with his head upon his hands
and his hands under his head. A man, like you--or me--or any other man.
Did you ever notice how you always keep your eyes shut when you are
asleep? The lids come down over your orbs, your soul's windows, like
night over the sun. You shall have visions of Heaven, or Hades,
according to what you had for supper. Lobster salad, or truffles, will
act upon a sleeping man's great, dark soul, like one of PAGE'S pictures
on the open eye. Make it see light blue landscapes, and pallid faces
looking out of pink distances. You think that young man there is
sleeping upon a rude couch? No. He is sleeping upon something not
palpable to your worldly eyes nor mine; he is sleeping upon an empty
stomach. You dare not pity him. His scornful, stern man's soul would
wither you if you talked to him of compassion. Such is man. An animal.
A worm of the dust. Yet proud. Ha! you know it. You blush for your
unworthy thought. Such is woman. Something aroused the sleeper
suddenly. It might have been an angel's whisper, or the kiss of an
insect. He sprang to his feet, shook himself, and mentally declared
that he had come pretty near getting asleep. The idea was rational.

"By all that's blue! it can't be, though it is, by Jupiter!"

The gas was still burning brightly. Mr. BOB PETERS had caught sight of
his watch as it was reflected in the mirror, with the hands pointing to
a quarter past Twelve. With great rapidity he grasped the repeater,
stabbed it into his fob, crushed his demoralized hat upon his head,
looked regretfully about the room, turned off the gas, and in another
moment was stealthily groping his way down stairs, toward the front
door. The door yielded to his hand, but no JOCKO was there. "I
suppose," murmured Mr. PETERS to himself, "I suppose the faithful
fellow is praying for me somewhere in the kitchen, with his hands
resting on a jar of sweetmeats. Ah! I ought to be a better man than I
am." With this excellent moral reflection, Mr. BOB PETERS stepped into
the street and faced boldly for the path to freedom; but at the very
first corner his road was barred by two individuals in military caps
and the first stage of intoxication.

"Aryupeters--eters!" said one, who was evidently desirous of having but
a single word with him.

"With a BOB," replied the fugitive sententiously.

"Aw' ri', then," observed the two in chorus, and Mr. PETERS quickly
found himself attended on either side by guardians whose affectionate
manner of monopolizing his arms suggested a civil process of the most
uncivil sort.

"Treachery!" he exclaimed, struggling fiercely. The twain held him
tightly, however, with the strength of tight-uns, and his exertion only
caused them to venture divers pleasant oaths concerning the destiny of
his eyes.

Onward they dragged him, down Broad street and up half a dozen other
streets, until a certain rebel institution was gained. "In with'm,"
said one of his captors; and they hurried him past a sentry and through
a hall into a long, low room, where half a dozen miserable candles
stuck up against the walls revealed a dismal company of over a
hundred--some stretched upon the floor, some standing about, and others
clustered around what appeared to be a cot in one corner.

"Is this the Confederate Congress?" asked the astonished BOB, as his
captors left him, turning the key and adjusting various bolts as they
went out.

"It's LIBBY'S pork-packing-house," answered the prisoner nearest him,
"and you're jugged, I suppose, as a spy."

"Pork-packing!" ejaculated the bewildered BOB. "Why, this is treating
me like a hog."

Several prisoners at once gave in their adhesion to this logical
premise.

"Here's a case of betrayed innocence!" soliloquized Mr. BOB PETERS,
bitterly, "I've trusted to LIBBY, and Libby's taken me in."--

"I'm going to be exchanged, I tell you!"

The sound came from the cot in the corner, and as the crowd in that
direction opened for a moment, the new-comer beheld a sight that, for a
time, made him forget his own troubles. A tall, gaunt man in ragged,
Zouave uniform was reclining upon his elbow on the miserable pallet,
the pale, dismal light of the candles disclosing a ghastly wound on his
right temple, from which the blood was trickling down upon his rusty
and matted beard.

"I'm going to be exchanged, I tell you!" he exclaimed, waving the
others away with his left hand and glaring directly at BOB. "I've been
here a whole year, and Eighty's boys wants me back; and I'm going to be
exchanged."

"The poor fellow was shot by one of the sentries this morning. He's
from a New York regiment, and has been a prisoner ever since Bull Run,"
whispered one of the unfortunates to BOB.

The latter approached the wounded man and kindly asked; "Can I do
anything for you, old fellow?"

The dying Zouave regarded him with a ghastly smile; "Yes," said he,
"you can go down to Eighty's truck house and take care of little JAKE
till I'm exchanged. Will you, bub, will you?"

"Is JAKE your child?" asked Bob.

"No," responded the Zouave, softly, "it's only a little yaller dorg. I
aint got no wife, nor child, nor no friend except the masheen and
little JAKE. He's petty as a picture, bub, and he's slept with me many
a gay old night around Catherine Market--he has. You'll be kind to him,
bub, won't you?"

"Here! what's this noise about? What are yes doin' with lights this
time ernight? I'll soon stop his Yankee groaning," were the words of a
brutal keeper, who had just come in and was roughly elbowing his way
toward the cot.

"Stand off, you hound!" shouted BOB, throwing himself between the
keeper and the dying soldier. "Stand off!" growled the prisoners,
fiercely crowding upon the intruder with murder in their faces.

"Hark!" said the Zouave, leaning listfully forward, "there goes the
Hall bell--one--two--three----" His features lighted up as with the
glow of a conflagration; his lips opened--

"_Fire! Fire! Fire!_"

And the Zouave fell back upon the cot--dead.

The keeper crawled forward like a whipped hound, and eyed the
outstretched form with a face full of fear:

"Exchanged at last, by G--d!"

True, O traitorous hireling! and by God alone. For when that honest,
loyal soul went out, there came to take its place an Avenging Spirit,
that shall not cease to call on Heaven for vengeance on the Southern
murderer until the cowardly stain of fifty thousand murders, such as
this, are washed out in a terrible atonement.

"Poor little JAKE," murmured Mr. BOB PETERS, "I wonder if he's a
terrier." Then, turning to the keeper,--"How long is my imprisonment in
this terrible place to be continued?"

The keeper eyed the querist with no very amiable expression, "You'll
stay here," said he, "until you take the Oath, I reckon."

"In that case, my native land, good night," responded the interesting
captive, Byronically; "my incarceration will terminate with an
epitaph--'_Hic Jacet_ ROBERT PETERS. A victim of miss-placed
confidence. He died young'--Jailor, you are affected. Accept a quarter!"

The Cerberus clutched the proffered coin and eyed it with feverish
intensity. It was evidently the first quarter he had seen since the
commencement of his services in that hole. The man's better nature was
touched. "Hist!" he said, drawing Mr. PETERS aside and speaking in a
whisper: "I can no longer conceal the truth. I am a Southern Union man."

It is a beautiful peculiarity of our common nature, _mon ami_, that
crime never sinks so deeply nor perversion spreads so obstinately in
the human soul, but there is still a deeper current of normal rectitude
responsive to the force of currency. That this was known to the
ancients, is evinced by the antique custom of placing coins on the eyes
of the dead, thereby signifying to all concerned that, whatever faults
might have perished with the deceased, _de mortuis nil nisi bonum_.

"Can't I have a room to myself?" asked BOB, after a short pause.

"Follow me," was the response; and he followed the keeper through a
crowd of curious prisoners, up a stair-way against a wall, to a room on
the next floor. The keeper opened the door with a key from one of his
pockets, and led the way into an apartment whose only furniture was a
bed, a ricketty chair and a bit of looking-glass on a shelf.

"I sleep here sometimes myself," said the keeper; "but you shall stay
here for a small rent. Make yourself comfortable."

"Stop a minute," said BOB, as the man turned to leave. "Do you know how
I came to be arrested?"

"I don't know exactly," was the answer; "but I believe you was informed
upon by some woman. Good night. Here's the candle."

The prisoner cast himself upon the bed, as the key grated again in the
lock, and was fast asleep before the poor fellows down stairs had
extinguished their miserable lights.

In the morning the friendly keeper brought him his breakfast,
consisting of a cup of something very much like "sacred soil" after a
heavy rain, two geological biscuits and a copy of the Richmond _Whig_.

"What do you call this stuff?" asked Mr. PETERS, ruefully eyeing the
contents of the cup.

"Coffee," replied the keeper, blandly, "real Mocha."

Mr. PETERS was silent. To call such fluid Mocha was sheer mockery.

The biscuits dispatched and the coffee defied, the captive betook
himself to deep and admiring contemplation of the newspaper; and was
deriving much valuable instruction from an article written to prove how
skilfully and ingeniously the Southern Confederacy had struck a telling
blow at its ruthless invaders by strategetically surrendering Norfolk,
when an early visitor was admitted. Said visitor was a young man
contained in a picturesquely-tattered uniform, with a fatigue cap on
his head and a rusty sword rattling at his heels.

"BOB, my boy," said he, "how the mischief did you get into this scrape?"

"This is some of your family's Chivalry," responded Mr. PETERS, shortly.

"My governor certainly did come it over you a little," observed the
visitor, who was no other than the younger ORDETH; "but you might have
gone off safely enough if you'd been at the bridge at quarter-past
Twelve, as you were told. I don't like the governor's style any more
than you do, and if you had come to time I could have passed you out of
the lines easily enough."

"I did come to time," answered BOB, with great bitterness, "and a
pretty time of night it was. How did I get into this scrape? The
Southern Confederacy brought me here. I've had enough of you and your
family. It affords me satisfaction to contemplate a perspective in
which your family are attending a funeral of one of their number whose
demise would be attended with funeral honors, if all his comrades were
not engaged in the work of running away from MCCLELLAN."

Mr. PETERS hazarded this cutting insinuation of the future with an
expression of countenance rigidly severe.

"But, my dear boy, there is some mistake. You--"

"Enough, Sir!"

"Oh, very well; if you won't you won't," exclaimed the Confederate
youth, growing very red in the face. "All I have to say is, that I have
done my part as your friend. If you had been at the bridge at
quarter-past Twelve last night, you might be back among the Yankees
now. And, let me tell you, those same Yankees will never conquer the
South."

"Perhaps not," said Mr. PETERS, ironically.

"One of our officers has just invented a new gun that will soon teach
the North manners," continued the Confederate, with increasing heat.
"It throws one-hundred-pound balls as fast as a man can turn the
handle."

"Ah!" said BOB, sneeringly.

"Yes; and it has but one defect."

"What's that?" asked BOB, with some appearance of interest.

"The handle won't turn!" ejaculated the young Virginian, darting
hastily from the room to hide his emotion.

Mr. PETERS looked vaguely after the retreating form of the sensitive
youth, and as one of the keepers relocked the door again from the
outside, his face sank upon his hands. What did his visitor mean by
accusing him of not making his appearance at the appointed time? It was
exactly quarter-past Twelve when he left the house. "I see how it is,"
murmured Mr. PETERS, between his hands; "the boy has been taking
something hot."


                     CHAPTER VI.--ANOTHER VISITOR.

The ladies were taking their usual promenade through the main corridor
of the jail, curiously gazing at times through the newly-grated door at
the prisoners in the main room, and seasoning their morning gossip with
piquant observations on the probable execution of the horrid creatures
there confined. Mrs. PEYTON took occasion to inform Mrs. MASON that she
wouldn't pass a day without taking a look at the wretches for all the
world; and Mrs. MASON informed Mrs. PEYTON that her life would hardly
be endurable if she did not live in hope of seeing all the
Abolitionists there yet. Here young Mr. BARON ventured to intimate that
the Yankee prisoners were fortunate in being favored with such an array
of _fair_ before them; for which he was saluted as an "absurd thing,"
and received a shower of taps from adjacent fans.

Miss ADAMS led her companion, a neighbor's child, to where a keeper was
leaning idly against the wall.

"Are these all your prisoners?" she asked.

"All but one that was taken last night and is up stairs," replied the
official.

"Is that one on exhibition?"

"I reckon he is, if you want to see him."

"Well," said Miss ADAMS, with an assumption of indifference, "I don't
know that it's worth while; but--well, I reckon I _will_ look at him."

"This way, then, if you please," said the keeper, leading the way up an
adjacent flight of stairs and conducting the fair one to the room
occupied by Mr. PETERS.

BOB was gazing gloomily out of the window and did not recognize the
presence of his new guests until the end of a parasol touched his
shoulder.

"Miss ADAMS!" he exclaimed, offering his hand.

The young lady tossed her head haughtily:

"I don't wish to shake hands with an enemy of my country, sir."

"I see," said BOB, coolly, "the presence of a third party obliges us to
vail our emotions. Keeper, leave the saloon."

"Pay no attention to him, Keeper," retorted EVE, indignantly, "I wish
your attendance."

Not at all abashed by the severity of her tone, Mr. PETERS nodded to
the officer and smiled pleasantly.

"Then I must expose you with a witness to it," he said, good-naturedly;
"you are offended, Miss EVE because I did not comply with your kind
note and meet your friends at a quarter-of Twelve, instead of walking
straight into trouble at quarter-past, as I did."

"You are beneath my notice," was the answer of Miss ADAMS; "but since
you choose to speak so I must explain myself to this good man here. You
are indebted to me for your present situation. I am a Southern woman,
sir, and it was my duty as a Southerner, to see that you did not escape
to injure our cause by telling some of your Northern falsehoods about
us. I wrote you the note you speak of in order that you might be drawn
from your hiding place, and also one to the authorities putting them on
the watch. I may be a woman, but I have the heart of a man."

If Miss ADAMS did _not_ have the heart of a man it was owing to no
neglect on her part of any possible means to catch such a heart. That
is to say, all her dearest and most intimate female friends said so.

Her speech was evidently intended to impress the prisoner with a
torturing sense of woman's vengeance, but, contrary to her expectation,
Mr. PETERS received it with the utmost complacency. In fact, he even
evinced a playful disposition and favored the attentive keeper with an
insidious wink.

"I don't doubt that your intentions were excellent, Miss EVE," said Mr.
BOB PETERS, with an air of great enjoyment; "but they did not work as
well as your affectionate heart designed. Because--you see--I did'nt
come out at a quarter of Twelve at all, nor did I follow any of your
directions. Oh, no! It was just quarter-past Twelve by my repeater when
I departed from my late residence, and it's my private opinion that
your dear friend, Miss ORDETH, had the privilege of being my adviser on
that nocturnal occasion. Don't let your sensitive soul be afflicted
with the thought that _you_ have wronged confiding innocence," added
BOB, pathetically, "for I do assure you that you are as guiltless as
the child unborn."

"What do you mean, sir?" asked EVE, in some haste; "were you not
arrested at a quarter of Twelve?"

"Why no!" said BOB. "Don't I tell you that I didn't break cover until
quarter-past?"

"Well, sir," snarled EVE, with no little irritation, "you're here at
any rate, and I hope you'll enjoy the society of your Yankee friends
down stairs. I hope you'll all be hung. I do."

And the injured fair swept magnificently from the room, dragging with
her the neighbor's child, and leaving Mr. PETERS alone with the keeper.

"I say, she's a spunky one," remarked the latter. "It's a pity you
really did'nt wait till quarter-past. I would'nt trust a woman with
such eyes as hers--I would'nt."

"And I didn't trust them," said BOB. "It was full quarter-past by my
repeater when I came out, and if I'm betrayed it's by another woman."

"Oh, come now," put in the keeper, deprecatingly, "it's all right, you
know, between us two. It was'nt but quarter-past when I locked you in
here, you know."

"What!" exclaimed BOB.

"Fact," said the keeper.

Mr. PETERS deliberately drew out his watch and held it up in full view.

"By all that's true!" said BOB, "it was quarter-past Twelve by that
repeater before I was taken last night."

The rebel official looked steadily into the eyes of his prisoner for a
moment, and then withdrew hurriedly and in silence. He evidently
mistrusted the sincerity of Mr. PETERS, or believed that a man with
such a fast watch was too much ahead of _his_ time to be trusted
without a watch of a different kind.


                CHAPTER VII.--UNION SENTIMENT DEVELOPING.

If some modern BURTON would supply the world with an Anatomy of
Patriotism, _mon ami_, I am inclined to believe that his first
discovery in the process of dissection would be, that the modern
quality of that name is essentially lacking in the anatomical composite
of back-bone. Ordinary patriotism in practice, as far as I have been
able to observe it, is equivalent, in general aspect and result, to an
irresistible force in contact with an immovable body, those who are
chiefly carried away with it metaphorically being the last to yield to
its impulsion personally. In short, the quality appears to be a
sentiment rather than a motive in its character, and moves us to
inspire others rather oftener than it inspires us to move ourselves.

Mr. VICTOR E. ORDETH was a patriot in the conventional sense of the
term, and when the Southern heart was first fired he took a very large
ember to his own bosom. None could be more ready to repudiate all their
Northern debts than was Mr. ORDETH to repudiate his, and his deadly
hatred of the Abolitionist was only equaled by that of a New England
man owning a colored drayman, and living next door to him. "We will
raise a million of soldiers if need be," said the chivalrous Virginian
at a public meeting in Richmond, "and sacrifice our last crust." After
which he went comfortably home and growled very much at the dampness of
his slippers and the barely perceptible chill in his buttered toast.
Great admiration was evoked on all sides by this spirited conduct, and
when he finally donated one hundred dollars of his creditors' money to
the Volunteer fund, there was some talk of making him a brigadier; but
it happened to leak out that he knew something of military business
from early study, and, of course, that project had to be given up. A
brigadier with military capability would be an anomaly indeed!

And so, this self-sacrificed gentleman meekly wore his honors in
private life, his patriotism deepening and intensifying until it
attained the pitch of verbal perfection demonstrated in the first
chapter of this veracious narrative. Suddenly, however, this patriotism
suffered what its possessor's pocket did not--a "sea change": the
Confiscation Act passed by the Congress of the United States induced
Mr. ORDETH to consider seriously what might possibly happen to a
certain little property of his near Danville, in the event of certain
Union achievements; and the news of MCCLELLAN'S advance to within five
miles of Richmond, did not tend to increase the patriotic fervor of
this chivalrous Virginian.

It was on the second morning after the summary incarceration of Mr. BOB
PETERS, that Mr. ORDETH peremptorily called for his newspaper, and,
having elevated his feet upon the window sill, proceeded to read the
more humorous articles of the journal in question, which were chiefly
devoted to the discussion of divers excellent plans for invading the
North in one column, and burning Richmond in the next. The only other
person in the apartment at the time was Mrs. ORDETH, who turned very
pale when her lord took up his paper, and watched him as he read, with
considerable agitation. She was evidently expecting an explosion, and
it came.

Having perused with mitigated satisfaction a leader on the sublime
nobility of soul evidenced by the people who destroyed their city at
the approach of the enemy, Mr. ORDETH turned to the Local Department of
the reduced sheet before him, and was electrified at the discovery
therein of a full and accurate account of the arrest of "one ROBERT
PETERS, supposed to be a Yankee spy, who is said to have found refuge
for some time past in the house of a well-known citizen, and who was
seized at the instigation of a devoted Daughter of the South, who, by a
pardonable device, lured him from his hiding place for that purpose.
But for the disordered state of things just now, the citizen said to
have harbored this fellow would be called to account for his equivocal
concern in the matter."

The paper dropped from the hands of Mr. ORDETH, and he stared at his
wife in utter bewilderment.

"Don't be angry with us, VICTOR!" exclaimed that lady, tremblingly; for
she had seen the paper and anticipated what was coming. "LIBBY hid poor
BOB away because she didn't want to see one of our own relations taken
and hung, and when she told me of it I didn't dare to tell you."

"And do you mean to tell me that it was in _my_ house he was secreted?"
asked the Virginian, tragically.

"Yes, my dear, up-stairs, you know."

This unexampled revelation might have produced a scene, had not the
door been opened at the moment by JOCKO, who unceremoniously entered
with a folded paper in his hand.

"Dis wus brung for you, Mars'r, by de angel ob de--I mean by de gemman
wid gold on he shoulder."

The master hastily snatched the paper from the dutiful black, waved him
magisterially from the presence, and found himself ordered to report on
the following morning for military duty at the headquarters of the
military commandant, Richmond. A new draft was ordered!

Passing the paper to his wife, without a word of comment, Mr. ORDETH
commenced to pace the room with long and rapid strides. Finally, he
stopped short before his lady's chair:--

"I am beginning to think," said he, coolly, "that the Union is best for
the South, after all."

"Yes, my dear."

"And we must be off for Danville this very afternoon."

"Oh!"

A pause, and then--

"I was hasty about BOB. My friend, GENERAL EVANS, has just come in from
Leesburg. I must explain this matter to him and get BOB discharged; for
BOB may be of great service to us, my dear, when the Yankees take
possession."

Mrs. ORDETH understood her husband well enough to appreciate this
remarkable change in his sentiments, and refrained from exhibiting any
astonishment at this speech. She only answered:

"You know best, VICTOR."

The head of the house received this judicious reply in full payment of
all demands on his wife's attention, and immediately went forth to put
his designs into execution--as fine a specimen of the Southern Union
man as ever welcomed the advent of the loyal army with enthusiasm, and
immediately presented a bill for damages sustained in the cause of
Freedom!


                      CHAPTER VIII.--WITHOUT END.

Seated upon the lounge where _he_ so often had rested, with her elbows
resting upon the table on which _his_ arms had so frequently reposed,
sat the afflicted LIBBY. She had heard her paternal leave the house an
hour before, and she had just heard the sound of his boots in the hall
below as he returned; but she felt no desire to learn the reason
thereof. Like her mother, she had seen the account of MR. PETERS'
arrest in the morning paper, and her bewilderment at the statement
respecting the device used to entrap that persecuted youth by a
Daughter of the South, was only equalled by her grief at the
unfortunate present predicament of her lover. So absorbed was she in
her sorrows that she heard not the opening of the parlor door below
her, nor the sound of footsteps on the stairs:--

"Miss ORDETH!"

Was it a dream? The beautiful mourner turned quickly in the direction
of the sound, and beheld the bodily presentment of Mr. BOB PETERS, who
stood near the door with his shocking bad hat between his hands and an
expression of stern reproach upon his countenance.

"BOB!--you here?" exclaimed the maiden, starting from her seat with a
little shriek.

"Mr. PETERS, if you please, Madame," said the late captive, with much
dignity. "Owing to a great spread of Union sentiment in the bosom of
your paternal relative, and his consequent representation in my behalf,
I _am_ here, to blast you with the sight of the innocence you have
betrayed! I slipped up here to confront you, Madame," observed Mr.
PETERS, with some ease of manner, "while the old ones were packing the
silver-plated spoons preparatory to a combined movement on the peaceful
hamlet of Danville."

"What do you mean, you ridiculous thing?" asked LIBBY, scarcely
believing her own ears.

"That we must part," returned Mr. PETERS, calmly straightening an angle
in the rim of his hat. "You named an hour for my nocturnal
escape--quarter-past Twelve. I fled the Residence at that unseemly
hour, though another maiden had previously invited me to liberty and
the pursuit of happiness. I went, and walked straight into the arms of
the unsleeping Southern Confederacy, who was inebriated at the time,
and conducted me to the penal pork-packing establishment. Enough! we
part. I go to Danville with you, but only as an ordinary acquaintance
of chilling reserve."

"Why BOB, what can you mean?" ejaculated _Libby_, to whom this
remarkable speech was not particularly lucid; "it was not my fault that
you were taken. If you had gone at quarter-past Twelve, as I told you,
all would have been well. Oh, BOB, when JOCKO told me next morning that
he had waited for you a whole hour in the hall in vain, and when ma and
I found that you had really gone at the wrong time, I sat right down
and cried my eyes out."

"The wrong time!" exclaimed Mr. PETERS, striding suddenly toward the
mirror. "Impossible! Observe this repeater of mine, which is a reliable
time-piece. On the night in question, this repeater was plainly before
me, hanging on this gas bracket, before this looking-glass." Here Mr.
PETERS illustrated his assertion by suspending his watch from the
bracket, under which it spun feebly for a moment. "At the very instant
of my waking from a temporary slumber, I caught sight of this same
repeater in the glass, and--why! what's this?"

In a moment every vestige of resentment had faded from the features of
Mr. BOB PETERS, and he stood staring at the reflection of his watch in
the glass with the look of a man in the last stage of wonder.

LIBBY timidly drew near and placed a hand on his arm.

"What's the matter, dear?"

"What time is it now by the repeater?" asked Mr. PETERS, excitedly, but
without moving his eyes.

"Why, it's ten minutes past Ten," replied LIBBY, glancing at the face
of the watch as it appeared in the mirror, and wondering what would
come next.

"Look again!!" thundered Mr. PETERS.

"Why," repeated LIBBY, half-frightened, "it's ten minutes past Ten."

Mr. BOB PETERS deliberately took down his watch and pointed
convulsively at its face with one finger. The time was ten minutes _of_
Ten!

Mr. PETERS' first act was to clasp the maiden to his bosom and kiss her
unceremoniously. Then releasing her, he took two steps in a popular
break-down and burst into a stentorian peal of laughter.

"I shall have to call Pa," said poor LIBBY.

"Not a bit of it!" shouted BOB, ceasing his Terpsichoreanism for a
moment; "don't you see the joke? It's all in the looking-glass, my pet.
When I thought it was a quarter past Twelve and fled the residence, it
was really a quarter _of_ Twelve--don't you see? The looking-glass
_reversed the hands on the watch_!"

And so it was, _mon ami_. Hold your own time-piece with its face to a
mirror, and you will "see the point."

But what can excuse that General who, after leading the whole country
to expect that he would take Richmond in time for me to conclude this
picture of Southern life, as I originally planned to do, now changes
his base of operation in a strategic manner, and introduces a fizzle
into romantic literature----

       *       *       *       *       *

Here Smith-Brown, who happened to be awake, coughed intrusively, my
boy, and says he:

"The fault is not the General's, my friend. The Secretary of War is
alone to blame for it. He has killed literature."

How true was that speech, my boy. The Secretary is indeed responsible
for this literary disaster, as well for everything else; and if he ever
undertakes to stand on his own responsibility, he will find plenty of
room to move about.

                                     Yours, droopingly,
                                                    ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                               LETTER LV.

  SETTING FORTH A NEW VILLAINY OF THE INSIDIOUS BLACK REPUBLICANS,
      AND DESCRIBING THE THRILLING CONSTITUTIONAL BATTLE OF DUCK LAKE.


                                    WASHINGTON, D. C., July 12th, 1862.

Owing to the persistent stupidity of Congress and the
hideously-treasonable machinations of the unscrupulous black
republicans, my boy, the weather still continues very hot; and unless
the thermometer falls very soon, an exhausted populace will demand an
immediate change in the Cabinet. I am very warm, my boy--I am very
warm; and when I reflect upon the agency of the abolitionists, who have
brought this sort of thing about for the express purpose of injuring my
Constitution, I am impelled to ask myself: Did our revolutionary
forefathers indeed expire in vain? O my country! my country! it is very
warm.

Such weather, my boy, is particularly trying to Sergeant O'Pake's
friend,

        THE IRISH PICKET.

  I'm shtanding in the mud, Biddy,
    With not a spalpeen near,
  And silence, spaichless as the grave,
    Is all the sound I hear.
  Me gun is at a showlder arms,
    I'm wetted to the bone,
  And whin I'm afther shpakin' out,
    I find meself alone.

  This Southern climate's quare, Biddy,
    A quare and bastely thing,
  Wid Winter absint all the year,
    And Summer in the Spring.
  Ye mind the hot place down below?
    And may ye niver fear
  I'd dhraw comparisons--but then
    It's awful warrum here.

  The only moon I see, Biddy,
    Is one shmall star, asthore,
  And that's fornint the very cloud
    It was behind before;
  The watchfires glame along the hill
    That's swellin' to the south,
  And whin the sentry passes them
    I see his oogly mouth.

  It's dead for shlape I am, Biddy,
    And dramein shwate I'd be,
  If them ould rebels over there
    Would only lave me free;
  But when I lane against a shtump
    And shtrive to get repose,
  A musket ball he's comin' shtraight
    To hit me spacious nose.

  It's ye I'd like to see, Biddy,
    A shparkin' here wid me
  And then, avourneen, hear ye say,
    "Acushla--Pat--machree!"
  "Och, Biddy darlint," then says I,
    Says you, "get out of that;"
  Says I, "me arrum mates your waist,"
    Says you, "be daycent, Pat."

  And how's the pigs and ducks, Biddy?
    It's them I think of, shure,
  That looked so innocent and shwate
    Upon the parlor flure;
  I'm shure ye're aisy with the pig
    That's fat as he can be,
  And fade him wid the best, because
    I'm towld he looks like me.

  Whin I come home again, Biddy,
    A sargent tried and thrue,
  It's joost a daycent house I'll build
    And rint it chape to you.
  We'll have a parlor, bedroom, hall,
    A duck-pond nately done,
  With kitchen, pig-pen, praty-patch,
    And garret--all in one

  But, murther! there's a baste, Biddy,
    That's crapin' round a tree,
  And well I know the crature's there
    To have a shot at me.
  Now, Misther Rebel, say yere prayers,
    And howld yer dirthy paw,
  Here goes!--be jabers, Biddy dear,
    I've broke his oogly jaw!

I was talking some moments ago with a Regimental Surgeon, who has more
patients on a monument than Shakspere ever dreamed about, and says he:
"In consequence of the great number of troops now about this city, all
the oxygen in the atmosphere is exhausted, and we are very warm. Had
all these troops been sent to McClellan two weeks ago," says he, using
his lancet to pick a dead fly out of his tumbler, "we might be able to
keep cool now. There is a terrible responsibility on somebody's
shoulders."

That's very true, my boy, and it's very warm.

There was a panic this morning in financial circles, owing to the
frantic conduct of a gambling chap from the Senate, who has been saving
up money to bet on the fall of Richmond, and was trying to put it out
at interest. "I'll take seven per cent. for it the first year," says
he, anxiously, "and leave it standing until national strategy comes to
a head."

A broker took it for five years, my boy, with the privilege of
extending the time after each fresh victory.

Speaking of victories, my boy, I was present at the recent series of
triumphs by the Mackerel Brigade, on the left shore of Duck Lake, and
witnessed a succession of feats calculated to culminate either in the
fall of Richmond or the fall of the year.

From the head-quarters in the city of Paris to the brink of Duck Lake,
the Mackerels were drawn up in gorgeous line of battle, their bayonets
resembling somewhat an uncombed head of steel hair, and their noses
looking like a wavy strip of summer sunset. By their last great
stragetical manoeuvre, they had lured the Southern Confederacy to court
its own destruction by flanking them at both ends of the line, and they
were only waiting for the master-mind to give them the signal.

Samyule Sa-mith advanced from this place in the staff as I rode up, and
says he:

"Comrades, the General depends on you to precede him to glory. We had
hoped," says Samyule, feelingly, "to have the company of two French
counts in this day's slaughter; but those two noble Gauls had not time
to wait, as they desired to visit the Great Exhibition in London."

These remarks were well received, my boy; and when the order was given
for Company 3, Regiment 5, to detour to the left, it would have been
promptly obeyed but for an unforeseen incident. Just as Captain Villiam
Brown was about to break line for the purpose, an aged chap came
dashing down from a First Family country-seat near by, and says he to
the General of the Mackerel Brigade:

"I demand a guard for my premises immediately. My wife," says he, with
dignity, "has just been making a custard-pie for the sick Confederacies
in the hospital, and as she has just set it out to cool near where my
little boy shot one of your vandals this morning, she is afraid it
might be taken by your thieving mudsills when they came after the body.
I, therefore, demand a guard for my premises, in the name of the
Constitution of our forefathers."

Here Captain Bob Shorty stepped forward, and says he:

"What does the Constitution say about custard pie, Mr. Davis?"

The aged chap spat at him, and says he:

"I claim protection under that clause which refers to the pursuit of
happiness. Custard pies," says he, reasoningly, "are included in the
pursuit of happiness."

"That's very true," says the General, looking kindly over his fan at
the venerable petitioner. "Let a guard be detailed to protect this good
old man's premises. We are fighting _for_ the Constitution, not against
it."

A guard was detailed, my boy, with orders to make no resistance if they
were fired upon occasionally from the windows of the house; and then
Captain Villiam Brown pushed forward with what was left of Company 3,
to engage the Confederacy on the edge of Duck Lake, supported by the
Orange County Howitzers. Headed by the band, who played patriotic airs
as soon as he could shake the crumbs out of his key-bugle, the
cavalcade advanced to the edge of the lake and opened a heavy salute of
round shot and musketry on the atmosphere, whilst Commodore Head kept
up a hot fire at the horizon with his iron-plated fleet and swivel gun.

Only waiting to finish a game of base ball, in which they had been
engaged, four regiments of Confederacies, at whom this deadly assault
was directed, threw aside their bats and ball dresses, put on their
uniforms, loaded their muskets and batteries, and sent an iron shower
in all directions. Greatly demoralized by this unseemly occurrence, a
file of Mackerels under Sergeant O'Pake immediately threw down their
muskets and knapsacks, emptied their pockets upon the ground, piled
their neckties in a heap, and were making a rapid retrograde movement,
when Villiam suddenly threw himself in their path, and says he:

"Where are you going to, my fearless eaglets?"

"Hem!" says the sergeant, with much French in his manner, "we thought
of visiting the Great Exhibition in London."

"Ah!" says Villiam, understandingly, "you have acquired French in one
easy lesson, and--"

Here an orderly rode up with an order for the Mackerels to fall back
from the edge of the Lake immediately, leaving their artillery,
bayonets, havelocks, and baggage behind them; and Villiam was obliged
to conduct the movement, which was a part of the strategical scheme of
the General of the Mackerel Brigade. As we retreated back into Paris,
my boy, we were joined by the Conic Section, and shortly after by the
Anatomical Cavalry, both of which had succeeded in leaving all their
accoutrements on the field.

As we all rushed together before head-quarters in perfect order, and
while the Confederacy was eating some provisions, which we had
refrained from bringing off the late scene of conflict, the General of
the Mackerel Brigade came from under a tree, where he had been tanning
himself, and says he:

"My children, we have whipped them at all points, and the day is ours."

"Ah!" says Villiam, abstractedly, "the day is hours."

"My children," says the General, in continuation, "we have pushed the
enemy to the wall without fracturing the Constitution, and have only
put the war back six months. We can say with pride, my children, that
we belong to the Army of Duck Lake, and shall have no more Bull Runs.
My children, I love you. Accept my blessing."

We were reflecting upon this soul-stirring speech, my boy, and silently
admiring the strategy which had brought us all together again so soon,
when the sound of drum and fife called our attention to a club of
political chaps who had just arrived by steamer from the Sixth Ward,
and were filing past us to a platform recently erected in the very
centre of Paris.

"I do believe," says Captain Bob Shorty, whisperingly, "I do believe
we're going to have a mass meeting."

Onward went the political chaps to the platform.

A delegation mounted the steps, advanced to the front rails, and
commenced unfurling a vast linen banner. The sun was just setting, my
boy, and as his parting beams fell upon the uplifted faces of the
political chaps, a soft breeze unrolled the standard, and the Mackerels
read upon its folds--

  REGULAR CONSERVATIVE NOMINATION
  FOR
  PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES
  IN 1865.
  THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.

Shall it be said, after this, that republics are ungrateful? I think
not, my boy--I think not. We have won a great and glorious victory, and
the only question remaining to be answered is, Who is responsible for
it, my boy--who is responsible for it?

                                     Yours, in bewilderment,
                                                       ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                               LETTER LVI.

  WHEREIN ARE PRESENTED SOME FEMININE REFERENCES, AN ANECDOTE BY THE
      EXECUTIVE, AND CERTAIN NOTES OF A VISIT TO THE FESTIVE
      SHENANDOAH VALLEY.


                                     WASHINGTON, D. C., July 19th, 1862.

Permit me to return thanks through your mail, my boy, for a large
feather fan recently consigned to my address by one of the admiring
Women of America. It looks like a tail freshly plucked from a
large-sized American eagle, and is decorated with a French-plate mirror
in the centre and other French plates around the edges. The
kind-hearted woman of America (who writes from Boston) says in her
presentation note--"I admire to see a fan in the hands of the sterner
sex; for it shows that the same hero-fist that grasps the sword has
enough inherent gentleness to wave the cooling bauble. Such is life.
The hand which falls like a hundred pounds of granite on the flinty eye
of his ke-yuntery's foes has the softness of a blessing when it
caresses the golden head of plastic childhood.

    Yours, gushingly,      Zephyrina Percy."

I find the "cooling bauble" very useful to brush the flies from my
gothic steed Pegasus, my boy, and am a fanatic "to this extent, no
more."

And here is what another young woman of America says to me in a note:

"My ma requests me to tell you that you ought to be ashamed of
yourself, you hateful thing, for encouraging the vulgar people to be in
favor of this nasty war, that is causing their superiors so much
trouble, and has driven away the opera, and made enemies of those nice
Southerners, with their beautiful big eyes and elegant swearing. Why
don't you advocate a compromise, or a Habeas Corpus, or some other
paper with names to it, and get Mr. Lincoln to stop the Constitution
and order the war to be ended before there's any more assassinations
and things? My pa was once a leather banker, and sold shoes for
plantation servants, and made a great deal of money by it; but now he's
a captain, or a surveyor, or some ridiculous thing, of the Home Guard,
and may be massacred in cold blood the first time there's a battle in
our neighborhood. My pa has to go to drill every night, and when he
comes home in the morning he's so worn out with exhaustion that I've
known him to lay right down in the hall and shed tears. My ma often
says, that if Beauregard, or Palmerston, or any other foes should
attack our house while pa is in that state, it would kill her dead. And
I know it would make me so nervous that I should be a perfect fright
for a week. My brother, Adolphus, has likewise joined the Home Guard,
and has already had a bloody engagement with a Southerner named Tailor,
who used to sell him clothes when the two sections were at peace.
Adolphus says if it hadn't been for his double-quick, or some
ridiculous military thing or other, he would have been made a prisoner.
It makes me sick to see how much lowness there is about Adolphus since
he joined the ridiculous army; he calls his dinner 'rations,' and
addresses me as 'Corporal Lollypop,' (the absurd thing!) and calls ma's
crinoline a 'counter-scarp.'

"My pa says that he shall have to sell the carriage and the beautiful
dog-cart if this hateful war don't end by the first of next month; and
when I asked him yesterday if we couldn't have the gothic villa next to
the Jones's at Newport this summer, he actually swore! The Joneses, you
know, are very pleasant, sociable, vulgar sort of people, with a little
money; and it would kill me to see them putting on airs over us because
we didn't happen to take a cottage with bow-windows like them. My pa
says that old Jones has got a contract to make clothes for the
soldiers, and has made a great deal of money by manufacturing coats and
other ridiculous things out of blue paper instead of cloth. Augustus
Jones says if he don't meet me at Newport this summer he will enlist as
soon as he comes back; and it would be just like the absurd creature to
do it. I don't see why pa can't get out an indictment or something
against the blockade, and call on the postmaster or some other
ridiculous thing to send his new stock of plantation shoes to Alabama
under a guard, and bring back the money. I don't see the use of living
in a republic if one can't do that much. My ma says that you newspaper
people could stop the dreadful war if you would only advocate
compromises and things, and not be so ridiculous. Why can't you leave
out some of those absurd advertisements, and publish an article telling
Mr. Lincoln that the war is ruining society? If it continues much
longer, I shall have to wear my last year's bonnet a whole month, and
I'd rather die. Do say something absurd, you ridiculous thing."

Have the war stopped right away, my boy,--have the war stopped right
away.

Matters and things here are still in a strategic condition, and naught
has disturbed our monotony, for a week, save a story they tell about
the Honest Old Abe. It seems that two of the conservative Border State
chaps, who are here for the express purpose of protesting against
everything whatever, had a discussion about the Honest Abe, and one
chap bet the other chap five dollars that he couldn't, by any possible
means, speak to the President without hearing a small anecdote.

"Done!" says the other chap, gleefully, "I'll take the bet."

That very same night, at about twelve o'clock, he tore frantically up
to the White House, and commenced thundering at the door like King
Richard at the gates of Ascalon. The Honest Abe stuck his night-capped
head out of the window, and says he:

"Is that you, Mr. Seward?"

"No, sir," says the Border State chap, glaring up through the darkness.
"I'm a messenger from the army. Another great strategic movement has
taken place, and our whole army have been taken prisoners by the
Southern Confederacy. In fact," says the conservative chap,
frantically, "the backbone of the rebellion is broken AGAIN."

"Hem!" says the Honest Abe, shaking a musquito from his nightcap, "this
strategy reminds me of a little story. There was a man, out in Iowa,
sat down to play a game of checkers with another man, inducing his
friends around him to lend him the change necessary for stakes. He
played and he played, and he lost the first game. Then he played much
more cautiously, and lost the next game. His friends commenced to
grumble; but, says he: 'Don't you worry yourselves, boys, and I'll show
you a cute move pretty soon.' So he played, and he played, and he lost
the third game. 'Don't be impatient, boys,' says he; 'you'll see that
great move pretty soon, I tell you.' Then he played with great care,
taking a long time to consider every move, and, by way of change, lost
the fourth game. Close attention to what he was about, and much minute
calculation, also enabled him to lose the fifth game. By this time his
friends had lent him all their change, and began to think it was time
for that great move of his to come off. 'Have you any more change?'
says he. 'Why, no,' says they. 'Then,' says he, with great spirit, 'the
time for that move I was telling you about has come at last.' As he
commenced to rise from his chair, instead of continuing to play, his
cleaned-out friends bethought themselves to ask him what that famous
move was? 'Why,' says he, pleasantly, 'it's to move off for a little
more change.'"

At the conclusion of this quaint tale, my boy, the Border State chap
fled groaning to his quarters at Willard's, stuck a five-dollar
Treasury Note under the pillow of the other Border State chap, and
immediately took the evening train for the West.

Such is the story they tell, my boy; but I'm inclined to accept it
merely as a work of fiction, with a truthful moral. Certain it is, that
as strategy increases, small change grows scarcer, and it is the
general opinion that no small change is needed in military matters.

In company with a patriotic democratic chap, who had come up from New
York, for the express purpose of seeing that the negroes of the
Southern Confederacy were not permitted to inform our forces of the
movements of the enemy in contravention of the Constitution, I made a
reconnoissance in force, on Monday, to the festive Shenandoah Valley.
On our way thither, the democratic chap was greatly bitten by
musquitos, for which he justly blamed the black republicans, who are
trying to break up this Government, and on our arrival near Winchester,
we stumbled upon a phlegmatic fellow-man in a swallow-tailed coat and
green spectacles, who was seated on a stone by the roadside, reading
the "Impending Crisis." The democratic chap passed on, swearing, to the
nearest camp; but I paused before this interesting student.

"Well, old swallow-tails," says I, affably, "what are you doing in this
section?"

He looked up at me with great severity of countenance, and says he: "I
have come here, young man, to agitate the Negro Question; to open
African schools; and, peradventure, to start a water cure
establishment."

"What for?" says I.

"For the love of my species," says he, eagerly, "and for any little
contract in the way of red breeches and spelling books that may be
required for the reclaimed contrabands?"

Was this a case of purely disinterested philanthropy? Perhaps so, my
boy, perhaps so; but the old swallow-tails reminded of a chap I once
knew in the Sixth Ward. He was a high toned moral chap of much
shirt-collar, with a voice that sounded like a mosquito in the bottom
of a fish-horn, and a chin like a creased apple-dumpling. Years before
he had married a Southern crinoline and talked about the glories of
slavery in a polished and high-moral way; but as there happened just
then to be a chance for him to run for alderman on the abolition
ticket, he experienced a change of heart, and addressed a meeting on
the evils of human bondage: "My friends," says he, patting his stomach
in a heartfelt manner, "I once lived at the South and owned slaves; but
never could I feel that it was right. My pastor would say to me: 'These
men-slaves are black, you say; but have they not the same feelings with
you, the same features--only handsomer?' I felt this to be so, my
friends; I commenced to appreciate the enormity of holding human souls
in bondage."

Here a susceptible venerable maiden in the audience became so
overpowered by her emotions, that she placed her head in the lap of a
respectable single gentleman, and fainted away.

"My friends," continued the high-toned moral chap, "I could not bear
the stings of conscience; my nights were sleepless, but I slept during
the day. There was I, pretending to be a Christian, yet holding men and
women as chattels! Heavens himself was outraged by it, and I resolved
to make a sacrifice for the sake of principle--to cease to be a
slaveholder! I called my slaves together: I addressed them paternally
and piously, and then I--(here the great, scalding tears rolled down
the cheeks of the orator, and the audience sobbed horribly)--I bade
them be good boys and girls, and then I--SOLD EVERY ONE OF THEM!"

       *       *       *       *       *

There was a movement of the audience toward the door. Men and women
went out silently from the place, exchanging covert glances of
smothered agitation with each other. Only one person remained with the
orator. It was an old file with a blue umbrella, who had occupied a
back seat and paid breathless attention to all the performances. After
the others had left the hall, he walked deliberately from his seat to
where the high-toned moral chap was still standing, and gazed into the
face of the latter with an expression of unmitigated wonder. He then
walked twice around him; having done which he confronted him again,
thumped the ferule of his umbrella on the floor, and says he: "Well!"
The old file paused an instant, and then says he: "well, I'll be dam,"
and waddled precipitately from the place.

I've often thought of it since then, my boy; and I've always wondered
why it was that the solitary old file with the blue umbrella should say
that he be dam.

To return to Western Virginia; I found, upon my arrival in one of the
camps near Winchester, that the patriotic democratic chap was making
arrangements to divide the army there into Wards, instead of regiments,
in order, as he said, that the returns might come in systematically.

"For instance," says he, "suppose that in the skirmish with the
Confederacy which is going on just ahead of us, we should lose--say
seventy-five votes; how much easier it would be to say; the 'Fourth
Ward shows a decrease since last year of seventy-five Republicans',
than to say that such a regiment, of such a brigade, of such a
division, has lost so and so?"

I was reflecting upon this novel and admirable way of putting it, my
boy, when an orderly came tearing in, with a report of the skirmishing
going on.

"Ha!" says the patriotic chap to him; "how does the canvas proceed?"

"Well," says the orderly, breathlessly, "Banks' outpost has lost twenty
votes in the Tenth Ward by desertions, and has thirty double-votes
wounded; but I think Banks can still keep neck-and-neck with McDowell."

"You do, hey?" says the patriotic chap, in great excitement. "Then
McDowell must not lend Banks a single vote. Tell him to keep his Ward
Committees under cover until Banks gets through with his canvas; for if
he takes part in that, and the election results in a victory over the
Confederacy, Banks will get all the credit of it, and win the card in
the next Nominating Convention."

So McDowell's votes didn't re-enforce Banks in the skirmish, my boy,
and Banks lost much popularity by being worsted, by the Confederacy.

As soon as the firing had ceased, I went out to meet some of the
returning Wards, and came plump upon the swallow-tail chap, who was
agitating the negro question in a corner of the late battle-field,
surrounded by fugitive contrabands.

"Friend of the human race," says I, "how now?"

"Young man," says he, hastily tying a red silk pocket-handkerchief
about his head, "I am teaching these oppressed beings to spell, having
extemporized a college on the very scene of their recent emancipation."

"How far have the collegians progressed?" says I.

"They have got," says he, "to their a-b, abs. Thus; a-b, ab; o-abo; l-i
li, aboli; t-i-o-n shun--abolition."

Shameful to relate, my boy, the swallow-tailed chap had no sooner said
this, than a cavalry ward came charging helter-skelter, right through
the college, tumbling the faculty into the mud, and bruising several
sophomore graduates. Simultaneously, the patriotic democratic chap
appeared on the scene, and insisted upon it that the contrabands should
be immediately returned to the Southern Confederacy, as this is a white
man's war. "Otherwise," says he, cholerically, "future reconciliation
and reconstruction will be impossible."

Fearful that I should become confused a little if I remained there any
longer, my boy, I at once retired from the place, in company with two
sick votes, who were going home on furlough, and reached this city
again in good order.

Almost the first fellow-being I met on my return was a seedy and
earnest chap from New York, who was worth about a quarter in ready
money, and had come to Washington post-haste to pledge the Empire
State's last dollar, and last drop of blood for the vigorous
prosecution of the war.

"See here, my self-denying Brutus," says I, as we took Richmond
together at the bar, "who commissioned you to pledge so much as all
that?"

"To tell the truth," says the seedy chap, confidentially, "it's all
I've got left to pledge. I pledged my pinchbeck chronometer for three
dollars," says he, sadly, "just before I left New York; and I'm trying
this pledge on speculation."

I have sometimes feared, my boy, that our Uncle Samuel's concern is
turning into a pawnbroking establishment on a large scale, where they
make advances on everything tangible and intangible, except Richmond,
my boy--except Richmond.

    Yours, with a presentiment,
    ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                              LETTER LVII.

  SUGGESTING MENTAL RELAXATION FOR A TIME, AND INTRODUCING A FAMILIAR
      SKETCH OF THE WAR-STRICKEN DRAMA IN THE RURAL DISTRICTS.


                                      WASHINGTON, D. C., July 23d, 1862.

Yesterday morning, my boy, I refreshed myself by a lounge across Long
Bridge to the fields about Arlington Heights, where blooming Nature
still has verdant spots untrampled by the iron heel of strategic war.

How pleasant is it, my boy, to escape occasionally from the society of
Congressmen and brigadiers, and take a lazy sprawl in the fragrant
fields. It is the philosopher's way of enjoying Summer's

            DOLCE FAR NIENTE.

I.

  Still as a fly in amber, hangs the world
    In a transparent sphere of golden hours,
  With not enough of life in all the air
    To stir the shadows or to move the flowers;
        And in the halo broods the angel Sleep,
        Wooed from the bosom of the midnight deep
      By her sweet sister Silence, wed to Noon.

II.

  Held in a soft suspense of summer light,
    The generous fields with all their bloom of wealth
  Bask in a dream of Plenty for the years,
    And breathe the languor of untroubled Health.
        Without a ripple stands the yellow wheat,
        Like the Broad Seal of God upon the sheet
      Where Labor's signature appeareth soon.

III.

  As printed staves of thankful Nature's hymn,
    The fence of rails a soothing grace devotes,
  With clinging vines for bass and treble cleffs
    And wrens and robins here and there for notes;
        Spread out in bars, at equal distance met,
        As though the whole bright summer scene were set
      To the unuttered melody of Rest!

IV.

  Along the hill in light voluptuous wrapt
    The daisy droops amid the staring grass,
  And on the plain the rose and lily wait
    For Flora's whispers, that no longer pass;
        While in the shade the violet of blue
        Finds in the stillness reigning nature through,
      That which her gentle modesty loves best.

V.

  The mill-wheel motionless o'ershades the pool,
    In whose frail crystal cups its circle dips;
  The stream, slow curling, wanders in the sun
    And drains his kisses with its silver lips;
        The birch canoe upon its shadow lies,
        The pike's last bubble on the water dies,
      The water lily sleeps upon her glass.

VI.

  Here let me linger, in that waking sleep
    Whose dreams are all untinged with haunting dread
  Of Morning's finger on the eyelids pressed,
    To rouse the soul and leave the vision dead.
        And while deep sunk in this soft ecstasy
        I count the pulse of Heaven dreamily,
      Let all life's bitterness behind me pass!

VII.

  How still each leaf of my oak canopy,
    That holds a forest syllable at heart,
  Yet cannot stir enough in all its veins
    To give the murmured woodland sentence start!
        So still--so still all nature far and near,
        As though the world had checked its breath to hear
      An angel's message from the distant skies!

VIII.

  This one last glance at earth--one, only one--
    To see, as through a vail, the gentle face
  Bent o'er me softly, with the timid love
    That half distrusts the sleep which gives it grace.
        The thought that bids mine eyelids half unclose
        Fades to a dream, and out from Summer goes,
      In the brown Autumn of her drooping eyes.

Thus irregular in rhythm and vagrant in measure, my boy, are the
half-sleeping thoughts of a summer noon in Virginia; and it was fully
an hour before I could summon enough strength of mind to peruse a
letter recently consigned to me by a rustic chap in my native village.

This chap describes to me what he calls the "Downfall of the Dramy,"
and says he:

The Dramy is a article for which I have great taste, and which I prefer
to prayer-meeting as a regular thing. Since the time I wore breeches
intended to facilitate frequent spankings, I have looked upon
theatrical artiks with a speeshees of excitement not to be egspressed.
I was once paying teller to a barber artik who shaved a great
theatrical artik, and although the theatrical artik never could pay for
his shaving until he drew his celery, he always frowned so splendidly
when he turned down his collar, and said: "What ho! there Figaro," that
my infant mind yearned to ask him for a few tickets to the show.

This great respek for the dramy has grown with my hair, and since this
high old war has desolated the dramy, my buzzom has been nothing else
but a wilderness of pangs. The other evening, my fren--which is
courting a six story house with a woman in the title deed--called at my
shattoe, and proposed that we should wander amid the ruins of the
dramy. "It's rejooced to a skellington," says he, quite mournful, "and
its _E pluribus Onion_ is gone down into the hocean wave." As my friend
used this strong egspression, he tried to wink at me, but didn't get
farther than a hik-cup. Arm in-arm, like two Siamese-twins in rejooced
circumstances, we walked in speechless silence to what was formerly the
entrance half of a theatre in the pallermy days of the dramy. It was
like the entrance to the great desert of Sary, and as we groped our way
through the grass to the ticket office, I observed six wild geese and a
raccoon in a jungle that was a umberella stand in the pallermy days.
The treasurer was entirely covered with cobwebs, which had been
accumulating since the day he last saw speshee, and when he at last
tore himself out, the sight of the quarter which I handed in sent him
into immediate convulsions.

"Excuse me," says he, "if I weep over this preshus coin; but the force
of old associations is too much for this affectionate heart."

He then sent a fly-blown little boy for a tumbler of brandy, and was
weeping into it copious when we emerged from his presence. Upon
entering the shattered temple of the dramy, we found a vetrun of 1812,
which the manager had hired to keep company with the man what lit the
gas, that artik having declared that if he was kept in solitude any
longer he should shoot himself from sheer melancholy. It was the
vetrun's business to keep moving from seat to seat until the
performance was over, so that the artful cuss of a manager could say
"every seat was okipied" in the next morning's newspaper. When the
manager, who was representing the orkestra with a comb wrapt in paper,
saw me and my fren, he paused in the middle of his overture, and said
we should have a private box, but that the families of his principal
artiks were keepin' house in the private boxes, and was rayther crowded
for room. Seeing me put my hand in my pocket, he said, tearful:

"Tellum me, I conjure ye, are there any such things as quarters in the
round world? It is now six months since I last mingled with the world,
and I really forget how many make a dollar."

Touched to the quick by his plaintiff tone, I drew forth a quarter, and
held it before his anguished vision. Never shall I forget how his eyes
was sot on that ravishing coin.

"Can it indeed be real?" says he, "or is it but a quarter of the mind?"

I was afeard he might come the "let me clutch thee" dodge if I inflamed
his imagination any longer; so I put it back into my pocket, and
axidently revealed the handle of my revolver.

When my fren had cut the damp grass away from one of the orchestra
seats with his jack-knife, we sat down and put up an umbrella to keep
off the dew. Being a little nervous, I asked the manager if there was
any snakes about; and he said he see a couple in the parroquet last
night, but didn't think they had got down to the orkestra yet. The
vetrun, which was the audience, stoppd chasing a bull-frog in the
vestibule when the manager struck up "Days of Abstinence" on his comb,
and immediately took his seat on chair No. 1, with which he always
commenced. The curting was then unpinned, and disclosed a scene in a
lumber-yard, with a heavy mortgage on it. The Count de Mahoginy is
discovered in the ak of leaving his young wife, who is seated on a pile
of shavings, for the purpose of obtaining immediate relief from the
Union Defence Committee. The vetrun received him with great applause,
and moved from seat to seat as though he was in a hurry to reach the
gallery. When the artik spoke, there was so much empty stomik in his
tones, that my fren said he seemed like a bean from another world. My
fren is a spiritualist. The artik then went off at the left entrance,
and immediately returned in the character of his own uncle, which had
come home from California with two millions of dollars, and wished to
give it to his affectionate nephew and niece. He found his niece in the
lumber-yard, and having heard her sad story, divulged his intention to
her and she immediately danced a Spanish _par_ (which is French), and
sung four songs in honor of the sixty-ninth regiment. Then the uncle
danced a hornpipe, which he learned on the hocean; and so they kept
agoin till about nine o'clock, when the countess said she heard her
husband coming. The uncle was so taken aback by this, that he
immediately made himself into a tableau representing the last charge of
the Fire Zouaves at Bull Run: and as the comb struck up "I'm a loan,
all a loan," the curtain was pinned up again. Just as the performance
ended, the manager explained that he could only aford to keep two
artiks--a male and female, and _they_ only stayed because he had a
mortgage on their wardrobes for over-drawed celery. "I'll light you to
the door," says he, taking up one of the foot-lights, which was a
turnip with a candle in it; "and I hope you'll come again when we
projooce our new play. It's called 'The gas man's last charge,' and
introjoces a real gas-meter and the sheriff."

My fren and I made no reply, but walked sadly from the ruins with tears
in our eyes.

The regular Drama, my boy, cannot hope to succeed, while the war which
now monopolizes all attention is believed by some critics to be a
regular farce.

                                          Yours, tragically,
                                                        ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                              LETTER LVIII.

  SHOWING HOW THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE ISSUED AN AFFECTING
      GENERAL ORDER; EXEMPLIFYING THE BEAUTIES OF A SPADE-CAMPAIGN AS
      EXHIBITED IN STRATEGY HALL, AND CELEBRATING A NOTABLE CASE OF
      NAVAL STRATEGY.


                                     WASHINGTON, D. C., July 26th, 1862.

The high-minded and chivalrous Confederacy having refused to consider
itself worsted in our recent great strategic victory near Paris, my
boy, it only remained for the General of the Mackerel Brigade to
commence undermining the Confederacy, after the manner of a civil
engineer; and when last I visited the lines, I found a select
assortment of Mackerels engaged in the balmy summer pastime of digging
holes, and dying natural deaths in them.

There was one chap with an illuminated nose, who attracted my
particular attention by landing a spade-full of sacred soil very neatly
in my bosom, and says I to him:

"Well, my gallant sexton, how do the obsequies progress?"

"Beautiful," says he, pausing long enough to take a powder which the
surgeon had left with him. "We've just struck a large vein of typhoid
fever, and them air Peninsula veterans, which, you see in them holes
yonder, are already delirious with it. Really," says the chap, with an
air of quiet enjoyment, as he climbed into the hospital litter, just
sent after him--"really, there's a smart chance of pushing on our
cemetery to Richmond before the roads become impassable again."

I was looking after him, as the bearers carried him off, my boy, when I
saw Captain Villiam Brown ambling leisurely toward me on his
geometrical steed, Euclid, alternately perusing a paper which he held
in his right hand, and discussing a canteen in his left. The
countenance of the warrior was thoughtful, and his shovel swung
listlessly against the charger's flank.

"How now, my Jack of Spades?" says I, sportively.

"Ah!" says Villiam, slowly descending from the roof of his stallion,
and suffering the latter to lean against a tree, "here is a new
Proclamation for the moral refreshment of the United States of America.
Read this impartial edick," says Villiam impressively, "and you will
find it worthy of the Union Track Society."

I took the official parchment, my boy, and found inscribed upon it the
following affecting

                       GENERAL ORDER.

Whereas, the United States of America now finds himself engaged in an
unnatural struggle with the celebrated Southern Confederacy, for the
Union which our forefathers planted; and it being our object to show
the world that our intentions are honorable; it is hereby ordered, that
the Mackerel Brigade do take possession of all guns, pistols, and
howitzers previously fired at them by persons now in arms against this
government, keeping strict account of said weapons, in order that their
owners may be duly and amicably paid for them hereafter. It is further
ordered that persons of Mackerel descent, occupying the cultivated
grounds of the aforesaid Southern Confederacy, shall keep strict
account of the time spent upon the same, in order that reasonable rent
may be paid for the same as soon as the United States of America shall
resume specie payment.

                  By order of
            THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.
  GREEN SEAL,     }
  VINTAGE OF 1776.}

Having perused this document with much attention, I handed it back to
Villiam, and says I:

"In purity of moral tone, my hero, that paper is worthy the descendant
of 1776."

"1776!" says Villiam, reflectively. "Ah!" says Villiam, "it takes
strategy to revive recollections of those days. We have at least
seventeen hundred and seventy sick ones in our new hospital already.
Come with me," says Villiam, genially, "and we will survey the interior
aspeck of Strategy Hall."

Strategy Hall, my boy, is a fine airy hospital extemporized from a
barn, on the estate of a prominent Southern Union man, now commanding a
regiment of Confederacies. The house itself would have been taken, as
it had somewhat more roof than the barn, and a little more shade; but
when the General of the Mackerel Brigade learned that Washington had
once thought of taking a second mortgage on it, he gave orders that no
Mackerel should go within half a mile of the front door.

On entering Strategy Hall, I beheld a scene calculated to elevate
sickness into a virtue, and shed immortal lustre upon the kind-hearted
women of America. Comfortably stretched upon rails taken from
Confederate fences, and of which a strict account had been kept, with a
view to future compensation, were a whole section of the Mackerel
Brigade, in the full enjoyment of strategic health. Over each chap's
head hung his shovel, and a shingle inscribed with his name and
address. Thus, the shingle nearest me read: "Spoony Bill, Hose Company
123, New York Fire Department."

And woman--lovely woman! was there, administering hot drinks to the
fevered head, bathing with ice-water the brow of those shivering with
the cruel ague, pouring rich gruel over the chin and neck of the
nervous sufferer, and reading good books to the raving and delirious.
It was with a species of holy awe that I beheld one of those human
angels stand a hot coffee-pot upon the upturned face of one invalid,
while she hastily flew to fill the right ear of a more urgent sufferer
with cologne-water. And then to see her softly place one of the
portable furnaces upon a very sick Mackerel's stomach, while she warmed
the water with which his beloved head was presently to be shaved; and
to see her bending over to ask one of the more dangerously ill ones if
he would not like a nice fat piece of fresh pork, while the other end
of her crinoline was scraping the head of the Mackerel on the opposite
rail.

  "O woman! in our hours of ease,
  Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
  And variable as the shade
  By the light, quivering aspen made;
  When pain and anguish wring the brow
  A ministering angel thou."

I could have remained here all day, my boy; for I found the berries,
ice-cream, and liquors, prepared for the patients, really excellent;
but Villiam hinted to me that a splendid piece of naval strategy was
just about to come off on Duck Lake, and I desired to witness our
national triumph on the ocean wave.

Having quitted Strategy Hall, I repaired to the shore of Duck Lake,
where numerous Mackerels were already watching Commodore Head's fleet
as it lay waiting for an expected rebel ram on the treacherous element.
It appeared that a lurking Confederacy in Paris had waited until the
Mackerels were all in their holes one day, and then hastily constructed
an iron-plated ram from an old dry-goods box and two cooking stoves.
With this formidable monster, he designed offering irregular opposition
to the Government in the way of killing a few vandal regiments, after
which he proposed to repair to the Confederate side of Duck Lake, and
send the particulars of his victory to Europe through some of the more
vigilantly blockaded Southern ports. He had completed his ram, my boy,
and hidden it under some hay on the Lake shore, ready to commence his
carnage when the time came; but one of the Mackerels happened to see it
when he went fishing, and Commodore Head was at once ordered to have
his iron-plated squadron in readiness to intercept and destroy the
monster when she should appear.

"Riddle my turret!" says the Commodore, in his marine manner, as he
sighted his swivel gun and placed his fishing-rod and box of bait near
his stool on the quarter-deck, "I feel like grappling with half-a-dozen
rams of chivalry--loosen my plates! if I don't."

And there we stood on that hot July afternoon, watching the noble craft
as she sat like a duck on the water, the Mackerel crew sitting aft
picking a marrow-bone, and the venerable Commodore tilted back on his
stool upon the quarter-deck, fishing for bass.

Presently we could see the treacherous Confederacy stealing down to
where his iron-plated monster lay hidden. Softly he removed the
covering of hay, and cautiously did he place the ram in the water,
carefully examining the priming of the old-fashioned blunderbuss he
carried under his arm, as he stepped into this new Merrimac, and
quietly raising his umbrella with one hand, while he paddled off with
the other.

The distance between our fleet and the spectator being fully two yards,
Villiam had thoughtfully provided bits of smoked glass for our party,
and we now brought them to bear upon the scene of approaching
slaughter. The Mackerel crew on board our squadron appeared to be
wholly absorbed in the pleasing experiment of following, with a straw,
the motions of a fly whose wings he had just pulled off, and Commodore
Head had fallen into a refreshing slumber in the midst of his fishing.
In fact, no means had been left unemployed to guard against a surprise.

Now, it happened that the nautical Confederacy did his paddling with
his back to the bow of his iron-plated monster, and before he knew it,
his ram went smack against the Mackerel fleet, with a sound like the
smashing of many dinner-plates. So tremendous was the shock, that the
stool upon which Commodore Head was tilted, gave way beneath his
weight, and he came down upon the deck with a crash like muffled
thunder. Simultaneously, the Confederacy discharged his blunderbuss two
points to windward, and would have followed up his advantage by
boarding at once; but by this time the Mackerel crew had recovered his
presence of mind, and poured such a shower upon the intruder from a
watering-pot which he found in the stern-sheets, that the latter
retreated in great disorder.

Meanwhile, our gallant old naval hero had regained his feet, and having
carefully put away his fishing tackle and box of bait, he made his
appearance on the starboard, with his spy-glass under one arm, his
speaking trumpet under the other, and his log-book between his teeth.

No sooner did the now thoroughly exasperated Confederacy behold his
venerable figure, than he hastily shut up his umbrella and violently
cracked him over the head with it, knocking off his spectacles, and
greatly damaging his new white hat.

"Batter my armor!" thundered the commodore, picking up his spectacles
and bending them straight again. "I don't want you to do that again."

"Scorpion!" roared the Confederacy, dropping his umbrella, and dancing
up and down in his ram, with his arms in a boxing attitude. "Come on,
base old being!"

"Then take thy doom," shrieked the maddened commodore, quickly striking
a match on the bottom of one of his boots, and touching off the swivel
gun. With a report like the explosion of a deadly pistol, the trusty
weapon hurled its contents about two inches above the head of the
Mackerel crew, wildly tearing off the cap of the latter, and shaking
the staunch craft from stem to stern.

Somewhat alarmed by this demonstration, the Confederacy commenced
shoving off with his ram, using his blunderbuss and umbrella as oars,
and singing the Southern Marseillaise.

"Out with the sculls and give chase!" ejaculated Commodore Head, in a
great perspiration. It was found, upon examination, that the sculls had
been left on shore, and it was further discovered that the Mackerel
fleet was aground; otherwise our victory would have been more complete.

With eyes strained to the utmost we were gazing upon all this from the
beach, when Villiam suddenly placed a hand upon my arm, and says he:
"Hark!"

We listened. There was a sound as of a faint human cry. It approached
nearer. We could distinguish words. Nearer and nearer. The words now
came clear and distinct to our quickened ears.

"Extry a-Her-rr-rr-ald, capture of Vicksburg and sinking of the rebel
ram by Commore Head!"

Since newspapers have become so plentiful in this once distracted
country, my boy, that even the babe shews them upon its mother's lap,
the poorest man is enabled to see instantaneously, through a glass as
it were, the most distant events--a glass, my boy, which makes things
appear much larger at a distance than they seem to those close by.

                                             Yours, admiringly,
                                                       ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                              LETTER LIX.

  INSTANCING THE BENEFICENT DEPORTMENT OF THE VENERABLE GAMMON, AND
      NOTING THE PERFORMANCE OF A REMARKABLE MORAL DRAMA BY CAPTAIN
      VILLIAM BROWN.


                                     WASHINGTON, D. C., August 2d, 1862.

Some enthusiasm was excited here in the early part of the week, my boy,
by the return of the Venerable Gammon from a visit to his aged family
at Mugville, whither he goes regularly once a month for the benefit of
the sagacious chaps of the press. A great blessing is the Venerable
Gammon to the palladium of our liberties, my boy; for no sooner does
our army cease to change its base of operations, and do other things
calculated to make the war interesting and lengthy, than he pulls out
his ruffles, sighs frequently, and melts away to Mugville. Then all the
sagacious press chaps rush to the telegraph office and flash feverish
paragraphs to the intelligent morning journals: "Highly
important--Sudden departure of the Venerable Gammon for Mugville to
attend the death-bed of a relative--Believed in military circles that
this indicates a change in the Cabinet--Border States delegation has
again waited on the President--More vigorous policy needed."

Whereupon the editors of all the intelligent morning journals
ecstatically print the paragraphs, affixing to them: "_Note by the
Editor._--Washington is a town in the so called District of
Columbia--situated on the Potomac. We infer from our correspondent's
dispatch that it has not yet been taken by the rebels."

American journalism, my boy, in presenting a vast amount of matter
daily, is eminently calculated to impress the youthful brain with a
keen sense of what a wide distinction there is between Mind and Matter.

Immediately on the return of the Venerable Gammon, he commenced saying
things, which made all the rest of mankind seem like withered children
in comparison with him. He was beaming genially on the throng at
Willard's, and says I to him:

"It would appear, my beloved _Pater Patria_, that military matters are
not quite as interesting as a woman with a headache just now."

The Venerable Gammon pitied my youth, and waved his hand fatly by way
of a silent blessing to all the world. "Military affairs," says he,
effulgently, "are like metaphysics. Military affairs," says the
Venerable Gammon, benignantly, "are like that which we do not
understand--they defy our comprehension and comprehend our defiance."

Then all the Congressmen looked at each other, as much as to say the
Union was saved at last; and I felt like a babe in the presence of the
great Behemoth of the Scriptures.

How the Venerable Gammon has anything at all to do with this war, I
can't find out, my boy, but when the affectionate populace learned that
the Venerable Gammon had returned from Mugville, they swarmed around
his carriage, and entreated him either to spit upon them, or save them
from slow decay by a speech. It was then the Venerable man raised his
hand in soothing benediction, and says he:

"My friends, you are young yet, and have much to learn concerning war.
I can only say to you, my friends, that all goes well with McClellan;
and, if you will only hasten to fill up old regiments, raise a few
thousand new ones, and go yourselves, the advance upon Richmond may
commence at any time."

The most enthusiastic cheering followed this comforting speech of the
Venerable Gammon, and six ecstatic chaps immediately offered to
volunteer as major-generals.

Shall we presume to talk of drafting, my boy, when there is such
readiness on the part of the people to lead the troops? I think not, my
boy, I think not. Let the draft be protested.

On Wednesday I again took a trip to Paris, accompanied by my frescoed
dog, Bologna, and found upon reaching that city that the Mackerel
Brigade had built itself a theatre, after the manner of Drury Lane, and
was about to partake of the rich intellectual drama. This chaste temple
might possibly be taken for a cowshed, my boy, by those who are not
conversant with architecture in one story. It occupies a spot which has
been rising ground ever since the Mackerels commenced to dig trenches
around it, and the front door is so spacious that you have to go all
around the building to find where it stops opening. The seats are
similar to those which are supposed to have been so popular with the
Count de Grasse and the stage is exquisitely extemporized from several
flour-barrels, with a curtain created from the flannel petticoats
recently belonging to the wife of the Southern Confederacy.

Passing over all intervening events, my boy, let me direct your special
attention to the night we celebrated, when I found myself occupying a
box (previously used for crackers) in the temple of the Muses,
surrounded by uniforms and dazzled by the glitter of the shovels worn
by the military celebrities present. In a box (marked "Sperm
Candles--First quality") on my right, I noticed a number of
distinguished persons whom I did not know, and to the left were grouped
several celebrated visitors with whom I was not acquainted. The stage
itself realized numerous brilliant footlights in the way of bottles
containing gorgeous tallow-dips; and when the orchestra brought out his
key-bugle and struck up the martial strain of "I want to be an Angel,"
there _was_ a dry eye in the house.

(Make a note of this last unparalleled fact, my boy; for you, nor any
other mortal man, ever heard of its occurrence before.)

The curtain having been taken down by a gentleman who had forgotten to
wash himself when the washstand went round last time, the play
commenced; and I found it to be

                          THE UNION AS IT WAS.

                    A HIGH MORAL DRAMA, IN ONE ACK.

                  BY CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN, ESKEVIRE.

The plot of this admirable work is very simple, my boy, and appeals to
those sentiments of the human heart which affect the liver. The scene
is laid in Washington, where it has been frequently seen, and the drama
opens with a fine

      CONSERVATIVE CHORUS.

  Abram, spare the South,
    Touch not a single slave:
  Nor e'en by word of mouth,
    Disturb the thing we crave.
  'Twas our forefather's hand
    That Slavery begot;
  There, Abram, let it stand
    Thine Acts shall harm it not.

At the conclusion of this spirited National Anthem, the Border States
chaps who have been singing it are invited to have another interview
with the President, who has only seen them twice the same morning. As
they pass out, the celebrated Miss Columbia appears, wrapt in deep
thought and the American flag, and reading the twenty-third
proclamation for the current month. She asks her heart if she is indeed
divorced--if her once happy Union is indeed broken; and as her heart
refuses to answer any such common question, a doubt is allowed to
remain in the bosom of the spectator. In deep agony she kneels at the
monument of Washington and softly sings "Hail Columbia," while the
Southern Confederacy, who has just arrived, proceeds to plant batteries
all round her, assisted in the work by reliable contrabands. After some
moments spent in prayer for the repose of Secretary Welles, Columbia
discovered her surroundings, and is about to make a faint, when the
spirit of Napoleon appears, and tells her she has nothing to fear, as
he is about to change his base of operations, and take Richmond. He
tells her he would have taken it long before but for the Tribune. This
is a very fine scene--very fine. The spirit of Napoleon then proceeds
to pick up everything he can find and throw it over to the Southern
Confederacy, at the same time swinging himself around so that his left
fist may be presented to the enemy instead of his right, only pausing
long enough to drive back a reliable contraband who has started to
desert to him. Matters are progressing admirably, and the Confederacy
has only planted 24 more batteries around Columbia, when the
Conservative Chorus comes tearing back to the scene, with the news that
the President has determined to pay for all runaway slaves in
postage-stamps! This splendid stroke of policy so completely staggers
the Confederacy, that he only erects thirty-two more batteries, and
acknowledges that his back-bone is broken: Strange to say, Columbia
still labors under the delusion that she is in danger; but is finally
re-assured by the spirit of Napoleon, who convinces her that all is
going well, and at once draws his shovel and commences to dig a hole.
Columbia asks: "Wherefore this digging?" To which the response is:

  "Our Union in its broken state
    Is discord to the soul:
  And therefore are we digging here
    To make the Union hole."

The digging proceeds until the spirit of Napoleon is sunk deep into the
earth, when the Southern Confederacy deliberately steps over the hole
and captures Washington, at the same time ordering Columbia to black
his boots. Columbia would be utterly bereft of hope at this turn in
affairs but for the cheerful conduct of the Conservative Chorus, who
bid her rejoice that the good old times have come again. Columbia then
remembers that she did indeed black the boots of the Confederacy in the
good old times, and it suddenly flashes upon her that the Union is, in
truth, restored--AS IT WAS. A brilliant blue light is thrown upon the
scene, and as the curtain falls the Conservative Chorus are seen in the
act of taking all the credit to themselves and indignantly refusing to
pay their war taxes.

This affecting drama of real life was played entirely by gifted
Mackerels, my boy, the one who acted Columbia being possessed of a
voice as musical as that which sometimes comes from between the teeth
of a new saw.

When the last round of applause had subsided, and I was leaving the
theatre, I came upon the dramatist, Captain Villiam Brown, who appeared
to be waiting to hear what I had to say about his work. Says I to him:

"Well, my versatile Euripides, your play resembles the better dramas of
Æschylus, inasmuch as it is all Greek to me."

"Ah!" says Villiam, hastily assuming the attitude in which Shakspere
generally appears in his pictures. "Did I remind you forcibly of the
bard of Avon?"

"Yes," says I, kindly; "you might easily be taken for Shakspere--after
dark."

As I turned to leave him, my boy, I could not help thinking how often
the world will call a man a "Second" So-and-so, long before he has
anything like commenced to be first, even.

                                             Yours, doubtingly,
                                                        ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                               LETTER LX.

  REPORTING THE SECOND REGULAR MEETING OF THE COSMOPOLITAN CLUB, AND
      THE BRITISH MEMBER'S CITATION OF THE ENGLISH POETS.


                                    WASHINGTON, D. C., August 5th, 1862.

This is a dull day, my boy; and when there is no longer any sunshine to
make steel bayonets and brass buttons glimmer to the eye, war is stript
of half its pomp, and the American mind takes a plain, practical view
of the strife.

Truth to tell, this secession is a very shabby, unromantic thing to
fight about. There is really no poetry at all about it, my boy, and
when one would rhyme about it, the mantle of poesy refuses to fall upon
him, though a bogus sort of Hood may possibly keep him in countenance.
The cause of this war is simply this--

              PER SE.

      Sepoys--sea-thieves--
      C. Bonds--see slaves--
  See seizures made in every kind of way;
      See debts sequestrated--
      Sea-island frustrated;
  Segars--seditionists--and C. S. A.,
      Seduced from honor bright--
      Secluded from serenest Wisdom's light--
      Sea-pent by ships of war--
  Selected planters for the world no more;
      Severely snubbed by all--
      Secure to fall;
  Sedately left alone by all who see
  Seed poisonous sown in sectional retrogression;
  See-saw diplomacy, sedition foui _per se_;
  Sequel--that serio-comic scene--
        SECESSION!

Speaking of poetry; I attended the meeting of the Cosmopolitan Club on
Monday night, and was much electrified by the treasures of British
literature unfolded by Smith-Brown. That double-chinned chap brought to
view a roll of manuscript, and says he:

"Instead of reading a story for your entertainment, gentlemen, I
propose to make you acquainted with the war-sentiments of a few of
Albion's poet's, as expressed in certain unpublished verses of theirs
which have privately come into my possession.

"First, let me commend to your attention some amiable rhymes by a bard
who knows more about this blarsted country than it knows about hitself":

          A MISTAKE BY HEAVEN!

        _By Dr. Charles Mack--y._

  In Heaven's Chancery the Records stand
  Of men and deeds in each and ev'ry land,
  And as new rulers rise, or empires fall,
  Appointed angels make a note of all.

  To mark the changes in this world of late
  There came a Spirit from the Throne of Fate,
  Instructed closely, to be sure and see
  Who earth's chief rulers for _this_ year might be.

  His task accomplished, back the Spirit flew
  To Heaven's Chancery, as bade to do,
  And from his vestments took the mystic scroll
  That named each potentate, from Pole to Pole.

  Recording Angels glanced it sharply o'er,
  To note each change from what the Records bore;
  But found no nations changing potentates
  Until they came to the United States.

  "Another President!" the angels sighed,
  "Another President!" the Fates replied;
  And straight a pen the Chief Recorder took
  To write the ruler's name within his book.

  He wrote--(alas! 'twill hardly be believed
  The very angels could be so deceived)--
  He wrote the name that all his sprites might read--
  Not Abr'am Lincoln; no! but--THURLOW WEED.

  !!   #   #   #   !!   #   #   #   !!

  If foreign nations fail to judge your cause
  In strict accordance with set Christian laws,
  It is no proof of their intending crimes,
  Since angels, even, make mistakes at times!

We were all silent after that, my boy, and says the old British chap:

"The next manuscript expresses the conservative sentiment of Britain's
Isle, the measure being peculiar and the manner inquiring. Hattention!--

                THE WAR.

            BY SIDNEY DOBELL.

I.

    Oh, the war, the war,
    _Oh_, the war, the war,
    OH, the war--
    With pools of gory, dripping grime,
    And ghastly, beastly, horrible rime,
    The soldier bloody, stiff and stark--
    The cannon thunders, hark! hark!
  Columbia, how's the war?

II.

    Oh, the blood, the blood,
    _Oh_, the blood, the blood,
    OH, the blood--
    Curdling, welling, staining the ground,
    Bubbling from wounds with sick'ning sound;
    The life gone out in a wind of swords,--
    Murderers leagued in hordes! hordes!
  Columbia, how's the blood?

III.

    Oh, the roar, the roar,
    _Oh_, the roar, the roar,
    OH, the roar--
    Thousands grappling, tearing to death,
    Fever, madness and hell in a breath;
    Rage, despair, oath and scream--
    Rivers crimson stream! stream!
  Columbia, how's the roar?

IV.

    Oh, the blaze, the blaze,
    _Oh_, the blaze, the blaze.
    OH, the blaze,
    Homes in flames, lighting the storm,
    Torches for death in a brother's form;
    Ruin, ravage, ashes and smoke,--
    Hopes and heart-strings broke! broke!
  Columbia, how's the blaze?

V.

    Oh, the groan, the groan,
    _Oh_, the groan, the groan,
    OH, the groan--
    Mothers sonless, homeless and old,
    Sisters brotherless, lone and cold,
    Children starving, wailing for bread,--
    Fathers and brothers dead! dead!
  Columbia, how's the groan?

VI.

    Oh, the woe, the woe,
    _Oh_, the woe, the woe,
    OH, the woe,
    Cities famishing, villages still,
    Blood in the valley and fire on the hill;
    Horror, havoc, curses and tears,--
    Dark desolation for years! years!
  Columbia, how's the woe?

VII.

    Oh, the end, the end,
    _Oh_, the end, the end,
    OH, the end,
    Griefs and graves at every hearth,
    Heaven offended, outraged Earth:
    Prayers for vengeance from ev'ry tomb--
    Borne to the living a doom! doom!
  Columbia, how's the end?

Here Bonbon, the French chap, struck in, and says he: "Oh, the ass, the
ass, _Oh_, the ass, the ass, OH, the ass----"

"Silence, Napoleon!" says the British chap, "and r-r-remember Waterloo!
The next metrical gem," says he, "illustrates the deeper profundity of
British thought, and conveys a moral lesson of the deepest significance
to babes and sucklings. Hem!"--

              COLUMBIA'S AGONY.

        BY MARTIN FARQUHAR TUP----R.

  I hold it good--as who shall hold it bad?
    To lave Columbia in the boiling tears
  I shed for Freedom when my soul is sad,
    And having shed proceed to shed again:
  For _human sadness sad to all appears_,
    And tears men sometimes shed are shed by men.

  The normal nation lives until it dies,
    As men may die when they have ceased to live;
  But when abnormal, by a foe's surprise,
    It may not reach its first-appointed goal;
  For _what we have not is not ours to give_,
    And if we miss it all we miss the whole.

  Columbia, young, a giant baby born,
    Aimed at a manhood ere the child had been,
  And slipping downward in a strut forlorn,
    Learns, to its sorrow, what 'tis good to know,
  That _babes who walk too soon, too soon begin
    To walk_ in this dark vale of life below.

  When first the State of Charleston did secede,
    And Morrill's tariff was declared repealed,
  The soul of Freedom everywhere did bleed
    For that which, having seen, it sadly saw;
  So true it is, _death-wounds are never healed_,
    And law defied is not unquestioned law.

  The mother-poet, England, sadly viewed
    The strife unnatural across the wave,
  And with maternal tenderness renewed
    Her sweet assurances of neutral love;
  _A mother's love may not its offspring save;
    But mother's love is still a mother's love._

  Learn thou, Columbia, in thine agony,
    That England loves thee, with a love as deep
  As my "Proverbial Philosophy"
    Has won for me from her approving breast;
  _The love that never slumbers cannot sleep_,
    And all for highest good is for the best.

  Thy Freedom fattens on the work of slaves,
    Her Grace of Sutherland informeth me;
  And all thy South Amboy is full of graves,
    Where tortured bondmen snatch a dread repose;
  Learn, then, the _race enslaved is never free_,
    And in thy woes incurred, behold thy woes.

  Thy pride is humbled, humbled is thy pride,
    And now misfortunes come upon thee, thick
  With dark reproaches for the right defied,
    And cloud thy banner in a dim eclipse;
  _Sic transit gloria gloria transic sic_,
    The mouth that speaketh useth its own lips.

  Thus speeds the world, and thus our planet speeds;
    What is, must be; and what can't be, is not;
  Our acts unwise are not our wisest deeds,
    And what we do is what ourselves have done;
  _Mistakes remembered are not faults forgot_,
    And we must wait for day to see the sun.

I looked up at Smith-Brown, my boy, and says I:

"What does he mean by the 'State of Charleston,' my fat friend?"

"Why," says he, "that's a poetic license, or American geography diluted
by the Atlantic. And here we have something by the gifted hauthor of
'Locksley Hall,' which it is somewhat in that vein:

                                AMERICA.

                          BY ALFRED TEN----N.

  Westward, westward flies the eagle, westward with the setting sun,
  To an eyrie growing golden in a morning just begun;
  Where the world is new in promise of a virgin nation's love.
  And the grand results of ages germs of nobler ages prove;

  Where a prophecy of greatness runs through all the soul of youth,
  And the miracle of Freedom blesses in a living truth;
  Where the centuries unnumbered narrow to a single night,
  And their trophies are but planets wheeling round a central light.

  Where the headlands breast the Ocean sweeping round creation's East,
  And the prairies roll in blossoms to the Ocean of the West;
  Where the voices of the seas are blended o'er a nation's birth,
  In the harmony of Nature's hymn to Liberty on earth.

  Land of Promise! Revelation of a loyalty that springs
  From a grander depth of purple than the heritage of kings--
  From the inner purple cherished at the thrones of lives sublime,
  Cast in glorious consecration 'neath the plough of Father Time--

  Home of Freedom, hope of millions born and slain and yet to be,
  Shall the spirit of the bondless, caught from heaven, fail in thee?
  Shall the watching world behold thee falling from thy starry height?
  Like a meteor, in thine ending leaving only darker night?

  Oh! my kinsmen, Oh! my brothers--fellow-heirs of Saxon hearts,
  Lo the Eagle quits his eyrie swifter than a swallow darts,
  And the lurid flame of battle burns within his angry eye,
  Glowing like a living ember cast in vengeance from the sky.

  At thy hearth a foe has risen, fiercer yet to burn and kill,
  That he was thy chosen brother--friend no more, but brother still;
  For the bitter tide of hatred deeper runs and fiercer grows,
  As the pleading voice of Nature addeth self-reproach to blows.

  Strike! and in the ghastly horrors of a fratricidal war,
  Learn the folly of your wanderings from the guiding Northern Star;
  What were all your gains and glories, to creation's fatal loss
  When ye crucified your Freedom on the cruel Southern Cross?

  Oh! my brothers narrow-sighted--Oh! my brothers slow to hear
  What the phantoms of the fallen ever whisper in the ear;
  God is just, and from the ruins of the temple rent in twain
  Rises up the invocation of a warning breathed in vain.

  All thy pillars reel around thee from the fury of the blow,
  And the fires upon thine altars fade and flicker to and fro;
  Call the vigor of thy manhood into arms from head to foot,
  Strike! and in thy strife with error let the blow be at the root.

  So thy war shall wear the glory of a purpose to refine
  From the dross of early folly all the honor that is thine;
  So thine arms shall gather friendship to the standard of a cause
  Blending in its grand approval British hearts and British laws.

  Form thy heroes into armies from the mart and from the field,
  And their ranks shall stretch around thee in a bristling, living shield;
  Take the loyal beggar's offer; for the war whose cause is just
  Breathes the soul of noblest daring into forms of meanest dust.

  Let thy daughters wreathe their chaplets for the foreheads of the brave,
  Let thy daughters trace their lineage from the patriot's honored grave;
  Woman's love is built the strongest when it rests on woman's pride,
  Better be a soldier's widow than a meek civilian's bride.

  Onward let thine Eagles lead thee, where the livid Southern sun
  Courts the incense for the heavens of a righteous battle won;
  And the bright Potomac, winding through the fields unto the sea
  Shall no longer mark the libel--what is bond and what is free.

  Rising from the fierce ordeal washed in blood and purified,
  See the future stretch before thee, limitless on every side;
  And in all the deep'ning envy of the nations wed to sloth,
  Mark the record of thy progress, see the mirror of thy growth.

  Rising from thy purifying, like a giant from his rest,
  Thou shalt find thy praise an echo from the East unto the West;
  Thou shalt find thy love a message from the South unto the North,
  Each its past mistake of duty finding out and casting forth.

  And thy States in new communion, by the blood they all have shed,
  Shall be wedded to each other in the pardon of the dead;
  Each, a scale of steel to cover vital part from foreign wrong,
  All, a coat of armor guarding that to which they All belong.

  Thou shalt measure seas with navies, span the earth with iron rails,
  Catch the dawn upon thy banner and the sunset on thy sails;
  Northern halls of ice shall echo to thy sailor's merry note,
  And the standard of thy soldier on the Southern isle shall float.

  Turning to thy mother, England, thou shalt find her making boast
  Of the Great Republic westward, born of strength that she has lost;
  And thy Saxon blood shall join ye, never to be torn apart,
  Moving onward to the future, hand in hand and heart to heart.

At the conclusion of this last reading, my boy, we separated. When we
are "heart to heart" with England, my boy, the heart that is underneath
may possibly have ceased to beat.

                                Yours, to beat, or not to beat,
                                                        ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                               LETTER LXI.

  PORTRAYING A SOCIAL EFFECT OF THE POSTAGE-STAMP CURRENCY,
      DESCRIBING THE GREAT WAR MEETING IN ACCOMAC, RECORDING THE
      LATEST EXPLOIT OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE, AND INTRODUCING A
      DRAFTING ITEM.


                                    WASHINGTON, D. C., August 9th, 1862.

If tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep, should ever take it into
her head to invade our distracted country, she would meet with less
resistance in Washington than it is possible for the able-bodied mind
to comprehend. Notwithstanding the fact that President Lincoln is an
honest man, my boy, the genius of Slumber has opened a large wholesale
establishment here, and the tendency to repose is so general that the
authorities are just able to wink at secession sympathizers. It takes
so long to get the news of the war from New York, that our citizens
grow languid in the intervals. On Monday, indeed, an enterprising chap
from Nantucket opened a Museum on the outskirts of the town, by way of
varying the monotony, and quite a numerous crowd assembled to witness
the performance. This Museum comprises a real two shilling piece,
inclosed in a strong glass case, to preserve it from the violence of
the mob, and even respectable old married men go to see it, for the
sake of past associations. On the occasion of my visit to this unique
establishment I arrived shortly before the exhibition began, and found
a brilliant array of beauty and fashion for an audience. It was quite
interesting, my boy, to hear the conversation going on. There was a
fine young chap just in front of me who has recently been appointed to
the staff of the Commander-in-Chief in consequence of his great
experience in the coal business, and says he to another Lubin's
Extracts chap:

"Fwedwick, who is that wavishing creatchah ovah they-ar, with the
Peach-Orchard eyes and Lehigh hair?"

"Aw, dimmy," says Lubin's Extracts, "that's the great heiress. She's
worth eighty thousand postage-stamps."

"The wed kind?" says the young staff-chap, eagerly--"is it the sticky
wed kind, Fwed?"

"No," says Lubin's Extracts, scornfully; "it's the green ten cent kind."

"Intwojoose me," says the staff-chap, excitedly--"intwojoose me, Fwed;
I must know her--upon my soul I must."

Upon his soul, my boy--he said upon his _soul_! When it is possible for
an introduction to take place upon such a soul as that, my boy, it will
be comparatively able to manoeuvre an elephant brigade on the extreme
point of an infant needle.

When the manager of the Museum came out to lecture upon his great
natural curiosity, there was immediate silence; and when the case was
uncovered, revealing the quarter to full view, several very old
gentlemen fainted! Alas! they remembered the time when--but no matter
now--no matter now.

"Ladies and gentlemen," says the manager, pointing solemnly to his
treasure, "the rare and beautiful coin which you now behold was well
known to our forefathers, who stamped the figure of Liberty upon it, in
order to show the world that this is the only country where man is at
Liberty to deal in slaves by way of financial speculation. This rare
coin disappeared as soon as the Liberty I speak of seemed to be
endangered, nor will it reappear in this country again while there are
so many brokers ahead."

On quitting this admirable exhibition, my boy, I did not return to this
city, but went immediately down to Accomac, to attend the great Union
meeting. Accomac, my boy, has at length determined that this war shall
be vigorously carried on, even if it takes several public speakers to
say so; and the conduct of Accomac, in calling a meeting for such a
purpose, reminds me of a chap in the Sixth Ward.

He was a respectable family chap, who had formed a partnership with all
his neighbors for the express purpose of taking entire and exclusive
charge of their business for them, and evinced such a deep interest in
the most private affairs of his friends, that absence did not conquer
their love for him. One Sunday there was a city missionary at the
church he attended, who implored the aid and prayers of the
congregation in behalf of a poor but pious family, who were starving to
death around the corner. "Hev any tracts been left with our suffering
frens?" says the respectable chap, rising in his pew and pinching his
benevolent chin thoughtfully. "Yes," says the missionary, sadly, "we
sent them some tracts on the immortality of the soul; but, horrible to
relate, they gained no flesh by them." The respectable chap, who was a
baker by profession, was much moved by this revelation of human
depravity, and says he to a bald-headed chap in the next pew: "Brother
Jones, you must attend to this sad case in the morning. We must
remember our fellow-beings in affliction, Brother Jones. Early to-morrow
you must take some bread to this suffering family. If you have no bread
of your own, Brother Jones," says the respectable chap, feelingly,
"come to my shop and I--I will sell you some for this charitable
purpose." But Brother Jones proved to be a grievous backslider, my boy,
and said he had an engagement to go to Hoboken on the morning in
question. "Very well," says the respectable chap, when he heard this,
"then I will arrange it in another way. Tell our starving brothers and
sisters to have faith," says he to the missionary, in a heartfelt
manner, "and they shall be fed, even as the ravings fed my old friend
Elijah." So, the next day he called a meeting of brethren to pray that
food might be sent to the suffering ones, and they used up the entire
English language in prayer to such an extent, that when the respectable
chap topped off with a benediction, he had to introduce some Latin
quotations. They had just finished this noble work of Christian
benevolence, when the missionary came tearing in, and says he: "It's
all over; they're all dead; the last child starved to death half an
hour ago." The respectable chap stared at him aghast, and says he: "Did
you tell them to have faith?" The missionary cracked a peanut, and says
he: "Verily, I did; but they said they couldn't have faith on empty
stomachs." The respectable chap pondered a while, and says he: "If they
didn't have faith, my frens, the whole matter is explained. We, at
least, have done our duty. We have prayed for them, frens--we have
prayed for them." And the brethren went home to their dinners.

Public mass meetings, my boy, to help a struggling country, are like
prayer-meetings to aid the starving poor; the intention is good, but
the practical benefit resulting therefrom is not visible to the naked
eye.

There was a large meeting at Accomac, several new liquor-shops having
been opened there recently, and the speakers were as eloquent as it is
possible for men to be when advising other men to do what they don't
care to do themselves. A chap of large abdominal developments was
specially fervid. Says he: "Let us show to them as is tyrants and
reveling in the agonies of down-trodden Europe, that this Republic is
able to put down all enemies whatsomever, without interfering with any
of the inalienable rights of those who, though our enemies, are still
our long-lost brothers. (Frantic applause.) Shall it be said that
twenty-two millions of people cannot put down eight millions without
injuring those eight millions? (Shrieks of approbation, and cries of
"That's so!") No! a thousand times no! We fight, not to injure the
South; not to interfere with them, which is our own flesh and blood,
but to sustain the Constitution rendered sacred by Revolutionary gore!
(Overwhelming enthusiasm.) The creatures which is trying to break up
this here beneficent Government, ask us what we are fighting for, then?
Gracious hevings! what a question is this! Do they not know what we are
fighting for--that in this unhappy struggle we--that our purpose, I
would say, in prosecuting hostilities is to--is to--DO IT? Of course it
is."

This speech, short, terse, and to the purpose, was gloriously received
by everybody, except a friendless chap, who said he didn't understand
the last clause; and he was immediately sent to jail for daring to be
so traitorously obtuse.

Though the General of the Mackerel Brigade was seated upon the highest
barrel on the platform, my boy, and blew his nose louder than any one
else, he did not wish to be seen, nor did he intend that the assemblage
should call upon him for the speech sticking out of his side-pocket;
but when the throng accidentally found him to be the most prominent
figure in sight, they thoughtlessly called upon him to say something.
The General laid aside his fan with some embarrassment, and says he:

"My children, I love you. My children," says the General, motioning to
his aid to fill the tumbler again, "I daresay you expect me to say
something, and though I am unprepared to speak, there is one thing I
will say. If anything goes wrong in this war, nobody is to blame, as I
alone am responsible. Bless you, my children."

As the idol of the populace finished these touching remarks, and
resumed his tumbler and fan, there was but one sentiment in the whole
of that vast assemblage, and a democratic chap immediately went and
telegraphed to Syracuse that the prospect for a Democratic President in
1865, was beautiful.

The meeting might have lasted another week, my boy, thereby rendering
the Union cause utterly invincible, but for the imprudence of an insane
chap who proposed that some of the young men present should enlist.
This malapropos and singularly inconsistent suggestion broke up the
assemblage at once, in great disorder--volunteering being just the last
thing that any one thought of doing. Greatly edified and encouraged by
what I had heard, my boy, I made all haste for Paris, where I found the
Mackerel Brigade and Commodore Head's fleet in great excitement over
the case of an Irish gentleman who believed this to be a white man's
war, and had started for Paris, just fourteen minutes after landing in
this country, for the express purpose of protesting against any labor
being performed by negroes, while there were white men to do it.
Colonel Wobert Wobinson, of the Anatomical Cavalry, quieted him by
saying that, although a number of negroes were then engaged in digging
trenches, a new line of holes in a far more unhealthy place would be
commenced in the morning, and that none but Irishmen should be
permitted to dig them.

On the night previous to my arrival, my boy, while all the Mackerels
were watching the stars with a view to prevent any surprise from that
quarter, the Southern Confederacy on the other side of Duck Lake
trained four large fowling-pieces upon their peaceful camp from behind
a wood-pile, and commenced a ferocious and ear-splitting bombardment.
It was some hours before our men could be got into position to return
the fire, as Captain Bob Shorty had forgotten where they had put the
Orange County Howitzers when last using them. The fleet, too, was
somewhat delayed in getting into action, as Commodore Head experienced
some difficulty in unlocking the box into which he always puts his
spectacles and slow-match before retiring at night.

Finally, however, the howitzers were discovered behind some boards, and
the spectacles and slow-match were forthcoming, and our troops were
pouring a hot fire across Duck Lake before the Confederacy had got
two-thirds of the way back to Richmond. Next morning, my boy, the Conic
Section crossed the Lake, and cleared away everything on the opposite
shore except the before-mentioned wood-pile. The latter contains the
same kind of wood that was burned in the time of Washington, my boy,
and twenty men were appointed to guard it from the profanation of our
troops. We must protect such property at all hazards, my boy, or the
Constitution becomes a nullity.

Having crossed the treacherous element to view the immediate scene of
these proceedings, and learned from Captain Villiam Brown that our
pickets were within ten miles of the Confederacy's capital, I was about
to make some short remark, when a messenger came riding forward in a
great perspiration, and says he;

"Our pickets have been driven in."

"Ha!" says Villiam, "is the Confederacy again advancing upon the United
States of America?"

"Our pickets," says the messenger, impressively "have been driven in;
they have been driven into Richmond."

"Ah!" says Villiam, pleasantly, "then send out some more pickets."

I strolled away from the pair, my boy, reflecting upon the possibility
of enough Mackerel pickets reaching Richmond in this way to make the
Union sentiment there stronger than ever, and was looking listlessly to
my footing, when I chanced to espy a paper on the ground. Picking it
up, I found it to be a note from the wife of the Southern Confederacy
to her cousin, dropped, probably by one of the Confederacies of the
wood-pile. It bore the date of April the First, and read as follows:

"DEAR JULEYER:--I have just space of time to write you these few lines,
hoping that these few lines will find you the same, and in the
enjoyment of the same blessing. O my unhappy country! how art thou
suffering at this present writing! I have not had a single new bonnet
for two weeks, my beloved Juleyer, and my Solferino gloves are already
discolored by the perspiration I have shed when thinking of my poor,
dear South. My husband, the distinguished Southern Confederacy, is so
reduced by trials, that he is a mere skeleton skirt. Oh, my Juleyer,
how long is this to continue? Ere another century shall have passed
away, the Yankees will have approached nearer Charleston and Savannah,
and the blockade become almost effective. Since the Mackerel Brigade
has changed its base of operations, even Richmond seems doomed to fall
in less than fifty years. Everything looks dark. Tell me the price of
dotted muslin, for undersleeves, when you write again, and believe me,

                                           Your respected cousin,
                                                            "MRS. S. C."

       *       *       *       *       *

There's only one thing about this letter bothers me, and that's the
date, my boy--the date.

When very near this city, on my return home, I met a chap, weighing
about two hundred and twenty-five pounds, who was on his way to a
lawyer's to get his exemption from the draft duly filed.

"See here, my patriotic invalid," says I, skeptically, "how do you come
to be exempt?"

"I am exempt," says he, in a proudly melancholy manner, "because I am
suffering from a broken heart."

"Hem," says I.

"It's true," says he, sniffling dismally. "I asked the female of my
heart to have me. She said I hadn't enough postage-stamps to suit her
ideas of personal revenue, and she didn't care to do my washing. That
was enough: my heart is broken, and I am not an able-bodied man."

Drafting, my boy, is of a nature to develop the seeds of disease in the
hitherto healthy human system--seeds which, if suffered to fructify,
will be likely to ultimate in what gentlemen of burglarious
accomplishments would chastely and botanically denominate a very
large-sized "plant."

                                             Yours, seriously,
                                                        ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                              LETTER LXII.

  CONTAINING FRESH TRIBUTES OF ADMIRATION TO THE DEVOTED WOMEN OF
      AMERICA, AND DEVELOPING THE GREAT COLONIZATION SCHEME OF THE
      GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE BLACK
      RACE.


                                   WASHINGTON, D. C., August 15th, 1862.

Once more, my boy, this affectionate heart would render tribute of
gushing admiration to the large souled women of America, who are again
commencing to luxuriate and comfort our majestic troops with gifts
almost as useful to a soldier as a fishing-pole would be to the
hilarious Arab of Sahara. As I ambled airily near Fort Corcoran on
Monday, my boy, mounted on my gothic steed Pegasus, and followed by the
frescoed dog Bologna, after the manner of the British nobility, I
chanced upon a veteran of the Mackerel Brigade, who had come up from
Paris on one of those leaves of absence which grow from the tree styled
Sycamore. He was seated under a wayside oak, examining some articles
that had recently come to him in a package; now and then addressing his
eyes in the more earnest language of the Sixth Ward.

Having reined-in my spirited architectural animal, and merely pausing
to administer a crumb of cracker from my pocket to a hapless
blue-bottle fly which had rashly alighted from the backbone of the
charger, and was there starving to death, I saluted the Mackerel
veteran, and, says I:

"Comrade, wherefore do you select this solitary place to use language
only fitting a brigadier when he is speaking to an inferior officer, or
a high-toned conservative when referring to negroes, Wendell Phillips,
and the republican party?"

The veteran Mackerel sighed deeply, as he spread open the package to
full view, my boy, and says he, respectfully:

"Are you a married man, my cove?"

"No," says I, with a feeling of mingled insignificance and financial
complacency, "I never paid a milliner's bill in my life."

"Neither did I," said the veteran, with a gleam of satisfaction,
"neither did I; I always has them charged to me; but still I am the
wedded pardner of one which is a woman. I have loved her," says the
veteran passionately, "I have loved her better than I loved number
Three's masheen, with which I was brought up, and that seemed to me
like my own brother. I have stayed home from a fire more than once to
go to church with her; and the last words I said to her when I come
here was: 'Old woman! if Six's foreman comes here after that wrench,
while I'm away, tell him I'll break that nose of his when I come back!'
We was all confidence together," says the veteran, smiting his chest,
madly; "and I never threw a brick that I didn't tell her of it, and now
she's gone and sent me a copy of the Temperance Pledge, a pair of
skates, two bottles of toothache drops, and six sheets of patent
fly-paper. I really believe," says the veteran, bitterly--"I really
believe that she thinks I ain't got nothing to do here but to keep
house and take care of an aged grandmother."

At the conclusion of this unnatural speech, my boy, I hastily trotted
away upon my architectural steed; for I had not patience enough to talk
longer with one whose whole nature seemed so utterly incapable of
appreciating those beautiful little attentions which woman's tender
heart induces her to bestow upon the beloved object. Since the last
time I was sick, my boy, I have entertained a positive veneration for
the wonderful foresight of that blessed sex, whose eyes remind me of
pearl buttons. At that period, when the doctors had given me up, and
nothing but their absence seemed capable of saving my life, one of the
prevalent women of America heard of my critical condition, and, by her
deep knowledge of human nature, was enabled to rescue me. She sent me a
bottle of stuff, my boy, saying, in a note of venerable tone, that it
had cured her of chapped hands several times, and she hoped it might
break my fever. With a thankful, confident heart, I threw the bottle
out of the window, my boy, and got well in less than three months.

The other day, I went down to Accomac again, to see the General of the
Mackerel Brigade, who had invited me to be present while he made an
offer of bliss to a delegation from that oppressed race which has been
the sole cause of this unnatural war, and is, therefore, exempted from
all concern in it.

The General, my boy, was seated in his temporary room of audience when
I arrived, examining a map of the Border States through a powerful
magnifying-glass, and occasionally looking into a tumbler, as though he
expected to find something there.

"Well, old Honesty," says I, affably, "what is our next scheme for the
benefit of the human race?"

He smiled paternally upon me, and says he:

"It is my purpose to settle the Negro Question in accordance with the
principles laid down in the Book of Exodus. Thunder!" says the General,
with magisterial emphasis, "if we do not secure the pursuit of
happiness to the slave, even, we violate the Constitution and become
obnoxious to the Border communities."

I was reflecting upon this remark, my boy, and wondering what the
Constitution had to do with the Book of Exodus, when the delegation
made its appearance, and caused the room to darken perceptibly. Not to
lose time, the General waved his hand for the visitors to be seated,
and, says he:

"You and we are different races, and for this reason it must be evident
to you, as well as to myself, that it is better you should be
voluntarily compelled to colonize some distant but salubrious shore.
There is a wide difference between our races; much wider, perhaps, than
that which exists between any other two races. Your race suffers very
greatly, and our race suffers in suffering your race to suffer. In a
word, we both suffer, which establishes a reason why our race should
not suffer your race to remain here any longer. You who are here are
all present, I suppose."

A voice--"Yes, sah."

"Perhaps you have not been here all your lives. Your race is suffering
the greatest wrong that ever was; but when you cease to suffer, your
sufferings are still far from an equality with our sufferings. Our
white men are now changing their base of operations daily, and often
taking Malvern Hills. This is on your account. You are the cause of it.
How you have caused it I will not attempt to explain, for I do not
know; but it is better for us both to be separated, and it is vilely
selfish in you (I do not speak unkindly) to wish to remain here in
preference to going to Nova Zembla. The fact that we have always
oppressed you renders you still more blameable, especially when we
reflect upon the fact that you have never shown resistance. A trip on
your part to Nova Zembla will benefit both races. I cannot promise you
much bliss right away. You may starve at first, or die on the passage;
but in the Revolutionary War General Washington lived exclusively on
the future. He was benefitting his race; and though I do not see much
similarity between his case and yours, you had better go to Nova
Zembla. You may think that you could live in Washington, perhaps more
so than you could on a foreign shore. This is a mistake. None but white
army contractors and brigadiers on furlough can live here.

"The festive isle of Nova Zembla has been in existence for some time,
and is larger than any smaller place I know of. Many of the original
settlers have died, and their offspring would still be living had they
lived long enough to become accustomed to the climate. You may object
to go on account of your affection for our race, but it does not strike
me that there is any cogent reasons for such affection. So you had
better go to Nova Zembla. The particular place I have in view for your
colonization is the great highway between the North Pole and Sir John
Franklin's supposed grave. It is a popular route of travel, being much
frequented by the facetious penguin and the flowing seal. It has great
resources for ice-water, and you will be able to have ice cream every
day, provided you supply yourselves with the essence of lemon and
patent freezers. As to other food, I can promise you nothing. There are
fine harbors on all sides of this place, and though you may see no
ships there, it will be still some satisfaction to know that you have
such admirable harbors. Again, there is evidence of very rich
bear-hunting. When you take your wives and families to a place where
there is no food, nor any ground to be cultivated, nor any place to
live in, then the human mind would as naturally turn to bear-hunting as
to anything else. But if you should die of starvation at the outset,
even bear-hunting may dwindle into insignificance. Why I attach so much
importance to bear-hunting is, it will afford you an opportunity to die
more easily than by famine and exposure. Bear-hunting is the best thing
I know of under such circumstances.

"You are intelligent, and know that human life depends as much upon
those who possess it as upon anybody else. And much will depend upon
yourselves if you go to Nova Zembla. As to the bear-hunting, I think I
see the means available for engaging you in that very soon without
injury to ourselves. I wish to spend a little money to get you there,
and may possibly lose it all; but we cannot expect to succeed in
anything if we are not successful in it.

"The political affairs of Nova Zembla are not in quite such a condition
as I could wish, the bears having occasional fights there, over the
body of the last Esquimaux governor; but these bears are more generous
than we are. They have no objection to dining upon the colored race.

"Besides, I would endeavor to have you made equals, and have the best
assurance that you should be equals of the best. The practical thing I
want to ascertain is, whether I can get a certain number of able-bodied
men to send to a place offering such encouragement and attractions.
Could I get a hundred tolerably intelligent men, with their wives and
children, to partake of all this bliss? Can I have fifty? If I had
twenty-five able-bodied men, properly seasoned with women and children,
I could make a commencement.

"These are subjects of very great importance, and worthy of a month's
study of the paternal offer I have made you. If you have no
consideration for yourselves, at least consider the bears, and endeavor
to reconcile yourselves to the beautiful and pleasing little hymn of
childhood, commencing:

  "I would not live always;
  I ask not to stay."

At the termination of this flattering and paternal address, my boy, the
delegation took their hats and commenced to leave in very deep silence;
thereby proving that persons of African descent are utterly insensible
of kindness and much inferior to the race at present practising
strategy on this continent.

Colonization, my boy, involves a scheme of human happiness so entirely
beyond the human power of conception, that the conception of it will
almost pass for something inhuman.

                                         Yours, utopianically,
                                                       ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                              LETTER LXIII.

  GIVING A FAMILIAR ZOOLOGICAL ILLUSTRATION OF THE "SITUATION," AND
      CELEBRATING THE BRILLIANT STRATEGICAL EVECUATION OF PARIS BY
      THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.


                                     WASHINGTON, D. C., August 22, 1862.

On Monday morn, my boy, whilst I was pulling on a pair of new boots that
have some music in their soles, there arose near my room door a sound as
of one in dire agony, closely followed by a variously-undulated moan, as
of some deserted woman in distress. Hastily discontinuing my toilet, and
darting to the threshold, I beheld one of those scenes of civil war
which impress the sensitive soul with horror and meet the just
reprobation of feeling Albion.

Rampant between two marrow-bones, my boy, was my frescoed dog, Bologna,
eyeing, with horrid fury, Sergeant O'Pake's canine friend, known as
Jacob Barker, and ever and anon uttering sentences of supernatural
wrath. To these the excited Barker responded in deep bass of great
compass, his nose curling with undisguised disdain, and his eyes
assimilating to that insidious and fiery squint which betokens
inexpressible malignity. There was something not of earth, my boy, in
the frescoed Bologna's distortion of countenance as he attempted to
keep an eye on each bone, and at the same time look full in the face of
his foe; and there was that in the sounds of his strain which betokened
Sirius indecision.

As I gazed upon these two infuriated wonders of natural history, my
boy, and recognized the fact that the existence of two bones in
contention prevented an actual battle, because neither combatant was
willing to lose sight of either of them; whilst the presence of but one
bone would have simplified the matter, and precipitated a decisive
conflict, I could not but think that I saw symbolized before me the
situation of our distracted country.

The United States of America, my boy, and the well-known Southern
Confederacy, are like two irascible terriers practising defiant
strategy between two bones, the one being the festive negro-question,
and the other the Union. Now it seems to me, my boy--it seems to me,
that if the gay animal with U. S. on his collar would only dispose of
the bone nearest him without further vocalism, there would be a better
chance for him to secure the other bone in the combat sure to come.

Dogs, my boy, and men, are very much alike, in their hostile meetings,
neither seeming to know just exactly which is truly their _magnum
bonum_.

Ascending the roof of my architectural steed, Pegasus, on Tuesday, I
induced the gothic animal to adopt a pace sometimes affected by the
fleet tortoise, and went down to Accomac in pursuit of knowledge
respecting recruiting. Just before reaching that Arcadian locality, my
boy, I met Colonel Wobert Wobinson, of the Western Cavalry, who had
been down there to induce volunteering and infuse fresh confidence into
the masses. He offered a bounty of two hundred dollars; three dollars
to be paid immediately, and the rest as soon as the war commences in
earnest; and promised to each man a horse physically incapacitated from
running away from anything.

"Well, my bold dragoon," says I, cordially, noticing that Pegasus had
already fallen into a peaceful doze, "how go enlistments?"

The colonel waved away an abstracted crow that was hovering in deep
reverie over my charger's brow, and says he: "I have enlisted all the
people of Accomac."

"I want to know," says I, Bostonianly.

"Yes," says he, "I called a meeting, and succeeded in enlisting
all--their sympathies."

As I gazed upon the equestrian warrior, my boy, methought I saw the
youngest offspring of a wink trembling in a corner of his right eye,
and I felt that the world renowned Snyder was at that moment laboring
under a heavy incubus. Such is life.

The state of health in Accomac indicates that the demon of disease is
abroad in the land, looking chiefly for his victims among those between
the tender ages of eighteen and forty-five. Instead of having a sling
in his hand, like the young warrior David, each young man I met had his
hand in a sling, whilst the dexter leg of more than one able-bodied
patriot suggested the juvenile prayer of "Now I lame me, down to slip."
And there were the women of America fairly crying in terror of the
draft, instead of bearing themselves like the Spartan ribs of old.

Alas! my boy, why cannot our people realize, that a nation, like a
cooking-stove, cannot keep up a steady fire without a good draft. We
need men for the crisis, and we only find cry sisses for the men.

I could not stay here, so I hastened on to Paris, where a great
strategic movement was about to supply all the world with fresh
recollections of the late Napoleon. I say _late_ Napoleon, my boy,
because our Napoleon is apt to be behind time.

As far back as I can remember, I have been fully aware that this
movement was about to take place, but would not, like too many other
correspondents, betray the confidence reposed in me. This bosom, my
boy, this manly and truthful bosom, is about the right shop for
confidence. Nor is it like the bosoms of those who can truthfully say
that they never _give_ important information to the enemy, though every
body knows that they sell it.

On arriving in Paris, I saw at once that preparations for outgeneraling
the deceived Confederacy had already commenced; for the down-trodden
General of the Mackerel Brigade had assembled the reliable contrabands
whom he had used for some weeks past, and was taking leave of them in a
heart-felt manner.

Mounted on a small keg, from the bung hole of which came the aroma of
pleasant rye fields, the General softly wiped his lips, and says he:

"Being members of a race which we regard as a speshees of monkeys, my
black children, the fact that this is a white man's war will prevent
your taking part in the entirely different race about to come off.
After the manner of Andrew Jackson at New Orleans, I have called upon
you to do something for your adopted country; but as my friend Andrew
was particular to make his proclamation read '_free_ negroes,' there
can be no parallel between the two cases further. Therefore, return to
your masters, my children, and tell them that the United States of
America wars not against them rights of which you are a part. Go! And
remember, that as Gradual Emancipation is about to come off, you will
soon know the juicy richness of being free to visit all parts of the
world, except those not included in the pleasing map of Nova Zembla."

The contrabands departed, my boy, in blissful procession, and many of
them are undoubtedly happy enough now. Happier, my boy, than they could
hope to be if suffered to remain in this conservative and
constitutional world.

While the Mackerels were coming out of their holes, and polishing their
shovels for the march, I observed that the general walked thoughtfully
to his tent, in deep silence. I found Captain Villiam Brown expelling
two reporters from the lines, lest they should prematurely divulge the
movement then going on to the Confederacy seated on an adjacent fence,
and says I to him:

"Tell me, my fiery warrior, wherefore is it that the chieftain seeks
his solitary tent?"

"Ah!" says Villiam, reverently, "it is to pray for the cause of liberty
and the rights of man, after the manner of George Washington, Mount
Vernon, Virginia. Come with me, my cherub," says Villiam piously, "and
you shall see martial greatness in a touching aspeck."

We went softly to the tent together, my boy, and there beheld the
beloved general of the Mackerel Brigade, with his face devoutly
upturned. His face was devoutly upturned, my boy; but we could see
something intervening between his countenance and the sky, and
discovered, upon closer inspection, that it was a tumbler. Can it be,
my boy, that this good man thought that Heaven, like any distant
earthly object, could be brought nearer by looking toward it through a
glass? Here is food for thought, my boy--here is food for thought.

And now, Commodore Head having fished his iron-clad fleet from the
tempestuous bosom of Duck Lake, and everything being in readiness--the
march of the Mackerel Brigade commenced, with a silence so intense that
we could distinctly hear all that anybody said.

First, came a delegation of political chaps from the Sixth Ward,
conversing with each other on the state of the country, and considering
eight hundred and forty excellent plans for saving the Union, and
getting up a straight-out ticket.

Then appeared the well-known promenade band of the Mackerel Brigade,
executing divers pleasant _morceaux_ on his night-key bugle, an
occasional stumble over a stone giving the airs a happy variety of
sudden _obligati_ improvements.

Next appeared the idolized General of the Mackerel Brigade, modestly
refusing to receive all the credit for the skillful movement, and
assuring his staff that he really would not prefer to be President of
the United States in 1865.

Followed by Commodore Head, with his squadron on his shoulders,
swearing as usual in his iron-plated manner, and vowing to capture
Vicksburg before he was twenty years older.

Then advanced Captain Villiam Brown, Eskevire, Captain Bob Shorty, and
Captain Samyule Sa-mith, each indignantly rejecting the idea that this
movement was a retreat, and expressing the hope that Wendell Phillips
would be immediately hung for it.

Then came a train of wagons containing all the provisions that could
not be thrown away.

Succeeded by the Mackerel Brigade with shovels at a shoulder-arms, and
noses suggestive of strawberry patches in the balmy month of June.

And was this _all_ the procession? you will ask; did nothing come after
the Brigade itself?

I am not a positive man, my boy, and care not to assert a thing unless
I positively know it to be true. It was growing dark when we reached
our destination, and I could not see distinctly toward the rear: yet I
think I _did_ see something coming after the Mackerel Brigade.

What was it?

It was the Southern Confederacy, my boy--the Southern Confederacy.

                                            Your, excitedly,
                                                       ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                              LETTER LXIV.

  SHOWING HOW THE COSMOPOLITANS MET AGAIN, TO BE INTRODUCED TO THE
      "NEUTRAL BRITISH GENTLEMAN," AND HEAR MR. BONBON'S FRENCH
      STORY.


                                   WASHINGTON, D. C., August 25th, 1862

Ever since the British chap read all that unpublished British poetry at
the Club, my boy, I have been anxious to favor him with an "Idyl,"
written by a friend of mine who has traveled much in Albion, and writes
_ex-cathedra_. Last night there was a fair chance, and I then introduced

            THE NEUTRAL BRITISH GENTLEMAN.

  Incrusted in his island home that lies beyond the sea,
  Behold the great original and genuine 'TIS HE;
  A paunchy, fuming Son of Beef, with double weight of chin,
  And eyes that were benevolent--but for their singular tendency
      to turn green whenever it is remarked that his
      irrepressible American cousins have made another
      Treaty with China ahead of him--and taken Albion in.
  This Neutral British Gentleman, one of the modern time.

  With William, Duke of Normandy, his ancestors, he boasts,
  Came over from the shores of France to whip the Saxon hosts;
  And this he makes a source of pride; but wherefore there should be
  Such credit to an Englishman--in the fact that he is descended
      from a nation which England is forever pretending
      to regard as slightly her inferior in everything,
      and particularly behind her in military and naval
      affairs--we really cannot see.
  This Neutral British Gentleman, one of the modern time.

  He deals in Christianity, Episcopalian brand,
  And sends his missionaries forth to bully heathen land;
  Just mention "Slavery" to him, and with a pious sigh
  He'll say it's 'orrid, scandalous--although he's ready to fight
      for the Cotton raised by slaves, and forgets how he
      butchered the Chinese to make them take Opium,
      and blew the Sepoys from the guns because the
      poor devils refused to be enslaved by the East India
      Company--or his phi-lan-thro-py.
  This Neutral British Gentleman, one of the modern time.

  He yields to Brother Jonathan a love that passeth show--
  "We're Hanglo-Saxons, both of us, and carn't be foes, you know."
  But as a Christian Englishman, he cannot, cannot hide
  His horror of the spectacle--of four millions of black beings
      being held in bondage by a nation professing the
      largest liberty in the world, though in case of an
      anti-slavery crusade the interests of his Manchester
      factors would imperatively forbid him to--take
      part on either side.
  This Neutral British Gentleman, one of the modern time.

  Now seeing the said Jonathan by base rebellion stirred,
  And battling with pro-slavery, it might be thence inferred
  That British sympathy, at last, would spur him on to strife;
  But, strange to say, this sympathy--is labelled "NEUTRALITY,"
      and consigned to any rebel port not too closely blockaded
      to permit English vessels, loaded with munitions, to
      slip in. And when you ask Mr. Bull what he means
      by this inconsistent conduct, he becomes virtuously
      indignant, rolls up his eyes, and says: "I carn't
      endure to see brothers murdering each other and
      keeping me out of my cotton--I carn't, upon my life!"
  This Neutral British Gentleman, one of the modern time.

  Supposing Mr. Bull should die, the question might arise:
  Will he be wanted down below, or wafted to the skies?
  Allowing that he had his choice, it really seems to me
  The moral British Gentleman--would choose a front seat with
      his Infernal Majesty; since Milton, in his blank
      verse correspondence with old _Times_, more than
      once hinted the possibility of Nick's rebellion
      against Heaven succeeding; and as the Lower Secessia
      has cottoned to England through numerous
      Hanoverian reigns, such a choice on the part of the
      philanthropical Britisher would be simply another
      specimen--of his NEUTRAL-I-TY!
  This Neutral British Gentleman, one of the modern time.

When Smith-Brown had heard that, my boy, he sniffed grievously, and
says he: "England never _was_ happreciated in this blarsted country."

I believe him, my boy.

It being Bonbon's turn to read a story, he unrolled his papers and gave
us


                            THE CONFESSION.

"During my short stay in France, I belonged to a convent of Carthusian
monks, and there became acquainted with the man whose confession
constitutes my story. He had applied for admission to our order, as one
who had tired of life's gaieties, and bestowed his wealth, which was
enormous, upon the holy church. Brother Dominique was the name he
assumed; and his austere devotion speedily gained him notoriety for
great piety; but there was something so unnatural in his actions, and,
at times, so incoherent in his speech, that we, who were his daily
companions, involuntarily shuddered when he spoke to us. Among the
various incongruities of his character, was a gloomy reserve--or,
rather, pride, which repulsed all advances of friendship, and impressed
upon the mind a conviction that Brother Dominique's religion was more
like that of a hypocrite foiled in his schemes, than of a pure-minded
man, whose sense of duty to his Creator had induced him to assume the
serge and rosary. This conviction was more than confirmed by his
occasional exclamations of anger and defiance, as though once more a
prey to the passions of an outer world; and, at the expiration of a
year from the time of his entrance, the new brother was an object of
suspicion, if not dislike, to the whole convent, excepting myself.

"My sentiments in regard to him were those of pity; for I felt
confident that some great sorrow was preying upon his mind; and the
wild agony which would often contort his whole countenance, while at
evening prayers, made me anxious to know something of his history.

"One evening, having received an order to visit the cell of Dominique
from our superior, I was surprised to find a curiously-fashioned lamp,
burning in a niche, directly opposite an iron cot, on which the monk
was sleeping. Knowing that the convent rules expressly forbade a light
at that hour, I was about to extinguish it, when there fell upon my
startled ear a loud yell, like that of a springing tiger, and, in an
instant, I was seized by the throat. Filled with dismay, I struggled to
extricate myself, when the beams of the lamp fell upon the writhing
features of Dominique, pallid as those of a corpse, and spattered with
froth from his lips.

"'Devil, I defy thee!' he exclaimed, dashing me violently against the
wall; and then quitting his hold.

"'Brother Dominique, are you mad?' I asked, as soon as I could recover
my breath.

"'It is a lie! I am not mad!' he ejaculated, glaring fiercely upon me,
and biting his lip until the blood streamed from his beard.

"Hardly knowing what I did, I again approached the lamp; when he again
sprang to my side, and pushed me violently from before it.

"'Must I kill you, too?' he said, in a whisper that pierced me.

"'You are excited,' I replied, with all the calmness I could muster. 'I
thought you were asleep, or I should first have spoken to you about
your lamp, the burning of which, at this late hour, is a violation of
the rules.'

"He covered his face with his hands while I was speaking; and when he
again looked up, all traces of former agitation had vanished.

"'Forgive me, father,' he said, with composure. 'Our superior has
granted me the privilege of having a light always burning, as I am
subject to fits, such as you have just witnessed, and cannot do without
it. God have mercy upon me! I might have murdered you,' he added,
turning suddenly pale again, and leaning against the damp wall.

"I delivered my message, being anxious to leave a being whose passions
were so violent when aroused; but he called me back as I turned away,
and resting upon his hard bed, motioned for me to take a seat beside
him.

"I hesitated about complying at first; but there was an expression of
mingled sorrow and entreaty resting upon his whole countenance, that
awoke my sympathy and conquered fear. Closing the door of the cell, I
obeyed him in silence, and sat down with a feeling of awe not to be
defined.

"'Father,' he said, laying one hand on each of my shoulders, and
staring fixedly in my face, 'Will you hear me confess?'

"The extreme abruptness of the question made me start from him with a
gesture of surprise, but I answered not.

"'Will you hear a tale of crime from a criminal?' he continued,
pressing heavily upon me, 'a tale of murder from a murderer!'

"I felt convinced that I had a maniac to deal with, and remembering to
have heard that any sign of timidity but added fuel to the fires of
insanity, I steadily returned his stare, and responded as quietly as I
could.

"'Brother Dominique, if your soul is burthened with crimes, why not
confess to the superior who is our father confessor?'

"'No, no!' he exclaimed, frantically. 'To you, or no one.'

"Fearful that, by refusing, I should again arouse him to violence, I
drew my cowl closely over my head to guard against the damp air, and
bade him tell me his sorrows.

"He, at once, fell upon his knees before me--nor could I persuade him
to assume any other attitude.

"'Here on my knees,' he began, 'will I tell a tale that shall freeze
your blood, and make you turn from me in scorn, or hatred. You will not
betray me?'

"I assured him I would not.

"'I am the last of a noble Florentine house, which bears the names of
sovereigns upon its registers. My father was a cold, stern man, proud
of his high descent, and arrogant with those beneath him. My mother was
the daughter of a Venetian noble, bright and beautiful as a diamond,
and insensible to all the softer warmths of women as is that precious
gem. I was their only child, and all the love their hearts were capable
of feeling was bestowed upon me; all my desires were gratified ere
expressed; obsequious menials stood about my path eager to obey my
slightest nod; velvet received my infant footsteps, and the atmosphere
around me was one of mellow music.

"'I grew up to manhood a pampered child of fortune, happy only in the
midnight orgie or early morning revel, and the most polished profligate
of my native city; yet my father regarded me with feelings of pride,
and my mother looked upon her son as one well worthy to inherit the
flaunting fortunes of his house. Although my father was ever kind to me
he was subject to occasional fits of violence, when he would beat the
servants, and render it necessary for his friends to confine him. It
was said that he had seized a gipsey woman who had been caught in the
act of stealing, causing her to be burned alive, and that while the
flames were torturing the poor wretch, she had denounced her
executioner with the bitterest execrations, and declared that he and
his offspring should feel the curse of madness. The prophecy so worked
upon my father's mind as to occasion periodical attacks of insanity, at
which seasons he would rave fearfully, and, as I said before, render
temporary confinement necessary. I cannot say that the knowledge of
this fact had any effect upon me then, for I was gay and thoughtless;
but, alas! it has since proved my bane, and poisoned every cup that has
touched my lips.

"'Onward I flew, in a whirl of wildest dissipation, until my
twenty-first birth day, when my father ordered me to meet him in the
library at a certain hour. Not daring to disobey him, although I
anticipated some cutting rebuke for my late headlong course, I waited
upon him at the appointed time, and was relieved when he asked me in a
kind tone to take a seat near him.

"'"Dominique," he said, "you have now reached an age when you must give
up childish follies, and be a man. You are my only son, and my titles
and fortune must one day be yours. It is my hope that you may support
them with honor; but, in order to do this you must take a decided step
at once--you must marry."

"'Although arrived at that period of life when woman usually becomes
the principal object of man's hope and ambition, I was totally
indifferent to them, and ridiculed those of my friends who had married,
or, as I termed it, become slaves for life. But I knew my father's
temper too well to thwart him, and appeared to acquiesce in his designs
for my future benefit. He informed me that the lady whom he had
selected to be my bride, was of a noble family, and would be at our
villa in a few days, when he wished me to render myself as agreeable as
possible, and at once commence my wooing.

"'I left him with a feeling of despair at being so soon obliged to give
up my gay companions and become suppliant to one whom I had never
before seen, and belonging to a sex that I held in contempt.

"'In my trouble I appealed to a young nobleman, an associate of mine,
for advice, and he recommended that I should go abroad without my
father's knowledge--afterwards giving him my reasons for so doing in a
letter, and humbly asking his forgiveness. This advice just suited my
disposition, and I resolved to follow it. Accordingly I collected
sufficient funds for my journey, and on the morning of the day when my
intended bride was to arrive at our villa, I started with my valet for
France.

"'Upon reaching Paris I wrote to my father, declaring my determination
to remain unmarried until tired of being my own master, and concluding
by asking his pardon for the step which I had taken. My father did not
answer this letter, and hence I supposed that he was seriously
offended; but this conviction did not prey upon my mind for any length
of time--indeed, I soon became more notorious in the French capital
than I had been at home for unbounded extravagance and heedless
dissipation. The well-known prominence and wealth of my family gained
access for me to the circles of the most exclusive aristocracy. The
glory and power of the unfortunate Louis and his peerless queen, Marie
Antoinette, were already on the wane; yet their magnificence far
eclipsed that of any other European court, and many traitors stood in
the glittering throng that swarmed about them, whose meekly down-cast
eyes were destined to blaze with the fires of rebellion, and whose
swords were yet to flash terror into the heart of that sovereign who
regarded them then as the staunchest bulwarks of his throne. With all
due ceremony, I was presented to the ill-fated representatives of
royalty, and quickly found myself the cynosure of all eyes, leered at
by languishing dames, sneered at by those of my own sex whom nature had
slighted, and honored with the attention of more than one aristocrat
who afterwards fell a victim to the fury of red republicanism. But the
sword of Damocles was suspended over our heads, and it soon fell with a
clash that aroused echoes in every corner of the globe. When first the
ferocious Club proclaimed its prerogative, I joined with others in
treating it as a subject beneath our notice; but, as the flames of
insurrection spread, and street barricades were successfully defended
against the assaults of the National Guard, I began to feel the danger
of being an aristocrat, and take measures for flight when events should
have reached their crisis. It was too late. At the dead of night, I was
aroused from my sleep by a violent uproar in the street below,
accompanied by a thundering at the court yard gates of my hotel. I
sprang from my couch to the window, and, with a vague apprehension of
what was to come, pulled aside the curtain and looked forth. Holy
Virgin! what a sight was there!--Thousands of howling demons, fast
losing all semblance of humanity, surging and roaring like an infernal
sea, with ghastly death-lights leaping above its waves and drowning
grim shadows beneath. 'Blood! blood!' was their watchword, and I heard
my name bandied from lip to lip, with bitter execrations. My pride was
aroused, and conquered every other emotion. Hastily drawing a heavy
military cloak over my head and form, I opened the casement, and walked
out upon the balcony. So completely did my garment shroud me, that the
bloodhounds knew me not, and for a moment their hellish cries sank into
dead silence.

"'"Open the gates, or we will burn you alive," shouted a hoarse voice.

"'"_Vive le Roi!_" I shouted in answer.

"'Oh, what rage there was in the yell responsive to my taunt. It seemed
as though Pandemonium had sent its countless fiends to join in the
chorus of brutal fury. The gates were fast yielding, and my servants
were constantly reminding me with pallid faces that I was ruthlessly
sacrificing their lives for my own. In a moment, my resolution was
made. I hastily assumed my usual dress, and wrapping the cloak about
me, went down into the court and placed myself in a dark corner.

"'"Open the gates," I cried, disguising my voice, and throwing it as
far forward as possible.

"'With quaking limbs, my servant obeyed the order, and in another
moment, I felt the hot tide of devils bolting past me, into the elegant
saloons of my hotel. So intent were the mob upon despoiling and
plundering, that I was enabled to gain the street unmolested; but at
that point, some enemy called my name, and with a shout of triumph,
hundreds of infuriate demons started toward me. Knowing that resistance
would be worse than madness, I drew my sword, and clenching it firmly
in my right hand, with the point in front of me, I ran swiftly before
them. Again arose the shouts, and onward came my enemies, panting for
blood. Desperation gave me strength, and like a hunted deer, I far
out-sped my pursuers; but human nature cannot be taxed beyond a certain
point, and as I turned into the Rue St. Martin, my strength began to
fail me, and my breath came hot and quick. Giving up all hope of escape
and resolving to sell my life dearly, I was about to stand at bay, when
an open door in a house close by caught my glance, and with the
rapidity of thought, I darted through and closed it behind me. My
hunters had not yet turned the corner, but I could hear their cries and
with regained strength, I ascended a flight of stairs and entered an
apartment, when a scream of surprise arrested my progress. A young girl
stood before me with uplifted hands and astonishment painted upon every
feature.

"'"Holy Mother! What would you have, monsieur?"

"'"I am pursued by the _canaille_, mademoiselle, and entered here to
recruit my strength. I will die like a man."

"'"You are a royalist?"

"'"Yes."

"'I turned to the door, when she eyed me closely for some moments, and
then opening a closet in the wall, pointed to its interior, without
speaking. I saw at once that she wished to save me, and after raising
her hands to my lips in mute expression of my gratitude, I entered the
closet, and heard her turn the key in the lock. Almost at the same
moment, loud shouts arose from the street and heavy footsteps were
heard ascending the stairs.

"'"Whose house is this?" demanded a gruff voice, as its owner
apparently entered the room, in company with others.

"'"Citizen Foliere's," answered my protectress, in sweet, calm tones.

"'"Which side?"

"'"_Vive la Republique._"

"'"_Tres bien._ He can't be here, comrades; he has given us the slip.
Where is your father, mademoiselle?"

"'"He went to join in the attack on a hotel in the Rue St. Honore."

"'"Then he will be back soon, for the building is in flames, though its
master has escaped us. Adieu, mademoiselle."

"'My nerves and muscles had been drawn to the last degree of tension,
excitement had buoyed me up for a time; but now that my pursuers were
departing and danger no longer surrounded me, a reaction took place,
and I fell insensible upon the floor of my closet, while my fair jailer
was in the act of liberating me.

"'Soon a scorching heat fell upon my brain, and in fancy I returned to
my father's house. Dire shapes of blood haunted me, until I raved like
a maniac and cursed the author of my being as the author of my
destruction.

"'I woke as from a dream, and found myself lying upon a soft couch,
attended by a physician, and a tall, middle-aged man, wearing the red
republican badge--I owed my life to one of a class which I had ever
despised. Monsieur Foliere had returned home soon after my pursuers had
quitted it; and found his daughter attempting to revive me; great as
was the risk he incurred by protecting a royalist, he did not hesitate
to send at once for a surgeon, and order every comfort necessary to
preserve my life.

"'I endeavored to express my gratitude; but the stern citizen frowned,
and from that time forth, I said no more on the subject. Health slowly
returned to its temple, and as it sent the warm blood tingling freshly
through my veins, love mingled with the current that flowed to the
heart. Cerise, my saviour, my guardian angel, hovered about my pillow
like a spirit of light, awaking in my breast a passion which had never
dwelt there before. She was not what the world termed a beauty; but
there was a quiet grace about her actions, and a smiling, lovely
dignity ever shining from her large brown eyes, that so drew her to me,
as to make me silent and melancholy when she was not present.

"'Not to linger over a period, the purest and brightest of my
existence, suffice it to say, that Cerise returned my passion, and I
was blest with her love. I told her my name, and painted the splendors
of Florence, while she listened with a gentle smile of approbation, and
consented to become my wife, should her father raise no objection.

"'Anticipating no difficulty in that quarter, my happiness was
unalloyed, and I considered her as all my own. At length, when my
health was fully re-established, I asked a private interview with
Citizen Foliere, and demanded the hand of his daughter in marriage. I
described in glowing terms my love for Cerise and her reciprocation--I
spoke of my high rank in Florence, the many honors of my family, and
its great antiquity; the advantages which would accrue to him from
having such a son-in-law--in fact, presented my views in every light of
interest and paternal affection that I could devise. The stern
republican heard me through in silence, and then answered coldly--

"'"Young man, you were received into my house, a fugitive from
retributive justice, and sheltered by me at the risk of my own good
name and life. I pitied your youth, and yielded my protection, when
duty bade me surrender you to my friends. Would you repay me by robbing
me of my richest treasure, or forever blighting her existence by
arousing in her bosom a hopeless passion? My daughter cannot be yours,
though you boasted the blood of a sovereign; she shall never sit in the
palaces of our oppressors. My decision is irrevocable, and this subject
must be forever at rest."

"'Frantic with indignation and disappointment, I flew to Cerise, and
with the violence of a maniac, acquainted her with my ill-success; I
swore she should be mine, or I would slay myself at her feet. By turns
she wept and expostulated, until I accused her of faithlessness, when
she threw herself into my arms, and in an agony of tears, bade me do
with her as I pleased.

"'That night I was on my way from Paris, with my _wife_ clasped to my
breast, calling down heaven's bitterest curses upon my head, should I
ever cease to love her as I then did, and kissing the hot tears from
her cheeks in a burning, maddening transport of blind devotion.

"'Oh madman! wretch that I was--why did I not fall a withered corpse at
the feet of that innocent girl, who sacrificed a father's love for me?

"'At Genoa I purchased a villa in a retired spot, and there tasted the
intoxicating joys of elysium; but fate was darkening in clouds above my
head, and the bridal garlands were soon to blossom in a harvest of
blood. I wrote again to my father, acquainting him with the step I had
taken, and narrating my escape from death in France. An answer soon
came, and in the presence of my wife I read as follows:

"'"DOMINIQUE--Foolish boy, you have well nigh driven me to madness by
your conduct, and your mother has gone to the grave a victim to the
folly of her son. Come hither at once, if you would not kill me also,
and behold the wreck that remains of

                                                     "'"YOUR FATHER."

"'The vague tone of this communication, and the intelligence of my
mother's death, overwhelmed me with sorrow. Cerise, dear Cerise, fell
upon my bosom and reproached herself as being the author of all my
troubles. In vain did I try to forget my own griefs, and strive to
console her; she soon became calm, but the smile of contentment no
longer beamed from her eyes, and her peace was departed forever. She
insisted upon obedience to my father's request, and when I yielded,
accompanied me to my native city silent and tearless.

"'Resolving to see my father alone, I left my wife at an obscure house
in the suburbs of the city, and promising to return when I had softened
my parent's wrath, I set out with a heavy heart for the home of my
childhood.

"'The servants at once recognized me, but I could only learn it from
their glances, for they led the way in silence to the saloon of
reception.

"'My father was seated in a remote corner, conversing with some person
when I entered, and on beholding me, at once came forward and embraced
me with every token of affection. Astounded at receiving such a salute,
when I expected nothing but reproach, I stood motionless, staring at
him in silence, until the other person present approached. Never shall
I forget the appearance of Lucia on that day. Her raven locks, falling
below her waist and mingling imperceptibly with the folds of her sable
robe, contrasted strikingly with the snow-white purity of her
complexion, over which her piercing eyes, shed a lustre truly
spiritual. As my father introduced us, our glances met, and I felt a
thrill to my inmost soul.

"'It maddens me to dwell upon those scenes, and I will hasten to the
conclusion of my story. I forgot Cerise, my honor--everything, in the
society of her who had once been selected to wed with me. Day followed
day until a month had elapsed, and I still remained fascinated to the
spot, false to my vows, false to my wife, and true to nothing but blind
infatuation. My father beheld me sinking deeper and deeper in the black
waves of infamy, and a light of demoniac exultation burned in his eyes.
I marked his triumph, and I, too, felt a savage joy, though for what
reason, I knew not.

"'At length he taunted me as the husband of a lazarone. He pointed with
hellish glee to where Lucia stood, the incarnation of perfection, and
bade me behold what I had lost. My brain was on fire, a thousand furies
tugged at my heartstrings, and as my father clasped my hands in his and
looked down into my soul, I felt that savage joy again, and a demon
possessed me. My father approached his face to mine, until his hot
breath burned upon my cheek, and whispered in my ear; it was enough.
With a loud laugh I left him and flew, rather than ran, to where my
deserted wife was watching for me, sad and alone.

"'Why did she not tax me with my perfidy? Why did not her angel soul
arise in its innocent love, to crush me with the glancing of an eye?
Oh, that she had uttered one reproach, one bitter word! She saw me, and
with a cry of joy, cast her white arms about my neck, as on our
marriage; they were like chains of searing, glowing iron to me, and I
dashed her from me, howling in the delirium of my torments. She marked
the wild fire that flashed from my eye, the dark flush that burned upon
my cheek, my breast heaving with the struggles of the fiend within, my
hair hanging in disordered masses over my throbbing brow, the cowardly
trembling of the hand concealed in my bosom; she beheld a fiend
incarnate in the form of one who had sworn to love and cherish her
forever; yet no word of reproach arose from those lips I had so often
kissed. Again her arms were about me, and again I attempted to dash her
to the ground.

"'"My husband, my dear Dominique!" she shrieked, clinging to me, and
pressing her cheeks, pallid and cold, against mine, glowing and burning
with the reflected fires of hell. The spell of madness fell upon me, as
I struggled with that faithful wife, and hissing froth boiled from
between my teeth, mingling with her long locks of auburn hair. I
suffered all the torments of the damned as we swayed to and fro, until
her strength began to fail and her arms relaxed their hold. Then, with
a horrid laugh, I wound her long curls about my hand, and plunged a
stiletto to its hilt in her breast.

"'The warm blood of life poured in a torrent upon me, and as my victim
lay gasping upon the ground, I danced frantically about her, laughing
with glee.

"'I did not wait to see her die--I _dared not_ do it--but all gory as I
was, I returned to my father. He met me with a smile, and his calmness
communicated itself to me.

"'I was happy then--oh! yes, very happy!

"'With blood upon my hand, and madness in my brain, I wooed Lucia with
all the cunning of insanity, and another gentle heart soon beat for me
alone.

"'We were married! I remember the bright glare of the lights, the holy
dignity of the priests, the gay laughter of the brilliant company, as
my health and _happiness_ were pledged in goblets of rare wines, the
face of my _second_ wife shining like that of an angel, with fond,
confiding love for _me_; and then my father! We looked at each other,
and smiled exultantly--we murderers, madmen, receiving the homage of
reasonable beings. I was filled with mad joy, and sent forth peals upon
peals of laughter while the ceremony was being performed. My father
joined in my unnatural merriment, and surprise and fear was painted on
every countenance. I saw the lips of Lucia tremble, and squeezed her
hand so that she groaned with pain. Oh! what would I not have given to
have been in the open air, yelling my triumph to the beast in his lair
and the bird on the wing; making nature's arena to echo my bursts of
mirth, and rising far above the earth on a sea of discord. My father
continued near me through the ceremony, and left the saloon at its
conclusion; but I _knew_ that his feelings were like mine and envied
his liberty.

"'Then I grew calm again, and friends congratulated me, and music
filled the air, and the dance went on, and I kissed my bride until she
involuntarily shrank from me in confusion. I was very happy then.

"'At length the midnight hour arrived and the maidens of Lucia
conducted her, veiled in blushes, to the nuptial couch. How beautiful
did she look, arrayed in spotless white, such as bright angels wear. An
hour elapsed ere I flew to her chamber and threw myself upon the floor
in a paroxysm of mirth. There was a large lamp of glass that burned
before a mirror in our bridal chamber, and as its perfumed oil was
consumed a delicious odor ladened the air; as I rolled upon the carpet
and tore it with my teeth, the light shone in my eyes, and in an
instant I ceased all motion and stared fixedly at it, while cold drops
of water came out upon my temple.

"'Timidly my bride approached and spoke to me; but I answered her not;
for there was another form before my eyes; another bride speaking to my
soul. There was an explosion; the lamp fell into a thousand pieces, and
where it had been there stood _my murdered wife_, with the blood
pouring from her bosom, and the stiletto in her hand. I saw her as
plainly as I now see you, and she bade me _slay her rival_! I knew my
fate decreed it so; I dared not disobey the dead, and with a howl of
fury, I sprang upon Lucia, my _second_ bride. In vain she clasped her
hands to me in prayer for mercy; in vain she tried to shriek for help;
I grasped her pale throat until my nails sank into the flesh, and a
purple hue spread over her face. There I saw her sink from blooming
health to ghastly death, and every feature was visible to me in all its
convulsive workings, although the light was out.

"'My spirit wife stood before me and my last victim, until she faded to
nothing in the morning light.

"'As the beams of the sun streamed in upon me, I took my dead bride in
my arms and stalked gaily down to the saloon of my father. I heard him
laughing loudly, and with a laugh I answered him as I carried my burden
into his presence. He, too, had something in his arms, and it was the
lifeless form of Cerise, crumbling to decay, and fresh from a banquet
of worms. We placed our treasures side by side upon a table, and
embraced each other with yells of laughter. Higher and higher rose our
mirth, and louder grew our shouts of triumph, until the street beneath
us was crowded with people, and the servants burst into the saloon
where we held our revel.

"'We were seized and carried before the Duke, with the cold corpses of
my wives; but we laughed when they called us murderers, and cursed when
others called us madmen.

       *       *       *       *       *

"'The keepers of the madhouse awoke me from my slumbers to tell me that
my father had died during the night. What was that to me? I wanted a
light burning beside me all night, and then he would not come from the
grave to visit me. So I laughed and was merry to think that I was
locked up in a madhouse. After many years I was released from my
prison, and came thither to take the cowl of a monk. Think not that I
am mad, holy father, when I solemnly swear that the shades of my wives
stand beside me every night, and only wait until the light goes out, to
drag me down to hell. I see them _now_, with bleeding bosom, and throat
bearing the prints of my nails! Cerise! Lucia! I defy thee both! The
lamp still burns! ha! ha! ha!'

"With a horrid laugh brother Dominique fell upon his face on the
ground, like one blasted by a stroke from heaven; and with a vague
feeling of terror, I crawled stealthily to my own cell.

"On the following day we met at morning prayer, in the chapel, but he
treated me as though we had never known each other, and the events of
the preceding night were never again mentioned by either of us.

"One evening, loud peals of laughter were heard issuing from the cell
of the maniac, and several of the monks hastened thither with me, to
learn its cause. On opening the door, I first beheld the lamp lying
extinguished in its niche, while brother Dominique was stretched upon
the stony pavement in strong convulsions, giving vent every now and
then to sounds of mirth, so dreadful that we stopped our ears, and fled
horrified to the superior. When all was again silent we returned to the
cell; but the maniac was not there, and the niche was vacant."

Such, my boy, was the story related by M. Bonbon, the reading making
him hoarse, and the plot suggesting a nightmare also.

                                                Yours, staringly,
                                                        ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                              LETTER LXV.

  NOTING THE REMARKABLE RETROGRADE ADVANCE OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE
      UPON WASHINGTON, AND THE UNSEEMLY RAIDS OF THE RECKLESS
      CONFEDERACY.


                                   WASHINGTON, D. C., August 30th, 1862.

As every thing continues to indicate, my boy, that President Lincoln is
an honest man, I am still of the opinion that the restoration of the
Union is only a question of time, and will be accomplished some weeks
previous to the commencement of the Millennium. It is the "Union as it
was" that we want, my boy, and those who have other articles to sell
are hereby accused of being accursed Abolitionists. I was talking the
other day to a venerable Congressman from Maryland, who had just
arrived to protest against the disturbance of mail facilities between
Baltimore and the capital of the Southern Confederacy, and says he, "I
have several friends who are Confederacies, and they inform me that
they are perfectly willing to return to the Union as it Was, in case
they should fail in their present enterprise. If I thought," says the
Congressman, hastily placing a lottery-ticket in his vest-pocket, "if I
thought that this war was to be waged for the purpose of injuring the
Southern Confederacy, rather than to restore the Union as it was, I
should at once demand more mileage of the Government, and repeatedly
inquire what had become of all the 'Wide-Awakes.'"

As he uttered this last horrible threat, my boy, I was impressed with a
sense of something darkly democratic. Too many of the "Wide-Awakes" of
the last campaign are indeed fast asleep now, when their country needs
them. I saw one of them slumbering near Culpepper Court House last
week. He was sleeping with his right arm twisted in the spokes of a
disabled cannon wheel, and a small purple mark was on his right temple.
But he was not alone in his forgetful sloth, my boy; for near him, and
rigidly grasping his disengaged hand, was a Democrat slumbering too!

The sight, I remember, rendered me so honestly indignant, that I could
not help pointing it out to the Mackerel Chaplain, who was engaged in
selling hymn-books to the wounded. The Chaplain looked a moment at the
Fusion Ticket before us.

"They sleep for the Flag," says he, softly, "and may its Stars shed
pleasant dreams upon their loyal souls for ever."

The Chaplain is an enthusiast, my boy, and this is what he has written
about

          OUR GUIDING STARS.

  The planets of our Flag are set
    In God's eternal blue sublime,
  Creation's world-wide starry stripe
    Between the banner'd days of time.

  Upon the sky's divining scroll,
    In burning punctuation borne,
  They shape the sentence of the night
    That prophesies a cloudless morn.

  The waters free their mirrors are;
    And fair with equal light they look
  Upon the royal ocean's breast,
    And on the humble mountain brook.

  Though each distinctive as the soul
    Of some new world not yet begun,
  In bright career their courses blend
    Round Liberty's unchanging Sun.

  Thus ever shine, ye Stars, for all!
    And palsied be the hand that harms
  Earth's pleading signal to the skies,
    And Heav'ns immortal Coat of Arms.

You are probably aware, my boy, that the unconquerable Mackerel Brigade
is still advancing upon Washington in a highly respectable and
strategic manner; and that all correspondents are excluded from the
lines, lest some of them, in their natural blackness of heart, should
construe the advance upon Washington into a retreat from Richmond.

But I gained admission to the scene by adopting the airy and pleasing
uniform of the Southern Confederacy; and am thereby enabled to give you
some further account of the skillful retrograde advance to which I
dimly referred in my absorbing last.

The uniform of the Southern Confederacy is much respected by many of
our officers, my boy, and is the only guise in which a fellow-being may
scrutinize the national strategic works with entire safety.

Thus attired, I joined the Mackerel Brigade in its cheerful work of
pushing Richmond away from its martial front, and having penetrated to
the rear where horrible carnage was being wrought in the frantic ranks
of the Confederacy, I beheld the idolized General of the Mackerel
Brigade anxiously searching for something upon the ground. In a moment,
he looked up, and says he to the warriors in his neighborhood:

"My children, have you seen anything of a small black bottle that I
placed upon the grass, just now, when I turned to speak to my aid?"

A Mackerel chap coughed respectfully, and says he: "I guess it was
taken by some equestrian Confederacies, which has just made another
raid."

"Thunder!" says the General, "that's the third bottle I've lost in the
same way within an hour." And he proceeded slowly and thoughtfully to
mount his horse, which stood eyeing him with funereal solemnity and
many inequalities of surface.

Turning to another part of the line, my boy, I beheld Captain Villiam
Brown and Captain Bob Shorty in the act of performing a great strategic
movement with the indomitable Conic Section, many of whom were
employing the moment to take a last look at the canteens presented to
them before leaving home by their devoted mothers. A number of reckless
Confederacies had just crossed a bridge spanning a small stream near
by, and the object of this daring movement was to suddenly destroy the
bridge before they could retreat and then make prisoners of the whole.

It was a sublime conception, my boy--it was a sublime conception, and
rich with strategy.

Like panthers surrounding their unsuspecting prey, the wily Mackerels
swept noiselessly across the bridge, applied their axes with the
quickness of thought, and in a moment the doomed structure fell
splashing into the water. It was beautiful to see Villiam's honest
exultation at this moment; his eyes brightened like small bottles of
brandy with the light shining through them, and says he:

"We have circumvented the Confederacy. Ah!" says Villiam, proudly; "the
United States of America is now prepared to continue in the exchange
business, and--"

He paused. He paused, my boy, because he suddenly observed that Captain
Bob Shorty had commenced to scratch his head in a dismal manner.

"I'm blessed," says Captain Bob Shorty, in a cholerical manner--"I'm
blessed if I don't think there's some mistake here, my military infant!"

"Ha!" says Villiam, with dignity; "do you discover a flaw in the great
chain woven by the United States of America around the doomed
Confederacy?"

Captain Bob Shorty again scratched his head, and says he:

"I don't wish to make unpleasant insinuations; but it seems to me that
this here body of infantry has left itself on the wrong side of the
stream!"

And so it had, my boy. By one of those little mistakes which will
sometimes occur in the most victorious armies, the Conic Section had
thoughtlessly _crossed the bridge_ before destroying it, thus leaving
themselves on one side of the river, while the riotous Confederacies
were on the other.

How they got across again, at a fordable place higher up, just in time
to see the Confederacies cross again, at a fordable place lower down, I
will not pause to tell you, as such information might retard
enlistments.

Once more stationing myself near the General of the Mackerel Brigade,
who sat astride his funereal charger like the equestrian statue of the
Duke of Wellington, I was watching his motions attentively, when a body
of horsemen suddenly dashed by him, and I saw, as they disappeared,
that he was left bareheaded.

"Thunder!" says the general, winking very violently in the sunlight,
and rattling his sword in a fearless manner, "where's my cap gone to?"

There was a respectful Mackerel chap at hand, and says he:

"I think it was took by the equestrian Confederacy, which has jest made
another raid."

"Hum!" says the general, thoughtfully, "that's very true. Thunder!"
says the general to himself, as it were: "this is all Greeley's work."

Pondering deeply over this last remark, I sauntered to another part of
the field, where the Orange County Howitzers were being prepared to
repel the charge of a regiment of Confederacies, who had just come
within our lines for the purpose. The artillery was well handled, my
boy, and not a piece would have been captured but for the splendid
discipline of the gunners. They were too well disciplined to dispute
orders, my boy; and as Captain Samyule Sa-mith had accidentally
forgotten to give the order to "load" before he told them to fire, the
effect of our metal upon the hostile force was not as inflammatory as
it might have been.

The next I saw of Samyule, he was making his report to the general, who
received him with much enthusiasm.

"Where are your guns, my child?" says the general, with paternal
affability.

Samyule blew his nose in a business-like manner, and says he;

"Several of them have just gone South."

I am unable to state what response the general intended to make, my
boy; for at this instant a body of horsemen swept between the speakers,
one of the riders jerking the veteran's horse violently from under him,
and galloping the steed away with him. Up sprang the general, in a
violent perspiration, and says he:

"Where's my horse gone to?"

"I guess," says a Mackerel chap, stepping up--"I guess that it was took
by the equestrian Confederacy, which has just made another raid."

"Thunder!" says the general, "they'll take my coat and vest next." And
he retired to a spot nearer Washington.

I would gladly continue my narrative of the advance movement, my boy,
showing how our forces continued their march in excellent order, safely
reaching a spot within ten miles of the place they gained on the
following day; but such revelations would simply tend to confuse your
weak mind with those great doubts concerning military affairs which
tend to render civilization impertinently critical.

It is the simple duty of civilians, my boy, to implicitly trust our
brass-buttoned generals; of whom there are enough to furnish the whole
world with war--and never finish it at that.

                                                   Yours, weekly,
                                                        ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                              LETTER LXVI.

  IN WHICH OUR CORRESPONDENT ASTONISHES US BY ENGAGING IN SINGLE
      COMBAT WITH M. MICHELET, AND DEMOLISHING "L'AMOUR" AND "LA
      FEMME."


                                    WASHINGTON, D. C., Sept. 4th, 1862.

While I was lounging in a banker's drawing-room this morning, my boy,
waiting for the filthy lucre chap to come down and say that he was glad
to see me, I chanced to see the eternal "L'Amour" and "La Femme" lying
upon a table in the apartment. The sight threw me into a bad humor, for
I detest those books, my boy, and wish the United States of America had
never seen them.

Monsieur Michelet, a French individual of questionable morals, first
writes a book about "Love," and then clinches it with one about
"Woman." It is hardly necessary to add, that he treats both subjects in
a thoroughly French manner, and makes one a continuation of the other.
Love is a charming little story in every man's life, "complete in one
number"--Number one. Woman is a love-story, "to be continued" until,
like all other continued stories, it ends with marriage!

Such is the logic implied by Monsieur Michelet's two books, and whether
it is calculated to elevate or degrade the weaker sex, a majority of
educated American women have eagerly read the books and accepted the
sentiments as so many compliments. And the men? They leisurely rove
through the leaves of monsieur's mental Valambrosa, and say: "How
Frenchy!" And in that natural exclamation we find the most complete and
just criticism of "L'Amour" and "La Femme" possible to American lips or
pen.

This Michelet, my boy, is a man of talent and remarkably clear poetical
perception. He is as much like Hallam as a Frenchman can be like an
Englishman, and France honors him for his development of the poetry of
her history; but is that any reason why he should be accepted as the
modern High-priest of Love and the Censor of Woman? By no means. Madame
de Stael was thinking of a Frenchman when she wrote: "Love is only an
episode in man's life"--and may have referred to herself when she
added: "but it is woman's whole existence." Had an American woman
spoken this, we should suspect the sentiment to be nothing more than
the reproach of a disappointed passion; but of the Frenchman it is
indisputably true, as well as of woman wherever we find her.

The French do not know what Fidelity means, my boy; they have chameleon
souls, and remain true to one object only until another comes within
their reach. Like mad bulls, they are attracted by the quiescent warmth
of fiery-red; and, having attained it, tear it to pieces in their
passion.

What can such people know about Love? Nothing. They call Love
"L'Amour," and when we speak of a man's "amours," we mean that he
"loves" like a Frenchman. Monsieur Michelet is a Frenchman; and
supposing him to be an ordinary one, we must accept his sentiments
regarding Woman as we would those of an Apicius regarding a delicacy he
apostrophizes before devouring. But Michelet's temperament is poetical,
and while he looks upon Woman as a foretaste of the sensualist's
paradise, and upon Love as the means of gaining it, he covers up the
grossness of his ideas with robes borrowed from the angels. Adopting
Kepler's canon, that "harmony is the perfection of relations," he makes
Woman, the creature, a continuation of Love, the sentiment; and the
tenor of his "L'Amour" and "La Femme" is, that both must be possessed
by man, in order to perfect the union which makes them a perfect One.

Wherever I go I find these books: cheek to cheek they repose on the
carved table of the lady's boudoir; shoulder to shoulder they stand on
the library shelf; _tete-a-tete_ they give the rich centre-table an
equivocal aspect. Young men and maidens, old men and matrons, children
and chambermaids read them; yet they have no social effect. Woman
understands love and herself; Man thinks he understands both; and the
fictitious fervor of Monsieur Michelet has no more effect upon either
than so much prismatic froth. It addresses itself piquantly to the eye,
and murmurs like a shell in the ear; but once out of sight and hearing,
and it is only an excuse for light talk and laxity of thought.

I am glad to record this; it shows that our national morality is in no
danger of being wrecked on the French coast by any such tropical gales
as Michelet, Feydeau, or Dumas can blow. Let our publishers bring over
a few more cargoes from the Augæan stables of French literature in
English bottoms, and I will guarantee them large profits. We will read
them, and immediately forget all about it.

But to return to Michelet again. Our women read his "Woman," and
imagine that it compliments their sex--flatters them. Fortunate is it,
that flattery very seldom changes a woman's character, though it may
sway her judgment. She accepts it as her right, but seldom believes it.
Queen Elizabeth graciously extended her hand to be kissed when her
noble lover compared her to "the sun, whose faintest ray extinguishes
the brightest planet;" yet that same hand had signed the flatterer's
death-warrant. At the moment she was pleased, and her good sense dazed;
but her heart was not reached. Flattery, skillfully administered, may
add fuel to a woman's love; but the fire must first be kindled with
something more sympathetic. An American woman may read "La Femme," and
complacently receive its subtle _equivoques_ as so much fuel added to
her vanity; but that vanity was kindled into existence in the first
place by the genuine homage of some honest man.

It was Michelet's "Woman," my boy, that suggested this letter; yet I
did not intend, at the outset, to devote so much space to his
unwholesome sophistry. If I have shown, however, that Michelet's
"Woman" is only such a being as he would have created under that name,
could he have changed places with the Deity, I have not wasted time and
ink. Thank fortune, there is but one French deity, and his proper name
commences with a D.

Now, let me give my own idea of Woman--not "La Femme."

As she stands before me in the light of Nature, she is no "enigma," as
voluntarily-puzzled poets have called her; but a being easily defined,
and not more nearly related to the angels than man. To the best of her
sex we attribute one natural weakness and one virtue--Curiosity and
Modesty. Everybody must allow this much. But why should we make such a
distinction between these two qualities? Let us trace them back to
their exemplar:

Eve's curiosity was the first effect of her serpentine temptation. Was
it not? Well, that curiosity caused her to eat the forbidden fruit.
Having eaten it, and caused Adam to eat, she suddenly became possessed
of modesty, and made herself an apron of fig-leaves. It is but natural
to infer that her first blush was worn at the same time, though Milton
attributes blushes to the angels. As angels are immaterial beings, I
think Milton was mistaken. Now, if modesty, as well as curiosity, was
the result of Satanic temptation, why should one be called a weakness
and the other a virtue? Are not both the fruits of original sin?

Woman's love is said to be stronger and more lasting than man's. Is it
so? Let us trace it back to its beginning:

Eve's love for Adam did not prevent her fall. She met the Prince of
Darkness and listened to his blandishments, as too many ladies of the
present time prefer the society of bogus courtiers to that of their
Adams of husbands. She forever disgraced Adam, herself, and her future
family, just to please the tempter. Was this a proof the depth and
vitality of Woman's love? And Adam? Why, rather than refuse any request
of the woman he loved, however extravagant, he voluntarily shared in
her ruin, and courted the curse of her fall. Did this prove that Man's
love is weaker and shorter-lived than Woman's?

Now, I should like to see some one impudent enough to assert that Eve
was more curious, or less modest, or more fickle than are the best of
her female descendants. Such impudence is not compatible with the
present position of civilization. Then, as Eve was the great exemplar
of her sex in Modesty and Fidelity as well as Curiosity, it follows
that Woman's Modesty is the result of inherited sin, and her Fidelity
in Love no greater than Man's.

Alas! for the "angels" of the poets, my boy. Prove that her Modesty and
Love are anything but heavenly, and what remains to make Woman angelic?

I could honor, love, and might obey the Best of Her Sex; but I shall
never worship her. She is not a Deity--only a Woman. I believe that God
intends each woman for a wife; yet six marriages out of every dozen are
unhappy ones. And what is the reason? Simply this:

Before marriage, man generally accepts one of the two poetical theories
respecting Woman. He either supposes her to be an angel, purer and more
elevated in her nature than he in his; or gloats over her as a delicate
morsel prepared for his special delectation by the gods. In either
case, he finds out his mistake when it is too late to rectify it, and
his disappointment is but the refinement of disgust. He either
discovers that woman is only a human being, and very much like himself
by nature; or that constant familiarity with her brings her down to the
level of a man in his estimation. There is but one possibility of
escape from disappointment in either case; the death of husband or wife
within a year of the wedding day!

Husbands and wives, have I spoken truly?

But there are exceptions to every rule. Some men marry women for the
sake of having homes of their own; others, for money; still others,
because it is the fashion. The man who marries for a comfortable home
often gets what he desired, and is contented; the mercenary husband is
likely to do and feel the same; the fashionable husband generally cuts
his throat. These exceptions do not break the rule.

It may be asked: Why do widowers so often marry again, if they were so
disappointed in their first wives? My boy, you are no philosopher. How
many men have learned wisdom by experience? Only a few, and they are
all dead. If a sailor is shipwrecked, and nearly killed on his first
voyage, does he forsake the sea forever after? If a man buys an image
supposed to be made of marble, and discovers that it is plaster, does
he never buy another image? Because you and your neighbors chance to
buy a barrel of bad eggs, are you satisfied that good ones are not to
be had?

An enthusiastic young man marries a girl whom he supposes to be an
"angel." A year passes, and he mourns over his mistake. A few more roll
away, and she dies. Does the widower profit by his experience? No! He
says to himself: "My late wife was not an 'angel;' but that sweet girl
I saw yesterday certainly is. She is entirely different from my late
wife." Well, he marries angel No. 2. She proves to be No. 1 in a
different dress.

A tropical young man is infatuated with the physical beauty of a girl,
and marries her with the idea that he will never weary of looking at
her. A year passes, and he is heartily tired of her. She dies. Does the
widower profit by his experience? No! He says to himself: "I was
wearied of my late wife because her hair, eyes and complexion were the
same as mine. Physiologists say that opposites are necessary to
matrimonial bliss. There is Miss ----, with her hair, eyes and
complexion, in direct antithesis with mine. I am _sure_ I should never
weary of her!" He marries her. And tires of her.

Do you see, my boy?

And now to remedy this evil: Let us look upon woman as she is. If an
"angel" with golden hair, snowy complexion, pearly teeth, heaven blue
eyes, and no appetite, sounds better in poetry than a true woman, with
auburn hair, fair complexion, clean teeth, and nice blue eyes, why, let
the poets rant about "angels." But poetry has nothing to do with so
practical an event as marriage, and its "angels" will not do for wives.
A man cannot be guilty of a more absurd and unprovoked piece of
injustice, than that of persisting in believing his bride more of an
angel than human. He might as well go to a jeweller's, and insist upon
buying a pearl for a diamond, when the certain result of such folly
would be his denunciation of the pearl as a swindle, when time
convinced him of its real character. No true woman desires to be looked
upon as an "angel," nor to have her beauty valued as a joy imperishable.

It is very common for women to lament the indifference of husbands who
were the most attentive and obedient of lovers. I have explained the
cause of the defection.

To secure happiness--or contentment, at least--in the marriage state,
we must regard woman as our equal by nature, whatever superiority or
inferiority she may possess by virtue of her mental or social
education. We must not look _up_ to her, nor _down_ upon her, but
straight _at_ her. We must not base our love for her upon supposed
angelic qualities. If we desire to make her happy, and be happy
ourselves, we must recognize her human origin in common with our own,
and accept her physical inferiority as security for the continuance of
our own love in all its normal strength.

Of course there are grades in human nature. Some natures are more
refined than others, from the effects of their surroundings and
education. But the lover should recognize no degree higher than his own
when he selects his mistress. Then, if hers proves higher than his,
after marriage, he is delighted; if the same as his, he is satisfied.
But suppose it should prove lower than his? Such a supposition is
untenable in a marriage of mutual affection. A superior nature will
never gravitate to an inferior one by the attraction of real love.
There must be a natural sympathy; and sympathy is the rock upon which
all true love is founded.

Love never yet blended incompatible natures in marriage. Money often
does--brute-insanity sometimes.

You have probably concluded, by this time, my boy, that my ideas of the
true Woman and Monsieur Michelet's views of "La Femme" are decidedly at
variance.

I have sufficient faith in the good sense of Woman to believe that she
will give preference to my doctrine. If so, she will not translate "La
Femme" as "Woman," but as "grisette," "lorette," or "camelia lady." To
christen such a work "Woman," is to lay a snare for the Best of Her
Sex, and catch the Weakest in it. The female who allows it to affect
her may possibly make "a neatly-shod grisette," but never a good wife.

It may be asked why I have made "Woman" the subject of this letter, and
why I have adopted such a Frenchy style?

Simply because there is no subject less understood, my boy, by the
generality of young mankind; and because I deem it best to practice the
doctrine of _similia similibus curantur_ (in style) while quarreling
with Monsieur Michelet.

                                            Yours, sentimentally,
                                                       ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                             LETTER LXVII.

  GIVING ASSURANCE OF THE UNMITIGATED SAFETY OF THE CAPITAL,
      EXEMPLIFYING COLONEL WOBINSON's DRAFTING EXPERIENCE, AND
      NARRATING A GREAT METAPHYSICAL VICTORY.


                                 WASHINGTON, D. C., September 5th, 1862.

Everything is confident and buoyant here, my boy, a sense that the
President is an honest man, inspiring confidence on every side, and
surrounding the Government with well-known confidence men. The repeated
safety of the Capital, indeed, has even inspired the genius of New
England, as illustrated by a thoughtful Boston chap, with one of those
enlarged business ideas which will yet enable that section to betrade
the whole world. The thoughtful Boston chap has read all the war-news,
my boy, for the last six months, and as he happens to be a moral
manufacturer of burglar-proof safes, a happy pecuniary thought struck
him forcibly. After joining the church, to make sure of his morality
here, he came hither in haste, opened an establishment, read the
war-news once more, and then issued the following enterprising card:

                           BUY THE CELEBRATED
                            WASHINGTON SAFE!

Everybody thought it was the safe they'd read so much about in the
papers, my boy, and several hundreds were sold.

There was another chap, named Burns, the inventor of a Family and
Military Gridiron, who noticed how the thoughtful Boston chap was
making money by the advertising necessities of our distracted country.
Having been born in Connecticut at a very early age, my boy, he was not
long in finding a way to make his own eternal fortune, after the same
meritorious manner. So he at once repaired to a liquor shop, to make
sure that a majority of our staff-officers would hear him, and then,
says he, in stentorian tones:

"My sympathies are all with the Southern Confederacy, to whom I send
the weekly journals of romance on the day of publication. As to the
Union," says the Connecticut chap, hotly, "I have less confidence in it
than I have in my Patent Economical Family and Military Gridiron."

He was immediately arrested for this seditious talk, my boy, and all
the reporters telegraphed an exciting dispatch to the reliable morning
journals:

"_Exciting Affair--Arrest of an Influential Rebel!_--The celebrated Mr.
Burns has been arrested for publicly saying that he had more confidence
in his well-known and ingenious patent Economical Family and Military
Gridiron than he had in the Union. Upon hearing of his incarceration,
the most sanguine rebel sympathizers here admitted that the cause of
the South was lost forever."

The Connecticut chap remained in custody until he had received four
hundred orders for gridirons, from private families and army-chaplains,
and then he explained that the words he had used were uttered in the
heat of passion, and he was, of course, honorably discharged from
prison, to make way for a shameless, aged miscreant just committed for
two years' hard labor, on suspicion of having discouraged enlistments
by asserting that, although he was too old to go to the war himself, he
intended to send a substitute.

Simultaneously, all the reporters telegraphed again to the reliable
morning journals:

"_The Burns Affair Settled!--Full Particulars of the Gridiron!_--Mr.
Burns, the celebrated inventor of the famous Patent Gridiron, has been
honorably discharged by order of the Secretary of War. His inimitable
Gridiron is destined to have an immense sale.

"It cooks a beafsteak in such a manner that the appetite is fully
satisfied from merely looking at it, and the same steak will do for
breakfast next morning. This is a great saving. Persons having nothing
to eat find this Gridiron a great comfort, and hence the propriety of
introducing it in the army."

The Gridirons are having a great sale, my boy, and it is believed that
the business interests of the country are being rapidly improved by the
war.

Knowing that the Mackerel Brigade was making preparations to entrap the
Southern Confederacy at Molasses Junction, I ascended to the upper
gallery of my architectural steed, Pegasus, on Tuesday, in order that I
might not be unduly hurried on my journey. Taking Accomac on my way to
the battle-field, my boy, I called upon Colonel Wobert Wobinson, who is
superintending preparations for the draft there, and was witness to an
incident suitable to be recorded in profane history.

The draft in Accomac, my boy, is positively to take place on the 11th
of September; but it is not believed that the enrollment can be
finished before the 15th; in which case, the draft must inevitably take
place on the 20th. In fact, the Judge-Advocate of the Accomac states
positively that the conscription will commence on the 1st of October;
and volunteering is so brisk that no draft may be required. At least,
such is the report of those best acquainted with the more decisive
plans of the War Department, which thinks of joining the Temperance
Society.

The exempts were filing their papers of exemption with Colonel Wobert
Wobinson, my boy, and amongst them was one chap with a swelled eye, a
deranged neck-tie, and a hat that looked as though it might have been
used as an elephant's foot-bath. The chap came in with a heavy walk,
and says he:

"Being a married man, war has no terror for me; but I am obliged to
exempt myself from military affairs on account of the cataract in my
eyes."

Colonel Wobert Wobinson looked at him sympathizingly, and says he: "You
might possibly do for a major-general, my son, as it is blindness
principally that characterises a majority of our present major-generals
in the field; but fearing that your absence from home might cause a
prostration in the liquor business, I will accept your cataract as
valid."

The poor chap sighed until he reached the first hiccup, and then says
he: "I wish I could cure this here cataract, which causes my eyes to
weep in the absence of all woe."

"Do your orbs liquidate so freely?" says the Colonel, with the air of a
family physician.

"Yes," says the poor chap, gloomily, "they are like two continual mill
streams."

"Mill streams!" says Colonel Wobinson meditatively, "mill streams! Why,
then, you'd better dam your eyes."

"I think, my boy, I say I _think_, that this kindly advice of Colonel
Wobert Wobinson's must have been misunderstood in some way; for an
instant departure of several piously-inclined recruits took place
precipitately, and the poor chap chuckled like a fiend.

It is the great misfortune of our mother tongue, my boy, that words of
widely-different meanings have precisely the same sound, and in using
one you seem to be abusing another.

Arriving near the celebrated Molasses Junction, where a number of
Mackerels were placing a number of new cars and locomotives on the
track--the object being to delude the Southern Confederacy into taking
a ride in them, when, it was believed, the aforesaid Confederacy would
speedily be destroyed by one of those "frightful accidents" without
which a day on any American railroad would be a perfect
anomaly--arriving there, I say, I took an immediate survey of the
appointed field of strife.

To the inexperienced civilian eye, my boy, everything appeared to be in
a state of chaotic confusion, which nothing but the military genius of
our generals could make much worse. On all sides, my boy, I beheld the
Mackerel chaps marching and countermarching; falling back, retiring,
retreating, and making retrograde movements. Some were looking for
their regiments; some were insanely looking for their officers, as
though they did not know that the latter have resided permanently in
Washington ever since the war commenced; some were making calls on
others, and here and there might be seen squads of Confederates picking
up any little thing they might happen to find.

Finding the general of the Mackerel Brigade lunching upon a bottle and
tumbler near me, I saluted him, and says I:

"Tell me, my veteran, how it is that you permit the Southern
Confederacy to meander thus within your lines?"

The general looked toleratingly at me, and says he;

"I have a plan to entrap the Confederacy, and end this doomed rebellion
at one stroke. Do you mark that long train of army wagons down there
near my quarters?"

"Yes," says I, nervously.

"Well, then, my nice little boy," says the general, cautiously, "I'll
tell you what the plan is. These wagons contain the rations of our
troops. It is my purpose to induce the celebrated Confederacy to
capture these wagons and attempt to eat those rations. If the
Confederacy will only do that," says the general, fiercely, "it will be
taken sick on the spot, and we shall capture it alive."

I could not but feel shocked at this inhuman artifice, my boy. The
Southerners have indeed acted in away to forfeit all ordinary mercy,
but still, we should abstain from any retaliatory act savoring of
demoniac malignity. Our foes are at least human beings.

Suppressing my horror, however, I assumed a practical aspect, and says
I:

"But how are the Mackerel warriors to subsist, my Napoleon, if you
allow the rations to go?"

"Thunder!" says the general, handing me a paper from his pocket. "They
are to subsist exclusively on the enemy. Just peruse this document,
which I have just fulminated."

Taking the paper, I found it to be the following

                              PROCLAMATION.

Whereas, The matter of provisions is a great expense to the United
States of America, besides offering inducements for unexpected raids on
the part of the famishing foeman; the Mackerel Brigade is hereby
directed to live entirely upon the Southern Confederacy, eating him
alive wherever found, and partaking of no other food.

The Brigade will not be permitted to take any clothing with it on the
march, being required henceforth to dress exclusively in the
habiliments of captured Confederacies.

We have done with retrograde movements. No more lines of retreat will
be kept open, and henceforth the Mackerel Brigade is to make nothing
but great captures.

                               By order of
                  THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.
    [Green Seal.]

This able document, my boy, pleased me greatly as an evidence that the
war had indeed commenced in earnest; and though at that moment, I
beheld some half a dozen Confederacies ransacking the tent where the
general kept his mortgages, his bank account, and other Government
property, I felt that our foes were about to be summarily dealt with at
last.

An orderly having finally given notice to the Confederacies rummaging
within our lines to get to their proper places, in order that the
battle might begin, the Anatomical Cavalry, under Captain Samyule
Sa-mith, made a headlong charge upon a body of foes who were destroying
a bridge near the middle of the field, and succeeded in obliging them
to remain there. This brilliant movement was the signal for a general
engagement, and a regiment of Confederacies at once advanced within our
lines and inquired the way to Washington.

Having given them the desired information, and allowed a number of
other similar regiments to take a position between the Mackerels and
the capital, the general gave orders for the Conic Section and the
Orange County Howitzers to fall cautiously back, in order that the
remaining Confederacies might get between us and Richmond.

You will perceive that by this movement, my boy, we cut the enemy's
force completely in two, thus compelling him to attack us either in the
front or in the rear, and giving him no choice of any other operation
save flank movements. Our plans being thus perfected, Captain Villiam
Brown, with Company 3, Regiment 5, was ordered to charge into a wood
near at hand, with a view to induce some recently-arrived reserve
Confederacies to take position in our centre, while still others would
be likely to flank us on the right and left.

You may remember, my boy, that it has heretofore been our misfortune to
fight on the circumference of a circle, while the Confederacy had the
inside, and this great strategic scheme was intended to produce a
result _vice versa_.

It was a great success, my boy--a great success; and our troops
presently found themselves inside the most complete circle on record.
Villiam Brown not only charged into the wood, but staid there; and when
one of the Orange County Howitzers was discharged with great precision
at a reporter who was caught sneaking into our lines, the report was
heard by the Venerable Gammon at Washington, causing that revered man
to telegraph to all the papers, that no one need feel alarmed, as he
was perfectly safe, and that our victory was very complete.

What particular danger the Venerable Gammon had incurred, I can't say,
my boy; nor what he knew about the battle; but his dispatch caused
renewed confidence all over the country, and was a great comfort to his
friends.

Having got the Confederacies just where he wanted them, the General of
the Mackerel Brigade now dispatched ten veterans under Sergeant O'Pake
to attack a few hundred foes who had intrenched themselves in an
unseemly manner right among our wagons. The Mackerels were well
received as prisoners of war, and paroled on the spot; a proceeding
which so greatly pleased the idolized general, that he at once issued
this second

                              PROCLAMATION.

It must be understood, that in his recent proclamation directing the
Mackerel Brigade to dine exclusively upon Southern Confederacies, the
general commanding did not intend that such dining should take place
without the free consent of aforesaid Confederacies.

It must not be understood that the order concerning the confiscation of
Confederate garments is intended to authorize a forcible confiscation
of such costume, in opposition to the free will of the wearers.

By "no lines of retreat being kept open," is meant: no lines of which
the general commanding was at that time cognizant.

            THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.

This admirable order, my boy, produced great enthusiasm in the ranks,
as no Confederacies had yet been caught, and there was some danger of
starvation in the _corps_.

And now, my boy, occurred that magnificent piece of generalship which
is destined to live forever on the annals of fame, and convince the
world that our military leaders possess a genius eminently fitting
every one of them for the next Presidency, or any other peaceful
office. By skillful manoeuvring, the gifted General of the Mackerel
Brigade had succeeded in cutting the enemy's force to pieces, the
pieces being mixed up with our own army. Then came the words: "Forward,
double-quick!"

Facing toward Washington, our vanguard forced the Confederacies before
them to move right ahead. Swiftly following the vanguard, and evidently
fancying that it was flying before them, came a regiment of
Confederacies. Pursuing the latter, as though in triumph, appeared the
Conic Section, Mackerel Brigade; closely succeeded in its turn by a
regiment of Confederacies in charge of our baggage-wagons; racing after
whom was a regiment of Mackerels; and so on to the end of the line.

You may ask me, my boy, with which side rested the victory in this
remarkable movement?

That question, my boy, cannot be decided yet, as the whole procession
has scarcely reached Washington; but the answer may be said to depend
very much upon whether the last regiment coming in is Mackerel or
Confederate.

The contest, my boy, has assumed a profound metaphysical aspect, and
the development of a little more military genius on our own side will
tend to utterly confound our enemies and--everybody else.

                                               Yours, ponderingly,
                                                        ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                             LETTER LXVIII.

  INTRODUCING ONCE MORE THE COSMOPOLITAN CLUB, WITH A CURIOUS
      "LAMENT," AND A STORY FROM THE SPANISH MEMBER.


                                 WASHINGTON, D. C., September 9th, 1862.

You may remember, my boy, that some months ago there was a trespass of
depraved burglarious chaps at Wheatland, the seat of Ex-President
Buchanan. The matter might have slipped my own mind, had not the
British member of the Cosmopolitan, last night, read aloud the
following memorandum of the thing, found in a deserted Confederate camp
on the Rappahannock. The Briton waved his hand for silence, and says he:

                LAMENT.

      BY A CHEVALIER D'INDUSTRIE

  It really seems as if the trick
    Of this here game, secession,
  Was bound to bring disgrace upon
    Each wirtuous profession.

  The days of chivalry are gone,
    When gentlemen wos plucky,
  And sooner'd starve than lower themselves
    To make their swag and lucky.

  Why, when I wos a little prig,
    And took the junior branches,
  We all looked down upon the chap
    That traveled vulgar ranches.

  It wos beneath a gentleman
    To stoop to vulgar stealin's;
  And when I see how things is changed,
    It really hurts my feelin's.

  We had some dignity, you see,
    And upper circles knew it;
  For if a thing wos wicious mean,
    We wos too proud to do it!

  The crib that wos respectable
    Among the higher classes,
  We cracked in style, like gentlemen.
    And took the spoons and glasses.

  But when a crib wos something low--
    An author's, or a preacher's--
  We had too much of self-respect
    To recognize the creatures.

  If taking watches wos the lay,
    Or handkerchers, or purses,
  We never noticed wulgar nobs,
    Nor wictims of rewerses.

  But things is changed since Johnny died,
    And our profession's fallen
  So werry low, it really ain't
    A gentlemanly callin'.

  There's some as once wos gentlemen
    When cracksmen's art was balmy,
  Now shame us all by fig'ring as
    Contractors for the army!

  What wonder, when our former pal,
    A vulgar, sneakin' knave is,
  They hang our pictures in a row
    With Floyd, and Cobb, and Davis?

  But just as if this wa'n't enough
    To make us hide our faces,
  A man we once look'd up to, all,
    Must add to our disgraces;

  A base, degenerate, shameless cove
    Has sullied our profession,
  By stoopin' to a lay that is
    Depraved beyond expression.

  He's activally come and went--
    The werry thought's unmannin'--
  He's activally gone and robbed
    Ex-President Buchanan!

Alas! my boy, there is naught so fallen in humanity, but it may become
still more depraved. I have known members of State Legislatures to be
finally elected Congressmen. After the above _chanson_ had been read,
the Spanish member gave us his story of


                          DON BOBADIL BANCO;

                        OR, WHO OWNS THE BABY?

"I always respect a man who drinks good Port, especially if he
frequently invites me to take dinner with him, and hence I have
selected as my hero, a gallant Spaniard, whose fondness for the
delicious juice was never doubted.

"Don Bobadil Banco was a gentleman of good family, who graduated with
honor at Salamanca, and retired from thence to Madrid, in company with
a fellow student named Don Philip Funesca. The erudite pair hired
lodgings in an aristocratic part of the city, and after much delay,
installed one Dame Margy as their housekeeper, cook, and chambermaid,
being resolved to husband their scanty resources until, by coming of
age, they could inherit the estates and fortunes of their fathers.

"It is to be presumed that the friends entered society and made
consummate fools of themselves, as very young men generally do when
they first mingle with ladies; but as that period of their career can
possess very little novelty for most people, I shall only favor it with
this passing notice, and at once introduce the gallant pair as they
appeared on the ---- night, in the month of ----, in the year of our
Lord ----, at -- o'clock.

"In a very small room, before a very small window, was standing a very
small table, at the side of which were two very shabby chairs, on which
were seated two very young men; and as it was growing very dark, two
very small candles, in two very small candlesticks, were placed on the
very small table, in company with two very small decanters, filled with
very cheap Port, and two very old goblets, of very dirty pewter.

"The two very young men remained very still for a very long time, save
when they made very long applications to the very old goblets of very
cheap Port; and as you must be very anxious to know whether these very
young men were very ugly or very good looking, I shall be very happy to
profit by this very opportune state of things, and give a very concise
description of their personal charms.

"Don Bobadil was very tall, very thin, with very long black hair, very
small black eyes; very yellow complexion, very good teeth, and was
dressed very foppishly.

"Don Philip was very short, very fat, with very long brown hair, very
large brown eyes, very fair complexion, very large mouth, and was
plainly attired.

"They both looked very happy, and drank very often.

"'Well, Philip,' said Bobadil, at length, 'a bachelor's life, in
Madrid, is not quite so charming as in Salamanca; upon my word I have
almost become a limb of society, and it will prove a sad dismemberment
when I go to my father's villa. These gay senoritas have so completely
infatuated me, that I am never happy out of their company, and when I
think of leaving them altogether, it makes me really miserable,' and
the Don consoled himself with a huge swallow of wine.

"'I perfectly agree with you,' answered Don Philip, 'and dread the idea
of leaving the dear charmers without making one of them a prisoner.'

"'We must have more gold soon,' said Bobadil, gloomily, taking a goblet
of Port.

"'You speak truly, my friend. Our purses are growing very light, and
nothing but wealthy wives will make them heavy. How unjust is the
decree that makes us wait until we are older before we can help
ourselves to the treasures of our families. Here are nearly thirty
hairs upon my chin, and yet the grim old hidalgoes call me a boy yet.
Sancta Maria! I should like to cross swords with some of those shaking
grandees, just to convince them that I have the strength of a man, if I
have not his years.'

"'The wish is perfectly natural, Don Philip, yet it can do us no good
at present, when our last flagons of wine stand before us, and Dame
Margy grows clamorous for her dues,' said Bobadil, imbibing large
draughts of grape juice.

"'_O, beatissimo, neustra Senora!_ Don't dwell on unpleasant facts, Don
Bobadil,' responded the other; 'we must replenish our treasures, and
the means to do it should be our present consideration. We must marry
stores of maravedis.'

"'That is coming to the point, my dear friend, and your words are
worthy of a sage; but, my dear Philip, to tell the truth, I dread
marriage for one reason, namely: that, by engaging in it, one becomes
liable to incur responsibilities known as babies. I do hate those noisy
little nuisances as I hate the devil, and, to have one constantly
squalling in my ears, would soon make a madman of me,' and our hero
drank heartily of liquor.

"'I will allow the truth of what you say,' replied Philip; 'the cry of
an infant is not quite as musical as the harp of Orpheus. Still, it is
better to endure such annoyance than to go about with empty purses, and
when one who is poor desires to have money, he must endure matrimony,
or become a rogue. Now there is Lisette, ready to fall into my arms at
any moment, and bring me a long purse; but I will never leave you a
bachelor, though I starve.'

"Tears arose involuntarily to the eyes of Bobadil, as his friend spoke
thus disinterestedly, and, after holding a cup of wine to his lips for
some moments, he answered:

"'My dear fellow, you are a sage and I am a fool. You shall not starve
for me though I have to become the father of five hundred little imps
to save you. Yes, dear Philip, I will sacrifice myself upon the altar
of friendship, and become a victim of Hymen.' Here the emotions of the
Spaniard became so violent that a large quantity of Port wine was
necessary to prevent syncope.

"Don Philip started from his seat, and eyed his friend with every mark
of unbounded surprise.

"'Can you do it soon?' he asked hurriedly.

"'Before another pair of days have shown their tails above the tide of
time,' answered Bobadil with poetic fervor, having recourse to the
decanter containing Port.

"'My dear friend, you must be drunk.'

"'No, Don Philip, I am sober as a monument.'

"'Has some fair sonora smiled upon you?'

"'Not only has she smiled upon me, but she has actually laughed at me.
Port would never intoxicate me.'

"'_Per Dio!_ I never heard of this before, Bobadil.'

"'Nevertheless, Don Philip, it is true as a _pater_. My pride would not
allow me to mention my case to you, until I became successful in my
suit; and when that was decided, I waited until you should be similarly
circumstanced, and we might marry together. Your frequent absence from
our lodgings, at night, aroused my suspicions, and I resolved to find
out your secret before imparting mine. Now that you have named your
mistress, I will acknowledge that I, also, have one, whose name is
Leonora, and I intend to make her my wife, when you lead Lisette to the
altar.'

"'I am rejoiced to hear you speak thus,' answered Don Philip, 'and
Lisette will partake of my joy; but, tell me, Bobadil, will you gain
wealth by this union?'

"'Gold enough to build a second Escurial, my dear Philip. Leonora is
the daughter of a rich Jew, and can show more maravedis than the
Infanta of Spain.'

"'Better and better. But how is it that her father will allow her to
wed a Catholic?' inquired Philip.

"'He is not to be consulted in the matter at all. I may as well relate
the circumstances of our acquaintance, and you will at once perceive
that the Israelite's consent is not required. Two weeks ago, I was
passing a small house not far from the Plaza del Rio, and, chancing to
look up, beheld the face of a beautiful Senora looking from a window.
Our glances met, whereupon she drew back with a blush, and I gallantly
kissed the tip of my glove. Although she immediately drew shut the
lattice, I fancied, from her look, that she was not displeased with my
conduct, and set about finding out who she was. I soon ascertained that
her father was a rich Jew, named Miguel, that his wife was dead, and
that he lived with his daughter and a wrinkled duenna, whom he had
enlisted to watch Leonora. Much as I despise Jews, the beauty of
Leonora had sunk into my heart, and I resolved to have an interview
with her, though our most Holy Church, should excommunicate me for it.
Accordingly, I passed the house every day for a week, and each time the
lady withdrew from the window with a blush, as I saluted her. This
encouraged me to scrape acquaintance with the pythoness who guarded
her, and by means of several small bribes, I was at length admitted to
a private interview with Leonora. My idol was coy at first, but after
one or two stolen visits, she returned my passion in an honorable way,
and will become my bride whenever it may please me to carry her off
from her old thief of a father.'

"'But the Jew has all the gold,' said Don Philip, despondingly.

"'Not so,' replied Bobadil. 'My angel has a fortune of her own locked
up in a trunk, and I shall take good care to secure it in the first
place.'

"His friend's countenance was lighted by a smile, but it passed away as
he again spoke--

"'Our priests will never consent to your marriage with a Jewess.'

"'What an owl you are,' retorted Don Bobadil; 'Leonora shall pass for
as good a Catholic as the Pope himself.'

"'My dear friend, you delight me!' exclaimed Don Philip, springing from
his seat and embracing Bobadil; 'let us then make ourselves and our
mistresses happy at once--this very night! You can go after Leonora
while I seek Lisette.'

"Our hero found it necessary to take a drink of something after this
proposition, and then responded:

"'Spoken like a Spaniard and a gentleman; I will go to the house of
Miguel and bring the trunk of treasure from thence--that, you know,
should be secured first. After bringing it hither I will go back after
Leonora, and when next we meet I shall be a married man.'

"'Do so, Don Bobadil,' returned Philip, 'and I will, in like manner,
gain the fortune and hand of Lisette. Let us hasten, my friend, and we
shall be independently wealthy before morning.'

"Together they drank the remainder of the wine, and having given
certain orders to Dame Margy, left the house, each taking a different
route.

"It rained in torrents, when my hero wrapped his long cloak about him
and set out. The tormenting drops ran the length of his nose and poured
into his bosom, they crawled damply down his boots, they trickled
grievously into his ears, they clung to his long black hair, and soaked
through his sombrero; yet did the brave Spaniard press onward, as a
hero advances to the breastworks amid a storm of shot and shells. Love
had cast its thickest blanket about his heart, and a flame burned
glaringly there that nothing but matrimony and maravedis could quench.
Arriving in front of his mistress's abode, my hero picked up a handful
of sand, and threw it lightly against a window pane, such being the
signal by which he was to make known his presence when Miguel was at
home. Almost immediately a lattice was opened, and a woman's head,
ornamented with a scarlet cap _de nuit_ was thrust out.

"'Who's that?' demanded the duenna, snappishly.

"'It's only me,' responded Don Bobadil, in low tones.

"'And who's _me_?' asked the amiable woman.

"'Don Bobadil Banco.'

"'Don Bobadil Banco had better go home, if he don't want to have his
head broken with a flowerpot,' snarled the duenna.

"'Now, my dear Laura.'

"'Don't 'dear' me! Are you drunk?'

"'I must see Donna Leonora,' said Bobadil.

"'You _are_ drunk!' screamed the lady.

"'No, I am not; but, pray, make less noise, my good Laura, or you will
have the alguazils about my ears. Tell your lady that I am here, and
you shall have a purse of ducats.'

"'Oh! ah! I will,' replied the mercenary woman, retiring quickly from
the window and again closing the lattice.

"The adventurous Spaniard stood in soak for half an hour, at the end of
which Dame Laura, cautiously admitted him at the door, and he soon
knelt before his mistress. Donna Leonora was a charming little
brunette, with raven curls and sparkling black eyes full of mirth.

"'Sancta Maria! what is the matter, Don Bobadil?' she exclaimed, eyeing
the kneeling personage with surprise.

"'Dearest Leonora, idol of my heart!' replied Bobadil, clasping her
waist, 'here on my knees let me implore you to become mine forever, and
make me happier than the angels. Recent events, which I cannot explain
at present, have rendered it necessary for me to thus intrude upon you
at an unseasonable hour, and implore that your promise to become my
bride may be at once fulfilled.'

"'But this is so sudden,' murmured the lady.

"'Pardon my haste, dear Leonora,' answered Don Bobadil. 'I know how
exquisitely sensitive your nature is; but heaven destined us for each
other, and when I leave you, I leave a part of myself.'

"'The gentleman speaks wisely,' interrupted the duenna. 'Your father
has smoked his opium and will sleep until after meridian to-morrow. Go
with Don Bobadil, Senora, and Miguel shall learn all from me when he
awakes.'

"Leonora resisted for awhile; but her objections were speedily
overcome, and she at length yielded to the combined entreaties of her
lover, and subtle reasoning of her mercenary duenna. Such is love.

"'Here is a load for you, Senor,' said the latter personage, pointing
to a chest studded with brass nails that stood near. 'Carry it off as
quickly as possible, and return for your mistress when you have placed
her fortune in a safe place.'

"Our hero at once acceded to plans so consonant with his own, and after
embracing the Senorita, he seized the chest and hastened with it to his
lodgings. It was a heavy load for one man, and the rain still poured
furiously down; but the lover danced on like a feather before the
vagrant zephyrs of spring, and soon deposited his precious freight in
the room where he had lately held converse with Don Philip. This done,
he hastened back to the house of Don Miguel, impatient to secure his
fair bride; but Dame Laura met him at the door, with her fingers
pressed upon her lips, and her form barring his further progress.

"'Hist! not a word!' she whispered cautiously. 'The Jew was aroused by
the noise you made descending the stairs, and would not be satisfied
until he had searched the house with a candle in one hand and a drawn
sword in the other. He is quiet now, and if not again disturbed, will
soon sleep again. Return to your lodgings, and when Miguel slumbers, I
will hasten thither with my lady. Not a word! Go!'

"Conquering his impatience, Don Bobadil thrust a purse of slim
proportions into the bony hand of his confidante, and turned into the
street without breathing a syllable.

"As he ascended the stairs to his own room, the sound of voices fell
upon his ear, and fearing for the safety of his treasure, he rushed
headlong into the apartment with his sword drawn and a determination to
slaughter the intruders. His anger was soon turned to pleasure, when he
beheld Don Philip seated beside a very pretty female, whose hands he
held in his own, and whose ringletted head rested upon his shoulder,
with an air of familiarity that would have been the death of any old
maid, whose sight could have been blighted by such a scene. He also
noticed a chest somewhat smaller than the one he had obtained by right
of seizure, standing near the window, and felt doubly happy in the
conviction that his friend had brought home something more substantial
than a wife.

"'Lisette, this is my friend, Don Bobadil Banco,' said Don Philip,
leading the lady forward and presenting her. 'This, Don Bobadil, is my
wife, and though she has no proud title, I shall be proud to present
her to my family as one worthy of a gentleman's affection.'

"'My dear Philip, allow me to congratulate you on the possession of a
lady, who, if her virtue equals her beauty, must indeed be an angel,'
and our hero bowed with his accustomed courtesy to the blushing
Senorita.

"'But where is the mistress, of whom you boasted a short time since?'
asked Philip, glancing towards the door, as though expecting to behold
a fourth person. 'I supposed that I should find her here with a priest.'

"'The Jew took me for a thief, and woke up, or Donna Leonora would be
here now. But her duenna has promised to bring her hither soon and we
must have patience.'

"'Then take a seat, Don Bobadil, and I will relate the manner in which
I became possessed of Lisette, for I know you are dying to hear it,
though your pride hides your curiosity. While we were at Salamanca, I
became acquainted with a poor orphan girl, who won my heart by her
beauty and virtuous conduct. Other students saw and admired her; but
their admiration was not such as honor sanctioned, and the girl left
the place, preferring a strange place with quiet, to a home in which
she was constantly subject to insult and annoyance. At the time I knew
not the reasons for her sudden departure, and it filled me with sorrow.
I hid my feelings from you, however, fearing that your disposition for
mirth might lead you to make a butt of me. I came hither with you, and
beheld many fair ladies, but to none did my heart incline, and the fair
orphan of Salamanca remained mistress of my thoughts. About a week
after our arrival in Madrid, you went to a ball one evening, leaving me
to comfort Dame Margy until you came back. Not much liking such
company, I strolled forth to the grand plazza and entered a theatre
with the crowd. Numerous familiar faces appeared in various parts of
the building, and while I went about to greet my friends, the play was
commenced. I believe I should not have looked upon the stage at all, so
busily was I engaged, had not the tones of a voice made me start back
in amazement, and look wildly toward the performers. Near the centre of
the stage, clad in the costume of her _role_, and bowing in a flowery
train, was a form and face that sent the blood hurtling through my
veins like molten lead. After standing like one petrified for some
moments, I suddenly quitted the boxes, and gained admittance behind the
scenes. I had not been mistaken; the orphan of Salamanca and the
actress of Madrid were one. I need not tell an ardent lover like
yourself the effect of such a meeting; it is sufficient to say, that
Lisette bade farewell to the stage, whither necessity had forced her,
and took from thence a liberal compensation. Such is the history of my
amour, Don Bobadil; and, as we each have caskets at hand, I propose
that we become acquainted with their contents.'

"'Donna Leonora owns the one I brought hither, and it may displease her
should I open it,' answered our hero.

"'Not at all, my friend; she is to be your wife before morning, and
what belongs to your wife belongs equally to you.'

"'Oh! very well,' responded Bobadil.

"'I will display the riches of Lisette first to encourage you, and you
may follow with the dowry of Senora Leonora,' said Don Philip, taking
off the lid of the second chest.

"Our hero looked on in surprise, as his friend displayed its contents,
and his pride made him tremble, lest his own portion should prove less
costly. There were gorgeous robes, satin slippers, magnificent
ornaments of gold, sparkling brilliants, bracelets, necklaces, and
brooches, set with rubies, emeralds, and diamonds, a tiara sparkling
like a constellation of midnight stars, and an immense leather bag
filled with valuable coins.

"'Why, Don Philip, you have all the riches of Indus here!' exclaimed
Don Bobadil, opening wide his eyes in astonishment.

"'So much for your discrimination, Bobadil,' returned Philip. 'These
robes belong to an actress' wardrobe, and are more gaudy than valuable.
These rubies, emeralds, and diamonds are pieces of colored and crystal
glass, intended to dazzle unsophisticated eyes, but nearly worthless to
the jeweler; the gold setting is worth its weight in brass, and these
coins alone are genuine. But let us now look upon your dowry, my
friend, when, I doubt not, that we shall be made to wink by the glitter
of pure gems and true metal.'

"As Don Bobadil listened to the explanations of his friend, his eyes
glistened, and at the conclusion he walked proudly towards his chest,
with a feeling of conscious superiority.

"'I will not boast,' he said, haughtily; 'but Jews are not overfond of
tinsel, and my mistress's robes have not a value peculiar to the
dimly-lighted stage,' so saying, he threw back the cover of his
treasure casket.

"A shade of disappointment rested upon his features at the first view,
but he disdained to give it utterance, and carelessly threw aside a
robe of cheap material, trimmed with imitation ermine. But, alas, the
next was a garment of scarlet, with bells attached to the skirt; then
one of green, with faded tinsel ornaments; another of white flannel,
with tarnished silver lace stars about the waist.

"During this exhibition, Lisette was apparently endeavoring to swallow
her handkerchief, while Don Philip looked anxiously toward the ceiling,
as though its intricate pattern had suddenly become an object of
absorbing interest.

"Sternly did Don Bobadil delve into his mine of female apparel,
expecting soon to strike a vein of monstrous diamonds with a mosaic of
gold. He reaches it at last! Yes, there it is! Mark his glance of pride
and exultation as he says:

"'Don Philip, will you assist me? The Jew's ducats are very heavy, and
the bag containing them rather larger than a Senora's night-cap.'

"Don Philip did as he was desired, when suddenly our hero dropped his
end of the bag, with a cry more piercing than that of an enraged hyena.
Oh shades of _Mater Money!_ _Por vida del diablo!_ The bag _moved_,
there came a cry, and there appeared in the opening of its leather
covering _the head of a baby_!

"'Oh, Holy Virgin! Thunder and lightning! Fire! Murder! I'm lost,
tormented, tortured, cheated! Cruel Leonora! Infamous woman! d--d old
duenna!' roared the unhappy Bobadil, stamping and steaming like an
infuriated tea-pot.

"'Be calm, my dear friend, I pray you be calm,' cried Don Philip,
vainly endeavoring to conquer his mirth, while Lisette rolled on the
floor in a paroxysm of laughter.

"'Don't tell me to be calm!' bellowed Bobadil. 'Look there! My horror,
detestation, abhorrence--_a baby!_ Hear it squeal! I'll strangle the
cursed little fiend! Oh, oh, oh!--diablo!'

"'You will arouse the neighborhood.'

"'What do I care! I'm betrayed, swindled, ruined, seduced! Stab me,
shoot me, make a bloody corpse of me. Kill that baby, or I'll make your
wife an orphan!'

"'What's all this?' asked Dame Margy, darting into the apartment and
holding up her hands in wild astonishment.

"'Don't you hear it yell?' howled Bobadil, tearing out his hair by
handfulls. 'It's a baby!'

"Dame Margy came very near fainting, and Lisette was obliged to go to
her assistance, while Don Philip approached his enraged friend and
succeeded in soothing him.

"'Act like a man,' he said, 'and take measures to punish the
perpetrator of the infamous outrage. The baby is a poor innocent little
thing, and Lisette will attend to it. Lisette, look after the baby!
Now, Don Bobadil, repress your emotions.'

"The retired actress obeyed her intended husband with alacrity,
assisted by Dame Margy, who was fully revived, and our hero burst into
tears.

"'Oh, Philip!' he blubbered, 'miserable wretch, that I am, what shall I
do? That infamous woman will be here in a moment, and I know not how to
act. Oh! curse that baby!'

"'Woman's wit shall aid you,' said the hitherto silent Lisette, after
whispering to Dame Margy, who immediately left the apartment. 'Don
Bobadil, you must assume the attire of your housekeeper, and leave
Philip and me to account for your supposed absence, when Donna Leonora
arrives.'

"As she finished speaking, the old housekeeper returned with a
promiscuous assortment of female garments, and before our hero had time
to resist, he presented the appearance of a stout old lady.

'Don't speak a word,' said Don Philip, placing an immense bonnet and
veil upon his head, 'you must pass for Dame Margy, and leave me to
settle with your cruel mistress.'

"Though not quite satisfied with this arrangement, Don Bobadil accepted
in silence, especially as the sound of approaching footsteps fell upon
his ear, as they tumbled him to a distant seat.

"Dame Margy fled through an opposite door just as two figures, deeply
veiled, entered the apartment.

"'Holy Virgin! who has rifled my chest? And where is Don Bobadil?'
exclaimed Leonora, clasping her hands.

"'Lady,' said Don Philip, advancing to meet her with much dignity, 'as
the friend of Don Bobadil Banco, it is my duty to inform you that he
has discovered ALL, and left Madrid forever.'

"'All!' exclaimed the lady and duenna in a breath.

"'Yes, senora, my friend hates babies!'

"Like two agitated fawns, Leonora and her attendant dropped their veils
and sprang to the side of the chest.

"'Why!--what--who has done this?' exclaimed the fair Jewess, quivering
like an aspen leaf.

"'You, lady, can best answer that question.'

"'It is false! My whole fortune was in that chest! I am cheated,
deceived, ruined!'

"'Peace! infamous woman!' thundered Don Bobadil, no longer able to
restrain his rage, and darting toward her. But he stepped upon his
skirts, and pitched headlong to the floor.

"'Do I dream?' murmured Leonora in affright.

"'You do not,' screamed our hero, tucking his petticoats under his
arms, and tearing off the veil that concealed his face. 'Behold! false
one! behold! Don Bobadil Banco!'

"'Dear Bobadil, you would not kill me?'

"'No, Leonora, you shall live to repent of this. Take that wretched
baby to its father, or I will strangle it before your eyes.'

"'By the God we all worship, I swear I never saw the child before!'
exclaimed Leonora, looking solemnly upward.

"Her air of truthfulness carried conviction with it, and Bobadil stood
like one thunderstruck; but soon a new expression fell upon his
countenance, and he turned gravely to the duenna.

"'Perhaps _you_ own the--the baby!'

"'You're a nasty dirty beast!' retorted the chaste creature, rushing
from the room like a ricochetting shot.

"'I can answer for the innocence of Laura,' said Leonora, calmly.

"Rebuked by her dignified manner, our hero mentally exonerated her from
all blame; yet there was the baby, screaming lustily, and no other
valuables were found in the chest.

"'Forgive me, if I have wronged you,' he said, penitently, 'I judged
too quickly; but then I took those gaudy robes from yonder chest,
and--_who owns the baby?_'

"'I see how it is,' said Donna Leonora composedly, turning toward the
door, 'you have adopted this plan to rob me of the little fortune I
possessed. I would willingly incur a much greater loss to escape from
such a monster. Keep my gold, Don Bobadil, and say you become a better
man.'

"Our hero stood motionless, involved in a maze of doubts and fears; and
the lady was about departing, when Lisette suddenly sprang forward, and
prevented her.

"'Stop, lady!' she exclaimed, 'the trick has gone far enough--_I own
the baby!_'

"'Lisette speaks truly, and _I am the baby's father!_' said Don Philip,
grasping the hand of our perplexed hero.

"'Villain!' exclaimed Bobadil, feeling for his sword.

"'Wretch!' screamed Leonora, feeling for her handkerchief.

"'I humbly crave your mercy, until you have heard my story,' replied
Don Philip, coolly placing his arm about the waist of his Lisette.
'This lady,' he continued, 'is my _wife_, and has been such for two
years. I have kept my secret thus rigidly, that it should not reach the
ears of my family until I had arrived at man's estate; but when you
determined to take a wife I resolved to make you my confidant. While
you were at the house of Miguel to-night, I brought my wife and _baby_
hither, wishing to surprise you at your return. I found your chest
filled with the riches I afterwards showed you as the property of an
actress, and prompted by a spirit of mirth, I exchanged its contents
for those of our own. Knowing your hostility to babies, I placed the
young _Bobadil_ in your casket also, and had you taken notice of small
things, you would have observed that I left the lid partly open. It's
only a reminiscence of college trickery, my dear Bobadil, and if it has
given offence, behold the culprit at your feet.'

"The friendly smile of his friend and the imploring glance of Lisette,
completely overcame our hero's resentment, and he extended his hand in
all gentleness; then turning quickly to the silent, though smiling
Leonora, he fell at her feet, exclaiming:

"'Dear lady, we are both victims of our friend's frolic, and there
should be no anger between us. I do dislike babies so much, that the
sight of one makes me desperate; but now that all is explained, I hope
you will forgive me.'

"The lady smiled so encouragingly upon him, that he soon stood face to
face--I mean lips to lips--with her.

"'Let us seek a priest,' said Don Philip, with solemnity.

"How this proposition was received, may be assumed from the fact that
Dame Margy soon locked up an empty house. How Miguel the Jew conducted
when he awoke next morning; how the families of our friends received
the news of their scions' marriages, and how the young gentlemen felt
themselves, are matters not explained by history; but it is certain
that Don Bobadil and Don Philip were never again in want of ducats, and
it is also certain that if any one wished to see an angry man, he could
be gratified by eyeing the youngest Banco in a suspicious manner, and
asking in mysterious tones--'_Who owns the Baby?_'"

At the conclusion of this exemplary Spanish tale, my boy, we
"adjourned" our slumbers to Willard's.

                                               Yours, drowsily,
                                                        ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                              LETTER LXIX.

  ILLUSTRATING THE IMPERTURBABLE CALMNESS OF THE NATIONAL CAPITOL,
      AND NOTING THE MEMORABLE INVASION OF ACCOMAC.


                                WASHINGTON, D. C., September 12th, 1862.

As I sit looking out of my window, my boy, on the street below, and
notice how tranquilly all things are going on here, despite the
excitement of the time, a deep sense of satisfaction steals over me,
and the American Eagle of patriotic pride flaps his breezy pinions on
the oak tree of my heart. Though I have just been laughing myself
almost sick at the ludicrous manner in which my friend, the
Confederacy, has walked right straight into the cunning trap prepared
for his destruction by our own noble and profound generals, actually
hastening his own annihilation by rushing blindly through our lines,
and capturing the twenty or thirty artful villages, towns, and
garrisons left there for the express purpose of tempting him to his
dreadful doom--though I have just been splitting my sides over this
roaring case of ridiculous suicide, my boy, the city of Washington
still maintains its calmness! Ever conscious that conquer we must, for
our cause it is just, this city remains as placid as a summer dream;
nearly all the liquor-shops doing a good business through the day, and
the evening finding a majority of our army officers at their posts.

Lamp-posts, my boy.

There is something touchingly grand in the calmness of Washington under
such circumstances, and it reminds me of a pleasing little incident in
the Sixth Ward.

There was a female millinery establishment on the third floor of a
building composed principally of stairs, fed with frequent small rooms,
and the expatriated French comtesse, who realized fashionable bonnets
there, used one of her windows to display her wares. At this window, my
boy, she always kept a young woman of much bloom and symmetry, with the
latest Style on her head, and an expression of unutterable smile on her
face. A young chap carrying a trumpet in the Fire Department happened
to notice that this angel of fashion was always at the window when he
went by; and as the thought that she particularly admired his personal
charms crept over him, he at once adopted the plan of passing by every
day, attired in the garments best calculated to render fire-going
manhood most beautiful to the eye. He donned a vest representing in
detail the Sydenham flower-show on a yellow ground, wore inexpressibles
representing innumerable black serpents ascending white columns,
assumed a neck-tie concentrating all the highest glories of the Aurora
Borealis, mounted two breast-pins and three studs torn from some
glass-house, and wore a hat that slanted on his head in an engaging and
intelligent manner. Day after day he passed before the millinery
establishment, my boy, still beholding the beloved object at the
window, and occasionally placing his hand upon his heart in such a way
as to show a large and gorgeous seal-ring containing the hair of a
fellow-fireman who had caught such a cold at a great fire that he died
some years after. "How cam she is!" says he to himself, "and she's as
pretty as ninety's new hose-carriage. It seems to me," says the young
chap to himself, stooping down to roll up the other leg of his
pants--"it seems to me that I never see anything so cam. She observes
my daily agoing and yet she don't so much as send somebody down to see
if there's any overcoats in the front entry."

One day, my boy, a venerable Irish gentleman, keeping a boarding-house
and ice-cream saloon in the basement of the establishment, happened to
go to sleep on the stairs with a lighted camphene lamp in his hand, and
pretty soon the bells were ringing for a conflagration in that
district. Immediately our gallant firemen were on their way to the
spot; and having first gone through forty-two streets on the other side
of the city to wake the people up there and apprise them of their great
danger, reached the dreadful scene, and instantly began to extinguish
the flames by bringing all the furniture out of a house not more than
three blocks below. In the midst of these self-sacrificing efforts, a
form was seen to dart into the burning building like a spectre. It was
the enamored young chap who carried a trumpet in the department. He had
seen the beloved object sitting at the window, as usual, and was bent
upon saving her, even though he missed the exciting fight around the
corner. Reaching the millinery-room door, he could see the object
standing there in the midst of a sea of fire. "How cam she is," says
he. "Miss Milliner," says he, "don't you see you're all in a blaze?"
But still she stood at the window in all her calmness. The devoted
young chap turned to a fellow-fireman who was just then selecting two
spring bonnets and some ribbon for his wife, in order to save them from
the flames, and says he: "Jakey, what shall I do?" But Jakey was at
that time picking out some artificial flowers for his youngest
daughter, my boy, and made no answer. Unable to reach the devoted maid,
and rendered desperate by the thought that she must be asleep in the
midst of her danger, the frantic young chap madly hurled his trumpet at
her. It struck her, and actually _knocked her head off_! Horrified at
what he had done, the excited chap called himself a miserable wretch,
and was led out by the collar. It was Jakey who did this deed of
kindness, and says he: "What's the matter with you, my covey?" The poor
young chap wrung his hands, and says he: "I've killed her, Jakey, I've
killed her--and she so cam." Jakey took some tobacco, and then says he:
"Why, that was only a pasteboard gal, you poor devil." And so it was,
my boy--so it was; but the affair had such an effect upon the young
chap that he at once took to drinking, and when delirium tremens marked
him for its own, his last words were: "I've killed her, Jakey, I've
killed her--and she so cam."

Washington, my boy, is "cam" in the midst of a conflagration. That is
to say, the Government is "cam," they say; and it may be doubted
whether it would be otherwise, even with its head knocked off.

The other day, I paid another visit to the Mackerel camp across the
river, and was present at a meeting of officers called to debate upon
the propriety of presenting a sword to the beloved general, for his
heroism in the late great battle. Captain Samyule Sa-mith was in favor
of the presentation, and says he: "Our inimitable leader, which is the
admiration of everybody, richly deserves the blade in question. In the
thickest of that deadly fray, his coat-tails were torn entirely off by
a parrot shell."

Captain Villiam Brown placed the bottle on the table again, and says he:

"At which joint were the tails amputated, Samyule?"

Samyule took a little more sugar with his, and says he:

"Close to the buttons."

"Ah!" says Villiam, "which way was the conqueror's face turned at the
time?"

"I can't say," says Samyule; "but I don't see what that has to do with
it."

"That's because you have a feeble intelleck, Samyule," says Villiam,
mildly. "The human form," says Villiam, reasoningly, "has such
variations of surface, that a projectile hurled at it in a straight
line, cannot simply graze it to any extent without making a wound in
some place. The coat-tails of the human form," says Villiam, lucidly,
"could not without injury to that form be severed at the buttons by a
ball, unless they were _sticking straight out_ at the instant; and it
is important that the United States of America should know whether the
face of the wearer was turned toward the Southern Confederacy, or in an
opposite direction, at the exact moment of the disaster."

The electrifying wisdom of this thoughtful speech, my boy, had the
effect to produce an immediate adjournment of the general's friends;
for when the test of anatomy is applied to a man's bravery, that
bravery becomes a mere matter of form.

The general, my boy, is the idol of his Mackerel children, and as our
armies slowly advance to deal the death-blow to this impious rebellion,
it will be proved that he was not responsible for a single one of the
mistakes he has made, and could have taken Richmond long ago, but for
his inability to do so. Heaven forgive these Jacobin black-republicans
who object to his being President in 1865! This is the prayer of twenty
millions of free white men under the Constitution, as was very justly
observed to me by a political chap from New Haven last week. On
Tuesday, the Mackerel Brigade was on the outskirts of Accomac--Company
3, Regiment 1, being sent ahead, under Colonel Wobert Wobinson, to
watch the movements of some regiments of Confederacies, who were
believed to be either there or in South Carolina. The advance-guard
stayed there two days, my boy, and then an orderly came riding in to
the general, with the request that he would immediately send
re-enforcements and provisions, as Company 3, Regiment 1, was in danger
of starvation and defeat, at short notice.

The general ceased fanning himself for a moment, and says he to the
perspiring orderly:

"I have heard your request, my child; but before I comply with it, I
wish to know what is the present political complexion of Colonel
Wobinson."

The half-starved orderly clasped his thin hands together, and says he:

"I don't know; but for God's sake, general, send us something to eat,
and some help, or not one of us can be saved."

The general waved his hand magisterially, and says he:

"That's very true. But I must first know what are the sentiments of
Colonel Wobinson on the negro question."

The orderly might have responded, my boy, had he not fainted just then
from weakness. In pity for his comrades, orders were at once given for
the transportation of provisions, and re-enforcements to Company 3
before the end of the month; and had the before mentioned Confederacies
delayed marching into Accomac until that time, I should not be obliged
now to chronicle another of those disasters to our arms, which the
traitorous harangues of Wendell Philips have so outrageously produced.

If this war is to be prosecuted with vigor, my boy, we must repose
unlimited confidence in the ability of the Administration and of our
generals, resolutely frowning down all Jacobin demonstrations at home,
and suffering our leaders to be interfered with by no one but each
other. If we permit civilians to manage matters, the country will be
undone; but if, on the contrary, we trust everything to our generals,
the country will be "done"--brown.

Luckily for us all, the occupation of Accomac by the celebrated
Southern Confederacy, is a part of the great plan of the General of the
Mackerel Brigade to end this rebellion in one crushing blow, and as
soon as the entire Confederacy shall have entered Accomac in safety,
the Mackerel Brigade will proceed to bag it.

You don't see exactly how this is to be done, eh?

There you go again, my boy! always meddling with what you don't
understand, and presuming, in your civilian imbecility, to doubt the
practicability--not to say the utility--of a covert invincibility,
rendering it a futility on the part of Southern agility to take for
weak debility what is really strategic facility, and bound, in its
great fertility of warlike inventibility and utter reliability, to turn
all the foe's agility to a final accountability, that shall cause him,
in future humility, to treat us, at least, with civility.

Such, my boy, is the Mackerel plan, to a T.

This strategy's like some plan for grain depending so much on a fall of
rain, that, in less than a week, should the drought remain, 'twould
ruin it altogether. It pondereth blindly whether or no the opposite
hosts will do so-and-so: and how it will end at last, you know,
dependeth upon the "whether".

                                               Yours, calmly,
                                                       ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                               LETTER LXX.

  COMMENCING WITH HISTORICAL REFERENCE; RELATING THE EPISODE OF
      SPURIOSO GRIMALDI, AND DETAILING THE LAMENTABLE FAILURE OF
      CAPTAIN SAMYULE SA-MITH TO PERISH HEROICALLY.


                                  WASHINGTON, D. C., September 20, 1862.

I am in a star-spangled state of mind, my boy, in consequence of our
recent great victories, and would most respectfully request the
Governors of all the States to push forward re enforcements
immediately. Having rashly ventured into Accomac after forage and the
pursuit of happiness, the well-known Southern Confederacy is now
hemmed-in with much carnage, and finds itself hem'd and haw'd. The
South, the South, we love her still, no love than ours profounder; and,
having cornered her at last, we've thrown our arms around her.

Let us rejoice together, my boy, over the victory that has brought new
lustre to our flag, and proceed to extract from history a few parallels
calculated to indicate that the United States of America are somewhat
superior to the ancients in the art of war.

At the battle of Thermopylæ the heroic Greeks engaged in the conflict
with their foes to the number of some thousands, and as their foes also
prosecuted hostilities simultaneously, the result was a struggle
terminating in the discomfiture of the defeated party. _Omnium vincit
omnia._ At the siege of Troy, the Trojans became involved in active
warfare with the Greeks, the latter being the adversaries of their
opponents, and though either side used their weapons against the other
side, victory finally perched upon the banners of the conqueror, and
produced the general effect of _sic transit gloria mundi_. The Troy
_Tribune_ suppressed all mention of McClellan in its account of this
spirited affair. The dreadful struggle of Argentium was commenced by
the attack of one host upon its antagonists, and raged bitterly, until
a cessation of hostilities found the victors holding an advantage over
the defeated. Burnside's division was not engaged. In the awful affair
of Roncesvalles, the myrmidons of Charlemagne and the hirelings of
Spain committed a breach of the peace by prosecuting a mutual affray,
resulting in the overthrow of the legions which were principally
overcome, and an advantage for the brigades chiefly entitled to the
victory. _Nihil est nullus._

It will be perceived, my boy, that the army of the Potomac was engaged
in none of those celebrated contests, as they did not all take place in
the same week. We make much better time, my boy, than the ancients.

I told you in my last, that the celebrated Southern Confederacy had
courted inevitable destruction by marching madly into Accomac at the
very moment when the victorious Mackerel Brigade was marching out--and
before I proceed further with the tale of invasion, I must pause to
relate the strange episode of Spurioso Grimaldi.

Spurioso Grimaldi, my boy, superintended the emigration from Italy to
this country of a hand-organ that was banished for playing
revolutionary tunes some time ago, and on arriving upon our shores
proceeded immediately to don a red shirt, and plan revolutions for the
coming fall and winter seasons. Upon the breaking out of the war he
enlisted three volunteers under his banner from the chorus of the
Academy of Music; but it was not until the recent occupation of Accomac
that he attempted to put his first revolutionary scheme into operation.
Then, indeed, he armed his three divisions with three George Law
muskets, and having gained the borders of suffering Accomac, he issued
the following:

                             PROCLAMATION.

Accomackians! How are you to day? This is, indeed, a pleasant morning,
and the crops look well. Accomackians, arise! For years you have been
the terror of all strangers stopping at your hotels. The accommodations
you offer, taken into consideration with the prices you charge, are
sufficient to appal the world! Arise! Remember Waterloo, and Wagram,
and Bull Run, and other battles in which you took no active part. Now!
Right away! Hey?

                                                            GRIMALDI.

As the Union element still lives in Accomac, my boy, and wishes nothing
done to disturb the neighborhood, he could not but deem Mr. Grimaldi's
movement ill advised, and issued the following responsive

                              PROCLAMATION.

S. Grimaldi, at the head of an army of three equipped and disciplined
troops, calls the Accomackians to arms. This is scarcely the time for
such a call, and the army of liberation is scarcely adequate to the
enterprise proposed. Some disaster might occur should an army of three
equipped and disciplined troops attack a force of twenty thousand,
under Stonewall Jackson, at this present crisis. Therefore, let Accomac
rest in peace, and continue to keep a hotel.

                                                        UNION L. LAMENT.

These proceedings caused great excitement down at Paris and London, my
boy, and the excellent and independent journals of those places
proceeded at once to publish several yards of profound editorial on the
probable convulsion of the earth's surface, in consequence of S.
Grimaldi's revolutionary proceedings.

"The entire habitable universe," said the Paris _Pitcher_, "appears on
the verge of terrible upheavings, and the army of S. Grimaldi seems
destined to work an entire change in the economy of the creation, and
oblige the North and South Poles to change places permanently."

Not to be outdone, the London _Tumbler_ issued an extra, composed
entirely of auction advertisements and an excited editorial: "The black
cloud so long brooding over the shrinking countenance of upturned
nature seems at length prepared to vomit its horrid flames over the
entire surface of animated humanity. S. Grimaldi, who is now marching
on Accomac, is not unlikely to prove the instrument of this
earth-rending explosion. The unholy American rebellion dwindles to
insignificant nothingness in comparison with this terrible affair."

So Grimaldi marshaled his three divisions, my boy, and having marched
upon Accomac, was promptly arrested by the police and incarcerated to
await an examination. So much for the episode of Spurioso Grimaldi.

Turning from events which have a deeper interest for Europe than for
our own victorious but distracted country, let me cheer and improve
your mind, my boy, with some account of the recent glorious victories
around Accomac, wherein the fearless and unwounded Mackerel Brigade
acquired another coat of glory, making the third this season.

It was Tuesday morn, when Captain Samyule Sa-mith of the advance guard,
having satisfied himself that the Brigade was about to achieve its
crowning victory, concluded that the time for expiring after the manner
of General Wolfe at Quebec had arrived at last. The battle had already
commenced, my boy, and a squad of evil-minded Confederacies were in
full retreat after the Mackerel pickets, when Samyule hastily fell upon
his back, and beckoned for the artist of Frank Leslie's Illustrated
paper, motioned for the nearest reporter to take out his note-book,
drew a lock of red hair from his bosom and kissed it, waved his left
hand feebly toward his country's standard, and, says he: "_Téte
d'Armée!_ I die for the old fla--"

"Stop!" shrieked a Mackerel, dashing frantically to his side at this
instant. "The Anatomical Cavalry, which is ordered to charge the foe,
wishes to know if it shall take its horses along."

Up sprang Samyule, and says he:

"Tell the horsemen to take everything but their trunks with them, and
not to stay more than a week. I really believe," says Samyule in a
great passion--"I really believe the artillery will be wanting to know
next if they'd better load before firing."

Just at this time, my boy, the Conic Section of the Mackerel Brigade,
under Captain Villiam Brown, came charging toward the spot with fixed
bayonets, their gallant leader waving his sword, Escalibar, over his
head, and calling on his troops to lead on to victory. Forward they
went like mad, rushing past us in swift fury, and composing the
heaviest visitation of red noses ever yet launched upon a foe. To be
sure, no foe was visible in the immediate line of their charge; but as
they happened to be going down a pretty steep hill at the time, it was
quite possible that they might meet some adversaries before they could
stop themselves.

Fired by the sight, Captain Samyule Sa-mith flew to take command of a
company of Mackerels, who were busily firing their muskets at some
Confederacies not more than two miles distant; and having placed
himself at the head thereof, was about to proceed in pursuit of warlike
adventures, when he caught sight of a body of men, followed by another
body of men, moving along in the valley below him.

"Hem!" says Samyule, ponderingly, "what is this sight mine eyes behold?"

"Oh," says a sergeant beside him, "that's the No. 3 army of the
Confederacy, escorting some prisoners which they have just taken at
Harper's Ferry."

Samyule regarded the spectacle attentively for a moment, and says he:
"Well, there's only one thing more I want to know about it. I want to
know," says Samyule thoughtfully, "which of them two bodies of infantry
is the army, and which is the prisoners?"

Was there the tiniest, wee-ist, smallest fragment of sarcasm in his
speech? Find out for yourself, my boy--find out for yourself.

It was shortly after this remark, and while the Orange County Howitzers
were raining a tempest of shot and shell at everything but the enemy,
that a small bit of shrapnell fell near Samyule's feet, and again
reminded him of his latter end. Noting that he was observed by those
around him, my boy, and that the surroundings of the scene were
picturesque, he uttered a hollow groan and fell prone to the earth.
Then picking up the bit of shrapnell, and laying it upon his heart, he
kicked once, and says he:

"Is it almost morning, mother? Hurra for the old fla--"

"Forward with Company 2, immediately," thundered a messenger who at
this moment came tearing to the spot. "The Confederacy has flanked the
Conic Section, and is trying to escape."

Preferring to defer death itself rather than see his beloved country
outwitted by the rebels, Captain Samyule Sa-mith darted swiftly to his
feet at the word, and instantaneously led Company 2 down the hill at
double-quick. I followed him half-way, my boy, and then turned off into
a cross road, where I found Captain Villiam Brown striving to get a
portion of the devoted Conic Section into a straight line by ranging it
against a fence. Villiam ceased his labors when he saw me approaching,
and says he:

"Here's conquering beings for you. Ah!" says Villiam, proudly, "I sent
these invincible beings on a bayonet charge just now, and they have all
come back without their muskets."

"What did they do with them?" says I.

"Left them sticking in the foe," says Villiam, exultingly.

"Are you sure of that, my Alcibiades?" says I, skeptically.

"Why," says Villiam, confidentially, "they didn't bring a single one
back with them, and of course they must have left them sticking into
the paralyzed Confederacies."

If Villiam could draw a checque as easily as he can draw an inference,
my boy, he might paper the outside of the universe with ten dollar
bills and have enough fifties left to make a very deep border.

Leaving the decimated _corps_ to reorganize, I hastened down the hill
again, and arrived at the bottom only to find a group of reporters and
Mackerels surrounding a manly prostrate form. Company 2 had just
succeeded in routing some Confederacies from a melon-patch, and Captain
Samyule Sa-mith was improving the opportunity to expire once more in an
affecting manner.

Lifting his feeble head when he saw me, and pulling a small flag a
little further out of a side-pocket in his coat, the perishing warrior
smiled half way down his chin, and says he:

"I still live! All hail to the old fla--"

"One moment, if you please!" shouted Colonel Wobert Wobinson, breaking
through the group.--"Could you make it convenient to pay me that dollar
you owe me, Samyule?"

Samyule arose deliberately to his feet again, my boy, wearing upon his
countenance the most awful expression I ever saw upon a human face.

"Well," says Samyule, furiously, "I've tried to die for my country
three times to-day, and never got further than the old fla--! There is
such vulgarity in them which incessantly surrounds me," says Samyule,
bitterly, "that they won't even let me die in peace."

Here a Mackerel chap sniffed differentially, and says he: "But you was
trying to die in war, capting."

There was something so inhuman in the idea of a man making a joke on
such a serious occasion, as that, my boy, that the entire party was
struck dumb with horror; and one of the spectators retired
precipitately behind a tree, where I immediately heard him laughing
wildly with joy over the thought that it was not himself who had been
guilty of such a hideous enormity.

It would be useless for me to spend more time in showing how the battle
raged to a victorious conclusion, leaving the Mackerel Brigade in
triumphant possession of the ground it occupied at the outset, and the
Confederacy rooted to the spot it held from the commencement.

Scarcely had the strife been finished half an hour, when the popular
General of the Mackerel Brigade arrived to direct all the movements in
person, and to gain some knowledge of the victories he had just won.
Accompanying him was the political chap from New Haven, who at once
proceeded to congratulate the troops and address them on the subject of
the next election.

"My brothers in arms," says he, with fond familiarity, "having done our
duty as patriots, let us proceed to ballot for President of the United
States in 1865. Need I say that our victorious general is the man?"

Truly, my boy, we shall have little difficulty in selecting a chief
magistrate next term, when there is such a General longing for the
nomination.

                                           Yours, politically,
                                                       ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                              LETTER LXXI.

  SHOWING HOW THE PRESIDENT AND THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE
      ISSUED GREAT EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATIONS, AND HOW THE CHAPLAIN
      WROTE A RADICAL POEM.


                               WASHINGTON, D. C., September 27th, 1862.

"John Brown's body," which has been "marching on" for some time past,
my boy, being thus considerably in advance of our strictly
Constitutional Army, has at length made a great strategic movement, and
evoked the following promissory note from our Honest Old Abe:

                                   COLORLESS DOMICIL, Sept. 22d, 1862.

"Ninety days after date I promise to pay the Southern Confederacy, or
order, the full amount of its deserts.

    "$ _Emancipation._                              H. O. ABE."

The morning after this little settlement was made, my boy, I met the
conservative Kentucky chap on Pennsylvania avenue, and was greatly
edified by his high-minded remarks on the subject. "Having recently
disposed of any attached contrabands to good advantage," says he,
sagely, "I am now deeply convinced that my brother-in-law, the Southern
Confederacy, has brought this dispensation upon himself. I have said
all along that it would be so at last," says the genial Kentucky chap,
casting another glance at the score of a recent game of Euchre which he
held in his hand. "I have said all along that it would be so at last,
and I am still disposed to sustain the Administration and crush the
Black Republicans."

When I remembered the sentiments held by this accommodating chap only
about a week ago, my boy, I could not but feel that he had made a
remarkably sudden revolution on the axes he had to grind; and as there
was a pleasing spice of human audacity in his easy way of suiting his
style to the political demands of the moment, I was strongly reminded
of a chap I once knew in the Sixth Ward.

He was a young chap of gorgeous vest-pattern, and one Sunday afternoon
he went out riding with another sprightly young chap, who was
accompanied by his plighted pink bonnet. They were riding joyously
along in their hired vehicle, my boy, pleasantly discussing the merits
of Eighty's new foreman, and other subjects equally well calculated to
entertain and improve the fond female mind, when, as they turned a
sharp corner, there loomed up, at some distance ahead, a house bearing
a sign reading:

                               FEED STORE

                         OATS FOR  SALE  HERE.

No sooner did the spirited livery-horse observe this dangerous sign, my
boy, than he dashed toward it in a manner worthy of my own gothic
steed, the architectural Pegasus; and as there happened to be a few
stones in the way, the two chaps and the pink bonnet were presently
shot into the surrounding atmosphere without regard to the character of
the day. While the excited quadruped went on with the two fore-wheels
of the vehicle for the purpose of reading the sign nearer by, the chap
of the gorgeous vest-pattern announced his safe arrival in a sand-bank
by the appropriate and cheery cry of "Fire! fire! fire!" and the other
chap and the pink bonnet warbled hasty thanksgivings in the bosom of a
romantic ditch. How they finally caught the spirited livery horse, and
induced him to come back to the city again by making a copy of the sign
on a bit of paper, and placing it in his mouth, and how they ultimately
reached home, you must imagine. But in about a week after, the
unnatural livery-stable keeper brought suit against the smitten chap
for the two hind-wheels of his wagon; and when the young chap of
gorgeous vest-pattern was put upon the stand to prove that the
catastrophe was not the driver's fault, he winked agreeably at the
people, and says he: "My friend and assoshate exerted hisself visibly
to subdue the fiery old oat-mill. As it was, his brains was nearly
dashed out, his neck-tie was sprained, and he _found his watch wound
up_."

Here the livery lawyer thought he had the friendly chap in a tight
place, and says he:

"You say that by being thrown from the wagon so violently, the
defendant's watch was wound up. Perhaps you will inform the court how
such a strange phenomenon _could_ occur?"

The young chap merely paused long enough to make another desperate
attempt to reconcile the bottom-edge of his waistcoat to the top-edge
of his inexpressibles, and says he, with a fine smile:

"Why, it was easy enough for his watch to be wound up by it, my covey;
because _he turned three times in the air before he lit_."

Accommodating conservative chaps, my boy, though momentarily thrown out
of their reckoning, by reason of sudden proceedings caused by the
latest signs of the times, have a happy aptitude for turning-about as
often as may seem necessary, before alighting on a fixed principle.

The Mackerel chaplain, who came up from Harper's Ferry on Monday
afternoon, was delighted with H. O. Abe's promissory note, and
considers that old John Brown is at last

                AVENGED.

  GOD'S scales of Justice hang between
  The deed Unjust and the end Unseen,
  And the sparrow's fall in the one is weighed
  By the Lord's own Hand in the other laid.

  In the prairie path to our Sun-set gate,
  In the flow'ring heart of a new-born State,
  Are the hopes of an old man's waning years,
  'Neath headstones worn by an old man's tears.

  When the bright sun sinks in the rose-lipped West,
  His last red ray is the headstone's crest;
  And the mounds he laves in a crimson flood
  Are a Soldier's wealth baptized in blood!

  Do ye ask who reared those headstones there,
  And crowned with thorns a sire's gray hair?
  And by whom the Land's great debt was paid
  To the Soldier old, in the graves they made?

  Shrink, Pity! shrink, at the question dire;
  And, Honor, burn in a blush of fire!
  Turn, Angel, turn from the page thine eyes,
  Or the Sin, once written, never dies!

  They were men of the Land he had fought to save
  From a foreign foe that had crossed the wave,
  When his sun-lit youth was a martial song,
  And shook a throne as it swelled along.

  They were sons of the clime whose soft, warm breath
  Is the soul of earth, and a life in death;
  Where the Summer dreams on the couch of Spring,
  And the songs of birds through the whole year ring;

  Where the falling leaf is the cup that grew
  To catch the gems of the new leaf's dew,
  And the winds that through the vine-leaves creep
  Are the sighs of Time in a pleasant sleep.

  But there lurked a taint in the clime so blest,
  Like a serpent coiled in a ring-dove's nest,
  And the human sounds to the ear it gave
  Were the clank of chains on a low-browed Slave!

  The Soldier old at his sentry-post,
  Where the sun's last trail of light is lost,
  Beheld the shame of the Land he loved,
  And the old, old love in his bosom moved.

  He cried to the land, Beware! Beware
  Of the symboled Curse in the Bondman there!
  And a prophet's soul in fire came down
  To live in the voice of old John Brown.

  He cried; and the ingrate answer came
  In words of steel from a tongue of flame;
  They dyed his hearth in the blood of kin,
  And his dear ones fell for the Nation's Sin!

  O, matchless deed! that a fiend might scorn,
  O, deed of shame! for a world to mourn;
  A Soldier's pay in his blood most dear,
  And a land to mock at a Father's tear!

  Is't strange that the tranquil soul of age
  Was turned to strife in a madman's rage?
  Is't strange that the cry of blood did seem
  Like the roll of drums in a martial dream?

  Is't strange the clank of the Helot's chain
  Should drive the Wrong to the old man's brain,
  To fire his heart with a santon's zeal,
  And mate his arm to the Soldier's steel?

  The bane of Wrong to its depth had gone,
  And the sword of Right from its sheath was drawn;
  But the cabined Slave heard not his cry,
  And the old man armed him but to die.

  Ye may call him Mad, that he did not quail
  When his stout blade broke on the unblest mail;
  Ye may call him Mad, that he struck alone,
  And made the land's dark Curse his own;

  But the Eye of God looked down and saw
  A just life lost by an unjust law;
  And black was the day with God's own frown
  When the Southern Cross was a martyr's Crown!

  Apostate clime! the blood then shed,
  Fell thick with vengeance on thy head,
  To weigh it down 'neath the coming rod
  When thy red right hand should be stretched to God.

  Behold the price of the life ye took;
  At the death ye gave 'twas a world that shook;
  And the despot deed that one heart broke,
  From their slavish sleep a Million woke!

  Not all alone did the victim fall,
  Whose wrongs first brought him to your thrall;
  The old man played a Nation's part,
  And ye struck your blow at a Nation's heart!

  The freemen-host is at your door,
  And a Voice goes forth with a stern "No More!"
  To the deadly Curse, whose swift redeem
  Was the visioned thought of John Brown's dream.

  To the Country's Wrong, and the Country's stain,
  It shall prove as the scythe to the yielding grain;
  And the dauntless pow'r to spread it forth,
  Is the free-born soul of the chainless North.

  From the East, and West, and North they come,
  To the bugle's call and the roll of drum;
  And a form walks viewless by their side--
  A form that was born when the Old Man died!

  The Soldier old in his grave may rest,
  Afar with his dead in the prairie West;
  But a red ray falls on the headstone there,
  Like a God's reply to a Soldier's pray'r.

  He may sleep in peace 'neath the greenwood pall,
  For the land's great heart hath heard his call;
  And a people's Will and a people's Might,
  Shall right the Wrong and proclaim the Right.

  The foe may howl at the fiat just,
  And gnash his fangs in the trodden dust;
  But the battle leaves his bark a wreck,
  And the Freeman's heel is on his neck.

  Not all in vain is the lesson taught,
  That a great soul's Dream is the world's New Thought;
  And the Scaffold marked with a death sublime
  Is the Throne ordained for the coming time.

The chaplain runs as naturally to poetry, my boy, as a water-melon does
to seed, and his muse is apt to be--alas! what a melancholy one!

In my last epistle, I was somewhat hyperbolical when I meant to be
metaphorical, as some of the older writers were allegorical when they
meant to be categorical. I told you, my boy, that we had cornered the
prudish Confederacy in Accomac, and "thrown our arms around her." Your
natural ignorance will demand an explanation; and I deem it fit to say,
that by the phrase "thrown our arms around her," I meant to say that
certain Mackerel regiments, in furtherance of the profound strategy of
the General of the Mackerel Brigade, had thrown their arms away, on
every side of the entrapped Confederacy. It was believed that the
Confederacy was perfectly safe for immediate capture, my boy; but upon
the discovery that the fords of Allkwyet River, in the rear of Accomac,
where the Confederacy could cross, were adjoining each other, and
extended from the source of the river to its mouth, it was deemed
proper to let the Confederacy court further ruination by retiring in
that direction. Hence, whilst the watchful Conic section took a brief
nap, the Anatomical Cavalry was sent rapidly in front of the
disgracefully retreating Confederacy to clear the road for it to the
river, and then telegraph the news of the great victory to all the
excellent morning journals.

It was another splendid stroke of profound strategy, my boy, and would
have crowned the idolized General of the Mackerel Brigade with new
laurels, had he not been too bashfully modest to understand it himself.

Finding, however, that it seemed to be better than something worse, he
told his staff a small story to clear his throat, and then unfurled the
following


                              PROCLAMATION.

I, the General of the Mackerel Brigade, next President of the United
States of America, and Commander-in-Chief of the Mackerel Army and
superior improved iron-plated squadron, do hereby swear, that on this
occasion, as in a previous instance, the war will be prosecuted for the
object of practically maintaining the Constitution forever destroyed,
and restoring friendly relations between the sections and States
inexorably alienated; that it is my practical purpose to suggest, at
the next orderly meeting of the Mackerel Brigade, a practical offer of
pecuniary compensation for the slaves of the so-called Border States
which have refrained, through patriotic fear, from waging unnatural
hostilities with the United States of America and my practical self.
Gradual Emancipation having thus set in, as far as those States are
concerned, either voluntarily, or by virtue of a superior discretion,
persons of African descent will again be privileged, or voluntarily
compelled to colonize in Nova Zembla, where bear hunting is still in
full bloom; that on the first day of April, in the year of our Lord one
thousand eight hundred and sixty-three, all persons held as slaves by
what is then known as the ruins of the Southern Confederacy, shall be
then, thence, thenceforward and forever free, if they choose to
consider themselves so, and are able to achieve their independence;
that on the aforesaid first of April, the General of the Mackerel
Brigade will designate the States, or parts of States, which have
rendered this proclamation nugatory, by returning involuntarily, and by
force of our arms, to their allegiance, inviting them to elect members
of Congress, boarders at Willard's and Senators as usual, the same as
though their somewhat-prolonged rebellion against the United States of
America had been a rather meritorious arrangement, entitling them to
more than ordinary consideration.

And I do hereby respectfully request all officers to refrain in future
from paying the traveling expenses of persons of African descent sent
by them to their revolted masters after a term of trench service, as
there don't appear to be any common-sense in such expenditure.

And the General of the Mackerel Brigade will further recommend, that
all citizens of the United States remaining loyal now, or who may
become loyal, voluntarily or otherwise, at any period of the world's
history, be fully compensated for all losses sustained by the United
States, including the loss of memory or eye sight.

In witness whereof, behold the signature and seal of the

                                     GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.
    (Green Seal.)

While I am compelled to admit, my boy, that I do not exactly understand
by what authority the General of the Mackerel Brigade is empowered to
issue this Proclamation; and that some of its clauses--particularly the
last--strike me as being somewhat muddled, I yet regard it as at least
a faint evidence that the tremendous farce in which we have so long
been playing such bloody parts is at last coming to an end.

And since the farce seems drawing to a close, perhaps your farcical
Orpheus C. Kerr could select no fitter time than this to withdraw with
grace from the field.

As this thought occurs to me, my boy, I look up, and behold a couple of
our brigadiers a few paces off, with only two tumblers between them.
Their faces are expressionless. I have seen apple-dumplings with more
expression, especially when dressed with sauce. It is impossible, my
boy, that any wise thing should enter into the heads of our
brass-buttoned generals under any possible circumstances; and with
heavy heart, I acknowledge the conviction that I must still rush the
quill.

                                            Yours, enduringly,
                                                       ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                             LETTER LXXII.

  REPORTING THE LATEST SMALL STORY FROM "HONEST ABE," AND DESCRIBING
      THE MOST MERCENARY BAYONET CHARGE ON RECORD.


                                  WASHINGTON, D. C., October 4th, 1862.

Our Honest Abe, my boy, may lack these brilliant qualities which in the
great legislator may constitute either the live-oak sceptre of true
patriotism or the dexter finger of refined roguery, as the genius of
the age pivots on honesty or diplomacy; but his nature has all the
sterling characteristics of the heartiest manhood about it, and there
is a smiling sun in his composition which never sets. That he is in his
anecdotage, my boy, is a fact

  "Which nobody can deny;
  Or, if they do, they lie!"

yet even his anecdotes have that simple sunlight in them which is,
perhaps, a greater boon to the high place of a nation in the dark hour,
than the most weird and perpetual haze of crafty wisdom could be.

There was a dignified chap here from New York on Monday; a chap who has
invented many political conventions in his time, and came here for the
special purpose of learning everything whatsoever concerning the
present comparative inactivity of the able-bodied Mackerel Brigade.

The Mackerel Brigade, my boy, has done little more than skirmish on the
festive borders of the well-known Southern Confederacy since the great
metaphysical victory in which it gained such applause and lost a few
muskets, and the dignified convention chap called upon the Honest Abe
to learn the meaning of the present situation.

Rumor states that it was the Honest Abe's hour of fragmentary leisure
when this inquiring chap perforated the White House; and that he was
sitting with his boots on the window-sill, carving a pine toothpick
from a vagrant chip.

"Mr. President," says the dignified chap, affably, "such is the agony
of the public mind in consequence of the present uncertainty in
military affairs that I feel it my duty, as a humble portion of that
Mind, to respectfully request of you some information as to the reason
for the cotemporary Mackerel inactivity."

"Hem!" says the Honest Abe, combing his locks with his right hand, and
placing a small bit of the chip in the right corner of his Etruscan
mouth: "Perhaps I cannot better answer your question, neighbor, than by
relating a small tale:

"There was a man out in Iowa who owned a large farm, on which he raised
everything but the interest of his purchase-money, and it cost him so
little to send his crops to the market that he was all the time wishing
he could find the crops to send. Now, this man was very tenacious of
his rights," says the Honest Abe, putting the argument with his
jack-knife--"he was very tenacious of his rights; and when a
squatter-sovereign from Missouri came and squatted right on one of his
best pieces of land, he determined to whip that squatter-sovereign
within an inch of his life, and then send him trooping. So he goes down
one day to where the squatter had run up a shingle house," says the
Honest Abe, brushing a chip from his right knee, "he goes down there,
and says he to the squatter: 'If you don't make tracks from here in
twenty-four hours, you varmint, I'll make you smell thunder and see
chain-lightnin'.' The squatter threw away the axe with which he was
thumping down a maple log for a door-post, and says he: 'This is a free
country, stranger; and if you'll come to a place where the grass is
thick enough to make a tidy tumble, we'll have it out at once.' This
put the old man's dander right up," says the Honest Abe, pulling down
his vest; "this put his dander right up, and says he: 'Grass be darned!
Here's a spot of ground as bare as the top of Governor Chase's head,
and I'll jest trouble you--y' old varmint you--to find how soft it is
for a night's lodgings.' After this speech there was no more to be
said; so the two geniuses repaired to the bare spot, and squared away
at each other like all possest. The old man was great on the science of
the thing," says the Honest Abe, using the toe of one boot as a
boot-jack to pull the other half-way off--"the old man was great on the
science of boxing; but the squatter had the muscle, and in about two
winks the old 'un was packing the gravel. Up he got again, very
ricketty in the shoulder-blades, and came to call like a grizzly in
bee-time, striking out with a bang up science, and would have triumphed
gloriously if he hadn't suddenly gone to gravel again, with all his
baggage. On this occasion, he righted with both his elbows out of
joint, and says he: 'You're as good as chawed up--y' old varmint,
you--but I'll come back here next spring, and have it out with you on
this same spot.' The squatter agreed to that, and they parted for the
time.

"Now the story of this drawn-fight got abroad, you see," says the
Honest Abe, working the blade of his jack-knife with his thumb--"it got
abroad; and one day a neighbor went to the old 'un, and says he:
'There's one thing about that big fight of yours, Uncle Billy, I can't
understand. What made you put off the end of the show till next spring?'

"'Have you seen the cantankerous spot where we fit?' says the old 'un,
moving his shoulders uneasily.

"'Truelie,' says the neighbor.

"'Well,' says the old 'un, craftily, 'I'm just waiting _till that thar
spot has a trifle of grass on it_.'"

At the conclusion of this natural little narrative, my boy, the
dignified conventional chap hurried from the White House scratching his
head: and I really believe, my boy--I really believe, that his
sensitive soul detected an analogy not gushingly flattering to national
strategy and the President of the United States for 1865.

Soon after hearing of this, I met him at Willard's, and says I: "Well,
my sagacious Mirabeau, what is your final opinion of our Honest Abe?"

He merely paused long enough to swear at a button which happened to
burst from the neck-band of his shirt just then, and says he: "The
Honest Abe is a well-meaning Executive, enough. He's a well-meaning
Executive," says the dignified chap, with an air of slightly-irritated
good-nature; "but I wish he'd do something to save his country, instead
of telling small tales all the time."

Our President is an honest man, my boy, and the glass in his spectacles
isn't exactly made of the paper they print telegrams upon.

Learning that the Mackerel Brigade was still awaiting abject peace
propositions from the exhausted Confederacy, on the borders of Accomac,
I scaled the outer walls of my Gothic steed, Pegasus, on Wednesday, and
sped thither on the metaphorical wings of retarded lightning. A wisp of
hay was clinging to the wiry mane of the architectural animal, my boy,
and this I used to delude the spirited steed from making those sudden
stops in which he invariably indulges whenever a passing acquaintance
hails us with the familiar salutation of "Hey!--where are you bound?"
The charger has evidently a confused idea of the word "Hey," my boy.

Upon gaining the outskirts of Accomac, I met Company 3, Regiment 5,
Mackerel Brigade, just coming out to make a bayonet-charge upon one of
the Confederacy's earthworks not far away. I might have let the
warriors pass by unheeded, my boy, as I was deeply ruminating upon
strategy; but as they came nearer, I noticed among them a file of red
noses dragging along a Mackerel, who was tearing and groaning like a
madman. In fact, the chap became so violent just then, that Captain
Villiam Brown precipitately dropped his canteen and halted the company.

I looked at the devoted and nearly-sober beings clustered about the
struggling chap, and says I:

"Has mutiny reared his horrid front, my veterans? What ails our
gymnastic friend?"

A Mackerel, largely patched in several departments of his attire,
shaded his voice with a crab-like hand, and says he: "That is Jakey
Mogs, which got a letter from his virchoose femly just the instant we
was ordered to fix bayonets, and he's gone cracked because the Captain
can't let him leave for home in a big rush."

Here the refractory chap burst furiously from those who were holding
him, fell upon his knees before the captain, and says he, as he cried
like a woman: "For God's sake, Cap, _do_ let me go home just this once,
and I swear to God I won't stay there more than just one minnit! My old
woman wrote this herself (tearing the letter from his ragged breast),
and she says our little Tom is dying. He's a-dying--O good Lord! it's
too much! Please let me go, my dear, good Cap, and I won't be gone an
hour; and I'll bring you back the pootiest little bull-tarrier you ever
see; and you can shoot me for desertion--honor bright! My Tommy's
a-dying, I tell you, and she's wrote for me to come right away. Just an
hour, Cap, for God's sake!--only _half_ an hour, and I'll come back and
be shot--honor bright!"

As the wild words came pouring out of the poor fellow's working soul,
there fell a breathless hush upon all his comrades; the line of
bayonets seemed to me to reflect the soft light of the afternoon with a
kind of strange quiver, and though the Captain turned his head sternly
away from the suppliant, there was not that firmness in the arm
circling to his hip which drives home the sword of the strong.

"Take the being under guard," says Villiam, hoarsely; "for he _must_
go."

At the word, the rude father sprang to his feet, with a tigerish glare
in his eyes, dashed the letter to the ground, tore his bowie from its
sheath; and as, with the howl of a wild beast, he made a furious thrust
at one of those who approached to secure him--Nature broke in the
tempest, and he fell into the arms of a comrade, in a fit. They sent
him back, then, to camp, and Company 3, Regiment 5, moved forward once
again, as though nothing had happened.

Alas! my boy, when this whole war is the sensitive nerve of a vast
nation, and vibrates a thrill of mortal agony to a million of souls at
each jar the very air receives from a shot, what matter is it if a
single heart be broken.

I pondered this deeply as I followed Company 3; nor did I heed the
affable remarks occasionally volunteered by Captain Villiam Brown until
we gained the edge of the field wherein was located a company of
bushwhacking Confederacies, as was supposed, behind a scientific
mud-work. Captain Bob Shorty and Captain Samyule Sa-mith were already
on the ground to witness the bayonet charge; and it was well that they
had provided bits of smoked glass to view it through, as the glaring
brilliancy of the anticipated feat might have proved hurtful to the
naked eye. As I took my place with them, my boy, I could not but admire
the rapidity with which Captain Villiam Brown kicked some of his beings
into a straight line before the foe's front, and at the same time
addressed them after the manner of a great commander:

"Comrades," says Villiam, his voice quivering finely with
uncontrollable valor, "the eyes of future centuries are looking down
upon you on this present occasion, and your distracted country expects
you to propel the gleamy steel. Ah!" says Villiam, taking another hasty
look at his notes, "the distracted country has great confidence in
bayonet charges, which are quite valuable on account of their scarcity
in this unnatural war. My fellow-beings," says Villiam, allowing
several Mackerels to get in front of him, that he might more readily
direct their movements, "we will now proceed to charge bayonets."

From our point of vantage, we saw that serried host sweep on, my boy,
their movements being exceedingly rapid for several yards; when they
went slower, and finally stopped.

Captain Samyule Sa-mith eyed them intensely through his glass, and says
he: "It appears to me that there is temporary inactivity in the ranks,
and I can see some manly heads turned the wrong way."

Captain Bob Shorty frowned until his left eyebrow contracted a delicate
streak of smoke from _his_ glass, and says he: "You speak like one of
feeble mind, Samyule. The legs, not the head, are the portions of the
human frame to be watched in a baynit charge."

Taught by this remark, I gazed at the nether continuations of our
country's hope and pride, and my glass told me that many of them were
working in their sockets as though belonging to wholly irresponsible
parties. Were those devoted men about to change their base of
operations and entrap Stonewall Jackson's whole force again, without
waiting to receive a shot?

It was a moment of dreadful suspense.

Then did the matchless genius of Villiam Brown arise to the full
demands of the breathless occasion, in one of those subtle appeals to
human nature's great undercurrent which leads men as children often are
led. In the rear of the Confederacy's work was the slanting side of a
precipitous hill, and to this hill-side he had secretly dispatched the
paymaster of the _corps_, by a circuitous route, with a package that
looked as though it might contain Treasury Notes under his arm. Just at
this awful juncture, when the fate of the day hung by a hair, that
paymaster made his appearance on the hill-side above the mud-work, and
put on his spectacles to make himself more plainly visible.

"Comrades," says Villiam, pointing to the celestial figure, "yonder is
the disbursing genius of the United States of America. Charge baynits,
and let us be paid off."

Though the whole Confederacy had been in the way at that moment, my
boy, it would not have delayed the charge. Forward went Company 3,
Regiment 5, with mercenary celerity, capturing the hostile work with
great success; and finding therein a Confederate letter, stating that
the Confederacy could not so far demean itself as to fight a force
whose leader had not been educated at West Point.

There is a point, my boy, _beyond_ which the Confederacy cannot hope to
offer successful resistance to our arms, and recent events would seem
to indicate that it is West Point.

                                              Yours, formally,
                                                        ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                             LETTER LXXIII.

  MAKING MENTION OF ANOTHER MEETING OF THE COSMOPOLITAN CLUB, AT
      WHICH THE TURKISH AND RUSSIAN MEMBERS READ THEIR STORIES.


                                   WASHINGTON, D. C., October 8th, 1862.

At the meeting of the Cosmopolitans last evening, my boy, N. E.
Ottoman, the Turkish chap, related the tale of


                          THE SULTAN'S FAVORITE.

"In all Circassia, there was no woman to be compared with Zara, for
beauty. Her eyes were like the stars, her hair was threads of gold, her
teeth were pearls, her complexion more white and pure than the marble
of Patras, and her form was like those of the houris, whom Allah has
locked up in paradise, for the benefit of all true believers.

"The father of this beautiful girl was a mountain chieftain, much noted
for his physical strength, bravery, and insatiable avarice. His wife
died in giving birth to Zara, and upon her child he lavished all the
affection which his iron heart could nourish; but gold overcame the
finer feelings of a parent, and Nemyl beheld the bud of childhood
bursting forth into the soul-subduing woman with thoughts in which
there was far more speculation than love.

"'You shall be sold to the Sultan,' said he to her, 'and he will soon
become your most devoted slave. You may make him do what you will, and
I shall become respected and rich, as the father of a Sultan's
favorite.'

"Zara made no reply to such anticipations; for, although she honored
the _alem penali_ of mankind, her affections had lighted upon another
object.

"During the war between the Russians and Circassians, truces of a few
days' duration were quite frequent, and at such periods those of both
parties who were upon the plains, intermingled, and spoke words of
peace to each other. On one of these occasions, a Russian detachment
was quartered near the habitation of Nemyl, and a young officer, who
beheld Zara, fell in love with her at first sight, although he saw
nothing but her form; for her face was covered.

"Garstoff (for such was his name) made various attempts to have
communication with the insensible object of his passion; but, for some
days, his efforts were in vain--the Circassians being very ready to
keep truce with his countrymen, but very jealous, also, of any
attention bestowed upon one of their own nation. The officer beheld the
brief period of peace fast drawing to an end, and was about to resign
his darling object, when fortune unexpectedly befriended him.

"One evening as he was returning to his camp, a sound of clashing steel
fell upon his ear, and, turning in the direction from whence it came,
he observed a horseman bravely defending himself against the assaults
of four men in Turkish costume. Swift as lightning, his sword flew from
his scabbard, and going to the assistance of the rider, he made two of
the assailants bite the dust, while the others took to their heels and
quickly disappeared.

"'Your assistance was most timely, and I owe my life to you,' said the
horseman, dismounting from his steed, and peering into the face of his
new ally.

"'I am happy to have been of service to a brave man,' replied Garstoff,
'but who were those scoundrels?'

"'I know them not,' answered the other, 'but suppose them to belong to
a band of mountain thieves, who are prowling about the camps in search
of plunder. I perceive, by your uniform, that you are one of our
enemies. But we are at peace now, and as you have saved my live, I
extend the hand of friendship to you. Come with me to my house, and we
will eat salt together.'

"'May I know the name of my new friend?' asked the Russian.

"'I am Nemyl, and I put my trust in God.'

"'I cannot refuse your kind invitation,' said Garstoff. And Nemyl
remounting his horse, the two set off at good speed not saying another
word until they arrived at the house of the chieftain. It was a
spacious but rude habitation, and the only attendant who welcomed the
pair was a pretty little girl of scarce ten years. Nemyl fastened the
horses of himself and visitor under a low shed, and then proceeded to
an apartment where _rabols_, viands, various fruits, mountain herbs,
and large vessels filled with coffee and eastern wines, were placed
upon a table with covers for three persons.

"'We sup here,' he said, motioning Garstoff to a seat beside the board,
and taking one himself. 'I expected to have met one of our chiefs
to-night, and brought him to my house, but those fellows stopped me,
and I changed my company. Eat--What is your name?'

"'Major Garstoff.'

"A shade passed over the features of Nemyl, at the sound of that name,
and he grasped the hilt of his scymetar, for he had heard of the
officer's attempt to speak with Zara, and it was only a thought of
recent events that restrained him from rushing upon the bold barbarian
with the fury of a tiger.

"Garstoff beheld the change in his host's manner, and had grasped his
own weapon, to defend himself from any sudden attack, when a door was
opened, and Zara entered the department, preceded by the little slave,
looking more beautiful than ever.

"The officer was filled with various emotions by her presence; for he
at once recognised her as the idol of his heart, and all feelings of
anger disappeared at once.

"'This is my child Zara,' said Nemyl, with affected indifference. 'The
great Sultan has an apartment for her in his seraglio, and his Aga has
already bargained with me for her purchase.'

"Garstoff watched the girl's countenance, while her father spoke thus,
and was delighted to perceive that she was discomposed by his words;
but resolving to avoid a quarrel with his entertainer, he replied:

"'Happy must be the man, whether sultan or renegade, who is destined to
claim so much beauty for his own.'

"The suspicions of Nemyl were lulled to sleep by such disinterested
expressions, and he ate and drank with his visitor, in all good will,
while Zara listened in silence to their conversation. At length, the
fumes of the liquors which he had swallowed, mounted to his brain, and
after giving vent to some incoherent oaths, the Circassian fell upon
the floor in a state of insensibility. His visitor was quite astonished
by such a catastrophe; but as it afforded him an opportunity to
converse with Zara, he rather rejoiced at it.

"'Fair lady,' said he, 'can it indeed be true that your charms are
destined to wither in the Sultan's harem?'

"'It is true, stranger,' answered Zara, in mournful tones, 'the Aga of
Soliman, spoke with my father at Constantinople, and I am to be borne
thither soon.'

"'Does such a fate please you, Zara?' asked the officer.

"'No!' replied the beautiful Circassian, with emphasis. 'But it is the
will of Allah, and I must submit.'

"She arose from her seat, and beckoning for the attendant, was about to
leave the apartment, when Garstoff, laid his hand upon her arm, and
gently restrained her.

"'Forgive my rudeness,' he said, with much earnestness; 'but, Zara, I
cannot behold your sacrifice, without endeavoring to avert it. I am a
stranger to you; but you are not a stranger to me; for I have seen you,
when you thought yourself unobserved, and a fire has been kindled in my
breast, which nothing but possession of you can ever abate. Tell me to
perform some deed, that I may prove the ardor of my love; let me save
you from the fearful doom that threatens you--'

"'Stop! Christian,' interrupted the maid; 'I have never seen your face
before, and how can I trust a stranger? Go! or Nemyl shall punish you
when he awakes. I can hear your words no longer.'

"'Think not that I fear your father,' answered Garstoff, 'though I
stand in his house; yet I will no longer excite your anger by staying
here.'

"He arose, and would have departed, had not the daughter of Nemyl
placed herself in his way.

"'What would you do for me?' she asked hurriedly.

"'I would sacrifice my life, if necessary.'

"'That would not help me, Christian. Dare you appear in the field as a
rival to the sultan, for my favor?'

"'As a rival to ten thousand sultans, for such a reward.'

"'Why do you not _buy me_, then?'

"The Russian staggered back and turned pale at the suggestion; for it
reminded him how wholly the woman was beyond his reach, and filled him
with despair.

"'What sum would do it?' he asked.

"'Five thousand doblas,' answered Zara, composedly; 'the great sultan
will give _four_ thousand, and if you offer _five_, my father will
surely sell me to you.'

"'Alas! what a curse is poverty!' exclaimed Garstoff, smiting his
forehead. 'I have only my pay, and it would not amount to that sum in
three years. What shall I do?'

"His sorrow evidently affected Zara, and for some moments they remained
silent. At length, her eyes brightened, and she said in peremptory
tones;

"'You can bear me away to your own country.'

"'That is true!' ejaculated the Russian, kissing her willing hand in
ecstasy. 'Then indeed have I not suffered in vain. I will take you to a
country where the sovereign will smile upon you as my bride, and you
shall forget a land where women are sold like dogs. Bless you for the
suggestion, dear Zara, I thought of it before; but dared not anticipate
so much happiness. When will you fly with me?'

"'At this hour, two days hence, I will be in the garden alone!'
responded the girl, with a familiar glance.

"'It is enough!' said Garstoff. 'I will be here with horses and arms,
and morning shall behold you in the camp of my countrymen. Till then,
farewell.'

"The lovers separated so hastily, because Nemyl had commenced to move;
Zara going with the mute attendant to her apartment, and Garstoff
departing for his encampment. When both had disappeared, Nemyl arose to
his feet, while a dim, but grim smile, played about his lips, and all
signs of intoxication vanished.

"'Oh, ho!' he muttered, between his set teeth. 'The son of a dog would
rob me of my daughter and four thousand doblas. I will take good care
to be in the garden two days hence, and the son of Shitan shall find
what it is to rival the sublime sultan. They thought me drunk with
grape juice, but they shall suffer for it. By Allah! they shall!' and
he threw himself upon a couch, where he soon fell asleep, to dream of
gold and vengeance.

"The truce was within three days of its expiration and Garstoff,
overjoyed at the success of his impious design, hastened to prepare for
its execution. He procured horses, assistants, and arms; and on the
night appointed proceeded towards the house of Nemyl. When within a
short distance of the garden, he dismounted from his horse and leaving
that together with the others provided, in care of a few soldiers who
composed his guard, he drew his sword and walked cautiously towards the
place of rendezvous. Climbing to the top of the wall, he paused for a
moment to survey the scene beneath; but all was still as the grave, and
he sprang into the garden. A few fleecy clouds had hitherto obscured
the moon; but now she sailed beyond their shade, and by her silver
light the Russian discovered a figure dressed in white, at a short
distance in front of him.

"'Zara,' he said, in low, distinct tones, going toward it.

"'Christian, I am here,' answered Zara (for she it was,) and in another
moment she was in his arms.

"'We must haste away,' said Garstoff, when the first rapture of their
meeting was over, and she hung upon his arm.

"'Yes! yes! I am afraid Nemyl has discovered us. There have been
strange men about the house to-day,' replied Zara, looking timidly
about her; for guilt is ever suspicious, even in broad day.

"Garstoff said no more, but quickly regained the wall; and, drawing
forth a rope-ladder from under his coat threw it over the wall, so that
it hung down on either side, and having fastened it in the middle,
descended after Zara. Catching her in his arms, he darted back; and, in
a few seconds, was standing with her upon the path.

"'Whose steps are those?' she exclaimed, in terror, as the sound of
advancing footsteps fell upon her ears.

"'They are my soldiers, dearest,' answered her lover, applying a
whistle to his lips, and blowing a shrill blast; although he was
himself astonished that they approached before the signal agreed upon
was given.

"'Draw your sword, captain--we are surprised!' shouted his followers,
as they rode hastily up; and almost before the annoyed Garstoff could
clasp his weapon, a troup of fierce Circassians surrounded him, while
another party attacked his soldiers with great fury.

"'Surrender, dog of a Christian!' shouted Nemyl, in a voice of thunder.

"'Not while I live!' answered the officer.

"'Then disarm him, my men; but harm him not at your peril!' said the
Circassian; and, after a desperate resistance, Garstoff was made a
prisoner, Zara lay fainting in the arms of two stout mountaineers, and
every Russian soldier bled to death.

"'To the house with them!' said Nemyl, in his usual tones, leading the
way with an air of triumph.

"Garstoff soon found himself in the apartment where he had supped with
the father of Zara, who now stood before him as his captor.

"'You have repaid my hospitality with a vengeance,' said Nemyl.

"'Beware how you abuse a Russian officer!' he answered, proudly.

"'Remember, Christian, the truce expires to-morrow, and if I keep you a
prisoner until then, you will be treated as a prisoner of war.'

"'I know it.'

"'You are now completely in my power; and there is but one feeling that
withholds my sword from your heart. Do you know what feeling that is?'

"'Fear!'

"'No, Christian devil! Nemyl knows no such word! It is _gratitude_ for
the preservation of my life towards my preserver. _You are free._
Depart in peace.'

"'I honor the nobility of your sentiments,' answered Garstoff, filled
with admiration of such magnanimity; 'yet I would willingly yield my
life to preserve Zara from the fate you promise her.'

"'Mention not her name. She deserves the bowstring, instead of the
Sultan's embraces,' said Nemyl, sternly.

"'Are you then so insensible to----'

"'Will you give me five thousand doblas for her?'

"'A hundred thousand, if I had them!'

"'But you have them not?'

"'Alas, no!'

"'Then you cannot have Zara. Depart in peace.'

"Garstoff looked frantically about him for a moment and then rushed
from the apartment like one demented.

"'My friends,' continued Nemyl, turning to the mountaineers, who stood
behind him--'I wished you to aid me in recovering a lost treasure, and
you drew your swords for me. My daughter is delivered from the
Christian robber, and six of his soldiers are sent to Eblis. I gave the
dog his life, because he saved mine, when it was nearly forfeited; but
we shall soon meet in battle, and then let the Giaour beware! Depart in
peace, my friends.'

"As I have before stated, Zara fell into a swoon, immediately after the
first appearance of her father, on the evening of her attempted flight,
and was carried to her chamber, unconscious of how the affray resulted.
For two days, she was kept a prisoner in her own apartment, seeing no
one but the little mute. At the end of that period, her father made his
appearance, while she slept, and rudely pulled her from the couch on
which she lay.

"'Holy Prophet, have mercy!' she exclaimed, in an agony of fear,
imagining that he intended to slay her.

"'Dress, and prepare to depart!' thundered Nemyl. 'We must be on the
road before day-break.'

"Trembling like an aspen, Zara suffered the attendant to array her, and
then asked, with quivering lips--

"'Where do you intend to take me!'

"'_To the Sultan!_' exclaimed Nemyl; and, as she sank upon her knees at
his feet, he added, furiously, 'Base girl, you would have covered me
with disgrace by following a Christian dog; but Allah gave me strength,
and I slew the barbarian in his toils.'

"In silence the girl rose to her feet, and signified her readiness to
depart by a low salaam.

"At the street door stood the litter prepared for her reception, and
Nemyl pushing her into it, drew the curtains, and gave the signal to
the drivers, while he mounted his horse and accompanied them. On
arriving at the city of the Sultan (which they did after a tedious
journey), Nemyl conveyed his daughter to the grand bazaar; for, in
fact, he never received an offer from the Sultan, but spread the report
that other purchasers might present themselves, whose positions would
fail to gratify the desires of his inordinate ambition. Not long had he
remained there with the litter, when the Kislar Aga of Soliman entered
the bazaar, and made directly towards him, with long strides.

"'What animal have you in your litter that you keep it closed like a
cage?' asked the Aga.

"'Your slave will show you that you may judge of it for yourself,'
answered Nemyl, and drawing the curtains, disclosed Zara, with tears
upon her cheeks.

"The Aga started back in amazement at beholding such a display of
beauty, and all his anger vanished like snow beneath a sunbeam. He well
knew that the addition of such an ornament to the Sultan's harem,
through his instrumentality, would add greatly to his consequence; and
his satisfaction was so evident, that Nemyl beheld it with delight,
and--profited by it.

"'How much gold do you want for the girl?' asked the Aga, endeavoring
to appear indifferent.

"'Five thousand doblas,' answered Nemyl, composedly.

"'Five thousand doblas! _Bismillah!_ dare you laugh at our beards? That
money would buy a dozen women.'

"'I was offered that by a Russian officer,' said the Circassian,
without moving his eyes.

"For a moment the Aga hesitated, but the idea of selecting a favorite
speedily overcame all his scruples, and bidding Nemyl follow him with
the litter, he proceeded to a private door of the imperial seraglio,
and gave Zara in charge of two female slaves.

"Thus was the fairest flower of Franquistan placed in the imperial
garden, and he who had trained it was soon on his way home, with five
thousand doblas in his pocket.

"What pencil could portray the delight of his sublime highness, or what
tongue could repeat the language of his immaculate lips, when he beheld
his Aga's new purchase.

"'_Barek Allah!_' praise be to God; 'what an hour!' he exclaimed,
kissing her passionately.

"'She is already a favorite,' said the Aga, and smiled.

"'She will be a favorite,' said the queen's mother, and frowned.

"Zara wept, and would not be comforted during the first few days of her
residence at the seraglio; but finally the kind words of his sublime
highness conquered her obstinacy, and throwing herself at his feet, she
made a full confession of her fondness for Garstoff, and his vain
attempt to carry her away by stratagem.

"The Sultan was much afflicted by this news, for he really loved Zara,
and was aware, that, should her defection become known, his honor would
compel him to plunge her lifeless body into the Bosphorus.

"'My dear Zara,' he said, encircling her waist with his arms, 'you have
been frank with me, but beware that you speak of this affair to no one
else, or your life will surely be sacrificed. This Garstoff is dead,
and can now be nothing to you; do not waste your affections upon a
skeleton; but let them revert to me, and Soliman will become the slave
of your will.'

"In such a manner did the Refuge of Mankind talk to the daughter of
Nemyl, until she gradually drew the veil of forgetfulness over past
sorrows, and respected his sublime highness, if she did not love him.
Taking the highest rank in the harem, no wish of hers remained
unanswered; masters of every art were furnished as her instructors;
subservient slaves were ever ready to do her bidding, and costly
presents of every description rolled in upon the favorite, from those
who had--axes to grind.

"Each day the Sultan became more deeply in love with her, and in the
same proportion, she became each day more odious to those, whom, from
old age, or satiety, the magnificent Soliman had quitted for Zara.
Among the most violent enemies of the new favorite, was the queen
mother, who suborned the Kislar Aga to her will, and through him,
maintained a thorough system of espionage upon every word and action of
the object of her hatred; but Zara rendered all her efforts futile
until one day while going abroad, she observed a person dressed in the
janissary uniform, whose form appeared familiar; and what was her
emotion, when he turned his face toward her, and discovered the
features of _Garstoff_!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Here the English member interrupted the reader, and says he:

"Good gracious! I thought that fellow was dead."

"No, sir," says the Turkish chap; "you should remember that Nemyl
spared his life."

"I don't remember anything about it," says the British chap, crustily;
"but I suppose you told that part of the story when I was asleep.
Proceed."

       *       *       *       *       *

"The Kislar Aga, who stood behind her litter, noted Zara's emotions and
their apparent cause, and when he returned to the palace, made his
instigatress acquainted with her rival's strange conduct. The wily
woman at once perceived that Zara was partially in her power, and
instructed her instrument to watch the favorite closely, and gain
further information. Meanwhile, their intended victim suffered the
pangs of remorse, and old feelings awakened from their long sleep,
struggled fiercely with the usurping passions in her bosom.

"The sight of the Russian, whom she believed to be in his grave, made
her frantic with sorrow, and she resolved to speak with him, although
by so doing, she would risk discovery and an ignominious end.

"To accomplish her purpose she called upon the Aga, as he had always
appeared devoted to her special interests, and, describing the person
of her lover, asked him to carry a billet to Garstoff, and thus gain a
rich reward.

"'Aga,' she said, with composure, 'you must find this man, and ask him
if his name is not Garstoff. Should he start, and answer yes, give him
this slip of paper, and say no more.'

"With many vows of fidelity, the Aga received the billet, and carried
it direct to--the queen mother.

"The latter person did not hesitate to open it, and read as follows:

"'GARSTOFF: I have seen you, and would speak with you. Meet me near the
mosque of Omar, to-morrow, at the tenth hour.'

                                                           'ZARA.'

"'She is caught at last,' said the triumphant plotter; 'but we must let
the affair run on, until the Sultan may be convinced by his own eyes of
her guilt.'

"Accordingly, the slave departed in search of the disguised Russian,
whom he soon discovered from the description given him by Zara.

"'Is not your name Garstoff?' he asked.

"'Great heavens!--yes, it is!' answered the janissary, in great
confusion.

"'Then here is something for you,' said the Aga; and, handing him the
billet, turned upon his heel.

"Great was the surprise of Garstoff when he read the letter; but joy
quickly overcame wonder, and he hastened to procure a suitable disguise
for the strange meeting.

"At the appointed hour he stood before the mosque, and presently a
muffled figure approached him, whom his beating heart proclaimed to be
the long lost object of his adoration. It was indeed Zara, and, in one
moment, they were in each other's arms.

"The Russian hastened to relate his adventures since they last saw each
other, and finished by saying:

"'I gave up my commission, dearest Zara, to seek for you, and now that
we once more behold each other, let us never part again. This hated
uniform I assumed to facilitate my search; it shall be thrown aside now
and forever.'

"Then Zara commenced her narrative, but was quickly interrupted.

"'Zara, tell me, for heaven's sake, have you listened to the Sultan's
words of love? Are you, are you--his--slave?' gasped Garstoff,
staggering against the wall.

"Zara looked to the ground.

"'I see it all,' he continued, in frantic accents. 'Zara, you are lost!
lost to me forever! I go to my death. Zara, a last farewell!' He was
about to leave her, when she caught his arm, and hissed in his ear:

"'Is this your love that you once boasted of?'

"'Zara, let me go; I am almost mad.'

"'And I am _quite_ mad. Listen to me, faithless Christian. I beheld you
in the streets when you saw me not, and have risked honor, life, every
thing, to come to you, and be your slave. How could I help what has
passed? My father--'

"'Zara, you should have _died_ first.'

"For a time she remained silent, with her head bowed, and then said, in
low tones:

"'Christian, you are right; I should, indeed, have preferred death to
my present fate; but it is too late now. I will return to my _master_;
yet do I hope to see you once again. Will you not grant me that favor?'

"'Once more,' answered Garstoff mechanically.

"'Then come here to-morrow, and you will find a large chest; place
yourself in it, and two slaves will bring you to me. Do you promise?'

"'I do, Zara,' and, in deep sorrow, Garstoff turned away.

"'Base dog!' muttered Zara, as she again muffled her features, 'you
have rejected the daughter of Nemyl, and she sleeps not while you press
the earth.'

"The favorite sped hastily back to the palace, and entered by a secret
door, while the Kislar Aga, who had concealed himself near her at the
mosque, and witnessed the interview, hastened to the queen mother, and
made his report, when she exclaimed:

"'Allah be praised! this Circassian will soon be under the Bosphorus;
for Zara will meet her gallant, and his serene highness shall behold
himself dishonored.'

"Knowing the extreme affection entertained for Zara by Soliman, the
cautious woman was wary in her communication, and did not reveal the
whole matter, until the Sultan's suspicions had been aroused by her
hints. He first ridiculed, then listened silently, then believed; and,
finally, agreed to conceal himself in the Sultana's apartment, and
judge for himself.

"He waited until the moment of assignation approached, and was looking
upon the unconscious object of his gaze with returning confidence, when
a curtain of the apartment was raised, and two negro slaves entered,
bearing a large chest between them.

"Zara motioned for them to leave it and depart; and then raising the
lid, Garstoff stepped forth, and the Sultan uttered an inward groan.

"'Drink this, and it will give you strength,' said Zara, presenting a
goblet of liquor to the janissary.

"Garstoff raised the cup to his lips, and drained it at a draught; on
which the fair Circassian burst into a fit of hysterical laughter.

"'Is this a moment for merriment?' asked Garstoff, sternly.

"'Wine makes me merry!' she answered, drinking from another goblet.
'And now, Christian, do you know what you came here for?'

"'To see you for the last time.'

"'That is true, follower of Isauri--_you go not hence alive!_'

"'What mean you, woman?' exclaimed Garstoff, starting from his seat
with pallid cheeks.

"'_I mean that you have swallowed poison!_' screamed Zara, the fire of
insanity blazing from her eyes. 'You scorned the daughter of Nemyl, and
she has taken revenge! Pray to Isauri--pray to--'

"Garstoff dropped upon the floor, a disfigured corpse, and the Sultan
bounded from his place of concealment upon Zara; but the purple veins
of her forehead were swelling out like cords, and before he could speak
to her she was--_dead!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Really," says Vitchisvitch, the Russian member, drawing a long breath,
"there is too much of the 'blood and thunder' style about that story to
suit me; but here is something more quiet."

And he proceeded, my boy, to make known unto us


                          THE LITTLE MAN IN GREEN.

"On a clear, cold night in December, Nicholas Dimitri, a young officer
of Cossacks, was walking slowly through a public street of St.
Petersburg, with a military cloak thrown over his shoulder, and looking
steadfastly to the ground, as though intent upon some prospect of no
ordinary interest. Acquaintances of all ranks were constantly passing
him, but their silent salutes met no return, and many a surmise was
hazarded as to what his mission was, that it caused such evident
abstraction in one so generally admired for his flow _d'esprit_.
Unconscious of attracting attention, Nicholas strode onwards wrapped in
thought, until he became aware of violent collision with some person
going in an opposite direction, and almost immediately a hoarse voice
exclaimed:

"'What, in the name of all that's good, are you about? Are not the
walks wide enough for both of us, that you must needs knock a man's
breath out of his body in this way? By the Admiral's wig! I've a mind
to return the compliment with my fists, you lubber.'

"The officer of Cossacks started involuntarily, as his reverie was thus
broken, and beheld standing before him a very stout individual, rather
below the ordinary height in stature, with iron-grey hair, prominent
features much embrowned, and clad in a plain green uniform, such as was
worn by the privates in the army. The little man stood directly in his
path, with an expression of good natured defiance resting upon his
countenance, and flourishing a short cane in his right hand.

"'I beg your pardon, sir,' said Nicholas, somewhat provoked, 'but I was
hardly conscious of being in the street at all. Allow me to pass, sir,
I am in haste.' He attempted to get by the little gentleman, but that
person had no idea of allowing such a move, and in the coolest possible
manner linked his arm with that of the impatient officer.

"'It's my watch now,' he said, with a short laugh, 'and as you don't
bunk in just yet, we may as well be company for each other. I ain't
particular about which way you go, so up with your irons and we'll
scud.'

"'I can permit no such familiarities,' replied Nicholas, angrily,
attempting to release his arm. 'Are you intoxicated, that you do not
perceive I am an officer? Let go my arm, sir, or I will call the
patrol, and place you under guard.'

"Notwithstanding this threat, the little man still hung on, and walked
boldly beside him with great good humor.

"'Ha! ha! you think I belong to the army, Mr. Officer,' he observed,
with much jocularity. 'I know rather more about the sea, and never tip
my cap to anything less than a frigate captain. But never mind that.
This street should be better lighted, and yet if it had been, I should
never have known you--don't you think so? Now really don't you think
the Emperor or Czar should pay more attention to lighting the streets?
I should think the people would grumble about it--don't they?'

"Seeing that his new acquaintance was determined to walk beside him,
the officer had resolved to let him talk without venturing a reply, but
this slur upon the Czar wounded his pride, and he answered impatiently,

"'You cannot be a Russian, sir, or you would not dare speak thus
disrespectfully of the greatest, noblest, and best living sovereign.
Why should we need more light, sirrah, when the moon is shining
brightly? Let me warn you not to speak this way before others, or you
may receive rough treatment. Every Muscovite honors and loves the Czar
as a father, and a slighter cause than that just given by you has cost
many a foreigner his life in St. Petersburg.'

"As the young man spoke, he seemed to forget his companion, and yielded
his whole soul to the enthusiasm of loyalty.

"'I like you,' said the little man, heartily.

"'Indeed!'

"'Yes, and will help you.'

"'Help me?' asked Nicholas, stopping suddenly in his walk, eyeing his
companion with mingled astonishment and suspicion.

"'I said so. Is there anything extraordinary in that!'

"'Who are you?' demanded the officer, sternly.

"'No matter about that. I am your friend.'

"'How do I know that?' asked Nicholas, still more astonished.

"'I will prove it. You are in love!'

"'Most men are at some periods of their lives.'

"'Very true, but _you_ are in love _now_, and the lady of your
affection is far above you in station.'

"'How in heaven's name do you know this? Who are you?' exclaimed the
officer, completely thrown off his guard, and staring wildly at his odd
companion.

"'It matters not how I know, or who I am. Let it suffice to say that I
_do_ know, and can aid you,' said the little man, with a more dignified
air than he had before assumed. 'Restrain your feelings, and merely
answer yes or no, to what I am about to say. You are loved by the lady?'

"'I believe--or, rather, trust so.'

"'She is the Countess Walewski?'

"'No.'

"'Her ward Olinska?'

"'I shall answer no more questions,' said Nicholas, compressing his
lips.

"'Then, Mr. Officer, I will ask no more questions, but confine myself
strictly to statements. You love Olinska, and have a rival in Admiral
Praxin, who is favored by the Czar. So strong are your rival's claims
that you have no resource save a clandestine marriage. You are now on
your way to the hotel of the Countess, intending to perfect your plans
with her aid, and baffle the Czar in his designs for the advantage of
Admiral Praxin. Don't say a word to me now, you will receive a message
before long. Good night, Nicholas Dimitri.'

"The little man nodded his head most knowingly, and fairly ran off,
leaving the astounded lover looking at the moon.

"Nicholas remained perfectly still for some moments, looking vacantly
upward, and then went on his way, like one who had just awakened from a
strange dream.

"'What can this mean?' he asked himself. 'This man, whom I never saw
before, has told me of things which no mortal save myself should know,
and he is even acquainted with my name. This matter must be quickly
settled, or I shall be placed under arrest, with no hope for the
future.'

"Arriving presently at the door of an aristocratic mansion, he sent up
his card, and was speedily ushered into an elegant boudoir, where a
beautiful and richly-dressed lady was waiting to receive him. The
Countess Walewski was not a young woman, yet the bloom of earlier years
still lingered on her cheek, and the sprightly vivacity of girlhood
shot forth from her dark brown eyes.

"'My dear Nicholas, you are behind time,' she said, giving her hand to
the young officer, and causing him to take a seat beside her on a
velvet couch. 'Lovers are not often tardy in keeping their
appointments, but as I am not the lady, I must excuse you. Upon my
word--I did not observe it before--you look discontented. Nothing has
happened, I hope?'

"'Dearest lady, we are betrayed!' answered Nicholas, gloomily.

"'You are jesting.'

"'Would to God, I were! A strange man encountered me in the street as I
came hither--' and Nicholas gave a full account of his interview with
the little man in green.

"The Countess appeared much alarmed by the narration, and, for some
moments after its conclusion, remained silent, but at length she
recovered sufficient courage to reply,

"'This is strange indeed--and yet, Nicholas, this man may be a member
of the police, who, as you know, make themselves masters of our very
thoughts. You say he expressed a desire to assist you, and declared
himself your friend; he may have some object in this we know not of--'

"'No living man shall rob me of my prize,' interrupted Nicholas,
passionately. 'Olinska will be guided by me, and before morning we will
be far from the capital. There is no time to lose; we must hasten
towards Moscow this very night. Where is she? Why is she not here to
meet me?'

"'Restrain your passion; be prudent, I entreat you,' exclaimed the
Countess, grasping his wrists. 'Olinska loves you, and you alone; but I
am her guardian, and she submits to my wishes, as duty bids her. Be
yourself, Nicholas, and avoid any rash action. You cannot see Olinska
to-night.'

"'Has your ladyship combined with my enemies to make a madman of me?'
asked the officer, with great bitterness.

"'Have my actions been those of an enemy?' responded the Countess, with
a reproachful smile. 'My dear Nicholas, I would have spared you a pang,
but you compel me to tell all. My ward is to have an interview with
Admiral Praxin to-morrow, by order of the Czar.'

"'With Admiral Praxin!' exclaimed Nicholas, starting to his feet.

"'Such is the truth. I do not believe that Peter will compel Olinska;
but his command was imperative, and must be obeyed at all risks. Do not
fear for Olinska--she is wholly yours, though a king should ask her
hand. The Admiral can only sue to be rejected, and after that you must
fly.'

"'Lady, I submit to your wishes,' said Nicholas. 'I honor the Czar, as
all Russians should honor him, but Olinska shall be mine, though he
should send a dozen admirals to thwart me.'

"After some further consultation of a desultory character, the officer
of Cossacks took his leave, and retired to a bed rendered sleepless by
doubts and fears.

"On the following morning, before he had completed his toilet, a
servant entered the apartment to announce a visitor, followed by a
little creature, not more than three feet in height, dressed in a
livery of blue and silver.

"'This gentleman desired to speak with you, sir, immediately,' said the
grinning servant, pointing to the new comer, and bowing himself out of
the room.

"The minute specimen of humanity said not a word, but assumed an air of
great consequence, and with much ceremony presented a letter. Nicholas
could not repress a smile at the messenger's grotesque appearance, but
his mirth sobered into surprise when he read as follows:

"'NICHOLAS DIMITRI: The bearer of this missive is my servant, who will
be of great service to both you and myself, in events about to
transpire. Answer his questions without hesitation, and rest assured
that Olinska shall be yours, despite the Czar and Admiral Praxin, or I
am much mistaken. I will be present at the wedding. Your friend,

                                            "'THE LITTLE MAN IN GREEN.'

"The young officer dropped the note from his hand, and eyed the dwarf
in silent amazement.

"'Is that your death warrant?' asked the latter, ironically.

"'Who wrote this?' demanded Nicholas.

"'My master.'

"'And who is your master?'

"'The Little Man in Green. Ha! ha!' laughed the dwarf.

"'His name? I must know his name!' exclaimed Nicholas.

"The abbreviated Mercury placed a finger beside his little nose, in a
very knowing manner, at the same time winking sagaciously.

"'I can answer no such question,' he said; 'my master desires to remain
_incog._ at present. My name is Orloff, and I wish you to answer one
inquiry: Does the ward of the Countess Walewski have an interview with
Admiral Praxin to-day?'

"'She does.'

"'That is sufficient; you will hear from me soon,' and Orloff fled
through the open door, with a speed truly marvelous.

"Nicholas called after him in vain, and then called his servant to
dress him, with a vague apprehension of evil, and a belief that no
lover ever had so many to assist his wooing as himself.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Olinska, the daughter of a noble Polish family, was deprived of her
parents at an early age, and selected for her guardian the high-minded
Countess Walewski. Her childish years were spent in Warsaw, the city of
her forefathers; but the Countess was obliged to remain at St.
Petersburg, being a member of the Czarina's household, and thither she
called her ward, to be presented at court, and drown the memory of her
sorrows in the gaieties of the capital.

"Young, beautiful and unsophisticated, chaperoned by an illustrious
lady, and reputed to be heiress of great wealth, the Polish maiden
speedily became the magnet and toast of a brilliant circle, and a prize
for which scores of young nobles contended. But the heart of Olinska
was not to be purchased with titles, and while the scions of
aristocracy knelt vainly at her feet, she bestowed her virgin
affections upon Dimitri, whose silent homage defeated that of all
others, with its proud, peculiar dignity. Military rank is esteemed by
the Russians as little inferior to that of inheritance; yet they
acknowledge a difference, and the line drawn between them by the usages
of society cannot be overstepped with impunity. The young officer,
although admitted into court circles, was aware of the distance between
himself and the lady in a social sense; but the encouragement she gave
him, so insensibly drew them together, that disparity of birth was
forgotten, and love--the great leveller of conditions--reigned
paramount.

"However misanthropically a man may express his indifference to the
world's opinion, we are all, more or less, its most subservient slaves,
and although Nicholas Dimitri assured his idol that the gossip of
fashionables was nothing to him, he deemed it proper to solicit the
kind offices of the Countess, as a go-between; and apparently visited
the guardian, when, in reality, the fair ward was the object of his
intentions.

"Peter the Great, who, at that period, occupied the throne of Russia,
had an unpleasant habit of rewarding his bachelor friends for worthy
deeds, with the hand of some fair maiden of his court; and, having
beheld the Polish lady, he resolved to bestow her upon Admiral Praxin,
who, though often regarded with suspicion by his sovereign, had lately
rendered 'the state good service.' Olinska repulsed the old sailor's
advances with disdain; but the Czar requested her to grant him a
private interview, and a request from such a source being synonymous
with a command, the lady felt obliged to grant it.

"Alone she sat, in a gorgeously furnished apartment, when the Admiral
was announced, her sable locks shading a neck and bosom that rivalled
the snow in their whiteness, and supporting her head with a hand of
nature's choicest modeling.

"Admiral Praxin was a man in the 'sere and yellow leaf' of meridian
life. His form was firm and upright, and his costume was that of a
youthful courtier; but deep wrinkles tracked his brow with the
footprints of age, and his hair had caught the snow-flakes of the
mountain's farther side. That foretaste of eternal torments, the gout,
had rather confused the measure of his tread, and the stout old Admiral
entered the lady's presence with an ungraceful limp.

"As he passed into the room, a little figure clad in blue and silver,
followed him noiselessly and, with wonderful agility, darted behind a
curtain of the window.

"Olinska received her admirer with some embarrassment, which he seemed
at first to reciprocate; but at length, after many leers and grimaces,
his countenance assumed a determined expression, and he went directly
to the point.

"'Madam,' he said, 'you can scarcely be ignorant of the object for
which I now visit you; nor can you feel more deeply than I the
extremely unpleasant position in which we are both placed, by the
desire of Peter. Aside from the duty I owe my sovereign of submitting
entirely to his will, I have a sentiment in my heart, which, should it
find a reflection in yours, will make me the happiest of men. My title
and fortune are trifles; but the sentiment of love for yourself, united
to that of loyal obedience, may, perhaps, be deemed by you as more
powerful suitors for your hand and heart.'

"'It were foolish in me to pretend to misunderstand you, my lord,'
replied Olinska, with dignity. 'I am aware that the Czar favors your
suit, and looks upon me as a fitting bride for one whom he delights to
honor; but, greatly as I honor and respect both my sovereign and
yourself, I must positively refuse obedience in this instance, and
assume the right to act for myself. I am deeply grateful to you, my
lord, for your intended kindness, but must, with all due respect,
reject your offer, and close our interview.'

"As she spoke, her bosom heaved with emotions boiling within, her eye
flashed, and the right of woman to maintain her prerogative shone from
every feature.

"'Consider well, lady, before you drive me to despair by such cruelty!'
exclaimed the Admiral, with vehemence. 'Consider what you are casting
aside as worthless. I have influence at court beyond that of the most
powerful; the very Czar fears to offend me, and the wife of Admiral
Praxin will be second only to the imperial Catherine in grandeur and
dominion. Let me hope that this is only maiden coyness, and that
deliberation may alter your decision.'

"'I will not deceive you, my lord,' responded the lady, 'by awaking
hopes which can never be realized. My hand shall never be yielded to
any man by compulsion, or implied claims which I do not acknowledge;
nor do I recognize any other right than my own to dispose of it. Dwell
upon the subject no longer, or your title to the name of friend will be
forfeited. Allow me to retire.'

"Dismay was betrayed in every lineament of the sailor's countenance, as
he marked the firm tones in which these words were spoken; but anger
quickly took its place as he asked, with a glance of suspicion,

"'Lady, have I a rival?'

"Olinska answered not, and arose to leave the apartment, when Praxin
quickly intercepted her, and fell upon his knees.

"'Olinska, you shall not leave me thus!' he exclaimed, in tones hoarse
with excitement. 'If love will not incline you to accept me, let
ambition do it. _I have the power to place you on the throne of
Russia_, if you but say the word; your own countrymen, the refugees
from Sweden, and twenty thousand discontented serfs will rise at my
bidding; the navy is mine, and, by a wave of the hand, I can become an
Emperor.'

"With a look of the most unmitigated disdain, the lady regarded the
supplicant at her feet.

"'I will not parley longer with a _traitor_,' she said, in tones so
cold and piercing that he involuntarily recoiled from her, and she
walked from the apartment with a queenly air.

"'I'll be revenged for this,' muttered the discarded suitor, as, with a
frowning brow, he took his departure.

"Then forth sprang Orloff from his place of concealment, with a smile
of no ordinary magnitude distorting his little face.

"'Good! and now for the Countess!' he exclaimed, following the Admiral.

"Meanwhile, Nicholas had wandered about the city in a most pitiable
state of apprehension, and was about to rush madly to the hotel of the
Countess, when he beheld the dwarf hastening toward him, carrying a
letter at arm's length.

"'Here--from the Countess,' ejaculated Orloff, panting for breath, and
handing him the missive. Nicholas hastily tore it open, and read:

"'DEAR NICHOLAS:--Olinska has had an interview with the Admiral, and,
from its results, I fear the worst. Have a chaise and four, at the
private door of my hotel before sunset to-day. You may trust Orloff.

                                           "'In haste,      WALEWSKI.'

"'Shall I engage the conveyance?' asked the dwarf, with a grin.

"'Yes! I will trust you,' replied the excited officer.

"'You will find all in readiness, at the private door, by four
o'clock!' said Orloff, and he disappeared as quickly as he came.

"At the appointed hour, Nicholas repaired to the spot where a chaise
and its attendants were awaiting him, and right speedily a muffled
figure emerged from the private door, and touched his arm.

"'Olinska, dearest Olinska.'

"'Let us hasten, Nicholas, I fear we are betrayed,' answered Olinska,
trembling in his arms.

"The officer quickly placed her in the chaise, and the horses had made
their first spring forward when a great tumult arose in the street, and
looking forth from a window of the vehicle, Nicholas beheld, to his
dismay, half a score of imperial cavalry galloping furiously toward him.

"'Onward! onward!' he shouted to the drivers, and sank back upon his
seat beside the fainting girl.

"At the top of their speed fled the four chaise horses, making the
vehicle bounce from the earth as though it were composed entirely of
springs; but they were no match for the full-blooded animals of the
cavalry, and the latter soon came up with them.

"'Stop, in the name of the Czar,' said the leader, drawing his sword.

"At the command, the postillions dropped their reins, and the chaise
came to a dead halt. Then the door was burst open; and Nicholas, with a
pistol in each hand, sprang into the road.

"'Gentlemen,' he said hurriedly, 'you must allow me to proceed; the die
is cast, and there is no turning back. Stand aside, sirs, I do not wish
to shed your blood.'

"'Colonel Dimitri,' answered the leader, 'we are sorry that such is our
duty, but the Czar has ordered us to apprehend you and your companion;
and carry you before him; I therefore apprehend you in the name of
Czar.'

"'This is tyranny and I will resist it to the last,' exclaimed the
excited lover. 'I have not broken the laws, and am no political
criminal. Why should I be treated thus? You may take me gentlemen, but
not alive.'

"'We must do our duty,' answered the other. 'Surround and disarm him,'
he added, turning to his followers.

"The soldiers approached to obey his orders, and the desperate colonel
had levelled his weapons, when Olinska, sprang from the chaise and
knelt upon the ground before him.

"'Submit, Nicholas; for my sake submit,' she exclaimed, energetically,
clasping her hands towards him.

"Nicholas regarded her attentively for a moment, and then lowered his
weapons.

"'I am your prisoner,' he said; 'take me where you will.'

"The captured pair, were returned to the vehicle, the horses' heads
were turned, and in silence they proceeded to the palace of the Czar.

"The imperial mansion was very different in those days from what it now
is. No gaudy trappings, neither external nor internal, proclaimed the
abode of royalty; for Peter the Great appealed to hearts, not the eyes
of his subjects, and for the inspection of foreigners he had an army,
unrivaled in discipline and accoutrements, by any in Europe. A small
ante-chamber, plainly furnished, and adorned with various models of
ships, paintings, and rude implements of warfare led into the hall of
audience, equally unostentatious, and the imperial dining saloon, plain
as that of an ordinary tradesman.

"Into the latter apartment, Nicholas and Olinska were led by their
captors, pale and silent, but undismayed.

"A long table, bearing on its centre an immense pie, was loaded with a
rich repast; and about it, were seated the most distinguished nobles
and generals of the empire, and Admiral Praxin; while at its head, on
elevated seats, appeared the Czar and Czarina.

"'Ha! here are the two fugitives!' exclaimed Peter, observing the
entrance of the party and approaching them.

"Nicholas started at the sound of that voice, and looking up,
recognized in his sovereign, _The Little Man in Green_.

"'Your pardon, sire!' he exclaimed falling upon his knees, and
remembering with the great trepidation how scurvily he had treated
royalty in disguise.

"'Arise, Colonel Dimitri,' said the Czar kindly; 'you need not think of
what has past; I am satisfied that you are a true and loyal subject.
But what possessed you to run away with this little rebel, man? Did you
not know that she was affianced to Admiral Praxin?'

"'Pardon me sire, I did not,' answered Nicholas.

"'And you Olinska; you have disregarded our wishes, and thrown the
gallant admiral overboard?' continued Peter, addressing the trembling
girl, with a mixture of severity and good-nature.

"Olinska bowed her head.

"'What say you Praxin? Are you willing to yield your bride to the army,
and let the navy remain a bachelor?'

"The Admiral had turned all colors, at the first entrance of Olinska,
but marking that she remained silent, he plucked up sufficient courage
to reply.

"'I cannot accept the lady's hand without her heart.'

"'Did you sue for them like a man?' demanded Peter, sternly.

"'I hope so, your majesty.'

"'You lie, base traitor!' thundered the Czar, eyeing him with a glance
that chilled his blood.

"'Has _she_ betrayed me?' ejaculated Praxin, turning deadly pale, and
involuntarily clutching the handle of his sword.

"'No,' answered Peter in hoarse tones, 'witness, come forth.'

"At that moment, the upper covering of the great pie was observed to
move, and in another instant, it was thrown back, discovering the
mighty Orloff, seated within the dish.

"'God save the Czar!' said the dwarf, rising and stepping forth upon
the table, with a bow of studied politeness.

"'Orloff, point out the traitor,' said Peter.

"Orloff assumed an air of great penetration, and pointed toward the
Admiral, who stood alone, with his back against the wall, a perfect
picture of despairing guilt.

"'That is the man,' said the dwarf.

"'Give your proof.'

"'Your majesty must know, that I was present while Admiral Praxin was
wooing the lady Olinska, and heard him say that your majesty dared not
offend him; he also declared that she had but to say the word, and he
would make her an Empress, explaining how he had the Poles, the Serfs,
the Swedish refugees, and the navy at his command, ready at his bidding
to make him Emperor of Russia.'

"'What say you to this charge?' demanded Peter.

"Praxin had regained somewhat of composure during the dwarf's speech;
and at its conclusion he approached the Czar and falling upon his
knees, surrendered his sword and belt.

"'I am guilty,' he said, in firm tones. 'Take my sword, gracious
sovereign, and with it receive back the commission I have forever
disgraced. In a moment of ungovernable passion I spoke words which
should have choked me ere I uttered them, and which I would give my
life to recall. I desire no mercy; yet I would ask forgiveness of
Olinska, for daring to breathe treason in her presence.'

"'Let us both forget it,' said Olinska, gently.

"'Alas _I_ can never forget it,' he replied, pressing her hands to his
lips, and resuming his former attitude.

"The Czar gazed some moments attentively and silently upon the face of
Praxin, as though to read his inmost soul, and then turning to
Nicholas, he said:

"'Colonel Dimitri, it is but just that I should explain my conduct to
you and Olinska, as it was by making an unconscious tool of you that I
have ferreted this matter out. I intended that Olinska should have
wedded the Admiral, not knowing that her affections had been given to
another; but lately I have distrusted him and ordered a spy of the
police to watch him closely. My agent speedily brought me news of
_your_ engagement, and your intended course; and I resolved to throw
myself in your way, and gain a slight knowledge of your character. You
know how I succeeded in that attempt. I also requested Olinska to
receive the Admiral privately, and sent Orloff to be present--though
concealed--at the interview. The Countess Walewski was made acquainted
with my plans, by the dwarf, and hence your presence here. As a
punishment for an attempt to outwit me, I command that you be married
before you leave the palace. As for you, Admiral,' he continued,
turning to Praxin, 'in consideration of the many services you have
rendered us, I grant you a free pardon. You have been humiliated in the
eyes of your friends, and have failed to win a prize worthy of my best
subject. May you learn the lesson that passion will not always excuse
dangerous words, nor is a sovereign's leniency everlasting.'

"Universal rejoicings followed this generous speech, and the victims of
the royal whim retired from the imperial palace, married--for better or
worse."

This Russian tale sent us all home very thirsty, my boy; for its effect
was very dry.

                                            Yours, weariedly,
                                                       ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                              LETTER LXXIV.

  CONCERNING THE SERIOUS MISTAKE OF THE VENERABLE GAMMON, THE
      CHAPLAIN'S POETICAL DISCOVERY, THE PROMOTION OF COMMODORE HEAD,
      AND THE RECEPTION OF THE PRESIDENT'S PROCLAMATION BY THE
      SOUTHERN CONFEDERACY.


                                  WASHINGTON, D. C., October 12th, 1862.

The Southern Confederacy having delayed to sue for peace, my boy, until
the safety of Washington requires that national strategy should
continue metaphysical hostilities, it may be as well for you and me as
a nation to prepare for a speedy commencement of War in earnest. The
North, my boy, has not begun to fight yet; and as the stolid centuries
roll on, and the hoary years move one by one into the sunless solitude
of Eternity, it becomes daily more evident that the North's actual
putting forth of all its strength is merely a question of time. The
giant is only just rousing from his slumbers, and nothing but his legs
and feet appear to be thoroughly awake yet.

Now, is the time, my boy, for the idiotic Confederacy to save himself,
by returning penitently to that beneficent Government which would have
realized the millenium at half-past two o'clock on the Fourth of July,
1776, but for the unseemly villainy of the accursed Black Republicans,
many of whom are shortly to be hung.

That is to say, such is the opinion of the Venerable Gammon, whose
benignant presence is believed to have proved the salvation of our
distracted country in the Revolutionary War, though I can find nothing,
except his protecting patriarchal deportment toward all the present
universe, to justify the idea that he ever benefited anything. It
soothes the human soul, my boy, to hear this Venerable man discoursing
on the most trite subjects in tones, and with an air calculated to
bless all created things as with a paternal benediction. Surrounded by
a number of his idolatrous national children, and standing in front of
Willard's the other evening, he pointed fatly to a bright star
overhead, and says he:

"That star is like our country. That star," says the Venerable Gammon,
with a meaningless smile of angelic purity, "is like any other star on
our flag; _though clouds may hide it in its ascending node, it is still
knowed to be ascending_."

Then everybody felt cheered with the peaceful conviction that Columbia
was saved at last; and it's my private belief, my boy--my private
belief, that the attached populace looked upon this good old man as the
one who had made the star.

Yet, strange as it may seem, this venerable Benefactor made a little
mistake on Tuesday. A sportive young chap came to him with a newspaper
in his hand, and says he: "Let me see if you can tell, my _Pater
Patria_, what paper this article is in"--and proceeded to read the
following high-minded editorial:

                  "TREASON OF THE BLACK REPUBLICANS.

"True to their foul instincts, the Greely, Cheever, and Wendell
Phillips herd of treasonable fanatics are now accusing their 'Honest
Old Abe' of ruining the country. It was their votes that elected the
rail-splitter, and now they turn tail upon him and howl maledictions
because he will not carry out their fiendish intents by erecting a
revolutionary guillotine in every Northern town and city. That
blasphemous mountebank, Beecher, may as well cease his treasonable
impiety at once; for he and his Sharps'-rifle crew are responsible for
the present bankruptcy of the whole country, and the people will yet
hold them to strict account for every drop of blood that has been and
will be shed in this unnatural strife."

When sportive chap ceased reading, the Venerable Gammon waved his obese
hand with the fond, familiar air of a pleased benignity, and says he:

"Of course, I know what paper that is, my son. I know the ring of those
sterling conservative sentiments," says the Venerable Gammon, with calm
satisfaction, "and am blessed in the knowledge that our loyal New York
Herald is still true to the Constitution and to the principles of my
old friend, Georgey Washington--or 'old Wash,' as he permitted me to
call him."

The sportive chap softly picked his teeth with a wisp from a broom, and
says he: "But this ain't the Herald at all, you dear old soul; it's a
copy of the Richmond Whig!" It was at this very moment, my boy, that
the Venerable Gammon was first attacked by that dreadful cough which
put an end to all further conversation, and has since excited the most
fearful apprehensions lest a bereaved country should suddenly be called
to mourn the untimely loss of its benign idol.

On Tuesday afternoon, I had a talk with the Mackerel chaplain, who had
remained here over Sunday to administer consolation to a dying
brigadier, and was grievously wounded in spirit to find that the
telegraph had committed a trifling breach of spelling, and that that
brigadier was only dyeing his hair, which had suddenly turned white in
a single night on the strength of a rumor that there might be some
fighting in the morning.

The Mackerel chaplain, my boy, is of inestimable value to a wounded
man, his vivid and spiritual manner of describing the celebrated Fire
Department of the other world being a source of unspeakable comfort and
reassurance to the sufferer. "I am afraid you have led a sinful life,
my fellow-worm," says he to the sick Mackerel, "and can only advise you
to buy one of these hymn-books from me, which I can afford to sell for
six shillings."

But what the chaplain talked to me about, was his discovery, at a
village not far from Winchester, of a new

                "PICCIOLA."

  It was a Sergeant old and gray,
    Well singed and bronzed from siege and pillage,
  Went tramping in an army's wake,
    Along the turnpike of the village.

  For days and nights the winding host
    Had through the little place been marching,
  And ever loud the rustics cheered,
    'Till ev'ry throat was hoarse and parching.

  The Squire and Farmer, maid and dame,
    All took the sight's electric stirring,
  And hats were waved and staves were sung,
    And kerchiefs white were countless whirring.

  They only saw a gallant show
    Of heroes stalwart under banners,
  And in the fierce heroic glow,
    'Twas theirs to yield but wild hosannahs

  The Sergeant heard the shrill hurrahs,
    Where he behind in step was keeping;
  But glancing down beside the road
    He saw a little maid sit weeping.

  "And how is this?" he gruffly said,
    A moment pausing to regard her;--
  "Why weepest thou, my little chit?"--
    And then she only cried the harder.

  "And how is this, my little chit?"
    The sturdy trooper straight repeated,
  "When all the village cheers us on,
    That you, in tears, apart are seated?

  "We march two hundred thousand strong!
    And that's a sight, my baby beauty,
  To quicken silence into song
    And glorify the soldier's duty."

  "It's very, very grand, I know,"
    The little maid gave soft replying;
  "And Father, Mother, Brother too,
    All say 'Hurrah' while I am crying;

  "But think--O Mr. Soldier, think,
    How many little sisters' brothers
  Are going all away to fight
    And may be _killed_, as well as others!"

  "Why bless thee, child," the Sergeant said,
    His brawny hands her curls caressing,
  "'Tis left for little ones like you
    To find that War's not all a blessing."

  And "Bless thee!" once again he cried;
    Then cleared his throat and looked indignant,
  And marched away with wrinkled brow
    To stop the struggling tear benignant.

  And still the ringing shouts went up
    From doorway, thatch, and fields of tillage;
  The pall behind the standard seen
    By one alone, of all the village.

  The oak and cedar bend and writhe
    When roars the wind through gap and braken;
  But 'tis the tenderest reed of all
    That trembles first when Earth is shaken.

It is with infinite satisfaction, my boy, that I record the recognition
of Commodore Head's priceless services on Duck Lake by the Secretary of
the Navy. Our grim old son of Neptune is created Rear-Admiral, with the
privilege of snubbing gunboat captains, receiving serenades, attending
launches, and lavishing untold scorn upon the feeble imitations of
affrighted Europe.

Hence, there would appear to be an imperative demand in current
literature for an authoritative

                        SKETCH OF COMMODORE HEAD.

This venerable ornament of our peerless naval service, to whom the eyes
of the whole world are now directed, was born of one of his parents at
an early period of his existence, and has since incurred the years
temporarily elapsing between that epoch and the present auspicious
occasion. The subject of our brief biography entered the navy when he
was only fifty years old, as commander of the Mackerel iron-plated
squadron on Duck Lake, where he became widely noted for success in
fishing, as well as for his skill in eluding vessels running the
blockade. At one time, indeed, he came very near capturing a
Confederate ram, being only prevented by failing to find the key of the
box containing his spectacles in time to reconnoiter the wily foe.
Commodore Head's conversation concerning the speedy capture of
Vicksburg, Charleston, Savannah and Mobile, is instructive to all
minds, and his promotion is an event calculated to prove that the war
is about to begin in earnest.

       *       *       *       *       *

Rear-Admirals, my boy, are an aristocratic institution; and their
creation must serve to convince besotted Europe, that in making a naval
distinction between rank and file, our discriminating Government knows
how to compromise matters by bestowing a new rank upon an old file.

It was on Wednesday that my architectural steed, the Gothic Pegasus,
renewed his usual weekly journey to desolated Accomac, cheerfully
conveying me thither at a speed that did not keep the same roadside
house in view more than half an hour at a time. Having hitched the
funereal stallion to a copy of Senator Sumner's recent Faneuil Hall
speech, believing that document sufficiently heavy to hold him, I gave
him a discarded straw-hat of mine for his dinner, and strolled into the
Mackerel camp.

To the everlasting disgrace of our rulers be it said, my boy, I found
the devoted Mackerel Brigade progressing toward deep suffering at a
rate which made me thank Heaven that I owned no chickens within sight
of the harrowing scene. Being thoughtlessly supplied with three days'
rations at a time, these neglected martyrs incur all the perils of
suffocation and cruel nightmare by doing nothing on the first day but
eat from morning till night, what is left over at midnight being used
to pelt each other with. Then for two whole days these gallant men who
are fighting our battles find famine staring them in the face, and I
actually heard one emaciated Mackerel chap offering a whole week's pay
to another Mackerel chap for a Confederate cracker which he had picked
up in a field, wishing to consign that cracker to his friends at home
as a sample of the unnatural food with which an ungrateful Republic
feeds its faithful soldiers. I even found many Mackerels without
knapsacks and blankets, which they had lost in adventures at "Old
Sledge"; and there was that in the countenances of others which sured
me that their poor faces had not been washed since the commencement of
the war!

My soul turns sick at these things, my boy, and they even have an
effect upon a beholder's stomach. To think that our noble volunteers,
our country's preservers, should be subjected to sufferings in which
they have not even the poor consolation of knowing that somebody else
than themselves is responsible therefor.

Reflectively I turned from the scene of agony, and had rambled some
fifteen minutes in an adjacent bit of woods, when the sound of voices
near by made me stop short behind a tree and peer eagerly through an
opening in the nearest thicket.

Seated just beyond some evergreen bushes were four dilapidated
Confederacies, solemnly discussing the great Emancipation Proclamation
of our Honest Abe; whilst close by them, and astride of a mossy stone,
was the accomplished swordsman, Captain Munchausen, frantically, and
with many hiccups, endeavoring at one and the same time to catch a
phantom fly and maintain his equestrian position.

One of the Confederacies took a bite from a cold potato which he held
in his hand, and, says he:

"I reckon that it's near time for the unsubjugated South to adopt
Retaliatory measures, and proclaim that all prisoners hereafter taken
by the Confederacy shall be previously shot and made into
bone-ornaments."

Here Captain Munchausen burst into an unseemly peal of laughter as he
made another wild clutch at the phantom-fly, and says he:

"Wher--where's Mary's--ary's--snuff-box?"

Not perceiving that this special remark was relevant to the question in
view, a second Confederacy merely tightened the string which held his
inexpressibles in place, and, says he:

"What has been proposed by the Honorable Gentleman from the Alms House
is not sufficiently severe. No mercy should be shown to the Washington
demon, and I move that any Federal soldiers found disturbing a
Confederacy during the progress of a battle shall be at once executed
for arson."

The impression created by this motion extended even to Captain
Munchausen, who fell flat on his face in a frantic attempt to catch the
spectral insect, and exclaimed, in tones of awful solemnity:

"I don't want (hic) to be marri--ry--arried--Hic!"

After a moment's pause, the third Confederacy finished buttoning his
coat with a bit of corn-cob, and says he:

"I move that the last Resolution be amended, to make it a capital crime
for any person whatever to be guilty of Federal extraction."

Now, it chanced, my boy, that there was a Mackerel picket eating a
confiscated watermelon in a clump of bushes close behind me; and just
at this crisis of the debate, he casually tossed a piece of the rind in
the direction of the Confederacies. It happened to fall in their midst,
whereupon the enraged statesmen were seized with great tremblings, and
immediately skedaddled in all directions, the last being Captain
Munchausen, who at first endeavored to carry a rock of some hundred
pounds' weight away with him, and ultimately retreated in a
highly-circuitous manner, with an expression of abject despair under
his cap.

It is said, my boy, that the celebrated Confederacy will resent the
Proclamation by raising the Black Flag. It is a common belief, that if
such be the case, it will be the duty of our generals to raise the
blacks without flagging.

                                     Yours, if it come to that,
                                                       ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                              LETTER LXXV.

  SETTING FORTH THE FALSE AND TRUE ASPECTS OF BEAMING OLD AGE
      RESPECTIVELY, AND SHOWING HOW THE UNBLUSHING CONFEDERACY MADE
      ANOTHER RAID.


                                  WASHINGTON, D. C., October 19th, 1862.

It is a beautiful and improving thing, my boy, to see the wise and
polished mob of a great nation paying unmitigated reverence to fussy
gray hairs, and much shirt collar; and hence I never grew tired of
considering the dignified case of the Venerable Gammon, whom everybody
regards as the benign paternal relative of his country. When I see
Generals, Senators, and other proprietors of Government property,
hanging breathlessly upon the words of this sublime old man, just as
though such words were so many gallows, I feel the cause of Justice
typified to my mind's eye, and am myself enthusiastic enough to believe
that hanging is too good for them. Whether at Willard's, the White
House, the Capitol, or in his native Mugville, the Venerable Gammon is
ever the same beneficent being, beaming blandly upon the whole universe
from above his ruffles, and paternally permitting it to exist in his
presence.

The precise thing he has done in his fearfully long lifetime, my boy,
to beget such an agony of love and worship from everybody, has not yet
come to the immediate knowledge of anybody; but he is the moss-grown
oracle of the United States of America, and it gives me unspeakable
satisfaction to reproduce as follows, his benign letter of advice to
the idolized General of the Mackerel Brigade:

                                               MUGVILLE, July 4, 1776.

DEAR SIRRAH,--Justly regarding you as the next President of the United
States, and an honored successor of my old friend, Georgey Washington,
I deem it proper, by reason of my great importance and infirmities, to
repeat in writing with a pen what I have before spoken to you with my
tongue--this supplement to my printed views (dated April the First) on
the highly inflamed condition of our glorious and distracted Union.

To meet the expectations of a populace admiring my venerable shape, I
deem it consistent with my retiring modesty and infirmities to dictate
to you the four plans you may pursue by way of making yourself
President of our distracted Commonwealth in 1865.

I.--Throw off the old and assume a new designation--the sly old party;
give the South entire control of the whole country, and, my wig upon
it, we shall have no secession; but, on the contrary, an early return
of the entire Confederacy to Washington. Without some equally benignant
measure, we shall be compelled to fight all the Border States and put
them down at once, instead of keeping two hundred thousand soldiers
peaceably employed in making their loyalty continually sure.

II.--Collect the war taxes outside of the States where the tax-payers
live, or declare upon paper that they are already collected.

III.--Conquer the seceded States by the unheard-of agency of an actual
army. I think this might be done in a few hundred years by a young and
able general to be found on some railroad, with six hundred thousand
disciplined spades. Estimating a third of this number to remain for
ever stationary on the Potomac, and a loss of a still greater number by
consummate strategy and changings of base. The loss of chickens and
contrabands on the other side would be frightful, however great the
morality of the mudsills.

This conquest would cost money that might otherwise go to beautify the
South, secure fifteen swearing and deeply-offended provinces, and be
immediately followed by a new election for President in 1865.

IV.--Say to the Seceded States, in one of which I own some mortgages:
"_How are you, Southern Confederacy?_"

                 Deliberately, I remain,
                              Your father and the country's,
                                                  V. GAMMON.

This touching letter, my boy, I recommend to your most prayerful
consideration, as a paternal outpouring of shirt-collared old age.

Old age! how beautiful art thou in the glory of thy spectacles, and the
sublime largeness of thy stomach and manner. And yet, would you believe
it, my boy? I am sometimes possessed of great doubtings as to the
genuineness of that majesty which makes a continually-looming Venerable
Shape such a great blessing to an imperiled land. Sometimes there comes
to me a rickety vision of:

          AGE BLUNTLY CONSIDERED.

  As Age advances, ails and aches attend,
  Backs builded broadest burdensomely bend;
  Cuttingly cruel comes consuming Care,
  Dealing delusions, drivelry, despair.

  Empty endeavor enervately ends,
  Fancy forlornly feigns forgotten friends;
  Gout, grimly griping, gluttonously great,
  Hasten's humanity's hard-hearted hate.

  Intentions imbecile invent ideas
  Justly jocunding jolly jokers' jeers:
  Knowledge--keen kingdom knurlyably known--
  Lingers, lamenting life's long lasting loan,

  Mammonly mumming, magnifying motes,
  Nurtures numb Nature's narrowest nursery notes,
  Opens old age's odious offering out--
  Peevish punctilio, parrot-pining pout.

  Qualmishly querrying, quarrelsomely quaint,
  Rousing rife ridicules' repealed restraint;
  Speaking soft silliness--such shallow show
  That tottering toysters, tickled, titter too.

  Useless, ungainly unbeloved, unblest,
  Virtue's vague visor, vice's veiling vest,
  Wheezingly whimpering, wanting wisdom, wit,
  Xistence, Xigent, Xclaims--Xit!

  Youths, you're yelept youth's youngest; yet you'll
  Zestless zig-zaggers zanyable zealed.

I exhibited that pleasing little poem to a Mackerel chap, who
stuttered, my boy; and he came so near going into apoplexy through his
endeavors to read it, that I was obliged to make a joke, in order that
he might smile, relax, and recover.

And now let your mind fly, like a wearied dove, to the celebrated
Arcadian scenes of festive Accomac, where the Mackerel Brigade
continues to reconnoitre in force, and awaits the death of the
Confederacy by old age. Men, my boy, who entered this strategic war in
the full bloom of youth, now go with stooping shoulders and tottering
gait when they have a barrel of flour to carry, and the bloom has
departed from every part of them save the extreme tip of that handle of
the human countenance which first meets the edge of an open door in the
dark. Even the Mackerel brass-band begins to grow feeble, often making
pitiable attempts to execute stirring strains on his night key bugle,
as though unconscious that by long disuse in his pocket it had become
clogged with bread and cheese.

There is, on the Southern border of Accomac, my boy, a solitary house,
containing furniture and the necessaries of life, which the Conic
Section of the Mackerel Brigade had been ordered to guard. It stands
immediately on the verdant banks of Awlkwyet River, where that stream
must be at least ten inches deep; and as the first regular bridge is
ten miles below it, of course the Conic Section, to guard the house,
was placed at the end of that bridge--it being a principle of national
strategy never to recognize any Confederate raid not made across a
regular bridge.

Now it chanced, that while the Conic Section at the bridge was taking a
short nap, having been up very late the night before; and while the
beloved General of the Mackerel Brigade was visiting a portion of his
beautiful home-circle in Paris, that a very dirty Confederacy, riding
in a seedy go-cart, made his appearance on the bank of the river
opposite the house, and commenced to make a raid right through the
water to the shore this side. His geometrical steed wet his feet
thereby, and the wheels of his squeaking vehicle were damped by this
barbarian way of offering irregular opposition to the Government; but
what cared he for the rules of civilized warfare, which are the only
authorized West Point editions? Like all his infatuated countrymen, he
was rendered less than strategic by the demon of Secession, and he
crossed by the unmilitary ford instead of by the military bridge.

This is, indeed, heart-sickening.

There was a Mackerel chap who slept in the house to take care of a
large black bottle, and when he heard the go-cart driving up before the
door, he stuck his head out of the window, and says he:

"What is it which you would have in these irregular proceedings, Mr.
Stuart?"

The Confederacy dismounted from his chariot, tied a bag of oats over
his charger's head, and says he:

"I'm making a raid."

The Mackerel waved his hand southward, and says he:

"You'll find the bridge just below. Don't stay here," says the
Mackerel, earnestly, "or you'll exasperate the North to fury."

Here the Confederacy made some remark in which the name of the North
and a profane expletive were connected very closely, and proceeded to
bring from the house a hobby-horse which stood in the hall. After
placing this valuable article in his go-cart, he next brought out a
cooking-stove; closely following this with some chairs, a dining-table,
two feather beds, a tea-set, four wine-glasses and some tumblers, a
looking-glass, four sheets, two cottage bedsteads, a Brussels carpet,
and a Maltese cat. With these and a few other exceptions, my boy, he
made no attempt to disturb private property; thereby proving that the
President's Proclamation has already produced a wholesome effect in the
degenerate South.

While this was going on, the vigilant Mackerel guard descended
privately from a back window, and made a forced march to where the
Conic Section were watching something which looked like a man in the
Southern horizon--instantly making known the audacious raid of the
thieving Confederacy, and asking whether the new levies of the
Executive's last call were likely to arrive early enough to take
measures for the prevention of the capture of Washington.

While the question was in debate, my boy, the beloved General of the
Mackerel Brigade arrived with his trunk and umbrella from Paris, and
having caused it to be telegraphed to all the reliable morning journals
that the Confederacy were now in a fair way to be captured alive, he at
once took measures to cut off the retreat of the latter. Captain
Villiam Brown, with Company 3, Regiment 5, was at once ordered to
construct a pontoon bridge across the river some miles below, and watch
it vigilantly day and night; Captain Bob Shorty and Colonel Wobert
Wobinson, with the Anatomical Cavalry, were dispatched to take
possession of a railroad leading to Manassas; whilst Captain Samyule
Sa-mith with the balance of the Conic Section, was commanded to make a
detour of three hundred miles, and endeavor to reach the invaded house
before midwinter set in.

All these movements were in accordance with profound strategy, my boy,
and cut off the Confederacy from retreat by every route in the world,
except the insignificant one he came by.

Satisfied that the war was going to end in about sixty days, after
which we should have time to defeat combined Europe, the Mackerel guard
hastened back to the domicil, which he reached just in time to find the
Confederacy topping his go-cart with some kindling-wood from the cellar.

I regret to say, my boy--I blush for my species as I make the
incredible revelation--that upon receiving the information of his
surrounding and probable strategic capture by the vigilant Mackerel
Brigade, the irreverent Confederacy burst into a hideous horse-laugh,
and at once proceeded to appropriate the poor Mackerel chap's own shoes
and stockings. With the deepest horror I record, that he also tweaked
the Mackerel's nose.

"I did not intend this as a permanent invasion," says the impious
Confederacy, as he remounted his go-cart and turned his geometrical
Arabian toward the water again; "but I have just married a daughter of
South Carolina--one of two twins--and reckoned that I needed some
things to set up housekeeping. Farewell, foul Hessian," says the
Confederacy, as he splashed through the water to the opposite
bank--"fare thee well, and tell your fiendish ruler, that it is
somewhat impossible to conquer the sunny South."

The Mackerel chap gazed thoughtfully after the go-cart as it
disappeared on the other side of the balmy Awlkwyet stream, and says
he: "Rail on, my erring brother; but if you'd only stayed here one more
week, you might not have escaped thus for seven whole days. Had the
army been insufficient to secure you," says the Mackerel to himself,
"had the army been insufficient to secure you, why, there's the police."

Raids, my boy, are so intrinsically irregular in their character, that
no provision can be made for them in a regular army; hence they are
sometimes necessitated to take provisions for themselves as they go on.

                                           Yours, radiantly,
                                                       ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                             LETTER LXXVI.

  REFERRING TO THE MOSQUITO AS A TEST OF HUMAN NATURE, EXPLAINING THE
      LONG HALT OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE, AND NOTING THE COURT OF
      INQUIRY ON CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN.


                                  WASHINGTON, D. C., October 26th, 1862.

Early this morning, my boy, I sauntered across the Long Bridge and took
my seat upon the topmost rail of a fence enclosing a trampled meadow.
There I sat, like Marius, my boy, contemplating the architectural ruin
embodied in my Gothic steed, Pegasus, and ever and anon whistling
abstractedly to my frescoed dog, Bologna.

By the gods! I really love these dumb friends of mine. The speculative
eye of the world sees in poor Pegasus nothing more than an
architectural dream--the church architecture of the future--and, I must
confess, my boy, that the Gothic charger _does_ look something like a
skeleton chapel at a distance; it sees in Bologna only a mongrel cur,
whose taste for the calves of human legs is an epicurean outrage on
walking society. But for me, my boy, there is a human pathos in the
patient fidelity of these zoological curiosities which appeals to my
best manhood. I have had a hard and thankless life of it; my experience
with the knowing political chaps of the Sixth Ward was enough to grind
everything like human tenderness out of my nature, and make me turn
into an arrogant and contemptuous misanthrope; but there are times when
the cold nose of Pegasus against my cheek, or a wag from that speaking
tail of Bologna--which curls up behind him like a note of
interrogation, to ask how his master feels--will give me such a
sensation of wishing to protect and be kind to the Helpless, that I
feel myself a better man for the practical Christianity of such humble
society.

There is my mosquito, the youthful Humboldt, too! He came to me one
night, about two years ago, my boy, practising much profound strategy
to capture my nose; and when I foiled him by a free use of both arms of
the service, the unterrified and humming manner in which he changed the
base of his operations and came on again, excited my admiration and
respect. Catching him in a little net cage made from the musquito bars
of my bed, I kept him safely by me, and now use him as a test of human
nature. In God's providence, each minute created thing has its
appointed use, my boy, and depend upon it, the use of the musquito is
to test human nature.

There was a veteran political chap from Albany called upon me last
Sunday night. A sage and aged chap of infinite vest, who wears the
broad-brimmed hat of reticent respectability, and nestles in much
shirt-collar like a centuried owl. Having taken a pinch of snuff after
the dirty manner of a Gentleman of the Old School, he merely paused to
take a hasty glance at the plan for the next Senatorial election in his
note book, and then says he:

"I'm grievously dis'pointed, yea, piteously vexed, to see the partisan
spirit raging so furiously in State elections, at a time when an
expiring country calls upon all her sons, irrespective of party, to
join hands in the great work of saving her. Why cannot these turbulent
denouncers of each other be like me, who recognize no division of party
in this national crisis? I would have a union of all men to vote for
the one great ticket of my choice; and even the democrat I would
recognize as a fellow being in such a case."

I suspected this grievous old chap to be a hypocrite, my boy, and I
managed to let Humboldt free from his cage for the purpose of testing
him. As the aged chap commenced to get warm, Humboldt began to make
raids round his sagacious head, and with divers slaps in the air, the
aged chap waxed spirited, and says he;

"Pshoo! pshoo!--As I was saying, we should all strive to conciliate our
political adversaries--pshoo! and endeavor to promote a spirit of unity
even with the most disaffected peace men--pshoo, you beast!--and not
act like Greeley and Wendell Phillips, and Beecher--confound it,
pshoo!--and other infernal fanatics; who, by their indiscreet,
imprudent--curse it, pshoo!--and infernal, God-forsaken niggerism, are
wounding the tenderest feelings--thunder and lightning, pshoo!--and
rousing the hellish passions of really good democrats, who thereby make
capital from their sadly mistaken--blazes and blue lightning,
pshoo!--and devilish craziness, which is unfortunately confusing--good
heavens, pshoo, pshoo!--and damning their own party, and knocking
thunder out of the gubernatorial canvass; besides--besides--"

Here this aged chap made a flying leap at Humboldt, missed his aim, and
then dashed madly from the room.

Depend upon it, my boy, a musquito is a great test of human nature. The
little chap operates like an outside conscience, and brings the real
thing to the surface.

Why does not the Mackerel Brigade advance?

This, my boy, is the question of the hour. For what do our heroes wait?
Is it for india-rubbers, or umbrellas, or fine-tooth combs? No! be not
deceived: it is for none of these.

Hem! The fact is, my boy, many respectable though married Mackerels
entered the army of the Accomac when they were in the prime of life;
and as old age steals softly upon them, as the seasons and the bases of
operations run through their changes, and year succeeds year, the
eye-sight of many of them waxes dim, and fails in the process of
Nature. I know some thousands of Mackerels, my boy, who are already so
blind that they have not seen a rebel for six months; and hence, no
advance-movement can be judiciously made until the brigade is supplied
with spectacles. Without these, the idolized General of the Mackerel
Brigade will not do anything until he gets ready. It was the want of
these, as I now discover, that prevented our troops seeing the Southern
Confederacy when he made his late raid across Awlkwyet River. Let the
spectacles be at once procured, my boy; or an indignant and bleeding
nation will at once demand a change in the Cabinet.

Company 3, Regiment 5, is the only Company yet fitted with glasses, and
was therefore selected to make a reconnoissance toward Paris, under
Colonel Wobert Wobinson, on Tuesday afternoon, for the purpose of
discovering whether the Confederacies there were very tired of waiting
yet. Glaring through their spectacles, these gallant beings advanced
until they met a Parrot shell going the other way, and then returned
with hasty discipline, bringing with them a captured contraband, who
was so anxious to remain in their company that he actually ran very
fast.

Upon regaining the camp in Accomac, my boy, the colonel had the
intelligent contraband brought before him, and says he:

"If I mistake not, friend Africa, you were escaping from the bonds of
oppression when we took you?"

The intelligent contraband shifted a silver soup-ladle from one pocket
to the other, and says he:

"Yes, mars'r colonel, I hab left my ole mars'r for de good of his
bressed soul." Here the attached bondman sniffed and shook his head.

"Are you pious?" says Colonel Wobinson, much affected by such an
example of humble devotion.

"Yes, mars'r I is dat," says the fond creature, wiping his brow with a
silk vest from his dress-coat pocket, "and I wished to save my ole
mars'r from de sin of de wicked. I know dat it was wrong for him to own
niggas, and dat he was more sinful de more he done it. And I run away,
Mars'r Colonel, to save dat ole man's bressum soul from any more dam."

Colonel Wobinson took off his spectacles in order that the steam from
his tears might not dim them, and says he:

"I had not looked for this in one so black. Leave those silver spoons
with me, friend Africa, and I will send them to my wife. Sergeant,
convey this dark being, who has taught us all such a lesson of
self-sacrifice, to the chaplain; and tell the chaplain to look out for
his pocket."

How beautiful is it, my boy, to see in the uncouth, unlettered slave, a
spirit of piety so shiningly practical. When I beheld the brutalized
bondman evince such signs of religion, I am reminded of those tender
and precocious little babes, who sometimes delight their mothers with
exalted utterances of the like, and am inclined to believe that one
knows just as much about it as the other does.

It pains me to say, my boy, that Captain Villiam Brown so far forgot
himself on Wednesday, upon discovering the non-arrival of the
spectacles, that he used language of an incendiary description against
the beloved General of the Mackerel Brigade, thereby proving himself to
be one of those crazy fanatics who are trying to ruin our distracted
country. He said, my boy, that the adored General of the Mackerel
Brigade was a dead-beat, and furthermore observed that he would be very
sorry to take his word.

Such language could not pass unnoticed, and a Court of Inquiry,
composed of Captains Bob Shorty, Samyule Sa-mith, and Colonel Wobert
Wobinson, was instantly called. The Court had a decanter and tumbler
only, to aid its deliberations, it being determined by the War
Department that no fact which could be detected even by the aid of a
glass, should go uninspected.

Villiam having been summoned to the presence, Samyule declared the
Court in session, and says he:

"The sad duty has become ours, to investigate certain charges against a
brother in arms which has heretofore been the mirror of chivalry. It is
specified against him:

"'_First_--That said Captain Villiam Brown, Eskevire, did affirm,
declare, avow, testify, and articulate, with his tongue, licker, and
organ of speech, that the General of the Mackerel Brigade was a
dead-beat.

"'_Second_--That aforesaid Captain Villiam Brown, Eskevire, did
proclaim, utter, enunciate, fulminate and swear, that he would not take
the word of the General of the Mackerel Brigade.'

"What has the culprit to say to these charges? Did he say that our
idolized Commander was a dead-beat?"

Villiam smiled calmly, and says he: "The chaste remark exactly fits the
orifice of my lips."

"Confine yourself to English," says Colonel Wobinson, majestically.
"What do you mean by the observation?"

"Why," says Villiam, pleasantly, "I meant, that before he was beaten he
must be dead. And after death, you know," says Villiam, reaching one
hand abstractedly toward the decanter, "after death, you know, we must
all _b'eaten_ by worms."

This explanation, my boy, was satisfactory, and conveyed a grave moral
lesson; but the court felt convinced that the second charge could
not be thus simply answered.

Captain Samyule Sa-mith set down the tumbler for a moment, and says he:

"You're not guilty on the first count, Villiam; but didn't you say that
you wouldn't take the word of the General of the Mackerel Brigade?"

"Which I did," says Villiam.

"And what excuse have you to offer, my trooper?" says Captain Bob
Shorty, pointing the question with his spoon.

"Is the general a gentleman?" says Villiam, searchingly.

The court believed him to be such.

"Ah!" says Villiam, "then if he's a gentleman, he always _keeps_ his
word, and of course it is impossible to _take_ it."

Verdict of "not guilty, with a recommendation to mercy."

Courts of Inquiry, my boy, are calculated to draw out the rich humor of
military character, and are equally useful and appropriate with all
other jokes, in times of devastating war.

                                             Yours, smilingly,
                                                       ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                              LETTER LXXVII.

  SHOWING WHAT EFFECT DEMOCRATIC TRIUMPHS HAVE UPON THE PRESIDENT,
      NOTING OUR CORRESPONDENT'S STRANGE MISTAKE ABOUT A BRITISH
      FLAG, AND INDICATING THE STRAGETIC ADVANCE OF THE MACKEREL
      BRIGADE.


                                 WASHINGTON, D. C., November 7th, 1862.

The late election in New York, my boy, has electrified everybody except
our Honest Abe, who still goes about smiling, like a long and amiable
sexton, and continues to save our distracted country after the manner
of an honest man. On Tuesday night, a high moral Democratic chap, of
much watch-seal, who had just received a dispatch all about the
election, went to see the Honest Abe, for the express purpose of
telling him that the Democratic party had been born again, and was on
the point of protesting against everything whatsoever, except the
Constitution of our forefathers. He found the Honest Abe cracking some
walnuts before the fire, my boy, and says he:

"The celebrated Democratic organization, of which I am Assistant
Engineer, has carried the State of New York in a manner impossible to
express, and will now proceed to demand of you a vigorous prosecution
of that unnatural strife in which are involved our lives, our
liberties, and the pursuit of happiness. We admire to see your harmless
honesty," says the chap, blandly, "and we believe you to be a fresh
egg; but we protest against the arbitrary arrest of men which is
patriots, only conservatively Democratic; and we insist upon a vigorous
prosecution of Constitutional hostilities against our misguided
brothers who are now offering irregular opposition to the Government."

The Honest Abe cracked a walnut, and says he: "You say, neighbor, that
the organization still insists upon a vigorous prosecution of the war?"

The Democratic chap sliced a toothpick from the arm of the chair with
his knife, and says he: "That is the present platform on which we are
_E pluribus unum_."

"Well," says the Honest Abe, "I believe that you mean well; but am
reminded of a little story.

"When I was practicing law out in Illinois," says the Honest Abe,
twisting the bow of his black necktie around from under his left ear,
"there was an old cock, with two sons, living near me in a tumble-down
old shanty. He lived there until half his roof blew off one windy
night, and then he concluded to move to a new house, where the chimney
didn't take up all the upper story. On the day when he moved, he'd got
most all his traps changed to the other residence, and had sent one of
his sons to see that they were all got safely indoors, when suddenly a
shower commenced to come up. The old man and his other offspring, who
had stayed to hurry him, were taking up a carpet from the floor at the
time the first dose of thunder cracked, and the offspring says he,
'Hurry up, old crazy-bones, or we'll be ketched in the freshet before
you get up this here rich fabric.' The stern parent heeded the
admonition, and went ripping away the carpet around the edges of the
room, until he came near where the offspring was standing, and there it
stuck. He pulled, but it wouldn't come, and he says, says he: ''Pears
to me that dod-rotted tack must be a tenpenny nail--it holds on so.'
You see, the old screw was very blind without his specs," says the
Honest Abe, buttoning his vest askew, "and he couldn't see just where
the tack was. Another peal of thunder at this moment made the irascible
offspring still madder, and he says, says he: 'You misabul old cripple,
if you don't hurry up we'll be ketched, I tell you!' As he made this
dutiful remark he went stamping to the window, and at the same moment
the cantankerous tack came out, and the aged parent went over on his
back with the carpet up to his chin. He got up and dusted, and says he:
'Well, now, that _is_ cur'ous--how suddent it went.' Then he proceeded
to rip away again, until it came near the window, and there it stuck
once more. The wild offspring saw him tugging again, and it made him so
wrathy that he says, says he: 'Why in thunder didn't you take the nails
out first, you crooked old sinner, you? It's enough to make me weep
afresh for the old woman, to see how you--' But he didn't finish his
observation; for, as he walked toward where the hammer lay, the tack
came out, and the old 'un went to bed again under the carpet. Up sprang
the sad parent, spitting rags, and he says, says he: 'Well now, how
cur'ous--to think it should come so suddent!' Still on he went, until
the carpet was all up from around the edges; but when he tried to draw
it away on his shoulder, it was fast somewheres yet. R-r-rum-bum-boom!
went the thunder; and says the infuriated offspring, says he: 'Well, I
never did see such a blundering old dad as you be. We'll be ketched in
the rain as sure as grasshoppers; and all because you didn't take my
advice about the hammer in the first place.' The poor old 'un tugged,
and pulled, and panted, and says he: 'Well, now, it _is_ cur'ous, I
swun to massey. There can't be no tacks way out in the middle of the
floor here, can they?' To make sure, the old blind-pate was going down
on his knees to take a mouse-eye view, when all of a sudden he gave a
start, and he says, says he: 'Why, 'pears to me, Sammy, _you're
standin' on the carpet yourself!_' And so he was--so he was," says the
Honest Abe, smiling into the fire, "and that was the why the carpet had
stuck fast in so many places."

"Now," says the Honest Abe, poking the Democratic chap in the ribs with
his knuckles; "if your organization wants me to move vigorously in this
war, tell them not to be standing on my carpet all the time. Otherwise,
I must still keep tacking about."

The Democratic chap had been slowly rising from his chair as this small
moral tale drew toward its exciting conclusion, and at the last word he
fled the apartment with quivering watch-seal.

Our President, my boy, has a tale for every emergency, as a rat-trap
has an emergency for every tail.

It was on the morning of this same day, that I had a pleasing
conversation on the state of our foreign relations with a phlegmatic
British chap connected with the English Ministry, who is remaining here
for the purpose of beholding anarchy in the North, which he has been
requested to immediately communicate to one of Great Britain's morning
journals. We were taking Richmond together at Willard's, my boy, and
had just been speaking of the English Southern pirate "Alabama" in
terms of neutrality, when suddenly the phlegmatic chap drew a roll of
silk from one of his pockets, fastened it to his cane, unfurled it
before my eyes, and says he:

"By the way, sir, 'ow do you like this ere h'original h'idea of mine?
Do you see what it is?"

"Yes, friend Bifstek," says I, Frenchily, "that is indeed the Black
Flag."

The chap turned very red in the face, my boy, and says he: "The Black
Flag! what a 'orrible h'idea! You must be thinking of the h'Alabama.
What h'induces you to suppose such a thing!"

[Illustration]

"Why," says I, "there's the Skull and Crossbones plain enough."

"Skull and Crossbones!!" says he, "why, that's the beautiful Hinglish
crest--a crown and sceptres; and this is my new h'original design, ye
know, for a new Hinglish Revenue Flag."

It was then, my boy, that I discovered my error, and apologized for my
obliquity of vision. It was strange, indeed, that I should mistake for
a skull the insignia of royalty, even though a crown is not
unfrequently found identified with a numskull.

On the same Tuesday, my boy, there was a small election in a town just
this side of Accomac, and I went down there early in the morning, to
the office of the excellent independent evening journal, that I might
see the returns as soon as they came in. The editor was talking to two
chaps--a Republican and a Democrat--and, says he:

"The organ which my humble talents keep a-going is strictly
independent, and I have no choice of candidates. I care only for my
country, one and individual," says the editor, touchingly, "and can
make no arbitrary discrimination of mere parties; but as you both
advertise your tickets in my moral journal, a sense of duty may induce
me to favor the side whose advertisement weighs the most."

After this gentle insinuation, my boy, each chap hastily commenced to
write his advertisement. The Republican inscribed his upon a _very_
heavy piece of brown wrapping-paper to make it weighty; but the
Democrat selected a plain bit of foolscap, only putting in a
hundred-dollar Treasury Note, to keep it from blotting.

When the editor came to look at the two, he coughed slightly, and says
he: "I have always been a Democrat."

"But my advertisement certainly weighs the most," says the Republican
chap, hotly.

The editor ate a chestnut, and says he: "Not in an intellectual sense,
my friend."

"My paper is twice as heavy as his," says the chap; "and as to the
Treasury Note, I had some scruples--"

"There!" says the editor, interruptingly, "you tell the whole story, my
friend. In the temple of a free and reliable press, as well as
elsewhere, some scruples bear very little proportion in weight to one
hundredweight."

The American press, my boy, might occasionally adopt as an appropriate
motto, the present Napoleon's observation, that "_L'Empire c'est la_
PAY."

Turning from intellectual matters, let me glance at our country's hope
and pride, the Mackerel Brigade, each member of whom feels confident of
ultimately crushing out this hideous Rebellion as soon as national
strategy shall have revealed the present whereabouts of the affrighted
Confederacy. Last week, my boy, the Brigade moved gorgeously from
Accomac, headed by the band, who played exciting strains upon his
night-key bugle; and was only fired upon from the windows of wayside
houses by helpless women, against whom the United States of America do
not make war.

Woman, my boy, is the most helpless of God's creatures; and is so far
from having power to help any other being, that she even can't help
being herself sometimes.

The sun shone brightly down upon the spectacles of the ancient
Mackerels as they once more took the road toward Paris; and as the
light was reflected from the glistening glasses upon the carmine noses
of which they were astride, it seemed as though each warrior had a rose
in the middle of his countenance to symbolize the beautiful idea, that
they had all arose for their distracted country's preservation.

Captain Villiam Brown, mounted on his geometrical steed, Euclid, was
conversing affably with Captain Bob Shorty, as they rode along
together, when a Lieutenant of the Anatomical Cavalry came dashing
toward him, and says he:

"Captain, there's something missing from the rearguard."

Villiam assumed a thoughtful demeanor, and says he: "Is it a miss fire?"

"No," says the Lieutenant, agitatedly: "but we miss two--"

"Not baggage wagons?" says Villiam, giving such a start that Euclid
nearly fell upon his knees; "don't tell me that two wagons are missing."

"Why no," says the Lieutenant, with emotion, "it's not two wagons that
we miss, but two Brigadiers."

"Ah!" says Villiam, fanning himself with his cap. "How you alarmed me.
I thought at first that it was two wagons. Let the procession go on,
and I'll send for two more Brigs the next time I have a friend going to
Washington."

It would please me, my boy, to detail the further movements of the
Mackerels, but the cause of strategy demands that I should say no more
on that topic just at present.

The beloved General of the Mackerel Brigade was at Washington when he
heard of the advance which his enemies would pretend that he did not
lead in person, and says he to the messenger:

"Are my gallant children ready for a fight?"

"Much so," says the messenger.

"Is the weather clear, my child?"

"Salubrious."

"Thunder!" says the General, valorously. "Then I really believe that I
must move my headquarters across the Potomac!"

The Potomac, my boy--to speak with all due reverence for sacred
things--in the numerous backs and forths it so constantly imposes upon
the military, would seem calculated to turn this war into another
Crusade, and make all our heroes literal soldiers of the "cross."

                                         Yours, metaphorically,
                                                       OEPHEUS C. KERR.




                            LETTER LXXVIII.

  IN WHICH THE STORY TOLD BY THE GERMAN MEMBER OF THE COSMOPOLITAN
      CLUB IS DULY REPORTED.


                                 WASHINGTON, D. C., November 12th, 1862.

Herr Tuyfeldock, my boy, the high-Dutch cosmopolitan, supernaturalized
the last meeting of the club with his old-fashioned story of


                         HERMANN, THE DEMENTED.

"At the base of a lofty mountain, and overshadowed by its beetling
cliffs, stood a rude hut, built of heavy logs, and surmounted by a
roof, the eaves of which descended in broad scollops over the windows
of the tenement, and gave it the appearance of a small boy wearing his
father's hat. In the surrounding scenery there was a wild grandeur and
magnificence with which no work of art would have been in keeping.
Immediately in the rear of the humble habitation, abruptly rose one of
a range known as the Hartz Mountains, stretching far away toward the
west in waves of bright and shadowy emerald, as the light fell upon
them, and covered with gloomy forests, peopled with unblest spirits by
the legends of olden times. In front and on both sides, spreading out
its vast expanse of verdant soil, until it appeared to meet with the
horizon, was a noble plain, bearing scattered clumps of trees, through
which a few isolated huts were discernable. It was like Light and Shade
meeting, with the hut under the cliff to mark their boundaries.

"Evening had just begun to tint the fragrant air with her sombre hues,
when a figure was apparent, moving over the plain in the direction of
the lonely domicil, and, as it approached nearer, the muscular form and
pleasing features of a young hunter were visible. He was exceedingly
tall, yet symmetrical in every limb, and quick in his movements as a
chamois on its native hills. His dress comprised a coat and leggins of
blue material, ornamented with silver buttons, a pair of heavy boots,
and a narrow-brimmed straw hat, from which a wolf's tail depended. He
carried a long rifle, and a bag for small game swung, with a powder
flask, or horn, at his side.

"Arriving in front of the hut, he paused a moment to examine some
footprints on the soil, and then tapped gently at the door with the
butt of his piece. In an instant it was opened by a beautiful girl,
with light blue eyes, flaxen curls, and a complexion of pure red and
white, who, though dressed in the coarsest attire, yet looked and shone
a perfect goddess of the solitude.

"'Dearest Marcella,' exclaimed the hunter, seizing her extended hand,
and carrying it to his lips with all the ardor of a lover.

"'I feared you were not coming to-night, Wilhelm,' answered Marcella,
with a blush of pleasure, as she led him into the hut by the hand which
she still retained.

"The apartment thus entered occupied the whole structure, save a
portion apparently partitioned off with wolf skins; and a rude table,
six chairs, and a goatskin covered couch, were the only articles of
furniture it contained, excepting a few trophies of the chase hanging
from the walls, and a woodman's axe placed over the mantel. The floor
was composed of logs, and was very uneven, save directly opposite the
fire-place, where a large flat stone was firmly imbedded in the earth;
and a small oil lamp, swinging in chains from the arching roof above,
gave forth a pale light which mingled imperceptibly with that of
departing day in a mellow twilight.

"'Marcella,' said Wilhelm, as they sat beside each other on the couch,
'I can scarcely realize that you are the wild little fairy, with whom I
used to explore the dark woods of haunted Hartz. I can remember, too,
standing with you under the blighted pine, and relating old legends
which I heard my father tell, while you listened with breathless
attention, and looked like a startled chamois, when the wind rustled
among the leaves.'

"'Those were happy days!' murmured Marcella.

"'They were, indeed!' continued Wilhelm, with enthusiasm--'yet why
should infancy monopolize all the richest pleasures of life? As we grow
older, our understanding becomes more clearly defined, and
circumstances which rendered our childhood happy, should become more
truly appreciated as blessings, instead of growing homely and irksome
to us.'

"'It is because the matured mind requires a wider field for exercise,'
said Marcella. 'When I used to roam with you in the forest or on the
plain, those localities constituted our little world, and I cared for
no other; but as my father taught me the learning of books, I awoke to
a sense of uneasiness, and a consciousness of restricted liberty. The
beautiful world of which I read became replete with attractions
hitherto unknown to me, and I longed to quit these wild scenes, and
behold the palaces of princes.'

"'So it was with me,' responded her lover. 'As you may remember, my
parents hoarded up their little earnings, that I might enjoy the
advantages of education, and I went to Gottingen with the feeling of
one who was about to drink of pleasure at its fountain-head; but alas!
Marcella, the wide world is like a piece of glass, which may sparkle in
the distance with all the brilliancy of a diamond, and after leading us
wildly onward, becomes the more worthless, for our endeavors to gain a
closer view. I imagined that the learning of schools would confer
happiness; it became mine, and I found it a mockery. I mixed with the
rich, gay and gifted; but my object still eluded pursuit. Marcella, I
became convinced that I left true happiness behind me, when I departed
from home; and returned to its shelter, resolved to leave it no more. I
tasted of the cup, and found it bitter.'

"'My father talks in that manner,' answered Marcella. 'He hates the
world for the injury it has done him, and even our few neighbors excite
his scorn, by their foolish fears of him. I am sure if they knew him
well, they could not help loving him as I do; he is so noble, so brave,
so generous, that I cannot understand why he is called "The Demented,"
unless it is because his superior intelligence is regarded by the hinds
as a supernatural gift. Perhaps that is the reason,' she added,
haughtily.

"'You wrong the honest peasants,' said the hunter, hastily; 'who,
though ignorant, possess the gifts of reason and discrimination. Your
father will not allow them to know him better, and the extraordinary
quantity of game which he obtains would arouse superstitious whispers
from more enlightened minds.'

"'Poor deluded creatures!' exclaimed Marcella, scornfully. 'Because my
father's aim is truer than theirs, ought he to be looked upon as one
demented? Because, by his skill in woodcraft, he surpasses their
success, should they shun him with looks of horror? Because he refuses
to join in their low revels, should they regard him as a ghost-seer?
Wilhelm, you have learning, and ought to frown down these foolish
superstitions, instead of partaking in them. Did you love Marcella as
you have often sworn you do, the man who spoke evil of her parent,
would from that moment become your enemy.'

"'And so he should, dearest Marcella; but alas! their suspicions are
but too well founded, and though you may be offended, I dare not deny
that I myself believe him to be in league with the Evil One.'

"'Then leave me!' exclaimed Marcella, starting from beside him. 'Why
should you wish to wed the child of such a man? Might you not find a
devil in me? Why should I love a being whose lips have declared my
father a demon? Go! Wilhelm, I took you for a man; but you have the
soul of a dwarf.'

"Her eyes flashed indignation as she spoke, and in the eyes of her
lover she appeared more beautiful than ever.

"'I can forgive your reproaches, for I know them to be actuated by
noble sentiments,' he replied, drawing her gently back to her seat.
'Honor to our parents is nature's first law, and God forbid that I
should condemn it; but, dearest Marcella, there should be no reserve
between us, who have grown up side by side, as it were, and I speak to
you as I would to no one else--not even my parents. That I love you,
you surely cannot doubt, and that love would be worth little to either
of us, did it enjoin concealment of our true opinions from each other.
I speak as an honest man, when I tell you, that I once beheld your
father in the Black Forest, accompanied by a stranger, who was not of
this world.'

"'Great God!' ejaculated Marcella, starting up with affright.

"'Forgive me, dearest; but you forced me to say it in my own defence.
Calm yourself and we will talk of this fearful subject no longer.'

"'Wilhelm, you are not trifling with me?'

"'As I hope to be saved, no.'

"The daughter of Hermann trembled for a moment, as though the spirit of
Fear had touched her, and the dim rays of the swinging lamp, as they
fell upon her finely cut features, revealed the undisguised terror
there betrayed. But she quickly settled rigidly as a marble effigy, and
her voice was firm, as she said:

"'Wilhelm, I believe you, and may God help my unfortunate father. Tell
me of what you _saw_, and disguise nothing!'

"'It were better to remain untold, Marcella.'

"'I must and will hear it,' she answered with cold determination.

"'Then it must be told,' said the young hunter, with an involuntary
shudder. 'On the second day after my arrival from Gottingen University,
I started out from my father's cot, to course hares, taking with me my
dog and rifle, intending to remain absent all day. For some hours I was
quite successful, and succeeded in killing a score of the fleet
animals, but after noon they grew scarce, and as the sun was sinking in
the west, I paused wearied and exhausted on the borders of the Black
Forest, while my dog was panting in the shade. As I stood thus, leaning
upon my gun, the sound of a bugle call fell upon my ears, and almost
immediately afterwards your father suddenly passed me in the direction
from whence it came, looking straight forward with a stony, fascinated
stare, so full of mingled despair and earnestness, that I trembled with
superstitious fear, and even my dog crawled to my feet, quivering in
every limb. Onward he strode, unconscious of a watcher, to a shaded
spot on the border, just beyond my position, known as the Witch's
Circle. As he reached it, the bugle was again sounded, when immediately
a tall cloaked figure rode out of the forest to meet him, and they
saluted each other in silence. I could not discern the stranger's
features, but I noticed with breathless horror that the steps of the
horse which he rode, as well as those of another which he led by the
bridle, gave forth no more sound than if they were planted in air----'

"Wilhelm suddenly paused in his narrative, as a beautiful White Fawn
suddenly sprang from behind a suspended wolf skin, and alighted
directly in front of him. Daylight no longer lent its rays to illumine
the apartment, and as the animal's eyes were visible through the misty
beams of the lamp, they seemed to glare and blaze like coals of vivid
fire.

"'Heaven preserve me!' ejaculated the young hunter, crossing himself.

"'It is my pet, Leo; do not fear him,' said Marcella in low tones.

"'Your father mounted the unoccupied saddle,' continued Wilhelm, going
on with his adventure; 'and together they disappeared between the
pines; noiselessly as the falling of a feather. At short intervals I
heard the sound of the bugle growing fainter and fainter, until it died
away in the windings of the mountains. I called my dog and hastened
home, without daring to look behind, lest I should behold the
mysterious riders following on my track.'

"A short silence succeeded, during which Marcella gently wept, and
caressed the fawn. At length she spoke:

"'Dear Wilhelm, I now see the reason why you have ever avoided my
father, and come here only while he is away. Perhaps it is better that
you should continue to do so, for he is very irritable, and your
meeting might be attended with fearful results. Leave me, Wilhelm; I
expect him every moment; it is already past his usual time of return.'

"'I must speak with your father to night, dearest,' said the hunter,
encircling her waist with his arm.

"'God forbid!' she exclaimed, looking up to him with great alarm.

"'It must be so, Marcella; I am about to ask a gift of him, and his
answer will either make me the happiest of men, or leave me miserable
for life. I will ask his daughter of him as one who has a just claim,
and I cannot believe he will refuse me.'

"'Wilhelm, you do not know my----'

"At this moment there came a measured rapping at the door, and Marcella
arose to open it, trembling with undefined dread. Hermann the Demented
pressed a kiss upon her brow as he passed the threshold, and entered
his cabin.

"He was an old man, for his hair was grey, and deep wrinkles furroughed
his brow; but his form was fully developed and upright as that of
meridian manhood, and there was a changing fire in his eye that
indicated all the energy of youth. His dress was a mixture of military
and peasant garb, and he wore a tall, black felt hat, encircled with a
red ribbon. Game of every kind hung in such profusion from his broad
shoulders, that it almost entirely concealed his person, and he bore in
his hand a rifle which few men could handle. On arriving beneath the
lamp, he deposited his spoils upon the floor, and then, for the first
time, observed the presence of the young hunter.

"'Ha! is that you Wilhelm!' he exclaimed, casting aside his rifle, and
extending his hand in a friendly manner, 'I am especially glad to
welcome a brother craftsman to my cover, on a night when I have had
such uncommon luck. Look at that heap, and tell me if you ever saw
another such.'

"'You are famed as a fortunate hunter,' answered the other, gazing upon
the immense pile at his feet with astonishment.

"'Yes, yes, Wilhelm, there are few men can bag hares with Hermann, the
Demented,' and the old man laughed a hollow laugh.

"'Your skill must indeed be extraordinary, when it enables you to
secure many of these animals _after nightfall, and without hounds_,'
returned Wilhelm, looking fixedly at the hunter with a penetrating
glance.

"Immediately upon the entrance of her father Marcella had drawn the
table from the wall, and commenced to prepare an humble meal; she was
standing in a distant corner of the cabin, when her lover spoke thus:

"Hermann started back with a look of fierce anger.

"'What mean you, young man!' he asked in stern tones.

"'I had no intention of giving offence, Mynheer Hermann.'

"'Your looks, at least, were impertinent,' muttered the old hunter,
turning abruptly from him, and commencing to sort his game.

"The simple meal was soon ready, and the three persons partook of it
without so much as a whisper. When it was finished, and while the young
girl was replacing her few utensils, Hermann produced a large
Meerschaum pipe, and having filled it with tobacco, lit it with a chip
from the fire-place; looking inquiringly at his guest as he smoked.

"'You were, doubtless, surprised to find me here?' said the latter,
with some hesitancy in his manner.

"'I am not often so highly honored,' responded Hermann, quietly sending
forth a wreath of smoke from between his teeth.

"'Do you understand my object, Mynheer Hermann?'

"'Certainly I do, Mynheer Wilhelm.'

"'Indeed,' ejaculated the young hunter, with a look of inquiry.

"'Of course,' said Hermann, ironically; 'you come to my cot, Mynheer
Wilhelm, hoping to behold some diabolical orgie, or the working of some
cabalistic spell, by which I secure success in the chase. You expect to
see me in communion with the mountain spirits, and allowing a
long-tailed demon to breathe upon my rifle. Look around you, my honored
guest; is not my daughter some horrid witch in disguise? Is not this
gentle fawn, a bloodthirsty spectre metamorphosed? Do you not see at
least a dozen goblins climbing the barrel of my rifle? Ha, ha, ha! you
will add another to the thousand and one legends about _Hermann the
Demented_. And tell me, young man, what is to prevent my offering you
as a sacrifice to my counsellor, the devil? People would say it served
you right, for entering this unholy place. You had better depart before
my familiar makes his appearance to sup with me, from the skulls of
children. I assure you, mynheer, that yonder stone bottle contains
human blood. Fly, before the spell begins to work.'

"Although the old man frequently laughed while speaking, there was a
hollowness, and unreal zest in his mirth, that made the young hunter
shudder.

"'You have made a great mistake, Mynheer Hermann,' he replied calmly.
'I came here with no such despicable intentions as those you attribute
to me. To be plain and honest with you, I am here to ask a gift of you.'

"'What is it, boy?'

"'Your daughter, mynheer.'

"Dropping the pipe, and springing to his feet, Hermann confronted his
guest, glaring upon him with vindictive fury.

"'Wretch! dare you insult me?' he howled, gnashing his teeth.

"'Mynheer Hermann, be calm, I beseech you; you have obliged me to make
the request thus abruptly, and I am willing to abide the consequences.
I love Marcella, and she loves me. I would make her my wife.'

"For a moment, the father held his hand to his brow and fixed a glance
upon the young hunter, as though to read his inmost soul; then turning
quickly to his child, who sat near him, trembling with fear, he asked
excitedly:

"'Is this true, Marcella?'

"'Yes, dear father,' she replied, arising from her seat, and laying her
head fondly upon his breast.

"He looked down upon her beautiful face, suffused with tears, in
silence; slowly the flash of anger faded from his countenance, leaving
the gleam of idolatrous affection shining there. The feelings of a
parent overcame all others, and a bright drop glistened on his cheek.

"'My darling, my only treasure,' he murmured, pressing her closely to
him. 'Your happiness is my only earthly object.'

"'Wilhelm,' he continued, placing his disengaged hand upon the youth's
shoulder, 'I wronged you in my suspicions, and ask your forgiveness.
Your face, as well as that of my darling, convince me that I wronged
you. Yet I cannot grant you my child, until you have first heard
somewhat of her history, and my own. Not but that she is a jewel, the
proudest king might wear upon his bosom with honor,' he continued, with
spirit; 'but no man shall ever accuse me of practising a lie.'

"He resumed his seat, still holding Marcella closely to his bosom, and
went on:

"'To no other living being have I ever told my strange story, and there
is that in your countenance, which tells me you are no traitor. Listen
attentively to what I say: I was born on the estate of a nobleman in
Transylvania, to whom my father was steward, and spent the happiest
days of my existence roving about those vast domains, a free and joyous
child. At the age of thirteen, I was placed in a school, where I
advanced rapidly in learning, until I was the acknowledged phenomenon
of the village, and the pride of my fond father. Years of unalloyed
peace rolled over my head, during which I wooed the beautiful daughter
of a landed gentleman--won and married her by stealth. Her father's
rage knew no bounds in the first moments of discovery, and he
threatened to separate us; but my wife's entreaties soon banished his
anger, and we were soon received in full favor both by him and my own
parents. Oh! what unsubstantial, foolish, joyous days were those! How
did I idolize the girl, whom I had won, as a heathen worships his
household god.

"'At length a fearful epidemic swept the country; my father was one of
the first victims, and my heartbroken mother soon followed him,
bequeathing us her dying benediction. It was my first trial, and in the
bitterness of my grief, I left the familiar scenes of my boyhood. To
this spot I came with my beautiful wife and built this cabin, resolving
to spend the remainder of my days in these soothing solitudes. But my
fate was yet to be accomplished. My father's employer found me out, and
sent a message, earnestly requesting me to become his steward. Yielding
to the importunities of my wife--for I could refuse her nothing--I
accepted the proposal, and journeyed back to Transylvania with a heavy
heart; for a cloud seemed hanging over me, a presentiment of sorrow to
come. The nobleman received me more as an equal than as a servant, and
uttered many encomiums on my father's worth, which could not but prove
grateful to a heart like mine. I loved and honored him at once; and
resolved to testify my gratitudë by a faithful discharge of my duties.
He was still a young man, but I felt no jealousy, when the idol of my
heart praised him, blind wretch that I was! At length, the cloud, so
long forming, burst over me in a flood of misery. Almost immediately
after the birth of our daughter, the father of my Marcella came to me
and imparted a secret that almost deprived me of my senses. Poor old
man! he thought I knew all before, and my ravings filled him with
alarm. Frantically I swore revenge, and with murder in my heart, was
about to seek the destroyer of my peace; but the old man restrained me,
and after a violent debate, I resolved to say nothing to my wife about
the matter, and kept a strict watch upon her. Alas! her father's
suspicions proved too just. I surprised her in company with her
paramour, and after loading them with the bitterest curses, took my
daughter and returned to the hut under the cliff. My whole life was
blighted, every hope was crushed; but the very madness of my despair
gave me strength, and I swore vengeance on my enemy. On the evening of
that fearful day, after lulling my unfortunate child to sleep, I knelt
down on the flat stone before you, and in the fervor of delirium,
called upon _The Spirits of Hartz Mountains_ for aid. Scarcely had the
sacrilegious petition left my lips, when there came a gentle knocking
at the door, accompanied by a shrill bugle note, signifying
bewilderment in the forest. Like one in a dream, I answered the
mysterious summons, and immediately a White Fawn bounded into the hut,
followed by a tall stranger, wrapped in a cloak of fine material.

"'"You called me and I have come," he said, in tones that made me
shudder, and peer into his eyes, in which there was a fearful
fascination which I could not resist.

"'"Who are you?" I managed to articulate.

"'"Varno of The Black Forest," he answered, in a voice of rolling
thunder. I know not why it was, but at his reply my fear vanished, and
my wrongs arose before me in their darkest coloring.

"'"Can you aid me?" I asked, returning his piercing glance. Never shall
I forget the fearful distinctness with which he said:

"'"Hermann Vandervelt, I know what you would require of me, and you
shall be satisfied, _but there is a price attached to my services_;
three requests shall be granted, and then _you must be mine, soul and
body_. Will you swear to this?"

"'Like a maniac, I fell upon my knees before the stranger, shouting, in
the height of passion: "Grant me but _revenge_ upon the betrayer of my
honor, and I will be yours, eternally yours, soul and body yours; I
swear by the God who--"

"'"Silence!" thundered the stranger, his eyes glowing like coals of
withering, devouring fire.

"'"Hermann, you must swear by the _Spirits of Hartz Mountains_."
Wrought up to frenzy, I obeyed him. He dictated a fearful oath, and
when I had repeated it, he said, in tones that froze my blood:

"'"Hermann Vandervelt, take your rifle and seek your enemy; he shall
fall by your hand. I will leave you this animal (pointing to the fawn,)
and when you would see me, let it return to the forest. Remember, I
have granted _one_ request; _two_ more shall be granted, _and then you
will be mine_."

"'His horrid laugh is still ringing in my ears. In silence, I opened
the door, and beheld, dimly through the darkness, a tall steed with
blazing eyes, standing motionless upon the plain. As the stranger
passed me, a momentary chill, like that of the grave, fell upon me; he
mounted, and I saw him no longer. Grasping my rifle, I fled through the
darkness like a fiend of blood, the White Fawn following my footsteps
like a hound. No rest, no meat, did I take until I saw my enemy lying
before me, bleeding to death, while the Fawn lapped his blood.

"'"I am Hermann!" I shouted in his ears, and then flew back wildly, as
I came. My child was nearly dead from neglect when I returned from the
doubly-cursed spot; but I tended her faithfully, and she soon went
forth with me to the forest; and the White Fawn never left her side.

"'I was a successful hunter at first; but suddenly my fortune changed,
and I could get no more food. Then was the spell of madness on me once
more, and _I set the White Fawn free_. Again there came a knocking at
the door; again the Fawn sprang in, followed by its master. _My second
request was granted--there remains but one more!_ From that night my
familiar has met me on the borders of the Black Forest nightly, and the
darkest depths are filled with game for me. Such is my story, Wilhelm,
and here, on my bosom, reposes the child of my affection. Speak boldly,
as becomes a man; would you wed the daughter of _Hermann, the
Demented_?'

"While the old man related his fearful story, various emotions were
apparent on the handsome face of Wilhelm, but at its conclusion
unwavering resolution was stamped upon his features.

"'Hermann!' he said, extending his right hand to the old hunter, 'I
sincerely pity you as the victim of circumstances, but the blight does
not touch Marcella; I love her more dearly than ever, and if you will
give her to me, she shall find in me a husband who would shed his last
drop of blood for her.'

"'Wilhelm, you are worthy of my child, take her and may heaven grant
you the blessings it has denied to me. Bring a holy man here to-morrow,
and make her rightly yours. I would see her happy before I--' He
suddenly paused, placed his weeping daughter in her lover's arms, and
turned aside to hide the starting tear.

"Soon Wilhelm was wending his way over the plain, and the innocent
Marcella retired to her narrow apartment of wolf skins; but the old man
sat with his face beneath the lamp, and the White Fawn crouched beside
him. Long did he meditate through the lonely watches of the night, and
the sweat of agony stood upon his temples. Slowly did he stagger to
where the wolf skins hung, and raising them in his trembling hands,
dwelt mournfully upon the picture before him. There, on her couch, in
all the artless grace of slumber, lay the only being on earth whom he
loved. One faultless arm was hidden beneath the pillow, the other half
shadowed her face, and bore a glossy veil of flaxen curls. Her ruby
lips were apart, as though she had fallen asleep while yet the evening
prayer was on her tongue. Dimly streamed the light of the swinging lamp
upon the human temple of purity, and Hermann, the Demented, wept like
an artless child.

"'It must be done--_it is the last_,' he murmured, dropping the rude
partition, and quickly opening the cabin door.

"Swift as the meteor falling through the shades of night, flew the
White Fawn out into the darkness, with a plaintive cry. With bowed head
the old man clasped his hands and listened. He hears a shot, a bugle
note echoes through the dew-ladened air, and the ghostly rider is again
at his door.

"'You sent for me, and I am here,' said Varno, entering the cabin, and
casting the White Fawn cold and dead, upon the floor.

"'I ask your aid!' said Hermann firmly.

"'Remember, it is _the third and last time_,' muttered the stranger.

"'I will fulfil my oath. Grant me my wish.'

"'_Beware!_' thundered the other.

"'Speak not so loudly, or you will wake my child,' said the hunter,
gazing fearfully toward where Marcella slept.

"'Fear not, good Hermann, the sleep of the innocent cannot be disturbed
by a Spirit of Evil. Declare your wish and it shall be granted.'

"'Then hear me, fiend, devil, or whatever thou art! I would have my
child happy; I would have her husband ever warm in his love for her as
he is this moment; I would have the curse of her parents forever
averted from her head. Grant me this and I am thine.'

"'It shall be so,' answered Varno, with something like pity in his
tones. 'Thou must meet me at sunset on the evening of to-morrow, beside
the _Witch's Circle_--there shall our compact be fulfilled. _This is
the third and last. Remember._

"The dark spirit passed from the hut under the cliff but his shadow
lingered behind; and the old hunter knelt beneath the swinging lamp,
with the dead fawn at his feet, desolate and lone.

"The day smiled brightly on Marcella, the genial sunbeams dispelling
night's horrors. She looked sadly when her father told her how the
White Fawn had been wounded by some wandering hunter, and had sought
the hut to die there; but the presence of Wilhelm made her cheerful as
the morn, and Hermann felt rewarded for his sacrifice.

"A missionary monk stood within the old cabin, and said the words that
joined two lives in one. When the holy rite was finished, the wedded
pair knelt at the feet of The Demented, and called down Heaven's
richest blessings on his head; but alas! he could not say 'Amen,' for
he remembered his compact, and the words of Varno still rang in his
ears. He watched his child with more than earthly care till the sun
began to sink once more behind the Black Forest, then seizing his
rifle, he kissed her blushing cheek, and sallied forth toward the
mountains.

"'Dear father, may you soon give up such unholy pastimes,' murmured
Marcella, looking fondly after him as his grey hairs floated in the
wind.

"'God grant that he may,' murmured her husband, fervently, pressing her
to his heart.

"But the old hunter returned no more. The wolf started as he lay in his
lair, when a man rushed by his covert in the Black Forest. A bugle,
wildly sounded, awoke the bird in his leafy bower. Two men met at the
Witch's Circle, while a day was dying, and the shades of the wood
closed over them forever."

       *       *       *       *       *

                                       Yours, contemplatively,
                                                       ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                             LETTER LXXIX.

  SHOWING HOW THE NATIONAL INSANITARY COMMITTEE MADE A STRANGE
      BLUNDER; HOW THE BELOVED GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE WAS
      REMOVED AND EXALTED; AND ENDING WITH AN INFALLIBLE RECIPE.


                               WASHINGTON, D. C., November 15th, 1862.

As I calmly observe the present situation of our military affairs, my
boy, and consider how persistently the Blue Ridge continues to get
between our great strategic army and the dilapidated Southern
Confederacy, I am impressed with the idea that the salvation of our
distracted country demands the removal of either the Blue Ridge or the
beloved General of the Mackerel Brigade.

I admit, my boy, that the Mackerel Brigade has spent time enough in one
locality since the last battle to remove the incompetent and imbecile
Blue Ridge, and that the immense number of spades consigned to that
veteran _corps_ might be construed into the belief that they were
really engaged in that great stragetic task. Furthermore, that the
Mackerels have only succeeded in marching fifteen miles in six weeks,
legitimates the supposition that they are going up very steep hills;
but it must be borne in mind, my boy, that it is the Honest Abe's best
policy to conciliate all political parties for the sake of Northern
unity of action, and it cannot be doubted that the removal of the Blue
Ridge at this crisis would occasion the bitterest heart-burnings and
jealousies in the manly bosom of our nation's Democratic organization.
It would be construed into proof that the Honest Abe had yielded to the
fiendish clamor of the crazy Abolitionists, and had rendered a
restoration of the adored Union-as-it-Was of our forefathers
impossible, by destroying that Blue Ridge which was an essential part
of the Union. The manly Organization, my boy, would prefer an armistice
with the unseemly Confederacy to a removal of the Blue Ridge--a
removal, my boy, authorized neither by the Constitution, the pursuit of
happiness, nor the rights of man. The Blue Ridge is at the head of our
army, and our army is at the foot of the Blue Ridge. The mistaken
Confederacy is on the other side, my boy, and the Organization very
justly reasons, that the fiendish Abolitionists virtually confess
themselves to be, in heart, on the same side with the Confederacy; for
if their desired removal of the Blue Ridge were carried out, the
distinction of the two opposite sides would be practically lost, and
the United States of America and the Southern Confederacy would be all
on one side, and there might be an unconstitutional collision.

Hence, my boy, the Honest Abe has concluded to leave the Blue Ridge
where it is, and remove the idolized General of the Mackerel Brigade.

But before I proceed to describe the inexpressible anguish produced by
the adoption of even this grievous alternative, permit me to record the
useful proceedings of the National Insanitary Committee, in their
philanthropical investigation of the lunacy now prevailing to an
alarming extent in the Army of Accomac.

For some weeks past, my boy, insanity has been frightfully upon the
increase in the ranks of the unconquerable Mackerel Brigade. Many
Mackerels have even gone raving at times, persisting in the vague and
incoherent exclamation that they "_Couldn't See It_." There was some
hope that this terrible mental aberration might be stayed, if the
superannuated _corps_ were supplied with spectacles; but the relief
thus given was only temporary; and finally, when one of the poor maniac
chaps went so far as to yell, that, even by the aid of his spectacles,
he couldn't see what was the use of butting against the Blue Ridge all
the time, it was deemed proper to call in the National Insanitary
Committee.

Captain Samyule Sa-mith, whose duty it was to draw the Brigade up in
two lines--the sane chaps on one side of the fence, and the insane on
the other--hastened back to Accomac to finish a game of "Old Sledge,"
on which four drinks were distinctly pending, and left the aged
Committee to perform its task at leisure.

In anticipation of this sad ceremony, my boy, I had sent my
architectural steed, the gothic Pegasus, down to Accomac, and thither I
went on Tuesday morning, to amble totteringly from thence to the scene
of Insanitary proceedings.

The Committee had just commenced work upon its line of chaps, and was
examining the patients one by one.

The first invalid, Lively Mike, was born in the Sixth Ward, and weighed
ninety-two pounds. He was a poor, slouching chap, my boy, resembling
poverty's Ruin, two-thirds covered by an ivy vine of rags. His angular
countenance was rich with unwashings, save a clean irregular circle
just around his ugly mouth.

I asked how it happened that this one part of his face was clean, when
all the rest was dirty; and they told me, my boy, that it was the place
where his poor old mother had kissed him at parting.

Lively Mike's first symptom of his dreadful malady was a feeling of
overwhelming weariness, as though he had been for a long time in one
spot doing nothing. The feeling deepened into sullen, dangerous
madness, until it was finally unsafe to let him go at large, as he had
several times attempted to shoot scouting Confederacies.

The next hopeless patient was Big-nose Jake. Born at the commencement
of his career in the Sixth Ward, and weighing ninety-four pounds
without his knapsack, Big-nose had always enjoyed good health, with the
exception of starvation; but was in the habit of muttering to himself
that Strategy was a great humbug, and he'd rather die at home in his
bunk in the engine-house than in a swamp, without a single fire in six
months. His only way of keeping warm was by occasionally huddling up to
a Confederate picket, and receiving _his_ fire.

No. 3 was Baby Jim, a resident of the Sixth Ward for many years, and
weighing ninety-one pounds. His first attack of his malady came in the
shape of an incoherent and irrepressible desire to get up a Directory
of Army Names, so that the families of Mackerels in the Army of Accomac
might know where their relatives were, and how old they had got to be.
Sometimes he would be suddenly seized with the absurd notion that the
General of the Mackerel Brigade was killing more men by strategy than
would be slain in fifty battles.

Another hapless maniac was Cross-eyed Tom. His family is well known in
the Sixth Ward; weight, ninety-seven pounds. Always enjoyed excellent
health, until one day, when it suddenly struck him--uncalled-for, as it
were--that he hadn't seen the Colonel of his regiment for six months.
The demon of insanity tempted him to believe that his Colonel had all
along been drinking bad gin and threatening to resign, in Washington,
instead of staying with his men and getting acquainted with them. He
knew that he must be entirely mistaken about this, but couldn't shake
off the horrible delusion.

A fifth lunatic was the Worth street Chicken. Had voted several times a
day in the Sixth Ward, and weighed ninety-nine pounds. The Chicken
could not say that he was really a sick man; but had moments when he
could not resist the malignant temptation to imagine, that the
celebrated Southern Confederacy was just as even with us now as it was
a year ago, with several majestic raids for small trumps. At times he
was troubled with bad dreams about all the Treasury Notes becoming
worthless if the General of the Mackerel Brigade went into winter
quarters.

And so the Insanitary Committee went down the whole line, my boy,
closely questioning the poor chaps who had lost their reason, and
eliciting continued proofs of the national ravages of Insanity.

"Truly," says the chief Insanitary chap, cleaning his nails with his
jack-knife; "truly these unhappy beings are hopelessly deranged, and
must be sent to the Asylum. Their ravings are beyond all precedent."

Just as he finished speaking, my boy, and whilst he was picking his
teeth to assist meditation, Captain Samyule Sa-mith came riding hastily
in from his successful game of "Old Sledge," bringing the stakes with
him, and says he:

"Well, old Medicusses, have you examined the beings which is unhappily
bereft of sense?"

"Yea," says the Insanitary chap, with a grievous groan, "we've examined
all those poor creatures, in that whole line, and find them all
hopelessly and incurably mad."

Samyule gave such a start that he split one of his boots, and says he:

"_Which_ line?"

"Why, that line there," says the chap, pointing.

"By all that's Federal!" says Samyule, slapping his left leg; "I'll be
blessed if you old goslings hav'n't been examining the WRONG LINE! Them
veterans there are the _sane_ ones!"

Insanity, my boy, like Charity, so seldom begins at home, that we
sometimes mistake the best kind of sanity for it when we meet the
latter, as a stranger, abroad. The man we call a maniac is frequently
nothing more than a sane man seen through a maniac's spectacles.

But the whole body of Mackerels, sane and insane alike, unite in a
feeling of strong anguish blended with enthusiasm, at the removal of
the beloved General of the Mackerel Brigade. He has been so much a
Father to them all, that they never expected to get a step farther
while he was with them.

There's a piece of domestic philosophy for you, my boy.

When the General heard of his removal, my boy, he said that it was like
divorcing a husband from a wife, who had always supported him, and
immediately let fly the following


                          FAREWELL ADDRESS.

               _Head-quarters of the Army of Accomac,
                                       Foot of the Blue Ridge._

MY CHILDREN:

An order from the Honest Abe divorces us, and gives the command of all
these attached beings to Major-General Wobert Wobinson. (Heartrending
and enthusiastic cheers.)

In parting with you, I cannot express how much I love your dear bosoms.
As an army, you have grown from youth to old age under my care. In you
I have never found doubt nor coldness, nor anything else. The victories
you have won under my command will live in the nation's works of
fiction. The strategy we have achieved, the graves of many unripe
Mackerels, the broken forms of those disabled by the Emancipation
Proclamation--the strongest associations that can exist among
men--still make it advisable that you should vote for me as President
of the United States in 1865. Thus we shall ever be comrades in
supporting the Constitution, and making the Constitution support us.

                                 THE GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.
    [Green Seal.]

It was while this affecting document was being read to the Army, my
boy, that a procession of political chaps with banners and a small
cannon, landed from a boat on Awlkwyet River, and came filing affably
into camp. Only pausing to insult two correspondents of the _Tribune_,
and to fire the cannon so close to a farmhouse that it broke all the
windows, these pleasant chaps at once organized a meeting and gave
orders that all fighting should be postponed till after the session.

The Hon. Mr. X. Stream proceeded to say that he considered Mr. Lincoln
a strictly honest, upright, able, and noble-hearted man (cheers); but
it could not be denied that his Administration was a wretched
failure--a blending of brutal imbecility with hellish despotism. (Much
enthusiasm). While it continued so, everything in the stock-market
would go up--_up_--UP! until the bubble burst. The General of the
Mackerel Brigade had been removed (universal sobbing) but it was only
that he might shine the brighter before a Democratic Convention in 1865.

The Hon. Prince Van Brumagen next spoke. Undoubtedly, he would be
called a traitor for what he was about to say, but he was accustomed to
that sort of talk from every one who knew him. He wished to see this
war vigorously pushed forward; but he could never consent to see
violence offered to men who only warred against us because they were
mistaken. Our Southern friends had imagined that the Abolitionists
wanted to prevent their enjoyment of the pursuit of happiness which was
guaranteed to them by the Constitution. They were mistaken, and
seceded. The Union as it was had passed away from us, but was
undoubtedly somewhere on the Globe; and as the Globe was constantly
revolving, we had only to stand still, and it would come round again to
us in due time.

The Hon. Fernando Fuel next undressed his thoughts to the meeting. As
proprietor of the City of New York, which he had frequently bought, he
protested against the removal of the General of the Mackerel Brigade at
this inclement season of the year. The idolized General was beloved
even by the Rebels, and his own devoted troops had cheered even louder
when parting with him, if possible, than when he had first come among
them.

Here the speaker was interrupted by a chap who suddenly touched off the
cannon and simultaneously unfurled a new banner. Borrowing a piece of
smoked glass, I looked through it at the dazzling standard, and read
upon its eloquent folds:

                    REGULAR HIGH-MORAL NOMINATIONS!

                      FOR THE SENATE IMMEDIATELY;
                                 AND
                 FOR PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES IN
                                1865.
                  THE (LATE) GENERAL OF THE MACKEREL
                               BRIGADE.

Observe, my boy, this simple rule, to make a hero of a fool:

Just keep him where he is, until his lack of wisdom, want of Skill,
attract unto his banner those who, from perverseness, _will_ have foes.
Then freely make his dullness known; and when you'd cast him from his
throne, you'll find become _his_ followers true, all men who seek a
feud with _you_. To serve the always-malcontent, and give their spleen
a chance for vent, a knave, a dunce, a stump! would do as well, my boy,
as I, or you.

When cats and politicians quarrel, "use any cat's-paw", is the moral.

                                             Yours, sagely,
                                                      ORPHEUS C. KERR.




                            [Illustration]


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  The fourth of the series of Balzac's best French novels,        $1.00.

                  The National School for the Soldier.

  Elementary work for the soldier; by Capt. Van Ness,            50 cts.

                        Tom Tiddler's Ground.

  Charles Dickens's new Christmas Story, paper cover,            25 cts.

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  An essay by Richard Grant White. 8vo. embellished,              $1.00.

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  Literary Essays reprinted from the British Quarterlies,         $1.25.

                       Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

  First complete collection of Poems, blue and gold binding,      $1.00.

                          Out of His Head.

  A strange and eccentric romance by T. B. Aldrich,               $1.00.

                       The Course of True Love.

  Never did run smooth. A Poem by Thomas B. Aldrich,             50 cts.

                          Poems of a Year.

  By Thomas B. Aldrich, author of "Babie Bell," &c.,             75 cts.

                           The King's Bell.

  A Mediæval Legend in verse, by R. H. Stoddard,                 75 cts.

                           The Morgesons.

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                   A Popular Treatise on Deafness.

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                         Doesticks' Letters.

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                         The Elephant Club.

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                       The Book of Chess Literature.

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                                 END

       *       *       *       *       *




Transcriber's Note: Blank pages have been deleted. Discovered
publisher's punctuation errors have been corrected. Other errors were
corrected as follows:

 p. 25: salt--which is verydear[very dear] here just
 p. 27: for mr. bob peter's[peters'] "hours" at home were
 p. 29: connection with the childrem[children] of ham, it
 p. 33: after this overpowing[overpowering] revelation, it was
 p. 33: that mr. bob peter's[peters'] presentation to
 p. 37: in the heavy dalies,[dailies] and philosophical poetry
 p. 56: the account of mr. peter's[peters'] arrest in the
 p. 61: a musket ball be's[he's] comin' shtraight to
 p. 66: making a rapid retrogade[retrograde] movement, when villiam
 p. 74: i made a reconnoisance[reconnoissance] in force, on
 p. 79: have sometimes feared, by[my] boy, that our
 p. 97: moral drama by captaim[captain] villiam brown.
 p. 105: second regular meeting ot[of] the cosmopolitan club,
 p. 106: electrified by the treaures[treasures] of british literature
 p. 118: wink at secession symphathizers[sympathizers]. it takes so
 p. 129: the veteran mackerel signed[sighed] deeply, as he spread open
 p. 138: a horse physically incapacited[incapacitated] from running away
 p. 143: great original and geniune[genuine] 'tis he; a
 p. 151: of life when women[woman] usually becomes the principal
 p. 154: far out-sped my pusuers[pursuers]; but human nature
 p. 154: dearly, i was abont[about] to stand at bay,
 p. 161: masses over my throbing[throbbing] brow, the cowardly
 p. 163: bosom, and the stilletto[stiletto] in her hand.
 p. 168: of the skillful retrogade[retrograde] advance to which i
 p. 169: beheld the idolized genral[general] of the mackerel brigade
 p. 172: child?" says the geneneral[general], with paternal affability.
 p. 174: in which our co respondent[correspondent] astonishes us by
 p. 178: no "enigma," as voluutarily[voluntarily]-puzzled poets have
 p. 183: money often does--brute insanity[brute-insanity]
 p. 188: might cause a prostraton[prostration] in the liquor business,
 p. 228: of captain samyule sa-smith[sa-mith] to perish heroically.
 p. 231: at paris and loudon[london], my boy, and the
 p. 232: be outdone, the loudon[london] tumbler issued an
 p. 235: the word, and instaneously[instantaneously] led company 2 down
 p. 246: fords of allkwyet riyer[river], in the rear
 p. 248: of the mackerel brigrade[brigade] will further recommend,
 p. 250: than the most wierd[weird] and perpetual haze
 p. 257: at the nether continnations[continuations] of our country's
 p. 258: operations and entrap stonwall[stonewall] jackson's whole
 p. 264: and he eat[ate] and drank with his visiter[visitor]
 p. 266: willing hand in extacy[ecstasy]. 'then indeed have i
 p. 272: "'five thousand doblas," answered nemly[nemyl], composedly.
 p. 272: god; 'what an houri[hour]!' he exclaimed, kissing her
 p. 276: are you--his--slave?' gasped gartstoff[garstoff], staggering
 p. 277: two slaves will will[delete will] bring you to me.
 p. 291: he took his deparure[departure]. "then forth sprang orloff
 p. 295: past; i am satified[satisfied] that you are a
 p. 297: a moment of ungoverable[ungovernable] passion i spoke words
 p. 298: for the unseemly villany[villainy] of the accursed
 p. 302: bereaved country should sudnenly[suddenly] be called to
 p. 308: from a cold potatoe[potato] which he held in
 p. 313: feigns forgotten friends; grout[gout], grimly griping
 p. 316: slept in the hous[house] to take care
 p. 318: had the army being[been] insufficient to secure you,
 p. 321: and make me turn [into] an arrogant and contemptuous
 p. 325: language of an incedeniary[incendiary] description
 p. 325: of captains bob shortly[shorty], samyule sa-mith,
 p. 327: court felt convinced that that[del 2nd that] the second charge
 p. 326: ours, to investigate certing[certain] charges against
 p. 331: with quivering watch-seal. onr[our] president, my boy,
 p. 344: caressed the fawn. a[at] length she spoke:
 p. 351: scarcely had the sacreligious[sacrilegious] petition
 p. 350: "'"varno of het[the] black forest," he answered,
 p. 355: night, flew the wbite[white] fawn out into the

END